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Nasal Fractures (and Other Love Languages)

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: you meet Oscar exactly once when he breaks your nose with a football in the paddock. You meet him exactly twice when he breaks it again with his elbow in a hotel room. Some love stories start with a meet-cute. Yours starts with a medical bill and the world’s most apologetic future World Champion who keeps turning your face into a crime scene. (He’s really, really sorry about it.)

The air in the paddock is thick with a nervous energy you can almost taste, a metallic tang of anticipation mixed with the sweet, acrid scent of high-octane fuel and burning rubber. It’s a symphony of controlled chaos. The low, guttural growl of an engine being tested somewhere down the pit lane rumbles through the soles of your shoes. Team personnel, clad in vibrant, logo-splashed uniforms, move with a crisp, clipped purpose that makes you and your friend, Beth, feel like you’re wading through a current.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Beth whispers, her voice tight with awe. She clutches her phone like a holy relic, trying to discreetly film everything without looking like a complete tourist. Which, of course, is exactly what you both are.

“Try to act like we belong here,” you murmur back, though your own eyes are as wide as dinner plates. You’re scanning the river of people for a familiar face, a flash of papaya, a shock of blond hair. Winning these paddock passes felt like a one-in-a-billion lottery ticket, a glitch in the universe that accidentally spat you out into the heart of the circus.

And then you see them.

Just ahead, in the wide expanse of asphalt between the impossibly sleek, futuristic structures of the McLaren and Red Bull motorhomes, are Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris. The tension of the impending qualifying session seems to have bypassed them entirely. They’re in their full race kits, minus the helmets, their hair damp with a pre-race sweat. A simple black and white football bounces between them.

It's a lazy, fluid rhythm. The ball arcs from Lando’s knee to Oscar’s chest, where he cushions it dead before volleying it back with the inside of his foot. They aren't speaking, just moving in the easy, comfortable silence of longtime teammates and friends. It's so disarmingly normal, so achingly human, that it makes your breath catch in your throat. This isn’t something you see on a broadcast. This is a stolen moment, and you’re a thief for watching it.

“Oh my god,” Beth breathes, fumbling with her phone. “Get a picture.”

“No, don’t,” you hiss, grabbing her arm. “Let them have their space. We’re not supposed to …”

Your words are swallowed by the scene. Lando laughs, a bright, familiar sound that makes your stomach flutter, as he attempts an overly ambitious flick. The ball spins wide, and Oscar jogs a few steps to intercept it, his movements economical and precise. He stops it with his right foot, a picture of calm concentration.

He looks up, just for a second, and his eyes — cool and impossibly focused — sweep over the area. They don't linger on you. You're just part of the scenery, another face in the blur. He gives Lando a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Getting sloppy, mate,” Oscar calls out, his voice a low, calm murmur that barely carries over the ambient noise. The Australian lilt is subtle, but it’s there.

Lando grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security. Show me what you’ve got, then.”

Oscar juggles the ball once, twice, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. It’s the smile you’ve seen in a hundred post-race interviews — reserved, a little shy, but genuine. He shifts his weight, positioning himself for a clean pass back to Lando, who’s now standing a good twenty feet away, near the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality suite.

This is the moment the universe decides to stop glitching and start actively conspiring against you.

From Oscar’s point of view, it’s a simple calculation. A routine he’s performed thousands of times. He sees Lando, sees the space, gauges the power. His mind is already halfway to the garage, running through the qualifying plan, sector by sector. This is just muscle memory. A final, mindless release of nervous energy before being strapped into a carbon fibre rocket ship.

He draws his right foot back. The motion is clean, fluid, athletic. It should be a perfect, low chip that lands right at Lando’s feet.

But a mechanic from another team, his arms laden with a stack of tires, cuts directly through Oscar’s intended flight path. A sudden, unexpected obstacle. Oscar’s brain registers it a millisecond too late. He tries to adjust, to pull back, but the command is already halfway to his foot. He overcompensates. Instead of a soft chip, he connects with the ball with the full force of his instep. The connection is too clean, too powerful.

The ball doesn't arc. It shoots. A black and white missile.

It rockets past the mechanic, past a startled-looking influencer who ducks instinctively, past the spot where Lando was standing.

And it flies directly towards the two girls who had stopped to watch, the ones who were trying to look like they belonged. The ones with the wide, starstruck eyes.

From your perspective, time slows to a thick, syrupy crawl. One second, you’re admiring the effortless grace of a world-class athlete. The next, a sphere of stitched leather is expanding in your vision at an impossible, terrifying speed.

There is no time to react. No time to raise your hands, to turn your head, to even flinch.

There is only the ball.

And then, a concussive, explosive thump.

A universe of white-hot, blinding pain erupts from the bridge of your nose, radiating outwards through your sinuses, your teeth, your skull. The sound is less of a crack and more of a wet, sickening crunch that you feel deep in your bones. Stars, genuine and cartoonishly bright, burst behind your eyelids. The world tilts on its axis, the vibrant colours of the paddock smearing into a nauseating blur.

Your hands fly to your face, a useless, reflexive gesture. You feel a gush of warmth spill over your fingers, slick and hot.

“Oh, God!” Beth shrieks beside you.

Your knees give out. The meticulously clean asphalt of the paddock rushes up to meet you, and you land hard, the impact jarring your already screaming head. You’re on all fours, head bowed, the world a dizzying, spinning mess. A low moan escapes your throat, a sound you don’t even recognize as your own.

The world outside your personal bubble of agony is a sudden explosion of chaos.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

The voice is Oscar’s, sharp with a kind of strangled panic that is utterly alien to his public persona. The calm is gone. The focus is shattered.

Footsteps pound against the pavement, frantic and fast.

“Oscar! Mate, what did you—Oh my God.” That’s Lando, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Two pairs of race-booted feet skid to a halt in front of you. You can’t look up. Your entire consciousness has shrunk to the throbbing, shattered epicentre of your face. You can feel the blood dripping from your chin now, spattering onto the pristine ground.

“Are you alright? Oh God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Oscar is kneeling in front of you, his voice urgent, laced with pure, undiluted horror. He’s reaching out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you.

You try to answer, to say “I’m fine” out of some deeply ingrained, polite instinct, but the only thing that comes out is a choked, wet sob. The taste of salt and iron floods your mouth.

“Is she okay?” Lando asks, his voice tight with alarm. He’s addressing Beth, who is now kneeling beside you, her own face pale with shock.

“I-I don’t know! You hit her in the face! With the ball!” Beth’s voice is shaky, accusatory.

“I know! I know, I didn’t mean to!” Oscar sounds desperate. “It was … I was aiming for Lando. Someone walked in the way. I’m so, so sorry.”

He shifts his weight, getting closer. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his fireproofs, a strange counterpoint to the coppery smell of your own blood.

“Can you look at me?” He asks, his voice softer now, but no less panicked. “Please? We need to see how bad it is.”

You shake your head, which is a colossal mistake. A fresh wave of agony and nausea washes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold the world together.

“Don’t move your head,” he says quickly. “Okay, okay, don’t move.”

“Her nose,” Beth says, her voice trembling. “I think … I think it’s broken.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air for a beat, thick with the unsaid. Oscar lets out a low curse under his breath.

“Right. Okay. Medic. We need a medic,” he says, his voice taking on a new urgency. He turns his head. “Zak! Arthur! Can we get a medic over here? Now!”

