meriyuna

Lando had been the one to come up with the idea. He’d realized he spent more time away from his apartment than living in it—and he didn’t quite like the idea of strangers looking after his place and personal belongings while he was away. He’d also been insisting for years already that you should move to Monaco, to which you always replied that you weren’t exactly in the correct tax bracket to do that. You intended it as an off-hand comment when you mentioned your job was becoming more of an online situation, when you mentioned you would be able to visit more often.

Really, it was a joke when Lando said it. You’d both gone out to some fancy restaurant after Max had ditched the two of you last minute. He’d been sipping his drink when he teased, “Maybe it’s finally time you move here—you could move in with me.”

You’d laughed it off, but by the time Lando had set down his drink, paper umbrella poking his cheek, there was a more determined set of his brows—and he wasn’t laughing anymore.

You don’t know how he managed to convince you. Though, really, it’s Lando—and Max likes to tease that you always fold for him. Which you deny. Obviously.

It’s since been six months since the two of you started living together. He keeps the rent very cheap for you—even though he insisted you didn’t have to pay for it—and you keep his apartment well-taken care of while he’s off being famous. For a while it felt more like you were house-sitting rather than being his roommate, with triple headers and flights to MTC becoming more and more noticeable. Still, you’ve noticed he’s found more time to come back to Monaco. You know that only because Max pointedly mentioned during a stream that he didn’t used to spend as much time in Monaco as he has this season.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’ve missed my bed,” Lando retorted, but you knew he was doing it for your benefit. Probably because some misplaced guilt was catching up to him in leaving you alone in a home that still doesn’t quite feel like your own.

Either way, living with Lando is… surprisingly nice. He was cautious the first few days of him being back. Constantly checking on you, asking “is this okay with you?” more often than not. But by the fourth day, you could see his shoulders relax, his posture ease, as if he suddenly remembered that it’s just you. From then, it doesn’t take him long to start streaming late at night with shouts that make you want to put your head through the wall.

“Are your neighbors complaining?” Ginge asks through Lando’s headset. “They must loathe you. Y’should install a soundproof booth, Lando.”

“What? No, my neighbors don’t—SHIT!” His yelling is promptly followed by a loud banging against the wall besides him. He winces. “Sorry!”

“Oh, someone’s angry at you.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna kill me,” Lando replies distractedly, ducking to lower the master volume of his headphones. He calls out an apology followed by your name. It’s late, and you’re working tomorrow—and he rather appreciates not being maimed and killed in a fit of sleepless rage.

“She’s visiting?” Ginge asks, and Lando huffs as he finally fixes his settings.

“What?” He scrunches his nose. “No you muppet, she lives with me.”

Lando doesn’t realize the impact those seven words have until much later.

Next morning, when you’re sitting on the kitchen island with your laptop propped open and your breakfast served beside you, you hear a muffled phone call from Lando’s room—something you can’t quite make out. Either way, it’s not a moment later that Lando is standing across the table from you, shirtless, with a half-panicked half-pleading expression on his face.

“Please don’t be mad.”

Your eyes slowly shift away from your screen and towards him. “What did you do?”

“You have to promise not to be mad at me. ‘Cause it was an accident, and I didn’t mean—I didn’t realize—”

“Lando,” you enunciate slowly. “What did you do?”

He winces, looking borderline constipated. He tilts his phone screen towards you, where you find texts from Max accompanied by a screenshot of the trending tab on Twitter.

You arch a brow. “I thought you didn’t use Twitter.”

“I don’t, I just—” he inhales deeply, exhales. “Just read it.”

You squint, and your brow furrows as you read the trending topics.

“You have a girlfriend?” you ask, turning back to your laptop. “How come you didn’t tell me? Do I know her?”

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You raise your brows. “Oh my god, babe, really? This is so soon though! So unexpected!”

Lando doesn’t even look slightly amused. “You’re not funny.”

You can see his frown deepen when your lips curve with a bemused tilt. “So, why does Twitter think I’m your girlfriend?”

Lando closes his eyes, scratching his neck. “…I might’ve mentioned that we’re living together.” He quickly scrambles to continue, “I-I didn’t realize what that would look like until the head of my PR team and Max left me, like, a hundred messages. I’m—genuinely, I didn’t mean to pull you into this.”

You stare at him for a beat. He looks fidgety. As if there’s something else he wants to say, but hasn’t quite figured how. You click your tongue, closing your laptop. “Spit it out, Lan.”

He perks up at that, caught off guard. Now that you’re staring at him more pointedly, you realize he does look a little out of it. Guilty, maybe.

“Lando.”

He tugs at his curls a little too harshly. “My management saw it.”

You furrow your brows. “Okay. Are they, like, mad? Can’t you just tell them it was a misunderstanding?”

Lando finally takes a seat, and despite his bedhead and his lack of a shirt, you can’t help but feel he’s getting serious.

“I need a favor.”

And those words shouldn’t sound too bad—except he looks nervous. You’ve seen Lando nervous before, it comes with the territory of being in his close circle. But it’s been a long while since he’s acted like this when it’s just you.

“…I don't think I like where this is going,” you say carefully.

“Just—hear me out.” He runs a hand through his face, this weird, jittery energy emanating from him in waves. “My team has been on my ass for a while to set me up with some PR girlfriend.”

You snort. “And they say romance is dead.”

He shoots you a look. “Be serious.”

You’re deflecting—Lando can tell. But you can’t stop yourself—it’s a nervous habit. “Have you tried dating apps? I thought your sort used… what’s it called? Raya?” You squint at him. “And since when do you need your management to score you a date?”

“I don’t,” he says defensively. “And it’d be a PR relationship—it’s not a real thing. It’s just to, y’know, create a better public image. It’s a press thing. Tons of celebrities do it.”

“Do other drivers do it?” Lando pauses at that, and your eyebrows shoot up as you inch forward. “Oh my god. Oh my god, who? Do I know them? Have I met them?”

“I feel like you’re missing the point of this conversation.”

“Yeah, only ‘cause you’re dancing around the subject.” You straighten, and Lando mimics the action. “Just say what you wanna say, Lan.”

“My team thinks we’re dating,” he finally manages.

“Yeah, I figured.”

He shifts on his seat to inch closer to you, gesturing with his hands. “Yeah, but they’re happy about it—they say it’s a good thing, for my image or whatever.”

You pause. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, avoiding looking you in the eye. Oh, surely… “So you told them it was a misunderstanding.”

He scrunches his nose as he turns his head up to the ceiling, avoiding your gaze.

Your eyes widen. “Lando!”

“I really need your help in this,” he pleads. “It’d be, like, a small favor! And I’ll pay it back somehow, I promise. Whatever you want.”

“Small favor?”

“It would just be for a few months—just so I can get them off my back about this.”

You blink at him in utter disbelief. It takes you a moment to find the words to answer. He just sits across from you, looking at you pleadingly. “…So what?” you start slowly. “You’re asking me to be your pretend girlfriend?”

Lando tries to smile, but you can see the uneasy anxiety brewing behind it. It’s an important season for him—and if he wants his voice to have weight, he first needs to satisfy his team’s demands. Give in order to get. Even if they are as ridiculous as getting someone to go out with.

“You’d be the prettiest pretend girlfriend,” Lando tries. He inches forward again, stray curls sticking at odd angles. “Please? I love you.” Then, as a last ditch effort, “…There’s no one I’d rather be fake dating than you?”

You don’t appreciate the butterflies that flutter in your stomach. At all. “I need to think about this.”

“Okay, yeah, cool, no problem.” He’s already nodding a little too eagerly, as if you’ve agreed instead of saying you’ll consider it. Lando rushes around the table to press a kiss into the crown of your head. Warmth shoots in your belly as you watch him head back into his room. “Thank you!” he calls out.

“I haven’t said yes yet,” you shout back.

The smile you hear in Lando’s voice goes directly against his words when he calls back: “I know!”

Max was right. You hate that Max was right.

So, you caved. Big surprise there. It’s Lando, after all. He’s your friend, and you’ll always wanna help him in any way you can. Plus, you two already live under the same roof. Just how hard can pretend dating be?

The only person you’ve told—that you both agreed you could tell—was Max. And the moment you did, he responded with a two minute audio of him laughing himself into tears.

Needless to say, it’s not the encouragement you needed.

Now you’re both sitting in the living room across from each other. The two of you are still in pajamas, the golden Monaco sun filtering through the open curtains of your shared flat. 

“If we do this, we need to set some ground rules,” you finally say.

“Rules?” he repeats, slowly. “For dating?”

“Pretend dating,” you correct.

Lando tilts his head at you, green eyes watching you for a second. A glint you can’t quite place dances in his gaze for a beat. Finally, he straightens from his reclined position on the couch. “Alright, bug,” he says, with all the formality of someone who hasn’t showered yet. “What are your rules?”

You set your phone on the table, opening your notes app to see the guidelines you’d scribbled out nearing three am last night.

“One.” You hold up your index finger. “You’re dating me for the next four months. I don’t wanna see you or find out you’re flirting or making out or hooking up with other people. If I’m gonna be in the public eye, I don’t wanna be thrown into some scandal.” You narrow your eyes and watch as he raises a brow. “If you get exposed for it I will be calling you a cheater on Twitter.”

Lando gasps dramatically. “Already preparing for the worst case scenario? On our first day of pretend dating?” He makes an over exaggerated motion, pressing his hands against his chest. “My pretend feelings are so hurt.” You arch a brow, to which he nods his head half-heartedly. “Fine, point taken. And it’s seven months.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Deal. Number two.” You pause, embarrassment tinging your cheeks. The words feel like molasses in your throat. Viscous, sticky. Hard to get out. You awkwardly shift on your spot on the rug, finally looking at Lando. “No kissing.”

“What?” Lando makes a face, squinting at you. “But we’re dating. How’s anyone gonna buy that if we never kiss?”

You tilt your head. “You’re sounding a little eager there, Lan. Anything you wanna share?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But can I at least kiss you on the cheek when we’re in public?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Italians do it all the time. And it’s not like we’re not already doing that.”

Heat licks at your face with that last comment. He says it so casually—which, yeah, you suppose it is normal for the two of you. But hearing Lando saying it like that. Like it should be a compromise in a situation like this, but not for the two of you.

Still, you consider it. “Okay. Yeah, cheek kisses are fine.”

Lando nods. “Okay then. Three.” He notices the look you’re giving him and makes a face. “What? I can’t set rules of my own?”

You roll your eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Three,” he continues. He turns his three fingers around to face you. “You go to at least three races with me.”

You hum. “Three is a lot.”

“Not in six months,” Lando says. “They can be like… mini vacations. All expenses paid for.”

“Already trying to prove you can be a decent boyfriend?” you tease, making him roll his eyes again with a smile. “Okay. But I get to choose which races.”

“Deal.” He clicks his tongue. “But Monaco doesn’t count.”

You part your lips to complain. “What? Why not?”

“‘Cause I want you to travel with me,” Lando says in a sickeningly sweet voice as he leans closer to you. You shove his face away. “Oh! And dates.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He toys with his thumb as he looks at you. And if you squint, you’d swear he looks borderline embarrassed—that he’s trying to hide it. “Dates. We need to be seen in public. Y’know. Together.”

You hadn’t thought about that. You just figured you would make appearances in his streams, post a picture or two. It makes sense, though. “You’re paying for those.”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“And flowers,” you add. Lando tilts his head at you curiously. Maybe it’d feel more embarrassing to say this if it were anyone but Lando. You raise your chin. “I wanna get flowers. Not generic ones, though.”

Lando nods slowly, almost confused. “Okay, sure.”

You blink. “That easy?”

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s not hard.” He shrugs, unlocking his phone and opening his notes app. He types something before his eyes peer at you. “You like tulips, right?”

“Um, yeah.” You straighten, surprise catching on your voice. “Yeah, tulips work.”

Lando nods. “Okay then. So, just to recap: six months, no kissing, three races—not including Monaco—public dates, aaand tulips.”

You run through your mental list and nod in agreement.

Lando grins impishly. “Okay, then. Are you ready to be my girlfriend?” He leans closer to you, as if telling you a secret. His voice drops. “Remember though: you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

You scoff with a smile. “Please. I’ve done your laundry before. It can’t be that hard.”

Your first date with Lando is at a place that is nice, fancy. Fancier than any date has ever brought you on—and living in Monaco, that’s saying something. Even then, you know Lando hasn’t gone all out. You know, because you explicitly asked him not to. The last thing you need is to stress over which fork you’re supposed to use for a salad. Still—the restaurant is more posh than you’re used to.

Warm lights illuminate the terrace, appetizers already set in front of you on your plates. For a moment you wondered whether you should’ve ordered something to share, but you are not willing to compromise on fish because of Lando.

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve gone out to eat together. You’ve gone out with Max, or Ria, or Martin—or just the two of you.

Even so, it’s easy to forget you’re here under false pretenses.

It’s hard, putting it into words—but it feels like you’re more aware this time. Unlike other times, today you did your makeup with more attention to detail. Spent more time fixing your hair—even longer choosing a paparazzi-ready outfit. Your nerves still simmer in your gut since Lando told you his team had tipped off a few photographers about the place of your date. It makes you wonder, how often casual pictures in casual settings are staged.

Still. Despite the hours of mental and physical preparation, the fancy restaurant and the pep talk you gave yourself in the bathroom—the moment you sit across from Lando, it becomes easy to forget. Maybe too easy.

When you look up from your plate, you find that Lando is already looking at you.

“What?” you ask. He’s wearing that white shirt of his with the first two buttons undone, his curls as unruly as ever. You lick your lips, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh my god, please tell me I don’t have anything on my face.”

Lando blinks. “No, no, you’re fine,” he says, quickly. “Really. You just… you look pretty.”

Warmth shoots across your stomach. You shake your head. You think you hear yourself scoffing. “Already flirting, huh?” you say amusedly, shaking your head as you reach for another forkful of your plate. “You’re quick.”

Lando winks, and you roll your eyes with a smile.

As dinner goes on, you can feel yourself falling into that familiar rhythm. It’s Lando, after all—and it’s always been natural for you to feel at ease around him. And by the time the two of you have ordered desserts, you forget about the fancy restaurant, or the fake-dating thing—and, for a moment, it’s just you and Lando. Not performing some convoluted plan, but just you. Friends. Easy.

You find you like it better when it’s just that. You and Lando.

You listen attentively as he talks, explaining with his hands. The terrace feels noisier now, so you lean closer to hear him. At some point, Lando reaches for your hand, and your heart does a weird thing in your chest. He’s still smiling while he’s talking, but you’re unfocused. His fingers are warm as he caresses your palm. Honey spills inside of you, warm and sweet, casting the night in liquid gold.

Lando smiles softly, tenderly, and your heart jumps. “Okay, that’s good,” he says.

“Hm?” you hum, sounding distracted, maybe even a little dazed.

Lando tilts his head somewhere to the side, and you follow his gaze. Off by the street, a man is packing up his camera.

Oh. Right. 

“Really good job.” Lando smiles, offering an encouraging thumbs up. You nod in return with a smile that doesn’t feel as genuine. He lets go of your hand, and you don’t let yourself linger on how you miss the weight of it against yours.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for your glass of wine. “Thanks.”

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE ...... NEW WAG ALERT? McLaren Driver Lando Norris & mystery woman spotted dining at Cipriani Monte Carlo, a local restaurant in Monaco 📸 monaco_celebs

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📌 user1 not to be that person but i’m like 90% sure its lando’s friend from those older quadrant videos!!! ♥️ liked by author

user2 okay and this comes out DAYS after lando reveals they’re living together???? this is not a soft launch this is hitting us with a BRICK

user3 WHAT 😃😁

user4 i hope that if it is yourusername then it means we get to see her again in quadrant videos :(

user5 OH MY GOD??

user6 so no one can have a private moment anymore is what i’m hearing

user7 okay but they’re totally kissing right??

user8 i mean the angle is kinda funky so it’s hard to say?

user9 idk it looks like they’re just talking tbh

user10 THEY’RE TOTALLY KISSING

user11 AGREED!!! you are never catching me talking THAT close to other people 😦😵‍💫

liked by maxfewtrell, lando and 101,871 others

yourusername he got me tulips 💐

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user12 HELLO?????? i thought this was a prank 😭

user13 if it is… they’re really committing to the bit

user14 lando liking this post after being photographed with a “mystery woman”? stop this madness

maxfewtrell orange tulips huh 😐

lando don’t be jealous

yourusername yeah it’s unbecoming max

user15 oh hello hard launch

user16 welp there go my delusions of ever having a chance with lando norris

user17 might we call those…….. papaya tulips

user18 yes

maxfewtrell don’t even start

The picture the paparazzi took of you has been haunting you more than it should.

As soon as you left the restaurant, food sitting oddly in your stomach, it was already making rounds on social media. Each time you open Instagram, you find that you’ve been tagged in yet another upload of it.

It looks like you’re kissing him. Which you’re not, by the way—something you had to explain to Max over text. It was a really loud place! Really, maybe they should invest in less open concepts instead of wasting all their high-end budget in a bajillion differently-sized forks.

Point is, it’s a compromising picture making rounds on gossip pages. It should be a good thing. And yet, it makes you feel… odd. A strange weight on your gut.

It only hits you a little after the date. After the two of you arrived back at the apartment, kicking off expensive shoes and tucking your to-go bag that definitely was not restaurant-certified into the fridge. You bid Lando goodnight and close your door behind you.

Then it hits you. Within the confines of your room, just a wall away from Lando’s. An odd tingle on your skin. A long-dormant flutter in your stomach.

So, here’s a small bit of totally irrelevant information you neglected to mention to Max.

You used to have a crush on Lando. Used to. Past tense. Long forgotten. A thing of the past tucked alongside childhood embarrassments and picture day mishaps.

And, really, could anyone blame you? It’s hardly your fault that you blinked one day and little Lando Norris—Lando who used to be five inches shorter than you—suddenly decided to have a growth spurt.

( “Would you look at that! Looks like I’m taller than you now,” he’d say with that squeaky voice of his, grinning. You squinted at him, noticing it but refusing to acknowledge it. The giveaway should’ve been his trousers—which were significantly shorter on him than they should’ve been.

Summer break had certainly been kind to Lando. And while his voice was still high-pitched and cracking at the edges, not even you could deny noticing the inches he had on you. Or the more golden color of his skin. The sharper lines of his jaw.

Your throat felt tighter, your face warm. You batted his hand away regardless. “You’re wearing sneakers. It doesn’t count.”

But Lando wasn’t listening anymore. He tilted his head at you with a smug look on his face.

“What?”

“You look better from up here.” He poked your cheek with his finger, smiling pleasantly behind his fringe. “Like a cute little bug.” )

Your body slumps against your mattress. Your make-up suddenly feels like too much, your skin crawling. Staring up at the ceiling, your stomach still flutters with that feeling that you refuse to acknowledge.

You can’t possibly be that easy. What, all it takes is a somewhat decent date—a very decent, very fake date—and suddenly you’re back in high school again?

This isn’t happening. You refuse to let it happen.

Your keys jingle in your hand, bedroom door closing behind you. Days are warmer in Monaco—early morning breeze, sunlight stretching across streets and shop awnings. There’s something particularly refreshing about waking up to ocean air in the summer. If anything, it’s one of the many things you love about Monaco.

You open the door of your flat, as quiet as you can manage. Before you can step out, however, you’re met with a roadblock.

“Morning,” Lando greets from the hallway, face sweaty as he pulls out his airpods. 

“Hi,” you say, dumbly. A part of you had hoped Lando would’ve stuck to his summer break schedule—waking up late, going around the city in the afternoon. You should’ve known he’d go for morning runs this time of the season.

He gives you a pearly-white smile—similar to those in magazines and ads, except the real thing is more crooked, wider at the corners. He side-steps you, and for a moment, you think you’re in the clear. Before you can make a break for it, though, he asks: “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just the mall,” you say casually. 

“Cool,” Lando says, picking up one of the snacks left by his trainer. He’s halfway through chewing his protein bar when he adds, “Can I come with? I need to buy another pair of trainers.”

And because you’re weak—so, so weak—all it takes is a glance at Lando for your resolve to crumble. Despite your best interests, you find yourself smiling. “Yeah, sure.” Lando straightens off the counter. “Just… shower first. You stink.”

He grins. And with his sweaty running gear and sweaty face, he still leans closer to you and presses a kiss to your temple. “I’ll be quick!” he calls out, already halfway into the bathroom.

You wipe your face off, making a sound of disgust. “Lando!”

You can hear his laugh even as he closes the door.

You open the curtain in front of you, walking across the fitting room to nitpick your reflection in a large mirror. Lando lounges on one of the small seats provided for the boyfriends, brothers and husbands that seemed to have all gotten dragged into shopping for women’s clothes. He scrolls on his phone, sinking into his own Quadrant hoodie.

“How’d it go?” he asks absentmindedly.

You tilt your head at your own reflection. Sundresses are tricky—but somehow, after spending the better part of the morning searching for one, you think this is finally it. The material is soft to the touch. It’s not uncomfortably short nor impractically long. It really is beautiful, with blue and white floral details that remind you of those porcelain botanical patterns. 

“I think I like it,” you say, turning to see how the skirt fits around your waist. You tilt your head at Lando through the mirror. “What do you think?”

Lando raises his head, meeting your gaze through the reflection. He stops, just a beat, barely a second, before straightening in his seat. “You look—um,” his voice cracks. Lando clears his throat, offering an encouraging smile. “It looks great. I like it.” 

You arch a brow, unimpressed. The guy sitting next to him masks a laugh as a cough.

“What?” Lando asks, voice rising an octave. “What’d I say?”

“I need actual, genuine encouragement here, Lan.” 

His face twists, brows creasing into a confused bordering on offended look. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, always just a smidge theatric. “That I think you’d look better with nothing on?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Lando!”

“What?” he repeats, voice pitching another octave higher. His cheeks turn noticeably pink. 

Your face is warm as you walk past the pointed glances thrown your way. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head and closing the curtains behind you. Much to your surprise though, it’s only once you’re alone in the fitting room again that you realize you’re smiling.

Up until you see the tag.

There are many things you love about living in the principality. The prices, though… they’re certainly not one of them.

“Ah,” you say quietly. You bite into your bottom lip with regret. You get paid every fifteen, meaning you’re still a few days out to have the money to spend on it.

Damn it. You can hear your friends’ voices telling you to pay it with your credit card, but you’ve never been keen on spending money you don’t have yet. What if you have an emergency? What if you break a leg? You already depend on Lando for rent—you can’t depend on him for everything.

You don’t like that, the idea of asking Lando for it. It feels wrong. Because he’d say yes—of course he’d say yes. It feels like taking advantage of him, especially when you’ve seen it happen in the past. People using him for fame, money, access.

You never want to be that person to him.

It’s easier than you thought, putting the dress on the hanger and making the decision. It’s just a dress. You can live without a dress.

You open the curtain as you’re still pulling your thin sweater over your head, fixing the sleeves around your arms. Lando looks up from his phone, giving you a lopsided smile. There’s still a lingering pink flush on the apples of his cheeks. 

“You ready?” he asks, already standing up.

“Yeah.” You nod, but as Lando walks you to the register, you leave the sundress where you found it. 

He does a double-take, nearly tripping over himself in the process. “Wait, I thought you liked it,” he protests, tone nearing concern. “I was just teasing before, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not that, it just…” You reach to scratch the back of your ear. “It wasn’t really worth it. Itchy,” you say, trying to go for nonchalant.

From the way Lando lingers, even as you’re heading towards the entrance of the store, you know he doesn’t buy it. You can hear him catching up to you.

“But—”

“C’mon.” Unthinking, you reach for his wrist, tugging him forward. Whatever comment he was going to make dies in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “We still have to find those trainers you wanted.”

He follows you without protest.

You’re starting to get used to the butterflies. They settle occasionally—other times you have to crush them down. Even if you were to pluck their wings one by one, you’re certain you would still feel them fluttering about in your stomach.

You’re getting used to them. To the feeling that comes with the prolonged touches. The fleeting glances. The way Lando seems to linger close, always either with his palm guiding you at the small of your back or interlacing your fingers with his. It’s a rhythm that is all-too easy to fall into.

Getting used to the butterflies doesn’t make any of it easier, though.

You’ve committed to your agreement, though. Saying you’re grateful for the invasiveness of gossip media and tabloid magazines would be going a step too far. Still, you’re surprised that planting seeds of your fake-relationship has been easier than you would’ve expected. Going out for a few intentionally public dates, some well-timed paparazzi pictures leaking to the press. Everything that’s been manufactured and orchestrated with detail has been like a feast for F1 rumor sites. There’s blurry pictures of you ordering at a boulangerie holding hands, a few soft-launches in each other’s Instagrams. 

There are other pictures, though. Pictures that weren’t planned. An impromptu walk down the piers of Monaco, where neither of you had been wanting to pretend anything. A few clips resurfacing of you and Lando in the Quadrant channel. Glances from you that lingered a beat too long. Smiles that were too wide. Shoves and jabs that bordered on something other than friendship. 

When you’re locked in your room at night, scrolling down Twitter threads and Tiktok comments, the butterflies in your stomach feel more like scorpions. 

You can hear Lando giggling and shouting through the walls of his room. He’s live on Twitch—right on schedule as you agreed. It’s been a bit under an hour, playing with Max and a few other people you’re not as familiar with.

You knock on his door. It creaks as you open it just slightly.

“Yeah?” he calls. 

The room is dark, save for a few purple ambient lights. You don’t think you’re in the frame of his camera—not yet, anyway. 

“Lan?” you say, the hesitation and inexplicable shyness in your voice genuine. It’s nervewracking, knowing that this is the first time you don’t really get any do-overs. That thousands of people are watching Lando’s livestream. “Are you still live?”

Even from the doorway, you can see his second monitor speeding through a sudden flood of comments. Lando turns on his seat, pulling down his headphones. 

“Hi,” he says, the traces of a grin still lingering at the corners of his lips. It softens, though. Less wide, more private—something kinder. 

“Hi,” you repeat, fighting off a smile. “I can come back later.”

Lando shakes his head, leaning back against his chair. “No, it’s okay,” he says. Finally, he glances back at his screen, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he considers it. “You can come say hi, if you want.”

You pause at that. Hesitate. You were just supposed to barely appear in frame. Confirm what’s been obvious to most fans since you started with your little agreement. Then again, it’s not like you haven’t shown up in his streams a handful of times in the past.

It feels… different now. For good reason. 

You walk into frame, feeling Lando’s gaze following you as you rest your arms against the backrest of his chair. The violet and orange lights are low, but recognition is evident from chatters. They know who you are—they know what this means.

“Hi chat,” you hum quietly. It almost feels like a challenge, asking you to come close. It makes you bolder. 

You can’t be sure where the burst of confidence comes from. Your body moves of its own accord, not allowing you a moment to overthink it. One of your hands reaching down and resting loosely around his neck. Lando freezes for just a split second, caught off-guard, before he nuzzles his nose into your arm. Ticklish. 

It feels too soft, too domestic. Bordering dangerously on something you won’t be able to come back from. Still, you can’t help yourself when you murmur into his hair, “Food’s here.”

Lando nods a moment too late, like the words wade through honey before they reach him. He hums in response, stretches a bit, leaning into your touch. “Mhm.” He looks up at you and for a second—just a second—you catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. Something too warm, too tender. It’s gone before you can really place it, overshadowed by a toothy smile. “I’ll be right there,” he says lightly.

You nod, moving to pull away. His hand tightens around yours just briefly—a casual goodbye, probably. 

You don’t know what compels you to do it. Unthinkingly, you lean into him from the back of his chair, pressing a kiss into the crown of his head. Lando doesn’t freeze this time. If anything, it’s almost like he leans into you. 

It feels a little like revenge, pulling away then. A part of you wants to believe Lando’s not that good of an actor. But the issue is that he is—it’s part of his job, lying. Looking into the barrel of a camera and smiling and pretending like he doesn’t want to cuss out some journalist and tell them all to fuck off. And while the boy you grew up with has always worn his heart on his sleeve, you’re also well-aware of the consequences that has in his line of work.

