Liberty

Everyone warned you about him. The charming disaster. The man with a trail of broken hearts and no intention of changing. He was temptation wrapped in confidence, the kind of trouble you knew better than to touch. And for a long time, hating him was easy.

Until you met him. Because in one moment, every rumor makes sense and every boundary begins to blur. What starts as curiosity turns into something far more dangerous, and staying away becomes harder than giving in. You know he’s wrong for you. But some temptations are impossible to ignore.

★ song: les - childish gambino ★ pairing: lando norris x reader ★ jealousy, flirty banter, angst

You’d heard about him a while ago, secondhand, the way most things spread on campus. It was strange, really, considering you went to the same college and had somehow managed to miss his existence entirely. Then again, you and Lando lived in completely different academic worlds. You were a psychology major, he was business and economics. Different buildings, different schedules, different crowds.

Still, for someone who’d only been at the college for a year, he’d already built a reputation. And not a subtle one.

You first heard his name while sitting in your dorm room with Isabelle. She had friends in his classes, friends who clearly couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

“So now they’re basically not friends anymore… isn’t that crazy?”

Isabelle blurts it out as she tosses a half-empty bag of chips onto her bed and flops down beside it. You’re perched on your own bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You pause, slowly raising an eyebrow.

“Okay,” you say, shutting your laptop just a little. “I need a lot more context.”

Before you can ask anything else, Isabelle gasps like she’s been waiting for this moment. She hops up, rummages through her desk, and of course pulls out a whiteboard. You groan, but a laugh slips out anyway as she starts drawing frantic lines and circles.

“Okay, so this guy. Lando.”

She writes his name in bold letters and circles it aggressively.

“He’s in the same class as Jennifer, which is how I know all this. Even though, honestly, it’s spreading through the whole school at this point. And weirdly? No one’s even mad at him. But whatever, that’s another issue.”

You sigh. You love Isa, but she is the slowest storyteller known to man.

“Anyway,” she continues, pacing now, “Lando was dating Louisa. She’s a business major, super cool, really nice. I’ve only ever seen her from afar, but she’s gorgeous. Sorry, side note.”

You roll your eyes, smiling.

“So Louisa has or had a best friend named Maria. And when I say best friend, I mean best friend. Like you and me close. Apparently Lando has this thing where he makes you feel… special. Like you’re the only girl in the world. Total dream guy energy. Nice car, stupidly good-looking, charming as hell. But it’s all a facade.”

Isa pauses for dramatic effect, then slaps the whiteboard.

“Louisa started feeling like something was off. He was acting weird, distant. So they break up, because she knew something was wrong.”

She looks at you, eyes wide.

“Turns out he’s dating Maria now. As in her best friend. Five years of friendship, gone. Completely.”

The room falls quiet.

And for the first time, you understand why everyone keeps talking about him.

You furrow your brows. As much as you want to pretend you’re unfazed, stories like this still manage to catch you off guard. But the shock doesn’t last long, your psychology brain kicks in almost immediately.

“That’s so stupid,” you say. “Why would anyone throw away a friendship over a guy? He probably has some kind of insecurity or attachment issue that makes him do reckless shit. Maybe he’s avoidant, one of those guys who bolts the second things get serious. The type who thrives on other people’s attention.”

“Name one guy who doesn’t,” Isa replies, dropping the whiteboard onto her bed and reaching instead for the bag of crisps. She tosses a handful into her mouth, completely unfazed.

You roll your eyes, not entirely disagreeing.

“The thing is,” she continues, speaking through a mouthful of chips, “no one even hates him for it. He’s known for ditching people like this. Moves on fast. Finds someone new to charm. Louisa was honestly lucky she even made it to the girlfriend stage or, well, almost. And apparently, even though he’s kind of with Maria right now, he’s already looking for someone else.”

That makes something snap.

“But you know what’s so crazy about that?” you say, slamming your laptop shut. “I’m so tired of the people here. Do they have zero pattern recognition? He’s known for this. At some point, people have to take accountability for knowingly getting involved with someone like that and then acting shocked when it goes wrong.”

Isa watches you for a moment, then shrugs.

“Maybe,” she says. “But relationships with people like him aren’t logical. Some people just… hijack the emotional part of you. The vulnerable part.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “It’s like forbidden fruit. The real question is whether you give in or walk away.”

Only a few weeks later, you met the devil himself.

You were late. Something that almost never happened. The night before had slipped away while you worked on an assignment, and before you knew it, it was 3 a.m. When you finally woke up, the clock read 9:00 on the dot. The exact time your first class had already started.

Panic hit instantly.

You tumbled out of bed, hitting the floor with a groan before scrambling back up. Communications and Relations. A new class. Outside your program. A mix of majors you didn’t recognize and people you definitely didn’t know. Missing the first lecture felt like academic suicide.

You pulled on black sweats, threw on a hoodie, and hid behind oversized dark sunglasses, because you looked and felt like you’d just clawed your way out of a grave. You grabbed your bag, bolted to your car, and sped off toward campus.

Twenty minutes late.

You stood outside the lecture hall, staring at the door as if it might personally judge you for your life choices. It wasn’t that bad, you told yourself. You were late, not absent. Still, the thought of walking in alone, drawing every eye in the room, made your stomach twist. You didn’t know a single person in this class.

You inhaled slowly, braced yourself, and eased the door open.

A loud audio clip filled the room, the lights dimmed. Luck, finally. You slipped inside without much attention, quickly dropping into the nearest empty seat by the exit.

You exhaled.

No scene. No stares.

Or so you thought.

Soft snickering drifted down from the rows behind you, male voices, low and amused. You couldn’t tell what they were saying, but you knew it was about you. Your shoulders stiffened, and you kept your gaze forward, refusing to turn around.

Whatever this class had in store for you, it had already started badly.

And you had no idea who was sitting behind you.

The lecture passed faster than you expected, though you might have drifted off once or twice. By the time people began standing up, you’d been awake for at least five minutes, which felt like a win. The next session would be hands on labs rather than endless slides, and you were mildly grateful you’d missed the dull introductions instead of anything that actually mattered.

You stood quickly, still heavy with sleep. Small talk was the last thing you wanted, and you definitely weren’t in the mood to linger or people-watch. You slipped out of the lecture hall and headed toward the bathrooms, your throat dry and aching.

You barely registered locking the door as you leaned over the sink, taking a long sip of water. It spilled a little, and you wiped your mouth with the sleeve of your hoodie before straightening up. Better. Slightly more human.

As you stepped back into the hallway and turned the corner toward the psychology building, you collided hard with a solid chest.

“Oh shit,” a low, unfamiliar voice said.

You stumbled back with a groan, rubbing your face. When you looked up, your brain short-circuited.

There was no fucking way.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concern clear in his voice.

“Yeah sorry,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Your expression stayed hidden behind the oversized sunglasses, which suddenly felt like a blessing.

“You’re the girl from my communications class, right?”

You squinted slightly, trying and failing to make out his face through the dark lenses.

“No clue,” you admitted with a soft, embarrassed chuckle, pressing your fingers briefly to your temple. “Sorry. I’m really not in my element today.”

He laughed quietly, the sound warm. He towered over you, tall and broad, dressed in dark clothes you barely registered through your exhaustion.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Though next time you’re late for class, you might want to be a little more subtle. The massive glasses kind of gave you away.”

You scoffed.

“That wasn’t very charmingly said of you.”

You pushed the sunglasses up onto your head.

And then

Oh.

Your heart fluttered traitorously. He was tall, really tall, with a muscular frame emphasized by a tight black t-shirt and matching sweats. His skin was warmly tanned, his hair slightly wavy and falling effortlessly into place. And his face..

Unfair. Completely unfair.

He grinned when he saw your reaction, slow and knowing.

And that grin did something to you.

Something dangerous.

“I don’t see why you’d need the glasses,” he says, shrugging slightly. The grin on his face is unmistakable.

Did he just?

“I look like I just rose from the grave,” you reply, meeting his gaze head-on and tilting your head with deliberate sarcasm.

He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head like he finds the whole thing amusing.

“I’m Lando.”

The name hits you harder than the collision did.

He reaches out his hand, casual. Confident. Like he has no idea what that name does to you, or exactly knows and doesn’t care.

There is no fucking way.

You shake his hand automatically, your brain lagging behind your body. His grip is warm and firm, his hand large around yours, and for a split second your knees almost give out.

“Oh. I’m Y/N,” you say, a beat too late, still stunned.

He releases your hand, but the sensation lingers anyway, like your skin hasn’t caught up yet. His grin deepens, slow and unreadable.

And suddenly, every warning you’d ever heard feels a lot closer than it did a moment ago.

"Well," you say after a moment, glancing down the hall. "I should probably get going before I'm late to another class."

Lando nods, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want you showing up with a second disguise.”

You let out a quiet scoff, shaking your head as you mumble a brief goodbye and turn on your heel, putting distance between you and him before you can second-guess yourself.

By the time you get home, you’ve replayed the interaction more times than you’d like to admit.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A hallway collision. A handshake. A name.

Still, when your phone lights up, your stomach drops.

You’ve just stepped out of the shower, hair twisted up in a towel, another wrapped loosely around you, when you grab your phone from the counter. The screen lights up with a familiar notification.

Instagram.

Your breath catches.

Lando Norris has requested to follow you.

You’re not sure what you expected to feel. Not the weak knees from earlier. Not the flutter. Instead, it’s something closer to nausea, like your body is reacting before your brain can catch up. You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, pulse loud in your ears.

Against your better judgment, you accept.

Purely observational, you tell yourself. Research purposes. Curiosity. And besides, he requested first. You’d never chase a man.

A few minutes pass. Then fifteen.

Another notification.

He accepted.

Your curiosity spikes immediately. You tap into his profile. No posts. Of course not. Just a few story highlights, carefully curated, intentional. You hesitate for half a second before tapping his most recent story, still glowing with that thin ring.

Big mistake.

The image fills your screen: Lando at the gym, shirtless, flanked by two equally shirtless friends. The lighting is annoyingly perfect, effortless, like he didn’t even try. Your eyes go straight to him, traitorous and immediate.

Defined shoulders. Strong arms. Abs carved far too precisely for your peace of mind.

Your stomach flips in a way that feels unfamiliar. Dangerous.

You swallow hard, phone still in your hand.

Oh lord.

You’re in trouble.

You knew you weren’t supposed to do this, but you couldn’t stop yourself. This time, you got ready properly. Hair curled in a half-up, half-down style, makeup carefully done, outfit thoughtfully put together: high-waisted bootcut jeans, a black, form-fitting long-sleeve top. Simple, but elevated, effortless enough that it felt like you, not the disheveled disaster who had barreled into him weeks ago.

You tried to deny it to yourself, but after your… less-than-stellar first impression, you wanted him to see the real you. The confident, sarcastic girl. Not the girl who looked like she had just risen from the grave.

The moment you stepped into the classroom, heads turned. Guys stared. Some women shot you questioning looks. But then you spotted a familiar face. One of Isabelle’s friends, smiling as her group waved you over. Relief. Familiarity. You waved back and made your way through the desks.

And then you saw him.

Lando. His eyes had found you the instant you walked in, and that subtle grin, soft, almost private which made your pulse skip. You smiled back, careful to keep your confidence steady as you passed by. Not too much attention. Not yet. But in your peripheral vision, you noticed him glance back at you again, just once, and linger.

