#honeywrites

He remembers the first time he ever saw you. He’d been in Monaco for a weekend, scouting out an apartment to move into and trying to get a feel for the city. Charles had found out, had given him a list of things to see and tickets to a couple experiences, including the Monte Carlo ballet on Saturday night. And Oscar had never been a big ballet guy, or a dance guy in general, but Charles had insisted if there was one thing he had to do it was this. So he went. Dressed up nice and sat in a theater seat and found himself entranced.

It had been everyone on stage, but especially you. The way you moved so effortlessly, with so much grace. The way you held yourself with such elegance and confidence. You’d taken his breath away, left him wide eyed with wonder like he had been years ago attending his first F1 race in Australia.

And then he’d met you, in the lobby. You were standing there, still in costume, smiling at children and thanking everyone for coming. It wasn’t like him to go up and say anything, but he’d just felt so drawn to you.

“I’m sure you get this a lot,” he’d said, as you smiled softly at him, a large bouquet in your arms, “but you’re incredible.”

He can still remember the sound of your laugh. The weight of your hand on his wrist as you thanked him. And then-

“Charles told me you were coming,” you’d said. He’d swallowed, nodded. “And that you might be moving here.”

He’d nodded again. “It’s a beautiful place.”

You’d nodded in agreement. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He’d gone back to his hotel and dreamed of spinning ballerinas. The next morning, he woke up and contacted his management team, and asked them to lease the apartment he’d looked at the day before. The one with the view of the sea from the kitchen. He’d followed you on Instagram, too, and tried not to get his hopes up when he realized you were already following him.

And then it had been the F1 season, and a move to Monaco in the middle of it, and an afterparty after Charles’ first home win, full of champagne and happy smiles and a country so proud of him. And Charles, cutting through the crowd, eyes sparkling, with you in tow. Oscar had figured out the two of you were friends in the months since his ballet visit.

“Someone’s been looking for you,” Charles said in a singsongy tone.

It had all sort of bloomed from there. Now when Oscar is back in Monaco, he spends half his time in a dance studio, surrounded by mirrors and classical music and you. He still loves watching you, just like he did that very first night. He gets to see a side of you that most of the people in the audience never will- undone. In a plain leotard, sometimes a skirt, sometimes thick warmup pants that make him giggle, trying and trying over and over again to get something right. He sees the bruises and hears about the strained muscles and does what he can to help you with them. He loans you hoodies to wear during warm ups at rehearsals, and he cooks you meals to make sure you’re getting enough fuel for all the work you put yourself through. And he loves every second of it.

In return, you spend your breaks from rehearsals watching free practices and qualis and sometimes even races. He’s gotten pictures sent to him of you stretching with his onboard camera view on your tablet in front of you. The distance makes his heart ache sometimes, but when he gets to spend time with you it’s like nothing has changed. His favorite nights in Monaco are the ones with you perched on his kitchen counter, the harbor in the background.

The summer’s nearly over when he realizes he’s falling in love.

He can’t help it. You’re kind and beautiful and funny. He’s not sure anyone would blame him. It’s just… You’re the first friend he’s made here, the first connection to this new city. He doesn’t want to lose you. And he’s gone so often, he thinks it might make things so much worse. To tell you he loves you and then have to leave every weekend, to never be around. He hates the thought of It. Besides, he reminds himself, you’re a ballerina. Far too talented for someone like him.

So he shoves the feelings down, and tries his best to be a good friend and never let on that he feels anything more.

…..

You’re there for the race in Hungary- Hungary, of all places. You’re there to sympathize about his broken ribs and tease him about how exactly he broke them. You’re technically there with Charles, with Ferrari, but nobody seems to notice when you sneak into McLaren’s garage with a paddock pass Oscar managed to get for you. You look good in papaya, he thinks, though you’ve told him you think quite the opposite. He gets it. You’re used to pastels and soft fabrics. The McLaren sweatshirt you’re wearing is bold and bright. But it’s got Oscar’s number across the back, and that makes him smile more than anything else.

The race weekend is busy, as always. He doesn’t see you much until after the race, until you’re standing there outside the McLaren motorhome. He’s still in his race suit, soaked in sweat and champagne and god knows what else. He’s bone tired, his ribs hurt, and he’s starving. But you’re standing there, and it all just melts away. He wonders if telling you you’re his lucky charm would be terribly cliche.

“Hi, race winner,” you say, reaching out to squeeze his upper arm. “Feel different?”

He snorts. “Nah. Not really.”

You frown slightly, eyeing his face like you’re sizing him up. “Hm. You don’t look different, either.”

“No?” He asks, raising a brow at you, a smirk threatening to slip across his lips.

You shake your head. “Guess it’s because you’ve always been a winner in my book.”

He feels his cheeks go red, and then he bursts into laughter. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he says, between giggles.

You lean into him, your head bumping against his shoulder. “I meant it!”

The thing is, he thinks you really did. He holds those words in his heart while he pulls you in close for a hug, despite your complaining about the state of him, the champagne and sweat. He holds them even closer, later, while he eats McDonald’s and avoids looking at social media comments about gifted wins by getting beaten to a pulp in Monopoly by Alex. He ices his ribs on the plane and falls asleep still thinking about you.

…..

Summer break rolls around, and he gets three weeks to spend with you. Your rehearsals are starting to ramp up for the season, and he can tell it’s weighing on you. He thinks you understand him in a way nobody else can- the love and hate for your sport. The exhaustion mixed with the urge to do it all again the next day.

He sits on the couch with you, your head against his shoulder, ice packs resting on your ankles where they’re propped up on his coffee table. There’s a movie playing on the TV, one of your favorites, one you’d been appalled he’d never seen before. You’re in one of his hoodies, soft and warm and cozy.

“Casting starts next week,” you mention, offhand.

He nods. “Yeah. I saw the Instagram post.”

He doesn’t know how to tell you he checks your dance company’s page multiple times a day. He worries it would make him seem crazy. It’s just that when he’s away, he wants every glimpse of you he can get, even if it’s in the background of a rehearsal video. And it’s become such a habit that he does it even on the days where he gets to see you in person.

He clears his throat. “Are you anxious about it?”

You hum, rubbing your hand against the fabric of your sweatpants. “A bit, I think. I want a good part, you know? And I worry I haven’t been working hard enough.”

Oscar tilts his head to look at you.. “You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met, you know.”

He means it. And he’s met people from all walks of life- fellow drivers, Moto GP riders, tennis players, engineers, basketball players, and everyone in between. But he’s never seen someone as dedicated as you. Never seen someone pull themselves apart at the seams the way you do, just to get a dance perfect. The way you criticize yourself makes him sad, sometimes. So he keeps telling you how good you are and hopes that someday it rings true for you, too.

“But maybe it’s not enough,” you tell him.

He shakes his head. “All you can give is your best. There’s nothing more you can do.”

You smile, nod, and settle in just a little closer. And he has this overwhelming urge to scoop you up, to press his lips to your forehead and tell you just how truly wonderful he thinks you are, how amazed he is. He wants to hold your face in his hands and kiss you, but he can’t.

When he says goodnight and goodbye later, it’s for a while- he’s headed off Zaandvoort. He doesn’t want to go. He knows once he gets there he’ll be excited again, ready to go, raring to be behind the wheel. But he asks you to text him when you’re home safely and finds himself wishing you were just staying at his place instead.

…..

You call him while he’s at the hotel in the Netherlands. He picks up immediately, even though he’s eating dinner with Lando. He steps outside onto the balcony so he can listen to you. The city glitters in front of him, and he thinks of the boats in the harbor in Monaco, the way they light up the water.

“Hi,” he answers, heart skipping a beat in his chest.

“Hi,” you echo back. There’s a certain quality to your voice, a thickness, like you’ve been crying. “They posted the cast list. I haven’t opened it.”

His heart rate kicks up a notch. He knows what this means to you, how important it all is, how much you’ve been hoping for something good. How hard you’ve been working. He sits down in the patio chair on the balcony.

“Okay, that’s-“ he cuts himself off. “Whatever you got, you did your best, right? And that’s all that matters.”

You sniffle, and he can hear you tapping away at your keyboard in the background. “I just. Do you think you could stay on the line while i open the email?”

The feeling he gets is overwhelming. The fact that you trust him with this, that you want him here, as much as he can be. He covers his soft smile with his hand.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, pouring all his sincerity into it. “Whatever you need.”

“Okay. Okay,” you say, like you’re trying to hype yourself up. “Okay, opening it now.”

He holds his breath the whole time he’s waiting. He thinks you might be, too. And then there’s a soft sigh on the other end, and a choked off gasp. And then-

“Oh my god,” you say, teary and breathless. “I got the lead.”

Oscar’s felt pretty happy quite a few times this year. He remembers podiums and his win in Hungary and all the other successes in between. But the way his heart fills with joy in that moment is almost overwhelming. Because he knows how much it means to you, and how much you mean to him. His words almost get caught in his chest.

“You deserve it,” he says, hoping you can’t hear how choked up he is. “You’ve worked so hard.”

“Gonna have to work harder now,” you say. But he can hear the smile in your voice.

He sends you flowers to congratulate you the next morning. You send him a picture with them in your arms, a smile on your face. He wants to make it his lockscreen, but he thinks he’d get far too many questions if he did. Too much of a risk of someone seeing. But it means the world to him either way.

…..

When he swings by your apartment on a random day where he’s back in Monaco, he spots a new picture frame by the door. Inside, there’s a bunch of pressed flowers- daisies and forget me nots and a couple others he can’t name. But he recognizes them from the photo the florist sent when he got the bouquet sent to you.

You catch him looking, hands in his pockets. When you turn to him, you smile sheepishly.

“They meant a lot to me,” you tell him.

His heart thuds in his chest. “I’m glad.”

…..

He wins in Baku, barely holding off Charles. It’s a tough, well earned victory. It’s champagne and confetti on the podium, and Charles being impressed with the move he pulled, and so many hugs and celebratory slaps on his back. It’s the smile on his mother’s face after he gets out of the car, the joy he feels at how happy she is, too.

And yet, when he gets back to his hotel, he finds himself wishing you’d been there.

It’s like he thinks about you and summons you- his phone starts ringing where it’s laying on his chest. He picks up when he sees your contact, his heart speeding up again. There’s music playing in the background when he says hello, your laughter bubbling up over it. It’s the Australian national anthem, he realizes. He starts to laugh, too.

“I’m choreographing a dance to it,” you say decisively, with a smirk on your lips. “My new favorite song.”

“Shouldn’t you be cheering for Charles?” He asks.

“Yes,” you say, very seriously. “Don’t tell him. I’ll be excommunicated from Monaco.”

He laughs, again. He feels lighter, like the stress of the race had finally faded. It’s amazing, how you do that.

“I’m so proud of you,” you tell him, and his heart swells. “Nobody more deserving.”

He lays back on the bed and lets your voice wash over him. “Thank you. It was a tough one.”

“It was fun to watch,” you tell him. “I had everyone else watching with me. I’ve converted half of them into Piastri fans.”

“Half the Monte Carlo ballet?” He teases. “That sounds like treason.“

“Again. Don’t tell Charles.”

“Thank you,” he says. “For watching.”

He means it about more than that, too. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for calling. Thank you for being you. He thinks, again, about telling you how he really feels. That after he got out of his car, he’d imagined finding you in the crowd and pulling you in for a celebratory kiss. But you’re in Monaco, doing what you love, and you’re not his girlfriend, anyway. He has to keep reminding himself.

“You should get some sleep,” you tell him.

He’s not sure what time it is in Monaco, but he laughs. “So should you.”

He talks to you for another hour, at least, and then falls asleep with the phone pressed to his ear. When he wakes up in the morning, he wonders if there’s any way out of these feelings. It sort of feels like something he’ll never get over.

…..

There are a variety of reasons Oscar is happy when the three week fall break finally comes, but more time with you is definitely one of them. You’re even busier with rehearsals than you were before, but you always find time for him.

You sit on the floor of his apartment, one leg stretched out over a bag of ice on your calf. You’re breaking in a new pair of pointe shoes- the process always entertains him. To watch you break something down and put it back together again with stitches and glue and tape. You talk him through each step like he’ll understand what you mean when you use your specific ballet terms.

He jokes about breaking in his race shoes, too, and adding elastic and ribbons to them. You laugh, and then you make him help cut the pieces of ribbon- he smiles at the silky glide of the fabric through his fingers, and tries not to wonder if your skin would be soft under his touch like this, too.

Over dinner at the kitchen counter, you tell him about rehearsals, about the parts you just can’t quite grasp and the ones you’ve gotten down pat.

“I think I’ll be okay by opening night,” you tell him. Then a smile slips across your face, your eyes wide and lit up. “Oh, speaking of- d’you want a ticket? I can get you a seat close to Charles.”

He lights up. “When is it again?”

You tell him the date as he pulls his phone out to check his schedule. If Charles can make it, he assumes he can, too, but it’s better to check just in case. He scrolls on his McLaren calendar and feels his heart plummet into his stomach.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

You tilt your head and frown. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I won’t be back.”

You frown deeper. “It’s a two week break.”

He swallows guiltily and nods. “They want us to stay to film some content. And then I have meetings at the MTC. And- I’m so sorry. I’d be there if I could, but we’re not flying back this way until after, and-“

You place your hand over his. There’s a soft smile on your lips that doesn’t match the sadness in your eyes. “It’s okay, Osc.”

His heart twists. “I’ll come the first chance I get, yeah?”

He knows it’s not the same. He’s heard you talk about opening night, about the electrifying feeling it gives you. He’d promised months ago that he’d come. And sure, it’s not his fault, but… he feels guilty all the same.

“Yeah,” you say. The happy tone of your voice feels forced. “I’ll be better at it by then, anyways.”

You change the subject. Oscar convinces you to stay over when it gets late and you’re still there. Neither of you really want to leave. He insists on sleeping on the couch so you can sleep in the bed- you’re the one who has class and rehearsal the next day, after all. He wakes up to a crick in his neck and the sound of you humming in the kitchen. When he rubs the sleep from his eyes and joins you, he’s happy to find you’ve made breakfast for both of you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, quietly.

“Wanted to,” you say, with a shrug and a smile.

He drives you to the studio, and you invite him in to say hi and hang out for a bit. It’s early, still and people are trickling in, taking time to do individual warm ups before class. You test out your new pointe shoes, and he smiles when he sees the look on your face- they’re perfect, you tell him.

You give him a hug before class starts, when he has to leave. He’s headed home to pack, and then it’s off to Austin on a flight that afternoon. You say what you always say to him before a race weekend.

“Good luck, have fun, be safe, and be nice to Charles,” you say, your cheek pressed to his shoulder.

“But not too nice,” he echoes back.

You nod. He squeezes you tight, and lets himself have this for just one second. His face, pressed against the top of your head. Someone calls for class to start, and you lean up and give him the classic cheek kisses. Then you’re racing off to the studio.

He hopes you don’t catch the blush on his cheeks.

…..

In Austin, he unpacks a hoodie from his suitcase, pulls it over his head, and sighs when he realizes it smells like your perfume. He thinks you borrowed it while you were at his place, something to cuddle up on the couch in while you stretched your poor muscles. He shoves his hands in his pockets and finds a silky strip of ribbon waiting there. It must’ve been one of the scraps from when you’d had him help with your pointe shoes, one you had to trim because he’d cut them far too long. He smiles softly, and without really even thinking, he ties the ribbon around his wrist. A nice reminder of you to carry with him.

He has to remove it eventually, when he heads to the track, but then he shoves it in the pocket of his shorts, and leaves it looped up nicely in his driver room when he has to change for the race. He loops it back around his wrist for the flight to Mexico, and sees Lando eyeing it. Oscar stares back, as if daring him to say a word.

Charles sees it, though, and smirks, when they bump into him in the hotel lobby in Mexico City. “Pretty bracelet.”

Oscar pulls his sleeve over his hand and tries not to look sheepish. He knows his cheeks and ears are turning red. He’s not sure how he’ll explain this to you, if Charles tells you. What if you think it’s weird, or creepy, or-

“She called me yesterday,” Charles says. “She was wearing your hoodie.”

Suddenly, Oscar’s cheeks are turning red for a completely different reason, and he thinks maybe this time he’ll just let it happen.

He calls you from the hotel the next day, late in the afternoon. The time difference sucks, but you’re a night owl, anyways. You’ve got your phone propped up against the mirror in the dance studio, pushed far enough back that he can see you, and your swishy warm up pants he always teases you about, and- and it’s his hoodie you’re wearing, sleeves tucked over your hands, the hood pooling around your neck. He feels his ears go red again and hopes you can’t see in the dim lighting of his hotel room.

“You’re there late,” he comments.

In the background, the window behind you is inky blue. You sigh heavily, like the time is weighing you down. If he was there, he’d lift your shoulders back up himself. Try and take some of the weight off.

“There’s this one combination,” you say, rubbing your finger against the floor. “I just can’t quite get it.”

He hums. He knows the feeling, knows what it’s like to try and try again to hit all the apexes in a sequence of turns and feel like you’re never quite there.

“You need a break, though,” he reminds you. “Sleep and a fresh start would do you good.”

You twist your lips, though you nod in agreement. “I’ll go home soon. Promise.”

He ends up convincing you to walk home with him still on FaceTime- his way of making sure you do go home, and you make it safely. He likes to listen to your routine, anyways- the click of the lights turning on, the rattle of ice cubes in your glass, your soft footsteps on the creaky hardwood floors of your apartment. He can see in the way that your shoulders start to droop that you’re tired, so he lets you go, but not before he gets the same advice he always does.

“Good luck, have fun, be safe, and be nice to Charles,” you tell him.

He nods diligently. “But not too nice.”

…..

In Brazil, during the quali rain delay, Oscar gets cornered.

“You’re not going to opening night,” Charles says, standing with his arms crossed in the paddock.

Oscar ducks his head sheepishly, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I can’t. We don’t fly back until the day after.”

Charles frowns. “That is stupid.”

He’s not wrong. “Yeah. Not much I can do about it, mate. I’d be there if I could.” Oscar pauses. “Hold on. How’d you know I’m not going?”

Charles tilts his head. He’s studying Oscar. “She told me. She’s sad about it, you know.”

Charles is disappointed. Oscar’s got a lot of respect for the guy- he hates to disappoint him. He hates even more to think that he’s made you sad. He thinks of the pink ribbon that’s laying in his driver room, the way you’d laughed while you’d tried to teach him how to sew. He thinks of your costume fittings, the peeks of the fabric he got to see, how it’ll be far too long before he gets to watch you spin around on stage in them. How excited you’d looked at the idea of him being there for opening night. His chest aches.

“I do want to be there,” he tells Charles, hating the nearly whiny tone his voice takes on. “I just…”

“I know,” Charles says softly. “And she understands. But I thought you should know she really wants you there.”

Charles leaves, then, probably off to find Max or Pierre. Oscar’s left standing, wishing he could find a way to be in two places at once.

Formula One and ballet are oddly similar, in Oscar’s opinion. It’s all about balance and rhythm, about dancing on the knife’s edge. Nothing makes that more clear than a quali session in the rain. He pulls his boots on and pictures you, ribbon slipping through your fingers as you lace it around your calves. With each corner he takes on the track, he can see you leaping across the stage. He balances the wheel between his fingers and thinks of you, spinning on the very tips of your toes like it’s easy. There’s a strength, hidden under tights and tulle, that amazed him more than anything else. You make it look easy. He can’t always say the same for himself. He’s still getting the hang of the balance.

If he tells you that, you’ll tell him he’s crazy. That you’re safe on the stage while he careens around a track in a machine made of metal and carbon fiber and not much else. He remembers you complaining about a blister on your foot, and how he’d suggested padding and bandaids.

“Then I can’t feel the floor,” you’d told him.

He’d frowned, holding one of your shoes, tapping at the hard toe box at the end. “Can you feel the floor through all this?”

You’d smiled and nodded. “You’re telling me you can’t feel the track, even through all that?”

You’re right, he finds. He can feel it, on some tracks more than others. With this one, the thing he feels the most is the way it slips away from him. But he can feel it nonetheless. He tries to channel that into the race, but there’s far too much water in the way.

Sunday exhausts him. It’s enough to have to do quali and the race on the same day, let alone to have to be up so early to do so. He feels for the mechanics, of course, who are there even earlier. It’s not an ideal race- it’s more damage limitation, than anything, with the rain and the red flags and the penalty from his incident with Liam. He takes it on the chin as much as he can, but when they’re told they can head back to the hotel he’s quite relieved. He needs sleep, desperately.

Max invites him out to celebrate, but he politely declines. He runs into Charles leaving the track and ends up in a car with him. Charles makes him think of you, he always does.

“You going out with Max?” He asks.

Charles shakes his head and yawns. “Early flight home tomorrow,” he says. “So I can be there with plenty of time to make it to the ballet.”

At the mention of opening night, Oscar’s heart sinks. The exhaustion hits him even harder, and he slumps over in his seat, letting the sound of the rain on the car windows lull him.

…..

The stage lights are blindingly bright, but you manage to make it through the very first show. It’s not perfect- no performance ever really is- but it’s as close as it can be, really. It feels good, to have worked so hard to get there, to have worked even harder after getting the role, and to have it all pay off.

You don’t change out of your finale costume before you head out to the lobby. The kids who come of the shows always love to see the dresses and leotards and sparkly makeup. You greet them with smiles, despite your exhaustion, and do the same to your friends.

Your smile gets wider when you spot Charles, with some of his family in tow. You wave them over, trying to see everyone through the crowds. There’s someone next to him who you can’t quite make out, someone who Charles tugs along by their upper arm. Someone holding a giant bouquet, filled with daisies and forget-me-nots. Your heart skips a beat.

Charles is the one who rolls his eyes and shoves the bouquet towards you. You’re half laughing, half crying when you come face to face with Oscar. You pull him into a hug, one he returns with force, half crushing the flowers between the two of you. You don’t care. He means more than any bouquet ever could.

“You said you couldn’t make it!” You say, shock still rolling through you.

“They released us from some of our plans after the hell weekend in Brazil,” he says, the words melting into your skin where his lips are pressed to your temple. “So I hitched a ride.”

You grin at Charles over Oscar’s shoulder. He gives you a horrible wink in return, and mouths the word later before fading into the crowd.

“Oh my god, you must be so tired,” you say, leaning back to look at him.