His voice, usually so measured, cracks with the strain. He’s yelling now, and you can feel the vibrations of it in your chest. You’re dimly aware of more people approaching, of the circle around you tightening. The low murmur of the paddock has been replaced by a focused, localized clamor. Your personal, humiliating clamor.

“What’s going on here?” A new voice, this one with an American accent. Sharp, authoritative.

“I hit her with the ball, Zak,” Oscar says, his voice strained. “It was an accident. I think her nose is broken. We need a doctor.”

“Jesus Christ, Oscar.”

You risk a glance, cracking one eye open. Through a watery, blood-tinged haze, you see the concerned face of Zak Brown looking down at you. Behind him, more McLaren personnel are gathering, their faces a mixture of alarm and professional concern.

This is a nightmare. This is a fever dream. You’re bleeding all over the ground in front of the McLaren motorhome, with half the team, including both drivers, staring at you like you’re a car crash. Which, you suppose, you sort of are.

“It’s okay, we’re getting someone,” Lando says, trying to be reassuring, but he just sounds as freaked out as everyone else. “They’re coming. Just stay still.”

“I am so, so sorry,” Oscar repeats. It seems to be the only thing he can say. He’s still kneeling there, a few feet away, looking utterly helpless. His face, usually a mask of calm composure, is etched with guilt and raw panic. He looks younger than he does on TV. He just looks like a kid who has made a terrible mistake and has no idea how to fix it.

“You’re bleeding a lot,” Beth says quietly, her hand resting gently on your back. “Can you try to tilt your head forward a little? Not back.”

You follow her instructions numbly, letting your head hang as more blood drips onto the asphalt. Each drop feels like a confession of your own mortification.

A woman in a McLaren polo shirt with a radio pressed to her ear arrives. “Medical team is on their way. They’ll take her to the care centre.”

“Oscar, Lando, we need you in the garage,” Zak says, his voice firm but not unkind. “Qualifying starts in twelve minutes.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, shaking his head. “No, I’m not leaving. I did this.”

“You are,” Zak insists. “There’s nothing you can do here now. The medics will handle it. We have a session to prepare for. Let’s go.”

“Zak, I just broke a girl’s nose,” Oscar argues, his voice rising in disbelief. He gestures wildly at you, a crumpled, bleeding heap on the ground. “I can’t just walk away and go drive a race car.”

“You absolutely can, and you absolutely will,” another voice cuts in, this one belonging to a man with a clipboard and a stern expression. Your brain vaguely supplies the name Andrea Stella. “Let the medical professionals do their job. Your job is in that car. Now.”

He puts a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Lando is already being herded away by another team member, casting a worried look back over his shoulder.

“Go on, Lando. Get your head in the game.”

“Is she gonna be okay?” Lando asks, his eyes wide.

“She’ll be fine. Go.”

Oscar doesn’t move. He’s still looking at you, his expression a chaotic storm of regret and frustration. “I can’t just go.”

“Oscar.” Stella’s voice is iron. “Now.”

He gives Oscar’s shoulder a gentle but insistent tug. The finality in the gesture is clear. Oscar knows he’s lost the argument. His shoulders slump in defeat. He looks utterly wrecked.

As Stella begins to pull him to his feet, Oscar leans forward, his eyes locking with yours for the first time. You’re still looking at him through a curtain of pain and tears, but you see the raw apology in his gaze. It’s so intense it almost hurts as much as your nose.

“Wait,” he says, resisting the pull for one last second. He addresses you directly, his voice low and rushed. “Please, don’t leave. After qualifying, I’ll … I’ll find you. The medical tent, okay? I’ll find you there. I promise.”

He searches your face, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement, some sign of forgiveness you are in no condition to give.

“I am so unbelievably sorry,” he says again, his voice cracking on the last word. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

And then he’s gone. Pulled away into the current of the team, swallowed by the urgency of the sport, leaving you on the cold, hard ground with the smell of his fireproofs, the echo of his panicked promise, and a face full of shattered bone and blood.

Two uniformed medics arrive, their movements calm and efficient in the wake of the storm. They begin asking you questions, their voices a soothing drone that you can’t quite process. Beth is answering for you, her voice still shaky but getting stronger, more assertive.

They help you sit up, pressing a wad of gauze to your nose that you immediately soak through. The world is still spinning, but the sharp edges of the pain are beginning to dull into a deep, throbbing ache that seems to have taken up residence in your entire skull.

As they gently help you to your feet, preparing to walk you to the medical centre, your gaze drifts towards the McLaren garage. For a fleeting second, you think you see him, a flash of papaya orange standing by the entrance, looking back towards you before being pushed inside.

Then the garage door rolls down, a final, definitive curtain on the most surreal and painful ten minutes of your life. And you’re left with only one thought, circling endlessly in your concussed, throbbing head.

Oscar Piastri broke your nose. And he promised he would find you.

***

The world inside the McLaren garage is a pressure cooker of sound and motion. The moment Oscar’s MCL39 rolls into its bay, it’s swarmed. Fans whir, laptops are flipped open, and a dozen sets of hands descend on the car. He kills the engine, the sudden silence in his ears a deafening roar. For the last hour, his universe has been nothing but the scream of the engine, the voice of his race engineer, and the laser-focused task of wrestling two-tenths of a second from a strip of asphalt.

But the bubble has burst. And the first thought that crashes into his brain, more potent than the G-force he just endured, is your face. Crumpled. Bleeding.

He unbuckles his harness with frantic, clumsy fingers and rips his helmet off. The cool air of the garage hits his sweat-soaked hair. His trainer, Kim, is there instantly, holding a water bottle and a towel. Oscar ignores them both. His eyes find Lando, who is already clambering out of his car a few feet away, being mobbed by ecstatic engineers. P1. Lando got pole. The garage is electric with it.

“YES, LANDO! GET IN!”

“MEGA JOB, MATE! MEGA!”

Lando is grinning, a wide, euphoric smile as he’s pulled into a series of back-slapping hugs. He’s earned it. He was flawless.

Oscar feels a pang of something that isn’t jealousy. It’s a hollow, churning guilt. He finished P2. It feels like ash in his mouth. He knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his gut, that the pole position was lost in the twenty feet between his foot and your face. He was distracted. He drove angry. Angry at himself, at the stupid football, at the entire godforsaken situation. He’d left a girl bleeding on the ground. How could he possibly find the last few thousandths of a second after that?

“Good job, Oscar! P2, fantastic result for the team,” his engineer, Tom, says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Oscar just nods, his eyes still fixed on Lando, who is now being handed the black P1 cap for the post-qualifying interviews. An idea — a terrible, frantic, brilliant idea — sparks in Oscar’s mind.

“I need that hat,” he mutters.

“What?” Tom asks, leaning in closer over the din. “Need a what?”

But Oscar is already moving. He pushes past Kim, past Tom, and stalks towards the celebratory huddle around Lando. He’s a man possessed. Lando sees him coming, his grin faltering slightly at the wild, haunted look in Oscar’s eyes.

“Osc, mate, we did it! Front row!” Lando shouts, ready for a hug.

Oscar doesn’t hug him. He reaches out and snatches the P1 cap right off Lando’s head.

“Hey!” Lando yelps, his hand flying to his now-bare head. “What the hell?”

“I need this,” Oscar says, his voice tight. He turns, his eyes scanning the garage like a hawk. He spots a PR officer, a young woman named Annie, who is holding a clipboard and a black Sharpie. He strides over to her.

“Annie, give me your marker.” It’s not a request.