The class began, and you couldn’t help but observe. He sat a few rows in front, mostly quiet, but when he spoke, people listened. And every so often, your eyes met his. Every time, he didn’t look away.

You and Isabelle are getting ready, standing shoulder to shoulder in the bathroom as you carefully remove the clips holding your curls in place, one by one. Your makeup is done, smokey eyes in warm, toasty browns, lashes darker and heavier than usual, lips lined and glossed into something undeniably seductive.

And that’s the thing.

You barely recognize yourself.

This isn’t you. You usually go for soft, natural, rosy. Clean girl. Effortless. This version of you feels intentional in a way that borders on dangerous, like you’re dressing for someone instead of yourself, and the thought makes your stomach twist.

While you spiral quietly in your own head, Isabelle is entirely unbothered. She’s halfway through an Aperol spritz, singing loudly and off-key to a Justin Bieber song while straightening her hair, hips swaying with the music.

She’s been buzzing all evening.

The annual college sittings are kind of her thing. A formal gathering where students from different majors cram into a massive hall to eat overpriced food, make forced conversation, dance badly, and endure a speech from the headmaster that no one remembers by morning.

Normally, you wouldn’t care. You barely cared now.

Except this time, it was different.

Because you knew he’d be there.

You step back from the mirror, finally letting yourself really look. The dress is a long black maxi, sleek and unforgiving, hugging you perfectly. The back is open, dipping low, tied together by a simple black bow just beneath your lower back. It’s elegant. Minimal. And devastating.

You look… unfairly good.

Isabelle turns, eyes widening. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “You’re going to ruin someone’s life tonight.”

You snort, grabbing your clutch. “Dramatic.”

She just grins.

One more drink for courage, liquid confidence you absolutely don’t need but take anyway, and then you’re piling into an Uber, city lights streaking past the windows as your nerves hum under your skin.

The hall is already buzzing when you arrive.

Soft golden lighting spills from chandeliers overhead, reflecting off polished floors and glassware. The air smells like perfume, alcohol, and something vaguely floral. People are everywhere, laughing too loudly, greeting friends they barely like, scanning the room for someone worth talking to.

You do the same thing before you can stop yourself.

You tell yourself you’re just taking it all in. Just people-watching.

And then you see him.

Lando stands across the room, effortless as ever, dressed in a tailored black suit that fits him obscenely well. No tie. Collar open just enough to feel intentional. He’s surrounded by people. Guys from his program, a couple girls you don’t recognize, but he isn’t performing. He doesn’t need to.

He’s smiling at something someone says, relaxed, comfortable, magnetic.

And then his eyes lift.

They find you instantly.

The smile on his face changes, not wider, not brighter. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’d been expecting you. Like the room has narrowed down to just the two of you, even with dozens of people between.

Your pulse stutters.

Isabelle leans in, voice low and confused. “Tell me why the devil himself just clocked you from across the room.”

You swallow, eyes still locked on his.

“Don’t,” you mutter. “Please don’t.”

But it’s already too late.

Because Lando lifts his glass in a subtle, almost lazy acknowledgment just for you and then, without breaking eye contact, turns back to the conversation at hand.

Leaving you standing there.

Heart racing.

Isabelle doesn’t know.

She’s standing beside you, scanning the room with interest, already halfway into a story about someone from her program who showed up in a suit two sizes too small, completely oblivious to the way your pulse is still racing. She doesn’t notice how your grip tightens around your glass. She doesn’t notice the way your shoulders stiffen, or how your eyes flick back, just once, to where Lando stands.

You’ve made sure of that.

You never told her about the hallway collision. Or the handshake. Or the way his name had settled into your chest like something unfinished. You definitely didn’t tell her about the follow request, or the gym story you absolutely shouldn’t have watched twice.

Because Isabelle would’ve clocked it immediately.

She would’ve raised an eyebrow, given you that look, the one that says be serious right now, and reminded you, gently but firmly, of every red flag she’d already laid out weeks ago. She would’ve told you that people like him don’t change their patterns just because you’re self-aware enough to recognize them.

And the worst part?

She wouldn’t be wrong.

You know that. You’ve known it since the second he said his name and your body reacted before your brain could catch up. Since the nausea that followed the follow request. Since the thrill that came anyway.

So you keep it to yourself.

You sip your drink, nod along to Isabelle’s chatter, laugh at the right moments, all while pretending that your attention isn’t split. That you aren’t hyper-aware of where Lando is in the room at all times. That you don’t feel something electric every time you accidentally meet his gaze again.

This is easier. Safer.

If you don’t say it out loud, it isn’t real. If Isabelle doesn’t know, she can’t disapprove. And if you don’t examine it too closely, you can pretend this isn’t the beginning of something you already know how to diagnose.

Still, the awareness lingers, heavy, uncomfortable.

You’re not naive.

You know exactly what kind of man he is.

And somehow, that knowledge hasn’t stopped your heart from racing anyway.

The rest of the evening unfolds slowly, like a game you didn’t remember agreeing to play.

You notice him everywhere without trying to. Across the room, laughing with his friends. Leaning against a table, drink in hand. Listening more than he speaks, eyes tracking conversations with an ease that feels practiced. And every time you accidentally glance his way, he’s already looking at you.

Not staring. Just… aware.

Isabelle drifts between conversations, pulling you along with her. Introductions blur together, names, majors, polite smiles. At some point, the two of you end up standing near a group that includes Lando's friends. It happens naturally, organically enough that it doesn’t raise suspicion. You tell yourself that’s why your pulse starts to race.

He’s closer now. Close enough that you’re aware of the warmth of him beside you. Close enough that you can catch the clean, understated scent of his cologne when he shifts.

You angle your body carefully, positioning yourself so Isabelle stays within arm’s reach. Casual. Normal. If anyone’s watching, it would look like nothing.

But Lando shifts too.

Just a fraction. Enough that your bare back brushes against his arm.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

He doesn’t move away.

Conversation flows around you, but you’re barely listening. You’re hyper-aware of the space between you shrinking, of the way he leans in slightly when someone across the circle speaks, his shoulder nearly touching yours. It’s subtle. Intentional. Like he’s testing how much you’ll allow without calling it out.

A photographer appears suddenly, camera slung around his neck, cheerful and loud.

“Hey guys, quick photo!”

Everyone groans good-naturedly but bunches together anyway. Isabelle laughs and grabs your arm, tugging you closer to the group. You step forward, boxed in by bodies and chatter.

And then you feel it.

Lando's hand settles at your lower back.

Not possessive. Not hurried. Just there, warm skin against bare skin, fingers resting easily where your dress dips low. The contact sends a sharp jolt through you, like your body has been waiting for it. You freeze for half a second, every nerve ending lighting up.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t move.

He just leaves his hand there, like it belongs.

The camera flashes.

You force a smile, hoping it looks effortless, hoping Isabelle doesn’t notice the way your posture stiffens. Her arm is still looped through yours, her head tilted toward someone else as she laughs.

She has no idea.

Lando's hand lingers for a beat longer than necessary after the photo is taken before he pulls away, slow enough that the absence feels louder than the touch ever was.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down at the screen, relief washing through you at the interruption. “I- I need to take this,” you say quickly, already stepping back.

Isabelle nods distractedly. “Go.”

You don’t look at Lando as you slip away.

The balcony is cool and quiet in contrast to the warmth and noise inside. You lean against the railing as you answer the call, focusing on the voice on the other end, grounding yourself in something normal. By the time you hang up, your heart rate has finally begun to settle.

For about three seconds.

Then you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t turn right away. You don’t need to.

“Running away already?” Lando says lightly.

You close your eyes for a brief moment before facing him. He’s leaning against the balcony door now, posture relaxed, hands in his pockets. The city lights behind him frame his silhouette, softening the sharpness of his expression.

“I needed air,” you reply. “And privacy.”

“Mhm.” His gaze flicks briefly to your back, then back to your eyes. “Did you get it?”

You cross your arms, more for your own composure than modesty. “What do you want, Lando?”

His smile is slow. Knowing.

“I was wondering how long you were going to pretend you don’t notice me.”

Your jaw tightens. “I notice a lot of things.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s what makes this interesting.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. You’re acutely aware of how alone you are out here with him. How easy it would be to step closer. How much your body wants to.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “So,” he says, voice dropping just enough to feel intimate, “when will you give in?”

The words settle into you, heavy and dangerous.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the scariest part isn’t that he asked.

It’s that a part of you already knows what he’s talking about.

Your first instinct is to laugh.

It slips out too sharp, too fast, and immediately gives you away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, waving a hand lightly, like he’s joking. Like this is nothing. “You’re reading into things.”

Lando watches you closely, head tilted, like he’s clocking the shift in you in real time. The way your shoulders tense. The way you put space between you, even though the balcony suddenly feels far too small.

“Am I?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” you say, a little too quickly. “Absolutely.”

He takes a step closer anyway.

Not invading. Just… narrowing the distance. Enough that you can feel the heat of him again, smell the faint trace of cologne that has already been haunting you all night.

“You don’t look confused,” he murmurs. “You look scared.”

That does it.

Something in you snaps, not in his direction, but inward.

“This is stupid,” you say, exhaling sharply as you turn away, gripping the railing. “I shouldn’t even be out here.”

“Then why are you?”

You swallow.

Because you know the answer, and you hate it.

You turn back to him, expression tight but honest in a way you haven’t allowed yourself yet.

“Listen,” you say, voice lower now, steadier. “I’m not pretending you’re not attractive. You are. You’re charming. You know exactly what you’re doing, and it works. But I’m not-” You stop, choosing your words carefully. “I’m not the girl for you.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly. Amused. Interested.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” you press on, momentum building. “Because I know how this goes. I know your reputation. You make people feel special, you pull them in, and the second it starts to mean something, you’re gone. You detach, move on, find the next person who hasn’t learned the pattern yet.”

The silence between you sharpens.

His smile doesn’t disappear, but it does change.

“And you think you’ve got me all figured out?” he asks.

You let out a breathy, almost humorless laugh. “You’re avoidant,” you blurt. “Or dismissive-avoidant, if we’re being specific. Intimacy triggers you, so you chase connection without vulnerability. It’s safer that way. You keep control.”

The words hang there, bare and undeniable.

For the first time all evening, Lando looks genuinely caught off guard.

“Wow,” he says softly. “You really have been paying attention.”

“That’s my point,” you say. “I don’t want to be another girl you convince just enough to leave wondering what she did wrong.”

His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer again, voice dropping, “you’re still here.”

You hate that he’s right.

Your heart is racing now, logic fraying under the weight of proximity and tension and the way his attention feels laser-focused, almost reverent.

“I should go back inside,” you whisper.

“You could,” he agrees.

You don’t move.

The kiss happens before you consciously decide to let it.

It’s slow at first, testing, restrained, like he’s giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, when your hand curls into the fabric of his suit instead, something in him shifts. His mouth deepens against yours, confident but unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.

You forget about psychology. About reputations. About patterns.

You remember only how right it feels.

When you finally pull back, breathless and slightly dazed, you blink up at him and then your stomach drops.

You reach up quickly, thumb brushing across his lower lip.

“Hold on,” you murmur, wiping away the faint smudge of your liner you’ve left behind. “I- someone could see.”

No one has. But the sudden rush of awareness floods back in anyway.

You turn slightly, pulling your lip liner from your clutch, reapplying it with shaking hands, grounding yourself in the ritual. Control. Normalcy.

When you look back up, Lando is watching you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You always do that?” he asks quietly. “Pull yourself together like nothing happened?”

