Untitled

ONGOING SERIES:

White Mercedes | Oscar Piastri

Invisible String | Max Verstappen

The Long Way Home | Oscar Piastri

Figure It Out | Max Verstappen

COMPLETED SERIES:

Three Of Us | Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Radio Silence | Lando Norris

From Eden | Oscar Piastri

ONESHOTS:

Gentle Thing | Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris

Glass Girl | Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri

SHORT ONESHOTS:

Mrs Norris

And when he pleaded you, on your latest facetime call, to come to the race, you couldn’t muster the courage to update him on your latest findings. You’d always had tinnitus, but as the years passed, it became increasingly uncomfortable. The times you couldn’t endure prolonged outdoor exposure due to the persistent buzzing in your head, the inability to tolerate even slightly louder noises, and the growing burden it placed on you—all these had a cause and the cause was your ears.

You’d recently gotten diagnosed and had to wait many, many weeks for your hearing aids to finally arrive. In the meantime, all you could do to bear the outside noise was wear earplugs to muffle the sound and ease the sensitivity. Which is exactly what you did when you arrived at the paddock, thanks to Lando’s passes. The minute you stepped inside the hospitality suite, the reality of the event hit you.

There were people.

Like, a lot of them.

And so many sounds. The hum of engines, people’s hurried steps, heels, and the voices — god, the voices. With the earplugs, it all sounded like you were underwater which wasn’t really more comfortable but at least better for your ears.

Your pulse spiked as your eyes searched for your friend. You met a tall brunette's eyes, his brows slightly furrowing at your sight but immediately averted your gaze, nervousness gnawing at you. Heat rose to your cheeks as you steadied your breathing, trying to look casual.

The minute Lando spotted you, he jumped to his feet, mouthed something to his colleagues, and practically ran towards you.

“You came!”

You turned to the source of the faint sound—

Lando’s curls bounced with each of his strides, grinning ear to ear like a manchild. You sighed in relief, and walked into his open arms.

So dramatic, you chuckled to yourself. As always.

But as you breathed in his cologne and felt his laugh rumble through his chest, you couldn’t deny you’d missed him too. It’d been months since you last saw him.

When you broke apart, you noticed the earlier brunette man’s eyebrows shoot up. You averted your eyes again. He looked familiar.

“It’s been forever, oh my god, I had to practically drag you here myself!” Lando said as his hands rested on your shoulders.

“Ugh, drop the theatrics, Norris” you rolled your eyes not unkindly. “You know we’re both very busy”.

“Liar. I’m a professional racing driver and yet you’re always busier than me!” he complained, brows furrowing.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” you sighed, feeling much too aware of the nearby people’s eyes on the two of you.

Just who were you, exactly? No one had ever seen Lando light up this way before around someone else.

You couldn’t talk too long though, as he had to go get ready for the race. He made you promise him you’d stay after it was over to catch up and meet some of his friends, and he’d insisted he wouldn’t forgive you if you left early. You promised him, chest tightening at his eagerness.

You’d really missed that damn boy.

You bit down your smile as you brought your phone out and settled in some corner to watch the race. Far from prying eyes, you hoped. And even further away from the constant noises.

You scrolled on social media, only to see a picture of you hugging Lando already going viral. You gasped, as you scrolled further down the comments and reactions, heartbeat turning sickenly quick.

You didn’t notice a figure approaching then hovering near you. Didn’t notice the brunette staring at you in the hope you’d meet his eyes.

He studied your figure, hunched over your phone, something like panic stretched on your face.

“That’s the worst PR mistake you can make” he commented, trying to joke about you reading the comments on socials.

You didn’t hear him. You were so caught up by it, and with your earplugs, the surrounding world had lowered down to a faint and distant hum.

He waited. A beat. Then awkwardly cleared his throat.

No reaction.

He scoffed to himself. He’d never been dismissed, no, disrespected like this before. You had met eyes earlier. Twice. How could you just ignore him like that?

He didn’t know whether he should double down or simply pretend it didn’t happen.

Another beat.

He opted for the latter.

He swallowed his pride and walked away, jaw clenching.

The race came and went in a blur. Lando won P2, his teammate — that’s who the brunette man was! Oscar Piastri! — P3.

McLaren was on fire.

Voices erupted in cheers, and the two drivers strode in, victorious smiles etched on their faces.

Lando immediately walked to you, hugging you almost too tightly.

“You’re my lucky charm!” he cheered.

You matched his grin and joy, congratulating him.

“You’re coming with us, we’re celebrating tonight”, he added, not open for discussion.

You had to give him that, right? At the very least, for all the times you turned down his invitations before.

You nodded. He kissed your cheek in his excitement, indifferent to the dozens of cameras pointing at your interaction.

Oscar saw it all unfold. The way you’d hugged, the way you didn’t even glance his way, or congratulate him.

But you were so caught up by the environment, so lost in the sea of noises and cheers and voices and cameras and cars— that you couldn’t take notice.

— ★

You arrived at the yacht party (the yacht was literally six times the size of your apartment) dressed in a white blouse and matching white shorts, the perfect picture of elegance.

Lando introduced you to his friends, some familiar faces and some new ones too. You met Charles, Alexandra, a few engineers whose names had escaped you.

As you walked further down the yacht, you noticed Oscar, a glass in hand, wearing a white blouse and black pants. Your heart stammered at the sight, and you were so caught up in your own thoughts that you didn’t even register that Lando was guiding you to go meet him.

“Osc, I want you to meet a very dear friend of mine”, Lando started.

Oscar’s eyes went from curious to… annoyed? His gaze was cold, almost robotic.

A chill went down your spine. You tried to smile.

“Hi, nice to meet you” you introduced yourself and presented your hand.

He looked… unimpressed. Granted you’d never met the boy, he didn’t owe you anything but still… Some politeness could go a long way, you thought.

He let your hand hang in the air. For a second, you thought he was going to ignore you. But eventually he moved his own hand and shook yours, very briefly.

“Hi” he simply said. So low you almost didn’t hear it with your earplugs.

“Mate, what’s up? We just fucking won!” chuckled Lando, aiming for uplifting but landing somewhere baffled.

Oscar smiled politely, though it didn’t reach his ears. The boy didn’t like you, that was pretty clear.

As the evening unfolded, you talked more openly with Lando and his friends. You realized they were actually pretty nice, and altogether funny. You even cracked jokes with them, and although Oscar was still pissed about your earlier interaction — or lack thereof, actually — he couldn’t hide his own smirk from time to time.

The darker the sky turned, the more his eyes lingered. He’d wanted to ignore you entirely tonight, but you were just impossible to not see.

You weren’t loud, weren’t demanding. But you were there. You listened. You didn’t talk much but when you did, it was always relevant. Or too funny to ignore. So he observed you, like a genius trying to crack a complex code.

You met his eyes. You gave him a small smile.

His pulse quickened in response. He cleared his throat, bringing his glass to his lips and looking away.

Disappointment settled over you.

You excused yourself from the table and retreated further away from the crowd. It was already more quiet, further down the yacht.

You watched and breathed in the sea breeze. Even with earplugs, you could feel a headache starting from the noise. You’d have to leave soon.

Oscar’s eyes hadn’t left your figure since you’d stood up.

He didn’t know why, he couldn’t resist staring at you, each time your eyes caught his sent a jolt of electricity coursing through him.

A few minutes went by, when you saw something out of the corner of your eye.

You turned, jumping in surprise.

“Jeez, you scared me!” you said.

It was Oscar. He looked angry. Again.

“What, you didn’t hear me talking to you right now, just like you didn’t hear me earlier in the hospitality?” his voice was quiet, almost too quiet. You had to lean in to make out the words, shock stretching over your delicate features.

What the hell was he being so rude about?!

“Wait, no, I didn’t hear you. Neither now nor earlier, what are you talking about?”

“I was literally a few feet away from you, though…” he said slowly, his anger making way for doubt. “You were scrolling on socials”.

Had he misread the situation…? But he was standing close enough for you to hear though!

You were about to snap back before you realized.

Shit.

Fuck.

Is this what your life's gonna be like from now on?

“Wait, uh…” you tucked your hair behind both ears to reveal the earplugs. “I, uh… I wear earplugs. I have a hearing disability but I don’t have my hearing aids yet so…” you looked away, embarrassed.

You felt so silly. You fidgeted with the glass in your hand. Is this how it's going to be everyday, now?

You hadn’t even had enough time to adjust to a diagnosis that would probably change your very near future, so you hadn't even brought it up. Hell, even Lando didn’t know yet!

Oscar wanted to jump into the sea and never come back. His stomach dropped. He’d never felt more stupid.

“Fuck, I- I’m so, so, sorry, I-…” he sighed, frustrated, as he stepped closer for you to hear more properly.

The movement sent heat rising to your neck, as you stood up straighter.

“I apologize, really-“

“No, no, it’s me, I haven’t told anyone yet, I’ve just been diagnosed and it’s a little-“

He closed his eyes.

Your diagnosis was still recent.

God, he hated himself.

“Please, don’t. It’s me. I was an asshole.”

Silence settled over the two of you for a few seconds as he studied your face. The corner of his lips twitched. Yours did too before you could stop yourself.

You both burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. His eyes lingered longer than necessary on the corner of your lips, the crinkles around your eyes. His mind short circuited at the sight.

When your laugh died down, you felt suddenly very aware of his eyes on you, the sea breeze gently playing with your hair, your white shirt under the purple and orange lights of the yacht. You shifted your weight on your feet and braced yourself for your next words.

“Do you wanna… start over?”

He blinked, mouth slightly open.

“Y-yeah, please” relief washed over him as he realized that perhaps, all chances of getting to know you weren’t gone.

— ★

part 2

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THIS HAS TO BE SOME FORM OF DIVINE PUNISHMENT.

There’s just no alternative explanation, because reuniting with Oscar Piastri again — after all these years — is far too cruel of a coincidence.

The brightness of your laptop screen glares back at you mockingly, and you’re tempted to slam it shut like a petulant child. Unfortunately, squinting hard enough hasn’t rearranged the words into anything else, and it’s not like breaking your expensive computer is going to erase the email, no matter how much you wish it would.

The Apex Foundation is thrilled to announce the launch of our newest youth motorsport outreach campaign, featuring ESPN+ commentator Y/N L/N and McLaren driver Oscar Piastri.

It’s not the first half of the letter that bothers you, it’s the last portion. 

“No,” you say aloud to nobody in particular.

Your roommate Olivia, who’s in the process of making herself a matcha latte, glances up briefly before deciding whatever turmoil you’re experiencing is not her problem.

You keep reading further, hoping that maybe Oscar will be there temporarily. It’s a stupid thing to think, but you’ve always been foolish when it comes to him.

Over the next three months, the campaign will include media appearances, charity karting events, interviews, and stops across both Europe and Australia.

Oh God. You feel like you might be sick, all over the glossy marble counter. 

When you signed up for this, the idea of spending a quarter of your year jetsetting around the world sounded perfect. The best way to tick off a few boxes on your list of places you wanted to visit without having to deal with major expenses and taking time off of work. But now, realizing you’ll be in close proximity with your sworn enemy… that turns this dream into more of a nightmare.

You drop your head with a dull thunk. This is karmic retribution, it has to be. Maybe you cut someone off in traffic. Maybe you laughed at a child crying once. Or, maybe God just hates you specifically, for no other reason but for entertainment.

Nobody had warned you that there was even the slightest chance of this being a joint tour with another athlete. You wouldn’t have dared to apply if that was the case, but it didn’t matter now. The universe had found its way to put you back into orbit with the boy who spent your entire childhood making your life miserable. With that infuriatingly calm face and knife-sharp, perfectly precise insults that couldn’t exactly be classified as bullying.

Oscar was much too clever for outright bullying. That smug bastard preferred psychological warfare, and you’d bet anything that you’d be on the receiving end of his torture for the foreseeable future.

You’d wanted to strangle him from age eleven onwards, but unfortunately your parents had been best friends and that was out of the question. It had always confused you how someone as nice as Nicole Piastri could have given birth to pesky Oscar, a question that persisted the longer you were around him.

Which was quite often, seeing as you’d both grown up around karting paddocks. Every weekend for years had involved sunburns, petrol fumes, and Oscar’s silent judgement. Yet another staple of your childhood that you tried to repress. You’d always love and value your humble beginning, but you loathed how close you’d been to Oscar, especially considering how your parents would still bring him up in conversations despite not seeing him face-to-face for almost a decade.

By thirteen, your rivalry had become legendary amongst the adults.

By fifteen, people were taking bets over which one of you would snap first: quiet Oscar, or you, feisty little Y/N L/N?

But then, by seventeen, Oscar left for Europe, and you were finally free of his aggravating presence. In fact, you had celebrated by throwing a party so dramatic your mother still brought it up occasionally. 

“Honestly, it was a little concerning how happy you were.”

And yes, you were happy.

Now, your joy was spoiled, because the bane of your existence was back in your life. 

You lift your head from the counter, wishing you could teleport to another dimension where you could escape this situation. Before you can spiral too deeply, however, your phone buzzes with Unknown Number.

Strange — you don’t get many calls at this time of day. Or ever, really. You mostly communicate through a barrage of emails or text messages. You consider ignoring it, but curiosity peaks in you, so you decide to answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s muffled static, a pause, and: “Hi.”

You nearly choke. Of course you’d recognize that voice instantly, regardless of how many years it’s been since you last heard it. Low, gravelly but still dryly unamused and disinterested. 

Oscar Fucking Piastri.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath.

“That bad, huh?”

“You called me. Why?” You decide to cut right to the point. You’re not a typically blunt person, yet it looks like you’ll get used to it very quickly. Spending more time on the line with Oscar is not something you want to do. 

“Yes, that’s generally how phones work.”

There it is. The same irritating comments you remember.

You sit up straighter out of pure, defensive instinct. “What. Do. You. Want?”

Another pause, eating up more seconds of your precious time. Oscar sounds almost hesitant, though, when he says, “Temporary ceasefire?”

You bark out a sharp laugh in shock. “A ceasefire implies we’re at war.”

“Are we not?”

“We were not.”

“Oh, but if I remember correctly, we absolutely were. You threw a Capri Sun at my head in 2014 after I cracked one joke about your messy handwriting. That’s assault.”

You snort. “Well, you deserved it.”

There’s more rustling on his end of the line, faint voices in the background. It’s probably McLaren employees, working like busy bees to have everything perfectly in order for Oscar’s next race. You can almost see it in front of you: that dumb composed expression he always wears in interviews to make it seem as though everything’s under control. 

Yes, you’ve seen him. Obviously. Everyone loves him, the quiet rookie becoming a Formula One star and almost clinching a World Championship by his third season. He’s an internet darling — all the girls love his lack of humor and how he remains ice-cold under pressure. 

The world thinks Oscar Piastri is unreadable, a robot made to pump out wins and purple sectors.

You know better. 

You know he drums his fingers when he’s annoyed. You know he goes still when he’s nervous. You know his left eye narrows slightly when he’s trying not to smile.

Then again, you also know that he once told twelve-year-old you that your homemade brownies, baked out of love, tasted “like burnt tires.”

Which is unforgivable.

“So,” Oscar says casually. “Can we try to be adults about this?”

Your head jerks. “Nope.”

“Right.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, then.” You wait to hear his next remark, if it’s as biting as the past. 

Oscar sighs softly. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t ask for this either.”

An irrational part of you bristles. “Oh, wow. Thank you. That makes me feel so much better.”

“That’s not —”

Anger pricks at you. God, how is it so easy for Oscar to rile you up? “You know what? Actually, don’t worry about it. We’ll smile for the cameras, pretend we don’t hate each other’s guts, and save the children. Do our duty, whatever. Then we can go back to our lives before any of this shit happened.”

“Hate is a strong word.”

You grit your teeth. It’s taking all your effort to not hang up the phone, but you know Oscar will just redial over and over again until you pick up. “You used to call me Little Miss Perfect.”

“In my defense, you would throw a tantrum every time something didn’t align with your schedule. Even if it was off by half a second.”

You shake your head. “Not all of us can rely on a murder of employees to keep us on track.”

You hear it then, very quietly: a laugh. Not the polite little exhale he does in interviews. A real one. Brief, and warm, and startled out of him.

Your stomach does somersaults traitorously. Absolutely not. Nope. You refuse.

Because Oscar Piastri is still Oscar Piastri. Annoying, arrogant, insufferably composed.

And definitely still your enemy.

A fortnight later, you walk into the campaign launch in Monaco and immediately realize two things.

One: the room is full of cameras. Everywhere you look, there’s some form of flashing light. Is this a media event or life under Big Brother? 

And two: Oscar Piastri has gotten unfairly attractive.

It’s actually quite offensive.

He’s standing near the platform wearing a dark navy suit, talking to one of the organizers, expression calm and attentive (like always). Oscar’s taller than you remember, with broader shoulders and cleaner edges. All the gawkiness of his youth has been filled out now, toned muscles shaped by the physical demand of Formula 1.

Most annoying is how pretty he is. Like some sort of genetically engineered prince designed specifically to irritate you with his bland attractiveness.

As if sensing your stare, he looks up. Your eyes meet across the room, and there it is — that strange little pause, the world hiccuping for half a second.

Oscar’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, not smug or mocking, just surprised. His gaze flicks over you once, quick and quiet, and something unreadable settles behind his eyes. There’s that mask being put back into place.

You decide to avoid that general area for a while, and keep Oscar always in your peripheral vision. You’d prefer not to interact with Oscar until it was one-hundred percent necessary, with no other way out.

Sadly, this wish doesn’t stay fulfilled for long. A photographer for the campaign launch brings you two together, and Oscar continues to look at you strangely. Too intently, like he’s trying to solve a problem — but you’re not a Rubix cube, and you hate the weight of his attention. It makes your skin feel warm in a way you deeply distrust.

“Perfect timing!” she says brightly. “Can we get a few shots together?”

You and Oscar share a look of mutual suffering. At least that hasn’t changed.

The photographer, as naive as a summer child, beams. “Closer together, please.”

You step exactly one centimeter nearer. Oscar glances down at the measurable distance between you and almost smiles. “I don’t bite, you know,” he murmurs.

“You definitely do.”

For the first time, his composure cracks fully. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, a devastating quirk that makes you swallow roughly.

The worst part is that nobody else notices it, the way Oscar Piastri looks at you after that. None of the photographers, or the event coordinators fussing over schedules, or the PR team hovering nearby with tablets and caffeine addictions.

To everyone else, Oscar Piastri still looks normal — the same old calm, reserved self he’s known to be. 

But you can analyze the tiny differences, how his smile is usually controlled. Neat around the edges, carefully measured for cameras and optics. His posture is usually effortless in a detached sort of way. 

Right now, though? He looks focused, entirely on you.

“OK, beautiful,” the photographer compliments. “If we could get a little closer, that would be great. The proportions look a little off when you’re this far apart.”

You instantly fold your arms. “Sorry, no. It’s non-negotiable.”

Oscar exhales through his nose like he’s suppressing laughter. “Come on, Y/N, professionalism is important,” he remarks solemnly.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Language. We’re working with children.”

You roll your eyes. “We are currently working with a woman holding a Nikon. The children are nowhere to be found.”

The photographer in question snorts. “You two are supposed to look like you actually enjoy each other’s company.”

“That would require extensive visual effects that I fear is greatly out of budget,” you mutter.

Oscar hears you anyway, because unfortunately he’s always heard everything you say. You remember that from childhood too. You could mumble a curse under your breath from twenty yards away and somehow he’d still reply with, “You’re not allowed to say that.”

You used to think he did it to annoy you. Now there’s something softer underneath his teasing.

And that is significantly more alarming,

“Just one nice photo,” the photographer begs.

Oscar glances at you, and before you can react, his hand settles lightly against the small of your back, bringing you closer to him. You freeze. It’s not a dramatic touch at all. Under most circumstances, you wouldn’t consider it a touch, but your entire nervous system short-circuits instantly.

Oscar’s never touched you gently before. Scratch that — he’s barely touched you at all.

Your childhood consisted mostly of competitive shoving, stealing snacks from each other’s coolers, and one memorable incident where he accidentally elbowed you into a stack of tires and didn’t talk to you for three days afterward. It was blissful.

This is different. Intentional.

His fingers flex once against your back, almost hesitant. You can feel the warmth from his palm emanating through the fabric of your dress. When you tilt your head up to look at him, it’s a huge mistake.

He’s already looking at you. Not at the cameras or bustling crowd, but at you. Like other people don’t exist. 

Something twists in your chest, and you decide on the spot that you hate it.

The photographer, on the other hand, lights up. “Yes! Hold that —”

Flash. Flash. Another flash.

Oscar leans down slightly so only you can hear him. “You’re tense. Don’t lock your knees or you’ll faint. I wouldn’t want to have to catch you.”

“Well, you’re touching me.”

“Yes,” he says amusedly. “I noticed.”

Your face grows hot instantly, red flags of heat flaring on your cheeks. He notices too… Of course he does. A tiny smile appears at the corner of his mouth.

You want to push him into the Mediterranean.

The problem becomes obvious over the next two weeks. Oscar Piastri is flirting with you. Subtly, relentlessly, and so absurdly dry that you almost don’t catch it half of the time. You think you’re going insane. This is impossible.

It’s Oscar Piastri, your mortal enemy.

The boy who once told you that your presence in the garage was bad luck for him.

The teenager who corrected your grammar during arguments.

The person who spent six consecutive karting weekends pretending not to care that another racer liked you, whilst becoming so unpleasantly competitive he nearly got banned from the paddock.

You hadn’t realized why at the time. You just thought he was an insufferable arse, which is partly true. 

Still. This cannot be considered flirting. 

There’s just no way.

You’re in Barcelona when the campaign team decides to film a “casual challenge video” together. Which is PR-language for forcing attractive people into manufactured proximity until the internet goes clinically insane.

You’re seated beside Oscar on a plush leather couch while a producer explains the game.

“Since you two are – or were – familiar, we wanted to see how much you remembered about each other. So, you each answer questions about one another. Whoever gets the most right wins.”

“Oh, good,” you respond flatly. “Psychological torture.”

Oscar, weirdly enough, looks pleased.

The producer gives you a wide grin. “First question. What’s Oscar’s coffee order?”

You forget to act nonchalant, instantly answering, “Black, with no sugar.” Both Oscar and the producer blink. “That was fast.”

You shrug one shoulder, heart pounding in your chest. “He’s been ordering the same thing since he was thirteen years old. I’m assuming he wouldn’t have changed it up in the years we haven’t stayed in touch, because he’s emotionally incapable of spontaneity.”

Oscar turns towards you slowly. “You remember my coffee order from when I was thirteen?”

“I absorb information against my will. Don’t read too much into it,” you bite out.

“Hmm.”

The producer tries not to laugh. “OK,” she says. “Oscar, what’s her favorite movie?”

Oscar does the right thing by taking a moment to think. “Pride and Prejudice. The 2005 version specifically, even though she claims the miniseries is technically superior.”

Dead silence. You stare at him, open-mouthed. “What?” Oscar looks confused by your confusion, so you stutter, “How… how do you know that?”

“You made me watch both versions during a rain delay in Bathurst.” 

Your eyes widen. “That was fifteen years ago, Oscar.”

“It’s quite memorable when you cried during the hand flex scene,” he points out.

You shoot daggers at him. “I was twelve!”

“You also cried at —”

“OK, next question!” the producer cuts in.

The crew is openly invested now. Traitors, all of them.

Question after question gets worse. Oscar knows your favorite foods, your worst habit, your tells when you’re lying. 

You know all of this for him too, but yours feels normal. Him knowing this about you feels too specific, too invasive.

“What’s her comfort show?”

 “Derry Girls,” he answers.

“What’s his biggest irrational fear?”

You smother a laugh. “Escalators.”

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “It was one time.”

“Not my fault you screamed bloody murder,” you retort.

“I was seven years old, for heaven’s sake.”

The producer, and several other members, are wheezing. You’re starting to feign enjoyment, too, until the fatal question.

“What’s one thing you admire about each other?”

The two of you answer at the same time. “Nothing.”

At the same exact second Oscar says: “She cares too much.”

You both freeze, and the room hushes, the sound of laughter choked out by the stark contrast in your reactions. You look at him in shock. Oscar, meanwhile, looks like he regrets having functioning vocal cords. “What?” you inquire.

His ears are pink. “I misunderstood the tone of the game.”

“No, no,” the producer pushes eagerly. “Continue.”

Oscar visibly wants to crawl into a hole and die. Interesting. Very, very interesting. To his credit, he clears his throat, and manages to squeak out, “You care about people. Even when they annoy you.”

Your heart skips a beat unexpectedly. He states it so simply, an obvious fact that he’s always known about you. You tear your eyes away from him. The second you break eye contact, the crew collectively notices the tension, thick and uncomfortable.

And once people notice tension, they become vultures.

It gets worse after the video releases. Apparently the Internet has made the verdict that your dynamic with Oscar is “rom-com coded.” You discovered this against your will at two in the morning in the hotel room in Milan, and you still haven’t recovered emotionally. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper in horror.

Your publicist, Mia, is lying face-down across the other bed. “What now?”

“The comments. They think we’re secretly in love.”

She lifts her head slightly. “Are you?” “No.”

Too fast.

Mia narrows her eyes, scenting the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside of you like a bloodhound. “Oh, that’s ugly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You toss your head back in frustration.

“That was the fastest no I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“Sure…” she trails off, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“It is,” you insist, cheeks flushing.

“Mmm. If you say so.”

You throw a pillow, which she catches without effort. Then your phone buzzes on the vanity table. Oscar. You stare at the notification suspiciously.

Mia readjusts herself to face you. “Open it, Y/N.”

“No.”

“Stop being such a coward.”

You open it, teeth snagging at your lower lip in nervousness. 

Oscar:

The internet appears to think we’re dating.

You:

Well the internet also thought the earth was ending in 2012 so

Oscar:

You’re avoiding the point.

You: 

There is no point

Oscar:Right

You:

How TF do you sound sarcastic through texts?

Oscar:

Natural talent.

There’s a moment of inactivity that makes you consider putting your phone down. Then another message appears.

Oscar:

For what it’s worth, I don’t mind the rumors.

Your heart stumbles once. Hard.

Mia is fully leaning across the bed now, fully invested in the drama unfolding next to her. “What did he say? Tell me!”

You lock the phone before she takes a peek over your shoulder. “Nothing.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh…” She points violently at you, nearly taking your eye out. “You’re doomed.”

You tilt your head. “I am not doomed.” You refuse to be doomed.

There’s nothing to overthink. Just Oscar Piastri acting weirdly lately, that’s all. Being annoyingly attentive, suspiciously thoughtful, occasionally devastating. Which is totally normal enemy behavior, probably. 

You spend the next week trying very hard not to notice him. A difficult task that would be made much easier if he stopped doing things like showing up beside you with your favorite drink before interviews. Or instinctively adjusting his pace to match yours when you walk through airports. Or looking at you like that.

God.

The looking is becoming a serious issue.

Because Oscar has always looked at people carefully — analytical and observant in that unnerving way of his — but this is dangerously different. 

Like every time he sees you, he’s still surprised you’re real. And unfortunately, you keep catching it.

Such as right now.

You’re backstage in London before a charity gala, sitting in front of a mirror while your makeup artist fixes your hair. The room is full of noise: stylists moving around, assistants carrying garment bags, distant music filtering from the ballroom outside. You’re half listening to your stylist explain something about “visual balance” when the door unlocks behind you.

Your eyes meet Oscar’s in the mirror.

And he halts in his steps.

The stylist keeps talking, but Oscar doesn’t hear a word of what she’s saying. You can tell because his entire expression goes blank for half a second. Not cold blank, but stunned blank.

His gaze drags over you slowly before he catches himself. Then he looks vaguely frustrated about the fact that he caught himself catching himself.

Your eyes turn to slits. “What?”

Oscar gives him a tiny shake, to reorient himself. “What?” he echoes.

“You just made a face.”

“I… don’t do faces.”

“Well, I know what I saw.”

A vein ticks in his jaw. “I didn’t.” The stylist glances between you both with poorly concealed fascination, and Oscar finally adds, “You clean up nicely.”

Now it’s your turn to be astounded. “Was that a compliment?”

“Not at all.” Oscar ignores the stylist, who’s now trying to shoo him out of the room. He’s still gazing at you in the mirror. And the thing is… you should be used to attention by now. You work in media, where cameras follow you constantly, and people look at you all the time. But Oscar feels entirely different, too vulnerable and honest. It makes your pulse feel stupid.

You swivel around in your chair to face him directly. “You’ve been acting strange lately.”

One of his eyebrow lifts. “Lately?”

“Don’t start.” 

“I’m not starting anything,” he protests. His mouth twitches. There’s that almost-smile again, the one that feels weirdly private. Yet his eyes flick downward briefly, to your hands. You follow his gaze automatically, heat curling in your body.

“Oh, you noticed.” You try to make it sound casual and off-handed, but it comes off as fake even to your own ears.

The stylist had put silver rings on your fingers to match the outfit. Oscar nods once. “You stopped wearing rings when you were sixteen. When one slipped between the gears of somebody’s kart.”

Your throat bobs. That’s not a normal thing to remember. Especially not after a decade apart. “Why do you know that?” A persistent question, but never answered.

His expression shifts. “I just… do.”

The stylist claps her hands suddenly. “OK, you two are either secretly married or one argument away from making out. And I honestly can’t tell which!”

You choke violently and Oscar burns a hole through the floor with the intensity of his glower. 

The gala itself is worse, since apparently whoever organized seating arrangements has a sick sense of humor. You’re placed directly beside Oscar for the entire evening. Close enough that your knees brush under the table, close enough that you can smell his cologne, close enough to notice every tiny expression he makes. 

It’s unbearable.

Particularly fueled by the fact that he’s in one of those tailored black suits that should honestly qualify as psychological warfare.

You’re halfway through dessert when the host announces some ridiculous fundraising game involving “celebrity pairs.”

You immediately know this will ruin your life. “Absolutely not,” you whisper viciously to Oscar, in case he was thinking about volunteering. 

The host beams from the stage. “Each pair will answer relationship-style questions about one another!”

The room erupts. 

You close your eyes briefly. 

When you dare to open them again, Oscar is attempting — and failing – not to look at you with amusement. 

“I could fake my own death,” you muse.

“You’re not organized enough for that,” he answers back quickly.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” The words leave his mouth easily, and your chest tightens unexpectedly. Before you can respond, microphones appear at your table.

The host grins. “Alright! Let’s start easy. Who apologized first after your worst fight?”

You laugh. “We’ve literally never apologized to each other.”

Oscar says at the same time: “She never apologizes.”

You whip your head toward him so fast you’re surprised your neck didn’t snap. “Excuse me?”

“It’s true, you don’t.”

You growl, “It’s not like you do!”

“I’m aware.”

The audience laughs, and you have to curl your fists to keep from punching him in front of everyone. 

“Next question,” the host says amiably, “Who gets jealous more easily?”

“Neither of us,” you answer. You’re the only one to speak.

Oscar’s staring at the tablecloth, and the host lights up like it’s Christmas Day. “Oscar?”

He meets the host’s eyes, face carefully neutral. “I think the question is poorly phrased.”

Your jaw practically unhinges and shatters on the floor. The audience loses their minds. “Oh, this is unbelievable,” you grumble to yourself.

Oscar avoids your eyes entirely now, which somehow makes the situation ten thousand times worse.

The host vibrates with excitement. “Interesting answer! Next question — when did you realize you cared about each other?”

You laugh again, because the only other thing you could consider doing is combusting.

Oscar does not.

You falter.

The host… hell, everybody… notices the change in Oscar, and it’s only exacerbated when he says, “I don’t know.”

You feel dizzy. Somebody must have raised the temperature randomly. The host moves on after that, but the damage is done. For the rest of the night, you can feel the weight of Oscar thinking.

You know him well enough to recognize it; how his silences mean different things.

This one? It feels dangerous.

You corner him after the gala ends, mostly because your brain refuses to let things go, and partly because you’re beginning to feel insane. 

“Oscar.”

He pauses near the hallway exit, turning towards you slowly.

The ballroom noise is distant and muffled behind closed doors. It’s just the two of you in the quiet corridor.

“You’re acting weird,” you say again.

“You’ve mentioned that.”

You cock your head to the side, evaluating him. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You cross your arms defensively. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His brown eyes soften. That’s the terrifying part — he’s no longer cold, or detached, just plain tired. Holding an invisible burden, modern-day Atlas carrying the world. “You really don’t see it?”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

His jaw tightens slightly. For one awful second, he looks genuinely hurt. 

Footsteps echo down the hallway nearby, and whatever was about to happen disappears instantly. Oscar steps back, expression shuttering closed again. “There’s nothing,” he says evenly.

And now you’re pissed. Because you know that was a lie. “You literally just —”

“Goodnight.”

“Oscar —”

But he’s already walking away. 

You do not think about the hallway conversation. You especially do not think about the way Oscar Piastri looked at you before he shut down completely and walked away. And you definitely do not spend the next three days replaying his wounded voice in your head.

You really don’t see it?

See what? What are you supposed to be seeing?

Because every possibility your brain comes up with feels absurd. Oscar doesn’t like you — even suggesting that seems mad. This is Oscar, the same Oscar who spent most of your childhood correcting your math homework without permission. The Oscar who once told a boy at the kart track that your favorite flowers were tulips because “roses are too obvious for her,” then acted confused when you stared at him for ten full seconds afterward.

Actually.

Wait.

You stop mid-step in the hotel hallway. “Oh no.”

Pieces begin clicking together in horrifying succession. The tulips thing. The coffee orders. The way he remembers everything about you. The jealousy question. The I don’t mind the rumors. The looking.

Oh, God.

No.

No no no.

That’s impossible. 

Your phone hums in your hand before you can spiral any further.

Mia:

Lobby in ten. Don’t be dramatic today.

You: 

I’m having a crisis

Mia:

Hot or ugly?

You:

Unsure

Mia:

Then it’s hot.

You hate her. 

Today’s event is a charity karting day outside of Budapest. Which feels particularly cruel considering kart tracks are the reason why Oscar exists in your life at all.

The second you arrive, memories start ambushing you.

The smell of rubber. The sharp whine of engines. Kids racing around in oversized helmets.

And there, leaning against a barrier with sunglasses on, looking unfairly good in a black team polo —

Oscar.

Your stomach betrays you instantly.

He sees you approaching almost immediately, his entire face changing in that tiny, subtle way it always does around you. Softening at the edges before he reverts himself. You hate that you notice now. 

It’s worse to think that maybe it’s always been there.

“You’re late,” he critiques you.

You glance at your watch. “I’m four minutes late.”

“That’s still late.”

You pout. “You’re insufferable.”

