chillycherry44

[chillycherry44]

this is SPECTACULAR🤩 I’m obsessed with it

to you, always.

pairing brother's best friend lando x fewtrell!reader

synopsis in which you call lando. and he comes.

warnings 14.8k words of angst, secrecy and brother max.

author’s note heyhey, sorry that i've been gone for a while, life gets a bit hectic and busy at times but i've finally gotten around to finishing this wonderful fic! and i have more fics coming your way soon. hope you enjoy <3

You’re not sure why you’re at this party to begin with. 

Actually, screw that, you knew exactly why— your older brother, Max, made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want you hanging around this specific crowd of people, and you had something to prove. You wanted to show him that you’re no longer the little sister he could push around, you wanted to finally be seen as grown, despite being younger than him.

It was cold outside Mason’s house. Your heels were off, your makeup’s smudged, the girl you came with ran off with some random guy neither of you knew, and you were left stranded in the cold night, somewhere with shitty connection. You tried to call an Uber, but the app won’t work without WiFi and you couldn’t be bothered to go back inside the party to ask for the password. 

Instead, you choose to flick through your contacts, maybe your drunk mind could find someone to drive you home. Mom? No, she’s most likely asleep. Max is an obvious no. You scroll past the random aunts, uncles, cousins, who all live scattered across the world. Then, something sets off in your mind and you find yourself reading Lando’s contact like it was the morning news.

You shut your phone off, sitting down on the curb. Lando. He told you once that he wasn’t your babysitter— like you were too loud, too much, always wanting to tag along with whatever he and your brother were doing. Still, your fingers put in your password and you click his contact again, this time not overthinking calling him.

Maybe it’s because you know he doesn’t care, maybe it’s because you know he’ll come.

The phone rings a few times before he picks up, raspy and tired. “Hello?”

“Lando,” you say, cautiously. 

You give him time to yell at you, to hang up, but he just stays in the silence, waiting for you to speak. “Hello? What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “I’m at Mason’s,” Lando scoffs on the other end. “Can you come get me?” 

Silence. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his bed, jaw tense, chest bare, those goddamn Jack & Jones boxers adorning his hips. Then, there’s movement. “It’s past one in the morning,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I can still read the time, thanks.” You roll your eyes annoyed. “I knew it’d be stupid to call you, you’re nothing but an arrogant—”

Lando cuts you off, a sharp order coming from his end of the call. “Text me the address.”

“Fuck, I can’t remember,” you drag a hand across your face, ignoring how the cold of the curb slowly seeps in past your short dress and branches out through your skin. “It’s the house in Cherry Hill, the one with the stupid flamingo statue in the front yard.”

“I know it,” he nods, though you can’t see it. “Wait there, don’t go back inside.”

Lando hung up the phone call and pushed a hand through his curls, agitated that he didn’t even hesitate to come get you. He should’ve told you to call someone else, let you sit in the mess you made, but he also knew Mason and parties like that. And how everyone’s eyes naturally gravitated towards you, like you owned every room you walked into. 

He knew what that type of confidence could do, he had seen it happen to you before. And he knows Max would have his head on the front of the Fewtrell residence if he knew Lando refused to help you when you were in need. Or maybe it was just because that irritating warmth in his chest made him crumble every time he was near you. 

It takes half an hour until Lando’s headlights beam on your face. The car slows right next to you. It’s matte black with a booming engine, the one your brother kept hyping up like it was God’s gift to car lovers. Lando leans over the center console to shove the door open. 

The door clicks behind you and seals you in. The cabin is dim, except for the soft glow of the dashboard that casts blue shadows over Lando’s face. His jaw is clenched with every chew of gum he takes as he backs out of Mason’s driveway with one hand on the back of your seat. You can feel the tension in the small space between you two and you feel it even more when Lando finally grazes his eyes over you.

“You’re barefoot.”

His voice is flat, emotionless. 

You look down at your legs, the only thing adding any sort of warmth to them were your thin stockings. “Heels hurt.” 

Lando noticed the way you curled up in the seat, trying your best to keep yourself warm. He rolls his eyes, reaches behind you to the backseat and drops a hoodie in your lap. “Put it on,” he mutters.

You should say something, maybe a snarky remark, but instead you slip it over your head. It smells like him— a mix of lavender detergent, gasoline and Lando’s cologne. It’s big enough that the sleeves fall past the palms of your hands and you curl your fingers in them. “Thanks.”

The car falls quiet for a long while, Lando’s fingers so tightly curled around the steering wheel that it looks like it’s about to snap under the force. You can tell he wants to say something, to yell at you about waking him up, that you’re just some stupid girl who doesn’t know when to stop.

Instead, he sighs and asks, “what the hell were you thinking?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious,” his voice is sharp, irritated. “There’s a reason Max didn’t want you at that party.”

“I can handle myself, Lando. It’s just a party.”

Lando lets out a humorless laugh. “Sitting on the curb, alone, with no ride home. You call that handling yourself?”

You don’t answer him anymore, instead continuing to look out the passenger seat window at the streetlights and houses blurring past. You’re not sure what it is, but something feels different about him— he’s not bantering as much, it’s almost like he’s actually worried. 

A few minutes pass before Lando briefly glances at you. “What happened?”

Your eyes glance at his green ones, blinking once before you turn your gaze back outside. You’ve just driven out of the neighbourhoods, so the stars became more evident due to the lack of houses and streetlights. 

“Did someone touch you?” He presses, voice edged with frustration. He continues to chew his gum, his jaw tensing with every bite. 

“Not really.”

Lando exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to push. He doesn’t. Instead, he mutters, “you’re an idiot.”

You furrow your eyebrows and turn to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he shrugs. “Going to some fucker’s party just to prove something to Max. You think he’ll see you as grown just because you disobeyed him?”

You ball your hands into fists. “That’s not what I–”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, yes it is.” He cuts you off, agitated, annoyed, tired. “I’ve known you for years and you’ve been trying to prove yourself to Max since you were, like, twelve.”

You turn your whole body back towards the door, choosing to ignore Lando’s lecture. It’s almost two in the morning, the sky is at its darkest and you’re feeling too tired to argue with him. Still, he continues.

“News flash, acting reckless doesn’t make people respect you. It makes them worried.”

You stare at him, a tiny smirk on your face. “Are you saying… You were worried?”

Lando’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you totally did.” You let that tiny smirk turn into a full one, still looking at him. “This is huge. Lando Norris—”

He turns to face the driver's door window, biting back a small smile. “Don’t.”

“—worried about me?” 

He exhales through his nose again, running a hand through his curls, eyes still stuck on the road. “I knew I should’ve left you on the curb.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Lando’s eyes look at yours for a second. He can’t handle looking at you for longer, afraid his facade would fade under the weight of your gaze.

“Why’d you come? If I’m such an inconvenience.” 

His car comes to a silent stop in front of your house. His engine is still running, just so the heat would still circulate and warm your feet. “Because you called.” 

There’s no mocking tone to his voice, no bite. Just the raw truth, like a confession.

You glance at his lips, then back up at his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He says it like it was obvious.

“You act like it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t hate you.”

You’re not sure what happened, why you suddenly felt so brave. You bite your bottom lip, leaning over the center console, softly grasping his chin so he looks at you. “Prove it.”

Lando’s breath stutters, just for a second. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbles into your mouth, already having pulled you in for a kiss. 

It’s not careful, it’s definitely not gentle— it’s like a flood. Like it’s something he’s been holding back for too long, something he can’t fight anymore. He kisses you urgently, lips warm and insistent, until your lips part just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, tentative at first, then deeper— demanding.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers pushing past your hair, angling your face the way he wants it. His other hand is still on the wheel, white-knuckled and tense, like he needs something to hold onto before he loses himself completely. 

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling around his collar, pulling him closer and closer, but it’s not enough.

Lando groans into your mouth, a low and frustrated sound, and then he’s undoing his seatbelt, undoing yours. The tension snaps, and next thing you know, he’s pulling you over the centre console and into his lap. His hands trail up your thighs, nesting right at the top of your hips as he continues to kiss you. 

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, you’re his best friend’s little sister, but god has he been waiting for this. Every time he looked at you for too long, he felt a burning heat in his chest that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Right now, he’s getting back all the times he wished he could kiss you, but knew he couldn’t. His hands grip you like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin under his fingertips.

Your hips softly grind against him as your hands come up to gently cup his jaw and you pull him in closer. Lando kisses you with hunger, chasing your lips as you pull away to catch your breath. You lean back against the steering wheel, careful as to not make a sound. Lando pushes himself up to kiss you again, but he fails to notice his foot on the gas and revs the engine as soon as his lips crash into yours again. 

Both of you freeze, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights. The streetlight casts a soft, golden glow on Lando as you study his face. And then both of you break out into laughter. 

“You think he heard that?” Lando asks when both of you finally calm down and you rest against his chest. 

You shake your head. “No, he’s a heavy sleeper. But I should probably go.”

Lando nods and helps you climb over the center console, eyes never leaving you. You turn back towards him, placing a gentle kiss to his lips, before reaching for the handle and opening the door. Lando stays parked on the side of the road, just until you’re safely inside your house, and when he sees the door close behind you, his engine revs again as his car pulls away. 

You walk downstairs only to be met by the sound of slamming cupboards, you don’t even have to step into the kitchen to know Max is letting out whatever pent up rage he has on the poor wooden furniture. 

Max, as if he could feel your presence, turns around. His eyebrows are set low, eyes studying your face like he’s never seen it before. You just awkwardly weave past him to rummage through the fridge.

He leans back against the kitchen island, arms crossed and voice calm when he asks, “so how was the party you weren’t supposed to go to?”

You softly slam your forehead on one of the shelves in the fridge. “Fuck.” You rub the hurt skin as you turn around to face your brother. “It was fine.”

“Mhm,” he looks down at the ground briefly, before he looks back at you again. Max tries so hard to look intimidating every time he does this, but he just looks like a sad dad and it takes everything in you not to laugh. “And how’d you get home?”

“Well, nowadays we have these awesome things called cars, right?” You motion turning a wheel with your hands, sarcastically. “You kinda just sit in them and then turn the wheel to go different directions, it’s pretty cool.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stone-faced and frustrated. 

“Why does that matter? I’m home safely, aren’t I?” You turn back to the fridge and take out ingredients for a sandwich.

“It matters because I explicitly told you not to go and because I know you, and because I woke up to Lando’s car outside my window at two in the morning.”

You freeze. Shit.

Max narrowed his eyes. “So? Wanna explain that one?”

“I called him for a ride, that’s all.” You’re not even hungry but you’re making a sandwich anyway, just to give yourself something to do and just so you don’t break underneath the weight of your older brother’s intense gaze. 

Max stares at you, jaw clenched.  “Why him?”

You shrug, spreading the mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I obviously couldn’t call you and everyone I trust was asleep. And because he actually came.”

“He’s not—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing like he needs to burn the frustration from his limbs. “He’s not the guy you call for help. He isn’t good for this sort of thing, for you.”

You pause your movement, raising a brow at him. “You think I can’t handle Lando?”

“I know you can,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. The point’s that he’s not a guy who gives a shit unless it benefits him in some way. He’s cocky, selfish, he was a dickhead to you for, like, as long as I’ve known him.”

You sigh, looking back to your sandwich. 

Max narrows his eyes at your hesitation. “Don’t tell me there’s something going on.”

“There’s not,” You say it fast, too fast, and you’re gripping the butterknife so hard that your knuckles turn white. 

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows still drawn together as he connects the dots. “You like him?”

“No.” Lie.

Max shakes his head, running a hand along his jaw as he scoffs like the mere idea of you having feelings for his best friend was some sort of betrayal. “For fucks sake. This is exactly what he does, he gets into your head.”

“People change.” You mumble, not daring to look up at your brother.

Max lets out a humorless chuckle. “Not Lando.” 

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Deep down you know he’s right— Lando’s not the type to do relationships. He doesn’t stick to just one girl, you’ve heard him talk to Max about at least four different girls within the same week. You knew it was so wrong, but last night felt so right.

“I swear to God if—” He takes a deep breath and calms his voice, though it’s still laced with aggression when he says, “if he touches you, if he so much as thinks you’re someone to be played with—”

“Max, nothing happened,” the lie slips past your lips so easily that it scares you. “He drove me home. That’s it.”

He gives you one last glance before picking up his car keys from the basket on the kitchen island and walking towards the front door. He opens it, and just before he leaves, he pokes his head out to look at you again. “I’ll be back late, there’s money on my desk for dinner. Make sure to eat and, for fucks sake, take off that fucking hoodie.”

The door slams shut and you pull the sleeves of Lando’s hoodie into your palms, rubbing them together as if it’ll bring you any sort of comfort. Instead it just makes you more worried— an angry Max is a force to be reckoned with and you pray to whoever’s above that Lando can handle it.

Lando can feel Max’s eyes burning into him, despite being under a car.

They’re in the garage, the scent of motor oil and gasoline lingering in the warm air. Max leans back against a workbench, energy drink in hand, while Lando lays on a mechanic creeper and keeps his hands busy or else he’d be fiddling with his fingers and that’s something Max always notices.

He pulls himself from under the car just enough to reach a hand out. “Wrench.”

Max drops it into his hand with added force. “So, you wanna tell me about last night?”

Lando pulls himself fully from under the car, but just as he tries to get up, he bumps his forehead against the undercarriage. “Fuck,” he rubs the hurt skin as he sits up. “What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lando.” Max’s jaw tightens. “My sister came home at two in the morning and I woke up to your car outside my house.” 

Lando exhales, getting up from the ground as he wipes his hands on the fabric hanging from his hips. He always worked shirtless with only a flannel tied around his waist and his work jeans on. “She called me for a ride, I picked her up.”

Max tilts his head, accusatory, before taking a sip of his drink. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” Lando shrugs, trying his best to hide what he truly feels. He’s fucking terrified of Max, because he knows one wrong word could mean Max socking Lando right in the jaw, no hesitation. 

“She came home in your hoodie,” Max points out. 

Lando lays back down on the mechanic creeper after getting what he needed and goes back under the car. “She was cold,” he says, casually.

“You don’t just give people your hoodie.” 

Lando peeks his head out with a raised brow and a teasing smirk on his face. “What, you jealous or something?”

“You’re not funny.” Max glares at him, unamused.

The curly-haired man disappeared again, working on the suspension system of his older car. “You used to think I was hilarious.”

“Yeah, well, I used to think you weren’t a fucking problem, too.” Max hisses, again pacing the small space of Lando’s garage. “What are you doing, man?”

“What does it look like?” Lando pokes his head out again, confused, wrench in hand.

“It looks like you’re getting too close to my sister.”

Lando clenches his jaw, pulling himself back up from under the car, this time making sure not to hit his head. “I’m not.”

“I don’t buy it.” Max shrugs simply, anger, frustration and betrayal still radiating off of him.

Lando decides he’s done for the day and picks up his tools from the ground, walking over to his workbench. “She needed a ride home, so I drove her home. That’s all.”

Max studies him for a few seconds, trying to find something, anything, beneath the nonchalance that Lando was trying so hard to upkeep. Lando made sure there was nothing at surface level for Max to find.

Because if Max—if anyone— knew that something shifted in Lando that night, that something’s been shifting for way longer than Lando’s willing to admit, Max wouldn’t be standing here making civil conversation— he’d be throwing punches.

“It better fucking be all.” Max hisses again. “You keep your distance. She’s not some random girl you can mess with whenever you please.”

Lando’s stomach twists, like he didn’t already know you were more than just a girl. Lando couldn’t bring himself to say anything other than, “don’t worry, mate. She’s not my type.”

Max doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at Lando with a look that makes something inside Lando’s chest feel heavy, and walks away.

You’re peacefully scrolling on your phone, watching the newest internet drama, when you hear two knocks on your door, and then another one a few seconds later. You recognised it to be Lando’s knock, the same one he’d do on Max’s door to let him know it was him and not you at his door, back when Max did everything in his power not to spend time with you.

You get up from your bed, feeling how Lando’s hoodie falls down to your mid-thighs when you stand, and open the door. Your eyes widen when it is, in fact, Lando that’s knocking. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside your room, peeking your head out to check if anyone saw him. Thankfully, the coast is clear. 

“Are you crazy?” You shut the door behind yourself and turn to look at the curly-haired brunette in your room. “You could’ve got caught.”

Lando steps closer, hands finding their place on your waist while his lips make home at the cusp of your shoulder and neck. “Had to see you,” he mumbles between sloppy kisses to your skin.

Your breath shudders. “Max is downstairs.”

“He’s on a call, ordering food. I have maybe five minutes.”

You push him away, a questioning look on your face. “And you thought the best use of those five minutes was to sneak into my room?” 

Lando grins. “Obviously.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the smile as Lando leans in. “You’re insane,” you mumble against his lips. 

“I’m starting to think you like that about me.”

His hands trail up your thighs, under the hoodie—his hoodie—and up your bare belly. He’s trying to not rush you, to take time and explore this with you. It’s new, for the both of you, and Lando would hate himself if he ruined it just because he’s so eager to have you.

Your back is pressed against the door and you’re softly mumbling sweet nothings into Lando’s mouth when you hear footsteps nearing up the stairs. Both of you freeze, unsure of what to do. Your eyes quickly scan over your room and you immediately shove Lando towards your closet door when you land your gaze on it. Once he’s all hidden, you quickly jump onto your bed, cover yourself with your blanket and try to act as casual as possible.

There’s a knock at your door and then Max peeks his head inside. “You good?”

“Yeah?” You lift your head, resting it against your palm as you lean on your elbow. “Why?”

Max does a quick once-over of your room. “Thought I heard voices.”

“Oh, it’s probably just my phone,” you pick it up from underneath you and wave it in the air. “Do you remember that one super annoying couple?”

Max leans against your doorframe, curious. “Yeah?” He studied the look on your face as you typed something into your phone. “Wait, no way. Did they break up?”

He’s now stepping into your room, sitting down at the foot of your bed as he patiently waits for you to show him. “Fucking finally,” Max laughs when the video ends. “I gotta tell Lando, we made a bet on how long they’ll last, and he lost.”

“Aw, Lando had faith in those two?” You tilt your head to the side, briefly glancing at the closet as you fail at holding back your giggle. “That’s unusual.”

“I know right? That guy barely has faith in anything.” Max gets back up and starts walking out of your room. “Oh, by the way, have you seen him?”

“Hm?” You glance back up from your phone. “Oh, Lando? Is he over?”

“Yeah, we’re watching the race downstairs.” 

“I didn’t know,” you shrug. “Haven’t seen him.”

Max looks at you with narrowed eyes, like he wants to ask something but doesn’t bother. “Alright. We ordered food, come down in 10 if you want some.”

“Cool, thanks.” You shout to him as he closes the door behind himself. You wait another ten seconds before quietly making your way to the closet.

Lando stood in the corner of it, arms folded, scowling. “You owe me for this,” he mutters.

You snort. “Apparently you owe Max, too.”

“Hey, in my defence, the guy talked to me about marrying her and I was rooting for him.” He steps out of the closet, hands immediately on you again.

You giggle, feeling him kiss your neck. “Next time, let’s not make out with my brother ten feet away.

Lando leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Next time, I’m locking the door.”

It’s been a long day at university and you were feeling tired.

What’s worse is that you had to go study for an upcoming test and couldn’t afford to skip another day, so you lazily stepped down the stairs at the front of the facility and heaved a sigh, looking down at your phone. Suddenly, it buzzed with a notification from someone you didn’t expect to hear from.

Lando: Look up.

You lift your eyes, confused, and that’s when you see his sleek, black car, him leaning against the side of it with a soft smile on his face when you see him. He opens his arms and you carefully run across the street to envelop him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I could drive you home.” He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to walk.”

You playfully slap his arm and place your head back on his chest. “Thank you,” you mutter. 

The drive to your house is quiet, but not awkward. Lando can tell you’re tired from school and he softly places his hand on your thigh, kneading the skin to try and comfort you in the only way he knew how. You could tell he was trying his best to show his affection to you in ways he wasn’t used to– the other day, he called you late at night and asked how your day went, intently listening to every detail you told him. He memorised your coffee order from that time and bought you coffee, that’s now peacefully sitting on your desk, in your room, as you and Lando make out on your bed.

“When does Max get home?” Lando asks, hastily, between kisses to your exposed chest. 

Your fingers are palming the curls at the base of his neck as Lando leaves faint hickeys along your breast. “He said later tonight.”

Lando continues to trail kisses down your torso, pausing at the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks up at you without a word, but as if to ask if it’s okay for him to go further, to not hold back in fear of breaking you. You reach down and untie the drawstring of your pants, watching as Lando’s fingers gently hook underneath the waistband and pull your sweatpants down, fully off of your body. 

You feel bare, exposed, but it’s not intimidating like you thought it’d be. Lando was gentle with you, placing soft bites followed by tender kisses to your thighs, inching closer to where you needed him the most. Your hips buckled upwards, urging Lando to do something to help the ache between your legs.

Just as he’s hooking his fingers under the waistband of your pink underwear, you hear the front door open. Lando immediately rises to his feet and bolts across the hall to Max’s room, pretending that he was waiting for him there to begin with. You lift your head confused and hear Max climbing up the stairs. You manage to shut the door before he reaches it and you rest with your back against it. 

“You in there?” Max knocks once on your door and you hold your breath.

You quickly pick up whatever clothes you can find on your floor and tug them on before opening your bedroom door, face flushed. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“What’s Lando’s car doing in the driveway?” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at you with suspicion riddled across his features. 

“Oh,” you swallow, harshly. “Uh, I don’t know. He’s in your room if you want to ask him yourself.”

Max gives you a narrow-eyed look, trying to notice anything odd about your appearance. He peeks his head into the crevice of your door and looks around your room, before walking away and you finally let out the breath you were holding, shutting the door behind yourself.

Meanwhile, Lando was sprawled out onto the couch in Max’s room, scrolling through his phone. When Max walked in, Lando sat up. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“Go where?” Max furrows his brows and when Lando mimics a drinking action, Max remembers. “Fuck, the party.”

A few hours later, Lando found himself nursing a glass bottle of non-alcoholic beer on the couch in Lauren’s home.

Lauren was a mutual friend of yours too, so when Max offered you to join him and Lando, you happily agreed. Although, you didn’t account for how hard it’d be not to blab to Lauren about you and Lando’s newly found feelings. She’s telling you something about her current boyfriend, who you failed to find in the crowd, but pretended like you did. In reality, you were looking at Lando. You were admiring the way his black t-shirt hugged his skin tighter around his biceps, the way his curls poked out of his maroon cap and the way the lights from the other rooms cast a perfect shadow on his side-profile.

Meanwhile, he tried his best not to look at you, because Max was right across from him and turning his head would mean Max would follow suit. Instead, Lando watches the other people in the room. He makes the grave mistake of looking at this one girl, Madeline, twice within a few minutes and she took it as a sign to seat herself next to him.

“Hey,” she bites her bottom lip, holding back a smile. “Don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Madeline.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Lando gives her a faux smile and turns back to reading the label on his beer bottle. It seemed to be much more interesting to look at than the girl touching his arm. 

Madeline tilts her head with a laugh. “I won’t get to hear your name?” 

Lando briefly looks up at Max, who’s standing across the room and urging Lando to smoothly talk his way into Madeline’s pants. He rolls his eyes and looks away, again. “Lando,” he grumbles.

“Lando,” she repeats, seductive. “Nice name.” 

Lando gives her a side-eyed look. “…thanks?” 

She bites her bottom lip again, trying to lure him in, throwing the bait but Lando isn’t biting. He’s uninterested, because each time he looks at Madeline, his eyes drift to the girl standing in the room behind her— you. You’re talking to Lauren, laughing at something she said as you nurse your red solo cup. 

When Madeline leans in, so close to Lando’s ear that her breath fanning against his skin makes it erupt in goosebumps, he feels nauseous. “Wanna go upstairs? There’s a condom in the drawer with your name on it.”

By this point, Max has come close enough to hear the conversation and nudges Lando’s shoulder when he notices the hesitation. Lando looks up at his friend with a confused look. Max’s eyes flicker between Lando and Madeline when he says, “I’ll save your seat for you.”

Madeline smiles at Max’s attempt to help before softly hooking her finger under Lando’s chin and turning him to face her. “So?”

Lando snorts at the thought that just flashed in his mind. “Y’know, Max’s name is also on most condoms, why don’t you take him upstairs instead?”

Lando watches as Madeline grimaces, looking at the two guys before mumbling something incoherent and walking away. The curly-haired man’s eyes immediately fall to you, leaving Max under the impression that Lando’s watching Madeline walk away. 

When Lando looks back at Max, he’s met with a scowl. “What?” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands, ready to defend himself against Max’s judgement.

Max sits down on the coffee table in front of Lando, quoting something Lando had said months ago. “Oh, I’d tap that.” He puts on an accent that mimics Lando’s one, but in a way that’s clearly mocking his best friend’s words. 

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how to get himself out of this one. “That was ages ago.”

“Isn’t she, like, the epitome of your type?” Max recalls another thing Lando had said late at night in his garage. Lando had, in fact, said that Madeline was exactly his type, but that was back before he tapped into his feelings for you. 

Lando shrugs before he takes another swig of his beer. “Not anymore.”

Max gives him one last look, clearly confused by how Lando could reject Madeline, of all people. “You’re fucking weird, dude,” he says over the neck of his beer bottle and walks away to find something else to drink. 

It’s a few minutes before Lando decides that it’s safe to move from his seat, making a beeline to where he last saw you. The kitchen is empty of your presence, only the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the air. He pulls out his phone to text you and just as he clicks on your contact, he hears familiar laughter coming from the next room. 

He finds you leaning against the doorframe to the dining room, still talking to the girl from before. Lauren locks eyes with Lando and nudges towards him with her chin while looking at you. “I’ll see you later,” she squeezes your elbow and walks away. 

You feel Lando’s touch on your skin before he even gets the chance to talk. It’s darker in this room, less people, higher chances of getting caught— but that’s what makes it more exciting. 

You turn around, back to the nearest wall as Lando leans against the doorframe, mimicking you just moments ago. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and drawing your attention. “Smooth move earlier,” you mutter with a little teasing glint in your eye. 

He huffed a laugh. “She was being persistent.”

“Thought she was your type?” You ask, trying to sound casual but it comes out more desperate than intended. Lando gave you a look, small smile and raised eyebrows, as he took a swig of his drink.

After a moment of him checking you out, he mutters, “not anymore.”

“Yeah?” You looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s your type then?”

Lando steps closer to you, hand immediately cupped against your jaw, fingers between your hair as he pulls you in. “I think we both know.” 

His breath fans over your face as he leans in to kiss you, his free hand placing the empty beer bottle on the fireplace next to you. Just as his lips are about to touch yours, someone slams the bathroom door and both of you jump at the sound. 

Both of you turn to look at the direction of the sound, only to be met with a guy stumbling out of the room. Lando drops his head as a laugh of relief leaves his lips. 

He looks around again, cautious, alert. Then, when his green eyes focus on your face again, his pupils dilate just the smallest bit, but you notice it. Lando nudges his head behind him, “meet me out back in ten?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip and he walks off, disappearing somewhere between the drunk crowd of people. 

The ten minutes before you sneak out to see Lando go by slower than anticipated. To pass the time, you decided to tour the house, as if you’ve never been there before— you loiter around the hallways, admiring everything picture and painting on the wall. 

“Oh, hey,” Max’s voice startles you just as you start looking for where the door to the backyard is. “Have you seen Lando?” 

“No?” You furrow your brows, trying to act as confused and offended as possible. “Why would I have seen him?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, if you see him, tell him to check his damn phone.” 

You watch your brother storm off, heading upstairs and when he’s out of your line of sight, you bolt towards the living room. You squeeze past the numerous people in your way and try your best to find the door to the backyard. 

When you finally step out into the night, the cold air hitting your arms as soon as you do, Lando’s leaning against the wall by the door, in the shadow. 

“You sure no one followed you?” Lando reaches out his hand and you take it, following him behind the side of the house. 

You scoff, “you think I don’t know how to sneak around by now?”

He presses you against the wall, lips immediately on your neck. “Touche.”

The night envelops you two in a blanket of darkness, coolth and risk. Lando kisses down your neck to your shoulder, leaving mild hickeys that’ll go away in a few hours. When his lips find home on yours again, you let your fingers get lost in the curls at the nape of his neck and he pulls you in closer with a gentle hand on your jaw. 

There’s a rustling at the door to the backyard but neither of you are bothered enough to pause and check what it is. It’s only when Max’s voice cuts through the night that both of you halt your movements. “Oh, there you are.”

Lando turns to face Max, using his body to shield you from your brother while they talk. “Yeah? Kinda busy here, mate.”

“I was just gonna ask if you could get my sister home later, I’m going out with Mason for a few hours.” Max spins his house keys on his finger before throwing them towards Lando, and the curly-haired man in front of you catches it with no problem. “You can crash on the couch in my room if you want.”

“Alright, see you.” Lando says with an urgency in his voice that Max takes as a sign. Your brother winks at Lando before disappearing back inside the house. “Christ,” Lando rests his head on your shoulder as he takes a few breaths, adrenaline pumping through his veins at what could’ve gone so wrong so quickly.

“Did he see?” You ask, cautiously glaring over the corner of the house to check if Max was truly gone.

Lando pulled away, his face perfectly illuminated from the left side by the glowing porch light and fairy-lights that adorned the fence behind him. “I hope not or else I’m a dead man.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’d be a handsome corpse.” 

The walk back to your home is short, the cold night enveloping you in a secure sense of calm. 

Lando’s warm hand in yours kept you grounded, meanwhile the stars in the sky built your hope up. Your house comes into view and Lando swings the keys in his hand, whistling a tune only he knew the melody of. 

He unlocked the door and as soon as you heard it click shut, his lips were on yours. You barely made it up the stairs and into your bedroom, tumbling over each other and giggling at the mumbled curse words falling from his lips. 

Once in your room, Lando doesn’t bother to close the door. He’s too focused on how good his hands feel on your hips, how your soft whimpers vibrate in your throat before escaping through the space in your kiss and how long he’s been waiting for this moment. 

It all happens in a blur— one second you’re at your bedroom door, the next you’re laying with your back pressed against your mattress, Lando hovering above you, trailing kisses down your shoulder as he unzips the jacket he gave you and pulls it off your body. 

You’re exposed, nervous and unable to speak when Lando suckles on the skin atop your ribs. His lips burn into each crevice of your flesh, hands heating your hips as they envelop the skin, eyelids closed shut with fluttering eyelashes on his cheeks. 

Lando kisses you like he’s worshipping you— he’s gentle, cautious, exploring your body like it’s a temple and he’s blessed to be allowed to even look at you. 

His tongue runs along the space between your breasts, peppering kisses as he wraps them around your neck, trails them along your jaw until he reaches your lips. Lando kisses you with urgency, with hunger and deep-seated yearning that etched itself into your bones. 

You felt how badly he needed you, how large his hunger had grown, how intensely his craving for you radiated off of his tan skin. 

He’s sloppily kissing your lips, fingers inching closer to the waistband of your panties when he pulls away. “Tell me to stop and I will.” 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe against his lips, barely managing to get a word out before he’s tugging them off of you. 

Both of you are so enveloped in each other, so caught up in the moment, that neither of you notice him in the doorway. 

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Max’s voice trembles through the room. Lando pulls away from you, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in a gasp. The hands you had tangled in his curls were desperately trying to find something to cover your body with. You landed on the jacket Lando pulled off of you earlier. 

You’re too focused on not breaking into tears that you don’t notice how close Lando and Max are standing. 

“Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me you weren’t fucking my sister.” Max’s rageful tone lumbers a fire in his chest that’s only growing bigger with each second he watches the scene in front of him— you, pulling the jacket closer to yourself as you try to get decent and Lando standing shirtless in front of Max, lips puffy from kissing you. It makes Max’s blood boil. 

Lando runs a hand through his hair, taking a breath like he’s trying to come up with something to say— like there’s anything he could say that would make this better. “Max—“

“No, don’t say my fucking name like you haven’t crossed every boundary I’ve set.” Max pushes Lando’s chest.

You watch the fight unfold— Max’s eyes burning into Lando’s, betrayal, anger and hurt painted all over his face. Lando was standing calmly, alarmed but he kept it at bay. 

Lando doesn’t hold back. “I love her.”

The breath in your throat catches and tears prick your eyes as soon as the words leave his lips. Max freezes for a second, long enough for the words to land, hard and heavy. And then—

He swings. Hard.

The punch lands square on Lando’s jaw with a sickening crack. You gasp, standing to your feet almost immediately, but Lando barely stumbles— he wipes the blood from the corner from his mouth and stands upright, rolling his shoulders. 

“You think that makes it better?” Max says. “You think loving her gives you the right to sneak around like this? And you couldn’t come to me? Not a single fucking word.” 

“You wouldn’t have understood,” Lando’s breath is steady, voice sharp. “You never would’ve let me. I was trying to protect what we have.” 

“We?” Max huffs out a humorless laugh. “What about her? You think she needs some arrogant asshole sneaking her around like a fucking coward?” 

“I’m not a coward.” Lando exhales through his nose. “And I’d take a hundred more punches from you than hide this for another day.” 

Max’s fist twitches, like he’s going to hit Lando again, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap to you. “And you just let him? Him, of all fucking peop—“

“She didn’t let me do anything.” Lando cuts in, his tone harsher now that the blame shifted to you. “She chose me just like I chose her. So if you’re going to hate someone, hate me, but leave her out of this.” 

The silence that follows is deafening. 

You’re standing, tears falling down your cheeks. Lando’s still bleeding down his chin, but he doesn’t care— all he cares about now is that Max doesn’t lash out on you for no reason. 

Max’s eyes flicker between the two of you. They’re filled with fury, betrayal, hurt. But mostly confusion. 

Lando reaches his hand out to you as he speaks again, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. But I won’t apologise for loving her.” 

His heart is pounding. He didn’t expect to confess to both the Fewtrell siblings in one night. 

Max just stares at him, jaw clenched so hard like it might snap. “Get out,” he finally said. Not shouting, not loud, just final.

Lando glances at you for permission, fear flashing across his face as if he was asking if this was it. You nod slowly, squeezing his hand three times— one for each word of i love you. “Just give me a moment, okay?” 

He nods, muttering a quiet okay and watches as you lead Max out of your room into the hallway.

 

And now it’s just the two of you. The Max Storm isn’t over, but it hangs above you like a calm thundercloud now. You knew he couldn’t be as upset with you as he pretended to be. 

You saw past his furrowed brows and deep inside, somewhere between his ribcage, was the same boy you grew alongside with, collecting rocks and sticks to make a mud cake. 

Max doesn’t say anything for a while. He just stands there, eyes closed, head resting against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Do you remember the treehouse?” You test the waters, standing across from him with your back against the wall. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

Max sighs. “What about it?” 

“I used to hide out there when you were upset with me.” You admit. “All the heart carvings were me. But the stars on the floor of it were Lando.”

Max’s head snaps up, eyes reading your face. “What?” 

“Yeah,” you laugh a little. “He found me there when looking for you and I was crying. I was like, I dunno, thirteen or fourteen. He climbed up without a word, sat down next to me and started carving.” 

“Why is this relevant?” 

You sigh. “He’s not an arrogant asshole to me when we’re alone.”

“That’s not-“ Max drops his hands, his shoulders sinking. “You’re my sister. I’m supposed to protect you.” 

Your bottom lip quivers as you try your best to keep your composure and to not crack under the weight of your brother’s anger. “I didn’t need you to protect me from him. He listens to me, he– he waits. He’s different, Max, and you just refuse to see it.”

Max runs both his hands down his face, turning his eyes towards the hallway— he can’t get himself to look at you. “Do you love him?”

You inhale sharply, the question catching you off guard. And then, softly, as if you’d crumble as soon as you said it: “Yes.”

That’s what breaks him. Not the intimacy, not the secrecy, but the quiet, unshakeable truth in your affirmation of the one thing he was always most scared of.

He nods once, not shaking the intimidating older brother demeanor, even though he knows you see right through it. “You’re serious about him.”

“I am.” You bite the inside of your cheek, anxiety coursing through your veins faster than the adrenaline of being caught by your brother, in bed with his best friend.

“And him?” Max nods his head towards the door, clenching his jaw at the indirect mention of Lando. “He better be serious about you, too, or else I swear to–”

“He is,” you finish before he can even start threatening Lando. “He’s more serious than I imagined. Maybe even more serious than me. You just– You have to give him a chance, Max.”

Your brother just stands there, a shell of himself compared to how excited he was earlier this evening, at Mason’s party. You worry this will affect your relationship, both with Lando and with Max, and you can’t help but break into a quiet cry. 

You use the sleeve to wipe away a tear off your jaw. “Do you… Do you hate me?”

Max’s shoulders immediately drop, his voice softer. “I could never hate you.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

He lets out a sad laugh. “Yeah, didn’t expect to lose my best friend tonight.”

You immediately reach out to touch Max’s arm, about to open your mouth to try and better the situation between them, but before you can even mumble a word, Max is pulling away and walking down the stairs. “I need time. I’ll be at Mason’s.” He says as he steps down the last stair, and you stand at the top of them, listening.

The front door closes shut. There’s no slam, just a quiet close of the red, wooden door. It somehow breaks you more than if he had slammed it shut.

Lando waits patiently on your bed, using his T-shirt as a wipe, trying his best to get the drying blood off of his chin. When the door to your bedroom opens, his eyes immediately flash to you and he can tell it didn’t go well. 

Lando closes the distance between you two almost immediately, discarding his bloody shirt to the floor as his arms wrap around you, warm, like home. “Are you okay?” He murmurs against your hair.

You nod with your face still pressed against his chest, fingers curling around him and settling on being lazily draped on his waist. “I will be. Are you?”

His chest rises underneath you, the events of that night hanging heavy in the air around you. “Took a punch to the jaw from my best friend, so… Not exactly my best night. But you’re here with me, that’s all I need.” 

You pull away enough to look up at him, enough to notice the purpling bruise on his jaw and the split in his lip. Guilt coils itself deep inside your stomach. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes again. 

“Don’t,” he cups your jaw, thumb softly caressing your skin before he pulls you close again, his cheek resting against the crown of your head. “You don’t have to apologise, not for any of it.”

After a few deep breaths and another two minutes of just standing there, holding each other, you pull away. Lando’s heart breaks at the tear stains on your cheeks, but you ignore his sad expression and mutter, “let me clean you up.” 

Lando stands in front of you as you sit on the cupboard, next to the sink, his hands on either side of your spread legs as he stands between them. 

You’re dabbing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic onto the cut on his lip. “Hold still,” you order him and he raises a brow. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You give him a look. “Not the time.”

“Okay,” you dab the cotton against his lip again and he winces in pain, but stays still. “Fuck, it stings.”

“Well, you did get punched.” You point out the obvious, shaking your head with disappointment. “You’re such an idiot.”

The irony of your words doesn’t get lost on Lando— he said the same thing to you months ago, when he drove you home from the party. 

“I know,” he shrugs. “Worth it though.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a little bit in disbelief. “Getting punched by my brother is worth it?”

Lando puts his hands on your waist, sending shivers up your spine. “If it meant I get to be with you, I’d let him punch me a million times more.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you continue working on cleaning him up. “You’re lucky I haven’t punched you myself.” 

“Fair,” he grins and tries his best to hold as still as he can. His fingers dig into your skin as a way to keep himself at bay, and with the weight of his touch, you weren’t sure if he was holding back just because of the pain anymore. 

A moment passes— one in which Lando can’t stop looking at your focused face and you try your best not to get too flustered because of it. Your brain has been running a mile a minute since Max caught you and it only now had time to process what actually happened.

“You said you loved me.” You say, cautiously, like you’re scared he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. That was your biggest worry at that moment— Lando just saying things, not knowing if he meant it. 

“Yeah,” he says it so casually, like his words were weightless. “I did.” 

You halt your movements, dropping your hands into your lap as you look anywhere but at him. “Did you mean it or was it something you said to calm Max down?” 

Lando laughs a little. “If I wanted to calm him down, I wouldn’t have said that.” 

You bite your bottom lip with anxiety and nod, “right.” 

He narrows his eyes, pushing his palms onto the counter as his head dips a bit to see you better. “I meant it,” he says after a moment. “It might’ve not been the ideal way to tell you, but it’s true.”

You place your head on his shoulder, still not looking up at him. The drawstring of his sweatpants gets pulled into your grasp as you fidget with it, not sure if you should ask this, but you do. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” his voice is soft, as if he was afraid of being heard. “It just kinda snuck up on me one day and hasn’t left me ever since.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to continue working on his lip. “Okay.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” Lando tilts his head to the side, much like a small, confused puppy would. 

“It’s a lot to process,” you shrug, eyes so focused on his lips that you don’t notice his eyes so glued on your face. “I need a minute.”

“That’s okay.” He smiles, hands finding their place on your hips again. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And you should probably not say that around Max anymore.”

Lando licks his lips with a laugh. “Duly noted. You gonna kiss me or keep playing nurse?”

You raise a brow, finally looking at him— his green eyes are no longer hinting at the sadness of the fight he had with Max and rather a glint of something brighter shines in them, something you’ve noticed only happens when he’s looking at you. 

“Let the lip heal first.” You kiss his cheek but Lando won’t settle for that. 

He cups your chin, softly yet firmly turning you to look at him. “Fuck the lip, I want to kiss my girl.” 

That’s when it comes. 

The moment you two had been dreaming of, yet every time it got close, something got in the way. Lando’s hands traveled from your hips to your jacket, unzipping it to reveal your bare body again. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled against your lips, ignoring the stinging of the cut on his bottom one. No amount of injury would keep him away from you. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him in closer. The way he kissed you was addicting— with every passing second it felt like his lips became more of a lifeline for you, like if he were to pull away right now, you’d feel a part of you go missing. 

Your nails softly traced formless shapes in his scalp, sending shivers down his spine as his lips left hickeys beside the ones he had decorated you with earlier. 

His hands settle on your thighs, slowly inching closer and when he triggers a spot on your skin that was particularly sensitive to his touch, your knees try to close but hit his hips instead. He pulled you closer to the edge of the sink, his hold on you so careful like he might break you. 

His lips are still on your neck when he mutters, “wrap your legs around me.” 

You do as told, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he picks you up, carrying you across the hall to your bedroom. He lays you on the bed again— the door shut this time— wasting no time as he unties his sweatpants. 

You don’t notice him reach over to the drawer of your nightstand, taking out the condom he slipped in from his jacket right when Max came into your room. All hell would’ve broken loose if it had somehow fallen out of the jacket when you wore it. 

You feel him pressing against you and another second passes before you’re gasping at him pushing into you, filling you up. “I know,” he coos, lips softly peppering kisses down your jaw. “You can take it.”

Lando stills his hips for a second, not moving as you take time to adjust. The excitement and anticipation grows so big in your belly that it jolts your hips slightly upwards, making Lando groan at the feeling. 

“I’ll move a bit, yeah?” He looks into your eyes, pushing away the hair that fell messily onto your forehead. 

You nod your head and he pulls out. Immediately, you feel the need for more, for him. When Lando pushes his tip past your folds again, setting a slow rhythm, you whimper softly against his mouth. Lando can’t help but moan quietly, the feeling of your walls around his cock being better than he ever imagined. 

Those nights of his hand wrapped around his length, your name spilling from his lips as he came undone on his own chest were nothing like having you— a whimpering mess— underneath him. 

He speeds up just the smallest bit, adding more force to his thrusts, and rolls his hips anytime they make contact with yours. The sound of skin-on-skin contact and shy moans fills the room. 

Lando’s necklace dangles in your face and, for some odd reason, it turns you on even more. Your hips jut against his and you mutter, “faster.”

The sound of your voice when he’s thrusting into you made Lando come closer to the edge. He speeds up again, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that he was sure would leave a mark. 

You gasp at the feeling of him pulling your hips up towards him with every thrust, your eyes squeezed shut as your mouth parted, loud moans bouncing off the walls of the room. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he kissed your jaw, softly biting down on the skin to earn more pretty sounds from you.

Every word you try to say gets drowned out by your moans or muted by Lando kissing you, and then you feel the pleasure build up so quickly that you’re unable to tell him when you come undone. Lando felt your walls pulse around him tighter and knew to keep the pace, thrusting into you as deeply as he could. 

“Look at me,” he ordered, eyes already looking at your closed ones. When your pupils meet his, you feel him reach down between your bodies and gently rub your clit. “Y’gonna cum on my cock, baby? Hm?”

Tears prick your eyes as Lando speeds up the tiniest amount, drilling into you with all he’s got as his right middle finger draws circles on your aching bud. And then, with a breathy moan, Lando feels you come undone. 

He thrusts a little more, reaching for his high with his lips pressed to your shoulder. You feel a warmth inside you before Lando stills. 

The next few minutes are of you two just laying in each other's embrace, not moving— aside from your fingers in Lando’s hair and his fingers drawing circles on your hips— and simply soaking in the calm after the storm.

It’s been two days since Max’s knuckles made friends with Lando’s jaw.

Mason found it quite funny— he never really liked Lando to begin with, so hearing that he fucked up in Max’s eyes made him that much more motivated to add fuel to the fire. He sat on the couch in his living room, watching as Max played some video game on the playstation. 

Another twenty minutes of uninterrupted gameplay passes before Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t even check who’s calling, assumes it’s you, and presses the green button before putting the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Lando’s voice cuts through Max’s focus on the game. He immediately pauses it, rage building in his chest. 

Max takes a breath, trying to calm down before answering. “What do you want?” 

“I’m thinking of breaking up with her.” 

Max feels his heart drop to his heels. He’s what? 

On the other end of the call, Lando’s got his head in his hands as his phone lays atop his knee. He’s in his car, the already small space getting even smaller as his shallow exhales fill the air. 

He’s parked outside your house where, just five minutes ago, he left you peacefully sleeping.  

Over the last two days he had spent with you— all the slow dancing in the kitchen, the breaths bouncing off each other’s faces from being so close in the morning, the moments where his hands traversed your body like it was land unknown to anyone else but him— Lando realised that maybe he could do this forever. 

And that scared him. 

He’s always been a free man— going wherever he pleases whenever he wants, having no responsibility for anyone else other than himself— but now there’s you. 

Lando’s life feels like it’s split into two parts. The part before you seems free, fun, inviting yet gloomy. Like there’s an essential element of it that’s just missing, thus making his existence in that time seem like exactly that— existing. 

The part after you, though, that part is what’s so new yet scary to him. Rather than existing through his days, he lives them because of you. 

It’s a lot more domestic, this life— waking up in tangled sheets, making and burning pancakes in the morning as soft music spills from the speakers, sitting tangled on the couch as you read a book and Lando played a game on Max’s console. He’s not sure what happened for it to feel so wrong when everything was going so well. 

This morning, Lando watched you sleep. So serene, solemn and still. Your bare chest rose and fell with steady breaths, soft snores lingering at the back of your throat every once in a while. 

He stayed like that— propped up on his elbow, eyes tracing over every inch of your face— until the weight in his chest felt like his ribs were breaking. 

As he was getting dressed, he questioned it. He loves you— hell, he’s loved you for years, but he was too stupid to realise it sooner— and he knows you’re the girl he wants, so why is he running?

He’s quietly making his way down the stairs when he realises that maybe Max was right. Max made it clear that Lando wasn’t the guy for you, that you deserve much better, and while Lando disagreed with it before, he feels like it’s true.

He spent the majority of his later teens and early adulthood with more women than he could count on one hand, not a single one of them made him question his feelings, because there weren’t any. 

But now, with you sleeping soundly upstairs and him standing by the open front door, Lando realises that maybe somewhere in the middle of your blooming relationship, he got too caught up in the delusion to face reality— you deserve someone who won’t walk out on you while you’re asleep. 

For the past five minutes, Lando sat in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t want to call Max about this, but he was the only person in the world that Lando trusted and it was worth a shot. 

“You what?” Max’s voice rang in Lando’s ears. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

“You were right, I– I’m not the guy for her.” Lando’s voice sounded so flat that it made Max worried, just the tiniest bit. “She deserves better.”

“Mate, if it’s about what I said, I’ll fucking get over it eventually.” Max is now pacing around Mason’s living room while the blond man just watches him, a glimmer of hope in his eye that Max failed to catch. “But her? She’ll never get over you, Lando.”

“You don’t know that, Max.”

Max inhales sharply, as if he was just about to spew a string of insults at Lando but chose to take the calmer approach. “I do know that, she’s so fucking in love with you that it makes me sick. Do you realise how much you walking out will fuck her up?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Lando’s starting his car now, still hesitant to turn the key. “It’s what’s best for her.”

“Since when do you decide that?” Max huffs a humorless laugh. “At least just talk to her, dude. I’ll get over you two dating but what I won’t forgive you for is walking out on both of us.” 

“Bye, Max.” Lando inhales a deep breath and before his best friend can speak again, he’s ending the call.

The smell of cinnamon, bananas and something burning hits Max’s nose the second he opens the front door to his house. He steps into the kitchen slowly, eyes scanning the mess— flour dusted across the countertops like snow, dishes cluttering the sink, you aggressively mixing something in a big, blue bowl. 

