neffie

You’d been to film festivals, press tours, and the occasional charity gala that felt more like a networking event than anything charitable. But a Formula 1 race? That was new territory.

The only reason you were here at all was because the studio behind your new film had a sponsorship deal with one of the teams. Your publicist had sold it to you as “an easy day, just take a few photos and maybe post a story about how much fun you’re having.”

The paddock, it turned out, was not an  “easy” experience. It was pandemonium.

People zipped past with equipment, journalists called out questions to drivers, and the constant whine of engines in the background made your head throb. You were still trying to get your bearings when it happened.

One second, you were walking toward the hospitality suite, sunglasses perched on your nose, mind already drifting to your next coffee. Next, a blur of red and white came hurtling around the corner on a scooter.

You froze.

The scooter swerved sharply, missing you by inches. Your heart lurched into your throat, and you stumbled a step back. The rider braked hard, and his eyes went wide.

“Oh no, merde, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, breathless. His accent was unmistakably French—or something close.

Your pulse was still racing. “You almost hit me!”

“I know, I—” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly panicked. “I wasn’t looking properly. I am so sorry, I have to be somewhere right now, the national anthem—”

You stared at him, still too stunned to respond. He looked genuinely rattled.

“Please believe me, I didn’t mean to. I’m really, really sorry,” he said again, almost tripping over his own words. “I will apologise properly later, I promise.”

And just like that, he was gone, scooter disappearing into the sea of people.

You huffed out a breath, muttering to yourself. “Great. Love almost getting taken out at a work event.”

You’d been left standing there, muttering under your breath about reckless drivers and the PR nightmare you’d narrowly avoided.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the race was over and you’d wandered back into the hospitality area, that you saw him again—this time standing on the podium, champagne bottle in hand, grinning down at the crowd.

The commentator’s voice rang out over the speakers. “And taking third place today, Ferrari’s Charles Leclerc!”

Your jaw had dropped. The guy who almost ran you over was one of the sport’s most famous drivers.

Then you heard your name.

You turned and saw the scooter guy—only now he was in his race suit, hair damp from champagne, still wearing that slightly flustered expression you remembered.

“Hi,” he said, a little out of breath as he jogged up to you. “Sorry, I… I had to find you before you left.”

You blinked, trying to process. “You’re… one of the drivers?”

“Yes,” he admitted, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. “Charles. Charles Leclerc.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t believe I almost ran over my favorite actress today.”

Your eyes widened. “Your favorite…?”

“Yes.” His gaze softened. “I’ve watched every one of your films. You were incredible in The Glass Garden.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it. “Oh. Wow. That’s… very kind of you. And it’s fine, really. No harm done.”

“It’s not fine,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “You came here to promote your movie, and I nearly sent you back with a broken leg. The least I can do is make it up to you. Let me take you to dinner.”

You hesitated, caught off guard by how sincere he sounded. “That’s really not necessary—”

“It is,” he insisted, smiling now. “Please. One dinner. I promise I won’t show up on a scooter.”

Against your better judgment, you found yourself laughing. “Okay. Dinner.”

That dinner turned into another, then another. And soon enough, it became a quiet thing between the two of you—text messages between your filming schedule and his races, late-night calls from hotel rooms on opposite sides of the world, and weekends spent together whenever your calendars miraculously aligned.

A year later, here you were.

Your relationship was still a secret, partly because you liked keeping something just for yourselves, and partly because you’d seen the kind of strange, invasive attention Charles’s relationships always attracted. Tonight, you were both at the Oscars—him as a guest of a luxury watch brand, you as a nominee for Best Actress—but you’d arrived separately and barely exchanged more than a smile across the room.

The ceremony felt endless. Your category was near the end, and you’d spent the last twenty minutes trying not to chew your lip in half. When they finally announced your name as the winner, it felt unreal.

You walked to the stage on legs that didn’t feel like yours, clutching the gold statuette like it might vanish if you loosened your grip.

“Wow,” you began, voice trembling just enough to make you laugh softly. “I had something prepared, but… I can’t remember any of it now.” The crowd chuckled with you.

You took a breath. “Thank you to the Academy for this incredible honor. To my amazing team—my manager, my publicist, my stylist—you’ve kept me grounded through so much chaos. To the directors and writers who trusted me with their stories, thank you for believing in me before I did.

“To my friends, my chosen family, who’ve been my safe place when I needed it most—I love you more than I can say. To my castmates, this was a shared journey. You made me better every single day on set.

“This isn’t just a career milestone for me. It’s a reminder that even the dreams that seem completely out of reach are worth chasing. Thank you for letting me live mine.”

Your voice softened. “And to my team again—you’ve carried me through the highest highs and the lowest lows. I wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you.”

When you walked off stage, you kept your smile in place for the cameras. But in the wings, hidden from view, Charles was there.

“You were perfect,” he said softly, pulling you into his arms before you could even reply. His scent—clean cologne with a trace of champagne from earlier—wrapped around you. “I’m so proud of you.”

Your throat tightened. “You were watching?”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. “I love you.”

It was simple, said like a fact he’d known forever. You smiled through the tears threatening to spill. “I love you too.”

Later, you skipped the industry afterparties and let Charles drive you to a quiet rooftop bar where the city glittered below. You traded your heels for his oversized hoodie, your Oscar sitting on the table between empty glasses of champagne.

It wasn’t the glamorous ending anyone else would have expected. But sitting there, his hand warm over yours, his eyes soft every time he looked at you, it felt like the perfect one.

The next morning, you woke to the sharp, insistent buzz of your phone against the nightstand. At first, you thought it was an alarm you’d forgotten to turn off, but when you rolled over and cracked an eye open, you saw the screen lit up with dozens of notifications—missed calls, text messages, and alerts from every app you had.

Your publicist’s name flashed at the top of the incoming call.

You groaned, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “It’s—” you checked the clock “—seven in the morning. Why are you calling me?”

“Have you looked online yet?” she asked, skipping straight over hello. Her voice had that tight, clipped edge it got when something was wrong.

You sat up, suddenly more awake. “No. What happened?”

“Check your email. And maybe don’t read the comments section.”

That was never a good sign. Heart thudding, you opened the email she’d sent. A link to a tabloid site stared back at you, with the headline blaring in all caps

“UNGRATEFUL DAUGHTER: OSCAR WINNER SNUBS PARENTS IN WINNING SPEECH”

You scrolled, eyes darting over the first few lines.

Last night, she made history by taking home the Oscar for Best Actress. While her performance was universally praised, her acceptance speech raised eyebrows for what she didn’t say. The star thanked her management team, friends, and co-stars, but made no mention of her parents—the very people who helped her rise to the top. Her father worked as her manager for over a decade, securing career-defining roles and negotiating multi-million-dollar deals. He reportedly sacrificed his own financial stability to fund her early auditions and training. In return, sources claim, she “coldly” fired him last year in favor of a Hollywood powerhouse agency. Her mother, a former actress who stepped away from her own rising career to raise her daughter, has also been cut out of her life. Friends of the family say they haven’t spoken in nearly a year, describing her as “fame-obsessed” and “too embarrassed to be associated with her small-town roots.” “She’s forgotten where she came from,” one source alleges. “She’s always been a selfish girl. It’s always been about the spotlight for her.”

Then came the embedded social media reactions

user: I used to like her but this just screams ungrateful. user: The way she’s acting like she made it all on her own is insane. user: No parent is perfect but you don’t get to erase them after they gave you everything. user: Pretty sure her parents have been telling people for months that she cut them off because she thinks they’re “too small-town” for her brand. user: Imagine your dad sacrifices everything and you can’t even say thank you on the biggest night of your career. user: Or maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason she didn’t thank them? We don’t know the whole story. user: Not a good look. Her PR team needs to fix this fast. user: People are quick to judge. We don’t know what she’s been through. user: I’ve been a fan since her debut film and I still am. Let’s not pile on without facts.

You kept scrolling. The more you read, the tighter your chest became. Your hands were trembling by the time you reached the end.

“Babe?” Charles’s voice was groggy, muffled by the pillow. You didn’t look up, your eyes fixed on the screen.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. “Why are you up so early?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t trust your voice.

Charles sat up fully, his brow furrowing when he saw your expression—your lips pressed together, eyes shiny with unshed tears. Before you could turn the phone away, he reached over and plucked it from your hands.

“Hey—”

But he was already reading. His jaw tightened almost immediately.

“Ungrateful daughter?” His voice was sharp now, fully awake. “What the fuck is this?”

You blinked, and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks. “It’s everywhere.”

He scrolled, his expression darkening with each sentence. “Your parents. They had to have been behind this. Who else would give them this crap? ‘Sources close to the family’? My ass.”

“Charles—”

“No, I mean it.” His voice rose, anger simmering. “This is disgusting. They couldn’t let you enjoy your win for one single day? Not even twenty-four hours? They have to drag you through the mud now? Incredible.”

You swiped at your cheeks, but the tears kept coming. “Yesterday was supposed to be happy. I won the Oscar, Charles. I actually won. And they… they couldn’t even let me have that.” Your voice cracked. “They couldn’t let me have one good day.”

The fight left his face in an instant. He set the phone on the nightstand and pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he could shield you from the whole world.

“They’re not going to take this from you,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “You earned that win. You worked for it. This is just noise. I promise you, we’ll take care of it.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his warmth, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

“Today’s still your day,” he whispered. “They don’t get to change that. You’ll be okay, love. I'll make sure of it”

A/N: Thank you, anon, for inspiring my new series. Sorry for being MIA for so long, guys. I promise I'll try to be better 😔

You show up on Oscar’s doorstep with a suitcase, dark circles under your eyes, and a heart that feels like it’s been run over by a truck.

He takes one look at you, steps aside, and says, "You look like hell."

"Thanks," you deadpan as you shove past him, dropping your bag on his couch. "I just dumped my boyfriend so."

Oscar shuts the door behind you. "His loss."

You flop onto his couch. "You don’t even know what happened."

"Don’t need to." He tosses you a bag of chips from the coffee table. "Anyone dumb enough to let you go doesn’t deserve you anyway."

You roll your eyes but can’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. Maybe it was a good decision to move in with this douchebag.

Oscar doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need them.

He already knows the basics—that your ex was an idiot, that he cheated, that you’d spent two years thinking he was the love of your life before finding out he couldn’t even be bothered to stay faithful.

So instead of prying, Oscar does what he’s always done: he adapts and just runs with it.

He remembers how you take your coffee (too much sugar, barely any coffee). He leaves the bathroom light on when he knows you’re getting home late. And he pretends not to notice when his hoodies go missing, ignoring the way they always mysteriously appear in your closet.

Living with him is exactly as chaotic as you remember from childhood sleepovers—except now, instead of fighting over who gets the last Oreo, you fight over who left the milk out overnight.

"You did it," you accuse, pointing at the offending carton on the counter.

Oscar gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. "That’s slander. I would never."

"You literally poured cereal this morning and didn’t put it back."

