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this is so funny: rob marshall is gone, adrian newey is gone, jonathan wheatley is gone, chr*stian h*rner is replaced w an excuse of tp in the person of laurent mekies, gp is holding not one but two (2) positions while simultaneously going to the rival team in a year, 3000 different mechanics who have been in the team since the vettel time is gone, they are recruiting new employees from none other place than rbr's FOOTBALL DIVISION. but max who is still sticking w this team is UNGRATEFUL BRAT.
The Maldives was supposed to be a dream honeymoon for Max and Pietra. Unfortunately, thanks to a seafood disaster and one non-refundable booking, it turned into a “nightmare” for you and Lando Norris.
pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.
warnings. romance, humor, slow burn, fake dating -ish, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, 14k words. food poisoning; mention of throwing up. profanity, pet names. inspired by book the unhoneymooners by christina lauren.
soundtrack. non-refundable!, an official playlist.
THE WEDDING WAS PERFECT.
Too perfect—the kind of perfect that practically dares the universe to ruin it out of spite. And honestly, you should’ve known something was coming the moment the string quartet hit that suspiciously angelic high note.
At first, it was subtle. A couple of guests slipped off the dance floor, one by one, like they’d suddenly remembered they left the oven on at home. Someone else excused themselves with the kind of tight smile people wear when they’re trying not to vomit in public. Another guest went pale enough to blend into the tablecloth before disappearing entirely. Nobody panicked. It was a wedding. People drink too much. People overheat. People make questionable choices.
You didn’t think twice about it.
Because why would you? Everything was beautiful. Magical. Soft and glowing and full of love.
Well—except for one glaring exception.
Lando Norris.
Max’s best friend. His best man. The human equivalent of a migraine wrapped in a tux.
He was somehow still laughing, still talking, still managing to irritate you from across the room without even opening his mouth. It was a talent, really. You thought he was smug, insufferable, and entirely too pleased with himself for someone who hadn’t contributed anything meaningful to society except chaos and a few podiums.
As for what he thought about you?
You didn’t care. Truly. Deeply. Profoundly.
(And if you repeated that enough times, maybe one day it would even feel true.)
The only downside to Pietra marrying Max was the unfortunate, unavoidable reality that Lando Norris was now a permanent fixture in your life. A recurring character. A long-term problem. A headache with a lifetime warranty.
The thought alone made your skin crawl in a way that felt almost personal.
The weirdest part wasn’t the disappearing guests or the suspiciously pale groomsman who nearly face‑planted into the cake. No, the weirdest part came when you realized you hadn’t seen Pietra in… a while.
At first, you brushed it off. She was a newlywed. Newlyweds vanish. It’s practically a wedding tradition. Maybe she was touching up her makeup. Maybe she was having a moment with Max. Maybe she was hiding from Lando, which would be completely understandable and honestly relatable.
But something felt off.
Pietra wasn’t the type to disappear without a word, especially not from her own reception—the event she’d planned down to the color of the napkin rings. And the longer you went without seeing her, the more that uneasy little knot twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t panic yet, but it was definitely panic‑adjacent.
So, for your own peace of mind, you pulled out your phone and called her.
The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then it connected.
“P? Where are you? Are you okay?”
There was a pause—the kind that immediately tells you the answer is no.
When she finally spoke, her voice was thin and shaky, nothing like the glowing, ecstatic bride you’d been celebrating with an hour ago.
“Can you come to our room?”
That was it.
No explanation. No reassurance. No “don’t freak out.”
Just those six words.
The call ended a second later, leaving you staring at your phone like it had personally offended you.
And suddenly, that uneasy feeling in your stomach sharpened into something much closer to full‑blown panic—the kind that makes your heart thump too hard and your brain start listing every possible worst‑case scenario in alphabetical order.
Because if Pietra sounded like that on her wedding night, something was very, very wrong.
You hurried through the hotel hallway, moving as fast as your heels would let you—which, unfortunately, was not very fast at all. Your phone was still in your hand, screen glowing with the last call, and you were so focused on Pietra’s shaky voice replaying in your head that you didn’t even look up when you turned the corner.
Which is exactly why you slammed straight into someone.
“Ow!”
You stumbled back, clutching your phone like it might soften the impact. And then you looked up.
Of course.
Of course it was Lando Norris.
Because why wouldn’t the universe add insult to injury.
He steadied himself, then gave you a once‑over that somehow managed to be both annoyed and judgmental, like you’d personally offended him by existing in his path.
“Watch it,” he said.
“You watch it,” you shot back, because you refused to let him have the last word. Not tonight. Not ever.
You pointed a finger at him, ready to continue the argument you two had apparently been having since the day you met—but then you both reached for the same door handle.
Pietra and Max’s room.
You froze.
He froze.
“What the fuck are you—”
Before either of you could finish, a voice croaked from inside the room. Weak. Miserable. Dramatic in a way only one person could manage.
“Stop flirting and come in! Both of you!”
Max.
Or, more accurately, whatever was left of Max.
Lando grimaced so hard it looked painful. “If he says that again, I’m going to be sick.”
He shot you a look—the kind that said this is your fault somehow—before pushing the door open.
Honestly?
You felt the same way.
Instead of dignifying him with a response, you rolled your eyes so hard it was practically a workout and followed him inside.
Whatever was happening inside the room looked like something straight out of a low‑budget horror movie—the kind where you already know half the cast won’t make it to the sequel.
The wedding? Completely forgotten. Pietra’s dress was crumpled in a sad little heap on the floor, like it had given up on life. Max’s tux jacket was draped over a chair in a way that suggested he’d either thrown it or collapsed out of it. Hard to tell.
Pietra was curled up on the bed, pale and miserable, clutching a pillow like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Max sat hunched over at the table with his head in his hands, breathing like someone who had seen things. Terrible things. Things he would never emotionally recover from.
“For newlyweds, you two look horrible,” Lando observed, because apparently he felt the need to narrate the obvious.
As if the scene didn’t already scream we are dying.
“You have no idea,” Pietra groaned, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Never eating seafood again,” Max muttered into his palms.
You frowned, stepping further into the room. “What happened?”
“The seafood happened,” Pietra said weakly, like the words themselves were painful.
Max lifted his head just enough to confirm it. “It was bad. Everyone’s sick.”
“Everyone?” you repeated, because surely this couldn’t be as dramatic as it sounded.
“My parents are sick. Pietra’s cousins are sick. Half the wedding is sick.” He swallowed hard, face twisting. “I think I’m gonna thr—”
“Okay, mate, we get it,” Lando cut in quickly, hands up like he was warding off a demon.
Neither of you needed the visual.
A heavy silence settled over the room—the kind that comes right before someone admits something truly stupid.
And then Lando, because he physically could not help himself, added,
“I told you seafood was a terrible idea.”
Max slowly lifted his head, eyes dead, soul gone. “Not helping.”
“Just saying.”
Of course he was.
Suddenly, a thought hit you—sharp and obvious, like the kind of realization you really should’ve had ten minutes earlier.
You turned to Lando, narrowing your eyes.
“If everyone ate the seafood… why aren’t you sick?”
He looked at you like you’d just accused him of kicking puppies for fun. His whole face twisted, offended on a spiritual level.
“I hate seafood,” he said, dripping with disgust. Like it was common knowledge. Like it was printed on his passport. Like you were personally stupid for not knowing his dietary preferences.
Before you could roll your eyes hard enough to sprain something, he pointed right back at you.
“Could ask you the same. Why aren’t you sick?”
“I’m on a diet,” you said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.
His eyebrows shot up, and he looked far too pleased with himself as he looked toward Max.
“See? This is what happens when you order seafood even though half your guests don’t even eat it.”
“You two don’t mean half the guests,” Pietra muttered from the bed, rolling her eyes so weakly it was almost impressive she managed it at all.
“Well—but that’s not why you’re here,” Max started.
The tone in his voice shifted. Instantly. Like someone had dimmed the lights and added ominous background music.
This wasn’t a joke anymore.
Even Lando went quiet—which was honestly the most alarming symptom in the room.
“We can’t go on our honeymoon,” Max said weakly. “We literally can’t even stand, let alone fly to the Maldives.”
Pietra raised a shaky hand from the bed, like she was giving sworn testimony. “Also… it’s non‑refundable.”
As if that somehow made the situation more tragic.
Which, unfortunately, it did.
“And?” you asked slowly, because you already didn’t like where this was going. “What does that have to do with us?”
Max glanced at Pietra.
Then at you.
Then at Lando.
Then back at you.
“Since you’re the only ones who are able to go…”
No.
No, no, no.
Absolutely not.
Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step on the stairs.
Did they just—
Did they seriously just—
“Absolutely not,” Lando cut in immediately, shaking his head so hard his curls bounced.
For once, you agreed with him.
Violently.
Because there was no universe—none—where you and Lando Norris should be sent on a romantic, luxury honeymoon together.
Which, of course, meant that was exactly what was about to happen.
No.
No, absolutely not.
Your stomach dropped so fast you felt it in your toes. They weren’t actually suggesting this. They couldn’t be. This had to be a fever dream caused by secondhand seafood fumes.
For once, you were perfectly aligned with him. A rare, terrifying moment of unity.
But Max wasn’t done.
“It’s a private villa,” he said, voice wobbling. “Some newlywed activities—”
You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a crime. “Did you hit your head while eating the seafood too?”
Because that was the only explanation. Truly. The man had lost brain function. You were going to wake up any second now. Maybe you’d fall off a chair and snap back into the correct timeline. Or maybe you should hit your head and skip straight to the part where none of this was happening.
“It’ll go to waste if you don’t go,” Pietra added, sounding both tragic and dramatic, which was impressive considering she looked like she might faint at any moment.
Lando let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Then let it go to waste. Problem solved.”
“Good thing we’re not asking you,” Max said, ignoring him completely. “We’re telling you.”
Silence fell over the room.
Not the normal kind.
The bad kind.
The kind that meant decisions had already been made without your consent.
“I already called the resort,” Max continued, like he was ripping off a Band‑Aid. “We told them we’re sick and can’t go. But our—also freshly married—friends will go instead of us.”
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
No.
No.
Absolutely no.
What the actual fuck.
This had to be illegal. Or a prank. Or a shared hallucination brought on by the cursed seafood poisoning half the hotel.
Max was clearly too exhausted to keep talking. Pietra, unfortunately, was not. She pushed herself up just enough to finish his sentence, her voice thin but determined.
“We just changed the names,” she said, like that explained anything at all.
You stared at her, waiting for the part where she clarified. She didn’t.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Pietra smiled—weakly, proudly, and completely out of touch with reality. She looked like she might faint at any second, yet somehow she still had the nerve to look pleased with herself.
“From now on, you’re Mr. and Mrs. Norris!”
The words hung in the air like a bomb that hadn’t decided whether to explode or not. Too cheerful. Too final. Too insane to process.
For a moment, nobody reacted. The room went still, like even the walls were trying to understand what she’d just said.
Then everything reacted at once.
“I hope you’re fucking kidding,” Lando said, voice flat and sharp.
“No,” Pietra replied immediately, not even blinking.
“I’m not going anywhere with her,” he snapped, pointing at you like you were the problem.
“I’m not going anywhere with him,” you shot back at the exact same time, because if he was pointing, you were pointing too.
Silence fell again—heavy, miserable, the kind that made you want to walk straight into the ocean.
Max didn’t even lift his head. He just groaned into the table like he’d accepted his fate and yours.
Pietra sighed, sounding far too calm for someone who had just detonated your life. “Well,” she said, “good thing it’s already done.”
And just like that, your nightmare didn’t just have a name.
It had a reservation.
A villa.
A flight to the Maldives.
And a husband you didn’t even like.
When the realization finally settled between you and your apparently new husband, all you could do was let out a long, exhausted groan—the kind that came from deep in your soul, the kind that said I did not sign up for this. It was the only reaction your brain could manage. Your thoughts were basically just static and disbelief.
Lando, on the other hand, had plenty of energy left to complain.
“Mate, I love you,” he said, turning toward Max with the dramatic flair of someone delivering a eulogy, “but right now I hate you so much.”
Max didn’t even lift his head. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He just sat there, hunched over the table like a man who had accepted every bad decision that led him to this moment.
Pietra gave a weak little wave from the bed, like she was blessing a doomed union. “You’ll thank us later,” she mumbled, which was bold for someone who looked like she might pass out mid‑sentence.
Lando exhaled sharply, then looked between you, Max, and Pietra with the expression of a man who had lost all hope in humanity. “Enjoy your free honeymoon,” he said flatly. A beat. “Lovebirds.”
You and Lando turned to each other at the exact same time.
“No.”
It came out perfectly synchronized—same tone, same disgust, same absolute refusal. If you weren’t so horrified, you might’ve been impressed.
And for the first time all night, even Max looked slightly amused. His mouth twitched, just barely, like he wanted to smile but didn’t have the physical strength to commit to it.
Which was great.
Fantastic.
Wonderful.
At least someone was enjoying the beginning of your shared nightmare.
────────────
The moment you stepped off the boat, you regretted not eating the seafood too. Honestly, at least then you’d be back at the hotel, curled up on a bathroom floor, dramatically begging for death like everyone else. Instead, you were here—in paradise—with the one person who could make even the Maldives feel like a punishment. You were at that stage of life where you would genuinely prefer food poisoning over spending any time alone with Lando Norris. And that said a lot.
The Maldives were gorgeous, of course. The water was so turquoise it looked fake, the sand was blindingly white, and the palm trees swayed like they were performing for a commercial. Everything around you was warm and soft and perfect, the kind of place people saved up for years to visit. It should have been paradise. It should have been peaceful. It should have been romantic.
But then there was the idiot standing next to you.
Lando looked around with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, somehow managing to look annoyed despite being surrounded by literal postcard scenery. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else. You hoped he was regretting this as much as you were. Preferably more.
A pair of resort employees approached with bright, excited smiles—the kind of smiles people only have when they have no idea what kind of disaster they’re dealing with.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Norris! Congratulations on your honeymoon.”
Your eye twitched so hard you were surprised it didn’t fall out. If one more person called you that, you might actually swim back to the mainland.
“Thanks,” Lando said smoothly, flashing them one of his signature smiles like he hadn’t spent the last 48 hours insisting he wasn’t going anywhere with you.
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
What happened to I’m not going anywhere with her?
He caught your glare and shrugged, all innocent and useless.
Traitor.
Not wanting to be rude to the only people here who hadn’t personally ruined your life, you forced a polite smile. Before you could correct them—or scream—one of the employees picked up your suitcase with cheerful efficiency.
“Come with us,” she said brightly. “We’ll show you your villa.”
The walk to the villa was painfully, almost comically silent. Not a single word passed between you. You stared straight ahead like you were being marched to your doom. Lando did the same, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he was being forced to attend his own funeral. The two resort employees leading the way kept glancing back at you both, probably wondering what kind of honeymooning couple walked like they were on their way to court.
Eventually, one of them cleared her throat, clearly trying to break the tension before it swallowed all four of you whole.
“I’m sorry about your friends.”
You blinked, pulled out of your internal spiral. Right. Max and Pietra. The actual newlyweds. The ones currently dying in a hotel room.
“Yeah,” you said. “It sucks.”
“They were very upset when they called,” she continued gently. “But they seemed happy that you two could still enjoy the honeymoon.”
You nearly tripped over your own feet.
Happy.
That was certainly one way to describe it. Delusional was another. Criminally optimistic was a third.
Beside you, Lando made a noise—something between a laugh and a strangled groan. Honestly, it could’ve been either. Or both.
“And how long are you two married?”
You froze.
Well.
Eh.
You didn’t exactly have a script for this. You didn’t know whether to lie, tell the truth, or throw yourself into the ocean and let the fish sort it out.
Before you could decide, Lando spoke.
“Two months.”
You whipped your head toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash.
What.
The.
Fuck.
Lando didn’t even look at you. He just kept walking beside you like he hadn’t casually invented an entire fake marriage timeline out of thin air. No hesitation. No shame. No warning. Just two months tossed into the universe like it was a normal, reasonable answer.
The employee beamed at the both of you, completely fooled.
“How lovely! Newlyweds.”
“Yeah,” Lando replied smoothly, slipping into the role like he’d been practicing in the mirror. “Still getting used to it.”
You stared at him, your brain short‑circuiting.
Still getting used to it.
Still. Getting. Used. To. It.
Was he insane? Was he actually insane? Because that was the only explanation for the confidence with which he delivered that line. You caught the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the smallest hint of amusement, like he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of your suffering.
The bastard was enjoying this.
“Oh, absolutely,” you said through gritted teeth, forcing a smile so stiff it could’ve cracked. “Every day is a surprise.”
Lando finally glanced at you, and for a split second, you saw it—the spark of amusement in his eyes, the quiet little I’m having fun and you can’t stop me glint.
You hated it.
You hated him.
The villa was ridiculous.
Not just nice—insultingly nice. The kind of nice that made you question every choice you’d ever made in your life. The terrace stretched out over the water like it was showing off. There was a glass slide straight into the ocean, an infinity pool that blended into the horizon, an outdoor shower, two separate bathrooms (mercifully), and enough space to host three families, a wedding, and maybe a small cult.
It was paradise.
And you hated that you were seeing it with him.
The second the employees left, you spun toward Lando.
“What the hell was that?”
Lando dropped his bag onto the floor like he owned the place. “What was what?”
“‘Two months’?” you repeated, voice rising. “Where did you even get two months from?”
He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Sounded believable.”
“Believable?”
“What was I supposed to say?” he shot back. “‘Actually, we’ve known each other for years and can’t stand one another, but our friends got food poisoning and sent us on their honeymoon instead’?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it. and opened it again.
“…Well, maybe not like that.”
“Exactly,” he said, like he’d just won a debate on national television.
“That doesn’t mean you get to invent an entire marriage!”
“Oh, come on,” he said, already wandering deeper into the villa like a man on vacation. “It’s harmless.”
“Harmless?”
“Yes.”
“You made me your wife.”
Lando paused mid‑step and turned, looking genuinely confused.
“You already were my wife.”
The room went still. You stared at him. He stared back.
Three long, painful seconds passed.
Then something flickered across his face—realization, horror, embarrassment, all at once.
“Oh.”
Your eye twitched. “Oh?”
“Okay,” he winced, “that sounded worse out loud.”
“You think?”
“I mean she called you Mrs. Norris first. She made you my wife,” Lando tried to defend himself.
Before you could continue tearing him apart, a knock interrupted you.
Both of you froze.
The door opened immediately—because apparently privacy was optional here—and one of the resort employees peeked in with an apologetic smile.
“Oh! Sorry, one more thing.”
You instinctively stepped away from Lando like he was radioactive. He noticed. Of course he did. The employee didn’t.
“Your first romantic dinner is at eight tonight.”
Silence.
“What?” you said.
“Romantic dinner,” she repeated cheerfully. “On the beach. Just the two of you.”
You slowly turned your head toward Lando.
He turned toward you. Then both of you turned back to her.
“We don’t need—”
“Wonderful!” she cut in. “See you at eight!”
The moment she left, you pushed open the bedroom door.
And immediately stopped. Of course.
Of course there was one bed. Not just any bed—one large, perfectly made, aggressively romantic bed positioned directly in front of the ocean like it was trying to prove a point. Rose‑petal energy without the actual petals. The kind of bed that practically whispered consummate something.
You just stared at it, frozen in place.
Lando leaned against the doorframe, peered inside, and let out the most dramatic sigh you’d ever heard.
“Oh my god,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “There’s really only one bed in this big‑ass villa?”
“Well obviously,” you snapped. “It’s a honeymoon villa, dumbass.”
“Right,” he muttered, like the universe had personally wronged him.
Silence settled between you—thick, awkward, the kind that made everything feel ten times worse. You could practically hear the ocean outside judging both of you.
Then Lando nodded toward the bed with the seriousness of someone offering a noble sacrifice.
“I’ll happily take the floor,” he announced.
You blinked.
Once. Twice.
“Wow,” you said. “Generous of you.”
Then you turned fully toward him, crossing your arms. “I’m going to be kind and let you take the couch in the living room. You’re absolutely not sleeping in the same room as me.”
“Right,” he said slowly, glancing toward the living room. “The couch.”
He nodded like he was processing a complicated mathematical equation.
“I should’ve thought about that earlier.”
────────────
The restaurant was somehow even more ridiculous than the villa—which felt almost impossible, but here you were, living proof that the universe had a sense of humor and it wasn’t a kind one.
A table for two sat directly on the sand, candles flickering in the warm evening breeze while waves rolled onto the shore like they’d been hired for ambience. Fairy lights hung from the palm trees overhead, glowing softly against the darkening sky. Music drifted through the air, gentle and warm, the kind that made everything feel softer than it actually was.
And you…
You looked beautiful. A yellow summer dress, light and easy, catching the breeze just enough to move with you. Your hair had settled into soft waves, brushing your shoulders every time you turned your head. You definitely hadn’t taken extra time to get ready because of your “husband.” Absolutely not. That would be ridiculous.
It looked like a scene from a romance movie.
Unfortunately, you were starring in it with Lando Norris.
The hostess smiled as she pulled out your chair, glowing with the kind of joy only people who believe in love have.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Norris. We hope you have a magical first dinner as newlyweds.”
You forced a polite smile, the kind that felt like it might crack if you held it too long.
“Thank you.”
Lando matched your expression perfectly, like he’d been trained for this exact moment.
“Very kind of you.”
The hostess practically melted on the spot.
“Oh, you two are adorable.”
The second she walked away, both of your smiles dropped so fast they might’ve left dents in the sand.
“She called us adorable,” you muttered.
“She also called us married,” Lando replied, sounding personally offended.
You stared at him.
He stared at you.
And for a moment, the two of you sat there in the middle of paradise, united only by mutual suffering.
You reached for the bread basket.
At the exact same moment Lando did.
Your hands collided in the middle of the table, a sharp little smack that made you both freeze. You pulled yours back instantly, like touching him might give you a rash.
“Watch it,” you muttered.
“You watch it,” he shot back, just as fast.
