The Mad Scientist

ancient runes was usually quiet. usually being the key word there.

but today, as you stepped inside the tall, echoing classroom with the enchanted windows that changed with the weather, every head turned toward you, because word had spread around hogwarts like wildfire.

because everyone saw oscar fly like a man possessed while staring at the pocket of hufflepuff's, and for once you couldn't escape it. and because max verstappen, star ravenclaw chaser, known menace, was already leaning back as far as he could in his chair, legs stretched out making himself comfortable, eyebrow raised when you walked in.

"well, well," max said loudly, drawing attention from two slytherin girls who were trying their best to show they weren't listening in. "my seeker's muse arrives."

you groaned, already regretting walking over to them the second you did it. "max, please."

oscar, sitting beside him, turned bright red immediately, he nudged his teammate with his elbow. "stop."

"can't," max said, obviously taking great enjoyment out of the embarrassment of you both. "it's physically impossible."

you slipped into the empty seat beside them, the seating chart had been set at the beginning of term, and unfortunately for your sanity, you were stuck between the ravenclaw duo for the entire year.

professor babbling swept in, parchment robes fluttering "today," she announced, "you'll be working in groups of three."

max smirked, already planning in his head more ways to annoy you the rest of class. "lucky you."

professor babbling clapped her hands sharply. "group three," she said, glancing at her list, "your task is to translate the inscription on stone tablet c. focus on the verb tenses. they're tricky." she explained as she set a cracked stone slab in front of your trio.

max squinted at it, already decoding the words he recognised in his head; oscar leaned forward, focused instantly, and you tried to ignore the fact that the sleeve of his robe brushed your arm. you were useless in this class anyway, so you were going to reap the benefits of being in a trio with two ravenclaws.

max hummed. "okay. this rune means 'protect,' this one means 'spirit,' aaaand this one means-"

"no," oscar said calmly, cutting him off. "that's not 'spirit.' that's 'moon.'"

his housemate looked offended at the insinuation he was wrong. "no it's not."

they both turned to you to pick a side, but you were looking down at your nails, picking at a piece of polish that was peeling when you heard one of them clearing their throats. "don't ask me, why do you think i'm using his notes?"

oscar cleared his throat and leaned closer to the tablet. "so," he said, pointing, "if this is 'moon,' and this is 'protect,' then the full line probably reads..."

you watched him think, shamelessly, it was one of your favourite things about him, the way his eyes softened when he focused, the way he tapped his finger when he almost had the answer, and the way his eyebrows dipped when he was concentrating.

oscar murmured, "'under the protection of the moon...'"

max finished for him, grinning at his teammate as they'd cracked the code, "'...the path will reveal itself.'"

professor babbling walked past your table, glancing at the initial translation from max before turning to oscar and you. "excellent," she said, looking at your translation. "group three, very accurate work. especially the final line."

max smiled smugly. "thank you. i did most of the heavy lifting."

you turned to look at oscar, choosing a moment max wasn't looking and you leant in. "i knew that was the moon rune."

oscar blinked, feeling his pulse race at the proximity, when you whispered to him again. "the notes you gave me last week."

"you actually read them?"

you smiled at him. "of course i do."

oscar could feel his face going warm, and when max realised, he groaned loudly. "i'm going to get a restraining order from the ministry for you two."

—

the great hall was buzzing when you entered, stomach grumbling with hunger as banners fluttered overhead, every table crowded with students stuffing their faces whilst plates kept refilling themselves with warm food and floating jugs poured pumpkin juice on command. it was truly your happy place.

you spotted the hufflepuff table instantly, its place and the walk there an immediate reaction when you enter. lando was surrounded by alex and a couple of the other players from the quiddich team, your beater adam and chaser amelia shoving more food onto their plates

“hufflepuffs’s biggest ravenclaw fan!” you heard him shout, already walking past him to another group of 5th years when lando grabbed your wrist and yanked you down beside him.

“horrible human,” you muttered, glaring at him, but put up no fight to move, instead beginning to fill your plate.

“i prefer merlin’s gift to the world,” lando replied, stealing your roll as you plucked it from the platter in front.

alex looked up from across the table, bemused at his friend, and although on the same wavelength, went about it in a much more lowkey way. “how was ancient runes?”

you glared at him as he failed to conceal a smile. “max and oscar made fun of each other the whole time-”

from beside alex, lando gasped dramatically, “they didn’t bully you, did they?”

“no-“ you were quick to argue back, but he was already cutting you off again.

“good,” he said, taking a huge bite of potatoes. “because if they did, i’d personally hex oscar so hard he’d-” he paused, eyes focusing on something, or someone more accurately, over your shoulder.

you could see the moments his eyes locked with someone across the hall, across to the ravenclaw table, with a groan you turned round, the nosey part of you needing to know what was stealing his attention, gasping when you finally saw where he was looking.

where you could see oscar was staring at you, not subtly, no attempt at pretending to even be subtle either, his eyes locked onto you, even as max was beside him animatedly telling a story, he nodded his head along, the occasional words to affirm that he was still indeed listening. you could feel your face beginning to feel warm, looking back at him one last time before turning back to see alex and lando looking at you.

“you’ve ruined that man.” lando commented, sticking his fork in one of the potatoes on alex’s plate as they hadn’t refilled yet. “he’s never going to be the same.”

your head was a mess of thoughts, burying it in your hands with a groan. “shut up, we have class together next.”

an idea was swirling in lando’s head, you could see it as clear as day, and him thinking was always a worry to you. “how could i forget our defence against the dark arts class with our lovely leclerc.”

“i’m thankful every day i chose not to do that class with yous,” alex added, swatting lando’s hand away from his plate once again.

—

defence against the dark arts was always a production when it was gilderoy lockhart teaching, you swore his classroom sparkled, literally sparkled and were so sure that someone (probably him) had enchanted floating gold dust to drift gently around the ceiling.

as you and lando walked in, he struck a pose at the front of the room like he was waiting for applause. “welcome, welcome, young defenders of justice!” he called, grinning so wide his teeth may have been magically whitened.

lando leaned toward you. “has he ever fought a dark wizard?”

“no,” you whispered, looking your ‘professor’ up and down. “but he’s written twelve books about pretending he did.”

charles slid into the seat in front of you, turning around with a smirk, oscar following closely behind him, they must’ve walked together from the great hall, you thought. “ready to be dazzled?”

“i think i already am,” you muttered, glancing around the sparkling room.

from the front of the class, descending the stairs, lockhart clapped his hands loudly. “today, my radiant pupils, we study duelling defence techniques! inspired by my award-winning chapter four: how i defeated the werewolf of wapping!”

leaning into the chairs in front, lando whispered, “didn’t that turn out to be a stray pabrador?”

“he obliviated the owners,” oscar replied in the same hushed tone.

clapping to catch your attention again, lockhart was looking directly at your table. “pair up!” he spoke in a sing-song voice. “i’ll be observing your technique and offering invaluable commentary.”

you barely had time to stand before charles spun around. “i want her,” he declared proudly, emphasising his words with a point in case anyone misunderstood.

oscar’s head snapped toward him, not even out of his seat yet. “what? why?”

charles shrugged, but the small smile creeping onto his face told you otherwise. “she’s the only one who can actually block my spells. lando falls over.”

lando gasped, “that was one time” he defended, offended by the stray he’d caught.

you opened your mouth to say no, already planning to pair up with lando like always, but lockhart swooped in, cape fluttering. “excellent choice, mr. leclerc! a fine witch indeed i’ve heard, your pairing will surely reflect my own famous duel with the troll chief of trondheim-”

“trolls don’t duel,” oscar muttered with a roll of his eyes, mostly to himself.

lockhart whirled upon hearing him. “what was that, mr. piastri?”

—

the class had split into two sides, those who were rooting for the gryffindor captain, and those cheering for you. staring him down from one end of the room, charles smirked. “ready?”

you tried not to notice oscar watching from your side like his life depended on it, instead focusing on when lockhart would raise his wand.

it felt like a lifetime standing opposite charles when your professor finally lifted his wand. “begin!”

instantly, charles fired a disarming charm, one which you blocked easily, dodging as he fired another at you.

lockhart placed a hand over his heart, sighing to himself as he looked to be reflecting. “such form! such grace! i haven’t seen reflexes like that since i defeated the banshee of bansko!”

lando looked like he was still offended about not being chosen, and oscar looked like he was being tortured.

your match continued smoothly, throwing your own disarming charm which charles blocked with lockhart dramatically narrating every move like he was commentating his own life story.

“marvellous! magnificent! reminds me of my duel atop mount-” he continued, as the class collectively agreed to tune him out.

your wrist flicked back as your spell rebounded, cursing under your breath as you felt the pain sizzle under your skin. everyone in the class had gone back to practice their own duels now, nobody except oscar and charles noticing when you hissed in pain, and oscar was very much aware when charles helped you steady your footing and fix your wrist movement to try the spell again.

lando changed from his defensive stance to lean closer to oscar, “mate, stop looking like you’re going to hex him.”

shaking his head, oscar ushered lando back into the duelling stance, although his friend's words were definitely still floating around in his head as he heard you laugh at something charles had said. “i’m not jealous.” he reaffirmed.

“you’re very jealous.”

when lockhart called for partners to switch, oscar practically teleported to your space, already pushing charles into lando’s path.

he stopped in front of you, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. “hi,” he said softly, pretending to be shy, because you knew he was far from it.

you smiled back at him, internally laughing at his urgency to be your partner. “hi.”

behind oscar, lockhart clasped his hands excitedly. “ah! two of my brightest pupils! the Ravenclaw prodigy and hufflepuff’s rising talent! a splendid match, worthy of my duel with the vampire of venice!”

“didn’t he turn out to be an opera singer with allergies?” lando asked a little too loudly, with lockhart electing to ignore him.

oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice. “you okay? charles didn’t go too hard, did he?”

“i can handle charles.”

he nodded, relief softening his shoulders. “good, because now you’re stuck with me.”

before you could reply, lockhart snapped his fingers dramatically. “begin!”

oscar lifted his wand, slight hesitation in his stance, eyes flicking to yours. “you sure?” he asked.

instead of replying, you fired a disarming charm at him, one he was just narrowly able to block and smirked. “hit me.”

you fell into rhythm, he fired a spell and you blocked and vice versa, he was clean and sharp, voice clear as he pointed his wand towards yours, because now he wasn’t distracted by jealousy or lockhart’s dramatic monologues.

his focus was entirely on you, making sure he could counter your spells, block them, send them back, it was a synchronisation, lockhart practically squealed. “look at that synchronous motion! that is what real duelling looks like, elegant! fluid! full of passion, it reminds me of-“

charles, leaning on one of the benches at the other side of the class, “professor, they’re literally just blocking spells.”

you launched a final blocking spell that oscar fought off perfectly, landing right in front of you, close, far too close in front of a class of people who knew what was going on, you could barely hear lando whispering to charles over your own heartbeat.

“you’re… really good at this,” oscar breathed, cheeks flushed.

“so are you.” you complimented back, smile dimpling your cheeks.

lockhart clapped loudly, appearing between you like a glittery wall. “splendid! i dare say you two could duel side by side in any real battle, your synergy rivals my own with the sorceress of—”

—

the astronomy tower was as quiet as always at this time, the sun long set, cold air drifted through the archways and lanterns flickered. the sky stretched endlessly above you, dark velvet dotted with silver, and the moon hung high in the sky as it bounced off the smooth surface of the black lake below.

you came up here to breathe, as always, it was the perfect place to. defence against the dark arts had been… intense, oscar had been… even more intense. more than you liked to admit

and lando had been unbearable in the common room after. more than usual.

you leaned on the stone railing, watching hogsmeade lights twinkle in the distance, imagining someone stumbling into the thee broomsticks seeking out some butter beer, trying to sort out your thoughts, when you heard footsteps echo behind you. soft, careful, as if not wanting to disturb your peace, and all around familiar.

you didn’t turn. didn’t need to. “you know,” you said quietly, “i had a feeling you’d show up.”

oscar froze a few steps back. “how?” he asked, voice low.

“you always do.” you smiled at the horizon, the same one from your first encounter with him here, what felt like years ago, staying late after astronomy.

astronomy class had emptied, footsteps faded down the spiral stairs and the tower grew still. you’d stayed behind to finish a star chart, oscar stayed too.

you didn’t notice at first, too focused on finishing this chart before going back to the common room, he was sitting near the far railing, quill in hand, eyes lifted toward the sky like the constellations were telling him secrets.

only when the door shut did it actually hit you: it was just the two of you.

you walked to the railing with your parchment, the cold stone grounding you, oscar glanced over, not startled, just quietly aware of your presence, as if he hadn’t been stealing looks in your direction the entire class.

“didn’t think anyone else would stay,” he said, dropping his quill as he folded over his parchment.

“didn’t plan to,” you answered with a small shrug. “just, wasn’t ready to go back.”

he nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “yeah.” nodding again. “same.”

silence slipped between you, gentle, not awkward, the kind that made the tower feel bigger, the sky closer, and the waves of the lake seem stronger.

stars shimmered above, gossiping about what was going on down below them, castle lights flickered below. after a long stretch of quiet, oscar pointed upward. “that ones my favourite,” he murmured. “altair.”

you tried to spot it, letting him move you to a better angle, ignoring the butterflies swarming in your stomach and the creep of heat up your neck. “why?”

he shrugged, eyes soft as he let the night sky envelope his features. “it isn’t the brightest, but still it matters.”

you looked at him then, really looked for the first time that wasn’t fighting for a snitch in a quiddich game, or as partners in class, and something warm settled in your chest.

shifting slightly closer, elbows brushing the railing, oscar spoke. “you don’t have to leave yet,”

you shuffled an inch closer, smiling as you spoke. “neither do you.”

so you stayed, two students from different houses, in a quiet tower, saying almost nothing.

oscar let out a breath, half sigh, half laugh, and stepped forward until he stood beside you, leaving just enough space to pretend you weren’t both thinking about closing it. he looked different in starlight, a softer, less guarded, almost unsure look. “sorry if i-” he began.

“no,” you said before he could finish. “you’re fine.”

oscar swallowed. “that’s not what you said after class. you looked, overwhelmed.”

“i was,” you admitted softly. “it’s not your fault.”

he was quick to shake his head, disagreeing with you. “it is, i keep noticing things.”

that piqued your interest and you turned to him, suddenly feeling the deja vu of a conversation very similar to this one. “like what?”

“when you concentrate, you tilt your head to the right. you hold your wand too tightly when you’re nervous.” the more he spoke, you could see the flush of his cheeks grow under the bright light of the moon. “you always chew the inside of your cheek before blocking a spell. you smile when you read ancient runes even when you pretend you don’t like the class. and-“

that was where he stopped, an internal thought blocking him from finishing his sentence. “and what?” you whispered.

he exhaled shakily, your question the external push to finish what he’d started. “and I always know when you’re watching me fly.”

your pulse fluttered, if it was possible you would say your heart skipped a beat, skin crawling under the heat making its way up your neck “oscar…”

he shook his head, flustered, wanting to get it off his chest, like it had been a weight he’d been bearing. “no, i…it’s not in a creepy way, i just feel it? when you’re watching, before i even see you.”

oscar met your eyes again, a timid look behind them threatened to look away, but he pushed past that feeling as he looked directly at you, almost feeling like he was looking through you, at your inner thoughts. “it’s like,” he gestured helplessly, desperately trying to find a way to convey his thoughts. “i don’t know. you change the way the air feels, i fly differently, i think differently anyway. i’m not sure that’s normal.”

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself, letting it fall back onto the railing with a small thud. “and then today, in class, charles kept, i don’t know, hovering around you, and i couldn’t focus. i kept messing up that’s how lando kept winning. he thought i was going to hex the bastard.”

you laughed softly, remembering the way charles had confessed he thought oscar was going to kill him in his sleep later that night. “he did.”

silence settled, not awkward, but heavy with something unsaid. it reminded you of that very first night all over again, the same setting against the railing, another cool night blanketing the astronomy tower, lights flickering from hogsmeade in the distance, except now you were the one in need of a butterbeer.

you shifted closer, placing your hand lightly on the railing next to his, not touching, never touching, neither of you brave enough for that yet. but close enough that the space between your fingers hummed, itching to be closed.

“oscar,” you murmured, “can I tell you something too?” he nodded. “when you’re out there on a broom, i read you like a book. i always know what move you’re about to pull.”

“you’ve told me that,”

“i don’t mean like a match read,” you clarified. “i mean you.”

he swallowed, feeling the weight of your words on his shoulders. “me?”

you nodded, feeling a little bit braver, your hand on the railing slowly, bit by bit, moving closer to his till you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “you fly the same way you feel.”

oscar stared at you, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and hope, glancing down at your hands now just millimetres apart. “and how do i, feel?” he asked, barely audible.

you stepped even closer, just an inch, but he felt it like he’d been hit by a stupefy. “you feel everything too much,” you whispered “and you try too hard to hide it.”

a laugh escaped him, a mix of quiet, embarrassed and relieved all at the same time. “that obvious?”

“only to me.”

he looked down at your hands, now only a breath apart, then back up at you. “why?” he asked softly.

you smiled, feeling that homely warmth in your belly again, and shrugged your shoulders. “we notice each other.”

the words settled between you like warm magic, and oscar opened his mouth, probably to say something meaningful or stupid or both, but a gust of wind pushed between you, scattering lockhart’s leftover glitter on your robes through the air like stardust.

he stepped forward, close enough that you felt the warmth of him again, could smell the aftershave he had on, and see the knot of his tie slackened by the day's wear, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “i’m glad i came up here,” he murmured.

you tried to keep your voice steady, like you weren’t internally screaming. “me too.”

he leaned in just a little, impossibly closer and you weren’t sure how you weren’t touching yet, not enough to be sure, just enough to hope, till his voice sounded at the shell of your ear. “can i walk you back?” he asked, hopeful.

you weren’t sure if he could hear your heart racing or not, and he swore you could hear his, but still you nodded. “i’d like that.”

oscar smiled softly, the kind of smile he had reserved for you, a fact you were yet to learn of, then he offered his hand, holding it out in the cold air, and you couldn’t help but stare for a second before taking it.

and the two of you walked down the spiral tower steps together, slowly, quietly, fingers brushing in a way that made everything feel like it was finally beginning to make sense.

—

hufflepuff gold shimmered across the left stands, a warm, buzzing wall of sound, whilst slytherin green crackled through the right, sharper, louder, hungry for a win.

you tightened your grip on your broom as madam hooch stepped forward onto the field, whistle in hand, “players. mount!” she announced.

you swung one leg over your broom, heart steady, three days after the astronomy tower moment with oscar, your focus felt sharper than ever. across from you, slytherin’s seeker carlos rolled his shoulders, giving you a competitive grin.

“no easy wins today,” he said.

you smirked back. “wouldn’t want one.”

the whistle blew, and the match launched into action almost instantly. your chasers surged ahead, passing with practised ease as they moved toward the slytherin hoops, beaters swept in behind them, ready to take the brunt of early bludgers.

george, slytherin’s strongest beater, wasted no time swinging hard, the bludger screaming past your ear. you ducked sharply, feeling the rush of wind where your head just was.

carlos laughed from above you. “stay awake, hufflepuff.”

quaffles blurred, bodies collided, many cobbing penalties were called and the crowd roared each time a chaser was close enough to the goalpost to score. but there was still no sign of the snitch.

on a hufflepuff breakaway from a failed slytherin attempt, amelia looped the quaffle past a green blur, scoring cleanly, the slytherin stands groaned whilst hufflepuff roared.

carlos hovered near the centre, eyes scanning the field, body loose but alert and you mirrored him. climbing higher now, higher still and waiting.

your heartbeat synced with the game as the wind stung your cheeks, your breath fogged in the cold air, tips of fingers turning a cruel pink. you lived for this.

a shimmer.

a flicker.

then, there in front of you, golden, darting through the air near the far corner of the pitch.

carlos saw it at the same moment, and you both lunged. wind slammed past your ears, flattening your body to your broomstick, streaking forward with everything in you.

carlos matched you and then pushed harder, only encouraging you to do the same. the two of you tore across the pitch in perfect parallel, gold just ahead, dancing, taunting, vanishing behind the ravenclaw stand which was half filled in yellow.

you didn’t care who was watching, you didn’t look up. not once. this was your world, your chase, and your game to win.

the snitch dropped, hard. a harsh change of direction and carlos reacted instantly, diving at a terrifying angle, you followed, closer to the broom, tighter to the fall, trusting your instincts and experience in the game as the ground rushed toward you.

you could hear the crowd gasp and carlos wavered, just slightly, enough to give you the edge over him as he resorted to throwing elbows, but you didn’t give in to him, focused only on the object in front of you.

you pulled out of the dive with one smooth arc, rising beneath him, cutting his angle off just enough that he had to correct. a second, a sliver of time, but just enough, because the snitch darted right, the direction you’d already been turning so you shot forward, carlos half a beat behind and your fingers our stretched, the air around you fighting back against the intrusion, but you could already feel the gold brushing your fingertips. your hand closing comfortably around the snitch.

the stands exploded in yellow, your teammates screamed your name, by the goal lando’s spinning his broom in an uncontrollable circle, reserves on the field tackling each other out of joy.

slytherins groaned, some in disbelief, some furious, and carlos landed beside you with a frustrated sigh but a grin still tugging at his mouth. “good catch,” he said, brushing wind-tangled hair from his face. “fast.”

you grinned back, shaking his outstretched hand for good sportsmanship. “you too.”

he shook his head. “not fast enough.”

the next second, your entire team was crashing into you, a range of hugs, shoves and broom handles knocking everywhere. their voices were loud in your ear and they shouted over each others, of course, lando’s standing out the most from the rest.

“i thought you were gonna die!” you laughed, breathless, exhilarated, heart pounding in victory. finally, when the noise calmed and you caught your breath, you looked up in the stands, expecting to find alex, which you did easily, and next to you him you saw blue and bronze, ravenclaw robes.

he wasn’t cheering wildly, or shouting, just standing by max and alex doing that for him, watching you, pride rolling off of him, because he knew what you were going to do before you did.

but the match was yours, your catch, your house’s win, and nothing, not even your racing heartbeat, as you forced yourself to look away, could take that away.

—

hogsmeade was covered in a perfect layer of winter snow, soft, glittering, and absolutely freezing. breath puffed in white clouds as your group made its way down the high street.

lando and alex kept rushing ahead and then circling back like overexcited puppies, whilst max trudged behind them with his hood up, mumbling, “if someone pushes me into another snowbank, i’m hexing all of you.” it was his fifth time uttering that warning, each time directed at lando and charles.

charles strolled next to you with an exaggerated sigh, “such a beautiful day,” he said, glancing dramatically between you and oscar, who’d been walking alongside him. “perfect for, i don’t know. pair activities.” he added the last part with a shrug, and oscar nearly tripped on an uneven cobblestone.

you glared at him, tempted to push him into a snowbank instead of max. “charles, please. stop.”

charles put a hand to his chest. “i am not suggesting anything! i am simply observing the weather.”

max deadpanned, “you’re matchmaking like my grandmother.”

“oui,” charles said proudly. “a french grandmother.”

“except you’re not french.” you pointed out, hearing him mutter a ‘thank merlin for that’ in response.

the moment the door to the three broomsticks opened, heat and chatter washed over all of you, butterbeer steam fogged the windows. the smell of roast pumpkin and cinnamon clung to the wooden walls. madam Rosmerta waved your group to a long booth in the back.

you started to slide in, only to have lando physically block you with his entire body. “nope! reserved seating!”

“for who?” you asked flatly, trying to sit down again when he stuck his arm out.

“for destiny,” lando said, winking in the most chaotic, unhelpful way possible, god you were going to kill him one day and were sure no one would blame you.

you frowned. “lando.”

alex jumped in with a grin. “what he means is that you should sit, uh, there.” he pointed to the only free seat left at the booth, directly beside oscar, and you shot a look at the entire table. every single one of them avoided eye contact with cartoon-level exaggeration.

max was suddenly extremely fascinated by the ceiling beams, charles inspected his fingernails like they contained ancient prophecies, lando whistled off-key whilst looking over the menu more times than necessary, and alex pretended to cough into a menu that was upside-down.

oscar offered a tiny, sheepish smile, “…you don’t have to if you don’t want-“

but your friends were already shoving everyone down the booth, making room for exactly one outcome. “it’s fine, don’t be daft.” so you sat beside him, your thighs brushed for a brief second. oscar inhaled sharply, and you pretended not to notice.

not soon enough, rosmerta brought out frothing butterbeers, and the second she left, the table erupted in the most painfully deliberate distraction scheme you had ever witnessed.

“so, max,” lando said at full volume, somehow louder than he usually was, clapping a hand on max’s shoulder, “tell us about the transfiguration essay!”

max blinked, he’d obviously missed this part of the plan during the discussion. “what? why?”

“so osc can talk to-” lando froze, realising he had said the quiet part out loud. “uhm, so we all learn something! educational outing obviously!”

charles snorted into his butterbeer, having to put it down in fear he’d choke, whilst alex coughed to hide his own laughter.

you sighed before picking up the warm drink. “you people are unbearable.”

then, very pointedly, the three of them turned their backs to you and oscar and started a fake argument over whether butterbeer foam was technically a potion ingredient. although, occasionally, they’d steal a glance at you two to see if anything was happening.

you leaned slightly toward oscar, warmth radiating from his body, you swore you could never be cold next to him “subtle,” you said dryly.

he laughed quietly, that soft, comfortable, slightly breathless laugh that always hit you harder than it should. “i swear i didn’t ask them to do any of this.”

“i know, you don’t need them to talk to me.”

his eyes flicked to you, pools of warm, hiding behind them were hints of nervousness and hopelessness. oscar searched your eyes for any signs of humour, to see if you were joking or if you truly meant your words, and he found none. he knew you were being serious.

and just when you thought your friends would stop, that they’d see you talking and give the schtick up, lando slammed his mug down. “oh no!” he announced loudly, “we’re out of…of whatever this is.” he held up nothing.

alex gasped dramatically beside him, “no butterbeer left? impossible!”

max pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously not enjoying this plan half as much as the others were. “there is literally butterbeer in front of you.”

“yes, max,” charles said gravely, “but is it… enough?”

“you’ve all lost your minds,” max muttered, but still, when they all stood, he joined them.

“we’ll be right back!” lando said with suspicious cheer. “don’t move!”

together, they disappeared toward the counter in a clump of chaos and scarves and suddenly you and oscar were alone in the warm corner booth, six glasses sat on the table of two.

just the two of you, finally.

oscar cleared his throat softly, “you’re, uh, not embarrassed, are you?”

your lips curved, taking another drink of your butterbeer, feeling the froth on your lips. “i have nothing to be embarrassed about, they lot should be, are you?”

“they make it hard not to be,” he admitted. “but, not because i mind sitting with you.” his honesty hit harder than butterbeer ever could.

“good,” you said quietly. “because I don’t mind either.”

oscar’s smile went lopsided, he shy kind you loved, although you could tell he was gaining that level of confidence he had on the quiddich pitch with you, his arm resting behind your head in the booth. “maybe we should do this on purpose next time.”

heat crept up your neck, chalking it up to the flames from the roaring fireplace. “maybe we should.”

you couldn’t enjoy the quiet for long before your friends returned, carrying far too many butterbeers, lando slid into the booth first, eyes catching you and oscar sitting closer than before, noting the arm draped behind your head and whispering (not quiet in the slightest), “it’s working!”

max elbowed him in the ribs, but even he couldn’t hide his smile at the two of you. “shut. up.”

charles raised his butterbeer like a toast. “to hufflepuff! to ravenclaw! and to the power of friendship!”

alex chimed in, “and strategic seating charts!”

oscar tried to hide the smile on his face by looking down, and you laughed into his chest, letting your head fall comfortably into the hollow of his shoulder, and he dared not move, stilling behind you, and you could hear his heartbeat racing under your touch.

and even in the noisy, chaotic three broomsticks, you felt unbelievably at home.

—

✶✶✶

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend until the season ends."

You're sure he hit his head really hard. He must have a concussion. He must have.

"Piastri, no one's going to believe that."

"Not with that attitude, they won't."

You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year, when both of you joined your respective teams.

Oscar Piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.

What the actual fuck?

"Did you hit your head?" You finally ask, leaning closer to look at him across the cafeteria table, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and a hint of worry. "Are you okay? Are you maybe hallucinating right now?"

He rolls those brown eyes of his as if you're the one suggesting the craziest thing the whole campus has ever heard.

"Look, I just need the guys to get off my back. I need them to stop saying I'm married to cricket, you need the band, why not?"

"Why not?!" You repeat, still checking his face for any concussion signs. "Piastri, if you just need your stupid friends to stop commenting on the fact that you're a virgin, maybe just go ahead and fuck someone," your voice turns bitter as you hiss out the next words, "I'm pretty sure any girl from the stupid band you keep stealing from me would be up for the challenge."

"First of all, I'm not a virgin," he glares at you when you snort, "second of all, I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my degree and on the cricket team. That's the point of getting a fake girlfriend, I don't have to put any effort into it."

You wonder if he'd let you do a quick examination to make sure he's actually not concussed. He must be.

"No one's going to believe that," you shake your head, repeating your words from before, "it makes absolutely no sense for us to start dating out of nowhere. We can barely stand each other."

"Well, why would anyone think we're fake dating in the first place? It's not exactly common."

"Yes, because it's fucking insane," you lean even more towards him, still shaking your head in denial, "and why me, of all people? We're not friends. Why the fuck would you want to fake date me?"

"Because I'll definitely not put any effort into it if it's you, so it's not going to affect my real priorities."

You're not offended.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

"No."

He furrows his eyebrows, and you wonder how the fuck he has the nerve to look confused, "no?"

"For half the band? For one competition? No. That's not worth it."

He blinks.

"Okay. The entire band."

"No," you cross your arms and lean back against your chair, eyebrows rising as you stare at him, unimpressed, "I've done most competitions without them. It'll suck, yes, but still not worth it."

Piastri pauses. The air between the two of you is filled with tension, as it usually is. It feels like a battle, and the two of you bargain like politicians like you always have.

"Every competition for the rest of the season."

That grabs your attention.

"Every competition?" He nods and your eyes narrow with suspicion. "Every competition? Every round through nationals? Every single one?"

He nods again.

"Even if there's an important cricket game on the same day?"

His nose twitches in annoyance at the question. "If we get through the quarter and semifinals and the finals are on the same day, we split the band."

You stare at him. Wonder for the fifth time if he's having some sort of psychological crisis. If he's concussed.

The band for every competition for the rest of the season.

You see, getting the band to play at a game or a competition is a privilege team captais fight tooth and nail for. It boosts morale, hypes up the teams, and usually makes the opponent feel a little more tense.

If there were two games or competitions in the same day, fucking Charles Leclerc, who all the team captains jokingly called band captain, liked to say it was first come, first served.

And you and Oscar Piastri had been fighting over the university band ever since you got into college — and God, was it a losing game for you.

Sure, there's a slight chance other teams may need the band on the same days the two of you did, but it never usually happens. Other sports have games and competitions on other days of the week.

Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

"So we get the entire band for the rest of the season and split the band if you guys get to the finals."

"We will get to the finals, but yes."

There's a quiet beat as you just look at him, thinking, pondering.

"And we just have to date until the season ends?" You uncross your arms slowly.

"Fake date."

"Don't get technical on me now, Piastri."

You think you see a shadow of smile on his lips before it disappears.

"Yes, just for the next two months or so, and then you're rid of me. We can act like none of this ever happened."

"Okay," he perks up at the word, but you shoot his hope down quickly, "I'll think about it," he deflates, "I can give you an answer on Thursday."

He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.

"Charles won't like it if he has to change plans for the band too close to Sunday."

You stand from your chair, already grabbing your backpack from the floor while he watches you. You look down at him.

"That's Leclerc's problem. Thursday, Piastri."

✶✶✶

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yourusername practice day❤️

tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes

kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux ay ay captain 🫡🫡🫡 ♡ liked by yourusername

freshman1 sooo cool!!

freshman2 YESSSS

pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!

↳ kikagomes darling don't say it like that it sounds weird af ♡ liked by yourusername

francolapinto I leave early ONE DAY and you post pictures without me. I see how it is.

↳ yourusername yes that's exactly how it is!!!!!

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oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing

landonorris LESGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

olliebearman THE QUARTER FINALS ARE OURS BABYYYY

freshman1 sooo cute

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"Okay, so we need to set some ground rules," you tell Piastri later that evening, when you meet at the campus café to discuss the details of this mess you've gotten into. "And we can't be long, because I have to be up at 5 for tomorrow's practice, so try not to waste too much of my time."

"You know, if you're going to be my fake girlfriend, I think you'll need to be a little nicer to me," he raises his eyebrows at you, crossing his arms and watching quietly as you order a cappuccino at the counter.

"Alright, I'll be nicer to you in public," you answer when the barista starts making your order, turning your body away from the counter and towards him, "what else?"

His eyes narrow in suspicion.

"You're serious about setting rules."

"Obviously," you roll your eyes, "I'm not letting you just do and say whatever you want about this fake relationship of ours, Piastri. I don't trust you like that."

He hums in acknowledgement, the quiet whirring of the coffee machine comfortable inside the warm establishment.

"Fine. You can't tell your swimming friends the relationship is fake."

Your eyes widen. "Piastri, I can't keep that from them. This is for your friends, not for mine, and those guys see me basically every day and know me better than everyone, even the freshmen — they're not gonna believe me if I say we just started dating out of nowhere.”

"We’ll make up a love story, I don't know," he shrugs, "but they can't know. Alexandra would tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone, and then my plan would be ruined."

You sigh deeply before nodding, uncertain. You’re not sure how you feel about lying to your swimming friends — your best friends.

… but he is right. Alex would definitely tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone.

"Okay. Alright, okay. I'll figure it out."

The barista calls out your name and you turn to grab your hot drink, smiling at the barista before turning to Piastri again.

"Aren't you gonna get anything?"

He shakes his head. "I don't drink coffee."

"You engineering freak," is your muttered answer, moving towards one of the small tables and immediately sitting down, watching him as he sits across from you. "Anything else?"

He seems to think it over for a second, gaze going from you to the coffee machine behind the counter and then back to you again.

"If any of my game dates don't match yours, you'll have to go watch me play. Supportive girlfriend and all."

"Well, only if you watch my swimming competitions as well," you twitch your nose at him, bringing the mug to your lips, "supportive boyfriend and all."

You don't notice the way his eyes focus on your mouth as you take a long sip. Piastri clears his throat loudly, looking away. You don't notice how a light flush paints his cheeks either.

"Sure, I can do that," he nods, clearing his throat again before his tone takes a condescending turn, "what about you? No rules?"

"Oh, I've got many rules," your smile is so forced even the barista, from the other side of the café, can see through it, "first things first, I want flowers. Once a month, at least."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"I told you I didn't want to put in any effort."

