Untitled

There in the background of every Christmas photo. Sometimes blurred. Sometimes right smack in the center. Sometimes holding a fucking plate of cookies like he’s part of the family. Always present.

And you literally cannot remember a time you didn’t have a crush on him. Sometimes you wonder if you came out of the womb pre-programmed for it. For him.

Because were you ever supposed to stand a single chance?

Charles was….well, Charles.

Messy hair that never behaved, even when he tried. And you know he tried…gel, water, the whole nine yards…but his hair did whatever it wanted. And it was still annoyingly perfect. Even when he slept on it and it was sticking up in all different ways.

Eyes too green. Always crinkling at the corners whenever he laughed or smiled. It made your heart want to fucking jump out of your chest sometimes.

And don’t even get fucking started on his mouth. Soft. Pink. Always twitching. Or curling at the corners like he’s about to say something he shouldn’t. Chewing on his bottom lip once in a while whenever he’s thinking too hard.

Like right now.

Sprawled in a kitchen chair across from you like he’s got nowhere better to be. Elbow’s pressed into the wood of the table. Fingers pressed to his bottom lip, chewing, as he squints at the cards in his hand like they offend him.

“It’s UNO…not fuckin’ chess,” you groan. Fanning your cards.

His eyes flick up. Green. Sharp. “Strategy is everything.”

“It’s literally just luck.”

“Strategy,” he repeats. Then slaps down a green seven like he’s solving a fucking war.

Your brother groans from the other end. “You’ve been staring at those cards for like ten fuckin years. Play it or pass.”

Charles ignores him. “She’s just panicking…” He says lightly. Eyes flicking to yours. “That’s why she’s rushing me.”

His grin is quick. Sharp. Aimed at you. “Patience is a virtue.”

“Not one of yours,” you spit back.

Your brother slams a card down muttering a kill me now, please.

Charles finally sets down two green skips onto the table. Making it his turn again. “Oops.”

“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath. But not low enough for him to miss it.

He leans back in his chair, lips twitching. “Language,” he mutters. Soft enough that your brother can’t hear it, but enough for you to know that its just for you.

And that’s the game. Really.

Three of you at a table. But sometimes, it only feels like two.

Because Charles meets your gaze like there’s a conversation happening through it. And he smirks whenever you roll your eyes. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you do it.

Like he isn’t five years older than you.

-

Age 12 and 17.

You sit on the curb. Your legs stretched out awkwardly in front of you. Stink fingered and sulking as the last of your ice pop drips faster than you can eat. The juice trails down your wrist. Staining red. And you smear it against your shorts but all it does is leave a splotchy handprint of dye on them.

The afternoon at the karting track is brutal. The sun is too high. Too hot. Making everything feel stronger. Smell stronger. Gasoline…burnt rubber…you name it.

The heat waves across the asphalt. And the sounds of the engines have been so constant that you’ve stopped noticing it for the most part.

“Here.”

You look up.

Charles crouches in front of you. Water bottle extended in the palm of his hand. His helmet dangles from his other hand. Hair damp and stuck to his forehead. His cheeks tinted pink from not only the heat, but the effort he put on the track as well.

And he looks like he belongs here. Like the track was made for him.

Whereas you….you look like the little sister who got dragged along because your mom said she didn’t want you home alone.

“Don’t want it,” you grumble. Wiping at the stickiness on your wrist.

“Trust me, y’do.” Voice calm as he nudges the water bottle closer. Close enough until you can feel the condensation against your knuckles.

“Seriously…m’fine.”

He lifts his brows like he doesn’t believe you. “You’re twelve.”

“So?”

“Soooo,” his eyes crinkle a bit. “Word on the street s’that twelve year olds can’t handle the heat.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re only seventeen. That doesn’t make you ancient.”

He laughs. “M’definitely old enough to know when someone’s about to faint.”

“M’not gonna.”

He hums. Skeptical. Leans forward and plants the bottle in your lap like it was always meant to be there. “Y’would. And then your maman will blame me. So drink it, s'il te plaît.”

Your cheeks burn. And it has nothing to do with the sun this time. No, this is because of the small French tumbling out of his lips. So you roll your eyes and twist the bottle open dramatically.

You glare at him over the top of the bottle as you take a sip. Like you’re making some point.

“Better,” he says immediately. Smug.

You stick your tongue out toward him. But he’s already standing to his feet. And he should walk away now. Should head back to the pit to joke with your brother.

But he doesn’t. At least, not yet.

He drags a hand over your head, ruffling your hair until its sticking all over the place.

“Hey!” You swat his arm. “Don’t!!!”

“Can’t help it.” He grins down at you. Eyes too green and too kind. “Y’make it sooo easy.”

And then he’s jogging off toward the others. Helmet swinging in his hand. Leaving you behind with crazy hair, cherry red fingers….and a water bottle you’ll never say thank you for.

Because that’s who Charles is. He teases you, annoys you. But always looks out for you.

Like family.

-

Age 14 and 19.

You slam the screen door of the house so hard that it fully rattles against the frame. Heat clings to your skin the moment you step outside. Birds and bugs buzzing. Your arms are crossed, nails digging into your skin because if you don’t you might just fucking scream.

Your brother’s voice still carries through the house. Muffled from the distance but still sharp.

Overreacting, he’d called you. Acting like a fucking spoiled brat.

The kind of comments that he’ll forget after dinner, but you’ll remember for days.

You drop onto the porch steps. Pulling your knees to your chest. Trying not to blink too fast to prevent any tears from spilling. But your eyes burn. Not really tears…but close enough.

The door opens again a few moments later. Shuts a little quieter than before.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up right away. But you know it’s him. Charles’s sneakers scuff against the floor before he lowers himself to the step beside you. Close enough that you feel his presence but careful to leave enough space.

“Your brother’s an idiot.” He says it like its some fact. Not just his opinion.

A laugh, short and shaky, escapes before you can stop it. “Tell me something I don’t know, Cha.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours lightly. “He doesn’t mean it, y’know…he just runs his mouth whenever he’s worked up.”

You nod, but barely. Your chin is dug into your knees.

“Yeah.” He leans back against his hands, his palms flat agains the wood. Eyes on the yard. “He’s been like that for forever….loud first…thinks later.”

You finally glanced at him. And he looks calm. Hair damp from the pool, white t-shirt clinging in spots he didn’t fully dry off. You think it’s unfair how at ease he is when you feel like you might just explode.

“And you still hang out with him?” Your voice flat.

“Someone’s gotta keep him outta trouble.” He grins. “It’s a public service….really.”

And that makes you laugh. For real. Easing the tension in your throat and chest.

The sound of it makes him glance at you. Before he looks back to the open yard.

After a beat, he tilts his head. Steady. “Y’weren’t overreacting…he…he, uh should’ve listened.”

The words land a little heavier than you expect.

You press your face into your knees a little harder. Just so he won’t see you smile.

-

Age 16 and 21

The paddock is a lot to handle. Cameras everywhere, people rushing by, the sun outright burning the pavement to be hotter than it should be allowed to be. And your brother is already halfway down the lane. Completely forgetting about your presence.

Typical.

You hang back, taking your time. Sipping on some water thats already gone warm from the heat. And you’re trying not to look lost…but the truth is, the place feels huge.

And then someone is whistling. Loud. Sharp.

You freeze.

A man…maybe mid-thirties. Older. Lanyard digging right into his gut. Leaning against the barrier with his phone angled at you. Smile stretched wrong.

“C’mon, love…give us a smile. Just one picture…” He hollers. “Pretty girl like you just doesn’t walk past every day.”

Your stomach flips. Fingers clenching around the water bottle. And you’re about to say something…anything…but then you see Charles’s head turn.

He doesn’t miss much.

Never has.

One moment he’s laughing with his Ferrari engineer. The next, he’s walking back towards you with his jaw tight. And the space between you and the main shrinks in a blink. Charles slipping in front of you so fast that you nearly stumble into his back.

“That’s enough,” he says.

Not loud. Or even angry. Just firm.

The man stammers. Tries to laugh it off a bit. “Just a p…just a photo…”

“She’s sixteen, y’sick fuck.” Charles doesn’t raise his voice. But he really doesn’t need to. His tone says everything. “Delete it.”

The man’s face scrunches into a sour expression. But he taps his screen to delete the photo and then shoves it back into his pocket.

Charles doesn’t move until the man falls back into the crowd. And only once he’s out of sight does he look at you over his shoulder. Checking you once. Green eyes flicking over you like he’s making sure there’s not a hair out of place.

“Y’okay?”

You nod quickly. “Yeah…m’fine.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his eyes linger for a few moments longer. The way they sweep over you. Face. Shoulders. Hands. Takes note of the water bottle crunched in your fist. And the flush of pink on your cheeks.

His jaw ticks.

But he doesn’t push you. Instead, he angles himself closer. Brushing the back of his hand along your elbow. A subtle, gentle touch. More than enough to keep you grounded.

And he stays there.

All the way down the lane. Keeps himself between you and the swarm of bodies. Blocking the photographers from getting you.

It’s all instinctive.

Your brother reappears by the time you make it to the motorhome. Oblivious as fuck. “Where’d you two go? Y’nearly missed Toto…he was right…”

Charles cuts him a look. Sharp enough to make your brother pause. “She was behind.” He says. “Pay attention next time, would you?”

Your brother rolls his eyes. “She’s fine.”

Charles doesn’t answer. Just opens the motorhome door, guiding you in first.

And for a moment, you catch the edge of his face. Jaw tight. Lips pressed thin. Like he’s fighting the urge to go back out there.

And maybe to him, it’s nothing. Just doing what he’s always done for you. Watching…stepping in….making sure you’re always okay.

But to you, your cheeks go hot. And it feels like the only safe thing in the whole area was standing right beside him.

-

The motorhome is much cooler. Quieter.

You sink onto the bench. And you keep your eyes on the crunched water bottle. Charles doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he paces a slow line across the small space. Dragging a hand through his hair. His jaw hasn’t unclenched since he saw the photographer earlier.

“Y’should’ve told me.”

Your head snaps up. “Told you what?”

His eyes darken. “That he was talking to you…that he had a camera on you. Anything, really.” He breathes deeply. “Y’just stood there.”

“I…” you pause. “I, I didn’t know what to do.

And something breaks in his expression. Not anger…more like fear. And then he crouches in front of you.

“Y’don’t freeze when men like that try something, yeah?” His throat works. “You don’t stay quiet. Y’come find me….always.”

You blink hard. “Cha, I can handle-“

“No.” His tone is sharp. Hand hovering but then closing near your wrist. “Y’shouldn’t have to handle it. Not alone.”

The words hang there. And you swallow.

“People like that…” he pauses. Jaw working. “They don’t get to look at you like that…they don’t get to speak to you like that.” He shakes his head. “Not while I’m here.”

He takes the water bottle from your hand. Sets it aside. And stays close.

“You’re safe with me.” He says. Voice quiet.

-

Age 17 and 22

The restaurant is chaos. Not like people dancing on tables chaos, but it’s loud. Waiters are weaving between and around tables. Glasses are clinking. And you’re crammed into a booth with your brother. Charles across from you.

And your brother is mid-story. Waving his fork in the air like its some baton. And you’ve probably heard this story a bajillion times. Charles too. But not one bothers to chime in.

Charles is leaned back with an arm stretched along the booth. Barely listening. His eyes skim around the room. His watch catching the soft overhead lighting every time he fidgets. And he nods at the right places of the story, but his mind is definitely somewhere else.

Until you cut in.

“Anyways,” you say lightly. Pushing the straw around in your drink. “Jimmy asked me out.”

Your brother freezes mid-gesture. “What?”

Charles blinks. Straightens his back a bit. “Who?”

“Jimmy.” You repeat. Trying to be nonchalant. “Boy in my grade. He asked if I wanted to see a movie or something this weekend.”

And their reactions are immediate.

Your brother drops his fork. “That kid with the mop hair? That guy? Absolutely not!”

Charles is shaking his head at the exact time. “You’re seventeen.” Voice flat.

You groan, falling further into the booth. “Oh my god. I didn’t say I was marrying the guy. S’just a movie.”

“Doesn’t matter,” your brother shoots back. Leaning closer. “You’re too young.”

“Seventeen is not too young for a movie!” You snap.

Charles cuts in. “It’s too young if its with Jimmy.”

You laugh. “Says the guy who was probably kissing girls younger than that!”

His lips thin. “That’s different.”

“How?” You press on. Leaning forward on the table now. Feeding into the crack of his usual calm demeanor. “Because you’re you?”

“Yes.” He says simply. Like it’s true.

Your brother groans. Muttering about how exhausting you are, but you barely hear him. Because your focus is on Charles. On the way his hand tightens around his glass. On how he doesn’t look away.

And you realize he’s not only annoyed. But he’s fucking rattled.

“Y’can’t stop me.” You say.

He breathes through his nose. And for a moment you’re convinced you see a flicker in his eyes. Frustration. Disbelief. Annoyance. Something close to fear?

“Y’don’t know what you’re asking for,” he mutters.

You fall back into the booth again. “Doesn’t matter…m’going.”

Your brother starts another protest, but Charles just sits there. Watching you like he cant decide if he wants to drag you back into that neat little box he’s always kept you in.

Or just admit that you really don’t fit so neatly into that little box anymore.

-

Age 18 and 23

It doesn’t hit him like some lightning bolt. No…it’s slower than that. Sneakier.

Charles is leaning against the balcony railing. Phone loose in his hand as he pretends to scroll. And you’re just there…tucked into a chair across from him. Legs pulled up with a book. It’s nothing special.

An ordinary moment.

And that’s why it rattles him so bad.

Because when the fuck did it change?

When did the little kid who used to follow him and your brother around the karting track covered in popsicle juice…turn into this?

The version of you with your hair twisted into messy bun, strands falling loose. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light before the sun dips for the night. Gloss covered your lips.

You stretch without looking away from your book. And the hem of your shorts rides a little higher on your thighs. And his chest goes tight. Too tight.

He looks away. Fast. Jaw clenching.

Looks at his phone like it’ll help him.

But he looks back. Always back.

You can feel it…and he knows it. Because you begin to lower your book slowly, glancing at him over the spine of your book. Lips curled. “What?”

He clears his throat. Forces himself to shrug. “Nothin.” But his voice sounds wrong.

You set the book in your lap. “You’re staring.”

“M’not.”

But he definitely is.

-

You shouldn’t be here. You’re vividly aware of it as you continue to climb the stairs. Bare feet agains the concrete. Heels hooked in between your fingers. And your head is buzzing.

Going home isn’t an option. Because going home means your mom seeing you like this….masacara smudged, eyes slightly red, reeking of alcohol. She’d have a fucking freak out.

So you end up here. At your brother’s place. At Charles’s place.

You knock once. Soft. When no one answers, you knock harder.

And then the deadbolt is clicking, the door opening.

Charles.

Hair a mess. Sticking in every direction like he was just asleep (he was). And his voice is scratchy and low.

“Mon dieu,” His eyes flick over you. Quick. Sharp. “D’you know what fuckin time it is?”

You try to straighten up. Try to pretend you haven’t been out drinking and partying. Pretend you’re sober. But your voice slurs. “Mmmm late?”

“Three in the morning.” He leans against the door frame with his arms crossed. But he doesn’t make you stand there for long. He steps aside, giving you space. “Get in before someone else sees y'like this.”

You scoot past him. Toes padding along the wooden floor.

Charles shuts the door and when you turn to look at him…he’s already watching. Assessing you.

“Where’s my brother?”

“Asleep…like a normal person….like I just was.” His mouth twitches. “Unlike you.”

You flop onto the couch, throw your shoes down onto the rug. And run a hand over your face. “Don’t lecture now….can’t do it.”

He doesn’t move. Stays still. Barely even blinks. But tilts his head.

“Didn’t even say anything.”

But he’s thinking it. And you can feel it. Thinking about how late it is, about your glassy eyes, about what your mother would say if she saw you like this.

And then he’s scooping your shoes from the rug. Setting them by the wall neatly. Because of course he does. Even when annoyed, he’s careful.

“Yeah…but you’re thinking it…” you grin with your eyes shut. “Thinking about how late it is….how I look-“

“Y’look drunk.”

“Exactly.” You look at him through your lashes, eyes half-lidded. “And y’hate it.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. But not really. And then he drops onto the chair opposite of you. Elbows on his knees.

“Y’shouldn’t be out like that.” He says. Voice…firm.

You hum. Swing a leg over the other one. And the strap of your dress slips off your shoulder. “And what??? Miss all the fun?”

“Fun…” he repeats. Voice dry.

You sit up and lean forward now. Resting your chin in your hands. “Y’jealous?”

His eyes narrow. “Not even close.”

But he’s looking. And you can tell. The way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers tap against his knee like its some reminder for him to keep still.

And for a moment…you realize you might have more of a chance with Charles than you ever thought you would.

And the thought warms your skin. As you grin at him. “Sure doesn’t look like it.”

His mouth twitches. “Go to sleep, cherie.” He says, standing to his feet. “Before y’say something y’regret.”

But you don’t miss the pause in his steps. The way his eyes flick back at you one more time. Just to be sure.

And you think it could be nothing.

But you know better.

-

The beach is busy. Kids shrieking at the shoreline. Music bumping from someone’s speaker a few towels down. Seagulls dive-bombing at any possibility of food thievery. And it smells like sunscreen and salt.

You’re lounged on your blue striped towel. Legs stretched out. Laughing at something one of the boys from school said. He’s all joy and sunburn, bleached tips from chlorine and sun. And he keeps leaning closer whenever he talks. You let him.

Charles notices. Of course he does.

And he’s supposed to be napping under the umbrella. Sunglasses low. Your brother beside him, scrolling on his phone. But Charles’s head tips just slightly whenever he hears your laugh. Jaw tightening just a bit with each laugh.

“Relax,” your brother says without looking away from his phone. “She’s not twelve.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Charles spits back. Grip rather tight on the water bottle than necessary.

“Didn’t have to.” He smirks at his screen.

Out in the sun, you’re still laughing at whatever this loser says. Too close. Too tan. And you tilt your head back to face the sun. Lips shiny with gloss. And a little smug.

Charles feels it like a needle beneath his skin.

And then he can’t help himself. He’s up. Suddenly standing over you. Bottle of sunscreen in hand.

“You’ll burn.” His voice is flat.

“I won’t.” You roll to your side, placing a hand over your forehead to squint up at him. “M’fine.”

The boy beside you laughs. “I was just sayin the same thing…she missed a spot right he-“

Charles is already kneeling down. Ignoring both of you. Squiring the lotion into his palm. “Hold still.”

“Charles…”

“Stay still.” He smooths the sunscreen across your shoulder. Down your arm. His touch firm enough to leave no room for the boy to even think about stepping in.

And then the boy is shifting awkwardly. Muttering something about needing to go catch the waves and then wanders off.

You look at Charles. Heat crawling up your neck. “Seriously, Cha? I said I didn’t need it.”

“You did.” He leaves no room for argument. Wiping his hands on the towel without even glancing at you. “Better now, yeah?”

And then he’s standing again. Back beneath the umbrella. Slipping his sunglasses back onto the slope of his nose.

Your brother doesn’t even glance up from his phone. “Thanks for babysitting,” he laughs.

Charles doesn’t answer. His jaw is tight. Fingers tapping at his knee. Controlled.

But you….

You can’t stop smiling into the towel.

-

Age 21 and 26

The Dolomites are nothing like home. Almost everything is cold, white, and endless. Snow stacked high on the rooftops of every building. Trees covered with frost. And the mountains are sharp.

The house your family rents is all wood beams and stone. Windows slightly fogged as the fire burns inside.

Everyone has gone to bed. Worn out.

Except you….except Charles.

You’re sitting on the back steps. Boots partially unlaced and a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The air bites your nose, tinging it a little red. And you know you should go inside. You should. But the cold is kinda relaxing. Keeps your head clear.

The door clicks open and then he’s there. Charles.

His cheeks are slightly pink from the cold. Hair messy beneath a knit beanie, and his jacket is half open.

He pauses when he sees you, but only for a second. And then he’s sitting beside you on the step.

“S’cold.” He says softly.

“Yeah,” you mutter. Clutching the blanket a little tighter. “Helps clear my head, y’know?”

He hums. Nods like he gets it. And for a while you just sit there, shoulders brushing against each other every so often. Listening to the silence.

You glance at him. Like really glance. And it knocks the air out of your lungs. Because he’s older. Steadier. And the faint glow of the lights catch the green of his eyes. The curve of his mouth.

And for the first time, he doesn’t feel untouchable.

You tilt your head. “Thought you’d be asleep by now, grandpa.”

“Couldn’t.” He shrugs.

“Was it the wine?”

He looks at you. His eyes glint. “Maybe y’did.”

Your heart pounds. And you laugh too quickly. Trying to make it seem normal, but failing. “What? Why, cause I stole the last glass?”

He grins. “That too.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “You’re terrible at relaxing, y; know? Always watching…always worrying.”

“Well someone has to keep y’out of trouble.”

“Mmm. My brother definitely isn’t doing it.”

“Exactly.” He says. Voice soft. Eyes lingering a bit too long.

And you turn to face him more. Tugging the blanket closer. “What would y’even do without me to babysit? You’d be so bored.”

“Sleep more.” He fires back.

You lean closer. Smiling. “Bet you’d miss me though.”

And his laugh is low. Shaky. “Impossible.”

“Liar.” You whisper.

And the word hangs there. He doesn’t bother to look away fast enough. His gaze flicks to your mouth. Quick. Like it was some sort of mistake. And then his fingers tap his knee like he’s telling himself not to move. To stay still.

And you lean a little closer. Just to see. Testing.

And that’s all it takes.

His lips find yours. Soft. Cold. A hint of red wine. It’s clumsy but his hand comes up to your jaw, holding you when you begin to sway a bit.

And then he breaks. Pulls back hard.

“No.” His voice is sharp. Horse. “We can’t…we can’t do this.”

Your heart hurts. “Charles…”

He shakes his head. Drags his palms over his face. “You’re…you’re my best friend’s sister…littlesister….You’re….It’s wrong.”

His words sting more than the freezing weather.

He stands quickly. Muttering something in French that you can’t really hear. And then disappears inside before you can even say a word.

You stay on the steps. Lips tingling. Blanket clutched tight.

You don’t move for a while.

-

The lodge is warm and crowded. You’re sitting at a high table. Swinging one booted foot as your skirt rides justa little higher than it should. It’s plaid and definitely short enough that your mom had to click her tongue at it. Paired with an oversized sweater that keeps slipping off your left shoulder no matter how many times you tug it back up. So eventually, you stop trying.

You look good. Effortless.

“Another?” The boy beside you asks. Lifting his empty glass in your eye view. He’s smiling, pink cheeks, and tall. He looks sweet. You don’t really care.

You’re pretty sure his name is Max…or Matt….

“Sure,” you smile. Sipping the last of your drink. “But only if y’promise not to tell another stupid ski joke….”

He laughs, nudges you with his arm. “C’mon it was funny.”

“Y’mean terrible, right?” You correct, lips twitching in amusement. “Y’just wanted to try to brag about how fast y’can get down the mountain.”

“Well….m’the fastest here…” He taps his chest. Proud. But also joking (kind of…not really).

You gasp. “Oh my god…should I…should I like swoon now?”

He grins wider. Leaning in closer. “Would y’swoon harder if I said I can beat your brother?”

Now you’re laughing. Bright. “Listen…everyone thinks they can beat my brother. And they can.”

Across the room, you feel it like fucking gravity. Charles. Leaning against the bar with a beer bottle in his hand. Your brother beside him.

He’s nodding at whatever your brother’s saying, but his gaze keeps shifting. Slipping. Landing on you.

And every time it does, it feels like your chest might crack.

Because last night happened.

A kiss. Heat…wine…the press of his warm mouth against yours. Quick. His hand beneath your jaw. Holding you like he wanted to. And then his panicked whisper of we can’t before he disappeared like he was on fire.

Too young. Too messy. Probably too many reasons that sounded like nothing but damn excuses.

You’ve barely looked at each other since.

And you hate that you want to go up to him and demand he admit it was something. Hate that it makes you ache.

But instead, you just push harder. Which he notices. Of course he does.

“Be right back, birthday girl…” He reaches for your empty glass.

“Not my birthday,” your lips curl a bit.

“Could’ve fooled me…you’re practically glowing.” He winks. Disappears to the bar.

You roll your eyes but can’t stop that little smile from stretching across your lips. At least, until your gaze slips back to Charles across the room again.

And he isn’t laughing anymore.

Isn’t even smiling.

His jaw is set. And his green eyes are sharp across the room like he’s actually been watching the entire time. And the perfect braid bitch at his side says something…nudges his arm when he doesn’t look at her. But he still keeps his eyes on you.

And suddenly everything feels hollow. Because no matter how hard you try to flirt or how cute you feel. The onlyreaction you want is for a man burning a hole straight through you across the bar.

A man who claims that you can’t happen.

-

“Strongest they had….” He slips the whiskey into your hand. “Figured y’could handle it.”

You smirk. “Oh really?”

He laughs. “Y’don’t strike me as a vodka soda girly.”

You smile at that. Shark-like. “And what kind of girl do I look like to you again?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Beautiful. Someone who can keep up.”

It should land. And it almost does. But then a voice slides up from behind you. Low.

“She hates whiskey.”

You don’t bother to turn around. Because your stomach is in knots telling you its Charles.

He’s standing at your table now. Still holding a beer. The sleeves of his cable-knit sweater shoved to his elbows. He doesn’t look at you…at least not right away.

He’s too busy staring at the boy. Trying to be casual…but it’s not.

The boy blinks. Lets out a small laugh. “What?”

Charles tips his head at your glass. “She doesn’t like it…never did. Always makes a face after the first sip.”

You feel the heat creep up your neck.

And just to prove a point, you force yourself to lift the glass and swallow. And it fucking burns all the way down your throat, makes your eyes slightly water a bit…but you manage to smile sweetly after. “Not tonight.”

Charles looks at you then. Jaw slightly tight and then he’s taking a sip of his beer. “Mmmm, sure.”

Matt (you think) nudges your arm. “Guess you’ve got him fooled, yeah?”

“She fools people all the time.” Charles says. And the words sit heavy between the both of you.

You glare at him. Turn back to the boy. “Ignore him. He’s basically my other brother.” You throw the dig.

Just to see if it hurts him a little. It does.

But it makes Matt laugh. “You’ve probably known each other for forever then, hm?”

Charles mouth twitches. Not really a smile. “Long enough.”

The boy leans in closer. Oblivious. “Then I guess you know that she can handle herself, yeah?”

Charles gives him a tight lipped smile. Drinks from his beer. Still doesn’t leave.

And the silence stretches too long.

“M’gonna go grab us another round.” Which you know is probably a lie, considering he just came back with more.

And the moment he’s gone, the air completely shifts.

Charles places his bottle down on the table. “Y’don’t like whiskey.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ, Charles. You’ve made your damn point.”

“M’not making a point.” He says. Voice hush. “M’just telling you not to drink something you hate just to-“

“Just to what? You cut him off. “Just to prove that m’not a kid?? To show I can make my own choices?”

His gaze doesn’t falter. Green. Sharp. “Just to get under my skin.”

Your heart stutters. “Maybe it worked then.”

His mouth twitches. “Congratulations.”

You lean forward. Voice coated with sweetness. “Relax, Cha…m’not just throwing myself at anyone who looks my way.”

His gaze narrows. “Could’ve fooled me.”

And it lands like a slap.Your cheeks redden. “At least they don’t act like kissing me would be the end of the fucking world.”

And the air feels like its on fucking fire. His throat tightens.

“Don’t.” He grunts. “Don’t bring that up here.”

You don’t look away.

“Why? Why not, Cha?” Your heart feels like its in your throat. “Is it too real for you?”

“Because it shouldn’t have happened.” He spits.

You laugh. But its humorless. “Yeah….yeah, I got that part already.” You slip off your stool, pushing it back in the process. Causing it to screech against the wooden floor a bit. “Which is why m’not gonna waste time with someone who doesn’t even want me.”

And before you can so much as take a single step away…his hand closes around your wrist. Firm.

Hot.

“Don’t twist my words,” His voice is tight. Closer. His eyes stay locked on yours. “Y’think I don’t want-“ He cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You don’t get it.”

You freeze under his grip. And for a few moments its as if all the chaos of the lodge as disappeared.

“You’re right.” You bite out. Voice breaking a bit. “I don’t get it…I don’t get why y’kissed me if y’were just gonna make me feel like a fucking kid after it.”

His hand tightens just a bit before he finally releases it. Like it hurts him to let go.

“Because it’s not….it’s not that simple as you think.”

And it makes you want to fucking scream. To rip your hair out. Because it is simple. At least, to you.

-

Your brother’s rummaging through the kitchen drawers. Muttering something about tape and scissors. You’ve got a list on your phone…gift ideas for mom…and he’s dragged you into helping him because he claims you’re just better at this stuff.

Charles is there too. Of course. Leaning against the counter, his sleeves pushed up. Watching like he belongs.

“Thought we could go into town after lunch,” your brother glances up. “There’s a little shop there that she likes…”

“Good with me,” You say. Scrolling on your phone.

Your brother groans, shutting a drawer. “I’ll check my room…again.” He says. “Hold on.”

And then he’s gone, footsteps carrying down the hall.

Silence fills the kitchen.

Charles crosses his arms, watching you scroll. You don’t look at him.

“Keep staring at that thing and you’ll need glasses by twenty five.”

“Mmm.”

He raises a brow. Waiting for the usual jab. Like how he’s practically blind already, or that you’d look better in glasses.

Nothing.

“Y’know,” he tries again. Pushing off the counter to step closer. “Your brother’s hopeless with this shit…without you, he’d be getting a bottle of cheap wine and calling it the gift of heaven.”

You tap at your screen. “Then it’s probably good I’m here.”

It lands flat.

He studies you, jaw flexing.

“Normally you’d give me some credit, yeah?” His mouth twitches. “Whats wrong? Saving all your comments for later?”

You glance up for a quick second. Just to meet his eyes. Look back at your phone. “Don’t have any left I guess.”

The words sting sharper than you mean them too and he fucking feels it.

He just stands there. Drags a hand across the back of his neck. A bit restless.

“You’re really not gonna talk to me?” His voice drops lower. Less teasing. More…raw.

You shrug. “Already did. Said it’s fine to go to the shop, yeah?”

“Not what I meant.” He grunts. “And you know it.”

Silence.

And it stings a lot. Because he’s not used to this. He’s used to you engaging. Meeting him in the middle. Matching him.

But this silence gnaws at him.

-

The next few days you make it a point to avoid him. Which is easy, mostly.

And it works.

Only because Charles lets you do it. He doesn’t push or corner you. He just watches.

And then it happens in the middle of dinner prep. Your brother is upstairs showering. You’re cutting up some veggies at the counter with your head down. Pretending you don’t feel Charles standing near the sink.

“Knife skills need work,” He says casually. Like he’s testing if its okay.

You don’t look up. “I’ll live.”

He exhales through his nose. You keep cutting.

And then suddenly he’s grabbing your wrist, pulling the knife out of your grip. Setting it on the counter.

“What-“ you begin, but he’s already guiding you to the back door.

“We’re talking.” He cuts you off.

“Charles…”

“Non. Enough.”

The cold air hits your face as he nudges you outside. Shutting the door. And its quiet. He holds your wrist until you’re yanking it out of his grip.

“What the fuck-“

“You’ve been ignoring me for days.” He snaps. “I can’t…I won’t pretend that it’s not obvious.”

You fold your arms. “Take a hint.”

His jaw clenches. “Y’think I haven’t? Y’really think I haven’t tried to pull you away? It’s driving me insane.”

Your throat tightens. “Good…guess y’know how it feels then.”

The silence between you crackles. Like he wants to reach for you.

And then he takes a deep breath. “Y’think I don’t want you.”

You laugh. Bitter. “That’s exactly what y’told me Charles.”

He flinches a bit. “No. That’s not….I told you that we couldn’t. Not that I didn’t.”

You stare at him, blinking hard.

“Y’think this is easy? That I don’t feel…” He pauses. Dragging a hand through his hair. Pacing a bit like he needs some distance. “I’ve spent years telling myself you’re off limits. That you’re….that…”

“My brother’s best friend?” You snap. “Practically family? Too young?”

“Yes!” His voice practically shouts. Cracking a bit. And then he lowers his voice. “All of it. And it doesn’t…it doesn’t make any of this easier f’me.”

You laugh again. Shaky. “Then why bother at all? Why kiss me if y’can’t? Why slam the door right after and rush away? Do you even know what that felt like?”

He drops his head a bit. Doesn’t answer.

“I’ve liked you for years. And I thought…” your voice cracks, but you continue anyways. “I thought that maybe…just maybe you finally saw me the same way. But you don’t. You never will. And I’m done wasting my time.”

You turn to reach for the door handle. But he reaches for your wrist again.

“Don’t say that.” He mutters. His voice raw.

Your eyes blaze, turning back toward him. And he’s so much closer. “Why not? It’s the truth!”

“Because you’re wrong.”

And his eyes drop to your mouth .For a second. And it feels like you’re both standing on the edge of a cliff.

And still, he doesn’t move. Just keeps holding your wrist.

“Then show me.”

And he just stares. Like he doesn’t believe what you’re saying. Like it’s taking everything in him to restrain himself.

But then it all shatters.

And he’s tugging you forward. Not aggressively. But desperate almost.

And his mouth crashes onto yours.

It’s hot. Sharp. And nothing like the first, careful kiss you’ve shared a few weeks ago. This one is all teeth and tongue.

You gasp into him. And he practically swallows the sound whole. Pressing you closer into him.

Your fingers fist the front of his sweater, pulling him closer. Needing him closer. He groans hotly into your mouth.

And then he’s pulling back. Breath ragged. “Merde…”

“Don’t.” You cut him off. Lips swollen. “Don’t you dare ruin this.”

But he looks at you like he already has ruined everything. Like he knows that he can’t stop himself from wanting you now.

And it terrifies him.

But not enough to stop him from leaning in again.

Stealing another kiss.

-

The first time happens late. Later than it should. The house is quiet. Your brother passed out upstairs. And you both had been drinking. Not drunk but like loose. Laughter spilling over the cards scattered all over the table.

But now the laughter’s gone.

And you’re pressed against the wall of the hallway. Charles’s hand above your head. And he’s chest is rising and falling as if he just did a marathon.

“We shouldn’t,” he mutters. Forehead practically touching yours.

“I know,” you whisper.

But then he’s kissing you. Hard. Desperate.

Your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him close. And he groans deep in his throat. Breaking apart to mutter fuck…this is wrong

“Then stop,” you breathe. Fingers already slipping beneath his shirt. Palms pressing into his warm, toned skin.

He doesn’t.

The kiss deepens. Rougher. Hands everywhere. Your hips. The small of your back. Your jaw,

And he lifts you before you can even protest. Your back hitting the door of his bedroom in the process. And it makes you both freeze in fucking place…listening, waiting.

Nothing. Your brother sleeps on.

And Charles is kissing you again. Swallowing you whole practically. He sets you down on the bed. Stares at you for a moment like he’s trying to burn the image of you on his bed into his brain. Flushed…breathless….fucking beautiful.

“This is a mistake,” he whispers again. But he doesn’t mean it. And you know it. It’s his final moment of protest.

“Then make it with me,” you whisper.

And that’s the last thread of restraint he has.

Because he’s on you again. Kissing you until your lips ache. Until you’re both gasping for air. Hands fumbling with your clothes. And its clumsy in the dark room. Frantic with the urgency of years built up to this.

“Christ,” he groans. Kissing down your throat. His teeth sinking gently into your shoulder occasionally.

You gasp, hips bucking against his.

Clothes come off in a rush. His sweats shoved down…your shorts thrown away. And then his hands are slipping between your thighs. His fingers find your core easily. Slick and desperate.

“Always so stubborn,” he mutters. Kissing you again. Swallowing your moan as he pushes his fingers in. “Never listen.”

“Shut up.” Your nails dig into his shoulders. But you arch into his touch.

He works his fingers in you until your shaking. Until you’re biting your lip to try to stop the sounds from spilling.

“Mon dieu…..fuckin look at you.” He groans against your ear. Voice rough. Dark. “So fuckin’ wet all over m’hand…” He pumps faster, scissoring his fingers inside of you. Flicking them just right that it has you careening forward with a. Cry.

And then he’s pulling his hand away, tugging your hips closer, lining himself up.

“Tell me y’want this…” he presses his forehead to yours.

“Want you..” Your voice shakes. “Always.”

And that’s all he needs. Because he pushes in. Slow, deep.  Stretching you until your back arches off the bed. He groans. Jaw dropping as he bottoms out.

“F-fuck, fuck…” His voice cracks. Green eyes wide.

Your nails scrape down his shoulders. Overwhelmed by how full you feel.

He pulls back just to slam into you. Hard enough that the headboard knocks agains the wall. And a broken sound tears from his throat. “I’ve want this….fuck…wanted this for so long.” His lips are on your neck now. Biting. Sucking. Words hot against your skin. Burning. “Y’don’t even know.”

Every thrust is deeper. Harder. Mesa. He’s talking between every groan, like he can’t stop.

“Years…god…fuckin years I’ve been trying not to look at y’like this..tellin myself…telling myself that I couldn’t. That you were too young…off-limits…” His hips grind into yours a bit harder. His cock hitting that spot in your tummy just right.

Your legs tighten around his waist. Pulling him in closer. And he gasps, his eyes clenched shut as he fucks himself into you harder.

“You’re mine, yeah?” He outright grunts. “D’ya hear me? Mine. Always been, hm?”

“Ye…yes, Cha…” you whimper.

His mouth presses against yours. Kiss messy. And then he’s pulling back to say, “thought…thought I could stay away…protect you. But m’so fucking weak when it comes to you.”

Your orgasm builds sharp and fast. He reaches down to press his thumb to your clit, and you fucking break with a moan muffled against his shoulder. Body shaking as you clench around him.

And the way your cunt squeezes him undoes him instantly.

Even as he comes, he keeps moving. Like he can’t stop.  And you’re still pulsing around him…body twitching…when he groans into your shoulder and drives into you harder. Rougher.

“I…fuck…I can’t…” His words are choked. “Tried to stay away…tried to be good..” His thrusts falter. “You ruin me.”

You cry out. Muffled by the crush of his mouth on yours. Hands fisting into your hair, tugging your head back so when he lifts his head he can watch.

Even when he’s empty, he keeps grinding his cock into you.

“Drive me fuckin crazy,” he mutters into your neck. Collapsing into you. “And I’ll still want you again in five minutes…”

And the way he says it so casually…so grumpy…so honest…makes you smile wide.

-

Age 23 and 27

Your brother stomps back in with the bowl of popcorn. Oblivious to the heat buzzing at the table. Plops back down, a shoves a handful of it into his mouth. Mumbling m’never playing again.

Charles doesn’t even look at him. His eyes just stay locked on yours. Smug. “Game’s over anyways.”

“Yeah…cause you cheated.” You shoot back.

He tilts his head, a curve of his lips betraying him. “I don’t cheat.” He pauses. “I win.”

And he knows you remember the bet. The soft whispered winner gets whatever they want tossed out like some joke. But definitely being followed.

Your brother doesn’t notice the way your cheeks burn. Or the way Charles’s foot presses against your beneath the table.

And later, when the house has gone quiet.

Charles collects.

It’s not loud or frantic.

It’s soft. Deliberate. His hands steady as he cups your face in his hands. Mouth lingering on yours like he wishes it could be sewn to yours.

“Mine,” he whispers. Raw. Honest. “Always.”

And it’s moments like this…beneath all the teasing, the secrets…the hidden touches. That makes you remember its not just heat or adrenaline.

It’s love.

The kind that make you both reckless. The kind that keeps you sneaking around.

Soft. Dangerous.

“No, mate, I really wish you’d seen his face. Eyes bugging out and all. It was a right laugh, I swear to you.” Lando Norris, your best friend, slapped his knee in an overly dramatic gesture of mirth. He was prone to theatrics, of course, but it always startled you how startlingly different he was than his male counterpart. That other friend in question was staring at him with an expression that could only be described as utterly bewildered. “I can’t believe you aren’t laughing your arses off right now. God, you must be robots or some other inhuman shit. Everyone else was howling when I told them.”

“I’m grateful that you never pursued a career in comedy. Imagine the poor souls at your shows… They wouldn’t know what hit them,” Oscar said dryly. The corner of his lip twitched in amusement at the thought.

Lando frowned, turning his head towards you with a pleading expression, hazel eyes glossy with unshed tears. In Lando’s mind, the worst possible offense was finding his half-baked jokes unfunny. You prayed internally that you wouldn’t be called to the stand and forced to testify. “Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad. Was it, Y/N?”

“I…” You trailed off, lifting your hands in surrender, unwilling to lie through your teeth. “Lan, it’s no big deal if one joke didn’t make us laugh.”

“Yes it is,” Lando shot back as blotchy patches of red began to crawl up the side of his neck: another warning sign of an upcoming breakdown. “I’m funny as hell — that’s what everyone says — but according to you, I have the humor of a rock.”

Oscar clapped Lando on the shoulder, trying to soothe him. “Don’t worry, mate. Not everyone can be talented.” 

“Oh, fuck you, Oscar.” Lando narrowed his eyes. “You’re just too busy daydreaming about that new girl of yours to pay attention to me, your best friend for years and years.”

What?

Oscar’s eyes widened, and your gaze flashed over to him in shock. “What new girl?” You said, barely choking the words out. “Oscar, have you been hiding a whole entire girlfriend from me?”

“No,” he stuttered out. “No, there’s no girlfriend. Just, um, someone I have my eye on. Lando’s making a big deal out of nothing. If it was serious, I’d tell you. You know I would.”

You forced yourself to smile, because you were the master at playing the façade of being a good friend, even though it felt like your insides were burning in a pit of hellish fire. Oscar was painfully shy even with people he was friendly with. Maybe it would be a good thing if he was on the dating scene; it would coax him out of his shell. 

But you hated the thought of him cozying up to someone else, another woman who had ulterior motives of marriage and children, who would eventually try to tear him away from you and Lando. You’d been writing those fears off as jealousy and overprotectiveness for years, despite knowing the true root of the issue. It was getting increasingly harder to deny the fact that you had a crush on him, and as time passed, you were struggling to keep it a secret.

“I was surprised too,” Lando said, nudging you. He obviously took your shock as something else, and you were grateful for the alternate interpretation.

“There’s no one,” Oscar retorted defensively. “At all. You two are insufferable.”

Lando huffed. “You’re gaslighting me right now, and I won’t stand for it.”

“No, you’re just making a mountain out of a molehill,” Oscar responded.

“But if there was someone, you’d tell us, right?” You said, hating how petulant and childish you sounded. So what if Oscar wanted privacy and discretion with his love life? It wasn’t like he owed you anything, no matter how many years you’d shared. And God knew, if you ever did get a boyfriend, you didn’t want Lando and Oscar sticking their noses into your business. They’d scare that boy off in a tick. “I mean, you don’t have to.” You added quickly, shifting uncomfortably under the heat of Oscar’s gaze. It was so obvious how fucked over you were if Oscar did decide to get a partner. You wouldn’t be able to bear it, the easy smiles, the faux kindness, the questions, the advice. 

“If there was, I would,” Oscar reassured you. 

Lando grinned. “That girl would break a twenty-year oath of celibacy. Astounding, really, how you’ve held on to that for so long. Your moral compass is like no other.”

“Don’t insult him,” you scolded Lando, rising to his defense even though you knew you shouldn’t.

“I wasn’t,” Lando said harshly. “But, I’m sorry if I was.”

“Doesn’t matter to me, Lan,” Oscar said, forgiving as always, as he took a sip from his glass of wine. 

Later, when Lando had gone to take a leak in the bathroom, Oscar coughed like he was trying to unstick words that were clogged in his throat. You looked up from the crossword you were solving – six letter word for love, from the title of a play by Williams – and waited for Oscar to bite out what he wanted to say.

“I’m sorry about what Lando said earlier,” he finally muttered. “I don’t… I’ve never really…”

You shook your head, cutting him off before he could embarrass himself further. “Stop. You don’t need to apologize to me in the slightest. You know Lando likes instigating drama. It was just another one of those times, and you don’t have to explain yourself at all.”

“He saw me signing up for a dating app,” Oscar blurted. His ears blazed crimson, and you thought he might burst with self-consciousness. “Something that – that a guy at work mentioned. I thought I might register. See if it opens any doors.”

Oh, Oscar. Can’t you see that the person you’re looking for has been here the whole time? You yearned to confess. “Hmm, that’s nice. Heard that’s pretty common for people our age nowadays,” you said calmly, fiddling with the papery-soft edge of the crossword. Suddenly, you were grateful for the acting lessons you took back in secondary school. You prayed your features were schooled into perfect nonchalance that would disguise the raging tempest in your stomach. Oscar couldn’t know. Not now, not ever. It would ruin everything. 

“I haven’t swiped right on anybody yet, but I’m hoping I might soon,” Oscar said. “Lando wants me to connect with everyone, just so I’ll have a higher chance of success, but I think that’s superficial. I mean, you get it.”

“Yeah, right. Of course,” you fibbed.

“Sorry, I’m distracting you from your puzzle,” Oscar said, jerking his head to the side and cutting off the awkward word-vomit ramble. Thank God.

You tilted your head down, focusing back on the black-and-white tiles. How ironic. The answer was Desire. Those empty spots, with etched-in and erased pencil marks, were less of a mystery than what lay between you and your best friend. 

TEN YEARS EARLIER

The house at the end of your lane had stood empty for as long as you could remember. But your mother had surprised you with the news that a family from Melbourne would be moving in at the end of the month. You immediately pressed her for further details, yet all she would tell you was that there would be children for you to be friends with. That was satisfying enough; your neighborhood was devoid of people in your generation, other than the college students that rented a flat two blocks down. 

You eagerly awaited their arrival, counting the days with anticipation you’d only ever experienced when it was time for a family vacation or your birthday. When it finally came, you assumed a spot by the front window, watching as a moving truck parked in the driveway and a family of six spilled out.

Your mother called out to you as you rocketed through the door, but the words were lost to the wind. All you could hear was the thudding of your heart in your ears and your excited giggles that could barely be contained.

“Hi,” you said cheerily once you skidded to a stop by their porch. “I’m Y/N, I live just across the street. It’s nice to meet you.”

The three girls blinked at you owlishly. They all looked around the same age, but they were much younger than you. That couldn’t be who your mother was talking about, so who was the other – ? 

Oh.

A boy with mussed brown hair and lanky limbs stared at you from the foyer, head cocked to the side like a curious puppy. “Hi,” you said again, bouncing over to where he stood. “I’m –”

“I heard. I’m Oscar.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you responded. “I can show you my spot by the lake later, if you want. We can get ice lollies from the store, and you can tell me all about Australia. I’ve never been; I’ve lived in London my whole life.”

“You talk so fast,” Oscar noted softly.

“Sorry. I know this must be so different, and you must be knackered. I’ll come back tomorrow, when you’re all settled in.” You flashed him a bright smile, remembering your manners that your mother taught you. “Goodbye, Oscar.”

“Goodbye…” Oscar stammered. “I’ll see you later, I guess?”

PRESENT-DAY

There was a special circle of Hell reserved for people like your boss. You resisted the urge to smack your head until it bled out on the desk, wishing you could be anywhere other than your blindingly white cubicle at work. It wasn’t like you hated your job — no, it was the complete opposite. You actually enjoyed creating social media campaigns, knowing that your public relations degree had been useful for something. 

But it was the monotony that killed you, the constant loop of genesis and inevitable destruction as you attempted to revise the advertisements you’d painstakingly formatted. You understood that the marketing industry was cutthroat, that one mistake could plummet sales and cause a well-established company to crumble. Yet it wouldn’t prevent you from bemoaning the predicament you found yourself in.

You waded through the pits of Google, scrolling past articles that were clickbait at their best and a defamation lawsuit at their worst. The bolded blue headlines began to blur, and you suppressed a yawn that had been building up in your throat. When was the last time you had a full night’s rest, unimpeded by the long drudgery of your job? You hummed softly, a feeble attempt to distract yourself as you typed in a new set of phrases. 

More baseless celebrity drama, a new sports drink, and… a public invitation to a matchmaking ceremony in a bar downtown. 

Interesting.

The memory of your last conversation with Oscar echoed in your mind. You pressed on the link, which sent you to a website with a dazzling pink-and-white layout. You grinned at the image of a wedding cake, topped with a little moving graphic of a groom and a bride. Whoever had made it definitely knew how to keep things in theme without going overboard and being tasteless or tacky. So this must be a professional event, an official declaration for all to see. 

