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he loves me yeah! (the sequel) oscar piastri x reader

summary: Oscar Piastri has finally won Y/N's heart, but loving each other is only the beginning. From the quiet beginnings of courtship to the high-stakes climb from Formula 4 to Formula 1, their relationship grows alongside his career. It isn’t always easy, but every challenge becomes proof of what they’ve built together. What will it take to keep loving each other through everything?

contains: established relationship, no major conflict (not really), references to part 1, suggestive, implied smut, eventual smut, domestic fluff, not timeline accurate (just in case, though i did do my research), completes the 2025 season so races after monza are completely fictional, piastri family appearance, one scene contains pourchaire and fittipaldi’s crash in jeddah 2021, title is from faye webster's song "he loves me yeah!"

word count: 14.5k

part one: kind of type of way | part three: in a lifetime

By 2020, everything had changed.

The world itself had folded into silence — races postponed, schools empty, streets hushed. But somehow, in the middle of all the uncertainty, Oscar was louder than ever. Not in the way he carried himself, no, he was still soft-spoken, still introverted, still Oscar, but in the way the world began to take notice of him.

You’d seen it first, of course. You always did. The hours at the karting tracks, the late-night study sessions after long days of practice, the way his hands trembled before his first qualifying in F4, and the way he clenched them into fists when he crossed the finish line first. You’d been there for the tears, for the frustration, for the unbearable weight of it all.

But now? Now it wasn’t just you anymore.

Now, cameras followed him. Articles had his name in headlines. Teams watched him with interest. People who didn’t even know how to spell “Piastri” were suddenly calling him the future.

And, God, were they right.

When he made his F3 debut, you couldn’t breathe during the first race. You stood there, mask over your face, hands twisted together so tightly your knuckles hurt.

He looked so small inside the car. Small, but untouchable. And when he took that first win — his first F3 win — your voice broke with the force of your scream, tears stinging your eyes as you tried to blink fast enough to keep him in view.

Later, when you found him in the paddock, still flushed with adrenaline, he grinned at you in that way that turned your knees weak. “Told you I could do it.”

You punched his arm, hard, though your hand shook with the need to pull him close instead. “I never doubted you.”

He held your gaze then, the grin slipping into something softer, something reverent. “I know.”

That became your rhythm. His racing, your support. His victories, your cheers. His doubts, your quiet reassurances whispered over late-night calls when he was away.

But the distance — it hurt.

Because as the months wore on, as travel resumed and the championship grew tighter, Oscar wasn’t just your best friend, wasn’t just the boy who’d asked to court you in the quiet glow of a lamp. He was a driver. A rising star, someone people whispered about in awe.

And sometimes, lying awake at night, you wondered if you could keep up. If you’d still be his anchor when the world pulled him further and further away.

Then came Mugello.

The race that decided it all.

You couldn’t be there in person, but your attention was glued to the screen, your heart pounding harder with every lap. Your room was dark except for the harsh glow of your laptop, your phone buzzing nonstop with updates from Oscar’s mum.

And then it happened.

Checkered flag. Championship secured.

Oscar Piastri — your Oscar — was the Formula 3 World Champion. Your scream startled the neighbors, but you didn’t even care.

You collapsed back against your pillows, tears spilling freely this time, chest tight with pride and relief. The boy you’d known since six, the boy who’d been yours since fifteen — he’d done it. He’d won the world.

And all you could think was: He deserves everything, and he’s mine.

Later, when he finally called, his voice was hoarse from shouting, laughing, and the endless congratulations. But when he said your name, it cracked in the middle, and you knew he’d been waiting to say it all day.

“Y/N,” he breathed, and you could hear the disbelief, the exhaustion, and the joy tangled altogether. “We did it.”

You laughed through your tears, pressing the phone tighter against your ear. “No, you did it.”

His answer was immediate. “No. Not without you.” Your throat tightened, too full of words you didn’t know how to say. So instead, you whispered, “I’m so proud of you.”

The line went quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that hummed with everything unspoken. And then, softly, “I love you.”

Your heart ached with how much you loved him back.

Late 2020, Melbourne. Pandemic restrictions ease, Oscar finally returns home after winning the F3 Championship.

The Piastri household had never been so loud.

You barely had time to step through the door before you were swallowed in a blur of hugs, cheers, and the unmistakable smell of Nicole’s cooking. Chris’ voice boomed somewhere from the kitchen, his laughter mixing with the shrieks of Mae and Edie racing down the hallway. Hattie clung to your waist before you could even set down your bag, squealing, “You’re back! You’re back!”

Oscar hadn’t even made it past the doormat before Nicole was in his arms, smothering him like he was still a lanky sixteen-year-old instead of the Formula 3 Champion of 2020.

“God, look at you,” she said, squeezing him tighter. “All grown up, but still my boy.”

“Mum,” he groaned, though his eyes shone as he let her fuss. “I literally just got off a fourteen-hour flight. Can we not—”

But Chris was next, clapping him on the back with so much force it made you laugh. “Our champ,” he announced proudly. “Didn’t think you’d actually pull it off, but bloody hell, you did!”

Oscar rolled his eyes, cheeks pink. “Thanks for the faith, Dad.”

And then Mae and Edie were on him, twin hurricanes of excitement, babbling over each other. “We watched all your races.” “I told my class my brother’s famous now.” “You have to sign my notebook—” “No, mine first!”

He tried to fight them off, but you caught the flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth as he ruffled their hair, letting himself be dragged into the chaos.

You stood back for a moment, watching it all unfold. Watching him.

Oscar Piastri, home again.

Not just the boy you’d grown up with. Not just your best friend who’d asked to court you under the warm glow of his bedroom lamp. But now — champion, celebrated, living proof of all the things you’d always known he could be.

He caught your gaze across the room, and for one dizzy second, it was just you and him again. His smile softened, the noise fading behind him, and he mouthed: Come here.

So you did.

And as soon as you stepped close, his hand found yours. Casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world, but his thumb stroked across your knuckles in that way only you knew.

“Didn’t think I’d get a warmer welcome than winning the championship,” he murmured low, teasing. “But apparently, I’m still just the kid Mum won’t stop fussing over.”

You grinned, bumping his shoulder. “You are. Don’t forget it.”

His eyes flicked down to your lips before darting back up, a secret just for the two of you.

Dinner was a feast. Nicole had gone all out. Roast chicken, buttery potatoes, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and the kind of rich chocolate cake that smelled like childhood birthdays.

Chris insisted on making a toast before anyone could touch their plates, raising his glass with mock-seriousness. “To Oscar. For making us proud. For making history. And for remembering to come home before his mum died of worry.”

Everyone laughed, glasses clinking.

Oscar ducked his head, muttering, “You’re all unbearable,” but the pink flush on his cheeks betrayed him. He looked at you again, a private smile tugging at his lips. And you felt it — the hum, the spark, the tether that had never once snapped, no matter how many miles stretched between you.

The meal itself was chaos, as Piastri dinners always were. Mae stole a potato off Edie’s plate, sparking a full-blown argument. Hattie tried to sneak frosting from the cake with her finger until Nicole caught her. Chris told one of his long-winded stories, and you found yourself laughing so hard you almost choked on your bread.

Through it all, Oscar sat beside you, his knee brushing yours beneath the table. Little touches, hidden in plain sight. His hand was resting on the back of your chair when he leaned close to whisper a joke. The way he refilled your glass before his own was quiet and automatic.

At one point, Mae smirked across the table, her eyes darting between the two of you. “So, Y/N,” she said sweetly. “Is it weird dating my brother now? Or have you just been pretending all these years?”

Your fork clattered against your plate.

Oscar groaned, covering his face with his hand. “Mae—”

But Edie jumped in, cackling. “Oh, come on. They’ve basically been married since they were seven.”

Nicole gave you a knowing smile, her voice light. “They’re right, though. We’ve always seen it.”

Your face burned, but Oscar’s hand found your knee under the table, grounding you. He gave it a small squeeze, his smirk lopsided as he glanced at you. “Guess we weren’t as subtle as we thought.”

“Guess not,” you muttered, trying not to smile too wide.

By the time dessert was over, everyone was stuffed and drowsy, the table littered with crumbs and empty glasses. Hattie had fallen asleep against Chris’s arm, her mouth open just enough to make Mae snicker. Nicole sighed fondly, gathering plates, while Edie declared she was definitely eating the last slice of cake for breakfast tomorrow.

The celebration had shifted into the soft quiet of late evening, laughter giving way to the warmth of familiarity, of home.

And you sat there beside Oscar, heart thrumming, thinking how strange it felt — how normal, how right.

Like the championship, the miles, the months apart hadn’t changed the core of you.

Like he’d always been yours.

The house had finally quieted.

Plates stacked in the kitchen, lights dimmed in the hallway, the low hum of Nicole’s voice faded as she coaxed Mae and Edie toward bed. Even Chris’s laughter, booming all evening, had softened into a murmur behind the living room door.

