reb's stories

Oscar Piastri possessed a deeply analytical mind. It was what made him a Formula 1 driver. He could look at a telemetry chart, see a dip in the throttle trace, and immediately understand how to correct his braking point for the next lap. He understood cause and effect. He understood data.

So, when he realized he was in love with Lando Norris halfway through their first season together in 2023, Oscar did what he always did: he analyzed the data.

The realization itself hadn't been explosive. It was a slow accumulation of evidence. It was the way his chest tightened when Lando’s laugh echoed across the garage, loud and unrestrained. It was the way his eyes naturally tracked Lando during track walks, watching the sun catch in those messy curls. It was the strange, hollow feeling in his stomach on the rare days they weren't scheduled for PR together.

Hypothesis, Oscar had thought to himself one evening in his hotel room after the British Grand Prix, staring at the ceiling. I have fallen for my teammate.

Then came the second part of the analysis: the probability of success.

Oscar watched Lando closely over the next few weeks. He watched Lando throw himself onto Carlos’s back in the paddock, laughing hysterically. He watched Lando wrap an arm tightly around a media officer’s shoulders while telling a joke. He watched Lando lean in close to George, their foreheads almost touching as they whispered about something on a phone screen.

The data was conclusive, and it was brutal.

Lando was simply a tactile, affectionate, effervescent person. He radiated warmth, and he shared it with everyone. When Lando bumped his shoulder against Oscar’s during interviews, or slung an arm around his waist in the engineering room, it felt like the center of the universe to Oscar. But to Lando? It was just a Tuesday. It was just how he existed in the world.

Conclusion, Oscar finalized, the thought heavy and cold in his chest. The feelings are unrequited. To act on them would compromise the working relationship and my own focus. Course of action: mitigate damage.

Oscar built a wall. It was made of polite smiles, perfectly timed dry humor, and a very deliberate, calculated physical distance.

He didn't want to hurt Lando. He just wanted to survive him.

⸻

The first time Lando truly noticed the shift was in Qatar. The heat had been punishing, the race entirely brutal. In the cooldown room, everyone was practically non-verbal. Lando, exhausted and seeking his usual comfort, had flopped down onto the sofa directly next to Oscar, letting his head drop heavily onto Oscar’s shoulder.

A month prior, Oscar would have stayed completely still, letting Lando rest, savoring the weight of him.

This time, Oscar’s inner monologue screamed at him. Don't get used to this. He just needs a pillow. You are just a convenient object. Oscar waited exactly three seconds before he shifted, patting Lando’s knee lightly. "Need to get some water, mate. Sorry."

He stood up smoothly, leaving Lando to awkwardly catch his own weight before he slumped against the back of the sofa. Oscar didn't look back as he walked to the fridge, though his chest ached fiercely. He kept his eyes on the water bottles, forcing his breathing to remain steady.

It’s for the best, Oscar reminded himself. Starve the fire, and eventually, it’ll burn out.

⸻

Over the winter break and into the 2024 season, the distance became Oscar's new normal. He was still Lando's teammate. He still defended him on track, still banter with him in McLaren Unboxed videos, and still played padel with him on Thursdays. But the lingering stopped. 

When a PR game ended, Oscar was the first to unclip his microphone and leave the room. When they took team photos, Oscar ensured there was always an inch of daylight between their shoulders.

He thought he was doing a great job of moving on. The sharp, breathless pain of his crush had hardened into a dull, manageable ache. What Oscar’s telemetry failed to account for was the variable that was Lando Norris’s own heart.

Lando felt the cold. Without Oscar’s quiet, steady presence anchoring him, Lando felt adrift. He had grown so accustomed to Oscar being his safe harbour, the calm counterpart to his own chaos, that the sudden, subtle withdrawal felt like a loss of gravity.

At first, Lando was just confused. Then, he was annoyed. Then, as he spent more time watching Oscar, really watching him, noting the sharp line of his jaw, the depth of his dark eyes when he was focused, the incredibly rare, soft smiles he reserved for his engineers, Lando realized something terrifying.

He wasn't just missing his friend. He was craving him.

Oscar had fallen quietly, a slow descent into deep water. Lando fell like a car losing its brakes at the end of a long straight, sudden, violent, and completely out of control, spinning while bracing for the incoming contact.

Lando, however, was not equipped for subtlety, though he genuinely tried.

⸻

It started in Miami. Oscar was sitting in his driver room, pouring over cornering data on his laptop, when the door swung open. Lando walked in, entirely unprompted, carrying a tray.

"Brought you a peace offering," Lando said, setting a cup down on the table next to Oscar’s laptop.

Oscar glanced at it, then at Lando. "A peace offering for what? We haven't argued."

"For being annoying during the track walk," Lando said easily, though there was a strange, nervous tension in his shoulders.

Oscar picked up the cup. It was an iced oat milk flat white with exactly half a pump of vanilla. It was an incredibly specific order Oscar had only mentioned once, in passing, during a flight to Melbourne months ago.

Oscar’s heart did a traitorous little flip, but his analytical brain instantly slammed the brakes. He’s just being nice. Jon probably got it and Lando took the credit. Or he's bored and wants to chat instead of doing his own data review.

"Thanks," Oscar said evenly, taking a sip and turning his eyes back to his screen. "You didn't have to."

Lando lingered. He shifted his weight, his fingers tapping against the edge of Oscar's desk. 

"Good, right?"

"It's fine, Lando. Thank you."

"Just fine?" Lando pushed, leaning down a little to try and catch Oscar's eye.

Oscar felt a flare of irritation, not at Lando, but at himself for how badly he wanted to look up, to lean in. Stop playing with me, Oscar thought bitterly. You don't mean anything by it, so stop making me hope.

"It's great, Lando. Really," Oscar said, his tone entirely flat. "I need to finish this sector three analysis before FP1."

Lando blinked, the playful light dimming slightly in his eyes. "Right. Yeah. See you out there, Osc."

When the door clicked shut, Oscar closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath. He pushed the coffee to the far edge of the desk.

⸻

By the time the European leg of the season was in full swing, Lando’s attempts had escalated, and Oscar’s denial was becoming a fortress.

If Lando touched him, Oscar deflected. During a post-qualifying interview in Silverstone, they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Lando, buzzing with adrenaline from a front-row lockout, wrapped his arm around Oscar’s waist. But it wasn't the usual quick, friendly squeeze. Lando’s hand stayed there, his thumb slowly, deliberately stroking the fabric of Oscar’s fireproofs just above his hip bone.

Oscar’s brain short-circuited. The touch felt branding, intimate, sending a rush of heat straight up his spine.

He’s playing up for the cameras, Oscar's mind frantically rationalized. Drive to Survive is filming. He knows the fans like it. It’s PR. It’s just PR.

With practiced casualness, Oscar reached down, grasped Lando’s wrist, and gently but firmly removed the hand from his waist, crossing his own arms over his chest.

"Yeah, the car felt really dialed in today," Oscar told the interviewer, not missing a beat.

Beside him, Lando went perfectly still. When Oscar finally risked a sideways glance, Lando was staring at the floor, his jaw tight, a look of genuine hurt flashing across his features before he masked it with a plastic media smile.

Oscar felt like a monster, but he forced himself to hold the line. If I let him in, and it's just a joke to him, I won't be able to put myself back together.

⸻

The breaking point arrived in the stifling, tense atmosphere of Abu Dhabi. The season was over. The relief in the paddock was palpable, a collective exhale. Oscar, however, was just exhausted. The mental gymnastics of defending his heart from Lando Norris for an entire calendar year had drained him more than any race ever could.

Oscar was in his driver room, forcefully shoving his fireproofs into his duffel bag, desperate to get to the hotel, get on a flight, and put thousands of miles between himself and his teammate.

The door opened. Oscar didn't need to look up to know who it was. The heavy click of the lock turning, however, made his head snap up.

Lando stood in front of the door. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't bouncing on his heels. He looked tired, serious, and dangerously determined.

"Did you forget something?" Oscar asked, forcing his voice into its usual monotone drawl. He turned back to his bag, zipping it with unnecessary force.

"Yeah," Lando said quietly. He took a step forward, then another, until he was in the center of the small room. "I forgot to ask why you’ve been treating me like a disease for the last ten months."

Oscar froze. He turned around slowly, his defensive shields immediately deploying. "I don't know what you're talking about. We've been fine. We secured P1 in the Constructors. It's been a great year."

"Don't give me the PR bullshit, Oscar," Lando snapped, his voice rough. The sudden flash of anger in Lando's tone startled Oscar. "I’m not the media. I'm me. And you have been freezing me out. You pull away every time I touch you. You look at me like I'm—like I'm nothing to you."

You're everything to me, Oscar’s treacherous heart screamed.

"I'm just focused on my job, Lando," Oscar said coldly, folding his arms. "I'm not here to mess around."

"I am not messing around!" Lando yelled, taking another step closer. The anger in his eyes was instantly drowned out by a desperate vulnerability. Oscar saw the tears starting to pool in Lando’s eyes. "I haven't been messing around since Australia! But every time I try to show you, you brush me off. You treat me like a joke."

Oscar scoffed, a bitter sound that surprised even him. The exhaustion was stripping away his filters. "Because you are a joke, Lando! Not you—but this. The way you act."

Lando flinched as if struck. "What?"

"You flirt with everyone," Oscar said, his voice rising, the months of repressed hurt finally spilling over. "You wrap yourself around Carlos, you bat your eyelashes at the interviewers, you act like everyone is the center of your universe. I refuse to be just another toy you play with until you're bored. I can't do it. So yes, I stepped back. Because I had to."

Lando stared at him, his chest heaving, processing the words. Then, the anger entirely vanished from his face, leaving behind something so raw and open it made Oscar want to look away.

"You think... you think I’m playing?" Lando’s voice was barely a whisper. He stepped into Oscar’s space, so close Oscar could feel the heat radiating off him. "Osc. You idiot. You brilliant, absolute idiot."

Oscar stiffened, his back pressing against the desk behind him. "Lando, back off—"

"No," Lando said fiercely. He brought his hands up, hovering them just inches from Oscar’s waist, asking for a silent permission he hadn't sought in months. "Oscar, look at me. Please."

Reluctantly, Oscar met his gaze.

"I joke around," Lando said, his voice trembling slightly. "I am clingy, yes. But I have never looked at anyone the way I look at you. I have never bought Carlos his hyper-specific coffee. I don't memorize George’s telemetry just to know what mood he'll be in. I am falling out of my mind for you, Oscar. I have been for months. And the harder I fell, the further away you ran."

Oscar’s breath hitched. The data... the data was suddenly changing. He searched Lando’s eyes, looking for the punchline, looking for the hidden camera, looking for the familiar mischief.

There was nothing but terrifying, undeniable sincerity.

He means it, Oscar’s mind whispered, the fortress walls suddenly turning to dust. He actually means it.

"You're not playing?" Oscar asked, his voice cracking, shedding the monotone entirely.

"I have never been more serious in my life," Lando murmured. Slowly, he closed the final gap, letting his hands settle gently on Oscar’s hips. He waited, his eyes locked on Oscar's, ready to pull away if Oscar flinched.

But Oscar didn't flinch. Instead, a massive, shuddering breath left his lungs. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since the summer of 2023 evaporated.

Oscar slowly lifted his hands, resting them flat against Lando’s chest, feeling the frantic, hammering heartbeat beneath the team shirt. "I fell for you in Silverstone," Oscar admitted, his voice quiet in the small room. "Last year."

Lando’s eyes widened astronomically. He let out a choked sound, his grip on Oscar’s hips tightening almost painfully. "Last year? Are you—Oscar, you let me think you hated me for a year while you already liked me?"

"I didn't think you could ever feel the same," Oscar said honestly, allowing his hands to slide up Lando's chest to rest on his shoulders. The physical contact, finally freely given, felt like a drug. "I analyzed the situation. It seemed highly improbable."

Lando let out a wet, breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Remind me to throw your laptop into the marina. Your analysis is shit."

Before Oscar could offer a dry retort, Lando’s hands slid up his back, pulling him flush against him. Lando buried his face in the crook of Oscar's neck, breathing him in like he was oxygen.

"I caught up," Lando whispered against Oscar’s skin, his arms wrapping around him like a vice, as if terrified Oscar might still try to run. "I swear to God, Osc. I caught up."

Oscar closed his eyes, finally, finally letting himself sink into the warmth. He brought his arms up, wrapping them tightly around Lando’s shoulders, pressing his face into Lando's curls.

"Yeah," Oscar murmured softly, a genuine, unguarded smile breaking across his face for the first time in months. "Yeah, you did."

⸻

By the time they stepped outside, the sun was hanging low over the horizon.

The entire backyard had been painted gold.

The maple trees stretched long shadows across the grass.

The flowerbeds glowed in the evening light.

Pink roses climbed the pergola overhead, weaving between wooden beams Simon had built himself years ago.

The vegetable garden sat beyond the patio, neat rows of tomatoes, peppers, basil, carrots, and lettuce thriving in raised beds.

Tiny lanterns hung from hooks around the patio.

Not lit yet.

Not needed.

The sunset was doing all the work.

Grace stopped for a moment.

Just looked.

Every time he thought he’d fully appreciated this place, he found something new.

The hammock beneath the trees.

The stone path winding through flowerbeds.

The bird feeder hanging near the fence.

The little wooden bench tucked beneath the shade where Simon and Sam probably sat together during summer afternoons.

It didn’t feel like a backyard.

It felt like a life.

A happy one.

“Ryland.”

Simon emerged from the kitchen carrying a large serving bowl.

“Stop staring and help.”

Grace immediately smiled.

“Sorry.” “No, you’re not.”

“No.”

Simon laughed.

“You can take the bread.”

“Got it.”

Sam appeared carrying a stack of napkins.

Or attempting to.

Half of them were upside down.

Several immediately blew away in the breeze

“Sam.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re creating weather.”

“I’M HELPING!”

Grace nearly dropped the bread laughing.

Simon shook his head.

“Go get those.”

Sam sprinted after the runaway napkins.

The three of them spent the next few minutes setting everything out.

Simon moved around the patio with practiced ease.

Plates.

Serving bowls.

Drinks.

Silverware.

Bread.

Salad.

The pasta he’d spent half the evening making.

Grace found himself watching him.

Again.

Simon always seemed busiest when he was taking care of people.

Making sure everyone had enough.

Making sure everything was ready.

Making sure nobody needed anything.

It was strangely beautiful.

“Grace.”

“Hm?”

“You’re staring again.”

Grace blinked.

“Oh.”

Simon smirked.

“Thought so.”

The bastard was getting confident.

“You kissed me.”

Simon nearly dropped the serving spoon.

Sam immediately looked up.

“What???”

“Nothing.”

Simon answered instantly.

“Nothing.”

Grace agreed.

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“You’re both weird.”

“Thank you. Must be genetics, Sam.” Simon sat down calmly.

The table arrangement happened naturally.

Sam immediately claimed the chair beside Simon.

Which left Grace with the chair on Simon’s other side.

Close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed.

Not that Grace noticed.

He absolutely noticed.

The smell of dinner drifted through the air.

Fresh herbs.

Garlic.

Warm bread.

The sweetness of tomatoes.

Everything looked incredible.

Sam looked ready to launch himself across the table.

“Can we eat already?”

“Can we sit down first?”

Simon asked.

“We are sitting down.”

Grace laughed.

“He’s got a point.”

Simon sighed dramatically.

“I’m surrounded.”

“You really are.” Grace said.

“Good.” Sam added.

The meal finally began.

Before Sam could reach for anything, Simon automatically started filling his plate.

A scoop of pasta.

A spoonful of vegetables.

A piece of bread.

The movement was effortless.

Unthinking.

Something he’d clearly done thousands of times.

“There.” Simon said.

“Thanks, Dad.” The smile Sam gave him was immediate.

Bright.

Happy.

And Simon smiled right back.

Just as easily.

Grace watched the exchange.

Something tightened painfully inside his chest.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Because it felt so good.

Too good.

Watching them together.

Watching Simon gently remind Sam to eat vegetables.

Watching Sam immediately ignore him.

Watching Simon steal a tomato from Sam’s plate.

Watching Sam protest.

“THAT WAS MINE.”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was thinking about eating it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is in my heart.”

Grace laughed so hard he nearly choked.

Simon looked entirely unimpressed.

“Your heart is wrong.”

“My heart says dessert first.”

“Your heart is stupid.”

“Dad! You can’t just say that!?”

Grace was laughing too hard to help.

The conversation drifted everywhere after that.

School.

Apparently one of Sam’s classmates had attempted to convince everyone that dolphins were secretly government employees.

“To be fair—”

Grace pointed his fork.

“The evidence is compelling.”

“THANK YOU.”

Sam pointed right back. Simon stared at both of them.

“I’m the only normal one here.”

“Correct!” Grace said.

“Completely alone.”

The evening grew softer as they talked.

The sun disappeared.

The sky shifted from gold to pink to deep blue.

The lanterns flickered on around the patio.

Fireflies appeared beyond the garden.

Still they kept talking.

Sam launched into a detailed explanation of dinosaurs.

Grace contributed facts.

Simon listened with the expression of a man who had heard all of this before.

Multiple times.

“You know.”

Grace said.