“What are you doing?” 

You halt your movements, turning around to Max with the fakest smile he’s ever seen from you. “Baking. Banana bread, you want some?” 

Max watches as you pull out the banana bread— that looks more like a chunk of coal— out of the oven. “Nah, I’ll pass.” 

He knew not to push, not to ask because, in reality, he shouldn’t even care. You betrayed him as much as Lando did, but you’re his little sister and Max would be damned if he let you set the house on fire with your baking. 

Max took a seat at one of the stools, eyes intently watching you. You never baked, not unless you were trying to occupy your mind by occupying your hands. 

“I talked to Lando,” he says casually, like he didn’t hate the guy. 

He notices the halt in your movements, the knife stilling in the burnt loaf. “Cool,” you shrug. 

“He said he’s ending things with you.” 

“And why do you think that is, Max?” You slam the knife down onto the counter with enough force to make Max jolt. “You got into his head.”

“I didn’t mean for him to take that shit seriously.” Your brother runs a hand down his face. “I was angry, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him to leave you.” 

“You punched him, that’s not something to take lightly.” You say, a little quieter this time, a little more hurt. 

Max notices the silent glimmer of a plea in your eyes, like you’re asking him what you should do. “You should talk to him.” 

“And say what?” Your voice breaks as tears begin to roll down your cheeks, shoulders dropping. “He left me, Max, he le-“ 

A loud sob echoes in the kitchen and Max’s arms are around you immediately. He caresses your back, softly kissing your head as his arms squeeze you tighter. 

“He’s at the garage, probably hasn’t left all day.” He mutters. “I’m not telling you to go fix it, but if you want answers, that’s where you’ll get them.” 

Max watches your face as you pull away and wipe your tears with your sleeve. “Okay.” 

“Go, I’ll clean up your mess.” Max gives your shoulders a soft squeeze and turns to the lump of coal you called banana bread. 

Lando’s garage had always been his hideout. 

The lights were always on too late and, even from across the street, you could see a sliver of fluorescent glow bleeding out through the cracked garage door. 

You were parked at the end of his driveway. The air, thick and way too warm, smelled like motor oil and rubber, and it reminded you of simpler days— your legs dangling off the workbench while your boyfriend tinkered with something, grease smudging his fingers and face. 

The door was already cracked open, your favourite song quietly playing from the bluetooth speaker at the corner of the room. 

Lando was bent over the engine of one of the cars, back towards you, elbow deep in whatever he was messing with. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you who came in. 

“You left while I was sleeping.” Your voice shook the calmness of his garage— his sanctuary— and he felt it in his bones. “You left and didn’t say anything. You talked to Max instead of me.” 

Lando pulls his hands out of the engine bay and reaches for a nearby rag, wiping his fingers slowly and methodically, giving himself something to focus on before he breaks. 

“I didn’t know what to say.” He finally turns to face you, though his eyes stay glued to the ground. He catches a glimpse of your pink crocs and it makes him smile, just barely. 

“You knew what to say to the guy that punched you and not your girlfriend?” Your voice cracked with a quiet sob. “Do you know what it felt like to hear from my brother that you wanted to end things with me?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he draws in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry I disappeared, okay? I just- I didn’t know how to handle it. I needed space to think.” 

“About what?” You bit your bottom lip to stop it from shaking. “About whether or not I’m worth staying for?”

“No,” the word left his lips with urgency, eyes finally looking up at yours. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

The silence stretched, the music still playing from the corner of the room like it didn’t care that hearts broke in this room. 

Lando exhaled slowly. “I’m scared.” He didn’t wait for you to ask why. “I’ve never had a good thing like this, I’m scared I’ll fuck it up and ruin it.” 

“You won’t.”

He huffs a sigh of frustration. “You don’t know that.” 

You step a little closer, inching towards the wall Lando built up around himself,  a frail attempt to hide his feelings. Lando raises his eyes from the ground to— finally— look at your face. 

“I know that you’re trying,” your voice cuts through the sharp silence. “I know that I noticed all the things you did for me.”

“What?” Lando blinked. 

“I noticed,” you repeated. “You probably thought I didn’t, but I never mentioned it because I thought you’d stop doing them.” 

You reach out to take his hand, rough and warm, in yours. He didn’t pull away, just looked at you— sad, scared, waiting.

“I noticed how you remembered stupid details about me. I noticed how you’d text me when you couldn’t sleep and pretend it was about something random, when you were trying to subtly let me in. I noticed how you got quieter when overwhelmed, how you’d hold back things you wanted to say. I saw all of that. I see you, Lando.” 

Lando’s grasp on your hand tightened, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He looked up at you. Like your words were light he didn’t know he could stand in. 

“I tried,” he whispered, voice gentle and soft in the way he’d never spoken before— like every word he says drops to the ground with added weight. 

“I know you did,” you nod, eyes teary and locked into his face. “And I loved every bit of it. All the good and the bad. I wasn’t waiting for some perfect version of you, I just want you. The scared and the happy.” 

A silence stretched in the air. Then, he exhaled shakily and spoke again. 

“It’s like… The more I care, the worse I get at this. Like I’m holding something fragile and don’t know how to stop myself from dropping it.” 

“You’re not going to drop me. You don’t have to protect me from you. I choose you and I choose this.” 

He pulled his hand away gently, eyes focusing on anything  other than your face. His jaw clenched, voice low when he mumbled, “I think I need a break.” 

“A break?” 

“Not because I don’t love you,” he quickly added, looking at you with wide eyes before dropping his shoulders. “I do, God, I love you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.” 

You don’t say anything— not a sound— tears falling from your eyes as you gave him a small, bittersweet smile.

Lando watched as you stepped closer, bringing your hands up to his cheeks. You pulled him in close enough to press your lips against the sweaty surface of his forehead, giving a gentle see you later, neither of you sure of when the later is. 

Then, you turned on your heel and stepped out into the night, leaving Lando in his sanctuary of motor oil and gasoline.

The next few weeks feel like they’re moving in slow motion. It’s cruel how grief stretches time.

You kept expecting to wake up one day and feel fine, but it didn’t work like that.

You still reached for your phone some mornings, typing out something before remembering you weren’t talking. The playlist he made for you kept playing on repeat in your earbuds, his hoodie adorned your torso, sleeves pulled over your hands so at least some part of him was still holding you.

You caught yourself looking for him in the small things— when you’d walk out of university, eyes flickering to see if his car was there; when you’d walk downstairs and half-hope he was playing a game with Max; when you’d hear a word or phrase he’d often use and whip your head around to catch a glimpse of him, but he was never there.

It’s like living with a phantom limb– he wasn’t there, yet everything still remembered him.

Your best friends didn't push, Max didn’t mention him. But the silence— the kind that only fills the room after something’s broken and no one knows how to sweep it up— spoke for you.

In the meanwhile, Lando was coping in the only way he knew how.

He skipped hang outs with friends, ditched parties, just to work longer hours in his garage. Stayed until the heater shut off on its own and his hands were numb from the cold. He didn’t talk to anyone for those weeks. He just drowned himself in tasks— changing oil, fixing brakes, changing tires— anything that kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to work on autopilot. 

His phone remained quiet. Once or twice, he clicked on your contact just to see the photo of you two. Thought about sending a voice memo or a meme— something friendly, something you’d tease him for— but he always backed out at the last minute. 

Lando could hide in the garage all he wanted, but one thing remained true: he missed you like hell.

He missed the way you’d talk to him, like he wasn’t something broken. Missed how you’d be his escape from reality, much more than his garage ever was. Missed how easy it had started to feel, until he complicated it.

He kept seeing you everywhere or maybe he was just finding any excuse to take a moment to stop and think of you. He’d catch himself standing in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand you liked most. Or outside a bakery, reading the chalkboard sign that said banana bread in funky script, thinking of how he’d come downstairs in the morning to find you baking it.

Lando tried his best not to feel it— the regret, the grief, the overwhelming love.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at his lockscreen, a picture of the two of you on it. You were asleep tucked into his side, so serene and peaceful that he couldn’t help but snap a picture. He did this on nights he couldn’t sleep.

It was already two in the morning and his mind was running wild, he could’ve sworn he hallucinated a message from you. He checked his phone again, seeing the message and just as he’s about to click on it, your contact pops up on his screen.

Lando doesn’t hesitate to answer, pressing the green button immediately. “Hello?”

On the other end, you’re locked in a bathroom at Mason’s house, mascara running down your cheeks, dress hitched way too high up your thighs. You didn’t anticipate this night to go so wrong when all you were trying to do is move on from wallowing at home.

The party, at some point, became too much. Too many people, too much noise, too many bodies brushing past you like you didn’t exist— except for the one who did notice you and in all the wrong ways. 

Mason caught you in the hallway, snaking an arm around your waist as he led you upstairs to his bedroom. You thought he was being nice, like he had been for the past few weeks. It was only when he started softly caressing your thighs, face inching closer to yours, that you realised his intentions. He didn’t stop, even when you were pushing and screaming at him to go away. 

You found a pause in his movements, kicked him somewhere that distracted him long enough for you to run out of the room and lock yourself in the nearest bathroom. Your fingers trembled when you opened your phone.

There were people you could’ve called. People who would answer and help. But you didn’t want people, only him.

When the phone rang once, then twice, you started doubting your choice of calling him. But then, his voice cuts through the chaos in your mind and silences it all with just one word. 

His voice was rough with surprise, tired, laced with something so familiar yet so distant. 

You didn’t mean to cry again, but it spilled out of you without warning. “I— fuck, sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Wait— hey, no— what’s wrong?” Lando sat up in his bed, alarmed by the trembling of your voice. “Where are you?”

“At a party,” you mumbled, wiping your tears uselessly. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m glad you called me,” he answered, no hesitation. “I’m coming to get you, text me the address?”

“No, I shouldn’t have called. I— I’m sorry.”

“Give me the address.” Lando says more sternly. You read it out and he repeated it back, like he was memorising it. “Stay there. You don’t have to explain a thing to me, just stay in that room and don’t open the door unless it’s me, okay?”

Then the line went dead.

You sunk to the floor, phone in your lap, arms around your knees. The minutes stretched painfully. Music blared, people walked by, someone knocked once but you told them to fuck off without even glancing at the door.

Then, barely ten minutes since the call ended, you hear a knock. Softer, rhythmic, familiar.

“It’s me,” he yelled over the music. You opened the door and there he was— messy haired, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks flushed like he ran the whole way there.

Lando saw your mascara-streaked face and something in him cracked open. He didn’t ask, not immediately. He just shut the door behind himself, reaching a hand out as if to ask for permission to touch you. And when he pulled you into him, arms shielding you, you let yourself break. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you mumbled into his, now tear and mascara stained, hoodie. “I shouldn’t have called you, it’s too soon, I’m–”

“Stop,” his voice was quiet, but firm. He took your face into his hands, guiding your eyes towards him. “You called, I came. I always will.”

“I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “You’re not. Not ever.”

Lando tucked you back into his chest again, hand on the back of your head like he’s anchoring you there. “Don’t worry about too soon or too late, I’m here for you. Doesn’t matter when or where.”

You nodded, inhaling shaky breaths until the ache in your chest became small enough to handle. Lando’s eyes traced your face when you pulled away, thumbs softly wiping the mascara from under your eyes. “Who did this to you?”

You bit your lip, not wanting to say anything. But Lando knew you. He knew how to read you, how to understand what you wanted to say even without words. “Mason?” A nod from you was all it took for Lando to mumble for you to stay there as he burst out the door.

The kitchen was buzzing— music hummed low, drinks were being poured, someone laughed too loudly over the sound of ice cracking in the glass. 

Lando stormed in like a force of nature, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched, a fury in his eyes no one had ever seen before, not even Max. 

Lando didn’t look around at the people in the small space. He moved straight to the kitchen counter, like a bloodhound drawn to the scent of something rotten. 

Mason was there, laughing, surrounded by people too excited for the shots being poured to notice the storm. But Max did. The second he saw Lando, he knew something was up. 

“Lando—“ Max’s callout was too late. Lando had already grabbed Mason by the collar and slammed him face-first into the marble. 

The music abruptly stopped, Mason’s yell echoing in the still air. “What the fuck?”

Lando pulled him back and threw him against the fridge with a bone-rattling bang, the bottle of vodka from Mason’s hands clattering to the ground and breaking at their feet. 

“You sick son of a bitch,” Lando snarled, pressing his forearm against Mason’s throat. “You don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?” 

Mason coughed, struggling. “What the fuck are you on about?”

By now, Max had shoved forward and tried to pry Lando off. “Hey, man—“

“You know exactly what,” Lando spat, eyes not once leaving Mason’s face. “You wanna tell Max what you did to his sister? Why she called me crying and couldn’t even say your name without breaking into a sob?”

Max froze. “What?” 

“She didn’t say no,” Mason tried to defend himself, wide eyed and panicked. “She didn’t say anything— She didn’t stop me.”

Lando punched him. Knuckles to cheekbone, sharp and brutal. Mason’s head whipped to the side with a force strong enough to bring him to the ground, blood already blooming from his lip. 

The whole room stood frozen. Lando hovered over the recovering Mason, before shoving him to the ground with his knee between Mason’s shoulder blades. 

“If I hear that you touched her again or even looked her way, you won’t be just bleeding.” Lando promises. 

Then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he arrived. Mason’s left on the floor with a fuming Max while Lando finds his way back to you, knuckles bleeding and heart racing triple. 

The cold marble of your kitchen islands spreads coolth along your thighs, grounding you to the present, although your thoughts are elsewhere entirely. The kitchen light buzzing above you doesn’t help with the lingering headache from the party or the ghost of Mason’s hands still roaming your body.

You got home ten minutes ago. 

Lando stands beside you, the heat from his body bleeding into the silence like wildfire, even as he zones out into nothing. His eyes seem so far away, jaw clenched with uncontrollable fury.

“Your knuckles are bleeding,” you murmur, barely a whisper. He doesn’t answer, simply stretches out and closes his fist again, before tucking it into his pocket, like he can hide the violence and anger of tonight. 

He looked wrecked, not just from the fight, but from feeling— jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes narrowed in on the wooden floor. 

“I shouldn’t have called you,” you whispered. “It was selfish and too soon, and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“Stop,” he said immediately, voice too gentle for how rough and broken he looked. He closed the distance between you, and like testing the waters, he placed a hand on the counter beside you. “Don’t ever apologise for needing me. I’ll always come when you call.”

The dam broke a little at that, tears pricking your eyes. Lando’s finger twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he could. So you reached for him first— fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as you pressed your forehead into his shoulder. 

Lando melted around you instantly, arms winding around your waist, pulling you in, holding you against him like you were fragile and precious, and his. 

Neither of you moved for a long time. The house was silent, apart from your quiet gasps for air once in a while. Your heartbeat matched the steady thrum of his and you finally felt like everything was slowly becoming okay again. 

Eventually, Lando pulled away just enough to see your face, but kept you close enough for his fingers to still steadily warm your waist. “Can I clean this up?” He lifted his right hand, nudging his chin towards his knuckles. You nodded. 

He led you to the bathroom and sat against the bathtub’s edge, watching as you hastily looked for the first aid kit. You knelt in front of him, gently cleaning the dried up blood from his knuckles and skin. He hissed once the antiseptic touched an open wound. You didn’t apologise, just looked up and met his eyes, already watching you. “Why?”

Lando turned his head to the side with a questioning hum, “what?”

“You didn’t have to go that far,” you mutter, lowering your eyes to his hand again. “We could’ve just gone home.”

“I did have to,” he shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“You didn’t even think twice, you just went there and…” your voice was quiet, like you’re ashamed. 

“No,” he speaks again, “because it’s you.”

The quiet that settled in didn’t feel heavy anymore— it felt like home again. In the words Lando spoke and the tenderness of your fingers on his wounds, gentle and careful, both of you found your place again. Like two halves of one whole. You were the better half of him and he— of you.

The sun rose outside your bedroom window as Lando lay against your chest and you held him close, with a tight yet tender grip, like he’d disappear if you let go of him again.

“I’m glad you called me tonight,” Lando muttered, lips pressed to your bare chest. “I’m not sure how much longer I would have waited before talking to you again.”

“It was eating me alive,” you admit. “The not knowing whether this was it, whether you’d still want me whenever I saw you next. But I’m glad you do.”

“I always will,” the certainty in his voice, spoken like he knew what he’d feel for the rest of his life, made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for calling me, again.”

You look down at him, your smile soft and bittersweet.

“Thank you for coming, again.” 

“To you, always.”

[chillycherry44]

NO BABYSITTER NEEDED | LN4

an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3

summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.

wc: 10k

“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”

Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”

“I had a protein bar.”

“That doesn’t count, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”

Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”

“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”

The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.

The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.

“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”

Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”

That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.

Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.

Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”

Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.

“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”

The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.

Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.

“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.

Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.

“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”

“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?

Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.

“You must be Lando.”

“I must be,” he said, dryly.

Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.

“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”

Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”

Max coughed to hide a laugh.

She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.

“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”

“And food?”

He shrugged. “When I remember.”

“Sleep?”

Another shrug. “When I can.”

She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”

Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”

“Would you rather I was miserable?”

“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”

“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.

“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”

Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”

She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”

Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”

“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”

She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.

“You like her.”

Lando didn’t reply.

But he didn’t protest, either.

He didn’t last long after Max left.

He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.

So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.

He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.

But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.

When he opened the door, he paused.

The flat looked different.

Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.

And she was cooking.

He blinked.

She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.

He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.

“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.

She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”

He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”

“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”

She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”

Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.

“You think that’s going to fix me?”

“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”

He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.

“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”

It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.

He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.

Eventually, he sat.

And he took the bloody vitamin.

He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.

While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

After a few minutes, he frowned.

“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”

She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”

He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”

She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”

“Well… I’m inviting you now.”

Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”

He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”

That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.

He didn’t deny it.

She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”

He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”

She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”

He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”

“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.

He liked that more than he expected.

“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”

He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.

“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”

He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”

She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”

“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”

He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.

The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.

Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.

He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.

He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.

“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.

By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.

He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.

He just closed his eyes.

And slept.

Deep. Still. Undisturbed.

He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.

The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.

“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”

Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.

“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”

“But she’s working, isn’t she?”

Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.

He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”

Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”

Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”

“And you like that?”

“I don’t not like it.”

Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”

Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.

Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”

Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.

Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.

It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.

He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.

He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.

And he started sleeping better.

Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.

By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.

“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”

She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”

He paused.

She grinned.

“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”

He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.

“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”

He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.

“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.

Race weekends were always a blur.

Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.

His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.

Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit.

It was a photo.

She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.

The caption followed a second later:

That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana. 

Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She hadn’t asked how he was.

Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.

Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.

They only gave us oranges.

A few seconds passed.

That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.

He shook his head, grinning now, properly.

There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.

And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.

The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.

P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.

He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.

Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.

Instead, there it was on the counter.

A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.

P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION 

Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:

REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.

He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.

Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:

I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.

BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x

He read it twice, then once more for good measure.

There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.

He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.

The flat was silent.

Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.

Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.

And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—

He missed her. Slightly.

Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.

The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.

Lando was already up.

He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.

The meal was gone. The container clean.

He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.

The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.

“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.

He met her gaze, caught in the calm.

“Morning.”

She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.

They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.

He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.

She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.

“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head. 

“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”

Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.

“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”

She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant. 

“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”

He blinked. “The beach?”

“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”

Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.

She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“I prefer the term optimistic.”

He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.

And yet.

“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”

And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.

Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.

The beach. On a Monday.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?” 

But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.

When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.

He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.

She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.

Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself. 

God, she’s pretty.

She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.” 

He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”

Her smile curled. “Us?”

“I just mean—�� he started, but she was already grinning wider.

“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.

She laughed.

He looked at her. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”

She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”

The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”

She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.

And he smiled.

The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.

Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.

He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But he did definitely notice.

Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.

She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.

Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.

“Race you!”

And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.

He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.

“You little—”

He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves. 

And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.

The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.

She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow. 

Lando launched at her.

She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.

But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Then, without warning, she dunked him.

His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.

They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.

Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface. 

They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol). 

Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her. 

The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment. 

They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment. 

Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.

By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.

Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened. 

When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.

Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.  

The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter. 

He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.

He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.

Lando lingered for a moment.

Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.

He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves. 

The following morning she woke with a start.

It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.

“Shit.”

She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.

The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.

She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.

The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.

She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”

Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.

“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”

She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”

“Below average.”

“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”

Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”

She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”

He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.

Domesticity.

Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.

He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.

Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”

He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.

And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.

She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.

“Here, try not to burn it.”

Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.

He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”

She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”

She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.

“I think I can manage.”

There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.

“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”

Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.

But today, he let it hang in the air.

“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”

She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.

Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.

A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.

They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.

And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.

The flat no longer felt too quiet.

He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.

Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.

Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”

Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”

Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”

Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”

Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.

“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”

Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”

Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.

“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”

Lando didn’t answer straight away.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.

The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.

But something was different this time.

His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.

He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.

The ache surprised him.

By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.

Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.

Would you ever come to a race?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?

He smiled. Tapped back.

Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.

The typing bubble came and went again. Then,

We can talk about it when you’re home.

And there it was, that word.

Home.

He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.

It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.

They’d talk when he was home.

He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.

He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.

But a reply came a few minutes later.

I’ll be there.

That was it. Simple. Certain.

He smiled. Couldn’t help it.

And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.

Sunday night came fast.

The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.

She was there.

He could feel it even before he saw her.

When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.

She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.

“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.

Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.

His shoulders dropped.

“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”

She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”

He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.

She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”

And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.

He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.

Not just the quiet, but her quiet.

And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.

Home.

It really did feel like that now.

The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.

The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.

But the flat didn’t feel empty.

It felt like she’d just stepped out.

He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.

Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.

He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.

“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.

“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”

She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.

They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.

“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”

Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”

She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.

That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.

“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”

He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”

She grinned. “Flattering.”

“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”

She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”

He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”

That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.

She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”

Lando laughed. “Deal.”

And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.

But he knew this much.

He didn’t just want her there.

He needed her there.

They flew out on the Thursday morning.

Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.

“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”

She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”

Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”

“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”

Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.

He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.

“You alright there?”

She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”

He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.

The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.

She fit in effortlessly.

Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.

And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.

She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.

And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.

He felt anchored.

Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.

She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”

Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”

“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”

She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”

And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.

It felt… right.

Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.

His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.

She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.

“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.

She glanced up. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”

“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”

He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.

They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.

“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.

He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel

less mental.”

That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”

Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.

“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”

Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”

Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”

She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”

Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”

Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.

Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.

“Too much?” she teased.

He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”

And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.

Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.

Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.

Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.

And Lando had never driven better.

Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.

When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.

He barely heard it.

All he could think, where is she?

Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.

“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.

The guy blinked. “Who?”

“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”

Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.

His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.

Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.

Then he stepped onto the podium.

The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.

And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.

Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.

He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.

She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.

He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.

She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.

Go back to the motorhome.

She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.

And suddenly, the day felt complete.

The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.

Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.

He needed to see her.

The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.

“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.

Which, in a way, he had.

“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.

“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”

“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”

Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.

“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”

She stilled.

Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”

Silence fell like a held breath.

And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.

“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”

He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”

She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.

And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.

Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.

It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.

She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.

“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.

“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”

Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”

He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.

It looked a lot like her.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132

[chillycherry44]

rivals — ln4 & op81 : part two

part one

pairing: lando norris x reader x oscar piastri

word count: 8.6k

warnings: cursing and descriptions of a crash (injury and thoughts of death)  

summary: challengers!au.... when ferarri’s princess is forced to retire at the peak of her career she finds herself lost with no purpose. racing was all she had ever known and it was ripped right out from under her with no warning. feeling hopeless she pours her passion back into mentoring oscar piastri— mclaren’s reigning champion. old feelings emerge, rivalries reach their breaking point, and ex-teammates show up when oscar least expects it. yet all y/n wants to see is some good fucking racing.

a/n: drama and more drama in this chapter!! this took forever, but i hope the wait was worth it :)

masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The vibrant colors and culture of the Mexican Grand Prix fill the paddock as you scan your pass and go through the turnstile. Photographers are lined up like it’s a red carpet event to get pictures of the world champion walking in and like always you flash them a smile while signing various items for the fans that flock towards you. 

Media day isn’t your favorite, but is it really any driver’s favorite part of a race weekend? This Grand Prix you’d been graced with being a part of the press conference with a few of the other drivers first thing this morning. Your manager Mia was waiting for you as soon as you entered Ferrari’s motorhome and the two of you went over your schedule for the day as you made the trek to the press conference.

It’s interviews first thing this morning, then some social media content with Charles, a track walk with your inner team, and then meetings with the team as a whole to end your first day in Mexico City. It’s a booked and busy day– per usual. 

You’re the last to enter the room for the press conference and you immediately spot the driver in the obnoxiously bright papaya team kit sitting on the white couch, who’s accompanied by Russell. 

“Someone’s late.” An Australian accent fills your ears as you join your fellow colleagues on the couch. 

“I’m actually right on time.” You state as you glance down at the luxurious watch on your wrist, then back towards the Australian with a knowing smirk on your face. 

Oscar and you had grown close over the course of the season. He’d become a friend– which was something you’d never thought you’d hear yourself say about one of the other drivers, but it was true. It had helped that McLaren’s car had seemed to come alive this season, so you were actually able to get some racing in with him this season. He was good and you were starting to wonder if he might become an issue next season when it came to the championship. 

The other McLaren driver or you guess you should say ex-McLaren driver whose seat is apparently being warmed by Pato O’Ward until he comes back next year has become more than a friend to you. It wasn’t a secret to the world that Lando and you were clearly together. Formula E’s schedule is basically half of what Formula 1’s is– so seeing each other hasn’t been a difficult process. You two would come and support each other when you could and spend time together when you could. It wasn’t super serious, but it wasn’t super casual at the same time, to you at least it was a good balance. 

The press conference was underway not too long after you had gotten settled and of course it was the same questions as always that were asked towards you. 

Do you think you can maintain this championship lead? 

Do you think you'll get your second championship win this year? 

The season is winding down and the points are close between Max and you? Who do you think will win? 

Is Ferrari doing everything they can to help you win this championship? 

The questions and their answers you think you could recite in your sleep by now and if it wasn’t for your publicity agent staring you down like a hawk from the corner of the room you’d be tempted to give a smartass response to the press, but instead you give them the same answer with nothing but professionalism and poise. 

Thankfully the riveting questions were soon over and you could get on with your day. Maybe if they asked you interesting questions you wouldn’t dread it so much, but the majority of the reporters are men– the same men who ridiculed you when you got your seat, so you can’t expect much from such small brains. 

As you’re getting up from the couch Oscar strides over towards you with his hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets. “Hey, do you want to get lunch later?”

You glance over at Mia, fully expecting her to be chomping at the bit to get you onto your next task, but she’s too engrossed in her phone at the moment, which means you had some time to play with Oscar. “I don’t know Piastri. I’m pretty booked up for the rest of the day.” 

“You’re too busy for me?” The words slip right past his tongue and he regrets saying them as soon as he hears himself say it. He watches as your eyebrows furrow and he knows you’ll reply in that laughing yet condescending tone that you always do when he gets too comfortable around you. 

“What makes you think you’re that high up on my roster?” 

Oscar internally cringes, just when he thinks he’s wormed his way closer to you, you go and show him just how much power you hold and just how much he’s not Lando. 

You notice how Oscar switches his weight back and forth on his feet, he’s uncomfortable, and really you didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable. It’s just so much fun and easy to make him squirm and really you do like Oscar. You wouldn’t tease him like you do if you didn’t.

Oscar had amazing qualities, he was a hell of a driver and he was kind and gentle– obedient. 

The opposite of Lando. 

You offer him a genuine smile to try and bring him back from whatever mental hellscape he’d reverted into. “Listen, I’ve got social media content to film with Charles and then I’ll text you about lunch alright?” 

His eyes light up and he stands tall and confident in front of you– his hands now at his sides instead of stuffed into his pockets. “Ok, I’ll talk to you later?” 

“Yes, I’ll text you.” You reassure him before heading off towards Mia before she’s the one dragging you away.

When it came to filming content with Charles there was never a dull moment. The two of you were so competitive that if it was a challenge video you’d think it was life or death between you two. You actually don’t mind the content side of your job. It’s a hell of a lot easier than some of the stuff you have to do and sometimes it can be really fun. The food videos have to be your favorite– during the Dutch GP a stroopwafel hates to see you coming. 

After spending almost two hours filming things individually and with Charles you find yourself sitting at an umbrella covered table with Oscar in the middle of the bustling paddock. A turkey club sits on the plate in front of you and you’re thankful you escaped having to eat whatever your trainer had planned for you for lunch today. 

Oscar and you talk about this weekend and if you think he’ll be on the podium with you. He thinks there is a good chance– you don’t let him know that you think so too. As much as you love to tease Oscar and mess with him, you have grown fond of spending time with him. Besides Charles and maybe two other drivers, Oscar is the only one that you enjoy spending time with. You’ve found that he can make you laugh– like full belly laugh and it’s Oscar’s favorite thing, but he won’t tell you that. 

There’s a beat of silence between you two as you continue to eat your lunch and your eyes can’t help but linger on him. His hair has gotten long– he’s been away from home too long to get it cut and it’s starting to fall into his eyes. The slight breeze that travels through the paddock has it billowing through the air. When he turns his head to look out at the paddock you try not to stare at the little curls that are starting to form at the nape of his neck and before your mind can start to wander you abruptly clear your throat and start a new conversation. 

“Did Lando tell you he’s coming to Brazil?” You ask before stuffing another bite of the sandwich in your mouth. 

Oscar’s heart skips a beat at the mention of Lando, but not in the way you’d think. “Yeah he told me.” 

“We should all get dinner or something.” You offer. 

He shrugs, pushing his salad around on his plate with his fork. “Yeah if you want.” 

You eye Oscar as he continues to play with his food instead of eating it. He was nothing but bunny teeth smiles and laughter a moment ago and now you’d think he hated the world. You set your sandwich down on your plate, wiping your hands on your pants before you rest your elbows on the table, leaning in as you speak. “What’s up?” 

His eyes flicker up from his plate towards you. “Nothing.” 

“Oscar.” He just stares at you with that same bothered look on his face. “This whole thing you’re doing is stupid. You’re not good at it. If you have something you want to say then tell me. Don’t play this broody mysterious thing with me. It’s dumb.” 

He sets his fork down and crosses his arms across his chest, suddenly defensive. “I’m not doing a thing. I’m just…” His words trail off and he knows he shouldn’t say it, but he wants to so badly. 

“Well go on.” You pry, your body language mimicking his. 

“I’m surprised you guys are still seeing each other.” 

You both stare at each other for a moment, Oscar in disbelief that he finally worked up the courage to say what he’d been thinking and you in disbelief that he had the nerve to comment on your relationship like that and it made you wonder– what did he know?

“Okay.” You simply state, grabbing your food and getting up to leave. You weren’t going to have this conversation here or with Oscar. 

“I’m sorry!” Oscar blurts out when he sees you leaving. 

You stop and turn back to face him, your emotions starting to get the better of you. “Why did you want to have lunch with me today?” 

“I told you I just wanted to hang out with you.” 

“Don’t be such a fucking pussy. Is he seeing other girls while he’s away? Is that what this is?” Your anger is starting to boil over and you think if Oscar tells you that’s the case the remainder of this turkey club may be launched across the paddock. 

Oscar on the other hand wants to punch himself for digging himself this hole and he knows it’s only going to get deeper, especially when he’s talking to you. 

“No. I mean… I don’t know. That’s not what I’m trying to say.” He’s chewing on his words and it’s a sorry sight to witness. 

“Then what are you trying to say, Oscar?” You wait for a response, anything to imply what he’s trying to say and when you’re met with silence you don’t think you’ve ever been more annoyed. A scoff and an eyeroll is all he gets from you before you’re turning back around to leave once again. 

You’re not even a foot away from the table when he blurts out the last thing you expected. 

“He’s not in love with you.”

You immediately spin on your heel and face the Australian driver once more, your anger had officially boiled over. “Who says I want somebody to be in love with me?” Love was a strange thing for you, you didn’t crave it. You wanted loyalty instead of love, you wanted someone who matched you, who challenged you. The word love was used so much in today’s society who even could actually say what love was? To you– it didn’t mean a thing. “When did I say I was in love with him?” 

Oscar swallows hard– his Adam's apple bobbing. “You didn’t.” 

“So why would I care whether or not he loved me?” 

“I guess you wouldn’t.” Oscar says with a shrug. 

“Cool.” You’d hoped this would be the last time a conversation like this happens with Oscar. 

“Cool.” He replies back and you think this whole thing is over with, but then he goes and opens his mouth again. “Don’t you think you deserve it?” 

You study his face and you see that look he’s giving you, it’s been the same look he’s given you since that night in Monza last year. The same look when you ultimately chose Lando over him. It made you sick to look at him, to see the longing in his face over you. “Jesus fucking christ.” 

“I mean who wouldn’t be in love with you?” He challenges and you want to grab him by his stupid McLaren polo and knock some sense into him, but you just laugh at him and turn to leave for the final time. “Sorry.” Oscar says again and he knows he overstepped your boundaries, but god if it didn’t feel good to soil a little bit of what Lando and you had.

“You know I think you might be the worst friend in the world.” You tell him as you throw your lunch in the trash, your appetite long gone by now. 

“Maybe.” 

“Definitely. Thanks for lunch Oscar.” 

He watches you leave until you disappear into the crowd of various team kits and prays that you don’t punt him into the wall on Sunday. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A week later Formula 1 is in São Paulo and Oscar and you have barely spoken. He’s been dreading this week ever since he found of Lando was coming, now add in your argument and he’s ready for the week break before Vegas to begin. 

Oscar’s in McLaren’s hospitality early on race day chatting with a team member when he hears Lando before he sees him. The way people still flock to him and how he makes a big entrance even after leaving the team goes straight through Oscar. Lando could use a lesson in humility, but he wasn’t going to be the one to give it to him. He feels a heavy hand land on his shoulder and he knows exactly who it belongs to. 

“Hi mate. Long time no see huh?” Lando says with a grin on his face. 

Oscar nods his head at the Brit. “A couple months I think.” 

“I think we need to catch up.” 

Oscar watches as Lando strikes up a conversation with the worker at the snack bar and the way he tries to charm everyone he meets makes him sick. In all honesty Oscar did have some issues with Lando at the moment. He was grateful for having him as his teammate his rookie year and the bond they formed over the course of it, but times like this and ever since you came into their life– he’d found Lando harder to swallow. 

When McLaren’s hospitality had started to serve churros from the snack bar Oscar wasn’t sure, but somehow Lando had appeared with two of them in his hand and Oscar took one of them with a tight lipped smile on his face. 

“So, tell me about your season.” Oscar hopes that maybe if he starts off the conversation he can control it and this won’t last forever. Lando takes a bite of his churro and shrugs. “No fun stuff?” Oscar pries a little more.

“Like what?” Lando asks, fully knowing what Oscar is implying.

It’s Oscar’s turn to shrug at his ex teammate. “I don’t know…. are you seeing anybody?” 

“What do you mean? I’m taken. What do you think I’m doing here?” 

Lando’s got the sly smirk on his face that always made Oscar irate, but he knows Lando is someone who wants a reaction. He wants to provoke people to get a reaction. It doesn’t matter if it’s positive or negative and Oscar is always one to try and deny him of that. 

“You’re not here to visit me?” Oscar half jokes. 

Lando studies Oscar’s face and he notices how his expression darkens. He knows Oscar is thinking about you and then undoubtedly you and Lando together. Lando knows Oscar wants to say something, but he won’t until Lando opens the floor. “What?” 

Oscar takes a bite of his churro, the gears in his mind turning as he chews. “Nothing, just– are you really committed to this thing?” 

The thing about Oscar and Lando is that they’re always talking about you, even when they aren’t talking about you. 

“To Y/N? Yeah. I mean we’re taking it slow, but you know, I like her. I think she’s making me an honest man.” Lando can see the unconvinced look on Oscar’s face and he scoffs at the sight of it. “What, you don’t believe me?” 

Oscar shakes his head. “No I just– I’m not sure how she’s thinking about it. I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

Lando audibly laughs at the Australians choice of words. “You don’t want me to get hurt?” Oscar only nods and as Lando watches him he wonders if Oscar knows something he didn’t. “Did she say something to you?” 

“No, I just got the impression that she’s not really thinking about this as a serious relationship.” 

Lando quirks an eyebrow at Oscar. “You got that impression?” 

“Yeah. From a conversation we had.” 

There’s a beat of silence between the two former teammates before Lando’s got a shit eating grin on his face and he’s putting his arm around Oscar’s thick neck– pulling him in closer to him. “You fucking snake.” Lando’s voice is low enough for only Oscar to hear and from his facial expressions Lando can tell he’s confused or playing stupid. “Honestly, I’m proud of you. I’d be doing the same thing.” 

“I’m not-” 

“It’s fine. It’s exciting to see you this way.” Lando smiles at Oscar as he takes another bite from his churro. “It’s what’s been missing from your racing.” 

“What?” Oscar scoffs. 

“It’s nice to see you lit up about something, even if that something is my girlfriend.” 

Oscar doesn’t think hearing Lando call you his girlfriend would affect him that much, but it does. He knows you two will never last and in the end it will be him that will have to pick up the pieces. “Is that what you guys are calling each other now?” 

“You know this just makes it hotter for me, right? You sitting here, pining for her.” 

“I would never–”

Lando rolls his eyes at Oscar. “I know. It’s not your style. You’re playing percentage racing– waiting for me to fuck up.” 

The two drivers just stare at each other for a moment, it’s awkward and no one really knows what to say for a minute. There were so many unspoken words and words that were disguised as something else during their conversation. Oscar wanted to say so much more to Lando, but he’d save it for another day. 

Lando’s the first to break the silence. “Come on. Walk me over there.” He gets up from his seat and shoves the remainder of his churro in Oscar’s face. Oscar looks at the sweet treat then up to Lando and then without breaking eye contact he bites the rest of the churro out of Lando’s hand. Lando laughs and pats Oscar on the back as they make their way out of McLaren’s hospitality. 

On their short journey to Ferrari’s hospitality Lando spots a fan near the entrance, clearly waiting for you to come out, holding a sign that said something along the lines of Princess of Ferrari. He smiles at the fan and pretends he didn’t notice the other ten signs that he’d seen as he walked into the paddock this morning. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It’s less than an hour before the lights go out and where do you find yourself? Half naked on top of an also half naked Lando. It had been awhile since you two had seen each other and honestly you couldn’t hold yourself back when you saw him walk into hospitality. Your drivers room had seen some action over the course of the season to say the least and your poor physio table was on its last leg. 

“I missed you.” Lando murmurs as his lips trail down your neck. “You have no idea how lonely it’s been this past month.” 

“Is that why you haven’t won any races?”

Lando laughs half heartedly. “I just told you I missed you.” 

You move your hips just the right way and he’s grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling it off of you– tossing it with no direction. 

“I watched your last race. You could have overtaken Nyck on the first corner if you’d gotten a better start off the line.” You state in between the kisses you litter across his chest. 

Lando looks at you a little dumbfounded that this is your topic of conversation during this kind of activity. His hand reaches out towards you, yet at his touch you don’t look up at him. “Y/N, look at me.” 

“What?” Your lips are swollen and your eyes wide. 

He reaches for you, pulling you down towards him and his lips find that spot on your neck that drives you wild, makes you whimper with no shame, and it’s music to Lando’s ears. 

“When were you going to tell me about Oscar?” He whispers as he continues his assault on your neck . 

“I thought you knew.” You say breathless. 

Lando detaches himself from you, his hand reaching up to brush your wild hair out of your face. “I mean, I feel bad because I know he’s in pain but…” He shrugs with a sly smirk on his face and you can’t help but stir the pot. 

“You’re not threatened by him?” 

“No.” Lando says plain as day. 

The smirk that was once on Lando’s face has now traveled over to yours. “You should be.” You state as your hand travels slowly down his chest towards the waistband of his boxers. You snap the waistband on his skin, teasing him, and earning an audible hiss in the process before sliding your hand in. “He’s good looking, he’s smart, and he’s a really fucking good driver.” You state as you toy with Lando mentally and physically. 

He’s panting heavily, eyes screwed shut as he tries to collect himself. “He’s always been… very good.”

“I’m serious. Oscar’s gotten a lot better this season.” 

Lando’s eyes narrow at you for a moment, this was no longer you trying to just rile him up, you were actually just bragging on Oscar. “Are the two of us still racing for your number? Because I thought I won.” 

You quickly retreat your hand from his boxers, your hands now on either side of his face as you lean down over him. “That’s your problem. You always think you’ve won before the race is over.” 

“Are we talking about racing?” Lando asks. 

“We’re always talking about racing.” 

“Can we not?” 

You look at the man below with disgust and irritation, if he didn’t want to talk about racing then why was he with you? “Sure.” You state, removing yourself from his lap and collecting your clothes that were scattered across your small driver’s room. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, still perched on your physio table. 

“I have to do my routine. I’ll see you after the race.” You’re not even looking at him as you speak, yet you can feel his eyes burning into you. 

“Y/N.” 

You finally turn to face him, a stone cold look adorns your face. “If you’re not interested in me fixing your racing for free then don’t worry about it.” 

Lando’s off the table now, but he’s still leaning against it, his arms crossed across his toned chest. “Why do you care so much?” 

“I’m dating you. It’s embarrassing for me if you suck.” 

You can sense Lando’s anger starting to rise, yet it doesn’t bother you one bit, if he didn’t want the truth, then he shouldn’t have asked. 

“I suck now?”

You shrug at him as you grab your fireproofs out of the small closet in the corner and put them on.

“It’s not all glamorous in other series like it is here in F1. We all can’t walk around being graced with the honor of being called the Princess of Ferrari.” 

You look at him and you can’t help the baffled laugh that comes out of your mouth. His face and words showed nothing but jealousy. He was jealous of your success and your status. It was downright pitiful. 

“Wow.” 

“I’m happy that people adore you. I just don’t need you to be my coach.” 

He’s being condescending and he doesn’t know just how low you can go in this argument. 

“Well someone needs to be.” 

Lando sighs, not wanting this to turn into a bigger mess than it already is, but it’s no use. “Can we just–” 

“I mean, what do you need from me? Or what do you think you need? A cheerleader? A fuck buddy? A girlfriend?” You start doing some stretches, wishing your physiologist was in here right now instead of Lando. “There are a lot of girls who are dying to be your girlfriend. You’re Lando Norris– talented, charming, and you’ve got a big dick. Go be with one of them.”  

“Is this like a new strategy you’re using to pump yourself up before the race? Have a little fight to get yourself going?” Lando knew you were short tempered, but this was ridiculous. 

“I don’t need a fight to get myself going.” 

“No. Just an hour of meditation.” He’s referring to your pre race routine, the one he was currently interrupting. 

“How’s coasting by on talent working out for you?”

Lando scoffs and you know you’ve struck a nerve.

“Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to have you complain to me every week about all the ways you’re being screwed over? How can you possibly think that’s a good use of my time?” 

“Excuse me for inconveniencing you.” Lando states in a sarcastic tone. 

“You are.” You deadpan. “I need to be alone now. I’ll see you after the match.” You wave him off as you sit down on the floor to stretch out your legs. 

Lando can feel his anger boiling over, you had just basically insulted him and complained about him to his face and then dismissed him like he was a dog. “No.” 

You furrow your eyebrows at him as you look up at him. “What?” 

He squats down to your level– getting right up in your face. “I’m not going to the race. Not if you think you can just dismiss me. I’m not some fucking lap dog who’s gonna sit around and let you punish me. I’m not Oscar.” You laugh in his face and Lando allows for it to fuel his rant. “I mean maybe you need someone like that. Someone who’s gonna hop on board with your life and be Mr. Y/N Y/L/N.” 

“That’s what you think I want?” You ask as Lando stands over you now. 

“Yeah, a member of your fan club.” Lando lets out a breathless laugh as he says it, like it’s something beneath him. 

You rise from the ground, standing face to face with Lando, his eyes a hurricane of colors as they stare back at you. “You’re not a member of my fan club?” 

“I’m your peer. I’m not your groupie. And I’m definitely not your student.” 

You just stare at him, your expression cold and distant, there was nothing else to say at this point. You had a race to win shortly and it didn’t matter if Lando was in that crowd or not. He’d made his stance clear and you were not one to beg. “Okay.” 

Lando grabs his shirt and jeans and quickly throws them on. This was not how he expected today to go at all, but there was no use in sticking around at this point. The damage had been done and Lando was never good at picking up the pieces. 

“Good luck today champ.” He states before the door slams shut behind him. 

You let out a deep sigh that you didn’t realize you’d been holding in the whole time. It was time to push all of this to the back of your mind and focus on the task at hand. So you zip up your race suit and put on your boots and once you exit the threshold of your driver’s room and into the hustle and bustle it’s like the fight with Lando hadn’t even happened. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Rain was nothing new during the Brazilian GP, in fact it was expected, but this year it seemed as though mother nature didn’t want this race to happen. It had been an issue all weekend, the rain being so heavy that qualifying almost got cancelled yesterday. Today was no different and with fifteen minutes before lights out they decide to postpone the race.

The rain pours down in bucketfuls as you stand at the edge of the garage and the pitlane. Puddles that have seemed to be there all weekend litter the ground and the softest rumble of thunder echoes off in the distance. As time progresses it seems more and more likely that this race won’t be happening, but you still prepare yourself in case the skies clear and the track dries. 

Your race suit hangs loosely around your hips and bright red headphones sit snugly over your ears as you look over the data on the monitor in front of you. Your strategist rattles off possible scenarios and you listen as if there was no chance of cancellation. You had to be ready for anything and if that was racing in these unfavorable conditions– then so be it. 

Meanwhile over in the McLaren garage Oscar is perplexed as to why Lando is there. Usually he’d come and visit, but he spent his time in the Ferrari garage with you on race weekends that he was here. He pretends to listen to what his engineer is telling him as he eyes Lando talking to Zak across the garage. When Zak walks away Oscar can’t resist the urge to go over and be nosey.

“Did you get banned from the Ferrari garage or something?” Oscar asks jokingly, but when Lando’s face turns sour Oscar knows something’s gone down. 

Lando glances around the garage– everyone’s too busy at the moment trying to figure out what strategy to go with that they shouldn’t be listening in on his conversation, but he still lowers his voice. “We had a big fight. I was actually on the next flight out of here, but the weather delayed everything. So I guess I’m stuck here for a while now.” 

Oscar’s eyes widen, yet he can’t deny that small part of him that is happy to hear that things are rocky between the two of you at the moment. “Damn. I’m sorry mate.” He clamps a hand down on Lando’s shoulder and from the look on Oscar’s face Lando knows he’s not really sorry. Why would he be? Lando had beat him in the competition for you– any sign of instability in your relationship was like a present on Christmas morning to him. 

“It’s whatever. We’ll be back to normal by tonight.” Lando glances over at the MCL38 that’s sitting stationary in the garage. “Maybe you could use this upgraded machine to beat her.” Lando suggests. 

Oscar quietly laughs– you could beat him in a Sauber. “Yeah maybe.”

 ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

By some miracle the rain clouds had cleared long enough for the FIA to declare that it was safe enough for the race to continue. Although the huge puddles that were still standing on the track and the dark clouds coming in from the west told you differently. Nonetheless you had a job to do and sometimes this job wasn’t all glitz and glamour. So you finalize your strategy tactic with your team and start to prepare yourself for probably the most challenging two hours of your career so far. 

You can tell that everyone at Interlagos right now is a little on edge– team members, drivers, fans. There’s excitement in the air for the race to start, but the rain clouds in the distance foreshadow something much darker. 

The first spot on the starting grid belongs to you today and as you sit in the cockpit of your beloved SF-24 you see the first drops of rain on your visor– then Alice’s voice in your ear. 

One minute till formation. There is a small rain shower that should be done before the formation lap is over. 

What about the black sky right in front of me? 

We’re still watching it. There is a chance it goes around us. I’ll keep you updated. 

The formation lap goes smoothly enough, the track is wet and there is spray of course, but for right now it just seems like a normal rain race. When you line back up on the grid you take in who’s around you– Max to the left, Oscar behind you, and Charles behind Max. It was going to be an interesting race, even without the rain. 

You watch the five lights in front of you and with killer like precision you’re first off the line when they go out. Max is quick but not quick enough to hit the apex before you at turn one and you watch in your mirrors as Oscar overtakes him.

You’re at the top of your game during this race, pushing out the fastest laps consistently and building a gap between Oscar and you beautifully. The track had started to dry and a clear racing line had started to form as the laps went by, but the dark clouds still loomed in the distance. Even with the threat of rain some teams start to pit for slicks and soon enough you hear Alice in your ear. 

How’s the tires? 

I’m not pitting for slicks if that’s what you’re implying. These inters can last me for a couple more laps.

Copy that Y/N.

Weather update? 

Looks like we won’t be as lucky as we hoped. It will be here in about five laps. Rain will be moderate. 

Okay.