“So you’ve said.” His gaze narrows. “You look tired.”

Your heart does something embarrassing, because his voice changes when he says it. Lower, gentler, concerned. And suddenly you remember every tiny moment from childhood that could have meant something else.

Oscar handing you his hoodie when you were cold without saying a word.

Oscar getting into an argument with another driver because they made you cry.

Oscar sitting beside your hospital bed for six hours after you broke your wrist at fifteen, pretending he was only there because your parents made him stay.

“Oh my God,” you say aloud accidentally.

Oscar blinks. “Concerning response.”

You stare at him, and he stares back, completely unaware of the psychological warfare currently unfolding in your brain. Surely he doesn’t know that you know.

Except —

No, wait. Maybe he thinks you already figured it out.

Which means he thinks you’ve been knowingly rejecting him this entire time.

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

“You… OK?” Oscar asks slowly.

“No,” you breathe.

“Comforting.”

You point at him. “You.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Me?”

“Yes. You.”

“Strong argument. Want to expand your vocabulary a bit and enlighten me on what’s going on?”

“You’re —” You break off. In love with me? Nope. Can’t say that. Your brain shuts down completely. “You’re tall.” You finish weakly.

Oscar stares at you in silence. “I was aware.”

You want to die.

Things get catastrophically worse during lunch, if that’s even possible. Apparently the universe has decided humiliation builds character.

You’re sitting under one of the paddock tents with several organizers and drivers when one of the younger drivers grins at Oscar. “So,” she says casually, “how long have you two been together?”

You inhale water directly into your lungs.

Across from you, Oscar goes very still.

The table erupts instantly. “No, no,” one organizer says. “They just fight like an old married couple.”

“Which is honestly worse,” another pipes up.

You cough violently, face mottling with embarrassment. “We are not together.”

The volunteer looks unconvinced. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes!” you exclaim.

She turns to Oscar for confirmation, and he opens his mouth. For one horrible heartbeat, you genuinely don’t know what he’s going to say. Finally, he blurts out: “No.”

And something weirdly disappointing twists in your chest, which is insane. You immediately become angry about it.

The conversation moves on eventually, but you can feel Oscar beside you growing quieter. More withdrawn.

You risk a glance toward him.

He’s staring down at his untouched drink, jaw tight.

And suddenly it hits you all at once. He thinks you’d never want him back. That’s what this distance is. The hesitance… it all makes sense.

Oscar Piastri — emotionally repressed, terrifyingly intelligent, chronically composed Oscar — has been trying to like you quietly enough that you wouldn’t notice.

Because, odds are, he thought you hated him.

Thankfully you’re seated, or your knees would have buckled and given way beneath you.

Which feels deeply unfair considering he’s the one emotionally compromising you.

The breaking point comes later that afternoon. There’s a small grandstand overlooking the track where the guests can watch the kids race. You slip away there during a break, needing air before your thoughts kill you outright.

The seats are mostly empty, and you’re halfway through contemplating faking your own death when footsteps sound behind you.

It’s Oscar, obviously.

He sits beside you without speaking. Not too close. The space feels like a chasm, and all you want to do is reach out and stitch the hole between you up, even though that’s the last thing your younger self would have done.

The silence stretches, comfortable in the way only silence with him has ever been. You used to hate that too, how easy it was to sit beside him doing nothing. Even your quiet understood each other.

“You’ve been avoiding me today,” he says finally.

You keep your eyes trained on the track, small dots whizzing past. “Have not.”

“You called me tall like it was a threat.”

“In my defense, you are alarmingly tall,” you shoot back.

A tiny huff of laughter escapes him. Then it’s quiet again, wind brushing through the stands and engines roaring below. Oscar taps his fingers once against his knee, his nervous tic rising to the surface. 

“You know, you’re actually very hard to read.”

He glances sideways at you. “That’s… objectively untrue. For you, I mean. Not for others.”

“It’s not.”

Oscar’s nose twitches in confusion. “You’ve known me since childhood.”

“Exactly, and you’re still impossible.”

He looks down briefly, and says, so quietly you almost miss it: “Not around you.”

Your breath catches. The fact that he’s not looking at you when he confesses makes it more honest, somehow. “Oh,” you whisper.

After what feels like an eternity, he turns towards you. There’s no more distance left in his expression, no careful detachment. Just exhaustion, want, and something terrifyingly sincere. “You really didn’t know,” he murmurs softly.

It’s not even a question, yet you can’t speak for a second.

Suddenly, every version of Oscar in your memories looks different.

Every sharp comment that was actually attention. Every argument that lasted too long because neither one of you wanted to stop talking. Every lingering glance. Every moment he stayed.

“Oh my God,” you sputter.

Oscar’s eyelashes flutter briefly, as though this is physically painful for him. “I cannot believe I’ve spent months flirting with someone this oblivious.”

You gasp in offense automatically. “Months?”

“Years, actually,” he amends.

You suck in a breath in astonishment. “Years?”

“You thought I kept memorizing things about you recreationally?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought you were annoying!” you protest.

He smirks. “I was annoying, but that’s not the whole truth and you know it.”

“You were emotionally terrorizing me,” you scoff. 

Oscar lilts one shoulder, finally edging closer to where you were perched. “I liked you.”

“That’s a clinically insane way to show affection!”

Oscar laughs properly, right then and there. Bright and helpless and completely unlike the controlled smiles he gives everyone else.

And the absolute worst part —

Is that you think it might be your favorite sound in the world.

You stare at Oscar Piastri like he’s personally offended you; which, to be fair, he has. “Years?” you repeat weakly. 

Oscar leans back against the grandstand seat beside you, one hand dragging down his face. “I’m realizing now that I may have overestimated your observational skills.”

“I thought you hated me!”

“I brought you coffee every morning for two weeks in Melbourne.”

“I thought you were being polite,” you bemoan loudly. “God, you remember everything.”

He works his jaw for a moment. “Yes. Because I’m in love with you.”

Silence. Actual, complete, crushing silence.

Even the sounds from the track below feel distant suddenly. Your brain — whatever shards of it were left rattling around in your skull — fully stops functioning.

“You look alarmed.”

“You just said the L-word!”

“Yes,” he thinks aloud. “Unfortunately, I did.”

You shake your head roughly to clear your thoughts. “Why is that unfortunate?”

“Ideally, I would have preferred a slightly smoother reveal than you accusing me of being tall.”

You make an outraged noise, and he laughs again. Like he can’t quite believe this conversation is real either. 

That idea nearly destroys you. Oscar Piastri has always seemed so composed and impossible to shake, but right now? He looks nervous.

His fingers tap once against his knee again before stopping abruptly when he notices you looking. “You’re fidgeting,” you say faintly.

“That’s your takeaway?” He smirks.

“You never fidget.” 

Oscar drops his hand from his knee, ears going pink. “I do around you.”

This is horrible, you moan internally. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to you. Every single interaction from the past few months is replaying in horrifyingly clear retrospect.

The staring, the jealousy, the almost-confessions, the way his hand lingered on your back during photos, the way he looked disappointed earlier at lunch.

“Oh my God.”

Oscar winces.

“You thought I was rejecting you.”

Neutrally, Oscar replies, “I assumed you weren’t interested.”

You flinch a little hearing that. Seeing it from his side has made everything so… devastating. Oscar trying, probably for the first time in his emotionally constipated life, and you responding by calling him irritating seventy-eight times.

“You idiot,” you tease.

He scowls. “Interesting criticism considering you’re the one who didn’t notice.”

“I noticed things,” you argue.

“Like my height.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You’re making that sound unreasonable.”

“It is unreasonable.”

You glare at him, and he looks suspiciously fond about it.

God, that look.

Now that you understand what it means, it’s unbearable. It’s everywhere, in the way he watches you talk, in the way his shoulders relax around you. It’s even in the tiny unconscious smile he gets whenever you say something sarcastic.

How could you have missed this?

“How long?” you ask quietly.

Oscar’s expression evolves instantly, more fragile. It scares you more than the confession itself. “A while.”

“Oscar,” you push.

He exhales slowly, eyes on the track instead of at you. “Probably since we were teenagers.”

Your heart feels like somebody pulled the trigger. “What?”

“You were fifteen.” He starts off awkwardly, but he presses on, saying, “You broke your wrist doing cartwheels or some other gymnastic trick.”

The memory flashes in your mind. Slick pavement, the awful crack of impact. Your tears blending in with the rain.

And Oscar — Oscar sitting with you in the hospital afterward for hours. Silent, irritated, but hovering. You thought he was there because your parents made him stay. “I remember,” you say softly, almost reverently.

He nods, just once. “You fell asleep eventually. Still had tears on your face. You looked…” he fumbles for the right word. “Small.” Something in your chest caves inward. “And I remember thinking that I’d kill someone if anyone tried to hurt you. Even though, technically, it was your own fault you broke your wrist.” You can hear the blood rushing through your ears as Oscar continues. “Which was really inconvenient because I was sixteen and emotionally repressed.”

“You’re still emotionally repressed.”

“Fair enough.”

You’re staring at him now, really admiring him. Traces of the boy he used to be: picking fights with boys who flirted with you, ending up beside you during group dinners, knowing your favorite things without asking. Oscar remembering. Always, always, always remembering. 

“You liked me this whole time?”

His expression is so open that it almost hurts to see. “Yes.”

The word lands heavily between you. Like it’s always been true. You look away first because your chest feels too tight suddenly. “That’s actually insane.”

“I’m aware, Y/N.”

“You could’ve just told me.”

He shakes his head. “The last time I bothered you, you threw a juice pouch at my head.”

You rub your temples. “That’s because you were being annoying!”

“I was seventeen and trying to flirt.” 

You whip toward him in horror. “That was flirting?”

“In my defense, I had no social skills.”

You cough out a strangled laugh. The wonders of teenage boys never failed to surprise you. Without thinking, you put your head on his shoulder, letting it rest there.

The atmosphere changes instantly.

Oh.

Oh no.

You feel delirious with how close he is. Close enough you can see the tiny scar near his jaw from karting. You notice how his breathing changes slightly as you shift closer.

“Oscar,” you say quietly.

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then moves back to rest on your eyes. Your entire body is electric. “Yeah?” he answers softly.

There’s no more sarcasm, barbed teasing. Just him. Waiting.

You don’t know what to do with this version of Oscar. The honest one, looking at you like you’re something precious.

“You make me insane.”

Something flits across his face. “Mutual problem, actually,” he theorizes jokingly.

“You’re awful at communication.”

He rolls his eyes. “So are you.”

“You were in love with me for years and said nothing.”

“You called me emotionally manipulative in 2019,” he recounts with laughter in his eyes.

You huff. “That’s because you were emotionally manipulative in 2019.”

“I bought you soup when you were sick.”

“You insulted my movie taste,” you remind him. He scratches a spot on the back of his neck. “The movies were bad.” “They won awards!”

“Yeah, and they were still bad.”

You laugh before you can stop it, and Oscar looks wrecked. Hearing you laugh must be his favorite thing on earth, and your smile falters slightly when that epiphany hits you.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to say anything back, you know that, right?”

Your chest aches. He means it, even now, after all this. He’s still not trying to pressure you, staying forever careful with you. It becomes so clear to you why none of this ever felt like hatred. Even at your worst with each other, Oscar was never cruel to you.

Oscar was sharp, competitive, irritating, impossible. Yes. But never cruel.

He always looked at you like you mattered. You were just too stubborn to see it.

“You know what the worst part is?” you reckon.

Oscar studies you carefully. “What is it?”

“I think everyone else figured this out before I did.” You snort. 

His mouth quirks again. “Mia threatened to lock me in a room until I confessed.”

Your eyes widen. “Confessed?”

“She’s very aggressive, I will say.”

You groan and hide your face in your hands. “I’m never speaking to anyone again.”

His hand reaches out to touch yours, fingers interlocking. “You’ll recover.”

“No, I won’t,” you say. “This is humiliating.”

“I can think of worse things.”

You withdraw your hand from his, lifting your head to look at him. Oscar’s giving you his typical impossible stare, as though he’s trying not to say too much all at once. “You know, this is kind of your fault.”

“My fault.”

“Yes,” you insist. “If you had told me how you felt, instead of spending years acting like a weird person…”

Oscar jolts back, deeply offended. “Pardon?”

“You pined silently.”

“I did not pine silently.”

You purse your lips. “You remembered my favorite flowers for ten years.”

“Well, that’s not evidence.”

You level him with an appraising glance. “You got jealous over a guy I dated when we were sixteen and nearly crashed a kart into a barrier.”

“In fairness, he was annoying.”

You scoff. 

“He wore fedoras, Y/N.”

You burst into helpless laughter, and this time Oscar fully smiles. “You’re pretty,” you say accidentally.

Oscar blinks.

Horror floods your body all at once. “Nope, forget I said that.”

Oscar’s cheeks turn pink, just like the tips of his ears. “You think I’m pretty?”

“You heard nothing.”

“Mmm, I’m pretty sure I heard everything.”

“You’re impossible,” you groan. 

“And yet.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, a millisecond that you still notice.

Your thoughts disintegrate. Up here, it feels strangely quiet. Private. Like the whole world is narrowed down to this one moment. Oscar shifts slightly closer, not enough to trap you but enough that you can feel the warmth of him beside you.

And softly, so softly you almost don’t survive it, he says: “Can I kiss you?”

Your brain completely bluescreens. Of course he asks, careful even now. You stare at him for a long second, at the boy who spent years loving you quietly, driving you insane your entire life and somehow became home anyway.

You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him before he can overthink himself into another emotional crisis.

Oscar makes a startled sound against your mouth. For exactly one second. Then his hands are suddenly on your waist like he can’t help it. It’s romantic, it’s perfect, and your brain is short-circuiting from the fact that Oscar Piastri kisses like he’s been wanting to do it for years.

Which apparently, he has.

“Oh,” he breathes against your lip afterward.

You’re still holding onto his shirt. His forehead rests briefly against yours. For the first time in your entire life, Oscar looks completely undone. “You OK?”

He laughs shakily. “You have absolutely no idea what you do to me.”

You want to melt.

“I can’t believe you called me pretty before you kissed me.”

Your face burns instantly. “Don’t make this worse.”

“I think I deserve to hear it again, actually.” “You’re unbelievable,” you snicker.

“And you’re in love with me.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Oscar’s grin grows slowly. “Oh my God,” you harrumph. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

The problem with kissing Oscar Piastri exactly once is that apparently your body develops an immediate dependency on it, which feels medically concerning. Because the second you pull back, your first coherent thought is:

Again.

Oscar seems to be having a similar issue. He’s still looking at you like the concept of oxygen has become secondary. One of his hands remains carefully at your waist, like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real enough to let go of yet.

The other is gripping the bench beside you hard enough that his knuckles are pale.

Interesting.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“I’m processing,” he deflects.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“You kissed me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You asked.”

“I honestly didn’t think you would agree.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “You literally confessed your love.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But historically you’ve also threatened me with sports drinks.”

“That happened one time. Stop beating the dead horse. It’s getting old.”

“It happened hard.”

You laugh helplessly, and immediately Oscar’s expression softens again in that terrible, fond way. It hits you suddenly — violently, overwhelmingly — that this boy has probably spent years collecting little moments from you like treasures.

Every laugh, every insult, every accidental touch.

“You’re being weird again,” you whisper.

Oscar doesn’t even try denying it this time. “Probably.”

“What are you thinking about?”

His gaze flicks over your face slowly. “You.”

You think you might actually burst into flames. “That’s not a normal answer.”

“I’m not feeling especially normal right now.”

Which — wow.

Hearing Oscar admit emotional instability is genuinely more shocking than the confession itself.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “How long have you been wanting to do that?”

“The kissing or the confessing?”

Your stomach churns. “Both.”

Oscar leans back slightly, considering. “The confessing? A few months.”

“And the kissing?”

He looks at you for one silent second too long. “Honestly?”

You point at him. “Don’t say honestly like you’re about to ruin my life.”

“That ship sailed ten minutes ago.”

“Oscar.”

His ears go pink again.

“I think,” he chooses his next words carefully, “probably Monaco.”

“The first campaign event?”

“You were wearing that black dress. With the sequins,” he hums.

“That was months ago!”

“Yes.”

“You’ve just been existing like this ever since?”

He looks mildly embarrassed now, which is so rare it nearly kills you on sight. “You kept standing very close to me.”

“You were the one touching my back in photos!”

“I was trying to be normal.”

“You failed.”

“That has become apparent.”

You stare at him, and another horrifying realization strikes. “Oh no.” Oscar looks wary already, before you can say anything else. “The gala.”

“What about it?”

“When they asked who gets jealous more easily —” Oscar inches away and you gasp dramatically. “You were jealous.”

“No.”

“You literally hesitated!” You burst out laughing again.

And there it is. That unbearably soft expression he gets when you’re happy. It nearly knocks the breath out of you. You understand now. All those years you thought Oscar was cold —

He wasn’t detached, he was careful. Careful with his feelings. Careful with yours. Careful not to want too much.

“You know,” you ponder aloud slowly, “I think we might actually be stupid.”

Oscar nods immediately. “That’s statistically supported.”

“You spent years in love with me.”

“Yes.”

“I spent years thinking you hated me.”

“That part’s particularly concerning,” he interrupted.

“And everyone else apparently knew.”

“Mia called me pathetic in Milan.”

You rear backwards in shock. “She said what?”

“In fairness, she wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“No, she absolutely was.” You shake your head defensively.

Oscar’s eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re already siding with me?”

“Don’t get used to it,” you huff.

“Too late.”

You shove his shoulder again automatically. This time, though, he catches your wrist gently before you can pull away. The movement is instinctive. Easy. Your breath catches a little when his thumb brushes against your pulse. God, nothing about this man escapes you now that you’re looking properly.

The tiny tension in his jaw. The way he keeps unconsciously moving closer. The fact that he looks happier than you’ve ever seen him. Warm all the way through.

And suddenly you realize something else too. You’ve never seen him like this with anyone. Not friends, not interviewers, not even Lando Norris.

Nobody gets this version of Oscar. Just you.

The realization settles somewhere deep in your chest.

“Oscar,” you say his name like a vow.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. Which is rare for you. But this feels important enough to say correctly. “I don’t think I hated you either.”

Something flickers across his face. Small. But powerful enough that your chest tightens instantly. “No?” he asks quietly.

“No.” You smile, a stupid  lovesick idiot. “I think I was just emotionally constipated too.”

He laughs, completely gone for you.

You think you could spend the rest of your life trying to make him sound like that again. “You know what really annoys me?” you continue.

“Hmm?”

“You’re probably going to become unbearable now.”

“I’m already unbearable,” he objects.

“True.”

“But, I’ll simply be unbearable and loved.”

You sigh loudly. “Oh, you’re never shutting up about this.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re going to weaponize the fact that I kissed you first, aren’t you?”

He smiles. “You grabbed my shirt.”

“I was having a crisis.”

“You called me pretty,” Oscar reminds you, as though you need reminding of that mortifying moment.

“Please stop bringing that up.”

Footsteps echo faintly from below the grandstand, distant voices calling for drivers and staff. Reality is creeping back in. Eventually you’ll have to go downstairs. Eventually people will see this.

Mia will probably scream. The internet will become unusable. Your parents may actually pass away from vindication.

But right now it’s just the two of you sitting in the fading afternoon sunlight above a kart track that somehow started all of this years ago.

Oscar’s still holding your wrist gently, like he forgot to let go and doesn’t want to.

“You know,” he muses after a moment, quieter now, “I used to think you were the scariest person I’d ever met.”

You think he’s joking. “Me?”

“You threw things when angry.”

“You deserved those things.”

“Probably.” His thumb brushes your wrist again absentmindedly. “But mostly I think I was scared because I wanted you too much.”

Your heart stumbles painfully. Oscar says things so simply, so bluntly sometimes. Honesty does cost him less now that it’s finally out in the open.

“And now?” you ask softly.

His gaze lifts to yours. Warm. Certain. Entirely yours. “Now,” he says, “I think it might’ve been worth it.”

The universe feels like it has quietly tilted onto a new axis while you weren’t paying attention. You look at the boy who spent years loving you in silence. The boy you spent years misunderstanding with terrifying dedication. The boy who turned every fight into affection and every sharp edge into something strangely safe.

And suddenly it all makes sense. The tension. The gravity. The feeling that no matter how far apart you drifted, some invisible thread always pulled you back together.

Maybe this wasn’t divine punishment after all.

Maybe it was the universe getting tired of waiting for two idiots to finally figure it out.

You don’t hear the front door open — you feel it.

The shift in the air, the soft thud of Oscar’s bag hitting the floor, the quiet exhale he always lets out when he finally comes home. Training days drain him in a way nothing else does, and normally you’d be the first one there, padding into the hallway in your socks, ready to wrap your arms around him.

But tonight, you’re sitting on the bedroom floor with your back against the side of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves balled in your fists. The mirror across from you is covered with a blanket — you’d thrown it over the glass an hour ago after catching a glimpse of yourself and feeling that familiar, crushing wave of disgust.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

You don’t want anyone to.

“Love?” Oscar calls softly, voice warm but tired. “I’m home.”

You swallow, forcing your voice to sound normal. “Hi. I’m in here.”

His footsteps pad down the hall — slow, heavy, the way they get when he’s exhausted. When he appears in the doorway, hair damp from a quick shower at the facility, hoodie hanging loose on his frame, he gives you a small smile.

Then the smile fades.

Because he sees you on the floor. And he knows.

Oscar doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He never does — not because he doesn’t care, but because he’s learned that questions make you retreat. Instead, he walks over, lowers himself onto the floor beside you, and leans his shoulder gently against yours.

“Long day?” he murmurs.

You nod. It’s easier than explaining the truth — that it wasn’t the day, it was you. It’s always you.

Oscar tilts his head, studying your face. “You’ve been crying.”

You look away. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” he says immediately, quietly, like it’s a fact he’s memorised. “Nothing that hurts you is stupid.”

Your throat tightens. You want to believe him. You want to believe anyone could look at you and see something worth loving. But the voice you grew up with — the one that told you you weren’t enough, weren’t pretty, weren’t wanted — is louder.

It always is.

“I just…” You swallow hard. “I don’t understand why you’re with me.”

Oscar’s breath catches, like the words physically hit him. “Hey,” he whispers, shifting so he can face you fully. “Where’s that coming from?”

You shake your head, tears burning again. “I don’t know. I just… I look at myself and I don’t see anything good. And I keep thinking one day you’ll realise that too. Or you’ll get tired of pretending.”

Oscar’s expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache — not pity, never pity, but something deeper. Something protective.

He reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, he cups your cheek with the gentlest touch.

“I don’t pretend with you,” he says. “Not ever.”

You blink, tears slipping free. “But I’m not—”

“Don’t,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Don’t finish that sentence. Not about yourself.”

You look down at your hands. “I can’t see what you see.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “And that’s okay. I’m not asking you to see it yet. I’m just asking you to trust that I do.”

Your breath trembles.

Oscar shifts closer, knees touching yours. “You grew up hearing things no one should ever hear about themselves. You learned to survive by believing the worst. That doesn’t go away just because someone loves you.”

You close your eyes, because hearing it said out loud feels like someone peeling back armour you’ve worn your whole life.

“But I’m not going anywhere,” he continues. “Not when you’re struggling. Not when you’re doubting. Not when you’re hurting. I’m here. I’m staying.”

Your voice cracks. “Why?”

Oscar smiles — soft, earnest, heartbreakingly sincere. “Because I love you. Because you’re kind and funny and stubborn and thoughtful. Because you make my life better just by being in it. Because when I look at you, I see someone worth loving.”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now. “I don’t feel worth loving.”

“I know,” he whispers. “So I’ll hold that for you until you can.”

He opens his arms — not pulling, not insisting, just offering.

And for the first time all day, you let yourself move. You crawl into his chest, burying your face in his hoodie, fingers gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Oscar wraps his arms around you instantly, securely, protectively, like he’s shielding you from the world.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs into your hair. “You’re safe with me.”

You breathe in his scent — laundry detergent, shampoo, the faint smell of the track — and something inside you loosens. Not healed, not fixed, but held.

After a long moment, Oscar presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t have to love yourself for me to love you,” he says. “You don’t have to be confident. You don’t have to be okay all the time. You just have to be here.”

You whisper, “I’m trying.”

“I know,” he says, tightening his arms around you. “And I’m proud of you.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I’m scared you’ll leave.”

“I won’t,” he says simply. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not when you’re doubting yourself. Not when you’re struggling with intimacy. Not when you’re having a bad day. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are warm, steady, full of a love you still can’t understand — but maybe, just maybe, you can start to trust.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Oscar smiles, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Okay.”

He leans his forehead against yours, breathing you in like you’re the thing that brings him home.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe — not fully, not easily, but enough — that maybe you’re not as unlovable as you were taught to feel.

Maybe, with him, you can learn something new.

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

Partly because you hadn’t paid much attention to the first one, and partly because now that you had met Oscar Piastri in person, you couldn’t deny that investigative instinct that had followed you ever since you dropped out of journalism school, the one that made you question things most people wouldn’t even think twice about. Because regardless of everything else, that driver was rather… peculiar.

In his own way.

“Sooooooo…” Cassie started, subtle as a car crash, while you leaned slightly forward in your seat to watch the orange blur pass by like it might magically hand you some kind of revelation.

It didn’t.

Honestly, you were thinking too hard for even her voice to fully pull you out of your spiral.

Resting on your lap was the notebook and pen that had practically become extensions of yourself over the past few days, already filled with scattered notes:

the place is crowded and there’s a curious mix of polite and rude people. can work with that.

the drivers do walk around the paddock, but not nearly as often as people claim.

Oscar interview (page 8). think about that.

And that third one really deserved proper consideration because… well. You were still thinking about what had happened.

“Cassie, do you know if Oscar has some kind of health issue?” you asked suddenly, biting lightly on the cap of your pen without looking at her.

She clearly had no idea where this was coming from. The expression on Cassie’s face was pure confusion, but she answered anyway.

“Uh… not that I know of? Why?”

“We lost more than twenty minutes of the interview because he looked like he was about to throw up. Then we lost the rest because he actually had to leave and throw up. I only got a few minutes afterward because he insisted.”

“Hm. No, Oscar doesn’t have any specific condition or anything. But he does take some kind of medication after races in hotter places sometimes. Something about low blood pressure.”

Huh.

Right.

That was what he’d said.

You nodded slowly, scribbling beneath point three: the heat really can kill a driver. But that only made you scratch the back of your neck a little awkwardly because, realistically, you were just trying to be considerate.

What actually mattered for your situation was:

“I don’t think it fits the kind of character I’m trying to write.”

A loud whoooosh interrupted the conversation for a second before both of you naturally picked it back up.

“You don’t have to use that part, I guess…” Cassie said, curiosity quickly taking over again. “What’s this character actually like?”

At that exact moment, Max Verstappen’s face appeared on the giant screen alongside a series of timing graphics. You almost cursed at the timing.

There he was.

Your Friedrich Hartmann, as you had decided the character would be called somewhere between the end of the interview and the beginning of the session.

You pouted slightly.

“He’s a monster of the sport. Completely full of himself, definitely has some anger issues, but he has a soft spot for the protagonist.”

“One of those ‘crash the car next corner and demand they cancel the race because Y/N is in the hospital’ types?” Cassie asked while already digging through her bag for lip gloss.

You shook your head, absentmindedly doodling a sad little emoji in the corner of the page.

“No! That’s fanfiction. My story is not fanfiction, duh.” You frowned at her briefly before continuing. “Actually, he’s more like… he’d finish the race to make the protagonist proud, then dedicate the champagne to her afterward. But I want him to feel intense. Full of contradictions. Complex personality, you know?”

The screen changed again.

Oscar appeared this time, standing there with his restrained little smile, arms crossed beneath a list of sector times and lap data.

You let out a slow breath.

“And nothing you got from Oscar helps at all?”

You flipped through the notebook until you found the page again, tongue pressing briefly against your cheek as you skimmed your own handwriting.

“Obvious health issue, or maybe just a situational thing. Formula One driver since 2019. I can tell he genuinely likes what he does. Reserved. Slightly exhausted. Soft-spoken.” You paused. “Can maintain eye contact without blinking for several minutes, which is honestly terrifying, but considering the context, understandable. Was strangely intense about making sure I didn’t draw the wrong conclusions.”

You thought for another moment.

Thought some more.

“Not really the profile I need. But I don’t think I’ll throw the information away entirely.”

Your eyes drifted toward the final line of notes. You considered not mentioning it.

Eventually, you sighed.

“He said Sophie would contact me to reschedule.”

Cassie blinked at you, visibly surprised.

“Reschedule?”

You shrugged, looking back toward the track. The session was nearing its end now. Lando Norris passed by. George Russell. Oscar shortly after.

“I don’t think it’ll actually happen,” you admitted. “I think he was just being polite because the interview turned into such a mess.”

Cassie gave a small shrug that loosely translated to maybe, though she didn’t look convinced.

You decided to leave it alone.

Because you were pretty sure you were right.

You were wrong.

That night, soaking in an extremely relaxing bubble bath surrounded by every overpriced product you had insisted on bringing for the trip, you weren’t thinking about anything anymore: not books, not stories, not racing, not paddocks or anything remotely related to Formula One.

Tiffany was curled up in the corner of the bathroom, completely occupied with the organic chew bone approved by her veterinarian, showing absolutely no interest in giving you attention. Music played softly in the background, one of your favorites from the playlist you had specifically made for days like this.

And that was exactly why you noticed something was wrong. Because the music stopped at the exact moment your peace was interrupted by two insistent notification pings, forcing one of your eyes open.

Still, you took your time reaching for the phone, grabbing the small towel hanging beside the bathtub first so you could dry your hand properly. By the time you finally unlocked the screen and opened the messages, saying you were surprised would have been a massive understatement.

Unknown Number: Good evening! How are you? This is Sophie. Oscar asked Cassie to send me your contact information so I could speak with you about rescheduling the interview. He apologizes for the inconvenience this afternoon and hopes you’ll be available so the two of you can restart it.

Unknown Number: He’ll have some free time after qualifying. We understand it’s a bit later in the day, but I believe you’ll be able to make better use of the meeting considering all media responsibilities will already be finished by then.

Unknown Number: Please let me know as soon as possible so I can add it to the schedule! Thank you very much.

You stared at the messages for a long moment, the warm water shifting softly around you as your brain tried to catch up.

Restart it. Not continue. Restart.

Your eyebrows pulled together slightly.

That was… strangely committed wording for a twenty-minute interview that had objectively gone terribly. Slowly, you lowered the phone just enough to glance toward Tiffany. The chihuahua remained completely invested in her bone.

“Do you think this is weird?” you asked her.

Tiffany ignored you.

“Right. Great conversation.”

You leaned back against the bathtub again, staring up at the ceiling while the music continued quietly in the background.

You really had nothing to lose.

You: Hello, Sophie! Thank you very much for reaching out. After qualifying works perfectly for me. And I’ll tell him tomorrow not to worry about what happened today. We really can’t mess around with health, and the weather here is incredibly hot. Have a lovely night!

And then you set your phone back down on the small table beside the bathtub. Eventually, the water started cooling around you.

With a quiet sigh, you finally pushed yourself up from the bathtub, wrapping the towel around your body before reaching instinctively for the absurdly expensive moisturizer sitting beside the sink.

Tiffany trotted after you the second you stepped into the bedroom, nails clicking softly against the hotel floor. The room itself was dimly lit, warm in that artificial luxury-hotel sort of way.

You should probably sleep.

Instead, you sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed with your laptop balanced in front of you. Just curiosity. Research. Nothing more.

The search bar blinked back at you for exactly three seconds before your fingers typed: Oscar Piastri interview.

As you scrolled through the endless list of interviews available, you found yourself trying to fit that version of Oscar together with the one you had met earlier that day.

The interview was around eleven minutes long, a clipped section from a podcast he had appeared on. You watched him carefully for the first few minutes before leaning back against the headboard, absentmindedly biting the tip of your finger as you tried to make sense of what exactly you were seeing.

Oscar seemed resilient. Observant. The way he spoke was calm and deliberate, and he engaged with the interviewer beside him effortlessly. He answered questions with genuine enthusiasm, like someone who truly understood what he was talking about, someone who had spent years studying it and actually loved the work he did. You noticed that during your interview, despite everything, he had carried himself with that exact same sort of presence.

Even if the circumstances had been… unfortunate.

So you kept watching.

Watching and, naturally, trying to find something that justified the strange feeling still sitting in the back of your mind.

But Oscar didn’t actually do anything odd in the interview. Quite the opposite, really. On screen, he appeared completely normal, and maybe that was exactly why it felt weird. Because you remembered very clearly that, at several points during your interview, he genuinely hadn’t looked well at all.

God.

Now you were starting to feel guilty about how quickly you had dismissed the opportunity to get to know him for the sake of the book.

And he had still been kind enough to reschedule.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Maybe it was time to stop acting like a complete ingrate and simply make the most of what had landed in your hands.

With a quiet sigh, you finally closed the laptop and pushed it aside, giving yourself space to actually think about the situation you had somehow gotten yourself into.

Well. Not exactly yourself. Cassie, technically.

You hadn’t wanted to interview Oscar Piastri in the first place, but now you seemed to be stuck with him. And honestly… that was fine. Maybe he wasn’t exactly what you had been looking for, but he wasn’t something you could simply throw away either. Like you had told Cassie, you would try to make sense of the information somehow.

Tiffany climbed onto the bed beside you, curling herself into a tiny ball already half-asleep. You rubbed a hand softly against her stomach for a moment before finally turning off the bedside lamp. And with your mind quieter than it had been all day, sleep eventually found you too.

The next day, you arrived at the paddock like a page had turned.

No, not turned. Replaced. This one felt blank. New.

And you no longer carried that same faintly green expression of someone convinced they already understood how everything worked. If you were being honest, you felt a little humbled now as you walked through the paddock, nodding politely at the people around you, genuinely trying to become part of the environment instead of standing outside it.

You were noticing things you hadn’t the day before. Now that you were more relaxed, the details around you came easier: the rhythm of movement between team members, the physical structure of the paddock itself, the way people occupied the space depending on status, urgency, importance. Even the atmosphere felt clearer to you now, which was slightly embarrassing considering how analytical you usually were.

But after Cassandra’s message the previous afternoon, you had stopped paying attention to everything around you entirely. You’d been too focused on how the interview would go. Too irritated that things hadn’t happened the way you originally planned.

Naturally, that was a flaw of yours more than anything else.

You had always struggled when things escaped the version you had already organized in your head. But now, after thinking about it for far too long the night before, you felt more open to the situation. Lighter, somehow. Like some small weight had finally slipped from your shoulders now that you could simply observe things for what they actually were.

Fine.