He shrugs. “M’wide awake now. You were incredible.”

You laugh, one arm still looped around his neck. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it, every time.”

His hand falls to your hip, fingers brushing against the poofy tulle. You swear you can feel the warmth of him, even through all the layers. Maybe it’s just radiating off of him, off his smile and the blush on his cheeks and the fact that he’s here at all.

When you speak next, he opens his mouth and says something at the same time. The two of you pause, then dissolve into giggles again.

“You first,” you say.

He hums. “You sure you don’t want to go first?”

“You flew all the way here, I think you get the honors.”

He nods, smiles, and swallows. “Okay. Um. Any chance you’re not busy after this?”

There’s the cast dinner, but it’s not mandatory. And besides, you think after all the talking you’ve done about Oscar for the past few months, they’ll understand.

“I’m free,” you tell him.

“Prefect,” he says. “Call me when you’re ready, and we’ll go out to dinner.”

“Just you and me?” you ask, hopefully.

He nods. “Just you and me.”

You nod, the grin already breaking across your lips. “Sounds like a date.”

He laughs, muffling the sound into your forehead. “It sure does. I’d like that. If you want it to be.”

“Yeah,” you tell him, smiling bigger than you think you have all night. “I’d like that a lot.”

…..

You fall asleep on his shoulder before the dessert Oscar ordered can make it to the table. He doesn’t complain, though. He just asks for it to go instead, and pays the bill between his own yawns. He wakes you gently when he’s ready to go, and laughs at your sheepish smile, at the apology you mumble out, batting sleepy lashes at him. He can’t blame you for being exhausted.

Your hair is undone, makeup off, but he’s never found you more beautiful. More elegant. He half carries you out to the car and offers to take you home, but you yawn and shake your head. Then you lean over and kiss him, right on the lips, your arm around his neck again. He cups your face in his hands and soaks it all in while he kisses you back. Lets himself melt into the moment.

“I’m taking all the time I can get with you,” you tell him, when you pull away, your lips still brushing against his cheek. “Take me to your place, Mr. Piastri.”

He likes the sound of that. And when he falls asleep with you tucked against his chest, the soft glow of the Monaco harbor in view out of his bedroom window over your shoulder, he finds he likes the reality of it even more.

…

a/n: can’t decide if i love this or hate it, but at least i wrote something!!! thanks for reading!

He turned his hand, a sigh lingering in the column of his throat. Blood, though most of it wasn’t his. He hasn’t yet had the time to clean it off. No, more like he couldn’t bring himself to. There were somewhat clean rags everywhere, John had brought fresh water from the stream earlier that day and Arthur could just dunk the offending limbs in there until the color washed itself off.

But that would be too easy, no? Make him forget all too soon what he did to that man whom he beat up for a measly 10 dollars. The man who lost one or two teeth from every hit, begging, pleading for Arthur to stop. Nose bleeding as darkened blue eyes glared him down while his wife cried in the back. He didn’t even have enough to pay back the loan in the first place. Arthur should have stopped, should have been a better man. But he kept going until he had even the last scrap of clothes from their backs. And now the evidence stared back at him in muddled crimson and the images behind his eyes. Does he even deserve to wash his hands off after this? No matter how much he’d scrub, they would always be vile, coated by violence and apathy as they took life after life and ruined families. It was right under the skin, in his blood. This was who he was deep down. Terrible. Disgusting. “Arthur?” He hadn’t even noticed the shake in them until another color came into his view. Soft, warm as it shielded the sight of coppery regret from his misty eyes. Arthur looked up, and his stomach churned. There you were, looking at him with such worry and love that bile threatened to spill past his lips. He wanted to cut his hands off lest you touch them more, lest you realize why they looked like that. If you saw what he did, knew what those hands committed, you’d recoil like he did now. But your brows only furrowed as you inched closer, as if you couldn’t see what a monster he was. There were your hands again, encasing his, despite the grime and blood. Swallowing the lump in his throat, the man willed his eyes up to meet yours. “Shouldn’t touch me, darlin’. Gonna catch somethin’”, Arthur mumbled, not even convinced of his own words. But he didn’t want his crime on your hands as well. Those hands that stitched him up after bullet wounds and held his face so tenderly as if he wasn’t wanted in numerous states. And yet you only shook your head, the corners of your lips quirking up in amusement. “Catch what? Arthur, you're being silly again.” Taking a firmer grip, you urged him to stand, and he followed you without second thought. Thinking around you was always difficult anyway. One smile and Arthur wouldn’t know if he died during his last mission and it was you greeting him above the clouds. His large steps stumbled after your smaller ones, realizing too late where you two were headed. Two feet from the wash basin, Arthur’s legs locked up, and his hands clenched yours. “Darlin’... I don’t need no washin”, he tried to argue, plead almost. But the underlying meaning was lost on you as you simply laughed that divine sound at him. “I won’t dunk ya head like Grimshaw, Arthur, promise!” You reassured, angling your body further towards him and giving him a view of the barrel. “That’s not…” But you cut him off with an insistent tug, one thumb running over the back of his hand before tapping it twice. “Yer all bloody, mister. I reckon you DO need a wash here.” The little teasing in your retort wasn’t lost on him, and Arthur’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he let himself be lugged along. The water wasn’t as cold as anymore as it was this morning, yet the gunslinger flinched as if he touched ice. This time, it didn’t go unnoticed, and you halted your ministrations. “... Arthur?” You tried again. Softer this time, quieter. Only for him. It took a while before the man in question answered, clearly wrestling with his thoughts. But when he opened up, it was with the same guilt as if he was being shamed in court. “Hurt some feller today… Real bad.” He began, and it was at this moment he realized he didn’t even remember the man’s name anymore. Blues downcast, he avoided your gaze in case of judgement. As if you would bring the hammer down on him and condemn him to a lifetime of loneliness once more.

And yet, you only nodded out of his sight, gently lowering his hands into the basin once more. “Another loan?” Your voice matched his sober tone. His distaste for this kind of work came up a few times before for you two. It always ended with Arthur wanting more time for himself, away from everything and everyone. To overthink, surely, you figured. But this time, you wanted to be there for him, and properly.

The non-answer Arthur gave you told you everything you needed to know, eyes still not meeting yours. So you lowered your gaze as well, focusing on cleaning the worst off of his calloused hands. Once most of the stains were gone, your voice reached his ears again. “C’mon Arthur. Wanna show you somethin’.” Stealing Arthur away to his tent was easier than usual this time around. Javier strummed his guitar for the few onlookers around the fire, Kieran being surprisingly one of them. Hosea and Lenny were reading books together, seemingly talking about their respective plot points in a little huddle with Tilly and Mary Beth listening in. Dutch, for once, was busy as well, giving Molly the attention she deserved as Charles heaved a deer up onto the butcher’s table for dinner in the back. In short, practically everyone was busy - perfect for your little ‘love-on-Arthur’-plan.

Up on your tippy toes, you closed the old draped on Arthur’s tent as best as you could. You wanted privacy for this, even if it wasn’t that kind of night. “You showin’ me my tent?” Your man quipped behind you, a hint of amusement coming up from under his exhaustion from the day.

“Shush, you.” You waved your hand, unable to hide your half-smile as you ushered him onto his cot. He followed obediently, though one of his now clean hands ran down his face, smushing his tired expression.

“Don’t think I can-”

“We not gonna. Now hush, love.”

Arthur accepted you cutting him off with your cryptic replies, one eyebrow raised as you kneeled in front of him. Despite insisting he wasn’t in the mood, he couldn’t shake how you in this position made him feel. Breath caught in his throat, shifting, he never imagined what you would do instead though.

Lifting one of his bruised hands to your lips, a faint kiss was planted right over his knuckles. Then another, travelling sideways over each finger. Your eyes were closed while Arthur was sure his were about to bug out of his head, unable to form any coherent thought.

And then you spoke.

“Your hands are beautiful, Arthur.”

“No-”

“Yes.”

A frustrated groan as Arthur’s fingers twitched. Yet, you only smiled a little, your eyes much too soft and warm for his liking. Then, as if he never complained, you continued, kissing over his palm. “You might not like ‘em, but I can see what they can do.”

A cold chill ran up his spine, Arthur believing you would recount his many escapades in drunken violence. Not that you ever did, but what if this time, you would? See him for the monster he is, the monster he can never change being. Horrendous and made out of tainted blood not his own.

Your lips graced his thumb, and as your mouth opened again, Arthur forgot how to breathe.

“Y’always use this thumb to wipe my tears…” You whispered, almost reverent as you kissed from knuckle to tip, a shiver of Arthur accompanying the gesture. Moving on to his pointer finger, you murmured between kisses. “And this one, your trigger finger. Reliable, yeah, but also the one y’use to pick flowers.”

Arthur’s mind emptied, focused entirely on your show of love as you revealed your thoughts to him. Your true ones, not the ones he projects onto you in his own fear, but the ones from your loving heart that stayed with him for a year now.

Arriving at his middle finger, he huffed a chuckle at how he could feel your smile against his skin. “I know what you use this one for, Mr Morgan.” “Ain’t always vulgar, sweetheart.” He tried to joke back, feeling his heart soar at how you giggled in reply.

“That’s right. Because this here finger, it’s got that little callus on it from when ya hold your pen to draw.” Now that’s not what Arthur expected you to say, but you simply kissed the mark in question on the inside of said finger. The action and how you saw him almost made him miss the whisper you breathed at the next one in line.

“Maybe one day, Arthur…”

He wanted to ask you to elaborate, beg to tell him you really did want that ring on his and your finger. But you were already moving again, and Arthur’s hand could only twitch as his heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

“Remember what we use the pinky for, baby?” You smiled, intertwining both of your fingers together and waving them softly from side to side.

“Yer little promises, right?” Finding his voice again, Arthur fought to keep the cracks and wavering out of it. He was still shaken up, but in a good way now. A better way.

“Yeah. The one ya used to promise me to go huntin’ back out west. Remember…?” And remember he did. The first time you both went out together, though it was hardly a date. Arthur could never call it that, you deserved much better than hunting coyotes after Pearson burned the gang's last food. And yet it was one of your first outings together.

One of many firsts, just like right now.

Dragging your lips up to his palm, you promptly held it against your cheek, leaning into it. A pleased hum vibrated against his skin, and out of instinct he began to cradle you softly. “Your palm always holds me… And your hand holds mine.” You finished, gently putting his hand in yours.

He’s not in a rush, but he’s already planning what he’ll say to them. When the time comes.

…..

You can’t see your string, which means you’re left a bit in the dark about the whole thing. You can sometimes feel the tug of the phantom string on your pinky, like someone’s testing the strength of it, checking to see if there really is someone on the other end. You always tug back and hope they feel it. You wonder if they’re close, or far away, if they’re desperately chasing after the line or waiting for you to come to them.

You feel jealous, sometimes, listening to your friends talk about following their strings to bars and restaurants and libraries, finding their perfect match at the end. Or your other friends, looking up to find someone moving their pinky and feeling the resulting tug and just knowing. Then you think of your friend Eli, who could see his string, and the way he sobbed when it was cut, the end falling to the ground at his feet, meaning he’d never get the chance to meet his soulmate. Gone too soon, his parents had said. He’d never even know who they were.

You think that maybe it’s better not knowing.

…..

When Oscar’s 15, he moves to England to chase his dreams. When he’s 15 and a half, he stands on the beach and feels his chest grow tight. He’s done this before, been to the beach and stared out a billion times at the endless blue and thought about his soulmate, about where they might possibly be. But here, staring out over the water towards Ireland, and North America far, far beyond it, the string isn’t pulled out over the water. It’s behind him, facing inland. As if whoever has the other end is behind him somewhere. He has the strangest feeling. He’s closer than he’s ever been, probably. Or, he supposes, maybe farther away. But it’s different.

He almost panics, for some reason, but he feels a gentle tug on the string and takes a deep breath. His person is out there somewhere. He’ll find them eventually.

He’s heard of people who give up. Who grow tired of searching. They spend ages and tons of money following the string wherever it points, and when they think it’s a lost cause, they slip the knot off their pinky and let the link go. It’s why he’s not keen on rushing. He’s not going to drive himself mad over this. He wants to find his soulmate, sure, but he wants to have his brain intact when he gets there. So he can, like, love them, he guesses.

He wonders if it’s a love at first sight thing. If your body just sort of knows, or if it’s more of an indicator, if you still have to build the relationship to the point of calling it love. His parents say it’s different for everyone. Which is a great answer. He thinks he’ll find out when he finds them, and it’ll all work out. Probably.

…..

Sometimes you hear funny stories about soulmates who have found each other, and the way it happens. Like one of them not noticing the string getting shorter until they’re standing in a grocery store, feeling it grow hot around their pinky, looking up to see it glowing. Or the people you’d heard about who’d been chasing each other around the world for years- one of them traveling for work, the other trying desperately to track them down, until the first got sick and had to stay stationary for a few weeks and they were able to catch up.

You hear of soulmates who met in Vegas and got married the same day, of soulmates who never got married because they’re the platonic type, of soulmates who find each other and then find they have another string, a third person who belongs with them. It’s strange, that in all the years it’s been happening, so little is known.

You often wonder what your soulmate will be like. If you’ll have common interests, if you'll like the same things. Or maybe you’ll be opposites, but just different enough to compliment each other.

You sit at your desk in your college apartment, studying, drumming your pinky on the textbook absentmindedly. When you feel the sharp tug on the string, you laugh. You wonder if your soulmate is in the same time zone- it’s nearly 2am, they’re likely telling you to go to bed. Or maybe they’re a few hours ahead of you and wondering why you’re up so early.

It’s strange, to think that someone you’ve never met wonders about you, worries about you. Stranger to think of meeting someone for the first time and knowing you’re meant to spend the rest of your lives together. Strange in a nice way. Like the universe has laid it all out for you.

…..

Oscar starts traveling when he gets into F3 and F2, and he’s happy to realize that the string always sort of circles back to the general area of Europe. It makes his life a little easier. It still stretches off into the distance, but he can work with this. He won’t have to go off to Alaska or something, though he’d do it if he had to.

He has dreams, sometimes, that he thinks are someone else’s. People have mentioned that to him before, that sometimes, if you’re both sleeping at the same time and the connection is strong enough, you’ll catch a glimpse into the other person’s head. It’s sort of comforting- a hand brushing through bouquets of flowers, a cup of coffee he’d have never ordered for himself, a mess of papers on a desk in a dorm he’ll never study in. He thinks about getting to do those things with his soulmate, and his chest grows warm.

He tugs on the string, just to let them know he’s there. They tug back, a pattern of two short pulls. He’s standing in the paddock before a race, and he can’t fight the smile, or the blush on his cheeks. They’re out there, somewhere.

…..

You graduate college and manage to land a job in your chosen field, which is a big relief. It’s an entry level one, but it pays well enough, and you’ll get to travel for work which is sort of the dream. You’ve noticed that while you’ve been stationary for years, the tugs on your invisible string have been coming from different directions. Sometimes the east, sometimes the west, sometimes somewhere in between. They must move around a lot. Maybe you’ll have a better chance of meeting them if you do the same.

…..

It’s the weekend of Oscar’s second ever race as an F1 driver that he notices it. He’s in the post race media area, listening to questions and his competitors droning on and on about their cars. He itches his pinky, looks up, and nearly chokes on air.

Normally, the string sort of just stretches off in one direction, disappears into the distance, when your soulmate is far away enough. But the red string that’s tied to him is now twisted around a mic stand, out an open door, and down a hallway.

That starts to happen when you’re close to your soulmate, within a couple miles. And his pinky isn’t itchy, it’s warm- the string is starting to glow. He bounces on the balls of his feet, answers questions quickly, tries to make a quicker escape, but by the time he’s fulfilled all his duties, the line is straightening back out, pulling farther and farther away, stretching into nothingness again. His heart sinks. His soulmate had been here, so close, and now they’re gone. From the rapid change in distance, he’d guess they’re on a plane or a train. Moving too fast for him to catch up.

For the first time, Oscar wonders if maybe he should’ve been in more of a hurry about this. If he’s just missed his one chance.

Then he gets up the morning he has to leave for Miami and finds the string pulling him in a different direction than normal, towards the US, and he starts to get his hopes up again.

…..

You’re standing in the paddock in Miami, rubbing your pinky absentmindedly. It feels warm. It’s an odd feeling, like a little line of sunshine wrapped around your skin. You mention it to a coworker named Ben, who says that’s how he felt when his soulmate got close. You feel your heart start to race.

“But it happened 10 times before he actually found me,” he says. “He’s got horrible eyesight, and even the glowing string was difficult to follow. He got completely lost in New York while I wandered around aimlessly.”

You laugh and try not to get your hopes up. But through the day, it gets warmer and warmer, nearly uncomfortably so. And then you look down and gasp.

There’s a glowing string wrapped around your pinky. It’s pulling off into the distance. Ben gives you a wide eyed look.

“You can see it,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say, awestruck.

Before you can get your feet to move, before you can even try to follow it, there’s a commotion down the paddock. It’s McLaren’s rookie driver, Oscar Piastri, stumbling his way through the crowds. He has golden string looped around his arms and hands. You start to laugh as he spools it up as he moves along. He must look crazy to anyone who can’t see it, but they also probably know what’s happening.

“Sorry, sorry, ‘scuse me,” he says, as he stumbles your way.

He gets closer and closer, and then he seems to realize he’s almost reached the end, because he looks up, eyes wide. Everyone is watching him. You’re watching him. There’s a hush over the crowd. No matter how many times you see soulmates meet, it never gets old.

“Hi,” he says, sheepishly, tugging on the string. You tug back, and he grins. He takes a couple steps forwards. “I, uh. I think we’re soulmates.”

You laugh. He grins wider. “You think so?” You say, taking a step in his direction.

He blushes, nods. “Um. I’m Oscar,” he says.

You laugh. “Yeah, I know.” Then you tell him your name, watch the sound of it wash over him, watch him form the syllables with his lips. How strange it is, to meet someone and know you’ll be saying their name for the rest of your life.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

You nod. “Is it weird of me to say it feels like I already know you?”

He shakes his head, gaze going soft. He reaches out and hooks his pinky against yours. The string glows so bright you think everyone must be able to see it, and then it disappears. It leaves behind two tiny line tattoos on your finger and his, complete with a little bow.

“Nah, it’s not weird,” he says. “I think that’s kind of the point.”

When you lean up to kiss him, it feels like coming home. You think he might just be right.

a/n: hi I wrote this in like an hour tops and have barely proofread it pls let me know if you find typos. and what you thought in general. just saw the prompt and had to write it. as always, thanks for reading!!

The field trip has been fun. The kids are thrilled about everything. It’s just. Tiny hands, tiny humans, wandering through an active car factory? You’re on edge the whole time. You’re constantly scanning the class, counting to make sure you haven’t lost any students as the tour guide tries to explain mechanical engineering in words that 5 year olds will understand.

You breathe a mild sigh of relief when they bring you into a large, open conference room. They’re going to have someone come speak to the kids in a few minutes. While you have the chance, and a closed room with enough people to guard the exits, you stand in front of your class and tell them to go wild. Seventeen five year olds begin to run around the room. One 5 year old clings to your hand in the quietest corner of the room.

Sammy. He’s a quiet kid, not one for the chaos. He’s stuck to your side the whole morning, staring at everything with big eyes and jumping at all the loud noises. You relate to him more than you’d like to admit. Somehow, the quiet kid turned into a teacher. It seems almost hard to believe looking back, how painfully shy you were.

Sammy tugs on your hand and points at a large mural on one of the walls. “Who’s that?” He asks.

The room you’re in has the two current drivers plastered on the walls, larger than life. You look where he’s pointing and smile.

“That’s Oscar Piastri,” you say, extending the syllables for him.

“Os-car Pi-as-tri,” he sounds out. “That’s my dad’s favorite driver.”

You smile. “Wanna know a secret?” He nods, and so you whisper loudly. “He’s my favorite too.”

Sammy giggles. “Oscar Piastri.”

“He says it better than most of the broadcasters, I think,” says someone behind you.

You turn and come face to face with none other than Oscar Piastri. You hope your shock isn’t too obvious, and you try to control your wide eyes. They’d said someone from the team was going to come talk to your kids- you hadn’t expected it to be one of the drivers. You smile politely as you feel Sammy step behind your legs.

“Hi. Sorry about the…” you wave your hand in the general direction of the children running around behind you. “If they didn’t get some excercise they were never going to make it through the rest of the day.”

“No worries,” Oscar says, smiling brightly. He looks at Sammy where he’s hiding behind you. “Not this guy, though?”

“No, Sammy here is very well behaved and polite,” you say proudly, before whispering, “and quite shy.”

Oscar nods in understanding. His face has gone soft. You weren’t lying when you said he was your favorite, and it only increases with the way he looks at the five year old so fondly. You think maybe Oscar understands Sammy all too well. You turn over your shoulder to look at the little boy.

“Sammy, should we practice being big and brave and introducing ourselves?” You ask. He frowns slightly but nods anyways. “We’ll do it together, okay?”

He nods again and steps out from behind your legs. You stand up straight, and he follows suit. Then you stick your hand out to shake Oscar’s as you introduce yourself.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, repeating your name back to you. “I’m Oscar.”

Sammy takes a tentative step forward and sticks his tiny hand out. You drop back just a bit and pull your phone from your pocket, giving Oscar a questioning glance and making a camera sort of motion with your hands. He nods eagerly before he crouches down to Sammy’s level.

“My name is Samuel,” he says, as he shakes Oscar’s hand. “But you can call me Sammy.”

You hide an endeared laugh behind your hand and snap a picture of the two of them. You know his parents will be thrilled.

“Hi, Sammy,” Oscar says sweetly. “My name is Oscar. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You’re my dad’s favorite driver,” Sammy says. “And my teacher’s favorite driver. So I think you’re my favorite, too. Os-car Pi-as-tri.”

You stare down at him with wide eyes, suddenly feeling betrayed by your favorite student. Your face grows warm, but Oscar just laughs lightly and smiles up at you.

“Is that so?” He says, turning back to Sammy. “I’m honored.”

He stands back up, and Sammy goes back to clinging to your side. There’s a bright smile on Oscar’s face. You know yours matches it.

“So, are you our guest speaker?” You ask, trying to will your face to cool down.