“I actually think velociraptors get a bad reputation.”

Sam gasped, turning his head toward Simon so quick that the man was worried he hurt himself in he process.

“DAD. SEE?”

Simon immediately regretted inviting another dinosaur enthusiast into his home.

The conversation continued.

Easy.

Natural.

Comfortable. And somewhere in the middle of it, Grace came to a conclusion that scared him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this happy.

Not excited.

Not entertained.

Happy.

The kind that settled deep in your chest.

The kind that made everything feel right.

Simon laughing beside him.

Sam telling a story across the table.

The garden glowing softly around them.

Dinner stretching long into the evening.

It felt like something he’d been missing for years without knowing it.

And suddenly—

Painfully—

Grace wanted it.

Not tonight.

Not just this dinner.

All of it.

The garden.

The laughter.

The meals.

The conversations.

The terrible dinosaur debates.

Simon.

Sam.

This.

For a wild moment he wanted it forever.

The thought hit him so hard he almost stopped breathing.

Because it was far too soon.

Far too much.

Far too dangerous.

So he kept smiling.

Kept laughing.

Kept listening to Sam explain why a triceratops would beat a tank in a fight.

And said absolutely none of it out loud.

Meanwhile Simon sat beside him, shoulder brushing his every now and then.

Smiling into his glass.

Listening to the people he cared about most.

Completely unaware that Grace was already imagining a future he wasn’t brave enough to name.

———————————————

By the time dessert appeared, Sam was already beginning to fade.

Not that he would ever admit it.

“I’m not tired.”

Simon set a plate in front of him.

“You just yawned so hard I saw your soul leave your body.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.” Grace took a sip of wine.

“It was pretty dramatic, bud.”

“Traitors.”

Sam pointed his fork at both of them.

Simon smiled.

Easy.

Happy.

God, Grace thought.

He loved that smile.

The dessert turned out to be an apple pie.

Not store-bought.

Of course not.

Simon apparently didn’t believe in doing anything halfway.

The crust was golden.

Flaky.

Perfect.

The filling smelled like cinnamon and brown sugar.

Grace took one bite. Then stared at Simon.

“…Are you kidding me?”

Simon immediately looked suspicious.

“What is it?”

“This is incredible.”

“It’s pie.”

“No.”

Grace pointed his fork.

“This is the pie people write poems about.”

Sam nodded emphatically.

Mouth full.

“See? I told you.”

Simon rolled his eyes.

Though he looked pleased.

“You’re both ridiculous.”

“We’re right.” Grace said.

“We are.” Sam agreed.

And for some reason Simon’s smile lingered.

The rest of dessert disappeared surprisingly quickly.

Mostly because Sam inhaled his slice.

Then attempted to negotiate for a second.

“No.” Simon said immediately.

“Whyyyyy?”

“You’ll explode.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“You absolutely will.”

Grace laughed into his wine glass.

Eventually Sam’s protests became progressively slower.

His eyelids started drooping.

His words became slightly less coherent.

Halfway through a story involving an interstellar spaceship and a submarine he yawned again. Grace smiled. “There it is.”

“There what is.” Sam asked as he rubbed at his eyes.

“The tired.”

“I’m not tired.” Another yawn.

Simon looked delighted.

“Oh, he’s tired.”

“I am not.”

“Buddy.”

Simon laughed.

“You can barely keep your eyes open.”

Sam considered arguing.

Then yawned a third time.

His fate was sealed.

Ten minutes later Simon stood.

“Come on.”

“I’m not—” Yawn. “Tired.”

“Sure.”

Grace watched as Simon gently ruffled Sam’s hair.

The kid immediately leaned into it.

Almost unconsciously.

Simon leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Come on, bud, it’s late, you will be tired tomorrow if you stay up for longer.”

Something soft settled in Grace’s chest.

Again.

Always. “Night, Mr. Grace.”

“Goodnight, buddy.”

Sam hesitated.

Then unexpectedly wrapped his arms around Grace.

The hug was quick.

Tight.

Then he immediately ran off before anybody could make a big deal about it.

Grace stood there for a second.

Staring after him.

Simon’s expression softened.

“He likes you.”

Grace looked over.

“I like him too.”

The words came out quieter than he’d intended.

Simon smiled.

“I know.”

A few minutes later they heard a bedroom door close upstairs.

Then silence.

The kind of silence that only existed once a child had finally fallen asleep.

The house suddenly felt different.

Not empty.

Just quieter.

More intimate somehow.

———————————————

Grace helped gather plates.

Simon carried serving bowls inside.

The kitchen lights glowed warm against the darkening windows.

Outside, the backyard had slipped fully into evening.

Lanterns twinkled softly along the patio.

Fireflies drifted lazily among the flowers.

The two of them worked together naturally.

Grace rinsed dishes.

Simon loaded the dishwasher.

At one point they both reached for the same plate.

Their hands bumped.

Neither moved immediately.

Grace smiled.

Simon smiled back. “You’re staring again.”

“You keep being so pretty.”

Simon nearly dropped the plate.

Grace laughed immediately.

“That worked.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yet here I am.”

“Unfortunately.”

Grace grinned.

The dishwasher clicked shut.

The counters were wiped down.

The leftovers packed away.

Eventually there was nothing left to do.

The kitchen stood clean.

Quiet.

Finished.

For a moment neither moved.

Then Grace stepped closer.

Simon looked up.

Before he could say anything—

Grace leaned down.

And kissed his cheek.

Soft.

Gentle.

Lingering just long enough to make Simon’s breath catch.

When he pulled away Simon looked momentarily stunned.

Then a faint flush crept into his face.

Grace smiled.

“There.” The blonde man said while slowly coming close enough to hug Simon. “You looked like you needed one.”

Simon laughed and he was close to Grace he felt the hot breath on his neck.

A quiet sound.

“Needed one.”

“Definitely.”

“Good to know.” The warmth that spread through Simon’s chest felt almost embarrassingly pleasant.

For years his life had been work.

Home.

Sam.

Repeat.

And he’d been happy.

Genuinely happy.

But this—

This felt different.

New.

Like finding something he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

Grace nudged his shoulder.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“You have a beautiful backyard.”

Simon smiled.

“Fair.”

———————————————

A few minutes later they returned to the patio carrying fresh glasses and another bottle of wine.

The night air was cool.

Comfortable.

The lanterns cast soft pools of golden light across the table.

The flowers rustled gently in the breeze.

Crickets sang somewhere beyond the fence.

Grace settled into the chair beside him.

Close enough that their knees occasionally brushed.

Neither commented on it.

The second bottle opened with a quiet pop.

Simon leaned back in his chair.

Glass in hand.

Garden spread before him.

The house behind him.

Sam asleep upstairs.

Grace beside him.

For the first time all day there was absolutely nothing left to do.

Nothing to fix.

Nothing to cook.

Nothing to clean.

Just this.

The cool night.

The scent of roses.

The soft glow of lantern light.

The quiet company of someone he genuinely wanted near him.

Simon took a slow sip of wine.

Looked out across the garden he’d spent years building.

Then glanced at Grace.

Grace was already looking at him.

Smiling.

And something deep inside Simon settled.

Content.

Satisfied.

Peaceful.

Like every important thing in his world was exactly where it belonged.

The patio had grown quieter as the evening deepened.

The lanterns hanging from the pergola cast soft pools of golden light across the stone.

Crickets chirped somewhere beyond the fence.

The air smelled faintly of lavender, rosemary, and the last lingering warmth of the beginning of summer.

Grace tipped the last sip of wine around his glass and glanced toward the far corner of the garden.

Toward the hammock stretched between the two maple trees.

The hammock swayed gently in the breeze.

For a moment he just looked at it.

Then looked at Simon.

Then looked at it again.

“…Can I sit in your hammock?”

Simon stared.

Grace blinked.

“What?” Simon looked genuinely baffled. “You just asked permission to sit in a hammock.”

“…Yes?”

Simon laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that made his shoulders shake.

Grace immediately looked offended.

“It’s your hammock.”

“It’s a hammock, Grace.”

“Still!”

“You think I’m going to say no?”

“I don’t know, I hope not.” That made Simon laugh even harder.

“You absolutely do know.”

Grace grinned into his wine glass.

“Maybe.”

Simon shook his head.

“Unbelievable.”

A few minutes later they carried the wine bottle and their glasses across the garden.

The grass brushed against their ankles as they walked.

The evening air was cool now.

Comfortable.

The hammock sat beneath the maple trees Simon had planted when Sam was little.

Their branches stretched overhead, leaves whispering softly in the breeze.

Moonlight filtered through them in silver patches.

Beside the hammock sat two lounge chairs and a small wooden table.

Grace carefully set the glasses down.

Then immediately climbed into the hammock.

The entire thing dipped sharply to one side.

“Uh oh”

Simon laughed.

“What happened?”

“It’s deeper than I expected.”

“It’s a hammock, Ryland.”

“I know what a hammock is.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

Grace pointed at him. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m being accurate.”

Grace settled more comfortably into the fabric.

Looking entirely too pleased with himself.

The sight made something warm settle in Simon’s chest.

Because Grace looked happy.

Not teacher-happy.

Not polite-happy.

Actually happy.

The kind that softened his entire face.

Grace looked up.

Caught Simon staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

Grace smiled.

The moonlight caught in his curls.

The lantern glow from the patio reached just far enough to illuminate his face.

And suddenly Simon had the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

The realisation hit him so abruptly that he almost laughed.

Because for weeks he’d been trying very hard not to think about things like that.

And now Grace was lying in his hammock.

In his garden.

Smiling up at him.

Making that effort significantly more difficult.

Grace’s smile softened.

“What are you thinking about?”

Simon stepped closer.

“Nothing.”

“That face means it’s definitely something.”

Simon shook his head.

“You analyse children for a living.”

“Correct.”

“You shouldn’t use those powers on adults.”

Grace laughed.

“Too late.”

For a moment neither moved.

Then Simon leaned down.

Grace’s breath caught.

The movement was slow enough that Grace knew what was happening.

Slow enough that he could have pulled away.

He didn’t. He leaned into Simon’s direction more than he already had.

Simon brushed a hand against his shoulder.

Then gently kissed him.

Soft.

Warm.

Unhurried.

The kind of kiss that felt less like a question and more like an answer.

Grace melted immediately.

Completely.

When Simon finally pulled back, Grace looked dazed.

Simon laughed softly.

“You did that.”

“I did.”

“You just kissed me again.”

“Seems that way.”

Grace looked delighted.

Absolutely delighted.

“You are smiling.”

“So are you.”

“I can’t help it, I’m happy!”

For a second they simply looked at each other.

Then Grace reached out.

Caught the front of Simon’s shirt.

“Get in here already, Simon!”

Simon laughed.

“That’s your solution?”

“Yes.”

“Very persuasive argument.”

“I know.”

Simon climbed carefully into the hammock beside him.

The fabric shifted.

The entire thing swayed.

For one alarming second they nearly tipped out.

Grace immediately grabbed Simon.

Simon immediately grabbed Grace.

And then they both started laughing.

“Disaster.”

“Your idea.”

“Worth it.”

Eventually they settled.

Grace ended up tucked securely against Simon’s side.

His head resting beneath Simon’s chin.

One arm draped comfortably across Simon’s waist.

The hammock rocked gently.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Above them, the maple leaves whispered.

Around them, the garden breathed quietly in the night.

Grace could hear Simon’s heartbeat.

Slow.

Steady.

He closed his eyes.

And felt Simon’s arm tighten slightly around him.

Comfortable.

Protective.

Affectionate.

For a long moment neither spoke.

Neither needed to.

The house stood warm behind them.

Sam asleep upstairs.

The dishes clean.

Dinner finished.

The garden blooming around them.

And as the hammock swayed beneath the trees, Grace found himself smiling against Simon’s shoulder.

Because for the first time in a very long time—

Everything felt exactly right.

The following Monday arrived faster than expected.

Simon pulled into the school pickup line a few minutes early.

As usual. And as usual, Grace spotted him almost immediately.

The smile appeared.

Instantly.

Simon felt something strange happen in his chest. Not unpleasant.

Just—

There. Grace waved.

Simon waved back.

At this point pretending otherwise would have been ridiculous.

When Grace walked over, he looked significantly healthier.

The color had returned to his face.

The cough was mostly gone.

The shadows beneath his eyes had faded. He managed to look even more beautiful than before.

“Look at that.” Simon nodded at Grace. “You’re alive.”

Grace laughed.

“I missed you too.”

Simon stared.

Grace grinned.

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“No.”

For some reason, that made Simon smile.

A real smile.

Brief.

But real.

Grace noticed immediately.

And looked absurdly pleased about it. Which was unfortunate.

Because Simon was beginning to discover that he liked making Ryland Grace smile.

That seemed like the sort of thing that could become a problem.

A very large problem.

Especially because Grace looked at him for a moment and said quietly:

“I’m really looking forward to Saturday.”

The words were simple.

Nothing unusual.

Yet somehow they lingered.

And Simon found himself answering honestly.

“Me too.”

Grace’s smile softened. “Yeah?”

Simon glanced toward the school doors.

Toward the crowd of students beginning to emerge.

Anywhere except directly at Grace.

“Yeah.”

This time when Grace smiled, it wasn’t bright.

It wasn’t teasing.

It wasn’t playful.

It was something gentler.

Something warm.

Something that stayed with Simon long after Sam came running out of the school and launched himself directly into his arms.

———————————————

Saturday evening arrived warm and bright.

The kind of evening at the beginning of summer that seemed reluctant to end.

Golden sunlight spilled across the backyard, catching on leaves and flower petals and making everything glow.

Simon was in the garden when the doorbell rang.

He heard Sam sprint through the house immediately afterward.

Of course he did.

“I GOT IT!”

Simon smiled to himself and continued tying up one of the tomato plants.

The tomatoes had gotten heavy over the last week.

A few branches were starting to sag.

He adjusted the twine carefully.

Checked the leaves.

Pinched off a sucker.

Routine.

Comfortable.

He heard the front door open.

“Mr. Grace!”

“Hi, Sam.”

“Come outside.”

“Can I at least take my shoes off first?”

“No.”

There was a pause.

“…Okay.”

Simon snorted.

A moment later he heard footsteps crossing the patio.

Then silence. Complete silence.

That got his attention.

Simon looked up.

Grace had stopped walking.

Completely.

The grocery bag in his hand hung forgotten at his side.

His eyes were wide.

“…Holy shit.”

Simon blinked. He has never heard the blonde man swear before.

“Grace, language.”

Grace slowly turned in a circle.

The patio stretched behind him beneath a wooden pergola draped with climbing roses.

Pink blooms spilled over the beams overhead.

Flowerbeds bordered the yard in bursts of color.

Lavender swayed gently in the breeze.

Purple salvia and black-eyed Susans crowded together beneath the fence.

Clusters of daisies nodded in the sunlight.

Bees drifted lazily between blossoms.

Beyond the flowers stood several mature trees and some that looked younger but just as sturdy.

A maple spread its branches over half the yard.

Another shaded a hammock that swayed gently in the afternoon breeze.

Beneath one tree sat two lounge chairs with a small table between them.

A place made specifically for sitting in the shade with a cold drink and absolutely no responsibilities. And stretching across the far side of the yard were Simon’s vegetable beds.

Rows of tomatoes. Peppers. Beans. Lettuce. Herbs.

Everything green and thriving.

Everything meticulously cared for.

The entire yard looked alive.

Grace stared.

Simon stared back.

“Hello?”

“Simon.”

“Yes?”

“This is ridiculous.”

Simon frowned. He suddenly felt self-conscious.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Grace gestured wildly at the entire backyard.

“THIS!”

His hand swept through the air.

“The flowers!”

Another gesture.

“The trees!”

Another.

“The vegetables!”

Another.

“THE HAMMOCK!?”

Simon looked toward the hammock.

“What about it?”

“It’s a hammock.” Grace said with the best poker face he could manage in that moment.

“…Yeah.”

Grace looked personally offended.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted a hammock?”

Simon blinked. “No? Is that something I should have known beforehand?”

“Years, Simon. YEARS.”

Okay… Ryland completely ignored the last question and Simon felt even more endeared and confused.

“That’s true.” Sam nodded solemnly, his eyes closed.

“How do you know that?” The sudden interjection of his son made Simon wonder if hammocks really were such a common topic of conversation he didn’t know about.

“He talks a lot.”

“I really do.” Grace agreed with a serious look.

Simon wanted to burst out laughing at the two.

Grace slowly wandered farther into the yard.

Like someone exploring a museum.

His fingers brushed over a lavender bloom.

He paused beneath the maple tree.

Looked up through the branches.

Watched sunlight filter through the leaves.

“It’s so quiet.”

The observation came softly.

Almost to himself.

Simon shrugged.

“Usually.”

“No, I mean…”

Grace turned slowly.

Looking around again.

“It feels peaceful.”

His gaze lingered on the flowers.

The trees.

The garden beds.

“It feels like a place people actually live.”

The words made Simon pause.

Grace laughed awkwardly.

“That sounded weird, didn’t it?”

“It didn’t.”

For some reason, that made Grace smile.

He stopped beside one of the raised vegetable beds.

“Oh my god.”

“What.”

“Are those tomatoes?”

Simon stared.

“Yes?” Has Grace always been this easily impressed?

