#f1 2025

oscatpiastri LMAO admin just said ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN’ and that was the face Oscar pulled😭😭 what kind of trauma did they unlock??

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user I’M CRYING the man was flabbergasted

user I NEED TO KNOW WHO THAT IS IK YOU GUYS ARE GOOD AT STALKING

-> user I could only find a private acc with that name @.yourusername but there is no way to tell if it’s actually her

-> user wow you guys are quick

user oh to be able to read his mind rn

user admin chose violence today

-> user he looked so betrayed my poor boy💀

user how did admin even get such private information about Oscar?? like there is absolutely no history of a YN YLN anywhere in Oscar’s digital footprint

-> user I mean, that’s their entire job no? find things that get clicks and oscar’s past def does that

🔒 yourusername

yourusername university is slowly turning me into a hermit

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yourfriend1 caption is so real dude

yourfriend1 one more class with professor brenner and I’ll actually break all of my good pencils

-> yourusername REAL

yourfriend2 movie binge night was so good we have to do it again

-> yourusername ‼️‼️

yourbestfriend girly you’re famous

-> yourusername fuck you mean by that?

-> yourbestfriend have you ever watched f1? does the name oscar piastri ring a bell?

-> yourusername YOURE FUCKING JOKING

yourfriend3 I’m so hungry I could eat oscar piastri🤔🤔

yourfriend4 what just happened

yourfriend5 the art faculty bathroom is actually so peak

yourfriend6 you’re so gorgeous one chance pls pls pls

TEXTS BETWEEN NICOLE AND OSCAR

TEXTS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BEST FRIEND

👤 OSCAR PIASTRI WANTS TO SEND YOU A MESSAGE

oscarpiastri: Hello YN, I’m not sure if you remember me, we went to kindergarten together. I just wanted to give you a heads up, incase you haven’t seen it yet. There is a video going around on the internet of the McLaren social media admin mentioning you in an interview and people are taking it all sorts of ways. I hope it doesn’t cause you any trouble, if it does, please don’t hesitate to reach out and I will take full responsibility for it. I hope you are doing well!

INSTAGRAM DIRECT MESSAGES BETWEEN YOU AND OSCAR

yourusername: Hello Oscar, it’s nice to hear from you! Thank you for the heads up, that’s really kind of you. I saw the video and the reactions, but don’t worry, it’s really no trouble. How are you? Maybe we could catch up? We haven’t seen each other for so long

oscarpiastri: Good to hear that it’s not troubling you. I’m sorry anyway. And I’d love to catch up. Are you still in AUS? I’m there from December until February, incase you are.

yourusername: Yep! Still an Australian resident:) I have a small semester break in Janurary, if that works for you?

oscarpiastri: Great! 👍

🔒 yourusername

yourusername touching grass because why am I doing all that over a MAN

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yourfriend1 I just looked oscar piastri up and jeezus YN go get him or I will

yourbestfriend my girl is crushing on the f1 championship leader… i always knew you had big ambitions but I didn’t think they were that big

-> yourusername YOU REALLY ARE NOT HELPING IT

yourfriend2 we’ve lost her😞😞

-> yourfriend3 to a MAN of all things smh

-> yourusername YOU GUYS

yourfriend4 why do I have to be on an semester abroad right now of all moments I FEEL SO LEFT OUT

yourfriend5 she was crouching like that for a good 5 minutes btw

-> yourusername STOP EXPOSING ME

-> yourfriend4 why was she even crouching??

-> yourfriend5 he was texting her really dryly and she freaked out bc obviously that means he hates her and she wants to die and he should crash

-> yourfriend4 you are absolutely hopeless YN

-> yourusername I need to find friends that actually love me

yourfriend6 yk when you start dating you’ll have to open this insta to him and he’ll see how pathetic you are for him

-> yourusername WAIT THATS SO EMBARRASSING

🔒 yourusername

yourusername no idea what just happened I just know it wasn’t good at all I’M SO SORRY OSCAR WHEN I SAID I WANTED YOU TO CRASH I DIDNT MEAN IT

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yourfriend1 you’re so unserious wearing a tshirt that says your tears don’t fall they crash around me after your CRUSH DNFED

-> yourusername gotta have some humour or I’ll cry

yourfriend2 I’m seeing this as a sign that he’s so obsessed with you that he does everything you say

-> yourusername THEN HE SHOULD LOCK IN AND WIN THE STUPID CHAMPIGNONCHIP OR WHATEVER

-> yourfriend2 CHAMPIGNONCHIP I‘M CHOKING

f1updates

f1updates oscar piastri when asked about the title fight and the support of family and friends for the race this weekend:

“I know a lot of things have to go right today, in order for me to win, but as long as it is a possibility, I will stay positive that I can do it.” Said the Australian. “I’ve got a lot of people here to cheer me on, my mum, dad and sisters, for one, but also an old friend, who I haven’t seen in a long time. They give me the strength to push one last time.”

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user I KNOW HE CAN DO IT

user Norris needs to fuck off it’s Oscar’s turn

user I wonder who the “old friend” is🤔🤔

-> user YN YLN? I’m still not over that mystery

-> user that would be the plot twist of a century

user my entire body is vibrating like I just drank four gallons of coffee

user THIS IS STILL MY BOY

🔒 yourusername

yourusername ABU DHABI ARE YOU READY?

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yourfriend1 HE WILL NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIMSELF WHEN HE SEES YOU

yourfriend2 wow😳

yourbestfriend forget that wanna be athlete and come home to your wife (me)

yourfriend3 your nervous f1 rambling made me invested as well, I’m rooting for the blonde with an attitude problem

-> yourusername max verstappen?

-> yourfriend3 that one, yes

yourfriend4 HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABT TODAYS RACE?

-> yourusername I’m fucking shaking bro, Verstappen idk you like that but please find the closest barrier and take that Norris guy with you

oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri lots achieved. lots learnt. coming back stronger next year

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mclarenf1 we are so proud of you oscar🧡

user no one is in doubt that you’ll win the title one day

user not even Norris bottled this hard

user I don’t get why people are so harsh on him all of the sudden, have we all forgotten that he lead the wdc for half a season in his 3rd year in f1??

user op the man you are

user AURA

user oh 2025 you were so promising

yourusername still not sure if I understood it all, but I know that I’m incredibly impressed:)

-> oscarpiastri I’m glad you could make it🙂

-> user OMG IT WAS YN YLN

-> user he’s so awkward with emojis💀💀

-> user GIRL PLEASE OPEN YOUR INSTA I NEED TO BE PARASOCIAL

🔒 yourusername

yourusername nothing to sayyyy🧚‍♀️

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yourfriend1 do we have to act normal now bc he can see the posts?

yourbestfriend you smart little finch, I recognise a thirst trap when I see one😛😛

-> yourusername BE QUIET

yourfriend2 RIP unhinged instagram posts, you will be missed😞

-> yourusername you guys are so dramatic

oscarpiastri I'm not sure if I want to look at the other posts

-> yourusername don't, just don't do it

yourfriend3 one man in your life and you have an entire rebrand smh 🤦‍♀️

yourfriend4 you? speechless? what have you done to my girl, oscar piastri🤨

yourfriend5 WHAT IS A MAN DOING HERE?

-> yourusername BE NICE

yourbestfriend my girl is gonna be a famous wag🥲

yourfriend6 he can take great pictures at least

f1gossip

f1gossip Oscar Piastri was sighted in Melbourne, Australia with a mysterious woman on his arm. Who do we think she is?

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user NO😫

user oscar piastri daring rumours in the first weeks of 2026 what is going on

-> user I started to doubt his abilities

user cant even see her properly but i already know shes so pretty

user wait I think I’ve seen her before?? At the Abu Dhabi GP

yourbestfriend OMG MY GIRL IS ON A GOSSIP PAGE @.yourusername LOOK MY GIRL GOT PAPARAZZIED

-> yourusername GIRL DON'T PUT ME ON BLAST LIKE THAT

user i’m not ready for everyone to become parasocial about him all of the sudden

user not him wearing the fugly ass burgundy shirt on a DATE

-> user we don’t even know if it’s a date, could just be a friend

user did anyone see that comment from @.yourbestfriend?? they tagged a user named YN YLN….. coincidence???

-> user did I miss something?? who is that?

-> user there is a video of the mcl admin saying I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN and everyone and their mother has been trying to find out who she is and what correlation oscar has to her since then

-> user yeah and her account is private, so there’s absolutely NO WAY for us to find out anything about her

81_updates

81_updates Oscar Piastri, Mark Webber and friends on Melbourne Beach. Some fans even stated that Oscar was with a girl and they seemed to be very close🤔

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user HOLD ME BACK

user I hate to say this, but I think oscar really does have a girlfriend now

user congratulations to whoever get’s to have that every night

user lmao the imprint on his chest looks like a 4

user god that girl is lucky

user I think it’s safe to say it’s YN

user oscar jack piastri I was unfamiliar with your game

🔒 yourusername

yourusername after being forced to participate in all of Oscar’s hobbies, I think it’s only fair if I force him to paint with me, right?

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yourfriend1 turn that frown upside down😛

yourfriend2 you guys make me sick

-> yourusername jealousy doesn’t suit you babe💋

yourfriend2 and yes, that’s absolutely fair

yourfriend3 be honest, who won the race?

-> yourusername I love how much faith you have in me, but be fr who is winning the race? A girl who has known about f1 for 3 months or an actual f1 driver??

-> yourfriend3 he didn’t let you win? break up with him

-> oscarpiastri she told me not to let her win🤷 said it would be satisfying for her ego if she beat me on raw talent

-> yourfriend3 oh my sweet angel😞 THAT MEANS LET HER WIN

yourbestfriend no photo credit for the picture smh🙁

-> yourusername sorry babe, credit to you for pic 6, and to osc for literally every other one

oscarpiastri I don’t think you want to see the monster I create when I touch a pencil

-> yourusername as if I was graceful playing paddle

-> oscarpiastri you’d look beautiful while digging in dirt

-> yourusername HKDBHAYPQA

-> oscarpiastri are you ok?

-> yourusername just fine:)) my cat walked over my keyboard:))))

-> yourfriend4 you don’t…..have a cat?

-> yourusername SHHH

oscarpiastri and I did not force you

oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri 🔋☀️

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user when hes good with words😍😍

user I’m so obsessed with his gf and I don’t know anything about her

-> user I think that’s part of the appeal

user KARTING OSCAR

user that looks suspiciously like a date🧐

user I can’t wait for them to feel more comfortable and reveal a little more about their relationship

-> user I’m so excited for her to attend more races next year

user I don’t think they will ever confirm anything you guys, this is all we’re gonna get THEY ARE JUST SO PRIVATE

user HES SO CUTE

Mornings always looked the same. Blue light glasses perched on your nose, emotional support blanket wrapped around your shoulders, laptop balanced on your knees. Max’s inbox was the most consistent thing in your life. You’d learned early on that it was faster to just keep it bookmarked—front and center—ready for whatever chaos awaited overnight.