He nods eagerly, eyes darting around the room, watching kids run everywhere. One of them bumps into the back of your legs and squeaks out a quick apology before running away again. He laughs lightly, hiding it behind his hand.

“Hopefully Lando and I can keep them entertained,” he says.

“Oh, they’ll be fine, they’ll sit quietly when I ask them to,” you say.

He gives you an uncertain look, a soft smirk on his lips. You laugh, hoping it’s not painfully obvious how taken you are with him. He’s been your favorite driver because of his level head and dry humor, but standing in front of him you can’t help but notice how cute he is. Before he can say anything in response and challenge your ability to control your class, Lando comes stumbling into the room.

“Okay, now this is my kinda school trip,” he says, an impressed grin on his lips. He elbows Oscar. “This was me as a kid.”

Oscar gestures towards Sammy, still tucked against your leg. “This was me, I think.”

Lando laughs and nods. He tilts his head at you, and you stick your hand out once again and introduce yourself. Sammy follows suit. Lando bends to shake the five year olds hand, giving both you and him an impressed smile.

“Sammy’s working on being big and brave and introducing himself,” Oscar says.

“Well he’s doing a great job,” Lando says with an approving nod.

“He’s got a great teacher,” Oscar says, grinning at you.

With that, your face grows hot again. You clear your throat and turn over your shoulder to look at the class. They’re beginning to slow just slightly. Perfect timing.

You clap your hands, and each of them skids to a stop, turning to look at you. “Okay, friends! Come sit up here, we have some very special guest speakers.”

The children all make their way to the front of the room, sitting down on the carpet in a semicircle. Even Sammy wanders away, taking a seat near the back. You turn back to Oscar and Lando, who both have impressed looks on their faces.

“I think we need you to run our meetings,” Oscar says, brows raised.

“Oh, if you give them permission to go crazy consistently when they need it, they’ll listen when you tell them it’s time to be calm,” you say with a shrug. “My mum was a teacher, too, she taught me that.”

“Yeah, if Zak let me be a menace before meetings I’d have a lot easier time sitting through them,” Lando agrees. “Alright, you little muppets!”

He steps in front of the class. Oscar gives you an exasperated smile, like you’re both sharing a moment of understanding. Maybe Lando’s still a 5 year old at heart. You laugh and step back with the chaperones to watch them speak as Oscar follows Lando’s lead. It’s fun to watch. You realize they couldn’t have picked better speakers.

Some of the kids recognize the drivers, but even the ones who don’t are enamored once they find out that these guys drive race cars for a living. You snap lots of pictures of your students staring up at them with wide grins. Lando continues to call them muppets, earning laughs each time. Oscar gets down on their level and uses a little model of the car to explain the aerodynamics. They give a horrible demonstration of slipstream, with Lando pretending to drive and Oscar pretending to be the air. Then, at the end, they open it up for questions. Eighteen tiny hands fly up into the air.

“Do you speed when you drive a normal car?” One of them asks.

“Never,” Lando lies.

“D’you ever fight with other drivers?” Another student asks.

“We try to leave what happens in the race on the track,” Oscar answers. “We’re all quite nice to each other outside of the races, actually.”

Lando shrugs and shakes his hand from side to side. A few of the kids catch on and laugh.

Sammy is sitting in the back of the group, his hand raised. He’s not waving it around, not bouncing up and down. But you watch Oscar scan the group, see him spot the tiny hand anyways.

“Sammy,” he calls out. “What’s your question?”

Sammy looks shocked to have been called on, but he clears his throat and speaks up. “What’s your favorite color?”

The grin that breaks across Oscar’s face is endearing. Lando smiles, too, presses his hand to his chest. You wait for the canned answer- papaya, you think.

“Mine’s bright green,” Lando says.

Oscar nods. “Mine is blue. What’s yours?”

“Mine is blue too,” Sammy answers.

“Good taste.” Oscar says. He exchanges a grin with you. You smile proudly at Sammy, so happy to see him step out of his shell just a bit.

The next student who gets called on says, “my mum told me to ask if you’re single,” and you clap your hands and walk towards the front.

“Okay, friends, I think Oscar and Lando have given us enough of their time,” you say. “Can we all say a big thank you?”

A chorus of little voices calls out varying forms of thank you. One of them screams it, and Lando winces. Oscar’s cheeks are pink, probably from the student asking about his relationship status. Is it bad that you almost wanted him to answer? You’re being ridiculous, you know. But his flushed face is cute, and you can’t help but smile at him.

You shake their hands one more time before they leave. “Thanks again. You’ve really just made their days.”

“We were happy to,” Oscar says.

“Yeah, you’ve got a good group of kids,” Lando agrees.

“And they’ve got a good teacher,” Oscar repeats his earlier comment.

You laugh, feeling your face grow hot. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Oscar goes to say something else, but someone leans in through the door and calls out to him and Lando. He smiles sheepishly as Lando urges him towards the exit, tugging on his shirt.

“It was nice meeting you!” Oscar calls out before he disappears through the doors.

You turn back to your class and refocus. It’s time to move on to lunch, which is always the worst part of any field trip. Someone comes by to bring your group to the cafeteria. Your field trip worst nightmare- a large, open room full of people. You make sure all the chaperones are set with their groups and head off.

It goes fine. At first. You get the kids settled at tables and do a quick head count. Everyone’s there. They provide lunch for the kids, so you help to hand them out to everyone. Eighteen five year olds sit quietly, eat sandwiches and drink juice. You breath a little sigh of relief.

Then the kids all decide they need to go to the bathroom. You split them up, send them with chaperones in groups. You stay back at the tables with the ones who say they don’t need to go, knowing full well that in ten minutes they’ll be whining for the restroom. You clean up spilled apple juice and eat half your lunch. The bathroom groups come back one by one. Seventeen five year olds sit down at the tables.

And no, that can’t be right. You count again. Seventeen. One more time- seventeen. There’s an empty seat. You turn to the nearest chaperone, who also has a panicked look on his face.

“Sammy,” he says, eyes wide. “He was in my bathroom group, I swore he came back with us-“

You can’t panic. You turn to the nearest McLaren employee and tell them the situation. The look on her face tells you she’s going to panic, so you take control of the situation. You ask her to get everyone on the lookout for him, to page him over the speakers. Then you turn to your class.

“Friends,” you say, loudly. “Has anyone seen Sammy?”

Casey, one of the louder boys, raises his hand. “He stopped to tie his shoes when we were coming back.”

You could strangle the parent for not noticing, for not keeping an eye on the kids, but you don’t have time for that. At the very least, you have a starting point. You delegate a couple chaperones to stay with the kids in the cafeteria, and enlist a couple others to help you look. Panic is itching at the back of your brain, but you keep it tamped down. You’ll find him, and then you’ll freak out about it.

You split up, wandering the halls and asking everyone if they’ve seen a shy five year old with dark hair. They all tell you no, but that they’ll keep their eyes peeled. You check around corners, behind doors, in conference rooms and offices. You think you accidentally interrupt what was likely a very important meeting, though when you explain you’re looking for a missing child the men in suits all seem to understand.

The longer it goes on, the more sick to your stomach you feel. It’s Sammy. He got separated from his group and probably panicked just like you want to do now. He could be anywhere. He’s tiny, he could be hiding somewhere you’d never even think to look. His parents are going to kill you-

Oscar calls your name. It’s probably odd that you already recognize his voice, but you don’t have time to worry about that. You turn to look at him, and relief washes over you. He’s standing at the end of the hallway, his hand holding onto Sammy’s. You want to march down the hallway to them, but instead you collapse against one of the walls and press your hand to your mouth. Oscar pulls him towards you.

“I found him wandering in the hallway upstairs,” Oscar says. “He said he got lost.”

You nod, crouching down to Sammy’s level. He hides behind Oscar’s legs slightly.

“You’re not in trouble,” you say. “It’s okay. You found a helper, right? We always say that, look for the helpers. It’s okay! But next time you stop to tie your shoe-“ Oscar muffles a laugh behind his hand at that. “-you tell a grown up, okay?”

Sammy nods solemnly. You stand back up.

“Thank you,” you say to Oscar. “I owe you one, big time.”

“No worries,” he says, shrugging. “Knew you must be freaking out, so.”

You reach for Sammy’s hand and head for the cafeteria. To your surprise, Oscar follows. You’re not complaining.

“I’ve only been teaching for a year,” you explain, though you doubt he cares. The nervous energy needs to go somewhere, you suppose. “And I still feel brand new, you know? And school trips- don’t even get me started.”

Oscar laughs. “But field trips were the best part of school.”

“I lost a five year old in a car factory,” you say dryly. “Field trips are much less fun as a teacher.”

Oscar nods in understanding, trying and failing to hide his laughter. You come into view of the cafeteria and start counting heads. There are seventeen other 5 year olds still sitting at the tables. Sammy joins them, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Oscar does too. You pull out your phone and call the other chaperoned who went off to look, and tell them to head back to the cafeteria. With any luck, you might still be able to finish the tour.

“He’s a good kid,” Oscar says fondly, and you smile.

“He’s my favorite,” you admit. “I was a shy kid, too.”

Oscar leaves soon after that with a soft smile and an even softer goodbye. You wish he was the one leading the tour, but you know that would never happen. You’re lucky enough to have had the chance to meet him. He’s the same age as you, and he’s a world famous racecar driver. He’s probably already forgotten your name.

The rest of the tour is uneventful. None of your students wander off, and all of them are well behaved. They spot photos of Oscar and Lando in the halls and point excitedly at them, calling out their names. Finally, you’re brought out onto the lawn near the lake, and you give the kids a few minutes to play in the grass. You have the strong urge to lay down on the lawn and let them run until they all pass out. They have boundless energy, but you’re exhausted.

Someone nudges your arm lightly. You turn, expecting it to be a kid or a chaperone, but you come face to face with Oscar again.

“Oh god, did I lose another one?” You ask frantically.

He laughs. “No, no! Just came by to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” you say in understanding. “Thanks again, you know, for finding Sammy and for talking to the kids. I don’t think they’re gonna stop talking about this for ages.”

Oscar’s cheeks are flushed. “I’m glad they had a good time.”

You nod. “I did too, even with all the chaos. You have a really cool job, you know?”

He shrugs. “Not as important as yours. Tiny minds, shaping the future, you know.”

You let out a puff of air. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just struggling to keep the tiny humans alive, let alone teach them anything.”

He’s staring at you with this warm look on his face. You like his smile. There’s something comforting about it.

“Nah, I see the way they look at you. And Sammy introduced himself, you taught him that,” Oscar says. “That’s way more important than shapes or letters.”

Your face grows even hotter. “Thanks, Oscar.”

You see the bus pulling up the road out of the corner of your eye. About time to round the kids up. You turn towards your class, who are running around on the grass.

“Well, I’ve got to get them rounded up to go back, so unless you want to get mobbed by tiny humans you might want to make a run for it,” you say. “They’re distracted now, but they’ve been talking about you all afternoon.”

Oscar laughs brightly. “Yeah. I’ll head out. Um- d’you maybe-“ he pauses, and when you turn to him he shakes his head. “Sorry. Maybe I need to go back to school. Just. Have a good rest of your day. It was lovely meeting you.”

“You too,” you say warmly. “Thanks again.”

He disappears and you watch him go. You wonder what he was going to say- it sounded an awful lot like a question. But he’s gone now, and you’ll probably never see him again, so you try and let it go. By the time you get your class back to the school, it’s almost time for pickup. They’re all half asleep at their desks, absolutely worn out. Parents come by one by one to pick them up, and when Sammy’s dad shows up, you pull him aside and explain everything, the worst feeling in your stomach.

He laughs and shakes his head. “He does that to us all the time. We’ll be on a walk and he just- stops. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Sammy wanders over as you’re still processing the fact that his dad isn’t mad. “Guess who I met?” He says, staring up at his dad with a wide grin.

“Who?” His dad asks.

“Os-car Pi-as-tri,” Sammy says.

“That’s actually true,” you chime in. “I have the pictures to prove it.”

His dad looks at you with wide eyes. “If you’d have led with that, I wouldn’t have even heard you when you said he got lost.”

Despite what Sammy’s dad said, you toss and turn all night. Thankfully, it’s a Friday, so you don’t have to teach the next day. Every time you close your eyes you think of seventeen tiny heads, and one missing, and you feel sick to your stomach again. When you finally do fall asleep, you dream of children disappearing and warm brown eyes paired with an Australian accent. You spend the weekend trying to get your mind off of all of it.

On Monday, Sammy’s mother brings him into the classroom earlier than normal. You’re still turning on the lights and straightening things when they come in. He’s holding a little bouquet of flowers, and your heart melts.

“Sammy wanted to apologize for getting lost,” his mother says. “We know you must’ve been very worried.”

You let out a breath. “Thank you, Sammy.”

He nods, and you take the flowers from him. Then he scurries away to the play area.

“It’s okay,” his mother says. “Peter said you were really beating yourself up over it.”

You shrug. “It’s my worst fear, you know? I hate school trips.”

She laughs. “You know, he really likes you. We were worried, with how quiet he is, that he’d hate school. But you make it fun for him. So thank you.”

You smile, unsure of what to say in response other than, “thank you.”

You turn to your desk to find a vase or a cup for the bouquet, and that’s when you see the other flowers. A mix of white peonies and white roses and greenery, with little orange flowers stuck between all of them. You stop in your tracks. Behind you, Sammy’s mother laughs.

“Got a secret admirer?”

You shake your head uncertainly. You’re not sure how anyone even got flowers into your classroom this early on a Monday. But there they are, sitting proud and pretty. There’s a note tucked into the stems with your name on it, and so you pull the little envelope out and open it.

Hi,

I hope you had a lovely time at the MTC. I really enjoyed meeting you. I’d love to take you out for dinner sometime. Hope this isn’t too forward,

Oscar

His number is written below. You let out a squeak. You can tell she wants to look over your shoulder or ask who it’s from, but she bites her tongue. Sammy’s your favorite student, and his parents are up there, too. But this feels like too much to share with a parent, so you shove the note in your pocket.

“Just a friend,” you lie.

“How sweet,” she says, nodding. “Well, I’d better be off. I’ll take Sammy out to the playground. We just wanted to stop in and chat.”

“Thank you,” you say, turning to her with a smile. “And sorry. Again.”

She gives you an amused smile. “It’s okay.”

You carry the note around in your pocket with you the whole day, unsure of what to do about it. Of course, all your students notice the flowers, and they tell all their friends at lunch, who then tell all their teachers. Suddenly everyone seems to need to borrow something from you, sticking their heads into your classroom and just then noticing the flowers. How pretty! Beautiful! Who are they from? You tell them all the same thing. A friend. It’s only when your favorite coworker, Maggie, comes into your classroom later that you finally tell someone.

The kids have all gone home for the day, and you’re cleaning up the last bits of paper from your class activity. She walks in and beelines for the bouquet on the desk.

“Okay, I have a theory,” she says.

“And what’s that?” You ask.

“Orange flowers,” she says. “Someone from your trip on Friday.”

“Papaya,” you correct softly.

“Huh?”

“They call it papaya, not orange,” you say. She gives you a look, one brow raised. “I know. I…”

You dig the envelope out of your pocket and throw it to her. She opens it and gasps, sinking down in your desk chair. She must reread it five times, letting out giddy noises.

“So when are you getting dinner?” She asks.

“I haven’t texted him yet,” you admit.

She stares at you with wide eyes. “He’s your favorite driver and he gave you his number and you didn’t text him?”

“That’s the thing though, Mags,” you say with a sigh. You lean against one of the desks. “He’s an F1 driver. I’m… me.”

“Yeah, and he liked you enough to send flowers to your classroom.”

“It’s not that, it’s…” you shrug. “Those guys date supermodels and actresses and pro athletes. I’m… a teacher.”

“Babe, if you don’t text him you’ll regret it,” she says. “Big time. Just give him a shot.”

You take your flowers home with you, placing them carefully in the passenger seat of your car. You set them on your kitchen counter. They oddly feel like they belong there, like that’s what the room has been missing, though you didn’t know it before. And as you sit there and eat dinner, you take out your phone and type in a new number.

…..

It takes a while for your schedules to line up, but when they finally do, you find that Oscar’s a fun person to go on a date with. Fun might be an understatement, actually. You’ve never had a better time on a date.

You’ve been texting since the day he sent you the flowers, back and forth trying to coordinate a date at first. And then it turned into little funny texts, photos of things throughout your days that made you both smile. You update him on your class, he tells you what chaos Lando’s been causing. He sends memes, and you send him ones back. By the time you actually see him in person again, it’s like you already know him.

You’d been worried that a date with someone like him was going to be a fancy restaurant that you would feel out of place at. But he suggests a little hole in the wall pub that he says is his favorite, and you eagerly agree. You meet him there in a casual outfit, jeans and a cute sweater. He’s dressed in jeans and a sweater too, his hair adorably messy. He has that same warm smile on his face.

The two of you sit and order, and any awkwardness you’d expected just isn’t there. It’s like you’re two old friends, already comfortable with each other. He jokes with you, and you match his dry humor step for step. He’s the only person you’ve ever been on a date with who doesn’t seem to bore of your stories about 5 year olds. His knee knocks against yours under the table, and you don’t pull away. You find yourself leaning closer, actually. You’re longing to reach across the table, to feel his skin against yours.

You look around later and realize it’s been quite a while since the two of you sat down. The restaurant is starting to empty out. Oscar seems to notice the same, and reluctantly asks for the bill, refusing when you try to pay for your own. You both stand up from the table and head for the door. You stop just outside, breathing in the cool night air.

He nods towards a nearby park. “Wanna take a walk?”

You definitely aren’t ready to say goodbye, so you agree. He sees you shiver slightly, and within seconds he drapes his jacket over your shoulders. It’s warm, like him, and it smells like him too. You smile bashfully up at him as you shove your arms through the sleeves. When your hand pops out, he wastes no time in linking your fingers together. You bite back a gasp.

His hand is warm against yours. It sends a shiver up your spine. You hold on tight to him and hope your palm isn’t sweaty.

He turns to look at you. “I had a really good time tonight.”

You smile. “Me too.”

“I was thinking, wondering I guess,” he says, “If you’d maybe want to do this again?”

You slow to a stop under a streetlight. He follows suit. You press your eyes shut.

“Oscar, I… I had a really good time. And I really like you,” you tell him. “But you’re world famous and I’m just me. I just don’t know…”

He squeezes your hand. “We can take it slow.”

You sigh and open your eyes to look at him. The fluorescent light shines off his fluffy hair and his cheekbones. He has a hopeful look in his eye that you’d hate to rid him of.

“You make me feel grounded,” he says. Your heart twists in your chest. “You have since that day at the MTC. You’ve just got this calming presence. And I think you’re funny, and pretty, and- yeah.”

“You think I’m pretty?” You tease.

He blushes. “Shut up.”

It’s scary, really, to think about. You want to try but he’s a bit intimidating, no matter how well you get along. And the attention that will come from dating him is even scarier. But you think of Sammy, hiding behind your legs, and how you’re trying to teach your students to be big and brave, and how you should try that, too.

You laugh and squeeze his hand. “I think you’re pretty too,” you admit, just to watch his cheeks grow redder. A sheepish smile crosses his lips, and he rolls his eyes playfully. “And kind, and funny. So yeah. We should do this again.”

“Cool,” Oscar says.

“Cool,” you agree.

Then he kisses you under the streetlamp, his hand still linked with yours. And yeah, you could get used to this.

…..

Two months later, when Sammy comes into class, he points an excited finger at you.

“I saw you on TV!” He squeaks.

You laugh. “Did you?”

He nods assertively. “My mum said I was probably wrong, but I know it was you. You were holding hands with Os-car Pi-as-tri.”

You laugh and put a finger to your lips. He takes the hint, but he laughs the whole way to his seat. You think it might be time to talk to Oscar about going public with your relationship. After all, if the five year olds are catching on, the adults will be soon, too.

When your students find out, they beg you to take them to a race. You think back to the McLaren field trip and decide you’re never, ever taking eighteen 5 year olds anywhere near a race track. That would be bad for everyone’s health. But when Sammy shows up as a grid kid at the next British Grand Prix, that’s all on Oscar. It’s definitely not because he’s your favorite student.

Okay, maybe it is.

a/n: my lovely 🐈❤️‍🩹 anon sent me a photo of Oscar with a grid kid & said: Oscar and Sammy. Please look at this photo I screamed over it. can imagine teacher!reader standing off to the side trying not to cry over how cute Oscar is tbh. anyways thanks for reading!!

“It was good,” you say, feeling the grin break out across your face. “That last lap, turn-“

“Turn two!” Max says excitedly, eyes lighting up.

You don’t have time to question the fact that he’s seen at least part of your race before he’s off on a tangent, hands dancing through the air as he talks. In his element, suddenly, lit up bright like he is when he talks to his fellow drivers, in the background on tv broadcasts during race weekends. Max is impressive at all times, but Max talking about racing is bright and electric. He draws you in like a current.

At some point, the two of you sit down at a nearby table, electing to ignore the rest of the guests Red Bull invited for you to sweet talk. At some point, Max flags someone down and asks for drinks- a gin and tonic for him, your favorite for you. At some point, you realize it’s been nearly an hour, the party is winding down, and a person you think is probably Max’s publicist is headed your way.

You nod towards her, brows raised at Max. “I think we might be in trouble.”

Max is halfway through explaining his racing team side project. He turns, hands mid air, and frowns, shaking his head at the woman. She nods in response. He waves a hand in your direction, brows raised, and you hide a laugh behind your hand. He’d rather talk to you than whatever she wants him to do. Probably not saying much, but an honor nonetheless.

She walks closer, and they talk quietly for a few seconds. Max sighs heavily, slumping in his chair before he turns to you. She’s smiling politely at you while he pouts.

“I have to go,” he says.

You nod in understanding. “I probably should, too. I’m sure I’m supposed to be schmoozing some big wig exec and batting my eyelashes. You know.”

He nods solemnly and picks up his glass. You do the same, clinking them together.

“To all the eyelash batting we can handle,” he says, giving you half a grin. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, see you soon,” you say, even if it isn’t true.

…..

Max Verstappen may be electric, but his car is absolutely on fire. You see it for the first time from across the Red Bull garage in Miami, all sleek lines and navy blue, every part so perfectly engineered. There’s a flurry of activity around it, and you crane your neck to catch glimpses- of the front wing, of the seat, of the steering wheel. You want to see it all, but you don’t dare move any closer.