She blinks, startled. “Uh … Oscar, the media pen is waiting for …”

“The marker,” he repeats, holding out his hand, his expression bordering on unhinged. She wordlessly hands him the Sharpie. He clicks it open and shoves it, along with the cap, back into Lando’s chest.

“Sign it,” he commands.

Lando stares at him, utterly bewildered. He’s surrounded by cheering mechanics, Zak is beaming, and his teammate looks like he’s in the middle of a nervous breakdown. “Sign … my own hat?”

“Yes. Sign it. Now.”

“Why?” Lando asks, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern. “Are you okay? You look a bit … traumatized.”

“I am traumatized!” Oscar hisses, his voice low and intense. “I am responsible for a traumatic event that has caused trauma. For which I need to atone. Sign the hat, Lando.”

Lando, deciding it’s easier to just go along with whatever strange ritual this is, takes the pen and scribbles his signature across the brim of the cap. “There. Happy?”

Oscar snatches the signed cap back. “No.”

He looks down at his own feet, at the custom-fit, fire-retardant race boots. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place in his frantic mind. It’s weird. It’s definitely weird. But he’s committed now. He leans against the workbench, unzips the boots, and pulls them off, his sweaty socks steaming in the cool garage air.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks, his face a perfect mask of professional confusion. “Oscar, we have debrief in twenty.”

“I can’t.” Oscar is holding the signed cap in one hand and his race boots, which smell faintly of rubber and foot, in the other. He looks around, his eyes landing on the head of hospitality, a perpetually unflappable man named Bradley. Oscar makes a beeline for him, his socks sliding on the smooth concrete floor.

“Bradley!”

Bradley turns, one eyebrow raised at the sight of his driver in his socks, clutching a bizarre assortment of items. “Oscar. Congratulations. Shall we arrange the usual for your family?”

“No. Yes. I mean, later. I need something else,” Oscar says, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I need two VIP passes. The full experience. Paddock Club, garage tour, the works.”

“Of course. For which race?” Bradley asks, pulling out his tablet.

“I don’t know yet,” Oscar says, shaking his head. “She gets to pick. The girl. The one I hit with the ball. She gets to pick any race on the calendar, and she and a friend get the best tickets you can possibly imagine. Money is no object. Bill it to me, I don’t care. Can you do that? Just have the vouchers or whatever ready. I’ll let you know the names and the race later.”

Bradley looks from Oscar’s wild eyes to the boots in his hand and seems to make a swift calculation that arguing is futile. “Consider it done, Oscar. I’ll have a confirmation packet drawn up.”

“Thank you,” Oscar breathes, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turns to leave.

“Oscar!” It’s Zak, his arm outstretched to stop him. “Media pen. Let’s go. Great day for the team.”

Oscar sidesteps him. “Can’t. Sorry, Zak.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? It’s mandatory.”

“I have to go find her,” Oscar says, as if this is the most logical explanation in the world. He waves the boots and cap. “I have to apologize.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He pushes through the throng of people at the back of the garage, ignoring the calls of his name from his engineers, his PR team, his trainer.

“Oscar, your cool-down!”

“Oscar, Sky Sports is waiting!”

“Oscar, for God’s sake, put some shoes on!”

He’s a blur of papaya and white, a man on a holy mission, sock-footing his way through the most exclusive square kilometer in sports. He strides past the other motorhomes, earning more than a few strange looks. He doesn’t care. He has a singular destination. The medical tent.

***

The medical tent is an oasis of calm, antiseptic silence. The contrast to the paddock is so jarring it makes your head ache, or maybe that’s just the broken nose. You’re sitting on the edge of a narrow bed covered in crinkly paper, a large, intimidatingly white bandage taped across your face. Underneath it, your nose is packed with what feels like a metric ton of cotton. You can’t breathe through it, so you’re forced to take shallow, open-mouthed breaths that make your throat feel dry and scratchy.

The doctor, a kind woman with gentle hands and a calm voice, has just finished explaining that yes, it’s definitely broken. A clean break, she’d called it, as if that were some sort of consolation. She’d given you a dose of a powerful painkiller that has wrapped your brain in a thick, soupy fog, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain into a distant throb. Two magnificent black eyes are beginning to bloom across your cheekbones, a colorful testament to your terrible luck.

“Well,” Beth says, trying for a light tone and failing miserably. She’s perched on a plastic chair beside you, scrolling nervously through her phone. “On the bright side, you met Oscar Piastri.”

You shoot her a glare that you hope conveys your deep and profound unimpressedness. “He tried to decapitate me with a soccer ball, Beth. That’s not ‘meeting’. That’s an assault.”

“A very apologetic assault,” she counters. “He seemed genuinely horrified. And, you have to admit, it’s a way better story than just getting a selfie.”

“I’d rather have the selfie and an intact nasal cavity,” you mumble, your voice nasally and thick.

You look down at your shirt. It’s spattered with blood. Your favourite shirt. You feel a fresh wave of misery wash over you. You just want to go back to your hotel room, order a disgusting amount of room service, and sleep for a week.

The flap of the medical tent is thrust open so violently it makes you jump. And there he is.

Oscar Piastri, in the flesh. He’s still in his race suit, though it’s unzipped to the waist, revealing the sweat-damp base layer underneath. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed with exertion and something else — anxiety. His eyes, clear and startlingly intense, immediately find yours. He’s holding a hat, a pair of racing boots, and he isn’t wearing any shoes.

He just stands there for a second, panting slightly, taking in the scene: you, looking like you just went ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer; the sterile white walls, Beth, whose jaw has dropped.

“Hi,” he says, his voice breathy. He takes a hesitant step inside. “They said you were in here. I am … God, I am so sorry.”

He walks towards you, his socked feet silent on the linoleum floor. He stops a few feet from the bed, looking utterly lost.

“Your face,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He winces, as if looking at you is causing him physical pain. “It’s … is it broken?”

You nod slowly, the motion sending a dull throb through your skull. “Clean break,” you manage to say, the words thick and foreign in your mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “I knew it. I am so, so, so sorry. There is nothing I can say to tell you how sorry I am. This is entirely my fault. I’m an idiot. I was just messing around and I wasn’t paying attention and … I’m so sorry.”

He’s rambling, his usual calm, measured speech pattern completely gone, replaced by a torrent of panicked apology. He seems to remember the items in his hands, thrusting them forward like a bizarre peace offering.

“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

He holds out the cap. You stare at it. It’s the P1 hat. Lando Norris’s signature is scrawled across the brim.

“Lando got pole,” he explains, as if this makes perfect sense. “So this is his hat. I made him sign it for you.”

You take the hat from him, your fingers brushing his. His hand is warm and slightly calloused. The gesture is so surreal, so utterly insane, that a small, hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat. It hurts your nose, so you cut it off with a wince.

“And these,” he says, crouching down and placing his race boots carefully on the floor beside the bed. They look impossibly light, crafted from some space-age material, and are caked with dust and grime from the track. “They’re my boots. From today. I finished P2 in them.” He pauses, looking at the boots, then back up at you. A flicker of self-awareness dawns in his eyes. “That’s … that’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Giving you my sweaty shoes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just felt like I had to give you something. Something from today. As an apology. It was a stupid idea. You can throw them away if you want. Or sell them. I don’t know.”

You and Beth just stare at him. Oscar Piastri is on the floor of the medical tent, having a minor existential crisis over the appropriateness of giving you his shoes. The painkillers, the broken nose, the sheer strangeness of the last hour — it all combines into a feeling of complete and utter detachment from reality.

Beth finds her voice first. “You … you ran here in your socks?”

