what a plot twist you are

As he laid amongst the brushes, with hardly a breath to give him away, George admired the herd of elephants traipsing past under the early afternoon sun. He held his Kodak camera in both hands, pointing it through the grass and in the direction of one of the calves who was trotting behind his mother, his trunk looped onto her tail so as to not stray far as the herd strode on. George peered down into the viewfinder, making sure the calf was centered in the frame, before his fingers carefully pressed the shutter with a quiet click. 

He would never tire of witnessing the natural beauties of the Earth, especially after the world had just witnessed the most gruesome war in all its history. Perhaps getting away from Europe, from everything he knew, was how George could escape the horrors that haunted his past and the tragedy that clung to Europe like a plague. Here, amongst the wildlife, nestled in the grasslands, the animals knew no wars and they, instead, lived in rightful peace and serenity. Humans could learn plenty. 

George returned to camp once the sun began its descent towards the horizon. Animals might have been naturally peaceful compared to humans but they were still wild and wandering from camp after dark was a surefire way to get oneself directly in the face of danger. Besides, George had film to develop and, if nothing else, that promise would always get him back to camp quickly. 

Wood beamed linen tents and huts were set up beneath the impressive Kenyan sky, nestled as naturally as possible into the backdrop of the grasslands to prevent the researchers from intruding upon the wildlife as best they could. George navigated the narrow paths between huts with practiced ease, rifle slung across his back and camera secure around his neck, cradled, too, with a careful hand. Near the outskirts of camp was his own tent, something small enough to house a single person and their necessities. 

George pulled back the flap and crouched inside, his leather boots falling softly against the linen strewn floor topped with paisley rugs. The shade was a welcome respite from the African sun and George removed his hat and brushed the back of his hand across his sweaty brow, smearing a stripe of red dirt across his forehead. Dinner would be soon and he would need to tidy up. 

As much as he wanted to work on his photographs immediately, it was saved for after sun-down to allow the process of developing the film to be done in the darkest possible setting. Linen walls were not the best at keeping out light in the middle of the day, not to the extent needed. So, he placed his camera on his cot to be tended to later, tossing his rifle down alongside it, and, instead, he turned his attention to the mirror hung from the wood beams of his tent. 

Once a man who prided himself on good cologne and appearing tidy, George had now grown used to the new reflection staring back at him. No less a proper man, and yet entirely different, with dirt smudged skin, dry from the African heat and Kenyan dust, hair permanently mussed from his hat and his jaw darkened with a breath of stubble. If only his mother could see him now…what would she think?

He had written her plenty but had no photographs to share. For a brief moment, a thought crossed his mind, and he retrieved his camera from the cot to bring it to the mirror too. With one last glance at his reflection for a ruffle through his hair to make himself look slightly less unruly, he raised the camera in front of his chest, pointed towards the mirror. He peered down into the viewfinder, making sure it was capturing his reflection, and then he glanced up into the mirror once more before snapping a photograph. 

How ridiculous; a photograph of himself. If it turned out, he would include it in his next letter home. 

George tidied himself up at the washbasin resting on the small folding table beneath the mirror, scrubbing his hands and face enough to be presentable for dinner. The camp was expected to have tourist guests for the following few nights and so a good first impression was imperative. Guests were usually not allowed on their camp since they were a research base and not a hotel, however, individuals of high regard (well, those with money and status) were permitted from the British Empire. They would stay in one of the huts and be taken on safari by either one of the locals or one of the researchers during the day, just enough to pacify their sheltered and ignorant need to see Africa.

By the time George made his way to the mess hut, the long wooden table was already crowded with people: the five other researchers who lived at the camp, two Kenyan locals who worked alongside them, the four esteemed guests, and their travel guide. George was introduced to each of the newcomers and he offered polite greetings as he took his seat along the table. It always was strange when tourists would stay—it felt like they were infiltrating their private work—but George would never be rude to them no matter how he felt. They would be gone back to Europe soon enough. 