“Don’t stay until too late.”

By the time Lando walks out of his sim room, takeout is already on the kitchen island, waiting. The smell of Chinese food is enough to make your stomach growl, a handful of spring rolls already missing from the box.

“So? How’d I do?”

Lando’s hair is mussed, his blinks owlish. “Huh?” he asks dazedly. “Oh, um, yeah. You did great. Really convincing.” His voice feels odd, distracted. 

Lando grabs one of the kitchen stools, dragging it to sit in front of you. “Max texted me,” you say. 

He perks up at that. “What’d he say?”

The corner of your mouth quirks upward as you unlock your phone to show him. “That you’re down horrendously bad. I think it’s his way of saying we really sold it.”

You look up when he doesn’t respond, only to find Lando staring down at the screen with blushing cheeks. It spreads up into the tips of his ears as he scoffs.

“What a fuckin’ prick,” Lando says under his breath. “Don’t listen to a word he says,” he mutters.

The teasing smile on your lips dims at that. Something inside your chest splinters. A fracture line that widens by a fraction. You quietly take back your phone, picking at your lemon chicken. You went too far. When you swallow, it feels like pebbles are lodged against your throat.

you [ 2:01 AM ] : hi so

you [ 2:01 AM ] : this was a bad idea

max f 🐼 [ 2:07 AM ] : Yeah no shit

you [ 2:07 AM ] : stop it stop it stop

you [ 2:07 AM ] : i’m being so serious

you [ 2:08 AM ] : what do i do?????? i think i ruined it. like everything

max f 🐼 [ 2:08 AM ] : Are you gonna listen to me? Coz lately it feels like I’m giving advice to people that just do the exact opposite of what I tell them to

you [ 2:09 AM ] : MAX

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i just

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think i went too far

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think he hates me now

max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : What????

max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : Mate there’s no world in which he hates you

you [ 2:11 AM ] : be serious

max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : I AM being serious

max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : Stop typing rn I can see the little text bubble just listen to me for a sec

max f 🐼 [ 2:12 AM ] : He doesn’t hate you. You just think he does cause you’ve probably spent the night locked in your room staring at your ceiling

you [ 2:13 AM ] : i am being vulnerable here can you not mock me for a minute

max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : IM LITERALLY NOT

max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : What I’m trying to get at is that nothing good happens after 2 am.

max f 🐼 [ 2:14 AM ] : Just sleep it off mate I promise you’ll wake up feeling better

you [ 2:14 AM ] : did you just quote how i met your mother to me

max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : It’s a great show and it’s great advice??????

max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : I feel like you’re missing the point

you [ 2:16 AM ] : what even is your point

max f 🐼 [ 2:16 AM ] : That you’re getting stuck inside your head

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Why do you think that is?

you [ 2:17 AM ] : it’s just something dumb he said

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Lando’s always saying something dumb

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : You’re just too busy staring at his face to notice it most of the time

you [ 2:18 AM ] : MAX

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : WHAT

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : If he said something hurtful I can talk to him

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : Knock some sense into that big head

you [ 2:18 AM ] : it’s okay you don’t need to do that

max f 🐼 [ 2:19 AM ] : I’d like to though

you [ 2:19 AM ] : i think i’ll take what you said before and try to get some sleep before this spirals out of hand

you [ 2:19 AM ] : thank you max <3

max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : You know what could also work

you [ 2:20 AM ] : what

max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : Telling him how you feel about his big dumb face

you [ 2:20 AM ] : i would rather die :)

The flat is unusually quiet in the week leading up to the Monaco Grand Prix. You’ve grown accustomed to the silence whenever Lando is off racing across different countries in the calendar. It’s different then, though. His laughter is still tucked like a secret into the corners of the room, exhausted voice notes in your phone lingering in the quiet once his day is over. It’s never this quiet when he’s around.

It becomes an unspoken thing amongst the two of you. A pause. An interlude between the moment that got too real and the day you’re going to be holding hands, walking side-by-side in front of reporters and photographers in the paddock.

Even if the distance wasn’t noticeable, even if it wasn’t tugging at your heartstrings more than you’d like to admit, you’ve got other things to worry about.

The Monaco Grand Prix, for example. The crown jewel of Formula 1—the legendary, glamorous, historical track. And the dreaded realization you don’t know what the hell to wear for it.

It creeps up on you suddenly, unexpectedly. Once it does, though, there’s no shutting down the alarms blaring inside your head. 

Clothes are strewn across your bed, closet door and floor. Shelves and hangers alike are left empty. You end up stalking Alexandra Saint Mleux’s Instagram like a psychopath, finding that—unsurprisingly—none of your clothes remotely match hers. 

There’s a knock at your door. 

“Hey,” you hear Lando’s voice, muffled through the wood. “You there, bug?”

“I’m a little busy!”

There’s a beat, a pause. “You okay?” he asks, voice tinged with a hesitant concern. “You sound…”

You open the door, throat tight and insides tangled into a knot. “I don’t know what to wear. What do wags wear?” you ask, and even amidst your blind panic you can hear your frantic tone. “They’re gonna eat me alive.”

Lando raises a brow. “You’ve gone to races before.”

“Yeah but I wasn’t your girlfriend—fake—whatever!” You huff, turning your back to him and sorting through your discarded clothes again. “I’ve seen the posts people make about the wags. I’ve seen them get destroyed for overdressing and underdressing.” You breathe in. Breathe out. Feel as embarrassment tints your cheeks. You turn to Lando apologetically. “I’m sorry. You’re the one that’s driving, and I’m freaking out over clothes.”

A fond smile curls at the corner of his lips. “We’ve all been there, bug. I just get to skip it now ‘cause I have a stylist.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Lando concedes. Only then do you notice he has one of his hands behind his back. “But hopefully this is.”

He pulls out a dress. The dress.

You blink once. Twice. Three times to make sure you’re not hallucinating the white and blue fabric in Lando’s hand. “You bought it,” you say softly. “When?”

He looks at the ceiling sheepishly. Almost embarrassed. “I’d… rather not say.”

“Lando,” you insist.

“I might’ve doubled back. That day. When you were distracted.” He shrugs, trying to go for nonchalant. “I just asked them to set it aside.”

You look down at the dress. Reach out to feel the fabric underneath your fingertips. “You didn’t have to,” you argue, though there’s no edge to it.  

“I wanted to.” It feels a bit like an apology. You’re not sure whether he knows what he’s apologizing for, exactly. Still, here he is—showing up regardless. “You’ve always been shit at getting stuff for yourself.”

Lando hands you the dress, the tag still on—though the price has been conviniently scrawled out with sharpie. 

“Besides, rule number three,” Lando says, voice reeling back into something more casual. “I said all expenses paid for race weekends.”

“That’s not what you meant, though,” you protest.

“You don’t know what I meant.” 

“Lando.”

“Just learn to take a gift, Jesus,” he says, faux exasperation drawing a smile from him. “Wear it, don’t wear it—it’s your choice.” His lips part to add something else. You see the brief, split-second hesitation before he adds, voice soft, “Either way, you looked really pretty in it.” 

His gaze drops down to your lips. Just a second. He clears his throat.

“We leave in an hour!”

liked by lando, maxfewtrell and 290,561 others

yourusername monaco has never looked better 🧡

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user1 HELLO

riabish gorgeous gorgeous girl <3

lnfour our favorite wag 🧡

user2 ain’t no way the first official confirmation is coming from lando’s merch account

user3 i mean it’s pretty much confirmed that they’re dating though 😵‍💫😵‍💫 we all saw the way lando was looking at her during his last stream…..

user4 fully grown adults over here playing at tripping each other btw 😭

lando aww did you write that

yourusername that was NOT me no

lando okay plausible deniability i see what you’re doing 😍

yourusername how long did it take you to spell that

lando jokes on u coz i love it when you’re mean to me

user5 wait why is boyfriend lando kind of endearing :(

user6 no cause i see what you mean…

Nothing could’ve ever prepared you for flashing lights and hounding cameras that greet you at the paddock. You’ve been here before—two years ago, with Max acting as a green-eyed buffer to whatever feelings you’d long wrestled down when it came to Lando. 

It’s different now. You can feel it in the way cameras don’t just gloss past you, but rather fix their lenses upon the two of you.

It may have something to do with Lando holding your hand. Fingers interlaced. Walking just half a step in front of you, blocking the most invasive photographers from your path. 

You don’t know how he deals with it every race week.

Thankfully, the McLaren garage offers what feels like some semblance of privacy—however misleading that may be. At the very least, you can appreciate that the attention’s no longer set on you. Not for the most part, anyway.

Lando gives you a quick peck on the cheek for the broadcast camera before being pulled away by one of his engineers. Controlled chaos, a reporter from Sky once called it. Engineers and mechanics moving across rooms with spare gear, adjusting comms, analyzing telemetry.

Over on the opposite side of the garage—Oscar’s side—you spot his girlfriend Lily with an orange headset that matches with yours. She meets your gaze, offering a small polite smile.

You swallow your nerves. Smile back. Try not to throw up your breakfast on your shoes. It still makes you anxious, you find—watching Lando race. When it’s just him on a screen, you can at least put it on mute and look away whenever your pulse starts racing.

You don’t think that’s much of an option here.

“Hi,” you hear behind you. You’re met with a friendly blue gaze. She smiles again, warmer this time. “I’m Lily. You must be Lando’s girlfriend.”

It’s one of two options. Either you don’t have as good a poker face as you thought, or Lily’s better at reading people than you could’ve given her credit for. Maybe both—probably both. The way her expression is laced with sympathy tells you she sees the nervousness. Understands it.

You end up sticking by her until the race starts. You’re not surprised to find out she’s soft-spoken and kind-hearted—not that you’d seen or heard much from her before. You suppose that’s probably the whole point. 

It’s impossible not to make the comparison. Private, genuine, in a long-time relationship with Lando’s teammate versus you; very public, very fake, placeholder of a girlfriend.

The thought lands harder than you expected it to.

“If it makes you feel any better, I still get nervous every time,” Lily says halfway through your conversation. “Although—actually, you have been at a race before, right?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, pushing away your wreck of a train of thought. “Came with Max Fewtrell a few times. Still, everything makes me feel a little…” 

“Exposed?” she suggests, nodding knowingly.

“Exactly! I just, last time it wasn’t just me, so I felt less… on the spot. And obviously last time I wasn’t Lando’s—” you trail off, the lie feeling surprisingly heavy on your tongue.

“Lando’s girlfriend,” Lily finishes comprehensively, and you hate the fact that you’re starting to really like her. You hate that your first conversation, your first semblance of common ground, is a boldfaced lie.

“I mean, Lando and I have always been close,” you say, trying to veer the conversation towards the truth.

“Oscar’s mentioned.” Lily’s mouth curls up into a smile. “I don’t know if it’s my place to say, but he kept wondering when Lando would finally ask you out.” She tilts her head, sunglasses perched over her head. “How was that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, you know,” you say vaguely, toying with a lock of your hair. A nervous habit. “It sort of just… happened. I don’t know.” You swallow, and hope that this time she doesn’t see through you. “It still feels unreal.”

Lily’s lips part to ask something else, before a sudden silence washes over the garage. You frown. Lily places it immediately.

She squeezes your hand. “Best of luck.”

Even when resting around your neck, you hear the unmistakable phrase coming from your McLaren-issued headset.

It’s lights out and away we go.

The world narrows into the racing line between the Nouvelle Chicane and Turn 19. Your heart thunders in your ears, as the leading cars make it past Anthony Noughes—the very last corner. 

In the tenths it takes for the number four car to make it past the finish line, the McLaren garage is suspended in air. Quiet. Hearts beating.

Someone screams. You’re not completely certain it wasn’t you. Mechanics and engineers run out the garage and onto the pitlane, grinning and shouting. 

Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix Winner. 

The McLaren garage splits into two large groups, a sea of sunset orange overtaking the parc fermé. A woman in a McLaren uniform—probably from Lando’s PR team—helps you make way towards the very front of the crowd. The metal barrier presses against your body.

You watch as Lando jumps off his car, his energy boundless and ecstatic even with his helmet still on and hiding his face. He leaps into the papaya crowd, receiving congratulatory pats, hugs and cheers. 

He takes off his helmet and balaclava. Runs a hand through matted curls. You watch as he looks around, scanning the crowd, searching—

Until he spots you.

His helmet is left behind and forgotten as he runs towards you, grinning widely and brightly. He embraces you instantly, your arms wrapping around his neck like second nature.

His hands reach over the barrier and settle around your waist with a firm grip. Then, without giving you a moment to pull back, he brings you over the barrier and spins you in a hug.

“You’re golden,” you say, giddiness overwhelming. You vaguely register the flashes of cameras. Distantly. Your entire world narrows down into the sweaty, lovely, sunlit boy in front of you. You hold Lando’s face with a grin as he puts you down, hands still resting around your waist. You bury your face into his neck. “Oh my god, you’re golden.”

When he finally pulls away—already sensing some McLaren spokesperson waiting for him—he looks at you and grins. Unguarded. Unrestrained. 

And in a way that thoroughly undoes you.

“C’mon, champ,” you say, matching his smile. He’s glowing—honey dipped in sunlight. “They’re waiting for you.”

Music beats against the walls of the club. Blue and pink strobe lights set the dance floor aglow. You vaguely recognize a handful of faces—mechanics, interns, even a couple of social media admins. 

As far as clubs go, you suppose it fits the celebration. McLaren footing the bill of the open bar is just the cherry on top.

Alcohol thrums steadily underneath your skin—a pretty combination of Fireball and fancy drinks you didn’t really care to learn the name of.

The night has unfolded in a series of syrupy moments that seem to melt into one another. You remember arriving with Lando—hand in hand, the high of his win still ripe. You remember being introduced to a few other drivers—Oscar, Carlos, maybe Alex—as his girlfriend. Later in the night, you recall dancing with Lando. More than once.

The night stretches like melted sugar, sweet and honeyed. Purple and red lights flash against the floor, leaving the club half-lit half cast in shadows.

You’ve found a more private spot by one of the corners of the club. VIP table, by the looks of it. 

You lean back against Lando’s side, legs perpendicular to his. One of his hands rests on your lower back, steadying, while yours toys with the curls at the nape of his neck. 

You don’t remember when exactly you ended up on Lando’s lap—not that you’re complaining, anyway. Maybe it’s the lights, the high of his win, the alcohol in your veins—it all has a way of stripping down your inhibitions.

Some distant, muted part of you is half-aware that maybe this is too much. Too close to being PDA. Bordering too much on intimacy. But then Lando leans into your ear to murmur some comment about Carlos’ story and you laugh—you laugh and you forget.

It’s dangerous, this closeness. More so, it’s dangerous how easy it is for you to fall into it. Hook, line, sinker. You never stood a chance.

As Lando talks, as you gaze down at him, you catch Oscar and Carlos sharing a look out of the corner of your eye. You pay them no mind—not when the club lights cast Lando’s face aglow.

“You have really pretty eyes,” you tell him, because it’s the truth. He looks up at you then, lips slightly parted. “Have I ever told you that?”

You hear Carlos attempting to stifle a laugh. He’s not very good at it.

Lando doesn’t pay him any mind. Instead, he gives you a lopsided smile. “D’you think so?” 

“I know so.”

“Not to interrupt,” Oscar begins, already moving to stand up. “But I should get going. Congrats on the win, mate.”

“We should do one last round of shots before you leave!” you announce, but Lando’s hands tighten around your waist.

He presses an unintelligible murmur onto your shoulder. When you turn your head, you find he’s already looking up at you. Long lashes cast crescent shadows on his cheeks. “Don’t go,” he mumbles into the exposed skin of your neck.

Your stomach flips. You grin nonetheless. “It’s my mission today to get you just a little drunk, race winner.”

He considers it. Then, “Okay,” he finally says, smiling softly.

There’s a moment before you stand up. A full second. A beat suspended in time. And maybe it’s the drinks you’ve had—but maybe you’re the only one still pretending this isn’t exactly what you want. 

“I’ll be right back,” you hear yourself say, before you’re moving into the crowd. You weave through the throngs of people dancing, finally making it to the bar. You flag down the bartender, give him your order—making sure to highlight under who’s tab this is.

“That’s a lot of shots,” you hear someone say beside you. He’s cute—shaggy blonde hair, brown eyes—not your type necessarily, but cute. “Are you here with friends?”

“Yeah!” you say, voice bright. “Celebrating.”

“That’s nice.” You can barely hear him over the music. “What are we celebrating?”

You grin proudly at that. “My best friend won a race!” 

“Yeah?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s really listening. He steps a little closer. Only then do you feel his hand on your waist. “That’s cool,” he says relaxedly. “What’s your name?”

It hits you then, how out of it you really are. You shake your head politely, ready to tell him that sorry, you’re not interested, you’re actually here with—

“Hey, you were taking a bit,” you hear behind you. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s Lando—Lando, who sounds suspiciously out of breath. 

He pulls you closer to him—away from the man—and wraps his arms around your waist like a shield. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, he mutters, “Who’s your friend?”

“Actually, we were talking.”

Lando narrows his eyes. “Yeah, well, I kinda wanna spend the rest of the night with my girlfriend, so if you don’t mind.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Girlfriend?” the guy repeats, not quite apologetic. Not really. “Oh, shit, my bad.”

“Yeah.” Lando glares at the guy until he finally walks away. It’s only once he’s gone that he looks at you properly. “What the hell?”

You feel dazed. “What?”

“What happened to rule number one? No flirting?” 

You blink once. Twice. “Right. Sorry.” You clear your throat. “I wasn’t flirting, by the way. He just—he sort of came onto me.” You lick your lips, glancing behind him. “Did, um, did anyone see?”

Lando’s been drinking too—you know so, because when he does, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. Has a harder time hiding what he feels. This time, he looks conflicted. “Uh, no,” he says, as if finally settling on a response. He swallows. “No, just me.”

The two of you walk back to the table, quieter this time. You take a seat next to him, the world still swimming around you to the beat of the songs playing. Lando places the tray of shots on the table before he lays his arm on the backrest. Close. Too close. Not nearly close enough.

Oscar winces as he downs his shot, cheeks pink. He clears his throat before turning to you. “Y’know, I’m glad you two finally got together.”

Lando drops his arm. Instead, he tentatively reaches for your hand. Carefully interlaces his fingers with yours. 

“Yeah, it was unexpected, huh?”

“Right,” he says with a laugh, as if you’re joking. You don’t get it. Lando’s thumb gently brushes against the back of your palm, drawing quiet patterns. “To be honest, I’m just glad I don’t have to stand by watching and hearing Lando pining after you anymore.”

Lando stops at that, back stiffening. “Oscar,” he hisses.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Yeah—didn’t he tell you?” Oscar freezes for just a split second as his eyes meet with Lando’s over your shoulder. You can feel Lando tense against you. “Oh. Um.”

You turn to Lando, confused, maybe a little lost—but sobering up. Even in the flashing magenta lights you can see the deep-rooted shame taking shape in his face.

“Lando?” you ask, voice drowning in the music.

But then he’s taking your hand again, and guiding you out. Past the table, past the crowds—out of the club where the two of you can hear yourselves think.

Didn’t he tell you?

Oscar’s voice echoes in the marrow of your skull like the chorus of a song that gets stuck in your head. The cold night air that greets you on the terrace is enough to make the world feel firm around you again. 

Lando lets go of you then, tugging at his hair. You want to tell him to stop, that he’s pulling too hard, that he’s going to hurt himself—

“Lando—”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says abruptly, defensively. “It sounds so fuckin’ creepy when he says it. It’s not like—like this is some scheme to get you to go out with me. You know that, right?” Lando doesn’t look at you. Won’t look at you. “I swear, Oscar just has this whole movie in his head about me being into you, but I swear he’s just… he doesn’t get that we’re friends. He’s probably confused because he thinks we’re going out so, just. That thing he said about me pining—I don’t know where the hell he got that from.”

It’s a lot like being punched in the stomach, the way you feel the air leave your lungs. A gut punch. Low. Horrible. Painful.

“‘Cause being into me would be crazy,” you say slowly. The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Yeah,” Lando agrees. His face twists a second too late. “I mean—no, that came out wrong, I meant, like,” he gestures with his hands, struggling to find the right words. He shrugs half-heartedly. “We’re us, yeah?” he says, voice small. “We’ve been us for so long.”

“Right,” you say. 

You were sure you knew heartbreak. You knew it when he introduced you to his first girlfriend, when you thought she was lovely, when you found you couldn’t even bring yourself to hate her. You knew heartbreak. You picked him up at some club in London when he was too drunk to drive. You watched him being flirted with by models and actresses—watched him flirt back.

This feels worse than heartbreak, somehow. It aches deep inside your chest. A fracture line that finally fragments all the way through. 

You swallow down the stones lodged in your throat. “Look, I think I’m tired,” you say, voice tight. You can feel the tears threatening to spill. You blink them back. Not here. Not now. “I think I underestimated the jet lag.”

“Jet lag?” He looks understandably confused. You landed days ago. 

You bite your tongue. “I mean, like—I think I’m still a little overwhelmed.” Your voice breaks. “I think I wanna go back to the hotel.”

Lando’s face falls. He’s nodding, already moving, “Okay, let me get my—”

“I’ll take an uber,” you cut him off, reaching for your purse and finding you left it at the table. You just can’t get anything right. You’re already pulling away when you add, maybe for your sake: “Really, I don’t wanna ruin your night.” 

“Hey, no,” Lando protests, words weak and fragile and filled with something you can’t bring yourself to name. “Wait.” His fingers latch around your wrist. He tugs at your hand. “Please.” 

You don’t think he knows what he’s begging for.

The night settles around you. Cold air, the dull sound of music on the other side of the door. You can’t blame the winner’s high. You can’t blame the club music. You can’t even blame the drinks. 

You press your lips into his without thinking of the disastrous consequences it will reap. You kiss him like it’s goodbye. For just a second, you let yourself forget the hurt, the heartache, the heartbreak. 

His lips are warm against you, soft. It feels like gravity. Inevitable. Like it was always going to end this way.

He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull away from him, the world goes on. Cars honk at each other in the street below. The moon hides behind the clouds. Realization of what you’ve done fully settles in your gut.

“Oh my god,” you say, mortified. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have done that.”

But Lando blinks down at you, dazed. He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t look away. Instead, his eyes search your face. Ultimately, they dip down to your lips.

“You said no kissing,” he says slowly, absentmindedly, and you’re unsure whether he’s telling you or reminding himself. 

I didn’t mean to, you want to say, but the lie gets stuck in your throat.

Your bottom lip trembles. The back of your eyes prick. You think you’re gonna cry.

Lando’s touch is gentle. His hand tips your head up, thumb caressing your cheek. “Rule two. You said no kissing,” he repeats, voice barely a murmur.

He leans into you then, kisses your forehead. Then presses another kiss below your eye. Then one to your cheek. To the corner of your lips. But not where you want him most.

“Lando—”

“Tell me,” he mumbles into your skin, hand still cradling your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re going to slip through his fingers. His lips press against the corners of your mouth. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. Please.” 

The response is a murmur, a whisper. “I want you to kiss me.”

His lips find yours in a heartbeat.

When you eventually call a cab in the late hours of the night, the two of you end up clumsily stumbling into the backseat. Exhaustion wears you down like gravity.

Lando interlaces his fingers with yours. Tugs you closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder, breathing out softly. Quietly.

He kisses the crown of your head. Leans down into you.

And for the first time in a long while, it feels like coming home.

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yourusername okay, take two. for real this time :)

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user1 ?????

user2 are we supposed to know what that means

maxfewtrell well that’s just a wildly inconvenient way to water tulips

yourusername can you ever just lay off

lando pretty girl 🌷

yourusername pretty boy 💐💐

"You alright?" He finds himself saying, immediately squatting to Milo's level by the elevator. In the boy's hands are a stack of red and blue envelopes, with names written twice: once in neat, formal writing, and the other in Milo's. "What've you got there?" 

"It's for my birthday party." Milo says quietly, extending the envelopes. "It's spider-man." 

"No way!" Lando says, smiling down at the papers. "That's so cool! How old are you turning?" 

Rather than answering, Milo holds up four fingers, the coordination making the envelopes spill from his hands. Lando's quick to pick them up, neatly sorting them into a stack, when he realizes one has his name on it. "Is this for me? Do I get to come to your birthday party?" 

"Oh, you're the guest of honour." Your voice says from above, and Lando counts another reason he has a soft spot specifically for Milo: 

You. 

His mother. 

You couldn't be much older than him, soft spoken and so kind when you moved in next door, offering sweet treats and texting apologies, laughing at his jokes, taking care of Milo. It was the sort of infatuation that Lando wasn't used to, at least with normal people in real life. You were perfect, he was pretty sure, except that was an insane thing to say to someone, let alone your neighbour. "I'm so honoured." 

The elevator doors ding open and Lando rises to let Milo and you past, and despite the fact that he had just gone up the elevator, he gets back on to waste a moment with you. "Is spider-man coming?" Milo asks up at you, and you gently card your hand through the boy's hair, and Lando wonders how that would feel if you did it to him. 

"No, sweetheart. I'm afraid Spider-Man is busy in New York!" Maybe it was the little British accents, too, that really got him. Lando rented an apartment, back home, for whenever he needed to escape from the chaos that was Monaco and just be normal. You, he thinks, are the perfect embodiment of that normal. 

Just a normal person, leading a normal life, telling your kid Spider-Man can't come to his birthday. Only, as Lando stares down at the envelope in hand, Spider-Man could technically come to the birthday. He might not be able to do a flip, but Lando's pretty sure he still has an old Spider-Man costume hung up in a closet somewhere, and has a cheery enough voice for it. 

"Well, I will definitely be coming." The elevator doors ding open to the first floor as you lead Milo out by the hand, and he reaches up to take Lando's, dragging him along towards the main doors of the building. "Oh, am I joining you today?" 

"You're going to take us in your car," Milo states firmly. "Your fast car." 

"I don't think we'd all fit," You offer with a soft laugh, the kind of noise that has Lando dreaming of a domesticity he's never even thought of before. "And I think Mr. Norris has more important things to be doing today." 

Mr. Norris. It was a sweet thing, for Milo to call him, but whenever you said it, Lando always considered what it would be like to call you Mrs. Norris. 

Not that he would ever, ever voice that thought aloud. "And if you're busy the day of the party, no worries." You add quietly back to him, stopping at the door. "Milo just wanted to make sure you got an invite." 

"I wouldn't miss it for the world!" He responds honestly. "Do you need me to bring anything? Snacks? Presents?" 

"I think just bringing yourself would be enough. I'm sure the other kids will be very, very excited a professional race car driver is at the party." Well, an F1 Driver AND Spider-Man, but he decides to leave you out of those plans. "Say goodbye to Mr. Norris, Milo!" 

"Bye, Mr. Norris," Milo says, waving happily. "See you at the party." 

Lando watches the two of you go, happily walking down the street, and he waits in the doorway until you're gone before he's sprinting back to the elevators. He needed to test out that Spider-Man costume, and find the best possible gift he's ever given in roughly a week. 

Manageable, he thinks. 

Surely that's manageable.

-

The knock on the door is the only unexpected part of Milo's birthday party. So far, everything had gone off without a hitch - all the decorations were perfect, the cake had arrived, the kids were somewhat behaving themselves for a room of four year olds, hyped up on sugar. 

Milo, ever the little copycat, was trying to show them how to play Mario Kart, because when Mr. Norris arrived, Milo wanted to show off how he could beat him at the game. 

Lando threw every game, but Milo didn't need to know that. The thought of the racer next door then clicks to the knock on your door, and you quickly spare a glance in the mirror in the hall before answering. It was a stupid, stupid, childish crush to have on the man, but you couldn't help it. 

Maybe it was the way he played with Milo, offered to babysit, raced around the world and somehow kept a level head, maybe it was how he looked, and how he spoke, and how he dressed, and how he acted, or maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought you were paying attention to Milo. 

Whatever it was, you were starting to get a bit embarrassed of how much you looked forward to seeing Lando today, until you open the door, and Lando was not standing there. 