The rain arrives in two laps and it starts out slow– the cars that pitted for slicks start to struggle as the track becomes wet again. Then the first yellow flag of the session happens as Lawson spins out, thankfully he’s alright, but a VSC is deployed as they get the car off the track. Two more drivers spin out after Lawson and as teams start to pit for full wet tires the rain picks up expeditiously. It had went from a rain shower to torrential downpour in seconds, the visibility damn near at zero as you drive this race car around the circuit. Alice comes over the radio, her usual cool demeanor replaced with one of concern. 

Y/N box on this lap. 

Where the hell is the red flag? Someone is going to die, the visibility is horrible, the track is flooding. This is insane even for me. 

I know. The win doesn’t even matter anymore, just make it back to the pits safely please. 

You don’t make it back. 

It all happened so fast, you could see a car behind you, but you weren’t sure who it was. The one thing you did know was that they were coming into this corner way too fast and when you tried to correct the car to get out of their way you hydroplaned. The flash of pink that you see let’s you know its an Alpine that you’re about ready to collide with. Then all at once you hear the crunch of carbon fiber and the car is flying into the wall. The force of the collison knocks you out and Alice’s constant radio messages are met with silence. 

The crowd screams and gasps are heard throughout all the garages as the replay and aftermath of your wreck are shown on the screens. It’s one of the worst wrecks Formula 1 has seen in a good while and the fact that you’re not talking or moving has everyone fearing the worst. Your car is completely destroyed– the Alpine that belongs to Gasly is practically on top of yours and when you finally come to it feels like every bone in your body is broken.

You scream out in pain as you’re trapped in your car and as the medics and what seems like a million other people work to get you out the only thing you can think about, besides how much pain you’re in, is how this is the end of everything. Tears fill your helmet as they finally extract you from your car and strap you to the gurney, 

The ambulance ride to the hospital is a blur of being poked and prodded while words in English and Portuguese are quickly spoken to you. You can’t see much from the tears in your eyes and the fact that your head is strapped down onto the gurney, the roof of the ambulance and the paramedics are all you can see. Which is a blessing in disguise because if you could see how mangled your leg and arm is you’d probably pass out again.

Your memory from when you exit the ambulance to when you wake up in recovery is almost nonexistent and all you can recall is flashes of moments. Doctors yelling, bright lights, machines beeping– it was almost like a scene from a medical drama. 

You squint as you open your eyes, the room slowly coming into focus as you blink. You’re no longer in pain and you wonder if you’ve died, but then the sound of Alice’s voice fills your ears. 

“Oh thank god you’re awake!” She exclaims. You turn your head to the right to see her standing at the edge of your bed, a relieved smile stretched across her face. Alice was more than just your race engineer– she was like family to you. She was a person you could trust with your life and for her to be the person who was here when you woke up meant the world to you. 

“Am I alive? I can’t feel anything.” You ask hoarsely, your throat raw and dry. 

She laughs as her hand reaches out towards you, brushing your hair out of your face. “Yes sweetie. They’ve just got you on some good drugs right now for the pain.” 

You just nod at her, your energy already spent on speaking those few words. There’s a knock at the door and a lady, who you’re assuming is the doctor, walks in. 

“Nice to see you awake Ms. Y/L/N. You had one nasty crash.” She pauses for a moment and looks over at Alice who nods back at her. “I’m not gonna sugar coat this, your injuries are extensive. Your right wrist was fractured and your right leg, particularly your tibia, was also fractured. You’ve got four broken ribs and a bruised sternum. Thankfully you only suffered a mild concussion– a wreck like this you’re lucky you didn’t suffer a worse fate with your head.” She looks down at her clipboard like she’s unsure if she should say this at the moment, but then she sighs and focuses her attention back on you. “I’m going to be honest, recovery is going to be a long and rough process, but if anyone can come back from this I know you can.” 

She continues to talk, but you’ve zoned out already. Your concussion and the drugs in your system make taking this horrific news harder than it should be. You want to be in denial and think you’re just in here for a bump on the head and a few scrapes and bruises, but the reality is that you almost died today. This crash has altered your life forever and as you lay there in that hospital bed in Brazil you realize that you may be alive, but a part of you did die today. 

The doctor leaves and Alice says something about going to call your parents and you just hum in response, the reality of your situation settling in. You close your eyes and try to go to sleep, praying that when you wake up this will all have been just one big nightmare. You hear the door open and you assume it’s just Alice coming back in so you don’t open your eyes, but the voice that softly whispers your name does not belong to Alice. 

You slowly open your eyes and there stands Oscar at the foot of your bed. He’s looking at you like you’re some half dead animal that got hit on the side of the road and it makes you laugh, well as best you can. 

“I’m done for Osc.” You state bleakly. 

He shakes his head furiously as he moves to the side of your bed. “Don’t say that.” 

“How am I meant to drive with a fucked wrist and leg?” 

“Physical therapy and training. You’ll be back in that car come March I know it. You’re strong Y/N.” Oscar hopes his words instill you with some confidence.

He wasn’t going to tell you this, but he was behind Pierre on the track, he saw the whole crash happen right in front of him. It was horrible and it still made his stomach twist to think about it. He thought you were dead, the replays of them carrying your body out of the mangled car will haunt his dreams for some time. If it was up to him he would have been here as soon as he got out of the car, but you were in surgery and this wasn’t the movies, he had rules and obligations to follow, no matter the circumstances according to the team and the FIA. 

“Who ended up winning?” You ask, wanting to stop talking about the impending end of your career. 

“Verstappen.” 

You scoff. “That fucker.” 

You two talked for awhile, he was good at distracting you from your own thoughts, but there is someone that you figured would have shown up by now. Hours had passed– a statement had been released that you were awake and alright, Charles and Lewis had also stopped by to visit you, yet no Lando. 

Yes you guys had a horrible fight earlier, but for fucks sake you’d almost died and he couldn’t be bothered to come and see if you were alright? The hospital was getting ready to stop their visiting hours when you see a curly brown mullet peak around the doorframe. 

“I’m sorry, I–” 

“Out.” You didn’t want to see him at this point, any excuse he was getting ready to give you meant absolutely nothing to you. 

“Y/N.” He pleads. 

“Out!” You raise your voice and you wince at the pain that radiates through your throat. The tube they’d shoved down it earlier had apparently done some damage. 

“Listen–” 

You want to jump out of this hospital bed and strangle him, but you don’t have the capability of doing that right now or even the capability of yelling at him. You look over at Oscar, hoping he gets the message that you’re pleading to him through your eyes. 

Oscar’s mad for you, he’d noticed how everytime someone passed your room you glanced, hoping it was Lando, and then ultimately being disappointed when it wasn’t. He has no idea where the Brit had been this whole time, but he knows no matter what went down between the two of you earlier that Lando should have been here for you. 

“Lando. Get the fuck out of here.” 

Lando stands there dumbfounded, especially after Oscar had yelled at him. His eyes dart over to Oscar and then to you, who turns your head away from him. Lando shakes his head in disbelief before turning on his heel and leaving. 

You break up with him the next week when he comes to see you when you’re back home in Monaco. He cries– you don’t. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The months following your accident are the hardest months of your life. Physical therapy is like pure torture, some days are worse than others, and majority of the time you want to give up, but you don’t. You tell yourself that this is just a small setback that the thoughts you had in the hospital and that you have late at night don’t mean anything. You tell yourself that you’ll be back in the car next season and after a while you start to believe it more than the dark thoughts that cloud your mind. 

February rolls around and you start doing some light training with Oscar– it’s nothing crazy, just some weights. Your wrist had healed significantly faster than your leg and you figured you could do a little something extra than what you had been doing in physical therapy, but you were wrong. You’re doing some bench presses and Oscar’s hovering like this ten pound weight is going to kill you. You’d told him to put more on, but he insisted on starting out slow. 

You put the barbell up and get up from the bench. “This is doing nothing. I need more weight on it Oscar.” He stands in front of the rack of weights like he’s guarding it with his life. “Stop going easy on me, put another ten on.” 

“No. You’ll snap your wrist. I told you this wasn’t a good idea to begin with.” 

You roll your eyes at the Australian. “I won’t snap my wrist. I know my limits.” 

“Your actual trainer doesn’t even know we are doing this. It’s going to end badly.” Oscar knew this was way too soon for you to be back in the gym like this, but he also knew you were internally panicking. It was already February and you were nowhere near the peak physical performance that you needed to be at. Testing was at the end of this month and then the season started two weeks after that. In shorter terms– you were screwed. 

“Don’t be a fucking pussy. Put more weight on.” You’re irritated with him and when he just stands there and stares at you it makes you even more irate. “Whatever. I’ll just come back later by myself.” 

Oscar’s eyes widen at the thought of you being here by yourself and undoubtedly hurting yourself with no one around. “Fine. Only ten more.” 

You lay back down on the bench and watch as Oscar puts the extra weight on the ends. You take a deep breath as you grip the bar and Oscar hovers over you, ready to catch the bar when it all goes to shit. 

Which happens after two reps. 

You feel a twinge of pain in your wrist after the first one, but when you go to raise the bar a second time a searing hot pain travels from your wrist up your arm and you scream out in pain. Oscar’s face is full of terror as he grabs the bar from you and easily puts it back up. You’re sat up by now, but doubled over as you hold your wrist. Oscar sits down next to you on the bench and he can see the tears streaming down your face. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” Oscar questions, everything about you screams you're not fine at the moment.

“I’m good. I’m okay.” You take a beat and then. “I’m good.” You repeat yourself, hoping that the more you do the more it will become true and that the searing pain in your wrist will go away. 

Oscar watches as you self soothe yourself and without thinking he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. He feels you stiffen at his touch before you allow yourself to melt into him. You allow him to comfort you and be there for you and in that moment it’s all you need. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Two weeks before the season starts the team wants to see how you do on the simulator. You told them you were ready, but your trainer and deep down yourself both knew you weren’t. Yet you’re so stubborn, so hard headed that you strap yourself in and power through the pain as the high tech machine replicates the Albert Park circuit. 

Somehow the team clears you to race and you’re on cloud nine. The media and your fans can’t believe that you’ve made such a fast recovery. 

The Princess of Ferrari is back! 

Word Driver’s Champion Y/N Y/L/N ready to battle it out once again.

Forza Ferrari!! Y/N is back! 

The Australian Grand Prix arrives before you know it and it’s amazing to be back. You’d missed the craziness and for a while you didn’t think you’d get to experience it again. You felt confident going into the weekend, but life was out to humble you, and oh boy did she. 

You thought you were in pain on the simulator, but being back in the actual car, actually racing, amplified that pain about a hundred times. Your leg screams at you everytime you press on the pedal and your wrist feels like it’s going to snap every time you take a corner. 

You end up placing P15. 

You try to power through, telling yourself you just have to get used to racing again, or figure out a new racing technique. You see the way the reserve driver looks at you in the garage, like he’s just waiting for you to call it quits so he can take your seat and you try to use that as motivation, but it’s no use. 

You last four races before you finally come to the depressing and heartbreaking realization that you’re done racing. The thing you’d dreamt about since you were a little girl was over. The thing you’d worked so hard for, sacrificed so much for, defied barriers for– it was over.

You were in your prime and if you hadn’t crashed back in Brazil who knows what you could have accomplished in your career. Your body had been telling you, screaming at you every race weekend to stop and you’d been ignoring it for as long as you could, but the lasting side effects are getting worse and if you want to be able to walk in thirty years you know you’ve got to stop. 

So you don’t go out with a bang, it’s more of a whisper. Your performance the past four races had quietly let people know that this was probably the end. The news breaks on the following Tuesday after the Bahrain GP and as you scroll through the comments on the post from the F1 Instagram page you can’t stop the tears that fall.

This announcement should have happened when you were old and had multiple championships under your belt, not when you were young and at the top of your game, or you guess you should say were at the top of your game. 

Such a shame, saw it coming after that P15 in Australia, but she was a hell of a driver.

Good on her for attempting to come back. I hope she still works with racing in the future.

Always our Princess of Ferrari ❤️

You lock your phone and toss it on the bed beside you– who will you be without racing?

tag list: @mywritersmind @lanf1an

[chillycherry44]

anything but the truth, lando norris

summary: the lead up to the british gp was already chaotic, then y/n's best friend has to interview her f1 driver ex (and yn asks her to tell him a white lie) [influencer!reader]

warnings: like three typos, two swear words, a mason mount mention if you squint and no happy ending ):

inspired by sophia scott's song 'anything but the truth'!

y/n.y/l ✓

Liked by romeobeckham, lilymhe and 770.932 others

y/n.y/l definitely not fucking hot where i’m posting this from 👍🏼

👤 friend1, friend2

view all 548 comments

friend1 YOU'RE fucking hot 🪭🪭🪭 ♥︎ by author

y/n.y/l 💋

user6 here before lando

user8 babe........ lando hasn't been here in WEEKS and i don't think he's coming back 🤡

user4 I know y’all love drama but assuming they broke up because of no interactions in two weeks is actually wild 😭 let them breathe

user8 it’s been dead silent from both sides. no likes, no tags, nothing since barcelona... something’s definitely up lol

user11 guess lando can finally focus on winning the wdc without distractions 👏

friend2 we should've brought that sunshine back home 🌞 ♥︎ by author

user14 she’s finally free from the mcdrama!!!! 😩

user1 So she’s not in Portugal anymore??? 👀

user5 she wouldn’t be back for silverstone would she?? 👀

user1 I’m holding on to delulu

user7 not to be dramatic but if she’s not at silverstone i will throw myself into the paddock gates

user15 the 'oh so perfect' couple didn’t even last. shocking.

jasmineharper ✓ this is what fomo looks like 😮‍💨

y/n.y/l ✓ 🥺 we missed you, reporter barbie!!!

user10 she's vibing and staying hydrated!

user12 maybe she just wants a break from the grid and from being "lando’s gf" every time she posts?? radical idea

user13 absolutely stunning!! hope you had a good holiday 💖

user2 how are u cold in july what’s going on girl 😭

user3 it's like 18°C in the uk right now lol

user9 girlhood healing summer arc unlocked. he fumbled and we move.

user16 why are people still hating on her even after the alleged break up?? omg seriously. you lot got what u wanted leave! the! girl! alone!

4 July 2024

Friday, July 5

Satuday, July 5

lando's phone:

Sunday, July 7

landonorris ✓

Liked by lnfour, maxfewtrell and 1.103.098 others

landonorris Silverstone I love you, so many incredible fans out there ❤️ Congrats on the win @.lewishamilton, we’ll review, do better and come get you next time 😜

view all 3.350 comments

user1 and Silverstone love YOU❤️

user2 OH MY 444 HEART

user3 Love u love u love u!!!

maxfewtrell ✓ Proper job this weekend brother 🔥

user4 Aww❤️

user5 how about reviewing the lack of a certain someone in the paddock today?

user6 your time will come soon Lando🧡🧡🧡

pietra.pilao 🙌

user9 silverstone would have been SO much more perfect if y/n was there with you 😭😭😭

user8 another podium in the bag 🧡

7 July 2024

[chillycherry44]

LN4: GETAWAY CAR

pairing: art thief!reader x getaway driver!lando norris

summary: you don’t like lando. lando doesn’t like you. but with priceless paintings and thousands of euros on the line, it seems both of you will have to suck it up for the sake of the job.

warnings: lots and lots of swearing, implied violence, crime, lando being a smug shit, open ending sort of, everyone is a criminal basically except for ollie bearman.

word count: 10.6k

a/n: heist au!! finallly!!!! it only took like half a year :D also can you believe i had to make an account at an art auction site for this. wild.

BRUSH STROKES OF SILK BLUE. Daubs of gold. A smear of bronze. You prop your chin over your mop as you gaze at the painting with a pleased smile on your lips. Faint cracks by the edges, yellowed paint—the passing of time, clearly. Still, despite the faint signs of age, you have to admire the near pristine state of the artwork.

“You look pensive,” Charles notes, rolling the cleaning cart beside you. The cleaning coveralls you both wear are dull enough to make you feel like a smatter of gray on a lackluster wall. A sun-timed shadow, even though night has long since set in. Carlos can be heard shuffling a few steps behind, never one to appreciate the quality of true artwork.

You tilt your head appreciatively. You can’t help but imagine just how much more beautiful the painting would look like beneath the sunlight, as opposed to the clinically artificial lights that are on for the night shift.

“It’s one of my favorites,” you hum.

“La carta, right?” Carlos asks. He kisses his teeth and tilts his head. He does that weird jaw thing that’s long been a habit of his whenever he’s thinking, his own mop in his hand. “It’s just a woman with a letter.”

You don’t even need to glance at the metal plaque beside it—you know the facts by heart. One forty-one by eighty-three point five centimeters. Oil on canvas. Pedro Lira’s The letter.

“It’s more than that. It’s about what you can’t see,” you start, gesturing appreciatively. Distantly, you hear the last cleaning cart squeaking away onto the next room. “She’s hiding the letter behind her. She’s alone, but she’s facing the door, and you can see light coming from there, so someone is coming. Someone who’s not meant to see the letter she’s received.” You exhale. You’ve seen the painting in your textbook for weeks, but there’s no denying how all the more breathtaking it is in person. “It’s an anti-portrait. We get to see her secret, but not her face.”

A beat passes. Two. Carlos exhales impatiently. “No, I think it’s just a woman with a letter.”

You spare a glance at Leclerc, who seems to agree. “Et tu, Charles?” You shake your head with a disappointed sigh. “You two have no appreciation for fine art.”

Charles chuckles. “Oh, trust me. I have plenty.” He glances off to the side and something crosses his gaze, his expression growing more serious.

Charles is looking at you when he asks the question all three of you had been waiting for. “Ready?”

You feel the telltale buzz of static in your ear. Alex’s voice is loud and clear. “Alarms are off and exit route is clear. Eighty seconds start now.”

By the corner of your eye, you can see the red light of the camera flickering off. The regular cleaning crew has long deserted the room, leaving all three of you in your matching gray coveralls and black cleaning crew caps.

Eighty seconds.

You know the plan by heart because it was drilled into your head more times than you can appreciate. You know the service exit you’re supposed to take, the angles the cameras are facing, the amount of time it will take from the hallway to the inconspicuous car that will be waiting for you in the back alley. A clean break, Max had insisted. All as long as you make it out before your window of time is up.

Charles reaches for the painting, sparing one last glance at the cameras before taking it into his hands. You resist the urge to tell him to be careful with it. It’s beautiful, yes, but one scratch and the value decreases exponentially.

Satisfied, Carlos says, “Let’s go.”

The world turns red in a blink. You flinch at the loud, blaring noise.

Shit. Shit.

“That was not eighty seconds, Alex!” you hiss, wincing at the ear-piercing sound of the security system loudly announcing your unwelcome presence.

“The alarm is off!” Alex shoots back.

“Clearly not!”

“Everything’s fine on my end. Whatever tripped the alarm—that’s on you,” he retorts, and that’s easy to say from the safety of the meeting room, away from the absolute shit show that is about to unfold.

“Putain,” Charles curses.

The plan was simple. A clean break. You wouldn’t even need to run—just hide the painting in the cleaning cart and walk calmly to the service exit.

The sirens are making your spin. The red is dizzying. Burgundy. Amaranth. Crimson. To make matters worse, you’re certain you hear footsteps hurrying along the halls.

Then, as if on cue—“Stop right there!”

“Me cago en mi puta vida,” Carlos swears, and seeing the security guards standing a room’s length from you finally makes your survival instincts kick in.

“I am not going to jail for this,” you say—and you fucking bolt.

Carlos and Charles are hot on your tail—but so is security.

The walls bleed red with the lights. Carmine. Rosso Corsa. You make a sharp turn left. Service exit. Service exit.

“Alex, if the car’s not there, I’m slicing your fucking arm off.”

“Less talking and more running,” Alex responds, his voice sounding even more staticky than before as all three of you barrel down the narrow tunnel. Your steps are loud, too loud, and you have enough sense to duck your head to avoid getting hit by an industrial pipe.

A loud clang echoes behind you, followed by a sharp shout. Seems one of the security guards wasn’t as lucky.

“Door’s up ahead,” Alex informs you.

Carlos doesn’t waste time glancing behind before he pries the heavy metal door open. Given the loud, shrill sound the door makes, you gather it’s not as easy as he makes it look. You quietly thank the day Max had the foresight to hire Carlos as well.

As promised, there’s a car awaiting for you—a sleek red car with a loud rumbling engine.

“What is this?” you ask breathlessly. This isn’t subtle. This is the opposite of subtle.

“Just get in.” Carlos opens the passenger door and takes his seat. You swallow the other comments resting on your tongue and hurry onto the backseat. Love it when a plan comes together.

As you’re climbing onto your seat, you catch a glance of the driver behind the wheel—someone who is decidedly not the Aussie you know. In fact, it’s someone unfamiliar and younger—much younger.

Your entire face twists as you latch your hand onto the back of Carlos’ headrest. “Are you kidding?” you ask rhetorically as Charles haphazardly climbs onto his spot. You glance at the Spaniard with disbelief. “Who’s this—your nephew?”

The driver ignores you, rolling his eyes. “Who’s this—your wife?” he parrots back. You’re fairly sure you can see the white stick of a lollipop poking out from the corner of his mouth.

Both Carlos and you accidentally meet each other’s gazes. Carlos scowls. You shudder, sliding back onto your seat. “Gross.”

Carlos exhales exasperatedly. “Just drive, Lando.”

The engine rumbles even louder than before, and the car dashes out of the alley. You lay back against the headrest, only to catch a glance of the driver in the rearview mirror.

Charles peers at you, arms empty now that he has left the painting in the trunk. Buildings and street signs blur past you. “What’s with all the complaints today?”

You glare at him. Alarms. Security. Fleeing on the least inconspicuous car to have ever been made—and the police probably well on their way. “Max is gonna have all of our asses. We’re freakin’ fucked.”

The car turns sharply at an intersection, making your head slam against the window. Pain sparks from your temple near immediately. “Fuck!”

“Y’should watch your head,” Lando calls out, and you can see the conniving little smirk on his lips on the rearview mirror. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he shrugs. “And your mouth.”

To say Max isn’t happy with you all would be the understatement of the century. The silver lining, you suppose, is that he hasn’t yet started yelling.

There’s still plenty of time, though.

You watch as Max runs a hand through his face exasperatedly. You shift on your spot. The warehouse feels distinctly colder than it did when you left earlier today.

Carlos stands beside you, body wired and tense. Annoyed. He glances at Alex before finally asking, “What was with the alarms?”

Alex straightens on his chair, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I was, uh, checking that.” His chair spins to the side a little. He pointedly looks away from Max. At this point, you know that even making eye contact with him at in ill-timed moment could be enough to finally spark his temper. “My working theory is that the museum must’ve done a few security upgrades. Something that wasn’t in the original blueprints that Charles gave me.”

Charles arches a brow. “So, it is my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Your face scrunches. “Why?”

Alex shrugs. “Well, maybe the blueprints were a little dated, but that doesn’t mean Charles is to blame for—”

“No, I mean—why would a museum upgrade their security system so recently? So suddenly?”

Lando clicks his tongue, legs resting on a table by the corner of the warehouse. “Maybe they’ve seen the news,” he supplies, vague disinterest dripping from his tone.

You fold your arms over your chest, jaw ticking. You narrow your eyes at the new driver. “Or maybe they were tipped off.”

Lando’s brows knit-together as he meets your gaze. “What’re you looking at me for?” he scoffs. “I’m no snitch.”

Max calls your name, and you stifle a flinch. “That’s enough,” he says with an air of finality. You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re staying to check the state of the painting. I want you to arrange a meeting with the buyer you’ve got lined up. Text me the information when you get it.”

“Fine—I mean, yeah. Sure.”

Carlos takes that as his cue. And now that you’ve all changed out of your gray coveralls, with him now wearing his usual long-sleeved black tee, he reaches for his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. He shares a look with Max as he straightens. “I’ll be waiting for my cut,” Carlos says pointedly.

Charles follows shortly, lightly nudging your shoulder. “See you next week?” he asks you, and you nod.

And then, as per usual, all that’s left is Max, Alex, and you. Well. Plus the new uninvited presence. You side-glance at Lando, who’s still scrolling on his phone, biting on the plastic stick of his lollipop. His legs rest on the table, recklessly swinging back on his chair. You resist the urge to tell him to cut it out before he falls and breaks his face.

Before you can fish for another argument, your phone buzzes in your hand, and the screen lights up with a notification from Alex. You furrow your brows at him, to which he subtly tilts his head towards the new driver. You tap the file he sent you.

It’s a police record.

Lando Norris. Your eyes skim through it. Illegal street racing. Reckless driving. So, he’s been arrested before.

“Alex,” Max calls.

“Hm?”

“The security system. Check what’s different.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Alex responds, face scrunched up. “I’ve said it a hundred times—that’s just cinema bullshit. I need the updated schematics to do a full review. I also need to see it in person, or at least to be in the vicinity. Movies always make it seem so easy but it’s really not—”

“Albon.”

The sharpness of Max’s tone makes him puff out his cheeks. “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow to see it in person.”

Max nods, his index and thumb rubbing against his eyes. He strides towards Alex, leaning over to see his computer screen. “Walk me through what went wrong today.”

Alex and Max’s voices settle into the background as you turn your focus back to the new face in the warehouse. Charles, Carlos and Alex didn’t seem all that surprised about Lando’s presence—which begs the question, were you the only one that wasn’t told, or simply the only one that cared?

You’re sitting down across from Lando before you can think better of it.

“Street racing,” you say, and he doesn’t even raise his gaze from his phone. You inch closer to him, tilting your head. “That’s what you were doing before this? Street racing?”

Green eyes flick up to you. There’s an unreadable glint in his gaze you can’t seem to place. “Did you do a background check on me already?” he drawls. “I’m flattered.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What’s with the change in career paths?”

He pulls his legs off the table, leaning his torso towards you. Lando shrugs, assessing you. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

“I wanna know who I’m in bed with.” Lando scoffs a laugh, and you don’t miss the way his eyes deliberately drop across your frame. You can practically see the comment resting on his tongue, so you quickly correct, “Who I’m working with.”

Lando clicks his tongue, appearing uninterested. “I don’t work with you. I work with Carlos—for Max now, apparently.”

“Mhm. Semantics.” You wave him off. That’s not the information you’re here for. “How many jobs have you pulled with him?”

Lando straightens at that, faux-surprised expression falling on his face. Finally, it seems, you’ve piqued his interest. “Oh, he hasn’t told you?” The corner of his lips twitches upward into a smirk. He lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like trouble in paradise to me.”

You give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Team chemistry’s at an all time high. We’re fine.”

Lando reaches beside you for his keys, and you feel his scent wash over you. Some expensive cologne. Sweat. Pine. He arches a brow, looking annoyingly smug. “Clearly.”

His chair screeches against the floor as he stands up and heads out. Before he does, you call out: “Did you at least win a few races?”

Lando chuckles, walking backwards as he gives you a self-assured shrug. “What do you think?”

Sunlight seeps through the overhead skylight as you stride down the gallery. Today, your outfit is a far cry from the gray coveralls Max had you wear two weeks ago. Instead of looking like the cleaning crew, today you’re wearing expensive clothes provided by Max—from where, you never ask—to play the part of the interested potential buyer. Nothing too showy, but classy enough to blend in among the other buyers wandering around in the gallery.

Charles wanders around the opposite side of the room, not wanting to seem like the two of you arrived together. He studies the angles of the cameras, the amount of security guards posted around the halls while you study the paintings. Even with your sunglasses on, you can tell the paintings from a distance. A Bogdanov-Belsky by the exit, a Caillebotte at your left, a Sisley on your right.

You stop your walk around the room as you find yourself face-to-face with a Theodore Robinson work that seems familiar, but you can’t quite remember the name of. You read the plaque recently installed next to it. A Trout Stream, Normandy.

“So,” Charles prompts, moving to stand beside you as he analyzes the painting in front of you. He looks nothing like he did a week ago—definitely not like someone who was stealing a prized piece of artwork with you. A matching pair of sunglasses are perched on his nose. “Thoughts on the new driver?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s a pain in the ass,” you mutter, tilting your head as you move onto the next painting. It’s a Monet. You sigh, turning to Charles. “I miss Danny.”

Charles chuckles at that. “I get it. But Lando… he’s a decent enough driver—rough edges and all.”

You’re not sure you believe it all that much. Still, you murmur, “And that’s all we need, right?” You click your tongue, tilting your head appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”

Charles nods, watching the painting. “She really is.”

“Vue de la tour Montalban,” you hum. The one you’d been keeping an eye out for. “I have to say, it’s not my favorite Monet. It even feels out of place in this gallery, doesn’t it?” You kiss your teeth. “Can you believe she’s going for three million euros?”

“Auction is in two weeks.” There’s a thrilling look spreading across Charles’ face. He meets your gaze. “How’s three million split six ways sound to you?”

Now that brings a smile to your lips. “Make it rain.”

There are many upsides to working with Max. He’s meticulous. Likes to make sure you understand the layout of the place before throwing you into action. He always has a plan, if not, then an outline to be worked upon. He’s fast, and all you need to do is keep track of what he says about the job and learn it by heart. You appreciate that about him—that feeling that he always seems to value other people’s time. At least, you think that’s it. It could also be that he’s always in a rush to get things done and move on with them.

Today, the layout of the warehouse feels remarkably like being back at school. You sit on a chair with a desk attached to it, along with a notepad and a pen in hand. Usually, you don’t have an issue—usually. You take notes, you finish them at work, you do your research, and you’re done. But today—today your notes are not nearly as thorough as you’d like them to be.

Lando’s leg is bouncing against your chair. It makes your jaw tick, your concentration dwindle. Your chair creaks, and your patience frays.

You spin your head around, frustration evident. “Do you mind?”

Lando is relaxedly sprawled against his chair, pen tapping incessantly against his desk. He doesn’t even have anything to write on. He raises a brow at you, tilting his head. “What’re you on about?”

“You’re kicking my chair,” you hiss. You think you hear Alex snort, but you make a point to ignore him. “Cut it out.”

“What? ‘M not even doing anything.” Lando rolls his eyes, and there’s just something about him—an aura of smugness that seems to ripple from him in waves—that grates at you. You bite your tongue, lock your jaw, and turn around to face Max, who thankfully hasn’t cut his explanation short.

Max projects two pictures of the gallery. Hallways, rooms, camera angles and security placement—all courtesy of Charles and the gallery’s Instagram page. Your pen scratches on the yellowed paper before the bouncing against your chair starts again.

You whip your head around. “Are you five?”

He has his pen cap between his teeth when he responds with a shrugged: “What’s your problem?”

You scoff in disbelief. “My problem?”

“Lando,” Carlos says. Lando’s jaw ticks as he turns his gaze away from you, and it’s only then that you notice the slight furrow of his brows, the faintest traces of confusion embedded there.

For a moment, he looks like he’s going to defend himself. His leg bounces in its place, accidentally nudging against your chair again. He seems to opt for a different option, and instead, he says, “If you think the cops are expecting another robbery,” he starts, slowly, “wouldn’t it be smarter to steal from some low-security gallery? Or a museum with an eighty-something old security guard?” He licks his lips, running a hand through his curls as he leans back against his chair. “I just—doesn’t an auction seem too high profile?”

Charles shares an amused smile with you before he twists around in his chair to face Lando. “That’s the beauty of it.”

His jaw ticks. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s a rich people auction,” you say, as if that explains it. Lando stares at you, as if to say, you’re doing this on purpose. And yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you like seeing him not looking so smug. “Rich people think they’re untouchable. Like they exist on a whole different plane. They’ll do adjustments—showy things, like making more security guards stand at the entrance—but nothing that will inconvenience their precious costumers.

“No security system updates. No metal detectors. Nothing,” Alex adds with a relaxed shrug. “Works in our favor.”

Lando taps his pen against the desk. You’re enjoying this more than you should—finally seeing him realize he might be out of his depth. Or, at the very least, that he’s the outsider here.

Finally, he shrugs, leaning back against his chair. “If you say so.”

Strokes of green and viridian. Splashes of the pale purples and pinks of orchids. Touches of white jasmines and buttery-yellow tulips. The floral scent of hibiscus and roses always helps you concentrate—and, truly, you cannot bring yourself to understand why people go out of their way to study in noisy coffee shops when flower shops are always quieter, more welcoming environments.

Maybe it’s just you. Though, you suppose it helps that during most days it’s just Ollie and you.

You re-tie your apron as you turn the page on your art book, where you find a description on Claude Monet’s Vue de la tour Montalban. You lean closer to the counter, shifting your notepad as you write down, oil on canvas. 61.2 by 81.7 centimeters. Executed in 1874. Pending history of provenance. You draw a little asterisk there to remind yourself to check that later. Buyers rarely care for the past ownership of paintings, but in the case they do, it’s always useful to have it researched and ready.

The bell from the shop dings, and you don’t bother looking up. At this hour, it’s usually kids that never buy anything—or customers that take too long to decide and make a hundred turns around the store. Still, you chime, “welcome! Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Your attention is still set on your art book, reading the small note underneath the painting’s description. Monet’s first trip to the Netherlands was not a pleasant journey in search of new subject matters, but a necessity of politics. After Monet, his wife Camille and their baby spent the Franco-Prussian War—

A man stops just behind the counter, setting down a bouquet of pink roses. It forces you to look away from your work and put on your customer-service smile. “How can I—”

Your entire body grows cold, ice pricking against your skin. Those smug, annoying green eyes peer back at you, brows raised in slight surprise and lips curved upward.

“Oh, look who it is,” Lando drawls, looking disgustingly amused. “What is it, sweet little florist by day, art thief by night?” He drums his fingers against the counter, turning his head to scan around the shop. “It’s a nice place you got, by the way. Do you own it, or just work shifts?”

Finally, you find your voice. “What the hell?” Your thoughts are running too fast for you to properly process them. How is he here? How did he find you? “You need to leave. Now.”

Lando leans against the counter, arms folded over it. He’s not looking all that different from the other few times you’ve seen him. Black hoodie, dark jeans. He has the hood down this time, revealing unruly curls that somehow look in disarray but in a stylish manner.

Lando narrows his eyes. “What? So you can run background checks on me, but it’s wrong when I do it?”

You barely have time to spare a glance and check whether Ollie is in the near vicinity when you reach for the strings of his hoodie and yank him down to your level.

You glare at him. “What if I showed up to your place of work, huh?”

Lando snorts, unmoved by the sudden closeness. “I don’t work. Y’think driving cars for Max is a side-gig? I don’t double as Uber.”

“You are way out of line just by being here. Do you have any idea—”

Ollie calls your name from the back, making you stiffen. You let go of Lando’s clothes and turn around, hoping you don’t look as on-edge as you feel.

Ollie stands by the hydrangeas, matching white apron tied around his waist. “Hey, everything okay?” he asks softly, momentarily glancing at Lando. Ollie stands straighter, jaw tensing, as if trying to intimidate him. He turns back to you, traces of concern evident in his voice. “Is he bothering you?”

You blink. Then, you smile. “Ah. No—we’re okay. Thanks, Ollie.”

He nods, though unconvinced. He spares Lando one last look before going to water the lilies.

Ollie is barely out of earshot when Lando grins. “Someone has a crush,” he says in sing-song tone. It makes your eye twitch. “I get it. The whole girl-next-door, girl working at the flower shop vibe must work wonders for you.”

Your jaw ticks, a retort already posed on the tip of your tongue—but you can see Ollie lingering out of the corner of your vision. He’s a worrier—usually, it’s a good trait that favors him. He’s never late. The flowers under his care rarely ever die. He’s lended you his keys more times than you can count. But the last thing you need right now is another set of ears and eyes on Lando.

You bite your tongue until it bleeds. You smile, reaching for his pink roses. “Will that be cash or card?”

Afternoon air feels cold inside the warehouse as you pace, fists angrily clenched at your sides as you finally stop.

Max raises an unimpressed brow from his seat. “Are you done?”

“He went to where I work, Max!” There’s anger in your voice, indignation—but also something you haven’t quite placed yet. You still can’t get over Lando’s sheer audacity. “Not even Charles has that information.”

Alex raises his hand from his seat, noodles stuffed into his mouth. “I do.”

“That’s not the point.”

Max sighs, blue eyes scanning the printed documents you gave him. All the relevant information you could get on the painting you’ll be stealing from the auction—from the name to the possible prince ranges to the material of the frame. His eyes flick up to you, uninterested. “I’ll get Carlos to talk to him.”

Your jaw twitches. “Should’a bashed his fucking nose in the second he stepped in.”

“Don’t,” Max says, waving his hand, never looking away from your notes. “That could severely impair his ability to drive.”

“And we need a driver.” Alex supplies helpfully.

“Do your best not to damage him, yes?”

Your voice is quiet and barely restrained when you reply, “No promises.”

Lando is late. Which isn’t good—for a number of reasons. Starting with the fact that you’re stealing the painting from the Wolff auction tonight. It’s quite a sight you’re left with as you all wait for Lando to show up. Carlos and Max are wearing black suits and matching bow ties, while you wear a black silk dress and flats. Alex, on the other hand, is lucky enough to stay wearing a baby blue hoodie and jeans while he lounges in front of his monitors.

“If he doesn’t get here soon, we’re gonna be behind schedule,” Alex notes.

You fold your arms over your chest, a knowing scoff escaping you. “Didn’t I say he was unreliable?”

“He’ll be here,” Carlos says gruffly.

The door to the warehouse slides open as Lando steps in, looking out of breath. “Sorry! I’m here.”

You don’t realize you’re staring until Lando throws you a look that says what are you looking at? His hair is more messy than usual, the buttons of his dress shirt halfway undone as he fixes his suit jacket, no tie in sight. “Hell has frozen over.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “I couldn't find a tux on such short notice. I had to borrow it from a friend.”

“Why are you wearing a suit? You’re the getaway driver. Drivers don’t need to dress up.”

Lando clicks his tongue. “Y’know, for once, we’re actually in agreement, sunshine.”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Max states.

“Change of plans?” Max never changes his plans. Ever. He’s thorough, he’s precise—he doesn’t make changes because he doesn’t miscalculate. “Why?”

Max runs his ringed fingers across his jaw. “Charles isn’t making it tonight.” Your brow twitches. You’d assumed the reason Charles wasn’t here already was because he’d be meeting with you at the auction. “Some detective brought him in for questioning. He’s fine.”

“Is he?” Lando asks.

Max arches a brow, as if surprised Lando was the one to question him. “He will be, once we pull off this job without him and cops rule him out as a suspect.”

You start running the scenario in your mind. It doesn’t work—surely Max has realized that it doesn’t work. “I thought you said this was a four person job. Distraction, two for extraction, look out.”

“It is.” Max glances at Lando.

The protest is on your tongue before he can elaborate. “No, no. He is not replacing Charles—”

Lando seems just as opposed to the idea, protesting, “I’m the driver, breaking into auctions is not in my job description—”

Max pinches his nose, raising his hand to silence the two of you. “It’s either Lando or Alex.”

You don’t even blink. “Then it’s Alex.”

The man in question flinches in his chair.

“That’s not—it can’t be Alex, I need him shutting down the security system remotely and erasing any trace of us ever being there.”

“I don’t get why you can’t just contact Danny.”

Carlos shrugs. “Last I heard, he has the feds on his ass. We shouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“Really?” You sigh. “Damn. I liked Danny.”

“Forget about Daniel,” Max says, exasperated. He meets your gaze. “Lando’s coming with—either get on board or get out.”

The car ride to the auction is quiet. Until—

“Are you even aware of the plan?”

Lando rolls his eyes so far back he probably gets a glimpse of his brain. “Are you even aware of the meter-long stick you’ve got up your arse? It’s a wonder you can even sit down—”

“Ya, suficiente. You two are acting like children,” Carlos groans into his palm, looking out the window.

“She started it,” Lando mutters, parking the car into the alley. For once, he’s chosen a vehicle that’s actually inconspicuous—no neon paint or an overly-loud engine, but just a sleek black car.

“We’ll go in first. Wait five minutes after us, so we don’t go in as a group. Carlos and I will go out the back,” Max explains. “Remember—eight security guards. You just need to distract the two that are posted outside of the room, and we’ll handle the rest.”

“Got it,” Lando says.

Max and Carlos step outside of the car, closing the doors behind them. Lando drums his fingers against the wheel, watching the two walk up to the entrance of the auction building. You stare at him from the backseat. A moment passes.

“Could you really not find a tie?”

Lando twists in his seat. “Can you lay off?” He glares at you. You meet it evenly. He’s the first to look away, muttering under his breath.

You roll your eyes. Instead of responding, you reach for your clutch, open the door of the car, and exit.

“Oi, five minutes are not—”

You open the door to the passenger seat and sit down. Lando looks at you weirdly, so you ignore him. You open your clutch, sifting through its contents. “Button up the rest of your shirt.”

“So, you’re giving orders now too, sunshine?”

“Quiet being so difficult.” Reluctantly, Lando does as you tell him. “And stop calling me sunshine.”

Lando scoffs, lips curving up into a smirk. “Why? I think it’s fitting. What with your sunny personality and all.”

You roll your eyes—and, really, that’s starting to become a habit whenever you’re around Lando. Finally, you pull out a rolled-up black tie from your clutch. You straighten it, making sure there are no visible creases and that it looks presentable enough.

You turn to Lando, and not trusting him to put it on properly, you wrap it around his neck. He leans closer to you, and you can feel his breath fanning against your forehead

“Why do you have a tie just on you?”

“It was for Charles,” you say, intent on making the perfect Windsor knot. “He had asked me to bring one for him. Guess it’s your lucky day.”

Lando snorts. “Yeah, right. Lucky.” It occurs to you at that very moment that Lando might not have experience with this type of job. That he might be nervous. You’re starting to consider offering some words of encouragement when Lando interrupts. “So, you and Charles, huh?”

“Me and Charles, what?”

“Y’know.” He shrugs. “You’re always paired up. You seem close. You had his tie in your purse.” You finish with his tie, but don’t pull back. Lando’s green eyes suddenly feel scrutinizing. “If you’re keeping it a secret from Max or something, you’re doing a shit job at it.”

You furrow your brows. Then, realization. A laugh bubbles out of you, and Lando has the sense to look surprised. “Charles and I aren’t… we’re not together, or anything. We’re friends.”

“…With benefits?”

You pull away from him. “You’re disgusting.”

Static sparks in your ear and Alex pipes up, “Look out and distraction. Can we get a move on?”

“Yep, on it,” you respond.

Getting inside is no issue—not when you both already look the part and Alex has gotten your fake names on the list. The hallways are well lit, a handful of collectors and potential bidders still wandering around, taking in the artwork that will be up for auction in an hour or two.

You’re about to get into position when you spot it, just out the corner of your eye. Forest greens. Splashes of blue. Bold strokes of red.

You’re walking up to the painting before you can think better of it. After tonight, it’s probably going to go into some rich person’s private gallery. You trace the metal plaque installed beside it—not that you need to read it, anyway. You know everything about it already.

Lando strides and settles beside you, hands inside the pockets of his slacks.

“Anémones, by Claude Monet,” you say absentmindedly. It’s part of a large collection—forty paintings with similar motifs—though you doubt Wolff managed to get possession of any others. Most of them have been tucked away from the public, belonging to miscellaneous private collections. “You know, I think this one is one of my favorites of his. He spent around four years just painting flowers for this collection—once, he actually said, I perhaps owe it to flowers for having become a painter.” More quotes of his come to mind, unbidden, from those late nights you spent studying to get your degree. What I need most are flowers, always, always.

You sigh, pulling away from it, feeling Lando’s attentive eyes on you.

“It’s tiny,” Lando says, as if the painting has personally wronged him.

“It’s not about the size.”

He chuckles. “D’you find yourself saying that a lot?”

The urge to smack him is strong. You stifle it. Instead, you turn to the artwork once again. Try to commit each brushstroke to memory—to appreciate the fact that, at least, you get to see it in person. One of the perks of the job, you suppose. “It’s just—sad. It’ll probably never be seen by anyone else again. Maybe it’ll even end up in some warehouse, gathering dust.”

“Why don’t you buy it, then?”

You exhale, tilting your head. “‘Cause it’s probably going for over 1.5 million euros.”

Lando coughs loudly, as if choking on air. He draws a few eyes your way. “1.5 million? For some shitty little painting of flowers?” Disbelief is evident in his voice. “Why would anyone spend that much to throw it in some warehouse? Scratch that—why would anyone spend that much period?”

“Rich people shit,” you murmur with a shrug, careful not to be overheard. “Auctions are for art collectors, sure—but there’s also uninformed millionaires with money to spend. And when there’s more of those—well, these things tend to become a dick measuring contest among them.”

Lando furrows his brows. He pokes his cheek with his tongue, thinking. “This isn’t the painting we’re here for, though.”

That snaps you back to reality. “No,” you say, sobering up. “It’s not.” But maybe a part of you wishes it was.

“Are you in position?” Alex asks through your earpiece. You hum in response, but don’t move.

Lando arches a brow, expectant. “So? Are you the distraction?”

This isn’t happening. “Yeah, Lando. I’m gonna bat my eyelashes and flash the security guards.” He blinks at you. Oh, he’s fucking clueless. “God, get a grip. I’m lookout. You’re distraction.”

His eyes widen comically. “What?” he asks, a little too loudly. “Is that true?” he hisses.

You can practically see Alex shrugging from the comforts of his seat. “You’re a lot more reckless than she is. You make for a better diversion.”

“What—What do I do?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t know how to be a fuckin’ distraction!”

Your smile drips with saccharine. “But you do it so naturally.”

Lando inhales deeply, and then moves towards the center of the room. Besides him, there’s a table with champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres. He lingers there, awkwardly, occasionally glancing at the two bodyguards posted outside of the room Max and Carlos have to get into.

You wince, tilting your head. It’s like staring at a car crash—tragic, terrible, but you can’t look away.

“He’s floundering,” you say. “Oh my god. Just pull on the freakin’ table cloth and break the glasses. What are you doing?”

Lando approaches one of the security guards, as if trying to establish conversation, but it doesn’t seem to work.

Unbelievable.

“We’re gonna miss the window,” Alex tells you.

You close your eyes, swallowing a groan. Damn it. “I’m going in.”

As Lando goes back to the table with the appetizers, you make a show of picking up one of the champagne flutes. Lando furrows his brows as he sees you, and you gesture for him to step closer to you.

He runs a hand through his curls, tugging at his hair. “Look, I don’t think I’m—”

“Oh my god, why do you keep following me?” you ask loudly, drawing the attention of multiple potential buyers and art collectors.

Lando’s eyes widen, glancing around. “What are you doing?”

You yank your hand back. “Let go of me!” you exclaim, making more heads turn. You can feel the eyes of the entire room on the two of you, all meaningless conversation ceasing near instantly.

“I’m not touching you,” Lando hisses.

A man side-steps you. A security guard, if the uniform means anything. He looks down at you. “Miss, is this man bothering you?”

Lando forces a smile, moving his hands in an attempt of a placating gesture. “This is all a big misunderstanding—”

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to back up.” He gestures at the other security guard to join. He settles behind Lando, a hand resting on his shoulder to prevent him from doing anything rash. The older security guard turns to you. “Ma’am?”

You widen your eyes. “Thank you so much, sir. He won’t stop following me. I’ve told him I’m not interested but he keeps—”

Finally, Lando seems to catch on to what you’re doing. “She’s lying, she’s a liar,” Lando declares loudly, dragging out the words. He makes a gesture as if trying to wave off the security guards. “She was all over me like a minute ago.”

You’re certain you hear a gasp somewhere in the room. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to swallow a laugh. Oh, is this what we’re doing now? If Lando thinks you’re one to back down from a challenge, then he’s sorely mistaken.

“That was before I found out you were engaged!” you cry out, whipping your head back to the security guard, reaching for his shirt dramatically. “Can you believe it?” you ask, and the man blinks down at you blankly. “His fiancé is probably at home, wondering why he’s stuck at work—meanwhile he’s feeling me up in a closet!”

You watch as Lando bites the inside of his cheek. He coughs to cover up a laugh.

“It was a very nice closet.”

“You are unbelievable—”

“Okay, I’m going to have to ask you two to leave,” the first security guard says, all too aware of the sudden quiet that has fallen over the room.

“Me? But he’s the one that—I came for the auction, I was—”

“Ma’am, please, it’s better if we handle this outside.” The way his palm latches onto your shoulder tells you it’s less of a suggestion and more of an order.

“Outside? But I don’t want—”

“They have it,” Alex says.

“—on second thought, going outside sounds divine.”

Lando lets himself be pushed by the security guard, who is decidedly less gentle than the one guiding you. Before leaving, however, Lando turns to the crowd and calls out, “You might want to send your coats to the cleaners. Or burn them.” He’s shoved by the security guard. “You folks have a good night!”

By the time the two of you are outside, escorted by security, you and Lando are still bickering. “You always do this, you have to make a scene out of nothing—”

“I’m making a scene? Maybe I should tell Tara about how it was my name you were saying when you—”

The doors to the auction building close, and your faux screaming match ceases. Lando stares at you. You stare a him. Your lips break into a smile, before a barely-stifled laugh sparks out of you and Lando follows suit.