And he still had the privacy of the photography tent after dark, unreeling his film from his camera and dipping it in the shallow basins with practiced care, keeping time on his watch with careful concentration. Negatives appeared slowly in the pools, shaded images of elephants and lions and foliage, capturing his day’s work minute by minute. Undisturbed. 

Well, that was until somewhere away from camp, he heard a female scream. George’s head shot up from his work, his attention turning fully to the sound that had echoed across the darkened plains. The silence that followed was more concerning than the scream itself and right away he was grabbing his rifle from where it was propped up against the table and slipping out from the tent. 

A few yards away from the edge of camp, around the back of the photography tent, George could see a darkened figure through the pitch-black night, fronted by the unmistakable shape of a leopard prowling towards it. Cursing under his breath, George cocked his rifle and raised it at the ready as he hurried across the terrain towards the pair. 

“Hey!” he boomed, voice echoing across the grasslands and startling both the figure and the animal. His valiant presence had the leopard freezing, its large head turning upon him, instead, and its eyes shone yellow in the dark. 

George stood himself between the leopard and the stricken woman, rifle at the ready, the barrel aimed between the eyes of the feline who had been standing its ground, defending its territory. For a moment, George was sure he was going to have to fire. But, after a tortuous few seconds, the animal growled and retreated, trotting away into the night.

The woman who had been approached by the leopard, let out a relieved and trembling exhale, clutching her hand to her chest. George didn’t bother with niceties as he grabbed her bicep and yanked her close, chest to chest, getting a look at her shadowed face in the dark as if to make sure she was physically sound.

Even still, his voice was firm as he scolded her, “Did your guide not tell you never to wander out after dark?”

“I am terribly sorry!” she pleaded, curled hair swaying around her face as she shook her head in desperate dismay, “I am sorry! I simply wanted a breath of fresh air!” 

“Well you are lucky you lived to see another breath,” George snapped before he was keeping his stone grip on her arm and leading her off back towards camp, “This is not a playground!”

She was half stumbling after him across the uneven terrain, replying earnestly, “I am aware! I did not stray far! You have my sincerest apologies and it will not happen again!”

George weaved between the tents of camp until he reached the centralized mess tent, his boots thudding against the two wood steps up onto the raised floor before he was sitting her down on one of the benches. He lit a lantern and set it on the table beside them so he could have light to see by to ensure her well-being. It was routine when someone—esepcially a guest—had an unexpected run-in with the wildlife. 

“I am alright,” she insisted breathily as he looked her over in her safari trousers and linen blouse. He wasn’t looking at her as a woman but, rather, a person in need of care. Simply a body. Yet, she seemed to squirm under his intense gaze as he manipulated her arms and head to look her over thoroughly. 

It wasn’t until he came up with no wounds that he declared to her himself, “You are alright. Quite a shock, I’m sure.”

Her shoulders relaxed at his words, slumping back against the table with a sigh, “Quite.”

George took a step back from her to give her polite space, his hands clutched behind his back and feet shoulder width apart—some things you learn in military training never leave you. 

She stared up at him through her lashes, her cheeks rouged with her heightened emotions and the lantern light flickered over her softened features. She was young, George noted, no older than himself and no less than twenty-two. From what he could remember from their introduction over dinner, she was some Countess from England here on holiday with her family. 

Yet another rich girl unable to understand the complexities of wildlife, thinking she was exempt from their savage instincts because of her status or some other asinine reason. 

Despite his distaste for such visitors, his mother had still raised a gentleman, and so he asked her politely, “Would you like some tea before I escort you back to your tent?”

She nodded meekly, “Yes. Yes, that would be appreciated. Thank you.”

“Very well.”

George lit a small fire to boil the kettle, the tense silence lingering between them as the minutes passed. He kept his head down, readying the teacup and leaves, going about the motions of being a good host to the Empire’s guest on their sacred land. 

When he brought her over her brewed tea, she took it without thanks but, instead, with an attempt at human connection, “Do you not find yourself frightened out here at night?”

“No,” George answered easily, “I know to stay in my tent after nightfall.”

“But you were not in your tent; were you not developing your photographs?” she pushed right back, glancing up at him through her lashes as she took a timid sip of her tea. 