So Oscar Piastri wasn’t Max Verstappen. He would still work.

And so you kept walking through the paddock.

This time, Tiffany wasn’t with you. You had left her with Gordon in the car after he insisted he would watch her while you handled your “professional obligations,” considering he wouldn’t be staying for qualifying that day anyway.

At the moment, Free Practice Three was nearing its end, though you weren’t watching it. You had only just arrived.

Before leaving the hotel, you had spoken to your family, written for a while, and finally managed to start the opening chapter of the book you had spent days trying to continue.

Creative blocks were horrible like that. Whenever they appeared, your nights inevitably stretched longer than they were supposed to.

That day, Cassie was supposed to walk you over to the McLaren facilities again, though there was a fair chance you wouldn’t even see her for more than a few minutes.

The closer race day got, the busier she became.

So you didn’t feel offended when she explained, somewhat apologetically, that she’d be swamped and probably wouldn’t be able to keep you company that afternoon. You understood, obviously. Besides, getting there turned out to be much easier than it had been the day before.

You had already been to the McLaren facilities once now. The path was familiar, and all the team buildings sat relatively close to each other anyway. Realistically, even if you had forgotten where it was, you could’ve just asked someone along the way.

Walking toward the entrance, you were greeted almost immediately by someone from the team who recognized you from the previous day. They welcomed you politely, directed you further inside, and told you to make yourself comfortable.

Somewhere along the way, Sophie found you.

She approached with an easy smile and extended her hand toward you, catching you slightly off guard. She was a little shorter than you, though she carried herself with the kind of confidence that made people seem taller than they actually were. Friendly, too. Very friendly.

You recognized her instantly. You had noticed her around Oscar several times throughout the paddock already, always nearby in some capacity, helping whenever he needed something PR-related.

“Hi! Finally nice to meet you properly,” Sophie said warmly once you shook her hand. “And thank you again for being understanding yesterday. Oscar was genuinely worried you’d leave thinking he was horribly rude.”

Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them.

Oh.

That was… unexpectedly self-aware of him.

“Well,” you admitted carefully, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, “I did think he hated me for at least fifteen minutes.”

Sophie stared at you for exactly one second.

Then she burst out laughing.

Actually laughing.

“No,” she said immediately, still smiling. “Oh, no. If Oscar hated you, trust me, you would know.”

What exactly she meant by that, you had absolutely no idea. But you didn’t ask. After all, you weren’t there to ask that many questions. You were more curious about what would happen next.

So you pulled out your notebook again — as always, your greatest and most loyal companion — and glanced down at it briefly before looking back at her.

“So, Sophie, we’re set for after qualifying, right?”

Sophie nodded immediately.

“Yes, after qualifying. He’s finishing Free Practice Three right now, so he should be back around here soon.” She gestured vaguely somewhere behind her. “He’ll probably make a few adjustments before qualifying starts, and that’s basically it. You’re free to stay wherever you’d like in the meantime, and once it’s time for the interview, someone will come get you.”

Then her expression softened slightly, almost apologetic.

“And sorry again about the timing, by the way. Tomorrow gets really complicated.”

You nodded, listening carefully while she continued.

“We try not to overload Oscar with too much after races because we never really know how the result is going to go.” Sophie crossed her arms lightly. “If it’s a bad result, there’s already a lot of media pressure and he’ll need time to process everything before doing more work. And if it’s a great result…” A small smile pulled at her mouth. “Well. Then he’ll want to celebrate, and he’ll already be doing a million interviews anyway. We’d rather not risk suffocating him with even more obligations after that.”

“That makes perfect sense,” you replied immediately. “Really. Thank you, Sophie.”

And honestly, it did make sense.

Scheduling an interview after a race didn’t seem ideal for any driver, not once you actually stopped to think about it. Racing was emotional enough for fans watching from the grandstands or from home. You could only imagine what it felt like for the drivers themselves.

You gathered your things properly again and wandered further inside.

There was a catering area nearby with various snacks and drinks spread across a long table for staff and guests to help themselves to. You grabbed something small more out of politeness than hunger before continuing to walk.

You didn’t know the McLaren facilities very well yet. Naturally, that made you curious. You wanted to see where people moved, where they gathered, what parts of the building felt important versus purely functional. Obviously there were restricted areas, some doors even had clear DO NOT ENTER signs attached to them, but there was still plenty left to explore.

Your attention drifted toward a quieter hallway lined with photographs and framed moments from McLaren’s history at the circuit. Curiosity getting the better of you once again, you started walking in that direction.

It was when you reached the final photograph in the hallway. Unlike the others, this one was much larger. The image captured a moment from the 2012 United States Grand Prix — McLaren’s first victory at the Circuit of the Americas.

Lewis Hamilton stood at the center of the photograph, still inside the car while the team erupted around him on the pit wall. The colors were colder than the ones used today, the uniforms different, but the emotion still cut through the image effortlessly.

You stepped a little closer.

Beneath the frame, a small gold plaque described the decisive overtake on Sebastian Vettel during the closing laps of the race.

Huh.

Okay, that was actually kind of cool.

Your eyes moved slowly across the details in the picture — the mechanics celebrating, the raised arms, the tension frozen in that exact second. It was strange to realize how Formula One could turn moments that lasted only seconds into something almost historical.

“I’d say Zak is probably concerned you’re either trying to sneak into the drivers’ rooms or you’re just extremely curious about the photographs in this hallway.”

The deep voice beside you made you jump.

Your head snapped up immediately, startled enough that your heart skipped painfully in your chest.

Oscar Piastri stood there.

His race suit hung open halfway down his torso, the fireproof layer underneath still visible, and hanging loosely from one hand was the familiar water pouch with the straw attached to it.

You blinked once.

Then twice.

And instinctively glanced around the hallway.

He was right.

A few doors farther down — closer to the direction you had originally come from — there was, very clearly, a small plaque that read:

Oscar Piastri — Driver’s Room.

Oh.

Oh, that was horrifying.

The heat rushing into your cheeks was immediate and violent enough that even you knew the situation now looked incredibly suspicious. Quickly, you placed a hand against your chest, taking a small step backward as you shook your head.

“No, no, of course not,” you said immediately. “I was looking at the pictures. I forgot how beautiful Hamilton looked in McLaren, honestly.” Your eyes darted briefly toward the door again before returning to him. “God, I didn’t even realize your room was here.”

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, very obviously entertained by the situation, and shook his head. He knew perfectly well you hadn’t been standing there on purpose. He was just messing with you.

At least… you thought he was. Reading Oscar Piastri’s sense of humor still felt a little impossible. But then he waved a hand dismissively and broke into a much more obvious smile, something open and warm enough to finally make your shoulders relax.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said easily. “I know you weren’t trying to get into my room.”

“Well,” you muttered under your breath, still recovering slightly from the embarrassment, “that’s reassuring.”

Another small laugh escaped him. And somehow, hearing it up close felt different from hearing it across the paddock the day before.

“So,” Oscar continued, glancing toward the framed photographs lining the hallway, “what do you think so far?”

“Oh.” You let out a small breath and looked back toward the final image again. “It’s nice. Really nice, actually.” Your eyes lingered briefly on the photograph of Hamilton before you tilted your head slightly. “Big win for Lewis Hamilton, huh?”

Oscar nodded once beside you.

“He’s all right, I guess.”

That made you snort softly.

“Shut up.”

A faint grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“He’s a great driver,” you continued. “Even now at Ferrari.”

That small, restrained smile returned to Oscar’s lips as he stepped a little closer to the photograph.

For a moment, he simply looked at it.

Really looked at it.

There was something strangely fond in the way he observed the image, something mixed between admiration and nostalgia, almost as though he had somehow existed inside moments like that long before he ever reached Formula One himself.

It felt oddly poetic when you stopped to think about it.

Oscar nodded once.

“Yeah. Lewis Hamilton really is a huge inspiration for us,” he said quietly. “Not just at McLaren. For most young drivers, honestly.” His eyes stayed on the photograph as he spoke. “If you ask most of the younger guys on the grid, they’ll probably tell you the same thing.”

He shifted the water pouch slightly in his hand.

“Obviously Lewis stands out because he’s still here. But we’ve had Mark, Seb, Max…” A faint smile tugged at his mouth again. “A lot of incredible drivers.”

Then he glanced briefly back toward the picture.

“But Lewis Hamilton really does have something different about him, doesn’t he?”

You looked down for a second, thoughtful, before your gaze drifted back toward the photograph as well.

And then back to Oscar.

Standing there like that, quietly admiring something he clearly loved, he suddenly became… unexpectedly interesting.

His cheeks were slightly pink now, whether from the Texas heat or the remains of the session, you weren’t sure. But there was something undeniably genuine in his expression, in the soft focus of his eyes, in the way he carried himself like someone almost faintly uncomfortable inside his own body.

For some reason, you found that a little adorable.

Oscar tilted his head slightly before finally turning back toward you with that same small smile still resting on his face.

“Have a good qualifying,” he said. “I’m going to hide in my driver’s room for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

A soft laugh escaped you.

“Sounds important.”

“It is,” he replied very seriously. “Very intense hiding.”

That earned another laugh from you.

Then Oscar took a small step backward toward the hallway again.

“And I’ll see you afterward for the interview.” His expression shifted into something apologetic again, though lighter this time. “I’ll probably apologize a little more once we get there, by the way. Yesterday was… pretty bad.”

“All right, enough with the apologies,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not going to hold a near-death experience against you.” Your eyes narrowed slightly with curiosity. “Though now I am wondering if that’s normal after sessions.”

“Are we already doing the interview?” he asked.

You tilted your head in a vague sort of maybe, and that earned a soft laugh from him.

“No, it’s not common,” Oscar admitted. “It was an intense session, and there wasn’t any water nearby, so I had to rush out.” He lifted one shoulder slightly. “If we’re not careful about those things, we can end up feeling… pretty bad.”

“I said it wasn’t part of the interview,” you pointed out, “but I’m definitely writing that down for the book.”

He smiled and nodded once.

“Good. I want to hear more about this book later, by the way.” His eyes narrowed slightly with amusement. “If your character is based on me, I think I deserve at least some information about the guy, don’t I?”

You pretended to think about it, though that small feeling of guilt twisted unpleasantly in your stomach again. Because up until this moment, he hadn’t been the inspiration for your story at all. Max Verstappen had occupied your mind the entire time, and the second you started properly describing the character to Oscar, he would absolutely notice that.

Still, you nodded. Disappointing him like that suddenly felt strangely awful.

“All right. I’ll tell you a little about him later. And about what exactly you’re helping me with.”

Oscar hummed softly in satisfaction and stepped a little closer.

The sudden proximity startled you enough that your body instinctively tensed for half a second, but before you could even process what he was doing, he simply reached for your hand.

Then he lifted it toward his lips and pressed a soft kiss against your knuckles.

It was brief.

Gentle.

And so absurdly unexpected that your entire body reacted instantly.

A shiver ran down your spine, heat rushing violently into your neck and cheeks as your brain completely failed to catch up with what had just happened.

Oscar pulled away before you could even think of a response. And as if he hadn’t done anything remotely insane, he gave you a small nod.

“I’ll see you later, then.”

“Right… right. Bye,” you said, awkwardly lifting your hand in a tiny wave.

One of the dimples in his cheeks appeared then, subtle but devastating, and without breaking eye contact, Oscar took another sip from the straw attached to the water pouch.

“Bye-bye,” he said lightly.

Then he stepped back into his driver’s room and closed the door behind him, leaving you standing alone in the hallway with that strange feeling twisting around your stomach all over again.

You glanced toward the framed photograph of Lewis Hamilton, who suddenly seemed to be staring at you accusingly from the wall. Clicking your tongue, you rolled your eyes.

“Oh, please. Shut up,” you muttered at the picture, your cheeks still burning as you finally walked away.

Apparently, being attractive did wonders for a driver, because now, during qualifying, you couldn’t have cared less about the team your family had introduced you to back in childhood. In fact, your body thrilled with small bursts of satisfaction every single time the number 81 lit up another purple sector.

You tried not to think too hard about it because, honestly, what the hell did it even mean that you had somehow developed a tiny little weekend crush on a Formula One driver just because he had kissed your hand, been unexpectedly kind, and looked at an old photograph with genuine passion?

And somehow, after all that, you had started talking about him differently too.

Honestly, it felt a little pathetic.

So every single time the subject came up in your own mind, you immediately changed directions before the thought could go any further. Because dwelling on whatever this was probably wouldn’t end well for you.

You were watching Oscar Piastri because he was important for the character. Because certain aspects of him could work well for your driver too. That was all.

Perfectly reasonable.

And if you were being completely honest, Max Verstappen wasn’t even really in your line of sight anymore, despite occasionally catching glimpses of him somewhere farther down the timing board. Because Oscar Piastri, unfortunately, was absolutely dominating the track. Were you seriously sitting there biting the inside of your cheek every single time Oscar Piastri lit up another purple sector on the screen?

Another one.

Jesus Christ.

How shallow of you…

Your eyes snapped back toward the timing tower almost against your own will. And yet, the second his name jumped back to P1, something warm and embarrassingly pleased twisted inside your stomach anyway.

Apparently, fast laps really could be a turn-on.

Who knew.

Anyway.

Q3 came to an end and—

Front row for Oscar Piastri. Pole position.

This interview was going to be a disaster. Again. And this time, it was going to be your fault.

Your nerves were already on edge before Oscar even stepped into the room. You had been brought there ahead of time, one of the McLaren staff members guiding you inside so you could wait while he finished the rest of his media interviews.

So you waited.

And for a moment, everything was fine.

You went over the questions you wanted to ask him, flipped through your notebook, scribbled down a few new observations and additional things you wanted to bring up during the interview. You reviewed everything twice.

Then you opened your phone to look at the picture Gordon had sent of Tiffany.

And somewhere along the way, your guard dropped.

The worry faded.

And honestly? God, this was so stupid.

Whatever strange effect that hallway conversation and the qualifying session had had on you had worn off enough that you were starting to feel a little ridiculous about the whole thing.

Until Oscar finally appeared at the doorway, distracted, talking to someone outside the room with a laugh caught in his throat that sounded relaxed and genuinely happy.

It hit you like a small punch to the stomach.

Oscar still hadn’t noticed you.

He remained half-turned toward the hallway, one hand braced against the doorframe while the person outside the room continued saying something that made him laugh again.

And wow, this was humiliating. Because suddenly you were hyperaware of everything.

The way his race suit was tied loosely around his waist now. The flushed color still lingering across his cheeks after qualifying. The faint dampness at the roots of his hair like he’d rushed through at least three interviews without properly stopping once.

Your stomach twisted again.

“Oh—hi!” he said, finally pulling away from the quick conversation he’d been having once he noticed you.

You blinked and cleared your throat. Yeah. Oscar looked radiant. Practically glowing.

“Hi…” you replied, looking away from the smile that seemed permanently tattooed onto his face now.

You murmured something under your breath, almost like you were rehearsing the words before saying them properly. It came out so quietly you were fairly sure no normal person would have heard it at all. A tiny, hesitant:

“Congratulations on pole…”

Your lips parted again, preparing to repeat it louder this time. But before you could, Oscar answered while pulling out the chair across from you.

“Thank you,” he said easily. Immediately. Without hesitation. Like he had heard you perfectly.

Oscar sat down, leaning back slightly as he let out a slow breath, one hand dragging tiredly over his jaw.

“Today was…” He shook his head once, a disbelieving little smile pulling at his mouth. “God. Today was good.”

The words came out almost dreamy.

And for a second, you just stared at him.

Your fingers brushed lightly against your own lips as your eyebrows pulled together in confusion. God, were you so thrown off by his presence now that you hadn’t even heard yourself speaking?

“Shall we start?” he asked, leaning slightly forward.

You blinked quickly, almost like you had been caught drifting too far inside your own head.

“Right. Yes. Sorry.”

Professional.

You needed to be professional.

“All right, Oscar… answer naturally, like this is an actual journalistic interview,” you said, scratching the back of your neck while desperately trying to come up with a question that wasn’t horribly embarrassing. “Hm…” You glanced down at your notebook for half a second before forcing the words out anyway. “Do you think highly competitive people love differently?”

Good Lord.

What kind of question even was that?

Your cheeks started heating up all over again. You didn’t even want to look at him.

No.

Absolutely no eye contact.

But avoiding eye contact would probably look even stranger at this point…

You let out a quiet breath and finally forced yourself to lift your eyes toward Oscar.

He was… thinking.

Actually thinking seriously about the question.

“Well, wow,” he said after a moment, glancing briefly toward the ceiling as though the answer might genuinely be hidden somewhere up there. “That’s interesting. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I think they probably do,” he continued slowly. “In a way.” He shifted slightly in his chair. “I…” A soft laugh escaped him then.

The bastard.

“I’m extremely competitive,” Oscar admitted. “And when it comes to loving someone, I think there’s a certain possessiveness involved.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Not in a toxic way,” he clarified immediately, smiling a little as he spoke. “But… you know.” His fingers tapped lightly against the arm of the chair while he searched for the right words. “I think people like that are naturally inclined to want someone to be theirs forever.”

If there was one thing you had expected him to say, it definitely wasn’t that.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t encourage it. You simply wrote the answer down in your notebook and swallowed hard before forcing yourself to continue.

“Do you think someone can be a good partner while still choosing competition first every time?”

This time, it was Oscar who blinked in surprise.

Not dramatically — at least not from what you could tell — but there was a noticeable pause before he finally let out a quiet:

“Wow…”

Your stomach flipped.

“That’s always the question, isn’t it?” he said eventually, clearly choosing his words carefully. “I think there has to be understanding from both sides.”

He leaned back slightly in the chair, gaze drifting somewhere past you for a moment.

“But I don’t think anything is ever truly more important than someone.”

Your pen slowed against the page.

“People have an immeasurable kind of value and…” A small smile appeared on his face then, softer this time, his eyes lowering briefly toward the floor. “If it weren’t for people, what would any achievement even be for?”

The smile lingered faintly.

“People are peculiar,” Oscar murmured thoughtfully. “Curious, aren’t they?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it again.

Your attention dropped back to the paper in front of you, to the words you were writing down.

God, why did he talk like that? Why did he have so many thoughts about everything?

In the end, you simply nodded once.

“All right,” you said quietly, reading the next question from your notebook. “If you loved someone deeply, would you become softer… or worse?”

“Worse.”

The answer came immediately.

Like he had been waiting for that question all along.

Oscar looked at you for a long moment, thoughtful enough that heat started creeping back into your face all over again. Then he leaned back slowly in his chair and let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“If someone already has intense tendencies…” His eyes stayed on yours now. Steady. Unmoving. “Love usually just gives those tendencies somewhere to go.”

Fucking hell. It was always this hot in Texas?

Your breathing had gone slightly uneven somewhere along the conversation, your blinking oddly slow now as though your brain had started lagging behind the rest of you. You shook your head lightly and finally looked away from Oscar.

Enough.

Enough looking at him.

Enough of these questions.

Enough of this interview.

“Oscar, I think…” You cleared your throat softly, forcing your attention back down to the notebook in your lap. “I think that’s enough for today.”

Your pen moved one last time across the page before you finally closed the notebook.

“I’d like to thank you for your…” You hesitated briefly. “For your cooperation.”

One final note scribbled quickly at the bottom of the sheet before you lifted your head again, offering him a slightly strained little smile.

Okay.

Everything was fine.

From where he stood, Oscar looked at you with that insufferable smile again — quiet this time, without the dimples. You slipped your things back into your bag while he followed the movement with his eyes.

“Is that all?” he asked.

You stopped midway through putting your things back into your bag, thinking for far longer than you should have.

Shit.

You were really about to say this.

“Can we schedule another interview?”

I’m not sure if you remember, but a few months ago you reached out to me with a list of constructive feedback after the release of my young adult romance, Beyond the Next Corner. You mentioned that the premise was very compelling and the romance genuinely lovely, but that the setting lacked a bit of realism, and I completely agree.

Despite being a motorsport fan since childhood, I’ve never quite had the instinct for understanding the environment firsthand, the paddock, its dynamics, the ecosystem as a whole. But your feedback really brought that to my attention, and I’m reaching out because I believe you might be able to help me change that.

Which brings me to my question.

Would there be any possibility, however remote, of arranging a paddock or garage visit for research purposes? Ideally, I would love the opportunity to interview Max Verstappen, as the protagonist of my current project is loosely inspired by him. Understanding his perspective, presence in the paddock, and day-to-day environment would be incredibly valuable for the level of authenticity I’m aiming for.

Of course, I fully understand the level of coordination something like this would require, and I would never want to overstep or cause any inconvenience to the teams or their management. Transparency would be a priority, and I’m more than willing to adapt to whatever boundaries are necessary.

I realize this is a rather ambitious request, but I thought it might be worth asking.

Thank you for your time, and regardless, I truly appreciate the insight you’ve already shared.

Best regards.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: A Small Proposal

Oh my God! I can’t believe you actually reached out to me! I don’t know if I should feel embarrassed about everything I said before or genuinely honored to have you in my inbox!

Well, this took me a little longer to reply than you probably expected, but I needed some time to fully understand the scope of your request and find the right people to talk to.

Of course I want to help you develop your story. I truly love the way you write and what you do with the material the media puts out about the drivers. When it comes to mainstream narratives, you do an exceptional job!

Now, about the interview.

I spoke with a few contacts in the paddock, and I was informed this morning that a driver has been made available for you. I can’t guarantee it’s the one you initially mentioned, but it’s the best I could manage, and I really hope it works for you.

I’m sending you a paddock pass for the next race under my name, with full access included. The assigned driver will be expecting you.

Let me know once you receive everything!

"Gordon! You can drop me off here. We’ve arrived!" you exclaimed, leaning your head out of the window of the oversized pink limousine that had taken you all the way to the paddock, your smile bright enough to rival the sun.

Your driver of nearly five years — ever since, at nineteen, you managed to turn yourself into a bestselling young adult author, a story for another time — parked in the designated area without pointing out that, yes, he knew you had arrived. It was hard to miss the massive landmark that was the Circuit of the Americas, especially with miles of parking surrounding it.

He stepped out first and made his way to your door, opening it so you could step out safely. Before turning to leave, however, you used your cutesy voice to talk to Tiffany, the small, elderly chihuahua who went everywhere with you. Gordon didn’t even blink as you picked her up and tucked her into the bag hanging from your arm; he simply extended a hand to help you set your feet on the ground.

"I want you to have fun, Gordon. Seriously! You’re not staying in the car," you said, and he raised an eyebrow as you slipped your hand into the inner pocket of your bag, gently asking Tiffany for some space. When you finally found what you were looking for, you held up the tickets and handed them to him with a smile. "So you can see everything before the race.”

Gordon glanced down at the tickets, then back up at you, one brow still slightly raised.

“I’m working,” he reminded you, in that calm, patient tone he’d perfected over the years.

“And I’m your employer,” you shot back sweetly, tilting your head. “Which means I can order you to have fun.”

He looked at you for a beat longer, as if deciding whether this counted as a real instruction or just one of your many… interpretations of authority. In the end, he took the tickets with a half-smile.

You nodded, patted his shoulder, and finally walked away, waving your fingers in a quick little goodbye as you turned toward that absolute monstrosity of a building that was — no, absolutely not — going to intimidate you.

The sharp click of your heels barely made a dent in the scene: uniformed staff rushed back and forth, pushing shiny metal carts, while mechanics shouted over each other as they organized tires. Here and there, clusters of fans gathered — most of them dressed in cowboy hats and flannel shirts, dancing along to whatever country song blasted through the speakers and craning their necks in hopes of spotting an unsuspecting driver.

This was part of the research too.

You pulled your notebook and pencil from your bag and started jotting things down.

You weren’t sure this would be the circuit you’d choose for the story — it wasn’t your favorite, and definitely not your still-undecided-name protagonist’s either. You planned on letting him choose, after all, he’d be the one racing at 300 km/h to impress the brilliant still-undecided-name female lead.

Still, there was a certain charm to everything around you. And it felt very different from watching it on TV, no matter how big the screen.

You pushed your sunglasses up to the top of your head and narrowed your eyes slightly. Tiffany barked from inside your bag, and you gave a quiet “shh,” pulling her a little closer against you.

A group of Haas staff rushed past without sparing you a second glance. Phones and cameras were already up, all pointed toward the two tall figures at the center, Esteban Ocon and Oliver Bearman,ngiving instructions for whatever they were filming for media.

You had no interest in either of them.

“Maybe we should keep walking, Tiff…” you murmured, without admitting you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do next.

Biting the corner of your lip, you turned slightly, choosing a direction that simply felt right.

That was when you saw her.

A mass of bright, curly red hair rushed toward you, her wide, almost childlike smile forcing you to wave back.

“You made it!” she said, excited, stepping in to pull you into a tight hug. “It’s Cassie.”

With a relieved sigh, you hugged her back just as tightly — right before Tiffany barked in protest at the sudden division of attention. Cassie pulled away, immediately distracted, crouching to fuss over the little dog with a laugh.

“I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to know where I should wait for the interview,” you said, adjusting the hem of your light pink skirt.

Cassie nodded, reluctantly peeling herself away from Tiffany before pointing ahead for you to follow.

“I swear, I thought you were older…” she started, already talking a mile a minute.

She didn’t stop the entire way. You didn’t mind. You actually liked her enthusiasm. It reminded you of one of the interns at your publishing agency.

Amy… Jenny… what was her name again?

You tried to remember, you really did — but you’d just realized the Red Bull building was already shrinking behind you, its bright colors fading into the distance while Cassie kept walking without a second glance.

Your hand curled into a fist at your side. You needed to say something.

“And then you wrote that scene where Carter lifts Sofia by the hips and I almost died right th—”

“Cassie, sorry to interrupt. I have a question,” you said, raising your index finger.

She blinked and finally stopped, looking at you with those wide green eyes. You scratched the back of your neck, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and glanced over your shoulder.

“Red Bull is that way… Where are we going?” you asked gently.

Cassie glanced behind you just to check — and, well, yes. Red Bull was definitely that way.

“I know,” she confirmed with a nod. “But McLaren is this way.”

Her thumb pointing behind her gave you the strange impression that you were no longer speaking the same language. You let out a small laugh and nodded.

“Wait… oh! I think I didn’t explain myself properly,” you said, a hand going to your chest, your voice already halfway into an apology.

Cassie looked at you curiously, openly interested in whatever you were about to say.

“Maybe I forgot to mention it in the email! My main inspiration for the character is Max Verstappen, you know? Red Bull driver.” Your voice, still sweet, gave away your intentions entirely. “I just assumed it had worked out. I mean… why wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, no, I know that! But it wasn’t possible to schedule that meeting with him. Max was unavailable.”

That was new information.

Okay.

What exactly was happening here?

You blinked, your hand lowering from your chest to your waist, your expression settling into mild confusion.

“What do you mean… it wasn’t possible?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“Oh, I mentioned in the email that there was no guarantee which driver you’d get! Their schedules are really tight,” she continued. “But Oscar Piastri agreed! And wow, that was a surprise.”

Wait, what?

She must have taken your reaction as the same kind of surprise she’d had, because she nodded enthusiastically.

“He’s usually so difficult about these things. Not difficult! Oh my god, that sounds rude. He’s nice. A nice person. But when it comes to media…”

And just like that, she started walking again, heading toward the McLaren facilities as if she hadn’t just delivered completely unexpected information.

You stayed where you were for a second too long before finally moving to follow her.

Everything was very, very orange.

From your spot inside the McLaren facilities, you watched the movement around you with a subtle expression of disapproval. Your interview would only happen after the end of the first Free Practice session and the drivers’ media duties. Bureaucratic, but fine.

In the meantime, you and your plastic cup full of coffee took notes of whatever you could.

The McLaren staff were nice, always checking in to make sure you were comfortable and letting you know how much time was left before the drivers returned to the garage. But honestly, they did not mess around when it came to being orange…

The walls were orange, the decorations matched, the uniforms didn’t help.

No—wait. You needed to adjust: not orange. Papaya.

The word alone sent a small shiver down your spine.

It was fine.

Just for today.

You found yourself drifting closer when everyone gathered around the TV in the reception area, watching the drivers climb into their cars. Curiosity won.

It wasn’t new to you. You hadn’t lied to Cassie, Formula 1 had been your thing since childhood. That was exactly why, when you decided to write your first story, it had to be about it. But you can’t understand everything from a distance… Apparently.

You walked over to a round table near the cream-colored sofas, surrounded by comfortable chairs, and took a seat. Someone had taken Tiffany to the designated pet area, and Cassie had gone off to handle her duties.

It was officially a solo mission.

The TV began showing the onboard cameras side by side. Lando Norris adjusted himself into the cockpit, while Oscar Piastri was already inside — helmet on, hands on the wheel, listening to something his engineer was saying before heading out.

Honestly, you had never paid much attention to him.

You’d always been a devoted Mercedes fan, and your desire to use Max Verstappen as inspiration was mostly about appearance and the way he carried himself. The McLaren boys had never caught your attention, not for anything. And, honestly, by the end of the session, you weren’t impressed at all.

Even if Oscar had managed a solid P3.

Even if he spoke over the radio with precise detail about every small adjustment needed, as if he were part of the car itself.

You had to stifle a yawn.

That interview was going to be a terrible waste of time.

The movement picked up again, but you didn’t move from your spot. You pulled a piece of gum from the pocket of your button-up and scrolled through your phone, random, meaningless reels flashing by just to keep you occupied.

Then you heard someone clear their throat and looked up.

“Oscar is waiting for you in the other room. I’ll take you there,” the orange-clad staff member said.

You offered a polite smile, despite everything, and stood up.

It was a disaster. A disaster.

Just like you’d predicted.

You had a generous forty minutes to get through that interview, and twenty had already passed.

Oscar sat across from you and, well, he was nothing like you’d expected.

He was worse.

When you walked into the room, you tried to be reasonable. You smiled, held out your hand to greet him and, okay, he had smiled back, but then he’d turned to the staff member — Caleb, apparently — and started talking, not returning your greeting at all, leaving you standing there with your hand awkwardly in the air until you had to pretend there was something wrong with the sleeve of your shirt.

Oscar was supposed to be sociable. That’s what Cassie said, what the staff said, what every video you’d seen on YouTube and Instagram had told you. Funny, engaged, communicative in his own way. You had expected the meeting to be a disaster for several reasons, but… this? This was borderline outrageous.

“So what’s it like to be a Formula 1 driver? Like, the real feeling,” you asked, trying to inject a bit of charisma into the room.

For a moment, he just looked at you. His dark eyes, analytical and a little cold, passed over you before settling on the blue pen in your hands. His arms were crossed, and even from where you sat, you could tell just how pale his skin was. It was… a little hypnotizing. Pale. Very pale.

He looked like he was about to answer.

Worse — he looked like he was about to throw up.

Thump. Oscar stood up abruptly, the force of it making you flinch.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than it should have been. Off. “I’ll be right back. Just a moment.”

You turned in your chair to follow him with your eyes, your eyebrow practically climbing into your hairline.

And then you were simply… alone.

Five minutes passed. Nine… ten… You fidgeted with your pen, uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. Fifteen minutes…

Twenty.

End of the interview.

You let out a slow breath, pulled your bag off the back of the chair, and stood up. Okay. Maybe this was better. You’d tell Cassie it didn’t work out, push a little harder for Max Verstappen, and end up with the next BookTok hit — full of delicious, intense scenes, beautifully crafted and—

The door opened.

You turned back.

“Hi. Do you have a bit more time so we can do the interview?” Oscar asked, composed and impeccably polite.

You blinked.

Who was that?

A classic McLaren cap sat low on his head, the number 81 stitched across it, shadowing his hair and part of his face… The flush on his cheeks wasn’t a trick of the photos, as far as you could tell. And he was looking at you like he actually expected a real answer.

“Well, I… I have a few more minutes,” you said, a little thrown off, still standing in the same spot.

With a small smile that seemed oddly relieved, he nodded and stepped fully into the room.

“Okay,” he said softly, moving back to the same chair he’d been sitting in before.

Still a little suspicious, you turned slowly, placing your bag back on the chair as if it might betray you at any second. You tucked your hair behind your ear and finally sat down again.

“All right,” you said, taking your pen. Your gaze lifted to him and, despite how disconcerting the sight of him still was, you asked, “Are you… are you okay?”

Oscar seemed caught off guard by the question, straightening slightly.

“Hm? Ah, yeah. I am. I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “Low blood pressure. From the strain during practice and the heat.”

Oh. You hadn’t considered that. It made sense… he really had looked unwell, and you hadn’t done anything to help. Wow. Great job.

“And… are you sure you’re okay to continue? If you’re not feeling well, we can reschedule or… or not. Whatever you prefer,” you offered, a hint of uncertainty in your voice.

He shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. Let’s do this,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. “And… I don’t know if I’ve already asked this, but… why are we doing this? I mean, I don’t mind. Cassandra explained a bit, but I didn’t fully get it. She was… very enthusiastic,” he added, a trace of a smile in his voice. “Are you writing a book?”

No—

Hadn’t Cassie explained it properly?

You had asked her to.

God.

Heat crept up your neck, settling at the tips of your ears.

“Y-Yes. I’m writing a book,” you said, with no intention of offering anything beyond that. Your gaze dropped to your notebook, already retreating. “Oscar, you’ve been a Formula 1 driver since 2023, correct?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Is it a biopic? Would there— would there be any chance I could… see what you write? Approve it?”

For a second, you just stared at him.

Approve it?

Your fingers tightened slightly around the pen.

“No,” you said, a little too quickly.

A beat.

“I mean— it’s not a biopic.”

He paused, watching you. Waiting.

You exhaled softly through your nose, eyes dropping back to your notebook.

“It’s a romance.”

That got a reaction. Quiet, but there.

Oscar’s eyebrow lifted. Just slightly.

You ignored it.

“When you’re in the car, what do you think about?”

“Hm…” He tilted his head a fraction. “It depends. Sometimes I’m counting laps. Thinking about what I’ll do after. I hum sometimes.” A small pause. “It can get a bit boring. Especially when I’m leading.”

You blinked.

“Boring.”

“Yeah.”

“While leading a Formula 1 race.”

He gave a small shrug, like that was the least controversial thing he’d said all day.

“That’s… wildly inconvenient for my narrative.”

That finally pulled something out of him. Not a full smile. But close.

“I can pretend it’s more dramatic, if that helps.”

You shook your head lightly, thinking for another moment before adding a note at the bottom of the page — fully aware of the way Oscar was looking at you.

“Do you think it’s like that for all drivers?” you asked.

He shrugged, lips pressing into a small, uncertain pout that read no idea.

You took a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as you added one last line.

That was enough.

“Oscar, well, I appreciate your time,” you said, closing your notebook with a soft snap that sounded far more final than you intended.