“I don’t think I knew heists could be this fun,” you say between giggles. The two of you start walking towards the car, ready for when Carlos and Max arrive with the painting in tow.

“Yeah,” Lando grins. “Me neither.”

The two of you fall into easy step, side by side. The knot you made for Lando’s tie is starting to come loose and your black dress is starting to itch. When his hand accidentally brushes with yours, you find it doesn’t bother you all that much.

Lando is unlocking the car when realization rolls down your back like a cold bucket of ice.

“I was supposed to be lookout,” you say blankly, stiffly.

Shit.

“Do you have any idea how fucking unprofessional this was?” Max barks at you. You feel glued to your spot, something like a knot forming in your throat. Your cheeks feel hot, your hands clammy. Usually—usually, you’re never at the receiving end of Max’s anger-induced reprimands. You don’t mess up. Not like this, anyway. “We could’ve been arrested. Carlos nearly was arrested. Cops could have my fucking face in their radar now. Do you even understand what that means?” His jaw twitches, a muscle tensing as he glares at you. You stare at the floor. “We had a plan. You were supposed to be lookout. You nearly fucked up this entire operation.”

Your throat feels dry, your stomach in knots. You lick your lips, your voice weak when you try to apologize. “I’m—”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Lando protests.

Max’s eyes narrow in his direction, with Lando sitting over one of the tables of the warehouse. His jaw looks like it’s one misdirected comment from splintering in half. “She should’ve known better,” he growls.

Lando hops off the table, tie and suit jacket long discarded. He scoffs, doing a quick once-over of Max. Seizing him up. It’s not a good idea. “Yeah, maybe, but you don’t have to be a dickhead about it.”

“Lando.”

“What?” he asks, turning to you with disbelief written all over his face—as if to say, are you really gonna let him speak to you like this? “He’s being a prick.” Lando steps closer to Max, putting some distance between the two of you. He works his jaw with his knuckles, green eyes narrowed. “If your plan didn’t work out like you wanted, then maybe the problem isn’t her—maybe the problem is you.”

Max’s cold, calculating gaze sweeps over Lando, before a scoff escapes him. He shakes his head, as if discarding a thought. “You’re out.”

Lando huffs. “Fine by me, prick.”

“Not you.” Max’s gaze flicks to you.

The warehouse falls silent. You watch as Alex freezes on his chair, confusion and disbelief clear in his face.

Understanding feels remarkably like trying to digest a pile of stones. Hard to swallow. Heavy in your gut. You don’t trust your voice, yet you hear yourself asking— “Are you serious?”

Max looks unfazed. “You’ve proven you’re unreliable. I don’t work with unreliable people.” His voice is nothing but cold when he repeats, “You’re out.”

“Maybe this isn’t a decision we should—” Alex tries.

“But it wasn’t her fault,” Lando repeats loudly, frustration bleeding into his words.

“You will create a line of contact with the buyer we had agreed on. I will wire you your part of the money,” Max continues, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on you. You feel like you’re going to throw up—worse, you think you’re going to cry. “But after that, I don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

You clench your fists at your side, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Is this all it takes? One mistake? It’s unfair, you think. It’s so fucking unfair. But Max has never particularly cared for fair—only for results. And today, you might’ve cost him the one thing he values above money: his identity. All it takes is one cop to make the connection, to linger on Max’s presence a moment too long, and this all unravels. He already said Charles had been taken in, that Carlos nearly got arrested. There’s too much heat at the moment to afford any loose ends.

Still.

You laugh. It’s a bitter, bitter thing. It coils inside your chest, around your ribcage. You feel pinpricks behind your eyes, but you’ll be damned if you even shed a single tear in his presence. “You know what? Fuck you, Max.”

You feel tremors in your bones—loss, maybe. Frustration. Embarrassment. Anger.

In the end, you walk out of the warehouse with your head held high, and Lando following just a few steps back.

“Fuck you!”

The metal door slams loudly behind you.

The drive home is quiet. Lando buckled his seatbelt silently, jaw tense and knuckles tight around the steering wheel. You didn’t speak, so neither did he.

Droplets of rain fall against the windshield, the clouds bleeding into different shades of indigo. Finally, the car skids to a halt. The drop-off point. A place that is neither too close nor too far away from your apartment—not close enough to give away any personal information, but not too far that you’ll have to spend a long time walking home.

You stare at the dashboard, at the smeared traffic lights that bleed into one another through the window.

This is it. It’s over.

“I’m sorry,” Lando says quietly, motionlessly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it was. Fuck,” Lando squeezes his eyes, tugging too harshly at his hair. The silence lifts, paving the way for a frantic sort of planning. “I’ll explain it to him. I’ll make him listen—”

That almost draws a laugh out of you. “You can’t make Max do anything. Nobody can.” Your face crumples like paper, frustration tearing you apart at the seams. You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. “How could I make such a stupid, stupid mistake? I know better than that.”

“Stop it,” Lando says harshly, sharply, “you didn’t make a mistake—you were great. If anything, this whole plan was doomed the moment he decided to make me replace Charles.”

You huff a laugh. Lando leans his head against the headrest, pursing his lips, as if considering something. Silence settles once again. You can hear the rain pattering against the roof of the car. Drip. Drip. Drip.

“I should tell you,” Lando starts. “It was an accident, that day I went to the flower shop.” He turns to you, shoulders dropping a little. “I didn’t know you worked there.”

A scoff scratches against your throat. “Yeah, right.” There’s no real malice behind your words, not anymore. Just exhaustion. You feel worn to the bone. Exposed. “You were just getting flowers, and it just so happened to be the flower shop I work at?”

“I didn’t know,” he insists, stammering, “It’s—It’s near my place.” He runs a hand through his curls again, as if that’ll help him convey his thoughts more clearly. “Running into you was an unlucky coincidence and I was—I was being a dick.”

Your brow twitches. “Are you… apologizing to me right now?”

“You’re sure as hell not making it easy.”

You chuckle. “Right.” You slump your head against the car seat. Surprisingly enough, you find you believe him. Maybe it should bother you more, that he knows where you work. Until a few days ago, it did. You’re not quite sure why it doesn’t anymore. At least now you know he didn’t do it to get under your skin.

Exhaustion makes you honest. “Did she like the flowers, at least? Your girlfriend?”

Lando squints, then laughs—a weak sound, tired—as he shakes his head. “I, no. No, the flowers were for my sister. She, uh…” he drums the pads of his fingers against the steering wheel, “She likes roses, and she’d just had a baby.”

“So, you’re an uncle now,” you note.

He shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks.”

“And, for the record, you were. Being a dick.” You exhale, tilting your head towards him. He meets your gaze evenly. “But I was also an ass to you. Multiple times. So… yeah.”

The corner of his lips curve up into a smile. “Was that an apology?”

“Take it or leave it, hotwheels.”

“I’ll take it.”

You click your tongue. “Since we’re speaking now, I should probably warn you to steer clear of the flower shop.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause of that, but also because I lied to Ollie and told him you were a piece of shit ex of mine.”

“Woah,” Lando straightens off his seat, “you told your boyfriend I was your ex?”

You roll your eyes, and the weight of the day feels a little lighter on your shoulders. “Ollie’s not my boyfriend, he’s my coworker. And he had a few questions after you left—figured it was a good lie in case you ever tried to come back again.”

Lando scoffs. “Please. Like the kid could take me. He waters plants for a living.”

You squint. “I mean—he is taller than you.” You shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

You can feel Lando’s eyes on you. Lingering. Tracing your features. “Why’d you work there?” he asks, softer this time. “You clearly don’t need the money.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You mean other than you’ve been pulling jobs with Max for a while?” He gestures at your hand. “I’m pretty sure that little bracelet of yours is worth more than you’d make in a year.” You glance down at it. It’s a small, barely noticeable silver chain. You bought it with the money from your first heist under Max. “Selling flowers doesn’t exactly sound like a lucrative business.”

You think about it for a moment. “I worked there when I was younger. The owner—she’s too old to take care of it now. It almost feels like it’s my own place in the world, you know?” You sigh, rolling your eyes at yourself. “I don’t know, maybe I just need to be a normal human being for a couple of hours a day.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, they’re tinted with a sarcastic scoff. “Like there’s anything normal about me,” you mutter, suddenly annoyed.

You rob museums and millionaire-funded auctions. You spend hours at your day job studying paintings you’re planning to steal and sell. Your best friend is a lockpick and a pickpocketer that has stolen your wallet multiple times for fun. You use your art degree and your contacts to fence stolen paintings for money.

“Who cares about normal?” Lando says, as if it’s the most natural response in the world. “Normal’s boring.” He looks at you with an expression you can’t quite place.

Lando’s eyes are pretty, you realize with startling shock. Not quite green, but not hazel either. There are splashes of blue there—daubs of brown in a sea of green. You can feel yourself lingering—maybe he can feel it too.

“I should go,” you say, reaching for the handle of the door. It’s still raining outside. The cold air rushes inside the car like a rippling wave.

“I don’t have one, by the way,” Lando says suddenly, abruptly. He grimaces, his nonchalant act faltering. “A girlfriend, I mean. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You can see from the way his face twists up that he regrets ever speaking. You shake your head, and to your own surprise, you find yourself smiling.

“See you around, Lando.”

Weeks pass by slowly. Mornings stretch into dull afternoons, days feeling grayer and grayer as winter starts to roll in. You try to make a routine for yourself, something to keep you from focusing on that throbbing emptiness you feel in your chest whenever you stop.

So, you don’t stop. You arrive at the shop hours earlier and leave at long after sundown. You trim bonsais and water plants and throw away flowers that have long since dried. You wipe the windows. You scrub down the counter. At some point, you find yourself staring at a pair of scissors and wonder whether you should cut your hair.

You start bringing your art textbooks back to work. There’s no heist to prepare, no painting to study—but you let your mind wander, just occasionally, as you study the different artworks. Kahlo, Bracquemond, Malharro, Lira. If Ollie notices any changes with you, he’s smart enough not to mention it.

It’s not like you need the money—though it’s always a pleasant addition. You’ve saved enough so that if you don’t live extravagantly, you could manage. But you miss the thrill, the rush of adrenaline it gives you.

The only time you let yourself linger is at night—when you stare at your phone for a moment too long, unsure whether you’re waiting for a text from Max or a text from Lando.

Neither ever comes.

You received a text from Alex, a few days after your unceremonious severing of ties—a text he undoubtedly sent behind Max’s back. It was an apology—something short, sweet, and enough for you to appreciate it.

The one person you’ve been talking to consistently is Charles. He must’ve been the last to get the news—and a part of you can’t help but wonder how he reacted. He’s more level headed than most of you, but still.

“I could quit,” he told you one afternoon, over the phone. You could imagine the concentrated pinch of his brows, the displeased turn of his lips. “We used to manage just fine before, when it was just us.”

“I’m not asking you to leave.”

“I know. That’s why I’m offering.”

You sighed, going quiet for a moment. “It’s fine, Charlie. I mean it.” A beat. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

Charles had just grumbled something in French, and that was that. You saw the news a few days after that—another auction house, a painting robbed from right under their noses. What surprised you was that the painting they stole—a Camille Pissarro—wasn’t even the most valuable work of his that had been on display that night. It almost managed to cheer you up a little. Their loss.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to close? I can stay a little longer,” Ollie says, untying his apron and hanging it behind the counter.

“I’m sure, Ollie,” you say, shaking your head. “Go home. It’s getting late.”

Ollie hums, bidding you a quick goodbye before exiting the shop to go get his bike. He’s a good kid, you think. You’re still not quite sure what you’ll do once he graduates.

The bell rings, and you find yourself fighting off a smile as you hang your apron beside his. “Did you forget something?” you call out.

You hear Ollie’s footsteps draw closer to the counter. Slow, measured. Then—

“Actually, I was hoping to get a suggestion.” You turn your head around so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. And there he is—decidedly not Ollie—standing in the middle of your shop like he belongs there. Lando’s hair looks longer, tousled, curls unruly as ever. He still wears that black hoodie of his, paired up with black jeans and sneakers. He’s tilting his head at you, waiting.

“We’re closed,” you say blankly. And, really—it’s jarring, seeing him here after expecting not to see him again unless he was showing up on the news.

“I figured,” he says. His fingers drum against the counter, green eyes with a mischievous glint. “Then again, I’m not really here for the flowers.”

Your mouth feels dry. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says honestly, earnestly. It makes something jump inside your chest. Something curls inside your gut—a feeling distinctly opposite to the bottomless pit that’s been churning in your stomach for over a month.

“Did you, now?”

“You haven’t exactly made it easy,” Lando says, curious eyes scanning the place. Still, you can see the growing grin in his lips. “You did warn me off visiting this place again.” He shrugs. “S’not like I had your number.”

You’re not sure why that makes your lips quirk up, gaze tinged with amusement. “Not like it would’ve been that hard to get it.”

He hums, sidestepping the counter as he strides closer to you—close enough that you can see that mischievous glint dancing in his green eyes. Mischievous, but paired with something… softer. “You just love arguing with me, don’t you?” Lando asks, head tilted.

“Not anymore than you do,” you respond.

Lando leans closer, eyes flickering down to your lips. You can feel his breath fanning against your cheeks. His hand brushes against your waist—slowly, tentatively.

“You know, it’s been a shit show without you,” he says quietly. Like a secret only you’re privy to. “Not that he would admit it. I’m pretty sure he got scammed with this last buyer—”

You lick your lips, reaching up for the strings of his hoodie. “I don’t wanna talk about Max,” you murmur. It’s not out of resentment, either—but looking at Lando under the warm light, cheeks rosy and lips pink, Max might just be the last thing on your mind.

Neither of you are sure who makes the first move—it’ll be something to argue about later. There’s nothing gentle or soft about the way Lando kisses. It’s teeth on teeth, tongue on tongue—a competition on who can be the first to draw blood. Still, you can feel him smiling against your lips, his hands splayed around your waist as your arms reach up around his neck. His teeth pull against your bottom lip. Your fingers pull against his hair. You’re the first to draw a sound out of him, making you grin.

When you pull apart, both your lips are glossy and rosier than they were before. He looks breathless. You imagine you do too.

“You can be really infuriating, you know?” Lando asks.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

He scoffs a laugh. “You just can never let me win, can you?”

“Definitely not.”

Before you can help yourself, you’re bringing him closer to you again, pressing your lips against his. Your tongue darts against his bottom lip, making him hum.

He pulls away first, eyes dazed. He looks down at your lips again then back up at you, as if restraining himself. “Let me take you out,” he says abruptly, voice a little wrecked at the end, “like on a proper date.”

You smile as you press your nose against his neck, lips trailing over the skin. He shudders, and it only eggs you on.

“Yeah?” you tease, voice breathy and quiet. Lando groans, moving to capture your lips with his again. “Where will you take me, hotwheels?” you ask between kisses.

He grins, green eyes alight. “Anywhere you want, sunshine.”

By the time Lando leaves, night has fallen outside, and closing time has long since passed. At last, it’s just you in the flower shop, lights turned off and windows locked.

You’re about to lock up and leave for the night, when you notice a small package you hadn’t seen before tucked into a corner, just beside the door. You kneel down, curious. It’s wrapped in a brownish paper, paired with a Fragile! Handle with Care sticker. You furrow your brows. There’s no way this is Ollie’s.

You wonder whether you should call him. Ask if he forgot a package. The thought dies as quickly as it appears. Curiosity gets the best of you, and you find yourself tearing at the brown paper.

The first thing you see is strokes of green. Perfected brushes of red and blue. You don’t believe your eyes. The gentle unwrapping becomes more desperate, urgent. Once it’s completely off, it’s unmistakable.

Anémones by Claude Monet. Inside your shop. In your hands. You’ve gone insane. There’s simply no other explanation for it.

You don’t know how long you sit there, on your knees, staring at the wooden frame in your hands. You don’t blink—afraid that the moment you do, it’ll vanish like you never had it in the first place.

You move your hand, only to feel something odd behind the frame. You scramble to turn it around, spotting a small, tiny slip of paper tucked behind.

You unfold it. There’s a phone number scribbled on it, followed by: No more excuses.

Then, on the other side: I think I’m starting to get why you liked this one so much.

You blink. Did Lando—

Fuck, he did. How did he get it? When did he get it? Your fingers trace the painting gently, as if it’ll turn to dust with the minimal pressure. Your body slumps forward slightly, disbelieving. This is yours now.

You drive home following every traffic law to ever exist. You signal as you turn, body taut like wire, unconsciously acting as if there’s already police eyeing you suspiciously. It’s only once you’re inside your apartment that you allow your shoulders to drop and gently place the painting on your rug.

A part of you wants to hide it under your bed. What if someone finds out? But even looking at it now, you know you could never do that.

You try to bite down a smile, but it’s futile. Maybe you could ask Lando for ideas on where to hang it. The thought feels remarkably like sunlight warming your chest.

You’re floating a bit, mind drifting anywhere other than your apartment. You still can’t quite believe it. All those thefts, all those fenced paintings and sculptures—it never occurred to you that you could keep one as your own. Lando did that.

When you reach for your phone to text him, you find that there’s another message already waiting for you.

It’s not from Lando. It’s from an encrypted number—one you’re all-too familiar with.

There’s a job that you could be useful for.

Are you in?

reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ⭐️

[chillycherry44]

The Power Of Words - OP81

@pluto777777 prompt request #23 - Driver/player accidentally insults reader in casual comment and she does obsesses over it

Summary: Oscar didn't think before speaking and y/n can't stop thinking about what he said.

Overthinker!reader

Word count: 1.2k

Oscar is unbothered. He's famous for it.

But sometimes he maybe should be bothered. Because when he made a comment to y/n last week about making sure to leave him some of the birthday cake because he might want some. He was just kidding and making a light-hearted joke.

Now y/n has been hitting the gym twice a day, morning and night for over an hour each time. The diet has been restricted harsher than Oscar's and he hasn't connected the dots as to what has ignited this behaviour from her.

"Y/n no." Oscar groans hearing her alarm go off for her to get up and go to the gym.

"What?" Y/n frowns before Oscar gets up and drops his weight onto of her to pin her down to the bed. "Oscar, you're suffocating me."

"Yeah, I know but if it stops you from going to that gym then it's doing what I want it to do." Oscar states while y/n grumbles at him and makes some attempt at escaping him.

"Oscar, get off of me." Y/n groans actually managing to move his body a little which surprises him because going dead weight on her has always worked to keep her from moving out from under him.

"No. Why do you keep going to the gym at this time of day? What has got into you?" Oscar questions genuinely frowning at the young woman while she shakes her head at the fact that Oscar's frown deepens. "Baby, can you please explain?"

"I just haven't been eating good enough and I mean-I mean even you noticed I almost ate that whole cake on my own." Y/n states as the front cracks and she turns her head trying to avoid him seeing her tears that are gathering.

She didn't want to tell him. It wasn't intentional from him for her to overthink it but Oscar drops his head into her chest, wedging his arms under her body and wrapping them around.

"Baby, no." Oscar groans making her swallow thickly continuing to try and blink her tears away to the best of her ability. "No. I'm sorry. It was just a joke. I didn't want to upset you and make you change."

"I know. But you were right-even if it was a joke."

"No. No. Baby, I was wrong. I was so so so wrong. You should've eaten more cake just to prove me how stupid my joke was. It was a horrible, stupid, dumb comment that I never should've made. I'm sorry."

Y/n sniffles with her lip quivering while Oscar sighs realising that his carelessness over his words that he's previously been able to get away with is not going to slide with y/n. She overthinks and he knows that, he should've known that an off hand jokey comment could lead to her spiralling.

"Baby, you're perfect. You've always been perfect." Oscar mumbles but it's not going to be that simple of a fix. "Can you stay here with me today?"

"Ok." Y/n mumbles with a nod before Oscar sighs and rolls them over so y/n is on top of him.

"I love you." Oscar states as y/n shifts so she's comfortable.

"I love you too." Y/n whispers settling her head down on his chest.

-

Y/n did ease up but Oscar wasn't willing to leave the matter just addressed. He wants to make things right.

He's already made sure to telling her how beautiful she is, how much he loves her and complimenting her as much as possible. Every time it has successfully got her flustered.

There's never been a level of regret over his own words till now and he hates knowing that if he'd just put even a moment of thought into them that basically burrowed into her head and completely took over her mind.

He came up with a plan that he is hoping doesn't get him in too much trouble with his trainer but he feels like it might work. Or it's going to backfire so hard that he might be single within the hour.

"Alright, I have a surprise for you." Oscar states after making it obvious he has a surprise for her by having forced her to remain in the bedroom till he said so which even included him leave the apartment while she waited.

"That's cute of you." Y/n smiles lightly while Oscar sits down on the edge of the bed as she sits down. "You know you don't have to keep trying to make up for it."

"I want to because you deserve to know that I don't stand by what I said."

"I know that. I do."

"Good, but I've already got the surprise set up. Come on, I think-I hope you'll like this." Oscar states actually looking like he's been doing the overthinking since he discovered how much he'd upset his girlfriend.

Oscar has her close her eyes and guides her into the kitchen.

"Are you ready?" Oscar asks making her choke a laugh.

"If you're about to say I hope you're ready for nothing and show me nothing I'm breaking your ribs with my elbow." Y/n warns jokingly which brings some settling to his panic about this might backfire because at least he's not just fooling her with some sort of prank.

"Alright, open your eyes." Oscar smiles making her open her eyes and blink a little looking at the set up from her boyfriend.

"Oscar..." Y/n mumbles looking at the cake that he had frosted with a message.

For the most prettiest, most perfect girlfriend on the planet.

"You're actually unreal." Y/n laughs then turning to look at him. "What kind of cake it is?"

Oscar really stressed about choosing the flavour because he really didn't want to mess up by getting her something that she would hate.

"Vanilla with fresh cream and jam with strawberries. But now I feel like that was wrong." Oscar grimaces making her head shake.

"It's perfect. Really my favourite." Y/n assures him before she swallows and Oscar moves up behind her again, holding her waist and gently hugging her back to himself.

"We're both going to eat this because eating cake is not a crime and neither of us are hitting the gym."

"You have to hit the gym. You're in the middle of the season." Y/n laughs but Oscar just shrugs.

"We are both eating the cake. Everyone deserves cake." Oscar reiterates then kissing her cheek. "Cake for breakfast is literally the dream anyway. Free will and all that."

"You've officially spend too much time online." Y/n laughs then moving towards the cake since it does look so amazing and she is feeling herself drool at the thought of getting to eat it.

Meanwhile Oscar feels like he might've finally overpowered his comment from a few weeks ago by finally finding something that made her feel so loved that hopefully he can keep this going and make sure not to fuck up again like he did.

[chillycherry44]

✶ 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.

[chillycherry44]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Pillow Problems

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, best friends to something more

Word Count: ~2.2k

Summary: You can’t fall asleep without hugging a pillow. Lando finds out.

⸻

It starts as a casual movie night.

Nothing fancy. Just you and Lando in sweats, too much popcorn, and a ridiculous action movie neither of you are really paying attention to. It’s late — past midnight — and you’re both curled up on the couch under a shared blanket like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Because with Lando, it kind of is.

You’ve been best friends for so long that sleepovers don’t even feel weird anymore. He’s crashed on your couch after race weekends more times than you can count, and you’ve stolen his guest bed on road trips whenever hotels were overbooked.

But this time… there’s only one bed.

Your bed.

“You sure you’re okay with me sleeping in here?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe, toothbrush in hand and curls still damp from his shower.

You roll your eyes. “Lando, I’ve seen you wear flip flops with socks. You think I’m going to draw the line at you borrowing my bed?”

He snorts and throws a hand to his chest. “That was ONE TIME.”

You toss a pillow at him. “Brush your teeth, Norris.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are under the covers. You’re on one side, he’s on the other. very obvious pillow barrier stands between you, like a soft, cotton fortress of boundaries.

But there’s a problem.

You can’t sleep.

At all.

You stare at the ceiling. Then at the nightstand. Then at the outline of Lando’s face in the dark, just barely visible from the glow of your phone charger.

He’s still. Breathing slow. Definitely asleep.

And you’re… not.

Because — and this is ridiculous, so ridiculous — you can’t fall asleep unless you’re hugging something.

A pillow. A blanket. A stuffed animal. A person. Doesn’t matter. Your body just doesn’t shut off unless your arms are around something.

You try. You flip the pillow over. You bury your arms under it. You wrap the blanket tighter around yourself.

Nothing.

You’re one hour in when the whisper comes.

“Are you… okay?”

You flinch. “Jesus—you’re awake?”

Lando turns onto his side, blinking slowly. “You’ve been breathing like you’re trying to inflate a bouncy castle.”

You bury your face in your pillow. “I can’t sleep.”

“Why?”

You hesitate.

“Y/N.”

You groan. “It’s stupid.”

His voice lifts with amusement. “Now I definitely need to know.”

You sigh, dramatic. “I can’t fall asleep unless I’m hugging something, okay?”

Silence.

Then—

A loud, stifled laugh from the other side of the bed.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, “you’re like a human koala.”

You smack him with your pillow. “Shut up.”

“No, no, this is adorable. Do you need, like, a teddy bear? A weighted blanket? Should I draw a face on one of your pillows and pretend it’s me?”

“You’re the worst.”

He’s laughing, full and unfiltered now, twisting the sheets as he rolls away dramatically. “Y/N, my heart. All this time I thought you just liked cuddling me during movie nights, but you actually have a condition.”

You throw your hands over your face. “Please stop talking.”

Then—softly, after a pause—his voice shifts.

“…You could’ve just said something.”

You peek through your fingers. He’s looking at you now. Still teasing, but softer. Gentle.

“Wanna hug me?” he asks, cocking a brow like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Your breath catches. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says, already sliding an arm out, inviting. “C’mon, koala girl.”

You glare. “If you call me that again, I’ll smother you with this pillow.”

He grins. “I’ll take the risk.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you scoot closer, cautiously curling against his side, arm draping lightly across his chest.

And god — it’s perfect. His body is warm, steady, and somehow smells like mint and laundry detergent. Your muscles sigh in relief.

“You’re like a human radiator,” you murmur.

He chuckles, voice close to your ear. “You’re welcome.”

You fall asleep faster than you have in weeks.

And the next morning, you wake up still tangled in him — his arm heavy around your waist, face buried in your hair, breath soft on your neck.

You try to move.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, still half-asleep. “I’m your pillow now. Deal with it.”

And you kind of… do.

⸻

Sunlight spills through the half-closed blinds, catching dust motes in golden streaks as the room slowly warms with morning.

You’re awake.

Barely.

And very aware that you’re not alone in your bed.

Lando’s arm is still wrapped around your waist, heavy and warm and not even a little bit apologetic about being all up in your space. His chest rises and falls steadily against your back, his breath slow and even — he’s still asleep, or close to it.

You consider moving.

Really, you do.

But your limbs are lazy, your brain soft and sleepy, and honestly? He’s comfortable. Too comfortable. Like he was made to be a human-sized heating pad designed to be clung to.

His fingers twitch slightly at your hip.

You freeze.

“…You’re awake, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough with sleep.

You sigh. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t move. Just hums. “Told you. Human pillow.”

You can hear the smugness in his voice, even through the sleep.

“I was desperate,” you mumble.

“Sure you were.” He yawns. “Could’ve hugged a pillow, but nooo. You went straight for me.”

You elbow him gently. “I tried the pillow.”

He just pulls you closer. “Mhm. Addicted now. No turning back.”

Your cheeks flush — and not just from the proximity.

You should pull away. You should. Friends don’t… do this. Or at least, you and Lando never have. You’ve always tiptoed the edge of this kind of closeness — flirty jokes, knee touches during movies, that weird moment last Christmas when you almost kissed but blamed it on mistletoe and wine.

But this?

This feels like something else.

You twist slightly to face him, only to find his eyes open, heavy-lidded and watching you.

“What?” you whisper.

He shrugs, smile lazy and lopsided. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

A pause.

Then, softly: “About how I could get used to waking up like this.”

Your heart stops. Completely.

He sees it. Feels it, probably. Because his smile shifts — less teasing, more vulnerable. More real.

“I’m not just saying that ‘cause you’re warm,” he adds.

You blink, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

“Lando…”

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You don’t have to say anything. I just— I think maybe this whole human pillow situation works both ways.”

Your fingers tighten in the sleeve of his t-shirt.

And just like that, the teasing melts away. The barrier between best friends and something else thins, bends, and threatens to break entirely.

“I liked waking up with you,” you admit, voice small.

He smiles again — that quiet, soft smile that doesn’t belong in interviews or podium photos. This one’s just for you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you move.

Not yet.

Because the line is still there, but now you’re both standing on the same side of it.

⸻

You eventually untangle from each other.

Sort of.

By which you mean Lando finally rolls away only to immediately steal your pillow, shove it under his head like it betrayed him, and mumble something about needing a ten-minute nap before coffee.

So you leave him there — hair messy, half-asleep, wearing your hoodie like it’s always belonged to him — and shuffle into the kitchen.

Your legs feel weird. Your chest feels… floaty.

You touch your lips once when you’re sure he’s not looking.

Nothing happened. Not really.

But it almost did.

And it’s enough to change everything.

⸻

You’re halfway through cracking eggs into a pan when you hear the soft shuffle of feet.

Lando appears in the doorway, stretching with a sleepy groan, his hair a disaster and his eyes still heavy with sleep.

He looks like a dream you forgot you had. Like something that’s always been yours but never belonged to you.

“You’re cooking?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

You shrug. “Seemed fair. You donated your body to science last night.”

He smirks as he comes up behind you, not even pretending to keep distance. He leans over your shoulder, chin nearly brushing your temple.

“That was a very important cuddle study,” he says into your ear, voice low and teasing. “Purely scientific.”

You fight a shiver. “Well, congratulations. You’re now certified as a human-size emotional support plushie.”

He chuckles, arms brushing yours as he helps you reach for the salt.

Silence falls. The soft sizzle of eggs fills the space. His presence is everywhere — beside you, behind you, in you — and it’s like neither of you know where to put all the things you want to say.

Then—softly, like it escapes without permission:

“You meant it last night?”

You turn your head slightly. “Which part?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps gently stirring the eggs. “That you liked waking up next to me.”

You hesitate. Then: “Yeah. I did.”

A beat passes.

He nods, silent, and grabs a plate. You watch him.

He places a serving of eggs onto the plate and hands it to you without meeting your eyes. “Me too.”

Your fingers brush when you take it. Neither of you pull away.

He finally looks up.

And there’s that moment again — the one that feels like you’re both standing at the edge of something huge. Something terrifying and beautiful.

“Lando…” you start.

But the words don’t come.

Because part of you is still afraid. Of ruining what you have. Of hoping too much. Of the way your heart has never felt this calm around anyone else.

He sees all of it. You know he does.

So he just smiles, soft and sure.

And says, “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

You eat breakfast shoulder to shoulder.

There are no declarations. No kisses.

But there’s a shared mug of coffee between you.

A soft look that lingers longer than it should.

And when he picks up your extra pillow later — the one you clung to for years before last night — and tosses it to the corner of the bed with a smirk, all he says is:

“You won’t need that anymore.”

⸻

You’re not sure why Lando doesn’t leave that night.

He doesn’t say he’s staying.

He just… doesn’t go.

You wash dishes together after dinner like it’s routine, like he’s done it a hundred times — and honestly, maybe he has. He scrolls through Netflix while you wipe down the kitchen counters, making dramatic sounds of disapproval at your movie suggestions. He disappears into your room at one point and comes back wearing one of your oversized sweatshirts like it’s his.

No mention of going home. No keys. No shoes. Just… him. Staying.

Again.

By the time you brush your teeth side by side — like you did last night, like it’s just what you do now — there’s a low buzz in the air. That awareness. That heaviness. Like the next thing might tip the whole thing into something neither of you can come back from.

You’re quiet as you climb into bed.

So is he.

The blanket settles over the both of you, and your hearts race a little too loud for a room that’s supposed to be quiet.

Then, softly—

“D’you still need something to hug?”

You let out a soft breath. “Yeah.”

He turns toward you in the dark. “Okay. C’mere.”

You hesitate only for a second this time.

You move closer. Not just tangled up like last time, but facing each other. His arm slides around your waist like muscle memory. Your hand finds the soft fabric of his sweatshirt near his chest.

You fit.

Better than you should.

You’re not even pretending to sleep yet when he whispers, “I didn’t leave because I wanted to stay.”

You blink slowly. “I know.”

“And I didn’t stay just because of you needing a pillow.”

You smile faintly. “I know that too.”

A beat.

He breathes in. “I don’t want this to be a thing we don’t talk about.”

Your heart flips. “Me either.”

“I don’t really know when it started,” he continues, voice low, “but I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now. It just always felt like… if I did, I might mess it up.”

Your hand curls into the fabric of his sweatshirt. “You wouldn’t.”

He moves closer.

You feel his breath against your skin, soft and cautious. One hand lifts to your cheek like he’s checking to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

“You sure?” he whispers.

You nod.

And he kisses you.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not perfect, either — his nose bumps yours, your hand fumbles awkwardly as you find his jaw — but it’s real. It’s warm. And it means something.

You can feel it in the way his fingers tighten on your waist. In the soft sigh you let out against his mouth. In the quiet, trembling kind of relief that settles between you once you both pull back.

You stay close.

Foreheads pressed. Noses barely brushing.

You could say something. Make a joke. Ask what this means.

But you don’t.

Because he’s already whispering, “Okay. I’m definitely your pillow now.”

And all you can do is laugh — quietly, into the space between your mouths — before tugging him back down and whispering,

“Yeah. Mine.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

[chillycherry44]

A thin line between love and hate || LN4

When the lines blurr

landonorris x fewtrell!reader

enemies to lovers, brother’s best friend

Summary: Through your brother’s friendship with Lando Norris, your families have been interwined for as long as you can remember. Seven years had passed since you last saw your brother’s best friend, and you were thankful because he really was one huge pain in the ass. But now your families decided to go on vacation together, where the tension between the two of you shifts

2.4k words

masterlist

Part 5

The music thumped through the air, the rhythmic beat mingling with the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. The locals had gone all out, stringing lights between the trees and setting up a makeshift dance floor on the edge of the cliffside. It was the kind of night that felt alive with possibility, but your mood was anything but carefree.

Lando was everywhere—his laugh cutting through the crowd, his confident swagger impossible to miss. You told yourself you wouldn’t let him get to you tonight, not after everything. But when you caught him watching you from across the dance floor, his gaze heavy and unreadable, the frustration bubbled over.

Fine. If he wanted to stare, let him.

You turned to the nearest group, your gaze landing on a local guy you’d met earlier. His name was Marco—tall, with sun-kissed skin, a charming smile, and a mop of dark curls that looked like they belonged in a romance novel. He’d been easygoing and polite all evening, his attempts to flirt lighthearted and harmless, which made him the perfect distraction.

Striking up a conversation, you laughed at one of his jokes, your voice carrying just loud enough for Lando to hear. If he wanted to brood from the sidelines, that was his problem, not yours.

When Marco leaned closer, his warm accent curling around his words as he asked, “Do you want to dance?” you didn’t hesitate. You slipped your hand into his, letting him lead you toward the center of the makeshift dance floor where music pulsed and laughter echoed around the cliffside party.

The cool evening air kissed your skin as Marco spun you effortlessly, his movements smooth and confident. You let yourself relax, smiling as he twirled you again, his hand resting lightly on your waist.

“See?” he said, his grin widening. “You’re a natural.”

The music pulsed, and you let yourself get lost in the rhythm. You laughed, swaying to the rhythm, but the back of your neck prickled with awareness. Even as you kept your eyes on Marco, you couldn’t shake the feeling of someone else’s gaze burning into you.

Lando.

You didn’t need to look to know he was watching. The weight of it was unmistakable, a tug in your chest you stubbornly ignored.

Marco leaned closer, his voice just loud enough to cut through the music. “You’re distracted. Am I losing my charm already?”

“Not at all,” you replied, forcing a brighter smile as you glanced up at him.

But as the song changed and the crowd shifted, you couldn’t help it—your eyes flickered to where Lando stood, leaning against a low wall with his arms crossed. Lando was standing near the edge of the dance floor, his arms crossed, jaw tight his posture tense. His usual teasing smirk was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was something darker in his eyes, something that sent a thrill through you even as you tried to ignore it. When your gaze met his, something unspoken passed between you.

Marco’s hand on your waist suddenly felt too noticeable, too deliberate. Lando’s eyes dropped to it, his lips pressing into a thin line before he looked away.

A knot of frustration tightened in your chest. If he cared so much, why didn’t he say something? Why did he just watch?

“Another dance?” Marco asked, oblivious to the silent war raging inside you.

You hesitated, the question hanging in the air as Lando straightened, pushing off the wall and moving purposefully through the crowd. Before you could answer Marco, Lando was there, his voice cutting through like a blade.

“She’s done dancing,” he said, his tone firm, his eyes locked on yours.

Your stomach flipped, your breath hitching as Marco blinked in confusion. “What? We were—”

“I’ll take it from here,” Lando interrupted, his hand closing gently around your wrist.

You yanked your arm back, glaring at him. “Excuse me? Since when do you get to decide what I’m doing?”

“Since now,” he replied, his voice low but edged with something that sent shivers down your spine.

Marco looked between the two of you, clearly sensing the tension, before holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, no problem. Maybe another time,” he said, shooting you a quick smile before disappearing into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, you rounded on Lando, your frustration boiling over.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded.

“That?” he asked, his smirk returning as he gestured vaguely toward the dance floor. “That was me saving you from making a mistake.”

“I didn’t ask to be saved, Lando,” you snapped, yanking your wrist free once you were far enough from the crowd. “Dancing with someone who actually knows how to be decent is a mistake?”

His smirk faded, his expression hardening. “Decent? Is that what you think that was? Or were you just trying to get a reaction out of me?”

Your heart stuttered, caught between anger and something far more dangerous. “Don’t flatter yourself, Norris,” you snapped. “Not everything is about you.”

“Maybe not,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But this? Right now? It definitely is.”

“What is your problem?”

“My problem?” He turned to face you, his brows furrowed, frustration evident in every line of his body. “What’s yours? You’ve been playing games all summer, acting like you don’t care, but then—”

“Oh, I’m playing games?” You let out a bitter laugh, crossing your arms. “You’re the one who’s been messing with me since the moment you got here. Teasing me, annoying me, treating me like some kind of joke.”

“You think this is a joke to me?” His voice dropped, low and rough, the intensity in his eyes pinning you in place.

“What else would it be?” you challenged, refusing to back down. “You’ve never taken me seriously, Lando. Not once.”

He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You don’t hate me,” he said, his voice soft now, almost a whisper. “You just wish you did.”

Your breath caught, the truth in his words hitting harder than you expected.

“Don’t,” you warned, your voice trembling as you placed your hands on his chest to push him back. But he didn’t budge, his gaze locked on yours.

“Admit it,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Admit that this thing between us isn’t one-sided.”

Your heart raced, your mind screaming at you to deny it, to walk away, to do anything but let him see how deeply he’d gotten under your skin.

But you couldn’t.

Instead, you shoved him away, the sudden motion breaking the spell. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snapped, your voice shaky as you turned and walked back toward the party, leaving him standing there in the darkness.

The walk back to the villa was quiet, the group subdued after the long night of dancing and drinks. You stayed near the front, avoiding Lando as much as possible, but the argument from earlier hung heavy in the air.

It wasn’t until the others had moved ahead, their laughter fading into the distance, that you realized Lando was walking beside you.

“I’m not in the mood, Lando,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed on the path ahead.

“Tough,” he replied, his voice steady but low. “We’re not done.”

You stopped abruptly, turning to face him. “Yes, we are. I’m tired of whatever game you think this is—”

“This isn’t a game,” he interrupted, his voice firm.

“Then what is it?” you demanded, throwing your hands up. “Because I don’t get it. One minute you’re driving me crazy, and the next you’re… you’re—”

“Driving you crazy in a different way?” he supplied, a hint of a smirk breaking through.

You glared at him. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” he said, stepping closer.

Your heart thundered in your chest as he tilted his head, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re so busy trying to convince yourself you don’t feel anything for me, but you do. I see it every time you look at me, Y/n.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered, your voice trembling, too soft to hold any real weight.

“Prove me wrong,” he said, his tone low and steady, a quiet challenge that filled the space between you. It wasn’t just words—it was a dare, one you weren’t sure you could meet. One you weren’t sure you even wanted to resist anymore.

The air crackled around you, thick with everything left unsaid, everything you had been trying so hard to ignore. His gaze locked on yours, intense and unwavering, pulling you in until you couldn’t look away, couldn’t think past the pounding of your heart.

Before you could summon a response—before you could summon the courage to walk away—he moved. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just the searing brush of his lips against yours. It was soft at first, like a question, but the moment you leaned into him, it changed. The kiss deepened, exploding with all the fire and frustration that had been building between you for so long.

His hands found your face, holding you as though he was afraid you might disappear, and in that moment, the world ceased to exist. It was only him—the warmth of his touch, the heat of his mouth on yours, the taste of every unspoken truth you’d been too afraid to acknowledge. Every wall you’d so carefully constructed shattered in an instant, crumbling beneath the weight of what was undeniable.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed gently to yours, you couldn’t find your breath. Your heart raced in your chest, hammering so hard it drowned out any coherent thought. The room felt too small, the air too thin, and yet his closeness made it bearable, grounding you in a way that terrified and thrilled you at the same time.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispered, his voice soft but steady, the words brushing against your lips like another kiss. His eyes searched yours, not for victory, but for truth. He wasn’t asking you to lie. He wasn’t asking you to run. He was asking for you.

You opened your mouth, desperate to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

You couldn’t. Because he wasn’t. Because he wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t been wrong for a long time, and you hated how much it hurt to admit it—to let yourself feel it.

@planet-faerie @teamnovalak @guaaafiiburg @meglouise00 @saythename-sm @writting-stuff-sometimes @its-avalon-08 @f1fantasys @lausdigitaldiary @sltwins @cstads-blog @freyathehuntress

[chillycherry44]

Sneaky Kisses 💋ྀིྀི

Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary - They promised to keep things professional. But just before qualifying, when tensions are high and adrenaline’s peaking, Lando Norris finds himself sneaking around with his teammate.

Contains - sexual innuendos, allusions to sex, kinda fluffy

The paddock always buzzed on qualifying day. Tight schedules. Tighter nerves. The team staff zipping around their garages making sure everything is perfect.

But within the chaos and tensions of hot laps and tyre strategies, Lando Norris and his teammate found themselves facing the tensions of not being caught. Not by staff, not by fellow drivers, not by family or friends.

Y/n slipped in through the side, her race suit half-zipped and her helmet under one arm. She didn’t even glance his way. She didn’t have to. He felt her, like a shift in gravity. Lando leaned against the back wall of the garage, pretending to study telemetry on his tablet.

In reality, he was tracking every step she took, every flick of her fingers as she passed the car he knew better than his own reflection. He could still feel her legs around his waist from earlier that morning, the imprint of her lips on his jaw, the whisper against his neck:

“Last time. We can’t keep doing this.”

Yeah, okay.

That promise lasted about as long as his lead from pole last weekend, less than 5 seconds.

She passed him casually, like they hadn’t spent the early morning tangled together in the hotel room three blocks from the circuit. Like he hadn’t kissed her goodbye with her legs wrapped around his waist, whispering “we’re gonna get caught one of these days” against his lips.

Like they hadn't spent the previous race weekends sneaking from their own hotel room to the others, staying up until the early hours of the morning, bodies moulded together, releasing all the tension and anger from the races on each other.

“Nice of you to show up,” he murmured without looking at her.

“Had a late breakfast,” she said, her voice low, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “Bit of cardio, too.”

He fought a smile, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t—not with the way that memory lit up every nerve in his body. Her nails on his back, the way she laughed breathlessly against his chest afterward, already knowing they were going to pretend it didn’t happen once the garage doors opened.

Around them, the team moved like clockwork. Mechanics swarmed the cars. Engineers barked numbers. Journalists peered in from the periphery. No one noticed the two drivers exchanging quiet smirks and veiled glances like teenagers pulling off the world’s most high-stakes prank.

“Eyes up, Norris,” she teased, brushing past him just a little too close. “You’ll give us away.”

He followed her movement like a magnet.

“I think your lipstick is still on my neck,” he shot back.

Everyone thought they hated each other.

And they let them.

Y/n stopped by her car, turning her attention to her race engineer. But Lando watched as her fingers lingered on her zipper just a moment too long, like she knew he was still staring. Like she wanted him to.

God, she was dangerous. More dangerous than a wet track on hard tires.

He waited until no one was looking. Until the cameras panned away, and the mechanics were elbow-deep in tire blankets and software updates. Then he moved, just a few steps across the garage, enough to stand beside her.

“Wearing my hoodie when you left the hotel was bold,” he murmured, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“I left before sunrise. It was cold.”

“You could’ve taken yours.”

“I like yours better.”

A pause.

He smiled.

“You know one of the PR interns saw you. She didn’t say anything, but she knows.”

“She better keep quiet if she wants a job next season.”

“God, you’re terrifying.”

Y/n turned her face slightly, just enough that he could see the sharp curve of her cheekbone.

“Still keep crawling back, though.”

He leaned in, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat between them.

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“That, or insanely obsessed with me. I would be too if I was you.” She shrugged cooly. His scoff was soft but loud enough for her to hear.

“Don’t worry,” she added, voice dropping, “I won’t ask you to say it. Not today.”

The pit lane loudspeaker crackled to life. Two minutes to qualifying. Drivers to cars.

Everything around them sped up—radio chatter, boot-up sequences, the steady rhythm of race prep reaching a crescendo.

Still, neither of them moved.

Lando glanced around. Everyone was looking the other way.

“I need it,” he said quietly.

She arched a brow at her teammate. “Need what?”

He met her eyes, finally.

“You know what.”

And without waiting, without thinking—because thinking would ruin it—he bent down and kissed her.

Not frantic. Not hungry. Just sure. Quiet and slow, like the kind of kiss you steal in the calm before a storm. One hand brushing the small of her back. Her fingers curling into the front of his suit. Lips warm. Familiar. Forbidden.

They pulled apart at the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway.

Lando backed off like nothing had happened. Just another driver talking to his teammate.

Y/n blinked once. Then zipped her race suit all the way up, slipped on her gloves, and climbed into the cockpit of her car with the same smooth grace she used to dismantle his self-control every single time.

Lando climbed into his own car, heart pounding against his ribcage harder than it should’ve been.

His engineer’s voice came through the radio.

“Alright, Norris. Give me a clean out-lap.”

He smirked, eyes narrowing behind the visor. The conversation between Y/n and her engineer going the same. Both of their eyes squinting with focus and determination, their heart rates still high from their secret kisses.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

Word count: 955

[chillycherry44]

DRIVER!READER 🏎️

⭐️ = my favs

Does not contain 18+ content!

Blue? - multiversesweets

In a split second - uglyducklingofthe2000s

Grid Dads - formula-nyoom ⭐️

Pure Chaos - cutieln4

Revenge - propertyofwicked

Group chat leaked - jbuttonz 

I'm proud of you - formula-nyoom

Grid graduation - formula-nyoom

Grid Kids - formula-nyoom ⭐️

Monopoly - thewispsings 

No mans peace - uglyducklingofthe2000s

Ruptured- uglyducklingofthe2000s ⭐️

Till you drop - uglyducklingofthe2000s

Pushed down and down - cheriladycl01

Support system - harrysfolklore

Look after you - disneyprincemuke ⭐️ (this whole series is so good I highly recommend you go read it!!)

Media duties - silversurfersx

[chillycherry44]

off the record! - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x race engineer!reader (fem) summary: in which you and charles don't correct the headlines OR you and charles are fake dating...key word: FAKE...right? warnings: language, some smut, NOT PROOFREAD (there's prob typos sorry), angst??? word count: 9.1k author's note: hiiii angels! I hope you like this one <3 let me know what y'all think!! hearing from you all is what gives me motivation to keep writing. xoxo. stayed up SO late last night trying to finish this for u all.

Charles is good at pretending. Almost too good.

He’s too swift in front of the cameras, too convincing when his hand always manages to find the small of your back as you both walk through the paddock like it’s second nature. Like you belong there, belong to him. Too natural in the way he leans toward you in interviews, voice low and warm, muttering things that sound and look intimate even when they aren’t.

Except sometimes, when it doesn’t feel like pretending.

Because no one’s watching when it’s just the two of you in the garage after hours, both of you bleary eyed and sore from leaning hunched over the data too long. He’s still like that. Still standing too close. Still reaching for your wrist when you ramble off, his thumb brushing over your pulse like its nothing. Or when he still calls you amour and cherie in that voice, like he doesn’t remember that it’s all fake.

And you let him. You always do.

Because it’s easier than admitting the truth. That you’ve started memorizing the sound of his laugh. Or the shape of the vein in his throat when he’s super focused. That your stomach twists into knots whenever his eyes crinkle from a smile that feellike its just for you. That you’ve memorized the shape of his mouth when he says your name, whether it’s joyful, annoyed, or exhausted, it’s always gentle. Like he cares. Like he means everything.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.

