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F1 X Reader - Blog Posts
Okay so like, I Never seen some one write an f1 driver with a belly dancer reader like, if you see their performances it’s actually pretty, also if anyone decides too can it be max or Charles or Lando??? And also possibly no instagram, just like them seeing one of her and her group’s performances and being like “wow” LOVE SICK
Okay people I got questions…..
First of all I have to many fanfic ideas so here are the top there( I have no clue which ones to keep doing or just side questing all of them, I have some many 📍 ideas of these)
Here they are go read the info and then decide
THE ASTERINS ARE A FAMILY OF OLD MONEY, WITH AN ESTIMATED 170 BILLION DOLLARS, WITH THE PARENTS BEING QUITE KNOWN TO BE THE MOST POWERFUL COUPLE IN THE WORLD AND THE MOST BEAUTIFUL. THEIR 5 CHILDREN BEING ONE OF THE MOST PERFECT PEOPLE THAT THE MEDIA HAS DECALS. THE FAMILY THAT IS DECALED AS THE MOST PERFECT OF OUR CENTURY.
LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO THEM
name: Felipe Asterin
Age: 52
Born: Bologna, italy
Father of Antoine Asterin, Carlo Asterin, Matteo Asterin, Miguel Asterin, Eleanora Asterin
Partner: Amelia Kaiser-Asterin
Name: Amelia Kaiser-Asterin
Age: 49
Born: Paris, France
Mother of Antoine Asterin, Carlo Asterin, Matteo Asterin, Miguel Asterin, Eleanora Asterin
Partner: Felipe Asterin
Name: Antoine Asterin
Age: 29 (1995
Born: Monaco
Siblings: Carlo Asterin, Matteo Asterin, Miguel Asterin, Eleanora Asterin
Father&mother: Felipe & Amelia Asterin
Children: Celine Asterin
Languages: Korean, English, French, Japanese, Chinese, Portugues, Italian, Latin
Partner: Emma Asterin
Job: next head of Asterin industry’s
Name: Carlo Asterin
Age: 28(1996)
Born: Monaco
Siblings: Antoine Asterin, Matteo Asterin, Miguel Asterin, Eleanora Asterin
Father&mother: Felipe & Amelia Asterin
Languages: Korean, English, French, Japanese, Chinese, Portugues, Italian, Latin
partner: Noelle Henderson
Job: lawyer
Name: Matteo Asterin
Age: 27(1997)
Born: Monaco
Siblings: Antoine Asterin, Carlo Asterin, Miguel Asterin, Eleanora Asterin
Father&mother: Felipe & Amelia Asterin
Languages: Korean, English, French, Japanese, Chinese, Portugues, Italian, Latin
Partner: Daphne Bennett
Job: ceo of Asterin shipping
Name: Miguel Asterin
Age: 25 (1999)
Born: Monaco
Siblings: Antoine Asterin, Carlo Asterin, Matteo Asterin, Eleanora Asterin
Father&mother: Felipe & Amelia Asterin
Languages: Korean, English, French, Japanese, Chinese, Portugues, Italian, Latin
Job: Headmaster of University of Oxford
Partner: Kate Bridgerton
Name: Eleanora Kaiser Asteria Harmonia Hesperia evrin leroa Asterin
Age: 17 ( 2005)
Born: Monaco
Siblings: Antoine Asterin, Carlo Asterin, Matteo Asterin,Miguel Asterin
Father&mother: Felipe & Amelia Asterin
Languages: Korean, English, French, Japanese, Chinese, Portugues, Italian, Latin
Partner: F2 driver Oliver bearman ( not yet)
Job: Doctor, second hand of her oldest brother


WELCOME ECLIPSE MEMBERS
Stage name: Emma
Birth name: Kim Dal
Age:25
Birthday: December 17, 1999
Zodiac sign: Sagittarius
Group: Eclipse
position: Leader, lead rapper, sub-dancer, main vocalist
Nationality: British-Korean
Voice: Wendy Red Velvet 10/10
Rap: Lisa Blackpink 9/10
Dance: Yoojung, weki meki 9/10
Visual:9/10
Net worth: 70 million from solo productions
But group wise 3.8 billion
Brand ambassador: Gucci, Calvin Klein
Who she is friends with
TWICE, txt,bts itzy, IU, Stray kids, Big Bang, Jessi, blackpink, PSY, EXO, Hyuna, Everglow, Red Velvet, (G)I-DLE, Somi, Aespa, New Jeans, nmixx, Zerobaseone, Rizze, Le sserafim, Seventeen, Western artists and Fashion industry
likes
-Food, her family, her dogs, her daughter (future), shopping, , the originals, and the vampire dairies, Ariana Grande and Anime, STARS, Cake
Stage name: Aella
Birth name: Min Aera
Birthday: 2000 15, March
Zodiac sign: Pisces
Group: Eclipse
position: sub-vocalist, main rapper, lead dancer
Nationality: Korean
Voice: Hyolyn Sistar 9/10
Rap: Soyeon g-idle 10/10
Dance: Jiwoo, Nmixx 9/10
Visual: 9/10
Net worth: 70 million from solo productions
But group wise 3.8 billion
Brand ambassador: Versace, Saint Lauren
Who is she close with
TWICE, txt,bts itzy, IU, Stray kids, Big Bang, Jessi, blackpink, PSY, EXO, Hyuna, Everglow, Red Velvet, (G)I-DLE, Somi, Aespa, New Jeans, nmixx, Zerobaseone, Rizze, Le sserafim, Seventeen, Western artists and Fashion industry
Stage name: Aurora
Birth name: Jeon Byeol
Birthday: 2002 13, October
Zodiac sign: Libra
Group: Eclipse
position: Main Dancer, Lead Vocalist, Center
Nationality: French-Korean
Dance: Gooseul, Girls alert 10/10
Voice: Lee Suhyun, Akmu 9/10
Rap:Yeeun, CLC 9/10
Visual: 9/10
Net worth: 70 million from solo productions
But group wise 3.8 billion
Brand ambassador: Dior, Channel
Who is she close with
TWICE, txt,bts itzy, IU, Stray kids, Big Bang, Jessi, blackpink, PSY, EXO, Hyuna, Everglow, Red Velvet, (G)I-DLE, Somi, Aespa, New Jeans, nmixx, Zerobaseone, Rizze, Le sserafim, Seventeen, Western artists and Fashion industry
Stage name: Chaire
Birth name: Park Myeong
Birthday: 2003 12, April
Zodiac sign: Aries
Group: Eclipse
position: Lead dancer, Main vocalist, Visual
Nationality: Korean
Voice:TaeYeon, SNSD 10/10
Rap:Exy, WJSN 8/10
dance: Yeji, Itzy 10/10
Visual: 10/10
Net worth: 70 million from solo productions
But group wise 3.8 billion
Brand ambassador: Balenciaga, Fendi
Who is she close with
-TWICE, txt,bts itzy, IU, Stray kids, Big Bang, Jessi, blackpink, PSY, EXO, Hyuna, Everglow, Red Velvet, (G)I-DLE, Somi, Aespa, New Jeans, nmixx, Zerobaseone, Rizze, Le sserafim, Seventeen, Western artists and Fashion industry
Stage name: Ayla
Birth name: Park Eun-Jeong
English name: Ayla Kaiser Asteria Harmonia Ervin Loera Asterin
Birthday: August 20, 2005
Zodiac sign:Leo
Group: Eclipse
position: Maknae, Visual, sub-rapper, Main Vocalist, lead dancer
Nationality: Japanese-Korean
Voice: Jung Eun Ji, Apink 10/10
Rap: Le, Exid 9/10
Dance:Jihyo TWICE 9/10
Visual: 10/10
Net worth: 70 million from solo productions
But group wise 3.8 billion
Brand ambassador: Prada, Louis Vuitton, Alexander McQueen
Who is she close with
-TWICE, txt,bts itzy, IU, Stray kids, Big Bang, Jessi, blackpink, PSY, EXO, Hyuna, Everglow, Red Velvet, (G)I-DLE, Somi, Aespa, New Jeans, nmixx, Zerobaseone, Rizze, Le sserafim, Seventeen, Western artists and Fashion industry
————————————————————————
Eclipse was made in 2019, yes at first everyone was judging the company of Eclipse for debuting a very young girl that was 14 when she debut but it soon got over with as they saw her talent shining through the 14.The group grew popular throughout their careers as they gained many fans around the world and in Korea. The girl group became one of the most successful groups in the kpop history with sold out concerts and sold out albums, carrying many world records on their backs. Now with the youngest member of the group hitting her 18th year of living their decided and finding many more things about her, she got invited to a racing competition in Japan and in turn she invited all of them back. 
Hello the reason why I was gone was because I was dealing with little demons called my cousins so ummm yeah enjoy I and please give me requests if you would like
Reyna no last name was found outside a top secret World government building when she was 1 year old, years later she has now became the richest and the most feared spy in the government even tho she is only 16, with the government injecting a chemical that can give her fast healing and reflex’s, she became the top spy with the help of her friends( 5 friends) she saved the world on multiple occasions. Now with a new threat not on the world but more on Max Verstappen and his small family, the government sent her to watch over them, what she didn’t know about this, was that she will find the love of family the warmth of it and the love of an actual lover.
Name: Reyna
Age: 16
Birthday: May 21 2007
Occasition: Spy
Nationality: Korean
Knowledge: She was trained in every field of science, mathematics, languages, English, combat, and weapon training
Title: mother of women, spy of century, the most savage woman, The North Star, the she-devil,
Lines
“i don’t make the same mistake twice…..I make it four or five more times just to be sure”
“when Life gives you lemons, squeeze them in people’s eyes”
“its called karma and it’s pronounced ‘‘haha fuck you!’l
“ you know……slapping is an option….…right?”
“ I am her favourite godmother go suck a dick if you think otherwise”
“remember when I said Oh I am so in love with you?……..No okay me either”
“ I don’t care I claim these People as my children”
“ Twinkle twinkle little Shit I hope you get hit by a truck “
“ I know how to swear in 21 different languages “
“ you would think people would invent fly cars but no we are stuck on the ground “
“ you want my honest opinion …..you look like a rat”
“ ……SHIT IS THAT A ROCH…Oh wait it’s just you”
“ So who’s dieing today”
“ someone better being dying because it better be worthy of me stopping my show”
“ Hold on guys I need to take a shit”
“ Well, you have two choices, either you tell me who is sending you or I could stick this thing, sooooooooooo far up your ass that your whole generation line will feel it every time they take a shit got it?”
“ your too kind to me…”
“ you love me?…..”
“ let my family go!”
“ P I am back with new stories!”
“ thanks…..dad”
“ mom what are you doing?”
“ max and Kelly adopted me so I will forever love them “
Aiden: I have an idea, how about we kill them
Reyna: Aiden no
Aiden:Aiden Yes!
Reyna: Did it hurt when you fell-
Lando : From heaven? Wow, I didn’t think you were such a flirt-
Reyna: No, I meant when you fell down the stairs.
Lando: ...
Reyna: You just laid there for 3 minutes .
Reyna : What’s the dumbest thing you believed as a child?
Lando: That naptime was a punishment.
Oliver: what’s on your mind love?
Reyna:………… arson
Oliver: okay that’s enough phone for today
Lando: I can't imagine what Reyna is planning. But I can tell you two things. We won't like it and it won't be legal.
*reyna in the back holding a pan over her head ready to smack an opponent*
Emma: drop it!
Reyna: b-but-
Emma *glares*
Reyna: your no fun* throws the pan away hitting the guy by mistake and walked away*
Reyna : When I get Doordash I order 20 Cheeseburgers at a time and heat them up throughout the week so that I don’t have to pay the delivery fee multiple times.
Oliver: I hope you understand how food poisoning works.
Reyna : I hope food poisoning understands how I work. I never met a burger i couldn’t eat.
*reyna walking around with Penelope*
Reyna: so you see P, that’s why you shouldn’t date yet
Penelope: I am only 6
Reyna: oh….well never too early!
Oliver: you need a kiss?
Reyna:*hugging him tightly* yes please
Reyna:*beating a enemy agent in the verstappen home*
Max:*walks in* what are you doing
Reyna: preparing for when P gets a boyfriend
Max: let me join
Max:*cuddling with Reyna* your so cute
Reyna: *half sleeping* I could break your spine in 51 different ways
Max: I know 🥰
Reyna: so you’re telling me that these girls find a rich person and fell in love for the first time?
Penelope and oille:*nods*
Reyna: sign me up
Oille sighing dreamily with a love sick smile: I think I am in love
Auther leclerc: call the doctor
Reyna: *watching Emma holding a brick over her head ready to hit the ex boyfriend of Kelly* “ drop it”
Emma:*pouts* but-
Reyna:*glares* if I couldn’t then you can’t
Emma: asshole
Reyna: * walking in the wrong apartment, stopped dead in her tracks seeing two people having their’fun’* I am so sorry!!! KEEP MAKING BABIES I SUPPOSE!!!* runs away*
Max: Reyna Verstappen! Come down here
Reyna: ………I swear I didn’t eat the last donuts
Oille: I love you
Reyna: thanks bro I love you too
Reyna: Can I have 2 straws with that milkshake?
Oille : Aww-
Reyna: With 2 straws, I can drink it double as fast!
Ollie: when I look in your eyes I see little stars
Reyna: ………..thanks?
Ollie: Are you ready to commit?
Reyna : Like, a crime or a relationship?
Ollie: So... what would you do if you were in bed with me?
Reyna : Depends. Is your bed comfortable?
Ollie: Yes.
Reyna : I'd sleep.
Ollie: Reyna and I are no longer friends.
Reyna : OLLIE THAT IS THE WORST WAY TO TELL PEOPLE THAT WE’RE DATING!
Ollie: I’m in love with you.
Reyna : We called off the prank war last night at midnight, dork.
Ollie: I know.
Reyna : Ah. Okay. Um. Cool. Neat. Very cool. Cool. Cool. Coolcoolcool-
Ollie: My hands are cold.
Reyna : Here, let me hold them.
Ollie: My lips are cold too.
Reyna : *covers Ollie's mouth with their hand*
Reyna : I am so cool. I am an absolute Chad. I am the epitome of coolness and awesomeness—
Ollie: Hi.
Reyna : *melts down in a flustered heap of softness*
Reyna : I truly go into housewife mode when I'm someone's soulmate- like, I'll make you pancakes and bacon every morning.
Ollie: This is a lie.
Ollie: I'm literally dating them. This is a lie.
Ollie: THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO COOK A PANCAKE, WHAT IS THIS.
Enemy agent: *tells his sad life story* I wish I was dead
Everyone:…………
Reyna: *crossed arms* I could throw you off a building if you wish?
Everyone: !?!! what no! Reyna! Reyna Verstappen! Baby no!
Ollie: baby you need therapy
Reyna: what! He wanted to die I am just giving him a push!
Max: well she is right-
Everyone: Max no!
Kelly: Max Verstappen!
Max: *hands Reyna a ring* I need you to promise this to me, that you will wait until your marriage to have………sex
Reyna: I am only 16!?
Max: promise me
Reyna: fine
Max: good I will be doing this for P too so-
Emma: we have something to tell you…
Reyna: who died?
Emma: what-
Reyna: you’re pregnant!?
Emma: how-
Reyna: is someone in the hospital?
Emma: you got it on the second try-
Reyna: I AM GOING TO BE A GOD MOTHER!?
Emma: how- yes
Reyna: I am a trained spy I know everything
5th member part.2
SUP HUMANS I HAD COFFEE ☕️
Blackpink’s 5th member is trying to leave her past that left her not remembering her old friends, so after years of her being an idol, her interest in F1 is starting to grow. What will she do when she will start to remember?
THE THREE PEOPLE OF THE DAY
Tags: @kokomot @jinx53 @maximoffsimp
and a special tags to the two most people who commented @cherry-piee and @charizznorizz
I will also do this
———————————————————————
Reyna sighed in tiredness as she got off the private jet of blackpink. Grabbing her suitcase from the flight attendant with a soft yet grateful smile, she walked away heading straight to the exit with she security guards right next to her ready to block anyone who would want to come up to her.
Reyna smiled as she waved at her fans who immediately surrounded her but was blocked by her security guards
reyna_231 
| reyna_231: well if you have seen the news, then yeah it’s true
Liked by: landonorris, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55,maxverstappen1, 50,279,284 others
user36: WE KNEW IT
user37: I KNEW IT
user16: F1 BABY THIS GIRL IS A KEEPER
user20: marry me
user27: girl has the most of the F1 grid on her likes can We be like her 😩
user29: Lando said he watched all of blackpinks music videos
user47: Charles said that he was there with Lando 😂
user94: I never thought I could love her more
user29: max also liking it!?!?!
user49: never thought the hot could get hotter
user264: adopt me.
carlossainz55: I hope you come by to the Ferrari garage
charles_leclerc: what he said
maxverstappen1: nah mate she would be in redbull
landonorris: nope nope she will be here in the McLean
user37: not them fighting 😂
————————————————————————
Reyna finally got in her hotel room and immediately flopped down into the bed, with a sigh of happiness she turned to her side and smiled as she saw her phone bing with messages from Instagram, she opened her phone and looked confused right after as she saw the f1 drivers fighting on which garage she is staying in,
but the problem was she never told anyone about the race or not warned about the invitations. The 21 year old girl went straight into her emails and finally noticed the emails the teams has sent her. Reyna eyed all the emails with uncertain look. She sighed and clicked on one of them and began reading
“ Dear Reyna of Blackpink redbull invites you to blah blah blah” Reyna clicked out of the email and read the other one “ Dear Reyna of Blackpink McLean invites you to blah blah” Reyna frowned as she read the other, before deciding to not decide right now, “ Well not how I thought this day will go…” Reyna looked out the window before siting up and grabbed her bag and walked out
reyna_231
| reyna_231: Just me myself and I, oh look F1 is here too!
Liked by: roses_are_rosie, sooyaaa_, cristiano, and 28,027,107 others
Comment disabled
Don’t get Reyna wrong about the comment thingy, she is just lazy to read through it.
5th member part.1
Sup humans
Blackpink’s 5th member is trying to leave her past that left her not remembering her old friends, so after years of her being an idol, her interest in F1 is starting to grow. What will she do when she will start to remember?
@cherry-piee @watermelon-sugars-things @charizznorizz
I will be choosing three people very post so comment and like if you want!
This is what you need to know about Reyna/ You.
jennierubyjane
taged:reyna_231
| jennierubyjdane so instead of enjoying the beautiful beach of jeju island, She is watching fast cars going around in circles?