"Yeah, but I meant to."

"You’re the worst, pushing your crimes onto me!"

"You love me."

You roll your eyes—but yeah, you kind of do.

You’ve known Oscar since you were six (you became friends after you made him a friendship bracelet in year one and threatened to eat anyone who bullied him), which means you’ve had over a decade to perfect the art of annoying each other. But more than that, you two are comfortable.

Mornings are chaotic—him barging into the bathroom while you’re brushing your teeth, you stealing bites of his toast when he’s not looking. Evenings are spent sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, his feet nudging your legs whenever he wants attention.

"Stop hogging the blanket," you grumble, yanking at the edge of the throw draped over his lap.

He doesn’t even look up from his phone. "Get your own."

"It’s my blanket."

"Then why’s it on my couch?"

You groan, flopping back against the cushions. "I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don’t."

(He’s right. You don’t.)

Living with him means constant, relentless bickering.

Like when he steals the last slice of pizza.

"Excuse me," you say, staring at the empty box.

Oscar blinks up at you, mid-bite. "What?"

"That was mine."

He chews slowly, deliberately. "Was it?"

"You monster."

He grins, cheese stuck to his teeth. "Want a bite?"

You lunge for him.

(Somehow, you end up with sauce on your shirt, Oscar laughing so hard he nearly chokes, and a weird, fluttery feeling in your chest that you definitely ignore.)

One morning, you walk into the kitchen and find him standing in front of the open fridge, shirtless, eating yogurt straight from the tub.

You blink. "Put a shirt on."

He turns, spoon still in his mouth. "Why?"

"Because it’s weird."

"It’s my house."

"Yeah, and now it’s my eyes that are burning."

He smirks and flexes—just to be obnoxious. You throw a dish towel at his head.

(You don’t mention that you’ve noticed how defined his shoulders have gotten since the last time you saw him shirtless. That’s your secret.)

The rest happens slowly.

One day, you’re laughing at something stupid he says, and you realize—you haven’t thought about your ex in weeks.

Another day, you catch yourself staring at the way Oscar’s shirt rides up when he stretches, and your face goes hot.

Next, you catch yourself staring at the way Oscar’s hair sticks up in the morning, messy and unbrushed, and your stomach does a weird little flip.

And then there’s the time he comes back from a run, sweaty and breathing hard, and you have to physically turn away before you do something embarrassing, like stare.

It’s the way his nose scrunches when he laughs, the stupid cowlick in his hair that never stays down, the faint freckles on his shoulders from all those summers spent outside together—and you’re thinking, Oh.

Oh no.

You’re screwed.

It happens on a Tuesday.

You’re curled up on Oscar’s couch in one of his old hoodies, legs tucked under you, face half-buried in a blanket that still smells faintly like his laundry detergent. The TV is on but you’re not watching it. You’ve been quiet all night, the kind of quiet that makes Oscar shift in his seat and glance over every few minutes like he’s waiting for something to crack.

And then it does.

“I think something’s wrong with me,” you say, voice low.

Oscar frowns. “What do you mean?”

You stare at the floor, blinking back the burn in your eyes. “I can’t hold on to anyone. Every time I let myself believe in something—someone—it just falls apart. Maybe I’m the common denominator. Maybe I’m the problem.”

Oscar sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Blame yourself for other people’s bullshit.”

You shrug, lips pressed together.

But Oscar’s already shaking his head. “No. Don’t even try to explain it away. That guy—your ex—he didn’t cheat because something’s wrong with you. He cheated because he was an idiot who didn’t know what he had. He walked away from someone who loves too deeply and forgives too easily. That’s not a flaw. That’s a goddamn gift.”

You look up at him, startled by the sharp edge in his voice. “Oscar…”

“I mean it,” he says, louder now. “You give and give, and people take until there’s nothing left, and you still manage to pick yourself up and love again. That’s not a weakness. That’s you being one of the strongest people I know.”

You blink fast. “Why does it sound like you’re mad at me?”

“Because I am,” he admits. “I’m mad that you think you’re broken. I’m mad that someone made you feel like that. And I’m mad that I’ve been sitting here for years wanting to tell you how much you mean to me, and now you’re looking at yourself like you’re hard to love.”

You freeze. “Oscar…”

His chest rises and falls. “There are so many things to love about you!”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“You care about people more than they deserve sometimes. You remember stupid little things, like how I hate the green Skittles, and you always eat them first when we share a pack. You hum under your breath when you’re cooking. You laugh at my jokes even when no one else does because they’re not even that funny-.”

He keeps going, his words spilling out faster now.

“You give people second chances. You trust too easily and forgive even when you shouldn’t. You always check if I’ve eaten, even when you’re the one barely holding it together. You make the ugliest faces when you're concentrating, and then act like you weren’t just sticking your tongue out for five full minutes. You steal the covers and hog the couch and leave your coffee mugs everywhere but somehow, it’s never annoying. It’s just... You being you.”

He looks at you then, eyes wide, voice a little breathless.

“And I love all of that. I love—”

He stops.

You stare at him.

His mouth opens. Closes.

You blink once. “What was that last part?”

Oscar swears under his breath. “Shit.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart pounding. “You said you love—”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to—ugh, fuck it.”

He looks at you, really looks at you.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s both terrifying and freeing all at once. “Okay? I love you. I didn’t mean to say it like that, but I do. I love you.”

Your breath catches. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do,” he says, quieter now. “It’s been eating me alive. I’ve been trying not to mess things up by saying anything, but watching you sit there thinking you’re not enough? I couldn’t let that slide. You’re everything. And I just... I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel it.”

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean forward.

And kiss him.

The kiss is soft at first. Careful.

Like he’s afraid to break you.

Your fingers clutch the collar of his shirt, holding him close, and he moves with you—slow and warm, like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have. His lips part yours gently, tasting the moment, learning you in real time.

And when you finally pull back, your breath catches in your throat. Not because of the kiss, not exactly. But because everything else—the weight of it, the possibility of what comes next—is suddenly sitting right there between you.

You stay close, foreheads pressed together, trying to keep your breathing even.

Oscar’s hands are still on your waist, grounding you. He smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon and all the things that bring you comfort these days. It would be so easy to fall into him completely.

But something tightens in your chest.

Your fingers twitch against the hem of his hoodie, and your voice comes out small. “This… this doesn’t feel real.”

Oscar smiles, brushing your cheek lightly with his knuckles. “But it is.”

You nod, slowly. Swallow once.

Then twice.

And before you can stop yourself, the words start to unravel. Quiet. Hesitant. Honest.

“I think I’m scared.”

Oscar stills. Just for a second. “Yeah?”

You don’t look at him right away. Your gaze drops to his collarbone, your thumb tracing a small fold in the fabric like it’s easier to say this if you’re not looking him in the eyes.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” you murmur. “Not like this. And I keep wondering… what if we mess it up? What if I mess it up?”

Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, just waits, giving you time to talk.

“You’re the one person I don’t want to lose, Oscar. You’ve been in my life for so long. You’ve seen all the worst parts of me, and somehow you’re still here. You matter more than anyone else, and the idea of ruining what we have terrifies me. I don’t want us rushing into this.”

There’s a long pause.

And then you feel his hand come up to gently tilt your chin, guiding your gaze back to his.

His eyes are soft. Unshaken.

“We’re not rushing,” he says simply.

You blink. “It kind of feels like we are.”

Oscar’s lips quirk, just a little. “Maybe to you. But not to me.”

He leans in, forehead touching yours again.

“We’ve been building this for years. Since we were kids. Do you remember when you used to call me every time you had a nightmare? Or when I used to wait outside your classroom just to walk you home, even when it was pouring?”

A small smile tugs at your mouth despite yourself.

“This isn’t sudden,” he says. “We’ve always loved each other It’s just… shifted now. Grown up and evolved. We’ve loved each other for so long, we didn’t even realize the love had grown romantic. Not really. Not until now.”

Your heart stumbles over itself at the way he says it—like it’s so obvious.

“And yeah,” he adds, voice quieter, “it might be a little scary. But I’m not scared of this. Not with you. This didn’t just fall out of nowhere,” he adds. “It’s been slowly turning into this for a long time. And I think that’s the safest and most beautiful kind of love there is.”

You breathe in. Let that settle.

And when he leans in again, kissing you once more, it feels steadier this time. More certain. Like something clicking into place.

When you part, you rest your head on his shoulder, the tension bleeding out of you little by little.

“I still might mess up,” you whisper.

Oscar smiles against your hair. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

You huff out a quiet laugh.

And then he grins, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes again.

“Besides, worst-case scenario, at least you’ll be able to tell people you kissed five-time Grand Prix winner, Oscar Piastri. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

“God, you just had to ruin the moment you insufferable ass”

Oscar grins, not even a little sorry. “What? You’ll thank me when someone asks for your most iconic life achievement.”

You reach for a pillow and chuck it straight at him. “Get over yourself.”

He catches it like it’s nothing and hugs it dramatically to his chest. “Oof. Assault. You’re lucky I’m in love with you.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Another pillow flies—this time with more force—but he dodges it and launches one back, catching you in the side.

“Oh, it’s on now,” you mutter.

It escalates fast. Pillows are flying. You’re both half-standing, half-tumbling over the couch, laughing too hard to aim properly. He tries to shield himself with a blanket, which you immediately yank away, and soon you’re lunging at him with the last pillow in reach.

But Oscar grabs you before you can strike and pulls you down with him in one smooth motion. You both crash to the floor with a loud thud, tangled together in a mess of limbs and breathless laughter.

“Ow,” he groans, though he’s still grinning.

“You tackled me!” you laugh, your face half-buried in his hoodie.

“You came at me with a vengeance,” he says, breathless. “I had no choice.”

You lift your head to look at him. You’re lying half on top of him, knees awkwardly pressed into the carpet, but it doesn’t feel weird. It feels... good. Familiar. Warm.

Oscar looks at you for a beat, his hand sliding gently up to your back, fingertips brushing the hem of his hoodie you’re wearing.

He looks down at you, his eyes warm and bright, cheeks flushed.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he murmurs again, then dips down to kiss you.

You hum against his lips, a little dazed when you pull back.

Then Oscar leans closer and whispers with a grin, “So... does this mean we can make out after all my podiums now, or is that, like, unprofessional?”

You shove at his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” he argues, laughing as you both dissolve back into teasing, tangled up in each other on the floor.

“You’re impossible,” you huff, half-laughing.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “And yet... completely irresistible.”

You roll your eyes, already regretting falling for a man with this much audacity.

A/N: Basically, I got inspired by the specific lyrics in the banner. I interpreted this song a little differently. To me, it's simply talking about change that happens slowly, almost without anyone noticing it. It captures that quiet shift from one season to another, when you realize things aren’t quite the same as before, but you can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened

It was weird, the things you miss. Like the sound of his laugh echoing off the kitchen tiles. The way he’d talk to himself when he thought no one was listening. Or how his hand would always find hers without even looking.