You padded up the narrow staircase, your socked feet muffled against the carpet. Every step made your pulse quicken, though you couldn’t quite explain why.

Oscar walked just ahead, his hand brushing the banister, his shoulders loose in the way they only ever were at home. He looked back once, catching your gaze, and there it was again—that quiet smile, crooked and soft, the one that undid you.

He pushed his bedroom door open, the hinges creaking faintly.

The room hadn’t changed much. Posters of race cars still lined the walls, some edges curling with age. A desk sat cluttered with papers and model cars, and the twin bed, pushed against the far wall, still had the same dark blue duvet you remembered from years ago. It smelled faintly of detergent, of boy, of something you’d missed more than you’d ever admit aloud.

Oscar tossed his phone onto the desk and sank down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “God, I’m wrecked,” he muttered, but then his eyes lifted to you, and his grin tilted again. “But… worth it.”

You hovered by the desk, fingers skimming over a half-finished model car, your lips quirking. “Winning the F3 championship is worth being wrecked, yeah, I’d say so.”

He chuckled, low, leaning back on his elbows. “Not just that. Tonight. Coming home. Having you here.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. You swallowed, warmth rushing to your cheeks, and turned your attention back to the model before he could see too much.

Silence stretched between you—not uncomfortable, but thick. Charged.

You finally crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under your weight, pulling you closer. His shoulder brushed yours, the contact barely there but sparking like static.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You stared at the posters on the wall, the one of a karting track you’d been to together years ago. He stared at you.

You felt it.

“You know,” you murmured, breaking the silence, “this room looks smaller than I remember.”

“Yeah?” His voice was rougher now, low.

“Or maybe you just got taller.” You smiled faintly, glancing sideways at him. “Annoyingly so.”

He smirked, eyes catching the dim glow of the lamp. “You noticed.”

You rolled your eyes, though your pulse stuttered. “Hard not to.”

And then the space between you seemed to shrink on its own.

Oscar shifted, his arm brushing yours again, lingering this time. His knee bumped yours, stayed there. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—every line of your face, every flicker of your expression.

Your breath hitched.

“Oscar,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

He leaned closer, so close you could see the way his lashes shadowed against his cheek, the faint curve of his mouth. His voice was quiet, unsteady. “I missed you. More than I thought I would.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “I missed you, too.”

His hand moved, slow and tentative, brushing against yours on the duvet. His fingers curled lightly around your knuckles, testing, waiting.

You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

Instead, you turned your hand, lacing your fingers through his. The smallest gesture, but it felt monumental, like a lock clicking open.

His breath shuddered out. “God, you have no idea what you do to me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Oscar…”

He shifted again, closer, his thigh pressing against yours now. His free hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was feather-light, reverent, but it burned all the same.

You leaned into it without thinking.

For a moment, everything froze. The air was thick, your breath shallow, his eyes locked on yours like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

And then he kissed you.

Soft at first, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

But you kissed him back.

And suddenly, tentative wasn’t enough.

The kiss deepened, slow but insistent, years of unspoken words and buried feelings spilling into the space between your mouths. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and yours clutched at his shirt like you needed him closer, closer still.

The room tilted. The world shrank.

It was just him. Always him.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead pressed to yours, his laugh came out shaky. “Been wanting to do that for so long.”

You laughed too, though it broke halfway. “Took you long enough.”

He grinned, but it was softer than you’d ever seen, his thumb still tracing your cheekbone. “Not doing the whole subtle thing anymore. I can’t. Not after this year.”

You couldn’t stop staring at him, couldn’t stop feeling like your whole body was on fire in the best way.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered.

His lips brushed yours again, feather-light, like a promise. “Good.”

The bed creaked as you both shifted, finding yourselves tangled closer without even meaning to. His arm slid around your waist, yours looped around his neck, and the kiss turned hungrier, less careful.

Not explicit. Not dangerous. But full of everything you’d both been holding back—want, need, love, all tangled up in the way his lips moved against yours, the way his breath hitched when your fingers curled into his hair.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth, voice rough, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You shook your head, heart pounding. “Don’t.”

And then his mouth was on yours again, deeper this time, until the only thing that existed was the heat of him, the press of his hand at your waist, the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears.

Somewhere downstairs, a door clicked shut. Footsteps padded along the hallway.

You both froze, pulling apart with startled laughs, foreheads still touching.

Oscar’s grin was boyish, breathless. “Guess I should lock the door next time.”

You smacked his shoulder lightly, cheeks blazing. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said, stealing another quick kiss before you could stop him. “But you love me.”

And God help you, he was right.

The footsteps faded down the hall, a door clicked shut, and silence reclaimed the house.

You stayed where you were, your forehead resting against his, both of you breathless, your mouths tingling.

Oscar exhaled a laugh, his chest rising and falling against yours. “That was—” He broke off, shaking his head, the tips of his ears pink. “God, that was… wow.”

You were laughing too, your hand still clutching at the fabric of his shirt like you hadn’t realized you hadn’t let go. “Wow? That’s the best you’ve got?”

He squeezed your waist, smirking. “Do you want me to start pulling out poetry? Because I could. I’ve been keeping it bottled up for years.”

Your laugh bubbled out, loud enough that you had to clap a hand over your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

His grin softened, his voice quieter. “And you’re perfect.”

The words landed heavily, and you couldn’t bring yourself to tease this time. You just stared at him, your chest aching, your throat tight.

And then you kissed him again.

This time it wasn’t desperate. It was slow, playful, almost giddy — your noses bumping, your mouths curving into half-laughs between kisses. Every brush of his lips felt like a discovery, every little sigh making you both smile like fools.

Oscar broke away for half a second, his nose nudging yours. “Do you realize,” he whispered, “that you’re my girlfriend now?”

You snorted against his lips, cheeks burning. “You didn’t even ask me properly.”

He pulled back an inch, mock-offended, though his grin betrayed him. “Excuse me. I did ask. Friday night, big celebration, practically poured my heart out—”

“That was to court me.” You arched a brow, biting back a smile. “Not the same thing.”

His eyes lit with mischief, and before you could move, he pushed you back gently onto the duvet, hovering over you with that crooked grin that always made your stomach flip. His curls tickled your forehead as he dipped closer.

“Fine,” he murmured, voice teasing but soft. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Your heart did a somersault.

You pretended to consider it, pursing your lips dramatically. “Hmm…”

“Unbelievable.” He dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a groan, his laugh vibrating against your skin. “I’ve been pining for, what, over a decade, and now you’re making me sweat.”

You giggled, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at you again. Your voice was gentle, honest. “Yes, Oscar. Of course I will.”

His grin nearly split his face in two. He kissed you again, quick and firm, and then he was laughing into your mouth, pure joy spilling out of him until you couldn’t help laughing too.

Minutes blurred into hours.

You ended up tangled on his bed, side by side, limbs overlapping carelessly. His arm was slung around your waist, your leg hooked over his, and every so often he’d lean down just to press another kiss to your hairline, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Each one earned him a laugh, a swat, a whispered “stop, you’re ridiculous”—but you never really wanted him to stop.

The lamp glowed low, throwing shadows across the posters and the cluttered desk. The rest of the house was asleep. It felt like the two of you had the whole world to yourselves.

Oscar shifted onto his back, pulling you against his chest. You rested your chin there, looking up at him.

“What now?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head toward you, brows raising. “What do you mean?”

“You’re… you. You’ve just won F3. Next year is F2. You’re not stopping, Oscar. And me—” You hesitated, chewing your lip. “Where do I fit into all of that?”

His hand slid up and down your back slowly, reassuring. “Everywhere,” he said simply.

You blinked. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, it is.” His eyes were steady, almost fierce. “You’ve been there since the start. Since before the karting, before all of this. Do you think I’d want to do any of it without you?”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight.

“Besides,” he added, his voice softening, “we’ve already done the long nights, the hospital visits, the distance. We’ll figure out the rest, too. You’re not losing me.”

You buried your face in his chest for a moment, breathing him in — soap, detergent, that faint trace of fuel that seemed permanently baked into his skin no matter how long he’d been away from the track.

“You make it sound so easy,” you murmured.

“It’s not,” he admitted. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

That silenced you.

You tilted your head back to look at him, and he leaned down without hesitation, kissing you again. It was softer this time, lingering, the kind of kiss that said we’ll be okay.

Eventually, you both drifted into quieter conversation, voices hushed, giggles bubbling up now and then.

“Do you ever think about the future?” you whispered, tracing idle patterns on his chest with your fingertip.

He caught your hand, intertwining your fingers, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “All the time.”

“What do you see?”

He thought for a moment, then smiled. “You. Always you.”

You rolled your eyes, though your heart swelled. “That’s still not an answer.”

“It is.” He kissed your temple. “But fine… I see races, trophies, and traveling. I see you at every finish line, pretending you don’t get emotional when they play the anthem.”

You laughed, hiding your face in his shirt. “I do not cry.”

“You do,” he teased, tugging lightly at your hair. “I’ve seen it. Don’t even try to deny it.”