Liked by: lalalalisa_m, sooyaaa_, roses_are_rosie, f1, 23,626,726 others
View all comments
user34: the Queen of kpop, is Fucking watching F1 !?!!?! Is it to late to say I wanna marry her
lalalalisa_m: she is our baby, let her be
reyna_231 replied to lalalalisa_m: I am not a baby
sooyaaa_: 우리 작은 아기 ☺️( our little baby)
f1: good to see she if still connected to us
user21: Didn’t she say she went to f2?
user12: yeah I remember that interview,
user97: crossover?????
user: imagine her in ferrari red 🥵
user37: when is BP going to release music??????
reyna_231 replied to user37 : 🤫
user37 replied to reyna_231: y-you replied to me I LOVE YOU!!!
user78: okay but like, how come we never noticed this!?!
user67: my wife is wifeing
————————————————————————
Reyna laid on the beach chair as Jennie went to go get some food and drinks. Reyna sighed in happiness as she felt the warmth of the sun shined on her. “ Hey Rey I got the food!” Jennie smiled as she walked back to her youngest member, Reyna smiled as she helped her sister-figure with the food
“ So when are you going to the F1 thingy, you know you always talk about going but you never did” Jennie asked as she sat down underneath the shade, putting down the food on the table that was in between them
“ I don’t know…Should I go? I mean we are in hiatus” Reyna frowned as she took a strawberry from the fruit bowl, taking a bite of it. “ Well yeah you should, although me and the others will miss you sooooo much” Jennie hugged Reyna tightly but not to tight because of the table in between them “ You know what I will go! But enough about going or not going, how are you and Taehyung~” Reyna laid on her stomach, giving Jennie a smile as Reyna kicked her feet like a little girl. Reyna is not dumb…okay maybe she is a little dumb in her love life but still,
she could see that their loved each other. “ there is nothing going on we are just…..talking?” Jennie looked away with a blush creeping on her face, Reyna smirked and took Jennie’s hands “ Okay so while I am gone for F1 you will ask Taehyung on a date and you CAN’T take it back, or else if you don’t keep that promise I will not go and come back to Korea”
Reyna shrugged and dropped Jennie’s hands and sat back. Jennie’s face dropped to annoyance and crossed her arms “ You can’t do that” Jennie spoke out as she glared at her youngest “ I can and I will” Reyna smirked and grabbed the water bottle, Jennie let out a groan and smacked her hands on her thighs “ alright! Fine I will ask him out” Jennie finally said the words that Reyna wanted to hear. Reyna smiled pleasantly and nodded before going back to the Netflix show she is watching after she finished the f1 race “ Now that’s what I Love to hear”
————————————————————————
reyna_231 posted!
| reyna_231: there is something in here that will spoil where or what I am going….
Liked by: charles_leclerc, jennierubyjane, georginagio 30,369,287 others
View comments
user26: I SEE F1 user29: is she going to watch f1,
user10: Did anyone else see the f1 drivers?
User37: how can see so good 😫
user20: mother.
charles_leclerc: I hope you come
landonorris: if you are come to the McLean garage
user17: anyone else seeing the likes??
user26: I want to make her my wife
user14: F1 x kpop I am living for this 
5th member
It’s a F1 x reader/oc fanfic it’s not real
Blackpink’s 5th member is trying to leave her past that left her not remembering her old friends, so after years of her being an idol, her interest in F1 is starting to grow. What will she do when she will start to remember?
Stage name: Reyna
Birth name: Park Eun-Jeong
English name: Reyna Kaiser Asteria Harmonia Ervin Loera Astern
Birthday: August 20, 2000
Zodiac sign:Leo
Nationality: Korean
Languages: Korean(100%), English(90%), French(90%) , Japanese(100%), Chinese(80%), Portuguese(95%)
Debuted: August 8th, 2016
Group: blackpink
Voice: Jung Eun Ji, Apink 10/10
Rap: Le, Exid 9/10
Dance:Jihyo TWICE 9/10
Visual: 10/10
Love interest :
Net worth: 200 million from solo productions 3.6 billion from group
Modeling: 8 million
Branad ambassador: Prada, Louis Vuitton, Alexander McQueen
Likes
Chocolate, Books, Her sisters, Going out, Staying up at night watching her favorite shows(The originals, TVD, Stranger Things, , The witcher, The flash, or all DC shows,wandavision, and all marvel), loves food, Gaming .Anime this women LOVES Jjk because of Gojo satoru, Watching f1
Bro someone needs to study the soccer to F1 girl pipeline. It’s crazy how so many girls (including me) loved soccer as a kid and then transitioned into the car racing space.
STOP BC THIS IS SO TRUE. personally, i was always a football girl growing up but i think what made me more into f1 is that f1 was always in the picture for me growing up! i went to my first grand prix when i was 2 or 3 i don’t remb but it was silverstone and i think that also influenced me 😭. but also since 2016/17, i’ve been atleast attempting to balance both sports but i deffo started liking f1 more than i used to in the last 3 years!
okay next, i js wanna laugh. okay so, were at a charity event or something, and im volunteering, helping hand out juice boxes, signing people in, keeping children from using cones as swords, that typa stuff. until FRANCO COLAPINATA shows up, he's js being annoying really, until shes had enough and YEET the juice box at his head, and then he's all nonchalant and shit like "UH HUH I DESERVED THATTT AHAHA" .... and then you can tell the juice box turned him on bc you can like tell he wants her, and thennn WEEKS pass, and he DM's her. "saw apple juice today. thought of you. still flinch when i see boxes. wanna hang out?” MUWUAHAHSNA
❦ - manzanas contigo.
warnings:: none, maybe cussing..?
writers notes:: pls send more franco/f1 reqs bc i loved writing this sm and hes so fun to write for!
tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
you don’t even want to be here.
the email had said volunteers needed, and your overly kind soul had said sure, why not, and now you’re seven hours deep into wrangling children hopped up on fruit snacks and sun. the charity event is cute in theory, music, booths, a little track set up for games, and a bounce house, but in practice? it’s a battlefield.
you’re stationed at the welcome tent, handing out wristbands and juice boxes and fake smiles.
your feet hurt. your shirt is sticking to your back. a toddler is crying because he dropped his balloon into a bush. and some guy just tried to cut the line because he ‘swears his cousin is already inside.’
you’re not proud of how close you came to smacking him with the clipboard.
but then, because life has a sense of humor, he appears.
franco colapinto.
and you know it’s him, because who else shows up to a local charity event in an alpine cap, looking like he walked out of a sports magazine and directly into your personal hell?
you glance up at the exact moment he’s brushing a curl out of his eyes, all casual and oops i’m hot and didn’t mean to beenergy.
he scans the crowd, sunglasses pushed up on his head, mouth curled like he already knows he’s being stared at. and of course he is. a group of teenage volunteers behind you are whispering, one of them literally smacks the other on the arm and goes that’s him. that’s that guy. the car one.
sigh.
maybe if you stay perfectly still, he won’t notice you.
but of course, you are not blessed with that kind of luck.
his eyes land on you. direct. intentional.
and he starts walking over.
great.
you busy yourself with the juice boxes, shuffling them around pointlessly as if they need organizing, as if you’re not seconds away from face to face contact with a walking headache.
‘so,’ he says, leaning against the table like this is his full time job. ‘what does a guy gotta do to get one of those?’
you glance up. ‘a wristband?’
‘nah. a juice box.’
you stare.
he smiles.
you hold one up. ‘take it and leave.’
‘whoa. feisty. is this how you treat all guests, or am i special?’
you blink. ‘i’ve been here since 6am. i have zero patience and less charm left.’
‘good thing i’ve got enough charm for both of us.’
you raise a brow. ‘that supposed to work on me?’
he shrugs, peeling the wrapper off a straw. ‘worth a shot.’
he doesn’t leave.
he just stands there, sipping slowly, watching you like he’s never seen anyone pass out juice before. his gaze trails across your face, not in a creepy way, just annoyingly observant. like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person signs up for this kind of chaos and doesn’t run away screaming.
you try to ignore him. you really do.
but then he starts helping. like… physically taking wristbands from your hand to hand them to kids, leaning way too close to read names off the sign in list, nodding solemnly at the parents like he belongs here.
and the worst part? people believe it.
‘you two are adorable,’ one lady says as she signs in her daughter.
you nearly choke. ‘we’re not—‘
‘thank you,’ franco cuts in, smiling like he just won an oscar. ‘we try.’
you give him a look. he winks. kill me, you think.
it gets worse when a small child asks for apple juice and franco picks one up, does a dramatic gasp, and goes, ‘apple! the superior juice. i like your taste, kid.’
you break.
you don’t mean to. you truly don’t. but something inside you snaps, and the next thing you know, you’re yeeting a juice box straight at him.
it arcs through the air with surprising grace, smacks him right in the shoulder, and bounces off harmlessly onto the grass.
a moment of silence.
he blinks.
then he laughs. hard.
‘okay,’ he says, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘i deserved that. i fully, absolutely, one hundred percent deserved that.’
you cross your arms. ‘you think?’
he’s still grinning as he bends to pick it up. ‘apple again. symbolic.’
‘you’re ridiculous.’
‘you like me though.’
you scoff. ‘i like peace and quiet.’
‘you’re blushing.’
‘i’m hot. it’s eighty degrees.’
‘you threw a juice box at me.’
‘you were annoying.’
he tilts his head. ‘admit it. it was kinda satisfying.’
you bite back a smile. ‘maybe a little.’
he grins, stepping back finally. ‘i’ll leave you to your cone wrangling duties. but don’t be surprised if you see me again.’
‘god help me,’ you mutter.
he strolls away, sipping the slightly dented juice like it’s champagne.
and yeah. maybe your heart is doing something dumb.
maybe you do glance up once or twice, wondering if he’s still watching you.
maybe he is.
you don’t expect to see him again.
honestly, you’d hoped the juice box incident would be enough to scare him off. but two saturdays later, at a completely different event, you’re there, collecting raffle tickets and babysitting the world’s most chaotic face paint station, and there he is.
franco colapinto.
wearing a hoodie this time. hood up. trying and failing to blend in, as if his stupidly nice smile and the way he walks like the world was made for him don’t give him away instantly.
you see him from across the lot.
he doesn’t even try to be subtle. just lifts his hand in a little wave and starts walking straight toward you like this is a planned reunion and not a complete surprise.
you look around. as if there’s someone else he could be greeting. spoiler: there isn’t.
‘you again,’ you say when he reaches you.
‘me again,’ he grins, pulling down his hood like he’s revealing a secret identity.
you sigh. ‘are you following me?’
‘you wish.’
‘so this is a coincidence?’
he shrugs. ‘or fate.’
you deadpan. ‘you’re insufferable.’
‘you say that every time.’
‘i mean it every time.’
he gestures around, like he’s settling in. ‘need help again? or do i have to earn my juice box rights this time?’
you narrow your eyes. ‘don’t you have a job?’
‘i do. it’s off-season. i’m thriving.’
‘this is how you spend your free time? crashing fundraisers?’
‘not crashing,’ he says, very seriously. ‘contributing. i donated five bucks to the bouncy castle. i’m basically a hero.’
you don’t laugh. you don’t.
okay, maybe a little.
he’s already rolling up his sleeves and jumping into whatever task you’re doing, like last time, and suddenly you’re stuck with him for three hours again.
he helps a little girl glue pom poms onto a paper crown.
he nearly gets paint on his nose and doesn’t notice.
he lets a five year old draw a blue lightning bolt across his cheek and calls it his new racing stripe.
and every now and then, he looks over at you like you’re the funniest thing in the world, even when you’re just frowning at a clipboard or trying to untangle a balloon string from a folding chair.
you pretend not to care.
you pretend really hard.
the third time is the worst.
mostly because… you kind of expect him now.
you’ve made the mistake of mentioning your volunteer schedule to a friend on your story. and it’s fine. really. except now, when you show up to the saturday pet adoption drive with a clipboard and a tight ponytail, you scan the crowd. like an idiot.
he’s not there.
you tell yourself you’re relieved. that you don’t need another afternoon of his smug little comments and stupidly good hair.
but you still keep checking.
twenty minutes pass.
an hour.
two.
he doesn’t come.
you keep busy. hand out flyers. try not to cry when a little dog named charlie gets adopted. organize leashes by size.
and you don’t look at the time more than seven times. promise.
at some point, you’re wiping your hands with a napkin behind the tent when your phone buzzes.
it’s a dm.
from franco.
you blink.
sorry i couldn’t be there today. doing actual job things. tragic.
you stare at it.
then another:
but saw apple juice earlier. still flinched.
and another:
still want to hang out sometime. even if you hit me with stuff. maybe especially because you hit me with stuff.
you can’t help it. your lips twitch.
you don’t reply right away.
you finish your shift. take the long way home. drink half a juice box you saved from the cooler, even though it’s lukewarm now.
and when you’re lying on your bed, staring at the message, you finally type:
you’re impossible.
three dots.
impossible but charming?
you:
debatable.
him:
you didn’t say no though.
you stare at your screen for a second too long.
then:
one coffee. you pay. no weird pickup lines.
his response is immediate.
deal. i’ll try to behave. no promises.
you tell yourself it’s just a coffee.
one coffee. thirty minutes, max. maybe forty five if he says something dumb and you need time to drag him for it.
it’s not a big deal.
except it is. because you spend too long picking an outfit. change your shirt twice. then change it again. then panic change it back to the first one and tell yourself to get a grip.
you meet at some small place he picked, half hipster café, half bookstore. it smells like cinnamon and old paperbacks. you hate how nice it is.
franco’s already there.
and of course he looks… stupidly good. hoodie, again. curls poking out. one hand lazily spinning his coffee cup. and that grin, that stupid boyish grin, when he spots you.
‘you came,’ he says, standing.
‘don’t sound so surprised.’
he does a little half bow. ‘welcome to the least boring hour of your life.’
you roll your eyes and sit across from him. ‘don’t flatter yourself.’
‘not flattering. manifesting.’
you try to look annoyed, but the truth is, you’re already smiling. just a little. traitorous.
you talk.
not about anything huge at first. just… dumb things. favorite drinks. worst airport experiences. why he thinks pineapple on pizza should be illegal (you argue passionately against this).
he tells you about crashing a go kart once when he was twelve because he was ‘trying to wave like a champion’ and forgot to steer.
you tell him about the time you accidentally walked into the wrong class and sat through fifteen minutes of astrophysics before realising.
he laughs with his whole chest.
and it’s easy. too easy. every time your fingers brush reaching for the sugar, it feels like something electric. every time he leans in a little, like he’s really listening, your heart stutters.
you should not be this into him. and yet.
you’re both halfway through your drinks when he goes quiet for a second, then says, ‘i almost didn’t message you.’
you blink. ‘why not?’
he shrugs, looks down, spins the empty cup between his hands. ‘i dunno. didn’t want to be annoying.’
‘you already are.’
he grins, but it’s softer now. ‘yeah, but like… in a cute way.’
you shake your head, but your cheeks are warm. ‘you’re such a menace.’
‘you threw juice at me.’
‘because you were asking for it.’
he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes on yours. ‘maybe i was.’
your breath catches. just a little. just enough.
you clear your throat. ‘you’re not smooth, you know.’
‘i don’t need to be. i just need to make you smile.’
you hate him.
you really, really don’t.
you leave the café two hours later.
two.
neither of you wants to say goodbye yet, so you walk. just… around. your shoulder brushes his once. then again. then a third time, and this time, it stays there. just for a second longer than it should.
he doesn’t let go first.
eventually, you end up back where you started.
he looks at you like he wants to say something. then looks away. then back.
‘can i see you again?’ he asks, soft.
you nod. and for once, don’t try to be clever.
‘yeah. i’d like that.’
the second date happens faster than either of you expect.
you’d planned to wait. play it cool. but then franco sends you a picture of a strawberry smoothie and says ‘looked gross. thought of u,’ and you end up laughing so hard in the middle of your kitchen that you just… cave.
you text him: you free tonight?
he replies in literal seconds: always. pick the time. i’ll teleport.
you meet again at the same café. but this time, he’s not already sitting.
he’s waiting outside. leaning on the wall. hoodie again, he really only owns five of them, he tells you later, and his curls are just barely damp from the light rain that’s started falling.
he sees you and that grin hits his face like clockwork. like he’d been saving it just for you.
‘you came,’ he says.
‘you say that every time.’
‘yeah, but like… every time you do, it messes me up a little.’
you pretend you don’t hear that part.
it’s darker inside. quieter. the same table’s free, but this time, you sit next to each other.
close.
too close.
he smells good. not in an obvious, cologne drenched way. it’s something warmer. shampoo and sugar and the kind of scent that lingers even after he leaves.
your knees touch under the table.
neither of you moves.
you talk again.
about bigger things this time. pressure. travel. burnout. he admits he sometimes feels like everything’s moving too fast, and he’s scared he won’t be able to hold on.
you nod. you tell him about how you fake confidence half the time. how sometimes you feel invisible until someone needs something.
he listens. really listens.
then says, ‘you’re not invisible.’
you blink. ‘okay?’
‘just saying. i notice you. always have.’
you laugh a little. ‘that’s creepy.’
‘yeah,’ he says, smiling into his drink. ‘but like… romantic creepy.’
you don’t mean to stay late. but time’s slippery around him.
by the time you realize it’s almost midnight, you’re both sitting outside the café, sharing a leftover pastry and watching the rain slide down the windows.
you don’t want to go.
he doesn’t want to say goodbye.
so he walks you home.
he stops outside your door.
you both kind of hover there. like two idiots waiting for someone to do something. say something.
‘this was nice,’ you say quietly.
‘yeah,’ he says, and then, softer, ‘i wanna kiss you.’
your breath catches.
he doesn’t move closer. doesn’t touch you. he just stands there, all warm eyes and soft voice.
you whisper, ‘then why don’t you?’
he grins. all teeth and nerves and too much hope.
‘cause the minute i kiss you, i’m not gonna stop thinking about it. and i want you to wanna kiss me back. like really want to.’
you stare at him.
he shrugs. ‘just being honest.’
you nod. heart in your throat.
then say, ‘next time.’
he smirks, already backing away.
‘i’ll hold you to that.’
you tell yourself you’re not waiting.
not waiting for a text. not waiting for a call. not waiting for the memory of him saying i wanna kiss you to stop looping in your head like some kind of cursed romantic ringtone.
but when his name flashes on your screen two days later, your whole face warms.
what if we didn’t do coffee this time?
you stare.
what do you wanna do then?
he replies instantly.
drive. music. idfk. i’ll bring snacks. you bring the vibe.
you: so i’m the vibe?
him: always.
he picks you up at 7:03.
he’s in a black hoodie this time, and his car smells like mint gum and the ghost of bad fast food. there’s a half eaten bag of crisps on the passenger seat, which he tosses in the back when you open the door.
‘you’re late,’ you say.
‘you’re early. time’s fake. get in.’
he drives like he thinks he’s in a movie.
one hand on the wheel. other messing with the aux. windows down. hair wind-blown and wild. he sings under his breath to every second song. raps to the third one badly. you don’t stop laughing the entire first hour.
you don’t know where he’s going, but you don’t care.
being next to him feels like its own kind of destination.
eventually, he parks by the water.
some random lookout. the city’s lights glitter below, far enough to feel small. the kind of view that feels too beautiful to deserve.
you sit on the hood of his car. shoulder to shoulder. knee to knee. the air’s cold, but not too cold. and everything’s soft. quiet.
for a second, neither of you says anything.
and then, gently, he says, ‘i think about kissing you a lot.’
you blink.
he keeps staring ahead, like he didn’t just drop a bomb. ‘not in a creepy way.’
you laugh. ‘do you always think you’re being creepy?’