“There are like fifty plants.”

“There are only twelve.”

“TWELVE?”

Sam immediately appeared beside Grace.

“Dad says twelve like that’s normal.”

“It is normal.”

“It is not.”

Grace pointed dramatically at the nearest plant.

“It’s taller than me.”

“It really isn’t.” Simon felt himself smile bigger than before.

“It’s emotionally taller than me.”

Sam laughed so hard he nearly fell over.

Simon shook his head.

Idiots.

Both of them.

Grace crouched beside one of the beds.

Looking closer.

“You really grew all this yourself?”

“Most of it.”

“Most of it?”

Simon pointed toward the herb garden.

“Some of those were already here.”

Grace stared.

“Simon.”

“What.”

“That does not count.”

“It counts.”

“No.”

“It does.”

“No.”

Simon smiled.

Just slightly.

Grace noticed immediately.

His expression softened.

Then he looked around the yard again.

At the flowers.

The trees.

The vegetables.

The patio.

The hammock.

The climbing roses.

Everything.

“You always wanted this, didn’t you?”

The question caught Simon off guard.

“What do you mean?”

Grace looked toward the flowerbeds.

“This.”

His voice was quieter now.

“Not the garden.”

He gestured around them.

“All of it.”

The house.

The yard.

The life built inside it.

For a moment Simon was silent.

Then he looked out across the garden.

The place he’d spent years building.

One weekend at a time.

One flower at a time.

One tree at a time.

“Yeah.”

The answer came easily.

“When Sam was little, I always wanted a garden.”

Grace listened.

“Flowers he could stop and smell.”

Simon nodded toward the flowerbeds.

“He used to do that all the time when he was a baby.”

“Daaaaaaad!”

“You did.”

“I was two.”

“You still do.”

Grace laughed.

Simon smiled.

Then he looked toward the trees.

“Places to sit in the shade.”

The hammock.

The chairs.

The patio.

“Somewhere to spend time outside.”

His gaze settled on the vegetable beds.

“And a vegetable garden.”

Grace smiled.

“Why.”

Simon looked genuinely confused.

“Because good vegetables are expensive?”

Grace barked out a laugh.

“No, I mean—”

He stopped.

Then smiled.

Warm and genuine.

“I like that that’s your answer.”

For a moment neither of them spoke.

The breeze stirred the flowers.

Leaves rustled overhead.

Somewhere nearby a wind chime rang softly.

Grace looked around one last time.

Then back at Simon.

The smile on his face had softened into something fond.

Something quiet. “You built something really beautiful here.”

Simon opened his mouth.

Probably to argue.

Then stopped.

Because for once, Grace wasn’t talking about the garden.

And they both knew it.

———————————————

The kitchen smelled like garlic, rosemary, butter, and fresh bread.

It was one of those comforting smells that seemed to wrap around a person the second they stepped inside.

The windows above the sink were open, letting in the cool evening air from the backyard. Outside, the garden glowed beneath the setting sun. Golden light filtered through the maple trees, painting long shadows across the lawn. Somewhere near the flower beds, a bee drifted lazily between the lavender blooms.

And from farther out in the yard came the occasional shout from Sam.

“AND THE DINOSAUR ATTACKS!”

Simon didn’t even look up from the stove.

“What dinosaur?”

“The BIG ONE.”

“That narrows it down.”

Grace was already laughing.

A moment later came a dramatic sound effect.

Apparently the dinosaur had exploded.

Simon shook his head.

“Ten bucks says he’s fighting an invisible T-Rex.” Grace walked over to the window.

Sam was indeed battling absolutely nothing.

“You’re good.”

“I know my kid.”

There was something in Simon’s voice when he said it.

Something warm.

Proud.

The sort of thing Grace had noticed every time Sam came up in conversation.

Grace smiled.

“You really adore him.”

Simon glanced over.

The answer came instantly.

Without hesitation.

Without embarrassment.

“Of course I do! He’s my boy.”

The simplicity of it made Grace’s chest ache.

Not because it was surprising.

Because it wasn’t.

Simon loved Sam in every possible way.

You could see it in the way he listened when Sam talked.

The way he always knew where his son was.

The way he smiled when he thought nobody was looking.

The way he’d built an entire life around making sure Sam had somewhere safe and happy to grow up.

Grace found himself looking around the kitchen again. The house felt lived in.

Not decorated.

Not staged.

Lived in.

A drawing sat on the refrigerator.

There were magnets from places Simon and Sam had visited together.

A pair of muddy soccer cleats sat near the back door.

A cookbook rested open on the counter with handwritten notes in the margins.

The whole house felt warm.

Like Simon.

Even if Simon insisted on pretending otherwise.

“Okay!” Grace clapped his hands together.

Grace set the grocery bag on the counter.

“I brought things!”

Simon immediately looked suspicious.

“You didn’t have to, you’re our guest, Ryland.”

Grace began unpacking the bag, trying to not make it obvious how much Simon saying his name made him blush instantly.

“Cheese.”

A wedge appeared.

“Crackers.”

Another item.

“Strawberries.”

Simon raised an eyebrow.

“Are we opening a grocery store I didn’t know about?”

Grace ignored him.

“And—”

Two wine bottles emerged.

Simon immediately smiled.

A real smile.

Not the tiny ones.

Not the reluctant ones.

A genuine smile.

Grace felt his stomach do a strange little flip.

“You brought wine.”

“I did.” Grace smiled bigger than before.

“That’s dangerous.” The smirk Simon had on his face while saying that gave Grace goosebumps.

“Why?”

“Because I like wine.”

“Oh no.”

“So now I have to drink it.”

Grace laughed.

“What a burden, Simon.”

“Terrible.”

Simon took the bottle.

Turning it over to read the label.

Grace watched him.

The sunlight caught against Simon’s profile.

The curve of his smile.

The tiny lines near his eyes that only appeared when he was genuinely happy.

God. He was so beautiful.

This was unfair.

Simon looked up.

“Hm?”

“You smiled.”

“I do that.”

“You should do it more.”

Simon snorted.

“You sound like Sam.”

“Sam is right about a lot of things.”

“That’s concerning.”

“It should be.”

Simon laughed again.

And Grace thought he could happily spend the rest of his life making that happen.

The thought arrived suddenly.

Unexpectedly.

And stayed.

———————————————

Twenty minutes later they were cooking together.

Or rather—

Simon was cooking. Grace was being supervised.

“This is ridiculous.”

“What is.”

Grace held up a tiny bowl.

“You’ve assigned me herb duty.”

“Correct.” Simon gave a small nod while preparing the sauce.

“I’m thirty-four!”

“Congratulations.” Another nod.

“I have a master’s degree!”

“Very impressive.” Another one.

“I can chop vegetables, come on, Simon.”

Simon pointed a spoon at him.

“You almost cut your finger opening the cheese. I don’t want you to get hurt, Ryland.”

Grace gasped.

“That was one time.”

“It was ten minutes ago.”

“Details.”

Simon smiled into his wine glass.

God.

That smile.

Grace was beginning to understand why children willingly listened to this man.

Because every time Simon smiled it felt like receiving a reward.

Eventually Grace managed to convince Simon to let him chop something.

The victory lasted approximately forty-five seconds. “You’re holding the knife wrong.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Grace looked scandalised.

“Simon.”

“What.”

“Do you honestly think I’m incapable of basic survival?”

Simon immediately answered.

“Sometimes. A lot of times actually.” The sincere answer caught him off guard.

Grace laughed so hard he nearly dropped the knife.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious.”

“No you’re not.”

“I absolutely am.”

“You made soup for me.”

The words slipped out unexpectedly.

The kitchen grew slightly quieter.

Simon looked away first.

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“It was.”

“No.”

“It was.”

Grace set the knife down.

His expression softened.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Simon shrugged.

“You were sick.”

“Most people would’ve just said ‘feel better.’”

“Most people are lazy.”

Grace laughed softly.

But his chest felt warm.

Because Simon genuinely didn’t seem to understand what he’d done.

Didn’t understand that someone making homemade soup and carrying it to a school because they were worried about you wasn’t normal.

Not really.

Not unless they cared.

And Simon cared.

So much.

About everyone he loved.

Especially Sam.

And maybe—

Maybe Grace too.

The thought made him smile.

Simon noticed immediately.

“What’s that look?” Being faced with a wooden spoon, Grace moved his head around the spoon so he could look in Simon’s eyes properly again.

“What look?” The blonde man’s voice was laced with fake innocence.

“That one.”

Grace grinned.

“You like taking care of people.”

Simon rolled his eyes.

“I like feeding people.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It isn’t.”

“It absolutely is.”

Simon opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Thought about it.

“…Maybe”

Grace’s smile softened.

“Yeah.”

For a moment they simply looked at each other.

The house was quiet.

The evening light had deepened outside.

Everything glowed amber.

Then Grace stepped forward.

Without really thinking.

Without planning it.

He slipped his arms around Simon’s waist from behind.

Simon froze instantly.

The wooden spoon stopped moving.

The sauce continued bubbling softly on the stove.

For a second Grace worried he’d overstepped.

Then Simon relaxed.

Just slightly.

And Grace felt himself breathe again.

“Hi.”

His voice came out quieter than usual.

Simon laughed softly.

“Hi.”

Grace rested his cheek against Simon’s shoulder.

Because Simon was shorter.

Not by much.

Just enough.

The position felt strangely natural.

Comfortable.

The warmth of Simon’s back seeped through his shirt.

The scent of rosemary and soap lingered in the air.

Outside, Sam continued yelling about dinosaurs.

Inside, everything felt still.

“I like this.”

Simon’s voice softened.

“The kitchen?”

“The kitchen.”

Grace tightened his arms slightly.

“The garden.”

A pause.

“The house.”

Another pause.

“You.”

Simon went completely silent.

Grace could practically hear the gears in his head grinding to a halt.

Which was adorable.

Infuriatingly adorable.

After several seconds Simon finally managed:

“You’re making it very difficult to concentrate.”

Grace smiled against his shoulder.

“Good, that was my intention all along.”

“That’s not helping.”

“I know.”

Simon laughed helplessly.

And for one dangerous moment—

One very dangerous moment—

He turned his head slightly.

Just enough that Grace could see the expression on his face.

The fondness.

The affection.

The want.

The look of a man fighting every instinct telling him to turn around and kiss someone senseless. Grace’s heart nearly stopped.

Outside, Sam yelled something about a meteor strike.

Inside, dinner simmered gently on the stove.

The garden glowed beyond the windows.

And neither of them moved.

Because somehow standing there together felt just as perfect as everything else.

For a long moment neither of them moved.

The sauce simmered quietly on the stove.

The open windows let in the scent of roses and lavender from the garden.

Outside, the leaves of the maple trees rustled softly in the breeze.

The whole house felt warm.

Comfortable.

Safe.

Grace could feel Simon breathing.

Slow.

Steady.

Though maybe not quite as steady as before.

“You’re thinking.”

Simon’s laugh vibrated through his chest.

“You’re one to talk.”

“I always talk.”

“I know.”

“Everybody knows.”

“Believe me.”

Simon shook his head slightly.

“Everybody knows.”

Grace grinned.

“Yet you still invited me over.”

“Questionable judgment on my part.”

“You like me.”

The words came far too easily.

Far too confidently.

Simon immediately groaned.

“Oh god.”

Grace laughed.

“You do!”

“You’re impossible.”

“You didn’t deny it!”

Simon finally turned off the burner.

The spoon clattered softly against the edge of the pot.

Still Grace didn’t let go.

Still Simon didn’t ask him to.

The realisation made something warm spread through Grace’s chest.

“You know,” Grace said quietly, “I was really nervous coming here.”

That got Simon’s attention.

“Nervous?”

“Very.”

“You talk to hundreds of people every day.”

“Children.”

“Children are terrifying.”

Grace laughed.

“Fair.”

For a moment he watched the backyard through the kitchen window.

The garden beds.

The flowers.

The hammock beneath the maple tree.

Then he rested his chin on Simon’s shoulder again.

“This felt different.”

“Why.”

Grace was quiet for a second.

Because the answer felt embarrassingly honest.

Because the truth was—

“Because I wanted you to like me.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Silence.

Complete silence.

Outside, Sam screamed something incomprehensible about a dinosaur uprising.

Inside, neither of them spoke.

Grace suddenly became aware of exactly what he’d said.

“…Well.”

Simon laughed softly.

“Well.”

“That wasn’t supposed to come out.”

“I figured.”

Grace groaned and buried his face against Simon’s shoulder.

“This is a disaster.”

“No.”

“It absolutely is.”

“It’s really not.”

Grace peeked up.

Simon was smiling.

Not laughing.

Not teasing.

Just smiling.

The soft kind.

The one Simon never seemed to realise he was doing.

“Ryland.”

“Yeah?”

“I invited you into my house.”

Grace blinked.

“Yeah.

“I made enough food for an army.”

“You definitely did.”

“I spent two days deciding what dessert to make.”

Grace’s eyes widened.

“You spent two days deciding?”

Simon immediately looked annoyed with himself.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

Grace was already grinning.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t.”

“You spent two days choosing dessert.”

“Grace.”

“You like me.”

Simon covered his face with one hand.

“You are never going to let this go.”

“No.”

“Wonderful.”

“No, seriously.”

Grace laughed.

“I might actually frame this.”

Simon turned around then.

Finally.

Grace’s arms loosened enough for him to pivot.

Now they were standing face-to-face.

Close.

Far closer than either of them had been for most of the evening.

The kitchen suddenly felt much smaller.

Grace looked down slightly.

Simon looked up slightly.

Neither seemed interested in stepping back.

The late evening sunlight poured through the windows.

Golden light caught in Simon’s hair.

Lit the edges of his face.

Made his eyes look warmer somehow.

And god.

Grace thought Simon was beautiful.

Not just attractive.

Not just handsome.

Beautiful.

The kind of beauty built from kindness and patience and years of loving people with his whole heart.

The kind that only became more obvious the longer you knew someone.

Simon’s gaze dropped briefly.

Then returned to Grace’s.

“You know,” Simon said quietly.

“Yea?”

“I was nervous too.”

Grace blinked.

“You were?”

“Yeah.”

“Simon.”

“Hm?”

“You literally made me soup.”

“So?” “You walked into a school carrying homemade soup.”

“You were sick.”

“That’s adorable.”

“It was practical.”

“It was adorable.”

Grace smiled.

Simon smiled back.

And suddenly neither of them seemed particularly interested in arguing anymore.

Outside, the sky was beginning to turn orange and pink.

The garden glowed beneath the sunset.

The roses climbed higher across the pergola.

The vegetable beds swayed gently in the evening breeze.

Everything Simon had spent years building surrounded them.

And standing in the middle of it all, Grace realised something.

He wasn’t imagining the feeling he’d had all evening.

The warmth.

The comfort.

The sense of belonging.

It wasn’t coming from the house.

Or the garden.

Or even the dinner.

It was Simon.

And judging by the way Simon was looking at him now—

Maybe Simon was starting to realise the same thing.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

There was only Simon and Grace.

Standing far too close.

Looking at each other.

Neither willing to be the first one to step away.

Grace swallowed.

Simon’s eyes were warm.

Softer than Grace had ever seen them.

Not guarded.

Not careful.

Just—

Simon.

Grace wanted to stay right here forever.

The thought startled him.

Because it wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t some grand declaration.

It was simple.

Standing in Simon’s kitchen.

Watching the sunset.

Listening to Sam yell about dinosaurs somewhere in the backyard.

And somehow that felt more precious than anything else.

Simon glanced down briefly at his lips. He saw Grace’s tongue instinctively wet his bottom lip.

Then back up.

Grace’s heart immediately forgot how to function. “Simon?” he asked softly.

“Yes?”

Grace opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Because he genuinely had no idea what he wanted to say.

There were too many things.

I like you.

Thank you for inviting me.

Your garden is beautiful.

This feels like home.

Instead he just smiled.

And Simon looked at him like he’d understood anyway.

The expression on Simon’s face changed.

Just slightly.

Like he’d made a decision.

Before Grace could ask—

Simon reached up.

One hand settling lightly against Grace’s chest.

Fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Grace immediately stopped breathing.

“Simon?”

And Simon kissed him.

Not long.

Not dramatic.

Just a soft peck.

A brief brush of lips.

Gentle.

Warm.

Gone almost immediately.

But it felt like the entire universe had tilted.

When Simon pulled back, Grace simply stared.

His brain completely empty.

“Oh.”

Simon laughed softly.

The sound low and slightly embarrassed.

“Oh?”

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah, been meaning to do that for awhile.”

Grace blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then all at once the realisation seemed to hit him.

His entire face turned red.

“Oh my god.”

Simon’s smile widened.

“Oh my god?”

“You kissed me.”

“You keep saying that.” Simon chuckled and Grace wanted nothing more than to hear that sound for forever. “Because you kissed me!”

Grace looked genuinely overwhelmed by the concept.

Like Simon had personally informed him he’d won the lottery.

And then—

To Simon’s complete surprise—

Grace melted.

Actually melted.

A helpless laugh escaped him as Grace stepped forward again.

Immediately burying his face against Simon’s shoulder.

“Oh no…”

“What?” Simon laughed.

Grace groaned.

