cc

you'd half expected oscar to lose your number after leaving for melbourne, surely he’d only asked as a joke more than anything else, after all, why else would he want it? you worked in a zoo for god sake, you weren't a model like the rest of the girls that other drivers dated. (and yes you'd done the research, stalking was what bindi called it when she caught you).

"he's not going to text me," you exasperated, letting out a frustrated breath, turning your head on the pillow to face your sister, gossiping like you were back in high school. it honestly felt like it too, waiting for whatever silly boy you had yourself strung up on to phone you.

ever the big sister, and just like in high school, she always had the right advice to give about boys. "give him time, he's busy remember." and you did, really, it was thursday now, after giving them the tour on monday, and you were wallowing over silly you were.

"this is so embarrassing," groaning into your pillow as she couldn't help but laugh, you weren't super boy crazy growing up, the odd crush and boyfriend here and there, so this was the most obsessed she'd ever seen you. "i mean, i can't believe i thought he'd actually text me."

bindi could only roll her eyes at your continued dramatics, reiterating what she'd just told you, when she was cut off by a pinging noise, the sound of your phone receiving a text, and she gave you a knowing look, trying to suppress her smile.

unknown number

hey y/n, it's oscar

sorry i would've text sooner just catching up with family, lando still won't shut up about the snake. he's been telling everyone.

we were going to give you these when we were there but it was so hectic they thought i should just text you. there's three for you, bindi and robert, and i hope to see you there!

attached below was a picture of three paddock passes in an envelope with the zoos address on it, and your name on the mail, and when robert comes home that night, he's carrying the very same envelope, with the very same paddock passes in them.

you hung onto a detail from his text, he hoped to see you there. not the team, not lando, he did. god, maybe bindi was right and you were going insane.

"so, we're totally going right?" bindi broke the silence, reading the text over your shoulder. "we'd be crazy not to."

"you and robert should, i'm not sure if i will." shrugging, you threw the phone back onto the bed after saving his contact info. "i know nothing about the sport."

"you're joking right?" she looked at you as if you'd grown a second head, lying back on the bed beside you, her cheek flat against the pillow as she turned to face you. "a driver personally invited you to a race, and you aren't gonna go? you're mental."

"i'm gonna look silly not knowing anything."

"we'll teach you," she quickly countered, raising an eyebrow, ready to shut down any more of your badly thought of excuses, she wasn't going to take no as an answer, this was a once in a lifetime experience.

turning to face her, you rolled your eyes, a ghost of a smile on your lips as you started to think about it more. "fine, but if i look stupid i’m blaming you."

SATURDAY, AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX

you'd never felt more out of place in your life, and that even includes the time you accidentally ended up doing a show in the crocoseum. not good memories, even though robert enjoyed the scene.

the paddock was it's own busy city, people moving in tandem with each other like worker bees, team logos adorning their shirts, trousers, fireproof suits, whatever it was they were wearing, you were sure to know which queen bee they went back to. it wasn't just team personnel though, it was reporters wanting to come up and speak to the drivers, celebrities on the grid, you, even. camera crews weaving between engineers and people lucky (or rich) enough to get a paddock pass, to get the perfect shot of the drivers, and the engine's humming from the support series cars revving on track. 

you start to wonder if you were the only one here who didn't know the difference between oversteer or understeer, or whatever the hell drs was. just as she'd promised, bindi had tried to explain it all in the short time she could, to absolutely no avail, except now you knew the words but not the meanings. at least it was a start. 

it was absolutely the most overstimulating place you’d ever been, and that included the first of summer holidays at the zoo, and yet here you were, standing in the middle of it with your brother and sister on either side of you. the noise from the media had died down due to their appearance at the race since they'd come in on friday for practice, when you'd opted out, staying back at the zoo another day. 

track photographers and media outlets were shoving cameras in your faces, as if you were something more than a zookeeper who happened to be born an irwin, they expected an interview, they always did, asking how the family was after his passing, if you'd forgiven stingrays, it was always the same. 

yet this was different, your passes all said vip, allowing you access to almost every corner of the paddock, guests of mclaren were what was highlighted on bindi and robert's, whilst yours stuck out, 'guest of oscar piastri' written on the front in bold, black writing, for the world to see. 

you assumed it was a typo, obviously, you were guests of mclaren, they were the ones who had the power to issue the passes. right? 

the air was thick with the smell of hot brakes, petrol, and fresh tyres after the f2 cars were being taken to the grid, the occasional waft of high-end cologne or espresso from the team hospitality buildings, or from one of the hundreds of filthy rich people who walked past you. 

you understand now why people in the crowds are wearing headphones, the soundscape a remix of radio chatter, engines revving, and the metallic click of wheel guns. it's not deafening like trackside, but it's electric, it has a way of pulling you in, wanting to be a part of something you have no connection to. 

you followed behind bindi and robert, your hand slipped in your big sisters to not lose her in the crowd, the two of them knowing where they were headed after the two practice sessions yesterday. the garage is brimming with adrenaline, mechanics dart past with carbon fibre wings balanced on their shoulders to fix any damage to the car from the last session, fixing any last minute problems before the third and final practice.

its orange, very orange as papaya flashes in your periphery from mclaren crew members hustling in and out, dodging photographers, media, and vips clutching lanyards like golden tickets. 

weaving through the madness you're closely behind bindi, not wanting to lose track of her through the chaos. the mclaren garage itself glows like a sci-fi command centre, monitors lit up with telemetry, both sides at ease and looking forward to qualifying later in the day. they knew they had a good car, early stats were proving that. 

"hey," you turn around at the sound of the voice, not registering it to be his at first and expecting to be kicked out by some poor mechanic who drew the short straw. shameful to admit, but your mouth goes slightly dry at the view in front of you, oscar standing with his race suit half zipped down, and you fight every urge to not follow it down, black fireproofs showing off his waist. god, why did a man need a waist that small? "you made it!" he beams, looking down at the paddock pass swinging around your neck. "and looking very official too." 

you can't not smile at his words, as if it's an automatic response, and when you glance back behind you to see where bindi and robert are they're already gone, standing by the viewing part in the garage. "i must do, with guest of oscar piastri written on it." raising a brow, he knows the question you aren't asking. 

"the team only wanted to allocate two passes, so i gave you one of mine." oscar's quick to answer, a pre-planned out answer because he knew you'd question it. "a few survival tips for the paddock," he talks as he's moving you out of the way of an incoming mechanic behind you. "one, always look both ways, people have a tendency to get ran over, and two, don't get in the way of any of the cameras they get a bit pissy about it." 

you nod your head at his words, the tension in your shoulders easing bit by bit as the encounter goes on. "duly noted, so when do you actually get in the car?"

"are you that desperate to get rid of me?" 

he's apparently grown bolder since the last time you'd seen him, although maybe this was just him in his own environment. "not yet, but we'll see." oscar was about to respond when his race engineer came over to him, taking him away to talk about some technical things before fp3, although before he's gone, he's glancing back at you, a silent question. "i'll be over there."

you were very much a people watcher, ever since you were young, so watching the mechanics zip in and out of the garage, adjusting whatever was needed before practice started, and when it did, it was like everything stilled for a moment, watching oscar slide into the cockpit of his car, balaclava and helmet fitted, listening to last minute info his race engineer was telling him, and then he was out of the garage.

you took this as the time to finally learn the basics of the sport, quickly finding out practice didn't mean too much in the grand scheme of things, except for the last runs in practice 3 which bindi had explained were qualifying runs. the information swirled around your brain, certain bits sticking and others going in one ear and out the other, but you enjoyed the chaos of it all, cars flying past you so fast the only way you could tell who they were was from the colour, even then it took you a couple of times to realise which teammate it was. 

the camera seemed to have picked up on your family's presence again, either that or practice was getting very boring, as it cut to the picture of you, robert, and bindi watching together in the garage, mclaren branded headphones hanging around your neck, and you smiled a little awkwardly at the camera, cringing at yourself when you seen the delayed video on the tv screen.

this was one part of "public life" that you hated, seeing yourself on the cameras, you nitpicked every micro expression, how you could be perceived by someone watching, and you could feel yourself shying away from the camera as it lingered, your name card appearing on the screen. for what only lasted a few seconds, it felt like a lifetime, when you saw bindi leaning into you on the screen, her lips moving but you hadn't heard a thing. and then you were gone, the focus of the camera back onto the track, and you let out a sigh of relief. 

practice was boring, that was something you weren't ashamed to admit after your one and only session, but as the minutes ticked down, oscar's car was sat in the garage for a good couple minutes, a new set of tyres put on by his mechanics with a precision you couldn't imagine having. 