Silence settled. You took a deep breath, stood up, and reached for your bag.

“You’re going to write it wrong.”

Your hand paused mid-air. Slowly, you looked back at him.

But looking back was an understatement. You took a step back — because suddenly, so fucking suddenly, Oscar was right beside you.

You glanced behind him. The chair was still there. Further back than it had any business being.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, startled, blinking more than you meant to.

“The part about it being boring,” he said, almost thoughtfully — with a little more depth than there was any reason for, so much so that you didn’t even process your own confusion and simply pushed it to the back of your mind. “It’s not that.”

“Then… what is it?” you asked, quietly.

His attention shifted just slightly, his eyes flicking toward the door. Seconds later, you heard it:

Oscar Piastri! Fifteen minutes until the start of Free Practice Two.

“I have to go,” he said. “But I’ll tell Sophie to give you my contact. We can schedule another one.”

You wanted to question it. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to, that you already had more than enough for your book research. You were fully intending to dismiss him—

but Oscar had already reached the door handle and was turning it.

“See you at the next interview! Bye,” he said, a polite smile stretching across his lips before it was swallowed by whatever was happening outside.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stayed where you were for a second longer than necessary, your hand still hovering near your bag like your body hadn’t quite caught up with what had just happened.

you weren’t a good girl, nor were you innocent. you got yourself involved in a lot of problems that forced you to leave your hometown and move to a big city. you had two jobs to help pay your bills, and sometimes, when money was tight, you replaced one of your friends at the strip club.

you didn’t like the job, but the money was good, and you needed to pay the rent.

you tried to play the role, acting as an innocent angel. you ignored the men sitting in the chairs in front of the stage, you danced as if you were in your own living room, doing it only for yourself. the neon lights made you feel dizzy, like you were having lucid dreams of seeing wings and an angel looking at you while dancing.

eventually, you began to notice the regular clients, the ones who spent most of their friday nights offering you money and a “good time.” you rejected every single one of them. none of them were interesting enough.

except for one boy, well, he was a man. he hid in a dark corner, always watching people but never talking to them. he wasn’t like the others. you could have sworn you saw a glimpse of wings on his back once, but you blamed the neon stage lights for making you see things.

it was as if the other clients never noticed him. he was just a shadow, waiting for something.

that night, though, he hesitated. he stepped out of his dark corner and took a seat in the front row. he watched you, and for the first time ever, you danced for someone. there was no one else at that moment. just him.

when your set ended, you went backstage and shut the door to your private room. abruptly, someone entered without knocking. it was the guy you danced for, the one with cute eyes and a beautiful face. he didn’t have wings. he wore white clothes and a golden chain with a heart pendant resting on his chest. his hair fell like soft dominoes across his face. he was handsome, almost heavenly made.

“sorry. i don’t do private shows,” you said, your voice as mechanical as a rehearsed line.

“are you like me?”

you smiled. “sorry?”

“are you an angel? you look like one.”

“i mean, i’m an angel on stage. but in real life i’m just an ordinary girl who spends her nights working in this crappy place because it pays the bills.”

he seemed surprised at your explanation, like he couldn’t believe it. “you’re a mortal?”

he had to be drunk. that was the only explanation. still, he looked kind of cute.

“sorry, buddy, you can’t be here. you need to go.”

“you’re dancing for them, almost naked! and they’re driven by lust!”

“well, you’re in a strip club. what did you expect?” you said with a smile, and something stirred in oscar’s chest.

he had never felt anything like it before. cupids were meant to create love, not experience it. but whatever was growing inside him felt dangerously close to love… or desire.

the guards made him leave. weeks passed and you kept noticing him around the club. he never looked at the other girls and he never paid attention to anyone else. only you. he realized he needed you. he had to have you at any cost, even if it meant becoming human.

the pain in his back became unbearable as his body collapsed at your doorstep. you found him with tears in his eyes, pale and trembling.

“oh my god, what happened to you?”

you helped him to reach your couch. he barely breathed. that’s when you paid attention the blood on his back, like something had been ripped from it. something that looked disturbingly like wings. no, it couldn’t be possible.

oscar drifted in and out of consciousness, screaming and mumbling nonsense.

“forgive me, father. i need her.”

you blamed the fever, thinking he must have thought he was part of some strange cult, or perhaps believed himself to be a fallen angel. you considered taking him to the hospital, but when you saw how quickly the fever broke and how fast his wounds began to heal, you hesitated. normal people didn’t heal that quickly. his back was nearly healed, though the scars remained, like a reminder of what he’d sacrificed.

oscar woke up on your couch. your scent lingered in the air, making him feel safe. his body still ached and somehow, he knew he had made the right choice.

he saw you standing next to a window. you looked so beautiful.

“oh, you're awake!” you noticed him. “drink some water, you need it.”

oscar drank, his gaze fixed on you.

“what's your name?”

“oscar.”

your gaze lingered on him, uncertain of what decision to make.

“uhmm, do you want something to eat or is it too soon? i have some pizza left.”

he said yes.

oscar ate the food, loving the taste. your eyes kept looking at him with curiosity, not understanding why he appeared almost dead at your apartment. you never gave your address at the strip club and the other dancers didn’t know where you lived.

“what happened to you? why was your back like that?" you felt the need to ask.

"father accepted my request to become human."

you weren’t believing that shit. even if most of the time you doubted religion, believing in a fallen angel appearing at your job and at your doorway wasn’t realistic.

“do you have a family? a wife? someone?”

“no, i’m all by myself.”

“can you remember where you live? i can help you go home.”

“i don't have a home.”

you thought about it. you weren’t a bad person so you decided that he could sleep on your couch that night. at least, until you could figure out who that person was.

“okay, you can stay here for the night. just tonight. i’ll lock my bedroom, so don’t try anything stupid.”

he smiled. “i won’t hurt you, i’ll never hurt you.”

days passed and oscar was still living with you.

“i won't let a stranger live here without paying rent.” you casually said, and oscar frowned.

“rent? what is that?”

“like, paying money for staying in a place?” you thought he was weird.

“i'll pay rent.”

“you don't even have a job, and you need identification for that.”

“i'll get them.”

you didn't know how but oscar got everything the same day. he got a nice job in a public library and brought his new identification. seemed legit, nothing suspicious.

“if that makes you feel better.”

“how did you get the job?”

“the old lady was really nice, she even told me they would pay me at the end of the week. is it good for you, baby?”

“don't call me baby.”

oscar started to call you baby every single time. for instance, when he was taking a shower and needed his towel because he forgot, “baby, can you come here?” or when he was casually laying on the couch, reading a magazine that you owned. he saw a really famous person there and asked you, “who's that, baby?

oscar was strange. no matter the questions you asked him, he always answered the same. he had rejected being an angel, and now he was human. that wasn’t possible, so you stopped asking.

one night, you heard him talking and almost crying in his sleep. the other bedroom was close to yours, making it easy to hear him. you walked to his bed and touched his back. his eyes opened fast, scared.

“it's me, osc. everything’s alright.”

you moved your hand away from his skin. “no, it's fine. touch my back. somehow, your touch makes it hurt less.”

“isn't it already healed?”

“i still can feel my wings being ripped away.”

he wasn't wearing a shirt, his skin was hot, the scars were severe and nasty.

“will you sleep with me? i never dreamt before and now i can't distinguish what's real and what's not.”

you nodded. “just for this night.”

you slept together every single night. he would appear in your bedroom at midnight and you let him sleep with you. sometimes you spoke, sometimes you just slept without saying anything. oscar felt safe around you, he loved to sleep at your side. eventually, his hands became curious and brushed your hair while you were sleeping. other times, you wake up with his whole body hugging you from behind.

oscar tried to make breakfast for the two of you. at the beginning he wasn't good at all, he burnt the bread and added salt to your coffee. after two weeks, breakfast was incredible. you enjoyed eating there, always leaving late for work because you wanted to eat more and enjoy your time with oscar.

you didn’t return to the strip club. oscar was taking care of the rent and the bills, so money wasn’t something you had to think about that way anymore.

living together and sharing the apartment was something so natural for both of you. he made your days better and you made him happy. oscar dreamed of kissing your lips. as an angel, as a cupid, he never felt anything like that. he was so sure he had fallen in love with you, and even if he wasn’t certain you loved him back, he had to do something to make your feelings for him grow.

oscar started adding liquid love to your breakfast. it was a powerful potion, strong enough to cause chaos if used in large amounts. each morning, he slipped a single drop into your coffee.

“osc, this is the best coffee i ever tasted.”

liquid love couldn't make people fall in love, but it helped to intensify the feeling that already existed. he tried to behave as the nicest man around you. he helped you do the grocery shop, he washed your clothes, and slept at your side every night. practically, he was your non-requested new boyfriend.

“oscar, i know it sounds weird, but i’m glad we met. living here used to be so quiet and lonely, now i only want to leave work early so i can be with you.”

it was easy for you to develop feelings for him and not because of the potion. he was kind, always paid attention to the details and let you be exactly who you are. you started to hug him occasionally when he left to go to work, you talked with your colleagues about oscar, and they made jokes about you being in love with your roomie.

one night, he appeared again in your bedroom. now that you both felt good sleeping together, he just laid there, hugging you.

"are you okay, angel?"

you nodded. "yeah, i just feel a little bit…"

"a little bit what?"

“nothing, it's been a while since i've had sex, and sleeping with a man hugging me all night makes me a little bit receptive."

“receptive?” he was enjoying all of it, acting as innocent as possible. hugging you with his dick pressing your back was stimulating for him as for you.

“it means that i’m a little bit turned on, osc. your touch makes me think of having sex with you.”

his hands brushed against your arm, his fingers touching you like they wanted to touch other places of your body.

“we can have sex, baby.” he casually said.

“oscar, that would make things weird. go back to sleep.”

that night, oscar had a hard time falling asleep. the same desire he had felt while you were dancing at the club, did nothing but grew every day. oh, he kissed your neck that night, wishing he could kiss your cunt the same way.

as an angel and cupid, oscar only heard stories about humans having sex for reproduction purposes and to satisfy their libido. he wanted to try everything with you. the next night, he waited in your bed while you were taking a late night shower.

“oscar, please wait outside. i need to get dressed,” you said, your hair was wet and wore just a towel.

he seemed to not listen, or not care that you invited him discreetly to leave. oscar stood on his feet and gently massaged your shoulders.

“you’re always stressing ‘bout something, baby. let me help you to feel good. lay in the bed.”

you did exactly what he said. and oscar’s hands moved around your body, noticing the parts of your flesh that needed to relax a little. it was innocent at first, just a relaxing action that led to him kissing you everywhere. his hands even took away your towel.

the white fabric ended on the floor, your body exposed to his touch. he couldn't contain himself around you. your breasts looked amazing, so tempting for him to put his lips and mouth on them. he had never seen a mortal woman naked for him before. as an angel he avoided sharing intimacy with mortals, but now he wanted to have you in every sense of the word.

his mouth took its time savouring your tits. you could hear some words coming from his mouth while his lips and teeth provided attention to your breasts.

“you're mine to adore, you're mine to worship.”

his mouth stayed there like a starving man. he was so obsessed with your tits that he couldn't care less about dying out of breath just because he was so immersed in the situation.

“osc, i love your touch, but please i need attention on the bottom.”

eventually, he kept moving around your body. he gave kisses, bites and left bruises everywhere.

“open your legs for me.”

he had never tasted liquid love, but your pussy smelled like pure love. damn, it was so easy for him to fall in love with you.

"i've found heaven, baby. it's your beautiful cunt.”

you couldn't contain your moans. “oscar, be gentle. please, babe.”

oscar was living his real life fantasy. he devoured you, fingered you and tasted your pussy without thinking straight. you came, then he kept playing with it, making you come and come. you screamed, so overstimulated that you had tears in your eyes.

“now i understand why humans fuck all the time. i want to see you naked every night, every morning. baby, you shouldn't wear clothes at home. you look better without it. father made you for me, you were a gift for being good at my work.”

he loved your pussy. he was so obsessed with it. the next day, while you were taking a shower, oscar appeared in the bathroom.

“osc, what are you doing here?”

“oh, i thought i heard you calling me.”

his hungry gaze stayed on your naked body.

“can i enjoy you just for a moment? please. i'll be quick.”

“oscar, i have to go to work in 15 minutes— oh, yes.”

he just smiled. “i need your pussy to start my day good.”

he made your body rest against the bathroom wall and he got on his knees, tasting your pussy again. you got late to work, your body ached, most precisely your legs and your female parts. your colleagues noticed and even made fun of it.

“is that boy oscar still living with you? he seems to be a nice roomie.”

“yes, he's good.”

when you got home, you decided to make a cake. tomorrow was the one month anniversary of oscar and you living together, and somehow, you wanted to celebrate it. you drank some wine and while you were looking for some flavour, you found a small heart bottle with something inside in a cupboard. you had never seen it before. you smelled it and the smell was good.

“baby.”

you didn't hear oscar arrive from work. he took you by surprise.

“hi, osc. do you have any idea of what this is?”

his face showed surprise, but he hid it in just one glimpse.

“it's syrup, it's like honeybee. helps to make good coffee.”

you drank a little bit. it tasted sweet, it was a mix of honey, cream and cinnamon. “i’ll add it to the cake, where did you get it?”

“uhm, a coworker gave it to me.”

oscar helped you make the cake. he tried to argue with you saying the flavour would ruin the taste, so better not use it.

“it tastes better than anything, osc. the cake would taste amazing.”

he couldn't explain the truth to you, because if you found out what that liquid was, you would run away from him.

at midnight, you ate the cake together while watching an old movie. when oscar tasted the cake with the obvious taste of love liquid, he got a little bit obsessed. you both ate the cake like it was popcorn, feeling yourselves more and more different each time.

his body reaction was abrupt, more obvious than yours. his face was straight, he seemed like a caged animal, just wanting to leave the cage and attack.

“oscar, are you alright?”

“yeah, i think the syrup made me feel awkward.”

but when minutes passed, your own body felt different. you tried to relax, even when you felt every part of your body aching for oscar.

“oscar, i think something's happening to us.”

“how much liquid love did you add to the cake?”

“liquid what? you mean, the syrup in the heart bottle? i added all of it, why?”

just one drop made humans intensify their feelings for someone else, but the amount of liquid you added to the cake was enough to make him lose his mind. you weren't better either, you just were better at hiding it.

oscar started to move around the bedroom, his movements growing restless, pacing like he couldn’t contain the fire crawling under his skin. you watched him, your pulse thundering in your throat. the heat inside you was unbearable, making your skin feel too tight.

“oscar,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “you’re scaring me.”

he stopped suddenly, turning his head toward you with eyes darker than midnight.

“you’re feeling it too,” he murmured, voice strained. “don’t lie to me.”

your silence was all the answer he needed. in an instant, he had you pressed against the wall, his hands braced beside your head, his breath hot against your cheek.

“you shouldn't have put that liquid in the cake, baby.” his lips brushed yours without kissing. “now i want every piece of you.”

the heat between you pulsed like a living thing. you could feel it in the way his body hovered close, in the shudder of his chest as he held himself back.

“tell me to stop. i won't be nice to you,” he demanded.

but you didn’t. you couldn’t.

your hand rose, clutching the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips finally met his.

the kiss wasn’t gentle. it was desperate, consuming. his tongue swept past your lips like he wanted to taste the last of that cursed sweetness lingering there. he pressed closer, hard enough to make you gasp, and you felt every line of his body against yours.

“when i became human i started to feel different. every night i spent with you i woke up with my dick begging for just a taste of you. i never felt like this, i never wanted to fuck someone so badly. i was an angel, always making people fall in love and never being a witness to this devotion. but when i saw you, i knew i had to have you. all these men, all these jerks watching you dance almost naked, they couldn't have you. no one can have you. just me.”

“osc…”

“on your knees, baby. it's time to show some mercy on me.”

you hesitated, but after a second, you realised that you wanted it too. you didn’t know what was inside the heart bottle, but something made your body feel really excited. you were getting wet without doing anything.

“i left everything for you, i left heaven for you. now i need you to bring me heaven. my dick needs your attention, baby.”

your own body felt the necessity to do something, to make him feel good. oscar gazed at you, his brown eyes watching you unzip his pants and touch his dick. you started the best you could, but eventually oscar controlled your movements, his hand grabbing your hair in a grip.

“yeah, baby. keep doing it.”

his release was fast, taking a few minutes. his cum tasted different, almost similar to the love liquid, angelic-made. In that moment, he reminded you of some renaissance painting of angels. not the good and trustable angels, no. he was like goddamn lucifer falling from heaven.

you didn’t even make it to the bed. his hands caught your hips and pushed you forward until your palms slammed against the edge of the table. oscar pressed his chest to your back, you almost saw a shadow of wings flaring wide, trapping you and him.

“stay like this,” he demanded, forcing you to bend just enough that your spine arched and your ass lifted for him.

his grip bruised at your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted, while his mouth brushed the curve of your neck. the position was shameless, every angle of your body exposed under his greedy eyes. the way he moved into you from behind, sharp and relentless, made it clear he was obsessed with you.

“the night we met at the club, i was supposed to do my work. i had to make you fall in love with another man. i couldn't do it. no one can have what's mine. they ripped off my wings because i decided to keep you instead.”

his dick pressed against your cunt from behind and you felt how heaven opened its doors for you. oscar’s pace was merciless, every thrust bruising and raw. he was rough and needy, fucking you just like he wanted. your cries muffled against the table, his grip in your hair made you arch your back again.

“now i understand everything, baby. i understand what makes a good soul change for bad. if i had a nice cunt like yours around me all the time, i would do horrible things just to keep you.”

“oscar, i need to come,” you begged.

“your pussy can make any innocent angel fall from grace just to taste a glimpse of you. good thing i wasn't an innocent angel to begin with.”

“oscar…”

“you can come, angel, just for me.”

while you came, oscar began whispering gentle praise into your ear, still easing you onto his thick cock but just at a pace you could manage.

your moans made the room feel dirty.

“i love you, baby. you're stuck with me.”

you spent the night tangled together, bodies aching and trembling, every thrust still tasting of the drug. even when the haze started to fade, oscar’s hunger didn’t.

“don’t think i’ve finished,” he said against your skin. “i don’t care if it takes all night, i need every part of you.”

his eyes burned darker, almost feverish. the air was heavy, charged, like the room itself bent around his need. he dragged you onto his mouth again, pinning your thighs open as if nothing could stop him. his tongue was greedy, desperate, every lick forcing another broken sound from your lips. your pussy drove him insane, it was the only part of you he ever truly worshipped.

his hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise while his tongue coaxed you over the edge again, your body shaking, your cries muffled against your palm. he didn’t stop.

“you taste better than heaven ever did,” he rasped, slick mouth shining as he looked up at you. “and i’m never letting you go.”

Twirling your tongue around the bright pink straw, you blink blankly, quietly taking in the conversation that occurs in front of you. You should probably talk a bit, you remember thinking. Smile, at least, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to lie—you didn't want to be here.  

“I thought you hated pineapple?” 

Turning, you shrug half-heartedly over at Lando. “It makes my mouth itch,” you mumble, not enjoying a single sip of the smoothie. Well, except for the whipped cream. Taking a lick, your eyes stay connected onto his blue ones as he shakes his head. 

“Don’t drink it, then,” he tries, but you simply turn a blind eye, facing the complete opposite direction. From where you're sitting, you spot a group of kids playing jump rope. Even when one of them falls with a loud splat and starts to cry, you continue to stare.

“Oh no,” a soft voice gasps.  As soon as you hear it, you grind your teeth, hearing a slight crack immediately. “Poor baby.”

You like to think of yourself as an even person. Everyone who enters your life deserves a fair chance. You’ll get to know them—befriend them, perhaps—and if it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out, but no one can say you never tried.

But oh, how you hated Lily Zneimer.

The worst part of all is that there isn’t really a single reason for your sudden distaste towards her. On paper, you two should be the best of friends, but the one thing holding you back is sitting right in front of you.

Oscar clicks his tongue, a nice tick coming through as his sharp brows raise with surprise as he watches the scene unfold. He, too, sort of remains as stoic as you, but the one difference is that he has a bit more empathy. You lack a lot of that, you’ll be the first to admit. 

The cries continue, the young boy's parents suddenly alert by now as they run towards their child. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he says, squinting his eyes due to the bright sun. “It builds character.”

“Getting hurt?” Lily asks, frowning as she gently shoves his shoulder. “You really do have a heart made of ice.”

This gets a snicker out of your boyfriend, making you sigh, instantly checking out, but Lando is as happy as can be. While he enjoys the moment, you lack interest in it, and if it weren’t for the fact that the Australian was the one that invited you both out for drinks, then you would have happily been tucked away in bed. Make good use of the hotel perks and whatnot. 

The brown eyed driver swings a hand behind his girlfriend's chair, playfully tugging her hair, making her blush and making you recoil with disgust. Not that you ever show it, but you definitely feel it. “Maybe I do, but only you can make it melt.”

That’s enough to call it a day. Standing abruptly, the chair squeaks against the pavement as you share a tight lipped smile. All at once, their eyes look up at you as you force a yawn. “I think I’m going to head up now. Thanks for the invite,” you say. 

Lily pouts subtly, blue eyes round and hazy. “So soon? It’s still early.”

You nod, sparing her small smile, but deep within, the sound of her sweet voice begins to irritate you to the point you think you might snap. “The sun’s got me tired. I just need to lay down a bit.” Leaning forward, you peck Lando’s cheek, warm and sandy. “But I'll see you later, yeah?” 

“Sure,” she squeaks, waving numbly as they watch you walk away—practically fleeting, really. Humming sadly, the British girl looks down onto her lap, toying with her bracelets. “I don’t think she likes me much,” she mutters, wincing sheepishly. 

Oscar frowns. “That’s not true…”

Lando frantically nods, feeling bad for Lily and her first encounter with you being a total bust. Come to think of it, ever since the blue eyed girl has been around, you’ve been quite distant. “She hasn’t been sleeping well.” Lie. “She just needs to recharge, that’s all.”

-

You end up spending the next few days locked up in yours and Lando’s room. You avoid the paddock at all costs because you’re really not in the mood to see anyone—especially her. The British driver tried his best to get you out from these four walls, but gave up shortly after you blamed it on a migraine. You haven’t had one of those in years, but he learns to respect your decision. You do promise to be there for his race, though.

And as expected, you see her. Sat perfectly with her legs crossed, the young girl beams, motioning for you to join her on the open chair. At first you act like you don’t see her, preferring to stay standing for the next few hours rather than being pushed up next to her, but when she calls your name, you curse beneath your breath before making your way. 

“Hey,” you cheer, hugging her briefly before taking a seat. 

A giggle. “Hey. I heard you’ve been feeling a bit under the weather.”

“Huh?”

Lily blinks. “Lando said—”

In one quick motion, you click your fingers, nodding along. Right—Lando had lied on your behalf. It completely slipped your mind. Letting out a muffled groan, you wince theatrically, hoping she buys it. She does, worry quickly taking over her gentle gaze. “I have, yeah, I have.” Cheer’s erupt as the camera pans over to the fan zone, then back to the drivers that line up for the National Anthem. “But I'm much better now!”

Her concern slowly melts away as she smiles. “That’s good to hear.”

You would have not traveled with Lando to this week's race if you had known she would be here. Usually, she’s not, but you almost feel as if you know everything about her from how much Oscar talks about her. It gets exhausting hearing the same stories being told over and over again, as if she was the best thing to come around. Was it really that hard to just not bring her up?

But alas, you are here, and so is she. 

It feels like an eternity slowly goes by, so you’re quick to dart out the garage as you make your way towards the podium. The good thing is that she doesn’t need to because Oscar secured a lucky fourth place. Close, but not close enough. 

Running towards you after a round of media, Lando pecks your lips. He smells like a mix of champagne and sweat, not a completely unpleasant scent. He wiggles his brows. “Proud?”

You grin, eyes crinkling just the same as his. “Super.” Another kiss. “You were great out there.”

A subtle shade of red burns his nose as he smiles widely, pulling you towards the direction of McLaren Hospitality, leaving you to follow him as you admire the way everyone looks at him the same way you do. 

You like that he’s a winner. You like that you’re dating the winner. And that’s why you admire him, because he gives you the right to brag about him by simply being his girlfriend. The kind everyone wishes to be. Entering the familiar orange motorhome, you two are caught at a stop as soon as Zak calls out for Lando who turns curiously. 

“My man!” he cheers, making you take a step back and letting them have their moment. You listen for the first few minutes, but when it looks like the congratulatory might run deep, you claim a seat on the nearby sofa, scrolling through your phone to kill time. At some point, you look up to see them bid goodbye, sighing tiredly as you make your way up. Zak grins from ear to ear, pointing at you with nothing but radiant energy. “See you there!”

With that, he walks away, leaving you two alone once again. Raising a sharp brow, you tap Lando’s shoulder with confusion. “What does he mean by that?”

“He’s rented a yacht for the team to celebrate today's win,” he explains, guiding you towards the privacy of his room with a large hand on your lower back. “You know him—he likes to go all out.”

You hum, still walking up in front of him. “I figured you would want to go clubbing…”

There’s a cloudy sigh behind you as he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I mean, yeah, I do, but we should probably skip that and do this instead.” Reaching to twist the knob, you pause, turning to face him with a surprised expression. “What?”

“Nothing,” you respond, shaking your head. “Look at you maturing. You see, my Lando would have never preferred a classy yacht party instead of a trashy club.” 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’ve changed.”

“Right,” you tease, finally opening the door, but as soon as you do, the room next to you squeaks, indicating someone exiting. Oscar and Lily come to a halt as soon as they spot you both. Your lips open in the smallest of gaps as they smile politely. 

“Congratulations,” the British girl is the first to break the silence as she goes in for a quick side hug, one that Lando accepts without missing a beat. “You must be over the moon.”

“I am,” your boyfriend lets out, still not used to the feeling of being first. A beat. “Hey, did Zak mention anything about—”

“The yacht party?” Oscar fills in with a loopy grin. Lando snickers, nodding at his guess. He shakes his head. “Yeah, but we can’t. I have to drive Lily to the airport.”

Intrigued by the fact, your brows dart up. “Ah, no way—you’re leaving already?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling tiredly. “I have a few tests lined up for next week, and I can’t miss them.”

“Shame,” you hum, but the relief of not having her around anymore makes you feel a thousand times lighter. “I was going to suggest grabbing dinner next week…”

“Really?” Lando and Lily question in sync, both equally as surprised as one another. On the flipside, Oscar stands with an unrecognizable expression, making you avoid even looking at him because something about it somehow convinces you that he can see right past your lie.

Coughing awkwardly, you bob your head, catching the glimmer in her blue eyes as she holds her breath, almost. Something about it makes you feel bad, but just for a split second. “Yes, really, but it looks like we got a bit unlucky.”

Swiftly, Lily turns to face Oscar with a helpless expression, as if pleading for aid, but for him it was an easy decision. “You can’t skip out on exams,” he whispers lowly, but still clear enough for you to hear. “You know that.”

And sure—she does—but ever since she got here, she’s felt so out of place. Not with the team, not with two McLaren drivers as a duo, but rather with you. And now this? Any opportunity to have you as a friend is as good as gold in her eyes.

And to be quite honest, you didn’t expect for someone as truthful as Lily to lie to their professor in a lengthy email, claiming to be severely down with the flu in order to stay a couple extra days and catch that unpromising dinner you had made up as some way to get her to think you’d miss not having her around. This was your reality and you just had to deal with it.

But Oscar? 

Watching you carefully as you hug Lily back when she leaps with excitement into your arms, he squints with subtle suspicion in your character. Something in your rigidness and mannequin smile makes him want to pull the British girl away from you, feeling the need to protect his girlfriend's innocence. 

Smiling softly over her shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, making your stomach churn. His eyes remain on you for a second longer before sharing a smile of his own.

Yup, you think to yourself. 

He knows.

_

A week goes by at a snail's pace.

The four of you fly together to the next continent with nothing but fake enthusiasm. Well, fake from you, and unbeknownst, fake from Oscar, too.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t trust you completely. In hindsight, you haven’t done anything wrong, but everytime you and Lily are together—which is most of the week—it feels like you have. Maybe it had something to do with the sinister glares you’d send her way when you thought no one was looking, or the fact that you’d have to take a heavy breath in preparation every time she’d greet you with a warm hug. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was seeing something that wasn’t there, but that doesn’t mean he’d be at ease for the rest of the week. 

Hence, dinner. 

You find yourself forced to make a reservation at one of the fanciest cuisine restaurants close to where you’re staying and that itself was annoying. You shouldn’t be doing any of this—she shouldn’t even be here.

Smiling gingerly, the British girl let out a small giggle at some joke Lando made. By the looks of it, it’s pretty funny, so you numbly follow her lead, though you have yet to know what it was. “You must be laughing all the time,” Lily notes, blue eyes focused on you with wonder. You hum, pursing your lips with uncertainty. She giggles harder. “Well because of how funny he is.”

Lando claps once, making you flinch in return. “Thank you! It’s about damn time someone appreciates my humor.”

“I do appreciate it,” you defend, slowly losing your patience. Licking your lips, you look back towards Lily who remains with a smile. “Don’t listen to him, he just likes the attention.”

“That I can agree on,” Oscar adds, cracking a grin of his own. Suddenly, you’re all into the discussion. The Australian sneers childishly. “You can’t seem to live a single moment without making things about yourself.”

“Oscar,” Lily warns, faint pink painting her pale skin. “Be nice.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Lando says, waving her off like it’s no big deal—which it’s not. He leans back against his chair, flipping his teammate off who scoffs lightheartedly. “This is how we talk. Right, Osc?”

“Right.”

Somewhere in between dessert, while you’re in the middle of licking your spoon clean, the invitation that came to ruin your life, comes up. Lily clears her throat nervously, suddenly worried by the thought of you turning her down. “I was meaning to ask…” Puzzled, you keep your eyes on her, awaiting her next words. She shrugs sheepishly. “Well, I graduate this summer, and Oscar is throwing me a party up in North Carolina…” She trails off, gathering her words. “I was wondering if you two would like to come?”

“Oh,” Lando's voice comes through like a muffle, mouth full of cheesecake. He swallows, blue eyes flickering between the couple and his girlfriend who remains with a blank expression, metal spoon still in place. “I mean—yeah. Right?”

Unfreezing, you place the utensil down onto your plate, smiling weakly. “Uh…yeah.” Lily grins, letting out a breath of relief, making Oscar frown over the realization that your response mattered so much to her. You nod robotically. “Sure, why not?”

“Great!” Lily cheers, beaming like a kid on Christmas Day. “And don’t worry about spending on a hotel—we’ve got you covered.”

You blink, bewildered. “You do?” 

She nods. “Of course, we do! You’re our guests, you’ll be staying with us.”

Your boyfriend smiles faintly. “That’s kind of you, but it’s really no problem. We wouldn’t want to overcrowd.”

“Nonsense,” the Australian speaks up, shaking his head, brown strands of hair swinging in the slightest. “We have plenty of room. All of our family and friends are already staying at the hotel nearby—it’d be nice to have a bit of company.” His eyes soften, making your heart beat a little faster. “What do you say?”

It feels like he’s looking directly at you—chocolate orbs as sweet as can be. As if nothing else exists in this moment if it’s not you or him. But in reality, his attention is focused on your boyfriend, awaiting his response.

Not yours.

Flustered, you poke Lando’s leg beneath the table, hoping he takes the hint. Blue eyes flicker towards your direction for a millisecond before returning with a nod. “Looks like you have two roomies.”

Lily squeals, smiling brightly as Oscar’s lips remain in a thin line, his version of a smile. 

And if he could turn back time…

He really fucking would.

-

Once the season ends, everyone is on a high. Lando for coming in second in the Driver’s Championship and for bringing in the Constructors Championship for the first time in years, and Oscar for the latter. Regardless, it was an outstanding season for the two of them. 

You and the Brit end up flying in a few days later due to going back home to pack a few more necessities, but once you’ve got that all figured out, you find yourselves in the middle of a heatstroke, making you second guess all your life's choices all at once. 

“It feels as if my skin’s melting off,” you groan, fanning yourself with the roadmap, because as it came, satellites are utter shit when it comes to where you’re staying. Lando tries to convince you that having no internet for a few weeks isn’t all that bad, but as soon as a twenty minute drive turns into a one hour drive due to getting lost without the guidance of a GPS, he regrets his words. You roll your eyes, narrating as he finally pulls up to the driveway of what appears to be the best looking house in all of North Carolina. 

He whistles. “If it weren’t so hot during the summer, I’d definitely move here.”

Scoffing, you exit the car rental, looking up at the navy blue house where green ivy hangs. “We are not moving here. I’d rather die.”

“Fair,” he mumbles as he makes his way towards the front door, you right on his heels. Swinging the door open, you two are instantly hit with the fresh gust of air. “Thank God,” Lando moans, loving the fact that the AC is the only thing preventing him from fainting. 

Pushing him in, you make sure to close the door behind you as you shut your eyes with sweet relief. Somewhere towards the end of the hall, you hear shoes squeak against the wooden tiles. Lily waves, hair up in a similar ponytail as yours, as she smiles as warm as the weather that nearly cost you your life. “You made it!”

“We sure did,” you respond, gritting your teeth in order to prevent yourself from letting out some snarky remark. Not that she deserves it, of course she doesn’t, but you couldn’t help it. Pointing back towards the wooden door, you wince apologetically. “Sorry to barge in. Someone didn’t bother knocking.”

Lando makes a face, then turns to the blue eyed girl with a playful smile. “You don’t mind, do you, Lily?”

She shakes her head, pursuing her lips with delight. “Not at all. We left it unlocked knowing you two would show up. We’ve been fixing the guest bedroom for the past hour and we didn’t want to run the risk of not hearing you knock, so…I guess it all worked out just fine.”

“See? Lily says it worked out just fine,” your boyfriend says smugly as you roll your eyes, not at all impressed with his sudden cockines. “Where is Oscar, by the way?”

Lily signals upstairs, then blushes. “Do you mind helping me grab a few things from the car, Lando?” A shy chuckle. “It’s just that we went out for some party essentials last night, but we were too tired to bring them in, and the box is too heavy, and Oscar is pretty busy, and I’d hate to bother him, and—”

“Sure,” Lando cuts off her rambling. “That way I can grab our suitcases, too.”

“Fantastic,” she hoots, dusting her hands against her shorts as she grabs a set of car keys from the kitchen table. Turning to you, she grimaces. “Do you mind checking up on Oscar?”

Your plump lips part, a line of dehydration hung upon them. “I would, but I should help Lando—”

“It’s okay,” your boyfriend fills in. “I’ve got it all under control.”

