hyperfixatingonsmth

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

in between ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, “we make it work.” short, clipped, but it’s the truth. somehow, you and him fit.

ꔮ starring: divorce attorney!oscar piastri x wedding planner!reader. �� word count: 20.4k. (!!!) ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, light angst. alternate universe: non-f1. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. set in new york, pining... yearning..., idiot best friends in love, a bout of miscommunication, sunshine/grumpy trope, carmen & george name drop. title from gracie abrams’ in between. ꔮ commentary box: nobody talk to me about the word count. this is one of my favorite tropes of all time, and i always thought my pipe dream romcom novel would sing a similar tune to this. until that day comes, we see it play out in fanfiction 🩷 this fic means a lot to me, so if you ever decide to consume this behemoth: thank you in advance!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Oscar spots them before you do.

You have your nose in your tablet, scrolling through sample menus and floral arrangements, completely oblivious to the couple two tables over who are clearly yours. Matching mood boards, latte art going untouched, the sort of soft hand-holding that suggests they’ve already merged Spotify playlists. You’ve got that look you get when you’re planning someone else’s Happily Ever After: focused, bright-eyed, borderline evangelical.

Oscar, on the other hand, believes in love the way he believes in Wi-Fi on the subway. Pleasant in theory, disastrous in practice. And, as your best friend, he sees it as a public service to intervene before strangers spend years in litigation over who gets the air fryer. 

When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”

They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”

“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”

The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”

He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”

The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.

“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”

“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”

You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”

The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC. 

“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s offering directions to the nearest subway station.

You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like you’re resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.” 

Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re selling or the way you sell it.

Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.

It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.

Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once. 

Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didn’t mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical. 

Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what you’ve built.

The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup. 

Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.

Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.

Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. “Problem?”

“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank. 

“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”

You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”

Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”

“Oh? What’s the damage?”

“Dinner tonight. My pick.”

Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”

You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”

It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted. 

And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the other’s door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.

There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.

Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.

When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.

“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”

“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”

“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”

“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”

You’re an odd pair. He’s always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.

The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.

You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. “Same order?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”

“It’s called a compromise.”

“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”

“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.

Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own. 

The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him. 

There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want. 

The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.

By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.

“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.

“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”

“I have a system,” he interrupts.

“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”

“Which is why I’m never locked out.”

You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”

“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”

The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”

“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”

“You loved that one.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You cried.”

“Allergies.”

You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”

He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest. 

When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.

It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.

He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.

“What agenda?” you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.

Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”

Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”

You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”

He levels you with a look. “Three.”

“Six,” you insist.

He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafés, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.

“And you love me for it,” you retort.

The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t about to scream that from the rooftops.

Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witness’s story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.

“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.

“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”

“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”

He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.”

You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”

“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery. 

Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.

The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say. 

He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”

You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him. 

Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on. 

Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”

He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”

“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!

The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, it’s like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.

“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”

You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.

“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”

You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.

Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”

The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.

“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”

You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”

You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.” 

“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.” 

“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.” 

“Oscar.” 

The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”

Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”

“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”

The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”

He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”

You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”

“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”

Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon. 

The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesn’t expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.

“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All that’s missing is a fake snow machine. 

You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.

“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”

“Headshots.”

“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”

“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.

You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”

Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re playing chess.

The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.

“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”

Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”

Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!” 

Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”

There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”

You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.

You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”

“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.

“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”

“I’m a divorce attorney.” 

The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”

“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.

Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”

That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad. 

And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re involved.

Dinner turns out to be… something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation. 

Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”

Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”

You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, he’s hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.

Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet it’s practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesn’t move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.

Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.

“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”

You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”

He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”

“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.

“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”

That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”

The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient. 

What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?

Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if. 

“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.

Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.

Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters. 

The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.

The city’s already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.

His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. “Morning, Oscar.”

“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”

“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”

Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”

“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.

“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.

Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.

“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”

His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.

A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.

He doesn’t touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month. 

Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like they’re preparing for trench warfare.

Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur  and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.

Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”

Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”

Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”

Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”

“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”

“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!” 

Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern. 

Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”

“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to. 

There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.

He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.

The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says. 

It’s a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other people’s endings.

Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.

Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.

By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision. 

You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think he’s lost. 

You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.

He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth he’s been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.

And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.

“You’re my logistics team.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”

“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”

“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”

That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.