"this is where we see how quick they actually are," bindi spoke to you with an almost childlike excitement, this was truly a dream of hers come true, being this close to the action of a sport she'd loved for as long as she could remember. 

oscar was currently sitting second, within a tenth of the car in front, and that was without the qualifying runs. there was a shift of energy in the garage, in the team that worked around the car, and the driver sitting inside it. it was the first qualifying practice run of the season, and mclaren wanted to show off just how fast they were. 

the chequered flag fell on fp3 within a few minutes, oscar sitting at the top of the timing after a good push lap, his side of the garage were already preparing for qualifying later in the day, meanwhile the other side of the garage was in less high spirits after lando had finished in 10th, although he'd experienced quite a bit of traffic on his lap. 

the mclarens were quick, everyone knew it, hell even you knew it and you'd just learnt what a qualifying run was. 

there was something you couldn't shake about watching oscar in this environment, he exuded another type of confidence, not the usual cocky type you'd already seen other drivers have, just that he was so sure of himself, so sure of his abilities. and fuck was that attractive to you. 

his hair was sticking up in about 40 different directions when he took off his helmet and balaclava, strands all over the place, with a content smile on his face, as him and his engineer went over who knows what, but what you did know was that you couldn't stop looking over at him, sneaking glances when bindi was explaining to you how qualifying was going to work later in the day. 

although the hum of the engines had long faded after the end of practice, you could see feel the vibrations through you, could still here the whirring of the wheels as though they were speeding past you. "i'm glad you came before quali." you force yourself to not stumble at the sound of his voice, breaking you free from the trance like state you were in, the vibrations gone, head free of any engines. 

a smile tugs on your lips as he struggles to take off one of his gloves, opting to bite down on the material and pull before taking off the other and tucking them away. "me too, didn't want you too star struck before having to actually do something important."

"oh yeah? we wouldn't want that would we." he laughs, and you can't help but let out a small giggle, like a schoolgirl whose crush was finally paying her attention. you could feel the heat of a blush dusting your cheeks, but you chalked it up to the melbourne heat rather than anything else. there's a small, little awkward silence, but he's quick to fill it before you have a chance too. "car feels good, bit loose through turn 6, but good." 

you can't help but smile, the words going in one ear and out the other, because if you were being honest you had no clue what he was saying, but that didn’t mean you weren’t enjoying listening to him. "glad to see my attendance didn't affect you too much." 

"i never said that." he's grinning now, and you're blaming the burn of your cheeks on the sun again, but you know better, and only hope he doesn’t notice.

qualifying begins long before the cars roll, it starts in the garage, with the soft whine of equipment and the constant undercurrent of tension that settles into your bones without asking permission. you sit where you've been told to sit, hands folded tight in your lap, bindi and robert by your side conversing about who they think is going to be on pole, eyes drifting between oscar and the timing screens, numbers you still don't fully understand but you're happy to see his name up by the top. 

when the green light signals q1, the world fractures into noise, engines ignite, the sound slamming into your chest as oscar's car is let down from the jacks, his helmet already pulled on with practiced ease, visor snapping shut, and for the briefest moment before he climbs in, his head turns.

a glance, nothing more.

the pit lane empties, and you're left with nothing to do but watch numbers change color. his name rises and falls as traffic interferes, as track limits flirt with disaster, your foot taps subconsciously against the concrete, bindi leaning in every now and then to explain a message popping up on the screen. 

when the q1 ends, his name sits safely above the cutoff only then when he's rolled into the garage do you realize you've been holding your breath. hands still sat held together on your lap, fingers crossed without even knowing it.

q2 strips away the illusion of comfort, the track evolves rapidly, lap times falling in a way that feels almost personal, as you watch his name flirt with the drop out zone, you stand now, unable to stay seated, eyes fixed on the screen like everyone else in the garage. 

oscar goes out again, the car released with urgency this time, clasping your hands together, nails digging into skin, heart hammering so hard it drowns out everything else.

on the screen, sector one flashes green, sector two purple. and then his lap time appears, and his name locks into the final safe spot, relief hits you like gravity, you almost had to shake yourself to remember you were definitely getting far too into this for someone who hadn't watched a single session until hours prior. 

the countdown to q3 appears on the broadcast, before it cuts once again to the view of your siblings, bindi and robert chatting to each other as your focus is glued to the stationary car, robert is the one to nudge your shoulder to get your attention and you wave awkwardly at the camera, hearing bindi laugh at your stiffness, before cutting away to other "vip" guests around the paddock. 

oscar returns to the track once more, movements precise but faster now, adrenaline still humming beneath the surface, q3 was like nothing you had ever experienced. ten cars, and one last chance.

the garage quiets into something reverent, everyone moving carefully around the idea of pressure rather than through it, you stand far back, giving the crew space, heart racing despite the stillness. 

his out-lap is smooth, unhurried, and then the push lap begins. each corner feels stretched, time bending as the timing screen updates in fragments. green. purple. green again. your breathing stutters with every sector change, muscles tensing as if you could will the car faster through sheer focus. 

when the lap ends, there's a pause in the crew, a suspended moment where nothing exists but waiting. then the time posts, it's strong, not perfect, but earned. and you hear bindi groaning beside you, a huff of annoyance as he qualifies second, but the other side of the garage is jumping with lando in first. a good result for the team. 

oscar pulls into parc fermé, parking up behind the climbs out, and lifts his visor. his eyes search instinctively, cutting through the crowd until they find you, his body leads him away from where his mind does, celebrating the position with his team, but this this time, he holds your gaze, long enough for you to notice it. 

the call for media pulls him away soon after, one second he's talking to his team and the next an fia official has their hand on his shoulder, and he shifts back into that public version of himself.

you stop just short of the crowd, standing off to the side where you won't be seen but can still hear. cameras are already trained on him and the other two in the top three, microphones angled forward, the low murmur of journalists settling into silence as he steps into position.

"he's not going to disappear if you look away y'know." the voice comes from your left, amusement dripping from his words. roberts arms are folded, bindi by his side with an equally as entertained smile. 

heat floods your face but you roll your eyes at your siblings. "i'm getting the whole fan experience." as you watch him talking to the interviewer, you notice there's a polish to him now, a carefulness, clearly media-trained well by his team as he answers the questions diplomatically, not giving away too much detail about his final lap, margins to his teammate, and the race tomorrow. 

"i'm sure many fans would die to be getting your experience." you don't miss the not so subtle implications in bindi's words, or the exaggerated wink she throws your way. 

you shake your head at her words, trying to recover, but it only makes them grin wider, a reassuring rub on your arm by your older sister and you're already regretting staying to watch the interview. robert glances past you, toward where oscar was standing just a few feet away. "he's got that look too, you know."

your stomach flips, you don't ask what look, not sure you want to hear it out loud.

something shifts in his demeanour when he's asked about the race, subtle, barely more than a tilt of his head but you notice the way his shoulders rise. his answer is measured and realistic, but there's something lurking underneath it. a quiet confidence. you feel it settle in your chest like a second heartbeat, his home race, a good starting position, the possibility to be the first australian to do it. 

the paddock empties in pieces, shortly after drivers media duties are completed. transporters hum low in the background, garage lights dim one by one, and the sharp energy of the day dissolves into something softer, something that feels almost private, despite how many people still linger.

you stay, long after it would've made sense to leave, perhaps against your best judgement. hanging around the hospitality building, finding 'secret' spots in the paddock. leaning against the cool metal barrier, pass twisting slowly between your fingers, you watch the last of the team move through their routines. packing, debriefing, resetting for the long day ahead tomorrow.

you tell yourself you're just waiting for a good moment to go, and still you don't leave. "still here?" the voice comes from behind you, startling you from your people watching, it's warm, amused, and far too knowing. turning to find bindi leaning casually against the barrier, arms folded, eyes sparkling under the paddock lights.

you try for something neutral. "just, didn't want to get in the way earlier. get caught in the rush y'know."

she hums softly, unconvinced. "mh, of course," she says, smile widening just enough to give you away. "nothing to do with a certain driver finishing his debrief soon."

heat creeps up your neck again, and with the sun low in the sky, you have nothing left to blame it on. "i was just leaving," you insist, already shifting your weight like you might actually follow through this time.

bindi pushes off the barrier, stepping closer, her voice dropping just slightly. "you've been 'just leaving' for the last twenty minutes.” you let out a quiet, defeated breath, and that's all the confirmation she needs. her expression softens, teasing giving way to something gentler. "stay," she says simply. "he'll be out soon." 

your breathing betrays you immediately, chest rising and falling with the anticipation of seeing him again, she notices. of course she does, and with a small, satisfied nod, she squeezes your arm. "i'll pretend I didn't see anything."