Your fingers tapped next again and again, skimming the latest flood of messages that had piled up while you were asleep. Most of them weren’t worth your time, fan mail begging for signed driver cards, free merch, or worse, his phone number.

Filtering through that mess was easily your least favorite part of the job. Max was perfectly capable of checking his own emails, eventually. But every morning, before he even woke up, it was your job to make sure his inbox looked spotless.

Your phone alarm blared suddenly, cutting through the quiet. You glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. sharp. Another sigh. You closed the laptop, tucked it under your arm, and pushed the blanket off your legs before heading to the door.

Your studio apartment in Monaco wasn’t exactly the dream. Max had requested—more like insisted—that you move closer six months into the job. And when Max requested something, there was rarely an option to say no.

Keys in hand, you slipped downstairs and slid into your car. You turned on the seat warmer, for the passenger side, of course, stopped by the convenience store for a Red Bull, and headed toward Max’s luxurious penthouse to pick him up for the gym.

Just like you did every day.

You pulled up to the curb and picked up your phone. The Here. text was practically muscle memory by now. Short, simple, and the same every morning. Max, your mom, and your best friend back home were the only pinned chats at the top of your messages.

You reached across the passenger seat to test the warmth of the cushion. Warm, but not too warm. You quickly shut off the heater, he always complained if it got left on too long. You switched your music over to light instrumentals, low enough to fade into the background while you drove him between commitments.

Everything you did ran like clockwork now, fine-tuned around his habits. You knew what he liked, what he couldn’t stand, and every tiny detail in between. It wasn’t efficiency so much as self-preservation—every well-timed adjustment kept you safe from one of his early-morning lectures.

It didn’t take long before he appeared at your car door, opening it with practiced ease and sliding into the passenger seat. You reached for the Red Bull waiting in the cupholder, popped it open with one hand, and passed it to him. He took it without looking, as usual.

“What’s planned for today after the gym?” he asked, taking a sip before setting it down, halfway on the console, halfway in the cupholder like he owned the car himself.

“You’ve got two video shoots—one for ORB, one for Ford—lunch with your dad, social shoots for ORB, dinner with investors, then you’re free for the night.”

“What about paddle?”

“What about paddle?” you echoed, glancing over at him.

“Lando and I made plans to play before lunch.”

“Max, did you tell anyone about these plans?”

“No, but you know I don’t like my schedule so tight.”

You exhaled through your nose, already bracing for the rest of the day. “Max, those things have been on the calendar for months. You can’t keep making plans during work hours.”

You eased the car to a stop in front of the gym.

He pointed to the clock on your dashboard before stepping out. “Looks like you have an hour to fix it. Don’t cancel on Lando or Dad.”

The door shut harder than necessary, and you winced.

You muttered a few quiet expletives, then let out a breathy laugh. “Unbelievable. I don’t even make his schedule.”

Pulling out your phone, you dialed the Red Bull comms manager.

“No, no, I understand. Thank you anyway, he’ll be there for sure.”

You hung up and leaned your head against the headrest, groaning at the clock. 15 minutes left to fix this.

“I was on such a good streak of him not yelling at me,” you said to yourself, scrolling through your contacts. There was one more person you could try.

You tapped on Lando Norris. You’d only gotten his number because you’d once needed help getting a very drunk Max into his apartment. Still, it was worth a shot.

To your surprise, he answered after two rings. 

“Hello?”

“Lando? This is Max’s—”

“Right-hand man, yeah, I know,” he said with a laugh. “Everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Just checking, are you supposed to be playing paddle with Max before lunch?”

“Yes? Why, what’s up?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if there’s any chance you could move it to later in the day? He’s got back-to-back shoots, and he didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“Just texted him. Will eight o’clock work, you think?”

You blinked. Honestly, speechless over how easy that was. “Uh, yeah. That’s perfect, actually. Thank you so much.”

“No problem. I know how he can be,” he said before hanging up.

By the time the clock hit 8, Max walked out of the gym, hair damp, phone in hand, same as he did every day.

“You got lucky,” he said, sliding into the seat. “Lando texted me and said he needed to move paddle.”

You only nodded, keeping your eyes on the road.

“Don’t let them schedule things that close together again,” he added.

You wanted to remind him that you didn’t handle his scheduling. You wanted to remind him how out of the many things you did quietly manage for him every single day, that was the one thing you did not have to worry about. 

But you didn’t. You never did.

“I’ll make a note of that,” you said, instead, shifting the car into gear and pulling out toward his first commitment of the day.

Despite Max being a royal pain in your ass, he was never that to anyone else. Always polite, always charming, always perfectly composed. He smiled for the cameras, thanked every crew member, and acted like he hadn’t just handed you a scheduling disaster two hours ago.

The first shoot ran over, naturally. You stood just off set, answering texts and calls from PR and the comms team while keeping one eye on him. He looked like he was born for this. For all of the bright lights, cameras, the constant hum of attention. You, on the other hand, were apparently born for crisis control.

“His outfit for the Ford shoot hasn’t arrived yet, he told us to tell you. That you would fix it” the stylist whispered urgently, rushing over to you.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course he did.”

Five minutes later, you were sprinting across the parking lot, car keys in hand, off to pick up the missing garment yourself. When you returned, slightly winded, Max didn’t even blink before reaching for the clothes as if they’d been there all along.

Between shoots, you handed him a towel, a protein bar, a fresh Red Bull, all without a word. He didn’t thank you, but he took them like he always did.

By the time you both got back in the car, your phone was buzzing nonstop. PR wanted confirmation on his post-shoot interview slot, his dad’s assistant was trying to move lunch, and the Red Bull team wanted to push up his next event by fifteen minutes. You were juggling it all while merging into Monaco traffic.

“You know,” Max said casually from the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, “they should really hire someone to handle my scheduling.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him before refocusing on the road. “Yeah. Imagine that.”

He didn’t even look up, but you caught the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

After the investors' dinner, you barely had time to breathe before heading to the paddle courts. The sun was dipping just enough to turn the sky gold, the city still buzzing around you. Max adjusted his sunglasses, scrolling through his texts.

“Lando’s already there,” he said. “Don’t make me late.”

When you pulled into the lot, you spotted Lando immediately, leaning against the fence, grinning and giving you both an excited wave. 

“Made it on time?” Lando called out as Max stepped out of the car, looking down at his watch. “That’s a first.”

You stayed in the car while the boys talked to each other, your phone in hand, already drafting an email about tomorrow’s rescheduled shoot, hoping to get around an ‘overloaded’ schedule early. 

Max grabbed his paddle bag from your backseat and tossed you a look. “You’re staying, right?”

You raised an eyebrow without looking up from your phone. “In case you forget how to hold a paddle?”

He rolled his eyes. “In case I need something.” You sighed and turned the car off. Because of course you were going to stay. You always did.

You followed the boys onto the courts, taking up space on the bench you always sat on when you stayed at the courts.

“I’m going to change,” Max said, disappearing into the changing rooms. 

Lando’s eyes flicked to you. “You know, I don’t know how you manage him all day. Honestly. You’re like, superhero-level organized.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “It’s mostly endurance and Red Bull,” you said dryly.

“No, seriously,” he said, stepping closer. “I’d pay double whatever he pays you to work for me. Two million a year?”

You physically coughed at the number out of pure surprise. Two million a year. That was way more than double what Max paid you. That was more than enough to finally get at least a one-bedroom apartment and not a studio. Your first instinct was to say yes, right here, right now. But before the words could escape, the changing room door swung open.

“Ready?!” Max called from inside.

You blinked. He always seemed to have perfect timing. You laughed quietly, shaking your head. Of course he had to come out right now.

Max strutted onto the court, towel over his shoulders, still scrolling on his phone. Lando picked up a paddle, grinning at him. “Ready to lose?”

“You’re on,” Max shot back, smirking.

By the time the match ended, Max had disappeared to the bathroom once again to change. Lando turned to you, leaning on the fence. “So, you’re thinking about my offer, right? I was being serious.”

You hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes, I will take your offer.”

“Wait—think about it for a few days,” Lando said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve already made up my mind,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll give Max two weeks. Enough time to find someone else, train them, make sure he doesn’t completely implode on them.”

Lando laughed, shaking his head. “That’s actually impressive. Most people would just bolt. You’re solid.”

“I’m loyal,” you said lightly. “And apparently crazy.”

He grinned. “Fair enough. Well, still think it over anyway. You never know.”

You shook your head. “Nope. I’ve thought it through. Two weeks, then the new job starts.”

And just like that, the decision was made, but you knew the next two weeks promised to be very interesting.

When Max reemerged, you instinctively packed up his gear while him and Lando continued to talk and tease each other. By the time you both slid back into the car, the sky had deepened into a dark navy, and streetlights stretched across the Monaco streets. Max leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms, and within minutes, his head lolled slightly to the side. He had always had a habit of dozing off if you were driving at night.

You drove in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space, enjoying the rare moments of calm after a day of chaos. Your phone buzzed on your lap. Your mom. You hadn’t spoken to her in a few days. Max’s packed schedule had left barely a moment for your own life.

You hesitated, glancing at the sleeping figure beside you. Then, carefully, you answered. “Hi, Mom,” you whispered, keeping your voice low.

“Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay? How’s everything?” Her voice was warm and familiar.

You smiled faintly, pressing the phone closer. “I’m fine, just, busy,” you said quietly, glancing at Max, who stirred slightly but didn’t open his eyes. “I just wanted to talk for a minute.”

“Of course, I just—”

Before you could finish, Max’s head lifted, blinking sleepily, irritation creeping into his voice. “You couldn’t wait until I’m back home?”

You muttered an apology to your mom before quickly hitting the end call button. Something inside you snapped. The two years of constant juggling and reworking his schedules, waiting on him hand and foot, managing his quirks, keeping every moving part in line, it all suddenly felt too heavy to carry in silence.

 “I’m leaving, Max! I’m actually leaving this job!” you said, louder than you intended, voice carrying in the quiet car.

Max froze, eyes wide with shock. “What do you mean? You can’t do that?” he said slowly, his voice catching in disbelief.

“Yes, I can,” you said, forcing calm into your voice, but letting a hint of frustration bleed through. “Look, I’m giving you two weeks. Two weeks to help you find someone else, train them, and hopefully make sure you don’t completely scare them off.”

He went quiet. You could feel the tension in the car surge. It was so thick you swore you could physically feel it. For a moment, it was just the hum of the engine and your own heartbeat.