She didn’t talk about him. Not to anyone. But some days, he was all she thought about.

And it wasn’t like she missed everything. The loud nights, the arguments that started small and spiraled into something ugly. But there were moments. The soft ones. Mornings in bed when everything felt still. His thumb brushing her cheek. His voice, quiet and raspy.

Some days she did fine. Went to work. Came home. Read books. Answered texts. It was almost like she was normal.

But some nights, the weight of missing him made her feel like her ribs were collapsing inward. She’d cry quietly in the shower, wiping her face before facing anyone. She avoided their usual haunts, blocked half his friend group on Instagram, and stopped listening to music altogether.

It all reminded her of him.

Meanwhile, Lando was coming undone in louder ways.

He went out every night. Ibiza, Monaco, wherever the afterparty was. Girls draped over his arm, drinks in both hands. He laughed too hard. Said yes to everything. He burned through days and nights without blinking, too high or too drunk to care if he was crashing.

He didn’t really notice how fast it got out of control until he woke up in someone else’s bed and couldn’t remember her name.

The parties helped. So did the girls, for a while. But nothing stuck. Nothing felt like her.

Max pulled the joint out of his hand. "Mate. You look like shit."

"Thanks," Lando muttered.

"I mean it. This isn’t you."

Lando snorted. "Don’t act like you know me."

Max didn’t rise to it. "No one knows you anymore. Not since she left."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Lando stood and grabbed another drink. He didn’t answer.

The sadness came in waves. Some days she was fine. Other days, she’d see something small — a hoodie he left behind, a stupid meme he would’ve sent her — and it knocked the breath out of her.

He was still everywhere and it was getting harder to pretend she was okay.

"You’ve gotta snap out of it," Layla said, sitting on the edge of her bed. "You can’t keep rotting in here."

"I’m not rotting."

"You’re literally lying in the same hoodie you’ve worn for four days. You barely eat. You barely talk. You’re spiraling, babe."

She didn’t answer. Because it was true.

She stopped going to brunch with her friends, stopped answering FaceTime calls. Every little reminder of him chipped away at her—his mug in her cupboard, the perfume he said he liked on her, a half-used bottle of hair gel in her bathroom drawer.

She was unraveling. Some days she didn’t brush her hair until noon. Her appetite vanished. Her eyes looked duller. Even her laugh had a hollow edge.

He was getting mean.

Short with his engineers. Cold with his friends. His trainer, Will, had stopped trying to get him up for workouts after Lando told him to "piss off" for the third time in a row.

It was like something in him had cracked — and everything that came out now was bitter and sharp and empty.

She’d stopped pretending she was okay.

The tears came easier now — over empty coffee mugs, over old songs on the radio, over the sweater that still smelled like him even after three washes.

Her best friend, Layla, didn’t push her to go out anymore. Didn’t force pep talks against her will and just showed up with food and tissues and sat beside her while she broke down.

"He didn’t even fight for us," she whispered one night, eyes red, throat raw. "He just let it happen."

Layla ran a hand down her back. "You both did. That’s why it’s so sad."

She nodded, curling tighter on the couch.

Some days were worse than others. On the worst ones, she barely left her room. She’d reread old texts and convince herself that maybe it was all an act. That never cared at all.

Max shoved the door open. The flat reeked of stale weed and whatever had spilled on the carpet.

Lando was passed out on the couch. Again.

"This is getting out of hand," Max muttered.

Pietra crossed her arms. "No. It’s already out of hand."

Lando stirred and blinked up at them, groggy. "You guys have the keys to my place now?"

"We’ve always had the keys," Pietra snapped. "Because we don’t trust you not to OD in here."

Lando laughed. It was dry and lifeless. "I’m not that bad."

"Trust me, mate you don't even know what you are anymore," Max said.

"I’m not going," she said, arms crossed.

Layla didn’t blink. "It’s my birthday."

"So?"

"So you owe me. Remember who held your hair while you sobbed over The Notebook and tequila?"

"That was one time."

"You broke my Dyson. That vacuum cost money, bitch."

She blinked. "You’re emotionally blackmailing me."

"Damn right I am”

“I thought you were going for high tea for your birthday? Why did you suddenly change it to Jimmy’s? I thought you hated that place!”

“Hate is a strong word. Also, it’s my birthday and I want to party for once. You better be there or else I’m telling your mom about the broken vase.”

“For fucks sake no need to blackmail me!” She said exasperated, “I’ll go”

Taglist: @sltwins @verogonewild @anunstablefangirl

'Cause according to you, I'm too precious You're wishin' that I was more reckless You're wishin' that I would smoke 'til I'm high And play with the guys, regret this You're wishin' that I was more trouble Sorry for being a struggle I do what I want and may not be your type Sorry I can't be a person you like

Lando had always been the type to take things too far.

He lived for the noise. Loud music, louder people, places where the drinks never stopped flowing and sleep was something you caught on a plane. It was easier that way. Fill every second, don’t let your mind slow down enough to catch up.

Since he was sixteen, life had been a blur of tracks and cameras and fake smiles at dinners with sponsors. So when the weekends came, when the pressure finally let up, he wanted to feel like he had some control. He wanted to drink, to laugh too hard, to forget.

And at first, she hadn’t minded. She was different from everyone else in his circle. Calm. Private. Comfortable in silence. Lando had thought it was refreshing. Being with Lando meant fast flights to Ibiza, impulsive parties, nights where the sunrise came too soon. But the novelty wore off. Now she just felt tired. Like she was always trying to catch up to a version of him that wouldn’t sit still. She’d thought maybe he’d slow down for her. He thought she’d go along with him.

They were both wrong.

"Just try it," he said, holding out the glass. "It’s literally one drink."

She didn’t even look at it. "I’m fine."

"You always say that."

"And I always mean it."

Lando leaned back against the kitchen counter, the glass still in his hand. "You’re kind of allergic to fun, aren’t you?"

She glanced up, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

He took a sip and shrugged. "Nothing. Just... you’re too precious sometimes."

She blinked, like she wasn’t sure she heard him right. "Too precious?"

"Yeah." He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Too good for all this. For drinks, for staying out past midnight, for letting loose like the rest of us."

She crossed her arms. "That’s not fair."

"It’s not an insult."

"It sounds like one."

Lando tossed the rest of his drink back, ignoring the way her face tightened.

"I’m not going to pretend I’m into something I’m not. That’s not fair to either of us."

He pulled back slightly. "Right. Of course. You're too precious."

"Stop saying that."

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Why? If the label fits."

Another night, another party.

She sat in the corner of the room, watching him move through the crowd like he belonged to everyone. He was surrounded by friends, or at least people who laughed when he made a joke and handed him a joint without asking questions.

One of the guys passed it to her.

"I’m good," she said quickly, waving it away.

Lando saw from across the room and walked over, slightly buzzed and way too confident.

"Come on," he said, voice low against her ear. "One puff won't turn you into a delinquent."

"Can we not do this here?"

He straightened, irritated. "We’re just having fun."

"I know. It’s just... not my idea of fun."

His smile faded. "Right. I forgot. You don’t like anything messy."

"That’s not true."

"You say that, but every time things get a little wild, you check out. You sit on the couch and stare at your phone until it’s time to leave."

"Because I don’t want to pretend to enjoy something that makes me uncomfortable."

Lando’s mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned back toward the crowd. She watched him go, heart sinking.

The fight came later that week.

He showed up late to dinner, still wearing a wristband from some club he never mentioned he was going to. She had cooked for once, tried to make something that wasn’t takeout.

Lando kicked his shoes off and tossed his keys onto the table like nothing was wrong.

"You look nice," he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"You’re late."

He pulled back. "Traffic."

She just stared at him. The lie was too easy.

"You said we’d have a quiet night."

"And we are."

"You went to a party."

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. "For like, an hour. Don’t make it a thing."

"You could’ve told me."

"I didn’t think I needed permission."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "That’s not what I said."

Lando set the bottle down harder than necessary. "Is this really about me being late, or is this about how I live my life again?"

She met his gaze. "It’s about you never being fully present unless there’s a camera on or a drink in your hand."

He scoffed. "There it is."

"There’s what?"

"The judgment."

"It’s not judgment."

"You keep saying that, but every word out of your mouth is just a more polite way of saying you think I’m a screw-up."

"I just think your... lifestyle. It isn’t healthy."

He blinked, like she’d slapped him. "Wow. That’s what you think of me?"

"It’s just I think you’re constantly burning the candle at both ends and pretending it doesn’t affect you."

He laughed, but it wasn’t light. "So now I need saving?"

"That’s not what I said."

"You didn’t have to."

She stepped closer, trying to stay calm. "I’m not trying to change you, Lando. I just want you to see that this isn’t sustainable."

"You think I haven’t heard that before?" His voice was rising now. "From my team, my parents, everyone who wants a piece of me? I don’t need to hear it from you too."

"I’m not trying to pile on, Lando. I just—"

"What? Want me to grow up? Stay in? Light some candles and watch a movie like everything’s normal?"

"Yes," she said softly. "Sometimes I do."

He stared at her, something shifting in his face. "You want to fix me."

"No," she whispered. "I want to reach you. But you’re always somewhere else."

He laughed, bitter. "That’s rich, coming from you."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I want you to stop treating me like some broken kid who needs to be fixed."

"That’s not fair. I didn’t mean anything like that-"

"You know what’s not fair? You walking around acting like you’re better than all of it. Too perfect to ever mess up. Too perfect to actually live a little."

"I don’t think I’m perfect."

"You act like it. You sit there with your tea and your books and your damn moral compass, and every time I step out of line, you look at me like I’m some kind of disappointment. And now you’re trying to control how I live?"

"I’m not trying to control you."

"You told me my lifestyle isn’t healthy. You basically just said you’re embarrassed by the way I live."

"I said I’m worried."

"Yeah, sorry you can’t mold me into someone you like."

Her throat tightened. "I don’t want to mold you. I want to feel like I’m not losing you to a version of yourself you don’t even like."

"Don’t psychoanalyze me. You don’t get it."

"Partying every night isn’t healthy!"

He went still.

"There it is again!" His tone turned sharp, defensive.

"I think you’re drowning and pretending you’re swimming."

His jaw clenched. "And I think you’re a control freak who’s afraid of anything she can’t schedule two weeks in advance."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Wow."

There was a long pause. Neither of them moved.

Finally, she spoke. "I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with this."

Lando’s jaw tensed. "Then maybe you’re not the person I should be with."

She swallowed hard. "Maybe I’m not."

The silence between them stretched out like a chasm.

He picked up his keys again.

"Let me know when you’re ready to stop looking at me like I’m a problem. I’ll leave you to your quiet night" he said, and walked out the door.

She didn’t cry. Not right away.

Instead, she sat on the couch alone, staring at the plate of food that had gone cold hours ago.

She hadn’t meant to make him feel small. She just wanted him to slow down long enough to see that not everything good had to be loud and fleeting.

