Stella

It didn’t matter how many times people tried to tell him otherwise. It didn’t matter how often his mother's voice trembled when she told him he had to move on, or how Lando looked at him with that silent, worried expression. The kind that said everything words couldn’t. Oscar would just shake his head and murmur. “She’ll come back. Someday.”

Denial, it seemed, was the only thing that kept him alive. 

It didn’t matter that he had seen your lifeless body himself. It didn’t matter that he had stood there, numb and hollow, as the casket disappeared beneath layers of damp brown earth. It didn’t matter that his flat was so quiet now that he could hear the hum of the refrigerator from the next room.

He kept telling himself you had just… stepped out for a while. That maybe, one day, he’d open the door and find you sitting on the couch again, smiling that shy, tired smile of yours, asking if he’d eaten. 

But his nightmares didn’t care for lies. 

Every night, they came. The same sickening loop of flashes and sounds. The sirens. The phone call. The sterile hospital corridor. He woke up each time with his body trembling, his shirt clinging to his back, his heart hammering as if trying to outrun his thoughts. 

In those dark, breathless moments, his hand always wandered to the other side of the bed. That cold, empty space that used to smell faintly of cinnamon and your shampoo. 

He would let his palm rest there, eyes closed, pretending for a moment that you were still beside him. Pretending that the soft rise and fall of your breathing was still there.

There were nights where he managed to drift back to sleep. Restless, broken and haunted. And then there were nights when he didn’t sleep at all. Those nights were the worst.

They were the nights where you occupied his thoughts more than usual. When panic set in, when he couldn’t remember the pitch of your voice perfectly. When the shape of your smile blurred in his memory, when your laugh sounded just a little too faint in his mind. 

He would close his eyes, forcing himself to remember the softness of your skin against his lips, the way you’d wrinkle your nose when he teased you. The way your fingers traced lazy shapes on his forearm while you talked about nothing and everything. 

Once, he remembered you in the car with him. Both of you laughing as rain splattered against the windscreen. You were wearing his hoodie, too big on you, and you were singing terribly off-key to the radio. He remembered how you’d turned to him mid-chorus, eyes shining, and said, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone someday, you know that?” 

He laughed then. Said something like, “You say that like I’d ever let you leave.” 

He never imagined that memory would hurt to remember. 

Not only were you replaying in his thoughts constantly, everywhere he went, the world kept reminding him of you. 

In every bakery, the smell of cinnamon hit him like a wave. Sharp, sweet and suffocating. You used to love cinnamon rolls, especially the ones from that one tiny café. 

The first time he smelled cinnamon after you were gone, he had to leave the shop before anyone saw the tears welling in his eyes. Now it would happen all the time. Random moments that were small reminders. A perfume that lingered on a stranger. The song you loved playing faintly in a supermarket. Each one chipping on his fragile calm. 

At the track, life went on. 

Lando still joked, still grinned, still teased him. But sometimes, when Oscar was too quiet, the jokes would stop. The laughter around them would dim. 

One morning, between sessions, Lando tossed him a bottle of water. “You alright, mate?” He asked, voice softer than usual. 

Oscar nodded. Too quickly. 

“Yeah. Just tired.” 

Lando didn’t press, but his eyes lingered. Like he was searching for the version of his teammate that used to exist before everything shattered. 

Sometimes, the team would invite him out for dinner. He’d go, smile, pretend. He’d even laugh at a joke or two. But he always left early. Always said he had an early start, though everyone knew he didn’t. 

They stopped asking after a while. 

Climbing in the car felt like torture each time. He forced himself to do it, but his hands trembled inside his gloves. The seat felt too tight, the air too thin. Still he turned his head, hoping, irrationally, to see you standing at the edge of the garage, trying not to be in the way. 

Sometimes, the weight of it all was too much. He’d climb out almost immediately, voice cracking as he murmured, “Guys, I-I need a second. I’m sorry.” 

He never waited for a reply. Just tore off his helmet and walked straight into the empty pit lane, the fresh air hitting him like a slap. His breaths came short and fast. He could hear footsteps behind him, someone calling his name, but all he could think about was you.

How you once told him, “Promise me you’ll never stop loving it. Even when it’s hard.”

He wanted to scream at the memory. 

How was he supposed to love something that made him feel this hollow? How was he supposed to keep doing this when the sound of the engine made him remember everything he’d lost? 

It made him remember the white of the hospital room. The steady, then silent, monitor. The scent of antiseptic and fear. 

Some days, after long days at the track, he’d drive home in silence. No music. No podcast. Just the hum of the engine and the memories swirling around the passenger seat like ghosts. 

He’d park outside his building, stare at the dark windows, and think about calling your number. 