Lily pleads silently, brows drawn together. “You’d really be doing me a favor. It’s just that he was in the middle of fixing the duvet and he tends to run out of patience if he doesn’t get it right away.” A chuckle. “Please?”

Which is how you find yourself in a room, alone with the one person you probably shouldn’t be alone with, but find yourself wishing that were always the case. Alone with one another, that is. Gently knocking on the already open door feels like the right thing to do, so you do just that. Alerted by the sound, the Australian’s head jerks up, brown eyes caught against yours.

You tilt your head slightly, like some greet. “Lily sent me,” you find yourself explaining as he sighs, resting on the unmade bed. Leaning against the doorframe, you bite the inside of your cheek, not knowing what to say next.

He huffs. “Of course she did.” A snort. “Sorry your room still isn’t ready. It's just that, I, uh…can't seem to get this right,” he admits, shyly scratching the back of his neck as he motions towards the unmade mess. “Lily always helps, but she’s a bit busy right now, and I'd hate to bother her, and—”

“I can help.”

A pause, then: “Oh, don't worry, you don't need to do that. You’re our guests.”

Chuckling, you shake your head, already making a move to grab the sheets. Taking hold of one corner, you signal for him to do the same, the Australian instantly catching on and taking hold of the opposite side. Aligning it, you look up at him, watching as he focuses on your hands and repeats the order. You smile, going for more and doing it all over again. Once it's perfectly laid out, you take a step back. “Not too shabby.”

“Huh,” he muttered, blinking with amazement. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” you say, fixing the mountain of pillows before taking it in with a gentle smile. “Lando’s excited to be here.”

Oscar looks up, neat brows raising. “Is he?”

“Mhm,” you hum, finally connecting your gaze to his. From this distance—close—you note the faint trace of cologne that hugs him, along with a thin layer of sweat. Grinding your molars, you fume silently within you as you catch it—her perfume. You wonder how close she had to have been in order for it to imprint on him, but as soon as you ponder for too long about it, you shake your head, acting as if you’re brushing away some invisible dust. “He’s looking forward to jet skiing.”

A deep chuckle. Pressing his back against the wall, he crosses his arms, giving you a clear view of his muscles that pulse like the world's biggest temptation. If you had the chance—just one—you’d kiss them the way you've fantasized for so long now.

He opens his mouth, about to say something that's going to change everything amongst you two, but bails at the last minute, shaking his head as if he barely caught himself. Intrigued, you raise a neat brow. “What's wrong?” you ask, feeling far too curious. 

Oscar tsks. “No, uh, it's nothing.” A beat, then he looks up, squinting his eyes skeptically, as if you're a puzzle he can't quite figure out. He's looking at you the same way he did that day you lied about planning the dinner, and that itself makes your stomach dip. Suddenly, you're not as interested in finding out what he has to say anymore. “Lily loves you, you know that?”

Not what you were expecting. “She does?”

“Yeah…” he mumbles, orbs still trained on you. You want him to look away—you need him to look away. Pink lips curl into something of a scoff. The Australian’s eyes darken, making you freeze with trepidation. “She thinks you’re great.” Opening his arms like some grand gesture, he motions towards the lively room. “I mean, look at her. She’s trying her best to please you.”

Something about the way he says it makes you feel as if he’s not that fond of Lily’s behavior. As if you don’t deserve her kindness, even just a sprinkle of it. Pursing your lips, you rock against the heels of your feet. “And I appreciate that, I really do.” A hint of hesitation. “And I like Lily, as well—”

A raw chuckle. Blinking, you catch him shaking his head, brown eyes shut in disbelief, and when he opens them once again, it’s not that kind-hearted and easy-going Australian you’ve come to know—no. He’s broad, and cold, and guarded. 

“No, you don’t.”

You gulp, laughing awkwardly as you rub your forearm, feeling the heat of shame radiate off your body. “What are you talking about? She’s super sweet—”

“I never said she wasn’t,” he cuts you off again, this time a bit harsher. Enough to take a step back. Your heart races times a million at this point, palms moist with sweat. “I never said she wasn’t sweet—I don’t doubt that even for a second. But I know that you’re lying, and I know that you hate her.” A beat. “Why?”

“I do like her,” you continue to insist, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. “What makes you even think otherwise?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he says, accent sharper than usual. “Like you wish her the worst—I know what hate looks like.”

This time, you grab what’s left of your courage, and look at him straight in the eyes, not backing down. “Yeah? And what does hate look like?”

“You’re looking at it.”

It’s as if an ice cold bucket of water is thrown at you with no alert. His insinuation makes you want to recoil, but if you do, then he’d know he’s gotten to you, and if he gets to you, then he’ll figure the rest of it out. 

“I’m sorry, that was rude.” He smiles tauntingly, inching close and tilting his head as he opens his mouth. “I just don’t like you, that’s all. I’m not cruel enough to hate.” Cruel. He’s calling you cruel. He knows, therefore, you’re cruel. The word itself shouldn’t affect you this much, but it does. Narrowing your eyes, you push him away, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he cocks his head in question with little to no surprise. “What? You don’t like hearing the truth of what you are? Did you really think you were a good person?”

“Look,” you finally speak, glaring. “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but I don’t hate Lily. For God sakes, I barely even know her!”

“Exactly!” he shouts back, breaking. “Which is why I’m more than confused! What has she done to you?”

Have possession over you, you think to yourself as you pant, blinking with defeat. I hate her because what she’s done to me is have possession over you, and that’s not fair.

“I—”

“Hey,” a soft voice melts into the room, Lily coming into view, cheeks flushed. “Is everything alright in here? We thought we heard yelling.” 

Standing behind her, frowning over her shoulder, Lando stares with a lost expression. Everything indicates that there had been some sort of altercation, but the smiles you two wear are enough to try and convince them otherwise. Walking towards her, Oscar wraps his arm around her waist, pecking her temple as she blinks, still worried. “What? That’s absurd. We were simply talking. Weren’t we?”

It takes you a minute to register that he’s speaking to you, so when you do answer, it’s nothing but a whisper. “Yeah… just, yeah.” You shake your head, blinking hastily. “We were just talking.”

“Are you sure?” Lando asks, pushing past the couple as he rushes to you, large hand grabbing your wrist softly as he looks at you. His gaze flickers momentarily toward Oscar, as if accusing him for doing something, in return, making the Australian frown for his sudden distrust. As if he’s the bad guy. 

You nod, plump lips formed into a thin line. “Yup,” you say, attention flickering down to where Oscar keeps Lily secure against his touch. As if you’re the bad guy. You chuckle, shrugging. “He was thanking me for helping him do something so easy as setting a bed.”

Oscar clenches his jaw. “Yeah. Thanking you.”

Anyone who knows you, knows that you’re a decent human being. There’s not much to contradict that. But no one will ever know you the way you know yourself. Because if they did?

They’d find out that there was no one greedier….

Than you.

-

Dinner that night is homemade pizza. Lily followed a recipe. 

It’s quite delicious, sure, and you’re able to make that note due to that one small bite you had before you ditch it for your mimosa. Lando tries to get you to eat, but you gently promise him that you’re just not that hungry. You see the way Oscar stares, feeling bad for his girlfriend who spent hours making this for you. She excuses herself, rushing towards the kitchen as the Australian apologizes, following after her.

Turning abruptly, the British boy huffs, causing commotion. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”

“This again?” you groan. “I already told you—nothing. Drop it.”

“What’d he say to you?” he questions, a layer of curiosity making an appearance. “Did he say something to offend you?”

“No,” you hum against your glass. “He did not.”

“Did you say something to offend him?” he switches the inquiry, making you glare. 

“Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

Lando sighs, relaxing against his chair once again. He takes a bite, swallows, then takes another. “I get the sense that you’re keeping something from me—you’re not like that.”

Actually, you are. He just doesn’t know it. Placing a hand over his, you hum, calming him down as he connects his gaze onto yours, eyes as soft as jello. “He might’ve lost his temper on me a bit.”

“What?” he screeches, making you hush him.

“Let me finish,” you hiss. He nods, curls bouncing. “He couldn’t get the sheets to stay in place. Remember how Lily said he tends to lose patience because of that?” Another nod. You shrug. “Well, that was it. We just didn’t want you two to make a big deal out of nothing. Much like now,” you point out, spotting a subtle blush threatening his cheeks. 

“Well, forgive me for looking out for you,” he sings. “I care, you know?”

“And I thank you for that, darling, but you can let go of it now, right?”

“Definitely.”

He doesn’t. Matter of fact, as soon as the couple makes their way back, it’s the first thing he brings up, teasing his teammate who blinks, confused, then: “Oh. Yeah. Right. I had a bit of a moment where I couldn’t get the…yeah. That was it.”

Lily rolls her blue eyes. “Didn’t I warn ya?”

You giggle. “You did, you really did.”

There isn’t much to do from that point on, the sun has set and the moon hangs as bright as headlights. Lando knocks out after a much needed shower, and while you can’t sleep with wet hair, you settle on fixing yourself up a tea now that it’s cooled down. 

Walking barefoot towards the lake, you hum, finding peace with the way crickets sing. Blue, gentle waves sway back and forth as you look beyond, mind at peace. That is until you hear a small cough. Startled, you search for the culprit and you find him, laid down on the grass. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Oscar sighs. “I’d rather not talk to you right now.”

“Or ever?” you offer, but he doesn’t find you humor all that entertaining. Making your way, you find a space next to him. “You can’t ignore me, you know that? We’re about to spend a month together. That, and you’re my boyfriend's teammate. I see you on track.”

He disregards the fact that you're right, sitting up instead, laying his arms over his bent knees. “What’s your game?”

“I don’t have one,” you say softly. “I’m just here to have fun—it’s summer.”

A scoff. “I’m serious—what do you want from us?”

There was a point in time when you first met the Australian where you remember thinking: this is a boy. His arms were twigs, his neck was small, and his fireproofs fit him loosely.

Fastword, a year later: everything has taken a turn. Oscar Piastri has matured, and now—now you want him. 

“My parents had my sister three years after they had me.” Oscar cocks his head, puzzled as to why you’re telling him this. You continue, occasionally sipping on your tea. “And the months leading to her birth, they always told me how lucky I’d feel to have her once she was born. Then she was,” you say. “And you know what I felt?”

“Lucky?” he finds himself guessing quietly. 

You shake your head, causing his brows to jump up with surprise. “I love her, I do, but I think that was the moment I realized I didn’t like to share. I wanted my parents to stay my parents, and not hers. I wanted my grandparents to stay my grandparents, and not hers. And…once we grew up and we were old enough to date—I wanted her boyfriends to like me more than they liked her.”

Quiet, his eyes linger with disgust. “I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want.” This time, you look at him, and it hits him all at once: you want him. You smile, like what you’re saying is funny and not fucked. A giggle. “You’re a smart individual, Oscar. Do you get what I’m saying?”

He does. And it makes his stomach knot. 

“I’m in love with Lily,” he states, as if that will make you back off. “I’m. In. Love. With. Lily.”

But he can tell you don’t care. You never have, and you never will. And the fact that she has him is why you hate her. He sees that now. 

Standing, your knees are at his eye level, forcing him to look away, forcing him to look up. You hold power in this stance, and he’s basically at your knees—worshiping you. He doesn’t like that. In one fast movement, he jumps up, towering over you, but that’s fine. It doesn’t matter. And he realizes he can never win when it comes to you because it seems you like that too. 

He gulps. You grin.

“Doesn't matter.”

-

You’re playing a dangerous game.

It starts early in the morning and ends late at night. At times, he feels like a kid hiding behind his mum's skirt, practically sticking to Lily like superglue, and normally she loves that, but with how busy she is with graduation, she pushes him off most times now. It’s always: Oscar, no or Oscar, what now? He can’t seem to get it right.

“Why don’t you go jet skiing with Lando?” you speak up and he finds it weird that you’re helping him out. The British girl nods. Yeah! Why don’t you? He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

They come back with fresh sunburns and a couple new freckles. Lando’s curls are hard from the sea salt, so he gives you a quick kiss, running up stairs for a quick shower. He’s been having lots of those. Not even a minute later, Oscar goes on to do the same. 

Somewhere along the line, you hear your name, and you know what that means. Rolling your eyes, you look over at the blue eyed girl. “I bet you he forgot his towels—”

I forgot my towels!

Giggling, Lily shakes her head, muttering ‘boys’, then signals towards her room. “I just washed some, you can grab them from our cabinet.”

“Thanks,” you chirp, making your way. While yours and Lando’s room sits at the far right side of the hall, Oscar’s and Lily’s is on the left. And you never meant to walk in on him, not at all, but you did. 

Swinging the door open, you’re caught face to face with a shirtless Oscar, dying his wet hair with a blue towel. He freezes. “W-what are you doing here?” he stutters.

You try not to stare, you really do, but you can’t help it. His body is solid, chiseled, even. His skin is moist from lathering lotion and that’s enough to make your head spin. And yet, you don’t let him see that. Pushing past him, you dig your hand deep into the cabinet, pulling two fresh towels, similar to his. He frowns.

“Just grabbing towels for my boyfriend.” Smile. “See you.”

Is this how you get people to fall for you? By not seeming desperate? Because while he knows that you want him, you sure don’t show it, and that definitely confuses him.

That same night, you four are watching a movie in the living room. Cherry Falls to be exact. The entire way through, you’re curled into Lando’s chest under a blanket. On the other side of the long couch, Lily and Oscar sit as straight as can be, but his arm remains over her shoulder, keeping her safe. 

You’re not jealous over something like that, but when she flinches during certain scenes and he comforts her, that gets you. “Hey,” you start, whispering into the Brit’s ear. Green eyes are stuck on the screen, nodding robotically. Yeah? You kiss his warm skin, making him jump. “Why don’t you and I go to bed?”

“Bed?” he asks, slow and unsure where you’re headed. “Already? But…we’re halfway through.” You yawn, rubbing a hand along his thigh. He blushes, impressed with how cool you’re able to play it. Coughing, he nods excitedly. “I think we’re done for the day,” he announces, a bit too loud.

Lily pauses the movie, tilting her head curiously. “Aw, but we’re halfway through…”

“I know,” you add, smiling apologetically. “But I’m just so tired.”

“As am I!” Lando cuts you off, voice squeaky. He shakes his head, blinking hastily, then clears his throat. “But please, don’t let us stop you from finishing the movie.”

“Yeah,” you quip, getting up, about to walk away when Lando reaches for your hips, keeping you in front of him. It doesn’t take much to feel his bulge pressed against your ass. He laughs awkwardly. “We still have that picnic tomorrow, don’t we?”

“We do,” Lily cheers, smiling widely. “Oh, I’m so excited!” Turning to face the Australian, who hasn’t said much up until now, just stares blankly, she taps his knee. “We should probably go to sleep, too.”

“No!” Lando yelps, blushing bright red as the blue eyed girl frowns. “Keep on watching. Keep the telly on. In fact…” He reaches for the control. “Turn up the volume.” 

“Great idea,” Lily says, pursing her lips as the numbers go up on the screen. “Alright then, you two go rest.”

“Thank you,” you reply, walking carefully in front of the British boy who still tries his best to hide behind you, waving sheepishly. “See you in the morning!”

Oscar really underestimated how naive Lily can be. While she was wide-eyed enough to believe that you two were ready to knock out, he knew the truth. Pecking her cheek, he makes a stand, making his girlfriend pout. “Where are you going? I thought we were gonna finish the movie?”

“We are,” he promises, smiling gently. “I’m just gonna run to the restroom real quick. Be right back.”

Running up the stairs, two steps at a time, he rushes to your side of the hall, quickly identifying small moans. He stops dead in his tracks, heart stuck in his throat, and he doesn’t know why. 

Fuck, baby, he hears Lando groan. Oscar grimaces, shutting his eyes with discomfort. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn’t have his ear pressed against the door, intruding in your guys’ private sex life. 

He shouldn't be bothered so much. Or at all.

Lando, you whine, surely writhing with pleasure. The sound makes him break a sweat, makes his brain go fuzzy. He can’t even think properly. And he knows this is wrong—on so many levels—but what’s worse is that he wishes Lando were dead. 

Skin to skin contact makes his jaw clench with anger. The fact that he knows what you feel like makes him want to barge in and rip you two apart. And it dawns on him—why does he care so much?

“No,” he mutters, taking a step back as if the door were made out of lava. He blinks hastily, shaking his head harshly until he feels his brain jump from side to side. “God, no…”

It’s official—you have his attention.

Without even making a move.

-

You feel his gaze on you. You don’t even have to look and see to know that it’s him and not Lando. Lando’s gaze doesn’t burn, but his? His zaps. Looking up from where you rested on the red gingham blanket Lily rolled onto the fresh grass, you squint behind your glasses, making eye contact with the Australian. 

You know you have him.

Reaching into your bag, you grab your sunscreen, squirting it onto your legs, making sure to lather it on in a teasing manner. You rub up and down, slow and steady. Briskly, he looks away, paying attention to his teammate who continues to ramble on and on about nothing in particular. 

Not as particular as you.

“I love having you two around,” Lily says, ripping your gaze away like one would their band aid. She hums, gingerly fixing her floppy hat and motioning towards your sunscreen. Go right ahead. “Thank you,” she replies sweetly. A beat. “I have a favor to ask.” This get’s your attention. Furrowing your brows, you nod, urging her to continue. “So, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”

“What is it?”

Lily blushes, as if she’s too embarrassed to admit. “Remember how I skipped a few exams in order to extend my stay the first time we met? In order to have that dinner with both you and Lando?”

“Yeah,” you say, still uncertain about where this might possibly lead. “I think I do.”

She cringes. “I never took them.”

“What?”

“I know! And now my advisor is telling me I won’t be able to graduate if I don’t find a way to take them, and I don’t know what to do!” She groans, bumping the edge of her palm against her forehead. “Oh God, Oscar is going to be so mad at me.”

“Okay, calm down,” you soothe her. “Have you tried reaching out to your professor?”

“Not yet,” she mumbles, tears pooling the corner of her eyes, making you feel just a dash of pity. “Should I?”

“Yes,” you respond quickly. “You should. Ask them if there’s any way to take those exams. Say you’re sorry—like really sorry. They have to be able to tell that you never meant to skip out in the first place.”

“I didn’t,” she squeaks, voice wavering. “I’m not usually like this, but…” Her blue eyes flicker down to her lap, fingers playing nervously with the hem of her shirt. “I just really want to fix this and graduate on time. Everyone is counting on that!”

“You’re going to walk that stage, Lily, alright? You just need to keep your eye on the prize.” Sighing, you unlock your phone, handing it to her. “E-mail them right now.”

“O-okay,” she stutters, eyes softening. “Thank you for being such a great friend.”

You blink. “Oh. Yeah—anytime.”

She finds privacy back in the parking lot, leaving you alone with the boys deep in the horizon. It’s peak golden-hour, so they look significantly tan. You smile, lying back down, glasses hugging the curve of your nose. You’re halfway asleep at one point, but as soon as you feel a droplet fall onto you, you peek an eye open.

“Where’s Lily?” Oscar questions, furrowing his dark brows.

You roll your eyes. “She went to get something from the car.” She probably wouldn’t like Oscar knowing the truth, and you’re not one to tell it. You wave your hand dismissively. “Now move—you’re blocking the sun.”

Grinding his teeth, the Australian scoots, but his eyes remain down on you. You lay tan now, white bikini standing out against your skin. Brown eyes trails down your legs, spotting an ankle bracelet. He hums. “What’s it say?”

You sigh. “Could you be more specific?”

He kicks your feet, making you lean against your elbows, staring at him coldly. Noticing what he was referring to, you lick your lips. “It's the number four.”

“Four?” he asks plainly. “Why four?”

“I’m really trying to relax,” you spit, taking your sunglasses off and glaring. “You’d be doing me a huge favor if you just left me alone.”

Aren’t you supposed to want him? Aren’t you the one who's supposed to be chasing after him? 

The tips of his ears burn bright red, and not from the sun. Seeing as he wasn’t leaving, you let out a heavy breath. “He asked me out on April fourth—fourth month, fourth day. His racing number is four.” You make a face. “Do you get it or do you need further explanation?”

He ignores the dig. “Why an ankle bracelet, though? Why not a ring or a necklace?”

Your red lips part open, then close. His guts twist with jealousy once he comes to the realization. The reason it’s an ankle bracelet its so that anytime he fucks you, legs dangled over his shoulders, he could admire it. Seeing as he figured it out without having you respond makes you blush. 

“Ankle bracelets are my favorite.”

His eyes darken. “You know what? Next time you two fuck, why don’t you moan a little less loud?”

Your neat brows lift up with surprise. “How are you so sure we already did?”

He pauses, clearly caught on spying. He swallows. “You sound like a pornstar.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” You laugh. “Lando doesn’t seem to mind. In fact…” Biting down on your bottom lip, you blink innocently up at him as his breathing pattern becomes uneven. “He fucking loves it.”

God—what were you doing to him?

Just as he’s about to speak, Lando calls out for him and Lily calls out for you. Where are the beers, mate? The Australian spins back and lets out a lousy smile. “On it, give me a second!”

As he turns again, you’re already up on your feet, adjusting your bikini and throwing Lando’s shirt over your head. The sight alone irks Oscar more than he’d like to admit. “I should go see what Lily needs,” you sing teasingly. Spinning on your heels, you stop, cocking your head to the side and giving him one last glance. “Oh, and Oscar?”

You point down to his hard on imprinted on his short. Horrified, heat rushes to his cheeks.

“Don't get so excited over nothing.”

-

What appears to be the first time in her life, Lily lies to Oscar. 

They need some last minute measurements for my cap and gown, she explains, puffing her cheeks as if the thought of flying back home is too much of a tassel, and not a necessity—she has to go back and take her exams. She had received an extension, but the only catch was that she had to take them in person, as originally planned. I’ll be back in a week. 

The Australian tries to tag along with his girlfriend because the thought of being left alone to third wheel a couple who probably fucks 24/7 is too unbearble. But as expected, Lily declines, claiming it’d be rude for both hostesses to leave their guests behind. And all would’ve been fine if Lando’s father hadn't broken his clavicle playing rugby. 

“Do you really have to leave?” you sigh, zipping his suitcase. 

He nods. “Mum would kill me if I didn't show up.”

“I’ll miss you.”

A soft smile. Pecking your lips, his thumb rubs against your cheek lovingly. “I’ll be back before you know it. Time will fly by.”

Which is how you and Oscar find yourselves sharing a large house with a million desires. He's quick to note that you have a thing for summer dresses—and so does he, apparently. Jaw clenched, he carefully watches as you cut up a variety of fruit, humming as you prepare yourself a plate. You hum a soft melody, making him more and more intrigued to know what it was. 

“Love in the Morning. Ennio Morricone,” he hears you say, munching on a slice of watermelon, walking towards the living room. There, on T.V., plays an unknown reality show, but he's not paying much attention, either way. No, his gaze is stuck on you, focused on the way you stretch your legs onto the coffee table, the rest of your upper body resting against the comfy couch. You swallow, reaching for a piece of mango. “One of my favorite instrumentals.”

It's one of his, too, and not because he knows it by heart, but because you do. Because you sound so beautiful, like a siren, when you hum it. He wonders if you're aware of the power you hold. Though, the way you ignore him lets him know that you do. 

Against the sunlight, the one that peeks through the open window and summer skies, your ankle bracelet shines, blinding him, almost. He feels his chest grow tight—so much so, that it hurts to breathe regularly—and he has to remind himself that this isn’t normal—this isn’t normal. 

Since when did you matter this much to him? Since when did you affect him this much? 

Without a second thought, he claims a spot next to you on the couch, reaching for a berry and popping it in his mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, somehow satisfied by this small action of his. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

You blink, caught off guard. In all your time of knowing the Australian, he never once bothered to get to know you—really get to know you. He never cared, not even in the slightest. But now, in a turn of events, he does. Squinting suspiciously—teasingly—you shake your head, vanilla perfume radiating off your skin. 

“No.”

His lips turn downwards. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, flipping through the channels, pretending he wasn’t even there. A click. “Why should I?”

Because suddenly, you’re the only one in my mind.

He bites down on his tongue, tasting a hint of blood. “I’m not into you, don’t flatter yourself.”

“I never said you were,” you say, a bored tone evident. 

Oscar’s hands get clammy, thankful for having them pressed against his lap. Maybe he can still make a run for it. To his room. Back to Australia. He doesn’t even care where, exactly, but far, far, far from you. That way, he wouldn’t feel so grossed out in wanting to know more about his teammate's girlfriend. The one whom he never thought about once before this trip. And how can he even defend his honor?

You got into his head.

You don’t register what he’s doing—not instantly, at least—but before you know it, he’s pushing your legs off the coffee table, claiming a seat there, instead. Now, rather than having a clear view of the television, you have one of him. Large and desperate and perfect. 

He narrows his eyes, sharp and threatening. “Are you glad that both Lily and Lando are gone?”

“Nope,” you respond, popping the p. “Why would I?”

Why would you? Geez, who really knows? Oh, maybe because now you have me all to yourself, and isn’t that what you wanted all along? Why don’t you want me anymore? 

Slightly grinning, Oscar lets out a raw chuckle, making you want to jump onto his thick lap and lick up his neck. You bet it’d taste like salt and cologne, but the mere thought sounds like a dream. A wild, wild dream. 

“I know you think about me.”

Zero reaction. Unimpressed, you push your bottom lip out, wagging your index finger at him before pressing it against his cheek, making him pause because that alone makes his skin burn. You push, forcing a dimple before doing the last thing he’d ever thought you’d do.

Slap him.

He thinks he’s imagining it, and you didn’t just do that, but the smug look on your face and the sting on his lets him know that he isn’t picturing it, and you did just do that. You smile sweetly, standing and ditching your place right in front of him, making your way towards the stairs. 

“Get a life, Oscar. Not everything is about you.”

You like to mess with people’s sanity. That must be it because—what the fuck is wrong with you?

First, you insinuate lusting over him. Later, you put on a show for him every chance you get. And now? Now you toy with him, making him feel like the crazy one. And one thing’s for sure.

He is not crazy.

You barely have a foot up one stair when you’re pulled back, and before you know it, pushed down to sit on the step, the Australian kneeled down in front of you. You breath hitches, eyes as wide as cherry pies. His brows are drawn in softly, a pink tint dusting his ears like some shy teen. 

“Maybe not—but everything is about you.”

You always knew you’d get him, and you knew exactly how you’d do it. You’d plant the seed and have him come running to you. It always works. I mean, it’s how you got Lando, after all. 

But Lando was a want. Oscar is a need.

With his knees still glued onto the ground, the brunette leans down and kisses your ankle, laying his lips flat as you gasp softly, feeling the familiar bracelet dig into your skin. 

“Tell me you think about me too,” he whispers pathetically—fragile. Another kiss, this time up your calf. “What do I have to do in order to get you to say it?” 

“You’re insane,” you mumble, orbs stuck on the top of his head, shaggy hair hanging loosely before he looks up at you, past his lashes. Butterflies erupt. 

Up your thigh, he licks you, tasting your lotion, but he doesn’t seem to mind the bitter taste. “Come on—I want you.” He sucks, forming a purple bruise. “Don’t you want me, too?”

You do. You fucking crave every piece of him. But you can’t let him know that. And you really do try your best to fight him off, but as soon as he starts curling his fist around your small dress, you’re just as good as gone. 

A tiny moan rings through the air, then a pant follows. He’s barely even touched you and he’s already knocked the air straight from your lungs. 

“I d-do, Oscar.” Whine. “I do want you.”

And just like that—he’s taken whatever power you were claiming onto—back.

Letting go of your dress, he chuckles, enjoying your out of breath state, and standing, making you feel small as you blink, confused as to why he stopped.

Dark eyes glint sinisterly as he kicks your open legs together, not too hard, but still enough to make you jolt with surprise, leaning your elbows up against the step, brows furrowed. 

A beat. “You really are a pretty little thing.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving you to feel abandoned.

-

It’s a brutal game of tug-of-war. One where both of your guys’ hands are burning from trying not to be the first to let go.

The first to admit defeat.

Though, it seems like the days grow longer, your dresses fall shorter, and his mind is hazier. All of which is making it more difficult to keep a distance. That is, until Lily FaceTimes Oscar.

“I need you to buy some flowers.”

Mid-bite, his teeth push down on his apple, eyes glued on her. He pulls away, drying his mouth with the back of his hand. “Won’t they dry out before the party?”

She shakes her head, highlighting what looks to be a set of notes. “That's why you're going to get carnations. They last longer.”

“Is that so?” he entertains, smiling gently when she bites down on her marker, brows furrowed as she reads her piece of paper. Throwing away what's left of his fruit, he hums. “Alright, I’ll take care of it tomorrow, don't worry.”

“Oh no, tomorrow won’t work. You have to do it today.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because she's only available today. She's going dress shopping tomorrow.”

He doesn't even have to ask who she is because he already knows. Shaking his head adamantly, the Australian rejects her idea before it even has a chance to lift off the ground. “I could do it myself,” he snaps, his usually tranquilent voice coming out a bit harsher than intended. And it’s not like him. He never, ever, speaks to Lily this way. So, obviously, it surprises her, a wounded expression mapping out immediately. 

And she could have been mad. She really could have been mad—but she wasn’t. “Is everything okay?” she asks carefully, as if walking on eggshells. It makes him feel like shit. “What's wrong, Oscar?”

“I…” His tongue goes numb. The vivid image of you looking at him, like you hold him in the palm of your hand, comes through. And he doesn’t completely hate it, not right away. But once the British girl hums softly through the phone, he’s ashamed. “I just wish you were here. I miss you.”

A beat, then: I love you.

You had not been the biggest fan of going floral shopping with Oscar, either. Quite frankly, you didn't think being with him for hours on end was a good idea. At least, here in the house, you could escape, but out in the open, your chances were ironically not that good. Where would you run off to if you depended on him for a ride back?

Yet, you found yourself saying yes, and you didn’t know why. You had no clue why you felt the need to help her out. You had no clue why you felt a certain way towards her all of sudden. 

You had no clue when Lily Zneimer—the girl you're supposed to hate—was someone you saw as a friend.

It was a tough pill to swallow, because on one hand, you were still attracted to her boyfriend. But on the other hand, you suddenly had self-control. You didn't want to ruin their relationship anymore. You didn't want to lose her amity. 

You were trying to be better.

“Ready?”

Looking up from your book, you nod. “Let me just go grab my sunglasses.”

As he watches you run upstairs, he feels something—different. From your end, that is. As if something has shifted. But he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because before he knows it, you’re back. 

The car is quiet and his music can barely even be heard, but nothing is far more awkward than the tension between you two. It’s suffocating, so much so, you roll down the window. He makes a noise, making you tilt your head to look at him. He’s frowning. “It’s a hundred degree’s out, roll it back up. I can turn on the AC.”

You don’t utter a single word, just follow his instructions. He finds that weird. See, usually, you’d be doing something to get him hot and bothered, but these days you seem to be playing it safe. If anything, he should be thankful. He should be glad that you’ve left him alone for whatever reason. 

But now he wants in on your game.

“How’d you meet Lando?”

“Don’t. We don’t have to talk.”

He ignores you. “I met Lily in school. She was in the class next to mine and I used to think she was the most beautiful girl in the world.” His mind panics as soon as he realizes what he’s just said, but you don’t seem to have done the same. A cough. “How’d you meet Lando?”

Seeing as he probably wasn’t going to let this go unless you answer his question, you sigh, twisting your body and adjusting yourself to have a good view of him. Like this, you can count every mole on his skin if you really wanted to, but you don’t. “I never really met Lando, per se. I just always…knew him, I guess.” His brows furrowed and you chuckle. “We grew up as neighbors.”

“You did?” he asks, brows jumping up with shock. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, chewing on your bottom lip. “He was my sister’s boyfriend for two years.” This shouldn’t surprise him. Coming to a red light, he turns to look at you, fighting the urge to show any kind of reaction, he doesn’t want to scare you off. You look away, wincing. “I knew what I was ruining the moment he and I started talking behind her back, and I did it anyway.” 

“So…they were still dating?”

Nod. “She caught us locked up in the bathroom. There really wasn’t any explanation to that.” Green flashes as you point numbly and he steps on the gas once again. “And you know what? I didn’t even feel all that bad, and you want to know why?”

“Why?” 

“Because I got what I wanted.”

I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want, that is.

Your words from nights ago replay inside his overly crowded mind, making it pound like a sore thumb. His lips open, but he has nothing to say, and it appears you’re done talking, too. Or so he thought. 

“Oscar…” you whisper. “I can’t taint another relationship.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw slacked. You don’t want him anymore. You want nothing to do with him. Shouldn’t he be pleased? Shouldn’t he be ecstatic that your diabolical plan has expired? One you never admitted to, but still. 

So then why does he feel let down?

“Lily is great,” you continue, eyes closed as you nod gingerly. “She’s the best, and she deserves the friend she thinks she has.”

“Except you two aren’t friends.”

You blink. “Wh-wha—yes we are. What are you talking about?”

He grits his teeth. “You two aren’t friends. You could never be.”

This gets a rise out of you. Straightening your back, your brows pinch together with offense. “And why not?”

“Because.”

“Because?” You scoff, not impressed by his bland response. “We can’t be friends simply ‘because’?”

Switching lanes, he huffs, spotting pink carnations in his rear view mirror. You had chosen those on Lily’s behalf. He didn’t really care at the moment, but now he wishes you had gone with white. What were you two arguing about again? 

Spotting the familiar blue house, he lets out a breath, pulling into the driveway, quickly putting the car in park, and turning off the ignition. This almost makes you back down because suddenly his sole focus is on you, not the road. 

“You’re on my mind.”

Oh. Biting down onto your bottom lip, you shake your head. “I’m n—”

“Yes,” he says, firmly, reaching for your hands and pulling them up to his mouth, kissing them over and over. “You are and you know it.”

“Oscar, no…” you let out, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. A crazed look colors his irises as his chest rises fast, up and down, as if he’s close to hyperventilating. Bewildered, your lips turn to a downward spiral. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”

“Yes, I do!” he yelps, voice cracking as you stare with shock. “You did this to me, you got in my head on purpose!”

“I didn’t do anything!” you squeal, frightened by his tone. “Did I tell you that I wanted you?”

“You implied it,” he defends rapidly, pleading with eyes for you to show any signs of recollection. “What changed?”

“I already told you,” you snap, this time using all your power to yank your hands back. “I don’t want to be this way anymore. I can’t.”

Silence. 

Slow breaths explore the car as he stares blankly. “That’s not fair.”

“What isn’t fair?” you hiss, aiming a glare. 

Oscar shakes his head, flinging his door open and hopping out, leaving you dumbfounded as you watch him go. Unbuckling yourself, you make a beeline for him, barely even reaching him as you tug on his shirt, making him turn back with a dark look in his eyes. Your heart nearly flat lines from how scared you are of him from this point of view. 