"that doesn't sound like pretending," you mutter.

"it's the effort that counts," she replies lightly, already stepping away. she disappears back into the thinning crowd, leaving you exactly where you were, only now, there's no pretending you're waiting.

the garage finally quiets, your attention on the fans still surrounding the paddock, wanting to catch a glimpse of their favourite driver, their hometown hero, and then he's there, in your eye-line. 

oscar steps out from the back, running a hand through his hair, movements slower now, the intensity of the day softened into something more human, his top button loosened and sleeves slightly rumpled, hoodie slung over one of his arms and a bag tossed over his shoulder. his eyes scan the space, hoping for a quick and quiet exit, and land on you.

there's a flicker of surprise, before forming into something warmer. "hey," he says, voice quieter than you've heard it all day. "wasn't expecting you to still be here."

you lift one shoulder slightly, looking only at him, suddenly feeling silly for waiting for him now, of course he wasn’t expecting you to wait around for him, why would he. "wasn't sure when you'd be done. thought i'd stay."

his mouth curves just a little, you'd stayed to see him, long after most would have and did leave. "long debrief." words punctuated with a yawn, and only now can you see the tiredness across his face. 

you nod, like that explains everything, like you understand what they even talk about in the debrief and for a second, neither of you moves. then he gestures lightly toward the exit. "you heading out?"

"yeah," you say, pushing yourself up from against the barrier you'd made your home. "i should." he tilts his head, like he's considering something, then starts walking, you fall into step beside him.

the paddock fades behind you with every step, noise softening into distant echoes, night air feeling cooler now, a welcome contrast to the heat of the garage. for a while, you just walk, comfortably in silence, side by side. but close enough that your shoulders brush every so often, each contact sending a small, quiet ripple through you.

oscar glances over, noticing you’re holding your arms to your side. "are you cold?" 

you shake your head, not wanting to be a nuisance, but he can already see the goosebumps forming on your exposed arms and the way your hands are turning a slight red. "here." before you can even begin to argue, he's holding his hoodie out to you, practically shoving it your arms so that you can't say no. 

"thank you." is all you manage to get out, you pull it on, the sleeves a little too long, the fabric soft and carrying that faint, familiar mix of detergent and something that's just, distinctively him. it settles around you easily, like it belongs there.

"better?" he asks and you nod, getting back in stride but with an unspoken feeling between you. "you survived your first proper qualifying day." it's more of a statement than a question, but you find yourself answering anyway. 

"barely," you admit. "i think i forgot how to breathe at least five times."

oscar huffs a soft laugh, glancing down at you for a split second. "yeah. that sounds about right." 

pulling the sleeves down to cover your hands, you look up at him, almost catching him in the act, but being just a fraction to late. "you didn't seem nervous."

"i was," he says easily, shoving his own hands in his short pockets awkwardly before taking them out again. "just don't really show it." 

silence settles again, but it's different now, easier as your taking in the views of the near empty paddock, filled rather than empty, hearing his relaxed breathing. gravel crunches under your shoes as the path curves away from the circuit, the lights grow softer, shadows stretching longer around you.

"you did really well," you say sheepishly after a moment. "today. from what i was told anyway." 

oscar glances down briefly, then back at you, feeling his own face growing warmer from your compliment and he looks away before you get the chance to notice it. "it was a good lap."

"that's it?" you let out a breathy laugh. 

his smile deepens slightly, dimples showing and cheeks now a pretty shade of pink. "it was a very good lap."

"there it is."

he nudges your arm lightly with his, the fabric of his hoodie rubbing against his arm, friction burning. "had to keep expectations realistic in front of the cameras."

you hate the way you giggle at his stupid jokes. "very professional of you." 

"thank you," he says, mock-serious, before the silence follows once again. 

your hands brush as you walk. once. it's just a coincidence with a muttered "sorry" from oscar. but then it happens again, and this time, neither of you pulls away. there's a pause, small, almost hesitant, before his fingers shift, turning just enough to fit with yours. and you let him. 

glancing down briefly, then back up at him, and he's already looking at you. "is this okay?" he asks, quieter now, it's only you and him around, no camera's, fans, or your siblings. 

your answer comes without hesitation, a small nod and smile accompanying it. "yeah."

his grip settles, still gentle, but certain now, with the confidence of knowing you wanted him too, and you keep walking. the silence feels like it eating you alive, his thumbs rubbing against your hand, his hoodie feels heavy on your skin. “do you want to go for dinner?” 

you almost aren’t sure you heard his question right, there was no way he was asking you out. of course he wasn’t, it was a friendly dinner, that was what you told yourself. “i was gonna meet bindi and robert, but i’m sure they won’t mind.” 

oscar smiles at your answer, squeezing your hand in appreciation and before you know it, you’re sat across from him in a near empty restaurant, lucky that he had something other than his mclaren branded clothes packed with him that day. 

melbourne feels softer at night, the noise of the circuit fades into something distant, replaced by low conversation, clinking glasses, the hum of a city that doesn’t need engines to feel alive. the restaurant is tucked just far enough away from the chaos that it almost feels separate from the weekend entirely.

you’re still half convinced this wasn’t real, that you were going to wake up from this dream at any moment. “you picked well,” you say, glancing around at the warm lighting, the quiet atmosphere, only one or two tables around you had people sat, it was cozy and personal, a place you felt he’d come to before to escape. 

he shrugs slightly, hand falling to lift his glass of water. “close enough to the hotel, far enough people won’t bother us.”

it felt different seeing him like this. no race suit, nothing to do with mclaren at all actually, no engineers surrounding him every minute. no noise, he was just oscar here. 

“so,” you say, leaning forward slightly, toying with the stem of your wine glass, just because he was on water doesn’t mean you were, “how does this week actually work for you? because from the outside, it just looks like semi-controlled chaos.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, joking “that’s not far off,” before he shifts in his seat, thinking for a second before answering properly. “friday’s about getting comfortable in the car. practice, figuring out the car, the track, how everything feels. saturday’s, a bit more intense. you mess up once and that’s it.” he pauses briefly, then adds, “sunday’s just, everything at once.”

you let out a breath, feeling exhausted on his behalf. “that sounds stressful.” studying him for a moment, you notice the way his expression settles into something more thoughtful, almost fond, more honest than anything you’ve seen in the paddock. “you like it though,” you say.

oscar looks up at you, almost looking slightly guilty. “yeah,” he says simply. “i really do.” and there’s something so earnest about the way he says it that makes your chest feel warm. he tilts his head slightly after a second. “what about you?”

“what about me?” you query, you were an uninteresting open book, you couldn’t fathom what he was actually asking you. 

“you’ve told me all about crocodiles and koalas,” he says, a hint of amusement slipping in, and a memory of the guide throughout your dads zoo, “but not much else.”

you smile, feeling your cheeks warm as you looked down at the plate in front of you. “that’s the most interesting part.”

“debatable.” oscar says so quickly it chips away at your composure. 

you laugh softly, then settle back in your chair, fidgeting with your napkin to avoid looking at him. “it’s, quieter, i guess. at home. busy, but not like this. more, simple.”

“and with them?” he asks.

you nod, smiling, you were truly lucky to be able to work with your best friends at something you all loved. “yeah. bindi and rob keep things interesting.”

“i can imagine.” he hums in response. 

“they’d like you,” you add without thinking, eyes snapping up to his as you cursed yourself internally. 

his eyebrows lift slightly. “yeah?” and you’re glad he doesn’t seem scared off, instead more like he’s into the idea, like he’d thought about it before.

“yeah,” you say, then quickly look down at your drink. “they already do, actually.”

that earns a soft laugh from him. “good to know i’ve passed inspection. all it took was some free passes.”

“barely.” you throw back at him with a laugh. 

“harsh.” 

you grin, then glance back up at him, not failing to catch the way he’s already looking at you, and it lingers a second too long for you to call it casual, yet neither of you looks away immediately. the low lighting reflects against his features in an artistic way, its unfair how good he looked, his hair styled yet still natural looking. “you’re different here,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

“different how?” he queries with a tilt of his head. 