Oscar looks down at his feet as if just noticing them. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I did. I was in a bit of a hurry.”

He stands up, looking deeply uncomfortable and out of place. He’s a finely tuned athlete, a man who operates with millimeter precision at 200 miles per hour, and right now he looks like a teenage boy who just accidentally crashed his dad’s car.

“That’s not the real apology,” he says quickly, trying to recover. “The real apology is … I spoke to our hospitality manager. And I have arranged for you and your friend,” he glances at Beth, “to be my personal guests at any race for the rest of the season. Or next season. Whichever you want.”

You blink. The fog in your brain parts for a moment. “What?”

“Any race,” he repeats, his earnestness radiating off him in waves. “Monza, Singapore, Vegas, Abu Dhabi … your choice. We’ll fly you out, put you up in a hotel, give you the full VIP Paddock Club experience. Garage tours, pit lane walks, everything. The best tickets money can buy. Which is good, because I’m buying them.” He swallows, his gaze fixed on you. “I know it doesn’t fix … this,” he gestures vaguely at your bandaged face. “But it’s the only thing I could think of to even begin to make up for it. For ruining your day. Your face.”

He trails off, looking miserable.

The silence in the tent stretches. Beth looks at you, her eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them. This is a grand gesture of epic, romcom-finale proportions. It’s ludicrous. It’s insane. It’s also … incredibly, unbelievably sweet.

“You’d really do that?” You ask, your voice small.

“Of course,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “You can pick tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever you’re feeling up to it. Just let my team know. They’ll handle everything.”

You look down at the P1 cap in your hands, then at the race-worn boots on the floor. He broke your nose, and in a fit of panicked guilt, he’s offering you the world on a silver platter. He blew off his media duties, ran across the paddock in his socks, and is offering an apology so extravagant it’s almost comical. And all you can see is the genuine, gut-wrenching remorse in his eyes.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say.

A visible wave of relief washes over him. His shoulders, which had been tensed up to his ears, drop an inch. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, a little firmer this time. You’re still in pain, you’re still miserable, and you have a long, painful week of recovery ahead of you. But in this strange, quiet, antiseptic-smelling tent, something has shifted.

The story of the day you went to the Grand Prix is no longer just about how you got your nose broken by a stray football. It’s suddenly about something else entirely.

***

The Abu Dhabi air is a thick, humid blanket, clinging to Oscar’s skin as he walks from the driver’s room to the garage. The sun has begun its slow, spectacular descent, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and purple that reflect off the glass facades of the Yas Marina circuit. It’s beautiful. He doesn’t notice.

His world has shrunk to the size of a pinhead. All that exists is the next few hours. The start sequence, the tire strategy, the delicate, brutal dance of managing a Formula 1 car on the absolute ragged edge for fifty-eight laps. The weight of the World Drivers’ Championship presses down on his shoulders, a physical, tangible thing. It’s all come down to this. Him and Lando. Teammates. Friends. And for the next two hours, his only rival.

“Hydration good?” Arthur, his trainer, asks, falling into step beside him. “Energy levels?”

“Fine, Arthur. I’m fine,” Oscar says, his voice flat. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, a deliberate tunnel vision designed to block out the swarm of media, the sea of faces, the sheer, overwhelming scale of the moment.

He’s been in this bubble all weekend. He’s barely spoken to anyone outside his core engineering team. He eats, sleeps, and breathes data, telemetry, and strategy. He’s built a fortress in his mind, and the walls are a thousand feet thick. Nothing gets in.

But as they round the corner, cutting past the sprawling McLaren hospitality suite, a crack appears in the wall.

It’s just a flash. A flicker of movement on the terrace, a woman turning her head, her laughter catching the light. For a single, crystal-clear moment that seems to exist outside of time, his eyes lock on her. She’s wearing a simple black dress, her hair is down, and she’s smiling a smile so bright it seems to generate its own light. There’s a faint, silvery scar on the bridge of her nose, almost invisible unless you were the one who put it there.

His heart stutters. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots through him.

It’s you. The girl with the broken nose. The girl from that qualifying session months ago, the one whose face has been a recurring, guilt-ridden image in the back of his mind. He hasn’t heard a word since his team’s legal department confirmed you had accepted the VIP package. He’d asked Bradley a few times which race she’d chosen, but Bradley had been evasively professional. “We’re handling it, Oscar. All sorted.” He’d eventually dropped it, figuring you’d chosen a race earlier in the season and he’d simply missed you.

But there you are. Here. Now. On the most important day of his professional life. And you look … whole. Healthy. The bruises are gone, the swelling is a distant memory. He’d only ever seen your face contorted in pain, and now, seeing it relaxed and happy, is a revelation. You’re beautiful. The thought is so clear and intrusive it knocks the breath out of him.

“Oscar, let’s go. Andrea’s waiting.” Arthur’s hand is on his arm, gently but firmly steering him forward.

Oscar tries to look back, to get a second glance, to confirm that his pressure-addled brain isn’t just conjuring ghosts. But the angle is wrong, and a throng of guests blocks his view. You’re gone.

“Did you see …” He starts, but trails off.

“See what?” Arthur asks, his eyes scanning the area for a potential threat or distraction.

Oscar shakes his head. “Nothing. Thought I saw someone I knew.”

It couldn’t have been her. It’s too much of a coincidence. His mind is playing tricks on him, manifesting his lingering guilt at the worst possible moment. He dismisses it, shoves the image down, and rebuilds the wall in his mind, brick by painstaking brick. He can’t afford the distraction. Not today.

By the time he straps into the car, the ghost is gone. All that remains is the pinhead. The start lights. The engine. The championship.

***

The race is a fever dream. A relentless, high-speed chess match where every move is made at 200 miles per hour. Lando gets a better start, nosing ahead into Turn 1. Oscar’s heart is in his throat, but he holds his nerve, slotting in behind him. The gap between them for the next forty laps is never more than two seconds. They are perfectly, brutally matched.

He lives through the radio, Tom’s voice a calm, steady anchor in the screaming chaos.

“Okay, Oscar, Lando is pitting. It’s go-time. We need everything you’ve got.”

He pushes. He drives with a controlled fury, his hands a blur on the wheel, his inputs impossibly smooth. The tires scream, the car slides, but he holds it, wringing every last millisecond out of the machine. The pit stop is a symphony of motion, over and out in 2.1 seconds. He emerges from the pit lane just as Lando’s papaya car flashes past. Still P2.

The laps wind down. Ten to go. Five. Three. The gap is 0.8 seconds. Lando’s tires are beginning to fade. Oscar’s are, too, but he can feel he has more left. He can see Lando sliding in the low-speed corners, fighting the car. The opportunity is coming.

Two laps to go. He gets a massive exit out of the chicane, the DRS on his rear wing snaps open, and he’s a rocket ship down the back straight. He pulls alongside Lando, wheels inches apart. For a moment, they are perfectly level, two friends, two teammates, fighting for the ultimate prize. Oscar brakes later, deeper, forcing his car up the inside into the hairpin. He makes it stick. He’s in the lead.

The final lap is the longest of his life. He doesn’t breathe. He just drives, his focus absolute. He crosses the finish line, and the world explodes.

“YES! YES, OSCAR! YOU’VE DONE IT! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION!” Tom’s voice is raw, shredded with emotion.

A sound rips from Oscar’s throat, a strangled, guttural sob of pure relief. He’s screaming, crying, laughing all at once. The weight that has been sitting on him for months, for years, for his entire life, simply evaporates. He is floating.