Instead, there's Spider-Man, with a stack of boxes tucked under his arm. "Hey there!" He says, with an accent most certainly British but trying not to be. "I heard there's a me-themed birthday party?" 

Slowly, without alerting the kids, you peer around the door and into the living room, where they are still glued to the television, and the parents are watching and conversing nearby. "Spider-Man," You say quietly, "How did you get my address?" 

"A friend of mine told me," He says, accent slipping, "He drives fast cars, and lets me borrow them for my missions." 

"Oh, does he now?" You step aside to hold open the door, and you turn toward the kids. "Milo, your special guest is here!" 

"Mr. Norris?" Then, as Milo turns, you watch the greatest shock you think you've ever seen wash over his face as his jaw drops, clinging to the back of the couch as he stares at Spider-Lando, who offers a cheesy wave. 

And really, maybe you liked Lando because of how much Milo loved him. Watching him now, sprinting full-tilt at the driver, it almost makes you emotional. He had never run like that towards any man, only ever you. Well, you suppose he doesn't know it's Lando, but maybe it's the fact that Lando does stuff like this when he really doesn't need to. 

Lando lets the presents drop to scoop up the boy, who's been spouting questions faster than any human, or any superhuman, could answer them. You join Lando's side to gently take Milo's hand, who finally sucks in a breath to look at you. "Mom," He whispers dramatically, "Spider-Man came." 

"Well, you're a very special kid." You answer, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Of course he'd come." 

Four years old. You remember when he was just a thought, a terrifying realization, and now, he was your world, dressed up like Spider-Man himself and in Spider-Man's arms. "Is that Mario Kart?" 

"We have to wait to play with Mr. Norris." Milo says, looking at the TV and the other kids, who are now circling Lando. "He's coming soon." 

"Why don't we do something else then?" Lando offers, voice cracking. You can tell he's smiling under that stupid mask at the thought of Milo waiting for him to play the game. 

"We could do cake." You say, and the crowd erupts with chants for cake. Lando gets Milo to his spot at the head of the table and helps pull out chairs for the others as parents snap photos, offering you strange looks. You had told them, outright, you hadn't been able to afford someone to play Spider Man. 

And now, here he was. You take the cake from its box on the counter, and stick in the large 4 candle and light them, as the kids begin singing. You had been so worried, once, about Milo making friends, about being a single mother, but watching now as you set the cake down in front of him, as he blows out the candles and everyone cheers, as other parents offer to help with plates and knives and forks, you realize you might actually be good at this parenting thing, even if the situation wasn't the best.

"Can you take off your mask to eat some?" Milo says, awkwardly grabbing at Spider-Lando's cheek, who happily moves the boy's hand away.

"I have to keep my identity a secret!" Lando says, before carefully rolling up the edge of his mask. "So I'll do it like this, yeah?" 

"That's silly," Milo says with a giggle, and you cut out a slice for him, which he immediately hands off to Lando. "For you!" 

"No, muppet, birthday boys get the first slice!" Lando has fully abandoned the accent by now, but no one really cares. The rest of the cake gets distributed and smeared across faces, Milo included. He gets one streak of blue icing far up on his cheek, and you grab a napkin to wipe it off. "Do I have any?" Lando asks, and without thinking, you reach over to gently wipe some icing from the corner of his mouth. 

No one seems to notice the action, too absorbed with eating and celebrating, but you feel your cheeks burn, quickly turning back to watch Milo as he finishes up. By the time the cake is done, and Lando hasn't arrived, Milo decides to turn from Mario Kart to a game called 'Spider Man Tag', where everyone chases Lando around the apartment, and you take videos of the whole thing, laughing. 

When that's done, and the kids stop climbing on him, and just when he looks like he might faint, one of the girls suggests hide and seek, and Milo immediately volunteers to be the seeker. "Go hide," He says to you, before clapping his hands over his eyes. "Spider-Man too." 

You're quick to help the other kids find their spots, throwing blankets over them and tucking them behind curtains until finally, Milo is down to 1, and you realize you haven't hidden. Luckily, you don't seem to be the only one alone in this, because Lando grabs your hand and pulls you into the front hall closet, just as Milo pulls his hands away from his eyes. 

"Hold the door," Lando says, and you put your hand together on the sliding doors to keep them from moving, and Lando pulls off his mask with a gasp. He's flushed, hair slick with sweat, and you can imagine this is what he must look like after a race. Hell, you've seen what he looks like after a race - he might honestly look worse. 

Cramped together, he doesn't have much room to wipe over his face, arm bumping into you. "You okay there, Spider-Man?" 

"I worked out this morning!" He groans softly. "That was so stupid." 

"Language," You chide softly, and he offers an amused scowl. "There are little ears nearby." 

"They can't hear us," Lando says, intercut by a scream of a child found as Milo happily laughs. "Right?" 

"We'll just have to whisper," You say, as the predicament you're in slowly dawns on you. 

You're chest to chest with Lando Norris, in a spider-man costume, in your closet, as he pants against you.

There are a lot of not age-appropriate thoughts that occur, so you shift quickly into something you can talk about. "You really didn't have to do all this," You say, and Lando cracks a smile. "You've made his year, I think. This is too much." 

"Well, he said he wanted Spider-Man, so he gets Spider-Man." Lando says, eyes skimming down your face before snapping up to your eyes. "How much longer do you think we have in here?" 

The world slows a little bit at the question. "Not much longer," You say, as Lando somehow manages to shift closer. "Breath while you can." 

"The mask is awful," He says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "Think it's constricting my airways." 

Well, if you need CPR... "You can say you need to get going to stop a villain or something, and then come back as Lando. He'd be just as excited." 

"No, no, I'm committing to the Spider-Man thing." He says, tugging the mask on, but stopping before his mouth. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?" 

"Trust me, Lando, there's little you could do to make me hate you." 

"I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thi-" The door to the closet yanks open as Lando fumbles to get the last of his mask down, and Milo cackles in delight. 

"FOUND YOU!" He grabs both your hands and drags you back to the living room, and you try to take as many deep breaths as possible. 

He always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing. 

Did he...with you? "Why don't we do presents?" You say, trying to find anything to distract you, and also give Lando a break. "Go sit on the couch, Milo." 

You gather up the few gifts the children brought, and Lando grabs the ones he abandoned by the door. Like any little kid, Milo rips through each package excitedly, showing off cars and Spider-Man toys and a new bubble-blower, until finally, he gets to Lando's presents, who you're sure didn't wrap them himself. 

Or, if he did, you might just love him more, considering the Spider-Man wrapping paper that's wrapped neater than you could ever manage, bow included. Milo, for some reason, takes his time opening them, and the first two are Lego sets, one of a Spider-Man scene, the second a McLaren car. 

Oh, Lando. "Mr. Norris still isn't here!" Milo says, distraught. "This is his car!" 

"Mr. Norris invited me!" Lando says, gesturing to the gift. "He told me what to get you! Maybe he'll build it with you when he gets back." 

Then, Milo carefully opens the third box, and discovers his very own webshooters. "No way!" He immediately hands the box off to you to open, which is basically the equivalent of silly string, strapped to his wrists. The moment he gets them on, he begins spraying, and in a matter of mere minutes, the room is covered in string as the kids all giggle in unison. At some point, Lando squats beside him to help him aim and shoot, carefully gesturing to things that will be easier to clean up, and your heart clenches at the image. 

Because as much as you were good at this parenting thing, as much as you had mastered being a single mother, it was something new to see a man in Milo's life who wanted to be there, who cared for him, who bought him gifts and came dressed as Spider-Man and who just...adored him, like you adored him. 

You're not sure how long you just stare at the chaos unfolding, but it's long enough you think you might genuinely have feelings for Lando, cheesy Spider-Man suit be damned. It's the sort of messy, perfect ending to a messy, perfect day. As much as Milo really doesn't want to end the party, considering Mr. Norris hasn't shown up, he's yawning and trying to fight off the inevitable crash that comes after this. 

The kids get their party favours, which include pictures with Spider-Man, and Milo says goodbye to everyone, perched on Spider-Man's shoulders, and Lando carefully dumps the boy on the couch with a huff. "I think you need to get cleaned up!" He says, gesturing to the cake and silly string staining the boy's clothes. "Heroes have to stay clean!" 

The moment Milo disappears into the washroom, Lando collapses onto the couch, head hanging back off the back of it to look at you. You step forward and gently uncurl the mask, and with as much bravery as you can muster, you speak. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?" Lando's lips part as he swallows, before he nods. "I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing." 

"Yeah?" Lando breathes out, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Well, Mary Jane, now's your chance." 

Kissing Lando upside down is not how you originally planned on doing it, but it's sort of everything you wanted it to be and more. It's soft and sweet and patient, the kind of loving you need after everything you've gone through, that's just hot and heavy enough that when you hear the tap turn off in the bathroom, you're quick to pull away. 

"Can Spider-Man stay the night?" Milo asks, running up as Lando pulls down his mask again, and he lets out a soft sort of laugh that does something to your stomach. 

"I've got to get home! Maybe another time," Lando says as he rises from the couch, and Milo's bottom lip trembles. "Just think, you still have your guest of honour that needs to visit." 

"I don't want to see Mr. Norris," Milo mumbles, "I want you to stay." 

You watch Lando hesitate then, about pulling off his mask and revealing himself, but for the sake of the magic, he chooses not to, and you intervene to let the poor man go home. "There's lots of people Spider-Man has to go save," You say, crouching down to his level and brushing the hair from his face. "And you never know, he might come back soon. But for right now, let's thank him for coming." Milo pushes away from you to wrap around Lando's leg, and Lando kneels down to give him a proper hug. 

"Thanks," Milo mumbles into his shoulder. "You can come back whenever you want." 

"Thank you for having me!" Lando tries to say cheerfully. "But your mom is right, I have to get going back to New York! It's a long plane ride." 

"Say goodbye, Milo." Milo finally lets go, and helps walks Spider-Man to the door. 

"Bye, Spider-Man." He says, offering a small wave. 

"Bye, Milo. Hope you had a great birthday." 

-

Lando strips the moment he gets home. 

Fireproofs were hot, the race suits were hot, but the Spider-Man suit? 

Wrangling that many kids? 

With you kissing him? 

He's practically a sauna. And yet, as soon as he's done showering and gets changed, he'd back at your door, knocking and hoping it's not too late, and that Milo's already gone to bed. There's a shuffling noise behind the door before you open it, and he's discovered in the time it took him to shower and get back here, both you and Milo had changed into pyjamas, and were eating dinner at the table. "Mr. Norris!" Milo says, mouthful of pasta falling into his bowl. "You missed Spider-Man!" 

"What? Spider-Man came?" You let Lando in with a soft smile, and all he can think of is your lips on his, how you repeated his line back to him like it was nothing, how right it had felt. Kissing you right-side up probably felt better, but he was just riding off the high that you kissed him at all. He was pretty sure, all things considered, that you had to like him, as much as his brain tried to convince him otherwise. 

Having you actually kiss him and prove it? He was still struggling to wrap his mind around that. "And he brought me webs!" 

"Webs that are going to be tricky to clean up." You say, shooting a grin his way as you move to the stove. "Dinner?" 

"Actually, that sounds great." He had a single slice of cake after being the personal play-place for kids all afternoon. It might not be the most gentlemanly thing he's ever done, but he's not turning down a bowl. He finds his place at the table, and you take your place across from him, and for a moment, Lando thinks he can see into the future. "Did you get anything else?" 

"Bubbles, a book," Then, as if remembering it all over again, "He got me your Lego car! He said we can build it together." Then, as if remembering what Spider-Lando said, "You know Spider-Man? And you didn't tell me?" 

"It's top secret," Lando says around a mouthful of noodles, and you grin down at your own bowl. Dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and fuzzy pyjama pants, it gives a certainly warm glow that has Lando wondering what man could ever give this up. "But, I still haven't given you my gift." 

Milo perks up as your head shoots up to look at him, confusion furrowed between your brows. "Lando, that's not-" 

"I want you to come to a race." He couldn't really think of some big gift to get Milo, besides a full-paid trip to a race. Silverstone was soon, anyways. It would be fun, for Milo to see him race, for you to see him win. At least, Lando really hopes he'll win, because then that's one more reason to kiss you. "All expenses paid." 

"Lando!" You exclaim, fork clattering to your bowl. "No, no that's too much-" 

"Really?" Milo cuts you off, leaping out of his chair to throw himself at Lando. "Thank you thank you thank you-" 

"Okay, okay," Lando says, trying to calm both of you. "But you have to promise to be on your best behaviour for it, okay Milo?" 

Milo nods furiously against Lando's leg, and Lando scoops him up to hold him in his lap. "I promise. Can I drive your car?" 

"Wait another eleven-ish years for that one, mate." He continues eating his pasta as Milo drags his bowl over, content to finish his dinner sitting with Lando, and he catches you staring. You do that a lot, especially when Lando and Milo interact, and he doesn't blame you. He's a strange man playing with your kid, who wouldn't want to be checking in?

But there's always something more in the way you look at him, like you're not used to someone being there. He doesn't know the full story, and he doesn't need to, but he has a feeling that, if he pursues this, he's filling in a spot that never really was occupied before. 

"Thank you, Lando." You finally say, finishing up the last of your dinner. "That means a lot." 

"What else would I do for my favourite neighbour?" Milo, also now finished eating, yawns into his hands. "Bedtime, buddy?" 

"Come on," You say, pulling Milo from his lap. "Let's get you changed and ready for bed. Lando can read you a bedtime story." Then, back towards him, "Finish up your dinner first. No rush." 

And then, like it's the most normal thing in the world, Lando finishes the last of his food and gathers up all the dishes on the table and puts them in the sink, and finds you and Milo already on Milo's bed, a Spider-Man storybook laid out on Milo's Lap. Lando takes the other side of you, and as guest of honour, Milo explains, he gets to read tonight. If he had really been prepared for how tonight was going to go, Lando would've brought his own pyjamas, but instead, he just cozies further into his hoodie, and flips open to the first page. 

"This is Spider-Man," He begins as Milo crawls over you to splay over your lap. "He's a superhero."

"You're a superhero," You whisper quietly with a yawn, and Lando is pretty sure he turns as red as Spider-man's suit. 

"Spider-Man shoots webs," Lando continues, moving to the next page, and he decides to focus all his energy into the book, rather than you pressed up beside him. However, he finds that as he finishes up the last page, he might've let his attention wander to far. 

You're asleep beside him, head tilted back as you doze, and Milo is the same in your lap, tuckered out from the party. Honestly, if Lando could, he'd fall right asleep beside you, but that's for another time, another date, so instead, he presses a kiss to your temple, closes the book, and turns off the light. 

It's how he hopes he can spend every night for the rest of his life.

eleven: somebody's watching me

twelve: the watcher ↘ fun fact

thirteen: passenger princess

fourteen: mask on, mask off ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

fifteen: creature of habit

sixteen: what could've been, and what will be ↘ fun fact

seventeen: dream a little dream of me ↘ trivia

eighteen: read between the lines ↘ fun fact

nineteen: the talk ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty: you've been made ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty one: hypothetically ↘ trivia ↘ trivia

twenty two: balancing act ↘ trivia ↘ characters & cameos

twenty three: all the stars ↘ trivia

twenty four: dinner, but like, in a friend way ↘ fun fact ↘ fun fact

twenty five: here in spirit ↘ characters & cameos ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty six: distance

twenty seven: margot ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty eight: that funny feeling

twenty nine: blind spot ↘ characters and cameos ↘ trivia ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia ! foreshadowing

thirty: daniel ↘ fun fact

thirty-one: what we (don't) say

thirty-two: getting familiar

thirty-three: in another life

thirty-four: so close, yet so far

thirty five: normal people

thirty-six: peek-a-boo

thirty-seven: this ends now

thirty-eight: trouble’s calling

thirty-nine: you’ve been made

forty: fallout

forty-one: lost

forty-two: hello? are you there?

forty-three: y/n

forty-four: a life for a life

forty-five: pain and penance

forty-six: ghost of you

forty-seven: the norris estate

forty-eight: pretty palace, pretty prison

forty-nine: illusions

fifty: revelations new!

fifty one: deja vu coming soon...

© saffusthings 2025

Two weeks in and you’re still the slowest one in class, still tripping over your own feet sometimes, but you’re getting better. Your form’s sharper, more precise, more in control. Your punches sound less like hesitant taps and more like you mean it. You like the way it makes you feel… powerful, in a world that’s made you feel small lately.

Then one night he’s there.

You’re staying late because it’s the only time the gym is quiet enough for you to practice without fearing judgment. The gym's mostly empty just the rhythmic hum of the industrial fan and the creak of the old heavy bag swinging back at you.

You’re mid combo, jab, cross, hook, when you feel it. A shift in the air. Like electricity crawling up your spine.

You turn. He’s leaning against the far wall, half-shadowed. Arms crossed over his chest. Hood pulled low over his brow. Watching.

“Uh—” you fumble with your wraps. “Sorry, is this your time? I can go.”

“No.” His voice is low. Gravel and smoke. “Keep going.”

You blink. “You… work here?”

He steps out of the shadows and under the flickering lights you finally see him. Sweatshirt soaked at the collar. Tape unraveling from torn knuckles. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His face is all edges and intention, and his eyes, God, his eyes. Like a storm barely leashed. Something feral. Something alive.

You recognise him.

Not from class.

From whispers. From rumours. From the crowd’s roar behind warehouse doors. Underground fights. The undefeated. The king of the ring they call the lion. You’d heard the stories, brutal, unbelievable. A fighter who didn’t just win but devoured. You never put a name to the face until now, you just know instinctively its him.

“You’re Max,” you murmur.

His brow lifts, not entirely surprised you already know his name. “And you’re…?”

“Y/N,” you say, almost defensive. “I’m new.”

He steps closer and your breath stumbles in your throat. He smells like leather and sweat and something darker. Not cologne… experience.

“Yeah,” he says, gaze dropping to your stance. “I figured. You hit like someone trying not to.”

Your stomach twists. “I am trying.”

“I know. That’s why I stayed.”

You tilt you head. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Wanted to see if you’d give up.”

You straighten, muscles stiff with pride. “Why would I give up?”

He smiles, small, amused. “People usually do when it hurts.”

“It already hurts,” you mutter, wrapping your wrist tighter. “I just want it to matter.”

That makes him pause.

He watches you like he’s trying to figure out what kind of flame you are, the kind that warms or the kind that burns. You don’t even realise you’re holding your breath until he nods once and moves past you, right behind the bag, holding it steady.

“Then hit it again,” he says. “This time like you mean it.”

So you do.

That’s how it begins.

He doesn’t train you.

Not officially. Not in any structured, planned, or spoken way. He’s not your coach, he’s not on payroll, and no one else in the gym seems to expect him to do anything but haunt the space like a silent, dangerous ghost.

But he’s always there.

Every night you stay late, which is most nights now, he appears. Sometimes already leaning against the wall when you walk in, hood up, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. Other times he arrives a few minutes after you’ve begun, his footsteps barely making a sound across the matted floor as he moves to the edges of your periphery, close enough to make your pulse spike, far enough to pretend it’s coincidence.

He doesn’t say much at first. Most nights he doesn’t speak at all, just watches. His presence is a pressure in the air, a weight between your shoulder blades, a constant reminder that you’re not alone in the dark anymore. On other nights he’s more vocal, offering sharp, precise observations that cut through your form like a knife, not unkind, but never sugarcoated. His voice when it comes is low and sure, and it always finds you mid-swing, mid-sweat, mid-thought.

“You’re dropping your shoulder,” he says one night, voice sudden and smooth as he moves behind you without warning.

You jump, startled by the nearness you hadn’t noticed until his breath was practically at your ear.

“Jesus,” you gasp. “You scared me.”

“I don’t mean to.”

You laugh. He doesn’t. But there’s a flicker of something soft in his eyes when you smile.

“You ever get tired of pretending you’re not interested?” you ask one night, somewhere between breathless and bold, wiping sweat from your brow with trembling hands after a long set that’s left your knuckles raw and your heart pounding.

His head tilts slightly, slow, almost feline in its calculation.

“In fighting?” he asks, as if that’s what you meant.

You glance at him sideways, giving him a look. “In watching me.”

That gets his attention.

He turns to face you fully, stepping in close, too close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his chest. Close enough to smell the leather of his gloves, the salt of his skin, and the dangerous edge that always seems to cling to him.

“Do you want the truth?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost coaxing, like he’s asking if you can handle it.

Your throat goes dry, but you don’t step back. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t smile, not really, but his gaze drops first to your mouth then back to your eyes and something inside you twists. He doesn’t look at you like you’re delicate. He looks at you like you’re a challenge. A question he hasn’t figured out how to answer.

“I’m not scared of any man in that ring,” he says, and every word feels like it’s being peeled from some deeper part of him, something rarely touched. “But you…”

His eyes stay locked on yours.

“You’re different.”

You let out a sound, half laugh, half disbelief, because what could he possibly mean by that? You with your trembling fists and half-learned footwork and emotional baggage heavy enough to anchor a ship?

“Me?” you say, like it’s absurd.

He nods, slow. Measured. Dead serious.

“You don’t flinch,” he says softly. “Not when I look at you. You hold your ground like you’ve got something worth protecting. Like you’ve already been broken once, and now you dare anyone to try again.”

You go still.

“I’m just…” you start, but your voice falters. “I’m just here to heal.”

He studies you. “You’re already stronger than you think.”

Over the next few weeks the gym becomes your haven, not just a place to train, but a kind of sanctuary carved out of sweat, bruises, and silence.

The world outside still stings sometimes, the wrong song in the car, a passing couple laughing too loudly, the loneliness that curls around your ribs in the quiet hours of the night, but here, beneath flickering lights and the smell of chalk and rubber mats you begin to feel solid again.

You’re still not fast enough.

Still not perfect.

Your punches don’t always land clean, and your form gets sloppy when your mind drifts but you’re not afraid anymore.

Not of the bag. Not of the pain.

More importantly not of being seen.

Max becomes something like a shadow.

Always nearby. Always watching.

Then somehow, impossibly, he becomes a friend. Or maybe something that skirts the edges of friendship, standing too close to something else neither of you have the language for yet.

You start learning things about him in bits and pieces, never offered up like casual facts, but revealed in the quiet in-between moments, like loose change dropped by accident.

You find out he hates early mornings with a passion that borders on theatrical, grumbles about them like they’ve personally wronged him.

"Nothing good has ever happened before ten.”

You raise an eyebrow, mid-wrap. “Sunrises? Pancakes?”

“Blinding, and deceptively dangerous if you burn them.”

You just snort.

You find out that he doesn’t drink coffee, says it makes his hands shake and he can’t afford that. You learn that the long, pale scar along his left side came from a street fight he won in under a minute, a win that should’ve felt like triumph but still seems to sit heavy in his memory.

Then there are the softer things.

The things you're not sure he mean to let slip.

You find out he loves cats. That he used to sneak food to a stray outside his old apartment until it trusted him enough to curl up on his lap.

You mention offhand how your mom's been texting pictures of her rose bushes again, proud, unsolicited updates with captions like “First bloom of the season!” as if the flowers were children on their first day of school.

You expect him to brush it off, or maybe offer a quiet nod, but instead he lights up in this quiet, unexpected way, eyes soft like you’ve said something that reached a part of him you didn’t know was listening.

“My gran’s like that,” he says, shifting slightly closer. “She sends me photos of her garden every week. Sometimes every day if the weather’s good.”

You smile. “Really?”

He nods, pulling out his phone like it’s instinct. “Look.”

He scrolls for a second, then turns the screen toward you. It’s a picture of a large flowerbed, a little overgrown, the colours soft and unruly, like something out of an old storybook. The caption underneath is typed in careful all-caps: “STILL NO SIGN OF THE BEGONIA THIEF. I’M WATCHING.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but it’s not teasing. “It’s beautiful.”

“She works so hard on it,” he says, almost to himself. Then, after a beat. “She texts me a lot just to check in. It’s… nice. Makes my day better.”

You glance over at him and he’s looking at the photo like it’s something sacred.

“She sounds really special,” you say.

He nods once. “She is.”

You catch glimpses of the man underneath the reputation.

The so-called lion of the underground, the undefeated, the feared, with knuckles like iron and a jaw carved from stone… who also lights up just the tiniest bit when you mention a childhood pet, who goes quiet when you say you’ve had a hard day, who listens like it matters.

You feel it again, the slow, steady cracking open of someone who’s been closed off for a long, long time.

But there’s one thing he never talks about, not directly, not even sideways.

He never tells you why he fights.

Not what started it. Not what keeps him in the ring.

Still, he listens when you talk.

The first time you bring up your ex, it’s barely more than a whisper, something you didn’t mean to say aloud.

"He just made me feel invisible."

It slips out like a secret, and for a second you regret it, heart pounding, wondering if Max will brush it off, make a joke, or worse, pity you.

But he doesn’t do any of that.

Instead his entire body stills like your words struck something in him. His gaze sharpens, eyes narrowing not in judgment but in something that looks a hell of a lot like anger. Not at you, never at you, but at the idea of someone making you feel small. Forgettable. Unseen.

You can feel it radiating off him, that quiet, dangerous rage simmering just under the surface.

“You’re not,” Max says finally, voice low and steady, but so serious it makes your chest tighten. “Invisible.”

The way he says it… like it’s an unshakable truth, like it’s carved in stone… it makes your heart ache.

After that he walks you to your car. Just falls into step beside you, quiet and watchful, the way he always is when the night settles in and the gym empties out.

He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even let his arm brush yours, but he stays close. So close. Like he’s afraid that if he does touch you, even accidentally, you might vanish and disappear like smoke.

He doesn’t say much else that night but the silence between you hums with something unspoken.

Something careful.

Something new.

And it stays with you long after the engine turns over and you drive away.

One night he doesn’t show up.

At first you tell yourself it’s nothing. People miss days. Even him.

But then another night passes, and another, and still no Max.

You try not to notice. Try to keep your focus on the rhythm of your gloves against the bag, the sharp exhale of each punch, the way your muscles burn with familiar ache.

But the air feels different. Heavier. Colder. The shadows in the corners of the gym seem to stretch longer without him standing in them, and every creak of the floor makes your heart catch in your throat with hope only for it to fall again.

You don’t ask anyone where he is.

You’re not even sure you have the right to.

By the fourth night something in your chest is tight enough to crack. You’re standing at your usual spot, halfway through wrapping your wrists, trying to shake the sick weight of dread in your gut, when the front door groans open on its hinges.

Your head snaps up.

Max.

He's here... and he’s a mess.

He’s standing just inside the doorway, barely upright, his hoodie soaked with sweat and something darker. There’s dried blood on his temple, a vicious bruise is blooming along the edge of his jaw, and his cheekbone has a nasty cut. One of his hands is cradled against his ribs like it hurts just to breathe.

For a moment you can’t move. You can only stare.

And then you’re running over.

“Jesus,” you breathe, reaching him in seconds, your hands hovering uselessly at first before finally gripping his arms, trying to steady him. “Max—what the hell happened?”

He grunts as you guide him toward the nearest bench, his body heavy with exhaustion.

“Fight went bad,” he mutters, the words slurred around pain. “Didn’t see the right hook.”

He lowers himself down with effort, a hiss slipping through clenched teeth.

Up close he looks even worse. His knuckles are raw and torn, and there’s blood caked all over him. He’s shaking slightly, whether from adrenaline, pain, or something deeper, you can’t tell.

“You should be in a hospital,” you whisper, crouching in front of him, eyes scanning every bruise like they’re puzzle pieces you’re desperate to put back together.

“I should be dead,” he says softly not looking at you.

Your hands freeze where they’re gently brushing the blood from his brow.

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m serious,” he says, voice rough and low. “It was bad. Real bad.” He swallows hard, and when he finally lifts his gaze to meet yours there’s something there you’ve never seen before. Not just pain. Not just exhaustion.

Need.

Then, after a long beat, his lips twitch the faintest ghost of a grin. “Still won though,” he rasps, trying for lightness, for you.