“quieter,” you admit, voice sounding lower. “but not in a bad way.” 

he considers your words, humming before he finally replies. “i think this is just me when no one’s asking me about lap times.”

“noted. i’ll avoid all race-related questions from now on.”

“please don’t,” he says quickly, then softens it with a small smile. “i like that you actually care.” oscar says the last bit so sincerely that something in your chest shifts, face feeling warm, and before you can respond a voice interrupts. 

“sorry…are you?” you hear from beside the table.

you both look up, a young girl stands there, phone in hand, clearly trying to be respectful but just as clearly very aware of who’s sitting in front of them, and its obvious she’s a fan with the “81” numbered bracelet wrapped around her wirst and green and yellow cap atop her head. 

oscar’s expression changes, it wasn’t cold nor closed off, like he was annoyed by her presence, but just careful “yeah,” he says politely, nodding his head at her open ended question, already sitting up a little straighter, a small checking in glance in your direction and he can see you sitting uncomfortable. 

if the girl could tell, she wasn’t particularly minding, focus entirely on the driver in front of you. “could I maybe get a photo? sorry, i don’t want to interrupt,”

“it’s alright,” he says, standing, setting his napkin down over the table. 

you shift back slightly to give space, watching as he steps aside with them, offering a quick smile for the photo, it’s easy, practiced, something he’s done a hundred times before, a hundred times today alone probably. 

but when he comes back he exhales quietly, dropping back into his seat, about to apologise when you beat him to it. “optimistic,” you repeat lightly, raising your eyebrow.

he huffs a laugh, holding his hands up. “yeah, that one’s on me.”

SUNDAY, AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX

race day feels different the second you wake up, heavier like the air itself is holding its breath. by the time you arrive at albert park, the calm from the night before is gone, replaced with a pulse that runs through everything. the crowds are louder, thicker, the paddock tighter to walk through, camera crews set up in every inch of it, photographers capturing everyone. every step feels like it matters more.

you're not alone this time in feeling the weight of the occasion. "you look nervous."

you glance sideways at robert, who's walking far too casually for someone stepping into the chaos of race day. his hands are tucked into his pockets, expression relaxed, entertained, if anything, like no matter what the result he's going to have a good time. 

"i'm not nervous," you reply, feeling your hands flatten against your side, trying to get the creases out of your already ironed jeans. 

he raises an eyebrow at your answer, you never could lie to him even when you were younger. "you're doing that thing with your hands again."

you immediately stop fidgeting, letting out a groan and accepting defeat. "fine. i'm a little nervous."

from your other side, bindi smiles, looping her arm gently through yours as you walk. "it's okay. it's a big day."

the closer you get to the paddock entrance, the louder everything becomes, engines in the distance, helicopters overhead, the constant hum of thousands of people all focused on one thing. all rooting for one person, their home hero to bring back the win for them. a mix of green and yellow caps fill the grandstands. 

robert glances over at you again, taking in the sight of so many papaya fans in front of you. "so, what's the plan?"

looking at him perplexed, you think perhaps you'd heard him wrong over the loud crowd, engine noises or whatever song the track dj was playing. maybe a mix of all three. "what do you mean?"

he shrugs, "you going to pretend you're just casually here again, or,"

"robert," you cut in quickly, glaring at him as he failed to contain his smile. 

bindi laughs softly beside you, playfully scolding your brother. "be nice."

"i am being nice," he insists, before continuing onto his point. "i'm just curious how long she thinks we're buying it."

heat creeps up your neck, and you're thankful your green and yellow cap casts a shadow over your face. "i'm here to watch the race," you say, a little too quickly, rushing to get the words out and defend your presence. 

"hm," bindi hums, clearly unconvinced, eyes glancing to the branded hat atop your head, whilst you hear robert at the same time saying "and the driver?" with a grin on his face. 

the paddock gates come into view, security checking passes, and bad pictures appearing on the turnstile screens, letting people through in controlled waves. "just don't disappear on us," robert adds as you step forward, scanning his pass and a picture of him when he was 12 shows up on the screen. 

you glance at him, a smile playing on your lips at the memory of the picture used by the track, before scanning your own pass, and an equally as embarrassing pictures shows up for you. "i won't."

"good," he says. "because i want a full race analysis afterward."

you let out a small laugh despite yourself, tucking your pass back underneath your jacket, the less people who seen the picture the better. "you're better off getting that from bindi." 

you spot him before he sees you, as oscar stands just off to the side of the mclaren garage, papaya polo shirt on and grey shorts, his cap low on his head blocking the high sitting sun, talking to one of the engineers. he nods along, focused, but there's a stillness to him, getting all the information he can before the drivers parade starts. 

"you gonna go over?" robert asks quietly beside you, and you hesitate for half a second. then you finally pick up the courage, or maybe your legs start moving before you can think, and do.

oscar looks up mid-conversation, and the second he sees you, his eyes softened, shoulders relaxing before he quickly finished up with his engineer who gives you a small nod of acknowledgment before going back to the garage. "hey," he says, voice lower than everything around you.

"hey." god you hated this, you're stopped just in front of him, suddenly very aware of how close everything feels, the noise, the people, the moment itself. "you okay?" you find yourself asking him, as if he doesn't look like the most comfortable person around.  

he exhales through a small smile, eyes only on your despite the chaos of everything going on around him. "yeah, just ready to get going. i hate all this pre-race stuff."

you nod, taking in the words he was saying although you weren't sure what exactly he was referring too, as far as you knew all the support series races had been run. "you looked calm yesterday."

oscar leans down closer to you, his lips brushing your ear before he mutters. "can i tell you something? i was pretending."

"that's reassuring." you reply sarcastically with a small nod of your head, breath hitching in your throat, pulse racing and you knew it wasn't slowing any time soon, not with him being this close to you.

he huffs a quiet laugh, glancing towards the garage briefly before meeting your eyes again. "i'll be fine once i'm in the car." 

there's a small pause, you aren't exactly sure what to say, so you reach out without thinking, adjusting the edge of his cap slightly where it's sitting crooked, the "81" splashed across it matching your own one. "there."

his eyebrows lift faintly, eyes flickering to your matching hat before settling back on you. "important pre-race adjustment."

"mhm, critical," you confirm, feeling a smile involuntarily forming on your face, not that you tried too hard to fight it. 

oscar smiles properly at that, quick, but real, and then a voice calls him from behind, the drivers parade was starting soon and they needed him on track. "garage for the start?" he asks, knowing he wasn't going to get a proper chance to see you again before the start of the race.  

"yeah." you confirm, already knowing bindi and robert were waiting for in there. 

"good," a second goes by, he doesn't move, eyes focused on your own, something unspoken, but steady. then, quieter, with more vulnerability than you’ve seen from him before, you hear him say. "wish me luck?"

you meet his eyes again, hands itching to reach out to touch him, but you hold back. "you don't need it." you argue and he pouts, obviously not a fan of of your answer. 

"still." 

you're trying hard to stop the smile on your face from growing, but you nod your head anyway, an internal battle rages on inside you, but you let your bolder side win. "good luck." you wish him, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

he holds your gaze for a second longer, like he's anchoring the moment, savouring the sting of your lips on his rose tinted cheeks, and then he's called on again. 

the garage isn’t as chaotic as it should be when you meet back up with your siblings, not yet anyway, there’s movement, mechanics stepping around equipment, engineers checking final details but compared to everything outside, it feels almost contained. like the calm eye of a much bigger storm.

the drivers’ parade plays across one of the monitors mounted high on the wall, and you hadn’t expected to watch something like when you were invited to your first grand prix. it was like something out of the hunger games, 20 drivers being drove around the track waving to fand. 

the car rolls slowly around the track, drivers perched up top, waving to the crowd and the noise from outside bleeds faintly into the garage, distant cheers, carried through the open doors.

you see him in the back of one of the drivers being interviewed, sat slightly out of the way of the camera, more reserved than some of the others, giving a small wave to the crowd as the car moves along and chatting to another driver beside him. 

bindi’s grin is immediate, glancing at you when he appears on screen. “oh, look at him,” she says. “very composed. very professional.”

you shrug, not giving her the reaction she wanted, remaining neutral. “he’s just sitting there.”

robert tilts his head. “do you think he practiced that wave?” on screen, oscar glances off to the side briefly, acknowledging something in the crowd, as he nudges lando beside him, pointing to what you assumed was a fan with a sign, then looks forward again, calm, steady, entirely himself.