The sound muffled by Simon’s shoulder.

“I can’t handle this.”

“You can’t handle a kiss?”

“No.”

Simon laughed harder.

Grace’s ears were bright red.

His cheeks were bright red.

Even the tips of his curls somehow looked embarrassed.

“You are ridiculous.”

“I know.”

Grace mumbled.

Then his arms moved.

One settling on either side of Simon.

Braced against the counter behind him.

Trapping Simon neatly between himself and the kitchen island.

The movement was unconscious.

Natural.

Like Grace simply wanted to be closer.

And Simon absolutely noticed.

He looked down.

Found Grace hiding his face against his shoulder.

Still flushed.

Still refusing to make eye contact.

A helpless laugh escaped him.

“What?” Grace muttered.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s impressive, really!”

“Stoooop.”

“You are literally red.”

“Simon.”

The warning only made Simon laugh again.

Because Grace wasn’t usually shy.

Awkward? Sure.

Chaotic? Constantly.

But shy? Never.

Yet here he was.

Completely flustered.

Because of one tiny kiss.

This was so unbelievably endearing that Simon couldn’t stop smiling.

Eventually he reached up.

One hand settling against the back of Grace’s neck.

The other wrapping around his waist.

Drawing him closer.

Grace immediately made a very pleased sound.

“There he is.”

Simon murmured.

Grace groaned.

“Don’t.”

“I like seeing you speechless.”

“You should enjoy it.”

“Why?”

“It’ll never happen again.”

Simon snorted.

“Liar.”

“Probably.”

For a moment neither moved.

Grace’s forehead rested against Simon’s shoulder.

Simon’s arms remained around him.

The kitchen glowed with evening light.

The scent of dinner filled the air.

And for the first time in a very long time—

Grace felt completely, perfectly content.

Then from somewhere down the hallway came Sam’s voice.

“DAAAAAAD?”

Both men froze.

A beat.

Then: “I FOUND THE PIE.”

Simon closed his eyes.

Grace immediately started laughing into his shoulder.

And just like that, the moment was broken.

Though neither of them seemed particularly interested in letting go.

Neither of them let go immediately.

Not after Sam’s announcement.

Not after Grace dissolved into helpless laughter against Simon’s shoulder.

Not even after Simon muttered, “He’s definitely my kid,” with the weary resignation of a man who had long ago accepted that privacy was a myth.

Eventually, though, dinner still needed to happen.

And if Simon didn’t rescue the pie soon, Sam was going to eat dessert before the main course.

Again.

The front of St. John’s Elementary was usually chaos at pickup.

Parents parked far too close to each other, blocking the sidewalk and occasionally the bike lane. Car doors slammed. Children shouted. A few honks and uncivilised words were nothing out of the ordinary.

It happened every afternoon like clockwork.

Simon had gotten used to it.

He arrived five minutes earlier than he needed to, just as he always did. Years of working long shifts had left him with a deep appreciation for being early.

Besides, the best part of his day was watching Sam come barreling out of the school building.

Without fail, his son would spot him, grin, and immediately launch himself forward with enough force to nearly knock Simon over.

Every single day.

Simon pretended to complain about it.

Secretly, he loved it.

Today, however, he was exhausted.

His shift had run longer than expected. He’d spent most of it dealing with problems that should have been someone else’s responsibility and somehow weren’t. By the time he’d made it to the school, the parking lot was already packed.

Finding a space had been an ordeal.

Finding one within walking distance felt like a miracle.

Now he stood near the edge of the pickup area with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, staring at the front doors as the final bell rang.

Almost immediately, the building erupted.

Students poured out onto the front steps in a colourful flood of backpacks and noise.

Teachers followed close behind, directing traffic and calling out reminders that no one seemed interested in listening to.

Simon automatically searched for Sam among the crowd.

A familiar head of dark hair appeared near the entrance.

There you are.

To make himself easier to spot, Simon lifted one hand.

Not a wave.

Just a raised hand.

A marker.

A signal.

I’m over here.

Before Sam could even look up, a cheerful voice called out from somewhere nearby.

“Hi!”

Simon turned.

A teacher stood several yards away.

Curly blonde hair.

Bright smile.

Yellow rain jacket and dirty white converse.

The fourth-grade science teacher.

Mr. Grace.

And he was waving.

Enthusiastically.

At Simon.

Simon frowned.

Grace kept waving.

For a moment neither of them moved.

Then Simon slowly lowered his hand.

“…What are you doing?”

Grace blinked.

“What?”

“You waved.”

“Yeah.”

“Why.”

The smile faltered.

Only slightly.

Then Grace’s eyes flicked past Simon.

Toward the crowd of students.

Toward Sam weaving through them.

Toward the hand Simon had just lowered.

The realisation hit all at once.

“Oh.”

His entire face went red.

“Oh.”

Simon said nothing.

Grace lowered his hand immediately.

“That wasn’t for me, was it?”

“No.”

“Oh my god.”

“No.”

“I thought—”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were waving.”

“I wasn’t.”

Grace covered his face with one hand.

For several seconds he simply stood there in visible horror.

Simon watched him.

Grace groaned.

“Please don’t.”

“You supervise hundreds of people every day. And you still did that.”

“Oh, this is terrible.”

Sam finally reached them.

He looked between the two adults.

Then at Grace, who still appeared to be dying of embarrassment.

Then at Simon.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Simon said.

“Nothing,” Grace said at exactly the same time.

Sam narrowed his eyes.

Clearly unconvinced.

Grace pointed vaguely toward the parking lot.

“I have to go supervise something.”

“There is literally nothing happening,” Simon said.

“I know.”

And then, to Simon’s astonishment, the man actually fled.

Sam watched him leave.

“…Did Mr. Grace just run away?”

“Looks like it.”

“Huh.”

Simon looked after the retreating teacher.

The encounter should have ended there.

Unfortunately, it didn’t.

———————————————

The next afternoon Simon arrived at pickup to find Mr. Grace standing outside the school entrance again.

The second Grace spotted him, he visibly remembered.

Simon watched the realisation happen in real time.

The teacher’s eyes widened.

His smile vanished.

Then he looked away so abruptly Simon was surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.

Interesting.

Simon continued toward his usual spot.

Sam was still inside.

Parents crowded around the entrance.

A pair of children were arguing loudly about Pokémon.

Everything was normal.

Except for the fact that Mr. Grace was now refusing to make eye contact with him.

Simon found this deeply amusing.

Not that he would ever admit it.

Several minutes passed.

Grace spent the entire time very obviously pretending Simon wasn’t there.

Simon was beginning to think the man might actually succeed.

Then a student tugged on Grace’s sleeve.

Grace turned to answer the question.

And accidentally looked directly at Simon.

For one terrible second they made eye contact.

Grace froze.

Simon raised a hand.

A small wave.

A deliberate wave.

This time it actually was for him.

Grace stared.

“…Are you waving at me?”

“I’m waving this time.”

The relief on Grace’s face was immediate.

“Oh thank god.”

Simon blinked.

“What.”

“I’ve been thinking about that interaction all day.”

Simon stared.

“Why.”

“Because it was horrifying.”

“You waved at the wrong person.”

“I waved enthusiastically at the wrong person.”

“That’s not much different.”

“It is when you’re lying awake at two in the morning remembering it.”

Simon looked at him for a moment.

“You sound dramatic.”

“I am dramatic.”

At least he admitted it.

Grace smiled.

Simon immediately regretted initiating the conversation.

———————————————

Sam emerged from the school a few minutes later.

The moment he spotted Simon, he broke into a run.

“Dad!”

The impact nearly knocked Simon backward.

“There he is.”

Sam grinned.

Then noticed Grace standing nearby.

“Mr. Grace.”

“Hey, Sam.”

Sam looked between them.

Then narrowed his eyes.

Dangerous.

Simon recognised that expression.

It meant his son was about to become a problem.

“You guys know each other now?”

“No,” Simon said.

“Maybe?” Grace said at the same time.

Simon sighed.

Grace laughed.

Sam looked delighted.

———————————————

The routine started after that.

Not intentionally.

Simon would arrive.

Grace would be outside.

One of them would wave.

Usually Grace.

Sometimes Simon.

The exchange never lasted more than a few seconds.

But somehow it kept happening.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Simon wasn’t entirely sure how.

———————————————

One Thursday afternoon Sam climbed into the car and immediately announced:

“Mr. Grace thinks you’re scary.”

Simon looked over.

“He said that?”

“Kind of.”

“What does kind of mean.”

Sam shrugged.

“He said you look scary.”

Simon started the engine.

“I do not.”

“You kinda do.”

Simon looked at his son. Thought about his own messy dark hair, almost always pulled back into a half bun, the way he stands waiting for his kid, not talking to the other parents.

…Okay, maybe he looks a bit imposing.

His son looked back.

Neither blinked.

“Traitor.”

Sam laughed so hard he nearly dropped his backpack.

———————————————

The following week Simon arrived earlier than usual.

The pickup area was still mostly empty.

Only a few teachers were outside preparing for dismissal.

Grace stood near the entrance wrestling with three large cardboard boxes.

Simon stopped.

“What are those?”

Grace looked up.

His face brightened immediately.

“Science fair supplies.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“It is.”

One of the boxes slipped.

Grace caught it against his chest.

Barely.

Simon watched for another second.

Then sighed.

“Move.”

“What?”

“Move.”

Grace blinked.

Then slowly handed over one of the boxes.

Simon carried it toward the entrance.

Grace hurried after him.

“You know, most people would say hello first.”

“You already know I’m here.”

“Still.”

Simon glanced sideways.

Grace was smiling again.

Always smiling.

It was suspicious.

“Hi.”

Grace looked absurdly pleased. His eyes sparkled even in the dull school hallway lights. Get a grip, Simon.

“Hi, Simon.”

The use of his name felt strangely deliberate.

Simon wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Probably badly.

Definitely badly.

Inside the box were hundreds of tiny foam balls.

Simon discovered this when Grace accidentally dropped it.

The bottom gave way.

Foam spheres exploded across the hallway.

For one glorious second there was complete silence.

Then Grace whispered:

“…Oh no.”

A teacher walking past stopped.

Looked at the mess.

Looked at Grace.

And immediately turned around and walked away.

Simon understood.

He wanted to do the same.

Instead he crouched down and started gathering foam balls.

Grace joined him.

“This is embarrassing.”

“You seem to do this a lot.”

“Do what?”

“Embarrass yourself.”

Grace pointed at himself, raising his eyebrows and then at Simon.

“See, that’s mean.”

“It wasn’t mean.”

“It absolutely was.”

“It was accurate.”

Grace laughed so hard he nearly dropped another handful.

And for some reason Simon found himself smiling too.

Just briefly.

Only for a second.

Unfortunately, Grace noticed.

His eyes widened.

“Wait.”

Simon immediately looked away, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t.”

“You smiled.”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

Grace looked delighted.

“Oh my god, you did.”

Simon stood up.

“We’re done talking.”

“We’re definitely not done talking.”

They were.

Unfortunately for Simon, Ryland Grace seemed to disagree.

———————————————

The first thing Simon noticed was that Grace wasn’t outside.

Not because he was looking for him.

At least that’s what he told himself.

The school doors opened and students spilled out onto the front steps in a familiar wave of noise and movement. Teachers spread out across the pickup area, directing children toward waiting parents.

Simon’s eyes swept over the crowd automatically.

No curly blonde hair.

No bright smile.

No ridiculous cat or chemistry pun shirts.

No overly enthusiastic science teacher somehow managing three conversations at once.

Just unfamiliar faces.

Huh.

Before he could think much more about it, he spotted Sam.

The moment his son saw him, his face lit up.

“Dad!”

Simon barely had time to brace himself before Sam launched himself forward.

The hug knocked the air out of him.

“Hey, buddy.”

Simon laughed, wrapping an arm around him.

“Good day?”

“The best.”

“You say that every day.”

“Because every day is the best.”

Simon ruffled his hair.

“Fair enough.”

Sam grinned.

Then, before Simon could even ask about school, he announced:

“Mr. Grace is sick.”

Simon blinked.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Sam adjusted his backpack as they started walking toward the car.

“He wasn’t here today.”

“What happened?”

Sam shrugged.

“I dunno. Mrs. Rodriguez said he called in sick.”

Simon frowned slightly.

“Must be pretty bad if he stayed home.”

That got a snort from Sam.

“Exactly.”

Apparently they were both familiar with Ryland Grace’s tendency to ignore common sense.

———————————————

The ride home was filled with stories.

Mostly stories about school.

A little about soccer.

And somehow an alarming amount about frogs.

Simon wasn’t entirely sure how the conversation had gotten there.

One minute they’d been discussing math homework.

The next, Sam was passionately explaining why poison dart frogs were “objectively cooler” than tree frogs.

Simon listened anyway.

Because Sam always listened when Simon talked about ships and engines and things nobody else cared about.

That was how it worked.

———————————————

That evening Simon made chicken soup.

It wasn’t planned.

At least not consciously.

He’d gone to the grocery store intending to make something simple.

Then he’d seen the chicken.

Then the vegetables.

Then somehow he’d ended up standing over a stockpot while broth simmered on the stove.

The house slowly filled with warmth and the smell of garlic and herbs.

Sam wandered into the kitchen and immediately inhaled.

“Oh, that smells amazing.”

“It’ll be ready soon.”

Sam peeked into the pot.

His eyes widened.

“Dad.”

“What.”

“This looks fancy.”

“It’s soup.”

“It’s really good soup.”

Simon laughed.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

———————————————

Dinner ended with both of them going back for seconds.

Then thirds.

Which Simon considered a success.

As he was packing away leftovers, Sam appeared beside him.

Spoon still in hand.

“Dad.”

“Hm?”

“This is definitely Mr. Grace soup.”

Simon nearly dropped the lid.

“What.”

Sam pointed dramatically at the container Simon had just filled.

The smaller one.

The one he’d set aside separately.

“That.”

“It’s leftovers.”

“Dad.”

“It’s leftovers.”

“Dad.”

Simon sighed.

Sam grinned.

The grin was unfortunately very familiar.

He’d inherited it from Simon.

And learned how to weaponise it.

“You made sick-person soup.”

“I made soup.”

“After finding out Mr. Grace was sick.”

“Coincidence.”

“Sure… Correlation is not causation, dad.”

Simon shook his head. Why does his 10 year old know grown up words?

“Finish your homework.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“Homework.”

Sam laughed all the way back to his room.

———————————————

The next morning Simon arrived at school carrying a thermos.

Entirely by accident.

Probably.

The thermos sat in the passenger seat beside him for several minutes while he stared through the windshield.

This was ridiculous.

Grace probably wasn’t even back yet.

For all Simon knew, he’d be sick all week.

Still.

The soup was good.

And nobody should have to eat canned soup when they were sick.

Especially not someone who probably spent all day taking care of other people.

Simon frowned.

That thought had arrived suspiciously easily.

“You’re bringing it when you pick me up, right?”

Simon looked over.

Sam was watching him from the passenger seat.

Watching the thermos.

Watching him.

“I haven’t decided.”

“You brought it all the way here.”

“I might take it home.”

“You won’t.”

Simon sighed.

“No.”

“You won’t.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Sam’s mouth.

Then he reached across the center console and squeezed Simon’s arm.

The gesture was quick and casual.

Affectionate.

“You know,” Sam said, “I think Mr. Grace will really like it.”

For some reason, that made Simon feel unexpectedly nervous.

Which was ridiculous.

It was just soup.

Right?

———————————————

The thermos sat on Simon’s passenger seat the entire drive to school.

Every traffic light gave him another opportunity to reconsider.

Every stop sign offered an easy excuse to turn around.

By the time he pulled into the parking lot, he still wasn’t sure why he’d brought it.

It was just soup.

Homemade chicken soup.

Because Grace had been sick.

That was all.

Nothing more.

Certainly not enough to justify the strange nervousness currently settling in his stomach.

The school parking lot was already filling up.

Parents gathered along the sidewalk waiting for dismissal.

Children’s artwork decorated the windows facing the front entrance.

Teachers moved in and out of the building preparing for the afternoon rush.

Simon took his usual place near the pickup area.

The thermos remained in his hand.

Heavy.

Conspicuous.

Impossible to ignore.

A few minutes later the front doors opened.

Teachers began stepping outside.

And almost immediately, Grace looked up.

The reaction was instant.

His eyes found Simon in the crowd without any apparent effort.

The moment they did, his face brightened.

Not politely.

Not professionally.

Genuinely.

Like he’d been hoping Simon would be there.

Which was ridiculous.

Simon was there every day.

Yet Grace smiled anyway. He lifted a hand.

Simon found himself returning the gesture automatically.

A small wave.

One that would have horrified him six months ago.

Grace’s smile widened.

After speaking briefly with another teacher, Grace headed toward him.

The closer he got, the worse he looked.

Not alarmingly so.

Just enough.

His skin was still pale.

His curls looked even messier than usual.

And there was a lingering roughness to his voice when he spoke.

“Hi.”

“You still look sick.”

Grace laughed.

The laugh immediately dissolved into a cough.

“Nice to see you too.”

“You do.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“I figured.”

For a moment they stood together in comfortable silence.

Children raced across the playground.

Parents chatted nearby.

The familiar noise of dismissal filled the air.