You moved down, absorbing the information. The matchmaking would take place in the Society Lounge, some hangout that you’d never ventured to. The risk was evident – it would be embarrassing getting caught at such an event, especially if Lando found out – but so was the reward. You’d wanted a boyfriend for ages, though you’d never done much to get one: the dating landscape was terrifying, especially for your age group. Everyone made grand pronouncements about who they were, which were all an illusion like the Wizard of Oz’s golden mask. 

Maybe this was your chance. The only thing you had to do was reach out and seize the opportunity. You forwarded the link to your personal email, so you could research it further on your downtime. 

Once you were back home, huddled up under your thick web of blankets, you pulled up the email with the link to the matchmaking event. It was still open for signups, and without another second of hesitation, you filled out the necessary details for yourself…and Oscar, who would be accompanying you.

It seemed so easy, but you knew you weren’t in the clear just yet. How would you broach the topic with Oscar, who was infamously skittish when it came to anything related to love lives? The fact that he’d enrolled in a dating app did increase your chances of success, but you knew he would ask a thousand questions. The only thing you could do for now was cross your fingers and hope your plan worked.

Your phone buzzed with an incoming notification – a text from none other than Oscar Piastri himself.

OSCAR  [19:46]  Saw this bird earlier today. Thought of you. 

An image was attached to the message, and you double-tapped it to enlarge the picture. A cute black-and-gray starling was mid-hop in a plaza square, nibbling at seeds on the ground. You snorted.

Y/N  [19:47]  how does that remind you of me. be honest

You watched as three dots appeared on the screen, signifying that Oscar was coming up with a response to your question.

OSCAR  [19:47]  It wouldn’t stop bothering people for their food. Does that answer your question?

You scoffed. Wow.

Y/N  [19:48]  god forbid a girl likes eating 💔

OSCAR [19:48]  Talking about food, I just ordered takeout from the Chinese restaurant downtown. Want to come over?

Your heart caught in your chest, tangling up in the fragile threads of hope. If he was alone, without Lando hanging around, it would be the perfect chance to inform him about the matchmaking ceremony. You bolted up from your fetal position, quickly typing a “yes”, and half-jogged to your closet. 

You grabbed a baggy hoodie and flared leggings, the two closest items to you. A rapid fire check in the mirror showed that your hair wasn’t too messed up from the ponytail you’d tucked it in earlier, and you grabbed a few things off of your counter before heading out the door.

Oscar was already waiting for you, a bag of your favorite chips securely grasped in his fingers like a covered prize. “Look what I got,” he said, grinning from ear-to-ear. 

“Sustenance,” you nearly groaned, hands immediately extending to grab it. “Thank you, Osc. You’re the best.”

“Nuh uh, not yet, Y/N,” Oscar shook his head, retracting the chips before you could take them. “You’ve got to tell me why you canceled next week’s movie night first.”

You blinked. “O – Oh,” you stuttered. So the cat was out of the bag then, and you scrambled for a coherent answer. “I mean… Well…”

“Come on, Y/N, spit it out. I’ve never seen you this tongue-tied before.”

You cleared your throat, buying a few extra seconds. “I might’ve stumbled on an ad for a matchmaking ceremony? And signed us up for it? Just to see if maybe something… I don’t know.” You flailed your arms awkwardly.

“A matchmaking ceremony? Are we from the sixteen hundreds all of a sudden?” Oscar joked, obviously thinking you weren’t being serious.

You stared at him. “No, Oscar – I’m telling the truth. You told me about how you signed up for Tinder, or something else, and I thought it might be good for you. For me. For us.”

“That’s Lando’s sort of thing,” Oscar said, puzzled. “Did you conspire with him?”

“No, no, no,” you said instantly. “I saw it and planned it all out on my own. Lando has no idea. I want to keep it this way.”

“I don’t get it. You seemed like you hated the idea of me dating someone. But now you’re actively trying to set me up?” Oscar questioned, tilting his head to the side.

“It’s not just you who would have a date. I’d be getting one too,” you pointed out. “And I don’t care, really, who you decide to see.”

For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something in Oscar’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly for you to fully recognize what it was. “Alright then,” Oscar mused. “Might as well do it; we have nothing to lose. Who knows – I might meet the love of my life.”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah, maybe.” Or maybe she’s right in front of you.

The Society Lounge was a cozy nook in the middle of downtown London, with a sleek modern design. You wrapped your fingers around Oscar’s forearm to avoid losing him in the crowded restaurant. “Let’s sit here,” you murmured to him, nodding your head towards a comfortable side booth.

“Sure.” 

You took your spot, craning your neck to see the mahogany podium stationed at the front of the room. A woman, with silky black hair and flawless makeup, was already standing there, shuffling a thick stack of papers. 

“I think it’s starting,” you said, just as the lights dimmed and the woman readjusted the microphone on the stand, a signal that she was about to begin speaking.

“Hello all. My name is Mai Nguyen,” the woman introduced herself. “If you could all please take out your phones and enter the app Matchstick, which you should have downloaded before arriving at this event.”

You and Oscar dutifully extracted your phones, following Mai’s instructions. 

“Enter the code 81433. The information for your profile should also already be complete. Once you’ve done so, it will ask you a set of 5 to 10 questions. Answer it as carefully and accurately as possible. Then, the algorithm will calculate your closest match.” Mai took a pause to ensure everyone was listening. “We’ll have a period of time where all guests can find their match, and engage with them. That’s all for now. Have a great night, and may you find the love of your life.”

The quiz itself was simplistic, primarily asking questions pertaining to your hobbies and interests, amongst other topics.

What’s your love language?

Would you rather spend time at home, or out socializing?

Do you value honesty over kindness?

When the quiz was submitted, you were sent to a loading screen. You glanced across the table. Oscar’s eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, mouth screwed up as he contemplated his choices. He really was taking this seriously.

A few minutes later, Mai stepped back up to the platform. The speaker buzzed as she said, “Alright, looks like everyone is finished. The results should be out in approximately thirty seconds, and we’ll begin the mingling period about two minutes after.”

As she finished speaking, you looked down at your phone again. You wondered whose face would pop up on your screen: a man’s? A woman’s? It didn’t matter to you what the gender was, just as long as you could connect with them.

You drummed your nails on the wooden surface, impatiently waiting for the results. And –

Congratulations! You have been matched with — 

[OSCAR PIASTRI, AGE 21. LONDON, UK]

A gasp trembled in the base of your throat. It was too good to hope, to think that you’d see Oscar’s familiar face reflecting back at you, but your fantasy had become real. 

Oscar made a soft noise, something similar to the rumble a seal makes. “Looks like you’re the love of my life, then,” he noted wryly.

“Are you disappointed?”

He blinked, visibly startled by the harshness of your tone. “Why would you think that?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “You look angry. Like…you wish it were someone else.”

“I don’t,” Oscar answered simply. “I was just surprised.”

Mai Nguyen announced something, but it sounded muffled to your ears. “I – I’m sorry. If you want to, I don’t know, swap with someone else, I’m sure they could figure something out,” you faltered. 

Oscar’s eyes crinkled in confusion. “According to the matchmaking algorithm, you’re my soulmate. I’m not going to give that up.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable –”

“Please tell me you’re joking. I thought it was obvious how I felt for you, that I can’t imagine a life without you. Why would you ever think that I could?” Oscar stared at you with wide brown eyes. “You’re my best friend. I’ve spent ten years with you, and all of them, I’ve spent pining over someone I thought was unachievable. It was about time that we figured our feelings out.”

You grinned. “Thank god for dating algorithms.”

“And don’t forget the catalyst: Lando’s impatience over the fact that I haven’t had a girlfriend yet.”

TWO MONTHS LATER

The light from the Milan skyline was dazzling as you walked side-by-side with Oscar, raspberry gelato dripping from the gaps in the gauzy napkin. You hummed a soft melody to yourself, a tune you’d heard from one of the musicians who played on the streets. Usually, you had a million thoughts flying around in your mind, but for the first time in ages, you felt at peace.

Oscar interlocked his fingers with yours, rubbing a comforting circle on your skin. “Let me know when you want to head back to the hotel,” he said quietly.

Almost two months had passed since you’d gone to the matchmaking event and been paired up with Oscar. Lando wasn’t surprised to find the true meaning of your cancellation on movie night, but he still acted woundingly betrayed. At least, he reasoned, his two best friends weren’t stumbling around blind anymore. “I hate being a third wheel, but I guess it’s worth it for you two,” Lando had said, slapping Oscar on the back in celebration. “Don’t think it means I want to see you two snogging though. Get a room.”

Oscar tapped your nose to get your attention. “Everything OK, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine,” you said. “Just thinking. About everything, about us.”

“Having second thoughts?”

You furiously shook your head. “How could I? You’re the best boyfriend in the world.”

Oscar laughed, a clear chortle in the crisp air. “I’m glad to hear it.”

You walked further, through the winding streets. A little shop was still open, with various trinkets meant to entice tourists into wasting their precious money. You knew this, but you were lured in anyway. “Can we buy a postcard for Lan?” you asked, looking up at Oscar. 

“He won’t read it,” Oscar said. 

“He will, for us. Or we can tack it up on the fridge, lively up your flat a bit.”

“Our flat is lively enough already. Lando’s a terrible hoarder.”

“Oh, please, Oscar. Just one postcard, to remember we even had this trip. Please?” you begged, putting your hands together in a supplicant manner. “You want to, you’re just denying it.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Fine, but only one.”

“Yay! Thank you!” 

You ran inside the shop, admiring the painted covers of the postcards. Oscar was right behind you, and you could feel the weight of his stare as you rifled through the spindly metal racks. “This one is perfect,” you said, holding up a small card with an image of the crystal-blue waters of the Mediterranean. “I love this one.”

“Good.” Oscar pecked a kiss on your cheek, swiping the card from you in the process. “I’ll pay.”

“Osc! Give it back!” You groaned, trying to get it back without any success. “Thank you. Even though I was going to pay for it myself,” you grumbled under your breath.

“Never say I don’t love you,” Oscar joked, kissing you again. “Because I do.”

You smirked. “I’ve successfully brainwashed you.”

“Mmm, or I’m right where I want to be. In Italy, with the love of my life, with nothing but hopes and dreams before me,” Oscar commented.

You tugged at his shirt. “How poetic.”

“Didn’t you say you liked men who were witty and handsome? I’ve got to make sure I fulfill those qualities, don’t I?” he acknowledged. 

“That’s true.” You huffed out a breath. “But I’d love you even if you weren’t. Because you’re my soulmate.”

“Ah, how romantic.” Oscar flashed you a cheeky grin. 

And at that precise moment, you were positive that you’d never felt more elated in your life.

Oscar and you had known each other since you two were in diapers. The Piastris were your next door neighbors and your parents had become great friends with them before either of you were in the picture. When both of your Mums fell pregnant around the same time they were ecstatic, the thought of their little bundles of joy having a friend just next door was a match made in heaven. Oscar and you ended up being just around four months apart in age and you never let Oscar forget that you were the older one. 

From learning to walk and talk, learning your ABC’s, the arrival of siblings, birthdays, first days of school. If there was something that was to be remembered or commemorated– Oscar and you were side by side for all of it. 

There wasn’t anyone you were closer with in the world than Oscar. 

Your sister and Oscar’s sisters came a close second, but at the end of the day Oscar and you were each other’s person. 

When Oscar started to race RC cars you helped him build a makeshift track in his backyard and when he made the move to actual karting– well it was a surprise to no one. He’d always been a little nerd about cars as a child and somehow had wrangled you into finding an appreciation for it at least. Your younger sister and Oscar’s sisters happily didn’t show as much interest. 

The smell of exhaust and the sound of go-kart engines had become things you found comfort in when you were younger. Weekends spent with the Piastri’s at whatever race Oscar had entered into were some of your favorite memories as a child. From the ages of 10 to 14 there wasn’t a summer that wasn’t filled with racing. The unforgiving Australian sun would beat down on the track and you’d still sit there, sunkissed and supportive, your eyes glued to Oscar’s kart the whole time. 

As the two of you got older and Oscar really started to take racing seriously your support never wavered, if anything it got stronger. You could tell even from a young age that Oscar Piastri was going to be somebody. And every March when the roar of the Formula 1 cars echoed through what was practically your backyard and you two sat in the grandstands you both knew that someday Oscar would be in one of those twenty cars that flew through Albert Park. 

You just didn’t think for him to get there– that it would take him away from you. 

The technicalities and culture of single seater racing was something you had no knowledge of. All you knew was that you loved to watch Oscar race, and loved to watch racing in general. So why should you at age fourteen know that racing in Europe would open so many new doors for Oscar and that it was inevitable that he move there to further his career. 

Even as a young child Oscar had been attuned to other people’s emotions. He was the calm in most chaos and could read the ones closest to him like a book. Which makes his decision to not tell you about him leaving until the night before the dumbest idea he’s ever had. He should have known how you would react and maybe this dumb decision was also a form of self preservation. 

If he didn’t tell you then maybe him leaving wouldn’t be real and if he didn’t tell you till the last minute then none of your shared memories towards the end would be tainted with the dark cloud that is your other half moving across the country. In the end no matter how mature Oscar was for his age– he was still a fourteen year old boy trying to figure out how to tell his favorite person that he was moving 10,000 miles away and that he didn’t know when he would be back. 

The old swingset creaked beneath him as his feet lazily dragged through the grass. The sun was beginning to set over the coast and the slight chill in the air let him know that summer was coming to it’s end, just like his life here. He’d texted you to come over ten minutes ago and with each passing minute he was that much closer to not even telling you about him leaving. He can already imagine the look on your face when he tells you and it makes his stomach churn. 

He hears the back gate open and then latch as it swings back closed. Your footsteps shouldn’t be making any sound against the plush grass, yet to Oscar it sounds like you're stomping with the force of an elephant as you make your way towards him. His grip on the metal chains were so tight that his knuckles had turned white and when he hears you sit in the empty swing next to him he thinks his heart is going to pound out of his chest. 

“Sorry, I had to help Mum with the dishes before I came over.” You’re met with silence and a blank faced Oscar, who isn’t even looking at you. You lean forward slightly in the swing to get a good look at his face and he won’t even make eye contact with you. “What’s wrong?” 

Your mind starts going through endless possibilities, it wasn’t like Oscar to not say anything to you and now you feel guilty for not getting here sooner– he clearly has something going on. Did a grandparent die? The family pet? Does he have a terminal illness?

“Oscar what’s going on?” You pry again. 

“I’m going to England.” He blurts it out so fast you can barely understand him, but Oscar figured it was like ripping off a bandaid– get it over as quickly as possible.

“What did you say?” 

“I said I’m going to England.” He still won’t look at you and he knows it’s cowardly, but he can’t help it. 

You give him a strange look, why is he acting so weird about a trip to England? It’s just a vacation before school starts back up– at least that’s what you think he’s implying at first. 

“Ok– how long are you guys going to be gone? Do we need to watch Rosie?” 

He finally works up the nerve to face you and you can’t believe he seems to be in this much agony over going to England on vacation. Little do you know that in a few seconds you’re going to wish all that was happening was a vacation. 

“You guys won’t need to watch Rosie because I’m the only one going to England.” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and before you can ask a follow up question he goes and rips your heart out. “Y/N– I’m moving to England.”

Your brain can’t seem to process the information and your mouth tries to form words, but all you can focus on is the word moving. Not visiting or going on a holiday– but moving. As in leaving Melbourne and making a new home someplace without you right next door. 

He starts to ramble on about how it’s crucial for his racing career and that if he stays in Australia he won’t move up through the feeder series like he needs to. It’s all background noise as you try to come to terms with the fact that your best friend– your other half practically is moving half way across the world. “Dad’s going to stay with me for a couple months until I get settled, but I’ll be back for the summer and Christmas and maybe some other school bre-” 

“When are you leaving?” 

Oscar pauses for a moment, knowing this is what is really going to hurt you and he hates that he waited so long to tell you. “First thing in the morning.” 

You feel your stomach drop and a ringing start in your ears. Not only was he leaving, but he was leaving without giving you any warning. Oscar had given you no time to savor your last moments together– instead he’s tainted them. The two of you lock eyes and you hate how he’s looking at you– like you’re some dog that’s on its last leg and getting ready to be loaded into the car to go get put down. The realization hurts and the lump in your throat only seems to be getting bigger as you really come to terms with the fact that everything is going to change between you two now. He’ll have a new life and you’ll become that girl he grew up with. A memory, pages in a scrapbook, a chapter in his life. 

You’re pissed and upset, but Oscar Piastri is not going to get any tears out of you this evening. You’ll wait until you’re back in your room, with your One Direction pillow case to cry into and a Mum who will ask what’s wrong. 

“Why’d you wait until now to tell me?” 

Oscar shrugs, a lump as equally as big had formed in his throat as he watched you silently process the bomb that he’d dropped. He hated that he had to leave home– leave you, but he loved racing and he wanted to do what was necessary to make his dreams come true. “I thought that maybe if I didn’t tell you our last couple days together wouldn’t be ruined by knowing that I was leaving. I just wanted things to be normal.” 

“Well things are never going to be normal again Oscar.” You counter. 

And he knows that, but he doesn’t want to admit it. So he chooses to say nothing, instead he just stares back at you, memorizing every detail of your face, down to the last freckle. 

On the other hand at age fourteen you feel like a lot of things are the end of the world, but god if this didn’t feel like it to you. You were so mad at him for keeping this from you and you want to be a brat and ice him out, but it’s Oscar. 

Your Oscar. 

So you hold it all in and try to enjoy what little time you have left with him. “You’re gonna hate England. It rains all the time.” 

Oscar smirks a little at your comment, he thinks that maybe this won’t absolutely destroy the both of you. “It rains all the time here too.” 

“Yeah, but it’s cloudy and grey there.” 

“Then I’ll fit right in.” He’s referring to how he never tans, not even in the Australian sun and when he sees you smile a little the lump in his throat starts to shrink. 

He promises to Facetime and text, anything to keep in contact and says that any chance he can get to come home and visit he will and you tell him not to forget about you when he gets his Formula 1 seat. It’s all a formality– the things you say to the other person when they announce their departure from your life.

Eventually the stars make their way into the night sky and Oscar knows he has to be up early for his flight in the morning, but he wants to soak up every last minute with you that he can. “I’m leaving at seven in the morning if you want to come over and say goodbye before I leave.” Oscar states as the two of you stand by the back gate, trying to stay out for as long as possible. 

“Yeah I’ll be over.” You state before letting the gate close behind you. 

“Goodnight.” Oscar says as the two of you stand separated by the fence. 

“Night Osc.” Your voice is soft and gentle and Oscar knows you’re acting like this isn’t killing you, mainly because he’s trying to act like it isn’t killing him either. 

He watches you as you cross over into your yard all the way until he sees you disappear through your backdoor. He stands there for a second, trying to capture this moment in his mind. This is one of the last times he’s going to see you for who knows how long and he doesn’t want to forget it. 

That night you cry into your Mother’s arms while Oscar packs and repacks his suitcase until he can’t think straight. 

Morning arrives in the blink of an eye and before the sun can even make her grand arrival in the morning sky Oscar’s parents are loading up the car with luggage. He’s stalling–his eyes constantly shooting over towards your front door, hoping that any second you’d walk out that door and come give him a hug goodbye. But you don’t come over and Oscar almost misses his flight waiting for you. He starts to go over and knock on your door, but his Mother stops him dead in his tracks. “Let her have her space honey. She’ll call you when she’s ready.” 

There’s no hugs or goodbyes exchanged. No texts or calls. Just Oscar standing there facing your house with his suitcase, hoping, praying that you would come out and at least say bye. Time runs out and he ends up watching your houses fade away into the distance from the backseat of the car. 

This was the official start of a new chapter in his life and as his Dad turns onto another street and he can no longer see your house or even his own he knows this is the end and beginning. He’s leaving behind his family, his childhood memories, everything he’s ever known to chase his dream. 

But most importantly he’s leaving you. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Oscar has always been able to adapt to things quickly in life. There was no tantrum thrown when each of his sisters arrived. There was no first day of school meltdown picture to be found. He took to karting like a fish takes to water. And so Oscar really thought that this move to England would be a piece of cake– but he was dead wrong. 

He missed home. 

He missed you. 

England was depressing and not even the prospect of racing could cheer him up, not until you finally reached out to him. Which was a week later. 

Oscar swore the sun had never shone so bright in England as it did the day your name popped up on his phone. It was a simple text– how’s England? But Oscar treasured it like it was the winning lottery numbers. 

It didn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into your old habits and sometimes it was like you both were just right next door and not across the globe. As the weeks turned into months Oscar slowly started to feel more at ease. Racing and school took up the majority of his time and when he got the chance the two of you would talk, but that would soon come to an end. 

His first year away Oscar came home for what seemed like every school break and it was great to be able to see him and you two spent as much time together as you could. It was Oscar and you– just like old times. But even with things seeming like old times, there was still that looming cloud hovering above you, knowing that Oscar would eventually leave again. 

Then as those months turned into years, life and the distance between the two of you started to take its natural course. The calls stopped, texts were either unanswered or boiled down to birthdays and holidays, flights home weren’t booked. Oscar was making a life for himself and he’d clearly settled into the English boarding school lifestyle all while pursuing his racing dreams. You on the other hand were also living your life, just 10,000 miles away. You were passionate about your education and had made new friends that as far as you know weren’t going to move across the globe.

To say you still didn’t keep tabs on Oscar as the years passed was a straight up lie. Social media and Oscar’s sister Hattie kept you in the loop even without the communication from Oscar, maybe it was a little sad, but you don’t just get rid of that connection you have with someone overnight– or in your case years. 

So when Hattie lets it slip one night that Oscar is bringing home his girlfriend for Christmas in a couple weeks you aren’t the least bit surprised. Oscar may not have been the best social media user, but his private instagram showed a whole different side of him. You’d started to notice the same girl that seemed to be in all his group photos with friends at parties and then eventually they’d be next to each other in group photos, looking more than friendly.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that seventeen year old Oscar had bagged himself his first girlfriend. Her name was Lucy and she was gorgeous and clearly had a brain on her. You may have done some digging on her one night when you were feeling a little depressed, which was a bad idea in general. You hadn’t spoken an actual word to Oscar in lord knows how long and yet you felt this possessive wave wash over you and you hated yourself for being like that. Oscar had his new life and you had yours, yet at times you still felt like you were still fourteen when it came to anything pertaining to Oscar. 

You smile at Hattie, plastering on fake enthusiasm towards the fact that Oscar was coming home, but only to show off his new girlfriend. Not to come see you, because god forbid he come see you. The resentment and abandonment issues you’d harbored against Oscar had truly come to light in recent days– since the announcement of his trip home with his girlfriend in tow. It wasn’t fair to his girlfriend and in all honesty it wasn’t fair to Oscar, communication is a two way street and you had stopped reaching out too. There were clearly some deeper feelings that were arising over this, ones you wouldn’t come to realize until years later. 

Your Mum is the second person to mention Oscar’s big trip home to you and you once again plaster a fake smile on your face and tell her that you can’t wait to see him- fully knowing that you’ll find an excuse to miss the already planned joint family dinner. In another universe it would be like old times on Christmas, but this is the same universe that ripped your person from you, so the flu would be making an appearance this Christmas alongside Oscar’s girlfriend. 

Christmas arrives and so does this stomach bug that you can’t seem to shake. Of course you don’t want to risk getting everyone else sick, so Christmas Eve night is spent alone, in your room. You’re grateful that your Mum doesn’t push you to suck it up and just go. You know deep down she knows you aren’t really sick and the real reason as to why you aren’t going, even though you won’t admit it to yourself either. Cult classic Christmas movies play continuously as you stuff your face with the extra sugar cookies your Mum didn’t take next door. It’s about as depressing as you can get on Christmas Eve, spending it alone out of spite, but you're seventeen and there wasn’t any other logical solution than to play fake sick. 

The opening title to Elf starts to play on the TV when your phone dings, the text notification lighting up your phone. You glance at it, not really bothered to reply to whoever is trying to reach you, but the name that illuminates across the screen makes you do a double take. Your hand whips out from under the blanket and grabs your phone. 

oscar: you’re missing out on your mum’s sugar cookies. the candy cane one still looks like a penis even after all these years. 

Your heart is pounding out of your chest as you read the text over and over, making sure you’re not hallucinating. How dare he just text you out of the blue like that? Text like you two haven’t gone almost two years without speaking regularly. It’s annoying and you hate how much it affects you. How you can’t seem to get your emotions in check when the mere mention of him is brought up. 

you: eat an extra one for me. i’ll be puking my guts up if i try and eat one of those tonight.

You take a deep breath and press send, reaching for one of the cookies to occupy you while you wait for the inevitable no reply. He’s probably laughing it up with his girlfriend over your Mum’s horribly shaped, but delicious, cookies. It should be you over there, yet here you are being pathetic and hiding. 

oscar: feel better soon. 

you: thanks. 

You toss your phone back onto your bed, before wiping the excess cookie crumbs from your shirt. 

What a shitty Christmas. 

Your Mum and Hattie don’t really mention how Oscar’s visit went or how you somehow avoided him like the plague the whole time he was home, considering you live next to each other, and for that you are thankful. When he leaves back for England a few short days later you pretend not to care that it coincides with your birthday. Not that you would be up for celebrating with him if he even offered, but the fact that he didn’t even send a birthday text after texting you out of the blue on Christmas Eve has you wondering if he knew you weren’t sick. 

Oscar always could see through your bullshit when you two were younger and you knew he knew that you wouldn’t miss Christmas Eve even if you had the bubonic plague. It was your favorite time of year and he never let you live down the year you had been so sick that you’d practically lost your voice, but still insisted on singing Last Christmas with your froggy voice– thus the Kermit nickname that stuck with you for a year was born. 

There wasn’t anyone that you knew everything and nothing about at the same time like Oscar Piastri. To you he’ll always be fourteen and you think that’s why you’ve had such a hard time with this adjustment of him not being in your life even years later. Because to you– the Oscar that you know– wouldn’t have forgotten about you, but the sad part is that is the Oscar you know. The seventeen year old Oscar has every part of fourteen year old Oscar in him and when you finally accepted that and let go of what you once knew life seemed to get easier or you were just getting older. Either way you weren’t going to miss another Christmas because you didn’t want to face the boy who ripped out a piece of yourself and took it with him to England. 

The following spring Oscar doesn’t come home for your graduation from high school or even send you a congratulations text and that summer when he comes home to celebrate his graduation you’ve already moved out. 

The best decision you ever made was to move out as soon as you could. As much as you loved the Piastri’s, being next to them was a constant reminder of Oscar and once you started University you really wanted a fresh start. You wanted to start this new chapter in your life Oscar free. You’d spent all of your teenage years trying to adjust to not having the person in your life that you thought would be there forever.  

It was an adjustment being away from home, but god did you thrive once you got settled. This was the place you were going to become you– to make your mark on the world and plan for the future. You just didn’t think that future would somehow involve you being at the 2025 Australian Grand Prix. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You’d graduated from your University at the top of your class with a degree in journalism and you’d landed a job at one of the top establishments in Melbourne not too long after graduating. You were passionate about journalism and wanted to cover the world’s historical events. The things you see in LIFE magazine or The New York Times. Never in your life did you think you’d be sent to cover the events of the freaking Australian Grand Prix. 

When the email came across your laptop first thing in the morning you thought it had been sent to the wrong person and you replied to your boss with a– was this meant to go to me? Only to be met with– Yes. I heard through the grapevine you have connections to the Piastri’s. Give me a one on one with Oscar and coverage of the weekend and we’ll talk about that promotion

You read the reply from your boss about a hundred times before realizing this was real life and not a hallucination. You wanted to die. This felt like a punishment and you were drawing a blank on what you did to deserve it. At this point in your grown life Oscar wasn’t even an afterthought. You were twenty-four years old. You hadn’t thought about him in the way you used to since before you started University. Yet, it makes your stomach twist a little at the thought of seeing him again all these years later. 

Of course his face was plastered all over the city the past couple years when Grand Prix time came around, but you’d grown to see his face as some random model that you see in every store advert. Not the boy you once knew everything about. That Christmas Eve six years ago was the last time you had any communication with Oscar and now you’re going to have to show up at his work and act like you were just any other journalist.

Life really was a bitch sometimes, but you were a grown woman and god dammit if you weren’t going to suck it up and get that promotion. You didn’t go through four years of schooling and horrible internships to lose a promotion because of Oscar Piastri. 

Your Mum was the one to break the news to you about Oscar finally getting a seat in Formula 1. It was text on a random Tuesday afternoon and you remember feeling genuine happiness for him in the moment. It was something he’d wanted since he was a kid and to see him accomplish his dreams no matter how you felt about him or how you two had fallen out didn’t matter at that point in time. Because all you saw was the two of you as children and weekends spent watching Oscar karting, the yearly paddock adventures during the Grand Prix weekend. It’s bittersweet because you thought you’d be there beside him when he got to that moment in his life, but for him to get there he had to lose you. 

For a brief second you think about texting him and congratulating him, but you talk yourself out of, hell you didn’t even know if he still had the same number all these years later. You like his iconic tweet involving Alpine, lost in the thousands of other interactions, and leave it at that. 

The week leading up to the race weekend you theorize how this is going to happen, every possible outcome and by Wednesday you think you might start balding from how stressed you’ve made yourself, but you weren’t going to back out at the last minute. You were going to walk into that paddock tomorrow morning with your head held high and give the best damn coverage of the weekend and interview with Oscar that the world has ever seen. 

Well that was the plan. 

You’d made it to Albert Park without a hitch and triple checked that you had everything you could possibly need before you left your apartment. You made your way to the paddock entrance, trying to blend in as much as possible. That is– until your pass won’t scan. You try holding it at every angle against the scanner and the pillar consistently lights up red, you even go as far as trying a different entry lane and you’re still met with the glaringly red denial of entry. You feel like all eyes are on you and you’re sure everyone thinks you're some freak that’s got a bogus pass and is trying to sneak into the paddock, but your pass couldn’t be more legit. 

There’s hundreds of cameras waiting at the entrance to get the first pics of the drivers entering the paddock for the first time this weekend and you’re praying that Oscar doesn’t show up during all of this. A worker starts to come over after watching you struggle for what seemed like forever, but before they can even speak a British accent sounds off behind you and then a burst of McLaren orange shows up in your peripheral vision. You panic for a minute thinking it’s Oscar, but then you realize he’s not British and that it’s his teammate Lando. 

He puts his pass up to the scanner and is met with the same fate as you. “Oh my god how have they not fixed these. Start of the new season and it’s not working, once again.” The two of you make eye contact briefly and he notices you’ve been dealt the same cards. “Yours not working either?” He asks, completely ignoring the entourage he has surrounding him trying to get his pass to scan for him and the worker quickly coming to his aide, unlike you who had to wait. You shake your head no at him and try your pass one last time for good measure– no entry once again. “I’m just squeezing past the turnstile. I’d do the same if I were you.” 

You watch as the curly haired driver squeezes his way between the metal turnstile and the wall before immediately being swarmed by fans who don’t know what personal space is and photographers trying to get the perfect shot. You decide the chaos of Lando arriving is the perfect opportunity for you to sneak in and so you squeeze through, not as easily as him though, who seemed to have the waist of a Victoria Secret model. You weren’t going to waste anymore time, figuring that if Lando was here then Oscar surely wasn’t far behind. 

As you walk through the paddock memories of the last time you were here flash in your mind. A lot had changed since then– in your life and in the paddock. You didn’t think back then that this is how your life would have turned out. Sure you figured Oscar would be here, but you didn’t think you’d be here under these circumstances or that Oscar and you weren’t glued at the hip anymore. 

The hustle and bustle of everything starts to get overwhelming and the idea of seeing Oscar again after so long is actually starting to become a reality. The nerves were settling in and you could feel your stomach twisting the closer you got to the media area. There aren’t many other reporters and media personnel when you enter the room so you seize the opportunity to lay claim to the seat in the last row, practically tucked into the back corner by the plastic fern.

Oscar was supposed to be in the second set of drivers that had to do the press conference today and you were praying you could hide back here with this fake plant and that he wouldn’t spot you. There’s only five rows of seats and they aren’t very long rows, so chances are he’ll spot you, but hell he probably doesn’t even know what you look like now. So what did you really have to worry about?

The first round of drivers goes by without a hitch and you actually get some good material for your weekend coverage. You’re also proud of yourself for using the lull between panels to get a head start on your work instead of spiraling over seeing Oscar. That is until the doors open and the new set of drivers trickle into the building. 

Your eyes are glued to each driver as they walk in and make the short journey to the couches at the front of the room. Kimi, Charles, Max– they all filter in one after the other and you're left waiting for the final person to make their grand entrance. The creaking of the door opening makes your eyes dart over and when the hint of the McLaren team kit peaks through the door frame you feel your heart rate sky rocket. 

The moment your eyes lock onto Oscar you think you might have blacked out for a brief second. He’d changed so much since the last time you actually saw him in person. He was a grown man now. Pictures and videos online didn’t do him justice. He had gotten so big. He had the broadest shoulders, the fabric of his shirt straining against the buff muscles of his upper body. His hair had grown out some, it was the same sandy brown color, but more fluffy than when he was younger. And that neck– Jesus that neck of his. It was so damn thick and made the two moles on his Adam’s apple, something you used to love about him, even more prominent.

You’ve been so distracted taking in Oscar’s grand arrival that you don’t even realize the press conference has officially begun until the reporter next to you stands up and starts asking Oscar of all people a question. Which means all of his attention is focused towards the back of the room, the row you’re sitting in, the person next to you. His eyes are bound to wander to the people on either side of that reporter, but still you try to scoot closer to the fake plant, hoping that either the plant hides you well enough or that if Oscar looks to the left and sees you that he doesn’t realize it’s you. You think that the back row has to be far enough back that Oscar can’t clearly see anybody right?

You were so wrong. 

The plant does absolutely nothing to hide you either and the two of you lock eyes for the first time in almost a decade. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Oscar Piastri was a patient man. He’d done his time in the feeder series, spent his childhood karting, dedicated his life to be able to chase his dream and after a tricky rookie season and a rough start to his second season this season seemed to be the one he’d dreamed about. The season he’d patiently been waiting for. 

He’d been anxious, ready for the season to start and to show everyone what he was capable of, especially in the beast of a car the team had developed, not to mention the first race of the season being his home race. Oscar was ready to put the first points on the board towards the championship title. There wasn’t anything that could throw him off his game this season. Or at least he didn’t think there was. 

The walk into the paddock this morning had Oscar filled with excitement. There was nothing like seeing all the fans, especially hometown fans, so ready to cheer him on when he’s out on the track. Autographs are signed, pictures are taken, it’s all second nature to Oscar now. McLaren’s and his own personal social media person are in tow– camera’s in hand capturing all the good content they can to kick off the season. Even though it’s only media day it’s still a jam packed schedule and his press officer makes haste to fill him in on his day as they sit in McLaren’s hospitality unit. 

“You’ve got team content to film first thing this morning, then the press conference at one, and then this afternoon there’s a one on one interview we’ve set up with a local journalist. Sort of like a hometown special thing for your home race. Should be good publicity and a good piece for you to ramp up excitement for the season.” Sophie, his press officer states.

Oscar nods as he shovels another forkfull of eggs into his mouth. Sounds like a normal media day to him– except it’s not. 

Content filming is Oscar’s own personal nightmare. Lando makes it easier when they do joint content, but when he has to film solo stuff he wants to jump off a cliff, but nonetheless he powers through and grabs a quick lunch before heading to do the press conference. Oscar is the last driver to arrive and he’s not late by any means, but when he passes through the double doors and sees the room full of press and the other three drivers already on the couch waiting for him he puts a little pep in his step and scurries towards the empty spot next to Charles. 

As Oscar gets settled into his spot his eyes scan the room. The front row is filled with some familiar faces, veteran reporters that have been doing this their whole lives and are there to cover every race weekend. The room is pretty full, there’s only about five rows of chairs so there’s quite a few people standing along the sides too. Oscar’s gaze wanders through them as questions are rattled off to the other drivers. He starts to daydream, thinking about what his Mum is going to make for dinner tonight since he’s back home for the weekend when the sound of his name being called out snaps him out of his trance. 

“Oscar. We all know it’s the start of the season, but McLaren has been predicted to be the front runners this season. Will there be anymore Papaya Rules or will we get to see a distinct number one and number two driver this year?” 

Oscar focuses his vision to the back row where some guy with a big beard and round eyeglasses is standing up, notebook in hand waiting for some headline worthy answer from him. Oscar takes a deep breath, a small smile on his face as he gets ready to recite the pre-rehearsed PR answer that’s been drilled into him. 

“Well– it is still very early. We haven’t even got a practice session in yet. But the team of course will assess everything after every race and it’s always been–” Oscar’s eyes wander to the left as he rambles off the textbook answer to the reporter, but who he locks eyes with has him stumbling over his words. He does a double take at first, surely thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no he’d recognize that face anywhere. 

Y/N.

Even without seeing you in person for god knows how long he still kept tabs on you through social media, but to see you in person, in the flesh has his mind scrambled. What were you doing here of all places? He feels his heart pounding in his chest and for a moment the two of you are like deer stuck in the headlights of a car. His mouth feels dry and his fingers grip the microphone like it’s about to run away from him. 

He feels a light elbow shove from Charles and realizes he hasn’t finished answering the poor reporter's question. “Um sorry.” Oscar states, clearing his throat before continuing. “Yeah it’s always been said that Lando and I are free to race so really we are just going to have to see how the season plays out.” Oscar quickly spits out some bullshit to finish answering the question. He prays no one else has any questions for him– he doesn’t think his brain can focus on anything else right now besides you. 

He’s trying to not be creepy and constantly stare at you, but god he hasn’t seen you in forever and you’ve changed so much. He’d always thought you were beautiful, but to see you become this breathtaking woman, to see you grow into yourself is something he never thought he’d get to see in person. He figured he'd be keeping tabs on you through social media for the rest of his life. Although he always had a feeling that you guys would reunite when the universe wanted you to and apparently the 2025 Australian Grand Prix was that moment in time. 

The press conference wraps up a few minutes later and Oscar is quick to his feet, hoping to catch you before you leave, but as soon as the cameras stop recording Oscar watches as you scurry out the back door and into the abyss that is a Formula 1 paddock. 

Oscar is sure he’s made some fans and photographers upset on his journey through the paddock and back to Mclaren’s hospitality, but he doesn’t have it in him to play good racing driver and act like his whole world hasn’t just been turned upside down. The sound of the door to his driver's room finally closing behind him is the only thing that brings Oscar a small amount of solace at the moment. He needed some time alone to process what had just happened, he felt like he had more adrenaline coursing through his veins than when he stepped out of the car after a grueling race. The cool material of his physio table helps to somewhat ground him and just when he lays his head back on the makeshift towel pillow there's a knock on the door. 

He groans at the sound, he couldn’t even get five minutes to himself? 

“Yeah?” Oscar hollers as he slowly sits up on the table, his legs now dangling from the side. 

The door opens and in comes Lando with a half eaten Kinder bar in his hand only to see a disheveled Oscar in front of him. “God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Looking a little paler than usual there, Oscar.” 

A humorous scoff comes from Oscar towards Lando’s remark. “I think I might’ve.” He doesn’t have it in him to elaborate or even tell Lando that the person he once considered his person randomly showed up at the press conference moments ago after not seeing you for almost a decade. He’s thankful when Lando doesn’t pry to know more and starts going on about something pertaining to their passes. 

“Nick has our new passes. I don’t know if yours didn’t work this morning, but mine didn’t. Although seeing a hot reporter while I was stuck this morning did make things a little better.” 

For some reason Oscar is curious about this hot reporter that Lando mentions, it was nothing out of the blue for Lando to casually talk about how attractive some women are, but he has an inkling about the identity of this one. “What was she wearing?” 

Lando shrugs as he takes a bite of his kinder bar. “Blue shirt, black pants, hair up in a clip. She looked to be around our age. Why did you see her too?” Lando states, a smirk slightly stretching across his face over the idea of Oscar also thinking you were hot. 

Oscar immediately knows Lando is talking about you and it goes straight through him. He starts to get defensive, but then he realizes that Lando doesn’t know who you are or that Oscar knows who you are. No use creating an awkward situation over something like this, so Oscar bites his tongue. “I might have.” 

Lando nods at his younger teammate, he was awkward sometimes, but this was a new awkward for Oscar. Lando knew there was something more going on than what he let on, but Lando wasn’t going to pry. If Oscar wanted to tell him something he would, so he throws the wrapper of his Kinder bar in the little trash can in the corner and reminds Oscar about the passes one last time before heading back next door to his driver's room. 

A deep sigh escapes past Oscar’s lips as the door closes once more. He pulls his phone out of his pants pocket, his body almost moves in autopilot, clicking on your contact and pulling up a new text conversation. His thumbs hover over the keyboard, his brain is fighting with his heart as he types, deletes, and retypes the same message about a million times it seems. He doesn’t even know what to say to you, hell he isn’t even sure if you still have the same number as when you were fourteen, but he’s praying you do as he finally hits send on the most thrilling thing he’s done in a long ass time. 

Oscar: hey this is oscar. i’m hoping this is still your number, but i’m almost positive i saw you at the press conference earlier. if that was you i’d love to get some coffee or something and talk. if that wasn’t you then disregard this message lol. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It was a miracle that you had found a secluded place in the paddock, away from all the prying eyes and cameras to have your mental breakdown. You really weren’t sure if you were going to throw up, shit yourself, or maybe do both. The simple connection you felt between Oscar and you just by making eye contact had your head spinning and your gut churning. The ding that sounds off from your phone only makes things worse. Of course you never deleted his contact, even after all these years, but honestly that wasn’t saying much. You still had your Girl Scouts leader’s phone number from when you were twelve. 

His name glares from your phone screen as you sit against the back of some building by the dumpster. You don’t want to open it, afraid of the can of worms it will open if you do, but the curious part of you wants to know so badly what he wants. Like ripping off a bandaid you tap the text notification and your eyes quickly scan the screen. 

You’d always wondered what would happen when Oscar and you would reconnect, so many nights as a teenager were spent imagining the perfect scenario, the same nights you let yourself miss him and stop putting on the facade that you didn’t care. There were a million scenes that you’d imagined, but you never thought you’d be in your twenties or that it would be at the Australian Grand Prix. You don’t want this to change your life, it’s not fair that Oscar can just seem to come and go from your life when he wants. And you know if he actually wants to reconnect– that part of you that you keep locked away, the part of you that still wants him in your life will overpower every step you’ve taken to move on with your life. You don’t want him to come in and taint everything you’ve accomplished without him by your side. 

There isn’t time to respond to his text or even panic call your sister, because when you glance at the time it’s almost three. You should have been getting prepped for the interview fifteen minutes ago and now you are going to be late. Of course, because what else could go wrong today? 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Oscar sits in the stiff chair, listening to Sophie say something to him about what not to say in his interview as they wait for everything to be set up. It goes in one ear and out the other because all he can think about is you at the moment. This will probably be the worst interview he’s been a part of, but he can’t help it, all he wants to do is talk to you right now. Not some forty year old man who thinks he knows him because they are both Australian. The guy is already running late, so that right there tells Oscar this is going to be a wash. He’s about ready to ask Sophie if this can be rescheduled when he hears the door open and the most angelic voice echo through the room.  

There is a part of Oscar that thinks he may be dreaming again, that this whole day is just one big elaborate dream. Never in a million years did he think you’d be the one that was interviewing him. His mouth goes dry at the sight of you and he’s sure his jaw has dropped. Your cheeks are flushed, surely from running here and your hair has fallen out of the clip you've previously adorned, soft curls frame your face as you adjust the strap to your bag on your shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late. First time here, I had trouble finding my way around.” 

Oscar clocks the lie immediately, sure it was probably the first time being here as an adult, but the two of you were here so many years as children, so no it wasn’t your first time here. 

“No problem, I think the cameras and everything just finished getting set up, so we should be good to go. If you want to take the seat across from Oscar. I’ll let you get ready and we will begin.” Sophie states, before grabbing a folder of what you were sure were important press documents, from the table next to Oscar. 

You can feel Oscar’s eyes practically burning holes into you as you sit down in the chair opposite of him. You pretend to not notice as you set your bag down gently on the carpeted floor, quickly rummaging through it to find your notebook. It’s like clockwork, the way you set your phone on the small table next to you, the record button is pressed, and your notebook is opened to the correct page in what seems like record time. 

There is still a part of you that thinks maybe you can act like you don’t know Oscar, but the moment you look up for the first time since sitting down and see those honey brown eyes that you once knew so well, you know there’s no use in even trying to fake it with him. 

“Hi Oscar.” 

To hear you say his name after so long should not have Oscar feeling this way. 

Have him flustered like a teenage boy. 

He hasn’t seen you in forever, he’s lived a whole new life without you, had a long-term girlfriend, done so many things without you in his life. Yet you seem to have this power over him even after all these years. 

You two were always just friends, but anyone with two working eyes, hell even one, could see that Oscar had always had a soft spot for you, and deep down the both of you knew, even as kids, that your connection went way deeper than friendship. 

Only who would have thought that connection would still be there after almost a decade of no contact. 

“Hi Y/N.” 

Silence falls between the two of you and Sophie looks on strangely from across the room. Shy– fond smiles creep onto both of your faces and Sophie is beyond confused as to what is going on. “Do you two know each other or?” 

“We grew up together.” Oscar replies without taking his eyes off of you. 

You aren’t sure what’s come over you– after being in Oscar’s presence for a mere few minutes it’s like the built up resentment you’ve harbored towards him over the years isn’t there. Maybe it’s the initial shock of seeing him again after so long, all the good memories and the hope that you two will reconnect and that maybe it will be like old times may be overpowering all the bad feelings and memories you’ve had. 

Sophie slowly nods, the sight in front of her is not one of two old friends, but more like people who were more than friends or at least had some history. The energy between the two of you was charged like a live wire. 

“Well that’s nice, but we should get this interview going.” 

Hearing Sophie’s words breaks you out of your Oscar trance and has you coming back to reality. You were here to work at the end of the day and your promotion is riding on the quality of this interview. 

You start with the basic questions to get both of you warmed up and as the interview progresses you start asking the more hard hitting ones. It’s going great and both Oscar and you are comfortable, laughs are shared and you know this is going to be a hit with your boss and the public. That is until you reach your last question and you know that as soon as the words leave your mouth and process through Oscar’s mind that it was maybe too personal to ask. 

“Well Oscar, it’s been a pleasure being able to sit down and have this chat with you. I think we’ve gotten to know a little more about the man from Melbourne, but I have just one more question for you today.” 

Oscar nods, “It better be a good one. Best for last as they say.” 

You smile, glancing down at your notebook to verify the question before looking back at Oscar. “You’ve clearly come so far in your career and to be a Formula 1 driver is a dream that so many children have, but the smallest percentage of them actually get to fulfill that dream. Obviously everything that has happened in your life happened for a reason– to get you to this point in your career–to be one of twenty. But looking back, if there was one thing you could change that’s happened and still end up where you are today, what would it be?” 

Oscar shuffles uncomfortably in his chair as he internalizes your question. You could hear a pin drop. It was so silent in that room, the atmosphere had gone from light and friendly to awkward and tense. 

He immediately knows what the answer would be and it brings up every bad memory and emotion he has associated with that time. He clears the slight lump forming in his throat as he tries to figure out how to word this without airing out his and your personal business for everyone and their mother to hear.

“Um– well I’d have to say I wouldn’t have moved to England at such a young age to do Euro karting. I had a whole life that I abandoned. People I abandoned.” He looks you directly in the eye when he says it and he’s trying to say everything he never got to say through these code words, trying to express how he feels through his eyes, but he knows until he gets to actually talk to you it’s not going to make that big of a difference. “If I knew what I knew now and if I knew I could still fulfill my dreams I would have stayed in Australia.” 

You don’t even know what to say, your throat is tight and your head is spinning. Oscar was talking directly to you– about you. He wasn’t just answering the question, he was trying to clear the air. Maybe you had indirectly added that question in hopes that he would answer the way he did. That even after all these years your thoughts that he maybe regretted leaving you behind were true and that the pessimistic ones that squashed those ones down were ones of self preservation in case he didn’t regret leaving. 

“Well thanks for sitting down with me today Oscar and even getting a little deep here at the end. Wishing you the best luck this weekend and for the rest of the season.” 

You quickly wrap up the interview, not even responding to Oscar’s response to your last question. The cameras are turned off and the crew makes quick work to pack everything away. Sophie mentions something to Oscar about a last minute team debrief before everyone leaves the track today before heading out the door. 

Oscar makes no effort to get up and leave and you may have been packing up your things at a snail’s speed. Neither of you say anything, waiting for the other to be the first one to speak up. It’s not until the cameramen leave and you grab your bag to also leave that Oscar speaks up. 

“Come to my parents for dinner tonight?” 