You just shake your head, torn between relief and disbelief, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with the smallest, broken smile.

“I didn’t want to go anywhere else,” he says. “I wanted to see you.”

The words knock the air out of you.

You stare at him, your fingers stilling against his cheek. His skin is hot, scraped raw in places, but it’s the look in his eyes that undoes you, that bare, broken honesty, like he’s holding himself together by a thread and you’re the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

“…Why?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He looks at you like you already know.

Like he can’t believe you’re asking.

Like he’s spent weeks standing beside you, aching in silence, wondering if you’d ever see the war he’s been waging inside his own chest.

“Because you’re the only thing that doesn’t hurt.”

The silence between you stretches, thick with things unsaid.

You don’t answer him with words.

Instead you reach for the first-aid kit in the back room, hands trembling as you return. You clean the blood from his skin, slow and careful, your fingers brushing the slope of his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Every touch is an anchor, for him, and for you.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just watches you, breath shallow, lips slightly parted. His eyes track every movement, dark and hungry, like he’s memorising you the same way he does when you’re at the bag.

He’s watching like he’s afraid to blink and lose this moment.

When you’re done your faces are inches apart.

You’re both breathing hard, not from effort, but from whatever it is that’s coiled between you, electric, unspoken, inevitable.

The air is thick with it, heat rising in waves off your skin.

Then he does something he’s never done before.

He lifts his hand, the one that isn’t shaking and gently brushes his thumb against the edge of your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

He just looks at you, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth, waiting. Silent. Asking.

His eyes search yours with a question… Is this okay?

You nod, once. Barely. But it’s enough.

The kiss comes like a dam breaking.

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative.

It’s desperate.

He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s been holding back for weeks, months, and now that he’s started, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands come up to cradle your face, tentative at first, then firmer, pulling you closer.

You kiss him back with the same urgency, like you’ve been waiting for someone to see you, all of you, without flinching. To want you exactly as you are, bruised, burning, flawed and whole.

His mouth moves against yours with aching hunger, with the kind of tenderness that comes from someone who doesn’t know how to be gentle but is trying anyway, just for you.

He kisses like he fights, with everything he has.

When he finally pulls away, just enough to breathe, he presses his forehead to yours. His skin is slick with sweat, his pulse thudding hard beneath your fingertips, but all he says is:

“You deserve better than me.”

Your heart twists. You reach up, fingers curling around the line of his jaw and into his hair. You tilt your face until he’s looking at you again and you say, without hesitation:

“I want you.”

There’s another moment where he just stares at you. Silent. Still. Vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with the blood on his skin and everything to do with the crack you’ve made in his armour.

And then he nods.

Once.

Sharp. Decisive.

Because Max Verstappen has never been afraid of fists or fury or pain. He’s taken beatings that would buckle most men. He’s stood toe-to-toe with monsters and never blinked.

But you?

You’re the fight he never trained for.

The one he didn’t see coming.

And he’s never wanted to win something so badly.

Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.

It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?

Still, you decided to try again.

During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.

You went for humor instead. A joke. 

Terrible idea, in hindsight.

“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”

Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”

And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”

“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.

He didn’t even look away from the road.

“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.

That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.

You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.

Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.

Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.

Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.

Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.

And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.

After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.

Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it. 

It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.

Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.

But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.

It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.

You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.

Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.

Yeah. This was a good morning.

You should have known it wouldn’t last.

It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.

But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.

“Y/N?”

Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.

And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.

You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.

“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”

Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.

You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”

Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.

But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.

Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”

He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.

“Small world,” he added to your silence.

You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”

Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You stared at him.

Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.

Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”

That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”

How surprising.

“So─”

You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.

You lied.

“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.

Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”

He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression. 

That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.

Not today, Satan.

The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.

You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.

“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”

And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.

“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”

Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”

Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”

You finally turned to face him fully.

His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.

“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”

That’s when something clicked.

You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.

But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.

Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.

“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”

He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”

You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?

“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.

Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.

“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!

Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”

Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”

“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.

Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”

“So small,” you nodded stiffly.

The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”

Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”

Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”

“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”

“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.

You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”

“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.

You paused. “Huh?”

“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”

“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”

“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”

You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”

You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”

“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”

The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.

Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.

That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.

“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.

“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.

Lando studied you. Waiting.

“Do I have to guess, or…?”

The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”

You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”

“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.” 

You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.

Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.

Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it. 

One you didn’t have an answer to.

The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.

You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.

But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.

Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.

“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.

He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.

“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”

“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”

He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?

It took a while for reality to set in. 

You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”

Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”

You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”

He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”

Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”

“No way.”

“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”

You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”

“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”

“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.

“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”

“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”

“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”

You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”

“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.

You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.

You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.

You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”

“Come again?”

“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”

You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”

“There it is.”

“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”

“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.

You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”

“Never heard of that.”

“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”

“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”

“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”

Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”

The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”

He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.

“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”

Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”

You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.

And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.

“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”

You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”

The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.

Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?

First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.

You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.

“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.

You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”

Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”

“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.

“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”

You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.

So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.

The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.

By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…

“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.

Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”

You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.

“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”

“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off. 

“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”

You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”

Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.

You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”

Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”

You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”

“Glitter? Really?”

“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”

Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”

You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”

“Right side.”

“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”

You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.

Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.

Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”

“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”

“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”

“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.

You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”

He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.

You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”

And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.

You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued,  voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”

“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”

A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.

It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.

And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”

When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.

You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.

You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.

It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.

Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.

Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.

Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.

Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.

Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.

You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”

“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”

“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”

You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.

Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.

This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.

After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.

Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.

It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.

But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.

It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.

The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.

It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.

“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”

You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”

“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.” 

He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”

A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”

Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”

“How?”

“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”

He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”

“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”

Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”

The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”

That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”

It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.

“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”

You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”

It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”

When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.

For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend. 

At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.

Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.

The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”

Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”

“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”

You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.

Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.

Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”

It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”

Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.

And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.

He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder. 

“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.

“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.

Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”

“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.

He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.

The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.

You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.

Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.

Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.

It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play. 

But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.

Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.

You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.

You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.

Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”

Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”

And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.

“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“That’s because you are.”

The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.

The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.

You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.

The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.

You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.

You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.

His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”

The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.

Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.

That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.

His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”

It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”

“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”

“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.

Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”

You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever. 

“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”

“I made a mistake─”

“You made a choice,” you spat.

“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”

“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”

“Well─”

“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”

Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”

Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”

Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”

“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.

He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”

“Everything alright there?”

His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.

He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.

“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”

Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”

He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”

Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.

The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”

Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”

You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”

Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”

That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours. 

“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”

You couldn’t agree more.

The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.

Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”

You gave a small nod.

“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”

There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it. 

“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”

You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”

The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.

“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”

It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.

Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”

You blinked. “Do you?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.

Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.

He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.

And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.

“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.

Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes. 

He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.

And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.

You closed the space.

The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.

Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.

You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.

“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.

You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.

Yet, you still went to bed alone.

You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.

“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”

Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”

You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.

But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.

You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.

The expression on his face stopped you cold.

Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.

You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”

“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.

Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.

Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”

“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”

The world tipped.

The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.

You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”

“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”

Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”

Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.

He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.

Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.

Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”

You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”

You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.

A beat.

“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”

You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”

Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”

“And what about you?”

The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”

He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.

“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.

Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.

You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.

The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.

You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.

You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.

And with it, everything else.

Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.

You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.

Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him 

You let the weight of it all crash down on you.

If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.

The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.

Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.

Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.

You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.

Eventually, it came.

A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.

It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.

You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.

The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.

But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.

You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.

Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.

It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.

Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.

“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.

Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”

He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”

You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”

“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”

You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”

The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.

“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.

“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.

It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.

Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”

You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.

“Why not?”

You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”

Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”

“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”

It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”

He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.

You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.

You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.

You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.

He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.

He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.

“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.

You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”

“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.

Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.

“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.

You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.

Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”

“That’s good.”

He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”

“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.

“I’m glad.”

Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.

Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”

The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”

You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t. 

Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”

“And did they?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”

Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”

Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”

He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”

He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”

You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.

“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”

There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.

Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.

But that’s not what he did.

“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”

He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”

“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”

Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”

Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”

“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”

“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.

Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his. 

“So… what do we do now?”

The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”

You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings  and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.

As if you had the strength to even think about it.

You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.

The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.

When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.

He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.

“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”

“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”

“I’m just saying, I─”

You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.

That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.

He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.

He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.

Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.

George had defied all the odds—kind, well-mannered, and sweet. It was hard to believe he was an F1 driver. However, on the occasion you watched races with Carmen on the screen, you did end up seeing some of his aggression. However, you had noted it was pretty tame compared to the other drivers.  

Nevertheless, almost six years later, your beliefs had been confirmed. George was indeed the one for your Carmen. 

The only problem was that with George didn’t exactly come alone. He came with Alex. 

Alex Albon, unfortunately another F1 driver and even more unfortunately George's best friend.  

You could still remember when you had first met him. God, it was unforgettable. Carmen had been six been into her relationship, and she and George had decided they wanted some of the most important people in their lives to finally meet each other. So they had planned a dinner, one that had suited to your schedule.  

You had arrived early to the restaurant with Carmen and George, leaving all three of you just waiting for Alex. But as time passed, it was clear he was getting late. The both of them had apologised to you profusely, feeling guilty you were using your free time out of the hospital for them. You only smiled, maintaining it was fine. You wanted to be there for your best friend.  

Carmen had begun ordering the drinks in the meantime while George claimed his best friend was just around the corner, hesitantly looking at his phone screen like something bad had happened.  

"I swear. He's not usually late," George huffed, rubbing his forehead with his fingers, evidently stressed.  

You smiled gently at him from across, resting your cup of water down. "Really. It's fine, George. I don't mind," you replied reassuringly, rubbing the glass idly while your eyes darted around the restaurant. You had been here for twenty minutes now. Most people had been just served their food while you were all awkwardly sitting around, waiting.  

"It's not fine," he muttered, shaking his head in distaste, blue eyes squinting at his screen, not too easily soothed by Carmen's hand on his arm. "You could be out saving lives, and this idiot is here wasting time." 

You drew a quite breath, leaning back in your chair. You smiled again, albeit it more resigned. You liked being away from the hospital time to time. The stale air and the ever-drastic moments of happiness and sadness sometimes became nauseating. It was stressful. Of course, it was. You barely got time to eat and the next moment you were trying your best to comfort patients as per guidelines and without 'too many emotions' according to your supervisor. It was tiring.  

So even this moment felt freeing. Even if this Alex was over twenty minutes late.  

"Jesus Christ. Finally," George grumbled, glaring at the clumsy figure entering the restaurant.  

You slowly swept your eyes over to where he was looking, gaze falling onto the tanned male who stumbled past a few tables. He looked dishevelled, hair all over the place and a permanent frown etched onto his face. You blinked when you locked eyes, watching him pause in his steps, brown eyes widening momentarily before they fell cold. Taken aback, you swallowed tightly, staring at your cup of water as he took across you.  

"S-Sorry I'm late," the male stuttered, not nervous but broody. Uncaring yet alert. Like he had made a big mistake walking into this place.  

Carmen wove her hand in dismissal. "It's fine," she chuckled softly, trying to ease the atmosphere. "___, I want you to meet Alex. Alex, this is ___." 

You pursed your lips, forcing a stretched mile onto your face while you extended your arm. "Nice to meet you, Alex," you murmured, hesitantly looking at his face again.  

His jaw clenched, brown eyes falling to your outstretched hand. He breathed in, not returning the gesture but instead giving you a firm nod and a somewhat polite smile.  

You refrained yourself from furrowing your brows. What the hell was this man's problem? He didn’t seem just disinterested but like you had done something to offend him.  

But that's when you had remembered. An F1 driver. That's what he was. You couldn't expect him to be someone like George. He probably had come here only at the request of his best friend. Just like you had. Except, he had no actual interest in meeting you. This was a waste of his time.  

Your skin burned in annoyance. You weren’t exactly sure why. Perhaps it had to do with the fact you were always expected to greet people when an open mind and heart. A contractual obligation and an innate value you had been given by your parents. But you couldn't help but let those rumours feed into this impression.  

Was this meeting so much of a burden to him?  

Could he not just play along for even a few minutes? 

"Can you try and just not kill each other?" George huffed as the three of you walked into a venue in Monaco. After working tirelessly and begging your supervisor to let you have two months off for the wedding (seeing as you hadn't taken any holidays since you joined,) you were here and ready for the best days of Carmen's life.  

Currently, you were here to do some planning altogether. Unfortunately, that also included the best man. Good ol' Alex. God, the name just made you want to throw up.  

"I'll try my level best," you sarcastically grinned at him, voice clipped. You looked around the venue, clean and tidy. Perfect for some stress-free planning. If only that were possible without someone like Alex. In all your life experiences, you had never met someone that could raise your cortisol levels and blood pressure so high. You had even considered admitting yourself to the ER just in case.  

George gave you a pointed look at Carmen greeted the wedding planner. "Why can't you two just get along? Don't you guys think almost six years of fighting is too much?" He queried in disbelief.  

"Well, if things were that simple, life would be easy. Wouldn't it, George? Then maybe patients wouldn’t come in with chronic illnesses and maybe I'd find a diagnosis to why Alex is so annoying. Spoiler. I haven't," you deadpanned, giving him a miffed look.  

"You know... if you like me that much, you could've just said so. You don't need to go around pretending to diagnose me," a familiar irritating, vexing voice filtered through the air behind you.  

George and you both turned to the figure, distaste immediately sprawling onto your face while Alex smirked at you, brown eyes simmering with a smugness that made you want to swear. You gave him an unimpressed look, shifting on your feet in a way that showed your disinterest so obviously.  

"Please. I'd rather inject myself with a corticosteroid overdose," you muttered, folding your arms, impatiently waiting for Carmen to finish her conversation.  

Alex blinked, confusion pouring into his face. "Is that... bad?" 

You pursed your lips, nodding slowly, skin beginning to burn. "It's... it's bad, yeah," you mumbled, slightly peeved you couldn't make a better insult. You didn't know what it was but every time Alex got on your nerves, you ended up breaking out in some sort of medical jargon-filled retaliation that made sense to only you. And it was frustrating. Because you never quite seem to get the upper hand like Alex did.  

You breathed in relief when Carmen beckoned for the three of you to come. Feet quick, you followed after her, leaving best friends with their best friends. Your ears perked at her small chuckle as you walked along her side, making your eyes narrow. She was always so easily amused by your banter with Alex and while you'd be happy to provide her entertainment in any other moment, this was not it.  

You took a seat in one of the rooms, gathering around around a table full of folders, plans, and ideas. While most of the wedding had been planned by the couple, as the maid of honour, you still had a few duties yourself—decor, parties, itineraries, admin. It would be held in England, near the area where they had just brought a new house together. Therefore, it wasn't particularly 'destination' but more local.  

You raised a brow at George and Carmen who had yet to take seat. "What are you doing?" You asked, suddenly feeling a bit uneasy when your best friend's eyes travelled to his fiancé's hesitantly.  

She smiled tightly, curling her arm around George's for support as they both looked at you and Alex. "Well, we thought it would be fun if you two figure your stuff out and um, well, we go out to do a little wedding shopping," she chuckled almost cautiously, swallowing at the way your face dropped. Instantly, her feet shuffled with George's towards the door while you discreetly shook your head, eyes beginning to glare at her.  

God, no. You were not being stuck with this... cretin alone.  

"Carmen," you hissed under your breath, fingers itching to pull her back to the table. “Seriously. Don’t do this to me,” you mumbled quietly, eyebrows knitting together to show your plea.  

"Okay, I think you're being a bit dramatic," Alex retorted from across the table, blinking at the sudden shift in your eyes when you looked over at him. "I'm great company," he maintained, hand referring to himself.  

You hummed idly, grumbling under your breath as you watched the couple sneak out of the room. "I'm sure you are," you replied, running a hand through your hair while you leaned back in your chair. "Maybe to something not human." 

He pressed his lips at your insult, tongue firm against the inside of his cheek in disbelief. He breathed in slowly, giving you a feigned smile, arms resting on the table. "Let's talk business then. I was thinking about getting George these silver cufflinks with maybe some teal. You know... for the Mercedes representation." 

Your lips parted in shock. You hoped the disgust in your tone was as obvious on your face. "Are you kidding me? Carmen is a gold girl. And this isn’t an homage to racing. It's a wedding. Leave the goddamn teal out of it." 

"What the hell is a gold girl?" He queried, unable to see why this was relevant. 

You laughed dryly, rubbing your forehead with the tips of your fingers. He was so stupid for someone so smart. You sighed, giving him a flat look, voice almost babying him. "Alex, I know you don't know many women. But see, women are either gold women or silver women. One or the other makes or kills an entire outfit. Gold is Carmen. Gold is class and culture. So George will wear gold cufflinks," you simply explained, voice firm.  

Alex looked at you blankly, brown eyes briefly falling to the small traces of gold adorning your body—your earrings, the necklace, the bangles…He supposed he understood what you meant. You always wore gold and never anything else. It suited you.  

He pursed his lips, leaning into the table, unaware of the tiny catch in your throat as he did so. "I didn't realise you were also the best man," he stated sarcastically, gaze locked onto your face, challenging.   

You ground your teeth together, narrowing your eyes at him. "It's going to be gold. End of story," you stated, looking down some of the files on the table. Sifting through them quietly, your finger paused at the ideas for the bachelor and bachelorette parties. Camping, winery tours, outdoor retreats, helicopter rides... these were all good ideas. "I really hope you aren't planning to bring George into a strip club or something," you mumbled idly, reaching to grab a glass of water.  

"What? I'm not that boring. We can just hire strippers." 

You choked on your water mid-sip, feeling it go down entirely the wrong way, making your chest ache and sending you into a coughing fit. You patted your sore chest, brows knitted together while you tried to ease the pain. Your eyes fell to the handkerchief handed out to you. Taking a quick glance at him, you begrudgingly took it, wiping your mouth and your top dry.  

You cleared your throat, wincing at the traces of pain. "Please tell me you're joking," you sighed, giving him a raised brow. You frowned at his silence. "You think Goody-two-shoes George will willingly have strippers for his bachelor party?" 

Alex chuckled softly. "The fact that you think he's so... innocent tells me all I need to know." 

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms. "I'm sure he isn't. But I can't imagine him even being comfortable in that setting. I mean, what if I did that to Carmen and me? The both of us just surrounded just by half-naked men grinding up on us? George would lose his mind."  

Those brown eyes clouded over momentarily. He could see it. In some rented house in England with the rest of the bridesmaids. And a group of those same half-naked men. Most of which would be eyeing you up because why wouldn't they? With your doe-like eyes and the jasmine scent you always wore, unknowingly you would be serenading them. 

Their hot breaths fawning over your skin.  

Their hands skimming past your body.   

Their bodies just inches away from yours.   

He clenched his jaw, fingers digging into the tablecloth, eyes blinking back to reality. "Fine," he sighed, uncurling his hand. "What do you suggest then?" 

You blinked in small shock. He was surprisingly easy convince with that one. "Uh..." You trailed off, taking a quick glance at the paper, pulling your lip between your teeth, unaware of the little swallow from across the table. "Winery tour?" You asked, looking back at him.  

Alex shook his head almost instantly. "We're wine testing in a few days," he replied.  

You continued to gnaw at your lip. "You could do a poker night?" 

"And make George lose all his money in one night? No thanks," he shuddered at the idea. That man was truly awful at poker and even worse of a sore loser. That type of combination was terrifying.  

You grumbled under your breath. Was this man ever satisfied? You scrutinised the list in your hand, tucking a nearby pen between the strands of your hair as you tried to come up with a better idea. After a few minutes of silence and the occasional glance you received from the nuisance across the table, you perched up with a sudden thought. "How about a joint party then? Something like an adult summer camp?" 

He raised a brow. "An adult summer camp?" 

You nodded enthusiastically, smile already ghosting over your face, body already getting excited at the mere thought of it. "We do all the fun kid stuff like archery, marshmallows, and stargazing but with alcohol but like in spring. Although archery and alcohol aren't a good idea. I’m recommending this totally off the record, by the way. No doctor would probably recommend this. But this could totally be fun!" 

Alex hid his small smile under his hand, watching you ramble incessantly and nonstop. Sometimes you did that. Talk without interruption, like you had all the time in the world. One of the few times you ever looked at him without any form of distaste or annoyance. You just had this light in your eyes that made his stomach churn. And the way your hair curled around your face... he made him fight the urge to reach across the table and see if it was as silky as it looked.  

He swallowed when he realised you looked at him, evidently anticipating some sort of answer for the idea you had proposed. He pursed his lips, sighing dramatically while he shifted in his seat. "I mean... it's not the worst idea." 

You gave him a small glare, raising a brow at him like you were daring for him to disagree with you.  

"Fine," he exasperated, raising his hands in his defence, leaning back in his chair in defeat. “Yes to your stupid summer camp.”

You were still in Monaco. Because 'there was no place like Monaco' for some wine testing according to George. Although you were pretty sure other places would entirely disagree. The clouds were out, hiding the sun, continuing the last few drags of winter as you slowly moved into the spring. You kept your jacket close around your body as you walked into the building. Though you supposed you wouldn't need it as much once you had enough wine in you.  

You smiled softly at the sight of Carmen waving you over but immediately scowled at lopsided grin on Alex's face next to her. You couldn't help but curl your lip in distaste. That face just brought you so much dread. Even the nicely swooped brown hair and those chocolate brown eyes and— 

"Come! Sit!" Carmen called out, tapping the empty chair next to her. George sat next his best friend, making it look like four friends who had come in broad daylight to get wasted (not tipsy) on some wine.  

You nodded, letting your purse fall down your shoulder and putting it on the bag hook under the table while you all got seated. You sighed quietly to yourself, watching the sommelier arrive to all of you, introducing you with a bunch of menus. You listened as she listed off the schedule. You were starting off with some popular picks and then some not so popular wines. You were supposed to note down what you liked and thought would work.

"This is going to be fun for you, ___. Since you barely drink and all. I think you’re actually gonna find out what you actually like for once," George commented, sifting through the menus as he gave you a small grin.  

You hummed, raising your brows in agreement. He was right. A whirlwind was nothing short of what this would be. Alcohol had never been quite your thing. Not culturally nor professionally. Your parents had strictly forbidden you from it until you had officially 'grown up.' And in a Desi household, no one knew what that meant or when that was. But you had gladly obliged with their rules as you had done so for so many years. Eventually, as you got through your years in medicine, they had offered you your first drink as a way of saying they were 'proud of you' and that you were old enough. It was that moment when the lingering questions of marriage had become serious. And all you could do was give vague answers and quietly sip along.  

You didn't resent your parents. But just like Alex, you had never quite met eye-to-eye with them. They were modern and old-fashioned at the same time. They were everything Desi culture was and wasn’t in a country they had come to—the definition of anthesis themselves. And a part of you couldn't blame them. But you couldn't stop the ache your heart they seemingly brought out either.  

"Oh I'm so excited!" Carmen gushed as the sommelier first poured some Sauvignon blanc.  

"You sound like an addict," Alex huffed from across you, ever-present grin sprawling onto his face.  

You tilted your head at him, unable to stop your sharp tongue. "Sounds like something you already know, Mr Monsoon Valley." 

Alex finally flickered his eyes to you, taking you in for a moment. How was your hair always so perfectly swept to the side? And how on earth did you make your skin glow so radiantly?  He had noticed the interested glances your way as you walked in. Even as you sat in front of him doing nothing, you seemed to make air still. A timeless beauty that irritated him to the ends of the earth.  

"I see you're keeping tabs on me," he responded with a raised brow and lazy smirk, folding his arms as he leaned on the table, watching you gently swirl the glass of wine curled in your hand. "I'm honoured," he sighed dramatically, resting a flat hand on his chest.  

You gave him a pointed look, sniffing the wine while you mulled over the cocky sight in front of you. Why did he have to look so good doing something so stupid? "I hardly think knowing a Thai oligarch counts as 'keeping tabs' on you," you retorted with a huff, taking a small sip of the fermented liquid. You blinked at the crisp and fresh taste lingering on your tongue. Hmm... that wasn’t too bad.  

"O-Oligarch?" Alex gaped, mildly offended at your words.  

"Do you know that means? See, it can be a wealthy individual who can influence a political and economic agenda," you smiled coyly behind your glass, voice gentle like you were talking to a child. 

Through gritted teeth and a warming face, he grumbled out, "I know what that means." He opened his mouth to retaliate.  

"Okay," George suddenly interjected, a wry smile stretching onto his face. His eyes tipped towards the sommelier close by who looked entirely amused. "Can we get the next one rolling? I think I’m going to need more if I want to survive this meeting," he sighed. Carmen only grinned quietly, entertained.  

You stayed silent this time, finding your eyes flickering to the French rosé being poured and then to the bottle. You blinked at the name. You had no idea what the true budget for this wedding was. Carmen had mentioned something about 'going wild' or as George had so sophisticatedly said, 'You only live once. And you only get married once.' And while you would've argued you had seen more marriages end in a hospital, you opted to not kill his vibe. 

"I feel like French rosé might be nice. It's a day wedding," Carmen reasoned as Alex took sip of the named wine, almost instantly blinking in surprise. And it was nothing good either. 

"That is way too ripe for a wedding," he muttered, reaching over to grab some water to clean his palate. "It's too strong with the food."  

Carmen and George had chosen the menu, a mix between English and Spanish favourites. Or as you had said, 'A mere hint of spice.' It was one of the few things they hadn't let you and Alex decide on, probably more terrified about the idea of letting you and food come together. It was a recipe for a food fight.  

You curled the rosé into your mouth, internally wincing as you kept your face neutral and composed. Alex was right. It was far too tart for a wedding. But you wouldn't openly agree with him even if it meant sitting here and suffering through this testing. You leaned back in your chair, watching George mutter some sort of agreement while Carmen begrudgingly came around, more excited when she saw a familiar bottle near the table. 

"Oh I love Albariño," she gasped, eyes big and wide as a new glass was placed down and filled.  

"Sounds like you," George poorly chuckled, nudging his friend with his elbow. "Albariño," he sung, leaving you wondering if he was already tipsy. Perhaps all that champagne had been drinking in the past few years had made him a lightweight. 

You all fell silent for a moment, taking a new sip to figure out what exactly you were tasting. You pursed your lips at the zesty and crisp notes, tasting the nectarine and lime along with its mineral hint. You supposed it was to be expected as it came from the coasts of Spain. "This one is nice," you murmured.  

"No, this is better for seafood," Alex retorted just seconds later.    

Your eyes sliced across the table, calm nerve finally hit again. "Do you have to disagree with everything I say or is that a personal default of yours?" 

Out of the corner of your eye you could Carmen press her lips together, half in disbelief and half amused while George raised his brows, trying not to let the corners of his mouth tug upwards, maintaining his usual sternness when it came to the both of you. 

Alex tilted his head, pulling on a feigned thoughtful expression before shaking his head. "I think your just disagreeable overall," he shrugged with a sly grin.  

"Okay, children!" George quickly huffed, hands darting out to quickly intervene. "The only comment I want from you two is if it's bad or good. Nothing less and definitely nothing more. Got it?" 

With your jaw clenched, you sat back in your chair, moving your eyes from the still grinning Alex. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.  

You sighed as you returned to the hotel room you had been staying at for the past few days. George and Carmen's Monaco apartment was crowded with everything to do with the wedding, leaving no space for you. And you sure as hell weren’t taking any sort of trip to Alex's bachelor pad.  

Carmen closed the door behind you, helping you rest some of the things you had brought for the wedding, small bags all hobbled on the coffee table nearby. She watched take off your jacket and shoes before you flailed onto your bed with a groan, skin slightly warm from all the wine. You weren’t drunk by any means. From all the wine testing, you had only sipped each one once or twice, body still not used to the alcohol.  

You peeked an eye at your best friend lingering stare, making you raise a brow in return. "What?" 

Carmen only smiled, taking a seat on the edge of the bed while she peered at you. "You and Alex—" 

"Ugh! Don't you start!" You moaned, annoyance already seeping into your veins. After being scolded by George, you and Alex had only resort to scowls and arrogant smirks from across the table.  

"I mean seriously! What is it with you two?" She chuckled, moving to lean on her side, face resting on her hand while she carefully watched you spring into a passionate spiel.  