‘only when i like someone too much.’
the words settle in your chest like warmth. like lightning.
‘franco,’ you say.
he turns.
‘kiss me.’
his eyes go wide. like for a second, he’s not sure if he heard you right.
then, slowly, he leans in.
he kisses you like he’s afraid to mess it up. like he’s been waiting exactly this long, and not a second less. soft, steady, sure.
and when he pulls back, he just rests his forehead against yours.
neither of you speaks for a minute.
you break the silence. ‘not bad.’
he huffs a laugh. ‘that’s it? not bad?’
‘seven out of ten. you’ll need practice.’
‘cool. guess i better keep showing up.’
you’re not sure when it shifted.
when the maybe turned into definitely. when the texting turned into facetime turned into mornings with your feet tangled under his on the couch. when the almost turned into always.
but now, here you are, franco at your door with a half-melted milkshake and a stupid grin, like he’s been thinking about this all day.
‘you’re late,’ you tease, taking the drink.
‘you’re still hot,’ he says, walking in like he lives here.
(he kind of does.)
you’ve been soft ever since the drive.
he kisses you now like he needs to. like he missed you, even if it’s only been a few hours. like kissing you is just a normal part of his day, something between brushing his teeth and ruining your kitchen by cooking you breakfast at 2 a.m.
sometimes, you wake up to his hand resting on your waist, his face buried in your shoulder. like his body forgets how to be without you.
you don’t say it. not yet. but you feel it.
you think he does too.
it’s been weeks.
weeks since franco colapinto got beaned in the forehead with apple juice and decided that was the hottest thing that had ever happened to him.
weeks since he dm’d you with that dumb message: saw apple juice today. thought of you. still flinch when i see boxes. wanna hang out?
weeks since you said yes.
and now here you are, propped up on his couch, socks mismatched, face lit by the glow of a documentary you’re not watching, because franco’s lying with his head in your lap and he keeps dragging his fingers along your leg like he can’t believe you’re real.
‘what,’ you murmur.
‘nothing,’ he says. then, quietly: ‘just thinking about the juicebox.’
you snort. ‘again?’
he nods, sleepy and fond. ‘you threw that thing with intention. it was beautiful.’
‘you’re so weird.’
‘you’re the one who assaulted me with a children’s drink.’
‘you flirted with me for two hours while i was working.’
‘you looked hot with a clipboard. sue me.’
you roll your eyes. he reaches up, brushes your hair behind your ear.
‘you know i really did think about you every time i saw juice after that?’
‘you said that already.’
‘i mean it. i’d be in a store and be like… damn. i miss her aim.’
you swat him. he laughs. kisses your wrist.
later, when you’re brushing your teeth in his oversized hoodie, he pulls you into his arms and rests his chin on your head.
‘should we save the juicebox?’ he asks, voice muffled in your hair.
‘what, like… frame it?’
‘yeah. put it above the bed. shrine to our origin story.’
‘you’re so dumb.’
‘dumb for you.’
you groan. he grins.
he still gets teased by his friends about the Incident.
he still buys apple juice ‘for the bit’ and lines the fridge with it like a threat.
but when he kisses you goodbye before his next race, all soft and slow like he’s imprinting it in his memory, he says:
‘thanks for hitting me.’
and you say, ‘thanks for being annoying enough to deserve it.’
and maybe, maybe, that’s just your love language now.
hmmm so i lowk want sleepy franco, bc i had a dream abt him last night no joke. let's see. okay. we're on a plane, his like travel director guy? idk what he's called, but he books the wrong ticket so franco has to sit in economy class (horror) and he's all grumpy and tired and his curls are peeking thru his hoodie (HEHE) idk if you wanna make us a fan of him or not, i truly don't care ill read it anyway, and then drumroll please, TURBULENCE, and we hold hands and end up talking and then fall in love mwah
❦ - ‘la concha de mi madre’.
warnings:: cussing.
writers notes:: IM SORRY IF YOU SPEAK SPANISH AND UNDERSTAND THE TITLE 🥀. if you get the reference then you get it but if u don’t then it’s bc he said it on team radio 😔.
tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs ; lmk if u wanna be added
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you’re already exhausted when you get to the gate. the kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and makes everything feel just a little bit blurry. it’s a late flight, barely-full, and you’re silently thanking the universe for that as you scan your boarding pass.
economy. window seat. quiet.
until he walks in.
it’s subtle at first. just a little wave of tension that passes through the gate area like a ripple, the way it always does when someone vaguely famous walks into a space not meant for them. people don’t scream or swarm, but you hear the hushed whispers, the occasional, poorly-hidden phone snap. and then you see him.
franco.
hood up. head down. dragging a carry-on with one hand and a coffee in the other like it might be the only thing keeping him awake.
he looks like he was just pulled out of sleep and shoved into an airport. grey hoodie. black joggers. a duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. and his curls, god, his curls, are peeking out from under the fabric like they’re trying to escape. messy and soft and unfairly pretty.
you try not to stare.
he looks grumpy. not mean, not rude, just tired in the way only someone who was promised comfort but got chaos instead can be. he stops by the flight attendant, glances down at his phone, then mutters something in spanish you don’t catch but feel in your soul. it’s giving: ‘how did i end up here?’
you turn back to your book, pretending you’re not watching him weave down the aisle, scanning seat numbers, getting closer and closer until
he stops. right beside you.
your row.
he double checks his pass. stares at the seat. stares at you. then groans, barely audible, and sinks down into the seat next to yours like it personally offended him.
‘la concha de mi madre… wasn’t supposed to be here,’ he mumbles, more to himself than you.
you don’t say anything at first. you just glance sideways, taking in the way his knees hit the seat in front of him. he’s clearly too tall for this. he exhales sharply through his nose and tilts his head back, letting it thud softly against the wall.
‘rough night?’ you ask gently.
he peeks one eye open.
‘travel guy booked the wrong class. s’posed to be business.’ he sounds like he’s explaining a grave injustice. and honestly, to him, maybe it is.
you bite back a laugh. ‘and now you’re slumming it with the rest of us.’
he looks at you properly now. eyes sharp despite how sleepy he is. ‘you make it sound like i’m gonna die in here.’
‘you might,’ you tease. ‘depends how dramatic you get.’
he cracks a smile, small, sleepy, but real, and pulls his hoodie tighter around him. then it’s quiet again. the kind of quiet that fills a plane before takeoff: muted announcements, seatbelt clicks, the soft shuffle of passengers settling in.
you go back to your book. or try to. it’s hard to focus when an f1 driver is breathing softly beside you, head tilted toward the window, lashes brushing his cheekbones, hands folded loosely over his stomach.
he looks peaceful like that. tired, yes, but soft in a way you didn’t expect. like he’s finally stopped fighting the chaos and just let himself be still.
you’re almost asleep yourself when it happens.
the plane jerks. a sudden lurch. not violent, but sharp enough to pull you from the edge of sleep and snap your heart into alert.
your hand flinches toward the armrest, gripping it tight.
and then another bump, this one stronger. someone across the aisle lets out a small yelp.
your stomach twists.
and then
warm fingers slip over yours.
it’s so casual, so easy, like he’s done this before. his hand is big, firm, grounding. he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even open his eyes, but the pressure of his palm against yours is enough to slow your breath just a little.
‘just turbulence,’ he murmurs, voice low, raspy with sleep. ‘happens all the time.’
you don’t know why you believe him. maybe because he sounds so calm. maybe because your hand fits stupidly well in his. or maybe because, deep down, part of you likes that this stranger, this famous, hoodie-wearing, grumpy stranger, is the one keeping you steady.
when the turbulence fades, you think he’ll pull away.
he doesn’t.
you glance over. his eyes are open now, just barely, looking at your joined hands with an unreadable expression.
‘you don’t have to keep holding it,’ you say quietly.
he shrugs, thumb brushing against your skin. ‘you looked scared.’
you don’t answer. just look away, heart thudding a little too loud in your chest.
after a beat, he shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward you.
‘i’m franco, by the way.’
you blink. not because you didn’t know. but because it feels strange, intimate, for him to offer it like that.
‘y/n,’ you say back, voice softer than before.
he nods once. ‘pretty name.’
you smile, small and a little shy. and for the first time, you notice how close you are. how your knees almost touch. how your fingers are still tangled like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
somewhere over the clouds, in a cramped economy seat beside a boy who was never supposed to be here, something starts.
it’s quiet. unexpected. but it’s there.
and neither of you let go.
you land just after sunrise.
the light filters through the little oval window in soft streaks of gold and peach, brushing over franco’s curls as he stretches beside you with a sleepy groan. his hoodie’s slipped a little down his shoulder, revealing a white t-shirt and a glimpse of collarbone, and you don’t mean to stare, but also, maybe you do.
‘how’d you sleep?’ he asks, voice gravelly and barely awake.
you smile. ‘not much.’
‘same.’
you both sit there for a second, still tangled in the strange bubble that formed somewhere midair. he shifts, glancing down at your hands, still close, not quite touching anymore, but close enough to feel the leftover warmth. his fingers twitch like maybe he wants to reach back.
you beat him to it, brushing your pinky against his.
he looks over, and he’s smiling.
‘you hungry?’ he asks, suddenly casual. like you didn’t just hold hands for three hours in silence. like you didn’t fall asleep with your shoulder brushing his in the middle of the sky.
you blink. ‘what?’
he rubs the back of his neck, curls wild now, sticking out in soft little tufts. ‘there’s this café i always go to when i fly through here. their croissants are insane. i can… show you?’
your heart does something stupid.
‘yeah,’ you say, voice softer than you mean it to be. ‘sure. croissants sound good.’
you gather your things. he waits for you. and as you walk off the plane, into the cool, early morning quiet of the airport, something about it feels like a movie. the way your suitcases roll in sync. the way his hoodie sleeve brushes your arm every few steps. the way people glance over, eyes widening slightly, not because of you, but because of him.
he doesn’t seem to notice. or care. he’s too busy walking beside you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
‘so,’ you say, just to fill the silence, ‘did your travel guy get fired yet?’
he snorts. ‘he’s on very thin ice.’
you laugh, and he grins, bright and sleepy and a little crooked.
the café is tucked in a quiet corner of the terminal. tiny tables. warm lights. the smell of espresso thick in the air.
he orders two croissants and two coffees like he’s done it a hundred times before.
‘you bring all your turbulence buddies here?’ you tease as you settle into a table by the window.
he smirks. ‘nah. just the brave ones who hold my hand mid-air.’
you roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm.
the coffee is good. the croissant is better. and the company, well, that’s the best part.
you talk. about little things. stupid things. favorite movies. airport horror stories. he tells you about the time his luggage got sent to a completely different continent. you tell him about the time you missed a flight because you fell asleep at the gate. he laughs, really laughs, and you catch yourself watching the way his face lights up, the way his eyes crinkle, the soft edges of his tired smile.
you’re both halfway through your second coffee when his phone buzzes. he glances at it, then groans.
‘my ride’s here.’
you nod, trying not to look disappointed.
he stands slowly, stretching again, hoodie riding up just a little, and then looks at you like he’s not quite sure what to do.
you break the silence first.
‘it was nice flying with you.’
he huffs a laugh. ‘yeah. it was.’
you expect him to walk away. just wave, say bye, disappear into the crowd.
instead, he hesitates. looks at you like he’s debating something.
then
‘can i see you again?’
you blink. ‘what?’
he runs a hand through his curls. ‘i mean… if you want. i know it was just a weird flight and some turbulence and coffee, but…’ he shrugs, like he can’t quite explain it. ‘i liked this. i liked you.’
your heart stumbles.
‘yeah,’ you say, quiet but sure. ‘i’d like that too.’
he grins. pulls out his phone. you exchange numbers, fingers brushing as he hands it back.
‘don’t ghost me,’ he says, teasing.
you smirk. ‘only if your travel guy doesn’t mess it up again.’
he laughs again, starts to walk backward toward the exit, still facing you.
‘see you soon, turbulence girl.’
and then he’s gone.
but your phone buzzes thirty seconds later.
franco: next time i’m booking us both business class. just saying.
you grin.
yeah. you’ll see him again.
it starts with texts.
a few here and there. late at night. early morning. sleepy updates and little inside jokes. a photo of his breakfast one day. a screenshot of your playlist the next. nothing dramatic. nothing loud.
just a slow, easy kind of beginning.
and then one day, he sends you a message that says:
‘are you free this friday? i owe you dinner. and business class. but we’ll start with dinner.’
you say yes.
and that’s how you end up outside a small restaurant tucked between quiet streets, heart thudding in your chest as you spot him leaning against the wall, hoodie up, curls peeking out just like that first night.
but this time, he looks up and smiles as soon as he sees you.
‘you came,’ he says, stepping forward, pulling the hood down.
‘you asked,’ you reply.
he holds the door open for you, and it’s something about the way he looks at you, like he’s been waiting to see you again since the second you left, that makes your stomach do something ridiculous.
the restaurant is small. warm. dim lighting and quiet music. you sit across from him, nervous at first, picking at the edge of your napkin.
but he’s soft. all soft.
asking how your week was. telling you how training’s been. joking about how he’s still haunted by the flight. and you both laugh, really laugh, like it’s been forever since something felt this easy.
somewhere between dinner and dessert, the conversation shifts.
you’re talking about the places you want to visit. the little corners of the world that live on your bucket list. he’s leaning in, chin resting in his hand, eyes never leaving you.
‘so what you’re saying,’ he murmurs, ‘is that you’d need a travel buddy.’
you raise a brow. ‘you offering?’
he smiles slow. ‘i already know how you handle turbulence.’
you toss a sugar packet at him. he catches it.
and when the night ends, and you’re outside again in the cool air, he walks you to your car without saying much.
just before you open the door, he stops.
‘can i—’ he rubs the back of his neck, like he’s nervous now. ‘i wanna see you again.’
you tilt your head. ‘another flight?’
he chuckles. ‘hopefully without economy class.’
you step closer. your hands graze.
‘i’d like that,’ you say.
and this time, this time when he leans in, it’s not your hands that touch first. it’s his forehead resting lightly against yours. soft, sweet. the kind of almost-kiss that says everything without rushing it.
his voice is barely a whisper.
‘goodnight, y/n.’
and you smile, feeling weightless.
‘goodnight, franco.’
you fall asleep on facetime the first time it happens.
you’re both in bed, screens glowing in the dark, him in a hoodie again, hood up, hair a little messy from running his hand through it too much. you’re curled beneath a blanket, barely lit by your lamp, yawning as he tells you something dumb one of his teammates said in the locker room.
you’re not sure when you drift off, only that when you open your eyes again, the call is still going.
his camera is angled up now, like he fell asleep too. his face half-buried in a pillow, breathing slow. the little rectangle on your screen shows the soft rise and fall of his chest, a peek of his collarbone, the edge of his hoodie slipping down one shoulder.
you watch him for a moment.
just… watch.
something tugs at your heart. soft and sure.
you end the call before your screen dies, and sleep comes easier after that.
the next morning, he texts you:
‘slept better than i have in weeks. you?’
you type:
‘same. weird.’
he sends a photo. his pillow, a bit messy. the corner of his hoodie in the frame.
‘blaming you. don’t leave next time.’
and you want to tell him you won’t. that you’ll stay on the line until the sun rises if that’s what he wants. but you just reply:
‘no promises.’
he calls you that night too.
and the one after that.
the first kiss comes later.
not during a date. not at dinner. not even with music or city lights or anything remotely romantic.
it’s raining.
you weren’t supposed to see him. just dropped by his place to return something, a hoodie you stole without realizing. but he opens the door and grins like he hasn’t seen you in weeks instead of days.
‘you’re wet,’ he says, brushing a hand over your shoulder.
‘yeah, well, the weather’s rude.’
you’re about to hand him the hoodie when he steps back and says, ‘come in. or you’ll catch something.’
and you do.
you sit on the edge of his couch, water dripping from your sleeves. he disappears for a second, returns with a towel and a mug of something warm. tea. maybe. you’re not sure. you’re too busy watching the way his lashes stick together from the rain. the way his hoodie is half-zipped, revealing the curve of his throat.
he crouches in front of you, drying your hands first.
‘you didn’t have to,’ you murmur.
he shrugs. but his hands linger.
‘you’re kind of important,’ he says, soft. like it’s not a big deal.
you look at him. really look.
his curls are damp. his eyes are tired but bright. his thumb is brushing along the back of your hand like he doesn’t want to stop touching you.
and you lean in first.
not much. just a little. but enough.
his breath catches, and he moves with you. quiet. slow. no rush.
his lips find yours like they’ve been waiting.
just the softest pressure. the rain still pattering outside. his hand resting against your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek like you might disappear if he doesn’t hold you right.
when you pull back, he stays close.
forehead to yours.
‘finally,’ he whispers.
and you smile.
epilogue::
he’s already seated when you get there.
hood up. headphones around his neck. hoodie sleeves bunched up on his forearms. curls peeking out messily. the most him he’s ever looked.
you stop in the aisle for a second, grinning.
‘you’re in the window seat?’ you tease.
he peeks up at you with that sleepy half-smile, eyes already warm.
‘wanted to watch the clouds. but i’ll trade if you want it.’
you shake your head and slide into the seat beside him. ‘nah. wanna lean on you.’
he makes a soft sound, half a chuckle, half a breath, and reaches for your hand almost immediately. it’s instinct, at this point. the way his fingers find yours without looking. the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles like he needs to remind himself you’re here. his.
you tuck your bag away, get comfortable, rest your head on his shoulder as the plane starts taxiing.
‘remember our first flight?’ you mumble.
he hums. ‘economy class. tragic.’
you laugh, sleepily. ‘you were grumpy.’
‘you held my hand during turbulence.’
‘you fell in love.’
he turns his head a little, presses his lips to your hair.
‘yeah,’ he says softly. ‘i did.’
you close your eyes, smile against his hoodie.
there’s no rush. no uncertainty. no almosts anymore. just his hand in yours, the hum of the engine, and the quiet thud of your hearts keeping time.
somewhere in the sky, between time zones and cloudlines, he whispers:
‘i’d sit in economy again if it meant meeting you.’
you don’t open your eyes. you just squeeze his hand and whisper back:
‘good thing you don’t have to.’
and he smiles, forehead resting against yours, while the plane lifts into the sky.
so this is for all the people on my general taglist bc i’ve gotten rq for f1 fics and i need yall to lmk if you want to be added to that also lmk even if ur not on there @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @universefcb @mariejuli
hey! If youre looking for requests could you write something for charles leclerc? General hcs about dating him or a drabble maybe (i would melt if it was about him as a dad with kids🫠). Either is great but no pressure at all! Xx
❦ - maman et papa.
summary:: just a simple day w your family. (IDK WTF TO PUT HERE 😭)
warnings:: none?
writers note:: so like this is really short but i hope u guys like it bc ive never written for him 😔.
ion have a taglist for f1 fics yet but lmk if you’d wanna be apart of it if i do make one!
the sound of giggles filled the leclerc household as charles lay sprawled on the floor, two tiny figures climbing over him. his youngest, a little girl with wild curls just like his, had her chubby hands planted firmly on his chest, her face scrunched up in concentration.