You don’t get the chance to answer.

“Lando?”

The voice cuts through the moment like a blade.

You turn.

A girl stands a few feet away, dress immaculate, expression tight with forced patience. Her eyes flick briefly to you, assessing, curious, before settling back on him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says.

The air shifts.

Lando straightens slowly, composure snapping back into place as if it had never slipped. His hand drops from where it had been hovering near your waist.

The girl exhales gently as she approaches you, reaching her hand out to greet you.

"I'm Maria, nice to meet you"

“Y/N,” you say, forcing a smile you don’t feel. Your stomach twists violently, the room suddenly too warm, too loud, too bright.

Maria's grip is polite. Friendly. Completely unaware.

The realization hits you all at once, sharp and merciless.

This is what’s going on.

You barely register Lando saying your name as you mumble an excuse, something about needing the bathroom, before turning and weaving back inside, heels clicking too fast against the floor.

You don’t slow down until you reach the restroom.

The second the stall door shuts behind you, you’re on your knees, bile burning your throat as you throw up hard enough that it makes your eyes water. Your hands shake as you grip the porcelain, breaths coming in uneven gasps.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

When it finally passes, you sit there for a moment longer, forehead pressed against the stall wall, trying to steady yourself. You flush, rinse your mouth, and step out, splashing cold water onto your face at the sink.

That’s when you notice her.

She’s standing at the mirror beside you, washing her hands. Tall. Elegant. A long black dress drapes effortlessly over her frame. Her hair falls down her back in glossy waves, black as ink, except for the streaks of cherry red woven through it, bold and striking. Her face looks sculpted, model-sharp, devastatingly beautiful.

She glances at you in the mirror, concern softening her expression.

“Hey,” she says gently. “Are you okay?”

You hesitate, then nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just too much to drink.”

She offers a small, understanding smile. “Happens.” She dries her hands, then turns slightly toward you. “I’m Louisa, by the way.”

The name lands like a punch.

Your vision swims.

Louisa.

His first girlfriend. The one Isabelle had talked about. The one who’d been blindsided. The one who had trusted him.

“Oh,” you manage, voice thin. “Nice to meet you.”

She gives you a warm nod, completely unaware of the spiral detonating inside your chest. You can’t stay here. You can’t breathe in this room another second.

You murmur something polite, an excuse, a lie, and slip past her, heart hammering as you flee back into the hall.

Isabelle finds you almost immediately.

She frowns the second she sees your face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “I just need a drink.”

She doesn’t push. She never does. Instead, she loops her arm through yours and steers you toward the bar. A passionfruit margarita appears in your hand moments later, cold and sweet and grounding.

You take a long sip. Then another.

Music swells. People dance. Someone pulls you into the crowd, some guy you barely register, smiling and easy and safe. You let him spin you, let the noise and movement drown out the thoughts clawing at your brain.

This is fine. This is normal. This is what you should be doing.

You’re laughing when you see him.

Lando stands at the edge of the dance floor, eyes locked on you. His expression isn’t smug or playful now, it’s intent. Focused. Like he’s already moving toward you.

Panic surges.

You pull away abruptly, mumbling something to the guy you’re dancing with before slipping through the crowd. Isabelle calls your name, confused, but you don’t stop. You grab your coat, your clutch, your phone.

Fresh air hits your lungs like a shock as you burst outside.

Your hands are shaking as you request an Uber.

You don’t look back.

By the time the car pulls up, your chest is tight with something that feels dangerously close to grief. You slide into the back seat, giving the driver your address with a voice that barely sounds like your own.

As the car pulls away, your phone buzzes in your hand.

You don’t check it.

The phone stays dark in your lap as the city blurs past the window, lights smearing into something indistinct and far away. Your reflection stares back at you, unfamiliar. Quieter. Like someone who’s just crossed a line she swore she never would.

For the first time in your life, you’ve gone against your own morals.

Not by accident. Not because you didn’t know better.

But because you did.

You saw the pattern. You named it. You warned yourself with the language of textbooks and lived experience and every red flag you’d ever learned to recognize. And still, you stepped closer. Still, you let yourself believe that awareness might make you immune.

It didn’t.

You betrayed yourself in the most insidious way, not by falling for him, but by choosing him anyway, if only for a moment. By letting desire outweigh discernment. By proving that knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better.

And worse than all of it?

You gave in.

Not to Lando.

But to the part of you that wanted to be wanted, even when it cost you everything you pride yourself on being.

The car keeps moving.

And you sit there, silent, carrying the weight of a choice you can’t undo, knowing this isn’t over, even if you wish it were.

Everyone warned you about him. The charming disaster. The man with a trail of broken hearts and no intention of changing. He was temptation wrapped in confidence, the kind of trouble you knew better than to touch. And for a long time, hating him was easy.

Until you met him. Because in one moment, every rumor makes sense and every boundary begins to blur. What starts as curiosity turns into something far more dangerous, and staying away becomes harder than giving in. You know he’s wrong for you. But some temptations are impossible to ignore.

★ song: les - childish gambino ★ pairing: malachi barton x reader ★ jealousy, flirty banter, angst

You’d heard about him a while ago, secondhand, the way most things spread on campus. It was strange, really, considering you went to the same college and had somehow managed to miss his existence entirely. Then again, you and Malachi lived in completely different academic worlds. You were a psychology major, he was business and economics. Different buildings, different schedules, different crowds.

Still, for someone who’d only been at the college for a year, he’d already built a reputation. And not a subtle one.

You first heard his name while sitting in your dorm room with Isabelle. She had friends in his classes, friends who clearly couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

“So now they’re basically not friends anymore… isn’t that crazy?”

Isabelle blurts it out as she tosses a half-empty bag of chips onto her bed and flops down beside it. You’re perched on your own bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You pause, slowly raising an eyebrow.

“Okay,” you say, shutting your laptop just a little. “I need a lot more context.”

Before you can ask anything else, Isabelle gasps like she’s been waiting for this moment. She hops up, rummages through her desk, and of course pulls out a whiteboard. You groan, but a laugh slips out anyway as she starts drawing frantic lines and circles.

“Okay, so this guy. Malachi.”

She writes his name in bold letters and circles it aggressively.

“He’s in the same class as Jennifer, which is how I know all this. Even though, honestly, it’s spreading through the whole school at this point. And weirdly? No one’s even mad at him. But whatever, that’s another issue.”

You sigh. You love Isa, but she is the slowest storyteller known to man.

“Anyway,” she continues, pacing now, “Malachi was dating Vanessa. She’s a music major, super cool, really nice. I’ve only ever seen her from afar, but she’s gorgeous. Sorry, side note.”

You roll your eyes, smiling.

“So Vanessa has or had a best friend named Claire. And when I say best friend, I mean best friend. Like you and me close. Apparently Malachi has this thing where he makes you feel… special. Like you’re the only girl in the world. Total dream guy energy. Nice car, stupidly good-looking, charming as hell. But it’s all a facade.”

Isa pauses for dramatic effect, then slaps the whiteboard.

“Vanessa started feeling like something was off. He was acting weird, distant. So they break up, because she knew something was wrong.”

She looks at you, eyes wide.

“Turns out he’s dating Claire now. As in her best friend. Five years of friendship, gone. Completely.”

The room falls quiet.

And for the first time, you understand why everyone keeps talking about him.

You furrow your brows. As much as you want to pretend you’re unfazed, stories like this still manage to catch you off guard. But the shock doesn’t last long, your psychology brain kicks in almost immediately.

“That’s so stupid,” you say. “Why would anyone throw away a friendship over a guy? He probably has some kind of insecurity or attachment issue that makes him do reckless shit. Maybe he’s avoidant, one of those guys who bolts the second things get serious. The type who thrives on other people’s attention.”

“Name one guy who doesn’t,” Isa replies, dropping the whiteboard onto her bed and reaching instead for the bag of crisps. She tosses a handful into her mouth, completely unfazed.

You roll your eyes, not entirely disagreeing.

“The thing is,” she continues, speaking through a mouthful of chips, “no one even hates him for it. He’s known for ditching people like this. Moves on fast. Finds someone new to charm. Vanessa was honestly lucky she even made it to the girlfriend stage or, well, almost. And apparently, even though he’s kind of with Claire right now, he’s already looking for someone else.”

That makes something snap.

“But you know what’s so crazy about that?” you say, slamming your laptop shut. “I’m so tired of the people here. Do they have zero pattern recognition? He’s known for this. At some point, people have to take accountability for knowingly getting involved with someone like that and then acting shocked when it goes wrong.”

Isa watches you for a moment, then shrugs.

“Maybe,” she says. “But relationships with people like him aren’t logical. Some people just… hijack the emotional part of you. The vulnerable part.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “It’s like forbidden fruit. The real question is whether you give in or walk away.”

Only a few weeks later, you met the devil himself.

You were late. Something that almost never happened. The night before had slipped away while you worked on an assignment, and before you knew it, it was 3 a.m. When you finally woke up, the clock read 9:00 on the dot. The exact time your first class had already started.

Panic hit instantly.

You tumbled out of bed, hitting the floor with a groan before scrambling back up. Communications and Relations. A new class. Outside your program. A mix of majors you didn’t recognize and people you definitely didn’t know. Missing the first lecture felt like academic suicide.

You pulled on black sweats, threw on a hoodie, and hid behind oversized dark sunglasses, because you looked and felt like you’d just clawed your way out of a grave. You grabbed your bag, bolted to your car, and sped off toward campus.

Twenty minutes late.

You stood outside the lecture hall, staring at the door as if it might personally judge you for your life choices. It wasn’t that bad, you told yourself. You were late, not absent. Still, the thought of walking in alone, drawing every eye in the room, made your stomach twist. You didn’t know a single person in this class.

You inhaled slowly, braced yourself, and eased the door open.

A loud audio clip filled the room, the lights dimmed. Luck, finally. You slipped inside without much attention, quickly dropping into the nearest empty seat by the exit.

You exhaled.

No scene. No stares.

Or so you thought.

Soft snickering drifted down from the rows behind you, male voices, low and amused. You couldn’t tell what they were saying, but you knew it was about you. Your shoulders stiffened, and you kept your gaze forward, refusing to turn around.

Whatever this class had in store for you, it had already started badly.

And you had no idea who was sitting behind you.

The lecture passed faster than you expected, though you might have drifted off once or twice. By the time people began standing up, you’d been awake for at least five minutes, which felt like a win. The next session would be hands on labs rather than endless slides, and you were mildly grateful you’d missed the dull introductions instead of anything that actually mattered.

You stood quickly, still heavy with sleep. Small talk was the last thing you wanted, and you definitely weren’t in the mood to linger or people-watch. You slipped out of the lecture hall and headed toward the bathrooms, your throat dry and aching.

You barely registered locking the door as you leaned over the sink, taking a long sip of water. It spilled a little, and you wiped your mouth with the sleeve of your hoodie before straightening up. Better. Slightly more human.

As you stepped back into the hallway and turned the corner toward the psychology building, you collided hard with a solid chest.

“Oh shit,” a low, unfamiliar voice said.

You stumbled back with a groan, rubbing your face. When you looked up, your brain short-circuited.

There was no fucking way.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concern clear in his voice.

“Yeah sorry,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Your expression stayed hidden behind the oversized sunglasses, which suddenly felt like a blessing.

“You’re the girl from my communications class, right?”

You squinted slightly, trying and failing to make out his face through the dark lenses.