Grace shoved his hands into his pockets.

Simon tightened his grip on the thermos.

Then, before he could lose his nerve, Simon held it out.

“Here.”

Grace blinked.

“What?”

Simon pushed the thermos toward him.

“It’s for you.”

For a second Grace just stared.

Then looked down.

Then back up.

Then down again.

Like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.

“…What’s in it?”

“Soup.”

Grace’s eyebrows rose.

“Soup?”

“Chicken soup.”

The silence that followed was almost impressive.

“You made me soup.”

It wasn’t a question.

Simon shrugged.

“You were sick.”

Grace continued staring.

Simon was beginning to regret every decision that had led him here.

Finally Grace reached out and accepted the thermos.

His fingers brushed Simon’s for a brief second.

The contact was accidental.

Entirely innocent.

And somehow Simon became painfully aware of it anyway.

“You made me homemade chicken soup.”

“You looked terrible.”

Grace laughed softly. Simon missed it so much.

“I did.”

“You still do.”

“Wow.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re very bad at being nice.”

Simon considered that.

“Maybe.”

Grace looked down at the thermos again.

A strange expression crossed his face.

Something softer than amusement.

Something quieter.

When he looked back up, his smile had changed.

Less teasing.

More genuine.

“Thank you.”

The words were simple.

Sincere.

And somehow far more difficult to dismiss than Simon would’ve liked.

“It wasn’t a big deal.” Simon tried to avoid eye contact with the blonde.

Grace immediately shook his head.

“No.”

His hand tightened around the thermos.

“It kind of is.”

Simon opened his mouth to argue.

Then closed it again.

Because Grace was looking at him in a way that made arguing feel impossible.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

The sounds of dismissal carried on around them.

Children laughing.

Car doors slamming.

Teachers calling out reminders.

Yet somehow the world felt strangely distant.

Grace glanced down at the thermos once more.

Then smiled.

A small smile this time.

One that seemed meant only for Simon.

“I’m going to enjoy this.”

“You better.”

Grace laughed.

“I will.”

The front doors burst open again.

Students flooded outside.

The spell broke immediately.

Noise and movement rushed back into the moment.

Simon spotted Sam emerging from the crowd.

At the same time, Grace spotted him too.

“Looks like your ride’s here,” Grace said.

“Unfortunately.”

Grace grinned.

“Unfortunately?”

“He’s inherited a sense of humor.”

“Oh, that’s definitely your fault.”

“It isn’t.”

“It absolutely is.”

Sam was getting closer now.

Still weaving through the crowd.

Still a safe distance away.

Just enough time for one more thing.

Before Simon could think better of it, he spoke.

“You should come by sometime.”

Grace blinked.

“What?”

Simon suddenly found the parking lot very interesting.

“We usually make too much food.” Simon was lying through his teeth now but he wanted to convince the man.

Grace’s eyebrows rose. A challenging smile on his face now.

“We could have dinner.”

The words felt awkward the second they left his mouth.

Not because he didn’t mean them.

Because he did.

Entirely.

Which was somehow worse.

For a moment Grace simply stared at him.

Then his expression softened.

Not surprised.

Not amused.

Just warm.

The kind of warmth that always caught Simon off guard.

“I’d like that.”

The answer came immediately.

No hesitation.

No uncertainty.

Just a genuine smile.

“I’d really like that.”

Something in Simon’s chest loosened.

Before either of them could say anything else—

“DAD!”

Sam came flying out of the crowd.

Simon barely had time to brace himself.

His son launched himself forward with complete confidence that he would be caught.

As always.

Simon caught him automatically.

One arm wrapping around him as the impact nearly knocked him backward.

“There he is.”

Sam laughed.

The bright, unrestrained laugh of a kid who’d had a good day.

The kind Simon would do just about anything to hear.

“Hi.”

“Hi yourself.”

Sam squeezed tighter.

Arms looped around Simon’s neck.

Face buried against his shoulder.

Without a hint of embarrassment.

Without caring who was watching.

Just happy to see his dad.

And god, Simon loved this.

Loved it.

Every single day.

The way Sam ran toward him like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

The way he trusted Simon to catch him.

The way he still hugged him like he was little.

One day he’d grow out of it.

Simon knew that.

One day there’d be awkward teenage nods instead of flying tackles.

One day Sam would stop reaching for his hand automatically.

But not today.

Today his kid was still his kid.

Simon smiled despite himself.

A real smile.

The kind most people never got to see.

Then he pressed a quick kiss against the top of Sam’s forehead.

Casual.

Automatic.

Done without a second thought.

“Good day?”

“The best.”

“You say that every day.”

“Because every day is the best.”

Simon laughed.

“Fair enough.”

Only then did Sam pull back enough to notice Grace standing nearby.

“Oh, hi Mr. Grace.”

“Hey, Sam.”

Grace sounded oddly soft.

Simon glanced up.

And found Grace watching them.

Not staring.

Just watching.

The thermos still tucked securely under one arm.

A smile on his face.

Not the bright, energetic smile he gave students.

Not the polite one he gave parents.

Something quieter.

More genuine.

For a brief moment, Simon saw himself through Grace’s eyes.

Not the intimidating guy who rarely talked.

Not the exhausted single father rushing to pickup after work.

Just—

A dad.

Holding his son.

Looking happier than he’d looked all afternoon.

Grace’s smile widened slightly. His eyes shined even brighter than they did since Simon ever spoke to the teacher.

There was something undeniably fond in it now.

Something that made Simon unexpectedly warm.

Then Sam grabbed Simon’s hand.

“Come on, Dad.”

Simon snorted.

“Bossy.” “Yep.”

They’d only made it a few steps before Sam suddenly stopped.

“Wait.”

Simon looked down.

“Hm?”

Sam pointed behind them.

“We forgot to say goodbye.”

Before Simon could answer, Sam turned around and waved enthusiastically.

“Bye, Mr. Grace!”

Grace laughed immediately.

“Bye, Sam. See you tomorrow.”

Sam seemed satisfied with that answer.

Simon wasn’t sure why he found himself stopping too.

But he did.

He glanced back.

Grace was still standing near the entrance, one hand wrapped around the thermos.

Looking at both of them.

Smiling.

Simon lifted a hand.

A small wave.

Nothing dramatic.

Just—

See you tomorrow.

Grace’s smile somehow brightened even further.

“Bye, Simon.”

The words were simple.

Yet they landed strangely in Simon’s chest.

Warm.

Familiar.

Like something he was already looking forward to hearing again.

Simon nodded once.

“See you tomorrow.”

Then Sam tugged on his hand.

“Race you to the car.”

“You’re cheating.”

“I’m a child. It’s allowed.”

Simon barked out a laugh.

Before he could stop himself, he reached over and ruffled Sam’s hair.

Sam groaned dramatically.

“Daaad.”

“Get moving.”

“You’re the one who’s slow.”

“Keep talking and you’re walking home.”

Sam cackled and took off running.

Simon followed at a much more reasonable pace.

Halfway across the parking lot, he glanced back one last time.

Grace was still there.

Watching them go.

The thermos tucked safely under his arm.

Smiling to himself.

———————————————

The next afternoon, Grace was feeling significantly better.

Not completely better.

But better enough that he was back outside supervising pickup without looking like he might collapse into a pile of tissues at any moment.

The soup had helped.

A lot, actually.

He’d eaten two bowls the night before.

Then another for lunch.

Not that he’d planned to tell Simon that.

The idea felt strangely embarrassing.

The thermos had been washed.

Carefully.

Almost absurdly carefully.

And now sat beside him on the bench near the school entrance.

Waiting to be returned.

Grace spotted Simon the moment he arrived.

Which was becoming a problem.

A very specific problem.

Because somehow his eyes always found Simon first.

Every day.

Without fail. Simon was standing in his usual spot near the sidewalk.

Hands in his jacket pockets.

Looking mildly annoyed by the existence of crowds.

As always.

Grace smiled before he could stop himself. He loved seeing him.

Simon noticed immediately.

Their eyes met.

And after a brief moment of pretending he wasn’t going to do it, Simon lifted a hand.

A small wave.

Grace’s smile widened.

A few minutes later he found himself walking over.

Thermos in hand.

“Hi.”

“You look less dead.”

Grace laughed.

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t really a compliment.”

“I know.” Grace pretended not to see how Simon’s mouth turned into a smirk, it was dangerous for his heart.

He held out the thermos.

“Your thermos survived.”

Simon accepted it.

“You washed it.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Grace stared.

“What kind of monster returns a dirty thermos?”

Simon considered that.

“Fair.”

For a moment they stood together in comfortable silence.

The noise of dismissal carried around them.

Kids shouting.

Parents talking.

Car doors slamming.

Then Simon cleared his throat.

Once.

Grace immediately became suspicious.

“What’s that look?”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re thinking.”

Simon frowned.

“I don’t have a look.”

“You absolutely have a look.”

Simon looked away.

Then back.

Then, with all the subtlety of someone attempting open-heart surgery with a shovel, said:

“So.”

Grace waited. “So?”

“When are you free?”

Grace blinked.

“What?”

Simon appeared to be regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. But continued anyway.

“You said you’d come over.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

Grace hadn’t expected the invitation to come up again.

Certainly not like this.

Certainly not while Simon was looking at him with that awkward determination.

“Right, about that.”

Simon nodded.

“Right.”

There was a pause.

Then Simon added:

“And what do you like to eat?”

Grace’s brain stopped working.

For several seconds.

Completely.

“What?”

Simon frowned.

“For dinner.” Simon started to nod, trying to make him understand, while also giving Grace a look that oddly resembled a person who has lost the plot a bit.

Grace continued staring.

“You want to know what I want to eat?”

“Yes?”

The answer sounded obvious.

Like Simon couldn’t understand why this was confusing.

Unfortunately, Grace found it deeply confusing.

Nobody asked him things like that.

Not really.

Not because they cared.

Not because they wanted to make something specifically for him.

Friends usually ordered pizza.

Coworkers suggested restaurants.

Most people settled for “whatever works.”

Nobody had ever looked at him and asked what he’d like.

“Oh.”

The response came out softer than intended.

Simon immediately looked concerned.

“What.”

“Nothing.”

Grace laughed awkwardly.

“It’s just…”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before.”

Simon blinked.

“Pardon?”

The disbelief in his voice was immediate.

Grace laughed.

“I know.”

“Nobody’s asked what food you like?”

“Now when you say it like that it sounds depressing.”

“It is depressing, Ryland!”

Grace barked out a surprised laugh. Simon rarely used his name, Grace felt a hot rush through his body.

For a second Simon looked genuinely bothered by the information.

Which was somehow incredibly endearing.

Then the school doors burst open.

Students immediately flooded outside.

The moment shattered.

And seconds later—

“Dad!”

Sam came running down the steps.

He spotted Grace immediately.

Then noticed the thermos.

Then noticed both of them standing together.

His eyes narrowed.

“Oooooh.”

Simon sighed.

That was never a good sign.

Sam reached them. Looked between the two adults.

Then pointed directly at Grace.

“Are you coming over?”

Grace nearly choked.

Simon closed his eyes.

“Sam.” Exasperated, Simon said rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“What?” The kid had the decency to act offended.

Grace was laughing too hard to help.

“So you are actually coming over!?”

Sam looked delighted.

“Oh, this is awesome.”

“Why?” Grace asked smiling.

“Because Dad cooks amazing food.”

Simon groaned.

“It’s true.” Sam ignored him completely. “And the desserts?”

He looked at Grace.

“You have no idea.”

“Sam.”

“He makes apple pie from scratch.” A big jump was added to accentuate the meaning behind apple pie from scratch.

“Sam.”

“He made cinnamon rolls once and I thought I was gonna ascend.”

Grace laughed so hard he had to put a hand over his mouth.

“Ascend?”

“Dad’s desserts are legendary.” “They are not.” Simon’s hand was suddenly grabbed by Sam.

“They absolutely are.”

The blonde found the serious look the kid gave Simon hilarious. Then Grace looked at Simon. Simon looked away immediately.

The smile that spread across Grace’s face was impossible to miss.

“Well.”

He folded his arms.

“I guess now my expectations are extremely high.” He singsonged because he knew Sam would immediately tale his side.

“They shouldn’t be.” Simon sighed pained.

“They absolutely should be.” The youngest nodded with Grace.

For a moment all three of them stood there smiling.

The afternoon sun warm overhead.

The chaos of pickup swirling around them.

And for the first time, Grace found himself genuinely looking forward to next weekend.

Not because of the food. Not even because of the desserts. But because something about standing here with Simon and Sam felt easy.

Comfortable.

Like he’d somehow stumbled into something good.

And maybe—

If he was lucky—

Something worth holding onto.

———————————————

The entire drive home, Sam would not stop talking about dinner.

Which was impressive.

Because Sam could already talk for an Olympic-level amount of time under normal circumstances.

“Dad.”

Simon sighed.

“What.”

“Are you making the cinnamon rolls?”

“No.”

“A tragedy.”

Three seconds passed.

“Dad.”

“What.”

“The apple pie?”

“No.”

“Wow.” Sam looked exasperated at that.

Simon glanced at him briefly.

“What.”

“I didn’t know you hated Mr. Grace.”

Simon nearly missed a stop sign.

“I don’t hate him.”

“Then why aren’t you making the good desserts?”

“The good desserts?”

Sam looked personally offended.

“All your desserts are good.”

The compliment caught Simon off guard. He tried not to show it.

“Thanks.”

Sam shrugged.

Like it was obvious.

Because to him it was.

“You make the best food.” The matter-of-fact certainty in his voice settled warmly somewhere in Simon’s chest.

“You’re biased.” Simon let out a chuckle.

“Yep.”

Simon laughed again.

“At least you’re honest.”

“I learned from you.”

“That’s concerning.”

“It should be.” The smile Sam had on his face made Simon’s heart warm, he absolutely loved his kid, even if sometimes he was a smartass.

The conversation somehow shifted from desserts to dinosaurs to soccer and back to desserts again.

By the time they reached home, Simon had learned that Sam apparently considered chocolate cake a valid breakfast food.

He was wrong and he knew that. But he was committed to the argument.

———————————————

That evening Simon found himself standing in the garden after dinner.

The sun was beginning to set.

Everything glowed gold.

The tomato plants needed tying up.

One of the pepper plants looked thirsty.

The roses were starting to bloom again.

Gardening had always helped him think.

Unfortunately, right now it was helping him think about Grace.

Specifically the look on Grace’s face when Simon had asked what he liked to eat.

Nobody’s ever asked me that before.

The memory made Simon frown.

How did someone get to Grace’s age without people asking things like that?

Grace spent all day paying attention to everyone else.

Students.

Parents.

Coworkers.

Random strangers, probably.

Yet somehow nobody seemed to return the favor.

Simon didn’t like that.

The realisation arrived unexpectedly.

And with uncomfortable certainty.

He really didn’t like that.

“Dad?”

Simon looked up.

Sam was standing on the patio.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got the thinking face again.”

“I don’t have a thinking face.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Simon threw a gardening glove at him.

Sam cackled.

“That means I’m right!”

“No, it means you’re annoying.” Simon began laughing.

“Mr. Grace likes me.”

Simon narrowed his eyes.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. I’m just saying.”

Which meant it absolutely had something to do with something.

Simon sighed.

Being outnumbered by one ten-year-old was exhausting.

The dream always starts the same way.

Too real.

Lando never realizes it’s a dream until it’s already over.

They’re in some quiet corner of a paddock that doesn’t exist, not quite any circuit he knows, just a blurred mix of garages and dim evening light. The noise is distant, muted, like someone turned the world down just for them. Oscar is standing close. Too close for reality. Close enough that Lando can see the faint freckles across his nose, the slight crease between his brows when he’s concentrating.

Close enough that their shoes almost touch.

“You keep doing that,” Oscar says.

His voice in the dream is softer than it ever is in real life. Not gentle, exactly, just… less guarded.

“Doing what?” Lando asks.

“Looking at me like you’re about to say something.”

Lando lets out a quiet breath. In the dream, he doesn’t feel nervous. Doesn’t overthink. Everything feels natural, like this version of them has existed for years. “Maybe I am.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Oscar says, stepping closer, “you never just say something. You do something stupid first.”

Their shoulders brush.

The contact sends a warm, electric jolt straight down Lando’s spine. He doesn’t move away. Neither does Oscar. The air feels thick suddenly, charged in that way that only exists in dreams and almost-moments.

“You’re not stopping me,” Lando murmurs.

Oscar tilts his head. “Did I say I wanted to?”

That does it.

Lando’s hand lifts before he can think, fingers catching lightly at the front of Oscar’s team kit , right near the collar. The fabric bunches under his grip. Oscar’s eyes drop to the touch, then back up again, slower this time.

“Lando,” he says quietly.

It should sound like a warning.

It doesn’t.

Lando steps closer. Their chests nearly touch now, breaths mixing in the small space between them. He can feel the heat of Oscar through the thin layers of fabric, can see the way his lashes lower slightly as his gaze flicks down to Lando’s mouth.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” Lando asks softly.

Oscar doesn’t answer.

His hand lifts instead, resting lightly against Lando’s side, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just there. Warm. Steady. Enough to make Lando’s heart start hammering.

“Thought so,” Lando whispers.

He closes the distance.

