summary: You take a stranger to couples therapy to see how long it takes the therapist to realize that you don't know each other at all.
word count: 4.2k
contains: crack, based on this tweet
It started as a joke.
On a Tuesday night, after too much scrolling and too little dignity, you opened Tinder and changed your bio to read:
Looking for someone to take to couples therapy and see how long it takes the therapist to notice we donât know each other.
It was one of those chaotic thoughts you werenât supposed to act on, the kind that belonged in a group chat, not a dating profile. But the wine glass was half empty, and you were feeling reckless, so there it went. You expected maybe a handful of half-hearted reactions. A lazy âlol.â A pity match or two. Definitely not everyone is taking it seriously.
You didnât expect Alex.
His opening message wasnât a âheyâ or a smarmy pick-up line. It was:
This is the funniest thing Iâve ever seen on Tinder. Are you serious?
You blinked at the screen. And then, before you could think better of it, you typed back:
One hundred percent serious. Imagine the chaos.
That was the start of the worst and best idea of your life. Because instead of running in the opposite direction like any sane person, Alex dove headfirst into it with you. Within half an hour, you had the skeleton of a fake relationship plotted outâhow youâd met in a coffee shop, how youâd argued over oat milk, how heâd once lent you an umbrella, how your anniversary was in May. By midnight, you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, trading increasingly ridiculous âissuesâ to fight about. You claimed he chewed like a cow. He claimed you had a debilitating obsession with reality TV.
By the end of the night, you had an actual appointment booked.
It was only when you woke up the next morning, groggy and hungover on adrenaline, that it hit you. You were really about to walk into a licensed professionalâs office with a stranger you met on Tinder less than twenty-four hours ago and pretend to be in a relationship on the rocks.
You should have canceled. You should have deleted Tinder altogether. Instead, you put on your favorite jeans, downed a coffee, and headed out to meet him.
You hadnât thought this far ahead.
It was one thing to type out chaotic backstories over Tinder with a stranger named Alex, who, judging by his emojis and weirdly specific insults, was probably harmless. It was another thing entirely to stand outside a beige office building with a sign that read âDr. Martin Grey, Licensed Couples Therapistâ and realize you were about to commit a federal-level crime against psychology.
Well. Maybe not federal. But at least unethical.
âY/N?â
You looked up, startled, and immediately regretted it because the man approaching was unfairly tall, unfairly attractive, and unfairly holding two iced coffees like he hadnât just agreed to become your fake boyfriend in front of a licensed professional.
âAlex?â
He grinned, and you hated how boyish it was. âOne oat milk latte, for my favorite hater.â He held it out, as if this were a normal first meeting and not an audition for who could commit to the bit harder.
You took the cup, squinting at him. âYou actually got oat milk.â
âObviously. Itâs canon now. Thatâs how we met, remember? You called me the human embodiment of oat milk. I had to method act.â
You sipped. Damn him. It was good. âOkay, fine. Points for consistency.â
âThank you. I take this role very seriously.â He straightened up, mock-solemn. âSo, should we rehearse? Weâve got, what, five minutes before weâre due in there?â
You both looked at the sliding glass doors like they might swallow you whole.
âRight,â you said, tugging your phone out to skim the notes app where youâd written your âlore.â âOkay, so. Coffee shop, eight months ago, umbrella in March, anniversary in Mayââ
ââand our main conflict is that you hate how loudly I chew,â Alex finished, pointing at you.
You pointed back. âAnd that you think Iâm addicted to reality TV.â
âWhich is true.â
âShut up.â
âSee? Perfect,â he said, like this wasnât absolutely deranged. âWeâre already fighting.â
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. âWe are so going to get caught.â
Alex leaned against the wall, casual in ripped jeans and a hoodie, like this wasnât the weirdest Wednesday of his life. âNah. Think about it. Therapists probably see couples way messier than us every day. Likeââmy boyfriend of twelve years wonât do the dishesâ messy. Weâre gonna look normal by comparison.â
âI donât think normal couples plot their relationship lore on Tinder.â
He tilted his head, considering. âNormalâs boring.â
You shouldnât have laughed. You really shouldnât have. But you did.
The laugh turned into a nervous little spiral of giggles, and Alex was watching you with that infuriating grin, and suddenly the absurdity of the whole thing cracked something open in your chest. âOh my god,â you wheezed. âWeâre actually insane.â
âYeah,â he agreed, sipping his coffee like this was all routine. âBut at least weâre insane together.â
You looked at him then, really looked. He had a sharp jaw softened by an easy smile, hair that clearly resisted being tamed, and brown eyes that flickered between amusement andâsomething else. Something you werenât about to acknowledge, not when you were about to fake a relationship in front of a stranger with a psychology degree.
Instead, you forced a grin. âOkay, partner in crime. You ready?â
He exhaled dramatically. âBorn ready.â Then, lowering his voice: âSo, just to clarify, if they ask how we met, I donât say âon Tinder.ââ
âGod, no. Stick to the coffee shop.â
âAnd if they ask about our first fight?â
âYou chewed too loudly during our second date.â
He nodded, serious. âRight. And if they ask why weâre hereââ
ââbecause weâre working on communication. And because I watch too much Love Island.â
He cracked a smile. âSolid.â
For a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other with matching smirks, two idiots about to gaslight a therapist.
Then Alex pushed the door open and held it for you. âAfter you, fake girlfriend.â
You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. âDonât make it weird.â
âToo late,â he whispered.
The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender and judgment.
You both sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, awkwardly scrolling your phones like two strangers in a doctorâs officeâwhich, technically, you were. Then Alex leaned over, nudging your knee with his.
âWe should probably sit closer,â he muttered. âCouples donât sit like this.â
You froze. He was right. Normal couples didnât sit with a three-foot buffer zone of pure âstranger dangerâ between them. Slowly, carefully, you slid closer until your thighs brushed, and holy hell, when had it gotten so warm in here?
Alex chuckled under his breath. âRelax. Weâre not actually dating.â
âRight,â you said, pretending the heat in your face was from the coffee. âTotally.â
Before you could overthink further, the office door opened and a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a clipboard stepped out.
âAlex and Y/N?â he asked.
Alex shot you a look that screamed, "Showtime."
You both stood, and for a brief, ridiculous second, Alex reached for your hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm, and you knew it was for show, but your heart didnât get the memo.
âYes,â Alex said smoothly. âThatâs us.â
And just like that, you walked into the lionâs den, hand in hand with your fake boyfriend, trying very hard not to laugh â or maybe scream.
The office looked like it had been decorated by someone who thought IKEA catalogs counted as personality. Neutral beige walls, two armchairs angled just enough to look conversational, and a box of tissues on the coffee table like an ominous warning.
You and Alex sank into the loveseat together, stiff as mannequins. His arm brushed yours, his knee bumped your leg, and every nerve in your body screamed, do not laugh.
The therapist, Dr. Grey, according to the little brass plaque on his desk, sat down across from you, crossing one leg over the other. He had the practiced smile of a man whoâd seen every kind of marital crisis known to humankind.
âSo,â he began, pen poised over his notepad. âTell me what brings you two in today.â
Showtime.
Alex cleared his throat, shooting you a side glance. âUh, well⊠weâve been together for about⊠eight months now?â
You nodded too eagerly. âYes. Eight months. Exactly.â
Dr. Greyâs eyebrows lifted, already scribbling. âThatâs a very precise answer.â
âAnniversary in May,â Alex added quickly, as if that explained anything.
âMay 13th,â you blurted.
The therapistâs pen paused. âImpressive memory.â
You forced a sweet smile, gripping Alexâs knee under the table like do not blow this, oat milk man. âWeâre very⊠detail-oriented.â
Alex winced slightly at your grip but leaned into the role. âRight. But lately, um⊠weâve been having some disagreements.â
âMm-hm.â Dr. Grey tilted his head, waiting.
You jumped in before Alex could waffle. âHe chews like a cow.â
Alex gasped, full betrayal. âI do not!â
âYes, you do! Itâs like sitting next to a lawnmower when you eat cereal.â
âThatâs so specificââ
âBecause itâs true!â
Dr. Grey held up a hand, his voice calm, soothing. âOkay. So one concern is⊠eating noises?â
âYes,â you said firmly, while Alex muttered, âShe exaggerates.â
âAnd,â Alex countered, âsheâs addicted to reality TV. Like, sheâll watch four hours of Love Island in one sitting.â
You sat up straighter, indignant. âThatâs called commitment to character arcs!â
âItâs called brain rot!â Alex shot back.
The therapistâs pen scratched furiously. You half-expected him to underline brain rot.
For a moment, silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. Then Dr. Grey steepled his fingers.
âIt sounds like you two care about each other,â he said. âBut small irritations are becoming amplified.â
âExactly,â Alex said, nodding seriously. âLike, itâs not a dealbreaker that she knows the names of every contestant on Too Hot to Handle, but itâs⊠concerning.â
âAnd itâs not a dealbreaker that he slurps noodles like heâs auditioning for a sound effects job,â you added sweetly.
Alex whipped his head toward you. âThatâs a low blow.â
âYou deserve it.â
The therapist cleared his throat. âLetâs talk about how you two met. Often, remembering the foundation of the relationship helps put current issues in perspective.â
Crap. Here it was. The lore test.
You jumped in first. âWe met at a coffee shop.â
Alex nodded rapidly. âYeah. I was in line. She insulted me.â
Dr. Grey blinked. ââŠShe insulted you?â
âShe called meâ uhâ what was it again?â Alex glanced at you desperately.
âThe human embodiment of oat milk,â you supplied.
The therapist blinked again, pen hovering. ââŠInteresting.â
âYeah,â Alex said, as if this were the most normal meet-cute in history. âRomance blossomed after that.â
âInstantly,â you said, trying not to crack.
âInstantly,â Alex echoed, his lips twitching.
Dr. Grey scribbled something that you were certain was just ?? in all caps.
âOkay,â the therapist said slowly, âand your first date?â
âUmbrella,â Alex said too quickly.
You nodded like a bobblehead. âYes. It rained, and he⊠lent me his umbrella.â
âIn March,â Alex added, smugly.
âRight,â you said, glaring at him like donât get cocky.
âAnd when did you become official?â
âMay,â you chorused in unison.
Silence.
Dr. Greyâs eyes flicked between you, suspicion glinting. You could feel sweat prickling your back.
Alex reached for your hand again, squeezing, and for one absurd second, it steadied you. Like, yeah, maybe you were lying through your teeth, but at least you were lying together.
âWell,â Dr. Grey said finally, âitâs clear you two share a playful dynamic. But letâs dig into what happens when conflicts arise. Can you give me an example of a recent fight?â
Your brain blanked. Your carefully written notes hadnât covered this.
Alex, bless his chaotic soul, said, âShe got mad because I ate the last cookie.â
Your head whipped around. âThatâs not a fake example, that actually would make me mad.â
âYou didnât even bake them!â
âCookies are communal!â
âYou canât claim dibs on the whole pack!â
Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already reconsidering his career choices.
The silence stretched again, thick with awkwardness. You stared at Alex, and he stared back, and somewhere between your glare and his smirk, you both started to break.
First, it was a twitch of your lips. Then a stifled snort. Then Alexâs shoulders shook, and before you knew it, the two of you were half-laughing, half-choking on the loveseat, desperately trying to hold it together in front of a man who thought he was saving your relationship.
The therapist looked done.
âDo you often laugh during conflict?â he asked dryly.
âYes,â Alex gasped, wiping his eyes. âItâs our coping mechanism.â
âVery unhealthy,â you added, still giggling.
The look Dr. Grey gave you couldâve rivaled the power of God himself.
Dr. Grey tapped his pen against his notepad. âSo. The last cookie fight aside⊠when disagreements arise, how do you typically resolve them?â
You and Alex froze.
Because you hadnât gotten that far in your fake backstory.
âUh,â you started, wringing your hands in your lap. âWe⊠talk it out.â
Alex nodded too quickly. âYeah, lots of communication.â
âMm-hm,â Dr. Grey said, unconvinced. âAnd what does that communication look like?â
Alex hesitated for half a beat too long before blurting, âUm⊠I usually make her tea.â
You whipped your head toward him. âTea?â
âYes,â he said, leaning into it. âTea calms you down. Chamomile, specifically.â
You narrowed your eyes. âYou donât even know what chamomile looks like.â
âOf course I do!â
âWhat color is it, then?â
ââŠgreenish?â
âThatâs all tea, Alex!â
Dr. Greyâs eyes flicked between you both like he was watching a tennis match. His pen was working overtime.
âOkay,â the therapist said slowly, âso perhaps the tea ritual isnât as consistent as it could be. What about physical affection? Do you use touch as a form of reassurance?â
The question hit like a stun gun.
You and Alex glanced at each other, and then away, like two teenagers caught passing notes in class.
Finally, Alex coughed. âUh, yeah. We⊠hug.â
âHugging,â Dr. Grey repeated, deadpan.
âYes. Hugging,â you echoed, your voice an octave too high.
âDo you want to demonstrate?â the therapist asked.
Your soul left your body.
Alexâs eyes went wide. âDemonstrate?â
âSometimes it helps,â Dr. Grey said calmly, âto show how you connect physically in moments of tension.â
You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.
But Alex, ever the method actor, opened his arms in slow motion like he was about to embrace a feral cat.
âCome here, chamomile girl,â he said under his breath.
You glared at him. âIf you call me that again, I will actually leave.â
But you leaned in anyway, because what else could you do? His arms wrapped around you awkwardly at first, one around your shoulders, one hesitating at your waist. You stiffened, then slowly â too slowly â let yourself sink into it.
And god help you, he was warm. Steady. Comfortable in a way that made your brain short-circuit.
âMm,â Alex said loudly, patting your back with exaggerated force. âSee? Hugging fixes everything.â
You elbowed him in the ribs on principle.
Dr. Greyâs face was unreadable.
âThank you for that demonstration,â he said finally. âIt seems like you two do rely on humor and physical touch⊠but Iâm sensing there may be some deeper communication issues.â
âOh, definitely,â Alex said solemnly, still holding his side where youâd jabbed him. âShe doesnât respect cookies as individual entities.â
You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. âAnd he doesnât understand basic tea taxonomy.â
The therapist inhaled deeply, clearly regretting his career path.
âLetâs try something different,â Dr. Grey said, flipping a page on his notepad. âI want you both to list three qualities you appreciate about each other. Start with Y/N.â
Your stomach dropped. Crap. Compliments.
You blinked at Alex. He was watching you expectantly, and you had the distinct impression he was enjoying this.
âUmâŠâ You fidgeted. âHe⊠makes good jokes?â
Alex raised his brows. âGood jokes?â
âFine, passable jokes.â
âBetter.â
You exhaled through your nose. âAnd⊠heâs reliable. He showed up today with coffee, so thatâs something.â
His expression softened for a blink before he smirked again. âThatâs two. One more.â
You hesitated, then muttered, âHeâs⊠nice to look at.â
Alexâs grin spread slowly, lazily, and he was far too pleased with himself.
Dr. Grey scribbled something furiously.
âInteresting,â the therapist said. âAlex, your turn.â
Alex didnât hesitate. âSheâs funny. Like, the kind of funny that sneaks up on you and makes you laugh when you shouldnât.â
You blinked. That was⊠weirdly specific.
âSheâs also stubborn,â he continued, tilting his head at you, âwhich is⊠frustrating, but kind of admirable.â
Your chest did a weird, fluttery thing.
âAndâŠâ He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. âSheâs got great taste in reality TV. Even if itâs brain rot.â
âWow,â you muttered, looking away before he could see the stupid smile tugging at your own lips. âBackhanded compliment much?â
Dr. Grey set his pen down slowly, watching the two of you like a scientist whoâd just discovered a new species.
âI see,â he said carefully. âSo despite your disagreements, thereâs clearly⊠affection here.â
Both you and Alex opened your mouths to protest at the same timeâ
âAffection?â you squeaked.
âDefinitely not,â Alex said too fast.
But your hands were still suspiciously close on the couch cushion, pinkies nearly brushing, and the way Alexâs knee pressed against yours told a very different story.
Dr. Grey leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly, like he was onto something.
And for the first time all session, you were genuinely terrified.
For the first thirty minutes of the session, you had been proud â no, smug â about how well you and Alex were pulling this off. Sure, there were some hiccups: the cookie debacle, the chamomile lie, the oat milk meet-cute that sounded less romantic and more like a dietary restriction. But overall? You thought you were killing it.
Until Dr. Grey leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and hit you with the calm, measured tone of a man about to end your entire career.
âY/N. Alex.â
You both froze like students caught passing notes.
âYes?â you said, your voice doing that embarrassing crackle thing.
âI want to be honest with you,â Dr. Grey continued. His eyes narrowed slightly, sharp despite the kind smile heâd been wearing all session. âI donât believe youâve told me the truth about your relationship.â
Silence.
You could hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above you, the way Alex sucked in a sharp breath beside you, the sound of your own soul trying to yeet itself into another dimension.
âExcuse me?â Alex said, finally, a nervous laugh slipping through.
Dr. Grey didnât flinch. âYouâre not a couple. Are you?â
You and Alex spoke at the exact same time.
âYes, we areââ Says you.
âNo, weâre notââ Says Alex.
Your heads snapped toward each other, eyes wide.
âYou traitor,â you hissed.
âI panicked!â he hissed back.
Dr. Grey sat back, steepling his fingers again like some kind of judgmental Batman. âWell. That clears things up.â
You buried your face in your hands. âOh my god.â
âOkay, okay, hear me out,â Alex said, holding his hands up like he was negotiating a hostage situation. âTechnically, weâre not a couple. But! Weâre auditioning for the role of one.â
You kicked his shin. âDonât make it sound like community theatre.â
âWhat else do you want me to say? âHi, Dr. Grey, weâre two psychos from Tinder who thought it would be funny to prank a licensed professional?â That sounds worse!â
Dr. Greyâs mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to laugh. âThatâs⊠exactly what youâve just admitted, though.â
You groaned, sliding down in your seat until your head hit the back cushion. âWeâre going to hell.â
âCorrection,â Alex said, pointing a finger at you. âYouâre dragging me to hell. This was your bio idea.â
âLike you didnât swipe right!â
âBecause it was hilarious!â
The therapist cleared his throat, and both of you snapped back to attention like guilty schoolchildren. âSo let me get this straight,â Dr. Grey said. âYou matched on Tinder⊠devised a fake backstory⊠and booked a therapy session. For fun.â
ââŠYes,â you muttered.
Alex, apparently deciding to lean into the bit until the bitter end, added, âItâs kind of a social experiment, if you think about it.â
Dr. Grey stared at him for a long, withering moment. âIâm not sure that makes it better.â
The silence that followed was suffocating. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your whole body buzzing with embarrassment. Beside you, Alex shifted like he couldnât decide whether to bolt for the door or keep digging his grave.
And then, you laughed.
A small, stupid giggle bubbled out before you could stop it. Alex turned to you, wide-eyed, like youâd just lost your mind. Which, maybe you had.
Because soon the giggle snowballed into full-blown hysterics, your shoulders shaking, tears stinging your eyes.
Alex lasted all of five seconds before he cracked, too. His laugh was loud, unrestrained, contagious. Within moments, you were both doubled over on the loveseat, wheezing like hyenas, while Dr. Grey sat across from you, looking like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this profession.
âThis isâ this is the worst idea weâve ever had,â you gasped, clutching your stomach.
âThe best idea,â Alex corrected, wiping at his eyes. âWe actually made it thirty whole minutes before getting caught. Thatâs a record.â
âAre you keeping score of fake couples?â
âI am now!â
Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. âI have to say, in my twenty years of practice, this is a first.â
âHappy to make history,â Alex said, still grinning.
You were still laughing when you finally sat up, cheeks aching, chest heaving. Alex was watching you with that stupid boyish smile again, eyes crinkled at the corners. And you hated it.
Well, you didnât hate it. That was the problem.
The session ended mercifully soon after. Dr. Grey, to his credit, didnât kick you out on the spot. Instead, he sighed, scribbled something in his notebook, and said, âFor future reference, couples therapy works best when⊠You are, in fact, a couple.â
You and Alex nodded solemnly like kids being scolded.
âUnderstood,â Alex said.
âTotally,â you added.
âPlease donât book another session under false pretenses,â Dr. Grey finished, his voice flat.
âGot it,â you both said in unison.
And with that, you were free.
The second the office door clicked shut behind you, you and Alex collapsed against the hallway wall, laughter exploding out of you again like you couldnât hold it in.
âOh my god,â you wheezed, doubling over. âWe actually did that. We actually wasted a professionalâs time.â
âWeâre criminals,â Alex agreed, tears in his eyes from laughing. âWeâre going to be blacklisted from every therapist in the city.â
âDo therapists even have a blacklist?â
âThey do now. Weâre probably at the top.â
You leaned your head back against the wall, still catching your breath. Alex was standing close, too close, his shoulder brushing yours. When you turned to look at him, he was already looking at you.
The laughter died down, leaving a charged silence in its wake. His smile lingered, softer now, almost hesitant.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before your brain could scream bad idea bad idea bad idea, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasnât a long kiss. Just a quick, impulsive press of your lips to his, tasting faintly of oat milk latte and bad decisions. But when you pulled back, his eyes were wide, his mouth curved into a stunned half-smile.
ââŠWhat was that?â he asked, voice low.
You shrugged, trying to look casual despite the way your heart was sprinting in your chest. âA thank you. For committing to the bit.â
âA thank you,â he repeated, still grinning.
âYes.â
He tilted his head, studying you, and damn it, why did he have to look at you like that? âYou know,â he said slowly, âwe could⊠actually do this again.â
âWhat, lie to another therapist?â
âNo,â he said, laughing. âI meant⊠a second date. Like, a real one. No fake backstory, no chamomile lies.â
You blinked at him, surprised. âA real date?â
âYeah. Dinner, maybe. Orââ he smirkedââwe could go to a coffee shop. Make it canon.â
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âAnd yet,â he said, bumping your shoulder lightly, âyou kissed me.â
You shoved him playfully, but your cheeks were still warm. âFine. One real date. But only because I want to prove to you that cookies are communal.â
âDeal.â
âDeal,â you echoed, shaking his hand like you were signing a legally binding contract.
And as you walked out of the building together, still laughing, still buzzing from the chaos of the afternoon, you couldnât help thinking: maybe the joke had gotten away from you.
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summary: Oscar Piastri has been following you around since you were six. At the time, you didnât know why, but with just one look, he knew heâd love you forever. Early on, he made his mom befriend yours, which meant you saw him almost every week as kids. Growing up, you were there for each other through every up and down. Years later, he still wouldnât give up, from your classmates shipping you two in first grade, to you finally giving him a chance at fifteen.
contains: in my culture, "auntie" can be a title used in referring to your friend's mom, not just the literal definition of aunt for a relative, short love triangle with lando, slowburn, holy yearner!oscar, oblivious!reader, piastri family appearance, no names for your parents, idk it's really long i can't remember what i wrote but nothing bad except for a mention of chickenpox, english isnât my first language, title is a lyric from faye webster's "kind of"
word count: 13.2k words
part two: he loves me yeah! | part three: in a lifetime
The classroom smelled faintly of crayons and dust, the kind of scent that always clung to first daysâequal parts excitement and nerves. Six-year-old Oscar Piastri tugged at the straps of his backpack, his fingers sweaty, eyes darting with both hope and uncertainty as the teacher calmly encouraged everyone to find their seats. Kids clustered in little groups, voices bubbling with familiar laughter and whispers, as though theyâd already built their own worlds. In the swirl of sound, thatâs when he saw you.
You were sitting off to the side, hands folded so tightly on the desk that your knuckles blanched, eyes fixed on the floor, face set in anxious concentration as if you could disappear if you tried hard enough. Your hair was pulled back with a ribbon that trembled with each tiny, nervous movement, and the lunchbox in front of you sat untouchedâa silent sign of how uneasy you felt.
Something in Oscarâs chest tugged.
Without thinking twice, he marched across the room and slid into the empty seat beside you. His legs dangled off the chair, sneakers not quite reaching the floor, but he leaned forward with the grin of someone who never second-guessed himself.
âHi,â he chirped, swinging his legs. âIâm Oscar.â
You blinked at him, startled, and then ducked your head. â...Hi.â
It wasnât much, just one word, but he lit up like youâd given him the secret password. He pointed at the box on your desk. âDo you like crayons? I always pick orange. Orangeâs the fastest color.â
You didnât answer, not really. Just a tiny shrug, as if even that much effort took all the courage you had. But Oscar didnât mind. He kept talking about his racecar lunchbox, about how he thought dinosaurs were cooler than astronauts, about how maybe you could trade snacks at recess if you wanted. You stayed quiet, eyes flicking toward him now and then, but you didnât tell him to go away either.
And for six-year-old Oscar, that was enough.
Sitting beside you felt right, like heâd found his spot. He didnât know it then â couldnât possibly â but the simple choice to plop down next to the quiet girl with the ribbon in her hair would end up being the start of everything.
It started on a Tuesday afternoon, a day when the sun made the classroom stuffy and the chalk squeaked a little too loudly on the board. You and Oscar were supposed to be coloring worksheets, but heâd quietly slid his chair closer to yours until the sides were touching.
âOrangeâs fastest,â he muttered, scribbling a racecar onto the corner of his paper. âYou should use orange too.â
You raised an eyebrow, clutching your crayon. âI like red better.â
âRedâs okay,â he conceded after a moment, tilting his head toward your drawing. âBut orangeâs faster. If weâre racing, Iâll win.â
You stuck your tongue out at him, and he grinned â wide and unbothered, like heâd already won something just by sitting next to you. Thatâs when a boy from the next row leaned over, smirking. âWhy do you always sit with her, Oscar? Is she your girlfriend?â
Your crayon slipped in your hand. âWhat?!â
A ripple of giggles spread across the desks, the other kids picking it up like wildfire. âOscar has a girlfriend!â someone sang. âOscar and Y/N sitting in a tree ââ
Your face burned. You ducked your head, pretending to color harder, but Oscarâs reaction was immediate and fierce.
âSheâs not my girlfriend,â he said flatly, though his ears had turned pink. âSheâs just... mine.â
The ooooâs doubled, louder this time, and you wished the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You nudged his arm with a frantic whisper. âOscar, stop!â
But he didnât. He scooted even closer, a shield between you and the teasing voices. His little hand brushed yours under the desk, not quite holding but hovering like he wanted to. âSheâs my best friend,â he declared, chin tilted up, voice stronger than youâd ever heard it. âSo stop saying stuff.â
The kids laughed even harder, and eventually, the teacher shushed them, but the damage was done. Your heart pounded all the way until recess.
You didnât say anything until you were sitting together under the big oak tree, knees tucked up, watching the other kids chase each other across the playground.
âYou didnât have to yell,â you muttered, picking at the grass. âYes, I did,â Oscar said simply, ripping blades of grass with too much force. âBecause you are.â
âAm what?â
âMy best friend.â He looked at you then, eyes clear and certain. âThatâs more important than being a girlfriend anyway.â
You didnât know how to answer that. So you just nodded, cheeks warm, and Oscar smiled like heâd settled something big.
Oscar Piastri was seven when he realized that sitting next to you at school wasnât enough.
Recess, weekends, holidays â he wanted all of it with you. Heâd already gotten used to your habits: you nervously tugged at your sleeves when you didnât want to talk, shared your snacks without being asked (even when you claimed you didnât like sharing), and your laughter, quiet at first, grew louder the longer you spent around him.
And seven-year-old Oscar, in his infinite wisdom, decided he needed to make sure you stayed close to him. One Saturday morning, as his mum was buttering toast, Oscar tugged her sleeve to get her attention.
âMum,â he said solemnly, âyou have to be best friends with Y/Nâs mum.â
Nicole Piastri blinked, knife mid-air. âDo I, now?â
âYes,â Oscar insisted. âBecause weâll have to see them. Every week. Forever.â
His mum pressed her lips together, amusement tugging at her mouth. âThatâs quite the plan, Osc.â
âItâs a good plan,â he argued, already bouncing on his toes. âYou like her mum anyway. She picks Y/N up at the same time as you pick me up. She smiles at you. Thatâs how it starts.â
Nicole laughed, shaking her head. âOh, is it?â
âYes.â His face was so serious, so determined, that she sighed in defeat.
That afternoon at pickup, Nicole lingered by the gate, striking up a conversation with your mum. She made a comment about the weather, then about the chaos of school drop-offs, then about how her son wouldnât stop talking about her daughter.
You didnât know it at the time, too busy chasing Oscar around the playground, but that was the start.
From then on, little things shifted.
Your mums began trading recipes, swapping tips about schoolwork and after-school activities. What started as quick chats during pickup turned into coffee dates, which turned into weekend visits.
And suddenly, you and Oscar were seeing each other everywhere: at his house on Saturday mornings, curled up on the couch watching cartoons while Nicole brought out snacks you both liked, at your house on Sunday afternoons, building pillow forts in the living room while your mum and his traded stories over tea, in the backseat of one car or the other, giggling over silly songs as your mums drove you to birthday parties, sports practice, or just the park.
Oscar thrived in it. He got to show you his favorite toy cars, telling you about his dream to become an F1 driver, and made you promise youâd always be his co-driver. He proudly introduced you to his nan, who pinched your cheeks and called you âlovelyâ. And when you tripped on the pavement one day and scraped your knee, both mums rushed over at once â fussing over you like you belonged to both families.
That night, you sat on Oscarâs bedroom floor with a bandage wrapped snug around your knee, and he offered you his most prized Hot Wheels car âto borrow until you felt better.â
You didnât realize it, but that was Oscarâs version of a vow.
By the time you were eight, it was impossible to tell whose mum was whose best friend. They sat together at school assemblies, planned joint birthday parties, and laughed at how inseparable the two of you had become.
Oscar just grinned smugly whenever anyone asked why he was always with you. Because seven-year-old Oscar had made up his mind long ago: if befriending your mum was what it took to keep you, then heâd make sure of it.
And he did.
The kitchen smelled like your mumâs cooking, warm and comforting in the way it always did on the weekends. Youâd darted upstairs to grab something from your room, leaving Oscar alone at the dining table with your mum.
She set a steaming plate of pasta in front of him. His eyes lit up instantly. âThank you, auntie!â
âYouâre welcome, sweetheart,â she said, settling across from him. âGo on. Try it.â
âHe didnât need to be told twice. His fork clinked against the plate as he started twirling noodles with the determination of a pro. His little legs dangled off the chair, tapping restlessly against the wood as he took a huge bite. Oscarâs whole face lit up. âThis is so good. Better than school lunch.â
âCareful,â she teased, âyouâll make your mum jealous if you say that too loud.â
He grinned sheepishly and pushed the noodles around his plate. âMum doesnât cook pasta like this. She buys the other kind. The... not as good one.â
Your mum chuckled, shaking her head. âWell, youâre welcome to eat here whenever. Youâre practically family anyway.â
His head snapped up. âReally?â
âOf course,â she said warmly. âI see you in this kitchen more than some of Y/Nâs cousins.â Oscar blushed, ducking his head. But then he froze, as if something important had just hit him. âEven when weâre older?â
She tilted her head. âOlder?â
âYeah. Like... when weâre big. Teenagers. Or grown-ups.â
âHmm.â She rested her chin on her hand, studying him. âThat depends. Do you think youâll still want to be around Y/N when youâre grown up?â
âYes,â he answered immediately, not even blinking. Her brows lifted. âThat was fast.â
âBecause itâs true!â His little fists tightened around his fork. âSheâs my best friend. Iâll always want to be around her.â
Her chest softened at the certainty in his voice. âYou know, thatâs a long time. People change, things change.â Oscar shook his head firmly. âNot me. Not with her.â
Your mum smiled. âAnd what about Y/N? You think sheâll want you around?â
For the first time, Oscar hesitated. His fork spun the pasta slowly, his voice quieter now. âI... I hope so. Do you think she will?â
âYes,â she said, without missing a beat. âSheâd miss you if you werenât here.â That made him perk up, shoulders relaxing. A small smile tugged at his lips. âGood. Because...â He hesitated again, then leaned forward, his voice dropping like a secret. âI think Iâll like her forever.â
Your mum blinked. âLike her?â Oscarâs cheeks went crimson, but he nodded stubbornly. âYeah. Like, like her.â
Before she could react, he hurried on, stumbling over his words. âI mean â itâs not weird, right? People marry their best friends all the time. My uncle said so! And if I like her now, then Iâll like her later too. Forever. Thatâs just how it works.â
She had to cover her mouth to keep herself from laughing, though her eyes softened. âYouâve got it all figured out, huh?â
âYep,â he said proudly, stabbing at his pasta. âIâm gonna marry her when weâre grown-ups. Youâll see.â
Just then, you came bounding back into the kitchen, waving a stuffed animal like a trophy. âLook what I found!â
Oscar immediately straightened in his chair, stuffing a bite of pasta into his mouth to cover the embarrassment burning on his face.
Your mum glanced between the two of you â you beaming, Oscar pretending not to stare â and bit back another laugh. âOh, I see it already,â she thought.
The fever hit hard and fast. One day, you were fine, the next you were shivering under a mountain of blankets, your head heavy and your throat scratchy. School became a distant thought; your mum had called you in sick, and the house felt too quiet with everyone else gone during the day.
Except for ten-year-old Oscar.
At first, he came by after school, his backpack still hanging off one shoulder as he trudged up your porch steps. Heâd press the doorbell three times in the special rhythm only you two used, grinning when your mum opened the door.
âCan I see her?â Heâd ask, already slipping off his shoes before waiting for an answer.
Your mum always sighed but let him in.
The first time he saw you pale and curled in bed, his grin faltered. He clutched the straps of his backpack tighter, shuffling closer. âYou look... really bad.â
âThanks,â you croaked, rolling your eyes.
He smiled a little then, relieved you still had enough energy to sass him. âI brought your homework. And...â He pulled out a crumpled bag of gummy bears from his pocket. â...these. Donât tell your mum.â
From then on, it became routine. Every day after school, Oscar showed up. Sometimes he brought homework, sometimes snacks, and once he even dragged over his playstation controller to hook up to your TV, insisting you could still play racing games âeven if you look like a zombie.â
But mostly, he just stayed. Heâd sit at the edge of your bed, swinging his legs, chattering about the things you were missing at school. âMs. Reynolds made Josh read out loud, and he kept saying âphotosynthesisâ like âphoto-sin-thesis.â Everyone laughed.â Or, âWe had dodgeball and I got out right away, but itâs fine, because I saved my team last time.â
Some afternoons, you were too tired to reply, your eyes drifting shut while he talked. He never left, though, just lowered his voice, letting it fill the room like background noise. Sometimes, when you dozed off, heâd nudge your water glass closer or smooth the blanket up to your chin, careful not to wake you. Heâd stay until the night got dark, until his sister had to come to your house asking for him.
One evening, your fever spiked, and your mum was bustling around with medicine. Oscar sat on the floor, hugging his knees, worry written all over his little face. When your mum stepped out to grab something, he climbed back onto the bed, looking at you seriously.
âDonât scare me like that again, okay?â His voice cracked just a little. âI donât like it when youâre not at school. Everyoneâs boring without you.â
You groaned, half-asleep. âYouâre boring.â
He grinned then, relieved, even if your words were slurred. âYeah, but Iâm here.â
And he was. Every single day until you got better, he was there â your quiet, stubborn shadow who refused to let you feel alone.
Your first day back at school felt strange, like the world had kept spinning without you. The classroom buzzed with the usual chatter, but the moment you walked in, heads turned.
And right there at the door was Oscar, waiting. Heâd gotten to school early for once, practically vibrating with energy, and the second he saw you, his whole face lit up.
âYouâre alive!â he blurted out, too loud, earning a few laughs from your classmates. He didnât care. He bolted over, grabbing your backpack before you could even protest. âGive me that, youâre still weak.â
You rolled your eyes, tugging it back. âIâm fine, Oscar.â
He squinted at you like he didnât believe a word. âYou still look pale. You should sit near the window. More fresh air.â He guided you to your desk anyway, practically shoving your hair out for you like you were royalty.
âSeriously,â you muttered, cheeks burning at all the eyes on you. âYou donât have toââ
âSure, I do,â he interrupted firmly. âYouâre not allowed to get sick again. Iâll make sure nobody breathes near you.â
You chuckled, âAre you my doctor or my boyfriend?â
Oscar didnât even flinch. He folded his arms, standing guard beside your desk. âIâm your best friend. Which means Iâm both.â
Your face turned crimson. âOscar!â
He just grinned, smug as anything, like embarrassing you was the best game in the world. âWhat? Itâs true. And if you donât take care of yourself, Iâm gonna tell your mum.â
Oscar plopped down in his seat, still grinning. âNot allowed to scare me again. Ever.â
You sighed, but the corners of your lips curved anyway. âFine. But only because youâll annoy me to death if I do.â
He leaned back, satisfied. âGood, then weâre even.â
After school, you found yourself sprawled out on the living room floor, crayons scattered everywhere. Oscar was hunched over his racecar coloring book, carefully shading the helmet in orange.
âIâm gonna do this one day,â he announced out of nowhere. You looked up, âColor in coloring books?â
He shot you a look. âNo. Drive. Like, for real. Karting. My dadâs taking me.â
At ten years old, you didnât know much about racing. But the way his eyes lit up when he said it made you believe it was the most important thing in the world.
âCan I come?â you asked.
âOf course,â he said, like it was obvious. âYouâll be my lucky charm.â
And thatâs when it started. From the first race, you were hooked â not on the sport itself, but on him.
Oscar, in his too-big helmet, was practically wobbling under the weight of it. Oscar was gripping the wheel so tight you thought his knuckles might snap. Oscarâs mum was fussing over him while he rolled his eyes, and his dad was shouting encouragement from the sidelines.
And then there was you, standing at the fence with wide eyes and nervous fists, cheering so loudly your throat hurt.
âGo, Oscar!â you screamed as the little karts zoomed past. âFaster! You can do it!â
He didnât win that first race. He came third, skidding across the finish line with a grin that could split his face. When he pulled his helmet off, sweaty curls sticking to his forehead, the first person he looked for was you. âDid you see that?â he panted, rushing over. âI overtook two kids! Two!â
âYou were amazing,â you said, and you meant it. âYou looked like Lightning McQueen!â He beamed so hard it nearly knocked you over.
From then on, weekends meant karting. His parents would load up the car, and more often than not, your mum would drop you off too. Youâd sit with his little sister, trading snacks and making up chants. You would decorate poster boards with glitter and markers, writing things like PIASTRI #1 and ZOOM ZOOM OSCAR!
When he won, youâd scream until your voice cracked, jumping up and down while he lifted his trophy like it was the World Cup. When he lost, youâd sit beside him on the curb, handing him your juice box without a word.
âMaybe Iâm just not good enough,â heâd say, helmet abandoned at his feet. Then youâd frown, âDonât be dumb. Youâre the best one out there.â
âYou didnât even see me spin out.â
âI donât care,â youâd shoot back, fierce in the way only a kid could be. âYouâll still win next time. I know it.â
And somehow, that always made him believe it too.
By twelve, karting wasnât just a hobby. It was his thing. You could see it in the way he carried himself, in the hours he spent talking about corners and braking points you barely understood. His friends at school didnât get it, but you didnât mind. You went to every race you could, standing at the fence like always, shouting yourself hoarse.
At thirteen, he started winning more. The trophies got taller, the competition tougher. He was gone more often â training, racing, traveling. But even when he was tired, even when he missed a day of hanging out, he always found you afterward.
One evening, after a long weekend at the track, you sat on your porch steps together, watching the sun dip low. His hair was still damp from a shower, his hands fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie.
âDo you ever get tired of it?â you asked softly.
He shook his head. âNo. Not when Iâm in the kart. It feels... right.â
You smiled, bumping his shoulder with yours. âGood. Because I think youâre gonna be really big one day.â
He glanced at you then, eyes lingering like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he smirked. âThatâs why youâve gotta keep coming. Lucky charms canât quit halfway.â
You laughed, but inside, you promised yourself youâd never miss a race if you could help it.
The summer before freshman year, things shifted. He was busier than ever, but when he was home, he made time for you. On one of those rare afternoons, the two of you sprawled across your living room floor again, older now, the crayons replaced with half-finished homework.
âHigh schoolâs gonna be weird,â you muttered. Oscar shrugged, âAs long as youâre there, Iâll be fine.â He said it so casually. In a way that comes naturally, the way it always came out, ever since you were six. Ever since he sat next to you in first grade, and ever since he won his first race.