You tried to gauge his reaction, and for the first time all day, or maybe for as long as you had known him, you couldn’t. There was no playful smirk, no teasing remark, no nostrils flaring, no raised eyebrow, no eye roll. Just quiet.

“I—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head, sighing further into the seat. 

You softened slightly, leaning back in your seat, too. “Max, I’ve thought about this for a long time. I like keeping things running smoothly for you, I like knowing everything is under control, but I need to look out for myself, too. And yes, the timing isn’t perfect, but I’m going to try my best to make this transition easier for you.”

He finally exhaled, running a hand over his face, and the silence stretched again. The weight of your words hung between you.

You finally pulled up in front of his penthouse, engine idling. Max didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance at you. He opened his door and stepped out, shoulders stiff. You watched him go inside without another word.

You sat there for a second, staring at the blinking streetlight outside of his apartment that he always commented on. Two weeks. That’s all he had before the world you’d kept running for him would start to shift, before he’d have to face just how indispensable you really were.

liked by charles_leclerc, carmenmmundt, carlossainz55 and others

yourusername, this weekend <3

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charles_leclerc, ❤️ ♥︎ liked by creator

friend3, most beautiful girl 😏 — yourusername, you gon make me blush 😊

lilymhe, stop being cute it’s making the rest of us look bad 😭 — alex_albon, honestly. — yourusername, LMAO

f1wagupdates, imagine being this soft omg

carmenmmudt, body tea or whatever the kids say these days — yourusername, CARMEN AHAHAHA

yncharlesenthusiast, her laying down on him 🥹🥹🥹

user1, if you see someone laying on the road tonight, thats me! 🤗

arthur_leclerc, it was torture being with the two of you. disgusting people. — yourusername, ur just jelly 🤣🤣 — arthur_leclerc, jealous of people who dont have to third wheel you? yes. 100%.

iamrebeccad, my beautiful girl 🤍 ♥︎ liked by creator

Posted 1 week ago.

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TWITTER

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INSTAGRAM

f1wagsightings

liked by charlesleclercupdates, wagsoff1 and others

f1wagsightings, Charles Leclerc seen with mystery girl in Monaco 👀 thoughts?

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y/nfanpage, brooo that’s def not her 😭

charlesleclercupdates, he’s moving mad again 😭 someone slap the shit out of him

yncharlesenthusiast, you must be fucking joking.

wagsleuths, y/n hasn’t posted in a week either... oh my days

charlestheangel, MAN. i've got to change my username cuz what the hell. 

y/nhatepage, finally. y/n didnt deserve him anyway — 16lovergirl, man shut up.

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TEXTS

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TWITTER

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INSTAGRAM

yourusername

liked by lilymhe, pierregasly, iamrebeccad and others

yourusername, same girl, new hair 💋

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charles_leclerc, never taking you to dinner again 😭 — yourusername, you love me 

kikagomez, bro he almost died for no reason 💀 ♥︎ liked by creator

iamrebeccad, well, atleast you look beautiful as a brunette 😅 ♥︎ liked by creator

lilymhe, the chaos you caused omg 😭 — yourusername, whoops

wagsleuths, well, i guess were all truly stupid LMAO

friend3, Twitter owes you an apology fr 😭😭

carmenmmundt, next time you dye your hair, maybe upload the change immediately 😙 ♥︎ liked by creator

yncharlesenthusiast, mother’s power even with a color change 🫶

arthur_leclerc, i was gonna rip a new one into charles... — yourusername, i was told🤣🤣

charynprotector, I WAS RIGHT!!! never doubt me 😎 ♥︎ liked by creator — charynprotector, OMG SHE LIKED MY COMMENT

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charles_leclerc

liked by landonorris, pierregasly, alex_albon and others

charles_leclerc, the only thing I cheat on is UNO when she’s winning 😇

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yourusername, I KNEW IT. THERE WAS NO WAY YOU WENT FROM 8 CARDS TO 2💀 — charles_leclerc, sorry chérie 😍

landonorris, we almost had a national crisis because of you two 😭 ♥︎ liked by creator and yourusername

y/nfanpage, welp. atleast we know he didnt cheat on her 😅

alex_albon, UNO cheating > relationship cheating

carlossainz55, deleting my paragraph... ♥︎ liked by yourusername — charles_leclerc, what paragraph...😟 — iamrebeccad, dont worry about it charles!

pierregasly, never a dull moment with the Leclercs! ♥︎ liked by creator

maxverstappen1, this was a fun adventure, do it again. ♥︎ liked by yourusername

Y/n openly admits she's a car whore. She loves a car, and it didn't surprise her family in the slightest when she came home with Lando introducing him as an F1 driver. They figured she'd end up with someone who is good at driving and loves cars.

"We saw you've added another car to your collection." An interviewer asks on the Thursday making Lando raise and eyebrow before he realises what car they're referring to and just suppresses a laugh.

"I have?" Lando questions in a smirk even cocking his head a little.

"The new Porsche GT3 RS? You've been spotted around in it."

"Oh that's not mine. That's my girlfriend's. She can't drive so she just buys cars for me to chauffeur her around in." Lando states then shrugging a little when he gets shot a slightly off looking expression. "She likes cars."

"Is she here with you this weekend?"

"Yeah, probably kicking about the car park inspecting everyone's cars herself. I'll get a full run down later about the best ones she saw."

The interviewer seems equally concerned and amused which just about sums up how Lando first felt when y/n had came to him telling him about her thoughts on the cars that people in the paddock had driven in.

He finishes up media and does check his phone to find a couple texts from her saying she's gone on a mission and she'll see him later.

What Lando doesn't see coming is his girlfriend returning with a surprise.

"What the hell." Lando laughs with a groan as he's summoned to the car park where y/n is sitting on the hood of a Porsche 911 Coupe, it's vintage though he can't quite tell what year. "How did you get this here?"

"The guy that sold me it drove it here with me in the passenger seat."

"You should've called me." Lando grumbles since he's not the biggest fan of y/n being driven around by some guy that no doubt felt taken by her enough to take a break of some kind and have to find his own way back to the dealership.

"You were busy and I was impulse buying." Y/n shrugs then grinning at the man. "Plus I wanted to surprise you."

"Mission successful." Lando nods then moving to wrap his arm around her, picking her up and spinning her around. "Give me the keys then."

"You can't drive it yet, you're not done for the day-also officially the nicest car in the place." Y/n grins making Lando smile and shake his head at her. "Fine, the nicest vintage car in the place. It's from 1984..."

"You picked a good one, that's for certain. But no surprise there." Lando hums then kissing her cheek while she feels his hand tuck into her pocket knowing exactly where she's got the keys. "Thank you very much."

"Thief."

"Yeah, it'll be me down as a driver on the insurance so I'll sort of need them." Lando hums making y/n sigh in defeat to that. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"And for the record, everyone loves your GT3. Thought it was my car."

"I hope you corrected them, that custom job took ages-"

"I mean you got it customised with nods to me on it."

Y/n smiles a little shyly since that's very true, she even let him choose the number plate which sticks with his brand. An easy way to mistake it as his car in that regard.

-

"Can we go...out?" Y/n asks making Lando look away from his game that he was just finishing up anyway but he wasn't intending to go out. It's late. Like so late it's very early.

"Alright." Lando nods knowing y/n just likes to go out for drives at night, insisting they drive in one of her cars. In fact he's beginning to neglect his own collection from how often he's driving her cars instead.

"Thank you." Y/n grins leaning over and kissing him softly. "I love you."

"You're welcome, I'll finish up and we can get moving." Lando promises making her mumble that she's going to get changed while he does that.

Y/n decides to just put on some stolen clothes from Lando before they head out and Lando sighs seeing which car she wants to use and of course she chooses the GT3 RS since she noticed fans love the car especially since it does actually match Lando's other Porsche which is actually his.

"Are you-fuck sake." Lando laughs noticing y/n taking a video to capture him driving her around.

Of course she posts it on her story with the caption of "my taxi driver" and within minutes there's a million and ten replies.

"You just live to taunt my poor fans." Lando laughs shaking his head while she sighs and leans back a little.

"I'm just flexing the luxuries I have." Y/n giggles while shuffling down in the passenger seat. "It's not my fault if they can't handle that I have their dream life."

"Woah. Humble really doesn't know your name, does it?"

"Not when it comes to the fact that I got you." Y/n smirks before sitting up and kissing his cheek. "I'm forever grateful for the life I have with you, Lando and I can't wait to buy more cars for you to drive me around in-and I'll document all of them."

And Yn’s new single, “sports car,” had dropped at midnight.

The song had already hit number one in twenty countries. The music video had broken viewing records. The internet was on fire. The paddock was on fire. Half the drivers were humming it, and the other half were trying not to be caught humming it because they’d already been caught doing it twice.

And then there was the ending of the music video.

That one line.

“Special thanks to my boyfriend for the inspiration.”

Every fan lost their collective minds. Every journalist lost their minds. Every driver reacted like they’d just witnessed a plot twist in a soap opera.

And Lando?

Lando had basically short-circuited.

He’d been nagging her about it all morning, and so far, Yn had let every single question bounce off her like he was made of soft rubber and she was made of titanium.

Yn walked through the paddock with sunglasses on, oversized hoodie, hair slightly messy from rushing out of the hotel, iced coffee in hand. She tried to be low-key — but fans saw her instantly, waving signs, calling her name, singing parts of the song back at her.

Every second person yelled, “WHO’S YOUR BOYFRIEND, YN?!”

She simply smiled, waved, and blew kisses.

Next to her, Lando was already spiraling.

He hadn’t even had breakfast.

“Yn. Yn.” He nudged her elbow like an impatient toddler. “Seriously. We’re siblings, which means you should tell me things. Big things. Important things. Things like… a secret boyfriend? You wrote a whole song about him?”

“I did not write a whole song about him,” she said, sipping her coffee.

“You thanked him in the video!”

“I thanked him for the inspiration.”

“THAT IS EVEN WORSE!”

“It is not worse,” she said calmly. “It’s literally the same thing.”

Lando held his hands out dramatically. “How am I the ONLY one who doesn’t know who he is? Even Carlos won’t tell me!”

“That’s because Carlos has boundaries,” she said.

Carlos walked by at that exact moment, sunglasses on, peaceful as a monk.

“Boundaries are good,” he said in a zen tone as he passed.

“CARLOS, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE MY FRIEND!” Lando shouted after him.

Carlos didn’t even turn around. He only lifted a hand, waved in a mysterious goodbye, and disappeared into the Williams building.

Yn snorted, nearly choking on her coffee. “I love him so much.”

“YEAH, WELL, ME TOO, BUT HE’S A TRAITOR,” Lando whined.