“No clue,” you admitted with a soft, embarrassed chuckle, pressing your fingers briefly to your temple. “Sorry. I’m really not in my element today.”

He laughed quietly, the sound warm. He towered over you, tall and broad, dressed in dark clothes you barely registered through your exhaustion.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Though next time you’re late for class, you might want to be a little more subtle. The massive glasses kind of gave you away.”

You scoffed.

“That wasn’t very charmingly said of you.”

You pushed the sunglasses up onto your head.

And then

Oh.

Your heart fluttered traitorously. He was tall, really tall, with a muscular frame emphasized by a tight black t-shirt and matching sweats. His skin was warmly tanned, his hair slightly wavy and falling effortlessly into place. And his face..

Unfair. Completely unfair.

He grinned when he saw your reaction, slow and knowing.

And that grin did something to you.

Something dangerous.

“I don’t see why you’d need the glasses,” he says, shrugging slightly. The grin on his face is unmistakable.

Did he just?

“I look like I just rose from the grave,” you reply, meeting his gaze head-on and tilting your head with deliberate sarcasm.

He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head like he finds the whole thing amusing.

“I’m Malachi.”

The name hits you harder than the collision did.

He reaches out his hand, casual. Confident. Like he has no idea what that name does to you, or exactly knows and doesn’t care.

There is no fucking way.

You shake his hand automatically, your brain lagging behind your body. His grip is warm and firm, his hand large around yours, and for a split second your knees almost give out.

“Oh. I’m Y/N,” you say, a beat too late, still stunned.

He releases your hand, but the sensation lingers anyway, like your skin hasn’t caught up yet. His grin deepens, slow and unreadable.

And suddenly, every warning you’d ever heard feels a lot closer than it did a moment ago.

"Well," you say after a moment, glancing down the hall. "I should probably get going before I'm late to another class." Malachi nods, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want you showing up with a second disguise.”

You let out a quiet scoff, shaking your head as you mumble a brief goodbye and turn on your heel, putting distance between you and him before you can second-guess yourself.

By the time you get home, you’ve replayed the interaction more times than you’d like to admit.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A hallway collision. A handshake. A name.

Still, when your phone lights up, your stomach drops.

You’ve just stepped out of the shower, hair twisted up in a towel, another wrapped loosely around you, when you grab your phone from the counter. The screen lights up with a familiar notification.

Instagram.

Your breath catches.

Malachi Barton has requested to follow you.

You’re not sure what you expected to feel. Not the weak knees from earlier. Not the flutter. Instead, it’s something closer to nausea, like your body is reacting before your brain can catch up. You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, pulse loud in your ears.

Against your better judgment, you accept.

Purely observational, you tell yourself. Research purposes. Curiosity. And besides, he requested first. You’d never chase a man.

A few minutes pass. Then fifteen.

Another notification.

He accepted.

Your curiosity spikes immediately. You tap into his profile. No posts. Of course not. Just a few story highlights, carefully curated, intentional. You hesitate for half a second before tapping his most recent story, still glowing with that thin ring.

Big mistake.

The image fills your screen: Malachi at the gym, shirtless, flanked by two equally shirtless friends. The lighting is annoyingly perfect, effortless, like he didn’t even try. Your eyes go straight to him, traitorous and immediate.

Defined shoulders. Strong arms. Abs carved far too precisely for your peace of mind.

Your stomach flips in a way that feels unfamiliar. Dangerous.

You swallow hard, phone still in your hand.

Oh lord.

You’re in trouble.

You knew you weren’t supposed to do this, but you couldn’t stop yourself. This time, you got ready properly. Hair curled in a half-up, half-down style, makeup carefully done, outfit thoughtfully put together: high-waisted bootcut jeans, a black, form-fitting long-sleeve top. Simple, but elevated, effortless enough that it felt like you, not the disheveled disaster who had barreled into him weeks ago.

You tried to deny it to yourself, but after your… less-than-stellar first impression, you wanted him to see the real you. The confident, sarcastic girl. Not the girl who looked like she had just risen from the grave.

The moment you stepped into the classroom, heads turned. Guys stared. Some women shot you questioning looks. But then you spotted a familiar face. One of Isabelle’s friends, smiling as her group waved you over. Relief. Familiarity. You waved back and made your way through the desks.

And then you saw him.

Malachi. His eyes had found you the instant you walked in, and that subtle grin, soft, almost private which made your pulse skip. You smiled back, careful to keep your confidence steady as you passed by. Not too much attention. Not yet. But in your peripheral vision, you noticed him glance back at you again, just once, and linger.

The class began, and you couldn’t help but observe. He sat a few rows in front, mostly quiet, but when he spoke, people listened. And every so often, your eyes met his. Every time, he didn’t look away.

You and Isabelle are getting ready, standing shoulder to shoulder in the bathroom as you carefully remove the clips holding your curls in place, one by one. Your makeup is done, smokey eyes in warm, toasty browns, lashes darker and heavier than usual, lips lined and glossed into something undeniably seductive.

And that’s the thing.

You barely recognize yourself.

This isn’t you. You usually go for soft, natural, rosy. Clean girl. Effortless. This version of you feels intentional in a way that borders on dangerous, like you’re dressing for someone instead of yourself, and the thought makes your stomach twist.

While you spiral quietly in your own head, Isabelle is entirely unbothered. She’s halfway through an Aperol spritz, singing loudly and off-key to a Justin Bieber song while straightening her hair, hips swaying with the music.

She’s been buzzing all evening.

The annual college sittings are kind of her thing. A formal gathering where students from different majors cram into a massive hall to eat overpriced food, make forced conversation, dance badly, and endure a speech from the headmaster that no one remembers by morning.

Normally, you wouldn’t care. You barely cared now.

Except this time, it was different.

Because you knew he’d be there.

You step back from the mirror, finally letting yourself really look. The dress is a long black maxi, sleek and unforgiving, hugging you perfectly. The back is open, dipping low, tied together by a simple black bow just beneath your lower back. It’s elegant. Minimal. And devastating.

You look… unfairly good.

Isabelle turns, eyes widening. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “You’re going to ruin someone’s life tonight.”

You snort, grabbing your clutch. “Dramatic.”

She just grins.

One more drink for courage, liquid confidence you absolutely don’t need but take anyway, and then you’re piling into an Uber, city lights streaking past the windows as your nerves hum under your skin.

The hall is already buzzing when you arrive.

Soft golden lighting spills from chandeliers overhead, reflecting off polished floors and glassware. The air smells like perfume, alcohol, and something vaguely floral. People are everywhere, laughing too loudly, greeting friends they barely like, scanning the room for someone worth talking to.

You do the same thing before you can stop yourself.

You tell yourself you’re just taking it all in. Just people-watching.

And then you see him.

Malachi stands across the room, effortless as ever, dressed in a tailored black suit that fits him obscenely well. No tie. Collar open just enough to feel intentional. He’s surrounded by people. Guys from his program, a couple girls you don’t recognize, but he isn’t performing. He doesn’t need to.

He’s smiling at something someone says, relaxed, comfortable, magnetic.

And then his eyes lift.

They find you instantly.

The smile on his face changes, not wider, not brighter. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’d been expecting you. Like the room has narrowed down to just the two of you, even with dozens of people between.

Your pulse stutters.

Isabelle leans in, voice low and confused. “Tell me why the devil himself just clocked you from across the room.”

You swallow, eyes still locked on his.

“Don’t,” you mutter. “Please don’t.”

But it’s already too late.

Because Malachi lifts his glass in a subtle, almost lazy acknowledgment just for you and then, without breaking eye contact, turns back to the conversation at hand.

Leaving you standing there.

Heart racing.

Isabelle doesn’t know.

She’s standing beside you, scanning the room with interest, already halfway into a story about someone from her program who showed up in a suit two sizes too small, completely oblivious to the way your pulse is still racing. She doesn’t notice how your grip tightens around your glass. She doesn’t notice the way your shoulders stiffen, or how your eyes flick back, just once, to where Malachi stands.

You’ve made sure of that.

You never told her about the hallway collision. Or the handshake. Or the way his name had settled into your chest like something unfinished. You definitely didn’t tell her about the follow request, or the gym story you absolutely shouldn’t have watched twice.

Because Isabelle would’ve clocked it immediately.

She would’ve raised an eyebrow, given you that look, the one that says be serious right now, and reminded you, gently but firmly, of every red flag she’d already laid out weeks ago. She would’ve told you that people like him don’t change their patterns just because you’re self-aware enough to recognize them.

And the worst part?

She wouldn’t be wrong.

You know that. You’ve known it since the second he said his name and your body reacted before your brain could catch up. Since the nausea that followed the follow request. Since the thrill that came anyway.

So you keep it to yourself.

You sip your drink, nod along to Isabelle’s chatter, laugh at the right moments, all while pretending that your attention isn’t split. That you aren’t hyper-aware of where Malachi is in the room at all times. That you don’t feel something electric every time you accidentally meet his gaze again.

This is easier. Safer.

If you don’t say it out loud, it isn’t real. If Isabelle doesn’t know, she can’t disapprove. And if you don’t examine it too closely, you can pretend this isn’t the beginning of something you already know how to diagnose.

Still, the awareness lingers, heavy, uncomfortable.

You’re not naive.

You know exactly what kind of man he is.

And somehow, that knowledge hasn’t stopped your heart from racing anyway.

The rest of the evening unfolds slowly, like a game you didn’t remember agreeing to play.

You notice him everywhere without trying to. Across the room, laughing with his friends. Leaning against a table, drink in hand. Listening more than he speaks, eyes tracking conversations with an ease that feels practiced. And every time you accidentally glance his way, he’s already looking at you.

Not staring. Just… aware.

Isabelle drifts between conversations, pulling you along with her. Introductions blur together, names, majors, polite smiles. At some point, the two of you end up standing near a group that includes Malachi’s friends. It happens naturally, organically enough that it doesn’t raise suspicion. You tell yourself that’s why your pulse starts to race.

He’s closer now. Close enough that you’re aware of the warmth of him beside you. Close enough that you can catch the clean, understated scent of his cologne when he shifts.

You angle your body carefully, positioning yourself so Isabelle stays within arm’s reach. Casual. Normal. If anyone’s watching, it would look like nothing.

But Malachi shifts too.

Just a fraction. Enough that your bare back brushes against his arm.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

He doesn’t move away.

Conversation flows around you, but you’re barely listening. You’re hyper-aware of the space between you shrinking, of the way he leans in slightly when someone across the circle speaks, his shoulder nearly touching yours. It’s subtle. Intentional. Like he’s testing how much you’ll allow without calling it out.

A photographer appears suddenly, camera slung around his neck, cheerful and loud.

“Hey guys, quick photo!”

Everyone groans good-naturedly but bunches together anyway. Isabelle laughs and grabs your arm, tugging you closer to the group. You step forward, boxed in by bodies and chatter.

And then you feel it.

Malachi’s hand settles at your lower back.

Not possessive. Not hurried. Just there, warm skin against bare skin, fingers resting easily where your dress dips low. The contact sends a sharp jolt through you, like your body has been waiting for it. You freeze for half a second, every nerve ending lighting up.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t move.

He just leaves his hand there, like it belongs.

The camera flashes.

You force a smile, hoping it looks effortless, hoping Isabelle doesn’t notice the way your posture stiffens. Her arm is still looped through yours, her head tilted toward someone else as she laughs.

She has no idea.