Before either of you could escalate, a waiter appeared beside the table carrying what looked like a tropical explosion in a glass—flowers, fruit, colors that didn’t exist in nature.
“For the honeymoon couple!” he announced proudly.
He set it down between you.
One glass.
Two straws.
A crime.
You and Lando stared at it like it had personally insulted you.
“No,” you both said at the same time.
“Oh, it’s complimentary!” the waiter beamed, completely missing the mutual horror, and vanished before you could protest.
Silence settled over the table again, warm and heavy like the night air.
“Well?” Lando said.
“Well what?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“So am I.”
Another long stretch of stubborn quiet passed—thirty seconds that felt like a challenge neither of you wanted to lose.
Finally, you both leaned forward at the same time.
And immediately bumped foreheads.
“Ow!”
You rubbed the spot, wincing, while Lando leaned back with a glare sharp enough to cut through the candlelight.
“Could you be any more dramatic?”
“You literally ran into me.”
“You ran into me.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
The argument fizzled out only because you both leaned in and took a sip of the drink at the same time—careful this time, no forehead injuries—and neither of you dared admit it tasted incredible. Sweet, cold, perfect. A tiny piece of heaven in the middle of your personal hell.
The appetizers arrived a few minutes later, carried by a waiter who looked like he’d been waiting his whole life to serve a honeymoon couple. Every time he or anyone else walked by, you and Lando transformed instantly into the world’s most convincing romantic pair. It was almost impressive how fast the switch flipped.
“So, darling,” Lando said with a smile so bright it could’ve powered the fairy lights above you, “would you like the lobster?”
“No, sweetheart,” you replied just as sweetly, matching his tone like you’d rehearsed it. “You know I don’t eat seafood.”
The waiter’s face lit up.
“How lovely.”
The moment he walked away, your smile dropped. You kicked Lando under the table.
“Ow!” he hissed, jerking his leg back.
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me darling.”
“You started it.”
“You kicked me.”
“Good.”
Another waiter approached, moving carefully across the sand as if he were carrying something sacred. He placed two plates in front of you with a soft smile.
Steak and fries. Finally.
Separate plates.
Thank God.
You sat up a little straighter, almost relieved enough to forget who you were sitting with.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, her smile warm and hopeful, like she genuinely wanted your night to be perfect.
You returned it, stretching your own smile so wide your cheeks started to ache. “Everything’s perfect.”
Beside you, Lando nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who had fully committed to the bit. “Best honeymoon ever.”
The waiter beamed, delighted. “We’re so happy to hear that. Enjoy your evening!”
She walked away, leaving the two of you alone again—candles flickering, waves rolling in, the whole scene soft and romantic in a way that felt almost cruel.
The second the waiter disappeared, your foot shot out under the table and connected with Lando’s shin again. Maybe you were provoking him. Maybe you weren’t. Maybe the universe was simply guiding your leg. Either way, you weren’t about to admit anything.
He jerked back, glaring at you like you’d personally ruined his life.
“Can you fucking stop?”
“Stop lying.”
“You’re the one smiling.”
“I’m being polite.”
“You look psychotic.”
“Because of you.”
Lando stabbed another fry with his fork, then looked up at you with a confidence he absolutely did not deserve.
“You know,” he said, leaning back slightly, “for someone who supposedly hates me, you’ve been looking at me all evening.”
You scoffed, loud and sharp.
“Could say the same about you.”
And that was the first time since arriving that he actually went quiet.
Because you had noticed.
The little glances he kept sneaking across the table.
The way his eyes lingered a second too long before he looked away.
The absent-minded way he wet his lips whenever he was thinking.
The way he kept shifting in his seat like he was trying not to stare at you too openly.
None of it meant anything.
Obviously.
You weren’t delusional.
Still, something flickered across his face—something quick, something he tried to hide—before he straightened again.
“You’re imagining things,” he said.
“Am I?”
He held your gaze for a beat too long.
“Trust me,” he said, voice low and annoyingly confident. “If I was staring, you’d know.”
Your heart did something incredibly inconvenient—a tiny jump, a tiny skip, the kind of reaction you immediately wanted to throw into the ocean. You grabbed your glass instead, lifting it like it could physically reset your brain.
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he replied, reaching across the table to steal one of your fries like he had every right to, “you haven’t left.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That was my fry.”
He took a slow, deliberate bite. “Tastes better when it’s yours.”
You kicked him under the table. Hard.
He hissed, jerking his leg back. “Jesus—are you trying to break my leg?”
“Debatable,” you said, taking a calm sip of your drink like you hadn’t just committed violence.
Lando rubbed his shin under the table, glaring at you like you’d personally ruined his evening. “You’re a violent wife.”
Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. “You’re an annoying husband.”
A beat passed—warm, tense, too quiet.
Then he leaned back slightly, smirk tugging at his mouth, eyes glinting in the candlelight.
“You realize if you break my leg, you’d have to take care of me, sweetheart?”
You didn’t even blink.
“I’m gonna throw up.”
His smirk widened, slow and smug, like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.
And the worst part?
Your heart did that inconvenient little jump again.
────────────
The morning started peacefully. Too peacefully. The kind of peaceful that made you suspicious, like the universe was holding its breath before dropping something heavy on your head.
You and Lando sat at the breakfast table like two people who had agreed to a temporary ceasefire. No shin‑kicking. No dramatic sighs. No sarcastic comments sharp enough to cut through the tropical air. Just quiet eating, the soft clink of cutlery, and the occasional scroll through your phones.
Almost normal.
Almost comfortable.
Then Lando opened his mouth.
“We’re going golfing,” he said casually, not even looking up, biting into a pastry like he was reading the weather report.
“No.”
That one word snapped his attention up instantly. He blinked at you, confused, like he’d never heard the word before.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I hate golf.”
“That’s not a valid reason.”
“It’s a very valid reason.”
He sighed dramatically, like you had personally ruined his entire morning, his week, and possibly his life.
“I can’t play alone.”
“You absolutely can.”
“I can’t.”
You narrowed your eyes. He was lying. Badly. A man who drove cars at terrifying speeds for a living could absolutely survive a solo round of golf.
“You race cars for a living.”
“And?”
“You can function independently.”
He ignored that completely, like you hadn’t spoken at all.
“We’re going. It’s already booked.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“You’re my wife,” he said flatly.
You froze.
Slowly lifted your head from your plate.
Stared at him like he’d just confessed to murder.
“I’d rather swim back than be your wife.”
“From the Maldives?”
“Especially from the Maldives.”
He opened his mouth, probably to say something smug, but you cut him off with a raised hand.
“And I’d make it.”
He snorted. “You’d get eaten by a shark.”
“Better than golfing with you.”
Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the golf club lobby anyway. You still weren’t sure how it happened. One moment you were saying no, the next you were being dragged into a shuttle like a hostage. Against your will, obviously. Completely against your will.
Lando was at the counter, talking to the staff like he owned the place, arranging equipment and carts as if this was his idea of a perfect morning. He looked relaxed, confident, annoyingly at his element.
You slipped away toward a small souvenir shop tucked beside the path.
Just for a moment. Just to breathe.
Inside, everything was glossy, overpriced, and aggressively tropical. Shelves full of shell necklaces, handmade bracelets, tiny carved wooden animals, and bright fabrics that probably cost more than your entire suitcase. The kind of things tourists bought when they were sun‑drunk and sentimental.
Then you saw it. A necklace.
A simple one—a thin cord with a small carved turtle pendant hanging from the center. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… cute.
You picked it up, letting the pendant rest in your palm. It made you smile before you could stop yourself.
You flipped the tag over and your smile died instantly.
You frowned. Hard.
“You like it?”
Lando’s voice came from behind you.
You jumped slightly, turning to see him leaning in the doorway, holding two golf clubs in one hand and the cart keys dangling from the other. He looked annoyingly casual, like he hadn’t just snuck up on you.
“It’s cute,” you said, “but the price is not cute.”
“How much?”
You held it up for him to see.
He squinted, leaned in a little, then let out a laugh—loud, surprised, real.
“Jesus Christ. That’s the price of the whole honeymoon.”
You huffed. “Exactly.”
You placed the necklace back carefully, almost gently, like it had personally betrayed you but you didn’t want to hurt its feelings. Way too expensive for something that would end up tangled in a drawer anyway.
“Be right back,” you said, already backing away from him. “Bathroom.”
“Don’t get lost,” he muttered without looking up.
“Try not to choke on your ego,” you shot back, turning before he could respond.
The bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place like this—unnecessarily fancy, spotless, and scented with something soft and expensive you’d never be able to justify buying in real life. You lingered longer than you needed to, letting the quiet settle over you. It wasn’t the bathroom you needed. It was the break from him.
When you stepped back out, the sun was brighter, the air warmer, and Lando was still near the shop.
Except… something was off.
He wasn’t doing anything dramatic. He wasn’t pacing or fidgeting or causing chaos. He was just standing there, a little too still, a little too focused on nothing. And the second he saw you, his eyes flicked up fast, scanning you like he was checking for something.
“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you walked toward him.
“Nothing,” he said too quickly.
That was worse. Lando never said nothing quickly. If anything, he usually dragged it out just to annoy you.
You frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just waiting.”
“For what?”
He shrugged, already turning away, heading toward the golf carts like the conversation bored him. “Nothing.”
You watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what that tiny shift in his expression had been. Something flickering behind his eyes. Something he clearly didn’t want you to notice.
But you decided you didn’t care enough to dig into whatever weird Lando thing this was.
Probably just him being annoying.
You followed him anyway, even though you told yourself you weren’t following him at all—you were just walking in the same direction.
Coincidentally.
Obviously.
The golf course looked like it had been designed specifically to humiliate you. Endless stretches of perfect green, artificial lakes sparkling in the sun, and way too much open space for you to miss shots in front of strangers. It was beautiful in a smug, taunting way.
Lando, unfortunately, looked right at home.
“Okay,” he said, handing you a club like he was already regretting every life choice that led him here. “Just don’t hit anyone.”
“I’m going to hit you.”
“You’re not strong enough.”
That alone made you swing harder than necessary.
The ball went approximately nowhere. It hopped. Maybe. Barely.
Silence.
Then Lando clapped once.
Slowly.
“Fantastic.”
“It moved,” you said defensively.
“Barely.”
“It moved.”
He shook his head, stepping up beside you with the confidence of someone who had been waiting all morning to show off.
“Okay, watch and learn.”
You crossed your arms. “Impress me.”
He didn’t even bother hiding the smirk. It stretched across his face, warm and smug, like he’d been born for this moment.
“One day you’re going to have to admit I’m good at something.”
“Not likely.”
He swung.
Perfect form. Perfect sound. Perfect shot.
The ball sailed clean across the course, cutting through the air like it had been personally trained by God.
Of course it did.
You hated that. You hated how easy he made it look. You hated the way his shoulders relaxed after the swing, the way he exhaled like he’d just done something casual instead of showing off in front of you.
“Show-off,” you muttered.
Lando didn’t even look at you. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
“It’s not jealousy. It’s disappointment.”
“In me?”
“In the universe for letting you be this confident.”
He finally turned, leaning on his club like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t actively ruining your morning.
“You know, for someone who keeps insulting me, you’re very invested in my performance.”
You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m not,” he said easily. “Just observing.”
“Stop observing. It’s creepy.”
“You started it.”
“I did not start it.”
“You literally tried to hit me ten minutes ago.”
“That was character development.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re insufferable.”
“A perfect match, then.”
You shot him a sharp look.
“Don’t get delusional. This is a forced golf situation, not a personality assessment.”
He stepped closer—not much, just enough to make the air feel warmer—lowering his voice like he was letting you in on something you didn’t want.
“Careful,” he said. “Keep talking like that and people might start thinking you enjoy my company.”
You rolled your eyes. “In what world?”
He tilted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth.
“The one where you’ve been watching my swing for the last ten minutes.”
“That’s because I’m hoping you fall into one of those lakes.”
“Sure,” he said, smirking wider. “Keep telling yourself that.”
You opened your mouth to fire back—
But he cut in, casual, careless, like he wasn’t dropping a verbal grenade at your feet:
“Relax. I promise I’m not trying to get you into bed over a golf lesson.”
You froze.
Then stared at him.
“…What is wrong with you?”
Lando blinked, like he genuinely didn’t understand the problem.
“What? I was being nice.”
“That was not nice.”
“It was honest.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Gimme the keys. I’ll drive,” you said, holding out your hand like you were doing him a favor he didn’t deserve.
“Absolutely not.”
“You race cars for a living,” you reminded him, already leaning toward the ignition with far too much confidence for someone who had never driven a golf cart before. “And you’re scared of a golf cart?”
“I’m not scared of it. I’m scared of you driving it.”
“You should be,” you said with a small, satisfied smile as you climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get your ass in there or walk.”
Lando let out the kind of long, dramatic sigh that suggested he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this moment. “Do you even have a driving licence?”
“I do.”
You absolutely did. Unfortunately for him.
He hesitated for a beat too long before climbing in beside you, gripping the side of the seat like it might suddenly eject him into the bushes. The second you pressed the pedal, the cart lurched forward—not dangerously, not wildly, just enough to make him tense like you’d launched a rocket instead of a glorified toy car.
“You’re overreacting,” you said, steering them down the path with what you considered perfect control. The breeze was warm, the sun was bright, and the cart hummed along peacefully. “You’re sitting in a golf cart, not a missile.”
“I’m observing risk factors,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead like he was preparing for impact.
“That’s exactly what someone driving like you would say.”
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
He was absolutely not relaxed. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, and he kept shifting like the seat was made of spikes. You took a slightly sharper turn—not reckless, not even fast, just sharper—and the cart tilted a little to the side.
Lando jolted.
His hand shot out without thinking, grabbing your thigh to steady himself.
Both of you froze.
The warmth of his hand lingered for a second, heavy and unexpected, before he snatched it back like it had betrayed him. His face was tight, his voice too quick.
“…That was balance,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I was balancing.”
You looked down at his hand, then back at him, unimpressed and far too aware of the moment. “Put that away.”
“I didn’t mean to—it slipped.”
“Sure it did.”
“It did.”
You didn’t argue. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t even look at him again. You just kept driving, eyes on the path, pretending the moment hadn’t happened. And you definitely didn’t mind that it had.
Not that you would ever admit anything.
────────────
The boat rocked gently over the turquoise water, sunlight bouncing off the surface so brightly it almost hurt to look at. It should have been peaceful, the kind of morning people wrote postcards about. But unfortunately, part of the honeymoon package included couples snorkeling—something that would have been lovely if your “husband” wasn’t Lando Norris.
You sat beside him with your legs tucked under you, still mid‑argument from the pier, still annoyed, still refusing to let him win even a single point.
“No, I’m telling you,” you said, pointing at him like you were presenting evidence in court, “you cheated yesterday.”
“I did not cheat,” he replied flatly, not even blinking. “You just don’t understand basic physics.”
“I understand physics perfectly fine, actually.”
“Clearly not.”
“You literally aimed your ball into a bush and called it strategy.”
“It was strategy.”
Before you could continue, another couple sitting nearby—around your age, relaxed, sun‑kissed, clearly enjoying their vacation—turned toward you with amused smiles. They had that look people get when they stumble into entertainment they didn’t pay for.
“Are you two always like this?” the woman asked, still smiling.
Lando didn’t hesitate. Not even a breath.
“Yes.”
You cut in immediately, shaking your head. “No.”
That earned you a side glance from him, sharp and quick, like he couldn’t believe you’d contradict him in public.
The couple laughed, clearly delighted.
“You’re on your honeymoon, right?” the man asked.
Silence.
A very suspicious silence.
Lando nodded slowly, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. “Unfortunately.”
You kicked his foot under the seat, not gently.
The man looked between you both, still smiling, clearly enjoying the chaos you and Lando brought with you like it was part of the entertainment package. The boat rocked gently beneath you, warm wind brushing your face, but the question he asked cut straight through the easy atmosphere.
“So… why did you get married then?”
It hit a little too directly. A little too cleanly. You didn’t even think before answering.
“Because he’s rich.”
Lando’s head snapped toward you so fast you genuinely thought he might fall off the boat. His eyes were wide, offended, and a little betrayed.
“What?”
The couple laughed, assuming it was a joke—because of course they did. No one sane would say that seriously on a honeymoon boat.
You waved your hand quickly, trying to soften it. “I’m joking.”
“Mostly,” Lando muttered under his breath.
You elbowed him, but the couple didn’t seem to notice. They were still smiling, still entertained, still convinced they were witnessing some adorable newlywed banter instead of two people barely holding their fake marriage together.
“Fair enough,” the man said with a shrug, still amused. Then he leaned forward Lando slightly, curiosity bright in his eyes. “So what do you do, then?”
Your eye twitched at the word husband. It felt too heavy, too sharp, too wrong in your ears.
Lando answered before you could even inhale.
“I drive.”
The man blinked. “Like… cars?”
“Yeah.”
There was a beat—a tiny pause where the man’s face went blank, like his brain was flipping through a mental Rolodex. Then his eyes lit up all at once.
“Oh! Formula 1?”
Lando nodded once, calm on the outside, but you saw the tiny shift in his shoulders. The man’s expression changed instantly, excitement blooming across his face like someone had just handed him front‑row tickets to something huge.
“No way—Lando Norris? My brother is a huge fan! He never shuts up about you.”
Lando froze for the briefest second. It was small, barely there, but you noticed. Of course you noticed. You always noticed the little things he tried to hide.
“Oh,” the man continued, grinning even wider now, “I didn’t know you were married, mate.”
The silence that followed could’ve sunk the boat. It stretched between you and Lando like a rope pulled too tight. You both turned to look at each other at the exact same time, eyes locking in a silent, panicked conversation neither of you wanted to have out loud.
Then, without missing a beat, Lando smiled.
“It was a small wedding, y’know. Kept it private. I like keeping some things to myself.”
The lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly it was almost concerning. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t hesitate. He just… said it.
The man nodded approvingly, buying every word, then turned to you with a warm smile.
“Well, you’re lucky. Having a world champion at home.”
Pardon?
Absolutely not.
You smiled sweetly, matching his tone with practiced ease. “He’s the lucky one.”
Lando glanced at you, something flickering in his eyes—surprise, amusement, maybe a hint of something softer—but you didn’t give him time to process it.
“He’d be hopeless without me,” you added, completely unfazed.
“Oh, absolutely,” Lando replied, his grin returning, though it was a little tighter this time. “I’d forget where I left my trophies.”
The couple laughed, delighted, convinced they were witnessing a charming, playful honeymoon moment.
They had no idea you were both lying through your teeth.
Five minutes later, another problem appeared—one that had nothing to do with fake marriages or curious strangers. The snorkeling mask refused to cooperate. You adjusted the strap once, then again, then a third time, each attempt somehow making it sit even more crooked against your face. The elastic kept slipping, the plastic pressed awkwardly against your cheek, and the whole thing felt like it had been designed specifically to test your patience.
“For God’s sake,” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap like it had personally wronged you.
Lando looked over from where he was already wearing his own gear, mask perfectly fitted, snorkel in place, looking like someone who had never struggled with anything in his life. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to make this stupid thing fit,” you snapped, still wrestling with it.
He watched you for a few seconds—long enough to be annoying, long enough to make you feel judged—before letting out an exaggerated sigh that carried across the entire boat. “C’mere.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Clearly.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the ocean breeze. “I said I can do it myself.”
“Just come here,” he said, already holding out his hand like he’d made the decision for you. “I want to look like a decent husband while I’m apparently married. The last thing I need is gossip pages saying I abandoned my wife before she even got in the water.”
“How embarrassing,” you muttered, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt.
He ignored the comment completely. Instead, he reached out, gently catching your wrist with warm fingers, pulling you the last step closer before you could protest again. The movement was soft, almost careful, and your argument died somewhere in your throat before you could shape it into words.
He reached behind your head with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed he knew what he was doing. His fingers brushed your hair as he tried to fix the loose strap, and within two seconds you felt a sharp tug at your scalp.
“Ow! Stop pulling my hair!”
“I’m not pulling your hair,” Lando said immediately, like the accusation offended him on a personal level.
“You are pulling my hair!”
“Then stop moving!”
“I’m not moving!”
“You’re literally flinching.”
“Because you’re yanking it!”
A couple of snorkelers nearby glanced over, clearly wondering if they needed to intervene. You forced a bright, strained smile, teeth clenched so tightly it almost hurt.
“Everything’s fine,” you said, voice pitched a little too high. “Totally fine.”
Lando didn’t even look up. He was still tangled in the straps, still muttering under his breath like you were the problem and not his complete lack of technique.
“It is not fine,” he grumbled. “You have the coordination of a broken GPS.”
You stared at him, offended on a spiritual level. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
He tugged again.
“Ow—Lando!”
“Relax, I’m fixing it.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“I’m literally not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He paused, leaning back just enough to look at the mask like it was a failed engineering project he’d been assigned against his will. His brows pulled together, his mouth flattening into a line that told you he was already blaming you for whatever he saw.
“…Okay, I see the problem.”
“You are the problem.”
He ignored that completely, like he’d trained himself not to hear your insults anymore. Instead, he shifted closer again, this time slower, more careful, his fingers brushing your hair aside so he could get to the strap properly. The boat rocked gently beneath you, and for a moment the world felt strangely quiet—just the warm air, the soft slap of water against the hull, and his hands working behind your head.
“Stop moving,” he said again, but his voice was quieter now, less irritated and more focused, like he was trying not to mess it up this time.
You went still.
Not because he told you to.
Definitely not.
It was just easier than arguing while he was this close, while his fingers were sorting through your hair with surprising gentleness, while the sun warmed the back of your neck and made everything feel a little too noticeable.
After a few seconds of concentrated effort—the kind where he muttered something under his breath that you pretended not to hear—he tightened the strap properly and stepped back, letting his hands fall away.
“There,” he said, sounding far too proud of himself.
You tested the mask with a small tug.
It didn’t move. Not even a little.
“…Huh.”
“Yeah,” he said, smugness blooming across his face like he’d just solved world peace. “Miracles do happen.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.
“Don’t get used to it.”
He grinned, bright and unbothered, the wind catching his hair as the boat rocked again.