They reached the media area, and Lando had to stop because a press officer was waving him over. He pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at hers.

“This is NOT over.”

“It absolutely is,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses.

“It is DEFINITELY NOT.”

She walked away, basking in the fans chanting her song, letting Lando implode on his own.

He could nag all he wanted.

She wasn’t telling him a thing.

Because her boyfriend wasn’t just some guy.

He was Oscar.

Oscar, who was currently sitting in his own driver room with the door cracked open, listening to a mechanic play “sports car” on his phone, smiling like a fool.

Oscar, who had been dating Yn for three years.

Oscar, who had survived countless near-reveals, close calls, near-disasters.

Oscar, who had held her hand under tables at team dinners, kissed her behind motorhomes, whispered “I love you” in stairwells, and sneaked her into his hotel room after every race weekend.

Oscar, who loved her so much it scared him sometimes.

And Oscar, who definitely wasn’t supposed to be seen kissing her in broad daylight inside a driver room he assumed was his.

He didn’t know that part yet.

He was just excited she was here.

After her brief fan interactions and some chats with engineers she knew, Yn wandered around the paddock. She said hello to Max, who immediately blurted:

“Great song. Who’s the boyfriend?”

Yn answered by simply patting his arm.

Max frowned. “That means nothing.”

She patted his arm again.

“No, that still means nothing.”

“You’ll live,” she said sweetly, walking away.

Next she ran into Alex, who already had the music video pulled up on his phone.

“Hey Yn, quick thing,” he said, shoving the phone toward her. “Who is this ‘boyfriend’ in the emotional credits? Because honestly it sounded like a threat to us all.”

“It’s just an acknowledgment,” she said innocently.

“Of WHO?” Alex demanded.

She shrugged.

“Oh my god she’s good,” he muttered, watching her leave.

And then, from behind her, she heard a soft, familiar voice.

“Yn.”

Her entire chest softened.

She turned around.

Oscar stood there, leaning against the motorhome railing, hands tucked into the pockets of his team hoodie, hair slightly messy from his helmet earlier, soft brown eyes fixed entirely on her.

He didn’t smile wide. He never did in public when she was involved. It was always small, subtle, the type of smile only she would recognize.

The one that meant, I missed you.

She walked toward him casually, like she was simply making her way down the paddock.

And Oscar gently reached out as she passed, fingers hooking around hers for half a second — the tiniest touch, hidden from any camera angle.

But it was enough to make her whole heart stutter.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice low.

“You liked the song?”

His eyes warmed. “I loved the song.”

“And the video?”

“I loved that too,” he said. “Especially the end.”

She smiled.

“Any chance,” he murmured, glancing sideways to check the hallway, “you have five minutes?”

“Only if you stop being suspicious,” she teased.

“I’m not suspicious,” he whispered.

“You are the definition of suspicious.”

He laughed under his breath — barely audible — then jerked his head toward the side hallway.

She followed him.

Behind her, she heard someone call, “Yn! Quick selfie?” but she waved apologetically and kept walking.

Oscar led her toward one of the team buildings. She didn’t even question which room he was pulling her into. They had done this dance dozens of times — Oscar always knew the quiet spots, the empty rooms, the safest places to hide.

His hand brushed hers again before he reached for the door.

He pulled her in gently.

And shut it.

The moment the door clicked, Oscar’s hands were on her waist, pulling her into him.

He kissed her like he’d been holding his breath all month.

“Congratulations,” he murmured against her lips, kissing her again, slower this time. “The song is amazing. You’re amazing.”

She melted, arms sliding around his shoulders, burying her face in the crook of his neck for a moment.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I missed you too.” His voice vibrated softly against her ear. “I watched the video five times this morning.”

“Only five?”

“I had a meeting,” he laughed quietly.

He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek.

“You’re incredible,” he said. “And I’m so proud of you.”

She tilted her head, brushing her nose against his. “You say that like you didn’t help make half of it happen.”

“I did nothing,” he said.

“You inspired the whole chorus.”

“I still did nothing except… accidentally exist.”

“That’s enough,” she murmured.

He kissed her again, deeper.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging gently, and he let out a faint breath into her mouth, pressing her back against the door.

“Someone’s in a mood,” she teased between kisses.

“I haven’t seen you in two weeks,” he whispered.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” he said without shame. “You were on tour.”

She laughed softly, kissing him again.

He lifted her slightly, pulling her closer by the waist, kissing down her jaw. It wasn’t desperate — just affectionate, full of warmth and familiarity and three years of knowing every angle of each other’s hearts.

After a long moment, she rested her forehead against his.

“Lando asked me again this morning,” she whispered.

Oscar froze.

“About your boyfriend?” he asked quietly.

“About my boyfriend,” she confirmed, smiling softly.

Oscar groaned, burying his face in her shoulder dramatically. “He’s so close to figuring it out.”

“No,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “He’s so far away from figuring it out. He thinks it’s… I don’t know. Some actor. Or a songwriter. Or maybe Patrick from the gym.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Patrick from the gym is sixty.”

“I didn’t say his guesses were good.”

Oscar snorted.

“I don’t want to lie to him,” Yn admitted softly. “But I also don’t want him to freak out.”

“He’s going to freak out,” Oscar said immediately.

“I know.”

“He’s going to freak out for several days.”

“I know.”

“He might even faint.”

“I know.”

Oscar leaned back, cupping her face again. “But whenever you’re ready… we’ll tell him. Together.”

Her chest warmed.

“Seriously?” she whispered.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll be there. Even if he tries to tackle me.”

“He won’t tackle you.”

Oscar gave her a look. “He absolutely will.”

She laughed, kissing him again.

They kissed slowly, deeply, breaths warm, hands wandering but gentle. Her fingers traced the collar of his fireproof shirt; his palms warmed her hips. The room was quiet except for the soft rustling of clothes and their quiet sighs.

He pulled away only to look at her again — the way he always did, like he needed a second to process that she was real.

“You’re glowing today,” he whispered.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“I’ve been flirting with you since we were teenagers,” he said.

“That’s true,” she giggled.

He kissed her again.

And again.

And again.

They were so lost in each other they didn’t hear footsteps. Didn’t hear voices in the hallway. Didn’t hear the door handle turn.

But they did hear the door swing open.

And they definitely saw the person standing in the door frame.

Lando.

Frozen.

Mouth open.

Eyes wide.

Face pale.

And holding a bag of snacks he clearly no longer remembered purchasing.

“Oh my god,” he whispered in a tiny, broken voice.

Yn gasped.

Oscar blinked.

Lando stared.

Oscar stared back.

Yn whispered, “Oh no…”

Lando whispered, “WHAT…”

Oscar whispered, “This… this isn’t my driver room, is it?”

Lando dropped the snacks.

The door was still wide open.

And nobody moved.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

Oscar Piastri doesn’t do guesses.

Not really.

He does data. He does inputs. He does patterns and proof and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly what the car did on Turn 6 because he can pull it up on a screen and point to the moment it happened.

Sometimes, when he’s home and the world feels smaller—no paddock, no cameras, no constant motion—he brings that part of himself into your living room like it’s just another piece of his carry-on.

You’ll be curled into the corner of the couch, feet tucked under you, half watching some show that isn’t really about anything, and Oscar will be beside you with his iPad balanced on his thighs like it’s a second heartbeat.

You don’t even have to ask anymore. You can tell what kind of night it is by the way his shoulders sit. If they’re high and tight, if he keeps rubbing his thumb along the edge of the tablet, then something’s stuck in his head. Something he can’t quite let go of until it becomes numbers.

“Is that…” you’ll say, craning your neck, “your… car brain?”

Oscar’s mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“That’s so romantic,” you deadpan.

He flicks his eyes over to you, brown and calm and too pretty for how little he seems to know it. “You love it.”

“I love you,” you correct.

He hums like that’s fair. He shifts closer, knees brushing yours, and the tablet tilts so you can see. He's got a plethora of graphs, lines, and little colored traces that might as well be written in another language.

“It’s just…,” he starts, and then he pauses like he’s translating. Oscar is never loud. He’s never dramatic. He just… explains things, patiently, like if he lays out enough truth, the world will behave.

“It’s just that on the long run, we were losing…” His brow knits. “Not pace. Not exactly. It’s more like… efficiency. Like we were doing extra work for the same output.”

You blink at the screen, and then at him. “You’re telling me your car was being… inconvenient.”

His lips press together, fighting a smile. “It was being inefficient.”

“So inconvenient.”

He sighs, the sound fond even when he’s pretending you’re annoying. “Yeah. Inconvenient.”

He taps the screen and shows you a section of the trace. “See? Here. This is where it starts. It’s subtle, but once you see it…”

Once you see it.

That’s Oscar’s whole thing, really. Once you see the pattern, you can’t unsee it. Once you have the data, you can act on it. You can change your approach, adjust the settings, tighten the margin.

It’s one of the reasons you love him.

The steadiness of it. The way he doesn’t get lost in chaos. The way he can take something scary and make it measurable.

You’re a planner, too, just in a different way. You make lists. You think three steps ahead. You always have a backup plan to the backup plan, because you learned early that “it’ll be fine” isn’t a plan. “It’ll work out” is something people say when they’re comfortable gambling with your life.

Oscar doesn’t gamble. Not when he can help it.

And you’ve never felt safer than you do with someone who treats the world like something you can understand.

Which is exactly why this thing happening inside your body feels like betrayal.

Because there is no trace you can pull up. There’s no line you can point at and say, here, this is the moment it changed.

There’s just you, standing in your bathroom with a plastic stick in your hand, and the feeling that you have become the variable.

You buy the test like you’re buying toothpaste.

That’s the first rule you give yourself: don’t make it dramatic.

You toss it into your basket with things that make the moment look ordinary—pasta, oat milk, dish soap—because if the universe sees you acting normal, maybe it’ll let you stay that way.

At home, you hide it under the sink for two days.

It sits there in the dark like a secret with teeth.

Oscar is home, which makes it worse. He’s in that soft, rare stretch of time where the travel calendar has a small gap and he can exist like a normal boyfriend for more than twelve hours at a time.

He’s barefoot in your kitchen, hoodie hanging loose on his shoulders, making toast like it’s his job. He does that thing where he flips the bread with his fingers, like he’s too precise to use tongs. He starts putting butter on yours before you even ask, because he’s learned your morning preferences like they’re part of his setup.

“Strawberry?” he asks, holding up the jam.

You should say yes. You always say yes.

Your stomach rolls instead.

“Maybe later,” you say, too quick.

Oscar pauses, and you see the flicker—his mental note, filed away. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie easily, because lying is something your body learned long before your heart did. “Just not hungry.”

His eyes linger on you. There’s no suspicion in them, not really. Just… attention. Oscar pays attention like it’s instinct.