“Thank you, guys,” he chokes out, his voice thick. “Thank you, everyone. Unbelievable. Just … unbelievable.”

The cool-down lap is a blur of waving flags and cheering fans. He pulls into parc fermé, right under the P1 sign. He sits in the car for a long moment, head bowed, hands still gripping the wheel, trying to absorb the impossible reality of what he has just achieved. 2025 Formula 1 World Drivers' Champion.

The hours that follow are a chaotic whirlwind of joy. He’s mobbed by his team, lifted onto their shoulders. He hugs his parents until his ribs ache. The podium ceremony is a champagne-soaked dream. He stands on the top step, the Australian anthem playing, and searches the crowd, a sea of celebrating faces. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

He finds Lando in the hallway before the media pen. There are no cameras, just the two of them. Lando is sitting on a bench, staring at the floor, the P2 cap in his hands. The fierce joy of Oscar’s victory is immediately tempered by the quiet pain of his friend’s defeat.

“Mate,” Oscar says softly, sitting down next to him.

Lando looks up. The disappointment in his eyes is vast, but there’s no anger. Just a deep, weary sadness. He manages a small smile.

“World Champion, huh?” He says, his voice quiet. “Sounds good.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar says, and he means it.

Lando shakes his head. “Don’t be. You drove a mega race. A mega season. You earned it.” He bumps his shoulder against Oscar’s. “Just … do me a favour and get slower now you’ve won one.”

Oscar laughs, a real, genuine laugh. “No promises.”

The team celebration in the garage is pure pandemonium. Music blasts, corks fly, and Oscar is passed from one champagne-drenched hug to another. He celebrates with every mechanic, every engineer, every member of the hospitality staff who helped get him here. It’s a roaring, joyous, exhausting blur.

Hours later, the official team party at a beachside hotel is in full swing. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving Oscar with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, floating sense of peace. He’s done it. The goal that has consumed his entire life has been achieved. He feels a quiet sense of what now?

He’s nursing a beer, having switched from champagne hours ago, leaning against a pillar and just watching his team celebrate. Zak is telling a story, gesticulating wildly. Andrea is smiling, a rare and genuine sight. Lando is in the middle of a dance circle, looking like he’s put the day’s disappointment behind him for the night.

“You’re not celebrating,” a voice says beside him. It’s Tom.

“I am,” Oscar says with a smile. “Just quietly. Soaking it in.”

“Well, soak faster. A few of us are heading to W. Some of the other teams are there. It’s the unofficial end-of-season party. You should come.”

Oscar hesitates. All he wants is his bed. But he’s the World Champion. He can’t very well go to sleep before midnight.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “For a bit.”

***

The club is a different world. It’s dark, sleek, and cavernous, the bass of the music a physical vibration in his chest. The air is cool and smells of expensive perfume and cocktails. It’s packed with the familiar faces of the F1 paddock, all letting their hair down now that the season is finally over. He gets a fresh drink — just a sparkling water, he’s had enough alcohol to last a month — and finds a quieter corner, a leather booth overlooking the chaos of the dance floor.

He watches the pulsing lights, the shifting bodies. He feels strangely detached from it all, an observer in his own victory party. He’s happy. He’s ecstatic. But he’s also just … tired.

And then he sees you.

It’s not a fleeting glimpse this time. You’re standing near the bar with your friend, Beth. You’re talking to one of the Williams mechanics, your head tilted back as you laugh at something he’s said. The strobe lights catch the silver of the scar on your nose. It was you. He wasn’t hallucinating.

His breath catches in his throat. The exhaustion, the detachment, the quiet haze in his mind — it all vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden focus. It’s you. You’re here.

He watches you for a long moment, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it didn't on the final lap. You look incredible. The simple black dress clings to you in all the right ways, and your smile is just as dazzling as it was from a distance. The memory of you, crumpled and bleeding on the asphalt, feels like a scene from another lifetime, a different reality. It’s hard to reconcile that girl with the confident, radiant woman across the room.

He has to go over there. He has to say something. But what? Hi, thanks for coming. Sorry again about the horrific facial injury I inflicted upon you.

He takes a deep breath, pushing himself out of the booth. He feels more nervous now than he did on the starting grid. He weaves his way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving you. As he gets closer, you turn your head, your gaze sweeping across the room.

Your eyes meet his.

The recognition is instant. Your smile falters for a fraction of a second, your eyes widening slightly. The world seems to slow down, the thumping music fading to a dull, distant hum. There is only the crowded space between you and the sudden, undeniable charge in the air.

He stops a few feet away from you. The mechanic you were talking to says something, but you don’t seem to hear him. Beth notices his approach and her jaw drops for the second time in your shared F1 experience.

“Hi,” he says, his voice coming out a little hoarser than he intended.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice a low murmur that he has to strain to hear over the music.

A small, hesitant smile touches your lips. “Congratulations, World Champion.”

The two words hang in the air between you, a fragile bridge across the noisy chasm of the club. Your voice is calm, a little wry, and it cuts through the fog of victory and exhaustion in his head like a searchlight.

“Thanks,” Oscar manages to say, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. He takes a step closer, a magnetic pull he has no intention of fighting. “I, uh … I didn't know you were here. I thought I saw you earlier, before the race, but I figured I was just …”

“Hallucinating?” You finish for him, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Under the circumstances, I wouldn't have blamed you.”

“Something like that,” he admits, a faint blush rising on his neck. “I asked my team which race you’d picked. They never told me. I guess they didn't want the man responsible for your facial reconstruction getting distracted on the biggest day of his life.”

The joke is clumsy, landing with a thud, and he immediately regrets it. He winces, waiting for your reaction. But you just laugh, a genuine, warm sound that makes the knot in his stomach loosen just a little.

“Probably a smart move on their part,” you say. “Though you should know, my nose was reconstructed with titanium. It’s stronger than ever. You could probably hit it with another football and it would be fine.” You pause, your eyes twinkling. “Please don’t test that theory.”

“I will never, ever go near a football again,” he says, his voice so serious it’s almost a vow. “I swear. I’ve been having nightmares about it.”

“Really?”

“Not really,” he confesses. “But the guilt has been … significant.” He looks at you, properly looks at you, taking in the reality of you standing in front of him. “How is it? Your nose, I mean. Honestly.”

You reach up and touch the bridge of your nose, a light, unconscious gesture. “It’s fine. It aches when it’s about to rain, which makes me feel like I’m eighty years old. And I have this scar.” You lean in a little, tilting your head into the light. “See? The doctor called it a ‘character-building imperfection’.”

He leans in too, his gaze dropping to the faint, silvery line. It’s barely visible, delicate and fine. To him, it looks less like an imperfection and more like a brand, a permanent reminder of his own catastrophic clumsiness.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “For that. For all of it.”

“You gave me a VIP tour of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and Lando Norris’s sweaty P1 hat,” you counter, your tone light. “I’d say we’re almost even.” You glance down at his feet, then back up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “I did end up selling the boots, by the way. Paid my rent for five months with a tidy profit left over. So, really, thank you.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. It’s the first time he’s laughed freely all night, a real, unburdened sound. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you say with a perfectly straight face, which then breaks into a wide grin. “Of course I’m kidding. They’re sitting in a box in my closet. Beth wants me to build a shrine.”

The easy back-and-forth feels shockingly natural, as if you’ve known each other for years, not just two bizarre, traumatic encounters. The noise of the club, the press of the crowd, the weight of his new title — it all fades into the background. There is only this bubble of space around the two of you.