And sometimes, he did. 

He would sit there, phone trembling in his hand, listening to the familiar ring. Once. Twice. Three times. 

Then your voice. Bright. Warm. Recorded years ago.

“Hi. I think you already know who you called, but I’d love for you to leave a message.”

The sound of your voice broke him every single time. 

Tears streamed down his face before he even realized it. And then his voice would escape him. Fragile and raw.

“My love… you know, sometimes I still wake up with things to tell you. Like the flowers our neighbours planted. They’re your favourite. And there’s a new bakery down the street. Smells like cinnamon in there all the time. Sometimes I wonder when it won’t make me sad to smell it. Then I wonder when that day will come. If it ever will.”

He paused then, a shuddering breath echoing in the quiet car. 

“Everyone keeps asking when I’ll move on. When I’ll find someone new. Someone to replace you. But it’s not about that. I don’t want someone else. I just… I want to stop expecting to see you standing in the doorway. I want to stop calling your number just to hear your voice. I want to stop waiting. But I don’t know how.”

His voice cracked. 

“I love you. God, I love you so much.” 

And then he’d sit there, phone still pressed to his ear long after the beep, listening to the silence on the other end. 

Outside, the city kept moving. The world kept spinning. But inside that car, Oscar stayed frozen. Trapped in a moment that would never end. 

Sometimes, Lando would find him in the morning. Eyes red, face drawn, sitting in the garage earlier than everyone else. He never asked any more. Just left a coffee by his side and gave him a quiet pat on the back before walking away. 

Because some grief couldn’t be fixed. Only carried. Carried until it wandered somewhere deep inside a person, until time began to settle over it like dust. Sometimes that happened quickly. And sometimes, it never did. 

But Oscar carried you. Every second, every hour, every cinnamon scented morning since you left. 

Masterlist

For this story I took inspiration from this poem:

I still wake up

with things to

tell you.

One day, I won't.

I will learn placid acceptance.

I will stop panicking when I can't perfectly remember

the pitch of your voice

or the curve of your jawline.

The smell of cinnamon won't

make me sad anymore.

At this point it's not about finding someone

to replace you. I have spread my love

all over the place.

It's about trying to sleep

knowing

I live in a world

that has your hands

in it.

from the book Honeybee by Trista Mateer

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

Somewhere deep inside garages, engines murmur and radios are already tested. People move with clipped urgency, coffee cups clenched tight and credentials swinging like they’re proof of belonging. The air feels sharper here. Like it’s submerged in expectations. 

Oscar stands just outside the flow. His helmet tucked under his arm, sunglasses pushed into his hair, on foot angled forward as if he’s testing the ground before stepping fully into it. It’s a pause so small most people miss it. You don’t. You never do. 

It’s the exact moment where he decides how much of himself he’s going to give away. And when his eyes finally find yours, that decision seems to make itself. 

When he slows, the noise doesn’t disappear, but it dulls, like it’s been pushed a few steps farther back. He reaches for you without looking down, fingers warm and steady as they close around yours. His thumb presses once against your knuckle. Like he is trying to ground you, but also himself. 

“You good?” He asks, voice low. 

You nod. “You?” 

His gaze flicks briefly to the garage. Towards the car, the engineers, the long list that will soon demand him and then back to you. 

“I am now.” 

And that carries him through the day. 

The race is difficult in a quiet way. The way that lingers. 

Nothing breaks. Nothing explodes. That makes it almost worse. It’s the way the car never quite settles, and the track offers no generosity in return. From the garage, you watch Oscar adjust from lap to lap. Whether it’s lifting when others force it or waiting when space refuses to open, he finds patience rather than panic. He drives like someone listening closely. When things don’t align in the way they were supposed to, he doesn’t punish the car for it. He still tries to work with what he has instead of fighting against it. 

It doesn’t bring him headlines, but it brings him home. 

When the chequered flag falls, he finishes somewhere unremarkable on paper. But you know how extraordinary that race was anyway. He removes his helmet slowly, still breathing heavily, hair slightly damp against his forehead, but his face is calm. There’s no flash of anger for the camera. No brittle smile when the interviewer asks him about the race. Just thoughtfulness. 

Later, when the crowds finally start to thin and the sun begins to soften, you find him somewhere behind the garage, sitting on a low barrier, hidden between stacks of tires. He already showered and changed, but his gloves still rest at his feet, elbows on his knees. 

He looks up when you approach, something easing in his expression. 

“Didn’t have much today,” he says. 

You sit beside him, shoulders touching and the concrete still warm beneath you. 

“You stayed with it,” you reply. 