“Alright,” he says, and he doesn’t push. He just slides your plate closer anyway, like you might change your mind. Like he believes you will be honest when you’re ready.

That belief hurts more than anything.

Because you’re not ready. You’re not ready for anything.

Not for his reaction. Not for the way your own chest might fracture under the weight of whatever he says.

Not for the possibility that you’re about to ask him to add something immeasurable to a life he’s built on control.

You don’t take the test that morning.

You wait until he’s on the couch later, half sprawled with his iPad, headphones on, watching something that looks like a replay with split screens and tiny numbers. You can hear Crofty faintly when he pulls one earbud out to answer you.

“Want to order dinner?” you ask, voice bright, too bright.

Oscar looks up. “Yeah. Whatever you want.”

He says it like he means it. Like you’re not an inconvenience. Like your wants aren’t a risk to his schedule.

You nod, and you walk to the bathroom with the test tucked in the sleeve of your hoodie like contraband.

Door locked. Light on. The air feels too thin.

You sit on the edge of the tub and stare at the stick in your hand like it might explain itself if you look long enough.

Then you do it. Fast. Efficient. Like ripping off a bandage.

You set it on the counter.

And you wait.

You don’t breathe properly while you wait. You scroll your phone mindlessly. You wash your hands twice. You pick at a hangnail until it stings.

Finally, you look.

Two lines.

Not vague. Not imaginary. Not “maybe.”

Two lines.

Your brain goes perfectly blank for a beat, like it’s buffering.

Then the reality hits in waves. Your body goes hot, cold, hot again.

You press your palm against your lower stomach like you can feel something there already, like your body will give you a hint that this is… good. That this is safe.

Your throat closes. Your eyes burn.

In the other room, Oscar laughs at something—small, quiet, a huff through his nose—and it’s the most normal sound in the world.

And you are suddenly not normal anymore.

You hide the test in the back of the cabinet beneath the towels.

Because if Oscar sees it, it becomes real.

Because if you say it out loud, the universe can hear you.

And because a very old part of you—practical, bruised, survival-minded—whispers something sharp:

If he doesn’t want this, you can’t afford to need him.

You make a doctor’s appointment the next day.

You tell yourself it’s just confirmation. Just more data. Information. Something you can hold in your hand like a printout.

But when you hang up, the fear doesn’t go away. It just… changes shape.

It becomes a plan.

That’s what you do when you’re scared: you plan until the fear has corners.

First, you don’t tell Oscar.

Not because you want to keep secrets, not because you don’t trust him—God, it’s the opposite.

You don’t tell him because you trust him too much. Because you know how much he loves you. Because you know he’ll try to do the right thing even if it costs him.

And you can’t live with the idea of being the reason his life shifts off-track.

So you hold it alone.

You tell yourself you’ll wait for the “right time.” That you’ll tell him after the next race, or the one after that, or when he has a calmer week.

Except there are never calm weeks.

Formula One doesn’t have calm weeks. It has quieter chaos, but never calm.

And the longer you wait, the harder it becomes to imagine speaking.

Your body starts changing in ways you can’t hide from yourself.

Your stomach turns on you in the mornings. Smells make you gag. Food becomes a minefield. Exhaustion settles into your bones like it’s permanent.

Oscar notices, because Oscar notices everything.

At first, he asks lightly. “You feeling alright?”

You smile and shrug. “Just tired.”

He nods, but his gaze stays on you a fraction too long.

Then he starts adjusting without asking.

He brings you ginger tea. He buys crackers. He turns the bedroom fan on at night because you keep waking up sweaty. He offers to cook when you normally love cooking. He keeps his hand on your back when you walk through crowds like he’s unconsciously bracing you.

It should feel comforting.

Instead, it makes your guilt expand until it fills your chest.

Because he’s becoming the perfect boyfriend in response to a problem he doesn’t even know exists.

And you’re letting him.

You start thinking in numbers without wanting to.

Rent. Savings. Bills. Health insurance. Prenatal care.

You open your banking app at night and stare at it like it might tell you how to be brave.

You begin building your exit strategy in tiny, quiet steps. Not because you want to leave, but because you can’t shake the fear that you might have to.

If Oscar doesn’t want this baby, you tell yourself, you will not beg him.

You will not trap him with tears and hope and guilt.

You will simply… make sure you can survive.

You research apartments closer to your work. You look at towns where rent is cheaper. You calculate what you could manage alone.

Your throat hurts from swallowing things you don’t say.

And the worst part, the part that makes you feel like you’re splitting in two, is that you don’t actually want to do any of it.

You want to tell him.

You want to feel his hands on your stomach and hear him laugh in disbelief and call his mum and be stupidly, embarrassingly happy.

You want to picture Oscar holding a baby, your baby, his soft concentration aimed at something small and fragile.

But wanting doesn’t make it safe.

Wanting doesn’t guarantee he’ll want it too.

So you keep the secret.

You keep it so tightly you start shrinking around it.

Oscar feels you shrinking.

You can tell by the way his eyes track you now, like he’s trying to find the exact moment you slip away.

He tries to pull you back gently at first.

“Do you want to come with me to the sim room?” he asks one afternoon, casual, like it’s no big deal.

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, pretending he doesn’t care. “I don’t know. Just… hang out. If you want.”

You almost say yes.

Then you think about how the sim room smells—electronics, warm plastic—and nausea rises like a warning.

“I’m okay,” you say, softer. “You go.”

Oscar studies you for a moment, his mouth flattening slightly. “Okay.”

Later, he tries again.

“We can go for a walk,” he suggests, hand brushing your hip as he passes you in the hallway. “Just around the block.”

You force a smile. “Maybe later.”

Oscar stops, turning back to look at you fully now. “Is it something I did?”

Your heart lurches.

“No,” you say too fast, and the panic in your tone makes his eyes narrow.

“Then what is it?” he asks, quiet.

You swallow hard. “Nothing.”

He holds your gaze, and there’s a pressure in it now—gentle, but real. The kind that says, I’m not letting this go.

You can’t handle it. You look away first.

Oscar exhales slowly. “Alright.”

But he doesn’t sound alright.

He sounds like he’s trying to be.

Two and a half weeks after the test, you wake up to the kind of nausea that makes your teeth ache.

It’s not the manageable wave you’ve learned to ride. It’s a full-body revolt.

You sit up too fast and the room swings.

Oscar, asleep beside you, shifts immediately. His hand finds your waist, automatic.

“You okay?” he mumbles, still half gone.

You don’t answer, because if you open your mouth you’ll throw up in the bed.

You scramble out of the room, hand over your mouth, and barely make it to the bathroom before your stomach empties violently.

It burns.

You brace your forearms on the toilet seat, hair falling forward, eyes watering.

Behind you, you hear footsteps—quick, barefoot, urgent.

“Babe?” Oscar’s voice is sharper now, fully awake. “Hey, hey, what the—”

He’s there, kneeling behind you, one hand pulling your hair back, the other rubbing your back in slow circles like he’s trying to calm your nervous system through touch alone.

“You’re sick,” he says, clipped.

You wipe your mouth with shaking fingers. “It’s nothing.”

Oscar makes a noise—disbelief, frustration, fear all tangled. “It’s not nothing. You’ve—”

You retch again, and he goes quiet except for the steady pressure of his hand on your spine.

When it finally eases, you slump back on your heels, trembling.

Oscar’s eyes are fixed on you like he’s trying to calculate. Like he’s running mental traces and finding a gap where the explanation should be.

“How long has this been happening?” he asks, carefully.

You freeze.

You can feel your lie forming automatically. It sits on your tongue.

But Oscar is watching you too closely for that now.

“Just… today,” you start.

Oscar’s jaw tightens. “No.”

You blink.

He shakes his head once, controlled, but there’s heat building behind his eyes. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t lie.”

Your stomach drops to your toes.

“I’m not... ”

“Have you been throwing up like this before?” he asks, voice rising slightly. It's not a yell, but the kind of sharpness that makes your body flinch anyway.

You flinch. You hate yourself for it. You hate what it reveals.

Oscar’s expression changes instantly when he sees it—shock, then guilt, then something fierce.

He exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m not—” He swallows. “I’m just… what is happening?”

Your throat tightens. Tears prick at the back of your eyes, humiliating.

Oscar’s voice drops again, softer but more urgent. “Talk to me.”

You stare at the tile.

You cannot say it.

If you say it, everything changes.

If you say it and he doesn’t want it, you will shatter.

And you can’t afford to shatter. Not when you might have to hold yourself up alone.

So you do the thing you’ve been doing for weeks: you swallow the truth.

“It’s stress,” you whisper.

Oscar stares at you, and for the first time you see something like anger flash across his face—not anger at you, but at the word. At the dismissal.

“Stress doesn’t make you throw up like that,” he says, flat.

You shrug helplessly, tears spilling anyway because your body is not cooperating today. “I don’t know.”

Oscar watches you cry, and his expression breaks. He reaches forward carefully, like approaching a wild animal, and cups your face.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Hey. Look at me.”

You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut.

He keeps his hands on you anyway. Warm, steady, real. “Please.”

You open your eyes reluctantly.

Oscar’s gaze is intense. “Are you in pain?”

You swallow. “No.”

“Are you dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Have you eaten?”

You hesitate.

Oscar’s eyes sharpen. “Babe.”

You whisper, “Not much.”

His jaw clenches, and then he does something that makes your chest ache with the sweetness of it: he looks scared.

Oscar Piastri, who can drive a car at speeds that would make most people vomit from fear, looks scared because you’re sick in your bathroom.

He breathes in, controlled. “We’re calling a doctor.”

You panic immediately. “No.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, and there’s a hard edge now, like he’s holding onto control with both hands. “You’re throwing up, you’re not eating, you’ve been... ” He stops, eyes narrowing again. “You’ve been weird for weeks.”

Your heart stutters.

Oscar’s voice lowers. “How long?”

You don’t answer fast enough.

His eyes flick over your face, your posture, the way your hands are clenched tight in your lap.

You can see the moment the pattern clicks for him. Like telemetry lines snapping into alignment.

His voice comes out very soft, very dangerous.

“Are you pregnant?”

Everything inside you stops.

Your lungs forget how to work.

Oscar’s eyes hold yours like he’s bracing for impact. Like he already knows the answer and he’s still hoping you’ll say no.

You try to speak. Your throat closes.

Silence.

Oscar’s face goes pale.

“Oh my god,” he whispers.

You break.

Tears pour out of you, ugly and unstoppable. Your shoulders shake. Your hands fly to your face.

Oscar stares at you like the world has just tilted off its axis. “You’re pregnant,” he says again, not a question now. A reality he’s trying to fit into his mind.

You nod, because there’s nothing else to do.