Malachi’s hand lingers for a beat longer than necessary after the photo is taken before he pulls away, slow enough that the absence feels louder than the touch ever was.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down at the screen, relief washing through you at the interruption. “I- I need to take this,” you say quickly, already stepping back.

Isabelle nods distractedly. “Go.”

You don’t look at Malachi as you slip away.

The balcony is cool and quiet in contrast to the warmth and noise inside. You lean against the railing as you answer the call, focusing on the voice on the other end, grounding yourself in something normal. By the time you hang up, your heart rate has finally begun to settle.

For about three seconds.

Then you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t turn right away. You don’t need to.

“Running away already?” Malachi says lightly.

You close your eyes for a brief moment before facing him. He’s leaning against the balcony door now, posture relaxed, hands in his pockets. The city lights behind him frame his silhouette, softening the sharpness of his expression.

“I needed air,” you reply. “And privacy.”

“Mhm.” His gaze flicks briefly to your back, then back to your eyes. “Did you get it?”

You cross your arms, more for your own composure than modesty. “What do you want, Malachi?”

His smile is slow. Knowing.

“I was wondering how long you were going to pretend you don’t notice me.”

Your jaw tightens. “I notice a lot of things.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s what makes this interesting.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. You’re acutely aware of how alone you are out here with him. How easy it would be to step closer. How much your body wants to.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “So,” he says, voice dropping just enough to feel intimate, “when will you give in?”

The words settle into you, heavy and dangerous.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the scariest part isn’t that he asked.

It’s that a part of you already knows what he’s talking about.

Your first instinct is to laugh.

It slips out too sharp, too fast, and immediately gives you away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, waving a hand lightly, like he’s joking. Like this is nothing. “You’re reading into things.”

Malachi watches you closely, head tilted, like he’s clocking the shift in you in real time. The way your shoulders tense. The way you put space between you, even though the balcony suddenly feels far too small.

“Am I?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” you say, a little too quickly. “Absolutely.”

He takes a step closer anyway.

Not invading. Just… narrowing the distance. Enough that you can feel the heat of him again, smell the faint trace of cologne that has already been haunting you all night.

“You don’t look confused,” he murmurs. “You look scared.”

That does it.

Something in you snaps, not in his direction, but inward.

“This is stupid,” you say, exhaling sharply as you turn away, gripping the railing. “I shouldn’t even be out here.”

“Then why are you?”

You swallow.

Because you know the answer, and you hate it.

You turn back to him, expression tight but honest in a way you haven’t allowed yourself yet.

“Listen,” you say, voice lower now, steadier. “I’m not pretending you’re not attractive. You are. You’re charming. You know exactly what you’re doing, and it works. But I’m not-” You stop, choosing your words carefully. “I’m not the girl for you.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly. Amused. Interested.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” you press on, momentum building. “Because I know how this goes. I know your reputation. You make people feel special, you pull them in, and the second it starts to mean something, you’re gone. You detach, move on, find the next person who hasn’t learned the pattern yet.”

The silence between you sharpens.

His smile doesn’t disappear, but it does change.

“And you think you’ve got me all figured out?” he asks.

You let out a breathy, almost humorless laugh. “You’re avoidant,” you blurt. “Or dismissive-avoidant, if we’re being specific. Intimacy triggers you, so you chase connection without vulnerability. It’s safer that way. You keep control.”

The words hang there, bare and undeniable.

For the first time all evening, Malachi looks genuinely caught off guard.

“Wow,” he says softly. “You really have been paying attention.”

“That’s my point,” you say. “I don’t want to be another girl you convince just enough to leave wondering what she did wrong.”

His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer again, voice dropping, “you’re still here.”

You hate that he’s right.

Your heart is racing now, logic fraying under the weight of proximity and tension and the way his attention feels laser-focused, almost reverent.

“I should go back inside,” you whisper.

“You could,” he agrees.

You don’t move.

The kiss happens before you consciously decide to let it.

It’s slow at first, testing, restrained, like he’s giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, when your hand curls into the fabric of his suit instead, something in him shifts. His mouth deepens against yours, confident but unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.

You forget about psychology. About reputations. About patterns.

You remember only how right it feels.

When you finally pull back, breathless and slightly dazed, you blink up at him and then your stomach drops.

You reach up quickly, thumb brushing across his lower lip.

“Hold on,” you murmur, wiping away the faint smudge of your liner you’ve left behind. “I- someone could see.”

No one has. But the sudden rush of awareness floods back in anyway.

You turn slightly, pulling your lip liner from your clutch, reapplying it with shaking hands, grounding yourself in the ritual. Control. Normalcy.

When you look back up, Malachi is watching you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You always do that?” he asks quietly. “Pull yourself together like nothing happened?”

You don’t get the chance to answer.

“Malachi?”

The voice cuts through the moment like a blade.

You turn.

A girl stands a few feet away, dress immaculate, expression tight with forced patience. Her eyes flick briefly to you, assessing, curious, before settling back on him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says.

The air shifts.

Malachi straightens slowly, composure snapping back into place as if it had never slipped. His hand drops from where it had been hovering near your waist.

The girl exhales gently as she approaches you, reaching her hand out to greet you. "I'm Claire, nice to meet you"

“Y/N,” you say, forcing a smile you don’t feel. Your stomach twists violently, the room suddenly too warm, too loud, too bright.

Claire’s grip is polite. Friendly. Completely unaware.

The realization hits you all at once, sharp and merciless.

This is what’s going on.

You barely register Malachi saying your name as you mumble an excuse, something about needing the bathroom, before turning and weaving back inside, heels clicking too fast against the floor.

You don’t slow down until you reach the restroom.

The second the stall door shuts behind you, you’re on your knees, bile burning your throat as you throw up hard enough that it makes your eyes water. Your hands shake as you grip the porcelain, breaths coming in uneven gasps.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

When it finally passes, you sit there for a moment longer, forehead pressed against the stall wall, trying to steady yourself. You flush, rinse your mouth, and step out, splashing cold water onto your face at the sink.

That’s when you notice her.

She’s standing at the mirror beside you, washing her hands. Tall. Elegant. A long black dress drapes effortlessly over her frame. Her hair falls down her back in glossy waves, black as ink, except for the streaks of cherry red woven through it, bold and striking. Her face looks sculpted, model-sharp, devastatingly beautiful.

She glances at you in the mirror, concern softening her expression.

“Hey,” she says gently. “Are you okay?”

You hesitate, then nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just too much to drink.”

She offers a small, understanding smile. “Happens.” She dries her hands, then turns slightly toward you. “I’m Vanessa, by the way.”

The name lands like a punch.

Your vision swims.

Vanessa.

His first girlfriend. The one Isabelle had talked about. The one who’d been blindsided. The one who had trusted him.

“Oh,” you manage, voice thin. “Nice to meet you.”

She gives you a warm nod, completely unaware of the spiral detonating inside your chest. You can’t stay here. You can’t breathe in this room another second.

You murmur something polite, an excuse, a lie, and slip past her, heart hammering as you flee back into the hall.

Isabelle finds you almost immediately.

She frowns the second she sees your face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “I just need a drink.”

She doesn’t push. She never does. Instead, she loops her arm through yours and steers you toward the bar. A passionfruit margarita appears in your hand moments later, cold and sweet and grounding.

You take a long sip. Then another.

Music swells. People dance. Someone pulls you into the crowd, some guy you barely register, smiling and easy and safe. You let him spin you, let the noise and movement drown out the thoughts clawing at your brain.

This is fine. This is normal. This is what you should be doing.

You’re laughing when you see him.

Malachi stands at the edge of the dance floor, eyes locked on you. His expression isn’t smug or playful now, it’s intent. Focused. Like he’s already moving toward you.

Panic surges.

You pull away abruptly, mumbling something to the guy you’re dancing with before slipping through the crowd. Isabelle calls your name, confused, but you don’t stop. You grab your coat, your clutch, your phone.

Fresh air hits your lungs like a shock as you burst outside.

Your hands are shaking as you request an Uber.

You don’t look back.

By the time the car pulls up, your chest is tight with something that feels dangerously close to grief. You slide into the back seat, giving the driver your address with a voice that barely sounds like your own.

As the car pulls away, your phone buzzes in your hand.

You don’t check it.

The phone stays dark in your lap as the city blurs past the window, lights smearing into something indistinct and far away. Your reflection stares back at you, unfamiliar. Quieter. Like someone who’s just crossed a line she swore she never would.

For the first time in your life, you’ve gone against your own morals.

Not by accident. Not because you didn’t know better.

But because you did.

You saw the pattern. You named it. You warned yourself with the language of textbooks and lived experience and every red flag you’d ever learned to recognize. And still, you stepped closer. Still, you let yourself believe that awareness might make you immune.

It didn’t.

You betrayed yourself in the most insidious way, not by falling for him, but by choosing him anyway, if only for a moment. By letting desire outweigh discernment. By proving that knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better.

And worse than all of it?

You gave in.

Not to Malachi.

But to the part of you that wanted to be wanted, even when it cost you everything you pride yourself on being.

The car keeps moving.

And you sit there, silent, carrying the weight of a choice you can’t undo, knowing this isn’t over, even if you wish it were.

He'd string you along for the ride, make you feel like you were the only one that mattered. But underneath all those not-so-subtle touches and the cold persona, you couldn't help to wonder what you really were to him. ★ song: all for me - mariah the scientist ★ pairing: oscar piastri x reader ★ angst, cursing, irresponsible driving, flirty banter, jealousy, spelling errors (sorry in advance)

”You know what, just stop the fucking car and let me out of here. I don’t even want to talk with you anymore.” For a moment, silence fills the car, so heavy it's like someone putting a weight on her chest. You wait for the blinker, the slow deceleration, you wait for him to tell you how emotional you are, that he never wants to see you again. She imagines herself slamming the expensive car door, walking away with tears streaking down her cheeks, never looking back purely out of pride and embarrassment. She imagines herself going home to her apartment, crying herself to sleep for once again permanently burning a bridge to someone she actually cared about, because you've always been like this. You've always been the person with impulsive, hard to handle emotions. You learned to never communicate your feelings because they never mattered. So you'd keep quiet despite being upset, and then you'd lash out when you finally reached your limit, unleashing the monster that couldn't be stopped. The monster that encouraged the urge to cut everyone off and start fresh, to never text them again. Then you'd regret it after a few hours, or even a few days later when your brain had calmed down, but it would be too late.

But when you snap back to reality, you realize that the car isn't slowing down. If anything, it now accelerates faster as Oscar presses his foot against the gas pedal. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road.

"No." He says bluntly. Just that, a single word, clipped and quiet, but it cuts straight through her. You whip your head towards him, wide eyed, also surprised at having your demand denied for the first time.

"What do you mean, no? I told you to stop the car and let me out!" You say, articulating with your hands, frustrated. You were furious and wanted to leave before verbally let out the monster you feared even more. As you sat there and waiting for a response, you watch as his grip on the wheel tighten, but his voice stays maddeningly even.

“I’m not dropping you on the side of the road in the middle of the night just because you’re mad at me. That’s not happening.”

Something twists in her chest. Anger, humiliation, but also something else, something dangerous. Because beneath the calm, she can hear it, the edge in his voice. The part that cares too much. But after all, she doesn't respond, instead, she crosses her arms, looking out of the window, trying to avoid any form of eye contact. As she sits there, she starts to realize what she has done, she feels her eyes sting as tears escape her eyes. You hate yourself for allowing the tears to escape your eyes. And as much as she tries to stop herself, she finds it worthless as they just keep coming, even more when she tries to stop. At first, she doesn't know why she's crying. On a surface level, she'd think that she's crying out of anger. But in reality, it's the realization that is now hitting her. She has truly burned this bridge. When Oscar drops her off at her apartment, he will never contact her again. There will be no more late night drives, she will never get to experience the feeling of speeding through tracks and the euphoria and adrenaline pumping through her veins.