The first brush of their mouths is tentative, like both of them are testing if this is real. It’s soft. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels more like a question than anything else.

Oscar exhales against him.

Then his hand slides up, fingers curling lightly at the back of Lando’s neck, and the kiss deepens. Still slow, still warm, but certain now. Lando’s chest tightens with something almost dizzying as he leans in, pressing closer, one hand sliding from Oscar’s collar to his jaw.

Oscar kisses him back properly.

Not teasing. Not smug. Just… there. Present. Warm in a way Lando has never seen outside this dream. Their foreheads almost bump when they shift, both smiling faintly into it, breath mixing between soft, lingering kisses.

“Finally,” Lando murmurs against his mouth.

Oscar huffs a quiet laugh. “Took you long enough.”

Lando leans in again, slower this time, savoring it, the warmth, the closeness, the way Oscar’s thumb brushes once against the side of his neck. Everything feels suspended. Perfect. Like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

“Missed you,” Lando whispers.

Oscar’s expression softens in that impossible, dream-only way. “I’m right here.”

“I know, love” Lando smiles and kisses him again.

⸻

“Oi.”

The world snaps back hard.

A hand taps his shoulder. Not gentle. Not romantic. Just enough to jolt him out of sleep.

“Lando. Wake up.”

Lando’s eyes fly open.

Bright motorhome ceiling. Narrow bunk. The faint hum of paddock generators outside. Reality hits like cold water. He blinks up, disoriented, heart still racing from the dream—

—and finds Oscar standing over him.

Very real. Very awake. Very much not soft.

Oscar’s arms are crossed, expression flat in that usual mildly-annoyed way he gets when Lando is being inconvenient. He’s already in partial team kit, headset hanging around his neck.

“You alive?” Oscar asks. “You’ve snoozed through three alarms.”

Lando stares at him.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Hello?”

“Oh my god,” Lando whispers before he can stop himself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Lando says instantly, sitting up too fast and nearly smacking his head on the low ceiling. He drags a hand through his hair, trying to reset his brain. His heart is still pounding like he just ran a marathon. “Why are you in my room?”

“I knocked,” Oscar says. “You didn’t answer. Door was unlocked.” He glances around. “You sleep like you’re in a coma.”

Lando avoids eye contact. Avoids looking at Oscar’s mouth. Avoids remembering literally anything from thirty seconds ago. “Right. Cool. Thanks. You can go now.”

Oscar doesn’t move.

“You were talking,” he says.

Lando freezes.

“…What?”

“In your sleep,” Oscar says casually. “Couldn’t really hear what. Just… mumbling.”

Lando’s soul leaves his body.

He grabs the nearest hoodie and pulls it over his head just to have something to do. “Yeah, well. I do that. Normal. Human behavior.”

Oscar watches him like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, with an intrigued expression. Lando absolutely hates it. “You look weird.”

“I just woke up,” Lando snaps, voice going slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. “Of course I look weird.”

A pause.

Oscar shrugs finally. “Briefing in fifteen,” he says. “Figured you’d want a warning before Andrea sends someone to drag you out.”

“Heroic,” Lando mutters.

Oscar turns to leave, then pauses at the door. He glances back once, expression neutral, a little sharp around the edges, nothing like the warmth from the dream.

“Try setting an alarm that actually wakes you,” he says. Then he walks out.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

Lando slowly flops back onto the pillow and stares at the ceiling in horror.

“…Right,” he mutters to himself. “Cool. Great. Normal.”

He presses his hands over his face.

Because dream-Oscar kissing him softly in golden light is one thing.

Waking up to real Oscar standing over him with crossed arms and mild irritation is another entirely.

⸻

The briefing room is already half full when Lando walks in.

He’s determined to be normal.

Completely normal.

Unremarkable.

Unhaunted by extremely vivid dreams involving his teammate and a level of emotional intimacy that absolutely did not exist in real life or will not ever exist between them.

Normal.

He grabs a coffee on the way in, nods to a couple engineers, drops into his usual seat like nothing is wrong. Like he didn’t wake up thirty minutes ago with Oscar standing in his motorhome and the lingering phantom memory of being kissed senseless against a wall.

Normal.

Oscar walks in two minutes later.

Also normal.

Infuriatingly normal.

Too normally normal.

Freshly showered, hair still slightly damp, McLaren polo neat, tablet tucked under his arm. He gives the room a quick polite nod and takes his seat beside Lando like this is just another routine debrief and not the site of Lando’s impending psychological collapse.

“Morning, again,” Oscar says quietly, setting his tablet down.

Lando takes a sip of coffee to buy himself half a second.

“Morning.”

Good. Casual. Calm. He can do this.

Oscar glances sideways at him.

Lando keeps his eyes on the big screen at the front of the room. Telemetry graphs. Lap comparisons. Safe. Neutral. Non-threatening.

“You look tired,” Oscar says mildly.

“I slept great,” Lando says immediately.

Too immediately.

Oscar pauses. “Right.”

Lando stares harder at the telemetry screen like it personally insulted him.

Around them, engineers shuffle papers and connect laptops. Someone at the front starts pulling up data from FP2. The usual pre-briefing buzz fills the room, low voices, keyboard clicks, chair legs scraping.

Normal environment.

Professional environment.

Definitely not a place where Lando should be remembering the feeling of dream-Oscar’s hand in his hair.

He grips his coffee cup a little tighter.

It felt so good to be loved like that.

“Did you get my setup notes from yesterday?” Oscar asks quietly, businesslike.

“Yes,” Lando says. Good. Racing talk. Safe topic. “Yeah. I— I looked through them last night.”

He risks a glance sideways.

Big mistake.

Oscar is already looking at him.

Not smiling. Not teasing. Just… watching, slightly curious, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

Lando’s stomach flips.

“Everything alright?” Oscar asks.

“Yes,” Lando says again, too fast. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Oscar’s mouth twitches faintly. “You’re gripping that coffee like it’s about to escape.”

Lando immediately loosens his grip. Then realizes that makes it obvious. Then awkwardly re-grips it in what he hopes is a casual manner.

Cool as a cat, Lando.

Across the table, one of the engineers glances between them briefly, clearly sensing something off.

Great.

Fantastic.

Perfect.

The briefing officially starts. Data appears on the screen. Their performance engineer begins talking through lap deltas. Everyone turns their attention forward.

Lando tries. He really does.

He nods at the right moments. Asks a question about tire warm-up. Even cracks a small joke about sector two that gets a couple quiet laughs. On the surface, he’s completely fine.

Inside, his brain is running two parallel tracks:

Track A: Professional racing driver. Listening. Engaged. Focused.

Track B: You literally dreamed about kissing your teammate against a wall and then woke up with him in your room. You also wished he would have kept kissing you for longer, either versions of him.

He shifts in his chair.

Oscar notices.

Of course he notices.

“You’re fidgeting,” Oscar murmurs under his breath without looking at him.

“I always fidget,” Lando mutters back.

“Not like that.”

Lando goes still immediately.

Across the table, another engineer glances up again. Then another. There’s a subtle shift in the room, that almost imperceptible team awareness when something is slightly off between drivers.

Lando can feel it.

Great. Now everyone thinks he’s weird.

He tries to focus harder on the screen. Fuel numbers. Strategy options. Anything.

Then Oscar leans slightly closer to see something on Lando’s tablet.

It’s a small movement. Innocent. Practical.

But it brings him just a bit too close.

Close enough that Lando can feel the faint warmth of him. Smell clean shampoo and the ever-present trace of garage air. Close enough to feel his breath land on the side of Lando’s neck. Close enough that his brain, traitor that it is, flashes back to the dream — the almost-kiss, the soft voice, the soft breaths, the—

He inhales sharply.

Oscar immediately leans back.

“…Okay,” Oscar murmurs, now definitely suspicious. “What is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing,” Lando whispers, staring straight ahead. “Absolutely nothing. Never been more normal in my life.”

Oscar watches him for a long second.

Then, very quietly: “Did I do something?”

The question hits harder than it should.

Lando turns his head slightly. Oscar isn’t teasing. He looks genuinely unsure, brows faintly drawn, voice low enough that no one else can hear.

And suddenly Lando feels worse.

Because Oscar has no idea.

None.

He’s just existing. Breathing. Sitting too close and being unfairly attractive and completely unaware that Lando’s brain has betrayed him.

“No,” Lando says quickly, softer this time. “No. You didn’t do anything.”

Oscar studies him a moment longer. Searching.

Then he nods once, accepting it, at least on the surface.

“Alright,” he says quietly.

They both turn back to the screen.

The briefing continues.

But the weird tension lingers, subtle but noticeable. A couple engineers exchange quick glances. Their performance coach looks between them once, faintly puzzled. It’s not dramatic,  just enough that people can tell something’s… off.

Lando can feel every second of it.

He forces himself to contribute more. Asks another technical question. Makes a comment about balance mid-corner. Anything to look normal.

Beside him, Oscar has gone very composed. Professional. Focused forward.

But once, just once, Lando catches him glancing sideways.

Not confused now.

Not suspicious.

Something else.

Something almost thoughtful.

And Lando immediately looks back at the screen, heart pounding again, because he has the horrible, sinking feeling that whatever weird energy is hanging between them…

…it’s not just in his head anymore.

——

The briefing ends forty minutes later.

Chairs scrape back. Laptops close. Engineers cluster into small groups to discuss setup changes and run plans. The room fills with low conversation and the rustle of papers.

Lando stays seated a moment longer than necessary, pretending to scroll through data on his tablet. In reality he’s just trying to let his pulse settle before he has to stand up and exist like a normal human being again.

Beside him, Oscar is packing up calmly. Tablet into his bag. Pen clipped neatly into place. Every movement precise, controlled.

Normal.

Always so annoyingly normal.

“Simulator later?” Oscar asks, like nothing in the past hour has been strange at all.

“Yeah,” Lando says. “After lunch.”

Oscar nods. Slings his bag over his shoulder.

Then he hesitates.

It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice. But Lando does, because he’s hyper-aware of everything Oscar does right now in a way that is deeply unhelpful.

“You sure you’re alright?” Oscar asks quietly.

There’s no teasing in it this time. Just genuine concern.

Lando forces a small grin. “You’ve asked me that like four times.”

“And you’ve given the same weird answer every time.”

Lando opens his mouth. Closes it again. Because what is he supposed to say?

Sorry mate, I had an extremely realistic dream where you pinned me to a wall and looked at me like I was something you wanted and kissed me six ways to Sunday and now my brain can’t reboot.

Yeah. No.

“I just slept weird,” he settles on. “That’s all.”

Oscar studies him for a second longer than is comfortable. His eyes flick briefly to Lando’s mouth, then back up again so fast it might’ve been imagined.

“Right,” he says finally.

They stand at the same time.

Immediately almost bump shoulders.

Both stop.

There’s a tiny, awkward shuffle as they try to move around each other in the narrow space between chairs. Lando steps left. Oscar steps the same way. They pause. Then both try the other direction.

For half a second they’re just… standing there. Too close. Not touching. But very aware of each other.

One of the engineers walking past gives them a quick amused look before continuing out.

Lando feels his face heat.

Oscar clears his throat softly and steps back to let Lando pass first. “After you.”

“Cheers.”

Lando walks out of the briefing room trying very hard not to think about how aware he is of Oscar right behind him.

⸻

The paddock is bright and busy outside. Media milling around. Team members moving with purpose. The familiar controlled chaos of a race weekend.

It should ground him.

Usually it does.

Today it does not.

They walk side by side toward the McLaren hospitality without really talking. Not awkward exactly — just… charged. Like something unsaid is hovering between them.

At the entrance, a couple mechanics greet them.

“Good session this morning, boys” one says. “Balance looked strong.”

“Felt decent,” Oscar replies easily.

Lando nods, forcing himself into race-mode conversation. “Yeah, long run pace was better than yesterday.”

Normal. Racing talk. Safe.

They grab drinks from the fridge and lean briefly against the counter while discussing tire deg. A few engineers join. The conversation turns fully technical.

For ten blessed minutes, everything feels normal again.

Then one of the younger mechanics, completely oblivious, grins at them and says, “You two were proper in sync out there today.”

Lando nearly chokes on his drink.

Oscar just raises an eyebrow. “That’s… generally the goal.”

“Yeah but like,” the mechanic continues, gesturing between them, “on track and off. You’re always together lately. Proper duo.”

Lando stares very hard at the label on his bottle.

Oscar gives a short, polite smile. “We’re teammates.”

“Sure,” the mechanic says, clearly unconvinced but not pushing further. He gets called away a second later and disappears toward the garage.

Silence settles for a beat.

Lando exhales slowly. “People are weird.”

“People observe patterns,” Oscar replies mildly.

Lando glances at him. “You saying there’s a pattern?”

Oscar takes a sip of his drink. Doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks out through the hospitality glass toward the garage.

Then, casually: “You’ve been avoiding looking at me all day.”

Lando almost drops the bottle.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I literally have not.”

Oscar finally looks at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. “You just looked at the fridge while denying it.”

Lando presses his lips together.

Because… okay. Maybe.

“Alright,” Oscar says quietly, not unkind. “Did something happen?”

The question lands heavier this time. Less casual. More direct.

Lando opens his mouth with another automatic deflection ready.

Nothing comes out.

Because the truth is sitting right there, stubborn and embarrassing and impossible to explain without sounding insane.

Oscar watches him. Waiting. Patient, but intent.

The paddock noise hums around them, distant engines, voices, radio chatter, but inside the little space between them it feels oddly quiet.

Lando exhales.

“…I had a weird dream,” he mutters.

Oscar blinks. Clearly not the answer he expected. “Okay.”

“And it’s just—” Lando gestures vaguely. “You know when you wake up and it feels real for a bit and then your brain doesn’t catch up properly and you’re just… off?”

Oscar considers that.

Then nods slowly. “Yeah. Happens.”

Relief flickers through Lando’s chest. Small but real.

“Right,” he says. “So. That’s all.”

Oscar studies him for another moment. Like he’s deciding whether to push further.

He doesn’t.

“Fair enough,” he says quietly.

They stand there a second longer. Not tense now. Just… aware.

Then someone calls Oscar from across the hospitality.

He pushes off the counter. “Simulator later,” he says.

“Yeah,” Lando replies.

Oscar hesitates half a second before leaving. Just long enough to glance at him once more, something thoughtful in his expression again.

Then he’s gone, heading toward the garage.

Lando stays where he is, staring down at his half-empty bottle.

He tells himself it’s fine.

Totally fine.

Just a weird dream.

Nothing real.

Except for the small, traitorous part of his brain that keeps replaying the way Oscar looked at him just now, not confused, not teasing.

Just… quietly curious.

——

The simulator room is always dim.

Low lights. Screens glowing. The constant hum of machines and cooling fans filling the space with a steady, almost hypnotic sound. It’s usually one of Lando’s favorite places in the paddock — controlled, quiet, predictable.

Today, it feels like a trap.

He’s already strapped into the sim when Oscar walks in.

Lando hears him before he sees him, the soft thud of the door closing, the faint rustle of fabric as Oscar shrugs off his jacket. There’s a chair set up just behind the rig where the other driver usually sits during shared sessions.

It creaks softly as Oscar drops into it.

“Ready?” one of the sim engineers asks through the headset.

“Yeah,” Lando replies automatically.

A few setup adjustments. Steering calibration. Run plan explained. Then the virtual track loads around him, bright and precise across the curved screens.

He focuses on driving.

He really does.

For a while, it works.

Corners. Braking points. Tire management. His mind slips into the familiar rhythm of it, data and instinct blending until everything else fades into the background.

But he can still feel Oscar behind him.

Not touching. Not speaking. Just… there.

Watching.

The first run ends after twelve laps.

“Alright, box,” the engineer says. “Good baseline. Let’s pause and talk through front-end response.”

The sim freezes. Engine sound cuts.

The headset lifts slightly off one ear so he can hear the room.

The engineer starts discussing adjustments, pointing at data on the monitor to the side. Lando nods along, responding where needed. It’s normal. Technical. Safe.

Then the engineer gets called out of the room to check something with the performance group.

“I’ll be two minutes,” he says, slipping out.

The door closes.

Silence settles.

Lando stares straight ahead at the frozen virtual track. Hands still loosely resting on the wheel.

Behind him, the chair creaks softly.

Oscar shifts.

“…Was it a nightmare?”

The question is quiet. Careful. No signs of teasing.

Lando’s grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel.

He lets out a small breath through his nose. “What?”

“The dream,” Oscar says. “Earlier.”

He sounds almost hesitant now, like he’s not sure if he’s crossing a line but asking anyway.

Lando swallows. Keeps his eyes on the screen. “No.”

A pause.

“Just weird,” he adds quickly. “Not bad-weird. Just… confusing.”

Another small creak of the chair as Oscar leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

Lando can feel the shift in proximity without seeing it.

“Confusing how?” Oscar asks.

God. He’s persistent.

Lando huffs a quiet, half-laugh. “You’re really stuck on this, huh?”

“You’ve been off all day,” Oscar replies simply. “I’m trying to figure out if I did something.”

That makes Lando’s chest twist unexpectedly.

He finally glances back over his shoulder.

Oscar’s sitting there in the low light, forearms braced on his thighs, looking at him with that same steady, searching expression from earlier. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just genuine concern — and curiosity.