“No promises, wife.”
The boat slowed to a stop, the engine cutting out until all you could hear was the soft slap of waves against the hull. It rocked gently over the open water, turquoise stretching in every direction, sunlight so bright it turned everything into glitter. It should have been peaceful. It should have been romantic. It should have been the kind of moment people remembered forever.
But you were here with Lando.
A guide stepped forward with an easy smile, gesturing toward the water. “Alright everyone, this is one of the best spots. Coral reef just below, lots of fish. Stay in pairs, enjoy yourselves, and don’t wander too far.”
“Stay in pairs,” Lando repeated under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “Heard him, wife?”
You shot him a warning look. “Don’t start.”
But he was already smirking, already enjoying himself far too much for someone who’d spent the entire morning annoying you.
Before either of you could argue, the guide clapped his hands. “Okay—snorkeling time!”
You turned to adjust your mask one last time, fingers brushing the strap—
And Lando shoved you. Hard.
There was no time to react. No time to yell properly. Just a sharp gasp and the sudden, shocking drop as the world tilted.
You hit the water with a splash that swallowed the sound instantly. Cold, bright blue wrapped around you, rushing over your head, filling your ears, stealing your breath for a moment. The ocean felt huge, endless, everywhere at once.
You resurfaced seconds later, coughing, hair plastered to your face, mask askew.
“Lando—!”
He was already in the water beside you, laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. The sun caught the droplets on his face, turning him into something annoyingly golden and carefree.
“You were taking too long,” he said, still grinning.
“I hate you!” you yelled, already swimming toward him with more force than necessary.
He only laughed harder, kicking away just enough to stay out of reach, the water rippling between you.
You made it exactly two strokes before something brushed your foot again. It was light, barely there, just a soft flick against your skin—but it didn’t matter. Your entire body locked up instantly, every muscle going stiff like you’d been hit with electricity.
“Nope—nope—nope—” you sputtered, kicking upward in pure panic.
“Relax,” Lando called, still laughing, still floating like this was the easiest thing in the world. “It’s just fish.”
“I don’t care what it is!”
Another brush—this time against your ankle, quick and cold.
That was it.
You didn’t think. You didn’t plan. You didn’t even breathe. You just launched yourself forward on instinct, arms flailing, legs kicking, heart pounding so loudly you could hear it in your ears—
—and you basically jumped straight into his arms.
Lando caught you automatically, the impact pushing him backward a little in the water. His hands came up around you without hesitation, steadying you, holding you up as you clung to him like the ocean was trying to drag you under.
For a second, he didn’t move. He just stood there in the water, arms half‑raised, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure what version of reality he’d just stepped into.
Then he looked down at you.
“…Are you hugging me right now?”
“No.”
“You are literally attached to me.”
“I am stabilising myself.”
“Against my chest?”
“Shut up!”
His laugh came immediately—bright, loud, helpless—the kind that shook his shoulders and made the water ripple around you. He tilted his head back, still laughing, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.
And even though your heart was still racing, even though your legs were still wrapped around him more than you wanted to admit, even though you were absolutely not letting go yet…
You felt something warm slip into your chest.
Something you refused to name.
────────────
By the time the snorkeling trip ended, you had decided—very calmly, very rationally—that you deserved a drink. Preferably several. The kind that came in tall glasses with too much ice and not enough sense. The resort bar overlooked the ocean, the sky turning soft shades of gold and pink as the sun dipped lower. Music drifted through the warm evening air, blending with the sound of waves and the low hum of guests laughing around candlelit tables.
Lando stood a few steps away, somehow already deep in conversation with his new friend from the boat. They were talking with their hands, laughing too loudly, probably bonding over Formula 1 or golf or whatever else inflated his ego. You didn’t care enough to find out. You just wanted something cold, something strong, something that would make the memory of fish touching your legs fade into the background.
You leaned against the counter and ordered the strongest cocktail on the menu. The bartender slid it toward you with a practiced smile, the glass sweating in the warm air. You wrapped your fingers around it, grateful for the chill, ready to take the first blessed sip—
When a voice spoke from beside you.
“Try smiling a little.”
You turned your head slowly, already tired, already annoyed. A man stood there, a few years older, wearing a shirt that tried too hard and a smile that tried even harder. He looked at you like he’d just delivered the most charming line in the world, like he expected you to melt on the spot.
You looked at him. Then at your drink. Then back at him.
“Try minding your own business a little.”
“I’m just being friendly.”
“Then be friendly somewhere else.”
He laughed, the kind of laugh men use when they think you’re playing hard to get instead of trying to end the conversation. His elbow slid onto the bar, his posture loose, confident, practiced.
“That attitude won’t get you very far.”
“I’m already exactly where I want to be,” you said, lifting your drink like a shield.
“You sure?” he asked, leaning in just a little. “You look lonely.”
You opened your mouth—ready to shut him down properly this time—when a warm hand settled lightly on your waist.
Not gripping.
Not pulling.
Just… there.
“Everything okay, baby?”
Lando.
You turned so fast you nearly sloshed your drink over the rim. For what might have been the first time since this entire ridiculous honeymoon began, you felt something close to relief wash through you. His presence cut through the moment like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.
The stranger blinked, looking between the two of you, confusion flickering across his face.
“And you are…?”
Lando didn’t hesitate. Not even for a breath.
“Her husband.”
He said it smoothly, easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand stayed on your waist, warm and steady. The stranger’s expression shifted, surprise tightening his mouth before he stepped back a little.
“Oh,” the man said after a moment, blinking like he’d just been handed information he didn’t know what to do with. “Didn’t know she was married.”
Lando offered a small, polite smile—the kind he used in interviews when he was pretending to be patient.
“She is.”
The conversation should have ended there. It should have drifted off into the warm evening air and disappeared like every other awkward bar interaction on vacation.
Instead, the man chuckled and looked right back at you, like he hadn’t learned a single thing.
“You should teach her some basic manners, man.”
The easy smile vanished from Lando’s face so fast it was almost impressive.
“What?”
The stranger shrugged, casual, careless, like he was commenting on the weather. “She’s got quite the attitude.”
“And so what?” Lando shot back, voice sharper now. “She doesn’t owe you a shit.”
The man lifted a brow. “Doesn’t mean she can act like a bi—”
“Hey!” Lando stepped forward so quickly the man actually leaned back. “Don’t talk about my wife like that or I’ll beat the shit out of—”
He was too close now. Way too close. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the guy like he’d forgotten this was supposed to be an act. You didn’t even know if he was pretending anymore.
“Lando,” you said quietly, reaching for his wrist. Your fingers brushed his skin, warm and tense. “Drop it.”
He didn’t look at you right away. He stayed there for a heartbeat longer, breathing hard, anger still simmering under the surface.
Then, slowly, he stepped back.
Not because the man deserved it. But because you asked. The irony wasn’t lost on you—the one time he actually acted like a husband was the moment you needed him to stop.
“You okay?” Lando asked.
You blinked, because the question caught you more off guard than the argument ever had. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the way he said them, low and tight, like he’d been holding them in since the moment he stepped between you and that guy at the bar.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I had it handled.”
Lando let out a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It didn’t even come close. “Yeah. I could tell. You were doing a great job being harassed at the bar.”
Your jaw tightened, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t need you to save me like that.”
“Right,” he said, nodding once, sharp and clipped. “So next time I should just stand there and let him keep going?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
“I didn’t ask you to play my husband.”
That one landed differently—you felt it the second it left your mouth. Lando went quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t defensive or angry, just… wounded. He exhaled through his nose, looking away toward the ocean like he needed a second to reset whatever expression had almost slipped through.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Fair.”
You took a sip of your drink, more out of habit than thirst, trying to steady yourself, trying to find the right words before the wrong ones kept spilling out.
“I can handle myself,” you added, quieter now, softer, because you meant it but you didn’t want it to sound like a wall.
“I know you can,” he replied immediately.
That made you pause.
He looked back at you then, the sharpness in his expression easing just enough that you could finally see the truth sitting underneath it—not anger, not irritation, but something quieter.
“I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you,” Lando said, voice low, steady, almost too honest.
You scoffed lightly, because that felt safer than acknowledging whatever was happening in your chest.
“Since when do you care?”
That earned you a small, humorless smile—the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, the kind that told you he’d already had this argument with himself long before you opened your mouth.
“I don’t,” he said. “Usually.”
A beat.
“But he was being a dick.”
You rolled your eyes, but it wasn’t as strong as you wanted it to be. It felt flimsy, thin, like you were trying to hold onto a version of the conversation that had already slipped away.
“And you decided that made you responsible for the entire situation?”
“I decided,” he corrected, leaning back slightly, shoulders tense, “that I didn’t want him standing there talking to you like that.”
You studied him for a second—the set of his jaw, the way he kept glancing at the ocean like it might give him an escape route, the way his fingers tapped once against his thigh before he stilled them. He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t trying to win. He was just… telling you the truth.
“Still didn’t need to act like that,” you said, quieter now.
“Neither did he.”
Another pause—heavier this time, stretched thin between you like a wire ready to snap.
Then Lando tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he looked at you.
“You’re really going to stay mad at me for this?”
The question wasn’t defensive.
It was something else entirely—something that made your breath catch, because suddenly it felt like he wasn’t asking about the bar anymore.
He was asking about him. About you. About whatever the hell had been simmering between you long before tonight.
You opened your mouth again, still riding the leftover adrenaline from stopping him.
“I just think you don’t get to—”
“Shut up.”
You stopped. Blinking. “Excuse me?”
“I said shut up.”
“I’m literally in the middle of talking.”
“Yeah,” Lando said, stepping a fraction closer, eyes locked on yours, “I noticed.”
You frowned, heat rising in your chest. “Don’t tell me to—”
He cut you off. Not with words.
He just kissed you.
Quick. Firm. Completely unexpected. It wasn’t gentle, and it wasn’t planned, and it definitely wasn’t something either of you had agreed to in any universe where you were still pretending to hate each other properly. It hit you like a spark—sharp, bright, over before you could even process it.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
Then he pulled back like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just short‑circuited your entire brain.
You stared at him. He stared back.
Then, very calmly, he said, “I said shut up.”
Your brain lagged, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of the moment, the heat still buzzing on your lips.
“…Norris, what the fuck?”
He didn’t answer right away. His chest rose and fell once, slow, steady, like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t affected at all.
But his eyes told a different story.
A very different one.
Lando didn’t even blink. “What?”
“You just—” you gestured wildly between the two of you, your voice climbing without your permission. “You just kissed me.”
“Yeah.”
“‘Yeah’?” you repeated, staring at him like he’d lost his mind.
He frowned slightly, like you were the one being dramatic. Like you were the unreasonable one here.
“You were overthinking it,” he said, tone maddeningly calm. “Overthinking’s bad for you, baby.”
That made you pause. You hated that it made you pause. You hated the way the word baby slid under your skin like it belonged there.
“…Right,” you said slowly, trying to gather your thoughts. “Doesn’t mean you can just kiss me.”
“Pretty sure I can,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms, trying to rebuild whatever dignity you had left.
“Hm. Don’t think this means anything though.”
“I would never,” Lando said immediately.
Too immediately.
The kind of immediate that wasn’t casual at all. The kind that sounded like he’d rehearsed it. The kind that made something warm twist low in your stomach.
You studied him, searching his face for even a flicker of something he didn’t want you to see.
He held your gaze without flinching, jaw set, eyes steady, like he was daring you to call him out. “…Good,” you said finally, lifting your chin. “Because it doesn’t.”
“Of course not.”
His voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. And the worst part? You weren’t convinced either.
────────────
The villa was suspiciously quiet, the kind of quiet that made every thought in your head sound louder. You sat on the edge of the outdoor couch with your legs pulled in, staring out at the dark water. The waves moved in slow, steady lines, catching bits of moonlight and breaking them apart. It should have been calming.
It wasn’t. You were trying not to think. Which, of course, only made you think more.
About Lando. About the kiss. About the way he’d looked afterward—too calm, too steady, like he hadn’t just scrambled your ability to act normal around him. About how everything had been… different since then. Not worse. Not better. Just different in a way neither of you had dared to name.
And about how today was the last day. The last night of this ridiculous honeymoon.
Behind you, the sliding door opened.
You didn’t turn. “Go away,” you mumbled.
“I live here too,” Lando said, dropping onto the couch beside you. He didn’t look at you. He just stared out at the ocean like he’d been doing it long before he walked outside.
Silence stretched between you, warm and heavy.
Then, after a minute—
“Well.”
“Well,” Lando echoed.
You exhaled slowly, eyes still on the water. “At least tomorrow we can go back to normal.”
He finally glanced at you. “Normal?”
“You know,” you said, still refusing to look at him. “You hating me. Me hating you.”
“Right.”
But he didn’t sound convinced.
And the worst part? Neither did you.
The breeze moved through the villa again, soft and warm, brushing over your skin like it knew something you didn’t want to admit. Lando shifted beside you, just enough that you felt the movement, not enough to call it anything.
Normal. You said it like you wanted it. But the word didn’t sit right anymore.
The silence fell again, stretching out between you like a thin thread. But this time, Lando was the one who spoke first.
“This trip wasn’t that bad.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Hm.” You looked back at the water, the moonlight breaking across the waves. “At least we survived.”
A beat.
“Now we’ll just go back to avoiding each other like before.”
“Yeah,” Lando said.
Then, after a pause that felt a little too long—
“Yeah,” he repeated, quieter. “That’s the problem.”
You finally turned your head. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the horizon like he didn’t trust himself to look at you. The warm breeze moved through the villa, brushing over your skin, but it didn’t soften the moment. It only made it clearer.
For the first time all night, you couldn’t tell if he was joking.
Or if he meant it.
And the way he sat there—shoulders tense, hands still, breath a little uneven—made something in your chest shift in a way you weren’t ready for.
You swallowed, the words catching in your throat.
“…Lando?”
He didn’t look away from the ocean. But his voice was low, honest in a way that made your heart stutter.
“I don’t want to go back to that.”
You looked at him, confused.
“What?”
Lando kept staring out at the water. And for the first time since you’d known him, he looked nervous. Actually nervous. His shoulders were tight, his jaw working like he was trying to choose the right words and failing.
“I didn’t want to come here,” he said quietly.
“I noticed.”
“I thought it’d be the worst week of my life.”
You smiled faintly. “Again, noticed.”
A small laugh escaped him—soft, almost embarrassed.
Then—
“But somewhere between you nearly killing me with a golf cart…”
“You grabbed my thigh.”
“Not helping.”
You let out a quiet huff of laughter despite yourself. “Continue.”
Lando exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
A beat passed—warm, heavy, stretching between you like a held breath.
He didn’t look at you when he spoke again.
“It stopped being annoying.”
Your smile faded a little. “…When?”
Lando shrugged, like the answer wasn’t important even though it clearly was. “Dunno.”
Silence settled again. The ocean kept moving, steady and calm, like it didn’t care that something between you had just shifted in a way you couldn’t undo.
Then he finally looked at you. Really looked.
“And now I don’t really want it to end. Us.”
Your breath caught—just a tiny, sharp inhale—but you masked it quickly with a scoff, like you could pretend the moment wasn’t sitting between you, warm and terrifying.
“Somewhere between pushing you into the ocean and kissing you to shut you up…” Lando said, his voice quieter now, steadier in a way that made your stomach twist. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or smirks or that stupid confidence he wore like armor. He was just looking at you—really looking—and it stripped away every layer of distance you’d been pretending still existed.
“I think I fell in love with you.”
You stared at him.
For a moment, your brain simply refused to cooperate. The words sat there in the air, warm and heavy, like a language you almost understood but couldn’t quite translate. You blinked once. Then again. Your heart thudded in your chest, too loud, too fast, like it was trying to catch up to something your mind hadn’t processed yet.
“…That’s actually really embarrassing for you,” you managed, because your mouth was apparently determined to save you from sincerity at all costs.
Lando didn’t move. Didn’t laugh.
Didn’t roll his eyes or shove your shoulder or call you dramatic. He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said that. Like you’d knocked the air out of him.
“Are you serious?” he asked, voice flat, almost stunned.
“A little.”
“I just told you I love you.”
“I know.”
“And that’s your response?”
You exhaled softly, something nervous and warm and terrifying settling in your chest all at once. You felt it rise up, felt it push against your ribs, felt it spill into your throat before you could stop it. And then your mouth betrayed you—not with sarcasm this time, but with a smile.
A real one. A soft one.
The kind you didn’t give to people you hated.
“Good thing I love you too.”
The words left you before you could second‑guess them, before you could hide them behind a joke, before you could pretend you didn’t mean them. They hung there between you, gentle and impossible to take back.
Lando’s breath caught—just barely, just enough for you to notice. His eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders loosening like he’d been holding something in for days.
Lando didn’t move for a second.
Just stared.
Like he was waiting for a punchline that didn’t come. Like he was bracing for you to laugh or shove him or turn everything into a joke the way you always did when things got too close.
Then, quietly—
“…What?”
You let out a breath, half‑laughing, half in disbelief at yourself, because you couldn’t believe you were actually saying this out loud. “I said I love you, idiot.”
His expression shifted immediately. The shock didn’t disappear, but it softened into something raw, something unguarded, something he clearly wasn’t used to showing anyone. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you right.
“You can’t just say that like it’s—”
“What? A prank?” you cut in, shaking your head. “No. Unfortunately for both of us, it’s real.”
Silence again.
The ocean kept moving. The wind didn’t care. The whole world stayed exactly the same while your heart tried to beat its way out of your chest. You looked down at your hands, then back at him, because avoiding his eyes wasn’t helping.
“You were pissing me off the entire trip,” you admitted, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
That got a faint, incredulous laugh out of him—the kind that slipped out before he could stop it. “Cheers.”
“It’s true,” you said quickly, pointing at him like it helped your argument. “You were annoying. Arrogant. You shoved me into the ocean. You called me a violent wife.”
“I was right about that one.”
“Shut up.”
But your voice wasn’t sharp anymore. It wavered slightly, like the truth underneath it was pushing its way through.
“And I really did hate you at the beginning,” you added, quieter now. “Like, properly.”
Lando’s gaze didn’t leave you. Not for a second.
“But?”
You hesitated.
That part was the hardest one. The part that felt like stepping off a ledge and hoping he’d catch you.
“But…” you exhaled, looking away toward the water like it might make this easier. “I think it started changing when you defended me at the bar.”
He went still.
Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap, the memory hitting you harder now that you were saying it out loud.
“That guy was being an asshole,” you continued, your voice softer, steadier. “And I was handling it, or trying to. And you just… stepped in.”
A small pause.
“And I remember thinking you were so angry,” you said, almost like you were discovering it again. “Like actually angry. Not joking, not teasing. Just… protective.”
You glanced at him again.
“That confused me more than anything you did on this entire trip.”
A faint breath left Lando, like he didn’t know what to do with that. His shoulders dropped a little, the tension easing in a way that made him look younger, more open, more real.
Then he finally spoke.
“I just hated the idea of somebody talking to you like that.”
His voice was quieter than before. Not defensive. Not playful. Just honest in a way that made your chest tighten.
A beat passed.
He gave a small shrug, like he was trying to pretend it didn’t matter as much as it did.
“I don’t know,” he added. “It pissed me off.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It didn’t feel sharp or heavy or awkward. It was just… full. Like something had finally settled into place between you, something neither of you could pretend wasn’t there anymore. The air felt warmer. The night felt closer. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for the moment to break.
You swallowed slightly, still looking at him, still trying to understand the way your chest felt too tight and too light at the same time. “…Thank you,” you said quietly.
Lando gave you a small, almost confused glance, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “For what?”
You let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half something else. “For… all of it, I guess.”
That earned you a look from him you weren’t used to—soft, steady, not trying to twist into a joke. He didn’t hide behind anything this time. He just looked at you like he was letting himself be seen.
Then he shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket. “I have something for you.”
You blinked, watching as he pulled out a small silver chain. A turtle necklace. The same one you’d stared at in the shop. The same one you’d pretended you didn’t want.
Your breath caught. “…You bought it?” you asked, taking it carefully from his hand.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You said it was cute.”
“But it was so expensive!”
“And?” he said simply, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Do I look like I care?”
Your fingers closed gently around the necklace, holding it like it might slip away if you weren’t careful. The charm felt warm against your skin, like it had been waiting in his pocket for this exact moment.
“…You didn’t have to,” you said again, quieter now, the words almost slipping out on their own.
“I know.”
A beat passed.
“But I wanted to.”
That was it. No joke. No smirk. No dramatic line to cover the truth. Just him. Just honesty. Just the kind of softness you never expected from him and didn’t know how to handle.
You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to—long enough to feel something shift in your chest, long enough to feel your breath catch again.
Then you moved before your brain could talk you out of it.
You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in.
The kiss was softer this time. Not rushed. Not defensive. Not a reaction to anything. Just real. Just warm. Just the two of you finally letting something happen that had been building all week. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle in a way that made your heart stutter, and for a moment the whole villa felt still.
When you pulled back, you were both slightly breathless, and for once neither of you pretended it meant nothing. You stayed close, your forehead almost touching his, your breath mixing with his in the warm night air.
“Thank you,” you whispered, the words brushing against his lips.
Lando let out a quiet breath of a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. Then, after a beat—one that felt like it stretched forever—he added, “I love you.”
Your heart stuttered. For a second, you just stared at him, like you were making sure you hadn’t imagined it, like you needed to see the truth in his eyes before you let yourself believe it.
Then your mouth softened into a small smile, warm and helpless. “…You’re so annoying,” you murmured.
He frowned slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
You exhaled, still smiling, still feeling that strange, steady warmth spreading through your chest. “I know.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—completely sure this time: “I love you too.”