You groaned, hitting his chest lightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me,” he shot back, smirking.

You pressed another kiss to his jaw in retaliation. “Unfortunately.”

The conversation wandered further, softer, sillier. “What about ten years from now?” you asked.

He hummed, pretending to think hard. “We’ll probably still be in this room because my mum refuses to let me move out.”

You snorted. “Accurate.”

“But seriously?” His voice grew quieter. “Ten years… I’d like us to have a place of our own. Maybe somewhere in Europe. A little flat with terrible furniture because neither of us knows how to decorate.”

You grinned against his shoulder. “You’d leave all the decorating to me.”

“Exactly.” He kissed your forehead. “And maybe… kids someday. Not too many. Two? Three?”

You froze, then laughed nervously. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

His ears went pink, but his expression stayed earnest. “Yeah. Because when I think of the future, it’s never just me. It’s us.”

Your chest tightened so much it almost hurt. You kissed him then, fiercely, trying to pour every unspoken word into it.

When you finally pulled back, you were both smiling too much to keep kissing properly.

The night stretched on. Kisses turned into giggles when your noses bumped, into whispered “stop, you’re going to wake them,” and muffled laughter under the duvet. His hand found yours again and again, as if reminding himself you were real.

At one point, you shifted closer, tucking your head under his chin, and he sighed, holding you tighter. “This feels like a dream,” he murmured into your hair.

“Then don’t wake up,” you whispered back.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice rough. “Never.”

The clock ticked past midnight, then one.

Neither of you moved to sleep.

You just stayed there, tangled together, whispering about everything and nothing. Every memory laced with laughter, every glance filled with something heavier, deeper.

By the time his breathing finally evened out and yours began to match, you realized with a start that this—his arm around you, your fingers entwined, your lips tingling from hours of kisses—wasn’t just a moment.

It was the start of forever.

The season opener in Bahrain set the tone: dry heat, desert winds, and a brand-new chapter for Oscar.

The desert heat shimmered over the paddock, and Oscar tugged at his race suit collar as if that would ease the weight pressing on his chest.

You stood by the Prema garage, visor cap pulled low, trying not to wring your hands.

“Stop looking like you’re about to faint,” he muttered, brushing past you on his way to the grid.

You smirked. “Stop pretending you don’t like that I’m here.”

His lips twitched into the smallest smile before his focus returned. In an instant, he was gone: helmet on, visor down, sliding into the car.

Later, when he crossed the finish line, P5 in his first Feature Race, his searching eyes found your face in the limited crowd. You were on your feet, clapping like crazy, mouthing I’m proud of you. Only then did his chest finally unclench, tension dissolving into pride and relief for the first time all weekend.

Then came Monaco, with its narrow streets, a ribbon of unforgiving concrete walls. Oscar had told you not to come—“Too stressful, too cramped, stay in Nice, I’ll text you”—but you came anyway.

From the balcony overlooking Mirabeau, you saw the flash of his Prema dart through, and your heart lodged in your throat.

He’d qualified well, and when the checkered flag waved, he brought it home P2 in the Feature, champagne spraying down his fireproofs, curls sticking to his forehead.

Later, in the rented flat, you found him on the couch, staring at his phone.

“P2 in Monaco,” you said, flopping beside him. “You should be celebrating.”

He shrugged, jaw tight. “Could’ve been better.”

You bumped his shoulder. “You’re allowed to breathe, you know.”

He turned his head finally, met your eyes, and some of that steel cracked. “…Thanks for being here.”

You leaned your head on his. “Always.”

Baku followed.

Chaos. The word barely scratched the surface.

Two safety cars. Three restarts. Cars flying into barriers like dominoes.

You’d gripped the rail so tightly your palms hurt, eyes tracking the red and white car with desperate focus. Each restart, your stomach flipped; each lock-up made you flinch.

But he kept it clean, threading through the madness, and when the dust cleared, he’d taken his first Feature Race win of the season.

On the radio, his laugh crackled through, incredulous. “We actually did it.”

When he found you after, he didn’t even take his helmet off before sweeping you up in a hug.

“You’re sweaty and disgusting,” you laughed against his shoulder.

“Worth it,” he said, muffled through the helmet, holding on like he’d never let go.

Silverstone was different; the roar of the crowd dulled to a distant hum in Oscar’s ears. He sat in the cramped driver’s room, fireproofs still clinging damply to his skin, his helmet abandoned by the door. His hands itched to clench, to do something, but all he could do was sit there and watch the race replay looping across the TV.

The pole lap had been perfect. The kind of lap drivers dreamed of—smooth, precise, aggressive where it mattered. For once, he’d felt untouchable. And then… the lights went out.

A mediocre start. A lock-up in Turn 3. Tire degradation worse than they’d expected. A pit window that hadn’t gone his way. And suddenly, the perfect lap had dissolved into a P3 finish.

From the outside, third place was a podium, champagne, points. To him, it felt like failure.

He dragged both hands through his damp curls, tugging at the roots.

You found him like that twenty minutes later. The celebrations had already faded outside—the champagne dried on the podium, the photographers moved on to the main race weekend. You slipped into the room quietly, a lanyard swinging at your chest.

“You know,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe, “most people would kill for third at Silverstone.”

He didn’t look up. “I’m not most people.”

You crossed the room, crouching in front of him so he couldn’t avoid your eyes. His were dark, stormy, locked on the floor.

“You were on pole,” you said gently.

He flinched. “Don’t remind me.”

“That’s a good thing, Oscar.”

“Not if you can’t hold it,” he snapped before he could stop himself. His voice cracked at the edges, raw and too loud in the small space. “Pole doesn’t mean anything if you screw it up. If you—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Your chest ached.

You lowered yourself to the floor beside him, shoulder brushing his. He tensed but didn’t move away.

“You didn’t screw it up,” you said firmly. “Racing isn’t… it isn’t math. It’s not clean and simple. There are a hundred things that can go wrong, and most of them aren’t your fault.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Feels like it’s always my fault.”

“That’s because you care too much.” You tilted your head toward him. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be sitting here tearing yourself apart after still standing on the podium.”

Finally, his eyes flicked to yours. They were glassy, rimmed red—not from crying, but from holding it back.

“I had it,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “I had it in my hands, and I—” He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, as though the words were dangerous. “What if I never get that chance again?”

The fear in his tone knocked the air from your lungs.

You reached out before you could think better of it, your hand covering his where it rested on his knee. Warmth seeped between your palms.

“You will,” you said quietly. “And when you do, you’ll take it. You always do. That’s who you are.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, breathing shallow. Then, finally, he let out a long, shaky sigh, shoulders slumping.

“You always know what to say,” he muttered.

“Because I know you.”

The silence stretched. He turned his hand under yours, fingers intertwining, and squeezed.

Later, when he finally peeled himself out of the fireproofs and into a hoodie, you sat side by side on the edge of the hotel bed, takeaway containers between you. He still hadn’t found the energy to eat, but when you nudged a fork into his hand, he accepted it, grumbling half-heartedly.

“You’re allowed to be disappointed,” you said after a while, picking at your fries. “But don’t let it eat you alive. You’re more than one race. More than one weekend.”

He swallowed hard, then looked at you—really looked, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “You know what’s unfair?”

“What?”

“You believe in me more than I believe in myself.”

You reached over and stole a fry from his container, smirking. “Good thing I’ve got enough belief for the both of us.”

He shook his head, finally letting out a laugh, soft and hoarse. The storm in his chest eased, just a little.

And as the Silverstone night stretched on, he found himself thinking—not about the race, not about pole or points—but about how your hand had fit against his, steady and sure.

Then Monza, the temple of speed, where slipstreams made kings and milliseconds decided everything .The Italian sun was sharp against the tarmac, the air vibrating with the hum of Formula 2 engines. Monza was chaos wrapped in history, the Temple of Speed. Oscar had told you a dozen times that a place like this didn’t forgive mistakes.

But that didn’t stop your heart from leaping every time his car flashed past on the main straight.

The Feature Race was ruthless—slipstreams, overtakes, lockups. Oscar fought tooth and nail, and when the checkered flag fell, he brought it home P1.

From the pit wall, you’d cheered so loud your throat ached. Watching him stand on the podium, trophy high, champagne dripping from his fireproofs, you felt the weight of it: how much he wanted this. How much you wanted it for him.

Back in the paddock, though, he found you with a grin that was half-proud, half-weary.

“You see that?” he said, eyes bright, curls sticking to his forehead.

You smiled, grabbing his hand despite the grease still on his gloves. “I saw everything.”

For a second, it didn’t matter that other drivers were still climbing—Theo, Guanyu, Robert. At Monza, Oscar looked untouchable.

Sochi arrived with its sweeping curves and cold air, a place that tested patience as much as pace. Rain hammered the paddock, cold and insistent, blurring the line between track and sky.

Oscar leaned against the pit wall, jaw tight. The weekend had been messy: delayed sessions, strategy gambles that hadn’t paid off, nerves buzzing like static. He wasn’t collapsing, but you could see the strain in the set of his shoulders, the clipped way he answered questions.