robert lets out a soft laugh. “you’re worse during this than you were during qualifying.”

you shake your head, but you’re smiling anyway, eyes drifting back to the screen. the parade continues, drivers laughing, waving, playing to the crowd, but your focus keeps pulling back to him, every small movement somehow louder than the rest.

when the parade ends, and drivers are returning back to the garage, you feel the energy shift at the track, team personnel walk with more urgency now, interviewers try their whack at getting anything out of the drivers, practically sprinting down the paddock to keep up with them before they disappear. 

the national anthem comes and goes, oscar standing proud in front of the other drivers, cap in hand, and then he’s back in the garage, race suit on and balaclava in hand. every sound has a purpose now, engineers calling data, headsets crackling, the buzz off the engines from the grid died down as drivers got in their cars. 

you stand just behind the main line of monitors, eyes locked on the screen, oscar sat in the second grid box, lando just a few feet ahead. first came the formation lap, something you learned from your research the night before when you couldn’t find it in you to sleep. 

cars pull away one by one, weaving gently across the track, tires searching for temperature, brakes glowing faintly as they’re tested and pushed. It looks controlled, almost slow, but there’s something coiled underneath it, something waiting. 

they round the track, beginning to circle back toward the start grid, slowing, each one finding its position again, everything starts to quiet, fans in hushed anticipation, team members just praying for a good start. 

your nails dig into the palm of your hand, heart beginning to pick up again as the final car settles into place, and a marshall steps out behind the last car to slot in, waving a green flag as he crosses the track. 

in the blink of an eye, five red lights appear and for a millisecond everything stops, and then you hear the engines roaring to life, tyres spinning, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air, and then they’re moving. 

“they’re away!” the shout comes from somewhere in the garage, but you barely register who said it, your focus snaps to oscar’s car immediately, watching as he launches cleanly off the line, holding his second place with a red bull hot behind him. 

you start to drown out the chatter in the garage, hearing bits and pieces from the mechanics sat watching. “good start, good start,” someone mutters, and you aren’t sure exactly which orange helmet it coms from. 

the field starts to settle by lap 10, gaps forming between cars, strategies beginning to reveal themselves and the strongest cars already being sussed out. oscar stays locked in a tight battle, with lando in front of him, closing the gap down lap by lap, while drs trains formed behind, ebbing and flowinglike waves.

“he’s within half a second,” an engineer notes, clapping his hands as if oscar could hear his encouragement. 

you lean forward against the garage wall, like it’ll make the tension dissipate. “come on,” you find yourself whispering, hands locked together.

a few laps later and oscar was still behind, the first pit window closing in, cars start diving in, one after another, the rhythm of the race shifting again, and the pitline suddenly becomes one of the busiest places on track, wheel guns whirring and tyres screeching. the team are asking what lando wants first, he was the leading driver and he chooses to keep out, oscar wanting the same stays out for another lap, and then another.

“extending,” someone says. 

“undercut?” another replies, breaking down the strategy as it plays out in front of them. 

when he finally pits, it’s fast, seamless, pit crew patting themselves on he back as he comes back out just behind the car he’d been battling, lando, who was yet to pit still. there wasn’t room to celebrate yet, anything could happen, breath still being held. 

they’re about to tell lando to pit, when a yellow flag comes out in the second sector, flashing briefly before another message appears. safety car. you watch as one of the drivers running in the points drops down the leaderboard, sitting last before the camera cuts to his car in the barrier. the vibe in the garage shifts instantly, some even letting out audible groans as lando is called in, oscar a second behind him on track, as expected goes ahead but it’s not celebrated like it should be, as lando comes out not as far behind would he without the free pit. 

the safety car pulls in a few laps later, the gap less than a second now, everything tightens again, and it feels like the start of the race all over again. 

on screen, the pack compresses, cars weaving, brakes glowing, everyone waiting for that one moment, for oscar to let go, and when that moment happens he holds position on the restart, clean and controlled, staying just ahead as they surge back to full speed.

you exhale shakily, nails digging back into your palm. “okay, okay, that’s not bad is it?”

when no one answers, your nerves don’t settle, because although oscar had a good restart, so too had his teammate, who was clinging onto the back of his car like an ex girlfriend. 

“drs will be enabled next lap,” an engineer notes.

turning to robert, he already knows your question and he nods slightly with a worried look on his face. “yeah. that’s going to matter.”

it happens a couple laps later. it wasn’t messy, or chaotic. it was calculated, designed in the laps leading up to it. at first oscar was able to pull out a second, but lando closes the gap steadily, each sector shaving off just enough time. you watch the interval drop, 0.8 to 0.6 to 0.4. 

“fuck, he’s right there,” you hear bindi whisper to herself, not quiet enough that you could pretend you didn’t hear it.  on the next straight, lando’s drs opens, and the move is inevitable. lando pulls out of the slipstream, drawing alongside, the two cars running wheel-to-wheel into the braking zone.

“come on,” you murmur, barely aware you’re saying it out loud.

oscar defends with everything that he has, keeping it clean and precise, but lando has the momentum and the slight tyre advantage. the corner tightens, space narrowing, and after the turn he’s through. 

the garage doesn’t react dramatically, just quiet recalculations, quick adjustments, the understanding that the race is still unfolding, but it stings anyway. 

bindi’s voice is gentle beside you, hand resting on your arm. “still plenty of laps.”

you nod, even if it doesn’t quite land yet, but on screen, oscar tucks in behind again, close enough to fight, not letting the gap open. watching with more optimism than before, you straighten slightly, hands ticketing around each other. “okay,” you say, more firmly this time. “okay. that’s fine.”

the final laps tighten everything, the mood in the garage has dropped slightly, on the screen, oscar sits just behind lando, the gap hovering close enough to keep hope alive if the latter made a mistake, but their tyres had dropped off, if something was going to happen, it would’ve by now.

each corner is precise, each exit sharper than the last, the pressure constant, and for a moment, it looks possible, as lando goes wide out of a turn, oscar finally breaking the one second ceiling, only to lock up himself.

“final lap.” someone announces and the garage stills.

oscar doesn’t drop back, still pushing despite his chances becoming slimmer and slimmer by the second, he stays there, right on the edge, pushing until the very last corner, no mistakes, no hesitation, just everything he has left.

and then the checkered flag falls, p2. a good result for anyone really, but it tastes more bittersweet when he had the chance of a win. 

you exhale slowly, finally allowing yourself to breath normally again as something warm settling in your chest as the tension finally breaks. “so close,” you mutter, but you’re smiling anyway as bindi brings you in for a hug, feeling the mood of the garage lift by the second as the team had secured a 1-2 in the first race of the season. 

he’s barely pulled into parce ferme and out of the car before the team is on him, hands on his shoulders, claps on his back and a rush of movement and noise as oscar pulls his helmet off, hair damp, face flushed with effort and adrenaline. shaking hands with lando as they’re celebrating together. he’s smiling now, and not the small, controlled one from before, but something real, something that breaks through completely as the result settles in.

“p2, mate, that was mega,” someone shouts over the noise, and he lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly like he’s still catching up to it himself.

you hang back on the outskirts of the team personnel, watching it all unfold. he deserves this part, the congratulations and the noise. the moment with the people who got him there. he’s chatting with lando, when you see his teammate looking towards where you were standing, nearly beside himself as he points you out to oscar. 

his eyes flick over to you, finding you almost immediately, sweat slicked hair sticking to his face and sprouting in different directions, you were sure his cheeks must be hurting from how wide his smile was. 

by the time he finds you the sharp edge of media hour has passed, the cameras are gone, the questions asked and answered, the version of him the world knows carefully packed away for the night until the next race weekend.  

you’re leaning against the barrier where you’d waited before, phone loose in your grip as you scroll through random apps, the track signal was getting worse by the minute, but still you managed to see it before bindi sent you the link. the fan from last night had posted the picture of her and oscar, no biggie fans did that all the time, but attached was a reply to someone asking where she saw him, and it didn’t take long for you to spot your name. 

you don’t notice him at first, jumping when you hear his voice. “hey.”

trying to keep your phone in your hands, you look up quickly. “god you gave me a heart attack.” to emphasis your words, you hold your hand over your chest. 

oscar steps toward you, cap gone now, hair slightly out of place from the day, expression softer, tired, but lighter and he laughs at your dramatics, but holds his hands up. “i’m sorry didn’t meant to scare you.” 