You shot him a look. âThatâs cheesy.â
âMaybe,â he said with a grin. âBut itâs true.â
You rolled your eyes, but deep down, you knew it was. Because for years now, through every twist and turn, youâd been right there at his side â and he never let you go.
The classroom was buzzing with chatter, groups of kids clustering in corners, old friends reuniting. Now fourteen years old, you and Oscar had stuck close together â partly because you were new, partly because thatâs what youâd always done.
It hadnât taken long for whispers to spread. Youâd caught them: Are they dating? They came in together.
You didnât mind. Honestly, it made things easier. If people thought you and Oscar were a unit, then maybe you wouldnât have to figure out how to blend in alone.
But of course, not everyone got the memo.
âHey, I'm Lando.â A tall boy with curly hair leaned against your desk during break, his grin too practiced to be casual. âYouâre new, right? Want me to show you around?â His British accent curled around his words, making them sound like some kind of offer you'd regret turning down.
You blinked, caught off guard. âOh, uhââ Before you could even process an answer, Oscarâs chair scraped loudly against the floor. He leaned back in it, long legs stretched out, chin propped on his knuckles like he was bored. Except his eyes were sharp as knives.
âSheâs fine,â he said, voice calm but edged. âShe already has someone showing her around.â
The boy looked between you two, a little thrown. âOh... are youâ?â
âNo,â you said quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks. âWeâre just friends.â Oscarâs jaw twitched, but he didnât look away. âFriends who donât need your help.â
The boy gave a half-hearted shrug, muttered something about âyour loss,â and slunk off to the back of the room.
You turned to Oscar, raising a brow. âReally?â
âWhat?â He leaned back in his chair, smugness curling into a smirk. âYou said no, didnât you?â You rolled your eyes. I said no because I didnât want to, not because you scared him away.â
âMm-hm,â Oscar hummed, tapping his pen against his notebook. âStill. Kind of nice watching him run.â
You tried not to smile, but that infuriating, boyish grin he has whenever he thinks heâd won made it impossible.
âDonât get used to it,â you said, shoving his shoulder. âI already am,â he shot back, still smirking.
And from the corner of your eye, you could see other students watching you both, whispering again. The way you laughed at him, the way he leaned in like you were the only person in the room â yeah, they definitely thought you were together.
By the second week of school, the teacher had assigned everyone seats.
You landed at a desk group with Lando and another girl named Anna, while Oscar was placed at the next table behind you, partnered with a girl you hadnât spoken to yet and a boy whose name escaped you. It shouldnât have been a big deal. It was just seating. But the moment you realized Oscar wasnât going to be beside you anymore, the air seemed heavier.
You told yourself not to make a fuss â you werenât seven anymore, clinging to each other at every opportunity. Still, when you sat down and looked over your shoulder, there he was: Oscar, slouched in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk. He gave you a quick smile, the kind youâd normally return without thinking. But this time, you just nodded and turned back around, heart thudding too loudly for comfort.
Itâs fine. Itâs fine. Youâll still see him at break, still walk home together. It doesnât matter if heâs not sitting right next to you.
It mattered; the day dragged on anyway.
Oscar hated it too.
Heâd gotten used to leaning his elbow against your desk, whispering dumb commentary under his breath while the teacher droned on. Heâd gotten used to the way youâd kick him gently under the table when he teased you, or the way your head tilted when you asked him for help on math problems. Without you next to him, the room felt oddly quiet â too quiet, despite the low chatter of everyone else.
He tapped his pen against the desk, sneaking glances at you. You were pretending to focus on the worksheet in front of you, but he noticed the way your shoulders tensed whenever Lando leaned in.
Lando, of all people.
He didnât even know why that bothered him. The guy was harmless, more interested in cracking jokes than actual schoolwork. Still, Oscarâs jaw tightened every time Lando grinned at you.
From your side, it wasnât much better. Lando was friendly â too friendly.
âSo, Y/N, whereâd you move from?â he asked, leaning on his elbows while Anna rolled her eyes.
You kept your answers short, not out of rudeness, but because you were hyperaware of Oscarâs presence just behind you. Every word you said felt like it carried across the aisle, and you hated how your thoughts spun in circles: Is he listening? Does he care? Is he annoyed?
At one point, you dropped your pen. Before you could reach down, Lando scooped it up with a flourish, handing it back with a wink.
âThanks,â you muttered, cheeks warm.
From behind, you didnât need to look to know Oscar was watching. The weight of his gaze prickled at the back of your neck.
Lunch couldnât come fast enough.
You and Oscar usually sat together, sometimes with others drifting in, but always side by side. Today, you caught him waiting by the doorway of the classroom, bag slung over his shoulder. When your eyes met, the knot in your chest loosened a little.
âCâmon,â he said simply.
The two of you walked to the cafeteria in silence, shoulders brushing now and then. It was comforting â familiar â but you couldnât shake the lingering awkwardness from earlier.
Halfway through your sandwiches, you finally spoke. âThe new seats suck.â
Oscar let out a breathy laugh. âYeah. They do.â
There was something in the way he said it, though. Like it wasnât just about the desks. Like he missed you, too.
For a fleeting second, you wanted to tell him you hated not being next to him, that it felt wrong. But you bit your tongue. He was your best friend â had been since you were kids. Saying something like that might ruin everything.
So instead, you stuffed another bite of sandwich in your mouth and let the silence stretch.
Back in class, the tension continued.
The teacher droned on about quadratic equations, writing examples across the board. Anna scribbled notes furiously while Lando whispered a half-joke about how boring it all was. You chuckled politely, but your ears were tuned to the faint sound of Oscar shifting in his seat behind you.
Every time the teacher asked you a question, you swore you could feel his gaze, steady and unrelenting. And every time Lando leaned too close, your heart thudded, not because of Lando, but because of Oscar.
It was exhausting â overthinking every move, every word.
By the time the final bell rang, you felt wrung out.
Walking home with Oscar should have eased the tension, but it didnât.
He was quieter than usual, his hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the pavement. You wanted to ask what he was thinking, if heâd felt the same strangeness you had all day. But instead, you filled the silence with small talk, telling him about the math homework, about how Anna seemed nice, about how Lando was â
âToo much,â Oscar cut in, surprising you.
You blinked. âWhat?â
âLando,â he said quickly, shrugging like it was nothing. âHeâs⊠a bit much, isnât he?â
You hesitated, then nodded slowly. âYeah. Kind of.â
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost like a smile. âThought so.â
That was it. He didnât elaborate, and you didnât push. But the unspoken words lingered between you â a quiet hum of something neither of you wanted to name.
That night, lying in bed, you replayed the day over and over.
Oscarâs glances. Landoâs grin. The way Oscarâs voice had dipped when he said too much.
It was just the first day of assigned seats, and already you felt like you were unraveling.
Across town, Oscar lay in his own bed, staring at the ceiling.
He told himself it didnât matter where he sat. It was just a classroom. But the truth gnawed at him: without you next to him, it felt like something vital was missing. And when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way Lando had leaned in too close, the way your laugh had sounded when it wasnât meant for him.
He turned over, burying his face in the pillow.
It was only Monday.
The second morning of assigned seats shouldâve been easier. After all, youâd survived Monday â barely. But waking up felt heavier than usual, like the dread of walking into the classroom and seeing Oscar a whole desk away was carved into your chest.
You lingered over breakfast longer than necessary, your fork circling scrambled eggs until your mom told you youâd be late. You werenât avoiding school, not exactly. You just⊠werenât ready to spend another day pretending that the gap between you and Oscar was no big deal.
Itâs fine, you told yourself again as you laced your shoes. Youâll see him at break, at lunch. You always do.
Still, it wasnât the same.
When you arrived at school, Oscar was already by the gates, leaning against the railing with his backpack slung low. His hair was still messy from sleep, though you suspected heâd run a hand through it a few times to make it look less obvious. He noticed you instantly, standing straighter as if heâd been waiting.
âMorning,â he said, voice casual, though there was something careful in his eyes.
âMorning,â you echoed.
The silence stretched. Usually, youâd fall into easy conversation â who forgot their homework, which teacher was cranky, which game youâd play after class â but now it felt like both of you were thinking about the same thing and refusing to mention it: the damn seating chart.
He scratched the back of his neck. âYou ready for another thrilling day of quadratic equations?â
You smirked, relieved by the effort. âCanât wait. Highlight of my life.â
He smiled faintly, and for a moment, the knot in your chest loosened. But the bell rang, and the brief illusion shattered.
Class was worse than you remembered.
The teacher droned on at the board, and Lando was already in full swing, leaning into your space like proximity was his god-given right.
âSo, Y/N,â he whispered during the first exercise, âwhat do you thinkâs more boring â equations, or watching paint dry?â
Anna sighed loudly beside him. âMaybe if you actually wrote something down, youâd know the answer.â
You chuckled awkwardly, torn between agreeing with Anna and not wanting to be rude. âUh, watching paint dry, probably.â
Lando grinned like youâd just given him the world. âKnew it. Weâre on the same wavelength.â
You forced a smile, pen scratching on your paper. But you could feel it â Oscarâs gaze, steady and sharp from behind. Every time Lando leaned too close, every time his voice dipped into some practiced drawl, you swore you felt the back of your neck burn.
Heâs listening, you thought, biting your lip. He has to be. He always listens.
Oscar was listening.
He hated himself for it, but he couldnât block it out. Landoâs voice carried, every lazy joke aimed at you like you were his personal audience. And you â well, you werenât encouraging him exactly, but you werenât shutting him down either.
Sheâs just being polite, Oscar reasoned, gripping his pen tight enough to leave marks. She always is. She doesnât like him like that.
But the way you laughed â even softly, even awkwardly â made his chest twist.
The girl beside him, Rachel, nudged his notebook. âUm, are you gonna use that pen or just stab it to death?â
He blinked, realizing heâd been digging the lead so hard it nearly snapped. âRight. Sorry.â
She gave him a weird look, but he ignored it, eyes flicking to the back of your head, to the way your shoulders lifted whenever Lando leaned closer.
Heâs too much. She said so yesterday. The memory soothed him only a little. Still, the thought of Landoâs grin aimed at you all day made him want to throw the kidâs workbook out the window.
By mid-morning, you were exhausted.
The teacher had split you into pairs for a problem set, and of course, that meant you and Lando.
âDonât worry, Iâm good at math,â he said, flipping his pen between his fingers. âYou just sit back and watch a pro in action.â
You arched a brow. âYou didnât even bring your textbook.â
ââŠOkay, maybe Iâll just supervise,â he said, grinning.
You sighed, lowering your head to your paper. Across the room, you caught Oscarâs glance â quick, fleeting, like he didnât mean to be caught. But when your eyes met his, something tightened between you. You looked away fast, heart pounding.
Weâre not even dating, but why does it feel like Iâm cheating on him when Iâm literally just doing math problems with another guy?
The thought rattled you for the rest of the lesson.
Oscar was drowning.
The boy next to him, David, was nice enough, but he wasnât you. Their conversation barely went past âwhatâs the answer to number three,â while Oscarâs mind spun circles around the sound of your laugh with Lando.
He hated how much it mattered. He hated how much it hurt.
When the teacher collected the papers, Oscar caught another glimpse of you tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, biting your lip as Lando said something else. You smiled politely, and Oscarâs chest clenched.
He shoved his pen back in his case a little too hard.
Lunch was the only reprieve.
You found him at your usual table, already unwrapping his sandwich. When you sat down, your knees brushed under the desk, and neither of you pulled away.
âYou survived,â you said lightly.
âBarely,â he muttered.
You tilted your head. âThat bad?â
Oscar shrugged, eyes fixed on his sandwich. âJust⊠distracting.â
You didnât press, though you wanted to. Instead, you nudged his foot with yours. âWell, at least math is over.â
That earned you a real smile â small, but enough to steady you. For a few minutes, it was just the two of you again, laughter spilling into the space where words werenât enough.
Afternoon classes were more of the same.
Landoâs attention never wavered, his questions bordering on invasive: what music you liked, where you lived, if youâd been to the mall nearby. You answered cautiously, feeling the weight of Oscarâs silence behind you with every word.
At one point, Lando leaned close enough that you instinctively shifted back, your chair scraping the floor. The sound echoed, and heads turned â including Oscarâs. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, but it lingered on you for a second too long.
Your cheeks flamed. âSorry,â you mumbled to the teacher, adjusting your chair.
But your pulse didnât calm down until the bell rang, and you practically bolted.
Oscar followed you out the door, not close enough to seem obvious, but close enough to watch the way you gripped your bag strap like it was a lifeline. He wanted to say something â anything â to bridge the gap between you, to tell you that he hated watching Lando act like he owned your attention.
But the words stuck in his throat.
So he walked in silence, matching your pace, waiting for the right moment that never came.
By the time the final bell rang, you were wrung out.
The day had been a blur of forced smiles and quick glances over your shoulder. You couldnât remember half of what the teacher had said, only the endless cycle of Is Oscar mad? Is he jealous? Am I imagining it?
When you caught him waiting by the lockers, the tension eased. He didnât say much, just, âReady?â like always.
And you nodded, the ache in your chest softening at the familiar rhythm of his voice.
But as you walked side by side, you couldnât shake the thought that something had shifted between you. That maybe the assigned seats werenât just about desks and partners â maybe they were the start of something bigger.
Something scarier.
Something you werenât sure either of you was ready to name.
The afternoon heat clung to the pavement as you and Oscar walked home, your bags bouncing lightly against your sides. Neither of you spoke much at first â the air between you still heavy from the day â but your strides matched effortlessly, as always.
Halfway down the street, you sighed, breaking the silence. âToday was exhausting.â Oscar shot you a quick glance, his brow twitching in something close to relief. âYeah. Same.â You fiddled with the strap of your bag. âLando talks a lot.â
His lips pressed into a thin line, fighting a smirk. âYou donât say.â That earned a laugh from you â a real one, finally. He basked in it quietly, something loosening in his chest. âYou wanna come over?â he asked before he could stop himself. âMumâs making pasta tonight.â
You hesitated, just long enough for his pulse to spike, then nodded. âSure. I could use pasta.â
The Piastri house smelled like garlic and basil when you walked in. It was comforting, familiar, like a second home by now.
âY/N!â His little sister, Hattie, barreled down the hallway, nearly tripping over her socks as she hugged your waist. âYouâre staying for dinner, right? Please say yes.â
You laughed, ruffling her hair. âIf your mum doesnât mind.â
âShe wonât! She loves you more than Oscar.â
âOi,â Oscar muttered, dropping his bag by the door. But he didnât deny it.
You followed him into the kitchen, where his mum was stirring a pot on the stove. She looked up with a smile. âY/N, perfect timing. You can keep this one in line.â She tilted her chin at Oscar, who scowled good-naturedly.
You grinned. âIâll try my best.â
Dinner was loud in the best way â Hattie and Edie bickering over who got the bigger bread roll, Oscarâs dad cracking dry jokes, his mum fussing over whether you had enough on your plate. It was chaos, but the kind that wrapped around you like a blanket.
At one point, Hattie leaned across the table. âCan Y/N stay the night?â
Your fork froze mid-air. âOh, I donâtââ
âYes,â Oscar cut in before you could finish, voice steady. âSheâs staying.â
You blinked at him, startled by his certainty. He met your gaze with something unreadable, like he was daring you to argue. You didnât.
So that was that.
Later, you were in Oscarâs room, the familiar mess of racing posters, half-built Lego sets, and books scattered across his desk. You sat cross-legged on his bed while he sat at the edge, fiddling with a Rubikâs cube he hadnât solved in months.
âThis feels like old times,â you said softly.
He glanced up. âItâs not old times. Youâre still here.â
The words hung between you, heavier than they shouldâve been. You busied yourself by pulling one of his pillows onto your lap, hugging it close. His scent clung to it â laundry powder, a hint of cologne, something distinctly Oscar.
âYour sisters adore you,â you said after a beat.
He snorted. âThey adore you. Iâm just their chauffeur.â
You smiled, watching him twist the cube absentmindedly. The room buzzed with unspoken things, the kind that made your heart beat too fast.
âHey,â you said suddenly, breaking the quiet. âI wonât be at school tomorrow.â His hands stilled on the cube. âWhat? Why?â
âDoctorâs appointment,â you admitted, shrugging like it was nothing. âNothing serious. Just a check-up.â But his brows furrowed anyway. âYou shouldâve told me earlier.â
âItâs not a big deal.â
âIt is if youâre not there.â His voice was low, firm, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them.
You blinked, throat tightening. âOscarâŠâ
He shook his head quickly, standing to put the cube back on the shelf. âNever mind. Justâ text me, yeah? So I know how it goes.â
You nodded, clutching the pillow tighter. âI will.â
When he finally sat back down, closer this time, your knees brushed. Neither of you moved.
The silence stretched, filled with the warmth of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint sound of his sisters laughing down the hall.
For a moment, you thought he might say something â that he might close the gap and finally spill the words youâd both been holding back.
But instead, he leaned back on his elbows, eyes on the ceiling. âWanna watch something? Take your mind off watching paint dry and Lando?â
You laughed softly, grateful and disappointed all at once. âYeah. Sure.â
So you did. You sat side by side, shoulders pressed together, watching a movie neither of you really paid attention to. And though nothing was said, nothing confessed, the weight of almost-everything lingered in the air, thick enough to taste.
By the time you curled under the spare blanket on his bed that night, Oscar stretched out on the floor beside you, you couldnât help but think:
If only he knew how much I wanted to stay here, always.
And on the floor, Oscar thought the same.
Oscar noticed immediately: the empty seat at the front of the classroom.
Your chair was neatly tucked in, your books absent, your bag not slung across the side like it always was. It shouldnât have thrown him off balance so badly, but it did. The sight of that empty seat tightened something in his chest.
Youâd told him last night about the doctorâs appointment, but seeing the proof made it real. You werenât here. You werenât sitting with your chin propped on your hand, rolling your eyes at Landoâs antics, sneaking quick glances back at Oscar when you thought he wasnât looking.
Oscar slouched lower in his chair, pen tapping against the desk.
And then, of course, came the inevitable. âOi, Piastri.â
Oscar froze, already dreading the sound of that voice. He turned slightly. Lando was leaning against his desk, a smug grin plastered across his face.
âWhereâs Y/N?â Lando asked casually, twirling a pen between his fingers. âDidnât see her this morning. You two usually walk in together, yeah?â
Oscar forced a shrug, careful to keep his tone flat. âDunno.â
Lando arched a brow. âReally? Thought youâd be the first to know.â
Oscarâs grip on his pen tightened. He kept his face neutral. âShe doesnât report to me, mate.â
That earned a chuckle from Lando, too knowing for Oscarâs liking. âRight. Sure. Guess Iâll ask her myself later.â He straightened, tossing his pen into the air and catching it with practiced ease. âBut hey, donât take it personal. Not my fault, sheâs got options.â
Oscar didnât reply. He couldnât trust his voice not to crack â not with anger, but with something heavier, something he couldnât name without tasting bitterness. Instead, he pressed his jaw tight and turned back to his paper, scribbling numbers he didnât even register.
Lando hummed, smug and satisfied, before sauntering off.
Oscar exhaled slowly, shoulders tense, heart pounding. Donât let him get to you. Donât.
But all he could think was: Options?
When you texted after your appointment, âDone. Free this afternoon. Come over?â Oscar felt the weight lift instantly.
He didnât even bother with an excuse to his parents, just grabbed his bag and headed straight for your house.
Your room hadnât changed much since you were little: the same posters tacked up, the same stack of books on your desk, the same faint scent of lavender your mom swore by.
You sat cross-legged on your bed, patting the space beside you when Oscar walked in. âWell? Did school survive without me?â
He dropped his bag and sat down, shoulders brushing yours. âBarely.â
You laughed, and the knot in his chest loosened.
âLando wasâŠâ Oscar hesitated, then smirked faintly. âAnnoying.â
âShock.â You tilted your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. âWhatâd he do this time?â
âHe asked where you were.â Oscar kept his tone casual, though his chest was still tight. âI told him I didnât know.â
Your brows lifted. âYou lied for me?â
He shrugged. âDidnât want him bothering you.â
Something in your chest fluttered at the quiet protectiveness in his voice. You nudged his knee with yours. âThanks. Youâre the best.â
Oscar ducked his head, ears warm. âDonât mention it.â You grinned, unable to resist. âBet he was smug about it, though.â
Oscar let out a humorless laugh. âYou have no idea.â
The two of you dissolved into laughter, trading imitations of Landoâs overconfident smirk until your sides hurt. When the laughter faded, silence settled â soft, not awkward.
You lie back on your bed without thinking, staring at the ceiling. Oscar followed suit a moment later, his arm brushing yours as he stretched out beside you.
The proximity made your breath hitch.
You were so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Your fingers itched to reach for his hand, but you curled them into the blanket instead.
Oscar, for his part, was doing his best not to stare at the curve of your cheek, the way your hair fanned out on the pillow. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his gaze on the ceiling.
âThis feels familiar,â you said softly.
He glanced at you. âHow so?â
âLike when I had chickenpox,â you murmured, lips quirking. âRemember? You used to come over every day. Lay on the floor, keep me company even though I looked like a zombie.â
Oscar chuckled, though his voice was quieter, gentler. âYou didnât look like a zombie. More like⊠a very grumpy hedgehog.â
You gasped in mock offense, swatting his arm. âOscar!â
He grinned, rubbing the spot where youâd hit him. âWhat? Itâs true. You wouldnât let me near your bed half the time. Just hissed at me to leave the snacks and go.â
You laughed, but there was a warmth in your chest that lingered. âAnd yet you still came every day.â
His smile faltered, softened. âOf course I did.â
The words carried more weight than either of you were ready to acknowledge. The silence that followed was thick, filled with all the things unsaid.
You turned your head toward him. âWhy?â
He blinked, caught off guard. âWhy what?â
âWhyâd you keep coming? Even when I was miserable and cranky and didnât want anyone around.â
Oscar hesitated, throat tight. He could say it, that he couldnât stand the thought of you being alone, that even then, at ten years old, he couldnât stay away from you. That he loved you.
Instead, he cleared his throat. âBecause youâre my best friend. Always have been.â
Your chest ached at the sincerity in his voice. You smiled softly, whispering, âAlways will be.â
Your eyes lingered on his a second too long, your breath catching when his gaze flicked down, almost, almost to your lips.
But then he turned away, staring back at the ceiling, jaw tight.
Inside, Oscar was unraveling.
The way you looked at him, the way your voice softened when you said always â it nearly broke him. He wanted to reach across the space between you, cup your cheek, tell you everything heâd been holding back.
But fear rooted him in place. Fear of ruining everything. Fear of losing you.
So he stayed still, every muscle tense, heart hammering.
You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze back to the ceiling too. The air between you buzzed with unspoken things, a weight you both pretended not to feel.
But your hands, traitorous, edged closer on the blanket. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that the heat of his skin brushed yours.
Oscar noticed. Of course, he noticed. His fingers twitched, aching to close the gap. But he didnât move.
Neither of you did.
And in that fragile, suspended moment, you both knew:
Something was shifting.
Something neither of you could ignore forever.
By Thursday morning, you felt lighter. The doctorâs appointment was over, you were back at school, and you were ready to slip into routine again. But the second you slid into your seat beside Lando, you realized routine wasnât on the menu.
âMorning,â Lando greeted, leaning far too casually against the edge of your desk. His grin was as smug as ever. âDidnât see you yesterday. Thought maybe youâd skipped just to avoid me.â
You pressed your lips into a polite smile, already bracing yourself. âDoctorâs appointment.â
He whistled, tilting his head. âSo you did miss me, then.â You didnât even blink. âThe teacherâs about to start.â
And with that, you turned toward the front. Short, clipped, final. Lando blinked, thrown off for a split second, but then chuckled. âCold. I like it.â
From behind you, there was a quiet sound â the faintest little snort. Almost imperceptible, but you caught it. And you knew exactly whose it was.
Oscar.
You risked a quick glance back. Sure enough, he was hunched over his desk, head bowed like he was deeply engrossed in his notes. But the way his shoulders shook gave him away. He was laughing under his breath, savoring every second of your shutdown.
Heat rose in your chest. Not embarrassment, but something warmer. Sharper.
Lando didnât notice. He tapped his pen against your desk, leaning in closer. âSo, Y/Nââ
âListen in front,â you cut in smoothly, nodding toward the front.
Sure enough, Mrs. Daniels had begun outlining the dayâs lesson. You didnât look at Lando again, not even when he huffed and leaned back, clearly unused to being dismissed so easily.
From behind, another muffled laugh escaped Oscar, softer this time, almost like he couldnât help it.
You kept your eyes on the board, a small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
Oscar, meanwhile, was fighting a battle of his own.
The sight of Lando trying â trying â to charm you made his blood simmer, but the way you shut him down? Effortlessly, decisively, with no room for argument? That nearly had him grinning like an idiot.
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself, but when youâd said, âThe teacherâs about to start,â with that cool tone of yours, it slipped out anyway â that quiet snort of laughter.
God, he loved that about you. The way you didnât play games, didnât waste words. The way you always knew exactly how to put someone in their place without raising your voice.
And the way you hadnât even looked flustered, not once, while Lando stumbled over his own ego.
Oscar sat up straighter, forcing his expression back to neutral as Mrs. Daniels turned toward their row. But inside, he was warm all over.
Warm with pride.
Warm with relief.
And warm with something deeper, something he couldnât quite name, but that pulled him toward you like gravity itself.
The rest of class passed without incident â Lando retreating, you focused, Oscar quietly, smugly satisfied.
But every so often, you felt it: that weight of a gaze on the back of your head. Not heavy, not invasive â just steady. Watchful.
And every time, you knew it was him.
The Piastri household always smelled like something good. Tonight, it was garlic bread â buttery, crisp, with just the faintest char at the edges â and tomato sauce simmering low on the stove. Nicole was bustling between the kitchen and the dining room, apron already dusted with flour, while Chris uncorked a bottle of wine at the counter.
Your parents had arrived first with you in tow, and the moment you stepped into the house, Edie practically launched herself at you.
âY/N!â she squealed, her little arms wrapping tightly around your waist. âYou didnât come yesterday, and Oscar was grumpy all day. But I missed you, too.â
You laughed, smoothing a hand over her hair. âI missed you more.â
Behind her, Hattie poked her head out from the living room, smirking. âDonât let her fool you. Sheâs been drawing you and Oscar together all afternoon. Wedding dress and everything.â
âHattie!â Edie shrieked, her cheeks flaming as she clung tighter to you.
Oscar, who had just come down the stairs, groaned loudly. âSeriously? Can we notââ
Edie, perched at the bottom step with her phone, didnât even look up. âRelax. Everyone already knows youâre whipped.â
You froze. Oscar choked.
Your parents chuckled as if this were all perfectly normal. Your dad even clapped Chris on the shoulder, grinning. âKids, huh?â
But Nicole wasnât letting it slide. She handed you a plate to bring into the dining room and, with a knowing smile, murmured, âDonât worry, sweetheart. Weâve been teasing him about you since he was eight. Heâs used to it.â
You nearly dropped the plate. âAuntieââ
âMom!â Oscar hissed, but she breezed past him like she hadnât just detonated a small bomb.
Dinner was loud, warm, chaotic in the way only big family dinners could be. The table was stretched to its maximum length, and leaves were added so everyone could squeeze in. You sat between Hattie and Oscar, your parents across from you, while Edie and Mae bickered about seating order at the far end.
Nicole and your mom shared serving spoons like theyâd been doing this forever, their friendship easy and practiced. Chris and your dad traded stories about old cars and backyard projects.
It shouldâve been comfortable.
And it was.
Except for the way Oscarâs knee brushed yours under the table.
The first time, you thought it was an accident. The second, maybe still. But by the third time, when neither of you moved away, your heart was hammering so loudly you barely heard Hattie chatter about her school project.
Oscar was the picture of calm, eyes fixed on his plate as if the spaghetti was the most interesting thing in the world. But you saw the faint flush creeping up his neck, the way he chewed slower, more deliberately.
It was unbearable. In the best and worst way.
âSo,â your mom began suddenly, cutting through the chatter. Her eyes flicked between you and Oscar with dangerous amusement. âWhen are you two finally going to admit it?â
Forks clinked against plates. The whole table went silent.
âMum!â you gasped, mortified.
Oscarâs head snapped up, ears red. âWeâre notââ
âYes, you are,â Edie cut in immediately, smirking. âItâs obvious. Heâs been sulking whenever youâre not around.â
âNot true,â Oscar muttered, stabbing a meatball with unnecessary force.
Mae leaned forward, grinning. âTotally true. He even asked me yesterday if I thought youâd skipped school because of him.â
Your dad raised a brow, amused. âDid you?â
âDad!â
Chris chuckled, swirling his wine. âSee? We donât even have to say anything. The kids are doing it for us.â
Nicole gave a satisfied hum, serving herself more salad. âI told you, Chris. Theyâve been circling each other since they were children. It was only a matter of time.â
âCan we please change the subject?â Oscar mumbled, but his knee pressed harder against yours under the table, like he needed the anchor.
You swallowed, cheeks burning, fingers tightening around your fork.
The conversation shifted eventually â thank God â but the damage was done. Your parents and the Piastris had made it clear: they were rooting for something neither you nor Oscar dared name out loud.
And the worst part? A tiny part of you wanted to.
After dessert (apple pie, courtesy of your mom, served with ice cream that dripped sticky-sweet down your spoon), the younger ones darted into the living room for a movie. Edie claimed the armchair, Mae sprawled across the rug, and Hattie curled up with her blanket.
You and Oscar lingered at the table, helping clear plates.
âYou okay?â he asked softly, when the noise of the kitchen and the movie muffled everyone else.
You forced a smile. âYeah. Why wouldnât I be?â
He hesitated, drying his hands on a dish towel. His eyes, steady and warm, searched yours. âTheyâre just⊠relentless.â
You let out a small laugh, one that was more air than sound. âYeah. But itâs not like we can stop them.â
âNo,â he admitted, voice low. âWe canât.â
For a moment, you both just stood there, silence stretched taut between you. The hum of conversation from the other room, the faint clatter of dishes, the muffled laughter from his sisters â it all faded under the weight of his gaze.
Then Hattieâs voice rang out, shrill as ever: âOscar! Y/N! The movieâs starting!â
He blinked, breaking eye contact, and the spell shattered.
âComing,â he called back, too quickly.
You followed him into the living room, your heart still racing.
The living room was dim except for the glow of the movie flickering across the TV. The smell of apple pie and garlic still lingered faintly in the air, blending with the clean scent of laundry from the blanket draped over the couch.
Mae had long since drifted off, her tiny body curled up against your lap, her breath soft and even. You kept stroking her hair absentmindedly, your focus slipping in and out of the movie.
Oscar sat pressed close beside you, the blanket covering both your legs. He wasnât watching the movie either. His eyes flicked to you every few minutes, then back to the screen, then back to you again.
His pinky brushed against yours once, tentatively. Then again, with a little more certainty. This time, he let it linger.
You felt it. God, you felt it everywhere â in the way your chest tightened, in the warmth that flooded your skin, in the way your breath caught for just a second too long. But you didnât move away. You couldnât.
Instead, you curled your pinky ever so slightly, hooking it with his.
He froze. And then you felt it â the tiniest squeeze.
The rest of the room faded away.
It was just you and him, wrapped up in a blanket of unsaid words.
Oscarâs thoughts were a mess.
Say it. Just say it.
Heâd been carrying it around for years â since he was six, since he first sat beside you and thought, this is it. This is her.
And now, with your hand against his, with Hattie asleep between you like some symbol of the family he already imagined having with you one day, it was unbearable not to.
He leaned a little closer, his voice so quiet you almost didnât hear it. âY/NâŠâ
You turned to him, eyes soft, questioning. âYeah?â
He swallowed. The words lodged in his throat, but he pushed anyway. âDo you ever think about⊠us?â
Your heart stopped.
Us?
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. Heat rushed to your cheeks, your pulse hammering loud enough you were sure he could hear it. âOscar, Iââ
But before you could finish, Edieâs voice rang out from the floor. âCan you two stop whispering? Some of us are trying to watch the movie.â
You both jolted like youâd been caught doing something illegal.
Oscar cleared his throat, shifting slightly, his pinky slipping away from yours as if it had never been there. âSorry,â he muttered, eyes fixed stubbornly on the TV.
You turned back, too, though your heart was still racing, your head spinning with the weight of his almost-question.
Do you ever think about us?
You did. More than you should.
And now, you werenât sure youâd ever be able to stop.
The movie ended, families gathered coats, and yawns spread through the room. Your parents chatted idly with Nicole and Chris at the door, while you lingered in the living room, sliding Hattieâs blanket gently over her sleeping form.
Oscar hovered nearby, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hair messy from running his fingers through it too many times.
When you finally looked at him, he met your eyes for just a heartbeat â and the question was still there.
Unspoken.
Burning.
The last bell rang, but it didnât matter. The only thing anyone could talk about all afternoon was the news that had dropped an hour before lunch:
Oscar Piastri. Officially signed to race in Formula 4 UAE.
It wasnât just a local headline; it had made waves across every group chat you were in. By the time school ended, it felt like the whole campus knew. Some kids crowded him in the hallway, others shouted congratulations as he passed, and youâwell, you watched it all from the corner, your heart swelling with pride so big it almost hurt.
Youâd known for weeks how close he was. Youâd seen the late nights, the obsessive practice sessions, the stress eating when he thought no one was paying attention. And now it was real. Heâd done it.
And tonight, both families were celebrating together.
Nicole outdid herself. By the time you arrived with your parents, the Piastri dining table had been stretched to its limit again, covered in plates of pasta, trays of roasted vegetables, garlic bread stacked high, and a cake with CONGRATULATIONS OSCAR! piped in messy red icing.
Chris was already pouring sparkling cider into mismatched wine glasses, while your dad and Oscarâs traded a handshake that turned into a hug.
Hattie and Edie burst into the hallway the moment you stepped inside, each talking at the same time:
âHeâs famous now!â
âHeâs going to forget about us when heâs rich!â
âI called dibs on a pit pass for his first race!â
Mae, leaning on the banister, smirked. âIâm holding out for a Ferrari.â
Oscar came down the stairs a beat later, still wearing his school uniform, but his grin was brighter than anything youâd seen on him before. The second he saw you, it softened, just a little.
âYou made it,â he said simply, like the noise of the whole room quieted when his eyes landed on you.
âOf course I did,â you teased, trying to mask the way your chest fluttered. âWouldnât miss your victory lap.â
Dinner was chaos. The good kind.
Your mom kept nudging you to take more food, Nicole kept calling everyone âdarlingâ as she darted back and forth with extra napkins, and Chris tried to make a toast, only for Mae to interrupt with a sarcastic, âTo Oscar, who finally has an excuse for being this cocky.â
But beneath the laughter, there was pride. Real, deep pride that filled the room until it was almost overwhelming.
âNot many kids get to this point so fast,â your dad said, raising his glass. âOscar, youâve earned this. Every lap, every hour of work â itâs yours. Congratulations.â
âHear, hear!â Nicole chimed, clinking her glass against everyone elseâs.
Oscar ducked his head, cheeks pink, but the grin never left his face. His eyes flicked to you again, just for a heartbeat, and the warmth there made your stomach somersault.
Later, after cake and seconds of garlic bread and Hattie smearing icing across Oscarâs cheek (âfor luck!â sheâd declared), the living room turned into a mini dance floor. Someone put music on, Edie and Mae sang along dramatically, and Hattie insisted on teaching your dad a TikTok dance.
You sat on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold with a soft smile.
This was his night. His moment.
And yet, every time you glanced up, you found his eyes already on you.
The celebration wound down slowly, like the glow of sparklers fading into smoke.
By eleven, the younger girls were out cold in the living roomâHattie curled on the rug like a cat, Edie sprawled over half the couch with her mouth open, and Mae valiantly pretending she wasnât falling asleep mid-conversation. Your mom had finally convinced Nicole to sit down after three straight hours of fussing, and Chris and your dad had launched into one of those deep talks that only seemed to happen once the clock passed midnight.
And you were upstairs.
Oscarâs room hadnât changed much since you were kids. The posters were newer, the trophies shinier, the stacks of notebooks taller, but it was still him. His space. Safe in a way that made your chest ache.
You sat cross-legged on his bed, the duvet slightly rumpled under you, while he leaned against the headboard, one knee bent, tapping his fingers absently against his thigh. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the vanilla candle Nicole always insisted on sneaking in, claiming his room needed a little softness.
Neither of you had said much since coming upstairs. The noise of the celebration was muffled through the floor, but the quiet stretched between you like a string pulled tight, humming with something unnamed.
You picked at a loose thread in the duvet. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
It shouldâve been ordinary. It shouldâve felt like the hundred other nights youâd spent in this house. But it didnât.
Not tonight.
He did it. Heâs really going to race Formula 4. This is the beginning, the real thing. And Iâve been here the whole time â does he even realize how proud I am? Does he even know what he means to me?
And then, the other voice:
What if this is the start of him leaving? Of him becoming something bigger than us, bigger than this? What if I lose him in all the noise?
You tried to shake it off, but it clung stubbornly, heavier with every heartbeat.
Beside you, Oscarâs fingers stopped tapping. He exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze fixed on some point on the far wall. His profile in the soft lamp light was achingly sharpâjaw set, brows faintly furrowed, lips pressed into a line that betrayed the storm beneath his calm.
You knew him well enough to recognize it: he was thinking himself in circles, too.
The silence broke at last.
âYou were quiet at dinner.â
His voice was low, careful, like stepping onto thin ice.
You looked up, startled. âWhat do you mean?â
He turned then, meeting your eyes. And oh, it was unbearableâhow direct his gaze was, how much it demanded.
âYou didnât⊠I donât know. Everyone else was talking so much, and you justâŠâ He trailed off, shaking his head. âItâs not like you.â
You blinked at him, throat tightening. He noticed.
âI was justâŠâ You scrambled for the right words. âwatching. Letting you have your moment.â
His brows knitted. âIt wasnât just mine.â
You tilted your head. âWhat do you mean?â
He shifted closer, only an inch, but enough that you felt the warmth radiating from him. His knee brushed yours, deliberate or accidental â you couldnât tell, but it sent a shiver straight through you.
âThis,â he said quietly, gesturing vaguely at the world beyond his room. âThe racing. Tonight. Itâs not just mine. Youâve been there the whole time, Y/N. From the start. Every test, every win, every time I wanted to give up â you were there. So donât say itâs just mine.â
Your breath caught. You hadnât expected him to lay it out so plainly, so raw.
âIâŠâ Your voice faltered. You swallowed. âIâm glad I was. I wouldnât have been anywhere else.â
The corners of his mouth twitched upward, but his eyes stayed serious, locked on yours like he was holding back something bigger.
The weight of his gaze made it hard to breathe. You looked away, staring at the floorboards, the scuffed corner of his desk, anywhere but him.
And yet, you felt him still watching. Always watching.
The air thickened. The hum of the heater, the distant laughter downstairs, the faint tick of his wall clockâthey all faded under the sharp awareness of how close he was.
Say something, you begged yourself. Anything.
Instead, you asked the most ordinary question imaginable.
âSo⊠how does it feel? Being official. Formula 4.â
He laughed softly, almost disbelieving. âIt feels⊠insane. Like Iâm still waiting for someone to tell me itâs a mistake.â
âItâs not,â you said immediately, firm.
The intensity in your voice made him glance over again, startled. But you didnât back down.
âYou earned this, Oscar. Every second of it. If anyone deserves to be there, itâs you.â
For a moment, he didnât answer. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on words too big to swallow.
Then, quietly: âYou really think that?â
You let out a shaky breath, finally daring to look at him again. âI know it.â
The silence that followed wasnât empty this time. It was full. Heavy. Charged.
His hand shifted, resting on the bedspread between you, so close that your pinky finger almost grazed his. Almost.
Your mind screamed with the temptation to close that gap, to let your fingers slip against his, to feel what youâd been aching to know for years. But you stayed frozen, every muscle taut with restraint.
And yetâyou couldnât pull your eyes away from his hand. From the way it lingered there, just barely not touching.
Does he know what heâs doing to me?
Beside you, he inhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself. âYouâve always believed in me more than I believe in myself.â
The admission cracked something in your chest.
âSomeone has to,â you whispered, the words out before you could stop them.
His head turned sharply at that, and when his eyes locked onto yours, you knewâabsolutely knewâthat the string youâd been dancing around for years was about to snap.
But not yet. Not quite.
He blinked, forcing himself to lean back against the headboard again, breaking the contact. His fingers drummed once more against his thigh, like he needed the rhythm to keep himself tethered.