When the Feature Race finally unfolded, it was survival, not domination. Cars slid wide, pit stops piled pressure, and he wrestled the Prema across the line for P3.

The podium smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

That night in the hotel, he stared at the ceiling while you sprawled across the other bed, scrolling idly through your phone.

“Do you ever feel like…” He trailed off.

You rolled onto your side, watching him. “Like what?”

“Like everyone’s waiting for me to crack.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned by the hum of the air conditioner.

You sat up, the mattress dipping under your weight. “You’re not going to crack, Oscar.”

He turned his head, eyes tired but searching. “And if I do?”

You reached over, brushing your fingers against his. “Then I’ll be here to pick you up. Every single time.”

Something in his chest softened. He exhaled, closing his eyes.

For the first time all weekend, his hand reached back for yours.

The first thing Oscar did when he came home was collapse face-first onto his childhood bed.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching as his gangly frame sprawled across the same mattress he’d slept on since he was twelve. The posters were still there — half Formula 1 legends, half peeling from the corners.

“You know, for someone who just podiumed in Sochi, you’re very dramatic,” you teased.

He turned his head, cheek smushed against the pillow. “I’m not dramatic. I’m exhausted.”

“You slept on the plane.”

“Not real sleep.” He cracked one eye open at you. “Come sit.”

You did, perched beside him. His hand immediately found your wrist, tugging until you toppled onto the bed with him. You let out a soft laugh, your hair spilling across the pillow next to his.

“Better,” he murmured, voice already sinking into that lazy rhythm he only carried at home. “Much better.”

The days blurred into something softer than either of you expected.

Mornings meant pancakes, because Nicole believed a proper breakfast was the cure for everything. You sat at the table with Hattie and Edie, listening to their chatter while Oscar staggered in late, curls still damp from his shower.

“You look like a zombie,” Edie would declare, handing him the syrup bottle.

“And yet,” Oscar replied, deadpan, “still prettier than you.”

The sisters shrieked; you laughed so hard your orange juice almost went up your nose.

Afternoons were slow, the kind of quiet you never got during race weeks. Sometimes you sat on the back porch with Oscar, sunlight painting everything gold. He’d stretch out on the deck chair, long legs bent awkwardly, while you leaned against the railing.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked once, catching the faraway look in his eyes.

He shrugged, fiddling with a loose thread on his t-shirt. “That this feels… normal. Too normal.”

“And that’s bad?”

“No. Just…” His lips curved into a smile, soft and small. “It makes me forget I’ve got a championship to finish.”

You nudged his foot with yours. “Forgetting isn’t always bad. You deserve to breathe.”

The look he gave you then lingered, warm, steady, like you were the anchor he didn’t realize he’d needed.

Evenings were your favorite. The house always seemed louder after dinner, with Hattie’s playlists echoing down the hall and Edie trying to out-sing her. Nicole laughed while Chris pretended to mind, though his grin betrayed him.

You and Oscar would slip upstairs, escaping into the safety of his room.

One night, you ended up on the floor with an old deck of cards between you. He insisted on teaching you poker, though you accused him of making up rules halfway through.

“You can’t just put down three queens and call it a win.”

“Yes, I can.”

“That’s cheating!”

“Or maybe,” he leaned closer, grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re just bad at poker.”

You threw a pillow at his head. He caught it effortlessly, then laughed when you scowled.

“Fine,” he said, voice softening as he reached over to ruffle your hair. “You win this round.”

The warmth of his touch lingered long after.

The night before he flew out again, you found yourselves lying side by side on his bed, the glow of his bedside lamp casting everything in amber.

“Do you ever wonder,” you whispered, “what life would be like if you didn’t race?” He turned his head, studying you. “I’d rather not. Because then I wouldn’t be me.”

You nodded, tracing patterns on the blanket with your finger. “I just… I don’t like seeing you wear yourself down.”

Oscar shifted, his hand brushing yours. “I won’t break, Y/N.” His voice was firm, but there was something underneath it, something that made your chest tighten. “Not when I’ve got you.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward. It was full. Full of everything unsaid, everything building quietly between you.

For a while, neither of you moved. The house hummed with life around you, but in his room, the world had narrowed to just two heartbeats, steady and close.

And maybe that was what the summer break was about: not forgetting the championship, not erasing the pressure, but reminding him of the world outside of racing: the world that always, always had you in it.

The air in Saudi Arabia felt different. Heavy, humming. The first-ever race weekend on the brand-new Jeddah Corniche Circuit had everyone uneasy—the walls too close, the track too fast, the unknowns pressing down on every driver in the paddock.

Oscar, though, wore his usual calm. He tugged at the strap of his cap as he spotted you outside the PREMA garage, giving a small, reassuring grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You look tense,” you said.

“I’m fine.” He tilted his head, almost teasing. “You’re the one bouncing your leg like you’re about to race.”

You scowled, but it softened when he reached for your hand, squeezing once before ducking into the garage. That brief touch said more than words.

The feature race started with that usual burst of chaos—cars darting into Turn 1, the commentary a blur of excitement in your earpiece. You stood by the monitor wall, watching Oscar settle into his rhythm. Third. Not bad.

And then—

Screams across the radio. Brakes locking. A car stalling on the grid. Another slamming straight into it.

You saw it in real time on the monitors: Theo Pourchaire’s ART stuck motionless, Enzo Fittipaldi colliding at full speed. Carbon fiber everywhere. The impact was so violent that your stomach dropped.

The track went silent under the red flag.

No one breathed. Engineers froze. You stared at the screen, hands numb, until Oscar’s voice cut through on comms.

“Everyone okay?” His tone was clipped, controlled, but you could hear the edge underneath.

The pit wall reassured him, confirming both Theo and Enzo were conscious but injured, headed to the hospital. Relief came sharp and shaky, but the tension lingered—coiled tight in the air.

Five laps. That’s all it had been before the race was abandoned. No restart. No podiums. Just an unfinished chapter and the shadow of how dangerous this sport could be.

When Oscar climbed out of the car, you met him in the back corridor. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw tight.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

He looked at you for a long moment, then pulled you into him. Not a quick hug, but an all-encompassing hold, his forehead pressed into your shoulder.

“This isn’t supposed to happen,” he murmured.

You rubbed his back, whispering, “They’re alive. That’s what matters.”

But even as you said it, you knew: the image of that crash wouldn’t leave either of you soon.

The final race weekend felt heavier after Jeddah. The paddock was subdued, every driver carrying the reminder of fragility.

Yet when Oscar stepped into the garage on Friday, something had shifted. There was steel in his posture, determination burning under his calm. This was it. One last push. One last chance to prove himself.

You were right there, the way you always had been. Adjusting his cap before qualifying, straightening the collar of his fireproofs. Your fingers brushed against his neck, lingering just a second too long.

“You’ve got this,” you whispered.

His eyes softened. “Not without you.”

Qualifying came and went. Oscar planted himself firmly at the front, the kind of lap that made engineers exhale in disbelief. Watching him climb out of the car, grin flashing, you felt it in your chest: this was his.

The sprint races were messy, as they always were, but he navigated them with calculated patience. A podium here, solid points there. Enough to keep the championship lead safe.

But it was Sunday—the feature race—that held everything.

The night sky glowed over Yas Marina, floodlights bouncing off the newly modified layout. You stood on the pit wall, headset clamped tight, as the cars lined up.

Oscar’s breathing came through steady on the radio, but you knew better. His hands always betrayed him—small, subconscious flexes on the wheel whenever he was nervous.

Lights out.

Twenty drivers roared into Turn 1, and Oscar slotted perfectly into second. Not reckless. Not overreaching. Just enough to keep control.

Lap after lap, he kept the gap. You heard his engineer’s calm updates, the quiet affirmations. But you also heard the grit in Oscar’s replies—the razor-sharp focus of a driver who knew exactly what was at stake.

And then—final lap. You held your breath as he crossed the line, arms shooting skyward in the cockpit. The team erupted. Cheers, claps, hugs all around you.

Oscar Piastri. Formula 2 Champion.

You barely registered moving before you were running, weaving through mechanics and engineers until you reached him. He’d already climbed out of the car, helmet off, sweat plastering his curls to his forehead.

The moment his eyes found you, his grin widened into something breathtaking.

“Y/N!” he shouted, voice cracking with joy.

And then he was in your arms. You laughed and cried all at once, your feet leaving the ground as he lifted you, spinning once in pure disbelief.

“You did it,” you whispered against his ear, voice breaking. “You actually did it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy but shining. “We did it.”

The words sank deep, echoing louder than the celebrations around you. This wasn’t just his victory. It was yours too—for every race you’d sat through, every late-night phone call, every quiet reassurance.

And when the cameras swung your way, capturing the two of you wrapped up in each other, Oscar didn’t care. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering, and whispered so only you could hear:

“I love you so much.”

The strangest part of being a reserve driver, Oscar decided, wasn’t the waiting. It was the pretending.