George, bent at the fire and extinguishing it, turned his head quickly over his shoulder to look at her under furrowed brows, “How do you know that?”

“I overheard you speaking with someone after supper,” she replied simply, like there was nothing wrong with having such a tongue against one of her gracious hosts after almost getting herself killed and forcing him out of his way to rescue her. 

“I do not owe you an explanation for my whereabouts on my own camp,” George answered simply, turning back to the dwindling fire.

“I am not expecting one,” she retorted. 

“Forgive me, for it sounds like you are,” George stood once more, brushing his hands off on his trousers as he turned to face her, his expression stone and serious. 

She simply smiled at him, like getting on his last nerve was at all enjoyable, and she simply said, “I would like to see your photographs.”

George scoffed at her audacity, “You may not.”

“Who else would see them out here but yourself and your team?”

“England, once I return.”

“When are you to return?”

“I do not know.”

“Have you been back home since you came here?”

George scrubbed his hands over his face with a heavy sigh, “Your Ladyship, with all due respect, you speak a lot for someone who was almost just mauled to death by a leopard.”

She didn’t seem offended by his statement at all. Instead, she let out a sweet laugh, a sound of which George hadn’t heard in years, pure, unbridled, feminine. Straying far from home to live in the grassy plains of Kenya had been a blessing in every way he had thought of—to disconnect from the western world, from the pains of society—and yet he seemed to have disregarded the warmth that the presence of a woman could offer. 

None of the women back in his home town had been like this; the perfect balance of poised and witty, pushing back against him with an easy grace, “Well, I was not mauled to death because I had a heroic rescuer…whose tea has calmed my nerves wonderfully.”

George caught the corner of his lips twitching up despite his best efforts to remain stoic and he tucked his hands in the pockets of his trousers, “Yes, well, we should not make a routine of this, understood?”

She cocked her head to the side in the way that was infuriatingly endearing and she offered a cheeky, “The leopards or the tea?”

Damn her. 

Swallowing back another smile so as to not let her feel as if she had the upper hand, George held out his hand for her empty teacup and saucer, “I will escort you safely back to your tent, Your Ladyship.”

“Such a gentleman, even living in the wilderness,” she praised sweetly, passing over her teacup before rising to her feet. 

George placed her cup in the bin of soiled dishes, picked up the lantern, and slung his rifle over his shoulder once more in preparation for their short walk across camp. She walked beside him with a certain kind of bounce in her step, like she hadn’t been eye to eye with death only a few short minutes ago, like a few leaves in boiled water suddenly healed any ounce of trauma that might have tried to latch onto her consciousness. George had been living in the wilderness for years, photographed and researched many animals, and yet never had he come across a specimen as eccentric as she. 

Outside her tent, she turned to him, “Thank you for the tea…and the rescue.”

“I would say ‘my pleasure’ but I do not want to have to save you from near death again if we can help it,” George replied simply, hoisting his rifle higher over his shoulder. 

She smiled warmly, politely, and offered out her hand between them, “I will try my best to not leave my tent after dark if I can help it.”

His jaw clenched at her tone and he pressed firmly, “You must not, Your Ladyship. You have snacks and a chamber pot in your accommodations; there should be no need to leave until sun up.”

Her hand was still held out between them, clearly anticipating him to give in and finally shake her hand like she intended, even as she replied cooly with an edge of playfulness, “Yes, sir.”

George pursed his lips at the gal of her before finally relenting and taking her dainty hand in his. With a simple handshake, they sealed her promise and her thanks and she disappeared into her tent once more. He watched her go—as if not quite believing that she would stay true to her word—and once she was safely sealed inside, he allowed himself to return to his photographs with a disgruntled exhale. 

Come morning, as always, George was up with the birds. With new film in his camera and fresh clothes on his back, he joined his team and the guests in the mess tent for breakfast. He was greeted politely by his mates, although his eyes found the presence of the Countess first, seated on the other side of the table and already looking his way. 