âI donât know what happens next,â he said finally, voice low, thoughtful. âThe travel, the races⊠itâs all going to change.â
You swallowed hard. There it was againâthe fear that had been gnawing at you all evening.
âI know,â you said softly.
His gaze softened at your tone. âDoes it scare you?â
Your throat tightened. âA little.â
âMe too.â
You looked at him, really looked, and the vulnerability on his face nearly undid you. This wasnât the confident boy everyone else saw. This was the Oscar only you knew, the one who doubted, who worried, who cared so deeply it overwhelmed him.
And all you wanted, more than anything, was to reach across the space and promise him you werenât going anywhere.
The clockâs second hand ticked louder than it should have.
Or maybe it was just you, hyperaware of every detailâthe shift of Oscarâs shoulders, the faint scuff of his socked foot against the floor, the almost-soundless drag of his breath.
The whole house had gone quiet. Even the muffled laughter downstairs had thinned out, fading into drowsy silence. Everyone else had surrendered to the hour.
But not you. Not him.
You couldnât.
The string stretched taut between you had been vibrating all night. Every word, every look, every almost-touch, each one pulling tighter, tighter, until it hummed in your veins. And now, sitting in the dim lamplight, it was unbearable.
You fiddled with the duvet again, partly to give your hands something to do, partly to ground yourself. But the thread slipped from your fingers, and your gaze snapped back to him.
Because he was looking at you. Still.
You tried to laugh, soft and small, hoping to cut the tension. âWhat? Why are you staring at me like that?â
His lips parted, but no words came. He blinked once, slowly, and thenââBecause you matter more to me than anyone else.â
The air left your lungs like a punch.
You stared, heart thundering, convinced for a second that youâd misheard. âWhâwhat?â
He swallowed hard, his Adamâs apple bobbing. His voice came out rough, almost hoarse. âYou heard me.â
And now you were trapped. Because how could you look away when heâd just ripped the floor out from under you?
Every nerve screamed, begging you to move, to breathe, to do something, but you couldnât. Not when his eyes pinned you like that, raw and unshielded, the truth laid bare in the dark.
âOscarâŠâ Your voice cracked halfway through his name.
He leaned forward, abandoning the safety of the headboard, closing the distance inch by inch until his knee pressed into the mattress beside you. His hand hovered close to yours again, closer this time.
âYouâve been there since the beginning,â he said quietly, his words deliberate, heavy. âWhen no one else cared, when no one else even noticed me, you did. You always have.â
You wanted to answer, but your throat burned too much to form words.
He kept going, unstoppable now. âAnd I thought maybe I could keep it in. That itâd be safer if I didnât say anything. But tonightâseeing you look at me like you were already slipping awayââ He broke off, jaw tight, eyes squeezing shut for a second before locking on you again. âI canât. I canât keep pretending anymore.â
Your pulse roared in your ears. He canât keep pretending anymore.
And suddenly you understoodâevery brush of his shoulder, every lingering look, every laugh too soft, too private. It wasnât just friendship. It never had been.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Instead, Oscar pushed through, voice trembling with urgency.
âI love you.â
The words detonated in the silence.
Your breath hitched, sharp and shallow.
He was still staring at you, still holding your gaze like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
âIâve loved you sinceâGod, since before I even knew what it meant.â His hand finally moved, brushing against yours, tentative, shaking. âSince we were kids, since the first time I sat next to you and thought, I donât ever want to sit anywhere else.â
Tears stung at the corners of your eyes.
âI tried to tell myself it was just friendship. That you wouldnât feel the same, that Iâd ruin everything if I said it out loud.â His thumb barely grazed your knuckle, the lightest touch, but it set your skin on fire. âBut I canâtâ Y/N, I canât sit here and pretend youâre just my best friend anymore. Youâre not. You never were.â
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, overwhelmed, trembling with all the feelings youâd buried for years. And when you opened them again, he was still there. Waiting.
âOscar,â you whispered, your voice breaking.
He flinched, almost pulling back, but you caught his wrist without thinking, clutching it like an anchor.
Your grip was desperate, your eyes wet, your chest heaving with words too big to keep down. âDonât you ever think I donât care. Donât you ever think that.â
His lips parted, stunned.
âIâve been terrified,â you admitted, the confession tumbling out in pieces. âThat if I said anything, Iâd lose you. That youâd slip away, and I couldnâtââ Your throat clenched. âI couldnât survive that.â
For a moment, he just stared, shock and hope warring in his face. âY/NâŠâ
âIââ Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. âI love you too. Iâve always loved you.â
The string snapped.
And suddenly, he was moving.
Not recklessly, not like a storybook swoop, but careful, deliberate, with a kind of reverence that shattered you. His forehead pressed against yours, noses brushing, his breath trembling as it mingled with yours.
âSay it again,â he whispered. Not a command, but a plea.
You closed your eyes, letting the truth bleed out. âI love you.â
His breath hitched, shaky. âGod, Iâve waited so long to hear that.â
You laughed softly through your tears, your grip on his wrist tightening. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âIâm yours,â he corrected, voice raw.
The world narrowed to just the two of you, breaths syncing, hearts colliding in uneven rhythm.
But then he pulled back slightly, enough to meet your gaze, his expression fierce with something older than either of you.
âI donât just want to be your best friend who happens to love you. I wantââ He broke off, swallowed, then tried again. âI want to do this properly. I want to court you.â
The phrasing made you blink, startled. âCourt me?â
Color rose in his cheeks, but his gaze didnât falter. âYeah. I want to show you Iâm serious. That this isnât just someâ some teenage crush or whatever Lando probably thinks it is. I want your parents to know. I want mine to know. I wantââ His voice cracked. âI want you.â
Your chest caved in, your heart splitting wide.
âOscarâŠâ
He leaned closer, desperate now. âSay yes.â
And God, how could you not?
âYes.â
The word came out on a broken laugh, tears slipping down your cheeks. âYes, you idiot.â
Relief crashed over his face, so raw and unfiltered it made you dizzy. He laughed too, choked and breathless, before wrapping both arms around you, pulling you against him like heâd been holding back for years.
And you let yourself go, burying your face in his shoulder, inhaling the warmth of him, clutching at the back of his shirt like youâd drown if you let go.
Thisâ this was it. The thing youâd both been circling, aching for, terrified of. Finally, finally, it was real.
When you pulled back, faces still inches apart, his smile was small and trembling but brighter than anything youâd ever seen.
âIâm not letting you go,â he whispered.
âGood,â you whispered back.
And when your foreheads touched again, both of you laughing through your tears, it felt less like the end of a night and more like the beginning of everything.
kiki's note: HELLO! i didnt expect the sneak peek post to get a lot of notes but this is so long holy crap but um chapter 5 of like real people do might not come until next week or so because to make up for the days that i missed, i will collect 3-5 chapters in my drafts to post in one go. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!! LMK WHAT U THINK!
Hi, can i request a George Russell fic?? Fluff and stuff lol. Reader as Totoâs daughter, where Toto is not really happy about them being together but eventually he sees how important George is to her so he just warns George and is happy for reader. Reader is few years younger than George.
Thank you loveđ«¶
secret door (fools on parade)
âą summary: Too young, too off-limits, too close to the one man who could end his career with a sentence. But somewhere between shared glances in paddock corridors and stolen nights after race wins, it stopped being a crush and started becoming a confession he couldnât swallow down.
âą pairing: george russell x wolff!reader
âą word count: 11.3k
âą contains: wolffdaughter!reader, age gap (5 years), tooth rotting fluff, kimi and valtteri cameos, protective dad!toto, avoidant!reader, title from arctic monkeys' "secret door"
Youâre still shaking when he crosses the line.
Even with headphones on, even with the garage buzzing, screaming, exploding into celebration, your heartbeat is louder. Everyoneâs hugging and high-fiving, and youâre caught in that crush of bodiesâbut your eyes donât leave the screen until the camera cuts to him. George. Breathless. Laughing. Helmet still on and head thrown back like heâs trying to taste the sky.
Your father is already marching forward to congratulate him, pride written in the set of his jaw, even if he doesnât show it as loudly as the others. But you stay behind, blending into the flurry of engineers and mechanics, fingers twisted in the hem of your team jacket because you know you have to wait. You always wait.
Publicly, youâre just Totoâs daughter. Privately, youâre George Russellâs girlfriend.
And while the first fact is obvious to everyone in the paddock, the second is something the two of you guard like itâs made of glass.
You donât know if today will be any different. A part of you hopes it will.
When the chaos dies down enough for you to move without being trampled, you slip toward the back corridorâthe one no one uses unless they're staff or lost. Itâs quiet, with only the hum of distant machinery and the faint echo of your fatherâs booming voice carrying through the tunnels.
You check your phone.
George: On my way. Donât move.
George: And donât let your dad see you. I like winning, but I also like living.
You let out a sound thatâs too close to a laugh and text back:
You: Heâs busy. Hurry.
You donât hear footsteps at firstânot over the leftover noise of the paddockâbut a second later, arms wrap around your waist from behind, lifting you off the ground before you can even gasp.
âGot you,â he says, breathless and boyish and stupidly proud.
Your feet barely touch the floor before you spin around and collide with him. He hasnât taken off his race suit yetânot even the top halfâand he smells like sweat, champagne, and adrenaline.
âCongratulations,â you say into his chest, voice muffled.
He holds you tighter. âYouâre the only person I wanted to hear that from.â
You pull back just enough to look at him, really look at him. His cheeks are flushed, hair damp at the temples, eyes brighter than youâve ever seen them. Victory looks good on him. It always has.
But today⊠Today, it looks different.
âYou should be celebrating,â you whisper.
âI am celebrating.â His forehead dips to yours. âWith you.â
He shouldnât kiss you; you shouldnât let him. Not here. Not this close to the garage. Not after a race your father oversaw like a hawk.
But George has always had this gravity to him, a quiet, patient pull that you never stood a chance against. And when he tilts your chin up with his gloved hand, you feel the ground shift beneath your feet.
You kiss him like youâve been waiting all dayâbecause you haveâbut itâs soft, restrained, careful. The kind of kiss that acknowledges the risk and ignores it anyway. His thumb strokes your cheek, and your hands fist the fabric of his suit, pulling him closer, letting him sink into you the way he didnât have time for earlier.
When you break apart, he breathes out a laugh. âToto is going to kill me.â
âHe doesnât even know,â you shoot back, though the guilt stirs in your stomach.
George hums, brushing his nose against yours. âHeâs not stupid. And whenever you disappear, I think he⊠assumes.â
âThat Iâm doing what?â you challenge.
âThat youâre with someone he wouldnât approve of,â George says, smirking. âAnd heâd be right.â
You swat his arm. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd youâre adorable when you try to scold me.â
Before you can argue, he tugs your hand and pulls you behind him. âCome on. I want to actually celebrate with you before the world steals me back.â
âWhere are we going?â you whisper, suddenly aware that youâre still inside the restricted area where cameras arenât exactly rare.
He grins, opening a side door with familiarity that tells you heâs done this before. âTo the one place Toto would never think to look for you.â
The room he sneaks you into is small, quiet, lit only by the glow of equipment monitors that have long since been shut off for the day. A forgotten engineering bay. Private. Empty.
Safe.
He closes the door behind you and exhales like heâs finally allowed to.
âYou have no idea,â he says, leaning back against the door, âhow badly I wanted to run to you after the podium.â
You smile. âYou did incredible today.â
âI kept thinking about you watching.â
You look away, warmth blooming in your cheeks. âYou always say that.â
âBecause itâs always true.â
You sit on one of the unused tables, legs dangling over the edge. He walks toward you slowly, unzipping the top half of his race suit, headphones hanging loosely around his neck now. The smile that spreads across his face when he reaches you is softer than the one he wore on the podium. Private. Reserved for you.
âCome here,â you murmur.
He steps between your knees, and your hands immediately cup his jaw. You kiss him again, slower this time, letting your lips move with the unhurried rhythm of two people who finally have a moment alone. His hands settle on your hips, warm and firm through the layers of fabric, and you feel him relaxânot the careful, composed driver the world sees, but the boy who loves you, the one whoâs been holding it in for hours.
He pulls away first, eyes searching yours. âI wish I didnât have to hide this.â
You swallow. âI know.â
âToto will come around,â he adds, even though you both know itâs a hope, not a promise.
âEventually.â
âIn the meantime,â George says with a small, conspiratorial smirk, âweâre celebrating. Properly.â
Your brows lift. âProperly, how?â
He steps back and opens a small cupboard. A bottle of the other champagneâthe one the drivers bring for private celebrationsâsits inside.
Your jaw drops. âGeorge Russell. You didnât.â
âOh, I did.â
âYou stole that from the coolers!â
He shrugs. âI borrowed it. For us.â
You shake your head, laughing. âMy dad is going to kill you.â
George hands you the bottle, eyes bright. âWorth it.â
You twist off the capâno cork in this oneâand take a small sip. Itâs sweet and cold and tastes like victory.
You offer it to him. âYour turn.â
He takes a sip, wipes his mouth dramatically, and grins like heâs never been happier.
Then, with a gentleness that undoes you every time, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
âI want every win to feel like this,â he says softly. âLike Iâm sharing it with you.â
You donât know what to say. So you pull him in again, sealing your answer with another kiss.
The kind you couldnât give him in front of the cameras.
The kind that says: âIâm yours. Iâve always been yours. Iâm scaredâbut Iâm yours.â
And maybe, just maybe, thatâs enough for now.
The worst part isnât the guilt.
Itâs the timing.
Because the morning after Georgeâs winâthe morning after he snuck you into a forgotten engineering bay to kiss you breathless and clink stolen champagne like you were living out a secret rom-comâyou wake up already smiling.
And unfortunately, youâre not alone.
You walked into the motorhome kitchen thinking youâd be safe. It was early, too early for anyone normal to be awake. The paddock was half-asleep, the hospitality still setting out pastries, the world quiet.
The perfect place to replay every single second of last night in your head.
Until you walk inside and come face-to-face with the one person on Earth who does not need to see you smiling like a girl who has secrets.
Your father. Toto Wolff. Eyes as sharp as a hawk despite holding a mug of coffee thatâs practically the size of your head.
âGood morning, schatz,â he says in a tone far too calm to trust.
âMorning,â you choke, grabbing water just to have something to do with your hands.
He studies you for a beat that lasts a lifetime. You can practically hear him analysing your body language like itâs telemetry data.
âYou look⊠happy,â he says slowly, suspiciously.
You shrug. âIt was a good race.â
âYes. A very good race.â He narrows his eyes. âYou are happy because of the race?â
âOf course.â
He hums.
And you know that hum. That is the hum of a man who absolutely does not believe you.
Before he can interrogate you further, the door opens and someone very stupid and very pretty walks in with bed hair and a tired smile:
George.
He stops the moment he sees you. Then he sees your father. Then he sees the look on your face, and his soul visibly leaves his body.
âToto,â he says, clearing his throat. âMorning.â
Your fatherâs eyes flick between the two of you like heâs watching a tennis match he didnât pay to attend.
âGeorge.â Toto nods. âYou are up early.â
âCouldnât sleep,â George lies.
You inhale sharply. Too sharply. Your father looks between you again.
Oh God.
âDid you not sleep well either?â Toto asks you pointedly.
You nearly drop your water bottle. âWhat? NoâI mean yesâI mean I slept. Fine.â
George shoots you a look that can only be translated as stop talking immediately, I beg you.
Your father stares.
You stare back, innocent, panicked, one second away from spontaneously combusting.
Thenâthank the racing godsâsomeone calls Totoâs name from outside.
He stands, but not before delivering the most fatherly, threatening, utterly terrifying sentence youâve ever heard:
âWe will finish this conversation later.â
You nearly sink to the floor when the door closes behind him.
The silence is deafening.
George blows out a breath, bracing his hands on the counter. âWell,â he murmurs, âI am dead.â
âYou?â you squeak. âIâm his daughter. Heâs going to put me into witness protection.â
He laughs under his breath and steps closer, fingers brushing yours where your hand rests on the counter.
âHey,â he says softly. âWeâll be careful today.â
You nod, heart still racing. He squeezes your hand once, quickly, hidden behind the counter.
Then he lets goâjust in time. Because the door swings open again.
Itâs Kimi. He takes one look at you. One look at George. One very, very long look at the space between you.
And then he smiles. A slow, knowing, devilish smile.
âOh,â Kimi says. âOh, this is going to be fun.â
âNothing is happening.â
Kimi raises a brow. âMhm. Totally believable.â
He walks to the fridge, takes a drink, and glances back.
âTotoâs in a mood, by the way. Just thought you should know.â
George pales.
You consider fainting.
Kimi leaves humming cheerfully, like he hasnât just detonated both of your heart rates.
George mutters, âWeâre finished.â
You sigh. âWeâre very finished.â
But despite everythingâthe panic, the suspicion, the near-death experience courtesy of your fatherâs stareâyou catch George smiling as he moves toward the door.
âWhat?â you whisper.
He pauses, turns back, eyes soft.
âI like that heâs suspicious,â George admits. âMeans he notices how much I look at you.â
Your heart flips. Shamelessly. Traitorously.
âThatâs not good,â you remind him.
âNo,â he agrees, grin widening. âBut itâs true.â
The suspicion doesnât die down during media rounds.
In fact, it gets worse.
Because George is glowing todayâpost-win happiness, post-secret-kissing satisfaction, post-everythingâand everyone notices.
He keeps accidentally glancing at you. You keep accidentally blushing. And every time you cross paths, thereâs this momentâtoo long, too softâthat absolutely gives you away.
Kimi notices, engineers notice, and random staff members notice.
But worst of all?
Your father notices.
You catch him watching you from across the garage, arms crossed, lips pressed in a flat line that could either mean âIâm proud of the teamâ or âIâm sending George to a remote glacier.â
You donât know which, and you donât want to know.
And then the moment youâve been dreading finally comes.
âToto wants you,â an engineer says, pointing to your fatherâs office.
You swear the world slows down. Your stomach drops. Your spine goes cold. This is it. This is the end.
You look around instinctively for George, as if he can rescue you.
He sees your panic from across the hallway.
He mouths, "Itâs okay. Breathe."
You do not breathe. You march like someone heading toward a firing squad.
Inside the office, Toto doesnât look up immediately. Heâs typing something on his laptop, sunglasses pushed into his hair, expression unreadable.
Finally, he sits back.
âClose the door.â You do, hesitantly.
Toto sighs and removes his glasses completely. âI have a question for you.â
You nod, braced for death.
âIs there something going on between you and George?â
You freeze.
This is it. This is the moment everything collapses.
You could lie, you could tell the truth, you could faint, any option is possible at this point.
âDad,â you begin quietly, âIââ
The door bursts open.
You jump, Toto startles, and George is suddenly there, breathless, panicked, speaking before anyone can stop him:
âItâs my fault.â
You whip around, horrified. Totoâs brows shoot up.
George continues in one long, fast, suicidal sentence:
âShe didnât do anything wrong, I swearâif youâre angry, be angry at me, because I like her, sir, I really like herâand I know itâs complicated, and I know itâs not ideal, but I care about her, and Iâd never hurt her, and I really hope you wonât ban me from the team because I don't think thatâs technically legalââ
âGeorge,â Toto says, voice flat.
George freezes mid-ramble.
Silence.
Then Toto sighs.
âSit down. Both of you.â
You and George exchange a glance that is fifty-percent terror, and fifty-percent âif we die at least we die together.â
You both sit down, and you think the chair feels harder now.
Toto folds his arms. âSo. You two are⊠involved.â
You open your mouth, George opens his, but neither of you can get a word out before Toto holds up a hand.
âI am not angry,â he says slowly. âBut I am concerned.â
The relief hits you so hard you nearly slide out of the chair.
George inhales shakily. âSir, Iââ
âIâve seen how you look at her,â Toto interrupts. âIâm not blind.â
You hide your face in your hands, and George looks ready to pass out.
Toto continues, voice firm but not unkind:
âShe means more to me than anything. If you are going to be in her life, then you must understand something: I expect her to be treated better than perfectly.â
George nods instantly. âYes. Absolutely. Iâ I already do.â
âAnd if you ever hurt her,â Toto adds, leaning forward, âI will destroy you professionally, emotionally, legally, financially, spirituallyââ
âDad,â you groan.
George chokes. âUnderstood.â
Toto nods once, satisfied. âGood. Then we will talk again soon. Now goâboth of youâbefore someone sees you leaving my office together and starts gossip.â
You and George stand so quickly that your chairs nearly fall over.
The moment the door shuts behind you, George grabs your hand, mouth open in disbelief.
âDid⊠did we just survive that?â
You exhale shakily. âI think so?â
George beams. Actually beams.
âToto Wolff didnât kill me!â
You laugh, burying your face in his chest. âDonât sound so excited, he might change his mind.â
George wraps his arms around you, holding you tight, whispering into your hair:
âIâd face him a thousand times for you.â
Your heart does something that should be medically concerning.
And for the first time, it doesnât feel like sneaking around.
The tunnel opens out into a restricted garage loading bay behind hospitality. Quiet. Dim. Echoing. You can still hear the paddock alive somewhere above, but down here it feels like its heartbeat is distant.
You tug the zipper of your Mercedes jacket higher, still wearing his cap.
George looks around before turning to you, hands slipping into the pockets of his fireproofs, the adrenaline still vibrating off him like heat.
âYou good?â he asks softly.
You nod. âYou?â
He huffs a laugh. âI think I might still be flying.â
Your body still remembers earlier â his arms around your waist, his breath on your neck, the quiet confession pressed into your skin: I wanted you here.
You shouldnât have been there at all, and you both know it.
But God, it was worth it.
George pulls his phone out, glances at it, slips it away again. âWe donât have long before Dadââ He stops himself. Clears his throat. âBefore Toto realises youâre gone.â
âDo not call him Dad,â you say, horrified.
George grins, shoulders loosening. âWhat? Heâs technically my boss. Boss is a dad-adjacent role.â
âNo, it isnât.â
âSome might say it is.â
âNo one says that.â
He laughs, and you hate how much it melts you â how easily he makes everything feel light, even when your heart is pressed against your ribs like itâs trying to escape.
You start walking with him down the far corridor where no one ever goes, the fluorescent lights buzzing quietly overhead. Itâs cold down here, colder than it should be, and before you can even think about pretending youâre fine, George drapes an arm across your shoulders, tugging you into his warmth.
âBetter?â he murmurs.
You donât trust your voice, so you just nod.
He squeezes your arm gently, then keeps you against him as you walk.
âIt still feels unreal,â he admits after a moment. âWinning. I know itâs only my⊠second, technically. But it feels different.â
âDifferent how?â you ask.
He hesitates. âBecause this time⊠I got to see your face afterwards.â
Your step falters. He notices â of course, he notices â and his thumb brushes your shoulder in a silent apology-or reassurance-or something in between.
âGeorgeâŠâ
âYou donât have to say anything.â He looks forward again, voice calm but honest. âI just like when youâre there. Even if itâs a risk.â
Even if your father were to murder me. He doesnât say it out loud, but it hangs in the air anyway.
You swallow, bracing your heart. âIt wasnât a risk when we werenât⊠whatever we are.â
He hums. âAnd what are we?â
âI donât know.â
âLiar.â
Your breath catches.
George slows to a stop, turning to face you fully in the middle of the empty hallway. The lights above flicker for a heartbeat, then steady again.
He reaches up and gently tugs on the brim of the hat â his hat â pulling your face closer.
âYou know exactly what we are,â he says quietly.
Do you?
Maybe... maybe too well.
Because you know you shouldnât be here. You know the line between your worlds is rigid and sharp and patrolled by a 6'5 Austrian with a terrifying jawline and a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit.
But George looks at you like that â soft, earnest, too in love with being alive to hide it â and suddenly all the rules blur.
âI like you,â he says. âMore than I should. More than your father would approve of. Definitely more than is safe for my career.â
âGeorge,â you whisper, âyou shouldnât say things like that.â
âI shouldnât,â he agrees. âBut I mean them.â
You stare at him, pulse loud in your ears.
Then a door above slams, echoing down into the quiet corridor.
You both flinch.
âThatâs definitely him,â George mutters.
âThat was absolutely him,â you confirm.
Heâs quiet for a moment â then grabs your hand.
âCome on.â
âWhereââ
âSomewhere he wonât look for you.â
âOh, good,â you deadpan, âcanât wait to see where that is. Perhaps the furnace?â
George actually grins as he pulls you along. âBetter.â
You donât expect âbetterâ to be the laundry room for team overalls.
But here you are.
George closes the door behind you with a soft click, checks the tinted window, then exhales with the relief of a man who just successfully dodged a sniper.
He turns back to you, cheeks pink from the sprint, hair messy from the wind.
âYou hid me,â you say. âOf course I hid you.â
âThatâs ridiculous.â
âAnd yet you followed me willingly.â You hate how true that is.
The room is cramped, with a faint smell of detergent and clean synthetics. There are racks of suits on either side, shadows thrown strangely by the single overhead light.
George takes a step closer. Not crowding you, just near enough to burn.
âCan I tell you something?â he asks.
You nod, despite yourself.
He lifts his hand, hesitates once â giving you time to move â then gently pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
âIâve never wanted someone the way I want you.â
Your breath stutters.
âItâs reckless,â he says softly. âItâs stupid. Itâs probably career suicide. But Iâve tried ignoring it and I canât. I like you too much.â
You could stop this. You should stop this.
But your voice comes out quiet, fragile:
âI like you too.â
His eyes close for a second â a moment of pure, unfiltered relief â before he looks at you again, brighter, softer, and undone.
Then he leans in, slow enough for you to move away.
You donât.
Your back finds the wall of driver suits, the fabric soft against your spine, and George braces one hand beside your head, the other hovering near your waist like heâs afraid to touch you without permission.
âYouâre sure?â he asks.
No hesitation, no cockiness, just honesty.
You nod.
He kisses you.
Itâs not rushed or frantic â thatâs not George â but itâs full of adrenaline, warm and certain and tasting faintly like champagne he wasnât allowed to drink yet.
You grab the front of his suit, pulling him closer. His fingers slide to your waist, careful but wanting, and the heat of him sings under your skin.
He breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly.
âGod,â he murmurs, âIâm in so much trouble.â
âMe too.â
He laughs â soft, breathless, stupidly happy. âWorth it.â
You hear footsteps outside the corridor again. Itâs louder, heavier.
You both freeze.
George whispers, âThatâs him.â
âNo way.â
âThatâs absolutely him!â
The footsteps stop just outside the door.
Your heart stops with them.
George slowly, slowly, reaches out and flips the light switch. It's dark, silent. You donât dare breathe as your dad's shadow passes over the small window.
He stands there, waiting, listening.
The silence stretches long enough for your lungs to hurt.
After what felt like a decade, you hear footsteps again. Heâs walking away.
You both exhale at the same time. George whispers, âI think I just died.â
âYou think you died? That man grounded me until I was twenty-four.â
âYouâre twenty-two.â
âExactly, George!â He laughs â you smack his arm â he laughs harder and somehow the tension breaks, replaced by something warm and dizzying.
He takes your hand again, thumb brushing your knuckles.
âWe should get you back before he checks your room.â
âRight.â
He doesnât move.
Neither do you.
Then he murmurs, âCan I see you later?â
âGeorgeâŠâ
âNot like this,â he says quickly. âNot sneaking or hiding or running. Just⊠you. And me. Somewhere normal.â
Your chest aches â the gentle, dangerous kind of ache.
âIâd like that,â you say.
His smile is instant, blinding. He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
âThen itâs a date.â
You swallow a breath. âYouâre insane.â
âJust for you.â
You should not have slipped out of the hospitality building. You know this even as your shoes hit the stairs two at a time, even as you duck around a stack of Pirelli crates and press your back into the warm metal to breathe.
Youâre not supposed to disappear on race days, youâre not supposed to be anywhere Toto canât find you, youâre especially not supposed to be anywhere George might find you.
But the room felt too small, and the looks felt too knowing, and Georgeâs win only made the whole building feel like it was vibrating â and he kept glancing at you like his victory was your fault, your doing, your gravity pulling him into orbit.
And you couldnât keep sitting there with your father three seats away, pretending your heart wasnât beating loud enough to be heard above the air-conditioning.
So you left.
Not far but just far enough that no one would think to look.
You press your thumb under your lower lip and inhale slowly, trying to get your pulse to settle. It doesnât. Not even when you hear footsteps pounding down the stairwell.
You know them instantly.
George.
You donât even have to see him â you know the rhythm, the impatience, the contained urgency wrapped in that deceptively calm exterior.
The door opens with a muted hiss.
âY/N?â
His voice is too soft. Too rushed, too worried.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before stepping out from behind the crates.
His shoulders drop with relief when he sees you.
You hate the way it makes your chest clench.
âThere you are,â he breathes, walking toward you like he would've run if you stayed hidden another second. âYou scared the shit out of me.â
âYou were the one who ran after me,â you mutter, which is not exactly fair â but nothing about this situation is.
He stops in front of you, breath still uneven from sprinting up stairs in a full race suit. Thereâs a faint shimmer of sweat at his hairline, and the zipper of his suit is loose enough that the white fireproof tee clings to his chest.
You look away before you can think of anything dangerous.
He notices, of course, he notices.
âYou okay?â he asks, voice gentling, angling his head to try to meet your eyes.
âYeah. Just⊠air.â God, the lie tastes awful. You add quickly, âIt got too loud in there.â
George nods once, sharp, searching your expression. âStill shouldâve told someone where you were going.â
There are so many sentences running through your head, but you don't say you couldn't text him because others would see, you don't say you couldn't text anyone else because he'd worry anyway. You also don't tell him that you couldn't stay because he kept looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. So you block everything out, and:
âIâm fine,â you insist instead.
But George shifts his weight like he doesnât buy it. Not completely.
And then â footsteps above you. Voices. The unmistakable cadence of your father.
George reacts before you do, stepping slightly in front of you, instinctively shielding you from sight. His arm doesnât touch you, but itâs close enough that your breath stutters.
You absolutely should not like that as much as you do.
Totoâs voice echoes down the stairwell.
ââŠdid she go outside? Sheâs not answering her phone.â
Your stomach drops.
George looks at you.
You look at him.
And the whole world tilts an inch off its axis.
He whispers, âGo. Iâll stall.â
Your heartbeat spikes. âGeorge, noââ
But heâs already moving â stepping into the stairwell, shoulders pulled into perfect professional posture.
âToto!â he calls up, voice bright and easy, like he wasnât just standing close enough to feel your breath. âSheâs with Kimi, I think. Said something about meeting him near the garage.â
Your jaw drops.
He lied. He lied instantly, for you.
Thereâs a beat of silence above you. Then your fatherâs voice, skeptical:
âWith Kimi? Now? Why?â
George laughs â and the sound is so convincingly casual that even you almost believe him.
âSaid something about wanting to congratulate him on qualifying. You know how she is. Always checking on the drivers.â
Toto doesn't answer for a moment. You can hear the gears turning, can practically imagine the narrowing eyes.
Then:
âAll right. Iâll find her after I finish with the engineers.â
His footsteps fade.
George waits a beat. Then another.
Then he exhales slowly, shoulders dropping.
He turns back to you.
And you donât even know what to say.
You whisper, âYou lied to my father.â
He shrugs one shoulder, casual to the untrained eye â but his jaw is tight. âHe was about to come down here and find us hiding behind crates like teenagers.â
âWe are hiding behind crates like teenagers!â
George bites back a smile. âTrue. But he doesnât need to know that.â
Your hands are shaking, your breath is too fast, and your brain wonât stop replaying the moment he stepped in front of you like it was instinct, like protecting you was muscle memory.
âYou canât do that,â you whisper. âYou canât just⊠cover for me like that. Heâll suspect something.â
Georgeâs expression shifts. Not guilt. Not regret.
Something heavier, something that lands low in your stomach.
âY/N,â he says quietly. âHe already suspects something.â
Your breath catches.
âHe watches how you look at me when you think he isnât paying attention,â George says softly. âAnd Iâm⊠not exactly subtle either.â
You stare at him, speechless.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. âIâm trying, you know. Iâm really trying to keep this line clean for you. But sometimes you disappear without telling anyone, and Iââ
He stops before he says I panic.
You hear it anyway.
âGeorgeâŠâ Itâs all you can manage.
And then he does something reckless.
He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear with two fingers â careful, reverent, as though heâs afraid youâll break.
You freeze.
His voice drops to something unbearably soft. âAre you sure youâre okay?â
You swallow hard. âIâm fine.â
George steps back immediately, like he heard the tremor in your voice and assumed it was fear of being caught, not fear of how much you want him.
âRight,â he says, clearing his throat. âShould get you back before your father actually sends out security.â
You nod, but the embarrassment in your chest is hot and prickly.
You start walking toward the stairs. George follows half a step behind â close enough to make your skin buzz, far enough to be professional if someone opened a door unexpectedly.
And then â because the universe is cruel â Valtteri turns the corner at the bottom of the stairs.
He takes in the scene: George is flushed, slightly out of breath, you are staring at the floor, and both of you are way too close to be innocent.
Valtteri raises a single eyebrow.
George opens his mouth â probably to produce another lie so smooth itâd win awards â but Valtteri lifts one hand and speaks first.
âDonât care,â he says simply, then walks away. You gape after him.
George murmurs, âHeâs going to blackmail me with this later.â
You choke on a laugh. He smiles like the sound is something he wants to pocket.
You two return to hospitality separately â George entering through the main hall, you pretending youâd been âoutside taking a phone call.â
It should end there. It doesnât.
Because as soon as George walks in, Toto calls him by name from across the room.
âGeorge. A moment.â
You flinch.
George tenses, but nods. âOf course.â
You watch him follow your father into the smaller debrief room, shoulders stiffening with each step.
You shouldnât listen. You absolutely should not listen.
But you do.
You drift toward the hallway, pretending to check messages, tilting your head just enough to catch the muffled voices.
Toto's voice is worried, âYou seem⊠tense.â
After a long pause, George takes a deep breath. âLong day.â
Toto's voice is sharper now, âYou wouldnât know where my daughter disappeared to earlier, would you?â
Silence. Then Georgeâs voice â terribly controlled. âNo, sir.â
Itâs a perfect lie. It lands like guilt in your throat.
You step away before you can hear the rest, pulse sprinting, guilt and fear and something warm enough to scare you pooling in your stomach.
Because George just lied to your father twice in one afternoon.
And he did it without hesitation.
For you. For this. Whatever this is. Whatever this is turning into.
You donât realize heâs waiting for you until you turn the corner.
Youâd thought the halls would be empty â the mediaâs finished, the engineers scattered back to their offices, the drivers split off to sponsor obligations. Youâd assumed you could slip back into the quiet, unnoticed, pretend nothing happened behind the stairwell.
But your father is standing beside the door to the Mercedes debrief room, arms crossed, foot tapping once against the floor. Not impatient. Not angry.
Calculating.
Oh god.
âY/N,â Toto says. Not loudly â just enough that the sound snaps straight down your spine.
You stop instinctively. Like a child caught sneaking out, even though youâre an adult, even though heâs always treated you like one. But something in his tone pulls the air straight out of your lungs.
âDad!â you manage, quickly fixing your posture and swallowing. You correct quickly. âDad.â
His eyes narrow just a fraction â not annoyance, just observation.
âCan we talk?â
It is not a question.
You nod because what else could you possibly do?
He gestures you inside the small meeting room â no cameras, no windows, just a single table and chairs that suddenly feel too exposed, too sharp. He closes the door behind you, and the soft click might as well be a lock sealing your fate.
Your hands sweat instantly.
Toto doesnât sit. He stands across from you, hands on his hips, shoulders squared in that way thatâs made world champions fold.
âWhere were you earlier?â he asks.
Four words. Thatâs all. But they hit like a warning shot.
You try to breathe slowly before answering. âOutside. I needed air.â
âAlone?â
Your throat goes dry.
You hear Georgeâs voice in your head â the lie he spun without stumbling.
âSheâs with Kimi, I thinkââ
You swallow. âYes. Alone.â
Totoâs brows lift the smallest amount, like he can hear the lie curling at the edges. Like he already knows the truth.
He studies you for a long time. Too long.
âWhatâs going on with you?â he asks quietly.
âNothing,â you reply, too fast.
His stare sharpens. âYou disappeared for fifteen minutes, no security, no phone response. And when I asked George where you wereââ He pauses, watching your face closely. âHe had an answer ready.â
Your heart thuds so loudly youâre terrified he can hear it.
You force out, âHe probably assumedââ
âNo.â The firmness in his voice cuts you off clean. âGeorge does not assume. Not about you.â
Your pulse stutters.
Toto steps closer â not intimidating, not angry, but deeply concerned in a way that breaks something small inside your chest.
âY/N,â he says, softer now, âI need you to be honest with me.â
You grip the back of a chair so your hands wonât shake. âI was overwhelmed. I stepped out. Thatâs all.â
âAnd George?â
The name feels too sharp in the air between you.
âWhat about him?â you whisper.
Toto gives you a look that says heâs piecing together a puzzle heâd hoped wasnât real.
âHe followed you,â Toto says slowly. âHe came back looking⊠unsettled. And when I asked him where youâd gone, he lied to me.â
You flinch. You canât help it.
And that is when Totoâs expression changes â not anger, not betrayal, but recognition.
The kind that cuts straight through you.
He exhales, long and tired, dragging one hand across his face. âY/NâŠâ
The breath youâre holding bursts out all at once, sharp and humiliating.
âItâs not what you think,â you say â but even you can hear how weak it sounds.
He stares at you. âItâs exactly what I think.â
Your stomach twists painfully.
But your dad doesnât raise his voice. He doesnât lecture, he doesnât scold.
He just sets his palms flat on the table and leans forward slightly, eyes searching yours with a kind of fatherly ache that hurts more than anger ever could.
âIâm not blind,â he says. âIâve seen the way he looks at you. Iâve seen the way you look at himâwhen you think no one notices.â
You shut your eyes, mortified.
âDadââ
âY/N.â His voice is steady again, steady enough to make your chest tighten. âGeorge is a good man. But he is also my driver. And youâŠâ His expression softens unbearably. âYou are my daughter.â
There it is. The unspoken rule. The one you were never brave enough to test â until you did.
âI donât want you hurt,â Toto continues. âBy the media, by fans, by the pressure. And I donât want George to think he must choose between his job and whatever is happening between you two.â
You almost tell him there isnât anything happening. Almost.
But the words die on your tongue.
Because you remember George stepping in front of you. You remember him smoothing your hair behind your ear. You remember the fear in his eyes when he couldnât find you.
And you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that something is happening.
Even if no oneâs said it out loud.
Your father sees the emotion flicker across your face, and his expression changes again â gentler this time.
âAre you⊠involved?â he asks quietly.
Your throat tightens. You shake your head. âNot exactly.â
Totoâs brow furrows. âNot exactly?â
You take a shaky breath. âWeâre not dating. Weâre not⊠anything official. But itâs complicated.â
âHow complicated?â he presses.
You meet his eyes, and the truth slips out before you can stop it. âComplicated enough that he lied to you to protect me.â
Toto inhales sharply. It's not anger, no. It's something sadder. âY/NâŠâ
âI didnât ask him to,â you add quickly. âHe just did. And I know it wasnât right, and I know it puts him in a bad position, and I know I shouldâve told someone where I was, butââ
You break off, swallowing hard, hands shaking.
âBut I didnât want you to look at me and immediately think it was about him. Even though it was. Even though it always is.â
The room goes very, very quiet.
Your father watches you for a long moment â this time not as the head of Mercedes, not as the man who built champions, but as your parent.
His voice is soft when he finally speaks.
âYou care about him.â You nod without hesitation.
âAnd you think he cares about you.â
The memory of Georgeâs voice â He already suspects something. The way he touched your hair like heâd wanted to for months. The way he shielded you instinctively.
Your voice cracks. âI know he does.â
Toto exhales, leaning back against the table, arms folded tightly across his chest.
âThis is dangerous,â he says quietly. âFor your privacy. For his career. For the team dynamic. If something goes wrongââ
âI know,â you whisper. âYou could be hurt.â
âI know.â
âHe could be hurt.â That one lands heavier.
Your voice is small when you reply. âI know.â
Toto studies you â the panic, the guilt, the stubborn steadiness.
And something in his expression softens.
He walks toward you, placing a hand gently on your shoulder.
âYou are an adult,â he says. âI cannot police your feelings. And I donât want to. I just need to be sure you understand what you are stepping into.â
You nod slowly, forcing your breathing to steady. âI do.â
âAnd you need to tell me,â Toto adds gently, âif this becomes something real.â
Your stomach twists â partly with fear, partly with something warm.