"He's just so infuriating," you huffed, folding your arms while you stared at the ceiling. “He always has something to say. Always disagrees with me. And that stupid goddamn smirk I see every time I walk into the same room as him pisses me off." 

"Wow..." Carmen said after some time. "I don't think it's healthy to be that angry, doc." 

"Well maybe you should ask him to tone it down a little," you muttered. Over five years. That's how much time you had spent suffering from Alex's nonsense. And it had all started at that stupid goddamn dinner. Even as it ended, he didn't say goodbye to you, nor had he acknowledged you in any of the conversation that night. It was rude of him! 

"Or... you could, you know... actually fuck him?" 

You choked on the air, coughing lightly as you turned on your side, glaring at your best friend. You cleared your throat, ears in disbelief you were hearing this utter bullshit all over again. In addition to five years of pure annoyance from that man, Carmen had been suggesting this absolutely absurd idea that all this between you and Alex was pent up tension. That all you needed to do was bed your anger and frustration and everything would be fine. And every now and then, she liked to remind you of it. Like right now, for example.  

"Carmen—" 

"I'm serious! You're telling me you've never imagined shutting that mouth you hate so much with some divine sex?" She queried with a raised brow, making your skin warm even more instantly. "You could literally ride him and send him to fucking heaven or something. He'd probably love it so much, he won't have any hate left within him." 

"Carmen!" You hissed, eyes wide and skin now positively burning. You swallowed, throat bobbing as you tried to blink away the sinister thoughts in your mind. Every time she brought the idea up, you couldn't help but think of those large hands... that tall stature... you wondered if everything else was that big or... 

You sucked in a sharp breath, shaking your head lightly. "Okay. Unless you want to help me plan this camp, you can kindly leave." 

You were back in England after three weeks of being in Monaco and so was everyone else. Three weeks... that how much more time you had spent with Alex, planning this godforsaken adult spring camp. The bickering had been non-stop. Neither of you could agree on anything. Not the camp activities nor the food. Nor the music or the venue. It was a constant tension that zig-zagged between the both you, leaving you agreeing to take one idea each back and forth.  

Now you were here, at Wallace Lane Farm, in Wigton, Cumbria. You had rented out the twenty-three-acre farm near the Lake District. The green land went on for a while, accommodating small glamping houses for you to all stay in and allowing you to plan all of your activities.  

You were going to be here for five days, and you planned to make this the bed bachelorette/bachelor party ever. However, as you all stood in a group with all the other groomsmen and bridesmaids near the reception like children on a field trip, Carmen and George had taken the reigns to slightly hamper your plans.  

"So... obviously we have ___ and Alex to thank for this amazing camp. And while we want it to be fun and relaxing, we thought it would be nice to have a competition going on in the background." 

You frowned at George's words, shifting on your feet. A competition? What kind of utter rubbish was this? This was not in your schedule. Not a single mention in the folder you had drawn up with Alex's minimal input. Did these drivers ever rest? Was everything always a competition? 

Carmen clasped her hands, smiling sweetly at her guests. "So we paired you guys up! Each activity will be a competition. So the archery, scavenger hunting, knot tying sections.... each team can win them. And the team with the most points will be dubbed the camp winners with a paid dinner at the Waterside Inn." 

Alex mended his brows. That was in Berkshire. At least a four-hour drive away. What on earth were those two planning? 

You grumbled under your breath as Carmen started pairing you all off. It truly felt like you were back in school, waiting for teachers to let you finally go and explore camp. Your body became more alert when your name hadn't been read out until towards the end. Oh come on... please for the love of God no... 

"And last but not least, ___ and Alex! Our organisers! So that's everyone! You can all choose your places to sleep in with your team members. If I'm right, according to the schedule we'll come out some archery in thirty minutes and then have lunch!" 

You didn't bother even taking a glance at Alex, who's brown eyes bored into the side of your head. You could only narrow your eyes at Carmen, her innocent smile on her face anything but. The other guests peeled away, all falling into their own chatter, Lando and Max who had been paired together, happily talking. You watched your best friend inch cautiously closer to you and God thing she was...  

"Carmen, why are you hellbent on making me into a horrible person before your wedding?" You asked, standing in front of her with a frown. 

"You're being dramatic," she simply retorted, hesitantly laying a comforting hand on your shoulder like you wouldn't just fling it out of spite at this point.  

"I know what you're doing... and it's a basically a crime," you hissed. You couldn't sleep in that same room as him. Two separate beds aside! This was a punishment. Not a celebration of a wedding or the ending of bachelorhood.  

Carmen grinned. "Well, then I guess I have nothing to worry about then." 

You blinked as she walked away, supressing the frustrated grin lodged in your throat. You stared at the sky. God, why are you so testing?  

You sighed quietly, finally arriving to your room. By the look of Alex's duffle bag on his bed and the chargers plugged in, it seemed he had felt right at home. You stared at the small distance between the two beds, a mere three-rulers apart from one another. Five days of this. Five whole goddamn days.  

You planted a forced smile on your face after sucking in a sharp breath. It would be okay. Let’s not ruin the mood. You could do this. You were here for Carmen and by extension, George. You could withstand this annoying, menacing, absolutely vexing piece of— 

"You can take a shower if you want." 

You blinked at the familiar voice, turning around to find Alex. But not just any Alex. One that had come straight from the bathroom with a towel loosely wrapped around his hips, rivulets of water dripping down his toned body, brown hair all wet and damp. Your eyes lowered for a moment, capturing that v-line that went all the way down and down and...  

Your throat dried, cheeks instantly burning as you quickly turned around, hands instantly covering your eyes. "Alex! You can't be walking around naked in a shared cabin!" You groaned, body quivering with a strange warmth. This was outrageous! Oh my God.  

A deep chuckle fell from his lips, corners of his mouth tugging upwards at your flustered state. He slowly brushed past you, barely touching you while his brown eyes took a glance at how you covered your eyes. He grinned. In all his life, he had probably never met a doctor who was this scared of the human body. "This isn't naked. I can show you naked if you like," he offered, taking a seat on his bed, leaning back on his hands as he looked at you.  

You almost choked on your breath. You shook your head frantically, peeking through your eyes to guide yourself back to your side of the room. “I… that's really okay. I wouldn't want to throw up my breakfast,” you muttered whatever insult you could, putting your bag on the bed. 

Alex poked his tongue with his cheek, watching you slowly unpack. "You know for a doctor... I feel like you should really exercise every right to learn human anatomy." 

You hummed sarcastically, giving him a fleeting glance. "I don't really need to look at you to know you have the body of an idiot." Or some sort of Thai God, but you wouldn't comment on that.  

You sighed, tucking your hair behind your ears while you looked over your bag, an unnameable amount of clothes and small things crowded in there. Had you overpacked again? You could’ve sworn you brought everything you needed. Clothes, toiletries, a real first aid kid (because you didn't trust what everyone else had), and the schedule of things to do. You grumbled at the pair of eyes on you. "What?" You asked, finally turning to him.  

Alex blinked before shaking his head, moving his eyes of the small gold jhumkas hooked in your ears that you had revealed when you moved your hair. You often wore them or a variation. They reminded him a bit of home. Not England, but Thailand. He'd seen similar alternates in his mother's jewellery box as a kid. They always looked nice. But when you wore those every other time you saw him, he couldn't help but admire them.  

He watched you roll your eyes, returning back to your unpacking. Even while his shower gel lingered in the air, he could still smell it. The jasmine you always brought along with you. It was a strange thing, really. It was as if the sweetness of rain stained your skin. He had never really thought about it until a few years ago when the four of you had taken an elevator for some dinner and he stood behind you. Naturally, he towered over you and God, the floral smell just wrapped around him. He had to stop himself from lowering his head and looking like an entire weirdo just smelling you.  

"Okay," you breathed, closing your bag up while you caught his attention back to reality. "I'm going to sort out the archery. I don't really care if you come but if you do... please do us all a favour and put on some clothes," you muttered, not waiting for a response as you left the cabin. You needed to get out of here. Any second longer with him half-dressed would drive your mind into a place that would be difficult to get out of. 

Soon enough you all stood (although begrudgingly in your case) in your teams on the grass while you reminded yourself standing next to Alex was fine because you were doing this for Carmen and George... trying to be civilised that is.  

You tried to listen to the staff who explained the archery set up but the lingering presence next to you made it difficult. You sighed to yourself, tilting your head to him. "So... do you have a game plan?" 

Alex tilted his head, looking down at you. "I win and you try your best?" 

You drew your eyes back to the target metres away from you, shaking your head. Why did you even bother asking? You chewed your lip as Alex stepped forward with the rest of the members along his row, picking up the bow a bit too naturally for your liking. The object of the game was effectively simple. Whichever team got the most points from the target would win.  

Truth was... you sucked at archery. You had included it in the name of camp culture and under the impression you weren't going to be in teams trying to win points. But here you were, in a place where skill actually mattered. One might’ve thought all the accuracy skills you had picked up in medical school would help you. But as you had sorely found out in a game of darts in your last year of university, that wasn't the case. And the worse part was you were entirely sober.  

You flickered your eyes to Alex who drew the bow back, keeping it close to his face while he eyed up his target. You pursed your lips. How could he be so serious about this and so stupid every other second? What was next? He was actually good at archery too? 

The wind warped around his body as he finally finished sizing up his target. He leaned his head a little back, eyes squinting with precision. His fingers curled tightly around the bow, aiming his release and letting the arrow fling into the air.  

Your mouth fell open at the arrowhead nestled into almost perfectly in the bullseye, just a few centimetres off. What in the absolute hell... 

You swallowed at the cheers and claps as Alex turned to you with a smug smirk and the unloaded bow at hand. He stretched his hand out, bow dangling towards you. You pressed your lips, awkwardly reaching for it. 

Alex furrowed his brows at the strange look on your face. Your big, wide eyes that were usually bright were slightly dull. You just looked so… out of place. "Are you okay?" 

You took a glance at him, slightly surprised at his concern. Your lips parted, brain scrambling to think of something to say. The truth... a lie... you had no idea. "Um, well, if I'm being honest. I don’t think I'm gonna help you win this one. Uh... at all. Like statistically speaking, a zero percent chance and it's significant. Like p-value below 0.01 significant." 

He looked at you a bit blankly, trying to gather any form of understanding from your words. "You don't know archery?" 

You gave him a pointed look. "I know archery. I just..." You trailed off, eyes darting around the place before you sighed in defeat. "I suck, okay? I’m horribly bad at it." 

"Oh... that's it?" 

You mended your brows together. You weren’t expecting that type of reaction. You were expecting him to make fun of you like he usually did. But the way he said it made it seem like you were having a meltdown for no reason at all. "Well, yeah," you said dumbly.  

Without saying another word, Alex's hand curled around your wrist, dragging you towards the shooting spot while kept the bow underneath his other arm. Your eyes fell to the fingers strangely searing your skin. You wanted to pull out of his grasp. But in this moment, it seemed you didn’t have any other choice. You blinked as you stood still, just a few metres away from the target now.  

"First thing, stand with one foot apart from the other. Yeah, just like that," he nodded, approving your stance. He leaned back, quickly grabbing an arrow from a nearby quiver. He gave you both the bow and arrow. "Now hold this like you usually would." 

You pulled your lip between your teeth, lining the arrow up with your bow before pulling back against the bowstring, shakily keeping your sight on the target. The colours seemed to blur. Black, blue, red, and yellow... they all looked the same at the rate you were going.  

Alex pushed down the small smile on his face. You looked cute when you were nervous. He cleared his throat, eyeing your stance. "Keep your elbow down a bit. And use your lips as an anchor." 

Your eyes darted to him, slightly. "My what?" 

"Your lips," he repeated with a loose grin. "Or do you need the scientific word for that too?" 

You grumbled under your breath, following as he said, strangely pressing your mouth slightly against your hand while you tried to look at the target. It was better. But not enough to win. You could feel Alex inch closer, merely centimetres apart from you, heat radiating from his body as he murmured to himself, warm hand lightly covering your shoulder while his other hand covered the stretch of the bow, pressing themselves against your fingers at the end.  

You fought the urge to not shiver. This is probably the closest you had ever been to this heathen. Aside from that time in the elevator. God... how were you ever supposed to hit the target now? 

His mouth dipped close to your ear, voice low, lips dangerously grazing your ear in a way that made your knees weak. "Breathe in and align yourself." 

Your stomach churned as a depraved thought flashed through your head. No. God, no. You breathed slowly in, blinking rapidly before narrowing your gaze on that centre ring. 

"And release." 

Your eyes widened as your arrow hit the outer yellow ring while you slowly drew your bow down. Holy shit... you did it. You actually did it. Your head snapped to Alex, words dying in your throat when you found his brown eyes already on you, face so close to yours. You swallowed thickly, shifting on your feet to take a step back. "I... um... thanks," you murmured.  

Alex lifted head a little, cocky grin naturally sprawling back onto his face. "You're welcome. Now don't get it twisted. I need you to win so I can win. Okay? You're lucky you even get to learn something out of this." 

You sighed quietly to yourself, giving him a small glare as you shoved the bow towards his chest, making him take a few steps back. That stupid grin of his and that cocky tone instantly sobered you up, grounding you in the reality of the years you had known him: he was one hundred percent the most annoying man you had ever known.  

After archery (where you had indeed placed first after Carmen missed endlessly and Lando found himself stuck in the black rings), you had opted to stay clear of Alex as much as you could, sticking with some of the other guests for lunch and dinner and finishing all the small things like brushing your teeth so you could go to bed before him. That being said, you were still wide awake that night, back turned away from him, still thinking about what had happened. The way he talking to you while trying to teach you archery. It was like... it was like he was talking you through it. Immediately you had blocked any further thought of it, slamming your head against your pillow like that would help you.  

Today's activity was something more... scout like. Knot tying.  

Now this... this was up your alley. While you hadn’t into girlguiding like any of your other friends growing up, you mother's sewing kit and your father's attempt to fit in by fishing had taught you a thing or too. Not to mention, if you knew how to suture, you knew how to knot.  

Alex winced at the bright sun as he walked out on the grass, drink bottle at hand. God, for Spring in England, this was quite a lot. His eyes darted around the field, looking for you, and in an instant, he found you. It wasn't ever that hard. It was more difficult not to see you. Especially when you laid on the grass, soaking in the warmth of the sun against your glowing skin. Especially when that silky hair splayed across the cuts of grass and the navy blue and white of your sleeveless kurti called to him.  

"So... do I need to teach you how to knot too?" 

Your brows furrowed at the sudden shadow casted over you. You opened your eyes, finding Alex hovering over you. You looked up at him, not noticing the way he gulped at your momentary soft gaze. "Trust me," you smirked, pulling yourself up from the grass before turning to look back at him. "I know knots," you exasperated, patting his shoulder before brushing past him, leaving your touch searing into his skin.  

You all sat in your teams, listening to the instructions. All you needed to do successfully create the right knot according to the list, get them checked off and get a point. While this one could have winners, you were sure this would only really come in handy towards the end, where all the points would truly matter.  

"Okay, this can't be a real knot," Alex exclaimed, brows tightly furrowed at the bundled rope in front of him and the picture on the nearby piece of paper. He had been trying for a few minutes now and you had done nothing to help him, simply feasting on the fruit bowl given to you.  

"I'm sure that why they call it the 'Cat's Paw,'" you dryly remarked, taking the rope from his hands. You brought the rope together, creating two big loops before twisting them around themselves three times. Alex watched as you swiftly brought the loops together and put a hook through them, giving the end a short tug.  

He blinked blankly at the sudden knot in front of him, flitting his eyes between the paper and the rope that was now being checked off. This was ludicrous! Who on earth learned this? Well, you apparently...  

He sighed, looking over to the last knot on the page worth ten points. "Bowline," he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. He furrowed his brows. That looked basically loose! How on earth was that a knot? 

"This is the most useless thing I've ever learnt. Of course you would do pick knot tying at bachelor party," he muttered, shaking his head.  

You gave him a pointed look. "It's symbolic, you idiot," you retorted, flickering your eyes to George and Carmen who were laughing and grinning together. "They're tying the knot," you said so obviously it made his skin warm. "Besides, I could tie a knot with my mouth. This is practical stuff, Alex. You'll never know when you need it." 

He tilted his head from across you, staring at you curiously. "Prove it." 

You paused, raising a brow. "What?" 

Alex leaned to the fruit bowl nearby, picking the stem off a cherry before handing it to you. "Tie a knot."  

You gave him an unimpressed look, hoping he wouldn’t encourage it such silly nonsense. But those firm brown eyes told you everything you need to know. He thought you were fibbing. "I'll do you one better," you smiled slowly, leaning over to take the stem from his fingers. "I'll make the bowline and this one at the same time." 

So Alex watched. He watched those pretty lips part open, tongue slightly darted out to show you were indeed putting the stem in your mouth. In his peripheral he could see your hands move smoothly, looping the rope in some manner that made no sense to him. His heart paced at your kept eye contact and the small smile on your mouth. He could see your tongue briefly move inside your month, doing God knows what to that cherry stem. He swallowed hard, shifting in his seat almost uncomfortably.  

His breath caught in his throat as just a minute later your mouth opened and lo and behold, rested a knotted stem on your tongue and a well tied bowline in your hands. His tongue prodded the inside of his cheek while he rested back in his chair, staring at you not with in disbelief but... something you couldn't quite place in those slightly dilated pupils.  

Aside from the usual chatting and drinking that had been taking place before and after the activities, you weren't particularly jazzed about today's event—water balloon fighting. Call it England's godawful weather or the fact that it was one of Alex's chosen activities. All you had to do was hit someone other than your teammate. And the winner was the last team standing. 

"What are you trying to do? Kill Alex?" Carmen queried with a grin as she found you sitting on one of the nearby picnic benches, watching some of the guys carry buckets and buckets of water ballons onto the field.  

You gave your best friend a dry look, finding her taking a seat next to you. "I'm in a tankini and a beach coverup," you deadpanned. "The only thing that's doing any killing is the sun and the alcohol." 

Carmen rolled her eyes. Ever the logistic you were. "Still. It's not like Alex ever sees you like this." 

"He barely ever sees me," you retorted. Statistically, you were more likely to be able to count how many times you had seen him compared to how many shifts you had taken in the hospital.  

"And yet you hate each other like your families have had generational battles against one another." 

You simply sighed, not opting to comment on it. You were never truly able to explain what you and Alex had because you didn't know quite yourself. All you knew was that he was a rude F1 driver that lived up to his profession and lacked manners. And you had gotten all of that from your first dinner. He had no qualities that gave you any reason to think differently. 

"Come on, you two!" George's voice beckoned once the final bucket of water (for the water guns, of course) had been placed. 

The both of you hopped off the bench, feeling the dry grass crinkle beneath your feet. All of you had decided that any shoes on the wet grass was a recipe to fall and slip. You pursed your lips as Carmen found George, leaving you finding your stupid teammate. Shifting on your feet, you walked around the guests, eyes darting around. Where on earth was he?  

You blinked when you stumbled into a solid figure, body turning naturally as a pair of hands fell to your waist. "Shit! I'm so sor—" The words immediately died on your tongue as Alex stood in front of you, just leaving a conversation with one of the bridesmaids. You swallowed. "Oh great... it's you," you sarcastically said, giving him a small scowl. You almost wanted to frown at the sight of his bare chest. Was once not enough? What was this torture? 

Alex blinked, feeling you move away from him, leaving his fingers bare and your skin searing. He swallowed at the sight of your floral light orange swimsuit under your thin white coverup, slim fabric cladded to your body, only giving anyone a peek of your midriff, leaving him only to think with his imagination. He quickly looked up before he got caught. Clearing his throat, he raised a brow at you, and spoke, "Ready to win?"  

Surprisingly enough, you had been pushed down to second by Lando and Max who either knew a lot about knots or Alex had simply just failed the both of you miserably. After tying that bowline and cherry stem, he had barely made any movement, stuck in his seat like he was lost in his thoughts.  

"Naturally," you quipped back, turning to look back at your competition. Namely those two drivers. You barely knew them, meeting them for the first time because of this wedding. Knowing of them perhaps was more accurate. But boy, you were going to destroy them.  

And so the chaos began. Because the moment Alex had counted everyone in, balloons were flying and water was splashing. On the grass, on the benches, on the paths... everywhere.  

You couldn't reach your rivals just yet with this many teams still playing. So you were going to have to play around a bit. Your role, as you self-proclaimed, was the shooter. And Alex, your protector. All he really needed to do was keep you and him water balloon free. 

Thirty minutes in, you had taken out three teams in total. Now your target was the wedding couple themselves. You could've sworn you could feel the ground thrum with your laughter as Carmen tried to hide herself behind George. She was sure you had it out for her ever since she had paired you with Alex. Your arm lifted slowly, fingers gently squishing into the water-filled balloon as you aimed it at your best friend.  

"Come on, ___! I'm the bride! I'm your best friend!" She exasperated, still ducking behind her fiancé's back.  

You smiled almost sympathetically, the innate instinct to win seeping through your veins. "Not today, honey." 

A shriek fell from both of your mouths as you hurled the balloon towards her, only finding George’s retaliation speeding towards you. And before you knew it, a tug on your arm pulled you close to Alex's body, leaving Carmen still getting drenched.

You blinked at the warmth of his bare skin against yours, eyes hesitantly flickering up only to find his already on you once again. Your throat dried instantly, feet shifting to pull yourself out of his grasp. "Maybe give me a little warning next time," you mumbled, giving him a small glare. You didn’t want to be this close to him. Not ever. And especially not like... this.  

Alex leaned in, narrowing his eyes on you. "A protector doesn't tell you when they protect," he retorted, casually grabbing another balloon from your hand to hurtle at George. And just like that the wedding couple was out. He turned back to you, barely out of breath. "They just do." 

You swallowed tightly, forcing yourself to move your eyes from his slightly warm gaze. You were sure he was talking about the game. But the way he said it... as though he had some other thought behind those words... it made your stomach churn, and you hated it. You sifted through the remaining guests, only two teams left, spotting Lando and Max pretty easily. Your lips parted in disbelief as they practically annihilated the other team, drowning them with an influx of water.  

"Oh God..." You breathed, flickering your eyes to the sky, praying for any support in your next venture.  

It happened all so fast. The way you both closed in on each other, eyeing each other from afar, shifting on your feet with caution, water guns and balloons equipped. A momentary stalemate. It was like slow motion. Alex had thrown some haughty remarks to his good friends, fuelling them even more. The cheers and shouts of everyone echoed around you, encouraging both parties to finally defeat one another.  

Your eyes scanned both men, trying to study their weaknesses. Call it a little too much effort for a simple 'fun' activity or perhaps the people pleaser in you but you had never really lost in anything in your entire life. And you didn't plan to start now.  

Lando and Max hadn't adopted any sort of plan like you and Alex. If anything, their plan was simple: attack.  

"You take Lando, I take Max?" You quietly queried, giving Alex a small glance. You received his curt nod, probably one of the few things you had ever both agreed on. Seconds later, you were running. Running towards your target and running from the water-filled missiles in the air, dodging them as fast as you could. 

You kept your eyes on the four-time World Champion who had soon recognised he was being marked by you. You had hurled three balloons at him, all easily dodged by him, infuriating you. You wouldn't get anywhere with his vigilance. Nor with the cackles of Alex and Lando who seemed to be enjoying themselves. So you did something you normally never did in the name of winning.  

You pulled a feint.  

Max blinked in surprise when a gasp fell from your lips and your eyes drifted to Lando, momentarily redirecting his attention from you to his friend. And before he knew it, he felt the harshness of water shooting through the air hitting his body. He stood still, frozen in disbelief. He couldn't believe it. "For fuck's sake," he grumbled, giving you a playful glare as Alex took this moment to take Lando out as well, eliciting a groan from the Brit.  

Your head leaned back a little in disbelief, body slowly turning to face Alex. You actually did it. You had won.   

"We won," he chuckled, running a hand through his wet hair, also not really believing the situation. Before he could even really think about his actions, his feet moved across the grass and his arms stretched, wrapping around you instantly while he shook you excitedly. "We're back on top!"  

You blinked, body stilling while your brain stuttered in its train of thought. You could feel the warmth of his skin pour into yours, the stickiness and dampness from wall the sweat and water bleed into your coverup. When in your entire life had you ever been this close to Alex? You couldn’t tell if your stomach churned because you liked this or you hated this. No... you had to hate this. This was wrong. This was Alex out of all people.  

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water onto you and reality had hit you hard in the face. You mended your brows, idle hands beginning to move. "Oh my God, Alex! Get off! You reek!" You grunted, pushing him off of you while you swallowed nervously and regained your ability to breathe once again.  

You maintained your small glare while he simply laughed, amused by your annoyance. And as you all slowly began the clean-up process, your eyes caught Carmen's lingering stare and the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. You gave her a disgusted look, still discreetly trying to calm your heart.  

Whatever she was thinking, whatever she was suggesting... it was nonsensical.  

Your elevated temperature and heart rate had more to do with running around with water balloons than Alex.  

Yes. That was exactly it.  

You sighed at the feeling of the overly warm water against your muscles as you joined Carmen, George and a few others in the farm's spa, opting to get as much use out of your swimwear as the sun began to sink into the horizons, turning the greys into to faint oranges where the sun chose to hide. 

This was exactly what you needed after that preposterous water balloon fight and some midday marshmallow toasting. To rest in this heat and let your muscles heal while you closed your eyes and listened to the idle conversation in the background.  

But your body seemed to become alert at the familiar British voice that had hopped into the spa minutes after you did. You could feel his eyes on you briefly, even in your dark vision. But you kept yours shut. You didn't want to look at Alex right now. Because if you did, all you would imagine was those arms around you and his voice lingering in your ears, and the heat of his skin and— 

"So, ___. Alex tells me you're a doctor." 

You peeked an eye open, honing in on the voice in front of you. It belonged to Emily, one of George’s closest friends. Another guest you weren’t acquainted with until this camp. Another fellow Desi. And she was sat right next to the person you had been avoiding.  

You smiled politely, nodding in yes to her question. "I am," you simply answered, leaning up a bit when you realised this was sparking an entire conversation rather than being a one-off comment.  

Emily's eyes narrowed slightly. "How is that? Is it everything you ever imagined?" 

"Uh..." You trailed off, a sliver of discomfort beginning to seep through you. You weren't sure what of. Because of the topic or because Alex had been the one to bring up to this... stranger. “It’s… It’s tough but rewarding,” you murmured, keeping it vague. 

You hated this conversation. You always had. You had heard many variations of it since you had gotten into medicine. From family relatives to patients on your placements. How was it? Is it difficult? You must be so smart. God, yo43 hardworking. I could never give my life away like that.  

But there was always one conversation you hated the most. 

"I'm sure your parents are proud," Emily stated, eyes studying you in a familiar way. The way a Desi did to another, judgemental and full of a jealousy that left little room for genuine happiness. You couldn't entirely blame her. That was the byproduct of any Desi household. But God, would it kill to just live life as normally as possible? 

Your jaw tightened. Because there it was. That conversation. The historic and timeless expectations embedded in that emphasis. 'Your parents' as in those Desi parents who often gave their children very little choice in what to do in life. The things they asked for wasn't your happiness. They believed it would come when your job brought your status, power and wealth. ‘Your parents’ because here you stood, yet another Desi child filling every stereotype and expectation out there. The point of comparison at every event and conversation. Just like this one  

You smiled tightly, giving her a curt nod. “I hope so,” you said almost blandly, eyes drifting to the wavering water.  

Alex's brows mended at the staunch expression on your face, not missing the way your eyes met his for a brief second, immediately darting away. In all his years of knowing you, he knew one thing very well. You never voiced any of your troubles (unless they had to do with him). But there was one thing he knew that you didn't—your eyes betrayed you. Because when they were so often filled with light, it was hard not to notice when the darkness entered.  

He could tell from the way you sat that you hated being here. In this spa. And judging Carmen's slightly concerned expression, he was right. His fingers curled as you gently mumbled some excuse to leave, watching you slowly climb out of the spa, grabbing a nearby towel. His body ached to stand up, feet tingling to just move. But he didn’t.  