“He doesn’t bite, you know,” Max says, suddenly at your side.

You blink at him, startled. “Who doesn’t?”

“The car,” he says, with a smile. “Rocky.”

“Your car is a boy,” you state. It’s actually quite unsurprising.

“Yeah. The whole sexy girl name for a car thing was weird,” he shrugs. “So. Rocky.”

You smile softly. “Well, Rocky is a sexy car.”

Max’s smile widens. “Yeah. Come closer.”

He hooks his hand in the crook of your elbow for just a second, just to nudge you closer. You go willingly. The crowd of people in Red Bull attire part like the Red Sea for him. He’s right, it’s even better up close. You lean to peek into the cockpit, at the complicated steering wheel and the footwells.

You squint at the gap between the halo. “You know, Indycars have the aeroscreen. Not sure I could get used to things flying at my face again.”

He nods, eyes lighting up. “I was going to ask you- how do you like that? You drove before they added them too, of course. The halo was an adjustment for us-“

“We were against it, at first,” you say, nodding. “But the safety of it-“

“Sure, sure- doesn’t it get hot? We have a race in Qatar this year-“

And it’s just like the night you met- like a match in grass, off and running like a wildfire. And you realize what the difference is between him and most of the other guys you interact with in this world when you jokingly ask if you can take Rocky out for a spin.

“No,” he says, eyes lit up. “I’m afraid you’d beat me, and then I’d be out of a job.”

He means it, is the thing. You’re sure you wouldn’t beat him, at least not on your first lap in the car. But he thinks that highly of you, of your skill. It makes your stomach twist in the best way.

There are a lot of guys out there who think women don’t have a place in motorsport. But Max, who got half his racing passion from his mother, who used to tweet Susie Wolff, who’s always shown support for the women in the series… Max is different.

“You can sit in it, though,” he says, nodding towards the car.

You tilt your head. “Nah. The first time I sit in one of these cars, I wanna drive it.”

Max laughs, bumps his shoulder against yours. “Yeah. It’s a good moment. Save it for then.”

He asks you for your number before you leave Miami, standing in the hotel lobby waiting for a shuttle to the airport. You save his number and figure he’ll forget he has yours by the time he gets on the plane. But he texts you when he gets back to Monaco, a picture of his two cats, curled up on his lap. In the background, the TV is on, and a Red Bull YouTube video is playing. You know what it is because it’s one you’re featured in, taking one of their show cars for a few laps around a track, showing off for the cameras.

Your new biggest fans, he’s captioned it. Then a second text comes through. I’m still number one, though.

…..

Max calls you for the first time the night after the Indianapolis 500. You almost don’t answer, because you’re bone tired and not looking to speak to anyone, but it’s Max. You swipe to pick up.

“Hello?” You say, sitting up slightly against the headboard.

“Hi,” he says, bright and cheery. Like this is a completely normal occurrence. “How are you feeling?”

You laugh. “Like I just drove 500 miles without power steering.”

He laughs at that, and the noise makes your heart stir. You check the time- it’s nearly 9 pm. Which means-

“Why are you up so early?” You ask, frowning. “Or still up so late? It’s got to be, what-“

“3am,” he answers. “Don’t know. Probably all the Red Bulls I drank after the race.”

You sigh in commiseration. “Been there.”

Max hums. “Congrats, by the way.”

You scoff. “I barely made the top ten.”

“But you did,” he says. “10th from 18th. Impressive.”

“You won Monaco today.”

“Yesterday, technically, so it’s old news.” he says, dismissively. “Besides, you can’t pass there. I would have had to really mess up to lose. I watched your race. It was impressive.”

“You watched?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter, some weird jolt of adrenaline running down your spine.

“Of course,” he says. You hear him muffle a yawn, and you and smile softly. “It was a good race.”

“You sound bored,” you tease.

“You sound like you’re deflecting,” he retorts. “I mean it, you know.”

You sigh, running your finger over the mountains and valleys of the comforter. The TV is playing in the background, something mindless and boring that was supposed to put you to sleep an hour ago. Maybe you can put on a replay of Monaco, fall asleep to the sound of Max winning.

“I know,” you answer him. “I am proud. It’s just. It’s over now.”

The Indy 500 isn’t just a race- it’s a spectacle. They call it the Month of May, with events leading up the race spread over the weeks before it. It’s all been building- the tension, the adrenaline, the electricity. And now, 250 laps later, it’s over. And while many of your competitors will be back in a racecar next week, you won’t. Just a guest driver for the biggest spectacle, left to try and leverage this into a full time seat for next year. It hurts.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah. That’s tough.”

Tough. That’s an understatement, but you’re sure he knows it. He just doesn’t know how to say it. Max has spent his career getting every chance possible. He skipped a whole feeder series. And here you are, stuck clawing for every opportunity to drive a racecar. Two drastically different lives, and yet-

“You didn’t go out to celebrate,” he says.

“Celebrate 10th place?” You ask.

“No,” he says. “Celebrate the end. Even when you’re sad it’s over, you can be happy it happened.”

“‘Max Verstappen, you cheesy motherfucker,” you giggle. “Did you steal that from a motivational sign?”

He laughs right back. “No. I would never. I am a poet, you know. Secret side job.”

You laugh at that- a full laugh that shakes your shoulders and chest. The two of you talk for a little longer, but Max’s pauses get longer and his words softer and rounder. You know he’s falling asleep, so you say goodnight.

You stare at the ceiling for a couple minutes after he hangs up, and then you pick up the phone again. This time, you’re the one to make the call. Max is right- you can celebrate the end. You’re sure someone’s hosting a party, somewhere, whether it’s in celebration or in pity. Besides, a bit of tequila fixes everything.

…..

You spend your time between sponsor appearances and endurance races doing a mix of things- training, asking sponsors, calling race teams, calling your management to see if they’ve heard back from race teams. The whole nine yards. You spend what time you have leftover after that posting bullshit on social media that has your fans- despite your frustrations, you do have fans- highly entertained. You post about gym workouts, about the sand still stuck in your shoes after a video shoot driving a car across dunes for Red Bull, and about a glitch you had while playing iRacing that sent you careening across one of the tracks. An hour after the iRacing tweet, you get a text from Max.

Max: You have a sim?

You: yeah! was a covid thing & I kept it around.

Max: Are you busy Tuesday?

You’re not, so he sets up a private iRacing group, and the two of you add each other on Discord, because, in Max’s words, it’s more fun when you can talk shit. He answers the call, but seems to struggle with something- there’s a lot of static, some typed out expletives in the chat, some of them in Dutch, leaving you to google the meaning. But finally, after a few minutes of microphone feedback-

“— hear me now?” he says, raspy voice spilling through your headphones.

You jump, a bit startled. “Oh, yeah! There you are!”

“There you are,” Max echoes. You swear you can hear the smile in his voice. “Sorry. Technical difficulties.”

“Cat chew the wire?” You ask.

“No, they would never,” Max replies. “This one was all on me. Anyways. Where should we race?”

The two of you pick a level playing ground- a track you’ve both raced at before, Circuit of the Americas. He tells you about one trip to Austin while the race screen loads, something about cowboy hats and boots that were too tight. You hum in sympathy as you fidget with the buttons on your sim steering wheel.

“Nervous?” He asks. When you make a questioning noise, he laughs. “I can hear you messing with the wheel.”

“You’re too perceptive,” you grumble. “But yeah, of course I am. I’m racing Max Verstappen.”

He hums. “And I’m racing you. Good news is, we’re the only ones who’ll see any of it.”

“So I could send you into the wall turn one and you wouldn’t have any proof,” you suggest.

“Sure,” Max answers. You swear his voice drops an octave on the next sentence. “But you won’t.”

The cars appear on the screen before you have a second to reply. You swallow down your words and your nerves and steel yourself for the start, finding you’re more nervous for this than any recent race start you can remember.

When the lights go out, though, it disappears. It’s not about Max anymore, not about his voice in your headphones, not about the way he yelps when he nearly bottles it at the start. It’s about you and the steering wheel in front of you, the -albeit fake- course on the screen. It’s about keeping the rear end of Max’s car in your sights.

Until lap 10, when he speaks up again. “How’s the dirty air?”

You’ve left your mic open. You know he hears your scoff. You roll your eyes a little bit, but you have to focus back on the track for the next turn. “You mean the dirty pixels?”

“That sounds like something different,” he echoes back. “It’s not that kind of game.”

“Should’ve put you in the wall when I had the chance,” you snark, shifting gears, eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t, though,” he says, firmly.

It’s a side of him you haven’t seen much, having interacted with him at events before this. He’s confident, sure, but this is different. So open. Easy. You wish you could see his face. Could see the look in his eye, the raised brow, the part of his lips when you-

“Fuck!” He yelps, and you break into laughter as you nudge the nose of your car past his. “Where the fuck did you-“

“Hey, pixel COTA is pretty accurate!” You say, feeling the excitement buzz in your bones.

“How did you-“ he huffs. “I’ve never made a pass work on that turn!”

“I’ll teach you later,” you promise. “After I beat you.”

The Max that everyone talks about would be fuming mad, driving angry, chasing you down. But this Max- your Max, you catch yourself thinking- is anything but. He’s happy. He’s laughing. The love of racing. You know the feeling.

Two laps later, he figures out your trick and passes you back for the lead. You trade off a couple times, but in the end he sees the checkered flag first- of course he does, it’s Max. When you log off it’s nearing midnight, even later for him.

“Past my bedtime,” he says, and you laugh.

“Nothing a little morning Red Bull won’t fix,” you suggest.

“Yeah. Hey,” he says. Then pauses. Like he’s unsure- the first time he’s been unsure all night. “Are you busy the weekend of June 30th?”

The weekend of the Austrian GP. You flip through the calendar on your nearby desk, but you’re pretty sure you’re free.

You fiddle with the paddles again. “No. Are you?”

He laughs. “A little. In Spielberg, you know. Wanna come?”

You’ve been to races before. You’ve been at one earlier this year. As a guest of Red Bull. Which is different, right? It’s definitely different. Those have been scheduled appearances and promotional opportunities and a publicist reaching out to your publicist. This is… this is Max, inviting you.

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to hide your grin. He can’t see it anyways. “Sounds like fun.”

“Lovely,” he says. “I’ll text you, then.”

“Cool,” you agree. “Talk soon.”

…..

If the race in Miami was a cool experience, Austria is ten times the excitement. You step off the plane on Wednesday, grab your luggage, and find a man waiting for you with a sign with your name on it. Then there’s a fancy car ride to an even fancier hotel near the track. Max texts halfway through your drive from the airport, asking if you’re in yet. You reassure him that you’re on the way. He apologizes for the long trek from the airport, and you send him back a picture of the glass of wine you’d been handed, and a message that says: endurance driver, remember?

The drive there is beautiful. The racetrack is nestled in the green hills just outside of Spielberg. You gaze out the window the entire time, enamored with the countryside. As you near the hotel, you catch a glimpse of the iconic bull statue, and it makes your smile grow. It’s weekends like these that make you thrilled about racing all over again.

You step out of the car at the hotel and someone is already rushing over to unload your luggage. It feels strange. You stretch a bit, breathe in the fresh air, and when you turn around Max is standing there, waiting, hands in his pockets. He’s smiling, too. You can’t help but smile back.

He greets you with a hug and a kiss brushed against each cheek- how European of him, you think. His cheeks are flushed rosy pink, from sun or something else, you’re not sure. His hair glitters golden in the sunlight. It’s only been a little over a month since you last saw him, but he looks different- more tan, maybe. You ask what he’s been up to.

“Had a week off,” he tells you a few seconds later, “between Canada and here. Spent a lot of it on a boat.”

“Fancy,” you tease. “I was in New York. Watkins Glen.”

“I saw the race,” he says. Your heart flutters when you look up at him, at the eagerness in his gaze. “Bullshit move that other team pulled in the last stint.”

You let out a stream of air through pursed lips. “Mhm. But we’d have lost it anyways.”

Max shakes his head. “Not if you’d been behind the wheel at the end.”

You laugh, shake your head at him, and turn to grab your bags. They’re gone. You blink, perplexed.

“They’ve taken them up to your room for you,” Max explains, nudging your side. “I know you’d probably like to get settled in, but would you want to get dinner after? With me, I mean?”

When you turn back to look at him, you’re a little bit surprised. Max Verstappen looks nervous. He’s rocking back and forth from one foot to the other, hands shoved in his pockets. Like he’s unsure. You’ve never known him to be unsure. You’ve watched him make calculated move after calculated move on the track and off it, too. It’s your first sign that he feels it too- the butterflies in your gut, swirling up into your chest, threatening to choke up your throat.

“That would be really nice,” you say, softly.

The grin that breaks across his face is infectious.

Max is still nervous in the lobby an hour later, still hesitant when he offers you his arm and walks you towards the hotel restaurant. But one gin and tonic and a couple appetizers later, he’s the Max you’ve come to recognize again- lit up, bright, electric. He’s animated and funny and his cheeks are even redder than before.

By the time the entrees show up- which look delicious, of course- he’s different. Easy, you think again. Like when the two of you raced against each other. His guard is down. He’s open- it shows on his face. This is the Max not many people get to see. The biting comebacks and confident remarks are gone, replaced with such a genuine curiosity it nearly knocks you breathless.

“What’s your goal, for racing?” He asks, softly.

He’s moved his chair halfway around the round table, just to be a little closer to you. So the two of you can talk quietly and be heard. So he can nudge his shoulder against yours when you say something funny.

You smile. “I’ve got a lot of them.”

“What’s next?” He asks. “Besides stealing Rocky from me.”

“That’s actually why I’m here this weekend, you know.”

“I do, I’m one step ahead of you,” he says, pointing at your nearly empty second glass of wine. “You’d never drive drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” You squeak, though you wonder if the looseness of your syllables gives you away a little bit.

“Tipsy, then.”

“Sure.”

“Your next goal,” he reminds you. “After Rocky.”

You hum, shoving a bit of pasta around on your plate. “Trying to get a permanent seat in Indycar next year.”

He nods. “Instead of just for the 500 and a couple extra races here and there.”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Is it hard?” He asks. Your gaze flickers up to meet his, and he chews on his lower lip. “I mean. You are a good driver. Very good. They should be flocking to you, of course.”

“I’m a good driver, for a woman,” you say, softly. Max’s brows furrow. “That’s what someone said in a meeting last week. For a woman.”

Max sinks lower in his seat. You rub your thumb against the silky fabric of the tablecloth. Suddenly, you feel out of place. It’s nothing Max did. It’s just a reminder of how he’s at the top of his game, at the top of your shared sport, while you fight tooth and nail for every opportunity. Max has overcome his own hardships to get there, you know it. But it doesn’t take the sting away from yours.

“I did the feeder series, but there just wasn’t a seat available to make the jump,” you explain. “So for a bit it’s just been all about getting drive time whenever I possibly can.”

“I know some of the other drivers, you know. I would offer to try and pull some strings,” he says, “but I get the feeling you wouldn’t like that.”

You smile at him, because despite it all, he really does get you. “I would not.”

He nods. You nod back.

And then you sigh. “Sorry. I brought down the mood.”

He shakes his head. “I asked. Because I wanted to know.”

Still, you change the subject. He lets you. The ease seeps back in. You forget that the two of you are drivers- for a while, it’s just you and Max in that warm, comfortable bubble. And maybe that means more than he really knows.

You order another drink after dinner- Max switches to water but insists he’s fine to hang out, just needs to not be hungover the next day. You venture out onto the open patio behind the hotel. Down the hill, you can see the racetrack, lit up in the dark night. The Bull, the logo you share with Max, seems to float above it, silhouetted. You kick your heels off, pull your feet up onto the chair. Max sinks down next to you, dragging his chair closer.

If it was easy on the sim and even easier at dinner, here, it’s like you’ve known him forever. The night chill makes you shiver. He slips his jacket off, drapes it over your shoulders. You lean into him, your head against his upper arm, bridging the gap. He sighs happily.

“What’s your goal?” You ask. “Just gonna drive F1 cars until you’re old and grey?”

His responding laugh shakes his shoulders. “God, no.”

He tells you, then, what his plan is. All the other things he wants to get the chance to do. He tells you about that crash, Silverstone, 2021. How he’d seen others crash but never understood until that moment- that there is more to life than Formula 1, that even though he’d worked his whole life to get there, there was more he wanted to do after it. You’re amazed that someone who’s two championships in, barreling headfirst towards a third, still wants more. When you tell him that, he laughs again.

“I also just want to retire and play iRacing and let myself get fat and old,” he says.

“And spend more time on the boat,” you suggest.

He hums. “Maybe. If I could spend it with the right people. Person. You know.”

You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he means you. If you could fit into that puzzle. If he really is feeling it the way you are. But the moment feels so nice, so comfortable, that you’d hate to say the wrong thing and ruin it.

“Sounds perfect,” you say.

You nearly fall asleep there, leaning on him. But he laughs when your head starts to slip, walks you up to your room, carrying your heels for you like a real gentleman. He kisses your cheeks again, bids you goodnight. He has to be at the track early tomorrow. You wonder, really, how much you’ll actually see of him the rest of the weekend before you leave for home. But maybe tonight will be enough to hold you over.

You spend most of the rest of the weekend being wined and dined by Red Bull hospitality, which is honestly hilarious to you, considering that they already pay you- though you suppose it’s a different marketing branch, different budgets. You watch the practices with eager eyes, taking in one from the viewing area and one from down in the garage. There’s something electric about watching them zip around on track, something adrenaline spiking about the quiet of the garage until the cars come rolling back in.

Max has a team dinner that night, but he texts you when he’s done, and asks if you’re still up. You’re at the pool for a late night swim, the only person still daring to even be in the water. He joins you ten minutes later, not dressed for a swim. You grin up at him from the edge of the water, your arms on the pavement.

“How’s the car feel?” You ask.

He grins. “Feels good.”

He must be right- qualifying goes well for him. He puts it on pole. You celebrate after with salads and electrolyte drinks. It’s nice to go to a race with no obligations, no media duties. To enjoy motorsport for the love of motorsport. Watching Max, cheering for Max, makes it all the more fun.

You find out just before the race starts that your pass will get you pretty much anywhere, so you sneak into the grandstands, up at the highest level, to watch the start. It brings you back to the very beginning. Suddenly, you’re a wide eyed little kid again, sitting in the grass at the Indy 500, feeling your bones rattle as the cars roared by. At that moment, part of the crowd at the largest sporting event in the world, you knew you wanted to be behind the wheel. In this moment, you know you’ll never be satisfied watching from the sidelines.

You tell Max that, after the race, after he wins and gets his trophy and gets doused in champagne. And he nods in understanding, squeezes you into his chest, tucks his chin atop your head.

“Hold onto that feeling,” he reminds you. “That’s how you’re going to beat them all.”

Your flight leaves late the next afternoon. In the morning, Max knocks on your door with one more trick up his sleeve. You slip into the passenger seat of yet another fancy car and head down the road from the hotel, driving around the outskirts of the racetrack. The circus is already packing up to leave town, equipment being loaded onto trucks. Max pulls into a parking lot- a karting track covered with Red Bull logos. You start to laugh.

He’s apparently booked the whole place out for the morning- it’s just the two of you and a couple staff members. He helps you pick a kart, because “they’re not all equal, of course,” and sends you off to get suited up and put on a helmet. You meet him on the track, buzzing already.

“You ready?” He asks, patting the top of your helmet.

“Are you ready to eat my dust, Verstappen?” You taunt.

Even behind the helmet, you can tell he’s smiling.

It’s been a while since you’ve been in a vehicle this small, but you adjust pretty quickly. The two of you do a warm up lap and then line up at the start, tiny engines raring to go. And the track is new to you, but when the lights go green, it almost feels like muscle memory. Two laps in and you’ve found the racing line. 5 laps in and you start to challenge Max. By lap 10 of 20, you’ve taken over the lead.

When you see the checkered flag first and skid to a stop shortly after the line, you can already hear him laughing. He climbs out of his kart and walks over to slap the side of your helmet affectionately. You can see his crinkled eyes where he’s flipped the helmet visor up.

“Again?” He asks.

You nod, feeling that rumble deep in your chest. “Again.”

You could stay forever, but Max drags you out of the kart around lunchtime, both of you grinning ear to ear. In the year so far, you’ve done a handful of endurance races, a NASCAR race on a dirt track, and competed in the Indy 500, and yet this is what’s brought that thunder back to your bones. You know Max feels it too. Racing for the joy of it. For the fun of it. Just to prove you can still do it. No obligations, just speed and pavement and rubber.

“Let’s call it the Bull Shit Cup,” Max suggests, over sandwiches at some restaurant just a few minutes away from the track. “Make it an annual thing.”

“Okay,” you agree. “You owe me a trophy for it, then. I won, fair and square, even though I could have pushed you off in turn one, and nobody would’ve known.”

“You could’ve,” he agrees. “But you wouldn’t.”

He looks at you with a smirk, blue eyes through long thick lashes, and you hate to admit that he’s right. You would never. You like him too much to send him careening into a wall just to win a race. You care for him too much. Your stomach twists.

You think about kissing him, in the car, before he drops you off at the airport. His hand is on your knee, where it’d fallen when he stopped to listen after telling you an animated story full of hand gestures. It’s probably meant to be a signal, him touching you like this. But you chicken out when he pulls up to the curb. Probably for the best, anyways.

Then Max leans over, cups your cheek in his hand, and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your cheek. Just one. Very not European. Different from the others. His hand stays put, thumb brushing against your skin. You take a breath, try to steady yourself.

“Thanks for having me,” you say. “It was really fun.”

“Thanks for coming,” Max says back.

“I’d invite you to my next race,” you say, quietly. “But I think you’ll be in Qatar that weekend. Or still recovering.”

Max pouts. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

You sigh. “Well. It’s okay. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. At some event, or something.”

“Right,” Max agrees. “We’ll find something.”

The flight home leaves you exhausted and empty feeling. You do your best to shake it off, but you worry missing Max is the type of feeling that sticks around.

yourusername: danke Austria, danke redbullracing, and danke maxverstappen1

maxverstappen1 You’re welcome back anytime

redbullracing thanks for being a good luck charm!

liked by maxverstappen1

…..