'i win!' she declared, sitting triumphantly on his stomach.
charles gasped dramatically, throwing his head back. 'nooo, you’re too strong for me!'
his son, older by three years and fiercely competitive, frowned. 'papa, it’s my turn!'
'alright, alright, one at a time!' charles laughed, but neither child listened. soon they were both on top of him, their small hands attempting to pin him down. he let them win, of course, lying there with a grin as their laughter echoed through the room.
a soft chuckle came from the doorway. you leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. 'having fun?'
charles looked up at you, hair tousled and cheeks flushed. 'rescue me?' he asked, but there was no real pleading in his voice, only warmth, love, and a happiness that made your chest ache in the best way.
your daughter scrambled off him and ran to you, holding her arms up. 'maman, papa’s a loser!'
charles feigned offense. 'traitor!' he called after her, but when his gaze met yours again, his expression softened. 'this... this is the best, isn’t it?'
and as you watched your little family dissolve into another round of giggles and tickle fights, you could only nod. 'yeah, it really is.'
TRUE LOVE OF MINE
LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter
ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!
send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ
The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.
There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.
He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.
You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration.
“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”
That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.
You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.
He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.
“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”
You shake his hand anyway.
A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.
You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”
He makes you want to win. So you start trying.
When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.
“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”
You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.
You hand him his water bottle.
“You were okay.”
He gasps. “Just okay?”
“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”
He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.
“Admit it. I looked sick.”
He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.
Later that summer, you win.
It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.
You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.
“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”
You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”
He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.
Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.
At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.
It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.
You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.
The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.
His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.
But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.
He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”
He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.
That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.
“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.
He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”
“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.
And maybe he is.
Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.
He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.
“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.
He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”
You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.
Like watercolor left out in the rain.
You look away first.
You always do.
At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.
He just pulls you in.
You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.
But this is different.
“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”
You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.
Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.
“Come on,” he says.
You frown. “Where?”
“Just— trust me.”
He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.
The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.
Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.
The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.
Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.
“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”
You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”
He shrugs. “Run it.”
So you do.
You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.
The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.
When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.
You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.
“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.
“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”
You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.
“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”
He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.
You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.
Maybe he always has.
By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.
You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.
He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.
But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.
He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.
His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.
“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.
“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”
“You think I was okay?”
“You were sick.”
He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.
You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.
Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.
Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.
Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.
“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.
You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”
You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”
He makes a face. “Nerd.”
“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”
He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”
You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”
“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”
You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”
He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.
“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.
You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”
The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.
You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.
Until he finds you.
Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”
You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.
“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”
He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”
Your jaw drops.
“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”
You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.
He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.
Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.
He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”
You hum. “FP1?”
He nods.
You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.
“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”
Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.
“You’ll be great.”
You scoff. “You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.
You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.
“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”
You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.
He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”
You don’t answer right away. You can’t.
The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.
“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”
He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.
“That’s hot,” he teases.
You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”
“But I’m your nightmare.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it?
It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.
You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.
You, who traded circuits for classrooms.
Him, who never stopped circling back to you.
He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.
That you’ll be okay.
Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.
At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.
You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.
You forgot it by morning.
He didn’t.
Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.
Your breath hitches without meaning to.
“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”
Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.
“What?” you ask warily.
He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”
You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.
Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.
“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”
Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.
You run.
Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.
The air smells like salt and speed.
By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.
The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.
You stop, breathless. He does too.
And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.
Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.
Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.
But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.
Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.
He bumps your knee with his.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”
You glance at him, surprised.
“Miss what?”
“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”
You don’t say anything.
He does.
“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”
Your breath catches.
“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”
Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.
“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”
You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”
“We were so happy.”
The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.
You look over at him. Really look.
His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.
And here you are.
“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”
He doesn’t wait this time.
He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.
And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.
The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.
All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.
“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.
You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.
It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.
He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.
You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.
“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.
“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”
You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.
You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”
He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”
That shuts you up.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.
“Told you,” he murmurs.
There are races, years, chapters.
Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.
Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.
He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.
There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.
You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.
And you’ve always let him. You always will.
He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.
“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”
From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”
You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.
“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.
He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.
He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”
You believe him.
You always have.
✶ THE EX EFFECT
summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.
F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST
pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader
wc: 19.2k
cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!
note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!
WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.
Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.
Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.
It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.
It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?
Still, you decided to try again.
During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.
You went for humor instead. A joke.
Terrible idea, in hindsight.
“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”
Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”
And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”
“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.
He didn’t even look away from the road.
“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.
That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.
You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.
Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.
Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.
Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.
Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.
And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.
After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.
Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it.
It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.
Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.
But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.
It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.
You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.
Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.
Yeah. This was a good morning.
You should have known it wouldn’t last.
It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.
But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.
“Y/N?”
Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.
And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.
You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.
“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”
Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.
You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”
Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.
But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.
Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”
He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.
“Small world,” he added to your silence.
You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”
Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”
You stared at him.
Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.
Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”
That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”
How surprising.
“So─”
You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.
You lied.
“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.
Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”
He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression.
That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.
Not today, Satan.
The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.
You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.
“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”
And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.
“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”
Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”
Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”
You finally turned to face him fully.
His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.
“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”
That’s when something clicked.
You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.
But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.
Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.
“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”
He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”
Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”
You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?
“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.
Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.
“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!
Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”
Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”
“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.
Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”
“So small,” you nodded stiffly.
The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”
Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”
You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”
Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”
“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”
“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.
You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”
“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.
You paused. “Huh?”
“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”
“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”
“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”
You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”
You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”
“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”
The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.
Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.
That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.
“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.
“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.
Lando studied you. Waiting.
“Do I have to guess, or…?”
The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”
You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”
“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.”
You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.
Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.
Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it.
One you didn’t have an answer to.
The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.
You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.
But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.
Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.
“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.
He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.
“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”
“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”
He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?
It took a while for reality to set in.
You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”
Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”
You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”
Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”
“No way.”
“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”
You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”
Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”
“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”
He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”
“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.
“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”
“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”
“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”
You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”
“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.
You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.
You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.
You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”
“Come again?”
“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”
You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”
“There it is.”
“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”
“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.
You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”
“Never heard of that.”
“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”
“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”
“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”
Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”
The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”
He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.
“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”
Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.
“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”
You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.
And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.
“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”
You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”
The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.
Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?
First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.
You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.
“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.
You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”
Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”
“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.
“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”
You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.
So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.
The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.
By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…
“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.
Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”
You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.
“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”
“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off.
“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”
You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”
Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”
You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”
Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.
You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”
Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”
You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”
“Glitter? Really?”
“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”
Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”
You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”
“Right side.”
“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”
You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.
Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.
Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”
“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”
“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”
“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.
You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”
He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.
You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”
And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.
You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”
You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued, voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”
“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”
“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”
A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.
It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.
And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”
When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.
You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.
You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.
It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.
Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.
Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.
Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.
Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.
Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.
You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”
“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”
“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”
“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”
You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.
Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.
This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.
After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.
Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.
It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.
But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.
It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.
The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.
It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.
“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”
You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”
“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.”
He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”
A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”
Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”
“How?”
“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”
He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”
“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”
Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”
The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”
That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”
It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.
“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.
“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”
You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”
It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”
When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.
For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend.
At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.
Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.
Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.
The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”
Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”
“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”
You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.
Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.
Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”
It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”
Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.
And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.
He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder.
“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.
“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.
Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”
“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.
He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.
The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.
You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.
Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.
Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.
It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play.
But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.
Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.
You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.
You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.
Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”
Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”
And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.
“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”
“That’s because you are.”
The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.
The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.
You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.
The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.
You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.
You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.
His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”
The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.
Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.
That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.
His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”
It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”
“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”
“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.
Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”
You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever.
“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”
“I made a mistake─”
“You made a choice,” you spat.
“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”
“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”
“Well─”
“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”
Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”
Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”
Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”
“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.
He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”
“Everything alright there?”
His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.
He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.
“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”
Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”
He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”
Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.
The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”
Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”
You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”
Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”
That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours.
“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”
You couldn’t agree more.
The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.
Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”
You gave a small nod.
“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”
There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it.
“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”
You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”
The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.
“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”
It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.
Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”
You blinked. “Do you?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.
Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.
He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.
And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.
“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.
You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.
Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes.
He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.
And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.
You closed the space.
The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.
Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.
You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.
When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.
“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.
You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.
Yet, you still went to bed alone.
You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.
“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”
Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”
You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.
You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.
The expression on his face stopped you cold.
Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.
You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”
“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.
Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.
Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”
“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”
The world tipped.
The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.
You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”
“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”
His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”
Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”
Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.
He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.
Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.
Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”
You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”
You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.
A beat.
“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”
You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”
Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”
“And what about you?”
The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”
He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.
“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.
Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.
You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.
The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.
You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.
You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.
And with it, everything else.
Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.
You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.
Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him
You let the weight of it all crash down on you.
If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.
The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.
Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.
Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.
You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.
Eventually, it came.
A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.
It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.
You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.
The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.
But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.
You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.
Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.
It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.
Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.
“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.
Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”
He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”
You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”
“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”
You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”
The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.
“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.
“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.
It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.
Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”
You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.
“Why not?”
You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”
Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”
“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”
It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”
He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.
You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.
You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.
You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.
He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.
He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.
“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.
You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”
“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.
Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.
“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.
“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.
You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.
Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”
“That’s good.”
He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”
“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.
“I’m glad.”
Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.
Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”
The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.
“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”
You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t.
Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”
“And did they?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”
Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”
Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”
He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”
He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”
You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.
“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”
There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.
Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.
But that’s not what he did.
“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”
He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”
“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”
Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”
Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”
“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.
Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his.
“So… what do we do now?”
The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”
You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.
As if you had the strength to even think about it.
You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.
The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.
When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.
He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.
“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”
“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”
“I’m just saying, I─”
You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.
That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.
He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.
He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.
Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.
©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.
A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader
summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)
content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3
AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy
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You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.
The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.
You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.
You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.
The village made that easy.
It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.
That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.
So did someone else.
There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.
“Oh—” you said, blinking up.
He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.
“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”
You tilted your head. “You sure?”
“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”
“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”
“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”
You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.
He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.
The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.
“Thank you,” you said.
He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.
He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.
He was already pedaling the other way.
His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.
You didn’t know his name.
…
You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.
And you see him.
Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.
You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.
You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.
On the third day, the weather turns.
You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.
You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.
Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.
It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.
The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.
“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”
It’s good for sad days.
You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.
The bell above the door chimes.
And he’s there.
Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.
He sees you.
And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.
You smile first.
This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.
He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.
“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.
You shake your head. “Please.”
He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.
The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”
You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”
He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”
You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”
He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”
A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.
“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.
“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.
The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.
“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”
You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”
“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”
You wince. “Brutal.”
“French.”
“Did you learn how to bake, though?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.
He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”
You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”
“That’s the best kind.”
You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”
He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”
“It’s the cinnamon.”
“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”
You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”
He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.
Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”
You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”
He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”
“A noble quest.”
He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”
You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”
And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.
When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.
Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.
“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.
You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”
He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”
You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.
“Well,” he said.
“Well.”
“I’ll see you around, then?”
You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”
Then you pushed off.
The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.
…
You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.
Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.
It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.
Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.
And almost always, he bikes past.
You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all.
The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.
One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.
“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.
Lately, he lingers.
He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”
You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.
Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.
You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.
You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.
And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.
Then, one morning, he surprises you.
You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.
You glance up.
He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.
“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”
You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.
“You bought me a mug?”
Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”
You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.
“You’re very committed to my safety.”
“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”
You crack a smile.
He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”
His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.
The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.
It tastes a little better than usual.
“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”
You didn’t look up. “What face?”
He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.
You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”
He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”
You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”
He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”
You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”
He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”
You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”
“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”
You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.
He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.
A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.
…
You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.
You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.
You look up.
It’s him.
Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.
“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.
You glance at your page. “It has character.”
He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”
“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.
“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.
You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”
He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”
He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”
You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”
“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”
“And where exactly are we going?”
“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”
“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”
“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”
You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.
But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.
Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.
“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”
He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”
You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.
“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.
“Oh my God.”
He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”
“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”
“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.
The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.
…
The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.
He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.
“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.
He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”
“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”
You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”
He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”
You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”
His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”
“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”
He grins amused and grabs another grape.
You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.
“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.
He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”
You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”
“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”
Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.
“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”
You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”
“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”
You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”
He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”
You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.
Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.
“Did he offer his number?”
“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”
He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.
You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.
Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.
You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.
You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.
You turn your face toward the sky.
And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.
…
You don’t sleep that night.
Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.
It doesn’t.
Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.
And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.
Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.
You shift under the covers. Still no good.
Eventually, you slip out of bed.
Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.
Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.
You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.
You just start.
It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.
You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.
Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.
You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.
You just look at him.
Something in your chest lets go a little.
And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.
Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.
You frown a little. Then smile, too.
Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.
And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.
…
You didn’t sleep—not really.
One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.
When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.
The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.
You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.
You skip the kettle.
Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine.
You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.
It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.
The café is open. It always is.
You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.
You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.
The sketchbook slips.
You don’t hear it.
You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.
You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.
Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.
…
You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.
Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.
You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.
When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.
But halfway home, you freeze.
That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.
You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.
No sketchbook.
You stop walking.
Check again.
Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.
It doesn’t.
Your stomach drops.
You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”
And then it hits you.
The café.
You’re already running.
…
The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.
“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath. “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)
She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)
You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)
She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)
Your stomach dipped.
“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)
“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)
Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.
Really, truly gone.
You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.
You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.
You don’t drink it.
You just... sit.
Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.
You think of the pages—your pages.
Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.
The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.
The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.
And now someone else might be looking.
You walk home in silence.
You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.
But you didn’t.
It’s not there.
…
After the café, you try to reset.
You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.
You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.
The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.
It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.
That’s when you hear it.
"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.
You turn.
Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.
You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."
He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."
You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."
“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.
You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.
"You doing the full lap?" he asks.
"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."
"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."
"And?"
He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."
You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.
The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.
You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”
Your whole body goes still.
“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”
Lando stops walking.
Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.
“It looked something like this, right?”
Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.
You freeze. “No way.”
He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”
You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”
“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.
“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”
“Don’t—”
“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.
And then he looks up at you.
The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”
You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.
Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.
“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.
You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.
He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.
“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”
You finally meet his eyes.
“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you.
He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“Like what?”
He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.
There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”
He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”
You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.
He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.
“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”
You raise a brow.
He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”
You laugh, finally.
He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.
You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.
You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.
But now you know what’s underneath it.
And maybe he’s glad you do.
…
The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.
You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.
His door is ajar when you reach it.
You knock once.
“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.
You step inside.
His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.
Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.
“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”
You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”
He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”
You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.
“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”
He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”
You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.
“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”
He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”
You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”
He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.”
“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”
He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."
You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.
"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”
You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”
“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked.
You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”
He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”
You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.
There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.
Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.
You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.
You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.
The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.
You run your finger along the rim of your plate.
“I like this,” you say, quieter now.
“The failed pasta?”
You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”
He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.
“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”
He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle.
“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.”
You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”
His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”
You blink.
“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”
You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”
He shrugs, letting it sit.
“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”
You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.
Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.
And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.
Your hands brush. Not by accident.
You look up.
He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.
He doesn’t move.
And neither do you.
His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”
Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”
“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”
Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”
And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.
He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t want to.
His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.
“Tell me to stop.”
You breathe in. Just once.
Then, “Please don’t.”
And then he kisses you.
Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.
You sink into it.
His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.
His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.
When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.
Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.
“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.
You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”
He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”
“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.
“Only when I’m right.”
He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.
And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
Because maybe it is.
…
You wake in his arms.
Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne.
You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.
“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.
“Mm.”
You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.
“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“Hi.”
The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.
“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”
He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”
You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.
You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.
“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.
You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”
He pauses.
“Because of the mornings.”
And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.
Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.
He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”
You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.
You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”
He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”
You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.
He opens the door.
Oscar.
Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.
“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”
Lando blinks. “Hi.”
“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”
Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”
Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.
And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.
Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.
“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”
Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”
Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”
Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”
Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”
Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”
There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.
“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”
Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”
You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”
“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”
You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.
“Guess I’ll find out.”
i hope this finds you well ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏
“you’ll be bored of him in two years,” oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.” (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰.)
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k (!!!) ꔮ includes: friendship, romance, angst. cussing, mentions of food & alcohol. references to greta gerwig's little women (2019), mostly set in melbourne, oscar's sisters are recurring characters. ꔮ commentary box: i've written way too much oscar as of late, so before i go on a self-imposed ban, i had to get this monster out. fully, wholly dedicated to @binisainz, whose amylaurie lando fic does this feeling go both ways? started all this. birdy, i love you like all fire. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
♫ let you break my heart again, laufey. we can't be friends (wait for your love), ariana grande. cool enough for you, skyline. do i ever cross your mind, sombr. bags, clairo. true blue, boygenius. laurie and jo on the hill, alexandre desplat.
Oscar Piastri is not the kind of boy who usually finds himself at house parties.
Especially not the kind with balloons tied to banisters, tables laden with sausage rolls and buttercream cupcakes, and a Bluetooth speaker hiccupping out the tail-end of some pop anthem. But here he is, cornered into attendance by his sisters—Hattie, Edie, and Mae—who’d all dressed up for the occasion and declared, in unison, that he had to come.
So he had. Because he was a good brother and an unwilling chaperone.
And now he’s bored.
Oscar stands near the drinks table, nursing a cup of lukewarm lemonade and trying to look vaguely interested in the streamers above the kitchen doorway. Hattie had already been whisked off to dance by someone in a navy jumper. Edie had found the girl who always brought homemade brownies to school. Mae was giggling wildly with a trio of kids Oscar vaguely recognized from the street down.
No one notices him lingering by himself. That suits him just fine.
Still, he can’t quite shake the restlessness crawling up his spine. The noise is too loud, the lights too warm. With a quick scan of the room and a glance over his shoulder, Oscar slips behind a long, velvet curtain that cordons off what seemed to be the study.
Except there’s already someone there.
He realizes it a moment too late, nearly landing on top of you.
“Oh my God—sorry!” he blurts out, practically leaping backward. His foot catches on the edge of the curtain and he stumbles a bit, arms flailing before catching the side of a bookshelf. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t see you. I didn’t think anyone else—sorry. Again.”
You blink up at him, wide-eyed, legs curled beneath you on the armchair he had almost sat on. There’s a half-eaten biscuit on a napkin beside you, and your fingers are wrapped around a glass of ginger ale. Contrary to everyone else at this godforsaken event, you’re not a familiar face.
“It’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. Accented. Affirming Oscar’s theory that you’re not a Melbourne native. After a pause, you tentatively joke: “You didn’t sit on me, so that’s a win.”
Oscar huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Close call.”
The silence after is not awkward, exactly. Just shy. The two of you are tucked away behind a curtain, neither fully sure what to do next. Oscar takes the plunge first, figuring it’s the least he could do after intruding on your escape.
“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he adds unnecessarily. He gestures vaguely toward the chaos outside. “Dragged here by my sisters.”
“I figured you were with the girls,” you reply amusedly. “I’m new. Just moved here a few weeks ago.”
Oscar’s brows lift. “So this is your introduction to the madness?”
“Pretty much.” You offer a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really know anyone, and pretending to be cool isn’t really my thing.”
“Mine neither,” he says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “Hence the hiding.”
That earns him a soft smile. It’s a pretty smile, Oscar privately notes.
He gestures to the empty bit of couch beside you. “Mind if I sit? Promise to check for limbs first.”