But maybe that was the problem.

He didn’t want quiet. And she couldn’t keep pretending to love the noise.

One of the best parts about the Japanese Grand Prix was always the fan stage. Rain or shine, Suzuka fans showed up in full force, enthusiastic, respectful, and often wildly creative. Charles had seen all kinds of things over the years—handmade banners, fans in full Ferrari suits, even one guy who brought a cardboard cutout of him as a saint to every single event. But this time, something, or rather someone, really stole the show.

It started when Charles was doing the fan Q&A alongside Lewis. He was mid-sentence, answering one fan’s question, when he noticed a flash of red near the front row. Not the usual Ferrari cap or flag, but something... smaller.

A child, maybe five or six years old, standing perfectly still with his hands on his hips in what could only be described as an exact replica of Charles’ fireproofs. Down to the logos. Even the custom detailing on the sleeves. He was wearing a mini version of Charles’ helmet too—full visor, the matte red and white colors perfectly matched. And the stance. God, he was standing exactly like Charles does when he’s focused in the garage.

Next to him were two girls around the same age. One was decked out in Max’s navy fireproofs and helmet, and the other had gone all out in papaya orange, even painting freckles on her cheeks like Lando. But it was the little Charles clone that made him pause mid-answer.

He leaned slightly toward Lewis, nodding subtly toward the kid.

"You seeing this?"

Lewis squinted. Then grinned. "Mini-you? Yeah. That kid's got your whole aura going on."

Charles laughed softly, eyes still glued to the boy. "He stands like me. That's terrifying."

"He's probably got the hand gestures down too."

Charles kept glancing at him throughout the session. Every time he looked, mini-Charles was looking back up at him, visor slightly tilted, tiny hands on his hips like he was part of the team.

It didn’t take long before a Ferrari PR staffer approached the boy’s guardian and arranged for them to come into the garage. Word traveled fast, and before Charles had even finished his media rounds, he heard, "Little Leclerc's in the garage!"

The name stuck immediately.

She found Charles in the Ferrari hospitality area a few minutes later, practically bouncing as he pulled her by the hand.

"You need to come see this kid. I swear to God, it’s like someone shrunk me."

She raised an eyebrow. "They cloned you in Japan?"

“I just wanna see him up close,” he said, glancing back at her with the giddiest grin. “He had the little visor, chérie. The visor! And the gloves. Like mine! And he even did the pose. Did you see that?”

She laughed. “Yeah, I saw. You’ve been smiling like an idiot ever since.”

He didn’t even deny it. “I love him. He’s my favorite person here.”

By the time they reached the garage, mini-Charles was standing between two engineers, who were enthusiastically showing him how the pit boards worked. His fireproofs were real. High-quality replicas down to the seams, probably custom-made. Even his boots had the little CL16 logo printed on them. He was soaking it all in with this quiet, intense focus that looked way too familiar.

Charles crouched down and called softly, "Hey, champion."

The boy turned instantly, visor flipped up to reveal a round face and wide brown eyes. He didn’t speak—just lit up with a shy grin and ran the last few steps into Charles’ waiting arms.

Charles caught him effortlessly and stood, the kid now perched on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. His tiny gloves clutched the front of Charles’ polo, and the smile Charles gave him was soft, full of awe.

"You see this?" he asked her quietly. "I mean, come on. Look at the gloves. The detail. He’s even got the sponsor patches."

She stepped closer, smiling as she took in the sight of the boy.

"He’s better dressed than you."

Charles crouched beside him. “Tu es magnifique. You look better in my suit than I do.”

The boy just stared up at him in awe. “You’re my favorite driver.”

Charles clutched his chest, looking like he was about to melt into a puddle any second. “Mon coeur. I’m done for. You are adorable.”

They took photos—a lot of them. With the engineers, the mechanics, even Fred Vasseur came over to see what all the fuss was about and ended up holding the boy for a photo. The engineers joined in. The boy was passed around the garage like a VIP guest, posing with everyone, giving high-fives, and pretending to check tire pressures with an air of serious professionalism.

She stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching Charles with a fond smile that she didn’t even try to hide. He was fully enchanted. There was a softness in the way he bent to talk to the boy, the way he smoothed the kid’s hair when it stuck out from the helmet. She hadn’t seen that side of him in a while—not since their last trip to her home when he spent a whole afternoon playing pretend race car with her nephew in the living room.

Then Charles was waving her over, grinning. “Come on, chérie. You have to be in the photo too.”

“I’m not in uniform,” she said, gesturing to herself.

“But you’re part of the team,” he insisted. “We need a proper photo. Mini-Leclerc needs his whole crew.”

The three of them posed together—Charles, her, and the tiny version of him in the middle, clutching the helmet proudly.

"Smile!" someone called. "We need a nice family photo of the Leclercs!"

She froze slightly at the comment, but Charles just grinned, looking between her and the boy with a soft, far-off, dreamy expression. He didn’t correct them. Didn’t even blink.

After the photos, someone jokingly put mini-Charles on the scale, and the number made Charles nearly choke.

"Sixteen point sixteen kilos? Are you kidding me? That’s... that’s my number! Twice!"

He was laughing, absolutely delighted, holding the boy’s hand as the mechanics lost it behind him.

Later that night, back in the hotel, he was still grinning.

"Did you see how he stood by the car? Like he was about to jump in and drive it. I swear, it was like watching a tiny version of myself."

She sat on the bed, watching as he opened his phone and showed her photos from earlier. "Look at this one. Look how he’s holding my visor like it’s sacred. This kid gets it."

"You were smitten."

"Can you blame me? I mean... that could be our actual little Leclerc one day."

She looked up slowly. "Oh, we’ve moved on from 'mini-me' to actual mini Leclerc now?"

He leaned into her side with a sigh. “He was perfect. Did you see how serious he looked when I let him sit in the simulator? Like a little pro.”

She smiled. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am,” he admitted easily. “I want one.”

She blinked. “A simulator?”

“A Mini-Me. Like… a real one. Ours.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You want a kid now?”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t, like, wake up thinking that. But then I saw him, and—mon dieu—he looked exactly like me. It was so weird. And he had the little gloves and the fireproofs. I swear, he had the same little fold in the elbow. I didn’t know kids could look that cool.”

She laughed. “Charles.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I already found a onesie online. Look.”

He pulled up his phone and showed her a Ferrari red baby onesie with a tiny number 16 on the back.

“Stop.”

“There’s a mini balaclava too,” he said, completely ignoring her tone. “And look—this one has a hood shaped like a helmet. Isn’t that cute? I mean, come on. This baby looks ready for a race.”

“Charles. You're literally in the middle of a championship fight. You don’t sleep enough as it is. Not to mention you travel all year. When would you even see this baby?”

“‘I’d make time obviously.”

“And babies cry. And don’t sleep. And poop. A lot.”

“I can handle poop.”

She stared. “That’s your strongest argument?”

“No, my strongest argument is that I would make an amazing dad,” he said proudly. “I would be so fun. Like, I’d teach them how to race little go-karts and read them bedtime stories in three languages. And make the best sandwiches for school lunches. And if they wanted to wear their race suit to preschool, I’d let them.”

She bit her lip to hold back a laugh. “Max is having a baby,” he added after a pause.

“Oh no. You’re not doing this.”

“Why not? I’m just saying. Max is having a baby.”

“And?”

“So why can’t we?”

“Charles, this isn’t a competition.”

He pouted. “It’s not not a competition.”

“Unbelievable.”

He sighed and slumped against her, his fingers drawing aimless shapes on her arm. “You’d be such a good maman. You’re warm and patient and you already take care of me and Leo. It’d be easy.”

“Charles Leo is a dog. You’re talking about an actual real life baby here!”

“I’m not saying now now,” he said quickly. “Just… soonish. Ish. I’m just planting the idea. Watering the seed. Like a gardener.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can the gardener sleep now?”

He grinned. “Can I fall asleep while showing you just one more video? It’s this baby in a chef outfit trying to flip pancakes and he throws them on the dog.”

She groaned. “Bed. Now. It’s not the right time for this conversation.”

He followed her into bed, still murmuring about Mini-Charles and tiny helmets and kids in the paddock.

As she lay down, he slid in beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "What if I just... keep showing you baby videos until it becomes the right time?"

"That’s not how this works."

"I found one earlier of a baby eating spaghetti for the first time and just losing it. It reminded me of you."

"Charles No."

"Or the one with the baby who keeps saying 'no' to everything? That one’s also very familiar."

"Go to sleep."

“I’d call him Jules,” he whispered against her neck. “If it’s a boy.”

“Go to sleep, Charles.”

He pouted into her shoulder. “Fine. But at least think about it. Just saying, Little Leclerc has a nice ring to it."

She turned off the bedside lamp and rolled back towards him, burying her face in his chest. "Sleep now. Babies later."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and sighed.

"Fine. But just you wait. One day, I’m putting that onesie in my shopping cart."

And she couldn’t help but smile.

Because if today had shown her anything, it was that Charles Leclerc would make a very cute dad. Just... maybe not this season.

“Bonne nuit, future maman.”

“Stop!”

He grinned against her shoulder and didn’t say another word. But she could feel the way his fingers gently traced circles over her stomach, and she didn’t stop him.

Maybe one day. Just not today.

It was all over the internet. The photos of him standing on the second step of the podium in Melbourne, jaw tight, eyes scanning the crowd with this distant, searching look. He should've been proud—second place with a car that was fighting him every step of the way—but it was like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

People on Twitter noticed. Reddit too. The way he didn’t smile properly, the way he glanced toward the sidelines right before the champagne came out. There were theories. Some people even guessed right. He was looking for her.

Max hadn’t been himself for a while. And maybe that wasn’t fair to say, because he was still fast. Still pushing the Red Bull harder than anyone else could’ve. But the car was holding him back this season. Everyone knew it. It wasn’t just bad luck or a weird setup. It was an actual issue. Aero, balance, whatever the hell the engineers were arguing about behind closed doors. Max could drive like hell, but if the car wasn’t ready, it just wasn’t.

Still, it didn’t stop people from whispering about him. And it didn’t stop her from wondering, in quiet moments, if he was okay.

It had been almost six months since they broke up.

Not that the anniversary needed marking.

It happened just before his fourth championship.

The fight had been coming for weeks—tension simmering beneath every conversation, every missed call, every cancelled dinner. She gave him space, tried not to take it personally when he snapped or forgot her birthday or ghosted her texts for two straight days because he was in sim sessions and meetings.

She really tried.

But he pushed. And pushed. And then, one night, he said something he couldn't take back.

It was late. Past midnight. The apartment in Monaco was dead silent except for the sound of Max’s voice echoing from the kitchen, clipped and sharp.

"You don't get it. You never have."

She was standing by the window, arms crossed, the city lights painting her face in cool blue. "Don’t turn this into that. I’ve done nothing but try to understand."