“hey,” you echo his greeting from before, still on edge from your exposure. 

he stopped in front of you, exhaling quietly. “sorry, that took longer than i thought it was gonna.”

“it’s okay,” you say with a small shrug, he had things to do and who were you to tell him to hurry up. “i figured.”

he studies you for a second, something in his expression sharpening slightly. “you alright?”

you hesitate, did he already know? had someone on the media team told him? did he care? these were all questions you wanted answers too but were scared to ask him. the action was small, barely anything but he notices. “what happened?” he asks, gentler now, and you glance down at your phone, thumb brushing the screen before you turn it toward him.

“i think we got spotted last night.” his eyes look up at you, before taking the phone in his own hands, eyes scanning the screen quickly.

there are comments, ones you were too scared to open past the first reply, too many, and more coming in too fast. people were already speculating, creating rumours. 

oscar exhales slowly through his nose, handing the phone back, he wasn’t annoyed nor did he look panicked like you did, he was just aware. “yeah,” he says quietly, like he was formulating the reply in his head as he was speaking. “that was always a risk.”

“i didn’t think,” you start, then stop, wishing you had the same calmness that he possessed right now. “i mean, i knew, i just didn’t think it would happen that fast. i didn’t think people would actually care”.

“it usually does,” he admits, and there’s no frustration in his voice like there is in yours, which somehow makes it feel heavier.

you look down at the screen again, then lock it, like that’ll make it disappear, as if it wasn’t burned behind your retinas. “is this going to be a problem?” you ask, quieter now, worry seeping through your question. 

he doesn’t answer immediately, and that pause, as much as you hate to admit it, it matters. he shifts a little closer instead, just enough that you feel it, feel his hand holding your cheek, cradling it and forcing you to look up at him, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “no,” he says finally, “not unless you want it to.”

you look up at him, his eyes soft like they were made of honey, keeping you stuck on them. “what does that mean?”

“it means,” he pauses, choosing his words more carefully now than you’ve heard him all day. “people are going to talk, they always do. but that doesn’t have to change anything unless it makes you uncomfortable. i can ask media to try and keep the frenzy down if you want ”

you search his face, for anything, any doubt, worry, hesitation, and there’s nothing of the sort, no sign of pulling back, just sincerity. “and you?” you query. 

he huffs a small breath, almost like a laugh, hand still held against your face as he leaned in closer. “i wouldn’t have asked you to dinner if i was worried about being seen.”

that lands somewhere deep inside, you glance down again briefly, then back up. “bindi and robert are never going to let me live this down.”

that earns a real smile from him. “let me give them something else to talk about then.” 

the words settle between you, light, but the way he looks at you isn’t. he inches ever closer, and everything else fades with it, the noise, the movement, the weight of the day, it all dulls into something distant as the space between you disappears.

his hand lowers, slow and deliberate, brushing gently along your jaw, a warm and steady hold, giving you time to process, to move if you want, but you don’t pull away. “still okay?” he murmurs.

you nod, breath already unsteady. “yeah.” that’s all the confirmation he needs before he leans in slowly, like he’s memorising the moment before it even happens, close enough that you feel it first, the warmth of him, the quiet shift in the air and then his lips meet yours.

soft, careful, he’s holding the moment instead of rushing it. and for a heartbeat, everything stills. then you lean into him, fingers catching lightly against his stubble, grounding yourself as the kiss deepens just enough to feel certain, real, not fleeting.

he stays close when he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, barely any distance between you, his breath warm against your lips, there’s a pause, a shared one and a small, breathless laugh slips from you. “yeah… that’ll definitely make it online.”

his smile lingers, quieter now, his thumb tracing absentmindedly along your jaw. “good,” he murmurs.

the small bubble of quiet around you shatters before you even realize it, a familiar laugh cuts through the moment sharp, teasing, impossible to ignore, and you hear oscar groan before they even begin talking. 

“ohhh… what do we have here?” you pull back slightly at the voice, blinking, and see lando leaning casually against a nearby railing, arms crossed, grin wide and knowing.

oscar stiffens for half a second, smile shamelessly creeping onto his face, still holding your hand loosely. “lando…” his voice is equal parts amusement and mock warning.

“you two really think no one notices?” lando teases, eyebrows raised. “i’ve got photographic evidence if you want me to post it too.”

you cover your mouth, laughing nervously, heat rising in your cheeks. “we weren’t..”

“caught,” oscar interrupts, shaking his head, but his smile gives him away.

Season I — The Season of Realisation

Fic I — Oscar Piastri: The Inevitable Match. Brother’s best friend trope.

He has always been within reach. Always just beyond permission. As the Season unfolds, restraint becomes increasingly difficult to maintain — because some affections are too constant to be coincidence, and too inevitable to remain unspoken.

❧ Includes: norris!reader, slow burn, yearning, tension, almost touches.

❧ Word count: 47.1k

❧ Status: part one, part two, part three.

Fic II — Charles Leclerc: An Affection Most Sincere. The gentleman suitor who lets her go trope.

He offers honesty without pressure and kindness without demand — a courtship defined by sincerity. But sometimes the greatest act of devotion is recognising when affection deserves freedom rather than persuasion.

❧ Includes: emotional maturity, quiet heartbreak, graceful restraint.

❧ Word count: tbc.

❧ Status: awaiting introduction to society.

Fic III — George Russell: An Argument of Hearts. Rivals to lovers trope.

Every conversation is a challenge. Every disagreement a spark. Because the most dangerous attraction is often the one disguised as competition — and some victories feel suspiciously like surrender.

❧ Includes: tension, banter, mutual admiration.

❧ Word count: tbc.

❧ Status: awaiting introduction to society.

Fic IV — Carlos Sainz: The Rake Who Fell First. He fell first, he fell harder trope.

Society expects charm without consequence — and he has rarely disappointed. Until admiration deepens into something altogether less convenient, and suddenly the man who feared nothing finds himself wanting everything.

❧ Includes: charm, vulnerability, emotional undoing.

❧ Word count: tbc.

❧ Status: awaiting introduction to society.

Season II — The Season of Choice

Fic V — Max Verstappen: A Most Practical Arrangement. Marriage of convenience trope.

When he becomes the Season’s most discussed gentleman, attention becomes an inconvenience rather than an advantage. A practical alliance offers freedom from expectation — until practicality proves dangerously capable of becoming devotion.

❧ Includes: reluctant vulnerability, mutual understanding, slow trust.

❧ Word count: 69.9k.

❧ Status: part one, part two, part three, part four.

Fic VI — Lando Norris: A Courtship in Name Only. Fake dating trope.

A harmless arrangement should solve everything neatly — protect reputations, silence speculation, maintain control. Unfortunately, proximity has a habit of revealing truths that are far more difficult to dismiss.

❧ Includes: tension, hidden feelings, forced proximity, emotional realisation.

❧ Word count: tbc.

❧ Status: awaiting introduction to society.

Fic VII — Alex Albon: Letters Best Left Unsent. Romance through letters trope.

Some confessions are easier written than spoken. Across carefully folded pages and ink-stained honesty, affection develops unseen — until distance itself becomes impossible to maintain.

❧ Includes: yearning, vulnerability, emotional intimacy, slow burn.

❧ Word count: tbc.

❧ Status: awaiting introduction to society.

Fic VIII — Isack Hadjar: A Season of Becoming. First love trope.

Not every debut is accompanied by certainty. Sometimes the greatest transformation is learning that affection need not be perfect in order to be sincere.

❧ Includes: tenderness, growth, quiet courage.

❧ Word count: tbc.

❧ Status: awaiting introduction to society.

NOTES: These courtships will be revealed in their own time, rather than in strict chronological order, and without a fixed schedule for completion. Some may arrive swiftly, others may require rather more patience. Each story may be enjoyed independently, though attentive readers may notice familiar faces appearing across the Seasons. A social calendar has been provided below for those who prefer to observe events in order. Should you wish to be notified when a particular gentleman’s story is announced, you are most welcome to request inclusion on the tag list for any (or all) forthcoming indiscretions.

------------------------------------------------------------

Graduation in Hawkins wasn’t glamorous; it wasn’t even fashionable. The bright orange robes made everyone look like prison escapees. It wasn’t particularly organized either. The folding chairs on the football field wobbled in the grass, the PA system crackled like it had survived one too many pep rallies, and Principal Higgins mispronounced at least four names before reaching the H’s. The sun beat down on the seniors, hot enough to make the polyester gowns cling, and everyone looked like they’d rather be elsewhere, regardless of the anticipation that led to this moment.