âOkay,â you whisper.
He squeezes your shoulder once, reassuring but serious. âGood. Because I will not lose a driver or my daughter to a secret that spirals out of control.â
You nod again, throat tight.
âAnd Y/N?â Toto adds, stepping toward the door.
âYeah?â
His eyes soften with something you rarely ever see â tentative acceptance. âIf this is real⊠George will prove it. He will come to me. Properly.â
Your heart stops. âI wonât allow anything half-hidden,â your father says. âItâs either honesty⊠or nothing.â
You open your mouth â but no words come out.
Toto leaves you standing there, breathless, trembling.
You sink into the nearest chair, burying your face in your hands.
Because youâre certain of two things: Your father knows. And George has no idea what kind of storm is coming.
You donât mean to avoid George.
You really donât.
The problem is that the moment you walked away from him at the motorhome doorsâheart in your throat, his fingers brushing yours, Totoâs narrowed stare cutting through the paddockâyou havenât been able to think straight around him.
Not because youâre angry.
Not because youâre scared.
But because youâre in too deep, and suddenly, youâre not sure whether thatâs allowed.
So you take space. Micro-spaces, at first. Small evasions he notices instantly because, of course, he does.
Instead of slipping into the engineering office early to catch him before briefing, you linger in your fatherâs corridor. Instead of waiting for him in the garage after FP1, you help Kimi review his telemetry. Instead of sitting beside him during lunch, you find a reasonâany reasonâto be elsewhere.
The paddock is a big place until youâre trying to avoid one man.
Then it suddenly feels small.
And George⊠is everywhere.
He doesnât confront you. Thatâs almost worse.
He watches you with questions in his eyes, with that same calm, steady patience he uses on trackâbiding his time, waiting for an opening, waiting for a moment of truth instead of forcing one.
But the truth is, youâre the one waiting.
Waiting for your father to cool. Waiting for the tension in your chest to ease. Waiting for⊠something. Permission? Courage?
You donât know.
The debrief runs late, and by the time you step out of the room, most of the drivers and engineers have already drifted off. You rub at the tension in your neck as you leave, scrolling absently through your messagesâOllie complaining about simulator hours, Kimi sending a meme that makes no grammatical sense, Franco asking if youâre at the track tomorrow.
Youâre answering them when you hear it.
Your name.
Not spoken in your directionâspoken about you.
ââŠI care about her,â George says quietly. âMore than Iâve cared about anything in a long time.â
You freeze.
You didnât mean to eavesdrop. You didnât even realise this hallway led behind your fatherâs office, that the door was slightly ajar, that the voices would carry.
Your fatherâs tone is measured. âGeorgeâŠâ
âItâs not a fling,â George says, and the way his voice catchesâsoft, earnestâmakes your breath stick. âI admire her. I respect her. Iââ he stops, swallows. âShe matters. A lot. And I want to be with her properly. Not sneaking around, not hiding. I want to date her. Publicly. Proudly.â
Your heartbeat pulses against your ribs, uneven and sharp.
You should leave.
You should. You know you should.
But your feet are planted, and your body is trembling, and you canât get yourself to move.
Your father sighs, long and heavy. âYou know why this is hard for me.â
âI do,â George replies. âAnd Iâve kept my distance in the ways you asked. I have never treated her carelessly. I have never risked her position here. I have neverââ
âI know what you havenât done,â Toto cuts in, but thereâs no anger in it. Just conflict. âAnd I know what you have. My daughter talks about you constantly. Do you think I donât hear it? Do you think I havenât seen the way she looks at you?â
Your stomach flips.
George breathes outâalmost laugh, almost relief. âThen you know this isnât one-sided.â
Silence, a long one at that.
You take a shaky step back, instinct screaming to retreat, to disappear before you break what is clearly an impossible, private, high-stakes conversation.
But then your father speaks again.
And itâs soft. Wounded, almost.
âSheâs younger than you,â Toto says. âNot by much, but enough. And sheâs my daughter. The last thing I want is to see her hurt. You understand that?â
âIâd never hurt her,â George replies instantly. âNot intentionally. Not carelessly. Not ever.â
Your throat tightens.
Because you know thatâs true. Absolutely true.
âIntent isnât everything,â your father murmurs.
âI know,â George says. âBut effort is. Commitment is. And Iâm willing to give both. I want her in my life. Long-term.â His voice deepens, steadier than youâve ever heard it. âIâm in love with her.â
Your hand flies to your mouth.
You feel it like a collision. A sharp, breath-stealing impact.
Your father inhales sharply. âYouâre certain?â
âYes.â Not a second of hesitation. âCompletely.â
Something in you cracksâwide and vulnerable.
This is too much. Too real. Too exposed.
You step backâone, two, three quiet stepsâuntil your shoulder hits the corner of the corridor.
George pauses mid-sentence.
Not because he heard you.
Because he felt something. He always feels you before you speak.
âIs someone there?â he asks softly. Shit.
You turn and slip down the hall before either man can check. Your legs move fast, your vision blurring, your breath trembling in a way you canât properly control.
You donât run. But youâre close to it.
Out the door, into the paddock, cold night air hits you like a slap.
You keep walking, not sure where, just⊠away.
From the words you werenât meant to hear, from the love you didnât expect, from the hope youâre terrified to name.
And from the ache blooming warm and sharp at the center of your chest, spreading with every step.
You love him back. God, you love him back so much it hurts.
Which is why you canât breathe.
Which is why youâre suddenly desperate for space again.
Which is why, when your phone buzzes with his nameâGeorge CallingâŠâyou canât bring yourself to answer.
Not yet.
Not when your pulse is chaos, not when your thoughts are spiraling, not when your fatherâs conflicted voice is echoing in your head.
You silence the call.
And keep walking.
You donât remember how long youâve been walking.
Just that your footsteps echo unevenly on the asphalt, your breathing refuses to steady, and the paddockâusually loud and buzzingâhas gone quiet under the late-hour lights.
Your phone buzzes again. George. Again, and again.
You silence it without looking.
Your chest is still tight with everything you heardâwords you werenât prepared for, feelings you werenât ready to be faced with, the raw certainty in his voice when he said he loved you.
Loved.
It loops in your head, too big, too warm, too terrifying.
You push your hair out of your face, exhale shakily, and keep moving.
Youâre almost at the back exit of the paddock when you hear someone running.
Not jogging, running. Fast.
âY/N!â
His voice slices through the night.
You freeze without meaning toâlike your heart reacts before your body does, stopping you cold.
Footsteps skid to a halt behind you.
For three seconds, neither of you speak. Thenâ âYou heard us.â
Not a question, but a realization. Soft, breathless, yet pained.
You donât turn around, but you donât walk away either.
The silence stretches. Then you finally whisper, ââŠI didnât mean to.â
George steps closer, slowly, as if approaching an injured animal.
âI know.â His voice is low, warm, trying not to scare you. âBut you did. And then you ran.â
Your throat locks.
Heâs right.
You ran.
Youâre still runningâeven if your feet have stopped moving.
âI wasnât ready to hear any of that,â you manage, voice tight. âI justâ I froze.â
Thereâs a small pause. You hear him inhale like heâs steadying himself.
And then, softlyâ âItâs okay to be scared, you know.â Itâs gentle. Too gentle. You turn around because you canât respond otherwise, and the moment you face him, everything hits harder.
He looks wrecked. His hair is messy from running, his breathing uneven, his eyes wide and a little wild, and his chest is rising and falling like heâs still catching up.
âGeorgeââ
âI thought something happened to you.â He takes another step, voice cracking. âYou just vanished. No text. No call. I checked the garage, the motorhome, the debrief roomââ
âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
âPlease donât apologize.â His jaw tightens, a flash of pain crossing his face. âJust⊠talk to me. Donât shut me out.â
You swallow.
You look away.
Because you can feel itâall of itâcoiling tight inside you without an outlet.
But he waits. His eyes are patient, open, but you know he's hurting.
You finally breathe, âI heard you tell my father you love me.â
His expression softens instantlyânot surprised, but relieved to finally be at the truth.
âYes,â he says. âI did.â
Your heart punches your ribs. âAnd you meant it.â
âEvery word,â he replies, unwavering.
Thatâs what breaks you.
Your breath stutters out. âI didnât know how to handle that.â
George moves closerânot touching, but close enough that his warmth brushes your skin.
âYou donât have to handle it all at once.â
You shake your head. âIâve been avoiding you.â
âI know,â he admits. âAnd I didnât push. I didnât want to make you feel cornered. But itâs been killing me.â
Your chest twists.
He takes a slow, careful breath. âWhy did you pull away?â
You open your mouthâthen close it. Because you donât know how to say it without bleeding.
But he waits. George always waits for you.
So finally, you whisper the truth. âBecause my dad looked at me like I was making a mistake.â
Georgeâs face folds with understanding.
âAnd because after that,â you continue, voice trembling, âeverything between us suddenly felt⊠dangerous. Like something that could go wrong. Like something that could break my job, my future, my relationship with my father.â
âAnd your relationship with me?â he asks quietly.
Your breath hitches.
He looks at you like heâs bracing for impact.
âIt scared me,â you say. âBecause I care about you so much that itâ God, it terrifies me.â
His eyes soften as he takes another step closer. Not touching, just near enough to feel the sparks.
âSo you ran,â he murmurs. âBecause it felt too big. Too real.â
Your eyes sting. âYes.â
George drops his head for a moment, exhaling slowly. When he looks up, his voice is steadier.
âIâm in this,â he says. âFully. With both feet. Iâm not scared of⊠whatever this becomes. And Iâm definitely not scared of loving you.â
Your stomach dips violently.
âIâm scared of ruining things,â you whisper.
âI know,â he says. âBut I wonât let that happen. Iâll fight for you. And with you. Not against youânot with your father and not with the team.â
Your jaw trembles.
âAnd I needed him to know that,â George adds. âThatâs why I talked to him. Not to pressure you. Not to force you into anything. But so you wouldnât feel like this was forbidden or fragile or something we had to hide forever.â
Your eyes blur.
You try to speak, but the words dissolve in your throat.
George finally closes the last bit of distance. His movements are slow and careful. So unbearably gentle.
âHey,â he whispers. âLook at me.â
You do.
His eyes are warm, shining with something deep and unwavering.
âIâm not asking you for an answer tonight,â he says. âIâm not asking you to say anything youâre not ready to say. Iâm not even asking you to stop being scared.â
You exhale shakily.
âIâm asking you for one thing,â he finishes quietly. âDonât run from me.â
Your heartbeat stutters.
Then he adds, barely above a whisper. âIâd chase you every time, but Iâd rather walk beside you.â
Your resolve fractures.
All the fear, the pressure, the guiltâit swells and cracks open, replaced by something warm and aching and tender.
You step closerânot much, just enough that your arm grazes his.
âI donât want to run,â you whisper.
His breath catches.
âI just⊠donât know how to be brave about this.â
George gives you a soft, devastating smile.
âThatâs okay,â he murmurs. âBe scared. Iâll be brave for both of us until youâre ready.â
Your eyes sting again.
You laugh weakly. âThatâs not fair.â
âNo,â he agrees softly, âbut love rarely is.â
Your breath stutters. The night is quiet, and you feel the world around you narrows. Itâs just him, and you, and everything unsaid humming between you like electricity.
George reaches outâslowly, giving you every chance to pull awayâfingers brushing the back of your hand. Barely a touch.
But it lights through you.
You donât pull away. You turn your palm into his, and his breath shakes.
Neither of you say anything else; you donât need to. Not tonight.
Tonight is the moment you stop running.
The hallways of the paddock look different when youâre walking through them with your heart still thrumming in your throat.
Everything is quieter now that most personnel have gone back to their hotels, but the place still hums with leftover adrenalineâstray reporters packing up, mechanics wheeling carts back into garages, the muted thump of distant music from someoneâs speaker. A stray gust of cool night air slips through the open doors, brushing cold against the heat still trapped in your skin from crying.
Youâre not sure if you feel lighter or heavier after talking to George.
Both, maybe.
Your chest feels unknotted, but your bones feel hollowed outâlike the truth carved you open and left all your nerves exposed to the air. Every step you take feels fragile, as though youâre made of glass simply trying not to crack.
By the time you reach the hallway leading to Mercedes hospitality, the lights are dimmed and the sky outside has gone from gentle navy to pitch black. The world outside is only broken by scattered floodlights illuminating the paddock gates.
Your hand hovers over the handle.
Because you know heâs in there.
You felt it the moment you stepped back inside the paddockâsomething in the air shifted. A gravitational pull youâve known your whole life. A presence that has shaped you, protected you, set impossible standards on your shoulders and still loved you more fiercely than you know how to process.
Your father.
You inhale slowly through your nose.
The air smells faintly of burned rubber, floor cleaner, the memory of champagne from earlier. Everything feels tense and suspended, like the night is holding its breath with you.
You open the door.
The hospitality unit is nearly empty. Just a few staff cleaning mugs and wiping down surfaces. A light glows under the door of the debrief meeting room.
And sitting at one of the small tables, phone untouched beside a cup of cold espresso, shoulders hunched in a way they rarely areâ
Is Toto.
He lifts his head the moment you enter, like heâs been waiting for exactly this sound.
His expression shifts in a way youâve only seen a handful of times in your life.
Not annoyed, not angry, not stern either. But something close to... concern. Relief? Uncertainty? You're not quite sure.
âLiebling,â he says quietly. âI was hoping youâd come back through here.â
Your chest tightens.
You didnât want this talk tonight. You didnât want any talk tonight. Youâre exhaustedâemotionally raw in a way that makes every breath feel too loud.
But you canât avoid him forever. Heâs your father, and you did run away from him, too.
You walk over slowly, each step measured. His eyes track you with that painfully perceptive intensity heâs always had, the one that sees more than you want it to.
âYou left in a hurry,â Toto says gently. âGeorge was very worried.â
You try to swallow your flinch. âI know.â
âHe went looking for you.â
âI know,â you repeat, this time tighter.
Toto studies your face for a long, tense moment. His jaw flexes once. You can see the calculations happening behind his eyesâthe strategist, the father, the team principal, all warring quietly.
And then he gestures to the chair across from him.
âSit with me for a moment.â
You do. Slowly and carefully, like sitting down might break something.
The chair is cool beneath you, grounding. Your fingers knot together on your lap.
For a beat, you both sit in between silence and a million things unsaid.
Toto exhales through his nose. âI believe⊠You overheard the conversation earlier.â
Your heart squeezes painfully. âYes.â
âI thought so.â
His voice is low, measured, deepâthe one he uses when things matter, when the room is too fragile for anything louder.
You look down at your hands, thumb brushing the crescent-shaped indent your nails pressed earlier.
âYou were talking about me,â you say, barely above a whisper.
âYes.â No hesitation.
âAnd about him.â
âYes,â he says again, softer this time.
You donât lift your eyes. It feels easier to speak if youâre looking at the table instead of your fatherâs unreadable expression.
âYou said he shouldnât be with me.â
Thereâs a long pause, then:
âI said,â Toto corrects carefully, âthat I worried he might hurt you without meaning to. That his job, his responsibilities, his lifestyle⊠they can complicate things.â
Your voice tightens. âYou think I canât handle complications?â
âOf course you can.â His answer is immediate. âThat was never my concern.â
âThen what was?â
âYou.â
Thereâs something almost broken in the way he says it.
âSie, Liebling. Your heart. Your tendency to care too deeply. To love all at once. To put others before yourself.â His jaw clenches briefly. âI have watched this sport chew people up and spit them out. I did not want you to be another casualty.â (you, darling)
The words hit you harder than you expect.
Because you know this is how he shows loveâthrough fear.
Through overprotection disguised as logic. Through caution disguised as objectivity.
You breathe out slowly. âIâm not a child.â
âI know that.â His voice softens. âBut you will always be my daughter.â
You finally lift your eyes to meet his.
And what you see there isnât anger. Itâs worry. Raw, vulnerable worry.
âGeorge cares for you,â Toto says, quieter. âHe spoke of you with sincerity. With respect. With⊠more honesty than I expected.â
Your heartbeat stutters.
âHe meant what he said,â Toto adds. âAbout loving you.â
The word hangs in the air like incenseâheavy, warm, impossible to ignore.
âDid that frighten you?â he asks gently.
You look away. âYes.â
He doesnât mock you or lecture you. He just nods, a small, understanding motion.
âIt would frighten anyone.â
Another quiet stretch of air passes.
Then, softly, âIâm sorry you heard me in a moment when I was still⊠sorting through my own fears.â His throat bobs. âIt wasnât fair to you.â
Your breath catches. Toto Wolffâgiant of a man, a force of nature, iron backbone of a team, and your dadâapologizing is not something that happens lightly.
You swallow hard. âI wasnât ready to hear any of it.â
âI know.â
âAnd I wasnât ready to face you after.â
âI know that too.â Your lip trembles.
He shifts forward, resting his arms on the table, the way he does in serious negotiationsâonly this time, the stakes are emotional instead of political.
âDo you care for him?â he asks.
The question slices through you. And for the first time in hours, you donât run from the truth.
âI do,â you whisper. âMore than I wanted to.â
Totoâs eyes soften in a way that pulls all the air from your lungs.
âAnd does he make you feel safe?â he asks.
You think of Georgeâs hands shaking when he found you.
Of his voice breaking when he said heâd chase you if you ran.
Of the way he looked at youâsteady, sure, full of something that made the world quiet.
âYes,â you breathe. âHe does.â
Toto nods. A slow, accepting nod. âThat is all I needed to know.â
Your heart stutters.
Because those are words you didnât expect.
Maybe didnât think youâd get.
He clears his throat once. âI will speak with him again. Not as your team principal. As your father.â Then, softer, âBut I will not forbid this. Or discourage it.â
Your eyes blur.
Toto looks at youâreally looksâand you see a softness there that mirrors every childhood memory, every scraped knee, every bedtime story told in a voice too big for the small rooms you grew up in.
âI only want you to be happy,â he murmurs. âAnd I trust you to choose who can give you that.â
The breath you release trembles out of you.
You nod once, slow, heavy with emotion. âThank you.â
He reaches across the table, offering his handânot demanding contact, not insisting, just offering.
You slide your hand into his.
His fingers close around yours, firm and warm. No more running, no more hiding. Youâre seen.
âGo get some rest, Liebling,â he says quietly. âTomorrow will feel less heavy.â
You nod.
And as you stand, you feel the weight on your shoulders easeânot gone, but shared.
The hallway outside Mercedes hospitality is quiet in that stretched-thin, late-night wayâdim overhead lights, faint hum of machinery shutting down for the evening, the last echoes of conversations long finished. The paddock is settling, softening, shrinking from its earlier chaos into something intimate.
You step through the door with your fatherâs words still warm against your ribs, fingers tingling from where he held your hand. The air feels cooler out here, brushing your face like a shock.
And then you see him.
George.
Heâs leaning against the wall across from the hospitality door, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, head bowedâbut he looks up the instant the door clicks shut behind you. His eyes snap to yours like heâs been waiting with every nerve in his body tuned toward the sound.
The breath you take gets stuck halfway down your throat.
He looks⊠wrecked. And he looks relieved. And he looks like heâs been standing here for much longer than heâs willing to admit.
âHey,â you say quietly.
The corner of his mouth lifts, but itâs small, tentative. âHi.â
Youâre close enough to see the way the shadows cut along his cheekbones, the way exhaustion and worry mix in his expression. His team shirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed up like heâd been running his hands through his hair a thousand times while waiting for you. He looks realer than youâve ever seen himâless like the polished version the cameras get, more like the man behind it all.
âYou waited,â you say.
âOf course I did,â he replies, voice soft but firm, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world.
Something pinches in your chest.
Because he didnât have to. And you didnât expect him to. But he stayed.
George shifts off the wall, stepping toward you slowly, careful, as though one wrong move might spook you. His eyes search your face with a tenderness so earnest itâs almost painful.
âHow did it go?â he asks gently.
You take a slow breath. âBetter than I expected. Worse than I wanted.â
He huffs a quiet, sympathetic laugh. âThat sounds about right.â
You nod. âHe needed to say his part. And⊠I needed to hear it.â
âAnd now?â he asks.
A strange, fragile quiet stretches between you. Your heartbeat ticks loudly in your ears, steady but nervous.
âNow,â you say, lips softening into something like a smile, âit feels like somethingâs finally settled.â
The relief that washes across Georgeâs face is immediate and unmistakable. His shoulders drop, like someone finally loosened a rope cinched too tightly around him. His eyes close for half a second.
âGood,â he murmurs. âIâm⊠Iâm glad.â
His voice cracksâjust a littleâbut itâs enough to make your breath hitch.
Because this isnât the George Russell who keeps his head cool at 300 km/h. This isnât the George who smiles through media scrums or strategizes through endless data sheets.
This is George stripped downâopen, uncertain, hopeful. And heâs looking at you like you matter.
He glances down, then up again, rubbing the back of his neck in that boyish, endearing way he does when heâs nervous. âI was afraid youâd leave again.â
âI wouldnât,â you say softly. âNot now.â
He nods slowly, eyes tracing your face like heâs checking for any cracks he missed.
âYou sure youâre okay?â he asks.
For a moment, you donât answerânot because youâre unsure, but because the truth feels too big to say immediately. You look at the polished floors, the dim lights, the abandoned space around you. A place usually full of tension and competition suddenly feels still, like the world has quietly stepped aside to give the two of you space.
âI was overwhelmed,â you admit. âEverything hit me at once. You, Dad, the team⊠how fast it all felt.â
George takes one more step toward you, voice lower now. Warmer.
âItâs a lot,â he murmurs. âAnd you handled more than anyone should have to in a day.â
You breathe out, shaky. âI hated running from you.â
âI hated watching you go,â he confesses.
The honesty slices straight through you. You look up at him.
Heâs right in front of you now.
Close enough to feel the warmth from his body brushing against the space between you. Close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw, the soft lines around his eyes from stress and smiles and everything in between.
Close enough that you can feel him thinking.
âI meant every word I said earlier,â he murmurs, eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes. âI didnât plan to say it like thatânot in front of Toto, not with everything falling apart around us. But Iâm not taking any of it back.â
Your lungs tighten.
You can feel itâthe weight of the moment, the edge youâre standing on, the next breath that might change something between you forever.
âYou donât have to say anything,â he adds quickly, as though afraid of cornering you again. âNot tonight. Not now. I just want you to know Iâm still here. Iâm not going anywhere.â
You swallow hard.
âGeorgeâŠâ
His name leaves your lips like a confession. His breath stutters.
He moves a fraction closer, a careful centimeter, testingâwaiting for permission you havenât given out loud but are giving in all the small ways: the way youâre not stepping back, the way youâre watching him like gravity itself has you anchored.
âI care about you,â you whisper. âThat hasnât changed.â
Georgeâs inhale is sharp and soft at the same time.
You donât touch himânot yetâbut the air between your hands and his crackles with something warm, something alive.
The hallway feels too quiet, too intimate. Like the universe is leaning in.
His fingers twitch at his side.
âCan IâŠ?â he begins, voice barely audible.
You donât let him finish.
You step closerâjust enough that you feel his breath ghost against your cheek, soft and warm and trembling with restraint.
âYes,â you whisper.
And George, who is gentle in every moment except the ones that matter most, lifts his hand with infinite care and cups your jawâthumb brushing the corner of your lip, fingers warm against your skin.
You close your eyes for a moment, leaning into the touch without meaning to. It feels like something inside you unspools.
When you open them, heâs watching you with an expression that makes your chest ache.
âYou tell me to stop,â he says, breath uneven. âAnd I will.â
You donât. Instead, you tilt your face up, and George kisses you.
Softly at first. Carefully. The way someone touches a wound they donât want to hurt. His lips are warm, gentle, almost reverent, like heâs afraid to take too much.
You inhale sharply at the contact, fingers curling into the front of his shirt without thinking. He lets out a quiet soundâsomething between relief and disbeliefâbefore kissing you again, deeper this time, slow and tender and full of everything heâs been holding back.
It isnât fireworks. It isnât reckless.
Itâs steadier. Safer now. Honest in a way that knocks the breath from your lungs.
His forehead drops against yours when he pulls back, both of you breathing hard, the air around you charged and fragile.
âThank you,â he whispers.
And for the first time all day, you feel sure.
You're right where youâre supposed to be.
i hate this new tumblr update the spacing between the photo and the text on website throws me awfff
but i am flesh and blood (and this flesh has needs)
âą summary: You fight your way up to his tongue so you can die up on it.
âą pairing: max verstappen x reader
âą word count: 3.4k
âą contains: smut, toxic relationship, argument, emotional dread, dry humping, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (don't be silly wrap your willy!), doggy, mean!max, dumbification, porn with little plot, slight manipulation, resentment, religious references, cannibalism metaphors, title is from ethel cain's "tongue"
âą note: these warnings could just be me reaching for the stars but better safe than sorry!
The apartment is too still.
Rain slicks the glass like melted wax from a votive candle. His things are still where he left them that morning, his jacket on the chair, the cap thrown on the dresser, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the antiseptic hotel air. The air conditioner hums like a broken choir, and you think about how his trophies catch the lamplight like gilded saintsâmute witnesses lined up to bless his sins. Outside, the city keeps breathing, engines and sirens and laughter that donât belong to you.
Youâve already seen the photos. The headlines scroll across your phone like scripture rewritten by liars, each caption a confession you never asked for. His name beside hers. His hand on a shoulder that isn't yours.
When the door finally opens, itâs like a church bell cracking.
He steps inside, still in his team jacket, rain glistening on the fabric. He looks at you the way a sinner looks at the altarâhalf-dreading, half-hoping for mercy.
âY/N,â he says, voice rough.
You donât answer. Instead, you stare at the coffee table where your phone still glows. The evidence hums between you, holy and obscene.
âHow come youâve been lying to me?â The words come out quietly, but they cut.
âI didnât,â he starts, shaking his head. âI swear, itâs not what it looks likeââ
âI wouldnât pull nothing like that on you,â you snap, the tremor in your voice betraying you.
His mouth opens, closes. You can see him searching for the right prayer, the one that might bring the dead back to life. âI never meantââ
âDonât,â you whisper. âDonât say you never meant it. You were smiling.â
The silence that follows feels like kneeling on broken glass.
You think about the way he once touched your wrist during dinner, gentle and reverent. How everything with him had felt sacred, even the smallest things. How easily sacred things rot when theyâre left in the sun too long.
He steps forward like he could still reach you, but the distance between you is a confessional screenâthin, perforated, absolute.
âIf you didn't want me here, you could have just said it.â
You grab your bag, your jacket, the trembling in your hands disguised as movement. The air smells like rain and engine oil.
He moves instinctively, blocking the door. The weight of him, the gravity of what you were, filling the doorway like a storm could.
âPlease,â he says, voice fraying. âDonât walk out like this.â
âNo.â Your throat burns. âYou can't do this to me.â
His shoulders slump. The fight drains from him like the tide leaving a body on the shore.
âWould you please move?â you choke, the sob catching halfway between a prayer and a curse.
He looks up at you. Whatever restraint he had left snaps the moment his eyes meet yours. He reaches out, fingers catching the edge of your jaw, and before you can think, his mouth is on yours.
Itâs not gentle this time. Itâs rough with everything he hasnât said, the anger, the loss, the way he hates needing you as much as he does. You taste the salt of his skin, feel the urgency in how close he pulls you. You tasted sin, and it felt holy. Itâs the kind of kiss that feels like itâs trying to erase the night, to pull the two of you somewhere quieter, if only for a second.
You respond without thinking, hands finding his shoulders, grounding him, pulling him closer even though you know you shouldnât. He devoured what was sacred in you. The room feels smaller, the noise of the world outside dimming to nothing.
When he finally breaks away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads still touching. He keeps his eyes closed like heâs afraid of what heâll see if he opens them.
Neither of you speaks up. The air between you is alive with everything thatâs been said and everything that hasnât. Like communion turned rotten. You thought if you could touch whatever lived beneath his skin, the thing that made you ache, youâd finally stop hungering. But love is a kind of famine, and you learned to starve beautifully.
âMax,â you call out. Your voice is soft and careful, fingers caressing the rough skin of his cheek. The silence that follows feels heavier than before, the kind that presses on your ribs until you have to do something just to break it.
He exhales, short and uneven, hands running through his hair before falling to his sides. âIâm sorry,â he mutters. His eyes flick toward you, just long enough to make your stomach twist.
The words youâd plannedâgentle and reassuringâdissolve before you can say them.
âShe means nothing to me.â The look he gives you makes your stomach flip, not anger, exactly, but the kind of rawness that comes when pride and exhaustion have nothing left to guard them.
You nod, âOkay.â
âNo. Schat, itâs only you.â For a second, the corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. He scrubs a hand across his face, sighs hard, and his forehead falls to rest on your shoulder. âI promise.â He pulled you in closer, taking in your scent.
His tone was quiet, measured, almost tender, and that was what made it worse. You wanted him to stop, but some part of you ached for the sharpness, for the way he could undo you with so little effort.
He knew it, too. That was his sinâand yours was letting him.
âI understand.â You whisper, gentle and innocent. He lifts his head to look at you, not before giving your neck a peck, one he knew would drive you crazy. âYou mean the world to me. Iâd kill for you.â He looked at you like you were something worth tasting. When he looked at you like that, all command and fury and heartbreak, you couldnât tell if he wanted to destroy you or keep you, and maybe that was the same thing.
You open your mouth to speak again, but he shuts you up with a kiss.
This time, he goes all in. The taste of adrenaline and salt, the sound of both your breaths tangled. His fingers tighten on your waist for a second like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go.
When you finally break apart, your chest is heaving, and his forehead drops against yours.
You look at him, really look, and the anger and exhaustion you saw when he came in have burned down to something rawer. The world outside is still there, distant and irrelevant.
The silence stretches so long it starts to sound like a prayer.
You sat in front of each other, staring at nothing and everything, until the weight of him on you feels like gravity itself, inevitable, impossible to escape. The air smells faintly of rain and engine smoke, sharp and metallic, like something consecrated by fire.
He says your name once, a low rasp that trembles somewhere between plea and command. The sound of it feels blasphemous in the small room.
The expression on his face is nothing holy. His eyes are too dark, too tired, too human. Thereâs a kind of ruin in him that calls to you, the way church bells call the lost.
âWhy do you stay?â he asks, voice rough.
You could tell him that you love him. You could tell him that it isnât love anymore, that itâs need, that itâs faith twisted into habit. You could also tell him that you want to watch him die. But the words wonât come. All that escapes you is a breath.
Something in him shifts. The stillness snaps.
He leans forward, hand finding your jaw, and the kiss that follows isnât gentle. Itâs desperate, graceless, full of all the noise you both swallowed earlier. It tastes like copper and salt and penanceâlike every time youâve ever said âForgive meâ and known you wouldnât stop.
He breathes your name between your lips, and it feels like a confession. His fingers tremble where they rest against your throat, and you can feel his pulse hammering beneath his skin, frantic and alive.
You donât know who moves first, only that when he pulls back, the space between you feels desecratedâa place where something sacred used to live.
He closes his eyes, voice barely a whisper. âIâm sorry.â
You nod, though your heartbeat still echoes like a hymn that refuses to end.
âI need you.â His eyes are full of hunger, and you know itâs going to be a long night. "You have me, Max."
He pulls you in, demandingly. And like clockwork, you wrap your legs around his waist to straddle him, both his hands now keeping your body steady as he kisses up your body.
You feel your head spin as he almost eats your skin off. He pulls away abruptly, and his grip on your waist tightens as he guides your hips forward and back. He looked at you the way the faithful look at fire, knowing it will burn, but reaching anyway.
âMax, please.â You sob out, knuckles turning white at how hard you were gripping his biceps. âAh, shit, youâre so dirty.â He stares at the wet stain on your gray sweatpants, one finger mindlessly going down to press on your clothed clit.
âYou were probably waiting for me to fuck you all night. Saw those photos and knew youâd have me going crazier more than she could, huh?â His voice is teasing. You couldnât even bring yourself to resist, the smell of sex and the warm air of the room turning your mind dumb.
âYou canât even respond, dumb cunt.â He laughs, laughs, a smug grin adorning his face as he looks up at you with lustful eyes. He was both the hunger and the offering. And you? You were the altar. The knife. The willing mouth.
He had memorized your body like scriptureâthe kind read in secret, whispered under breath, touched by trembling fingers that knew they werenât supposed to. And so, he knew you were close. He was cruel in the way only someone who knew you too well could be. âFuck, Iâm close!â You sob out, your hand going up to the nape of his neck, almost pulling at it to keep yourself from falling at how ragdolled your body felt.
He grumbles, shaking his head furiously. âNo,â he muttered, pushing you off him and pinning you down on the couch, pulling your pants down with one single pull. Your hips jerk up at the burning feeling of the cotton. âFuckâ Max!â
âShut up and turn around.â He growls out, every word felt like a blade pressed flat against your throat, not to kill, but to remind you he could.
You turned around, feeling your knees sink into the edge of the couch, your breathing heavy, and asking for forgiveness.
He smiled like sin disguised as grace, and you let him in every time. Just like how you were letting him in now. You heard the clanking of his belt being removed and the loud thud of the metal falling to the floor. âIâm gonna destroy this pussy.â His voice is low and hungry as he pushes himself inside you. âSo tight and willing, fuck, schatje.â
His hips start to move in and out at a relentless speed, his angry tip bullying your hole. You let him take you apart piece by piece, thinking that maybe if you werenât hollow enough, he could fill you with grace again.
He moans out your name, eyes rolling to the back of his head from the pleasure. You once read that saints starved themselves to feel closer to God. You understood it now, the hollow was the point. The ache made you faithful. Maybe you werenât starving from lack of him; maybe you were starving for him. The difference didnât matter anymore. You were still on your knees either way.
The sound of your pussy squelching and the skin slapping is filthy. In your head, it was just like a candle going out.
âDo you hear that, baby?â He groans. âFucking hole is weeping for my cock. You have no idea how much Iâve been wanting to come home and just ruin you. Did you want that too?â
You nod, barely registering whatâs happening before his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling your head up. âAre you close? Huh? Donât fucking babble at me.â
Youâre gripping the couch, lines forming on your fingers from the rough cushion. You start to push back onto him, feeling every inch of his girth. âPussyâs so fucking good to me. Taking me so well like you always do, hm?â He commends, pace speeding up as he continues to consume you whole. His name falls from your lips repeatedly, like a prayer, slow and reverent, each syllable teasing the air with a quiet, aching desire.
âYouâre so fucking pretty.â You told yourself it wasnât worship, but every time you looked at him, your pulse betrayed youâsteady as a rosary, desperate as confession. âYouâre mine, say it.â You moaned, trying to push the words out of you. âAll yours, Maxie. Iâm yours.â One hand reaches behind, asking for his hand. He hums, intertwining his fingers with yours.
âAw, you want to hold my hand while you cum, hm? So sweet.â He leaned down to press a kiss on your back, trailing up to your neck. His name lingered on your tongue like a sacrament, and you swallowed it whole, pretending it didnât taste like blood. You thought maybe if you said it enough times, God would forgive you for meaning it.
He pumped his cock deeper, before pulling it out to the tip, and pushing back in with a groan. You cried out his name, moans long and desperate. His hand gripped your ass hard, and you were thinking it had to have left a mark by now. You felt the coil in your stomach fighting to let go, feeling your orgasm inching closer and closer. You speed up your hips, your ass bouncing against his skin, the sound of skin slapping getting louder and louder with each thrust.
âFuck, fuck, fuck, oh my fucking God.â Heâs loud, panting, and struggling behind you. Youâre both moaning loudly, the sound of skin slapping as you grind into him, driving you both to your release.
âMax, Iâm gonna cum!â You wail, forehead dropping down to the head of the couch. You can feel every vein, every twitch, and every push and pull of his cock inside you, and it drives you fucking crazy.
âCum for me, Schatje. Be good and fucking milk my cock.â He grunts, hips stuttering as he chased his own high. You could only imagine what you looked like right now, bent over for him, on the altar of his indifference, begging to be noticed, to be consumed.
You came hard. A loud scream escaped you as you reached your orgasm. He spilled inside you, coating your walls with his juices. He pulled out with a groan, his cum mixed with yours, leaking down your thighs, making you shiver at the feeling.
He rubs circles on your ass before turning you over. He gets down on his knees, eyes never leaving your pussy as he watches it twitch and glisten. His breaths are heavy, his lips wet, sweat running down his forehead, and his eyes lecherous. He wants more, you can tell by the way low groans come out in between his heavy pants.
He pushed your legs open, still shaking from the previous stimulation. Your hand weakly goes up to his face, caressing his cheek softly. You moan out lowly, staring down at him with hooded eyes. You kept thinking of angels, how they burned when they fell. Maybe thatâs what you were doing too, every time you reached for him.
Falling. Burning. Calling it devotion because it hurt too much to call it destruction.
He poked your lips with the tip of his tongue as if he was teasing you for his amusement. Your breath hitched, hips jerking up at the feeling. He chuckled before shoving his tongue in whole.
He throws your legs over his shoulders, his tongue diving deeper, making your stomach drop, and a hand goes up to his hair, tugging at it. He moaned into your cunt, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.
Maxâs hands were gripping your thighs hard, and you werenât sure if he was even aware. His eyes were now fully closed, completely lost in the pleasure as he made out with your cunt.
His nails almost scratch your thigh as he brings it under and up to your middle, two fingers shoving inside your hole. He groans when he hears your sweet moans from the added pleasure. Your hips start to grind against his face, your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging at it harder. Every time his tongue retracted, you felt less human. More myth. More ruin. You wanted him to carve his name into you, to make the wanting permanent.
He pulled his tongue out to speak, âSo delicious, liefje, so wet for me, hm?â He speeds his fingers up, grinning at the way your legs shook and your hips twitching at every thrust. Max was relentless; his other hand pushed your leg wider, refusing to let your knees touch in any way. He sucked on the skin of your thigh, leaving marks all over your upper thigh.
He curls his fingers up, brushing over your spot again and again. The sounds your pussy made were shameless; that repeated squelching sound was like music to Maxâs ears.
Your head was spinning, feeling that coil in your stomach starting to snap again.
âSqueezing my fingers so good,â he gushes, putting his mouth back to work. Moans spill from your mouth nonstop, feeling your orgasm building up by the second. âWanna drink up your juices, schat, cum for me.â
And you did just that. You let go, spilling your orgasm all over his face. He loved every second of it, watching you break apart for him and only him. You could never decide if he was divine or damnation, but it didnât matter anymore. Youâd already chosen your religion, and it wore his face.
He pulled away from your pussy with a loud groan, a shit-eating grin on his face as he looked up at you with horny eyes. He stands on his knees, pulling you into a kiss with a hand on your nape. He tasted like sin in the way that every forbidden thing does: sharp at first, then sweet once itâs too late to stop. You moaned his name under your breath like a curse. The shame came after, as it always did, slow and suffocating. But even then, you couldnât help but think: if this is damnation, itâs almost gentle.
Heâs the one who pulls away first, and a sticky strand of spit hung between you for a moment before breaking. He lays you back down on the cushion gently, letting you rest as he stands up to get a towel from the bathroom.
You told yourself it was love, but it felt more like being eaten alive. Not cruelly, not violently, but tenderly. Like he was consuming you the way one might consume faith: slowly, endearingly, until there was nothing left but devotion. You wondered if he ever felt full.
He became your ritual. Every glance, a genuflection. Every word, a psalm. Youâd trace the memory of him against the inside of your teeth like communion, tasting his absence, swallowing it down so it wouldnât show. Max didnât ask for your worship; that made it worse. You gave it freely, like blood money to a god who never promised resurrection.
You prayed after, though you werenât sure to whom. Maybe to him. Maybe to the silence he left in his wake. You asked for forgiveness, for peace, for the hunger to fade. But the only answer you ever got was the echo of his breath against your skin, a ghost of a blessing, or a curse that sounded too gentle to hate.
You never told him that he ruined you. Maybe because heâd only smile, that small, godless smile that said he already knew. Maybe because youâd still thank him for it. Youâd still crawl back. Youâd still call it holy.
a/n: hi guys im so sorry if this sucks i was struggling so hard since this is my first smut fic >_< and i kinda lost the plot in the middle, my apologies heh
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 isnât always easy, but every challenge becomes proof of what theyâve 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 fittipaldiâs 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 â 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.
Youâd 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. Youâd been there for the tears, for the frustration, for the unbearable weight of it all.
But now? Now it wasnât just you anymore.