She was already dressed in safari attire—albiet more fashionable than practical, mostly—with snug khaki slacks and brown leather belt and knee-high boots and a linen blouse that was topped with a silk scarf around her neck. Behind a sip of her tea, she smiled at him calmly. Hardly the look of a woman who he had rescued from a leopard the night before.

George looked away and turned his attention to one of his fellow researchers who was speaking to him about the day's work ahead. Of course, he had come to Kenya to get away from the tribulations of western society, women included, and, more importantly, he had a job to do there. No time for distractions. 

As the guests were loaded onto the safari truck to head out into the savannah, the Countess lingered at the back of the small lineup, hands clasped behind her back, gaze stolen by the likes of George setting up for his expedition a few yards away. He had a foot up on the side of his two-seater truck, rifling through his bag that rested upon his knee to make sure all of his equipment was accounted for. It was a hot day already and he pulled the brim of his hat farther down to shield his eyes from the unrelenting sun. 

Then a shadow fell over his bag and he looked up to see the Countess standing beside him, her hands behind her back and a sweet smile on her face like that of a child who was up to no good. He greeted her by name, dropping his foot from the edge of his truck to face her entirely.

“May I accompany you on your excursion today?” she asked. 

“Your safari will be much more exciting, Your Ladyship,” George replied as he fastened his bag closed and then tossed it into the open back of his truck. 

She leaned her hip against the front of the vehicle, hands folded across her chest, and she squinted slightly in the sun as she stared upon him, “I hardly think so. I cannot be bothered with the monotonous tour when I could be learning in the field with an expert.” 

It was obvious what she was doing; buttering him up to get what she wanted. And so what if it was working?

“An expert?” George echoed with a flattered smirk. 

She cocked her head to the side proudly, simply awaiting his verdict. 

He pondered for a moment, reviewing his anticipated tasks he wanted to get done and what could wait until tomorrow for the sake of showing the true ins and outs of the savannah to a guest who demanded it. There was no harm, he figured. If anything, she could entertain himself in the truck while he went out into the field in need be. 

“Fine,” he relented, “You may accompany me. But you must not mouth off to me or stray from where I tell you to stay.”

She straightened up immediately and, with a proud grin, offered him a mock salute and all too formal, “Yes, sir.”

Absolutely ridiculous.

He thudded his fist against the side of the truck, rattling the metal, “Get in.”

While the rest of the guests were taken southward towards Mount Kilimanjaro, George drove the two of them farther north, into the protected landscape of the Kenyan savannah. For once, his guest was quiet, letting the rumble of the engine and the faint call of wildlife fill the airtime as the warm African breeze whooshed through her hair. She took in the landscape around them as they drove over rocky trails and through sparse foliage, but her eyes kept drifting back to George’s profile in the driver’s seat. 

When he caught her staring, she played it off by glancing back into the bed of the truck at his various belongings that accompanied him on his daily expeditions. As always, his rifle laid amongst his bags and equipment. 

She broke their silence suddenly, “Have you ever shot it?” 

George hadn’t expected her to speak and so he furrowed his brow with a, “Hm?”

“Your rifle?” she continued, “Have you shot it?”

“I have come close but, no. Not out here.” George replied without taking his eyes off the trail ahead, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the engine of the truck but softly enough that his next statement was almost taken by the breeze, “Had more of a use for it in France it seems.”

Her voice was suddenly gentle, void of all playfulness, “You served?”

George’s hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel, “Only for fourteen months.”

“That is still incredibly honourable,” she said, “I cannot blame you for wanting to move as far away from Europe as possible after the war ended.”

“Somehow I had to remind myself there was still beauty in the world. Otherwise I might have turned a gun on myself.”

The words came out as if somewhere it was meant to be some kind of dark joke, but the delivery of it came with a brutal blow that felt far too honest to be at all humorous. Without expecting a response from her, George parked the truck beneath a large acacia tree and climbed out without another look in her direction. She had no choice but to follow, hopping onto the dusty ground with a thud of her pristine leather boots.

George reached into the bed of the truck to grab a few essentials—his camera, a satchel with fresh film and a canister of water, and his rifle. When he looked back at her patiently waiting there, he asked, “Did you bring a hat?” 