And this time, neither of you joked your way out of it. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you pretended it didn’t matter. It mattered. And you both knew it.
babsie radio ! had so many problems while editing this I hit the damn 1000-block limit way too soon!!! I literally wanted to write one more last scene where they come back and P and Max are so confused because they don’t hate each other anymore 😩 I’m so annoyed! I might write a short oneshot of that if you guys want. I hope you enjoy this! This story is so dear to me <3 first fic of summer 2026! 💗
syn. you thought he was just being a polite peer. the internet, however, knew better. and when a catastrophic mechanical failure cuts your race short at silverstone, kimi proves to the entire world that he’s fighting for so much more than just a podium. m! reader 𑣿 wc. 2,2k
the paddock had long since accepted that you were formula 1’s golden boy. bubbly, effortlessly charming, and armed with a blinding smile that could diffuse even the most tense post-race press conferences. you had a rare gift: everyone liked you. from the grumpy mechanics in the garage to the most cynical drivers on the grid, you were fiercely protected. moving to red bull racing had only cemented that status, especially because your teammate, max verstappen, had essentially adopted you as a younger brother. max, notorious for his ruthless, blunt demeanor, treated you like a precious commodity, constantly hovering, checking your telemetry, and throwing protective arms over your shoulders in the media pen.
but while you were busy driving your heart out, consistently planting your car in the top five, and being entirely oblivious to the social media frenzy surrounding you, formula 1 tiktok fandom was losing its collective mind.
the edits were everywhere. set to slowed-down, cute love edit audios, millions of fans analyzed every single interaction between you and mercedes’ newest prodigy, kimi antonelli. kimi was quiet, laser-focused, and carried that intense, serious italian passion that made him a formidable presence on track. yet, whenever you walked into a room, the internet noticed a shift.
there were slow-motion clips of kimi standing in the background of your interviews, his dark eyes completely fixed on you while you laughed and gestured wildly. there was the viral video from monaco where you had accidentally misplaced your driver's water bottle, and kimi, without saying a single word or even breaking eye contact with his engineer, had simply reached out and pressed his own chilled bottle into your hands before walking away. you had just assumed he was being a polite peer. the internet, however, knew better. they saw the way he lingered, the way his fingers brushed yours, and the rare, soft softening of his expression whenever you babbled excitedly during the drivers' briefings. you were completely blind to it, attributing his quiet intensity to just "kimi being kimi."
until race day in silverstone.
the atmosphere was electric. you had qualified a stellar p3, sitting right behind max in p2, while kimi had claimed a brilliant pole position. the race was a grueling, high-speed chess match, but by lap forty-two, you were holding your own, keeping the roaring red bull right on the tail of the leading pack.
then, disaster struck.
coming down the high-speed entry into copse, a sudden catastrophic mechanical failure caused the rear of your car to snap violently. you didn’t even have time to gasp over the team radio before the car spun out of control across the gravel trap, carrying immense speed until it slammed sideways into the techpro barriers with a sickening, heavy thud.
the impact rattled your teeth, the violent deceleration forcing your helmeted head to snap to the side, clipping the cockpit padding hard enough to make your vision momentarily explode into a blinding white glare.
"red flag, red flag!" the race director’s voice crackled across the global feed.
instantly, the paddock went dead silent. in the red bull garage, max’s race engineer broke into his radio. "max, red flag. big crash for your teammate at copse. looks like a rear suspension failure."
max didn’t even hesitate, his usual calm racing demeanor instantly fracturing into raw panic. "is he okay? gp, is he out of the car? tell me he’s talking," max demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, commanding octave as he slowed his car down, straining his neck to look across the track as he passed the sector. "i'm stopping if he's not moving. someone tell me right now."
but while max was demanding answers, kimi had already reacted.
kimi had been leading the race, but the moment the flashing red lights illuminated his steering wheel dashboard and your car number flashed as the cause, his heart stopped. rounding the corner, he saw the wreckage, the shattered carbon fiber, the crumpled red bull chassis resting heavily against the barriers, and most terrifyingly, your helmeted head resting entirely still against the side of the cockpit.
kimi didn't think. he didn't ask his engineer for permission.
the moment he pulled his mercedes up near the accident site alongside the safety car deployment, kimi stomped on the brakes, unbuckled his harness with trembling, frantic hands, and killed the engine. he vaulted out of his cockpit before the track marshals could even reach the scene, his boots hitting the tarmac in a dead sprint toward your car.
"kimi, what are you doing? stay by the car," his engineer, peter bonnington, crackled anxiously over the radio, but kimi threw his earpieces out, ignoring the world.
your vision was swimming, a dull, throbbing ache pulsing right behind your eyes. you felt breathless, trapped in the heavy silence of the cockpit, trying to remember which way was up. suddenly, a pair of gloved hands gripped the edges of your halo, and a frantic, breathless voice shattered your disorientation.
"hey! hey, look at me. look at me, per favore," kimi panted, his visor up, his eyes wide and dark with a terrifying, uncharacteristic panic. he was leaning so far into your cockpit that his shadow completely covered you. "are you okay? can you hear me? speak to me, please."
"kimi...?" you mumbled, your voice sounding small and raspy inside your helmet. you blinked slowly, trying to focus on his face. "what... what happened?"
"the car broke. you hit the wall very hard," kimi explained, his voice uncharacteristically shaky as he carefully, gently reached inside to check your hans device, his fingers trembling against your shoulders. he looked you over like he was making sure you were entirely whole. "don't move your neck. the medical car is coming. just look at me, okay? keep your eyes on me."
"i'm okay," you breathed, a little bit of your usual bubbly warmth trying to fight through the daze. "just... a little dizzy, that’s all. oh god, did i ruin the race?"
kimi let out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounded incredibly close to a sob of relief. he rested his forehead against the top of your halo for a split second, closing his eyes. "you stupid boy," he whispered in a fiercely affectionate, relieved tone. "who cares about the race? you scared me to death."
by the time the medical delegates arrived, they found kimi stubbornly refusing to leave your side, holding your hand firmly until they carefully lifted you out of the chassis. even as you were placed in the back of the medical car, kimi stood on the track, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, watching the ambulance drive away with an intense, burning gaze that the television cameras caught in high-definition glory.
an hour later, the drama had settled. you had been cleared by the medical center with nothing more than a mild concussion and a few bruises, strictly ordered to rest.
you were sitting on the training table inside the private red bull motorhome, wrapped in a comfortable oversized team hoodie, sipping a juice box max had practically forced into your hands. max had already stormed into the room earlier, giving you a crushing, silent hug that nearly cracked your ribs, lecturing you about scaring him before heading off to deal with the media.
there was a soft, hesitant knock on the door.
"come in!" you called out, your voice bright despite the lingering headache.
the door slid open, and kimi stood there. he had changed into his casual mercedes team shirt and shorts, looking uncharacteristically shy. the fierce, terrifyingly protective driver from the track was gone, replaced by a quiet young man holding a small, foil-wrapped package.
"hey," kimi said softly, closing the door behind him. "max said i could come in for a minute. how is your head?"
"kimi! come here," you beamed, gesturing for him to sit on the edge of the medical table next to you. "i’m totally fine. a little bruised, but the doctors said i have a hard skull. i heard you jumped out of your car for me. that was... crazy, kimi. thank you."
kimi shrugged, a faint, lovely crimson flush creeping up his neck as he sat down close to you. he wouldn't look you directly in the eyes, suddenly fascinated by his own sneakers. "i just... i saw you weren't moving. i lost it and my heart, it completely stopped."
"you're a really good friend, you know that?" you said earnestly, tilting your head and offering him a sweet, grateful smile.
kimi let out a soft sigh, finally looking up at you. his eyes were incredibly warm, filled with a deep, unspoken emotion that had been building up for months. "friend," he repeated under his breath, a small, ironic smile touching his lips. he reached out, his fingers incredibly gentle as he brushed a stray lock of hair away from the small bandage on your forehead. "you are so smart in the car, but outside of it, you see nothing, do you?"
“oh?” you blinked, completely confused by the sudden tenderness. "what do you mean?"
kimi didn’t answer right away. he just looked at you, his gaze tracing the lines of your face with a quiet, breathtaking intensity that made the small red bull motorhome feel suddenly very, very small. the soft hum of the air conditioning was the only sound between you, replacing the roaring engines and chaotic paddock chatter outside.
he reached down and placed the small, foil-wrapped package he was holding onto the table next to your juice box. "my mother, she always says that when someone you care about gets a shock, they need something sweet. it is a traditional italian hazelnut cake from home. i had my trainer get it from the motorhome."
"really? that’s so kind of you, thank y-"
"i did not jump out of my car because we are friends," kimi interrupted softly, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register that made a strange, unfamiliar flutter wake up in your chest. his hand traveled from your forehead down to your cheek, his thumb lightly brushing across your cheekbone. his touch was warm, deliberate, and entirely un-peer-like.
you froze, your juice box hovering halfway to your mouth. "you... you didn't?"
"no," kimi said, a faint, breathless laugh escaping him as he shook his head. he looked down at your hands, then carefully slid his fingers between yours, intertwining them just like he had in those tiktok edits the internet loved so much, only this time, there was no engineer to distract him, and no crowd to hide behind. "when i saw your car hit the wall, i did not think about the championship. i did not think about mercedes, or toto, or what the stewards would do to me for leaving my car on the track."
he looked back up, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a raw, unfiltered vulnerability that completely disarmed you.
"i only thought about you and your pretty smile," he whispered, his accent thick and heavy with emotion. "i only thought that i cannot hold back anymore. i have spent the last six months watching you from the garage, waiting for you in the media pen, giving you my water just to have an excuse to touch your hand for one second... and you just think kimi is being polite."
your mouth opened slightly, the dots finally, catastrophically connecting in your mind. the lingering glances, the quiet presence always hovering just on the edge of your vision, the way he always seemed to find you in a crowded room, it wasn't just "kimi being kimi." suddenly, it made sense.
"oh," you breathed, a sudden, bright blush rushing to your cheeks, making your face feel incredibly hot. "do you... like me?"
kimi’s lips curved into a genuine, beautiful smile. one that the cameras rarely, if ever, managed to capture. he leaned in just a fraction closer, the scent of his post-race shower and clean team kit wrapping around you.
"i am crazy about you," kimi corrected gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand. "the whole paddock knows it, i think. max knows it, which is why he looks like he wants to kill me every time i breathe your air. the fans on the internet definitely know it. only the beautiful, brilliant, blind golden boy did not see it."
before you could process the absolute meltdown the whole formula 1 fandom community was going to have when they realized they were right, the motorhome door suddenly clicked.
kimi didn't pull his hand away, but he did turn his head slightly as max verstappen’s towering frame filled the doorway, a fresh bottle of water in hand and a dark, fiercely protective scowl immediately settling over his features the moment he saw how close kimi was sitting to you.
"okay, kimi," max said, his voice a low, warning rumble. "time’s over. his head hurts, he needs to rest."
kimi didn't flinch. he just gave your hand one last, lingering squeeze before slowly letting go and standing up, turning to face the older driver with that calm, unbothered italian confidence. "he is doing much better, max. i was just leaving."
he turned back to you, his eyes softening instantly as he gave you one last look. "rest, eat the cake. and check your phone later, yeah? i´ll text you."
with a polite nod to a glaring max, kimi slipped out of the room, leaving you sitting on the examination table, entirely breathless, with a racing heart that had absolutely nothing to do with your 150-mph crash at copse.
𐔌 ⠀⠀oh oh oh. i don’t know why i just kept thinking of how cute it would be to write this dynamic: secret feelings and lingering moments that just catch your breath and the oblivious reader character. i just LOVE this. 𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀
Hii I love your post of what its like dating george rusell can you do one with oscar piastri??
what it's like dating.... ♡ oscar piastri
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
Just headcanons on what dating Oscar would be like
warnings: fluff
note: hello ♡ thank you so much for the request anon! enjoy. - dean
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Oscar's love language is acts of service before anything else. Your phone somehow always being charged because he notices it dying before you do. Him silently moving you to the inside of the pavement whenever you're walking together. Your coffee order becoming permanently stored in his brain after hearing it exactly once. Pretending not to listen when you ramble, only to bring up something you mentioned three months ago. Constantly having conversations like "I told you to bring a jacket." "Sorry, babe, I forgot." "You can wear mine." Rolling his eyes while draping it over your shoulders anyway.
Oscar never being overly dramatic about his feelings. Instead of saying "i miss you" every five minutes, he'll simply text, "when are you home?" and somehow it means the exact same thing.
Oscar treating you like you put the stars up in the sky for him and him only. You don't suspect a thing, but to him, it's like you actually have. You are the only person who consistently makes him laugh loud enough that everyone nearby turns around and he will be damned if he ever does anything to upset you on purpose.
Oscar being overly affectionate and clingy, when nervous pre-race. Lando pretending to throw up every time he catches the two of you being disgustingly cute. "Mate, get a room." "Shut up." "You lot are disgusting." "Shut up."
Oscar secretly loving you stealing his hoodies, because it means he'll eventually get them back smelling like your perfume.
Oscar loves taking youlate-night drives with no destination. It's all comfortable silence. Playlists instead of conversations. Your hand resting on the centre console until he reaches over without looking and intertwines your fingers with his.
Oscar never making a big deal out of anniversaries, because he knows you don't like it, but somehow always remembering them. Getting you flowers "just because", saying they simply reminded him of you while he was walking past a florist.
Oscar being surprisingly competitive over the smallest things. Mario kart becoming a genuine threat to the relationship. "You're cheating." "I'm winning." "Same thing."
Oscar's dry humour getting progressively worse the longer you're together. You eventually becoming fluent in Oscar, recognising that a tiny smile means he's ecstatic, that "not bad" means he absolutely loves something, that "yeah, alright" is basically a declaration of affection.
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summary: Y/n and Lando grew up as childhood best friends who fall in love, but his new f1 career forces himself to distance and eventually end things. Until a certain song and one annual dinner may change things…
Warnings: angst, references to heartbreak and regret, fame pressures
*no major physical violence or explicit content*
*written to ‘Less by Olivia Rodrigo’*
word count: 2.5k
They used to say it like it was already written
Not if they ended up together
but when
Y/n and Lando had grown up tangled in each others lives from back gardens becoming racetracks and imaginary concerts. School mornings waiting outside each others houses, family dinners blurred together so often that his mum stopped asking if she was “coming over for dinner” and started putting out an extra plate without thought.
She was there when he first said he wanted to race professionally
He was there when she first wrote a song she was too shy to sing properly
Neither of them ever questioned that they would be apart of each others futures until it started pulling them in the opposite directions.
—————————
They were sixteen when it started feeling different
They never had a grand confession, but somewhere between the years of friendship and growing up together, they simply fell inlove.
Lando’s mum Cisca was simply over the moon
She let out the biggest smile before pulling y/n into a tight hug. “finally,” she laughed looking between them.
“i’ve been waiting years for you two to figure it out.”
Lando groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “mum…”
“don’t mum me,” she grinned. “everyone knew you’d end up together.”
————————————————————————————
The Beginning Of The End
It didn’t happen suddenly.
It started with a phone call.
Lando was at home when it came. The late afternoon light streaming through the windows, the kind of quiet that felt too normal for something that was about to change everything.
The call didn’t last long. It didn’t need to.
By the time he hung up, everything he had been chasing since he was a child had finally reached out and said: we want you.
He didn’t even realise he was smiling until he turned and saw her in the doorway.
y/n.
Barefoot. Hair messy. Half written lyrics scribbled on her arms like she always did when she was thinking too much.
“what?” she asked softly.
He couldn’t speak at first. Just crossed the room and pulled her into him so tightly it almost hurt.
“i got it,” he said into her shoulder. “i got the seat.”
For a moment she didn’t move.
Then she laughed, small and breathless, disbelief written over her face.
“oh my god.”
And she meant it. She really did.
Because she loved him.
She loved him enough that his dreams always felt like hers too.
But even then something in the air had started shifting.
————————————————————————————
Leaving Home
The weeks after were a blur.
Suitcases being packed and unpacked. Family dinners that felt too loud. Conversations that always ended in we’ll figure it out later.
But “later” kept moving further away.
The first time someone from the team said it out loud, it didn’t sound like advice.
It sounded like an instruction.
“you’ve got to be careful now,” one of them told him.
“you’re stepping into something big, distractions, relationships, it complicates things.”
Lando didn’t answer.
Because when he looked at y/n across the room too busy writing in her notebook, he didn’t see a distraction.
He saw home.
But then he started noticing the small things.
How cameras lingered too long on anything personal, how interviews twisted small details into headlines, and how quickly people decided what a driver’s life should look like.
And suddenly love didn’t feel simple anymore.
It felt exposed.
Dangerous.
One night, after a long silence between them, he finally said it.
“i think we need to… be careful.”
y/n looked up from her notebook. “careful how?”
He hesitated.
That was the moment everything cracked, even if none of them admitted it yet.
“just.. less visible,” he said “for now”
Less.
————————————————————————————
The choice
It happened in her bedroom.
Suitcases half opened again. Another departure.
Another “temporary”
She was sitting on the edge of her bed when he said it properly this time.
“i think it might be better if we don’t.. do this right now.”
Silence.
Not shock, or confusion just an understanding arriving too fast.
She let out a low breath like she’d been holding in it months without realising.
“you mean us,” she spoke
He shook his head immediately. “no i don’t mean us,
i just- “
“you do,” she interrupted.
He ran a hand through his hair. “i just can’t afford to mess this up, not now, i need to focus.
There it was.
Focus.
As if she had been something pulling him away from his life instead of part of it.
Her voice didn’t rise. It barely shook.
“so i’m distracting you?”
“no,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
But he didn’t say anything after that.
The silence answered for him.
She nodded once, like she’d just confirmed something she already knew but had been hoping it wasnt.
“okay,” she said quietly.
The word barely reached him.
She looked down, blinking hard, composing herself to keep it together but no matter how many times she tried to swallow the lump in her throat, a tear escaped slowly tracing it’s way down her cheek.
She was quick to wipe it away, turning her face ever so slightly, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
He did.
Lando’s chest tightened.
Every instinct told him to cross the room and pull her into his arms. Take everything he said back.
“please don’t..” he whispered, voice cracking slightly.
She looked at him, tears glistening her eyes
“don’t cry”
He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head.
“i can’t do this if you cry.”
She frowned, her voice barely above a whisper.
“why?”
He let out a shaky breath.
“because if i come over there…” His eyes met hers again, already full of regret. “i’ll stay.”
Silence filled the room
“and if i stay,” he continued quietly, “If i stay i won’t leave. I’ll convince myself it would work out and it can’t.. not right now.”
Another year rolled down her cheek
She nodded slowly, even if though every part of her wanted to beg him to stay.
“then go,” she whispered
He stood there for a second longer, as if trying to remember every detail of her before turning towards the door.
Neither of them realised it would be the last time they’d look at each other as the people they used to be.
————————————————————————————
The distance
The days after didn’t feel like heartbreak at first but absence. Like forgetting something you couldn’t name.
He texted.
She replied less.
He called.
She stopped answering.
Not because she hated him, but every time she heard his voice, she remembered what it used to feel like when he chose her without thinking.
And now he had to think.
—————————
So she started writing instead.
At first it was fragments, lines that didn’t make sense together, melodie’s she’d hummed into voice notes at 2am.
Then one night, sat at her piano she wrote something and it became something else entirely.
Not as revenge.
Just as the truth.
She titled it: Less.
————————————————————————————
A year later
The world didn’t know it was about him, his family never asked but they knew.
She hadn’t planned to release it, but songs have a way of refusing to stay private when they’re honest enough.
It went up quietly.
No announcement or explanation.
And it spread.
Fast. Too fast.
Clips of it appeared everywhere. People using it for edits, relatable videos, captions like “i’m sobbing, who broke her”
And somewhere in that noise, it stopped being hers alone.
——————————
Lando heard it in the garage first.
Someone’s phone playing low through speakers. A chorus drifting through tools and conversation.
He freezes before he even processes why.
Then he hears it.
“i wish you loved me less..”
His stomach drops.
Her voice.
He’d know it anywhere.
The voice of his childhood, the voice he spent years falling asleep to, laughing with, the voice who cheered louder than anyone from the sidelines, his first love, the one he’d spent the last year trying not to think about.
That night, he searches for the song himself.
And he listens.
Once.
Then again.
Because the first time doesn’t feel real.
But the second time ruins him.
“i feel it again, edge of the bed
body and head protesting..”
He stops breathing properly somewhere in the first verse.
Because it doesn’t feel like a song it feels like sitting in a room he used to live in.
A room he left without realising it would linger with that memory.
Then the chorus hits.
“if loving me means letting go and wishing me
the best”
“then i guess”
“i wish, i wish, i wish you loved me less”
He pauses the song.
Stares at his phone.
He thought leaving was the right choice, that it was responsibility.
He thought love meant stepping back so nothing broke.
But she didn’t write it like that.
She wrote it like she broke anyway.
———————————
Big Sur becomes a road trip they once took when everything still felt easy.
LAX becomes the airport goodbye he convinced himself was temporary.
The bed edge becomes where the song haunts him the most.
And suddenly it isn’t just a song but a timeline of everything he didn’t notice slipping away while he was too focused on becoming someone else.
He wanted to reach out.
He doesn’t at first. Not because he doesn’t want to but because he doesn’t know what to say that doesn’t sound like it’s too late
But the silence gets heavier.
And heavier.
Until it feels louder than any race he’s ever driven.
He types messages and deletes them, opens her contact and closes it.
Because what can he say?
That he thought he was doing the right thing?
————————————————————————————
The Annual Christmas Dinner At The Norris Household
The house still looked the same.
That was the first thing she noticed.
Snow clung to her coat, melting into her hair as she stood outside. Inside laughter echoed, familiar voices layered over familiar music, the kind of comfort she used to belong to without thinking.
Y/n stood at the front door for longer than she meant to.
She almost didn’t come.
Not because she wasn’t invited though she tried avoiding this dinner at all costs.
But because she didn’t know what she was anymore inside this place.
Then the door opened.
His mum.
Cisca.
“oh, sweetheart,” she said immediately like no time had passed at all, pulling her into a hug that was warm, so achingly familiar.
“you made it,” she added softly, like she was almost scared you wouldn’t.
“i said i would,” y/n replied, but her voice didn’t quite match like it used to.
Nothing about her did anymore.
——————————
The house was louder than she remembered.