He considers your answer, eyes dropping briefly to the ground. Then he nods. “Yeah.” 

And that realization matters more to him than a position ever could. 

That same evening, the hotel room feels like a reprieve built out of ordinary things. 

Oscar kicks his shoes off by the door, stretching slowly, as if he’s unwinding himself inch by inch. The tension doesn’t leave him all at once, instead it seeps out gradually, like warmth leaves a stone after the sun disappeared. 

In the bathroom, he washes his hands carefully, sleeves rolled up. You sit beside him on the counter, watching the choreography that feels so familiar by now. It reflects him in its own kind of way. The patience and the attention he brings to such a mundane task. 

“You’re quiet,” you say gently. 

He hums. “Thinking.” 

“About the race?” 

“About how I used to think pushing harder was the answer,” he admits. “Like easing off meant disappearing.” 

“And now?” 

He glances at you, a small smile forming. “Now I think knowing when to bend is why I’m still here.” 

Dinner is simple and a little uneven, but it’s perfect in its own way. 

Because it’s slow, and your knees are brushing beneath the table and at some point his hand drifts toward yours, fingers brushing, grounding you in the moment. 

Later, when you are curled up on the bed, his head rests against your shoulder. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, absent-minded and tender. 

“I don’t say this enough,” he murmurs, already half asleep, “but you make things feel survivable.” 

You smile, kissing his hair. “You were always capable. I just remind you.” 

Morning arrives in pale and forgiving light. 

Oscar stirs beside you, rolling closer before he is even fully awake. He kisses your temple, eyes still closed, and murmurs your name like it’s something instinctive. 

You stay tangled together longer than the schedule allows, savouring the quiet. Eventually reality intrudes: flights you have to catch, meetings he has to attend, the constant forward motion of the season. 

He hesitates before leaving for a meeting, pulling you into a hug that lingers. Not desperate. Just present. 

He knows you’ll have to leave and fly back home without him, but in that moments he’d rather you stay and wait for him. 

“I’ll call tonight,” he says. 

“I know.” 

You always do. 

Distance stretches the season thin. Time zones become obstacles you learn to navigate together. Some nights, you fall asleep to voice notes from him. His voice is softer than usual, fatigue rounding the edges of his words. He tells you about the track, the feel of the car and the sky before sunset. 

He sents photos of quiet things. A hotel room dipped in morning light. An empty stretch of asphalt, because he is awake before the city wakes up. The cat that crossed his path on his morning run. 

Proof that even far away, he remains himself. 

“I miss you,” he says one night, like the words slipped free before he could stop them. 

You close your eyes. “I miss you too.” 

The longing doesn’t make him frantic. On the contrary, it makes him careful. 

Mid-season comes with its own kind of weight. 

A race ends early, too early. It’s not his fault, not really, but the disappointment still follows him into the hotel room. Heavy on his shoulders. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. 

You sit beside him. 

“I did everything right,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I know.” 

“I don’t want this to harden me.” 

You turn toward him, pressing your forehead to his. “It won’t. You don’t survive by closing off.” 

He exhales, tension loosening in increments. He leans into you, allowing himself to be held without explanation. 

That nights, he sleeps deeper than usual. Like he finally let his guard down. 

The next time he comes home, it’s late. 

The apartment is dark when the door shut softly behind him. He leaves his bag and shoes by the door and his shoulder drop immediately. As if he was finally released from the weight of expectations. 

You’re awake. 

When he steps into the bedroom and sees you sitting up against the pillows, something in him visibly eases. 

“Hey,” he says quietly. 

You smile. “Hi.” 

He crosses the room slowly, like he’s afraid of startling the moment away. He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand finding your knee instinctively. Thumb starting to trace slow arcs immediately. 

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. 

Then he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. 

“I missed you,” he says simply. 

You close your eyes. “I know.” 

He kisses you slowly. His hands move to your waist, but there’s no urgency or rush in his movements, just presence. One hand slides to your jaw, thumb warm against your skin, like he’s memorizing you again. 

When he pulls back, it’s only to rest his forehead against yours once more. 

“You feel real,” he murmurs. 

You laugh softly. “I am.” 

“I know,” he says. “But sometimes everything blurs when I’m gone. And then I come back, and you’re here. Solid.” 

You pull him closer, legs tangling, and he exhales like he’s finally arrived. His touch is reverent and still so unhurried, like he understands the weight of moments that don’t last forever. 

When you rest your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, he presses a kiss to your hair. 

“This is my favourite part,” he whispers. 

“The part where you come home?” 

“The part where nothing else needs me.” 

You smile. “Then stay.” 

He tightens his hold just slightly. “I am.” 

The season turns. 