“No.”

With a sigh, he pulled his own hat from his head and tossed it onto hers on his way past her. She wasn't bothered by the undoubtable dampness of sweat that lined the inside fabric; instead, she simply grinned and adjusted it to sit properly on her head before following after him.

George found a place amidst the sparse shrubbery to crouch down as if finding a spot to camp, likely where he will rest and observe and work for the majority of the day beneath the African sun. Now, not ideally, without a hat.

The Countess stood a few paces away with her hands on her hips, surveying their surroundings like she was a professional, before looking down at him and stating, “There’s nothing here.”

“There will be,” George said simply before holding a hand out to her to help her onto the ground.

She hesitated a moment but had no reason not to trust him and so she set her gloved hand in his and allowed him to steady her as she joined him. They laid side by side on their stomachs on the dusty ground between long rustling grasses to the company of savannah insects and microscopic company. Sure, she might have been far more comfortable in the safari truck with her counterparts, viewing from a detached distance, but she wanted real and so real is what she was getting. All uncomfortable parts of it. 

George set himself up with his camera once more, guiding out the lens and adjusting his settings to meet the demand of the angle of the sun and where they were positioned. She watched him wordlessly, as if it were something incredibly interesting. He did not speak to her. 

She seemed to learn that he was not one for many words and so she didn’t spark up another conversation while they lay there and waited for something unknown to her. Thankfully for her, it wasn’t long until a herd of giraffes meandered across the grassy plains towards their direction, a small group of them from adults to calves alike. George hardly seemed surprised but the woman beside him let out a little gasp of awe. 

George captured a photograph, his attention focused downwards into the viewfinder of his camera. 

She asked in a whisper, “How did you know they were going to be here?”

“We have tracked the animals’ habits for years; they are very routine-based creatures,” George replied without taking his eyes away from his focused gaze through the viewfinder, “They fear us more than their natural predators, so we watch and observe from a distance.”

Across the plains, the youngest of the calves was galloping around the herd, gangly legs and knobby knees flying in all directions. George smiled into his camera, tracing the movement, and captured another photograph. 

“We watched that foal being born last season,” he shared softly, “I’ve been finding myself somewhat attached to the little fella.”

“He is precious,” she breathed with a fond smile towards the unbothered adult giraffes who barely gave the hyper baby a second glance, “I could just eat him up.”

George glanced at her.

“A figure of speech,” she assured him quickly. 

She certainly was an odd character. 

By the later hours of the afternoon, George had come to realize that he hadn’t entirely hated spending the day with the Countess. In fact, if his arm was twisted enough, he might have even admitted that it was enjoyable. He was sure it came from the fact that he hadn’t seen any one except his research staff in months, years almost, and that a female presence was refreshing in the arid grasslands. 

Who was he kidding? He was growing fond of her bubbly personality and ability to ask a million questions at once. At least it felt like she was interested, like she cared about what he was doing. 

Two days later, however, the group of guests was set to leave by daybreak. George lingered by one of the tents on the edge of camp as the safari truck was loaded to depart towards Nairobi, the first stop on a long journey home. The guests seemed ready to leave; except the young Countess who lingered a few paces back from her group, hands on her hips again, and her soft bottom lip pulled between her teeth as if deep in thought. 

Something melancholy ached in George’s chest. 

Then, suddenly, she glanced over her shoulder, right towards him, as if she had felt him watching her all along. And then she was in front of him, a quiet moment away from the other guests and the guides and other researchers who were focused on loading the truck. She clasped her hands behind her back, swaying slightly like a restless child, as she stared upon him with that everpresent little smile of hers. 

She spoke first, “Thank you for saving my life.” 

George’s usually stone façade faltered just a bit, allowing the corners of his lips to raise just a bit, “You are most welcome.”

“And for allowing me to accompany you on your excursions the last two days,” she added, “And for allowing me to visit your tent for tea last night.”

George bowed his head as if to hide his smile that grew at her simple words. It truly had been a while since he had felt such warmth blooming in his chest; he had grown too used to the cold. 