“You didn’t do anything,” Lando says quickly. “It’s not— you didn’t.”

Oscar studies his face like he’s checking for cracks in that statement.

“…Was I in it?” he asks after a moment.

Lando’s brain short-circuits.

He turns back around so fast it’s almost mechanical. “What? No. I mean—” He fumbles. “Not like— it wasn’t—”

Smooth. Brilliant. Incredible recovery.

Behind him, Oscar goes very still.

Then, softly: “So I was.”

Lando drops his head back against the seat for half a second. Mortified. “This is so embarrassing.”

Oscar doesn’t laugh.

That might be worse.

Another small silence stretches between them, thick but not uncomfortable exactly,  just… charged with something Lando doesn’t want to name.

“Was I mean?” Oscar asks.

The question is so unexpectedly gentle that Lando’s chest tightens.

He glances back again.

Oscar’s still leaning forward slightly, watching him in the dim simulator glow. There’s a faint crease between his brows now. Almost cautious.

“No,” Lando says quietly. “You weren’t mean.”

“…Right.”

Oscar sits back a fraction, processing that.

He doesn’t push immediately. Doesn’t make a joke. Just lets the answer sit there between them.

Then, after a moment: “So why’re you embarrassed?”

Lando stares at the frozen track again. The glowing racing line. The still grandstands.

Because you were soft.

Because you looked at me like you wanted me.

Because I woke up and for a second I thought it was real.

He swallows.

“…It just felt real,” he admits finally. “That’s all.”

Behind him, Oscar goes quiet.

Not uncomfortable quiet. Thinking quiet.

The simulator hum fills the space again. Low and steady.

After a few seconds, Oscar exhales softly through his nose.

“…Those are the worst ones,” he says.

Lando glances back.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable in the low light. Calm, but distant for a second, like he’s recalling something of his own.

Then he notices Lando looking and straightens slightly, composure sliding back into place.

The door opens just then as the engineer returns.

“Alright, let’s try another run,” he says, oblivious to the tension he’s walking back into.

Lando turns forward quickly, resetting his grip on the wheel.

Behind him, Oscar leans back in the chair again. Quiet. Controlled. Back to normal.

But the air between them feels different now.

More aware.

More real.

⸻

The second run is worse.

Not because of the sim, the car feels fine. Predictable. Stable through the high-speed sections. He hits his marks, adjusts braking points, gives feedback when asked.

From the outside, he looks completely in his element.

Inside, he’s hyper-aware of everything.

The weight of the headset.

The pressure of the seat harness.

Oscar sitting behind him.

Every time he speaks to the engineer, he can feel Oscar listening. Every time he shifts in the seat, he’s aware of the space between them, small, enclosed, impossible to ignore.

They don’t talk again while the session runs.

It’s almost easier that way.

Almost.

“Box, box.”

The sim slows. Stops. Screens fade slightly as the run ends.

Lando pulls the headset halfway off, rubbing a hand over his face. “Front’s better,” he says automatically. “Still a bit of mid-corner understeer, but manageable.”

“Yeah, we see that,” the engineer replies. “Let’s call it there for now.”

Harness unclipped. Steering released. The usual post-run routine.

The engineer starts packing up some notes, already half-focused on the next driver rotation. “Good session,” he says. “Oscar, you’re up in twenty?”

“Yeah,” Oscar answers.

Lando climbs out of the rig, stretching slightly as his feet hit the floor. He grabs his water bottle from the side table, takes a long drink, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands.

He turns.

Oscar is already standing.

They’re closer than expected, only a step or two between them in the tight simulator space. Close enough that Lando has to tilt his head slightly to meet his eyes.

For a second, neither speaks.

Then Oscar says, quietly, “You called me ‘love.’”

Lando nearly inhales his own water.

He coughs once, sharply, lowering the bottle. “I— what?”

“This morning,” Oscar says. Still calm. Still steady. “When you woke up.”

Oh. God.

Heat crawls instantly up Lando’s neck. “You heard that?”

“Hard not to,” Oscar replies.

There’s no mockery in his voice. No smirk. If anything, he sounds… careful.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“I was half asleep,” Lando says quickly. “Didn’t know you were there. Brain wasn’t on. Just— dream carryover. You know. Happens.”

Oscar watches him for a moment.

Not convinced. Not unconvinced. Just… watching.

“Right,” he says.

Lando shifts his weight. Takes another unnecessary sip of water. Puts the bottle down. Picks it up again. Anything to avoid that steady gaze.

“You could’ve pretended you didn’t hear it,” he mutters.

Oscar’s mouth twitches slightly at that. Almost a smile. “Thought about it.”

“Yeah? And?”

“You looked like you were going to pass out already,” Oscar says. “Didn’t want to push it.”

That actually pulls a quiet laugh out of Lando despite himself. He rubs the back of his neck. “Appreciated.”

A small silence settles between them again.

Not awkward this time. 

Oscar shifts a step closer to the simulator rig, setting his hands lightly on the edge of it. Casual. Grounded. But he doesn’t break eye contact.

“…So,” he says after a moment. “In the dream.”

Lando groans softly. “We’re still talking about this?”

“You called me ‘love,’” Oscar repeats mildly. “I’m curious.”

Lando drags a hand down his face. Considers lying. Considers deflecting. Considers walking straight out of the room.

Instead, he sighs.

“It wasn’t—” He stops. Starts again. “It was just… one of those dreams where everything feels normal even if it isn’t. Like your brain just decides something’s real and goes with it.”

Oscar listens quietly.

“And?” he prompts.

Lando hesitates.

Then, quietly: “…We were together.”

There. Said.

He watches Oscar’s face carefully for a reaction, a laugh, confusion, anything.

Oscar just blinks once. Slow.

“…Together,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Lando says, forcing a shrug that isn’t very convincing. “Not like, dramatic. Just… normal. Close. You were being…” He searches for a safer word. “…nice.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches again, faintly. “I am nice.”

“Not like that,” Lando says before he can stop himself.

Silence.

Oh. Brilliant.

He closes his eyes briefly. “Forget I said that.”

But when he opens them again, Oscar isn’t offended. Or annoyed.

If anything, he looks… pleased.

He shifts his weight slightly, leaning one hip against the sim rig now, arms loosely folded.

“…In the dream,” Oscar says slowly, “was I… different with you?”

The question lands softly. Carefully.

Lando’s throat feels dry again.

“Yeah,” he admits.

Another quiet pause.

Then Oscar nods once, like he’s filing that information somewhere private. Processing it without judgment.

He pushes off the sim rig, straightening.

“Well,” he says lightly, composure sliding back into place. “Next time you dream about me, try not to say it out loud.”

Lando huffs a breath of laughter. “Trust me. I will.”

Oscar’s lips curve, just barely, before he turns toward the door.

But as he reaches it, he pauses.

Glances back.

And for a split second, his expression softens into something Lando has never seen from him before. Something quieter. Almost curious.

“…Did you like it?” Oscar asks.

Lando’s brain goes completely blank.

Oscar holds his gaze for exactly one second longer.

Then he opens the door and steps out into the corridor, leaving Lando standing there in the dim simulator room with his heart doing something dangerously close to a qualifying lap.

⸻

The next Grand Prix weekend arrived faster than Lando had expected.

Thursday morning in the paddock, he tried to appear calm. Tried being normal. Tried everything he could think of.

Then he spotted Oscar leaning against the McLaren hospitality railing, coffee in hand, sunglasses tucked into his hair, casually chatting with an engineer.

And the second their eyes met, Lando knew he was doomed.

Oscar’s gaze swept over him, slow, deliberate, like he could see straight through him. Then a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Oh no.

Lando tried to act casual as Oscar approached. He could feel his cheeks warming, his stomach doing that very inconvenient twist.

“Morning,” Oscar said, voice easy, tone teasing without a word of explanation.

“Hi,” Lando managed, forcing a shrug, backpack strap sliding up as he adjusted it unnecessarily. “Morning. Race weekend.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to look like he was studying him. Lando’s stomach tightened.

“You sleep alright?” Oscar asked, casually, taking a sip of his coffee.

Lando blinked. “What?”

“Sleep,” Oscar repeated, grin flickering. “You looked… tired last time.”

Lando’s heart skipped. He forced a laugh. “Yeah. Fine. Normal. Totally normal sleep. Nothing weird.”

Oscar hummed thoughtfully, clearly not buying it.

“No weird dreams lately?” he asked.

Lando choked slightly on his own breath. Why is he like this?

“I—no, nothing weird,” Lando said quickly, trying to sound casual, trying very, very hard not to betray how flustered he actually was.

Oscar’s smirk deepened, small and utterly infuriating. “Good. Just making sure you’re keeping your head in the game.”

Lando wanted to protest, but all he could do was mutter, “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe a little,” Oscar admitted, tilting his head in that way that made Lando want to crawl under the nearest table.

They walked toward the garage, and Lando felt every step like a countdown to embarrassment. He kept glancing at Oscar, who seemed perfectly calm, perfectly collected… and perfectly aware of the effect he was having.

“You’re flustered,” Oscar said suddenly, voice soft, amused.

“I am not,” Lando replied immediately.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, a teasing glimmer in his eyes. “Sure you’re not.”

Lando groaned internally, trying to focus on the ground ahead of him.

“Relax,” Oscar said, leaning slightly closer. “It’s fine. You don’t have to act normal around me.”

Don’t have to act normal… Lando’s brain short-circuited. He cleared his throat. “I… I am normal.”

Oscar’s grin widened, just slightly, enough to make Lando’s face heat up further. “Yeah, you are. Definitely. Totally normal.”

The engineers didn’t notice. The bustle of the garage swallowed them up. But Lando couldn’t stop feeling every inch of his embarrassment pressed against his skin, and Oscar, as always, seemed to revel in it.

And Lando, against all odds, couldn’t even hate it.

⸻

By mid-morning, Lando had more or less accepted that he was in trouble. Oscar’s calm, teasing presence was impossible to ignore, and every little glance or casual lean made him flustered in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

As they walked past the McLaren hospitality, Lando tried to sound casual. “Careful, Oscar. People might start talking.”

Oscar’s smirk lifted, slow and deliberate, but he didn’t say anything immediately. He let the pause hang just long enough to make Lando’s stomach tighten. “People talk anyway,” he finally murmured, voice easy, teasing. And if Lando wasn’t feeling embarrassed enough, Oscar took the opportunity to throw his right arm over Lando’s shoulders.

Lando blinked, feeling the heat creep up his neck. “Yeah, but—” He cut himself off, gesturing vaguely toward the pit lane, “—don’t give them extra material.”

Oscar’s grin widened, that quiet sort of amusement that made Lando’s chest tighten. “Noted,” he said softly, tilting his head in a way that gave Lando no choice but to turn to him, neck still touching the heated skin of the younger’s bicep. He wished he could just let himself enjoy it, being so close to each other.

They leaned on the pit wall, ostensibly observing the team’s work in the hospitality, though Lando kept finding excuses to glance at Oscar. The quiet energy between them was suddenly noticeable to everyone around, though Lando desperately hoped it wasn’t obvious.

It was.

⸻

By Friday evening, the paddock had quieted down, and the hum of the Grand Prix weekend had softened. Lando was in his hotel room, sprawled on the bed with his laptop open, trying to review some notes, but his mind kept wandering back to earlier that day. Every glance, every touch and smirk from Oscar kept replaying in his head, making concentration impossible.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table. He reached for it and froze slightly when he saw the message.

Oscar: 

Ordering room service. Want to join?

Lando blinked, caught off guard, and then smiled. He typed back quickly:

Lando: 

sure

be there in 2 mins

Oscar: 

👍 

Don’t take too long

I’m starving

By the time Lando knocked on Oscar’s door, it was open before he could ring the bell. Oscar leaned casually against the frame, a tray stacked with food in his hands and that easy grin he always wore.

“Lando,” he said, voice light, “glad you could escape your room and join the feast,”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando muttered, smile unable to leave his face. The room smelled delicious, and the tray was piled with burgers, fries, little sandwiches, and enough sauces to start a small condiment empire.

Oscar set it down and gestured to the small table. “Sit. Don’t hover like you’re still in the garage.”

Lando laughed, lowering himself onto the chair. “I don’t hover. I… supervise. Big difference.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Sure, whatever you say, chief.”

They dug in, sharing bites, passing fries back and forth, and teasing each other over the smallest things.

“You’re supposed to be helping me with strategy, not stealing my fries,” Lando said between bites, holding up a hand dramatically.

“I am helping,” Oscar replied, grinning. “Teaching you the art of negotiation.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Lando laughed, shoving a fry toward him.

“And you’re too easy to annoy,” Oscar shot back, snatching it anyway. Lando groaned, throwing his hands up, and Oscar laughed so hard he had to clutch the table.

They talked about everything and nothing—team gossip, the funniest moments from the track, who’d made the worst coffee, how someone had managed to spill an entire box of tools (Lando almost cried laughing when he remembered how one tool ended in the livery during that one practice session). Every time one of them made a joke, the other doubled over laughing, sometimes snorting, sometimes flailing arms around dramatically.

At one point, Lando caught himself mid-laugh, staring at Oscar for just a second too long. Oscar noticed, smirked knowingly, and muttered, “Caught you.”

“Did not!” Lando protested, though his grin betrayed him.

“Totally did,” Oscar replied, laughing again. “Eyes say everything.”

The tray slowly emptied, their stomachs full, but neither of them seemed to care. They were too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the evening, laughing so much that the room felt warmer, louder, and lighter than it had all week.

Finally, Lando leaned back, wiping his hands. “Alright, you win. This was… actually a lot of fun.”

Oscar grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Of course it was. Admit it, you secretly love my terrible jokes.”

“I admit nothing,” Lando shot back, but he laughed anyway.

Lando knew he was done for.

⸻

As soon as the room service tray was cleared, Lando eyed the extra controller Oscar had left on the bed, after he had proudly announced that he brought his console with him.

“Seriously? You’re challenging me at FIFA now?” Lando asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oscar smirked, sliding onto the edge of the bed. “Of course. I have to make sure you’re not just good at dodging paddock photographers.”

Lando rolled his eyes but settled beside him, gripping the controller. “Prepare to be demolished.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Oscar said, grinning.

The game started, and immediately they were shouting and laughing at each other’s ridiculous mistakes. Lando tried a fancy trick, only to spin out and let Oscar score easily.

“No way! That was cheating!” Lando exclaimed, throwing his head back in laughter.

“Skill, my friend. Pure skill,” Oscar teased, nudging him lightly.

They bantered nonstop, teasing each other about every move. Lando tried to get revenge, snatching the controller when Oscar got distracted by a message on his phone, but Oscar grabbed it back with a laugh. Soon, they were doubled over in laughter, shoulders brushing as they fought for the next goal.

“Okay, okay, truce,” Lando gasped, holding up his hands. “Or we’re both going to break the controller in fits of rage.”

“Too late,” Oscar said with a grin, scooting closer so their legs were brushing. “We’re in too deep now.”

Neither of them noticed how tired they were becoming. They kept joking, swapping controllers, laughing at their own terrible plays, until Lando yawned, mid-complaint about one of Oscar’s goals.

“You’re… going… down…” he mumbled, voice trailing off, eyes already half-shut.

Oscar snorted, nudging him gently. “Sure, sure.” He yawned too, slumping back against the headboard.

The controllers fell onto the bed somewhere between laughter and exhaustion, and soon the jokes turned into quiet chuckles, then soft sighs, until both of them were curled up on the bed, half-on, half-off the pillows, the game paused and forgotten.

By the time the hotel room was quiet, they were asleep, still tangled up in blankets. 

Lando fell asleep thinking that maybe, it would be nice to have this, Oscar smiling at him, being happy, together.

⸻

Lando drifted into sleep, and the paddock, the hotel, the world itself faded away. He found himself lying back on a soft bed, sheets tangled around him, warm and heavy. And there was Oscar, leaning over him with that slow, infuriating grin, the one that made every nerve in Lando’s body hum.

“You’ve been thinking about me all day,” Oscar murmured, his voice low and teasing, one hand brushing a strand of hair from Lando’s forehead. “Careful… you might give yourself away.”

“I… maybe,” Lando admitted, chest tightening as he reached for Oscar, tugging gently at the hem of his shirt. “Maybe I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Oscar’s grin deepened, lips hovering just above Lando’s. “Oh? And what exactly have you been thinking about?”

Lando’s breath caught. “You… like this,” he whispered, voice shaky, eyes half-lidded. “Being here with you.”

“Mm,” Oscar hummed, brushing a soft kiss across Lando’s cheek, lingering near the corner of his lips. “I like the sound of that.”

Lando shivered, arching instinctively as Oscar’s hand moved slowly across his torso, teasing just enough to make him catch his breath. “Oscar… I…” he stammered, hands threading into Oscar’s hair. “I can’t… I can’t stop.”

“I know,” Oscar murmured, lips trailing down Lando’s neck, teasing, playful. “I’ve been thinking about this too… about you.”

“I… I need you,” Lando breathed, hips shifting, body on fire with want. “Oscar… please…”

“Shh,” Oscar whispered, lips brushing lightly along Lando’s chest, tracing patterns that made him tremble, fingers threading through the soft curls at the nape of Lando’s neck. “Relax. I’m right here.”