Not abruptly, not dramatically, but steadily. Results improve and with that confidence settles back in his bones, that leave him the kind of quiet reassurance that doesn’t demand attention. 

After one clean, satisfying race, he finds you in the paddock and pulls you into his arms, forehead resting against yours. 

“I’m still here,” he says, like it matters. It does. It always does. 

You smile. “You always are.” 

Later, when it’s just the two of you, his kisses are slow and full of intention, like he’s honouring something fleeting and precious rather than trying to keep it forever. 

At the end of the season, you sit side by side, watching the light fade over an empty circuit. 

Oscar is quiet for a long time. 

“I think I grew this year,” he says eventually. “Even when it was hard.” 

You lean into him, head on his shoulder. “Especially then.” 

He wraps an arm around you. Not tight, but just enough for you to feel his closeness. 

And at that moment you know, that he doesn’t need perfect conditions or permission or permanence to matter. 

Because he stays no matter what. He always bends but never breaks, and he always returns. 

And you love him, not because he stands untouched by pressure, but because every time the world puts pressure on his shoulders, he chooses to endure it with gentleness and comes back to you exactly as he is. 

A/N: The season that is described here is fully imagined.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

It’s just that you’ve never liked being told when something is supposed to matter.

You don’t like that affection suddenly becomes scheduled, that restaurants become battlegrounds for reservations, that love feels louder on one specific date than it does on the quiet, ordinary Tuesdays when it actually lives. You prefer the small things: coffee handed to you exactly how you like it without asking, fingers laced together in the car, the way Max rests his hand on your waist without even looking.

You assume he feels the same.

Max has never been performative. He doesn’t post long captions or stage surprises for cameras. If he does something, it’s deliberate and private. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t waste gestures either.

So when you ask one evening, trying to keep your voice light and as casual as possible: “So… are you doing anything on the 14th?”. You don’t exactly expect the shift.

He’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, phone in one hand. He looks up at you, and there’s the smallest pause before he answers.

“No. Why?”

It’s barely noticeable. A fraction of a second. But you know him.

That pause settles somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

Oh.

He’s thinking about it and he’s definitely planning something.

Maybe he was waiting to see if you’d bring it up. Maybe it matters to him more than he lets on. Maybe you’ve misread this entire time.

You shrug like it’s nothing.

“Just checking.”

He nods once, and the conversation moves on, but it doesn’t really move on. It lingers. It reshapes itself into assumptions.

Because what he hears is something different.

He hears: She expects something.

And Max has never been good at guessing expectations, so when he thinks there is one, he locks onto it with the same intensity he brings to everything else.

Neither of you clarifies.

And that’s where it starts.

The Week before

You don’t talk about it again, but suddenly it exists between you in a quiet, invisible way.

You catch yourself thinking about it while scrolling through restaurant options you already know you’ll hate. Candlelit tables with limited menu and too much couples around you. The exact kind of place you’d normally avoid. Still, you book one. The confirmation email lands in your inbox and makes you feel strangely nervous.

You tell yourself it’s important to him.

Maybe he doesn’t show it, but maybe he wants one night that feels deliberate. Maybe he’d be disappointed if you brushed it off. Maybe you’ve been too casual about something that matters more than you realized.

So you order a gift that feels thoughtful but not overwhelming. You buy a dress that’s softer than your usual style. You rehearse, in your head, what the night is supposed to look like.

Meanwhile, Max is doing the exact same thing in his own quiet, methodical way.

He calls ahead to confirm reservations at a place he knows you wouldn’t normally choose, because he assumes that’s the point. He buys flowers, which he almost never does, because that feels like the expected move. He stands in a store longer than he’d like, staring at something small and understated that he thinks you’d wear, telling himself that if he’s going to do this, he’ll do it properly.

He doesn’t complain about it. He doesn’t question it.

He just commits.

Because if you care, he cares.

February 14th

When he knocks on your door, he’s holding a bouquet that looks slightly too red to be natural.

You open the door and immediately clock everything at once.

The flowers. The way he’s dressed just a little more put together than usual. The fact that he looks almost… tense.

He clocks you too.

The dress. The effort. The way you’re trying to look relaxed and not overthink it.

“For you,” he says, holding out the flowers in a way that’s careful but not overly soft.

“They’re beautiful,” you reply, and you mean it, even if your stomach tightens slightly.

You both look like you’re about to attend something formal, something structured. Something neither of you actually likes.

The drive is quieter than usual, not in a bad way, just in a concentrated one. Max focuses on the road like he does before a start, very composed and controlled. You glance at him once or twice, wondering if you’re overthinking everything.

You reach over eventually and rest your hand on his thigh, grounding yourself. He covers it with his own without looking away from the road.