You freeze, stunned at the words that come out of his mouth. The grip on your bag tightens and a tight lipped smile appears on your face. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got so much work to do tonight.” You had barely been able to handle seeing Oscar today, the idea of being back at the Piastri house with everyone again would be pushing yourself beyond your limits. 

He knew he was pushing the envelope by asking you that and he knew your first response would be to decline, he can’t necessarily blame you, but he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “Please. My Mum would love to see you, see both of us back at home for dinner. It would be like old times.” 

That’s the problem you think… it would be like old times. 

You open your mouth to decline once again, but Oscar beats you to it. “I also think we should talk. Just the two of us.” 

There’s a million reasons you can think as to why you should not go to this dinner tonight, but you make the mistake of looking Oscar in the eyes and those damn eyes of his always have worked their magic on you. “Alright. I’ll be there.” 

Oscar’s never looked more thrilled and he immediately pulls out his phone. “Great. I’ll text Mum and let her know you’re coming. She’ll be so happy.” 

Well there’s no getting out of this now that Nicole has been informed. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The drive back to your apartment takes twice as long as it normally would– gotta love Melbourne this time of year. The only upside to this is that once you do get home you don’t have time to sit and turn yourself into an anxiety induced mess. You have just enough time to change your outfit and freshen up your hair and makeup before heading back out the door. The entire drive to the Piastri household is spent blaring music to try and distract you from how nauseous you feel. It doesn’t work and as you turn onto the street that held so many memories you swallow down the bile threatening to rise.

As you pull into the Piastri’s driveway you notice the lights are off at your childhood home. Which undoubtedly means your family is here too– great. 

The five minute pep talk you give yourself as you sit in their driveway does nothing to calm your nerves, in fact the more you talk about not being nervous, the more nervous you get. You know you’ll be getting a text from someone soon asking where you are– that someone more than likely being Oscar and you don’t think you can handle him worrying about where you are at the monument. So you kill the engine, glance at yourself in the rearview mirror, take a deep breath, and force your legs to carry you to the front door. 

Years ago you would have just walked right in, but things have changed and so you knock on the solid wood door. Hoping that maybe no one would answer and you could turn around, get back in your car, and be back at home in your pajamas. But of course you can hear the commotion already going on inside and in a few short seconds the door is opening. You don’t even think about the possibility of Oscar being the one to open the door and you pray to any god that’s listening that it isn’t him on the other side. 

The sight of Hattie in front of you was proof at least someone was listening and your nerves subside for a moment. Grins adorn both of your faces as she pulls you into a bone crushing hug. The two of you hadn’t seen each other since last Christmas. Once you had moved out your communication with Oscar’s sisters had dwindled. Sure you guys kept in touch through social media and Hattie and you occasionally would text, but you think they all knew because of their brother they’d eventually see less of you. You loved all three of them like your own sisters, but they were all unfortunately victims of association to Oscar. 

“Oh my god I’ve missed you!” She exclaims as she’s still holding you hostage in her arms. “Come on– come in. Everyone else is already here.” 

The moment you step foot into the Piastri household a wave of nostalgia washes over you. This house held so many childhood memories that you would think it was your own home. The times you all would get yelled at for running around the house. The time you were playing hide and seek and Hattie got locked in the coat closet in the hall somehow. Or when Oscar and you somehow let a stray dog into the house– Nicole was beyond pissed about that. 

You take it all in as you follow Hattie down the hall and into the kitchen, not much has changed since the last time you were here years ago. 

As you make your grand entrance in the kitchen it feels even more like old times. Nicole and your Mum are sitting at the island– wine glasses in hand as surely chat about the latest neighborhood gossip. Your Dad and Oscar’s Dad Chris, are getting ready to throw something on the grill. Your sister Sam, Edie, and Mae are digging through the pantry, complaining about how long it’s taking for dinner to take. And Oscar– is nowhere to be found? 

It’s at that moment that you remember one important detail about Oscar. 

His girlfriend. 

How could you forget about his girlfriend? 

There’s no way she would miss his home race. They are probably up in his room right now.

Before you can spiral and think about how awkward this night is going to be and how you never should have agreed to come you hear your name being called and excited gasps echo through the kitchen. 

“Y/N! Darling!” Nicole comes barrelling towards you, arms wide open as she pulls you into a hug. “When Oscar texted me earlier that you were coming for dinner I thought I was dreaming! It’s so nice to have everyone here all together again. Reminds me of old times.” 

Mae and Edie are next in line to give you a hug and Chris says hello while chopping up some vegetables. 

You move to linger near your Mum, hoping she’ll ease your nerves and of course like the Mother she is, she notices straight away. She wraps her arm around you and presses a light kiss to your temple. “Hi sweetie. I’m glad you came.” 

Sam gives you a questioning look from across the kitchen island– a raised eyebrow thrown your way as she munches on some pretzels. You give her one back that says you’ll talk later–you’re sure there will be even more to unpack after tonight. 

“Y/N honey would you like a glass of wine?” Nicole offers as she’s already grabbing a spare glass from the cabinet and popping the cork on a fresh bottle. You figure some wine might loosen you up– make this evening a little more bearable. So, you take her up on her offer and take a gulp of the sweet liquid. 

A lull in the conversation allows for Sam to start talking about some crazy thing that happened at her job the other day and honestly you’re grateful to be able to just lean against the counter, sipping your wine, and not having all the attention on you. 

Three Sam stories and a glass and a half of wine later you’re feeling more than comfortable. The wine and no sign of Oscar for the last hour has your nerves settled and your giggles echoing through the kitchen. Edie had brought up the time that Hattie and you thought it would be a good idea to try and dye her hair pink without Nicole knowing. Long story short the bathtub got stained pink and the dye didn’t even stay in Hattie’s hair. 

“Don’t forget that Rosie somehow ended up with dye on her fur and that’s how Mum found out.” 

The sound of Oscar’s voice behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin. You slowly turn around to see him standing in the doorway with a smug smile on his face as he stares directly at you. 

You almost feel like your feet are cemented to the tile floor– like you’re frozen in place as you make eye contact with Oscar, like there was no one else in the room but the two of you. You pretend not to notice the little bit of relief that washes over you when you don’t see his girlfriend in tow, but you won’t hold your breath, she could show up at any minute. 

“Oscar! Nice of you to finally join us now that the hard work is done and it’s time to eat.” Chris’s voice breaks you out of your trance and your eyes quickly flicker down to your glass. Your face feels hot and it’s totally because of the wine and not anything else– right? 

You hear Oscar rattle off something about having to stay later at the track– last minute media duties as he helps his Dad carry the food to the table in the dining room. 

The speed at which you hurry into the dining room and sandwich yourself between Mae and Sam so you don’t end up having to sit next to Oscar is slightly embarrassing. You watch as the other empty seats get filled one by one, but the one thing you don’t think about is who is going to sit across from you. Of course the final seat open is the one across from you and the one person left to sit down is Oscar. 

Honestly you think it would have been better to sit next to him, you weren’t even thinking about him sitting across from you and how you’ll have to look at him the whole duration of the meal. 

The beginning of dinner isn’t horrible per say, you focus on eating and trying to not make eye contact with Oscar. Everyone is mostly enjoying their food, not talking much, and you think maybe it might not be as bad as you fear. That is until Nicole asks a question that has everyone’s eyes darting towards you. 

“So Y/N. We knew you went to school for journalism, but we didn’t know you were going to do sports journalism. According to Oscar you were at the track today and you guys did a little interview together? Does this mean we’ll be seeing you at all the races?” 

You smile softly, embarrassed that the topic of conversation has turned towards you. “Um, yeah I hadn’t planned on doing sports journalism at all. I wanted to be in like war torn countries or reporting on major historical events. But I’m still considered new enough that I basically have to take what my boss gives me.” You push around the green beans on your plate as you talk, your eyes occasionally flickering around the table looking at each person. 

“The Australian Grand Prix is a historical event.” Oscar chimes in with a teasing smile painted across his face. 

Which makes you want to fling a green bean across the table at him. 

Before you can make a smart ass comment back to him Nicole chimes back in. “Well I’d like to personally thank your boss for making you cover the race. I’ve missed having you around Y/N.” Nicole pauses a moment as she looks at you with the most sincere look you’ve seen from her. You watch as her eyes travel across the table and land on her son. “Missed having Oscar here– having both of you here.” 

You think that if she could reach both of you she’d have you both wrapped up in her arms and you can see the raw emotion on her face as she keeps looking at both Oscar and you. There’s something inside of you that tells you to look at Oscar and when you work up the courage to direct your line of sight towards him you see those big brown eyes of his already staring into your soul. 

Unbestowed to Oscar and you, everyone else at the table is witnessing the thing they knew would happen all along. Your Mum and Nicole share a knowing glance and your siblings try to stifle their giggles at how obvious it is. 

When Oscar and you lock eyes it's truly like you both forget there are other people near you. There’s a connection that everyone else can see, but the both of you seem to be blind to it, or you’re just refusing to feel it. It’s been that way with you two for as long as anyone can remember and the fact that you guys haven’t seen each other in almost a decade and it’s still the same has both of your Mothers more than smug about how right they were about the two of you. 

“Well dinner was delicious. Thank you for having us over.” You Dad is the one to break the silence and your eyes immediately dart away from Oscar, cheeks flushing as you realize that you’ve just gotten lost in Oscar’s eyes in front of everyone. You stare down at your mostly empty plate, moving around a stray green bean with your fork. 

“Thank you, it was a lovely dinner. Like I said, it was just so nice to have us all here together again.” Nicole reiterates as she begins to gather empty plates from the table. “I also made tiramisu, so no one try and skip out early!” 

You make quick work to start helping clear the table and even go as far as starting the dishes, anything to not have to face Oscar. Your cheeks are still hot as you scrub the dinner plates, your mind is anywhere but here at the monument and you don’t even realize you’ve been washing the same plate the whole time until you feel the touch of a gentle hand on your shoulder. You jump slightly, dropping the plate into the sink, not realizing how zoned out you really were. Turning slightly you see your Mum standing behind you, a look of concern and understanding painted across her face as she presses a hand towel towards you.

“Honey, why don’t you go out back, get some fresh air. Nicole and I will finish this up.” 

Your Mum is a woman that you don’t want to argue with when she tells you to do something. So, you nod, knowing she knows how in your head you are and gladly take the towel from her– wiping the soap suds from your pruned fingers. 

The sun is just starting to set as you step onto the back patio, the sliding door closing behind you. There’s a slight breeze in the air and the cooler evening weather is some relief to your rosy cheeks and clouded mind. You’re just about ready to take a seat on some of the patio furniture, when you hear a sound reminiscent of your childhood. 

Towards the back of their property you spot a rusty old swing set– the breeze had caused the swings to move– loudly squeaking as they do. The once vibrant red swing now showed signs of weathering, rust peaking through where the paint had come off. It had provided years of entertainment and went through multiple children and even with it showing signs of wear, it still stood strong in their backyard. 

A small smile finds its way onto your face as you make your way towards the swingset, memories replaying in your mind as you sit in one of the empty swings. The chains creak as you move your feet, making the swing go higher and higher. You watch as the sun sets and the sky paints a picture of pinks and oranges for you to admire. For a good while you feel a sense of peace wash over you, being out here alone, reconnecting with a part of you that you haven’t felt in a long time.

But all peaceful monuments eventually get ruined. 

You hear the sound of the patio door sliding open and then close, you don’t even have to turn your head to know who's come to ruin your alone time. The sound of his footsteps feel like they are shaking the ground as he travels across the patio, down the steps, and onto the grass. You keep your eyes focused on the worn patch of grass below you– your sneakers scraping against the dirt as you slow down. 

He passes in front of you and from the corner of your eye you see him sit down in the swing next to you.  Silence hangs between the two of you for what seems like forever. The pretty painting in the sky has been replaced by stars and neither of you have spoken a single word– that is until Oscar finally plucks up the courage. 

“I still can’t believe you’re a sports journalist now, specifically a F1 reporter. Never thought we’d reunite via interview.” 

You scoff, slightly rolling your eyes while you still look at the ground. “Don’t worry this weekend is a one time thing– I won’t be at any of the other races.” 

Oscar frowns slightly at your tone and how you’re implying that he wouldn’t love to see you in the media pen every race weekend. He in fact feels quite the opposite about having you around and your sour mood that is heavily radiating off you has him confused. Sure things were bound to be a little awkward between the two of you, how long had it been since you’d seen each other? But this was more than awkward, this was resentment and Oscar wonders how things could have done south so quickly since the interview. 

Silence falls between you two again for a brief moment and you hope Oscar just gets the hint and heads back inside, but you should know that Oscar is a persistent man and the inevitable heartwrenching conversation is bound to happen. 

“You alright?” Oscar pries, his head tilting towards you slightly, hoping that you’ll look over at him and not the ground for at least two seconds. “Did I do something? You seem a little off from earlier today.” 

You want to tell him to fuck off and to just leave you out here– alone. The inevitable is going to happen if he stays out here and you really don’t have it in you tonight to have this conversation, to open that can of worms. You still needed time to process everything and you know if you start talking about the past your emotions are going to take over. 

“I’m fine, just tired. Today was a lot.” 

Oscar nods– he agrees that today was a lot, but he can’t help but feel like there's something deeper going on with you. Instead of bothering you some more he decides to switch the conversation to something more basic, but oh boy was he wrong to do that. 

“God, I’m surprised this swing is still standing. How much time did we spend on this thing as kids? Seems like we were always out here, but I can’t remember the last time it was actually used.” Oscar states as he looks around at the rusty old swing set. 

That comment. The nonchalantness in Oscar’s voice. It all makes something switch in you. You finally look up from the ground to find him already staring at you. There’s a blank expression on his face, like he didn’t just crack open your deepest wound. It fills you with even more rage. You knew as soon as you opened your mouth there was no going back and that in the end you might lose Oscar again, but the years of pent up emotions and hurt override every instinct for you to bite your tongue. 

“Are you fucking kidding me Oscar?” 

Your tone is harsh and cold and it makes Oscar flinch slightly, his hands gripping the chains of the swing tighter. He doesn’t even get the chance to reply before you’re opening your assault on him once again. 

“You don’t remember the last time we were out here? When you ripped my heart out. When you told me you were leaving for England the following morning and you didn’t know when you’d be back. Cause I’ll sure as hell never forget it.” 

You can feel the anger coursing through your veins, the years of acting like Oscar leaving and ghosting you didn’t absolutely kill you. Sure maybe bombarding him with this probably wasn’t the way to go about it, but you’ve held it in for so long and he unfortunately struck the wrong nerve tonight. 

Oscar freezes– he can see how upset you are and he feels like a piece of shit. Never in a million years would he ever forget that night, it haunted him for years, and he realizes he really should have chosen his words more carefully moments ago. But he also wasn’t expecting the conversation to go south so quickly. Sure things were a little awkward between the two of you, but that interview went so well earlier and dinner was great, he never expected for the night to have ended up here. 

“Y/N– I could never forget that night. That’s not what I was referring to. I still feel horrible about how I went about telling you that I was leaving. I should have gone about it differently, believe me, the guilt ate me alive over the years.” He was telling the truth, the hurt look on your face all those years ago killed him. He hurt the person that meant the most to him and lost you in the process of his own actions down the line. 

And now it seems he’s going to be reliving that night almost ten years later. 

Oscar can see the same hurt in your eyes as he did that night and he should have known that if he wanted to have you back in his life, that he was going to have to face what happened between the two of you. 

“You say you’ll never forget that night, but you forgot me Oscar. Even that first year when you came back home it wasn’t the same, half of you was with me and the other half was back in England. God, you were everything to me and you just left me behind like I was some old toy.” You can feel the angry tears start to form and you try to blink them back, not wanting Oscar to see you cry. 

Oscar feels somewhat cornered, sure he was a stupid fourteen year old and yes he fucked up, but he felt like you also forgot about him at the end of the day.

“I get I fucked up and I’ll own up to that, but the phone works two ways Y/N. You could have reached out to me too. Our falling out isn’t all on me.” He pauses, pondering if he should even say what else he is thinking, but he figures the way this conversation is going, what's a little more fuel to the fire? “I also don’t know where this hostile attitude is coming from either. I get things are going to be awkward between us, but my bad choice of words does not warrant this hostile attitude. I mean everything was great at the track and dinner was good so tell me what happened to that Y/N? Because this Y/N in front of me right now is not the Y/N I remember.”  

You can see the anger starting to show on Oscar now too and you’re positive this isn’t going to end well. 

“You’ve clearly never seen a reporter do their job before have you? It took every ounce of willpower to actually show up to the track today. To show up to your house and act like me not seeing your or talking to you in almost a decade didn’t fuck with me horribly. I knew seeing you again would bring up all these emotions I’ve pushed down over the years. I mean fuck Oscar the first chance I got to move out I took, I couldn’t even stand being near your family, your house, it all just reminded me of you and how the person who meant everything to me dropped me like an old toy they didn’t want anymore. ” 

You pause for a moment, trying to collect yourself, but it’s becoming damn near impossible. “I stopped reaching out when you did. I wasn’t going to waste my time and make myself look desperate when you had stopped responding. You’d clearly made a life for yourself without me and all I was going to be was the girl you grew up with.” 

A single tear finally breaks free and Oscar watches as you quickly wipe it away–turning your head away from him. 

“And to answer your question–I guess I’m not the same person you remember, but that’s because of you Oscar.” 

Oscar feels a pang shoot through his heart– to hear you say these things has his emotions going in every which direction. Never in a million years did he realize you had felt that way or been affected so deeply by him leaving. Sure he had gone through rough patches, especially in the beginning, but he had racing, new people in his life, and a million other things to distract him from the empty part of him that you once called home. 

He doesn’t even know what to say to you, he wants to reassure you, to apologize for being such a fuck up all those years ago, but he thinks the thing that sticks with him more than the others is that you think that you’d just be a memory of his, someone he grew up with. Oscar always knew that eventually you two would find your way back to each other, he didn’t know when or where, but he knew what you two had, your connection was one that wasn’t meant to only last for such a small part of your lives. It was a connection that would span lifetimes and universes. Even if it didn’t seem like it right now. 

“You know you’ll never just be the girl I grew up with Y/N.” Oscar’s voice is soft as he speaks and it makes even more tears start to fall. 

You take a deep breath as you wipe away the tears with the sleeves of your shirt, debating on whether or not to bring up something else that happened when you two were fourteen, but then you figure you might as well just get everything else out in the open tonight. 

“Do you remember what happened the week before you left? That night at Hannah Payne’s house?” 

Oscar feels his heart skip a beat, he doesn’t even want to talk about this right now, it makes his choice of how he told you about him leaving seem like an even bigger asshole move. 

“I do remember it.” Oscar says sheepishly. 

You laugh dryly as you replay it all in your mind. “When you kissed me you fully knew you were going to leave that following week.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

How Oscar and you ended up at the most popular kid in your grade, Hannah Payne’s house that weekend was beyond both of you, but you were and you were both way out of your limit. A game of seven minutes in heaven gets brought up and you think you’re going to shit yourself. You’d never kissed anyone before and so you start to spiral from that, but then you think what if no one even wants to kiss you, so then you start to spiral even more. 

Your mind is spinning as fast as the old coke bottle on the floor and when it’s finally your turn to go you have to stop your hand from shaking as you reach out and twist the bottle. You try to calculate who it might land on as it slows down, hoping it’s not the kid who used to eat his boogers when you were younger, but the person it comes to a halt in front of is somehow worse than the booger eater. 

Teasing ohhhs and giggles echo through the basement as your eyes travel up from the bottle and land on Oscar. You see a blush creep onto his cheeks, but even with the teasing he quickly stands up from his spot on the floor and crosses the threshold to stand in front of you– hand outstretched for you to grab onto. 

You intertwine your fingers with his as he pulls you up from the floor and you two make your way to the old storage closet in the corner. 

If it was anyone else you wouldn’t be feeling like your heart is about ready to beat out of your chest as the closet door closes behind you, but it’s not anyone else, it’s Oscar. 

Oscar.

Your person. 

No big deal right? 

You’ll just tell him that you guys can stand there chest to chest for seven minutes in silence and everything will be totally fine. 

Except you never open your mouth– you stand there like an idiot.

Oscar doesn’t say anything either for the first few minutes, but then he breaks the silence. “Do you think anyone else did anything?” 

You laugh a little, fully knowing Hannah for sure did with booger boy. “Oh without a doubt.” 

Oscar pauses for a second and you can tell something is on the tip of his tongue, even in the dark. “Do you think we should do something?” He finally chokes out, his voice cracking at the end. 

If there was ever a time in your life where you thought you were going crazy– it was this moment. You know you didn’t hear him correctly, there was no way he was asking what you thought he was asking. Your response seems to die in your throat every time you go to open your mouth. He was kidding right? 

Oscar wasn’t asking to kiss you right? 

You feel his hand cup your cheek and you realize this is definitely happening. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

There’s a brief moment where you think you blacked out, his words going in one ear and out the other. “You want to kiss me?” You barely squeak out. 

You can sense the eye roll and smirk on Oscar’s face even in the dark. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want to Y/N.” 

The boy in front of you has been your best friend since birth, he’s your other half, he’s your everything. One little kiss won’t drastically alter things will they? You’d be lying if you said there weren’t times where you felt like your connection with Oscar was more than friendly, but you were only fourteen. What the hell did you know? 

“Well what are you waiting for?” 

That night Oscar and you shared your first kiss with each other. Blushed cheeks and giddy smiles adorned both of your faces as you eventually exit the closet, but the next day the both of you act like nothing ever happened. Like that kiss hadn’t altered so many things for both of you. 

You weren’t going to be one to bring it up to Oscar back then, especially if you didn’t know if he felt the same things you did, but then he goes and leaves you the following week. Which confirmed the fear that had been clouding your brain that whole week. 

That Oscar really didn’t care about you and that him kissing you meant absolutely nothing– even though it meant everything to you.

 ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Oscar had a handful of regrets in life and while some of them were not that big on the regrets scale– the two or he guesses he should say three involving you were the worst. 

It’s no secret that he regrets leaving you or at least leaving you the way he did and then basically cutting contact with you after a year, but the one regret he really has is kissing you all those years ago. 

He didn’t regret it in the way it sounds because truly he would have kissed you a million times over, but it’s the timing of it that he regrets. 

You two were so young back then and he knows a first kiss is special and it eats at him the whole week leading up to him leaving. Knowing that you two had formed this even deeper bond now and that he was going to break it, but at the end of the day he was just a kid, and the consequences of his actions didn’t really resonate with him at that point in time. 

“God Y/N we were fourteen– we were kids.” Oscar really doesn’t know what to say, because truly at the end of the day they were just kids back then and he was a kid who had fucked up. He wasn’t saying he didn’t, but he was asking for a little grace. 

His response makes you even more angry, yes you understood you guys were young, but at that age when anything like that happens to you– it’s gonna leave a scar. “You were my first kiss Oscar. How do you think that made me feel at fourteen? To have the person who meant the most to you kiss you then leave you for a decade?” 

Oscar in a somewhat opposite way has the same scar as you, but his is more self-inflicted, and if he could take it all back he could. If he could go back in time and fix everything then maybe this wouldn’t be happening right now. But he knows that’s not possible and that everything that’s happened to you two has happened for a reason and that you’re both here, in the backyard of his childhood home right now because the universe wants you to be. 

Silence falls between the two of you as crickets and the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze fill the void. He doesn’t even know how long you guys have been out here, but he knows it’s been longer than he’d expect. He knows this conversation is just going to continue to go in circles and there would be no resolution worked out tonight. 

“Y/N look at me.” He demands with a gentle voice. 

Your head raises slowly and his heart breaks at just how wrecked you look. This conversation had clearly taken a toll on you and he hates that in the end it’s him who’s gotten you to this point. 

“You know I regret how things turned out between us with every fiber of my being. I said it in the interview earlier and I’ve said it now. I fucked up and I’m owning that, but I don’t know what you want me to do to make this better. We were kids back then and now we’re adults and I get that you’ve been holding on to this for years, but we’ve got to work past this.” 

He pauses briefly, trying to gauge how you're taking this. “You don’t understand how happy I was to see you today, to get to talk to you. I’ve got you back or at least I think I do and I’ll do whatever I need to to keep you, but you’ve got to give me some grace. I’m owning up to my fuckups, but if you want us back like old times you’ve got to tell me what you want out of this conversation.”

Your head is pounding and your eyes are still blurry with tears. You sit there and listen as Oscar talks to you and when he mentions old times you want to bash your head against one of the metal poles. 

There’s never going to be a point where Oscar and you in any capacity will be together like old times. You can try and replicate it, try and do the same things, but the old times were in the past for a reason. Things change, life progresses, things will never stay the same forever no matter how hard you try to hold onto them.

And no matter what happens– things will never be like old times between Oscar and you. 

“I don’t know what I wanted out of this conversation Oscar. I guess for you to finally see how fucked up I’ve been since you left. For you to see how pathetic I am that I can’t get over the kid I grew up with moving away over a decade ago. For you to hear that I’ve held on to this grudge and at times wished I’d never met you because even after all these years you have this hold over me and I hate it. You’ve dictated my life for years without even being in it Oscar and it drives me fucking nuts.” 

You take a deep breath, leaning back to look up at the stars in the sky. “I don’t know if there is anything for us after this conversation is over. Do you really think I can get over all this resentment I’ve harbored towards you.” Your eyes glance over at Oscar and you swear you see a single tear roll down his cheek. 

“Deep down, if you feel the same way as I do, then yes.” 

The sound of the sliding door opening breaks you out of this bubble you’ve been in with Oscar and you hear Nicole holler from the patio. “I’ve saved you two some tiramisu. You better get in here and eat it– I don’t think I can hold Sam off much longer.” 

Oscar hollers something back to her so she’ll go back inside and when you hear the door slide close you push yourself up out of the swing. This was your sign to go home– no tiramisu will be consumed tonight. All you wanted to do was crawl in bed and never leave it. 

There are no goodbyes exchanged, just Oscar watching you leave, but when you reach the back gate he speaks up. 

“I know you feel our connection, even if it’s deep down buried under a hundred other things. What we had or what we have doesn’t just go away Y/N.” 

You pause, hand frozen on the latch, but you don’t acknowledge him, no matter how right he is. There’s nothing else left in you for tonight. So the gate latches closed behind you and a wave of deja vu washes over Oscar as he remains glued to the swing. 

He hopes you’ll just stay at your old house for the night, thinking it might help for whatever reason, but then he hears your car start out front and sees the headlights light up the street as you leave him behind. 

When he finally works up the courage to make his way back inside the get together is still in full swing. No one notices him come in except for your sister who he knows was probably peeking through the window at you two outside alongside his sisters. He acts like he doesn’t see Sam staring him down as he makes haste to head up to his room. The old stairs creak beneath his feet as he begins his ascent and he’s almost halfway up them when his Mum’s voice stops him dead in his tracks. 

“Where’s Y/N? Did you guys eat dessert?” 

“No–she went home. I’m going to bed.” Oscar’s voice is monotone as he gives his Mum a blunt and straightforward answer. He doesn’t even bother to turn around to look at her as he continues his journey up the stairs. He didn’t have it in him to be bombarded with questions about you right now and he knew his Mum meant well, but all he wanted to do was climb into his bed and sleep on this. 

Not only did he have this conflict with you now, but he also had the race this weekend to take into account. He needed to have a clear head for this weekend, but his brain was just clouded with you. 

He’s sure he’s tossed and turned in his bed about a million times, but sleep still won’t greet him with open arms. His mind won’t shut off and all he can think about is how broken you looked earlier and how it's his fault. He wants to make things right, wants you to be back in his life permanently, but he’s scared too much damage has been done and that you won’t ever be able to get over how things ended up between the two of you. Hell, he’d get on his knees and beg for you guys to even just have a fresh start, but he knows you’re always going to carry that emotional baggage with you, and that you undoubtedly have abandonment issues now. 

Back then Oscar did struggle a lot with not having you around, but he had racing to distract him, new friends, and eventually a girlfriend. There wasn’t anything in England that reminded him of you but his memories, your contact in his phone, an occasional social media post, and the fact that his Mum mentioned you more than what was necessary. There were no ties to you and even the strongest bonds weaken over time. He never thought about how you felt, how everything back home would remind you of him, how almost every aspect of your life he’d somehow tainted. In 

Australia he was everywhere without even being there and he realizes that's why you took the move so much harder. You never really could move on with your life when he loomed at every corner. England allowed Oscar to start a whole new chapter in his life– a chapter without you in it. You’ve been stuck in the same chapter ever since he left. 

He should have known that Christmas he brought his girlfriend home, when you faked being sick, that things had shifted between the two of you. He knew as soon as his Mum told him that you wouldn’t be joining them because of some stomach bug that you were faking it. He knew you too well. Hell would have to freeze over for you to miss Christmas with everyone. He’d tried to reach out, wanting to see if you’d nibble on his texts, but you only doubled down on the being sick ploy.

It was a weird Christmas that year and it wasn’t that he didn’t love his girlfriend back then, but it felt weird to see her sit in the seat you always sat in at the table, and for them to make fun of the penis looking cookies your Mum would bake every year. It was like you were there, but you weren’t. 

And that’s when he realizes after being with his girlfriend for almost five years– that he’d used her to replace you in his life. They’d broken up last year– a mutual break up that ended on decent terms, but it makes his stomach flip to come to terms with this after so long. He’d found someone that could fill the void of you in his life and so yes he missed you and looking back he felt horrible about what he did, but that’s why he didn’t necessarily take the ghosting as much to heart as you. He had someone and as far as he knew you’d never had a boyfriend. 

He flips back over on his side, his eyes scanning the shelf along his wall that’s been illuminated by the moonlight. Trinkets from his childhood, racing mementos, and any other thing he thought deserved a home resided on that shelf. A glimmer reflecting from the shelf peaks his curiosity and it wasn’t like he was on the verge of sleep so he swings his legs out from under the covers and walks over to the shelf. 

There sitting on the dusty old shelf was something Oscar thought he’d lost years ago. 

The summer when Oscar and you were twelve your families went on a trip together to Italy and in some tourist trap shop you two had found some simple red threaded bracelets. You’d always wanted to have matching bracelets with Oscar, but he hated wearing them. Somehow you’d convinced him to get these, it was a simple string, barely anything to it, he probably wouldn’t even feel it on his wrist is what you’d told him. So you both walk up the counter and Oscar hands over some Euros hoping it will be enough to pay for them. The lady behind the counter smiles at the two young kids standing before her and when she sees what they are trying to buy she smiles even more, gently sliding the bracelets back towards the kids.

“Sono gratuiti.” 

Oscar and you don’t know a lick worth of Italian besides the basics and so Oscar assumes he owes her more money, he can barely get the bill out of his pocket before the lady shakes her head and speaks in a thick accent. 

“Free.” 

You both look at each other, eyebrows raised, unsure if she’s actually saying what you think she said. “Free?” 

The lady nods, pushing the bracelets even further towards the edge of the counter. Oscar and you decide to grab the bracelets and leave before she changed her mind. 

Those bracelets left neither of your wrists for a good two years, but the month before Oscar left for England he’d lost it. He looked for it everywhere, distraught over not knowing what happened to it. He assumed it had broken and just fell off his wrist and he had no idea how he was going to tell you. Luckily for him he was able to keep it hidden, long sleeves were his best friend, and then when he left he assumed you’d eventually stop wearing it. He just never expected to find it sitting on his shelf in his room all these years later. 

He grabbed the bracelet from the shelf wiping the dust bunnies from it before sliding it over his hand and tightening it around his wrist. As silly as it seemed, the moment he slipped the bracelet on he felt a sense of calm wash over him, like a piece of him that had been missing was put back into place. He twisted the red piece of thread around his wrist, feeling as it rubs against his skin. How such a simple thing held so much power he didn’t know, but if there was one thing he could take as a good sign from today– it was finding this bracelet. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The morning sun is a harsh wake up call as you peel your face from your desk. Instead of coming home last night and just going to bed you decide to pull an all nighter and work on the content you’d gotten from the day. Sure seeing Oscar’s face was like a punch to the gut everytime, but what went down last night was not going to stop you from doing your job. You were getting this promotion even if it caused you your sanity. 

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you grab your phone and when you see the time you surely think it’s wrong or you’re still half asleep. You rub your eyes even harder, but the time on your phone stays the same. 

Fuck. 

You should have been at the track thirty minutes ago. 

Shit shit shit. 

You somehow make yourself look presentable in under fifteen minutes and are out the door and on your way to Albert Park without thinking about having to face Oscar again today. 

Traffic is horrendous per usual and by the time you make it to the track FP1 is set to start in about fifteen minutes. You’d missed out on any pre-practice content, but you’d be set for the post practice sessions. 

You watch the practice session from one of the viewing areas and it’s surreal to see Oscar actually out there doing what he’d always dreamt of doing. No matter what had gone down last night there's still that part of you that cares about Oscar and you know just how much all of this means to him. You just wish you’d been there to support him through it all. 

The practice sessions go by fairly fast and you head towards the media pen ready to face the impending doom of seeing Oscar for the first time since last night. You were confident enough yesterday to act like everything was peachy with him, but after you took off the mask last night you weren’t sure you could put it back on. 

The first driver to come up to your spot is Carlos and he’s the perfect driver to help you get warmed up. 

“Hi Carlos. So first two practice sessions in the books as Williams driver and you seem to already be in tune with the car. Great sessions from you today– does that make you feel hopeful for qualifying tomorrow?” 

There’s not many people in the world who can make you nervous or make you blush just by looking at you, but good lord if Carlos Sainz wasn’t one of them. He definitely knew how to use those big brown eyes to his advantage and you have trouble trying to maintain your professional composure. 

“You’re new aren’t you?” He asks– a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“I am.” 

“I was going to say– I definitely would have remembered you from previous seasons.” He pauses for a moment and you honestly don’t even know what to say to that, so you just smile and pray you’re not as red as a tomato right now. “But to answer your question, yes I’m feeling hopeful for quali tomorrow. The team has made some amazing developments over the winter and if I can bring these practice results over to quali and race results then it’s going to be an amazing season. So yeah I can’t wait to get out in the car tomorrow and see what I can do.” 

“Thanks for your time Carlos, best of luck tomorrow.” 

He nods smiling back at you and as he walks off you wonder if he’s like that with every reporter. 

You’d interviewed a handful of other drivers after Carlos and how you’d yet to spot Oscar is beyond you. Maybe he’s avoiding you–which you aren’t complaining about. You got the one on one done yesterday so you weren’t obligated to get anything else from him from this weekend– barring that he wins. 

There’s other people wrapping things up near you and you take that as a sign that it’s time to call it a day. You’re packing up your bag when you see a flash of McLaren papaya out of the corner of your eye and you immediately turn your back hoping it’s not Oscar and that it’s either an employee or his teammate. The sound of a British accent and the mention of the name Lando from the person next to you lets you know at least it’s not Oscar, but you don’t want to risk turning around and finding him standing there next to him, so you grab your bag and hightail it out of there. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night as you're sitting on the couch in your apartment, scrolling on your phone as some random reality tv show plays in the background, a call from your boss comes through that ultimately changes your life forever. 

“Hello?” 

“Y/N. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, but I need to talk to you.” 

You sit up from your slumped position on the couch as worry washes over you. Are you getting fired? Did the interview with Oscar tank, did your work from today not meet his standards? It was very unlike him to call you, especially this late at night. The idea that this could be a call with good news didn’t even register as a possibility in your mind. 

“No, you’re fine. What’s going on?” You reply back timidly. 

“Well as you know the interview with Oscar has been posted and all your reports from today as well…” 

He’s dragging it along and you already knew your boss was a sadist, but this is just confirming it in your mind. “And?” 

“And I know I said if you do well this weekend then you’d be getting that promotion– more traveling, deeper storylines to follow and all that good stuff.” 

“There’s a but here isn’t there.” Your tone is already defeated, knowing that even if you had delivered some riveting journalism this weekend he still wasn’t going to give you that promotion.

“But– the weekend isn’t even over and you’ve already blown me away with the pieces you’ve put together. That interview with Oscar is trending worldwide, we’ve never had this much engagement on our socials before. I knew you’d do well with this Y/N, but I never thought you’d give us social media trending interviews. I’m proud of you.” 

You sit frozen on the couch, you heard him correctly right? You pull your phone away from your ear and go to Youtube, searching for the interview with Oscar. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head when you see the view count on it. 

1.2 million views and it was just posted this morning. You click on the comments and just about every other one is mentioning something about how Oscar is looking at you with heart eyes or how you two get on so well and then there’s one comment that throws you for a loop. 

Someone was basically airing all your information and how you grew up with Oscar. People were beyond weird on the internet, but that does explain the amount of new followers you’ve gained on Instagram today. You assumed they were all bots– not Oscar Piastri fans. 

“Y/N? Are you still there? Y/N? Hello?” The sound of your boss hollering your name through the speaker breaks you from your scrolling, but you just put him on speaker phone so you can continue reading the comments. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m still here. I’m just surprised by how much this has blown up, it was just posted this morning.” 

“You did great work kid and it shows. Connections will get you everywhere in life– keep that in mind.” 

There’s no response from you– you’re still scrolling endlessly on your phone. Somehow someone had found an old picture Nicole had posted on Twitter and figured out you were the extra unknown person in the picture. You’d been tagged in it what seemed like a hundred times– was this going to be your life now? An extension of Oscar forever? 

You were your own person at the end of the day and you weren’t going to let people start the narrative that you got to where you were in life because of Oscar, because that’s one big fat lie. 

“Now– I was going to talk to you about this when you came back to the office next week, but I feel like the sooner we do the better– even if it is over the phone.” There is another pause and you swear if this isn’t him telling you you’ve got the promotion, especially after your privacy is currently being heavily invaded in a way because of him, then you might just quit on the spot. “That promotion. It’s yours.” 

You feel the air escape your lungs and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest, you’d done everything to get to this moment and it all had finally paid off. That is until your boss continues speaking. 

“Although it’s not what you’ve exactly been working towards. You’ll be traveling like you wanted, but not in the way you think. The sports division of the company was so impressed with your work that they are offering you a full time position as their main Formula 1 reporter. Which means you’d be going to every race this season to cover it.” He pauses letting you take this all in. 

“It’s a one year contract and listen I know this isn’t what you really wanted, but Y/N you’ve got a real natural talent for this kind of reporting. I think you’d really excel in this division of the company and not to mention the pay increase you’d be getting. I know this isn’t the news you were expecting, but I really think you should take this opportunity.” 

At first you’re pissed and rightfully so, you’d worked so hard to get this promotion and the one you’re offered isn’t even the one you wanted. But then the wheels in your brain start turning and you start to weigh your options. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t ever thought about doing sports journalism. It had crossed your mind multiple times during high school and college, but the only sport you’d ever found yourself knowledgeable on was Formula 1. 

Sure, you could have done a little broadening of your horizons, but you’d only ever really loved F1 and that stemmed from Oscar, who you were trying to create a life without being reminded of him 24/7 and well look where that’s gotten you in the end. You knew this opportunity was one too good to pass up, but at the same time you were still passionate about the other form of journalism that you’d fallen in love with. If you took this job, would that eradicate the possibility of you ever being taken seriously in other kinds of journalism? You weren’t sure and it made your decision that much harder. Because in the end and Oscar issues aside you had genuinely enjoyed covering the events of the race weekend so far. 

There were so many what ifs floating around in your brain you knew you couldn’t give your boss a sure thing answer right now. Could you handle seeing Oscar for however many weekends out of the year after not seeing him for almost a decade? You needed to talk to someone about this and get out of your brain, you just only hoped your boss would give you a couple days. 

“Do I have time to think this over or not?” 

“They want a decision by the time you come back to the office on Monday. Think it over, it is a big decision, and I’ll see you on Monday alright?” 

“Okay thanks.”

The line disconnects and you’re stuck sitting there thinking– what the hell just happened? 

You waste no time texting your sister an SOS text which means she’ll be over as soon as she can with a bottle of wine and some snacks. 

It shouldn’t take her long to get to your apartment from her University, even with grand prix weekend traffic, but when you hear a knock at your door moments later you think she must have already been on her way over when you sent the text because there was no way she got here that fast. 

When you swing open the door you're expecting to see your little sister standing there, wine bottle in hand with a bag full of goodies. Instead you’re met with the complete opposite. 

Standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hands, pink and white tulips to be exact, is Oscar. He’s got a sheepish smile on his face and the apples of his cheeks are flushed. He was the last person you expected to be standing behind that door. 

“What are you doing here?” Your tone is harsher than expected, judging from the drop of emotion on Oscar’s face, but genuinely what the hell was he doing here? 

His free hand awkwardly rubs the back of his neck as his eyes quickly dart in every direction but you. “Um- well I know last night was a rough night for both of us and I know showing up with flowers doesn’t change anything, but I’m hoping it’s a step in the right direction. I wanted to have a conversation with you, I wanted to talk now that everything from before is out in the open.” 

Your grip on the door tightens, part of you wants to slam it in his face for showing up uninvited and thinking that after the night you two had that you’d want to see him so soon. But then there is that part of you that still cares about Oscar, still knows that connection is there deep down no matter how hard you want to push it down. 

The two of you stand there for a moment in your doorway and then Oscar gives you that soft smile that’s always given you a funny feeling and slightly pushes the flowers towards you. “Please, just ten minutes and then I’ll leave.” 

You grab the flowers from him, admiring them for a moment before looking back up at him. “You remembered?” 

Oscar shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I remember everything about you Y/N.” 

You want to hate how he’s breaking down your walls and you really do try and resist, but Oscar has always been your weakness. “Ten minutes Piastri that’s it.” 

He slowly enters your apartment, glancing around at the various knick knacks placed around. Oscar doesn’t know what adult you is like, but from the little things that catch his eye around your apartment he sees parts of you that he knows. The record player in the corner with a massive music collection below it– you’d always been a music lover and Oscar can’t recall how many playlists you’d made for him on your old ipod. 

The two of you would always be sharing a pair of earbuds instead of just playing the music outloud, you claimed it sounded better, even with just one ear hearing the music, while Oscar was just happy to be spending time with you. The snoopy plush sitting on the couch– every holiday season you’d force Oscar to watch the Charlie Brown movies with you and to this day if he sees anything snoopy related he always thinks of you. 

Oscar watches as you pull out a vase from one of your cabinets and take the time to meticulously arrange the flowers in it. He’s trying not to stare, but there’s something about seeing you in such a natural state, your hair up and pajamas on, that makes him think you're the most beautiful girl in the world. He doesn’t want to seem like a creep and get caught staring so he sits on the couch next to Snoopy and waits for you to join him. 

Meanwhile you’re moving at a snail's pace when it comes to putting these flowers in a vase. You don’t want to sit on the couch with Oscar and talk to him. There’s been no time for you to process anything and now you’ve got this promotion to think about– Oscar showing up tonight was the last thing you needed right now. 

There’s a funny feeling you get in your gut when you glance up from the flowers to see Oscar sitting on your couch like he’s been here a million times before. It drives you crazy that even after all these years apart and how much you want to resent him that even if it’s tiny moments like this– there’s still that level of comfort and familiarity between the two of you. It’s something that will be there forever between the two of you. How deeply you’re ingrained into each other and it makes you want to throw up. 

You’ve rearranged the flowers a dozen times by now and you know you’ve got to get this over with– you’ve got to be a big girl. 

Oscar’s head turns at the sound of your slipper clad feet shuffling across the floor towards him. “Thanks for the flowers by the way. They’re lovely.” 

He gives you that polite smile that he always does and tries to ignore the way his heart beats a little faster when you choose to sit next to him on the couch instead of the chair. “Of course. It’s the least I could do.” 

Silence fills the space between you two– which is a common occurrence these days. Then you realize that he’s had to have asked someone where you live because you sure as hell didn’t mention it to him in the forty-eight hours since you two have reunited. 

“How’d you figure out where I live?” You turn your body to face Oscar, your leg crossing under the other. 

“Um I may have asked your Mum” He admits sheepishly. 

Of course your Mum told him. You loved her and she understood you more than most people, but she also didn’t know that Oscar and you had gotten into that heated conversation last night or how much he really truly hurt you. 

“Oscar, why are you here?” Your tone sounds defeated already and you’re afraid this is going to be a repeat of last night. 

Oscar sighs deeply as he now finally turns to face you– mirroring your position on the couch. “I know last night was rough and if we are being honest with each other, it had to happen. We needed to get everything out in the open for us to even have a chance at getting back to how things used to be. And I know I’ve said this a ton, but I am so sorry about how things turned out between us, how I handled me moving away. It wasn’t fair to you. I got to go off and follow my dreams and while I did miss you it was easier for me I didn’t have any connections to anything in England.”

He hopes you’re really taking what he says to heart, but he wouldn’t blame you if you just ignored him either. 

“I got to start fresh and build a whole new part of my life. I never thought about how you were stuck back in Australia with the old parts of me, stuck with memories and a life that involved me, but that I wasn’t there for. I abandoned you and I never meant to. But I think Y/N– I really truly think that maybe this was supposed to happen this is the universes fucked up plan for us and that we were meant to reconnect. I’d been thinking about you more this past year than ever since I moved and now this? It can’t be a coincidence. I know it will take some time, but I want you back in my life Y/N. Forever this time.” 

A deep emotional breath rattles through your body as you process Oscar’s spiel. He says all this stuff, but does he really mean it? You’ve built up so many walls around yourself when it comes to Oscar you aren’t sure you can ever fully trust him again and if you do let him back in you think you might always be scared he’s going to leave again. 

“You know Oscar for a while I had convinced myself that you were dead. It was easier for me to deal with the fact that you had stopped talking to me because your were dead rather than you not talking to me because you’d fucked off to England.” 

Oscar can’t lie– that was a real punch to the gut to hear you say that. The more he chips away at you the more he learns just how much he hurt you and it fucking kills him. 

The air is thick with tension and Oscar is afraid of what else is going to come out of your mouth. He watches as you chew at your bottom lip, a nervous habit you still haven’t kicked even after all these years. He knows the gears are turning in your head, knows there’s so much you want to say to him, but you’re scared. 

You lean your head back, looking up at the ceiling as you try to conceal the emotions you’re feeling. You weren’t going to cry, not already. 

“This is a lot Oscar it really is. We just saw each other for the first time in like a decade yesterday and you’re going on this big rant about how I was supposed to be put through some emotional warfare for us to be friends again in the future? I’ve got so much shit to work through when it comes to you and I mean why are you so adamant about me being in your life again? You’ve got everything you wanted without me– you’re a driver for a top team in F1, you’re rich, you’ve got a loving girlfriend–” 

“I’m not with her anymore. We broke up last year.” Oscar interjects with a little more enthusiasm than you would think when talking about a break up of a long time partner. 

The news of Oscar being a single man should not have much of an effect on your right? The weird feeling coursing through you right now is just surprise and nothing else. At least that’s what you tell yourself. The way he was so eager to tell you that she wasn’t in his life anymore meant nothing really. If anything he’s probably still in love with her, you don’t be with someone for that long and still not have lasting feelings. 

“Oh, sorry to hear that.” Slips from your mouth, even though deep down you know you really don’t mean it. 

He shrugs it off, acting like it was nothing. 

“I’m so adamant about you being in my life again Y/N because I’ve realized there’s no one that compares to you– to the connection that we have. You’re my person and you always have been.” 

“Oscar, this connection that you keep talking about, you’re thinking about what we used to have, back when we were kids. I mean you say this stuff but how can you be sure? What if things aren’t the same?” 

He knows he’s got a long way to go with you, but he knows what he feels isn’t wrong. He just wishes you’d give him at least an inch to work with here. 

“I know how I feel Y/N. What we had when we were kids was something beyond a normal friendship: we were an extension of one another– my other half. That doesn’t go away, no matter what has happened.” 

He pauses for a moment as the two of you make eye contact and he can see how you want to trust him. He can see it in your eyes, but the walls you’ve built up are strong.

“I know you feel it too. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it even when you’re mad at me and you’ve got every wall you’ve ever built up, but there’s a little crack that light shines through and that light is the part of you that you’ve kept safe from the hurt. The part of you that is still connected to me.” 

The tears that you’ve held back so well start to build up in your eyes and you hate that Oscar can read you so well still to this day. He’s right and you despise how right he is, but no matter how right he is and how you feel about him. 

You’ve got to protect yourself at the end of the day. 

“I can’t get hurt again Oscar. Say I let you back into my life, how will I know you won’t leave me again? I can’t handle that again. I mean fuck I’d dreamt about how it would be if we ever reconnected when I was younger, but older me has to protect the younger version of herself that’s still inside me. I don’t know what to do. My brain says one thing my heart says another. It’s all too much too fast. I want to believe you, I really do, but the hurt part of me and the fact that we just reconnected yesterday is throwing me all these red flags. You have to understand how I’m feeling Oscar.” 