You shift slightly to make room. “Be my guest.”
He sits, careful this time, knees bumping slightly against yours as he settles. The party noise feels far away behind the curtain—muted like a dream. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, curiosity bright beneath his awkwardness.
“Got a name, new kid?” he asks, because even though he had agreed that he doesn’t like feigning coolness, he’s still just a teenage boy with a god complex.
You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, careful with the syllables like he’s folding them into memory.
A few more minutes pass, filled with idle chatter. You talk about your move, the weird smell of paint still lingering in your new house, and the fact that none of the cupcakes at this party have chocolate frosting, which is a tragedy. Oscar, in turn, tells you about his sisters. How Mae once tried to dye her hair green with a highlighter and how Hattie got banned from school discos after she snuck in a smoke machine.
The laughter between you is easy. Unforced.
Then you say it, maybe without thinking too hard. “We should dance,” you muse, finishing off the last of your biscuit.
Oscar freezes. His eyebrows shoot up, alarmed. “Dance? With me?”
“Unless you’d rather go back to pretending the streamers are fascinating.”
“I don’t dance with strangers,” he says, half-laughing, half-panicked.
“We know each other’s names now,” you point out. “That makes us not-strangers.”
With a beleaguered sigh and a scrunch of his nose, Oscar comes clean. “I’m bad at it,” he grumbles.
“Who cares?”
“My sisters. They’ll see. And I’ll never live it down.”
You purse your lips, tapping your glass lightly against your knee. Then, a spark lights in your eyes. It’s the kind that spells trouble; Oscar has seen it in his siblings’ faces, right before they do something so invariably stupid and reckless. “Come with me. I have an idea,” you urge.
He hesitates, a part of his brain screeching something like stranger danger! in flashing, neon lights. In the end, he follows.
You slip out through the back door, motioning for him to stay quiet as you lead him down the wooden steps and out onto the wrap-around porch. The party sounds are muffled here, only the faint thump of bass slipping through the walls.
“Out here,” you say, turning to him with an expectant grin. “Nobody to laugh. Just us.”
Oscar stares at you. “This is crazy.”
“Shut up and dance.”
And so he does.
Awkwardly, at first, because you start them off with wild moves and dance skills that are much more abysmal than his. It gives him the confidence to start swaying a bit, his laughter poorly stifled as he watches you flail like an octopus.
You take his hands, and he lets you spin him gently, sneakers squeaking against the porch boards. There’s no rhythm to it, not really. Just swaying and clumsy steps and the faint thrum of music in the background.
The porch light flickers above you, casting long shadows. Somewhere inside, someone cheers. But out here, it's just you and Oscar.
Two kids dancing badly and not caring.
“You’re a weird one,” he says with a smile that splits his face open.
“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, fingers squeezing his as you twirl yourself through his arm. It’s a gross miscalculation and you end up stumbling, the two of you cackling as you attempt to detangle from the mess of limbs you’ve entangled each other in.
For the first time that night, Oscar thinks he might actually like this party after all.
Christmas morning in the Piastri household always comes with a sort of chaos—the kind born of slippers skidding across hardwood, sleepy giggles, and the rustle of wrapping paper long before the sun climbs properly into the sky.
This year, however, there’s something new. A wicker basket sits on the porch, ribbon-wrapped and dusted in the faintest layer of frost.
It’s heavy with gifts, each one handmade and meticulously labeled in curling script. Hattie, first to spot it, gives a shriek loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Within minutes, the whole family is gathered in the living room, the basket placed like treasure at the center.
“It’s from the new neighbors,” their mum announces, plucking a card from the basket. Her voice is touched with surprise and delight. “The old man and his granddaughter. Isn’t that sweet?”
Hattie unwraps a pair of knitted socks, blue and gold. Edie lifts out a jar of spiced jam. Mae discovers a hand-bound notebook. Each gift is simple but exquisite, the sort of thing you only receive from people who notice details.
“She’s the one who doesn’t talk to anyone,” Hattie says knowingly, curling her legs beneath her on the couch. You were in the same level as her, it seemed—a year below Oscar.
“That house is huge.” Edie glances out the window, towards your home. “Do you think her parents are loaded?”
“I heard they aren’t even around,” Mae whispers. “Just her and the grandfather. He looks ancient, though. Like, fossil ancient.”
“Girls,” their mum cuts in sharply. “That’s enough. They were kind enough to send gifts. We will be kind in return.”
Oscar, perched on the armrest of the couch, stays quiet through the speculation. His hands toy with the tag on his gift—a simple wooden bookmark, engraved with an amateur sketch of a stick figure dancing. He doesn’t say anything about the study, or the curtain, or the ginger ale.
But the memory floats to the front of his mind: the soft hush of the party behind a curtain, the brush of knees, your laugh when he had called you weird.
“We should make friends with them,” Oscar says finally, looking up. “It’s Christmas, after all.”
The girls pause. Hattie raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about new neighbors?”
He shrugs, trying not to look too interested. “Just saying. It wouldn’t kill us to be nice.”
Their mum smiles, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”
Oscar glances back down at the bookmark, running a thumb over the edge.
He finds your family acquainting with his soon enough.
On a sunny afternoon, right as Edie is pouring cereal into a bowl and Oscar is elbow-deep in the dishwasher, the home phone rings. Hattie picks up, listens for a moment, then calls out, “Mae’s at the neighbor’s. She fell off her bike.”
There’s a rush of clattering cutlery and footsteps, and in no time, Oscar finds himself trailing behind his sisters down the sidewalk, toward the big house next door—the one with the sprawling lawn and mismatched wind chimes on the porch.
When they arrive, Mae is perched on your front steps, a bandage already wrapped around her knee and a juice box in hand. She waves lazily as Hattie and Edie fall upon her with a dozen questions. Your grandfather, white-haired and kind-eyed, stands nearby, looking amused by the commotion. He introduces himself and ushers them all inside despite their protests.
Oscar hangs back for a moment until he spots you just behind the door, barefoot and half-hidden by the frame. You glance up, catch his eye, and grin.
“You again,” you say, stepping out onto the porch. “Is she alright?”
“Yeah, just scraped her knee,” Oscar replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks for patching her up.”
“We had a pretty solid first aid game back at my old school. I’m well-versed in playground accidents.”
He chuckles, leaning against the porch railing. “That so? Must be a pretty rough school.”
“Brutal,” you agree solemnly. “There were snack thieves and dodgeball champions. It was a jungle.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“It built character,” you say with mock seriousness, then flash him a grin. “Want to come in? I made too much lemonade.”
Oscar nods and follows you inside. The kitchen smells like lemon zest and fresh biscuits. Hattie and Edie are now harrowing your grandfather with questions about the old piano in the corner and whether the house is haunted. He answers everything with a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the attention.
You hand Oscar a glass and settle across from him at the kitchen table. He takes a sip. “You weren’t lying,” he says through another swig. “This is good.”
“Of course not. I take my beverages very seriously.”
“You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.
“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m starting to think it might be a compliment.”
You clink your glass against his in cheers. He smiles, and something warm unfurls in his chest. A startling kind of certainty. Like something’s taking root—a real friendship, honest and surprising and entirely unplanned.
Oscar is surprised to find that he doesn’t mind.
It happens gradually, like most real things do.
You begin spending Saturday afternoons with the Piastri bunch, lounging on their back deck with Hattie and Edie, gossiping about the neighbors or watching Mae attempt increasingly dangerous trampoline flips. You get good at knowing who takes how many sugars in their tea, when to duck because Edie’s chucking a tennis ball, or when Oscar is about to try and quietly leave the room.
You’re there for board games on rainy days and movie nights on Fridays. You help Hattie with her French homework, braid Mae’s hair when her fingers get too clumsy with excitement, and lend Edie your favorite books. Their mum always saves you an extra slice of cake, and their dad asks how your grandfather’s garden is faring this season.
It starts to feel like you’ve always belonged there, wedged into the rhythm of their household like a missing puzzle piece finally found.
Oscar is often quieter than the others, but he’s still a constant. You and he become fixtures in each other’s orbit. Trading messages about school, tagging each other in silly videos, or sending one-word replies that only make sense to the two of you.
Despite being one year his junior, the two of you are close in a way that you aren’t with the girls. He swears it’s because he met you first, because the two of you have emergency dance parties and cricket watch parties that nobody else knows about.
He leaves for boarding school, and the absence sits awkwardly on both your chests at first. But he never really disappears. He always texts when he’s back. Always walks you home at least once before he has to leave again. Always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.
And then—one summer—he comes home and something’s different.
It isn’t dramatic. You don’t swoon. He doesn’t speak in slow motion. It’s just... subtle.
Oscar stands taller. His shoulders are broader. His voice has deepened slightly. There’s a small scar at the corner of his lip you don’t remember, and when he grins, it strikes you—how he’s grown into himself, soft and sharp all at once.
You catch him staring at you too, once or twice. Like he’s trying to recalibrate what he thought he knew. Your hair is a little longer, and your skin is tanned from all the days in the sun. He remembers the freckles; he doesn’t remember when they became so prominent.
But it never becomes a thing. You don’t talk about it. You fall back into your usual rhythm.
Because even if your faces are a little older, your banter is still quick and familiar. You still chase each other down the street. You still squabble over the last biscuit. He still rolls his eyes at you, and you still prod him for his terrible taste in music.
Whatever has changed, whatever is beginning to, you both keep it tucked away. For now, it’s enough just to have each other nearby.
It’s a fact Oscar remembers as digs his toes into the hot sand. His jaw is tight; he watches the waves break in even swells. The sun’s beating down hard, but he barely feels it. Not with the way his chest still burns from the shouting match earlier.
Hattie had stormed out of the house with her towel clutched like a shield, and Oscar had followed, only because everyone else was pretending like nothing had happened. His sisters always expected him to be the reasonable one, and today—he hadn’t been.
He’d snapped. Something petty. A dig at her choice of music in the car. Then something sharper about her always having to be right. And before he knew it, she’d looked at him like he was someone else.
He hadn’t apologized.
Now, he sits beneath the shade of a crooked umbrella, arms wrapped around his knees. He watches the group scatter across the sand and into the waves. Hattie’s already out with her board, paddling strong into the break like she’s trying to prove something. Edie is further down the shore, half-buried in a sandcastle war. Mae’s running between them, laughing.
You drop into the sand beside him, skin glinting from seawater, hair tied back and still damp. “You two going for the title of Most Dramatic Siblings today?” you ask, unsurprisingly up to date. Hattie probably told you all about it while the two of you were getting changed.
Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was a bit of a tosser this morning,” he says dryly.
You nod, not offering him an out. Just letting the honesty settle.
“She’ll forgive you. Eventually,” you add. “You Piastris always find your way back.”
He tilts his head, watching you. The sunlight makes your nose wrinkle when you squint toward the water. Your shoulders have lost some of their shyness from when he first met you. You’ve become more sure of yourself, laughing louder, teasing easily. Comfortable. Confident. Certain.
He likes that.
The two of you sit in silence until Oscar stands, grabbing his board. “I’m going out.”
“Be nice,” you call after him, and he flashes a grin over his shoulder—tight but genuine.
In the surf, Oscar feels the tension bleed out with every push through the waves. The water’s cold and biting, salt sharp in his mouth. He catches sight of Hattie up ahead and paddles after her, trying not to let the guilt slow him down. Hattie notices him, grimaces, and rushes on.
Trying to prove something.
The waves pick up. Hattie catches one, standing briefly before wiping out. She resurfaces quickly, almost laughing, but Oscar watches her expression shift just moments later. There’s a sudden pull in the water, subtle but unmistakable. A riptide.
She paddles against it. Wrong move.
Oscar feels the fright hit like a tsunami.
He’s been scared before. Of course he has. He’s terrible when it comes to horror movies. He’s seen his karting peers fissure into pretty nasty accidents. But this, the fear of this, of his younger sister—
He starts shouting, but the wind carries his voice sideways. Instinctively, he glances to shore—and sees that you’re already running. Board abandoned, feet flying across wet sand. You make it to him in record time, that crazed look in your eyes mirroring his.
Together, you plunge into the surf. Oscar’s strokes are strong, slicing through the current. He reaches Hattie just as she starts to panic.
“Float! Don’t fight it!” you yell, coming up on her other side.
Oscar grabs her wrist, firm but steady. You’re on the other, speaking calm, clear instructions, guiding her body as the three of you angle sideways out of the current.
You’re the voice of reason; Oscar is the force that perseveres.
It’s slow. Exhausting. But eventually, the pull lessens.
You reach the shore heaving, salt-stung, and shaking. Hattie collapses onto her knees, coughing up seawater, and Oscar sinks beside her, heart hammering. His hands rest at her back, as if he’s scared she’ll go down under the moment he lets go.
Hattie says nothing at first. She just looks at him with wet, furious eyes.
It’s a look Oscar is used to seeing on Hattie’s face. They’re siblings. Of course they squabble, and they fight, and they know where to hit for it to hurt. Such was the curse and blessing of being a brother.
Underneath all that, though, Oscar goes back to two cardinal truths: Being the eldest, he made his mum and dad parents—but when Hattie came around, they made him a sibling.
And a sibling he would always be, come hell or high water.
“You didn’t even say sorry,” Hattie sputters, like that’s still the worst thing that has happened this afternoon.
Oscar can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh. You hover nearby, giving them space. But not too much.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s I’m sorry for picking a fight, and I’m sorry for being a bad brother sometimes, and I’m sorry I never taught you about riptides.
Hattie sniffles, then swats at him. “You better be.”
And that’s how they make up.
Later, as the sun begins to dip, casting everything in amber, Oscar finds you rinsing your arms at an outdoor shower.
“Hey,” he says, stepping close with your towel in his hands.
You look over your shoulder. “Hey.”
He shuffles awkwardly. With salt in his hair and gratitude tangled in his ribs, Oscar thinks there’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when the tide pulls under.
But there’s something deeper, something closer to guilt gnawing at him.
You sense it, in the same way you know when Oscar’s about to have a bad race weekend or when he’s overwhelmed with schoolwork. Stepping out of the shower, you take your towel, wrap it over your shoulders, and gesture at Oscar to follow you.
The two of you walk along the shore, away from where Edie is snapping photos of her sandcastle and Mae is reading some trashy romance novel. Hattie is passed out on a beach blanket, the excitement of the near-drowning taking the fight out of her.
“If she had died,” Oscar tells you, his tongue heavy as lead, “it would’ve been my fault.”
It’s the kind of thought he figures only you will understand. Not because you have any siblings of your own, not because you had been there, but because you’ve always read Oscar like he was a dog-eared book you could keep under your pillow.
“She’s fine, though,” you say delicately, but he’s started and he can’t stop.
“What is wrong with me?” A laugh escapes Oscar—the self-deprecating kind, one that grates more than the sand beneath your feet. “I’ve made so many resolutions and written sad notes and confessed my sins, but it doesn’t seem to help. When I get in a passion—”
A passion. A fit. With his siblings, with his mates, with you. He can’t count the amount of times his sarcasm has offended you. The instances where he’s made you cry, intentionally or not.
And when he’s racing. God, when he’s racing.
In a couple of months, he’s slated to join Formula 4. He has a stellar karting career behind him, one he can barely even remember—because he had seen red throughout it all. Oscar was clinical and cutthroat and cruel the moment he got behind a wheel, and a part of him worries that’s who he’ll always be.
A man who would stop at nothing to be at the top step of any podium. A boy who would insist on being right like his life depended on it.
“When I get in a passion,” he tries again, “I get so savage. I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.”
It’s a damning confession. The kind that could absolutely ruin and unravel Oscar. But he knows, he trusts that it’s safe in your hands. You hum a low sound like he hadn’t just bared his heart out for you to sink your claws into.
“I know what that’s like,” you say, and he has to do a double take.
“You?” He studies the side of your face, as if checking for insincerity. “You’re never angry.”
You’re annoyed with him often and you’ve got a hint of fire in everything you say. But there’s never been rage, never been the sort of flame that could incinerate. And so it shocks him all the more when you confess, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life.”
“You are?”
“I’m not patient by nature. I just try to not let it get the better of me,” you offer, glancing up at Oscar.
The two of you have come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline. Soon, you’ll have to get back to his waiting sisters. For now, though, he surveys your expression and finds nothing but the truth.
He files the facts away in that mental cabinet he has containing what he knows about you. Angry, nearly every day. And then he takes to heart the rest of your words, the roundabout advice of not letting it consume him.
The blaze in him stops roaring for a minute. With you, it’s like a campfire. Inviting and warm.
Better. You make him better.
“Look at us,” he says, tone almost awed. “After all these years, looks like I can still learn a thing or two from you.”
There’s something in your eyes that Oscar can’t quite place. You’ve always looked at him a certain way, but he could never really put a word to it. It’s tender and pained all at once; subtle, ultimately, buried underneath whatever he needs you to be at the moment.
“It’s what friends are for,” you respond, your voice catching on the word in the middle. He pretends not to notice.
Friends.
Oscar’s Formula 4 debut is everything he thought it would be.
The pressure, the lights, the nerves so sharp they buzz under his skin—it’s all there, and then some. He tries to soak in every second, from the chorus of engines roaring around him to the feel of the wheel under his gloved hands. But even with everything happening so quickly, even in the blur of adrenaline and pit stops, there’s still time for his thoughts to drift back home.
More specifically: To you.
It starts small. Just a notification that you’ve made a new post. A photo.
You with your boyfriend.
A guy Oscar’s met once, maybe twice. The sort of guy who plays guitar at parties and wears cologne that smells like department store samples. He isn’t bad—just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t match the version of you Oscar has always known. The one who once danced on a porch, hair a mess, daring him to keep up.
He doesn’t know what to do with the bitter feeling that curdles in his chest. You’re not his, per se. You’ve never been. But surely you could do better than this Abercrombie-wearing, Oasis-playing asswipe.
Summer arrives like it always does—hot and sprawling, with cicadas humming in the trees and long days that stretch lazily into nights. Oscar is home for a few weeks between races.
You’re still around, too. A little less, though, because your boyfriend is a demanding thing who insists he “doesn’t like Oscar’s vibe.” You fight for the friendship, citing it as a non-negotiable, and when Oscar finds out, he doesn’t even try to hide his smugness.
The two of you steal away one evening, climbing onto the roof of the Piastri house with cans of lemonade and a bag of sour candy. It’s tradition by now. The tin roof is warm beneath you, and the stars blink faintly above, a faded scattering against the navy sky.
You sit close, your shoulder brushing his every so often.
“You’ve changed,” you say, head tilted toward him.
“Have not.”
“You look taller.”
“I’ve always been taller.”
You laugh, a soft sound. “Okay. You’ve changed in a good way.”
Oscar bumps your knee with his. “So have you.”
The two of you are older, now, more accepting of the facts of life. Time is not your enemy. It’s just time. You’re still in school, and Oscar is still racing. Your paths have diverged, but the road home is one you both know like the back of your hand.
You go quiet, fiddling with the tab on your lemonade. He watches you closely, trying to read what you’re not saying. You’re nervous. He figures that much out from the fiddling. Nervous about what, though, he can’t—
“I want to run away with him,” you say suddenly.