Oscar’s breath leaves him in a sharp exhale. He looks down, then up again, eyes bright with something that makes your stomach drop.

“How long have you known?” he asks, voice tight.

You whisper, “Almost a month.”

Oscar goes very still.

A month.

You can see it on his face—the processing, the recalculating, the sudden flood of all the moments he noticed something was wrong and you said “I’m fine.”

He swallows hard. “A month,” he repeats.

You sob harder. “I’m sorry.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens like he’s clenching down on words he doesn’t want to say the wrong way. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, frantic. “I didn’t know how.”

Oscar’s voice cracks slightly, and that’s what kills you. He sounds like he's been physically hurt. “You didn’t know how to tell me you’re pregnant?”

You flinch. “Oscar,”

He cuts you off, not cruel, but firm. “No. Don’t—” He breathes, trying to steady himself. “I need you to explain. Because I’ve been… I’ve been watching you disappear and I didn’t know why.”

Your chest caves in. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Oscar’s eyes flash. “I’m your boyfriend. Worrying is literally—” He stops, swallows, and tries again, lower. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because I thought you wouldn’t want it.

Because I thought it would ruin your life.

Because I thought you would look at me like a mistake.

The words pile up behind your teeth, choking you.

You whisper the truth in the smallest way you can manage. “I thought you wouldn’t… want this.”

Oscar blinks like you slapped him.

“What?” he says, flat.

You wipe your cheeks with trembling hands. “Oscar, you’re in Formula One. Your whole life is racing and travel and—” You laugh a broken, miserable sound. “You literally live by data. You need everything controlled. And a baby is the opposite of that.”

Oscar stares at you, stunned.

You keep going because if you stop you’ll drown.

“And I,” Your voice breaks. “I want it. I do. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand the idea of being the reason you resent your life.”

Oscar’s mouth opens, then closes, like he’s searching for words that won’t crush you.

You rush on, desperate to prove you’ve thought this through, desperate to show him you can handle it.

“So I started planning. Just in case.”

Oscar’s eyes narrow. “Planning what?”

Your stomach drops.

You hesitate, and in that hesitation he sees everything.

His voice goes very quiet. “You made an exit strategy.”

You freeze.

Oscar’s face changes completely. The shock gives way to something darker.

“You were going to leave,” he says, voice low and raw.

You shake your head quickly. “Not unless—”

“Unless what?” Oscar’s voice snaps, sharper now, and it makes you flinch again. “Unless I didn’t want it?”

You whisper, “Yes.”

Oscar looks like he might break something.

He stands abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing two steps across the small bathroom like he can’t contain what’s happening in his body.

“You thought I would... ” He turns back to you, eyes blazing. “You thought I would make you leave?”

You stand shakily too, because sitting feels like surrender. “I didn’t think you’d make me. I thought you’d… you’d want me to.”

Oscar stares at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His voice drops, shaking. “Why would you think that?”

You laugh again, bitter and wet. “Because it makes sense.”

Oscar takes a step closer, hands clenched at his sides. “No it doesn’t.”

“It does,” you insist, voice cracking. “Your life is already insane. You’re already under pressure all the time. You’re already giving everything to McLaren.”

Oscar cuts you off, furious now in the way only someone terrified can be. “And you think you’re not part of my life? You think I’m just borrowing you between races?”

Your breath catches.

Oscar’s eyes shine, and you realize with a jolt that he’s not just angry. He’s panicking.

Because to him, the exit strategy isn’t about the baby.

It’s about losing you.

His voice breaks on the next words. “I thought you were leaving me.”

Your heart drops through the floor.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “Not unless I had to.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. “You don’t have to.”

You shake your head frantically, the planner in you still clawing for control. “Oscar, please. I need you to understand. I can’t risk building a life around you and then finding out you don’t want this. ” Your voice turns small. “Because then I’m just… stranded.”

Oscar goes still.

Like the words land somewhere deep.

Stranded.

You take a shaky breath and force the rest out, because he deserves the truth and you can’t keep it anymore.

“I need to know I can do this alone,” you whisper, tears spilling again, “because if you don’t want it, I can’t fall apart. I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t beg you to stay. I can’t be that person.”

Oscar stares at you like you’ve just handed him something fragile and horrifying.

Then his expression shifts. Almost like something in him finally understands the shape of your fear.

The anger drains out of him in a rush, replaced by something softer, something achingly human.

“What are you talking about?” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You choke on a sob. “I don’t want to ruin your life.”

Oscar’s eyes widen, and for a second he looks genuinely lost, like he can’t find the logic you’re trapped in.

Then he moves.

He closes the distance in two steps and cups your face again, but this time his hands are shaking.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, firm, impossibly gentle. “No.”

You tremble under his touch.

Oscar’s thumb brushes away tears like he’s angry at them for existing. “You’re not ruining anything.”

You whisper, “Oscar,”

He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours, and the steadiness in his voice is the steadiness you fell in love with.

“You don’t get to decide what I want for me,” he says. “You don’t get to decide I won’t want my family.”

Your chest tightens. “Family?”

Oscar swallows, throat bobbing, and his gaze flicks down to your stomach, like he can see the invisible thread tying you all together now.

His voice cracks. “You are my family.”

A sob rips out of you.

Oscar pulls you into his chest so fast you almost stumble. His arms wrap around you like he’s making a point with his body: you’re not going anywhere.

You cling to him, shaking, your face pressed into his hoodie, breathing in the familiar smell of him—laundry detergent, soap, something faintly citrusy—like it’s oxygen.

“I was so scared,” you whisper.

Oscar’s hand cradles the back of your head. His voice is rough against your hair. “I know.”

You shake, and the words spill out before you can stop them. “I didn’t want to need you.”

Oscar’s grip tightens.

His voice comes out broken. “Why would you ever not want to need me?”

Because needing people has hurt before.

Because relying is a risk.

Because you learned to survive by being self-sufficient, and the idea of leaning on someone and then having them move out from under you feels like dying.

You don’t say any of that. You just cling harder, because Oscar’s arms feel like something you could trust.

Oscar pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet now, lashes dark. He looks angry and devastated and in awe all at once.

“I’m mad,” he admits, voice thick. “I’m mad you didn’t tell me. I’m mad you felt like you had to plan for me leaving.”

You flinch. “I’m sorry.”

Oscar shakes his head, softening further. “But I can’t,” He exhales, shaky. “I can’t even be properly mad because... ”

His gaze drops again.

His voice goes quiet, reverent, like he’s talking about something sacred.

“Because there’s a baby.”

You choke on a sob.

Oscar’s hand slides down cautiously, like he’s afraid to touch you wrong, and rests over your stomach.

It’s such a simple gesture, but it detonates something inside you.

He holds it there, palm warm, fingers spread like he’s trying to cover the whole reality.

His eyes lift back to yours. “You want it?”

You nod immediately, raw. “Yes.”

Oscar’s breath leaves him in a rush, like relief. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

He nods again, firmer now, the stubborn certainty you’ve seen when he’s arguing about strategy and refuses to budge.

“Okay,” he repeats. “Then we’re doing this.”

You break again, completely.

Oscar doesn’t let you fall.

He pulls you into him, presses his forehead to yours, voice shaking.

“You’re not doing this alone,” he says. “Not ever. Not for one second.”

You whisper, “I thought... ”

Oscar cuts you off, fierce and soft at the same time. “No. Stop. Don’t tell yourself stories about me that hurt you.”

Your breath stutters.

Oscar’s eyes hold yours, unblinking. “I love you.”

The words are simple, but his voice makes them heavy. Real. Anchored.

Then he adds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world:

“And I want a life with you.”

Your chest aches.

Oscar’s thumb brushes your cheek. “And if that life includes a baby, then... ” He swallows hard, eyes shining. “Then that’s our life.”

You shake, trying to breathe. “You’re not just saying that because you’re— because you feel like you have to—”

Oscar’s brows knit, almost offended. “No.”

You whisper, “Oscar,”

He leans closer, voice lower, steadier. “I am not staying out of obligation. I am staying because you’re my person.”

Your lips part. You can’t speak.

Oscar’s gaze flicks down again, softer. “And because that... ” he gestures vaguely, like he can’t believe it’s real, “is ours.”

You let out a shaky laugh-sob. “It’s too early. You can’t even—”

“I know,” he says, but his hand stays. “Still.”

He looks back up at you, and something shifts in his face. The harsh panic cooling into purpose.

“Alright,” Oscar says, wiping under his eye with the back of his hand like he’s annoyed at himself for crying. “We’re going to do this properly.”

You blink. “Properly?”

He nods, already in problem-solving mode. “Doctor. Today. We’re making sure you’re okay.”

You start to protest automatically. Because you’ve been handling things alone, because accepting help feels like stepping off a ledge. Because it's all you know how to do.

Oscar shuts it down with one look.

“No arguing,” he says, very Dutch-driver-adjacent of him despite being painfully Australian. “You’ve been sick for weeks. You’re not doing that again.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Oscar exhales hard, gentler now. “I want to worry. I want to know.”

Then he pauses, and his voice drops, careful. “Are you… are you thinking about leaving?”

Your heart jolts.

You shake your head quickly. “Not if, not if you—”

Oscar’s face tightens, and he cups your jaw. “You’re not leaving.”

You whisper, “Oscar, I... ”

“Listen to me,” he says, voice firm but shaking at the edges. “You’re not leaving. Not because you’re scared. Not because you think you’re a burden. Not because you think you need to prove you can survive without me.”

Your eyes burn.

Oscar’s expression softens again, like he can see straight through you.

“You’ve been carrying this alone,” he whispers, devastated. “And you didn’t have to.”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t want to fall apart.”

Oscar leans forward and presses his forehead to yours again. “You can fall apart with me.”

That hits harder than anything else.

Because you’ve been holding yourself together so tightly you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be held.

Oscar’s arms wrap around you again, slower this time, like he’s soothing a scared animal back into trust.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Okay?”

You nod against his chest, tears soaking into his hoodie. “Okay.”

He gets you into bed afterward like you’re something precious.

Water. Crackers. A bowl next to the bed “just in case.” He moves around your room with quiet urgency, like he’s trying to build safety out of objects.

You watch him from the pillows, heart aching.

Because this is the version of Oscar you were so afraid didn’t exist.

This is the Oscar who doesn’t flinch.

The Oscar who takes fear and turns it into action.

The Oscar who looks at you like the idea of losing you is unthinkable.

He sits on the edge of the bed finally, shoulders tense, and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the guilt still lodged in your ribs. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He looks away for a second, breathing slow.

Then he looks back, softer. “I’m… upset,” he admits. “But not because of the baby.”

Your breath catches.

He reaches for your hand and interlaces your fingers, grounding you. “I’m upset because you thought you had to prepare for me leaving.”