Or maybe she was just quieter now. She recognised everything in pieces.
The staircase she used to sit at while scrolling through race updates, the kitchen where she used to steal midnight snacks while he laughed at her, the living room where she once fell asleep on the sofa waiting for him to come home from karting.
Now all of it felt like someone else’s memory she had been invited to witness, not live.
His family greeted her like she still fit. As if the distance hadn’t made a difference, like she still belonged in the gaps between their conversations.
——————————
She saw him before he saw her.
Of course she did.
He was standing near the kitchen counter, half-turned away, talking on the phone.
Older in the face in a way that wasn’t just time, it was pressure. Responsibility. Everything he had wanted finally sitting heavy on his shoulders.
He laughed at something someone said.
It was automatic.
But it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Y/n didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Not yet.
It was like the room itself had to decide whether to let this moment happen.
Then someone said her name behind him.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
And everything stopped.
—————————
He turned.
And there she was.
Not a memory. Not a thought he could ignore later.
Real.
For a second, he forgot how to breathe properly because his brain still knew her instantly even if his life didn’t know where to place her anymore.
“hey,” she said first.
Simple.
Careful.
Like stepping onto ice she wasn’t sure would hold her weight.
His mouth opened slightly before closing again. He ended the call, placing his phone on the counter.
“hi,” he managed back.
Silence stretched between them.
Not awkward in the usual sense but worse. The kind that used to be full of comfort but now it just exposed everything that wasn’t there anymore.
“i didn’t know you were coming,” his voice was softer than she expected.
“it was last minute,” she replied.
A pause.
“i wasn’t sure i should”
He nodded once.
Like he understood exactly what she meant.
Or maybe like he didn’t want to pretend otherwise.
“you look…” he started, then stopped.
She waited. He tried again, quieter.
“different.”
A small, sad smile touched her mouth.
“i am.”
That was all she said.
No explanation needed.
Because they both knew what she meant.
For a moment neither of them moved but the house around them kept going. glasses clinking, people laughing, christmas chaos unfolding in every corner but here between them, everything stopped.
“i listened to it,” he said eventually.
Her eyes flickered.
She probably figured it would reach him of course she did.
“yeah?” she replied softly.
He nodded.
A beat.
“i didn’t realise it felt like that for you.”
There it was. The thing he’d been carrying since the song came out.
She looked at him for a long moment.
Really looked.
And when she spoke, her voice wasn’t sharp.
It was tired.
“that’s the thing,” she said. “it didn’t feel like that for a while, it felt like that slowly until it was the only thing left.”
He swallowed. Hard.
Because that was worse than anything else she could’ve said.
“i thought i was doing the right thing,” he said quietly.
“i know,” she answered immediately.
No hesitation.
And that almost broke him
Because she didn’t argue with him, she understood him too well to need to.
A silence settled again.
Different this time.
Heavier.
“i miss you.” he admitted.
It wasn’t planned.
It just slipped out like something that had been sitting in his chest for too long.
She didn’t react immediately she just nodded slowly.
“i know.”
A pause.
“the us that grew up together…” she exhaled softly. “I think we left them behind.”
His eyes dropped for a second like he knew that.
Someone called her name from the living room.
She turned slightly but she didn’t leave yet.
Not immediately.
There was one more thing sitting between them.
Unfinished.
“i didn’t hate you for leaving,” she said quietly.
His eyes lifted again.
“i hated that you didn’t realise i was already losing you before you even walked away.”
That hit differently because it wasn’t accusation it was clarity.
He nodded once.
“i think i understand now,” he said.
She gave a small, almost bittersweet smile.
“i think you do.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“it just came too late.”
She finally stepped back.
Not abruptly.
Just moving forward because there wasn’t anywhere else for this moment to go.
“i hope you win this season,” she said gently.
He let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“always the same,” he murmured.
She tilted her head slightly.
“what?”
“even now,” he said, “you still wish me the best.”
Her smile faded a little.
“yeah,” she replied. “i always did.”
Then she walked away back into the house, leaving him standing exactly where he was.
Surrounded by noise.
But completely alone in the silence she left behind.
————————————————————————————
Authors note: this was my first ever fic i’ve written i hope it was okay! don’t know if im happy with it at all 😞😞
if you would like a part 2 let me know in the comments. Requests are now open too🤍
"Their title fight would be generational" when we know well enough he would dogwalked that driver from the first race 😭😭😭 theres nothing generational, no they wouldnt be any title fight at all
okay, no one is obligated to like kimi, but there's a limit to everything.
once again, i was on that hell app (twitter), and it's honestly ridiculous how far some people will go to twist everything. i've even started liking george a little less because of some of his fans. i know, i know it isn't his fault, and he has nothing to do with what they say. but i've genuinely reached my limit. i can't even interact with content about him anymore because every other post is people with 63 in their display names saying the most disgusting things about kimi.
i've seen people wishing kimi the same fate as his idol, ayrton senna. i've seen people making fake team radios with AI to make him look bad. they're desperate to paint him as arrogant, entitled and fake, when that's simply not who he is. i've seen people mocking his mum's appearance and even attacking his little sister... a child.
and now they're using arvid lindblad as a token just to hate on kimi. the funny thing is, i haven't even seen arvid fans doing that. it was fans of other drivers (mostly the 63 crowd, obviously) using arvid's name as an excuse. arvid is such a lovely guy, and these idiots are only bringing unnecessary hate towards him too.
it should never be normal to wish death on someone over a sport.
what makes me even sadder is that i had several friends who were simply george fans, and now they've become genuinely cruel towards kimi. that's heartbreaking to see.
anyway... i just needed to get this off my chest because today completely drained me. i'm exhausted. i genuinely feel like i've been hit by a lorry. i think i might be coming down with something.
let's just keep sending kimi our love. he's so, so loved, and we'll always be here supporting him. 🤍
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pairing oscar piastri x fem!reader
theme angst (very heavy angst so buckle up) ; high school lovers
from iris ◡̈ When this request came into my inbox, I was really quick to drop everything. I'd been frustrated with the other stories I was editing because I just can't seem to be satisfied with how I want them to end. This one came to me in an instant. I am a big fan of movies and books in this genre: TFIOS, Five Feet Apart, A Walk To Remember, you name it, I've probably watched or read it. So now that I was given the chance to write one of my own, I jumped! So thank you, dear anon, for requesting this. You have cured my writer's block for this week. Hope you like it!
warnings mentions of death and grief
The afternoon sun cast long, amber shadows across the park, but Oscar didn’t mind the chill. He settled comfortably into his usual spot, crossing his legs and leaning back. He stared at her with a soft smile on his face.
"You always did have the best timing, you know," he said, his voice a quiet murmur against the breeze. He looked straight ahead, a fond, tired smile touching his lips. "I was just thinking about that May afternoon. You remember that day? It was junior year. The way you walked right up to my porch with your hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets, shivering even though it was practically summer."
For an entire hour, she had been pacing her bedroom floor, trying to manufacture a bravery she didn't feel. The goal was simple, yet entirely terrifying: ask out Oscar Piastri. He was the high school's star cricket player, the heartthrob, the smartest boy in school, her neighbor, and her long-time crush.
It’s now, or never, she told herself, but every time she took a step toward her front door, her knees gave a traitorous tremble.
Frustrated, she walked over to the window and looked out. Down in the yard next door, Oscar was taking out the trash. She watched as he threw a bright, effortless smile over his shoulder when his mother called out a thank-you from the house. Then he jogged over to the perimeter fence, checking the latch to make sure it was locked tight, just in case Basil, his dog, tried to escape and follow him. Everything about Oscar was entirely calm, completely collected, and oddly enough, just watching his quiet routine made the static in her mind clear up. Her worries began to fade.
Just do it.
She coached herself, stepping away from the glass. She grabbed her favorite perfume, spraying it on for the hundredth time, then quickly ran a comb through her hair. She tugged at the hem of her shirt, pulling it down to straighten it out, and took one last deep breath to steady her racing heart. She practically flew down her front steps, driven entirely by the adrenaline of her own countdown. By the time she crossed the driveway and reached Oscar’s porch, her lungs felt tight from the sheer audacity of what she was about to do, but when was she going to do it? What was she going to wait for?
Oscar was just sitting on the steps, wiping down his cricket bat with an old cloth. When the shadow fell over him, he looked up, his dark eyes blinking in surprise. "Oh hey," he said, offering that same easy, effortless smile she had just seen from her window. "You okay? You're shivering." She didn't answer his question. She couldn't. If she let him speak, if she let herself think, she would lose her nerve and run back inside to die in a quiet room. She planted her feet, looked him dead in the eye, and let the words rush out in a single, breathless burst.
"Do you want to get coffee with me? Like a date. Tomorrow."
Oscar froze, the cloth hovering over his bat. For a second, the silence between them stretched so long she thought she might actually faint. Then, a small, amused chuckle escaped him. "Whoa, okay, no 'hi, Oscar'? No 'how was your game'?"
"Hi Oscar, How was your Game? Do you want to get coffee with me? Like a date. Tomorrow," she said again, her voice dropping, stripped of all bravado. She didn't smile like she usually did. Her eyes were wide, urgent, staring at him with a raw intensity that made his laughter die in his throat. She looked like someone trying to outrun the whole world. Oscar slowly set the bat down on the porch step. The easygoing, golden-boy demeanor softened into something entirely focused on her. "Yeah," Oscar said softly, standing up to meet her eye level. The calm aura that always surrounded him seemed to wrap around her, stilling her shaking knees. "Yeah, I'd love to."
A tiny, breathless sigh of relief escaped her lips, the first real breath she felt like she’d taken all day. "Okay. Great. It's a date." She turned on her heel and practically marched back to her house before he could change his mind, leaving Oscar standing on the porch, looking after her with a fiercely intrigued smile.
He thought he was the luckiest guy on the block.
"You’d always been the girl with the quietest voice, but always had a smile on her face; that day you were so different, though; your eyes were wide and urgent. I said yes, of course. I’d been wanting you to look my way for years, but you always kept the world at arm's length. I just assumed you were guarded."
In the quiet hush of the afternoon, he could hear her melodic laugh echoing in his ears, pulling a soft smile from his lips. Reaching over into his canvas bag, he pulled out a small carton of strawberry milk. With practiced ease, he popped the straw from its plastic wrapper and poked it neatly through the foil opening, setting it down gently beside her. Then, he took out a chocolate milk box for himself, puncturing the top. "Cheers," he murmured, lightly clinking his carton against hers.
"Our very first date, you confessed that you’d never done any of this before," he continued, his voice dropping a pitch. "No boyfriends, no hands held in the dark at the back of movie theaters, no late-night phone calls that accidentally lasted until dawn, and not even a first kiss. I remember teasing you about it, asking how a girl as beautiful as you had managed to avoid love for so long."
"I think I was just waiting for the right person," she had said, looking across the small diner table at him. The admission had made Oscar blush right down to his collar. In that exact moment, he wanted nothing more than to be that person for her.
They stayed glued to each other's side for the rest of the day. After coffee, Oscar took her to the arcade downtown, where they lost track of time playing games for hours. She went along with absolutely everything he suggested, laughing and radiant, but whenever Oscar turned his back to change tokens or check a high score, she would slip away to hide behind a tall arcade machine. Clutching her chest, she would desperately try to catch her breath, silently begging her lungs to just be lungs for a moment because she needed them to hold on despite the physical ache because this was the best day of her life.
Oscar eventually found her leaning against one of the games. "Hey, you good?" he asked, stepping closer. She flashed him a bright smile. "Never better," she lied. Oscar smiled right back, the exact smile that had made her fall so deeply in love with him. "Okay, let’s go. One last thing." He took her hand, their fingers quick to intertwine, fitting together so perfectly it felt like they had been custom-made to hold each other.
He pulled her over to a faded vintage photobooth tucked away in the corner of the arcade. The curtained space was so small and compact that Oscar had to guide her in and let her sit right on his lap, his arms draping naturally around her waist as if they were always meant to be there. They laughed and posed for the first few flashes, but the last photo caught her completely by surprise. Oscar placed a gentle hand on her cheek, turning her face to meet his. At the very last second, as the camera shutter clicked, he closed the distance and sealed the day with a soft, lingering kiss.
"I know I shouldn't have kissed you without asking," Oscar said, a low, nostalgic chuckle vibrating in his chest. "But every single time I looked over at you, saw your smile, looked into your eyes... I just couldn't help myself. I knew right then and there that you were it for me. It was crazy how fast it happened."
He laughed out loud, the sound rich and warm, echoing into the open space.
Above him, the sky was changing, bleeding into a deep, brilliant orange compared to the pale gold it had been when they first started talking.
"Seriously, love," Oscar whispered, his voice softening as he looked down at the faded picture in his hands. "If you hadn't taken that leap and asked me out all those years ago, we never would have found out that we were made for each other."
The months that followed were a beautiful whirlwind. She constantly tried to slow the world down, insisting on sitting in the park for hours just to watch the leaves shift in the breeze, or memorizing the exact, fleeting shade of the sky at dusk. She'd convince Oscar to take the longer route home, or linger when they hugged, scared it'd be the last time.
They spent every single day of that summer wrapped up in each other. By the time senior year rolled around, everyone at school was stunned to see them walking down the hallways with their fingers tightly intertwined, or sharing a table at lunch. It was a surprise to the rest of the world, but to them, it made perfect sense.
"Hey," Oscar had said, pulling out a chair for her as she approached their usual table. "I brought you lunch," she replied with a bright smile, unzipping her bag as she sat down. Oscar leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "You didn't have to do that, baby, but thank you." As she pulled out the food, Oscar’s eyes drifted to the bottom of her bag. Lying there was a clear Ziploc pouch filled with a dozen different colored pills. He frowned slightly. "Oh? What are all those pills for? Are you feeling okay?"
She didn't even flinch. She just offered him that same reassuring smile. "They're just vitamins, Osc. You know how my mom is. She’s a total health nut." And Oscar, completely blinded by how much he loved her, believed every single word.
But the truth had a cruel way of tearing through even the most perfect illusions.
It happened on a rainy Friday night in late October. She had fallen asleep on Oscar's living room couch, her head resting in his lap, looking entirely fragile and peaceful under the dim lamplight. Oscar had been gently stroking her hair, listening to the rhythmic, slightly shallow sound of her breathing, when her phone buzzed sharply on the coffee table.
It was a notification for an upcoming specialist appointment, followed by a preview of an urgent patient portal message.
Oscar didn't mean to pry. He truly didn't, but a sudden, terrifying instinct seized his chest, a cold dread that he couldn't shake off. He quietly slipped out from under her, cushioning her head with a pillow, and walked over to her backpack resting by the door. His hands shook as he unzipped it, his fingers brushing until they hit a thick, white folder. Inside were hospital letterheads from a clinic. There were diagnostic sheets, test results, and a highlighted term that made his breath catch in his throat: Pulmonary Arterial Hypertension.
Beneath it, in merciless black ink, was a palliative care timeline. An aggressive, terminal prognosis. She wasn't taking vitamins; she was taking experimental vasodilators and other medications just to keep her lungs functioning. She had known the whole time.
When she finally stirred and opened her eyes, seeing Oscar standing under the kitchen light with the medical papers in his hands, she didn’t cry. She just looked incredibly, profoundly tired. Oscar didn't yell. He couldn't. The shock was too heavy, wrapping around his throat and stealing the air right out of his chest. Instead, a quiet, desperate ache bled into the kitchen. "Why didn't you tell me?" Oscar asked, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the words as he looked down at the documents in his trembling hands.
"Why... why didn't you let me know?" Tears were streaming down his face now, hot and silent, blurring the harsh text on the pages. He took a slow, unsteady step toward her, the betrayal hurting far less than the sudden realization of what she had been carrying all on her own. "You were suffering alone... why didn't you let me help you?"
She just sat by the edge of the couch, accepting every ounce of his heartbreak. She didn't offer a defensive excuse, and she didn't try to minimize his pain. She just watched him softly, her eyes reflecting a deep, sorrowful understanding, as if she had been waiting for this exact storm to break. Her silence was entirely surrendered, gentle and still, holding space for his tears. When his shoulders finally slumped, a ragged sob breaking through his chest, she didn't hesitate. She finally found the strength to walk over to him, her legs visibly trembling, and stepped right into his space. She reached out, took his face in her small, ice-cold hands, and rested her forehead gently against his. Her breath was faint against his lips, but her voice was entirely steady.
"Because for once in my life," she had whispered, a single tear finally escaping her eye, "I wanted someone to look at me and see a future, not an expiration date. I wanted to be loved for who I am, Osc, not pitied for how I'm leaving." The grief nearly crushed him, but he stayed. "I look at you, Oscar Piastri, and I selfishly hope for a forever even with numbered days, and that alone gives me all the reason to fight to be able to stay."
From then on, Oscar was careful. Not in a way that suffocated her or made her feel like a patient, but in a way that sheltered her while letting her run free. He was woven into every part of her reality now. He sat beside her at doctors' appointments, held her hair through the sleepless nights, and learned the exact schedule of her medications, but that didn’t mean it didn’t tear him apart. Some nights, while she slept peacefully beside him, Oscar would pull the blanket up over his face to muffle the sound of his sobs. He would watch her frail silhouette in the dark, tears burning his eyes, silently begging the universe, Why? Why her? Why bring her into my life just to tear her away? But the moment her eyes fluttered open, he would swallow the lump in his throat and force a smile. He had to be strong. He had to be her anchor.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, her breathy laugh cutting through the quiet afternoon air. Months had passed since that rainy night. She was visibly thinner now, her skin a fragile and pale shade, but she was still the most breathtaking sight Oscar had ever seen. "Just trust me, okay?" Oscar smiled, his fingers snugly intertwined with hers, gently guiding her up a steady incline. When they reached the crest of the hill, the city below faded into the background.
Before them stretched a hidden sanctuary, a vast field dancing with thousands of tiny, colorful wildflowers. "Oh, wow," she breathed, her eyes lighting up with a spark that made Oscar’s chest swell. "Do you love it?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her back against his chest. She turned her head slightly, her gaze locking onto his. "I love you." Oscar had laid out a small blanket, setting up a picnic filled entirely with her favorites: two cartons of strawberry milk and a perfect slice of tiramisu from the bakery downtown.
She nudged his side playfully. "Are you seriously missing cricket practice for a piece of cake?"
"I’m missing practice to be with you, silly," Oscar chuckled, bopping her nose. "The team will manage without me. Besides, we graduate in a few weeks. They need to get used to life without their captain anyway." She laughed, the sound bright but fading quickly into a comfortable silence as they ate. After a few minutes, Oscar cleared his throat, the lightheartedness leaving his voice. "Baby."
"Hmm?" She looked up, a stray crumb of tiramisu on her lip.
"I, uh... I’ve been planning this for a while," Oscar started, his hands growing suddenly clammy. "I actually went and talked to your mom a few months ago." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box. Opening it, a simple silver band with a diamond that caught the afternoon light beautifully. "I know our time has a different rhythm than everyone else's, but I don't care about the length of it. I want to spend every single second of the rest of your life as your husband. Will you marry me?"
The tears spilled over her lashes instantly. "Oscar," she sobbed, her voice trembling. Oscar knew she was doubting, but he didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, cupping her face gently in both of his palms, using his thumbs to wipe away her tears. " I don't want to waste another day. I want to love you fully, officially, completely, for every moment we have left."
Through her tears, she finally nodded, whispering a breathless, "Yes." They closed the distance, sealing the promise with a kiss, staying on that hill until the stars began to twinkle above them.
Everything that followed felt like a beautiful, accelerated blip in time. The day after graduation, they got married in a quiet courtyard, surrounded by a handful of close friends and their families. Then came the montage of their final months: the lazy mornings tangled in bedsheets, the small victories when she had enough energy to cook breakfast, the quiet afternoons spent listening to music, and the way Oscar would carry her up the stairs when she simply couldn't manage.
Five months after their wedding day, she passed away quietly in her sleep, resting against the chest of the love of her life.
Later, the doctors told a hollow, grief-stricken Oscar that they were looking at a medical miracle. From the day she had walked up to his porch to ask him out, she only had eight months left. She had known her prognosis, which was exactly why she took the leap. Yet, she had fought and lived for twenty-nine months more.
At the funeral, Oscar sat by her open casket longer than anyone else. He leaned his forehead against the glass that protected her face, whispering his final, private goodbyes to the beautiful girl who had changed his world. When the service ended and the casket was lowered into the earth, her mother gently insisted that Oscar ride back in her car. They sat in heavy silence for a while until her mother spoke, tears streaming freely down her face. "Thank you, Oscar."
"Mom, you don't have to thank me." Oscar swallowed hard. He had started calling her that after the wedding. "I do," she wept, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "When you came into her life... she started to fight again. The doctors gave her months, Oscar, but you gave her years. You were her miracle. Thank you for giving my baby a reason to live longer."
That night, back in their apartment, Oscar couldn't sleep. He was so incredibly used to the warmth of her body beside him, the rhythmic, shallow sound of her breathing against his bare skin, that the empty mattress felt entirely foreign. It felt like a freezing expanse of nothingness. He wanted to scream. He wanted to be angry at the world. He wanted to close his eyes and pray that he would just fade away to follow her, but as he stared into the dark ceiling, her mother's words echoed in his mind.
You gave her a reason to live.
As tears slipped down Oscar's face, soaking into the pillowcase, he realized then that even though she was gone, she hadn't left him empty-handed. She had shown him what it meant to love fiercely against all odds, to make every single second count. He had given her a reason to stay a little longer, and now, the memory of her love was giving him a reason to keep going.
Oscar pulled his mind back to the present, blinking against the sharp, brilliant orange sunset fading into darkness, tracing the edges where they had been molded together in that tiny booth. The wind picked up, scattering a few loose leaves across the grass and swallowing the leftover heat of the day. It was getting late, and the long shadows were stretching dark across the beautifully manicured lawns of the cemetery. Oscar slowly reached out, his fingers tracing the smooth, polished gray granite, following the carved curves of her name etched deep into the tombstone. He carefully leaned the faded photo against the base of the rock, right next to the untouched carton of strawberry milk he had opened for her.