What would he say?  

Did he have anything to say that you would even listen to? 

Aside from raising your cortisol levels, Alex was in no position to comfort you.  

So he sat still, swallowing as your eyes glazed over Emily who leaned way too close to him, muttering something he didn't care for. His heart clenched lightly at your gaze, corners of his lips frowning as you walked away, back to your cabin, alone. 

It was your last day in the camp. You had managed to get by yesterday by gaining some points in a tedious arts and craft session. Alex had been utterly useless and unusually quiet. George and Carmen, however, had captured many hearts with a cute little portrait of themselves. Although you were pretty sure they had gotten Alexandra's help, another one of the guests you were trying to familiarise yourself with.  

You sighed thankfully. You were happy this was coming to an end. You loved Carmen. You really did. And you had pulled through for her, even if it meant pairing up with Alex. But God, that spa had taken a toll on you. Carmen, being the ever-sweetest woman you knew, had checked up on you. You reassured her you were fine, jus under the weather from the changing temperatures. She wasn't exactly convinced but your pressing tone had told her you didn't want to talk about it anymore.  

Now... Now you had to get through this. Scavenger hunting.  

Obviously, not your idea.  

You tried to keep your frown at bay when you saw Emily walk with Alex to the meeting spot. He hadn’t come back to the cabin that night. Which only really meant one thing.  

You took a deep breath as their laughs echoed in the air. God, what were you doing here, just standing around? You couldn't understand the strange rage that arose in your chest from seeing Alex brush shoulders with the girl. Nor did you want to. It wasn't exactly jealousy. But something that made it difficult to even recognise yourself.  

You kept your hands to yourself, opting to look in any direction as Alex finally came towards you. His eyes swept over you briefly while he shifted on his feet. He pressed his lips when you made no attempt to greet him or insult him. He couldn’t decide which was worse. The tension between you two had been building ever since that night. You had become more closed off and those signs of momentary truce and peace you unknowingly had at the start of the week had begun to waver.  

"So... are you ready to win this thing?" He queried, almost wincing at how unnatural he sounded. And by your raised brow, he could tell you thought the same too.  

You folded your arms, giving him a small look of annoyance. "As long as you're actually helpful this time and not utterly useless," you huffed. 

Alex gaped at you, chest whirring at your remark. There you were. "I am not useless." 

"Says the man who sat there not knowing the difference between azure blue and admiral blue!" You retorted, shaking your head. It was a simple request. Give me the azure blue. You had even added a 'please' at the end. Alex had looked at you like you had grown two brains.  

"They look the same!" He exclaimed, raising his hands before dropping them in defeat. They did! He could pick out the audio between two tracks before differentiating those colours.  

"Even a child could tell the difference! You just have poor taste. I mean those godawful taste cufflinks..." You trailed off, shuddering like a wave of cold had fallen over you.  

"I—" He looked at you baffled, taking a step towards you. "I'm not a child! And those cufflinks were a good idea!" He muttered, keeping his voice low so George wouldn't hear. Last thing he needed was his best friend finding out about how he lost reign over cufflink choices—the best's man's right and duty.  

You rolled your eyes, purposely taking a step back from as your eyes skimmed the area around you. "Can this thing hurry up and start, or do I have continue listening to you for unwarranted minutes? This is like capital punishment!" 

Alex clenched his jaw. Only you were this good at getting under his skin. "Keep talking like that and I swear to God, I'll 'accidentally' lose you in this scavenger hunt. I'll leave you right by the river. And I promise, no one will notice you're gone." 

A half horrified and half miffed expression washed over your voice. Your fingers curled into small fists, haphazardly raising them at him while you glared. "And I swear to God, you're making me want to strangle you." 

He raised a brow, mouth stretching into a cocky grin. "Well, that's not very doctor-like of you," he retorted before adding, "Actually. It’s more kinky instead." 

Your eyes widened. Your cheeks flamed furiously. Your uncurled hands now pushed his chest away, ignoring the firm press against your fingertips. "Seriously!" You huffed, outraged and peeved. "Do you have to be so disgusting? This is a wedding event." 

"Well maybe if you just let me do my idea like I planned then you wouldn't have to listen to me so unwarranted!" 

You gasped. "You're the one who agreed to the camp! And pretty easily, might I add!" 

George stared at you the both of you from afar in disbelief. This was unbelievable. You both were right back to where you started in Monaco, arguing over nothing and getting your blood boiling. Just when he thought Carmen's idea to put you two together was working, you had proven her wrong in just a few days. He didn’t need this. Carmen didn't need this. He had tried being patient. He had tried playing by Carmen's wishes. You two had never seen eye to eye. But he wouldn't have it any longer. 

You hadn't noticed George waltzing over to the both of you. Not until he had grabbed both of your arms and pulled you aside, away from prying eyes and ears. You could instantly tell by the firm expression on his face that nothing good was going to come out of this conversation, quelling any words on the tip of your tongue. Even Alex had fell deadly silent, brown eyes looking dull.  

You could see the muscle in George's jaw twitch as he spoke. "The wedding is in less than a month!" He hissed, barking at the both of you like he was scolding his own two children. “Whatever this—" he pointed between the both of you, “—is… it’s ruining the entire atmosphere. Every decision for the past month has been made by you two arguing constantly. How long do you think it'll take before Carmen loses her patience? This wedding has already been stressful enough as it is and all you two have been doing is adding to it! If you two don't sort out your differences, God help me, I swear you will see a side of me that neither of you will like." 

A regretful frown sprawled across your face, eyes falling to the grass, heavy with weight of George's disappointment. God, you felt miserable. You were an adult. A doctor, for crying out loud! Yet his words were making you feel like you had just been caught stealing candy as a kid. You didn’t mean to make things so... bad. You had no idea you and Alex were creating such a burden on them.  

Alex's lips parted with the intention of apologising. But his best friend had walked off without giving him even a chance. He sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead before flickering his eyes to you. He cleared his throat. The silence between you two was deafening and uncomfortably thick. "I... " God, he didn't even know what to say. "Let's get the hunt over first and," he sucked in a sharp breath, "We should probably talk tonight." 

You shifted on your feet, pursing your lips before solemnly nodding in agreement. "Yeah... that sound's good." 

You and Alex sat across from each other in your cabin, both winners of a winning team. Yet neither of you could muster up a smile to represent those efforts. You rubbed your temple; legs folded on your bed as George's words repeated in your head for the umpteenth time that day. Alex gave you a fleeting glance, sharing your trouble expression.  

His brows furrowed as he thought. How the hell were you supposed to 'sort out your differences?' By having an actual conversation? By talking about why you had these differences in the first place? In this thick silence? 

Alex sighed loudly, flailing onto the mattress, tall stature hanging off the edge. "Alright. I've got nothing." 

You groaned quietly, shaking your head at his futile efforts. Did he have anything going through his brain? Or did he lose those brain cells racing? “We need to think of something. George looked like he was going to kill us or something," you mumbled, brain churning at the mere thought. You didn't particularly have any intention of dying early. Nor by the hands of your best friend's fiancé.  

He leaned up from the bed across you, lips jutting out as he pondered. 'Maybe all the wedding stress got all pent-up and he let it out on us," he shrugged like his suggestion bared any importance at all.  

You blinked at his sentence, the familiar word instantly invoking the conversation you’ve had time and time again with Carmen. Pent-up. Your cheeks instantly burned at the connotations you had both attached to it. All these years Carmen had been talking about putting what you and Alex had in a bedroom. To... as lewd as it sounded… fuck the hate out. Maybe she was right. Maybe all you needed was one night. One night to get rid of any single thought you had ever had about him.  

For the wedding, of course. 

Alex furrowed his brows at your lost expression. He waved a hand across your dazed eyes. “Hello? Are you okay? Why do you look so flushed?”

You averted your eyes to Alex, pulling your lips between your teeth. It wasn't like you were inexperienced or anything. You had your fair share of brief relationships and one-night stands (none of which your parents knew about). You could totally come out of this unscathed.  

But were you really going to suggest this? 

A louder voice in your head screamed, 'Are you really going to risk ruining your best friend's wedding?' 

You took in a deep breath, trying to calm your flaming skin but of course it didn't work. You swallowed nervously, fingers beginning to fidget with one another. "Look I'm about to suggest something... crazy. And out of pocket. And just absolutely insane. But this could really help, well, not ruin the wedding and—" 

“Oh my God, ___! Just spit it out!” He exasperated, not in the mood for your usual rambling as he normally was.  

So you did. The words came tumbling from your lips, faster than your brain could think! 

"We should hook up!" 

Alex quite literally choked on the air, the pressure momentarily crushing his lungs. His eyes fell wide, ears red, and skin hot. He rubbed his face harshly, trying to understand what universe he was currently in. Was this a dream? Had you really just said what he thought you had? "W-What?" He dumbly queried after a minute of processing your words. 

The embarrassment began to creep up your neck. "I, well, it's something that Carmen's been suggesting to me—" 

"Carmen?" He questioned, baffled.  

"—for the past few years. She says we just should, um, well, take our anger into the bedroom. That it’s just pent-up tension." 

Alex fell silent for a moment. "So... what? We fuck and save the wedding?" 

You curled your lip at his obscene wording. "No! Well, yes. But not like that. Look, maybe not exactly now. But maybe sometime next week we meet. You're staying at your parents' place for the wedding, right?" He nodded. "Okay, so maybe you can come to my apartment and well... you know." 

His mind raced as fast as his heart. He couldn’t believe this. You out of all people were suggesting spending one night with him. You, his enemy of almost six years. You who made his blood boil. You who made him take on extra Buddhist practices just so he could calm himself down. You who he occasionally found attractive from time to time.   

"So?" You queried, chewing on your lip with more nervousness than you had at your med school acceptance and your match day. Your throat tightened at the way those brown eyes fell to your lips. They looked so... hungry. And that should've terrified you instead of making your heart thrum. "W-What do you think?" 

Alex breathed in slowly, eyes not moving away from you for even a seccond. Never had he wished he could time travel into the future unlike today. Never had he wished for next week to be now. Never had he imagined he would have to count down the days where he could finally just pull you by the hand and kiss those lips that had been unknowingly taunting him for almost six years.  

His voice came out coarse like he had to swallow the sheer need in his throat. His head tipped lowly, hands clasped tightly together. "Okay," he agreed, unsure whether to smile or frown about the mess he was going to get into. "Let's do it." 

And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.

“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.

“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”

“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.

Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.

“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”

Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.

“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.

Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.

Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”

You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”

“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.

And also, probably, a terrible idea.

But then again, what did you have to lose?

“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.

“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”

Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.

You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.

And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.

“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.

“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”

You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.

Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”

You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.

No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.

“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”

You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.

Totally ethical. Totally fine.

Probably.

────────────

What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?

Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.

They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.

Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.

He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.

“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.

Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”

Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”

Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.

“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”

Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.

“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”

He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.

“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”

Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”

He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.

“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”

“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.

Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”

Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.

Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”

Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”

Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”

Lando choked on his drink.

Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.

He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.

Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.

But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.

Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”

He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”

Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”

Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”

“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.

There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.

Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”

Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”

He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”

He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.

“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.

Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.

You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.

Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.

And that? That was rare.

His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.

“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And just like that, the game was on.

────────────

With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.

Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.

Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.

You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.

And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

And nearly died on the spot.

Lando Norris.

Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.

Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

The universe had officially outdone itself.

Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:

1. Famous.

2. Attractive.

3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.

Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.

Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.

No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.

“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.

You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?

Interesting.

He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”

And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.

Oh yeah. He was the one.

So it had begun.

Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.

You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.

“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.

Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?

“Lando,” he said.

Wow.

So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.

“That’s nice, Larry.”

He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”

You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”

He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.

“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.

“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.

But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?

You could work with this.

You could definitely work with this.

As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.

“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.

But then—

“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.

You froze.

Oh.

This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”

You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.

“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.

You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.

Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.

“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.

You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”

Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”

Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.

You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”

Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”

You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”

Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.

This was it. The mission had officially begun.

────────────

DAY ONE

Dinner was at six.

You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.

Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”

You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.

Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”

“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.

Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.

The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.

And then came your moment.

The first crack. The first twist.

You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.

Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.

“So… what do you do? For work?”

You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.

“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.

You blinked. Mechanic? Really?

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”

He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”

He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?

Something didn’t add up.

But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.

Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.

“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”

Uh-oh.

You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.

So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.

“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.

You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”

You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”

You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.

But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”

You blinked.

Cute?

You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.

Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”

You blinked.

Pottery.

Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.

“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”

He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”

You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”

His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.

But mostly? It was hilarious.

You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.

“Are you, by any chance, L—”

But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.

“Are you into F1, perhaps?”

You blinked.

Excuse you?

Where had that come from?

Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?

Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.

“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”

He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.

Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.

And you were better at it.

“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.

Miracle.

Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.

“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”

You stared at him.

He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.

“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.

“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”

Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.

And somehow… he was still into it.

You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.

“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”

Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.

“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”

You blinked.

Wait. What?

No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.

“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”

He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.

And you kind of loved it.

You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—

You felt a hand close gently around your arm.

“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”

You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.

Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.

“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”

You blinked.

Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.

Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.

But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.

“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”

He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.

“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”

You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.

────────────

DAY TWO

The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.

Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.

“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.

“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”

Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”

And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.

But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”

Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”

“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.

Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.

Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”

Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”

Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.

“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”

“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”

Lando frowned. “What face?”

“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.

Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”

Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?

Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.

You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.

Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Uh, guys? Incoming.”

Lando turned.

And there you were.

Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.

“Shit.”

Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.

“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”

“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.

Too late. You were already there.

You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.

Holy. Shit.

He brought them with him?

You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.

And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.

This was it.

The article was writing itself.

You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.

“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.

For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

And then—somehow—Lando played along.

He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”

You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”

You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.

And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”

You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.

You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.

“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”

All three of them froze.

Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.

“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”

The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.

Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.

Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.

You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”

You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.

But instead—he laughed.

A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.

“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.

And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.

You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.

You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.

Then you glanced over your shoulder.

And froze.

A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.

And right next to them?

The Powerpuff Girls.

Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.

Of course.

Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.

You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.

You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.

“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”

He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.

“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”

You stared at him.

Right. And you were the Queen of England.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.

Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.

You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.

“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”

Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.

“Uh… yeah… sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “That’s… exactly what’s happening.”

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”

That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”

You froze.

Adorable?

Seriously?

You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”

He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”

You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.

Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.

Perfect.

Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.

────────────

DAY THREE

“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.

On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”

“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.

“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”

Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”

Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”

You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”

But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”

Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”

You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

That was not the point.

That was exactly the opposite of the point.

“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”

“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”

Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”

You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”

Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”

You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”

Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—

“Y/n.”

You froze mid-breath.

Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.

Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.

The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.

“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.

Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:

“Y/N! COME DOWN!”

Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.

And there he was.

Lando Norris.

Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.

You stared.

He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.

You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.

“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.

Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”

You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”

She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”

You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.

“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”

And then you froze.

Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.

But no. Of course not.

Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.

“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”

You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”

He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”

You stared at him.

Well, of course you agreed.

This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.

The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.

Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.

You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.

Marriage.

Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.

You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.

“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”

You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.

He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.

But then—he grinned.

“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”

You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Perfect?

This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.

You stared at him, completely thrown.

This man was not playing fair.

You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.

“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”

Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”

Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”

You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—

He snorted.

The man snorted.

Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”

You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Two pairs?

Oh my god.

Was he… enjoying this?

This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.

You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.

You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.

“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”

Mrs. Norris.

You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”

Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.

But no.

He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”

You choked. “Warm lighting?!”

He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.

You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.

This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.

────────────

DAY FOUR

Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.

You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.

And that? That was dangerously hot.

You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.

Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.

But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.

You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”

“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.

You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.

“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”

Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”

You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.

“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”

You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.

“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.

He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”

Oh.

Oh, perfect.

A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.

The ultimate ick delivery system.

Your plan?

Back on track.

And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.

“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”

Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.

Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.

Exactly what you needed.

“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”

Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”

You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.

The old ladies gasped in unison.

A child nearby giggled, delighted.

And Lando?

Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.

“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.

Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.

“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”

“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.

You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”

“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”

There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

But Lando?

He didn’t even blink.

He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”

“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.

“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.

But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.

“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”

Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?

Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?

Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.

Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

And your plan?

Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.

────────────

DAY FIVE

The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”

You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.

“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”

Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”

You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.

The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”

Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”

“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”

You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.

And the therapist?

She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.

Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”

You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.

“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”

The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”

You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”

Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”

You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”

Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”

“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”

Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”

“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”

The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”

Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”

“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”

The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.

Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”

The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”

You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”

Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”

“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.

The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—

But Lando beat you to it.

“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.

And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.

You didn’t know what to say.

The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.

“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”

Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”

You nearly slipped off the damn chair.

The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.

“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”

You stared at him.

Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.

The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.

“And… how long have you two been dating?”

You opened your mouth.

Lando opened his at the exact same time.

“Five days—” you said.

“Three months—” he said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.

You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”

Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.

The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Beautiful?

Beautiful?!

What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?

Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.

And if it wasn’t…

You were in so much trouble.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol.

Lando had been the one to come up with the idea. He’d realized he spent more time away from his apartment than living in it—and he didn’t quite like the idea of strangers looking after his place and personal belongings while he was away. He’d also been insisting for years already that you should move to Monaco, to which you always replied that you weren’t exactly in the correct tax bracket to do that. You intended it as an off-hand comment when you mentioned your job was becoming more of an online situation, when you mentioned you would be able to visit more often.

Really, it was a joke when Lando said it. You’d both gone out to some fancy restaurant after Max had ditched the two of you last minute. He’d been sipping his drink when he teased, “Maybe it’s finally time you move here—you could move in with me.”

You’d laughed it off, but by the time Lando had set down his drink, paper umbrella poking his cheek, there was a more determined set of his brows—and he wasn’t laughing anymore.

You don’t know how he managed to convince you. Though, really, it’s Lando—and Max likes to tease that you always fold for him. Which you deny. Obviously.

It’s since been six months since the two of you started living together. He keeps the rent very cheap for you—even though he insisted you didn’t have to pay for it—and you keep his apartment well-taken care of while he’s off being famous. For a while it felt more like you were house-sitting rather than being his roommate, with triple headers and flights to MTC becoming more and more noticeable. Still, you’ve noticed he’s found more time to come back to Monaco. You know that only because Max pointedly mentioned during a stream that he didn’t used to spend as much time in Monaco as he has this season.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’ve missed my bed,” Lando retorted, but you knew he was doing it for your benefit. Probably because some misplaced guilt was catching up to him in leaving you alone in a home that still doesn’t quite feel like your own.

Either way, living with Lando is… surprisingly nice. He was cautious the first few days of him being back. Constantly checking on you, asking “is this okay with you?” more often than not. But by the fourth day, you could see his shoulders relax, his posture ease, as if he suddenly remembered that it’s just you. From then, it doesn’t take him long to start streaming late at night with shouts that make you want to put your head through the wall.

“Are your neighbors complaining?” Ginge asks through Lando’s headset. “They must loathe you. Y’should install a soundproof booth, Lando.”

“What? No, my neighbors don’t—SHIT!” His yelling is promptly followed by a loud banging against the wall besides him. He winces. “Sorry!”

“Oh, someone’s angry at you.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna kill me,” Lando replies distractedly, ducking to lower the master volume of his headphones. He calls out an apology followed by your name. It’s late, and you’re working tomorrow—and he rather appreciates not being maimed and killed in a fit of sleepless rage.

“She’s visiting?” Ginge asks, and Lando huffs as he finally fixes his settings.

“What?” He scrunches his nose. “No you muppet, she lives with me.”

Lando doesn’t realize the impact those seven words have until much later.

Next morning, when you’re sitting on the kitchen island with your laptop propped open and your breakfast served beside you, you hear a muffled phone call from Lando’s room—something you can’t quite make out. Either way, it’s not a moment later that Lando is standing across the table from you, shirtless, with a half-panicked half-pleading expression on his face.

“Please don’t be mad.”

Your eyes slowly shift away from your screen and towards him. “What did you do?”

“You have to promise not to be mad at me. ‘Cause it was an accident, and I didn’t mean—I didn’t realize—”

“Lando,” you enunciate slowly. “What did you do?”

He winces, looking borderline constipated. He tilts his phone screen towards you, where you find texts from Max accompanied by a screenshot of the trending tab on Twitter.

You arch a brow. “I thought you didn’t use Twitter.”

“I don’t, I just—” he inhales deeply, exhales. “Just read it.”

You squint, and your brow furrows as you read the trending topics.

“You have a girlfriend?” you ask, turning back to your laptop. “How come you didn’t tell me? Do I know her?”

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You raise your brows. “Oh my god, babe, really? This is so soon though! So unexpected!”

Lando doesn’t even look slightly amused. “You’re not funny.”

You can see his frown deepen when your lips curve with a bemused tilt. “So, why does Twitter think I’m your girlfriend?”

Lando closes his eyes, scratching his neck. “…I might’ve mentioned that we’re living together.” He quickly scrambles to continue, “I-I didn’t realize what that would look like until the head of my PR team and Max left me, like, a hundred messages. I’m—genuinely, I didn’t mean to pull you into this.”

You stare at him for a beat. He looks fidgety. As if there’s something else he wants to say, but hasn’t quite figured how. You click your tongue, closing your laptop. “Spit it out, Lan.”

He perks up at that, caught off guard. Now that you’re staring at him more pointedly, you realize he does look a little out of it. Guilty, maybe.

“Lando.”

He tugs at his curls a little too harshly. “My management saw it.”

You furrow your brows. “Okay. Are they, like, mad? Can’t you just tell them it was a misunderstanding?”

Lando finally takes a seat, and despite his bedhead and his lack of a shirt, you can’t help but feel he’s getting serious.

“I need a favor.”

And those words shouldn’t sound too bad—except he looks nervous. You’ve seen Lando nervous before, it comes with the territory of being in his close circle. But it’s been a long while since he’s acted like this when it’s just you.

“…I don't think I like where this is going,” you say carefully.

“Just—hear me out.” He runs a hand through his face, this weird, jittery energy emanating from him in waves. “My team has been on my ass for a while to set me up with some PR girlfriend.”

You snort. “And they say romance is dead.”

He shoots you a look. “Be serious.”

You’re deflecting—Lando can tell. But you can’t stop yourself—it’s a nervous habit. “Have you tried dating apps? I thought your sort used… what’s it called? Raya?” You squint at him. “And since when do you need your management to score you a date?”

“I don’t,” he says defensively. “And it’d be a PR relationship—it’s not a real thing. It’s just to, y’know, create a better public image. It’s a press thing. Tons of celebrities do it.”

“Do other drivers do it?” Lando pauses at that, and your eyebrows shoot up as you inch forward. “Oh my god. Oh my god, who? Do I know them? Have I met them?”

“I feel like you’re missing the point of this conversation.”

“Yeah, only ‘cause you’re dancing around the subject.” You straighten, and Lando mimics the action. “Just say what you wanna say, Lan.”

“My team thinks we’re dating,” he finally manages.

“Yeah, I figured.”

He shifts on his seat to inch closer to you, gesturing with his hands. “Yeah, but they’re happy about it—they say it’s a good thing, for my image or whatever.”

You pause. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, avoiding looking you in the eye. Oh, surely… “So you told them it was a misunderstanding.”

He scrunches his nose as he turns his head up to the ceiling, avoiding your gaze.

Your eyes widen. “Lando!”

“I really need your help in this,” he pleads. “It’d be, like, a small favor! And I’ll pay it back somehow, I promise. Whatever you want.”

“Small favor?”

“It would just be for a few months—just so I can get them off my back about this.”

You blink at him in utter disbelief. It takes you a moment to find the words to answer. He just sits across from you, looking at you pleadingly. “…So what?” you start slowly. “You’re asking me to be your pretend girlfriend?”

Lando tries to smile, but you can see the uneasy anxiety brewing behind it. It’s an important season for him—and if he wants his voice to have weight, he first needs to satisfy his team’s demands. Give in order to get. Even if they are as ridiculous as getting someone to go out with.

“You’d be the prettiest pretend girlfriend,” Lando tries. He inches forward again, stray curls sticking at odd angles. “Please? I love you.” Then, as a last ditch effort, “…There’s no one I’d rather be fake dating than you?”

You don’t appreciate the butterflies that flutter in your stomach. At all. “I need to think about this.”

“Okay, yeah, cool, no problem.” He’s already nodding a little too eagerly, as if you’ve agreed instead of saying you’ll consider it. Lando rushes around the table to press a kiss into the crown of your head. Warmth shoots in your belly as you watch him head back into his room. “Thank you!” he calls out.

“I haven’t said yes yet,” you shout back.

The smile you hear in Lando’s voice goes directly against his words when he calls back: “I know!”

Max was right. You hate that Max was right.

So, you caved. Big surprise there. It’s Lando, after all. He’s your friend, and you’ll always wanna help him in any way you can. Plus, you two already live under the same roof. Just how hard can pretend dating be?

The only person you’ve told—that you both agreed you could tell—was Max. And the moment you did, he responded with a two minute audio of him laughing himself into tears.

Needless to say, it’s not the encouragement you needed.

Now you’re both sitting in the living room across from each other. The two of you are still in pajamas, the golden Monaco sun filtering through the open curtains of your shared flat. 

“If we do this, we need to set some ground rules,” you finally say.

“Rules?” he repeats, slowly. “For dating?”

“Pretend dating,” you correct.

Lando tilts his head at you, green eyes watching you for a second. A glint you can’t quite place dances in his gaze for a beat. Finally, he straightens from his reclined position on the couch. “Alright, bug,” he says, with all the formality of someone who hasn’t showered yet. “What are your rules?”

You set your phone on the table, opening your notes app to see the guidelines you’d scribbled out nearing three am last night.

“One.” You hold up your index finger. “You’re dating me for the next four months. I don’t wanna see you or find out you’re flirting or making out or hooking up with other people. If I’m gonna be in the public eye, I don’t wanna be thrown into some scandal.” You narrow your eyes and watch as he raises a brow. “If you get exposed for it I will be calling you a cheater on Twitter.”

Lando gasps dramatically. “Already preparing for the worst case scenario? On our first day of pretend dating?” He makes an over exaggerated motion, pressing his hands against his chest. “My pretend feelings are so hurt.” You arch a brow, to which he nods his head half-heartedly. “Fine, point taken. And it’s seven months.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Deal. Number two.” You pause, embarrassment tinging your cheeks. The words feel like molasses in your throat. Viscous, sticky. Hard to get out. You awkwardly shift on your spot on the rug, finally looking at Lando. “No kissing.”

“What?” Lando makes a face, squinting at you. “But we’re dating. How’s anyone gonna buy that if we never kiss?”

You tilt your head. “You’re sounding a little eager there, Lan. Anything you wanna share?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But can I at least kiss you on the cheek when we’re in public?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Italians do it all the time. And it’s not like we’re not already doing that.”

Heat licks at your face with that last comment. He says it so casually—which, yeah, you suppose it is normal for the two of you. But hearing Lando saying it like that. Like it should be a compromise in a situation like this, but not for the two of you.

Still, you consider it. “Okay. Yeah, cheek kisses are fine.”

Lando nods. “Okay then. Three.” He notices the look you’re giving him and makes a face. “What? I can’t set rules of my own?”

You roll your eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Three,” he continues. He turns his three fingers around to face you. “You go to at least three races with me.”

You hum. “Three is a lot.”

“Not in six months,” Lando says. “They can be like… mini vacations. All expenses paid for.”

“Already trying to prove you can be a decent boyfriend?” you tease, making him roll his eyes again with a smile. “Okay. But I get to choose which races.”

“Deal.” He clicks his tongue. “But Monaco doesn’t count.”

You part your lips to complain. “What? Why not?”

“‘Cause I want you to travel with me,” Lando says in a sickeningly sweet voice as he leans closer to you. You shove his face away. “Oh! And dates.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He toys with his thumb as he looks at you. And if you squint, you’d swear he looks borderline embarrassed—that he’s trying to hide it. “Dates. We need to be seen in public. Y’know. Together.”