Oscar sees the first tear fall from your eye and without even thinking twice he reaches out and gently wipes it away from your cheek. “Y/N. I’m not going anywhere. I promise. If it takes the rest of my life for you to let me back in or for us to get back to how we used to be. I don’t care– I’ll still be here right by your side.”

Out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of something on Oscar’s wrist as he moves his arm back into his personal space. Your breath catches in your throat and your stomach damn near falls out of your ass. You do a double take, thinking there is no way you’re seeing what you think you’re seeing. But you’d recognize that bracelet anywhere. The matching one was just in the other room, tucked away in a box of things from your adolescence. You were a hoarder of things that held memories so it was no surprise to anyone that you still had yours, but for Oscar to still have his and be wearing it? You were beyond shocked. 

“You still have that?” You ask timidly, like it’s a weapon that’s going to hurt you, but honestly that bracelet could cause more damage to you than a gun right now.

Oscar’s eyes follow your line of sight and when they land on his bracelet clad wrist he instinctively reaches down to play with the excess string. 

“Yeah. Found it in my old room last night, I thought I’d lost it right before I left for England.” He pauses, twisting the thin bracelet on his wrist. “If you ask me, it’s a sign. What are the chances of me finding half of our matching bracelets that I thought I lost years ago on the same day you came back into my life?” 

You’re at a loss for words. Those bracelets meant everything to you back then and you’d still wore yours for a good year after Oscar left, even after seeing him not wearing it when he came home to visit. It meant more to you than it should have and to see him sitting here in your apartment with it on is throwing you for a loop. 

“Um– am I interrupting something?” 

Your little sister's voice snaps you out of whatever bubble Oscar and you had found yourself in and it’s times like this that you regret giving her a key. You quickly stand up acting like Oscar and you had just been caught having sex. “No, you’re not interrupting anything. Oscar was just getting ready to leave.” You ignore the little flash of hurt on his face, he really didn’t expect for you three to hang out did he? 

“Um– yeah. I was getting ready to leave.” He stands up awkwardly from the couch, smoothing out his shirt as he heads towards the door. “Thanks for talking to me Y/N.” He looks back at you and you give him a small smile. “See ya Sam.” Oscar nods towards your sister as he walks past her. 

The door closes behind him and you plop back down onto the couch with a loud sigh. 

“Alright, spill the beans. What the hell is going on?” Sam demands before heading towards the kitchen to grab the wine opener and two glasses. 

“Sam everything is so fucked up it’s not even funny.” 

The two of you are up till the early morning as you tell your sister everything that had happened in the last 48 hours. There isn’t a detail you leave out and by the end of it you do feel better, but not 100% clear on what you should actually do. Unfortunately you don’t think you’ll ever be completely certain on things when it comes to Oscar or this job promotion, but if there was one thing Sam was good at, it was telling you how it was. She never sugar coated things– it was the little sister in her. 

“You’re never going to know until you try. I know it’s scary and I know you don’t want to get hurt again, but I also grew up with Oscar and you’re literally my sister. I know you sometimes more than I think I know myself. You guys have always had this weird thing about you, like some connection that no one else can even compare to. And I think that if you don’t let Oscar back in you’re going to regret it thirty years from now and if you don’t take this job you’re going to regret it. Live a little Y/N. And if it all ends tits up again you can at least say you tried and I’ll be here as a shoulder to cry on before I go beat Piastri’s ass.” 

“I’m scared.” 

“That means you’re human.” She reaches out for your hand, squeezing it tightly in hers, a sign of reassurance. “Ultimately it’s up to you, but just know I’ll support you no matter what you decide– Oscar wise and job wise.” 

“What would I do without you?”

“Probably be stuck in a perpetual 'what if’ that consumes your whole life.” 

You roll your eyes at your younger sister. “Alright it’s time for bed.” 

Sam crashes in your spare bedroom while you sit and contemplate life in yours. The box at the top of your closet is taunting you as you sit on your bed wide awake. The box that was home to that bracelet and so many other things. You sit and try and talk yourself out of getting it down, but it was no use, seconds later you’re on your tippy toes grabbing the tattered box from the shelf. 

The box was practically a time capsule and when you opened it you were hit with a wave of nostalgia. Old pictures, concert tickets, trinkets, souvenirs from trips, and at the bottom of the box was that one thing you were looking for. 

The bracelet was definitely looking worse for wear with some fraying thread and a little stain on one spot, but for being over a decade old you couldn’t complain. It held a special place in your heart and so you really didn’t care what it looked like. 

You hold it in your hands, your fingers toying with it as you reminisce. Then without even thinking about it you slide it over your wrist. You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you put it on, maybe some giant explosion of feelings? A glowing sign in your mind that would tell you the right thing to do? It really lacked luster when you put it on, but it wasn’t about how it felt when you put it on, it was about knowing that Oscar had his on too. That you two were somehow connected again, even if it just was through a bracelet. It was something just for you two and that’s what made it special. A sign that maybe Oscar was right, maybe he was going to stick around this time.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The morning arrives way faster than you were expecting, but it had been a late night, a very late night. The reflection in the bathroom mirror is a rough one and when you go to try and tame your bed head you catch sight of the red string on your wrist. Your breath catches in your throat once again and everything from last night comes rushing back. Your head was already pounding from the wine you were drinking like juice last night. Then factor in your conversation with Oscar and your boss and it feels like your head is about ready to pop. 

By the time you make it to the track your headache has subsided some thanks to tylenol and a greasy breakfast, but you can’t stop replaying the events of last night. You know you’ve got to push it all down and enter your work mode, but God if Oscar’s plan was to get into your head last night, then he had succeeded. 

The last free practice session of the weekend has Oscar leading the times and it’s got you filled with hope for qualifying. You know practice sessions don’t mean everything, but you can’t help but feel like he’s going to put it on pole in a few short hours. 

You’d never wanted him to come to the media pen in between sessions so badly up until now and of course he doesn’t. You just wanted to wish him good luck, give him a little reassurance, but you knew he was probably busy analysing data with his team and every other thing a Formula 1 driver does. 

No matter how many demons you were fighting with right now when it came to Oscar you still cared and you were happy to see him do well. 

Qualifying arrives before you know it and by the time the last laps start being ran in Q3 you think you’re not going to have any fingernails left. You want him to get pole so bad, it’s his home race, he’s dreamt about this since a kid. It’s been close between Lando and him the whole session and when Oscar crosses the finish line on his last effort his name goes to the top of the timing board– he’d done an extraordinary lap. But in a matter of seconds it’s taken right from underneath him by his teammate. Lando crosses the finish line and beats Oscar’s time by a hair. 

You already know Oscar’s going to be beating himself up about this. You remember how he was in karting, always calm and collected in front of others, but when it was just the two of you or when he was around the people he cared about he’d finally let down his facade. P2 was still such a good spot to be starting from tomorrow, he was on the front row, but even without talking to Oscar for so long you know how badly he’s wanted this and you know he’ll be hurting deep down. 

The media pen is in full swing by the time you spot Oscar walking in, race suit hanging low on his hips, cheeks flushed. You try not to stare, as he makes a b-line for you, not wanting him to know you spotted him as soon as he walked in. 

You immediately switch into professional mode as he stands in front of the barrier that separates the two of you. “Hi Oscar.” 

When Oscar walked into the media pen his eyes immediately scanned the area for you. He wanted you to be the first person he talked to– he needed to see your face. He spots you within seconds and makes haste to head towards you before another driver plants their feet in front of you. He finds it endearing how quickly you switch into your reporter mode and a small smile finds its way onto his face as you greet him. You ask him the expected questions about his quali session and he finds that it doesn’t hurt as bad to talk about losing pole with you than it would with anyone else. 

Your right hand reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear as you ask some question about his last sector in Q3 and that’s when Oscar sees it. 

The red bracelet– on your wrist. 

The question goes in one ear and out the other because all he can focus on is that damn bracelet. To see you wearing it, especially out in public, has Oscar feeling more than hopeful about finally breaking down your walls. He’s not getting too ahead of himself because he knows he still has a long way to go with you, but you deciding to look for that bracelet last night and then deciding to go ahead and wear it speaks volumes about how you are feeling towards him. 

The disappointing loss of pole isn’t at the forefront of his brain right now– that’s something to rume about with the team later, right now he had this to enjoy. 

“Oscar did you hear me?” Your voice breaks him out of his trance. 

He smiles, cheeks getting red from embarrassment now rather than the exhausting quali session. “Sorry, yeah. It was a great last sector, just couldn’t extract that little extra bit that Lando did in the car. But I’m ready for tomorrow and see what I can do out on the track.” 

That evening you get a text from Oscar that simply reads– nice bracelet. 

It’s just a text that contains literally two words, you shouldn’t be smiling at your phone the way you are. Especially over something Oscar sent you, but you can’t help it. He’s being his old charming self and the walls you’ve built up are coming down like they’ve been built out of paper. It scares the shit out of you– how fast he’s worming his way back in and how you really aren’t putting up a fight. Although you guess those walls really never stood a chance when the person you’d built them against was the one who would always know how to break them down– no matter how long you’d been apart. 

You consider not responding, but your fingers are typing before you even decide what to do. 

Just something I found from ages ago. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The following day brings heartbreak. 

You should have known that when you awoke to the sound of rain pelting against your windows that it was a bad sign, but you tried to remain positive, knowing that it would probably clear up by race time. 

You were wrong. 

The race had been going well for Oscar, considering the track conditions, and he was in the hunt for the win. You’d never been so anxious watching him race before and you knew it was because of your knowledge on how much winning his home race meant to Oscar. To start off the season with a win and it be his home race would be such a good start to what you knew was going to be an amazing season for him. 

That is until lap 44. 

The rain had started to come down faster and you could see the puddles starting to form on parts of the track. You can hear the murmurs of the other reporters around you questioning if race control is going to intervene or let fate decide the outcome of this race. 

It’s not even ten seconds later that you hear hollers from the crowd and you know in your gut what’s happened before you even look up at the screen. The sight of Oscar’s McLaren stuck in the grass makes your stomach drop. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go for him. You can only imagine how his family is feeling right now and you wished you were with them right now instead of being stuck working. 

The yellow flag graphic flashes on the screen where he’s gone off the track and you know it’s a matter of time before a safety car comes out. You aren’t even sure what to think at the moment, things were so weird right now between Oscar and you and hell you weren’t even really sure if there would be an Oscar and you again after this weekend was done. But right now you’re hurting for the little boy you once knew. The one who would drag you alongside him to the Grand Prix every year and when the winner would take the top step on the podium he’d always say that was going to be him one day. And now when he’s so close to making that dream a reality– it’s been ripped out of his hands. 

The sound of the crowd is deafening and when the stream finally shows you what is happening you aren’t the least bit surprised. Oscar’s giving it everything he has to get that car out of the grass and after a few attempts he’s back on the track. 

He wasn’t going down without a fight. 

That was the Oscar you’d always known. Determined. Strongwilled. 

Even if he’d place P20 he could at least say he finished the race and you knew he’d use this as fuel for the remainder of the season. 

Your fingernails are practically gone by the time the checkered flag flies and Oscar has somehow finished in the points. It’s not the outcome anyone who supported him wanted, but given the circumstances he’d turned this shit situation into at least one with some points. 

The media pen post race is of course in a frenzy, but there’s only one driver you want to talk to. 

You spot him as soon as he walks in– looking disheveled and defeated. His PR training is already on display as soon as he knows the cameras are on him. He’s allowed to be upset, but not too upset. Don’t talk badly about the team or try to blame anyone else, but don’t be too self-depreciative. It’s been ingrained in him since his early days in Formula 1. 

That all goes to shit as soon as he locks eyes with you. 

His demeanor instantly softens when he sees you standing there. He’d just lost out on winning his home race, surely already getting slammed online and he knows there’s a handful of reporters waiting to rip into him, but none of that matters when he’s got you here, looking at him like it doesn’t matter that he spun out at his home race and almost had to retire, you’ll be here no matter what. 

The moment you start speaking he goes on autopilot– the PR trained side of him taking over, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still here. Still seeing the way your eyes soften towards him or the way you’ve been saying nothing but positive things to him. Even after all these years of being apart you still know how to console Oscar after a shit race. Even if you’re limited with your words and actions. 

Your free hand had been resting on the barrier between Oscar and you for the duration of the interview and you pretend not to notice Oscar’s hands that are also on the barrier and how his pinky finger keeps brushing against yours ever so often. The little sparks that radiate through you every time the tiniest square inch of your skin meets his is embarrassing. 

What the hell was going on with you? 

You should be prioritizing getting the most out of this interview with Oscar because at the end of the day you were here to work and your career came before anything that had to do with him. Yet you find yourself stumbling over your words when he hooks his pinky finger around yours, like he’s trying to find comfort in you while still remaining professional. 

Oscar doesn’t even really realize he’s practically enveloping your hand until he’s finally being ushered on by Sophie to the next interview and he almost has to remove his hand from on top of yours. It’s something he’d always done with you, found comfort in physical contact. Oscar was never big on physical affection growing up, sure he hugged his family, but with you it was different. It was almost like second nature for the two of you to be in contact somehow. 

Sure your parents joked about the two of you being attached at the hip, but sometimes it was like you really were. Personal space was not a word that Oscar and you were familiar with and it really resonated with how the two of you at one point in time felt like home to the other. That you were so in tune with each other that a simple touch could bring you a sense of comfort that nothing else in the world could. 

As Oscar walks over to the next interview he realizes that apparently old habits do die hard. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It’s a busy afternoon as you finish up your work and send off everything to your boss for it to be finalized. You can’t believe the race weekend is over or that you reported on the whole weekend to begin with. Never in a million years would you think you would have ended up here in your career, yet here you are. 

The promotion is still weighing heavy on your mind and honestly you had fun this weekend, but that doesn’t mean you’d enjoy doing this for every race right? You wouldn’t enjoy traveling the world on your employer's dime and having a career that thousands probably dream about having right? You’d have to see Oscar all the time and that’s certainly something you’re not sure you can handle– at least that’s what you’re telling yourself. 

You decide to push the debating on the promotion to the back of your mind, you had until the morning to decide, and honestly you think you just might flip a coin to decide. Although sitting in your apartment just lets your brain think about it more so you decide to go for a drive, get some fresh air, and listen to some music. Sure the traffic will be horrendous, but you think anything will help you calm your brain more than just sitting in your apartment. 

The Melbourne roads decide your journey for the night and you finally start to feel a little at ease as the fresh air billows through your car and your playlist fills your ears. Somehow you end up in your childhood neighborhood and your car somehow parks itself in your old driveway. You want to act like your car drove you here against your will, but you were turning the wheel, subconsciously wanting to come and see him. 

He’s in the exact place you expect him to be when you glance into their backyard, the rusty swing giving away his location just from the sound alone. Your feet carry you up the driveway into your backyard, through the shared gate and into the Piastri’s backyard before you can talk yourself out of it. Deep down you knew he’d need you and even if you weren’t going to admit it you needed him just as badly. 

His head is hung low as he sluggishly swings back and forth. It’s a sight to see really– a grown man on a swingset, but you join him looking as equally as ridiculous. Oscar’s head perks up at the sound of someone sitting in the swing next to him, but he already knew who it was before he looked up. He wasn’t trying to be out here throwing himself a pity party, but damn did today hurt. He knew he had it in him to win today, luck just wasn’t on his side. 

“Hey.” You’re the first to speak up. 

Oscar glances over at you and gives you a small smile. “Hey.” 

You know he probably doesn’t want to talk about what happened today. He’s had to talk about it a million times, but on a personal level you want to check in with him. 

“If you just want to put today behind you I get it, but if you want to vent, I’m here.” 

Oscar shrugs, he doesn’t really know what else there is to say about what had happened. He wants to scream and say how unfair racing is, but that’s not going to do any good. He’s just got to channel how he’s feeling into the rest of this season, use this as fuel as what he's working towards. “It fucking sucks I’m not going to lie, but I’ve just got to move on and look forward to the rest of the season. Can’t change anything now. Even if I would have given anything to win today, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

You nod in an understanding way. “One bad race, really means nothing right now. Which I really wouldn’t even say was that bad of a race. You went from almost being out to getting the car back onto the track and getting into the points. I know it wasn’t a win, but you still had a hell of a drive today Oscar. I’m still proud no matter what because I still remember the little boy who wanted to achieve this dream more than anything and look at where you are now.” 

A brief moment of silence falls between the two of you as Oscar internalizes your words. It means more to him than you would think to hear you say that you’re proud of him. Even after how bad things ended up to hear you say that and for him to know you’re being sincere means more than a win to him at this point. 

“You being here tonight with me means more than you’ll ever know. I know things are still a little weird between us, but sometimes I still need my best friend Y/N.” 

This conversation was quickly turning away from the race today and into one about the two of you, which is how all of your conversations with Oscar seemed to end up these past couple of days. You feel the early stages of tears starting to well up in your eyes and you hate how emotional you can get. 

All those years that you just needed your best friend start to replay in your mind. You needed him when you were fourteen and he’d just left for England. When you were sixteen with no date to homecoming. When you were eighteen and had just graduated. When you were twenty and feeling more than lost at University. And now at twenty-four you need him more than you’ll let yourself realize. Except this time he’s here and you don’t know how to fully let him back in. To dive back in without a life jacket.

“I needed my best friend I don’t know how many times Oscar and you weren’t there. I’m scared because I’m getting that feeling again like I need you and I’m so used to just dealing with things and experiencing things without you, but you’re here this time, and I don’t know what to do.”

Oscar frowns at your response, to hear you vocalize just how much hurt you’ve been dealing with kills him everytime. He wishes he could snap his fingers and everything would be alright, but he knows that can’t happen. 

“This time I’m staying for good.” He wants to reach over and take your hand in his, intertwine your fingers and never let go, but he knows that would be too much. “What’s going on? Let me in Y/N– please.” 

You want to trust him you really do, but god the trust issues you have are ridiculous. You don’t respond, you just look at him and he knows what you’re thinking. He knows this is going to take time. 

The two of you sit in silence for a good while, staring up at the stars, until you finally bring up the thing that’s been drowning your thoughts since Friday night. 

“My work is offering me a promotion.” 

Oscar’s eyes light up for the first time tonight. “That’s amazing Y/N.” 

You shake your head at his response, your eyes trained on your hands that have found a home in your lap. “It’s not the promotion I was expecting.” Osar furrows his eyebrows in confusion and you take his silence as a sign to continue. “I’ve always wanted to do high intensity journalism– war torn countries, national geographic stuff like that. But my boss called me the other night and said that our interview had gone so well and that my other content was so good that the sports division of the company is offering me the position to be their full time F1 journalist.”  

Right off the bat Oscar’s first thought is for you to take the promotion. It’s selfish reasoning, but if you did he’d be able to see you so much more and that’s something he’s never going to say no to. But the rational side of him knows you’re probably at war with your mind right now and his selfish wants are not what you need to hear right now. 

Although there isn’t a doubt in Oscar’s mind that you wouldn’t absolutely dominate this promotion if you accepted it. You were a pure natural this weekend and handled the hectic weekend better than some seasoned journalists. He knows deep down though that he’s one of the big reasons as to why you’re so hesitant to accept the offer and it kills him. 

“I still think it’s amazing Y/N. It might not be exactly what you wanted, but I think it’s a good sign that you’re getting offered this after just one weekend. Imagine what your life could be like a year from now.” 

You knew Oscar would be nothing but supportive of the idea of you taking this promotion, maybe you shouldn’t have come to him with this. “It’s not what I wanted though. I mean this weekend was great and everything just felt natural like I’d been doing this for years, but what if this is a one off thing. Like what if I get to the next race and it’s just a shit weekend for me?” 

Oscar stifles a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve just described the life of a race car driver.” 

An irritated eye roll is thrown in Oscar’s direction at his comment. “No but seriously Osc, I can’t deal with the what-ifs. I mean what if taking this eliminates my chances of doing other kinds of journalism?” 

Oscar acts like hearing you call him Osc for the first time in over a decade doesn’t make his heart race. It was a slip of the tongue he’s sure– falling back into old habits. But he can’t help but feel like it’s a win for him, to have you reverting back to old nicknames so quickly. He’ll always be your Osc even when you're both old and grey. 

He quickly brings himself back to reality and out of his dreamland, you needed him right now and he was going to be here to listen and tell you what you needed to hear. “But what if you don’t take it and you lose out on the opportunity of a lifetime?”

You don’t give an answer to his hypothetical scenario, choosing to anxiously pick at your fingernails instead.

“I honestly think you’ve already made up your mind Y/N. How many times did you mull over things as a child and make a big deal out of it? You’d have Sam and I going through every possible outcome and the whole time you’ve had your mind made up since the beginning. Go with your gut– take the risk or don’t. You always took what Sam and I said into consideration, but at the end of the day it’s your choice.” 

Your front teeth tug at your bottom lip as you take in what Oscar’s told you. He wasn’t wrong. You’d been so caught up in the Oscar aspect of all of this that you were letting it cloud what this opportunity could do for you instead of take away. Deep down you knew you were leaning more towards taking the job. 

The feeling you had this weekend was indescribable and to be that excited to do your job should be a good sign– at least you think it is. Oscar had just made everything more conflicting for you and you were able to find other things to pile on to not make it seem like it was just Oscar preventing you from taking this job. 

How your life had been practically turned upside down in a matter of four days was beyond you, but you think maybe what Oscar has said the other night might have had a little truth to it. Maybe this all was meant to happen in the way it has. Maybe Oscar was supposed to come back to you and this was the plan for you two all along. Maybe it’s your way of coping with how fast everything seems to be moving or how you can’t seem to stop Oscar from just climbing back into his home behind your ribs no matter how hard you try. 

You’re still hurt and mad at him from how things went down between the two of you, but god how you’ve missed having him around. You know there’s so much now that you don’t know about him, but there’s parts of him that are never going to change, the parts of him that you kept to yourself, the parts you held onto for safe keeping as the years without him passed. 

You don’t want to get hurt again– you never want to feel the way you did all those years ago. And if you take this job you know it also means that you’re willing to fully let Oscar back in, maybe not right away, but you know you have a weakness when it comes to him and it’ll happen eventually. But you think you won’t ever find the connection you have with Oscar in someone else and if the universe is giving you guys another chance, then you’d be a fool not to take it. 

“When do you think you’ll be back in Australia?” Your hands grip the metal chains of the swing tighter, scared of what his answer is going to be. 

“Depends on if I get to see you or not. If I get to see you I’ll be home after China. If I don’t then probably not until the season’s summer break.” He’s teasing and you want to slap that stupid smirk that you secretly love off of his face. 

“Well who knows if I’ll be around during your break so guess it’ll probably be a year from now until we see each other again.” 

Oscar rolls his eyes at your dramatics before getting up from the swing and extending his hand out for you to take. “Come on, miss dramatic. It’s late and you’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. You’re gonna need all the sleep you can get now, trust me the jet lag is killer.” 

You take his hand and he pulls you up out of the swing. “I never said I was taking that promotion Oscar so I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

An amused expression paints itself across Oscsar’s face as the two of you slowly walk back towards your car. You aren’t quite ready to leave and Oscar isn’t ready to go inside so the both of you linger by your car. It’s like a scene out of a movie– Oscar’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets while you lean against your car. The only thing that fills the air is the sound of a dog barking in the distance and the gentle night breeze. There’s a giddy feeling that radiates through you, that any normal person would call butterflies, but that’s totally not what you’re feeling right now– right? 

Oscar gives you that shy little smile and you can sense him moving closer ever so often. The energy between the two of you is charged like a live wire and you can feel your heart beating in your ears. You know what’s about to happen, but this can’t be  happening right now– it can’t be. This is your best friend that yes you kissed when you were fourteen but you were kids and this is way more serious this time around. Yet with all the panicking you find your heart overriding your mind and when Oscar cups your cheek with his hand you lean into his touch. 

“Osc-” 

He shakes his head not wanting to hear your protests. “Have you ever thought about what things might be like if I had never moved to England? Or maybe if I would have pulled my head out of my ass and kept in touch with you?” His voice is almost a whisper. His free hand lands gently on your hip and he’s practically got you caged against your car. 

Oscar was so close you could count every individual eyelash that adorned his eyes. “All the time.” 

“I’d like to think things would be different.” 

You shake your head at him, there was no use dwelling on what could have been. “We’ll never know Oscar.” 

“You never thought about what things would be like between us?” 

You notice how his eyes flicker from your eyes then back down to your lips ever so often and it causes a shiver to run down your spine. “Us?” 

Oscar nods and you can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows, nervous to hear your answer.

“Maybe when I was younger, especially after you kissed me at Hannah’s house, but Oscar we’re grown now. Any little feeling I’d had disappeared the moment you got with Lucy and god Oscar you were with her for so long. Those feelings don’t just go away just because you’ve broken up.” 

“She never meant as much to me as you.” 

You scoff and Oscar’s hand drops from your face, but moves to mirror the other on your hips. “Don’t say that. You were with her for five years, Oscar. Don’t put her down to try and suck up to me. If I really meant that much to you then you would have never gotten with her.” 

“You know you’ve always been my person– my other half. There’s always been that connection between us Y/N.” Oscar knows he’s being pathetic and more than likely making a fool of himself, but in the heat of the moment he just turns feral and thinks that after four days of reuniting that it's a good idea to try and make a move on you. 

“You’re talking about me like I’m your ex or the one that got away. Oscar, I'm your best friend. We’ve never been anything more and if this is the time you decide to tell me you’ve got feelings for me this is one hell of a time. I just got you back– don’t try and rush into something over all these heightened emotions.” 

You push Oscar away as you come back to reality and realize this is not how you want this new chapter with Oscar to begin. You aren’t sure how you exactly feel about him, if it’s romantic or lust or just seeing someone you used to call home after so long. Everything is heightened at the moment and it’s like you’ve been running on adrenaline all weekend.

“You’re telling me you don’t feel the connection between the two of us?” Oscar asks, desperation laced in his voice. 

The adrenaline you’ve been surviving off of is starting to wear off and you can feel the tiredness setting in, your brain is fried. “I don’t know how I feel Oscar. A couple weeks ago I would have never thought I’d be here right now with you. I was living my life without you and I was fine. Now I guess the universe thought we needed to reunite and you’ve come crashing back in head first. I can’t differentiate my mind from my heart half the time and I want to hate you so bad sometimes, but then I’m around you and things just feel right. So god forbid a girl wants some time to process things.” 

Oscar can see how everything is really taking its toll on you and the regret starts to set in. He never meant to make things harder for you. He’d gotten way too ahead of himself and took things a little too far too fast. He’s just so scared to lose you again that he doesn’t realize he’s being a little overbearing. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve just gotten too wrapped up in having you back and trying to process how I’m also feeling.” 

You can see the regret in his eyes and you never wanted Oscar to feel bad for expressing his feelings, but it’s too much for you right now. You’re still trying to work through trusting him on a friendship level and you hate to say it, but if he actually did have feelings for you romantically you think you might doubt that too. 

Seeing a familiar person, a person you were once so comfortable with after so long and then add on that fact that he’s probably still not over Lucy. To you the only logical explanation is that he’s using you as a rebound. And that is not something you could handle on top of everything else. It’s best to nip that in the bud before you find yourself stumbling down that dark path that will eventually hurt you more than anything in the end. 

You move to stand by your car door, initiating the end of this conversation for the night. “I care about you so deeply Oscar, even after all that’s happened, don’t think I don’t. I’ve just got shit I’ve got to work through. If the universe is giving us this second chance to have each other back in our lives, let’s try to not fuck it up again. I need my best friend first and if it ever gets to something beyond friends then okay, but we can’t rush into something we both aren’t ready for. Don’t ruin everything because we were caught up in the moment.” 

He knows you’re right and he wants to kick himself for turning a decent night with you into this, but he guesses if he hadn’t then he would never know how you felt. “So much has happened I keep forgetting it’s only been four days since we reconnected.” 

You just want to move on from this conversation, if you don’t it’s going to just keep going around in circles. “Well this season is gonna seem like an eternity if we keep the same timeline going.” 

Oscar’s eyes widen and he cocks an eyebrow at you in question. 

You open your car door, hesitating slightly before getting in. “I’ll see you in China, Piastri.” 

Even with the news of you practically being with him for the whole year he’s still reeling from making a damn fool of himself moments ago. You can tell he’s in his head and maybe you were a little harsh with him, but he needed to know how you felt and if there was one thing you were going to be with Oscar it was honest. 

“We’re gonna be okay. We’ve just gotta give each other time.” You reassure him before you leave Oscar standing in the driveway. 

Oscar watches you the whole time and when he finally can’t see your car he then treks back inside. 

God help him. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

As the season progresses you start to get into the groove of your new job and by the time summer break rolls around you’d never been happier that you made the decision to take that promotion. It just comes naturally to you and you’ve quickly made a name for yourself in the sports journalism world. Your work is thrilled with the pieces and content you’ve been turning out and you only wish you could have been doing this sooner. 

As for Oscar and you– it’s been a journey. The first couple race weekends after Australia were a little weird considering the fact that the two of you almost kissed, but you two eventually got over it. As much as you wanted to keep those walls up, it was genuinely no use. The more you were around him the more you just opened up and at times it was like old times with Oscar. It was nice to just have your best friend back. 

Although sometimes at night you’d dream of that moment in Australia when Oscar had you pressed up against your car. You’d wake up flushed and confused, wishing your mind would just let you be for five seconds. It made things harder for you because you wanted to focus on your friendship with him, but you couldn’t help but feel the ache in your chest when he’d look at you a certain way or your hands would brush against his as you walked side by side. 

It didn’t help the stuff you’d see online about Oscar and you, people who knew nothing about either of you making outrageous claims. Sometimes though you can’t lie– you’d self indulge in the comment sections of posts. 

It was particularly bad after Oscar and you teamed up to do a hot lap video during the Belgium Grand Prix. Of course you two shared your usual banter, but Oscar had decided to be a little shit at the beginning of the video. You’d begged him to not put the pedal to the floor right off the bat, but he’d just looked at you with that sly smirk of his, claiming all he knew how to do was go fast. His eyes never left you as he pressed on the gas, causing the car to go flying and you to let out a scream. 

user1: god the way he looks at her when he presses on the gas…. I NEED THAT

user2: can’t lie i’m starting to see what people have been saying about these two. the childhood friends to lovers trope is so strong between them. 

user3: heart eyes piastri strikes again and dare i say heart eyes y/n? 

user4: i think oscar looked more at her than the road the whole video. he’s down bad fr

The comments have you blushing and you physically have to put your phone down on your hotel bed to calm yourself. 

You might be fucked. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

If you would have asked yourself six months ago how do you feel about going on a trip with Oscar to Saint-Tropez and it just being the two of you— you would have said what the fuck why would I be doing that? 

Flash forward to now and you find yourself sunbathing on a yacht in the French Riviera with Oscar next to you. 

When he asked you a couple weeks ago if you wanted to go with him you’d hesitated– unsure if that was the right thing to do. Things were going well between the two of you, but going on vacation with just him was a whole different story. It was definitely way too soon for you guys to be doing stuff like this, but on the other hand there was a part of you that was giddy at the idea of having some one on one time with Oscar.

So against your better judgment you tell him yes. 

Your days are spent lounging around on a yacht, enjoying decadent food, and most importantly realizing you’re in love with Oscar Piastri.

You know it seems fast to say you’re in love with him after only having him back in your life for half a year, and how resistant you were about letting him back in, but the thing is you’ve never not been in love with Oscar. 

It’s something you come to terms with three days into the trip and it scares the shit out of you. 

You’re out for dinner, some quaint place by the water that only seems to serve meals that you would call a snack, but nonetheless it's beautiful. The sun is setting along the coast and it’s a picturesque scene that Oscar insists you must pose in front of. His phone is pointed in your direction as you smile in front of the sherbert swirled sky. 

“Beautiful.” He states as he swipes through the various photos he’d taken. 

“Let me see!” You demand, trying to distract yourself from how a single word from Oscar has your cheeks heating up. If he asks at least you can blame it on the wine. 

He locks his phone and sets it in his lap, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “No can do, these are for my eyes only.” 

“Osc!” 

A shake of the head and a smirk is all you get in response from him before the waitress comes over to the table. She’d been a little more friendly than necessary with Oscar all evening, while you’d been treated like dirt under her shoe 

“Can I interest you in any dessert tonight?” She asks, looking directly at Oscar, not even bothering to shift her glance towards you. On the surface you're calm and collected, but deep down you want to kick the bitch in the shin. You’d been sitting here the whole evening and the only time she acknowledged you was when she came to the table the first time, after that she was laser focused on Oscar. The batting of the eyelashes, the giggling when all Oscar did was ask what she recommended, and the unnecessary reach across him to fill his wine glass you’d been able to just brush off, but the blatant rudeness of acting like you weren’t even sitting at the table with him about sent you over the edge. 

Oscar looks at you from across the table, an eyebrow raised in question. He already knew what you wanted, but still gave you the option to choose. 

“We’ll have the tiramisu.” You stick out the menu towards the waitress, tone more than shitty, but you didn’t care, she was being rude. 

Her head swivels in your direction when she hears you speak and she almost looks stunned like she didn’t even know you could speak. She grabs the menus from you, but still has the nerve to hyper focus back on Oscar. 

“Great. That’s my favorite– I’ll have that right out for you.” 

A laugh escapes past your lips as she leaves, you just can’t help it, you’re dumbfounded at the lengths some people will go to try and get someone’s attention. You glance up at Oscar and see him staring back at you, a smirk splayed across his face. 

“What?” You ask, suddenly defensive. 

Oscar leans back in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest with that same shit eating grin on his face. “Oh nothing. I just think someone is a little jealous.” 

“Jealous?!” 

He nods, clearly amused at this whole situation. “Yes, don’t act like you haven’t been throwing the waitress daggers with your eyes all evening.” 

You scoff as you mess with the edge of the linen table cloth, it was clearly more interesting than this conversation. “I have nothing to be jealous about Oscar so I don’t even know what you are talking about.” 

Seconds later the waitress comes back with the dessert, making sure to set the plate directly in front of Oscar instead of in the middle of the table. ‘Let me know if you need anything else.” 

Your grip on your spoon is so tight that it’s sure to leave an impression. How fucking rude could she be? 

“We’ll just take the check.” Oscar states as he pushes the plate towards the middle of the table. 

“Be right back!” She brushes her hand against Oscar’s shoulder as she leaves and you wish she’d never come back. 

Oscar grabs his spoon and dives into the tiramisu with a smile never leaving his face. He can’t lie and say he wasn’t enjoying seeing you get so worked up over this. To see you so openly expressing your distaste for anyone to try and make a move on him. Even if you weren’t going to admit it– anyone with two working eyes could see it. 

Your friendship while it was clearly back, it was still mending. Things had changed between the two of you and you both knew everything wasn’t going to be the same, but the gaps that existed in your friendship had allowed for another form of connection to flourish. The seedlings had always been there, buried deep from years of memories and the universe's divine intervention. The feelings had always peeked out at certain moments in your lives, but were never there long enough to alter your timelines. That is until now.

Oscar had somewhat always assumed that in the end you were going to be the one he’d eventually end up with. If not out of love, but perhaps out of convenience. Like if you were both thirty and still single then you’d get married kind of deal. You were always special to him– his person as he liked to say. And as horrible as it sounds, all the years he was with Lucy, he knew she wasn’t going to be the one he’d grow old and grey with.

So many people especially in the last year of their relationship had asked when he was going to pop the question and maybe he really should have broken it off way before it got to that point, but Lucy and him did make each other happy. And even though the two of you had no contact the whole time Lucy and him were together, there were parts of him that would always belong to you no matter what, and unfortunately Lucy just wasn’t you. 

He’d thought about reaching out so many times, but it was never the right time. Racing was his whole life and it was the thing that took him away from you. So until he knew he’d be able to balance both you and racing he kept to himself. He knew you’d eventually come back to him, it was destined to happen. And when he saw you in that press conference in March he knew this was it. This was the universe putting the puzzle pieces together, but when he saw you there was something that came to light. That feeling he’d had many times before that he never could put a finger on, one that bloomed in his chest and traveled all the way throughout his body. 

Love. 

He was certain and there was absolutely nothing that could change his mind. 

Oscar Piastri was in love with you. 

He knew it would take you much longer than him to come to that realization, he’d put you through a lot, and he hated himself for it, but this time was different. He was here to stay and with time he knew you’d heal and the next chapter in the book of Y/N and Oscar could begin. 

As the months passed he could see the little peaks of light breaking through, the little signs that you felt the same way as him, but he wasn’t going to press, when your heart was ready you’d let him know. 

He just never thought the biggest crack would show over some waitress flirting with him. 

To see someone angrily eat tiramisu is a sight to see, but Oscar thinks you still look breathtaking regardless of how hard you dig your spoon into it. 

“I’m yours Y/N. Don’t worry.” His free hand reaches across the table to softly envelope yours, his fingers slightly toying with the red bracelet that still adorned your wrist. He sees how the blush on your cheeks deepens and how you seem to relax under his touch. Your actions only add fire to the fuel that is Oscar’s desire for you and he prays you come to your senses soon because he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold back how he truly feels. 

The waitress comes back shortly after with the check and Oscar knows he’s got to put her in her place. He’d tried to be polite, but the blatant disrespect she had shown towards you was unacceptable in his book. Oscar hands her his card and when she goes to take it from him he holds onto it. She thinks he’s flirting and starts to laugh, but Oscar doesn’t find it funny one bit.

“I hope you don’t treat all of your customers like this– the amount of disrespect you’ve shown her.” Oscar points across the table at you. “The person I care very deeply about, it’s disgusting. You’ve dismissed her all evening and acted like she wasn’t even sitting at the table. She’s the most important person in my life and to see her get treated like that just does not fly with me. So if we could just get the receipt, we will be on our way.” 

The waitress truly seems unaffected by Oscar’s reprimanding, you on the other hand are feeling more than flustered. To see him coming to your defense so publically has you hot all over. Oscar’s defended you before, especially when you were kids, but nothing to this extent. Nothing close to the language he had used just now. He was laying claim to you in multiple ways and you loved it. 

Before you even work up the courage to look Oscar in the eye again the waitress is back with the receipt. “Have a lovely night.” Is all she says before moving along to one of her other tables. 

Oscar scoffs as he tosses the receipt aimlessly onto the table. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, reaching for it to see what the reaction was for. The moment your eyes land on it you audibly laugh. 

Call me 123-456-7890 ;)

“The fucking nerve.” You state as the two of you get up to leave. Oscar just leaves the receipt on the table before grabbing your hand in his to lead you out of the restaurant. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The walk back to the villa is slow and…. intimate?

Somehow you’ve got your arm wrapped around Oscar’s as you walk through the streets, the town is winding down for the night, but your mind is still going a hundred miles an hour. You can’t seem to get over that waitress. You don’t know why it bothered you so much. In fact, the majority of the time you enjoyed not being seen, you liked to blend in with the crowd, but the way she was acting towards Oscar, that is what really bothered you. 

You realize that you actually may have been jealous. 

When you were younger you really never had to share Oscar with anyone else– it was you two always. Sure your siblings were there, but that didn’t count. You both had other friends, but in all honesty you think everyone back then knew they had no chance in competing with what Oscar and you had. Everyone knew their place and it worked. 

Then when Lucy came along Oscar wasn’t in your life at that point. You’d built up so many walls that any ill feelings you had were masked by your issues with Oscar leaving, not the fact that there was someone else in his life. You do guess there was that first Christmas he brought her home that you faked being sick, but you could also blame that on your Oscar issues at the time. 

But now that you finally have him back, you’ve realized you don’t ever want to lose him again. You don’t like the idea of someone else being his person, of someone else possibly taking him away from you. The realization scares you, mainly because you’d been fighting how you really felt about Oscar since this past March. 

You had wanted to kiss him so badly that night, but you didn’t, and you’re glad you didn’t because it was truly too soon, but you wished maybe you would have come to terms with everything a little sooner instead of pushing them down. Because now as you're walking the streets of Southern France on the arm of Oscar Piastri you’ve realized that you don’t want anyone else to be with him because you’re the one that wants to be with him. 

You want Oscar all to yourself. 

You wanted him on his worst days and his best days. You wanted to walk down any street with him and know that he’s yours and only yours. 

You glance up at him, studying his side profile, his prominent jaw, the moles on his neck, his fluffy brown hair that’s tousled from the wind coming off water. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted. There is no one in this world that could compare to Oscar or the connection that you have with him. When you’re with him you feel at home– like he’s your missing puzzle piece. 

Oscar can sense your eyes on him and when he glances down at you with his adoring big brown eyes. The same eyes that can bring you calm in the worst cases of chaos. Or the ones that sparkle like diamonds after a big win and you’re the first person he sees. The eyes that look at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars in the sky above. 

The realization hits you like a freight train and you can feel the air escape your lungs. This feeling it’s been there all along, deep within your soul, interwoven in your DNA. 

You’re in love with Oscar. 

Your grip on his arm is a little tighter as you continue your walk, but your eyes never glance back up at him, afraid that if he looked at you again you’d confess your feelings right there in the middle of Saint-Tropez. 

Oscar is oblivious to the mental turmoil you’re going through right now and he only finds comfort in the feeling of you pulling him closer. He wasn’t going to complain, any chance to be close to you Oscar was never going to pass up. So he smiles to himself as the two of you continue your stroll back to the villa, only hoping that soon enough you’d accept what the universe had placed in front of you. That you’d feel the same about him as he does you. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When Oscar decides to take a shower as soon as you get back to the villa you’re beyond grateful. As soon as the door clicks shut and you hear the water turn on you’re immediately running to your room and calling Sam. 

“Hello?”

“Sam I am so fucked. Like fucked beyond belief.” Your whisper yelling, not wanting Oscar to hear, but wanting Sam to know it’s urgent. 

“What’s wrong, are you in trouble? Do I need to come get you?” 

You rub your forehead, you don’t even know if you can say this outloud. “No, no. It’s nothing like that.” 

“Then what is going on?” 

You decide to just rip the bandaid off. “I’m in love with Oscar.” 

There’s silence on the line for a moment and you pull the phone away from your ear to make sure the line didn’t disconnect. Then you hear a laugh echo through the speaker. 

“Yeah, no shit.” 

“I just told you that I’m in love with Oscar and that’s all you can say? What the fuck Sam!” 

You hear her sigh and that irritates you even more for a moment. “Y/N, you’ve always been in love with Oscar. It just took you twenty-four years to come to terms with it.” 

“I haven’t always been in love with him.” You immediately protest. 

“Yes you have. I know my big sister better than anyone. I mean you both have been in love with each other for as long as I can remember. Maybe when we were kids it wasn’t necessarily romantic love, but there’s always been something different about the two of you. How many times did you two get pretend married when we were little? Talk about predicting the future.” 

“I said I had feelings for him, not that I was marrying him!” 

“You actually said you were in love with him, not that you had feelings for him. That’s a big difference.”

“Sam! I’m spiraling right now and you are not helping me whatsoever!” You’re trying not to raise your voice, scared that Oscar would be able to hear you from the room over, but your little sister was being a pain in the ass right now.

“If I didn’t want to help you I wouldn’t have answered the phone at seven in the morning. Thank you very much.” 

A grimace finds its way onto your face– you’d forgotten all about the time difference in your hectic frenzy to call her. “Sorry, I forgot about the time difference.” 

You hear her sigh and then the sound of rustling, meaning she was probably getting up out of bed. “I know you’re freaking out, but Y/N this and I’m not even exaggerating when I saw this, your soulmate we are talking about. I mean fuck you’re literally on vacation with just him in the south of France– talk about romantic. Tell him how you feel, because I know he feels the same if not even more crazy about you. You deserve to be happy and as much as I wanted to kill Oscar all those years ago when he left, the progress the two of you have made to rekindle your connection in such a short amount of time, tells me that maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder. He looks at you like you're the center of his universe, put the poor guy out of his misery and tell him that you love him back. I know it’s scary to come to terms with all of this, especially after everything, but babe those feelings have been there the whole time. It’s always been Oscar and Y/N in this lifetime and everyone after that.” 

Sam’s words weigh heavy on your mind as you pick at the frayed stitch on the duvet. “I guess I should tell you that we almost kissed back in March.” 

“You guys almost kissed and you’re just now realizing you’ve got feelings for him?!” 

“I don’t know! I thought back then it was because of just reuniting with him and emotions were heavy. We were caught up in the moment.” You pause briefly, that night replaying in your mind. “But thinking back to then, in his own way he did kind of admit to wanting to be with me, but we’d just met again a couple days before that and I just brushed it off as heightened emotions.” 

Sam groans loudly. “I love you, but you’re literally the dumbest person I know right now. If you don’t go tell Oscar how you feel right now I’m gonna get on the earliest flight to you and force you two to admit your feelings.” 

A sudden knock at your door causes you to jump, a small yelp escaping past your lips. “Sam I’ve got to go, I'll talk to you later!” You don’t even give her time to hang up, just ending the call and tossing your phone on the bed. 

“Come in!” You holler with an unsteady voice and rapid heartbeat. God you pray Oscar hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time. 

The door slowly creaks open and Oscar peaks his head in. “Hey I was going to watch a movie, but the tv in my room isn’t working, and the couch in the living room was clearly not made for comfort. Do you want to watch one in here?” 

Of course he’d want to watch a movie in your room, meaning it would be just the two of you, in your bed. 

“Sure.” You barely croak out. 

Oscar walks in and you have to hold back the groan that almost escapes past your lips. His hair is messy, not pushed back like normal and slightly down in his eyes. He’s got on a plain black t-shirt that’s so snug on his biceps you think it might bust and some grey sweatpants that are hanging dangerously low on his hips. 

When he slides onto the bed next to you it’s like you’re frozen in place. His aftershave is drowning your senses and you know there is no way you can sit through a whole movie with him right next to you like this. 

“What do you want to watch?” Oscar asks, grabbing the remote from the nightstand. 

“I don’t care.” You lean back against the headboard, eyes straight ahead at the TV, not daring to look over at him. 

Oscar eventually decides on some random Marvel movie and you’re too in your head to even know what’s going on, even though your eyes haven’t left the screen. 

You haven’t dared to move an inch, you could feel the heat radiating off of him, hear his breathing. Hell if you tried hard enough you’d probably be able to hear his heart beat. Just the other day this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but things have clearly changed. 

“Everything alright?” Oscar asks, his knee slightly bumping yours to get your attention. 

“Just peachy. Why?” You reply, eyes still glued to the TV, body stiff as a board. 

He furrows his eyebrows at you, he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye the whole time. You’d been acting like he was some stranger and he wondered if he’d done something wrong. He had you wrapped around his arm on the way home and now you were acting like he had the plague or something.

“You’re acting strange. You’re sitting here like a statue, like I’m some stranger. Did I do something wrong or?” 

You shake your head, eyes still forward. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Osc.” 

He’s not buying it one bit, he can see straight through your lies, you’ve never been a good liar. He reaches over– his hand settling on your thigh. The simple action makes every nerve in your body feel alive. 

“Well something is wrong. You wouldn’t be acting like this if there wasn’t. Talk to me.” 

He’s not going to drop it– you know Oscar too well. He’s going to sit here and bother you until you finally break down and talk to him, except this time your issue is him. 

“It’s fine Oscar, I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.” 

The movie is paused before you know it and Oscar is scooching closer to you on the bed. If there was something going on he wanted to be here for you. “You know you’ll feel better if we talk about it.” 

In any other situation he would be right, but this isn’t any other situation. You feel his fingers gently toying with the frayed strings of your bracelet and it makes your situation that much harder. Every little action of his is clouding your mind and you really need time to process everything without him right next to you, touching you, his warmth radiating around you. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath– trying to ground yourself. If you tell him how you feel this is going to change everything. You think that’s what scares you the most, the idea that maybe you’ve been reading everything wrong with Oscar and that he doesn’t feel the same way. That if you tell him that you’re in love with him he’s going to turn you down and you’re going to lose him again.

Or what if you guys do give it a shot and things don’t work out and you can’t even reconcile a friendship at the end? Everyone around you says you’re meant to be together, but only the universe can decide that, and leaving things up to fate makes your stomach churn.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” His voice is soft and you feel his fingers hook under your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

The moment you lock eyes with his big brown ones you know you’re a goner. Any instinct you had to wait and think on how you actually feel has vanished. You can’t help it, he makes you feel comfortable, he’s like home to you. You know there is no going back from this, but like Sam has told you, you’ll never know if you don’t try. 

“You.” 

Oscar feels his heart rate speed up a little, was this a good or bad response? He’s almost too afraid to ask.

“Did I do something? Was it dinner? I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner. I should have requested a new waitress.” He’s panicking slightly, worried that he’d fucked things up. 