“So,” he says, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, to keep you here. “Did you enjoy the race? Apart from the constant, looming threat of airborne sporting equipment.”

“It was incredible,” you say, your eyes lighting up. “Watching it from the garage, hearing the comms … it’s a completely different world. And that last-lap overtake was …” You shake your head, at a loss for words. “I think my heart stopped.”

“Mine too,” he admits.

An electric silence falls between you. The music swells, a wave of bass washing over the room. He sees Beth make eye contact with you, raising her eyebrows in a silent, questioning gesture. You give her a subtle shake of the head, a silent command to stay put. You don’t want to leave. He doesn’t want you to leave.

Maybe it’s the six glasses of champagne he had since the podium. Maybe it’s the dizzying, surreal euphoria of achieving his life’s dream. Or maybe it’s just the simple, undeniable fact that he feels more drawn to you than anyone he has ever met. But the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. The playful smile on your face is instantly replaced by a look of amused surprise. “Get out of here? Mr. World Champion, are you asking me back to your room?”

His face flames. Hearing it said so bluntly makes it sound impossibly forward, ridiculously arrogant. “I … yes?” He stammers. “Is that too much? I’m sorry. I’m not usually … I mean, I’m not good at this. The talking. The … this.”

You watch him, a slow, appraising smile returning to your face. You see the confident, untouchable athlete dissolve into a flustered, awkward guy who looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. It’s surprisingly, disarmingly endearing.

“You win the biggest prize in motorsport,” you say, tilting your head. “And the first thing you want to do is go home with the girl whose nose you broke. That’s either incredibly romantic or you have a very specific fetish.”

He chokes on air. “It is absolutely not a fetish.”

“Good to know,” you say, your smile widening. You take a small step closer, closing the remaining space between you. The scent of your perfume, something light and floral, cuts through the stale air of the club. “My hotel is on the other side of the island.” You pause, letting the statement hang in the air. “I assume yours is closer.”

Relief, potent and dizzying, floods his system. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Much closer.”

“Alright then, champion,” you say, your voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. “Lead the way.”

***

The walk back to his hotel is a blur. You slip out a side door, escaping the party unnoticed. The night air is warm and still. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to. The space between you crackles with a nervous, excited energy. His hand keeps brushing yours, sending little jolts up his arm. In the elevator, he finally gives in and takes it, his fingers lacing through yours. Your hand is warm and fits perfectly in his.

His suite is vast and impersonal, a generic landscape of beige furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering marina. The remnants of his race day are scattered around — his helmet on the coffee table, his champagne-soaked race suit slung over a chair.

He closes the door behind you, and the silence is suddenly immense. He feels that same awkwardness creeping back in. He’s a world champion in his own territory, and yet he feels like a teenager on a first date.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “This is … the room.”

You turn to face him, a soft smile on your face. You slowly walk towards him, your eyes never leaving his. “It’s a very nice room, Oscar.”

You stop directly in front of him, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You reach up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. His breath hitches.

“For the record,” you whisper. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

And that’s all it takes. The last of his reservations dissolves. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is both hesitant and hungry. It’s a kiss that tastes of champagne and victory and a strange, shared history of accidental violence. It’s messy and desperate and absolutely perfect.

His hands go to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your arms snake around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepens, a silent communication of all the things left unsaid. It’s a release of months of tension — his guilt, your pain, the bizarre, undeniable pull that has existed between you from the moment a football left his foot at the wrong velocity.

Clothes become an inconvenience. The zipper of your dress is cool against his fingertips. The buttons on his shirt give way under your impatient hands. A trail of discarded fabric marks your path from the door to the bedroom. You tumble onto the enormous bed, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

The world outside, the championship, the parties, the press — it all ceases to exist. There is only the soft light from the window, the cool cotton of the sheets, and the intoxicating feeling of your skin against his. His confidence returns, not the arrogance of an athlete, but the quiet certainty of a man who knows he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

Every touch is electric, every kiss a discovery. He feels the delicate, raised line of the scar on your nose under his thumb and a fresh wave of tenderness washes over him. He wants to erase the memory of the pain, to replace it with nothing but this.

Things escalate, the pace quickening. The soft, tender exploration gives way to a deeper, more urgent need. He’s on top of you, propped up on his elbows, his body caging yours. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire, a small, trusting smile on your lips. The sight of it, of you looking at him like that, makes his head spin.

He leans down to kiss you again, wanting to devour you, to pour every ounce of his victory, his relief, his sheer, overwhelming joy into that single point of contact. He’s lost in the moment, a universe of sensation.

He shifts his weight, wanting to pull you closer, to deepen the kiss, to feel every inch of you against him. It’s a sudden movement, fueled by passion and adrenaline. A clumsy, uncoordinated shift.

His right elbow, moving faster than he intended, slips.

There is a sound. A wet, sickening crunch.

It’s a sound he knows. A sound that is seared into his memory. It’s the sound of bone breaking. It’s the sound of your nose.

For a split second, neither of you moves. The world freezes. The passionate, heavy breathing in the room is replaced by a stunned, absolute silence.

Then, a sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly to your face, just as they did that day in the paddock.

Oscar’s blood runs cold. A wave of ice-water horror crashes over him, extinguishing the fire of passion in an instant. He scrambles back, his limbs trembling.

“No,” he whispers, the word a strangled, pathetic sound. “No, no, no, no, no.”

You’re sitting up now, hunched over, your hands cupped over your face. You’re completely still.

“Are you …” He can’t even finish the sentence. The question is too horrifying, too absurd. His mind is short-circuiting. This isn’t happening. This is a stress dream. A nightmare brought on by too much champagne and not enough sleep. It cannot be real.

Then you lower your hands.

A single, perfect drop of crimson blood falls from your nostril, landing starkly against the pristine white of the hotel bedsheet. Another follows, and then another.

You stare down at the spreading red stain on the sheets, your expression not one of pain or anger, but of something far stranger. It’s a look of cosmic disbelief.

You slowly lift your gaze to meet his. He looks absolutely shattered, his face pale with a terror so consuming it seems to have aged him ten years in ten seconds.

A long, heavy moment passes. You take a slow, shaky breath.

And then you speak, your voice eerily calm, laced with a thread of galactic-level exasperation.

“Oscar,” you say, looking from the blood on the sheets to his horrified face. “You really need to stop making a habit out of this.”

Oscar’s brain ceases to function. The words you speak — so calm, so absurd, so utterly unexpected — are a foreign language he cannot process. He just stares at you, at your face, at the blood on the sheets, and his entire world, which just moments ago had been a triumphant, glittering pinnacle, collapses into a black hole of pure, unadulterated horror.

“I … what?” He says, his voice a choked whisper.

“A habit,” you repeat, your voice still unnervingly steady. You press the corner of the duvet to your nose, wincing as the fabric makes contact. “You know, something you do regularly. Like brushing your teeth. Or, in your case, shattering my nasal cartilage.”

The clinical, detached way you say it finally snaps him out of his paralysis. He lurches into motion, a frantic, chaotic scramble.

“Oh my God,” he says, stumbling out of the bed and frantically looking around the room as if the solution to this nightmare is hiding behind a lamp. “Oh my God, not again. I can’t—this isn’t—I am the worst person on Earth.”

“You’re not the worst person on Earth, Oscar,” you say, your voice muffled by the duvet. “But your spatial awareness in moments of passion could use some work.”