"I literally couldn't give less of a shit," you take another sip, clearly unimpressed, "I told you you're not going to be a deadbeat fake boyfriend. There's only a couple of months until the season ends, you can do flowers."

He sighs loudly, leaning his back against the chair and staring at the ceiling.

"Of course you'd be a high maintenance fake girlfriend."

"Don't piss me off, everyone knows I wouldn't have a disinterested boyfriend," your eyes are filled with amusement, "you have to make me swoon, Piastri. I wouldn't date someone that isn't willing to sweep me off my feet."

"Sweep you off your feet, got it," his eyes lingered on the curve of your smile, "go on."

"Okay," you set the mug down, "you have to pick me up from swimming practice every morning."

"Are you serious?" He all but moans, staring at you in disbelief. "You guys practice at the crack of dawn."

"It's called discipline," you snap back, "yes, I'm serious.”

He groans.

“Fine.”

“And you have to post me somewhat regularly. I'm not willing to be someone's secret fake girlfriend."

He sighs again, but nods in agreement.

"And you can't fuck anyone while we're doing this. I mean, not that I think you're capable of fucking anyone, but I don't want any gossip about getting cheated on."

He scoffs at the insult, but doesn't seem too offended.

"I wouldn't do that to you," he rolls his eyes, "obviously."

Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.

You’re vaguely aware that Piastri isn’t devil on Earth, much less that bad of a guy. Still, you don’t expect the readiness of it — the obviously, the consideration. It sends a tingle through your chest.

You elect to ignore it.

"You have to volunteer at my lab."

"What?"

"We don't have enough volunteers for our current research," you shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, taking another sip from your drink, "I'd clearly make my boyfriend do that for me. It's nothing much, we'll just make you run and do a few exercises. You'll be fine. And, at last — no kissing."

Piastri lifts his eyebrows.

"No kissing?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," you kick him beneath the table, rolling your eyes when he glares at you, "I don't want to kiss you, period."

"That's gonna ruin our plan," he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "what, I win a game and don't kiss my girlfriend in celebration? That's ridiculous."

You ponder it for a second. A slight breeze comes through the window and you sigh at the feeling. Piastri watches it carefully.

"Okay," you concede, "you can kiss me after the finals, if you win and I'm there."

"That's ridiculous," he repeats. "Just the finals?"

You nod.

"Just the finals."

He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine, okay. But you have to be nice and affectionate with me when we're in public, even if we don't kiss. Hold hands, hugs, all that stuff."

"You're really greedy for someone who didn't want to put in effort, you know?" You lean forward slightly, eyes focusing on his.

"Aren't you the one who wants to be wooed?" There's no friendliness in his teasing, and you roll your eyes again.

"Oh, you're not gonna woo me. You'll just act like you can, Piastri."

He scoffs.

"I guess we'll see about that."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you have a pretty nice car."

He does. The seat is cushioned to no end, the drive is almost silent, and, even though the music volume is low, you can tell the sound is insanely good.

You wouldn't be able to say what car it is, but it did make your eyes widen when it stopped by the pool's entrance, and the silence is so awkward you can barely handle it.

Not that you feel any joy in talking to Piastri, of course. Still, the discomfort of it all is getting to you.

"Thanks," his tone is dry, but you can hear the hint of confusion in his voice.

Maybe he's as surprised as you are that you're trying to, what? Start conversation with Oscar Piastri of all people?

"How was practice?"

Your eyebrows shoot up at the question. His furrow. Neither of you expected him to keep the conversation going either.

"It was okay," you answer carefully. It feels weird to talk to him without trying to start a fight. "We're taking a rest day tomorrow so we aren't too tired for the competition on Sunday."

"Cricket takes two rest days before games," he mutters, eyes on the road.

"Are you trying to compete with me over rest days, Piastri? I didn't ask."

Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.

You're not sure why you do it. He's being exceptionally polite, and he got out of the car to open the door for you even though no one could see it, which was, perhaps, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to you.

He'd actually shown up, as well. Right on time as practice ended. You don't even think you told him what time you'd be done with swimming for the morning.

Maybe you just feel defensive. Maybe you just don't know how to act in this situation, don't know how to talk to him.

His gaze flies towards you for a mere second before focusing on the campus streets again.

"You're insane," his expression doesn't even change when he says it, and somehow that makes it worse.

Well. You started conversation and then immediately shut him out the moment he tried to keep it going.

Maybe you are insane, and you definitely feel a little bad about it, but not enough to apologize or say anything else.

The last minutes of the ride are spent in that same awkward silence. When he stops the car, you move to open the door on the passenger side, but he moves quicker — in a couple of seconds, he gets out the car, around it, and opens the door for you.

You gape at him like a fish out of water as you slowly get out the car, his hand still firmly gripping the handle.

You look around. He drove you back to your dorm building as you had asked, and only a few students walk nearby, most of them not even noticing the two of you. Some stare.

He closes the door as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.

"You don't need to do that everytime," you mutter awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your cheeks, "I can open the door by myself."

Once more, Piastri is quicker than you. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on your warm cheek, ignoring the surprised gasp that leaves your lips.

"You're insane, but you also prohibited me from being a deadbeat fake boyfriend," he shrugs, but you see the way his mouth curves in a smirk at your startled reaction. "Have a good day."

And, in a second, he's back in his car and driving away.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Opening doors and kissing your cheek.

A sophomore you're pretty sure plays in the university band flashes you a smile as she walks by, but you don't acknowledge it nor do you move. You just watch his car get smaller and smaller as he drives it away.

God, you should not have agreed to this.

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days.

You joined the swimming team mere months after you started university, and it felt like a much needed outlet for any frustration you felt towards everything else going on in your life. Pre-med was no joke, and you were known for being either at the pool, at the library, or at the PT research lab.

Married to swimming and school work, just like Piastri's friends say he's married to cricket. You try not to dwell on that similarity.

Swimming is where you feel most at ease — it's where you can finally breathe, funnily enough, and mornings feel incomplete without it.

Of course you're passionate about the sport. More than passionate, if your frequent angry outbursts at Charles Leclerc are anything to go by.

You see, it isn't always Piastri's fault that the band doesn't show up to swimming competitions. The cricket and swimming calendars don't always align and, even though they do align enough to annoy the shit out of you, you have to admit Piastri can't take the blame every single time.

Sometimes they have to be somewhere else, sometimes they have their own competitions, and there was even a time or two when the university dean asked them to play at a board event. It all culminates in the fact the band hasn't shown up to any swimming competitions all season, which pisses you off to no end.

The swimming team has never gotten this close to nationals, at least not in recent history. This might be the most important competition day ever since you joined the team, bright-eyed, shy, excited.

You take your breakfast like you always do — not too light to be hungry, not too heavy to vomit into the pool, a lesson freshman you had to learn the hard way. You stretch before you even leave your dorm and you check your backpack a thousand times to be sure you haven't forgotten anything, rechecking for your lucky swimming cap a thousand times more.

When you finally meet the rest of the team at the state pool, your hands are trembling more than a captain's hands should. Alex and Kika are bursting with energy, and Franco all but jumps in his own spot. The new freshmen look ready to throw up.

"Okay," you clear your throat when your voice cracks, nerves fighting to get the best of you, "this is our most important competition to date."

"Damn, no pressure," Franco mutters, shrugging when you glare his way. For a semi-freshman, you're always surprised by how much shit he says.

"If we win, we go to nationals. The band is here," you wave towards the bleachers by the side of the pool, directly next to the other teams, which you suppose is purposeful, "and everyone expects us to do at least somewhat well."

"Again, no pressure," Kika rolls her eyes with amusement and directs a soft smile to the freshmen, "we'll just do our best."

"No," you shake your head, tightening your fists to stop their trembling, looking at each and every person in your team with determination as you take in a deep breath, pushing away your anxiety, even if you still feel it, "we'll do more than our best, and we'll win. We're fast as fuck and the best swimmers in the world and this competition will be a breeze. Leclerc will play trumpets on their ears and they'll be no match for us."

Alex lets out a laugh at that, but some of the freshmen puff out their chests.

"I believe in each and every one of you," you nod. "Don't let me down, and I won't let you down either. Now, let's get ready to win."

The team lets out cheers, clapping as they start moving toward their spots around the pool, some stretching, others sighing and trying to shake out the nervousness.

"That's why she's the captain," you hear someone mumble, and feel almost guilty over how untrue that sounds.

Saying it is one thing, believing it is entirely another.

If there's someone feeling the pressure, it's you. You, who committed to being team captain before you were even a senior. You, who pushed every teammate to their limit during pratice every morning. You, who agreed to fake date your archnemesis to make sure you'd have a supportive audience at this pool.

Minutes later, the whistle sounds.

You can still hear the band with your head underwater.

✶✶✶

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 9,987 others

swimteam Congratulations to all of our athletes for absolutely DOMINATING all swimming categories on the state competition today and therefore qualifying to NATIONALS!

And shout out to our captain @.yourusername for setting the new state record for the 800m front crawl category ❤️

yourusername FUCKING LOVE YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!! ♡ liked by swimteam

oscarpiastri What a great job from the team! ♡ liked by swimteam

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francolapinto first full season and already going to nationals maybe i'm a good luck charm? ♡ liked by swimteam

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yourusername feeling actually insane. what a crazy fucking weekend. thank you guys for everything @.swimteam ❤️ WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO NATIONALS

also thank you @.charles_leclerc and the whole band for being there, couldn't have done it without you

kikagomes BEST CAPTAIN THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEEEEEEEEEN ♡ liked by yourusername

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oscarpiastri Beautiful work babe ❤️

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↳ yourusername ❤️

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

When you leave the pool on Tuesday, Alex and Kika walking beside you, Piastri is already waiting outside.

Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.

You stop dead in place at the sight, gaping at him as you hear Alex and Kika gasp.

Not any flowers, either. Pink camellias and a few white gardenias, all wrapped up in brown paper and a nice white bow. He smiles at you so wide when he sees you that you feel your cheeks grow warm.

"There's my girl!" He walks towards you in wide strides, immediately leaning down to kiss your face. You just stare as he puts the delicate flowers into your hands and turns his head toward your friends. "You guys did great on Sunday. Are you excited to go to nationals?"

Alex and Kika can't seem to speak, staring at him in utter shock as you look down at your flowers.

You suppose you did ask for it, yes. You didn't expect him to deliver, though, at least not like this. Perhaps some simple roses. Maybe daisies.

The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.

"Well. Should we... Go?" He looks at you when he asks it, uncertain, but you just look down at the pretty bouquet sitting between your hands.

He says your name quietly and that's what snaps you back into reality.

"Yes. Yes, of course," you shoot a smile to your friends, barely registering their shocked glances to each other, "I'll see you tomorrow, guys!"

The girls watch as he opens the door for you and walks around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat, waving at them before closing his own door.

"So," the car starts to move, "how was practice?"

You blink down at the flowers, and then back up at him.

"You got me flowers."

"Yes, I did," he nods and glances at you, "I didn't know which ones you liked, so I just picked the ones I thought looked nicer. Are they okay?"

You look down at the flowers again. Beautiful, fresh, colorful, staring up at you brightly.

"You could've just gotten roses or something."

"Nah," Piastri shakes his head, eyes focusing on the road, "roses are too basic, and we've already come to the conclusion that you're high maintenance."

"That's..." you open your mouth to speak and find yourself at a loss for words, "thank you?"

"Don't thank me yet," he glances at you again, "I have a favor to ask you."

You groan, setting the flowers down on your lap as your stare at him, grateful for the sudden annoyance that can distract you from how fucking flustered you are.

"Another one, Piastri?"

"Look, Lando is throwing a party this weekend to celebrate our quarter finals, since we couldn't celebrate on Sunday after getting the news that Jack won't be able to play for the rest of the season. I've told him I'm seeing someone, so they said I should bring you."

"Someone? You haven't told them it's me?" Your eyes narrow at him, gripping the flower stems a little tighter.

"No, I thought you'd prefer it if we told people on your terms," he glances at you again, "hence why the party could be a good place for it."

For what feels like the thousandth time during this car ride, you blink at him.

"That's surprisingly considerate."

He rolls his eyes.

"I am considerate, just like I am nice," you watch as he sighs, "you can invite the swimming team if you want."

"I never took you for a party guy," your eyes turn to your flowers again, chest tightening at how lovely they look, at how the colors complement each other.

"I'm not," Piastri agrees, and your focus moves to the way his hands turn the steering wheel, taking a right, "but it'd be awkward if the team captain doesn't go to the team's celebration party, you know? And, again, it'd be a good place for us to make it official."

"Make it fake official," you mutter, forcing yourself to look back at the flowers.

You don't miss the way his lips curl into a teasing smile. You hate the way your face tingles with warmth.

"Don't get technical on me now, L/N."

A chuckle escapes you, and his smile grows wider. He turns a left and you notice you're on your street.

"Fine," you sigh tiredly, "but you're picking me up for that too."

He laughs back and, for some reason, you hate it.

"Of course."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you could've just said we needed to meet to align what story we're telling everyone, you didn't need to scare the crap out of me."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

You throw a pillow at Piastri, who sits on your desk on the other side of your room, chair moved so he can look at you. You huff when he catches it.

"Besides, if it was something worth getting worried about, you're not exactly the person I'd be texting. We're not close like that."

You think you see hurt flicker through his expression, but it's gone before you can be sure.

Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.

Your roommate is out for the day, and never in his life did Piastri think he'd ever be alone in your room with you.

The dorm is surprisingly untidy. For all your talk of discipline, there's clothes hanging from the desk chair, a little pile of shoes on the floor. Your desk table is a complete mess — papers everywhere, books on top of each other, your sunglasses too close to the edge. By the desk, there's a duffle bag filled to the top with clothes, a couple of swimming goggles, a clean swimsuit, and an assortment of swimming caps.

"The party is tomorrow night," you remind him, "I won't be able to escape Alex and Kika there. What are we gonna tell them?"

"Well, I don't know," he crosses his arms, not a hint of emotion on his tone, "maybe you just fell for my crazy charm and begged to go out with me?"

You laugh so loudly the sound rings in his ears, and Piastri can't help but smirk.

"No one is going to believe that," you shake your head and he doesn't take it personally, "we need to think of something better."

There's a beat of silence as the two of you try to think of a good story to explain how, miraculously, you got together.

You and Oscar Piastri. Well, that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it? You hadn't liked him for years now, and what could have possibly changed that?

"Maybe we kissed at Gasly's party a month ago," he suggests, and you arch your eyebrow.

"The one where you looked uncomfortable the entire time and left early?"

He tilts his head in surprise. "You noticed?"

"I mean—not like that," you roll your eyes, but there's no denying the warmth on your face, "I just saw you a couple of times, that's all."

There's another beat of silence, and you wonder if you can swallow back your words and choke on them.

"Okay," he nods slowly. "Maybe you saw me leaving, went after me to see if I was okay, and we kissed."

"Why would I check up on you?" You blurt out and immediately wish you could swallow those words, as well.

"Because you're nice to people," he says quietly, looking away from you, "so maybe you were just being nice."

It's stupid, but you feel a pang on the left side of your chest.

"Yeah, okay. That seems fair," you swallow, and your throat hurts, "I was drunk and you looked sad and pitiful, so I kissed you."

There's a slight lilt to his lips. "You kissed me?"

"Obviously," you match his small smile, "I wear the fake pants in this fake relationship, Piastri. I kissed you."

He lets out a snort and your smile widens.

"Sure, okay. What then? You asked me out?"

"No, I didn't," you lean back against your bedrest, head turned to look at him, "I kissed you and you were so overwhelmed with joy that you asked me out on the spot."

Piastri really laughs this time, and you allow yourself to grin at him. He notices and grins back.

"Did you say yes?"

You shrug, but the smile stays on your face. "If you looked pitiful enough, I might have."

"Oh, so you only accepted because I looked pitiful?" The teasing tone to his voice sounds nice. You've never heard it from him, not without any annoyance behind it.

"Obviously," you throw another pillow at him and he catches it again, "I have a soft spot for sad men."

He throws the pillow back and you catch it clumsily. He shakes his head and lets out another chuckle. "Of course you do."

"We hung out in secret for a while," you keep the story going, resting your chin on your hands as you look at him, thoughtful, "I wasn't sure if it was serious or not, and you're married to cricket."

He nods, still smiling. The flowers he gave you on Tuesday are on top of your bedside table, he notices, inside a jar filled with water and still holding up. They bring some color to the space. He feels flattered you actually still have them.

"Maybe—" he hesitates, face falling, and you gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat, "maybe that day when you messaged me about the band, my favor was for you to be my girlfriend officially."

You study him for a second. The deep brown eyes, his strong jaw, his lips no longer forming that smile you were growing to enjoy. He looks a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, just like he had that night at Gasly's party. Some strange part of you wants to see him grin at you again.

"That's a good idea," you nod slowly. "Would make the timeline add up."

"Exactly," he nods back.

That awkward silence settles in again, the one that fills his car when he drives you back to your dorm, the one that swims between your text messages.

You don't know what it is. There are times when you talk and laugh and chat like normal people — acquaintances, at least. Other times, it seems you've never met before, like you just have no idea how to act with each other.

You don't know how to act with each other. It's been years of angry glances, sarcastic answers, underhanded compliments. Mainly from your part, you realize, even though you know for certain that he has gone after his way to get the band when he knew you wanted it for a swimming competition.

Even then, is that sufficient reason for the weird relationship you two have always had?

Piastri seems to be asking himself the same questions, because the next words out of his mouth are, "why do you hate me so much?"

You blink at him, surprised by the question.

"I don't hate you, Piastri."

"I mean, you sort of do," he crosses his arms again, almost as if trying to make himself smaller, "I know you're... Intense, but you don't seem to have this much of a problem with other people."

You think it over for a few seconds. It's true. While you've had issues with almost everyone in the student athletic association and in band, with Piastri it's always been personal — it's not just sports and business like it is with others.

"I mean, you do make it your mission to steal band from me all the time."

He shakes his head, "you know it's more than that. Yes, I do try to steal band from you every Sunday. I know how much you like the band, and in a selfish way I guess I want to upset you in the same way you upset me by— I don't know, just being mad at me all the time."

Your eyebrows furrow and your voice goes a little quieter. "It upsets you?"

"Of course it does."

You look at him closely, his arms still crossed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in your dorm, asking you questions that haunted him since freshman year.

"It's stupid," you murmur, and he immediately leans forward to listen, interested, "you pranked me in freshman year."

Piastri looks at your startled, eyebrows shooting up. "What?"

"When we started university," you start, feeling so embarrassed you wish you could bury yourself in a hole, "I met you at one of those welcome cocktails, do you remember?"

He nods, confused.

"Well, we talked a bunch that night. I had a lot of fun. I thought you were really cute, too," you look away, the embarrassment increasing tenfold as you avoid his gaze, cheeks glowing red, "so I asked for your number, and you gave me a fake one. I tried to text you and it just didn't exist. Never felt that humiliated in my life," you laugh humorlessly, "I know it's stupid, but I just could never really like you after that. It was awful because you were always so nice to everyone, and I didn't understand why you did that. You could've just said no, you know? And then the following year I became more involved with the swimming team and you were just a dick about the band. So yeah, I guess that's how it started."

When you finally gather the courage to glance at Piastri again, you don't think you've ever seen him look this confused in his life. It makes you feel even more embarrassed, the way his eyebrows furrow with no understanding.

"I remember that night," he concedes, and then shakes his head in denial. "We talked, and I gave you my phone number and you never reached out until sophomore year, when we started talking—well, when we started fighting over the band."

It's your turn to look confused.

"No, you didn't give me a real number, Piastri. I had to get your number from someone else later."

"I did not give you a fake number," his voice is solid, firm, and he stares at you with certainty. "Maybe you heard one of the numbers wrong due to the party noise, or I mixed something up, I had just changed numbers at the time. But I did not give you a fake number. I wanted to talk to you."

You stare back at him, unsure on how to answer. You weren't hurt by that anymore — it happened years ago and, at this point, you didn't care. But it was the starting point of your distaste towards him, and it had tainted the first following interactions. The image of him that stuck with you had been that one — smiling Piastri, sweet and polite, giving you hope and butterflies and a fake number, a dead end.

Polite enough to not be cruel to your face, to let you feel the humiliation and embarrassment on your own on the next day, seeing every message refuse to go through.

And to know that that wasn't what had happened? That maybe it had all been a silly misunderstanding, and you held a grudge over nothing?

Well, that was awkward.

"I—well, it doesn't matter," you try to shift the topic, letting out an uneasy chuckle, "it was years ago, and it's not like I'm still upset at you because of that. Nowadays, my only issue with you is the band and the fact that you're always a little shit about it."

"It does matter," he presses, and you notice the way his finger grip the edges of your desk chair so tight his knuckles go white, "it matters to me. I did not give you a fake number. It wasn't a prank."

"Piastri—"

"I promise you I didn't. I wouldn't have done that, even if I didn't want you to have my number, and I did."

"Piastri, it's fine," you insist, still avoiding his gaze, "I can promise you I'm over something that happened when we were 18." You pause. "But it's good to know you didn't do it on purpose. Makes it a little less embarrassing, I think."

He doesn't answer, just studies you quietly. Maybe he's waiting for something. You're not sure what it is. Your heart beats loudly inside your chest. You suppose this shouldn't change anything, but it does.

Not the fact that he didn't mean to give you the wrong number, no, but the fact he cares so much about it. About you knowing he wanted to talk to you, that he gave you the right number, that he waited for you to text him.

"So," you clear your throat, face flaming red, "the party this weekend."

✶✶✶

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 3,215 others

oscarpiastri incredible night out with my girlfriend, the state record holder for 800m front crawl

tagged: yourusername

yourusername LMAOOOO

yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

↳ landonorris dating the guy and still calling him by his last name my man can never win

↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point

francolapinto still can't believe you refused to kiss for the camera i just wanted to capture this monumental moment

↳ yourusername weirdo

username1 can i say that as a fellow colleague i ALWAYS thought you guys would look cute together ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,741 others

yourusername coffee date

tagged: oscarpiastri

kikagomes the hard launch i can't ♡ liked by yourusername

kimiantonelli you guys are like parents to me ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux did you guys go grab coffee immediately after the party 😭😭😭

↳ yourusername perhaps

oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername ❤️❤️❤️

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landonorris i can't believe you guys are really dating we thought he was lying ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

A week later, Piastri waits for you to get ready for lab after bringing you to your dorm.

"I said I'd volunteer to help with your research," he explains when you stare at him quizzically, shruging as if it's just obvious.

And you guess it is. He did say he'd do it.

Besides, getting a ride to lab does feel quite nice. The awkwardness and silences from that first week seem to be dissipating slowly after you two managed to actually enjoy being together at Lando's party, even if you didn't do much besides dance with your friends and let him put his arm around your back a few times. You ask about cricket, he asks about swimming. He tells you about his engineering degree and how excited he is to get a job in the market, and you tell him all about doing physical therapy as pre-med and about how much work you're putting into it. He listens. He asks questions.

You find yourself enjoying those few minutes between the pool and your dorm more than you ever did. Worst of all, you find yourself looking forward to the way he laughs.

You're not friends, per se. You barely text outside of quick "I'm here" or "waiting for you" messages when he comes to pick you up, and your conversations don't ever stray much from your sports and your classes.

But it's nice to talk to him normally, to talk without feeling like there's a ticking bomb waiting for you to start an argument. You don't even feel angry or irritated at him anymore, not even when he jokes around too much or says something stupid.

When you arrive, your colleagues are absolutely ecstatic that you’ve brought them what is, essentially, a lab rat. Piastri barely introduces himself before they have him hooked up to a bunch of wires, monitoring his body’s responses as they make him jump, run, and do a thousand little exercises, moving his arms this or that way, flexing his legs.

You have to admit his calm demeanor and politeness are somewhat captivating. He’s extremely nice to everyone in your lab, and he asks them for details and information on your research, which, as everyone knows, is enough to make any academic’s heart soar.

Oscar smiles softly at you whenever you’re the one to come check on his wires, tell him to move in a specific manner. He obeys solemnly, calling you “doctor” and chuckling when you roll your eyes at him, unable to mask your grin.

Your colleagues make him promise to come back in the following week. He laughs and agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head and telling you to text him when you get home before leaving.

You still have a smile on your face after he's gone, making notes and studying the data with a lightness on your chest. When your professor clears her throat and your eyes meet hers, your face is bright.

"So, that was your boyfriend, huh?" She smiles knowingly, looking you up and down.

"Yeah," you smile back, glancing back at the numbers and lines on the lab computer, "you know me, I had to force him to volunteer."

She chuckles at your answer, leaning her hip against your work desk.

"I can tell he really likes you," you turn your face towards her again, "just by the way he looks at you. You've got that man hooked, Ms. L/N." She claps your shoulder. "Good luck with that data, let me know when you're done so I can look it over."

You try to smile back, try to take it in stride. She gives you a wink before walking away, asking someone else a question and leaving as if your heart wasn't breaking a little bit.

Oscar must be good at this pretending thing, if even your lab professor thinks he's in love with you. You do nothing but smile a little more at him and actually look him in the eye, while he's the one giving you cheek kisses, opening doors for you, and laughing at every joke you make.

You're not sure why it bothers you, but it does. A lot.

✶✶✶

Another week later, you're preparing for the first round of nationals.

And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.

The first time it happens, it's a Monday. During the ride back from the pool, he asks if it'd be a good day for him to volunteer at the lab again, because he did promise he'd come back and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do it another time. You tell him he can wait for you to get ready inside your dorm instead of outside, in the car. Your roommate is leaving for her morning classes when the two of you arrive and shoots you a knowing look when she closes the door behind her, but doesn't say anything.

You don't say anything either. You just let him into the messy room, let him sit on top of your bed and between your pillows, let him ask questions about some of the books on your desk.

He keeps coming back, starts coming in after swimming practice and driving you from your dorm to the physical therapy building as well. You start asking questions back. What's his favorite book, is his dorm also a little untidy, who's his favorite teacher.

You tell him about your lucky swimming cap — the only one you wear during tournaments, the one you can't compete without, the one you check your duffle bag for a million times before leaving your dorm on competition days.

He tells you he has a lucky pair of socks for cricket games.

"Do you wash them?" You ask him then, wrinkling your nose, a smirk on your lips.

"Only when we lose," an amused grin covers his face, and it opens up with laughter as you gag, throwing a pillow at him that he quickly catches.

"You're nasty," your whole face scrunches up with disgust, shaking your head as if trying to shake the information away.

"Hey!" He objects between chuckles, smile bright. "If it works, it works."

Around the same time, the lingering touches start. You suppose it makes sense, considering the fact you're technically dating.

Oscar starts sitting with you on the cafeteria, holding your hand on top of the table, leaning his shoulder into yours. The tender kisses don't stop, they increase in frequency — on your cheek while he waits for you to get into the car, on your forehead when he leaves you after lunch, on the top of your head while you're hanging out with others.

You don't go out on dates. You don't have to — everyone knows how busy your lives are, so no one questions the way you're never seen out for dinner. Even then, it feels adequate. You're seen together everywhere, and you actually show up to one or two cricket team night practices to watch them play and wait for him before he drives you back to your dorm after a hard day.

Neither of you mention the way his hand sometimes searches for yours while he drives. Neither of you mention the fact he kisses your cheek even when there's no one around.

You're not sure when Oscar Piastri went from your archnemesis to your sort of touchy friend. You're not sure when you started texting him about annoying teachers, boring assignments, muscle aches from swimming. But you do, and he answers every time — he entertains you, makes jokes, asks questions, complains about his own classes.

Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.

And he isn't there during the first round of nationals because the cricket team has a friendly game to practice for the semifinals in the following week, but he texts you a string of four-leaf clover emojis for good luck and asks you to send him a picture wearing your lucky cap, which you do with a big smile on your face.

Oscar is nice, and considerate, and funny, and charming. He's more on the quiet side, yes, but he's so expressive and attentive that you just can't help but think that, if he didn't steal the band so often and you hadn't developed a grudge from a misunderstanding, maybe you could've been friends through the entirety of your graduation years.

Maybe this could've been real.

You try not to dwell on these thoughts, but it's impossible. You can't stop yourself from looking forward to the small kisses, the hand holding, the hugs, the car rides, the lunches, the talking in your dorm. The lines become blurry — how much are you really friends, and how much is it just pretending?

✶✶✶

"So, you and Piastri, huh?"

You look up from your duffle bag, hair still dripping wet with pool water.

Alexandra stares at you from a few feet away inside the locker room, drying herself calmly. Some of the other girls chat, energized from a productive practice and the good results from the first round of nationals, and none of them pay attention to you.

You clear your throat.

"Yeah," you look back down, trying to find the clean shirt you know is somewhere among the mess of your belongings, "Piastri and me."

Alex closes her locker carefully before walking closer to you, tone careful.

"Why didn't you tell me anything? I mean, you're my best friend, and I never thought—" she furrows her eyebrows in something between frustration and confusion, "I guess I just didn't see it coming."

"Oh, come on," you try to smile it off, finally picking up your shirt and standing straight to look back at her again. Your chest clenches for a reason you can't quite explain, "why are you asking me that now? We've been together for, what, a month?"

"I have to admit I thought it was a joke," she crosses her arms, "you've never liked the guy, and you didn't mention it even once."

"Of course it's not a joke. I mean, if it was, why wouldn't I tell you?" You cross your arms again, feeling strangely defensive even though you knew from the start that it would be difficult to hide the truth from Alex and Kika, specially Alex.

They knew everything about you. Why didn't they know you had been apparently seeing Oscar Piastri for an entire month before the two of you were officially dating? You didn't have an answer for that. They would've known if it was real.

"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were going out with him?" Her eyebrows furrow further, asking the exact question you don't kno how to answer. "I just don't understand why you kept it a secret. It's not like I would judge you or tell anyone or anything. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," your fingers tighten over the shirt they're holding, "I—it was just complicated. I didn't know if it was just a casual thing, you know?" You lean into the excuse you and Oscar had thought of weeks ago. "And he was too preoccupied with his degree and cricket and everything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it if it wasn't anything serious."

"Oh, please," Alex rolls her eyes, "are you kidding? If you guys have always looked at each other the way you do, there's no way you thought it could be casual."

For a second, your entire body tenses, brain sending out sirens inside your head. You blink, and Alex looks at you expectantly.

"I—hum—what do you mean?" is all you can muster, feeling your face grow warm.

"You're joking, right?" She stares at you like you're stupid. You feel like it. "That man looks at you as if you hung the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. Whenever he has lunch with us, he just has eyes for you the entire time. Even when other people are speaking, he just keeps stealing glances at you. And you may not even notice, but he goes bright red whenever you smile at him. And the door opening? The cheek kisses? You cannot fool me into thinking you ever thought it could be casual when he's clearly head over heels for you."

A beat passes by. You just stare.

"And that's not even mentioning the way you look at him," she continues pointedly, "it's like he's the funniest, most brilliant person in the world, when, come on, he's nice, but he's still just Piastri."

"Oscar doesn't look at me like that," you answer late, mouth not quite catching up with your thoughts.

But did he? You never noticed. Did he look at you like that? Was he looking at you like that the whole time?

Was it even real? Did he look at you like that because he's supposed to be your boyfriend or because he actually couldn't help it?

No, it had to be because of your whole scheme. Oscar—Oscar was just now becoming your friend, he didn't—he couldn't—

Despite her growing irritation, Alex couldn't help but smile softly.

"He's really got you hooked, huh? I didn't think you'd ever be able to actually call him by his name."

Oh.

When did you start calling him Oscar? When did he become Oscar in your thoughts, and not just Piastri?

Did you look at him like that?

As if sensing your trouble, your phone starts to buzz. When you look down at it, laying on top of your open bag, his name pops up.

"He's... waiting for me outside," you stare up at Alex again. "I need to change and go."

"Look, you're my best friend," she repeats, small smile falling, "I just feel like there's something weird in all this, and I want you to know you can count on me, okay? I wanna hear all about this love story of yours. I just—I'm just really confused, honestly. Why didn't you say anything before you two started dating?"

Your phone buzzes again. You lean down to grab your bag, gesturing randomly towards the door.

"I'm gonna go change. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Why are you leaving like this?" She calls out, but you're already moving.

"I'm not," you call back, walking backwards so you can look at her, "I just can't do this right now."

You disappear before you can hear her response.

Ten minutes later, you're inside Oscar's car. He looks you up and down, your hair still dripping wet after running out without properly drying it, your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your mouth a straight line.

"Is everything okay?" He asks as he closes his door and starts the car.

"Alex cornered me to ask why I kept our relationship a secret from her."

You watch the way Oscar tenses.

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," you shrug, looking out the window, "I sort of just ran away and left her at the locker room."

He snorts at that, and even though you still feel tense, you can't help but smile at the sound.

"Why would you run away?" He asks with amusement, shaking his head.

"I didn't know what to say!" You throw your arms up and, despite yourself, you feel the panic and discomfort from the conversation with Alex wash away in his presence, smile lingering on your lips.

"You could just tell her what sounds more believable," he suggests, but the smirk on his lips makes your eyes narrow teasingly, "that you fell for my unbelievable charm."

You laugh and he grins, glancing at you from the driver's seat.

"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."

You move your eyes from the window to his face, finding his own eyes mid-glance towards you. He sees your smile.

For the first time, you notice the way his cheeks turn pink.

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

When Oscar parks his car in front of your dorm building on Saturday, you’re already waiting for him, face warm as you watch him grab his phone to text you, barely aware of your figure standing outside. He’s usually the one who waits for you.

You watch him look towards the sidewalk lazily. You notice that he’s already in his cricket uniform, shoulders straight, ready for the game. His demeanor is calm, but you’ve heard him grumble enough to know how important this is to him — how much he wants to win.

The moment his eyes meet yours, you watch him blank, skin growing impossibly red as he looks you up and down.

You’re wearing his jersey. His number. His name on your back.

The moment Oscar sees you, he’s usually out of the car, opening the passenger door. This time, he stares. You almost feel self-conscious under his wide gaze, his mouth open, expression painted with surprise and something you can’t quite read.

For a moment, you think it’s awe.

You aren’t sure that's not just wishful thinking.

He snaps out of it when you start walking towards the car, stumbling over himself as he climbs out of the driver’s seat to open your door. His fingers touch the small of your back as you turn it to him while you get inside, and it sends an electric current through your spine. He closes the car door and walks over to get into his seat.

Oscar sits down, turns his head to stare at you again, skin bright red, eyes wide. You feel yourself shrink under his intense gaze.

“Do you… not like it?”

His eyes widen even further.

