julia

Oscar had always assumed everyone knew.

Not because he’d announced it, or because you’d ever been spotted together, or because he’d slipped up. No — he just… talked about you. Constantly. Casually. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Which is why, during a perfectly ordinary McLaren media day, he answered a harmless question with:

“Oh, my girlfriend loves that colour on the car. She said it makes it look fast even when it’s parked.”

And the room froze.

The PR manager blinked. Lando choked on his water. Zak Brown looked like he’d just been told the car had sprouted wings.

“Oscar,” Lando whispered, leaning in like he was about to break devastating news, “you have a girlfriend?”

Oscar frowned. “Yeah? I talk about her all the time.”

“No, mate,” Lando said, eyes wide, “you talk about… a mysterious entity who cooks you pasta and steals your hoodies. We thought you were joking.”

Zak added, “I thought it was a cat.”

Oscar stared at them, baffled. “Why would a cat steal my hoodies?”

“Why would you have a girlfriend and not tell anyone?” Lando shot back.

“I thought you knew!”

But the damage was done. The clip hit the internet within minutes. And the internet did what the internet does best: explode.

WHO IS OSCAR PIASTRI’S GIRLFRIEND???

HE’S BEEN SO CASUAL ABOUT IT WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE HAS A SECRET GIRLFRIEND

THE HOODIE THIEF IS REAL

I KNEW THE PASTA WAS TOO SPECIFIC

Meanwhile, you were sitting on Oscar’s couch, wearing one of said hoodies, scrolling through the chaos with a hand over your mouth.

“Oscar,” you called as he walked in, “I think you accidentally broke the world.”

He flopped beside you, burying his face in your shoulder with a groan. “I genuinely thought everyone knew.”

You laughed, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Baby, you never actually said the words ‘I have a girlfriend.’ You just… described me like a cryptid.”

He lifted his head, eyes soft and a little sheepish. “Well. You’re my cryptid.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

He kissed your cheek, warm and gentle. “Do you want to stay secret? We can. I don’t mind.”

You looked at him — the boy who left notes in your lunchbox, who sent you photos of every hotel room he stayed in, who FaceTimed you just to show you a funny-shaped cloud.

“No,” you said softly. “I think I’m okay with people knowing. As long as I still get the hoodies.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

And later, when McLaren posted a simple photo — Oscar smiling, your hand in his, no faces shown — the internet exploded again.

But Oscar didn’t care. He was too busy leaning into you, whispering:

“Told you they’d love you.”

And maybe they did.