You swallow. “I didn’t know.”

Oscar’s thumb strokes your knuckles. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

Because I was terrified of the answer.

Because asking makes it real.

Because if you said no, I would never recover.

You don’t say that. You just whisper the only truth you can manage.

“Because I needed to know I could survive it,” you admit. “If it was going to hurt.”

Oscar’s eyes go glassy again. He squeezes your hand hard.

His voice comes out quiet, wrecked. “You don’t have to survive me.”

Your throat tightens. “Oscar…”

He leans closer. “I’m not your worst-case scenario.”

You sob, small and broken, and Oscar immediately stands and climbs into bed with you like he can’t bear the space.

He pulls you into his chest, tucking your head under his chin, his hand spanning your back.

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

You shake, clinging to him like he’s the only stable thing in the universe.

Oscar’s breathing is a little unsteady too. He’s not as calm as he’s pretending. You can feel it in the way his fingers flex against your shoulder, like he’s holding on.

He whispers, almost like he’s confessing: “I thought I was losing you.”

Your chest caves in. “I’m here.”

Oscar’s voice turns fierce, protective. “Good. Stay.”

You nod, tears still coming. “Okay.”

He kisses your forehead, one, two, three gentle presses, like he’s sealing you back into place.

And for the first time in weeks, your body unclenches a fraction.

Not because the fear is gone.

But because you’re not holding it alone anymore.

The doctor’s office doesn’t feel real.

It feels like a place people go when things are already decided, when outcomes are already in motion, and you’re just there to be told what they are.

You sit on the exam table with the crinkling paper under your thighs, hands folded tightly in your lap, shoulders drawn inward like you’re trying to take up less space. The walls are a soft neutral color that’s meant to be calming but instead makes everything feel exposed. There’s a poster to your left with cartoonish illustrations of fetal development, smiling little blobs labeled Week 6, Week 8, Week 10—each one a future you’re not sure you’re allowed to imagine yet.

Oscar stands beside you.

Not leaning. Not pacing. Just standing, shoulders squared, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie like if he takes them out, he won’t know what to do with them.

He’s quiet in a way that’s unfamiliar.

Usually, Oscar is the calmest person in the room because he understands the room. He knows the system. He knows what questions to ask, when to ask them, what matters and what doesn’t. He’s the guy who can walk into a conversation in a foreign country and confidently ask for someone’s phone number in Japanese just because he bothered to learn how.

Here, though, here he looks like someone dropped him into the wrong briefing.

The nurse asks your name, your date of birth, the date of your last period. You answer softly.

Oscar listens like every word is data he forgot to collect.

“How’s the nausea been?” the nurse asks, typing quickly.

You hesitate, instinctively glancing at Oscar before answering. “Pretty bad. Mostly mornings. Sometimes… all day.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He looks at the nurse. “She’s been throwing up.”

The nurse nods sympathetically. “That’s very common in early pregnancy.”

Oscar exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the bathroom floor weeks ago.

The nurse glances back at you. “Have you been taking anything for it?”

You shake your head. “No.”

She hums thoughtfully. “We can recommend something safe. Ginger supplements can help, and vitamin B6 is often effective.”

Oscar nods immediately, filing it away.

“And are you taking prenatal vitamins yet?” the nurse asks, casual.

You freeze.

Your mouth opens, then closes. You feel that old reflex kick in. The one that tells you to handle things later, quietly, on your own.

“I... ” You swallow. “No. I haven’t started anything yet.”

Oscar turns to you sharply. Not angry, just surprised. “You haven’t?”

Your stomach twists. “I was going to. I just... ”

The nurse smiles kindly. “That’s okay. A lot of people haven’t started yet at this point. We’ll recommend a good prenatal vitamin, and you can pick one up today.”

Oscar nods again, a little too fast. “Okay. Yeah. We’ll do that.”

We.

The word lands softly but heavily in your chest.

The nurse leaves to grab the doctor, and the room falls quiet again.

Oscar shifts his weight, finally pulling one hand out of his pocket. It hovers for a second before settling on your knee, tentative, like he’s checking if he’s allowed.

You don’t pull away.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t realize.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault.”

His thumb rubs a slow circle against your leg, grounding. “Still.”

The doctor comes in not long after—warm, efficient, reassuring without being patronizing. She reviews your chart, asks a few more questions, then gestures toward the ultrasound machine.

“We’ll do a standard abdominal ultrasound today,” she says. “You’re early, but we should still be able to see what we need.”

Oscar nods like he understands exactly what that means.

He does not.

You lie back, shirt lifted just enough to expose your stomach. The gel is cold when it touches your skin, and you flinch despite yourself.

Oscar notices immediately. “Cold,” he mutters, shooting the doctor an apologetic look like this is somehow his responsibility.

She smiles. “It always is.”

The screen flickers to life, full of grainy shapes that don’t make sense yet.

You stare at it, heart pounding, afraid to hope too much. Afraid to brace for disappointment.

Oscar leans in without realizing he’s doing it, his hand tightening around yours like he’s anchoring himself to you.

The doctor adjusts the wand, focusing the image.

“There we go,” she says. “That’s your uterus. And... ” She pauses, making a small adjustment. “there’s the gestational sac.”

You blink. You don’t really know what you’re looking at, but the doctor’s tone changes, softens.

“And here,” she adds gently, “is the embryo.”

Oscar’s breath catches audibly.

The screen shows something impossibly small. A tiny shape. And then...

“There’s the heartbeat,” the doctor says.

The sound fills the room: fast, steady, undeniable.

Oscar freezes.

Not stiffens—freezes. Like his brain has hit a wall and everything else has shut down.

Your eyes burn. “Oh my god.”

Oscar doesn’t speak. He can’t.

He stares at the screen like it’s rewriting something fundamental inside him.

“That’s…,” he starts, then stops. He swallows hard. “That’s real.”

The doctor smiles. “Very real. Everything looks exactly as it should.”

Oscar lets out a breath that sounds shaky and disbelieving.

She prints a few ultrasound photos and hands them to you.

Oscar watches her hands with laser focus.

“Um,” he says suddenly, voice hesitant in a way you’ve never heard from him. “Could we... could we get a few more copies?”

The doctor looks up, amused. “Of course.”

Oscar nods quickly, ears turning faintly pink. “Just, uh, if that’s okay.”

You glance at him, heart squeezing painfully.

The doctor prints more and hands them over.

Oscar takes them carefully, holding them between both hands like they’re fragile evidence. He doesn’t tuck them away. He just… holds them, eyes flicking back to the screen like he needs to make sure it’s still there.

When you get home, the adrenaline wears off all at once.

The fear, the relief, the exhaustion, it crashes over you like a wave, heavy and unavoidable.

Oscar barely lets you get your shoes off before guiding you toward the couch.

“Sit,” he says gently but firmly. “Please.”

You don’t argue. You curl into the cushions, your body finally giving up the fight.

Oscar disappears into the kitchen and comes back with water, crackers, and a blanket. He drapes it over you carefully, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

“You should rest,” he says softly.

You nod, eyelids already drooping. “Just… stay close.”

He smiles faintly. “Always.”

You fall asleep to the sound of him moving around the apartment, quiet and purposeful. When you wake again, the apartment is empty, except for a note on the counter.

Doctor said B6 + prenatals. I’m going to the store. Back soon. I love you.

You stare at it longer than necessary.

He didn’t ask if you wanted him to go.

He just… went.

At the store, Oscar stands in the vitamin aisle feeling profoundly underqualified.

There are too many options. Too many labels. Too many things that could be wrong if he picks the wrong one.

He flips bottles over, reading ingredient lists with the same intensity he gives to setup sheets... except none of this is familiar. None of it comes with clear margins or simulations.

He exhales sharply and pulls out his phone.

There’s exactly one person who has done this before.

“Mum,” Nicole answers, cheerful. “Hi, darling.”

Oscar swallows. “Hi. So, uh, what do I need to look for in prenatal vitamins?”

Silence.

Then: “Oscar.”

“Yes?”

“Need I remind you that you are, in fact, a man?”

Oscar blinks. “I’m at the store,” he explains, like that clarifies things. “They’re not for me. The doctor said y/n should start them today.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Nicole laughs, shocked and delighted. “Are you telling me I’m about to be a grandmother?”

“Yes,” Oscar says, blunt and sincere. “Congratulations.”

“Oh my god,” Nicole breathes. “When were you planning on telling me?”

“Just now,” he admits. “I needed help.”

Her voice softens instantly. “I’m very glad you called.”

Oscar relaxes a fraction.

“What should I get?” he asks.

Nicole talks him through it. Telling him everything she can remember about folic acid, DHA, and iron, while Oscar reads labels aloud like he’s double-checking calculations.

“She’s been sick,” he adds quietly. “I want to make sure I do this right.”

Nicole’s voice turns gentle. “You already are.”

When he gets home, you’re awake, curled into the couch with his hoodie wrapped around you.

He drops the bag and kneels in front of you immediately.

“I got them,” he says. “And… I talked to my mum.”

You smile softly. “Of course you did.”

He blushes faintly. “She was helpful.”

He pulls the ultrasound photos from his pocket and hands them to you, watching your face carefully.

“I carried them with me,” he admits. “Didn’t want to lose them.”

Your chest aches.

Oscar settles beside you, pulling you into his side. His hand finds your stomach—gentle, reverent, still a little unsure.

“We’re doing this together,” he says quietly. “Okay?”

You nod, tears slipping free again. They're not from fear this time, but from the overwhelming relief of not having to be alone anymore.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Oscar presses a kiss to your temple, steady and sure.

And for the first time since those two lines appeared, your mind stops planning for survival.

Because you’re starting to believe you won’t need to.

Pregnancy domesticity sneaks up on you.

It doesn’t arrive as a single moment where everything suddenly feels different; it arrives in increments so small you almost miss them. In the way Oscar starts waking up ten minutes earlier than usual, not to train, but to sit at the edge of the bed and watch you sleep like he’s making sure you’re still there. In the way your kitchen slowly fills with things neither of you remembers buying until you realize Oscar has been picking them up one by one—saltines, ginger chews, electrolyte packets, those weird bland cereals that taste like nothing but somehow stay down.

You notice it first with the notebook.

It appears on the counter one afternoon, spiral-bound, McLaren orange pen clipped to the coil. You pick it up idly while Oscar is in the shower.

Inside are lists.

Not neat ones. Not the kind you make. These are messy, crowded, arrows everywhere. Doctor questions. Vitamins (B6? iron? check). Foods she can’t stand. Foods she can stand. There’s a page titled “Things to Ask Mum”, already half full.

Your chest tightens.

When Oscar comes back into the kitchen, hair damp and hoodie half-zipped, he freezes when he sees the notebook in your hands.