“What? No, I—hum—you—that’s my—hum—” somehow, his face grows even redder, and he clears his throat before speaking again, finally taking his stare away from you. “You look great. I’m—yeah. I love it,” he starts the engine and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, but a feeling akin to amusement starts to crawl up your throat, warmth creeping up your chest. “How—where—”

“I asked Norris if you guys had a spare jersey so I could surprise you,” you answer calmly, watching the way his jaw works, the way he stares straight ahead as the car starts to move. “He told me he had the perfect one.”

He looks flustered.

And, God, you enjoy it. You savor it. It makes your heart soar.

Oscar Piastri is gripping the wheel, deep scarlet, stumbling over his words because of you.

You don’t dwell on what it means. You try not to think too hard about it or about how much you like it. But you notice the way he keeps stealing glances, the way his neck burns red whenever he looks at you, the way he can barely speak the entire drive.

Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.

“Beautiful, loving, and supportive girlfriend, huh?” You tease after a couple of minutes, turning your head to look at him. Somehow, his face turns an even deeper red.

“Shut up,” he mumbles in response, unable to hide his sheepish grin when you cackle at his answer.

And it's at that moment that you realize it, sitting on the passenger seat, watching him grin, wearing his colors, his jersey, his number, wishing he had his hand on your thigh the same way he did when the two of you gave Kika a ride after practice on Wednesday.

That moment while he groans something about annoying swimmer getting on my nerves and glances your way just to find you already studying him, while his fingers flex against the steering wheel, while he looks you up and down and blushes again at the sight.

It hits you hard, makes your breath catch, turns the corners of your vision fuzzy.

You're not sure when it happened, you're not sure how. You could barely stand him and, a month later, he's the one who makes you laugh, who gets you to relax after tense days with a cheek kiss and the sound of his voice as he drives you around. A month ago he was just Piastri.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who has pissed you off at every given opportunity since freshman year, who stole band every Sunday, who was never anything but annoying.

Oscar Piastri, who sits on the desk chair inside your dorm and catches every pillow you throw at him.

Oscar Piastri, who the colleagues in your lab adore and call their favorite volunteer.

Oscar Piastri, who smiles at you and lets his hand linger on the small of your back and kisses your forehead to say goodbye — never your mouth, because you told him not to. Never your mouth, and he still manages to make the soft kisses against your temple feel more intimate than any make out session you've ever had.

Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.

You're not faking anymore.

✶✶✶

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yourusername MY BOY IS GOING TO FINALS BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (still unsure how this sport works tbh)

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↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you

kikagomes CUTIESSSS OMG OMG OMG ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days, and Oscar Piastri being attached to your hip feels like the weirdest and most welcomed disruption in the entire world.

He carries your bag for you while you find the rest of your team, cleans your swimming goggles when you aren't looking, kisses the top of your head softly before you put your lucky cap on, squeezes your hand when he finally has to leave your side.

None of it feels fake and most of it happens when you're sure no one else is looking. None of Oscar's friends are here to take note of how kind and caring he is towards you, except Charles and Pierre, who are both too busy with their own girlfriends.

It makes the soft spot he's been carving for himself inside you bigger.

The band is there, yes, but his cheering is the loudest thing you hear whenever your head comes up for air.

He doesn't need to do all of that. He does it anyway.

You don't dominate — the team does well enough, managing a few podiums, but no wins.

It's not the best prospect for the final round. You know so. The team knows so. You speak briefly about it, tell them it was good enough, that you'll train harder and do better next round.

Even then, Oscar hugs you close when you can finally go up to him, already out of your swimsuit and into warm clothes, pressing a kiss against your temple, and you feel any worry in your body melt away.

"You guys did amazing," he reassures as he holds you close, and you snort.

"You don't know much about swimming," you retort, but there's no bite to it.

"Well, I know the front crawl categories are only in the final round, and that's your specialty, right?"

You smile softly against his shoulder, breathing him in for a second before taking a step back.

"We'll see," you sigh as his hands linger on your arms, thumbs circling slightly, "it's a shame you won't be there. You were almost louder than the band."

Oscar chuckles at your teasing, and you almost miss the way his skin turns pink as he looks away from you, putting his hand on your back and starting to guide you towards the exist.

"About that, there's been talk about bringing the cricket finals forward by a week or so. I'd be—well, I'd be free to come, then."

You blink at him, but his eyes stay straight ahead.

"What? Isn't that really uncommon? Why would they do that? Did something happen?"

He clears his throat.

"I asked."

You blink at him again, stopping right in place. He takes a single step before he notices and turns to you.

"You asked?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing, heartbeat skyrocketing.

"I did," he answers sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I just—I'd like to be there. For the final round. And I'd like you to be there for the cricket finals as well."

You feel the air leave your lungs, heart ramming against your ribcage. He finally meets your gaze, and the look in his eyes is so intense you feel worried your legs might give out underneath you.

"Why?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the word, and his eyes turn impossibly soft. The sight makes your heart flip inside your chest, fingers trembling.

"You know why," is his quiet answer, hand reaching out so his fingertips touch yours, sending an electric current through your body while he keeps looking at you like that — like there's no one else in the entire world, like this is the most important thing ever, like this is real.

You open your mouth to speak when Franco calls your name from a couple of feet away.

The two of you look towards the sound to see Franco, Kimi, Alex, and Charles walking your way. You ignore the way Alex's eyes narrow, try not to remember she can probably read your expression like a book.

"Captain!" Kimi smiles as the four of them come to a halt in front of the two of your, "the band invited us to grab a bite together after this. Do you wanna come? Piastri too, obviously."

"I—yeah, sure, why not," you let out a breathy laugh, chest feeling impossibly tight. You can't get yourself to look at him properly, body tingling at the way you can feel him stare at you. "Oscar?"

He clears his throat again, but his voice comes out raspy. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

If anyone notices the tension between you, they don't mention it. Kimi asks if Oscar could give him and some of the other freshmen a ride, and you don't say anything while your fake boyfriend, who apparently asked the cricket organization to reschedule the final game's date for you, drives you and a bunch of freshmen to a restaurant nearby.

Neither of you mention it afterwards either, when he drives you home and the two of you are quiet for the entire drive.

You don't let him open the door for you when he parks in front of your dorm building — you almost throw yourself out of the car, ignoring the way he calls your name as you grab your duffle bag and speedwalk to your building.

You don't go straight to your dorm. Your mind is racing and you don't want to interact with your roommate right now, so you sit down in the building's empty lobby and breathe.

And then you do something you don't expect yourself to do.

You call Alexandra.

✶✶✶

"Why the fuck would he ask you to fake date him?"

"I don't know!" You throw your hands in the air, hair still sticky with pool water as Alex stares at you from the other side of the screen, shaking her head in disbelief. "He said he wanted his friends to stop annoying him about being married to cricket or something like that."

"I don't buy that for a second," she rolls her eyes, "why would he ask you of all people? No offense, but it's not like you guys had a good relationship or anything."

"I don't know, okay?" You repeat, throwing yourself back on the lobby's couch. "I don't know. I just wanted the damn band, and then he had to—I don't know, open every door for me and kiss my cheek. I don't know."

"Okay," you can hear her breathe deeply, "okay. I guess the reasoning behind it doesn't matter anymore. You're in love with him."

Your cheeks grow warm.

"I think 'love' is too strong a word, Alex."

"Is it now?" She rolls her eyes again. "If it's just a crush or whatever, why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not freaking out."

"Sure."

A quiet beat passes by.

"What are you gonna do?"

You sigh, closing your eyes tightly, hand coming up to your forehead.

What are you going to do?

"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"

"Maybe you should tell him."

Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.

"Are you insane? I can never do that."

You watch her shrug.

"Why not?"

"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."

"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."

"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.

"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."

You sigh again.

"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."

"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."

Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.

“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”

Alex offers you a sad chuckle.

“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”

You sigh back.

“Thank you.”

✶✶✶

You don’t tell him.

You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.

You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.

You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.

You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?

These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.

So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.

And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.

Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.

(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)

What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.

"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.

You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.

He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.

“Ready?”

You swallow dryly before nodding.

Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.

Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.

But, God, he met every requirement and then some.

“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”

You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”

“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”

“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”

“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”

“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.

The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.

As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.

“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”

He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.

“I’ll see you after the game.”

“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.

The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts. 

Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.

When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.

You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.

It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.

And you still cheer.

His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.

As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.

And it flies outside of the oval field.

You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.

You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.

It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.

Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.

His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.

You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.

Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”

The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.

The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.

It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.

When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.

You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.

After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season. 

Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.

The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.

He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.

The season is over.

He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”

You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.

“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”

It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”

“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”

An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”

"Can we talk? Upstairs?"

His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.

"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.

You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.

"Okay."

Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.

You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.

"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"

You blink at the question.

"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.

"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."

"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."

Oscar blinks down at you.

"What?"

"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.

In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.

"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"

"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.

"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."

"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.

"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"

You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.

"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."

You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.

He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.

"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"

"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"

"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"

You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.

"Yeah."

He lets out a shaky breath.

"You mean that?"

He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.

And he's holding yours in his.

"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."

He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.

"I don't think I was ever faking it at all,"  he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."

You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.

"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."

You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.

"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.

This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.

He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.

His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.

"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.

"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.

He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.

You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.

You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.

Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.

Oh, you're in too deep.

✶✶✶

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The spring air was cool against your cheeks as your small hands grasped at the pale stone beneath you, fingers searching desperately for some ledge or seam that might offer better purchase. The wall was warm where the sun struck it, yet rough enough to scrape your palms as you climbed.

Roses spiralled along the battlement beside you, their thorns catching at the hem of your gown, their petals trembling in the light breeze. Beyond the wall, just out of sight, the wind carried the distant crash of waves.

You could hear your name being called somewhere across the gardens. It only made you climb faster. If you could reach the top before you were caught — if you could see it just once — then perhaps the scolding would be worth it.

The sea.

You had never laid eyes upon it, though your father’s manor stood scarcely a mile from the cliffs. You had smelled the salt in the air since infancy, had heard the roar of waves in winter storms, had watched gulls wheel across the sky.

But you had never seen it. Your mother had told you that seven years was too young to stand before wild waters. That the sea was untamed. That you would understand when you were older.

You did not think seven was young at all. You had pleaded. You had argued. You had wept in indignation.

Still, you were kept within walls. You had known only the manor, the nearby village, and the castle. The same corridors. The same faces. The same routine.

And you were bored.

Bored of lessons and embroidery. Bored of sitting straight and speaking softly. Bored of being told what you would one day become.

You already understood that your life would not be your own. That your path had been drawn long before you could walk it.

You wished, just once, to choose something for yourself.

And today was perfect for that.

The manor was in a state of near-chaos. The King and the Crown Prince were due to arrive that morning, and your parents had taken leave of all reason in their efforts to ensure perfection. Servants hurried like startled birds. Footmen darted through corridors with polished trays. Orders overlapped and echoed.

No one had been watching closely.

You had slipped from Mistress Eleanor’s side the moment her attention was claimed by a visiting steward. You imagined her now, breathless and searching, calling your name with rising alarm.

The thought brought a small, wicked giggle to your lips as you pulled yourself another inch upward.

It was exhausting work. You dared to glance down. You had scarcely made it more than a few feet. Your arms trembled. Your legs felt terribly short and unhelpful.

A frustrated groan escaped you as you pressed your cheek briefly against the stone. Your pale blue day dress — chosen carefully that morning by your mother — was already dirtied and snagged from your dash through the rose garden.

You would be scolded. Thoroughly. But it would be worth it. All you wanted was to see the sea.

With renewed determination, you braced your slippers against the stone and stretched your left hand upward, catching at a slightly jutting block. Your fingers clung. You pulled.

Just as you began to feel victorious, a small cough sounded below you.

You froze.

“What are you doing?” The voice belonged to a boy no taller than yourself. You glanced down sharply, scowling.

“Can you not see? I am climbing.”

“Yes,” he replied mildly, “but why?”

“Why is it any of your concern?” you huffed, narrowing your eyes. He clasped his hands behind his back with a composure entirely too practiced for someone his age.

“Everything within these walls is my concern.”

“That sounds terribly dull,” you retorted, tightening your grip as your fingers began to ache. “I merely wish to reach the top. Must I seek your permission?”

He laughed softly. And then he smiled.

The recognition came to you all at once.

You had seen that smile before — last winter, in your father’s great hall, when you had insisted upon racing your father from one end of the room to the other. The boy had watched from beside the King, laughing openly as you won.

His face was slightly sharper now. His gaze brighter. But the smile was the same.

“What lies at the top?” he asked.

“That would spoil the game, Your Majesty.”

His expression faltered for a heartbeat — surprised — before the grin returned.

“You remember me?”

“Of course. You are our future King, after all,” you teased.

He was but a few months your senior. You had met only a handful of times before. Your father, the Marquess of the western marches, governed lands that stretched toward the sea. You had attended court since you were old enough to stand steadily, your father determined that you should understand the workings of the realm, even if you would not inherit them.

You had never been particularly impressed. Your parents often attempted to arrange play hours between you and the Prince, yet his entertainment seemed confined to tutors, tournament practise and riding.

You found all intolerably dull.

“You do not appear to be progressing,” the Prince observed, tilting his head slightly. “I suspect your arms are too small.”

“My arms are not too small,” you snapped. “I simply lack proper hold.”

He stepped closer to the wall, studying it with surprising seriousness.

“Try the stone just above your hand,” he instructed. “It protrudes slightly.”

You followed his direction. Your fingers caught hold. You rose higher. A triumphant sound slipped from your mouth.

“No, not that one — your left,” he corrected quickly. “Yes. That one.”

You obeyed, and found yourself climbing far more steadily under his guidance than you had alone.

“You are nearly there,” he called. “Take hold of the vine for balance, then reach for the stone beyond it.”

You listened. You pulled. You climbed. And then—

Your head rose above the battlement.

Your arms folded over the top of the wall, breathless and trembling, feet braced against stone.

Before you lay an endless expanse of blue.

The sea stretched wide and gleaming beneath the spring sun. Waves rolled and crashed in ribbons of white foam. The wind lifted the surface into soft ripples that shimmered like glass.

It roared and sang and breathed.

“It is magical,” you whispered, scarcely aware you had spoken aloud.

“What does it look like?” the Prince called from below, his voice quieter now.

“It looks…” You swallowed softly. “It looks like everything I imagined. Only more beautiful.”

You remained there for several moments, committing the sight to memory. The ache in your arms grew steadily worse, and the calls of your name drifted nearer.

“Will you help me descend?” you called down.

“I shall,” he replied, “though if you fall, I suspect I will be blamed.”

“You are the Prince,” you answered with a small giggle. “You are never blamed.”

He gave instructions as carefully as before, his voice steady. You followed each one. Once, your slipper slipped, and your heart leapt into your throat — but you caught yourself and continued.

You were nearly halfway down when a familiar, shrill voice pierced the air.

“My Lady! You are not meant to scale battlements like a stable boy!”

Mistress Eleanor hurried toward you, skirts gathered, expression torn between alarm and indignation.

“Your mother will not be pleased — and another matter entirely—”

She stopped short upon noticing your companion. A soft gasp escaped her.

“Your Royal Highness. I had not realised you were present. Pray forgive my disorder.”

“I was assisting her,” the Prince said promptly, as your feet touched the ground at last. “It is not entirely her fault.”

Mistress Eleanor regarded you both with narrowed but not unkind eyes.

“I find that difficult to believe, Your Royal Highness, yet I shall accept your word. Where is your tutor? Neither of you ought to wander unattended.”

“I dispatched him to the kitchens,” he replied calmly. “I thought she might require refreshment after her exertions.”

You dusted your hands against your already-ruined dress, earning a tight exhale from your governess.

“Very thoughtful of you, Your Royal Highness,” Mistress Eleanor said stiffly. “She will nevertheless be in grave trouble.”

You leaned against the wall with an exaggerated sigh.

“Joy is forbidden within this manor,” you muttered.

The Prince laughed. Mistress Eleanor did not.

“My Lady, we shall remember our manners,” she reminded you firmly, though her hand settled gently upon your shoulder. “Come. Your lesson awaits before you wreak further chaos.”

A footman approached then, bearing a small plate. He offered it to the Prince, who shook his head and gestured toward you instead.

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” you said more softly this time, as Mistress Eleanor accepted it and turned you away.

“Wait.”

You halted at once and turned back, ignoring the tension radiating from your governess.

“Yes?”

“You may call me Oscar,” he said quietly, extending his hand toward you.

“Oscar?” You tasted the name thoughtfully before stepping forward and placing your small hand in his. “Thank you for your assistance, Oscar.”

He smiled again — that same dividing smile. And then you were led away.

Neither of you yet aware that something far greater than a wall had been crossed that day.

You were worrying the fabric of your dress for what must have been the thousandth time, your gloved fingers twisting the dark green wool between them as you stood at your father’s side. His larger hand enclosed yours firmly, a quiet reminder to be still.

The winter wind had been merciless upon the journey north to the castle. It had howled across the open roads, clawing at your carriage and pressing a stubborn rose hue into your cheeks. Only the heavy fur-lined cloak about your shoulders and the steady warmth of your father beside you had spared you from misery.

Winter court was always colder. Colder in air. Colder in temperament.

You accompanied your father whenever your lessons permitted it. Though you found the politics discussed within those towering stone walls impossibly dull, they were still preferable to sitting bent over a hoop of embroidery for hours on end.

And — if you were honest — there was another reason you did not protest the journey.

Since the day he had guided you up the garden wall, you had found yourself looking forward to seeing the Prince. The earlier awkwardness between you had dissolved into something easier. You were no longer merely the Marquess’ daughter and the Crown Prince.

You were conspirators in boredom.

You felt your father’s watchful glance lower toward you as the herald’s voice rang out.

“Their Majesties.”

The hall moved as one.

Silks whispered. Boots scraped stone. Every noble bowed or curtsied as the King and Queen entered the great hall and mounted the raised dais at its far end. The King’s winter robes were deep crimson, trimmed in sable. The Queen wore silver and pale blue, a circlet resting delicately in her dark hair.

And at the King’s right hand stood the Crown Prince.

Oscar.

Your father inclined his head respectfully before guiding you into your seat beside him, placed among the higher-ranking nobles but still well beneath the dais. Dukes stood closer to the throne. Earls and barons fanned outward.

Rank had its order.

You did not understand much of what followed.

A steward stepped forward and read from a long parchment — matters of trade from the eastern ports. A dispute between two lesser lords regarding woodland rights. Requests for additional guards along the northern border.

One by one, petitioners were summoned forward. Each knelt. Each spoke only when granted permission.

You listened for perhaps a minute. Then your attention wandered.

Your father rose at one point when called, speaking in calm, measured tones about the coastal watchtowers and the winter storms battering the western cliffs. You watched him with quiet admiration. He spoke without hesitation, his voice steady and assured.

The King listened carefully. And beside him—

Oscar did not fidget. He did not whisper. He stood straight-backed and attentive, his hands clasped loosely before him.

His hair had grown slightly longer since the last autumn you had seen him, a shade darker in the dim winter light. His jawline was beginning to sharpen in a way that made him look less like the boy who had laughed beneath the rose vines and more like something deliberate. Something being shaped.

As though he felt your gaze, his eyes lifted. They met yours across the hall.

And that familiar smile tugged at his lips. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too broadly in return.

You had only just turned ten. Oscar had reached the milestone a few months earlier. You had been ill during the grand celebrations at court and had been forced to send your well wishes by letter instead.

You had been terribly cross about it.

You shifted in your seat. Mistress Eleanor’s sharp glance from two chairs down warned you into stillness.

Court continued.

A merchant from the southern territories knelt and requested leniency on winter tariffs, claiming the frost had spoiled much of the citrus harvest.

The King listened. Then, after a pause, he turned his head slightly.

“What say you, my son?”

A ripple passed through the hall. Your eyes widened.

Oscar did not look startled. He stepped forward just enough to be seen clearly.

“If the tariffs are lifted entirely, Father, others will expect the same mercy,” he said evenly. “But perhaps they may be eased until spring, when trade routes reopen. That would show goodwill without weakening the treasury.”

The hall grew quiet. The King studied him.

Then gave a single nod.

“A measured answer.”

The Queen’s gaze softened with unmistakable pride. Your father leaned slightly toward you.

“He listens before he speaks,” he murmured under his breath. “That is wisdom.”

You nodded faintly. You had never heard him speak in court before.

He sounded different. Older.

Another lord approached soon after — this one from a powerful eastern house. He spoke at length about alliances between noble families and the importance of unity within the realm.

Even at ten, you understood enough to recognize the implication.

Marriage.

You followed the subtle gesture of his hand and noticed, several rows ahead, a girl in pale blue velvet standing very straight. Her hair had been braided intricately with pearls.

She kept her eyes lowered. Your stomach tightened for reasons you did not examine too closely.

You shifted again.

Oscar did not look toward the girl.

He kept his gaze forward, expression carefully neutral.

Court dragged on until sunlight poured more boldly through the high windows, casting long beams across the floor. Your eyelids fluttered once.

Twice.

The third time they fell shut entirely for the briefest moment—

And when you blinked awake, Oscar was watching you with open amusement.

You straightened immediately. He lifted one brow in silent accusation. You narrowed your eyes at him.

By the time the King finally rose and the herald declared court dismissed, you were certain you might perish from tedium.

Nobles bowed in waves as the royal family withdrew through a carved side archway.

Your father guided you toward the exit but paused near the doors.

“I am to meet privately with His Majesty,” he said. “You will remain with Mistress Eleanor.”

You nodded, already barely containing your anticipation.

Mistress Eleanor escorted you through winding corridors and out into the winter garden, where frost still clung stubbornly to shaded corners.

Oscar stood waiting near the stone fountain, his chaperone a respectful distance behind him.

A grin spread across his face the moment he saw you.

“I almost began a wager on how many times you fell asleep in there,” He teased as you walked closer to him, your hands hanging by the side of your green dress, “I could have had riches beyond my wildest dreams.”

You rolled your eyes playfully at him. “It is not my fault that they talk about the most boring things, if they made it a bit more interesting, maybe I would stay awake.”

Oscar laughed, and you began walking side by side through the royal gardens, your chaperones trailing several paces behind, murmuring politely to one another.

The gardens were vast even in winter. Tall trees, stripped of many leaves, stood like silent guardians. Evergreen shrubs offered stubborn colour against the frost. A few winter blooms pushed bravely through the cold.

Your breath clouded before you as you tucked your hands deeper into your sleeves.

“Why do you come if you find them so boring?”

“Because my father wants me to, why do you not like seeing me?” You teased.

A soft blush warmed Oscar’s cheeks.

“Of course, it’s nice to have a friend who wants to talk about real things, not just how many servants they have.”

“A friend who has a personality more like.”

“That is true, plus, it is nice to know that there is someone else like me, who feels as trapped as I do.”

Something in your chest tightened.

You remembered when he had confessed that to you for the first time — that sometimes he envied your ability to run, to shout, to climb walls without the entire realm watching.

It had startled you. It had pleased you. It had hurt.

“At least you get to travel, between here and my manor, I don’t see much of the world, I never will.”

“Maybe I could bring you with me one day? We could see the world together.”

“That would be nice,” you replied softly, your feet catching slightly on the stones beneath, “Though, I doubt my Governess would let me, she thinks I am too unruly for you, for anyone.”

Oscar laughed.

“Well, when I am King, I will make sure no-one thinks such things of you.”

You smiled gently. “Well when you are King, can you also command the sun to shine longer in the summer?”

“If I could command the sun, I would bid it linger only when you are smiling.”

The words settled between you, warmer than the winter air.

You both smiled softly.

“I hate the winter,” you said after a moment. “It is cold and hurts the flowers, they don’t bloom as bright.”

“And you aren’t allowed outside?”

You shook your head.

“I am only allowed out here because you requested it,” you said softly. “It is good to have a friend like you.”

Oscar hummed thoughtfully as you walked. Then, faintly—

Your name was called. You both turned.

Your father stood at the entrance to the garden beside the King himself, arms folded, expressions softened by quiet amusement.

The meeting was concluded. Which meant your visit was as well.

“We didn't get much time today,” you said softly as you turned to Oscar, a small smile lingering, “These visits do not come around as often as I would like.”

“Why don’t you write to me?” he said softly, his eyes reaching yours with a soft expression, “We could write in the time we do not see each other?”

“That would be nice.” you said softly.

And so that evening, after the long carriage journey home, when your eyes fought valiantly against sleep, you dipped quill into ink and wrote your first letter.

You thanked him for being a steadfast friend. You recommended books you had read. You promised the next visit would be longer, brighter, full of laughter.

And as sleep finally claimed you—

It was his smile you saw.

Years passed in vicious winters and glorious summers, marked not by seasons alone but by parchment and ink. Letters wove themselves between you like golden thread — carried by riders, sealed with wax, pressed close to your heart before ever being opened.

You spent hours bent over the carved oak desk in your chamber, candlelight flickering against the stone walls as you wrote. Stories of foolish knights and stubborn geese, of imaginary kingdoms and exaggerated court scandals — all crafted in the hope they might make him laugh. Or at least smile.

You wrote because you knew he needed something that belonged only to him.

Your visits dwindled as he grew older.

There were councils to attend. Lessons in statecraft. Military briefings. Audiences with visiting dignitaries. The Crown Prince was no longer permitted to idle in gardens for hours without question.

Yet he still rode with the King to your father’s manor when affairs demanded it, and you still attended court beside your father — though often through gritted teeth and beneath the stern gaze of your Governess.

There had been one evening — you remembered it with aching clarity — when a council meeting ran long and the castle corridors had grown quiet.

You had both sat upon the cold stone steps near the great hall, lantern light dim, servants passing in hushed tones.

It was then he had told you. He had overheard his parents speaking of alliances. Of future betrothals. Of foreign princesses and treaties sealed with rings.

“Not yet,” he had whispered into the dark. “But soon.”

Your heart had broken for him as he recounted it. The thought of him bound not by choice but by parchment and crown had felt cruel. He had confessed — voice unsteady — that he had always hoped for a love match. That he wished to marry as his parents had: not merely for strength, but for affection.

Through tears you had consoled him, though your own fate would be no kinder.

Months after your thirteenth birthday, you arrived at the castle for the annual Midwinter Feast.

The gates stood open in welcome, banners of every noble house fluttering against the pale winter sky. Carriages lined the courtyard. Laughter echoed beneath stone arches.

It was tradition that every noble family attend — to renew loyalty, to celebrate survival through another year, to feast before the deepest cold set in.

The castle had transformed.

Evergreen boughs draped the rafters of the great hall, their scent rich and sharp. Holly was woven into pillars, bright berries like droplets of blood against stone. Candles burned in iron sconces, their golden light softening the severity of winter.

It was one of the few events you truly enjoyed.

There was music. Merriment. A loosening of decorum once the wine flowed. Children were permitted greater freedom. Laughter was not frowned upon.

For a few hours, the court remembered it was human. The morning session, however, remained unchanged.

Your father had politely insisted upon your attendance.

“You must learn to observe,” he had said. “A noblewoman sees much, even when she speaks little.”

So you stood beside him as the court assembled. Oscar stood beside the King.

It was always strange, seeing him thus.

Since that day at the wall, you had known him as Oscar — the boy who had laughed when you slipped, who had confessed secret dreams of the sea.

But here he was the Crown Prince. He held himself differently now. Shoulders straight. Hands clasped before him. Expression measured.

He had grown.

Lords approached the dais to swear renewed oaths of loyalty, kneeling upon one knee before the throne. Each spoke vows of fealty for the coming year. Some pledged soldiers. Others coin. Others grain.

The King listened. And, increasingly, so did Oscar.

His hair curled at the nape of his neck, a warmer shade than in childhood. His jaw had sharpened. His mouth smiled less easily in court.

Yet when his eyes found yours across the hall, they still sparkled.

You could not deny how impressed you were. Each visit, he stood more confidently. Each season, his father leaned upon him more openly.

When a petitioner raised concern over winter levies and taxation, the King turned — deliberately — to his son.

“Your thoughts, my son?”

You saw the tension in Oscar’s shoulders. He stepped forward. His voice, though not yet fully deepened, carried with surprising steadiness.

He spoke of fairness. Of protecting small holdings through winter. Of adjusting levies rather than increasing them outright.

He spoke with care — but firmness.

The hall listened.

Something struck your heart then. A sharp, aching pride. And something else you did not yet dare name.

The session dragged on, the drone of politics settling like dust in the air. By its end, you were fighting sleep once more.

But when the King rose, signalling dismissal, energy returned to your limbs. This was the part you loved.

The gardens filled quickly with children shrugging off formality. You laughed and ran across frost-kissed paths, the cold biting at your cheeks.

Yet Oscar was nowhere to be found.

When you asked Mistress Eleanor, she corrected you sharply for failing to use his proper title and informed you he was detained by royal duties.

Your stomach twisted.

By late afternoon, the sky dimmed and guests were summoned to the great hall.

Long wooden tables lined the chamber, arranged carefully by rank. The highest houses sat nearest the dais. Lesser nobility further back. Children gathered among themselves according to their families’ standing.

You were seated among familiar young faces — sons and daughters of dukes, earls, barons. All flushed with excitement.

Roasted fowl and winter vegetables filled platters at the centre. Spiced wine was poured for adults; watered cider for the young.

Your parents sat among other noble houses, deep in conversation. Your gaze drifted often toward the high table.

Oscar sat beside the King and Queen, siblings arranged accordingly. He ate politely. Spoke when addressed. Smiled when required.

Yet sometimes his eyes found you.

And you felt it.

You laughed loudly at something said at your table — perhaps louder than necessary — hoping he would see.

At one point, you hurled a turkey leg toward the Duke’s son beside you in mock outrage, earning a sharp glare from Mistress Eleanor.

But the laugh that escaped Oscar was worth it. It was freer than any you had heard from him that day.

You noticed then the cluster of noble daughters watching him.

Whispering. Pointing.

Their giggles felt wrong. They did not know him.

They did not know how he frowned when concentrating. How he spoke softly when troubled. How he hated the deep cold of winter.

They looked at him as something to be won.

At your Oscar.

When the feasting slowed and goblets emptied, a hush was called.

Oscar rose.

He offered formal thanks to the gathered houses, voice steady as he welcomed the renewal of fellowship and declared the dance open.

You had heard him speak before. But something about it felt different now.

He looked taller. Older.

The hall did not see your friend. They saw their future king.

And something inside you shifted.

You remained near your Governess as the first dances began — structured, traditional steps led by nobles long practiced in ceremony.

You overheard a lord remark upon how fine a figure the Prince had become. Your hands clenched.

He was not a figure. He was a person. But you said nothing.

He was confined to the high table. You were confined to your place.

Then, suddenly, he was gone from the dais.

You searched — heart racing — until you saw him moving through the crowd toward you.

A bright smile bloomed across your face as you stepped forward, offering a playful bow.

“Your Highness,” you teased as he approached, a soft blush crossing his features.

“You look bored, I thought you loved these feasts.”

“I do, I think I might just be tired,” You lied.

“Tired enough to not want to dance with a friend?” He asked.

You glanced to your Governess. She gave a small nod. You stepped forward. He bowed properly this time.

Giggles erupted from your lips.

He rolled his eyes at you as you took his hand and began to dance.

You were clumsy. You stepped upon his boots; he nearly turned the wrong direction. The structured dance dissolved into suppressed laughter.

“You know, I think this is the most fun I have had at one of these.” Oscar said softly.

“You are ridiculous,” You giggled.

For a moment, as you moved together, the hall blurred.

Adults watched fondly.

Perhaps they saw only innocence. Perhaps they saw something else.

You felt warmth rising to your cheeks as he smiled at you — openly now, freely.

There was a pull. A quiet, undeniable pull.

“Do you think your future wife might be in this room?” you teased, desperate to break the tightening air between you.

“Maybe,” he said softly.

“One day, you shall wed a princess of great renown,” you said, unsure why the words left your mouth.

“Perhaps,” Oscar replied, lifting his eyes to yours, “Yet renown has never stirred my heart.”

The music softened. The dance ended. He bowed once more.

And then he was claimed — a line of eager noble daughters awaiting their turn.

He had always saved his first dance for you.

You could not bear to watch him take another’s hand. You turned away, studying the stone floor as though it held secrets.

Deep down, you knew. Things were changing. And neither of you could stop it.

You could hear your name ringing through the wind, carried sharp and insistent across the clearing, yet you refused to turn back. You ran faster instead, breath burning in your chest, laughter spilling freely into the summer air.

The sun bore down warm and golden, catching in your hair as you darted forward — and there he was, running at your side.

Oscar. Your Oscar.

Your father had been summoned to the King on urgent business, and you had leapt at the chance to accompany him. It had been many months since you had seen Oscar. You were both fifteen now — no longer children, not yet grown.

There was less room in your lives for wildness.

Lessons had multiplied. Expectations had sharpened. You were drilled in etiquette until your spine ached from straightness and your tongue from careful speech. Boredom seeped into your veins like slow poison.

You escaped when you could — slipping to the nearby village, wandering its narrow streets, tasting sugared breads and listening to gossip you were never meant to hear. Mistress Eleanor would always find you, furious and scandalised.

“You are too old for such foolishness.”

Perhaps foolishness was all you would ever be permitted.

When you arrived at the castle that morning, Oscar had met you in the gardens. His father had dismissed him from whatever business troubled the council chamber — for which you were shamefully glad.

He had requested, most respectfully, that your chaperones grant you a moment of privacy.

And then he had taken your hand. And run.

Your purple gown was now muddied at the hem as you both tore through the clearing, the forest rising before you like sanctuary. You knew the trouble would be great. You knew reprimands awaited.

It did not matter. Time felt thinner these days.

Oscar’s destiny tugged at him more openly. He still wrote. You still met when circumstance allowed. But each meeting felt rarer. More precious.

Because something had changed.

And perhaps Mistress Eleanor was right. You were foolish.

Because what you felt for the Prince running beside you was not the affection of friendship.

“This way,” Oscar shouted, tightening his grip on your hand as he pulled you through the trees.

You laughed harder, imagining the outrage when your absence was discovered.

Soon, he began to slow and so did you. Your steps became lighter as the trees thinned, the air cooler and touched by water.

And then the forest opened.

A river stretched before you, wide and alive, sunlight scattering across its surface in trembling shards of gold. It rushed forward with quiet determination, neither wild nor tame — simply certain.

The sound of it filled the silence between you.

“Wow,” you said softly.

Oscar moved to sit upon a smooth stone near the water’s edge. You remained standing for a moment longer, watching the current twist and bend around fallen branches, before leaning back against the tree beside him.

“I thought you might like it, it’s like the sea in a way,” he said softly, “It crashes and moves, but it is more gentle, it is more peaceful.”

You smiled faintly.

“Like you,” you said with a grin, “And I’m wilder, rougher, like the sea.”

He turned his head slowly toward you, studying you in a way that made your stomach tighten.

“I don’t think you are wild, you are just you.”

There was something deliberate in the way he said it. As if the word you held weight.

“That is kind, but you are a liar,” you grinned, though your voice was quieter now. “It is peaceful here.”