Oscar stiffens. He wants to call you out for making such a stupid joke, for not having all your screws on straight. You go on, eyes fixed on the dark street below. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Eloping,” you muse. “I’ve never been one for big weddings, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Why don’t I like big weddings?”
“No, stupid. Why the sudden plan of eloping?”
“Because I love him.”
He looks at you, really looks at you, the slope of your cheek in the half-light, the determination behind your words. It doesn’t sit right. This isn’t you. You make rash decisions, but none so life-altering. Not anything that would give your grandfather grief, and most especially not anything that would disclude Oscar.
“You’ll be bored of him in two years,” Oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.”
You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the words hang between you. Those two things could co-exist. Your love for this loser (Oscar’s word; not yours), and the fact that there was nothing in the world that could electrify quite like your friendship with Oscar Piastri.
He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He hadn’t realized this would be so serious, that he’d been away long enough for you to start considering marriage with what’s-his-face.
“I don’t expect you to know what it’s like, Oscar,” you say eventually. “To want to be shackled.”
And there it is.
You’ve always supported Oscar’s career. You have years worth of team merchandise for all his loyalties; you’ve been there for every race that mattered, each one that you could make.
But you were also selfish in ways that his family wasn’t. You got moody whenever he had to go away after breaks. You made snide comments about him always being the one who leaves. He’s grown to tolerate that petulance, to take in stride your fears of him failing to come back in one piece.
For the first time ever, Oscar feels what you do. And, God, it doesn’t feel good.
“I just hate that you’re thinking of leaving me.” The words are past his lips before he can reel them in.
It sounds desperate, so unlike him, that he understands the shock that flits across your face. There’s a split-second where he sees a hint of anger, too, like you’re mad at Oscar for being honest, for saying all this after his redeye flights and janky timezones.
He goes on, because what’s the point of backing down now? “Don’t leave,” he presses.
“O…”
You’re the only one who calls him that. O. OJ, when you’re feeling playful—Oscar Jack. He’s teased you time and time again about not falling back on Osc, as if you were desperate to carve out a nickname that belonged to you and you alone.
“God,” he interrupts, eyes turning skyward, as if the stars might hold answers. “We’re really not kids anymore, huh?”
You were kids together. Now, you’re teenagers—young adults. Complicated, messy. Entangled in more than limbs and waves.
“Our childhood was bound to end,” you say, and then you reach out to put a hand on his knee. He considers joking something like Careful, your boyfriend might try to pick a fight and you know I have a mean left hook, but then you might come to your senses and pull your touch away.
He doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. You just sit there on the roof, side by side, listening to the quiet hum of summer and the distant echoes of who you used to be.
You break up with your boyfriend sometime in early spring, citing incompatibility in a text that Oscar reads while lying flat on the floor of his hotel room in Baku.
He blinks at the message, reads it twice, and then tosses his phone across the bed. The relief that floods through him is disproportionate, almost unsettling. He chalks it up to instinct. Or something like that.
He tells himself it’s just the same feeling he gets when Edie starts seeing some guy from her literature elective, a summer not too long after you joked about eloping. Maybe it’s the older brother in him, wanting to be protective of the women in his life.
That’s what he’s muttering to himself when you catch him scowling at Edie’s date from across the local food park. He was chaperoning once again, though this time Edie had banished him to hang out with you while she was making heart eyes at this lanky transfer student.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” you tease Oscar, popping a chip into your mouth.
Oscar doesn’t look away from where Edie is laughing at something the guy just said. “At the idea of anybody coming to take Edie away? No, thank you.”
You smirk. “You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”
He finally glances at you, one brow raised. “I’d like to see anyone try.”
“So would I!” you shoot back, grinning as you sip your soda. Oscar’s withstanding singleness was something the two of you joked about often, even though he always reasoned that he was busy. Busy with racing, busy with family, busy with you. “That poor soul wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Oscar opens his mouth to reply, but then you pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. It’s a thing you picked up since you got to uni, and Oscar’s frown deepens at the sight of it. At your audacity. Before you can light it, he snatches it from your fingers.
“Oi!” you protest.
He waves it out of your reach. “None of that.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
You lunge for it, but he’s already up and jogging backward, the cigarette held aloft in triumph. You chase after him with a string of cusses, half-laughing, half-serious, and Edie and her date pause to watch you and Oscar bolt down the street like kids again—legs flailing, shouts echoing against the sidewalk.
“Are they—?” Edie’s date asks, and the Piastri girl only heaves out a sigh.
Oscar doesn’t stop until he hits the corner, chest heaving from laughter. You skid to a halt beside him, hair wild in the wind, eyes bright. The cigarette’s long gone, tossed in a bin somewhere behind them.
“That was expensive,” you whine.
“More incentive for you to quit it, then,” he responds.
You glare up at him. He rubs a knuckle into your hair, his free hand snaking to your pocket to grab the rest of the pack. You screech profanities as he bins it, but he makes it up to you with a meal of your choosing. It takes a sizable chunk out of the racing salary he sets aside for leisure, but you’re unrepentant and he’s wrapped around your finger.
You’re both older now. But sometimes, it still feels like nothing’s changed at all.
Albert Park is golden in the late afternoon.
The sun spills through the treetops, casting shadows across the path as Oscar kicks absently at a stray pebble, hands buried in his jacket pockets. You’re walking beside him, careful to match his pace even as his strides grow longer with whatever is bubbling up inside him.
A new year. A new contract. A new team, new plan, new person he has to be.
“It’s all happening so fast,” he mutters. “The Renault thing. Tests. Travel. They said it’s everything I ever wanted—and it is, it is—but I can’t stop feeling like I’m coming apart.”
You glance at him, brows furrowed. “Coming apart how?”
Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, but you’ve always had this philosophy that helped him be more honest around you. Say it first, you’d say. Backtrack later.
“I’m just not good like my sisters,” he blurts out, reaching and settling for a familiar comparison that might make him more comprehensible. “They’re—Hattie’s top of her class, Edie’s already talking uni offers, Mae’s got that whole ‘brightest light in the room’ thing. And me? I’m angry, and I’m restless, and I drive fast cars because I don’t know how to sit still.”
“You don’t have to be, O.”
He lets out a dry laugh. "Why? Are you about to tell me that I’m patient and kind, that I do not envy and I do not boast?"
You stop walking. He does too, when he notices.
You’re just a step or two behind him, the afternoon sun bathing you in a light that practically rivals the warmth you radiate. But there’s something so utterly stricken on your expression, something so undeniably raw that Oscar feels everything click into place.
The look on your face is one his parents sometimes give each other. He’s seen it in movies, seen it in the photos of his mates with long-term relationships. It’s the expression you’ve given him for years, and years, and years, and he feels like the world’s biggest fool for missing all the signs.
“No,” you say softly, denying him of his cruelty, of his failures. You think of him like that—patient, kind, humble.
The makings of a person who deserves—
Oscar begins to shake his head, saying, “No. No.”
“It’s no use, Oscar,” you say, your fingers curling into fists at your sides, and that’s his first sign that this is really about to happen. Not O, not Piastri, not any of the dozen annoying nicknames you’ve assigned him over the years.
“Please, no—”
“We gotta have it out—”
“No, no—”
Your conversation overlaps. It’s a twisted kind of waltz, as if the two of you are out of tune and out of step for the first time in your lives. Oscar starts pacing. Like he might somehow be able to run from what’s about to come.
You barrel on. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Oscar,” you breathe, following his panicked steps. “I couldn’t help it, and I’ve tried to show it but you wouldn’t let me, which is fine—”
“It’s not—”
“I’m going to make you hear it now, and you’re going to give me an answer, because I can’t go on like this.”
He flinches, takes a half-step back. Tries to say your name with more of those despairing please, don’ts, which fall on deaf ears.
You step toward him like the whole park is tilting and he’s the only thing keeping you upright. The words pour out too quickly now, too long held back. Years worth of yearning, bearing down on an unassuming Saturday.
“I gave up smoking. I gave up everything you didn’t like,” you say. “And I’m happy I did, it’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I—”
You stutter, swaying on your feet like the weight of your next words was too heavy for you to shoulder. You soldier through like a champion; that’s why Oscar listens, hears them out, even though they rip through him as if he’s crashed right into a wall.
“You know, I figured you’d love me, Oscar.”
A damning confession. The kind that should be safe in Oscar’s hands, but his fingers are shaky and his eyes are wide and he thinks he’s going to die, then and there, over how absolutely heartbroken you look that he’s not agreeing with you immediately. That his love was something vouchsafed, a promise for a later time.
“And I realize I’m not half good enough,” you whimper, “and I’m not this great girl—”
“You are.” Helplessness wrenches the words out of Oscar’s chest. It’s the same emotion that has him surging forward, his hands darting out to hold your shoulders and keep you upright, keep you looking at him. “You’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you and I’m so proud of you. I just—”
He falters. You gave him your honesty, so he fights to give you his.
“I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to,” he confesses. “I don’t know why.”
Your voice gets impossibly smaller. “You can’t?”
His eyes close, just for a moment, before he answers. “No,” he says slowly, each word measured against your frantic ones. “I can’t change how I feel, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so desperately sorry, but I just can’t help it.”
You step back; his hands fall to his sides. The distance opens like a wound.
“I can’t love anyone else, Oscar,” you say dazedly. “I’ll only love you.”
“It would be a disaster if we dated,” Oscar insists. “We’d be miserable. We both have such quick tempers—”
“If you loved me, Oscar, I would be a perfect saint!”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed.”
And he has. He’s had sleepovers with you, wondering what it might feel like to wrap his arm around your waist. He had once contemplated holding your hand during a movie. He figured it would be a given; no one would bat an eye. You and Oscar.
Except his heart had never fully gotten the memo, and now he pays the price for only ever being able to love the thrill of a race.
Your voice catches on your next words. “Everyone expects it,” you say in a ditch attempt to change his mind. “Grandpa. Your parents, your sisters. I've never begged you for anything, but—say yes, and let’s be happy together, Oscar.”
“I can't," he repeats, each syllable heavy. “I can’t say yes truly, so I’m not going to say it at all.”
The evening light keeps on glowing. The world doesn’t end. But you feel like it might've anyway, and he’s right there in that boat with you. You’re willing to settle for scraps, while Oscar refuses to give you half-measures. The silence between you stretches taut, pulling thinner and thinner until it threatens to snap.
“You’ll see that I’m right, eventually,” he says. Like he believes it will make the truth hurt less. “And you’ll thank me for it.”
You laugh bitterly. "I'd rather die."
He looks like you slapped him. “Don’t say that.”
You’re walking, now, your pace quick as you hurtle down the park pathway with the vengeance of a woman scorned. He calls your name and follows, keeping a sizable distance between you should you not want him to close.
“Listen, you'll find some guy who will adore you, and treat you right, and love you like you deserve,” he pleads, skidding in front of you and forcing you to do a full stop. “But— I wouldn’t. Look at me. I’m homely, and I’m awkward, and I’m mean—”
“I love you, Oscar,” you say, as if you’re savoring the first and last times you will get to say the words.
He goes on. He can’t answer that, can’t say anything to those words. “And you’d be ashamed of me—”
“I love you, Oscar.”
“And we would always fight. We can’t help it even now!" He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll never give up racing, and you’ll have to hide all your vices, and we would be unhappy. And we’d wish we hadn’t done it, and everything will be terrible."
He gasps for air. You blink back the sting in your eyes. “Is there anything more?” you ask.
He meets your gaze, and finds nothing there but rightful heartbreak. “No,” he murmurs. “Nothing more.”
You shoulder past him. He tilts his head back and eyes the sky for a moment, praying to be struck down by any higher power that exists. “Except that—” he starts, and you turn around so fast.
You turn, retracing your steps, and the guilt wells up in him like a faucet that had burst. He realizes—you think he’s going to take it back. You think it’s going to be a … but I love you instead of an I love you, but…
“I don’t think I'll ever fall in love,” he manages. “I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up.”
Your expression crumples. “I think you’re wrong about that,” you sigh.
“No.”
You shake your head, slowly. “I think you will care for somebody, Oscar. You’ll find someone, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way and your will.”
Oscar’s way. Oscar’s will. Two things he’s believed in wholeheartedly, until they’ve both failed him. Failed you.
You take a step back. The anger you once claimed to always have is somewhere, there, beneath all the hurt and the love. Oscar sees it, now. All of it; all of you.
“And I’ll watch,” you add.
Oscar will love someone— and you’ll watch.
The wind rustles the leaves above. A bird sings somewhere in the distance. But all you hear is the sound of something breaking open, and bleeding between you.
The deep and dying breath of the love you’d been working on.
Oscar doesn’t see you much after that night in Albert Park.
You’re still around, still next door. He hears you laughing with Hattie, helping Mae with a school project, or chatting idly with his mum over the fence. But it’s not the same. Something fundamental had shifted.
He tries. God knows he tries. He greets you when he sees you on the street. Makes light jokes. Keeps it easy, breezy, friendly. But every conversation feels like a performance, a pale imitation of what it used to be.
He’d broken both your hearts. He knows that too well.
Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, not even Hattie, who always had a sixth sense for these things. He lets you control that narrative; he’s sure you’ll tell his sisters, and they’ll all have something to say. Surprisingly, none of them bring it up. He wonders if that’d been your condition with them, and he is grateful, and he is angry, and he is so, so sorry.
He channels everything into racing. He throws himself into his training, enough that it gets him trophies and podiums and a contract with a frontrunning team.
His dream—the one he’d chased his whole life—is here.
And it’s everything he ever wanted. Almost.
A few days before he’s due to fly out for testing with McLaren, he finds himself in the backyard, watering the garden with Mae. She’s picking mint leaves with the same dramatic flair she does everything. He doesn’t notice when she says your name until the silence that follows makes him realize he’s been staring blankly at the hose.
You have a part-time job now, Mae had said. Oscar knows. Not from you. Rarely does he know anything about you from you nowadays. He watches your life in fifteen Instagram stories, in the Facebook posts of your grandfather. He hears about you from his parents and whichever of his sisters is feeling particularly brave that day.
It’s so sudden, his urge to be honest. And so, for the first time since what happened in the park—he lets himself speak his mind.
“Maybe I was too quick in turning her down,” he says, voice low. Contemplative.
Mae looks up from the mint. She looks a bit surprised, like she hadn’t expected to be the one to get Oscar to finally crack after over a year of dancing around the topic.
“Do you love her?” she asks outright.
He fucking hesitates.
His throat feels dry.
“If she asked me again, I think I would say yes,” he says instead, his gaze fixed on the poor tomato plant now drowning in water. “Do you think she’ll ask me again?”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Mae straighten. She brushes her hands against her jeans and stares straight at him, willing him to look at her. “But do you love her?” she repeats, and he knows it’s not a question he’s going to escape.
“I want to be loved,” Oscar admits. The words taste like copper.
Mae doesn't flinch. “That's not the same as loving. If you wanted to be loved, then get a fucking fan club,” she spits.
Her voice is firm, but not cruel. It lands with the weight of care disguised as exasperation. And Oscar feels so much, then, but above all he feels gratitude that his sisters love you like one of their own. Their fierce protectiveness of your welfare—in the face of Oscar’s indecision—knocks some much-needed sense into him.
“You’re right,” he says quietly.
“She deserves more than piecemeal affection, Oscar,” Mae adds, softening. “You can’t go halfsies with someone like her.”
Oscar knows his sister is right.
Something aches in his chest, then. He can’t tell if it’s loneliness or the shape of losing you, still carved somewhere in his chest. Beneath the ache of what he turned away is the terrible fear that he never really understood what he was saying no to.
“I won’t do anything stupid,” he promises Mae.
Later that afternoon, Oscar is pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when movement catches his eye through the window. He turns and sees you biking past with Hattie. Your carefree laughter carries across the breeze, light and familiar. Your hair catches the sun.
You glance up and see him. There’s a pause. Beyond the cursory small talk, the two of you haven’t really talked much this break. He understands why you need your space., and so he never presses, never pushes.
Even though he can’t help but think of how a pre-confession you might have reacted. How you would’ve ditched your bike and slammed into the house, demanding he pour you a drink, too. Or how you would’ve goaded him into a race until the two of you were spilling onto the pavement, all breathless laughter and skinned knees.
As it is, all Oscar gets is a polite smile and a half-wave. He doesn’t know if it’s a hello or a goodbye.
He raises his hand, waves back. He watches until you disappear around the corner.
And then he keeps watching, long after you’re gone.
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: Stupid stupid stupid
I hope this email finds you well.
Actually, I hope it never finds you. This is a bit stupid. A lot stupid. But I’ve just had my first proper testing and I wanted to text you about it, except I wasn’t sure how you might feel to hear from me. I reached for my phone, opened our text thread, and then decided to fake an email to you instead.
You’re right. It’s definitely more orange than papaya.
And Lando Norris is not so bad. I think you’d like him. But not like like him. I’m not sure, actually. We could find out. Or not.
This is stupid. Bye.
— O. (McLaren Technology Centre)
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: I don’t know what to call this one
Hey,
Doha's airport smells like cleaning chemicals and tired people. I watched a family fall asleep upright on a bench. The dad had his hand curled around the kid's backpack like he was scared someone would run off with it. I don't know why I'm telling you this.
Maybe because it's 2AM and I'm tired and I can't sleep on planes unless you're next to me. Which is stupid, because you were never on that many flights with me. But the ones you were? I slept like a rock.
I hope you're well. I hope you're sleeping.
—O. (Doha International Airport)
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: New Year
Happy New Year.
I watched the fireworks from the hotel rooftop. I wish I was back in Melbourne, but stuff made it not-possible.
It was cold. Everyone had someone to kiss. I had a glass of champagne and a view.
You came to mind. You always do when things start or end. I'm starting to think that's what you are to me. The start and the end.
Love, O. (Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo)
Edited to add: It was midnight when I wrote all that stuff. I’m rereading it now, hungover at the breakfast buffet. Guess I can be a bit of a romantic too, huh? Although I think it’s only ever with you.
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: You're in my dreams
I dreamed about you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jacket you got on sale for $5, the one you claimed made you look mega. You did not look mega. You looked like someone lost a bet.
You hugged me and told me everything would be okay. Then I woke up and it wasn’t.
I know I don’t get to tell you this anymore, but I miss you.
—O. (Tokyo Bay Ariake Washington Hotel)
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: Hahaha
I heard someone with your exact laugh. Turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
It wasn’t you.
You’d tease me for how dramatic that sounds. You always said I was a little too sentimental for a boy who liked going fast.
Still thinking of you.
—O. (Silverstone Circuit)
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: If I had said yes…
Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes that day in Albert Park.
I don’t know if we would’ve worked. Maybe we would have burned bright and fast and hurt each other in the end. Or maybe we would’ve grown into each other like roots. I don’t know. I just know I still think about it.
And that’s not fair. And I would never tell a soul. I just
wonder.
Sometimes.
Always your O. (Yas Marina Circuit)
The glitch hits sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. local time.
Oscar doesn’t notice at first. He’s still jet-lagged from the flight from Abu Dhabi, half-awake on his phone in bed, replying to a team manager's message. It's not until he opens his inbox to forward a document and sees the string of outbox confirmations—all with your name in the recipient line—that he realizes something is very, very wrong.