You hadn’t thought about that. You just figured you would make appearances in his streams, post a picture or two. It makes sense, though. “You’re paying for those.”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“And flowers,” you add. Lando tilts his head at you curiously. Maybe it’d feel more embarrassing to say this if it were anyone but Lando. You raise your chin. “I wanna get flowers. Not generic ones, though.”

Lando nods slowly, almost confused. “Okay, sure.”

You blink. “That easy?”

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s not hard.” He shrugs, unlocking his phone and opening his notes app. He types something before his eyes peer at you. “You like tulips, right?”

“Um, yeah.” You straighten, surprise catching on your voice. “Yeah, tulips work.”

Lando nods. “Okay then. So, just to recap: six months, no kissing, three races—not including Monaco—public dates, aaand tulips.”

You run through your mental list and nod in agreement.

Lando grins impishly. “Okay, then. Are you ready to be my girlfriend?” He leans closer to you, as if telling you a secret. His voice drops. “Remember though: you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

You scoff with a smile. “Please. I’ve done your laundry before. It can’t be that hard.”

Your first date with Lando is at a place that is nice, fancy. Fancier than any date has ever brought you on—and living in Monaco, that’s saying something. Even then, you know Lando hasn’t gone all out. You know, because you explicitly asked him not to. The last thing you need is to stress over which fork you’re supposed to use for a salad. Still—the restaurant is more posh than you’re used to.

Warm lights illuminate the terrace, appetizers already set in front of you on your plates. For a moment you wondered whether you should’ve ordered something to share, but you are not willing to compromise on fish because of Lando.

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve gone out to eat together. You’ve gone out with Max, or Ria, or Martin—or just the two of you.

Even so, it’s easy to forget you’re here under false pretenses.

It’s hard, putting it into words—but it feels like you’re more aware this time. Unlike other times, today you did your makeup with more attention to detail. Spent more time fixing your hair—even longer choosing a paparazzi-ready outfit. Your nerves still simmer in your gut since Lando told you his team had tipped off a few photographers about the place of your date. It makes you wonder, how often casual pictures in casual settings are staged.

Still. Despite the hours of mental and physical preparation, the fancy restaurant and the pep talk you gave yourself in the bathroom—the moment you sit across from Lando, it becomes easy to forget. Maybe too easy.

When you look up from your plate, you find that Lando is already looking at you.

“What?” you ask. He’s wearing that white shirt of his with the first two buttons undone, his curls as unruly as ever. You lick your lips, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh my god, please tell me I don’t have anything on my face.”

Lando blinks. “No, no, you’re fine,” he says, quickly. “Really. You just… you look pretty.”

Warmth shoots across your stomach. You shake your head. You think you hear yourself scoffing. “Already flirting, huh?” you say amusedly, shaking your head as you reach for another forkful of your plate. “You’re quick.”

Lando winks, and you roll your eyes with a smile.

As dinner goes on, you can feel yourself falling into that familiar rhythm. It’s Lando, after all—and it’s always been natural for you to feel at ease around him. And by the time the two of you have ordered desserts, you forget about the fancy restaurant, or the fake-dating thing—and, for a moment, it’s just you and Lando. Not performing some convoluted plan, but just you. Friends. Easy.

You find you like it better when it’s just that. You and Lando.

You listen attentively as he talks, explaining with his hands. The terrace feels noisier now, so you lean closer to hear him. At some point, Lando reaches for your hand, and your heart does a weird thing in your chest. He’s still smiling while he’s talking, but you’re unfocused. His fingers are warm as he caresses your palm. Honey spills inside of you, warm and sweet, casting the night in liquid gold.

Lando smiles softly, tenderly, and your heart jumps. “Okay, that’s good,” he says.

“Hm?” you hum, sounding distracted, maybe even a little dazed.

Lando tilts his head somewhere to the side, and you follow his gaze. Off by the street, a man is packing up his camera.

Oh. Right. 

“Really good job.” Lando smiles, offering an encouraging thumbs up. You nod in return with a smile that doesn’t feel as genuine. He lets go of your hand, and you don’t let yourself linger on how you miss the weight of it against yours.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for your glass of wine. “Thanks.”

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE ...... NEW WAG ALERT? McLaren Driver Lando Norris & mystery woman spotted dining at Cipriani Monte Carlo, a local restaurant in Monaco 📸 monaco_celebs

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📌 user1 not to be that person but i’m like 90% sure its lando’s friend from those older quadrant videos!!! ♥️ liked by author

user2 okay and this comes out DAYS after lando reveals they’re living together???? this is not a soft launch this is hitting us with a BRICK

user3 WHAT 😃😁

user4 i hope that if it is yourusername then it means we get to see her again in quadrant videos :(

user5 OH MY GOD??

user6 so no one can have a private moment anymore is what i’m hearing

user7 okay but they’re totally kissing right??

user8 i mean the angle is kinda funky so it’s hard to say?

user9 idk it looks like they’re just talking tbh

user10 THEY’RE TOTALLY KISSING

user11 AGREED!!! you are never catching me talking THAT close to other people 😦😵‍💫

liked by maxfewtrell, lando and 101,871 others

yourusername he got me tulips 💐

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user12 HELLO?????? i thought this was a prank 😭

user13 if it is… they’re really committing to the bit

user14 lando liking this post after being photographed with a “mystery woman”? stop this madness

maxfewtrell orange tulips huh 😐

lando don’t be jealous

yourusername yeah it’s unbecoming max

user15 oh hello hard launch

user16 welp there go my delusions of ever having a chance with lando norris

user17 might we call those…….. papaya tulips

user18 yes

maxfewtrell don’t even start

The picture the paparazzi took of you has been haunting you more than it should.

As soon as you left the restaurant, food sitting oddly in your stomach, it was already making rounds on social media. Each time you open Instagram, you find that you’ve been tagged in yet another upload of it.

It looks like you’re kissing him. Which you’re not, by the way—something you had to explain to Max over text. It was a really loud place! Really, maybe they should invest in less open concepts instead of wasting all their high-end budget in a bajillion differently-sized forks.

Point is, it’s a compromising picture making rounds on gossip pages. It should be a good thing. And yet, it makes you feel… odd. A strange weight on your gut.

It only hits you a little after the date. After the two of you arrived back at the apartment, kicking off expensive shoes and tucking your to-go bag that definitely was not restaurant-certified into the fridge. You bid Lando goodnight and close your door behind you.

Then it hits you. Within the confines of your room, just a wall away from Lando’s. An odd tingle on your skin. A long-dormant flutter in your stomach.

So, here’s a small bit of totally irrelevant information you neglected to mention to Max.

You used to have a crush on Lando. Used to. Past tense. Long forgotten. A thing of the past tucked alongside childhood embarrassments and picture day mishaps.

And, really, could anyone blame you? It’s hardly your fault that you blinked one day and little Lando Norris—Lando who used to be five inches shorter than you—suddenly decided to have a growth spurt.

( “Would you look at that! Looks like I’m taller than you now,” he’d say with that squeaky voice of his, grinning. You squinted at him, noticing it but refusing to acknowledge it. The giveaway should’ve been his trousers—which were significantly shorter on him than they should’ve been.

Summer break had certainly been kind to Lando. And while his voice was still high-pitched and cracking at the edges, not even you could deny noticing the inches he had on you. Or the more golden color of his skin. The sharper lines of his jaw.

Your throat felt tighter, your face warm. You batted his hand away regardless. “You’re wearing sneakers. It doesn’t count.”

But Lando wasn’t listening anymore. He tilted his head at you with a smug look on his face.

“What?”

“You look better from up here.” He poked your cheek with his finger, smiling pleasantly behind his fringe. “Like a cute little bug.” )

Your body slumps against your mattress. Your make-up suddenly feels like too much, your skin crawling. Staring up at the ceiling, your stomach still flutters with that feeling that you refuse to acknowledge.

You can’t possibly be that easy. What, all it takes is a somewhat decent date—a very decent, very fake date—and suddenly you’re back in high school again?

This isn’t happening. You refuse to let it happen.

Your keys jingle in your hand, bedroom door closing behind you. Days are warmer in Monaco—early morning breeze, sunlight stretching across streets and shop awnings. There’s something particularly refreshing about waking up to ocean air in the summer. If anything, it’s one of the many things you love about Monaco.

You open the door of your flat, as quiet as you can manage. Before you can step out, however, you’re met with a roadblock.

“Morning,” Lando greets from the hallway, face sweaty as he pulls out his airpods. 

“Hi,” you say, dumbly. A part of you had hoped Lando would’ve stuck to his summer break schedule—waking up late, going around the city in the afternoon. You should’ve known he’d go for morning runs this time of the season.

He gives you a pearly-white smile—similar to those in magazines and ads, except the real thing is more crooked, wider at the corners. He side-steps you, and for a moment, you think you’re in the clear. Before you can make a break for it, though, he asks: “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just the mall,” you say casually. 

“Cool,” Lando says, picking up one of the snacks left by his trainer. He’s halfway through chewing his protein bar when he adds, “Can I come with? I need to buy another pair of trainers.”

And because you’re weak—so, so weak—all it takes is a glance at Lando for your resolve to crumble. Despite your best interests, you find yourself smiling. “Yeah, sure.” Lando straightens off the counter. “Just… shower first. You stink.”

He grins. And with his sweaty running gear and sweaty face, he still leans closer to you and presses a kiss to your temple. “I’ll be quick!” he calls out, already halfway into the bathroom.

You wipe your face off, making a sound of disgust. “Lando!”

You can hear his laugh even as he closes the door.

You open the curtain in front of you, walking across the fitting room to nitpick your reflection in a large mirror. Lando lounges on one of the small seats provided for the boyfriends, brothers and husbands that seemed to have all gotten dragged into shopping for women’s clothes. He scrolls on his phone, sinking into his own Quadrant hoodie.

“How’d it go?” he asks absentmindedly.

You tilt your head at your own reflection. Sundresses are tricky—but somehow, after spending the better part of the morning searching for one, you think this is finally it. The material is soft to the touch. It’s not uncomfortably short nor impractically long. It really is beautiful, with blue and white floral details that remind you of those porcelain botanical patterns. 

“I think I like it,” you say, turning to see how the skirt fits around your waist. You tilt your head at Lando through the mirror. “What do you think?”

Lando raises his head, meeting your gaze through the reflection. He stops, just a beat, barely a second, before straightening in his seat. “You look—um,” his voice cracks. Lando clears his throat, offering an encouraging smile. “It looks great. I like it.” 

You arch a brow, unimpressed. The guy sitting next to him masks a laugh as a cough.

“What?” Lando asks, voice rising an octave. “What’d I say?”

“I need actual, genuine encouragement here, Lan.” 

His face twists, brows creasing into a confused bordering on offended look. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, always just a smidge theatric. “That I think you’d look better with nothing on?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Lando!”

“What?” he repeats, voice pitching another octave higher. His cheeks turn noticeably pink. 

Your face is warm as you walk past the pointed glances thrown your way. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head and closing the curtains behind you. Much to your surprise though, it’s only once you’re alone in the fitting room again that you realize you’re smiling.

Up until you see the tag.

There are many things you love about living in the principality. The prices, though… they’re certainly not one of them.

“Ah,” you say quietly. You bite into your bottom lip with regret. You get paid every fifteen, meaning you’re still a few days out to have the money to spend on it.

Damn it. You can hear your friends’ voices telling you to pay it with your credit card, but you’ve never been keen on spending money you don’t have yet. What if you have an emergency? What if you break a leg? You already depend on Lando for rent—you can’t depend on him for everything.

You don’t like that, the idea of asking Lando for it. It feels wrong. Because he’d say yes—of course he’d say yes. It feels like taking advantage of him, especially when you’ve seen it happen in the past. People using him for fame, money, access.

You never want to be that person to him.

It’s easier than you thought, putting the dress on the hanger and making the decision. It’s just a dress. You can live without a dress.

You open the curtain as you’re still pulling your thin sweater over your head, fixing the sleeves around your arms. Lando looks up from his phone, giving you a lopsided smile. There’s still a lingering pink flush on the apples of his cheeks. 

“You ready?” he asks, already standing up.

“Yeah.” You nod, but as Lando walks you to the register, you leave the sundress where you found it. 

He does a double-take, nearly tripping over himself in the process. “Wait, I thought you liked it,” he protests, tone nearing concern. “I was just teasing before, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not that, it just…” You reach to scratch the back of your ear. “It wasn’t really worth it. Itchy,” you say, trying to go for nonchalant.

From the way Lando lingers, even as you’re heading towards the entrance of the store, you know he doesn’t buy it. You can hear him catching up to you.

“But—”

“C’mon.” Unthinking, you reach for his wrist, tugging him forward. Whatever comment he was going to make dies in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “We still have to find those trainers you wanted.”

He follows you without protest.

You’re starting to get used to the butterflies. They settle occasionally—other times you have to crush them down. Even if you were to pluck their wings one by one, you’re certain you would still feel them fluttering about in your stomach.

You’re getting used to them. To the feeling that comes with the prolonged touches. The fleeting glances. The way Lando seems to linger close, always either with his palm guiding you at the small of your back or interlacing your fingers with his. It’s a rhythm that is all-too easy to fall into.

Getting used to the butterflies doesn’t make any of it easier, though.

You’ve committed to your agreement, though. Saying you’re grateful for the invasiveness of gossip media and tabloid magazines would be going a step too far. Still, you’re surprised that planting seeds of your fake-relationship has been easier than you would’ve expected. Going out for a few intentionally public dates, some well-timed paparazzi pictures leaking to the press. Everything that’s been manufactured and orchestrated with detail has been like a feast for F1 rumor sites. There’s blurry pictures of you ordering at a boulangerie holding hands, a few soft-launches in each other’s Instagrams. 

There are other pictures, though. Pictures that weren’t planned. An impromptu walk down the piers of Monaco, where neither of you had been wanting to pretend anything. A few clips resurfacing of you and Lando in the Quadrant channel. Glances from you that lingered a beat too long. Smiles that were too wide. Shoves and jabs that bordered on something other than friendship. 

When you’re locked in your room at night, scrolling down Twitter threads and Tiktok comments, the butterflies in your stomach feel more like scorpions. 

You can hear Lando giggling and shouting through the walls of his room. He’s live on Twitch—right on schedule as you agreed. It’s been a bit under an hour, playing with Max and a few other people you’re not as familiar with.

You knock on his door. It creaks as you open it just slightly.

“Yeah?” he calls. 

The room is dark, save for a few purple ambient lights. You don’t think you’re in the frame of his camera—not yet, anyway. 

“Lan?” you say, the hesitation and inexplicable shyness in your voice genuine. It’s nervewracking, knowing that this is the first time you don’t really get any do-overs. That thousands of people are watching Lando’s livestream. “Are you still live?”

Even from the doorway, you can see his second monitor speeding through a sudden flood of comments. Lando turns on his seat, pulling down his headphones. 

“Hi,” he says, the traces of a grin still lingering at the corners of his lips. It softens, though. Less wide, more private—something kinder. 

“Hi,” you repeat, fighting off a smile. “I can come back later.”

Lando shakes his head, leaning back against his chair. “No, it’s okay,” he says. Finally, he glances back at his screen, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he considers it. “You can come say hi, if you want.”

You pause at that. Hesitate. You were just supposed to barely appear in frame. Confirm what’s been obvious to most fans since you started with your little agreement. Then again, it’s not like you haven’t shown up in his streams a handful of times in the past.

It feels… different now. For good reason. 

You walk into frame, feeling Lando’s gaze following you as you rest your arms against the backrest of his chair. The violet and orange lights are low, but recognition is evident from chatters. They know who you are—they know what this means.

“Hi chat,” you hum quietly. It almost feels like a challenge, asking you to come close. It makes you bolder. 

You can’t be sure where the burst of confidence comes from. Your body moves of its own accord, not allowing you a moment to overthink it. One of your hands reaching down and resting loosely around his neck. Lando freezes for just a split second, caught off-guard, before he nuzzles his nose into your arm. Ticklish. 

It feels too soft, too domestic. Bordering dangerously on something you won’t be able to come back from. Still, you can’t help yourself when you murmur into his hair, “Food’s here.”

Lando nods a moment too late, like the words wade through honey before they reach him. He hums in response, stretches a bit, leaning into your touch. “Mhm.” He looks up at you and for a second—just a second—you catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. Something too warm, too tender. It’s gone before you can really place it, overshadowed by a toothy smile. “I’ll be right there,” he says lightly.

You nod, moving to pull away. His hand tightens around yours just briefly—a casual goodbye, probably. 

You don’t know what compels you to do it. Unthinkingly, you lean into him from the back of his chair, pressing a kiss into the crown of his head. Lando doesn’t freeze this time. If anything, it’s almost like he leans into you. 

It feels a little like revenge, pulling away then. A part of you wants to believe Lando’s not that good of an actor. But the issue is that he is—it’s part of his job, lying. Looking into the barrel of a camera and smiling and pretending like he doesn’t want to cuss out some journalist and tell them all to fuck off. And while the boy you grew up with has always worn his heart on his sleeve, you’re also well-aware of the consequences that has in his line of work.

“Don’t stay until too late.”

By the time Lando walks out of his sim room, takeout is already on the kitchen island, waiting. The smell of Chinese food is enough to make your stomach growl, a handful of spring rolls already missing from the box.

“So? How’d I do?”

Lando’s hair is mussed, his blinks owlish. “Huh?” he asks dazedly. “Oh, um, yeah. You did great. Really convincing.” His voice feels odd, distracted. 

Lando grabs one of the kitchen stools, dragging it to sit in front of you. “Max texted me,” you say. 

He perks up at that. “What’d he say?”

The corner of your mouth quirks upward as you unlock your phone to show him. “That you’re down horrendously bad. I think it’s his way of saying we really sold it.”

You look up when he doesn’t respond, only to find Lando staring down at the screen with blushing cheeks. It spreads up into the tips of his ears as he scoffs.

“What a fuckin’ prick,” Lando says under his breath. “Don’t listen to a word he says,” he mutters.

The teasing smile on your lips dims at that. Something inside your chest splinters. A fracture line that widens by a fraction. You quietly take back your phone, picking at your lemon chicken. You went too far. When you swallow, it feels like pebbles are lodged against your throat.

you [ 2:01 AM ] : hi so

you [ 2:01 AM ] : this was a bad idea

max f 🐼 [ 2:07 AM ] : Yeah no shit

you [ 2:07 AM ] : stop it stop it stop

you [ 2:07 AM ] : i’m being so serious

you [ 2:08 AM ] : what do i do?????? i think i ruined it. like everything

max f 🐼 [ 2:08 AM ] : Are you gonna listen to me? Coz lately it feels like I’m giving advice to people that just do the exact opposite of what I tell them to

you [ 2:09 AM ] : MAX

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i just

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think i went too far

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think he hates me now

max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : What????

max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : Mate there’s no world in which he hates you

you [ 2:11 AM ] : be serious

max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : I AM being serious

max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : Stop typing rn I can see the little text bubble just listen to me for a sec

max f 🐼 [ 2:12 AM ] : He doesn’t hate you. You just think he does cause you’ve probably spent the night locked in your room staring at your ceiling

you [ 2:13 AM ] : i am being vulnerable here can you not mock me for a minute

max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : IM LITERALLY NOT

max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : What I’m trying to get at is that nothing good happens after 2 am.

max f 🐼 [ 2:14 AM ] : Just sleep it off mate I promise you’ll wake up feeling better

you [ 2:14 AM ] : did you just quote how i met your mother to me

max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : It’s a great show and it’s great advice??????

max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : I feel like you’re missing the point

you [ 2:16 AM ] : what even is your point

max f 🐼 [ 2:16 AM ] : That you’re getting stuck inside your head

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Why do you think that is?

you [ 2:17 AM ] : it’s just something dumb he said

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Lando’s always saying something dumb

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : You’re just too busy staring at his face to notice it most of the time

you [ 2:18 AM ] : MAX

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : WHAT

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : If he said something hurtful I can talk to him

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : Knock some sense into that big head

you [ 2:18 AM ] : it’s okay you don’t need to do that

max f 🐼 [ 2:19 AM ] : I’d like to though

you [ 2:19 AM ] : i think i’ll take what you said before and try to get some sleep before this spirals out of hand

you [ 2:19 AM ] : thank you max <3

max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : You know what could also work

you [ 2:20 AM ] : what

max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : Telling him how you feel about his big dumb face

you [ 2:20 AM ] : i would rather die :)

The flat is unusually quiet in the week leading up to the Monaco Grand Prix. You’ve grown accustomed to the silence whenever Lando is off racing across different countries in the calendar. It’s different then, though. His laughter is still tucked like a secret into the corners of the room, exhausted voice notes in your phone lingering in the quiet once his day is over. It’s never this quiet when he’s around.

It becomes an unspoken thing amongst the two of you. A pause. An interlude between the moment that got too real and the day you’re going to be holding hands, walking side-by-side in front of reporters and photographers in the paddock.

Even if the distance wasn’t noticeable, even if it wasn’t tugging at your heartstrings more than you’d like to admit, you’ve got other things to worry about.

The Monaco Grand Prix, for example. The crown jewel of Formula 1—the legendary, glamorous, historical track. And the dreaded realization you don’t know what the hell to wear for it.

It creeps up on you suddenly, unexpectedly. Once it does, though, there’s no shutting down the alarms blaring inside your head. 

Clothes are strewn across your bed, closet door and floor. Shelves and hangers alike are left empty. You end up stalking Alexandra Saint Mleux’s Instagram like a psychopath, finding that—unsurprisingly—none of your clothes remotely match hers. 

There’s a knock at your door. 

“Hey,” you hear Lando’s voice, muffled through the wood. “You there, bug?”

“I’m a little busy!”

There’s a beat, a pause. “You okay?” he asks, voice tinged with a hesitant concern. “You sound…”

You open the door, throat tight and insides tangled into a knot. “I don’t know what to wear. What do wags wear?” you ask, and even amidst your blind panic you can hear your frantic tone. “They’re gonna eat me alive.”

Lando raises a brow. “You’ve gone to races before.”

“Yeah but I wasn’t your girlfriend—fake—whatever!” You huff, turning your back to him and sorting through your discarded clothes again. “I’ve seen the posts people make about the wags. I’ve seen them get destroyed for overdressing and underdressing.” You breathe in. Breathe out. Feel as embarrassment tints your cheeks. You turn to Lando apologetically. “I’m sorry. You’re the one that’s driving, and I’m freaking out over clothes.”

A fond smile curls at the corner of his lips. “We’ve all been there, bug. I just get to skip it now ‘cause I have a stylist.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Lando concedes. Only then do you notice he has one of his hands behind his back. “But hopefully this is.”

He pulls out a dress. The dress.

You blink once. Twice. Three times to make sure you’re not hallucinating the white and blue fabric in Lando’s hand. “You bought it,” you say softly. “When?”

He looks at the ceiling sheepishly. Almost embarrassed. “I’d… rather not say.”

“Lando,” you insist.

“I might’ve doubled back. That day. When you were distracted.” He shrugs, trying to go for nonchalant. “I just asked them to set it aside.”

You look down at the dress. Reach out to feel the fabric underneath your fingertips. “You didn’t have to,” you argue, though there’s no edge to it.  

“I wanted to.” It feels a bit like an apology. You’re not sure whether he knows what he’s apologizing for, exactly. Still, here he is—showing up regardless. “You’ve always been shit at getting stuff for yourself.”

Lando hands you the dress, the tag still on—though the price has been conviniently scrawled out with sharpie. 

“Besides, rule number three,” Lando says, voice reeling back into something more casual. “I said all expenses paid for race weekends.”

“That’s not what you meant, though,” you protest.

“You don’t know what I meant.” 

“Lando.”

“Just learn to take a gift, Jesus,” he says, faux exasperation drawing a smile from him. “Wear it, don’t wear it—it’s your choice.” His lips part to add something else. You see the brief, split-second hesitation before he adds, voice soft, “Either way, you looked really pretty in it.” 

His gaze drops down to your lips. Just a second. He clears his throat.

“We leave in an hour!”

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yourusername monaco has never looked better 🧡

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user1 HELLO

riabish gorgeous gorgeous girl <3

lnfour our favorite wag 🧡

user2 ain’t no way the first official confirmation is coming from lando’s merch account

user3 i mean it’s pretty much confirmed that they’re dating though 😵‍💫😵‍💫 we all saw the way lando was looking at her during his last stream…..

user4 fully grown adults over here playing at tripping each other btw 😭

lando aww did you write that

yourusername that was NOT me no

lando okay plausible deniability i see what you’re doing 😍

yourusername how long did it take you to spell that

lando jokes on u coz i love it when you’re mean to me

user5 wait why is boyfriend lando kind of endearing :(

user6 no cause i see what you mean…

Nothing could’ve ever prepared you for flashing lights and hounding cameras that greet you at the paddock. You’ve been here before—two years ago, with Max acting as a green-eyed buffer to whatever feelings you’d long wrestled down when it came to Lando. 

It’s different now. You can feel it in the way cameras don’t just gloss past you, but rather fix their lenses upon the two of you.

It may have something to do with Lando holding your hand. Fingers interlaced. Walking just half a step in front of you, blocking the most invasive photographers from your path. 

You don’t know how he deals with it every race week.

Thankfully, the McLaren garage offers what feels like some semblance of privacy—however misleading that may be. At the very least, you can appreciate that the attention’s no longer set on you. Not for the most part, anyway.

Lando gives you a quick peck on the cheek for the broadcast camera before being pulled away by one of his engineers. Controlled chaos, a reporter from Sky once called it. Engineers and mechanics moving across rooms with spare gear, adjusting comms, analyzing telemetry.

Over on the opposite side of the garage—Oscar’s side—you spot his girlfriend Lily with an orange headset that matches with yours. She meets your gaze, offering a small polite smile.

You swallow your nerves. Smile back. Try not to throw up your breakfast on your shoes. It still makes you anxious, you find—watching Lando race. When it’s just him on a screen, you can at least put it on mute and look away whenever your pulse starts racing.

You don’t think that’s much of an option here.

“Hi,” you hear behind you. You’re met with a friendly blue gaze. She smiles again, warmer this time. “I’m Lily. You must be Lando’s girlfriend.”

It’s one of two options. Either you don’t have as good a poker face as you thought, or Lily’s better at reading people than you could’ve given her credit for. Maybe both—probably both. The way her expression is laced with sympathy tells you she sees the nervousness. Understands it.

You end up sticking by her until the race starts. You’re not surprised to find out she’s soft-spoken and kind-hearted—not that you’d seen or heard much from her before. You suppose that’s probably the whole point. 

It’s impossible not to make the comparison. Private, genuine, in a long-time relationship with Lando’s teammate versus you; very public, very fake, placeholder of a girlfriend.

The thought lands harder than you expected it to.

“If it makes you feel any better, I still get nervous every time,” Lily says halfway through your conversation. “Although—actually, you have been at a race before, right?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, pushing away your wreck of a train of thought. “Came with Max Fewtrell a few times. Still, everything makes me feel a little…” 

“Exposed?” she suggests, nodding knowingly.

“Exactly! I just, last time it wasn’t just me, so I felt less… on the spot. And obviously last time I wasn’t Lando’s—” you trail off, the lie feeling surprisingly heavy on your tongue.

“Lando’s girlfriend,” Lily finishes comprehensively, and you hate the fact that you’re starting to really like her. You hate that your first conversation, your first semblance of common ground, is a boldfaced lie.

“I mean, Lando and I have always been close,” you say, trying to veer the conversation towards the truth.

“Oscar’s mentioned.” Lily’s mouth curls up into a smile. “I don’t know if it’s my place to say, but he kept wondering when Lando would finally ask you out.” She tilts her head, sunglasses perched over her head. “How was that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, you know,” you say vaguely, toying with a lock of your hair. A nervous habit. “It sort of just… happened. I don’t know.” You swallow, and hope that this time she doesn’t see through you. “It still feels unreal.”

Lily’s lips part to ask something else, before a sudden silence washes over the garage. You frown. Lily places it immediately.

She squeezes your hand. “Best of luck.”

Even when resting around your neck, you hear the unmistakable phrase coming from your McLaren-issued headset.

It’s lights out and away we go.