Not the way he touches you when people are watching. Not the photos or the constant headlines.

It’s the way he looks at you when no one else is around.

Like it’s not pretend at all.

-

It starts in the most ridiculous way.

One stupid photo, taken from the wrong angle at the wrong moment, and suddenly you’re everywhere. 

LECLERC’S SECRET FLING???? MYSTERY WOMAN OR HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT?

You outright groan when you see it. You’re still in the motorhome, alone with the hum of the mini refrigerator behind you and the harsh morning sun streaming through the tinted windows. Your laptop is wide open, untouched, but all you can do is stare at your phone.

Your face is angled slightly toward him. His head tipped just enough to suggest something intimate briefly between FP1 and a strategy meeting, your hand grazing the curve of his back as you both maneuvered through the crowd. He laughed at something you said, probably something dumb, but the photo caught that too. His mouth curved upward, eyes crinkled in your direction. Like something romantic, private, real.

Your stomach churns.

A knock sounds, soft and almost polite, before the door opens anyways. You don’t have to look up to know its him. His scent hits you first. Clean, something warm and familiar that always lingers too long.

“Did you see the news?” Charles asks, closing the motorhome door with a soft click.

You turn the phone screen toward him, “What do you think?”

He glances at the screen for a mere second and huffs out a soft laugh. Not surprised, not even irritated. Just amused, like this is a game.

“Didn’t know you were considered a mystery woman. Let alone my mystery woman,” he says, stepping closer, a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Didn’t know I needed PR clearance to walk beside you,” you reply, brows raised. Your voice is sharp, not in the mood to be flirted with, even if its playful.

His smile dims, just a fraction. “I know it’s annoying.”

“It’s beyond annoying,” you drop the phone beside you. “They don’t even bother to use my name! Just ‘female engineer from inside Ferrari’. Like I’m nothing.”

His gaze softens while he leans against the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees as he sighs, “They’ll get bored anyways.”

“Will they?” You meet his eyes. “Or are they going to spin this until I’m some mystery girlfriend hiding in plain sight?”

Neither of you speak for a few moments.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, not looking at you as he says, “They’re going to write the story either way. Maybe it’s better if we control the narrative.”

You lean back, studying him. “Control?”

Charles finally looks up, and when he does, its with that expression he only wears when he’s working through something dangerous. That soft stillness thats half strategy, half vulnerability.

“They think we’re together already,” he says. “What if we just…let them?”

The silence stretches and you just a stare at him, waiting for the joke, the amused smirk, the cocky laugh. But it doesn’t come.

Because he’s serious.

“You want to fake date me,” You say flatly.

“I want to stop giving them something to chase,” He corrects you, his voice almost a whisper. “If they think we’re together, they might back off.”

You begin to shake your head slowly. “That’s insane.”

He exhales through his nose, not denying it. “Think about it. A few appearances, some hand holding. A smile or two when cameras are around. No one gets hurt.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right…no one.”

He stands then, crosses the room and leans against the counter next to you, too close like he always is. His gaze skims your face.

“You wouldn’t have to change anything,” his voice is soft. “You’re already next to me most weekends. You’re already in photos. You already…” He pauses. Swallows. Breathes. “You already look at me like it could be true.”

Your heart drops. You open your mouth. Close it again.

He’s not joking. He’s asking.

And the worst part is, part of you wants to say yes.

You study him for a long moment. The way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he blinks. The way his hair falls softly over his forehead, sweaty and messy.

“You’re really serious about this.”

He nods. “Only if you are.”

You reach for your phone again, staring at the photo, before putting it face down.

“When do we start?”

-

You feel him before you see him.

There’s a palpable shift in the air…familiar. And he’s there. Just standing outside the hospitality suite, dressed from head to toe in Ferrari red, with his sunglasses slipping on the bridge of his nose as he gives a small nod to someone you don’t recognize. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He doesn’t have to.

Regardless, your pulse spikes.

Your grip on the tablet in your hands tightens, a poor attempt at grounding yourself. You’ve walked beside him before. Done this dance dozens of times. But never with eyes on you like this. Never with your face wrapped up in headlines and edits that call you something you’re simply not.

Charles falls into step with you as if its the most casual thing in the world. As if the press haven’t been breathing down your necks. His scent hits you first, like always, clean and expensive and something so him that it unsettles something deep in between your ribs.

“Ready?” His voice is smooth, and he still isn’t looking at you.

You nod, forgetting that he isn’t looking at you before you mutter a soft I suppose in his direction.

The paddock is nothing but a storm of noise and motion by the time you step out. The sun is shining blindly, heat simmering off the asphalt while other workers buzz around between the garages. Photographers and fans hover like flies on a horses back. 

Your heart is already fluttering in your throat, but you manage to keep your face composed. Neutral. As if there aren’t dozens of cameras fixed on you. Waiting.

His hand brushes against yours…barely. It seems like nothing at first, just the back of his hand brushing your fingers as you walk side by side.

But then it happens again. This time on purpose.

And then you feel it. His fingers curling, slipping through yours with a care that feels almost too fucking intimate.

You freeze. Not noticeably. Your steps don’t falter. But something inside you, burns. 

The cameras go wild. 

You hear it in the shouts, in the constant click click click as people realize what they’re witnessing. Voices shout from nearly every direction. Some screaming his name, others screaming yours. Your heart thuds like a drum behind your ribs.

And then, he stops.

Right there in the middle of the paddock, with the crowd pressing in, with reporters angling their mics and cameras, he fucking halts. His grip tightens around your hand, not painfully, but enough to make you stop walking too.

You turn, confused and startled. But he’s already facing you.

The sun glints off his sunglasses, casting shadows across his face, but its his stillness that steals your breath more than anything. His thumb brushes once, slow and grounding, along your hand as he speaks.

“You okay?” He asks, voice quiet and nearly lost in all the surrounding noise.

Your throat constricts. “I’m fine.” But it’s not convincing. Not to him at least.

He leans in slightly, and for a second, you think he might say something but instead his hand squeezes yours again, then slowly his fingers move. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your knuckles, the exact curve of your wrist, the shape of your hand against his.

And quickly, so quickly that no one but you could catch it, he tilts his head and lowers his sunglasses just enough for his eyes to peek over the top. 

And that is what undoes you. Its not a look for show. His green eyes are dark and searching. He just looks at you like he’s reading his favorite book. Like he wants to consume every single written word of yours.

“You sure?” He says, like the answer actually matters.

You nod.

And within a millisecond his sunglasses slide back into place with one push of his fingers. Mask on again. But his hand never leaves yours.

And you start walking again. Casual, composed, fake.

-

You don’t even bother knocking. Just push the door open with your shoulder and shuffle in like it’s your room. Your shoes are already off before the door fully shuts, mumbling something about your spine being broken as you toss your team jacket over the back of a chair.

Charles doesn’t even look up. He’s on the floor, back against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him.

“You’re late,” He says, voice muffled by the few bites of pasta in his mouth.

“You’re alive,” You shoot back.

“Barely.”

You collapse beside him, shoulder knocking into his as you groan and sink into the carpet as if its the best thing since sliced bread.

“Yeah, well. Next time, try not to scare me half to death on lap 52,” You mutter, pulling your hair out of its pony and letting it fall. “I don’t need to explain to the FIA why I dropped dead.”

He chuckles. It’s low, tired, and warm.

“I’ll  try to keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want to traumatize you.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “You traumatize me daily.”

His head turns towards you, raising an eyebrow as he places his dish onto the ground. “You love it.”

You snort. “I tolerate it.”

“Do you want my pasta?” He pushes the bowl towards you like a peace offering.

You stare at it. “You’re so romantic.”

“Not romantic,” he softly smiles. “Just generous, cherie.”

“You’re luck you’re pretty.”

“You’re lucky I don’t care to fight right now.”

The room is dim, only one lamp on by the bed, casting a warm glow across the room and his face. His hoodie’s rumpled, socks mismatched, and hair still damp from the shower he rushed through.

It’s stupid how at home he looks right now. Not the polished version. Just Charles, the boy who can’t sit still and lets you steal his hoodies whenever your room gets too cold.

“I’d let you win,” You shrug your shoulders.

His brows furrow slightly. “Win what?”

“A fight.”

His grin spreads slowly across his lips. “Oh, so you’re feeling soft tonight, hm?”

“Soft. Exhausted. Whatever you wanna call it.”

“I like you like this,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t make your chest cave in.

“Like what? Emotionally unstable and half-asleep?”

���Exactly.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile breaks through anyway. 

You both fall into an easy silence.

Comfortable.

-

You’re sitting sideways in the too-small balcony chair, legs draped over one arm, glass of wine in hand, with your head tilted back as you laugh. Charles is sitting on the floor beside you, his socked foot nudging the edge of your chair every now and then like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

“You were so fucking smug,” you say, pointing your glass at him. “And the audacity on lap 37?”

He smirks, leaning his head back agains the sliding glass door. “You were on the radio sounding like you were about to reach through the headset and strangle me.”

“I was! You kept ignoring the delta!”

“I did not-“

“You definitely did! You lifted once in turn ten and then just fucking sent it.”

He’s laughing now. Its full bodied and messy, his eyes crinkling at the corners. And in this moment you decide, you love this laugh. This laugh is yours.

“Okay,” he says, catching his breath. “Maybe I did ignore. Just a little.”

“So I was right?”

He takes a long sip of his drink, eyes on yours over the rim of his glass. “Don’t push it.”

You nudge him with your foot. “I’m always right.”

“You’re always loud,” he counters. “I’ve never met someone who could make an entire briefing feel like a personal attack.”

“I’m passionate.”

“You’re terrifying.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he’s still looking at you like there’s something about this moment that he wants to memorize.

-

The room is dark except for the flickering light from the TV, the sound low enough that you have to lean in to catch some of the lines, not that either of you really care.

The rain outside has been tapping against the windows since dinner, soft and steady, with the curtains half-drawn. It smells like shampoo and hotel linen and the candy bar you split earlier, the wrapper still crumpled on top of the nightstand, forgotten beside two water bottles and a single sock that might be his or might be yours.

Your lying on your stomach, head propped up on a pillow, legs bent at the knees with your feet swaying as you scroll through the Netflix menu for, what feels like, the seventh time. Charles is stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lying between you, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket like he’s unsure if he wants to move them closer.

“Pick something,” he groans, his voice thick with tiredness. “You’ve been scrolling for ten years.”

“I’m feeling out the vibe,” you reply. “You don’t understand.”

“You picked Spaceballs last time.”

“And you loved it.”

He groans, dragging a pillow over his face. You laugh, loud and bright, and Charles turns just enough to look at you. The screen casts you in soft light.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you for a second too long. And then like it’s normal, he reaches for the back of your shirt and tugs it down where the fabric has ridden up, his knuckles grazing warm skin as he smooths it into place.

“You’re always doing that,” You mumble, slightly dazed.

He doesn’t deny it.

“It just bugs me when you’re not covered,” he says, almost to himself only.

You want to tease him, want to say something clever, but the way he says it makes your stomach twist in a way you’re not ready to think about.

So instead, you settle on a movie. Some stupid, forgettable rom-com, and throw the remote between you with a sigh.

At some point, maybe around the third scene of the movie, you shift. Not deliberately.

Just a slow, natural thing. One of those absentminded movements made out of comfort and sheer exhaustion. You start leaning into him, just slightly. Your head dipping forward, shoulder brushing against his arm, and your elbow resting a little closer to his ribcage than it was twenty minutes ago. You don’t even realize it at first. It just happens.

Charles, on his end, doesn’t move away.

He doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t tense. Instead, he shifts too.

It’s not much. The way his body tilts just slightly toward yours. The way his hand, once resting flat agains the mattress, curls upwards so that the back of it now brushes against the edge of your waist whenever you breathe.

You shift again, slower this time, letting your cheek rest against the slope of his shoulder, his cotton hoodie soft beneath your skin, smelling faintly of detergent and something warm. Something you’ve begun to associate with home. 

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

You both just let it happen.

-

It starts with a spoonful of cereal to the face. 

Not yours. His.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed in a hoodie that’s definitely not yours (it’s his and he’s already made a hoke about it), one hand deep in a box of granola, the other scrolling on your phone, when Charles makes the mistake of saying something smug about your snoring.

“I don’t snore,” You say almost immediately, without looking up.

“Oh, yes you do,” he counters from where he’s standing near the little counter, pouring milk into a bowl. “You sound like a chainsaw.”

You blink at him.

Then, silently, reach for the complimentary spoon, dip it into your bowl of cereal, and flick it directly at his chest.

It splatters against the front of his t-shirt, clinging to the cotton.

He looks down and simply stares at the damage. Then up at you.

“You did not just-“

“I warned you!”

“You did not-“

And then its absolute chaos as he lunges.

You shriek, laughing, cereal long forgotten as you scramble to the far side of the bed, but he’s faster…years of sharp reflexes working unfairly in your favor as he reaches out and grabs your waist, tackling you into the pillows.

“No, Charles…Charles, please!”

“You did this to yourself!”

“Truce! Truce!”

“Too late.”

His hands are gentle, even as he’s tickling you. Even as you flail and laugh and grab at his wrists like you could stop him. Which you can’t, because his grip is ridiculously strong and the room is already echoing with your wheezing.

Eventually, he stops.

Maybe because he’s laughing too hard. Maybe cause he notices the way you’re curled beneath him, face flushed and eyes shining. 

And for one very long moment, he goes still

You both do.

Both frozen. Smiling.

But it fades a little because suddenly there’s this change that feels heavier than it should. A shift in the air that neither of you meant to invite in, but it’s here, demanding.

He clears his throat and rolls off of you with a soft groan.

“You’re the worst person ever ever,” he says, falling onto the mattress beside you.

“You started it.”

He throws the nearest pillow at you. “You cereal bombed me.”

“You deserved it.”

Another moment of silence passes.

Then casually, almost too casually, he says, “You can keep the hoodie, by the way.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Looks better on you.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you.

No. He’s just lying there, arms folded behind his head, with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he didn’t just light a very dangerous fire.

And you don’t say anything. You just tug the hoodie a little closer around you.

-

The paddock is mostly empty by the time you finish up. The sun is low, and you’re walking a few steps ahead of him on the track, laughing at something he said. Not the polite kind of laugh people give him in interviews. But a real, loud laugh.

That’s the first mistake.

Because Charles is watching you. Not in the casual, friendly way he always has, but really watching you. And for the first time since this whole thing started, something in his chest pulls.

You glance back at him, smiling. “What?”

He blinks once, caught. “Nothing,” He starts to shake his head, trying to shake off the feeling. “You’re just…in a good mood.”

You slow down so that you’re walking beside each other again. “What? I can’t be happy?”

“No, you can. You just…” He trails off, lost in his own thoughts, before shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. You’re just different today.”

You laugh, softer this time. “Maybe I like being your fake girlfriend.” You say it as a joke. It’s always a joke.

But Charles’s smile falters, just a fraction.

And that’s when it happens. Right there. That’s when he realizes he doesn’t want it to be fake.

You keep walking, your eyes scanning the track like you’re picturing tomorrow’s data in your head already. Charles tries…really, really tries, to slip back into that same rhythm. The one where you’re just his engineer, just his best friend, just the person he trusts most in the world as of lately.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because you’ve always been that person.

And now there’s a weight in his chest every time you smile at someone else, a hum under his skin every time you say his name, and suddenly your laugh isn’t just nice to hear. It’s necessary. Like a drug. A song he never wants to stop playing.

The breeze picks up a little, carrying the light scent of rubber, and a strand of your hair blows across your face, rubbing against your cheek. You tuck it back without thinking. The motion is small, but it somehow feels intimate. Stupidly intimate. Like something only someone in love would take notice of.

Charles swallows and looks away.

“You good?” You ask, noticing the way his shoulders stiffened slightly.

He nods, almost too quickly. “Yeah, just got a wave of exhaustion.”

You don’t press. You never do. You let him have his silences, even if they stretch too long, like right now. 

You’re talking again, about strategy or the tires, but he’s not really listening anymore. 

He’s thinking about your hands. The way you rested them on his chest during the last media stunt, your fingers spread flat over his heart like you didn’t know what you were touching.

He’s thinking about the fact he didn’t even flinch.

He’s thinking about how he liked it.

You say something funny and laugh, and Charles lets out one too. But it’s small, only half there.

Because it’s not funny anymore.

Because he’s beginning to look at you like he’s already lost you, and you don’t even know that he wants you yet.

And when you reach over to gently tug at his elbow, teasing him about being such a slow walker today, he knows it will only take one moment. One moment to fall completely, stupidly, in love with you.

And you’re just smiling like it’s all a game.

-

It’s late in the afternoon, just after FP2, and the air inside the motorhome has a tired kind of warmth. The kind of energy that once pulsed throughout the room has now dulled into a low murmur. 

You’re curled into he corner of the bench, tablet in hand, thumb swiping purposely through the sector times that begin to blur because you’ve been staring at numbers all day. Your back aches, neck’s tight, and you’ve probably read the same stats of numbers three times while retaining none of it.

All while trying your best to not acknowledge Charles across from you.

Charles. Sitting relaxed, legs stretched out, legs lazily crossed over one another at his ankles. You don’t look at him, not directly at least. But you always feel him.

You can sense his movement more than you see it. The soft pull of gravity as he crosses the room with such ease that no one bothers to notice. His body finds its way beside you, his thighs pressing into yours, his shoulders against your arm.

You don’t look up because you don’t need to.

He leans in until you can feel the warmth of his breath at your temple, his faint scratch of stubble barely grazing your skin.

“What are you changing?” His voice curls its way into the space between your ear and your neck, and it settles there. Warm. Lingering.

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual, something that doesn’t sound like he’s unraveling you. “Playing around with the rear balance,” you say almost too quickly. “That first sector was a mess.”

He hums in agreement, half thoughtful, half amused. And he’s so close that it vibrates through you.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean back. Doesn’t pretend this was just about data.

He stays close, too close, almost always. His body angled towards you, shoulders brushing against your arms, thighs pressed against yours with ease. Familiar. Like he knows exactly how far he can lean into you.

And then his hand rests on your thigh. It lands softly, just above your knee, the heat of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. His thumb brushes once. Barely.

Then again. 

You don’t flinch. You don’t correct him. You don’t glance around to see if anyone notices because you don’t care. 

It’s normal.

-

He hadn’t said much on the flight back. Hadn’t looked at anyone after the race either. Not to the media, not the engineers, and not even the fans who were leaning over the barricade chanting his name like he hadn’t lost the entire race from a single lock-up.

You watched him in the garage, helmet on too long, gloves clenched in his lap like he didn’t trust his hands to open.

You waited. You always did.

Now it’s past midnight and the hotel is silent. You’re half-asleep when you hear it. A soft knock, barely audible. You lie still, unsure if you’re imagining it.

Then again.

Three quiet knocks.

You pull yourself out of bed slowly, dragging the blanket around your shoulders, padding barefoot to the door with sleep covered eyes.

You peep through the hole before unlocking it.

Open it. And Charles is there. Barefoot.

Sweatpants and a hoodie thrown on like he couldn’t care less what he looked like. His eyes are tired. Not the good kind. The kind of tired that lives behind the eyes.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. And you don’t ask why he’s here.

You step back wordlessly and let him in, closing the door behind him as he moves past you like he’s on autopilot.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Because the way he’s looking at you, his eyes heavy and rimmed with pain that he doesn’t let anyone else see, says everything.

He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s unsure if he should sit or speak or leave.

“I fucked it up,” he finally says, voice flat. “We had it all right. All of it. The pace, the tires. I fucking had-“ He stops mid sentence, his jaw locked so tight as if it hurts to talk.

“I saw,” Your voice is soft, soothing.

But he shakes his head once, harshly. “I don’t need you to tell me it wasn’t my fault.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

His eyes flick up then. Guarded. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head.

You cross the room toward him slowly, barefoot, the hotel blanket still draped around you like a gown, and stop just in front of him. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin, close enough to see the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Come here,” you whisper, barely louder than the rain outside.

He hesitates, for a mere second, but then he’s moving. Softly.

He steps into you and lets you fold your arms around him. Lets his forehead press into the skin of your shoulder, lets his hands settle on the dips of your waist that makes your chest ache, because for someone so fierce, Charles has always touched you like you’re something fragile.

You hold him. 

You feel his breath against your neck, feel the way his body is barely trembling beneath your arms.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur, your lips brushing the softness of his hair. “You can just be.”

He nods against your collarbone.

He just stays there, wrapped in your arms. You slide a hand into his hair, fingers combing through the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

Eventually, he shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy. “You’re the only place I don’t have to be anything,” He says quietly. “Just me.”

And even though it makes your heart ache, you just nod.

“You never need to be anything else.” You whisper. “Not with me.”

And when you pull him toward the bed, when he lies down with his face partially hidden in the crook of your neck, neither of you speak. You both lay in the silence. 

-

The mirror is fogged up. 

You’ve both been back for less than five minutes, barely kicked off your shoes, and he’s already standing in the middle of the hotel bathroom with his shirt half off, brows furrowed, rotating his shoulder like he’s pretending it doesn’t ache.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say from the doorway.

He glances toward you. “What thing?”

“That thing where you pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

He exhales. Stubborn. And looks away.

“You’re a shit liar,” You mutter, brushing past him to grab the icy-hot gel from the counter. “You’ve been favoring your other side since the second stint.”

He shrugs, or tries to at least. Winces instead. “Didn’t want to talk about it.”

You roll your eyes, flicking the cap off and motioning for him to sit on the closed toilet lid. “Sit.”

He does. He knows better than to argue with you…most of the time.

You lean over him and start working the gel into his shoulder with slow, careful fingers. You don’t even think about it. It’s not weird. It’s not intimate.

It’s Charles.

You’re draped in his hoodie. Oversized, soft from too many washes, sleeves falling over your hands, and your breath hitches as he leans forward so you can dig deeper into his muscle.

His skin is hot under your fingers. He groans quietly, head dropped forward, and you laugh.

“So dramatic.”

“It hurts,” he grumbles.

You press harder, just to make him squirm. And he does, a hiss through his teeth, and then he laughs.

Charles’s eyes are fixed on the floor.

You press your fingers into the tight knot just beside his collarbone, and it takes almost everything in him to not lean into you. Not to bury his face into your neck and tell you.

Tell you that your hands feel like home. Tell you that he can’t pretend anymore.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re just smiling at him like this is nothing.

Because when you finish, you wipe your hands against the nearby towel, and pat him gently on top of the head. “Good as new.”

You move past him, leaving the bathroom with a soft laugh. And he stays there. Seated. Motionless.

Hands gripping his knees like it’s the only thing keeping him from following you and pressing his mouth to yours.

-

The ballroom is gold. Actually gold.

Gold chandeliers, gold trim, light reflecting off champagne glasses and sequined gowns. The kind of place that exudes pretentious luxury. And you can’t help but think just how fucking ridiculous it all is.

You stand near the edge of the room, one hand curled loosely around a glass of wine, the other tucked into Charles’s arm.

You’re both surrounded by easy conversations and polite laughter. But none of it sticks. Because Charles can’t focus on any of it.

Not with you standing beside him like that. Not in that fucking dress.

He hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard, but the minute you stepped out of that car, it was like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

You in black. Hair pinned up. Shoulders bare. A tiny sliver of skin exposed at the base of your spine whenever you turned.

You’re laughing at something some journalist is saying, not performative, just a soft amused laugh as you bring your wine glass up to your lips.

Charles shifts closer. Not for the cameras. Not for the sponsors. But because he wants to. Because he wants, no needs, to feel your body against his just for a second longer, to press his fingers lightly against your skin in a way that says you’re here, you’re mine, even if you don’t know it.

You don’t move or flinch, you just lean into him with that subtle softness you always do. Like your body knows his.

And that’s what kills him. The ease. The naturalness.

Because this, whatever this is, has bled into nearly everything. This has crept up beneath the edges of what was supposed to be a casual lie, and now he can’t tell where pretending ends and begins.

Still he watches as another man approaches.

Someone older. Wealthy. Someone who looks at you like you’re not already standing beside someone, like you’re available.

Charles sees the way the man’s eyes skim the lines of your body, the curve of your mouth. He watches the moment that man reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and says something that makes you smile.

And in that exact moment, something sharp and awful coils low in his chest. Hot and unfair, and deeply fucking stupid.

Because he doesn’t have the right. Not actually, at least.

He’s allowed to touch you. Allowed to whisper in your ear. Allowed to look at you. But one thing he isn’t allowed to do, is want you like this.

-

He’d stepped away for barely fifteen minutes.

Just long enough to take a photo with some of the sponsors, shake hands, and exchange polite thank you’s. 

And when he came back, you were laughing. Not at him. Not with him.

Charles’s steps falter as he spots you across the room, standing near one of the tall round tables tucked near the corner, your wine glass cradled in both hands, your smile warm.

And beside you, someone unfamiliar.

Someone tall, in a tailored navy suit, hair too perfectly styled, hand resting on the table like he owns the conversation. Charles watches, as this stranger leans in, says something low near your ear, and you tilt your head back and laugh. That real laugh. The one that makes your nose crinkle.

He feels his stomach twist.

He tries not to show it. Tries to keep walking. Because this isn’t supposed to matter. It’s all pretend.

He doesn’t get to be jealous. 

But that doesn’t stop the voice in his head from seething when he watches the man’s eyes drop to your chest. When he see’s your smile linger just a little too long for his liking.

Charles can feel it in his chest. Tight and bitter. 

And when the man reaches out, whether it was innocent or not, it doesn’t matter. Because Charles is already crossing the room.

He doesn’t rush. No, that would draw attention. But his steps are purposeful and the space between you and him disappears quickly.

You see him first.

“Hey,” you say, easy. “You remember-“

Charles cuts in smoothly. His voice even, just loud enough to interrupt, like he isn’t burning from the inside out. He doesn’t even look at the man standing next to you. Only looks at you.

“They’re asking for us,” he says. “Need more photos or something with the sponsors.”

It’s a lie. And you don’t even need to ask to know.

You can tell by the way he says it. It slips from his mouth like a reflex. Like he didn’t need to think twice before pulling you away from someone else.

But it’s Charles. And you trust him.

So you nod. “Okay. Just give me a sec-”

You don’t even finish the sentence before his hand is at your back, firm and warm. Possessive. 

There’s a pressure to his touch that makes your spine straighten, makes the uncovered skin his fingers graze buzz. Like he’s reminding you, and anyone else watching, that this is his right.

He walks beside you, closer than normal, not speaking as he steers you away from the man.

You glance back over your shoulder, offering an apologetic smile to the man, but it wavers, just slightly, when you feel Charles’s hand tighten.

Not hard. Just enough. Enough to say don’t.

The twist in your chest is unexpected. And when you’re both finally out of an earshot, you nudge him lightly with your elbow. 

“Really?” You say, eyes meeting his. “Photos?”

You try to sound amused. Like it’s all some joke. Like nothing has changed.

But he doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he keeps walking. And you can’t help but notice just how tight his jaw is clenched. And when he finally glances back down at you, you forget how to breathe for a second.

Because there’s something in his gaze that doesn’t belong to the version of Charles you normally know.

It’s too real. Too unguarded.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” His voice quiet. 

You blink, lips parting. “Charles…”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes dropping to your lips for the briefest moment before he meets your eyes again. “I know I’m not supposed to care. I know what this is.”

He sighs, slow and quiet, as his fingers flex against your back.

“But you’re mine tonight,” He says.

And he doesn’t ask.

He’s warning. And that’s when you notice it for the first time. But you bottle it up, lock it tight, and push it into that imaginary little box of yours.

Because there is no way.

-

You’re sitting, more like slouching, on the bed in your gown, a half-empty bottle of champagne bottle still loosely gripped in your hand. Charles is slouched in the armchair across from you, suit jacket thrown somewhere in the room, white shirt rumpled, top buttons undone. His bowtie is still hanging around his neck…loose, forgotten.

The two of you are flushed. Fuzzy. Not wasted, but tipsy.

Tipsy enough to remember.

Drunk enough to stop pretending.

He gets up slowly, walking over to you with such ease, before dropping down beside you on the bed.

“You’re quiet,” he mutters, his voice edged by too much champagne and restraint.

You glance down at the bottle in your hand, then back up at him, giving him a faint smile. “So are you.”

He lets out a small laugh, almost a huff, “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, “Like what?”

His eyes fall to your mouth, linger, then look back at your eyes. “Like kiss you.”

The room tilts, just a little bit. You set the bottle down on the bedside table without taking your eyes off of him, fingers trembling slightly. 

And then, you reach for him. Instinctively.

You allow your fingers to curve into the loose knot of his bowtie still hanging on his neck, tugging it as you tilt your chin up. And when your eyes flicker to his again, you whisper, “Then don’t try so hard.”

And he kisses you like the fight is finally over.

His mouth crashes into yours like you’ve both run out of time to lie. It’s heat…pure, consuming, and real.

The kiss is deeper, messier, his lips hungry against yours, your bodies moving in an unspoken urgency from holding back too long.

His hands are everywhere, dragging along your waist, the back of your neck, your ribs, your spine, tugging you closer at any given moment.

You gasp when he pushes you flat to the mattress, hovering over you as he kisses down your throat, tongue flicking against the skin right below your jaw. His teeth dragging like he knows it will make you shiver. And it does.

“Tell me you want this,” His lips brush against your collarbone. “That you want me.”

“I want this. I want you.” 

And that’s all it takes.

He’s undoing the zipper of your dress with shaky fingers, his breath catching as more of your skin is revealed beneath the palm of his hands.

Your bra is gone before you even realize he’s unclasped the back of it, and when his mouth meets your nipple, tongue slow, you arch into him with a soft cry that turns his green eyes, black.

He’s on top of you, mouth crashing into yours again, one hand gripping your thigh and pulling it higher around his waist, the other guiding himself to your slick cunt, shuddering against your folds.

And when he finally presses into you, thick and slow, filling you in a way that makes your head fall back and moan, you swear you never want to stop this from happening again.

“Christ,” he grunts, forehead pressed to yours, trying to feel all of you. “Feel so good.”

You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there. “Then fuck me.”

And he does.

Harsh, deep, rhythmic thrusts that make the headboard creak and your breath escape in desperate, broken moans against his mouth. His pace is steady, hips snapping harder whenever your moans start to rise, when your nails claw into his back, when your thighs shake around him.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s more hunger, more like need. He kisses you like he can’t stand not being inside of you in every way.

“Fuck, you feel like you were made for me,” he groans. “Driving me insane.”

You whimper against him, tightening your arms against his neck. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

His pace doesn’t falter. His forehead presses to yours. “You’re all I think about,” he pants. “Every fucking night.”

You’re both close. And he knows it, because his mouth finds yours again in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. More claiming than comfort.

And when you come, crying his name out like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, he follows. His hips pounding as he groans into your shoulder, holding you so tightly like you’ll disappear if he didn’t.

-

You’re still in your headset, arms crossed tight over tour chest as Charles climbs out of the car, pulling off his gloves with that sharp, frustrated energy that always festers under his skin when things aren’t working out the way he wants them to.

He tosses the gloves onto the seat, runs a hand through his hair, damp with swear, and gives you a look thats more of a challenge than a greeting.

You glance down at your tablet, even though you’ve looked at the data a dozen times.

“I told you to take more margin in turn six,” you say, voice calm but tight.

Charles laughs. It’s low, humorless, and bitter. “You think I don’t know how to drive my own car?”

You lift your eyes slowly, and the look you give him is sharp. “I think you’re letting your ego get in the way of your brain. Again.”

His jaw tightens and he takes a step closer. Like he wants to rattle your bones.

“You want to talk about my ego?” He asks, words laced with a dangerous edge. “You’ve been walking around like nothing happened. Like I didn’t have my tongue on your skin a few nights ago, like I wasn’t buried deep inside of you while you whispered my name like it meant something. Like I mean something.”

You inhale sharply but don’t flinch. This can’t happen here. Not in the garage.

“And you’ve been walking around like it didn’t mean something.”

He pulls off the top half of his suit, tying it around his waist in jerky, clearly annoyed movements.

“You want me to pretend it didn’t happen?” His voice hoarse now. “Fine. But don’t stand here and act like I’m the only one who did this.”

You blink. 

“I can’t afford to lose you.” You whisper.

And he gets it. And he hates it. Because he knows you’re right.

“Yeah,” his voice is a low whisper. “I know.”

-

The lights are hot.

Not warm. Not pleasant. Hot. In the way that makes your skin feel too tight and causes your eyes to ache from squinting under the glare. 

You’re standing on your mark, back straight, hands at your sides.

Charles is standing right beside you. As always.

Exactly three inches away. At least you counted three.

It’s the closest you can stand without touching him, without the brushing of his arm, without creating that electric, dangerous feeling of his hand on your back, his voice in your ear, you’re mine tonight.

You’re both pretending that it didn’t happen. Neither of you have brought it up today.

Not since he texted you late last night, just one line saying sorry if I crossed a line.

Not since you replied with it’s fine, we were drinking and tired.

It’s not fine.

Now you’re standing under a harsh spotlight with your body angled slightly toward him like always.

You smile when the photographer tells you to. Charles does it too. And he’s good at it.

He turns to you mid-shot, leaning in as if he’s whispering something sweet and private for the camera. You feel the warmth of his breath against the skin of your ear, and you fight the way your heart jumps.

“Are we okay?”

It’s the first time he’s said anything that close to something real in a week.

You keep smiling. Because the sponsor is watching. Because the cameras are still click click clicking.

Because the woman facilitating this shoot looks like she might cry if you didn’t sell this fake love story just a little bit fucking harder.

So you tilt your face toward his, press your hand to the center of his chest, right over his heart…and you nod, like you’re agreeing with some romantic phrase he could’ve said.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “We’re okay.”

The room echoes with praise. “Beautiful, you two.”

Your ears are buzzing and you barely hear the next instruction. Something about posing closer. Hands on waists. More intimacy. 

Charles moves first. He steps forward and wraps his arm around your waist like it hasn’t been a week since he nearly broke you open with one quiet, possessive sentence. 

You place your hand on his chest again. Because thats where it belongs now.

Because this is what you’re good at.

Pretending.

-

The elevator is quiet. And not a comfortable kind. No, this is the kind that makes your tight throat and chest heavy.

The numbers tick upward, each one feeling like a warning.

Charles stands beside you, hands in his pockets, with his shoulders pulled tight. You can feel the tension in the way his foot taps against the floor.

You speak first, voice too light. “Long day, hm?”

It’s pathetic, really. You hate the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, small and weak.

Charles doesn’t look at you, but his jaw clenches.

“You didn’t even look at me once today,” he says, and its not an accusation.

You blink, startled by how hurt he sounds. You open your mouth to respond, but don’t get the chance. 

“You didn’t even laugh,” he looks down at his feet. “Not a real one.”

You glance at him, and he finally shifts to face you. And the look in his eyes makes your stomach turn. Because he doesn’t look angry. No, he looks tired. He looks vulnerable. 

“I didn’t mean to make things complicated,” he says, his voice barely above the sound of the elevator noises.

“It was a long week. We were tired. Drinking.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You lean against the wall, holding your hands in front of you tightly.

“The problem is I didn’t say enough,” he mutters. “I meant what I said. At the gala. In the hallway. In your bed.”

And you flinch.

Not because you don’t remember, but because you do.

Every breath. Every touch.

“Don’t.” You swallow hard.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this harder.”

He laughs, once. But it’s bitter. Hollow. “You think this is me making it hard?”

“We crossed a line.”

His eyes flicker, and his voice is so low when he speaks next.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I’ve been standing on it for weeks. Maybe longer. Only difference is I let myself believe I wasn’t alone on it.”

Your stomach is twisted in knots and he takes a step toward you. Not touching, but close enough.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it,” he says. “Tell me it was just sex. That it meant nothing to you.”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is there, dying to be let out. But you can’t.

So you remain still.

And when the elevator doors open on your floor, you step out with your stomach in your throat, your feet hitting the carpet with soft thuds.

You don’t look back.

But you hear it.

The sound of his hand catching the doors before they close, the sudden groan of the elevator stalling. And then, footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Angry.

You stop walking, but don’t turn around until he’s already there. His breath is quick and his jaw is locked tight.

“Are you really just gonna walk away?” He asks, his voice is sharp, but not loud. Not cruel. Just full of emotions he doesn’t know how to say calmly anymore.

You turn halfway, just enough to see the frustration etched on his face. His brows drawn tight, mouth tight, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t, he’ll just reach for you again.

“What do you want me to do, Charles?” Your voice is quiet. “Pretend that night didn’t happen? Or pretend it did, and it meant nothing?”

“I want you to stop pretending it didn’t mean everything,” he snaps, taking another step forward, closing the space between you both. “I want you to stop looking at me like I’m asking you for something that isn’t already yours.”

Your skin buzzes.

“I know you feel this,” his voice is shaking now. “Because I see the way you look at me. I feel the way you hold me. The way you whisper my name.. So…don’t stand here and pretend like it was just sex.”

You feel yourself begin to shake.

And all you can say is, “I can’t afford to need you.”

His eyes flicker, anger giving way to something hollow. “Too late,” he says. “You already do.”

And then he turns. Walks away. And leaves you standing there.

-

The garage is nearly empty. Just you and Charles, still in uniform. Like clockwork. 

The scent of oil and burnt rubber clings to the air while you sit, finishing up your notes. Or at least pretending to.

He’s leaning against the edge of the workbench, arms folded, gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Like he wants to say something. Like it’s burning him alive.

You feel it too. 

So, you set your tablet down. “Are you going to say something, or just keep staring at me?”

His jaw clenches. Then, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You look up at him. “And yet, you keep bringing it up.”

“Because you act like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing.”

You exhale slowly, “What do you want me to say, Charles?”

And he’s pushing off the bench, taking a few steps closer. “You’re angry because I meant it. And I’m angry that you’re still pretending you don’t feel this.”

Your pulse stutters and he’s close now. So close that you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

“Don’t do this again.” You say, quietly, like a whisper in the wind.

“Why?” He tilts his head slightly. “Because if I say it again, you’ll have to admit it’s real?”

He takes another step. “I think about you all the time. Touching you all the time. And not just when we’re in front of people. Especially when we’re alone. I wake up thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you when you’re not performing, when no one is watching, when it’s just us.”

Your hands tighten into fists.

“I want to hold you late in the night and tell you things I’m not allowed to say. I want to call you mine  and it actually be true.”

“And you think this is easy for me?” It’s the first time you’ve broken character.

He blinks, slightly shocked. Like he can’t believe he has you starting to talk.

“I go home at night smelling like you,” you whisper, like it hurts to say. “Wearing your clothes. Curling into bedsheets that still feel like your hands were on me only hours ago. And I pretend him fine.”

You look back up at him then, barely holding it together. He’s wide-eyed, not taking the risk to say one word, not when he finally has you speaking.

“I pretend I don’t notice how every part of me aches when you leave. That I don’t hear your voice even when you’re not around.” You swallow hard.

“I go through the motions. Tell myself that this is all fake, and it’s just something we signed up for. But then I catch you looking at me like that and it feels like my ribs might crack.”

His eyes are slightly glassy now. But you keep going, because there’s no going back from this. No way out of this, not with him being so persistent. Not when your emotions could swallow you whole if you hide them any longer.

“I come back to my room at night, wearing your hoodies, and pretend that it’s just because I’m cold and that they’re comfortable. I pretend I’m not holding it closer to me whenever I miss you.”

Silence.

“I love you. And it’s killing me, because every day I have to pretend that I don’t.”

“Say it again.” 

You blink. “What?”

“Please,” he begs. “Say it again. I didn’t think I’d ever hear it.”

Your throat tightens, but you do it anyways. “I love you.”

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against yours, shaking as he whispers, “I’ve been in love with you for so long that I forgot what it feels like not to be.”

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face toward his. And then he kisses you. 

Like it’s everything. 

Like he’s finally. Finally, fucking home.

[chillycherry44]

omfg the esteban fic was so funny for no reason 😭 could you maybe do smth like that with ollie? or maybe lando:3

your fics are too funny i love them all 😭🫶

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

Summary: Turns out the most avid Lando fanpage around is actually… Dating him?!

Warnings: Suggestive, not proofread that’s embarrassing

Featuring: Lando Norris x Reader

I decided to go with Lando because I don’t write him much and I love him, but if you’d like one with Ollie as well, just let me know!

lando

liked by lanfanln4 and others

lando nailed it in pic 10

tagged oscarpiastri, ashjbibby, mclaren, f1

—

lanfanln4 - I squealed when I saw the second slide

lanfanln4 - 👅👅👅👅

lanfanln4 - BROOO the screen is STICKY

lanfanln4 - Can I get you pregnant

lanfanln4 - I’ll make it work baby just one chance

username1 - Y/N has a lot to say

username2 - She’s certainly persistent, we can give her that

username3 - It’s lowkey annoying

> lanfanln4 - OH WHO IS YOU?!

lnfour - the knit pics I just posted slap

♥︎ by author

lnfournation - One day we’ll get here before Y/N

♥︎ by author

lanfanln4 - Keep trying

lanfanln4 - You. Me. Dinner. What u say?

♥︎ by author

lando - I don’t even know what you look like 🤔

> username4 - Oh God

lanfanln4

liked by username1 and others

lanfanln4 Well now you know :)

tagged lando

—

username5 - WOAH WAIT HEAR ME OUT

♥︎ by author

username6 - Hey gorgeous… Leans on expensive formula one car

lanfanln4 - Eww dni unless you’re Lando Norris

> username6 - I actually am him and also I’m 6’4 and a feminist so

♥︎ by author

username7 - You’re so pretty Y/N!

♥︎ by author

friend.user1 - Lucky man…

♥︎ by author

lando - So about that dinner date…

♥︎ by author

lanfanln4 - 😍😍😍

Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆

Y/N and Lando’s relationship was never inherently secret, it was just never announced to the public. If you scrolled back on her fan page, you’d see a lot of pictures she had posted of him. Fans had even encountered the two together before, but were too entranced by meeting their idol to realize how their hands were intertwined or how they were clearly walking away from a date.

It was somewhat convenient to not have a camera pointed in her face 24/7, and cheer on her boyfriend from the sidelines. They hadn’t even discussed making a statement about it, because they were comfortable where they were.

Tonight, though, their social batteries were low. That fancy dinner he promised turned into an agreement to order in pizza from a locally owned shop and watch a movie in sweatpants and hoodies. The night went from laughter about some random film they found for free to Lando’s soft snores as the TV autoplayed the next film on the list.

They fell asleep on the couch, limbs tangled up and chests rising and falling in sync.

lando

liked by lanfanln4 and others

lando sweatin for szn 7

tagged papsc1, ashjbibby

—

username8 - here before Y/N button 👉

lanfanln4 - NOO NO DELETE THIS NOW

lanfanln4 - WOOF WOOF

lanfanln4 - I can seriously bark

lnfour - last slide is me when I saw you dropped a new LandoLog

♥︎ by author

lanfanln4 - It’s all over the screen

username9 - Fans like you are seriously gross

> lanfanln4 - Good thing I’m not a fan, I’m his girlfriend

♥︎ by author

> username9 - Get a life 🙄

> username10 - He liked her comment, is this real?

lanfanln4

liked by mclaren and others

lanfanln4 - Helloo handsome! Photo credits : me 😎

tagged lando

—

username11 - This is getting kind of gross

username12 - Why are all Lando fangirls such weirdos

username13 - It’s not really that funny anymore

mclaren - Send us that first one! 🧡

♥︎ by author

lanfanln4 - yes momma mclaren

username10 - GUYS CALL ME CRAZY BUT I THINK THEY’RE DATING?

♥︎ by author

username14 - Okay. You’re crazy

Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆

lando

liked by lanfanln4 and others

lando she’s my girlfriend suckers!

tagged lanfanln4

—

lanfanln4 - HOTEL TRANSYLVANIA REF

♥︎ by author

lanfanln4 - HI HANDSOME

♥︎ by author

lanfanln4 - ILY!!

♥︎ by author

lando - Ily2 🤤

mclaren - One of our many paddock princesses!

♥︎ by author

oscarpiastri - Y/N reveal

♥︎ by author

lando - beautiful isn’t it

username10 - TOLD Y’ALL

lanfanln4 - day one supporter

♥︎ by author

username15 - really..? HER?

username16 - Y’all never have anything nice to say. She’s stunning

username17 - THIS IS SO FUNNY I LOVE Y/N

username6 - hello I am Lando that is my beautiful girlfriend

lanfanln4 - You’re funny I’m gonna follow you home

♥︎ by author

lando - I don’t remember saying this 🤔

[chillycherry44]

TROUBLE - LN4 part two

previous part

og summary : Trouble comes in many forms, for Lando Norris, it comes in the shape of his teammates sister. A week at Oscars brings more temptation and impulse than any other start to a season.

summary : A day that was supposedly for Lando and his sight seeing turns into a day full of holding back touches, fast car rides, water fights, and his hand on hers.

listen up : i don’t know anything abt cars so don’t come for me if i said smt wrong abt the mclaren F1. dirty jokes. dual pov! comment to be on taglist!

words : 4082

⋆｡‧˚⋆

lando

I wake up to hushed voices outside my door. I practically roll out of bed, seeing that it’s five in the morning and moving to the door, still half asleep.

When I open it, I expect it to be Oscar with Lily or maybe even Nicole- what I don’t expect is a random man I've never seen, grinning down at Y/n.

She has her arms crossed and stops whispering when she sees me. She steps away from him, the man turning to look at me now. Y/n doesn’t say anything, just grabs his arm and tugs him down the hallway.

I watch her go, her hair a mess and her body barely covered by her sleep set. I blink, still confused and honestly too nosy to not get answers.

She’s back a minute later, shaking her head, “Don’t say a thing.”

I shrug, watching her run her hands over her face, “I wouldn’t dare.”

Then we’re both quiet, neither of us moving and a smirk growing on my face. She gives in easily, stomping her foot and groaning quietly, “He’s my ex. And neighbor.”

“That’s… fun.”

“No. It’s idiotic!” She leans against the wall, frowning still, “You can’t tell anyone. Oscar would freak if he saw him.”

This makes me stand up straighter, “Why?”

“He may or may not have broken my heart… long story.” She sighs, closing her eyes before turning fully towards me again, “And we didn’t do anything!”

I smile, “I believe you.”

“He just- wanted to ‘talk’.” She puts finger quotes over the word ‘talk’. “I shouldn’t have let him in.”

My eyes narrow, not judging her, just assessing her emotions. “But you did…?”

She looks at me as if I slapped her, “Go back to sleep, Lando.” I don’t think she’s ever said my first name before. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Don’t worry-” My alarm goes off on my phone at the perfect moment, “I’m getting up to run, anyway.”

She nods, still looking tired but angsty, crossing her arms. I hesitated before saying, “Wanna come?”

I know I shouldn’t have said it the second she looks at me. Her eyes curious and way too distracting. “Really?”

“Why not?”

“Not like I'm gonna get any sleep after that.” She shivers as if she’s remembering the image of him in her room, “Okay. I’ll see you out front in ten.”

⋆༺

you

When accepting Lando’s offer to join him on his morning exercise, I forgot one thing.

I cannot run.

I’m out of breath and sweaty, falling onto the couch as Lando actually LAUGHS at me! “I think I'm dying.” I mumble, feeling like i’ve just ran a 10k.

“You don’t exercise much, do you?” He walks around the couch, a smoothie in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

I scoff, “Excuse you!” He hands me the water, something so simple but very sweet to me. I chug that shit, making my breath even more ragged, “Why would I!?”

He smiles, sitting down next to me and resting his arm on the back of the couch, “Well usually when you exercise, you tend to get better at specific things. If you start running everyday you won’t look like you’ve just crawled out hell-”

I hit him with a pillow, my skin on fire even in my tight shorts and sports bra. “Fuck you.” I whisper, standing up and walking into the kitchen so he doesn’t see me smile.

“Do you know what we’re doing today?” Lando looks back at me, watching me fill my water.

“Apparently I'm showing you around? I’m not sure.” I shrug, plopping a few ice cubes into my glass, “Lily and Oscar wanted to go to the beach so maybe that too-”

Oscar walks in then, his eyes tired as he yawns and waves weakly at me, “Speak of the devil.” I mumble as he glares at me.

“Good Morning to you my amazing and wonderful sister.” He grins at me, now I know he wants something.

“Pancakes?” I ask, knowing my brother too well.

“Favorite sister.” He ruffles my hair as I push him away. He turns and stops dead in his tracks. I realize that he must have just spotted Lando, the brit watching our sibling antics quietly.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, turning back to me and eyeing my outfit.

“We went for a run.” Lando says casually, bringing his straw to his lips.

“You got her up this early to… run?” Oscar asks skeptically as I understand that he’s not just shocked that I ran, but that I ran with Lando.

“I was already up.” I try to diffuse the tension I know is coming, “Trying to clear my find and stuff.” I pull the ingredients out of the cabinet and fridge, biting my tongue.

“Right…” Oscar shakes his head, seemingly letting it go and joining Lando on the couch. As Oscar scrolls through the TV, Lando glances back at me, not giving me a smile or anything before turning back to his teammate.