That part feels normal.

That part feels like you.

The moment you walk into the restaurant, you both know.

It’s worse than expected.

Pink candles line every surface. Rose petals are scattered across white tablecloths like someone lost control of a florist. A violinist plays something slow and cinematic in the corner. The hostess beams at you with an enthusiasm that feels aggressive.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“You too,” you both answer in identical, neutral tones.

The table is small, intimate in a way that feels forced. There’s a single candle between you, flickering dramatically. The air smells like perfume and champagne and something overly sweet.

Max pulls your chair out, and you thank him. He sits across from you, posture straight, jaw slightly tight.

You both try.

You really do.

You make polite conversation. You ask about his day. He asks about yours. You comment on the ambiance in a way that avoids being sarcastic.

But you notice the way he stares at the menu like it’s a strategic puzzle. He notices the way you keep adjusting your napkin, smoothing it over your lap.

The waiter approaches with a smile that suggests this is his favorite night of the year.

“And what are we celebrating tonight?”

There’s a fraction of hesitation.

“Valentine’s,” you both say at the same time.

It sounds rehearsed. Obligatory. Because it is.

The waiter nods approvingly and moves on.

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time.

Max looks at the heart-shaped appetizer placed in front of you, then at you.

“You hate this, don’t you?” he asks, finally.

The question lands softly, but it splits everything open.

You blink. “…You don’t?”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “I thought you liked it.”

“I thought you did.”

The realization spreads slowly across his face, mirrored by the same one on yours.

“I booked this because I thought you’d be disappointed if I didn’t,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

“I bought the flowers because I thought you expected it,” he replies immediately.

There’s no accusation in his tone. Just clarity.

You stare at each other across the candlelight, and the whole evening suddenly feels absurd.

“I don’t care about the day,” he says after a moment, leaning back slightly. “I care about you. The date doesn’t change that.”

You feel something in your chest loosen.

“I don’t like being told when I’m supposed to do something romantic,” he continues. “If I do something, it’s because I want to. Not because it’s February.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I thought if we didn’t do something, you’d think I didn’t care.”

His eyebrows pull together slightly. “You think that’s how I measure that?”

The answer is obvious. Of course not.

You both sit there for a moment, the violin swelling unnecessarily behind you.

“We could leave,” he says.

There’s no hesitation this time.

“Yes,” you reply immediately.

You leave before dessert.

The hostess looks faintly scandalized, but neither of you slow down. The cold air outside hits your skin and feels like relief. No candles. No expectations. No music trying to narrate your feelings.

You both exhale at the same time, and this time, you laugh.

Not polite laughter. Not controlled.

Real laughter.

“I can’t believe we did that,” you say, shaking your head.

“I can’t believe we both thought the other one liked it,” he replies, almost as if he doesn’t believe it..

In the car, the tension is gone. He reaches over and laces his fingers through yours, grounding you in that familiar way.

“I don’t hate Valentine’s,” he says after a while, eyes still on the road.

You glance at him.

“I hate pretending,” he clarifies.

That makes sense. It fits him perfectly.

You squeeze his hand. “Me too.”

Back at his place, you both change into comfortable clothes, the kind you actually live in. You order takeout that arrives in paper bags instead of silver trays. You sit on the couch, knees touching, plates balanced carelessly.

There are no candles.

No speeches.

No schedule.

At some point, you lean into him, and he wraps an arm around you automatically, like he always does. His thumb traces slow circles against your side, absentminded and grounding.

“I was worried you’d think I wasn’t doing enough,” he admits quietly, almost like it surprises him to say it out loud.

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You always do enough.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but his arm tightens slightly around you, like that’s answer enough.

Midnight passes unnoticed.

There’s no dramatic kiss or grand declaration.

It’s just the two of you, comfortable and close.

And for the first time all evening, nothing feels staged.

It just feels like the real version you.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

What exists between you is quieter than that. It’s a steady, low-level irritation that has survived multiple race weekends, media days, and interviews without ever properly combusting. It’s death by a thousand micro-expressions. It’s the way he phrases things too carefully. It’s the way you respond too sharply. It’s the way neither of you ever corrects the other’s assumptions.

The media calls it rivalry. You call it exhausting.

Which is why it feels cosmically unfair that on Valentine’s Day, a day already designed to test your patience, you step into an elevator at the exact same time as him.

The hotel is aggressively romantic. Massive floral installations everywhere. Somewhere in the lobby, the speaker are playing something slow and swelling.

You’re already regretting agreeing to this dinner. It isn’t even a good date. It’s just convenient. Someone you said yes to because saying no felt more awkward.