He did not look away from you immediately.

“It’s my favourite place in the forest. I used to come as a child when I could sneak away and throw rocks into the river until I was found. They will know we are here but it is nice just spending this time with you.”

There it was again. Not just time. This time. Alone.

“I feel like I do not see you as much as we once did.”

The confession felt fragile once spoken.

“I know and I am sorry.”

“You do not need to be sorry,” you said softly, stepping closer without quite meaning to. “It is not your fault Oscar.”

His name sounded different now. He heard it too — you could see it in the way his breath paused.

He bent to gather stones from the riverbank, perhaps to steady himself. His fingers brushed the water first, droplets clinging to his skin before he selected one smooth enough to skip.

You watched the flex of his hands, the strength in his wrists.

He had grown. He was no longer a boy. 

His shoulders filled his tunic. His jaw was defined. His house colours — bright against the summer green — marked him unmistakably as heir. When he sat beside you now, it felt as though the air shifted around him

And yet he was still yours.

Still the boy who let you count his freckles in spring sunlight. Still the one who wrote pages upon pages about books you recommended. Still the one who saved you his first dance.

He threw the stone. It skipped twice.

Then sank.

He muttered a curse under his breath.

You laughed softly — not at the failed throw, but at the familiarity of it. At the way he still sounded like the boy who used to sneak from tutors to chase you through gardens.

“Something is bothering you, I can tell,” you said gently.

You moved from the tree and crouched before him. Without thinking — or perhaps thinking too much — you took his hands in yours.

The contact stole the breath from both of you. His skin was warm. Rougher than you remembered. Larger. Your thumbs brushed instinctively over his knuckles.

For a moment, he did not speak. Instead, he looked at your hands holding his. Then at your face. His gaze lingered longer than it ever had before.

“I had an argument with my father this morning,” he said softly. “He wants me to marry, soon.”

The word marry landed like a stone dropped into still water.

“And you do not want to?”

“You know I do not want to, I do not want to burden a wife with uncertainty, the kingdom is not yet stable.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“Your excuses are getting weaker. He can see through them now.”

He almost smiled — but it did not reach his eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly. “They tried to introduce me to a princess and she is kind and accomplished. She deserves a husband who may give her his whole heart.”

Your fingers tightened around his without permission.

“And you cannot give her that?”

His eyes lifted fully to yours then. “No, I cannot.”

The world seemed to narrow. The river still roared. Birds still called. The forest still breathed.

But none of it mattered.

His hands were still in yours. Your knees nearly touched his. You could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your dress.

There was something raw in his gaze now — something unguarded.

A question. Or perhaps an answer.

You realised, with terrifying clarity, that if he leaned forward even slightly, you would not move away.

That knowledge made your pulse thunder in your ears.

“Oscar—”

His grip tightened in response. He whispered your name. Not your title, but your true name.

It was softer. Not mocking. Not teasing.

Intimate.

You swallowed. The air between you felt too thin.

If he said it — if he dared — what would you do? What would happen to you both?

“Your Majesty—”

The shout shattered everything. You flinched apart as though burned. Your hands fell from his.

The warmth vanished instantly.

Mistress Eleanor and his guard stood at the edge of the clearing, outrage written plainly across their faces.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you are in?” Mistress Eleanor scolded, hauling you upright. “And your new dress is filthy. You are no longer a child — you are no longer allowed to do these things.”

“It was my idea,” Oscar shouted.

“You are too kind to take responsibility for her Your Majesty, she is always getting you into trouble.”

“No it really was my idea—”

“It’s alright Oscar,” you said softly, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I mean Your Majesty,” you bowed, eyes unable to meet his. “I am sorry for leading you astray, I really am.”

The words tasted like ash. You were dragged back through the forest.

Behind you, he said nothing further. And something in you ached at that.

You felt the distance settle between you like an invisible wall. Because in that clearing, by that river, you had almost forgotten.

Almost.

You did not see him much in the weeks that followed.

Yet the memory lingered — replaying itself mercilessly. His hands in yours. His voice. 

You knew it had been fantasy. Even if you wished to marry him — he could never marry you. You were the daughter of a Marquess. Respected, yes. Trusted. But not royal.

Not a princess. Not a foreign alliance. Not enough.

The next time you saw him was months later at court.

The hall was full.

A Duke stood before the throne — one of considerable influence, with lands bordering the western marches. Beside him stood his daughter.

She was beautiful. Composed. Her gown shimmered like sunlight on silk. Her hair fell in perfect waves down her back.

Her eyes were lowered in modesty.

The Duke spoke clearly, offering alliance through marriage. Praising Oscar’s virtues. Speaking of unity and strength between their houses.

You felt sick.

The girl did not look cruel. In fact, she looked gentle. You pitied her. You envied her.

She stood closer to the throne than you ever could.

Your gaze flicked to Oscar.

He did not look at the girl. He did not look at you. He stood tall, face composed, the perfect prince.

It was only a week later you received his letter. He had declined.

He wrote of duty. Of timing. Of the kingdom’s needs.

But between the lines, you heard him. He could not give his heart.

You read that letter night after night, fingers tracing the ink.

And you wondered — If he could not give it to her… Then where had he already given it?

Tears blurred your vision as your father stood before you, anger written plainly across his face.

He rarely raised his voice at you. Neither did your mother. In your seventeen years, you could count upon one hand the times he had spoken sharply in your direction.

This was different. This was fury.

You were seated in the carved oak chair near the hearth, your hands trembling in your lap, breath uneven, lungs burning as though the air itself had turned against you. Your father paced before you like a man betrayed.

You had just returned from court. You had behaved perfectly.

You had sat beside him, attentive, composed, listening to petitions and trade matters and disputes over land. You had not whispered. You had not laughed. You had scarcely moved.

You had risked only a few glances at Oscar.

He had taken near center stage now. No longer the boy who fidgeted and sought your eye for reassurance — but a young man who spoke with steadiness before councillors twice his age. The court parted for him now. Lords inclined their heads first.

It had not been the court that angered your father.

It had been after.

You had slipped away while he was deep in conversation with a Viscount from the north. You had known the corridor well enough to avoid the worst of the foot traffic. You had known exactly where Oscar would be.

And you had found him. You had walked together. You had laughed.

You had hidden yourselves in the castle garden, beneath climbing ivy and late-blooming roses, speaking in low voices as though you were still children conspiring over stolen sweets.

You were seventeen. Nearly eighteen.

And alone. Unchaperoned.

With the Prince.

Whispers had circled the court for years. At first they had been fond — indulgent smiles at a childhood friendship that had endured. But as you grew older, and Oscar broader of shoulder and sharper of jaw, and as his presence in court strengthened —

The whispers had changed.

They had never dared turn toward him. They had turned toward you.

Your father had shielded you from most of it. He knew you too well. He knew your heart was innocent. He had trusted that innocence would protect you.

But today had broken something. Eyes had seen you.

Hands brushing. Fingers lingering. Heads too close. Laughter too soft.

He had heard it before you returned home.

“Do you have any idea how this could damage us? How this could hurt our family?” your father shouted.

The words struck harder than the volume.

“You are a young woman and you have a duty to this family, do you understand me?”

You nodded, tears spilling freely now, your hands twisting together until your knuckles paled.

“We have allowed you to do what you want for long enough. Once you turn eighteen, you are to be married.”

Your stomach dropped. The room tilted.

“Father please I—”

“I do not wish to hear it. You will stop this silly game with the Prince and you will marry and that is the last I want to hear of it.”

There was finality in his tone that chilled you more than his anger. He stormed from the chamber. The door shut like a verdict.

Silence remained — save for your sobs.

Your mother hurried toward you at once, gathering you into her arms. Her embrace was firm, familiar, the scent of lavender and starch clinging to her sleeves. She rocked you gently as though you were still a child frightened by thunder.

“Your father loves you very much, he is just angry,” she murmured.

“I didn’t mean— I just wanted—” you could not finish it. The words lodged somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

Your mother smoothed your hair.

“I know, my dear. But we all must do what we must.”

Duty.

It felt like a cage with gilded bars.

That night you sat at your oak desk, candlelight flickering against the walls as shadows danced like restless spirits.

You wrote another letter. Your hand trembled so badly the ink blotched in places.

You wrote of propriety. Of honour. Of how your presence endangered him. Of how you could not allow whispers to tarnish his future.

You did not write that you loved him. You did not dare.

By the time you sealed it, the parchment was stained with tears.

You sent it at dawn.

Weeks passed.

No reply came.

You told yourself it was mercy. You told yourself he agreed.

You heard of him through court gossip instead — of his growing authority, of council meetings held in his name, of foreign envoys received.

Of murmurs that he had turned eighteen. That it was time. That a prince must wed.

You tried to lock the thoughts away.

But each night as you lay alone in your chamber, staring into darkness, all you could see was him.

His smile. His eyes.

The way his voice softened when he said your name.

And how desperately you wished you could follow your heart instead of the path laid before you.

You were in the garden when the disturbance began.

Embroidery frame balanced against your knees, fingers working steady stitches into pale silk, you tried to lose yourself in the rhythm.

Voices rose near the gates. Boots on gravel. Mistress Eleanor paused in her tending of the roses.

You sighed softly, praying it was nothing that required your presence.

Then the steward rounded the corner. You looked up. And your breath caught.

The King’s standard hung behind him. Unannounced.

Your parents would be frantic — the manor half-prepared, the silver not polished, the household unsettled by surprise.

You lowered your gaze again, assuming the matter would not concern you. The steward stopped directly before you.

“Your Majesty wishes to speak to you.”

“Me?” you breathed, rising slowly. You turned to Mistress Eleanor, whose expression mirrored your shock. “Why does the King want to see me?”

“Not the King,” the steward corrected gently. “The Prince.”

Your heart leapt so violently you feared it might be visible beneath your bodice. Mistress Eleanor moved at once to your side.

You followed the steward inside, every step echoing too loudly in your ears. Your home felt unfamiliar — corridors narrower, air thinner.

You had not heard from Oscar. You had assumed his silence agreement. Now you feared it had been pain.

Inside the hall, your father stood speaking with Oscar.

Oscar.

Taller than you remembered. Clad in dark blue velvet trimmed with silver thread.

A prince in every sense of the word.

Your father’s expression softened only slightly as he saw you. He bid farewell to Oscar, then pressed a firm hand against your arm.

A warning. Do not let me down.

He left.

“Your Majesty,” you said softly, bowing.

When you lifted your eyes, your heart stopped.

His face was handsome as ever — but his expression was not the gentle one you knew. His eyes were hard. Not cruel.

Hurt.

He did not greet you. Instead he looked to Mistress Eleanor.

“Mistress Eleanor, may you give us a moment of privacy please?”

You glanced between them.

“Your Majesty, I fear that may not be a good idea, the Marquess has requested that she not be alone with you—”

“I understand what the Marquess wants but I wish to speak to her alone, for a moment. Please will you grant us this? There are no eyes watching us.”

Mistress Eleanor hesitated. Then bowed. And left.

The door shut.

The silence that followed felt heavier than any court chamber.

Oscar looked at you for a long moment.

You felt it — the distance, the weeks, the letter — sitting between you like a third presence.

“I got your letter,” he said at last. “I apologise that I did not reply but I have been occupied further up the country, I just returned.”

“I know you are busy but you did not need to come—”

“No you do not understand, I came straight here. The letter was brought to me and I came straight here, that is why I did not reply.”

“Oh,” you whispered, lowering your eyes. “I am sorry you came all this way.”

“Do not be sorry, I wanted to see you because—”

“Your Majesty please, as I explained in the letter—”

“Why are we using titles? Have I done something to offend you?”

“No, of course not,” you began, taking a step forward before stopping yourself. The space between you felt treacherous.

Oscar exhaled sharply and stepped closer. “I do not understand why we cannot be,” he paused, his gaze softening as it travelled over your face, “Friends.”

“Because people are talking, they think we’re up to no good and my father—”

“Let people talk. I do not want to continue in a life that you are not part of.”

The confession struck like lightning. Tears blurred your sight.

“Oscar please, this is hard enough. I have to fulfil my duty to my family as you are fulfilling yours, we cannot see each other like that anymore.”

“But why?” He stepped forward. His arm lifted, hesitating in mid-air as though he feared to touch you.

“Because I am to marry, when I turn eighteen and I will go live with my husband and that will be it.”

Silence fell. His hand lowered slowly.

“You— You are to marry?”

“Yes,” you said softly. “I have been wild and free for too long, I need to do my duty to my family.”

Your eyes met his. The world felt smaller.

“But—”

“But nothing, Your Majesty. We both have lived good lives together, but now it is time that we do what we must. I am sorry that it ended this way.”

Your voice broke on the final word. You bowed. And fled.

You did not look back. You did not see the way his composure shattered once you were gone.

The Great Hall glittered in gold and candlelight, laughter rising in careful, measured waves. You stood beside your father, every inch the composed daughter of a Marquess.

Eighteen.

Old enough to marry. Old enough to be watched.

And you felt it — the weight of it — in every glance that lingered too long.

Across the hall, Oscar stood near the dais. He was no longer merely the Prince. He was the heir.

Broad-shouldered now, dark velvet cut clean along his frame, silver catching at his cuffs. His posture was effortless, his voice steady as he addressed a visiting lord.

You did not look at him. You had learned not to. But when the hall shifted and a group of courtiers moved aside, he came into view without warning.

Your breath faltered. He was already looking at you.

Not politely. Not distantly. Looking.

As if the noise of the hall did not exist. As if you were the only still thing in the room. Your pulse thudded painfully in your throat. You lowered your gaze at once.

Too slow.

When you dared lift it again, he had turned to speak to someone else — but his jaw was tight. His smile measured.

And when a noblewoman laughed too brightly at something he said, his eyes flickered past her shoulder.

To you. It was not accidental. It never had been. You turned away before you could drown in it.

Your father’s voice broke the moment.

“There.”

You followed his gaze.

Lord Lando Norris stood across the hall speaking with your mother. He was dressed in deep forest green, gold thread lining the edges of his doublet. His expression was open, easy.

He smiled at something your mother said — and it reached his eyes.

“Handsome boy,” your father murmured. “Kind family. Loyal.”

You studied him carefully. He was handsome. Strong. Well-mannered. The sort of man any woman might be pleased to stand beside.

But when you glanced, just once more, toward the dais—

Oscar was watching you again. And this time, when your eyes met, neither of you looked away.

It lasted only seconds. But it felt like a lifetime. There was something in his gaze tonight.

Not soft. Not distant. Possessive. And aching.

Your father shifted beside you. You forced your attention back to Lando.

Safe. Sensible.

Nothing like the storm across the hall.

When Lando arrived at the manor days later, he carried himself with the quiet dignity of a man walking into something he could not control.

He bowed to your father. He bowed to your mother. And when his eyes found yours, there was no triumph in them. Only gentleness.

The gardens were quiet when you walked together, frost clinging faintly to the hedges. Mistress Eleanor followed at a distance.

“I hope you are well,” Lando said softly.

“I am.”

“You do not have to pretend with me.” That made you glance at him.

“I am not pretending.”

He smiled faintly.

“You have always been very brave.”

You walked a few paces more before he continued.

“When the proposal was suggested, I asked your father if you had been consulted.”

Your breath stilled. “He said it was decided.”

Lando nodded once. “I thought so.”

Silence stretched between you.

“I would not have agreed,” he said quietly, “if I believed it would make you miserable.”

You stopped walking. “And yet you did.”

He turned to face you fully now.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Because if you cannot have the man you love… then I would rather you marry someone who knows that.”

The world seemed to tilt. “You presume much,” your voice shook.

“I do not,” his voice was still gentle. “I have watched you for years.”

Your composure began to fracture.

“I have seen the way you look at him when you think no one notices. I have seen the way he watches you when you turn away.”

Your throat tightened painfully. “It is not appropriate to speak of such things.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “It is not. But it is truth.”

You looked away, blinking back tears.

“He will be the King one day,” Lando continued. “And you love him.”

It was the first time anyone had said it aloud.

Love. The word landed between you like something fragile. You could not deny it. Your silence was answer enough.

Lando exhaled quietly.

“It is not unheard of,” he said after a moment.

You looked at him, startled. “What is not?”

“For a King to marry a noblewoman.”

Your heart stumbled. “That is foolish.”

“No," his tone remained steady. “Your house is loyal. Ancient. Powerful in its own right. A marriage between you would strengthen internal unity more than any foreign alliance.”

You stared at him. “You speak as though it is possible.”

“It is,” he said gently. “If he fights for it.”

Your hands trembled at your sides. “He will not.”

Lando’s eyes softened.

“Has he been given the chance?”

The question cut deeper than anything else had. You had ended it. You had written the letter. You had told him it was over.

“I would not wish to place him in conflict with his council.”

“And yet you are willing to place yourself in a loveless marriage?”

The words were not cruel. Only honest. You swallowed hard.

“It is my duty.”

“And perhaps it is his,” Lando replied quietly, "to decide whether you are worth defying expectation.”

Tears blurred your vision. “That is not fair to you.”

A small smile touched his mouth — sad, but genuine.

“Perhaps not,” A long silence followed. Then, more softly: “I have loved you since we were children.”

Your breath caught. He did not look at you when he said it.

“I knew I was not the one you watched in the training yard. I knew whose victories made you smile. I knew.”

The ache in your chest became unbearable.

“And still,” he continued, “if you marry me, I will not punish you for loving him. I will not cage you. I will not demand what you cannot give. I will build you a life that is kind, if nothing else.”

Your tears spilled freely now. “You deserve more than kindness.”

He finally looked at you. His expression was heartbreakingly calm.

“I know,” A beat. “And if he comes for you,” Lando asked quietly, “what will you do?”

“He will not,” your voice trembled.

Lando studied your face for a long moment. And then — devastatingly —

“I hope you are wrong.”

Not for himself. For you.

He stepped back slightly, restoring distance.

“If he does not fight for you, then I will spend my life ensuring you never regret being my wife.”

He offered you his arm again. Steady. Patient. Good.

And entirely prepared to lose.

The council chamber was thick with the smell of wax and parchment.

Oscar stood at the head of the long table, one hand resting against the carved oak as a lord from the western coast droned on about tariffs. He listened — or appeared to. His expression was measured, attentive, controlled.

A murmur drifted from further down the table. Two younger lords, careless in their excitement.

“Norris moves swiftly.” 

“A wise decision. Secures her before His Majesty interferes.”

Oscar’s hand stilled on the table. He did not look toward them. The conversation at the table continued uninterrupted.

“—and with Norris allied to the Marquess, the western routes will remain stable—”

Norris. The name struck clean and sharp.

Oscar lifted his gaze at last.

“Stable?” he asked calmly.

The lord faltered, startled at being addressed directly. “Y-Yes, Your Majesty. With the forthcoming marriage, it is widely assumed—”

“Assumed?” Oscar repeated. The room shifted uneasily.

The Chancellor cleared his throat. “It is more than assumption, sire. The match for Lord Norris has been agreed in principle.”

Agreed. The word echoed louder than it should have. Oscar inclined his head once.

“I see.”

Nothing in his expression changed. He resumed the discussion as though nothing had occurred. But when the chamber emptied, he remained standing long after the doors closed.

His jaw tightened slowly.

The Great Hall glittered with candlelight and polished steel. Conversation rose in smooth waves beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Lando stood among a circle of nobles, speaking easily, one hand resting at his back. Oscar saw him immediately. And he saw, too, the subtle smiles exchanged in his direction.

He crossed the hall without haste. The crowd parted instinctively. When Lando noticed him, he bowed at once.

“Your Majesty.”

Oscar regarded him in silence. Long enough for those nearest to grow uncomfortable.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Oscar said evenly.

Lando did not feign confusion. “They are… premature, Your Majesty.”

“But not unfounded.”

A quiet pause.

“No.”

Oscar’s gaze did not waver. “Did you seek this match?”

The question was too direct for court. Lando answered carefully. “I accepted it.”

A muscle moved in Oscar’s jaw. “And you are content?”

“I am content,” Lando replied steadily, “that she will be well cared for.”

Oscar stepped closer. “And does she appear content?”

A stillness fell over the surrounding nobles.

Lando lowered his voice slightly. “Contentment is not always the measure by which these matters are decided.”

“You presume much,” Oscar said.

“I presume nothing,” Lando replied, meeting his gaze without arrogance. “Only that if she were free to marry for love… she would.”

The words settled heavily between them. Oscar’s voice dropped.

“Take care, Norris.”

Lando inclined his head.

“With respect, Your Majesty, I hope you do.”

Oscar held his gaze a moment longer. Then he turned sharply and left the hall.

Oscar did not request permission to enter.

The doors to the King’s private solar opened with a firm push.

His father looked up from a spread of letters. His mother sat nearby, embroidery resting loosely in her lap.

“You knew,” Oscar said.

The King’s expression remained composed. “I did.”

“And you permitted it.”

“It is a strong alliance. His fleet is strong—”

Oscar’s composure thinned. “I do not care about his fleet.”

“You will,” the King replied calmly, “when you wear my crown.”

“I already bear its weight.”

Silence.

The Queen set aside her needlework.

“She is to be married,” Oscar continued. “And you say nothing.”

“What would you have me say?” the King asked.

Oscar’s restraint fractured. “That she is not available.” The words hung in the air.

The King studied him carefully. “On what grounds?”

Oscar did not hesitate. “Because I love her.”

The Queen inhaled softly. The King rose slowly to his feet.

“Is this infatuation?”

“No.”

“How long?”

“Since I was a boy.”

A long pause followed.

“You have rejected every alliance presented to you,” the King said. “Was it always her?”

Oscar did not answer. He did not need to.

The King’s gaze hardened slightly. “And if I forbid it?”

Oscar’s throat tightened. “Then I will obey you,” A beat. “But I will never forgive you.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anger. The Queen stood, stepping closer to her son.

“She ended it, did she not?” she asked gently.

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “She believed it impossible.”

“And you?” the King pressed.

Oscar’s voice was quieter now. “So did I.”

The King regarded him for a long moment.

“I married your mother for love,” he said at last.

“And you fought for it,” Oscar replied.

A flicker of something passed between them. The King exhaled.

“Very well, such a union will strengthen both courts,” the King said, almost absently. "And I have known for some time that it was not diplomacy alone that drew you to her."

Oscar barely moved.

“You will not chase her like a reckless boy. You will request her hand formally. You will withstand your council’s objections. You will endure the consequences.”

“I will endure anything.”

The Queen stepped forward, placing a hand briefly against his cheek. “Then go,” she said softly. “Before she believes herself abandoned.”

Oscar bowed once. And left with purpose.

The afternoon was quiet when the royal standard appeared at the edge of the drive. You were seated near the window of the drawing room, embroidery resting in your lap, though you had not stitched a single thread in several minutes.

The sky was pale, the air brittle with the promise of frost.

The first sound was hooves. Then the unmistakable ripple of movement through the household.

A maid hurried past the doorway. Another voice rose in surprise.

You frowned faintly. No letter had arrived announcing a visit.

You rose slowly, setting the embroidery aside, and crossed toward the window. And then you saw it.

Deep blue and silver. The royal crest.

Your breath left you in a single, startled exhale.

He had not come since the court. He had not come since—

You swallowed. This was proper. This was expected. Of course he would come. He would offer his congratulations. It was the decent thing to do.

Your hands felt suddenly cold.

Mistress Eleanor entered quickly, her expression careful.

“His Majesty has arrived.” His Majesty. Not Oscar.

You straightened instinctively.

“Is my father with him?”

“Yes. They are in the hall.”

You nodded. You would be composed. You would be gracious. You would not hope for anything more.

When you entered, your father stood near the hearth speaking in low tones.

Oscar stood opposite him. He wore black today.

Not royal blue. Not ceremonial silver. Black trimmed with dark thread. It made him look older.

Harder.

Your father glanced toward you as you entered. His expression was unreadable.

“Your Majesty,” you said softly, lowering into a bow.

Oscar’s gaze fixed on you immediately. It did not move.

Your father cleared his throat. “I shall leave you to speak.”

You barely had time to register the words before he stepped past you and left the hall.

The door closed. Silence fell.

You kept your eyes lowered.

“Your Majesty,” you said carefully, “you honour us with your visit.”

There was a pause. Then—

“Look at me,” his voice was quiet. But it was not a request.

Your heart stumbled.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze. The air left your lungs.

He looked undone. Composed still, yes. But there was something tightly restrained beneath it. Something burning.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” he said gently as his expression shifted.

“Do you?” your voice was soft, forcing the words out before your courage failed you. Your fingers twisted together in front of you.

“It is a generous match,” you continued. “Lord Norris is kind. I am grateful for his consideration.”

Oscar took one step toward you. Only one. “Are you?”

The question was low. You held his gaze.

“It is what is best.”

“For whom?”

Your throat tightened. “For my family.”

“And for you?”

You did not answer. The silence answered for you. Oscar inhaled slowly, as though steadying himself.

“I did not come to offer congratulations.”

Your pulse began to race. You had prepared for civility. You had not prepared for this.

“Then why have you come, Your Majesty?”

The title sounded wrong. He noticed. His jaw tightened.

“Do not call me that.”

You blinked.

“It is what you are.”

“It is not what I am to you.”

Your breath faltered.

“You are to be married,” he said.

“Yes.”

“To Norris.”

“Yes.”

The name sounded strange in his mouth. He stepped closer again. Close enough that you could see the faint tension in his hands at his sides.

“Did you choose this?”

“You know I did not.”

“Then why?”

“Because it is done.”

“It is not done.”

Your heart pounded violently now. “It is agreed.”

“Agreements can be broken.”

“Not without consequence.”

“Then let there be consequence.”

The words hit you like a physical force. “You cannot mean that.”

“I mean it.”

His voice was no longer restrained. Not loud. But raw.

“I went to my father.”

Your breath stopped entirely. “You—”

“I told him.”

Your pulse roared in your ears.

“Told him what?”

He held your gaze. “That I love you.”

The room seemed to tilt. The words you had never allowed yourself to hear. Spoken plainly. Without hesitation.

You stepped back as though struck.

“Oscar—”

“I have loved you since we were children. I have loved you through every court season, every alliance proposed, every letter you forced yourself to write.”

Tears blurred your vision. “You cannot say such things now.”

“I should have said them years ago.”

His composure finally fractured. “I let you believe it was impossible. I let you walk away because I thought duty demanded it,” his voice dropped. “But I will not stand by while another man claims you because I was too cowardly to fight.”

Your heart felt as though it might break under the force of it.

“You will be King.”

“And you are the only thing I have ever wanted that was not placed before me out of obligation.”

Silence fell heavy between you. You could hear your own breathing. Uneven. Shaking.

“You could ruin everything,” you whispered.

“I will withstand it.”

“The council—”

“Let them object.”

“My father—”

“I have spoken to him.”

Your eyes widened. “You—”

“I asked for your hand.”

The words undid you. Truly undid you. “You cannot simply—”

“I can.”

His voice softened now. Not forceful. Certain.

“I will not command you. I will not force you. If you do not want this, say it now.”

Your throat closed.

“If you do not love me, say it now.”

You tried to speak. Nothing came.

He stepped closer. Not touching you. But near enough that you felt the warmth of him.

“I have endured a lifetime of restraint,” he said quietly. “I will endure the council. I will endure scandal. I will endure every whisper in this kingdom,” his voice broke, just slightly. “But I will not endure losing you because I was afraid.”

Your tears fell freely now. He did not reach for you. He let you choose.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

Your voice trembled. “I never stopped loving you.”

The words barely left your lips before he closed the distance. Not kissing you. Not yet. But his hand found yours. Fingers threading together like they had always belonged that way.

“I am not offering you safety,” he said quietly. “I am offering you a fight.”

You let out a broken laugh through tears. “You always were stubborn.”

“And you always underestimated me.” He lifted your joined hands slightly.

“Choose me,” he said. “Not as a king, as a man.”

His hand was wrapped around yours when you realised how easily you could ruin everything. All you had to do was close your fingers. All you had to do was say yes. He was standing close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the space between you. Close enough that the air felt thinner.

“Choose me,” he had said again.

Not as a king. As a man who had reached the end of his restraint.

Your heart was pounding so violently you were certain he could feel it in your palm. You looked at him. Really looked. At the tension in his jaw — the way he was holding himself so rigidly, as if one wrong word from you would either save him or break him.

And slowly, you eased your hand from his. It was not rejection. But it felt like it. The absence of your touch seemed to echo between you. His fingers flexed once before falling to his side.

“I cannot,” you said — and even you could hear the fracture in it.

He didn’t react immediately. That was the worst part. He simply watched you. Waiting.

“You cannot,” he repeated quietly.

“I will not,” you corrected, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Not like this,” A flicker — confusion, hurt, something sharp — crossed his face. “I will not promise myself to you while another man believes I am to be his wife.”

His throat moved. “I would undo it. Today.”

There it was — the heat, the impulse, the man who would burn down his own kingdom if it meant keeping you.

“I know you would, and that,” you whispered, “is exactly why I cannot allow you to.”

Silence. You swallowed.

“He has been kind to me. He knew — I think he always knew — and he did not mock it. He did not corner me. He did not press me,” your voice trembled. “I will not repay kindness with public humiliation.”

Oscar’s breathing had changed. Slower. Controlled.

“You are protecting him,” he said softly.

“I am protecting myself from becoming cruel.”

He looked at you then — not as a king denied something. But as a man realising why he loved you. “And if he releases you?” he asked.

“Then I will come to you without guilt.”

The air shifted. He stepped closer — but stopped before touching you. He was so close now you could see the faint tremor in his restraint.

“I will wait,” he said. It sounded like a vow. Not impatient. Not dramatic. Just certain. “But do not make me wait long.”

Your lips parted. “I will not.”

He looked at you as though he wanted to memorise your face. Then he stepped back. Because if he didn’t, he would have kissed you.

And neither of you would have survived it.

You found your father not in his study, but in the small sitting room your mother used to favour — the one with the faded blue upholstery and the wide window overlooking the roses. Dust moved lazily in the afternoon light. It was the kind of room that remembered laughter.

He was seated in her chair. Not reading. Not working. Just staring ahead as though he had been sitting there for some time.

When he heard you enter, he stood immediately — instinct, not formality.

“He came,” he said.

“Yes,” your voice felt younger here. Softer. As though the walls had seen you grow.

“And?”

You crossed the room slowly, fingertips brushing the back of the sofa as you passed it.

“He asked for my hand.”

Your father exhaled — not sharply, not angrily. Just heavily. A man setting down something he had been holding too long.

“I misjudged him.” It startled you more than if he had raised his voice.

“You were angry,” you said quietly.

“Yes.”

He did not deny it. He did not soften it. He rubbed a hand over his face and for a moment he looked tired — not powerful, not imposing. Just a father.

“I was angry because I thought you were being reckless,” he admitted. “Because I thought you were allowing yourself to be caught in something that would end in ruin. And I thought—” His voice faltered slightly. “I thought I would have to watch it happen.”

He looked at you then — fully.

“You are my daughter. I have watched this court devour young women for less than a prince’s affection. They whisper, they speculate, they decide a story before the girl has even spoken.”

Tears pricked at your eyes.

“I thought if I secured you somewhere safe — somewhere stable — I could spare you that.”

“You were trying to protect me,” you said.

“Yes,” his answer was immediate. “But I forgot something.”

You waited.

“I forgot that you are not fragile.”

Your throat tightened.

“I saw you today,” he continued. “Not as a girl chasing something impossible. But as a woman who knew exactly what she was choosing.”

Silence settled, softer this time.

“It hurt,” you admitted. “When you spoke to me as though my heart were foolish.” His face shifted instantly — regret, clear and unguarded.

“I should never have done that,” His voice was gentler than you had heard it in years. “Your heart has never been foolish. It has always been honest. I mistook honesty for recklessness.”

You swallowed hard.

“I did not think he would defy the council,” your father said after a moment. “I did not think he would risk his position so openly.”

“He said he would endure it.”

Your father gave a quiet, almost incredulous huff — but this time there was admiration beneath it.

“I saw the way he looked at you, I have seen the way he has always looked at you.”

Your breath caught.

“I have seen that look before,” he said quietly.

“Where?”

“In men who are already lost.” A tear slipped free before you could stop it.

“And I was wrong,” he added. “Not about the danger. There will be danger. But about him,” He stepped closer. “I was wrong to stand in your way.”

The words settled between you like something sacred.

“You were protecting me,” you whispered.

“Yes.”

“And I am grateful.”

He reached for you then — not formally, not stiffly — but with both arms, pulling you into him the way he used to when you were small and frightened of storms. For a moment, you were simply his daughter again.

“I do not want you ruined by whispers,” he murmured into your hair. “But I would rather endure whispers than watch you live a life you resent.”

You clung to him, relief blooming in your chest in a way that felt almost like joy.

“When you walk into that court,” he continued softly, “you will not walk alone. They may question you. They may question him. But they will not question where I stand.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“I am proud of you,” he said, the words hit harder than the apology. “I always have been.”

And for the first time since this began, you felt not defiant — but supported.

You asked Lando to meet you in the lower gardens. He arrived a day later, of course he did.

He was standing beneath the stone archway, hands clasped behind his back, gaze lifted to the climbing roses as though committing their colour to memory.

He turned when he heard your footsteps. And he smiled. Not bright. Not performative.

Just gentle.

“He spoke to you,” Lando said. You nodded. “And?”

The question was soft, but it carried weight. You drew a breath that felt too large for your chest.

“He asked me to choose him.”

Lando’s jaw tightened — so briefly you almost missed it. “And will you?”

The space between you felt fragile.

“I have to thank you first.” His brows lifted slightly, confused but patient.

“For what?”

You stepped closer, hands clasped in front of you to keep them steady. “For wanting to protect me,” Silence lingered. “You offered me kindness when you knew you would never have my whole heart,” you continued. “You offered me safety without demanding affection in return. You were prepared to shoulder gossip and politics simply to spare me from them.”

Your throat burned.

“That is not something I will ever forget.”

Lando looked away then — just for a moment — toward the roses. “I thought,” he said quietly, “that perhaps if I loved you gently enough, you might learn to love me back.”

The honesty in it hurt more than bitterness would have.

“I tried,” you whispered.

“I know.” He looked at you again — steady, warm, heartbreakingly composed.

“I saw the way you looked at him,” he admitted. “Even when you were trying not to.”

Your composure wavered.

“I would rather you love him fully,” he said softly, “Than settle for me halfway.” The words almost undid you. “I never wanted to be your compromise.”

“You weren’t,” you insisted. He gave a faint, almost sad smile.

“Not intentionally.”

Silence stretched — not awkward, just heavy.

“He will have to fight for you,” Lando added after a moment.

“He already has.” A faint smile curved his mouth.

“Good. I would hate to think I stepped aside for a coward.”

A shaky laugh escaped you despite yourself. You reached for his hands, squeezing them — longer this time.