Instead of answering her properly, he reached into the breast pocket of his buttoned shirt and pulled out a small square of film, presenting it to her. She took it from him and as she did, he said, “It is only the negative so you will have to get it developed when you return to England, but…”

“Wow,” she smiled warmly, peering down at the darkened negative film photograph in her fingers, turning it towards the light to make out the shape and figure of the giraffe calf bounding across the plains. She glanced back up at him, “Are you sure you want to part with it?”

“I have plenty more where that came from…years more.”

His response seemed to please her and she nodded with a grin and tucked the negative safely into her satchel with as much care as if it were Crown Jewels. Something about it made him feel incredibly fond. 

“Oh,” she was then suddenly reaching for the worn hat atop her head, the one she had seemed to claim since their first excursion, “Your hat!”

George tried to insist that she could take it, that he had more in his tent, it was no bother. But she was holding it out to him, sideways, shielding their faces from the sun and the others still bustling about a few yards away. Call him ignorant, because George wasn’t quite sure what she was doing at first, especially when she pulled it away a bit when he tried to reach for it to take it from her. 

He should have suspected she was the kind of woman to kiss first. 

Hidden in the shadows of his hat still held cautiously in her dainty hand, her lips were impeccably soft against his desert-chapped ones, pressing motionless, just a brief linger. She pulled away after a breath, biting her smiling lip in that way that she always did, in that way that just made her look like trouble, and all George could do was exhale. 

She pressed his hat against his chest and once he had a grasp on it, she took a lazy step back, all without tearing her eyes away from his, “If you ever choose to brave England again, I must insist on taking out on an excursion of my own, should you come to visit me.”

George cleared his throat, regained his senses, just enough to reply, “I will keep that in mind, Your Ladyship.”

He watched her climb into the truck along with her fellow travelers, his hat still clutched to his chest as if to hide the rapid beating of his heart that only doubled when she smiled back at him with a final wave. He raised his hand to wave back. He could still taste her lips on his. 

Kenya had been his home for years now, his oasis away from the agony of the world, and yet watching the cloud of dust fade the departing truck into the landscape, it felt as if some part of him had gone with it. 

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No less a proper man, and yet entirely different, with dirt smudged skin, dry from the African heat and Kenyan dust, hair permanently mussed from his hat and his jaw darkened with a breath of stubble. — mhm 😋

George scrubbed his hands over his face with a heavy sigh, “Your Ladyship, with all due respect, you speak a lot for someone who was almost just mauled to death by a leopard.” — haha, he’s so funny

“Well, I was not mauled to death because I had a heroic rescuer…whose tea has calmed my nerves wonderfully.” — “heroic rescuer” I have a thing for beautifully crafted words

“May I accompany you on your excursion today?” she asked. — what a persistent lady

She wasn't bothered by the undoubtable dampness of sweat that lined the inside fabric; instead, she simply grinned and adjusted it to sit properly on her head before following after him. — same girl, SAME

He should have suspected she was the kind of woman to kiss first. — awwwww

-

Walking through the paddock you felt like a queen. Hot weather in Australia made your skin glow with sweat but you didn’t care. It was homerace of your boyfriend, Oscar Piastri.

He was already invested in the preparations for qualifying, when you arrived at the booth where his mom Nicole and his sisters were, greeting you happily. You were very close as a family.

While you were talking with Nicole, you felt slight cramping at your lower abdomen, thinking nothing of it. Your period was a constant struggle, sometimes it came early, sometimes none at all. From time to time you were struggling with cramps that led you to bedridden state but you had now four months of absolute bliss of having slight cramps.

Oscar was in Q3, when sharp pain shot through your belly like a knife, leaving you paralysed against the wall, breathing in and out desperately, praying for it to go away, sweat washing over you even more that it was. Nicole took you aside from the sight of the prying eyes of the press, looking at you with worry. “What’s the matter, darling?”

You held your tears back, your hand placed over your abdomen. “I-I don’t know. Just sharp pain.”

Nicole led you to the restrooms in the back, closing the door behind you, noticing the red stain on your white skirt. She took in a sharp breath, mortified about how to tell you and not fill you with panic.