The world narrows into the racing line between the Nouvelle Chicane and Turn 19. Your heart thunders in your ears, as the leading cars make it past Anthony Noughes—the very last corner. 

In the tenths it takes for the number four car to make it past the finish line, the McLaren garage is suspended in air. Quiet. Hearts beating.

Someone screams. You’re not completely certain it wasn’t you. Mechanics and engineers run out the garage and onto the pitlane, grinning and shouting. 

Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix Winner. 

The McLaren garage splits into two large groups, a sea of sunset orange overtaking the parc fermé. A woman in a McLaren uniform—probably from Lando’s PR team—helps you make way towards the very front of the crowd. The metal barrier presses against your body.

You watch as Lando jumps off his car, his energy boundless and ecstatic even with his helmet still on and hiding his face. He leaps into the papaya crowd, receiving congratulatory pats, hugs and cheers. 

He takes off his helmet and balaclava. Runs a hand through matted curls. You watch as he looks around, scanning the crowd, searching—

Until he spots you.

His helmet is left behind and forgotten as he runs towards you, grinning widely and brightly. He embraces you instantly, your arms wrapping around his neck like second nature.

His hands reach over the barrier and settle around your waist with a firm grip. Then, without giving you a moment to pull back, he brings you over the barrier and spins you in a hug.

“You’re golden,” you say, giddiness overwhelming. You vaguely register the flashes of cameras. Distantly. Your entire world narrows down into the sweaty, lovely, sunlit boy in front of you. You hold Lando’s face with a grin as he puts you down, hands still resting around your waist. You bury your face into his neck. “Oh my god, you’re golden.”

When he finally pulls away—already sensing some McLaren spokesperson waiting for him—he looks at you and grins. Unguarded. Unrestrained. 

And in a way that thoroughly undoes you.

“C’mon, champ,” you say, matching his smile. He’s glowing—honey dipped in sunlight. “They’re waiting for you.”

Music beats against the walls of the club. Blue and pink strobe lights set the dance floor aglow. You vaguely recognize a handful of faces—mechanics, interns, even a couple of social media admins. 

As far as clubs go, you suppose it fits the celebration. McLaren footing the bill of the open bar is just the cherry on top.

Alcohol thrums steadily underneath your skin—a pretty combination of Fireball and fancy drinks you didn’t really care to learn the name of.

The night has unfolded in a series of syrupy moments that seem to melt into one another. You remember arriving with Lando—hand in hand, the high of his win still ripe. You remember being introduced to a few other drivers—Oscar, Carlos, maybe Alex—as his girlfriend. Later in the night, you recall dancing with Lando. More than once.

The night stretches like melted sugar, sweet and honeyed. Purple and red lights flash against the floor, leaving the club half-lit half cast in shadows.

You’ve found a more private spot by one of the corners of the club. VIP table, by the looks of it. 

You lean back against Lando’s side, legs perpendicular to his. One of his hands rests on your lower back, steadying, while yours toys with the curls at the nape of his neck. 

You don’t remember when exactly you ended up on Lando’s lap—not that you’re complaining, anyway. Maybe it’s the lights, the high of his win, the alcohol in your veins—it all has a way of stripping down your inhibitions.

Some distant, muted part of you is half-aware that maybe this is too much. Too close to being PDA. Bordering too much on intimacy. But then Lando leans into your ear to murmur some comment about Carlos’ story and you laugh—you laugh and you forget.

It’s dangerous, this closeness. More so, it’s dangerous how easy it is for you to fall into it. Hook, line, sinker. You never stood a chance.

As Lando talks, as you gaze down at him, you catch Oscar and Carlos sharing a look out of the corner of your eye. You pay them no mind—not when the club lights cast Lando’s face aglow.

“You have really pretty eyes,” you tell him, because it’s the truth. He looks up at you then, lips slightly parted. “Have I ever told you that?”

You hear Carlos attempting to stifle a laugh. He’s not very good at it.

Lando doesn’t pay him any mind. Instead, he gives you a lopsided smile. “D’you think so?” 

“I know so.”

“Not to interrupt,” Oscar begins, already moving to stand up. “But I should get going. Congrats on the win, mate.”

“We should do one last round of shots before you leave!” you announce, but Lando’s hands tighten around your waist.

He presses an unintelligible murmur onto your shoulder. When you turn your head, you find he’s already looking up at you. Long lashes cast crescent shadows on his cheeks. “Don’t go,” he mumbles into the exposed skin of your neck.

Your stomach flips. You grin nonetheless. “It’s my mission today to get you just a little drunk, race winner.”

He considers it. Then, “Okay,” he finally says, smiling softly.

There’s a moment before you stand up. A full second. A beat suspended in time. And maybe it’s the drinks you’ve had—but maybe you’re the only one still pretending this isn’t exactly what you want. 

“I’ll be right back,” you hear yourself say, before you’re moving into the crowd. You weave through the throngs of people dancing, finally making it to the bar. You flag down the bartender, give him your order—making sure to highlight under who’s tab this is.

“That’s a lot of shots,” you hear someone say beside you. He’s cute—shaggy blonde hair, brown eyes—not your type necessarily, but cute. “Are you here with friends?”

“Yeah!” you say, voice bright. “Celebrating.”

“That’s nice.” You can barely hear him over the music. “What are we celebrating?”

You grin proudly at that. “My best friend won a race!” 

“Yeah?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s really listening. He steps a little closer. Only then do you feel his hand on your waist. “That’s cool,” he says relaxedly. “What’s your name?”

It hits you then, how out of it you really are. You shake your head politely, ready to tell him that sorry, you’re not interested, you’re actually here with—

“Hey, you were taking a bit,” you hear behind you. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s Lando—Lando, who sounds suspiciously out of breath. 

He pulls you closer to him—away from the man—and wraps his arms around your waist like a shield. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, he mutters, “Who’s your friend?”

“Actually, we were talking.”

Lando narrows his eyes. “Yeah, well, I kinda wanna spend the rest of the night with my girlfriend, so if you don’t mind.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Girlfriend?” the guy repeats, not quite apologetic. Not really. “Oh, shit, my bad.”

“Yeah.” Lando glares at the guy until he finally walks away. It’s only once he’s gone that he looks at you properly. “What the hell?”

You feel dazed. “What?”

“What happened to rule number one? No flirting?” 

You blink once. Twice. “Right. Sorry.” You clear your throat. “I wasn’t flirting, by the way. He just—he sort of came onto me.” You lick your lips, glancing behind him. “Did, um, did anyone see?”

Lando’s been drinking too—you know so, because when he does, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. Has a harder time hiding what he feels. This time, he looks conflicted. “Uh, no,” he says, as if finally settling on a response. He swallows. “No, just me.”

The two of you walk back to the table, quieter this time. You take a seat next to him, the world still swimming around you to the beat of the songs playing. Lando places the tray of shots on the table before he lays his arm on the backrest. Close. Too close. Not nearly close enough.

Oscar winces as he downs his shot, cheeks pink. He clears his throat before turning to you. “Y’know, I’m glad you two finally got together.”

Lando drops his arm. Instead, he tentatively reaches for your hand. Carefully interlaces his fingers with yours. 

“Yeah, it was unexpected, huh?”

“Right,” he says with a laugh, as if you’re joking. You don’t get it. Lando’s thumb gently brushes against the back of your palm, drawing quiet patterns. “To be honest, I’m just glad I don’t have to stand by watching and hearing Lando pining after you anymore.”

Lando stops at that, back stiffening. “Oscar,” he hisses.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Yeah—didn’t he tell you?” Oscar freezes for just a split second as his eyes meet with Lando’s over your shoulder. You can feel Lando tense against you. “Oh. Um.”

You turn to Lando, confused, maybe a little lost—but sobering up. Even in the flashing magenta lights you can see the deep-rooted shame taking shape in his face.

“Lando?” you ask, voice drowning in the music.

But then he’s taking your hand again, and guiding you out. Past the table, past the crowds—out of the club where the two of you can hear yourselves think.

Didn’t he tell you?

Oscar’s voice echoes in the marrow of your skull like the chorus of a song that gets stuck in your head. The cold night air that greets you on the terrace is enough to make the world feel firm around you again. 

Lando lets go of you then, tugging at his hair. You want to tell him to stop, that he’s pulling too hard, that he’s going to hurt himself—

“Lando—”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says abruptly, defensively. “It sounds so fuckin’ creepy when he says it. It’s not like—like this is some scheme to get you to go out with me. You know that, right?” Lando doesn’t look at you. Won’t look at you. “I swear, Oscar just has this whole movie in his head about me being into you, but I swear he’s just… he doesn’t get that we’re friends. He’s probably confused because he thinks we’re going out so, just. That thing he said about me pining—I don’t know where the hell he got that from.”

It’s a lot like being punched in the stomach, the way you feel the air leave your lungs. A gut punch. Low. Horrible. Painful.

“‘Cause being into me would be crazy,” you say slowly. The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Yeah,” Lando agrees. His face twists a second too late. “I mean—no, that came out wrong, I meant, like,” he gestures with his hands, struggling to find the right words. He shrugs half-heartedly. “We’re us, yeah?” he says, voice small. “We’ve been us for so long.”

“Right,” you say. 

You were sure you knew heartbreak. You knew it when he introduced you to his first girlfriend, when you thought she was lovely, when you found you couldn’t even bring yourself to hate her. You knew heartbreak. You picked him up at some club in London when he was too drunk to drive. You watched him being flirted with by models and actresses—watched him flirt back.

This feels worse than heartbreak, somehow. It aches deep inside your chest. A fracture line that finally fragments all the way through. 

You swallow down the stones lodged in your throat. “Look, I think I’m tired,” you say, voice tight. You can feel the tears threatening to spill. You blink them back. Not here. Not now. “I think I underestimated the jet lag.”

“Jet lag?” He looks understandably confused. You landed days ago. 

You bite your tongue. “I mean, like—I think I’m still a little overwhelmed.” Your voice breaks. “I think I wanna go back to the hotel.”

Lando’s face falls. He’s nodding, already moving, “Okay, let me get my—”

“I’ll take an uber,” you cut him off, reaching for your purse and finding you left it at the table. You just can’t get anything right. You’re already pulling away when you add, maybe for your sake: “Really, I don’t wanna ruin your night.” 

“Hey, no,” Lando protests, words weak and fragile and filled with something you can’t bring yourself to name. “Wait.” His fingers latch around your wrist. He tugs at your hand. “Please.” 

You don’t think he knows what he’s begging for.

The night settles around you. Cold air, the dull sound of music on the other side of the door. You can’t blame the winner’s high. You can’t blame the club music. You can’t even blame the drinks. 

You press your lips into his without thinking of the disastrous consequences it will reap. You kiss him like it’s goodbye. For just a second, you let yourself forget the hurt, the heartache, the heartbreak. 

His lips are warm against you, soft. It feels like gravity. Inevitable. Like it was always going to end this way.

He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull away from him, the world goes on. Cars honk at each other in the street below. The moon hides behind the clouds. Realization of what you’ve done fully settles in your gut.

“Oh my god,” you say, mortified. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have done that.”

But Lando blinks down at you, dazed. He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t look away. Instead, his eyes search your face. Ultimately, they dip down to your lips.

“You said no kissing,” he says slowly, absentmindedly, and you’re unsure whether he’s telling you or reminding himself. 

I didn’t mean to, you want to say, but the lie gets stuck in your throat.

Your bottom lip trembles. The back of your eyes prick. You think you’re gonna cry.

Lando’s touch is gentle. His hand tips your head up, thumb caressing your cheek. “Rule two. You said no kissing,” he repeats, voice barely a murmur.

He leans into you then, kisses your forehead. Then presses another kiss below your eye. Then one to your cheek. To the corner of your lips. But not where you want him most.

“Lando—”

“Tell me,” he mumbles into your skin, hand still cradling your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re going to slip through his fingers. His lips press against the corners of your mouth. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. Please.” 

The response is a murmur, a whisper. “I want you to kiss me.”

His lips find yours in a heartbeat.

When you eventually call a cab in the late hours of the night, the two of you end up clumsily stumbling into the backseat. Exhaustion wears you down like gravity.

Lando interlaces his fingers with yours. Tugs you closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder, breathing out softly. Quietly.

He kisses the crown of your head. Leans down into you.

And for the first time in a long while, it feels like coming home.

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yourusername okay, take two. for real this time :)

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user1 ?????

user2 are we supposed to know what that means

maxfewtrell well that’s just a wildly inconvenient way to water tulips

yourusername can you ever just lay off

lando pretty girl 🌷

yourusername pretty boy 💐💐

You take a long swig of your drink. “Also, my heels hurt,” you say wryly. 

He huffs a laugh and tilts his head toward your feet. “You wore those just to make me look short.”

“You are short.”

Alex flicks your forehead. “I’m the tallest driver on the grid, thank you very much.”

You glance up at him, eyes a little too wide, pupils a little too dilated. You’re tipsy. Not wrecked, not sloppy, but looser than you usually are. Lopsided in the smile you give him, soft around the edges. Alex feels it thud in his ribs.

He’s used to this version of you. The one that comes out only with him. The one that drops sarcasm like armor and leans into him in crowded rooms without hesitation. He’s known you since you were kids, since your parents used to split school pick-ups and you cried the first time he beat you at Mario Kart. (“You cheated!” “I literally didn’t!” “I AM GOING TO TURN YOUR CATS AGAINST YOU!”)

You were the only one who never gave him a weird look when he said he wanted to race cars for a living. When he made Formula One, you mailed him a tiny plastic trophy with WORLD’S MOST AVERAGE MAN written in Sharpie on the base.

He still keeps it in his Monaco flat. Right beside the real ones.

Tonight, it’s his party. P5 in Austria. Not a podium, but it felt like one. The Williams crew had screamed in the garage, and you’d been there in the back, arms raised, mouth open in a wordless, feral cheer. He thinks about that moment now, how you practically tackled him afterward in parc fermé. Arms around his neck. Face in his shoulder. Like the rest of the world wasn’t worth looking at.

It doesn’t matter that you’re not dating. People assume. They always have. The glances, the smirks, the knowing comments. Alex doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care much how he’s perceived. Not when you keep choosing him over and over, in every small way that counts.

“Come on,” he says now, nudging your hip with his. “Everyone’s asking for you.”

“I’m protesting loud music and fake laughing.”

“Your fake laugh is top-tier, though.”

“It’s all the years I’ve spent laughing at your jokes.”

Alex fake-gasps. “You love my jokes.”

“Not the knock-knock ones.”

He leans a little closer, conspiratorial. “What if I told you I had a new one about Toto Wolff and a goat?”

Your face lights in a way that hits him like gravity. “Is the goat also Austrian?”

“Unconfirmed.”

“Proceed.”

Before he can get to the punchline, your hand shoots out and grips his forearm with sudden, startling urgency. “Shit,” you exhale.

Alex freezes. “What?”

You’re blinking over his shoulder, the color draining from your face in slow motion. “It’s my ex,” you mumble. “He’s here. Why is he here? This isn’t even his—oh my God, he’s walking this way.”

Your fingers tighten on his arm. Alex registers the heat of your skin, the press of your body turning instinctively into his side. He’s moving before he thinks, shifting slightly to block your view.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Hey. I’ve got you. What do you need?”

You stare up at him, startled. “I don’t know. I—I don’t want to look pathetic.”

Alex doesn’t hesitate. “Okay. Then let’s make him jealous instead.”

It comes out smooth, practiced. Like it’s something he’s thought about before. He doesn’t have time to examine all that. Not now, not with the way you’re holding onto his sleeve like a lifeline.

He’s always had a thing about your taste in men.

Never said much, never made a fuss. If pressed, though, he’d admit there’s not a single one of your exes he liked. They’ve all felt, to him, like half-chances. Men who didn’t see you properly. Who didn’t earn the right to touch your wrist, let alone your heart. Who took what you gave and didn’t know what to do with it.

And this one—this particular ex—he’s the worst of them.

It’s not just the breakup. It’s the way it happened. The slow, cowardly retreat. The way you’d checked your phone every few minutes for weeks, trying to laugh it off until you couldn’t anymore. The whispered explanations you’d given Alex after, eyes wet, voice small. “He said I was too intense,” you’d confessed, and Alex had felt something feral and sharp uncoil in his chest. 

Worse still, the ex is now part of the motorsports world. Some junior mechanic who floats around the Williams garage like static electricity. Useless and smug. Always managing to say the wrong thing with just enough charm to get away with it. Alex has had to sit through entire debriefs with the guy breathing two seats away, talking about tire temps like he invented them. And now he’s here. At Alex’s party. Circling like a vulture.

Alex spots him through the crowd, threading his way through the cluster of guests with that same half-smile. His eyes sweep the room—and yeah, he’s looking for you.

“Shit, okay, we need a plan,” Alex grumbles.

“What kind of plan?” You’re gripping his shirt now. Not hard, but enough to wrinkle it. He doesn’t care. Your panic is rising fast, cresting in your throat.

“I don’t know,” he says, scanning your face. “Do you want me to—should I pretend we’re together? Should I punch him? I’ll punch him. I’ve been meaning to try that.”

“Alex,” you hiss, barely breathing. “He’s getting closer.”

Alex curses under his breath. He’s thinking too fast and not fast enough. His fingers twitch like they’re trying to grab the idea before it’s fully formed. “Okay. Okay, we’ll fake date. Cool. How do people fake date? What’s the move? Should I put my arm around you or—”

You open your mouth like you’re about to say something helpful. Then you just—

—you kiss him.

No warning. No build. Just lips.

You grab the front of his shirt and yank him forward, right into you. Alex blinks, stunned, as your mouth finds his like it’s a question you’ve already answered a hundred times.

And suddenly he’s aware of a few things all at once:

Your mouth is soft. Warm. Slightly citrusy, he thinks, probably from the drink you had earlier. You always preferred something with lime.

You’re kissing him like you’ve done it before. Like it’s muscle memory. Like you’re coming home.

He is absolutely not thinking about your ex anymore.

His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting. He doesn’t even think about it. His eyes flutter shut. The kiss isn’t long, isn’t showy. It’s not performative. It’s not even that dramatic. But it’s anchored, intentional, and it hits him like gravity.

Somewhere, distantly, someone laughs. The music shifts tracks. A cheer erupts from a corner of the flat where someone’s undoubtedly doing something ill-advised with beer. Alex registers none of it. Just the press of you against him, the brush of your nose, the almost involuntary sigh you make as your fingers slip into his hair and rest there.

The kiss deepens slightly, for one breathless second. Like maybe you forgot it was supposed to be for show, too.

By the time you pull away—slow and stunned and still close enough that he can count the freckles on your cheek—Alex realizes something terrifyingly obvious.

He quite liked that. 

Alex doesn’t even get the chance to speak.

Your ex materializes like a summoned ghost, all thin-lipped smile and cologne that’s trying too hard. Oliver, Alex vaguely remembers his name to be. He’s holding a red cup and some flimsy excuse for swagger, eyes flicking between you and Alex as if he’s connecting the most obvious dots in the world.

“Well,” Oliver says, tone derisive enough to curdle milk. “That explains the floor show.”

Alex tenses. You shift an inch closer to him, and it’s instinct when he hooks an arm around your waist. Protective, not possessive. 

You laugh. It’s too high, too brittle. “Oh, hey,” you fib. “Didn’t see you there.” 

Oliver raises an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. You two looked busy.”

“We were. Are,” you say, then clear your throat. “Busy. We’re very... involved.”

Alex resists the urge to wince. You’re a good liar, but only when it doesn’t matter. Right now, you’re floundering. He can feel the way your hand clenches in the hem of his shirt.

“Right,” Oliver drawls, eyes narrowing. “So, what’s this? A little make out session to blow off some steam?”

You open your mouth. Then shut it. Then—

“We’re dating,” you blurt out.

A beat.

Alex nods like his heart didn’t just do a sideways flip. “Yep,” he says. “Totally. Very much dating.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder like it’s nothing, like his lips aren’t tingling from the memory of your mouth. You lean into him, barely trembling.

Oliver doesn’t look convinced. He gives a little smirk. “Huh. Didn’t peg you as her type.”

“No one ever does,” Alex says lightly, “but here we are.”

You grab Alex’s hand like it’s a rope you’re about to swing from. “Anyway,” you announce, a little too brightly, “we’re gonna go have sex now. So. Bye.”

Alex nearly chokes. “What.”

You’re already dragging him away. Through the crowd, down the hall, past two confused Williams juniors and someone yelling about jello shots. You make a pit stop at the drinks table and knock back one, two, three shots like you’re hydrating for a marathon.

Alex stares. “What the hell was that?”

“Panic,” you say, breathless, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Performance. Chaos. I don’t know.”

He grabs a shot himself and throws it back. “You told him we were going to have sex.”

“I did.”

“That is not subtle.”

“Subtlety’s dead. I’m grieving.”

“You said it like we were late for a reservation.” He mimics your pitched voice as he shoots back a bit more vodka. “Gonna go have sex now. Are you for real?” 

You spin around to face him, flushed and wild-eyed. There’s a bathroom door to your left and you open it like it’s the only sanctuary left on earth. “Just get in here before I make it worse,” you snap. 

Alex steps inside after you, heart rattling in his chest, mind spinning like he’s still in the car at 300 kph. Underneath it all—rising like steam in a quiet room—is the echo of your kiss.

Still warm. Still there.

Alex wakes to pain.

Specifically, a full-body, top-down, soul-crushing headache that feels like his skull got rear-ended by a safety car.

He groans. The ceiling swims.

Somewhere nearby, a curtain flutters. The room smells of faint citrus and someone else’s shampoo. He blinks against the light, tries to sit up, immediately regrets it. It’s not just the headache; it’s the thudding ache of memory, half-formed flashes surfacing like debris.

Bathroom debrief. More shots afterwards. Laughter muffled against tile. Your hand in his hair, in his lap, on his jaw—

The kiss.

The first one, yes, but also—the second. The third? There’d been more, he’s sure. Stolen ones, maybe a little sloppier. Maybe even sweeter.

He remembers your back against the sink. Your laughter slipping into his throat. The way you whispered something like, “We’re so bad at this fake dating thing,” before kissing him again, just because you could.

He winces. His ears pick up movement. Rustling. A zipper.

He turns his head and sees you.

You’re halfway into your jeans, shoes dangling from one hand, trying to be quiet in the way only someone with a guilty conscience and a mild hangover can manage. Your hair’s a mess. His hoodie’s swallowing your frame.

“Are you—” His voice comes out gravel. He coughs. “Are you sneaking out of your own apartment?”

You freeze. Look caught. Like a cat with contraband. “No. I’m... relocating.”

Alex squints. “To where?”

You sigh and flop dramatically onto the edge of the bed, one shoe still dangling. “I was trying to spare myself the humiliation of the world’s clumsiest walk of shame.”

He rolls onto his side with a groan, dragging a pillow under his arm. “You can’t walk of shame if you didn’t even get to the sex part. That’s, like, an amble of emotional damage.”

You groan into your hands. “Alex,” you huff. “I told your teammate’s girlfriend we were soulmates. I told your head mechanic we were planning a trip to adopt a dog in the Alps. I have texts, Alex. So many texts.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Texts from Oliver?”

“No. Worse. Vowles.”

Alex snorts. “Oh, then, yeah. That’s legally binding.”

You shove your face into his pillow with a muffled scream.

He reaches out, tugs gently at your elbow. “Hey. Come here.”

“No.” 

“Get back in bed, honey.” 

“No.” 

“Please. I have a headache and abandonment issues.”

You hesitate. Then, grudgingly, you crawl back under the covers with all the reluctant grace of a cat forced into a bath. Alex immediately spoons you, arm slung around your waist, nose tucked against your shoulder.

“This is dangerous,” you mutter, already curling into him.

“You started it.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You kissed me. Multiple times. You escalated.”

“I panicked!”

“You kissed me like it was your job.”

You groan again, burrowing deeper under the duvet. “It’s not my fault you’re so fake dating-coded.”

He exhales slowly, his breath warm at the back of your neck. “We could keep doing it.”

You go still in his arms. 

“The dating part,” he clarifies. “Just. For show. Until it dies down.”

Your voice is quiet. “And when it does?”

Alex doesn’t have an answer for that. But he squeezes your hand under the sheets and kisses the crown of your head, and when you don’t protest, he figures he’s got his green light. 

By the time Alex walks into the Williams hospitality unit, it’s already happening.

It started in the paddock like all stupid things do: with one overexcited media assistant whispering something to a trackside engineer, who tells a performance coach, who tells someone from catering, who tells James. And once James knows, the apocalypse is officially underway.

Alex is barely two steps through the door when someone claps him on the back.

“Congrats, mate,” chirps one of the tire techs. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”

Alex’s lips quirk in a confused half-smile. “You did?”

“Please. Everyone’s been placing bets since Baku.”

He’s still processing that when Carlos, freshly transferred and not yet fully acclimated to the chaos, strolls in with a smug grin. “So I hear you have finally stopped being a coward,” the Spaniard coos. 

Alex gapes. “What?”

Carlos just raises his eyebrows. “‘Just friends’ my ass.”

“I was just saying the same thing,” James calls from across the room, where he’s attempting to make cereal with a protein shaker. “They were basically married before this.”

It’s funny, and annoying, and deeply unsettling. Because nobody’s surprised. Not even Carlos, who’s only been here a few months and already talks like he’s seen through Alex from the start. It should be a relief—this casual acceptance—but instead it kicks up something warm and sharp in Alex’s chest.

Because if everyone saw it coming, why didn’t he?

He’s mid-thought when you walk in.

You’re wearing sunglasses indoors, which is never a good sign. And your expression—somewhere between dread and barely-contained scream—confirms everything.

The room erupts into cheers.

You flinch.

Alex laughs. Actually doubles over a bit. Because the horror on your face is so pure, so you, and it hits him in the heart like a dart. “Oh my God,” you groan as someone throws confetti from god knows where. “This is my nightmare.”

“You’re a micro niche celebrity,” Alex teases, pulling you in by the elbow. “Bask in it.”

“I have six texts from my mum. She says, and I quote, finally.”

He tries not to smile too widely. “She always did like me best.”

“She says she had a dream that we got married on a beach in Phuket. She sent me Pinterest boards. This is her Super Bowl.”

“You know,” he says, a little too lightly, “this should’ve happened ages ago.”

You look up at him, mistrustful. As if you’re trying to figure out whether he’s teasing. “What?”

He covers with a shrug. “The pretending thing. We’re naturals.”

Your responding smile is faint but real, like you want to believe him. Like you might. Alex watches you get tugged away by a group of mechanics who apparently want to quiz you on his worst habits. (You already know them. You’ve memorized the list.)

And still, the thought loops in his head like a faulty radio: this should’ve happened ages ago.

The thing is, he’d buried it. For years. Wrapped it in best-friendship and late-night texts and the safety of almost. Because the idea of losing you? Unthinkable.

But now, everyone sees it. Everyone thinks it’s real, and maybe he’s the only one still pretending it’s not what he’s wanted this entire time. Alex watches you laugh at something Carlos says, your cheeks still pink.

Alex wants to touch your hand and not overthink it. He wants to kiss you without needing a cover story. He wants it to be real. 

For the first time, he lets himself admit it.

Alex sees him before you do.

Oliver, back in the garage like nothing happened. Like he didn’t light a match and walk away from it, letting someone else deal with the burn. He’s got the same infuriating grin, the same sunglasses on top of his head like he’s too important for shade.

Alex feels it before he thinks it. The instinct to shift closer to you.

You’re leaning against a workbench, laughing with a junior engineer about something Alex didn’t catch. Your posture’s relaxed, but there’s tension under it. When Oliver’s voice cuts through the hum of the garage, you go still.

“Hey, stranger,” your godforsaken ex greets. 

Alex watches your spine straighten. You don’t turn yet. You take a beat. Then two.

Then you twist around with a smile that’s polite and painful. “Hey, Oliver.”

Alex doesn’t wait. He slides an arm around your waist like it’s second nature. Pulls you into his side and drops his chin to your shoulder, voice casual. “Everything alright, babe?”