The only opportunity for her to see Oscar will be while watching Skysports from her home, like a fan. But like she always does. He will win the championship, you know he will. But you also know that you won't be there to celebrate with him, not after this.

As she's lost in her imagination, imaginaging herself watching him on the TV as he wins the championship, knowing that she'll never speak to him again, Oscar notices her crying. He hears her quiet sniffers and that she's making an effort to not make him notice. As much as he'd like to comfort her, he doesn't know how. He's just been ambushed with an argument he doesn't know how to face. Sure, he had been seen with numerous random women, he couldn't deny that, but they were only surface level connections, a one night meet and never seen again, which they were fine with. He got temporary pleasure for the night, they got clout. They could never be you though, they lacked personality and the passion that you had. The ability to tell stories with the expressions that you had, so engaged and passionate. You were smart, beautiful, incredibly funny and a character in its own league. He thought that him valuing you more than them was obvious, but apparently it wasn't. At the same time as he'd like to have a conversation about it, he doesn't know what to say to make you feel better, nor does he actually know how he's feeling about this situation. One thing that he does know is that he won't be able to let you go, not like this.

She notices a shift in the car as it slows down, that's when Oscar breaks the silence. "If I pull over, you'll have to promise not to hop out." He says, completely serious, may I add. "You're joking right?" She says in disbelief. Is he seriously saying this right now? "Dead serious." He says as he continues to look forward, jaw clenched as he focuses on looking around for a place to pull over at.

She rolls her eyes at his ridiculous statement. Realistically, her saying that she wanted to get out of the car was ridiculous. She would had never dared to walk home alone at night, especially not in the middle of nowhere, far away from home as the rain was pouring down. "Fine." She finally says quietly.

He immediately slows down, and pulls over at a random place, he also glances at the locked door button, just in case. As he puts the car in park, he opens the little storage he has in the car and pulls out some tissues that his sister Hattie had stacked his car with, because apparently you never know when there is an emergency.

He wordlessly hands you the box of tissues, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest second. You glance up at him, your vision still blurred. The whites of your eyes are red and raw, your lashes heavy with tears, black streaks of mascara painting uneven lines down your cheeks. You take the tissues with a trembling hand, suddenly aware of how small you feel, how exposed. The anger that had kept you upright only moments ago has burned out completely, leaving behind a hollow ache.

You’ve never felt so stripped of your own armor. No confidence, no fight, just the wreckage left behind. As you dab at your face, trying to erase the evidence, your reflection flashes in the dark window beside you. Swollen eyes, flushed skin, the mess of someone who’s run out of ways to pretend she’s fine. And then, the thought of him sitting inches away, so calm, so unreadable, tightens your chest until another tear spills free.

“Okay, you can stop crying now,” He says, tone dry but not unkind. “You’re acting like I’m about to drop you off and erase you like nothing happened.”

You let out a shaky breath, the words cutting deeper than they probably should. “Isn’t that exactly what you usually do?” You shoot back, voice quieter, colder than before. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a heartbeat you can’t tell if he’s about to laugh or argue. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking once before he answers, softer but with an edge that stings just as much.

“Not to you. Don’t flatter yourself thinking I’d waste this much time if you were like the rest.” The words land heavy between you, leaving the air charged. You can’t tell if he’s trying to reassure you or warn you, and you hate that you can’t tell the difference. Your throat closes up, the silence stretching. Did he mean that you weren’t disposable, or that you were worse, harder to forget, more dangerous to keep?

Before you can decipher the meaning, the weight in your chest swells until it feels impossible to breathe. The tears come back faster this time, hot and unstoppable. Panic floods your veins, the same kind that had driven your voice too loud, your anger too sharp, minutes ago.

“I’m sorry,” You choke out between uneven breaths. “I know you don’t like crying, I just-” Your voice breaks. “I just can’t stop. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” You drag your sleeve across your face, as if wiping fast enough could erase the entire moment. But he doesn’t look away. His gaze softens, steady and silent, as if he’s watching something fragile collapse in slow motion and doesn’t know how to stop it.

“Okay, c’mere,” he murmurs, voice low and steady as he reaches over to unclip your seatbelt. The soft click echoes in the quiet car before his hand finds your waist, guiding you gently toward him. He shifts, leaning sideways to make space, then pulls you carefully into his lap. His arms settle around you, steady but not possessive, his chest a quiet, solid anchor beneath your cheek. His thumb traces absent circles against your shoulder, each touch patient, grounding.

At first, your body resists the comfort, muscles tense, breath shallow. You’re still raw, still humiliated by how much you’ve fallen apart in front of him. But the rhythm of his breathing, the calm rise and fall beneath your cheek and the faint scent of his cologne, warm and familiar, start to ease the edges of your shame. Slowly, your fingers find the fabric of his hoodie, curling into it like a lifeline, as if letting go might make him vanish. “I don’t even know how I ended up like this,” you whisper after a long pause, voice muffled against him. “I usually have some kind of control, you know? But lately, I’ve just been… this emotional mess that keeps getting upset over everything. And it’s not even valid. We’re not even together, I don’t have any right to feel this way.”

Your fingers trail lightly along his arm through the hoodie, a nervous, almost apologetic gesture. The air between you hums with unspoken things, his stillness, your confession, the quiet pulse of something that feels dangerously close to comfort. "Yes you do. I don't think you're overreacting. I just genuinely didn't know you felt this way about the situation, or about me." He mutters into her hair, his voice low. “Sometimes I just wish they could lock me up somewhere,” she murmurs, her voice small, trembling. “So I wouldn’t have these outbursts. So people could stop looking at me like I’m some emotional monster who can’t control herself.”

“But you’re not an emotional monster,” he says softly, his tone careful but sincere. One hand moves slowly along her back, tracing calming circles. “There’s nothing wrong with you. We all deal with things differently. That’s all.” She lets out a quiet, bitter chuckle, shaking her head against his chest. “You don’t get it, Oscar. I am this. Too much, too messy, too loud. You don’t want this.”

“Stop telling me what I want,” he cuts in, his voice firmer now, low, but edged with something raw. He tilts his head just enough for his jaw to brush her temple, grounding her with the closeness. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” Her lips curve faintly despite herself. “Since when did you get so persistent?” she asks, her tone light, teasing.

He exhales through a soft laugh, the tension easing between them as his thumb keeps tracing slow lines along her shoulders. “So it’s working then,” he says, a hint of a grin playing at his lips. “What’s working?” she asks, lifting her head slightly, confusion and curiosity flickering in her tired eyes. “Apparently, physical touch helps with anxiety and sadness,” he says, tone matter-of-fact, like he’s quoting a study instead of holding her in his lap. “Says who?” she presses, tilting her head. “I don’t know. Some science guy on TikTok,” he replies casually. She rolls her eyes, a soft laugh bubbling up before she can stop it. “Of course you saw it on TikTok.” For the first time that night, she really looks at him. His face is softer now, less guarded, his usual calm replaced by something gentler. Her laughter lingers, a fragile, genuine sound that fills the small space between them like a quiet truce.

When her gaze meets his again, she expects him to smirk, to fire back something cocky. But he doesn’t. He just… looks at her. And for once, he doesn’t hide behind that cold, unreadable mask. Her pulse stumbles. His eyes linger on hers a little too long, dropping briefly to her mouth before flicking back up, like he hadn’t meant to. The air shifts, charged, heavy. She should look away, make a joke, break the tension before it swallows her whole. But she doesn’t. She can’t. And then without either of them really deciding, he leans in, just slightly, enough for her breath to catch. Her lips part on instinct.

It’s not a desperate kiss, not even a practiced one. It’s hesitant, almost cautious, like neither of them knows if it should be happening, but neither of them is willing to pull back first. The first kiss is hesitant, almost careful, but the electricity between them makes it impossible to stay still for long. She shifts slightly, bracing herself against him, and before she knows it, her legs are straddling his lap.

His hands move naturally, sliding to her waist, holding her firmly but not harshly, grounding her as their mouths meet again. She lets herself sink into the warmth of him, the rhythm of his breathing matching hers. Every doubt, every tear from earlier, seems to melt away under the steady pressure of his hands and the soft brush of his lips.

When they finally pull back, breathless and slightly laughing at the shared intensity, she leans her forehead against his. “Well,” she murmurs, teasing through a small smirk, “it isn’t a proper late-night drive if it doesn’t end in a makeout session.” His hands tighten a little on her waist, and she glances down at him, at his hoodie, and freezes. Oh no. Mascara stains, streaked from her tears, smudged over the fabric. She touches the marks lightly, panic flashing in her eyes. “I think… I ruined your hoodie,” she whispers.

He glances down at the stain, shrugs, and lets out a soft chuckle, leaning back slightly. “I love how you’re acting like I’m not a millionaire who can just buy a new black hoodie,” he says, his tone teasing but warm, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. She can’t help but grin despite herself, the humor cutting through the tension. For a few moments, everything else, the anger, the crying, the guilt—feels distant, and it’s just the two of them, tangled together in the quiet aftermath of everything they’ve felt tonight. She bites back a laugh, brushing her fingers lightly over the stains. “It’s not about money, Oscar. You’re covered in my crying mess.” He leans a little closer, his hands tightening subtly on her waist. “And?” His tone is casual, almost dismissive, but his grip says everything else. “I told you, you’re not some emotional monster. And somehow… I like that you leave marks.” She freezes, cheeks heating as his words sink in. She softly hits his chest lightly as she lets out a giggle, making him chuckle as well. His hands move slightly, thumbs brushing over her sides, holding her close as if he’s claiming the space around her. “So you're saying that you like me crying on you?” she teases lightly, though her heart is hammering, half scandalized, half thrilled. “Not the crying part,” he mutters, eyes darkening just slightly, “but you, sitting here, on my lap, sure.”

”Appreciate it” She says sarcastically as she rubs her eyes, trying to see clearer from all the tears, but she ends up smudging out her mascara even more, and she notices by him making a face. She quickly turns around, pulls down the mirror, only to see her own reflection. ”Great, now I look like a panda” He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, eyes softening just a little as he watches her fuss with the mirror. She shrugs, smudged mascara and all. “Unbelievable? Sure, that’s one way to put it. I’d call it… emotionally catastrophic.”

He tilts his head, curious, not mocking. “Emotionally catastrophic?” She lets out a small, bitter laugh, resting her forehead back against his chest. “Yeah… I mean, one second I think I’m fine, the next I’m crying in your car, nearly ruining everything, and now… I’m sitting on your lap, looking like a disaster.” “And listen,” She continues, lifting her head just enough to look at him. Her eyes are still glassy, but her tone has found a fragile steadiness. “I’m not asking for anything. I don’t expect you to say you love me, or even that you like me. I get that this, whatever it is, doesn’t have a label.” She swallows hard, forcing the words through the tightness in her throat. “But I need to be honest about something.”

She pauses, the next breath trembling out of her. “I don’t think I could handle seeing you with someone else. Not after this. Not if we keep… doing this." Her voice lowers to almost a whisper. “We can’t just go back to being friends. Not anymore.” "Who says you were my friend even to begin with?" He says bluntly as you frown, sitting on his lap, now with a questioning face. Even slightly betrayed.