There’s a gala in New York, one that’s full of people with important names with deep pockets. You end up there, nursing a glass of awful wine, trying to flatter your way into the important conversations. You’re mildly successful a couple times, and manage to make some good connections. Your publicist will be proud. You just hope one of them works out how you’d like.

You’re up at the bar, trying to decide what else to order, when someone says your name. You recognize the voice, but it’s the tone, too. Everyone else who’s said your name tonight has had expectations for you. The way Max says it is different, though you can’t quite put your finger on how it’s different. You just know.

Max smiles at you when you turn to him. His hand falls to your lower back, smoothing over the black silk of your dress as he leans over the bar. He orders a gin and tonic for himself, and a very expensive sounding glass of wine that he hands off to you. You take a sip and smile, relieved when it tastes good.

“This old man ordered a drink for me,” you tell him, whispering conspiratorially. “It was awful, but I had to finish it.”

Max scowls, his eyes scanning the room like he’ll be able to spot the man in question. “Old men usually do have bad taste.”

“I suppose that explains why he was talking to me,” you laugh.

Max doesn’t laugh. “No, I think that may be where he got it right.”

Max keeps his hand on your lower back and leads you through the crowd. You let him. After a night full of trying to make a name for yourself, you’re quite ready to let someone else be in control for a few minutes. You don’t even question where he’s taking you until you end up on the rooftop, the glittering lights of New York City spread out across the open space in front of you. There’s a small garden, a few chairs, a sparkling blue pool, and absolutely no other humans to be seen.

“Oh, wow,” you say, quietly. “Are we supposed to be up here?”

Max shrugs, makes his way over to a patio chair, and sits down. “Don’t know. All I know is I couldn’t be there much longer.”

You nod in agreement and sit down next to him, kicking off your heels. He smiles and sheds his suit jacket, taking a long sip of his gin and tonic. He toes off his dress shoes, too. Then he sighs dramatically.

“Tell me about it,” you say, letting your shoulders drop. “I’ve been called sweetheart and had my shoulders touched far too many times tonight.”

Max blinks. “I could tell you were getting uncomfortable.”

You don’t really have time to process that- to process that he was watching, that he cared enough to notice, that he maybe came over to save you from it all. All thoughts about that go out the window when he starts to loosen the buttons on the collar of his shirt. The bow tie he had on falls to the ground, atop his jacket. The cuff bracelet he’s wearing follows. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He’s so close you think you could count his eyelashes. You take a sip of your wine.

“I didn’t think you were going to be here,” you tell him. “My publicist said…”

He smirks and blinks a couple times, lashes tangling together. “You asked your publicist if I would be here?”

You swallow and shrug. “Maybe. It’s nice to have a familiar face.”

His smirk grows. “Tell me about it. I asked my publicist, too. If you’d be here, i mean.”

You turn farther towards him, your legs falling over the edge of the chair. His hand brushes against your bare knee. The strap on your dress slips down your shoulder, and you watch the way his gaze traces your bare skin. Then he looks over your shoulder, towards the pool.

“Maybe we should cool off,” he suggests. “Take a swim.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” you tell him, thinking back to the bag you’d packed and if there was anything in it that could substitute.

He shrugs, his finger tracing a featherlight circle against your knee. “We can go in our underwear. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

You’re about to tell him you’re not wearing a bra when you hear the rooftop door swing open. The smirk slips off his face, melting into frustration. His hand fully rests on your knee, now, thumb and pointer finger pressing into the inside of your thigh.

“Max?” Someone calls out. His publicist, you think.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Yeah,” she calls back. “But you should be downstairs.”

He lets out a long, heavy sigh. You do the same and push yourself up to sit, slipping your shoes back on as he starts to gather his things. He tugs the dress shoes on with a wince, pulls the jacket on and straightens the lapels. The buttons on his shirt and the bow tie are next, his fingers soft and pale in the night light. You want to feel them on your skin again.

He stands. You do the same. The bracelet is sitting on the chair, glinting gold, and you grab it and then hold it out to him. He smiles softly and takes a couple steps to close the distance.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have more time,” he says. His cheeks are red as he takes the bracelet and turns it in his hand.

“We’re busy people,” you tell him.

He nods, but the frown stays etched on his face. You shiver when his hand trails up your shoulder and slides the strap of your dress back into place, and a trail of goosebumps follow his touch. He reaches up, then, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, too.

“Max!” The woman calls from the doorway. He groans.

“You should go,” you tell him, even though you want him to stay.

He nods, and then he grabs your wrist. Before you can even realize what he’s doing, the bracelet is around your arm instead. Your breath catches in your chest, your heartbeat kicking up a notch. His cheeks are redder, now, but the smile is back on his lips.

“Hang onto this,” he says. “Until I see you again.”

You nod, holding yourself taught so you don’t lean up to kiss him. He disappears a second later, and you’re left to down the last of your glass of wine, wondering if he’d wanted to kiss you, too.

When you return to the party, you find it’s easier to talk to the important people with the weight of his bracelet on your wrist, and the weight of his gaze on you every time you find him in the crowd.

maxverstappen1: Champions 🙌

yourusername huge congrats, Max! ❤️💙 & well done to the whole team

liked by maxverstappen1

…..

Vegas is glitz and glamor and bright blinding lights. Max hates the whole spectacle with every fiber of his being and never forgets to remind you of that fact. You listen attentively to his complaints over the phone in the week leading up to the race. You get it. He wants to race, that’s all. Not be presented like some celebrity, even if he is one.

Then the race happens and he has a good time, and his opinion seems to change.

You’ve spent your weekend in Vegas, watching from the sidelines and trying not to seem bitter in all the promo content they have you do. At least some of it involves driving a rally car around in the Nevada desert- not a bad bonus. Max texts you and tells you the day after that he saw some of the footage, that you looked badass. Despite being in the same city as him, despite being two floors down in the same hotel, you don’t talk to him in person until after he’s crossed the finish line in first place in the earliest hours of Sunday.

It’s a fleeting moment. You’re still in the garage by the time he gets back from the podium. He’s soaked in champagne, lit up like a neon sign. He makes his way through a crowd of Red Bull employees, thanking everyone. You stick to the sidelines, to the walls, not wanting to get in the way. It’s his race, his celebration.

But he spots you and beelines for you, hand already outstretched in your direction. You grab on, eagerly, let him pull you into orbit, into a half hug, face crushed against his chest. He smells like car- like engine exhaust and gasoline and adrenaline. You grin up at him. He stares down at you, eyes wide. The atmosphere feels thick. Like you could cut the tension with a knife- suddenly, you understand that saying in a way you never have before. The garage is filled with activity, but there the two of you are, a fixed point in the middle of the chaos. He’s staring, still, like he doesn’t know what to say but he can’t look away.

You’re wearing his bracelet. His fingers trace over the metal where it hangs on your wrist, but he doesn’t make a move to take it back. He just smiles and presses his thumb into the gap on the underside, skin against skin.

Someone tugs at his elbow and calls his name, loudly.

“I have to go,” he says.

You laugh. “I know.”

When he gets pulled away and lets your hand drop, you swear you feel an actual spark.

You slip away, then, to head back to your room. You have dinner and watch the race recap- there’s a lot you miss, standing in the garage. When you check your phone, you have a barrage of missed notifications bearing his name.

He’s out at a club and asking you to join. You don’t know how to explain how much is riding on your public image right now- sponsors, fundings, support. It’s a part of motorsport he wouldn’t really understand, at least not at the level you do. But he’s kind when you say you can’t, asks if he can stop by, and shows up quickly after you say yes, even if it is late. Nobody sleeps in Vegas. You may as well add yourself to that list.

He’s a little tipsy when you open the door to your hotel room- he has every right to be. He’s holding himself taught, but when he sees you in the entryway he loosens up, gaze going soft.

“Hi,” he says, quietly.

“Congrats,” you tell him. “It was a good race.”

“I… I don’t want to talk about racing,” he admits. “I just wanted you.”

You blink at him, silhouetted by the fluorescent hotel hallway light. There’s a bull on his jacket, on the shoulder, tiny, but it’s there. A constant reminder of the thing that ties the two of you together. You step aside to let him in, let the door swing closed behind him. The air crackles around you, goosebumps rising on your arms. He runs a hand through his hair, his other hand falling to his hip.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he asks, almost begs.

You kiss him as a reply- you lean in and up, wrap your arms around his neck, hold on for dear life when he kisses you back. He’s warm and he tastes like gin and he still smells like the racetrack, like melted rubber that even a shower can’t scrub away. You like it that way. He won the race, but he just wants you. You let him back you towards the bed as you fiddle with the zipper on his jacket.

“I feel it,” you say, when he breaks away for a second, gasping for air. “Fuck, Max-“

He hums, dipping down to mouth at your jaw, your neck, your pulse point. “I know.”

His skin is hot on yours, hotter still the more the two of you get undressed. He gets you laid out on the bed beneath him, takes you apart with skilled precision the way he drives his precious car. But things get heated, and the composure slips away. He gets more open, eyelids fluttering as he gives in to you, too, as you wrap around him and pull him in. Your Max appears, the bravado of a race day melting away, leaving everything you love about him in its place.

Afterwards, he kisses you just to kiss you, holding you in his arms in the bed. You’re both freshly showered, teeth brushed, and he seems to have no plans to go anywhere. You’re happy, even if it might make the morning awkward, even if he needs to leave early the next day for Abu Dhabi.

You realize, then, that you never congratulated him on his championship, other than the comment on the instagram post you know he didn’t even write. But he didn’t want to talk about racing, so you don’t say anything. You just rest your head on his bare chest, his arms banded tight around your middle. You can hear the soft thud of his heartbeat. Steady, now. You wonder if his heart had kicked up a notch earlier, when yours did, if they beat in sync for just a moment.

“Do you ever get scared?” You ask, drawing a nonsense shape on his skin, just under his collarbone. “Or are you numb to it?”

He hums. “Not often, but. There’s this moment. Right before the lights go out. Where it hits me, what I’m doing, how absolutely stupid I am to put myself in that car.”

You nod in understanding. “I’ve had that. How do you get past it?”

He laughs, shrugs. “I don’t. But then the lights go out and I drive anyways.”

He traces shapes across your skin while you listen to his soft breaths.

“I was scared tonight, too,” he tells you, while you rub your eyes and he twists his fingers with yours. “When I knocked on your door. So I think sometimes being scared means you’re doing something good.”

“Me too,” you admit.

Then you lean up to kiss him again, and what little fear that was left melts away when he kisses you back. You can feel the smile on his lips. He leaves in the morning with a toothpaste tinged kiss to your lips and a promise to talk soon. You try to convince yourself he’s telling the truth.

yourusername viva Las Vegas!

maxverstappen1 🕺

liked by yourusername

…..

You wait for him to reach out and try not to be upset when it doesn’t happen right away. His schedule must be insane. He’s probably jet lagged and exhausted and being thrown into the next race weekend far too quickly for his liking. You get it.

When he finally calls, three days after you wake up with him, you pick up on the second ring.

“Hi,” you say.

He lets out a soft sigh. “Hi. I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly. And that it took so long to call.”

You’re a bit relieved that he’s jumping right into it. Not shying away, not pretending like it didn’t happen. You’ve been trying not to think too much about it- your bare skin against his, the way the rise and fall of his chest feels against your cheek. It’s stuck in your head, though.

“It’s okay,” you say, quietly. “You’re a busy man.”

“Not too busy for you,” he says, the words stilted. Like he’s not sure how to get his point across. “I want to spend more time with you.”

You want it too, but. “Max…”

He sighs. “I know. I know things are not simple.”

You laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

“But look at us,” he says.

You reach up, press your finger to the mark he left on your collarbone a few days before, just to feel the ache.

“Has anything you’ve ever done been simple?” He asks.

You blink, suddenly a bit taken aback. He’s got a point, you suppose. From the very beginning, you’ve been fighting an uphill battle, swimming against the current. And yet, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“I live by this sort of motto,” you tell him. “That the best day of your life is right on the other side of the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

You think of Max, of all the stories you’ve heard about him. Of anger running deep in his bones. Of fighting for everything he’s ever wanted and still being hungry for more. You know the feeling all too well. You've had your fair share of your own races gone wrong, of angry debriefs with the team, or wanting to hurl your helmet at the wall and say fuck it all. You’re a bit envious that he could give in to the feeling. You don’t hold it against him, though.

“Yeah,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah.”

“How about you call me when you’re done in Abu Dhabi,” you suggest. “And we’ll figure it all out.”

He hums. “How about you tell me where you want to go and I book a couple plane tickets.”

Your heart twists in your chest. “I… My schedule is about to get a little crazy.”

“It’s the off season,” he points out. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I know.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I have a good reason. I have meetings and some interviews and some travel-“

“Oh my god,” Max says, quietly. “You got a seat.”

“Shh!” You say, though you can’t fight the grin that slips across your lips. “God I hope you’re alone- I’m really not supposed to talk about it-“

“-I called you, of course I’m alone-“

“-Oh, are you going to ask what I’m wearing?” You tease.

“You’re trying to change the subject,” he says.

You sigh and nod, even though he can’t see you. “It’s like the lights are about to go out and I’m realizing how crazy I am. But on a bigger scale.”

He sighs in response. “I wish I was there with you.”

“You have a race to win,” you tell him. “You know. Good things on the other side of hard days. I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will,” he says. So sure of it. Like he’s known it for years, like he’s known you for a lifetime. Kindred souls, matching sparks in your chests. “And as soon as you’re ready, you call me and tell me everything.”

“Okay,” you agree.

“And then you tell me where you want to go,” he adds. “And we book the tickets. To celebrate the end of the waiting.”

You could cry. You don’t, but you could.

“I think I’d go anywhere with you,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he says. Now you can really hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve never been to anywhere, but I hear the weather is lovely.”

“Now you’re deflecting,” you tease.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “I’m saving all the sappy shit for when I can say it to your face.”

…..

You spend a week in mid-December on a beach with Max, with nothing but the sun and him to worry about. He holds true to what he said on the phone. He picks you up from the airport, drives to the hotel with his hand laced with yours. And then, in the safety of the hotel room balcony, looking out over the ocean in the dark of the night, he pulls you close.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “I’ve been amazed by you since the day we met. And I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll go anywhere with you, too, if you let me.”

He’s being vulnerable. You can feel his heart racing under your hand, pounding at his ribcage. So you lean up, press your lips to his cheek in a very not European way.

“Nothing good is ever easy,” you say.

He smiles, and you swear it’s bright enough to light up the night sky. And then he kisses you and lights you up from the inside, too.

For the rest of the trip, the two of you leave your phones on do not disturb, leave the TV in your hotel room turned off, leave the outside world, the fast paced shit, behind. For a few days, it’s just him.

You’ve known him for nearly a year, known of him for far more than that. And the two of you are nowhere near done yet- the finish line is still miles ahead. But you find that there’s something in Max that you didn’t know you were missing the entire time- he has that spark, too. The hunger to just keep driving. To push past the moment of fear and find the good on the other side. He’s been one of your biggest supporters since the day you met- since he complimented your driving.

“Now that the season’s over,” you say to him one night at dinner, over the rim of your cocktail glass. “Can I drive Rocky?”

He laughs and hooks his foot around your ankle under the table. “Sure. But only if you let me drive yours.”

You suppose it’s a fair trade.

a/n: fun fact! the karting track with the Red Bull theming really does exist near the track in Austria. so. new travel bucket list item added. anyways. hop you enjoyed! if you made it this far, ty so much for reading!!

Taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5 @c-losur3 @casperlikej @the-navistar-carol @everyonesluvah @jsjcue @ggaslyp1 @si1ver06 @nicole01-23 @andruuu28 @coffeehurricanes

“I just think maybe it’s better to live your life without worrying about what the stars say,” Oscar says, waving his hands around in a way that you think is supposed to represent the stars. “Just, like… do what you want to do.”

“I do,” you mutter dryly. “Doesn’t hurt to have some advice, though.”

The two of you have always been like this. Oscar is a skeptic, you’re a believer. He calls it being easy to brainwash, says it in a teasing way that makes you glare at him every time. He’s taken it as his responsibility to keep you from falling for things. You’ve told him time and time again that you’re fine on your own. You just like the idea of predestiny, that what’s going to happen was always meant to.

Oscar is just worried you’ll join the first cult you cross paths with.

|Age 5|

It’s the day after you turn 5 when you first hear the word soulmate. Sol-meight. You sound it out through your lips, sticky with jam from your breakfast. Your best friend at the time, a girl whose name you’ve long since forgotten, had said it.

“S’when you’re meant to be,” she explains, in that all knowing tone that only little kids who know nothing at all seem to have. “Like, my mum and dad say they’re soulmates.”

Oscar, who’s sitting next to you, scoffs. “Everyone’s parents say that. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

He’s taller than you, even sitting down, hair cut short after one of his sisters stuck gum in it a few days ago. His cheeks are rosy red, and there’s cream cheese on his nose. Years later, Oscar’s face will be one of the first ones you ever remember meeting. Right now, he’s just the boy in your class whose mother knows your mother, and because of that, he’s the boy who rides to school with you in the backseat. He’s not the worst, you guess. He’s… okay. Sort of just… always there.

“Is too!” Your friend says, shaking her head, pigtails bouncing. “Mum says there’s signs.”

“What kinda signs?” You ask, and Oscar turns to look at you in disbelief.

She shrugs. “Dunno. I’ll ask later.”

She comes back to the breakfast table the next day with a magazine page, torn haphazardly and slightly crumpled. On it is a list of signs someone could be your soulmate. The two of you pore over the page at every available opportunity for at least a week, barely able to read all the words.

Your friend forgets about soulmates a month later and moves on to an obsession with Barbie dolls. You carry the magazine page with you for years after that, until it’s worn and falling apart. Then you copy down the list into a safer place, worried you’ll lose it forever. 15 Signs He’s Your Soulmate, written with magic marker on pink construction paper and stowed away in your desk.

|Age 10|

“I hate olives,” you sneer, staring at the very last slice of pizza.

It’s a birthday party. You can’t for the life of you understand why there’s pizza with olives on it. Olives don’t belong on pizza- not much does, in your opinion. Just pepperoni, really. Maybe a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese, if you’re feeling fancy.

Katy, one of your classmates, is standing next to you. “I love olives. Here, I’ll pick them off for you and you can have the last slice.”

The pizza still tastes a bit like olives in the end, probably baked into the cheese, but it’s better than it would’ve been. Katy is your best friend after that. The two of you are inseparable from the moment you get to school until the moment you leave. You beg your mothers for sleepovers on the weekends, for day trips during holiday breaks. YouandKaty. Your names melt together until they become one.

Oscar still rides to school with you in the morning. Sometimes, Katy does too. Katy doesn’t like Oscar. She doesn’t like most boys, calls them gross. Since Katy thinks boys are gross, you do too.

“Be nice to Oscar,” your mother tells you one morning. “He’s not done anything to you.”

You’re in the backseat of the car, on the way to his house. “He’s a boy. Boys are gross.”

Your mother sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. She says your name sternly, and you shrink in your seat. When Oscar gets in, you say hello and force a smile.

Oscar’s the one who finds you crying on the playground. You thought you’d chosen a better hiding place, really- nobody had bugged you in your spot between the two large myrtle trees. But Oscar finds you anyways. You can’t even bring yourself to tell him to go away, too busy feeling sorry for yourself.

“Wha’s wrong?” He asks.

His cheeks are red- he’s likely been running around with the other boys. You shrug, pulling up another clump of grass and letting it fall from your fingers. Oscar sighs, scuffs his toe in the dirt.

“Katy doesn’t wanna be friends anymore,” you say, rubbing at your bare knee. “She says I’m not cool enough.”

Katy likes olives. You don’t. It’s on the soulmate list. You’re meant to be best friends.

Oscar’s quiet for a moment. Then- “That’s stupid. You’re like, the coolest person I know.”

You look up at him with wide eyes. “Shut up.”

“M’serious,” he says. He holds his hand out to you. “Wanna come play cricket with the gross boys?”

You take his hand, wipe your tears with your other hand. “Yeah. I do.”

|Age 12|

“Are you and Dad soulmates?” You ask your mother one morning, before you even leave the house.

She’s standing at the counter, a piece of toast in her hand, half eaten. Her coffee is half drank, too.

She tilts her head at you. “What do you mean, love?”

“Like, when you met, did you just know he was the one? Did it feel meant to be?”

She laughs. “Oh, god no. We were polar opposites. Barely spoke to each other for the first year after we met.”

You stare at her in surprise. “What changed?”

She sighs, wistfully, staring into her mug. “He asked me if I wanted an orange. I said yes. And when he handed it to me, he’d peeled it for me.”

You blink. “Because you hate peeling oranges.”

“I do,” she agrees. “Love isn’t just a feeling, it’s an action. I think love is more about the choices we make and the things we remember about each other than whatever is written in the stars, honey.”

|Age 15|

There’s a boy on the football team- Ryan. Ryan has dark, curly hair and long, long eyelashes and this smile that makes your heart melt and your brain all fuzzy. Ryan doesn’t like olives, either, but he has a birthmark on the back of his right hand in the shape of a lopsided heart, and if you squint hard enough, you have one that matches on the back of your left arm. You stare at in the mirror for hours after he points it out, his hand on your arm.

You stare at your lips in the mirror for hours, too, after he kisses you for the first time. You think maybe you look different. You must. You’d never been kissed before, but Ryan hadn’t minded.

You go on group dates with him, because you’re nervous and your parents think you’re a bit too young to really be dating. You go to the mall, the movies, the diner down the street from the school. It’s your first taste of freedom.

Oscar asks you if you really like Ryan, like- “like like him?”, one day when you’re sitting in his backyard. Your mothers are inside, drinking wine. His sisters are in the pool, you’re laying out in the sun. Oscar sits under an umbrella and squints at the brightness of the world around him.

“Yeah,” you say, in the same tone you’d say duh or of course. “I think he’s my soulmate.”

“Why’s that?” Oscar asks tilting his head.

“We have matching birthmarks,” you say, again, in the same tone.

Oscar forms his mouth into a little o shape. You squint at him, pushing yourself to sit up.

“Why’re you so worried about it, anyways?”

“M’not,” Oscar says, crossing his leg over his knee. “S’just. He’s kind of an arse, isn’t he?”