I turn to the stove, my eyes wide and cheeks red. This is going to be a long week.

⋆༺

lando

“What do you mean, you’re not coming?” I ask Oscar as he pushes past me to grab Lily’s bag.

“Lily just killed her foot-” He says, looking more worried than i’ve ever seen him, “I’m taking her to the hospital.”

Y/n walks in with Lily next to her, her hand around her waist as Lily’s arm is over her shoulder. She’s limping with a pained look on her face, “Shit. I can come- I’ll drive.”

“No it’s fine!” Lily says quickly, “I’ll be fine. You two can just go explore. You should have fun.”

Y/n looks from me to Oscar, “Lily we can come with you it’s really not a prob-”

“No!” She moves away from Y/n, hopping to Oscar who wraps his arm around her, “Just- send me pictures!” And with that, they’re gone.

Y/n looks at me, blinking. Nicole hurries back inside, shutting the door, “That boy I swear…”

“Mom, do you want to come with us today? Lily won’t be back for a while and you should-”

“I’ve gotta work, love.” She explains, “Take Lando to all the touristy spots!”

Y/n turns on her heels, looking at me skeptically, “So… what do you want to do first?”

⋆༺

you

What do you do when you’re tasked with exploring your home town with a man you’ve known for one day and are extremely attracted to?

In my mind, you take him to the best place for him to get as shirtless as possible… the beach! Even though my mom said that wasn’t good enough, I’ve been craving the water.

I still bring him there, how could I not!? Best beaches in Australia are right in my hometown. He’s probably all sad and broody from grey Britain anyway!

I know I already saw Lando shirtless yesterday, but this… this is different.

Tanned, wet, sandy, AND shirtless. His curls are wet and I'm pretty sure a smile is permanently drawn onto his face. He plops down next to me, music blasting from a speaker a couple people down.

“I love the sun.” He mumbles into the towel, sitting up and unknowingly flexing his arms. I breathe in and look back at the water.

“I can tell. I’m jealous. I wish I got as tan as you.” I flick sand onto him as he rolls onto his back. He’s in blue and reminds me a bit too much of prince eric.

“Yeah you might wanna sunscreen up.” He teases, pressing my arm as if I'm bright red! I do not burn that easily, thank you!

I scoff as he tosses the bottle at me, “Fuck off!” I grab it, “You wanna put it on me?” my manner changes in an instant, seeing an opportunity and taking it.

His tooth catches on his lip as he nods. I smile and hand him the bottle gently. Ah, men… So easy to manipulate. So easy to trick.

I move my hair from my back slowly, but the second I hear the bottle unlatch, I spin around and grab it, squeezing it onto him.

“Trouble!” He yells, the sunscreen on his chest and splattered onto his face. I’m running away before he can even open his eyes again. “Get back here!”

I run straight into the water, diving under the first wave and regretting it as soon as his hand meets my ankle. He tugs me back as I come back up for air, his hands fully white and coming straight for me. “No!” I scream, trying to swim away, but his hand is on my waist and smearing the sunblock all down my arm.

“Cunt!” I yell louder, shoving him under water. He pops back up, coughing and laughing.

“You’re so dramatic!” His hands are clean now, shaking out his wet curls onto me.

“You basically called me pale!” I argue, laying back in the water and catching my breath, “I reacted like a sane woman.”

“Nothing about you is sane.” He dunks his head again. I watch him go under and match him, not being able to see him in the salt water but feeling him there.

“You’re the one who fell for it.” I shrug, not forgetting the want in his eyes.

He shakes his head, sinking into the water again so I can only see his head and shoulders, “I’m understanding the trouble thing more and more...”

I can’t help but smirk, “Good thing you can handle it.” Him. The dim kitchen light. The ice cream. His fucking eyes never leaving mine.

“You want me to handle you?” This, surprises me.

He’s matching me quicker than I expected.

I just smile and swim to shore, “Come on, Norris! We’ve got plans!”

Like I said, my mom said the beach wasn’t enough ( even though it’s only his first day here! ) so we took Oscar’s Mclaren and booked it to Fitzroy market.

Lando said he likes shopping and my favorite place to do it is here! The area is crowded with people in way cooler outfits than me and vendors with tons of vintage items.

Lando and I are still in beach wear. He’s in all black, probably baking in the sun but looking ridiculous in a shirt with cutoff sleeves and backwards hat, a camera slung around his neck.

I gravitate to some vintage juicy couture while Lando is on the rack over looking at jerseys. The woman working the booth grins when she sees me. “Y/n! My girl!” She hops over to me, side stepping the others around, “How’ve you been!?”

“Mitch!” I grin right back at her, “Better than ever, babe, i’m out of school!” She laughs, her full head of curls bouncing with her. “How are you!? Business is booming, I see!”

“Amazing! Broke up with Jonah too…” She looks down, her glasses shading her eyes for a second before she pops right back up, “But fuck him!”

“Fuck him!” I join in.

“Yeah, Fuck him.” Says a deeper voice. Jonah comes walking up behind Mitch, wrapping an arm around her before she has the chance to push him away.

“Hey, J.” I roll my eyes at him, respecting his role in Mitch’s life but definitely not the way he dated her.

“Hey.” Mitch sways my arm, leaning in a bit and lowering her voice, “Who’s the hottie?”

I glance back to my companion for the day, he’s holding up a jacket at the booth over and talking to the guy who runs it. “That is Lando…” I turn back to them.

“Boy toy?” Jonah raises a brow as I shake my head.

Not yet.

“Boyfriend?” Mitch looks so shocked that It makes me laugh.

“No! Boy i’m showing around today.” I clarify, “And someone I should probably go after before he gets lost.”

Mitch and Jonah nod, both knowing the extreme confusion one can get into at the market. I kiss Mitch on the cheek and wave goodbye to both of them.

When I turn around, Lando is handing money over to the man and smiling when he sees me. There’s that smile again.

He swings the bag in his hand as we walk away, “You come here often?” The curly haired man glances back at my friends.

“Maybe too much.” I shrug, “Mostly because Mitch carries the best shit ever.”

“Oh yeah?” He nods, “I heard you two talking… what’s up with the tall one?” I laugh when he refers to Jonah.

“They’re… a lot. Soulmates? Maybe. But definitely not meant for eachother. You know? At least, not right now.”

He scrunches up his nose, “I don’t know.”

“They love each other and stuff but Jonah needs to get his life together. All we can do is help Mitch get over him and pray that we don’t end up like them.” It sounds mean, but the two really are in a situation that I would hate.

“Shit.” He nods as we turn into a booth with a million shoes, “I had something like that once.”

This makes me turn to him suddenly, “Yeah?”

“Without the soulmates part… I think I may have been Jonah in that situation. Thank fuck it’s over, though. The girl was not as nice as Mitch.” I nod and smile at his use of my friends love life, “What do you think of these?”

The conversation switches to a horrendous pair of sneakers he’s holding up, “Oh babe… no.” I make him put them back and drag him to the correct section.

He’s like my own barbie doll! One that can talk and definitely bite back.

I knew I would lose Lando in this godforsaken place! I’m in too deep and have three bags in my hands.

I walk around to find him, possibly getting distracted by all the pretty things, but settling my eyes on him once again at a plant shop.

He’s in the corner talking to two girls and a guy, looking a bit shy and way too hot in his backwards cap. I watch him for a second, weaving through the people and walking across some shops.

He finds me pretty fast, it’s probably due to the all white i’m wearing in a sea of colorful button downs and denim. I can see him excusing himself and hurrying over to me, “You left me.”

I laugh, “I lost you!”

He shakes his head and starts walking away, “Sorry prissy, I forgot I'm babysitting you.”

He shakes his head, smiling back at me, “I got cornered by fans.”

“Better than me being there and having rumors spread on twitter of your ‘possible new girl’.” I laugh and walk out of the crowd, the sun hot on us and making me crave a cool drink.

He laughs at this, “You wish.”

I scoff, turning back to face him, “I can leave your ass in the middle of melbourne, you know?” I hold up the keys to my brothers car as he steps closer.

“I dare you.” He says, “I guarantee if you got into that car alone you’d be in a wall in five seconds flat.”

I swat the keys at him, “I’m a great driver!”

“Not in that.” He shakes his head, “Has Oscar ever actually let you driven it?”

I bite my lip, not answering.

His eyes flick down to my lips, then back up at my eyes, “Come on then.” He snatches the keys right out of my hand!

“Norris!” I yell, hurrying after him and across the street as he walks faster, “Hey!”

I catch up to him on the other side, he’s still swinging the keys around his finger with a grin on his face, “Where’s the most open, empty road you know?”

I raise a brow and follow him into the parking structure, “Why…?”

Our car is easy to spot, he walks over to it, and to my surprise, finds his way to the passengers side. Looking at me over the expensive car, he tosses me the keys, “We’re gonna hit two hundred in this thing and I want to make sure there’s no bystanders in the car of your havoc.”

He slides into the car, making me squeal and swing the door open quickly, sliding into the way far back driver's seat and turning the keys into the ignition.

He sees my eyes light up as I adjust the seat, “You ever kart as a kid?”

“A bit. Got kicked out a few times.”

“Why…?”

I eye him and click my seatbelt into place, “Too fast, too reckless…”

He shakes his head and mumbles a curse under his breath before tightening his seatbelt. “Don’t make me regret this.”

⋆༺

lando

I was right. Oscar has never let her drive his Mclaren before, and for good reason.

She can’t drive stick shift, first of all. But I only let her briefly panic before I grab a hold of the stick and tell her to go slow.

She does not go slow. Tate Mcrae is blasting through the speakers as she speeds up the empty street with the windows rolled down. The street is right next to the beach and I can see the sun about to go down.

Y/n break checks me and makes me hold on tighter. My arm is around the back of her seat so I can control the stick shift with my dominant hand. She’s laughing and going faster and faster by the second.

It doesn’t take her long before she gets the hang of it but I still hang onto the stick as she sings along to Sports Car.

I’m not stupid, I know her little games and yes, they might be working, but I will not be giving in. This week is supposed to be relaxing, recuperating, and definitely NOT romantic.

Although, the track that Y/n and I are heading is definitely not romantic. More on the side of we both want each other in a hot sexy way.

Her hair whips all around us as she turns the corner, making her way higher up the hill. I’m now realizing that the hill is more of a mountain, the street getting smaller and the trees growing farther away.

I watch her speedometer as it inches higher and higher, her smile growing bigger as it goes, “Christ, are all Piastri’s this quick?”

She laughs out loud, “Next time you compliment me try not to include my brother in it too!”

I can’t help but let out a laugh, staring at her profile as the landscape zips by us. Her cheeks are pink from the sun and I bet if I put my hand to her neck i’d be able to feel her heart racing.

I shouldn’t be thinking this. I know I shouldn’t. But my eyes wander too easily down her smooth skin, her bikini top untied with the strings hanging over her thin top like it’s nothing.

I drag my eyes off her tits and back on the road, knowing I'm in too deep for someone I just met. We slow down as we reach the top, or at least, where she thinks is close enough.

She practically jumps out of the car, running over to a small patch of flat land and a bench that overlooks the water.

“Holy shit.” I walk slowly behind her, looking out at the view and watching her figure jump up and down. I grab my camera that I forgot is around my neck and snap a photo.

She looks back at the perfect moment, her face shadowed and her hair a mess around her, but it just… fits.

I sit on the bench as she sets her ass down on the back of it, her feet tapping the wood next to me.

“So. Your first full day in Melbourne! Thoughts?”

I smile, “I’ve been here before.”

She groans, “Not with me. Was I a good tour guide?”

I nod, “The best.” We didn’t do a whole lot but that’s the best part. Y/n is completely fun but totally chill at the same time.

My phone lights up, it’s a text from Oscar.

“Osc says that Lily is Ok and they’ve been chilling at the house for a while. He’s asking where we are.” I look up at the girl whose eyes are set on the pink and orange sky.

“Tell him we’re making out sloppy style in his car.”

The only change in her behavior is a tiny tug on her mouth, “Trouble…” I mumble and text him that we’re watching the sunset and will be back soon.

“I’m only voicing what we both want.” Jesus Christ, this girl… I’m rarely speechless, especially after a comment like that. But this girl is insanely captivating and I've never wanted to give in more.

I’m struck again at how beautiful she is, the sky reflecting off her as if she’s a part of the earth.

“Nervous, Norris?” Her head dips down to my level.

“We should get back.” I say, leaning my head back on the wood.

“Cop out.” she whispers before hopping off the bench and moving back to the drivers side.

“Woah! You are not driving back.”

“Try and stop me.”

⋆༺

you

I can’t drive stick. I wasn’t lying about that. Although now that I think about it, it would be a great way to get closer to a man.

Lando’s hand is over mine the whole way back. I insisted I could do it (or at least try!) but he guided my every move anyway. Hot. As. Fuck. I try to watch the road and not his huge veiny hands on mine, but mostly fail.

We’re split up after another quick dinner. I talk to Lily about her new addition to her shoe collection (a black boot semi-permanently on her foot as of today), while Lando, Oscar, and my Mom talk about the movie they’re watching.

I’m in my bed a while later, the lights still on in the hallway and Lando’s door hasn’t creaked shut yet so I know he’s not there.

My mom had thanked me immensely for showing Lando around and Oscar gave me a small thanks while looking at me funny. I don’t think he trusts me with his friend, especially with my past and a certain neighbor.

And sure, I want him to trust me! But I want Lando more.

I’m so zoned out that I don’t notice the man in my doorway, knocking on my open door with a tired smile on his face.

Lando has one hand in his pocket, looking sunkissed and content. “Hey.” I sit up, crossing my feet under me.

“Hi.” He smiles as if he’s about to blush, “I just wanted to say… Thanks for today. It was really fun.”

“I didn’t scare you too bad in the car?” I ask as his head meets my door, his neck straining against it.

“You weren’t too bad. Definitely got my adrenaline pumping.”

“Just say I'm an amazingly fast driver and move on.” I shrug, leaning back on my hands and puffing my chest out proudly.

He watches me- watches my body. I don’t have a bra on, something obvious in the cool space of our air conditioned house. I’m wearing a new set, light yellow with lacy little shorts. He likes it and I can tell.

He groans, running a hand down his face and shutting his eyes tight. “Your brother is gonna hate me by the end of this trip.”

I quirk a brow, playing the innocence card as I push a rogue strand of hair out of my face, “Why’s that?”

He looks at me again, his tongue running over his teeth as he challenges me. I want him, that’s the truth. But i’m not that easy.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, trouble.” he pushes off the door, turning around and not looking back.

“Dream about me. But don’t be too loud tonight, yeah?” I tease, “Thin walls. I learned that the hard way.” I emphasize ‘hard’ never missing an opportunity to tell a joke.

He throws up one hand, the other still on his face as he walks out of my room and turns to go to his. I smile to myself, standing up and shutting the door he was too busy to remember.

[chillycherry44]

Too sweet for me

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Oscar x reader to celebrate his birthday, it's based on the song: Too sweet – Hozier :)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

Monaco had always made her feel like a ghost—gliding between marble walls and clinking glasses, invisible in a city where the loudest ones always won. But this year, it felt different. This year, Oscar Piastri wouldn’t stop looking at her.

He had that soft kind of charm she never trusted. Polite to the waiters, thoughtful with his words, always offering help like the world hadn't hardened him yet. Like he hadn’t learned that people will take every ounce of kindness and leave you with nothing but a bitter taste in your mouth.

She noticed him the second he stepped into the party—neatly dressed, curls slightly tousled, smiling like he still believed good things came to good people. Rookie. And not just in Formula 1.

She lit a cigarette she wouldn’t finish and leaned back against the balcony, letting the smoke curl between them like a warning sign.

He walked up to her like he didn’t know better.

“Hi,” he said, unsure but holding her gaze. “I’m Oscar.”

“I know who you are,” she replied coolly, not even looking at him. “You’re the one who keeps staring.”

He chuckled, cheeks flushing. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything.”

That should’ve sent him away. It always did.

But Oscar wasn’t like the others. He didn’t flinch at sharp words. He leaned into them, curious. Like a boy poking at a sleeping dog, wondering if it would bite.

And maybe that’s why she bit.

“Don’t waste your time,” she said, crushing the cigarette against the railing. “You’re too sweet for me.”

He tilted his head. “What does that mean?”

“It means I drink my whiskey neat, my coffee black, and I don’t make space in my bed until three in the morning, if at all. You? You probably still say thank you to airport security.”

He laughed. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It is when you’re trying to chase someone like me.”

He didn’t stop. Not in Monaco, not in Italy, not in Singapore when they ended up in the same hotel bar and he sat beside her without asking.

“You never smile,” he said, sipping something non-alcoholic like a sin. “Do you even like racing?”

“I like the solitude,” she answered. “The silence in the helmet. The hum of the engine at night when no one’s watching. Everything else is noise.”

He nodded, thoughtful, then asked, “Do you ever let anyone in?”

She looked at him, really looked. His eyes were a little too soft for the paddock. He was the kind of person who still believed in slow mornings and shared milkshakes and people keeping their promises.

And somehow, he was the only one she’d let sit next to her this long.

“Why are you here, Oscar?”

“I like the way you talk,” he admitted. “You’re... real.”

She laughed, once—dry and humorless. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but I want to.”

He showed up at her door in Austin with a coffee. Black, no sugar.

“I remembered,” he said, grinning.

She took it, sipping cautiously. “You’re persistent.”

“You’re worth it.”

Those words clung to her like smoke—uninvited, intoxicating, dangerous. Because maybe, deep down, she’d started to wait for him too. Started to notice when he wasn’t there. Wondered what it meant that someone so light wanted to step into her shadows willingly.

But the truth always came back to her around 3 a.m., when the world was quiet, and the whiskey hit just right—she didn’t know how to love gently. She didn’t know how to hold something without breaking it.

The night it almost happened, they were in her apartment in London. Rain on the windows, vinyl playing softly in the background. He was sitting on her couch, shoeless, relaxed. Too at home.

She stood by the kitchen, drink in hand, trying to find a reason not to cross the room and ruin him.

“You’re not scared of me,” she said, more to herself than him.

“I don’t think there’s anything scary about you.”

“That’s the problem,” she whispered.

He looked at her, his expression open, patient. “You don’t have to be anything for me, you know. Not softer, not sweeter. Just... you.”

She closed her eyes. It would’ve been easier if he were like the others. If he wanted to tame her, or change her. If he wanted to conquer her instead of understand her.

But he didn’t.

And she still couldn’t let him in.

“I’m not the sunrise kind,” she said, voice cracking. “I’m the 3 a.m. storm. The bonfire you shouldn’t stand too close to. I’ll leave you smelling like smoke and regretting everything.”

He stood, walked over, close enough to touch. But he didn’t. He waited.

“I don’t regret anything,” he said softly.

“I do,” she replied, stepping back.

He nodded. And that time, he really did leave.

She saw him on the podium weeks later, champagne dripping from his curls, eyes scanning the crowd like he hoped she’d be there.

She was. Hidden in the back. Hands in her coat pockets. Watching.

And maybe one day she’d change. Maybe one day, she’d figure out how to let something sweet stay without souring it.

But for now, she still took her whiskey neat, her coffee black, and her bed at three.

And Oscar Piastri—he was still too sweet for her.

[chillycherry44]

Top tier🙂‍↕️🤩🤩🤩

greed ☆ op81

genre: smut, affair, erotic literature, angst, forbidden romance, enemies to "lovers", a bit angst/yearning, established relationships, voyeurism

word count: 16.4k

greed (noun) — intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...pwp, unprotected sex, missionary, riding, fingering, f!receiving, deep throat, m!receiving, finger sucking

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh]

cherry here!...had fun writing this one teheee. it's a long one, so definitely take breaks in between and enjoy. missed you guys!

Twirling your tongue around the bright pink straw, you blink blankly, quietly taking in the conversation that occurs in front of you. You should probably talk a bit, you remember thinking. Smile, at least, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to lie—you didn't want to be here.  

“I thought you hated pineapple?” 

Turning, you shrug half-heartedly over at Lando. “It makes my mouth itch,” you mumble, not enjoying a single sip of the smoothie. Well, except for the whipped cream. Taking a lick, your eyes stay connected onto his blue ones as he shakes his head. 

“Don’t drink it, then,” he tries, but you simply turn a blind eye, facing the complete opposite direction. From where you're sitting, you spot a group of kids playing jump rope. Even when one of them falls with a loud splat and starts to cry, you continue to stare.

“Oh no,” a soft voice gasps.  As soon as you hear it, you grind your teeth, hearing a slight crack immediately. “Poor baby.”

You like to think of yourself as an even person. Everyone who enters your life deserves a fair chance. You’ll get to know them—befriend them, perhaps—and if it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out, but no one can say you never tried.

But oh, how you hated Lily Zneimer.

The worst part of all is that there isn’t really a single reason for your sudden distaste towards her. On paper, you two should be the best of friends, but the one thing holding you back is sitting right in front of you.

Oscar clicks his tongue, a nice tick coming through as his sharp brows raise with surprise as he watches the scene unfold. He, too, sort of remains as stoic as you, but the one difference is that he has a bit more empathy. You lack a lot of that, you’ll be the first to admit. 

The cries continue, the young boy's parents suddenly alert by now as they run towards their child. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he says, squinting his eyes due to the bright sun. “It builds character.”

“Getting hurt?” Lily asks, frowning as she gently shoves his shoulder. “You really do have a heart made of ice.”

This gets a snicker out of your boyfriend, making you sigh, instantly checking out, but Lando is as happy as can be. While he enjoys the moment, you lack interest in it, and if it weren’t for the fact that the Australian was the one that invited you both out for drinks, then you would have happily been tucked away in bed. Make good use of the hotel perks and whatnot. 

The brown eyed driver swings a hand behind his girlfriend's chair, playfully tugging her hair, making her blush and making you recoil with disgust. Not that you ever show it, but you definitely feel it. “Maybe I do, but only you can make it melt.”

That’s enough to call it a day. Standing abruptly, the chair squeaks against the pavement as you share a tight lipped smile. All at once, their eyes look up at you as you force a yawn. “I think I’m going to head up now. Thanks for the invite,” you say. 

Lily pouts subtly, blue eyes round and hazy. “So soon? It’s still early.”

You nod, sparing her small smile, but deep within, the sound of her sweet voice begins to irritate you to the point you think you might snap. “The sun’s got me tired. I just need to lay down a bit.” Leaning forward, you peck Lando’s cheek, warm and sandy. “But I'll see you later, yeah?” 

“Sure,” she squeaks, waving numbly as they watch you walk away—practically fleeting, really. Humming sadly, the British girl looks down onto her lap, toying with her bracelets. “I don’t think she likes me much,” she mutters, wincing sheepishly. 

Oscar frowns. “That’s not true…”

Lando frantically nods, feeling bad for Lily and her first encounter with you being a total bust. Come to think of it, ever since the blue eyed girl has been around, you’ve been quite distant. “She hasn’t been sleeping well.” Lie. “She just needs to recharge, that’s all.”

-

You end up spending the next few days locked up in yours and Lando’s room. You avoid the paddock at all costs because you’re really not in the mood to see anyone—especially her. The British driver tried his best to get you out from these four walls, but gave up shortly after you blamed it on a migraine. You haven’t had one of those in years, but he learns to respect your decision. You do promise to be there for his race, though.

And as expected, you see her. Sat perfectly with her legs crossed, the young girl beams, motioning for you to join her on the open chair. At first you act like you don’t see her, preferring to stay standing for the next few hours rather than being pushed up next to her, but when she calls your name, you curse beneath your breath before making your way. 

“Hey,” you cheer, hugging her briefly before taking a seat. 

A giggle. “Hey. I heard you’ve been feeling a bit under the weather.”

“Huh?”

Lily blinks. “Lando said—”

In one quick motion, you click your fingers, nodding along. Right—Lando had lied on your behalf. It completely slipped your mind. Letting out a muffled groan, you wince theatrically, hoping she buys it. She does, worry quickly taking over her gentle gaze. “I have, yeah, I have.” Cheer’s erupt as the camera pans over to the fan zone, then back to the drivers that line up for the National Anthem. “But I'm much better now!”

Her concern slowly melts away as she smiles. “That’s good to hear.”

You would have not traveled with Lando to this week's race if you had known she would be here. Usually, she’s not, but you almost feel as if you know everything about her from how much Oscar talks about her. It gets exhausting hearing the same stories being told over and over again, as if she was the best thing to come around. Was it really that hard to just not bring her up?

But alas, you are here, and so is she. 

It feels like an eternity slowly goes by, so you’re quick to dart out the garage as you make your way towards the podium. The good thing is that she doesn’t need to because Oscar secured a lucky fourth place. Close, but not close enough. 

Running towards you after a round of media, Lando pecks your lips. He smells like a mix of champagne and sweat, not a completely unpleasant scent. He wiggles his brows. “Proud?”

You grin, eyes crinkling just the same as his. “Super.” Another kiss. “You were great out there.”

A subtle shade of red burns his nose as he smiles widely, pulling you towards the direction of McLaren Hospitality, leaving you to follow him as you admire the way everyone looks at him the same way you do. 

You like that he’s a winner. You like that you’re dating the winner. And that’s why you admire him, because he gives you the right to brag about him by simply being his girlfriend. The kind everyone wishes to be. Entering the familiar orange motorhome, you two are caught at a stop as soon as Zak calls out for Lando who turns curiously. 

“My man!” he cheers, making you take a step back and letting them have their moment. You listen for the first few minutes, but when it looks like the congratulatory might run deep, you claim a seat on the nearby sofa, scrolling through your phone to kill time. At some point, you look up to see them bid goodbye, sighing tiredly as you make your way up. Zak grins from ear to ear, pointing at you with nothing but radiant energy. “See you there!”

With that, he walks away, leaving you two alone once again. Raising a sharp brow, you tap Lando’s shoulder with confusion. “What does he mean by that?”

“He’s rented a yacht for the team to celebrate today's win,” he explains, guiding you towards the privacy of his room with a large hand on your lower back. “You know him—he likes to go all out.”

You hum, still walking up in front of him. “I figured you would want to go clubbing…”

There’s a cloudy sigh behind you as he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I mean, yeah, I do, but we should probably skip that and do this instead.” Reaching to twist the knob, you pause, turning to face him with a surprised expression. “What?”

“Nothing,” you respond, shaking your head. “Look at you maturing. You see, my Lando would have never preferred a classy yacht party instead of a trashy club.” 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’ve changed.”

“Right,” you tease, finally opening the door, but as soon as you do, the room next to you squeaks, indicating someone exiting. Oscar and Lily come to a halt as soon as they spot you both. Your lips open in the smallest of gaps as they smile politely. 

“Congratulations,” the British girl is the first to break the silence as she goes in for a quick side hug, one that Lando accepts without missing a beat. “You must be over the moon.”

“I am,” your boyfriend lets out, still not used to the feeling of being first. A beat. “Hey, did Zak mention anything about—”

“The yacht party?” Oscar fills in with a loopy grin. Lando snickers, nodding at his guess. He shakes his head. “Yeah, but we can’t. I have to drive Lily to the airport.”

Intrigued by the fact, your brows dart up. “Ah, no way—you’re leaving already?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling tiredly. “I have a few tests lined up for next week, and I can’t miss them.”

“Shame,” you hum, but the relief of not having her around anymore makes you feel a thousand times lighter. “I was going to suggest grabbing dinner next week…”

“Really?” Lando and Lily question in sync, both equally as surprised as one another. On the flipside, Oscar stands with an unrecognizable expression, making you avoid even looking at him because something about it somehow convinces you that he can see right past your lie.

Coughing awkwardly, you bob your head, catching the glimmer in her blue eyes as she holds her breath, almost. Something about it makes you feel bad, but just for a split second. “Yes, really, but it looks like we got a bit unlucky.”

Swiftly, Lily turns to face Oscar with a helpless expression, as if pleading for aid, but for him it was an easy decision. “You can’t skip out on exams,” he whispers lowly, but still clear enough for you to hear. “You know that.”

And sure—she does—but ever since she got here, she’s felt so out of place. Not with the team, not with two McLaren drivers as a duo, but rather with you. And now this? Any opportunity to have you as a friend is as good as gold in her eyes.

And to be quite honest, you didn’t expect for someone as truthful as Lily to lie to their professor in a lengthy email, claiming to be severely down with the flu in order to stay a couple extra days and catch that unpromising dinner you had made up as some way to get her to think you’d miss not having her around. This was your reality and you just had to deal with it.

But Oscar? 

Watching you carefully as you hug Lily back when she leaps with excitement into your arms, he squints with subtle suspicion in your character. Something in your rigidness and mannequin smile makes him want to pull the British girl away from you, feeling the need to protect his girlfriend's innocence. 

Smiling softly over her shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, making your stomach churn. His eyes remain on you for a second longer before sharing a smile of his own.

Yup, you think to yourself. 

He knows.

_

A week goes by at a snail's place. 

The four of you fly together to the next continent with nothing but fake enthusiasm. Well, fake from you, and unbeknownst, fake from Oscar, too.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t trust you completely. In hindsight, you haven’t done anything wrong, but everytime you and Lily are together—which is most of the week—it feels like you have. Maybe it had something to do with the sinister glares you’d send her way when you thought no one was looking, or the fact that you’d have to take a heavy breath in preparation every time she’d greet you with a warm hug. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was seeing something that wasn’t there, but that doesn’t mean he’d be at ease for the rest of the week. 

Hence, dinner. 

You find yourself forced to make a reservation at one of the fanciest cuisine restaurants close to where you’re staying and that itself was annoying. You shouldn’t be doing any of this—she shouldn’t even be here.

Smiling gingerly, the British girl let out a small giggle at some joke Lando made. By the looks of it, it’s pretty funny, so you numbly follow her lead, though you have yet to know what it was. “You must be laughing all the time,” Lily notes, blue eyes focused on you with wonder. You hum, pursing your lips with uncertainty. She giggles harder. “Well because of how funny he is.”

Lando claps once, making you flinch in return. “Thank you! It’s about damn time someone appreciates my humor.”

“I do appreciate it,” you defend, slowly losing your patience. Licking your lips, you look back towards Lily who remains with a smile. “Don’t listen to him, he just likes the attention.”

“That I can agree on,” Oscar adds, cracking a grin of his own. Suddenly, you’re all into the discussion. The Australian sneers childishly. “You can’t seem to live a single moment without making things about yourself.”

“Oscar,” Lily warns, faint pink painting her pale skin. “Be nice.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Lando says, waving her off like it’s no big deal—which it’s not. He leans back against his chair, flipping his teammate off who scoffs lightheartedly. “This is how we talk. Right, Osc?”

“Right.”

Somewhere in between dessert, while you’re in the middle of licking your spoon clean, the invitation that came to ruin your life, comes up. Lily clears her throat nervously, suddenly worried by the thought of you turning her down. “I was meaning to ask…” Puzzled, you keep your eyes on her, awaiting her next words. She shrugs sheepishly. “Well, I graduate this summer, and Oscar is throwing me a party up in North Carolina…” She trails off, gathering her words. “I was wondering if you two would like to come?”

“Oh,” Lando's voice comes through like a muffle, mouth full of cheesecake. He swallows, blue eyes flickering between the couple and his girlfriend who remains with a blank expression, metal spoon still in place. “I mean—yeah. Right?”

Unfreezing, you place the utensil down onto your plate, smiling weakly. “Uh…yeah.” Lily grins, letting out a breath of relief, making Oscar frown over the realization that your response mattered so much to her. You nod robotically. “Sure, why not?”

“Great!” Lily cheers, beaming like a kid on Christmas Day. “And don’t worry about spending on a hotel—we’ve got you covered.”

You blink, bewildered. “You do?” 

She nods. “Of course, we do! You’re our guests, you’ll be staying with us.”

Your boyfriend smiles faintly. “That’s kind of you, but it’s really no problem. We wouldn’t want to overcrowd.”

“Nonsense,” the Australian speaks up, shaking his head, brown strands of hair swinging in the slightest. “We have plenty of room. All of our family and friends are already staying in the hotel nearby—it’d be nice to have a bit of company.” His eyes soften, making your heart beat a little faster. “What do you say?”

It feels like he’s looking directly at you—chocolate orbs as sweet as can be. As if nothing else exists in this moment if it’s not you or him. But in reality, his attention is focused on your boyfriend, awaiting his response.

Not yours.

Flustered, you poke Lando’s leg beneath the table, hoping he takes the hint. Blue eyes flicker towards your direction for a millisecond before returning with a nod. “Looks like you have two roomies.”

Lily squeals, smiling brightly as Oscar’s lips remain in a thin line, his version of a smile. 

And if he could turn back time…

He really fucking would.

-

Once the season ends, everyone is on a high. Lando for coming in second in the Driver’s Championship and for bringing in the Constructors Championship for the first time in years, and Oscar for the latter. Regardless, it was an outstanding season for the two of them. 

You and the Brit end up flying in a few days later due to going back home to pack a few more necessities, but once you’ve got that all figured out, you find yourselves in the middle of a heatstroke, making you second guess all your life's choices all at once. 

“It feels as if my skin’s melting off,” you groan, fanning yourself with the roadmap, because as it came, satellites are utter shit when it comes to where you’re staying. Lando tries to convince you that having no internet for a few weeks isn’t all that bad, but as soon as a twenty minute drive turns into a one hour drive due to getting lost without the guidance of a GPS, he regrets his words. You roll your eyes, narrating as he finally pulls up to the driveway of what appears to be the best looking house in all of North Carolina. 

He whistles. “If it weren’t so hot during the summer, I’d definitely move here.”

Scoffing, you exit the car rental, looking up at the navy blue house where green ivy hangs. “We are not moving here. I’d rather die.”

“Fair,” he mumbles as he makes his way towards the front door, you right on his heels. Swinging the door open, you two are instantly hit with the fresh gust of air. “Thank God,” Lando moans, loving the fact that the AC is the only thing preventing him from fainting. 

Pushing him in, you make sure to close the door behind you as you shut your eyes with sweet relief. Somewhere towards the end of the hall, you hear shoes squeak against the wooden tiles. Lily waves, hair up in a similar ponytail as yours, as she smiles as warm as the weather that nearly cost you your life. “You made it!”

“We sure did,” you respond, gritting your teeth in order to prevent yourself from letting out some snarky remark. Not that she deserves it, of course she doesn’t, but you couldn’t help it. Pointing back towards the wooden door, you wince apologetically. “Sorry to barge in. Someone didn’t bother knocking.”

Lando makes a face, then turns to the blue eyed girl with a playful smile. “You don’t mind, do you, Lily?”

She shakes her head, pursuing her lips with delight. “Not at all. We left it open knowing you two would show up. We’ve been fixing the guest bedroom for the past hour and we didn’t want to run the risk of not hearing you knock, so…I guess it all worked out just fine.”

“See? Lily says it worked out just fine,” your boyfriend says smugly as you roll your eyes, not at all impressed with his sudden cockines. “Where is Oscar, by the way?”

Lily signals upstairs, then blushes. “Do you mind helping me grab a few things from the car, Lando?” A shy chuckle. “It’s just we went out for some party essentials last night, but we were too tired to bring them in, and the box is too heavy, and Oscar is pretty busy, and I’d hate to bother him, and—”

“Sure,” Lando cuts off her rambling. “That way I can grab our suitcases, too.”

“Fantastic,” she hoots, dusting her hands against her shorts as she grabs a set of car keys from the kitchen table. Turning to you, she grimaces. “Do you mind checking up on Oscar?”

Your plump lips part, a line of dehydration hung upon them. “I would, but I should help Lando—”

“It’s okay,” your boyfriend fills in. “I’ve got it all under control.”

Lily pleads silently, brows drawn in together. “You’d really be doing me a favor. It’s just that he was in the middle of fixing the duvet and he tends to run out of patience if he doesn’t get it right away.” A chuckle. “Please?”

Which is how you find yourself in a room, alone with the one person you probably shouldn’t be alone with, but find yourself wishing that were always the case. Alone with one another, that is. Gently knocking on the already open door feels like the right thing to do, so you do just that. Alerted by the sound, the Australian’s head jerks up, brown eyes caught against yours.

You tilt your head slightly, like some greet. “Lily sent me,” you find yourself explaining as he sighs, resting on the unmade bed. Leaning against the doorframe, you bite the inside of your cheek, not knowing what to say next.

He huffs. “Of course she did.” A snort. “Sorry your room still isn’t ready. It's just that, I, uh…can't seem to get this right,” he admits, shyly scratching the back of his neck as he motions towards the unmade mess. “Lily always helps, but she’s a bit busy right now, and I'd hate to bother her, and—”

“I can help.”

A pause, then: “Oh, don't worry, you don't need to do that. You’re our guests.”

Chuckling, you shake your head, already making a move to grab the sheets. Taking hold of one corner, you signal for him to do the same, the Australian instantly catching on and taking hold of the opposite side. Aligning it, you look up at him, watching as he focuses on your hands and repeats the order. You smile, going for more and doing it all over again. Once it's perfectly laid out, you take a step back. “Not too shabby.”

“Huh,” he muttered, blinking with amazement. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” you say, fixing the mountain of pillows before taking it in with a gentle smile. “Lando’s excited to be here.”

Oscar looks up, neat brows raising. “Is he?”

“Mhm,” you hum, finally connecting your gaze to his. From this distance—close—you note the faint trace of cologne that hugs him, along with a thin layer of sweat. Grinding your molars, you fume silently within you as you catch it—her perfume. You wonder how close she had to have been in order for it to imprint on him, but as soon as you ponder for too long about it, you shake your head, acting as if you’re brushing away some invisible dust. “He’s looking forward to jet skiing.”

A deep chuckle. Pressing his back against the wall, he crosses his arm, giving you a clear view of his muscles that pulse like the world's biggest temptation. If you had the chance—just one—you’d kiss them the way you've fantasized for so long now.

He opens his mouth, about to say something that's going to change everything amongst you two, but bails at the last minute, shaking his head as if he barely caught himself. Intrigued, you raise a neat brow. “What's wrong?” you ask, feeling far too curious. 

Oscar tsks. “No, uh, it's nothing.” A beat, then he looks up, squinting his eyes skeptically, as if you're a puzzle he can't quite figure out. He's looking at you the same way he did that day you lied about planning the dinner, and that itself makes your stomach dip. Suddenly, you're not as interested in finding out what he has to say anymore. “Lily loves you, you know that?”

Not what you were expecting. “She does?”

“Yeah…” he mumbles, orbs still trained on you. You want him to look away—you need him to look away. Pink lips curl into something of a scoff. The Australian’s eyes darken, making you freeze with trepidation. “She thinks you’re great.” Opening his arms like some grand gesture, he motions towards the lively room. “I mean, look at her. She’s trying her best to please you.”

Something about the way he says it makes you feel as if he’s not that fond of Lily’s behavior. As if you don’t deserve her kindness, even just a sprinkle of it. Pursing your lips, you rock against the heels of your feet. “And I appreciate that, I really do.” A hint of hesitation. “And I like Lily, as well—”

A raw chuckle. Blinking, you catch him shaking his head, brown eyes shut in disbelief, and when he opens them once again, it’s not that kind-hearted and easy-going Australian you’ve come to know—no. He’s broad, and cold, and guarded. 

“No you don’t.”

You gulp, laughing awkwardly as you rub your forearm, feeling the heat of shame radiate off your body. “What are you talking about? She’s super sweet—”

“I never said she wasn’t,” he cuts you off again, this time a bit harsher. Enough to take a step back. Your heart races times a million at this point, palms moist with sweat. “I never said she wasn’t sweet—I don’t doubt that even for a second. But I know that you’re lying, and I know that you hate her.” A beat. “Why?”

“I do like her,” you continue to insist, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. “What makes you even think otherwise?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he says, accent sharper than usual. “Like you wish her the worst—I know what hate looks like.”

This time, you grab what’s left of your courage, and look at him straight in the eyes, not backing down. “Yeah? And what does hate look like?”

“You’re looking at it.”

It’s as if an ice cold bucket of water is thrown at you with no alert. His insinuation makes you want to recoil, but if you do, then he’d know he’s gotten to you, and if he gets to you, then he’ll figure the rest of it out. 

“I’m sorry, that was rude.” He smiles tauntingly, inching close and tilting his head as he opens his mouth. “I just don’t like you, that’s all. I’m not cruel enough to hate.” Cruel. He’s calling you cruel. He knows, therefore, you’re cruel. The word itself shouldn’t affect you this much, but it does. Narrowing your eyes, you push him away, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he cocks his head in question with little to no surprise. “What? You don’t like hearing the truth of what you are? Did you really think you were a good person?”

“Look,” you finally speak, glaring. “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but I don’t hate Lily. For God sakes, I barely even know her!”

“Exactly!” he shouts back, breaking. “Which is why I’m more than confused! What has she done to you?”

Have possession over you, you think to yourself as you pant, blink with defeat. I hate her because what she’s done to me is have possession over you, and that’s not fair.

“I—”

“Hey,” a soft voice melts into the room, Lily coming into view, cheeks flushed. “Is everything alright in here? We thought we heard yelling.” 

Standing behind her, frowning over her shoulder, Lando stares with a lost expression. Everything indicates that there had been some sort of altercation, but the smiles you two wear are enough to try and convince them otherwise. Walking towards her, Oscar wraps his arm around her waist, pecking her temple as she blinks, still worried. “What? That’s absurd. We were simply talking. Weren’t we?”

It takes you a minute to register that he’s talking to you, so when you do answer, it’s nothing but a whisper. “Yeah… just, yeah.” You shake your head, blinking hastily. “We were just talking.”

“Are you sure?” Lando asks, pushing past the couple as he rushes to you, large hand grabbing your wrist softly as he looks at you. His gaze flickers momentarily toward Oscar, as if accusing him for doing something, in return, making the Australian frown for his sudden distrust. As if he’s the bad guy. 

You nod, plump lips formed into a thin line. “Yup,” you say, attention flickering down to where Oscar keeps Lily secure against his touch. As if you’re the bad guy. You chuckle, shrugging. “He was thanking me for helping him do something so easy as setting a bed.”

Oscar clenches his jaw. “Yeah. Thanking you.”

Anyone who knows you, knows that you’re a decent human being. There’s not much to contradict that. But no one will ever know you the way you know yourself. Because if they did?

They’d find out that there was no one greedier….

Than you.

-

Dinner that night is homemade pizza. Lily followed a recipe. 

It’s quite delicious, sure, and you’re able to make that note due to that one small bite you had before you ditch it for your mimosa. Lando tries to get you to eat, but you gently promise him that you’re just not that hungry. You see the way Oscar stares, feeling bad for his girlfriend who spent hours making this for you. She excuses herself, rushing towards the kitchen as the Australian apologizes, following after her.

Turning abruptly, the British boy huffs, causing commotion. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”

“This again?” you groan. “I already told you—nothing. Drop it.”

“What’d he say to you?” he questions, a layer of curiosity making an appearance. “Did he say something to offend you?”

“No,” you hum against your glass. “He did not.”

“Did you say something to offend him?” he switches the inquiry, making you glare. 

“Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

Lando sighs, relaxing against his chair once again. He takes a bite, swallows, then takes another. “I get the sense that you’re keeping something from me—you’re not like that.”

Actually, you are. He just doesn’t know it. Placing a hand over his, you hum, calming him down as he connects his gaze onto yours, eyes as soft as jello. “He might’ve lost his temper on me a bit.”

“What?” he screeches, making you hush him.

“Let me finish,” you hiss. He nods, curls bouncing. “He couldn’t get the sheets to stay in place. Remember how Lily said he tends to lose patience because of that?” Another nod. You shrug. “Well, that was it. We just didn’t want you two to make a big deal out of nothing. Much like now,” you point out, spotting a subtle blush threatening his cheeks. 

“Well, forgive me for looking out for you,” he sings. “I care, you know?”

“And I thank you for that, darling, but you can let go of it now, right?”

“Definitely.”

He doesn’t. Matter of fact, as soon as the couple makes their way back, it’s the first thing he brings up, teasing his teammate who blinks, confused, then: “Oh. Yeah. Right. I had a bit of a moment where I couldn’t get the…yeah. That was it.”

Lily rolls her blue eyes. “Didn’t I warn ya?”

You giggle. “You did, you really did.”

There isn’t much to do from that point on, the sun has set and the moon hangs as bright as headlights. Lando knocks out after a much needed shower, and while you can’t sleep with wet hair, you settle on fixing yourself up a tea now that it’s cooled down. 

Walking barefoot towards the lake, you hum, finding peace with the way crickets sing. Blue, gentle waves sway back and forth as you look beyond, mind at peace. That is until you hear a small cough. Startled, you search for the culprit and you find him, laid down on the grass. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Oscar sighs. “I’d rather not talk to you right now.”

“Or ever?” you offer, but he doesn’t find you humor all that entertaining. Making your way, you find a space next to him. “You can’t ignore me, you know that? We’re about to spend a month together. That, and you’re my boyfriend's teammate. I see you on track.”

He disregards the fact that you're right, sitting up instead, laying his arms over his bent knees. “What’s your game?”

“I don’t have one,” you say softly. “I’m just here to have fun—it’s summer.”

A scoff. “I’m serious—what do you want from us?”

There was a point in time when you first met the Australian where you remember thinking: this is a boy. His arms were twigs, his neck was small, and his fireproofs fit him loosely.

Fastword, a year later: everything has taken a turn. Oscar Piastri has matured, and now—now you want him. 

“My parents had my sister three years after they had me.” Oscar cocks his head, puzzled as to why you’re telling him this. You continue, occasionally sipping on your tea. “And the months leading to her birth, they always told me how lucky I’d feel to have her once she was born. Then she was,” you say. “And you know what I felt?”

“Lucky?” he finds himself guessing quietly. 

You shake your head, causing his brows to jump up with surprise. “I love her, I do, but I think that was the moment I realized I didn’t like to share. I wanted my parents to stay my parents, and not hers. I wanted my grandparents to stay my grandparents, and not hers. And…once we grew up and we were old enough to date—I wanted her boyfriends to like me more than they liked her.”

Quiet, his eyes linger with disgust. “I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want.” This time, you look at him, and it hits him all at once: you want him. You smile, like what you’re saying is funny and not fucked. A giggle. “You’re a smart individual, Oscar. Do you get what I’m saying?”

He does. And it makes his stomach knot. 

“I’m in love with Lily,” he states, as if that will make you back off. “I’m. In. Love. With. Lily.”

But he can tell you don’t care. You never have, and you never will. And the fact that she has you is why you hate her. He sees that now. 

Standing, your knees are at his eye level, forcing him to look away, forcing him to look up. You hold power in this stance, and he’s basically at your knees—worshiping you. He doesn’t like that. In one fast movement, he jumps up, towering over you, but that’s fine. It doesn’t matter. And he realizes he can never win when it comes to you because it seems you like that too. 

He gulps. You grin.

“Doesn't matter.”

-

You’re playing a dangerous game.

It starts early in the morning and ends late at night. At times, he feels like a kid hiding behind his mum's skirt, practically sticking to Lily like superglue, and normally she loves that, but with how busy she is with graduation, she pushes him off most times now. It’s always: Oscar, no or Oscar, what now? He can’t seem to get it right.

“Why don’t you go jet skiing with Lando?” you speak up and he finds it weird that you’re helping him out. The British girl nods. Yeah! Why don’t you? He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

They come back with fresh sunburns and a couple new freckles. Lando’s curls are hard from the sea salt, so he gives you a quick kiss, running up stairs for a quick shower. He’s been having lots of those. Not even a minute later, Oscar goes on to do the same. 

Somewhere along the line, you hear your name, and you know what that means. Rolling your eyes, you look over at the blue eyed girl. “I bet you he forgot his towels—”

I forgot my towels!

Giggling, Lily shakes her head, muttering ‘boys’, then signals towards her room. “I just washed some, you can grab them from our cabinet.”

“Thanks,” you chirp, making your way. While yours and Lando’s room sits at the far right side of the hall, Oscar’s and Lily’s is on the left. And you never meant to walk in on him, not at all, but you did. 

Swinging the door open, you’re caught face to face with a shirtless Oscar, dying his wet hair with a blue towel. He freezes. “W-what are you doing here?” he stutters.

You try not to stare, you really do, but you can’t help it. His body is solid, chiseled, even. His skin is moist from lathering lotion and that’s enough to make your head spin. And yet, you don’t let him see that. Pushing past him, you dig your hand deep into the cabinet, pulling two fresh towels, similar to his. He frowns.

“Just grabbing towels for my boyfriend.” Smile. “See you.”

Is this how you get people to fall for you? By not seeming desperate? Because while he knows that you want him, you sure don’t show it, and that definitely confuses him.

That same night, you four are watching a movie in the living room. Cherry Falls to be exact. The entire way through, you’re curled into Lando’s chest under a blanket. On the other side of the long couch, Lily and Oscar sit as straight as can be, but his arm remains over her shoulder, keeping her safe. 

You’re not jealous over something like that, but when she flinches during certain scenes and he comforts her, that gets you. “Hey,” you start, whispering into the Brit’s ear. Green eyes are stuck on the screen, nodding robotically. Yeah? You kiss his warm skin, making him jump. “Why don’t you and I go to bed?”