You gently shake your head at him, he thinks he’s fucked everything up, but it’s you that’s about to drop a bomb. “It was dinner, and the walk back from dinner, that night after the race in Australia, the tulips you gave me, that party at Hannah Payne’s house. “You pause, reaching out and looping your finger around the excess string of Oscar’s bracelet. “These bracelets that have withstood time, and god Oscar the way you look at me like I’m the center of your universe, how you’ve made these last six months the best months of my life. That's all I can think about. You’re all I can think about.” 

He thinks he knows what you're alluding to, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself, he wants to hear you say it. Wants to hear you vocalize how he’s felt for what seems like an eternity. 

His hand slowly reaches up to cup your face, his thumb gently rubbing across the apple of your cheek. “Say it– please say it.” His voice is laced with desperation, desire, everything he’s ever wanted is in the palm of his hand, but he’s got to hear you say it. 

You close your eyes, leaning into Oscar’s touch. Blindly you reach for his free hand, lacing your fingers with his, and it’s like your hand is made to fit perfectly with his. When you open your eyes and see him looking at you with nothing but pure adoration, like he’d worship the ground you walk on, you know what you’re about to do is right. This is what is meant to happen. Oscar is yours and this time you’re not going to let him get away. 

“I’m in love with you Oscar.” 

If Oscar hadn’t known any better he would have thought he died and gone to heaven. To hear you say those words to him was like music to his ears. To get the confirmation that what he felt was mutual, but also that his inkling that you felt the same was true was a feeling he’d never felt before. 

“Say it again.” Oscar asks, high on the feeling in his chest. 

You smile, laughing a little at how giddy he was. “I love you.” 

If Oscar could overdose on hearing you say that he might have to go to rehab, but for right now he’s going to savor this moment. He looks at you, hair still tousled from the wind at dinner, rosy cheeks, and a glimmer in your eye that Oscar thinks could make even the sourest man swoon. You were breathtaking in every way and he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his voice filled with desire. 

“I thought you’d never ask.” 

In a split second Oscar’s lips are on yours and you waste no time in kissing him back. You two were clearly making up for lost time. It was passionate and loving, like you both were trying to convey how you’d felt over the years. His hands cupped your jaw, deepening the kiss. If there was one thing you knew to be true it was that kissing Oscar Piastri was like nothing you’d experienced before. It was nothing like that night in that cramped closet. This kiss was real and filled with unspoken words. 

You pull away reluctantly, your forehead resting against his as you both try to catch your breath. “I love you.” Oscar breaths out, a giddy smile on his face. 

There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he didn’t feel the same now, but to hear him actually say it to you had your heart feeling like it was about ready to burst out of your chest. “Well I’d like to hope so.” You joke, smiling back equally as big at him. 

Oscar lays down on the bed, his arms open as an invite, which you gladly accept. It’s crazy how it seems like Oscar and you were made for each other, how you just fit into his side like a missing puzzle piece, but you do and nothing in the world feels better than being in his arms. You can hear his heartbeat beating against his chest. It’s strong and steady, grounding you, bringing you back down from this la-la land of love you’re in. 

You glance up at him and find him already looking at you. “Promise me you aren’t going to leave me again. I can’t go through that again Oscar, especially not now.” Even after all of this the fear of him leaving is still a demon you have to deal with. 

He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I promise. You’re stuck with me forever now.” 

“Forever?” 

Oscar reaches for your left hand, his fingers gently toying with your ring finger. “Forever.” 

three years later 

The Piastri household looks like a house straight out of a Christmas movie. Everyone has gathered for the yearly celebrations and after a delicious dinner and some gift giving the evening has started to wind down. Oscar and you are cuddled up on the couch, eating some of your Mum’s sugar cookies, penis shaped and all. You two have been waiting for everyone to gather in the living room for a game of pictionary, you’ve got something you’ve been wanting to announce, but Nicole is taking forever in the kitchen. After what seems like an eternity you see her walk in and you glance over at Oscar, who takes the hint to get everyone’s attention. 

“Hey everyone!” The chatter stops and all eyes are focused on him. “So Y/N and I have been waiting until we were all together to tell you guys-” He looks back at you, his hand reaching out for you as you stand beside him. You’d taken the split second that all the attention was on Oscar to slip the ring that had been in your pocket all evening onto your ring finger. Both of your families are on the edge of their seats, the anticipation killing them. You look over at Oscar, who’s only smiling back at you with the biggest grin on his face. 

You take a deep breath before quickly raising up your left hand and wiggling your ring finger towards everyone. 

“Oh my god! You’re engaged?!” Sam yells, nearly breaking the sound barrier. 

The room erupts into squeals and gasps, happy energy radiating all around. 

“Well actually…” Oscar trails off. 

“We’ve been married for a couple months.” You state, laughter lacing your words. 

Even more gasps fill the room and Oscar and you just can’t help but laugh. It happened on a whim a couple months ago. There was a break in the racing schedule and Oscar and you took a trip to Lake Como. You know both of you knew you’d eventually get married, that was established pretty early on, but when you two have one of your late night deep conversations and the topic of why wait to get married got brought up, you both thought why are we waiting? 

So the next day you got married in some little chapel and the rest was history. You had decided to keep it a little secret for a while, it was just something for Oscar and you to enjoy, but you knew you couldn’t hide it forever. So you both decided Christmas would be the best time to announce it. 

Your Mum and sister are the first to come attack you with a hug, tears are streaming down your Mum’s face and all you can do is comfort her. “My baby, I can’t believe you’re married!” 

“Don’t worry Mum, we’re going to have an actual wedding this summer.” You knew your family, well actually both of your families would want you guys to have an actual wedding. It was something Oscar and you had discussed beforehand. Deep down you wanted a wedding too, but you wanted to have that special moment that only Oscar and you shared also. 

Sam hugs you tighter than you think is even humanly possible. “Told you you’ll never know until you try.” 

“I know, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

One by one everyone comes to congratulate you and you can feel the tears starting to well up from the pure joy you’re feeling. To have not just your family love you, but also Oscar’s is the biggest blessing you could ever ask for. Nicole is the last person to come see Oscar and you and you can tell by the look on her face that she’s holding back tears. “I hope you know I always knew Oscar and you were going to end up together. Call it Mother’s intuition, but there’s no one else I could imagine my Oscar with. You’ve always been like a daughter to me, but now I get to actually call you one.” 

You look over at the man you love– your husband and you feel nothing but pure adoration. He’s everything you could have asked for and more. It took some time and rough patches to get where you are, but you wouldn’t change it for the world. This is how your life is supposed to be and if you tried to change it, you don’t think you’d be standing here next to him right now, with this rock on your finger. Oscar has always been your person and now he always will be. 

he was one of those guys that didn‘t even want a girlfriend for a very long time after he broke up with his last. he was just too busy and if he was being honest he enjoyed the single life very much. but nobody told him that it would get lonely indeed once every girl has left your bed the next morning. 

in landos opinion they have crossed paths in the best time possible, and while magui already ticked all the boxes he secretly had, he did his best to win her interest. he has also found himself wondering stupid as one of the girls in his friend group has laid tarot on him and there were two female energies involved in his life. he can remember he scoffed at the mention, never believing anything hocus pocus right until this moment.

actually, the tarot has slipped his mind. magui has slipped his mind. but what didn’t slip his mind was you. he couldn’t even hear what was going on around him since your presence was louder than any other girls around here. and you didn’t even say anything.

magui was gorgeous, yes… alone. but next to you she looked like wallpaper. the sun couldn’t compare to the moon that had this gentle calm, the soft side that he lacked in his so chaotic every days. you were across the room, laughing with your brothers, wearing a red ferrari hoodie. did he already mention how good you looked in red?

“hey, are you listening?“ magui asked, waving a hand in front of his face with that small faltering smile that tells lando he hasn’t been so slick lately as he thought. crystal eyes snapping back to her in an instant and offering her a stretch of his lips she fell for so easily. “yes, princess. of course. you said you love the new cooperation and that they‘re flying you out to paris next week. i‘m sad you can’t be there for monaco‘s race“ lando says, lacing his fingers with hers and earning that satisfied nod he always gets when he listens.

yes, lando was a pro in multitasking. it was indeed a gift that his subconscious mind saved every information while his ears where not listening. there was a feeling akin to guilt that had him in a chokehold ever since you showed up at your brothers races. charles has never mentioned he has a sister and while they knew each other for so long it never came to mention?

if he was being real he could make out why. suddenly everyones attention was on you. everyone was so polite and attentive. carlos brought you a coffee, ollie saved you a seat at breakfast, and even lewis got you that very hoodie you were wearing. not charles. and your brother was so overprotective. immediately slipping into a role he didn’t know charles could take as he was glaring away everyone right on time.

you showed up to the japanese grand prix for the first time, having heads turn and mouths hang open. and he was no different. but he was proud to say he has never talked to you. lando was subtle about it. nope, he wouldn’t undergo the same mistake and he would try to block every emotion that came up when he would get the chance to see your pretty face. or hear your melodic voice. or see that-

“hey, i don’t think we two met?“ lando snaps out of his thoughts fast at your voice, your smile directed on him has his breath hitch enough that you notice. your smile morphs into a wicked one, but you cover it so fast with a nice expression he isn’t even sure if he just imagined it or if it really happened. you look at magui in the next moment, making him feel lost without your eyes on him. the glance you two shared was short and intense enough and it had him wonder if you felt the same. or if you even initiated it. 

“i‘m charles sister,“ you introduce yourself, shaking maguis hand and her eyes light up at your name. “oh hey, i‘m magui, lando‘s girlfriend“ she gestures towards lando sitting opposite of her “your like… really really pretty,“ she compliments, having you almost forget the coil in your stomach about the mention of her boyfriend. but you school it with skilled expression, finding no need to destroy a picture of yourself by any means necessary. 

“thank you so much, that’s so nice of you“ you say, before turning back to the curly haired boy who can’t seem to keep his eyes from you “lando, right?“ you don’t miss how his eyes light up when his name rolls from your tongue so effortlessly it sounds like a silver knife wrapped in velvet. he can’t put his finger on it, and maybe he is being delusional but something about you has an underlying sharpness he can’t tell.

“yeah, that’s me“ he smiles a little shyly, extending his hand too for you to shake. the handshake is quick and he can swear he feels your fingertips brush the inside of his palm deliberately when your hands part reluctant ways. “it‘s nice to meet you,“ lando didn’t know back then how he would eat his words up soon, begging this moment would have never happened. 

your smile is something akin to a predatory one, eyes fixated on him like he is just another trophy, just another award you feel the need to claim. to show you can. as quick as that expression came as quick it is gone. “you’re doing a great job this season, outshining every other driver huh?“ you tease, giving him enough time to process his next words. 

lando can feel his cheeks heat up at your teasing despite himself. praise is something he doesn‘t get often, not even from him own girlfriend yet here you are just having met him and telling him how good he is doing this year. “well, i‘m doing my best,“ he says, glancing back at magui who seems to be obvious to the silent passing between you two but is rather all in awe at your appearance just like everyone else. “actually, i have to credit my crew and strategy team for that-“ but the brit can‘t even seem to finish his sentence as you turn back to his girlfriend, “how does it feel to have such a talented driver as your boyfriend?“

one moment… how does magui feel? why aren’t you caring about how he feels? he is doing a great job! he is giving his all and he is having intense training to achieve his dreams… and your asking magui? lando doesn’t seem to notice that you play your cards just right. you know exactly what you’re doing by depriving your attention from him, leaving him yearning for your attention. why weren’t you giving your attention to him?

magui, just another pawn in your game feels almost honored that you indeed see her value in this too. she beams with pride, her smile lighting her face up when she reaches across the table to take landos hand “oh it’s amazing. he is very talented, no?“ she is squeezing his hand affectionately and he has to double take to make sure it‘s his girlfriend sitting before him. he always feels like it takes a lot to make her praise him. nonetheless he loves hearing it. it‘s just… unusual.

lando looks back up at you with an intense look and finds himself rather irritated when you wouldn’t meet his gaze again, leaving him starved for your attention. and you feel it. you feel every shift in his seat, every glance, every overlook he does on you. and it fills you with immense satisfaction. you have both right where you want them to be. “you’re really luck to have a boyfriend like him.“ you tell her, winking at her that has her giggling rather easily. 

and magui wants to keep talking to you. she wants to know more and tell you how nice you are and that you should maybe catch up someday. but a nosy charles is poking his head through the cafeteria door, calling out for you. god forbid you stay unattended for more than five minutes. you bid your goodbyes to the pair and mind you only smiling at the blonde girl but not even sharing another glance with, lando you’re out the door. 

he stares after you, watching that ass sway away in perfect jeans like they are waving him a mockingly that tells him he can never have it. “she’s really nice. right, baby?“ magui points out, lacing her fingers with landos but he is not here. again. far gone in a universe that evolves around you so effortlessly he doesn’t notice how he gets pulled in your web. however he snaps back before it can get suspicious enough, offering her a warm smile before his coffee cup takes his interest more than anything in this room could. “yeah she is… nice.“

…

there is no need to mention that monaco was crazy. the crowd was crazy and the vibes the drivers where met with. lando won the race, making it feel like a one in a lifetime experience with how over the top he felt. sad that magui can‘t be there he was fast to text her, sending her a picture of the trophy he was fast to receive a text and a virtual kiss. at least a reminder that he loved her. 

he needed the reminder when the temptation walked into the club in a short sparkly dress, knee high leather boots and a face that makes every man turn. and that ass? absolutely unforgettable.

the road was clear without his girlfriend clinging on him and you were using every opportunity. and first, lando thought he was crazy. it looked like you were talking to him, when you weren’t. every time you walked passed you brushed his arm, his hip, his back. and on some occasions you winked at him. why he thought he was crazy? because no one seemed to notice. you had a way of playing the scene so perfectly it was driving him up the wall.

when you were standing outside the club, nursing your drink and typing away on your phone he has had enough. lando steps outside, frustration and irritation evident on his face. he approaches you, almost brushing against you but stopping short. “you really enjoy playing these games, huh?“ he asks gruffly, eyes zeroed out on you with something close to hatred. he hated you. no?

you raise an eyebrow, turning around unhurried at the sudden outburst happening right behind you. wrapping your lips around the straw provocatively lando follows the motion before quickly adverting his eyes. fucking tease. “games? what are you talking about?“ the feigned confusion in your face just makes the blood simmer under the surface more than he cares to admit how much you actually affect him.

landos jaw clenches. he looks up for a brief second, taking a big gulp of air and trying to contain himself. “don‘t play dumb. the little touches, the smiles… you know exactly what you‘re doing.“ he steps closer, voice dropping to a low growl almost.

you chuckle, not getting scared at all by this attempt of being intimidating. you know these games and how to play them. the best is to make them drool first before dinner is served. and right now it really seems that he is starting to foam at the mouth. lando norris might just be your master work of all times.

“are you not getting any attention, lando? why are you frustrated with me?“ you say taking another sip of your drink. you don’t think you have ever see clear blue eyes like his darken so fast it was deeper than the night itself. and maybe you should have felt bad at teasing this poor guy to a degree he couldn‘t even keep up anymore. but it was too delicious to just drop it. and besides you were in too deep to let it go.

landos look narrows at you, lowering his face to get closer. his fury seems to start boiling over slowly but surely. “i‘m not frustrated because i don’t get any attention. i‘m frustrated because you’re sending me mixed signals,“ he says through gritted teeth, feeling like he shouldn’t be even talking to you at all. he should just leave. never talk, listen or look at you ever again. it‘s like your hexing him, turning his head into a scary direction. and suddenly he has problems keeping his attention on one woman. or maybe you weren’t even a part of his mind trouble. you genuinely made him believe it would be his fault. “what do you want from me?“

your smirk widens into a mischievous grin, hand brushing his chest as you step probably impossibly closer. “what i want from you?“ your murmur and landos stomach clenches at the waft of your perfume, at your touch and that gorgeous face with big eyes only looking at him. fuck. he thinks no one has looked at him like this ever in his life.

“absolutely everything“

with that you brush past him, leaving lando speechless and spit drying in his throat. he follows you with his eyes until you disappear between people and he has to take a big breath. there was no one quite like you, he figured. and what he hated even more that he could never say this about his own girlfriend. 

…

the monaco heat was burning down on the pavement and the free time period had lando get out of his apartment and roam the city a little. but he grew bored fast and realised that it would be much more realistic for him to just get on his yacht and let loose. 

the facetime call connected and magui was talking animatedly how well the job went. she met some very nice girls on the trip to paris and even on set everyone was so nice it was all and all a good experience. and while lando listened attentively, placing all his belongings on the table under the deck his eyes wandered over the scenery. it was a beautiful weather to begin with. the sun lit up the sea in the most magical way, shining down on the landscape and your ass… wait.

landos eyes widened and first he thought it was a bad joke. on deck of the other yacht was no one else than your very naked body. because the tiny leo print bikini you were wearing left absolutely nothing to the imagination. the sun kissed your back while your eyes were hid by your channel sunglasses, soft rap music playing in the background. he was sure if he didn’t look away very soon he would start to drool. fuck… fuck fuck fuck. pathetic.

“yes, my love. i’ll be there. you want me to pick up the dress for you on my way there?“ god bless his subconscious. lando turns away quickly from the tempting sight, smiling at magui who was still on facetime. her smile only widened and he couldn’t stop the gnawing feeling of guilt bite away on his heart bit by bit. “that would be amazing. you’re the best, you know that?“ yep. guilt it was.

“i’ll see you soon, yes? go and get some rest from the long flight.“ lando says, waiting for her to blow her usual kiss before he ends the call. okay, now what? he totally forgot that charles yacht was docked right next to his and that you, in fact, still had been in monaco. there were only two options really. he enjoys the sunny day and ignores your very naked ass in that poor excuse of a bikini or he lets you play with his mind a little more. no, he wouldn’t give you any more space or opportunity to do this. lando was not going to be another participant in your games. 

so he peeled his t-shirt off, changed into his swim trunks and took a good cool dip in the water before he lied down on the deck on one of the sunbeds. and you wouldn’t be attentively you if you didn’t already see him. pushing your sunglasses down your nose you smirked when you saw his tanned chest over the rim of your sunglasses. you could only imagine what it felt like sliding your hand up that faint line of abs to his silver chain, wrapping it around two fingers and pulling him in. 

and the best thing about all this was that you didn’t even plan this. universe liked to play in your cards and while you had no idea who’s yacht belonged to who it was even more of a thrill to see the very muse of your desires share a sunny day with you. unhurriedly you turned around, propping yourself up on your elbows and fixing your bikini. he would be here soon anyway and you would have to do absolutely nothing. it’s just how your magic worked.

while lando would see that very differently since he promised himself long ten minutes ago that he wouldn’t waste any more thought on you, he had done a pretty good job not glancing over. he was enjoying the sun for five more minutes max before his phone send him an annoying message while he was mindlessly scrolling through it. 10% batterie. yes, he had ignored the first warning but letting it die was not an option. he had a dinner later and would need to have it with him. so he stood up, making his way inside and grabbing the empty space his charger is always placed in. he double takes to make sure but it still doesn’t appear at the double take. 

he sighs in defeat. magui. she took it with her the last time they were here because she forgot her own at home. no… this is bad. this is so bad. head rising to look at the boat next to him he saw himself having no other choice. at least he can say he had strong fifteen minutes. now, no need to be nuts… he’s just gonna get over there and ask you for a charger… wouldn’t be that hard, no?

“i… forgot my charger… can i… like…. borrow yours?“ you tilt your head to the source of the voice, pushing your sunglasses up to your head. a big, annoyingly attractive grin spreads on your face when you realise who it is. lando holds up his phone as an explanation briefly, trying to not make it sound stupid how he found his way over here. and even when his expression stays gruff, his eyes hold a small spark of intimidation at your cocky glance.

“look what we have here… if i didn’t know better i might accuse you of stalking soon,“ you say, sitting up and fixing the bra of your bikini. landos cheeks flush slightly at the sight and your accusation. he feels the irritation flare already although you two have barely shared a few words. was there even a chance to not get irritated by you? he really wondered why everyone seemed to like you so much. 

“don’t flatter yourself,“ he retorts dryly, crossing his arms over his chest “at least i am not the one flirting with a guy who has a girlfriend.“ all he earns from you is a laugh that is mocking him. a sound that comes deep within, telling him you’re never sorry. “you think i’m flirting with you?“ you ask, standing up from your spot and brushing past him deliberately, letting the skin on skin contact sizzle on your skin for the remaining moment “please… you’re mid at best“

lando can’t help but take your words as a hit to his ego. he follows you under deck, trying to not stare at that ass that looked at him first. mid? did you really think he was mid or were you toying with him? He was a fine man, he could only assume since so many girls wanted him. since his girlfriend wanted him. so why did you say he was mid? and why did he give a fuck?

walking over to the sofa you bend over deliberately to grab the charger from the small glass table. sure, you could have just walked around, but where’s the fun in that? and he sees the way your bikini pulls so faintly over the spot that has him weak in his knees. lando feels his dick stir and quickly draws a hand over his face. good god… the weather makes him delusional “you’re fucking distracting,“ he comments bothered, pinching the bridge of his nose to avoid looking at you. 

a mindless chuckle leaves your lips and you turn around to him. you know he is afraid. afraid that he might find more interest in you than he would in his girlfriend. that his attraction to you is not so fleeting and accidental. but fact is, your games had burrowed itself like a woodworm into his brain, making him feel like he is portraying his insecurities on you. why else would he be so tense around you always? it doesn’t make sense. why isn’t it easy to brush you off? “compared to what? your girlfriend?“

lando steps forward, wanting to grab the charger from your hands but you’re quick to pull it behind your back. he looks down and sees pure challenge in your eyes while he is burning with impatience to get off of your boat and out of that venomous aura. “at least she’s not a manipulative little bitch like you.“

his words seem to have nothing on you. your smirk only widens. only when he steps closer but still attempts to not touch you. when all his brain does is contemplate to grab the charger or grab you. turn you around and spank that ass until it’s raw. good lord.

“now… you don’t bite the hand that gives you a charger. after all you’re in my space. you should be a little nicer. like say please and thank you,“ you say, making it very clear who has the upper hand, if it wasn’t clear already. even if lando liked to believe he had a strong character he felt absolutely helpless.

he tries to grab the charger again, but ends up having you pressed against him when you lean forward, hand with charger still behind your back “you know what i realised?“ you murmur voice low enough to make the hairs stand on his back in the most uncomfortable way. his eyes zeroing out on you while heat crawls up between you two. “that boys like you are so used to getting everything they want. you get away with absolutely everything… but the moment you don’t get what you want? you start to act like the topic is the problem… am i right?“

there it was again. that woodworm biting away on his sane thoughts. the woodworm that is you. his eyes narrow, hands bracing themselves either side of you on the sofa, fingers digging in so he can keep himself from grabbing your hips. he can’t decide it anymore. it’s like you brainwashed him. maybe it were his insecurities. maybe he was acting like a dick because he secretly wanted you and painted you the villain while it was him?

“why can’t you leave me alone? why can’t you leave my life alone? my thoughts…?“ his words low, a deep grumble that has you bite your lower lip in anticipation. you just wanted to press against him, feel that naked warm body and his large hands grabbing you roughly. “didn’t you came over? asking for my charger?“ you ask deliberately, letting the implication hang in the air once again. “and besides… i am not even doing much and yet here you are… trembling and thinking about another girl.“

landos frustration threatens to boil over once again faster than he can look, making it easy to almost loose his composure. the ice is so thin it could break any moment and he fears there won’t be dry land ever again if it once breaks. he leans in, aware that he’s stupidly playing into your cards, proving your point effortlessly. “i’m not trembling.“

your face is smug, holding out the charger to him “shouldn’t be a problem then to take this and go back to your own boat, am i right?“ you don’t move away from him, calling his bluff. you’re testing him and it gets harder to maintain whatever semblance of control he thinks he has. he doesn’t grab the charger right away but stays in the proximity like a frozen man.

you dare to go one more further, your free hand teases the hem of his trunks with your fingertips, two hooking into it only to pull him closer. breath hitching audibly, lando has to choke back a groan “are you not curious, lando?“ his name a soft purr on your tongue almost makes him fold. he swallows but stays quiet for his own sake while he can feel his dick react to your touch. “how it would feel to be with someone else? to bring some change into your life every now and then. the thrill, the excitement?“

he growls softly when you snap his waistband, letting a triumphant smirk appear on your face. fucking minx. “i’m not cheating on magui for a fuck.“ he says, taking the charger from your hands and stepping away. he prays you won’t see the ridiculous bulge in his trunks from such a brief touch and reminds himself to take a cool shower once on his boat. “don’t fucking play games with me!“ he points a finger at you before turning away quickly “leave me and my girlfriend alone.“

his warning has you chuckle as you watch him leave the underdeck with crossed arms. “don’t worry. I will,“ you say, knowing exactly it’s just a matter of time before he comes back. before he finds you again and before he falls for you again. and the next time you will make sure he doesn’t get away so fast. you’re counting the days already.

…

maguis birthday party was a big beautiful luxurious one. she rented a beautiful villa for that day and the setting sun complimented with bathing the beautiful surroundings in a pink and orange. more and more people started to arrive while the birthday queen herself was smiling from ear to ear. lando kissed her on the lip, gave her the present he had for her and started to mingle with her friends. 

suddenly big laughter echoes from the hallway to the terrace and lando has to look to the cause of maguis sudden squealing. however he was definitely not prepared to see you hugging his girlfriend and wishing her the happiest birthday. his eyes widened when he saw the black lace top and leather pants that made you look so fucking hot it almost hurt. especially since he came close to knowing what was underneath it.

“fuck… she‘s fine, who’s that?“ one of maguis guy friends said, making lando clench his jaw. it was just so like you to pull all the attention on you wherever you went. “that‘s charles leclerc sister,“ he answers, acting unfazed while watching the liquor in his cup. he intentionally avoids your presence, darting it rather towards his drink then to his phone. but magui had other plans. 

pulling you along towards lando and her friends she introduced you to them before turning to lando “look who made it to the party!“ she said happily and his heart almost broke at how happy she was. unbeknownst to her that she let the viper with toxic teeth and ill intensions inside her party. lando forced himself to smile, giving you subtle warning eyes “how come?“ he asks a little on the edge.

“oh, i invited her. and i‘m so happy you made it!“ she exclaims, hugging you again which you had to take and control your facial expression to not roll your eyes here on the spot. “besides, i love your lipstick.“

you smile at her, and only lando knows it‘s so fake. he knows exactly that you probably and most likely can’t stand magui. “thanks, it‘s dior. wanna get a drink?“

for the rest of the night lando falls into the habit of being an absolute dick on his girlfriends party. when magui wants to pull him to dance he fakes a smile, shaking his head. he ditches her kisses and acts uneasy all night. and what pisses him off even more is that ever since you left to get drinks with magui, you haven’t even looked once at him. you avoid him like the plague and the worst is you fucking act like you’re the kindest and nicest girl with the blonde. 

aforementioned walks up to you with a new drink in hand, and a pout on that pretty face. you frown “what’s wrong, birthday girl?“ you ask, raising an eyebrow. she groans, rolling her eyes and offering lando a brief glance who stands by the bar and wears a sour expression. 

“lando‘s being a moody bitch and i don‘t know whats wrong with him…“ she sighs, taking a sip from her drink in attempt to cool down. “besides… he keeps starring at you like he wants to kill you… creepy right?“ she chuckles which you mimic, looking up finally at lando who indeed glares at you. your smirk widens and you look back at the blonde “you want me to go talk to him? it‘s not okay for him to act like a bitch on his girls birthday,“ you click your tongue, but the fire that just lit up in your eyes is one that is unknown to the poor girl.

maguis look turns into delight and she smiles at the offer. "you would really do that? i mean… you really don’t have to deal with his mood swings.“

but you only chuckles, shaking your head. “please, believe me i know how to deal with moody men“ you say, placing your drink down on the nearby table. “you’re the best you know that?“ she says sweetly, hugging you before walking off to join her friends.

once she’s gone your smirk widens, and you lock eyes with an annoyed lando who follows you with his eyes inside the big villa. you make your way through the people, then upstairs into one of the bathrooms. it’s dimly lit and kept in dark tones just like the whole vibe of the villa is. one thing you have to give her, she has a very good taste. in houses and man. 

pulling out our you lipstick from the small bag you start applying before the door opens and lando walks in without an invitation. and it only took him less than five minutes to follow you inside physically too. “you’re being a bitch on your girlfriend’s party….and she’s pissed about it“ you say unfazed, not glancing at him while applying the red lipstick in the mirror. and if you were honest you couldn’t care less about magui and who was being a bitch to her. but rather about the very man standing a few feet away from you. 

lando crosses his arms over his chest, the black shirt stretching over his muscles a little too deliciously. “is she now? did you tell her why?“ slowly his hands find their way on the countertop on either side of you, caging you in. just like on the boat, your skin heats up again. he is so close, yet so far with the space he still tries to maintain. 

you scoff, closing your red lipstick and placing it back in your mini bag besides the mirror “no, i couldn’t possibly know why you’re being moody… i can’t take a look in peoples heads, you know“ you answer, turning your head and smirking at him. your faces are only inches apart, a breath being exchanged to the other already felt like too much intimacy. your eyes darted down to his lips before back up, that cocky expression remaining. 

his heart skips a beat at your look that doesn’t last long as you glance back into the mirror, fixing your make up “care to explain so i can tell her?“

lando leans in, desire and anger fueling his body from the insides when he smells your sweet perfume. it’s like fucking poison, drawing him in and has his eyes close for the briefest moment. he really tries to keep it together but fuck… that perfect ass is almost brushing against his hardening dick. “wouldn’t want you to ruin my relationship with your little manipulative games now, wouldt i?“ he murmurs, breath ghosting your ear like a taunt and you know you have him. 

you lean back against lando, your back on his broad chest as you lock eyes with him intentionally in the mirror. “you want it too. you know you do…“ you whisper, and it feels like a spell he is completely hostage to. his hand grabs your jaw roughly in frustration, making you look at him. “want what exactly…“ he growls in question, suddenly realizing how easy it would be to bend you over and fuck that attitude out of you in a hard way. maybe then he will get you out of his system. 

“everything i can give you..“ you hum, your breath on his lips “you want the thrill, you want the fire… you want to be bad for me.“

landos blue eyes bore into yours, the intensity between you two palpable. and he feels so pathetic for falling for it. if he thinks about it a moment more he believes that he never really stood a chance. just like any other man he let you spin him in your endless web of games and manipulation. and fuck yes, does he love the fire. he wants it. all of it. he wants you to be that cocky cheeky girl who understands him. who knows what he wants even if he doesn’t say it out loud. he wants to be a fool for your games only just so he can fuck you in every single way possible. 

he feels his last restrains being cut off so easily by your eyes, red lips and body heat. he can’t even contain it anymore, his other hand grabbing onto your waist greedily has your smirk widen. “look at you… already grabbing onto me like you wanna fuck me…“

and god, does he want you to shut up. he wants you to shut up so bad he never has to hear that voice again that suddenly mirrors his own inner voice it’s too real. lando wants you to shut up so bad, he crashes his lips against yours in a hungry, needy kiss. 

feeling triumphant to have finally broken the ice you turn around to him, wrapping your arms around his neck while pulling him closer. the kiss is messy, hot and either of you trying to dominate the other into endless submission. but both of you know already, that lando long lost this fight. even if he kisses you with all the pent up desire. all the pent up frustration that has been building in his core ever since he laid eyes on you. 

his hands slide down, grabbing onto that ass he had always dreamed off. squeezing your cheeks he groans softly into the kiss. “you damn tease…“ he murmurs against your lips, letting you bury your hair in his curls to tug on them.

“please… you love the chase,“ you say in a confident tone, feeling his hands pull you closer to his rock hard cock you can make out through his pants. it presses urgently against your stomach, not leaving any room for further imagination. hard for you and your games, your chase and all the thrill you caused him. “you little manipulative-“

his words die in his throat when there is a knock on the bathroom door “lando?“ magui calls out, making his eyes widen. he tries to pull away from you, but you would never let it come that far. no, not when you played him down into a position like this. grabbing his collar you pull him back “if you don’t answer the door i’m sucking your dick.“

he can feel it twitch. responding to your very promise. lando almost feels bad when he doesn’t even think about it, only burying his face in your neck to leave wanting open mouthed kisses there. he pants heavily, like he is still trying to hold back to a degree. which only turns you on more. 

your smirk widens, and your hands slide down to open his belt with a soft clink “it’s just me in here, mags…“ you call back, opening landos pants and feeling his tasty hard dick brush against your fingers “don’t know where lando went… he stormed away like a bitch after i told him off…“

landos growl is displeased against the skin of your neck. oh you’re having too much fun with this. and you’re probably going to milk it dry and tease him about it more than he would like it. but the moment you pull his boxers down and wrap your hand around it, his eyes roll back and he keeps himself from making any sounds. 

he hears magui answer something that is too quiet for the rushing in his ears that he doesn’t even hear it. only when her footsteps fade into the distance you drop on your knees. lando looks down, eyes hooded already and hand burying in your hair immediately. “fuck… look at this hard cock. is it aching for me?“

you ask with a smirk, licking up the shaft and watch him struggle. his head falls back against the wall with a small thud while his fingers tighten in your hair possessively, afraid that you will stop and claim it as one of your games. “yes… oh god…“ he pants, all hot and bothered “…it is aching all for you. for your mouth, your tongue, your throat.“

he is being such a good boy you can’t even push the taunting more. wrapping your lips around his head you slowly take him inch by inch. hand working on the rest while his hard dick gets covered in your red lipstick. his pre cum on your tongue tastes like sweet victory and has your core pulsing to an itchy degree.

landos mouth is open in a silent moan, your lips and warm mouth feeling so heavenly on him. the way you suck lightly, hands gently playing with his balls has him believe he died and went to heaven while all he knows he is in hell. he looks absolutely wrecked. the kind of wrecked that makes him not give a fuck about anything else except fucking your mouth.

“holy fuck…“ he groans when he feels him hit the back of your throat. he looks down at you, looking up at him with those mischievous eyes while your mouth is stuffed full of his cock. “you love sucking cock like this, huh? little slut…“ 

you moan around him, not getting offended even the little bit. and while your goal was to suck him as dry as the desert you feel him pull your mouth off of him, tilting your head up. “bend over the counter before i loose my fucking mind…“ he warns, brushing your hair out of the way.

and you don’t need to be told twice. getting to your feet you earn a bruising kiss before his sloppy and impatient movements undo your pants along with your thong, letting you step out of them. lando turns you around, bending you over the sink. 

you bite your lower lip when he grabs onto your ass demandingly, pulling you back immediately. you groan in satisfaction when he slides his hard dick through your wet folds. wet you're absolutely soaked. “like this, baby?“ you say with uncontained desperation in your voice, using the nickname deliberately. “see? i told you i don‘t need to run… you will come yourself.“

landos jaw clenches at the nickname, even if it sounds so good coming from you. but damn, he gets irritated at every one of your words. without a warning he slams all inside and it has you jolt forward and yelp. you have to take a few seconds to realise how full you feel. so blissful that your mouth hangs open, just soaking in the way his cock stretches you like you were made for him. he stays in this position, letting you adjust and watching that smart mouth going silent in the mirror. now he is the one to smirk, enjoying the change of dynamic so much. 

“shut up and take it…“ he growls, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back inside. his hips start a slow but deep rhythm, his whole face contorted in pleasure at the sensation. it‘s better than anything he has ever felt. he is completely focused on you, forgetting an important someone that is still waiting for him on her own party. too lost to care.

“oh fuck…“ you whimper, the sound of your wetness being fucked so good echoes in the small bathroom. “is this what you wanted? getting fucked by a taken man? like a good slut?“ lando murmurs in your ear, leaning over and changing the angle just enough to make the breath knock out of your lungs.

“yes… fuck yes…“ before a loud moan can leave your lips, his hand clasps around those pretty lips that sucked him off just moments ago. lando picks up on speed, and grins when he hears your loud uninhibited moans are muffled against his palm. he should have known you‘re loud. and he really would have loved the whole show. but something about keeping you quiet after all the teasing, all the comments and all the drama has him use this to his very advantage.

the sight of you falling apart on his cock, enjoying every second is so filthy and beautiful it snaps something inside him. he thrusts his hips forward urgently, other hand on your waist to keep you exactly where you are while hitting your good spot over and over again. “take my cock… take it deep… fuck…“ he starts panting himself, wanting to blow all his load into you punishingly. he watches your gorgeous eyes water, mascara running down your face while he pushes you over the edge faster than you can realise.

your legs shake as you come, hungry moans against his palm as you shut your eyes for the remaining moment. it comes so damn close to an outer body experience the way he handles you and fucks you all through it. this man sure as hell knows what he is doing and you feel absolutely no shame in having pursued him for so long. not when this was the outcome.

feeling your pussy squeeze his cock like a vice makes his balls tighten instantly. burying his face in the crook of your neck landos groans have your stomach tightening. and the brit is so lost, he almost doesn’t pull out. nothing in him wishes he would.

nontheless he pulls out just in time, jerking himself off before finishing on that perfect ass and lower back. he lets go of your mouth, you small pants finding a way out of your body having you almost gasp for air at how intense the orgasm was. landos hot load covers your skin and you feel it dripping down between your cheeks. “look at that perfect ass..“ he pants, slapping your right cheek softly, making you giggle.

you look over your shoulder, lipstick smudged, mascara tears and the best fucked out expression he has ever seen on a woman. you’re sin embodied. he grabs onto your ass one more time, almost like memorising how it feels before he has to admire it from afar again. grabbing the towel he cleans you up gently, before swatting it one more time. “no word to magui… this never happened!“ he warns you in a low voice tucking himself away before leaving the bathroom as fast as he came.

you only grin to yourself, taking time to get dressed and fixed up again. oh yeah… for this comment he deserves to not being told one little issue that will give it all away. he should already know better than to fuck you over like this. he should already know you better than to mess with the master of the game.

no ten minutes left before you‘re all put together again, walking down the stairs only to hear arguing coming up in an echo. a temperamental voice that sounds much like maguis and landos irritated ones.

“...what the fuck do you mean? and who‘s fucking lipstick is that all over your mouth?“ she shouts, throwing her hands in the air. their eyes fall on you when you pass them with a small smile “i told you it’s dior,“ you answer before brushing past her and leaving the party. in disaster and flames. just like you were always known to be.

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"i needed to hear your voice." he answers, his voice heavy with exhaustion and the usual calmness it brings with itself after a big joint. his head was spinning in the best way possible and whenever he would close his eyes you were the only thing he was able to see. it was like he would feel your kisses and see your smile. the way your eyes would light up when he said your name and the small kisses he loved to feel on his neck you would occasionally place there between cuddles. this is when he realized he missed you. so he rang you up. at two in the morning.

you sigh, your eyelids threatening to fall close as you roll over to lay on your back starring up at the ceiling. "lan, are you high again?" you question, knowing its pointless. because one, he absolutely is. what it seemed like to you the moment he had even a little bit of free time and a day off without the real duties his life demanded from him he took his thoughts away and shut his head of with a good amount of weed. you came to the conclusion he would rather sit at home (or with friends) and smoke instead of making plans with you. it became such a lazy plan that didn’t command is attention or emotions. just lando and the silence of his apartment.

you accepted it most of the time. why? because you always remembered how the beginning was. so sweet and sensual. intimate and loving. worshipping the ground you walked on and took always time to call you no matter what time zone he was in. he needed to make sure you were okay and talked to, cared about enough. it was what you have hold onto, hopping he would change his mind one day and return back to himself.

lando chuckles, the sound buried deep in his throat "maybe a little." he lies, closing his eyes in the meantime "i mean... i don't know. i just need to hear you. i need you by my side." he hums lowly, your name on his lips, almost pleadung you. you don't remember the time where you two hung out these past months where he was in a normal state. sober. still you said yes always. it was an opportunity to see him, hear his voice feel his touch. you bagged in his love, carefully putting it away for quieter days, not caring if it was maybe fake or desperate because of the effect the weed had on him. it was real. and felt good while it lastet.

you draw a hand over your face, trying to shake of the tiredness with a yawn "lando..." you sigh but he didn't even gave you a chance "i know, i know..." he slurs "i just cant stand the quiet. cant stand not having you beside me in bed and i want you here. you're the only thing that makes sense right now."

you take a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. holding onto your last resistance for the sake of your own mental stability. "lando, your high. go get yourself a glass of water and go to sleep." you say, your voice firm as you sat up leaning against the headboard.

"you always know what to say, baby. but i cant just sleep right now. my mind wouldn't shut up any other way you know that. i would be thinking about the..." he stops himself and you know why. you have known way before him and his friends. his team.

championship. the word he was not saying was championship. he was pressured and he felt a lot. it didn't take a genius to come up with this after all the times he had laid his head on your chest and talked about how tired he was. how exhausted and deprived he felt. silent whispers and unheard thoughts only you were able to grasp in these vulnerable moments he shared with you. when he was high of course. the moment he sobered up he would be too proud to point it out. you know because you tried. tried talking to him while sober. but there was no point in it. so you wouldn’t even try anymore.

"can you please just... come over." his tone was pleading. pleading for his life line and the hope to just have you near so you could distract him. he wouldn't have his thoughts want to be occupied by anyone but you.

you huff out a big breath. saying his name, begging for him not to make you go. begging for him to not make you fall for his games again. but it's no use. he just knows he's got you right where he wants you. lando can hear the resigned tone in your voice an knows he's won. he knows he always got you. in more ways than one. and you would be even more of a fool if you would deny it and lie to yourself about it. "i'll make it worth your while" he adds, a hint of smile in his tone "i promise. i just... i need you right now. please, baby."

hate is a strong word. especially to describe yourself with it. but goddamn you hated yourself for getting off of your bed. throwing on whatever clothes you found that where comfortable, grabbing your car keys and leaving to go find him in his apartment.

he opens the door for you, finding you with a look that tells him you're tired and annoyed. and so done with his antics. "you look tired." lando tells you, amused attempting to lift the mood. his eyes red, and smile lazy.

"really?" you answer sarcastically, not in any mood of being here again at this hour. you walk in, but don't make it far as you can feel his arm wrap around your waist pulling you back to his chest. holding you close to him he buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking in the scent that always gives him that kind of wake up call. "i missed you." he murmurs in that dragged voice you hate so much. placing your hands on his arms when he clings to you from behind. you look up at the ceiling. the apartment is lit by some lower lights. the streets of monaco glowing back at you from outside his windows. "i'm sorry for waking you up" lando mumbles, his breath hot against your neck leaving a shiver that spreads eventually over your arms. a secret whisper trailed out in goosebumps because he always had that same delicate effect on you. "i just needed you."

"you're not sorry." you said almost immediately. it’s simply how you felt. bitterness resembled your tone, your head leaning back against his shoulder.

lando flinches internally, and although he knows your right he was too high to care. his head a big fuzz, his words heavy laced with more than one intention "you don't know what it's like, baby..." he says, pulling you closer "you don't know what it's like to be out there, surrounded by people but still so fucking lonely..."

now, if he would be in the right mind, which he wasn't he would never use these dirty manipulation tricks on you. he would be disappointed with himself. just like you would be when you laid in your own bed the next day starring at the chat with the seen sign under the last text you sent. but fact is that he did not care. and would do anything in order to keep you. even if it meant pushing you in his corner.

you don't answer. the hard look on your face melting as you offer a soft sigh. you stand there letting him hug you. lando practically feels your resistance slip away. like a spell casted, his lips find their way to the sensitive spot on your neck leaving a kiss there. "you're not mad at me, are you?" he murmurs, intending to soften you further.

of course you weren't. after all you believed every word he said. always. you shake your head softly, glancing out the window. his embrace warm, his chest a safe place his arms around you, you were sure held you up from passing out. you could die in them. just because of him. everything for him.

you turn around in his embrace, placing your hands on his chest. the soft fabric of his hoodie familiar under your palms "i‘m not... i just hate it when you get high like this.." you explain, meeting his eyes that were bloodshot complimenting the glassy blue. he pulls you closer to himself, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"i know you do. but it helps, baby. it helps make my mind quiet and you know that." he emphasized and you don't miss the defensiveness he puts into his words. like he is feeling attacked.

you debate, thinking if you should really bring it up. anxiety nagging the insides of your stomach and you didn't want to waste time with arguing when you finally got to see him after so long. but still the disappointment got the best of you.

"there was a time where you didn't need it. it was enough for us to see each other and talk... spend time together and a time when..." you stop looking at your hands "when i was enough"

lando sighs, almost like he was tired of explaining how it really is. taking your chin with two fingers tilting your head up, forcing your gaze back to his. "that was different" he replied soft but firm "i am under a lot of pressure at the moment that you wouldn't understand. and sometimes i need a bit... more to make it all go away. even if that means missing nights with you."

you felt that sharp pang in your heart when he admitted it. you didn't know if it was the weed that made his tongue ease or really how he felt. hearing him actually reveal that these moments where more important than you. calming down like this, getting high and blanking out everything that was left until next morning. races, the buzz of it, celebrations, being celebrated by others, by his team, coming home, zooming out and not caring about a single thing. everything was more important than what you two have... had. and the worst of it all was that he put you in a place of not understanding him. he always came back around with this eventually. even if you truthfully were the only one who understood what he was going through. because you saw him in private. you saw the scars and claw marks of everything he tried to hold together. even if not always and all the time, you knew perfectly well what was going on.

there was no sense in keeping this conversation going. so you let him take your hand, leading you to his bedroom where you two would lay down on his bed. laying on your side you hugged him, drawing soft patterns on his back while his head was buried in your chest. his even breathing told you he had fallen asleep. you drew your hand through his soft curls, earning a satisfied hum in his dreams.

it was the moment you closed your eyes too, but only to let the tears slip silently that chocked your throat to a level of exhaustion. you couldn't possibly swallow them back down. not anymore. and you would pray for the day to come where you could finally leave him for your own good. so you wouldn't spent your nights crying in his bed, with him resting in your arms. asking for strength that didn't seem to come. at least not from you. not anymore.byou just knew that this day wouldn't be now. it wouldn't be tomorrow and not in a week. you had much more left in you for him to hurt. a lot of space until you would give up.

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Not "Lan" with the heart emoji anymore. You changed that after the third call. Clinical and distant, as if he’s just another within the vast sea of clients. Like he hadn't once known the taste of your skin, the sound of your laugh at three in the morning when you were both too young and too reckless to know that forever was a lie people told themselves.

You changed it after the third call, but you didn't block the number.

You should have blocked the number.

Your finger hovers over the screen. For seven months, you've practiced discipline. For seven months, you've built something that looks like a life—Leo with his patient smile and his family's hedge fund (though you don’t need it)—and his marriage timeline that includes you in every five-year plan. The calls came like clockwork at first, every few weeks, always when Lando was drunk enough to forget why you stopped answering.

Call one: The night after Bahrain. He'd gotten P2, his voice electric with champagne and adrenaline. "I wish you'd been there," he'd slurred. "It's not the same when you're not—" You'd hung up before he could finish.

Call two: Monaco. Always Monaco. The place where you'd spent a summer learning that loving someone who belonged to the world meant you'd always come second. He'd been crying. You'd listened to him cry for forty-five seconds before your thumb found the red button.

Calls three, four, and five: Increasingly incoherent. Increasingly painful. Each one a reminder that you weren't strong enough to block him, but you were strong enough not to answer. It was a thin kind of strength, the kind that felt like glass—practical until it shattered. 

Call six: Two weeks after he’d gone public with his girlfriend, Magui, a beautiful blonde with an infectious smile. You still felt like the air had been ripped out of your chest. And then you answered. Immediately, regret wrapped around you, because his voice came in like fire and trembling: “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing—I miss you so much, baby. You, just you.” 

Then silence.

Seven entire months of silence.

You'd told yourself he'd moved on. You'd seen the photos—Magui, with her beautiful smile, Lando's hand on her back as they entered the paddock, protective and public and permanent. Then, the announcement came through Instagram like everything else in his life. No warning. Just her hand with a ring, his caption simple: "Forever starts now."

You'd liked the post. Leo had been beside you on the yacht off Santorini when you did it, and he'd kissed your temple like you'd done something brave instead of something that hollowed you out from the inside.

"Good for him," you'd said.

"Good for us," Leo had replied, and you'd let him believe it was the same thing.

The phone stops vibrating. The screen goes dark. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

Then it starts again.

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. Muscle memory. The kind of stupid, self-destructive instinct that successful people are supposed to have evolved past. You've made seven figures this quarter by trusting your gut, but your gut has always been compromised when it comes to Lando Norris.

So, you do the sane thing. You answer.

"Hello?"

Silence on the other end. Not empty silence—occupied silence. The sound of breathing, of a connection established, of a bridge you'd burned being rebuilt in real-time with nothing but air and want and the kind of history that doesn't fit in the past tense.