He’d sit in Alpine’s garage in his crisp blue kit, headset clamped to his ears, data scrolling across the screens in front of him. Cameras panned past him sometimes, and fans still snapped photos, but he wasn’t the one strapping into the car. He wasn’t the one with twenty laps to change a race. He was the backup plan.

You could tell it gnawed at him, even if he tried to hide it.

When you’d call after sessions, he’d sound steady, professional. “Yeah, the car looks good. Esteban’s happy, Fernando’s… well, Fernando.” He’d laugh a little, but the pause after was always heavy. He didn’t say what you knew he was thinking: It should be me in there.

So when he finally came home after long stretches of traveling but not racing, the weight of it all would show.

One evening, late spring, you found him on the couch with his head tipped back against the cushions, the TV flickering in front of him. The lights were dim, his socks mismatched, and his phone sat discarded on the coffee table.

“Long day?” you asked softly, setting a cup of tea down beside him.

“Long year,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

You slid onto the couch beside him, tucking your legs underneath you. Without a word, he shifted until his head was in your lap, the way he had when he was sixteen and exhausted from karting weekends.

Your fingers found his curls instinctively. He let out a quiet sigh at the touch, his shoulders loosening.

“You know,” you said, “you’re allowed to be frustrated.”

His eyes cracked open, searching your face. “Frustrated doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” you agreed. “But bottling it up won’t either.”

He stared at you for a moment, then huffed a small laugh. “You’re annoyingly logical sometimes.”

“And yet you love me for it.”

That earned you the tiniest smile.

Domestic life suited him more than either of you expected.

He cooked breakfast with you most mornings, insisting on learning how to flip pancakes without making a mess. “It’s science, Y/N. A precise science.” You’d roll your eyes when he burned the first one, but by the third, he’d be grinning proudly, plate in hand.

Evenings meant movie nights. Sometimes it was old racing documentaries, sometimes just the dumbest rom-coms you could find. He’d claim he was only watching because you wanted to, but by halfway through, he’d be quoting the lines louder than you.

And on the rare days when he wasn’t jetting off to a simulator session in Enstone, you’d both wander around Melbourne like tourists in your own city, ice cream cones in hand, hands brushing as you walked.

One night, after a long dinner with both your families crammed into his parents’ dining room, the two of you slipped away into the backyard. The air was cool, stars blinking faintly above.

Oscar leaned against the fence, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. You stood opposite him, close enough to touch but not quite.

“I feel stuck,” he admitted suddenly, voice low.

Your brows furrowed. “Stuck?”

“Like I’m… waiting for permission to do the thing I’ve wanted my whole life.” He kicked at the grass. “I know being reserve is important, I know I’m lucky, but—” He broke off, frustrated. “I didn’t come this far just to sit on the sidelines.”

You stepped closer, slipping your fingers into his. His grip tightened instantly, as if he needed the anchor.

“Then you won’t,” you said simply.

His eyes lifted to yours, something flickering there.

“You’ll get there, Osc. Whether it’s next year or the year after, you’ll be the one in that seat. And when it happens, I’ll be there, screaming louder than anyone else.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the tension in his jaw easing. He squeezed your hand, leaning forward just enough that your foreheads touched.

“You promise?” he whispered.

“Always.”

And maybe that was the only thing keeping him steady that year, the knowledge that even when the waiting got unbearable, when his patience wore thin, he had someone who believed so fiercely in him that it almost made up for the ache.

Almost.

The news broke like wildfire: Oscar Piastri signs with McLaren.

You were at his side when his phone lit up with messages, the kind that didn’t stop buzzing for hours. Headlines splashed across every outlet: praise, shock, memes, the whole circus.

“Guess I made some people mad,” he muttered, scrolling. “Some?” you teased. “Osc, Alpine’s lawyers are probably throwing darts at your face right now.” He smirked, but you saw the tension in his shoulders. He’d fought for this seat, for the chance to finally race. It wasn’t just noise — it was everything.

The first time he pulled on the papaya race suit, he stood in front of the mirror longer than usual. “Looks good,” you said, leaning against the doorway.

“You think?”

“Definitely. Orange is your color.” He gave you a flat look, then cracked a grin. “Good thing, because I’ll be sweating in it for the next nine months.”

When Oscar walked into the McLaren headquarters for the first time as their official driver, he couldn’t stop the nervous energy buzzing through him. Cameras followed him, crew members waved, and Zak Brown clapped him on the back like a proud uncle.

But it wasn’t until he saw Lando Norris in the corner, sipping a coffee like he owned the place, that it hit him.

Lando grinned, setting his cup down. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to join the big leagues.” Oscar raised a brow. “You mean the team that drags its car through Q1 half the time?”

“Bold for a rookie,” Lando shot back, eyes twinkling.

The tension lasted all of three seconds before the two burst out laughing.

When you arrived at the first race weekend, Bahrain 2023, the reunion felt even more surreal. You spotted Lando in the paddock first, his sunglasses pushed into his curls. He caught sight of you and immediately broke into a grin.

“Y/N!” He pulled you into a quick hug, stepping back with mock suspicion. “So, still choosing Oscar, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re not in high school anymore, Norris.”

“Tell that to him,” he quipped, jerking his finger toward Oscar, who was making his way over, a lanyard swinging around his neck.

Oscar slid an arm around your waist instinctively, his smile small but proud. “Already trying to steal her again?”

Lando gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Again? Please. She never gave me a chance.”

“Because you never had one,” Oscar muttered under his breath, though the smug curve of his mouth gave him away.

You smacked his shoulder. “Be nice.”

But it didn’t take long before the three of you settled into a rhythm. Paddock strolls were filled with bickering, and press conferences turned chaotic if you sat in the media pen, because Oscar would glance at you mid-answer and Lando would immediately call him out for “losing his train of thought.”

At the end of his rookie year, Oscar finished strong. Rookie mistakes, sure, but flashes of brilliance too — enough to silence doubters.

And through it all, the trio never broke. You and Lando fell into the role of joint support system, equally invested in Oscar’s rise.

On nights when Oscar slumped back into the hotel room, frustrated at a lost point or a messy pit stop, you’d sit cross-legged on the bed while Lando called from down the hall, cracking jokes until Oscar cracked a smile.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” Oscar murmured once, after you hung up the phone with Lando.

“What is?”

He hesitated, then smirked. “That I used to think he was my biggest rival for you.”

Your brows rose. “And now?”

“Now he’s just the annoying third wheel.”

You swatted him with a pillow, but you couldn’t stop laughing.

The second year felt different.

Gone was the wide-eyed rookie aura. Oscar walked into the 2024 season with a quiet sharpness in his stride, the kind born from a year of trial, error, and proving himself. McLaren still wasn’t the fastest car on the grid, but it was better, sharper, more competitive. And so was he.

The first podium came early, in Japan, and you could still remember the way his helmet tilted toward the grandstand when he climbed out of the car, just the smallest acknowledgment that you were there. He never made it obvious, never put on theatrics, but you knew. You always knew.

Lando teased him relentlessly afterward. “Careful, mate, they’ll start thinking you’re romantic.”

“Let them,” Oscar had replied, a rare cheeky smirk tugging at his lips.

The season wasn’t perfect, though it never could be. Spain ended in heartbreak when a late pit stop shuffled him out of the points, and Austria had him clashing wheels with a Ferrari in Turn 3. You watched from the garage that day, heart in your throat, until his car limped back, battered but still running.

Later, in the hotel room, he’d flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to cheer me up,” he murmured when you nudged his shoulder.

“I know,” you whispered back, lying down beside him. “I’m just here.”

That was enough.

Summer break came like a breath of air. For two weeks, it was just the two of you, tucked away from the chaos, beach mornings, late-night talks on balconies, laughter spilling over card games. Lando dropped by once, uninvited, and nearly got locked out for making one too many jokes about you and Oscar being “like an old married couple already.”

But the truth was, the time away made both of you realize something: racing wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about building something. About chasing a dream not in isolation, but with someone waiting at the end of every race.

When the season wound toward its close, McLaren kept climbing. A second podium. Then another. By the time they reached the final rounds, whispers started floating about Oscar being the one to watch. Not for 2024, no. But for the years after.

On the final night in Abu Dhabi, you stood with him on the balcony of his hotel room, the Yas Marina lights reflecting off the water below. He leaned on the railing, quiet as always, but you could see the fire in his eyes.

“Next year,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a dream.

It was a promise.

And you believed him.

Then came 2025, a new season, a new challenge, and Oscar’s shot at proving he wasn’t just a rising star, but one to beat.

Melbourne felt like a storm in your chest. The kind that rattled windows and left the air buzzing long after the thunder.

Oscar was back home, back where it started, and he was buzzing too — masking it under his usual calm, but you knew better. His knee bounced under the table at breakfast, fingers tapping against his coffee cup like he was already holding the steering wheel.

“You’re nervous,” you teased, leaning over to steal a piece of toast from his plate.

He barely glanced up from his phone. “No, I’m… focused.” But his ears betrayed him, turning the faintest shade of pink.