“You deserve someone who looks at you and sees their beginning,” you said. “Not their consolation.” He held your hands for a beat longer than he should have.

“And you deserve the man you never stopped choosing.” His voice was softer now. Almost unguarded.

There was something in his eyes — not anger, not resentment — just the quiet ache of what might have been. He released you first. Stepped back first.

Let you go with dignity. But as you turned away, you heard him exhale — slow, controlled — the sound of someone who had loved well and lost anyway.

You went to the castle. He wasn’t there. You didn’t need to ask where he had gone.

The river curved behind the old willow trees, the place where he had once confessed he went when the world felt too loud.

You found him standing at the water’s edge.

Still. Coat discarded. Sleeves rolled. He didn’t turn when you approached.

“I thought you might not come,” he said.

The words were quiet. Not accusing. Just honest.

“I had to do it properly,” you replied. A long pause.

“And did you?”

“Yes.”

He turned then. And the look on his face —

Hope, restrained so tightly it bordered on pain.

“My father stands with me,” you said.

His breath left him in a way that sounded almost like relief and disbelief tangled together.

“And Norris?”

“He let me go.”

Oscar closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the restraint was gone.

“Then why do you look afraid?”

Because you were. Because loving him meant stepping into something vast and dangerous and irreversible. You stepped closer.

“I am not afraid of you,” you said.

“Good.”

“I am afraid of how much I love you.” That stopped him.

The river moved softly behind you.

“I have tried,” you continued, voice trembling, “To imagine a life where you were not at its centre. I have tried to convince myself that comfort would be enough.”

“And?”

“It never was.” He crossed the remaining distance slowly — as if approaching something sacred.

“You are not safe,” you whispered.

“No.”

“You are not simple.”

“No.”

“You will make my life harder.”

“Yes.” A tear slipped down your cheek.

“But you are mine.”

That was the moment he broke. His hands came to your face — not urgent, not greedy — just overwhelmed. “I have loved you in silence. But I am done being silent.”

“As am I,” you whispered.

“It was cowardly.” You shook your head.

“It was survival.” His mouth hovered near yours.

“If I kiss you now,” he murmured, “there is no going back.”

“There never was.”

His hands were still at your face. Warm. Steady. As though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his grip.

“You chose me,” he said softly, it sounded less like disbelief and more like awe.

“I never stopped,” you whispered.

The wind shifted softly through the willow branches. The world felt suspended — held in the space between your breaths.

Oscar searched your face as though he were memorising it. As though he had spent years looking from a distance and was only now allowed to see you up close.

“I have imagined this moment,” he admitted quietly. “A thousand different ways.”

Your lips trembled faintly. “And was I kinder in your imaginings?”

He gave the smallest, broken huff of laughter. “No. You were braver.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

“I thought,” he continued, voice roughening, “that loving you meant stepping aside. That if I wanted to be worthy of the crown, I had to prove I could sacrifice what I wanted most.”

Your hand rose, covering his where it rested against your cheek.

“You were never meant to sacrifice this,” you said softly.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.

“If I kiss you,” he murmured, “it will not be restrained.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “It has never been restrained,” you breathed.

The admission undid him.

He closed the last inch of space slowly — so slowly you felt every second of it — his nose brushing yours, his breath warm against your lips.

For a suspended moment, he did nothing. Just there. Just close. As though he were giving you one final chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

The kiss began softly. Almost reverent.

His mouth pressed to yours like something fragile, something long-awaited and carefully unwrapped. And then —

Years of restraint fractured. His hand slid from your face to your waist, pulling you closer — not roughly, but urgently, like a man who had been drowning in silence and had finally reached air.

You felt the tremor in him. Not from uncertainty. From the effort it had taken not to do this sooner.

Your fingers curled into the front of his tunic, holding him there as though you feared he might wake from it.

He kissed you deeper. Not hurried. Not careless. But with a quiet desperation that said this had lived inside him far too long.

When he finally broke away, it wasn’t by much. His forehead rested against yours again, both of you breathing unevenly.

“I would have lost you,” he said, the words almost hoarse.

“You didn’t.”

“I almost did.” You touched his jaw, grounding him.

“But you fought.” He pulled you closer, pressing his face briefly into your hair as though steadying himself.

“I do not want to be noble if it costs me you,” he confessed into the quiet.

“You will not have to be.” His hands settled at your back, holding you fully now — not like something he might have to return.

“You are going to be my wife,” he said again, softer this time. Certain.

“And you are going to be my ruin,” you replied faintly, smiling against his shoulder. He leaned back just enough to look at you, eyes dark with something that was no longer restrained.

“Then let the kingdom tremble.”

He kissed you again — slower this time. Certain. Claiming nothing but returning everything.

The river moved beside you, indifferent and eternal. But for the first time since you were children climbing castle walls and chasing tides, neither of you felt small beneath the world.

You felt chosen. And he felt victorious in something that was not conquest — but devotion.

And as the river carried the past quietly away, the future did not feel like a crown to bear — but a love you both had finally dared to keep.

Oscar Piastri is a very private person. No one knew what he was really like off track. They knew that he was cool, calm and collected. That he was loyal, that he was focused and determined. But that was about it. No one knew what his loved life looked like, they didn’t even know his favourite colour. But it’s always easier to keep your love life private when the other person is already in love with someone else. 

After Lily, he vowed one thing — his love life would stay private. Completely private in fact. No visiting race weeks, no photos, not a mention in interviews and if anyone asked, he would shut it down, or his PR team would. 

“Oscar, the fans are interested.. is there anyone special in your life?” 

“Uhm,” he paused, his smirk creasing the lines across his cheeks. “No, I don’t have time for a love life. The track and the team are my focus.” Complete lies. 

Well not complete lies, the team was his priority, becoming a champion was his priority. Taking that golden crown was his priority. Because Lando had taken everything from him. He took the trophy, he took the first seat... he took you.

A solid hand came to pat him on the shoulder, a gentle thud pushing him forward as the arm draped over his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry to hear about you and Lily, man.” Lando muttered. “I thought you two were long term.” 

Oscar smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes yet. “Thanks,” He murmured — his teeth gritting as he uttered the words. “But at least one of us can have a healthy relationship.” 

Lando laughed, it was breathy but sincere. “Well, she is one of a kind.” 

“That she is.” 

—

The season was long and the winter break was welcoming. A couple of months to spend time with family, reset himself for the 2026 season ahead. To prepare and take back what was so rightfully his. 

The call from Lando came late after Christmas, he told himself he was just checking up on him, that Oscar needed a friend, someone to speak to. But it was you that convinced Lando to call him. You didn’t know it, but you were the only thing Oscar thought about. Morning, noon and night. The way your long hair swept in the wind, the oversized jacket that complimented your waist, the way your lips pouted before you spoke. 

“Hey man, just thought I’d check up. See how you’re doing?” 

Oscar didn’t mean to roll his eyes, but it came naturally. “All good here, thanks.” 

There was a muffled voice the other end of the phone, he knew it was you. Unmistakably you. 

“We…I thought maybe you’d want to come and share a lodge with us all? A few of the couples are spending New Years in the cabin.” 

Your voice was still there, edging Lando to ask Oscar to join. 

“I know you and, erm, Lily aren’t together but you could still come with? Enjoy the scenery and the company for a bit?” 

Oscar sighed, his tongue pushing against the edge of his cheek. He didn’t want to go. Watching his friends with their girlfriends for two weeks, stuck in a log cabin…with you? No thanks. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Sounds like a nice excuse to get away.” He lied. 

“Cool, I’ll send the details over to you.” Lando was innocent. Too innocent. He had no idea that Oscar was head over heels in love with his girlfriend. 

Oscar hated it. How Lando would get you all to himself, that he got every part of you. That you were the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing he saw when he went to bed. 

He spent lonely nights thinking about you, under him. On top of him. In every position actually. His hands tangled in your hair, your skin glowing as he told you how much of a good girl you were. He didn’t just want you, he needed you. But you weren’t his to have. You were Lando’s. Of course he knew it was wrong. But chemistry is a funny thing, you’re never fully in control, no matter how much of a good person people really think you are. 

The moans filled his empty apartment, his hand jerking up and down on his cock. Precum already dripping from the tip, he breathed your name as he climaxed. Thick white liquid spilling across his stomach. His heart was hammering against his ribcage, he knew it was wrong but all it took was one Instagram story of you, standing in a little red bikini on a beach in some luxury resort for him to lose it again. 

— 

You had packed earlier that day, outfits laid out for each day. Your large suitcase overflowing with all of your favourite clothes. You weren’t packing to impress, but making a good impression on Lando’s friends was on the forefront of your mind. You had never spent this amount of time with them — it was usually a race weekend, or a quiet dinner in a private restaurant on the outskirts of Monaco. But two weeks was a long time. 

Lando had told you what happened between Oscar and Lily. You couldn’t believe that the two of them had decided to part ways after years of being the couple every aspired to be like. Oscar was private, so when Lando had come home from the last test of the season saying that the pair had broken up, you were shocked that they were even having troubles. 

Except, they weren’t. As far as Lily was concerned, the two were in the perfect place. She had half expected a ring at the end of the season, instead she spent her holidays explaining to family and friends that she never saw it coming. 

It started the day Lando introduced you at a McLaren dinner. Your little black dress clinging to all the right places, your heels extending your legs as you stood hand in hand with his teammate. He didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t look away. Your smile drew him in, the sweet sound of your laughter made him yearn. How could he get someone like you? 

That night he dropped Lily home, the car journey was quiet. She noticed, of course she did. That should’ve been the first warning sign. 

“Is everything okay?” She whispered, placing a gentle hand on his thigh as he changed gear. 

He hadn’t realised he zoned out, the road stretching out in front of him, the headlights glowing the countryside in the dead of night. He squeezed his eyes open and shut, his hands gripping round the steering wheel — knuckles turning white.

“Yeah, fine.” He muttered. “Just, uhm, really tired.” 

When he got home that night, he spent hours searching through your socials. Every photo, every tag, every repost. It was a quiet obsession. An obsession no one could ever find out about.

— 

The air was thick, the only type of air you could get when staying on top of a mountain in the coldest months of the year. Scenery spread across snowy hills, skies painted a pale blue as the cabin sat on an idyllic part of the town. 

Oscar had spent the last few days trying to come up with excuses not to come, but none of them good enough to warrant him not attending. He thought of how he had to see you every day for two weeks, how he would have to pretend to not be interested, that you would be nothing more than a mutual acquaintance, his teammate’s girlfriend. However, the moment he saw you, ducking your head out of Lando’s car, running toward Kelly and Rebecca, he was done for. 

Your boots slammed against the snow as you ran toward the girls. Kelly’s open arms pulled you into a hug as Max and Carlos unpacked the cars. 

“Oh hello, gorgeous girl.” Kelly chimed. 

“Hey,” you echoed, “I am so excited, I barely slept last night.” 

The pair giggled as Kelly stroked your long hair in the lovingly way a sister would. Kelly was the first person to warm you into the group. Your first day in the paddock was intimidating, the media swarming, rumours spreading, and Kelly was the one who showed you the ropes, who guided you when you needed it most. 

“Are you all going to stand around having a mother’s meeting or are you going to help us with the bags?” Max shouted across. 

“We’re coming!” 

The cabin was beautiful — wooden beams with fairy lights wrapped round them, an open kitchen with an old-style country oven. The sofas stretched with scatter cushions in yellow and green. An open fire with burning logs.

Rebecca stood in the centre with a piece of paper, a drawn schedule of where each couple would be staying. 

“Okay,” she pointed towards you and Lando, “You’re in the second room to the left, Kelly and Max you’re next to them, me and Carlos are just over in the room opposite the kitchen and Oscar…” she looked back down at the paper, pointing with her finger to his room, “Osc you’re down the hall, the room facing the outside hot tub.” 

He nodded, grabbing his bags and walked to the back of the cabin. You followed Lando to your room; it was just as beautiful as the front of the cabin. There were paintings of deers hanging on the wall, a small wooden wardrobe for you to share and a queen-sized bed with fluffy white sheets. 

Lando fell back into the bed, pulling you on top of him. “I could get used to this,” He whispered across your lips. 

“Oh yeah?” 

He nodded, “Yeah. You on top of me in a snowy cabin, what could be better?” 

You giggled as he kissed along your jaw, moving down to nibble your neck. “Lando—“ you laughed. 

Oscar didn’t mean to look, he passed your room and heard the echo of your laugh. His blood ran cold as he watched you laying across Lando, his hands planted firmly on your arse as he kissed you. The sight made him feel nauseous. He rolled his eyes, shoving the thought to the back of his mind and walked into the main area of the cabin. 

“You okay?” Carlos called from the kitchen, pouring himself a beer. 

Oscar’s head snapped up from his thoughts. “Yeah, just a long drive.” 

“Hmm,” Carlos hummed. “You sure nothing else is bothering you?” 

“No. I’m fine.” Oscar snapped, slumping his body on one of the sofas. 

Carlos padded over, taking a seat next to the Australian. “I was really sorry to hear about your breakup,” Carlos offered, taking a sip from the cold glass. 

Oscar pursed his lips, wondering how he should answer. He had heard it too many times over the last few weeks. Prying questions from friends and family around the Christmas dinner table, messages on socials. Everyone saying ‘how sorry they were.’ 

“Thanks, it means a lot.” He lied. 

The conversation was cut short as you and Lando entered the room. Your hair tussled from his fingers being curled in it, your lipgloss smeared across his lips. But you caught it, the look he gave when your eyes met. The cold stare as he got up and walked into the kitchen. It hurt. 

Your thoughts continued to spiral for the remainder of the day. Why didn’t Oscar like you? What did you do to him? Did you offend him? 

You pushed your dinner around your plate as the conversation continued around you. They spoke about previous seasons, the races, but you couldn’t hear any of it. You looked over at Oscar from across the table, he sat back in his chair, his large arms crossed against his chest as he laughed at something Max said. He caught your gaze for a second before snapping away, his expression dropping. 

The chair scraped against the wooden floor as you pushed it back. They all turned to look at you, Lando’s eyebrows furrowing as he watched you stand. “Excuse me for a second.” You announced, walking to your room. 

Your body weight fell into the edge of the bed, eyes burning slightly as tears started to form. Why didn’t he like you? 

“Hey,” a small knock brought you back from your thoughts. You quickly dried your eyes as your turned toward the voice. Kelly stood in the entryway, leaning casually against the frame. 

“Hi,” you managed as she took a seat down next to you. Your damp lashes fluttered against your cheeks as you turned to her. “Max and Carlos like me right?” 

Her expression changed, her head snapping back slightly as she read your face. “Of course they do, why would you say that?” 

You blinked, trying to stop the tears from forming again. “Nothing, it’s stupid. I just needed five minutes to gather myself, that’s all.” 

You stood, brushing your leggings down. Kelly’s eyebrow raised as she tried to understand what was running through your mind. She stood, standing to your level, gently rubbing your arm. 

“Are you sure—“ 

You interrupted before she could finish. “Yeah, I’m great.” You lied. 

— 

The next morning came softly, the winter sun streaking golden lines through the curtains of the bedroom. Lando’s arm was draped lazily over your stomach, his breathing even as you turned over to check your phone. 

8.15am

“Hmm,” Lando moaned, “What time is it?” 

You turned over to him, his curls a slight mess, his eyes still shut but a grin plastered across his lips. 

“It’s 8.15 baby,” you placed a gentle kiss on him – but that only made him pull you closer. 

Oscar awoke to the sound of the whirring hot tub and the sound of your laughter in the room next door. It was gentle, he thought to himself. The way you laughed in the morning was something he wanted to wake up to everyday. But it wasn’t long before the laughter stopped and the moaning began. 

“You’re so fucking wet for me baby,” Lando moans. 

He grabs his pillow and shoves it over his face, desperately trying to drown out the sound of your breathy moans. 

“Fuck–Lando,” 

Nope. Nope. Uh-uh. This can’t be real. He kept thinking. Your moans send him into a spiral, his mind racing, his hand slowly moving into his bed shorts, his cock hard at the thought of you on top of him, how you would breathe his name and not Lando’s. He knows it’s wrong, that’s his teammate’s girlfriend but he can’t stop. 

Why does he get to know how good you feel? 

His pace increases, his hand sliding across his cock as he thinks of you riding him, here, now, in his bed. The way your head tips back as he imagines you clenching around him. 

Two taps knock at the door, Oscar jumps from his sheets as the person enters, acting his best to be asleep. 

“Hey mate,” Max calls from the doorway, “We’re going for a hike today, get your best walking shoes out. It’s gonna be a long one!” 

He closes the door behind him, knocking on your door next. 

“Fuck.” Oscar whispers into the pillow. “Fuck fuck fuck.” 

– 

Max was right. The hike was long, and cold and tortuous for one person and one person only. Oscar. 

You feel his gaze every so often, but every time you turned to look at him, he just raised his eyebrows and continued talking to Carlos. 

“You okay, love?” Lando asks, slipping his hand into yours. 

“Yeah,” you lie. “No, actually I’m not.” You turn slightly to look back at Oscar, then back to Lando. 

“I really don’t think Oscar likes me.” 

Lando doubletakes, “What. Why?” 

“I don’t know, I just get this feeling he isn’t too fond of me.” You look down at your feet, your boots damp from the snow. 

“Where has this come from?” Lando asks, “Do you want me to say something?” 

“No, no,” you reply, “I’m sure it’s all in my head.” 

You thought that maybe it was the breakup. Maybe he was just down about not having Lily around or maybe seeing you and Lando happy together was a reminder of what he lost. 

Oscar was hanging back from you and Lando, walking in tandem with Carlos. He hated the snow. He liked the sunshine. The Australian sunshine and the beach and being as far away from the girl he was in love with as possible. 

“You sure something else isn’t bothering you?” Carlos sighed, furrowing his brows as he treaded through the snow. 

He didn’t answer for a second, contemplating whether or not to admit his feelings, to finally get this shitty feeling off of his chest. But Carlos interrupted before he could even finish his thought. 

“Or maybe some one bothering you?” 

That caught his attention. “No, what–no, what are you talking about?” He stuttered. 

“Sorry,” Carlos said, holding his hand up in a mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.” 

Oscar sighed, watching Lando’s hand find the small of your back, your big thick coat covering your tiny waist, your hair swaying as you walked. 

“It’s her, isn’t it?” 

He thought about lying, about saying that he was just down about the breakup, that he was just sad about losing his relationship and hated seeing how happy you and Lando were. He then thought about telling the truth, about how all he could think about was you, that he was sure you two were meant together. And then he remembered how close Lando and Carlos were, and that the moment he would admit to him he was head over heels in love with you, he was done for. Lando would find out. Their friendship would be ruined and it would be a PR disaster. 

“Who, her?” he nodded toward you. “God no,” 

Carlos let out a breathy laugh, it was almost unbelievable, they way Oscar lied so well about his disinterest in you. 

“Okay,” Kelly stopped everyone in their tracks. “The plan is, lunch over here,” she pointed at the little corner restaurant behind her. “And then a brisk walk back to the cabin, we can rest for a couple of hours before dinner.” 

“Aye, aye captain.” Lando joked. 

Oscar rolled his eyes so far back, they practically fell to the back of his skull. 

Lunch was quick, despite you trying your best to be kind to Oscar – passing him the salt when he needed it, asking him about his favourite track this year, showing him photos of your childhood dog, none of it worked. He was still as cold as ice. 

Lando offered again to speak to him after he saw how sad you were on the walk home, but you swatted him away, saying that you were sure he was just going through a hard time and he’d come around eventually. 

But the evening dinner wasn’t much better. You’d helped cook alongside Kelly and Rebecca, a pasta dish you were sure he was going to love and at least thank you for. But he didn’t thank you, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t even eat the dinner. He just pushed it around the bowl long enough to look like he ate it but you know he didn’t bring the fork near his lips. 

So when the night fell, you couldn’t sleep. You tossed and turned for hours, telling yourself it was the sheets, the whirring from the hot tub outside, Lando’s snoring. But you knew what was really wrong. Him. 

“Babe,” Lando whispered, still half asleep. “If you can’t sleep, why don’t you go and make some warm milk or something?” 

You shuffled up, looking over at the clock on the nightstand. Three hours you’d been tossing and turning. 

“Good idea,” you leant down and kissed his forehead before tip-toeing toward the kitchen, careful to not wake anyone. 

You clicked the stove, the flame firing before placing the pan over it, the milk warming. You poured it into a mug and planned to sit on the sofa, hoping slumber would wash over you before you became insane. Except, out the window, the snow had started to fall again. The delicate flakes landing on the window pane. 

Grabbing your coat, and slipping on your Uggs left by the door, you cautiously opened the door, desperately trying to avoid the loud creak and planned to watch the snowfall from the porch. 

“Can’t sleep?” A voice called from the porch swing. 

You jumped slightly, startled by the Australian accent. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He whispered. 

You smiled, your hands clenching around the warm mug. “No, it’s okay. I just wanted to watch the snow fall.” 

He scooched over on the swing, padded the space beside him. “You can join me…if you want.” 

You hesitated for a moment, unsure why he was being kind when he had spent the last two days rolling his eyes and avoiding you. 

There was an awkward silence that fell for a moment. Pure silence. No traffic, no whirring, no voices. Just you, him, and the snow. 

You broke the silence first. Releasing a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “Do you hate me or something?” 

He sighed, biting the inside of his cheek before he spoke. “I don’t hate you.” 

“Really?” You snapped, “Because every time I enter a room, you leave. And every time I speak you roll your eyes. And—” 

He interrupted you before you could finish your sentence. “I promise you, I don’t hate you.” 

“Then what is it?” 

His hands trembled, he clenched them into fists at his sides in an attempt to stop them. 

“The breakups been really hard, that’s all. It’s hard to see you and Lando so happy together, you know?” 

You nodded, placing your free hand gently on his thigh. 

His body shuddered, this was the first time you’d touched him, been this close to him. 

“You’ll find someone perfect for you, Oscar. I promise.” 

He offers you a weak smile, the corners of his mouth turning up but his eyes look sad. “Thanks, I hope so.” 

You both sit there for a moment, the swing gently rocking back and forward as you watch the snow fall in front of you. But he isn’t watching the snow, he’s watching you. The way your hair falls just right on your shoulders. The way your nose crinkles as you drink your milk. The way you smell like sweet vanilla. And how Lando doesn’t deserve you, and he does. 

You slap your hand on your thigh, finishing the last of your milk. “Right, I think it’s time I attempted to sleep. Goodnight, Oscar.” 

He blinks, watching you walk toward the door. “Goodnight.” 

– 

The next few days leading up to New Year’s Eve pass in a blur of evening dinners, afternoons spent in the hot tub and trying desperately to improve your relationship with Oscar. Except instead of avoiding you, he acts as if you’re lava and he can’t get too close. 

Every time you sat next to him, he would shuffle over to the other side with an awkward smile. Or when you would get into the hot tub, he’d move to the other side, practically downing his beer in one swig. You didn’t want to keep troubling Lando – you thought that if you kept bringing up the topic it would create tension between the two and you really didn’t want to be the reason they fell out. 

New Year's Eve came round quickly – you, Kelly and Rebecca had spent the day preparing tiny finger food, and hanging golden banners from the beams. Tiny foil stars hung from the doorframes over each entry way. The boys insisted on creating some sort of extreme concoction of alcohol and fruit in a giant bowl they found in one of the cupboards. You’re pretty sure that you saw Max pour in an entire bottle of vodka and tequila. 

“Are you sure that’s not going to kill us off?” Rebecca laughed, leaning over to smell the mixture. 

The boys all shared a look before answering. “Nah, it won’t kill ya. Might make you forget though.” Max replied. 

You sat in your bedroom, dabbing your blush across your cheek as Lando stepped out the shower – he opened the door, releasing the hot steam from the ensuite into the bedroom. The Brit stood there, toweling his hair, his naked body distracting you from finishing off your makeup. 

“See something you like?” He winks. 

“Always, baby.” 

Falling in love with Lando was easy, he was funny and kind. People mistook him for being cocky and over zealous, but he was the complete opposite. Lando loved you loudly and proudly. There was never a dull moment when you two were together, you were either laughing or fucking – you weren’t sure there was even an inbetween.

Everyone thought that you were as innocent as a lamb. You wouldn’t or couldn’t even hurt a fly. Except, meeting Lando wasn’t a coincidence. It was a mastermind plan that had taken months in preparation. And the worst part? You already had a boyfriend at the time. Lando knew, of course, and didn’t care. He just wanted you. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, his towel folded around his waist. 

“Baby, do you think you could do me a favour tonight?” 

You bring your brows together, your eyes narrowing as he motions you to sit on his lap. Lando pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch against your skin making you smile. 

“When the clock strikes midnight, and…” he stops for a moment, searching your eyes. “Just give Oscar a peck on the cheek or something.” 

“Or something?” 

He sees the way you flinch slightly, the way your back straightens at the words. Your force a smile but your eyes still look half-confused. 

“Wh-why would I kiss him?” 

“Well, I’m not asking you to kiss him, just peck his cheek. Might make him feel a bit better.” 

Your eyebrows are still fused together – your brain lurching back to the way Oscar has been treating you since he met you. Avoiding you, rolling his eyes, leaving the room as soon as you walk into one. 

“Lando…” you pause for a beat. “I think–I really don’t think Oscar likes me.” 

“Oh baby, come on, not this again.” 

You raise from his lap, standing to your feet abruptly. “I’m telling you, he doesn’t like me.” 

Lando rolls his eyes, standing in front of you. He towers over you slightly, his height compared to yours was intimidating in moments like this. “I promise you,” he cups his hand across your cheek, swiping his thumb gently over your skin. “He doesn’t hate you. I’m sure he’s just having a tough time at the moment. Just offer him an olive branch tonight. Trust me baby, no one could hate you.” 

Max had claimed the playlist hours ago, taking charge of the speaker saying that he was the only person with ‘decent music taste.’ Empty glasses littered the kitchen island, remnants of the amount of punch you had all drunk. The snow kept falling outside, but inside the fire cracked. The boys stood in the kitchen, talking about something you weren’t paying attention to. Every so often you’d catch a glimpse of Oscar looking over, you raise your hand slightly offering a wave, he only smiled into a straight line, taking a sip from his cup before turning back to the conversation. 

As midnight crept closer, the energy shifted. Refills were poured more generously, words were slurred and there was a mention of seeing the new year in by sitting in the hot tub. 

Lando looped his arms around your waist as the countdown on the tv had started. He was unsteady on his feet, you were practically holding him up before the clock had even struck midnight. You had watched him, Carlos, Max and even Oscar play their new version of beer pong, which involved drinking their concoction. 

Five– 

“I love you so fucking much baby,” he whispered into your hair. 

Four– 

“I love you too, Lan.” 

Three– 

“Are you going to…you know?” He slurred, motioning his head toward Oscar, who was standing lonely with a beer in his hand, swaying a little in spot. 

Two– 

“Yeah, but not before kissing you.” You mutter. 

One– 

“Happy New Year baby!” 

“Happy New Year, Lando.” 

Your lips collide together, the couples float around you in their own little bubbles. Pulling away from Lando, he winks at you before releasing your hand from his. 

You hesitate before moving, your heart kicking harder with every short step. The floor felt louder than it should’ve. You were pretty certain, no matter what Lando said, no matter what Oscar had said on the porch that night, you were sure Oscar despised you. You closed the distance slowly, as if you were afraid the moment might break you if you moved too fast. 

“Happy New Year, Oscar.” 

“Oh, uhm, happy new year.” He murmured. 

You leaned in, tilting your head ever so slightly before gently placing a kiss on his cheek. He could feel the heat rise from the back of his neck; even through his drunken state, he was completely aware of his feelings for you. They felt heightened in fact, like the hairs on his arms were standing on the edge. 

He wanted to grab you, kiss you until you begged him for mercy. But he stopped. Crimson running to his cheeks as you stepped away. Oscar caught Lando behind you, looking over with his drink raised, a silent, ‘I told her to do that.’ 

The bubble burst the moment Carlos yelled at the top of his lungs something about ‘getting in the fucking hot tub.’ 

The steam from the hot tub curled into the night air as everyone sank into the water. Carlos relaxed his arms on the side, sipping his cold beer, Max and Kelly wrapped themselves in one of the corners, Rebecca sat on the side, saying she didn’t want to get her hair wet before bed. And Lando, well in his infinite wisdom and drunken state, decided to jump into the hot tub, fully clothed. Water lapping over the edges, earning a round of groans from the group. 

“Lan, I think we should go to bed,” you whispered to him. 

His hands grabbed your waist under the water, the hot water bubbling beneath your seat. He leaned into closer, the smell of alcohol and aftershave wafting under your nose. 

“Oh, yeah, let’s go to bed baby.” He winks, waving off everyone as he climbs out of the water, a pool trailing after him from his sopping clothes. 

It took 20 minutes to get Lando to sleep, you physically changed him yourself – removing his damp clothes, drying his curls with a towel, tucking him into the sheets and kissing him goodnight. 

You half expected everyone to still be out in the hot tub, but as you opened the door, the cold air hit you at once – the only person left outside was Oscar. He was sitting in the water, the music at a respectful volume, something soft and slow. His curls sat across his face. 

“Where did everyone go?” You asked, walking closer. 

His head snapped to you, a small smile desperately trying not to appear across his lips. “I think they all drank a bit too much,” he let out a breathy laugh before taking a sip of his beer. 

“Do you mind if I join you then?” 

He raises his hand slightly, nodding in agreement. 

The water is warm, a contrast to the cold, snowy air. The flakes hadn’t stopped falling all week. Small flurries landing around the canopy. There was a small tension between the two of you, the silence settled between you. It was crowded with things neither of you seemed willing to say out loud. The only noise was the sound of the bubbles, the water creating a welcoming divide. 

He was the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry I’ve been a bit unkind to you,” 

“I knew it wasn’t in my head!” You stammered. “Why?” 

He paused for a moment, placing his beer down on the table behind him. You could almost see the cogs turning in his mind. He was drunk, you all were, but something about him was still steady and calm. 

“Because I love you.” 

You laugh, tipping your head back. You can feel your hair dip into the water, your shoulders bobbing as you chuckled at the Aussie's words. 

“Funny. No really?” You grinned. 

 But he didn’t laugh, he didn’t smile. He just…stared. Your face faltered, your grin dropping. 

“Oh my G–” 

“I’m sorry, but he doesn’t deserve you.” Oscar hissed, his tongue pressing into the side of his cheek. “I have spent the past two years watching you two and–” 

“You don’t know anything about our relationship,” you barked, a huff escaping your lips.

“Really, because where I’m standing all he cares about is fucking you?” 

You slammed the button on the hot tub, your palm slapping a halt to the bubbles. You lunged for the steps to leave – but his hand gripped around your wrist. 

“I’m sorry, I overstepped.” 

“Yeah, you really fucking did.” 

“But tell me, does he know your coffee order? Or your favourite colour? Or even what you’re afraid of?” Oscar mumbled, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. 

You pulled it away, snapping your arm back in one motion. “Oh and you do?” 

“Vanilla latte with oat milk, nothing fancy as you always say. Your favourite colour is blue, but the specific shade of blue the sky is just before it turns to nightfall. And you hate, without a doubt, the thought of dying – of leaving the world one day without making a positive impact on everyone around you.” 

You opened your mouth to speak, to bark something back but…he was right. Completely and utterly right.

He wadded closer, the water swaying as you sank back into the tub. “Lando loves me.” You whisper. 

“I know that,” stated, “I never said he didn’t, I just asked if he knew you.” 

Your eyes linger back to him, you had never noticed the shade of hazel his eyes were. How the lights reflecting from above made them sparkle slightly. Or how his hair fell perfectly across his forehead.

You don’t fully register what he’s doing at first, but your brain jolts back to reality, his large hands are clinging to your hips under the water, your arms wrapped around his neck, your nails scratching the back of his hair – it was a force of habit, one you had always tortured Lando with – your brain hadn’t fully registered it wasn’t him. You sighed against his lips, his touch was gentle, reverent. Like he had been waiting his whole life for this. 

“I love Lando, Oscar.” You breathe.

“Then stop me.” 

His hands wander down your thighs, you can still feel his calloused hands, even through the water. It made you shiver, small goosebumps tingling across your arms. You thought about falling into him, succumbing to his needs, but you couldn’t. 

You pushed his shoulders back, slapping them to release yours from his grip. “I can’t Oscar, I can’t.” 

Letting go of your hips, he coils back. The tone in your voice a clear indication to let go. You didn’t look back when you stepped out the water, grabbing your towel and wrapping it around your body – storming back into the house, tears streaking your cheeks. 

You slipped into your room, Lando still fast asleep in bed – his mouth gapping open as small snores escaped him. Clenching your eyes shut, you ducked into the bathroom, sliding the door gently before falling back onto the closed toilet, your head falling into your hands as you silently sobbed. 

Because as hard as it was to admit. That night you couldn’t stop thinking about Oscar. 

– 

You weren’t sure how long you had slept last night. Your head heavy, your eyes crusted and your heart heavy. 

The commotion coming from the front of the cabin awoke you – rolling over to your side, you expected Lando to greet you with a morning kiss, a gentle tug on your hips pulling you closer, except he wasn’t there. Your hands searched the sheets, but the sound of his laughter travelled through. He was already awake. 

Your first thought wasn’t breakfast or that you needed to pee. It was Oscar. What if Oscar had told him? What if he saw? What if someone else saw? 

Grabbing your robe, you pulled it on before practically running to the lounge. You found them standing around the kitchen, coffee mugs in hands, fully dressed. Kelly stood by the door, pulling on her boots. 

“Morning, sleepy.” Lando greeted, moving toward you. 

“Uhm, morning,” you choked, desperately trying to ignore the sound of your heart hammering against your ribs. “What’s going on?” 

“Penelope called us this morning,” Kelly interjected, “We need to go and get her, but we’ll be back tomorrow.” 

“Oh, is she okay?” you offer, a sympathetic smile crossing your lips. 

“Yeah, she just isn’t doing so well at her dad’s.” Kelly answers. 

“More like Danny is a complete waste of–” 

Kelly slaps Max’s shoulder to stop him from finishing his sentence. 

“Slight problem though,” Max started, “Our car won’t start, but Lando offered to take us.” 

Your head snapped up to your boyfriend. “You’re leaving?” 

He kissed the top of your head, “Only for a day baby, I’ll be back by tomorrow. But we need to rescue P.” 

You nodded, “Of course you do. Just a shame we can’t go on the spa day we planned.” 

The room fell silent for a moment, you could feel Oscar’s gaze on you. His hazel eyes glued to you. 

“No, no lovely. Still go with Rebecca and Carlos! Don’t let us ruin your plans.” Kelly urged. 

But you were already shaking your head, leaning slightly into Lando’s shoulder. 

“Third wheeling, I think I’ll give it a miss.” You laugh. 