Now, cameras followed him. Articles had his name in headlines. Teams watched him with interest. People who didnât even know how to spell âPiastriâ were suddenly calling him the future.
And, God, were they right.
When he made his F3 debut, you couldnât 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 â his first F3 win â 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. âTold you I could do it.â
You punched his arm, hard, though your hand shook with the need to pull him close instead. âI never doubted you.â
He held your gaze then, the grin slipping into something softer, something reverent. âI know.â
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 â it hurt.
Because as the months wore on, as travel resumed and the championship grew tighter, Oscar wasnât just your best friend, wasnât just the boy whoâd 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 youâd still be his anchor when the world pulled him further and further away.
Then came Mugello.
The race that decided it all.
You couldnât 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 Oscarâs mum.
And then it happened.
Checkered flag. Championship secured.
Oscar Piastri â your Oscar â was the Formula 3 World Champion. Your scream startled the neighbors, but you didnât even care.
You collapsed back against your pillows, tears spilling freely this time, chest tight with pride and relief. The boy youâd known since six, the boy whoâd been yours since fifteen â heâd done it. Heâd won the world.
And all you could think was: He deserves everything, and heâs 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 heâd been waiting to say it all day.
âY/N,â he breathed, and you could hear the disbelief, the exhaustion, and the joy tangled altogether. âWe did it.â
You laughed through your tears, pressing the phone tighter against your ear. âNo, you did it.â
His answer was immediate. âNo. Not without you.â Your throat tightened, too full of words you didnât know how to say. So instead, you whispered, âIâm so proud of you.â
The line went quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that hummed with everything unspoken. And then, softly, âI love you.â
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 Nicoleâs cooking. Chrisâ 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, âYouâre back! Youâre back!â
Oscar hadnât 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.
âGod, look at you,â she said, squeezing him tighter. âAll grown up, but still my boy.â
âMum,â he groaned, though his eyes shone as he let her fuss. âI literally just got off a fourteen-hour flight. Can we notââ
But Chris was next, clapping him on the back with so much force it made you laugh. âOur champ,â he announced proudly. âDidnât think youâd actually pull it off, but bloody hell, you did!â
Oscar rolled his eyes, cheeks pink. âThanks for the faith, Dad.â
And then Mae and Edie were on him, twin hurricanes of excitement, babbling over each other. âWe watched all your races.â âI told my class my brotherâs famous now.â âYou have to sign my notebookââ âNo, mine first!â
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 youâd grown up with. Not just your best friend whoâd asked to court you under the warm glow of his bedroom lamp. But now â champion, celebrated, living proof of all the things youâd 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.
âDidnât think Iâd get a warmer welcome than winning the championship,â he murmured low, teasing. âBut apparently, Iâm still just the kid Mum wonât stop fussing over.â
You grinned, bumping his shoulder. âYou are. Donât forget it.â
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. âTo Oscar. For making us proud. For making history. And for remembering to come home before his mum died of worry.â
Everyone laughed, glasses clinking.
Oscar ducked his head, muttering, âYouâre all unbearable,â 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 â 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 Edieâs 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. âSo, Y/N,â she said sweetly. âIs it weird dating my brother now? Or have you just been pretending all these years?â
Your fork clattered against your plate.
Oscar groaned, covering his face with his hand. âMaeââ
But Edie jumped in, cackling. âOh, come on. Theyâve basically been married since they were seven.â
Nicole gave you a knowing smile, her voice light. âTheyâre right, though. Weâve always seen it.â
Your face burned, but Oscarâs hand found your knee under the table, grounding you. He gave it a small squeeze, his smirk lopsided as he glanced at you. âGuess we werenât as subtle as we thought.â
âGuess not,â 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 Chrisâs 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 â how normal, how right.
Like the championship, the miles, the months apart hadnât changed the core of you.
Like heâd always been yours.
The house had finally quieted.
Plates stacked in the kitchen, lights dimmed in the hallway, the low hum of Nicoleâs voice faded as she coaxed Mae and Edie toward bed. Even Chrisâs 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 couldnât 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 againâthat quiet smile, crooked and soft, the one that undid you.
He pushed his bedroom door open, the hinges creaking faintly.
The room hadnât 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 youâd missed more than youâd 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. âGod, Iâm wrecked,â he muttered, but then his eyes lifted to you, and his grin tilted again. âBut⊠worth it.â
You hovered by the desk, fingers skimming over a half-finished model car, your lips quirking. âWinning the F3 championship is worth being wrecked, yeah, Iâd say so.â
He chuckled, low, leaning back on his elbows. âNot just that. Tonight. Coming home. Having you here.â
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 youânot 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 youâd been to together years ago. He stared at you.
You felt it.
âYou know,â you murmured, breaking the silence, âthis room looks smaller than I remember.â
âYeah?â His voice was rougher now, low.
âOr maybe you just got taller.â You smiled faintly, glancing sideways at him. âAnnoyingly so.â
He smirked, eyes catching the dim glow of the lamp. âYou noticed.â
You rolled your eyes, though your pulse stuttered. âHard not to.â
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 youâevery line of your face, every flicker of your expression.
Your breath hitched.
âOscar,â you whispered, though you werenât 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. âI missed you. More than I thought I would.â
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. âI missed you, too.â
His hand moved, slow and tentative, brushing against yours on the duvet. His fingers curled lightly around your knuckles, testing, waiting.
You didnât pull away. You couldnât.
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. âGod, you have no idea what you do to me.â
Your heart slammed against your ribs. âOscarâŠâ
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 wasnât sure if he was allowed.
But you kissed him back.
And suddenly, tentative wasnât 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. âBeen wanting to do that for so long.â
You laughed too, though it broke halfway. âTook you long enough.â
He grinned, but it was softer than youâd ever seen, his thumb still tracing your cheekbone. âNot doing the whole subtle thing anymore. I canât. Not after this year.â
You couldnât stop staring at him, couldnât stop feeling like your whole body was on fire in the best way.
âYou donât have to,â you whispered.
His lips brushed yours again, feather-light, like a promise. âGood.â
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 youâd both been holding backâwant, 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, âTell me to stop and I will.â
You shook your head, heart pounding. âDonât.â
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.
Oscarâs grin was boyish, breathless. âGuess I should lock the door next time.â
You smacked his shoulder lightly, cheeks blazing. âYouâre insufferable.â
âYeah,â he said, stealing another quick kiss before you could stop him. âBut you love me.â
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. âThat wasââ He broke off, shaking his head, the tips of his ears pink. âGod, that was⊠wow.â
You were laughing too, your hand still clutching at the fabric of his shirt like you hadnât realized you hadnât let go. âWow? Thatâs the best youâve got?â
He squeezed your waist, smirking. âDo you want me to start pulling out poetry? Because I could. Iâve been keeping it bottled up for years.â
Your laugh bubbled out, loud enough that you had to clap a hand over your mouth. âYouâre ridiculous.â
His grin softened, his voice quieter. âAnd youâre perfect.â
The words landed heavily, and you couldnât 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 wasnât desperate. It was slow, playful, almost giddy â 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. âDo you realize,â he whispered, âthat youâre my girlfriend now?â
You snorted against his lips, cheeks burning. âYou didnât even ask me properly.â
He pulled back an inch, mock-offended, though his grin betrayed him. âExcuse me. I did ask. Friday night, big celebration, practically poured my heart outââ
âThat was to court me.â You arched a brow, biting back a smile. âNot the same thing.â
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.
âFine,â he murmured, voice teasing but soft. âWill you be my girlfriend?â
Your heart did a somersault.
You pretended to consider it, pursing your lips dramatically. âHmmâŠâ
âUnbelievable.â He dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a groan, his laugh vibrating against your skin. âIâve been pining for, what, over a decade, and now youâre making me sweat.â
You giggled, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at you again. Your voice was gentle, honest. âYes, Oscar. Of course I will.â
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 couldnât 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 heâd 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 âstop, youâre ridiculousââbut 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.
âWhat now?â you asked softly.
He tilted his head toward you, brows raising. âWhat do you mean?â
âYouâre⊠you. Youâve just won F3. Next year is F2. Youâre not stopping, Oscar. And meââ You hesitated, chewing your lip. âWhere do I fit into all of that?â
His hand slid up and down your back slowly, reassuring. âEverywhere,â he said simply.
You blinked. âThatâs not an answer.â
âYes, it is.â His eyes were steady, almost fierce. âYouâve been there since the start. Since before the karting, before all of this. Do you think Iâd want to do any of it without you?â
You swallowed hard, your throat tight.
âBesides,â he added, his voice softening, âweâve already done the long nights, the hospital visits, the distance. Weâll figure out the rest, too. Youâre not losing me.â
You buried your face in his chest for a moment, breathing him in â soap, detergent, that faint trace of fuel that seemed permanently baked into his skin no matter how long heâd been away from the track.
âYou make it sound so easy,â you murmured.
âItâs not,â he admitted. âBut itâs worth it. Youâre worth it.â
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 weâll be okay.
Eventually, you both drifted into quieter conversation, voices hushed, giggles bubbling up now and then.
âDo you ever think about the future?â you whispered, tracing idle patterns on his chest with your fingertip.
He caught your hand, intertwining your fingers, his thumb brushing your knuckles. âAll the time.â
âWhat do you see?â
He thought for a moment, then smiled. âYou. Always you.â
You rolled your eyes, though your heart swelled. âThatâs still not an answer.â
âIt is.â He kissed your temple. âBut fine⊠I see races, trophies, and traveling. I see you at every finish line, pretending you donât get emotional when they play the anthem.â
You laughed, hiding your face in his shirt. âI do not cry.â
âYou do,â he teased, tugging lightly at your hair. âIâve seen it. Donât even try to deny it.â
You groaned, hitting his chest lightly. âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd you love me,â he shot back, smirking.
You pressed another kiss to his jaw in retaliation. âUnfortunately.â
The conversation wandered further, softer, sillier. âWhat about ten years from now?â you asked.
He hummed, pretending to think hard. âWeâll probably still be in this room because my mum refuses to let me move out.â
You snorted. âAccurate.â
âBut seriously?â His voice grew quieter. âTen years⊠Iâd 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.â
You grinned against his shoulder. âYouâd leave all the decorating to me.â
âExactly.â He kissed your forehead. âAnd maybe⊠kids someday. Not too many. Two? Three?â
You froze, then laughed nervously. âYouâve thought about this a lot, havenât you?â
His ears went pink, but his expression stayed earnest. âYeah. Because when I think of the future, itâs never just me. Itâs us.â
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 âstop, youâre going to wake them,â 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. âThis feels like a dream,â he murmured into your hair.
âThen donât wake up,â you whispered back.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice rough. âNever.â
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 thisâhis arm around you, your fingers entwined, your lips tingling from hours of kissesâwasnât 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.
âStop looking like youâre about to faint,â he muttered, brushing past you on his way to the grid.
You smirked. âStop pretending you donât like that Iâm here.â
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 Iâm 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 comeââToo stressful, too cramped, stay in Nice, Iâll text youââbut you came anyway.
From the balcony overlooking Mirabeau, you saw the flash of his Prema dart through, and your heart lodged in your throat.
Heâd 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.
âP2 in Monaco,â you said, flopping beside him. âYou should be celebrating.â
He shrugged, jaw tight. âCouldâve been better.â
You bumped his shoulder. âYouâre allowed to breathe, you know.â
He turned his head finally, met your eyes, and some of that steel cracked. ââŠThanks for being here.â
You leaned your head on his. âAlways.â
Baku followed.
Chaos. The word barely scratched the surface.
Two safety cars. Three restarts. Cars flying into barriers like dominoes.
Youâd 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, heâd taken his first Feature Race win of the season.
On the radio, his laugh crackled through, incredulous. âWe actually did it.â
When he found you after, he didnât even take his helmet off before sweeping you up in a hug.
âYouâre sweaty and disgusting,â you laughed against his shoulder.
âWorth it,â he said, muffled through the helmet, holding on like heâd never let go.
Silverstone was different; the roar of the crowd dulled to a distant hum in Oscarâs ears. He sat in the cramped driverâs 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 ofâsmooth, precise, aggressive where it mattered. For once, heâd felt untouchable. And then⊠the lights went out.
A mediocre start. A lock-up in Turn 3. Tire degradation worse than theyâd expected. A pit window that hadnât 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 outsideâthe 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.
âYou know,â you said softly, leaning against the doorframe, âmost people would kill for third at Silverstone.â
He didnât look up. âIâm not most people.â
You crossed the room, crouching in front of him so he couldnât avoid your eyes. His were dark, stormy, locked on the floor.
âYou were on pole,â you said gently.
He flinched. âDonât remind me.â
âThatâs a good thing, Oscar.â
âNot if you canât hold it,â he snapped before he could stop himself. His voice cracked at the edges, raw and too loud in the small space. âPole doesnât mean anything if you screw it up. If youââ He cut himself off, shaking his head.
Your chest ached.
You lowered yourself to the floor beside him, shoulder brushing his. He tensed but didnât move away.
âYou didnât screw it up,â you said firmly. âRacing isnât⊠it isnât math. Itâs not clean and simple. There are a hundred things that can go wrong, and most of them arenât your fault.â
He let out a bitter laugh. âFeels like itâs always my fault.â
âThatâs because you care too much.â You tilted your head toward him. âIf you didnât, you wouldnât be sitting here tearing yourself apart after still standing on the podium.â
Finally, his eyes flicked to yours. They were glassy, rimmed redânot from crying, but from holding it back.
âI had it,â he whispered, voice almost breaking. âI had it in my hands, and Iââ He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, as though the words were dangerous. âWhat if I never get that chance again?â
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.
âYou will,â you said quietly. âAnd when you do, youâll take it. You always do. Thatâs who you are.â
For a long moment, he just stared at you, breathing shallow. Then, finally, he let out a long, shaky sigh, shoulders slumping.
âYou always know what to say,â he muttered.
âBecause I know you.â
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 hadnât found the energy to eat, but when you nudged a fork into his hand, he accepted it, grumbling half-heartedly.
âYouâre allowed to be disappointed,â you said after a while, picking at your fries. âBut donât let it eat you alive. Youâre more than one race. More than one weekend.â
He swallowed hard, then looked at youâreally looked, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. âYou know whatâs unfair?â
âWhat?â
âYou believe in me more than I believe in myself.â
You reached over and stole a fry from his container, smirking. âGood thing Iâve got enough belief for the both of us.â
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 thinkingânot about the race, not about pole or pointsâbut 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 didnât forgive mistakes.
But that didnât stop your heart from leaping every time his car flashed past on the main straight.
The Feature Race was ruthlessâslipstreams, overtakes, lockups. Oscar fought tooth and nail, and when the checkered flag fell, he brought it home P1.
From the pit wall, youâd 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.
âYou see that?â he said, eyes bright, curls sticking to his forehead.
You smiled, grabbing his hand despite the grease still on his gloves. âI saw everything.â
For a second, it didnât matter that other drivers were still climbingâTheo, 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 hadnât paid off, nerves buzzing like static. He wasnât 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 didnât 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.
âDo you ever feel likeâŠâ He trailed off.
You rolled onto your side, watching him. âLike what?â
âLike everyoneâs waiting for me to crack.â His voice was quiet, almost drowned by the hum of the air conditioner.
You sat up, the mattress dipping under your weight. âYouâre not going to crack, Oscar.â
He turned his head, eyes tired but searching. âAnd if I do?â
You reached over, brushing your fingers against his. âThen Iâll be here to pick you up. Every single time.â
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 heâd slept on since he was twelve. The posters were still there â half Formula 1 legends, half peeling from the corners.
âYou know, for someone who just podiumed in Sochi, youâre very dramatic,â you teased.
He turned his head, cheek smushed against the pillow. âIâm not dramatic. Iâm exhausted.â
âYou slept on the plane.â
âNot real sleep.â He cracked one eye open at you. âCome sit.â
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.
âBetter,â he murmured, voice already sinking into that lazy rhythm he only carried at home. âMuch better.â
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.
âYou look like a zombie,â Edie would declare, handing him the syrup bottle.
âAnd yet,â Oscar replied, deadpan, âstill prettier than you.â
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. Heâd stretch out on the deck chair, long legs bent awkwardly, while you leaned against the railing.
âWhat are you thinking about?â you asked once, catching the faraway look in his eyes.
He shrugged, fiddling with a loose thread on his t-shirt. âThat this feels⊠normal. Too normal.â
âAnd thatâs bad?â
âNo. JustâŠâ His lips curved into a smile, soft and small. âIt makes me forget Iâve got a championship to finish.â
You nudged his foot with yours. âForgetting isnât always bad. You deserve to breathe.â
The look he gave you then lingered, warm, steady, like you were the anchor he didnât realize heâd needed.
Evenings were your favorite. The house always seemed louder after dinner, with Hattieâs 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.
âYou canât just put down three queens and call it a win.â
âYes, I can.â
âThatâs cheating!â
âOr maybe,â he leaned closer, grin tugging at his mouth, âyouâre just bad at poker.â
You threw a pillow at his head. He caught it effortlessly, then laughed when you scowled.
âFine,â he said, voice softening as he reached over to ruffle your hair. âYou win this round.â
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.
âDo you ever wonder,â you whispered, âwhat life would be like if you didnât race?â He turned his head, studying you. âIâd rather not. Because then I wouldnât be me.â
You nodded, tracing patterns on the blanket with your finger. âI just⊠I donât like seeing you wear yourself down.â
Oscar shifted, his hand brushing yours. âI wonât break, Y/N.â His voice was firm, but there was something underneath it, something that made your chest tighten. âNot when Iâve got you.â
The silence after that wasnât 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 uneasyâthe 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 didnât quite reach his eyes.
âYou look tense,â you said.
âIâm fine.â He tilted his head, almost teasing. âYouâre the one bouncing your leg like youâre about to race.â
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 chaosâcars 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 thenâ
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 Pourchaireâs 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 Oscarâs voice cut through on comms.
âEveryone okay?â 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 lingeredâcoiled tight in the air.
Five laps. Thatâs 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.
âHey,â 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.
âThis isnât supposed to happen,â he murmured.
You rubbed his back, whispering, âTheyâre alive. Thatâs what matters.â
But even as you said it, you knew: the image of that crash wouldnât 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.
âYouâve got this,â you whispered.
His eyes softened. âNot without you.â
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 Sundayâthe feature raceâthat 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.
Oscarâs breathing came through steady on the radio, but you knew better. His hands always betrayed himâsmall, 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 engineerâs calm updates, the quiet affirmations. But you also heard the grit in Oscarâs repliesâthe razor-sharp focus of a driver who knew exactly what was at stake.
And thenâfinal 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. Heâd 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.
âY/N!â 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.
âYou did it,â you whispered against his ear, voice breaking. âYou actually did it.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy but shining. âWe did it.â
The words sank deep, echoing louder than the celebrations around you. This wasnât just his victory. It was yours tooâfor every race youâd 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 didnât care. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering, and whispered so only you could hear:
âI love you so much.â
The strangest part of being a reserve driver, Oscar decided, wasnât the waiting. It was the pretending.
Heâd sit in Alpineâs 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 wasnât the one strapping into the car. He wasnât 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 youâd call after sessions, heâd sound steady, professional. âYeah, the car looks good. Estebanâs happy, Fernandoâs⊠well, Fernando.â Heâd laugh a little, but the pause after was always heavy. He didnât 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.
âLong day?â you asked softly, setting a cup of tea down beside him.
âLong year,â 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.
âYou know,â you said, âyouâre allowed to be frustrated.â
His eyes cracked open, searching your face. âFrustrated doesnât change anything.â
âNo,â you agreed. âBut bottling it up wonât either.â
He stared at you for a moment, then huffed a small laugh. âYouâre annoyingly logical sometimes.â
âAnd yet you love me for it.â
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. âItâs science, Y/N. A precise science.â Youâd roll your eyes when he burned the first one, but by the third, heâd 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. Heâd claim he was only watching because you wanted to, but by halfway through, heâd be quoting the lines louder than you.
And on the rare days when he wasnât jetting off to a simulator session in Enstone, youâd 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 parentsâ 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.
âI feel stuck,â he admitted suddenly, voice low.
Your brows furrowed. âStuck?â
âLike Iâm⊠waiting for permission to do the thing Iâve wanted my whole life.â He kicked at the grass. âI know being reserve is important, I know Iâm lucky, butââ He broke off, frustrated. âI didnât come this far just to sit on the sidelines.â
You stepped closer, slipping your fingers into his. His grip tightened instantly, as if he needed the anchor.
âThen you wonât,â you said simply.
His eyes lifted to yours, something flickering there.
âYouâll get there, Osc. Whether itâs next year or the year after, youâll be the one in that seat. And when it happens, Iâll be there, screaming louder than anyone else.â
The corner of his mouth twitched, the tension in his jaw easing. He squeezed your hand, leaning forward just enough that your foreheads touched.
âYou promise?â he whispered.
âAlways.â
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 didnât stop buzzing for hours. Headlines splashed across every outlet: praise, shock, memes, the whole circus.
âGuess I made some people mad,â he muttered, scrolling. âSome?â you teased. âOsc, Alpineâs lawyers are probably throwing darts at your face right now.â He smirked, but you saw the tension in his shoulders. Heâd fought for this seat, for the chance to finally race. It wasnât just noise â it was everything.
The first time he pulled on the papaya race suit, he stood in front of the mirror longer than usual. âLooks good,â you said, leaning against the doorway.
âYou think?â
âDefinitely. Orange is your color.â He gave you a flat look, then cracked a grin. âGood thing, because Iâll be sweating in it for the next nine months.â
When Oscar walked into the McLaren headquarters for the first time as their official driver, he couldnât 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 wasnât 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. âWell, well, well. Look who decided to join the big leagues.â Oscar raised a brow. âYou mean the team that drags its car through Q1 half the time?â
âBold for a rookie,â 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.
âY/N!â He pulled you into a quick hug, stepping back with mock suspicion. âSo, still choosing Oscar, huh?â
You rolled your eyes. âWeâre not in high school anymore, Norris.â
âTell that to him,â 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. âAlready trying to steal her again?â
Lando gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. âAgain? Please. She never gave me a chance.â
âBecause you never had one,â Oscar muttered under his breath, though the smug curve of his mouth gave him away.
You smacked his shoulder. âBe nice.â
But it didnât 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 âlosing his train of thought.â
At the end of his rookie year, Oscar finished strong. Rookie mistakes, sure, but flashes of brilliance too â 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 Oscarâs rise.
On nights when Oscar slumped back into the hotel room, frustrated at a lost point or a messy pit stop, youâd sit cross-legged on the bed while Lando called from down the hall, cracking jokes until Oscar cracked a smile.
âThis is weird, isnât it?â Oscar murmured once, after you hung up the phone with Lando.
âWhat is?â
He hesitated, then smirked. âThat I used to think he was my biggest rival for you.â
Your brows rose. âAnd now?â
âNow heâs just the annoying third wheel.â
You swatted him with a pillow, but you couldnât 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 wasnât 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. âCareful, mate, theyâll start thinking youâre romantic.â
âLet them,â Oscar had replied, a rare cheeky smirk tugging at his lips.
The season wasnât 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, heâd flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
âYou donât have to cheer me up,â he murmured when you nudged his shoulder.
âI know,â you whispered back, lying down beside him. âIâm just here.â
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 âlike an old married couple already.â
But the truth was, the time away made both of you realize something: racing wasnât 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.
âNext year,â he said simply.
It wasnât a question. It wasnât a dream.
It was a promise.
And you believed him.
Then came 2025, a new season, a new challenge, and Oscarâs shot at proving he wasnât 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 â 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.
âYouâre nervous,â you teased, leaning over to steal a piece of toast from his plate.
He barely glanced up from his phone. âNo, Iâm⊠focused.â But his ears betrayed him, turning the faintest shade of pink.
You grinned, leaning closer. âFocused doesnât usually look like you trying to saw your knife through the plate.â
That got him, he laughed, shoulders loosening just enough to let you rest your head against him. âOkay, maybe a little nervous,â 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. Youâd never get used to thisâthe 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. âWe did it,â he breathed, forehead pressed to yours like the cameras werenât everywhere.
âWe?â you laughed, even though your eyes stung.
âYes, we.â His grin was boyish, unguarded, the one you always kept for yourself. âYou think Iâm doing this without you?â
A few races later, it hit harder. Monaco, the jewel of the calendar, the race Oscar had been dreaming about since karting daysâand 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 theyâd betrayed him.
Third. In Monaco, third felt like last.
The garage was muted, papaya still moving but without its usual brightness. And Oscarâyour Oscarâwas 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.
âHey.â Your voice was soft, the kind you only used when he was fraying at the edges.
He didnât look up. âI threw it away.â
âYou didnât. That trackâŠâ You stepped closer, tugging gently at his sleeve. âIt chews people up and spits them out. You still got a podium. You still finished.â
His jaw clenched. âThatâs not enough.â
And maybe it wasnât, 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. âThen make it enough for now. Youâve got Spain next week. This doesnât define you.â
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.
âWhat?â you asked, raising a brow.
âNothing.â He shook his head, but a smile tugged at his lips. âJust⊠thanks. For not letting me drown in it.â
You set your phone aside, sliding closer until your head rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady again, calmer now. âAlways,â you whispered, and he kissed your hair, the weight of the world lifting â if only for a little while.
Home races always carried a different weight. The roar of the British crowd was unlike anything else â Union Jacks waving, papaya flooding the grandstands. It shouldâve 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.
When he finally found you, his eyes were stormy. âThat shouldâve been mine.â
You reached for his hand, but he pulled it through his hair instead, pacing like he couldnât burn off the adrenaline. âI had the pace. I had it. And thenââ He cut himself off, voice cracking sharper than he meant to.
âOsc,â you stepped closer, catching his gaze. âTheyâll say whatever makes headlines. But I know what I saw. You were brilliant. You wereââ You hesitated, then let it out. ââunbelievable.â
He exhaled like heâd 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. âI just wanted one. Here. At home.â
Behind you, cheers eruptedâNico HĂŒlkenberg, 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.
âGuess the old man still has it,â you teased, nudging him gently.
That earned a laugh, low and reluctant but real. âYeah. He deserves it.â His hand finally found yours, fingers lacing tight. âStill doesnât change that Iâm pissed.â
âI know.â You squeezed his hand. âBut it changes that youâre not alone in it.â
By the time Hungary rolled around, the season had worn him down. The tension, the travel, the endless questions about McLarenâs 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 â another podium, but not a win â 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. âYou donât have to hold it all together right now.â
âI do,â he whispered, voice hoarse. âBecause if I donât, Iâll break.â
Your chest ached. âThen break. With me. Just for a little.â
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 â soft, desperate, more confession than kiss.
âI canât lose this,â he murmured against your mouth. âNot you. Not this season. Not anything.â
âYou wonât,â you promised, threading your fingers through his damp hair. âYouâre right where you need to be. And Iâm not going anywhere.â
He kissed you again, slower this time, steadier, until the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter. The world outside could wait â the break was coming, and for once, he could breathe with you.
âOsc,â you breathed, but it wasnât protest â it was permission.
His eyes searched yours, dark and vulnerable. âYou sure?â
You nodded, heart thundering. âAlways.â
The rest was a blur â 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 â it was all yours, private, untouchable.
And when it was over, tangled in sheets and exhaustion, he held you like heâd never let go. âYouâre everything,â 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 youâd 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 heâd 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 wasnât 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 didnât just know where you stood, youâd 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 â when it wasnât 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. âIf I donât nail this one, I make it harder on myself,â he said, not really to you, not really to anyone.
âYouâve been making it harder on yourself since Melbourne, and youâre still here, still leading fights you werenât supposed to win,â you countered, nudging his foot under the table.
That finally pulled a smile from him. Small, tired, but real. âYou always know how to twist it.â
âItâs not twisting,â you whispered. âItâs the truth.â
Interlagos roared as the lights went out. Oscarâs start was clean, sharp. He slotted into P3, stalking Lando and Max, his car practically glued to theirs.
You couldnât sit. Couldnât 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 â too hard â and for a heartbeat, you swore both cars would spin out.
They didnât. 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 didnât say anything at firstâjust pressed his forehead to yours, the roar of SĂŁo Paulo muffled by the way his chest heaved against yours.
âI thought Iâd lost it when he closed the door,â he admitted finally, voice hoarse. âFor a second, I thought Iâd thrown it all away.â
âBut you didnât,â you whispered back. âYou kept your head. Thatâs what makes you different.â
His hands tightened at your waist, grounding himself. âThatâs what makes me yours.â
And when he kissed you, there was nothing cautious about it. It wasnât 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 didnât 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 âdamage limitation.â You called it âa miracle.â
That night, back at the hotel, he sat on the edge of the bed, still in team-issued joggers, staring out at the Strip.
âYou ever think about what happens if I donât win this thing?â he asked softly. You climbed into his lap and forced him to look at you. âYeah. Youâll still come home to me.â
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 mostâP2 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 didnât care about the cameras catching him clutching your hand like it was oxygen.
Later, half-asleep on the hotel balcony, he rasped, âOne more. Just one. Abu Dhabi.â
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 McLarenâs fight. It was their fight. And it was Oscarâs 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.
âAlright mate,â came Tom Stallardâs calm voice through Oscarâs radio. âItâs been a long year, but this is it. Letâs execute clean. You know what you need to do.â
Oscarâs reply was clipped, steady, but you could hear the coil of tension underneath. âCopy.â
He didnât need to say more. Heâd 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. Landoâs getaway was sharp too, his McLaren pulling alongside into Turn 1. For a terrifying split second, you couldnât breatheâtwo 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.
âTheyâre racing,â someone muttered in the garage, as though it wasnât obvious, as though every person on the pit wall wasnât 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.
âNice work, Oscar. Good hold.â
âYeah, copy.â
But it was only lap one of fifty-eight.
The race settled into a rhythmâOscar in P1, Lando just inside DRS range, Max hovering in third, never more than two seconds back. Every lap felt like a lifetime.
âGap to Lando: 0.8,â Tom relayed.
Oscarâs jaw flexed behind his helmet. âUnderstood.â
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.
âDo you think theyâll let them race?â 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.
âBox, box. Box this lap,â came Tomâs calm call.
Oscar swung into the pits, the McLaren crew flawless â 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.
âLandoâs attacking,â Tom warned. âI see him,â 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 â half relief, half panic.
Your nails dug crescents into your palms. It wasnât sustainable. They couldnât keep fighting like this without one of them ending up in the wall.
âNice defense. But keep looking forward, Oscar. Max is pushing.â
Oscar exhaled harshly into the mic. âYeah. Copy.â
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. Oscarâs lead had stretched to just over a second, but it was fragile, flimsy, like spun glass.
And Lando wasnât giving up.
From the garage, you could see Zak Brown pacing, arms crossed tight, muttering under his breath.
âTheyâre going to kill each other,â Andrea Stella said flatly into his mic, though his eyes never left the monitors.
âGap to Lando: 1.1. Gap to Max: 2.2.â Oscarâs 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.
âDonât you dareââ 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. âHeâs not backing off.â
Tomâs reply was maddeningly calm. âNeither are you. Keep it clean. Eyes forward.â
Lap 29.
Oscarâs 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 â Landoâs front wing twitching, hunting.
âGap to Lando: 0.4,â Tomâs voice filled his helmet.
âCopy,â Oscar breathed, though his jaw was clenched so tightly it ached.
From the garage, you couldnât look away from the monitor. Every camera cut, every switch of angles felt like a knifeâs 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 Oscarâs 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.
âBloody hell,â someone muttered under their breath.
âOscar, mind the tires,â Tom warned.
âI know,â Oscar snapped, voice sharp, before softening. âCar feels okay.â
You could hear the truth, thoughâthe tension in his tone, the way he was carrying every ounce of weight on his shoulders.
By lap 32, Max Verstappen loomed again. Heâd managed his tires better, Red Bull strategy inching him closer.
âGap to Max: 1.6,â Tom updated.
âHeâs coming,â 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. âCome on, Osc.â
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.
âOscar, box box. Push in-lap.â
Oscar gunned it, threading the circuit on burning rubber, every apex kissed with desperate precision.
The pitstop cameâtires 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.
âDonât do thisââ 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 Oscarâs car filled the space.
When they exited the corner, Oscar was still ahead. By inches.
âLovely job, mate,â Tom said, voice tight but controlled. âKeep it tidy.â
Oscarâs reply was short, almost bitten off. âYeah.â
Lap 40.
The desert air had cooled, but inside the cockpit, Oscar was boiling. His body screamed at himâmuscles locked, fingers numb, vision tunneled under the halo. But none of that mattered.
âGap to Lando: 0.9. Gap to Max: 1.2.â
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 garageâZak, pale and pacing; Andrea Stella, stone-faced but with his hand flexing against his tablet; even the mechanics, whoâd 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 thenâOscar held it.
He kept his nose ahead, just enough to force Lando to yield before the hotel section. Landoâs frustrated exhale was broadcast on the team radio before it cut. Oscarâs chest heaved inside the cockpit. âHeâs not giving up.â
Tomâs voice was firm. âNeither are you. Five laps. Keep your head down.â 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.
âGap to Max: 1.0.â
The Red Bull loomed in his mirrors. The papaya behind was relentless. And Oscar had never been more alive, or more terrified.
âStay with it, mate,â Tom urged. âStay with it.â
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 hadnât 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.
âThey wonât,â you whispered, though you werenât sure if you believed it.
Lap 57.
Second-to-last lap. The back straight loomed.
âLando closing. DRS.â 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.
âLast lap, mate. You know what this means. Eyes forward.â
Oscar didnât reply. He couldnât. 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 thenâ
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 otherâs arms. Zak Brown actually cried.
You didnât 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.
âOscar Piastri,â the commentatorâs voice boomed across Yas Marina, âwins the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and is the 2025 Formula One World Champion!â
The words shook you to your core. Heâd done it. Heâd really done it.
âYES! YESSS!â Oscarâs voice cracked over the radio, a mix of raw joy and disbelief. âWorld Champion, baby! Thank you, thank you guysâthank you so much!â
You could hear him sob, just once, before the radio cut.
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 youâd 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. âYou did it. You did it.â
He pulled back, just enough to press his forehead to yours, eyes wet, lips trembling. âCouldnât have done it without you.â
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 youâd 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, thatâs 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 Oscarâs 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 â breathless, almost disbelieving â and rubbed a hand over his face.
âI actually did it,â he whispered. His voice cracked in the quiet. âIâm⊠a Formula One world champion.â
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 heâd never leave you behind â 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 wasnât Oscar Piastri, Formula One World Champion. He was just Oscar. Your Oscar.
âYou did,â you whispered back, a smile tugging at your lips. âAnd Iâm so proud of you, Osc.â
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.
âCouldnât have done it without you,â he murmured, voice muffled. âNot a single bit of it. Youâve been there since the beginning⊠since we were kids. Sinceâeverything.â
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. âYou did this,â you whispered against his ear. âThis was all you, Osc. I justââ You broke off when he pulled back suddenly, just enough to look at you.
âDonât say âjust,ââ he said, firm but soft. âYou 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.â His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin. âI love you. God, I love you so much it hurts.â
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 â almost reverent, as if he was afraid youâd 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.
âOscarââ 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.
âWhat?â he teased, voice low, almost hoarse. âIâve waited all season for this. You canât take it away from me now.â
Your laugh caught in your throat because his eyes were burning, not just with desire but with devotion. Like you were the trophy heâd been chasing all along.
âYouâre ridiculous,â you managed, brushing a stray curl from his forehead.
âYeah,â He grinned, leaning closer until his lips brushed yours again. âAnd you love me anyway.â
You did. God, you did.
The kisses deepened, slower now but weighted, full of everything left unsaid during the long season â 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.
âYouâre it for me,â he whispered against your skin, voice ragged, words spilling out like a confession he couldnât hold back. âAlways have been. Always will be. Doesnât matter if I win again or lose everything. Youâre my everything.â
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 didnât have words for.
The world outside that hotel room ceased to exist. Here, there was only Oscar. His laughter against your mouth, his whispered âI love youâs, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the way his hands held you like heâd 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 wasnât 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 hadnât 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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summary: She was all sharp edges and lip gloss. He was all chaos and charm. Five years of bickering ends in one night, one ride home, and one morning that changes everything.
pairing: lando norris x reader
word count: 6.4k
contains: regina george!reader, loosely based off this tiktok but after writing i realized lando wasn't like rodrick at all so i scrapped that idea, banter, slowburn but not included (if that makes sense), title is from katseye's "mean girls"
The hallway smelled like overpriced perfume, chaos, and teenage delusion, just how you liked it. Your heels clicked against the tiles as you walked with your usual entourage: Gretchen and Karen, both clutching iced lattes and following your lead like it was a full-time job. You were late, but that didnât matter. People moved for you.
âDid you see her shoes?â Gretchen whispered. You didnât have to ask who. âDisaster,â you said, flipping your hair. âItâs giving bargain bin.â
Youâd perfected this, being the kind of girl people whispered about, admired, and feared. You werenât mean. You were honest. And if the truth hurt peopleâs feelings, that wasnât your fault.
Everything in your little kingdom was going as it should, until he leaned against your locker like he owned it.
âMorning, sunshine,â Lando Norris said, grinning all dimples and trouble. His uniform shirt was untucked, tie half-off, hair sticking up like heâd lost a fight with gravity. âDidnât think youâd grace us mortals this early.â
You crossed your arms, unimpressed. âDidnât think you knew how to tell time, Norris.â
His grin widened. âOh, I can tell the time. I just lose track whenever you walk in.â
Karen snorted behind you, choking on her latte. You didnât turn to glare at her, because that would give him satisfaction.
âYouâre blocking my locker,â you said smoothly. âMove.â
âSure,â he said, pushing off the metal door, but only after leaning a little too close. âYou smell nice, by the way. What is that? Expensive and unattainable?â
âExactly. You wouldnât get it.â
âI could, if you wrote it down for me.â
You rolled your eyes and shoved past him, but your pulse betrayed you, thudding faster than it shouldâve. You could feel his eyes on your back as you opened your locker, pretending your hands werenât slightly shaking. He was the only person who could get under your skin without even trying.
âAre you two, like⊠flirting?â Gretchen whispered, barely containing her grin.
âAbsolutely not.â
âYou totally were!â Karen giggled. âYou were all âyou smell niceâ and she was like âew, you wouldnât get it.â Thatâs foreplay for you two.â
You shot them a withering look. âIf I ever flirt with Lando Norris, commit me.â
âNoted,â Gretchen said, smirking. âBut, um⊠You might need to be committed soon.â
You ignored her, slamming your locker shut. Lando was still there, chatting with some guy, laughing like he hadnât just ruined your morning equilibrium. His laugh carried down the hall, loud, unbothered, golden.
And damn it, he was good-looking. Not in a polished way like the boys you usually entertained, but in that infuriating âjust rolled out of bed and still looks like troubleâ kind of way. You hated that your eyes lingered.
By lunch, the entire table knew about your âlocker scene.â
âSo, you and Lando,â said Aaron, your exâemphasis on exâtwirling his fork. âSomething brewing?â
You didnât even look up from your salad. âYeah. My nausea.â
Gretchen kicked you under the table. âCome on, youâve got to admit, heâs funny.â
âClowns are funny,â you said. âDoesnât mean I want to date one.â
You were expecting that to end the conversation. It didnât. Because halfway through lunch, Lando himself appeared, tray in hand, confidence like a weapon. He slid into the seat across from you before anyone could stop him.
âHey, Queen Bee,â he said, stealing a fry from Aaronâs plate. âDidnât realize this was the royal court.â
Aaron glared. âNo one invited you, Norris.â
âOh, donât worry,â Lando said, glancing at you. âI came for her, not you.â
Your fork froze midair. You could hear Karen trying not to laugh. âIn your dreams.â
âYou are in most of them,â he said casually, taking another fry. âUsually yelling at me.â
The table erupted, half gasps, half laughter. You blinked, momentarily stunned, before snapping back, âYouâre delusional.â
âMaybe. But youâre blushing.â
âIâm not.â
âYou are,â he teased, resting his chin in his hand. âItâs cute.â
That did it. You stood, tossing your napkin onto the table. âEnjoy your little audience, Norris.â
And you walked away, head high, pretending you didnât hear him call after you, âSee you in chem, princess!â
Your friends caught up to you halfway down the hall, laughing so hard Karen nearly tripped.
âY/N,â Gretchen said between giggles, âyou were totally throwing your panties at him.â
âI was insulting him!â
âSame difference,â Karen said, wiping tears from her eyes. âGod, you two are going to either date or kill each other.â
You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warm feeling crawling up your neck. âOver my dead body.â
âDonât say that,â Gretchen said. âYouâll manifest it.â
By Monday morning, youâd convinced yourself that Lando Norris was a temporary glitch in your otherwise perfect life. You could ignore him, easily. Youâd done harder things, like calculus.