He whispers the curse word so his sisters won’t hear. Oscar’s big into karting and racing right now, and the older boys at the tracks swear like sailors. There’s a swear jar stuffed to the brim sitting on the kitchen counter inside, right next to the half empty wine bottle.

Ryan is a bit of an arse, you’ll admit. To almost everyone.

“He’s nice to me,” you shrug. “He brought me flowers, yesterday. Isn’t that what matters?”

Oscar shrugs. He doesn’t ask about Ryan again.

Oscar is the one who brings you flowers when Ryan cheats on you and the other girl tells the whole school. He brings them to your bedroom door and you let him in. He sits with you, even as you cry, the door open the parentally required six inches. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t tell you he warned you. He just stays.

When Oscar moves to England, you wave goodbye with a smile. Then you lock yourself in your room and bawl your eyes out for a week straight, harder than you ever did about Ryan.

|Age 18|

Your university roommate, Emma, was born on the same day as you, at the exact same time. Down to the minute. You find it out on your second day of living together. It’s fate, kismet, meant to be. The stars and planets were aligned exactly the same way when you both took your first breaths.

Oscar laughs when you tell him, though he does admit that it’s a pretty cool coincidence. You’re chatting with him on the phone, telling him about your first week of university. You talk a lot, despite the distance. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever.

You and Emma aren’t in any classes together- you have completely different majors. Despite this, you still become fast friends. You study together in your room and in the library, meet up for meals, and join a book club together. When Emma gets invited to her very first uni party, she brings you along with her. Your closets become shared.

You visit her family over the winter break for a week. She lives closer to the beach, and you love getting to soak up the sun with her and meet all the childhood friends you’ve heard stories about. Oscar comes home for his break and texts you, wondering when you’ll be back and if you’ll even have time for me, or are you too cool for me now?

You tackle him with a hug when you see him, standing at the kitchen counter in your house when you get there. He’s laughing and pushing you off of him, acting like he didn’t miss you just as much. You know he did. It’s written all over the smile on his face.

Emma visits your family later in the break, and that’s when you have your first fight.

“He’s definitely in love with you,” she insists from her spot on the air mattress on your floor.

She’s talking about Oscar, who she just met today. You’d brought her with to a barbecue at his family’s house. You’re regretting that choice. She’s spent all night afterwards pointing out all the signs that he’s in love with you- his hand on your shoulder, the look in his eyes, the way he smiled at you.

“He’s not,” you say, cheeks burning hot. “He’s- we’re friends.”

“Friends, right. Guys and girls can’t be just friends,” she says.

“Yes, they can!” You say indignantly.

Emma ignores you, rolls over, and goes to sleep. She leaves for home the next day- not earlier than she was supposed to, but it feels weird anyways. When you get back to campus, things feel different. You never really talk about the fight, though there wasn’t much to talk about, anyways. It’s not like she’s mean to you- the two of you still hang out, still see each other often. But Emma makes new friends, and you do too, and you stop doing everything together. It’s alright, you suppose, it’s just…

You were supposed to be destined to be friends. But soulmates shouldn’t be this easy to let go of. It’s written in the stars, it’s shouldn’t fade away like this.

Months ago, you and Emma had talked about spending the holiday break somewhere far away- somewhere tropical, exotic, so grown up and chic. But it hasn’t come up lately, and then she mentions a trip she’s taking with some friends from her classes. You book a flight to England instead and see Oscar in his new home for the first time.

You have new roommates next year. None of them have the same birthdate as you. You think that’s okay.

|Age 21|

There’s a stain on your dress, someone’s wine or sangria or cranberry juice that they’d been too clumsy with. You suppose it could be yours- you’re really not sure. It’s your fault for wearing such a light color to a club like this.

It’s your birthday. You’ve been able to drink for a few years, but it’s still your birthday, and for once, Oscar is there for it. Or really, you’re there for it, there being England. You’re on yet another trip to visit him, money saved and scraped together from your job on your breaks from school. Oscar helped pay for the plane ticket as a birthday present, and your parents got you a new luggage set to take along.

Oscar’s disappeared- at the bar, you remember, closing out his tab. You check your phone- 2:22 am. It’s really time you should be headed home-

You’re jostled from behind, and moments later, you feel cool liquid deep down your back. You turn, and there’s a guy standing there, sandy blonde hair and a terrified look on his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, British accent smoothing the words over. “I didn’t mean to-“

“S’okay,” you tell him, though you wrinkle your nose at the feeling of what was likely beer running down your back. “The dress was stained already.”

The man sighs. “It’s not okay- let me make it up to you. Can I buy you a drink?”

You frown. “I think I’m supposed to be leaving. My friend just went to pay.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” The guy’s eyes light up, then. “Wait, how about I take you on a date?”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. 2:22, you remember. Angel numbers. You are in the right place at the right time.

“I’m only here for a couple more days,” you say, cautiously.

“I’m free tomorrow if you are,” he suggest. “Well, more like later today, but-“

“Yeah, okay!” You’d at brightly, and hopefully not too eagerly. “I’m free.”

He’s holding out his phone for you to put your number in when Oscar pops up. He looks between the two of you with raised brows. “Everything alright?”

“He’s taking me on a date later today,” you explain, tapping the last number. “Because he spilled beer on my dress. Can you check if I put my number in right? My fingers aren’t working right.”

Oscar laughs, leans forward, and nods. “That’s right.”

You don’t remember getting back to Oscar’s apartment. You barely even remember the guy from the bar until Oscar brings it up that morning, a teasing tone in his voice. Suddenly you’re checking your phone every minute, looking for a text from him. You name him Angel Boy, mentioning the angel numbers you’d seen just before you bumped into him. Oscar, well versed in your obsession with things that are just meant to be, rolls his eyes affectionately.

When the sun is trending towards the horizon and Angel Boy still hasn’t called or even texted you, your mood sours. You plant yourself on the couch, an episode of some stupid reality show playing. You’re not paying attention, only staring at your phone.

By the time 7:00 rolls around, you know it’s a lost cause. You can hear Oscar in the other room, shuffling around, and you feel tears well up in your eyes. There’s got to be someone out there who’s actually meant to be yours, right? One of these times the signs will be right, and it’ll all work out. It’s just… you’re getting discouraged.

Oscar appears in front of you and slips your phone out of your hands. He shoves it into his own pocket. He hands you a jacket, one of his, and you stare up at him with wide eyes.

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” he says, as he reaches to brush the tears from your cheeks. “Just because he’s not going to text you, doesn’t mean you should just sit here all night.”

You could cry even harder at that, at the fact that Oscar cares enough to try and break you out of your moping. You don’t really want to go out, but he has this hopeful look on his face. Both of you don’t need to be sad today. So you stand up, pull the jacket over your arms, and take a deep breath. You walk out of the apartment, your arm linked with his.

The ramen bar you go to is probably better than anywhere the guy would’ve taken you, anyways. If you’re being honest, the company is better, too.

|Age 22|

Oscar flies you out to the Netherlands to see him race. You’d been at the Melbourne Grand Prix, of course, but he’d insisted he’d fly you out for at least one race in his first season- promised it years ago, when Formula One was just a dream on his bucket list. Zandvoort works well- it fits into your schedule, and the summer break starts right afterwards, so he’ll actually have time to spend with you.

In the days leading up to the race, he’s extremely busy and extremely apologetic about it. You reassure him that you understand, that you knew what you were getting into, knew he’d be busy. You wander around the paddock, say hi to Logan- who you know only slightly better than all the other drivers- and keep yourself entertained. You spend time with Oscar when you get the chance- between interviews and practices, stolen moments of privacy in his driver’s room. It’s nice, it really is, but it’s also… weird.

You’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about what your mother once said about soulmates and love. For all the soul searching you’ve done, all the stars you’ve tried to read, you’ve come up empty. You’ve resigned yourself to the fact that maybe there’s just not anyone out there for you. Maybe you’re not meant to have a soulmate.

The thing about letting go of that pressure, though, is that it leaves space. Not a hole, not an emptiness, just… space. Room for other things to sneak in and make their home and grow. Somewhere along the lines- you don’t know when, maybe it’s been there all along- a seed had been planted. Now the roots are digging cracks in your heart, the leaves are shading out every other thought, and there are flowers blooming.

For months, now, your heart has been jumping in your chest every time Oscar texts you. You can’t wipe the grin off your face when he calls. You’ve been following every race, waking up at odd hours to cheer him on, sending him selfies with the tv to prove it to him, to make sure he knows you’re watching. You feel a little crazy, because suddenly he’s all you can think about.

Maybe love is about choices. You start making them, start choosing him. The only question now is if he’ll choose you, too.

The whole weekend is chaos. Oscar crashes in practice, sending himself and your heart spinning. He’s okay, thank god- though his mother texts you frantically, asking if he’s really okay. Then the race itself is even more chaotic, between the rain and the crashes and all the stuff in between. Oscar ends up in the points, though not as high as he’d hoped to be. You cheer for him either way.

You stick around the paddock all the way through his debrief, even when he tries to say you can head back to the hotel without him. Eventually, you leave with him and Lando, his arm around your shoulders the whole way to the car that’s waiting. It’s nice. He’s warm. Lando is making small talk, trying to get to know his teammates best friend, the one Oscar never shuts up about. You feel your face grow hot and hope Oscar doesn’t notice.

In the hotel lobby, Oscar makes a stop at the complimentary snack bar. Lando says something about Kim, his trainer, getting after him, which Oscar ignores. The three of you ride up together in the elevator, with Lando demanding most of your attention as he begs for stories about Oscar as a kid. Oscar’s quiet- you wonder if the weekend is weighing on him more than he’d previously let on.

You say goodnight to Lando and then Oscar scans you into the hotel room. Two beds, a couch, and a balcony that the two of you had eaten breakfast on that morning. You walk over to your bed and sit on the edge, flopping down onto your back.

Something lands on your stomach, softly. You look down, and your throat suddenly feels tight. It’s an orange. It’s a peeled orange. Oscar is standing at the window, pulling the curtains closed. His back is to you.

You blink, picking it up delicately. “You peeled it for me.”

“You hate peeling them,” he says. It’s very matter of fact. The same tone he’d use to say duh or of course.

You stare at his silhouette, the slope of his shoulders, the soft puff of his hair. You sit up, stomach turning. Suddenly, you need to be close to him. You stand up, orange in hand, pulling one of the pieces from it. You hold it lightly between your fingertips. Love is an action.

You hold it out to him. He takes it, smiles down at you.

“I love you, you know that?” You say, before you lose the courage.

“Yeah, I love you too,” he says, giving you a goofy look.

“No, like-“ you pause. Maybe you shouldn’t do this. Maybe you should just-

But it’s too late, because a wave of understanding washes over his face. His eyes go wide, lips parting. His hand pauses halfway to his mouth, the orange slice still in his fingers.

“Oh,” he says, voice cracking. His face splits into a grin. “Jeez, took you long enough to catch up, didn’t it?”

When he drops the orange slice on the floor so he can grab your face and kiss you, you’re somehow still so startled that you also drop the rest of the orange. That’s okay, though. He’ll peel another one for you without you even having to ask. Stars light up behind your eyes at the feeling of his lips on yours, and you realize then that maybe soulmates are just the people who choose to stick around.

…..

Deep in your desk in your childhood home, there’s a piece of paper. It’s been unfolded and refolded a million times. At the top, the title says, 15 Signs He’s Your Soulmate in messy, primary school handwriting. You pull it from your drawer and uncap the gel pen that sits in the cup on the desk.

At the bottom of the list, beneath your faded magic marker scrawl, you add:

#16: He peels your oranges.

#16: childhood best friend??

#16: YOU JUST KNOW

He turns, slowly, and makes eye contact with you. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

You hold back a laugh, thinking that might be a little mean, all things considered. “What are you doing here?”

He sighs, hands hanging at his sides. “I forgot my phone charger, and my laptop, and…” he pauses, frowning at you. “What are you doing here?”

You raise your brows right back. “Working?”

You watch his eyes flicker across your setup. You’re still in the same McLaren sweatshirt you’d been wearing when you saw him that morning. Your hair is piled atop your head. Your laptop sits open in front of you, the only source of light before Oscar burst through the doors. There are papers and notebooks scattered on the tabletop. Your pen is missing- you selfishly hope that as he scours your table, he’ll spot it.

“You got here at 8am,” he says, bewildered. “It’s almost midnight. That’s almost 16 hours.”

He says nothing about the pen. Why would he? He doesn’t know it’s missing. Logically, it must be here somewhere, probably under a paper or clipped to a notebook, but you’ve given up.

“Yes,” you answer, smirking. “You’re great at math, Oscar.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, home? Sleeping?”

You shrug. “I took breaks. It’s not like I’ve been working all day straight.”

You’re not lying. You’d taken a good, long lunch break, and an afternoon walk around the grounds. You’ve gotten up to stretch a couple times, made runs to the break room for coffee. You hope he doesn’t see straight through it, though. Hope he can’t see the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your skin, the exhaustion weighing your shoulders.

It’s not that you weren’t tired. You just knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep. One of those days. So instead, you had decided to be productive. Which had led to this- you in the lobby of your office building, hunched over a laptop. Oscar, the driver whose data you’re scouring, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Go grab your stuff,” you tell him, nodding towards the doors he’d been headed to. “You have an early flight tomorrow.”

He blinks wildly. “We’re on the same flight.”

You nod, because you both know this quite well. There’d been a meeting this morning about who had to be where and at what times. You’re on the first flight out with the main team, headed to Singapore.

“I’m not the one who has to drive the car at very high speeds this weekend,” you remind him, pointing the eraser of your pencil at him. “Or the one who has to be in front of the cameras. You need your beauty sleep.”

Oscar laughs at that, a happy sound that makes you smile, too. “Okay, okay. I’ll be right back.”

You think about disappearing to the bathroom or the break room while he’s gone, just to avoid any further questions. You know Oscar relatively well, though, and knowing him, he’d just wait around until you came back. Or worse, come and try to find you. You can picture it- you pouring your third cup of coffee in the last hour, Oscar watching from the doorway with disdain. You stay put, sipping from your mug and scribbling notes.

He’s back within a few minutes, a backpack in hand. His keys dangle from his fingertips. You don’t look up from your laptop as he walks towards you, that is until he’s standing right in front of you. You blink up at him through your lashes. There’s a frown on his face- this close, you know your lack of sleep must be obvious.

He nudges the top panel of your laptop with a single fingertip. “C’mon. Time to go home.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, shaking your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”

“What, you just gonna stay here until we all meet up in the morning to go to the airport?” He scoffs.

“That would be ridiculous,” you laugh.

“It would,” he agrees. He seems to see straight through you, though. “Come on. Close the laptop, close the notebooks. You can work on this on the flight, like a normal person.”

“I’m trying to improve your car, you know.”

“I’m not leaving until you do,” he finally says, and you scoff with wide eyes. “And remember, I’m the one who has to actually drive the car. And go in front of the cameras. I need my beauty sleep.”

You rear your head back, unsure how to even counter that. He takes the opportunity to close the laptop for you, and you bat at his hands. Then he’s sweeping your papers into piles, stacking your notebooks and gathering them up into his arms.

“That’s my intellectual property, you know,” you scold him, reaching for the papers. He holds them up above your head easily, and you groan. “Okay, okay, I’ll go, just- I lost my pen, earlier. It’s my favorite one. I just have find it and then I promise I’ll go- you can go home, really, I’ll see you-“

He’s reaching for your head, suddenly, and you freeze. When his hand returns to your view, he’d holding the pen between his fingertips. You blink once, twice, then reach for it, but he’s holding it above your head within seconds, too.

“We’re leaving,” he tells you, firmly. “Come on. Up we go.”

You get to your feet reluctantly and pack your things into your bag. Oscar helps, handing you your papers in neat little piles. He keeps you in front of him as you both exit the lobby, like he’s afraid you might take off running further into the office building. His car is still parked out front, still running, and you see him wince.

“Didn’t expect to be inside for so long,” he says sheepishly.

You laugh lightly, starting your walk towards the employee lot. It’s down a well lit path, but every step feels heavy this late at night.

“Wait,” he says, and you pause. “Do you want a ride? You seem tired. You know, sometimes that’s as bad as driving drunk.”

“I’m not gonna fall asleep behind the wheel,” you tell him. You say it with confidence, because it’s pretty likely you’re not going to fall asleep at all tonight.

He cocks his head at you, cast in the bright glow of the floodlights. “At least let me drive you to your car. Otherwise, how do I know you’re not going to just go back inside?”

You roll your eyes. “And how do I know you’re not trying to kidnap me?”

You end up getting in the car, because he makes it pretty clear he’s not leaving until you do. You contemplate just walking to your own car, but honestly your feet feel so heavy it’s just not worth the fight. Oscar, to his credit, doesn’t kidnap you. He also doesn’t comment on your very modest car, the only one left in the parking lot. He does try to offer you a ride home one more time, but he lets it go after your repeat refusal.

You say goodbye, climb into your own car, and start the engine. The heat kicks on quickly, thank god, and you start up a playlist. It’s only when you look up, ready to leave, that you notice his car is still sitting there. You can just barely see Oscar behind the windshield, and he waves at you. He’s waiting for you to leave.

You flip him off as you roll out of the parking lot, and you watch him laugh in response.

…..

You’re one of the first ones at the office the next morning, and therefore one of the first ones on a shuttle to the airport. Oscar’s chronically late, or as he would call it, chronically precisely on time, so you don’t see him until he’s climbing on the plane. McLaren’s rented out a charter plane for this trip, with the double header making it the easiest solution.

You’re already settled into a seat, laptop open on the table in front of you, headphones on. You barely even look up when you feel him looking over you, but then he’s tugging one side of your headphones off your ear.

“Did you even sleep?” He asks, brows furrowed.

“Yes,” you lie, raising your brows at him defensively.

Oscar raises his brows in return. He obviously doesn’t believe you.

Before he can say anything else, Lando’s behind him, leaning up over his shoulder. “Oscar, mate, get a move on.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but does as Lando’s urging. There’s not assigned seats, per say, but the two drivers are headed towards the middle of the plane where their trainers and other senior staff are sitting. That’s how these things normally go- it just makes sense. They’ll have meetings on the plane, talk about meal plans and strategies and get ready for the weekend. You’ll spend your flight going through the data just one more time, trying to unlock all of the secrets to give Oscar the best possible chance on Sunday.

…..

Singapore is good. Not great, not perfect, but good. For Lando’s team, it’s a huge weekend. And honestly, 4th place for Oscar in his rookie year is huge too. He’s thrilled, tells you as much after the race, after the briefing.

“I know you worked hard this weekend, put in a lot of hours,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” you say with a shrug.

“Right.” He says. “Thanks, though.”

You smile up at him, knowing it’s wobbly and insincere. You don’t take compliments well. “No problem.”

When you get to the hotel that night, you lay down in the bed and try to fall asleep. It’s no use, really, because it’s not your bed, and because your mind is racing. There’s nothing even bothering you, that’s the stupid thing. Just… a billion thoughts flying by all at once. So you wander the hotel, up and down the stairs, down the halls. You make a pit stop in the exercise room, walk on the treadmill, try out the rowing machine. You’ve never been one for working out, but the internet says exercise can help with sleep issues. It’s worth a try, but it doesn’t work.

You contemplate sneaking into the closed hotel pool, but ultimately decide against it. You’d probably get caught, and then you’d get in trouble, and it would somehow make it back to your boss. Then you’d get fired in Singapore, left to find your own way home. So instead, you head for the vending machines on your floor. There’s got to be something in there that’ll cure the racing in your head. Or at least bring you some comfort in the dead of night.

What doesn’t bring you comfort in the dead of night is a face in the reflection on the glass of the vending machine. You nearly scream when you meet someone else’s eyes. You whirl around, arms in a defensive position, and come face to face with Oscar.

“Would’ve pegged you for flight, not fight,” he says drowsily.

“You can’t sneak up on people like that,” you hiss, dropping your hands to your sides.

“Payback,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face clumsily. “B‘sides, I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. I was trying to get a snack.”

You blink at him. “Oscar, it’s 3am.”

He nods, blinks slowly. You almost expect his eyes to stay closed, almost expect him to fall asleep standing up.

“I woke up starving,” he says, shuffling towards one of the vending machines. “Promise you won’t tell Kim? I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

He’s cute when he’s sleepy. You want to tuck him into bed and tell him bedtime stories. You want to kiss his forehead. You blink hard, trying to reset your brain. The sleep deprivation is really getting to you. This is your coworker, your teammate.

You shrug and nod in agreement. “Would’ve kept the secret without the bribe, but if you’re offering…”

Oscar laughs, a quiet sound in the empty night air. “What’ll it be, then?”

He’s leaning against the glass heavily. He must still be half asleep. You can’t blame him. You point at the bag of chips you’d been eyeing, and then at the gummy worms in the corner. He nods in approval of both, selects them, feeds the machine his money. Then he’s picking his own snack- a poptart and a bag of Cheetos. He backs away, but you make a noise and point at the drinks machine.

“And a Red Bull?” You ask, pointing at your favorite flavor where it sits, lit up by fluorescent light.

He turns back, almost puts the money in, and then he pauses and looks at you. “It’s 3am.”

“Right, we established that.”

“Why would you drink Red Bull at 3am?” He asks, bewildered.

You shrug. “Because I like Red Bull.”

“Go work for them, then,” he suggests. You laugh. “Actually, I have a feeling that would be severely detrimental to your health. Too many free energy drinks. Do you ever sleep?”

“Those are big words for 3am,” you tease, nudging his shoulder. “Come on. The tangerine one, please.”

“I’m not buying you a Red Bull.” He shakes his head. “I am walking you back to your room and you’re going to bed.”

“I’ll tell Kim about your snacks.”

“No, you won’t.”

You let him walk you back to your room. He stands there as you swipe the key card, as you open the door and shuffle inside. He says goodnight from the doorway. You close the door after you echo the sentiment, lock all the locks, and lay down in your bed. You close your eyes and try to go to sleep. You really, truly try. But when the clock turns over to 4am, and you realize it’s useless, you roll out of bed and head down to the vending machine. You buy the Redbull with your own money, carry it back to your room, turn on the tv, and settle in until the sun comes up.

…..