You kissed Lando goodbye, waving the three of them off as you watched his car drive off down the track. The cabin was quiet, just the sound of the crackling fire and the sound of the dishwasher from the kitchen. You don’t utter a single word when Oscar enters the room, the awkward tension continuing as he slumps himself on the couch opposite. 

“Everyone gone then?” He asks, pulling a pillow into his chest.

“Yep,”

“Ah, alright then.” 

You don’t reply, you pretend to read something on your phone, your body turning away from him. 

“Have Rebecca and Carlos gone to their spa day?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you going to ignore me all day?” 

“If I have to, yes.” 

He keeps his eyes planted firmly on you. You tried so hard to drown him out, to pretend he wasn’t there. But it was near impossible. 

You rose abruptly, shoving your phone into your pocket and striding toward your bedroom. 

“Something I said?” He joked. 

Turning on your heels you looked back at him, his cocky stance on the sofa made your eyes roll. “Rather something you did.” You snapped. 

“I think it takes two to tango, last time I checked.” 

That got a rise out of you. The anger felt like it came from inside of your soul, boiling up until it reached your chest. You couldn’t tell if you were angry at him or disappointed in yourself. But you didn’t answer, you dragged yourself to your bedroom, slamming the door with a thud behind you. 

The rest of the day you spent cooped up in your room, flicking through the small tv that rested on a wooden chest of drawers. But nothing could stop the thoughts circling your mind. You hated that he had successfully got under your skin. 

Nothing would stop the vulture of thoughts circling over you. Tried to sleep? You felt his touch. Tried to watch tv? You swore you could hear his moans. 

Oscar had spent the day doing the same. Pacing the cabin, attempting to clean to keep himself busy, but nothing, absolutely nothing could stop him reminiscing the way it finally felt to have you on him. The way your lips tasted like candy, how your hips dipped in perfectly, how your nails dug into the back of his hair. Bliss.

A few hours had passed and the sky had eventually turned to ink. You managed a few hours sleep, the alarm clock the only light glowing around the room. Reaching for your phone, the screen burning your retinas as you adjust. 

Lando had messaged, letting you know they had collected P from Danny’s and they’d be back tomorrow – along with the usual that he misses you. The thought had crossed your mind as you typed a reply, was Oscar really right? Did Lando only see you as an object? As something he could fuck and eventually chuck. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping the pressure would push the thought away. 

Two gentle taps knocked at the door, it opened with a creek as Oscar stood on the other side of the doorframe. 

“Carlos and Rebecca rang,” he started. “The snow is bringing everything to a stop, they can’t get a taxi back.” 

“Oh, do they need me to go and get them?” you offer. 

“Drive in this weather? I don’t think so.” He spits, opening the door a fraction more. 

“Right, okay. Thanks for letting me know.” 

You attempt to turn your attention back to your phone, looking down at your lockscreen, the photo of you and Lando mocking you. 

“I’ve made some chicken soup if you want some?” 

“I’m good thanks,” 

Liar. You were starving. 

“You’ve got to eat something? Please?” 

You paused for a second, hoping he would just close the door and walk away. But he didn’t – he lingered there a little too long, as if waiting for you to change your mind. Like he already knew you would. 

“Fine.” 

There wasn’t much conversation over dinner. It consisted of awkward looks and the sound of slurping. You cleared the table, stacking the dishwasher with the empty bowls and utensils he had used to make dinner. 

How many knives and chopping boards do you need for chicken soup? You thought to yourself.

“Fuck,” you whimpered. “Fuck, fuck, fucker.” 

Oscar shot up from his seat, the chair scraping against the wooden floor as he sprinted toward you. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“The fucking knife, it sliced my hand.” 

You looked down, your left hand clasping your right, the sting causing nausea to claw up your throat. 

“Let me look,” he asked softly, “please?” 

You offered your hand to him, the cut only a surface wound, but the blood still stained your palm. 

“It’s fine, let’s get it cleaned though.” 

You weren’t sure if you were wincing at the pain or at Oscar’s presence. His touch was warm, a bit careful, maybe even restrained. Oscar cautiously wiped the wound – the alcohol wipe stung, your eyebrows pulling together. He finished by wrapping a small bandaid over the cut, swiping it gently with his thumb. 

“There you go,” he whispers, packing the first aid box back into the cupboard. 

“Thanks, Oscar.” 

“No need to thank me. I probably should’ve put them away myself – it’s my fault.” 

You frown, watching him pace the kitchen, tidying up after himself. “Oscar…”

He looks up, stopping in his tracks. “Hmm?” 

You huff, suddenly lost for words. Your mouth feels dry, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. “Nothing, sorry.” 

“No, what is it?” 

“It’s nothing, okay.” You state, attempting to move away from the conversation. 

The lines on his forehead form as he tries to read your face. Desperately trying to figure out what was swimming through your mind. 

“Would you just spit it out?” He pleaded, taking long strides over to where you stood. 

“I can’t, okay – I just can’t!” Your heart was hammering, you were sure he could hear it. 

“Say it,” 

Silence fell for a moment. 

“Say it,” he repeated, gaining another step closer. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you, okay!” 

He smirked, his eyes darkening as he realised he finally got under your skin. 

“Tell me you want to fuck me.” He whispers. 

“Don’t flatter yourself Oscar.” 

He looks down at you, his body arching over yours. Oscar had the power and he knew it. Before you could stop yourself his mouth was on yours, his hands lingering across your arse, squeezing, grabbing. He became a man possessed. The urgency in his kiss made your knees weak – no one, not even Lando had ever kissed you this way. 

Oscar hooked his hands under your thighs, lifting you with ease as he stumbled toward his room. The warmth between your legs grows, the guilt still sitting in your chest but this was everything, this was more than a want, it was a need. He kissed you deep, throwing you back on to his bed, his body arching over yours as he lips lingered down your neck, biting at your skin. 

“Don’t leave any bite marks, Oscar.” You whisper, clawing for breath. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he confirms, nodding as he pulls down your leggings in one swipe. ‘I mean it,” you pant – propping yourself up on your elbows. 

“Shhh,” he whispers, unzipping his jeans and throwing them across the room, following he pulls his top over his head. The only thought that can plague your mind in this moment, is not Lando, it’s not how this was all wrong, it was that Oscar really did having a fucking sleeper build. His cock growing harder inside his boxers, you couldn’t help but trace his body with your eyes. 

He drops to his knees, pulling your panties with his teeth. He kissed down your thigh, down your calves, the gentleness making your body vibrate. In a fast motion he pulls your panties down, the fabric grazing your thighs. He licks slowly, grabs your hips as he guides your pussy into his mouth – his tongue swirling, it makes you go dizzy, the room spinning as you grab the bed sheets into your fists. 

“He won’t pleasure you like I do,” he hums against you as he curls two fingers into you, making you moan. You grab his hair, pulling it as he sinks deeper. His thumb moves across to your swollen bud, circling it as you cry out. The combination makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

Your breathing increased rapidly, the coil in your stomach burning as you started to reach your climax. “Come for me, fucking come all over my fucking fingers.” 

“Fuck-k-kk, Osc-ah,” you moan. His fingers twisted, rubbing your G-spot over and over, his thumb circling your clit. It was overwhelming, a pure high. Your hands dug into his locks, tugging slightly as the sensation built. He picked up the pace with his fingers, the room spinning as you tipped your head back.

Your back arched as you finished over his fingers, you squinted so hard you saw stars. He was devoted to you, he worshipped you, looked at you like you were laying across an altar. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he says as he shoves his fingers inside your mouth, brushing them across your lips before crashing into them, kissing you, hungry and devoured. It was filthy – you didn’t even let Lando do this to you, but with him, you were under his control. You were gone already, wrecked, but he wasn’t finished. Oscar had waited years for this, a moment to finally make all those nights spent awake, his hand and a photo of you the only life line he had, he needed to make it completely worth it. 

Your breath hitches as he drags his cock against your entrance. Oscar looks down at you with a smirk. “Let me show you how to properly be fucked,” he whispers, shoving himself into you – the pressure makes you scream, your muscles contracting as he slowly starts to fuck you. He pulls your legs over his shoulders, shuffling your bum to the edge of the bed. You can feel every part of him, the small burn inside your stomach building. 

“You’re–huge–” you stumble, trying desperately to finish your sentence. 

“You’ll take it like the good girl you are,” he moans. 

It takes a moment to adjust into his size, your body starts to relax, your muscles slowly unraveling themselves and your spine curving as he thrusted into your hole. Before you have a moment to think, he pulls out, pushing you down again and flipping you over onto your all fours. 

He curled your hair around his hand, pulling you back into him. With his other hand, he thrusts into you again. A scream escaping your lips once again. It’s like he’s fucking you angry, like he knows this would be his only chance – his last chance. 

“Tell me you love me fucking you,” he moans. 

A slap lands across your arse. The red sting awakes you. 

“I love you fucking me,” you answer – your words stuttering in between the thrusts. 

Oscar’s pace picks up, his hips slamming against your skin, his breathing hitched and heavy as his grip tightened around your hair. 

“I’m gonna come, mark you mine. See how he’ll like it when I take everything from him.” Oscar stated.

“Osca–” Before you can finish your sentence, he finishes inside you – hot and sticky as he slowly releases himself from you. He still has a grip around your hair as he drags his fingers over your swollen pussy. Reaching for your bud again he circles, the sensitivity making you let out a scream you didn’t know you were capable of. 

The second time you come is like pure bliss. The sting of the hair pull, the pressure of his fingers, it’s unbearable in the best way. 

When he finally lets go of your hair, he strokes it gently, a stark comparison to how you were treated not just a moment ago. Nothing compared to how Oscar made you feel, of course Lando knew what he was doing, he wasn’t a stranger on how to make you feel like you were floating mid-air; but this…this was something completely different. 

“Hello?” Rebecca’s voice called from the front of the cabin. The door closed behind them with a thud. 

“Shit,” you whisper. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Oscar hisses, jumping from the bed, he gathers his clothes, shoving his jeans back on quickly. 

“Stay in here,” he pants, pulling his t-shirt back on. “I’ll go out there, distract them and say you’re in the shower or something.” 

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, covering yourself with the crumpled sheets. Oscar leans down and hesitates for a moment, unsure he should do what he’s about to do but does it anyway. He kisses your forehead before he shifts out the door, closing it as quiet as he could. 

You could hear them as Oscar greeted them, apologising saying that he was taking a nap, making an excuse for you. 

The guilt had started to bubble up now, your lip wobbling as tears started to slowly fall down your cheek. You slipped out the door, tip-toeing as fast as you could to your bedroom. 

You let the hot water run until the steam blurred the mirror, and you could no longer see your reflection. Stepping under the water, letting the heat hit your shoulders – closing your eyes because everything all of a sudden felt heavy. You scrubbed every inch of your body, desperate to remove any evidence of him. Any evidence you had enjoyed it. 

Quickly you got yourself dressed, twisting your hair into a towel and walking out to greet Rebecca and Carlos. You put on your best act, pretending that you and Oscar had pretty much spent the day watching films, keeping warm in front of the fire. They nodded and told you both about their day. Every so often you would catch his gaze, your eyes flickering to subtly ignore him. 

And when Lando came back the next day, P in toe, you pretended. You smiled. You were the best girlfriend, clinging to him at every chance you got. You spent the next few days avoiding Oscar the same way he had avoided you. 

“You’re making it obvious,” Oscar whispered, “Just act normal.” 

When the last day came, and the boys were packing the cars, it finally felt like a relief had lifted from your shoulders. You wouldn’t have to spend any more time with Oscar. You could go back to your life with Lando, your relationship. 

“Right, you ready baby?” Lando grinned, leaning up against the doorframe. 

You nodded, rising to your feet. You hugged and kissed the girls goodbye, saying you’ll see them in a few weeks for testing. 

“Bye, Oscar.” You lean in, awkwardly hugging him as he patted your back. 

“See you in Bahrain.” He whispers in your ear. 

– 

The Miami sun beat down without mercy. The heat clung to your skin, thick and relentless. At seven months pregnant the weather felt heavier somehow. You rubbed your lower belly, pressing your other hand against the small of your back as you watched Lando pull into the pole position spot. 

You were used to the discomfort by now, but you were acutely aware of how everything around you now was testing your patience. Your clothes clung to your skin in all the wrong ways, the noise from the crowd made you irritated and having to spend your days with Oscar made you feel physically sick - or it could’ve been the fact the baby hated all food that made you feel that way too. 

“Well done baby,” you kiss Lando as he finds you in the McLaren garage, he leans down and kisses your stomach, the butterflies forming as your eyes meet his. 

“Well, I have my lucky charms.” He murmurs. 

You could feel the lingering presence behind you, eyes burning into the back of your skull as Oscar entered the garage behind you. 

“Well done, mate. P2 not bad.” Lando calls over your shoulder to Oscar. 

He strides closer, crossing the line between the garages. “Thanks, man,” he says, pulling his gloves off. 

“You all okay?” He asks, his eyes flickering to you. 

You nod, “yeah, I’m fine.” Lie. 

“Lando, we need you for an interview for Sky Sports, can you spare two minutes?” A PR executive calls.

“Look after my girls for a minute, mate,” Lando slaps Oscar on the shoulder, “I’ll be back in a moment, babe.” 

You’re left with him. You want to roll your eyes, walk away but you’re aware of everyone around you. The moment you start acting weird around your fiances’ teammate, people will easily find something to talk about. 

“Is that rock on your finger because he thinks the baby is his?” Oscar whispers. 

“Shut up,” you pleaded. “It is his.” 

“Yeah, whatever makes you sleep at night.” He spits back. 

“Oscar, I swear to god he can’t ever find out,” you breathe, trying to keep your voice to a respectable level where the rest of the garage couldn’t hear you. 

“Find out what?” Lando’s voice sang behind you. Turning on your heels he stood there, race suit tied around his waist, his hat backwards, his eyebrows furrowed together. 

Your throat feels like it’s closed up as he steps closer, placing a soft hand across your waist. 

“Uhm,” you start, hopelessly trying to find an excuse. 

“–Names…” Oscar added, “She was telling me about some baby names and wanted it to be a surprise.” 

“Oh baby, I do love you.” Lando cooed, pulling you in by the waist. “And our little miracle too.” 

Your pulse spikes as you and Oscar lock eyes, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks. You can’t look away, because as hard as it is, you know the truth. “I love you too,” you whisper – but that wasn’t meant for Lando, was it?

"Well well," the man leans down to observe you closer. "What's this?" He asks.

You pull at the nets covering your body, trying to get the heavy constricting rope off of you. You flick your tail, trying to use it as a catapult to toss the net.

The ship he just stole had captured you only a few hours before. They'd docked at a nearby port to try and sell you. This man had taken their ship before they had the chance. His men had found you, hanging inside a net in the brig and brought you up to him.

He was quite pretty, in a sharp, rough sort of way that made your scales tingle in appreciation.

You finally manage to throw the net off of you, sighing in relief as you straighten into a sitting position.

Some of his men gasp as they finally get a good look at you.

"What a pretty demon you are." The man says with a tilt of his head.

"Mermaid." You correct him.

Your skin finally loses its last drop of moisture, and your scaly tail splits into two, your fins becoming feet, attached to bare legs.

The entire group erupts into murmurs and groans. You hear some absolutely filthy comments from the crew and you gasp in fear, pulling your new knees to your chest.

You couldn't even walk, you didn't know how, having neglected the lessons your mother tried to give you. You look over at the side of the ship, all you had to do was make it off the boat, then you'd be safe.

You gasp in shock when you feel something tickle your arm. He's very close to you now.

"Easy... easy... my men may be crude, but they won't hurt you."

He's wrapping his shirt around you. You try to ignore his beautiful milky skin, the way it shines in the moonlight.

He extends a hand for you to take. You look up at him.

"I cannot walk." You whisper.

He smiles and reaches down to pick you up. He cradlyou close to his chest and you've never felt safer. You think he's going to put you into the water, but he turns toward the captain's old quarters instead.

"Where are we going?" You murmur.

"We need to talk." He raises his voice to address the crew, "The rest of you, get this ship seaworthy, we leave at dawn."

~

He places you onto one of the soft seats and props himself against the captain's desk. You've told him your story, how you were hunting fish when you got caught. You avoid questions about where the rest of your people are. He asks if you would like to stay on board while he hunts for treasure and you excitedly agree.

You have a warm desire for him blooming between your legs. You knew what this was. Mermaid elders had warned about the power a man could have over you if you let him. It was better to stay and love fellow mermaids instead.

You couldn't help it though, rubbing your thighs together with an ache to own every inch of him.

"I've never been this close to humans before." You murmur, looking at him as he sips from an iron cup. "Will you teach me some things about you?"

He nods easily, "What would you like to know?"

You tilt your head in mock thought.

"What do you.... eat?"

He smiles and explains, "We eat a mixture of plant and animals, depending on what region we're from."

"Okay, can you use only one leg to walk?"

He laughs this time, explaining that some men can lose legs and be able to function. You nod and listen in amazement.

"Last one, how do you mate?"

He blinks in surprise, a fire starting within him in excitement to explain.

"Depends on the people." He explains.

"How would we mate, then?" You try to specify.

His gaze turns heated.

"There's a pretty place between your legs, a little spot for me to fit in."

Blood leaves his brain when you spread your legs, showing him your intimate parts.

"Over here? Where is the spot?" He tries not to look, he really does, he turns his head away.

"It's a little lower... yeah... there."

"You sure? Here, feel it."

Before he can object, you take his hand and press it into your heated flesh. He grunts. He tries to take his hand back but you hold his palm against you. You tingle more when you feel his fingers probing you.

He circles you clit a little, enjoying the small sounds you make.

He trails his fingers lower, until he's right at your entrance.

"Here.... my cock would go... here."

Your look even more confused.

"What's a cock?" You ask in false confusion. You'd obviously learned some of the various mating rituals undertaken by compatible species like humans, but you loved seeing the way his face pinkened in arousal.

"A cock is... what i have... between my legs."

You coo in interest, "Can I see? It must be small to fit into me."

He blinks in surprise, considers denying you, but your curiosity makes him weak. He loves the idea of teaching you something like this.

"The size might surprise you." He says, pulling at his breeches and tugging them down his thighs until his erection stands tall in your view.

He gasps as you reach forward you grip him.

"It's sort of... nice to look at." You compliment.

He grunts out a thanks as you squeeze his cock and twist your wrist around him. He gasps when your thumb swipes over his tip.

"So smooth, wanna taste it."

He burns up.

"You can lick it if you want, pretty girl, suck on it a little if you'd like."

He presses up on his elbows, tilting his head slightly like he’s registering the temperature for the first time. “Yeah, actually. Weird.” He tosses his laptop on the coffee table, exchanges it for the air conditioner remote. When he points it at the unit and presses a button, nothing happens. 

Your eyes flick to the AC unit. There’s no air moving above it. No breeze blowing through the leaves of the plants you’ve stacked across the windowsill.  

Oscar tries again, pressing the buttons more frantically as you’ve ever seen him (which is to say, slightly harder than he did before). “It’s not working.”

“Shit,” you say, dread rising in your stomach. “You’re kidding.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, deadpan. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

He doesn’t. He looks mildly concerned at best, cheeks flushed and sweat starting to dampen the hair at his temples, brow furrowing in that calm, clinical way of his. You can tell he’s already cycling through possible fixes in his mind; to him, this situation is just another puzzle to be solved, an amusing diversion to take up his afternoon.

You, on the other hand, are spiraling. 

“Oscar,” you say, words dripping off your tongue, “it’s nearly a hundred degrees outside. There’s been an extreme heat warning this entire week. I saw someone on TikTok this morning fry an egg on the sidewalk. And you’re telling me our AC is out?”

He points the clicker at the unit one more time for good measure. Nothing. Your chest tightens, as you glance down at your phone. 98º, the weather preview reads, next to a bright little sunshine icon. 98 degrees, and it’s barely 9 AM. 

“Oh god,” you whine, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. It comes away damp. “Oh god, we’re gonna get heatstroke and die in this tiny shitty apartment.”

“Whoa. Okay. Don’t panic,” Oscar says softly, eyes wide, like he’s not quite sure what to do with the freaked-out version of you. He walks past you into the kitchen, filling a glass with water and handing it to you. “Drink this. I’m gonna check the breakers, yeah?”

He disappears down the hall to the fuse box, and you collapse onto the couch where he’d been laying. It’s still warm from his body heat, which somehow makes everything worse. You can already feel your hair sticking sweatily to the back of your neck. The water is lukewarm, but it helps a little.

Oscar’s back a few minutes later. “Did it work?” you ask hopefully, but he’s already shaking his head, holding his phone out to you. You can read the giant, size 128 font your super always uses in his emails from across the room: Building-wide HVAC outage. No ETA for repair. 

“Okay,” you say slowly as you sit up, trying to channel some of his calmness. “Okay, we can figure this out. Ice packs. Cold showers. We can handle this. It’s gonna be fine.”

He nods uncertainly. There’s sweat starting to bead at his hairline. “I think there’s a fan in the closet that the people who lived here before us left. I’ll grab it.”

When he returns, he’s carrying the fan under one arm, biceps flexed around the frame. It’s an old thing — white plastic going yellow at the edges, wide square cage locked around three dusty blades, power cable frayed from use.

“That thing looks like it’s going to electrocute you,” you say, eyebrows raised. 

He grins, plugging the cord into the wall. “C’mon, it adds character. Ready for sweet, sweet circulation?”

You scramble to the floor, sitting cross-legged directly in front of the fan. “Hit me, Piastri,” you say decidedly, and he flips the switch. 

The fan wheezes to life, sort of. The blades creak into motion like they’ve woken up from a decade-long nap, and it only takes a moment before the first gust of air hits your waiting face. 

Hot air.

“No,” you moan, and Oscar crouches next to you, hand in the corner of the frame like he’s trying to run his fingers through the breeze. “I thought this was gonna help. It feels like sitting in front of a fucking hair dryer.”

“Maybe it just needs a second to warm up?” he tries, but you’re already shaking your head. 

“It is warm. That’s the problem.”

He sighs and sits on the floor next to you, knee brushing against yours. The fan keeps pushing the stifling air at your faces, like it’s mocking you. “Verdict: the fan is shit.”

“The fan is worse than shit,” you groan, letting your head loll against his shoulder. You can feel his skin even through his shirt, warm beneath your cheek. “The fan is actively taunting us. The fan is betraying us.”

“Okay, drama queen,” he says fondly, pulling the cord out of the wall. The fan stutters to a stop and silence falls again, the air feeling even swampier than before. 

“We’ve got other ways to beat the heat,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself and you. “It’ll be fine.”

It’s absolutely, completely, one hundred percent not fine.

“This is hell,” you moan, fanning yourself with an old takeout menu. “Actual hell.”

Oscar swipes lazily at the menu, pulling it out of your hand. “Give me that.” He fans it at himself a few times, before letting it drop out of his hand with a groan. 

For a while, it had kind of felt like an adventure. The two of you had dragged your stuff into the living room, worked side by side with bags of frozen peas pressed to your heads, cold beers sweating on the coffee table. The day dragged on, temperature climbing higher, and you’d been forced to get creative. On one trip to the kitchen, you’d figured out it was the shadiest place in the entire apartment, and promptly moved to lay out on the floor, tiles cool beneath your skin. The two of you took turns sticking your head in the freezer, too hot to be self-conscious about how stupid you looked. At least you’d gotten an ancient, frostbitten box of Bomb Pops out of it, long forgotten behind your ice tray. You’d spotted it, pulled it out and split the entire box between the two of you, rationing them like wartime supplies. 

But now the popsicles are gone, the last of the beers going lukewarm, and you’re both pleasantly tipsy and running out of ways to keep yourself entertained. Judging from the way the sun is slanting golden through the window, you’re guessing it’s late afternoon, but you don’t dare get up and check your phone. That would mean expending energy and leaving the cold tiles behind, two things you are very much not prepared to do.

“This is such an undignified way to die,” you mumble instead, cheek flat against the cool floor. Your bottle is dripping with condensation, pressed into the skin of your neck. 

“We’re not going to die,” Oscar says automatically, sliding down the cabinets until he’s on his back next to you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. 

You roll your head to the side to look at him. “I’m pretty sure this is how we go out. I’m wilting. I can feel my brain literally melting. Dripping out my ears.” 

“Nah, I think that’s just sweat,” he grins, eyes sparkling. 

“Ew, Osc.” You wrinkle your nose. “Gross. And also not helping.”

He lets out a laugh, lazy and breathless, forearm thrown over his eyes. “At least we’re going out together.”

“Yeah, put that on the tombstone,” you snort. “‘Here lies two idiots who died because they were too cheap to rent in a building with a competent super.’”

“We’re not cheap,” he protests weakly. “We’re… financially responsible.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s so financially responsible to just die of heatstroke.”

Oscar sighs, taking a long swig and then setting his beer down. The glass clinks against the tiles. “Okay. Well, we’re definitely not gonna survive if we keep wearing this much.”

You blink, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What?”

But he’s already shimmying his shorts down his legs, kicking them across the floor to the corner of the kitchen. “It’s basic heat management. Less layers means our skin’ll cool off faster.” He pulls his shirt over his head next, one clean, graceful movement. 

And — okay. Okay. You weren’t prepared for Oscar to be shirtless. 

You’ve lived together for almost two years. You’ve seen him before, on laundry day in a ratty muscle tank, on the way into the gym, even one particularly embarrassing moment when you walked into the bathroom before he’d gotten dressed, towel slung dangerously low on his hips. But you’d filed the moments away in your head as normal roommate occurrences, nothing to think twice about. 

Clearly, you hadn’t been paying enough attention. Because now you don’t know what to do when he’s sitting on the kitchen floor in a pair of grey Calvins, skin flushed golden and peppered with moles, covered in a sheen of sweat. There’s a drop trailing down his chest, catching in the grooves of what look like very defined abs. 

You know you’re staring. It’s shameless. You feel a little bit insane, actually. Oscar is… hot?

“You okay?” your roommate says, a little too casually. 

“I —” you stammer, forcing your eyes up to his face. “What the hell, Osc. You have muscles.”

“Humans tend to have those,” he replies dryly. 

“No, but like, I thought you had programmer muscles. Slouch over a computer all day and code muscles,” you try to explain. “But you look like you could be in like, a sexy sunscreen ad or something. When did you get so jacked?”

He laughs, a little breathless, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears look a little pinker than they were before. You’re not sure if it’s the heat or something else entirely. “I’ve always been like this. You just never noticed.”

You shake your head. “No way. I would have noticed that.”

“Apparently not,” he says, voice a little rough in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

He gestures at your sweat-soaked tank top. “Heat management, remember?”

“Right, yeah. Makes sense. Equal opportunity stripping,” you breathe, trying very hard to sound casual even though your pulse is racing under your skin. You take a breath, averting your eyes to the floor, and tug your tank top over your head. 

The air hits your skin first, surprisingly cool. And then, unmistakably, Oscar’s eyes next, trailing down your body, heavy and lingering. 

“You’re staring,” you note, and his gaze snaps back to your face. 

He swallows hard, rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry, I —” His eyes flick back to your chest, like he can’t help himself, then quickly back up to your face. “Jesus.”

You raise an eyebrow, tiny smile on your face. “Humans tend to have those,” you echo him, gesturing vaguely at your bralette, and Oscar makes a strangled noise like he’s choked on his own tongue. 

He rolls toward you on the floor slightly, one arm falling lazily over his waist as he looks up at you with those big brown eyes. “You can’t just do that.”

“Hey. You were the one who told me to take my shirt off,” you say, suddenly defensive.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Well, I didn’t think you’d do it and look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Hot,” he says lowly, and now it’s your turn to sputter around your own breath.

“I mean — it is the middle of a heatwave,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes find yours. Hold them with an intensity that makes you shiver even in the heat. “You know that’s not the type of hot I meant.”

The air doesn’t feel stagnant anymore. It feels alive between you, some kind of simmering tension that’s using the heat as an excuse to finally, finally boil over. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, voice pitching high and unsteady. 

His brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“You’re looking at me like you want to kiss me or something,” you say, breathless. 

A beat. Oscar’s lip catches in between his teeth as he looks at you, and you can feel your traitorous eyes drop to his mouth. His grin spreads slowly across his face, like he’s won something he didn’t know was up for grabs. 

“I do want to kiss you,” he says. And then he leans in, slow, like he’s giving you the chance to stop all of it in its tracks, until there’s no space left between you. 

When his mouth finally finds yours, it’s careful. He tastes like cherry popsicle, lips sticky with the leftover sugar and a salty twinge of sweat. One hand cups your cheek, the other resting tentatively on your waist, thumb skimming at the hem of your bralette like he’s still trying to figure out how far he’s allowed to go. 

You don’t want him to be careful anymore. 

You swing a leg over his lap, straddling him, knees knocking against the tile. His breath hitches as you settle against him, muscles tense beneath you. “You’re allowed to touch me, you know,” you murmur against his mouth. 

He pulls back, chest rising and falling unevenly as he looks up at you. “Just — trying to be respectful,” he says roughly, fingers digging into the skin at your waist. 

You smirk, rolling your hips against the obvious bulge in his briefs, hard and thick and throbbing. The groan he lets out is nothing short of filthy. “Osc, I’m literally half-naked on top of you. I think we’re way past the point of respectful.”

It’s like the permission flips a switch inside him. His mouth attaches to your neck, sucking little bruises into the soft skin, and suddenly, his hands are all over you. One sliding down your back, splaying over your hip and rocking you against him, cock rutting against your wet heat through your shorts. The other palming at your chest through your bra, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples pearl under his touch. 

“So fucking hot,” he breathes into your skin, pausing between words to suck another mark at the swell of your breast. “Driving me insane, you know that? All fucking day with those shorts and that little tank top.”

You don’t respond. Just reach behind you, fingers nimbly unhooking your bralette, clasp damp against your back. The fabric falls away easily, straps slipping down your arms until you’re bare on top of him.

For a second, you think Oscar might have stopped breathing, hands frozen on your hips, eyes fixed on your tits.

“Oscar?” you say, breathless, rutting your hips against his in a shameless attempt to bring him back down from whatever planet he’s on. He blinks hard, shakes his head slightly like his brain is an Etch-a-Sketch he’s trying to reset. His pupils are blown, eyes wide as he stares up at you.

“Sorry, yeah, I —” he mumbles, and then his head is ducking down, mouth closing around your nipple, warm and wet. His tongue flicks sharp over the nub of it, his other hand coming up to palm at your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. 

It feels like he’s everywhere, all hands and lips and tongue, and you gasp, arch your back like you’re trying to get more of your tits into his mouth. He groans around you, teeth grazing against the sensitive area gently. The vibrations go straight to your core. “Osc — fuck — ”

“Good?” he mutters against you, and you nod frantically. His free hand wraps under you, fingers splaying against the curve of your ass, and he picks you up and presses you into the kitchen tile without taking his mouth off you. The move is so absurdly, unfairly hot that the only thought in your mind is why you didn’t let him do it sooner.

He pulls back, and you’re about to whine at the loss of contact until you feel his mouth against you again, pressing messy open-mouthed kisses in a trail down your stomach, tongue dragging against your skin like he needs to taste you. Your fingers weave easily into his hair, tugging loosely at the roots, and he whines.

“Can I —” he breathes when he gets to the waistband of your shorts, looking up at you through his lashes, and you’re lifting your hips in reply before he can even really get the question out of his mouth.

“Please,” you gasp, like he needs any extra confirmation. Like he’s not already hooking his fingers into the elastic and tugging your shorts and panties down your legs. 

“Fuck,” he rasps once you’re laid bare in front of him, hand sliding slick up your thigh to your center. “You’re unreal.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh gently, then again. Higher and higher he goes, mouth dragging just shy of where you need him most. “Taste so fucking good already f’me,” he mumbles to himself, almost reverent. “Can’t believe I get to do this.” 

Your hips kick involuntarily at the vibration from his words, his breath teasing at your cunt. “Then do it, Osc,” you whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. “Please.”

Apparently your begging does the trick. He plants one hand on your thigh, uses it to pull you towards him, spreading your thighs wide enough to keep them apart with his shoulders, and then presses the flat of his tongue to you, licking a long, hot stripe up your center. 

He eats you out like he’s been dying to do it, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what makes you tick, what will make you fall apart the fastest under him. It’s a little sloppy, hot and wet and reckless, but it works — tongue circling around your clit in a way that makes you moan high and breathless. The sound only seems to spur him on, fingers slipping into you a second after that. 

Your back arches off the tile at the feeling of his fingers, fucking you open slowly. Not that it’s doing a thing to cool you down anymore. With his mouth and his hands on you, you feel like you’re burning up from the inside out. 

When he sucks your clit into his mouth, crooking his fingers inside you, the sensation is nearly too much to bear. “Osc, don’t stop — I’m gonna —” you pant brokenly, hips rocking against his face, his hand.

“Let go. Come on, baby, let me taste it,” he murmurs directly into your core, and your orgasm rips through you, thighs shaking around Oscar’s shoulders. He works you through it, tongue lapping at you like he wants to devour you as you writhe beneath him. 

When you finally come back down to earth, you tug him back up your body until you’re face to face. “You good?” he asks breathlessly, looking down at you. He’s so pretty like this — wild-eyed, flushed and panting, hair mussed, mouth shining. 

“Yeah. Yes,” you nod, dazed. “So fucking good.” He grins down at you, obviously pleased, if the way his hips twitch into yours is anything to go by. 

You reach up for him instinctively, suddenly desperate to taste yourself on his tongue. The resulting kiss is hot and sticky and perfect, even better when you let your hand slip between the two of you to palm at his cock through his briefs. He hisses, jerks his hips forward as you work your fingers beneath the waistband, pulling them down just enough for his length to spring free, hard against his stomach. 

He breaks the kiss just enough to shove the briefs down, past his ankles, kicking them to the rapidly growing pile of clothes in the corner of the kitchen. When your hand wraps around him, thumbing across the tip and spreading the wetness gathering there down his length with one experimental pump, he gasps, hips canting against your hand. 

“Fuck, you can’t — I’m not gonna last if you do that,” he admits, eyes closed and breathing uneven. 

Maybe it’s the heat that makes you bold, or maybe it’s his honesty, saying straight out how badly you affect him. But something makes you grin up at him and say it: “Maybe you should hurry up and get inside me, then.”

His eyes snap open, and he makes a wrecked little noise at that, something between a whimper and a growl. “Fuck. Okay. Condom. In my room, I think —”

You laugh, breathless, hooking one leg around his waist and pulling him down to press his forehead against yours. “I’m on the pill. And I trust you, Osc.”

His eyes flutter shut like that might legitimately be his undoing, cockhead pushing at your slick folds, barely holding himself back. “Jesus fucking Christ. Okay.”

He lines himself up, sinks into you so slowly that it’s torture. The feeling is overwhelming, the stretch, the heat of it. He’s thick, perfect, pressed so deep into you when he finally bottoms out that it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. 