He walked past her, tossing his phone onto the counter with a thud. “You think trying means texting me after every quali like that’s supposed to fix it? I don’t need a cheerleader. I need someone who doesn’t make everything harder by hovering all the time. You're just too much!”

The words came out fast, angry. He froze as soon as he said them.

“I didn’t mean—”

She blinked at him. Just once. Then picked up her bag from the back of the chair. “Yeah. You did.”

Max moved toward her quickly, regret all over his face. “No, I didn’t. I swear. I’m—fuck, I’m tired, I’m under so much pressure, I—”

“I gave you space,” she said, voice quiet but shaking. “I let you push me away. I made excuses for you. I convinced myself this was just temporary. But this?”

He reached out, catching her wrist. “Please don’t go. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I love you.”

She looked at him, heart breaking and already halfway out the door. “I love you too. But I can’t do this anymore. I need space to think.”

She left. No big scene. Just keys on the counter and a cab at the curb.

The last time they spoke was the night of his fourth championship. She watched the race from her couch, pride and heartbreak mixing in her chest like poison. When he crossed the line, the tears came fast. It was supposed to be a moment they shared.

She sent him a message. Just one.

Her: congrats on the title. you deserved it.

He replied five minutes later.

Max: Please call me. I need to talk to you.

Max: I’m so sorry. I think about you every day.

Max: I fucked up. Please don’t shut me out forever.

Max: I know I don’t deserve it, but if there’s any chance at all… please.

She didn’t answer right away. It took her hours to even look at her phone again. And when she finally did, she typed out something simple.

Her: I’m proud of you. I really am. I know it was a stressful time. But what you said… it stuck. I just need some space. I hope you understand.

She didn’t text back after that. Not for months.

Then came the 2025 season.

It started off okay. Not great. Not Max levels of dominance. The car was twitchy, unstable in corners, and the engineers were playing catch-up from day one.

He still dragged it to second place in Australia. It was a miracle drive. But when he stood on the podium, he wasn’t smiling the way he used to.

Then China happened. P4. Not a disaster, but it hurt. Everyone could see he was wringing every last drop out of that machine and it still wasn’t enough. But he wasn’t throwing tantrums or being cold with the press. He just looked… tired.

That was when Lando started texting her.

Lando: okay hear me out

Lando: come to japan

Her: lol what?

Lando: serious. Quadrant’s first launch post-rebrand is in Suzuka and it’s a big deal and I want you there. you always said you’d come if we did something huge. You promised

Lando: don’t be mean i’m sensitive

Her: I don’t think that counts as a promise lol

Her: lando.

Lando: Please. I’ll keep you away from him. swear on my life. you won’t even smell a red bull. max won’t know. just come support your favourite british gamer boy.

Her: I’m not sure it’s a good idea.

Lando: It’s for me not for him. come on. just this one time.

Lando: I’ll buy you japanese snacks and let you win mario kart. i’m begging.

Her: you never let anyone win mario kart.

Lando: but for you. I’ll throw the race.

Her: …

Her: fine. one weekend.

Lando: YES. you’re the best. he won’t even know. it’s gonna be chill. just quadrant stuff. you’ll have fun.

Suzuka was buzzing. She had an amazing time with the Quadrant crew, watching all the behind-the-scenes of photoshoots and going out for ramen with Lando. But she couldn’t avoid the paddock. Not when Saturday’s quali brought a surprise. Max was on pole.

She watched it all from the shadows, tucked behind a wall of McLaren gear and camera rigs, staying low-key like she promised. But when he stepped out of the car, helmet tucked under his arm, grinning wide like it was 2023 again, her heart did this dumb little flip.

God, she missed him.

Race day came. And Max? He dominated.

He drove like a man possessed. Fast. Precise. Every lap smoother than the last. The Red Bull finally looked decent again—maybe not perfect, but close enough in his hands.

And when he crossed the finish line, hands raised, engine screaming, she didn’t mean to move. But her feet took her to the barricades at parc fermé before her brain caught up.

She stayed hidden, sandwiched between McLaren crew and camera guys.

Max was all celebration—yelling over the radio, hugging his engineers, trading high fives and slaps on the back. The joy on his face was infectious, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in ages. He placed his helmet gently on the stand, grabbed a water bottle from the pit wall, and turned slightly—ready to take a sip—when he spotted her.

He froze.

The bottle slipped right out of his hand, hitting the concrete with a loud thud as he stared.

Then he ran.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just sprinted straight toward her and pulled her into a hug so tight it knocked the breath from her lungs.

She was too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to do anything but hug him back. Her fingers curled into the back of his suit, and she held on as the flashes of cameras popped around them like fireworks.

She glanced up, catching Lando a few steps away trying to subtly signal if she needed help—if he should pull Max off her. But she shook her head, just barely.

Max wasn’t letting go.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into her hair, over and over again, voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m sorry. I missed you. I’m so sorry.”

She leaned back just enough to cradle his face in her hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks as she looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in months.

“Congratulations Max” She whispered, watching him calm down a little.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like he was afraid she'd disappear.

"I didn’t know you were here," he said finally, voice rough.

She nodded. "Wasn’t planned. Lando guilt-tripped me."

He gave a breathy laugh. Then his face sobered. "You saw the whole thing?"

She nodded again.

Max stepped closer. "I meant what I said. About being sorry. I think about it every day."

"Max—"

"Just let me say this," he interrupted, voice low. "I was angry. At the team. At the car. At myself. And I used you like a punching bag and took you for granted. That was on me."

She looked at him for a long second before smiling widely.

"Go celebrate," she whispered against his shoulder. "You earned it. I’ll meet you in your driver’s room later ok?."

He pulled back just enough to look at her. Hope flickered in his eyes. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "We’ll talk. After."

He didn’t push for more. Just touched their foreheads briefly before turning back towards the staff ushering him to the cooldown room.

And this time, as Max stepped onto the podium, standing tall as the Dutch Anthem played in the background, as he sprayed Champagne on Lando and Oscar, he didn’t need to search the crowd.

He already knew she was there.

Warning: This chapter contains non-explicit sexual content and a bit of dubious consent (she says no but he keeps going)

The weeks had dragged on, except nothing changed except an unspoken understanding between them that neither seemed willing to define. Charles, with his endless affection, his sweet words, and his tender touches, continued to treat her like something more than a friend, but when it came to labeling it, it was always the same answer: "You're my friend."

It was maddening. Every kiss, every quiet moment spent tangled in his sheets, felt like a small piece of her heart was being shattered. But nothing was official. Nothing was concrete. She wasn’t his girlfriend, she wasn’t even a priority. She was just a “friend.”

But she couldn’t keep lying to herself. The constant back and forth, the teasing, the way he’d hold her a little too tightly when they were together, made it impossible to ignore how she felt anymore. Every time she tried to bring it up, to ask him, he’d change the subject, distract her, or kiss her until the words escaped her mind altogether.

It was becoming too much. The tension between them was thick. Every touch was electric, every glance loaded with meaning. But still, he kept her at arm’s length. She wasn’t sure if he didn’t want to admit it, or if he was just too scared to name what was already so obvious to her. Either way, she couldn’t take it anymore. The frustration had built up until it felt like she was going to explode if she didn’t talk to him about it.

They were in the car, driving back from dinner. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t comfortable. The hum of the engine and the occasional chirp of tires on the asphalt did nothing to soothe the tightening in her chest. She knew she had to say something. She couldn’t let another week go by like this.

“Charles…” she started, her voice strained.

He glanced at her, a soft smile playing on his lips, but his eyes—his eyes were unreadable. “Hmm?”

“I can’t keep doing this,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended, but the words hung in the air, thick and heavy. “You keep calling me your friend. But that’s not how you act, Charles. It’s not how I act.”

He didn’t immediately respond. Instead, his fingers tightened around the wheel, his jaw clenching just slightly. She could tell he was trying to figure out what she was really saying.

“Isn’t it enough?” he finally asked, voice low but calm.

Her heart raced, but she forced herself to keep her cool. “No, it’s not enough. Because I don’t just want to be your friend. I need to know where we stand.” She met his gaze, her own eyes pleading, desperate for him to understand. “I’m not some side thing, Charles. I can’t keep pretending I don’t care about you, but you make it feel like I’m just... here when you need me.”

The air in the car grew thick with tension. She could see the way his muscles tightened in his shoulders, the way his jaw set. She braced herself for the inevitable distraction, the change of subject, the excuse.

But he didn’t give her one. Instead, he pulled the car over, turning the steering wheel sharply as they rolled to a stop on the side of the road, the engine still idling. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she didn’t move, didn’t break eye contact.

“Charles…” she started again, but he was already leaning across the center console, his lips capturing hers before she could say anything else. The kiss was urgent, almost desperate, as if he was trying to swallow her words, trying to stop them from spilling out.

She pulled away, her breath shaky. “No, this isn’t what I’m talking about.”

His gaze was intense as he looked at her, that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. But there was something else there now, something softer, almost sad. He didn’t speak, just slowly unbuckled his seatbelt and slid from his side of the car to hers.

“Charles,” she whispered, trying to hold onto her resolve, but he was already moving, pushing her seat back with a gentle force that made her gasp. She felt the world tilt as he slid in between her legs, his hands on her hips, moving her with ease as though she weighed nothing. His face was inches from hers, his lips brushing her ear as he murmured, “You’re thinking too much again.”

The words felt like a slap, but she couldn’t pull away. She couldn’t seem to move. His presence was overwhelming, and for a moment, the rational part of her—the part that had wanted to talk, to have answers—drowned in the heat of his touch.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, he kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands threading into her hair, pulling her closer, tilting her head back. She let out a soft moan before she could stop herself, her body betraying her as he gently nudged her legs apart, sliding closer.

"Charles, please, stop…" She gasped between kisses, her hands resting on his chest as she tried to push him away, but it was like he was glued to her. His lips were everywhere—her mouth, her neck, her jawline—and every time she tried to resist, every time she tried to form the words to pull away, he kissed her again, harder, as though he could erase all her doubts.

And then, without warning, he moved lower, his hands shifting between her thighs. The sudden pressure against her made her gasp, her breath coming faster as his lips brushed against her core. She shuddered, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

"Charles," she whispered again, her voice trembling, but he didn’t listen. He was focused, his mouth moving with purpose. Each touch felt deliberate, igniting a storm inside her. The sensation was electric, sending waves of warmth crashing through her.

Her body responded to him without her permission, her hands clutching at the seat, her legs instinctively parting further for him. She felt exposed, but at the same time, the way he touched her, the way he moved with such certainty, made her feel seen in a way she had never felt before.

His mouth was on her, his movements slow at first, taking his time, savoring the response he was drawing from her. Her chest tightened, every breath shallow and ragged as she could no longer hold back the growing urgency inside her. Her back arched slightly, pushing closer to him as he worked his way deeper. Every part of her seemed to pulse with need, and she could feel herself approaching the edge, a wave building inside her.