But apparently, fateâand your math teacherâhad other plans.
âAlright, class,â Mrs. Norbury announced. âWeâll be starting our new project on applied functions today. Iâll be assigning partners.â
You didnât panic. You always worked with Gretchen. Gretchen always worked with you. You were the dream team, efficient, aesthetic, and mildly terrifying.
âY/N,â Mrs. Norbury said. âYouâll be with⊠Norris.â
You blinked. âIâm sorryâ what?â
Lando was already slouched in his chair, grinning like a cat whoâd just eaten the canary. âGuess weâre partners, Princess.â
âNo,â you said flatly.
âYes,â the teacher said firmly. âYou two balance each other out. She plans, he improvises. Itâll be good for both of you.â
Lando shot you a wink. You seriously considered dropping out.
When you sat next to him, you made sure there was an entire rulerâs length between your chairs. You werenât going to let him charm his way into this project â or your sanity.
âSo,â Lando said, spinning his pencil like it was a drumstick. âWhatâs our strategy, queen bee?â
âThe strategy,â you said without looking at him, âis that I do the work and you donât talk.â
He laughed softly. âThat doesnât sound very collaborative.â
âYou failed the last quiz.â
âYeah, because you distracted me.â
You turned to glare at him. âI wasnât even talking to you.â
âExactly,â he said with a smirk. âThatâs what made it worse.â
You stared at him, torn between throttling him and dropping out of school entirely. âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd yet youâre still sitting here.â
You hated that your lips twitched. You didnât smile. You absolutely did not smile.
By lunch, the entire school had somehow figured out that you were paired up.
Gretchen was the first to bring it up. âSo, math boy.â
You groaned. âDonât call him that.â
âFine,â she said, smirking. âLando.â
Karen gasped. âOh my god, thatâs so cute though. You two are, like, academic rivals turned power couple.â
You threw a grape at her. âHeâs a distraction. A loud, annoying distraction.â
âSure,â Aaron said from across the table. âAnd Iâm the valedictorian.â
You ignored them all, but they werenât wrong about one thing â Lando was loud. He filled every space he entered, talked like the world revolved around his voice, and somehow made even numbers sound like a joke.
And yet, when he leaned over your desk that afternoon, squinting at the problem set, his hair slightly messy, pencil tucked behind his ear â you hated how your stomach flipped.
âWhatâs the derivative of this again?â he asked, brow furrowed.
You sighed and wrote it out for him. âItâs not that hard.â
He watched you write, grinning. âYouâre really smart, you know that?â
âStop trying to flirt your way into passing.â
âI wasnât flirting,â he said innocently. âJust observing.â
You swore he was going to be the death of you.
The next morning, there was a sticky note on your locker.
âMath genius. Heart thief. â Lâ
You stared at it, torn between laughter and homicide.
Gretchen peeked over your shoulder. âThatâs adorable.â
âItâs harassment.â
âItâs romance,â she countered. âIn a dumb teenage boy way.â
You ripped the note off and stuffed it into your bag, muttering, âHeâs impossible.â
But you didnât throw it away.
When presentation day came, Landoâshockinglyâshowed up prepared. His slides were neat, his explanation was actually good, and when he spoke, the class listened. Youâd never seen him so focused.
Afterward, while everyone was packing up, he leaned in and whispered, âTold you we make a good team.â
And for the first time, you couldnât even argue.
That night, your phone wouldnât stop buzzing.
Your friends were merciless. Gretchen swore you were glowing after class, Karen insisted you were blushing, and Aaron declared he wanted front-row seats to your wedding.
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, telling them they were insane. Lando had just⊠walked with you. That was it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But even as you typed out your denial, you could still hear his voice, soft, smug, and genuine: âTold you we make a good team.â
You told yourself you werenât smiling. You werenât thinking about him. You werenât wondering what it would be like if he actually meant it.
You werenât.
You werenât.
You definitely werenât.
You tell yourself youâre only here because of Gretchen.
Thatâs the first lie of the night.
The second is when you pretend not to scan the room for him the second you step inside.
Itâs too hot, the lights are too loud, and someone has decided a smoke machine is an essential element of teenage chaos. The living room thrums like a heartbeat. You can taste cheap alcohol in the air. You hate it â obviously. Youâre better than this, or at least youâve spent your whole life convincing people you are.
âRelax,â Gretchen says, tugging at your sleeve as she sways to the bass. âItâs a party, not a pop quiz.â
You roll your eyes, clutching your cup like armor. âIf it were a pop quiz, at least Iâd pass.â
âBabe, you study for fun. You need this.â
You want to argue, but then you catch a flash of familiar brown curls near the kitchen, and the rest of her words dissolve.
Lando Norris.
Of course, heâs here.
Youâd know that laugh anywhere â too bright, too boyish, the sound of someone whoâs never once doubted heâd get what he wanted.
Heâs leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a beer, talking animatedly to someone who looks like she might dissolve under the weight of his smile.
You hate the way your stomach twists. You call it irritation. It feels suspiciously like jealousy.
âDonât look now,â Gretchen sing-songs. âBut your favorite headacheâs in the kitchen.â
You scowl. âHeâs everyoneâs headache.â
âSure,â she says, already grinning. âBut youâve got the prescription.â
You donât dignify that with a response. You down whatâs left of your drink, grimace at the burn, and march toward the counter because if youâre going to suffer, you might as well do it up close.
He notices you instantly. Of course, he does, he always does.
âWell, well,â he drawls. âDidnât think the queen of âew, socializingâ would bless us with her presence.â
You snort. âIâm doing charity work.â
âAh,â he says, pretending to consider. âYou volunteering to make me fall in love with you, then?â
You arch a brow. âYouâd need more than charity for that.â
His grin widens, dangerous, disarming. âSee? Youâre flirting already.â
âIâm threatening.â
âTomato, to-mah-to.â
You hate that heâs good at this, pushing, teasing, pulling you into a rhythm that feels almost choreographed. You hate that you enjoy the rhythm.
He slides a red cup toward you. âYou look like you need this.â
You glance inside. âWhat is it?â
âLiquid courage.â
âI already have that.â
âThen call it liquid denial.â
You take it just to prove you donât care, sip it, wince at the taste. He laughs, the kind of laugh that curls around you like smoke.
âStrong?â he asks.
âDisgusting,â you answer. âLike you.â
âThen youâll love it.â
Itâs stupid, but the corner of your mouth twitches. You turn away quickly, pretending to check your phone.
He leans closer, voice dropping. âYou know, youâre much nicer when youâre pretending not to like me.â
âAnd youâre much quieter when youâre not speaking.â
His smile doesnât falter. If anything, it softens. âYou have no idea how fun it is to make you talk to me.â
You hate that heâs right.
âGod, youâre impossible.â
âI prefer irresistible.â
Your friends are watching from across the room, stifling giggles behind their cups. You can practically hear the group-chat notifications already. You send them a glare sharp enough to kill, but it only makes them laugh harder.
You need an escape. Any escape.
âIâm going to get air,â you mutter, shoving your cup at him.
He tilts his head, pretending to look wounded. âRunning away? Thatâs not very Regina-of-you.â
You stop just long enough to toss over your shoulder, âKeep talking and Iâll make your GPA disappear.â
His laughter follows you out onto the porch, low, genuine, annoyingly warm.
The night air hits colder than you expected. It smells like rain and cigarette smoke and the kind of loneliness that creeps up when the music fades.
You sink onto the porch steps, tugging your jacket tighter. Inside, people are laughing, shouting, existing in a way you canât quite figure out how to. You tell yourself you like control, that you prefer walls to vulnerability â but sitting here alone, you wonder if the walls are closing in.
The door creaks.
âThought youâd ditched,â Lando says, stepping out. His tone is lighter than his expression.
âWishful thinking.â
He sits beside you anyway, close enough that your knees almost touch. âYouâre really bad at hiding when somethingâs wrong.â
âNothingâs wrong.â
He hums, unconvinced. âRight. You just looked at your reflection in the punch bowl and realized even mirrors are scared of you.â
You bite back a laugh. âYou think youâre funny.â
âI know I am.â
âDelusional.â
âHot,â he corrects.
You roll your eyes, but the silence that follows isnât hostile. Itâs⊠quiet. The kind of quiet that fills in rather than empties out.
He kicks at a loose pebble. âYou donât have to keep the act on, you know.â
You glance at him. âWhat act?â
âThe one where you pretend nothing ever gets to you.â
Something catches in your throat. You look away. âItâs not an act.â
âSure,â he says softly. âThen why do you look like youâre about to cry every time someone says your name too gently?â
You blink hard. âWow. Thatâs presumptuous.â
âMaybe,â he admits, âbut Iâm not wrong.â
You want to tell him to shut up. You want to insult his shoes, his face, his everything. But you canât. Not when heâs looking at you like that, like he means it, like heâs not playing the same game you are.
You sigh, long and tired. âYou really donât know when to quit.â
âNot when it comes to you.â
The words hang between you, thin and electric. For a second, you canât breathe.
He doesnât touch you, doesnât move closer, but somehow it feels like heâs everywhere, the sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his shoulder, the smell of clean laundry and faint cologne.
Your heart trips.
âI should go find my friends,â you whisper.
âRight,â he says, voice unreadable. âWouldnât want people thinking you actually like me.â
You manage a shaky laugh. âExactly.â
He grins again, but it doesnât reach his eyes. âSee you around, princess.â
And just like that, heâs gone, back into the noise, the lights, the crowd that always seems to part for him.
You watch him disappear, every smart retort dying on your tongue.
Because the worst part is, heâs right.
You donât hate him. You hate that you donât.
You donât remember when you decided to leave.
One minute you were inside again, pretending to laugh at a joke that wasnât funny, the next, you were outside, the bass fading behind you like a bad memory. The air smells like rain nowâreal rain this timeâand the streetlights blur in the mist.
Your heels click against the pavement, steady and sharp. It feels like control. It feels like pretending you have somewhere to go, even though you donât.
You told Gretchen youâd call a car. You didnât. Your phone died twenty minutes ago, and you couldnât bring yourself to admit it.
Itâs not even that far home, you tell yourself. Just a few streets. You can handle it.
Except your vision swims a little when you look down at your feet. Youâre not drunkâyouâd never let yourself get that farâbut youâre buzzed. Enough that the street feels longer, emptier, lonelier.
âShouldâve just stayed home,â you mutter, kicking at a puddle. Water splashes your ankle. Perfect.
The irony doesnât escape you that for someone who prides herself on always being composed, youâve never felt more unput-together.
Youâre halfway through your internal scolding when a pair of headlights slows behind you.
You donât look up until a voice calls out through the open window:
âRegina George, you planning to walk the whole city in those shoes?â
You stop. Turn.
Of course, itâs him.
Lando leans across the passenger seat, arm draped over the wheel, curls messy, eyes bright even in the dim glow of his carâs dashboard.
You groan. âOh, for fuckâs sake.â
He grins. âYouâre welcome.â
âI didnât ask for anything.â
He nods toward the empty seat. âGet in, drama queen.â
You cross your arms. âIâm fine.â
âSure,â he says easily, âbecause walking home alone at midnight in stilettos is a genius move.â
You open your mouth for a retort, but your foot slips slightly on the wet pavement andâgoddammitâhe has a point.
You glare at him anyway. âIf you tell anyone about thisââ
âYeah, yeah. Iâll take it to my grave.â His tone softens. âCâmon. Youâre freezing.â
You hesitate only a second before yanking the door open and sliding in. The car smells like pine and something faintly citrusy, like a summer you forgot to enjoy.
He starts driving without another word. The radio hums low, some indie song that sounds too emotional for two people pretending not to care.
The silence is thick.
âYou didnât have to,â you mutter finally, eyes fixed on the passing streetlights.
He shrugs, eyes on the road. âDidnât want to wake up tomorrow and read about you getting kidnapped by a raccoon or something.â
You snort, despite yourself. âHow noble.â
âIâm basically a hero.â
âYouâre basically an idiot.â
He laughs, quiet but genuine. Itâs unfair how good that sound feels.
You sneak a glance at him â the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, the curve of his mouth when he tries not to smile. You look away quickly.
He catches it anyway. âWhat?â
âNothing.â
He grins. âYou were totally staring.â
You scoff. âIn your dreams.â
âEvery night, actually.â
You shove his shoulder lightly. âYouâre unbearable.â
âAnd yet, youâre in my car.â
You want to say something scathing. You really do. But then he takes a turn a little too fast, and his arm instinctively goes out in front of you, protective, automatic.
Your breath catches.
He notices. âSorry.â
You shake your head, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. âItâs fine.â
For a few minutes, the only sound is the rain beginning to tap against the windshield. You watch the wipers glide back and forth like a metronome keeping time for a song neither of you knows how to finish.
Thenâquietlyâhe says, âYou okay?â
You blink. âWhy wouldnât I be?â
He gives a half-smile, but it doesnât reach his eyes. âYou looked⊠sad. Back there.â
You swallow. âMaybe I just hate parties.â
âI donât buy that.â
âThen maybe I just hate people.â
âExcept me,â he says lightly.
You turn to him. âWho said that?â
He shrugs. âWishful thinking.â
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep the grin from slipping out. âYouâre not my type.â
âGood thing Iâm everyoneâs type.â
You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. Youâre too aware of the way his fingers tap the steering wheel in rhythm with the music, the way his hair curls against the side of his neck, the way heâs looking at you like youâre not the person youâve spent so long pretending to be.
âLando,â you say finally, half-warning, half-plea.
âYeah?â
âDonât.â
He glances at you, brow furrowed. âDonât what?â
âMake this weird.â
He chuckles softly. âToo late for that.â
You sigh, leaning your head against the window. The glass is cool against your skin.
The car slows as you reach your street. You point toward your house, but the words donât come. For some reason, the thought of saying goodnight feels heavier than it should.
He pulls up to the curb, puts the car in park, but doesnât move to unlock the doors. The rain has picked up now, soft and steady, filling the silence.
âYouâre really not going to tell me whatâs wrong?â he asks again, quieter this time.
You stare straight ahead. âWhy do you care?â
He exhales, eyes flicking toward you. âBecause you act like no one should.â
That hits harder than you expect. You want to deflect, to make a joke, but your throatâs too tight for it.
You reach for the handle. âThanks for the ride.â
His hand shoots out, gently catching your wrist. âHey. Donât do that.â
âDo what?â
âPretend youâre fine when youâre clearly not.â
You donât mean for your voice to break when you say, âWhat do you want me to say, Lando? That Iâm tired? That I hate how I feel around you? That I wish I didnât care?â
He blinks, startled, not by the words, but by the crack in them.
The rain fills the silence again. Your pulse thunders in your ears.
Then, quietly, he says, âYou can hate me tomorrow. Just⊠let me make sure youâre okay tonight.â
You look at himâreally lookâand for the first time, you donât see the cocky grin or the teasing remarks. You see someone who actually means it.
Itâs disarming. Terrifying.
You nod, just once.
He lets out a slow breath, relief flickering across his face. âCâmon. My house is closer. You can crash there. Iâll text Gretchen so she doesnât freak out.â
You hesitate, but the exhaustion wins. You nod again, softer this time.
âFine. But if you try anythingââ
He smiles, pulling back onto the road. âRelax, princess. Iâll behave.â
You donât believe him.
You also donât care.
Because for the first time that night, the thought of not being alone feels like something you might actually need.
The first thing you notice is the light.
Itâs soft, gold, and wrong; it filters through curtains that arenât yours, landing across your face in a way your own bedroom never quite manages. It feels too gentle for your hangover and too kind for your brain, which is currently piecing itself back together like a shattered mirror.
The second thing you notice is the smell. Coffee. Soap. And something faintly citrusy, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.
You groan quietly, rolling onto your back. Your head throbs, a dull pulse behind your eyes. Thereâs a hoodie draped over your torso, heavy and warm, sleeves pooled around your hands. You donât remember putting it on.
You blink up at the ceiling, confusion settling in. This isnât your room.
The walls are lined with postersâcars, mostly. Racing ones. The desk is cluttered with notebooks and energy drink cans. Thereâs a gaming headset hanging off the chair, a stack of controllers on the nightstand, and a small photo frame turned facedown.
It hits you all at once, like an aftershock.
Oh, no.
You sit up too quickly, clutching your head. The room tilts, and you groan again, quieter this time. The blanket falls to your lap. Youâre still in your clothes from last night, the sequined top, the black skirt, the mascara smudged under your eyes.
And the hoodie.
His hoodie.
Itâs all coming back in slow motion: the rain, the headlights, the warmth of the passenger seat. The way he looked at you when you said you hate how I feel around you.
âShit,â you whisper.
Because itâs not the first time Lando Norris has looked at you like that.
You glance around, half-expecting him to be sitting in a chair or leaning against the doorframe with that smug half-smile. But heâs not. The room is quiet. You can hear faint movement somewhere outside the doorâa pan clattering, the low hum of a kettle.
Heâs up.
You press your hands to your face, trying to breathe.
The night replays again, pieces clicking together, his hand catching your wrist in the car, his voice low and steady, saying you can hate me tomorrow.
Well. Itâs tomorrow.
And you do hate him. At least, thatâs what you tell yourself.
You hate that heâs always there. That he knows when to push and when to stop, when to make you laugh and when to leave you alone. You hate that for the last five years, heâs been the one constant in the background â never quite close enough to call yours, but always close enough to matter.
You remember it now, clearer than you want to.
You were fifteen the first time he asked you out. Youâd laughed in his face, told him to âtry someone in his league.â
Heâd just grinned and said, âSo, youâre admitting Iâm aiming high?â
That was the start of it â this stupid, endless game.
Heâd tease you in the halls, drop notes into your locker, sneak glances when he thought you werenât looking. And every time you rolled your eyes, every time you told him to stop, heâd just say something ridiculous like, âOne day, youâll say yes.â
He wasnât wrong. He just wasnât right yet.
Because back then, it was easy to laugh him off. To act like you were untouchable. To keep your walls so high that no one could see over them.
But last night? Last night, for the first time, you let him in, even if it was just a crack.
And you remember everything.
The drive. His voice. The way his hoodie smelled when he draped it over your shoulders. The way heâd looked at you when you finally stopped pretending everything was fine.
You donât know what scares you more: that you let yourself break in front of him, or that he didnât take advantage of it.
Heâd just⊠been there. Quiet. Kind.
No jokes, no teasing, no smug smile. Just steady.
It wouldâve been easier if heâd made a move, if heâd flirted, if heâd said something infuriating. Thatâs what you expect from him. Thatâs the version of Lando you know how to handle.
But he didnât. He covered you with a blanket and let you sleep.
And now, sitting here in his room, wearing his hoodie, you donât know what to do with that version of him.
You look at your reflection in the small mirror by his desk, hair a mess, makeup smudged, eyes tired but soft in a way that doesnât look like you. You look⊠human.
You hate it.
You pull the hoodie tighter around yourself anyway.
Because even though itâs too big, even though it smells like him, even though itâs every kind of dangerous, you feel warm.
Thereâs a quiet knock on the door. You jolt, spinning toward the sound.
âHey,â his voice says softly through the wood. âYou awake?â
You freeze. â...Yeah.â
âCoffeeâs ready. You take sugar, right?â
You hesitate. âUh, yeah.â
A pause. âCan I come in?â
You stare at the door, heart hammering. âIâ yeah. Sure.â
It opens slowly, and there he is.
Hair still messy, hoodie swapped for a t-shirt that shouldnât fit him as well as it does, a mug in each hand. He looks tired, but thereâs that same small, crooked smile on his face, the one that always ruins your defenses.
âMorning,â he says quietly.
You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. You just stare.
He glances at the hoodie youâre wearing. âThat looks better on you than it ever did on me.â
âDonât start,â you mutter, pulling the sleeves over your hands.
He laughs under his breath and sets a mug on the nightstand beside you. âDidnât think youâd remember much from last night.â
You look up at him, meeting his gaze. âI do.â
That wipes the smirk clean off his face.
You sip the coffee slowly, eyes never leaving his. âYou really thought Iâd forget?â
He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. âWouldâve made it easier.â
âFor you or for me?â
He doesnât answer. He just leans against the wall, watching you.
And in that quietâbetween the hum of the rain outside and the steady beat of your heartâyou realize something that makes your stomach twist.
Heâs still looking at you the way he always has. Like heâs waiting.
And for the first time, youâre not sure you want him to stop.
You donât realize how close he still is until you exhale, and the air catches on his collarbone. His handâthe one that had been tracing lazy circles over the duvetâstills, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach for you again. Youâre both frozen there, breathing the same air, trapped somewhere between last nightâs chaos and the kind of silence that feels too intimate to break.
âStill tired?â he murmurs eventually, voice gravelly with sleep.
You hum, rolling onto your back, staring at the ceiling. âIâm trying to pretend this is a dream so I donât have to deal with it later.â
Lando chuckles â that same stupid, boyish sound that used to make you want to throw a shoe at him. âIf this were a dream, youâd be nicer to me.â
You turn your head, giving him a side-eye thatâs more fond than you mean it to be. âYou wish.â
He smiles â slow, lazy, utterly self-satisfied. âYeah, kinda do.â
Thereâs a stretch of silence after that. Itâs not awkward, exactly. Itâs the kind that feels suspended, fragile, like any wrong word could break it. The morning light cuts through the blinds in stripes, falling over his face, over the sharp edge of his jaw, and the faint freckles that scatter across his nose. You hate how warm it makes you feel.
âYou remember everything from last night, donât you?â he asks softly.
You nod. âEvery humiliating second.â
âGood.â He grins. âWouldâve been tragic if you forgot how you called me the âless annoying oneâ between me and your ex.â
Your face burns. âOh my god. Youâre impossible.â
âAnd yet,â he leans in slightly, voice dropping, âyou still called me.â
You open your mouth, ready with some sharp, defensive comeback, but nothing comes out. Because heâs right. You did. You called him. Out of everyone. And even though you could justify it â he was the only one awake, you were lost, you were panicking â it doesnât change what it means.
Your voice softens, betraying you. âYou really stayed the whole night?â
âOf course I did.â He says it like itâs the simplest thing in the world. âYou think Iâd just leave you like that?â
You stare at him, something tender curling in your chest. You want to look away, but his expression is so steady, so open, that you canât. âYou shouldnât be this nice to me.â
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. âYou say that like you donât love it.â
âI donât.â
âYou do.â
âLandoââ
He cuts you off by tugging the edge of the blanket higher, brushing his knuckles against your arm. Itâs a small, thoughtless movement, but your skin sparks where he touches you. Youâre suddenly too aware of how close you are, how his breath fans over your cheek when he talks.
âYouâre really bad at lying, you know that?â he says.
You glare at him half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth betrays a twitch. âAnd youâre really bad at shutting up.â
He grins, wide and unbothered. âThatâs fair.â
He shifts a little closer, his arm brushing yours again, deliberate this time. You feel the warmth of him, the quiet thrum under your skin thatâs been there since last night. You should move. You donât.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence isnât heavy anymore, itâs softer now, almost domestic. You can hear the faint hum of his phone charging on the nightstand, the distant noise of birds outside, and under it all, his steady breathing beside you.
When he finally speaks again, itâs quiet. âYou know, I wasnât kidding.â
You blink. âAbout what?â
He meets your gaze, unflinching. âI like you. I have for⊠a while.â
You swallow, throat dry. âYouâve been trying to get with me for years, Lando.â
âYeah, but now you actually like me back,â he says, grin turning softer this time, more real. âDonât even try to deny it.â
You groan, pressing your face into the pillow to hide the stupid smile spreading across your face. âYouâre infuriating.â
âCute way to say youâre falling for me.â
âShut up.â
He laughs, the sound low and warm, and before you can react, he reaches over to gently pull the pillow away from your face. Your heart stutters. He doesnât let go right away.
For a second, it feels like everything slows, like the world outside his window stops moving, just for you two. Heâs still smiling, but thereâs something softer behind it now, something that feels almost dangerous.
âHey,â he says quietly, thumb brushing against your wrist, âIâm not gonna push you, okay? You can take all the time you want. I just⊠want you to know Iâm not going anywhere.â
You look at himâreally lookâand it hits you how rare it is for him to sound like that. No teasing, no bravado. Just honest.
You breathe out slowly, and when you finally speak, your voice is small but sure. âYouâre not as annoying as I thought.â
He grins, dimples flashing. âCareful, that almost sounded like a compliment.â
âDonât ruin it.â
But youâre smiling now, and he sees it, the way your defenses are slipping, the way your shoulders relax, the way your hand doesnât move when his fingers graze yours again.
He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. âSoâŠâ he murmurs, âdo I get to say I won you over, or should I wait until after breakfast?â
You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd yet,â he repeats with a smirk, âyouâre still here.â
You donât pull away this time.
Instead, you let the silence settle againâwarm, gentle, familiarâas the morning stretches out between you. And for the first time, you stop trying to pretend you donât want it.
The light has changed by the time either of you moves again, softer, warmer, the kind of morning that feels suspended in amber. It spills across the floor, across the crumpled blanket, across Landoâs face where heâs lying half-turned toward you, head propped on his hand like heâs been studying you for hours.
You blink up at him, groggy but oddly content. âYouâre staring.â
He smiles, lazy and unashamed. âYouâre finally quiet. Itâs fascinating.â
You make a face, reaching for the pillow and smacking him lightly with it. He laughs, catches your wrist mid-swing, and suddenly your hand is caught between both of his, your pulse thudding against his palm. The laughter fades, replaced by something quieter, a steady, magnetic kind of calm.
âCareful,â he murmurs, thumb brushing the back of your hand, âyouâll make me think you actually like me.â
You snort, trying to sound unaffected, but your voice betrays you. âMaybe I just havenât woken up enough to hate you yet.â
He grins. âThatâs progress.â
He shifts closer, and itâs ridiculous how natural it feels, like youâve been doing this for years instead of constantly throwing verbal knives at him. You can smell his cologne, faint and clean, something you recognize from every hallway argument youâve ever had with him. The thought makes you laugh softly.
âWhat?â he asks, amused.
âJust⊠you,â you mumble. âYouâre not supposed to smell this good.â
He laughs under his breath, the sound rumbling through the air between you. âYouâre not supposed to admit that.â
You shrug, feigning indifference, but your cheeks are warm and you know he can see it. âDonât get used to it.â
He leans in just a little, voice dropping low. âToo late.â
The words hang there, heavier than they should be. Heâs close enough now that you can see the faint golden flecks in his eyes, the curl of his smile thatâs somehow both smug and stupidly soft. You could pull awayâyou shouldâbut the idea doesnât even occur to you until itâs already too late.
You donât kiss him. Not yet. You just lie there, barely a breath apart, the weight of it filling the space like static.
âHey, Lando?â you whisper.
âYeah?â
âYouâre still annoying.â
He grins, dimples flashing. âAnd you still like me.â
You roll your eyes, but the smile breaks through anyway, unwilling, unstoppable. âI really hate that youâre right.â
He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering against your cheek. âYou can hate it later. Stay a little longer first.â
The suggestion sits between you, wrapped in the soft hum of the morning, half a dare, half a promise. You should get up. You should grab your shoes, make some snarky remark, and leave before this turns into something you canât take back.
Instead, you sigh and sink deeper into the sheets. âJust for a bit,â you mutter.
Lando grins, victorious but gentle, pulling the blanket higher around both of you. âJust for a bit,â he echoes.
You rest your head against his shoulder, pretending itâs because the pillowâs too far away, and he pretends not to notice. The silence that follows isnât sharp or uncertain anymore. Itâs warm, the kind that wraps around you like sunlight through a window you forgot to close.
âLando?â you murmur after a moment.
âYeah?â
âIf you ever tell anyone about this, Iâll ruin your life.â
He laughs, quiet and easy. âDeal.â
And when he leans in just a fraction closerâclose enough that his breath skims your skin, close enough that the morning slows to a humâyou let it happen. Because maybe youâre tired of pretending you donât want him. Maybe, for once, itâs okay to let yourself fall.
Outside, the day keeps moving. Inside, you donât.
âą summary: a perfectionist ballerina on the brink of burnout and a formula one driver who sees her before the world does.
âą pairing: alex albon x ballerina!reader
âą contains: perfectionist & stubborn!reader, injury, tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, tiny argument, named background characters
âą word count: 7.4k
âą note: this was requested by @clarenciago but i accidentally lost the request because my dumbass pressed ctrl+enter!!
The studio has that familiar scent of rosin and sweat. Thereâs something faintly metallic, like old mirrors that have watched too many people bleed ambition into the floor.
You arrive before the sun rises, like you always do.
The security guard downstairs barely looks up when you swipe in. He just gives you the same nod heâs given you every morning for the past three years. He knows the sound of your shoes, the way you move fast and precisely, already thinking ten steps ahead. By the time the elevator doors close, youâre rolling your shoulders, warming your ankles, stretching your neck.
There is no wasted movement. There never is.
The studio lights flicker on one by one, harsh and unforgiving. You like it that way. You like seeing everything: every flaw, every imperfection, every angle that isnât good enough yet.
Your reflection stares back at you from the wall-length mirror.
Hair pulled tight into a bun. Jaw set. Eyes already sharp with focus.
You donât smile at yourself. Thereâs no time.
Music fills the room, soft at first, then louder as you turn the dial. You place your bag down carefully, lining up your water bottle, towel, toe pads, and spare ribbons. Everything has a place. Everything must be exactly right.
Your body knows the sequence better than your mind does. Muscle memory takes over, carrying you through repetition after repetition. You count quietly under your breath, numbers grounding you, keeping the world small and manageable.
Eight counts. Again. And again.
Your calves burn early today. You ignore it.
They always burn.
The problem with balletâone of manyâis that pain is not a reliable warning sign. Itâs just information. Something to catalog and move past. You learned that years ago, the first time you danced through blisters until your shoes were stained pink.
Pain means youâre working.
Pain means you care.
You push harder.
Hours pass without you noticing. Dancers come and go, the studio filling with murmured greetings, the soft thud of landings, the scrape of shoes against marley. You barely register them. Youâre in your own worldâone measured in counts and corrections and impossible standards.
Your phone buzzes in your bag.
You ignore it.
It buzzes again.
Still nothing.
By the third time, you sigh and step away from the mirror, already annoyed. You wipe sweat from your brow and fish the phone out, expecting a reminder you forgot to turn off or a group chat you muted too late.
Alex: Iâm outside.
You blink. Outside�
Before you can respond, another message pops up.
Alex: With food. Donât argue.
Your heart does something annoying, something warm and sudden and entirely inconvenient.
You glance at the clock.
Late morning. Of course it is. Of course you forgot to eat again.
âDammit,â you mutter, even as your lips curve despite yourself.
Alex Albon has always had impeccable timing when it comes to you not taking care of yourself.
You type quickly.
You: Iâm in rehearsal.
The response is instant.
Alex: I know.
Which means he asked. Or guessed. Or just knew you well enough to show up anyway.
You hesitate.
You donât like interruptions. You donât like breaking momentum. You especially donât like being reminded that thereâs a world outside the studio, one where people eat lunch and sit down and donât punish their bodies for a living.
But you also know Alex.
Know that he wonât leave.
Know that if you donât go now, heâll wait.
So you grab your hoodie, tug it on over your leotard, and slip out of the studio.
Heâs leaning against the wall near the entrance, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses perched on his nose despite being indoors. He looks out of place and perfectly comfortable at the same timeâlike he always does. Thereâs a paper bag in his hands, the smell of warm food already reaching you.
When he spots you, his face lights up immediately.
âThere you are,â he says, smiling like heâs been waiting all dayâwhich, honestly, he probably has.
You cross your arms. âYou canât just ambush me at work.â
âI absolutely can,â he replies easily. âIâm your boyfriend.â
You roll your eyes, but thereâs no heat in it. âI told you Iâd eat later.â
Alex hums, unconvinced. âYou also told me that last week. And the week before.â
He offers you the bag as if it were a peace offering.
âChicken and rice,â he adds. âAnd the soup you like. The one with the ginger.â
Your resolve crumbles instantly.
You sigh, defeated. âYouâre impossible.â
âI prefer thoughtful,â he says, grinning.
You take the bag, your fingers brushing his. The contact is brief but grounding, like a reminder that you exist outside of counts and mirrors.
âCome sit,â he says gently, nodding toward the bench near the windows. âFive minutes. Thatâs all Iâm asking.â
Five minutes feels like a lifetime.
But you sit anyway.
Alex watches you carefully as you eat, pretending not to, while doing it very obviously. He notices the way your hands tremble slightly when you lift the spoon, the tension still coiled in your shoulders, the faint wince you tryâand failâto hide when you shift your weight.
âYouâve been pushing too hard again,â he says softly.
You bristle immediately. âIâm fine.â
He doesnât argue. Alex rarely does, not directly. Instead, he leans back, crossing his arms.
âYou say that a lot,â he replies.
You stare down at your food. âI have a run-through tomorrow. I canât afford to fall behind.â
He exhales slowly. âYou say that too.â
Silence stretches between you, comfortable and heavy all at once.
Alex reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. His touch is warm, steady. Real.
âYou donât have to earn rest,â he says quietly. âYou know that, right?â
You swallow.
You nod, but deep down, youâre not sure you believe it.
Not yet.
And as you stand to head back into rehearsal, already planning how much more you can squeeze out of your body before the day ends, Alex watches you go with a frown he doesnât let you see.
Because he knows something you donât want to admit.
This pace? Itâs not sustainable. However, pain, youâve learned, is negotiable.
Itâs a language your body speaks fluently, one you stopped translating years ago. Tightness becomes warmth. Warmth becomes pressure. Pressure becomes background noise. By the time something truly hurts, youâre already too far gone to stop.
You finish your soup because Alex is watching.
Not because youâre hungry.
Hunger is a concept youâve trained yourself to misunderstand. Hunger is weakness. Hunger is a distraction. Hunger is something you satisfy later, after the work is done.
But Alex doesnât look away, not until you scrape the bottom of the container and fold the napkin neatly on top like proof. He smiles thenâsmall, relievedâand presses a kiss to your temple.
âGood,â he murmurs. âProud of you.â
The words settle in your chest, heavier than they should.
Proud of you.
Youâre not sure when praise started to feel like pressure instead of comfort.
You head back into rehearsal with the taste of ginger still on your tongue and Alexâs concern trailing after you like a shadow. The music starts again. The mirrors reflect you endlesslyâangles upon angles, each one demanding more.
Your inner monologue becomes a negotiation: One more run. Just get through this section. You can ice it later. Youâve danced through worse.
You remember being sixteen, crying in a locker room because your feet were bleeding through your tights, and your instructor telling you that if you wanted this life, pain would have to stop being personal.
You wanted this life.
You still do.
Across the room, Alex sits quietly, laptop closed, pretending to scroll through his phone while watching you out of the corner of his eye. He knows better than to interrupt rehearsal. He knows better than to pull you aside mid-focus.
But he also knows you.
He notices the hitch in your landing before you do. The way your jaw tightens when you mask it. The way your shoulders rise closer to your ears as the hours wear on, like your body is bracing for something you wonât name.
When rehearsal finally ends, youâre drenched in sweat, legs trembling, adrenaline the only thing keeping you upright.
You laugh it off.
âSee?â you say brightly, grabbing your towel. âAll good.â
Alex doesnât smile back.
âCome sit,â he says instead.
You hesitate, then obey, lowering yourself onto the floor with a wince you donât quite hide in time.
Alex kneels in front of you, careful, reverent. He doesnât touch you yet. He just looksâreally looksâlike heâs studying something fragile.
âYouâre hurting,â he says softly.
Itâs not a question.
You open your mouth to deny it out of reflex, but the words catch. Because something about the way heâs looking at you makes lying feel cruel.
âItâs nothing,â you settle on. âJust tired.â
Alexâs thumb brushes over the outside of your ankle, feather-light.
You flinch. There it is.
His expression changes, not dramatic, not angry. JustâŠsad. Deeply, quietly sad.
âBaby,â he murmurs. âThat wasnât nothing.â
You pull your leg back instinctively, wrapping your arms around your knees. Defensive. Ashamed.
âI canât stop,â you say, too quickly. âNot now. I have too much riding on this.â
Alex shifts closer, sitting beside you on the floor. His shoulder presses into yours, grounding.
âYou always have too much riding on this,â he says gently. âThatâs the problem.â
You stare at the mirrored wall, at the girl staring back at you with sweat-slicked skin and exhaustion in her eyes.
âIf I stop,â you whisper, âI lose momentum. And if I lose momentumââ
âYou rest,â Alex interrupts softly.
You laugh, sharp and humorless. âYou donât understand.â
He turns to face you fully now.
âI understand more than you think,â he says. âI just donât think hurting yourself should be the cost of wanting something.â
That hits somewhere deep.
You think of himâof Alex pushing through pain of his own, races where his hands trembled from adrenaline long after the car stopped, interviews where he smiled through disappointment because the world was watching.
âYou push too,â you say quietly.
âYes,â he admits. âBut not like this.â
You glance at him.
âWhen I push, itâs because I want to be better,â he continues. âWhen you push⊠Itâs because youâre scared to stop.â
The words steal the air from your lungs.
You look away.
âThatâs not fair,â you murmur.
Alex reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours, grounding you again.
âHey,â he says softly. âIâm not judging you. Iâm worried about you.â
Silence stretches between you, heavy and intimate. You donât tell him that the idea of stopping terrifies you more than pain ever could.
Because ballet has always been the one thing that made sense. The one thing that gave structure to your chaos. Without it, youâre not sure who you are.
Later that evening, you insist youâre fine.
Of course you do.
You shower, change, and pack up your things with practiced efficiency. The ache in your ankle has dulled into something deeper nowâa throbbing presence you feel with every stepâbut adrenaline keeps it manageable.
Alex drives you home.
The city lights blur past the windows, and exhaustion settles into your bones like gravity. You lean your head against the seat, eyes half-closed.
Alex glances over at you at a red light.
âYou donât have to be strong all the time,â he says quietly.
You smile faintly. âSomeone does.â
He exhales. âYou let me do it sometimes. Thatâs what Iâm here for.â
The words wrap around you like a promise.
At home, you ice your ankle as you promised you would. Alex sits on the floor with you, back against the couch, your leg draped carefully over his lap. Heâs gentle, reverent, like your body is something sacred.
âDoes it hurt?â he asks.
âLess,â you lie.
He knows.
But he doesnât call you out.
Instead, he presses a kiss to your knee, right over one of the faint bruises you pretend not to notice.
âYouâre allowed to rest,â he murmurs against your skin. âEven if your brain tells you otherwise.â
You close your eyes, leaning into him.
For a momentâjust a momentâyou let yourself believe him.
But when you wake the next morning, your ankle is swollen. Angry and unforgiving.
And when you try to stand, pain lances up your leg sharp enough to steal your breath.
You sit back down hard, heart pounding.
No.
You test it again.
Worse.
Panic rises fast and hot, clawing at your throat.
This canât happen. Not now.
Alex appears in the doorway, already dressed, concern written all over his face.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks.
You look up at him, fear cracking through your composure for the first time.
âI think,â you whisper, âI think I really hurt myself.â
He crosses the room in two steps, kneeling in front of you, hands steady even as his eyes darken with worry.
âOkay,â he says calmly. âThen weâre going to take care of you.â
You shake your head, tears threatening. âAlex, I canâtââ
He cups your face gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.
âListen to me,â he says, voice firm but soft. âYou are more than what your body can give. And I love you whether you dance today or not.â
The tears spill then, hot and helpless.
And for the first time, you donât try to hide them.
Hospitals have a way of shrinking the world.
Everything becomes smaller thereâvoices lowered to murmurs, movements softened, time stretching and folding in on itself. Even you feel smaller, perched on the edge of the examination bed, your leg elevated, ice pack pressed to your ankle like a fragile truce between you and your own body.
Alex stands beside you the entire time.
Not pacing. Not hovering. Just thereâone hand resting lightly on your knee, grounding, steady, like heâs anchoring you to the present so you donât float away into panic. His thumb traces slow, absent-minded circles against your skin, and itâs the only thing keeping your breathing even.
You hate how much you need it.
The doctor talks. Words float around the roomâstrain, overuse, rest, weeks, not daysâand each one lands like a quiet catastrophe. You nod, you listen, and you donât cry. At least not yet.