You grinned, leaning closer. “Focused doesn’t usually look like you trying to saw your knife through the plate.”

That got him, he laughed, shoulders loosening just enough to let you rest your head against him. “Okay, maybe a little nervous,” he admitted, voice low so only you could hear.

By the time the lights went out on Sunday, you were in the garage, headphones clamped tight, heart pounding in time with the engines. You’d never get used to this—the way the air shook, the way every lap felt like a gamble with fate. But when Oscar crossed the line in third, the garage erupted, and you were swept into the chaos.

Podium. Home race. First race of the season.

When he finally found you in the sea of papaya, his arms were around you before you could even speak, helmet still in his hand. “We did it,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours like the cameras weren’t everywhere.

“We?” you laughed, even though your eyes stung.

“Yes, we.” His grin was boyish, unguarded, the one you always kept for yourself. “You think I’m doing this without you?”

A few races later, it hit harder. Monaco, the jewel of the calendar, the race Oscar had been dreaming about since karting days—and it went sideways. A lock-up in qualifying. Traffic. A strategy call that put him on the back foot. By the end, he was staring at the timing sheets like they’d betrayed him.

Third. In Monaco, third felt like last.

The garage was muted, papaya still moving but without its usual brightness. And Oscar—your Oscar—was stone-faced. Not angry, just… hollow.

You waited until the crowd thinned, until it was just him, the half-empty water bottle in his hand, and the weight pressing down on his shoulders.

“Hey.” Your voice was soft, the kind you only used when he was fraying at the edges.

He didn’t look up. “I threw it away.”

“You didn’t. That track…” You stepped closer, tugging gently at his sleeve. “It chews people up and spits them out. You still got a podium. You still finished.”

His jaw clenched. “That’s not enough.”

And maybe it wasn’t, not for him, not when he knew what he could do. But when his eyes finally lifted to yours, there was something raw there. Needing.

So you held his face, thumb brushing over the tense line of his jaw. “Then make it enough for now. You’ve got Spain next week. This doesn’t define you.”

He exhaled, shaky. Leaned into your touch like it was the only steady thing left.

Later that night, in the quiet of your hotel room, you caught him watching you as you scrolled mindlessly through your phone.

“What?” you asked, raising a brow.

“Nothing.” He shook his head, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Just… thanks. For not letting me drown in it.”

You set your phone aside, sliding closer until your head rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady again, calmer now. “Always,” you whispered, and he kissed your hair, the weight of the world lifting — if only for a little while.

Home races always carried a different weight. The roar of the British crowd was unlike anything else — Union Jacks waving, papaya flooding the grandstands. It should’ve been perfect.

And then strategy happened. And pace. And suddenly, it was Lando in clean air, Lando crossing the line first, Lando soaking in the glory. Oscar came second.

From the garage, you could feel it radiating off him even before he pulled into parc fermé — the fury he masked behind a tight smile, the clipped congratulations to his teammate. Cameras caught the handshake, but you saw the stiffness in Oscar’s jaw, the way his knuckles whitened as he tugged off his gloves.

When he finally found you, his eyes were stormy. “That should’ve been mine.”

You reached for his hand, but he pulled it through his hair instead, pacing like he couldn’t burn off the adrenaline. “I had the pace. I had it. And then—” He cut himself off, voice cracking sharper than he meant to.

“Osc,” you stepped closer, catching his gaze. “They’ll say whatever makes headlines. But I know what I saw. You were brilliant. You were—” You hesitated, then let it out. “—unbelievable.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours, shoulders sagging as he finally let you in. His forehead dropped against yours, his voice barely audible under the crowd. “I just wanted one. Here. At home.”

Behind you, cheers erupted—Nico Hülkenberg, on the podium for the first time in his career. The garage went wild for him, and even Oscar cracked a smile when he caught sight of Nico holding the trophy up.

“Guess the old man still has it,” you teased, nudging him gently.

That earned a laugh, low and reluctant but real. “Yeah. He deserves it.” His hand finally found yours, fingers lacing tight. “Still doesn’t change that I’m pissed.”

“I know.” You squeezed his hand. “But it changes that you’re not alone in it.”

By the time Hungary rolled around, the season had worn him down. The tension, the travel, the endless questions about McLaren’s golden boys and who was leading the charge. He was still in the championship fight, but it felt like carrying a mountain.

After the race — another podium, but not a win — he sat slumped in the motorhome, still in his fireproofs, hair damp with sweat. His eyes were glassy, staring at the floor like it might give him answers.

You knelt in front of him, gently tugging at his gloves. “You don’t have to hold it all together right now.”

“I do,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Because if I don’t, I’ll break.”

Your chest ached. “Then break. With me. Just for a little.”

His breath hitched, and then his hands were cupping your face, pulling you into him like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. His lips brushed yours — soft, desperate, more confession than kiss.

“I can’t lose this,” he murmured against your mouth. “Not you. Not this season. Not anything.”

“You won’t,” you promised, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “You’re right where you need to be. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, steadier, until the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter. The world outside could wait — the break was coming, and for once, he could breathe with you.

“Osc,” you breathed, but it wasn’t protest — it was permission.

His eyes searched yours, dark and vulnerable. “You sure?”

You nodded, heart thundering. “Always.”

The rest was a blur — the door clicking shut, the world outside falling away, the weight of his body against yours as he finally let himself have something just for him. The whispers, the laughter, the way his name broke from your lips — it was all yours, private, untouchable.

And when it was over, tangled in sheets and exhaustion, he held you like he’d never let go. “You’re everything,” he whispered into your hair, voice wrecked but certain.

The break was coming. The championship fight would wait. But for tonight, for once, Oscar let himself simply love you.

The two of you disappeared into the quiet corners of life for a few weeks. No cameras, no races, no constant chatter about points and podiums, just late mornings tangled up in sheets, afternoons on sunlit drives with the windows down, and evenings spent cooking with music humming low in the background. It felt like you’d both been holding your breath since Bahrain, and finally, finally, you could exhale.

Oscar still trained religiously, his discipline unshaken, but there was a softness in the way he let you steal his water bottle mid-run, or how he’d break his own schedule to lie back beside you on the couch, eyes heavy but a small smile tugging at his lips. For once, he wasn’t Oscar Piastri, the championship contender; he was just Oscar, your Oscar, and it was everything.

And when the break finally ended, the goodbye was easier this time. Because you didn’t just know where you stood, you’d built something unshakable in the quiet.

After a few races, the Brazilian Grand Prix took place. You could always tell when a race weekend mattered more — when it wasn’t just another stop on the calendar, but a pivot point. Brazil was one of those. The paddock buzzed differently, the air charged with championship math, journalists whispering about how every point mattered now.

Oscar felt it too. You saw it in the set of his jaw during breakfast at the hotel, the way he toyed with his coffee cup but barely drank. “If I don’t nail this one, I make it harder on myself,” he said, not really to you, not really to anyone.

“You’ve been making it harder on yourself since Melbourne, and you’re still here, still leading fights you weren’t supposed to win,” you countered, nudging his foot under the table.

That finally pulled a smile from him. Small, tired, but real. “You always know how to twist it.”

“It’s not twisting,” you whispered. “It’s the truth.”

Interlagos roared as the lights went out. Oscar’s start was clean, sharp. He slotted into P3, stalking Lando and Max, his car practically glued to theirs.

You couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe properly. Every lap was a coin toss. Would his tires hold? Would he risk too much? Would Lando slam the door just a fraction too late?

Then came lap 43. The move. Oscar lunged, daring, late on the brakes into Turn 1. Lando defended hard — too hard — and for a heartbeat, you swore both cars would spin out.

They didn’t. Oscar made it stick.

The papaya garage exploded, half in cheers, half in gasps. You could hear Zak Brown swearing three rows down.

Oscar held it. Held it all the way to the flag.

P2. Ahead of Lando. Ahead of the whispers that said he was too green, too cautious.

The podium confetti still clung to his hair when he found you afterward. He didn’t say anything at first—just pressed his forehead to yours, the roar of São Paulo muffled by the way his chest heaved against yours.

“I thought I’d lost it when he closed the door,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “For a second, I thought I’d thrown it all away.”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered back. “You kept your head. That’s what makes you different.”

His hands tightened at your waist, grounding himself. “That’s what makes me yours.”

And when he kissed you, there was nothing cautious about it. It wasn’t the polished smile for cameras or the polite interviews for the press. It was raw, messy, teeth and heat and relief.

The title fight was alive. The championship dream is still breathing. And in the eye of the storm, he only wanted you.

Vegas didn’t feel real. Neon lights bled into the paddock, the glitz almost obscene when you knew how much weight Oscar carried into the weekend.

The race itself? Brutal. Cold track temps, messy strategies, and safety cars flipping everything upside down. Oscar wrung every ounce out of the McLaren, finishing P3, podium champagne sticky in his hair.

He called it “damage limitation.” You called it “a miracle.”

That night, back at the hotel, he sat on the edge of the bed, still in team-issued joggers, staring out at the Strip.