"Charles," she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair as she tried to steady herself. And then, without warning, the wave hit, flooding her senses. She cried out softly, her body trembling as the tension in her stomach exploded. It was a sensation so overwhelming she almost couldn’t breathe, the pleasure nearly too much to bear.

When she finally opened her eyes, her heart still racing, she saw him pull away, his face flushed, lips glistening. He wiped his mouth slowly, the action deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. That same playful smirk crept back onto his face, the same cocky grin that always made her heart race.

“See?” he murmured softly, brushing his thumb over her trembling cheek. “You’re overthinking things again.”

Her chest rose and fell with every breath, her body still reeling from what had just happened. She couldn’t think straight, could barely catch her breath, but the words she had tried so desperately to say, the conversation they needed to have, seemed further away than ever. He had effectively silenced her, leaving her in a haze of confusion, need, and longing.

“Relax,” he said, his voice almost gentle now. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Not even close. But she couldn’t find the words to argue. The words didn’t matter anymore. The only thing she could focus on now was the pulse of desire still thrumming through her veins.

As the car started up again, the night outside swallowed them whole. The conversation she had wanted to have slipped away with every mile, and she found herself wondering if they would ever be able to have it at all.

One night, as they lay tangled together, Charles’s fingers traced light patterns across her skin. He shifted beside her, and when she turned her head, she found him studying her with an unusual, nervous energy. His eyes softened, and then, almost shyly, he reached to his bedside table and pulled out a small, familiar blue Tiffany’s box.

"Here," he murmured, placing it in her hand with that boyish smile. “I got you something.”

She blinked down at the box in her hand, her heart giving an unexpected lurch. Gifts weren’t exactly their thing—at least, she didn’t think they were.

“Charles…” Her voice was barely a whisper, surprise and confusion flickering in her eyes as she lifted the lid to reveal a delicate bracelet, each link set with tiny, colorful gemstones. It sparkled in the low light, catching her breath. He gently slid it onto her wrist and watched her, something vulnerable lingering in his gaze.

“I was looking for something for Maman and saw this,” he explained quietly, reaching to take her wrist and turning it slightly to admire how it looked against her skin. “It’s… acrostic jewelry. I had it custom-made—each gemstone represents an initial. You, me, and Leo.”

For a moment, she just stared, her heart caught somewhere between wonder and dread, and when she looked back at him, a swell of emotions crashed through her. Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she hardly noticed them at first. But he did.

“Hey, hey… what’s wrong?” Charles’s expression shifted from pride to worry, his hand reaching out to gently wipe a tear away.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice was raw, almost a laugh, yet pained. “What’s wrong is you think this is okay, Charles! You think… this is normal? That we’re ‘friends’ who give each other things like this?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

She pulled her wrist from his hand, her emotions rushing to the surface, each word spilling out faster than she could control. “You keep saying this is casual, that we’re just something fun. But then you treat me like…” She trailed off, choking on the words, and shook her head. “Charles, do you think this is some kind of sick joke?”

His brow furrowed, confusion and a hint of defensiveness flickering across his face. “What? No! Why would you even—”

“Because you keep saying we’re nothing serious, but then you give me this,” she nearly shouted, holding up the bracelet. “You say one thing, then do everything else to make me think otherwise! Friends don’t… they don’t do things like this. They don’t cling to eachother like we do, they don’t call each other just to talk the way we do, or get dogs together and pretend to be parents. You’ve been treating me better than most people treat their girlfriends, Charles, and yet you want me to believe this is nothing?”

He was silent, as if trying to process her words, his jaw clenched in frustration. “I thought we understood each other,” he said, his voice strained.

“Maybe we did in the beginning,” she shot back, her voice trembling. “But that was before all of this. Before every weekend we spent together, before the way you’d look at me or pull me close at night. Before this.” She looked at the bracelet, feeling her throat tighten. “Do you even understand how much this hurts?”

He exhaled, his gaze dropping as he ran a hand through his hair. “I never wanted to complicate things. I thought… I thought we were just…”

“Just what?” she pressed, her voice cracking. “Something temporary? A distraction? Because that’s not how you’ve been acting.”

“Look, you’re twisting this into something I didn’t mean.” His voice was low, frustration evident, but he seemed unable to meet her eyes.

She scoffed, the bitter sound punctuating the silence. “Oh, I’m twisting this? Am I imagining how you’ve been treating me, Charles?” Her words came out softer now, heartbreak coloring every syllable. “Because you’re the one doing everything that says we’re more than… whatever you’re calling us.”

He opened his mouth, struggling for a response, and for a moment she thought he might say something—something that could make this all hurt less. But he simply shook his head, as though at a loss.

“I’m sorry if I—”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” Her voice was low, filled with a raw vulnerability. “What I need isn’t an apology. I need to know if any of this is real to you. Or was it all just a game? Did you even think for a second what it might mean to me when you keep blurring the lines?”

Charles looked at her with a mix of frustration and sorrow, his face conflicted. “I don’t know what to tell you. We had an agreement. We wouldn’t turn this into something serious.”

“An agreement?” she echoed, her laugh hollow. “Charles, maybe that was true at the start, but people change. Feelings change. And you can’t expect me to just… pretend none of this matters, not when you treat me like…” She looked away, blinking back the tears. “Like I’m more than just a fling.”

He reached out, taking her hand again, his thumb brushing over her knuckles with a tenderness that almost made her falter. “Please… you don’t have to leave. We’re good together, you know that.”

She yanked her hand away, hurt flashing in her eyes. “Are we? Good together? Then why can’t you even tell me how you feel? Why can’t you admit that you care?”

He stared at her, and she saw something like regret in his gaze, his mouth opening as if to say something—anything—but no words came.

The silence stretched, and with each second, her heart broke a little more.

“If you can’t tell me, right now, that you feel something more… then I’m walking out.” Her voice was thick with emotion, her resolve barely holding as she turned to reach for her clothes.

Charles’s face fell, and he reached out in a panic, grabbing her arm. “Wait—don’t do this. Please, just…” His voice cracked, desperation creeping in as he tried to pull her closer. “I need you to stay.”

She looked up at him, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Stay for what, Charles? So you can keep stringing me along, pretending we’re something when it suits you and denying it when it doesn’t? I can’t keep doing this to myself. I deserve more than that.”

He swallowed hard, his hand loosening on her arm, yet he didn’t let go entirely. “I… I don’t know what you want me to say,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“I want you to tell me that you care, Charles. That I’m not just someone convenient. But if you can’t…” She took a deep breath, gathering every last ounce of courage she had. “Then I need to leave.”

For a moment, he held onto her, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t bear to let her go. “Please don’t. You know you mean more than that,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

But he couldn’t give her what she needed, and she knew that as long as she stayed, he never would. With a final, trembling sigh, she pulled away, ignoring the way his hands lingered, as if he could somehow hold on to her just a little longer.

As she turned and walked to the door, she heard him call her name, his voice laced with desperation, but she didn’t turn back. She couldn’t. Not this time. Because if she did, she knew she’d shatter completely.

Taglist: @dullypully @sageskiesf1 @firefirevampire @eloriis @meadhbhcavanagh @raweceeks @amyelevenn @leclrcg @anunstablefangirl @chaoswithus @spngirl05 @bigdickdannyric1

@doofenshmirtzevil-inc @linneaguriii @gaslysainz @leclercdream @sltwins @freyathehuntress @weekendlusting @cmleitora @shitposterniti @slutforbammargera1

The last thing she expected to be doing this Valentine’s Day was running an anonymous emergency hotline for lovesick fools, but here she was—headset on, taking call after call, all in the name of charity. Her best friend had roped her into this, promising it would be “fun,” but so far, all she had done was talk panicked men out of buying last-minute gas station flowers.

Her latest call came in with a hesitant, almost nervous greeting. “Uh… hi. Is this Cupid?”

“That’s me,” she said, suppressing a laugh at the ridiculous alias she’d been assigned. “How can I help you, caller?”

There was a pause before he mumbled, “I need help asking out my crush.”

She smiled, already endeared. “Of course! What’s your name?”

A beat of silence, then—“Bob.”

She snorted. “Bob, huh? Okay, Bob, tell me about your crush.”

Bob sighed dreamily, and when he spoke again, it was with a kind of reverence that made her heart melt. “She’s amazing. Like, so cute, but not in a way that she even realizes. And she’s really smart—like, she remembers the smallest details about people, and she’s kind, too. Like, the kind of kind where she doesn’t even think twice about it, she just does things that make life easier for everyone around her. And she’s so funny, sometimes without even trying. I mean, she makes me laugh over the dumbest things. And—God, she’s way out of my league, but I really, really like her. It’s ridiculous how much I like her.”

Her heart melted. “That’s adorable. Have you spoken to her before?”

“Sort of,” he admitted. “We work together, but I don’t talk to her a lot because… well, I’m afraid I’ll say something stupid. I get irrationally shy around her.”

That piqued her curiosity. “Coworker, huh? What do you guys do?”

“I can’t say too much, or it’ll be obvious who I am,” Bob said quickly.

She nodded, intrigued but respecting his anonymity. “Alright, Bob. First things first, you need to start interacting with her more—test the waters, see how she reacts to you. Start flirting a little.”

“Oh God.”

She laughed. “Relax! I’ll help you. We’ll come up with a plan.”

And so, over the next few days, she helped Bob craft the perfect approach. They planned small conversations, little ways for him to test the waters—compliments, inside jokes, light teasing. He seemed enthusiastic yet nervous, but she assured him he was doing great.

Strangely, around the same time, Lando Norris—someone who had never gone out of his way to talk to her before—started showing up more often. He’d stop by her desk with a cheeky grin, making flirty comments that left her flushed. At first, she chalked it up to him just being friendly, but it kept happening.

“Looking good today,” Lando said one afternoon, leaning casually against her desk.

She rolled her eyes but felt her face warm. “Are you just going around giving out compliments to everyone?”

“Only to the pretty ones.” He winked, and she nearly choked on her coffee.

It was weird. But she couldn’t say she hated it.

A few days before Valentine’s Day, she was finishing up some work when Lando hovered nearby, looking uncharacteristically nervous. He shifted from foot to foot before finally clearing his throat.

“Hey, um… can I talk to you for a sec?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

She turned in her chair, surprised by his serious tone. “Sure, what’s up?”

He exhaled, looking at the floor before meeting her eyes. “I… uh, was wondering if you wanted to go out with me. Like, on a date. For Valentine’s Day.”

Her brain short-circuited for a moment. “Wait. You’re asking me out?”

Lando winced. “I mean, yeah? But you don’t have to say yes, obviously, I just thought—”

She cut him off with a grin. “Lando, I’d love to.”

His eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” she laughed.

The relief on his face was almost comical. “Oh. Oh, cool! That’s great. Okay, um, yeah, I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Sounds perfect.”

He left looking a little dazed but incredibly happy, and she couldn't help but smile to herself.

That night, Bob called her one last time.