“Ice!” He exclaims, a single, brilliant thought piercing the fog of his panic. “We need ice.” He runs to the minibar, yanks it open, and starts pulling out tiny bottles of vodka and overpriced chocolate bars, searching for the microscopic ice tray. “And a doctor. I’m calling Dr. Hughes. He’s the team physician. He’ll know what to do.”

He finds his phone on the nightstand, his fingers shaking so badly it takes him three tries to unlock it.

“Oscar,” you say, your voice firm, cutting through his rising tide of panic. He freezes, phone halfway to his ear, and looks at you. You’ve lowered the duvet. The bleeding is worse now, a steady drip. But your eyes are clear and focused. “Do not call the McLaren team doctor at three o’clock in the morning on the night you won the World Championship to tell him you broke my nose. Again. During …” You wave a hand, searching for the right word. “… an intimate moment.”

He stares at you, the logic of your words slowly penetrating his thick skull. You’re right. The PR fallout from that phone call would be apocalyptic.

“Right,” he says, lowering the phone. “No team doctor. Okay. Right. So, a hospital. We’ll go to a hospital. I’ll get the car.” He starts pulling on his trousers, which are inside out. He doesn’t notice.

“Okay,” you agree.

“I am so sorry,” he says, the words a desperate, repeating mantra. He finally gets his trousers on the right way and shoves his feet into his shoes without socks. “I don’t know how this happened. My elbow just … slipped. I wasn’t—I would never—I swear to God, I’m not normally this … hazardous.”

“I believe you,” you say, and the strange thing is, you do. This wasn’t malice. It was just a freak accident of physics and passion. A one-in-a-billion recurrence.

He finds one of his McLaren hoodies, still smelling faintly of champagne and sweat, and gently helps you put it on over your head. The gesture is so tender, so careful, it’s a stark contrast to the accidental violence of moments before. He helps you off the bed, his arm securely around your waist, treating you as if you’re made of spun glass.

The journey through the silent, opulent hotel and down to the underground car park is a surreal pantomime of stealth and urgency. He has you tucked under his arm, your face hidden in the hood, while he scans every corridor for potential witnesses. They make it to his McLaren, and he settles you into the passenger seat with the care of a bomb disposal expert.

The drive to the hospital is silent for the first five minutes, the only sound the hum of the tires on the immaculate Abu Dhabi asphalt and Oscar’s frantic, shallow breathing. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.

“This is, without a doubt, the weirdest night of my life,” you say, finally breaking the silence. Your voice is thick and nasally. You’re holding a wad of tissues he grabbed from the hotel room to your face.

He flinches as if you’d slapped him. “I am so, so, so sorry, Y/N.” He uses your first name, and the sound of it in his mouth, so earnest and broken, makes something in your chest ache.

“I know,” you say softly. “You keep saying that.”

“It’s all I can say,” he replies, his voice cracking. “What else is there? ‘Oops’?”

A small, painful laugh escapes you. “Probably not ‘oops’.”

“I just,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I win the World Championship. My lifelong dream. And hours later, I’m in a rental car, driving the beautiful girl I was in bed with to the emergency room for the second face-breaking incident I have personally caused her. How is this my life?”

“Maybe you’re cursed,” you suggest. “Maybe you made a deal with the devil. He gives you a world title, but you’re doomed to be a menace to my specific nose for all eternity.”

He glances at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips before being immediately extinguished by a fresh wave of guilt. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny,” you insist. “The universe has a strange sense of humor.”

The emergency room at 3:41 AM is the same in Abu Dhabi as it is anywhere else in the world. The lighting is a harsh, unforgiving fluorescent. The air smells of disinfectant and quiet desperation. A handful of other people are scattered around the waiting room, nursing their own late-night maladies.

The check-in process is a masterpiece of awkwardness. Oscar tries to handle it, but he’s so flustered he can barely remember his own name, let alone yours. You end up taking over, calmly explaining to the triage nurse that you had a … fall. And that yes, you think your nose is broken again.

You sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, a strange island of high drama in a sea of mundane misery. Oscar doesn’t sit. He paces. He walks back and forth in a three-foot space in front of you, a caged, miserable animal. Every few laps, he stops, looks at you, and opens his mouth as if to apologize again, but you just give him a look, and he resumes his pacing.

A man with a dislocated shoulder, his arm in a makeshift sling, squints at Oscar. “Hey, are you …”

Oscar freezes, his face paling. “No,” he says quickly. “I’m not.”

The man shrugs and goes back to staring at the wall.

After what feels like an eternity, a nurse calls your name. Oscar is on his feet instantly, his hand on the small of your back as he guides you into the examination area.

The doctor is a young, efficient man with tired eyes. He listens patiently to your story about “falling” and then gently probes your face. Oscar hovers by the door, radiating an aura of guilt so powerful it feels like it’s sucking the oxygen out of the room.

“Well,” the doctor says, shining a light up your nostrils. “It seems you have a talent for this. It’s broken. Again. Same place.”

“A talent is one word for it,” you mumble.

“We’ll need to set it,” the doctor says calmly. “It will be unpleasant, but it’s better to do it now. A local anesthetic to numb the area, and then a quick, firm … reset.”

Oscar makes a small, strangled sound from the doorway.

“Would your … friend like to wait outside?” The doctor asks, glancing at the pale, sweating World Champion.

“No,” Oscar says immediately, his voice stronger than you expected. “I’m staying.”

He walks over and stands beside you, taking your hand. His palm is clammy, but his grip is firm and steady.

The anesthetic shots are sharp and stinging, but soon a welcome numbness spreads across your face. The doctor picks up a tool that looks like something from a medieval torture chamber.

“Okay,” he says. “A deep breath. This will be quick.”

Oscar’s grip on your hand tightens. The doctor places the tool inside your nostril, and with a swift, brutal movement, there is a deep, resonant CRACK that you feel all the way down to your teeth.

Your entire body convulses, a strangled cry escaping your throat. But it’s Oscar who flinches harder. His eyes are screwed shut, his face a mask of pure, empathetic agony, as if he felt the bone grate back into place himself.

And then it’s over. The doctor is taping a fresh, clean bandage across your nose. The sharp, blinding pain is already receding, replaced by the familiar, deep, throbbing ache.

They leave you in the room to wait for discharge papers. Oscar pulls a stool over and sits in front of you, still holding your hand. He looks utterly defeated. The euphoria of his championship victory is a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, sterile, self-inflicted nightmare.

“I felt that,” he says, his voice a raw whisper. “When he … set it. I felt it. And seeing you … the look on your face …” He shakes his head, unable to finish. “This is all my fault.”

“We’ve established that,” you say, your voice gentle. You squeeze his hand. “Oscar. It was an accident. A ridiculous, statistically impossible, cosmically stupid accident. But it was an accident.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, looking up at you, his eyes swimming with a vulnerability you’ve never seen. “It happened. Twice. I hurt you. Twice. The first time was bad luck. The second time is a pattern. I am officially a health hazard.”

He lets go of your hand and stands up, resuming his pacing in the small room.

“I shouldn’t be around you. Clearly. I’m dangerous. I’m like a walking cartoon anvil.” He stops and faces you, a look of grim resolution on his face. “After I take you back to your hotel, I’ll arrange a flight for you and your friend. First class, anywhere you want to go. A vacation to make up for the ruined vacation. And I’ll cover every medical bill, now and forever. And then … I’ll stay away from you. For your own safety.”