The elevator doors begin to slide shut but a hand slips through at the last second.

Of course.

Oscar steps in, composed as always, dressed sharply in a dark jacket that fits him irritatingly well. He gives you a polite nod.

“Evening.”

You decide staring at the numbers lighting up above the door is safer than looking at him.

“Unfortunately.”

He exhales softly, not annoyed exactly, just registering your words.

The elevator hums upward. Steady like it’s supposed to and then it lurches. Once, twice and then it stops.

The lights flicker violently before settling into a dim emergency glow.

He presses the button for your floor again. Nothing happens. He presses another. Nothing again.

Then the elevator gives a soft mechanical groan and goes completely still.

You let out a short laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Oscar immediately moves into problem-solving mode, pressing the emergency intercom button. There’s static, then a click, and instead of a human voice, hold music bursts through the speaker.

It’s instrumental and romantic and very violin-heavy.

You stare at the ceiling. “Of course it is.”

He presses the button again but the music continues.

There’s a long pause where neither of you speaks.

Then, calmly, “It’s temporary,” he says. “Mechanical delays happen.”

“You say that like you personally inspected the wiring.”

He glances at you. “You say that like panicking will help.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You sound like you are.”

You cross your arms.

The elevator remains still.

Minutes pass and slowly the air starts to feel smaller.

You check your phone. Of course it has no signal.

He checks his.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Fantastic.”

You press your back against the wall, refusing to acknowledge the slow, creeping discomfort building in your chest. It’s not claustrophobia exactly, more like the principle of being stuck in such a small space with a person you normally try to keep your distance with.

Oscar watches you for a moment.

“You can sit,” he says finally.

“I’m fine.”

“It conserves energy.”

“It’s an elevator, not a lifeboat.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes. He never rolls his eyes. He just gives you that measured look that somehow feels worse.

At some point the music loops. You both groan at the exact same time.

That’s when you notice the mirrored ceiling. Your reflections stare back down at you, slightly distorted, trapped together in a box.

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“It’s an inconvenience.”

“You’re impossible.”

He considers that. “Likewise.”

Another lurch.

Nothing changes.

After ten minutes of standing out of pure stubbornness, your legs start to ache. You slide down the wall to sit on the floor, deliberately looking away from him.

He hesitates for a second, then sits too.

Not across from you.

Next to you. Close enough that your shoulders are almost touching.

You both freeze for half a second at the proximity.

The hold music swells again.

You huff a laugh.

“This is absurd.”

“Yes.”

“You had somewhere to be?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Important?”

“Define important.”

He glances sideways at you.

You sigh. “Dinner.”

He nods once. “Same.”

You picture his date. Polished and calm. Probably perfectly aligned with him in a way you’ve never managed to be.

“Romantic?” you ask lightly.

He considers that.

“Scheduled,” he replies.

You almost smile.

His phone buzzes suddenly, catching one bar of signal.

He looks at the screen.

“Battery at five percent.”

“Better text them.”

He types quickly. Sends. The screen goes black.

Silence settles again.

The lights flicker and without thinking, you grab his forearm.

You both freeze.

Your hand remains there a second too long before you pull it back.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“It’s fine.”

His voice is steady, but his jaw tightens slightly.

The air feels warmer now, somehow closer.

And you feel something else shifts. Not in the elevator, but between you.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” you say suddenly, staring at the opposite wall.

It slips out before you can stop it.

He goes very still beside you.

“That’s not true.”

“You correct me constantly.”

“You interrupt me constantly.”

“That’s because you—”

He turns slightly toward you. “Because I what?”

You exhale sharply. “Because I thought you didn’t take me seriously.”

The words hang there. He doesn’t respond immediately, and that silence feels heavier than any argument you’ve had.

“I take you very seriously,” he says finally. “More than most.”

You look at him.

He’s not joking.

Not deflecting.

Just stating it plainly.

“I push because you push,” he continues. “I assumed that’s what you wanted.”

You blink. You did do that. You just never realized he saw it that way too.

The elevator creaks faintly. But neither of you look at the doors anymore.

Then, you start talking.

About the comparisons. About the headlines. About how exhausting it is being framed as opposites when you’re both just… competitive. Driven and maybe a bit too stubborn.

About how easy it became to assume the worst.

At some point, your knees brush.

Neither of you move away and slowly the music starts to fade into background noise.

The air feels less suffocating now and when the lights flicker again, you don’t pull your hand back as quickly.

His thumb shifts slightly against your wrist. Careful, like he’s testing unknown territory. This time you don’t stop him.

By the time the elevator jerks back to life, both of you blink like you’ve been woken from something deeper than inconvenience.

The doors finally slide open and the hallway outside stretches with flowers and hearts.