Tokyo may just be your favorite city in the entire world. Everything is open all the time. You’ve never felt more seen by a city. The days that you and the rest of the team spend there between the two races are heaven. You have meetings during the day, but they’re short and easy. At night, there are plenty of places for you to roam, plenty of things to do and see.

You spend your nights in ramen bars, in arcades, in toy stores that seem to stretch on for miles. You collect so many souvenirs you’re worried you’ll have to buy a second suitcase. Frankly, you’re going on week two of sleeping only in one to two hour stints, and it’s likely you’re beginning to get a little manic. In Tokyo, though, nobody bats an eye.

You join the team for breakfast in the hotel lobby on Thursday. You’ve somehow ended up at a table with Oscar and Lando- you’d gotten here before anyone else, and Oscar had chosen the seat across from you. Lando asks what you’ve been up to. They’ve been busy with promo stuff, you’ve hardly seen the two of them all week.

You regale them with your stories and hand off your phone to Lando so he can scroll through your pictures. Oscar listens with rapt attention, leaning to look at the photos too.

“How do you do all this and find time to sleep?” Lando asks, an amused tone in his voice.

“She doesn’t, mate,” Oscar replies, pointing at your phone. “Look at the time stamps.”

You roll your eyes and snatch the phone away from them. Lando’s looking at you with wide eyes, Oscar is smiling amusedly.

“Sleep is for the weak,” you tell them, and you swear Lando’s eyes are going to bug out of his head. “We’re in Tokyo, I’m making the most of it.”

To Oscar’s credit, he doesn’t bring up the encounter at the MTC, or the run in at the vending machines. Still, this revelation seems to bewilder Lando.

“Sleep is like, the most important thing,” he says, shaking his head. “For your health.”

“Not all of us have to be in tip top shape,” you say, stabbing your fork into a waffle on your plate. “Some of us get to have fun. Exhibit B. Our breakfasts.”

Lando looks at your plate, filled with waffles and bacon and your cup of coffee, next to it. He casts his glance to his sad looking bowl of oatmeal, then, and sighs heavily. Oscar’s laughing at the two of you, though his plate looks just as sad.

“When you pass out halfway through the day,” Lando says, a retaliatory furrow in his brow, “I’m telling Andrea why.”

“That won’t happen,” you reassure him. “And besides, it’s media day. I have it easy.”

…..

Oscar makes it on the podium on Sunday. You scream your lungs out with the rest of the team, run to the pit wall, watch the podium celebrations. He’s wrapping everyone in enthusiastic hugs, slapping everyone’s backs and grinning so, so widely. All the lost sleep feels worth it, just to see him smile like that.

When he makes it to you, he hauls you into his chest, arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. You could stay like that forever, if he’d let you. He tucks his chin atop your head and you think you’d like to make a home right there, in his arms.

The celebrations go late, and so does the debrief. By the time it’s all said and done, everyone looks exhausted, including the drivers. They start shuttling you all back to the hotel for the night, back in Tokyo so you can get on the plane easily tomorrow morning. You’re just glad to be back in the city. On a night like tonight, buzzing with adrenaline and caffeine, there’s no way you’re falling asleep.

You somehow end up in a shuttle with Oscar. He smells like champagne and sweat, and you tease him about it when he sits down in the back row next to you.

He smiled sheepishly. “So I smell like a podium finisher, then.”

You watch as the city goes by out the window and listen to him chat idly with the others in the van. When you get back, you’re the last one out of the car. He’s waiting outside the hotel, leaning on the wall.

“So, what’s your plan for the night?” He asks, cocking a brow.

“No judgement?” You ask.

“No judgement,” he promises.

You shrug. “Not exactly sure. There’s a lot to do. I’ll probably get some ramen, maybe go shopping. Might just take a walk.”

He nods. “Sleep?”

“Not high on the priority list,” you admit.

He nods again. “Can I come with?”

You blank, staring at him. “What?”

“On your adventure,” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can I come along?”

Suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest. He wants to come with? Why? There’s a part of you that doesn’t like the idea, that thinks your sleepless adventures are for you and you alone. The other part of you, the one that wins out, thinks it might not be so bad to have some companionship.

“… sure,” you agree, eyeing him carefully. “But you have to play along. No forcing me to go to sleep.”

“Promise,” he says, holding out his pinky.

You hook yours with his and seal the deal.

…..

You both head up to your hotel rooms to change clothes, and in Oscar’s case, to take a shower. He sends you a text when he’s ready and you meet him in the lobby. He’s in a casual outfit, jeans and a hoodie. You’re dressed similarly, in a pair of black jeans and a crewneck.

“Where to?” He asks, wide grin on his face.

It turns out that Oscar is the ideal late night adventure companion. You start your night out at a sushi conveyor restaurant, both of you joking about how Lando would never dare to eat there. You eat to your heart’s content and make comments about fueling up for the night ahead. He even joins you in having an energy drink, some Japanese brand that you’ve never heard of. Oscar reads part of the label to you, balks at the amount of caffeine in it, and drinks it anyways.

After the restaurant, the two of you climb into a cab and head to the Shibuya district. It’s crawling with people, buzzing with energy, and you feel right at home. Oscar sticks close to your side, hanging onto the back of your sweatshirt as you cross the busy crosswalks in a sea of people. When you turn, though, he’s smiling like he’s having the time of his life. The two of you climb the stairs to an observatory where you can watch the dance of pedestrians and traffic from above. There’s a glow to the city that feels akin to how your brain feels when you can’t sleep- like it never goes out, never turns off.

You tell this to Oscar, who gives you a contemplative look.

“Is it the energy drinks?” He asks. His hand is on your wrist, likely just to keep track of you in the crowds.

You shake your head. “The energy drinks came after the… not sleeping-“

“Insomnia,” he suggests.

“… not sleeping,” you repeat, narrowing your eyes at him. “Anyways. I was like a zombie. The energy drinks make it so I’m functional. I figure if I’m gonna be awake, may as well enjoy it.”

You head back out onto the streets and begin to wander again. Oscar follows along, always holding onto you in some way, always smiling when you look at him. The two of you wander through art galleries and museums lit up with neon lights. Somewhere in the middle of one of them, he slips his fingers between yours. You’re not complaining. There’s something grounding, leveling about his presence.

You stop for drinks at a bar- some sort of local beer that Oscar orders for both of you in Japanese. It’s followed by a vodka Red Bull, at your insistence. Oscar wrinkles his nose but drinks the whole thing, seemingly determined to match you.

Next door, there’s a highly American themed bowling alley. Oscar laughs about how Logan would love it and pulls you inside. It’s the first stop of the night that he’s suggested, so you go along eagerly. He’s snapping pictures, ones to send to Logan, ones for himself, ones of you smiling, renting out bowling shoes. He pays for the game, and you both do terribly. The worker puts the bumper guards up out of pity, because the two of you obviously have no idea what you’re doing. He’s a world renowned athlete, you’re a highly skilled engineer, and yet, you both suck at bowling.

“When did the in-“ you fix him with a glare, and he stops mid sentence. “When did the not sleeping start?”

You look up at the ceiling of the bowling alley and purse your lips, watching the disco ball spin. “Next question.”

He huffs and shrugs, rolling the ball down the lane. “I don’t have a next question.”

“What’s your family like?”’you ask him, and he smiles, softer than you’ve ever seen him smile before.

“Well, I have three sisters,” he starts, eyes lighting up.

Somewhere between the bowling alley, the next bar, and the shopping mall you end up in, you start to really get to know Oscar. It’s funny how the night opens people up. Everything feels safer in the dark, surrounded by other people. It’s creeping up on 1am- in theory, both of you should be sound asleep. The fact that you’re not makes anything okay. You learn about his family, his childhood, his friends back home and in the UK. You tell him about yourself, too. He listens with an eager look on his face, laughing at all the right moments, squeezing your hand at the right ones, too.

You end up in a store that’s packed to the brim with stuffed animals. He lets you drag him around the whole thing, pointing out cute ones and the ones you think are a bit odd. Then you gasp, pointing excitedly, pulling on his hand.

“It’s you,” you squeak, the delirium beginning to set in. It’s a stuffed Kangaroo, and he groans softly. “Look, you’re even making the same face.”

Oscar seems unable to argue with that. Both he and the stuffed kangaroo do seem to be scowling. He smiles instead, picks it up, and takes it to the register. He buys it before you can really even say anything, and the cashier packages it in a bag. The kangaroo’s head sticks out over the paper, your second faithful companion for the night.

By 3am, Oscar is starting to drag. He perks up every time you look at him and smiles brightly, but you can tell. His grip on your hand is looser lately, and his blinks are growing longer and longer. You turn to him, a sympathetic smile on your face.

“We can go back to the hotel, if you want,” you say, poking his cheek lightly.

He smiles. “Are you tired?”

You sigh. “No, but you are.”

“I’m okay,” he insists, shaking his head. “What about the batting cages you mentioned? That sounded fun.”

You pout at him. “Oscar, you’re half asleep. You’d definitely get hit by a ball.”

He nods in agreement. “Maybe I just need another energy drink?”

You cock your head at him, take in his heavy eyelids, his parted lips. “That would be your third one of the night. And that would be very unhealthy.”

He nods again. “Yeah. Okay. Just… I said I’d be along for the ride.”

“We can hang out at the hotel,” you suggest. “The pool area is open all night.”

“I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”

“Me neither.”

You somehow end up with a pizza on your way back, and the two of you plant yourselves in the pool area on one of the chaise lounge chairs, the pizza box in front of you. You eat the greasy, cheesy food, and even Oscar indulges in it. He has his hand planted on the chair behind your back. Every so often you lean backs against his arm just to feel his presence. His knee bumps against yours, and you smile.

The pool is clear and blue. Neither of you will be swimming, but this felt like a neutral enough place. You’d thought about inviting him back to your room but had felt weird about it. There’s something calming about the still water and the smell of the chlorine, anyways.

He leans his head on your shoulder. The heavy weight of him is nice. He’s solid, sturdy, grounding. You’re chatting idly about something that happened at the race, something he’d missed while he was driving the car. You break off in the middle of a sentence to yawn, and then you close your eyes for just a moment. Oscar’s breath hitches.

The two of you are silent for a moment. You stare into the clear water, aching to drift and float and fall asleep. You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest.

“It started when I was a kid,” you tell him. “I just… stopped sleeping. It comes and goes in cycles. Sometimes I’m fine, sometimes I just…”

“Can’t sleep,” Oscar finishes for you, his words contradicting the sleepy tone of his voice.

“Yeah,” you say, blinking slowly again.

Your head droops, resting against his. He’s so warm, so comforting. He must feel you drifting, must feel your grip faltering, because then he’s sitting up, tucking you into his chest.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asks, drowsily.

“M’so tired,” you admit, curling into him. “Justwannasleep.”

Tears are stinging at your eyes. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared for this part. The moment when your lack of sleep catches up to you, and you become an emotional, distraught mess. You’re seconds away from full on sobbing.

Oscar seems to sense this. “Okay. Okay, how about- I have a pull out couch in my suite. Why don’t you- if you’re comfortable, you could come sleep there. Maybe it would help to know somebody’s there if you need it? Maybe-“

“Okay,” you answer, nodding against his chest. “Okay, yeah.”

He takes care of the empty pizza box and guides you up to his room. You know there’ll be questions to answer if anyone sees you, but you’re comforted by the fact that it’s 4am and nearly every sane person is sound asleep. He scans into the room, and you let out a sigh when he lets go of your hand. He moves quickly, unfolding the pull out couch, grabbing extra blankets from the cabinets. Before you know it, you’re sitting down on the bed, rubbing your eyes.

It’s strange, now that you’re here. You’re in Oscar’s hotel room. You’ve just spent the night wandering Tokyo with him. You’re exhausted, sleep deprived, still on the verge of tears. Everything feels hazy and blurry.

“I can… go, if you want,” he says, and you blink up at him through your blurry vision. “Or I can sit with you till you fall asleep.”

“That might take a while,” you tell him. “Like, you’re more likely to fall asleep. Even… when I finally get to this point, it takes a while.”

He shrugs. “We could put on a movie.”

That’s exactly what you do. He turns on the tv, spots Finding Nemo on the guide, and turns it on. He sinks down on the bed, leaning against the couch back. You crawl up next to him as he turns the volume low. At first, you just sit shoulder to shoulder. Then he reaches out, wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his side. You sigh against him. Cradled close, you let the exhausted tears flow. He can’t see you, probably, and even if he can, you can’t bring yourself to care. He leans down, brushes his lips against your forehead.

“M’right here,” he says, softly. “I’ve got you.”

You wake up at 8am with your head in his lap. His alarm is blaring from the side table, and you’re both springing apart. He fumbles for his phone, shutting the alarm off with the shaky hands of someone who’s just been woken up from not nearly enough sleep.

You, on the other hand, have gotten the most consecutive sleep of your last two weeks. You stretch, rubbing the blur from your eyes and blinking at him.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“For what?” He asks, voice steady.

“For… I don’t know. Keeping you up so late? Falling asleep on you?” You shrug. “I… that was a lot, for me to put that all on you.”

Oscar shrugs, so nonchalant about it. “It’s what friends are for.”

You nod, though you’re not convinced. You pull away, and Oscar’s soft smile drops to a flat frown. He reaches for you, but you dodge his touch.

“I should go,” you tell him. “We have to leave soon, people are going to be getting up and- if they see me come out of your room-“

“We can be friends,” he says, again, brows furrowing. “We didn’t do anything wrong, everything is okay-“

He doesn’t understand. It’s fine for him, but this is too much for you. He wants to be friends, but you’re looking at him and thinking about how if you could curl up on his chest every night, you might never have trouble sleeping again. He wants friends, you want more. You can’t have more, though, because there’s no way you’ll keep your job. And he doesn’t want that, anyways. Why would he? You’re just his pity project, the poor girl who can’t sleep, who fails at counting sheep.

“I should go,” you repeat, standing up. You can’t look at him, can’t watch him watching you. “Thank you. For everything. I’m sorry.”

He stands up too, and he grabs your hand. You pause, stuck between ripping your hand from his and running, or whirling around and snapping at him. Fight or flight. Instead, you take a deep breath. You’re still sleep deprived, still exhausted. 4 hours doesn’t fix two weeks of little to no sleep.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, shoulders sagging. “I have a hard time letting people take care of me.”

“It’s okay,” Oscar says. “Just- come sit down? Let’s talk, okay?”

You sink down on the bed, rest your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands. “Why do you care?”

Oscar sits down next to you. He reaches out, knits your fingers together. You’re reminded of the art galleries, of the crowds, of the bowling alley. You split yourself open last night, in the safety of the time when you should’ve been sleeping. He saw you and he’s still here, somehow, hanging on. Your bones are tired. Your head is pounding. You need caffeine.

“I care,” he says, gently, “because I care about you. Because I think you’re a good person, and I want to get to know you better. And because this whole thing is not healthy.”

You sigh. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand methodically, back and forth. The funny thing is, you could fall asleep again, just like this. You could lean into his shoulder, let the warmth of him seep into your skin, and fall asleep. You wonder if he knows it.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, rubbing at your face sleepily. “Osc, I’ve been like this for years. It’s not just going to change now.”

“Not overnight,” he says, softly. There’s a callous on his thumb, you can feel the scrape of it over your skin. It’s oddly soothing. “But I can try. I can be here.”

“Why would you want to?”

“Because despite all the craziness, last night was the most fun I’ve had in weeks,” he says, and you could cry. “I want to spend time with you. I want to get to know you. Take you on dates. The whole nine yards.”

You should’ve expected this. Oscar can be shy, and quiet, but he can be straightforward, too. He’s pretty easy to read. He’s blunt with Lando, almost to the point of contention sometimes. But you’d been so focused on trying to prove to him that you were just fine that you hadn’t considered he was feeling the sparks, too. That maybe he wasn’t holding onto you in the crowd just so he didn’t lose you. That maybe he liked the feeling of your skin on his, too.

“If you want that,” he says, voice low.

You blink blearily, pull away to look up at him. “I do.”

He nods, leans forward, kisses your forehead. The rest of it will come later, you think. You can work all the details out when you’re both more awake. Right now, he pulls you into his chest and flops back onto the bed.

“We have an hour before anyone comes looking for us,” he says, rubbing your back lightly. “Close your eyes? You don’t have to sleep, just-“

You blink once, twice, and then you’re fast asleep before he can get another word out.

…..

Oscar wins the sprint race in Qatar, and then takes second on Sunday. He’s nothing but endless wide grins all weekend, despite the heat and the dehydration and his obvious exhaustion. You laugh when you watch him lay down on the floor in the cool down room and smile when he gets sprayed with champagne on the podium. He chases you through the garage afterwards to give you a hug, despite your screeching about how sticky he is.

He tucks you into his chest. “Couldn’t have done it without you, baby.”

Later, you help corral a very tired Oscar and Lando to the shuttles and back to the hotel. They’re each stumbling over their own feet, giggling and laughing about the race, shoving at each other’s shoulders. For a minute, you’re walking through an empty parking lot, far from any other McLaren staff, and Oscar links his fingers with yours. They fit together like puzzle pieces. His fingers are sticky with champagne, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Lando sees and doesn’t say anything, just smiles.

You’re keeping it quiet for now. Time to figure it out between the two of you before you get your bosses involved. You have a feeling it’ll be mostly okay. You’ll figure it out, one way or another.

You follow Oscar up to his hotel room, saying goodnight to Lando as he heads further down the hall. He knits his fingers with yours again, leads you into his room, and collapses onto the bed.

“I’m exhausted,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Are you?”

You smile down at him, laid out on the bed. He should probably shower, at the very least change his clothes, but you can’t bring yourself to tell him that.

You sigh. “I mean, yeah, but if you’re asking if I’ll be able to sleep… probably not.”

He nods in understanding and purses his lips. “D’you think… would you just… stay, until I fall asleep?” He asks, blinking up at you. “After that you can take my card and get a Red Bull and go do whatever, just-“

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” you tell him.

It’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done. He gets ready for bed, and you do the same. You lean against the headboard and he crawls up the bed. He puts his head on a pillow in your lap, curls up into a little c shape. He’s very cat like, you’ve noticed, especially when he’s sleepy. You run your fingers through his hair, the tv playing quietly in the background, and he sighs and closes his eyes.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.

He’s out within minutes. Oscar is a sound sleeper. You could move him, could shift his head and get up. You could wander the halls, take his card and buy all the energy drinks you desire. But you look down at him, his brow unfurrowed, lips parted, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. You could sit here and watch him breathe all night. It’s a terrifying and comforting thought, all at once.

You don’t sleep. It’s likely you’ll crash on the flight home, or maybe shortly after that. With your luck, you’ll pass out in a meeting when you get back to the MTC. Oscar doesn’t scold you when he wakes up and it’s obvious you’ve been awake all night.

He gets you coffee from the breakfast bar, exactly how you like it. And when he finds you in the backseat of the airport shuttle, he hands you a tangerine Red Bull. It’s early, the sun just peeking up over the horizon, washing the whole city with orange. He’s smiling at you, and you’re smiling right back.

When you fall asleep on his shoulder on the way to the airport, nobody dares to say a word.

…..

“Did you hear we’re gonna be sponsored by Monster next year?” Lando asks, throwing a tennis ball at a wall in the courtyard.

You sit up in the grass nearby, eyes lighting up. “You’re kidding. Free Monster?”

Oscar, whose stomach you’d been laying on, sits up behind you and wraps his arm around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Your consumption will be restricted,” he says, and you laugh.

You suppose that’s fair. Besides, Monster is fine, but nothing will ever top tangerine Red Bull.

check out the companion blurb, Glad You’re Here

He’s busy, though. He told you as much when you found him between the ceremony and the reception. There’s a pang in your chest still at the way he brushed you off, the way he told you he didn’t have time to chat. You get it, you really do. You’re not going to get upset about it.

The seat to your left has been empty since you sat down, but someone collapses into it, letting out a heavy sigh. You turn to look, hoping for some sort of familiar face or at least a friendly one, and you’re met with-

“Hi. ‘M Daniel,” he says, sticking his hand out to shake yours.

The thing is, Daniel is a familiar face, but not for any of the reasons you’d hoped for. You know Daniel because your boyfriend is obsessed with Formula 1. You try to keep up so you can take part in his conversations, but it’s never really been your thing. But you know enough to know Daniel Ricciardo.

“Yeah, I… I know,” you say, before you slap your hand over your mouth. “Shit! I’m sorry. That’s weird. S’just- my boyfriend’s a huge fan-“

You swear his face drops slightly, but he plasters that grin right back on before he says, “and you’re not a fan?”

“I’m not not a fan,” you say. “He’s just the bigger fan. Of the two of us.”

Daniel nods. You finally shake his hand. He never stops looking at you, never stops smiling. You tell him your name, and he repeats it back to you, his accented version making you smile.

“Well, is he here? I’d love to meet the bigger of the two fans,” he says. “We talking, like, box fan, industrial blower, air boat fan? How big?”

You laugh, his hand squeezing yours as you lean over the table. He’s laughing, too, then, before he lets go of your hand. You want to crawl out of your skin, want to run and hide in the bathroom, because you’re definitely making a fool of yourself, but-

“Oh, he’s busy,” you say, waving your hand in the air dismissively. “He’s one of the groomsmen, got a lot on his plate. I don’t wanna bug him. He’s the one with the sunglasses on,” you say, pointing at him at the head table.

Daniel looks where you point and quirks his brow. “Guy like that has a girl like you and you’re the one worried about bugging him?”

You stare at him with wide eyes. He collapses into a fit of laughter again, and you follow suit. You don’t know what else to do. Then he nudges your knee with his, under the table, and juts his chin towards the bar.

“D’you want a drink?” He asks.

“The bar isn’t open yet,” you say.

“So?”

“So, how are you going to get a drink?”

He shakes his head and purses his lips. “Oh, sweetheart, you just watch and learn. What’re you having?”

You shrug. “A soda, I guess. I’m the designated driver for at least three of the groomsmen.”

Daniel sighs heavily. “You poor thing. You keep making me feel worse and worse for you. Alright, I’ll get you something.”

He strides his way up to the bar, which has a very obvious “Closed” sign on the countertop. There’s a single bartender behind it, and he’s cleaning glasses. You watch with entertainment as Daniel leans on the counter, exuding confidence and charm. The bartender shakes his head. Daniel counters. The man behind the bar shrugs and nods. Then he steps through a door for just a moment. When he returns, he has two drinks in his hands- one that’s obviously a beer, and one that’s bright pink. Daniel smiles, thanks the man, and walks the cups back to you.