His breath catches.
He stares at the screen for a long, stunned moment before scrambling up from bed, heart in his throat. He checks the Sent folder. It’s all there. Every last one. The emails he never meant to send.
They'd been his safekeepings. His way of getting through the ache without adding more weight to yours. Some were barely a few sentences; others pages long. And all of them, every last word, are now sitting in your inbox like little bombs waiting to go off.
He Googles it with trembling fingers. Gmail glitch sends drafts.
He sees the headlines flooding in. Tech sites confirm that a rare global sync error had triggered thousands of unsent drafts to be sent automatically. They call it “an unprecedented failure.” Users are up in arms. Memes are already spreading.
Oscar wants to fucking hurl.
He’s home for the winter holidays. Back in Melbourne, back in his childhood room with the familiar creak in the floorboard by the desk. And you—you’re just next door.
You. With those emails.
He covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms down slowly.
“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself.
There’s no escape to this. Just the silent, inescapable weight of every unsaid thing now said. Every truth, every maybe, every I thought of you today signed off with hotel names and airport codes and times when he was still trying to figure out how to stop missing you.
And now you know. Every word of it. Every selfish, unfair thought that he didn’t deserve to have about you, not after he’d ripped your heart right out of your chest.
He peeks out the window before he can stop himself. Your lights are on.
For some reason, Oscar is reminded of the book you had been so obsessed with as a child. The classic Great Gatsby; the millionaire with his green light at the edge of the dock. Oscar never really cared much for the metaphor of it until now, until he stares at the filtered, warm light streaking through your curtains like it’s something he will forever be in relentless pursuit of.
But then your light flickers off, and Oscar stumbles back down to his bed.
You’re going to sleep, he realizes with a breath of relief. He sinks into the mattress with a thousand curses against modern technology.
Oscar tells himself he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Explain everything. Try to salvage what’s left of the peace you’ve both learned to live in, however shaky and distant it is. He’ll explain that he didn’t send them on purpose. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to—
A soft knock at the window makes him bolt upright.
He hasn’t heard that sound in years. Not since you were kids and the ladder in his backyard was your shared secret.
His breath catches. He doesn’t move right away.
He has to be dreaming, he thinks dazedly, but then he hears it again. Three quick taps. A familiar rhythm.
Oscar throws the covers off and crosses the room in two strides. He pulls the curtain aside.
You’re standing on the top rung of the ladder, and he briefly contemplates making a run for it again.
Instead, he throws the window open. You climb in without a word, landing on the floor of his bedroom with the same ease you always had. You’re in cotton pajamas with a hastily thrown-on hoodie, which—whether you remember or not—had been one of Oscar’s from years and years ago.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he breathes.
“And you’re in love with me,” you say without preamble.
Accusation. Question.
Fact?
Oscar is frozen like a deer caught in headlights. You’re staring up at him, searching, with that same matchstick flame of anger that has carried you through life so far.
When he doesn’t immediately counter you, you go on. “Do you love me because I love you?” you ask, and the question knocks the wind out of Oscar.
“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not like that.”
He— he would never forgive himself, if his affection for you was nothing more than an attempt at reciprocation.
You stare at him through the darkness. “Why, then?” you press, because of course you deserve to know why.
His throat works around the answer. It’s a confession that’s been in the making for more than a year. In some ways, it’s been there since he almost sat on you at that damn house party. The words tumble out of him, overdue but not any less sincere.
“I love you because you’re a terrible dancer,” he says, “and you know how to swim against riptides, and you’re the person I think of when I’ve had a bad free practice and when I'm on the top step of a podium. I love you. It just took me a little while to get here, but I do.”
“O,” you start. He’s not ready to hear it.
He steps back, as if to give you space he should’ve offered long ago. “I don’t expect you to have waited,” he says hastily. “I would never—I would never ask you to reconsider, not when I know the type of person I am and how much time it took for me to get here.”
“Oscar.”
“But I love you. I don't know how not to.”
The room is silent, but it feels like it holds the weight of a thousand words left unsaid. The ones he wrote.
You remind Oscar, gently, of what you said in Albert Park those many years ago. “I can’t love anybody else either,” you say, your eyes never leaving his face even as he begins to panic, starts to retreat.
He swallows hard, his throat moving with the effort. “I should have realized sooner,” he babbles. “I should’ve known. I—”
You reach out, your hand slipping into his. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”
It feels so good—your fingers in between the spaces of his. He wishes he could appreciate it more, but his race-brain has kicked in, and he’s suddenly not the calm, cool, and collected Oscar that everybody in the world think they know.
No, he’s your Oscar. The one who’s a little bit of a wreck. The one who is always racing away from something.
“I wasn’t kind,” he says, voice tight. “I let you go. I thought I was doing the right thing. and maybe I did, but it still hurt you. It ruined everything.”
“We’re here now,” you say simply. “That means something, doesn’t it?”
“What if we ruin what’s left? What if it doesn't work?”
You smile at him, soft and sure. “Then it doesn’t. But I don’t think we’ll fail.”
“I’m still homely, and awkward, and—”
Mean, he meant to say, but then you’re pressing your lips against his.
It silences all his fretting, all his guilt. For a second, he doesn’t move, stunned into stillness, and then he kisses you back like he’s falling into something he’s wanted his whole life but never believed he could have. Like he can’t breathe unless he's doing this, unless he’s kissing you.
When he’s more sane, when he’s less panicked, this is something the two of you will talk about. He knows that.
In this very moment, though, he can only watch his sharp edges dull; the fury of his rage, extinguish. The softness of your understanding, the kindness of your patience, the gentleness of your kiss. It’s all he wanted, all he needs.
His hands frame your face, hesitant, reverent, like he can't believe you’re really here with him. That you waited. That you still want him.
In his head, he makes a promise: If he must hit the ground running, he will make sure it’s towards you.
When the two of you pull back for air, you murmur teasingly against his lips, “Your emails found me well.”
He giggles, a short, incredulous sound, before kissing the laughter right out of your mouth. ⛐
OH HELL YEAHHHHH
VELVET & VICE | LN4
an: i can’t really remember how this idea came to me but i was listening to this song and the scenario popped in and consider this a late international women’s day fic bc let’s put respect on the real brains
wc: 5.7k
1940’s London
THE RAIN HAMMERED AGAINST THE CARRIAGE ROOF as it rattled through the darkened streets of London. The city reeked of coal smoke and damp earth, the fog curling around gas lamps like ghostly fingers. Inside, she sat rigid, fingers clenched in the folds of her lace gloves, the weight of her family’s ambition pressing against her ribs like a corset pulled too tight.
She was to be married tonight. Bound by ink and blood to a man she had never met, save for whispers of his name spoken in caution. Lando Norris. A name that carried weight in the underbelly of the city, a name that made men straighten their backs and women lower their gazes. A name that would now belong to her.
The carriage jerked to a stop in front of a grand townhouse, its brick facade imposing even beneath the gloom. A man in a flat cap opened the door, rain slicking his coat, and gestured for her to step out. She hesitated—just a beat—before she lifted her chin and climbed down, the dampness clinging to her skin like an omen.
Inside, the house smelled of whisky and tobacco, the air thick with the scent of men who made their own rules. And then she saw him.
Lando leaned against the mantle, his shirt sleeves rolled up, braces hanging loose over his shoulders. He looked exactly as she’d imagined—sharp-jawed, dark-eyes, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, eyes scanning her with the kind of disinterest that set her teeth on edge.
"So you're the poor thing they’ve shackled to me," he murmured, exhaling smoke.
She peeled off her gloves one finger at a time, ignoring the way his eyes flicked to the movement. "I’d say the feeling is mutual."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was gone just as quickly. He pushed off the mantle, stepping close enough that she caught the scent of tobacco and leather. "Let’s get one thing straight," he said, voice low. "You don’t make trouble for me, and I won’t make trouble for you. We do what’s required, and that’s it."
She met his gaze, defiant. "Oh, don’t worry. I have no intention of playing the doting wife."
Something flickered in his eyes then—something dark, something amused. He acted like her sharp tongue was a nuisance, but there was a tension in his jaw, a twitch in his fingers, that told her otherwise.
He liked it.
Lando let the silence hang between them for a moment, eyes narrowing as he took another slow drag of his cigarette. Then, exhaling a stream of smoke, he turned away, his voice clipped and businesslike.
"You’ll have your own room," he said, moving towards the drinks cabinet. "End of the hall, second door on the left. We do what’s necessary in public, but behind closed doors, you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours." He poured himself a glass of whisky, the clink of crystal against the bottle cutting through the thick air. "You don’t ask questions, you don’t meddle in things that don’t concern you, and we’ll get through this just fine."
She folded her arms, unmoved. "Perfect. I’d hate to be under your feet."
A scoff left his lips, low and amused. He knocked back the whisky in one go, setting the glass down with a decisive thud. Then, without looking at her, he called over his shoulder. "Oscar will take your bags up."
Her fingers twitched at her sides. She could feel the weight of his words, the unspoken expectation that she’d simply nod, accept the help, fall into line like some obedient little wife.
Instead, she turned sharply on her heel, her voice crisp. "As I said—no doting wife from me."
She strode past him, ignoring the way his head tilted ever so slightly at her tone. Bending down, she grasped the handles of her two trunks—heavy with silk, lace, and a life she hadn’t chosen—and lifted them without hesitation.
Lando said nothing, but she felt his gaze on her as she walked off, her heels clicking against the polished wooden floor with each deliberate step. He was watching her. Measuring her.
And if she wasn’t mistaken, he liked what he saw.
The first week passed in a tense, unspoken battle of wills.
She settled into the house without asking permission, without waiting for instructions. She came and went as she pleased, taking the car when she wanted it, slipping through London’s streets with a confidence that said she owed nothing to anyone—not even the man whose name she now carried. She had no interest in playing the obedient little wife, and Lando, for all his grumbling, hadn’t tried to force her into it.
Not that they didn’t clash.
She was sharp-tongued, quick-witted, never missing a chance to throw his own words back at him. When he told her not to meddle, she raised a brow and asked if she should sit in a corner and do embroidery instead. When he came home late, smelling of whisky and cigarette smoke, she’d glance up from her book and say, "Busy night intimidating the weak?" with just enough amusement to make his jaw tick.
And yet, for all his irritation, she noticed the way his eyes followed her. The way his fingers twitched at his side when she smirked at him. The way he seemed to come home earlier than he used to, as if drawn back to the house by something he wouldn’t name.
But she never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
So when he strode into her room unannounced that evening, it wasn’t entirely surprising. What was surprising was the way he stopped dead in his tracks.
She stood by the vanity in nothing but her undergarments—lace-trimmed, elegant, expensive, the kind of thing a woman wore when she had no intention of being overlooked. She didn’t flinch, didn’t rush to cover herself. Instead, she met his gaze in the mirror, her expression utterly unimpressed.
Lando, for once, had nothing to say. His mouth opened slightly before he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
"Christ—sorry." He turned on his heel, as if debating whether to leave altogether.
She barely spared him a glance as she reached for a brush, running it through her hair with slow, measured strokes. "What is it you need?"
There was a beat of silence, thick and charged. Then, slowly, he turned back, his expression unreadable.
Maybe he’d expected her to blush, to stammer, to pull a dressing gown around herself in embarrassment. Instead, she was calm. Unbothered. It was him who looked thrown off.
And that, more than anything, made her smirk.
Lando hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping further into the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. Instead of leaving, as any decent man would, he crossed to the bed and sank onto the edge of it, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes never left her.
She continued brushing her hair as if he wasn’t there, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be standing half-dressed while her husband sat on her bed, watching her with a gaze that was just a little too heavy, a little too slow.
She had no shame, no hesitation. It was infuriatingly attractive.
Lando dragged a hand over his jaw and exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. "We’re going out tomorrow."
She arched a brow in the mirror. "Are we?"
He smirked at the disinterest in her tone. "Another firm’s hosting a gathering. Their boss’ wife will be there, and I need you to keep conversation going."
At that, she finally turned to face him, one hand still idly twisting a strand of hair around her fingers. "You need me to be charming," she summarised.
"Something like that," he said, watching her closely.
He shifted slightly, fingers tapping idly against his knee. "There are rules, though. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t ask questions—"
"Don’t drink too much. Don’t get pulled into business talk. Don’t act too interested in the men, or too cold to their wives. Always let you lead the conversation," she listed off, her voice laced with boredom. "I know."
Lando frowned. "How—?"
She gave him a knowing look, standing and walking towards the wardrobe as if this entire exchange was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "You’re not raised as Verstappen daughter without knowing those rules," she said simply.
For a moment, Lando just watched her, his head tilting slightly. He knew her father had been one of the most calculated men in London, he’d met her older brother, but hearing the ease with which she recited those expectations made something settle in his chest.
She hadn’t just been married into this world. She’d been built for it.
And, for reasons he didn’t quite understand yet, he liked that far more than he should have.
The restaurant was the kind of place where the rich and the dangerous rubbed shoulders, where chandeliers dripped light onto crisp linen tablecloths, and where business was conducted in murmured voices behind half-filled glasses of whisky. Lando led her inside with a firm hand at the small of her back—not out of affection, but as a quiet warning to behave. She didn’t need it.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
The air was thick with cigar smoke and quiet tension, laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes of the men who chuckled. Their host for the evening, George Russell, sat at the head of the table, his wife draped in silk beside him, her rings catching the light as she spoke with animated flourishes.
Lando had a job tonight. She knew that. This wasn’t just about keeping up appearances—it was about information. Alliances. Power. And while he was watching the men, reading their movements, she turned her attention to something far more useful.
The wives.
They always knew more than they should. They noticed things their husbands assumed they wouldn’t, and if you listened carefully enough, you could hear the real story behind all the posturing.
So she leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity, mouth curled in that perfect balance of friendly and conspiratorial. "I adore that bracelet," she murmured to one of them, tilting her head. "Is it new?"
The woman, delighted to be noticed, grinned. "Oh, George bought it last week, the dear. He felt guilty, I think—off on business in the middle of the night, you know how it is."
She hummed, sipping her wine. Business in the middle of the night. Interesting.
Another woman sighed, swirling her glass. "At least yours buys you presents. Alex’s been preoccupied with that warehouse of his—honestly, I think he’s more in love with those bloody shipments than me."
Shipments. Warehouse. Noted.
She let the conversation drift, guiding it where she wanted, letting them talk themselves into giving her everything. And by the time dessert arrived, she had more useful information than Lando would get from an hour of sharp-eyed stares and stiff conversation.
"Enjoying yourself?" he murmured beside her, his hand grazing her thigh beneath the table as he leaned in. From the outside, it looked like an intimate gesture. She knew better. He was asking if she’d behaved.
She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze with a slow, knowing smile. "Oh, very much so."
He had no idea.
She continued as the courses passed, her laughter light, her eyes wide with interest, each question perfectly placed. She never pushed too hard—just enough to make the other wives feel important, to let them believe they were the ones leading the conversation. A few coy smiles, a well-timed sigh of exasperation about the trials of marriage, and they practically handed her everything.
Lando, meanwhile, was locked in conversation with George and the other men, his voice low, sharp. He was fishing for something—information, leverage, an answer to whatever question had brought him here tonight. He didn’t notice how easily she was doing the same.
By the time coffee was served, she had the pieces she needed. A warehouse by the docks. A shipment coming in late, unregistered. A man slipping away in the night when he shouldn’t be. The men sat back in their chairs, cigars glowing in the dim light, convinced they held all the power in the room.
She smirked against the rim of her glass.
Dinner wrapped up in a slow, drawn-out affair of handshakes and parting pleasantries. Lando’s hand found her back again as he led her outside, his grip firm, possessive. The evening air was sharp against her skin after the warmth of the restaurant, and the street was quiet save for the low murmur of departing guests.
The carriage was waiting. Lando opened the door, helping her in before settling beside her. The door clicked shut, the city slipping past in shadows as they pulled away.
For a few moments, there was only silence. He stretched out his legs, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the evening. Then he turned to her, studying her in the dim light.
"You behaved yourself, then," he murmured.
She hummed, tracing a lazy circle on the leather seat. "Oh, I don’t know about that."
He raised a brow. "Should I be worried?"
She leaned back, watching him. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, she began listing what she had learned.
George’s late-night disappearances. The unregistered shipment. The dockside warehouse. The men who had not been where they were supposed to be.
She spoke with ease, watching as Lando’s expression shifted.
By the time she finished, he was silent. He tilted his head slightly, his fingers tapping once against his knee before he exhaled, slow and deliberate.
"You got all that," he said, "from gossip."
She smirked. "Oh, Lando. You should know by now—wives hear everything."
Lando stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the faint glow of the passing street lamps flickering across his face. Then, without a word, he rapped twice against the carriage wall.
The driver changed course.
She arched a brow. "Not going home?"
"We are," he said, his voice thoughtful, as if he were still piecing something together. "But we’re going to my study first, separate entrance. I need to put this all together."
She smirked. "Ah. So now I’m useful."
Lando didn’t rise to the bait, but she caught the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "Just come inside, will you?"
When they arrived, he led her straight through the house, his pace brisk, mind clearly working through everything she had told him. The study was dimly lit, the scent of leather and old paper heavy in the air. He went straight to his desk, rolling up his sleeves as he sank into the chair, reaching for a notepad and pouring himself a drink in the same fluid movement.
She, however, had no interest in taking the chair across from him. Instead, she strolled to the desk, hands trailing idly along the polished wood, before hoisting herself up onto the edge of it.
Lando glanced up, his gaze dragging over the length of her legs as they crossed neatly at the ankles. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before reaching for his pen. "Go on, then," he muttered. "Tell me again."
She did. Slowly, carefully, repeating each scrap of information she’d gathered, watching as he jotted notes, muttering under his breath as he began to piece the puzzle together. He was sharp, quick, catching things she hadn’t even realised were connected.
It was almost impressive. Almost.
And then, just as he leaned back, his fingers running through his hair as the final piece clicked into place, his gaze lifted to hers.
"You’re amazing, you know," he murmured.
For a brief second, there was no teasing, no sharp remarks, no battle of wills. Just that raw, unfiltered admiration in his voice, his eyes dark and searching as they held hers.
She tilted her head slightly, lips curving in a slow, knowing smile. "I do know," she murmured. "But it’s nice to hear."
His chuckle was low, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment longer than necessary.
He had underestimated her.
And now, he never would again.
Two nights later, she was in her room, the fire casting a warm glow against the walls, the silk of her slip whispering against her skin as she moved. The house was quiet, the night settling in thick and heavy. She had just slipped onto the edge of the bed when the door flew open with a sharp bang.
She didn’t flinch.
Lando strode in like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he did—but this time, there was no hesitation, no muttered apology. He had the same sharp, intense energy as before, but now there was something else, something simmering beneath the surface.
"We did it," he said, breathless, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair slightly out of place like he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes burned as they met hers. "We caught the bloody shipment."
She raised a brow, unimpressed by his theatrics despite the way her pulse quickened. "Good for you."