The eldest Henderson sat in the front row, cap slipping every time the wind picked up, gown sticking to her legs. Dustin was somewhere in the bleachers with a weeping Claudia, waving a homemade sign that said ‘CONGRATS SIS!’ in glitter that was already shedding onto the people around him. She pretended not to see him. He pretended she wasn’t pretending.

When her name was called to approach the podium, Dustin and her mom cheered as if she’d just been awarded an AMA as runner‑up against Prince and Michael Jackson themselves.

She rolled her eyes in embarrassment, but her smile betrayed her.

She stepped up to the microphone, adjusted the stack of index cards she absolutely wasn’t going to use, and cleared her throat. The PA system squealed in protest.

“Good morning,” she began, voice steady despite the heat that increased with her nerves. “Today, I was given the privilege to stand here and give you something inspirational. Something about the future, or hard work, or how we’re all going to change the world. But honestly? Most of us are just trying not to melt in these robes.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.

“So instead, I want to talk about stories.”

She paused, letting the word settle.

“Because if Hawkins High taught me anything, it’s that everyone here lives on their own narrative. Some of us were cast as the geeks. Some are jocks and preppies. Others are the outcasts. And some were the ones who peaked too early.”

Her eyes flicked briefly, involuntarily, toward Steve Harrington — not with judgment, but with something softer. She hoped no one noticed.

“But the thing about stories is that they change and evolve. Characters grow. Narratives shift. Even the ones that start in small towns in the middle of Indiana.”

“Ray Bradbury once wrote that ‘we are cups, constantly and quietly being filled.’ And whether we liked it or not, these last four years filled us with something. Maybe not yet wisdom, but experience. The kind that molds our paths and perspectives.”

She let her gaze sweep the field. Taking in the bleachers, the teachers, and the rows of orange robes for what she took would be her last time.

“The late‑night cramming sessions. The cafeteria tables that were carved with endless couples' initials that most likely did not make it to today. The teachers who pushed us to be the very best versions of ourselves. The ones who didn’t. The friends we made along the way. And the ones we lost throughout this journey. The moments we thought were small until we realized how decisive and shaping they were.”

Her voice softened.

“We spent years wanting to get out. Out of Hawkins, out of high school, out of the same hallways and routines and people. And now that we’re finally here… it turns out endings feel a lot like beginnings.”

She closed her unused notes and stepped back.

“Congratulations, Class of ’85. Here is to whatever awaits us in our next chapter.”

The applause felt bigger than the field.

Steve Harrington crossed the stage a few minutes later, looking like he’d been personally insulted by the American academic system. He shook Higgins’ hand with the enthusiasm of someone accepting a parking ticket. Robin Buckley clapped politely from the bleachers, already plotting her escape from Hawkins the second she could afford gas money.

The brunette watched Steve walk back to his seat, observing how he tugged at his robe, how he tried to look bored and failed. She looked away before anyone could catch her staring.

And just like that, high school was over. The realization hit like a brick, leaving a bittersweet hurt. There were memories tucked into every corner of that field. Her first kiss happened right under the bleachers where her brother now sat, a memory she most definitely did not cherish. The countless times she lied in the name of her cramps to get  excused from P.E. The evenings, she would sneak onto the field after rehearsals and bawl her eyes out from the aching loneliness that clogged her chest, dreaming of escaping a town too wired into its own ways. The time she fell in love from afar with the boy she’d spent years pretending not to look at, and that never quite looked at her.

Mostly, there was the quiet, aching truth that she’d spent so long wanting to leave. And yet, now that she finally could, she felt something unexpected. Not really regret. Nor sadness. Just a nostalgic feeling that started building ever since she walked up that stage.

She glanced back once again, at the rows of orange robes and the sea of families in the bleachers. Dustin was waving his glitter sign like a man possessed. Claudia was wiping her eyes. The teachers lined up in their mismatched regalia. At the field that had held football games, pep rallies, and the kind of small moments that didn’t feel important until they were gone.

Then she faced forward again.

Summer was waiting.

​

The days after graduation felt uncanny, as if the city itself were holding its breath. The school year had ended, but summer hadn’t fully begun. The air was warm, the cicadas were loud, yet none of it seemed to throw off the citizens of Hawkins. Their hearts and minds were too preoccupied with the thrill of something else entirely.

That “something” turned out to be Starcourt Mall.

It had opened with the kind of fanfare Hawkins had never seen before—banners, balloons, a ribbon‑cutting ceremony endorsed by Mayor Kline, and a marching band loud enough to rattle the windows of Melvald’s. But the mall was shiny and new and filled with the very best America could offer, and that alone was enough to make it the center of the universe, even if only for a single solstice.

Ever since she’d decided to apply for college in the next semester, the eldest Henderson had been looking forward to carving out her own small slice of independence. Motivated by that—and by the forty‑percent employee discount at Waldenbooks, the largest bookstore chain in the country—she applied for a job there.

Robin Buckley, meanwhile, had landed a summer job at Scoops Ahoy for her sins. She’d mentioned it once in passing, rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. The sailor hat alone had been enough to make her swear vengeance on capitalism and poorly educated children.

Dustin, on the other hand, was too busy preparing for Camp Nowhere to care about anyone’s employment crisis. He packed like he was training for the next biggest thing since the Apollo missions.

The Henderson house the night before he left was a storm of motion—clothes draped over every surface, walkie‑talkies charging on the kitchen counter, Claudia hovering with sunscreen in hand, and Dustin insisting sunscreen was for “people who don’t understand the power of melanin.”

“Where did you say that friend of yours was working this summer?” he asked, shoving his jeans into his bag with the subtlety of a bulldozer.

His sister winced at the mistreatment of denim, plucked the jeans back out, and folded them herself.

“The new ice cream parlor. You know, the one with the Popeye knock‑off attire.”

“Oh! You’ve got to be shitting me—”

A sharp gasp cut him off. “Dustin!” Claudia’s voice cracked like a whip.

“Sorry!” he yelped, then added, sheepish but still buzzing with gossip, “It’s just that Steve’s working at Scoops Ahoy too. You know—King Steve. Former King Steve. Current… sailor Steve.”

She blinked. “That’s unfortunate.”

“For him or for the customers?”

“Robin. She’ll go mad. Like full‑on Eleanor Vance.”

Dustin paused, considering this. “Yeah… she might haunt the place.”

After a moment, he pointed at her dramatically. “You’re gonna miss me.”

“I’m going to enjoy my month of serene silence,” she said, though her smile gave her away.

He didn’t believe her.

Waldenbooks was quieter than she expected. The mall was loud with pop music from the food court, kids running around, the constant hum of the escalators adding to the overwhelming ambiance. However, inside the bookstore, everything softened. The lights buzzed faintly in stark contrast with the bright neon lights of the storefronts. The carpet muffled footsteps, enabling the classical music to fill the air.

She enjoyed shelving new arrivals the most, finding interest in keeping up with every literary work brought into the store.

One morning, Tom, a tall and humourless man who happened to be her manager, dropped a box onto the counter.

“Russian stuff,” he said. “Corporate wants it in the back.”

After he walked back without sparing her a single glance, she scrambled to it, curiosity getting the best of her.

Inside lay multiple copies of ‘The Oxford English–Russian Dictionary’, a few history books, and a paperback with a dramatic hammer and sickle. She flipped through the sample dictionary, tracing the Cyrillic letters with her finger.

A ring of the entrance bell tuned her out of her trance. Startled, she dropped the book back into the box so quickly it destabilized the whole stack, which toppled forward and landed squarely on her Converse‑covered toes. She hissed, straightened, and found a customer blinking at her politely.

They asked where the mystery novels were.

She meant to point them toward the back corner. She really did.

But then they added, “I’m trying to get into mysteries. Something… not too complicated, you know? Something light.”

Light.

That word offended her on a spiritual level, alerting some sort of sleeper cell spy in her.

“Oh, that’s actually such a misconception. You absolutely shouldn’t start light. That’s how you get bored, give up, and go partially illiterate. You need something that grabs you by the throat. Like, “ she snaps her finger excitedly as she picks up a book, “We Have Always Lived in the Castle. It’s not a mystery in the traditional sense, but it feels like one because the whole book is basically a psychological trap. Fun, I know. You think you know what’s happening, but you don’t. You trust Merricat, but you shouldn’t. You think the danger is outside the house, but it’s not. And the best part? Jackson never tells you anything directly. She just lets you sit there, stewing in dread, waiting for the other shoe to drop—except the shoe never drops, it just sort of… hovers.”