The stone was freezing, completely unyielding under his palm. "The granite is freezing today," Oscar whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Just like your hands used to be."
He lingered for a moment, the silence of the cemetery wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. A soft, bittersweet smile touched his lips. "Thanks for spending your forever with me." He stood there a while longer, just looking at her name, until the gentle, distant sound of Lando’s car horn cut through the quiet afternoon. Oscar took a slow, deep breath, adjusting his jacket.
"I miss you, baby. I love you," he whispered to the breeze.
Before he turned away, his eyes drifted down to his own hand, catching the dull gleam of his wedding ring. It was a bit faded now, scratched from the years passing by, but it remained a constant, unbreakable reminder of her love. He looked back at the stone one final time, a fierce, quiet certainty settling into his chest. "See you in the next lifetime, okay? I'll come find you in every single one."
With that last promise left against the granite, Oscar turned around and finally started walking away.
SUMMARY !
after the break-up that tore her world apart, ella finds herself back in the house they once shared, forced to confront max—and the feelings she swore she'd buried. but sometimes, hate is just love that lost its timing.
WARNINGS !
angst. emotional hurt/comfort. break-up/make-up. mentions of anxiety. max is bad at feelings. ella is stubborn. a lot of rain. a lot of silence. a lot of things left unsaid.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
this is my very first fanfic ever, so please be gentle with me 😅 i've been reading fics for ages and finally worked up the courage to write my own. i'm honestly so nervous posting this !!
i'm still learning, so any feedback (whether it's good, bad, or somewhere in between) is so, so welcome. seriously, tell me what you think! i want to get better :)
The house was the same.
That was the first thing that hit Ella as she stood on the curb, the grey drizzle of a Dutch autumn sticking to her coat like it didn’t know where else to go. The sky looked unfinished, like something mid-thought.
Three months.
That was the only number her brain kept repeating. Three months of not saying his name out loud. Three months of pretending the absence of Max Verstappen didn’t echo in everything she did.
Her key still worked, of course it did. The lock clicked open with the same soft, mechanical certainty as always, like nothing inside had ever changed enough to justify hesitation.
Inside, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
The ventilation system hummed softly through the walls—steady, controlled, constant. Max had always liked systems that didn’t surprise him.
Ella stepped in, closing the door behind her.
Nothing here felt like hers anymore.
The cushions she had once picked were gone. The small imperfect vase she loved wasn’t on the shelf. Everything was clean in a way that felt like erasure instead of care.
And then she saw him.
Max stood in the kitchen with his back to her, looking out at the rain hitting the glass. Grey joggers, black shirt, slightly messy hair. Still, somehow, he looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in a long time—as if something in him had gone missing too.
He turned before she could fully decide what to do with her hands.
His eyes landed on her.
There was no shock. Just a pause. A recognition that didn’t know what shape to take anymore.
“You could’ve called,” he said quietly. Not cold. Just careful. “I would’ve brought them to you.”
“I wanted them myself,” she replied, sharper than intended. “Didn’t think you’d want me here longer than necessary.”
A small tension pulled at his jaw. “They’re in the spare room.”
“Right.”
She walked past him without looking back, even though the air still smelled like him in a way that made her angry at her own memory.
The spare room was exactly as she left it. Her life, flattened into cardboard.
She started opening boxes too fast, like speed could replace stability. Tape tearing, objects shifting, memories collapsing into categories. Anger was easier than anything else.
Then she heard it.
A sound from the kitchen.
Soft. Almost absent-minded. A hum. Not a song. Not intentional. Something older than thought.
She froze.
She knew that melody. His mother used to hum it when he was younger. He only did it when he wasn’t fully there, which meant something was off—or too real.
She pressed a box shut harder than necessary.
He appeared at the doorway a few minutes later.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You’re making a lot of noise.”
A laugh without humor escaped her before she could stop it. “So? You don’t live with me anymore. You don’t have to manage me.”
Something flickered in his face. Gone quickly.
“You left, Ella.”
“I left because you gave me no space to stay.”
Silence. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that accumulates weight.
“You made it about choosing,” she continued. “Me or the simulator. Like I was just another variable you could remove.”
“That’s not what it was.”
“Then what was it?”
Max exhaled slowly. “I didn’t know how to do both,” he said.
“That’s the point.”
He leaned on the doorframe slightly, like he needed something physical to stay upright. “I know racing. I know systems. I know what works and what doesn’t,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do when someone needs you and nothing you do feels… right.”
Ella looked at him then. Really looked.
He didn’t look like someone who had moved on. He looked like someone who had been waiting for instructions that never came.
“I kept telling myself it was easier after you left,” he added. “Less distraction. More focus.”
A short pause.
“It wasn’t.”
He swallowed.
“I won races,” he said, almost detached. “And I went home and it felt like I was just… repeating something that didn’t matter anymore.”
That landed differently.
“I didn’t stop thinking about it,” he said after a while. “About us. About what I didn’t say.”
Ella’s voice came out quieter than she expected. “I hated you.”
He nodded once. “I know.”
“I hated that you didn’t fight for me.”
“I did,” he said, but softer than before. “Just… not in the way you could see.”
That made her look up.
“I stayed quiet when I should’ve spoken,” he added. “I thought giving you space was the right thing. It wasn’t. It just made everything worse.”
His hands were in his pockets. Tense. Controlled. Like always. Except not really.
“I kept thinking I’d fix it later,” he said. “After the next race. After the next win. After I had time to figure out how to say things properly.”
He gave a small, humorless breath. “I never figured it out.”
Silence settled again. But this time it wasn’t empty, it was full.
“I didn’t realise it felt like that for you,” he admitted.
That was the closest thing to breaking he had done so far.
Ella felt her anger shift. Not disappear. Just change shape.
“I didn’t want to hate you,” she said.
“I know.”
“I needed it,” she corrected herself, voice tightening. “Because loving you without it was worse.”
That made something in his expression soften.
“I never stopped,” he said. Not dramatic, not polished. Just said. And then, quieter: “I don’t know how to turn that off.”
Ella stared at him for a long moment.
Neither of them moved.
Outside, the rain kept falling like it wasn’t interested in their conversation.
“I want you back,” he said finally, then exhaled like the words had escaped before he could refine them.
“I don’t mean it like fixing things,” he added. “I just… don’t know how else to say it.”
“I miss you here. Everything feels wrong without you.”
Too simple. That was the problem.
Ella didn’t answer immediately.
For the first time since she walked in, she didn’t feel like she had to.
The silence between them was no longer about distance. It was about choice.
“You don’t get to say that and expect everything to reset,” she said finally.
“I know.”
His answer came instantly. No defense. No argument. Just acceptance.
“I’m not trying to fix it,” he added. “I’m just telling you where I am.”
That mattered more than it should’ve.
A long pause.
Then:
“Can I…?” he started, then stopped.
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Ella looked at him. At the hesitation. At the fact that he was actually waiting. Not assuming. Not taking. Waiting.
“Don’t make it mean everything is solved,” she said quietly.
“I won’t.”
And only then, carefully, like something fragile that could still break—he kissed her.
It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t certain. It was the first honest thing they had done in a long time.
Nothing about it fixed anything. That wasn’t the point.
When they pulled back, neither of them smiled like it was over, because it wasn’t.
Max rested his forehead against hers briefly.
“We’re going to mess this up again,” she whispered.
“Probably,” he admitted.
“And?”
A pause.
“I still want to try.”
That was all.
Later, they ended up on the couch. Not because everything had been resolved, but because leaving felt harder than staying.
Ella leaned against him, his arm around her shoulders. The house was still the same shape, still the same architecture, still too clean. But it didn’t feel empty anymore. Not fully.
“You know this still has no personality,” she muttered.
A faint exhale of laughter against her hair. “That’s your job,” he said. “I’ll approve things.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“I’ll survive.”
She shook her head slightly, but didn’t move away.
Outside, the rain slowed. Not stopped. Just less loud.
“I don’t know how to do this properly,” Max said after a while.
“Neither do I.”
“That’s kind of the problem,” she added.
“Yeah.”
Silence. Then, quieter:
“But I don’t want to go back to before.”
Ella didn’t answer right away. Before had hurt. But at least it had been something.
“This isn’t fixed,” she said finally.
“I know.”
“And it won’t be.”
“I know that too.”
A pause.
Then she nodded once.
“Okay”.
Not forgiveness. Not closure. Just permission to begin.
Outside, the clouds started to thin, not dramatically, not like a movie ending. Just enough to change the light.
The house was still the same.
But for the first time, it wasn’t pretending to be empty.
SUMMARY: you think seeing #81 everywhere is just a co-incidence, until you do some research, and you think you might have a soulmate. only problem is now you have to find them, before you lose them. funnily enough, you've known them for as long as you can remember. This fic is intended to span months, please keep that in mind, as the passing of time is badly written. Also, please use your imagination for blanks or things that don't quite fit- the world of soulmates is a confusing one!
WHAT'S INSIDE: angst with a happy ending, soulmate au, swearing, haunting the narrative, lando and clara mention <3
WORD COUNT: 6.5K (Was aiming for 8.1k but.. plans changed.)
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: based on this request by my dear friend @fruityfluter <3. i looooove 'about you' so bad, and yk i fw soulmate!oscar SO BAD. so this is a tad self-indulgent.. anyway... i've decided to give you a happy ending! maybe??? (kidding..) thanks everyone for all the support recently! also, ive got a couple of requests which might take me longer than i thought, sorry! heavily reccomend punisher by phoebe for the vibe of this fic, tbh. maybe moodboard for this fic too if yall enjoy it! also, tiny easter egg for Doomed, Chap 9: this is basically the happy version of that! eek.
MASTERLIST | ABOUT YOU | THE FULL PLAYLIST | #81
There was once a time, long before money gripped the world in a claw so tight one could not breathe; where love and marriage were one and the same, and the economics of it all ceased to matter.
It was back then, when people devised an understanding for a unique way of the world. A soulmate, they called them. Someone supposedly gifted to you by the Universe, and then you had to find them. Some philosophers theorised it was to give us a purpose; others, to be cruel. But the system itself was fairly simple. The only thing that is truly infinite, is numbers. So people would be sent numbers, and they would sub-consciously notice them, over and over again. Until eventually, it would become all too overwhelming to ignore, and they’d know they were close to finding their so-called soulmate.
For generations, this worked. As long as numbers existed, so did soulmates. So did huge, universal, undoubtable love.
Numbers still exist. Soulmates? Now a myth.
Historians assume it was the rise of capitalism. The invention of the dowry. The birth of the belief of the perfect couple. The new societal classes. That dragged apart love-matches, and paired them to financial ones instead. Monarchs could not marry boys covered in mud, and a woman could not love another woman. And so, society scrapped soulmates, and left everyone rather miserable, and both poorer and richer simultaneously.
Still, fate did not let up. It was weaker now, easier to ignore, but it still tried.
Most people would start seeing the numbers. The percentage on their phone, the time on the clock. The same number, popping up every time. Still, there was a limit, of sorts. If you didn’t believe in them at all, you’d never notice. If you believed in love, but not quite enough, you probably won’t see it until it was ever too late, or far too early, and then it would be lost again.
It was not infinite, if you did not believe, did not try.
It was easy to dismiss. Everyone has a lucky number. It was those brave enough to be sceptical of its consistency that ever got a reward. Still, it was so rare now. The few cases of soulmates were almost all co-incidences, from lucky run-ins on city breaks.
Very few chased it, and you are not one of the few.
81. That’s your favourite number, lucky number, whatever else. You were born on 8/1, anyway. You figure it’s that. Just seems to settle in the right way in your soul, like a guidance. You’re not sure what it means, if it means anything at all.
81. That’s Oscar’s favourite number, lucky number, whatever else. He’d been drawn to it, and at the mere age of ten, he’d been told to pick a number to drive under. He’d blurted it out instantly, without thinking at all. Just a quick, definite decision. He’s not sure what it means, if it means anything at all.
The first time you almost meet Oscar Piastri is when you’re barely five years old. You’re having a taster day at kindergarten, and you’re being rather moody about the whole thing.
“Mum, I don’t want to go in. I already don’t like it here.” you grumble, tugging on her sleeve, and she shrugs you off.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be fun, come on.” she replies quietly, giving you an enthusiastic smile, and you scowl in response.
“Here are some kids you can buddy up with for the day, okay? Amy, Jules, Henry and Oscar.”
You count the heads dutifully, but come up one short. Amy is dramatically adorable, with red pigtails and muddy knees. Jules looks a little colder, and she’s tall, but she’s carrying a bright pink lunchbox so you figure she’s not nearly as tough as she looks. Henry is covered in freckles and his shirt has a ridiculous assortment of paint stains, but you think he might be fun. So, that just leaves Oscar, who is apparently a no-show.
The teacher grimaces.
“Does anyone know where Oscar is?”
The kids look from you to her blankly, with scattered shakes of their heads and shrugs, and she sighs.
“Alright, you three give her a tour, and we’ll see if Oscar ever shows up.”
Amy grabs your hand instantly, while Jules and Henry bicker over which staircase to take, and you let yourself relax a little. But something blares in your mind: Oscar. You’re not sure why you’re so hung up on the fact he didn’t make it, on who he is at all, but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s almost… important. Still, by the time you’ve made it to the art room, that’s long forgotten.
Once you make it back to the main foyer, dutifully following the three children around with the desperation of a new kid, you hear the teacher from the morning.
Her voice is quiet, but her tone is serious, and she’s muttering about impressions and tardiness.
The boy on the receiving end of the lecture looks about your age, with floppy brown hair and bunny-like teeth. He's gripping his orange backpack and shuffling his feet, and you wonder if he might cry if she raises her voice even just a little. When he looks up from the floor, his eyes shift from her stern face to your curious one, and for a second, the world seems to inhale. And then you’re dragged into an overly colourful classroom, and you wonder if you made it all up. You don’t see him again, as the final bell rings, and you reach your mother’s open arms.
“Still don’t wanna come here? You look like you had fun!” she says cheerfully, and for a second, you think about when the World Stopped. And then you stop thinking about it, fold your arms, and shake your determined head.
The second time you almost meet Oscar Piastri is at a funfair. The dodgems are gleaming, playing some obnoxious music, and you can feel Jasper tugging at your arm relentlessly.
“Come oooooon. I want to go.” he whines, yanking you into the queue.
You don’t like dodgems. Primitive, insane, and overly painful. And way too expensive.
But Jasper is desperate, with a disgusting grin on his face. You’d always found him to be slightly too energetic for a nine year old. Still, apparently maturity was a myth for many boys at school, and they seemed to take the foundational skills of maths as rather unimportant.
So you oblige, chucking him one of your last tokens, and you pile into the arena, darting towards an open car. As you reach an orange one, the number #81 painted on it, you feel something that isn’t the plastic of the seat beneath your hand.
You look up quickly, meeting brown eyes.
The boy looks oddly familiar, and you just can’t quite place it, until the sounds of shrieking children and blasting music fades into something quieter than the hammering of your heartbeat. He glances down, at your hand on his, and his ears turn a vicious shade of pink. Still, he doesn’t shift away, and neither do you, and you stand like that for what feels like an eternity and less than a second. You begin to splutter out something between an apology and an accusation, his name somewhere hidden in the fog of your brain, but he’s gone by the time you manage to remember it started with an O.
The third time you almost meet Oscar Piastri will also be the last, or so you think. Marty is shimmying into various different skirts in front of your mirror, while you offer short comments about how she ‘looks good in anything’ and she really ought to ‘stop stressing.’
“Who’s this party even for, anyway. Who’s the pastry kid?” you ask, lying down on your messy bed.
“Piastri,” she corrects, with a hidden laugh, “and it’s a goodbye party. He’s off to England, to drive, or something. I don’t actually know him.”
“England? At fifteen? Lucky bastard.” you complain, with a disgruntled scoff.
“What, would you move if you could now? Wouldn’t you miss us all terribly?” she asks, catching your eye in the mirror, and you shrug.
“Terribly, sure. But worth it. I’m going there, one day.”
Marty pauses. “Are you going to come back?”
“I don’t know.”
You both fall quiet, before you realise there’s no point in thinking about it too deeply. So instead, you hit play on your speaker, and wait for her to finish getting ready.
It’s busy, when you arrive at the house. You don’t know who’s house it really is, or who the people piling out the door are, but Marty's hand in yours keeps you calm.
“We can find Jasper and the others, okay? C’mon.”
She drags you through crowds and awkward people shuffling to the blaring house music, before you see familiar faces sprawled on the couch.
As you sit down, you scan the sofa, and in one inhale, it blurs.
He gives you a flicker of a smile, and his name finally forms in your whirling head.
“Everyone, this is-”
“Oscar.” you whisper, cutting off Jasper’s introduction.
“You know each other?"
You nor Oscar reply, because you’re not sure what the right answer is. How to explain whatever’s going on.
It’s soon forgotten, and then Marty is leading you away. You try not to think about how this is probably the last time you’ll ever see him. He tries to understand why he feels such a sharp sting in his stomach, and a sudden urge to chase after you.
It’s only when the charm on your necklace gleams at him, a small silver ‘81’, that he feels a deep regret as you disappear into the evening.
⛐✦
8:01. The number blurs as you unlock your phone, clicking off your alarm. With a desperate effort, you’re up, and the day begins. Clara is already fiddling in the bathroom, her music quietly waking you up, as you stumble towards the sink.
“G’morning.” she chirps, dabbing at her concealer, and you give her a tired smile.
“Well, if it isn’t my best friend!” exclaims Lando, his voice slightly distorted by his evidently bad wifi.
“Lando.” you mutter, rubbing your face, and he laughs.
Lando and Clara had been a thing for a while now. Never quite official, but something more unspoken hummed between them both. It was hard, you appreciated that. Clara was never one to reach for fame, and it was somewhat impossible to be seen with Lando and not have it rub off on you. So, she didn’t go to races, and they existed hidden in summer breaks and glitchy facetimes.
You’re not sure why they keep going. How they’re surviving. But you don’t judge, don’t comment, just stare at their lovesick eyes and question the eventuality of it all.
Once he hangs up, the noise increasing behind him, she looks disappointed for a second, and then it’s gone.
She passes you the toothpaste wordlessly, and you search her eyes for something, but instead you look at her hands. And there, as she flexes her knuckles, is something resembling a ‘4’.
“When d’you get a tattoo?” you ask, gesturing to her fist, and she frowns.
“I don’t have one?”
She scans her hand, giving you a confused shrug.
“Can you not, like, see it? That is a four, is it not?”
She stares at you now, her voice faltering a little.
“What did you say?”
“A four.” you repeat. “Y’know, like Lando’s number? I know you’re a 444 person, so-” you begin, but her widening eyes make you fall silent.
When you look again, it’s gone.
“I don't, I don't know what you’re talking about. See? Nothing there.”
You swallow, rubbing your eyes again, and wonder what you just saw.
81 hangs over Oscar’s head as he sits on the concrete step, trying to block out the clamour of noise from the paddock.
“Yeah, love you too. Bye.”
Lando shuts off his phone and sits beside him, extending a palm. Oscar takes it gladly, but he notices the stretch of his number on his thumb.
“I like that.” Oscar states, nodding towards the ‘4’ on his finger, and Lando frowns.
“Like what?”
“The four, up the side of your thumb. It’s cool. Maybe I should match.”
Lando retracts his hand and analyses his thumb carefully.
“I know you’re obsessed with me, mate, but you’re seeing my number now. Nothing there.”
It’s ironic, Lando thinks, considering he spent the last year trying to convince himself he wasn’t going insane when he saw his number everywhere. Still, he waits for Oscar to react, and he just blinks.
“Oh. Right. I’m tired.”
Once Clara closes the door behind her, you descend to your laptop. It blinks back at you, 81%, and that’s what cements it for you.
‘What does it mean when I see the same number a lot and start seeing tattoos of other peoples lucky number?’
The initial results are unhelpful- number tattoos inspiration, maths answers, what different numbers mean, and so on. Until you see a title that catches your eye- ‘I can’t stop seeing the number 47 everywhere I go, what’s going on?
With a determined click, you read the responses. People agreeing, people unsure. And then, an answer.
‘Not sure how helpful this is, but these are some historical accounts of the same things happening. People called it the ‘soulmate way’ back then. Not really a thing anymore, but maybe that’s what you’re experiencing?’
You click onto the link in the answer, and you’re engulfed by a rather wordy account of exactly what you’re going through. The constant appearance of the same number, some strange understanding linked to it, and feeling a bit overwhelmed.
The second page goes into detail into the ‘apparitions’ of numbers. When someone is running out of time to find their soulmate, they start seeing marks on other people, of their number, as if to entice you to try and find your ow-
When someone is running out of time?
Your next search is more frantic. ‘Can you run out of time to find your soulmate?’
Another article pops up, confirming your fear.
‘Yes. Once a person starts seeing their number, they have a finite time to find the person who sees the same number. They will know when they’ve found them, as there is often a feeling of ‘the world stopping’, or ‘time slowing down.’. They will also begin to see those who have found their soulmates with identical markings, to try and keep them believing a little longer, and keep the number alive. Some people see their number from birth, other in old age. It can be terribly unfair. Once it becomes noticeable, overwhelmingly so, then you know you do not have long left. If you are to meet your soulmate after this subsides, you will be unaware of who they are.’
The world stopping. It’s a familiar feeling.
You wonder if that boy with the orange backpack, whose name you’ve forgotten once again, was your soulmate. And now, he was in England somewhere, and you’d lose him without ever having him at all.
The next few weeks are hell for Oscar. Every time he opens his phone, he sees it. 81 unread emails, 81k likes, 81 songs on his playlist. His fruit, 81g. His fucking McDonalds order. Still, he ignores it. He smiles at the fans, posts the stupid videos, and focuses on the championship. When Lando asks him what’s up, he doesn’t answer. Just a shrug, another complaint of tiredness, and then it’s free practice. 0.81 seconds between him and Lando, naturally. And so, it becomes part of life, but he remains as unbothered as he can be. That’s until he starts dreaming about you.
It happens for the first time in his driver’s room, after an exhausting qualifying. As soon as his eyes close, he sees it. Kindergarten.