"You," he corrected, stepping closer, "helped us get it. We’ve been trying for four months, and tonight, we finally had them."
There was pride in his voice, raw and unfiltered. But there was something else, too—something deeper. The way he was looking at her, as if only now realising just how dangerous she truly was.
She tilted her head, considering him. "I did tell you wives hear everything," she murmured.
A slow smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t last. The air between them was shifting, thickening, the triumph of the night bleeding into something hotter, something heavier. He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, and she was still perched on the bed, watching him with that same knowing glint in her eye.
And then he moved.
One second, he was standing a few feet away. The next, he was in front of her, his hands gripping her face, his mouth crashing against hers like he was starving for it. There was nothing soft about it—nothing tentative. It was heat and frustration, admiration and possession, all tangled into one.
She responded without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. The silk of her slip was nothing between them, just a whisper of fabric as his hands slid down, gripping her waist, anchoring her to him like he had no intention of letting go.
The fire crackled in the background, but the only warmth she felt was him—his mouth, his hands, the weight of his body pressing against hers like he had been holding himself back for far too long.
And from the way he kissed her, deep and desperate, she knew one thing for certain.
He wasn’t holding back anymore.
The kiss deepened, ferocious, as if the world outside her room had ceased to exist. Lando’s hands moved with a possessiveness that made her pulse race. He slid them down her back, pressing her closer to him until she could feel the heat of his body searing through the thin silk of her slip.
His lips left hers briefly, only to trail down her jaw, his breath hot against her skin. She tilted her head, giving him more access, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging him back to her mouth. She could taste the whisky on his lips, the bitterness of it mixing with the sweetness of the moment, a dangerous combination.
He was a man who took what he wanted, and right now, he wanted her.
With a low growl, he broke the kiss, eyes dark and wild with desire, before he lifted her off her feet. She gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried her, almost recklessly, to the vanity. The cold wood of the table hit the back of her legs, but she hardly noticed as he set her down, pushing her back against it.
The tension in the air was palpable, thick with anticipation. His hands were everywhere now—gripping her hips, sliding up to her waist, fingers brushing the curve of her breasts, teasing the delicate straps of her slip. She arched into his touch, heart hammering in her chest, the heat between them making everything else fade into insignificance.
“Lando,” she breathed, her voice low, almost a whisper, but it felt like a command.
He responded instantly, his lips finding her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he sucked gently, marking her, staking his claim. Her hands moved down, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel more of him, to rid herself of the barriers between them. He groaned against her skin, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.
“You wanted this,” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough, full of raw need. "Admit it."
She didn’t respond with words. She didn’t need to. Her hands slid up to his chest, pushing his shirt off his shoulders, and she kissed him again, fiercely, determinedly. Her body pressed against his, feeling every inch of him as if they could somehow merge together.
Lando pulled back, his eyes scanning her face with that same intensity, as if trying to read her, trying to figure out what game she was playing. “You’re mine now,” he growled, hands tugging at the silk slip, pulling the bands off her shoulders.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t shy away. Instead, she met his gaze, a spark of something dangerous and defiant in her eyes. "If I’m yours," she purred, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "then you’d better take me properly, Lando."
The air between them crackled with tension. And then, without another word, he kissed her again, more urgently this time, his hands finding her skin, drawing her closer to him, until she could feel the weight of him pressing against her.
This was no longer about games or control. This was a raw, unfiltered need that neither of them could deny. And they were both too far gone to stop.
The air between them was thick, electric. The heat of their earlier desperation hadn’t faded—it had only settled into something deeper, something hotter. Lando was still pressed against her, his fingers gripping her thighs where she sat atop the vanity, her silk slip bunched around her hips. His breath was uneven, his lips red from kissing her senseless, but now, something shifted.
Without a word, he dropped to his knees before her.
She sucked in a breath, caught between intrigue and anticipation as she looked down at him. His hands smoothed over her thighs, slow and reverent, his touch softer now, but no less possessive. The sight of him like this—on his knees for her—sent a wicked thrill down her spine.
He tilted his head back to meet her gaze, his dark eyes burning with something close to worship. "I’ve been a fool," he murmured, voice thick with want. His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he spread her legs just enough to make her breath hitch. "For not seeing you for what you are."
Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "And what am I, Lando?"
His hands slid higher, fingertips tracing the hem of her slip. He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost over her bare skin. "My equal," he said roughly. "More than that." His lips brushed the inside of her thigh, teasing, tasting. "The one woman who could bring me to my knees."
She exhaled, a quiet, shuddering thing, her grip tightening in his hair as his mouth travelled higher. He was usually all dominance, all control, but here he was—kneeling for her, worshipping her with his hands, his lips, his voice.
She let him linger, let him kiss and touch and revel in her, let him show her that he understood now. That she wasn’t just a wife for show, not just a piece to be moved on the board.
And then, when she was satisfied, when his grip was almost desperate on her skin, when his breathing was uneven with the sheer need of her, she tugged at his hair, forcing him to look up at her.
“Stand up,” she commanded softly.
His chest rose and fell hard, but he obeyed, rising to his full height, towering over her again. His hands found her waist, his thumbs brushing against the silk clinging to her body. She could see the restraint in his posture, the way he was holding back, waiting for her next move.
She reached for him, tracing her nails lightly over the bare skin of his chest. “From now on," she murmured, pressing her lips just below his jaw, feeling the way his pulse pounded beneath her mouth, "you’ll show me the same respect."
Lando’s hands clenched at her hips, his body taut with the effort it took not to crush her against him. His mouth hovered just over hers, breath heavy, his voice low and ragged when he finally answered.
“Yes, love,” he rasped. “I will.”
And then he kissed her again, deep and consuming, pulling her against him so hard that she gasped against his lips. And when he lifted her from the vanity, carrying her towards the bed once more, she knew—there was no turning back from this.
His breath was warm against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his fingers pressing into her hips as if anchoring himself there. He wasn’t in a rush—no, Lando was savouring this, savouring her.
She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him, chest rising and falling heavily. He looked up at her through thick lashes, his dark eyes burning with something raw, something dangerous.
"You like this, don’t you?" she murmured, her voice low, taunting. "Being here. Like this."
Lando exhaled a slow breath against her skin, his grip tightening. "You’ve no idea," he muttered, voice rough, strained.
And then he pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate. His stubble scraped against her skin, his mouth hot, teasing. She shivered, fingers twitching against the sheets. He was taking his time, deliberately drawing it out, and the anticipation was maddening.
"Lando," she breathed, not quite a plea, but close.
That did something to him. His hands slid further up, spreading her more beneath him, and then he leaned in fully, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss where she needed him most.
She gasped, her head falling back against the pillows. He hummed in satisfaction, his grip keeping her in place as he set to work, slow, languid strokes of his tongue that had her body arching towards him.
She barely registered the way her fingers tangled into his hair, holding him there, guiding him. But Lando? He groaned at the feeling, at the way she responded so perfectly to him.
She wasn’t used to this—to a man like him showing this kind of devotion. But he was thorough, almost as if he had something to prove.
As if he wanted to ruin her.
And God, she was happy to let him try.
His name left her lips again, breathy and uneven, her fingers tightening in his hair as he worked her over with slow, unrelenting precision. Lando groaned against her, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her, making her thighs tremble against his broad shoulders.
He was savouring this, taking his time, deliberately keeping her on the edge but never quite letting her tip over. Each flick of his tongue, each teasing stroke, was measured, controlled—because he wanted her desperate for it, wanted to hear her break beneath him.
She let out a frustrated whimper, her hips shifting, seeking more. "Stop—" she gasped, "—teasing."
He chuckled, the sound low and wicked against her skin, but he didn’t stop. If anything, he slowed, his hands pressing firmer against her hips, keeping her exactly where he wanted. "And here I thought you liked control," he mused, his voice thick with amusement.
Her head fell back, a soft curse leaving her lips. "You’re insufferable."
He smirked against her, his grip tightening. "And yet you’re falling apart for me."
She had a sharp retort on her tongue, something cutting, something defiant—but then he finally gave in.
A deep, languid stroke of his tongue, firmer now, deliberate. Her back arched off the bed, a strangled sound escaping her lips. His hands smoothed over her thighs, keeping her open for him, and then he truly set to work—thorough and utterly merciless.
The tension that had been winding so tightly inside her snapped without warning, pleasure crashing through her like fire, her entire body trembling beneath him. He groaned at the way she came undone for him, his grip never loosening, as if he wanted to feel every moment of it.
She barely registered the way he pressed one last, lingering kiss to her inner thigh before pulling himself up over her, his hands bracing on either side of her head.
Her chest heaved as she blinked up at him, still dazed, still recovering. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark with something feral.
"You," she murmured, voice thick, "are far too good at that."
Lando smirked, dipping his head to kiss her, slow and indulgent, letting her taste herself on his tongue. "And I’m nowhere near finished with you yet, love."
The shift between them had been subtle at first. A brush of fingers when passing, a lingering glance across a crowded room. But now, a few days later, it was undeniable. They moved as one—seamless, untouchable. Where Lando had once been guarded, careful, now his hands were always on her. A hand on the small of her back as he led her through a room, fingers tracing absentminded circles on her wrist as they sat together, a possessive arm slung around her shoulders when they held court among their people.
She had settled into her role with a quiet, effortless power. No longer just his wife, no longer simply the woman who had been given to him to tie two families together—she was his equal. And everyone knew it.
Tonight, the house was alive with warmth, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the grand dining room as they entertained their closest allies. She sat beside Lando at the head of the table, her posture easy, confident, her silk gown pooling elegantly over her crossed legs.
Lando, ever the king of the room, leaned back in his chair, fingers idly tracing along the inside of her wrist where her hand rested on the table. He wasn’t even looking at her, too busy listening to one of his men recount some business in the East End, but the touch was absent-minded, second nature now.
She smirked slightly, turning her hand to entwine her fingers with his, giving a squeeze. His thumb stroked over her knuckles, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips before he lifted her hand to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist.
The room fell into a hushed sort of awe at the display. Their leader, cold and ruthless, was openly devoted to his wife in a way none of them had ever seen before. And she? She simply accepted it, like it was her due.
When dinner was over and the guests had drifted into the parlour for cigars and whisky, Lando caught her by the waist, pulling her into a quiet corner before she could follow.
"You realise what you’ve done, don’t you?" he murmured, voice rich with amusement.
She arched a brow, tilting her head. "And what’s that, darling?"
He smirked, fingers brushing down her spine. "Made me soft."
She laughed, low and sultry, trailing a finger down the front of his waistcoat. "Oh no, my love," she murmured, standing on tiptoe to brush a slow, lingering kiss against his jaw. "I’ve made you unstoppable."
Lando exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening at her waist before he turned and kissed her, slow and deep, uncaring of who might see. Because she was right.
They weren’t just husband and wife anymore.
They were a force.
Lando had always prided himself on being the smartest man in the room. He had built his empire on instinct, on knowing where to strike and when to hold back. But now? Now he had something even sharper in his arsenal—her.
He now saw her skill for what it was. What he had once dismissed as idle gossip, frivolous chatter over tea and brandy, was in fact the deadliest weapon at his disposal. While the other men scrambled to find their rats and their loopholes, tearing through their operations in search of betrayal, they never once stopped to consider that the real danger was sitting beside them at their own dinner tables.
Because the truth was simple. It wasn’t their men who were loose-lipped—it was their wives. Women ignored, underestimated, left to sip their champagne and idly entertain themselves. They spoke of everything—the shipments their husbands fretted over, the officers they paid off, the backdoor deals and sudden disappearances. They let secrets slip between sips of wine, between boasts of fine jewellery and whispered complaints of infidelity.
And she? She had been listening.
Now, Lando had a new advantage, one his rivals didn’t even realise existed. Every other day, he was intercepting shipments before they even made it onto the docks. Smugglers were caught, safe houses compromised, backroom deals unravelled before they had even begun. The panic was spreading—men were at each other’s throats, convinced they had a traitor in their ranks. And all the while, she sat by Lando’s side, lips painted red, eyes sharp, watching their empire grow stronger by the day.
Lando leaned back in his chair, fingers running lazily along the curve of his glass, watching her across the room. She was laughing, a sultry, knowing sound, as she toyed with the pearl necklace around her throat, listening with that careful attentiveness that he now recognised for what it truly was. She was drawing out secrets as easily as she drew breath.
She felt his gaze before she saw it, glancing over at him with a smirk, tilting her head ever so slightly. See something you like? her expression seemed to tease.
He smirked in return, lifting his glass in a silent toast to her.
His wife wasn’t a problem.
She was his genius.
the end.
taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @spiderbeam
which f1 driver should i draw next
(i have already done oscar)
(tumblr only allows 12 options)
don’t talk to me i’m sobbing over my oscariño in the grass and salvaging a few points
(MY SHAYLAAAAAA 😭😭😭)
me the entire race weekend
you just know jack frost is nipping at that nose HARD
i was watching dts and i saw kimi and i OUT LOUD squealed “KIMIIIIIII!!!!”
to reiterate
why does my man look like a cardboard cutout 😭😭
why does my man look like a cardboard cutout 😭😭
Flop Era
I want to start off by saying my latest 3 fanfics I have written for Charles, Lando, and Oscar have been FLOPS, not a lot of engagement so I don’t know if I should “retire” or not.
BUT I have one last idea that could decide if I retire or not.
Based off an instagram reel that my friend sent me of Sebastian Rulli and Angelique Boyer. The couple were on a Mexican late night talk show called De Noche Pero Sin Sueño where Angelique and two other women pero in boxes that had holes where they would stick out their hands. Sebastian would have to guess which of these hands belonged to Angelique BLINDFOLDED, they have the same nail length, shape, and nail polish! Sebastian was between woman 1 and woman 3, ANGELIQUE WAS 2! He takes the blindfold off, his final answer was 3, then Angelique made hand gestures like “are you serious?” And his eyes WIDENED and was like “oh fuck, I messed up”
So I’m thinking Y/N would be a Latin superstar, makes music in Spanish, has appeared in some popular telenovelas and broke out in the American market as well, starting in blockbuster movies. Think Eiza Gonzalez, and she’s dating an F1 driver, they met at a Grand Prix, she was invited by the team, they are literally the talk of Hollywood and F1. Y/N says they’ve been invited to Mexico to be guests in the show and the same thing that happened to Sebastian and Angelique, happens to Y/N and the driver you voted for.
IF VOTING CLOSES WHEN YOU SEE IT, YOU CAN STILL COMMENT UNTIL APRIL 24TH
Good Girl
Pairing: AU!Charles Leclerc x Latina!Reader
Summary: where Charles calls you a “good girl” despite him “hating” you.
A/N: based off the song Good Girl by my name twin, April Jai. This will be a sort of enemies to lovers AU where Charles is your boss, but tries to keep his distance from falling for you by saying he hates you. He’s very much Alexander von Ferdinand from Lola erase un vez (if you know, you know).
Is that a little hunger in your eyes? Looks to me that you just can’t deny The tension, friction, immediate submission When you call me A good good girl
You were talking on the phone with your friend while in line to buy lunch for your boss.
"Girl, I am telling you that i never had a boss as grumpy as him. It is like every little thing sets him off, the breakup with Alexandra must have been terrible." You told you friend. Luckily for you, he was in the office, you got up to the cashier to pay for Charles's lunch
"Yeah, i heard she got full custody of Leo." Your friend said.
"Yeah, but he's been such an ass lately, like very Miranda Priestly." You said, grabbing the lunch and heading to the elevator to go up to the 16th floor, where his office was. "I swear, i lowkey regret taking this job. As much as i love working in Monaco, este maldito pendejo me hasta haciendo la vida imposible with his fucking mood swings. Like don't take out your anger on me because of your failed relationship." Unfortunately, the elevator doors opened on the last sentence you said, revealing your boss, Charles Leclerc.
"Gossiping about me, Miss L/N?" Charles asked, even though he knows the answer already.
"Luego te hablo, Mari." You hung up the phone and stepped out of the elevator. "Sir, i am so sorry, that was completely unprofessional of me." Charles started walking to his office, with you following not far behind.
"Is that my lunch?" Charles asked, ignoring your question, sitting at his desk.
"Yes, Mr. Leclerc, here." You placed the lunch container on his desk. Charles opened it and frowned. "Whats wrong?"
"I wanted pasta, does this look like pasta to you?” Charles asked, showing you the container full of chicken and rice.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Leclerc, I’ll get you a new lunch.” You said.
“Good girl, make sure it’s a pesto pasta.” Charles said and you started to get that warm feeling in your stomach. It wasn’t the first time your boss called you a good girl, but it was the first time it felt like he was teasing you. You almost stumbled when leaving his office.
Charles smirked to himself as he watched your reaction. Truth be told, he was actually quite fond of you, might even go as far as saying he has a crush on you. However, he didn’t want it to seem like a power imbalance considering he’s your boss so he tries to keep his distance. But your reaction to him calling you a good girl is making it harder for him to keep pretending he doesn’t want to call you a good girl on different circumstances.
You went back to the food court on the building and went over to an Italian place to get pesto pasta, hopefully it’s good and Charles won’t bite your head off. After ordering, you paid for it and went back upstairs, placing the takeout container of pasta on his desk. Charles opened it and hummed in appreciation.
“Great, exactly what I wanted, good girl.” Charles said and he heard your breath hitch, he smirked. “Could you close the door for me?”
“Of course, sir.” You said, heading to the door and closing it, it was only you and him in his office. You’re just glad it wasn’t a fishbowl so no one can see how nervous you are.
“Do you like it when I call you a good girl, y/n?” Charles asked and you turned around to face him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Leclerc.”
“Oh don’t act all innocent because I know you’re not. The way your eyes sort of glaze over when I give you praise like that. You want to be a good girl, a good girl for me.” Charles said walking closer to you until your back hits the wall. You look down, trying hard not to make eye contact. “I’m right aren’t I?” He said, though you weren’t looking at him, you were positive he was smirking. “Look at me, mon Ange” Charles out his finger under your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Good girl.” You felt goosebumps and saw how Charles’s eyes darkened in desire.
“What about you, sir? You say how my eyes glaze over when you call me a good girl, but what about the hunger in yours when I refer to you as sir? I was beginning to think you hated me but I see that’s not the case here.” You stated shakily since he started kissing your neck.
“Of course I don’t hate you, mon ange. But the bossing you around? You doing everything I tell you? The immediate submission when I call you a good girl? It was just too fun to quit.” Charles said into your ear, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, making you whimper.
“You were teasing me this whole time?” You questioned, moving away from Charles.
“Admittedly I was.“ Charles replied.
“You’re evil.” You said, Charles cocked his head to the side.
“Can’t say I’m not. What I can say is that i really want to kiss you.” Charles said, his gaze falling to your lips, your breath hitched before nodding ever so slightly and Charles kisses you passionately, he bit your bottom lip to get your mouth to open so he can insert his tongue.
After a little make out session, you pulled away, lips swollen in the friction.
“Well…I have it get back to work, if this isn’t a one time thing, you already have my number.” You said, walking out of his office to freshen up in the bathroom. Charles just stood there in disbelief, thinking you definitely weren’t as innocent as you pretend to be
The End