He sets it down in front of you with a flourish before he takes a seat.

“I told you, I’m DD,” you remind him.

He nods, taking a sip of his beer before he says, “Shirley Temple.”

“Oh my god,” you say, a grin washing over your face. You pick up the cup and take a sip, sighing at the sweet taste of ginger ale and grenadine. “How did you know?”

“Everyone loves a good Shirley,” he says, elbowing you lightly. “And you can’t drink just plain soda at a wedding.”

They announce dinner shortly after that, and the waiters start bringing plates out. You’re starving, having been up early to help with last minute wedding things at your boyfriend’s request. You hadn’t had time to eat lunch. You chat with Daniel through the meal. The two of you talk about the food, about the wedding, about the decor. There are other people at the table, but they’re all incredibly boring in comparison. Daniel, on the other hand, could hold your attention forever, probably.

You sneak glances at your boyfriend, surrounded by his friends at the head table. He’d promised to sneak away as soon as he got a chance. He hasn’t even looked your way. You're trying to ignore the hurt deep in your chest. Daniel is sneaking glances at you sneaking glances at the bridal party. You’re trying to ignore that, too.

“How long have you two been dating?” Daniel asks.

“About 6 months,” you say with a smile.

It feels forced. Frankly, the last thing you want to talk about right now is your boyfriend. They’re clearing the last plates. He’s at his table, three beers in by your count, not a care in the world. He promised. Daniel opens his mouth, likely to ask another question about your boyfriend, but you speak first.

“So wait, are you here for the bride or the groom?” You ask.

“The bride,” Daniel says , a soft smile on his face. “An old family friend. I’m representing the Ricciardos.”

You smile. “That’s sweet.”

Before he can say anything in response, someone is tapping on a microphone. It’s time for the speeches. You know your boyfriend isn’t making one, which is good. He’s not exactly the best public speaker, especially when he’s been drinking. You and Daniel settle in to listen.

He sneaks away between the maid of honor and the best man, patting the back of your hand and whispering about being right back. He returns a few moments later, another beer and a Shirley Temple in his hands. You smile gratefully at him, and he waves you off. Then the next speech is starting, and you’re rolling your eyes at the way the best man talks about marriage like it’s some awful idea.

“He knows this is a wedding, yeah?” Daniel asks out of the side of his mouth, leaning towards you.

You shrug. “That one started drinking at 9am. I’m not sure he even knows what year it is right now.”

Daniel starts laughing, then. Luckily, the rest of the crowd does too- apparently, the best man has just made an extremely funny joke. Daniel is only looking at you, though, and you can’t help but laugh just because of the look on his face.

When the first dances are over and the music starts, you sink low into your seat. Your boyfriend has still not made an appearance. He definitely knows where you’re sitting, he had told you so earlier. You’re sure he’s busy, but you’d looked away for too long, talking to Daniel, and now he’s disappeared from the head table. You scan the crowd, hoping to see his face. All the while, you can feel Daniel watching you.

“We could go dance,” he suggests.

You sink lower in your seat. “I don’t really like dancing.”

That’s a lie. You love dancing, especially at weddings. You love the cheesy songs they always play, you love the atmosphere, you love watching the bride and groom have fun and getting to be a part of it. But you know how it would look if you went out on the dance floor with Daniel, and your boyfriend definitely won’t be joining you. As frustrated as you may be with your him, you don’t want to cause drama at someone else’s best day of their lives.

“I think I might try and find him,” you say, picking up your drink.

Daniel nods. “Want me to come with you?”

You look around at the rest of the table and find it empty. You shake your head and lean towards him, close enough that you almost knock your foreheads. Nobody’s watching the two of you or trying to listen anyways, but it’s more fun this way.

“He promised he’d find me before dinner,” you whisper conspiratorially. “That obviously didn’t happen. So I’m not bringing you to him as a reward for bad behavior.”

Daniel sits back in his chair and smiles at you, one brow raised. “Atta girl!”

You stand up from your chair and hope he can’t tell that your face has grown hot from that comment alone.

Even if you can’t find your boyfriend, it’s probably best that you get some space from Daniel. Through the last hour or so of your conversation, you’ve been catching yourself leaning towards him and then reminding yourself that you have a boyfriend. It’s just that he’s being so nice, and that you’re feeling so down about the whole thing. He’s comforting, which is fine. But it can’t be more than that.

You find your boyfriend at one of the bars, leaning on the counter and talking loudly with one of the other groomsmen. He’s drunk already- he should really slow down if he wants to last the night. You walk over to him, forcing a soft smile onto your face. You can’t confront him now, not in front of his friend and all the people waiting for drinks.

“Hey, babe,” you say, tapping his shoulder lightly as you walk up.

He turns. You wait for him to smile at you, but it never comes. Your stomach sinks.

“Hey,” he says, nonchalantly. “D’you need something?”

Your palms feel clammy. “Oh, no, I’m good! Just… wanted to say hi. S’been a bit.”

He nods. “Yeah. I told you I’d be busy tonight.”

His friend just stands there and listens. Your skin feels hot, and your eyes begin to sting.

“I know,” you say. “I’m not trying to bug you, I just- I was just walking by. Just. Yeah. That’s all. I’ll leave you to it.”

“I’ll come find you in a bit, baby,” he promises.

You don’t bother believing him this time.

Daniel doesn’t comment on your red eyes or the tear tracks on your cheeks when you return to the table. He just squeezes your arm and disappears for a moment, then comes back with yet another Shirley Temple. You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry, so you just take a sip of the drink instead.

“You don’t have to sit here with me,” you say to Daniel. “I’m definitely pulling down the mood.”

“Are you joking?” He says. “You’re the best thing at this party.”

You laugh, then, because the statement is so ridiculous that you can’t help it. He sounds so serious, and when you turn to look at him there’s no hint of teasing on his face. He just elbows your arm lightly again.

“Come on, we don’t have to dance but we’re not sitting here all night,” he says. “Let’s go wander.”

He stands from the table and tugs at your chair. You give in and stand up too, taking your drink from the table. You follow him as he weaves through the throngs of people. You like wandering. Wandering is a perfectly sensible thing to do with the guy you just met. At the wedding your boyfriend is a groomsman at. What else are you supposed to do, anyways?

He leads you past the dance floor, which you try not to look at forlornly. There are large glass doors at the back of the hall. He swings one open, holding it for you, waving you through with a flourish of his hand. Outside, it’s lit up with string lights. There’s a wide rolling lawn of grass, with fire pits and chairs spread out everywhere. There are lawn games, too- beanbags and horseshoes and a giant version of Jenga.

You can burn a lot of time out here. You barely even notice when Daniel slips his hand around your wrist to gently pull you with him. You should feel guilty about it. Your boyfriend is somewhere inside. But that same boyfriend has also been ignoring you all night. Daniel is just being friendly. You follow him to one of the fire pits with a smile on your face.

You and Daniel are nearly two hours into wandering when someone calls your name. You look up from where you’ve been staring at the beanbag board, trying to line up your throw just right. You’d been on the verge of winning for the first time. For an Australian, Daniel is surprisingly good at American lawn games. Frustratingly good, even.

It’s your boyfriend, calling you from the doorway of the reception hall. You sigh and drop the beanbag onto the ground near your feet. Two of the other groomsmen are hanging off of him, looking worse for the wear. One of them has something down the front of his shirt- you pray it’s not vomit.

“I think that’s my cue,” you say, nodding towards the building.

“You could always put them in a cab and hope they figure it out on their own.” Daniel says. You give him a skeptical look. “Kidding, kidding.”

“It’s tempting,” you admit.

Daniel bends over and picks up your heels from where they lay in the grass. You’d kicked them off as soon as you stepped into the soft grass outside. You slip the shoes back on and wince. Then you stick your hand out to him, palm open.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you,” you say, as he shakes your hand once more. “Thanks for not leaving me all alone.”

Daniel laughs. “I will be your ‘I-know-nobody-at-this-event-‘ partner anytime you want, sweetheart. Just give me a call. I’ll be there.”

You know what he’s trying to do. The opportunity is right there in front of you. He’s telling you to give him a call- this is where you ask for his number. But you have a boyfriend. You can justify hanging out with him, especially considering you had nothing else to do, but asking for his number feels a step too far.

You smile softly and drop his hand. “Goodnight, Daniel.”

You turn and make your way towards your boyfriend. He’s already complaining before you’re even within ten feet of him, about how he’s tired and he looked everywhere for you and how could you disappear like that? You apologize, just to quiet him down. You usher the three men inside before you turn to look at Daniel one more time.

He’s standing there, watching you, a sad smile on his face.

“Who was that guy?” Your boyfriend asks later, from the passenger seat of the car.

You look at him, at his eyes. The light is gone- he’s blacked out, there’s no way he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“Daniel Ricciardo,” you say.

It’s a testament to how drunk he is that he doesn’t even react.

You get all three guys into bed, including your boyfriend. You lay down next to him, as much as you don’t want to. There’s not really anywhere else to sleep in the little hotel room, and you’re not sleeping on the floor. When you close your eyes, you can’t fall asleep, plagued by thoughts of if you’d made the right choice, unable to erase Daniel’s sad smile from your memory.

…..

You love weddings. You remind yourself of that over and over again as you pin a dress in place for the hundredth time that day. Your best friend Natalie is a bridesmaid, it’s her sister who’s getting married, and you’re here to help in any way you can. So far, that’s included safety pinning, making a run for alcohol, checking on the floral delivery, checking to make sure the groomsmen are where they’re supposed to be, and comforting a bridesmaid who was crying in the bathroom. Her boyfriend had broken up with her the night before.

“Men are shit,” you’d told her in commiseration.

By the time the ceremony rolls around, you’re relieved to have a chance to sit down. You check on the bridesmaids one last time and head into the church. The pews are packed with people, so you find a spot near the back and sit down. You sigh in relief.

The music starts playing, and you finally take a chance to look around. The pews are decorated with flowers, there’s bright light streaming through the large windows. The groom waits up front, eyes already watering. You love weddings. You say it like a mantra in your head.

As the procession starts, you scan the crowd. You know more people at this wedding, having been friends with the family for a while. You’ll at least have some company at your table. You spot a couple friends from high school, a cousin you’ve met a few times, some mutual friends who you’ll definitely have to catch up with later. And then, in the third row on the groom’s side, you see dark curly hair that looks terrifyingly familiar.

It can’t be him. That would be absolutely insane. There’s absolutely no way Daniel Ricciardo is attending a second wedding in the US, for a couple who are no more famous than the previous wedding you’d seen him at. It would make absolutely no sense. And yet, you can’t stop staring at the back of this man’s head, the slope of his shoulders beneath his dark suit. You remember that wedding, months ago, resting your hand on his shoulder for balance as you took off your heels. He’d joked about having to cut you off, holding your Shirley Temple in his hand.

When the bridal procession begins playing, everyone stands. You keep your eyes on him. He turns, and your heart skips a beat in your chest. It’s Daniel. It’s impossible, it’s irrational, but it is him. You’d recognize him anywhere.

You force yourself to look away, to turn towards the bride. She looks beautiful, perfect, the picture of elegance. The flowers in her hands, the ones you’d checked on that morning, are perfect too. You breathe a sigh of relief. She really should’ve hired a wedding coordinator. Maybe you should be a wedding coordinator.

When you go to sit back down, you sneak a glance at Daniel. He’s looking over his shoulder at you, eyes wide. You meet his gaze and your cheeks feel hot. That wide, bright grin breaks out across his face. You grin right back.

When the ceremony is over, and they’re officially Mr and Mrs, the whole wedding disperses out onto the lawn of the church. There are shuttles to take you to the reception, but everyone seems content to mingle outside in the fresh air. You’re one of the first ones out, but you’re quickly swept up in the crowd. You search for Daniel in every face that passes. You find Natalie first, though.

“Nat,” you say frantically. “Does your sister know Daniel Ricciardo?”

Her brow furrowed for a second. “What?”

“Danny Ricciardo,” you repeat, keeping your voice low. “The F1 driver. He’s here.”

“Oh,” Natalie says, brows raising. “Yeah, he’s like, friends with her fiancé- oh, her husband! Shit, I forgot that you watch that stuff- or, you… did? I can probably try and introduce you-“

“No, we- we’ve met.” You admit. She’s the first person you’re telling about this. “At that wedding like 6 months ago.”

She tilts her head at you. Her eyes go wide. She says your name in a bewildered tone.

“Are you telling me that the mystery wedding man, who you definitely should’ve dumped your boyfriend for, was fucking Danny Ricciardo?”

“Keep it down!” You shush her.

“Oh my god,” she says, a conspiratorial smirk crossing over her face. “And he’s here.”

Someone calls your name. You know that voice- it’s haunted you since you left that wedding. You turn over your shoulder as Natalie grabs your wrist and lets out a squeak.

“Danny,” you breathe, like a sigh of relief. “Hi.”

He strides up to you, handsome as ever, grinning so widely it looks like it hurts. “This is fucking insane.”

An elderly aunt glares at him. He makes an apologetic face before turning back to you and shrugging. He steps into your space, so close you can smell his cologne. He’s staring down at you through his lashes. The look in his eyes is so soft and warm that you think you’re melting.

“The bride is my best friend’s sister,” you explain, gesturing at Natalie. “This is Natalie.”

“I’m friends with the groom,” he says, reaches his hand out and shakes Natalie’s hand. “I’m Danny, nice to meet you.”

She nods, and suddenly you’re very afraid. Natalie doesn’t have much of a filter, especially in high pressure situations. Especially when she’s been forced to be prim and proper all morning.

“You must really like American weddings,” she says, and you wince. “I hear this is your second one in 6 months.”

Daniel smirks, raises his eyebrows at you. “Huh. Wonder what else you’ve heard about me.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but you shove her shoulder. “Nat, aren’t you supposed to be taking family pictures?”

She’s so busy staring at Daniel she almost doesn’t hear you. Then her eyes go wide. She swears loudly, earning a glare from the same aunt. Then she drops your wrist and takes off through the crowd.

You turn towards Daniel. “Sorry about her.”

He shakes his head. “No need. She seems sweet.”

You smile. “She is.”

“Makes sense, since she’s friends with you,” he says. “The sweetest of them all.”

You laugh, shove at his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

Behind him, people are starting to get on the shuttles. He’s leaning towards you, eyes still lit up.

“I honestly can’t believe this,” he says.

“Neither can I,” you admit. “It’s.. it’s really good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you,” he echoes. “Feels like a sign, doesn’t it?”

You open your mouth to agree, to tell him what you’ve been thinking the past 6 months, but Natalie is calling your name. You and Daniel both turn to look at her, and the look on her face tells you she’s so sorry. You sigh and shrug.

“I have to go,” you tell him. “That bridal party is a mess.”

“Worse than the last one?” He asks.

“No,” you say. “And I don’t have to drive any of them home, so that’s a bonus. But I think I’ll be billing them for wedding coordinator expenses after this. Or at the very least, drinking enough at the open bar to make up for it.”

Daniel laughs. “Atta girl. Should I save you a seat on the shuttle?”

You let out a puff of air. “I’m riding over with the bridal party.”

His face falls in disappointment. “Okay. Find me when you get there, yeah? I’ll have a Shirley Temple waiting for you.”

You nod. “Make it a Dirty Shirley, would you?”

He nods eagerly and squeezes your arm.

You don’t actually make it into the reception until nearly an hour later. There’s an emergency with a groomsman’s tux, and the girl who was broken up with the night before is crying again. Nothing that can’t be fixed with safety pins and tequila, but it still takes time. You check your name on the seating chart, sigh at the sight of the name next to yours, the seat that will stay empty. You find Daniel’s seat, too, a few tables over from yours. You head there first.

Daniel is sitting, a beer in hand and a very watery Shirley Temple on the table in front of him. He’s chatting with the man sitting next to him, who looks a bit starstruck. He perks up when he sees you, reaching for your drink. You take it happily and have a sip, tasting ginger ale, grenadine, and vodka, too.

“The ice is a bit melted,” he says with a sigh. “But good news! Ian here has offered to switch seats with you.”

Ian is looking between you and Daniel, eyes wide. You’re sure he did offer, likely after Daniel had told him the whole crazy story, or at least enough to convince him. You watched him charm bartenders at the last wedding- he has a way with words. Ian starts to stand up.

“That’s really not necessary.” You say, and Daniel’s face falls. “There’s an empty seat at my table.”

He lifts his brows, grinning again. His brown eyes stare deep into your own. He stands up without waiting another moment, handing you your drink and holding his own.

“Ian, nice meeting you,” he says. “I’ll still get you those paddock passes,” he promises, and you bite back a laugh. “See ya ‘round, mate.”

He follows you to your table. There’s a setting with your name on a little card, and the empty setting next to it with another name on it. You grab that card and crumple it in your hand, shoving it into your purse. He quirks a brow but sits down anyways as you greet the others at your table- cousins of the bride and friends who you’ve met a few times.

“So. How’ve things been?” You ask, and he launches into a story that has you listening with every bone in your body.

Somehow, the two of you make it all the way through dinner and speeches and the first dance before the subject of your boyfriend even comes up. You wonder if he’s been waiting to broach it. You’ve been waiting for the right moment.

He nods towards the dance floor. “You have to promise me you’ll dance to at least one song tonight.”

You blink and shrug. “Easy. I love dancing.”

He stares at you. There’s the beginnings of another wide grin on his face.

“That is not what you said last time.”

“I lied,” you admit. “Because my boyfriend hated dancing.”

Daniel nods. “Hated. Past tense?”

“He’s not dead,” you deadpan, making him laugh. “But he’s also not my boyfriend anymore.”

Daniel’s foot nudges against yours under the table. “No?”

“No,” you say with a shrug.

Daniel nods. “Pretty girl like you, you must’ve moved on pretty quick,” he says.

His tone is light, teasing. He’s testing the waters. You shake your head and pretend you don’t see the way his shoulders sag in relief.

“I’ve sworn off dating,” you tell him. Your tone is teasing, too. “After he left me on my own at a wedding, I decided men are shit.”

You’re taunting him now. The conversation has gone from feeling each other out, from digging for information, to circling each other like sharks in the water. Your heart is beating steady in your chest. His eyes are locked on yours.

“You poor thing,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Let me prove you wrong?”

The tension crackles in the air. His knee nudges against yours and you swear you’re going to combust. You down the rest of your drink in one gulp, set the glass down, and reach for his suit jacket. You run your finger down the lapel, then back up, adjusting his collar.

“I swore off men,” you repeat, leaning forwards, keeping your voice low. “But this feels like a sign, doesn’t it? Like the universe sent me back to you.”

He nods. He reaches up, captures your wrist in his hand and holds it against his chest.

“So maybe you should go get me another drink,” you suggest. “And I’ll meet you on the dance floor.”

You lean even closer, then, close enough to press your lips to his cheek. Then you stand up and walk away towards where people are beginning to gather, to where the music is loudest. You don’t turn back to see if he’s watching. You already know he is.

…..

You have a fleeting thought, later, that maybe you should’ve switched to a drink with less sugar in it at some point in the night. The grenadine feels like it’s stuck to your tongue. Danny doesn’t seem to mind the taste, though.

He’s got you up against the wall in a back hallway of the reception venue. You back is pressed to the cool surface, your arms around his neck, his hands on your hips. His lips are on yours, and he’s kissing you deeply, like he’ll never get enough. You’re feeling the same.

His knee slots between your legs, and you’re a goner. His hand slips from your hip and cups your ass, hauling you closer with ease, tilting your hips away from the wall and into his. You break away for air, gasping for it, and he moves his lips to your neck. It feels heavenly, trapped between him and the wall, his hands all over you, his lips trailing lower and lower. He reaches up and brushes the thin strap of your dress off one of your shoulders. You shove your hands under his suit jacket and press them against his toned abdomen through his shirt. He lets out a groan, the noise vibrating against your neck. You throw your head back and laugh between gasps.

You wonder if he’d have his way with you right there. You wonder if you’d let him.

There are footsteps, then, clicking their way down the hall. You scramble to push him away as someone rounds the corner, but you know it’s painfully obvious. You turn your head, already feeling mortified, and come face to face with Natalie.

“Oh, thank god,” both you and your best friend say at the same time.

Daniel pulls away and looks between the two of you. You can’t look at him for more than a few seconds. His lips are red and puffy, his eyes half lidded. You distantly wonder if there’s beard burn on your face, if your lips are just as red. Then you start to wonder how his scruff might feel on other parts of you.

“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” Natalie says, laughing. “I heard noises, I thought…”

“I’m fine,” you tell her, and she nods in agreement.

“I’ll say,” she teases.

“Nat!” You hiss.

“You’d better take good care of her, Ricciardo,” he says, and your face grows hot all over again. “I don’t care how famous you are, I’ll fuck you up anyways.”

“Nat!” You hiss again.

“I will,” Danny promises, squeezing your hip and nodding. “I’m on a mission. Trying to prove not all men are shit.”

“Good luck,” Natalie says drily. But when she walks away, she’s smiling.

He turns back to you, and this time he places both his hands on the wall on either side of your head. You look up at him, licking your lips. You still taste the Shirley Temple, and you can taste him, too, now. He groans softly and closes his eyes. It’s nice to know you’re having an effect on him, too, nice to know you’re not the only one feeling worked up. You reach up and tug on the lapels of his jacket. You brush your lips against his jaw.

“We should have one more drink,” you tell him, humming happily. “And then you should take me to your hotel.”

He swallows. You press a kiss to the center of his throat.

“I’ve never heard a better plan in my whole life.” He says.

…..

At every wedding you go to afterwards, you order the same drink. Well, really, Danny orders them for you. You’ve thought a couple times about asking for wine or seltzer or even beer. You think it might break his heart, though. It’s a tradition now, and the pink sugary concoction will always taste like that very first night. Like bare feet in the grass, the thud of beanbags against wooden boards. Like Daniel’s laugh in the middle of the best man’s speech. Like you, alone at a table, and Daniel collapsing into the seat next to you, his hand extended to shake yours.

The same hand that’s wrapped up with yours now, resting on his knee. You never want to let go. You’re pretty sure he’d be okay with that.