“Oh,” he says. Then, sheepish, “I was just… writing things down.”

You swallow. “You don’t have to do all this.”

He tilts his head, brows knitting gently. “I know.”

You wait.

He adds, quieter, “I want to.”

That’s how it keeps happening. You bracing. Oscar stepping in anyway, but without fanfare. There are no big speeches, no dramatic declarations. Just consistency. Just showing up again and again until your brain starts running out of reasons not to trust him.

He downloads three pregnancy apps. Deletes one because it “has too many ads.” Keeps the other two. Sets reminders for your appointments in his calendar right next to simulator sessions and sponsor calls.

He asks questions. So many questions.

“Is it normal that you’re tired again?” “Should you be sleeping on your side yet or is that later?” “Are you supposed to feel it move this early or—no, okay, I’ll stop.”

Sometimes you snap. Pregnancy hormones and old habits colliding and Oscar takes it without flinching. He never makes it about himself. He just waits it out, then brings you water, then sits beside you like nothing’s changed.

You start letting yourself lean.

Not all at once. Just a little.

You let him come with you to appointments without pretending you don’t care if he can’t. You let him carry things even when they’re light. You let him cook dinner on days when the smell of garlic makes your stomach turn.

And slowly, you stop running survival simulations in your head.

You stop checking your bank account at midnight “just in case.” You stop mapping exits that no longer make sense.

Because Oscar keeps choosing you even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it disrupts his routine. Especially then.

Race season arrives whether you’re ready or not.

The calendar fills up again, names of cities and circuits bleeding into each other. Oscar’s schedule tightens. Training ramps up. Travel becomes frequent again, and the first time he packs his suitcase with you standing in the doorway, your chest tightens instinctively.

He notices.

“You’re coming to some,” he says immediately, like he’s been expecting the fear. “When you feel up to it.”

You nod, cautious. “We’ll see.”

He watches you carefully. “You don’t have to if it’s too much.”

“I want to,” you say, and you’re surprised by how true it feels.

The paddock feels different pregnant.

You’re more visible and less at the same time. People clock your bump with polite smiles, team staff subtly adjusting where they walk so they don’t bump into you, mechanics greeting you more gently than before. Oscar stays close without hovering, his hand a constant presence at the small of your back, grounding.

He’s protective in a quiet way. Never possessive. Never loud. Just… there.

When travel gets harder, he FaceTimes you every night from wherever he is. Sometimes he talks about the race, strategy, things he’s annoyed about. Sometimes he just watches you eat dinner and pretends it’s normal.

One night, after a particularly rough travel day, you admit softly, “I hate that I can’t be there with you.”

Oscar shakes his head. “I hate that you feel like you should be.”

You frown. “What?”

“You’re growing a person,” he says, like that should settle everything. “I can drive a car.”

You laugh despite yourself.

He smiles, warm and sure. “We’re both doing important things.”

The first time you feel the baby move, it’s late.

Oscar is home, fresh from the airport, jet-lagged and restless. You’re lying on the couch, half watching something neither of you is following, his arm draped over you, thumb idly tracing patterns against your side.

You freeze suddenly.

Oscar notices instantly. “What?”

You press your hand to your stomach, breath shallow. “I think... ”

There it is again. A flutter. A soft, insistent nudge.

Your eyes fill. “Oh my god.”

Oscar bolts upright. “What’s wrong?”

You laugh through tears. “Nothing. Come here.”

He leans in, nervous now, eyes wide as you guide his hand to the spot.

“Here,” you whisper. “Just… wait.”

He holds still like a statue.

Nothing happens for a long beat.

Then, another movement.

Oscar’s breath catches so sharply it almost sounds like pain.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Oh.”

He doesn’t move his hand. He barely breathes.

“That was... ” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “That was them.”

You nod, crying freely now.

Oscar presses his forehead to your shoulder, overwhelmed. “That’s… that’s real.”

You laugh softly. “It’s been real.”

He shakes his head, stunned. “I know. I just... ” He exhales. “I can’t believe they’re in there.”

His hand stays on your stomach long after the movement fades, protective and reverent.

From that moment on, something in Oscar settles.

He still worries. Still over-prepares. Still checks and rechecks everything.

But now there’s a steadiness to it. Less fear, more certainty.

The first kick is what convinced Oscar that the future is no longer theoretical.

But it’s the birth that rewires him completely.

You don’t go into labor the way people joke about in movies. There was no dramatic water-breaking in public, no mad dash through traffic. It starts quietly, in the middle of the night, as a low, insistent ache that wakes you from sleep and refuses to let you settle back into it.

At first, you don’t even wake Oscar.

You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, cataloguing sensations the way you always do. Timing them. Measuring them. Telling yourself not to overreact.

You last almost forty minutes before another contraction rolls through, stronger this time, sharp enough that your breath stutters.

That’s when you turn onto your side and whisper his name.

“Oscar.”

He’s awake instantly.

Not groggy. Not confused. Just there. His eyes open, already focused, already scanning your face like telemetry.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low, steady.

“I think,” you say carefully, because you are still you, “I think it might be time.”

Something flashes across his face, shock, fear, awe, all compressed into a single heartbeat.

Then he nods.

“Okay,” he says, like this is something he’s trained for. “Okay. We’re good.”

He’s moving before you finish the sentence. Lights on. Phone in hand. Bag already by the door because of course it is. Oscar packed it weeks ago and then checked it twice a week since.

You sit up slowly, bracing through another contraction, and Oscar is there immediately, hands on your shoulders, forehead pressed to yours.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, voice calm and grounded, the same voice he uses on the radio when things are going wrong and he needs to steady himself. “In. Out. That’s it.”

At the hospital, everything blurs into white light and clipped voices and paperwork you barely register.

Oscar never leaves your side.

Not once.

He holds your hand through every contraction, counts breaths when you can’t, presses his forehead to yours when the pain peaks so hard it steals your vision.

When you cry, he doesn’t panic. He just stays.

“You’re doing it,” he keeps saying. “You’re doing so well. I’m right here.”

At one point, when exhaustion crashes over you and doubt rears its ugly head. When you whisper, broken and terrified, “I can’t do this,”

Oscar’s composure cracks just enough to let something fierce through.

“Yes, you can,” he says, voice shaking but certain. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

When the baby finally arrives, Oscar makes a sound that is not a word.

He laughs and cries at the same time, hands trembling as he cuts the cord like he’s afraid of doing it wrong, like he can’t believe he’s being trusted with something this important.

When they place the baby on your chest, you’re both wrecked beyond language.

Oscar drops a kiss onto your forehead, then another, then presses his face into your hair like he needs the contact to stay upright.

“You did it,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You’re incredible.”

Later, when they place the baby into his arms for the first time, Oscar freezes completely.

He stares down at them like the world has narrowed to this one small, breathing thing.

“Oh,” he whispers again. “Hi.”

You watch him from the bed, exhausted and aching and more in love than you thought possible.

This is the Oscar you were so afraid you’d never see.

You’ve always kept your lives private.

Not secret, never that, but carefully contained. You learned early that love doesn’t need an audience, and Oscar understood that instinctively. You show up when it matters. You disappear when it doesn’t.

But there is nothing secret about bringing a baby into the paddock.

There is no way to hide the soft carrier strapped to your chest, the tiny noise-cancelling earmuffs carefully adjusted over a head no bigger than Oscar’s hands. There is no way to miss the way the team’s energy shifts when they see you—gentler, warmer, more reverent.

Oscar stays close without hovering, hand always brushing yours, his body angled toward you like he’s unconsciously shielding you from the world.

You’re barely through the garage doors before someone spots you.

“Oh my god. Is that them?!”

Before you can even react, Oscar is laughing softly beside you, already anticipating what’s coming.

Lando is on you in seconds.

“Is that the baby?” he demands, eyes wide, already crouching like he’s approaching a wild animal. “Can I hold them? Please. I will literally cry if you don’t let me.”

You laugh, adjusting the carrier instinctively. “You’re not even going to say hi to me?”

“Priorities,” Lando says, dead serious. “Hi. Hello. You look amazing. Hand over the child.”

Oscar snorts. “You better not drop them, mate.”

“I would never,” Lando says, offended. “I am an uncle now.”

You unclip the carrier carefully, your movements slow and deliberate, and hand the baby over.

Lando freezes instantly.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Oh no.”

Oscar grins. “What?”

“I love them,” Lando says, voice thick, eyes shining. “I would die for them.”

Oscar watches the scene, something unbearably soft settling into his expression.

This, the normalcy, the joy, the small life woven seamlessly into the world he knows, is everything he didn’t know how to picture and now can’t imagine without.

The race win happens when you least expect it.

It’s one of those weekends that starts messy. Practice sessions where nothing feels right. Qualifying that leaves him frustrated but controlled. Oscar goes into Sunday calm but focused, that familiar locked-in version of himself that makes your chest ache with pride.

You’re in the garage, baby tucked against your chest in a carrier—small, warm, solid. You still can’t believe how much space they take up in your life already.

The race unfolds cleanly.

Good start. Solid pace. Strategy clicks.

When the final laps tick down, your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat.

Oscar crosses the line first.

The garage erupts.

You laugh and cry at the same time, clutching the baby closer as cheers wash over you. Someone squeezes your shoulder. Someone else hands you ear protection without asking.

And then Oscar is out of the car.

Helmet off, hair damp with sweat, face flushed with adrenaline.

He looks around once before his eyes find you.

Everything else disappears.

He walks straight to you, ignoring cameras, ignoring calls from the team. He cups your face in both hands and kisses you first, slow and grounding, like this is the moment that matters most.

Then he looks down.

“Hi,” he whispers to the baby, awed, before carefully lifting them from your arms like he’s done it a thousand times already.

He spins once, laughing, baby held securely against his chest, and the crowd loses it.

Photos flood the internet within minutes: Oscar Piastri, race winner, holding his child like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

On the podium, another driver nudges him as they walk back toward the parc fermé.

“You know,” they say, grinning, “that’s not the kid, right?”

Oscar blinks down at the trophy tucked unconsciously against his hip, the same way he holds the baby.

“Oh.” He flushes. “Right.”

He doesn’t move it.

Later, when the noise dies down and it’s just the three of you in the quiet of the hospitality unit, Oscar sits between you, baby asleep against his chest, trophy resting forgotten at his side.

He looks at you, eyes soft and certain.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For letting me be part of this,” he says. “For trusting me.”

You reach out, lacing your fingers with his free hand.

“I don’t feel like I have to do it alone anymore,” you admit.

Oscar squeezes your hand, grounding and warm. “Good.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, then to the baby’s hair.

“We’re a team,” he says simply.

And for the first time, the future doesn’t feel like something you need to prepare for.