The customer blinked.

She kept going and shoved the book into their grasp.

“And that’s the point! The tension comes from the fact that you’re complicit. You’re solving a mystery that doesn’t want to be solved and can’t be. It’s brilliant. Horrifying. Life‑changing.”

The customer nodded slowly, clutching the book.

“Right,” they said. “I’ll… think about it.”

They backed away, then set the book into the nearest shelf as he walked very quickly toward the opposite end of the store.

​

She was still thinking about the Cyrillic alphabet when her break rolled around, and the mall swallowed her whole again—bright lights, loud music, the smell of pretzels and perfume mixing into something uniquely commercial.

Scoops Ahoy sat wedged between the arcade and the record store, its blue‑and‑white façade cheerfully aggressive. Robin was already leaning over the counter when she walked in, chin propped on her hand, eyes glazed with the kind of existential despair only minimum‑wage labor could inspire.

“Oh, thank God,” Robin said, straightening. “A human being with a functioning brain. Save me.”

“You’ve been here for two hours,” she said.

“Two hours too long.”

Steve Harrington appeared from the back, adjusting his hat like it personally offended him.

It probably did, after all, his voluminous hair had always been his one and only pride and joy.

“Oh,” he said, trying for casualness and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Hey.”

She hadn’t meant to look at him. Not when, instead of looking as if he just ate pounds after pounds of spinach and had a chronic issue with sea sickness, he looked as if he had just stumbled out of the newest edition of ‘Tiger Beat’. And yet, for her demise, she did. His flushed cheeks, the faint crease between his brows, the way the sailor hat sat crooked like it was losing a fight with gravity – it all knocked the air right out of her lungs.

And before her brain and mouth went on agreement on what she was to speak, she heard herself say, quietly, stupidly:

“You look… good.”

Her heart stopped. Her brain screamed. She scrambled and stuttered.

“I mean—good for someone being languidly degraded by labour.”

She winced at her unfortunate choice of wording, hoping her near brain aneurysm outshone her near love confession.

Robin snorted so loudly it echoed.

“He’s dramatic because he can’t help but suck,” she said, delighted.

Steve shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. He was, so far, not enjoying his coworker.

Steve’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

“Jesus Christ, Buckley,” Steve muttered, rubbing his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, perking up at his clear discomfort, moving on from it in triumph. “But anyway, how’s the glamorous life of literature?”

“I lectured a man about psychological traps in Shirley Jackson’s work until he fled the store.”

Robin slapped the counter. “Yes. Weaponize your education. It’s not your fault, people here seem not to ever have working synapses.”

Steve was still glaring at Robin, jaw tight, sailor hat crooked. He adjusted it again, futilely, as if the universe might suddenly reward him with dignity. His hair now sat flattened beneath the blue polyester. He looked as if he was mourning it and everything it had once done for him.

“You know,” Robin said, leaning forward with the kind of casual cruelty only a bored teenager could master, “if you keep terrorizing customers like that, Waldenbooks is going to start charging you for emotional damages.”

“I didn’t terrorize him,” she said, though she absolutely had. “I just… assisted him.”

“Assisted?” Robin repeated, nodding slowly. “I envisioned it more like a psychotic break.”

Steve snorted under his breath.

Robin’s head snapped toward him. “What are you laughing at, dingus?”

Steve immediately straightened, clearing his throat. “I was just, uh—”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine,” she cut in, waving a hand, her voice softening the moment. “She’s just giving you shit.”

Robin narrowed her eyes at her, but the girl only shrugged, casual and unbothered. The tension dissolved into something lighter, something that made the corners of her mouth twitch upward despite herself.

It was ridiculous—this whole scene, this whole summer job, this whole strange orbit she’d fallen into, especially with two people who couldn’t stand each other. And somehow it made her feel less alone than she had in years. She wondered if they felt that way, too. She was aware that Robin had never been much of the social scene; she had barely noticed her at all until the auditions. She wondered what her summer would look like now if the School Band hadn’t been forced to join the production, but thanks to Principal Higgins, that wasn’t a thought worth entertaining.

And regarding Steve Harrington, she did not want to be wishful and get her hopes up; after all, she was most likely just his best friend’s lame sister who argued with teachers during her free time. But she couldn’t help but hope that he might, eventually, see her as someone worth knowing—someone he could actually call a friend.

And if that came to be true, maybe Hawkins wasn’t that much of a hellhole.

Robin hopped off the counter with a dramatic flair. “Come on,” she said. “Mall lap. I need to move before my brain liquefies.”

“I have to get back soon,” she said, though she didn’t move.

Steve scoffed. “Please. Go. Leave me here to die.”

“Gladly,” Robin said, already rounding the counter. “Try not to cry into the waffle cones.”

“Go to hell,” Steve called after her.

“Already there,” Robin shot back, pushing through the swinging door.

The mall swallowed them whole again—bright lights, loud music, the smell of pretzels and perfume mixing into something uniquely commercial. The air was warmer out here, buzzing with the kind of energy only early summer and euphoric stage capitalism could provide.

They hadn’t made it ten steps before a familiar chorus of voices rose from the escalator.

“Hey!”

“Yo!”

“Is that—?”

“Oh my God, it is.”

Lucas, Mike, Will, and Max approached in a loose cluster, mischief surrounding them. Lucas, sporting a cobalt tank paired with bright red nylon shorts, had his arm slung around his girlfriend’s shoulder. Max, her fiery red hair tied loosely into a ponytail, wore a faded band tee and denim shorts, her red zip‑up hoodie knotted at her waist, and scuffed skate shoes carrying her forward like she was ready for trouble.

Robin groaned. “Oh, great. Pre‑adolescents.”

“They’re good kids,” the girl said automatically. “My brother’s friends.”

Robin blinked at her like this somehow made it worse. “Should that soothe me?”

Mike trailed just behind the couple in a striped polo and slightly too‑long shorts, his battered sneakers making it painfully clear he hadn’t dressed himself. Will, earnest as ever, followed close behind in a soft plaid button‑down tucked neatly into simple jeans.

Max flipped Robin off without breaking stride.

Mike ignored the gesture entirely. “We were just on our way to pay Steve a visit.”

Robin raised a brow. “Why would anyone ever do that?”

Lucas grinned. “We’re asking him for a favor.”

“A big one,” Will added, trying—and failing—to look innocent.

The eldest Henderson blinked. “What kind of favor?”

Mike leaned in conspiratorially. “We want him to sneak us into a movie.”

“Through the back room,” Lucas clarified.

Robin stared at them. “You want him to commit a fireable offense… for you?”

Mike shrugged. “He likes us.”

Will nodded. “And we’re very persuasive.”

A spark of amusement flickered across Robin’s face, delighted. “Huh. Wouldn’t mind seeing how that plays out.”

The girl’s stomach dropped. “No. No way, guys, he needs this job.”

Robin just lifted a shoulder. The girl groaned softly. She could already imagine Steve’s reaction to them. The dramatic sigh, the eye roll, and the way he would dig his own grave because he was incapable of saying no to them.

“Good luck,” she said.

“We don’t need luck,” Lucas replied confidently. “We have baby faces.”

“Not Max, though, she has the angriest zit ever right now,” added Mike.

“Fuck you,” she moved and slapped his arm, moving Lucas’ embrace away from her.

“That’s exactly why you need luck; they don’t tend to last after the hormones kick in,” Robin muttered.

The Party waved and continued toward Scoops, already arguing about which movie they wanted to see. Lucas and Max immediately fell into an argument—something about how he wasn’t being gentlemanly and that he should’ve been the one to silence Mike, and how Mike was a shithead.

Mike, well aware of the chaos he’d erupted, drifted with Will a little behind them, talking in low voices. Mike gestured animatedly toward the theater marquee, rattling off titles; Will listened with that soft, focused look he saved for very few people, offering quiet counterpoints, nudging Mike’s shoulder when he got too dramatic. They didn’t argue. They didn’t need to. Mike would watch whatever Will wanted anyway—he always did, even if he pretended it was his idea.

She and Robin resumed walking, weaving through the crowd. Robin narrated every passerby like she was hosting a nature documentary. The girl listened, absorbing, letting the noise of the mall wash over her like warm static.

series masterlist