The corridors are exactly as he remembers them; lined with crappy art working and half open backpacks. But it’s oddly silent, only the muffled shouts of impatient children behind closed doors. With a mortifying step, he releases he’s late, and that classic childish terror hits him square in the chest. It drags, time slows, and his breaths grow heavy. It’s the closest thing to a nightmare he’s had in a while, and he just can't figure out why he’s dreaming of this right now. He also doesn’t understand why he’s so aware he’s asleep, but then he hears an awkward cough.
And it's you, although he doesn’t really know who you are. And he’s no longer at school, he’s stood by that scuffed dodgems car. That crawling heat he’d felt when your hand had pressed on his comes back instantly, and he wants to pull his arm away, but he can’t. When he looks up at you, you’re not the nine year old he’d met that night. Instead, you look older. As he assumes you might look now.
“Oscar.”The background shifts to that leaving party now, your necklace gleaming at him once again.
“Oscar?”
You’re speaking, and it sounds different from how he remembers you saying his name.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t know why he’s replying. How he’s replying.
“What the fuck is going on?”
He straightens.
“Are you talking to me?”
You look around the room, at the blurred faces and the hum of music.
“Can we even talk to anyone else? They don’t have, like, faces.” you whisper, a slow look of horror painting your face.
Oscar wants to wake up. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but seeing your matured face, and knowing you without really knowing you at all is abrasive in a way he wasn’t expecting.
“It is Oscar, right? That’s your name?”
He nods, his mouth drying.
“This isn’t real.”
You snort. “Nice one, genius. Obviously we’re not back at a house party from nine years ago.”
He frowns, and then Lando’s voice rings out.
“Oscar, mate? It’s time.”
You scrunch your face up in disdain.
“Is that Lando? Why can’t I escape that guy?”
Light is pouring into the room now, as his eyes begin to open begrudgingly. Before he can ask you how you know Lando, he’s awake.
“Coming,” he croaks, trying to ignore the ache in his chest.
⛐✦
“Who’s Oscar?”
Clara blinks at you curiously, with a wicked grin.
“Who?”
“Oscar.” she repeats, with a determined eye roll.
You shrug. “I don’t know an Oscar.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Mate, you called his name last night. While you were sleeping.”
You give her a mortified look.
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
You hide your face in your hands, bringing your knees to your chest.
“That’s so embarrassing. I genuinely don’t even know an Oscar!”
“You seriously don’t know him? What were you dreaming about?”
“I can’t remember.” you mumble, desperately trying to think, but nothing comes to mind.
She explodes into an outrageous fit of giggles, and you drop your head further into your knees.
“Stop, s’is not funny.” you groan, but she keeps cackling, giving your shoulders an affectionate shake.
“You really need to go talk to some more people. Or go find this Oscar guy.” she suggests, and you scowl.
“Don’t mention this. Ever again.”
Oscar doesn’t dream that night. Or the night after. He barely even sleeps. Something keeps him up, keeps him thinking. Like he’s lost something, or something’s missing. It’s the third restless night, when his eyes finally close, that he sees you again.
“I think I’ve figured it out.” you nod wisely.
“Where are you? We?” he asks, gesturing to the sofa you’re crouched on, and the bustling blank people around you.
“I was thinking about work before I fell asleep. This is where I eat lunch.” you explain casually, and he blinks.
It suddenly occurs to him that he wants to know everything about you.
“What do you do for work?”
You pause, and give him a sideways glance. He’s gripping the armchair he’s sitting in rather tightly, and it’s so bizarre that he can feel the fabric beneath him.
Your voice is muffled when you reply.
“I couldn’t understand that.”
It’s the same jumbled sound when you try again.
He stares at you, exasperated.
“I’m an F1 driver.”
As he speaks, he sounds just as distorted as you.
“Personal stuff. I don’t think we can actually tell each other anything.” you suggest, and he frowns.
“Why?”
You shrug. “So we actually have to find each other, I don’t know? I don’t think we remember this when we wake up, either.”
You wait, to see if he says anything. When he stays silent, you continue.
“I figure it’s about dreaming at the same time. So, if we’re both asleep, then we show up. I mean, I obviously don’t have much data to go off. But it makes sense. Like, I’m assuming you’ve just fallen asleep, ‘cause you’ve ended up in my office now.”
Oscar pauses to think.
“So, if I fall asleep first, you’ll end up with me, in whatever I’m dreaming of?”
“That’s my current guess, yeah. I wish I could remember this, so I can google it later.”
He laughs. “D’you really think google can help you here?”
“It helped me before. With seeing the number, and everything. And Clara’s tattoo.”
“You see it too? 81?”
“Yeah. Fuckin’ everywhere. It’s killing me.”
“What does it mean?”
You give him an awkward stare.
“Apparently, that we’re soulmates. Interlinked and all that.”
He swallows, and you both sit with it for a minute. Then Clara becomes your interruption, shouting about dinner, and the room disappears.
As Oscar’s timezones change with every other week, your meetings seem to shift into things a little more desperate. You test what your subconscious and the fates choose to blur.
You learn he has three sisters, but he can’t say their names. He learns that you cried for a week when your cat died, and that he was named after a Star Wars character, but you can’t say who.
You make fun of him for his house music- he plays it as he falls asleep in the hope it’s still playing when you see each other, so he can convince you it’s worth listening to.
It turns out you have a much stronger imagination than he does, so you often hope you fall asleep first. Because you can weld the dreamscapes into anything you want. When you tell him you’ve always wanted a conversation pit, you can make one appear.
When he tries to show you his favourite model of car, you end up in some badly imagined saleshouse, with deformed buggies and odd workers in plastic suits.
You do not mention the ‘soulmates’ idea again, but it settles between you like a mantra, a truth. You agree with it, he strives for it, and you talk of when you’ll see each other, one day.
It turns into something a little more affectionate, and it feels just as real as if he wasn’t hidden somewhere else in the world. When you brush his arm on false walks through fake fields and tours of your childhood town, comparing your favourite parks, it feels true.
Maybe even a little like love, which is such a ridiculous thing to admit that you keep it to yourself.
He pieces it together, that Clara is your best friend, and she’s Lando’s girlfriend. He curses himself that he can’t just find you through them the next morning, because he’ll forget it all.
You live whole lifetimes together, in your heads. Dreams have no concept of time. Sometimes, they’re years. Sometimes, they feel like less than an hour.
On some days, when you’ve fallen asleep with your head in a book, that’s where you end up.
On this particular occasion, the two main characters are getting married, but it seems that it’s morphed a little. You’re the one with the ring on your finger.
“Who got you that?” he asks, gesturing to the rock, and you laugh.
“Hi, Osc. Didn’t think I’d see you tonight. You haven’t been around for a while, or at least it feels like that. Guess you’re somewhere far away.”
Oscar nods, but his eyes tear around the setting. It’s an extravagant barn, with an arch at the end of the aisle, and an officiant with some large headgear. The guests on the benches are clearly well dressed, but he can’t make out who they are. Except, he recognises a man standing up by the front of the room.
“That’s Lando.” he mutters, pointing towards him, and he’s right. And stood beside him is a girl he swears he knows, in a pale pink dress, matching her hair.
“And Clara.”
He runs his hands through his hair inquisitively.
“Why can we see them? They’re not blurred. And that’s my sister. How did you-” he calls, rushing towards Edie who’s clapping in the front row.
“This isn’t my dream anymore. I wasn’t the one getting married, before you showed up. And I sure as hell didn’t make up your sister, so, it’s our dream, I guess.”
That hits him, so hard, he almost doubles over. He can see them now, his family materialising. The lull of the piano, the grin on Lando’s face. You. He sees you.
‘It’s our dream.’ And he realises it’s your wedding. Your fucking wedding, and it’s not even real, and when he wakes up, his chest will ache as always.
“This is, I mean, it’s a lot.”
“It’s not real, Oscar.”
There’s a level of defeat in your tone, and it’s bitter.
“But it feels even more real this time. I can see them. I can hear them.”
“I think we’re running out of time. They’re getting desperate.”
He looks to the guests, bewildered.
“The fates, I mean. The universe, I don’t know. We’re running out of time.”
“What are you saying?”
“They’re giving up on us. That’s why we can see everything clearer. My cat’s name was Luke.”
He shakes his head in denial. “Or maybe we’re getting closer, and it’s stronger, and we’re beating them.”
“Oscar.” your voice breaks a little, like you’ve accepted it. That you’ll never make it, and that you’ll forget him permanently, not just when the sun rises.
He doesn’t want to accept it, doesn’t want to admit you might be right. So he soaks up the sight of you desperately nonetheless, until it burns his eyes and he doesn’t care about the rules of this stupid ordeal. He will wake up, and remember how you look right now, how you are, and that will be enough.
“We can get married, in our heads, and that can be it. And then this will never have happened, and all of it will stop.”
“You mean like, seeing the number everywhere? You, haunting me? It all goes?” he asks carefully, and you purse your lips.
“I guess so. You don’t need to sound so glad.”
“I’m not glad. I’m annoyed. Seething, if anything. It’s bullshit.”
“Maybe.”
He blinks.
"Have you been seeing it less too? Like, is it just back to being more like a lucky number now?"
You give him a pained smile.
"I forgot to put my necklace on this morning, because I didn't see the charm on it. For the first time. Since I got it at thirteen."
He knows what you mean by seeing. it's more like a feeling. A consuming pull towards the number, towards him.
"We can't just, I don't know. Give up. I can't lose you." he exclaims, and it feels a little like his heart is surrendering.
"Did you ever really have me anyway? Maybe it's okay. Once we forget, it will be easier. It won't hurt for long."
What he can't bring himself to admit is that he wants it to hurt, wants to feel like he's a little insane, because he knows you're going insane with him too. The idea of you, real or not, is better than nothing at all.
"We can find our way back." you promise, but the hope in your voice almost sounds fake.
"Wait-"
⛐✦
A few weeks later, Oscar arrives rather dishevelled at the airport the next morning. There’s a dull throb in the back of his head, and a heavy sadness weighing on his chest, but he can’t explain it. He’d been feeling that for a while now; he’d woken up with a rather sudden sadness. His ticket to Monaco rests in his hands, as he goes to check in. The lists of flights flash on the board, as he scans for his own. But one catches his eye. It doesn’t jump out at him, as it usually does. He has to read it twice before he lingers on the #81 at the end. There’s something relieving in the way it doesn’t haunt him anymore, but it still feels deeply important. And there’s a small tug at his heart, pulling him to the desk. He goes to show his boarding pass, but instead, he speaks.
When he goes to drop his baggage, he is heading far away from Monaco, sandwiched on a random middle seat between two strangers, on a whim that he hopes might bring him to you. Obviously, he doesn’t know that in truth, but rather his soul is screaming that at him, and he is unaware. He instead just questions his own sanity, and that is the end of the matter.
There’s a desperation to get to work in the air the next morning. You’ve overslept, ever so slightly, and your presentation is uncomfortably soon. As you arrive at the station, you search the timeboard for an inkling of which train to get on, but your regular isn’t appearing.
Underneath it, though, is a train you don’t recognise. It’s a bit slower than you’d like, since it stops at the airport, but you’d still get there in time. It’s meant to come in a couple minutes, at 8:10, so you wait dutifully on a bench, taking a long sip from your flask.
It’s ironic, you think, when you see the number flashing at the end of the train on the screen. You almost forget how important #81 had once been to you, until your fingers flick to your neck. You’re not sure why you wore it today- you hadn’t worn it in about a month. It’s a blurry memory, how desperate you’d been. How you’d believed in that soulmate nonsense, how you’d flicked between Lando and Clara in photos and wondered if there was some invisible tie between them.
And then they’d argued, and you’d stopped marvelling at your 81 new messages, and it had all been forgotten. Even the boy in the orange backpack that had made The World Stop feels like a myth.
Oscar can barely feel his legs when he steps out from the plane, the pins and needles a searing flash of white. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s ended up back here, back home. He hasn’t even called his mum, and let her know he’s back in Australia. He’s meant to be resting, after a triple header. And yet, he still doesn’t reach for his phone. His headphones stay jammed in his ears, a drumbeat he used to listen to when trying to fall asleep, although he can’t really remember why. He waits, for his luggage to arrive, scouring the moving belt. But his half orange suitcase never comes, as the people beside him thin out.
“Shit.” he mutters curses under his breath, begrudgingly heading to lost property. There, half opened, is his suitcase, unfolded laundry spilling out.
“Mate, this yours? Someone took it earlier and realised they got the wrong one.”
Oscar nods quickly, gathering is things and shoving them back into the luggage, before hauling it ridiculously fast towards the train station. He’d wasted a solid twenty minutes there, and for some reason, that filled him with a ridiculous sense of dread. He wasn’t particularly sure why, considering he didn’t even know where he was going. Still, as he stumbles to the platform, yawning, something tugs at him to get whichever train came next.
He almost laughs at the board, at the code. 081. It feels much more like a joke now, like an elaborate, overly convenient game of ‘where’s wally’, which he finds a way to win every time. So as it arrives, he gets on and collapses onto the first vacant seat. He praises the universe for delaying it, because he would've missed it, and the next one wasn't for a while.
As he closes his eyes, for a moment of respite, you pop into his head. Not a dream, just an image. A singular shot, mid laugh, feet tucked behind you on a couch he somehow recognises. And then there’s a pang in his stomach, and he realises he misses you. Even though he’s certain you’ve never really met. You look vaguely like a girl he’d seen once-
Each memory swirls in his head like soft bullets, each blow as beautiful as they are painful. He can’t remember where they’re coming from, what they mean, but he sees them all. Conversations down roads he doesn’t know. Descriptions of restaurants he’s tried on different race weekends, and your face lighting up at the sound of them. A room you had a spelling bee competition in once, but he didn’t see you because Hattie was in a more junior category. Then, you’re both older. He has a beard. You’re walking somewhere, with a determination to not look back, to keep pushing forward. Then you’re dancing, to that same song he was playing just a minute ago. It clicks into place, like some ridiculous, made up jigsaw, as he watches lifetimes pass at the same speed of the carriage, the light flickering across his confused face in golden shards.
He realises now why his flight has taken him here. Why he's on this train. Because somewhere further down, in a carriage, you’re waiting.
You don’t take the 8:10, because it’s delayed. The red writing on the screen taunts you, testing the pulling at your chest versus the logic in your brain. You let the logic win out. With heavy steps, you sprint to the other platform, and get the train that’s actually there. It feels like a betrayal as you sit down, as the doors close, as it hums to life. But you don’t know who you’ve just betrayed.
The guy beside you has one earphone in, the other dangling by his neck. The beats of the song are familiar, like you ought to know it. It’s not really your kind of music, too blaring and not melodic enough. But this particular track feels familiar, like you should recognise the drum pattern. With an awkward inhale, you tap him on the shoulder.
“Sorry, I hate to bother you, but what’s that song called?”
The boy shrugs, flashing his phone screen at you. He’s 1:21 in, to a song with a vaguely familiar title. You take out your own headphones and play it carefully, desperately searching for an answer as to why anyone even puts up with this abomination of a music genre. And then, you hear someone humming along, and your own laugh.
“How can you even hum house music? It barely has a tune. You could at least be a man and beatbox it for me.”
It’s your voice, clear as day, ringing in your head.
“I’m hopeless at beatboxing. One of these days, I’ll figure out how to play some music here. I don’t understand how you’re so good at it.”
The person replying has a muted accent, and you can’t quite tell if he’s smiling or not, but it’s so warm that you can barely feel the chill of the morning anymore.
You hear more snippets of your conversation now, easily banter. And then they morph into more meaningful things. Things you promised you’d never tell anyone. And you hear him talking back, mumbles of things he’s normally too shy to say.
“It’s only me, Oscar.”
And with that, you remember. You remember all of it, you hear it all. Telling him you’re running out of time. All those dreams you couldn’t recall. The obsession, the insanity, the hesitancy to tell anyone. Telling him that you’ll forget it all.
Does he think you have forgotten about him?
‘Oscar, do you think I have forgotten about you?’
The song has ended a long time ago. You almost expect a response in the silence, but he does not whisper back to you. The only sound is the squeal of the brakes, and the train lurching forward. You stand up rather suddenly, throwing yourself towards the door, pressing the button rapidly.
He gets up, as the train shuttles along. He’s in the first carriage. He doesn’t know where you are, or when you’re getting off, so he moves with purpose. He checks every seat, hopeful with every turn of a head. You’re not in the second, nor the third. The fourth is practically empty, and the fifth is ridiculously packed, but you’re not there either. As he reaches the eighth door, his hope dwindles, until it’s gone. There’s no one there, except for a rather elderly woman, absent mindedly reading a book.
He clings to the pole by the door, willing himself to turn around, or to sit, but he can’t. He just keeps looking, as if you might materialise.
“It’s rude to stare, boy.” the lady croaks, glaring at him through her purple glasses. He gives her a sheepish smile and ducks his head, preparing himself to shuffle through the rows of bodies again.
“You can sit here, if you need to. You won’t disturb me.”
And so, he does. He sits on the row beside her, trying to ignore the slight welling of his eyes and the way the exhaustion and disappointment has seeped into his very bones.
“She got away?” the woman asks, rather suddenly, and Oscar startles.
“Sorry?”
“The look in your eyes.”
He shakes his head, almost giving her an incredulous laugh.
“It wasn’t ever real anyway. I’m just tired.”
“Then why are you staring at the door like you’re expecting to see her get on? Or, you’ll get off, and she’ll be there?”
Oscar hadn’t even realised he was staring so desperately at the door. It’s rather embarrassing, really. It’s then that the train jolts, and with a whistle, the very same door opens.
He’s not entirely sure why, or what takes over him, but he gets up. With a muffled ‘goodbye’, he steps onto the platform, the suitcase narrowly missing the step. It’s almost eerie, how quiet it is. The wind, and the departure of the train, are the only things he can hear. And then, the hammering of his heart, when he looks up.
Because standing there anxiously, necklace gleaming at him, is you.
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“I would love to, but I literally can’t,” you sighed softly, finally looking up from your laptop screen.
Oscar was stretched out across your couch, one arm tucked behind his head, completely at ease—like your apartment had quietly stopped being somewhere he visited and had simply become somewhere he existed.
The only reason you were sitting at the dining table instead of hiding away in your well-equipped home office was him. You'd migrated out without really thinking about it, laptop open in front of you, coffee slowly going cold beside it. You'd told yourself it was for the natural light. It was not for the natural light.
Half working. Half simply existing in the same room as him.
"I'm already behind on my tasks," you added more quietly, another email sliding into your inbox before you'd even finished reading the last one. Another issue. Another thing not working the way it was supposed to for one of your clients.
Your shoulders dropped slightly as you read it, the tension settling back in almost instantly—familiar, automatic. The particular brand of tired that came not from too little sleep but from too many things requiring your brain at the same time.
Oscar didn’t speak right away.
Didn't tell you to ignore it.
Didn't tell you to relax, which you appreciated, because the fastest way to make someone stop relaxing was to instruct them to relax.
He just watched you. Steady. Present. Like he was trying to understand what weighed on you without making you explain it.
“I know,” he said eventually. Quiet. Simple. No pressure in it.
That was the thing about him. He rarely tried to argue you out of your reality. He just stepped into it with you.
You let out a small breath, fingers hovering over your keyboard without actually typing anything.
"It's just this new client…" you started slowly, eyes still on the screen, half-reading, half-talking. "As soon as this settles, I'll stop feeling like I'm drowning and maybe upgrade to... barely surviving."
That earned the smallest laugh from the couch.
"I think I need another two weeks," you guessed, eyes moving across your project timeline instead. Campaign rollout. Product launch. Brand approvals. Content calendars.
It all blurred together eventually.
Oscar thought for a moment.
You went back to work.
Your inbox kept refreshing like it had its own agenda. One client wanting luxury but understated but also viral, another asking for timeless branding with TikTok relevance, which in your professional opinion was basically asking for a unicorn with a LinkedIn account.
You loved your job, and you were good at it—fast, precise, efficient. But onboarding a client this large always meant weeks of deep water. Luxury consulting came with impossible expectations, and when a client specifically requested you, it was flattering—but a responsibility that didn't ease until everything was running smoothly.
And with this one, it had been weeks already.
The Austrian and British GPs hadn't helped either. You'd known that even before they started. You'd gone anyway.
Of course you had.
“Then a summer vacation together.”
His voice suddenly sounded much closer than before.
Before you even looked up, you felt him. The warmth of him crossing the room. A familiar hand brushing lightly over your shoulder as he leaned down to press an absentminded kiss against your cheek — the kind that wasn't asking for anything, just leaving something behind.
Your eyes closed for half a second on instinct.
Then he pulled out the chair beside yours. The metal legs scraped softly across the floor as he sat down, close enough that your knees almost brushed. Close enough that his arm nearly touched yours, close enough that if he leaned even slightly, he could read your screen.
Not that it would mean anything to him.
You blinked, slightly caught off guard by the proximity. By how easily he filled the space next to you, like he'd calculated exactly how much room to take up and chosen all of it.
“Okay,” you nodded slowly.
“But like a proper vacation,” he said.
You turned your head a little toward him.
“Define proper.”
His mouth curved faintly, like he’d already thought about this more than he was admitting.
“Two weeks,” he said. “Just you and me. No work. No phones. No schedules.”
A beat.
"No one asking me about tyre degradation."
The corner of your mouth twitched.
"And no one emailing you because somebody suddenly decided beige is no longer the right shade of beige."
You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound escaped before you could stop it — easy and sudden, the kind that loosened something in your chest you hadn't realized was wound tight.
Oscar smiled immediately. Like that was all he'd been working toward for the last twenty minutes.
"There she is," he murmured, looking almost unfairly pleased with himself.
"That sounds illegal," you said, still smiling.
“It should be,” he replied, completely serious.
That earned a real smile from you this time.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, finally letting your hands fall away from the keyboard.
“No phones at all?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That’s not realistic.”
Oscar tilted his head.
"You say that like you're addicted to your phone."
"I am not—"
He raised a brow.