He says it with such finality, such certainty, that it feels like a punch to the gut. An ache, far deeper than the one in your nose, spreads through your chest. The thought of him just disappearing from your life, of this bizarre, chaotic, and strangely wonderful connection just ending here, in this sterile room, is unbearable.

He thinks he’s doing the noble thing. The right thing. And it’s the last thing in the world you want.

He’s waiting for you to agree, to accept his terms of surrender. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

He looks so lost, so convinced that he’s poison. All the confidence of the champion has been stripped away, leaving only the awkward, earnest, and catastrophically clumsy man underneath. He turns to look out the small window at the slowly lightening Abu Dhabi sky. He’s given up.

It’s your turn to be brave. Or stupid.

“Oscar,” you say. He turns back to you, his expression guarded. “Before you banish yourself to a remote island for my protection, can I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” he says.

“That night at the club … before all this,” you gesture to your face, the room. “When you asked me to come back to your room. Why did you?”

He looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was the reason? Was it because you felt guilty and you were just trying to complete the apology tour? Was it because you’d just won the biggest race of your life and you were drunk on champagne and adrenaline and I was just … there?”

He stares at you, processing the question. He walks back to the stool and sits down, his eyes locked on yours.

“No,” he says, his voice low and firm. “No. It wasn’t guilt. The guilt was there, it’s always going to be there. And it wasn’t the win. That was … that was all just noise.” He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “From the moment I first saw you — I mean, really saw you, at the club, smiling — I couldn’t think about anything else. I haven’t been able to. I felt … I don’t know. I’m not good with words. It was just a feeling. That I had to talk to you. That I wanted to be near you. It had nothing to do with your nose or the championship. It was just … you.”

The sincerity in his voice is a palpable thing. It fills the small room, pushing back against the smell of antiseptic and the hum of the hospital.

He takes a deep breath, like a driver on the grid waiting for the lights to go out. It’s a moment of bravery. Or stupidity.

“Y/N,” he says, your name a quiet prayer. “When we get out of here, and after you’ve had time to heal, and after you’re sure you don’t want to file a restraining order … will you go on a date with me? A real date. In public. During the daytime. With no beds or footballs anywhere in the vicinity.”

The question hangs in the air, audacious and hopeful and completely insane.

You look at him — this brilliant, talented, disastrous man who has twice broken your face and is now, against all logic, asking to see you again. A slow smile spreads across your lips, pulling at the tender skin around your mouth.

You tilt your head, your expression a perfect mix of amusement and affection.

“Is that because you’re trying to break my nose for a third time?” You ask. “Going for the hat-trick?”

The anxiety on his face vanishes, replaced by a sudden, startled laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. He shakes his head, a look of relief washing over him.

“God, no,” he says, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever touches that nose again. I’ll wrap you in bubble wrap if I have to.”

“Okay then, champion,” you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand again. “It’s a date.”

***

The late afternoon sun is low and golden, filtering through the sprawling branches of the oak trees in Melbourne Park. A gentle breeze, a welcome respite from the Australian heat, rustles the leaves. It’s quiet, peaceful. You’re walking along a gravel path, your hand loosely held in Oscar’s. The familiar, comfortable weight of it is an anchor in your world.

A year has passed since the Abu Dhabi emergency room. A year of tentative first dates — each one meticulously planned by Oscar to be as low-risk and hazard-free as possible — followed by a second date, and a third, until neither of you were counting anymore. A year of falling in love, a slow and steady process that felt as inevitable as it was unlikely.

His life is still a whirlwind of carbon fiber and continents, of qualifying laps and sponsor commitments. But your life is the quiet space he returns to. Your small apartment, which is now cluttered with his belongings, has become his home. The man who was once a face on a television screen now leaves his slippers by your front door and argues with you about who has to unload the dishwasher.

“I’m just saying,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze, “that for a man who can calculate braking points to the millimeter while traveling at the speed of sound, your ability to judge the correct amount of pasta to cook is shockingly poor.”

He feigns a look of deep offense. “It’s called being prepared. What if we have unexpected guests? What if there’s a pasta-related apocalypse? We’re set for a week. You should be thanking me.”

“My thank you is not having to cook for three days,” you concede. “But my Tupperware collection is filing a formal grievance.”

He laughs, a deep, easy sound that you feel more than you hear. He stops walking and turns to face you, pulling you in by your hand. The sun catches the flecks of gold in his eyes. The shy, awkward boy from the medical tent is gone, replaced by a man who looks at you with a quiet certainty that still makes your breath catch.

“Is my subpar pasta-cooking a deal-breaker, then?” He asks, a playful smirk on his lips.

“I’m considering my options,” you say, rising on your toes to kiss him. “But for now, you’re safe.”

He leans in to kiss you back, his other hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. And in that moment, in that split-second of blissful, mundane peace, the universe decides to test you one last time.

From the corner of your eye, you see a flash of neon green.

A frisbee, thrown with more enthusiasm than skill by a teenager on the nearby lawn, wobbles violently through the air. It arcs, dips, and then makes a sharp, unnatural turn, as if guided by the hand of some mischievous god of chaos.

It is heading directly for your face.

Time slows. It’s happening again. The world narrows to a single, incoming projectile. You see the ridges on the plastic, the way it spins, the inexorable physics of its trajectory. You brace for the impact, a phantom ache already blooming in your nose.

But Oscar’s world speeds up.

His kiss hasn’t even ended when his senses scream DANGER. His racer’s reflexes, honed by a thousand start-lights and a million micro-corrections, take over his body. There is no thought. There is only action.

His hand drops from your cheek. In a single, fluid motion that is impossibly fast, he moves. He doesn't just block it. He doesn't just bat it away. His arm extends, his fingers splay, and with the pinpoint precision of a man who lives in a world of milliseconds, he plucks the neon green disc out of the air.

It comes to a dead stop, hovering silently, less than an inch from the bridge of your nose.

A stunned silence hangs between you. The teenagers on the lawn have frozen, their hands over their mouths. The breeze rustles the leaves.

Oscar is panting slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks from the frisbee in his hand to your wide, shocked eyes. He’s holding the plastic disc like it’s a venomous snake he’s just subdued.

You slowly reach up and touch your nose. It’s there. It’s intact. It’s not bleeding.

A slow, bubbling laugh escapes your lips. It starts as a giggle and grows into a full, breathless peal of laughter. You lean your forehead against his chest, shaking with the sheer, cosmic absurdity of it all.

“Oh my god,” you manage to get out between gasps.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice tight with a familiar, post-traumatic panic.

You look up at him, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. “Better than okay. My hero.” You tap the frisbee still clutched in his hand. “Look at you. Finally putting those ridiculously fast hands to good use.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, a wave of relief washing over him. He looks down at the frisbee, then back at you, a look of mock-seriousness in his eyes.

“All of it,” he says, his voice a low, dramatic vow. “The go-karting since I was a kid, the years in the junior formulas, the hours in the simulator, winning the World Championship … it has all been a training montage for this exact moment.” He tosses the frisbee dismissively onto the grass. “My life’s purpose is complete. I have saved your nose.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. “My nose and I are eternally grateful,” you whisper against his lips.

“Good,” he murmurs, his smile softening into something tender and real. “Because I plan on keeping it safe for a very, very long time.”

He kisses you then, a kiss that isn’t born of frantic passion or champagne-fueled victory, but of quiet certainty and a shared, ridiculous history. It’s a kiss that tastes like home. And you know, with a clarity that settles deep in your bones, that while your story started with a bang and two clean breaks, it will end with a lifetime of very, very quiet saves.

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