Your phones buzz. Multiple missed calls and messages. Your dates are long gone.

You stand slowly, but neither of you steps forward.

Oscar clears his throat. “I think,” he says carefully, “this was supposed to be a disaster.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“And?”

“And I don’t want it to end like one.”

The honesty in his voice hits harder than you expect.

The absurdity of it all, the elevator, the music, the mirrored ceiling, fades into the background.

You glance down the hallway. Then back at him.

“Well,” you say lightly, though your heart is doing something distinctly not light, “we’re already dressed.”

He nods once. “Yes.”

You step out together.

Not enemies. Not exactly friends either. But something far more precarious.

And when his hand finds yours again, not accidental this time, neither of you pretend not to notice.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

You have both declined Valentine’s sponsor activations. You have both ignored suggestive captions drafted by PR teams. You have both, very deliberately, treated February 14th like any other day on the calendar.

You are not heartbroken.

You are not bitter.

You simply dislike being told that affection must happen on command.

Which is precisely why being seated together at the end of a long, elaborately decorated dinner table beneath a glitter banner feels like targeted psychological warfare.

The moment you walk into the private dining room, you register the damage immediately.

Pink candles scattered across every free surface. Rose petals decorating white linen. A champagne tower catching the light like it’s part of a proposal. A Polaroid photo station in the corner with a glittery backdrop and heart-shaped props.

Max steps in seconds after you and your eyes meet across the room almost immediately.

There is no greeting or smile. Just shared recognition and the exact same thought of: “This is absolutely unbearable.”

The host beams at you both. “You made it! See? It’s just dinner.” It is not just dinner because just dinner wouldn’t include a seating chart.

Couples sit paired neatly along the long table, fingers already intertwined, knees angled toward each other like they’ve rehearsed the posture.

And at the very end stand two empty chair. Which you presume or for you and Max.

While you just stare at the chairs like they are insulting you by just existing, Max exhales through his nose, slow and sharp. “Unbelievable.”

You sit without comment, smoothing your napkin over your lap, trying very hard to stay calm.

“This is humiliation,” you say evenly.

He nods once, agreeing. “Targeted humiliation.”

While the first course is served, conversation rises around the table in gentle waves. Couples share anecdotes about how they met, how long they’ve been together, who planned what surprise.

You and Max on the other hand, sit slightly angled away from the rest of the table, mostly observing.

Someone starts the playlist. A mix of slow, acoustic covers start to weave through the room. Most of them sounding too romantic when they are slowed down.

Max tilts his head subtly. “Is this really necessary?”

You glance toward the speaker. “If someone proposes, I’m leaving.”

“If someone slow dances,” he replies calmly, “I’m coming with you”

You don’t smile but the corner of your mouth twitches suspiciously.

Appetizers arrive in beautiful arrangements and even the butter is sculpted into something that resembles a heart.

You lean closer, voice low. “That’s aggressive.”

“It’s unnecessary,” he replies dryly.

Across the table, someone reaches across to wipe sauce from their partner’s mouth. You both look away at the exact same time, noses wrinkled in disgust.

Halfway through the second course, the host stands and claps lightly.

“Okay! Couples game!” You and Max go both completely still.

The rules are explained with far too much enthusiasm. “And our singles,” the host adds brightly, gesturing toward you both, “can observe and take notes.”

“We’re not participating,” you and Max say simultaneously.

Someone, slightly tipsy already, grins. “You two should just date already.”

Silence falls faster than anyone expects. You roll your eyes instinctively, but Max doesn’t. Instead, his jaw tightens.

“No,” he says flatly.

Not joking or amused. Just firm.

The conversation stumbles forward again, but something subtle shifts. So subtle that only you can feel it.

Later, during a particularly intimate exchange about love languages, someone across the table laughs and says, “She’s too intense to date anyway.”

You’re about to respond something sharp and dismissive like you always do, but Max beats you to it.

“She’s not.” His voice isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s certain, like he knows you inside out.

The table moves on quickly, distracted by wine and stories and slowly escalating sentimentality.

But you don’t. You feel his words slowly settle in your chest. How certain he sounded.

The room grows louder as glasses refill and voices rise. The air feels thicker, scented heavily with a mix of different perfumes and something overly sweet.

You both lean back in your chairs at the exact same time.

“This is exhausting,” you say.

“Yes,” he replies.

Your eyes meet. And this time, you smile.

Not your usual sarcastic one and not the performative one you’ve been wearing all evening either.

Just relieved. Because no matter how horrible it is, at least you are not alone in this.

The host announces a slow dance portion “just for fun!”, and someone knocks over a glass of wine. There’s laughter, mild chaos, someone arguing playfully about anniversary dates.