You stopped mid-sentence.
A pause during which you made several faces that did not help your case.
"…okay, I am mildly dependent on communication for survival, yes."
"Exactly," he said, satisfied in the way only someone who had been right and could prove it was ever satisfied.
You shook your head, but there was no real resistance in it anymore.
“And where would we even go?” you asked.
Oscar didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze dropped briefly to your laptop, then back to you.
“Somewhere quiet,” he said. “Where no one needs anything from you.”
That landed differently. Not heavy—just soft. Like something inside your chest quietly loosened.
You looked at him for a moment. Actually looked at him.
“You’re really serious about this,” you said quietly.
Oscar nodded once.
"Yeah."
No performance. No persuasion. Just certainty — calm and complete, like he'd already decided and was simply waiting for you to arrive at the same place.
You exhaled slowly, turning back toward your screen. But not really seeing it anymore.
Two weeks. No work. No demands. No client who considered a slightly off-shade beige a five-alarm emergency. Just life, uninterrupted. Just you, uninterrupted.
It sounded impossible.
Which meant, in a way, it also sounded necessary.
"I can't just disappear for two weeks," you said automatically.
“Yes you can,” Oscar replied simply.
You glanced at him.
He was watching you like this wasn’t a debate he was trying to win. Like it had already been decided in his head—you just hadn't caught up yet.
“You’re looking at me like I’ve already agreed,” you muttered.
“Have you?” he asked.
You huffed a small laugh.
“I haven’t even checked my calendar.”
"Then check." He gestured toward the laptop with the calm authority of someone who had done the math and already knew the answer.
You rolled your eyes and reached for your laptop anyway — because that was easier than admitting he was right — and Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair, content to watch you now instead of the screen. Patient in the particular way he was patient. Not restless. Not waiting for you to hurry. Just there.
You opened your calendar.
Scrolled.
Paused.
Two weeks right now while on-boarding a new client was insane. Logistically messy. Work-wise irresponsible.
And yet—
Nothing was actually on those exact dates that couldn't be moved.
That realization irritated you more than it should have. You'd been so prepared to have a very reasonable objection.
You glanced sideways at him.
He looked entirely too pleased for someone who hadn't said a single word since you started scrolling. He had the specific expression of a man who had done absolutely nothing and was somehow still winning.
“You planned this already,” you accused lightly.
“I suggested it,” he corrected.
“You suggested it with intent.”
“I always have intent.”
"That's either romantic or alarming."
"Can't it be both?"
That made you snort.
You closed the laptop halfway, exhaling.
"You're dangerous," you said.
"Because I want to take you on holiday?" he asked, eyebrows lifting like the concept was entirely innocent.
"Because you make it sound reasonable."
Oscar smiled faintly, then reached out, gently taking your hand off the table. His fingers slid between yours easily, familiar now in a way that still sometimes surprised you.
He shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"I just want time with you." he said quietly.
Just that.
The joke disappeared from the room, replaced by something quieter and harder to deflect. No punchline coming. No follow-up. Just the truth of it, sitting there between you.
You looked down at your joined hands for a moment.
Your thumb brushed against his.
Somewhere on the screen beside you, another email arrived.
Another problem.
Another deadline.
Another thing waiting to be solved.
And for the first time in weeks, you found yourself not caring quite as much.
Oscar watched you patiently. No pressure. No expectation. Just waiting — and somehow that was more persuasive than any argument he could have made.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, practical objections immediately began lining up. Work. Clients. Responsibilities. Every reason to say later.
But hadn't you spent enough years doing that already?
Waiting until things were calmer. Easier. Waiting until you'd earned rest. Waiting until you'd earned happiness.
Oscar squeezed your hand once.
Warm. Familiar. Real.
And before you could talk yourself out of it—
"Okay."
The word left your mouth so easily it almost surprised you.
Oscar blinked.
"Okay?"
You nodded once, a smile slowly appearing despite yourself.
"Okay."
For a second, he just stared. Then he broke into such an immediate, boyish grin that you actually laughed — the kind of grin that had nothing composed about it, that he absolutely would have tried to control if he'd had any warning.
"Don't look so shocked."
"I'm not shocked."
"Oscar."
"I'm a little shocked."
"Rude."
"You usually require at least three business days and a risk assessment."
"That's called being responsible."
"That's called opening Excel before making a personal decision."
"Excuse you. I have never done that."
Oscar looked at you with an expression that said, very clearly and without a single word: I have watched you do exactly that.
Before you could mount a defense — which would have been compelling and well-structured, for the record — his hand settled at your waist.
You narrowed your eyes immediately.
"Oscar—"
Too late.
With an ease that suggested he had been planning this since approximately the moment he sat down, he stood from his chair and pulled you with him. A surprised laugh escaped you as your hands landed automatically on his shoulders, and then he dropped back into the chair a second later — this time with you securely in his lap.
Your protest dissolved somewhere between the standing and the sitting.
Mostly because it was comfortable. Unreasonably comfortable. And because Oscar's arms settled around your waist like they were designed for exactly this purpose, which, increasingly, you suspected they were.
"There," he said, satisfied.
"That's not a solution."
"It is for me."
"I was in the middle of—"
"Being stressed," he supplied helpfully.
"Working."
"Both of those things, yes."
You shook your head, but the smile wouldn't leave. It had made itself at home on your face without asking permission, which was very on-brand for the situation.
The laptop sat forgotten on the table. Your inbox continued collecting problems somewhere behind you, each one patiently waiting its turn. For once, neither of you paid it any attention.
Oscar rested his chin against your shoulder. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a soft kiss against your temple — not dramatic, not performed. Just warm lips against your skin, affection so natural it felt almost unconscious. The kind of thing you didn't brace for. The kind of thing that landed before your defenses could catch up.
Then another.
Lingering a fraction longer this time.
You felt his smile there.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Your chest did something complicated and quiet.
"For agreeing?"
"Mhm."
You turned your head slightly, finding him already looking at you.
The excitement was still there.
Not loud. Not childish. Just genuine. Like the thought of two uninterrupted weeks with you was simply enough. No condition attached. No bigger reason needed.
A simple thing.
A dangerous thing.
The kind of thing you still weren't entirely used to — someone being this straightforwardly, unhurriedly happy because of you.
Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck.
"You know," you said softly, "most people would be excited about Belgium."
"I am excited about Belgium," he said.
A beat.
“I’m more excited about the vacation.”
You laughed quietly. “That’s objectively the wrong answer.”
“I stand by it.”
His arms tightened briefly around your waist, pulling you a little closer.
Oscar didn't say anything else.
He didn't need to.
His chin settled against your shoulder again, his breathing evening out little by little as the excitement gave way to something quieter.
Home.
Not a place.
Just this.
Just you.
For someone who spent most of his year living out of suitcases and hotel rooms, maybe that was why two weeks mattered so much. Not because of where you'd go or what you'd see. But because he'd get to wake up beside you every morning, and go to sleep knowing you'd still be there, and have nothing else that needed his attention in between.
And for a moment — surrounded by unanswered emails and half-finished tasks and every responsibility that would still be waiting for you later — you let yourself lean into him completely.
Not planning.
Not calculating.
Not preparing for what came next.
Just staying exactly where you were.
And judging by the way Oscar immediately settled his cheek against your shoulder like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of being anywhere else, he seemed perfectly content with that outcome too.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
And Oscar truly was excited for Belgium.
With good reason.
Notification after notification lit up your phone over the course of the weekend.
P1 in FP1.
Then again in FP2.
FP3 wasn't any different.
Every session seemed to fall into place almost effortlessly — the McLaren looking planted through Eau Rouge, Oscar somehow finding another few hundredths each time it mattered, like the car had simply decided to agree with him this weekend and was doing its absolute best to cooperate.
By Saturday afternoon your phone barely stopped vibrating, and your eyes stayed glued to the TV screen far more than your project timeline appreciated.
POLE POSITION.
A small, helpless laugh escaped you.
“Of course he’s on pole,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head as you tried—unsuccessfully—to refocus on the laptop balanced on your knees.
On track, he looked like he belonged there.
His race suit was unzipped just slightly to below his collarbone, white fireproofs visible underneath, damp with heat and effort. Sweat still clung to his temples and disappeared beneath the papaya collar, the late afternoon sun catching the faint flush across his cheeks. His hair was a mess under the team cap he’d already shoved back on, and his breathing was still just slightly uneven from the final flying lap.
Like the car hadn’t just obeyed him. Like it had responded.
Like it always did when he got it right.
"So far," Nico Rosberg smiled, beginning the post-qualifying interview with the easy warmth of someone who had been in exactly that car, in exactly that headspace, a long time ago and remembered it clearly. "I'd say this has probably been your strongest weekend of the season."
Oscar nodded immediately, a small smile still lingering as he lifted the mic.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “You could say that.”
Nico hummed. “Anything you changed this weekend?”
“Not really,” Oscar shook his head. “Everything’s just… working, I guess.”
A pause.
“Car feels good. Confidence is there. It’s all coming together.”
"So no lucky charm then?" Nico teased lightly, in the tone of a man who absolutely already thought there was a lucky charm.
Oscar almost answered too quickly. Almost shrugged it off with the kind of reflexive deflection he was very good at. Almost let the truth slip past his better judgment on a wave of adrenaline.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, with the exact measured evenness of someone who knew exactly what was being talked about.
Nico laughed. "Oh come on."
Oscar let out a short breath, already sensing where this was heading with the accuracy of someone who had been interviewed enough times to recognize a setup from the first sentence.
"I've seen the photos," Nico continued, in the tone of a prosecuting attorney who had already won. "So have about four million other people."
A faint smile broke through Oscar's attempt at neutrality.
"Right."
"So?" Nico leaned in just slightly, clearly enjoying himself. "Is she your lucky charm?"
There it was.
The question — simple, direct, sitting in the air between them with nowhere to go.
Oscar laughed softly, not because it was funny, but because laughing was easier than the three seconds he needed to decide what came next.
Did he want to say your name? Absolutely.
Did he want to tell the world, plainly, without hesitation, that you were his? Without question.
But not like this. Not here. Not in a post-qualifying interview with the cameras still rolling and you watching alone at home, without any warning, without the conversation you'd quietly agreed you'd have together first. Saying your name here would be taking something private and handing it to an audience before you'd even decided you were ready for one.
He wasn't careless with you.
Wasn't going to start now.
So instead, he chose the closest honest version of the truth — the one that didn't need a name to land.
"Yeah."
One word.
Simple.
Honest.
Nico's grin widened instantly.
“I knew it.”
Oscar huffed a laugh, rubbing briefly at the back of his neck.
“She’s here this weekend?” Nico pressed immediately.
Oscar shook his head once.
"No."
A pause — brief, considered.
"But…" His shoulders lifted in a loose shrug, the look of a man calculating how much trouble he was about to cause for himself on live television and deciding the answer was a manageable amount. "I've definitely got her luck with me."
A beat.
Then he looked directly into the camera and winked.
Casual. Infuriatingly unbothered.
Like he hadn’t just said something that would immediately set half the paddock on fire.
On your end of the screen, your cheeks burned immediately. Because that wink had a very specific address. You were the only person in this interaction who knew exactly where it was going, and somehow that made it worse. Or better. You were still deciding.
Nico’s expression shifted instantly—interest sharpening, already preparing to dig deeper—but before he could fire off another question, the segment timing cut in like a saving grace for Oscar.
“Alright, that’s all we’ve got time for!”
Relief, disguised as professionalism.
Oscar handed the microphone back with a polite nod, the faintest satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped away from the interview spot.
If Nico looked mildly betrayed by unfinished business, Oscar looked like a man who had narrowly escaped a trap.
But before Oscar could even properly breathe—before his mind could fully shift out of the tunnel-vision of the race and into whatever came next—Kimi was already there.
Grinning.
Too wide. Too knowing. The grin of someone who had been watching the interview from five meters away and had taken notes.
Oscar stepped back toward the parc fermé area where the other front-row qualifiers still lingered: Kimi in P2, Charles in P3, both of them still carrying that post-session electricity that made paddock conversations slightly louder and less filtered than usual.
Kimi tilted his head, eyes gleaming with the energy of someone who considered himself investigatively gifted.
"You almost said her name," he said.
He was wrong.
Oscar didn’t even need a second to know that. The adrenaline was still buzzing through his system, heart rate not quite back to baseline, thoughts still half in the car, half in the podium run—but he wouldn’t have said your name. Not here. Not like that. Not in a way that turned something private into paddock currency.
But Kimi looked far too pleased with himself to care about accuracy.
Charles only shook his head beside him, laughing under his breath at the younger driver’s confidence.
“You did go a bit red at the mention of her, though,” he pointed out, in the tone of someone contributing a fair and balanced observation.
Kimi’s head snapped toward him immediately.
“You know her?” he asked, eyes widening.
“Her?” Charles echoed, amusement flickering across his face.
Kimi gestured vaguely, as if the entire concept of subtlety was optional.
“His girl. The one he hid in Monaco,” he clarified, still not letting go of the near-miss from earlier in the season like it was a personal unfinished investigation.
Charles’ gaze drifted back toward Oscar now, eyebrows lifting slightly in silent question.
Oscar exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of resignation slipping in.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “He almost caught us during the Monaco GP.”
That made Charles laugh outright—because of course it did.
To him, it was funny in that detached, slightly chaotic way only someone who had lived through Monaco too many times could manage. But there was something else in it too: understanding. Not intrusive, not judgmental. Just awareness.
He knew exactly what it meant for you two to keep things quiet. Not as a game. Not as secrecy for drama. But as something carefully held back while you figured out how to exist properly before the world got involved.
Kimi, meanwhile, looked personally offended by how little scandal there actually was.
“So you’re just all pretending I didn’t almost solve it,” he muttered.
“You didn’t solve anything,” Charles said lightly.
“I was close.”
“You were guessing.”
"I was investigating," Kimi corrected, with the emphasis of someone who felt the distinction was important and underappreciated.
Oscar let out a short laugh at that, shaking his head as he finally started walking toward the garage.
"Keep investigating," he said over his shoulder. "Just maybe leave my personal life out of it."
And behind him, Kimi immediately followed.
“I’m very good at investigations.”
Charles sighed.
“I’m watching a child argue with a wall.”
Oscar didn't look back. But for the first time since stepping out of the car, something in his chest fully eased. Not the result of the session. Not the pole. Just the ordinary, grounding thought of you — still at home, still knee-deep in different colour palettes and impossible briefs, and completely untouched by all of this noise.
That, more than anything, stayed with him.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
oscarpiastri
Cirquit de Spa-Francorchamps • Fun (feat. Roses Gabor)
oscarpiastri Did I mention I like Spa?
Liked by f1fan300, op81, yourusername and 388’993 Other’s
f1updates 🚨 OSCAR PIASTRI POLE POSITION SPA-FRANCORCHAMPS 🚨
verstappendefender yeah yeah but did you see the WINK in the interview
user4829174 okay but can we talk about the wink. THE WINK. he looked directly into the camera and WINKED. that wink had a recipient. that wink had an address. that wink had a ZIP CODE
piastriobsessed THE ZIP CODE SENT ME
mclarengirlboss that wink was point-to-point delivery. tracked shipping. signature required upon arrival.
f1wags_updates wait wait wait is oscar piastri in a relationship???? asking for 4 million people
oscarpiastri @.f1wags_updates I don't know what you're talking about
f1wags_updates SIR.
user9918273 HE REPLIED WITH THE EXACT SAME THING HE SAID TO NICO
papayastan consistent king. he has ONE answer and he's sticking to it
kimianthonisen he absolutely has a girlfriend @.f1wags_updates I was standing right there
formulafemme "I've definitely got her luck with me" and then the wink. and then "I don't know what you're talking about." this man is performing plausible deniability while simultaneously CONFIRMING EVERYTHING
piastrifan2025 he's doing both things at once. he's confirmed it and denied it in the same breath. quantum girlfriend.
mclarenaccount the quantum girlfriend era of oscar piastri's career
user0019283 this is the funniest thing i've ever read in a formula 1 comment section
f1gossip why is no one trying to figure out who the girlfriend is. we have had TWO photos of oscar with a blonde girl in the last two months and nobody has done anything with this information
user8827364 wait what photos
f1gossip the one from the after ones during and after the monaco GP. blurry but it's there.
smoothoperatorf1 and lets not forget the pictures where he himself soft launched!!!
user8123 what if it's Lily. they dated. it was serious. things ended quietly. oscar never spoke about it publicly. what if they reconnected?
user0019283 oh we're doing this
user8827364 also lando would NOT be able to keep that secret. lando cannot keep any secret. if it were lily, lando would have accidentally confirmed it in a stream six months ago.
landnorris @.user8827364 I keep secrets
f1detective let's be for real, it's not her. lily is brunette. the girl in both photos is clearly blonde.
user8123 she could have dyed it
op81fan I'm going to sound nuts, but what if it's @.yourusername? he's been in her likes recently
mclarengirlboss it's not, be realistic
op81fan i mean, she's often in the paddock with Alex, maybe they've run into each other once and hit it off?
user9901827 wasn't she rumoured to be with kimi like three months ago though
op81fan that's exactly why it could make sense now! kimi confirmed his girlfriend last month and it's not her, so Y/N L/N was clearly available this whole time
user4829174 LMAOOO
smoothoperatorf1 okay I'll bite. Y/N IS blonde. the timeline does work. oscar has been in monaco basically all season between races.
mclarengirlboss she's a practical princess of monaco dating a formula 1 driver who grew up in melbourne. be serious.
formulafemme I mean he literally lives in monaco?? the overlap isn't that crazy??
mclarengirlboss ...okay fair but still
see all comments...
❁✿❀❁✿❀
"So," Nicole said, with the particular warmth of a woman who had been waiting patiently to ask this question for several weeks and had earned it, "when am I going to meet the beautiful Sol?"
Oscar paused mid-movement.
He had, genuinely, completely forgotten that he'd given his mother a paddock pass for the Spa weekend. In his defence, his brain had been occupied — mostly by you, and the holiday idea that kept surfacing at inconvenient moments, and the quiet, ongoing effort of being a Formula 1 driver at what was becoming a genuinely complicated point of a championship. So when Nicole had appeared in the McLaren motorhome on Thursday morning, perfectly composed and already greeting the engineers by name like she'd been there all season, his surprise had been immediate and very visible.
Slightly embarrassing for someone who drove a car at three hundred kilometres an hour for a living.
How do you forget your own mother? He'd asked himself this. He didn't have a satisfying answer.
He shrugged now, towel still in hand, drying his hair in the absent way of someone whose mind was only partially in the room. Freshly showered, back in a black T-shirt and loose shorts, the particular post-race quiet settling into his limbs — the kind that came after the adrenaline finally ran out and left everything feeling slightly slower and softer than usual.
"I was hoping she'd be here this weekend," Nicole admitted, more quietly. "It would've been nice to finally meet her properly."
Oscar's posture shifted — not defensive, just attentive. The way it always did when you came up in conversation.
"She's got a lot of work right now," he said easily. “End of quarter stuff. Deadlines. Meetings. You know how it is.”
Nicole nodded, though her eyes stayed on him.
She studied him properly then.
Not casually anymore.
Like a mother who had watched her child long enough to notice when something had shifted.
"And still," she added, voice lighter again, "you've been smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news every twenty minutes all weekend."
Oscar let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you don't," she replied smoothly, in the tone of a woman who knew exactly what she meant.
That earned her a reluctant smile. He dropped onto the couch next to her then, stretching his legs out in front of him, finally letting the adrenaline of the race weekend drain out of his system. Spa still lingered behind his eyes— heat, pressure, podium champagne, interviews—but underneath all of it, there was something else now.
Something softer.
Something that kept pulling his thoughts away mid-sentence.
Nicole tilted her head slightly.
“So?” she asked again, quieter this time. “What is she like?”
Oscar didn’t answer immediately.
Not because he didn't know. He knew. He could have answered in any number of ways — practical, chronological, efficient. But everything that came to mind when he thought of you didn't quite fit those shapes.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the window of the motorhome, where the paddock buzzed on outside—busy, loud, relentless.
Then back to his mother.
“She’s calm,” he said finally. “But not in a quiet way. More like… steady. Like she makes everything feel less rushed without actually slowing anything down.”
Nicole nodded slightly, encouraging him without interrupting.
“And she notices everything,” he added. “Like things you don’t even realise you’re showing. It’s annoying sometimes.”
That made Nicole’s mouth twitch.
"But also good," he added quickly, because it was. Genuinely, unexpectedly good.
A beat.
“She remembers things people forget they said. And she listens like she actually wants to understand, not just reply.”
His voice softened a fraction without him noticing.
Nicole's expression changed subtly — not surprised. Just quietly noting something.
"That sounds like someone who makes you think," she said.
Oscar huffed a quiet laugh.
“She makes me stop thinking, actually.”
Nicole smiled — the warm, genuine kind that had nothing performative about it.
“Even better.”
Oscar glanced at her.
“You’re enjoying this.”
"I am," she admitted, without an ounce of apology. "It's nice hearing you talk like this."
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not trying to control how it sounds.”
That landed a little deeper than expected.
Oscar looked away again, this time more thoughtful.
Outside, a mechanic laughed loudly somewhere down the corridor. A door slammed. Life continuing at full pace.
Inside, everything felt slightly slower.
Nicole leaned forward slightly, studying him again.
"I'm really proud of you," she said.
Oscar smiled, reflexive and small. "Thanks."
"I'm not talking about the weekend."
That made him look at her properly.
Nicole’s expression stayed gentle, but firm in the way only mothers could manage.
“I’m talking about her.”
A pause.
“She sounds good for you, Oz,” she said. “And I don’t just mean nice. I mean… good. Like she doesn’t make you smaller or louder. Just more yourself.”
Oscar didn’t answer straight away.
His thumb rubbed once against his own palm.
Then, quieter:
“Yeah,” he said. “She does that.”
Nicole’s smile softened.
“Then don’t mess it up.”
That finally made him laugh—properly this time, shaking his head.
“I’m trying not to.”
“I know,” she said simply. “That’s why I like her already.”
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