Lando’s heart pounded, every nerve alive with sensation. “I… I want… I can’t… you…” His words trailed off, lost in gasps and half-formed moans.

Oscar smiled softly, brushing a hand down Lando’s side and tugging lightly at his curls as he leaned closer. “I can feel how hard you are… how much you need me,” he murmured, voice low, warm. “God, you feel perfect.”

Lando arched instinctively, hands clutching at Oscar’s shirt, pulling him closer, trying to grind even harder into Oscar’s thigh. “Oscar… please…” he gasped. “I… I can’t hold it…”

“Don’t,” Oscar said, pressing his thigh closer to Lando’s dick, brushing lips along Lando’s collarbone and chest, trailing gentle kisses lower, teasing, never rushing, tugging at Lando’s curls in rhythm with each tremble. “Let me make you feel good, Lan.”

Lando’s body trembled, mind swirling in a haze of heat and want. Every touch, every whisper, every teasing kiss sent shivers rippling through him. He felt the tension building, inch by inch, breath catching, heart hammering, so close he could hardly think.

“I… I’m—so close…” Lando moaned, voice breaking, body trembling. “Oscar…”

“I know,” Oscar murmured, brushing through his curls again, tugging gently when Lando shivered, coaxing him with steady, warm hands. “I can feel it too,”

Hands tangled in each other, hips shifting instinctively, Lando could feel every inch of himself pressed toward the edge. Oscar’s lips, his hands in his hair, the way he whispered and teased—it was everything Lando had ever imagined, and more.

“I… Oscar…” Lando gasped, body coiled tight with anticipation, mind swimming, heart pounding. “I… I’m—”

And then, just as the tension was about to spill over, as Lando’s body trembled and he teetered on the brink, fingers clenching into Oscar’s curls… he woke up with a start.

⸻

Lando’s dream lingered like smoke in his mind—Oscar’s hands in his curls, the teasing whispers, the closeness, the heat. In the dream, everything felt so vivid, so real, so… consuming. He felt himself get caught up in it, every nerve alive, every thought focused entirely on Oscar.

The silence of the room was heavy, broken only by the ragged, uneven sound of Lando’s own breathing. His skin felt several degrees too hot for his body, the ghost of the dream still clinging to him like a fever. He was certain that if he opened his eyes, the sheer force of his blush would illuminate the dark hotel room.

He didn't just cover his face; he pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to physically push the images of dream-Oscar back into the depths of his subconscious.

"Lando."

The voice was too close.

Lando flinched, a small, choked sound escaping his throat. He hadn't heard Oscar move. He hadn't heard the rustle of sheets. But suddenly, the edge of his bed dipped, and a hand—cool, steady, and very real—brushed against his wrist.

"Go away," Lando croaked, his voice thick. "Go back to sleep. I’m dying. Just let me die in peace."

"You’re not dying," Oscar murmured. His tone wasn't teasing now. It was low, vibrating with a gravity that made Lando’s dick twitch. "But you are shaking. And you’re making noises that I’m pretty sure aren't about FIFA."

Oscar’s fingers hooked around Lando’s wrists. He didn't yank; he applied a slow, insistent pressure, pulling Lando’s hands away from his face. Lando fought it for a second, his muscles locked in pure, unadulterated shame, but Oscar was patient. One by one, he pried Lando’s fingers back until Lando was forced to look at him.

In the dim light of the city glowing through the curtains, Oscar looked devastating. His hair was a mess from sleep, his eyes dark and dilated, fixed entirely on Lando’s flushed face.

"Your heart is going through your chest," Oscar whispered, his eyes flicking down to Lando’s throat, then back up. He didn't let go of Lando’s wrists. He pinned them lightly against the pillow, leaning over him until their noses almost touched. "Tell me what you were dreaming about."

"I can't," Lando breathed, his eyes darting everywhere but Oscar’s mouth. "Oscar, please. It was just—I’m tired. My brain is weird—"

"You called me 'love' again," Oscar interrupted. His voice dropped to a near-silent register, the kind that made the fine hairs on Lando’s arms stand up. "And you looked like you were in pain. Or like you were being properly fucked."

Oscar’s gaze searched Lando’s, dropping the last of his playful armor. The air between them was so thick it felt like it could snap.

"Lando," Oscar said, his thumb grazing the pulse point on Lando’s wrist. "Did you really want it to be real?"

The honesty of the question broke Lando’s remaining defenses. He couldn't lie, not when Oscar was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. Lando gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

The shift in the room was instantaneous.

Oscar didn't hesitate. With one smooth, decisive motion, he reached down and gripped the edge of the heavy hotel duvet, flinging it back. The rush of cool air hit Lando’s heated skin, making him shiver, the outline of his cock visible, and to his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but twitch.

Oscar moved, swung a leg over, settling himself firmly over Lando’s thighs, their cocks rubbing a little against each other. The weight was grounding and overwhelming all at once. Oscar sat up, his knees bracketed on either side of Lando’s hips, his hands sliding from Lando’s wrists up to his shoulders, then finally cupping his neck.

"Oscar," Lando gasped, his hands instinctively coming up to rest on Oscar’s waist, gripping the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

"If we're doing this," Oscar whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed against Lando’s ear, "we’re doing it for real. No more dreams."

He shifted, his body weight pressing down on Lando’s cock as he began a slow, rhythmic grind against the older. The friction was electric, the heat of their bodies meeting through the thin layers of their clothes. It was exactly like the dream, but a thousand times sharper—the scent of Oscar’s skin, the sound of his hitching breath, the solid reality of him, the precum staining the front of their boxer.

Lando let out a broken moan, his head falling back against the pillow as he arched into the contact. His fingers dug into Oscar’s hips, guiding him, needing that pressure more than he needed his next breath.

Oscar let out a low, guttural huff of a laugh against Lando’s neck, his teeth grazing the skin there. "Better than the dream?"

"Shut up," Lando choked out, pulling Oscar down by the back of his neck to finally, finally kill the distance between their mouths. "Just… don’t stop."

⸻

The kiss wasn’t like the one in the dream.

The dream had been golden and soft, a hazy question asked in a quiet corner. This was an answer, it was loud, desperate, and crashing into reality with the force of a high-speed collision. Lando pulled Oscar down by the neck, his fingers tangling in those dark curls with a frantic grip, and Oscar met him with a groan that vibrated straight through Lando’s chest.

It was messy. It was teeth and tongue and the salt-sweet taste of skin. It was the sound of Oscar’s heavy breathing filling the small gap between them and the frantic rhythm of Lando’s heart finally finding its match.

Oscar shifted his weight, his thighs bracketing Lando’s hips, and began to move again, after pulling both of their boxers down. The friction was agonizingly perfect. With nothing separating their leakig cocks, every slide of Oscar’s body against his felt like a live wire sparking. Lando’s head thrashed back against the pillow, his eyes fluttering shut as a jagged breath hitched in his throat.

"Osc—" Lando gasped into the kiss, his hands sliding down from Oscar’s hair to grip the hem of his shirt, pulling the fabric taut. "God, you ruin me"

“You’re perfect,darling" Oscar murmured against his lips, his voice wrecked, stripped of all its usual Aussie dry wit. He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against Lando's, his eyes dark with a hunger that made Lando feel like he was melting into the mattress. "All for me, Lando"

Oscar’s hands, usually so steady on a steering wheel, were trembling slightly as they slid down Lando’s sides. He pressed his palms flat against the bed, using the leverage to grind down harder, more purposeful.

Lando’s back arched, his hips rising instinctively to meet Oscar’s cock. A broken, high-pitched sound escaped him—a sound he would have been mortified by twenty minutes ago, but now he only wanted to repeat it. He wanted Oscar to hear exactly what he was doing to him. He wanted Oscar to know that the dream hadn't even come close to the real thing.

"You're so red," Oscar whispered, his gaze tracing the flush that had spread from Lando’s cheeks down to the collar of his shirt. He leaned down, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of Lando’s neck, and inhaled deeply. "You wanted this for forever. Admit it."

"I hate you," Lando breathed, though his hands were busy pulling Oscar’s hips closer, refusing to let him pull away even for a second. "I hate how much you know."

"You don't hate it," Oscar countered, his teeth grazing Lando’s earlobe before he moved back to his mouth. "You love that I’m the only one who sees you like this."

The friction intensified, a slow, torturous heat building in the pit of Lando's stomach. Every slide of their dicks was a promise of what was to come. Oscar’s movements were steady, rhythmic, and devastatingly effective. Lando felt like he was hovering on the edge of a cliff, the same one he’d fallen off in his sleep, but this time, there was no waking up to an empty room.

Oscar caught Lando’s hands, pinning them above his head with one hand, his fingers interlacing with Lando’s. He looked down at him, his expression a mix of fierce possession and a vulnerability that Lando had never seen before.

"Look at me," Oscar commanded softly.

Lando forced his eyes open, his vision slightly blurred. Oscar was looming over him, a silhouette of heat and muscle, his chest heaving.

"It's real, Lando," Oscar said, his voice a low, grounded rumble. "I'm real. And I'm not going anywhere."

Lando swallowed hard, his fingers squeezing Oscar’s. The embarrassment was still there, a tiny flickering ember, but it was being rapidly smothered by something much larger, much more powerful. He wasn't the lonely driver in the motorhome anymore. He was here, in the dark, with the one person who made the world make sense.

"Show me," Lando whispered, his voice cracking. "Show me it's real, love,"

Lando watched, his throat tight and his pulse thundering in his ears, as Oscar spit in his palm and made a quick, slick adjustment. The slick heat of his palm was a sudden, electric contrast to the cool air of the room. When Oscar reached down, his hand sure and steady as he brought their cocks together, Lando’s head hit the headboard with a soft thud, his eyes rolling back in sheer, dizzying relief.

"Oscar," Lando choked out, his fingers digging into the mattress, his knuckles white.

Oscar didn't answer. He settled back over Lando’s lap, his weight a grounding force, and began to grind down again. It was direct, slick, and devastatingly hot. The rhythm was like a countdown, a fast and desperate pace that mirrored the final laps of a race where everything was on the line.

The friction was agonizingly perfect. Oscar’s hand worked with a relentless, driving motion, fingers going over Lando’s split, caressing their throbbing cocks one second, and changing the pace the next. Lando’s world narrowed down to the feeling of Oscar’s chest heaving against his, the scent of hotel soap and adrenaline, and the incredible, heavy pressure of their bodies meeting.

"Look at me," Oscar rasped, his voice a wrecked shadow of itself.

Lando forced his eyes open, his vision swimming. Oscar was looming over him, his face tight with concentration and a fierce, vulnerable kind of want. He looked like he was vibrating with the same tension that was about to snap Lando in half.

"I want you" Oscar breathed, the words punctuated by the rhythmic slide of his body against Lando’s. "This is... us."

The tension peaked, a sharp, white-hot line that Lando couldn't retreat from. His core tensed, in that familiar and burning way he grew accustomed to, but now even more intense. He arched his back, a fractured, high-pitched sound escaping him as he finally climaxed. Oscar let out a low, guttural growl against Lando’s shoulder, his grip tightening as they both came at the exact same moment.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged, dying echo of their breath.

Oscar collapsed forward, his head resting in the crook of Lando’s neck, his body heavy and warm. Lando’s arms came up instinctively, wrapping around Oscar’s back, his fingers tracing the line of his spine with a slow, trembling touch. The embarrassment that had haunted him all these months was gone, replaced by a quiet, buzzing exhaustion that felt like peace.

Lando shifted his head, his lips brushing against Oscar’s sweat-dampened hair. "Definitely better than the dream," he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Oscar let out a tiny, huffed laugh, his chest expanding against Lando’s. He didn't move to get up. He just tightened his hold, his voice muffled against Lando’s skin.

"Don't let it go to your head, Norris," he murmured. "But yeah. Way better."

Oscar didn't move to get off him. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding down until they were lying side-by-side on the tangled sheets, the duvet pulled carelessly over them both. Lando didn't hesitate, immediately curving into Oscar’s side, throwing an arm and a leg over him to lock them together.

He felt ridiculously giddy, a bubbly, chaotic warmth spreading through his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with adrenaline. He was tucked against the crook of Oscar’s neck, listening to the solid, calming rhythm of his heart finally slowing down.

Lando shifted, pushing his nose against the soft skin of Oscar’s shoulder, a breathless, happy giggle escaping him. "You’re actually real," he whispered, feeling a little frantic need to confirm it again. "You’re not going to dissolve into golden light."

Oscar tightened his arm around Lando’s waist, bringing him closer until there was no space left between them. He let out a soft, low chuckle that resonated through his chest. "I think the lack of clothes and the very real cum that’s dripping makes it pretty hard to be a dream, Lando."

Lando hummed, content to just breathe him in. He felt light, dizzy, and overwhelmingly happy. He tracing small, absent patterns on Oscar’s bicep, feeling the tension slowly leach out of his own muscles.

"It was so hard to not do something stupid," Lando murmured, the memory of the dream still warm in his mind, but now replaced by the much better reality. "The way you looked at me all this time, I really thought I was going crazy."

Oscar went quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of Lando’s neck. The silence wasn't awkward, it was heavy with a new kind of honesty.

"You weren't crazy," Oscar said quietly, his voice stripping away the last of his usual defenses. He turned his head to look at Lando, his expression serious and incredibly intense in the dim light. "Because I've been looking at you like that for a long time."

Lando froze, lifting his head slightly to look into Oscar’s eyes. "What?"

Oscar smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you, Lando. Before I even signed the contract. Before I knew what it was like to race alongside you."

Lando felt his breath hitch, his heart rate spiking in a completely different way than before. The giddiness turned into something deeper, something anchoring.

"Really?" Lando asked softly, searching Oscar's face.

"Really," Oscar confirmed, brushing a thumb along Lando's cheek and raising his head to kiss the same spot. "I’m just... not very good at saying stupid things first like you are. I usually do something stupid later." He smirked, that familiar teasing glint returning to his eyes, but it was warmer now.

Lando laughed, a loud, genuine sound that filled the quiet room. He buried his face back into Oscar’s neck, hugging him tighter. "You're a nightmare, you know that?"

"But I'm your nightmare," Oscar murmured, kissing the top of Lando’s head.

"Yeah," Lando whispered, closing his eyes, perfectly content. "My nightmare."

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

There’s a single candle on the table between them, flame flickering with every small movement, throwing low yellow light across the walls. It dances over George’s hands as he rests them around his glass, over Max’s profile as he leans back in his chair, listening.

Dinner is simple. Pasta gone slightly cold. Bread torn by hand instead of cut. They didn’t bother with music.

They don’t need it.

They sit across from each other, knees brushing under the table, and talk about childhood like it’s a language they both learned too early.

Max talks about growing up fast. About tracks and early mornings and a father who believed pressure made diamonds, that strength was something you carved out of a child before they had a chance to ask for gentleness. He says it casually, like he always does, like it’s just another fact about gravity or lift or velocity.

George listens.

He talks about karting too, but differently. About rules and order. About wanting to be good, to be correct, to never give anyone a reason to be disappointed. About a father who taught him discipline without fear, pride without pain. Someone who stood firm without raising a hand.

The candle flickers.

Max laughs at something George says, soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect to be understood this easily.

And George—

George watches him and feels something deep and aching unfold in his chest.

He thinks about how young Max was. How small.

How falling didn’t always mean tripping.

How sometimes it meant being pushed down by words, by hands, by anger that had nowhere else to go.

How there were moments, bruises hidden under sleeves, apologies that weren’t his to give, silence learned too early, breath knocked clean out of him, where no one stepped in before the damage was done.

George’s fingers tighten around his glass.

He thinks, absurdly, irrationally, If only I had been born earlier.

Just a little.

Enough to stand at the edge of the track. Enough to kneel beside a scraped-up boy and cradle his head, shield him from the impact of the world, especially Max’s world. Enough to fall first if it meant Max wouldn’t have to.

He imagines it so clearly it almost hurts:

Max stumbling. Gravity winning. His body throbbing from the force of the violence.

George stepping forward without thinking.

Taking the collision so Max wouldn’t have to.

Even once.

Just one time.

“You’re very quiet,” Max says, interrupting the thought.

George looks up, startled. The candlelight catches in Max’s eyes, warm and steady and searching.

“Sorry,” George says. “I was just—thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” Max replies, smiling.

George exhales, something like a laugh. “You ever wish,” he says slowly, breath staggering, trying to make the lump in his throat disappear, “that someone had been there a bit sooner?” his voice cracks slightly and he already feels his eyes burning with unshed tears.

Max doesn’t joke this time.

He looks down at the table, thumb tracing the rim of his plate. “Sometimes,” he admits.

The word hangs between them.

George reaches across the table without quite realizing he’s doing it. His hand stops halfway, hesitates—then Max closes the distance, resting his fingers against George’s knuckles.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not rushed.

It’s gentle. Deliberate.

The candle flickers again, casting their shadows together on the wall, two shapes overlapping, inseparable.

“I’m here now,” George says, quietly. Not as a promise, he’s never been one to make promises, but as a fact.

Max’s grip tightens, just a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

And for the first time that evening, George feels like that old violence has finally been softened. Not erased. But caught.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