“She said yes!” he practically shouted through the phone. “I asked her out, and she said yes!”

She grinned, heart swelling with pride. “Bob! That’s amazing! I told you she’d like you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Seriously, if—no, when—we get married, you’re getting an invite.”

She laughed. “I’ll hold you to that. Have fun on your date, Bob.”

“Thanks, Cupid. You’re the best.”

And with that, her hotline duties were done.

The next evening, she met Lando for their date, dressed in a pretty outfit and buzzing with anticipation. He looked a little nervous, which was unusual for him, but she found it endearing. The restaurant was charming, the table setup romantic—candles, her favorite flowers, the works.

She took one look at it all and hesitated. The setup felt oddly familiar. Too familiar.

The restaurant. The flowers. The exact order of events.

Her stomach flipped as a ridiculous but nagging thought entered her mind. She looked at Lando, who was focused on cutting his steak, completely unaware of her staring.

“This is going to sound weird,” she began slowly, watching his reaction, “but do you know someone named Bob?”

Lando’s knife froze mid-slice. His head snapped up so fast she thought he might get whiplash. “W-what?”

She gaped at him. “Oh my God. You’re Bob, aren’t you??”

Lando opened and closed his mouth like a fish, looking utterly horrified. “H-how do you—how do you know that?”

She let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Because I’m Cupid.”

Lando choked on his water, coughing as his eyes widened in horror. “No. No way.”

“Yes way,” she said, grinning at his absolute mortification. “I can’t believe I spent days coaching you on how to flirt with me.”

Lando groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God. I’m never living this down.”

She reached across the table, placing her hand over his. “Lando.”

He peeked at her between his fingers. “Yeah?”

She smiled softly. “So… all those sweet things you said about your crush… they were actually about me?”

Lando groaned again, face going bright red. “I—uh—maybe?”

She felt her heart flutter, warmth spreading through her chest. “That’s honestly the sweetest thing ever.”

Lando let out a breath, rubbing his temples. “You must think I’m such a loser. Calling a hotline of all things just to figure out how to ask you out.”

She shook her head, squeezing his hand. “No. I think it’s endearing. You went out of your way to make sure you got it right. You wanted it to be perfect. That’s really, really sweet.”

He looked at her, expression softening. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Their dinner was filled with laughter and easy conversation, and by the time he walked her to her door, she felt lighter than ever. He hesitated on her porch, shoving his hands into his pockets. “So, uh… goodnight?”

She rolled her eyes, stepping closer. “Goodnight, Bob.”

Before he could groan again, she kissed him, soft and sweet, smiling against his lips as he melted into it. When she pulled away, he was grinning like an idiot.

“Best Valentine’s Day ever,” he murmured.

She laughed. “Yeah. I think so too.”

She grumbled, kicking at a stray piece of gravel as she and Oscar wandered through the carnival. “I hate Valentine’s Day.”

Oscar hummed in response, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah, it’s kind of a scam. But hey, at least we have each other.”

She snorted. “Romantic.”

“We could always hold hands and pretend,” he teased, wiggling his fingers at her.

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a smile. “I think I’ll pass.”

The two of them had made last-minute plans to hang out when they realized neither of them had anything—or anyone—special to do that night. A carnival seemed like the least offensive Valentine’s option: it wasn’t drowning in candlelit dinners or heart-shaped nonsense, and it had good food. They were both content with their choice, and after a few rounds of games (where Oscar had somehow won a stuffed koala and insisted on naming it after himself), they now found themselves in line for the Ferris wheel.

“I’m gonna grab us some cotton candy,” Oscar said, nodding toward the food stalls. “Hold our spot?”

She nodded, watching as he disappeared into the crowd. Left alone, she sighed and shuffled forward as the line moved. That was when a voice behind her made her stomach drop.

“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

She turned, and sure enough, it was him. Her ex. Mike. And standing beside him, practically glued to his side, was a girl who looked like she was styled straight out of an Instagram model’s lookbook.

Her shoulders tensed, but she refused to let him see her flinch. “Mike.”

He smirked, eyes flicking over her in a way that made her skin crawl. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here. Alone. On Valentine’s Day.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m not alone.”

His new girlfriend let out a soft, patronizing laugh. “Oh?”

Mike tilted his head, clearly relishing the moment. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just standing in line all by yourself. Waiting for a ride. Kind of sad, don’t you think?”

She took a slow breath, forcing herself to stay calm. “Not really.”

Mike shrugged, his smirk growing. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You were always a little—”

“Hey, is that—?” Mike’s eyes widened as he suddenly looked past her, his entire demeanor shifting. His smugness vanished, replaced with something that almost looked like excitement. “Holy shit, it is.”

Her stomach twisted as she realized what was happening. Mike wasn’t even looking at her anymore. He was looking at Oscar.

Oscar, who was now approaching with two sticks of cotton candy, his eyes locked onto her and Mike, his expression sharp, knowing.

Mike’s expression transformed into something eager, almost giddy. “Dude, I’m a huge fan. I mean, Oscar Piastri, right?”

Oscar didn’t blink. “Yeah.”

Mike let out a breathless chuckle. “Man, this is crazy. I watch all your races. You’re seriously talented.”

Oscar nodded, his grip on the cotton candy firm. “Thanks.”

Mike grinned, clearly relishing this moment—until Oscar’s arm snaked around her waist, pulling her into his side with casual ease.

“Babe, you okay?” Oscar murmured, his voice soft but laced with enough warmth to make her heart stutter.

Mike’s jaw practically unhinged. His eyes darted between her and Oscar like he was trying to solve an impossible equation. “Wait. Her?”

Oscar cocked his head. “Yeah. Why?”

Mike blinked, completely thrown. “You—you’re dating her?”

Oscar tightened his grip on her waist. “Mhm.”

Mike scoffed, regaining some of his smugness. “No offense, man, but—”

Oscar cut him off, voice smooth but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Why is it any of your business?”

Mike hesitated. “Well, I’m just saying—”

Oscar tilted his head. “No, really. Why are you even talking to us? Because from where I’m standing, you’re just making my girl uncomfortable.”

Mike flushed. “I’m her ex, actually.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle, completely unimpressed. “Oh. So you’re the one she used to pay for.”

Mike’s face darkened. “Excuse me?”

Oscar’s grip on her waist tightened slightly. “Yeah. The one who used to live off her. Ringing any bells?”

Mike’s girlfriend shifted awkwardly, her smirk faltering. Mike, on the other hand, bristled and turned to her. “So you’ve been telling people shit about me?”

Before she could say anything, Oscar stepped in smoothly. “If it’s true, it’s not ‘shit,’ is it?” He tilted his head, his tone deceptively light. “Why don’t you take your ego and your Instagram girlfriend somewhere else? We’re busy.”

Mike didn’t move, lingering behind her with a glare. Oscar, as if sensing her discomfort, gently shifted, pulling her closer so that his arm fully wrapped around her. His chin rested lightly against her temple as he murmured, “Ignore him.” He shifted slightly, blocking her view so she couldn’t look back at Mike’s scowl. “You cold?”

Before she could answer, he was already draping his jacket over her shoulders, his fingers brushing over her arms in a lingering touch. She glanced up at him, still reeling from everything, but he just gave her a look—play along—so she did, silently munching on the cotton candy he had handed her.

Oscar exhaled as the Ferris wheel cart rocked gently, settling into its slow ascent. The city stretched out below in a blur of lights, but he was more focused on the girl sitting across from him, arms crossed, expression uncharacteristically serious.

“That guy was a nightmare,” he muttered, shaking his head.

She let out a small laugh, still feeling the warmth of his jacket draped over her shoulders. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

Oscar shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes, I did. He was treating you like crap, and you don’t deserve that.”

Her heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice. “Oscar…”

He huffed out a breath, staring out at the view like it might help him collect his thoughts. “I just don’t get it. He was acting like you weren’t good enough when it’s so obviously the other way around. Like—” He gestured vaguely, his words coming faster now. “He’s an idiot. Actually, no, he’s worse than that. He’s—he’s, like, some advanced level of idiot that I don’t even have a word for.”

She laughed softly. “Oscar—”

“I’m serious!” He turned to her, expression frustrated but earnest. “I just—God, it made me so mad. The way he was talking to you, like he thought he still had some kind of power over you? He doesn’t. He never did. He’s just some loser who couldn’t appreciate what he had.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the emotion in his voice. “You really mean that?”

Oscar scoffed. “Obviously. Anyone with half a brain would see that. I mean—” He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he had said too much. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Uh.”

She tilted her head. “Oscar?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly looking very interested in the cotton candy he still had clutched in one hand. “So, um. The whole fake-dating thing just now—that was mostly to get him to go away, but also… not? I guess?”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Not?”

His ears were turning red now. He shifted in his seat, his foot tapping restlessly against the floor. “I mean—okay, so—” He exhaled sharply, ruffling his hair with his free hand. “God, I suck at this.”

She smiled, charmed by his rare nervousness. “You’re doing fine.”

“Debatable,” he muttered.

Then, he took a deep breath and finally said it.

“I like you.”

It was simple. No grand declaration, no poetic speech—just honest words, spoken with the quiet certainty that only Oscar could manage.

She stared at him, her brain short-circuiting for a second. “…You what?”

Oscar groaned, tipping his head back against the seat. “Come on, don’t make me say it again. My ego can only take so much.”

She blinked, still processing. “But—you never—”

“I didn’t think I had a chance,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re friends, and you’ve never given any sign that you’d want more, so I just… left it. But then tonight happened, and that guy was acting like a complete tool, and I realized I couldn’t stand the idea of you thinking he was right. Because he’s not.”

Her heart was doing something ridiculous in her chest, an embarrassing mix of fluttering and pounding. She opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure of what to say.

Oscar watched her carefully, his fingers gripping the edge of the seat like he was bracing for impact. “Look, you don’t have to say anything. If this is weird, I can pretend I never said it—”

“It’s not weird,” she interrupted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

Oscar froze. “It’s not?”

She bit her lip, suddenly feeling very warm despite the cool night air. “No. I just—this is a lot to process.”

He nodded slowly, his expression carefully neutral, but she could see the flicker of hope behind his eyes. “Take your time.”

She exhaled, glancing down at her lap. “I mean, I’ve always felt comfortable with you. You’re… easy to be around. But I never really let myself think about it like that.”

“Fair,” Oscar said, nodding. “I wasn’t exactly throwing out obvious signals.”

She snorted. “Understatement of the year.”

Oscar grinned, a little more relaxed now. “Well, if it helps, I am very open to helping you think about it like that.”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “You’re such a dork.”

“And yet, you’re still sitting here with me.”

She hummed, pretending to consider. “I guess I am.”

He shifted in his seat, “I mean—okay, so—” He exhaled sharply

She smiled, trying to urge him to speak “You’re doing great.”