“Darling… just lean over the sink here and breathe through it. I-“ she tried to talk you through it, her eyes sliding down your figure to your skirt, her brows furrowed in worry. You caught that expression, turning around slightly. “What is it?”

She glanced up at you with sympathy only woman can provide. “I'm sorry, sweetie, but… I think your period just came.”

Looking into the mirror with horror written over your face, you couldn’t believe it. Out of all days it just came this weekend in Australia.

“Oh god… I…”

Nicole quickly rummaged through her purse, finding a small tampon. “That should be enough until I take you home.”

“But Osc-“

“This is an emergency. He’ll understand.”

And that was how you ended up in the car with her, driving to Oscar's childhood home while his sisters stayed back at the track to keep him informed about you after he was done with qualifying.

You only remember how you ended up in Nicole’s huge bed in her spacious bedroom, falling asleep after she managed to get some painkillers into you, placing a cold towel on your sweaty forehead with a heating pad at your lower belly.

She was at your side to the moment Oscar stormed through the house calling your name, only to find you laying under the covers, sleeping soundly with his mother beside you holding your hand.

“Mom…” he wasn’t the one to show vulnerability, but for you he would bleed out to death.

Nicole smiled softly. “It's okay, baby. She’s okay. Let's talk a little.” She got up from the bed, guiding Oscar out, him stealing the last glance at your sleeping form.

When they got to the kitchen, she poured them some iced juice. He sat on the bar chair, looking into the glass, watching the orange liquid. “I should’ve been there for her. I should’ve jump out of the car and-“

“Osc, stop it. We handled it together greatly. The press didn’t even notice her being gone. She was so embarrassed, poor thing… but what makes me worried is her cramps. She fainted nearly three times before we got here. That’s not healthy.” Nicole had frown on her face, glancing at Oscar as if she wanted some answers.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “She’s- I don’t want to talk about it without her consent.”

That piqued her interest. “What do you mean?”

Frustrated, Oscar was blushing. “Mom. It’s a girl's intimate thing.”

“Well, I’m a woman, baby. I gave birth to you and your sisters. What’s new about women's intimity?”

Taking a sip of juice he decided to speak. “Well… she’s cramping a lot. Not only on her period but sometimes through her cycle. And yeah, I know a lot about her cycle because I’m a grown and interested man in the woman I love so… also her periods are not regular, she is really feeling low most of the time. She was on so many examinations, I was with her for each of them, believe me, watching her in tears after she was prodded through and through with some instruments was not on my bingo card. But… she has endometriosis.”

Nicole felt the air leaving her lungs, looking at him perplexed. She knew, reading about it many times, she wanted to be educated for her girls just in case. “Oh my god, darling… that’s horrible.”

Oscar ruffled his messy hair with a grunt, he shifted a little. “For the past couple months it was good, her periods were light and she was getting better. I guess you never know in this matter of illness.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Nicole asked with concern.

“The doctor said that it would be wise to get into surgery and cut those lesions out, but she was scared. Needed the time to think about it. So, it’s up to her. Everywhere we were, the clinic, her gynaecologist, they recommended that she should get pregnant soon, to avoid problems in the future. But that made me so fucking upset. Like, she’s a mess without a baby, how’d she possibly function with it? Yeah, we want to have a family in the future, but right now this is not on the top of the list. I will pay every penny for her to get pregnant later through every possible method if we’re not able to do so naturally. I just want her to feel good in her own body for a while, if it’s possible.” Oscar was on the verge of tears.

Nicole took a step closer to him, placing a hand over his shoulder. “Talk to her. It would be good for her to undergo that surgery. Even though she’d be better for some months, it’s still worth it.”

You woke up sweaty, groaning. Feeling something wet between your legs, you ran to the bathroom next to the bedroom to change your tampon and pad which was soaked through. Letting out a painful sigh, you just sat there, pitying yourself. Until you heard a knock. “Baby? Can I come in?” Oscar. He saw you in a way worse so you just whispered yes. Walking inside, he took in how you sat on the toilet, the mess of your period on your legs and the pad laying beside you on the ground. He took it and started to clean it off.