“You ever think about what happens if I don’t win this thing?” he asked softly. You climbed into his lap and forced him to look at you. “Yeah. You’ll still come home to me.”

Heat shimmered across the Losail circuit. Drivers wilted under the desert sun; the talk of the paddock was exhaustion and survival.

Oscar survived better than most—P2 again, fighting cramps in the last laps. When he climbed out of the car, sweat dripping, you pushed through PR handlers to reach him. He didn’t care about the cameras catching him clutching your hand like it was oxygen.

Later, half-asleep on the hotel balcony, he rasped, “One more. Just one. Abu Dhabi.”

The desert sun dipped behind the Yas Marina grandstands, painting the track violet and gold. Floodlights hummed above the asphalt, waiting to blaze when darkness fell. The world watched, but all you heard was your heartbeat, the garage's hum, and the voice of the man who'd carried you through every season of his career.

Oscar Piastri sat in his cockpit, helmet on, visor down, his gloved hands flexing around the steering wheel. His championship was on the line. Lando Norris, his teammate, sat two garages down, strapped into the other papaya machine. And Max Verstappen was just behind them.

It was McLaren’s fight. It was their fight. And it was Oscar’s moment to either seize or let slip.

You stood in the garage with the headset pressed tight, fingers white-knuckled around the band as the grid order lit up the screen. P1: Oscar. P2: Lando. P3: Max. The dream front row, but also a nightmare. One mistake, one twitch of hesitation, and everything could collapse.

“Alright mate,” came Tom Stallard’s calm voice through Oscar’s radio. “It’s been a long year, but this is it. Let’s execute clean. You know what you need to do.”

Oscar’s reply was clipped, steady, but you could hear the coil of tension underneath. “Copy.”

He didn’t need to say more. He’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. The five red lights lit up. The crowd rose like a single heartbeat.

Lights out.

Oscar launched off the line, his reaction time perfect, tires biting the asphalt. Lando’s getaway was sharp too, his McLaren pulling alongside into Turn 1. For a terrifying split second, you couldn’t breathe—two papayas, side by side, teammates threading a needle at 180 miles per hour.

Oscar held the inside line, braking late, forcing Lando wide. Verstappen loomed in their mirrors, waiting like a shark.

“They’re racing,” someone muttered in the garage, as though it wasn’t obvious, as though every person on the pit wall wasn’t living and dying with every twitch of the steering wheel.

Through the hotel section, Oscar managed to keep his nose ahead, cutting a tight line while Lando had to tuck back in behind. You exhaled shakily, hands trembling on your headset.

“Nice work, Oscar. Good hold.”

“Yeah, copy.”

But it was only lap one of fifty-eight.

The race settled into a rhythm—Oscar in P1, Lando just inside DRS range, Max hovering in third, never more than two seconds back. Every lap felt like a lifetime.

“Gap to Lando: 0.8,” Tom relayed.

Oscar’s jaw flexed behind his helmet. “Understood.”

You watched the telemetry flicker on the monitors. In Sector one, Oscar was faster. Sector three, Lando closed the gap. Every lap, the same pattern, the same breathless tension.

“Do you think they’ll let them race?” someone whispered in the garage. Of course they would. This was the championship. There were no team orders tonight.

By lap 12, the first round of pit stops loomed. Red Bull blinked early, pitting Max onto fresh hards. McLaren stayed out.

“Box, box. Box this lap,” came Tom’s calm call.

Oscar swung into the pits, the McLaren crew flawless — 2.1 seconds. But when he rejoined, Lando was right there. They were nose to tail, hammering into Turn 4 like it was lap one all over again.

Your breath caught.

“Lando’s attacking,” Tom warned. “I see him,” Oscar snapped back, voice low, eyes locked on the road.

The two papayas weaved down the back straight, Lando trying to use DRS, Oscar defending with every inch of the circuit. Into the braking zone, their wheels almost touched. Your heart seized, waiting for disaster.

But somehow, Oscar held him off again.

The garage erupted in shouts — half relief, half panic.

Your nails dug crescents into your palms. It wasn’t sustainable. They couldn’t keep fighting like this without one of them ending up in the wall.

“Nice defense. But keep looking forward, Oscar. Max is pushing.”

Oscar exhaled harshly into the mic. “Yeah. Copy.”

By lap 25, the sun had set. The track was alive with floodlights and shadows, sparks flickering under the cars as they grazed the kerbs. Oscar’s lead had stretched to just over a second, but it was fragile, flimsy, like spun glass.

And Lando wasn’t giving up.

From the garage, you could see Zak Brown pacing, arms crossed tight, muttering under his breath.

“They’re going to kill each other,” Andrea Stella said flatly into his mic, though his eyes never left the monitors.

“Gap to Lando: 1.1. Gap to Max: 2.2.” Oscar’s hands tightened around the wheel. Every lap felt heavier than the last. He could feel the tires wearing, the car sliding, the heat building in the cockpit.

And then came lap 28.

Lando made his move.

Down the back straight, DRS wide open, he lunged, his papaya streaking alongside. Oscar braked late, heart hammering, the cars side by side into Turn 9.

“Don’t you dare—” you whispered under your breath, as though he could hear you.

Somehow, some miracle, they both made it through. Oscar was ahead, by half a car length, but only just.

His voice came over the radio, strained. “He’s not backing off.”

Tom’s reply was maddeningly calm. “Neither are you. Keep it clean. Eyes forward.”

Lap 29.

Oscar’s knuckles were white inside his gloves, sweat soaking into the balaclava under his helmet. The McLaren jolted under him as he fought for every millimeter of track. His mirrors were full of papaya-orange — Lando’s front wing twitching, hunting.

“Gap to Lando: 0.4,” Tom’s voice filled his helmet.

“Copy,” Oscar breathed, though his jaw was clenched so tightly it ached.

From the garage, you couldn’t look away from the monitor. Every camera cut, every switch of angles felt like a knife’s edge. You had one hand gripping your headset, the other clenched in a fist against your chest.

On the main straight, Lando tried again, his DRS flap wide open, sucking him into Oscar’s slipstream. The roar of the engines merged with the roar of the crowd.

Oscar braked impossibly late into Turn 8. Lando swung wide, locking a wheel, smoke bursting off his front tire. The papaya behind him twitched but remained on the wall.

The garage gasped as one.

“Bloody hell,” someone muttered under their breath.

“Oscar, mind the tires,” Tom warned.

“I know,” Oscar snapped, voice sharp, before softening. “Car feels okay.”

You could hear the truth, though—the tension in his tone, the way he was carrying every ounce of weight on his shoulders.

By lap 32, Max Verstappen loomed again. He’d managed his tires better, Red Bull strategy inching him closer.

“Gap to Max: 1.6,” Tom updated.

“He’s coming,” Oscar muttered, eyes flicking to his mirrors for just a fraction of a second.

And that was the nightmare. Defending against Lando was one thing. But with Max Verstappen lurking, any mistake would mean losing not just the win, but the championship.

Your stomach churned, nausea from nerves more than anything else. You pressed your lips together, whispering under your breath like a prayer. “Come on, Osc.”

Lap 35. Second pit window.

Lando blinked first, diving into the pits for fresh mediums. The papaya crew was flawless, sending him out with barely two seconds lost.

“Oscar, box box. Push in-lap.”

Oscar gunned it, threading the circuit on burning rubber, every apex kissed with desperate precision.

The pitstop came—tires off, tires on, release.

He came outside side by side with Lando again.

And Max was right there.

Three cars thundered down into Turn 6, so close you could have thrown a blanket over them. The garage fell dead silent, the kind of silence that only came from terror.

Lando lunged down the inside, Oscar held the middle, Max swung wide.

For a heartbeat, three cars were abreast into the chicane.

“Don’t do this—” you whispered, breathless.

Oscar braked late, impossibly late, holding the line by sheer force of will. Max darted wide and had to yield. Lando tried to cut back, but Oscar’s car filled the space.

When they exited the corner, Oscar was still ahead. By inches.

“Lovely job, mate,” Tom said, voice tight but controlled. “Keep it tidy.”

Oscar’s reply was short, almost bitten off. “Yeah.”

Lap 40.

The desert air had cooled, but inside the cockpit, Oscar was boiling. His body screamed at him—muscles locked, fingers numb, vision tunneled under the halo. But none of that mattered.

“Gap to Lando: 0.9. Gap to Max: 1.2.”

The numbers meant nothing. All that mattered was keeping the car on track, keeping the dream alive.

Your chest hurt from how hard your heart was beating. Every lap ticked down like torture. You glanced at the faces around the garage—Zak, pale and pacing; Andrea Stella, stone-faced but with his hand flexing against his tablet; even the mechanics, who’d lived through countless races, biting their lips and bouncing on their heels.

Everyone was feeling it.

Lap 45.

Lando tried again. Down the back straight, DRS open, he swung out of the slipstream. The papayas were side by side again, McLaren vs. McLaren, orange streaks under the floodlights.