"What?" You say, stunned. "You think I go on late night drives with my other friends like this? You think I make out with my other friends like this? Y/N, you were never just a friend, not to me at least." Her breath catches. The words hanging heavy between them, vibrating in her chest like a second heartbeat. “Never… just a friend?” She repeats, barely a whisper. His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not once.” Her stomach twists, a mixture of relief, fear, and something terrifyingly close to hope. For a moment, she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, whether to push him away, or pull him closer.

“You should’ve said something,” she blurts, her voice breaking. “You let me sit here thinking I was crazy for feeling all of this, for wanting you.” His jaw tightens. For a moment, he doesn’t answer, just looks at her like he’s trying to decide what truth is safe to give. When he finally speaks, his tone is low, careful.

“I figured you already knew,” He says simply. “Didn’t think I had to spell it out.” Her laugh comes out jagged, wet with the remnants of her tears. “What we had? Oscar, we’re a goddamn mess. Look at me. Look at us.” “I am.” His voice drops, steady, almost dangerous in its honesty. “And it doesn’t make me want you any less.” The words hit like a punch to the ribs, stealing her air. Her throat closes up, eyes stinging again, but for once, it isn’t only from sadness.

She shakes her head, disbelieving. “You’re impossible.” “And you’re infuriating,” he mutters, but his lips twitch with the faintest smirk. Their foreheads brush again, and the tension coils tight, tighter, until it’s unbearable. She can feel his heartbeat under her palm where it rests on his chest, fast and uneven, mirroring her own. It would be so easy to kiss him again. Too easy. But instead, she whispers, raw and shaking, “Then what are we, Oscar?”

"I don't know, but what I do know is that I can't stand the idea of losing you. You can try to push me away as much as you'd like, but there's nothing you can do to make me let go. I'll always show up at your doorstep, no matter what, whenever you're ready to talk." Her breath stutters at his answer, her chest tightening as the weight of it settles. He doesn’t give her a definition, doesn’t make promises he might not be able to keep, but his words feel heavier than any label could. Her fingers curl tighter in his hoodie, grounding herself. “You’re not supposed to say things like that,” She whispers, voice fragile, almost pleading. “You’re supposed to let me go, make it easy for me.” He shakes his head, jaw set. “Easy isn’t worth it.”

Her lips part, but no sound comes out. For once, she has no snark, no sarcasm to hide behind. Just the raw ache in her chest, the terrifying truth that she wants to believe him, more than anything. The silence stretches, heavy, but different now, less suffocating, more charged. His thumb brushes absentmindedly against her side, small circles that make her whole body hum. “Don’t look at me like that,” she mumbles, tilting her head. “Like what?” he asks, voice dipping low, curious, but she can hear the smirk threatening at the edges. “Like I’m not completely unhinged,” She mutters.

He tilts his head, eyes locked on hers, grinning. “Maybe I like you unhinged.” Her laugh bursts out, shaky, but real. She smacks his chest lightly, trying to mask how much those words undo her. He catches her wrist, gently, holding it there against him. “You’re ridiculous,” she says softly. “And you’re still on my lap,” he counters, a hint of smugness finally breaking through. Her pulse jumps. And for the first time that night, she doesn’t feel like running. "Okay, fine. Can we atleast make a deal for now, while we figure this whole thing out." She says articulating with her hands, emphasizing the whole thing.

"No seeing other people" She states firmly. "Definitely no low lives without intellect, emotional awareness or money." Oscar adds on, funny. Her lips twitch, fighting back a laugh at his add-on. “So basically… no one beneath your ridiculous standards.” “Exactly,” he says without missing a beat, eyes glinting as if he’s daring her to argue. She shakes her head, exhaling a laugh despite herself. “You’re impossible.” “And yet…” he glances down at where she’s still straddling him, his hands resting comfortably at her waist, “…you’re still here.” Her cheeks warm, and she rolls her eyes to cover it. “Don’t let it go to your head.” “Too late,” he says, leaning back against the seat, his grin soft but unmistakably smug.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The rain taps steadily against the windows, the world outside blurred and far away. She watches him, the faint curve of his mouth, the way his thumb absently brushes over her hip like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. And for once, she lets herself breathe. "It just feels so surreal to me, that we're sitting here right now. I genuinely thought it was over when I confronted you." Her voice cracks slightly on over, and she quickly looks down, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie like they might distract her from how raw she feels. Oscar’s brows furrow, his grip on her waist tightening just slightly. “Why'd you think that?” She exhales shakily, still not meeting his eyes. “Because that’s how it usually goes with me. I get too emotional, I ruin everything, and then… that’s it. I honestly thought I’d never see you again. That I’d just have to watch you from afar on TV, watching your races, even watching you win the championship, the one that I know that you've fought so hard for this entire season."

The words spill out faster now, like she’s afraid she’ll lose her nerve if she slows down. “That I’d only see you through a screen, on interviews, on podiums, on television. Just another person in the world who used to know you.” Her chest feels tight, like saying it out loud makes it all too real. “And the worst part? I already know you are going to win, and I hated the thought of not being there for it. Not because of racing, not because of the sport, because of you.” For a moment, the car is silent except for the sound of her uneven breathing. She’s half terrified to look up at him, afraid she’s said too much, been too much.

Then Oscar exhales through his nose, almost like he’s annoyed, not at her, but at the thought itself. His hand slides up from her waist to the side of her face, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“Y/N,” he says, firm but quiet, “You’re not going to be watching me from a couch. You’re not some stranger on the other side of a TV screen. You’re here. With me. I always saw you there with me whenever the championship is over, or atleast i always wanted to. But I know you don't like the paparazzi, you don't like the spotlight, hence why I never invited you to any race. But I'd like for you to be there, if your studies allow it ofcourse."

He was right, you didn't like the publicity. Mainly because you knew what happened to other WAGS in the sport. All of them being hyperanalyzed, everything from their mannerisms to their looks, and you knew that you didn't have the classic influencer look either. But besides all of this, it made you feel so good that he wanted you there. And who were you to say no? To not live out your fantasies of being there with him as he lifts the final championship trophy. "I'd like to be there with you." You say softly but firmly. Oscar’s lips twitch into the smallest, almost imperceptible smirk, but his eyes light up in a way that makes her chest flutter. “Really?” he asks, voice low, teasingly cautious, like he can’t fully believe she just said it. “Yeah,” she confirms, a little more confidently this time, letting herself meet his gaze fully. “I want to be there. With you. Not on TV, not through someone else’s lens. With you.” He shifts slightly beneath her, hands still gracing her waist. The tension between them has softened now. Her tears are gone, but the mascara smudges still grace her cheeks. "Good,” he says quietly, a small curve at the corner of his mouth. “Because I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you there. It’s selfish, maybe, but I want you in the crowd when it happens.” His gaze holds hers, steady and sure. “Just… be ready to see me win.”

She exhales a small laugh, the kind that feels like release. “Cocky.” “Confident,” he corrects, brushing a strand of hair from her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone.

“Just don’t start crying again when I’m on the podium.” She smirks, letting herself rest a little more against him, the warmth and safety in his presence starting to melt the panic and guilt she carried.

“No promises,” she whispers, teasingly, but her heart feels lighter than it has all night. He lets out a soft chuckle. "We just have to figure out how to make my messages send to you, I just keep getting notifications that they aren't sending for some reason" He says, sounding genuinely somewhat confused. "Oh right, I have to unblock you, hold on." She says, taking her phone from the phone holder in the car, still straddling his lap.

"YOU BLOCKED ME? I just thought it was some technical error as you said!" He says, genuinely shocked. “I thought you noticed it was a ridiculous lie I pulled,” she says, a soft laugh escaping her, half amused, half embarrassed by his obliviousness. He gives her a puzzled look, and she shakes her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No, but honestly, I just needed it at the time. I was so convinced it would give me enough distance to finally let you go. To stop obsessing over every little thing you did. And then…” she gestures toward him with mock disbelief, “…you decide to show up at my doorstep instead.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving into a small, knowing smirk. “So… blocking me was supposed to work?” She groans, tilting her head back against the seat with an exasperated sigh. “It should have worked. I thought it’d finally give me some control over myself, over my feelings. But no, of course you had to ruin it by showing up anyway.”

He chuckles, low and easy, leaning in just enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath ghost across her skin. “That’s… ambitious of you,” he murmurs. “You really thought a block would make me disappear?” As she's about to respond, they both hear the sound notification of another message from her phone that's still resting in her hand. She frowns as she looks at the phone, wondering who'd text her during this hour. She looks at the name of the notification: "FROM LUCAS"

Oscar quickly looks down at the notification and sees a blurry name that looks awfully like Lucas. He clenches his jaw, looking visibly irritated. "Yeah speaking of someone I would like to see disappear" Oscar mutters. "Okay, let me stop this before it escalates" She says, as she's showing Oscar the phone as she blocks the contact. "There you see, nothing to worry about. And if he reaches out again, I'll just let him know that I have a boyfriend, okay?" Oscar glances at her, eyebrows slightly raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Boyfriend, huh? Bold move.” "Well, It's the truth isn't it? Or do you want me to say relationship without labels?" She says teasingly as she looks at him. "No, boyfriend it is."

Thank you all so much for the love and support on What Does She Have on Me. Your kind words and encouragement genuinely mean the world to me.

This is the long-awaited Part Two and yes, it took me an embarrassingly long time to finish (I know, I know). I truly appreciate your patience, and I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations.

I poured a lot into it, and I hope you’ll love it as much as I do. <3

He'd string you along for the ride, make you feel like you were the only one that mattered. But underneath all those not-so-subtle touches and the cold persona, you couldn't help to wonder what you really were to him. ★ song: all for me - mariah the scientist ★ pairing: oscar piastri x reader ★ angst, cursing, irresponsible driving, flirty banter, jealousy, spelling errors (sorry in advance)

You didn't want to seem clingy, those girls were the worst, at least according to every man you'd ever talked to. So you played it his way: waiting atleast an hour to reply, skipping emojis (too much personality to give) and keeping responses short and careful, no rambling and absolutely no oversharing. You feared saying too much, doing too much, being too much. Because you had to avoid anything that might scare him off, bore him or make him tired of you. You had already heard the rumours and seen the paparazzi pictures. Oscar spotted with a new mystery woman. It clearly bothered you, it was obvious. You found yourself scrolling through the entire article, staring at the photo, and then running straight to Tiktok. First F1 gossip account you could find, desperate to figure out who the new mystery woman was, or more realistically, who they were. Because let's face it, it was never just one women, there were several. You had stalked them all on instagram, only to find thta they were everything you weren't. That made you wonder why he would even keep in touch with you. You weren't exactly the hot type. The most compliments you'd ever recieve were being called cute, which absolutely didn't hold the same weight as sexy or hot. The start of the instagram stalking session had you questioning, what does she have on me? What does she have? But it didn't take you long to realize, she had everything you didn't.

It was truly ironic. After the first incident, he had been blocked. The shock of that first paparazzi picture had sent you into an emotional spiral, leaving no choice but to block Oscar everywhere. He had seemed genuinely surprised, or atleast as surprised as the 'ice boy' could ever seem. That late night, when the rain was pouring outside, he had knocked on her door. Dressed in all black sweats, hair wavy and messy under the hood. Oscar had no idea she had been reading every article about him, no clue she'd seen all the women he had been caught with. He didn't know how deep the jealousy ran, how much rage had fueled her spiral, how ill she had felt when she imagined him with others, or that blocking him had been the only way to reclaim control and some form of self respect.