“Oscar. Don’t do that. It’s disgusting.” You tried to stop him, but your pain, even though it was a little dulled by the painkillers, shot you back.

“No, it’s from you. This was part of you a while ago. And I love you completely. I love every part of you, so, let me be here for you in this. I’m not weak. And I’m certainly not disgusted.” He looked at you sharply but then he softened a little. You nodded, grateful for him being like that.

After he cleaned it up, he looked for the fresh pad in the bathroom, handing it to you, while he sat on the ground beside the toilet.

“I talked with my mom. She said you fainted in the car from the pain.”

You looked at him, her eyes welling with tears of embarrassment. “I did…”

He cupped your cheeks softly. “Hey, hey, love… don’t cry. It’s okay. She’s worried about you and- I explained why you’re like this. She understands.”

“Really? She doesn’t see me as some kind of failure?”

“No, honey. I told her that you can undergo a surgery and-“

“I thought about it.”

He raised his brows in surprise. “You did?” His hands now ended behind you on your back, rubbing the skin there, bringing your some kind of comfort.

“Yeah. I want this pain to end. Even though it’s not a hundred percent sure that I’ll be clean of it in the future, I still want to try it. Because I can’t live like this.”

“Well. I’ll be your biggest supporter through that. We can do it soon. I’ll manage a reserve driver for my-“

“Osc, stop. No. If I’m to get that surgery, it will be when you’re free from schedule. You need to fight for your title this year. I’ll wait for a few months.”

“Are you sure? I'd do everything for you. I don’t care.”

“It's flattering, but no. Let's do it over summer break.”

“Okay. Whatever you want.”

-

Slowly you woke up to the sharp light in the room, a shush of machines whispering in the background. You felt cold, but somehow good, your eyes tried to adjust to the warmth of the light.

Suddenly your hand squeezed gently another, you turned your head to that someone sitting beside you. “Oscar…” your raspy voice echoed through the hospital room.

He nearly choked on his tears, he didn’t want to scare you how much he was worried about you earlier but he couldn’t help it anymore. “Yes, I’m here, love… you made it.”

You smiled weakly, now slightly feeling the ache in your body, but it wasn’t that bad as you imagined. “How long was I out?”

“Two hours. It was quick.” He kissed your hand, as if you were about to sublime, you chuckled at that.

“That’s good, I guess…” you whispered.

“Try to sleep some more. I’ll be here.”

And then you were out again.

-

Few hours later, you woke up more refreshed, the anesthesia completely out of your system, you were able to talk more and even sit up a little. The doctor and nurses came to check on you, giving you smiles and warm words about your recovery.

Oscar sat at your side while you were slowly sipping on the black tea which felt like heaven right now. He took the cup from you gently, placing it on the bedside table.

You felt curious. “I want to look at those scars.”

He nodded, helping you lift the duvet for you to look at your naked stomach. There were four tiny scars with blisters over them.

You raised your brows in surprise. “Oh. Four of them. I expected only three.”

“It's like a new procedure or something like that. I googled it.” Oscar was proud of having that information.

“That means you looked at my naked body while I slept.” You gave him a feigning gasp of shock.

“Sorry, I was curious and I couldn’t help it.” He felt a little bad.

You chuckled softly. “It’s okay. I’m just kidding.”

Oscar huffed a little but then he smiled lovingly. His hand brushed through your messy hair, kissing your forehead. You relished in that moment, taking in the warmth of his lips on your skin, his scent filling your mind with calm energy.

“You’re the bravest person I know.” He said, smiling, caressing your cheek with his finger.

“I’d be lost without you. You’re my whole world, Osc.” You whispered, staring into his eyes.

Your little moment of love was interrupted by the Piastri girly gang walking through the door inside the hospital room. Oscar grunted softly, but his sisters and his mother were already at your side, hugging you gently, giving you the awwws and ahhhs. You just laughed a little, what your body allowed you.

He watched that family scene in front of his eyes and he just couldn’t help the idea running through his brain.

When this year's season is over, he’s gonna marry you.

-