“Bed?” he asks, slow and unsure where you’re headed. “Already? But…we’re halfway through.” You yawn, rubbing a hand along his thigh. He blushes, impressed with how cool you’re able to play it. Coughing, he nods excitedly. “I think we’re done for the day,” he announces, a bit too loud.

Lily pauses the movie, tilting her head curiously. “Aw, but we’re halfway through…”

“I know,” you add, smiling apologetically. “But I’m just so tired.”

“As am I!” Lando cuts you off, voice squeaky. He shakes his head, blinking hastily, then clears his throat. “But please, don’t let us stop you from finishing the movie.”

“Yeah,” you quip, getting up, about to walk away when Lando reaches for your hips, keeping you in front of him. It doesn’t take much to feel his bulge pressed against your ass. He laughs awkwardly. “We still have that picnic tomorrow, don’t we?”

“We do,” Lily cheers, smiling widely. “Oh, I’m so excited!” Turning to face the Australian, who hasn’t said much up until now, just stares blankly, she taps his knee. “We should probably go to sleep, too.”

“No!” Lando yelps, blushing bright red as the blue eyed girl frowns. “Keep on watching. Keep the telly on. In fact…” He reaches for the control. “Turn up the volume.” 

“Great idea,” Lily says, pursing her lips as the numbers go up on the screen. “Alright then, you two go rest.”

“Thank you,” you reply, walking carefully in front of the British boy who still tries his best to hide behind you, waving sheepishly. “See you in the morning!”

Oscar really underestimated how naive Lily can be. While she was wide-eyed enough to believe that you two were ready to knock out, he knew the truth. Pecking her cheek, he makes a stand, making his girlfriend pout. “Where are you going? I thought we were gonna finish the movie?”

“We are,” he promises, smiling gently. “I’m just gonna run to the restroom real quick. Be right back.”

Running up the stairs, two steps at a time, he rushes to your side of the hall, quickly identifying small moans. He stops dead in his tracks, heart stuck in his throat, and he doesn’t know why. 

Fuck, baby, he hears Lando groan. Oscar grimaces, shutting his eyes with discomfort. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn’t have his ear pressed against the door, intruding in your guys’ private sex life. 

He shouldn't be bothered so much. Or at all.

Lando, you whine, surely writhing with pleasure. The sound makes him break a sweat, makes his brain go fuzzy. He can’t even think properly. And he knows this is wrong—on so many levels—but what’s worse is that he wishes Lando were dead. 

Skin to skin contact makes his jaw clench with anger. The fact that he knows what you feel like makes him want to barge in and rip you two apart. And it dawns on him—why does he care so much?

“No,” he mutters, taking a step back as if the door were made out of lava. He blinks hastily, shaking his head harshly until he feels his brain jump from side to side. “God, no…”

It’s official—you have his attention.

Without even making a move.

-

You feel his gaze on you. You don’t even have to look and see to know that it’s him and not Lando. Lando’s gaze doesn’t burn, but his? His zaps. Looking up from where you rested on the red gingham blanket Lily rolled onto the fresh grass, you squinted behind your glasses, making eye contact with the Australian. 

You know you have him.

Reaching into your bag, you grab your sunscreen, squirting it onto your legs, making sure to lather it on in a teasing manner. You rub up and down, slow and steady. Briskly, he looks away, paying attention to his teammate who continues to ramble on and on about nothing in particular. 

Not as particular as you.

“I love having you two around,” Lily says, ripping your gaze away like one would their band aid. She hums, gingerly fixing her floppy hat and motioning towards your sunscreen. Go right ahead. “Thank you,” she replies sweetly. A beat. “I have a favor to ask.” This get’s your attention. Furrowing your brows, you nod, urging her to continue. “So, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”

“What is it?”

Lily blushes, as if she’s too embarrassed to admit. “Remember how I skipped a few exams in order to extend my stay the first time we met? In order to have that dinner with both you and Lando?”

“Yeah,” you say, still uncertain about where this might possibly lead. “I think I do.”

She cringes. “I never took them.”

“What?”

“I know! And now my advisor is telling me I won’t be able to graduate if I don’t find a way to take them, and I don’t know what to do!” She groans, bumping the edge of her palm against her forehead. “Oh God, Oscar is going to be so mad at me.”

“Okay, calm down,” you soothe her. “Have you tried reaching out to your professor?”

“Not yet,” she mumbles, tears pooling the corner of her eyes, making you feel just a dash of pity. “Should I?”

“Yes,” you respond quickly. “You should. Ask them if there’s any way to take those exams. Say you’re sorry—like really sorry. They have to be able to tell that you never meant to skip out in the first place.”

“I didn’t,” she squeaks, voice wavering. “I’m not usually like this, but…” Her blue eyes flicker down to her lap, fingers playing nervously with the hem of her shirt. “I just really want to fix this and graduate on time. Everyone is counting on that!”

“You’re going to walk that stage, Lily, alright? You just need to keep your eye on the prize.” Sighing, you unlock your phone, handing it to her. “E-mail them right now.”

“O-okay,” she sutter, eyes softening. “Thank you for being such a great friend.”

You blink. “Oh. Yeah—anytime.”

She finds privacy back in the parking lot, leaving you alone with the boys deep in the horizon. It’s peak golden-hour, so they look significantly tan. You smile, lying back down, glasses hugging the curve of your nose. You’re halfway asleep at one point, but as soon as you feel a droplet fall onto you, you peek an eye open.

“Where’s Lily?” Oscar questions, furrowing his dark brows.

You roll your eyes. “She went to get something from the car.” She probably wouldn’t like Oscar knowing the truth, and you’re not one to tell it. You wave your hand dismissively. “Now move—you’re blocking the sun.”

Grinding his teeth, the Australian scoots, but his eyes remain down on you. You lay tan now, white bikini standing out against your skin. Brown eyes trails down your legs, spotting an ankle bracelet. He hums. “What’s it say?”

You sigh. “Could you be more specific?”

He kicks your feet, making you lean against your elbows, staring at him coldly. Noticing what he was referring to, you lick your lips. “It's the number four.”

“Four?” he asks plainly. “Why four?”

“I’m really trying to relax,” you spit, taking your sunglasses off and glaring. “You’d be doing me a huge favor if you just left me alone.”

Aren’t you supposed to want him? Aren’t you the one who's supposed to be chasing after him? 

The tips of his ears burn bright red, and not from the sun. Seeing as he wasn’t leaving, you let out a heavy breath. “He asked me out on April fourth—fourth month, fourth day. His racing number is four.” You make a face. “Do you get it or do you need further explanation?”

He ignores the dig. “Why an ankle bracelet, though? Why not a ring or a necklace?”

Your red lips part open, then close. His guts twist with jealousy once he comes to the realization. The reason it’s an ankle bracelet its so that anytime he fucks you, legs dangled over his shoulders, he could admire it. Seeing as he figured it out without having you respond makes you blush. 

“Ankle bracelets are my favorite.”

His eyes darken. “You know what? Next time you two fuck, why don’t you moan a little less loud?”

Your neat brows lift up with surprise. “How are you so sure we already did?”

He pauses, clearly caught on spying. He swallows. “You sound like a pornstar.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” You laugh. “Lando doesn’t seem to mind. In fact…” Biting down on your bottom lip, you blink innocently up at him as his breathing pattern becomes uneven. “He fucking loves it.”

God—what were you doing to him?

Just as he’s about to speak, Lando calls out for him and Lily calls out for you. Where are the beers, mate? The Australian spins back and lets out a lousy smile. “On it, give me a second!”

As he turns again, you’re already up on your feet, adjusting your bikini and throwing Lando’s shirt over your head. The sight alone irks Oscar more than he’d like to admit. “I should go see what Lily needs,” you sing teasingly. Spinning on your heels, you stop, cocking your head to the side and giving him one last glance. “Oh, and Oscar?”

You point down to his hard on imprinted on his short. Horrified, heat rushes to his cheeks.

“Don't get so excited over nothing.”

-

What appears to be the first time in her life, Lily lies to Oscar. 

They need some last minute measurements for my cap and gown, she explains, puffing her cheeks as if the thought of flying back home is too much of a tassel, and not a necessity—she has to go back and take her exams. She had received an extension, but the only catch was that she had to take them in person, as originally planned. I’ll be back in a week. 

The Australian tries to tag along with his girlfriend because the thought of being left alone to third wheel a couple who probably fucks 24/7 is too unbearble. But as expected, Lily declines, claiming it’d be rude for both hostesses to leave their guests behind. And all would’ve been fine if Lando’s father hadn't broken his clavicle playing rugby. 

“Do you really have to leave?” you sigh, zipping his suitcase. 

He nods. “Mum would kill me if I didn't show up.”

“I’ll miss you.”

A soft smile. Pecking your lips, his thumb rubs against your cheek lovingly. “I’ll be back before you know it. Time will fly by.”

Which is how you and Oscar find yourselves sharing a large house with a million desires. He's quick to note that you have a thing for summer dresses—and so does he, apparently. Jaw clenched, he carefully watches as you cut up a variety of fruit, humming as you prepare yourself a plate. You hum a soft melody, making him more and more intrigued to know what it was. 

“Love in the Morning. Ennio Morricone,” he hears you say, munching on a slice of watermelon, walking towards the living room. There, on T.V., plays an unknown reality show, but he's not paying much attention, either way. No, his gaze is stuck on you, focused on the way you stretch your legs onto the coffee table, the rest of your upper body resting against the comfy couch. You swallow, reaching for a piece of mango. “One of my favorite instrumentals.”

It's one of his, too, and not because he knows it by heart, but because you do. Because you sound so beautiful, like a siren, when you hum it. He wonders if you're aware of the power you hold. Though, the way you ignore him lets him know that you do. 

Against the sunlight, the one that peeks through the open window and summer skies, your ankle bracelet shines, blinding him, almost. He feels his chest grow tight—so much so, that it hurts to breathe regularly—and he has to remind himself that this isn’t normal—this isn’t normal. 

Since when did you matter this much to him? Since when did you affect him this much? 

Without a second thought, he claims a spot next to you on the couch, reaching for a berry and popping it in his mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, somehow satisfied by this small action of his. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

You blink, caught off guard. In all your time of knowing the Australian, he never once bothered to get to know you—really get to know you. He never cared, not even in the slightest. But now, in a turn of events, he does. Squinting suspiciously—teasingly—you shake your head, vanilla perfume radiating off your skin. 

“No.”

His lips turn downwards. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, flipping through the channels, pretending he wasn’t even there. A click. “Why should I?”

Because suddenly, you’re the only one in my mind.

He bites down on his tongue, tasting a hint of blood. “I’m not into you, don’t flatter yourself.”

“I never said you were,” you say, a bored tone evident. 

Oscar’s hands get clammy, thankful for having them pressed against his lap. Maybe he can still make a run for it. To his room. Back to Australia. He doesn’t even care where, exactly, but far, far, far from you. That way, he wouldn’t feel so grossed out in wanting to know more about his teammate's girlfriend. The one whom he never thought about once before this trip. And how can he even defend his honor?

You got into his head.

You don’t register what he’s doing—not instantly, at least—but before you know it, he’s pushing your legs off the coffee table, claiming a seat there, instead. Now, rather than having a clear view of the television, you have one of him. Large and desperate and perfect. 

He narrows his eyes, sharp and threatening. “Are you glad that both Lily and Lando are gone?”

“Nope,” you respond, popping the p. “Why would I?”

Why would you? Geez, who really knows? Oh, maybe because now you have me all to yourself, and isn’t that what you wanted all along? Why don’t you want me anymore? 

Slightly grinning, Oscar lets out a raw chuckle, making you want to jump onto his thick lap and lick up his neck. You bet it’d taste like salt and cologne, but the mere thought sounds like a dream. A wild, wild dream. 

“I know you think about me.”

Zero reaction. Unimpressed, you push your bottom lip out, wagging your index finger at him before pressing it against his cheek, making him pause because that alone makes his skin burn. You push, forcing a dimple before doing the last thing he’d ever thought you’d do.

Slap him.

He thinks he’s imagining it, and you didn’t just do that, but the smug look on your face and the sting on his lets him know that he isn’t picturing it, and you did just do that. You smile sweetly, standing and ditching your place right in front of him, making your way towards the stairs. 

“Get a life, Oscar. Not everything is about you.”

You like to mess with people’s sanity. That must be it because—what the fuck is wrong with you?

First, you insinuate lusting over him. Later, you put on a show for him every chance you get. And now? Now you toy with him, making him feel like the crazy one. And one thing’s for sure.

He is not crazy.

You barely have a foot up one stair when you’re pulled back, and before you know it, pushed down to sit on the step, the Australian kneeled down in front of you. You breath hitches, eyes as wide as cherry pies. His brows are drawn in softly, a pink tint dusting his ears like some shy teen. 

“Maybe not—but everything is about you.”

You always knew you’d get him, and you knew exactly how you’d do it. You’d plant the seed and have him come running to you. It always works. I mean, it’s how you got Lando, after all. 

But Lando was a want. Oscar is a need.

With his knees still glued onto the ground, the brunette leans down and kisses your ankle, laying his lips flat as you gasp softly, feeling the familiar bracelet dig into your skin. 

“Tell me you think about me too,” he whispers pathetically—fragile. Another kiss, this time up your calf. “What do I have to do in order to get you to say it?” 

“You’re insane,” you mumble, orbs stuck on the top of his head, shaggy hair hanging loosely before he looks up at you, past his lashes. Butterflies erupt. 

Up your thigh, he licks you, tasting your lotion, but he doesn’t seem to mind the bitter taste. “Come on—I want you.” He sucks, forming a purple bruise. “Don’t you want me, too?”

You do. You fucking crave every piece of him. But you can’t let him know that. And you really do try your best to fight him off, but as soon as he starts curling his fist around your small dress, you’re just as good as gone. 

A tiny moan rings through the air, then a pant follows. He’s barely even touched you and he’s already knocked the air straight from your lungs. 

“I d-do, Oscar.” Whine. “I do want you.”

And just like that—he’s taken whatever power you were claiming onto—back.

Letting go of your dress, he chuckles, enjoying your out of breath state, and standing, making you feel small as you blink, confused as to why he stopped.

Dark eyes glint sinisterly as he kicks your open legs together, not too hard, but still enough to make you jolt with surprise, leaning your elbows up against the step, brows furrowed. 

A beat. “You really are a pretty little thing.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving you to feel abandoned.

-

It’s a brutal game of tug-of-war. One where both of your guys’ hands are burning from trying not to be the first to let go.

The first to admit defeat.

Though, it seems like the days grow longer, your dresses fall shorter, and his mind is hazier. All of which is making it more difficult to keep a distance. That is, until Lily FaceTimes Oscar.

“I need to buy some flowers.”

Mid-bite, his teeth push down on his apple, eyes glued on her. He pulls away, drying his mouth with the back of his hand. “Won’t they dry out before the party?”

She shakes her head, highlighting what looks to be a set of notes. “That's why you're going to get carnations. They last longer.”

“Is that so?” he entertains, smiling gently when she bites down on her marker, brows furrowed as she reads her piece of paper. Throwing away what's left of his fruit, he hums. “Alright, I’ll take care of it tomorrow, don't worry.”

“Oh no, tomorrow won’t work. You have to do it today.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because she's only available today. She's going dress shopping tomorrow.”

He doesn't even have to ask who she is because he already knows. Shaking his head adamantly, the Australian rejects her idea before it even has a chance to lift off the ground. “I could do it myself,” he snaps, his usually tranquilent voice coming out a bit harsher than intended. And it’s not like him. He never, ever, speaks to Lily this way. So, obviously, it surprises her, a wounded expression mapping out immediately. 

And she could have been mad. She really could have been mad—but she wasn’t. “Is everything okay?” she asks carefully, as if walking on eggshells. It makes him feel like shit. “What's wrong, Oscar?”

“I…” His tongue goes numb. The vivid image of you looking at him, like you hold him in the palm of your hand, comes through. And he doesn’t completely hate it, not right away. But once the British girl hums softly through the phone, he’s ashamed. “I just wish you were here. I miss you.”

A beat, then: I love you.

You had not been the biggest fan of going floral shopping with Oscar, either. Quite frankly, you didn't think being with him for hours on end was a good idea. At least, here in the house, you could escape, but out in the open, your chances were ironically not that good. Where would you run off to if you depended on him for a ride back?

Yet, you found yourself saying yes, and you didn’t know why. You had no clue why you felt the need to help her out. You had no clue why you felt a certain way towards her all of sudden. 

You had no clue when Lily Zneimer—the girl you're supposed to hate—was someone you saw as a friend.

It was a tough pill to swallow, because on one hand, you were still attracted to her boyfriend. But on the other hand, you suddenly had self-control. You didn't want to ruin their relationship anymore. You didn't want to lose her amity. 

You were trying to be better.

“Ready?”

Looking up from your book, you nod. “Let me just go grab my sunglasses.”

As he watches you run upstairs, he feels something—different. From your end, that is. As if something has shifted. But he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because before he knows it, you’re back. 

The car is quiet and his music can barely even be heard, but nothing is far more awkward than the tension between you two. It’s suffocating, so much so, you roll down the window. He makes a noise, making you tilt your head to look at him. He’s frowning. “It’s a hundred degree’s out, roll it back up. I can turn on the AC.”

You don’t utter a single word, just follow his instructions. He finds that weird. See, usually, you’d be doing something to get him hot and bothered, but these days you seem to be playing it safe. If anything, he should be thankful. He should be glad that you’ve left him alone for whatever reason. 

But now he wants in on your game.

“How’d you meet Lando?”

“Don’t. We don’t have to talk.”

He ignores you. “I met Lily in school. She was in the class next to mine and I used to think she was the most beautiful girl in the world.” His mind panics as soon as he realizes what he’s just said, but you don’t seem to have done the same. A cough. “How’d you meet Lando?”

Seeing as he probably wasn’t going to let this go unless you answer his question, you sigh, twisting your body and adjusting yourself to have a good view of him. Like this, you can count every mole on his skin if you really wanted to, but you don’t. “I never really met Lando, per se. I just always…knew him, I guess.” His brows furrowed and you chuckle. “We grew up as neighbors.”

“You did?” he asks, brows jumping up with shock. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, chewing on your bottom lip. “He was my sister’s boyfriend for two years.” This shouldn’t surprise him. Coming to a red light, he turns to look at you, fighting the urge to show any kind of reaction, he doesn’t want to scare you off. You look away, wincing. “I knew what I was ruining the moment he and I started talking behind her back, and I did it anyway.” 

“So…they were still dating?”

Nod. “She caught us locked up in the bathroom. There really wasn’t any explanation to that.” Green flashes as you point numbly and he steps on the gas once again. “And you know what? I didn’t even feel all that bad, and you want to know why?”

“Why?” 

“Because I got what I wanted.”

I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want, that is.

Your words from nights ago replay inside his overly crowded mind, making it pound like a sore thumb. His lips open, but he has nothing to say, and it appears you’re done talking, too. Or so he thought. 

“Oscar…” you whisper. “I can’t taint another relationship.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw slacked. You don’t want him anymore. You want nothing to do with him. Shouldn’t he be pleased? Shouldn’t he be ecstatic that your diabolical plan has expired? One you never admitted to, but still. 

So then why does he feel let down?

“Lily is great,” you continue, eyes closed as you nod gingerly. “She’s the best, and she deserves the friend she thinks she has.”

“Except you two aren’t friends.”

You blink. “Wh-wha—yes we are. What are you talking about?”

He grits his teeth. “You two aren’t friends. You could never be.”

This gets a rise out of you. Straightening your back, your brows pinch together with offense. “And why not?”

“Because.”

“Because?” You scoff, not impressed by his bland response. “We can’t be friends simply ‘because’?”

Switching lanes, he huffs, spotting pink carnations in his rear view mirror. You had chosen those on Lily’s behalf. He didn’t really care at the moment, but now he wishes you had gone with white. What were you two arguing about again? 

Spotting the familiar blue house, he lets out a breath, pulling into the driveway, quickly putting the car in park, and turning off the ignition. This almost makes you back down because suddenly his sole focus is on you, not the road. 

“You’re on my mind.”

Oh. Biting down onto your bottom lip, you shake your head. “I’m n—”

“Yes,” he says, firmly, reaching for your hands and pulling them up to his mouth, kissing them over and over. “You are and you know it.”

“Oscar, no…” you let out, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. A crazed look colors his irises as his chest rises fast, up and down, as if he’s close to hyperventilating. Bewildered, your lips turn to a downward spiral. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”

“Yes, I do!” he yelps, voice cracking as you stare with shock. “You did this to me, you got in my head on purpose!”

“I didn’t do anything!” you squeal, frightened by his tone. “Did I tell you that I wanted you?”

“You implied it,” he defends rapidly, pleading with eyes for you to show any signs of recollection. “What changed?”

“I already told you,” you snap, this time using all your power to yank your hands back. “I don’t want to be this way anymore. I can’t.”

Silence. 

Slow breaths explore the car as he stares blankly. “That’s not fair.”

“What isn’t fair?” you hiss, aiming a glare. 

Oscar shakes his head, flinging his door open and hopping out, leaving you dumbfounded as you watch him go. Unbuckling yourself, you make a beeline for him, barely even reaching him as you tug on his shirt, making him turn back with a dark look in his eyes. Your heart nearly flat lines from how scared you are of him from this point of view. 

“What isn’t fair, huh?” you ask, trying to sound brave, but there’s a slight tremble in your voice. 

Glowering down on you, the Australian’s lips form a slow smile, almost in a sinister way. Mocking, too. He chuckles to himself. “You like to have your own fun, don’t you?” Your shoulders drop, taking a clumsy step back, but he takes a dominating one forward. “Yeah…you do. You get to knead your fingers into someone’s brain until all they can think about is you, and once they do, you’re out.” Pause. “It’s no longer fun.”

“That’s not—” You let out a shaky breath, wincing at his accuracy.  “Where are you going with this?”

Oscar shrugs, broad shoulders going up before falling sourly. “I’m gonna do the same.”

You freeze, stomach twisting with trepidation. “Huh?”

He nods, clicking his tongue. “How come you only get to have your fun?” He leans down, coming eye level with you, and narrowing his gaze until you see his iris dilate. Something about that sends a shiver down your spine. “Why can’t I do the same, too?”

Taking a step back, he makes sure to send a sly smile, the kind that lets you see he has a hidden dimple. He sighs as he steps into the house, forcing you to watch him go with a smug reaction and leaving you with a poor one. Last minute, he turns around, inclining against the doorframe, making him appear larger than the world. 

Oscar squints teasingly. 

“I’m going to have you begging me to fuck you.”

-

There was a moment in the past week where you nearly fell for it—almost. 

It happened one morning, and all he had done was walk into the house, all big and sweaty. He had just come back from a run.

“Excuse me,” he says, reaching over to grab a glass from the cabinet, intending to pour himself a bit of water. A certain warmth radiates off him and you feel it cling onto you immediately, pushing you towards him. You physically have to stop yourself. 

Pursing your lips, you move, allowing him to easily grab what he needs. Without a single thank you, he hums, the cool water tasting heavenly. The way his Adam’s Apple juts up and down makes you want to scream, looking away as rub your eyes fiercely. He smiles, setting the glass down. “I need your opinion on something.”

“What is it?” you ask, still not looking. Maybe you should leave to go buy your dress for the party. Time is running out, and you have nothing. Though, at this point, you didn't want to be here anymore. 

“It's about Lily’s graduation gift. Should I get her a necklace with her birthstone, or—” 

An ankle bracelet with my number on it?

Immediately, you turn to face him, cheekbones beet red and a slight twitch in your eyes, those that are now dark and looming. Satisfaction plays a role in his features as he stares innocently. “I was leaning towards the ankle bracelet. I really do think you and Lando are onto something.”

“What’s your game?” you ask, bitterness evident in your tone. Your question takes him back to when he was the one asking it. To you. Neat brows furrow with anticipation.

The brunette shrugs. “I don't have one. I'm just here to have fun.” He smirks. “It's summer—isn't it?”

This is all a bad case of deja vu, one you don't find appealing. How dare he ask you something like this with a dirty smile on his face? The look is just the right amount of disgusting, and the right amount of intriguing. 

He was getting to you.

Clicking your tongue, you roll your eyes. “Whatever your plan is—stop it.” Pointing a finger, you shake your head firmly. “Because it's not going to work on me.”

“It’s not?” he asks, closing the gap and towering over you dangerously so. He sees the way your breathing becomes a tad bit irregular, letting him know that this was working, no matter how much you denied it. “Because you’re a better friend now? Because you got one taste of loyalty and now you've decided to be loyal to yourself?” A large hand reaches for your chin, forcing your head to tilt back and look up at him. And you hate how handsome he is in an infuriating moment like this. “People don't change overnight. I doubt you'd be the first.”

Old habits die hard, but over time, and he's right. You're still the same avaricious girl as yesterday. 

Pushing his thumb against the corner of your lips, you instinctively open your mouth, making room. A soft smile tugs at his own lips as his eyes admire your lipstick coating his finger. Slowly, he eases the digit in, feeling your wet tongue hug it. And then, suck.

“Fuck,” he groans beneath his shaggy breath, brown orbs not wanting to miss a single second of this. Humming, your vibrations send a chill down his spine, finding it harder to not bend you over amd just fuck you into oblivion. But no—he had to hear you say it. 

Pink tongue laps around his thumb, doe eyes blinking prettily, lashes fluttering like butterflies. Instant jealousy enters the room as his mind begins to race with the fact that Lando has probably had you like this millions of times. He pushes down on your tongue, making you whine and bite down. And he doesn't even flinch.

“Tell me you want me…” His brows knit with need. “The same way I want you. Please, just—say it.”

Without warning, you bite down hard, this time getting a reaction out of him as he grunts with pain, and you push him away harshly until his back pounds against the nearest wall, letting out a loud thud. 

“Let me tell you one thing, Oscar,” you start, strolling over to him like a fallen angel. Today you wear a white dress, clung to your body like a glove, allowing him to see every curve of yours, in return, making his palms sweat. You grin, reaching him. “You won't ever see me begging for anyone—especially you.” His stomach drops. “No matter how much I want this to happen, too.”

Are you willing to get down on your knees and supplicate?

The answer is an obvious one for him: yes. He’d spend hours at your feet if that meant having you, for even just a second. Normally, he isn't this submissive, nor this desperate, but it seems like only you bring this side out of him. He doesn't entirely hate it.

“Ye—”

Ring! Ring!

Sighing, you walk up to your phone that sits on the nearest counter, and pick it up. “Hi, baby,” you greet sweetly. “How’s Adam?”

Ring! Ring!

Digging into his back pocket, he curses, picking up. “Hello, darling,” he says warmly, making you flicker your gaze over at him with accusation. “How’s everything going?”

Turns out, Adam’s bone wasn't actually broken and Lily had aced her exams. She ended up telling Oscar the truth, to which he was surprised she had kept it hidden from him for so long, but was far more surprised when she told him that you knew. Long story short, by some twist of fate, they’ll be back in the next couple of days. They land on the same day, so they’ll save the Australian the hassle and just drive in together. 

“See you in a couple of days. Alright. Bye,” you say, rubbing your temples. 

Oscar looks up, chewing the inside of his cheek before letting go. “I’ll see you, then. Fly safe.”

A moment passes by. “Did she tell you—”

“That they’re flying in together? Yeah. They were both in London, after all. It makes sense.”

“Sure,” you mumble, brushing a strand of hair away. “They land Wednesday, then?”

“Correct,” he says, nodding along. It’s already Monday, so that was…soon. 

Too soon.

“I should probably start fixing up the arrangements,” you announce. “Lily asked me a couple of days ago, but I haven't gotten around to it. I just pray they haven't died yet.”

“They haven't,” he states, making you curl a brow. He smiles sheepishly. “Carnations last longer. Lily said so.”

“Of course,” you say, grinding your teeth. “Lily said so, so it must be true.”

Nothing more, nothing less. You just walk towards the flowers, and feel the irritation paint your silhouette, because as expected, Lily was right—like always. 

Thing is, Oscar has come to learn your behavior. The way you tell a lie, the way you tell the truth. He's learned your body language, and right now, he can tell one thing for sure.

You never stopped hating Lily.

He smiles.

And that makes him happy. Because he knows this isn't over yet.

-

By Tuesday, the entire setup is ready. The flowers sit beautifully at every table, and the lights hang nicely around the trees. The sound of the lake singing is your only reminder that you could use a break. And apparently, it was also Oscar’s.

“The event decorators just left. But you did an excellent job with the florals,” he adds last minute.

A hum. “I tried my best.”

The dock creaks. The frog's ribbit. The crickets harmonize. And you two are too close to one another. Your shoulders brush, making you flinch and for him to cough awkwardly. “Despite everything, I had fun having you around. A summer well spent, don't you think?”

With a deadpan expression, you turn to look at him, making him laugh, and the corners of your lips fight back a smile. You haven't heard him laugh in so long, you come to realize. In all sincerity, that is. “It was alright,” you respond, shrugging it off as if nothing. “But yeah. I had fun, too.”

Fun teasing each other. Fun trying to get each other to crack. But fun, nonetheless.

And he thinks: if not now, when? You don't know at what moment he catches you off guard, but he does, because in a single second, he's kissing with urgency. Like he's never kissed anyone before and he was making sure to get it right. And it was more than right. Heat pools in between your legs as you try your best to keep up with him, but the taste of cheap beer makes you get high on life. Since when is he much of a drinker?

Since you.

The good thing is that the entrance back to the house isn't that far, so your guys’ tumble is pretty successful. Though, you don't make it to either’ bedroom, but rather the couch, where a bunch of disposables lay. Lily had them shipped a couple days ago. Says she wants as many pictures as possible, savor the memories for a lifetime.

Without any precaution, he wipes his arms across the cushion, sending the cameras to crash against the floor and throwing you onto the couch, smiling once you squeal with excitement. All except one camera—but neither of you notice that yet.

Your soft hair lays around you like a halo, making him wonder if he’s gone straight to heaven. You gesture him to come in closer, and he’s quick to obey, diving for your neck. You giggle, a lazy hand finding its way into his locks. “No marks,” you pant, squirming as he licks a line down your throat before going up towards your lips. 

“No marks,” he confirms. “On your neck.”

You pause momentarily, disattaching your mouth from his. “No marks anywhere.” He grins, nodding just because. You frown. “I’m serious, Oscar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “Sure.”

Then, he’s on his knees, kissing your ankle like that one time on the stairs, except now, he’s taking it nice and slow. Steady. Your mind grows dizzy as he grazes his fingers gently down your skin. It sends goosebumps, seeing him like this. So…submissive.

“I never wanted you,” he whispers as he presses his pink lips onto your left ankle this time. He hums. “You were just another girl to me. My teammate’s girlfriend—that’s it.” Another kiss. “You never crossed my mind, not even once.”

And now…

Making his way up, he kisses in between your thighs, nuzzling into your warmth. You let out a weak moan, chest rising raggedly. Playing with his earlobe, you massage it gently as you try your best not to ruin this moment. Though it seems like nothing could. Not when he’s devoted to it already. And so were you.

Feeling a slight burn, you furrow your brows as you spot him sucking gently against your inner thighs. You squirm, pushing his head away as he keeps his position. “I said no marks.”

And you actually feel his smile start to spread against your skin.

“He won’t see these, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Another suck, this time harder. “Well…unless you want him to. Then that’s your decision.” Looking past his lashes, he bites down on the flesh, making you flinch. “So what? Are you gonna let him see how someone else has fucked you while he was gone?”

Pulling your panties to the side, he dips his tongue into your pussy, making your hips fly off the couch, and for him to push them back down, holding you in place. Sloppily, he kisses it—practically making out—and groans like a madman with the way you taste. Your sweet nectar makes his cock grow hard instantaneously, and he can’t help but grind against the edge of the cushion where your legs hang. 

“Holy.” Whine. “Fucking.” Moan. “Shit.” Groan.

Twisting with an obscene amount of pleasure, you tangle a shaky hand through his hair, ignoring how soft it feels. The need to run away and stay is a confusing pattern, but as soon as he adds a finger, curling it just the right amount, you let out a high pitched moan. 

Just like that, Oscar, just like t-that. 

Adding another digit, he picks up the pace of his tongue, drawing figure eights as the knot in your stomach burns brutally. You feel a white cloud surface over your eyes as they close, screwed shut as if that might help you last longer. But he knows what your body needs, and that itself was an alarming thing to realize. 

With one last mewl, you finish all over his tongue as he licks you clean, not wasting a single drop. And the way you taste—makes him not want to go back to not knowing. With a smile filled with bliss, and that familiar afterglow, you giggle, nose scrunching like a bunny as your cheeks remain as red as a rose. The sight alone makes him struggle to comprehend that this is most likely a one time thing, and not something he’ll be able to relieve whenever he wants. 

At the end of the day—you're not his.

But he can still reminisce about this moment from time to time.

Mid-giggle, a flash goes through as you come to a stop. Oscar grins, shaking the green disposable, showing it off. “Beautiful. You’re absolutely beautiful.”

Your breath hitches, his words tugging at your heart strings. You haven't experienced something like that in so long. Shaking your head, you push your dress down, climbing off the couch and pushing him to sit. “I like to play fair.” Sliding down to your wobbly knees, you shoot a gentle smirk, something that makes his cock grow painfully harder. “Let me take care of you, Oscar.”

Undoing his belt, you hurriedly unzip his jeans, fighting the urge to take him completely. You don’t, though. No, you first kiss the tip, making him groan, feeling as if pushing you head down is a good idea. Then, you suck at a comfortable speed, like a baby sucking their thumb, and watch past your lashes how his chest begins to rise slowly. 

“You’re huge,” you hum, pecking it. “How am I gonna fit you into my small mouth?” 

Moaning, the brunette drags a hand over his tired expression, faking a smile. “You’re saying you can’t?”

You suck harder, still treating it like a lollipop. Licking his tip like a kitten licks their bowl clean. It’s starting to cut his patience thin. “I can figure it out…”

I’ve done it with Lando. How much harder can this be?

That’s it. Pushing the back of your head, he forces you to deepthroat him, keeping you in place as you drool on either side of his lap, soft gurgles coming through. You try to push off him, but it seems like that makes him shove you down twice as hard.

“Something to say, baby?” he pants under his breath, raising a brow. “What was that?”

Slapping his thigh, tapping out, you find yourself being pulled off of him, dragged onto his lap as in one swift movement, he pushes your panties to the side once again and thrusts his thick cock deep inside of you. So much happens so fast that you barely have a chance to adjust to his girth. 

“Does Lando make you feel half as much as I make you feel?”

He’s not talking about sex. It hasn’t been about sex for a while now. 

Moaning, you bounce up and down, your hair hanging like a curtain as you give your best to keep up with him and his rhythm. But he practically controls you, snapping his hips up with anger. At least, that’s what it feels like. 

“Does he make you feel good?”

“Yes,” you sigh against his ear as you clutch an arm around his shoulder, keeping as steady as possible. “He does.”

But you make me feel better. 

The sound of your praise does something to him, something inexplicable. And while he can’t quite put a name to it, he does know that you’re telling the truth. You had to be. 

Again, pulling you off his swollen cock, he flips you around, having you use him as a chair as he squeezes his girth into your tight pussy, strong arms looping under your legs and spreading them open as he abuses your cunt, feeling your head fall back as you gasp. 

“F-fuck,” you shriek, head bopping with each thrust, and your throat growing dry. “Fuck me—fuck me.”

“I’m trying,” he chuckles, continuing as you try your best to understand how he was able to learn that he knew how to do all this. “Look at you. Just…look at you.”

There comes a time of life where someone is meant for you, and you’ll find your way to each other, no matter what. He’d like to think that it’s true. Sure. It is. But have you ever thought that maybe it’s not? 

Maybe the person you think you’re supposed to be with is busy thinking the same thing as you? Living a full life with someone else who isn’t their soulmate? Romantically, that is. 

Lando and Lily. They’re both place holders. They’re nice, yeah, and they’re amazing, too—but that’s about it.

You hold his entire destiny. 

He just wants to live by it. 

But the way he has you—it’s temporary. And nothing good ever lasts forever. But God, he really fucking wishes it did. 

Close, he hears you whisper, followed by a squeal as he holds your legs up higher, still fucking you in the same position. So, so close. 

“Not. Yet.”

Hauling you off, you’re quick to whine, feeling empty as he spreads you onto the couch, admiring your glistening lips. He presses a thumb down against your bud, feeling the pulse that enlightens him to smile. You copy him, toying with your dress. 

“Should I—”

“Keep it,” he says firmly. A beat. “Please. Keep it.”

When you nod, your hair only gets tangled against the cushion, but that’s the least of your worries. You frown. “You haven’t cum yet…”

“I will, don’t worry.” Silence. Pushing this thumb inside, you squirm, wincing slightly as your eyes remain on him, waiting for his next move. “Open.”

Opening your legs wider, he chuckles, shaking his head. Your mouth. You gulp, then open wide as he hums, bringing his wet finger into your mouth, making you taste yourselves. And normally, you’d be grossed out. God, you don’t let Lando even do this, but something about Oscar makes you feel okay. That, and like a pathetic freak. 

“Good, no?” It’s an awkward thing to ask, you can’t help but blush against his digit, lashes fluttering. The Australian tsks, pressing his large finger against your tongue as your eyes grow wide. “Right?”

In a heartbeat, you nod because it just felt like the right thing to do. Satisfied, he smiles, taking another photo of this beautiful sight. Your eyes are round and full of life, and slightly teary, and that’s what he likes to see. 

Retracting his thumb, he smirks. He makes room for both of you on this small couch, towering over you and he starts raising both your legs over your shoulders. Your stomach twists. 

“I wanna see it when I fuck you.”

With your dresses scrunched up, and his cock cutting you in half, you both moan in sync as the wet sounds echo through the hall of the empty house. And this wouldn’t have happened—probably ever—if you hadn’t accepted their invitation to spend the summer in North fucking Carolina. 

The number four dangles, and not only is the sounder a reminder that it’s there, but he can spot it from his peripheral vision every time he pounds into you a little harder. And he should be jealous—God knows that’s true—but surprisingly, he’s not. 

Because he’s heard the way Lando fucks you. And nothing—nothing—compares to now. 

It feels as if he’s practiced moves like this for a lifetime. As if he were to promise you that this could all work out, then you’d believe him.

You really would.

A sloppy thrust. “I never wanted you to begin with,” he grunts, screwing his eyes shut as your body reacts to his harsh confession. “I saw you with Lando, and I felt absolutely nothing. I had Lily to focus on. But God—what have you done to me?”

His tip seems to find your g-spot as you cry out, withering around. “I was taught to respect others. To respect what’s theirs. Whether that be a journal, or a remote control car, it didn’t matter. But you do,” he confesses, watching as you continue to whimper, probably not catching any of this anymore. “You did this to me…”

You filled me with greed.

Grabbing your ankles, he lurches them over his left shoulder as he continues to pound into your tight cunt, hearing you gasp before erupting into a string of moans. 

“Now, everything he has, I want.” You whine. “I’m going after his Championship.” You whine louder, eyes opening as you watch a bead of sweat roll down his nose. “I’m going after his team.” 

Oscar chuckles darkly. “And I’d love to say that I’m going after you, but hey…looks like I already have you.”

And just like that, the pit in your stomach bursts as you two clash against one another, your orgasms riding out together as your legs finally fall, but not before he makes sure to press a gentle kiss. 

A flash. 

“Really?” you ask, glaring. 

“Stick your tongue out.”

Without any questions, where you lay, you open your mouth, watching as he stands up to tower over you, jerking his cock one last time as his drops of cum fall against your tongue, white and thick. 

Your eyes flicker with excitement as he makes sure to take a picture. If he can’t have you later, or probably ever again, then he’ll make sure that he gets an angle of you that only he could ever dream of years down the line. 

Pulling his pants back up, he makes sure to clean you up before making you sit, him only a few inches away, but honestly, it feels like miles. All of a sudden, he’s distant, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does. 

Biting down onto your wobbly lip, you comb your fingers through your hair—you’re doing your own after care. 

“I know things with us won't ever be the same, but…” You wince. “Please don’t treat Lando any differently. He sees you as a brother.”

He flinches because he knows it's true. Of course it is, everybody knows it. Oscar nods in agreement. “Only if you promise to stop hating Lily.”

You snort. “Sure. Sounds fair.”

The sound of tires is what ultimately gets your two to spring up, rushing towards the window as you look onto the driveway. Laughing, you first see Lily, then Lando, then you frantically twist your heels to face the Australian who remains with a blank expression, clearly not expecting them. 

“They were supposed to be here tomorrow, you said!” you hiss, rubbing your temples. “What the fuck?”

“They must’ve upgraded their tickets to get here sooner,” he shoots back, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He grimaces. “Hurry! Help me pick up the disposables from the floor!”

“Right!” you screech, running toward the living room as you fall onto your knees, picking up the cameras and tossing them back onto the couch. Oscar does the same, but with his eyes stuck in the door, waiting for a knock. 

Knock! Knock!

Freezing, you two look at each other, as if debating whether to make a run for it together or not. Though, as soon as you hear Lando call out for you, you’re sure you have no chance. Taking one last glance at the pile of cameras, you huff, skipping towards the door, fixing your knot up hair as best as possible. 

“Hey!” you greet, nearly over exaggerating, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he beams, grinning from ear to ear. Lando pecks your lips, lingering for a moment, making your heart drop. Because he can’t know—can he? Distancing himself, he wears a subtle frown, sort of there, sort of not, so you’re quick to smile. “I’m so happy you’re back.” You turn to face Lily, who’s stayed in the background, letting you have your moment. “That you’re both back.”

“It's nice seeing you, too,” she says before her eyes wander to a place behind you. Suddenly, her eyes twinkle as she grins at Oscar who comes closer with lips drawn into a firm line. “Look who just woke up from a nap.” Kissing his cheek swiftly, she tippy toes, fixing his messy hair into a neat comb over. “You look as if you got into some kind of bar fight.”

“Yeah,” Lando hums, looking over at you with dark eyes. “It sort of does…”

“We were fixing the outside tables—”

“We were fixing the floral arrangements—”

Lily and Lando quirk a glance at each other, then back towards you and Oscar whose faces are flushed. Oscar coughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Why don’t you guys come and check it out?”

“Yes, please!” Lily squeals, already making her way out the door, the Australian not that far behind. 

Sighing, you go on to follow as well, but there’s this hold on your wrist that just won’t let go. You spin, staring at Lando who clenches his jaw.

“Did you fuck him?”

You flinch. “No—I didn’t.”

Blue eyes fill with warning as he nods, silently thinking to himself before rubbing his chin harshly. “Don’t lie to me. I know what you’re capable of.”

This physically makes you feel sick, ashamed that he knows you for being a lying cheater. “You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, wishing to take it back as soon as it comes out. He raises a brow, clearly surprised. You gulp. “You’re capable of doing the same thing as me, aren’t you? Isn’t that why we’re together?”

“We’re together because I love you.”

“Yeah, well, I love you, too. I’ve literally given up the relationship I had with my sister—for you.” Taking his hands into yours, you knit your brows together softly, and just like that, he melts. “I love you, Lando. There's no need for anyone else.”

Looking past the clear window, Oscar stares at you and the Brit, who share a hug, taking occasional loving pecks as if nothing else matters. 

As if his feelings aren't worth anything. 

“I love it,” Lily says, ripping his gaze from getting hurt any further. Because that’s what this has all led to —him getting hurt. She grins happily, making her way closer. “I really appreciate you two working on this together, it all looks so wonderful.”

Guilt makes his tongue trip as he tries to say something, but when all fails, he settles with a warm smile, pulling her against his chest, kissing the top of her head. “I’d do anything for you, Lily Zneimer.”

With your head resting on Lando’s shoulders, you look out to where the couple stand, in the same embrace. This makes your eyes sting, which is silly because—why do you feel so invalidated? 

Despite being so far apart, you and Oscar are still able to connect, looking at each other with a certain yearning. This is not what this was supposed to be. The Australian would have never dreamt of any other girl that wasn’t Lily, so what happened? 

“I love you,” Lando mumbles, securing his hold on you.

“I love you,” Lily mumbles, face pressed against his heart, feeling it thump fiercely. 

You spare Oscar a smile, and Oscar spares you the same. And neither of you two can bring yourselves to lie.

So, instead, neither of you say it back.

-

It all comes crashing down on you one Sunday morning. 

By now, Lily has graduated, summer is over, and you’re back in Monaco. And for some reason, Lando offered to help get Lily’s picture’s developed. He knew a guy who’d get him a nice discount, apparently. Film is expensive as it is, so of course the British girl accepted. 

You’re sitting outside on the balcony. It’s windy today, and you should probably go back inside, but the ocean looks particularly blue today, so you decide to stay. 

Curling yourself tighter with your blanket, you sigh, staring numbly, mind racing. Because this is a daily occurrence now. 

All. You. Think. About. Is. Him.

Him and his obnoxious smile. Him and his warm brown eyes. Him and his chuckle that sounds dry to everyone else, but lively to you. 

Just…him.

And without a doubt, Lando has figured out that something was wrong with you, but he never asked questions.

Until now.

“Hey,” he says, plopping down next to you, pressing his lips against your temple quickly before smiling. “Have you been here all day?”

You blush, shivering by the sudden breeze. “If I say no, would you believe me?”

“Yes,” he admits, clicking his tongue. “Because apparently I believe almost everything you have to say.”

Including your lies. 

You hear him, but his voice is muffled by now with all that you’re feeling. He handed you an envelope, and you first opened it with curiosity, then with dread and shame when you realized what was inside.

The film.

You’re laughing, eyes shut with delight. 

Your lips are wrapped around his thumb.

Around his cock, too.

Drops of cum lay flat on your tongue.

One where his head is beneath your dress.

One of his hands wrapped around your ankles, a certain number four glimmering.

All of this, and more.

Licking your lips repeatedly, you sit up, staring at him with an open mouth. “Lando—”

“I’m not mad.”

You blink.

He shrugs, taking the pictures, making you want to snatch them back and figure out what to do with them yourself. How could you and Oscar forget to set this one aside?

He can tell that you’re mortified, so he sends a reassuring smile, but it does no good. “I’m not, alright? I’m just…disappointed.” His reaction is confusing, he can tell what you’re thinking. Why is he so okay with this? “I’m not the biggest fan of you lying to me, but whatever, it’s fine.”

“And sure, I should be furious that you two went behind my back, and maybe I am—but I’m willing to let it go because I love you.” The blue eyed boy pecks your lips, you still frozen with shock. He chuckles. “This is what I get, right? This is my karma? For sleeping with you while I was still dating your sister?”

When you still don’t say anything, he nods to himself, as if this is all making sense to him, and only him. “Must be.” A beat. “I forgive you.”

“What about him?” you squeak, scared of his response.

Lando clenches his jaw before breaking into a helpless smile. “He doesn’t have to know, I know. This will just remain between you and I—just like always. He doesn’t have to know. Lily doesn’t have to know.”

You hold yourself from crying because in a way, he’s right. Out of everyone, Lily Zneimer doesn’t deserve any of this. She has been nothing but good to you, and you’re embarrassed to notice now that you ruined a perfectly good friendship. And while she may have no clue, you do, and that’s enough for you to probably wince every time you look at her from now on.

“Just don’t do it again. M’kay?”

Rubbing his thumb against your lips, it’s almost like he’s waiting for something, but when you don’t seem to do whatever he was thinking, his eyes darken, and he gets up with a bitter smile. 

He takes the pictures with him and you don’t know what for.

But you don’t dare ask a single question.

It’s just you. Your thoughts.

And Oscar.

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting @chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire @alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious @notkaryna @wanderingreigns @aykxz98 @ruti26-11 @esposamultifandom @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @r0nnsblog @aeriblu @inchidentofftrack @natashaklein @rutaceae-gelato @bowielovesyou @lilypat @folklaur21 @dustie-faerie @ajordan2020 @oscobabe @briefkittenearthquake @anayaverse

[chillycherry44]

✶ 15 YEARS IN THE MAKING

summary: oscar's home race is a big deal. however, what's even bigger is the realization that he has been in love with the childhood friend waiting for him at the finish line since the day he met her. it only took him 15 years, a thousand missed opportunities and a so-called mistake to realize it.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x childhood bff!f!reader

wc: 11.3k

cw: aus gp 2025, unaccurate aus gp 2024 for plot purpose, use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline, kinda bittersweet/angsty at some point, otherwise fluff + hea

note: need to cradle that man in my arms and kiss him on the forehead, special mention to @cntappen who wanted yearning oscar, hope ur satisfied 🙏 i lowkey hate this but we carry on

soundtrack: ♫ something, somehow, someday - role model

OSCAR ALMOST DROPS his mug when Hattie tells him the news. “She’s coming to the race?”

His sister nodded, shifting from one foot to the other like she didn’t quite know where to put herself ─ which was uncharacteristic of her ─ and the first things going through Oscar’s mind were Did she know? How would she know? Did she tell her? “I texted her about it ‘cause she always comes to Melbourne. I was just curious. She said she’d be coming if she was welcome with us.”