Alex asks questions. Calm ones. Practical ones. Heâs good at this, you realizeâabsorbing stress and translating it into action. He thanks the doctor sincerely, helps you down from the bed carefully, as if you might shatter if heâs too rough.
When youâre finally alone again, sitting on a bench in the hallway while he fetches paperwork, the silence closes in.
This is the part where your brain betrays you.
You think of rehearsal schedules, of muscle memory cooling, of roles slipping through fingers that have given everything. You think of mirrors and music and the way your body knows exactly what to doâexcept now, it doesnât.
You swallow hard.
When Alex comes back, he finds you staring at nothing.
âHey,â he murmurs, crouching in front of you so you have to look at him. His hands settle over yours, warm and reassuring. âTalk to me.â
âIâm fine,â you say automatically.
He smiles gently, sadly. âYou donât have to be.â
Thatâs all it takes.
Your shoulders sag, the tension finally snapping, and suddenly the tears are thereâquiet, relentless, humiliating. You clamp your lips together, embarrassed, but Alex shakes his head softly and pulls you into his chest without hesitation.
Itâs not rushed. Itâs not dramatic.
Itâs solid.
You cry into his hoodie, fists fisting the fabric like it might disappear if you let go. Alexâs arms wrap around you completely, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles into your spine.
âIâm scared,â you admit, voice breaking. âWhat if I lose everything because I stopped for a second?â
Alex presses a kiss to your hair, lingering.
âYou wonât,â he says quietly. âAnd even if something changesâeverything isnât everything.â
You sniff, pulling back just enough to look at him. âThatâs easy for you to say.â
He meets your gaze, unflinching.
âIâve lost things,â he says softly. âIâve lost races. Opportunities. Versions of myself I thought were permanent.â His thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. âAnd Iâm still here. You will be too.â
The conviction in his voice makes your chest ache.
The drive home is slow and careful. Alex insists on helping you into the car, adjusting the seat so your ankle stays supported. He drives one-handed so the other can rest on your thigh, grounding you through every turn.
You lean your head against the window, watching the city blur past, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.
âI hate this,â you murmur eventually.
âI know,â he replies gently.
âI feel useless.â
Alex squeezes your leg softly. âYouâre not.â
âI donât know how to stop thinking about what Iâm missing.â
At the red light, he turns to you fully.
âThen let me think for you,â he says. âJust for a while.â
At home, he moves around you as this has always been his role. He kicks off his shoes, helps you settle on the couch, and arranges pillows and blankets with meticulous care. He brings you water, painkillers, a heating pad for your lower backâthings you didnât even realize you needed.
You watch him from the couch, heart swelling painfully.
âYou donât have to do all this,â you say weakly.
He looks at you over his shoulder. âI want to.â
Dinner is simple. Comforting. He makes something warm and easy, cutting everything into smaller pieces so you donât have to strain. He eats beside you, matching your pace, refusing to rush.
When your mind starts spiraling againâWhat if they replace me? What if I fall behind?âAlex seems to sense it instantly.
âHey,â he murmurs, setting his fork down. âLook at me.â
You do.
âYou are allowed to rest,â he repeats, like a vow. âYour worth doesnât disappear when you stop moving.â
The words sink in slowly.
Later, when the pain medication makes your eyelids heavy, Alex helps you to bed. He removes your brace carefully, massages your calf with gentle, practiced hands, like heâs memorizing every inch of you.
You sigh, melting into the mattress.
âStay?â you ask quietly.
He doesnât even hesitate. âAlways.â
He lies beside you, careful not to jostle your ankle, one arm wrapped around your waist. You curl into him instinctively, forehead pressing into his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Itâs steady.
Reassuring.
Safe.
âI donât know who I am without ballet,â you whisper into the dark.
Alex kisses your forehead.
âYouâre you,â he says. âYouâre kind. Youâre stubborn. Youâre brilliant. Youâre the woman I love. Ballet is something you doânot the only thing you are.â
The words loosen something tight in your chest.
You fall asleep like thatâwrapped in him, held together by love instead of discipline.
And for the first time in a long time, your body rests.
The first morning you wake up without rehearsal feels wrong.
Your body stirs before your mind does, muscles bracing for movement that never comes. Habit is a cruel thing; it wakes you with phantom schedules and imaginary counts, your brain already racing through warm-ups you wonât do, combinations you wonât repeat, corrections you wonât receive.
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, heart thudding with a low-grade panic that settles somewhere behind your ribs.
I should be up. Iâm wasting time. Everyone else is moving forward.
Beside you, Alex breathes slowly, deeplyâone arm slung over your waist like an anchor. His thumb twitches absently against your side, a sleepy, unconscious reassurance.
You exhale.
Carefully, you shift, testing your ankle. Itâs stiff, sore, but calmer than yesterday. The pain isnât screaming nowâitâs waiting. Patient. Watching.
Alex stirs as you sit up.
âHey,â he murmurs, eyes still closed. âWhereâre you going?â
âNowhere,â you whisper, guilt already curling in your stomach. âJust⊠awake.â
He opens one eye, squints at you, then reaches for your hand, tugging you gently back down.
âCome here,â he says softly.
You hesitate. You shouldnât need this. You should be stronger than this. But Alexâs arms are warm, and the world feels safer tucked against his chest.
So you go.
He presses a sleepy kiss into your hair. âYou donât have to be productive today,â he murmurs. âYou donât even have to be okay.â
Your throat tightens.
âAlex,â you say quietly, âwhat if I forget how it feels? To dance?â
Heâs awake now.
He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. His gaze is gentle but unwavering, like heâs searching your face for something deeper than words.
âYou wonât,â he says simply. âYour body remembers things your fear tries to erase.â
You swallow. âWhat if I come back worse?â
âThen we deal with that,â he replies without missing a beat. âTogether.â
The certainty in his voice settles something restless inside you.
Later, he insists on making breakfast.
You watch from the kitchen table as he moves around with careful efficiency, glancing back at you every few seconds like heâs checking youâre still real. He plates everything neatly, cuts your toast into smaller pieces, and slides your coffee toward you at the exact temperature you like.
âYouâre hovering,â you tease weakly.
âIâm attentive,â he corrects, smiling.
You eat slowly. Mindfully. It feels unnatural, like youâre breaking some unspoken rule.
Afterward, Alex pulls out a blanket and settles you on the couch, propping your ankle up just right. He queues up something soft on TVânothing demanding, nothing that requires you to think too hard.
He sits on the floor instead of the couch, leaning back against your legs, one hand resting on your shin.
âYou donât have to keep watching if you donât want to,â he says. âYou can just⊠be.â
You blink at him. âI donât know how to do that.â
âIâll teach you,â he says lightly. âIâm very patient.â
Time stretches in strange ways when you stop measuring it by effort.
The hours blurânaps you donât remember falling into, conversations that drift from nothing to everything. Alex talks about racing, about the pressure of expectations, about learning the difference between pushing and punishing yourself.
You listen, really listen, realizing how similar you are beneath the surface. Two people who learned early that love often came with conditions. Two people who thought rest had to be earned.
In the afternoon, he helps you shower, careful and reverent, hands steady as he supports you. He never rushes. Never looks annoyed. Never makes you feel like a burden.
When you flinch apologetically, he notices.
âDonât,â he says quietly.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper. âI hate being like this.â
Alex cups your face gently, forehead resting against yours.
âI donât,â he says. âI get to take care of you. Thatâs not a chore. Thatâs a privilege.â
The words sink deep.
That night, when the overthinking creeps back inârehearsals replaying in your mind, imaginary conversations spiralingâyou curl into Alexâs chest and let him talk you through it.
âYou are allowed to heal,â he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair. âYou are allowed to pause. The world wonât end because you took a breath.â
Your breathing evens out, syncing with his.
For the first time since the injury, you donât feel like youâre losing ground.
You feel like youâre being held.
And maybe, just maybe, thatâs enough for now.
Your friends arrive on a Sunday afternoon, and for the first time since the injury, the apartment feels alive in a way that doesnât exhaust you.
Thereâs a knock at the doorâthree short raps followed by a muffled laughâand before Alex can even stand up from the couch, you already know who it is.
âIâll get it,â you say, instinctively shifting forward.
Alex raises an eyebrow. âYouâll supervise it,â he corrects gently, already moving past you. âIâll get it.â
You roll your eyes but smile anyway, settling back against the cushions with your ankle propped carefully on a pillow. You hear voices immediately when the door opensâfamiliar ones, warm ones, overlapping in the way that only people whoâve spent years sweating and bleeding together know how to do.
âThere she is!â someone calls out as they spill into the living room.
Mila is first, dropping her bag by the door and crossing the room in two quick strides before you can protest. She crouches in front of you, eyes scanning your face like sheâs checking alignment.
âYou look⊠softer,â she says thoughtfully. âIn a good way.â
âIs that ballerina code for âunemployedâ?â you tease weakly.
She snorts. âPlease. You could be bedridden and still intimidate half the corps.â
Behind her, Lena and Joan follow, arms full of snacks and flowers and the kind of casual chaos you didnât realize you missed so badly. They talk all at onceâabout rehearsal drama, about who cried during which correction, about the understudy who keeps rushing the music.
You laugh. Really laugh. It surprises you.
Alex hangs back near the kitchen, pretending to busy himself with drinks while watching the scene unfold like itâs something sacred. Heâs seen you disciplined, focused, and relentless. But thisâthis version of you, relaxed and surrounded by people who know exactly what it cost you to be hereâthis is something else entirely.
He catches Mila glancing at him.
She raises an eyebrow, subtle but knowing.
âGood one,â she mouths.
Alex flushes faintly and ducks his head, suddenly very invested in lining up glasses.
Your friends settle in around you, perching on armrests and the floor, instinctively adjusting so no one bumps your ankle. No one asks you when youâre going back. No one questions your rest. They talk around it, through it, like this pause is just another variation, not a failure.
At one point, Lena reaches over and squeezes your hand.
âWe miss you,â she says simply. âBut donât rush back for us, okay?â
Something in your chest loosens.
Later, after theyâve goneâafter the hugs and promises and whispered text me if you spiralâthe apartment quiets again.
You sit there for a moment, absorbing the afterglow.
Alex joins you on the couch, draping an arm over your shoulders.
âYou were glowing,â he says softly.
You hum. âI felt⊠normal.â
He presses a kiss to your temple. âYou are.â
Physical therapy starts the next day.
Itâs humbling in a way you werenât prepared for.
The room is bright and sterile, the movements small and deliberate. Your therapist speaks in careful incrementsâfive more degrees, hold for ten secondsâand you nod, swallowing frustration as your body trembles doing things that used to be effortless.
You bite your lip, tears stinging your eyes.
âThis is pathetic,â you mutter.
Alex, seated nearby, looks up sharply.
âDonât,â he says gently but firmly. âThis is progress.â
You glare at him. âI used toââ
âI know,â he interrupts, crossing the room to kneel in front of you. He takes your hand, grounding you. âBut this isnât about what you used to be. Itâs about what youâre becoming.â
You hate how much that helps.
The days that follow are uneven. Some mornings you wake up hopeful, energized by tiny winsâan extra stretch, less pain, a smoother step. Other days, the frustration crashes over you without warning, and you snap at Alex for hovering too much or not enough.
He takes it all with quiet grace.
When you apologize, he just smiles and says, âHealing isnât linear. Neither are emotions.â
One afternoon, after a particularly rough session, you collapse onto the couch in tears.
âIâm scared,â you admit, voice breaking. âWhat if I come back and Iâm not enough anymore?â
Alex sits beside you, pulling you into his chest.
âThen weâll redefine âenough,ââ he says softly. âTogether.â
You breathe him inâhis warmth, his steadinessâand let yourself believe it.
That night, as you fall asleep with your ankle resting against his thigh, you realize something quietly monumental.
Youâre not trapped.
Youâre held.
And for now, thatâs more than enough.
The studio smells the same.
Thatâs the first thing you notice when Alex opens the door for you and helps you insideârosin and sweat and old wood warmed by years of music. It hits you all at once, sharp and familiar, and your chest tightens before you can stop it.
Your body reacts before your brain does.
Your shoulders square. Your spine lengthens. Your weight shifts instinctively, like youâre preparing for a count that never comes.
Alex notices.
His hand tightens slightly around yours. Not to stop youâjust to remind you where you are.
âYou okay?â he murmurs.
You nod too quickly. âYeah. Iâm just⊠happy to be here.â
Itâs not a lie. Not entirely.
The receptionist smiles when she sees you, her expression softening with something like relief. âHey, stranger,â she says gently. âWeâve missed you.â
You smile back, the kind of smile that takes effort. âMissed you too.â
Alex stays close as you move through the hallway, your steps careful, measured. Youâre acutely aware of the brace under your pants, of the way your body feels slightly wrong in a space that used to feel like home.
When you reach the doorway of the main studio, you stop.
Music spills outâpiano, steady and demanding. The dancers are already moving, bodies cutting through space with precision and hunger. You recognize them all. The way Mila tilts her head before a turn. The slight delay in Lenaâs landing somehow makes her look airborne longer.
You swallow.
Alex doesnât rush you. He waits until youâre ready, then guides you to a bench along the wall, helping you sit carefully. He crouches in front of you, adjusting your ankle, making sure youâre comfortable.
I could do that, your brain whispers cruelly. I should be doing that.
A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts.
âYouâre not allowed to critique,â Mila says quietly, appearing beside you with a grin. âDoctorâs orders.â
You laugh weakly. âI donât know how not to.â
She sits on the floor at your feet, stretching lazily. âWe know. But itâs nice knowing youâre watching.â
The rehearsal continues. Corrections are given. Music stops and starts. Time moves in strange, uneven pulses.
At one point, the understudy for your usual role steps into your spot.
It shouldnât hurt like this.
You tell yourself that over and over as your chest tightens, as something hot and ugly coils in your stomach. Sheâs good. Talented. Earned her place here just as much as you did.
Still.
Your nails dig into your palm.
Alex notices immediately.
He shifts closer, his knee brushing yours. âHey,â he murmurs. âBreathe.â
You do. Shakily.
âI hate this,â you whisper, eyes still fixed on the mirror. âI hate that I want it so badly.â
Alex watches the dancers for a moment before looking back at you.
âWanting it doesnât mean youâre doing something wrong,â he says quietly. âIt just means it matters.â
You glance at him. âWhat if I never stop wanting it like this?â
âThen we learn how to want without hurting yourself,â he replies. âYouâre allowed to want things gently too.â
The thought feels foreign. Radical.
The rehearsal eventually ends. The dancers disperse, laughter and chatter filling the room. A few of them come over to hug you carefully, to tell you theyâre glad you came, that they miss you.
You soak it all in, even as it aches.
On the way out, you pause one last time to look back at the studio.
Alex squeezes your hand. âReady?â
You nod. âYeah.â
Outside, the air feels cooler, lighter. You sit in the car for a moment before Alex starts the engine, staring straight ahead.
âI was jealous,â you admit suddenly. âAnd I feel awful about it.â
Alex doesnât hesitate. âYouâre human.â
âI donât want to be bitter,â you say. âI donât want to be that person.â
âYou wonât be,â he says firmly. âBecause youâre honest about it.â
At home, exhaustion hits you like a wave. Emotional fatigue settles deeper than physical pain ever did. Alex helps you onto the couch, tucks a blanket around you, and brings you tea without being asked.
You watch him move around the apartment, heart swelling.
âHey,â you call softly.
He looks up. âYeah?â
âThank you,â you say. âFor not letting me disappear.â
He crosses the room, kneeling in front of you, resting his forehead against yours.
âYou could never disappear,â he murmurs. âNot from me.â
That night, you dream of dancingânot perfectly, not endlesslyâbut gently. Carefully. With patience.
And when you wake, the ache is still there.
But so is the hope.
The setback comes on a Tuesday.
Itâs the kind of day that starts deceptively well: your ankle feels loose when you wake, the pain manageable, the air outside bright and forgiving. You let yourself hope. Just a little. Enough to be dangerous.
Physical therapy goes fine at first. You push through the exercises with quiet determination, jaw clenched, sweat beading at your temples. The therapist nods approvingly, increases the difficulty by a fraction, and for a momentâjust a momentâyou feel like yourself again.
Then your ankle gives.
Not dramatically. Not with a snap or a fall. Just a sharp, sudden pain that shoots up your leg and steals the breath from your lungs.
You freeze.
The room tilts.
Your vision blurs with unshed tears you refuse to let fall.
âIâm okay,â you say immediately, too fast. âI can keep going.â
The therapist gently but firmly stops you. âNo. Weâre done for today.â
The word done lands like a verdict.
By the time Alex picks you up, youâre quiet in a way he recognizes instantly.
You stare out the window on the drive home, fingers digging into your jacket sleeves, replaying the moment over and over in your head. What you did wrong. What you pushed too hard. How stupid you were to thinkâ
âThis isnât failure,â Alex says softly, eyes still on the road.
You laugh under your breath, brittle. âIt feels like it.â
He pulls into a parking spot instead of continuing home.
When he turns to face you, his expression is calm, but serious. Present.
âYou donât get to decide that alone,â he says. âNot when youâre hurting.â
You snap before you can stop yourself. âYou donât understand what this feels like.â
The words hang between you, sharp and ugly.
Alex doesnât flinchâbut something tightens in his jaw.
âYouâre right,â he says quietly. âI donât know what it feels like to lose ballet.â He pauses, then adds, âBut I do know what it feels like to tie your entire worth to performance.â
That hits harder than you expect.
You look away.
âI donât know who I am if I canât do this,â you whisper.
Alex exhales slowly. âThen maybe this is the part where you find out.â
The rest of the day passes in a fog.
You ice. You rest. You scroll through old videos of yourself dancing and hate yourself for it. When Alex suggests dinner, you shrug. When he asks what you need, you say nothing and mean everything.
That night, you cry alone in the bathroom, sitting on the floor with your ankle wrapped, forehead pressed to your knees. The tears come hot and fast, fueled by fear more than pain.
Alex finds you there.
He doesnât ask whatâs wrong. He just sits behind you, pulling you gently back against his chest, arms wrapping around you like a quiet shield.
âYou donât have to be brave tonight,â he murmurs into your hair.
Something in you breaks open.
âIâm so tired,â you sob. âIâve spent my whole life earning rest. I donât know how to stop.â
Alex rocks you slowly, grounding you in the moment.
âThen donât stop,â he says. âJust⊠change how you move.â
The next day, you donât go to physical therapy.
You panic about it all morningâabout losing progress, about falling behindâbut when Alex suggests it, something in you agrees before your fear can protest.
Instead, he takes you somewhere unexpected.
A small park on the edge of the city. Quiet. Empty. Green in a way that feels almost intrusive after weeks of sterile rooms and mirrored walls.
He helps you onto a bench, hands careful, familiar.
âWeâre not here to fix anything,â he says. âJust to exist.â
You scoff weakly. âIâm terrible at that.â
âI know,â he smiles. âI love you anyway.â
You sit in silence for a while, watching people pass, kids on bikes, an older couple walking slowly, hand in hand. No mirrors. No music. No counts.
Your foot rests on the ground. Not working. Not pushing. Just there.
For the first time, you donât feel like youâre wasting time.
âYou know,â you say quietly, âI thought strength was about endurance.â
Alex tilts his head. âWhat do you think it is now?â
You think about it. Really think.
âChoice,â you say finally. âChoosing not to destroy yourself for the thing you love.â
He smilesânot proud, exactly. Relieved.
That night, you write an email to your director. Not an apology, not a promise, but honesty. You tell her about where you are, and about what you need.
When you hit send, your hands shake.
But the world doesnât end.
Weeks later, your ankle is stronger. Not perfect. But better.
More importantly, you are different.
You still want ballet. You still ache for it. But now, when your body whispers enough, you listen.
Alex notices the change before you do.
âYouâre lighter,â he says one evening, watching you stretch carefully in the living room. âNot physically. Just⊠here.â
You smile. âI think I finally stopped running.â
He pulls you into a hug, careful of your ankle, chin resting on the top of your head.
âIâm really proud of you,â he murmurs.
And this time, the praise doesnât feel like pressure.
It feels like love.
Your first real day back doesnât feel like a victory.
It feels small.
Thatâs what surprises you most.
Thereâs no rush of adrenaline when you wake up, no electric buzz humming under your skin like there used to be before big rehearsals. Instead, thereâs a steady calm, a careful awareness of your body as you sit up in bed and test your ankle.
It holds.
Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But it holds.
Alex watches you from the doorway, coffee mug in hand, trying very hard not to look like heâs holding his breath.
âHow does it feel?â he asks.
You tilt your foot experimentally, slow and deliberate. âLike it knows what itâs doing again.â
He smiles, soft and proud, and you feel it in your chest like a warm bloom.
The studio greets you differently this time.
People smile, yesâbut they donât crowd you. They donât clap. They donât make a moment out of it. They simply make space.
You appreciate that more than you can articulate.
You change slowly, deliberately, every movement intentional. When you step onto the floor, your heart stuttersânot with fear, but with reverence. This place still holds you. Still knows you.
Simple. Foundational. You let your weight sink into the floor, feel the grounding, the support. Your ankle respondsânot with protest, but with cautious cooperation.
You donât push.
You donât force.
You move like youâre listening instead of commanding.
And something extraordinary happens.
You feel joy.
Not the frantic, desperate joy of proving yourself. Not the sharp high of perfection narrowly achieved. But something softer. Deeper. Like relief.
Across the room, Alex stands quietly near the wall, hands folded loosely in front of him. He doesnât record. He doesnât distract. He just watches, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.
He sees the difference immediately.
Youâre not fighting your body anymore.
Youâre dancing with it.
Afterward, when youâre flushed and breathless, you sit beside him on the bench, ankle elevated, heart steady.
âHow was it?â he asks.
You think about it for a moment.
âDifferent,â you say. âBetter.â
He nods, like he already knew.
Later, at home, you curl up beside him on the couch, exhaustion settling inânot painful, not punishing. Just earned.
âI was scared,â you admit quietly. âThat coming back would feel like starting over.â
âAnd?â he prompts gently.
âAnd it feels like continuing,â you say. âJust⊠more honest.â
Alex turns toward you, brushing his thumb along your jaw.
âI love watching you dance,â he says. âBut I love this version of you even more.â
You smile, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
For the first time in a long time, the future doesnât feel like something you have to chase.
It feels like something you can walk toward.
Together.
The evening settles around you without ceremony.
No grand plans, no countdown. Just the low hum of the city outside the windows and the familiar comfort of being home. Alex cooksânothing complicated, something warmâand you sit at the counter, ankle propped up, watching him move around the kitchen as he belongs there.
Because he does.
Thereâs something grounding about watching him exist in the mundane. The way he tastes the sauce and frowns in concentration. The way he nudges your knee gently when he passes, like he needs to remind himself youâre real.
You eat slowly.
Not because youâre tired, but because you donât feel the need to rush anymore.
After dinner, you shower first. The water is warm, soothing, sliding over muscles that worked todayânot to breaking, not to exhaustion, but to expression. You take your time drying off, lotioning your ankle carefully, reverently.
When you step back into the bedroom, Alex looks up from where heâs sitting on the edge of the bed, and his breath visibly stutters.
Not hunger.
Not urgency.
Just love.
âYou okay?â he asks, soft.
You nod. âYeah. Just⊠calm.â
He smiles at that like itâs the best thing you could have said.
You crawl onto the bed beside him, curling into his side instinctively. His arm wraps around you without thought, hand resting warm and solid against your back.
The quiet stretches.
It isnât awkward. Itâs full.
âI used to think,â you say eventually, voice barely louder than the room, âthat if I stopped pushing myself, everything would fall apart.â
Alex presses his lips to your temple. âAnd now?â
âAnd now I think⊠I was just afraid of what would happen if I slowed down enough to feel things.â
His thumb moves in slow, absent circles against your skin. âWhat do you feel now?â
You turn toward him, meeting his eyes.
âSafe,â you say. âWanted. Like I donât have to earn being loved.â
Something in his expression breaks openâquietly, beautifully.
âYou never did,â he murmurs.
You kiss him then.
Not desperate. Not consuming.
Just honest.
It starts slow, lips brushing, breaths mingling. A kiss that asks instead of takes. His hand comes up to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious. You melt into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
The world narrows.
Thereâs no pain, no fear, no pressure. Just the gentle language of touch, the way he pauses when you shift, checking in without words. The way you lean closer when you want more.
You lie back together, limbs tangling naturally. His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing.
âI love you,â he says, like itâs the simplest truth in the world.
Your chest tightensânot painfully. Right.
âI love you too.â
The kisses deepen, still unhurried. The room grows warmer, quieter. His touch is careful, worshipful, like heâs memorizing you. Like this moment matters.
And it does.
When he pulls you closer, when you let yourself sink fully into the intimacy of it, thereâs no performance. No perfection to chase. Just connection.
Just love.
The night closes around you gently, holding the sound of soft laughter, whispered reassurances, the steady rhythm of two hearts choosing each other again and again.
if it's meant to be, then it will be , lando norris & oscar piastri x reader
summary: Three years, countless almosts, and every chance that slipped away. You kept waiting for him to choose you. But he never did.
word count: 12.1k
contains: PURE ANGST, based on a true story, y/n is lowk insufferable (IM SORRY), no happy ending, mixed signals, hurt/no comfort, no part 2, alex albon and lily muni he cameo, bittersweet ending, set in senior high (k-12), mentions of drinking/being drunk, drunken confessions, lando is kind of a jerk; he kinda leads y/n on and entertains her without meaning to, by year 12, oscar is no longer y/n's classmate that's why he kinda disappeared from that point forward, title is from ethel cain's song "sun bleached flies" (because i love that quote so much)
You always thought Year 10 would blur into the next, another loop of uniforms and rushed lunches, the kind of monotony that felt endless. But that was the year Oscar Piastri sat next to you in homeroom, and the endless days suddenly had a shape.
Oscar wasnât loud. He wasnât the type who announced himself with bravado or filled the silence with chatter. He was quiet, observant, and his humor came dry and sharp when it slipped through. It was easy to be his friend â almost too easy. You didnât have to try; things just clicked into place like puzzle pieces that had always belonged.
By mid-year, he was the one you studied with at the library, the one who nudged your foot under the desk when you started zoning out in math, the one who saved you a seat when you were late. It wasnât grand, it wasnât dramatic, but it was steady. Reliable. You trusted him without ever having to say why.
You thought youâd stay that way forever â comfortable, untouchable in the simplicity of it.
Year 11 shook things up.
Youâd walked into your new classroom with Oscar at your side, ready for another year of easy familiarity, when the teacher announced new seating. You barely had time to groan before someone slid into the chair diagonally from yours, dropping his bag with a grin like he already belonged.
âHi. Iâm Lando,â he said, extending a hand.
The accent threw you for half a second â sharper, brighter, a little foreign. But his smile disarmed you.
You shook his hand. âY/N.â
By the end of the day, heâd already made a mess of your quiet.
Lando was loud where Oscar was quiet, messy where Oscar was neat. He cracked jokes under his breath during lectures, borrowed your pens without asking, and doodled in the corner of your notebook just because he was bored. You wanted to be annoyed, but you werenât. He had this way of pulling you in, like he already knew youâd forgive him before you even realized you wanted to.
And then, somewhere between late-night calls that stretched until sunrise and afternoons huddled over group projects, Lando carved himself into your life the same way Oscar had â but different. Lively. Electric.
The three of you formed an odd triangle: Oscar, steady as always; you, caught in the middle; Lando, unpredictable, magnetic.
At first, it was innocent. Game nights where you and Lando stayed on call long after Oscar logged off. Study sessions where you barely studied because he kept distracting you with dumb impressions. Walking home side by side, laughing at nothing.
Then one night, you caught yourself staring at the way his hair fell into his eyes as he concentrated on the game screen, his laughter warm in your ear through the headset. Something in your chest shifted.
Oh, no.
You liked him.
The realization hit you like a poorly aimed dodgeball. You hadnât seen it coming.
The problem was, you werenât blind.
Lando had his eyes on someone else.
It was the way he lit up when certain people walked into the room, the subtle way he angled his chair to follow them with his gaze, the unspoken attention he gave that wasnât yours. You werenât stupid. You saw it. You hated that you saw it.
So, you buried the crush under layers of laughter and study notes, convincing yourself it would fade away.
And maybe it would have. Maybe it could have, if not for Oscar.
It was late one evening in October, the sky already black, the school day long behind you. You and Oscar were lingering by the bike racks, waiting out the traffic before heading home.
He was quiet â quieter than usual â staring at his shoes instead of cracking jokes about how miserable exams would be.
You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. âWhatâs up with you?â
He hesitated. Swallowed. Then, with a breath that sounded like surrender, he said, âI like you.â
The words hung in the air, fragile and sharp at once.
You blinked. âWhat?â
Oscarâs lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze flicked to you, then away. âIâve liked you for a while. Since⊠I donât know. Last year, probably.â
The world tilted. Oscar, your safe place, your constant â saying this.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You werenât ready. You werenât expecting it. You didnât know what to do with the truth.
So when he looked at you, eyes uncertain but hopeful, you panicked.
âIâŠâ you started, faltered, then forced the words out because his silence begged for something. âI like you too.â
It wasnât a lie. You did like him â just not the way he liked you. Not the way you liked Lando.
But the desperation in your chest, the fear of losing Oscar, the ache of knowing Lando would never look at you that way â it all tangled into a mess. And before you could untangle it, Oscarâs smile spread slowly and carefully, relief softening the edges of his face.
He reached for your hand, tentative. You let him.
That night, walking home with Oscarâs hand warm in yours, you told yourself it could work. Those feelings grew, and that love wasnât always fireworks. That maybe, the safe choice was the right one.
You told yourself a lot of things.
And maybe you almost believed them.
At first, it wasnât so bad.
You convinced yourself that saying yes to Oscar was the right choice. He was good to you â kind in ways that didnât scream for attention but stayed with you anyway. He carried your bag when you looked tired, remembered the little things you said in passing, and waited by your locker even when you didnât ask.
And it wasnât like you hated being with him. You liked the warmth of his hand brushing against yours in the hallway, the way he tilted his head toward you during group conversations, and the soft smiles that were just for you.
Two months. Thatâs how long it lasted. Two months of shared notes and quiet walks, of sitting too close at lunch, of trying to mold your heart into something it wasnât.
But the truth was, you were pretending. Pretending that the flutter in your chest when Oscar leaned in was enough. Pretending that the ache you felt whenever Landoâs laugh filled the room wasnât tearing holes in your resolve.
You wanted it to work. You wanted to love Oscar the way he deserved.
But itâs hard to fake a spark when your heartâs already burning elsewhere.
Winter break arrived too quickly, and with it, distance.
In the first few days, you told yourself it was fine. That the silence between you and Oscar was just the natural lull of holidays. Youâd texted him here and there, the usual Merry Christmas messages, the casual howâs your day? But every time you stared at his replies, polite and steady, you felt a pit in your stomach.
It wasnât him. It was you.
You were avoiding him, though youâd never admit it out loud. You made excuses when he asked to call. You left his texts on read longer than you should have. You scrolled past his name in your notifications like it didnât sting to see it.
Because every time he reached out, you were reminded of the lie youâd told â the yes youâd given when your heart was somewhere else.
You hated yourself for it.
Worse, you hated how much easier it felt to open Discord and see Landoâs green dot glowing.
Youâd tell yourself it was innocent. Just games. Just calls. Just laughter that stretched until you forgot you were supposed to feel guilty. But when you hung up, the guilt would crash down, heavy and suffocating.
And Oscar, unknowingly, was left waiting in the cold.
By the time school started again, you could feel the fracture.
Oscarâs eyes found you the second you walked into homeroom, relief softening his features, but all you felt was dread. The way he smiled at you â open, sure, like heâd missed you â made your stomach twist. Because you hadnât missed him the way heâd missed you.
Youâd spent the break pulling away, brick by brick, until the distance between you was unbridgeable.
It showed in the way you flinched when he brushed his hand against yours in the hallway. The way you reply to his texts shrank into short sentences. The way your eyes slid past him during lunch, landing anywhere but his.
He noticed. Of course, he noticed.
One afternoon, after a week of forced smiles and awkward silences, he finally cornered you outside the library.
âY/N.â His voice was steady, but his eyes gave him away. They searched yours like they were begging for something â an answer, an explanation, anything.
You froze, clutching your books tighter. âYeah?â
He hesitated, then asked the question youâd been avoiding. âDid I do something wrong?â
It was like a knife to the gut. You wanted to say no, wanted to reassure him, wanted to take his hand and tell him he was perfect, because he was. He was steady and kind and patient, everything anyone should want.
But he wasnât Lando.
And that truth burned on your tongue, cruel and unrelenting.
âNo.â You shook your head, words tangled in your throat. âItâs not you. I just⊠I donât think I can do this anymore.â
Oscar blinked. Once. Twice. As if trying to process the words. âDo what?â
âThis.â You gestured vaguely between you. Your hands trembled. âUs.â
For a second, he just stared at you, the silence pressing in like a weight. Then his jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing himself against a blow.
âI see,â he said finally, voice clipped.
You hated yourself for the way his eyes dimmed, for the way the light drained from his face.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered, but the words felt useless.
He nodded, swallowing hard. âYeah. Right. Donât worry about it.â
But the way he walked away â rigid, fast, like he couldnât stand still any longer â told you everything you didnât want to hear.
The weeks after were a blur of guilt.
Oscar stopped waiting for you after class. He stopped sitting next to you at lunch. He didnât laugh at your jokes anymore, didnât look for you in a crowd. You still saw him, of course â same classes, same hallways, same space. But he felt further away than ever.
And Lando â Lando was still there, bright and relentless, filling the gaps Oscar left behind. Which only twisted the knife deeper. Because the more you leaned into Lando, the more you knew the truth: youâd never been fair to Oscar. Youâd never even given him a chance.
Youâd been chasing someone else the whole time.
And you hated yourself for it.
That night, lying awake in bed, you replayed everything in your head. The way Oscar had confessed â quiet, vulnerable, honest. The way youâd said yes out of fear and desperation, not love. The way youâd broken his heart without even meaning to.
You buried your face into your pillow, tears hot against your skin.
Because for all the laughter and games and late-night calls with Lando, you couldnât shake the image of Oscarâs eyes when you said it was over.
Youâd been his safe place, too. And you destroyed it.
The announcement came on a Tuesday morning, tucked between the usual chaos of homeroom chatter and the teacherâs half-hearted attempt at roll call.
âReminder,â Your advisor said, tapping her clipboard, âeach class will be preparing a group dance for the upcoming winter prom. Youâll practice during P.E. periods this month. Partners will be assigned tomorrow.â
The room buzzed instantly.
Across the row, your friend Lily groaned. âA dance? Seriously? What is this, the Yule Ball?â
You tried to laugh with her, but your stomach tightened. Because you knew what dances meant: closeness, touching, pretending at romance for the sake of choreography. And as much as you tried to bury it, you couldnât help but wonder who youâd be paired with.
Would it be some random classmate you barely spoke to? Someone safe, someone forgettable?
Or would fate twist the knife?
The next day, fate obliged.
âOkay, pairings are on the board.â Your advisor, Ms. Evans, smacked a sheet of paper onto the wall, already moving on to instructions about gym uniforms while the class surged forward.
You didnât move at first, preferring the safety of distance. But you didnât have to â because Lily leaned over, eyes wide.
âOh my god,â she whispered, half scandalized, half thrilled. âYouâre with Lando.â
Your head snapped up. âWhat?â
She shoved the paper toward you, finger jabbing at the list. And there it was, in black and white:
Lando Norris â Y/N L/N
Your heart stumbled in your chest, clumsy and uneven. For a second, you just stared at the names as if squinting might change them. But no. It was there. Permanent.
And then, like clockwork, you felt his gaze on you.
Lando leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his usual half-smirk playing on his lips. When your eyes met, he lifted his brows, as if to say, Guess itâs you and me.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the floor tiles.
Of course, it had to be him. Of course.
Practice started that afternoon.
The gym was loud, sneakers squeaking against the floor as pairs scattered across the space. Ms. Evans clapped her hands, barking out the basics: âStep together, step apart, spin. Keep it simple. Remember, prom is about presence, not perfection!â
You stood stiffly in front of Lando, your palms already clammy.
He noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.
âYou look like youâre about to be executed,â he teased, eyes gleaming.
You rolled your eyes, trying for casual. âI just donât want to trip over you.â
âOver me?â He chuckled, offering his hand like a mock gentleman. âPlease. You should be worried about me tripping over you.â
The words were light, easy, but the way his fingers brushed yours when you took his hand sent sparks straight to your chest. It was stupid. It was nothing. It was everything.
âReady?â he asked.
No. Not even close. But you nodded anyway.
The first few steps were clumsy, as expected. You both laughed when you stumbled, but your laughter was nervous, thin at the edges. His hand pressed lightly against your waist to guide you through a turn, and you felt the imprint of it long after he pulled away.
âYouâre tense,â he observed.
âIâm fine,â you lied, forcing your shoulders to loosen.
âSure,â he said, smirking. âTotally fine. Not shaking like a leaf or anything.â
You smacked his arm, but the contact only made things worse. His skin was warm through the fabric of his uniform, and your fingers tingled after.
You hated how easy it was for him. How he could grin, tease, spin you around without a second thought, while you were over here cataloging every brush of his fingers, every glance, every laugh.
By the end of practice, your heart felt like it had run a marathon.
Walking home that day, you replayed every second in your head. The way his hand had steadied you when you tripped. The way heâd leaned in close to correct your footwork, his breath brushing your ear. The way heâd grinned when you finally managed a clean spin, eyes crinkling at the corners like youâd just scored a victory together.
It was too much. Too close. Too dangerous.
Because no matter how many times you reminded yourself that he didnât see you that way â that he never would â your heart refused to listen.
And when your friend groupâs group chat lit up that night with memes about who was the âhottest dance pair,â your chest ached seeing his name alongside yours.
Because everyone else might have thought it was a joke. But for you, it was the cruelest truth: no matter how perfect the chemistry looked from the outside, it would never be real.
Practice became a routine â twice a week, every week, for a month. And somehow, despite all your efforts to guard yourself, you started to look forward to them.
It was in the little things, at first.
The way Lando would always linger near the back of the gym, waiting until you spotted him before raising his brows, as if to say, Ready, partner? The way heâd steal your water bottle between rounds, grinning when you swatted at him. The way heâd hum quietly to himself when the teacher played the track on repeat, mouthing lyrics dramatically until you laughed.
He made it impossible not to.
And then there were the moments that werenât funny â the ones that caught you off guard, that stuck under your skin long after practice ended.
Like the way his hand fit at your waist during the turns, steady and sure, like he was built to guide you. The way heâd occasionally brush a strand of hair out of your face without even thinking. The way his eyes softened when you nailed a step, pride flickering there as if your victories were his too.
It shouldâve been harmless. A school dance practice. A simple partnership. Nothing more.
But every step, every laugh, every casual touch only deepened the ache inside you â the ache of wanting something you couldnât have.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting round of spins and lifts, you collapsed onto the bleachers, chest heaving. Lando flopped beside you, hair damp with sweat, a crooked grin on his lips.
âYouâre getting good,â he said, nudging your shoulder.
You rolled your eyes. âTranslation: I donât step on your feet every time anymore.â
âExactly.â He laughed, head tilting back against the wall. For a moment, the sound filled the empty gym, light and warm, and you hated how much you loved it.
Then he glanced at you, and something about his gaze lingered â soft, unreadable, almost searching. Your breath caught.
But just as quickly, he looked away, pushing up from the bench. âCâmon. Coachâll kill us if we donât practice the lift again.â
The moment dissolved, and you followed him back onto the floor, pretending your heart wasnât still racing.
By the third week, rumors had started circulating. Not mean ones, not really â but whispers of how good you and Lando looked together on the dance floor, how natural your chemistry seemed.
You brushed them off, but you noticed the shift. The way your classmatesâ eyes lingered when you practiced. The smirks, the knowing looks.
And then one afternoon, it happened.
You werenât there to hear it, but Lily told you later.
One of Landoâs close friends â Alex, the loudmouth whoâd known him since childhood â had cornered him during lunch.
âSo, Norris,â Alex had said, voice carrying enough for nearby tables to catch. âYou and Y/N. Be real â anything there?â
Apparently, Lando had nearly choked on his sandwich. âWhat? No. Sheâs just my dance partner.â
But Alex had pressed. âCâmon, man. Youâre telling me youâve never thought about it? Sheâs⊠well, sheâs her. And you two look like a couple half the time already.â
And Landoâs reply â the one Lily repeated to you with a careful look â was a dagger wrapped in velvet.