“What isn’t fair, huh?” you ask, trying to sound brave, but there’s a slight tremble in your voice. 

Glowering down on you, the Australian’s lips form a slow smile, almost in a sinister way. Mocking, too. He chuckles to himself. “You like to have your own fun, don’t you?” Your shoulders drop, taking a clumsy step back, but he takes a dominating one forward. “Yeah…you do. You get to knead your fingers into someone’s brain until all they can think about is you, and once they do, you’re out.” Pause. “It’s no longer fun.”

“That’s not—” You let out a shaky breath, wincing at his accuracy.  “Where are you going with this?”

Oscar shrugs, broad shoulders going up before falling sourly. “I’m gonna do the same.”

You freeze, stomach twisting with trepidation. “Huh?”

He nods, clicking his tongue. “How come you only get to have your fun?” He leans down, coming eye level with you, and narrowing his gaze until you see his iris dilate. Something about that sends a shiver down your spine. “Why can’t I do the same, too?”

Taking a step back, he makes sure to send a sly smile, the kind that lets you see he has a hidden dimple. He sighs as he steps into the house, forcing you to watch him go with a smug reaction and leaving you with a poor one. Last minute, he turns around, inclining against the doorframe, making him appear larger than the world. 

Oscar squints teasingly. 

“I’m going to have you begging me to fuck you.”

-

There was a moment in the past week where you nearly fell for it—almost. 

It happened one morning, and all he had done was walk into the house, all big and sweaty. He had just come back from a run.

“Excuse me,” he says, reaching over to grab a glass from the cabinet, intending to pour himself a bit of water. A certain warmth radiates off him and you feel it cling onto you immediately, pushing you towards him. You physically have to stop yourself. 

Pursing your lips, you move, allowing him to easily grab what he needs. Without a single thank you, he hums, the cool water tasting heavenly. The way his Adam’s Apple juts up and down makes you want to scream, looking away as rub your eyes fiercely. He smiles, setting the glass down. “I need your opinion on something.”

“What is it?” you ask, still not looking. Maybe you should leave to go buy your dress for the party. Time is running out, and you have nothing. Though, at this point, you didn't want to be here anymore. 

“It's about Lily’s graduation gift. Should I get her a necklace with her birthstone, or—” 

An ankle bracelet with my number on it?

Immediately, you turn to face him, cheekbones beet red and a slight twitch in your eyes, those that are now dark and looming. Satisfaction plays a role in his features as he stares innocently. “I was leaning towards the ankle bracelet. I really do think you and Lando are onto something.”

“What’s your game?” you ask, bitterness evident in your tone. Your question takes him back to when he was the one asking it. To you. Neat brows furrow with anticipation.

The brunette shrugs. “I don't have one. I'm just here to have fun.” He smirks. “It's summer—isn't it?”

This is all a bad case of deja vu, one you don't find appealing. How dare he ask you something like this with a dirty smile on his face? The look is just the right amount of disgusting, and the right amount of intriguing. 

He was getting to you.

Clicking your tongue, you roll your eyes. “Whatever your plan is—stop it.” Pointing a finger, you shake your head firmly. “Because it's not going to work on me.”

“It’s not?” he asks, closing the gap and towering over you dangerously so. He sees the way your breathing becomes a tad bit irregular, letting him know that this was working, no matter how much you denied it. “Because you’re a better friend now? Because you got one taste of loyalty and now you've decided to be loyal to yourself?” A large hand reaches for your chin, forcing your head to tilt back and look up at him. And you hate how handsome he is in an infuriating moment like this. “People don't change overnight. I doubt you'd be the first.”

Old habits die hard, but over time, and he's right. You're still the same avaricious girl as yesterday. 

Pushing his thumb against the corner of your lips, you instinctively open your mouth, making room. A soft smile tugs at his own lips as his eyes admire your lipstick coating his finger. Slowly, he eases the digit in, feeling your wet tongue hug it. And then, suck.

“Fuck,” he groans beneath his shaggy breath, brown orbs not wanting to miss a single second of this. Humming, your vibrations send a chill down his spine, finding it harder to not bend you over amd just fuck you into oblivion. But no—he had to hear you say it. 

Pink tongue laps around his thumb, doe eyes blinking prettily, lashes fluttering like butterflies. Instant jealousy enters the room as his mind begins to race with the fact that Lando has probably had you like this millions of times. He pushes down on your tongue, making you whine and bite down. And he doesn't even flinch.

“Tell me you want me…” His brows knit with need. “The same way I want you. Please, just—say it.”

Without warning, you bite down hard, this time getting a reaction out of him as he grunts with pain, and you push him away harshly until his back pounds against the nearest wall, letting out a loud thud. 

“Let me tell you one thing, Oscar,” you start, strolling over to him like a fallen angel. Today you wear a white dress, clung to your body like a glove, allowing him to see every curve of yours, in return, making his palms sweat. You grin, reaching him. “You won't ever see me begging for anyone—especially you.” His stomach drops. “No matter how much I want this to happen, too.”

Are you willing to get down on your knees and supplicate?

The answer is an obvious one for him: yes. He’d spend hours at your feet if that meant having you, for even just a second. Normally, he isn't this submissive, nor this desperate, but it seems like only you bring this side out of him. He doesn't entirely hate it.

“Ye—”

Ring! Ring!

Sighing, you walk up to your phone that sits on the nearest counter, and pick it up. “Hi, baby,” you greet sweetly. “How’s Adam?”

Ring! Ring!

Digging into his back pocket, he curses, picking up. “Hello, darling,” he says warmly, making you flicker your gaze over at him with accusation. “How’s everything going?”

Turns out, Adam’s bone wasn't actually broken and Lily had aced her exams. She ended up telling Oscar the truth, to which he was surprised she had kept it hidden from him for so long, but was far more surprised when she told him that you knew. Long story short, by some twist of fate, they’ll be back in the next couple of days. They land on the same day, so they’ll save the Australian the hassle and just drive in together. 

“See you in a couple of days. Alright. Bye,” you say, rubbing your temples. 

Oscar looks up, chewing the inside of his cheek before letting go. “I’ll see you, then. Fly safe.”

A moment passes by. “Did she tell you—”

“That they’re flying in together? Yeah. They were both in London, after all. It makes sense.”

“Sure,” you mumble, brushing a strand of hair away. “They land Wednesday, then?”

“Correct,” he says, nodding along. It’s already Monday, so that was…soon. 

Too soon.

“I should probably start fixing up the arrangements,” you announce. “Lily asked me a couple of days ago, but I haven't gotten around to it. I just pray they haven't died yet.”

“They haven't,” he states, making you curl a brow. He smiles sheepishly. “Carnations last longer. Lily said so.”

“Of course,” you say, grinding your teeth. “Lily said so, so it must be true.”

Nothing more, nothing less. You just walk towards the flowers, and feel the irritation paint your silhouette, because as expected, Lily was right—like always. 

Thing is, Oscar has come to learn your behavior. The way you tell a lie, the way you tell the truth. He's learned your body language, and right now, he can tell one thing for sure.

You never stopped hating Lily.

He smiles.

And that makes him happy. Because he knows this isn't over yet.

-

By Tuesday, the entire setup is ready. The flowers sit beautifully at every table, and the lights hang nicely around the trees. The sound of the lake singing is your only reminder that you could use a break. And apparently, it was also Oscar’s.

“The event decorators just left. But you did an excellent job with the florals,” he adds last minute.

A hum. “I tried my best.”

The dock creaks. The frog's ribbit. The crickets harmonize. And you two are too close to one another. Your shoulders brush, making you flinch and for him to cough awkwardly. “Despite everything, I had fun having you around. A summer well spent, don't you think?”

With a deadpan expression, you turn to look at him, making him laugh, and the corners of your lips fight back a smile. You haven't heard him laugh in so long, you come to realize. In all sincerity, that is. “It was alright,” you respond, shrugging it off as if nothing. “But yeah. I had fun, too.”

Fun teasing each other. Fun trying to get each other to crack. But fun, nonetheless.

And he thinks: if not now, when? You don't know at what moment he catches you off guard, but he does, because in a single second, he's kissing with urgency. Like he's never kissed anyone before and he was making sure to get it right. And it was more than right. Heat pools in between your legs as you try your best to keep up with him, but the taste of cheap beer makes you get high on life. Since when is he much of a drinker?

Since you.

The good thing is that the entrance back to the house isn't that far, so your guys’ tumble is pretty successful. Though, you don't make it to either’ bedroom, but rather the couch, where a bunch of disposables lay. Lily had them shipped a couple days ago. Says she wants as many pictures as possible, savor the memories for a lifetime.

Without any precaution, he wipes his arms across the cushion, sending the cameras to crash against the floor and throwing you onto the couch, smiling once you squeal with excitement. All except one camera—but neither of you notice that yet.

Your soft hair lays around you like a halo, making him wonder if he’s gone straight to heaven. You gesture him to come in closer, and he’s quick to obey, diving for your neck. You giggle, a lazy hand finding its way into his locks. “No marks,” you pant, squirming as he licks a line down your throat before going up towards your lips. 

“No marks,” he confirms. “On your neck.”

You pause momentarily, disattaching your mouth from his. “No marks anywhere.” He grins, nodding just because. You frown. “I’m serious, Oscar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “Sure.”

Then, he’s on his knees, kissing your ankle like that one time on the stairs, except now, he’s taking it nice and slow. Steady. Your mind grows dizzy as he grazes his fingers gently down your skin. It sends goosebumps, seeing him like this. So…submissive.

“I never wanted you,” he whispers as he presses his pink lips onto your left ankle this time. He hums. “You were just another girl to me. My teammate’s girlfriend—that’s it.” Another kiss. “You never crossed my mind, not even once.”

And now…

Making his way up, he kisses in between your thighs, nuzzling into your warmth. You let out a weak moan, chest rising raggedly. Playing with his earlobe, you massage it gently as you try your best not to ruin this moment. Though it seems like nothing could. Not when he’s devoted to it already. And so were you.

Feeling a slight burn, you furrow your brows as you spot him sucking gently against your inner thighs. You squirm, pushing his head away as he keeps his position. “I said no marks.”

And you actually feel his smile start to spread against your skin.

“He won’t see these, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Another suck, this time harder. “Well…unless you want him to. Then that’s your decision.” Looking past his lashes, he bites down on the flesh, making you flinch. “So what? Are you gonna let him see how someone else has fucked you while he was gone?”

Pulling your panties to the side, he dips his tongue into your pussy, making your hips fly off the couch, and for him to push them back down, holding you in place. Sloppily, he kisses it—practically making out—and groans like a madman with the way you taste. Your sweet nectar makes his cock grow hard instantaneously, and he can’t help but grind against the edge of the cushion where your legs hang. 

“Holy.” Whine. “Fucking.” Moan. “Shit.” Groan.

Twisting with an obscene amount of pleasure, you tangle a shaky hand through his hair, ignoring how soft it feels. The need to run away and stay is a confusing pattern, but as soon as he adds a finger, curling it just the right amount, you let out a high pitched moan. 

Just like that, Oscar, just like t-that. 

Adding another digit, he picks up the pace of his tongue, drawing figure eights as the knot in your stomach burns brutally. You feel a white cloud surface over your eyes as they close, screwed shut as if that might help you last longer. But he knows what your body needs, and that itself was an alarming thing to realize. 

With one last mewl, you finish all over his tongue as he licks you clean, not wasting a single drop. And the way you taste—makes him not want to go back to not knowing. With a smile filled with bliss, and that familiar afterglow, you giggle, nose scrunching like a bunny as your cheeks remain as red as a rose. The sight alone makes him struggle to comprehend that this is most likely a one time thing, and not something he’ll be able to relieve whenever he wants. 

At the end of the day—you're not his.

But he can still reminisce about this moment from time to time.

Mid-giggle, a flash goes through as you come to a stop. Oscar grins, shaking the green disposable, showing it off. “Beautiful. You’re absolutely beautiful.”

Your breath hitches, his words tugging at your heart strings. You haven't experienced something like that in so long. Shaking your head, you push your dress down, climbing off the couch and pushing him to sit. “I like to play fair.” Sliding down to your wobbly knees, you shoot a gentle smirk, something that makes his cock grow painfully harder. “Let me take care of you, Oscar.”

Undoing his belt, you hurriedly unzip his jeans, fighting the urge to take him completely. You don’t, though. No, you first kiss the tip, making him groan, feeling as if pushing you head down is a good idea. Then, you suck at a comfortable speed, like a baby sucking their thumb, and watch past your lashes how his chest begins to rise slowly. 

“You’re huge,” you hum, pecking it. “How am I gonna fit you into my small mouth?” 

Moaning, the brunette drags a hand over his tired expression, faking a smile. “You’re saying you can’t?”

You suck harder, still treating it like a lollipop. Licking his tip like a kitten licks their bowl clean. It’s starting to cut his patience thin. “I can figure it out…”

I’ve done it with Lando. How much harder can this be?

That’s it. Pushing the back of your head, he forces you to deepthroat him, keeping you in place as you drool on either side of his lap, soft gurgles coming through. You try to push off him, but it seems like that makes him shove you down twice as hard.

“Something to say, baby?” he pants under his breath, raising a brow. “What was that?”

Slapping his thigh, tapping out, you find yourself being pulled off of him, dragged onto his lap as in one swift movement, he pushes your panties to the side once again and thrusts his thick cock deep inside of you. So much happens so fast that you barely have a chance to adjust to his girth. 

“Does Lando make you feel half as much as I make you feel?”

He’s not talking about sex. It hasn’t been about sex for a while now. 

Moaning, you bounce up and down, your hair hanging like a curtain as you give your best to keep up with him and his rhythm. But he practically controls you, snapping his hips up with anger. At least, that’s what it feels like. 

“Does he make you feel good?”

“Yes,” you sigh against his ear as you clutch an arm around his shoulder, keeping as steady as possible. “He does.”

But you make me feel better. 

The sound of your praise does something to him, something inexplicable. And while he can’t quite put a name to it, he does know that you’re telling the truth. You had to be. 

Again, pulling you off his swollen cock, he flips you around, having you use him as a chair as he squeezes his girth into your tight pussy, strong arms looping under your legs and spreading them open as he abuses your cunt, feeling your head fall back as you gasp. 

“F-fuck,” you shriek, head bopping with each thrust, and your throat growing dry. “Fuck me—fuck me.”

“I’m trying,” he chuckles, continuing as you try your best to understand how he was able to learn that he knew how to do all this. “Look at you. Just…look at you.”

There comes a time of life where someone is meant for you, and you’ll find your way to each other, no matter what. He’d like to think that it’s true. Sure. It is. But have you ever thought that maybe it’s not? 

Maybe the person you think you’re supposed to be with is busy thinking the same thing as you? Living a full life with someone else who isn’t their soulmate? Romantically, that is. 

Lando and Lily. They’re both place holders. They’re nice, yeah, and they’re amazing, too—but that’s about it.

You hold his entire destiny. 

He just wants to live by it. 

But the way he has you—it’s temporary. And nothing good ever lasts forever. But God, he really fucking wishes it did. 

Close, he hears you whisper, followed by a squeal as he holds your legs up higher, still fucking you in the same position. So, so close. 

“Not. Yet.”

Hauling you off, you’re quick to whine, feeling empty as he spreads you onto the couch, admiring your glistening lips. He presses a thumb down against your bud, feeling the pulse that enlightens him to smile. You copy him, toying with your dress. 

“Should I—”

“Keep it,” he says firmly. A beat. “Please. Keep it.”

When you nod, your hair only gets tangled against the cushion, but that’s the least of your worries. You frown. “You haven’t cum yet…”

“I will, don’t worry.” Silence. Pushing this thumb inside, you squirm, wincing slightly as your eyes remain on him, waiting for his next move. “Open.”

Opening your legs wider, he chuckles, shaking his head. Your mouth. You gulp, then open wide as he hums, bringing his wet finger into your mouth, making you taste yourselves. And normally, you’d be grossed out. God, you don’t let Lando even do this, but something about Oscar makes you feel okay. That, and like a pathetic freak. 

“Good, no?” It’s an awkward thing to ask, you can’t help but blush against his digit, lashes fluttering. The Australian tsks, pressing his large finger against your tongue as your eyes grow wide. “Right?”

In a heartbeat, you nod because it just felt like the right thing to do. Satisfied, he smiles, taking another photo of this beautiful sight. Your eyes are round and full of life, and slightly teary, and that’s what he likes to see. 

Retracting his thumb, he smirks. He makes room for both of you on this small couch, towering over you and he starts raising both your legs over your shoulders. Your stomach twists. 

“I wanna see it when I fuck you.”

With your dresses scrunched up, and his cock cutting you in half, you both moan in sync as the wet sounds echo through the hall of the empty house. And this wouldn’t have happened—probably ever—if you hadn’t accepted their invitation to spend the summer in North fucking Carolina. 

The number four dangles, and not only is the sounder a reminder that it’s there, but he can spot it from his peripheral vision every time he pounds into you a little harder. And he should be jealous—God knows that’s true—but surprisingly, he’s not. 

Because he’s heard the way Lando fucks you. And nothing—nothing—compares to now. 

It feels as if he’s practiced moves like this for a lifetime. As if he were to promise you that this could all work out, then you’d believe him.

You really would.

A sloppy thrust. “I never wanted you to begin with,” he grunts, screwing his eyes shut as your body reacts to his harsh confession. “I saw you with Lando, and I felt absolutely nothing. I had Lily to focus on. But God—what have you done to me?”

His tip seems to find your g-spot as you cry out, withering around. “I was taught to respect others. To respect what’s theirs. Whether that be a journal, or a remote control car, it didn’t matter. But you do,” he confesses, watching as you continue to whimper, probably not catching any of this anymore. “You did this to me…”

You filled me with greed.

Grabbing your ankles, he lurches them over his left shoulder as he continues to pound into your tight cunt, hearing you gasp before erupting into a string of moans. 

“Now, everything he has, I want.” You whine. “I’m going after his Championship.” You whine louder, eyes opening as you watch a bead of sweat roll down his nose. “I’m going after his team.” 

Oscar chuckles darkly. “And I’d love to say that I’m going after you, but hey…looks like I already have you.”

And just like that, the pit in your stomach bursts as you two clash against one another, your orgasms riding out together as your legs finally fall, but not before he makes sure to press a gentle kiss. 

A flash. 

“Really?” you ask, glaring. 

“Stick your tongue out.”

Without any questions, where you lay, you open your mouth, watching as he stands up to tower over you, jerking his cock one last time as his drops of cum fall against your tongue, white and thick. 

Your eyes flicker with excitement as he makes sure to take a picture. If he can’t have you later, or probably ever again, then he’ll make sure that he gets an angle of you that only he could ever dream of years down the line. 

Pulling his pants back up, he makes sure to clean you up before making you sit, him only a few inches away, but honestly, it feels like miles. All of a sudden, he’s distant, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does. 

Biting down onto your wobbly lip, you comb your fingers through your hair—you’re doing your own after care. 

“I know things with us won't ever be the same, but…” You wince. “Please don’t treat Lando any differently. He sees you as a brother.”

He flinches because he knows it's true. Of course it is, everybody knows it. Oscar nods in agreement. “Only if you promise to stop hating Lily.”

You snort. “Sure. Sounds fair.”

The sound of tires is what ultimately gets your two to spring up, rushing towards the window as you look onto the driveway. Laughing, you first see Lily, then Lando, then you frantically twist your heels to face the Australian who remains with a blank expression, clearly not expecting them. 

“They were supposed to be here tomorrow, you said!” you hiss, rubbing your temples. “What the fuck?”

“They must’ve upgraded their tickets to get here sooner,” he shoots back, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He grimaces. “Hurry! Help me pick up the disposables from the floor!”

“Right!” you screech, running toward the living room as you fall onto your knees, picking up the cameras and tossing them back onto the couch. Oscar does the same, but with his eyes stuck in the door, waiting for a knock. 

Knock! Knock!

Freezing, you two look at each other, as if debating whether to make a run for it together or not. Though, as soon as you hear Lando call out for you, you’re sure you have no chance. Taking one last glance at the pile of cameras, you huff, skipping towards the door, fixing your knot up hair as best as possible. 

“Hey!” you greet, nearly over exaggerating, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he beams, grinning from ear to ear. Lando pecks your lips, lingering for a moment, making your heart drop. Because he can’t know—can he? Distancing himself, he wears a subtle frown, sort of there, sort of not, so you’re quick to smile. “I’m so happy you’re back.” You turn to face Lily, who’s stayed in the background, letting you have your moment. “That you’re both back.”

“It's nice seeing you, too,” she says before her eyes wander to a place behind you. Suddenly, her eyes twinkle as she grins at Oscar who comes closer with lips drawn into a firm line. “Look who just woke up from a nap.” Kissing his cheek swiftly, she tippy toes, fixing his messy hair into a neat comb over. “You look as if you got into some kind of bar fight.”

“Yeah,” Lando hums, looking over at you with dark eyes. “It sort of does…”

“We were fixing the outside tables—”

“We were fixing the floral arrangements—”

Lily and Lando quirk a glance at each other, then back towards you and Oscar whose faces are flushed. Oscar coughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Why don’t you guys come and check it out?”

“Yes, please!” Lily squeals, already making her way out the door, the Australian not that far behind. 

Sighing, you go on to follow as well, but there’s this hold on your wrist that just won’t let go. You spin, staring at Lando who clenches his jaw.

“Did you fuck him?”

You flinch. “No—I didn’t.”

Blue eyes fill with warning as he nods, silently thinking to himself before rubbing his chin harshly. “Don’t lie to me. I know what you’re capable of.”

This physically makes you feel sick, ashamed that he knows you for being a lying cheater. “You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, wishing to take it back as soon as it comes out. He raises a brow, clearly surprised. You gulp. “You’re capable of doing the same thing as me, aren’t you? Isn’t that why we’re together?”

“We’re together because I love you.”

“Yeah, well, I love you, too. I’ve literally given up the relationship I had with my sister—for you.” Taking his hands into yours, you knit your brows together softly, and just like that, he melts. “I love you, Lando. There's no need for anyone else.”

Looking past the clear window, Oscar stares at you and the Brit, who share a hug, taking occasional loving pecks as if nothing else matters. 

As if his feelings aren't worth anything. 

“I love it,” Lily says, ripping his gaze from getting hurt any further. Because that’s what this has all led to —him getting hurt. She grins happily, making her way closer. “I really appreciate you two working on this together, it all looks so wonderful.”

Guilt makes his tongue trip as he tries to say something, but when all fails, he settles with a warm smile, pulling her against his chest, kissing the top of her head. “I’d do anything for you, Lily Zneimer.”

With your head resting on Lando’s shoulders, you look out to where the couple stand, in the same embrace. This makes your eyes sting, which is silly because—why do you feel so invalidated? 

Despite being so far apart, you and Oscar are still able to connect, looking at each other with a certain yearning. This is not what this was supposed to be. The Australian would have never dreamt of any other girl that wasn’t Lily, so what happened? 

“I love you,” Lando mumbles, securing his hold on you.

“I love you,” Lily mumbles, face pressed against his heart, feeling it thump fiercely. 

You spare Oscar a smile, and Oscar spares you the same. And neither of you two can bring yourselves to lie.

So, instead, neither of you say it back.

-

It all comes crashing down on you one Sunday morning. 

By now, Lily has graduated, summer is over, and you’re back in Monaco. And for some reason, Lando offered to help get Lily’s picture’s developed. He knew a guy who’d get him a nice discount, apparently. Film is expensive as it is, so of course the British girl accepted. 

You’re sitting outside on the balcony. It’s windy today, and you should probably go back inside, but the ocean looks particularly blue today, so you decide to stay. 

Curling yourself tighter with your blanket, you sigh, staring numbly, mind racing. Because this is a daily occurrence now. 

All. You. Think. About. Is. Him.

Him and his obnoxious smile. Him and his warm brown eyes. Him and his chuckle that sounds dry to everyone else, but lively to you. 

Just…him.

And without a doubt, Lando has figured out that something was wrong with you, but he never asked questions.

Until now.

“Hey,” he says, plopping down next to you, pressing his lips against your temple quickly before smiling. “Have you been here all day?”

You blush, shivering by the sudden breeze. “If I say no, would you believe me?”

“Yes,” he admits, clicking his tongue. “Because apparently I believe almost everything you have to say.”

Including your lies. 

You hear him, but his voice is muffled by now with all that you’re feeling. He handed you an envelope, and you first opened it with curiosity, then with dread and shame when you realized what was inside.

The film.

You’re laughing, eyes shut with delight. 

Your lips are wrapped around his thumb.

Around his cock, too.

Drops of cum lay flat on your tongue.

One where his head is beneath your dress.

One of his hands wrapped around your ankles, a certain number four glimmering.

All of this, and more.

Licking your lips repeatedly, you sit up, staring at him with an open mouth. “Lando—”

“I’m not mad.”

You blink.

He shrugs, taking the pictures, making you want to snatch them back and figure out what to do with them yourself. How could you and Oscar forget to set this one aside?

He can tell that you’re mortified, so he sends a reassuring smile, but it does no good. “I’m not, alright? I’m just…disappointed.” His reaction is confusing, he can tell what you’re thinking. Why is he so okay with this? “I’m not the biggest fan of you lying to me, but whatever, it’s fine.”

“And sure, I should be furious that you two went behind my back, and maybe I am—but I’m willing to let it go because I love you.” The blue eyed boy pecks your lips, you still frozen with shock. He chuckles. “This is what I get, right? This is my karma? For sleeping with you while I was still dating your sister?”

When you still don’t say anything, he nods to himself, as if this is all making sense to him, and only him. “Must be.” A beat. “I forgive you.”

“What about him?” you squeak, scared of his response.

Lando clenches his jaw before breaking into a helpless smile. “He doesn’t have to know, I know. This will just remain between you and I—just like always. He doesn’t have to know. Lily doesn’t have to know.”

You hold yourself from crying because in a way, he’s right. Out of everyone, Lily Zneimer doesn’t deserve any of this. She has been nothing but good to you, and you’re embarrassed to notice now that you ruined a perfectly good friendship. And while she may have no clue, you do, and that’s enough for you to probably wince every time you look at her from now on.

“Just don’t do it again. M’kay?”

Rubbing his thumb against your lips, it’s almost like he’s waiting for something, but when you don’t seem to do whatever he was thinking, his eyes darken, and he gets up with a bitter smile. 

He takes the pictures with him and you don’t know what for.

But you don’t dare ask a single question.

It’s just you. Your thoughts.

And Oscar.

He turns, slowly, and makes eye contact with you. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

You hold back a laugh, thinking that might be a little mean, all things considered. “What are you doing here?”

He sighs, hands hanging at his sides. “I forgot my phone charger, and my laptop, and…” he pauses, frowning at you. “What are you doing here?”

You raise your brows right back. “Working?”

You watch his eyes flicker across your setup. You’re still in the same McLaren sweatshirt you’d been wearing when you saw him that morning. Your hair is piled atop your head. Your laptop sits open in front of you, the only source of light before Oscar burst through the doors. There are papers and notebooks scattered on the tabletop. Your pen is missing- you selfishly hope that as he scours your table, he’ll spot it.

“You got here at 8am,” he says, bewildered. “It’s almost midnight. That’s almost 16 hours.”

He says nothing about the pen. Why would he? He doesn’t know it’s missing. Logically, it must be here somewhere, probably under a paper or clipped to a notebook, but you’ve given up.

“Yes,” you answer, smirking. “You’re great at math, Oscar.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, home? Sleeping?”

You shrug. “I took breaks. It’s not like I’ve been working all day straight.”

You’re not lying. You’d taken a good, long lunch break, and an afternoon walk around the grounds. You’ve gotten up to stretch a couple times, made runs to the break room for coffee. You hope he doesn’t see straight through it, though. Hope he can’t see the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your skin, the exhaustion weighing your shoulders.

It’s not that you weren’t tired. You just knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep. One of those days. So instead, you had decided to be productive. Which had led to this- you in the lobby of your office building, hunched over a laptop. Oscar, the driver whose data you’re scouring, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Go grab your stuff,” you tell him, nodding towards the doors he’d been headed to. “You have an early flight tomorrow.”

He blinks wildly. “We’re on the same flight.”

You nod, because you both know this quite well. There’d been a meeting this morning about who had to be where and at what times. You’re on the first flight out with the main team, headed to Singapore.

“I’m not the one who has to drive the car at very high speeds this weekend,” you remind him, pointing the eraser of your pencil at him. “Or the one who has to be in front of the cameras. You need your beauty sleep.”

Oscar laughs at that, a happy sound that makes you smile, too. “Okay, okay. I’ll be right back.”

You think about disappearing to the bathroom or the break room while he’s gone, just to avoid any further questions. You know Oscar relatively well, though, and knowing him, he’d just wait around until you came back. Or worse, come and try to find you. You can picture it- you pouring your third cup of coffee in the last hour, Oscar watching from the doorway with disdain. You stay put, sipping from your mug and scribbling notes.

He’s back within a few minutes, a backpack in hand. His keys dangle from his fingertips. You don’t look up from your laptop as he walks towards you, that is until he’s standing right in front of you. You blink up at him through your lashes. There’s a frown on his face- this close, you know your lack of sleep must be obvious.

He nudges the top panel of your laptop with a single fingertip. “C’mon. Time to go home.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, shaking your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”

“What, you just gonna stay here until we all meet up in the morning to go to the airport?” He scoffs.

“That would be ridiculous,” you laugh.

“It would,” he agrees. He seems to see straight through you, though. “Come on. Close the laptop, close the notebooks. You can work on this on the flight, like a normal person.”

“I’m trying to improve your car, you know.”

“I’m not leaving until you do,” he finally says, and you scoff with wide eyes. “And remember, I’m the one who has to actually drive the car. And go in front of the cameras. I need my beauty sleep.”

You rear your head back, unsure how to even counter that. He takes the opportunity to close the laptop for you, and you bat at his hands. Then he’s sweeping your papers into piles, stacking your notebooks and gathering them up into his arms.

“That’s my intellectual property, you know,” you scold him, reaching for the papers. He holds them up above your head easily, and you groan. “Okay, okay, I’ll go, just- I lost my pen, earlier. It’s my favorite one. I just have find it and then I promise I’ll go- you can go home, really, I’ll see you-“

He’s reaching for your head, suddenly, and you freeze. When his hand returns to your view, he’d holding the pen between his fingertips. You blink once, twice, then reach for it, but he’s holding it above your head within seconds, too.

“We’re leaving,” he tells you, firmly. “Come on. Up we go.”

You get to your feet reluctantly and pack your things into your bag. Oscar helps, handing you your papers in neat little piles. He keeps you in front of him as you both exit the lobby, like he’s afraid you might take off running further into the office building. His car is still parked out front, still running, and you see him wince.

“Didn’t expect to be inside for so long,” he says sheepishly.

You laugh lightly, starting your walk towards the employee lot. It’s down a well lit path, but every step feels heavy this late at night.

“Wait,” he says, and you pause. “Do you want a ride? You seem tired. You know, sometimes that’s as bad as driving drunk.”

“I’m not gonna fall asleep behind the wheel,” you tell him. You say it with confidence, because it’s pretty likely you’re not going to fall asleep at all tonight.

He cocks his head at you, cast in the bright glow of the floodlights. “At least let me drive you to your car. Otherwise, how do I know you’re not going to just go back inside?”

You roll your eyes. “And how do I know you’re not trying to kidnap me?”

You end up getting in the car, because he makes it pretty clear he’s not leaving until you do. You contemplate just walking to your own car, but honestly your feet feel so heavy it’s just not worth the fight. Oscar, to his credit, doesn’t kidnap you. He also doesn’t comment on your very modest car, the only one left in the parking lot. He does try to offer you a ride home one more time, but he lets it go after your repeat refusal.

You say goodbye, climb into your own car, and start the engine. The heat kicks on quickly, thank god, and you start up a playlist. It’s only when you look up, ready to leave, that you notice his car is still sitting there. You can just barely see Oscar behind the windshield, and he waves at you. He’s waiting for you to leave.

You flip him off as you roll out of the parking lot, and you watch him laugh in response.

…..

You’re one of the first ones at the office the next morning, and therefore one of the first ones on a shuttle to the airport. Oscar’s chronically late, or as he would call it, chronically precisely on time, so you don’t see him until he’s climbing on the plane. McLaren’s rented out a charter plane for this trip, with the double header making it the easiest solution.

You’re already settled into a seat, laptop open on the table in front of you, headphones on. You barely even look up when you feel him looking over you, but then he’s tugging one side of your headphones off your ear.

“Did you even sleep?” He asks, brows furrowed.

“Yes,” you lie, raising your brows at him defensively.

Oscar raises his brows in return. He obviously doesn’t believe you.

Before he can say anything else, Lando’s behind him, leaning up over his shoulder. “Oscar, mate, get a move on.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but does as Lando’s urging. There’s not assigned seats, per say, but the two drivers are headed towards the middle of the plane where their trainers and other senior staff are sitting. That’s how these things normally go- it just makes sense. They’ll have meetings on the plane, talk about meal plans and strategies and get ready for the weekend. You’ll spend your flight going through the data just one more time, trying to unlock all of the secrets to give Oscar the best possible chance on Sunday.

…..

Singapore is good. Not great, not perfect, but good. For Lando’s team, it’s a huge weekend. And honestly, 4th place for Oscar in his rookie year is huge too. He’s thrilled, tells you as much after the race, after the briefing.

“I know you worked hard this weekend, put in a lot of hours,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” you say with a shrug.

“Right.” He says. “Thanks, though.”

You smile up at him, knowing it’s wobbly and insincere. You don’t take compliments well. “No problem.”

When you get to the hotel that night, you lay down in the bed and try to fall asleep. It’s no use, really, because it’s not your bed, and because your mind is racing. There’s nothing even bothering you, that’s the stupid thing. Just… a billion thoughts flying by all at once. So you wander the hotel, up and down the stairs, down the halls. You make a pit stop in the exercise room, walk on the treadmill, try out the rowing machine. You’ve never been one for working out, but the internet says exercise can help with sleep issues. It’s worth a try, but it doesn’t work.

You contemplate sneaking into the closed hotel pool, but ultimately decide against it. You’d probably get caught, and then you’d get in trouble, and it would somehow make it back to your boss. Then you’d get fired in Singapore, left to find your own way home. So instead, you head for the vending machines on your floor. There’s got to be something in there that’ll cure the racing in your head. Or at least bring you some comfort in the dead of night.

What doesn’t bring you comfort in the dead of night is a face in the reflection on the glass of the vending machine. You nearly scream when you meet someone else’s eyes. You whirl around, arms in a defensive position, and come face to face with Oscar.