The room feels smaller and Max shifts slightly closer.

“Want to leave?” he asks quietly.

It isn’t romantic in any way, more like he knows you are just as fed up about the evening as you.

You nod once and you both slip out of the room without offering an excuse or announcing your exit.

Even when you grab your coat nobody says anything.

The hallway outside is quiet and cool.

When the front door finally closes behind you and the cold night air hits your skin, you both exhale at the same time.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Streetlights glow softly against the pavement. The world feels real again.

“Well,” Max says dryly, hands in his coat pockets, “that was a nightmare.”

You laugh. Real laughter. Uncontrolled and light.

“I don’t hate Valentine’s,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now that there’s no audience.

You glance at him.

“I hate just pretending.” The honesty in his voice is simple, stripped of irony.

You nod slowly. “I don’t hate relationships. I hate the expectation that they have to be… staged.”

“If I do something,” he says carefully, “it’s because I want to. Not because someone circled a date.”

You understand that immediately. Because that’s how he operates in everything.

He slows his steps.

“If I was going to do something,” he continues, more measured now, “it wouldn’t look like that.”

You swallow.

“Good thing it’s almost midnight,” you reply lightly.

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah.”

But neither of you turn away.

Instead, you keep walking. Side by side. Steady footsteps echoing faintly through the night.

And somehow, that feels far more intimate than anything that happened inside.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

He doesn’t announce it dramatically. He arrives at the conclusion slowly, like he’s analyzing race data.

“It’s statistically significant,” he tells you on February 10th, pacing while you’re seated on the couch. “Three consecutive incidents.”

“You ate questionable seafood,” you reply calmly. “You made a sarcastic joke. You overslept.”

He narrows his eyes. “That’s what it wants you to think.”

You laugh. Which is, in hindsight, your first mistake.

Because from that moment forward, he treats Valentine’s Day like a strategic mission that is designed to neutralize some kind of supernatural forces.

He drafts what he calls a “Controlled Variables Plan” and from how big your name is priced on it you are apparently central to it.

“You cannot leave my side for more than ten minutes between 10 a.m. and midnight,” he informs you seriously.

“That sounds illegal.”

“It’s preventative.”

The entire day he refuses to step on cracks in the pavement. He inspects the restaurant chairs at least three times before sitting and he changes dinner reservations twice to “optimize probability.”

At one point, he presents you with a printed document.

“I need you to sign this.”

You stare at it.

It’s a mock contract stating that you agree not to abandon him during what he calls “Peak Curse Hours.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say.

“It’s legally binding,” he insists. Of course you sign it with exaggerated flourish and a sigh.

Beneath the humor, though, you notice something. He stays close. So much closer than usual. You feel it in the way he loops an arm around your shoulders absentmindedly. You notice that he checks if you’re still there when you step into another room. He keeps your hand in his like it’s part of the contract.

It tells you that not all is about superstition. At least not entirely.

“Why does this bother you so much?” you ask gently at one point, when he’s double-checking a reservation confirmation.

He shrugs. “It’s just… pattern recognition.”

“Lando.”

He hesitates.

For a second, the humor drops.

“I don’t want it to go badly again,” he says quietly.

“Why?”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Because the last three times, I ended up alone by midnight.” The admission is softer than you expect.

Suddenly the superstition makes sense. Because it isn’t about cursed dates.

It’s about not wanting a repeat of disappointment.

Once you realize you play along more intentionally.

You let him optimize the walking route. You sit exactly where he tells you. You mock-salute when he announces that 6 p.m. has passed without incident.

The day unfolds without catastrophe. There’s no food poisoning, no scandal, no chaos.

At 11:58 p.m., you’re sitting on his couch, your legs tangled together, a movie half-finished because neither of you are really watching it.

He checks the clock.

“Two minutes,” he says.

You squeeze his hand and then midnight passes quietly. Nothing explodes. No headlines illuminate his screen. No disasters unfold.

He exhales dramatically, like he’s just crossed a finish line.

“Curse broken,” he declares.

You tilt your head. “Maybe it was never the date.”

He looks at you.

“Maybe,” you continue gently, “you just didn’t want to be alone.”

He doesn’t joke this time. Doesn’t deflect like he usually does.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Maybe.”

The room feels softer now. Less charged.

He laces his fingers through yours more deliberately.

“Thanks for staying,” he says.

You smile faintly. “It’s in the contract.”

He laughs, but this time it’s quieter. Like relief finally washes over him.

And when he doesn’t let go of your hand long after midnight has passed, you realize the curse was never about February 14th.

It was always about having someone there when the clock changed.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.