“Shit,” Oscar chokes out, helpless. “You feel — fuck, you feel insane.”

You dig your heels into his back, nails dragging over his shoulders. “Probably feel better if you move,” you breathe, and his eyes go dark, pulling out just to slam back into you with a long moan.

He finds a rhythm fast. Messy, desperate thrusts that echo filthily against the tile every time his hips snap into yours, skin sliding against skin. He’s bracing one hand beside your head, the other gripping under your thigh to keep you spread open, flushed and panting beneath him.

“You’re so —” he starts, voice breaking into a moan as you rock your hips to meet him with each thrust, your cunt gripping him warm and tight and ready. “Fuck. Wanted this so bad.”

“You thought about this?” you manage between gasps, and he nods. 

“All the fucking time. Jesus, you feel so good,” he groans, voice rough and hot against your ear. “So fucking tight, baby — m’not gonna last.”

You’re a mess beneath him already, gasping and clawing at his back as he fucks into you. “Don’t have to,” you whine as he hikes your leg up his waist, opening you up even more for him. The angle has your vision blurring, seeing stars every time his length scrapes that one spot inside you. “Want you to come, Osc, please, need to feel you.” You clench around him on instinct, and he shudders, hips stuttering.

“Fuckfuckfuck, don’t do that, I’m so close,” he grits out, hand sliding between your bodies to your clit, rubbing tight little circles against you. “Need to make you come first.”

You let out a moan, almost incoherent. You can already feel it building, coiling low and tight in your stomach, sparked by the heat and his voice and the frantic way he’s moving inside you. “Osc, I’m gonna —”

“Yeah?” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut as you pulse around him, so close to falling over the edge. “Do it then. Want to feel it on my cock.”

You come with a yelp, back arching and cunt fluttering around him. A moment later, Oscar’s rhythm falters inside you, and then he’s gasping your name, spilling into you with a groan that vibrates against your skin.

He stays like that for a moment, shivering in the aftermath, pressed fully against you, skin slick and sticky, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“...So,” he breathes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “That definitely didn’t help us cool down.” 

You laugh, breathless. Fucked out. “Not even a little bit.”

“Cold shower together next?” he grins, dazed, cheeks flushed as he waggles an eyebrow at you. You smack him on the arm lazily in response, no real heat behind it. 

And he’s got this look in his eyes. Where his mind is on total overdrive but his mouth stays shut. Giving nothing away.

His fingers tap against his thigh in the same rhythm it always does when he’s lost in his head. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Pause. Repeat.

The TV is playing some random show that neither of you are paying attention to. But you don’t really care. It’s just background noise.

You glance at him. And his face is calm, but you know better. Know him better.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you mutter, voice soft.

And he shrugs. But his face doesn’t change. “You’re loud enough for the both of us.”

You snort, hitting his leg with your toes, just to feel him push his leg back. “You’d miss me if I shut up for more than a few minutes, be honest.”

This gets you a look. One of those slow glances that starts near your mouth and ends at your eyes. And his mouth quirks up.

“You’re right,” he says, voice low. “Hate the peace and quiet.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing but smile growing. “Y’know, you’re so full of shit sometimes.”

His head finally hits the top of the back cushion behind him. Shoulders dropping a fraction. Relaxing. But he turns just enough to face you a bit more directly. Arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers dangling behind your neck. But not touching you.

“I like when you talk,” he says. Like it’s so simple.

And it catches you off guard. Hits you right in the chest. You swallow hard.

“Are you flirting with me?” It comes out light. In a teasing manner as you raise a single brow. “Because it felt like you just did.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t look away either. Just watches you for a long moment. 

And then he shifts just a little closer. Knee brushing against yours. And then his fingers stop tapping.

“Would it be so bad if I was?”

It’s not cocky. Not smug. And its not even really a question.

Your breath stutters a little, just for a fraction of a second. And you know he notices because his eyes flicker. Like he’s been wondering what you’d do with the truth.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips slowly. “I guess that depends on how good you are at it.”

And for the first time all night, he laughs. It’s not loud. More like a huff. 

“Guess we’ll see,”

-

You walk into his hotel room before him, kicking your shoes off, and stretching your shoulders with a loud sigh. Like the night’s worn you out, which it has. 

The door clicks shut behind you. “I might be dying. Like actually dying.”

Behind you, Oscar’s quiet. But you hear his movement as he slips his jacket off. Unbothered.

“Y’always eat like you’re Joey Chestnut or somethin’…in a eating competition,” He mutters, slinging the jacket on the back of a chair. 

You spin around, in full righteous offense. A loud gasp. “I had two courses! And you had three…and you still stole half of my dessert!”

He doesn’t even so much as bat an eyelash at you. Just lifts a brow and folds his arms across one another. “Yeah, but I’m elegant. Y’looked like you were gonna vacuum the plate right up.”

Your jaw falls open. “You’re such a little shit when you’re full.”

His lips twitch upward. “M’always a little shit.”

You let out a groan. Theatrical and loud. Collapsing backward onto the edge of the bed. Arms spread wide. “I need a massage. Or a nap. Or death.” You shimmy up to the top of the bed, head on the pillow.

Oscar doesn’t respond. Just disappears into the bathroom with that usual silence of his. And you hear the faucet running a few moments later, the zip of the toiletry bag he always packs. 

And your eyes fall shut for a few seconds. Then the sound of footsteps approaching, and you glance up. He’s standing there.

Placing a glass of water and two ibuprofen onto the nightstand beside the bed. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even bother to look at you for long. Just…leaves them there.

Your chest tightens. Just a little bit.

“Wow,” you smile. “Wanna tuck me in too? Maybe read a bedtime story?”

Oscar snorts, but sits at the edge of the bed. Crossing one of his legs onto the mattress without hesitation. “What do y’wanna hear? The story of a girl who inhales her dinner, talks too fast, and ends up losing her feet from stupid shoes?”

You laugh, reaching out to shove his shoulder. But it’s equivalent to punching a wall. He doesn’t move. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to chuck something at you.”

He grins. Then tilts his head just a little bit. “Your mascara’s smudged.”

You blink. And before you can reach your phone to check with the camera, he’s already leaning in, thumb brushing under your eye. Careful. Sweet.

“For someone who acts like he hates people,” you say. Throat tight. Eyes on him. “You’re kinda soft.”

Oscar shrugs one shoulder, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You’re not people.”

And it hits you a little harder than it should.

-

The sky is a bright orange as the sun sets over the water, stretching along the coastline just outside of Melbourne. From where you sit, the beach house…tucked up a hill behind you, looks kind of like some staged postcard. Windows open and curtains swaying from the ocean breeze. 

Oscar is sprawled out beside you on a navy blue striped towel. Arms folded behind his head. Sunglasses sitting on the slope of his nose. And his hair is chaotic looking. But he looks calm. Is calm. The only kind of calm you see only outside of the paddock.

You’re sitting beside him. Heels dug into the sand, hands resting on the towel behind you, sitting you up. The heat of the sun clings to you.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re Australian,” you say. Turning your head to look at him.

And he cracks one eye open, not bothering to lift his head from the palm of his hands. “Because m’not riding a kangaroo or throwing a barbie?”

You snort. “Because you barely tan. You just burn. And you’re always like….not here…y’know?”

His lips twitch. “Keep talkin’ and see if I drive you back to the airport.”

But he doesn’t take the bait. Just closes his eyes again, like he’s unbothered.

You smile, looking back at the ocean. “Please. You love having me here.”

There’s a short-lived moment of silence. Just the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline heard.

“Yeah. I do.”

It’s a simple response. There’s no teasing tone. No smirk. Just a truth. And it sends a wave of warmth through your chest. Making your stomach flutter.

You look back at him. And he’s now propped up on a single elbow, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. And his eyes are on you. Just looks at you with that soft intensity he’s so good at. 

Then, with a light touch, he’s reaching over and brushing the grains of sand of your knee. Hand lingering a second longer. Warm. 

“Y’always this annoying on holiday?” He says, amused. A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shrug your shoulders and turn to look back at the water. “Only for people I like.”

And it’s silent again for a few moments. Before he’s muttering, “Lucky me.”

And the funny thing is…he means it.

-

The kitchen is dim. The ocean breeze blows through the open patio door. The curtains around it moving gently along the light breeze.

You’re standing barefoot on the tile, swallowed in one of Oscar’s oversized hoodies. The same one you always steal. 

It just fits the best you always claim. It falls mid-thigh, sleeves long and hanging past your hands as you fumble around making cups of tea. The kettle is heating on stove. Steam starting to flow from the spout.

Oscar walks in behind and doesn’t speak. He moves quietly…always has. He just steps up behind you, all calm and heat, reaching up over your head. 

His chest brushes against your back. Light…but definitely intentional.

You keep your eyes fixed on the kettle as he opens the cabinet and grabs two mugs with one hand.

“Y’just love to do that, don’t you?” Your voice is teasing.

Oscar raises a brow as he hands you a mug. “Do what?”

You turn to face him. 

Big mistake.

Because he’s fucking close. Closer than he should be. Like the kind of close where your chests are touching and the air is thick. 

You tilt your chin up anyways. Eyes narrow. A smirk on your lips. “Hovering.” You say. “Acting like it’s not on purpose.”

And his eyes darken just a little bit. Steps a fraction closer. Smirking as he leans a hand on the counter beside your hip. Trapping you.

“M’just helping.”

“No.” You grin. “You’re flirting.”

His lips twitch. And he does’t deny it.

Just hands you a mug. Fingers brushing against yours.

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks. A slight tilt of his head.

You blink. The kettle whistling behind you.

And you hold his gaze. Curling your fingers around the mug to keep yourself steady.

Then you step side, walking through the small opening he left. “Six out of ten.”

And he lets out a short laugh behind you. “Generous.”

You pour the steaming water into the mugs, and then head toward the patio door. 

“Still not kissing me,” you call without giving him a look. “Points off.”

And he just watches you walk onto the patio.

-

You’ve met most of Oscar’s close friends by now. The few he lets into the smaller corners of his life. The people he trusts. And it’s easy to forget how long you’ve actually known each other.

The bar is dim and chill. A local band is playing some covers, lighting low, and a breeze is pushing through the open doors.

You’re standing in a circle with some of Oscar’s friends. Not a well made circle, but a circle nonetheless. You’re nursing a cocktail, laughter slipping easily. Your hand brushing against one of their arm’s as you make a point in the conversation, as you lean in a little too close to hear a joke.

Across the room, Oscar’s leaned against the bar with one of his friends.

Watching. Not in a weird way. Just observant. Like he always has been.

His arms are folded across one another. A beet bottle in hand, his thumb tapping against the bottle. And he seems quieter tonight. Still engaged in the conversations, still smiling. But his eyes haven’t left you for long. And every time someone touches your arm, or makes you laugh just a little too much, you swear you see his jaw clench.

You try to ignore it. Chalk it up to just Oscar being in a mood.

Until some guy you’ve never seen before slips into the circle. Tall. Tan. Definitely a few drinks in. And he slides in like he knows someone. Which maybe he does…and then says ajoke that has everyone laughing. Even you.

And when you laugh, he leans in closer. His shoulder brushing yours.

Totally casual and meaningless. At least it is…to you.

But not to Oscar.

Because he’s beside you before the guy even finishes his next sentence.

“She’s good,” Oscar says, voice smooth. “Thanks.”

The guy blinks. Confused. “Just being friendly, mate.”

Oscar smiles. But its not really polite. It’s sharp and tight. Barely reaches his eyes. “So am I.”

It’s not really a threat. But it sure as hell lands like one.

The guy steps back. His hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.” He mutters something before heading back to the bar. Disappearing.

You turn to look at Oscar. “That was dramatic.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at you right away. His eyes are still trained on the guy’s back, following his exit. 

When he finally turns his head, his eyes sweep down to yours. Slow. Steady.

“Don’t like people touching what’s mine,” He says casually.

“Yours?” You echo. Voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Oscar breathes out a low huff. Runs a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he mutters. “I meant…”

“No.” You step closer to him. Voice calm. “You meant what you said.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you.

And for once, the silence isn’t calm. It’s tense.

“Yeah,” he says. Voice a whisper. “Yeah, I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hold his gaze. Then slowly, reach for his half-empty drink. Sip it without even asking.

His eyes stay fixed on you.

“M’not a thing you can own, Osc.” Your voice is teasing. “But you can keep hovering if it makes you feel better.”

He hums. His hand reaching for your waist and settling there like he’s been aching to do it. His thumb slips along the waistband of your pants.

It’s possessive. It’s soft. It’s him.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says.

-

The rest of the night is still warm as you walk side by side with Oscar, neither of you really saying much. 

You haven’t really needed to.

“Your friends are fun,” you say eventually. “Even if they told way too many embarrassing stories about you.”

Oscar glances over, but only for a few seconds before looking back toward the street. A smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t act like you didn’t love every second of it.”

You grin and nudge his shoulder. “Not my fault young Oscar was so chaotic.”

He laughs. A short one. But real. 

Another few steps of silence pass. And then his voice breaks it.

“I didn’t like that guy touching you tonight.”

You turn your head to look at him. Still walking. And your breath catches.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes serious. Steady. But there’s a faint blush showing on his cheeks that crawls down to the collar of his shirt.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You mutter. “Got all alpha male on him.”

Oscar breathes through his nose. Not really a laugh nor a sigh. “Did I?”

You nod, turning to look back at the pavement ahead. “Yeah. It was all so don’t touch her or I’ll kill you energy.”

He’s quiet for a single step.

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

You freeze. Stop walking.

And he stops too. Turns to step closer to you. So close that your space becomes his too. So close that you can smell the faint linger of his cologne.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“I didn’t,” you whisper back.

His gaze is locked on your eyes for a brief moment. But then flickers down, trailing your face like he’s trying to memorize everything about you. And his eyes land on your mouth for a moment too long, before looking back at your eyes.

“Osc,” you say.

Its a warning. A dare. A plea.

But he exhales hard. Like he’s winded. Before lifting his hand slowly to your jaw.

“I want to,” he says, tilting his head back for a moment with his eyes squeezed shut. “Like…really fuckin’ want to.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. And you’re leaning into it. 

“But if I…” He swallows. “If I kiss you now…I wont…I won’t be able to pretend after.”

You understand. Fingers twitching at your sides. You want to reach for him. Let your mouth crash into his and finally…finally see what it’s like when he stops holding back.

But you don’t.

Because you know once the line is crossed, there will be no going back. And that means something.

So instead you give him a slow nod. “Okay…not tonight.”

His jaw clenches. But he nods.

And then you walk again. Slower. Your hand slipped into his. And he’s gripping it like he’s been waiting for years to do this.

-

The house is still. Quiet.

The kind that only exists before any coffee is made. 

You wake slowly, limbs heavy.  Twisted in the same blanket Oscar threw over you last night when you passed out on the couch in the middle of a movie. The blanket tangled around your legs, an arm slung over your head to block the light filtering through the curtains. 

You blink a few times. Trying to recollect your thoughts. Wondering where you are, what time it is, and why your back fucking hurts.

“You snore a lot.”

You groan, rubbing at your eyes. “I do not!”

Oscar laughs. “You definitely did last night.”

You sit up, the blanket slipping down to your waist in the process. Your hair’s a mess, eyes still half-lidded. And you glare down at him. Because he’s sitting on the floor in front of you. His legs stretched out and back resting against the couch.

His hair is almost as crazy as yours. Wearing the same hoodie he pulled on after you got back from the bar last night. Sleeves pushed up. Mug in his hand.

“It’s too early to fight.”

Oscar lifts the mug to his lips. “Wouldn’t win anyway,” He says with a small smirk. “You’re a menace without coffee.”

Your heartbeat rises. Stupidly. At how close he is. And not just physically. But because he always seems to be near when you wake up. Like he doesn’t want you to wake to an empty room.

You look at the mug. “Is that mine?”

He holds it out without a word.

Your fingers brush his as you wrap both hands around the warm mug. Sighing into the first sip…because it’s perfect. Just how you like it.

You glance at him. “Y’know…you’d make a good housewife, Osc.”

He looks at you with a flat look, but it’s soft. “You’re on the couch I got. Drinking coffee I made.”

You smile over the rim. “And you still won’t kiss me.”

It slips out. Fast. Almost too easy.

You don’t even look at him when you say it. Just bit your lip, pretending its a joke.

But he doesn’t laugh. And he doesn’t let the silence enter either.

“Don’t.” His voice serious. “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. The mug right before your lips. Chest tight. “Then why didn’t you?”

He exhales through his nose. Runs a hand through his hair. Looking at the ceiling like there might be some answer hidden up there. “Because you matter,” He says. “And I’ve never cared this much before.”

You scoot down the couch. Knees brushing his shoulder so that he can lean into them if he wants to. He does. 

You sip your coffee. “M’not going anywhere, Osc.”

And maybe that’s all he needs to hear. Because a second later, his head drops to your knee. Like he’s been wanting to lean into your touch for too long.

-

It’s late. The kind that makes hotel rooms feel lonely. Another country, another race.

The curtains are closed, a crack of light entering in the middle. 

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed. One of his hoodies, like always, draped over you. 

Across the room, Oscar sits in the chair near the window. Legs stretched and ankles crossed. Shoulders loose, but he’s not relaxed. His eyes are on you.

“You okay?” You ask.

He nods. Shrugs. “Just tired.”

You hum in agreement. But something isn’t right. Not with the way his jaw’s clenched. And how he’s acted all night long. With his clipped responses.

“You’ve been distant.” You say.

“I know.” 

He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t argue.

And it lands harder than you expect.

You look down at your fingers, twisting the rings on your fingers. Throat tight. “Is it me?”

His body shifts. Like he wants to reach for you, but won’t.

“No,” he says. Quick. Firm. “Never you.”

And you nod. Even though it still aches.

“Feels like me,” your voice small.

Oscar breathes hard, tipping his head fall agains the back of the chair. Closing his eyes for a moment. And when they open again, they’re gentle.

“It’s what you make me feel,” He says. “M’not used to it.”

He shifts forward. Resting his elbows onto his knees. Fingers laced between them.

“Especially now that we’ve…uh…addressed it,” He adds. A smile tugging at his lips. “Being around you makes everything else…” He trails off. 

Searching for the right words. But they don’t come easily.

“Harder.’

You blink, a little confused. “Harder?”

He nods, eyes trailing toward the window.

“To focus. To race. To pretend that I’m not thinking about you all the time.”

You move quietly. Taking in his words. Cross the room and sink down to the floor in front of him. 

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” you whisper.

He lets out a small breath. 

“It’s not your fault. Never your fault.” He’s looking at you. Eyes dark. “You just make me want things…that I don’t know if I’m allowed to have.”

-

You miss Oscar. 

The afterparty is buzzing. Music hammering against the walls. McLaren finished a race with a 1-2 podium finish. The kind of result that earns drinks and a late night of dancing. 

Your standing near the balcony doors, letting the breeze cool your skin. A half finished drink lingers in your hand. The condensation slipping onto your fingers.

And Oscar hasn’t spoken to you all night. At least, not properly.

No banter or smirk. No actual conversation.

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. That he’d never make a move anyway. 

And then Lando appears. Sliding into the space beside you with a crooked grin and a beer in his hand.

“Didn’t thin you’d be all the way out here,” he says.

You glance at him, giving a faint smile. “Just observing. It’s so hot in there.” You turn to look at Oscar.

Still leaned against a wall, surrounded by people. Laughing with the engineers. Relaxed.

Lando follows your gaze. “Y’always stare at him like that?”

You scoff. “What?”

“He’s not even paying attention, y’know. But I am.”

You grin, knowing he’s just being a playful little shit. “But I am.”

You look at him. Really look. And he’s close. Eyes warm, teasing. 

“That’s the line you’re sticking with?” You tilt your head. Smiling.

He grins back. “Is it working?”

And the worst part about it…is that it kind of is. At least for a brief second. Because Lando is easy in a way Oscar never is. Open. Bright. 

So you lean in, just a smidge. Let yourself enjoy the way Lando looks at you because why not? Let him flirt. Let his eyes trail your face, flick to your mouth. Let him step closer.

And you feel the weight of Oscar’s stare from across the room. Heavy. Like a hand resting on your shoulder. 

And when you glance Oscar’s way, he’s watching. Not smiling. Eyes dark. Like he’s debating whether he should walk over and intervene. But he doesn’t. Because that’s not his way.

No. He’s too calm and calculated. Too careful when it comes to you.

So you head back towards the center of the room with Lando a few minutes later, laughter filling the air. 

You spend the next hour trying to focus. Let Lando spin a story in your ear. Let him twirl you around. But your eyes keep scanning the room. Call it a habit. 

And then you finally see him standing not too far away. Alone. Eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting for you to notice. Waiting for you to move.

Lando catches your stare, urges you to go talk to him. And Oscar doesn’t move until you’re only a few inches from him. 

“I saw that,” he says. Voice low. 

You tilt your head. “What?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Lando.”

You shrug. “He was just being nice.”

But his gaze sharpens. “He was all over you. Touching you.”

You close the space between you. His gaze drops to your mouth for a half a second. 

“Okay,” you say. Soft. “So what?” Are you gonna stand there and sulk?”

You take another step. His breath catches.

“Or are you going to actually do something about it?”

He leans in. Slow. “M’trying to not fuck this up.”

“And what if you already are?” You whisper.

He freezes. Because he knows your right. 

Knows that if he keeps holding back too long, keeps pretending, and keeps letting moments pass… that it will push you away.

-

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway. Not even close to it in fact.

Because Oscar’s hand is wrapping firmly around your wrist. Stopping you. 

And you turn, startled by the grasp. But he’s right there. And you feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast. The tension cracking.

His fingers slide lower until he’s lacing them with yours. And then pulls you back into him. You stumble just a bit, but he’s steadying you. Guiding you until your pressed back into the wall. 

You gasp.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. Voice stripped of calm. Serious.

“Do what?” You play dumb.

“Lando.” His jaw clenches. Eyes flickering with something possessive in them.

He drops your hand. 

“Flirt with him,” he grunts. “Letting him fuckin’ touch you. Letting him look at you like..”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop acting like you don’t want me.”

And it hits him hard. Right in the center of his chest.

He steps closer. So close that you can feel his breath hit your face. A hand bracing on the wall beside your head.

“Y’think I don’t want you?” His voice is torn. “I’ve wanted you since the first time you wore my hoodie. Since you sat on my couch like you belonged there years ago. And every day since..it’s just gotten worse.”

Your throat tightens.

“Oscar,” you breathe.

But it’s too late.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s fucking starved for it. It’s not slow or careful. It’s everything poured into a kiss that’s hot and all consuming.

You gasp into him and he outright groans at the sound. Hands finally grabbing for your hips. 

He presses himself into you. Mouth moving like he’s making up for all the times he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you.

And when he finally pulls back he looks wrecked.

“I’ve been trying to be careful,” He presses his forehead against yours. “But you…” He starts to shake his head. Fingers curling deeper into the skin of your waist. “Y’know exactly how to push all of my fuckin’ buttons, yeah?”

You smile into his lips. Head spinning just a little bit. “And you’re just figuring that out now?”

He grunts but then kisses you again. Rougher. More of a claim than anything.

And he’s done holding back.

- 

Oscar’s hands are on you the very second the hotel door clicks shut.

His hands grip your waist like he wants them attached there forever. Like he can’t bare to ever be apart from you again. His mouth crashes onto yours mid-step as he walks you backward without ever breaking the kiss. It’s rough and relentless. His hands slipping under your dress in the process.

You gasp when your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then he’s pushing you down on the mattress with a soft push.

He follows. Doesn’t even speak. Just groans at the sight of you beneath him. Like that alone is enough to undo him completely.

“Should’ve done this weeks…years ago,” he mutters. Voice rough and full of need. “Should’ve fucked you the second you started looking at me like that.”

You dig your fingers into his back as he leans forward and kisses you again. Harder. Like he wants to fuse your mouths together.

And he only pulls back to drag your dress over your head. He barely glances at it as he throws it somewhere in the room. Probably onto the floor. His eyes stay locked on you. 

He undresses himself fast. And you barely get a full look at him before he’s crawling back over you.

But even in that blur of movement and speed, you see the way he trembles.

His fingers find your thighs, curling one of your legs over his hip. Grinding down against the damp lace between your legs.

“Still gonna tease me?” Your voice is shaky.

He laughs, rolling into you. “Not teasing,” he mutters. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

You moan loudly.

And then his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the lace aside. He finds your clit with ease, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jolt. 

He leans forward, near your ear. “Flirt with Lando again…” He drags his tongue hotly over your neck. “And I’ll fuck you where he can hear you next time.”

You arch under him. Shaking. 

He groans. Deep. Uneasy. “Fuck, you like that?” His voice drops lower. “Y’want me to make you loud, hm? Let people hear who you really want?”

“Fuck, Osc…” you gasp, but it breaks out into a moan as soon as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Ripping them down your thighs in a fluid motion.

Then he’s between your legs.

Pushing into you with a stretch that burns in the best fucking way. Your mouth falls open quietly. Just the gasp of him finally being in you.

His head falls to your shoulder, shuddering once he’s fully seated inside. “Fucking fuck..” He barely gets his words out. “Y’feel so fuckin’ good.”

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist. Digging your nails into his back. And he starts to move. Hard. Deep. 

His hands fist into your hair, holding you in place beneath him. And his mouth presses hot open-mouthed kisses along your throat. Claiming you.

“Y’think we’re still just friends?” He grunts. Nipping at your ear. “Tell me we’re not.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer. 

So he drives his cock into you harder. Meaner.

“Fucking say it,” He grunts. And he sounds wrecked. “Say we’re not fucking friends anymore while I’m buried in this cunt.”

You whimper. Breathless. 

“No,” you cry out. “No…we’re not…fuck fuck…we’re not friends.”

He thrusts deeper, every stroke hitting that spot deep in your belly just fucking right.

You cry out, arching into him. Fingers fisting the fabric of the sheets.

And you do. Over and over. Until your cunt clamps down around him and you’re unraveling. Crying out into the space between his neck and shoulder. Shaking.

He groans. His thrusts losing rhythm as you milk his cock. Spasming around him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He yelps. Following seconds later, hips stuttering. A tumble of curses falling out of his mouth as he presses deep into you one final time before releasing into you.

Your chest is still rising and falling. Oscar hasn’t moved much. Still inside of you. Breathing into your shoulder.

You’re staring at the ceiling, content.

“I meant what I said,” he mutters. His thumb reaching out to brush your cheek. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

You nod. “I know.”

He leans in. Presses careful kisses to your cheek. Your forehead. Your lips

“No more pretending, yeah?”

“It’s just a hoodie.”

And then he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. One brow raised, hands still roaming your stomach.

“No,” he says. Fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “It’s my hoodie. And y’knew exactly what y’were doing.”

You tilt your head, lips curved. “Y’just think everything’s about you, don’t you?”

His laugh is quiet. Soft. And then he’s bringing his lips back to the side of your neck, trailing up until they hover your ear. “Right now? It definitely is.”

And then his fingers dip lower into your waistband. Finding you easily. Slick. Warm. 

And he lets out a sharp breath through his nose. Almost like a groan. 

“Fuck….” His fingers slip over your clit through your panties once. Slow. Like he’s testing the waters. “You’ve been like this since dinner, haven’t you?”

Your lips part. About to deny it…but the words don’t make it out when he dips his fingers past your panties and curls them just right.

Oscar watches you closely. His eyes flicking between your eyes and lips…down to look at the slow movements of his hand before looking back to your face. “Yeah,” he mutters while hovering his lips over your jaw. “You’ve been like this all night.”

You attempt to shake your head, but the sharp intake of breath betrays you.

“Don’t lie,” he says. Voice smug. So smug that it makes your skin prickle with heat. 

“Y’really think you’re that special?” You manage to huff out.

And he laughs against the skin right beneath your jaw. “Nope…I know I am.”

And then he pushes his fingers in deeper. And it forces a loud gasp out of you. Your hips chasing his hand.

“See?” He mutters with satisfaction. “Even your body agrees.”

You clench around his fingers, ready to fire something back. But then he presses his thumb over your clit in a slow circle that outright turns your brain to mush.

“Thought y’were gonna fight me on this…” His forehead presses against yours, lips hovering yours. “Guess not?”

“M-maybe I’m just….m’just…” you try. But he curls his fingers again and your cut off with a moan.

He grins. “Yeah…that’s what I thought.”

His other hand slips to the back of your neck, holding you right in place. Exactly how he wants you. “Y’know what’s fucked?” He breathes. “Lando’s probably still downstairs talkin about absolutely nothin…but you’re here…” He thrusts his fingers harder. “Fallin apart all over m’fucking hand.”

You press your teeth into your bottom lip. Letting your head fall back against the wall. Eyes clenched shut.

“Look at me,” He practically commands. Voice firm and low. And when you re-open your eyes, his eyes are dark. Fixed on your face like he’s memorizing every inch of it. “There she is.”

And then he’s leaning in closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. 

“Gonna make y’come before we even make it to the bed.”

-

Turn 1

Oscar doesn’t remember the first time he noticed you. At least not fully.

It wasn’t some grand, cinematic moment. The kind with some slow motion or perfect lighting.

It was just one of those slow, quiet mornings in the McLaren motorhome. Oscar had his hip leaned against one of the counters. While holding a mug that was still too hot to drink from.

His other hand scrolled absently over his phone. 

And the area was full of various conversations. Some laughter overpowering the room, and then the shuffle of shoes against the floor. But he didn’t pay any attention to it.

Because the door swung open.

Lando appeared first, wearing a slightly panicked expression that made Oscar look away from his phone.

And that’s when he saw you.

You were half a step behind him. One hand curled around his wrist. The kind of grip that said you’d done this a million times and he was going to follow you whether he liked it or not.

“C’mon, Lan…we’re leaving,” You groan, glancing over your shoulder at whoever he was talking to. The look you gave them was apologetic with a hint of boredom. 

“I wasn’t gonn-“ He began to protest.

“You were.” You cut him off.

“Y’dont even know what I was gonna say…” Lando argues back, even though he was still walking in the direction you pulled him in.

“Lan, I can spot it from a mile away. You were about to start a sentence that begins with y’know what’s funny? And end nearly twenty minutes later with nothing relevant.”

Oscar had been about to sip his coffee when you said that, and nearly laughed right into it.

“Why are we even in a rush?” Lando halts himself. You stopping in the process and dropping his wrist. Lando crosses his arms.

“Because if I don’t get you to the media pen on time, you’ll spend the next four hours blaming me.”

“That’s true,” He admits, shooting you a grin. “Also…m’not sure if I like your shoes today.”

You pause, just enough to look down at your shoes. “My shoes are perfectly fine.”

“They make y’look like you’re cosplaying a middle aged dad.”

“They’re comfortable…” You grab his wrist again. “And you’re the one wearing socks with cartoon spring rolls on them, so maybe we don’t start this.”

Oscar’s phone screen wasn’t even lit anymore. And he wasn’t even pretending to scroll anymore. The exchange was quick, and completely unfiltered between you two. There was no hesitation in responses, no worry if you’d gone too far with what you said…y’both just said it.

And it wasn’t until you were almost out the door that Lando seemed to remember he wasn’t alone. “Oh…Osc! This is…”

You turn to meet him, finally letting your eyes flick over him. It was quick and assessing. But it lingered just enough for him to feel it.

“Morning,” you said. Your voice light.

“Morning,” he said right back, setting his mug down.

And then you were gone again. Tugging Lando like a woman on a mission.

Oscar stood there momentarily. And he should’ve gone back to checking his emails. But instead he found himself thinking about the way your voice sharpened when you were teasing. The small curve of your smile when you’d won the banter against Lando.

-

Turn 2

The next time Oscar saw you, it was pouring rain.

It wasn’t the polite kind of rain either. This was the kind of rain that came hammering down. The walkways looking like mini ponds almost.

Oscar arrived early, missed the rain by a few minutes. Told himself it was just luck, and didn’t think about it again before slipping onto one of the lounge chairs. Coffee in hand

The door banged open with the sound of rain echoing. 

And Lando stumbled in first. His hood yanked tight around his head, dark stains from the water splattered along the fabric. You follow in close behind. An umbrella in one hand, and a paper bag in the other. 

Your jacket was damp at the shoulders, but all Oscar could notice was how big it was on you. How the sleeves were practically covering your knuckles. How the collar practically covered half of your jaw when you shrugged your shoulders upward. Definitely not yours. And then his gaze stuck on the way a few strands of your hair stuck to your cheeks. 

“This is your fault,” you said. Voice warm as you shook the umbrella closed.

“Mine?” Lando shot back, water dripping onto the floors as he scuffed his shoes along a mat by the door. “You’re the one who just had to make that stop for muffins.”

“Says the guy who claimed he’d die if he didn’t eat soon,” you bite back, pushing the strands of hair off your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. “Was basically savin’ your ass over here, Lan.” You smirk.

Lando laughs, pulling his hoodie over his head. “Yeah yeah, whatever y’fucking muppet.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile sooo wide that it makes the moment feel so much warmer than it really is. 

And Oscar felt something flutter in his chest. Subtle. But it was there.

You set the umbrella in the stand by the door. “You’re just mad I didn’t let you get the cookies too.”

“No.” You can tell Lando is bluffing but the way his eyes flick away for a moment. And the way he says they didn’t even look that good too fast.

“They looked so good,” you shoot back, rubbing your shoes against the mat now. “Y’just don’t like to admit when I’m right.”

“You’re not right,” Lando says, before dropping onto the nearest chair.

You give him a look. “You didn’t even look at them.”

“Yeah…cause I was too focused on not drowning in that monsoon.”

“Y’were five minutes from fainting out there.”

“I was n-“

“You were!” You pull a muffin from the paper bag. “Y’literally looked like some Victorian child about to pass away.”

It’s only then Oscar lets himself laugh into his coffee. The sound so low that you almost miss it. And it was enough to pull your attention off Lando and to him.

He looks relaxed. One arm over the back of his lounge chair, while the other is bent holding his mug close to his mouth. His hair is a little messy and uneven, but dry. Completely untouched by the storm.

You tilt your head. “How are you completely dry?”

The corners of Oscar’s lips twitch. “I walked in before it started.”

Your eyes narrow. “How convenient.”

“Smart,” he corrects.

You repeat smart under your breath, like its a test.

Oscar takes a sip of his coffee, eyes flicking over your body that feels almost….deliberate. 

“Some of us,” he says. Voice low and smooth. “…plan ahead.”

Lando snorts. “Well some of us don’t have to babysit her in a storm like this.”

You glare at Lando. “The dramatics….jeez.”

Oscar’s lips curl a bit. “Soo you dragged him through the rain for some…muffins?”

You blink at him. “Dragged?”

He lifts a single brow, hinting that the sight of you is more than enough evidence.