His head was spinning. Gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, Oscar chose his next words with calculated precision. “And you said…?”

“I mean, Mom said yes, obviously,” Hattie shrugged. “She loves Y/N. And she said it’s been a while since you two saw each other, might do you some good with stress and all that.”

Of course, his mom would say that. You had always been a second daughter for her, welcoming you in her home as if your place had always been next to Oscar on the living room couch. Hattie had been as enthusiastic as her, if a little confused at first, about who had developed such an attachment to her quiet, nonchalant brother. Ever since you and Oscar were children, as soon as he told his mother about the new girl next door who cut short his remote-controlled truck training on the playground, you had been included in every Piastri family dinner.

Because you were Oscar's whole world, his personal sun, the second you stepped into view ─ it would have taken someone mute, blind, and deaf not to notice it. He was just a planet, a satellite, orbiting around you in search of meaning.

Had been. Until almost a year ago.

And nobody knew except for him.

So Oscar swallowed down the lump in his throat.  “Okay, sure, that's cool,” he let out a breath. “I missed her.” The words pained him, as veracious as they were. He didn’t simply miss you like you’d miss someone you hadn’t seen in a while ─ Oscar missed you like an amputee would miss a ghost limb. The kind of pull that tears someone from the inside out, and he only had himself to blame for the ache.

If Hattie suspected something was off, she didn't say it. She chose to scrutinize him instead, eyebrows scrunched in a silent question he answered with a vague smile, as always. She spoke about how you hadn’t come to visit in quite some time, how he rarely updated them on how you were anymore, how you blossomed in your life, but the words went in one ear and out through the other.

Because you were going to the Melbourne Grand Prix, the start of the 2025 season. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing you again, not after the fiasco of the same Grand Prix, a year ago.

Guess he didn’t have much choice.

Oscar Piastri is eight when he meets you for the first time.

He was given his first remote-controlled truck for Christmas and ever since then, rare were the times he spent his full days at home. The playground, with a lot more ground than playthings for children, was a five-minute walk from his house ─ perfect for practicing, he thought. His newfound gadget made him develop a fervency he hadn’t known before, an obsession for speed. He knew Australia had championships for remote-controlled racing, his dad told him so. He wanted a part in it like he never wanted anything in the world before. Except maybe the truck.

But before he could hope of entering, he needed to get to a certain level and that meant practice. So to the playground (or park, park was a cooler word) he went.

Today wasn’t an exception. Vacations had started not so long ago, the sun was high in the sky and Oscar’s knees were raw from being dug in the gravel for so long. His thumbs were branded by the print of the remote in his hand, sweat beaded on his forehead, hair sticking to it, and maybe his vision was blurring a little. But Oscar was nothing if not determined, so he kept going as his truck narrowly avoided obstacles he put in place.

Until a water bottle replaced the self-made circuit in his visual field.

Oscar's eyes slowly trailed up in exasperation, expecting one of his younger sisters or his mother dotting on him, telling him to come back home. Instead, his breath caught a little.

You stood there, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around you, turning the loose strands of your hair into something almost otherworldly. Oscar had never believed in angels ─ never really thought about them at all, actually ─ but at that moment he wondered if maybe, just maybe they existed. Your sundress, once pristine, was rusted with dirt, the hem brushing against your scraped knees, blood dried in uneven patches. But you didn’t seem to mind. Instead, you smiled ─ as if scuffed knees and torn dresses were just a natural part of being you.

His wide, brown eyes glided from the lukewarm bottle to you, in wonder and shock alike. Your palm was smudged in playground dust, but Oscar barely noticed ─ his gaze caught instead on the way light tangled in your hair, your eyes sparkling with something bright, untamed, unstoppable. You spoke up. “You look like you’re gonna faint. Take it. Drivers need water, right?”

Your voice, soft, shook him out of his trance: he hesitantly took the bottle from your hand, and your fingers brushed against his. Red colored the tip of his ears. He swallowed, hard, bringing the bottle to his chest. You offered him another smile in return, and Oscar felt his heart flutter.

“My name is Y/N.” Before he could even think about protesting ─ about telling you that, actually, he hadn’t asked ─ you plopped down beside him, legs folding underneath you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your shoulder bumped against his, a casual, thoughtless kind of closeness that sent a foreign heat to the back of his neck.

Then just as he was processing that, you turned to face him- too close. Way too close.

Noses. Your noses nearly touched.

Oscar went rigid. Did you know nothing about personal space?!

You pointed behind him, at the house right next to his, visible from the park. “I live right here!”

“...No, you can’t.” Oscar finally said, frowning. He was trying to be as polite as he could muster to be in those conditions. His mom would kill him if he wasn't.

“Why?”

“Nobody lives here.”

The aggressive neutrality of his voice, a timbre unique to him, didn’t deter you in the slightest. On the contrary, it seemed like his reticence to your presence made you beam brighter at him. “That’s because we just moved here, duh. See that car? It’s my mom’s.”

The indifference in Oscar slowly turned to confusion, or as close as it could get to curiosity. There was indeed a baby blue car parked in the driveway he never saw before. For as long as he could remember, which was not a lot, it was always vacant. Until today, apparently. “Oh. We’re neighbors, then.”

Your smile widened, eyes practically shining in excitement. “That’s so cool! I was scared I was gonna be the only kid here.”

Oscar barely heard you, too busy staring at where your arm pressed against his. Was it normal? Were other kids just… this close of each other? Because he wasn’t used to it, not at all. “... How old are you?”

“Eight!” You practically bounced as you said it.

“Me too.”

Your face lit up. Oh no.

“That’s even better! We can be friends! Best friends, even!”

Wait, what.

Oscar blinked, his mind screeching to a halt. That escalated fast. Weren’t there supposed to be multiple steps before deciding to be lifelong friends? Had he missed something? “Uh─”

“What’s your name?” You asked with renewed enthusiasm if it was even possible to add to that.

“... Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”

“Nice to meet you Oscar Piastri from next door!” You held out your hand and, much to his surprise, Oscar took it. Hesitantly, awkwardly, yes, but he still did. The strange, unfamiliar feeling tugging at his stomach wouldn’t let him do otherwise. “I like your truck,” you continued, fingers still wrapped around his like you didn’t even notice. “Can I try it?”

Oscar was way too focused on your palm still sitting in his to process your words. Was he supposed to pull away first? “I… I don’t─”

“Or I could watch you! I don’t mind. I was watching you in the tree back there anyways.”

Oscar blinked. It explained the stains and the scratches, he thought. He still couldn’t believe that there was a whole girl like her in a tree, spying on him, and he had been so caught up by his remote-controlled truck to even notice it. Just as if you could read his thoughts, a sheepish look made its way to your face, lips pursuing as you finally ─ finally ─ let go of his hand. “Mom doesn’t like when I do that,” you admitted as if it were a secret. “But it’s fine. I can wash the dress.”

He stared. There was… something about you, Something about the way you sparkled even when you sat still, the way your presence felt bigger than your little body. He swallowed, nudging the controller toward you before he could regret his decision. “Try.” His voice came out weird. “It’s boring to watch.” 

The twinkling in your eyes was worth every crash that came after this. You were struggling, and hitting every obstacle he skillfully steered away from. Each and every hit was accompanied by a giggle or an exaggerated groan but even though you were terrible, as Oscar tactfully noticed, it still looked like you were having the most fun you had in years.

When he had to go home, you walked him to the door with a spring in your step, occupying the conversational space with random facts about the world. Something about how octopuses had three hearts, how clouds weren’t actually as soft as they looked, and how the color yellow made people happy. Oscar didn’t say much, he never really did, but he contentedly listened.

And then, just as the door swung open, before he could even process the way he wanted to stay a little bit longer, you turned to his mom with all the confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome. “Can Oscar come back tomorrow?” His mom barely had time to blink, but Oscar already knew─ it was over.

Because the moment she said yes, the second the fierce little girl beside him claimed more time with him like it was hers to take, it was sealed. After that, it came as naturally as breathing. Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Never one without the other. You led, he followed. And, somewhere along the way, the rest of the world stopped mattering.

You were a constant in Oscar’s life, a lifeline he clung to without realizing he had reached for it in the first place. He got into karting at ten and nothing─ not his dad's last-minute pep talks, not the hours of practice ─ could calm the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel before his first race. His fingers curled on it, hands trembling and grip tight, knuckles aching from the pressure. What if he wasn’t actually good? What if he messed it all up? What if─?

And then, there you were. Signature grin, messy ponytail, a tiny hand sign scribbled in clashy, colorful letters: GO, OSCAR GO!! The words were surrounded by questionable doodles ─ stick-figure cars with lopsided wheels, a few stray hearts in the margins like an afterthought. “I came to watch you win,” you said, like there was no other possibility. After that, the race was just a race.

The moment you dropped a chaste kiss on his helmet, all nerves settled. When he passed by you, you brandished your sign high in the air, a beacon, the only thing he really needed to see. He won that race with his head held high and in the middle of celebration ─ his mom hugging him tight, cheers echoing all around ─ he silently dedicated his victory to you.

Because when he scanned the crowd, your eyes were the easiest to find. Because nothing ever felt better than the feeling of you running in his arms right after.

And just like that─ childhood blurred into early adolescence in a flurry of incandescent polaroids: late afternoon on track, whooping as Oscar made his laps, stolen moments on the swings at the playground between school and training, a thousand shared snacks, juice boxes, whispers, a million inside jokes and secrets. Summers spent side by side, laughter tangled in the air like something meant to last forever.

Years of Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. No space between. No questions about what you were to each other. Not yet. 

But Oscar Piastri is fifteen when he leaves you behind.

He had been offered a seat in Formula 4. The words came in a rush, tumbling from an ecstatic Chris Piastri and an equally thrilled Nicole Piastri, their voices nearly overlapping in excitement. Oscar heard them, he knew what they were saying and yet his mind refused to catch up. He sat there, cereal spoon dangling in the air, milk dripping back in his bowl.

The world around him blurred─ static in his ears, something like disbelief flooding his veins. He had wanted this. Trained for this. But now that it was real, it was as if his body had forgotten how to move. So you did it first.

Your arms wrapped around his neck without a second thought, squeezing tight. A hug that made it impossible to do anything but exist in the moment. He unfroze: the weight of your warmth, how you clung to him without any reservation, it yanked him back. His hands had found your back, gripping instinctively. It hit him all at once: Formula 4. His dream was real. And you were here, like always.

Until you wouldn’t be anymore.

Everything slipped past Oscar in a blur: he applied to a boarding school and got accepted in the same week, his parents were already looking for a house nearby, and his mom searching for job opportunities ─ in Brighton, England, closer to where he would be practicing. A thousand kilometers away from Australia, a thousand memories away from you.

One thing you learned in your years of friendship with Oscar was that he wasn’t much of a talker. He wasn’t big on the expression of feelings either ─ he showed affection softly, when he thought people wouldn’t notice. But you did, and you never planned on doing anything about it because that was just how Oscar was: reserved, hesitant in his tenderness. So the conversation about his departure never came ─ it was just a weight, hanging in the air of your every interaction, untouched. He didn’t want to venture there, to face how he wouldn’t wake up next to you anymore after another sleepover, how he would have to learn how to exist without you at arm’s reach. The lack of you was already digging a hole in his chest, and it was one of the main reasons he said no to your proposition of a send-off party.

But Oscar knew you too, too well, so he was only half-surprised when he turned on the light of his house after training and discovered the crowd of your shared friends amidst colorful balloons and cakes. You stood out in all of them when you offered him the smile that was uniquely his, and Oscar’s chest almost collapsed.

The party was fun. He got goodbye gifts ─ trinkets, plushies and books he knew he’ll lose sleep over. He didn’t dance to the music, but enjoyed watching people lose themselves in the soft light of his kitchen from the sidelines. Some friends cried and some friends didn’t ─ he side-hugged them all, never letting them too close except for a select few, and he accepted the heartfelt speeches with reassurances that he will come back during the summer, without a doubt.

The night slowed, party leftovers forgotten on the counters, and the house was quieter now that most of the guests had filtered out. Only a few stragglers remained inside, their voices dimmed to an unobtrusive murmur. But Oscar, the supposed star of the show, was hesitating in the threshold of his front door ─ because you were outside. And wherever you went, he followed.

You were sitting on the front door steps, arms wrapped around your knees, bathed in the dim glow of the porch light. The soft hum of cicadas filled the space as Oscar sat beside you. He knew he should say something, anything. Thank you for the party, even though he swore he didn’t want one. You were right, because of course, you were. Or finally address what was begging to be talked about ─ he just didn’t know how. Because sitting right here, with you just a few inches away, he realizes this is it. 

This is the last night before everything changes, and he can’t do anything about it. So he stays silent.

“You’re freaking out,” you say. Not a question. Your observant eyes flickered to his face, gaze soft in the way that makes his breath catch.

Oscar exhales sharply, tipping his head back against the wooden railing. “Am not.”

You give him a look. The look that always calls his bullshit. “Alright, I am.” He swallows, voice quieter. “A little.”

A pause. And then─ a nudge. Your knee bumping into his. A small, familiar thing, but somehow it unravels him. His eyes are burning, and he can’t pinpoint why. “You’ll be fine, Osc’’,” you affirmed, as certain as the sun rising tomorrow. “As long as you don’t forget about me.” A quiet laugh escaped you.

And Oscar could feel it, the thick air between you, pressing against his throat and sitting on his tongue. How could he ever forget about you? You were sitting so close, staring at him as if tucking him in some secret place inside of you. Oscar hated it, so much that it finally slipped─ “I don’t want to go.”

It came out quieter than he expected. Your lips parted slightly, brows furrowed, and Oscar felt like he said too much and not enough at the same time. Because he did want to go, but what he meant was, I don’t want to go if it means leaving you, I don’t know how to exist without you in my orbit. What he really meant, he couldn’t understand what it was no matter how hard he tried.

He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I mean─” Oscar cleared his throat. “I do. Obviously. It’s just─ It’s gonna be weird.”

“Yeah, it is,” you murmured, flushing against his shoulder. “But we’ll make it work.”

Oscar looked at you, really did. The way the light caught the edges of your face, the night breeze playing with your hair, how you existed so beautifully and effortlessly, as you belonged in all the places he had ever loved. The words almost slipped out: You could come with me.

It was right there, clawing its way up his throat.

Yet, something stopped him. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he didn’t know what it meant. Because he didn’t know if he was asking like a best friend or something else, and he didn’t know what to do with the way you were constricting his chest, how you pressed against his ribcage, demanding more. You looked at Oscar and he looked at you ─ he swallowed it down, staring at the playground far in front of you. 

And the moment passed.

Oscar left the day after, and the empty house was now the one next to yours.

Your hotel room was eerily quiet.

You were never known for silence ─ all your life, people had repeatedly told you about the overwhelming space you occupied, how loud your laugh echoed, how you never quite knew how to fold and pocket yourself to be less. Growing up, adults meant it in an endearing way. Now, you realized just how much the words stung, even if you never took them as insults. But here, in the uncomfortable coldness of the room you rented for the week-end, everything was quiet: no music, no you talking to yourself. Nothing.

It felt unnatural ─ like something was missing. The one thing that always reassured you about the room you took up.

It left you restless, and your hands trembled a little as you finished applying the last layer of mascara on your lashes. Maybe it was just nerves ─ after all, it’s been a while since you’ve been on a race and hung out with Hattie, Edie, Mae, Nicole, and Chris. Ever since you moved out for university, the city of Melbourne and all of the memories it held always managed to make you a bit anxious.

However, deep down, you knew. It’s the fact that for the first time in over a year, you were going to see Oscar.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror as you dropped your makeup next to the sink. You couldn’t decipher your own expression.

Hattie texted you out of nowhere, and even though it wasn’t unusual for you two to talk from time to time, it surprised you a bit when she asked you if you were going to the Grand Prix. It shouldn’t have, she didn’t know ─ or maybe she suspected something, but you still said you’d be coming. So Nicole was on her way to pick you up and take you to the same spot you’ve been occupying since 2023, and you’ll have to sit and act as if everything was alright, as if her son was the best friend you grew up with and didn’t become an acquaintance overnight that you occasionally exchanged “good morning”, “good night”, “happy birthday” and “how are you doing?” texts with.

Because ever since that fateful night after the Melbourne Grand Prix of 2024, something shifted between you and Oscar. Something that had been weighing on you both for years, waiting, waiting, waiting- until it finally cracked, only to narrowly miss you. And now? You didn’t know his weekly schedule, and you couldn’t remember the last time you complained about your teachers to him. You and Oscar weren’t quite strangers, but you weren’t you anymore either. 

Because whatever had been waiting that night never had a chance to be resolved. And maybe it never would.

You shut your eyes, your breathing quickening dangerously. No. You weren’t going to think about that right now. It’s fine ─ you’re just here to watch a race like you always did. Just another race. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, did it? You’ll cheer, you’ll congratulate him, and you’ll leave. Even if it was his home race. Even if it was in the same city you laughed in his backyard, held hands running in the streets, stayed awake at ungodly hours of the night tangled together, the city you had both known and lost each other.

Frankly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting─ what you even wanted this weekend to be. All you knew was that you desperately wanted to grasp at the last semblance of normalcy that used to be between Oscar and you, and if that meant showing up at the Melbourne race and praying for his car to see the checkered flag in pole position like the deepest parts of your heart weren’t screaming for him, so be it.

When Nicole called you to tell you she parked her car, you took a deep breath and walked to the elevator, carefully ignoring the sickening feeling of your stomach reminding you that, in Melbourne, there was no simply ignoring the past anymore.

Oscar Piastri is twenty when he tells you the news.

Five years have passed ever since he moved out of Australia, but no matter how the years stretched between then and now, racetracks and podium dreams, Oscar always made sure of one thing: that he’d come back. Back to his neighborhood, these streets, the quiet buzz of familiarity.

And back to you.

Time had tried its best to pull you apart with different schedules, different time zones, and places, but you two were still an unstoppable force. Y/N and Oscar. Oscar and Y/N. No matter how late the flights, how long the race weekends, how exhausting the training, he always called ─ even if it was past midnight, or he had to wake up in three hours, or he could barely keep his eyes open. Because your voice, distant and barely audible through the crackling of a bad signal, was home. And you always picked up.

Oscar missed it. He made friends in boarding school, a group of laid-back guys who filled the late hours with video games and terrible jokes, making his new world a little less foreign. He enjoyed their company, sure, but none of them were you. None of them could look at him and already know what he was thinking, like the syllables were etched in your bones, and they didn’t tilt their head up at the sky on a rusty swing set, taking him with them, and spun the world into something bigger. God, he missed that. He missed you.

Even though, sometimes, he wondered if you missed him just as much.

Obviously, since Oscar left, you had to build something for yourself in the space he left behind, and it only became more concrete when you enrolled in a university away from Melbourne. He tried to be happy for you when you did. But then you would tell him about a friend group he didn’t know the faces of, threading into the places he used to be and the places he’d never been, the ones he couldn’t visit with you like the café near your 10 a.m. lecture on Fridays. 

Sometimes, only sometimes, when he allowed himself to feel a bit more than he should, the scraps of emotions he usually denied himself ─ he was scared he didn’t belong in the new sphere you’ve constructed for yourself. That he was a dusty polaroid in a wooden box, waiting for the day you’d tuck him away.

But that had to be wrong. It had to be. Because the second your eyes found his as he stepped out of the airport, it was like nothing had changed. Like the months apart, the missed calls, the milestones he couldn’t be there for ─ none of it mattered.

The way you looked at him, like he was still your Oscar, the boy you always had known and always will, it made up for everything.

You had been there when Oscar graduated from Formula 4 to Formula 3. You had been right by his side when Formula 3 turned to Formula 2 the following year. Whether it be by phone or in person when the good news coincided with both of your trips to your childhood neighborhood. Your excited screech, your lips on his cheek twisting his stomach and painting his cheeks red, he figured it was just common sense for you to learn he’s been promoted a third time in person. He wanted to see your reaction.

Whenever you and Oscar came back, your mom would welcome you with open arms in your old home. There were only two bedrooms, one that was your mom’s, which used to be awkward for him before it became a common occurrence for you two to share a bed. Both your parents had forbidden it, but quickly gave up when you used to find a way to sneak into Oscar’s bedroom and keep him awake. Their resolve vanished entirely when they noticed quiet, untroubled Oscar started getting on it as well.

So there you were, twenty years old in your childhood bedroom, sharing a bed too small for your height. The window was half-opened, the air thick and unmoving, letting in the last shreds of sunset that danced across your skin in soft, golden streaks. You were facing each other, which allowed him to see your eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, your breathing slow and even as if the mere act of being near him was enough to let you rest.

Oscar flushed at that thought. You had spent hours driving just to come and get him, to fall in bed beside him, limbs tangled, words fading into the quiet comfort of home. Just to be here, with him.

He wanted to wait. Until your eyes were wide open and you were awake enough to react like you always did: in screams and hugs and plans of the future. But the warmth curling in his chest wasn’t allowing him to keep it from you any longer.

“I got a seat in Formula One,” Oscar announced in the silence of the room.

“What?” Your voice was hoarse from tiredness, but it didn’t stop your sharp gaze from snapping to his. Your lips parted, just barely, an inhale caught in your throat, and Oscar gets distracted.

He shouldn’t, not now, but─ he can’t help it.

How many times had he seen you like this? Sleep-heavy, warm with exhaustion, curled up beside him. Too many to count. Not once had it felt like this, like something heavier rested on his shoulders.

He repeats with a little difficulty, forcing himself back to the moment. “I got a seat in Formula One.” He swallows before precising, “Not Alpine. McLaren.”

You blinked. Once, twice, your brain catching up with the weight of his words. Then, before Oscar could brace himself, you were moving.

You crashed into him, as much as you could in the position you were, tucking yourself against his chest in the semblance of a hug. The pressure was nothing, still, the air was knocked out of his lungs. “You did it!” You whispered-yelled against his shoulder, voice trembling with emotion. “Oh my god, Osc’. You did it. I fucking knew you would.”

Of course, you knew. You always knew before Oscar did, before he even started believing in it himself. A scoff, wet with feelings, escaped him as his shaky fingers hovered over your ribs, processing the situation. You pulled back, just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide. The palm that wasn’t resting on his chest slipped up, featherlight, to cup his cheek. Oscar almost flinched. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but─”

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted him. “You’re going to be in Formula One! In McLaren! That’s huge, and─”

Realization hits you like a truck. “Oh my god, Daniel Ricciardo.”

Out of all the things that could have ruined the moment, Oscar wouldn’t have expected it to be Daniel Ricciardo. “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Everyone loves Daniel. We get it. My mom said the same thing.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, and you shoved him a little. “Come on, it’s a shock for me!”

“It’s also pressure, but thank you so much for your consideration.”

“I congratulated you two seconds ago!”

“I’m sure Daniel would love your condolences even more.”

By that point, you were a giggling mess beneath Oscar’s hands, so much that the sound successfully got a few huffs out of him as well. The pressure of the news evaporated at each new chuckle out of your mouth, and the room was finally big enough to breathe.

Laughter died down, reduced to heavy intakes of air between half-sentences, and that’s when Oscar realized.

Your fingers, gently brushing over his cheekbones, nails grazing his skin. His palms capturing your sides as your thigh rested between his legs. He wasn’t pulling you in, clinging to you like he always did ─ instead, he froze. His heart was stuttering too fast, too loud, in a way that had nothing to do with the news he’d just shared and you simply stared at him, eyes sparkling, as if he handed you the World Driver’s Championship trophy right here and there. Waiting for something.

The heat of your body, your usual proximity, the soft cotton of the sheets did nothing to help the blood boiling in Oscar’s veins and thoughts spiraled in a blink, of what it would be like if he just let his hand roam a little lower, if your breath swept over his lips. 

Words lodged themselves in his throat, just like they did when he was fifteen, sitting on his porch. But this time, he knew. No pretense, no excuse. He was twenty years old, not a child anymore. He knew what these words were and what they wanted to be.

You could come with me. You could come to my races. You could stay. Stay with me.

His chest squeezed. His fingers twisted. His mouth stayed shut.

Because you had a life here. A life that, lately, felt like it had more and more spaces he didn’t fit into. What was he supposed to say? Drop everything? Follow me? Give up everything you built and choose me?

Oscar Piastri wasn’t a wishful thinker, he didn’t ask for things he wasn’t sure he could have ─ and he wasn’t sure he could have you. Not because he didn’t want to, he desperately wanted to, but because he still didn’t understand it. He didn’t get why you put that ache in his chest, the weight in his ribs. Why it was more painful to be away from you, to see you live without him, than his old friend group ─ he put the fault on nostalgia, but it wasn’t it. He had spent years trying to figure it out and still ─ still ─ didn’t have the answer.

So he did what he’d usually do when meaning escaped him. 

He buried it. He’ll take a look at it. He’ll figure it out later.

“Being in F1,” he cleared his throat. “It’s going to be harder, with the schedule and all that. But I promise─”

“You don’t need to,” you cut him off and Oscar noticed the light slightly dim in your eyes, then coming back like nothing happened. “We’ll make it work, we always do.”

You pulled back again, taking your hand with you and letting the cold air replace your touch. Somehow, Oscar knew he did something, but once more he didn’t know what. Instead, he let himself believe the moment was nothing more than what it had always been. Nothing more than you, his best friend, happy for him.

But as you fell asleep, the distance put by you larger than it ever was before, even by just a few millimeters, something inside of him whispered─ liar.

Oscar got in his car, and yet his mind was as far away from it as it could be. Walking out the garage, he had seen his entire family cheering for him, his mom dropping a good-luck kiss on his cheek, and he should be grounded in the moment. He should be basking in the cheers of his home crowd and the familiarity of Australian air opening his season, but he couldn't. Because there was no sign of you.

He had thrown a glance at Hattie, a silent question, and she simply shrugged. Oscar didn't know what that meant: if you excused yourself for a moment or didn't come at all. Which one he was hoping for, that was the question.

And so the formation lap started. The car was feeling good, great even ─ Oscar had done well during the testing rounds and free practices, even landing second place in qualifications right behind Lando. His chest had swelled with hope that maybe, just maybe, he could take on his home race. He brushed the podium last year, how far could he be from taking it with both hands this time?

He could hear his race engineer checking last minute details, the impatient buzzing of the crowd, the motor of his car warming up and flaring to life. It was a sound, a rhythm he could recognize eyes closed.

As the lap concluded, cars finally ready to live through 58 rounds, a streak of hair caught his eye.

If he could decipher the metre of a Grand Prix with his eyes closed, Oscar knew he could recognize the pattern of you before you even came into view. It was brief─ almost a blur, but it was more than enough.

Through the haze of rain-slicked asphalt and the relentless roar of the engine, he caught you. Standing with his family against the edge of the garage like you belonged there, which you did, hands clasped tight against your chest like you were the one in the car, navigating the turns for him. Your hair, wild from the wind, dampened by the drizzle, framing your face. God.

You came. 

After everything, you were really there.

For him.

Oscar pulled his car in P2, but the flickering red lights above him did nothing to calm his racing mind. You always watched his races like this: lived through them like they were your own. Somehow, that made it easier. The loneliness of battling against your own, the relentless push forward. You made it lighter, less suffocating. You always have been. And you were ready to watch him race again, after everything. His chest twisted, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

And even in the current circumstances, Oscar wasn’t thinking about the race. Not at all.

For what he wished could have been the first time, but wasn’t, the car was filled with the thought of you.

Because it hits him. Like a crash, full speed, sparks flying. Why missing you hurt so much. Why, after a year of unnatural distance of swallowing down whatever had possessed him that night in Melbourne a year ago, he still felt like something lacked.

Oh.

And before he could process it all, it was lights out.

Oscar Piastri is twenty-two when he fucks it up.

The Melbourne Grand Prix didn’t go so badly, but it didn’t go well either. Oscar had been so close to getting a podium on his home race, and watching his colleague, his friend, receiving the applause of his home crowd left a bitter feeling in the back of his throat. He cheered and congratulated, because he was a good sport and genuinely happy for Lando, but the uneasiness didn’t leave him when the cameras turned off.

It was a sticky heaviness in his ribcage, glued to it like molten plastic, tightening with every half-smile and “good jobs” aimed at him. He should’ve been happy, ecstatic. But he just wasn’t.

So he forced himself to go out to celebrate anyway, even half-heartedly. He didn’t want to look like the asshole he really felt like, so he nodded at conversations he wasn’t listening to, let the bass drum against his skin in a club he didn’t even want to be into.

Oscar lasted maybe an hour.

The flashing lights felt too bright, the press of bodies too wrong for his current state of mind. The scent of alcohol curled in his nose, sharp and sour, and something in him was teetering to break the last agreeable bone in his body. As he got out of the club, he thought about how he wanted to be anywhere else but here, suffocating in his own unjustified frustration. 

The only place he wanted to be was with you.

He barely had time to see you before he got whisked away by his team and interviewers. He wanted to tell you about the race, about what he thought, because you were the only one he enjoyed being listened to by, the only one it didn’t feel awkward. No matter how much he tried to shove things down, to ignore whatever it was that had been thrumming under his skin- you were still the first person he reached for. So before he could really think about it, he’d already dialed your number. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know─ Can you hear me? Yeah? Alright. I know it’s late but… can you pick me up?”

And of course you did. Because you were Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Because no matter where or when─ when Oscar called, you always came.

Your car was in front of the building not even ten minutes later, and he got in. His favorite music on the aux, he smiled at the attention, easy conversation started flowing between the two of you as you drove to the driveway of your house. You didn’t ask why he left. You knew he’d talk about it when he wanted to, if you pressed on the issue he would only close up more ─ get sarcastic, avoidant.

So you both sat on your front porch, the night silent around you, still warm from the heat of the day. “... don’t think he'll be able to walk home tomorrow,” Oscar commented.

“He got third and he's still getting shitfaced like that?” You asked with a disbelieving laugh. “Wonder what will happen for his first pole position.”

“I don't even want to think about it,” he sighed. “His PR team is gonna have a field day.”

“Wonder what will happen during yours, to be honest.” You bumped your shoulder with his, something so casual that still sent the familiar shivers down his spine. “What kind of celebration are you going to pull in Australia, huh?”

The simple sentence was cold rain on Oscar’s newfound relaxation. He knew you didn’t mean it like that, you never would, but his shoulders tensed up and his gaze drifted away from yours. “Yeah, well, at the rhythm it’s going, maybe we’ll have a party when I retire.”

You threw him a glance, the kind that knew what was lying behind all of his barriers, behind the sudden phone call. Oscar let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the material of his jeans. 

“Is that why you asked me to pick you up?” You ended up asking, voice soft. You weren’t trying to pry too much, and he silently thanked you for it. For everything, really.

“I didn’t want to be there,” he answered.

There was nothing more to say: Oscar was bitter and that was the end of it ─ or maybe not, but he didn’t want to get into it tonight when the feelings were still raw, painfully open to see. Yet, your hand found his, stilling the restless motion of his hand against his thigh. Slowly, deliberately, you wove them together. Your palms, warm and steady, rested above his knee. “Then why’d you go? We could have done something. Just the both of us, y’know.”

This time, Oscar looked at you.

And it was all too much. Worry laced in the edges of your expression, the subtle scrunch of your eyebrows he would have missed if he didn’t know you as well as he did, your hand in his ─ steady, grounding. It belonged there, he thought, it always did. You cared about him, that’s what scared him at first ─ because you were sunlight, not the kind that burned but the kind that warmed. The constant, unwavering glow of a beacon that guided him, never pulled him under.

And yet, there he was. Drowning in the mess he tried to push away for so long and was coming back full force, with a simple touch of the hand.

Oscar had two drinks earlier, and it made everything too sharp, his emotions too messy. His tongue a little too loose.

“I thought if I pretended hard enough, it would go away.” He didn’t know if he was talking about the race anymore.

You scooted closer, as if sharing a secret, but the closeness was too intimate for the situation. “What would?” You asked in a whisper.

Oscar’s breath hitched at the way the streetlamps caught in your hair, how your eyes searched his. There was a shift in the air, in the barely-there space between the two of you, in the way your fingers refused to let go of the grip it had on the other.

He should let go.

But your lips parted, ever so slightly, and Oscar allowed his gaze to dip to them. He kissed girls before, he even had a few short-lived relationships, but none of them ever felt right, like they belonged in a lasting manner in his life. They always felt like placeholders for something else, something more, less of a daunting feeling in his guts. He never really told you about it ─ it had always been an unspoken rule in your friendship, without knowing why. Now, he had a sneaky, unnerving suspicion.

Oscar kissed girls before, but he never kissed you.

He didn’t know if it was a mistake. He didn’t know if he should cross that line, but God he wanted to ─ he only knew that he wasn’t sure of what was waiting for him on the other side of it. His heart hammered in his chest, so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. You leaned in, imperceptibly, and your warm breath brushed against his lips. If he let himself, just for a second─ one tiny, irreversible second─ he would kiss you.

He was close. Too close. Feelings were too many. He needed to tell you before something could happen.

“Come with me,” Oscar blurted out, in a murmur along the shape of your lips, a plea in the leftover space.

And just like that, he felt the moment slip away from him. Your eyes, now sharp, snapped to him in a swift movement. And that’s when he knew. That wasn’t the right thing to say or do.

“What?” Your voice was quiet, laced with disbelief. Confusion swirled in your pupils, wondering if you misheard or if he misspoke.

Maybe he had. Maybe this wasn’t how it was supposed to come out- not here, not now, not like this.

“I- Uh…,” Oscar stammered. “Come with me. Stay. For the next races.” Please.

You pulled away, and the lack of you in his space caused his head to spin, his heart still beating violently against his chest, this time in panic. What did he do?

“What are you asking me exactly, Osc’?”

The question of the day. Because what was he asking, really? To be there for the few days in between flights and training and traveling and pretending his world wasn’t moving too fast for him to catch his breath? Sit in the stands, waiting for him to make up his mind about something he had been wondering about for the past fourteen years? Because what did he mean, and why couldn’t he understand?

It wasn’t fair. Not to you.

He swallowed, throat tight with something he couldn’t name and suddenly the night was too cold to stay outside anymore. Oscar forced out a weak chuckle, like it was just some stupid joke as if the word hadn’t crawled out of his chest on their own. “I meant─” He ran a quick hand through his hair. “Ha. Never mind. Forget it.”

And this time, when the light dimmed in your eyes, it didn’t come back. You won’t forget it. Because you saw right through him. Still, you didn’t push ─ every time you did, disappointment crawled over you like insects. After a beat of silence, one that felt like a lifetime, you exhaled, something fragile flashing across your features before you masked it with a tight-lipped smile. He hated it.

You nodded. “Sure.” Just that. Oscar didn’t know what he was expecting. No questions, accusations.

But that was almost worse, you let him get away with it, with the almost, with all of it.

When you both went to sleep that night, it was the first time in forever you didn’t sleep in the same bed. You pretended to have a headache, said you’d join him once it settled down. Oscar fell into slumber alone. 

For some reason, it felt like losing.

Saying to have known love at eight years old would have to be a lie, but Oscar knew you jump-started his heart the minute your laugh echoed in his ear at that playground, fifteen years ago.

He had been pathetically doomed from the start.

From the first glance, to the first laugh, to when your fingers grazed his when you took the controller to his truck ─ a touch so small that had burned itself into his memory like a brand. He was too young to understand what it meant at fifteen when he sat beside you on his porch. Too blind to recognize it at twenty, lying in your childhood bedroom and hands fisting the sheets to stop them from reaching for you. Too scared to act on it last year, close enough to touch and closer than you had been in years and he still let the moment pass him.

The truth was simply this: no matter what, Oscar had always known. Maybe not at eight, maybe not at fifteen. But deep inside, he had always, always known. And he had spent every year since then trying to ignore it.

Not anymore. He couldn’t ─ not when he messed it up last time. Not when he was on the verge of losing you for good.

Oscar Piastri loves you, like a madman, and he needed to tell you like someone drowning needed air.

But to do that, he’d have to get out of the patch of grass he got himself into first.

The track was slippery due to the rain, and a simple mistake could lead to tragic circumstances: this was one of them. Oscar was stuck in the grass of the circuit after a turn he took too narrowly. He lost his P2, the one of his home race he had been searching for since last year. The scream of frustration he let out had earned a pained groan from his race engineer, and to make it worse, he was apparently already written as Out.

But that wouldn’t happen. Because Oscar didn’t go after things he knew he couldn’t have ─but he knew he could have this race. He could finish it. He wouldn’t DNF.

And after he’d be done with it, he’d go after you.

So he dragged himself out under the cheers of his home crowd, an ecstatic buzz in his ears. The last of the laps passed in an angry blur: Oscar was driven by sheer determination, rage even, he could barely remember overtaking Hamilton, fighting his way to P9, and grabbing as many points as he could have in his situation. He could do it.

The race ended in a flurry of applause, some of them surprisingly directed at him. Oscar tried to get out of his car as fast as he could but under the special circumstances of his race, he knew getting past the journalists and commentators was going to be almost impossible. And it was, because as soon as he put a foot on paddock ground, he was swarmed by microphones, cameras, and flashing lights, waiting for every tear to turn into a headline that people would twist and shape.

A few hours passed by the time he was finally able to reach his family. After the regular hugs and reassurances, one of the first things his mom said was: “That’s too bad you just missed Y/N, she had to go back. I wish she could have stayed, she always knows what to say to you,” with motherly little taps on the cheek.

Oscar felt a hole opening in his chest. “She left?” He asked, trying to muster as much nonchalance as he could. 

It wasn’t very efficient, as Nicole gave him the kind of look you’d give to a kicked puppy. “Yeah, she did.” Quickly, she added, “She didn’t go back to her hotel, though. I asked to drop her off and she refused, saying she had somewhere to be.”

It was as vague as it could possibly get, maybe because you didn’t want Oscar to seek you out. But he needed to, he had to get it off his chest before your relationship could worsen ─ and he couldn’t do that by text or calls, for the little you exchanged over the past year. He had to know if the little gap you almost crossed on that front porch meant something and could have been something if he hadn’t fucked it up. If it was too late for it to become something now. And knowing you, you’d be gone by tomorrow morning.

Oscar dashed. 

He got into his car, drove too fast under the intensifying rain. There was no time to waste for him. What he was thinking about was a long shot, an extremely long one for a non-wishful thinker, but if today put you in the same state as him ─ there was a chance, a small one, that you’d be there. 

When he pulled into your childhood neighborhood, his drenched windshield made the road and its surroundings almost indiscernible. But right before the little street leading to both of your houses, he passed by that old, worn-down playground that somehow stood against the test of time, with its rusted swing set and old dirt roads. But his breath didn’t catch on that, no.

It caught on you, sitting on the lower branches of the tree you spied him on at eight.

Oscar had never parked so hastily. He never ran so fast, soaking the McLaren hoodie he put on in a rush before going out. His hair stuck to his forehead and when he reached the dry soil underneath the tree you were hiding on. Arms around yourself, staring in the empty, like you were holding yourself together.

He hesitated momentarily, and all the fears plaguing his mind the past years came rushing back. What if it was too late? What if all he’d get was a final goodbye?

Then you turned, and your gaze found his in the settling dark. All doubts vanished at the same moment ─ he’d rather regret saying too much and grasp at the chance of something than live the rest of his life in silence, drowning in the regrets of saying nothing at all.

“Y/N,” he called, a little strangled, arms dangling at his side.

“Oscar?” You frowned, jumping the small distance separating you from the ground. “What-? How’d you know─?”

“I… guessed.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The incessant rhythm of the rain filled the space as you both stared each other down. Waiting. What was he supposed to say now? “So… uh. How are you?”

Your eyes widened, and a scoff escaped you. “How am─?” You crossed your arms on your chest, staring at Oscar like he had grown a second head ─ and maybe he had, because he couldn’t even try to think straight. “I’m good, Oscar. Great. How was the race?”

“It was─” He stopped, swallowed. It felt plastic, strange ─ the distance, the iciness. Both of you knew you weren’t really inquiring about the race, you knew him better than anyone and probably guessed how it felt already, and he wasn’t really inquiring about you.

It was the first time you saw each other after last year, and everything felt more real. Heavy.

“Did you forget how to talk, Osc’?”

Osc’. You haven't called him that in a long time.

A nervous chuckle escaped him. You were so far and so close at the same time, hair frizzy from the dampness, knees scratched from your recent climb ─ he missed you, you were right there and he still missed you, because you were slowly slipping through his fingers. The last bit of his resolve crumbled.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Oscar never showed too much emotion. But here he was, drenched by the rainfall, eyes open and raw. And you didn't know what to do with that. You shifted on your feet. “For what?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, frustration bleeding into the gesture. “You know what for.”

“That’s not enough. Not anymore.” Your voice was laced with barely contained emotions, strangling you.

He knew. Oscar stepped forward tentatively, just once. Enough to make you look up at him, and he held your gaze even as it twisted with the kind of hurt he never wanted to be responsible for, but had to be faced with. Because he had. And he had to own up to it ─ so everything spilled out.

“I fucked up, last year. Big time.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t care less. “And I know- shit, I know I’m probably too late. I should’ve said something back then, but I didn’t know how or what or why.”

“I was scared. Not just of ruining things, even though it was a part of it, but of─ of what it meant. I didn’t understand, Y/N. I didn’t get why you were the first person I looked for in a room, why I felt so goddamn lost when I moved out and you weren’t there anymore, why seeing you living your own life without me was─ I don’t know, I guess I’m selfish or something.” His throat burned. “And that night─ here, last year─ I should’ve known. Fuck, I think I knew long before then but I was just so blind. When I asked you to come with me, and we─ I should’ve known why. I did. I just─ I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Oscar let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “But I did anyway. I messed it all up because I couldn’t make up my mind, and I don’t blame you if you don’t─ if you can’t─”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The rain pattered against the dirt and the surrounding pavement, unrelenting, like both of your heartbeats. Oscar’s fingers twitched, aching to reach for you ─ but he wouldn’t do it. Not unless you let him.

Finally, you spoke. “You’re the biggest idiot I met in my entire life, Osc’. You’re so stupid.”

Your voice was teary, but you didn’t cry. You weren’t angry. You weren’t turning away. You simply stared at him, lips parted ─ barely smiling, but it was there.

Oscar blinked rapidly, taken aback. “I know,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, “but I love you.”

There it was. After fifteen years, there it was: the plain truth, out in the open for you to see. What he spent his time running from, what he should have told you so long ago.

You didn’t react. Your eyes widened, a sharp inhale went through your mouth and you stared, frozen in place. Oscar panicked. “I understand if you don’t─ I mean, after everything, I get it if─ Or, or maybe I misread, but─”

“Say it again.”

Your voice was authoritative. Hopeful. And this time, a tear slid down your cheek. His heart skipped a bit. “I love you.”

And Oscar Piastri is twenty-three when he kisses you for the first time.

Your hands grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling him to you. The crash of your lips against his was sudden, but it didn’t take Oscar long to find a rhythm ─ not when it made so much sense, not when it felt so right. Finally.

A shudder rippled through him, something snapping back into place. It was messy, desperate ─ years of missed chances spilling out at once. You exhaled against his mouth and Oscar felt it everywhere, in the way his fingers trembled when he cupped your cheeks, how his knees almost buckled when you got closer, in the way his world narrowed down to just you. His mouth against yours. Fuck.

You pulled away, just for a second. “Osc─”

“Not yet,” he rasped. And he captured your lips a second time, choking out any other words.

How had he gone so long without this? Without knowing what it was like to have you like this?

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Desire, want, love, all of it blurred in the way his fingers wove into your hair, when he slowly brought them down to your waist, pulling you against him, hungry, greedy.

If he wanted you to come with him so badly the past few years wasn’t because he needed you at his side ─ he still did, but that wasn’t the gist of it. Now that you were falling apart against his lips, hands making a mess of his rain-drenched hair, he knew he had wanted you next to him because he wasn’t allowing himself to have you. He had wanted you in his chest, curled beneath his ribs, a part of him so irrevocably that no miles, no years, no silence could ever pull you away.

And now, he had you. Shit, if that wasn’t like ascending to heaven felt like, he didn’t know what would.

You put a hand on his chest, slowly, and when you separated Oscar found himself longing for more, for every instance he passed on. Yet, the wide smile on your face stopped him ─ because you looked perfect like this, bright and open, taking up space. That’s why he fell in love with you.

“I love you too. So much,” you said, and the words softly blossomed in Oscar’s chest like spring. He dropped his forehead against yours.

“Me too. I love you. You don’t even know,” he breathed out, his lips slowly dropping a kiss on your forehead. “It feels so good to say it. To know.”

You grabbed the string of his hoodies, toying with them as you’d usually do, but every single one of your actions sent another wave of heat in Oscar’s neck when he remembered what you tasted like. “You could’ve felt good about it earlier, y’know.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow at you and you giggled. “I’m sorry, but the realizing-i’m-in-love-with-my-childhood-best-friend didn’t really come with an instruction material. The confession either.”

“You were pretty dramatic, true, with the rain and the running,” you laughed. “It was gonna be pretty easy for me last year, honestly. Until you bailed.”

Oscar groaned, and his head dropped on your shoulder. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

“Oh yeah, you’re in for a long ride, Piastri.” A long ride. That sounded amazing.

Realization hit him at full force, harder than a crash. “Wait, what do you mean last year?”

Your hand went up, wiping a raindrop dripping down his cheek, and the look you gave him was overflowing with fondness. “I mean that before you tried to kiss me, that night, I would’ve told you I’ve been in love with you ever since I started spying on you at the playground.”

“You…?” Oscar’s mouth dropped open. Had he really been that blind? How many signs had he missed, exactly? “How─”

You kissed him. A quick, hard peck on the lips, but that was enough to shut him up and get him to melt against you once more. “Let’s not talk about it here. I’m cold, and I think it’s the type of discussion that’s too long to have outside,” you said, slipping your hand in his. “My mom would love to make us coffee, if you want.”

Oscar sighed at the familiar feeling, fingers tangling with yours in a well-known pattern. He missed the both of you, and now he got to have it in a better way. “You’re sure? I’d love to, but is your mom─”

“Don’t even worry. She’s been calling me Mrs. Piastri for years now, I think the news will move her to tears.”

So you runned back to the porch of your house where you’d sat years ago, drenched in the deluge but happier than you’ve ever been. Oscar loved you, he knew now. And you loved him back, it was worth the rain, the missed opportunities, the hesitation and the heart wrenching confessions that will follow as you sit down.

You were worth the vulnerability, Oscar thought when you crossed the threshold. You were worth everything.

A year later, Oscar is standing in pole position for the Australian Grand Prix of 2026.

Qualifications went great, keeping the fastest lap position for all rounds. He was confident in his capacity ─ last year had tested his patience and goodwill, but he only came out stronger, more resilient.

The home race curse was a popular saying in Formula One, and sadly he fell victim to it ever since he put his feet in a McLaren in 2023. He had hoped to win the Melbourne race, to bring back the trophy under the cheers of his home crowd and the screams of his family ─ but this year wasn’t for hoping: if there was one thing you taught him, it is that hoping never achieved anything. Actions did. And he was going to win the Australian Grand Prix.

You were standing in your usual spot, orange headphones on, all in smiles and shouts. Hattie next to you playfully shoved an elbow in your ribs to get you to quiet down, which only made you louder. Oscar was persuaded he could hear you above the sound of his race engineer. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the thought of you swirled around every mechanism of his car like it always did.

Today marked one year since you and Oscar got together. Since the kiss, the realization, the heartfelt confessions above a steaming cup of gingerbread coffee in the middle of summer because your mom affirmed it was a big occasion before leaving the two of you alone. And the fifteen years it took for you to finally get to that point were a painful obstacle of unsaid and what ifs, taking a few months to finally get out of the way, and plenty of awkward conversations ─ but how beautiful was the other side of it.

Devotion and love, gentle and kind. The impulsive dates, the good morning kisses when Oscar had enough time to come and visit, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back, “Oscar Piastri’s partner” on the screen when the camera was pointing at you during races, the weekend getaways.

Oscar noticed the large, varsity top hung on you, a bright orange with the large number 81 written in white. Just underneath, the words Mrs. Piastri were written in a similar font. You had it custom-made a few months into the relationship, simply because the comment about your mother the day he kissed you became a regular inside joke between the two of you.

It made Oscar’s heart flutter every time you wore it.

He observed the red lights above him, flickering out one by one. He thought about it: how the fifteen years of being apart made every day spent with you seem like too little, how he couldn’t get enough of you and how he didn’t want to.

Suddenly, Oscar couldn’t wait for the race to end. Because he was going to keep his P1 with his skills and the speed of his car, and brandish the trophy high on the podium for the country who raised him. Because after, he will rush out in your arms and kiss you until the air in his body runs out. Because he had a girl to get, and plans to make.

Because even though it was only a year spent together, Oscar Piastri is twenty-four when he decides he wants to marry you, and he was not about to wait fifteen more years to make it happen.

©DRGNSFLY 2k25 ─ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.