That evening, some dumb excuses slipped out, anything to avoid telling the truth. The words she wanted to say knotted in her throat, too painful to release. How could she possibly admit that just being friends was impossible after all those late night drives? Oscar speeding recklessly through the city streets, pushing past some limits to chase that high. The same dizzy rush she felt sitting beside him, like the drop of a rollercoaster. The euphoria was unbearable, the adrenaline only feeding the chaos inside her. What she felt for him was a blur, love? limerence? obsession? She couldn't even tell anymore. But the moment she saw those paparazzi photos surfacing, it was like her chest collapsed on itself, sending a chill sinking all the way into her lungs.

The same evening, when he knocked on the door, he asked casually why his messages weren't going through. Stumbling over some lame excuses, none of them even remotely close to the truth. She watched him listen, and he bought it, or maybe he knew she was lying and simply didn't care enough to press her.

Looking back at that moment, everything still feels raw. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe, Mclaren keys dangling from his fingers.

"Late night drive?" He asked casually, as if the fact that she had blocked him just a day ago didn't even exist. During her emotional spiral, she had convinced herself to grow a backbone. Not to let him sweep her up ever again. He didn't even deserve her. If anything, she deserved better. Someone that was sure of her, someone who didn't make her question herself. And yet, despite every rational thought, she found herself grabbing her black puffer jacket, heading towards his car.

"Only if I get to control the music" You say, walking past him towards his car. It wasn't a suggestion, it was a demand, and who is he to deny her demands?

"Yes m'am" He replies, cheeky, chuckling at her sarcastic coldness. She wasn't even trying to be funny, in fact, she was still mad at him for continuosly breaking her heart without realizing it.

The silence that hung between the two as soon as they sat in the car doesn't last long. Loud music blasts from the speakers cutting through it completely. She wasn't in the mood to speak, and the music spares them the suffocating silence. Oscar speeds through the city like he always does, reckless yet precise. Somehow, despite the maniac driving, you trust him completely. He wouldn't crash, not with her in the car. The control he has over the vechicle is almost mesmerizing, and every time you see it in action, your heart flutters, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

As she gazes out the window, the city lights stretch and blur, shining too bright for her eyes to focus on. But tonight was different, he was taking a different route, winding further and further from the civilization. After a while it hits her, where he was taking her. The massive sign looms ahead, glowing stark white in the darkness.

"Los Angeles' car racing track" You know exactly where this is going. He's about to drive recklessly, the kind of speed no one would dare attempt on public roads, not even the Oscar Piastri. Once they enter the track, she notices that it's absolutely pitch black, only the track lights showing the way. She's never been here before, only heard about it on the news. Why would he even bring her here? But there is no time for questions. He slams the accelerator, and her body is slammed back into the seat. She grips the bottom of it desperately, trying to anchor herself, but it's useless. The illusion of control that you thought you had vanishes completely and is replaced by a thrilling, terrifying helplessness.

The car is pushing its limits, screaming at maximum level, when suddenly it eases just slightly, and then slides sideways. Oscar is drifting faster than she's ever experienced before, and she's strapped in right beside him.

"Oh my god, Oh my god!" She screeches, words spilling out before she can stop them, instinct overriding thought as the car arcs around the turn. Hearing her screech, Oscar straightens the wheel. The car shoots forward again, still accelerating and the euphoric rush hits her all over again.

"Hey, shh, it's alright. I know what I'm doing. Just relax and let me take control." He says, voice calm but carrying a hint of edge. "Besides, don't want you passing out, or dying on me now" A soft chuckle escapes his lips, and she exhales a deep breath she didn't realize that she had been holding.

"Please, you could never make me pass out. Not even if you tried." You say, your natural sass returning in full force, trying to reclaim your confidence after nearly letting your nerves take over. Oscar's expression shifts instantly, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. Damn, you had accidentally given him a challenge now. You quickly hit play on Spotify, cueing the song you had been obsessively listening to these past few days, just as your body jolts forward when he once again slams the gas pedal. He's back to driving like a maniac, intent on shutting her up and taking full control. The car drifts in tight, controlled cirles, the adrenaline pumping through her system. You feel every surge of speed as your confidence tries to fight the fear.

And I don't think I'll make it home ' Cause I can't spend another night alone What does she have on me? What does she have? She isn't half of me

Your hands lift from the seat, floating freely in the air as the adrenaline surges through you. He's driving full speed, drifting around the track, and for the first time, she lets herself truly enjoy it. Every nerve spikes with excitement, yet underneathe it all, she feels safe, because he's there, in complete control, allowing her to release everything weighing on her mind.

After a while of driving, blasting music and laughing, he slows down, heading towards the track's exit. He glances back at her briefly.

"See? I told you. You're fine, you survived, and you look even happier than when we started." He says, snickering as the car merges onto the public roads. The sky above being pitch black, definitely past midnight.

"Well, it's hard to have consistent emotions when you've been whiplashed around the track for an hour." You joke, sarcasm dripping from your tone. He lets out a soft laugh, freeing one hand from the wheel to rest on her thigh. She doesn't even tense, not even a little. It's almost too comfortable, too casual, too much for her own good. Why did she enjoy his touch so much, when he wasn't anyone to her? She wasn't supposed to feel this way.

As they drove through the city, conversation flows surprisingly easy, casual but engaging. Oscar talks about the different races he's driven, one's that you've obviously seen on TV, but you act oblivious, careful not to reveal how closely you follow his career. In turn, you open up about your studies, venting about classmates too lazy or narrow minded to think for themselves. You even rant about life in general, letting her frustrations spill.

He listens like he actually cares, his responses being validating and considerate. He calls her classmates idiots and listens attentively, responding in ways that shows that he truly gets it. Both being straight A students mean that they speak the same language. One shaped by ambition, curiosity and the pressure to excel.

But abruptly, she's interrupted as her phone speaker blares a notification, this time, the message being read aloud in the car.

NOTIFICATION FROM LUCAS: Hey, Y/N. You haven't been answering my calls, I truly hope that you're alright. I know that you've been busy with school and your exams, and that you don't want to be disturbed, so I'm sending a message instead. I miss talking with you, and I've realized after a lot of consideration, that I think that you are the one. I'd like to take you out on another date when you're free, so please let me know when you're available.

Her body freezes as the message floods the car, every word ringing loud and impossible to ignore. She doesn't even bother trying to turn it off, she doesn't even know how to do so. Oscar's hand tenses slightly as he listens, but like always, he masks it effortlessly. Within moments, the subtle shift disappears, and he's back to his usual neutral, cocky self.

"I-" She starts to speak before he cuts her off.

"I didn't know you were seeing someone" He says, almost too casually. His words shouldn't scare her, but it's the way he says them. Curious, cocky, effortlessly confident. Not an angry tone, just that unmistakable edge of someone who knows exactly what he's worth. Oscar Piastri, famous, rich, untouchable, and he knows it. At the end of the day, no one could compete, even if they tried.

"Do you like him?" Oscar asks bluntly, ripping her from her thoughts, forcing her to think fast. Should she lie? Or finally be honest for once?

"I-" You cut yourself off, deciding that honesty is easier than pretending right now. Surviving the tension in the car is hard enough, lying would only make it worse. Besides, she could never keep a secret from Oscar for long anyway.

"I don't know, it's complicated.. I don't know him well enough to draw that conclusion yet. We've only been on a few dates and he's already convinced he knows me inside out. And I'm like, we've only been on three dates at most, what is there to love by now? The absence of a personality since he won't let me talk about myself for more than thirty seconds?"

Oops. That last rant slipped out easier than she'd intended. You had meant to brag, to twist the knife, make Oscar jealous, let him feel the same sting you'd felt scrolling through the paparazzi photos that night. But instead, it all just spilled out.

"Ah, so he lacks depth then. Classic. Does he at least make you feel good?" Oscar blurts it out, unnervingly straight forward. You almost flinch, but you know what he's really asking. He doesn't care about you going on dates with other people. What actually bothers him is the thought of another man getting close to her, on an intimate leve. It stings him enought that he needs an answer. Maybe he's a little jealous after all.

"I don't sleep with people I don't know" You say firmly, reasserting boundaries that Oscar already knows well. You two have never gone further than a few late night makeout sessions in his car. He's nevr pushed her, he knows that she isn't that kind of girl. Oscar hums in response, one hand steady on the wheel while the other stays planted on her thigh, never moving. The gesture is casual, yet possesive. A silent reminder that he knows that he's in control, and that deep down, he knows that you'll never truly settle for Lucas.

"Why would you even bother with a guy like that though? He clearly lacks intellect, emotional awareness, and judging by the way you've described him, he's not exactly wealthy either. What makes him worthy of your time? Stop wasting your energy on people that are complete losers, that are treating you poorly and that you can't possibly see a future with."

His words hit harder than he probably intended. That stinging feeling isn't about Lucas, it's about her. He's unintentionally calling out her lack of self respect, her tendency to seek validation from people who clearly aren't worth it. And she can't even deny it. You know that you've been chasing approval, letting someone like Lucas occupy your time while wanting someone like Oscar, despite how recklessly he's playing with your heart. Her anger rises, but it's not necessarily directed at him. It's the unfair, frustrating truth reflected back at her. Who was he to judge her? To critize her, especially after all the women he has been seen with? Yet beneath that irritation, a grudging awareness nags at her. He's right and you know it.

"That's rich coming from you, the guy seen with a new bimbo influencer every week. Or maybe you can picture a future with all those different trashy women, huh?" Oops. The words slips out sharper and quicker than intended, carried entirely by impulse. You know that you're supposed to hold back, but you can't help it. Oscar freezes, absolutely stunned. Sure, she's usually sarcastic, even mean at times, but he's never heard her attack like this. There's a flicker of something else in her tone, for a moment, she almost sounds hurt. And now, he's more confused than ever.

"What are you even talking about?" His voice sounds more bothered this time. Finally, a reaction. You can't keep quiet anymore, you've already exposed yourself, so you might as well just spit it all out, even if it means losing him forever. Besides her frustration, she feels a sense of excitement, watching his cold emotional facade crumble.

"You come to me, preaching about not wasting your time on low lives, on people who lack intellect or have no place in your future, while paparazzi catch you with a new girl every week."

"I-" He tries to interrupt.

"I've seen the pictures, Oscar. Don't you dare fucking deny it. You tell me to let Lucas go because he isn't willing to get to know me, but at least he focuses on only me. You? You have ten different women, none of them serious, none of them lasting. It's ironic, you don't even take me seriously. You might know me better than he does, but you clearly don't care enough to stop hurting me and leading me on."

The words spill out before you can stop them, the resentment that you collected, finally unleashed. Frustration, resentment and all the simmering emotions bursts to the surface. You know that you've made yourself look overly emotional, and you know that it isn't something that men like. But you don't care, not now. Her eyes starts to sting, a hot unwelcome heat building behind them. She doesn't even want to discuss this with him anymore. She doesn't have the energy to defend herself, or pretend that she's still that composed, untouchable girl. She knows that she's burned this bridge. He'll never see her as the cool, nonchalant version again, not after exposing this emotional monster inside of her. The real, raw her.

”You know what, just stop the fucking car and let me out of here. I don’t even want to talk with you anymore.”

Thank you for reading what does she have on me! This is my first fanfic, so excuse my spelling errors. I might write a part two to this story if people want it lol.