You scoff. “I was being nice!”

“Riiiiight,” Oscar says. Voice warm with amusement. “Nothing says nice like risking hypothermia for a muffin.”

Lando’s already unwrapping one of the muffins, shoving nearly too much into his mouth. “Worth it though.”

And Oscar’s gaze lingers on you for a bit. Like he’s capturing some photo of you into his memory. A damp jacket, hair dripping, and still grinning.

“Guess I’ll know what to expect next time it rains, though.”

-

Turn 3

You remember the first time you felt a flutter in your chest for Oscar. It wasn’t anything special. If anything…it snuck up on you.

You’re sprawled on one of the couches in the McLaren motorhome. Legs hooked over one of the arm rests, with your back propped against the other. Phone resting loosely in your hand, scrolling mindlessly.

Your sneakers are kicked off. Somewhere under the table. And there’s a half-finished water bottle on the floor beside you, pooling in its own condensation.

Lando’s sprawled on the couch opposite of you. One ankle hooked over the other. And he’s in the middle of some story he’s definitely told you before. So of course, you’re not really listening. 

You’ve been to enough races, enough test days, and enough media days that you know the rhythm of it all like its second nature. You’ve sat on these couch so often that they may as well be your own. 

Hell, even the catering staff knows your coffee order.

Lando waves his hand mid-sentence, leaning forward to grab his water off the table in between you two. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I am,” you answer fast. Eyes still on your phone.

“Mmmmhmmm…” He narrows his eyes. “What was I just saying?”

You pause to glance at him. “Y’were talking about that karting story from..like, what was it? Four years ago.”

He shakes his head with a small laugh. “Wrong. That was like twenty minutes ago…you’re a terrible best friend.”

You grin.

“Unbelievable.” He waves his water bottle in his hand at you. “M’out here like fully telling you gold…and you’re actin like I’m white noise or somethin.”

“You are white noise, Norris.” You continue scrolling with a soft laugh. “White noise with a louder than necessary British accent.”

“That’s rather harsh,” another voice cuts in. Smooth and low.

You tip your head back before your eyes even land on him. And there is is. Standing just above your head. Oscar.

From this angle, he’s upside down.  And he’s just looking down at you in the calm, unhurried way he always does. Not glaring. Not even grinning. Just something steady. Like he’s assessing you. 

And it’s probably stupid…but for some reason, you can’t help but notice everything in that moment. The slow blink of his lashes. The damp ends of his hair curling slightly onto his forehead. 

His mouth is relaxed. Lips parted just a bit as if he was in between saying something.

And his eyes.

God. They’re warm.

His eyes flick to Lando for a brief second, before returning back on you.

And that’s when it happens.

That stupid, small flutter in your chest. 

From this angle, you can catch the faint smell of clean soap and that familiar scent of cologne he uses. He looks relaxed. Like he’s not in any rush to move. 

Lando…oblivious…points a finger at him. “See? Even Osc thinks you’re harsh.”

You don’t take your eyes off Oscar.

No.

You just watch as his mouth curves into the faintest smirk. 

“Didn’t say she was wrong.”

-

Turn 4

The long table is loud. Glasses clinking, loud laughter, and countless different conversations occurring at once.

You’re wedged in between Lando and one of the engineers. Your chair slightly turned more toward your best friend. Like always.

Lando’s knee bumps into yours every few minutes, but its not something you’re really even aware of anymore. It’s just how you sit. Close.

Halfway through a conversation he’s having with Zak, Lando grabs the parmesan and slides it over to you without even looking. Like it was muscle memory (it is). Because you don’t even have to ask. You never do.

“Thanks, Lan.” You mutter, sprinkling it over your pasta.

And he just hums as a reply. In the middle of sentence with Zak. And then he’s reaching for the breadbasket…tearing off one of the middle pieces before anyone can get to it. Because its your favorite piece. And then he’s setting it on your plate before taking a piece off himself.

Still hasn’t looked at you. Doesn’t even need to.

Oscar tries to focus on the conversation he was supposed to be apart of. He nodes when he thinks he should…but his eyes keep drifting back toward you. To the way Lando steals a bite of your pasta without asking. To the way you swat his wrist, but don’t actually mean it.

He cuts his steak in slow…calculated…slices. But his jaw ticks. And he should just tune it out. Should probably just focus on the story a few team members are talking about right beside him like a normal person. But its almost like its out of his control.

Because all he can see is you. You and Lando.

You don’t really notice the way he hands you things before you even need them. Or the way your body leans into his without any thought. Or maybe you do think about it…but are so used to it that it doesn’t feel like anything anymore.

But Oscar? It feels like everything to him.

The way your nose twitches whenever Lando elbows you in the middle of his story because you muttered something teasing beneath your breath. And it makes him laugh. Makes him light up in a way that Oscar rarely sees from him. 

And then you’re taking his glass of water like its yours. Like its the most natural thing in the world. Setting it back down without so much as a comment.

Oscar’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

But Lando doesn’t even react. Barely blinks. Just continues on with his conversation.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it can be chalked up to years of friendship. But the sight of it makes something coil tight in Oscar’s chest. Hot. Pressing against his ribs.

So he pretends to sip his wine. Tries to keep his eyes somewhere else. But they always seem to find their way back to watching the two of you. The way your hand rests on Lando’s arm whenever you chime into the conversation. Or the way Lando tilts his head, lips curling like he’s trying to stop a full grown grin from forming.

To the way the two of you both seem to speak in a language that no one else could ever be fluent in.

And Oscar feels it. Feels its sharpness. 

And it claws at him.

Because when you smile…like really smile at something Lando says. Like the smile where your eyes scrunch and you lean into him…Oscar feels that flutter in his chest again.

But this time it’s somewhere buried beneath a more twisted feeling. Something darker.

And he hates that he can’t hide it. Not even from himself.

Because he wants it to be him.

-

Turn 5

It starts with you standing outside the garage. You’re tugging at the zipper of your jacket. Hoping to get it unstuck.

You give it a tug….another…and another. You litter curses beneath your breath. Claiming the zipper is created by the devil himself.

“Need help?”

The voice is smooth. And entirely too calm for the battle you’re having with your jacket both physically and mentally.

You glance up to find Oscar just a foot away. His helmet bag is slung over a shoulder, and his expression…as usual…completely unreadable. Except for the slight glint in his eyes that shows he’s slightly amused.

You stand a little straighter. Ears reddening beneath your hair. “I’ve got it.”

Another tug.

Nope.

Oscar doesn’t move closer. Just shifts his weight onto his other leg as he watches. “Pretty sure the jacket’s kickin your ass right now.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Aren’t you like…I don’t know…supposed to be in some top secret briefing or something?”

“Was just in one.” He grins a bit, while tilting his head to the direction of you struggling with your jacket still. “Figured this was more entertaining though.”

You huff, but you’re not actually annoyed. In fact, you can feel the annoyance withering away just by Oscar’s presence. And then you give the zipper one more, super aggressive, yank.

Nothing.

“Y’really need to find some better hobbies then, yeah?”

Oscar tilts his head, but you’re too focused staring at the zipper. “Maybe. But watching you struggle with this zipper is rather…satisfying.”

Your lips twitch a bit. “Always happy to provide you some sort of entertainment, Osc.”

And before you can even look up at him, he closes the space between you both. Reaching for the zipper. And his fingers brush yours. Not aggressively. But enough to make your stomach do that stupid fucking flip it does whenever he’s close. 

And without even a single ounce of struggle..the zipper glides up smoothly.

Of fucking course.

You blink at the zipper. At his hands still holding it. And then at him. “Is that a joke?”

Oscar smirks. It’s the laziest smirk you’ve ever seen, but its definitely there. “Maybe just needed me.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes just a bit. Oscar drops his hands from the zipper.

“Maybe y’just got lucky or something. I must’ve warmed it up.”

“Mmmm….not sure about that one,” He squints his eyes a bit while his head tilts. But he keeps his eyes on you. Holds your gaze. “M’pretty good with my hands.”

Your brain short circuits. And suddenly all you can think about is his hands. The ones that are loose by his sides. Long, careful fingers. His knuckles faintly scuffed. You think about how they just brushed against yours. About how they worked the zipper with ease.

And then you picture them gripping the steering wheel. Picture them faltering around with all of the switches of the wheel.

And now…you can’t stop thinking about them on you. Thinking about them gripping your throat.

You swallow. Your eyes involuntarily flicking to look at his hands by his sides. Once. Quick. Before meeting his gaze.

And he’s just watching. Already knows what you did. And the corner of his mouth curves. Like he can read your fucking thoughts.

Your lips part…ready to spit out some defensive comment, but nothing comes out.

“Oi!” Lando’s voice cuts through you both. And then he’s barging in on the moment, completely oblivious. “Been lookin’ for you fuckin everywhere…we gotta go…Mum’s gonna be pissed if we don’t make it to dinner.”

And then Lando’s arm is slipping around yours, pulling you with him. 

Your body follows, but your eyes are still on Oscar. At his hands shoved in his pockets. His expression neutral and calm.

“Thanks,” You manage to say before you’re out of an earshot. And your voice is soft.

“Anytime,” He shrugs his shoulders, but the way he says it sounds more like some kind of promise.

-

Turn 6 

The club is absolutely packed. 

Music thumping so loud that you can feel it vibrate between your ribs. There are dozens of bodies are pressed against each other. And the lights are practically blinding.

Someone’s popped another bottle open at the table. And you’ve been dragged in circles all night long. Pulled onto the dance floor, dragged into various team selfies, screaming at the top of your lungs when Lando climbs up on top of the booth table with his shirt half unbuttoned and champagne bottle like its a trophy.

It’s chaos. And you’re drunk on it all. The music…the win…the joy of the team. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck, your throat is sore from yelling, but you don’t care. Not even in the slightest amount.

At some point in the night, you end up pressed against the edge of the booth. 

And Oscar is there.

Not on the table or throwing himself in the center like Lando. But he’s next to you.  Close enough that whenever someone shoves by…his shoulder bumps right into yours. But regardless, he looks calm in the middle of all this. 

But the slight flush in his cheeks and the slump of his shoulders tells you that he’s probably just as drunk as you are.

“Y’gonna lose your voice,” he says. Voice barely heard over the thumping of the speakers.

You grin. “Worth it.”

He tips his head toward Lando…who is dancing so hard he nearly loses his balance….Y’always let him get this bad?”

You laugh. Your head falling back in the process. “It’s his night….I’d let him do anything.”

Oscar doesn’t answer immediately. Just sips his drink, like his heart is pounding in his throat.

Anything.

The word twists sharp in his chest. Because its always like this, right? You and Lando. It just makes sense. The way your face lights up for him, the way your eyes crinkle every time you laugh when he’s being stupid. The way the win is celebrated like its yours too.

And Oscar knows you’ve been best friends for forever. He knows it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting a bit watching you cheer for Lando. Doesn’t stop the jealousy from forming in his fucking throat. Heavy. Bitter.

It’s pathetic…really. The way his throat burns.

It doesn’t stop him from wondering if you and Lando have ever kissed either. If you’ve ever crossed the line.

He takes another sip of his drink to drown it, but the image claws at him now. You, leaning in close to Lando. Laughing against his mouth.

And it’s irrational for sure. 

But he can’t stop it.

And when your hand brushes against Oscar’s wrist hanging loosely at his side, he almost flinches with relief.

Because it’s him you’re next to.

“Think I need some air.” 

He nods, lets you lead the way to one of the side exit doors. His hand ghosting along the curve of your back as you squeeze in between bodies. Steadying you when someone accidentally hits you with their shoulder.

“Christ,” you groan out as soon as the door slams shut behind you. Cool air rushing over your face. “Was about three seconds away from suffocating in there.”

Oscar leans against the outside wall. The faint city breeze catches at the messy strands by his forehead…and for a moment you forget how to breathe. 

Because he looks different like this. Less composed, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded. And unfairly fucking hot.

“Y’looked like you were thriving in there though,” he teases. “Didn’t think you’d ever wanna leave.”

Your stomach clenches at the sound of his voice, low and close. And you force yourself to grin instead of groan out over it. “I was…y’shouldve joined more.”

He smirks, and your heart skips a beat. “Not really a table-dancing kinda guy.”

“Such a shame, Osc.” You nudge his arm. “I would’ve paid good money to see that.”

He shakes his head with a small laugh. And you’re drunk enough not to filter your words.

“Y’know…I really like your hair like this.”

Oscar raises a brow. “What? Y’mean messy?”

“Mmmm.” You let your eyes linger on the few strands falling on his forehead. “Suits you.”

His smirk deepens.

“M’serious…y’look hot like this.”

And the words slip out before you can even stop them.

But you feel it immediately. The way the air sharpens between you. And his eyes narrow a fraction. Not in annoyance but more like he’s analyzing you. Studying you.

“Yeah?” He asks, voice low. Testing.

Your stomach clenches again. Harder this time. Because….well, fuck. He’s hot. Leaned back against the wall with hands shoved into his pockets, hair messy, eyes fixed on you completely.

“Yeah,” your voice is quiet. But you don’t take it back.

He doesn’t laugh it off. Doesn’t even look away. Just shifts a little closer to you. His shoulders brushing against yours as you lean back against the wall next to him.

“Y’look hot too,” He says. Voice almost casual. You think almost…because his voice has lowered. And his gaze now wanders a bit too long on your mouth.

Your pulse beats so fast that you can basically feel it in the back of your fucking throat. “S’that just the alcohol talking?” You tease, but your voice is breathy.

“Maybe.” His eyes stay locked on yours. “Or maybe s’just honesty.”

It makes your stomach twist. And suddenly its like you’re hyperaware of everything. His shoulder touching yours, his hand grazing yours every other minute. The way his chest rises and falls a bit faster than you would think is normal.

You laugh. The kind of laugh that happens when you’re too aware and too drunk. 

His hands slowly lift, thumb grazing your jaw.

And then you’re kissing him.

It’s messy. Not calculated in the slightest. And drunk. Your stomach twists at the first press of his mouth on yours. His thumb stays pressed into your jaw as he kisses you. And you let yourself melt into it. Melt into him.

And for once, Oscar doesn’t overthink it. 

He just kisses you back.

-

Turn 7

It’s honestly all a blur. 

The hotel door slams harder than it should. The click of the lock follows. 

And Oscar is already backing you toward the bed. Mouth pressed to yours. And you laugh into the kiss as you both stumble through the room. But his hands never leave you. Steadying you.

You can taste the liquor on his tongue. And his hair is messy beneath your fingers as you tug on it. Causing him to groan right into your mouth.

“F…fuck,” you breathe into him. 

“Yeah,” He pants against your lips. “Fuck is right.”

The back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and then he’s pressing forward as you fall onto it. You laugh as it happens. But then he’s crawling on top of you a second later.

“Been driving me insane all night,” he mutters. Voice thick with want. And then he’s kissing your jaw. Your neck. Nipping the skin with his teeth just enough to make you gasp into him.

“F-fuck…knew you’d sound like that.” He drags his mouth down your neck. “S’fuckin pretty like this.”

Your hips lift up involuntarily, like you’re trying to chase the weight of him…of his cock…as he is pressed against you. He grinds back into you once. Slow. Filthy. Letting you feel how hard he is. 

And then he doesn’t do it again.

You groan, tugging at his hoodie. “Oscar….”

And he huffs out a laugh. “Can’t believe you’re whining already…haven’t even got my hands down your pants yet.”

“Then fuckin do it,” you snap.

“Oh….” He smirks. “Bossy when you’re needy, yeah?” He drags his hand slowly over your stomach. Down to the button of your jeans. And instead of undoing the button…he presses the heel of his palm against you. Just enough to make you choke on a moan. “Fuck…you’re wet through these, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” you gasp. Hips grinding against his hand.

“Not a fuckin chance,” he presses his palm harder. “Y’gonna come in your jeans like a desperate whore f’me?”

The words make your cunt clench. Stomach twist with need. And you can barely even answer. No.

All you can do is yank at his hoodie. Desperate for him to pull it off.

He leans forward and kisses you hard. “Bet you’ve thought about this, hm? Thought about me fucking y’stupid, yeah?”

Your nails dig deeper into his hair. Tug more. “Oscar…fuck…”

He groans. And then he’s yanking your jeans open, shoving his hand down the front of your panties without fully even taking them off. Fingers slipping right through the slick there.

And he laughs.

“Jesus…yeah, ….fuck. You’re dripping…” He thumb traces your clit in small circles. And your body jolts. 

You sob out.

“Y’like that?” He taunts. Dragging his lips along the shell of your ear.

And then he’s pushing a finger inside of you. Then a second. Curling them deep.

“Kinda pathetic,” he mutters into your skin. “Like me playing with your cunt, hm?”

“Shut up,” your voice is broken. Needy.

You reach out to grab his wrist, trying to slow him. But he just pins you down harder. Fucks his fingers into you faster.

His eyes are fucking wild. Dark. Jaw tight.

“Oscar…” 

His pace quickens, and your hips are fill on bucking against his hand.

“Fuckin greedy little thing….” He laughs.

You open your mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a broken moan. Thighs trembling. Clenched around his wrist. But he only grunts louder.

Your stomach twists. Heat pulling so tight it might snap.

“Yeah…c’mon then.” He urges you. Forehead pressed into yours. “Come for me…know you’re there..”

And your whole body clenches as he scissors his fingers.

And then you fucking break. Violent. Messy.

But Oscar doesn’t stop. His fingers work over you until you’re crying out like you can’t breathe. 

And when he finally pulls them free. It’s only so he can grip his fingers into the waistband of your jeans to pull them lower.

He tugs them down hard. Shoving the denim and your panties past your thighs. 

“Fuckin christ,” his chest heaves. 

You try to catch your breath, but then his free hand is fumbling with his belt. Yanking it open and off with that rough, drunken impatience. 

And the sound of the belt buckle clinking makes your stomach twist all over again.

His heads are shoved down low enough, cock hard and leaking against your thigh as he lines himself up. 

He bottoms out in a single rough thrust. And you both groan out loudly. 

There’s no patience in him. No teasing either.

Just pure fucking need.

And his hips slam into you so hard that the headboard rattles.

“Fuck…so fuck…fuckin’ tight…” He grunts.

Your hands are digging at his back. Gasping his name in between each breathy moan.

He fucks into you like a man fucking possessed. Desperate. Deep. Hard.

“Knew you’d feel….f-fuck…” he grunts. “Knew you’d feel like this…fuckin’ knew it…”

Your legs lock tight around his waist, forcing him deeper.

And when you come, it’s sharp and violent. 

He groans, desperately…pounding through it until he’s spilling inside of you.

He drops his head into your shoulder. Your chest is heaving.

You maybe sit in silence for five..ten minutes. Both comfortable. Your hand in his hair, his weight still pressed against you.

And before you can even think, his mouth is finding yours again.

Fucking his cock into you. Slower. But still just as deep.

-

Turn 8

The sun is absolutely brutal the next morning. And your sunglasses don’t feel like they’re doing nearly enough to help you. But you keep them on anyways.

Lando’s already sprawled into the window seat. Hood up and one leg propped up like he owns the plane. And grins when he sees you. 

“Y’look dead.”

“Feels even worse.” You fall into the seat beside him.

And then…of course…Oscar slips into the seat across the aisle beside you. Hood up and hair definitely messy beneath it.  But his mouth is curved in that lazy grin. The one that makes your stomach clench.

And you try to look away.

Really. You do.

But the look in his eyes just puts you right back to last night.

How his breath hit your neck when he fucked you deep into the mattress. His fucking voice low and gravely in  your ear. 

The way he didn’t stop. Didn’t let you properly breathe. Until you were fucked in 10 different positions and begging.

Until your throat was sore from moaning.

Your body aches. Not just because you’re hungover. But from him. The stretch of his cock. His bruising grip. 

Oscar doesn’t bother to say anything at first. Instead, he just leans back into his seat, stretching his long legs in front of him. 

You swallow, suddenly too aware of his presence.

“Morning,” he says. Voice low. 

You shift. “Morning.”

Lando groans, pulling the hood over his face as much as he can over his face. “Please…quiet….m’dying.”

You laugh softly, leaning into the seat. Trying to ignore just how heavy the presence of Oscar is beside you.

But it doesn’t matter.

The weight of the truth is in the bruises scattered along your neck, the ache between your legs. And in the way Oscar can’t stop looking at you.

“Cuddles…m’so tired.” Lando groans, flopping his head onto your shoulder.

You laugh, leaning in more so he can bury himself into you. “You’re pathetic.”

“Don’t even care,” He mumbles. “Just won a race…deserve this.”

Oscar’s brow arches from across the aisle. And when you glance at him, he’s staring. Hard.

Your stomach flips. And you can feel your cheeks flush despite how cold it is on the plane. His hood is up, so you can’t really see his entire face. But you for sure are able to see the sharp line of his jaw and the way his lips twitch.

You force your eyes away. Try to focus on the ends of Lando’s curls against your neck, the sound of his breathing. But it doesn’t help. 

Especially when you can feel Oscar’s eyes like a hand wrapped around your throat.

When you glance at him again, his head is tipped against the headrest of the chair. And there’s a glint in his eye.

His gaze drops to the curve of your neck. Like he remembers just exactly where the faint bruises on your neck are.

You feel your pulse thrum. 

And then Oscar is pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Looking away.

And it’s annoying.

But so fucking hot.

And you struggle to calm down the remainder of the flight. Because even though Oscar isn’t touching you…or even saying a word. But it still somehow, feels fucking filthier than last night.

-

Turn 9

The next time after that, didn’t happen for a bit. You were too scared to tell Lando.

The guilt ate at your skin every time he leaned on you. Every time he shoved his phone in your face to show you some stupid meme. 

He was your best friend. And he trusted you the most in the world.

And sneaking around with Oscar…behind his back…felt like the worst thing you could ever do.

So you pulled back. Pretended nothing happened. Ignored the way your thighs ached. Ignored the way your heartbeat went erratic whenever Oscar entered a room.

And Oscar wasn’t helping either.

He never really said a word. But he didn’t have to. 

Because his silence was worse than anything. Especially whenever he gave you that knowing stare…or that lazy half-grin like it was some fuckin secret. 

But it all broke down again one night. When the three of you decided to go out and explore at one of the races. 

Lando was halfway drunk and buzzing on another solid weekend for the team. So when he disappeared to go talk to someone, you were left with Oscar.

Alone.

And suddenly it felt like the loud noise of the bar was gone. Especially when Oscar leaned back in his chair, holding some drink, and eyes locked on you.

You shifted. “What?”

He didn’t blink. “Nothing…” And then a smirk. “Jus funny that you think ignoring me s’gonna work.”

Your throat went dry.

“Osc…”

“You’re terrible at it.” He cuts you off. Voice quiet. 

And his smirk only widens when he saw it. The way your knees were pressed together a little more than before.

His eyes are a little darker than before. Like he’s amused. Turned on.

“Every time y’look at me…” He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Like he was debating if he should even say it. But then he leans in closer. Lips hovering your ear. “Y’get that same fuckin’ look you had when I was buried inside you.”

You don’t even think you can speak if you tried.

And then he’s leaning back into his seat again. Like he didn’t just set you on fucking fire. Classic calm Oscar. 

“S’really cute though. Watching y’try to act normal.”

And your thighs press against each other tighter. And Oscar’s grin widens as he clocks it. His grin now borderline feral.

Then he sets his glass down. So casually. Tilts his head towards the side hallway. Like some silent demand.

You hesitate. But only for a second. And then you’re moving. Slipping out of your chair…heat crawling up your skin as you follow him.

And then the bathroom door barely makes it fully shut before he’s on you. 

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours. Desperate. Hungry. You gasp against him, and his hands are fucking everywhere. 

“Fuck…” You moan into his mouth as he speaks. And he basically swallows it whole. “Knew you’d come.”

You fist the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. 

“Oscar…”

He cuts your moan off with another kiss. Messy. Consuming.

And then breaks just enough to whisper against your lips. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you…bout that little fuckin’ noise you made when y’were begging.” His hand slips between your thighs. Right under your dress.

His fingers skim right over your clit, pressing right where you needed him. And a broken sound pushes past your lips.

Oscar smirks.

“Yeah…” He breathes, trailing his lips along the skin beneath your jaw. “That’s it….just like I fuckin’ remember.”

Your fingers fist the fabric tighter than before. Teeth probably sinking into his skin through the fabric. Head falling against the wall.

And the sound of Oscar pushing his fingers into you…is obscene.

It has you burning with embarrassment and need all at once.

“Didn’t even take a minute for y’to be dripping, hm?” He teases.

“Shut up,” you pant.

And then he’s pressing two fingers inside of you. Curling them deep as his thumb finds your clit again. 

Your body nearly collapses, but Oscar has you pinned to the wall with his body. 

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” He grunts, thrusting his fingers harder. “Not when you’re about to come all over m’fucking hand again.”

You drop your head into the crook of his shoulder. And he laughs.

“Yeah…go on then…m’fuck,” he huffs. “Give it to me, yeah? Want everyone to wonder why y’cant walk straight when we leave here.”

-

Turn 10

Nights during race weekends used to always end the same.

After a long day, you’d kick your shoes off in Lando’s hotel room and crawl right into the bed. And he’d put on whatever movie you wanted to help you sleep. It was routing. Easy.

And he’d always make room for you. Even if he was sprawled across the mattress like some sort of starfish…he’d scoot over as soon as you approached the bed.

Then he’d tuck himself into your side or sling an arm over your waist without even a thought. It wasn’t weird. And it never had been.

It was just what you guys did. 

He’d always say you make me sleep better and how your presence would always calm him down after a chaotic race weekend.

And not that you’d admit this to anyone else but him…but you’d slept better with him too.

But lately, nothing but guilt ate at you.

Because you weren’t always ending up in his room anymore. No, instead you were straight up lying to his face. Making nonstop excuses. Slipping out and down the hallways once he was settled in bed.

And ending up in Oscar’s instead.

And with Oscar…it was like setting yourself on fucking fire every time. Fingers digging into your hips enough to leave faint bruise marks. His low voice against your neck, muttering nothing but pure fucking filth. 

And the way he would kiss you like he was starving.

Oscar wasn’t safe or steady. He was like a live fucking wire you couldn’t stop touching. And every time you’d leave his bed…you swore it’d be the last.

But then you see Oscar again. Catch the lazy grin, the knowing head tilt, and then the guilt would slam right into you again.

Because you wanted him.

-

Turn 11

Being in a hotel room with Oscar was like a second home. And you hated how easy it felt to walk out of Lando’s door with some half-ass excuse to end up there.

Tonight, it was quieter. 

Oscar’s television glowed some random show neither of you were paying attention to. The sheets smelled like his body wash, and you were half-sprawled across his chest.

Legs tangled together. His hoodie swallowing you whole. 

“You’re warm,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Sn’t that the point?” He mutters. Lips twitching. His fingers drawing faint circles on the back of your thighs. “M’basically your human heater.”

You lift your head just enough to look at the smirk on his lips. 

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.” He leans closer, pressing a kiss into your hair. Like it’s so normal. Natural. 

And it makes your stomach twist because it feels easy. 

You tilt your head a book, narrowing your eyes in a joking manner. Before your mouth is spreading into a full grin. 

And his eyes flick down to your mouth instantly.

“Staring, hm?” You tease.

“Not gonna even bother denying…” His voice was soft. And then he was kissing you. Slow and unhurried. Like you really had all the time in the world.

And you melted right into his. Slid your fingers into his hair, tugging on the strands until he groaned into your mouth. And then he’s deepening the kiss. Pulling you closer into him (which is barely possible). 

“You’re a fuckin menace,” you whisper into his mouth.

“Y’love it though,” He kisses you again. Hungrier. Like he never wants to stop.

And it was comfortable. So domestic, that it really scared the fuck out of you. 

So when you pull back to breathe…to rest your head back onto his chest… both of you smiling, it makes your chest clench just a bit.

You listen to his heartbeat. Let his fingers trace your skin.

“Oscar…” your voice was quiet. Barely a whisper.

He hums, eyes on the television. “Hm?”

“We…I can’t…I can’t tell him yet.”

The words are too familiar. And Oscar’s reaction is too. 

And it makes him freeze. His hand pausing on your thigh, before falling away completely. And there’s fire in his eyes the next time you look at him.

“Not this again…” His tone is a little sharp. “How long do you plan to keep on dragging this exactly? Weeks?….Months?”

Your throat tightens. “Oscar…”

“No.” He cuts you off. You push off his chest to sit up on the bed, staring as he sits up against the headboard. “Don’t. Don’t give some fuckin’ excuse you’ve given me for months.” His jaw ticks. “M’not fucking stupid. I see the way y’two are…the way he leans on you…the way you laugh…the way he always fucking sleeps with his head on your shoulder while I’m right fucking there.”

You feel tears threaten to form. “He’s my best friend. Y’know that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar snaps. “I know…but it doesn’t feel like that. Not when I have to sit there and just watch him have what I’m not allowed to.”

You flinch. “That’s not fair.”

He laughs. But its bitter. And there’s no humor in it. “Fair?” His eyes narrow a bit. “Y’think this is about being fair? M’literally in love with you and having to sneak around like its something to be ashamed of.”

The room feels small. And the air in your lungs seizes.

“Osc…” your voice breaks. “Please…you can’t just say this.”

And his eyes soften just a bit, but his tone is still angry. “Why? Because if you admit that you feel the same, you’ll finally have to choose?”

Your lips part but you struggle to get the words out.

Because you do feel the same.

And you’ve felt it for weeks now….months even.

-

Turn 12

Oscar still brings the car home. But that slip off into the gravel in Turn 12, ruins the entire thing. Forces him to fight just to finish within the points.

And the sight of Lando standing on the podium, covered in champagne, grin sooo wide, fucking hurts Oscar.

And by the time he’s out of the car, he’s already unzipping his suit halfway down. Knotting it at his waist. Mouth in a flat line.

The kind of look on his face is one that makes everyone give him space.

He looks frustrated. Like the slump of his posture and the way his jaw ticks. Leg bouncing as he plops into a grave chair like he’s on fire. Gloves still in his hands, but they’re bunched into a fist.

You hesitate to approach, but you go anyways. Because you can’t not.

Your heart hurts for him.

“Hey,” you mutter. Voice soft. Careful, like you’re on tip toes.

He doesn’t look up. “Don’t.“

Your throat tightens. “Oscar…”

You watch as he drags a hand over his face, exhaling loudly. His hair’s a mess. Sweat forming on his forehead and a few strands stick to it. And when he finally decides to look at you…it’s not soft. It’s almost pained.

And it makes your stomach twist.

“Ninth.” He spits. Like its some form of fucking poison. “Could’ve done more…should’ve done more. But one fuckin’ mistake and m’scraping gravel like a fuckin’ rookie while he’s out there-“ He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “He’s out there taking everything I want.”

A knot forms in your throat. “Osc…that’s not fair..you-“

He cuts you off.

“NO.” He snaps. Eyes dark and wild. “What’s not fair is pretending it doesn’t fuckin’ kill me having to pretend all the fucking time. Watching you light up for him…pretending it doesn’t make me fuckin’ sick knowing he gets your arms around him while I get…” he exhales. “While I have to sit here in ninth and silence.”

You open your mouth but close it. Because you know what he means. You had hugged Lando up by the podium without even thinking. Grinning like your chest was about to burst.

And Oscar saw it. Of course he did.

“Oscar, it’s not..”

“Don’t.” He cuts you off again. Voice nearly breaking. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. Not when I can’t stop replaying every fuckin’ second of being with you..only f…only for you to crawl into his bed like I don’t exist after.”

The guilt claws at your chest. “Y’know its not like that, Osc.”

“Then tell me what it is.” His voice is hoarse. “Cause all this feels like is that I’m losing. On the rack. Off track…with you. Always.”

He drops his head into his hands, shaking it. Like he’s disgusted with himself.

But you can see it clear as day.

The anguish. The want. The love he’s been choking down on.

And it nearly makes you vomit.

-

Turn 13

The team dinner that night is loud.

Lando’s still on a high. Recounting every corner of the race like it’s the greatest story ever told. And everyone laughs and cheers when he reenacts his champagne spray celebration.

And you smile. You clap. And you laugh all at the right moments. But it feels wrong.

Because every time you glance at Oscar across the table, your stomach twists. He’s quiet. Sipping on some water, offering a small smile every so often. But it’s fake. 

When the dinner finally wraps into an end…and people start spilling out into the night. You try to slip away. 

But you feel the weight of his stare on your back as you do.

And sure enough, Oscar is leaning against the wall outside of the restaurant not even two minutes later. Hands in his pockets. Hair messy.

Your back is pressed into the wall as you let the air cool you off.

“Y’were gonna leave without talking to me.”

You swallow. “I figured you didn’t want to talk.”

He exhales. “That’s the problem. I do.”

And there’s a moment of silence. Until you’re turning your head to look at him now. Head still leaned against the wall. 

“Oscar…” you begin, but he shakes his head. Steps closer to you.

“Y’just don’t get it….It’s fucking me up.” His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you. But he keeps them at his sides.

“Y’think it’s not fucking me up too?”

His eyes are burning. Holding your gaze. “Then why do you keep choosing him?”

And you almost flinch. “M’not just choosing him, Osc. He’s my best friend…He’s-“

“Yeah,” Oscar laughs. “Your best friend who gets every part of you. Your comfort..your trust..your-“ He stops and presses his lips together. Like he was about to say too much but then held back. And then his voice is soft. “I want all of it…not just when the lights are off.”

And you reach for him. Fingers curling into his shirt to pull him closer until your faces are practically touching.

“Oscar…” your voice cracks. “You already have more of me than you think.”

He closes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, but then his mouth is on yours. Hard and desperate. The kind of kiss that feels like it might kill you both.

And later, the walk back to the hotel is quiet. You can still feel Oscar’s lips on you. Can feel his words buried beneath your skin when he confessed he wants all of you. 

And you thought you’d give him space. Let the frustration simmer for a bit. But the second Lando said he was stopping at the hotel bar for a bit, and Oscar’s chest brushed against your back as you turned around, it was enough.

Now, the door of your hotel room barely clicks shut before your back is pressed against the wall.

Oscar presses his body into yours. Solid. Mouth dragging along the skin of your neck. His stubble causing your skin tingling in its wake.

And you were still catching your breath from the walk up the stairs when his hands slip beneath your hoodie. Fingertips skimming your bare stomach.

“Y’wore this on purpose,” he mutters against your throat. His breath warm against your skin.

“It’s just a hoodie.”

And then he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. One brow raised, hands still roaming your stomach.

“No,” he says. Fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “It’s my hoodie. And y’knew exactly what y’were doing.”

You tilt your head, lips curved. “Y’just think everything’s about you, don’t you?”

His laugh is quiet. Soft. And then he’s bringing his lips back to the side of your neck, trailing up until they hover your ear. “Right now? It definitely is.”