“Would’ve pegged you for flight, not fight,” he says drowsily.

“You can’t sneak up on people like that,” you hiss, dropping your hands to your sides.

“Payback,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face clumsily. “B‘sides, I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. I was trying to get a snack.”

You blink at him. “Oscar, it’s 3am.”

He nods, blinks slowly. You almost expect his eyes to stay closed, almost expect him to fall asleep standing up.

“I woke up starving,” he says, shuffling towards one of the vending machines. “Promise you won’t tell Kim? I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

He’s cute when he’s sleepy. You want to tuck him into bed and tell him bedtime stories. You want to kiss his forehead. You blink hard, trying to reset your brain. The sleep deprivation is really getting to you. This is your coworker, your teammate.

You shrug and nod in agreement. “Would’ve kept the secret without the bribe, but if you’re offering…”

Oscar laughs, a quiet sound in the empty night air. “What’ll it be, then?”

He’s leaning against the glass heavily. He must still be half asleep. You can’t blame him. You point at the bag of chips you’d been eyeing, and then at the gummy worms in the corner. He nods in approval of both, selects them, feeds the machine his money. Then he’s picking his own snack- a poptart and a bag of Cheetos. He backs away, but you make a noise and point at the drinks machine.

“And a Red Bull?” You ask, pointing at your favorite flavor where it sits, lit up by fluorescent light.

He turns back, almost puts the money in, and then he pauses and looks at you. “It’s 3am.”

“Right, we established that.”

“Why would you drink Red Bull at 3am?” He asks, bewildered.

You shrug. “Because I like Red Bull.”

“Go work for them, then,” he suggests. You laugh. “Actually, I have a feeling that would be severely detrimental to your health. Too many free energy drinks. Do you ever sleep?”

“Those are big words for 3am,” you tease, nudging his shoulder. “Come on. The tangerine one, please.”

“I’m not buying you a Red Bull.” He shakes his head. “I am walking you back to your room and you’re going to bed.”

“I’ll tell Kim about your snacks.”

“No, you won’t.”

You let him walk you back to your room. He stands there as you swipe the key card, as you open the door and shuffle inside. He says goodnight from the doorway. You close the door after you echo the sentiment, lock all the locks, and lay down in your bed. You close your eyes and try to go to sleep. You really, truly try. But when the clock turns over to 4am, and you realize it’s useless, you roll out of bed and head down to the vending machine. You buy the Redbull with your own money, carry it back to your room, turn on the tv, and settle in until the sun comes up.

…..

Tokyo may just be your favorite city in the entire world. Everything is open all the time. You’ve never felt more seen by a city. The days that you and the rest of the team spend there between the two races are heaven. You have meetings during the day, but they’re short and easy. At night, there are plenty of places for you to roam, plenty of things to do and see.

You spend your nights in ramen bars, in arcades, in toy stores that seem to stretch on for miles. You collect so many souvenirs you’re worried you’ll have to buy a second suitcase. Frankly, you’re going on week two of sleeping only in one to two hour stints, and it’s likely you’re beginning to get a little manic. In Tokyo, though, nobody bats an eye.

You join the team for breakfast in the hotel lobby on Thursday. You’ve somehow ended up at a table with Oscar and Lando- you’d gotten here before anyone else, and Oscar had chosen the seat across from you. Lando asks what you’ve been up to. They’ve been busy with promo stuff, you’ve hardly seen the two of them all week.

You regale them with your stories and hand off your phone to Lando so he can scroll through your pictures. Oscar listens with rapt attention, leaning to look at the photos too.

“How do you do all this and find time to sleep?” Lando asks, an amused tone in his voice.

“She doesn’t, mate,” Oscar replies, pointing at your phone. “Look at the time stamps.”

You roll your eyes and snatch the phone away from them. Lando’s looking at you with wide eyes, Oscar is smiling amusedly.

“Sleep is for the weak,” you tell them, and you swear Lando’s eyes are going to bug out of his head. “We’re in Tokyo, I’m making the most of it.”

To Oscar’s credit, he doesn’t bring up the encounter at the MTC, or the run in at the vending machines. Still, this revelation seems to bewilder Lando.

“Sleep is like, the most important thing,” he says, shaking his head. “For your health.”

“Not all of us have to be in tip top shape,” you say, stabbing your fork into a waffle on your plate. “Some of us get to have fun. Exhibit B. Our breakfasts.”

Lando looks at your plate, filled with waffles and bacon and your cup of coffee, next to it. He casts his glance to his sad looking bowl of oatmeal, then, and sighs heavily. Oscar’s laughing at the two of you, though his plate looks just as sad.

“When you pass out halfway through the day,” Lando says, a retaliatory furrow in his brow, “I’m telling Andrea why.”

“That won’t happen,” you reassure him. “And besides, it’s media day. I have it easy.”

…..

Oscar makes it on the podium on Sunday. You scream your lungs out with the rest of the team, run to the pit wall, watch the podium celebrations. He’s wrapping everyone in enthusiastic hugs, slapping everyone’s backs and grinning so, so widely. All the lost sleep feels worth it, just to see him smile like that.

When he makes it to you, he hauls you into his chest, arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. You could stay like that forever, if he’d let you. He tucks his chin atop your head and you think you’d like to make a home right there, in his arms.

The celebrations go late, and so does the debrief. By the time it’s all said and done, everyone looks exhausted, including the drivers. They start shuttling you all back to the hotel for the night, back in Tokyo so you can get on the plane easily tomorrow morning. You’re just glad to be back in the city. On a night like tonight, buzzing with adrenaline and caffeine, there’s no way you’re falling asleep.

You somehow end up in a shuttle with Oscar. He smells like champagne and sweat, and you tease him about it when he sits down in the back row next to you.

He smiled sheepishly. “So I smell like a podium finisher, then.”

You watch as the city goes by out the window and listen to him chat idly with the others in the van. When you get back, you’re the last one out of the car. He’s waiting outside the hotel, leaning on the wall.

“So, what’s your plan for the night?” He asks, cocking a brow.

“No judgement?” You ask.

“No judgement,” he promises.

You shrug. “Not exactly sure. There’s a lot to do. I’ll probably get some ramen, maybe go shopping. Might just take a walk.”

He nods. “Sleep?”

“Not high on the priority list,” you admit.

He nods again. “Can I come with?”

You blank, staring at him. “What?”

“On your adventure,” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can I come along?”

Suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest. He wants to come with? Why? There’s a part of you that doesn’t like the idea, that thinks your sleepless adventures are for you and you alone. The other part of you, the one that wins out, thinks it might not be so bad to have some companionship.

“… sure,” you agree, eyeing him carefully. “But you have to play along. No forcing me to go to sleep.”

“Promise,” he says, holding out his pinky.

You hook yours with his and seal the deal.

…..

You both head up to your hotel rooms to change clothes, and in Oscar’s case, to take a shower. He sends you a text when he’s ready and you meet him in the lobby. He’s in a casual outfit, jeans and a hoodie. You’re dressed similarly, in a pair of black jeans and a crewneck.

“Where to?” He asks, wide grin on his face.

It turns out that Oscar is the ideal late night adventure companion. You start your night out at a sushi conveyor restaurant, both of you joking about how Lando would never dare to eat there. You eat to your heart’s content and make comments about fueling up for the night ahead. He even joins you in having an energy drink, some Japanese brand that you’ve never heard of. Oscar reads part of the label to you, balks at the amount of caffeine in it, and drinks it anyways.

After the restaurant, the two of you climb into a cab and head to the Shibuya district. It’s crawling with people, buzzing with energy, and you feel right at home. Oscar sticks close to your side, hanging onto the back of your sweatshirt as you cross the busy crosswalks in a sea of people. When you turn, though, he’s smiling like he’s having the time of his life. The two of you climb the stairs to an observatory where you can watch the dance of pedestrians and traffic from above. There’s a glow to the city that feels akin to how your brain feels when you can’t sleep- like it never goes out, never turns off.

You tell this to Oscar, who gives you a contemplative look.

“Is it the energy drinks?” He asks. His hand is on your wrist, likely just to keep track of you in the crowds.

You shake your head. “The energy drinks came after the… not sleeping-“

“Insomnia,” he suggests.

“… not sleeping,” you repeat, narrowing your eyes at him. “Anyways. I was like a zombie. The energy drinks make it so I’m functional. I figure if I’m gonna be awake, may as well enjoy it.”

You head back out onto the streets and begin to wander again. Oscar follows along, always holding onto you in some way, always smiling when you look at him. The two of you wander through art galleries and museums lit up with neon lights. Somewhere in the middle of one of them, he slips his fingers between yours. You’re not complaining. There’s something grounding, leveling about his presence.

You stop for drinks at a bar- some sort of local beer that Oscar orders for both of you in Japanese. It’s followed by a vodka Red Bull, at your insistence. Oscar wrinkles his nose but drinks the whole thing, seemingly determined to match you.

Next door, there’s a highly American themed bowling alley. Oscar laughs about how Logan would love it and pulls you inside. It’s the first stop of the night that he’s suggested, so you go along eagerly. He’s snapping pictures, ones to send to Logan, ones for himself, ones of you smiling, renting out bowling shoes. He pays for the game, and you both do terribly. The worker puts the bumper guards up out of pity, because the two of you obviously have no idea what you’re doing. He’s a world renowned athlete, you’re a highly skilled engineer, and yet, you both suck at bowling.

“When did the in-“ you fix him with a glare, and he stops mid sentence. “When did the not sleeping start?”

You look up at the ceiling of the bowling alley and purse your lips, watching the disco ball spin. “Next question.”

He huffs and shrugs, rolling the ball down the lane. “I don’t have a next question.”

“What’s your family like?”’you ask him, and he smiles, softer than you’ve ever seen him smile before.

“Well, I have three sisters,” he starts, eyes lighting up.

Somewhere between the bowling alley, the next bar, and the shopping mall you end up in, you start to really get to know Oscar. It’s funny how the night opens people up. Everything feels safer in the dark, surrounded by other people. It’s creeping up on 1am- in theory, both of you should be sound asleep. The fact that you’re not makes anything okay. You learn about his family, his childhood, his friends back home and in the UK. You tell him about yourself, too. He listens with an eager look on his face, laughing at all the right moments, squeezing your hand at the right ones, too.

You end up in a store that’s packed to the brim with stuffed animals. He lets you drag him around the whole thing, pointing out cute ones and the ones you think are a bit odd. Then you gasp, pointing excitedly, pulling on his hand.

“It’s you,” you squeak, the delirium beginning to set in. It’s a stuffed Kangaroo, and he groans softly. “Look, you’re even making the same face.”

Oscar seems unable to argue with that. Both he and the stuffed kangaroo do seem to be scowling. He smiles instead, picks it up, and takes it to the register. He buys it before you can really even say anything, and the cashier packages it in a bag. The kangaroo’s head sticks out over the paper, your second faithful companion for the night.

By 3am, Oscar is starting to drag. He perks up every time you look at him and smiles brightly, but you can tell. His grip on your hand is looser lately, and his blinks are growing longer and longer. You turn to him, a sympathetic smile on your face.

“We can go back to the hotel, if you want,” you say, poking his cheek lightly.

He smiles. “Are you tired?”

You sigh. “No, but you are.”

“I’m okay,” he insists, shaking his head. “What about the batting cages you mentioned? That sounded fun.”

You pout at him. “Oscar, you’re half asleep. You’d definitely get hit by a ball.”

He nods in agreement. “Maybe I just need another energy drink?”

You cock your head at him, take in his heavy eyelids, his parted lips. “That would be your third one of the night. And that would be very unhealthy.”

He nods again. “Yeah. Okay. Just… I said I’d be along for the ride.”

“We can hang out at the hotel,” you suggest. “The pool area is open all night.”

“I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”

“Me neither.”

You somehow end up with a pizza on your way back, and the two of you plant yourselves in the pool area on one of the chaise lounge chairs, the pizza box in front of you. You eat the greasy, cheesy food, and even Oscar indulges in it. He has his hand planted on the chair behind your back. Every so often you lean backs against his arm just to feel his presence. His knee bumps against yours, and you smile.

The pool is clear and blue. Neither of you will be swimming, but this felt like a neutral enough place. You’d thought about inviting him back to your room but had felt weird about it. There’s something calming about the still water and the smell of the chlorine, anyways.

He leans his head on your shoulder. The heavy weight of him is nice. He’s solid, sturdy, grounding. You’re chatting idly about something that happened at the race, something he’d missed while he was driving the car. You break off in the middle of a sentence to yawn, and then you close your eyes for just a moment. Oscar’s breath hitches.

The two of you are silent for a moment. You stare into the clear water, aching to drift and float and fall asleep. You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest.

“It started when I was a kid,” you tell him. “I just… stopped sleeping. It comes and goes in cycles. Sometimes I’m fine, sometimes I just…”

“Can’t sleep,” Oscar finishes for you, his words contradicting the sleepy tone of his voice.

“Yeah,” you say, blinking slowly again.

Your head droops, resting against his. He’s so warm, so comforting. He must feel you drifting, must feel your grip faltering, because then he’s sitting up, tucking you into his chest.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asks, drowsily.

“M’so tired,” you admit, curling into him. “Justwannasleep.”

Tears are stinging at your eyes. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared for this part. The moment when your lack of sleep catches up to you, and you become an emotional, distraught mess. You’re seconds away from full on sobbing.

Oscar seems to sense this. “Okay. Okay, how about- I have a pull out couch in my suite. Why don’t you- if you’re comfortable, you could come sleep there. Maybe it would help to know somebody’s there if you need it? Maybe-“

“Okay,” you answer, nodding against his chest. “Okay, yeah.”

He takes care of the empty pizza box and guides you up to his room. You know there’ll be questions to answer if anyone sees you, but you’re comforted by the fact that it’s 4am and nearly every sane person is sound asleep. He scans into the room, and you let out a sigh when he lets go of your hand. He moves quickly, unfolding the pull out couch, grabbing extra blankets from the cabinets. Before you know it, you’re sitting down on the bed, rubbing your eyes.

It’s strange, now that you’re here. You’re in Oscar’s hotel room. You’ve just spent the night wandering Tokyo with him. You’re exhausted, sleep deprived, still on the verge of tears. Everything feels hazy and blurry.

“I can… go, if you want,” he says, and you blink up at him through your blurry vision. “Or I can sit with you till you fall asleep.”

“That might take a while,” you tell him. “Like, you’re more likely to fall asleep. Even… when I finally get to this point, it takes a while.”

He shrugs. “We could put on a movie.”

That’s exactly what you do. He turns on the tv, spots Finding Nemo on the guide, and turns it on. He sinks down on the bed, leaning against the couch back. You crawl up next to him as he turns the volume low. At first, you just sit shoulder to shoulder. Then he reaches out, wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his side. You sigh against him. Cradled close, you let the exhausted tears flow. He can’t see you, probably, and even if he can, you can’t bring yourself to care. He leans down, brushes his lips against your forehead.

“M’right here,” he says, softly. “I’ve got you.”

You wake up at 8am with your head in his lap. His alarm is blaring from the side table, and you’re both springing apart. He fumbles for his phone, shutting the alarm off with the shaky hands of someone who’s just been woken up from not nearly enough sleep.

You, on the other hand, have gotten the most consecutive sleep of your last two weeks. You stretch, rubbing the blur from your eyes and blinking at him.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“For what?” He asks, voice steady.

“For… I don’t know. Keeping you up so late? Falling asleep on you?” You shrug. “I… that was a lot, for me to put that all on you.”

Oscar shrugs, so nonchalant about it. “It’s what friends are for.”

You nod, though you’re not convinced. You pull away, and Oscar’s soft smile drops to a flat frown. He reaches for you, but you dodge his touch.

“I should go,” you tell him. “We have to leave soon, people are going to be getting up and- if they see me come out of your room-“

“We can be friends,” he says, again, brows furrowing. “We didn’t do anything wrong, everything is okay-“

He doesn’t understand. It’s fine for him, but this is too much for you. He wants to be friends, but you’re looking at him and thinking about how if you could curl up on his chest every night, you might never have trouble sleeping again. He wants friends, you want more. You can’t have more, though, because there’s no way you’ll keep your job. And he doesn’t want that, anyways. Why would he? You’re just his pity project, the poor girl who can’t sleep, who fails at counting sheep.

“I should go,” you repeat, standing up. You can’t look at him, can’t watch him watching you. “Thank you. For everything. I’m sorry.”

He stands up too, and he grabs your hand. You pause, stuck between ripping your hand from his and running, or whirling around and snapping at him. Fight or flight. Instead, you take a deep breath. You’re still sleep deprived, still exhausted. 4 hours doesn’t fix two weeks of little to no sleep.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, shoulders sagging. “I have a hard time letting people take care of me.”

“It’s okay,” Oscar says. “Just- come sit down? Let’s talk, okay?”

You sink down on the bed, rest your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands. “Why do you care?”

Oscar sits down next to you. He reaches out, knits your fingers together. You’re reminded of the art galleries, of the crowds, of the bowling alley. You split yourself open last night, in the safety of the time when you should’ve been sleeping. He saw you and he’s still here, somehow, hanging on. Your bones are tired. Your head is pounding. You need caffeine.

“I care,” he says, gently, “because I care about you. Because I think you’re a good person, and I want to get to know you better. And because this whole thing is not healthy.”

You sigh. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand methodically, back and forth. The funny thing is, you could fall asleep again, just like this. You could lean into his shoulder, let the warmth of him seep into your skin, and fall asleep. You wonder if he knows it.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, rubbing at your face sleepily. “Osc, I’ve been like this for years. It’s not just going to change now.”

“Not overnight,” he says, softly. There’s a callous on his thumb, you can feel the scrape of it over your skin. It’s oddly soothing. “But I can try. I can be here.”

“Why would you want to?”

“Because despite all the craziness, last night was the most fun I’ve had in weeks,” he says, and you could cry. “I want to spend time with you. I want to get to know you. Take you on dates. The whole nine yards.”

You should’ve expected this. Oscar can be shy, and quiet, but he can be straightforward, too. He’s pretty easy to read. He’s blunt with Lando, almost to the point of contention sometimes. But you’d been so focused on trying to prove to him that you were just fine that you hadn’t considered he was feeling the sparks, too. That maybe he wasn’t holding onto you in the crowd just so he didn’t lose you. That maybe he liked the feeling of your skin on his, too.

“If you want that,” he says, voice low.

You blink blearily, pull away to look up at him. “I do.”

He nods, leans forward, kisses your forehead. The rest of it will come later, you think. You can work all the details out when you’re both more awake. Right now, he pulls you into his chest and flops back onto the bed.

“We have an hour before anyone comes looking for us,” he says, rubbing your back lightly. “Close your eyes? You don’t have to sleep, just-“

You blink once, twice, and then you’re fast asleep before he can get another word out.

…..

Oscar wins the sprint race in Qatar, and then takes second on Sunday. He’s nothing but endless wide grins all weekend, despite the heat and the dehydration and his obvious exhaustion. You laugh when you watch him lay down on the floor in the cool down room and smile when he gets sprayed with champagne on the podium. He chases you through the garage afterwards to give you a hug, despite your screeching about how sticky he is.

He tucks you into his chest. “Couldn’t have done it without you, baby.”

Later, you help corral a very tired Oscar and Lando to the shuttles and back to the hotel. They’re each stumbling over their own feet, giggling and laughing about the race, shoving at each other’s shoulders. For a minute, you’re walking through an empty parking lot, far from any other McLaren staff, and Oscar links his fingers with yours. They fit together like puzzle pieces. His fingers are sticky with champagne, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Lando sees and doesn’t say anything, just smiles.

You’re keeping it quiet for now. Time to figure it out between the two of you before you get your bosses involved. You have a feeling it’ll be mostly okay. You’ll figure it out, one way or another.

You follow Oscar up to his hotel room, saying goodnight to Lando as he heads further down the hall. He knits his fingers with yours again, leads you into his room, and collapses onto the bed.

“I’m exhausted,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Are you?”

You smile down at him, laid out on the bed. He should probably shower, at the very least change his clothes, but you can’t bring yourself to tell him that.

You sigh. “I mean, yeah, but if you’re asking if I’ll be able to sleep… probably not.”

He nods in understanding and purses his lips. “D’you think… would you just… stay, until I fall asleep?” He asks, blinking up at you. “After that you can take my card and get a Red Bull and go do whatever, just-“

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” you tell him.

It’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done. He gets ready for bed, and you do the same. You lean against the headboard and he crawls up the bed. He puts his head on a pillow in your lap, curls up into a little c shape. He’s very cat like, you’ve noticed, especially when he’s sleepy. You run your fingers through his hair, the tv playing quietly in the background, and he sighs and closes his eyes.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.

He’s out within minutes. Oscar is a sound sleeper. You could move him, could shift his head and get up. You could wander the halls, take his card and buy all the energy drinks you desire. But you look down at him, his brow unfurrowed, lips parted, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. You could sit here and watch him breathe all night. It’s a terrifying and comforting thought, all at once.

You don’t sleep. It’s likely you’ll crash on the flight home, or maybe shortly after that. With your luck, you’ll pass out in a meeting when you get back to the MTC. Oscar doesn’t scold you when he wakes up and it’s obvious you’ve been awake all night.

He gets you coffee from the breakfast bar, exactly how you like it. And when he finds you in the backseat of the airport shuttle, he hands you a tangerine Red Bull. It’s early, the sun just peeking up over the horizon, washing the whole city with orange. He’s smiling at you, and you’re smiling right back.

When you fall asleep on his shoulder on the way to the airport, nobody dares to say a word.

…..

“Did you hear we’re gonna be sponsored by Monster next year?” Lando asks, throwing a tennis ball at a wall in the courtyard.

You sit up in the grass nearby, eyes lighting up. “You’re kidding. Free Monster?”

Oscar, whose stomach you’d been laying on, sits up behind you and wraps his arm around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Your consumption will be restricted,” he says, and you laugh.

You suppose that’s fair. Besides, Monster is fine, but nothing will ever top tangerine Red Bull.

check out the companion blurb, Glad You’re Here

​"I am telling you, Oscar, if Professor Miller assigns one more tax audit simulation, I am going to lose it," she groaned, tossing her highlighter across the room. "He thinks his class is the only thing we do! I have a life. I have… well, I have you, and I have sanity to preserve."

​Oscar, who had been focused on a data analysis document at the kitchen island, didn’t even look up as he stood. He simply set his tablet down, walked over, and expertly plucked the heavy textbook from under her head, replacing it with a soft throw pillow.

​"Deep breaths," Oscar murmured, his voice dropping into that low, steady register he only ever used with her. "You’ve been staring at those spreadsheets for six hours. You’re spiraling, sweetheart."

​She turned her face into the cushion, letting out a muffled sound of frustration. "I’m not spiraling, I’m rightfully angry. He’s ruining my prime years."

​"You’re being dramatic," he chuckled, moving to the kitchen. "But you’re also hungry. I’ve got salmon in the pan and the rice is almost done."

​She sat up, immediately swinging her legs off the couch and padding barefoot into the kitchen behind him. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his back and swaying slightly. "You’re the only good thing in my life right now."

​Oscar paused, his hand moving to cover hers where they were locked against his stomach. He turned slightly, pinning her with a look that was entirely different from the cool, calculated intensity he displayed in the paddock. Here, he was just soft, all warmth and quiet devotion.

​"Is that so?" he asked, his voice firm but teasing. He turned completely in her arms, effectively crowding her against the counter. He took the apron strings from her fingers and gently nudged her toward the breakfast nook. "Go. Sit. You’re stressed and you’re clinging, which means you’re fried. Let me handle this."

​"But I want to help," she complained. Though she didn't fight the gentle, yet firm pressure, he applied to her shoulders to guide her to the seat.

​"You’ve helped enough by existing," he said, turning back to the stove. He plated the food with precise, practiced movements, then set the dish in front of her along with a perfectly crafted cup of coffee, the aroma filling the room. He leaned in, placing a hand on the back of her chair and hovering just close enough that his presence was all she could feel. "Eat, baby. Then we’re putting the books away for the night. That’s not a request."

​She looked up at him, her usual hyper energy dampened by a genuine smile. "You’re bossy."

​Oscar smirked, his eyes darkening with a playful, possessive glint as he brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "Only when you need someone to take the lead. Now, eat before it gets cold."

She took a bite of the salmon, the stress in her shoulders finally beginning to uncoil as the familiar, perfect flavor hit her tongue. Oscar stood there, watching her with that quiet, intense focus, the way he looked at data, but with a softness in his eyes that he never let the world see.

​He poured himself a glass of water, his movements fluid and efficient, before leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. "I need to head out tomorrow morning," he said, his voice casual, though his eyes remained fixed on her. "Heading to pre-season testing for a few days."

​Her fork clattered against the plate, the jolly energy vanishing instantly. She looked up, her lower lip already starting to poke out in a familiar, involuntary pout. She abandoned the plate, sliding off the chair to lean against him again, her arms winding tightly around his torso as if she could physically tether him to the apartment.

​"You’re leaving me? Again?" she lamented, pressing her forehead into his chest. "I’m going to be surrounded by textbooks and Miller’s impossible audit questions with absolutely zero supervision. Do you have any idea how much chaos I’m going to cause without you here to tell me to stop spiraling?"

​Oscar let out a low, rumbling laugh, his large hands coming up to cup her face, forcing her to look up at him. He tilted his head, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a gentle, grounding pressure.

​"The world won't end, sweetheart. You’re a brilliant accountant in the making, I think you can handle a few days of solitude," he teased, though his eyes softened at the sight of her genuine disappointment.

​He leaned down, dropping his voice to that authoritative, low register that always made her heart skip a beat. "And don't act like I'm abandoning you. You know exactly where my team’s hospitality suite is. If you finish those reports early and stop complaining about Miller, you have a VIP guest pass waiting for you at the gate. You’ve had one for months."

​She blinked, the pout softening into a smirk. "So, you want me there?"

​"I always want you there," he replied, his tone shifting from teasing to something far more serious and possessive. He squeezed her shoulders, grounding her. "But you’re the one who said you needed to focus on your finals. I’m just giving you the space to work, so when you do show up, you can actually relax instead of stressing over your laptop in the garage."

​He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her temple, a lingering, intimate touch that reminded her exactly who was in charge of her schedule, her sanity, and, quite often, her heart.

​"Finish the audit, get your work done, and I’ll send a car to pick you up whenever you’re ready," he murmured. "Deal?"

—

The apartment felt quiet without the steady hum of Oscar’s presence, and the silence was doing her no favors.

​For the first forty-eight hours, she treated her study desk like a battlefield. She was relentless, fueled by caffeine and an annoying sense of loneliness that she refused to admit was caused by an empty seat at the kitchen island. Whenever a journal entry wouldn't balance or a case study made her brain feel like it was fraying at the edges, her reflex was immediate. Reach for her phone.

​Her messages to Oscar were a chaotic, unfiltered stream of consciousness.

​“Professor Miller is a sadist. I am currently staring at a balance sheet that makes no sense. I miss your coffee. Please come back and tell me I’m smart.”

​“I’m pretty sure I just invented a new way to calculate depreciation. It’s probably illegal. Where are you?”

​“The fridge is empty. I don’t know how to exist without you here to tell me what to eat. Send help (and maybe a hug).”

​She didn’t just text, she left a trail of missed calls in his log. She knew he was at the track, buried in debriefs and simulator data, but she couldn't help the impulsive need to hear his voice, that calm, steady anchor in her frantic world.

​Every time her phone finally buzzed with his name on the screen, her mood did a complete 180.

​"You're making a habit of this," Oscar’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and amused. He was likely walking through the paddock, the faint, distorted roar of an engine in the background.

​"I’m suffering, Oscar! I’m practically a martyr for the sake of higher education," she countered, her voice immediately dropping into that clingy, melodic tone she saved just for him. "My spreadsheet is red. Everything is red. My brain is red."

​Oscar chuckled, a sound that made her slump back in her chair with a relieved exhale. "You're not suffering, you're just dramatic. Breathe. Did you double-check the accruals in column G?"

​"I… maybe?"

​"Check them again," he commanded, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "And drink some water. You haven't left that desk in three hours, have you?"

​"I’ve been busy!"

​"You've been pouting," he countered, though his tone softened instantly, shedding the F1 driver persona for the man who knew exactly how to handle her. "I've got another hour of meetings, but I’ll check on you again after. Keep your phone close, okay? Don't make me worry."

​"I'm not going anywhere," she murmured, already feeling the sharp edges of her stress dulling simply because he was listening.

​"Good. Keep working, sweetheart. I’ll make it worth your while when you’re done."

​She hung up, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. He was thousands of miles away, yet he was still managing her, directing her, and somehow, keeping her entire world from tilting off its axis. She sat up straighter, pulled the laptop closer, and dove back into the numbers.

—

The weight of the final audit project finally lifted off her shoulders, but the relief was short-lived. A string of emails from her two professors confirmed the worst. They require onsite attendance for the rest of the week. 

​She stared at the screen, her heart sinking. The flexibility that had allowed her to be a fixture in Oscar’s world, the quick flights to track locations, the long hours spent in the motorhome while he was busy with media, was gone for now.

​She opened her messaging app, her thumbs flying across the screen.

​“The universe is officially conspiring against us. Professors are forcing onsite attendance this week. I’m grounded, Oscar. I can’t make it to the pre-testing. I’m so sorry.”

​She hit send, then tossed her phone onto her bed, pacing the room. She felt childishly upset, but the thought of being stuck in a lecture hall while he was tearing up the track made her feel disconnected in a way she hated.

​The next morning, the campus was a whirlwind of activity. She trudged toward the main gate, her bag heavy with textbooks and her mood significantly darker than the morning sky. She was busy mentally calculating how much time she’d lose in transit when a familiar, sleek car idling near the curb caught her eye.

​She froze. It couldn’t be.

​The window rolled down, and there he was. Oscar wasn’t in his team kit, but in a simple black hoodie, his hair slightly windswept, looking entirely out of place among the rushing students and faculty. He was leaning over to the passenger side, watching her with that private, slow smile that was reserved solely for her.

​"Need a ride, Accountant?"

​She let out a high-pitched squeal that made several students turn their heads, but she didn't care. She didn't walk, she practically leaped toward the car, her fatigue evaporating into pure, unadulterated joy. She scrambled into the passenger seat, not even bothering to close the door properly before she was throwing her arms around his neck, nearly knocking his sunglasses askew.

​"You're here! You're actually here!" she chirped, burying her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne. "How? You’re supposed to be in testing!"

​Oscar laughed, a rich, genuine sound that echoed in the small space of the car. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him and effectively pinning her in place for a moment, his touch firm and grounding. He didn't let go, even as the campus traffic honked behind them.

​"I finished early," he murmured into her hair, his thumb stroking her back in a soothing, possessive rhythm. "And I wasn't about to let you wallow in misery because of a few professors. I told you, I’d make it worth your while."

​She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes wide and sparkling. "You came all this way just for me?"

​"You're a priority," he said, his tone shifting from playful to that low, steady, and unapologetic intensity that made her knees weak. He reached over, clicking her seatbelt into place before his hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb tracing her lip. "Besides, I don't like it when you’re not around. Now, buckle up. We’re going to get coffee, and then you're going to tell me exactly which professor is giving you a hard time so I can decide if I need to have a very polite, very Australian chat with them."

They bypassed the usual coffee shops and instead drove until the city skyline blurred into the quieter, lush outskirts of the metro. Oscar pulled into a secluded park, the kind that was mostly empty on a weekday afternoon.

​"Fresh air," he stated, his tone final as he turned off the engine. "You need to stop breathing in library dust and start breathing real oxygen."

​She was out of the car before he even killed the ignition, her earlier, frazzled energy returning as a hyper, restless buzz. She grabbed his hand, dragging him toward a cluster of colorful, slightly weathered playground equipment, a relic of a bygone era.

​"Oscar, play with me!" she demanded, eyes sparkling with that infectious, chaotic joy.

​He arched a brow, looking at the plastic slide and the rusted merry-go-round with a mix of amusement and disbelief. "We are grown adults, and you want to play in a jungle gym?"

​"Yes! It’s the only way I can destress. You’re the one who said you’d make it worth my while, right? Well, my price is a race to the top of the climbing frame." She was already scrambling up the rubberized matting, laughing as she looked down at him.

​Oscar stood for a moment, hands in his pockets, his gaze softening into that puddle-like adoration he only ever showed her. He sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips, and followed her up with an ease that betrayed his elite athletic conditioning. For the next hour, he let her win at tag, pushed her on the swing until she was dizzy with laughter, and didn't even flinch when she insisted they play hide-and-seek behind the oak trees.

​But as the sun began to dip, casting long, orange shadows across the grass, Oscar’s playfulness vanished, replaced by the cool, focused discipline of a man who managed a high-stakes career.

​He caught her wrist mid-sprint, pulling her back against his chest until her giggling died down. "That’s enough, sweetheart. Time’s up."

​"Already?" she whined, instantly wilting. She tried to squirm away, but his grip on her waist tightened, locking her in place. "I was having fun! I don't want to go back to reality yet."

​"You have an assignment due in two days," he reminded her, his voice low and uncompromising. "If you don't start it now, you’ll be pulling all-nighters, and I won't have you stressed out because you procrastinated. We’re going back, you’re getting your laptop out, and you’re finishing the work."

​She huffed, spinning around to face him with her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed into a bratty, defiant glare. She didn't like being told 'no,' especially not when she was having this much fun.

​"You are so bossy," she pouted, her voice dripping with mock annoyance. "But, okay daddy.”

​The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.

​She meant it as a jab at his overbearing, nurturing nature, a sarcastic comment on how he fussed over her schedule and her health. But the word hit Oscar like a physical blow. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening, and his eyes darkened instantly, losing all traces of the 'soft' best friend.

​The casual, protective dominance he usually displayed spiked into something much sharper, much more intense. He didn't say a word, but the look he pinned her with, a slow, predatory appraisal, made the breath hitch in her throat. He didn't break eye contact, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against her hip that suddenly felt far too heavy, far too intimate.

​"Don't," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register so dark and gravelly it vibrated against her skin. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his aura shifting into something undeniably raw. "If you keep saying things like that, you aren't going to get any work done at all. Is that what you want?"

​She blinked, confused by the sudden shift in the atmosphere, her bratty attitude faltering under the weight of his stare. "I… I just meant—"

​"I know what you meant," he interrupted, his tone cold and steady. He pulled back, adjusting his hoodie, his composure snapping back into place like a steel trap, though his eyes remained stormy. "Go to the car. We’re going home. Now."