Your breath caught in your throat. Oscar braked at the last possible meter, tires squealing, car twitching. The two nearly touched wheels, sparks flying.

And then—Oscar held it.

He kept his nose ahead, just enough to force Lando to yield before the hotel section. Lando’s frustrated exhale was broadcast on the team radio before it cut. Oscar’s chest heaved inside the cockpit. “He’s not giving up.”

Tom’s voice was firm. “Neither are you. Five laps. Keep your head down.” The clock ticked toward lap 50.

Five laps to go. Five laps between Oscar and immortality. But Max was still there. Still pushing, still lurking in third, waiting for one mistake.

“Gap to Max: 1.0.”

The Red Bull loomed in his mirrors. The papaya behind was relentless. And Oscar had never been more alive, or more terrified.

“Stay with it, mate,” Tom urged. “Stay with it.”

You held your breath as they crossed the line, lap 50 flashing up on the monitors.

Eight laps left. Eight laps for everything.

On the pit wall, Zak Brown had his arms folded, jaw set, pacing with the same restless energy of a caged lion. Andrea Stella hadn’t moved an inch, but his eyes tracked every number on the screen, cold and sharp.

In the garage, you gripped your headset so tightly your fingertips had gone numb. Your throat was dry; your heart was lodged somewhere near your teeth.

Every time the camera panned to the back straight, you stopped breathing. DRS open. Lando is pulling closer. Max waits, watching.

Oscar defended, again and again, planting the car exactly where it needed to be.

“They’ll touch,” someone muttered behind you.

“They won’t,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you believed it.

Lap 57.

Second-to-last lap. The back straight loomed.

“Lando closing. DRS.” Oscar planted the McLaren dead center on the track. Lando swung left. Max sniffed at the right.

Three cars into Turn 6. Again.

Your nails dug crescents into your palm, eyes wide. Oscar braked last. He forced the papaya deep, somehow holding it. Max darted wide again. Lando tucked back in.

They made it out alive.

Barely.

“Last lap, mate. You know what this means. Eyes forward.”

Oscar didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He had no words left.

Through sector one, perfect lines. Sector two, holding the apex like his life depended on it. Sector three, one mistake, and it was gone.

The roar of the crowd thundered in his ears, even through the helmet. His hands trembled but held firm. His lungs screamed for air. His heart pounded like war drums.

And then—

The chequered flag.

Oscar crossed the line. P1. Champion of the world.

The garage exploded.

Shouts, cheers, fists slammed against walls. Mechanics leapt into each other’s arms. Zak Brown actually cried.

You didn’t even realize you were screaming until your throat hurt. Tears blurred your vision, your headset forgotten on the floor as you threw your hands over your mouth.

“Oscar Piastri,” the commentator’s voice boomed across Yas Marina, “wins the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and is the 2025 Formula One World Champion!”

The words shook you to your core. He’d done it. He’d really done it.

“YES! YESSS!” Oscar’s voice cracked over the radio, a mix of raw joy and disbelief. “World Champion, baby! Thank you, thank you guys—thank you so much!”

You could hear him sob, just once, before the radio cut.

When he pulled into parc fermé, climbed out of the car, and stood on top of the papaya with his arms thrown wide, the floodlights turned his helmet into something golden, something mythic.

And when he ripped it off, you saw the tears. The grin. The relief etched into every line of his face.

He hugged mechanics, kissed the McLaren badge, and clapped Zak on the back. But when his eyes found you across the chaos, he froze.

And then he was running.

Through cameras and microphones, through mechanics and engineers, through noise and light. Straight to you.

You barely had time to open your arms before he crashed into them, helmet still in one hand, the other wrapping around you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

He buried his face in your shoulder. His breath came in sobs, ragged and uneven, hot against your skin.

You held him just as tightly, whispering against his hair. “You did it. You did it.”

He pulled back, just enough to press his forehead to yours, eyes wet, lips trembling. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

And then he kissed you.

Right there, in the middle of Yas Marina, cameras flashing, world watching. He kissed you like he had been waiting for his whole life.

The crowd roared louder. The team whooped and whistled.

But none of that mattered.

It was just him. Just you. Just the promise you’d kept to each other all these years.

The podium came next, Oscar in the center, Lando to his left, Max to his right. Champagne sprayed, anthems blared. You watched from the floor, chest aching with pride.

But when it was over, when the fireworks faded and the crowd began to leave, that’s when the real night began.

The door to the hotel room clicked shut behind you, and the silence that followed was deafening compared to the chaos of Yas Marina just hours ago. No more engines, no more champagne-soaked shouting, no more media cameras flashing in Oscar’s face. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint sound of your shoes on the carpet as you both slipped inside.

Oscar leaned against the door, his championship cap still tucked backward on his head, his race suit tied at the waist, undershirt damp with the sweat of celebration. For the first time all day, his shoulders dropped. He let out a laugh — breathless, almost disbelieving — and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I actually did it,” he whispered. His voice cracked in the quiet. “I’m… a Formula One world champion.”

You stood across the room, watching him. The boy who once dragged you to local karting tracks, who once got nervous before school presentations, who once swore he’d never leave you behind — he was now holding the title every driver dreamed of. And yet, the way he looked at you right then, eyes glazed with adrenaline and exhaustion, he wasn’t Oscar Piastri, Formula One World Champion. He was just Oscar. Your Oscar.

“You did,” you whispered back, a smile tugging at your lips. “And I’m so proud of you, Osc.”

That broke something in him. His head tipped back against the door, eyes closing as his chest rose and fell in shaky breaths. When he opened them again, they were shining. He crossed the room in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you so tightly that you nearly stumbled back. His face buried into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmured, voice muffled. “Not a single bit of it. You’ve been there since the beginning… since we were kids. Since—everything.”

You carded your fingers into his damp hair, tugging the cap off and letting it fall forgotten onto the bed. His curls were messy, sticking in every direction, and you threaded through them gently. “You did this,” you whispered against his ear. “This was all you, Osc. I just—” You broke off when he pulled back suddenly, just enough to look at you.

“Don’t say ‘just,’” he said, firm but soft. “You were there every step. The nights I wanted to quit, the races that broke me, when the media tore me apart… You were the one who kept me together.” His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin. “I love you. God, I love you so much it hurts.”

The words hit like a punch and a balm at the same time. Your heart thudded painfully, and then you were kissing him before you could think twice, hands tangling in his hair as his lips moved desperately against yours.

It started soft — almost reverent, as if he was afraid you’d vanish. But the longer you kissed, the more it grew into something hungrier, heavier. He backed you toward the bed without breaking contact, laughter escaping between stolen breaths when your knees hit the mattress and you both tumbled down together.

“Oscar—” you gasped when his lips trailed from your mouth down to your jaw, your throat. He chuckled against your skin, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before lifting his head.

“What?” he teased, voice low, almost hoarse. “I’ve waited all season for this. You can’t take it away from me now.”

Your laugh caught in your throat because his eyes were burning, not just with desire but with devotion. Like you were the trophy he’d been chasing all along.

“You’re ridiculous,” you managed, brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

“Yeah,” He grinned, leaning closer until his lips brushed yours again. “And you love me anyway.”

You did. God, you did.

The kisses deepened, slower now but weighted, full of everything left unsaid during the long season — the late nights apart, the tension after Silverstone, the relief of every podium, the longing glances across crowded paddocks. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Every movement felt natural, inevitable, like gravity itself had been pulling you to this moment.

Somewhere between laughter and sighs, between playful nips at your lip and whispered promises, clothes shifted, tangled sheets rustled. His touch was everywhere, gentle and steady, yet trembling at times with how much he wanted to memorize this, to memorize you.

“You’re it for me,” he whispered against your skin, voice ragged, words spilling out like a confession he couldn’t hold back. “Always have been. Always will be. Doesn’t matter if I win again or lose everything. You’re my everything.”

Your chest tightened, tears prickling behind your eyes even as your hands fisted in the fabric at his back. You kissed him hard, desperate, like that could say everything you didn’t have words for.

The world outside that hotel room ceased to exist. Here, there was only Oscar. His laughter against your mouth, his whispered “I love you”s, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the way his hands held you like he’d never let go.

And when the kisses grew slower again, softer, when he pulled back just to look at you, really look at you, it wasn’t victory reflected in his eyes. It was you.

The rest of the night blurred, but the implication was clear, inevitable. Between the tangled sheets, the breathless laughter, the whispered plans about futures you hadn’t dared to dream out loud before, you gave yourselves to each other completely. Not just as childhood friends, not just as lovers, but as partners.

Oscar Piastri had won the world championship that night. But the way he clung to you, the way he whispered your name like it was the sweetest prayer, told you the truth: you were his real victory.

kiki's note: good golly. thank you SO SO SOMUCH for 100+ followers and 1k+ notes on part one, i am beyond grateful. of course, this work is for all of you so i hope you enjoy reading!! i had way too much fun writing this so don't mind the word count kekeke,,, also im making a masterlist soon so send in some requests if you wantntn !!

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