âNo. I canât. She dated Oscar, remember? Bro code. Besides⊠sheâs just a friend. Thatâs all she is.â
When Lily told you, you smiled, nodded, pretended you were fine. What else could you do?
But that night, lying in bed, the words looped in your head. Just a friend. Thatâs all she is.
It didnât matter that your and Oscarâs relationship had been brief, messy, and over months ago. It didnât matter that your feelings for Lando had nothing to do with anyone else. In his eyes, the line was drawn â permanent, unmovable.
And no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself otherwise, a part of you broke hearing it.
The night of prom arrived in a blur of dresses and suits, hairspray and nervous laughter. The gym had been transformed, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, the floor polished to a mirror shine.
You shouldâve been excited. You shouldâve been caught up in the thrill of it all â the music, the glitter, the promise of a night youâd remember for years.
But instead, your stomach churned with dread.
Because tonight meant the dance. Tonight meant standing under the lights, every eye on you, with the boy you couldnât stop loving and couldnât ever have.
You arrived early, slipping into the decorated hall with your heart pounding. And there, near the refreshment table, was Oscar.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you locked eyes.
He looked⊠older, somehow. Still the same warm smile, the same quiet presence, but there was a weight behind it now, a shadow of something unsaid.
âHey,â he said softly when you approached.
âHey.â
For a moment, silence stretched, heavy with everything you hadnât said since the breakup. The awkwardness, the regret, the distance.
Finally, Oscar sighed. âYou look nice.â
You smiled faintly. âYou too.â
Another pause. And then, before you could lose your nerve, you asked, âCan we⊠talk? Just for a minute?â
He nodded, leading you toward a quieter corner of the hall.
And there, under the soft glow of fairy lights, you finally said the words youâd been carrying for too long.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered. âFor how I treated you. For pushing you away, for⊠for everything. You didnât deserve that.â
Oscarâs gaze softened, but there was sadness in it too. âI know. And I get it, Y/N. Really, I do. You never loved me. Not the way I wanted you to.â
The truth stung, even though youâd both known it.
âI cared about you,â you said, voice breaking.
âI know.â He gave a small, bittersweet smile. âBut caring isnât the same. And thatâs okay.â
You blinked back tears, the weight of guilt pressing down on you. âI wish I couldâve been what you needed.â
âAnd I wish I couldâve been who you wanted.â
For a moment, you both just stood there, two people bound by what-ifs and could-have-beens.
Then Oscar straightened, forcing a lighter tone. âBut hey. Promâs not the night for regrets, right? Go. Dance. Live it up.â
You nodded, but as you turned back toward the dance floor, your chest ached. Because you knew, deep down, that goodbyes came in many forms. And this â this quiet acceptance, this final letting go â was yours with him.
When the music started and the spotlight hit the polished floor, Lando was there, hand extended toward you, smile easy and effortless.
âReady?â he asked.
No. Not at all.
But you took his hand anyway.
And as the crowd watched, as the music swelled, you let him spin you, lift you, guide you â your body moving with his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For everyone else, it was a performance. A school dance routine, polished and sweet.
But for you, every step was a confession. Every glance, every touch, every laugh you couldnât suppress â all of it screamed what your lips never could:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
And the cruelest part was, he never noticed.
Not really.
To him, it was just a dance.
To you, it was everything.
The letter burned a hole in your pocket all day.
Folded neatly, sealed shut with a sliver of tape, its presence was impossible to ignore. Every time you shifted in your seat, you felt it pressing against your thigh, heavy with the weight of everything youâd written.
Youâd rewritten it three times the night before. Scribbled, scratched out, crumpled, rewritten again. No matter how hard you tried, the words never seemed enough â or maybe they were too much. But in the end, you forced yourself to settle on something honest, raw, unpolished.
Because if you were going to confess, it had to be real.
Classes dragged, each tick of the clock stretching into eternity. You barely heard the teachers, barely registered your friendsâ chatter. All you could think about was the moment to come â dismissal, the final bell, handing the letter over to Lando, and watching his reaction.
Would he smile? Be surprised? Awkward? Would he already know?
The questions churned in your chest until you thought you might explode.
And then the bell rang.
The sound jolted you upright. Around you, the classroom erupted in the usual end-of-day chaos â bags zipping, chairs scraping, voices rising in laughter and chatter.
You swallowed hard, staring at Lando across the room. He was stuffing his books into his bag, humming under his breath, utterly unaware of the hurricane inside you.
Now or never.
Your legs carried you forward before your brain could talk you out of it. You stopped at his desk, clutching the letter so tightly the paper wrinkled in your hand.
âHey, Lando,â you said, trying to sound casual, steady. You failed. Your voice cracked on the second syllable.
He looked up, brows raised, smile easy. âHey. Whatâs up?â
For a second, you almost chickened out. Almost shoved the letter back in your bag and pretended youâd just come to say goodbye. But the words were already bubbling at your lips, and your hands were already extending the folded paper toward him.
âI, umâthis is for you,â you said.
His eyes flicked to the letter, then back to you, curiosity sparking. âWhat is it?â
You forced a laugh, shaky and weak. âJust⊠something I wanted to say. You can read it later.â
He studied you for a moment, like he could see straight through your skin to the trembling heart beneath. But then he smiled again, easy, oblivious. âAlright. Thanks.â He slipped the letter into his bag without another thought.
And that was it.
No dramatic music. No world-stopping revelation. Just him tucking away the most vulnerable piece of you, like it was homework.
You walked out of the classroom with your chest hollow, your breath shallow.
Now all you could do was wait.
The waiting was worse than anything.
Hours stretched into eternities. You checked your phone every few minutes, each buzz of a notification making your pulse spike, only to crash again when it wasnât him.
Dinner came and went, tasteless in your mouth. The evening dragged. You sat at your desk, staring at the blank page of your notebook, every second a reminder that he hadnât replied.
And then, just past nine, your phone lit up.
Lando Norris
Your heart leapt into your throat. Hands shaking, you opened the message.
âI read the letter that you gave me earlier. I really didn't expect that, but I'll be straight to the point. I don't want to hurt you, because that's not my intention. But we're not on the same page. Sorry, but I only see you as a friend, and it won't go beyond that. I appreciate you so much. Thank you for admiring me, but I really don't feel the same. You are a great, great, great person inside and out. And I'm sure there are more deserving people than you. It really means a lot to me. I hope we don't avoid each other after this, and that we still remain friends. I'm sure that you will find someone who will love you as pure as how you loved me.â
The words blurred on the screen as tears stung your eyes.
Friend.
Not the same page.
Never beyond that.
You pressed your fist to your mouth, biting back a sob. Youâd prepared yourself for rejection â or at least you thought you had. But nothing couldâve prepared you for the finality of it, the kindness laced with cruelty, the way he ended it so cleanly, so politely.
You didnât want polite. You didnât want kind. You wanted him.
And now you knew youâd never have him.
The next morning, the world carried on as if nothing had changed.
Sunlight streamed through the classroom windows. Students joked and laughed, the air buzzing with the same easy rhythm as always.
But for you, everything was off-kilter.
When Lando walked in, you froze. He glanced your way, smiled â that same friendly, effortless smile he gave everyone. And that hurt most of all.
Because for him, nothing was different.
Heâd read your heart laid bare, rejected it, and gone on like normal. Like it hadnât even mattered.
You forced yourself to smile back, throat tight. You dropped your gaze quickly, pretending to scribble in your notebook, pretending not to feel the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
Class was torture.
Every brush of his arm against yours, every casual joke, every time he leaned over to whisper something only you could hear â all of it twisted like a knife.
Before, those moments had been butterflies. Now, they were salt in the wound.
And yet, you couldnât stop yourself from responding, from laughing when he teased, from leaning in when he pointed out something funny in the textbook. Because to do otherwise would give you away â and you couldnât bear for him to know how much you were breaking.
So you played along. You pretended.
And when the bell finally rang, you rushed out of the classroom, holding yourself together just long enough to make it to the bathroom before the dam burst.
You slid down against the cold tile wall, sobs tearing from your throat, muffled into your sleeve.
He didnât love you.
He never would.
And you still loved him anyway.
The thing about rejection was that life didnât pause for it.
Assignments still needed to be passed. Group projects still required coordination. Friends still pulled you into conversations, laughter bubbling around you like nothing had happened. And Lando still acted like the same boy who used to call you at midnight to complain about homework or ask if youâd eaten.
Except you werenât the same anymore.
Every time he leaned across the desk to poke fun at your handwriting, every time his knee brushed yours under the table, every time he turned that blinding grin on you, you had to swallow the lump in your throat and remind yourself: He doesnât feel the same.
You clung to his words in that text like they were lifelines.
I hope we donât avoid each other.
I only see you as a friend.
Fine. A friend. You could be that. You would be that.
But it didnât make the ache go away.
Weeks passed. The air between you two settled into something resembling normalcy â at least on the surface. You laughed at his jokes, shared notes when he forgot his, and asked about his weekend. He did the same.
But you felt the shift in ways no one else could see.
Where once you wouldâve lingered on his voice, now you caught yourself tuning out. Where once you wouldâve leaned into the warmth of his shoulder, now you subtly shifted just enough to create space.
And sometimes, when you thought he wasnât looking, you caught him glancing at you with a furrow in his brow, as if he could sense the distance but couldnât name it.
One afternoon, your friend group stayed behind after class to plan for the upcoming school fair. You were all crammed around a cluster of desks, tossing out ideas between laughter and chaos.
At one point, someone cracked a joke about who would make the best âcouple mascotâ for your class booth. Teasing voices flew â names paired together, laughter echoing through the room.
And then, someone said it:
âY/N and Lando, obviously.â
The room erupted in whoops and giggles. You felt your stomach drop, heat creeping up your neck.
Lando laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck. âNah, not us.â He said it so casually, so easily, the dismissal sharp as glass. âWeâre just friends.â
Just friends.
The words rang in your ears, louder than the chatter that followed. You forced a smile, tried to laugh along, but your chest tightened like a vice.
Later that night, lying in bed, you replayed the scene over and over. His laugh. His tone. It didnât even take him a second to draw that line in the sand.
Just friends.
The thing was â you could live with the rejection. You could live with being âjust friends.â
What you couldnât live with was the gnawing hope that refused to die.
Because even as he said it, even as he made it clear, your heart betrayed you.
When he walked you to the gate after school, when he offered you the last piece of candy from his pocket, when he called you late at night to ask if youâd finished the project â every little thing still felt like a possibility.
And the possibility kept you tethered.
The end of the semester crept closer, and with it, the exhaustion of exams. Study groups formed, classmates camped out in the library, and you found yourself once again sitting side by side with Lando, books spread between you.
He yawned, stretching his arms over his head before leaning forward again, his shoulder brushing yours. âI swear, if I see one more math problem, Iâm going to throw my notebook out the window.â
You chuckled, trying to focus on your notes. âThen youâll fail the exam and regret it forever.â
He grinned, tilting his head toward you. âThatâs why I have you. Youâll save me.â
The words sent a pang straight through your chest. You forced a smile, circling another formula on the page. âDonât rely on me too much.â
But the truth was, you wanted him to. You wanted to be the one he leaned on, the one he turned to â not just in academics, but in everything.
And that want was dangerous.
The day after exams, the atmosphere in school was electric, relief buzzing through the halls. Students chattered about plans for the break, voices carrying laughter and excitement.
You, on the other hand, felt weighed down by something heavier.
Because no matter how hard you tried to bury it, your feelings hadnât gone away. Theyâd grown. Theyâd deepened. And the longer you stayed by his side, the harder it was to hide.
So when dismissal came, when the halls thinned and your classmates drifted off, you found yourself once again clutching a folded piece of paper.
Another letter.
Your heart pounded as you slipped it onto his desk, your hand shaking. He looked up, surprised. âAnother one?â
You forced a laugh, cheeks burning. âJust⊠yeah. Donât read it now.â
He raised a brow but nodded, slipping it into his bag. âAlright.â
And as you walked out of the classroom, your chest tightened with both hope and dread.
Because you already knew how this story might end.
The next morning, you waited.
All through your first class, your hand brushed over your phone every few minutes, screen lighting up with nothing more than random group chats and teacher announcements.
All through lunch, you picked at your food, laughter from your friends echoing around you while your stomach churned with dread and hope.
All through dismissal, you told yourself: Heâll text. He always texts.
But he didnât.
When you finally saw him the next day, he acted as if nothing had changed. He slung his bag over one shoulder, greeted you with a grin, and walked beside you toward your classroom like it was any other morning.
And then, when you thought maybe â maybe â he was about to bring it up, he glanced at you and said, almost offhandedly:
âThanks for the letter.â
Just that.
Your heart stuttered. âOh. Um. Sure.â
He smiled, the easy, lopsided one that used to melt you. Then he changed the subject, asking if youâd finished your homework for history.
And that was it.
No rejection this time. No acceptance. Just⊠a thank you, like youâd handed him an extra pen or saved him a seat.
The ambiguity ate you alive.
Days blurred together, each one a fresh sting. He didnât avoid you, not once. If anything, he was kinder, softer, as though he knew you were hurting and wanted to ease it without ever addressing the wound.
But that made it worse.
Because when he shared his snacks with you in class, when he offered to walk you home, when his laugh cracked through the air, and you were the first person he looked at, your heart still believed.
And your head hated you for it.
By the time the birthday party rolled around, the semester had ended, and everyone was ready to blow off steam. The group chat buzzed with excitement all week, plans for food, playlists, and who would bring what.
You told yourself it would be fine. That it was just one night. That maybe, in the dim glow of string lights and the chaos of laughter, you could forget.
But forgetting wasnât what happened.
The bass hit you first, deep and heavy, rattling the walls of the two-story house before you even stepped inside.
It wasnât the first time youâd been to one of these birthday parties, a blur of music, laughter, and too many people crammed into too small a space, but tonight felt different. Maybe because the semester had finally ended, maybe because it was one of your close friends hosting, or maybe because you were already on edge before youâd even left your room.
You tugged at the hem of your top, adjusted your hair in your phone screen one last time, and told yourself it didnât matter if he noticed. It doesnât matter. It doesnât matter. It doesnât matter.
Of course, it did.
âY/N!â
The call of your name was swallowed by the music as soon as you stepped through the door, but you still caught it, still saw the blur of familiar faces rushing toward you. You were pulled into a hug, then another, your friends already buzzing with energy and cheap alcohol.
Somewhere in the crowd, you knew he was here.
And sure enough, when the group shifted and the laughter rose, your eyes found him.
Lando.
Backwards cap. Loose hoodie. Cup in hand. He was leaning against the wall with that stupidly relaxed posture he always had, like the chaos around him bent to his pace, not the other way around. And when he laughed, loud, unrestrained, head tipped back, you hated how your chest squeezed.
He saw you before you could look away.
A grin spread across his face. Not the polite one he wore with teachers or acquaintances, but the one he saved for the people he was genuinely happy to see. For you.
You waved, too quickly, too awkwardly, and immediately grabbed the nearest drink someone shoved in your hand.
The first drink went down fast. Too fast.
So did the second.
By the third, the edges of the night softened. The music felt less overwhelming, the conversations easier, your laughter louder. You could stand in the same circle as him without your pulse hammering in your throat, and you could talk to others without scanning for his reaction every five seconds.
And yet â you couldnât escape him.
Even when you werenât looking, you knew where he was.
Sitting on the armrest of the couch, pretending to argue with one of the guys.
Cutting through the crowd to grab another drink.
Leaning in close to hear what someone said, a smile tugging at his lips.
Always there. Always just a little too close, a little too present.
At one point, you caught his eye across the room. He tilted his chin up in a silent hello, the kind that only people who knew each other well shared. Your stomach flipped. You looked away.
âLoosen up, Y/N,â someone teased, pressing another cup into your hand.
âIâm fine,â you laughed, but you took it anyway.
By now, the house was hot, air thick with sweat and perfume and the faint burn of alcohol. Lights flickered in the corner, the music cycling between nostalgic pop hits and bass-heavy anthems that had everyone screaming lyrics at the top of their lungs.
You found yourself swaying with the crowd, bumping shoulders, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. For a while, you almost forgot.
Almost.
Until you felt a hand on your arm.
âHey.â
His voice cut through the noise like it always did.
You turned, and there he was â closer than you expected, eyes bright, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had that look, the one that said Iâm about to tease you, but youâre going to laugh anyway.
âYouâre actually having fun?â he said, mock surprise lacing his tone.
You rolled your eyes. âDonât sound so shocked.â
He laughed, and the sound went straight to your chest. âGuess I owe you an apology. I thought youâd be glued to the couch all night.â
âShows what you know,â you shot back, and maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way his knee brushed yours when he leaned closer, but you didnât move away.
He didnât either.
The night stretched on.
You lost track of how many drinks youâd had â enough that the buzzing warmth under your skin never quite faded, not enough that you couldnât walk straight.
You danced. You laughed. You found yourself in the kitchen with your friends, then back in the living room, then out on the porch, where the air was cooler. And everywhere you went, somehow, he was there too.
Sometimes with others, sometimes with you.
A shoulder bump in the hallway.
A joke whispered in your ear that made you laugh harder than you should have.
A glance held a second too long before he looked away.
If you hadnât known better, if you hadnât already lived through months of his silence and half-answers, you would have thoughtâ
No. You couldnât go there.
By midnight, the party had hit its peak. People were sprawled across couches, voices hoarse from singing, laughter spilling out the open windows. Someone turned the volume up even higher, and you couldnât hear yourself think.
Maybe thatâs why you didnât notice him sitting next to you until his shoulder brushed yours.
âHaving fun?â he asked again, softer this time.
You looked at him. Really looked. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, his hair messy under his cap, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
God, he was beautiful.
âYeah,â you said, but your voice cracked on the word.
He tilted his head, studying you. âYou sure?â
You nodded too quickly. âTotally.â
But the truth sat heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs, begging to be let out.
Because you werenât fine. Not even close.
And the more you looked at him, the more the drinks blurred your restraint, the more you knew it was only a matter of time before the words spilled out.
You excused yourself, stumbling toward the bathroom. Cold water on your face didnât help. Neither did staring at your reflection, eyes glassy, cheeks warm.
Donât say it. Donât ruin everything. Donâtâ
But when you stepped back into the chaos, the first person you saw was him.
And that was when you knew.
The dam was going to break.
The bass was still pounding when you came back from the bathroom, but now everything felt louder, sharper. Like the music had crawled under your skin, and your heartbeat couldnât catch up.
You weaved back into the crowd, trying to find air, trying to find stability. But the alcohol was heavier now, pulling at your limbs, fogging your thoughts.
And then you saw him.
Lando.
Leaning against the couch, laughing at something one of the guys had said, his smile so bright it made your stomach twist.
Something inside you cracked.
You moved toward him before you could stop yourself, feet dragging you like you were tethered. By the time you reached him, your cup was nearly empty, your throat burning, your heart thrumming too fast.
âHey,â you said, louder than you meant to.
He turned, eyes flicking to your face, and the grin softened into something gentler. âHey. You good?â
You werenât. God, you werenât. But his voice was kind, and his eyes were steady, and you wanted â no, needed â to believe that if you spoke the truth, just this once, he wouldnât shatter you.
You sat down beside him, the room spinning just a little. âDo you ever think about it?â
He blinked. âThink about what?â
âAbout us.â The words tumbled out, slurred but sharp. âAbout what it would be like. If you and meââ You cut yourself off with a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to your face. âGod, I sound insane.â
He froze. âY/Nââ
But you werenât finished.
âI hate this,â you said, voice cracking. âI hate that I love you.â
Silence.
The kind that made your ears ring, even above the music.
You laughed again, bitter and broken. âDo you know what itâs like? To wait and wait and wait for someone whoâll never choose you? To be everyoneâs friend, everyoneâs second choice, but neverââ Your throat closed up. âNever the one they actually want?â
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
And suddenly, all the weeks, all the months of bottled-up feelings came spilling out, unstoppable.
âI hate that no matter how much I try, I canât move on. I hate that I tell myself Iâm fine with being your friend, but then you smile at me like that, and Iâm right back where I started. I hateââ Your voice broke completely. âI hate that I canât stop loving you, even when itâs killing me.â
People had gone quiet around you. Not everyone, not the whole room â but enough. A few glances, a few whispers. The sound of your heart tearing itself apart was louder than the bass now.
Landoâs hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but didnât know if he should. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
âY/N,â he said finally, voice low, urgent. âYouâre drunk. Letâs⊠letâs talk tomorrow, okay?â
But that was the problem. There was never a tomorrow. Always silence, always avoidance, always the safe smile, and the subject change.
And suddenly, you were so tired.
âForget it,â you whispered, pushing yourself to your feet. Your vision swayed, and someone caught your arm, guiding you toward the couch. Another friend pressed water into your hand, murmuring something you didnât hear.
You buried your face in your hands, hot tears spilling between your fingers.
Lando didnât follow.
The night dissolved into fragments after that. A blur of voices you couldnât separate, the thud of footsteps upstairs, laughter from the kitchen. Someone covered you with a jacket that wasnât yours. You closed your eyes and begged yourself to forget.
Morning came with a headache that split your skull in two. The sunlight stabbed through the blinds, and your mouth was dry, your body heavy.
Bits and pieces of the night clung to you â the music, the heat, the way the room tilted when you stood. But the rest was fog.
You scrolled through your phone, searching for clues. No texts from him. Nothing out of the ordinary.
When you finally dragged yourself to class the next day, your heart jumped at the sight of him.
He was already there, chatting with a group of friends, laughter spilling out of him like always. He looked at you, and his smile didnât falter, didnât crack, didnât reveal anything at all.
âMorning,â he said, casual, easy.
âMorning,â you managed.
And that was it.
No mention of the words you couldnât remember saying. No flicker of recognition in his eyes.
Like it had never happened.
And maybe, you thought, maybe it hadnât.
But deep down, in the pit of your stomach, you knew.
It had.
And he was choosing silence.
The day of the graduation ball carried a weight you couldnât quite name.
Your dress hung from your shoulders like a promise, soft fabric brushing against your legs as you paced your room. Makeup perfectly set, hair curled in neat waves, everything about you screamed ready. But your heart wasnât.
Because ready meant seeing him.
Ready meant one more night of pretending you could stand beside him without falling apart.
When you arrived at the venue, a hotel ballroom glittering with chandeliers and polished floors, the air hummed with nerves and anticipation. Everyone looked older tonight, somehow. Like the formality of the event had pulled your class into a new version of themselves, one step closer to leaving this chapter behind.
And then there was him.
Lando.
A suit that fit him too well, hair styled just enough to look effortless. He laughed with friends near the entrance, hands in his pockets, eyes crinkling at something someone said. He looked every bit the boy you had loved for too long.
You forced yourself to look away, heading for your table.
The program started â speeches, dinner, group photos. Everything blurred into background noise. All you could think about was the looming moment: the dance.
Because, of course, the universe had its cruel sense of humor. Out of every possible pairing, it had been him. Again.
When the music finally shifted and the host announced the first round of dances, your pulse spiked.
You stood. So did he.
And for a moment, the noise faded.
You walked toward each other across the glossy floor, every step heavy, every memory rushing back: prom practices, stolen glances, his hands brushing yours by accident.
âHey,â he said, voice low when you reached him.
âHey,â you echoed, trying not to let your throat close up.
The song was slow, melodic, the kind of track meant for sentiment. His hand found yours, warm, familiar, sending lightning down your arm. His other hand rested lightly at your waist, careful but steady.
And then you were moving.
One step, two. The rhythm pulled you together, his eyes flicking down to meet yours for a second too long. You couldnât breathe.
This wasnât fair.
Because your body fit against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because his laugh â soft, almost nervous â made your chest ache. Because everyone around you disappeared when he looked at you like that.
And yet, it was all an illusion. A dance. Nothing more.
âYou look nice tonight,â he said quietly, gaze flicking away as if he hadnât meant to admit it.
Your heart stuttered. âThanks. You too.â
For a few minutes, it was just the two of you. Like maybe, if you squinted, this could be the version of your story where he wanted you back. Where this dance meant something more than choreography.
But then the music ended, and the spell broke.
Applause filled the room. You stepped back, forcing a smile, hands slipping from his.
Later, when the awards were announced, you barely heard your name at first.
âBest On-Stage Chemistry,â the host declared, laughter rippling through the crowd.
You froze.
And then they were calling you and him forward, shoving you back into the spotlight together.
The room cheered as you stood side by side on stage, trophy in hand, faces burning. Someone shouted, âKiss!â and the laughter grew louder.
Lando chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. You laughed too, but it was brittle, sharp around the edges.
When the host teased that the winners should âprove itâ with one last dance, you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
But the crowd clapped and whistled, and there was no way out.
The music started again.
You found yourself back in his arms, this time with the entire class watching.
And it was worse now â or maybe better. His hand steadied you like heâd done this a hundred times, his touch grounding even as it burned. Your chest pressed against his, your fingers curled into his shoulder.
For a moment, it was perfect.
And for that very reason, it hurt more than anything else in the world.
When the song ended, you smiled for the cameras, for the audience, for him. Pretending you werenât bleeding inside.
But as you walked off stage, heart racing, you knew.
This was it.
Your last chance.
And if you didnât say it tonight, you never would.
The ballroom hummed with energy after the awards, but you felt like a ghost drifting through it all. Your classmates laughed, clinked glasses, and posed for photos. Music pulsed in the background, a medley of upbeat tracks to draw everyone to the dance floor.
But you couldnât focus on any of it.
You could still feel the ghost of his hand on your waist. Still hear his low laugh when the crowd had teased. Still see the way his eyes had softened, like he was caught between embarrassment and something else you couldnât name.
Something you wanted so badly to believe in.
Your friends pulled you into a circle dance, and for a while, you let them. Jumping, laughing, shouting lyrics you didnât even care to remember. But then you caught sight of him across the room â standing with his group, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a glass.
And just like that, the noise faded again.
This wasnât how you wanted the night to end.
Not with you laughing on one side of the ballroom and him smiling on the other. Not with another unspoken confession lodged in your throat.
Not with the same old story.
You made up your mind.
He was at the refreshments table when you finally gathered the courage to approach, sipping from a glass of water. His suit jacket hung loosely now, tie slightly loosened. Casual, relaxed, as if he wasnât the center of every storm inside you.
âHey,â you said, voice soft but steady.
He turned, surprised. âHey. You okay? You kinda disappeared for a bit.â
You nodded, though your chest was caving in. âCan we talk? Somewhere quieter?â
His brows lifted slightly, but he didnât hesitate. âSure.â
You slipped out together, weaving past clusters of students until you found a hallway just outside the ballroom. The music dulled into a muffled beat, the air cooler, calmer.
And suddenly, it was just the two of you.
You faced him, heart in your throat. He shoved his hands into his pockets, watching you with that easy, patient look that always made you feel seen.
And that was what made it unbearable.
Because he was here. He was listening. He always had been.
But not in the way you needed him to be.
Still, you couldnât stop yourself.
âIâŠâ You exhaled shakily. âI need to say this before the night ends.â
He tilted his head, silent, waiting.
You stared at the floor, words tumbling out before you could stop them. âI like you. Iâve liked you for so long, and Iâve tried so hard to get over it. I thought I did, but thenââ Your breath hitched. âThen we danced again tonight, and it felt like nothing had changed. It feels like everything is still the same. And Iâm tired of pretending itâs not.â
When you finally looked up, his expression was unreadable. Not cold, not mocking, just⊠quiet.
Your chest tightened.
âI know Iâve said this before,â you continued, voice trembling. âAnd I know you donât feel the same. But I canât keep carrying it without saying it. I canât leave tonight without you knowing that I stillââ You broke off, swallowing hard. âThat I still love you.â
The silence stretched.
Your hands shook at your sides. The hallway suddenly felt too big, the air too sharp.
âPlease,â you whispered, almost desperate. âJust⊠say something.â
His lips parted, but no words came. His gaze darted away, jaw tightening. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you knew by heart.
But he didnât speak.
Didnât reject you. Didnât comfort you.
Didnât give you anything.
Just silence.
And that silence was worse than a thousand rejections.
Because it left you hanging, dangling on the edge of hope and despair, unable to move forward, unable to let go.
You waited. One second. Two. Five.
Nothing.
A brittle laugh escaped your lips, though it sounded more like a sob. âRight. Of course.â
You turned before he could see the tears gathering in your eyes.
âY/Nââ he started, finally, but you were already walking back toward the ballroom.
The rest of the night blurred.
You sat at your table, smiling when you had to, nodding when someone spoke. But your body was numb, your mind replaying the silence over and over until it drowned out everything else.
When the final song played, you stayed seated. You watched your classmates sway under the chandeliers, watched him laughing with his friends, watched your story crumble into dust.
And when the lights brightened, signaling the end of the ball, you stood quietly, slipped out, and didnât look back.
That night, lying in bed in your gown still half-zipped, mascara smudged on your cheeks, you realized it wasnât the rejection that broke you.
It was the absence of an answer.
The way he left you waiting, again.
The way he gave you nothing to hold onto, nothing to let go of.
And maybe that was the cruelest thing of all.
The semester ended with the weight of exams, deadlines, and final projects pressing down on everyone, but for you, none of that compared to the pressure sitting on your chest.
You hadnât spoken much to Lando since the graduation ball. He hadnât brought up the hallway conversation. He hadnât acknowledged your confession. He hadnât even tried.
And you had taken it. Quietly. Patiently. Telling yourself maybe heâd needed time. Maybe heâd been too shocked. Maybe heâd circle back, just⊠not yet.
But ânot yetâ had stretched into weeks.
And then into months.
And now, here you were: standing at the edge of another semester, with nothing but silence between you.
It was too much.
It happened after class one afternoon. The hallways buzzed with chatter, but you stormed out of your classroom without a thought, clutching your bag strap like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. And of course, he was there. Just outside, leaning against the railing, scrolling on his phone like he had all the time in the world.
Your chest tightened, anger finally boiling over.
âLando.â
He looked up immediately, his face lighting up the way it always did when he saw you. And God, that smile still wrecked you. Still made your heart stutter even when you hated it.
âHey,â he said easily. âLong day?â
The normalcy in his tone snapped something inside you.
You laughed, sharp and bitter. âAre you serious right now?â
His brows furrowed. âWhat do you mean?â
You took a step closer, heat rising in your cheeks. âI mean, how are you acting like nothing happened? Like I didnât stand in front of you and tell you I loved you, and you justâjust stood there. And then what? We go back to being friends like nothing ever happened?â
His mouth opened, closed. âY/Nââ
âNo!â Your voice cracked, and heads turned, but you didnât care. For once, you didnât care who heard. âYou donât get to say my name like that. You donât get to act like I didnât bare my entire soul to you and you gave me nothing in return.â
He straightened, guilt flashing in his eyes, but still â no words.
And that infuriated you more.
âYou know what hurts the most?â you continued, voice trembling but loud. âItâs not even that you donât like me back. Itâs that you couldnât even give me the decency of a straight answer. You left me hanging. Again. Youâve been leaving me hanging for months, for years, like Iâm just supposed to wait around until you decide what you want.â
His jaw tightened. âThatâs not fair.â
âNot fair?â You laughed again, hollow. âYou want to talk about fair? Iâve been waiting for you since year eleven, Lando. Waiting while you had crushes on other girls, waiting while I dated Oscar just to distract myself, waiting while you told everyone you only saw me as a friend. Iâve waited through every âalmostâ moment, every stupid dance where it felt like maybe, just maybe, you felt it too. And then I find out the truth in a hallway with you staring at me like Iâm nothing more than a problem you donât know how to solve.â
âY/Nââ he tried again, but you cut him off.
âNo, donât.â Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them back furiously. âYou donât get to soothe me with half-hearted words anymore. I donât need your pity. I donât need you to tell me Iâm a great person or that someone out there will love me. I didnât want someone out there. I wanted you.â
The words ripped out of you like a confession and a curse all at once.
And for the first time, you saw him falter.
He swallowed, glanced away, then back at you, his own face tight with something you couldnât read. âI never wanted to hurt you.â
âThen why did you?â Your voice cracked, finally breaking. âWhy did you let me wait? Why did you keep me close when you knew how I felt? Why didnât you just say no the first time and end it there? You couldâve saved me so much pain, Lando. But instead, you kept me dangling on a thread while you decided how much of me you wanted.â
His silence was the answer.
It always was.
You laughed again, broken this time, and wiped angrily at your face. âThatâs it, isnât it? You donât want me. You never did. You just didnât want to lose me. So you kept me around, let me believe there was a chance, because it was easier than telling me the truth.â
He flinched, but didnât deny it.
And that was worse than any rejection.
The words you threw at him seemed to hang in the air, suspended, sharp enough to cut both of you. He didnât move, didnât argue. His eyes flickered with something â regret, guilt, maybe even sadness â but his silence screamed louder than anything he couldâve said.
And that silence was unbearable.
You shook your head, laughing bitterly. âGod, do you even realize what this feels like? To stand here pouring my heart out, and you just⊠look at me? Like youâre sorry, but not sorry enough to actually do anything?â
âY/NâŠâ His voice was low, careful. Too careful.
âWhat?â Your voice cracked, anger and heartbreak colliding. âWhat are you gonna say this time? That youâre sorry? That you didnât mean to hurt me? That Iâm such a good person, and someone out there will love me the way I deserve?â
He winced, and you knew youâd hit the mark.
âThatâs all you ever do,â you said, softer now, but no less sharp. âApologize without fixing anything. You feel guilty, but you donât change. You make me feel like Iâm asking for too much, when all I ever wanted was a straight answer.â
His eyes dropped to the ground, shoulders slumping. He looked small, almost boyish, like the weight of what you were saying was pressing down on him. But still, he didnât say what you needed.
Didnât say no. Didnât say yes.
Didnât say anything that mattered.
And suddenly, the ache inside you turned into exhaustion.
You let out a shaky breath, tears spilling freely now. âI canât keep doing this. I canât keep waiting for you to choose me when you never will. Itâs killing me, Lando.â
His head shot up at that, eyes wide, like he wanted to protest, but no words came.
Of course they didnât.
You forced a smile, broken but resolute. âYou donât have to say it. I get it now. Iâm not what you want. I never was.â
âY/N, thatâs notââ
âDonât.â You held up a hand, stopping him. âDonât feed me half-truths or soft rejections anymore. Donât string me along with your silence. If you cared, you wouldâve said it years ago. But you didnât. And I canât keep begging for scraps of your attention.â
The lump in your throat nearly choked you, but you pushed the words out anyway. âSo Iâm done. Iâm done loving you. Iâm done waiting. And Iâm done letting you hold me back from moving on.â
His lips parted, like he wanted to stop you, but all that came out was a broken whisper: âI never wanted to lose you.â
That was it. That was all he had.
And it was too little, too late.
You swallowed hard, tears blurring your vision. âYou already did.â
With that, you turned on your heel and walked away.
This time, he didnât follow.
The campus grounds were buzzing with joy that morning. Caps tilted at odd angles, gowns rustling with every step, cameras flashing in the sunlight. Laughter echoed across the courtyard, and pockets of students clustered together to capture the moment.
But you felt like a shadow moving through it all.
Your smile stayed glued on for the photos, for your parents, for your classmates, tugging you into group shots. But the ache in your chest never lifted. Every laugh felt like an echo, every congratulations hollow.
And of course, you saw him.
Lando stood a few paces away with his friends, laughing at something one of them said. His tassel swung in the breeze, his grin wide, careless. From a distance, he looked like the boy everyone knew â charming, lighthearted, untouchable.
But when his gaze accidentally flicked to yours across the courtyard, you froze.
He did too.
And for a moment, the noise around you dulled.
You told yourself you could ignore it. Just turn away, keep walking, disappear into the crowd. But your feet betrayed you, carrying you closer until you were standing only a few steps apart, the air between you charged with everything left unsaid.
âHey,â he said finally, voice tentative.
You swallowed. âHey.â
It shouldâve been enough. A greeting, a nod, and then walk away. But the weight of months pressed down, dragging more out of you than you meant to give.
âThis is it,â you said, gesturing vaguely to the stage, the caps, the whole celebration. âWeâre done.â
He nodded slowly. âYeah. We made it.â
Silence again.
You bit your lip, heart racing. âAre you ever going to give me an answer?â
His brows furrowed, but you didnât flinch. âAll those times I told you how I felt. All the times I waited. You never said no. You never said yes. Just⊠silence. And now weâre graduating, and Iâm leaving, and I still donât know what the hell I was to you.â
His throat bobbed, eyes flicking down before meeting yours again. For once, the easy charm was gone, replaced by something heavier.
âYou were my best friend,â he said quietly.
The words hit harder than you expected.
âBest friend?â you echoed, bitter laugh escaping. âThatâs it?â
His jaw tightened, guilt flashing across his face. âI didnât want to lie to you. I didnât want to give you hope when I couldnâtâŠâ He trailed off, shaking his head. âI care about you, Y/N. More than you think. But not the way you wanted. And I didnât know how to say that without losing you.â
The honesty stung worse than silence.
Tears pricked your eyes, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. âYou lost me anyway.â
The words trembled in the air between you. His lips parted, like he wanted to reach for you, but his hands stayed buried in the folds of his gown.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. âMe too.â
For a moment, you both just stood there â two parallel lines that had come so close but never touched.
The announcerâs voice boomed across the courtyard, calling the next set of names. Students cheered, caps flew, the world spun on.
And you turned, finally walking away.
This time, you didnât look back.
Graduation ended the way all endings do, with noise, with laughter, with people holding onto moments because they didnât know how to let go.
But for you, the ceremony blurred together. The photos, the cheers, the sea of caps in the air â none of it stuck. The only thing that lingered was the look in his eyes when you walked away.
Sorry.
Best friend.
Too little, too late.
By the time you got home, you already knew.
You couldnât stay here anymore.
The weeks that followed were a haze of packing and goodbyes. Your room slowly emptied: books stacked in boxes, posters peeled off the walls, clothes folded into suitcases. Each object felt like a relic of the years youâd spent waiting, hoping, hurting.
Sometimes you caught yourself staring at the little things â the friendship bracelet Oscar had once made you in Year 10, the polaroids from late-night study sessions with your friends, the notebook filled with doodles and inside jokes you and Lando had scrawled during boring classes.
You almost left them behind. But in the end, you packed them anyway. Not as treasures, not as wounds â just pieces of a past you were finally ready to let rest.
On your last night, you sat by the window, watching the familiar skyline glow under the streetlights. The city had been everything to you â the backdrop of every crush, every heartbreak, every reckless teenage dream.
But it wasnât yours anymore.
Your phone buzzed on the desk. A few messages from friends wishing you luck, promising to call. A long voice note from Oscar, who you hadnât spoken to in ages, saying he hoped youâd finally find peace.
And one unread text from Lando.
You didnât open it.
Not because you didnât want to. But because you already knew what it would say.
Take care. Iâll miss you. Stay friends.
Half-answers. Half-truths. Half-love.
You couldnât carry that with you anymore.
The airport was crowded the next morning, the usual chaos of luggage wheels and echoing announcements. Your parents flitted around, making sure you had everything: passport, boarding pass, snacks for the flight.
But you kept scanning the crowd, half-expecting to see him there.
He wasnât.
And maybe that was the closure you needed.
Because if heâd shown up, if heâd given you one last smile or hug, you mightâve faltered. You mightâve believed there was still something left to save.
Instead, it was just you.
You, and the life you were finally choosing for yourself.
As you sat by the gate, you pulled out your phone one last time. The message notification from him still lingered. Your thumb hovered over it, trembling, before you sighed and swiped it away.
Delete.
You opened a blank note instead. Typed out the words youâd never send:
I loved you. God, I loved you more than I should have. But I canât keep breaking myself for someone who will never choose me. So Iâm choosing me now. Goodbye, Lando.
You read it once, twice, then closed the app.
No tears this time. No breakdown. Just silence â the kind that felt like peace instead of punishment.
When the boarding call echoed through the terminal, you stood, clutching your carry-on. You took one last look at the city beyond the windows â the skyline of every memory, every mistake, every version of you that had loved him.
And then you walked forward, steady, leaving it all behind.
The plane lifted into the sky, engines roaring, clouds swallowing the view of the ground below.
For the first time in years, your heart felt light. Not because youâd stopped loving him. But because youâd finally stopped waiting.
And somewhere down there, he was still standing still.
But you werenât.
You were gone.
kiki's note: took a trip down memory lane for this one. dw guys im ok after all of it. thank you so much for 200 followers and 2.5k likes, i am absolutely thankful to each and every kind of support. ANYWAY lmk what u guys think and as always i hope you enjoyed!!!!