"You answered." His voice is wrecked. Alcohol-soaked and raw, like he's been screaming or crying or both. "You actually—fuck, you answered."

You should hang up. You should wake Leo and let him wrap his reliable arms around you and remind you of all the reasons you chose this life, this man, this version of yourself that doesn't break at 2:47 AM over a voice you used to hear every day.

Instead, you walk to the window. Press your forehead against the cold glass. Watch your breath fog the skyline into something abstract. The ache in your chest growing with each breath, tearing an opening right at the cavity. 

"Lando," you say, and his name tastes like blood in your mouth. Like something vital you've been trying not to need. "It's almost three in the morning."

"I know what time it is." He laughs, but it's not a laugh. It's the sound of something breaking in slow motion. "I always know what time it is when I call you. When I called you. When you stopped—" He cuts himself off. "I’m engaged."

"I know. I saw. Congratulations."

The word sits between you like a third person on the call. Polite. Appropriate. Utterly meaningless. Why the fuck did you have to answer?

"Don't do that." His voice sharpens, cuts through the alcohol haze. "Don't be fucking polite with me. You were never polite with me."

He's right. You were never polite with him. You were raw and real and so catastrophically yourself that sometimes you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. That was the problem. That was always the fucking problem.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know." He sounds lost. Lando Norris, who navigates chicanes at 200 miles per hour, who calculates the apexes in split seconds, sounds completely, utterly lost. "I don't know. I just—I'm drunk, and I'm engaged, and for the first time in seven months, I called you and you answered, and now I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to say."

You close your eyes. Behind you, the laptop chirps softly—another notification, another win, another number climbing in an account that's supposed to mean you've made it. You want to throw it out of the window. 

"Why did you call?"

"Why did you answer?"

The question hangs there, unanswerable. Or too answerable. The kind of question that has only dangerous truths behind it. In the reflection of the window, you can see yourself—silk pajamas, hair twisted up in a clip, the faint shadow under your eyes that no amount of success has managed to erase.

You look like someone who has everything. Yet, you feel like someone who's bleeding from a wound no one else can see.

"I should go," you whisper.

"Yeah." He breathes out slowly. "Yeah, you should."

Neither of you hangs up.

In the distance, Singapore pulses with life. In the bedroom, Leo sleeps the sleep of the certain. On the other end of the line, Lando Norris—engaged, drunk, and far too late—breathes in rhythm with you like your hearts remember a synchronization your minds have tried to forget.

"I miss you," he says finally. Quietly. Like he's confessing to murder. "I miss you, and I shouldn't, and I'm getting married, and I still fucking miss you."

The hole in your chest—the one you've been ignoring, filling with work and Leo and vacations and the lie that you're happy—tears open a little wider.

"I know," you say, because what else is there?

"Do you—" He stops. Starts again. "Do you miss me?"

You should lie. You should protect him, protect yourself, protect the people you've both promised your futures to. You should be the bigger person, the mature one, the woman who's moved on.

"Goodnight, Lando."

You hang up before you can tell him the truth: that you never stopped.

Three weeks later, Monaco smells exactly the way you remember. Like salt and old memories and sunlight that exists nowhere else—golden and exquisite, like it costs extra to touch your skin here. You'd forgotten how much you hate this place. How much you love it. How the two feelings exist in the same breath, the same heartbeat, the same key turning in a lock you haven't touched since February.

The apartment was an investment. That's what you tell people. Prime real estate in Fontvieille, appreciation rates that made your financial advisor actually smile. You don't tell people that you bought it the same month Lando moved here. You don't tell people that you used to keep a toothbrush at his place before you had your own address, that you learned to make coffee the way he likes it in a kitchen three streets over, that every corner of this principality is haunted by a version of yourself that believed in forevers.

The elevator is broken. So you take the stairs with your luggage, each step a small violence against your Louboutins. Leo is in London for meetings. You told him you needed to check on the apartment, handle some documents in person. He'd kissed you goodbye at the Singapore airport with his usual tenderness, his usual faith that you are exactly who you present yourself to be.

You didn't tell him about the phone call. You haven't told him about any of the phone calls.

The third-floor hallway is exactly as you remember—cream walls, tasteful sconces, the kind of quiet that only money can buy. Your apartment is 3C. You're fishing for your keys when you hear it.

A door opening. 3B. You freeze.

You know this building. You know exactly two units on this floor are owned, the rest still tied up in some investment group's portfolio. You're 3C. And 3B—

3B was empty when you bought your place. You'd checked. You'd needed it to be empty because the thought of neighbors, of small talk, of anyone witnessing your comings and goings in this city that knew too much about you already, was unbearable.

The door swings open fully and Lando steps into the hallway.

For a moment—a suspended, airless moment—you think you're hallucinating. That you've finally crossed some line between want and reality, that your brain has started conjuring him out of nothing but memory and pain.

Then his eyes meet yours.

The coffee cup in his hand—Costa, always goddamn Costa, even here where the espresso is objectively better—stops halfway to his mouth. His hair is a mess, sleep-ruffled in a way that means he stayed over. He's wearing joggers and a McLaren team shirt, and there's a mark on his neck that you can see from here, small and purple and precisely where you used to—

"Fuck." The word drops from his mouth like something physical. The coffee cup wavers. "Fuck, what are you—"

You can't speak. Your throat has closed around everything you might say, every casual greeting or surprised laugh or normal human reaction. Your keys are still half-in your purse. Your suitcase is heavy in your other hand. You're wearing yesterday's clothes from the flight, and you probably look exhausted, and he's here.

He's fucking here. In the hallway outside 3B.

3B.

The realization hits you with the subtlety of a crash barrier. You have a sinking feeling of who must live in 3B. 

His fiancée lives next door to you. 

"You live here?" His voice cracks on the last word. "In this building?"

"I bought it two years ago." Your voice comes out steady. You've learned to make your voice steady even when your pulse is trying to break through your skin. "Investment property."

"An investment." He laughs, and it's the saddest sound you've ever heard. "Right. Of course. An investment."

He knows. You can see him doing the math, remembering when you bought it, what was happening between you then. The laugh becomes something else, something that might be a sob if he were alone, if you couldn't see him fighting it back.

A voice calls from inside 3B. Female. Sleepy. Portuguese accent wrapping around his name like ownership.

"Lan? Who are you talking to?"

You watch him close his eyes. Watch him take a breath that makes his shoulders rise and fall like he's preparing for impact.

"Just a neighbor," he calls back. His eyes open. Find yours. "Give me a minute, yeah?"

The door behind him stays open. You can see a slice of the apartment—white walls, modern furniture, a pair of women's shoes by the entrance. Evidence of a life. His life. The one that doesn't include you.

"You haven't been here." It's not a question. He's stepped closer, and you can smell his cologne, the specific laundry detergent he's used since you met him, the coffee on his breath. Every sense memory you've spent two years trying to delete. "The landlord said the owner never stays here."

"I've been busy."

"In Singapore?"

"Among other places."

"With Leo?”

Your name in his mouth is a sermon. The way he says "Leo" is a curse.

"Yes," you say. "With Leo."

"And are you happy?"

The question is so direct, so raw, that you actually step back. Your shoulders hit your door. The handle presses into your spine.

"Lando, that's not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair." He's closer now. Close enough that you could reach out and touch him, could press your palm to his chest and feel whether his heart is racing like yours. "You live next door. You've lived next door to Magui this whole time, and you never—" He stops. Regroups. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"How would I have known?"

"Because—" His hand comes up, runs through his hair in that gesture you know better than your own face. Frustration and helplessness. "Because we were—we are—"

"You're engaged, Lando."

The words sit between you like a physical barrier.

"I know." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I know I am. But you answered. Three weeks ago, you answered the phone, and I thought—"

"What did you think?"

You need to hear him say it. You need him to put words to the thing you've both been avoiding, the truth that's been living in the space between his calls and your silence.

"I thought maybe—" He stops. His jaw works. Behind him, you hear movement in the apartment. Water running. The domestic sounds of someone making breakfast, starting their day, existing in the life he's building with someone else. "I don't know what I thought."

"You should go." Your hand finds your keys. Your fingers shake as you try to fit metal into lock. "She's waiting."

"I don't want to go."

"Lando—"

"I don't want to go, and you don't want me to go, and we're both going to pretend otherwise because that's what we do now, apparently. We pretend."

The key slides in. Turns. The door opens to your apartment—dark, unlived, full of furniture that's never been broken in. You should step inside. Close the door. Start unpacking. Call Leo. Do any of the thousand things a person who's moved on would do.

Instead, you turn back to look at him.

It's a mistake. He's looking at you the way he used to look at you before races—like you're something he's about to lose, something he's trying to memorize before it's gone. His hand is braced against the doorframe of 3B, and his coffee has gone cold, and there's devastation written across every line of his face.

"I'm getting married in four months," he says.

"I know."

"I call you when I'm drunk because I'm a coward when I'm sober."

"I know."

"If I asked you—" His voice breaks. Actually breaks. "If I asked you to tell me that you don't—that you've moved on, that Leo is everything, that you're happy—could you say it? Could you look at me and say it?"

Your hand tightens on your suitcase handle. The metal digs into your palm, sharp and grounding.

Behind him, Magui appears in the doorway. She's beautiful in that effortless way some people are, wearing his shirt, her hair perfect even fresh from sleep. She looks at you with polite curiosity, no recognition, no threat assessment. Why would there be? She's the one who woke up in his bed. She's the one wearing his ring.

"Babe, your coffee's getting cold." Her hand touches his shoulder, casual ownership, then she actually sees your face. Sees his. The air between you that's thick enough to choke on. Her smile falters. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine," Lando says, but he's still looking at you. "Just saying hi to a neighbor."

You watch him make the choice. Watch him step back into his apartment, into his life, into the future he's promised to someone who isn't you. His eyes hold yours until the last possible second, and in that second, you see everything—all the words he'll never say, all the calls he'll keep making when he's drunk enough to forget why he shouldn't, all the love that didn't die just because it became inconvenient.

The door closes and you stand in the hallway, your key still in the lock, your suitcase heavy in your hand. Then you hear it, bleeding through the walls. Their voices, muffled but unmistakable.

"Who was that?"

A pause. Long enough that you know he's deciding what truth he can afford.

"No one important."

You step into your apartment. Close the door. Slide down against it until you're sitting on the floor in your expensive shoes with your expensive luggage, in your expensive apartment next door to the man you still fucking love and the life he's building without you.

Your phone buzzes. Leo, checking that you landed safely.

You stare at the message. At the heart emoji. At the "miss you already" and the photo he's attached of the two of you in Singapore, your smile bright and convincing, his arm around you like you're exactly where you're supposed to be. Through the wall, you hear laughter. Hers, bright and uncomplicated. His, following after, and you've heard Lando Norris laugh a thousand times but never quite like this—like he's trying to convince himself of something.

You text Leo back: Landed safe. Miss you too.

Then you sit in the silence of your investment property, in the city where you learned how to love someone who belonged to the world, and you let yourself feel the hole in your chest that's shaped exactly like the man on the other side of the wall.

Three weeks ago, you answered his call, and you're already wondering how long until the next one.

The wine bottle is half-empty when you hear the first knock.

It’s not a polite knock, not just another neighbor-checking-if-everything's-okay knock. A desperate knock. The kind that says I know you're in there and I'm not leaving and please all at once.

It's 3 AM. You're on your third glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that cost too much and still somehow tastes like ass. The TV is playing something—that show everyone watches, the one with the kids and the monsters and the one oddly hot villan—but you stopped paying attention an hour ago. You're just grateful for the noise, for the voices that aren't yours, for the distraction from the fact that you've been in Monaco for two days and you still haven't left the apartment.

Haven't left because leaving means potentially seeing him.

Haven't left because staying means potentially hearing him through the wall.

You told Leo you needed a break. Not a break-up, just a break. Space to think. Though you know it’s a lie,  and yet, he'd taken it well because Leo takes everything well, with his reasonable questions and his patient acceptance and his "I'll be here when you're ready."

You'd wanted him to fight for you. To make you feel just an ounce of something, but he didn’t. He accepted the truth for what it was, and with his warm smile kissed you goodbye. 

"I know you're awake." Lando's voice comes through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "I can see the light under the door. Please let me in.."

You should ignore him. You've gotten good at ignoring him—seven months of practice, six unanswered calls, a lifetime of learning that some people are meant to be loved from a distance. Instead, you're standing. Your legs work without permission from your brain. The wine has made everything soft around the edges, including your self-preservation instincts.

"Go home, Lando." Your voice is steadier than you feel. You're still on your side of the door, your hand flat against the wood like you can feel him through it. You want to see him. 

"She's in Brazil."

It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. The geography of where his fiancée is none of your concern. Not. Your. Fucking. Problem. 

"That's not my problem."

"I can't stop thinking about you." His voice drops, and you have to press your ear to the door to hear him. "It's been a month. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days since I saw you in the hallway, and I've thought about you every single one of them. Every hour. I'm losing my bloody mind."

"You're drunk."

"So are you. I can hear it in your voice." A pause. "Let me in."

"No."

"Please."

"Lando—"

"I love you."

The words hit you like a physical blow, you actually stagger back from the door, your wine glass tilting dangerously in your hand. It’s been so long since you’ve heard it and in person it’s a hundred times more devastating. 

"Don't say that."

"I love you," he says again, louder. "I've loved you the entire time. Through Singapore and the silence and every fucking day I've pretended I didn't. Let me in. Please. I just—I need to see you."

Your hand finds the lock. Some treasonous part of you that's tired of being good, of being reasonable, of protecting everyone's feelings except your own.

"This is a bad idea," you whisper.

"I know."

"You're engaged."

"I know."

"I told Leo I needed a break."

Silence on the other side of the door. Then: "Did you tell him why?"

You unlock the door andLando falls into your apartment like he's been leaning his full weight against the door. He catches himself on the wall, and you see him fully for the first time—worn jeans, a black hoodie, hair a disaster, eyes red-rimmed and wild. He looks like he hasn't slept. He looks like he's been crying. He looks like every bad decision you've ever wanted to make. He looks like a sin you’re ready to commit. 

"You told Leo." It's not a question. He's reading your face like he used to, like no time has passed, like he still has the right. "You told him about me?"

"I told him I needed space." You close the door behind him. Locking it like that will keep the consequences out. "I didn't tell him why."

"Why do you need space?"

You gesture around the apartment—the wine, the TV still playing to an empty couch, the evidence of you hiding from your own life. "Look at me, Lando. I'm in Monaco drinking alone at 3 AM because I can't be in the same city as you without falling apart. You think Leo doesn't notice that something's wrong?"

He steps closer. You step back. It becomes a dance—him advancing, you retreating, until your back hits the kitchen counter and there's nowhere left to go.

"Tell me you don't feel this." His hand comes up, hovers near your face but doesn't touch. Waiting for permission. Always fucking waiting. "Tell me I'm alone in this and I'll leave right now. I'll marry her and I'll never call you again and you can go back to Leo and we can both pretend this was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing." The words taste like blood. Like truth. "It was everything. That's the problem."

"Then why—" His voice breaks. "Why did you leave?"

"You know why."

"Say it."

You close your eyes. The wine has made you brave and stupid in equal measure. "Because loving you meant coming second. To the racing, to the travel, to the world that owns you. I couldn't—" Your breath catches. "I couldn't keep giving you everything while getting whatever was left over."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" Your eyes open. "Be honest, Lando. Really honest. When we were together, when was I ever the priority?"

You watch him try to answer. Watch him search for examples, for proof that you were wrong. The silence stretches and you have your answer. 

"That's what I thought," you whisper.

"I was young." His hand finally makes contact, fingers ghosting along your jaw. "I was stupid. I didn't know what I had until you were gone, and by then you'd already—" He stops then starts again. "You'd already built this whole life without me. Success and Leo and you seemed so happy, and I thought, this is what she deserves, someone who can give her everything."

"So you got engaged to someone else?"

He sighs. "So I tried to move on." His forehead drops to yours. "It didn't work. It's not working. She's—Magui is beautiful and kind and she loves me, but she's not—"

"Don't." You put your hand on his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm. "Don't do that to her. Don't compare us."

"I love you." He says it again, and this time it sounds like a confession. Like something being ripped out of him. "I'm three months away from marrying someone else and I'm standing in your apartment at 3 AM telling you I love you, and I know it's selfish and it's wrong and it's too late, but I can't—I can't keep pretending."

Your hand fists in his hoodie. You should push him away. Should tell him to leave, to go home, to marry his beautiful fiancée and stop trying to drag you back into the chaos of loving him.

Instead, you pull him closer.

"This doesn't fix anything," you say against his mouth.

"I know."

"We'll hate ourselves in the morning."

"I don't care."

"Lando—"

He kisses you, and it's like falling. Like the seven months dissolve into nothing, like every call you didn't answer was just holding your breath until this moment. His hands are in your hair, your wine glass is falling, shattering against the tile, and neither of you stop. You kiss him back like you're drowning. Like he's air. Like you haven't spent two years teaching yourself how to breathe without him.

You’re going to regret this in the morning, you know you will. Yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop. 

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips as if he’d read your mind, your jaw, the curve of your neck. "Tell me this isn't what you want."

But you can't. The words won't come. Instead, your hands find the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up, needing skin, needing proof that this is real and not another wine-drunk fantasy.

"We shouldn't—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, this one deeper, more desperate.

"I know."

"Leo—"

"Is far away." His hands span your waist, lifting you onto the counter. "And Magui is in Brazil. And right now, right here, it's just us."

It's the worst logic you've ever heard. It's also all you need to hear. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hands slide under your shirt—his shirt, actually, one you stole years ago and never gave back. He recognizes it the moment his fingers touch the fabric, and the sound he makes is broken and possessive and entirely undone.

"You kept it."

"I kept everything." It's too honest. Too revealing, but you're past the point of self-protection. "I kept all of it. Every t-shirt, every hoodie, every—"

The air in your apartment hums like a live wire. His breath mingles with yours, all whiskey and want, his palms hot and insistent against your ribs, pushing your shirt higher until it’s tangled around your shoulders. His hoodie falls somewhere on the floor, forgotten, like the rest of your reasons. You tilt your head back as his mouth traces up your throat, teeth grazing skin, a sound tearing from you that you don’t recognize—something between a sigh and a plea. His name breaks from you in fragments, syllables dragged raw, and he answers with a low growl, the kind that vibrates down your spine and pools heat in your belly.

The window across the room glows faintly with the city’s reflection—amber light, slick glass, rain streaking down like melted gold. You catch a glimpse of yourselves there—your body pressed to his, half-dressed, half-mad—and it only drives you further. His hands drag down, over the curve of your hips, gripping hard enough to leave memory. He presses closer, between your legs, the counter biting at the backs of your thighs, cold and smooth, grounding you in the storm of it.

“Do you still want me to stop?” His voice is rough, wrecked. You shake your head, wordless, your nails raking the back of his neck as if to keep him there, tethered. He kisses you again, messy, bruising, until you’re gasping into his mouth. His tongue traces yours with desperate familiarity, all the old rhythms coming back too easily, too painfully.

When Lando pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glassy, fevered, like he’s been starving and you’re the first taste in months. “Say it,” he whispers. “Say you still—”

You crush your mouth against his before he can finish, tasting the confession, swallowing it down. The movement knocks something off the counter—glass shattering against the tile—but neither of you care. He lifts you, his hips slotting between yours as you wrap tighter around him, your back pressed to the window now, the cool pane shocking against your heated skin. The rain outside runs in rivulets just beyond your shoulder, city lights bending and refracting around you, and you think for a moment that the whole world could drown right now and you’d let it.

“Lando,” you gasp when his mouth finds your collarbone, tongue tracing the edge of the old tattoo he once kissed for luck before every race. “This is—”

“Real,” he mutters, breath catching, his forehead pressed against your shoulder. “Tell me it’s not.”

But you can’t. Not when his hands slide lower, gripping your ass, pulling you closer against the hardness of his cock straining between you. Not when his lips find that spot just below your ear that always unravels you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling at the fabric, moaning  and needing to feel the shape of him beneath it. The thickness. His hoodie, your shirt, everything comes away in impatient tugs, a scatter of cotton and heat. Skin to skin at last, slick with sweat, every inch of you mapped against the other’s like a language only you two ever spoke.

The couch is a blur of motion and breath. He half-carries, half-stumbles you there, lips never leaving yours, and when you fall back, the cushions give with a soft thud. He hovers above you, eyes searching, but you grab his face, drag him down again, because thinking hurts more than this ever could. Your legs part to welcome him, the weight of him pressing down, his breath ragged against your cheek. Every kiss feels like an apology that comes too late and still matters too much.

His hands roam, relearning you. The slope of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the soft catch of your breath when he grazes a nipple. You arch into his touch, a low sound escaping you, and he answers it with a sigh that trembles. His lips trail lower, over the hollow of your throat, the edge of your ribs, down your belly where goosebumps rise under his tongue. You twist your fingers into his hair, a silent command, and he obeys, mouth worshipping, marking, until you’re trembling and gasping and half-laughing through it, the tension snapping and re-forming like lightning.

Outside, thunder rolls distant but steady. The city feels far away now. There’s only the pulse of the rain, the creak of the couch, the rough drag of breath against skin. He lifts his head for a moment, strands of hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs. “You’ll make me think—”

“Don’t think,” you cut in, tugging him back down. “Just feel.”

He moves like someone who has tried for months to forget what this felt like and failed. Every inch of his body says mine even when he’s the one who left. The kiss turns reckless again, his hands gripping hard at your hips as if he could fuse you together by pressure alone. The couch dips under you both, the rhythm of motion turning frantic, unmeasured. You grab at him—his shoulders, his hair, his jaw—trying to hold him still, but he doesn’t stop; he can’t.

He breaks from your mouth to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning. “I missed you,” he says against your lips, voice shaking. “Every night, even with her. Every goddamn time I closed my eyes.” You pull him closer until your words dissolve in the space between your teeth.

The world narrows to warmth, weight, heartbeat. He gathers your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head; the look in his eyes is almost defiant, as if daring you to make him stop. You don’t. The power in the room shifts—he isn’t taking, he’s begging through dominance, trying to prove something he doesn’t know how to say aloud. You let him, not because you surrender, but because you understand exactly what’s breaking inside him.

When he releases your wrists you move first, flipping the balance, forcing him back against the cushions. For a breath he just stares up at you, chest rising fast, a small, stunned smile ghosting across his face before it’s swallowed by want. You trace the line of his throat with your fingers, your voice a whisper that vibrates through both of you. “You don’t get to be the only one who misses things.”

He sits up fast, hands sliding to your back, pulling you until your chests meet. The shift sends both of you tumbling to the floor; you land against the cold wall, laughter catching on your breath, and then silence again—just breathing and rain and the sharp scent of skin.

There, pressed between plaster and heartbeat, everything that’s been unsaid leaks out. He touches your face with his fingertips, gentle now. “She doesn’t make me feel like this,” he confesses. “He doesn’t make you feel like this either, does he?”

You close your eyes, not to lie but because the truth hurts too much to look at. “No.”

That single word cracks open whatever restraint was left. He leans in, and when you kiss him this time it’s slow, deep, deliberate—the kind of kiss that remembers everything. Your hands slide around his neck, his slide under your thighs, lifting you again, pressing you to the wall. You can feel the tremor in his muscles, not from exertion but from how close he is to losing every piece of control he’s rebuilt since you broke.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs into your hair.

“You already are.”

He exhales hard, half a laugh, half surrender, and lets his forehead rest against yours. The wall behind you is cool, grounding; his body is all heat, motion, contradiction. You hold there, breathing together, until the moment steadies enough for words.

“Tomorrow,” he says, voice rough, “we’ll pretend again. You’ll go back to him. I’ll go back to her.”

“And tonight?” you ask.

He looks at you like a man memorizing something he knows he’ll lose again. “Tonight doesn’t have rules.”

You can feel the pulse in his neck hammering under your fingertips, a frantic percussion against the quiet hum of rain outside. He’s looking at you like he’s afraid to blink, because blinking would break the spell, and there’s a tremor in his jaw when he finally moves—slow, deliberate, testing.

His mouth catches yours again, softer now, the drag of his lower lip deliberate against yours before his tongue slides past, tasting, coaxing, remembering. The kiss deepens until it stops being a kiss at all—until it becomes something rawer, wetter, his breath spilling into yours, his hands sliding up your thighs.. You can feel his hard cock against you already, the press of his cock on you, pulsing heat and friction that makes your breath hitch, makes your thighs tighten around his waist.

You grip his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan—a rough, low sound that vibrates in your chest. “Fuck,” he whispers, teeth grazing your bottom lip, “I’ve dreamed about this every night.”

“Show me,” you whisper back.

He does.

He drags his hands down, over the curve of your ass, pulling you closer until your hips align, grinding once, twice, until there’s no room for air, just heat and friction and the sound of rain sliding down the glass. You reach between you, fumbling at his belt, your fingers shaking—not from hesitation but from need so sharp it borders on pain. The metallic clink of the buckle cuts through the silence; then he’s shoving his jeans down, his cock springing free, thick and flushed, the head slick already from how badly he wants you.

You can’t help the small, involuntary sound that escapes your throat—half gasp, half moan. “Ahh—”

Lando grins against your neck, teeth brushing your skin, the sound of it going straight to his cock. “Yeah?” he murmurs, dragging the head against your pussy through the thin barrier of your underwear, just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. “You missed this, didn’t you, babby?”

“Mh—yes.” The word cracks apart on your tongue. You tilt your hips, desperate, chasing friction, feeling the heat of him through the damp fabric that’s doing nothing to hide how wet you already are.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and pulls, slow, deliberate, watching your face the whole time. The air hits you cold, your skin hypersensitive to every draft, every breath. He slides his hand down, his fingers tracing the slick seam between your thighs, a soft, wet sound escaping when he pushes one finger inside, shallow at first, then deeper, curling up until your hips lift off the wall.

“God baby, fuck,” you breathe.

Lando smirks, sliding another finger in beside the first, moving them in slow circles until your muscles tighten around him. “Not God,” he murmurs, his mouth close to your ear, voice hoarse. “Just me, baby, just me.”

Your laugh comes out broken, cut off by a moan when he curls his fingers again, hitting the spot that makes your eyes roll back. He keeps it up until you’re panting, clinging to his shoulders, and then he pulls his fingers out, slick with you, dragging them over the head of his cock before lining himself up.

He looks at you once more, silent question in his eyes, but you’ve already got your hand on his neck, pulling him closer, whispering, “Do it.”

Lando pushes in, slow but relentless, the stretch making you cry out, nails digging into his skin. “Ah—fuck, yes—” It’s half sound, half plea. He grits his teeth, muscles tensing as he sinks all the way in, every inch of him sheathed in heat, your body gripping him so tight it’s almost too much.

For a second, he doesn’t move—just breathes against your neck, trembling, like he’s trying to memorize this moment by feel alone. Then he starts to thrust, slow, deep strokes that make the wall thud behind you in rhythm. The sound of skin on skin, wet and sharp, mixes with the rain outside.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your jaw, his voice rough.

You do, breathless, over and over, until it becomes a chant, a rhythm all its own.

He groans, thrusts harder, each movement pressing you higher against the wall until your head knocks gently against the plaster, your legs locked around his waist, your heels digging into his back. The friction builds—wet, hot, consuming—and the air is full of it, the sound of you both unraveling.

You clutch at his shoulders, whispering things that make no sense, just fragments of want and apology and ache. “Don’t stop—please—don’t—”

“Not yet,” Lando growls, biting at your neck, his thrusts turning ragged. “Not until you—fuck—”

And you do—your whole body tightening around him, the release hitting like a wave that tears through every nerve ending, dragging a cry from your throat so loud it startles you. “Ahh, Lando—fuck—yes—yes—”

He’s right behind you, the sound he makes low and guttural, his hips stuttering as he comes, pulsing deep inside you, breath shaking, forehead pressed against yours. The world narrows to the beat of his heart against your chest, the smell of sweat and rain, the quiet sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then he leans back, still inside you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Tomorrow,” he whispers again, voice raw.

You nod, the word barely leaving your throat. “Tomorrow.”

But for now, it’s still tonight—and tonight, as he kisses you again, slower, gentler, you both know there’s no pretending left to do.

You wake to sunlight knifing through the curtains and his arm heavy across your waist. For one perfect, terrible second, you let yourself stay. Let yourself feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breath against your shoulder blade, the way his fingers curl possessively even in sleep.

Then reality crashes in like cold water.

What have you done?

His phone is on the nightstand, screen dark but present. A reminder. Evidence that in a few hours—maybe less—Magui will call him. She'll be bright and affectionate, fresh from Brazilian sun, asking about his day, his training, whether he missed her.

And he'll have to lie. All because of you. Your phone is in the living room. You extract yourself from his arms with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb—slowly, barely breathing, praying he doesn't wake. He shifts, murmurs something that might be your name, then settles back into sleep.

What have you done? What the fuck have you done? Fuck, fuck. Fuck. 

You don't let yourself look at him. If you look at him—soft with sleep, vulnerable, beautiful in the morning light—you won't be able to leave. The apartment looks like a crime scene. Your wine glass in pieces on the kitchen floor. His hoodie abandoned by the couch. The TV finally dark, hours of content played to an empty room. Evidence of everything you've done, everything you can't take back.

Your phone screen is a graveyard of notifications. Leo called three times. Texted five. Each message a progression of concern: Hope you're sleeping well to Getting worried, call me when you can to Please just let me know you're okay.

You're not okay.

You've never been less okay. Your hands shake as you open your suitcase, start throwing things in. You don't fold. Don't organize. Just need to move, to run, to get out before he wakes up and looks at you with those eyes and makes you believe in tomorrows that don't exist.

"What are you doing?"

You freeze. Turn slowly and Lando is there in the bedroom doorway, shirtless, wearing last night's jeans unbuttoned at the waist. His hair is a disaster. There's a mark on his collarbone—your mouth, your teeth, your temporary insanity made visible.

He looks at your suitcase. At you and the understanding of the situation dawns slowly onto him, then all at once. His face contorts with pain and he moves. 

"No." He crosses the room in three strides. "No, you're not—we said tomorrow. We said we'd figure it out tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow." Your voice comes out steady. A miracle. "And I am figuring it out."

"By running?"

"By leaving before this gets worse." You shove a dress into your suitcase. "Before we do more damage than we already have."

"Damage." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's what last night was to you? Fucking damage?"

"What else would you call it?" You finally look at him directly. Let him see that you're not cruel, just realistic, that all you’re trying to do is  just survive this. Survive him. "You're engaged, Lando. You're getting married in three months. And I just—we just—"

"I know what we did." He runs both hands through his hair. "I was there. I was extremely fucking there."

"Then you know why I have to leave."

"What if I don't want you to?"

The question hangs between you like something living and dangerous. You’ve played these games before, and the ending is always the same. You refuse to surrender to the same consequences. 

"It doesn't matter what you want."

"Doesn't it?" He's closer now. You can smell his cologne, see the exhaustion around his eyes that matches your own, the marks on his neck, the heat radiating off his skin, and it takes everything in you to not leap into his arms. "You left Leo. You told him you needed a break. That has to mean something."

"It means I'm confused." You zip your suitcase with violent finality. You have no idea what you’re doing, where you’re going to go, how you’ll face Leo after all of this. "It means I made a mistake coming here. It means last night was—"

"Don't." His voice cuts like glass. "Don't you dare diminish what happened. Don't pretend it was just—"

"What else can it be?" You're shouting now, upset at yourself for missing him, for caving. "What future do we have, Lando? You go home and tell Magui you cheated? Call off the wedding? Blow up both of our lives for—for what? For this?" You gesture between the both of you. "For something that didn't work the first time?"

He’s shouting now too. "It didn't work because I was an idiot who didn't know what he had."

"And now you're an idiot who's promised yourself to someone else."

The words land like a slap. You watch him flinch, watch the truth of it settle into his bones.

"I love you," he says quietly. Desperately, and you feel sorry for him. 

"I know." And you do. You believe him and that's what makes this entire situation unbearable. "But you love her too. Or you did. Or you will. And I can't—" Your voice breaks. "I can't be the reason you ruin your life. I won't do that to you. Or to her."

"So you're just leaving me?"

Leaving him? The statement ripples through you like venom, tearing your insides apart.  You swallow the lump in your throat, and sigh. "Yes."

"And we'll just—what? Pretend this didn't happen?"

"We'll have to."

He stares at you for a long moment. You watch something die in his eyes, some hope he'd been carrying that you didn't even know was there.

"When will you be back?" His voice is empty now. Defeated.

"I don't know. Maybe not for a while."

"The lease on this place—"

"I'll deal with it remotely." You grab your suitcase, your purse. Move toward the door like a soldier on a mission. "I should go. My flight—"

"You don't have a flight." He's not trying to stop you anymore. Just observing and cataloging the end. "You just decided this ten minutes ago."

"No, but I do have a private jet."

Your hand is on the doorknob when he speaks again.

"I meant it. Every time I said it. I love you."

You close your eyes. Let yourself feel it one last time—the weight of those words, the impossible hope of them. "I know," you whisper. "That's why I have to leave."

You don't look back. If you look back, you'll stay. And staying means destroying everything—his future, your future, whatever fragments of dignity you both have left. The hallway is empty. The elevator is still broken. You take the stairs with your suitcase banging against your legs, and you don't let yourself cry until you're in the car, Monaco shrinking behind you, the principality that holds too many memories and one too many mistakes.

Your phone starts ringing before you reach the airport.

Lando Norris.

You decline the call.

It rings again. And again. By the time you're through security, you have fifteen missed calls. Twenty texts that you don't read. Your phone vibrates constantly, persistently, a heartbeat of want that you refuse to answer.

On the jet, you finally block him. Not because you don't want to hear from him. Because you know if you don't, you'll answer. You'll cave. You'll let him convince you that love is enough when you know—you've always known—that it isn't. Leo calls as you're landing in London. You do answer this time.

"I'm sorry," you say before he can speak. "I'm so sorry. For all of it."

"Are you okay? What  happened?" His voice is careful, filled with concern. Everything Lando's was, but without the desperation.

"No," you admit. "But I will be,” you pause, “I need to tell you something."

You meet him at his flat. You tell him the truth—not all of it, not the details that would destroy him unnecessarily, but enough. Monaco. Lando. The history you've never fully explained. The reason you needed space.

He listens. Doesn't interrupt. Doesn't rage or cry or demand explanations you can't give. When you're done, he takes a breath. "Do you love him?"

The question you've been avoiding.

"I did," you say carefully. "I do. But it doesn't matter. now"

"Why not?"

"I don’t know,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Because love isn't enough. Because he's engaged? Because you deserve better than someone who's in love with someone else."

"And what do you deserve?"

You don't have an answer for that. Leo is kind about the breakup. Of course he fucking is, he's kind about everything. He tells you to take your time, that he'll be here if you change your mind, that he hopes you find whatever it is you're looking for. You move back to Singapore. Throw yourself into work with manic intensity. The numbers make sense. The markets are predictable. You can control this, even if you can't control anything else.

You don't unblock Lando's number.

But late at night, when the trading floors are closed and the city is as quiet as Singapore ever gets, you wonder if he's still calling. If he's still texting. If he married Magui or if he—

You don't let yourself finish that thought.

Three months pass like a lifetime. You're in your office when the envelope arrives. Thick cardstock, your name written in calligraphy, and it’s devastatingly beautiful because you already know what it is before you open it.

Magui Corceiro & Lando NorrisRequest the honor of your presence at their wedding

The date is two weeks away. Lake Como. Black tie. A destination wedding for their closest friends and family.

There's a note tucked inside, separate from the formal invitation. His handwriting.

I know you won't come. I'm sending this anyway because I need you to know that I called it off twice. Changed the date once. Tried every excuse I could think of. But I can't keep waiting for something that's never going to happen.

I'm getting married. I'm moving on.

I hope you can too.

— L

You read it seventeen times. Then you put the invitation in your desk drawer, under files and contracts and all the paperwork of a life that looks successful from the outside.

Your assistant finds you an hour later, staring at your computer screen without seeing it.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Fine," you lie. "Just tired."

That night, you open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The same kind you were drinking that night in Monaco. You sit on your balcony overlooking the Singapore skyline and you let yourself feel everything you've been avoiding.

The love that didn't die. The choice you made. The wedding invitation that reads like an ending to your greatest love story.  Your phone sits dark and silent on the table. No calls. No texts. No drunk confessions at 3 AM.

Just silence. And somehow, that's worse than all the calls you never answered.

Two weeks, you think. In two weeks, Lando Norris will marry someone else, and whatever you had—whatever you could have had—will be truly, finally over.

You drink your wine, refusing to cry.  You don't unblock his number. Yet, you keep the invitation.

And you hate yourself a little bit for that.

You're not here for the wedding.

At least, that's what you tell yourself on the private jet, flying over the Alps at sunrise with your phone clutched in your hand and Lando's number freshly unblocked. The screen shows months of missed calls. Texts that stop after week three. The digital evidence of someone giving up.

You're not here for the wedding. You're here because... because? You don't have a reason. Not one that makes any actual fucking  sense. Not one that justifies the lilac dress you bought yesterday, the exact shade he once said made your eyes look like they held storms. Not one that explains why you've spent five hours in the air rehearsing what you'll say, how you'll explain, what possible words could make him understand that it took you this long to realize—

Realize what? That you're selfish? That you're cruel? That you've finally hit the limit of your own self-preservation and discovered it wasn't noble at all, just cowardice dressed up in “good intentions”?

The villa appears below like something from a dream. Lake Como spreads out in impossible blues, the Italian sun making everything look like a painting. You can see white tents on the lawn. Flowers everywhere. People already arriving in their elegant clothes, their happy faces, ready to witness a love story that isn't yours.

Five hours. The wedding starts in five hours.

Your personal driver from the airport winds through streets too beautiful for what you're about to do. He tries to make conversation—asks if you're excited for the wedding, if you’re doing okay. You make noncommittal sounds and watch the villa get closer with the inevitability of a crash.

Because what the fuck are you doing? The question loops in your head as you pay your driver, let him know you’ll call  later, as you smooth down your dress, as you walk toward the entrance where staff in crisp uniforms are directing early arrivals. You don't have an invitation. You left it in Singapore, in your desk drawer, next to all your other evidence of cowardice.

But you did bring the envelope.

The villa is chaos in the beautiful way only weddings can be. Florists making last adjustments, while caterers set up glassware. Somewhere on the grass, there's a string quartet practicing somewhere, notes floating through open windows. You slip past the main entrance, around the side, trying to look like you belong while your heart attempts escape through your throat.

A bridesmaid rushes past—you don't recognize her, thank god—carrying a bouquet and speaking rapid Portuguese into her phone. Max Fewtrell, Lando’s best man, someone  you once knew well, stands by the garden entrance, laughing with someone. You duck behind a column, feeling ridiculous, feeling desperate, feeling every single emotion you've spent three months trying to bury.

This is insane. This is the most selfish thing you've ever done.

You do it anyway.

"Excuse me." You catch a woman in a staff uniform, her arms full of programs. "I need to find the groom. The bride—" The lie tastes like ash. "The bride forgot to give him something. A letter and she mentioned it's important."

The woman's eyes soften like she’s in some movie with star-crossed lovers. Last-minute romance. She probably thinks you're helping with some grand gesture, not being the grand gesture, not ruining one.

"He's in the east wing. Third door on the left. But you should hurry—the photos start soon."

You take the stairs two at a time, your heels clicking against marble and the east wing is quieter. Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance like they're celebrating, like they don't know you're about to detonate someone's life.

Third door on the left.

Your hand hovers over the wood. Behind this door is Lando Norris, getting ready to marry someone else. Someone who didn't run. Someone who didn't make him wait. Someone who said yes when he asked instead of disappearing for three months and blocking his number. You should leave. Call your driver who you should’ve never never dismissed, fly back to Singapore, let him have this. Let him be happy. Let him marry the woman who showed up, who stayed, who didn't keep choosing fear over love.

Instead, you knock.

"Come in."

His voice. God, his voice. Three months since you've heard it not filtered through memory, not conjured up at 3 AM when you can't sleep, but real and present and about to see you.

You turn the handle. Step inside and lose the door behind you and turn the lock with shaking fingers hoping that God will just strike you dead before you can successfully make an ass of yourself.  He's standing by the window, silhouetted against Lake Como's impossible blue. He's in his suit—navy, perfectly tailored, no tie yet. His hair is styled but not too styled, still soft enough to run your fingers through. He hasn't turned around yet, a part of you hopes he never does.

"Just leave whatever it is on the table," he says. "I'll look at it after—"

Then he turns, and the world tilts on its axis, slows to a fragile, trembling stop. Every sound dulls; every breath lingers in the air between you. You watch him see you. His face flickers—confusion, recognition, shock—before it hardens into careful nothing. Maybe, for a heartbeat, there’s hope, but it shutters behind his eyes like a door slammed too quickly. His hand clenches the windowsill behind him, knuckles white,  like he needs it for the balance.

"No." The word comes out strangled. "No, you're not—you can't be here."

"I know." Your voice sounds like you've been screaming, even though you've barely spoken all day. "I know I can't. I know I shouldn't. I know—"

"Then why?" He doesn't move from the window. Refuses to come closer, like the proximity might break whatever control he's barely maintaining. "Why now? Why today of all fucking days?"

"Because I'm a coward." The words tumble out, too fast, too desperate. "Because I've spent months lying to myself, telling myself I did the right thing, that leaving was noble, that you'd be better off without me. And I believed it. I really believed it. Until I got your invitation and I—"

"I told you I called it off twice." His voice is hard now. Sharp edges designed to cut. "I tried. I gave you time. I gave you months and you blocked my goddamn number."

"I know."

"I called you 247 times." The number is so specific it hurts. "I texted you until my hands cramped. I waited. And you gave me nothing, not even a word. Not a sign. Fucking nothing."

"I know." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face, ruining whatever makeup you bothered with. "I know I don't deserve—I know I have no right to be here. But I couldn't let you do this without telling you—"

"Telling me what?" He laughs, and it's the cruelest sound you've ever heard. "That you've changed your mind? That you want me now? Now that I've finally figured out how to move on?"

"Have you?" The question rips out of you. "Have you really moved on? Because if you have, if you're actually happy, if you love her and this is real, then I'll leave. Right now. I'll walk out that door and you'll never see me again. But if there's any part of you that's only here because you gave up on me—"

"Don't." He pushes off from the window, and the movement is violent in its restraint. "Don't you dare put this on me. Don't make me the villain for trying to build a life after you destroyed me."

"I'm not trying to—" You step forward. He steps back. The dance from Monaco reversed, and it breaks something in your chest. "Lando, please. Please just listen—"

"I'm done listening." But he doesn't move toward the door. He doesn't tell you to leave. "I spent months listening to nothing. To silence. Do you know what that does to a person? Calling someone you love and hearing nothing back? I thought—" His voice cracks. "I thought maybe you'd died. I thought maybe something happened and that's why you weren't answering. I almost called your office. Your emergency contacts. That's how fucking pathetic I was."

"I'm sorry." You're sobbing now, ugly crying, past the point of any dignity. "I'm so sorry. I was scared. I was terrified that if I answered, if I let myself love you again, it would be like before. That I'd lose myself. That I'd always be second to the racing and the world and everything that owns you. So I ran. I've been running our entire relationship, and I'm tired. I'm so tired of being scared."

"So you show up on my wedding day." He's crying too now, tears tracking down his face, and you want to cross the room and wipe them away but you don't have that right anymore. "You show up in lilac—you wore lilac—and you expect what? That I'll just call it off? Again? That I'll keep waiting for you to be ready?"

"No." You shake your head. "No, I don't expect anything. I know it's too late. I know you've moved on. I just needed you to know that I choose you. I should have chosen you months ago, three years ago, every single time I had the chance. But I'm choosing you now. Even if it's too late. Even if you hate me. I'm here, and I'm choosing you, and I love you. I love you so much.”

The words hang in the air between you like something holy and terrible.

"You love me," he repeats flatly.

"Yes."

"And you thought—what? That would be enough? That showing up here, today, with my fiancée getting ready down the hall, with 900 people about to watch me get married—that would be enough?"

"I don't know what I thought." You're backing up now, toward the door, finally understanding how cruel this is. "I wasn't thinking. I just—I got on a plane and I came here and I didn't have a plan. I just needed you to know. Before you did this. Before it was permanent. I needed you to know that someone chose you. That I choose you. Even if it doesn't change anything."

"It doesn't change anything." He says it too quickly. Trying to convince himself. "It can't. I'm getting married in—" He checks his watch. "In four and a half hours. The guests are arriving. My parents are here. Her family is here. I can't just—"

"I know." You reach for the door lock. "I know. I'll go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I hope—" Your voice breaks. "I hope you're happy. I hope she makes you happy. I hope you have everything you deserve."

Your hand is on the lock when he speaks again.

"Do you remember what you said to me? In Monaco? You said loving me meant coming second."

You freeze.

"You were right." His voice is hollow. "You would have. The racing, the travel, the career—it all comes first. It has to. That's the life. That's what I signed up for. And Magui understands that. She's okay with it. She doesn't need me the way—" He stops. "She doesn't need more than I can give."

"And that's enough for you?" You turn to face him. "Settling for someone who doesn't need you? Building a life around what you can't give instead of what you can?"

"It's realistic."

"It's sad, Lando."

"It's what I have." He crosses his arms, defensive. "You left. You chose to leave and I respect that choice. But you don't get to come back now and tell me I'm settling. You don't get to make me the bad guy for moving on."

"You're not the bad guy." You're crying harder now, everything you've held in for months pouring out. "You're not. You're the love of my life and I ruined it because I was scared and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I'm here now. I flew across the world. I'm standing in front of you in your favorite color begging you to—"

"To what?" He's across the room suddenly, close enough to touch, his face wrecked with everything he's feeling. "To call off my wedding? To humiliate Magui? To blow up my life on the possibility that this time will be different? How do I know you won't run again the first time it gets hard? The first time I have a bad race or I'm gone for three weeks or I'm too tired to be who you need me to be?"

"You don't." It's the only honest answer you have. "You don't know. I can't promise I won't be scared sometimes. I can't promise it'll be perfect. But I promise I'll stay. I promise I won't run. I promise that if you choose me, I'll spend every day proving I was worth the risk."

He's so close now you can see gold flecks in his eyes, see the exact moment he almost gives in. His hand comes up, almost touches your face, then drops.

"I can't," he whispers. "I want to. God, I want to. But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep breaking myself on the possibility of you."

"Lando—"

"You need to leave." His jaw sets. "Please. If you ever loved me, leave before I do something we'll both regret."

"I do love you. That's why I'm here."

"And I love her." He says it like he's trying to convince himself. "I love Magui. Maybe not the way I love you, but I love her, and she deserves better than this. Better than me standing here wishing you'd come back sooner. She deserves someone who's all in."

"Are you?" You have to ask. Have to know. "Are you all in?"

The pause is too long.

"I will be," he says finally. "After today. After I marry her. I'll make myself be."

"That's not how love works."

​​"Then I guess I'll learn." He steps back, putting distance between you again. Choosing distance. Choosing her. "You should go. Please. Before someone sees you. Before this becomes even more complicated."

You want to fight. Want to scream that he's making a mistake, that he'll regret this, that you're supposed to be together. But you can see it in his face—he's already made his choice. Made it when you didn't answer his calls. Made it when you blocked his number. Made it in all the silence you gave him when he needed words.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay. I'll go."

You unlock the door. Step into the hallway. Turn back one last time. He's standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking more lost than you've ever seen him. Like he's about to walk down an aisle toward a life he doesn't want but has convinced himself he deserves.

"I hope you'll be happy," you say. "I really do."

"Yeah," he says. "You too."

You close the door. You make it down the stairs, through the villa, past the flowers and the musicians and the happy guests. You make it to the road before you collapse against a wall, sobbing so hard you can't breathe.

Your phone rings. For one wild second, you think it's him. That he's changed his mind. That he's coming after you.

It's not his number.

You don't answer. You call your driver and get back to the airport. You pay him triple the amount you should have, hoping that the small amount of  his happiness would ignite any feeling in you. It does not. So, you board your jet with your lilac dress wrinkled and your face destroyed and your heart in pieces on a villa floor in Lake Como.

You flew across the world to choose him and he chose to let you go. The flight back is seventeen hours of wondering if you just made the biggest mistake of your life—showing up, or leaving.

You'll never know which.

The wedding photos are everywhere.

Vogue runs them first—a twelve-page spread that you see in an airport in Tokyo, flipping through magazines while waiting for a delayed flight to Singapore. The headline reads "Racing Hearts: Lando Norris and Magui Corceiro's Lake Como Dream Wedding."