—

The drive back was agonizingly silent. Oscar kept his eyes strictly on the road, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line that she hadn’t seen since the worst days of his rookie season. He wasn't the soft, doting best friend who played on jungle gyms anymore, he was a man holding a leash, and he was holding it tight.

​When they pulled into the apartment complex, he didn't even wait for her to gather her things. He stepped out of the car, rounded it in two long, purposeful strides, and opened her door. His hand on the small of her back wasn't just guidance, it was an anchor, steering her toward the elevator with a possessive weight that made her skin prickle.

​Inside the apartment, the air felt thick, charged with a static electricity that made it hard to breathe. Oscar didn't stop to make coffee or offer snacks. He walked straight to the kitchen island, pulled her chair out, and gestured to her laptop.

​"Sit," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

​She sat, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened her laptop. She glanced up at him, expecting the usual playful smirk or the affectionate head-pat, but Oscar was leaning against the counter opposite her, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a dark, unreadable intensity.

​Her mind began to race, frantically retracing the last hour. She played back their conversation on the playground, dissecting every word like a forensic accountant.

​We were playing hide and seek... I was complaining... I called him bossy...

​Then, it hit her. The way the air had shifted. The way his eyes had darkened until they looked almost black.

​“But, okay daddy…”

​She felt the blood rush to her face, heating her cheeks until they burned. She had meant it in the most domestic, fatherly sense, the way he micromanaged her diet, enforced her study schedule, and made sure she was safe. But the way he had reacted... that wasn't how a 'best friend' acted when called a parental figure. That was the look of a man who had heard something entirely different, something that clearly tapped into a part of his psyche he kept locked away in a vault.

​She looked up at him again, seeing him in a completely new light. The way his clothes fit him, the way he hovered over her space, the way he took pleasure in her obedience to his 'rules.'

​"Oscar?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

​He didn't move, his gaze still anchored to her, unblinking. "Focus on the screen, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register again. "You’ve got a lot of work to catch up on, and I’m going to make sure you finish every bit of it."

​He didn't mention the word. He didn't have to. The way he was looking at her, with that predatory, possessive focus, told her that he knew exactly what she had said, and he was clearly enjoying the effect it was having on her.

​She looked back down at her spreadsheet, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She suddenly realized that the 'bossy' best friend she thought she knew was someone much more complicated. 

—

The air in the apartment had been thick for three days, vibrating with a tension that Oscar refused to dissipate. He’d stayed, true to his word, acting as both an enforcer and a caretaker. He kept her coffee at the perfect temperature, tracked her study hours with an eagle eye, and never once let his gaze soften into the gentle, "best friend" warmth she was used to.

​She needed to know if she had cracked the code. She needed to know if the man she’d known for years was hiding a side of himself that was as sharp and demanding as he was on the track.

​Oscar was at the counter, meticulously folding a kitchen towel, his back to her. She set her pen down, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

​"Hey, Daddy?" she chirped, the word slipping out with a forced, airy sweetness.

​Oscar’s movements stalled. His back stiffened, his shoulders broadening under his shirt. He didn’t turn around, but his voice, when he spoke, was a low, dangerous warning. "Don't, sweetheart. I told you to stop playing games."

​She felt a thrill of reckless adrenaline. She stood up, walking toward him, her hand brushing the small of his back as she passed. "Why? It suits you. You’re so good at telling me what to do. Isn't that what you want, daddy?"

​He spun around, and the shift in his presence was instantaneous. The 'best friend' veneer shattered entirely. He moved with the precision of an apex predator, closing the gap between them before she could even take a breath.

​With a firm, decisive grip on her hips, he spun her around and pressed her stomach-first against the cool marble of the kitchen island. He leaned into her, his chest flush against her back, effectively pinning her in place.

​She gasped, her breath hitching as his right hand moved up, his fingers wrapping firmly, but not painfully, around the front of her throat. It was an act of absolute control, a silent command for her to remain still. His left hand splayed across her waist, his thumb digging into her skin, grounding her against him.

​She was hyper-aware of the space between them. Even through the fabric of his trousers, she could feel the heat radiating from him. He wasn't fully aroused, yet the sensation of him pressing against her backside made her knees turn to water, a strange, electric tension pooling deep in her stomach.

​He leaned down, his lips ghosting against the sensitive shell of her ear, his breath hot and ragged.

​"You really don't know when to stop, do you?" he whispered, his voice a gravelly rumble that vibrated right through her spine. "You keep pushing, and you’re going to find out exactly what happens when I stop pretending I’m just your friend."

​His fingers tightened ever so slightly against her throat, his touch possessive and terrifyingly firm.

​"This is your last warning," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a hunger he’d been masking for years. "Don't test me again unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences."

The silence that followed his warning was heavy, suffocating, and strangely electric. Her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she was certain he could feel it through her back. Every nerve ending in her body was lit up, acutely aware of the weight of his hand against her throat and the solid, unyielding strength of him pressed against her.

​She tried to turn her head, to catch a glimpse of his face, but his hand on her waist tightened, a silent, absolute command to stay exactly where she was.

​He’s not joking, the thought finally crystallized in her mind, sharp and undeniable. He’s not just acting like a parent. He’s... he’s something else entirely.

​The pieces began to fall into place with a sudden, dizzying clarity. The way he hovered over her with such possessive, micromanaging intensity, the way he took pleasure in stripping her of her autonomy, not to be mean, but because he thrived on being the one to steer her, to guide her, to command her. The way the mere suggestion of that nickname had flipped a switch, turning her soft, doting best friend into someone who looked at her with a predatory, dark hunger.

​It wasn't just a protective instinct. It was a kink.

​She felt a rush of heat travel from the base of her spine to her cheeks. The realization was both terrifying and intoxicating. He wasn't just playing the role of a stern authority figure because she needed help with her classes, he was fulfilling a deeply ingrained, private desire to dominate, and she, completely oblivious, had been handing him the reins on a silver platter for months.

​"Oh," she breathed, the word barely a whisper, the shock of the revelation leaving her breathless.

​Oscar’s grip on her throat didn't loosen. If anything, he pressed closer, his chest expanding as he took a deep, steadying breath against her shoulder. " 'Oh'?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Is that all you have to say? Now that you’ve finally figured out what game you’re actually playing?"

​He shifted his weight, and she felt the distinct, firm press of his hardening desire against her, a silent confirmation of his intensity. She went still, her brain struggling to reconcile the Oscar who made her coffee and woke her up for school with this man, who was currently holding her captive against the kitchen counter with such raw, unhidden intent.

​"I didn't..." she started, then swallowed hard, her voice trembling. "I didn't know."

​"I know you didn't," Oscar murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear again, a sensation that sent a shiver racing down her entire frame. "But you know now, don't you? You know exactly what happens when you push me this far."

​He released her throat slowly, but his hand stayed there, his fingers splayed against her skin, possessive and claiming. He didn't let her turn around, he kept her pinned, leaving her to stare at the blank wall, forced to confront the reality that the dynamic of their friendship, and perhaps her entire life, had just fundamentally shifted.

—

authors note: this ones gonna be a longggg ride. let me know if any one of you wants to be tagged for all the next parts 🫶🏻

Clear shakes his head solemnly. “Your pace and racecraft simply haven’t developed at the rate we need to see to justify keeping you in the program, Arthur. I know how hard you’ve worked, but there are other young talents coming up behind you showing greater potential.”

The word “potential” hits Arthur like a dagger. Ever since he was a kid, that’s what he’s heard over and over — unfavorable comparisons to Charles’ unlimited potential. He always knew his big brother was special behind the wheel, but he’d clung to the hope that he could make it to F1 through sheer hard work and determination if not raw talent.

Clearly that hope was misguided. Arthur feels the sting of failure wash over him.

“I … I understand,” he forces out, struggling not to break down in tears right there. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

He stands up shakily, the room spinning. He needs to get out of here.

The drive back to his family’s home in Monaco is a blur. Arthur’s mind races, years of sacrifice and struggle swirling in his head. Endless days and nights on the simulator. Grueling hours in the gym, pushing his body to its limits. Tormenting himself over endless data traces, looking for even a tenth of a second to gain an edge.

All for nothing. The harsh truth is he’ll never be good enough. No matter how hard he tries, the Leclerc name will always belong to Charles. Arthur will be forever known as his little brother, the one who couldn’t quite cut it.

He slams his fist against the steering wheel, angry tears now streaming down his face. Why did he ever think he could do this? Why didn’t he just pursue something, anything else with his life? He’s wasted years chasing an impossible dream, and now he has nothing to show for it.

His phone rings, almost slipping out of his trembling hands before he can answer. It’s you.

“Y/N ...” Arthur chokes out, trying and failing to hold back his sobs.

“Arthur? Oh my god, what’s wrong?” You ask, panic in your voice even through the tinny speaker. Of course you can sense something is desperately wrong. You’ve always been there for him, the one person who truly understands what he’s been going through.

Arthur can barely get the words out between ragged breaths. “The … the FDA ... they’re releasing me ... it’s over ...”

There’s stunned silence on the other end of the line.

“Arthur, I ...” You trail off, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. You know how much this has meant to him. How much of himself he’s given to this endeavor. “I’m coming over right now, okay? Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

You hang up before Arthur can respond. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Part of him wants to wallow in despair alone. But mostly he’s grateful you’re coming. He’s not sure he can handle this by himself right now.

Sure enough, you burst through the front door only a few minutes later. Arthur has collapsed on the couch, head in his hands as the tears continue to flow.

“Oh Arthur ...” You sit down beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. He turns and buries his face in your shoulder, no longer trying to hold anything back as ragged sobs wrack his body.

You just hold him, making soft hushing sounds and stroking his hair. You’ve seen him distraught before — after tough losses or crashes. But never quite like this. This is the cry of someone whose dreams have been shattered.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Arthur’s sobs begin to subside into hitching breaths. You grab a tissue box from the end table and hand it to him.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, blowing his nose loudly. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I just … I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do now?”

You take his hand and give it a squeeze. “First, you’re going to breathe. This isn’t the end of the world, I promise. We’ll get through this.”

Arthur lets out a shaky exhale, trying to calm himself. You always have been the level-headed one. He leans back against the couch cushions, keeping your hand grasped tightly in his.

“I really thought I could make it, you know?” He says quietly. “I’ve given everything to this stupid dream ever since I was a kid. But I’ll never be good enough, will I? Not like Charles.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Arthur barrels on, unable to contain years of self-doubt and insecurity any longer.

“Don’t try to argue. We both know it’s true. Charles was always the special one. The one with the generational talent. I was just … there. Doing my best to keep up, but always a step behind no matter how hard I worked.”

You shake your head vehemently. “Arthur, that’s not true at all. You’re an incredible driver. Your work ethic and determination are-”

“Meaningless without the talent,” Arthur interrupts bitterly. “That’s all that matters in the end. And I don’t have it, not like Charles does. I’m just … normal. Ordinary. That’s why Ferrari has moved on.”

You move closer, taking Arthur’s face in your hands so he has to look you in the eye. “You listen to me, Arthur Leclerc. You are anything but ordinary, understand? You’ve accomplished more by the age of 23 than most people could dream of in their entire lives. Making it all the way to F2 and the Ferrari Driver Academy is incredible, no matter what happens next.”

Arthur tries to turn away, but you keep his gaze locked, your voice rising in intensity. “If you were ordinary, you wouldn’t have been able to push yourself so hard for so long. Ordinary people would have given up a long time ago. It’s your extraordinary drive and passion that have taken you this far.”

Tears are welling up in your eyes now. You can’t stand to see him diminishing himself like this.

“Besides,” you add, managing a small smile. “I may be biased, but I’ve always thought you were the most extraordinarily kind, caring, and hilarious person I know. That’s a kind of specialness in itself, you know.”

Arthur lets out a choked laugh, wiping at his eyes again. Leave it to you to know just what to say to raise his spirits, even a little. “You always have been weirdly good at these pep talks.”

“Well, someone has to keep your head from getting too big,” you quip back with a grin.

Arthur mock-gasps in feigned offense. “Why, you little ...”

He lunges at you, starting to mercilessly tickle your sides. You squeal with laughter, trying in vain to fight back as you quickly devolve into a giggling, flailing mess of limbs.

You’ve been reduced to teary hiccups when Arthur finally relents, allowing you both to catch your breath. He throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“You’re the best,” he murmurs softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You rest your head against his shoulder contentedly. “Let’s just take things one day at a time for now, okay? We’ll figure out what’s next together, like we always have.”

Arthur nods, feeling a deep sense of gratitude and love for his girlfriend. No matter what curveballs life has thrown your way, you’ve always supported and uplifted each other. He knows that won’t change, even if his racing dreams don’t pan out.

“Together,” he echoes, giving your hand one more tight squeeze. Whatever the future holds, he can get through it with you by his side.

Maybe his path won’t lead to Formula 1 after all. Arthur feels a pang of sadness and disappointment at that realization. But as long as he has his family — has you — to lean on, he knows he’ll be okay. That love and support is what has always truly mattered most, not chasing some impossible dream.

“You know, we should see if Charles wants to come over later,” Arthur says, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t roasted his abysmal fashion sense in way too long.”

You burst out laughing at that. Only Arthur could find his way back to laughing and joking so soon after having his world turned upside down. It’s just one of the many things you admire about him.

“Oh my god, yes please,” you reply once you’ve caught your breath. “His outfit at the last race was literally a crime against humanity. Someone needs to intervene before he traumatizes us all again.”

The two of you spend the next little while cheerfully trading escalating insults about his big brother’s admittedly questionable clothing choices. The mood has lightened considerably, at least for now.

Arthur knows the sting of his failure will return, the questions about what he should do next weighing heavily. But you’ll be there for those hard moments too, just like always. As long as he has you — his best friend, his other half — he can face any challenge life throws his way.

The uncertain road ahead is daunting. But Arthur meets it with determination burning in his eyes. If he couldn’t make it as a Formula 1 driver, he’ll simply have to find a new dream to chase. A new mountain to climb. Whatever it is, he knows you’ll be alongside him every step of the way.

***

Six Months Later

The roar of the engines fades as the cars return to the pits after qualifying. Arthur can’t tear his eyes away from the timing screens:

1. C. LECLERC

2. O. PIASTRI

A Leclerc front row lockout at their home race. Except one of them isn’t really a Leclerc at all.

“Nice one, Piastri-Leclerc!” One of the McLaren mechanics calls out as Oscar climbs from his car.

Arthur’s gut twists.

Oscar just grins and plays along. “Thanks, it’s all in the family name!”

A few of the Ferrari mechanics chuckle at that as Charles emerges from his own car, beaming. He pulls Oscar into a hug. “A Leclerc one-two in Monaco, who would have thought?”

“There’s just something about being a local,” Oscar laughs. “Thank you for giving me yet another home race.”

You appear then, throwing your arms around Oscar with a squeal. “My two favorite Leclercssss!”

Arthur has to look away, his face burning. He knows he has no right to be jealous. Oscar is one of his best friends. And you … you made your choice a long time ago.

“Arthur?” Fred Vasseur appears at his side. “You okay?”

Arthur forces a smile. “Yeah, all good. Just … focused.”

“No need to be so tense,” Fred squeezes his shoulder. “You did a great job in the sim this week. That data helped Charles and Carlos a ton.”

“Glad I could help,” Arthur says automatically.

But his gaze is drawn back to where you’re still hugging Oscar tightly. You look so happy, so carefree. It wasn’t that long ago that your smiles were for him.

“You know,” Fred says conversationally. “I’m getting a lot of questions about what you’ll decide to do next. Every time you’re in that sim or out on track-”

“I’m fine being test driver,” Arthur interrupts, maybe a little too brusque. “Really, I am.”

Fred studies him for a beat. “If you’re sure. Just saying, the doors are opening ...”

The team principal moves off then, leaving Arthur alone with his swirling emotions. He can’t get swept up in maybes about his future. Not when his past is standing right there, laughing at some joke Oscar made.

You’d think after all this time, the sight of you wouldn’t affect him so much. You broke his heart so thoroughly when you ended things, he didn’t think there were any pieces left to shatter. But here he is, a mess of jealousy and longing, just because you gave Oscar a hug.

“Arthur! There you are!”

He turns at the sound of your voice. You’re hurrying towards him, Oscar and Charles trailing behind with indulgent smiles.

“We’re going to get some dinner if you want to join?” You ask brightly.

He has to swallow hard before he can speak past the lump in his throat. “I … don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Of course it is!” You grab his arm, utterly oblivious to his discomfort. “We’re all friends here, right?”

“Some of you were a bit more than friends once upon a time,” Charles points out with a wicked grin.

You shove him playfully. “Oh shut up!”

Arthur feels like he’s being stabbed in the heart. Your break up turned his life upside down. Hearing you joke about it so casually now is excruciating.

“Seriously, Arthur,” Oscar cuts in. “Come celebrate with us. We promise not to get too crazy.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Arthur tries again, harsher this time.

You frown, tilting your head in confusion. “Why not? I thought we were all past the whole ex thing?”

“I am,” he lies through gritted teeth. “I just … have some stuff to work on for the race tomorrow.”

“Oh come on,” you wheedle, giving him that smile that used to make him melt. “Take a break! Live a little!”

Arthur can’t take much more of this. He needs to get out of here before he says something he’ll regret. Or worse, does something stupid like pull you into his arms and kiss you senseless.

“Seriously you guys, I’ve got work,” he says, forcing himself to take a step back from you. “I’ll … catch up with you later, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns on his heel and stalks away. He can’t bear to see the hurt, confused look on your face.

Why did he think this would be okay? That he could spend day after day around you and it wouldn’t still hurt? Every smile, every laugh, every touch you bestow on Charles and Oscar is like a white hot poker in his chest.

He thought he was over you. He really did. It’s been months since you ended things, months since you shattered what was left of his heart into a million pieces.

He’d been so shocked, so heartbroken, that all he could do was sit there numbly as you walked out of his apartment. When he finally found his voice, hours had passed, and you were long gone.

“But I love you,” he’d whispered into the empty room.

He’d been so sure you felt the same. That what you had was forever. But you made your choice, as simple as that. Arthur never came first.

And now, half a year later, here he is. Living out some twisted version of his dream … but only just. A test driver for Ferrari instead of a race driver like he always imagined. Like Charles, who had achieved everything they both wanted.

Arthur leans back against the wall of the cool, dark room he’s found himself in. It feels like the pain of your rejection is never going to stop haunting him. Like no matter how much time passes, it will never be enough to make up for losing you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying and failing to block out the memory of your face, your smile, your laugh. All the moments of pure joy you two had shared. The dreams you’d whispered to each other late at night, tangled in the sheets.

Is this his lot in life from now on? To watch you move on, all smiles and teasing jokes with Oscar and Charles? To see everyone welcoming Oscar into the family while Arthur is shut out in the cold?

He’s startled from his spiraling thoughts by a knock at the door. “Arthur? You in there?”

It’s Charles. Arthur flinches, swiping a hand over his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he calls back, grateful that his voice doesn’t shake.

There’s a pause. “Can I come in?”

Arthur considers sending his brother away. He’s in no state for a heart-to-heart right now.

But he can’t bring himself to refuse Charles. Not when they’ve been through so much together, from the karting tracks of their childhood to the highest levels of motorsport.

“Yeah, okay.”

The door opens and Charles slips inside. He stops short when he sees Arthur, brow furrowing in concern.

“Hey … you okay?”

Arthur can’t even find it in himself to fake it. He just shakes his head mutely.

“Is this about Y/N?” Charles asks gently.

And just like that, the dam breaks. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut again, but he can’t stop the tears from spilling over.

“I thought I was over her. I really did,” he chokes out. “But seeing her with Oscar … celebrating like that ...”

Strong arms wrap around him then, pulling him into a hug. Arthur goes boneless, sagging against his older brother as the sobs take over.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Charles murmurs. “Let it out.”

Arthur does. He cries and cries, shoulders shaking, as months of pent-up heartache pour out of him. Charles just holds him through it, rubbing soothing circles across his back.

“I’m s-sorry,” Arthur finally gasps out. “I’m being so stupid ...”

“You’re not stupid,” Charles says firmly. “Love isn’t stupid, Arthur. Especially your first real heartbreak. That shit hurts like hell.”

Arthur lets out a watery chuckle, finally pulling back and swiping at his eyes. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

“Well, I am the wise older brother,” Charles grins. Then he sobers, studying Arthur carefully. “Seriously though … you know Y/N loved you, right? What you two had was real.”

“I know.” Arthur shakes his head. “Doesn’t make it any easier seeing her move on so quickly.”

“She’s not over you either,” Charles says gently. “That’s why she keeps trying so hard to act like everything is normal between you two.”

Arthur scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me with all the cuddling up to Oscar out there.”

“Oh come on, you know that’s just a joke,” Charles says with a roll of his eyes. “Oscar is like family to us, same as you. That’s all it is.”

“Yeah? Well it didn’t look that way to me.”

“Arthur ...” Charles puts a hand on his shoulder. “I think you need to have an actual conversation with Y/N. Clear the air once and for all. This lingering stuff is only going to keep eating you up inside.”

“What if she really has moved on?” The thought is like a vise around Arthur’s heart. “What if she tells me she’s dating Oscar for real or something?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” Charles says simply. “It will hurt, yeah. But not knowing, constantly wondering … that’s so much worse. Trust me.”

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, turning Charles’ words over in his mind. Maybe his brother is right. Maybe it’s time to rip off the bandaid once and for all.

He nods slowly. “Okay. I’ll ... I’ll talk to her.”

“Good.” Charles pulls him in for another hug. “No matter what happens, you’ve got me, okay? We Leclercs need to stick together.”

Arthur manages a small smile at that, feeling just a bit lighter. “Yeah. We do.”

As he follows Charles out of the room, he catches sight of you across the paddock, laughing at something Oscar said. A familiar ache blooms in his chest.

But this time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, he’s going to face it head on. His heart may end up in even more pieces … or maybe, just maybe, it will finally start to mend.

Either way, at least he’ll know. No more lingering what ifs. Just the truth, whatever it may be.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, then starts making his way towards you.

***

Arthur’s steps falter as he rounds the corner of the McLaren garage. There you are with Oscar, bodies intertwined, lips locked in a heated kiss.

It feels like all the air has been sucked from Arthur’s lungs. He can’t breathe, can’t think. He just … freezes, rooted to the spot, watching in numb horror as the two of you make out shamelessly right there in the open.

This can’t be happening. It has to be some kind of twisted nightmare. But no matter how hard he blinks, the scene before him doesn’t change.

You and Oscar are really kissing. Properly sucking face like loved-up teenagers, hands roaming over each other greedily. Oscar has you backed up against the garage wall, bodies pressed flush together from chest to thigh.

Arthur feels like he’s going to be sick.

Finally, mercifully, you two break apart, foreheads pressed together as you both gasp for air. Arthur should look away, he knows he should, but he can’t seem to make himself move.

“So much for keeping it professional in the paddock, huh?” You murmur, voice husky.

Oscar lets out a breathless chuckle. “Who cares about professional? Not when I’ve got you all to myself for once.”

He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a hand on his chest, stopping him. “We should find somewhere more private if we’re gonna keep this up.”

“My driver’s room?” Oscar suggests, already palming at the small of your back.

You shiver, pushing up onto your tiptoes to brush your lips against his jaw. “Lead the way, Piastri-Leclerc.”

And just like that, you’re gone, disappearing into the depths of the McLaren garage, hands roaming and giggling like lovesick fools. Arthur watches until the door swings shut behind you, cutting off that haunting sound of your laughter.

Then he’s moving without conscious thought, staggering back around the corner and out of sight. His back hits the cool concrete wall with a thud, but he barely notices. Barely notices anything except the ragged, gasping breaths being torn from his lungs.

He doubles over, hands braced on his knees as he struggles not to vomit right there in the paddock. It feels like someone has driven a white hot poker straight through his chest. Like his heart is being crushed into a million pieces all over again.

Oscar and you … together? Actually dating? How … how could you do this to him? To yourself? Everything you two had built together, every future dream you had shared … tossed aside so easily?

Tears burn at the corners of Arthur’s eyes. He wants to scream, to punch a wall, to unleash the searing agony and fury ripping through him. But he can’t make a sound, throat locked up tight with unshed emotion.

He should have known, really. Should have seen this coming. It’s not like you and Oscar were hiding your connection. The loving looks, the inside jokes, that easy intimacy and affection … Arthur had just been too blinded by jealousy and heartbreak to see it.

But to find out like this? To literally walk in on you two wrapped around each other? It’s a whole new level of pain, lancing through him over and over. He’s always imagined that you would have the decency to at least tell him first if you moved on with someone new.

Unless this has been going on for a while already, hidden from him in plain sight. Every laugh, every hug, every teasing comment … was that all a lie to cover up your dirty secret with Oscar?

Arthur’s stomach churns violently again at the thought. He swallows hard, fighting back the nausea. He can’t lose it here, can’t draw any attention to himself. He needs to get it together, block out the image of you and Oscar swapping spit.

Easier said than done when his brain keeps unhelpfully replaying the way Oscar’s hands were roaming over you, groping at you like you belonged to him. And that laugh … god, that beautiful, carefree laughter that Arthur would know anywhere. A sound that used to make his heart soar whenever it was aimed at him.

Now it’s like a knife in his gut to hear you giggling that way with Oscar, no doubt blissed out after a hot and heavy make out session. Arthur’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking furiously. He would give anything not to have walked in on that, not to have that sound burnt into his brain forever.

At least now he knows the truth. The humiliating, gut-wrenching truth that you’ve well and truly moved on from him. And with Oscar of all people, like the ultimate slap in the face.

What kind of cruel joke is this? Arthur wonders, still fighting to steady his ragged breaths. He loses the girl he wanted to spend forever with … only to have one of his mates swoop in and take her from him?

It’s not just you that Oscar has stolen either, Arthur realizes with a sickening jolt. It’s everything. With you on his arm, Oscar is welcomed into the family, called a Leclerc at their home race. Arthur’s own last name, treated like some kind of lighthearted joke while the real thing is ripped away from him.

Oscar even gets Monaco as a home race, just like the actual Leclercs who grew up here. All because of some dumb joke about Charles adopting him. Arthur had laughed along with it at the time, never imagining the underhanded truth.

Oscar Piastri has wormed his way into having everything Arthur wanted more than anything. The career, the family, the girl … all of it, just handed to him on a silver platter.

White hot fury flares in Arthur’s chest, momentarily burning through the heartbreak. How dare Oscar do this to him? How dare he make a mockery out of Arthur’s dreams, out of everything the name Leclerc stands for?

Arthur barely registers that he’s moving until his fist connects with the concrete wall with a sickening crunch. He lashes out again and again, pummeling the unforgiving surface over and over until-

“Arthur! Hey, whoa!”

Suddenly there are hands on him, strong and insistent. Arthur starts, accidentally slamming his abused knuckles into a firm chest as Charles appears, grabbing hold of his shoulders.

“Easy, easy! What the hell are you doing?” Charles meets his gaze, eyes wide with concern.

Arthur blinks dazedly, pain finally registering from his torn up, bleeding knuckles. “I … I didn’t ...”

“What happened?” Charles presses, lowering his voice when Arthur winces. “Did you get into it with someone? Talk to me, please.”

Arthur opens his mouth, fully intending to tell Charles everything. About walking in on your incriminating embrace with Oscar. About the way it felt like his entire world shattered all over again. How Oscar has stolen every single thing that should have been Arthur’s by birthright.

But when he tries to vocalize the words, to unleash the storm of emotions battering him from the inside out … nothing comes out. His throat remains locked up tight, breath wheezing harshly.

Charles is watching him, eyebrows knitted with worry. “You’re really freaking me out here. What’s going on?”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head helplessly. He feels like he’s drowning, lost in a whirlpool of jealousy and despair that’s slowly suffocating him.

When he opens his eyes again, Charles is still waiting, patient and steady as always. Something in his brother’s calm, anchoring presence helps Arthur regain just a little bit of control. Enough to grit out a few words.

“Oscar. And Y/N.”

That’s all he can manage. But judging by the dawning comprehension on Charles’ face, it’s enough. The older Leclerc lets out a slow breath, gaze turning sympathetic.

“You saw them together,” he says, not a question.

Arthur nods jerkily, jaw locked.

For a long moment, Charles is silent. Taking it all in, no doubt. Then … “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur’s breath hitches harshly before he can stop it.

“Hey, hey.” Charles pulls him into a tight hug, tucking Arthur’s head under his chin. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you, little brother.”

Arthur stiffens for just a second before melting into the embrace, squeezing his eyes shut once more. He takes a shuddery breath against Charles’ shirt, then another, just trying to hold himself together.

“I’m here,” Charles murmurs, rubbing his back soothingly. “We’ll get through this together, yeah?”

Arthur doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods against Charles’ shoulder. He clings to his brother like a lifeline, grateful beyond words that Charles is here to anchor him when it feels like his world is crumbling all over again.

He has no idea how long they stay like that, locked in that tight embrace. Long enough for the sharp edges of Arthur’s anguish to dull, at least a little. Long enough for his ragged breaths to even out into something closer to normal.

Finally, Charles gives him one last squeeze before gently pulling back, keeping a firm grip on Arthur’s shoulders.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, eyeing Arthur’s bloodied knuckles with a wince.

Arthur follows his gaze, grimacing at the sight. “Shit, I ...”

“It’s okay,” Charles says quickly, sliding an arm around Arthur’s back. “I’ve got you.”

He guides Arthur through the paddock, shielding him from view with his body. Arthur is grateful for the discretion — the last thing he needs right now is prying eyes and questions about his meltdown.

They make it back to the cool shadows of the Ferrari motorhome without incident. Charles sweeps them into one of the private rooms, locking the door securely behind them.

“There, just us,” he says, squeezing Arthur’s arm reassuringly. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened?”

Arthur sinks down onto the worn sofa, feeling numb and drained. He stares at his mangled hands as Charles darts away, returning a moment later with a first aid kit and a damp cloth.

“This might sting,” Charles warns, taking Arthur’s hands with surprising gentleness.

Arthur barely flinches as his brother starts cleaning away the blood and grit from his torn skin. He’s retreated deep inside his own head, memories from that hellish scene on an endless loop.

You and Oscar, tangled together so intimately. The way you looked at each other, breathless with desire. The easy intimacy and obvious hunger in every heated caress.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, but it does nothing to block it out. He’s never going to be able to unsee that, he realizes with a sick lurch. It’s seared into his brain forever, a brand new source of unrelenting torment.

“Arthur?” Charles’ soft voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. “What happened? Talk to me.”

Arthur blows out a shaky breath, forcing himself to meet his brother’s concerned gaze.

“I went to find Y/N,” he starts in a dull rasp. “To … to get some closure, I guess. Finally rip off the bandaid like you said.”

Charles nods in understanding, staying quiet to let Arthur continue at his own pace.

“But when I turned the corner of the McLaren garage ...” Arthur’s throat works convulsively, the memory surging back in vivid technicolor. “They were there. Making out like a couple of horny teenagers.”

He falls silent again, the words cutting off as a wave of fresh agony washes over him. God, the visual is never going to stop haunting him, is it?

“Oh, Arthur ...” Charles murmurs, squeezing his hands gently. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur lets out a bitter huff. “Sorry? Don’t be sorry for me, Charles. Be sorry for yourself.”

Charles frowns in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Oscar,” Arthur grits out, white-hot anger flaring once more. “He stole her from me, sure. But he also stole our name. He gets to be a Leclerc now, a mockery of our home streets. Just because you stupidly joked about adopting him.”

He surges to his feet, unable to stay still with all this wrath and hurt burning through him.

“Everything that was supposed to be mine, Charles!” He shouts, prowling the room like a caged animal. “The career, the family, the girl … Oscar has taken it all! With a few laughs and some dumb jokes!”

“Arthur, that’s not fair ...” Charles tries, but Arthur barrels right over him.

“No? Well how about this — let’s see how funny those jokes are when Oscar decides he actually wants to be Charles Leclerc!” Arthur snarls. “He’ll take your career next, you watch! Take away everything that makes you special, everything that’s yours by right!”

“Arthur.” Charles is on his feet now, reaching out to grip Arthur’s shoulders firmly. “Listen to me. You need to calm down, okay? Oscar isn’t trying to take anything from us. He’s our friend!”

“How can you say that?” Arthur demands, anguish cracking through the rage. “Don’t you see what he’s done? What he’s taking from me?”

He’s breathing hard now, vision swimming as tears of mingled fury and heartbreak prick at his eyes.

“That was supposed to be my future, Charles,” he rasps. “Y/N and I … we had plans. Dreams of a life together.”

Arthur swipes angrily at the tear that escapes, blurring his vision. “Oscar doesn’t get to take that from me. He doesn’t get to make it all a mocking joke.”

“Arthur ...” Charles looks stricken now, shaking his head slowly. He pulls Arthur into another fierce hug, tucking the younger man’s head under his chin.

“I’m so sorry,” Charles murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry he hurt you like this. You don’t deserve that … any of it.”

Arthur lets out a choked sob against his brother’s shirt, all of the fight abruptly draining from him. He’s just … tired. Wrung out and hollow, aching down to his very core.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, Charles,” he whispers brokenly. “Oscar was my friend … how could he do this to me?”

Charles doesn’t seem to have any answers. He just holds Arthur tighter, rocking them gently from side to side as Arthur finally gives in to his emotions. He buries his face in Charles’ shoulder and weeps — for his shattered dreams, his shredded heart, and a future that now feels impossibly out of reach.

As the sobs gradually subside, a final bitter thought takes root in Arthur’s mind. If Oscar is going to steal away the girl Arthur loves, the family he was born into, and the future he had mapped out for himself ... then Arthur hopes to god the Monaco curse falls on Oscar just as harshly as it ever has for a Leclerc.

Maybe then Oscar will finally understand just how much he’s taken from Arthur. How many dreams and pieces of Arthur's very identity he’s carelessly crushed in his quest to make himself a Leclerc on everything but paper.

Arthur’s tears have dried, leaving his cheeks chafed and eyes swollen. But the hollow ache in his chest remains, throbbing in time with his ragged breaths. He stays huddled against Charles, taking what little solace he can from his brother’s presence.

It’s all he has left now. Oscar has snatched away everything else that ever mattered to Arthur. His future, his past, his home ... all of it, gone in a spiral of heated kisses and breathless laughter.

If the cost of having it all is the Monaco curse bearing down on him, then so be it. Arthur finds himself almost hoping Oscar gets everything he so greedily took, the consequences be damned. Maybe then, just maybe, he’ll finally understand an ounce of the anguish and heartbreak he’s inflicted on Arthur.

It’s a dark, vindictive thought, one that makes Arthur's gut twist with shame. But he’d too drained, too devastated to truly care. He just presses closer to Charles, craving the simple comfort of family as reality crushes him from all sides.