“Again, Debatable,” he muttered before taking a deep breath. “Alright, look. What I’m trying to say—very, very badly—is that I like you. A lot. And I have for a while now. And maybe I should’ve said something sooner, but I didn’t want to screw things up, and I didn’t know if you felt the same, and then tonight happened, and I just—” He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Wow, this is awful. I’m so bad at this.”

Her heart swelled, warmth blooming in her chest. “Oscar.”

He peeked at her between his fingers. “Yeah?”

She grinned. “You’re an idiot.”

His face fell comically. “Okay, rude—”

She cut him off by leaning forward and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. He went still, utterly frozen for a second before melting into it, his hand instinctively reaching out to cup her cheek. When she finally pulled away, his eyes were wide, his lips parted like he had forgotten how to speak.

She smiled. “I like you too.”

It took a solid three seconds for her words to register. When they did, his entire face lit up. “Wait. Really?”

She laughed. “Yeah.”

His expression flickered between disbelief and joy. “Like—actually? You’re not just saying that because you feel bad for me?”

She rolled her eyes, nudging his knee with hers. “Yes, actually. And I don’t feel bad for you, idiot.”

Oscar let out a breathless laugh, looking down at his lap as if trying to process what had just happened. Then he grinned, bright and boyish. “Huh.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Huh?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Just… didn’t think this would be how today turned out.”

She leaned against his shoulder, sighing contently. “Me neither.”

After a moment, he hesitantly intertwined his fingers with hers, giving her hand a small squeeze. “Still the worst Valentine’s Day ever?”

She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Well… I mean, my ex did show up, so that sucked.”

Oscar nodded. “Fair point.”

“But,” she continued, shifting so she could look him in the eye, “on the other hand, my best friend—who I just found out likes me back—totally defended my honor in the most badass way.” She grinned. “Which was, honestly, kind of hot.”

Oscar choked on air. “What?”

She laughed, watching as his face turned an alarming shade of red. “I’m just saying, watching you shut him down was…” She bit her lip, enjoying his flustered expression. “Attractive.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed, “I—I was just stating facts.”

She smirked. “Uh-huh.”

Oscar groaned, covering his face with his free hand. “God, you’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

She leaned in, pressing a teasing kiss to his cheek. “Absolutely.”

He sighed but smiled, shaking his head. “I should’ve known.”

She squeezed his hand again, feeling the warmth of it settle in her chest. “Still. This was actually the best Valentine’s Day ever, though.”

Oscar chuckled. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Charles Leclerc did not want to be here.

Valentine’s Day was already insufferable, but being dragged to a bar by his well-meaning (and currently very drunk) friends was making it so much worse. His brothers were off on their respective romantic dates, and instead of sulking in peace at home, he was here—stuck in a crowded bar, dodging heart-shaped balloons and being subjected to overly loud love songs blaring from the speakers.

And now, to top it all off, he was standing in an absurdly long line for the bathroom.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the line refused to move.

“Tell me about it,” a voice said beside him.

Charles turned his head to find a woman standing next to him, arms crossed, scowling at the line ahead. She looked equally unimpressed with the night’s events.

He raised an eyebrow. “Bad night?”

She huffed, tilting her head towards the couple making out aggressively in the corner. “I’ve seen horror movies less disturbing than that.”

Charles snorted, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Agreed.”

They lapsed into silence, both staring ahead at the unmoving line. A few seconds passed before she spoke again. “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

He exhaled, rubbing his face. “That’s because I’m not.”

She smirked. “Then why are you here?”

Charles sighed, hands in his pockets. “My friends thought I needed ‘cheering up’ because my brothers are both in relationships, and I am not.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Same. Except my best friend didn’t even try to lie about it. She just said, ‘You’re too single, and it’s embarrassing.’” She gestured toward the girl still making out in the corner. “That would be her.”

Charles winced. “Brutal.”

“Right? I told her I’d rather stay home and watch a move or something.”

Charles let out a laugh, genuinely amused. “I think I’d prefer that too.”

As the line inched forward at a snail’s pace, their conversation flowed effortlessly.

"Okay, explain this to me," she said, turning to face him fully. "Why do people think giving someone overpriced flowers that will die in three days is romantic?"

Charles chuckled. "Right? And the price! it's like they double it just because it’s February 14th."

She scoffed. "Exactly! And don't even get me started on the chocolates. You know they just put the same candy in a heart-shaped box and charge extra."

"The worst part is the expectation," Charles added, shaking his head. "Like, if you don’t do something extravagant, suddenly you don’t love your partner enough?"

She snapped her fingers. "Yes! If you need a specific day to prove your love, maybe your relationship isn’t as strong as you think."

Charles smirked. "So, not a fan of grand gestures, then?"

"Oh, I love grand gestures," she admitted, tilting her head. "Just not ones dictated by capitalism."

“So let me get this straight,” she said after a particularly heated rant about heart-shaped balloons. “You got dragged here against your will, your friends abandoned you, and now you’re standing in line for the bathroom ranting at a stranger?”

Charles groaned. “I am beginning to think I have been tricked.”

She shook her head in mock pity. “Tragic.”

He opened his mouth to respond when, to his horror, his stomach let out a loud growl.

She turned to him, grinning. “Oh my god.”

“…I’m hungry,” he admitted, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

She laughed. “You know what? Let’s get out of here. I know a place.”

The place she led him to was a semi-formal restaurant with dim lighting, cozy booths, and the most incredible menu Charles had ever seen. By the time their food arrived, they were already deep into conversation, swapping stories about their worst dates, cringiest romantic gestures, and Valentine’s Day traumas.

Charles took a bite of the cheesecake and immediately let out a sound that could only be described as obscene. “Mon dieu. This is the best thing I have ever eaten.”

His companion grinned. “Oh, you think that’s good? There’s something even better.”

He looked up, intrigued. “Impossible.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially. “They used to sell the most heavenly tiramisu. It was legendary. But they discontinued it.”

Charles frowned. “Then how do you know it’s better?”

She smirked. "Because I’ve had it before and fun fact it’s on the secret menu now. But it’s a whole ordeal." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was letting him in on a great secret. "The thing is, their tiramisu is legendary—like, hours of prep, delicate layers, the kind of dessert that requires actual effort. It got discontinued because the chef didn’t want to deal with the hassle anymore. But, through my very reliable sources—" she wiggled her eyebrows "—I found out they still serve it. But… only for very, very special occasions."

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

She pulled a simple ring off her finger and slid it across the table. "They only serve it on very special occasions Charles. The chef is a real romantic."

Charles stared at her, unblinking. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head, trying to look serious despite the mischief in her eyes. “Not at all. I’ve tried everything to get a taste again, but my friends refuse to participate in my schemes.”

Charles hesitated, glancing between her and the ring. “You’re telling me I have to propose to you… for tiramisu?”

She nodded solemnly. “For the greatest tiramisu known to man.”

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I cannot believe I am considering this.”

She gasped. “Charles. Think of the dessert.”

He groaned dramatically before picking up the ring. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Before she could react, he got down on one knee.

The restaurant quieted.

Charles took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he looked up at her with nothing but warmth in his eyes. "Mon amour," he murmured, voice steady, heartfelt. "We've known each other since we were kids. You were always there—my partner in crime, my best friend. I can't imagine my life without you."

A few people around them sighed dreamily.

She felt a laugh bubble up, but Charles was fully committed, his gaze unwavering. "We've had our ups and downs, but through it all, it's always been you. And it always will be." He lifted the ring, giving her a small, knowing smile. "So what do you say, mon coeur? Marry me, and let’s spend the rest of our lives together."

The restaurant erupted in applause as she let out a shaky laugh, nodding. "Yes," she breathed, eyes locked onto his. "Yes, Charles, of course."

His grin was immediate, radiant, as he slipped the ring onto her finger. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You know... I think I always knew it was you. Ever since the day you carried me home after I sprained my ankle as a kid."

Charles chuckled, squeezing her hand. "You remember that?"

"Always," she said, voice warm. "And now, I guess I get to spend forever remembering this too."

The applause grew louder, a few cheers echoing through the restaurant as the chef himself emerged, grinning from ear to ear, ready to present them with their well-earned tiramisu.

As soon as they sat back down, she burst into laughter. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

He smirked. “Well, I had to commit.”

The tiramisu arrived, and the moment Charles took his first bite, he slumped back in his seat. “Merde.”

She watched, delighted. “I told you.”

Charles stretched his arms above his head as they stepped out into the cool night air, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I hate you."

She snorted, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. "Wow. Romance is alive and thriving, I see."

"No, seriously," Charles continued, shaking his head. "That tiramisu was too good. Now every other tiramisu I eat will be a disappointment. You’ve ruined me."

She smirked. "That’s the price you pay."

Charles groaned. "I despise you."

She hummed, clearly enjoying his suffering. "Well, if it helps, they have different staff on Mondays."

He glanced at her. "And?"

She grinned. "So, if you want another piece, we could just… go again."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "How do you even know this?"

She took a deep breath, like she was trying very hard to act normal before saying something completely unhinged. "Because I have tried everything to get that tiramisu again. I have studied their staff schedules, noted which days the chef isn’t working, and even considered staging a fake engagement like 15 times, but my friends—" she threw her hands up in frustration "—are all cowards who refuse to propose to me for the sake of dessert."

Charles was already laughing before she even finished. "I cannot believe you have gone to these lengths for tiramisu."

"It’s not just tiramisu, Charles. It’s a masterpiece. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. A divine creation that mere mortals like us barely deserve. And yet, my so-called friends refuse to put their morals aside for the cause." She sighed. "Until tonight. You, sir, are a true ally."

He smirked. "Clearly. And what do allies get?"

She shrugged. "Eternal gratitude? The satisfaction of knowing you’ve done something noble?"

Charles held out his phone. "Your number."

She blinked. "What?"

He wiggled the phone slightly. "So we can go on Monday, obviously."

Her lips parted, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to find the joke. "You actually want to go again?"

Charles shrugged. "I mean… yeah. That tiramisu was worth it. And, you know… you’re fun."

She studied him for a second before snorting. "Unbelievable."

"Believe it, mon amour." He winked.

Still smiling, she took his phone and added her number before handing it back. "Fine. Monday it is."

Charles grinned. "Perfect."

As they walked side by side, their conversation spiraled into absurdity.

"Okay," she said, "how many ways do you think we could disguise ourselves to get another piece?"

"Fake mustaches?" Charles suggested. "Though that might be too suspicious."

"Agreed. What about wigs? I could totally pull off blonde."

"Mmm… questionable. We’d need a full transformation."

She snapped her fingers. "Fake accents! If we pretend to be tourists, they might not recognize us."

Charles gasped. "Genius. We’ll go in, act completely clueless—where should we be from?"

"Not Australia. You could never pull off an Aussie accent."

"Fine. Italian tourists. Very authentic."

She laughed. "You realize this is insane, right?"

Charles smirked, nudging her playfully. "And yet, you’re still planning it with me."

She groaned. "I hate that you have a point."

As their ridiculous tiramisu heist plans continued, Charles found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all.