She looks like a princess. He looks happy. You buy the magazine and hate yourself for it. But you buy it anyway, and on the plane, with a glass of champagne you don't taste, you study every photo like there might be some hidden truth in them. Some sign that he's pretending. That this isn't real.

There isn't one. Not a single goddamn one. Instead, he’s's smiling in every shot—that full, genuine smile that crinkles his eyes. His hand on her waist. Their first dance. The kiss at the altar. You memorize each image like you're cataloging evidence for a crime, and maybe you are. Maybe you're the crime.

People magazine runs a feature two weeks later. Tatler does an exclusive interview. Instagram explodes with professional photos and guest candids and hashtags that trend for days. #LandoAndMagui. #NorrisWedding. #ForeverStartsNow.

You see every single one. Seven months pass like this—you, building an empire that would make anyone else satisfied. Your portfolio has tripled. You've closed deals that make financial news. Money pours in with the inevitability of tide, and you convert it into things that are supposed to matter: properties, art, cars with price tags that require NDA signatures.

Wes says you're running.

"Iceland was fucking cold," he tells you over FaceTime, his face windburned and happy. "But at least I knew I was running then. You're just calling it success, babe."

Wes Kensington—your best friend since university, the only person who knows the full story, who held you while you sobbed for three days after Lake Como. He's in Reykjavik for five months working on his latest collection, avant-garde pieces that fashion magazines call "revolutionary" and you call "Wes being Wes."

"I'm not running," you tell him. "I'm thriving."

"Uh-huh. You're buying things, darling. That's not the same as living."

But you don't know how to explain that buying things is the only language you understand anymore. That work is the only place your mind quiets. That if you stop moving, stop acquiring, stop building this monument to your own success, you might have to feel the hole in your chest that's shaped like a choice you made too late.

So you buy a villa in Nice. Wes comes with you to see it—fresh off the plane from Iceland, his skin pale and his design sketches still smelling like volcanic ash and wool. The villa is obscene in its beauty: nine bedrooms, infinity pool, vineyards that roll down to the Mediterranean like something from a dream.

"It's perfect," Wes says, walking through rooms with ceilings painted by artists whose names you can't pronounce. "It's also completely excessive for one person."

"I'm thinking of it as an investment."

"You're building yourself a cage." He touches a marble column that probably predates Napoleon. "A very beautiful cage, but still."

You don't argue because he's not wrong. The Monaco apartment needs to be dealt with first. You've been avoiding it for months—paying the utilities remotely, ignoring the real estate agent's increasingly pointed emails about the market being hot, about buyers interested in the building.

But you can't keep it. Not when he's three meters away through the wall. Not when staying there means existing in the same space he shares with his wife.

His wife. The word still sits wrong in your mouth.

Wes offers to come with you to pack, but you tell him you need to do it alone. He's in Monaco anyway, meeting with a fabric supplier in Monte Carlo, staying at the Hôtel de Paris and complaining about the thread count like it's a personal insult.

"Text me if you need an extraction," he says, kissing both your cheeks. "I can be there in ten minutes with wine and terrible decisions."

"I'll be fine," you lie.

The building looks the same because buildings don't care about heartbreak. The elevator is still broken—some things never change. You take the stairs with your Hermès bag and your Cartier watch and your armor of things that don't protect you from anything that matters.

Third floor. The hallway that's haunted by every version of yourself that's walked it—hopeful, destroyed, desperate, leaving.

You're fishing for your keys when the door to 3B opens and Magui steps out.

Time doesn't stop. That's the thing about these moments—they keep moving, forcing you to exist in them second by excruciating second.

She's beautiful. More beautiful than the magazines, than Instagram, than your jealous memory has allowed. She's wearing casual clothes—linen pants, a silk top, effortless in the way people are when they're happy. Her hair is pulled back. There's a glow to her that speaks of good sleep and good sex and a life being lived without the weight of regret and you realize this is the first time you’ve seen here in person. 

She sees you.

You watch recognition dawn slowly, then all at once. Her smile—polite, neighborly—freezes. Her eyes widen slightly. You’re unsure if she recognizes you because of work, or something entirely else. 

"Hi." Your voice comes out steady. Another miracle. You've gotten good at those. "I'm—I was just—"

"I know who you are." Her accent wraps around the words, soft and careful. Not unkind. Just aware of her neighbors. "You own 3C."

Not "Lando's ex." Not "the woman from Lake Como." Just the owner of 3C, like you're nothing more than a name on a deed and maybe that's all you are now.

"Yes." You clutch your keys like they’ll save you from  this moment. "I'm actually selling it. Just here to wrap up some final things before the realtor takes over."

"Oh." She shifts her weight. There's something in her eyes—not hostility, but not warmth either. A careful distance. "We'll miss having a quiet neighbor."

We. The word is a knife between your ribs.

"Congratulations," you blurt out. "On the wedding. I saw the photos in Vogue. You looked beautiful."

Why did you say that? Why did you mention the wedding? Why can't you just unlock your door and disappear like a normal person instead of standing here making small talk with the woman who married the man you—

"Thank you." Her smile is genuine. "It was a beautiful day."

A British voice calls from inside 3B. "Babe? Have you seen my—"

Magui's expression shifts—something like panic, like protection. "I should go," she says quickly. "It was nice to finally meet you."

She disappears back inside before you can respond, the door closing with a soft click that sounds like finality.

You stand frozen in the hallway. He's in there. Right now. Three meters away through walls and lives. Maybe he's in the kitchen making coffee. Maybe he's getting ready for training. Maybe he's happy in a way he never was with you.

Your throat feels sick. Actually sick like you might vomit right here on the marble floors that have witnessed every iteration of your heartbreak.

Your hands shake as you unlock your door. 3C looks exactly as you left it—furniture you never broke in, art you bought but never really looked at, a kitchen you used maybe ten times. It's a museum to a life you never actually lived. A investment property that cost you everything.

Your phone buzzes. The realtor, confirming she'll be here in an hour to do the final walkthrough.

One hour. You have one hour to exist in this space before you never see it again.You walk through the rooms mechanically. The bedroom where Lando slept once, where you woke up to sunlight and regret. The living room where you drank wine and watched Stranger Things and tried to convince yourself you were fine. The kitchen where broken glass from that night still left a tiny scratch on the tile that no amount of cleaning has erased.

You're leaving everything. The furniture, the dishes, the ghost of who you were when you thought proximity to him was the same as having him. The realtor has buyers lined up who want it furnished—some millionaire who won't know or care about the history embedded in these walls.

You're only taking what matters: the cars in the garage downstairs (a Porsche and a vintage Ferrari you bought at auction), the art (three original pieces that will look perfect in Nice), and the jewelry.

Nothing sentimental because you've learned that sentimentality is a luxury you can't afford.  The villa in Nice is waiting. Seven bedrooms overlooking the Baie des Anges. Infinity pool that bleeds into the Mediterranean. There’s vineyards and olive groves and enough space that you'll never have to see your neighbors, never have to make small talk with someone's wife, never have to hear British voices through walls.

You've convinced yourself the sea will make you feel something. The sea, and the distance, and the clean slate of a place that doesn't know your history.

You're standing at the window—the same window where you watched the skyline while Lando called, where you've stood a hundred times trying to make sense of your choices—when you hear it.

Through the wall. Muffled but unmistakable. Laughter. His laughter, specifically—that bright, unguarded sound that used to be yours. Followed by hers, lighter, feminine, domestic.

The sound of a marriage. The sound of him keeping his promise to move on.

Your phone buzzes again. Wes: How's the funeral for your old life going? Need that extraction yet?

You text back: All good. Almost done. :)

You're not good. You're not almost done. You're standing in an empty apartment listening to your ex-boyfriend's happiness bleed through the walls, and you're about to sell this place and move to Nice and pretend that geography can fix what's broken.

But you're good at pretending now.

You've had seven months of practice. The realtor arrives exactly on time—a crisp woman in Chanel who doesn't ask why you're selling, just catalogs the space with professionalism. You sign papers. Transfer keys. Accept the fact that someone else will live here now, will make memories in these rooms, will have no idea that this apartment was witness to the death of the only love that ever mattered.

"The art and jewelry are already in transport," you tell her. "The cars will be picked up tomorrow. Everything else stays."

"Understood." She doesn't ask why you're leaving thousands of euros worth of furniture. Maybe she's used to rich people and their incomprehensible decisions. "The buyers are thrilled. They close next week!"

Next week. In seven days, this won't be yours anymore.

The relief should feel bigger.  You leave the keys on the counter. Walk out of 3C for the last time. The hallway is empty—no awkward encounters, no last glimpses, just you and your bag and your heart that's learned to beat around the hole.

The stairs feel longer going down. Your phone rings as you reach the ground floor. Wes again.

"I'm coming to Nice with you," he announces. "No arguments. You're not spending your first night in that absurd villa alone."

"Wes—"

"I've already packed. Well, I've already decided what I'll pack. Same thing and we're going to be drinking expensive wine and skinny dipping in your excessive pool and you're going to tell me why you looked at property listings for six weeks before choosing the one that's exactly 47 kilometers from Monaco."

"I didn't measure the distance."

"Darling, you absolutely did."

He's right. You did. You measured it precisely—far enough that you won't accidentally run into them, close enough that you're still orbiting the same sun.

Still running, but in circles now. A grand ol’ difference. 

"Fine," you concede. "Bring wine."

"I'm bringing champagne. Wine is for people who are dealing with their emotions in healthy ways."

You almost smile. Almost. Outside, Monaco gleams in afternoon sun. Yachts in the harbor. Expensive cars on expensive streets. Beautiful people living beautiful lives. You slip on your sunglasses, Celine, and head toward your car.

You don't look back at the building. You've gotten good at not looking back.Nice is waiting. The villa, the sea, the next chapter of running that you'll call healing. Wes will come and make inappropriate jokes and force you to acknowledge that buying things isn't the same as being happy.

But not yet.

For now, you drive. Windows down, Mediterranean air whipping through your hair, trying to outrun the sound of laughter through walls and the memory of a wedding in Vogue and the fact that you chose too late and now you get to live with that.

The sea better make you feel something.

You've bought it specifically for that purpose. And if it doesn't—well. There's always another property. Another city. Another distance to measure in kilometers from the epicenter of everything you've lost.

Your phone buzzes one more time.

Not Wes. Not the realtor. A notification from Instagram. Someone you don't follow, but whose profile you've looked at more times than you'll ever admit, so Instagram recognizes your a certified stalker, wonderful. 

@magui.corceiro shared a new post

You don't open it because you've gotten good at that, too.

Eighteen months after Lake Como, you barely recognize yourself in mirrors.

The hair is different first—honey blonde instead of your natural color, cut shorter with highlights that your stylist in Nice applies every six weeks like clockwork. Your body is different too—toned from daily sessions with a trainer, muscles defined in ways they never were.

You look good. At least, everyone says so. Wes says so. The men you occasionally let into your bed say so before you kick them out and don't return their calls. Magazine profiles say so—you've been featured in Forbes twice now, Financial Times once, always photographed in your Nice villa with the sea behind you like you've found some sort of zen.

You look like someone who has their life together.

You feel like a beautifully decorated corpse.

The company expanded to Europe exactly like you planned. Offices in London, Paris, Frankfurt. Your name on buildings. Your signature on deals that move markets. You're richer than you ever imagined possible—the kind of rich where you stop checking prices, where your accountant sends quarterly reports you barely read because the numbers have stopped meaning anything.

Money was supposed to fix things. Yet, it hasn't.

"You need a break," Wes tells you over FaceTime, his face pixelated from whatever corner of South America he's currently occupying. "You look exhausted."

"I look great. You literally just said I look great."

"You look like a very attractive robot who's forgotten how to feel things." He adjusts his phone, and you catch a glimpse of ocean behind him. "Come to Uruguay. I’ll be at the house for three weeks. Beach, sun, aggressive amounts of wine. You need this, babe."

"I have meetings—"

"Reschedule them. Darling, I love you, but you're turning into one of those tragic women who dies at her desk and no one finds her for three days because everyone just assumes she's busy."

"That's dark."

"So is whatever you're doing." His expression softens. "Please. Come and let me feed you food that isn't made by your private chef. Let the ocean do something other than serve as a backdrop for your emotionally vacant existence."

So you go. Because Wes is right, even if you won't admit it. Because the Nice villa feels less like a home and more like an expensive holding cell. Because you've been in Europe for eighteen months and you've barely left France except for work, and even then it's just airports and hotels and conference rooms that all look the same.

Because you're so fucking tired of being empty.

Uruguay is beautiful in the way only places that haven't been completely overtaken by tourists can be. Wes's house is in José Ignacio—a stretch of coast that's somehow both exclusive and understated, million-dollar homes tucked between dunes and native vegetation like they're trying not to draw attention. The house itself is pure Wes: there’s floor-to-ceiling windows, architectural lines that shouldn't work but do, furniture that's somehow both minimalist and comfortable. And the beach—god, this fucking beach. Private and pristine, sand like sugar, the Atlantic stretching infinite and grey-blue. It’s utterly beautiful.

"See?" Wes says, handing you a glass of wine on your first evening. "This is what healing looks like."

"This is what running away looks like," you counter, but you take the wine anyway.

"Darling, you've been running for two years. At least run somewhere with a decent coastline."

You've been here for five days when you realize he's right about something else too, you have a hard time with men now. There's a dinner party—some fashion designer friend of Wes's, artists and models and people with interesting faces and more interesting trust funds. A photographer named Mateo pays attention to you, and he's handsome in that specific South American way, all dark eyes and easy charm.

You let him kiss you in Wes's garden. You let him press you against a wall while the party continues inside. You let him whisper things in Spanish that sound like promises.

Then you feel nothing.  Nothing when he touches you. Nothing when he suggests going back to his place. Nothing except the familiar emptiness and the sure knowledge that if you sleep with him, you'll treat him exactly how you've treated all the others—like they're interchangeable, disposable, a temporary distraction from the permanent ache.

"I should go," you tell him, and you see the confusion in his face. The hurt.

You're hurting people now. You've become the thing you used to hate—someone who uses bodies to forget feelings, who takes without giving, who leaves before morning because staying would require being honest about how broken you are.

"I'm sorry," you add, but it doesn't help.

Inside, Wes takes one look at your face and steers you toward the deck.

"Want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You're crying."

You touch your face. He's right. You didn't even notice.

"I don't know how to do this anymore," you admit. "How to let someone in. How to feel something that isn't just nothing."

Wes doesn't offer platitudes. That's what you love about him. He just sits with you while you cry, while the party continues inside, while you face the reality that you've spent eighteen months building a life that looks perfect and feels like death.

The next afternoon, you're on the deck alone. Wes has gone into town for supplies—or maybe to give you space, he's good at reading when you need solitude. The sun is setting over the Atlantic, painting everything gold and pink and devastating. You're in a linen dress, barefoot, wine glass in hand, watching the waves and trying to remember what it felt like to want something other than oblivion.

That's when you hear it.

Barking. Enthusiastic, chaotic barking getting rapidly closer.

"Ruffus!" A man's voice, British, slightly panicked. "Ruffus, come back here, you absolute—"

A dog appears on the deck—some kind of terrier mix, small and scruffy and completely unbothered by commands. It makes a beeline for you with the confidence of an animal who's never met a stranger.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry—" The voice is closer now, footsteps on the deck stairs.

The dog jumps at your legs, paws on your knees, tongue out and panting like you're the most exciting thing it's ever encountered. You can't help but laugh—the first real sound you've made in days—and crouch down to pet it.

"Hey buddy," you murmur, scratching behind its ears. "You're quite friendly, aren't you?"

"Ruffus, down. Ruffus—Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry, he's usually better behaved—"

You look up and the world tilts.

Lando Norris is standing five feet away, haloed by sunset, looking at you like he's seeing a ghost. He's in board shorts and a t-shirt, hair salt-messy, sunburned across his nose. Older somehow—not much, but enough that you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes. There's a wedding band on his left hand that catches the dying light like an accusation.

For a moment—a suspended, airless moment—neither of you moves. The dog continues to lick your hand, oblivious to the fact that the entire world just shattered and reformed into something unrecognizable.

"Hi," you manage. Your voice sounds like you've been underwater.

"You—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "What are you doing here?"

"Wes's house." You gesture vaguely behind you. "You?"

"Next door." He points to the house barely visible through the dunes. "We're renting for the month. I—fuck. I didn't know you'd be here, I completely forgot Wes is right there."

We. Of course. We means Magui. We means his wife. We means this is somehow worse than Lake Como because at least there you knew what you were walking into.

You stand up slowly, the dog finally losing interest and trotting back to Lando. Your wine glass is still in your hand. Gripping it like you might break the damn thing.

"Your hair," he says suddenly. "It's different."

"Yeah." You touch it self-consciously. "I needed a change."

"It's—" He stops himself. Looks away. "You look good. Different. But good."

You want to ask if he's happy. If the wedding took. If Magui is inside their rental right now, unpacking groceries or scrolling through her phone or existing in blissful ignorance of the fact that her husband is standing on a deck in Uruguay staring at his ex-girlfriend like she's an equation he can't solve.

Instead, you say, "Congratulations. On the wedding. I know I said it before, but—"

"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Please don't."

"Okay."

The silence stretches. The ocean fills it with the sound of waves, of gulls, of the world continuing despite the fact that you're both drowning in this moment.

"I should go," he says, but he doesn't move.

"Yeah." You don't move either.

Ruffus barks, impatient, ready to continue his beach adventure.

"How long will you be here?" The question comes out before you can stop it.

"Four more weeks." He's looking at you with something that might be hope or might be dread. "You?"

"Three weeks.."

The implication hangs between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Three weeks. In neighboring houses. With his wife and your best friend and eighteen months of unfinished business sitting in the space between what you are and what you were.

"I'm married," he says suddenly. Forcefully like he's reminding himself of it.

"I know."

"And you're—" He gestures at you, at the villa behind you, at whatever version of yourself you've become. "You're different now."

"I am."

"Happy?"

The question is so direct it steals your breath. 

"Are you?" you counter.

He looks at you for a long moment. The sunset paints him in impossible colors—gold and amber and the shade of heartbreak that you've learned to live with but never learned to cure.

"I'm trying to be," he says finally.

It's the saddest answer you've ever heard.

"Me too," you whisper.

Ruffus barks again, and Lando finally, finally looks away. Clips the leash onto the dog's collar with shaking hands.

"I should—Magui will wonder where I am."

"Yeah. Of course."

He takes three steps toward the stairs. Stops and turns back.

"It's good to see you," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "Even if it's—even if we shouldn't—it's good to see you."

"You too."

He leaves. You watch him walk back down the beach toward the house next door, the dog pulling at the leash, the sunset turning everything into a painting of something that might have been beautiful if it wasn't so destroying. You stand on the deck until long after he's disappeared. Until your wine is warm and the sun is gone and Wes comes back to find you exactly where he left you.

"You alright?" he asks, setting down grocery bags.

"Lando's next door," you say flatly.

"I’m sorry. What?"

"With Magui. They’re renting the house next door. For three weeks."

Wes stares at you. Then at the house barely visible through the dunes. Then back at you.

"Fuck," he says eloquently.

"Yeah."

"Do you want to leave? We can leave. I can call the jet, we can be back in Nice by tomorrow—"

"No." You're surprised by how certain you sound. "No. I'm tired of running."

"Darling—"

"I'm staying." You finally look at him. "I don't know what happens next. But I'm staying."

Wes studies your face for a long moment, then nods slowly.

"Okay," he says. "Then we're going to need more wine."

"Much more," you agree.

Inside, your phone buzzes. Unknown number. You stare at it for a full minute before opening the message.

I'm sorry. About the deck. About all of it. I'll make sure we don't cross paths again. Enjoy your vacation.

No name. It doesn't need one. You'd recognize his words anywhere.

You type and delete five different responses before settling on:

It's a small beach. We're adults. It's fine.

It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine. But you hit send anyway and try not to think about the fact that you have three weeks in Uruguay, eighteen months of unfinished grief, and the man you still love sleeping in a house thirty meters away with the woman he chose instead.

The universe is cruel.

For three days, you avoid the beach like it's contaminated.  It's not hard—the villa has everything. Infinity pool, private gym, a view that makes the Mediterranean look modest. You work remotely, take calls on the terrace, pretend you came to Uruguay for the architecture and not the ocean.

Wes doesn't call you out on it. He's too busy being disgustingly happy with Fernando. Fernando who arrived two days after the Ruffus incident—tall, Spanish, absurdly handsome in that way that makes even you understand why Wes keeps giggling like a teenager. He's a photographer, which means he and Wes spend hours discussing "light" and "composition" while looking at each other like they've invented romance. They 100% have fucked, and recorded it. 

"You like him," you observe on day three, watching Wes actually blush over breakfast.

"I'm considering liking him," Wes corrects. "There's a difference."

"Please, you’re already planning the wedding."

"I'm planning what he'll wear to my next show. It’s professional."

"Uh-huh sure, just so you know, you’re unbearable when you're happy."

"And you're unbearable when you're hiding." He steals a piece of your toast. "We bought a yacht so we should probably use it."

The yacht is—excessive doesn't begin to cover it. You and Wes bought it six months ago in a moment of shared madness, a 120-foot floating testament to having more money than sense. It's moored in the marina at José Ignacio, white and sleek and absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Vagrancy, you named it. Because even your boat is running away from something. God, the fucking irony. 

"Fine," you concede. "But if I see him on the water—"

"The ocean is large, darling. The odds are astronomical."

The odds turn out to be irrelevant when Fernando gets involved. You're on the yacht by noon—the three of you plus a few friends and a small crew, anchored in a perfect spot where the water goes from turquoise to deep blue. Wes has brought enough champagne to sedate a small army. Fernando has brought his camera and keeps taking candid shots of Wes when he thinks no one's noticing.

You're three glasses deep, lying on the sun deck in a bikini that cost more than most people's cars, trying very hard not to think about the fact that Lando is somewhere in Uruguay, probably doing normal vacation things, probably happy with his wife, probably not thinking about you at all.

"I invited some people!" Fernando calls up from the main deck, way too cheerful.

You open one eye. "What people?"

"The neighbors! They were having a bonfire on the beach, and I thought, why not? The more the merrier!"

Your stomach drops to the ocean floor.

"Which neighbors?" Wes asks carefully, already knowing, shooting you a look that's pure apology.

"The British couple! And their friends—very nice people. They said yes immediately!"

Of course they did. Because Lando wouldn't speak up. Wouldn't say "actually, my ex-girlfriend who I'm definitely over is on that yacht, this is a terrible idea." He'd just smile and agree because that's what you do when you're trying to be normal, trying to be married, trying to pretend the past doesn't exist.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for the champagne bottle.

"We can cancel," Wes says quietly, kneeling beside your lounge chair. "I'll tell Fernando you're sick. We'll say—"

"No." You sit up, drain your glass, refill it. "It's fine. We're adults. It's a big yacht."

"It's not that big."

"Then I'll get drunker."

By the time the tender brings them over, you're five glasses deep and feeling nothing, which is exactly the point. You stay on the sun deck, hidden behind your sunglasses and your artificial calm, while Wes goes down to play host. You hear them before you see them.  Magui's laugh—light, genuine, the sound of someone who has no idea this is a nightmare. A woman's voice you don't recognize, Brazilian accent, must be Pietra. Max Fewtrell's distinctive tone, joking about something. And then—

"Mate, this is insane. How rich are these people?"

Lando. Trying to sound normal. Absolutely failing.

"Very rich," Fernando says proudly. "Wes designed for half of Paris Fashion Week. And his friend—she's in finance. They bought this together."

"His friend," Max repeats slowly. "Does this friend have a name?"

Oh god. Max knows. He fucking knows. Lando's told him everything—Monaco, Lake Como, all of it. You can hear it in the careful way he's asking, the way the entire group goes slightly quiet.

"She's up on the sun deck," Wes says, and you can hear the warning in his voice. "Getting some sun. Very hungover. Might not be very social."

It's a gift. An out. A way for Lando to grab Magui and make excuses and leave before this becomes catastrophic.

He doesn't take it.

"Well, we brought drinks!" Pietra says brightly, oblivious. "Should we bring them up?"

You close your eyes behind your sunglasses. Take a breath. Stand up and make your way to the stairs before they can come to you, because at least this way you control the moment of impact.

They're all on the main deck when you descend. Fernando is opening wine. Wes is already pouring something that looks like it’ll be a problem later. And there they are, Max Fewtrell, mid-sentence, freezing when he sees you like someone's pressed pause and he’s seen a goddamn ghost. His face cycles through recognition, shock, and what might be sympathy before he manages to control it.

Pietra, gorgeous in a simple sundress, smiling warmly because she has no idea who you are. Magui, in a bikini, her hair perfect, her ring catching the sun as she reaches for a glass.

And Lando. Lando in board shorts and a linen shirt, unbuttoned, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. The wedding band on his finger like a brand. Looking at you like you're a car crash he can't look away from.

"Hi," you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near catastrophic. "Welcome to Vagrancy."

"Oh my god," Pietra gasps, looking around the yacht properly. "This is incredible. You own this?"

"Co-own," you correct, accepting a drink from Wes that you don't look at before downing half of it. "Wes has terrible spending habits and I enable them."

"You love it and you know it," Wes says, settling beside Fernando with ease. "Everyone, this is—"

"We've met," Max interrupts, his voice careful. His eyes flick between you and Lando like he's watching a bomb countdown. "Actually. In Monaco. A few years ago."

The lie is kind and you're grateful for it.

"Right!" You smile brightly, artificially. "Max! Good to see you again.”

Pietra is still oblivious, already exploring the deck with wide eyes. Magui is taking a selfie against the ocean backdrop, her phone angled perfectly. And Lando is still staring at you like he's trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with whoever he's been remembering.

"Your hair really is different," he says quietly.

Everyone looks at him. Then at you, and suddenly the air becomes thick with unspoken questions.

"Needed a change," you repeat, same words as the beach, taking another long drink. "You know how it is."

"Right. Change." He's still looking at you. Only you. His wife is three feet away and he's looking at you like she doesn't exist. "It suits you."

"Lando," Magui calls, turning her phone toward him. "Baby, take one of me and Pietra?"

The word "baby" hits you like a physical blow and you decide in that moment to turn away, toward the bar, refilling your glass with hands that shake slightly.

"I'll give a tour!" Fernando announces, because he's lovely and oblivious and trying to be a good host. "Come, I'll show you the state rooms—this yacht has five, can you believe it?"

Pietra and Magui follow him eagerly. Max hesitates, looking at Lando, then at you, clearly debating whether leaving you two in the same space is a good idea.

"Go ahead," Lando tells him. "I'll catch up."

Max leaves with obvious reluctance.

Wes stands. "I should—"

"Stay," you tell him. "It's fine. We're fine."

But Wes knows you too well. He kisses your cheek, whispers "I'm inside if you need me," and disappears after the others.

Leaving you and Lando alone on the deck of a yacht in Uruguay, eighteen months and a marriage between you.

"You're drunk," he observes.

"I’m happily drunk," you correct. "There's a difference."

"It's not even three PM."

"It's five o'clock somewhere. Isn't that the vacation motto?"

He moves closer. You move toward the railing, putting space between you, putting ocean and wind and the reality of his wedding ring between you.

"I didn't know you'd be here," he says. "On the yacht. Fernando didn't mention—"

"Why would he? He doesn't know." You laugh, and it comes out sharp. "Nobody knows except Wes and Max, apparently. Everyone else just thinks we're strangers who met once in Monaco."

"We're not strangers."

"Aren't we?" You finally look at him directly. "You're married. I'm... whatever I am. We don't talk. We don't exist in each other's lives. That's pretty much the definition of strangers."

"That's not—" He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "You can't just show up places looking like—being—" He stops. Regroups. "This is hard enough without you being here."

"Hard?" Your voice rises despite yourself. "You think this is hard for you? You're here with your wife on a vacation, and I'm the inconvenience?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?"

Before he can answer, Fernando's voice echoes from below. "Come see the master cabin! It's obscene!"

Lando looks toward the sound, toward his wife, toward the life he's supposed to be living.

"I should go," he says.

"Yeah. You should."

He doesn't move.

"You look happy," he says finally. "In the photos Wes posts. You look happy."

"So do you. In Vogue. You looked very happy that day too."

"I'm trying to be."

"Still?" The question escapes before you can stop it. "It's been eighteen months, Lando. Are you still just trying?"

His jaw tightens. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair."

"Lando!" Magui appears at the stairs, glowing and gorgeous and completely unaware. "You have to see this bathroom. It has a rainfall shower that's bigger than our flat in Monaco!"

Our flat. In Monaco. In the building where you used to live. Maybe even in 3B. Maybe they're sleeping in the bed where you—

"Coming," he calls back, not looking away from you.

Magui disappears again.

"Go," you tell him. "Be married. Be happy. Stop looking at me like I'm the one who got away."

"What if you are?"

The words stop your heart.

"Don't," you whisper. "Don't do that. Don't say things like that when she's right there, when you chose her, when you made vows that apparently mean something even if—"

"Even if what?"

"Nothing. Forget it." You drain your glass. "Go look at the bathroom. I'm getting drunker."

This time he does leave. And you do get drunker.

By sunset, you're seven drinks deep and doing okay. Okay in the sense that you're numb. That the edges of everything are soft. That you can look at Lando and Magui and feel nothing, which is a gift, which is the goal, which is the only way to survive this.

Fernando has set up a spread on the main deck—tapas and wine and the kind of casual elegance that makes Pietra take approximately ten thousand photos. Everyone is relaxed, happy, sun-drunk and actual-drunk.

Max keeps shooting you looks that range from concerned to impressed that you're still standing. Wes hovers subtly, ready to intervene. Fernando, bless him, remains oblivious and keeps everyone's glasses full. You're doing fine until the sun really starts to set. Until the sky turns that specific shade of pink-gold that reminds you of Lake Como. Until Lando puts his arm around Magui's waist and she leans into him with the ease of someone who has every right to, and something in your chest cracks open.

"Need more drinks," you announce to no one, heading for the bar.

There's a guy there—one of Wes’s friends, maybe mid-twenties, attractive in a nondescript way. He smiles at you.

"Can I get you something?" he asks.

You should say no. Should get your drink and go back to the group and maintain the facade of being fine.

Instead, you say, "What's your name?"

"Diego."

"Diego. Do you want to get out of here?"

His eyebrows raise. "We're on a yacht."

"There are other decks. Lower decks. Quieter decks."

Understanding dawns. He glances toward the group, toward Wes who's busy with Fernando, toward Lando who's definitely not looking at you except he absolutely is.

"Sure," Diego says. "Lead the way."

You take his hand. Make sure you're visible as you lead him toward the stairs. Make sure Lando sees. Because if he can move on, you can too. If he can have a wife and play happy and pretend you never mattered, you can take some stranger downstairs and feel nothing and prove that you're fine, you're over it, you're exactly as empty as you look.

The lower deck is quiet. Private cabins that no one's using. You pull Diego into one, close the door, press him against the wall and kiss him.

He tastes like beer and salt and absolutely nothing. You kiss him harder, trying to conjure something. Anything. Your hands in his hair—too soft, wrong texture. His hands on your waist—too tentative, wrong touch. You imagine Lando. Force yourself to imagine it's Lando's mouth, Lando's hands, Lando's body against yours.

Feel absolutely nothing.

Diego is making sounds like he's enjoying this. His hands are traveling, getting brave. And you feel—

Nothing. Empty. So profoundly empty that you want to scream.

"Stop," you say, pulling back. "I'm sorry. Stop."

"What? Did I do something—"

"No. You're great. This is—" You step away, fixing your dress. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. You should go."

"Are you sure—"

"Please. Just—please go."

He leaves, confused and probably offended, and you lean against the wall where you just had him pressed, trying to remember how to breathe. What is wrong with you? Why can't you feel anything? Why is every nerve ending in your body dead except for the ones that apparently only respond to a man who's married to someone else?

You need air. Real air, not the recycled air of this cabin that smells like your own desperation.

The back deck is empty when you stumble out—everyone must still be forward, watching the sunset, being normal people who can enjoy simple things. You grip the railing and stare at the water and try very hard not to cry.

"What the fuck was that?"

You spin around. Lando is standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something you can't quite name.

"What was what?" You're still drunk enough to be brave. "Me getting air? That's not usually controversial."

"Don't play stupid." He moves closer, and there's something dangerous in how he's moving, something barely controlled. "That guy. You and him. Everyone saw you."

"So?"

"So?" He laughs, harsh and sharp. "So you just—what, you just take some random guy downstairs and—"

"And what, Lando?" Your voice rises. "What's it to you? You're married. You don't get to have opinions about who I kiss."

"I saw you." His voice drops, goes rough. "Through the window. I saw you against the wall. His hands on you."

Oh.

Oh.

"Were you watching me?" The question comes out quieter than you intend.

"I wasn't—" He stops. Runs both hands through his hair. "I was looking for the bathroom and I saw—and you were—" He can't seem to finish sentences. "Who is he? Do you even know him?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." He's right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell his cologne, see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "Yes, it fucking matters. You can't just—you can't just do that. Not here. Not in front of—"

"In front of who? Your wife?" You're angry now, drunk and angry and so tired of this. "I'm sorry, is my presence ruining your vacation? Should I have stayed hidden below deck so you don't have to remember I exist?"

"That's not what I—"

"Then what? What do you want from me?" You're shouting now, don't care who hears. "You married her. You chose her. You get to be happy with your wife and I get to do whatever I want with whoever I want and you don't get a say in it!"

"I know that!" He's shouting too. "I know I don't get a say. I know I have no right. But watching you—seeing you with him—" His hands flex at his sides like he wants to hit something. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"What it does to you?" You laugh, bitter and broken. "You're unbelievable. You're actually unbelievable. You can parade your wife around, put your arm around her, call her baby, be everything to her, but god forbid I kiss someone—"

"Did you like it?" The question stops you cold. "Kissing him. Did you feel anything?"

You should lie. Should tell him it was amazing, that Diego made you forget Lando exists, that you're completely over him and moving on and fine.

The truth comes out instead: "No."

Something in his expression shifts. Cracks.

"Why not?"

"You know why not." Your voice breaks. "You know exactly why not, and it's not fair that you're standing here asking me these questions when you're wearing a wedding ring, when your wife is fifty feet away, when you made your choice and I'm trying—I'm trying so hard to make mine."

"By kissing strangers you don't feel anything for?"

"By trying to feel something for anyone that isn't you!" The confession rips out of you. "I don't feel anything, Lando. Nothing. Not for him, not for any of the others, not for anyone. I'm empty. Completely empty. And I thought maybe if I just kept trying, kept going through the motions, eventually something would work. Someone would make me feel something. But no one does. No one can. Because apparently I'm broken and the only thing I'm capable of feeling is this—" You gesture between you. "This completely hopeless thing for someone I can't have."

The silence that follows is deafening. Lando stares at you like he's seeing you for the first time. His chest is heaving like he's been running. The sunset paints him in impossible colors—gold and amber and the particular shade of heartbreak.

"You think you're the only one?" His voice is barely a whisper. "You think I don't know exactly what you're talking about? I'm married. I have a wife I care about. And I still—" He stops. Takes a breath. "I still feel nothing except when I think about you. When I see you. When I'm trying to be present in my own life and all I can think about is what you're doing, where you are, if you're happy, if you miss me even a fraction as much as I—"

"Stop." You put up a hand. "Don't. Don't say these things. Not now. Not here."

"When, then?" He's close enough to touch now. Close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, see the pain written across every line of his face. "When am I supposed to tell you that marrying her was a mistake? That I think about you every single day? That I saw you on that deck three days ago and every moment since has been torture?"

"You can't say that." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face. "You can't say that to me. You're married. You made vows. You chose—"

"I chose wrong." The words fall between you like bombs. "I chose wrong and I've known it since the wedding and I can't—I can't keep pretending."

"Lando—"

"I love you." He says it desperately. "I love you and I've loved you through all of it and I know it's too late, I know I'm married, I know this is—but watching you with him, I couldn't—I can't—"

"Baby?" Magui's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. "Are you back here?"

You both freeze.

"Baby?" Magui's voice, distant but getting closer. "Lando? Where did you go?"

Panic flashes across his face. He looks toward the sound of her voice, then back at you—your tear-stained face, your wrecked expression, the evidence of everything written across both of you.

"Fuck," he breathes.

Then his hand is on your wrist, pulling you sideways through a door you didn't even know was there—some kind of storage closet, cramped and dark, life vests and equipment crowding the small space.

"What the fuck—" you start, but his hand covers your mouth.

Not rough. Gentle, almost. But firm. His other hand braced against the wall beside your head, his body blocking yours, both of you pressed into the tiny space. You can feel his heart racing against your chest. Feel his breath coming fast and shallow.

Through the door—which he didn't close all the way, just pulled mostly shut—you hear footsteps. Magui.

"Lando? Baby, where are you?"

His hand is warm against your mouth. You can smell his cologne, his skin, feel every point where your bodies touch in this confined space. Your back against stored equipment, his front against yours, no space, no air, nothing but proximity and panic and the absolutely insane reality of being hidden in a closet with your ex-boyfriend while his wife searches for him.

His eyes meet yours in the dim light filtering through the crack. They're wild, desperate, pleading for—what? Silence? Understanding? Forgiveness for this absolute fucking disaster?

You should bite his hand. Should shove him away. Should announce your presence and blow this whole thing up because at least then it would be over, at least then there would be consequences instead of this endless torture.

Instead you stay perfectly still.

Magui's footsteps pause. She's right outside. Right fucking there.

"Where did everyone go?" she mutters to herself and you almost feel bad. 

Then her footsteps retreat. Back toward the party. Back toward the safety of not knowing.

Lando doesn't move his hand. Doesn't step back. Just stands there, pressed against you in the dark, breathing like he's been running.

His fingers tremble when he lets them fall away, like a confession that might still be snatched back. The closet smells of salt and varnish and now his cologne, sharp and too familiar, and the thin light from the hallway strips the party down to a silhouette at the crack where the door doesn’t fully close. Lando’s face is inches from yours, and the part of you that has been hollow for a year and a half fills up so fast it hurts, an ache that’s mostly hunger and memory and the stupid, reckless hope you have tried to bury.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you whisper, harsh and shaking. "You can't just—you can't just grab me and—"

"You always talk like you mean to leave me," he breathes, voice so low it becomes a vibration through your sternum. His thumb ghosts along the seam of your lip. "You always pretend the gap is something we could step over. You make it sound like there's still room to be sensible."

Heat crawls from your throat to the center of you. You should shove him, should laugh, should call him selfish and walk out into the party and find a corner to die in. Instead your knees give medium and you let him half-lean, half-fall against you until your backs touch the stowed life jackets and a plastic rumble rolls under both of you like the announcement of an avalanche. A Life jacket tips over and thunks to the floor, a small, obscene percussion that makes both of you flinch and then laugh—an animal, breathless sound that dies into a ragged inhale.

"Lando," you say again, but the word comes out wet with everything you have not said for eighteen months. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them the wildness is softer, like a flare that's gone out but still leaves smoke.

"I shouldn’t have gotten married," he admits. "I shouldn’t have—God, I—"

You want to say I should have loved you less, I should have loved you more. You want to say the obvious things that would unspool this with a clean cut. Instead your hand finds the collar of his shirt without thinking and you drag him down, and when his mouth meets yours it is not the tentative, testing kiss of strangers. It is a claim. It is both apology and indictment and the simplest truth you cannot bear and cannot refuse.

His tongue is the map you remember by heart, pulling at old cartography, and your hands find the hard plane of his back, the flex of muscle under the fabric. His left hand cups your face and the wedding band is ice against your cheek—cold, foreign, wrong. You feel the ridge of it, the weight of promises made to someone else, and for a second you almost pull away. Almost.

You kiss like you are trying to fix the way time has been wrong, like you are welding the halves of a broken compass back together. He groans, that low, resident sound you thought you would catalog in a box and never open, and it vibrates against you, making the world tilt.

"Jesus," he rasps between kisses, fingers threading in your hair, tilting your head so he can better devour you. "You taste like the stupidest part of me." His mouth traces your jaw, then the hollow beneath your ear, and the shiver that answers makes him laugh—an ugly, relieved thing. "You always know where to make me lose my head."

The stupidest part that belongs to someone else now, you think, but the thought dissolves when his mouth finds that spot below your ear, the one only he knows about, and you forget how to be good.

You press into him until both of you are two halves pressed into the same small space, and the yacht creaks around you like an audience shifting in their seats. Outside, laughter explodes and a glass shatters—someone's joke finishing off someone else's patience—and you imagine Magui somewhere in there, unaware of the seismic underfoot.

Hands slide like they remember the old language: under fabric, along the small of your back, skimming until the air in the closet feels thinner than before. Buttons rebel under the weight of your impatience; his shirt opens and falls away. His ring snags on your dress—a small catch in the fabric, a tiny resistance. You both feel it. Both ignore it. The thin gold band that should be a stop sign becomes just another thing you're choosing to destroy yourselves over.

Your breath maps the bare skin you have wanted for forever, and he answers every inch with his mouth, with whispered badness and every filthy, reverent thing he used to say in the dark.

"Say it," he demands suddenly, low and fierce. His hands grip your hips until you can feel it in your bones. "Say it like you fucking mean it."

You should be scared. You should be furious. But the only honest thing rising up is the litany you've kept folded and secret for too long, and it pours out of you in a tremulous whisper that might as well be a shout.

"I love you," you say. The closet swallows the sentence whole and it comes back at you, echoed in his breathing. You had not planned on confessing; it leaks out like blood from a shallow wound, unstoppable.

He presses his forehead to yours and there is a brief, desperate silence as if the two of you are measuring the weight of the words. "I love you," he says back, like he is afraid if he repeats it once it will be taken away. "I love you. I love you. I love you." The repetition turns into a stammer, a prayer, until the words are almost a moan.

He said those words to her too. In a church, in front of God and two hundred witnesses, with photographers capturing the moment for Vogue. He promised her everything with that ring on his finger, and now he's promising you the same thing in a storage closet that smells like sunscreen and gasoline. The cruelty of it steals your breath.

There is something feral in the way his hands take you then, not gentle so much as claiming, not violent so much as urgent. You stand, guided by his grip, and the small living space becomes a private planet where the rules that govern the rest of your world do not apply. A box of extra napkins tips and flutters like pale moths. A plastic container clinks and tumbles; life jackets spill in a heap and make a crude nest at your feet. The closet door thunks a little against the frame when both of you shift, a dull, obscene drumbeat that might as well be the ship's heart.

Your knees threaten to fail, Lando catches you, presses you against the wall of stacked supplies, and you both laugh at how ridiculous it is to be making out in such a ridiculous place. His mouth finds yours again and this time the kiss is rougher, edged with something raw and unforgiving, like the tide crashing into cliffs. His palms travel a route they always knew, then explore new ones, learning the tolerances of your skin as if testing the boundaries between caution and collision. You moan—one of those long low sounds that leaks out of the back of your throat, and he answers it with words that are unsteady and perfect.

"You're mine," he says, not in the possessive, but in the knowing way of two people who have once burned and still choose to touch the flame. "Mine even if it's stupid. Mine if it hurts. Mine even if it fucking kills me."

Your hands claw at his shirt, at the belt, at anything that promises more skin, and he obliges. Buttons come undone in a frantic, clumsy cadence; breaths hitch and mingle. There are tears at the corners of both your eyes—tears from the laughable cruelty of being together like this, tears from the too-bright memory of the life you do not have, tears that are also lubrication for the ache inside your chest.

"Don't stop," you whisper, and the words are a plea and a command both. He answers by kissing the place where your clavicle meets your sternum, then lower, lower, until you can feel the heat pooling, a place he has found again with professional certainty. His mouth is an expert cartographer and you are an uncharted island rediscovered, and each ministrations sends static shocks of pleasure through the hollow parts you thought were caved in for good.

The closet is tight, so every movement is close, intimate, invasive. Metal life jacket buckles press against your thighs, a zipper grazes your hipbone, and something knocks over—maybe a box of sunscreen—spilling a smell of coconut and chemicals, ridiculous in the face of what you are doing. The noise is absurd and obscene in equal measure, and you curse and laugh through a breathless exclamation that ends in a choked, needy whisper.

"Lando," you say again, but this time there is no pleading; there is only the raw instruction of someone who has wanted this for too long. "Now. Please."

He answers by lifting you a little, steadying you on his thigh, and the angle is intimate and smart in a way that makes blood rush to your head. His hands are everywhere, and then not enough, and then all-consuming. The friction of bodies, the press of skin against skin, the slick sound of desperate mouths and wet breaths fills the small, oxygen-starved room. You cling to him, fingers tangled in his hair, your lips bruising his until both your mouths sting.

"Say my name," he hisses into your mouth, and you do, as if by naming it you can keep it from slipping away again. The name becomes a litany, a talisman to hold.

Outside the door someone calls out his name againm—Magui, sharp and searching—and both your heads turn as if pulled by an impulse you violently suppress. Lando freezes for the barest second, his forehead against yours, the sound of his wife's voice a physical thing that trembles the air. You both hold your breath, not because you are afraid of being caught, but because being found would mean finishing, sealing, and the idea of being stamped and boxed is unbearable.

"She's close," Lando whispers, voice ragged and far away. "Stay still. Don't move." His hands are on you like anchors; there is a lurching urgency to every touch now, to make the time you have left count. He leans in and bites down lightly on your lower lip, hard enough to taste blood and salt. You respond by arching into him, by letting the burn of it turn into a new kind of pleasure.

The walls of the closet get smaller as you fold into the shape of each other. Clothes fall in a haphazard mess, a silk scarf tangles around his wrist and you pull at it like a mariner hauling rope. The world narrows to the slick, incessant contact between you and the ache underneath. He mutters almost-never-sayable things into your hair, things that smell like confession and want and the sweet, bruising knowledge that you both left a part of your souls on a bench somewhere and now have found them again under fluorescent light and life vest plastic.

"Say it again," he murmurs against your throat, and you answer with a sound that is equal parts sob and moan. His pace quickens without warning, hands driving, hips bucking, and you meet him, a rhythm born of old, practiced intimacy that has not been used in ages but remembers itself like muscle memory.

You cry out when he finds that place inside you, the exact arrangement of pressure and friction and rough devotion that sends something hot and piercing straight to your brain. Tears streak your cheeks as he keeps going, as if the grief and the joy can coexist and spill out at the same time. The sound you make is not pretty; it is something magnificent and ugly and terribly honest. He whispers your name like a benediction and you catch it and hold it against your ribs.

"I love you," you sob, a broken band of sound. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

He answers by slamming into you harder, because words are useless and motion is the only language left. Each thrust is a punctuation mark, a sentence that begins and ends in the heat between you. The closet is small enough that the impacts echo; the plastic life jackets behind you squeak and clap against the wall. You push back into him, nails scoring his shoulders, and he groans something fierce and animal.

There is a moment when the door handle turns and both of you still, eyes locking in a lightning flash of terror and desire so close together they are indistinguishable. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. Somewhere in the party footsteps shift, a laugh floats, and then the door closes again on whatever someone else is saying and the imminent danger slips like water off a duck's back.

When the coast is clear Lando laughs, a short, incredulous sound, and it breaks something inside you open all the way. "We are such fools," he says, voice raw, and you kiss him because only touching can answer the confession.

Your bodies find a brutal, beautiful cadence, shuddering toward something unavoidable. The closet becomes a chapel, a battlefield, a confessional. You say the words until they mean nothing and then mean everything. He keeps saying them back, soft and quick, until the syllables run together and you are both babbling like lovers and old men at once.

Time collapses into a few frantic minutes where you are not the past and not the future, just two people who have decided to trade everything for an hour of honest heat. He grips the back of your neck and drags you up to him, eyes half-lidded with a pleasure so sharp it looks like pain. You come with a strangled cry that is part release, part admission, and when he follows a second later it feels like the world is ripping and being sewn up in the same motion.

Afterwards you cling to him in the dim light, sweaty and messy and whole in the way only devastation can make you. Your breaths slow to the boat's rhythm. Outside, the party's noise is distant and unimportant. The life jackets are in disarray, sunscreen spilled, a trail of small casualties proving you existed in there at all.

Lando's forehead rests on yours, and he hums a sound low in his chest that is almost a laugh and almost a sob. "I can't do this," he whispers, and you feel the words break open in the space between you. Not I can't do this again. Not we shouldn't have. Just the simple, destroying truth: I can't do this.

Can't keep pretending. Can't go back out there and put his arm around her. Can't survive another eighteen months of wanting you while living a lie.

"I know," you say, because you do. Because you can't either.

His thumb traces your jaw, tender in a way that makes you want to scream. "I have to tell her."

"No." The word comes out sharp, desperate. You pull back enough to look at him properly. "No, you don't. This was—this was a mistake. We were drunk and stupid and—"

"Don't." His grip tightens, keeping you close. "Don't do that. Don't make this cheap."

"What else can it be?" Your voice breaks. "You're married, Lando. You have a wife who loves you, who's out there right now probably wondering where you are, and we just—" You can't finish. Can't say what you just did in a storage closet while his wedding ring pressed into your skin.

"I'm going to tell her," he says again, quieter now. Certain. "Tomorrow. Tonight. I don't know when, but I can't—I can't keep doing this to her. To you. To myself."

"And then what?" You're crying now, tears mixing with sweat, everything a mess. "You blow up your marriage for this? For us? We don't even know if we work, Lando. We never figured that out. We just keep destroying each other in increasingly creative ways."

"So we figure it out." He says it like it's simple. Like love is ever that simple. "We stop running. We try. Really try this time."

"She doesn't deserve this."

"Neither do you." His voice cracks. "Neither do you, and I keep hurting you anyway because I'm too much of a coward to admit I married the wrong person."

The confession hangs between you like something alive and dying all at once.

"What if you're wrong?" you whisper. "What if you tell her, and blow everything up, and then we try and it still doesn't work? What if we're just—what if we're only good at the breaking?"

"Then at least we'll know." He kisses you, soft and devastating. "At least we'll have tried instead of spending the rest of our lives wondering."

Footsteps above. Close. Getting closer.

Reality crashes back in with the force of a tidal wave.

"You have to go," he says, even as his hands refuse to release you. "Before someone—before we make this worse."

Worse. As if there's a scale for this kind of destruction.

You fix your dress with shaking hands. He helps, fingers gentle on fabric that's inside out, evidence everywhere of what you've done. His hair is a disaster. There's a mark on his neck you don't remember making. He looks absolutely wrecked, and you probably look worse.

"Lando—"

"Tomorrow," he interrupts. "I'll tell her tomorrow. And then—" He stops. Swallows hard. "And then we figure out what comes next. Together."

You want to believe him. Want to believe that this time will be different, that love is enough, that you won't just destroy each other in new and creative ways. But you've been here before. In Monaco, in Lake Como, in every moment you've chosen each other and then chosen fear instead.

"Okay," you whisper anyway, because hope is the cruelest thing and you've never learned how to kill it.

You slip out of the closet first. The hallway is empty, but you can hear voices from the main deck—Magui laughing at something, Pietra's phone camera clicking, Wes's theatrical storytelling voice.

The party continuing like the world hasn't just fundamentally shifted.

You make it to the bathroom, lock the door, and stare at your reflection. Your lips are swollen, your hair a mess, your dress wrinkled in ways that tell a very specific story. You look like someone who just made the biggest mistake of her life.

You look like someone who would do it again. When you finally emerge, Lando is back on deck, standing beside his wife, his hand in hers. But his eyes find yours across the space, and the look in them is a promise or a threat or both.

Tomorrow, that look says.

user3 what did she look like?

lando kinda tan with medium length brown hair 😍

user4 hmm that gets rid of a decent amount

maxverstappen1 I'm surprised he didn't try to make a move

maxfewtrell trust me he tried, this idiot attempted jumping over the railing but security yelled at him

user5 maxfewtrell LMAOAOOOAOAOAO HE WAS HYPNOTIZED FR

oscarpiastri please find her lily is excited now that she might have a "paddock bestie" ♥︎ by author

lando TRUST ME MATE IM TRYINGG

user6 aw lily's so cute 🥹

user7 was it julissa.garcia1?

lando no

user7 lando was it leatunnell ??

lando user7 nope

user7 lando how about kellyvillares

lando user7 UGHHH no

leatunnell lando was is my girl yourusername ??

lando leatunnell OH MY GOSH YES THATS HER OMG OMG OMG

maxfewtrell leatunnell what have you done 😞

yourusername

liked by lando, dccheerleaders, leatunnell, maxfewtrell, and 4,197,027 others yourusername amazing game and performance tonight! 💙

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user8 STUNNERRRRR

dccherleaders beauty! 💙 ♥︎ by author

lando 🤤🤤🤤

user9 her face card never declines

lando I know right

user9 lando ohhhh brotherrrr😭

leatunnell my gorgeous best friend 😻💋 ♥︎ by author

yourusername I love you!!

lando I see my future and it's almost as bright as your smile

maxfewtrell IM FUVJING CRYING WHST IS THIS POERTY

user10 the sweetest girl EVERRR

lando WOW 🤩 run me over please 🙏

lando if she smiled at me I think I'd pass out tbh

user11 you know what real

maxfewtrell lando mate you cannot be serious...

oscarpiastri maxfewtrell I feel he's being fr 😢

lando please notice me I need to shoot my shot 😪

lando GNAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE

maxfewtell carlossainz55 take his phone away please I know you're near each other

carlossainz55 maxfewtrell on it 🫡 lando stop this you're giving me second hand embarrassment

kellyvillares the prettiest angel 🫶 ♥︎ by author

yourusername thats all you baby!!

lando yourusername don't you call her baby 😔

danielricciardo lando mate are you quoting harry styles...?

user12 he's gone too deep now

leatunnell babe do you not see the man thirsting in your comments 😭

yourusername what?? who?

lando yourusername ME ‼️‼️ HELLOOO PRETTY LADY

maxverstappen1 lando🤦🏼‍♂️🤦🏼‍♂️

yourusername lando hi ⁉️ who are you

lando yourusername your future husband 🫠 and an f1 driver on the side ♥︎ by author

yourusername lando oh cool :)

lando yourusername so when are we going out?

yourusername lando uhhhh

lando

liked by yourusername, maxfewtrell, carlossainz55, and 3,956,308 others lando and this is what being desperate gets me 🫦

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user13 LMAOAOAOAOAO THE FIRST PICTURE

maxfewtrell that was lando recreating his reaction when he first saw her 🤓

dccherleaders we love you both!

carlossainz55 AYYYY LITTLE LANDO NORRIS IS ALL GROWN UP 

lando you had no faith in me but look at where I am now 🙂

user14 awhhhh they're so cute omg

leatunnell 😍😍

leatunnell so obsessed with you guys

yourusername love you so much babe

maxverstappen1 I'm flabbergasted that she wants to date you

lando thats rude 😾

maxverstappen1 lando rude or true?😸

user15 when will it be my turn to have a man fall in love with me at first sight 😪

user16 omg the second and third pictures are soooo 😩

lando oh yeah also shoutout to maxfewtrell 🫡 he's the reason I went to that football game

yourusername biggest thanks to you max, I'll get you tickets for the rest of the season 💙

maxfewtrell yourusername THANK YOUUU I LOVE YOU GUYS ♥︎ by author

danielricciardo I'm not gonna lie... I did NOT see this relationship actually happening

lando WHY DOES NO ONE HAVE FAITH IN ME 💔

maxfewtrell lando because if it were my post you were commenting those things under I'd call the cops and then file a restraining order

yourusername maxfewtrell I was going to but I secretly looked at his account when I saw his first comment and thought he was very handsome

lando yourusername YOU SAW ALL MY COMMENTS AND IGNORED THEM?????

yourusername lando of course! had to make a man work for it a bit ;) ♥︎ by author

oscarpiastri you guys are cute until you start being all over each other around the garage

lando sue me for being in love

yourusername lando awhhhh 🥹 ♥︎ by author

user17 lando is such a golden retriever bf and honestly she's also giving golden retriever gf ♥︎ by author

user18 the way whenever I see pics and vids of them online they're ALWAYS smiling at each other with literally heart eyes

user19 I KNOWWWW IT'S ADORABLE 🫠

Lando had been gone for exactly twelve hours when she caved.

It wasn’t boredom—the Verstappen family didn’t do boredom. Her schedule was packed with gym sessions, influencer brunches, and brand events she had no real desire to attend.

But the apartment felt off without him. Too quiet. Too tidy.

And the sim rig—God, it just sat there. Smug. Taunting. Like it knew she’d eventually give in to its silent, high-tech seduction.

She told herself it was just curiosity. Racing was in her blood, even if she’d had zero interest as a kid. She used to stage silent protests just to get out of karting, sulking until her dad finally let her quit and focus on gymnastics instead.

Still, one harmless session wouldn’t hurt, right?

Just a few laps around Silverstone. Just something to do before bed.

Two hours later, she was red-faced, sweaty, and yelling at an AI Williams for brake-checking her into Turn 1.

She was terrible. Hilariously, painfully terrible.

But she was hooked.

—

By day three, she was watching tutorials, scribbling notes, and fine-tuning the seat and wheel setup like her life depended on it.

She texted Lando under the guise of checking in.

Hey handsome, you okay? Totally random, but what’s the best braking point for Eau Rouge?

He didn’t even question it—just sent a smug voice note with a full breakdown like she was a rookie on his team.

It made her want to destroy his time.

That night, she created a profile.

She debated using her real name, but that was a quick no. The username had to be anonymous… but also funny.

So she picked the most on-the-nose option possible.

@Mrs.Norris

It was meant to be a joke. A bit of fun. She never expected it to go anywhere.

She definitely didn’t expect to get good.

—

Two weeks in, she was holding her own in online lobbies. Four weeks in, she was winning. All of them.

Six weeks in, she entered a public charity sim race and beat George, Charles, and Alex.

The stream chat lost its collective mind.

Who TF is Mrs. Norris???

Actual alien pace.

Lando alt??

Plot twist: it’s Max Verstappen in disguise.

That last one made her laugh so hard she nearly fell out of the rig. The idea that they thought her brother was racing under her married name? Unhinged enough to make her cry.

Then came the text from Lando.

Lando:

Baby, are you using my sim under the username Mrs. Norris?

You:

Yep. And I beat them all.

Lando:

No. Shut up. You did not.

You:

Duh. I might be a Norris now, but I was born a Verstappen.

—

When he finally got home after the triple-header, he walked in to find her mid-race, cursing like a sailor, laser-focused, fire in her eyes.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

She crossed the finish line five seconds clear of second place.

Slowly, she removed the headset. Even slower, she turned to face him, cheeks flushed pink.

“Hi,” she said softly, suddenly shy.

He didn’t say anything.

Then he grinned.

“Mrs. Norris,” he drawled, walking over to kiss her forehead, “we are so screwed if this gets out.”

She smiled. “It won’t. They think I’m Max.”

He leaned in, voice low. “You beat my Silverstone time.”

“Your fault for sounding all smug about Eau Rouge.”

He kissed her properly then, holding her like he hadn’t seen her in months.

And neither of them mentioned the way his hands trembled slightly at the thought of her in a real F1 car.

Because if her dad ever found out?

the rest of your day–hell the rest of your week–after your meeting with professor verstappen was spent ruminating over what happened. that night, you drowned your thoughts in hard liquor to soften the anger and quiet your confusion. it was the outlet you needed, unsure of who you could even turn to.

  but it wasn’t enough to make the thoughts of him stop completely, especially the next day. your hangover hit you like a ton of bricks; your body ached and it felt too heavy to move, the weight of fatigue and nausea and shame was too much to handle.

  you couldn’t place that last feeling, shame. you hadn’t done anything wrong, but it felt like you did, because you wanted him. suppressing it didn’t work, the thoughts always trailed back to him. not just his domineering attitude or aggression, but how he sees right through your facade, how he sees a part of you that you try to pretend doesn’t exist. and you hated him for it.

  once again, you considered the increasingly more viable option of dropping the class, but the semester was in full swing, and you didn’t want to waste anymore time by waiting to take a different course. 

  so you returned to class, trying to pretend like nothing was wrong. you walked over to the same seat you always did and didn’t talk to anyone, despite lando’s best efforts. that first day back after the meeting when professor verstappen grabbed you, you sat in silence. you didn’t ask or answer a single question, and you didn’t even dare to look at him, which meant you couldn’t see his gaze shift over in your direction every few minutes.

  initially when he realized your change in demeanor, he didn’t assume that he was the problem. but as the class went on, he became overwhelmed with regret and worry. it was undeniable to him that his actions scared you off, that he went too far. still, he choked back his feelings and moved on. or at least he tried to.

  the next assignment that came around was difficult for you, but the meeting with your professor and a little extra studying was actually helpful. you felt confident in what you turned in, thankful that you wouldn’t feel the urge to meet with your professor again if the score came back poorly. 

  much to your professor’s dismay, you did in fact do well. as he graded the assignment, he considered marking you down for the most miniscule of errors to draw you back in to talk to him, but he didn’t. ironically, that was a bridge too far for him.

at the start of the next class, your teacher reminded everybody that there would be a speaking exam next week. lando looked over at you when the news was dropped to see if you had a reaction. you sighed and covered your face with your hands for a couple of seconds, as if hiding would make the speaking exam go away. “you nervous?” he asked, and you nodded.

  when professor verstappen explained the format of the exam, your heart sank even lower into your stomach. “instead of meeting here during the class period, each of you will come to my office. i will be sending out a schedule for everyone’s individual time slots.”

  fuck, i can’t go there again. you thought to yourself, worried about having to be around him again, all alone. your face shifted from one form of anxiety to another, and lando noticed. he wasn’t sure why the idea of being one-on-one with your professor made you feel unnerved, but there could be plenty of reasons besides the truth: that you don’t trust yourself or your professor.

  that evening, you received an email with the time slot lineup for the spoken exam. you scanned the list all the way to the very end where you finally saw your name. that bastard, he put me last? you wondered whether it was on purpose or if the order was random. deep down, you felt like it was definitely intentional.

  you prepared as much as possible, desperately trying to figure out the different pronunciations but all of it still being off. luckily, you started to grasp the grammar and vocabulary, so hope wasn’t entirely lost for the exam.

  except for the fact that you’d be alone with your professor, at the end of the day, when neither of you had any more obligations. no more students for him to test, no more classes left for you to attend. all of the wrong circumstances designed with one purpose in mind.

on the day of the exam, you sat outside of his office for several minutes. you didn’t want to be late, but being early gave you more time to overthink. by the time he called you into his office, you felt like your whole body was trembling, at least internally. 

  your professor was incredibly formal, as if he was trying to avoid thinking about the last time. he explained how the test would go, what he would be looking for, and so on. he began asking you very simple questions in dutch. your name, age, hobbies, major, things that only required a few words. you were outstanding in almost every part, except of course for pronunciation, the only thing that really matters in this exam. 

  you would fumble over your words and pronounce letters where they shouldn’t be, and each time, professor verstappen would grimace or flinch at it. the session was supposed to go on for somewhere between five to ten minutes, but he stopped you before you could even get to four.

  “no, stop,” he said on your attempt to use the word ‘geen.’ 

  “i’m sorry? did i do something wrong?” you questioned. “besides your terrible accent, no. i already know what grade i am giving you, we can be done,” he explained. 

  “okay, can we talk about what i need to fix at least?” you bargained, feeling slighted that he wouldn’t let you finish. he sighed, “fine. introduce yourself to me again.”

  “ik ben–” (i am), he cuts you off instantly, “first of all, that is too casual, and you’re pronouncing it like you would in german, and you should say ik heet,” (my name is). 

  “i didn’t know you did formal, professor verstappen,” you retorted, annoyed at how little you understood and how arrogantly he explained things to you. he reacted, only slightly, but you read on his face that it bothered him. “just try to pronounce it like i did,” he asks. you try again like he asked. “that was better, try answering the question about your age again.” once again, you do, and the longer sentence is more difficult for you. 

  you’re met with another deep sigh of irritation, “you need a lot more help than i thought,” he says as he stands up from his chair. 

  you look up at him with desperation, “i know…” you respond shyly. 

  he steps closer to you, closing the space but barely, “not used to being corrected?” 

  “i guess not,” you replied. “i think you need it, some… structure,” your professor said, slowly moving closer to you. you avoid looking at him, but your body betrays you, warm with anticipation. “i’m not sure what you’re suggesting professor verstappen–” he cuts you off, “please, call me max.” 

  you shrug off his comment, “am i dismissed?” 

  “do you want to be?” max asked in a low tone, and you met his gaze again. it was darker, filled with expectation and want, like he knows your answer before you do.

  “i, we shouldn’t–” you say, torn between your morals and desire. “let me teach you,” he lets the words linger between you before whispering, “you need to learn your place.”

  you shift in your seat and glance nervously around his office, the heat rising between your legs no longer deniable. he hums gently, “so that’s what you want?” you nod, permission for him to go further. he bends down to be level with your face and brushes his fingers over your chin to make you look at him again.

  without warning, he leans in to kiss you. it’s soft at first, seeking your approval, but it quickly turns towards anger and aggression, holding your lips hostage. he abruptly pulls away and orders, “stand up.” you pause, your head spinning from his touch and how you think you should definitely walk away.

  he folds his arms, annoyed and impatient. you stand up like he told you to, and he kisses you again with the same force as before, pushing you against his desk and guiding your legs open. his hands move quickly to pull your joggers down, fabric pooling around your legs. he slides one hand underneath the waistband of your underwear, the other holding your back possessively, and his fingers swiftly find the wet spot leaking through the fabric.

  “oh,” he laughs against your lips, “knew this is what you wanted, already dripping, and i’ve barely touched you.” you turn your head away out of humiliation.

  “i like you better when you’re pathetic,” max says, gripping your waist to turn you around. “bend over,” he commands. you’re still moving slowly and apprehensively, and his patience wearing thin. he presses his hand into the small of your back to guide you down, “are you gonna be a good girl and do what i tell you?” your mouth goes dry, and it feels impossible to speak. he slaps his hand across your mostly bare ass at your unresponsiveness.

  “yes, i’ll do whatever you say profess–,” he cuts you off. “can’t even call me what i asked you to,” and hits you again, red mark blossoming on your skin. 

  “sorry, max,” you correct yourself, which earns a low hum of approval. he moves your underwear to the side and slides his fingers through your dripping folds, landing on your clit to rub small circles. you whimper at his touch as he alternates his pace, aching for more. 

  “use your words,” he tells you, teasing your entrance. “need more, please” you beg, and he answers by plunging his fingers in your core, and you moan quietly at the stretch.

  “so tight,” he murmurs, more for himself than you. he’s explorative at first, spreading his fingers wider to test how much you can take. he speeds up and pushes deeper inside of you, making your knees weak and shaky. max pumps his fingers inside of you, pulling you dangerously close to an orgasm. he stops short, and you’re left breathless on the edge.

  “fuck, please,” you plead for more, clenching around nothing. “you think you get to be greedy?” he questions, and you shake your head. “you’ll take what i give you,” he scolds, and you nod. “words,” he repeats.

  “yes– i understand,” you whine. 

  “good girl,” he says, unzipping his pants and lowering them down. he rubs his hard cock over your cunt and lines himself up with your slit. “you want this?” he asks in a knowing tone. “please, need you,” he chuckles at you and how worked up you are.

  he pushes into you angrily and unrelenting, not even giving you a chance to adjust. you moan too loud, forgetting where you are, and he covers your mouth with his hand, “shut up and take it.”

  you force down all of the noises you wish you could make as he fucks into you with an unforgiving pace, hitting the back of your pussy every time. he grabs a fistful of your hair, and you finally ease into his pace, rocking backwards for more despite already feeling so full. 

  “that’s it, such a good whore,” max spits out, the words feel hurtful but exciting. you twitch around his cock close to your climax, and he stills inside of you, feeling your need. “aw, you poor thing, you need to come?” he taunts you.

  “please max,” you beg helplessly. “not until i say,” he says, spanking your ass again. he moves both of his hands to grab your waist and draws you lower into his thrusts. you bite your lip to hold back your moans, and tears well up in your eyes at how rough he is. your legs tremble, struggling to hold back your orgasm. 

  he spasms inside of you and pulls out, “on your knees, now,” he demands. you turn around and follow his orders, waiting with your mouth open wide. he strokes his cock and spills his warmth onto your tongue with a soft grunt. “didn’t even have to tell you,” he mutters with satisfaction as you swallow his come. 

  he grabs your hand to help you stand up and brings his lips to yours for a brief kiss. “next time, you can finish,” he hums.

  “there won’t be a next time,” you declare.

  he laughs, “i’m sure.” 

there shouldn’t be a next time, you think to yourself. but as you leave his office, still aching from your ruined orgasm, you know there will be.

a/n: hope you guys liked this cause i had a great time writing it (i'm biased to mean!max), sorry it's kinda short :(

lando : thank you for the judging… although i think i deserved more points for presentation 😅

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ alex_albon : can confirm lando’s stroopwafels were a disaster. yn’s score was being generous

liked by lando, yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : all i will say is neither lando or oscar should be allowed in a kitchen on their own😇

liked by mclaren, lando and oscarpiastri

↳ mclaren : noted 📝

mclaren : our favorite guest ever 🧡💪🏻 come back to us!

liked by yourusername, lando and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : on my way to italy as we speak🗣️

carmenmmundt : obsessed with the boots AND you. officially the cutest person on the planet 🤍

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : so nice to finally meet you😭😭 you’re the sweetest

franciscagomes : cutest judge in the paddock 🫶🏻 had the best weekend with you 💕

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : i missed you so much😭 it was so nice to get to spend the weekend w you💋

liked by franciscagomes

oscarpiastri : we have to have a redo at some point. we are both too competitive to do it just once

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ yourusername : ill be back whenever you guys need me ;)

liked by oscarpiastri and lando

↳ lando : just stay the rest of the season 😇

liked by oscarpiastri and yourusername

username00 : petition to keep her in the paddock forever pls and thank u

↳ mclaren : we are thinking the same thing

liked by yourusername

username55 : lando AND oscar both flirting with her had me in a chokehold ngl

↳ username75 : right???? bc wdym little shy oscar piastri is flirting in front of 20,000+ people

↳ username25 : id flirt with her too. can’t blame em

↳ username100 : those boys are in love your honor

↳ username77 : with each other AND yn.

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You step out of the car with Kika’s arm looped through yours, both of you laughing about something silly from the drive. Pierre trails a step behind, shaking his head with that patient, fond expression he always wears when Kika is around. The three of you must look like trouble—two girls dressed to the nines for a weekend at the track and one driver already regretting his decision to arrive with you both.

The paddock is already loud, cameras clicking, fans waving from behind the barriers. Kika squeezes your hand.

“You’re going to love it,” she says, all bright-eyed excitement. “And they’re going to love you. Trust me.”

Before you can ask who “they” are, Pierre nudges you in the direction of papaya-orange banners fluttering above a garage. “This is where we leave you. Good luck.” His tone is teasing, but you notice the way Kika grins knowingly.

You smooth down your outfit and take a deep breath before stepping into the McLaren garage. The air is cooler here, filled with the faint scent of engine oil and something metallic. Engineers bustle around, but your eyes are immediately drawn to two figures near the back.

Lando Norris is the first to notice you. He does a little double-take before breaking into a wide grin, abandoning the tool in his hand and strolling over. “You must be our special guest,” he says, his voice warm, playful. “Finally, someone to keep Oscar in check.”

Oscar Piastri, standing a few feet away, looks up from his conversation with a mechanic. He’s quieter than Lando, more reserved, but the way his gaze lingers on you says plenty. He walks over at a slower pace, that easy smile of his making your chest feel a little lighter. “Welcome to McLaren,” he says softly. “I hope we make a good first impression.”

“First impressions are looking pretty solid so far,” you tease, earning a chuckle from Lando and the faintest pink dusting Oscar’s ears.

It doesn’t take long before you’re swept into easy conversation with them—Lando throwing in jokes at every opportunity, Oscar making sure you have everything you need, offering you a seat, water, anything. They’re different in every way, but somehow equally magnetic. And maybe, just maybe, you start to wonder if Kika’s grin earlier had meant something more.

The first hour in the garage feels like a whirlwind. McLaren’s PR manager whisks you through a quick rundown of the schedule—panel first, then the fan voted bake off. But even while she’s talking, you can feel Lando and Oscar orbiting you like satellites, hovering close enough to make sure you’re settled, cracking jokes, checking in with you like you’ve been part of the team for ages.

Lando insists on walking you through the garage like it’s his own personal museum.

“So here’s my car. Don’t touch, she’s moody,” he says with mock seriousness, wagging a finger before grinning. “Though, if you did touch it, maybe she’d behave for once.”

Oscar, trailing behind, shakes his head. “Ignore him. He treats her like a pet, but she doesn’t listen to him anyway.” He throws you a quick smile, the kind that makes your stomach do a little flip.

By the time you’re led to the stage area, the seats are already filling up with fans, the room buzzing with orange caps and jerseys. A table with three mics sits front and center. You’re seated between Lando and Oscar, which feels… strategic.

The panel starts lighthearted. Fans cheer, you introduce yourself, and Lando leans toward his mic dramatically.

“You should’ve seen her in the garage earlier. Already bossing us around like she’s been here for years.”

“I did not!” you protest, laughing.

“You kind of did,” Oscar says, smirking just enough that you can tell he’s teasing. His voice is softer, but it carries, and fans in the front rows nudge each other knowingly.

Questions roll in—about the season, about racing, about what it’s like having you there. Someone asks who’s the better baker, and Lando immediately points at himself.

“I have the creativity. That’s all that matters.”

Oscar shakes his head, deadpan. “It’s going to be a disaster. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The crowd laughs, but you notice how their eyes flick to you every time one of them speaks, like they’re waiting for your verdict. It’s both nerve-wracking and exhilarating, having their attention split between you and their favorite drivers.

The bake-off area is set up with two stations side by side, complete with mixing bowls, flour, sugar, and stacks of stroopwafel ingredients. You’re given a little judge’s seat in the middle, clipboard and all, which only makes Lando lean over with a mischievous grin.

“Are you going to be fair? Or do I get extra points for making you laugh?”

You raise a brow. “Bribery won’t work on me.”

“Flattery, then,” he shoots back without missing a beat, pouring flour into a bowl and immediately spilling half of it onto the table.

Oscar, carefully measuring his ingredients like a scientist, sighs. “I’m not even competing with him. I’m competing with the mess he’s about to make.” He glances your way with that small, crooked smile. “Don’t let him charm you into ignoring burnt stroopwafels.”

Fans are eating it up—phones raised, recording every exchange. You hear snippets of giggles from the crowd:

“Are they… flirting with her?”

“Both of them???”

Lando tries to flip a stroopwafel mid-air like a pancake and misses completely. It lands half-folded on the counter, and he gasps dramatically.

“Judge! That was a ten for effort, right?”

You can’t stop laughing. “That was a negative ten, actually.”

Oscar hides his laugh behind his hand, but when you catch his eyes, they’re sparkling. “You’re too generous. I would’ve given him negative fifty.”

By the end of it, you taste both. Lando’s are interesting—half undercooked, half slightly burnt, but he watches your face like your reaction is the most important thing in the world. Oscar’s are neat, perfectly golden, and the flavor actually surprises you. He tries to act casual, but you can tell he’s nervous too.

“They’re both…” You pause dramatically, clipboard in hand, and the fans start chanting “LANDO! OSCAR! LANDO! OSCAR!” like it’s the world championship.

“They’re both edible,” you finally declare, earning loud laughter. Then you grin. “But the winner is… Oscar.”

Lando groans, throwing his hands up. “Rigged again! Why do I even try?”

Oscar just shakes his head, ducking it a little, but when you hand him the makeshift trophy, you see the faint blush on his cheeks. He whispers, just for you: “Thank you, judge.”

And as the fans cheer, phones flashing and posts already making their way online, you can’t shake the feeling that something shifted today—that maybe the weekend isn’t going to be as simple as you thought.

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

By the time the day winds down, your cheeks hurt from smiling. The panel, the bake off, the endless fan photos—all of it leaves you buzzing, but in the best way. When McLaren’s PR gently asks if you’d like to join the drivers for a dinner they had set up, you don’t even hesitate.

The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet street, a team favorite apparently. The kind of place with low golden lighting, warm chatter, and tables tucked into corners for privacy. When you arrive, Lando is already at the table, leaning back in his chair with his hoodie up like he’s trying to disguise himself. Oscar sits beside him, scrolling absently through his phone until he looks up and spots you.

“Finally,” Lando says, standing just enough to pull out the chair between them. “We were starting to think you ditched us.”

“Not yet,” you laugh, sliding into the seat. “But you might regret inviting me after the way I judged you today.”

Oscar smirks, closing his phone and setting it on the table. “I’m fine with your judging. I won.”

“Unfairly,” Lando mutters, reaching for the bread basket. “You only won because you can follow instructions.”

“That’s… usually how baking works,” Oscar replies, deadpan.

You giggle into your water glass, and the sound makes both of them look at you at the same time. It sends a strange little shiver through you—something about the way their attention feels, not competitive exactly, but… intent.

The three of you trade stories — Lando exaggerating wildly, Oscar cutting in with sharp little corrections that make you laugh even harder. You tell them about your career, the chaos of the modeling world, the way fans can sometimes feel like detectives with how closely they study your life.

“You’re telling me,” Lando says, rolling his eyes. “If I breathe wrong, it’s on TikTok within the hour.”

Oscar smirks. “Sometimes even before.”

There’s a comfortable rhythm between them, one you notice more and more as the night goes on. It isn’t just banter—they share looks, subtle nudges under the table, the kind of familiarity that only comes from trust. Still, every time your hand brushes against one of theirs reaching for a plate or your laugh lingers too long, you swear their focus sharpens, drawn back to you.

Dessert arrives—something decadent and rich. You cut into it with your fork, humming happily at the taste. Lando leans forward immediately.

“Okay, share. That sounded way too good not to.”

You roll your eyes but slide the plate toward him. “One bite.”

He grins, takes a forkful, and then, without missing a beat, holds the fork out toward you. “Here. Fair’s fair.”

It catches you off guard, the easy intimacy of it. But before you can decide, Oscar clears his throat. “You’re going to make her feed you in public?”

“What, jealous?” Lando teases, his grin widening.

Oscar doesn’t bite back—just takes his own fork, cuts a neat bite, and offers it to you with a quiet, “Here. Try this piece, it’s better.”

Your face warms as you lean in, accepting both their forks in turn, laughing at the absurdity of it. Around you, the restaurant hums on, but at this little table, it feels like the three of you are in your own bubble.

Later, when the plates are cleared and the night stretches on, the conversation softens. No cameras, no crowd—just the three of you tucked into a corner booth.

Lando fiddles with the paper wrapper from his straw, glancing at you. “So… did today scare you off? Or are we fun enough that you’d come back?”

You smile, tilting your head. “I had a lot of fun, actually.”

Oscar’s gaze lingers, steady and warm. “Good. Then you should come again. Next race.”

The way he says it, quiet but sure, makes your heart skip. It doesn’t feel like a polite invitation—it feels like he means it. Like they both do.

You don’t notice the way their knees press a little closer under the table, or the subtle glance Lando and Oscar share over your head, but you do notice the warmth blooming in your chest. And when you leave the restaurant hours later, with Lando insisting on walking you back to your hotel and Oscar quietly making sure you’re on the safe side of the street, you realize something undeniable: You’ve only just met them, but somehow, it already feels like you belong.

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

mclaren

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, lando and 2,750,000 others.

mclaren : @/yourusername is back by popular demand! she is now helping our boys create the ultimate italian cuisine🧡🍝 out now on our youtube!

tagged : yourusername, oscarpiastri and lando

—

view 77,000 other comments.

lando : kiss the cook (it’s not a suggestion)

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↳ username55 : MR NORRIS. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!

yourusername : thank you for bringing me along to supervise the chaos again 🧡

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and mclaren

franciscagomes : i’m waiting for leftovers 😌🍝

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : come on over, we have plenty🧡 (i would only eat mine) (don’t touch what lando or oscar made)

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↳ lando : you said mine was good😟

↳ yourusername : i believe i said “edible” my love

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↳ lando : edible means good in my brain

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scuderiaferrari : italian cuisine? i need to judge this myself…

liked by yourusername and mclaren

username55 : the throuple cooking in monza, we won. keep feeding us mclaren

username75 : petition to make yn an official team member. orange was made for her

liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri and lando

username57 : these two want her so bad IM GAGGED

username85 : papaya throuple soft launch part 2 😌🧡

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The McLaren kitchen is set up with cameras, lights, and an array of ingredients that look a little too ambitious for two Formula 1 drivers. Fresh tomatoes, herbs, bags of flour, eggs stacked neatly in bowls. You’re perched at the counter with a mic clipped to your shirt, watching as Lando and Oscar are herded in by the filming crew.

“Welcome back to another episode of Cooking with Chaos,” the producer jokes, and Lando immediately points at Oscar.

“Chaos is him. I’m the talent.”

Oscar gives him a flat look, then glances your way with a quick smile. “You’re here to keep us from burning the place down, right?”

“That’s the plan,” you say, hopping off the counter. “I’m the supervisor-slash-judge. The pasta police.”

Lando leans his elbow on the counter, grinning at you. “Can I bribe the police with compliments?”

Without missing a beat, Oscar adds, “Or with edible food, which I’ll actually be making.”

You laugh, shaking your head as the cameraman signals the start.

The first challenge is making pasta dough. Lando immediately cracks eggs onto the flour like he’s seen in a cooking show, but when he tries to mix it, yolk spills everywhere.

“Brilliant start,” Oscar mutters, kneading his dough with quiet focus. “It’s like watching a toddler.”

“Oi,” Lando protests, shoving his messy hands toward Oscar. “Give me a hand then.”

He reaches out like he’s going to smear flour on your shirt, but you catch his wrist just in time.

“Absolutely not. You’re not dragging me into this.”

The cameras catch the way Lando freezes for half a second at your touch, grin faltering into something softer before he recovers. “Fine. You get a pass. For now.”

Oscar, meanwhile, smirks down at his dough. “If you need help, you could just ask nicely.”

Lando huffs. “I’ll just ask her.” He shoots you a pleading look. “YN, save me.”

You give in, stepping behind him to guide his hands through the motion of kneading properly. Your palms press against his, fingers dusted with flour. “Like this,” you say quietly, aware of how close you are.

Oscar notices. He notices everything. His jaw flexes slightly, but when you move over to check his dough, his expression softens. He doesn’t need your help—his dough is already smooth and perfect—but he lets you lean in, lets your hand rest briefly on his wrist as you nod approvingly. “This is actually impressive,” you tell him.

He tilts his head, lips curving. “Impressing you was the goal.”

Sauce-making is next, and it’s chaos. Lando tries to chop garlic and nearly loses a fingertip before you reach out, steadying his hand.

“Do not give McLaren a medical emergency over garlic,” you scold, laughing.

“I’d heal faster if you took care of me,” he shoots back, eyes crinkling.

Oscar stirs his sauce methodically, but when you pass behind him to grab a spoon, his hand brushes your lower back, steadying you without thought. “Careful. Floor’s slippery.” His voice is low, warm.

It’s a small touch, barely noticeable, but it makes your heart jump.

By the time plating comes around, the kitchen looks like a storm passed through. Lando has flour on his cheek, Oscar has a smear of tomato sauce across his hand, and you’re somewhere in between, trying not to laugh every time the cameraman whispers “gold” under his breath at the chaos.

Lando twirls his pasta dramatically onto the plate, then holds the fork out toward you. “Ladies first.”

You take the bite, chewing thoughtfully as he watches you like your reaction is the only thing that matters. “It’s… surprisingly edible,” you admit.

“See? Chef Lando,” he announces proudly.

Oscar, more understated, sets his plate in front of you with a quiet “Try mine.” You do, and it’s rich, perfectly balanced. He doesn’t gloat, doesn’t say anything, but the little smile that curves his lips when you hum in approval says enough.

The cameraman calls cut, but none of you move right away. Lando’s still grinning at you, Oscar’s gaze lingering, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out. “I feel like I didn’t supervise as much as I was supposed to.”

“You supervised perfectly,” Oscar says softly.

“Yeah,” Lando adds, eyes crinkling as he leans in just a little closer. “You made it fun.”

And surrounded by the mess of flour and pasta, with two drivers standing a little too close on either side of you, it feels less like a video shoot and more like something else entirely. Something you can’t quite name yet—but you know the fans will pick up on it the second the video goes live.

The cameras shut off, crew members begin packing equipment, and suddenly the kitchen feels much quieter. The overhead lights are still buzzing, but without the lenses pointed at you, the air relaxes. You exhale, brushing flour off your hands onto a paper towel.

“That was…” You pause, glancing at the chaos on the counters, the bowls stacked haphazardly, tomato stains splattered across the stove. “…a disaster.”

“An artistic disaster,” Lando corrects, wiping at the flour streak across his cheek with the back of his wrist. He misses completely, leaving the smudge there, and Oscar just sighs.

“Hold still.” Oscar steps closer and, without thinking, reaches up to swipe the flour off. His touch lingers for a second too long, knuckles brushing against Lando’s jaw before he drops his hand back down.

You catch it, the softness in the gesture. The way Lando ducks his head like he’s trying to hide a smile.

“You two are worse than the flour and sauce combined,” you tease, trying to shake the warmth creeping into your chest.

“Don’t lump me in with him,” Oscar says dryly, but his eyes are on you now. “You’re the one who encouraged him.”

“I was supervising!” you protest, but you’re laughing, and that just makes Lando grin wider.

“Yeah, supervising very closely,” Lando adds, wagging his brows. “Especially when you were helping me knead the dough. Very hands-on.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, Lando nudges your shoulder with his. It’s playful, light, but the brush of contact makes you stumble just slightly toward Oscar—who steadies you immediately with a hand at your waist.

It’s instinctive, protective, and when you glance up at him, his gaze is steady and unreadable. “I got you,” he murmurs.

Something flickers in your chest, quick and confusing.

“See?” Lando says after a beat, smirking. “I cause chaos, he saves you. We’re the perfect package.”

Oscar shoots him a look, but there’s no heat behind it. If anything, it feels practiced—like this is a dance they’ve done a hundred times. And somehow, you’ve been pulled right into the middle of it.

“Perfect package, huh?” you say lightly, brushing past both of them to toss your paper towel into the bin. “Not sure I’d go that far.”

Lando gasps dramatically. “Unbelievable. After everything I’ve done today to impress you.”

Oscar just shakes his head, but when you glance back, he’s smiling in that small, almost shy way again. “You’ll come around.”

The crew calls out goodbyes, leaving the three of you alone in the kitchen for a moment longer. It’s quiet, warm, flour dust still lingering in the air. And though nothing has been said outright, the energy between you feels charged, like you’re standing at the edge of something you don’t quite understand yet—but maybe don’t want to step back from.

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You’re sitting cross legged on the small couch, fiddling with the edge of a water bottle label, while Oscar leans against the counter, still in his team kit.

Lando had been whisked away by comms for a last-minute press thing, leaving you and Oscar behind with an awkward stretch of free time. At first, you both tried to fill it with harmless small talk—your impressions of Monza, how quickly the pasta video had already racked up views, whether or not Lando would be unbearable about it later—but eventually the words tapered off.

Now, the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s heavier. Charged.

Oscar glances over at you, his expression soft but searching. “You know,” he says, voice quieter than before, “you’re… surprisingly easy to be around.”

You snort, trying to hide the way your stomach flips at the compliment. “Surprisingly?”

“Yeah,” he says, lips twitching. “I figured someone like you—model, media, all of that—you’d be… intimidating, maybe. Untouchable.” His eyes flicker down briefly before meeting yours again. “But you’re not. You’re…” He trails off, shoulders shifting like he’s not sure how much to say. “…real.”

The word lands heavier than you expect. Your breath catches, and before you can deflect with another joke, Oscar pushes away from the counter and takes the seat next to you on the couch. Close enough that his knee brushes yours. Close enough that you can smell the faint mix of his cologne and the lingering spice of whatever the catering team had for lunch.

You look at him, and for a moment, the world narrows to just this small space—your knees touching, his gaze flicking down to your lips, the way the air feels too thick to breathe.

“Oscar…” you murmur, not even sure what you’re about to say.

He leans in, slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him. His hand hovers, then rests gently on your knee. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver up your spine. He’s so close now that if you shifted forward even an inch, your mouths would brush.

And god, you want to.

But reality slams back into you—Lando, the cameras, the fact that you barely know what any of this is.

You turn your head slightly, just enough that his lips graze your cheek instead of your mouth. The faintest brush of contact, electric and fleeting. Then you pull back, heart pounding.

“I—” Your voice cracks. You swallow and try again. “I’m sorry.”

Oscar blinks, pulling back immediately, guilt flashing across his face. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s not—” You shake your head, words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s not that I didn’t want to. I just… it feels… complicated.”

He studies you for a long moment, his hand still hovering near yours like he wants to take it but doesn’t dare. Then he nods slowly, his usual calm composure slipping back into place. “Yeah. I get it.”

The air between you feels different now—still charged, but fragile. Like you’ve both acknowledged something you can’t quite take back, even if nothing technically happened.

Before either of you can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door and Lando’s voice filters through, loud and teasing. “Oi, you two having a party without me?”

You both jump slightly, exchanging a look that’s equal parts guilty and unspoken promise. Then Oscar stands, running a hand through his hair, and you force a smile before calling back: “Just waiting for the fun to arrive.”

The door opens, and Lando bounces in, grinning. The tension dissipates, hidden neatly beneath practiced smiles. But when you glance at Oscar out of the corner of your eye, the memory of almost-kissing him lingers like static in the air.

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It’s later in the weekend, the day stretched out with sponsor events and press obligations. You’d found yourself tucked away in a quieter corner of the hospitality suite, scrolling absentmindedly on your phone while waiting for the next thing on the schedule. The noise of the paddock is still faintly audible through the walls, but here it’s warm, calm, almost cozy.

Then, like always, Lando shows up without warning—dropping into the seat across from you, spinning it around so he’s straddling it backwards, chin resting on the top of the chair.

“There you are,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “Been looking all over for you.”

You arch a brow, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Pretty sure you have a team of people paid to know exactly where I am.”

“Yeah, but it’s more fun when I find you myself.” His eyes are bright, mischievous, but there’s something else there too, something softer beneath the bravado.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he corrects. Then, leaning forward, he adds, quieter, “And you laugh every time, so I must be doing something right.”

The words hang there for a second too long, and you feel your stomach flip. You should say something light, brush it off—but instead, you just look at him. Really look. The curve of his smile, the crinkle by his eyes, the way he’s studying you like he’s cataloguing every reaction.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Careful,” Lando says softly, and it’s not a joke this time. He shifts the chair slightly closer, close enough that his knee bumps against yours. “You keep staring at me like that and I might get the wrong idea.”

Your pulse skitters. “What idea is that?”

“That you…” He trails off, a rare hesitation in his voice. “…like this as much as I do.”

He’s teasing, yes, but there’s something real underneath. His hand twitches against the back of the chair, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you. You can feel the energy pulling tight between you, electric and impossible to ignore.

“Lando…” you start, but the word comes out softer than you mean, more like a plea than a warning.

“Yeah?” His voice is low now, eyes flicking down to your lips before snapping back up to your gaze. He leans in just slightly, like he’s testing the air, giving you every chance to stop him.

Your breath catches. He’s so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the shampoo from his damp hair. It would take nothing—just a tilt forward, just an inch—for this to tip into something else entirely.

But just like with Oscar, reality presses in. The chaos of the paddock, the fact that you don’t understand what you’re stepping into, that voice in the back of your head screaming too complicated.

You draw back a fraction, just enough to break the spell. “I… can’t.”

The words slice through the air like glass. For a beat, Lando just blinks at you, his smile faltering—but then he covers it, quick, with that easy grin you’ve already learned hides more than it shows.

“Yeah,” he says lightly, leaning back in his chair again, giving you space. “No worries. Timing sucks anyway.” He’s joking, but there’s a flicker of something raw in his eyes before he looks away.

You chew your lip, guilt prickling at you. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is quiet, sincere this time. He glances back at you, that crooked grin softened. “I’d rather you stop me than regret it.”

Before you can reply, someone calls his name from the hall, pulling him back to reality. He stands, pushing the chair back into place, already slipping his mask of easy charm back on.

But as he leaves, he shoots you one last look over his shoulder—playful, yes, but loaded with something unspoken. The same static that had crackled between you and Oscar now hums with him too, leaving you breathless and confused, wondering how you got tangled in the middle of something you can’t quite name.

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

third person pov ;

It’s late. The Monza paddock is winding down, mechanics trickling out, the hum of generators filling the emptying air. Most of the media have gone, and the hospitality suite is quiet except for the faint clatter of dishes being cleaned up in the kitchen.

Lando and Oscar are tucked away in Oscar’s driver’s room, both of them sprawled on the narrow couch, exhaustion pulling at their shoulders. But neither of them is really tired. Not in the way that matters.

There’s a tension between them that hasn’t let up since the weekend started. It’s not new—they’ve been together long enough to recognize the shape of it—but it’s heavier now, humming with an edge that neither of them has dared to put into words.

Finally, Lando breaks the silence.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, tilting his head against the back of the couch to look at Oscar. “Even for you.”

Oscar exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitates. “About her.”

The air tightens instantly. Lando sits up a little straighter, studying him. He’d expected it—he’s not stupid, he’s seen the way Oscar looks at you—but hearing it out loud still makes his chest twist.

“You mean…” Lando says carefully, testing.

Oscar nods, slow. His voice is steady, but softer than usual. “You noticed too.”

It’s not a question.

Lando laughs, but it’s humorless. “Hard not to. The way you look at her, mate? You’ve got it bad.”

There’s no accusation in it, no bite—just truth. And maybe a hint of resignation, because Lando knows he’s not one to talk. He remembers the way you’d looked at him earlier in the week, the way your breath had caught when he leaned too close. He remembers the moment you pulled back, the apology in your eyes.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Oscar says quietly. “I just… when she’s around, it’s different. She makes everything feel good.” He glances over at Lando, searching his face. “But you… you’ve been the same way with her.”

Lando doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Instead, he runs a hand over his jaw, sighing. “Yeah. I have.” His voice drops. “And I feel like an idiot for it, because I already have you. That should be enough.”

Oscar’s throat bobs as he swallows, eyes fixed on the floor. “It is. You are. But—” He breaks off, frustration flickering across his face. “I can’t switch it off. And I don’t think you can either.”

The silence between them is thick, but not with anger. With something else. Something scarier.

Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “So what are we supposed to do? Pretend it’s not happening? Let it eat us alive?”

Oscar shifts closer, his knee brushing Lando’s. “Or we could… not pretend.”

Lando looks up at him, eyes searching. There’s a beat of stillness, the world outside fading until it’s just the two of them in this small, dimly lit room, hearts pounding too loudly in their ears.

“Are you saying…” Lando trails off, but Oscar’s gaze is steady, unwavering.

“I’m saying I don’t want to lose you,” Oscar murmurs. “And I don’t want to lose what this could be either. With her.”

Lando’s chest tightens, the honesty of it hitting him square in the ribs. He reaches out almost without thinking, his hand brushing against Oscar’s. Oscar doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans in.

The kiss is slow at first, careful, like they’re testing the weight of what they’ve just admitted. But then Lando’s hand curls into the fabric of Oscar’s shirt, and Oscar tilts his head to deepen it, and suddenly it’s not careful anymore—it’s raw, desperate, full of all the tension they’ve been holding back.

And then the door creaks open.

You’re standing there, framed by the fluorescent light of the hallway, eyes wide as the scene registers. Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

The world seems to freeze. Lando jerks back, Oscar’s hand still half-clutching his. Both of them look at you with shock written across their faces—shock, and something else. Guilt.

You blink, throat tight, heat rushing up your neck. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Your voice cracks. You don’t finish.

Before either of them can speak, you step back, fumbling for the door handle, and the words tumble out of you like glass shattering. “I’m sorry.”

The door shuts behind you, leaving Lando and Oscar alone again, but now the air is heavier, suffocating. Neither of them moves for a long time, the taste of the kiss still lingering, the image of your face burned into their minds. And for the first time all weekend, neither of them knows what to do.

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

second person pov ;

Your suitcase is half-zipped on the hotel bed, clothes spilling out in messy folds. You’ve been packing and repacking for the past hour, not because you need to but because it’s easier than thinking. Easier than replaying the image of Oscar and Lando kissing in your head over and over again like some cruel loop.

You’d been ready to leave Monza quietly—slip away before morning, bury the weekend under layers of “what ifs” and “almosts.” But a knock at your door stops you cold.

It’s late. Too late for housekeeping. You freeze, suitcase zipper in hand, debating whether to answer. Then the knock comes again, louder this time. And a voice.

“YN?”

Lando. Your stomach twists. You hover for a second, but before you can talk yourself out of it, your feet carry you to the door. You crack it open—and there they are. Both of them.

Lando, shifting nervously on his feet, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. Oscar, calm on the outside but with that tightness around his eyes you’ve come to recognize.

“What are you—” Your voice falters. “Why are you here?”

“Can we come in?” Oscar asks quietly.

You hesitate, then step aside, letting them slip into the room. They look out of place against the neutral hotel décor—bright papaya team jackets against beige wallpaper. The silence that falls is heavy, suffocating.

Finally, Lando blurts out, “We need to explain.”