The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.

Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.

“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.

Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.

He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”

You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”

“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t bridal-friendly.

From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.  

Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”

At first, he assumes she’s read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”

“So? Humor me.” Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.

Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.

He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”

Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him. 

The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.

You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”

He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue.  “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”

Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead. 

Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position. 

But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.

It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.

“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”

He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”

“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”

“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”

You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school. 

Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.

“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”

She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.

On paper, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s sake.

But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.

Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”

“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”

“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s not half-distracted by a ghost.

He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.

The date survives dinner, and now they’re roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected. 

“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”

The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”

Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”

Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story. 

“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”

The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”

She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy. 

As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.

The walk to Isabella’s apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscar’s thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because she’s truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.

They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. “You want to come in?”

It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”

Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.

When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.

“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.” 

He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.

Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead. 

You’re there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.

You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”

You hadn’t even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when they’re somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.

He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”

Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”

“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.

You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.

You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”

A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”

He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.

Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk he’d poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit. 

And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”

“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”

You laugh—easy, unbothered—before you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would. 

Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered. 

The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly. 

The caterer’s late, the florist’s lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.

He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”

You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”

“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.

You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater he’s ever seen.

Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.

You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses. 

“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.

Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out. 

You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands. 

“Oscar, I have a million—”

“Eat.”

Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”

You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”

The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.

“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.

It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.

He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, that’s my girl. 

It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.

He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”

You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”

“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.

But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”

Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.

Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends it’s nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.

The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.

The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.

“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”

“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”

“That’s volunteering.”

He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”

You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most people’s pitch-perfect.

“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”

“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”

“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”

“And yet you trusted me with it.”

“Desperate times.”

He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isn’t the worst gig he’s ever had.

You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.

Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”

“Better now than during the vows,” you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.

He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”

“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”

You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”

Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”

It should come off as a joke. It doesn���t. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. He’s probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.

The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.

“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”

The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”

“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief. 

Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”

You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. It’s the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer. 

The front door to your house swings open before you’ve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesn’t even dip.

“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”

He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”

She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than you’d like but more than you can forget.

“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye. 

He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.

Oscar catches your eye as you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.

“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. “He was always a good fellow, that one.” 

“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”

There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter. 

You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades.  “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks. 

“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.” 

Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them. 

“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”

Oscar’s grin freezes. 

Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents. 

He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life. 

He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”

For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over. 

Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.

It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you don’t. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.

He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.

You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.

He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.

It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”

Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out. 

“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”

Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”

George’s mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides he’s not letting that storm break.

“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”

“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”

Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”

There’s a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”

“Scout’s honor.” 

As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.

The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if he’s a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, well—case closed.

He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”

“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”

The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”

Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”

George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”

Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”

The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.

Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”

Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”

The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”

George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily. 

Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”

By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t knock the wind out of him.

The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.

Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people aren’t even supposed to notice.

The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But it’s enough.

There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.

Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that aren’t his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.

There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life. 

The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.

You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.

“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”

Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?” 

“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”

Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”

You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”

“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows. 

“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”

Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”

“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”

“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”

You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s long since been established.

The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you don’t reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself he’s imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.

The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement he’s always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows. 

You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”

He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the  old refrigerator in the background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s supposed to.

Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didn’t.

Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.

Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real. 

The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity he’ll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.

Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t care. Not even a little.

You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.

“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”

“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t stop.

You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.

“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and he’d still find your lips in the rubble.

Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.

Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.

Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than he’d prefer.

You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.

But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”

On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If you’d just stay still for two seconds—

You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.

You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”

For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you. 

He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.

How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you. 

Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like he’s been KO’d several rounds already.

He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.

Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s ready to look in the eye.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.

Except Oscar doesn’t hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself you’re just busy. People are busy, people have lives.

He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.

He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.

“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.

Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”

“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”

“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”

Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the city’s humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.

He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldn’t. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.

Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”

He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”

Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged. 

Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasn’t already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.

By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.

Oscar decides he’s had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole. 

He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—

Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”

“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”

He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”

Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”

“Maybe you should, I don’t know, call first—”

“I’ve called. Repeatedly. Voicemail loves me. Move.”

She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.

Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.

Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.

He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”

Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”

Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?”

“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.

“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

He does. He knows, because it’s written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.

“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”

You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.

You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.

He’s cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, “It wasn’t for them.”

You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”

“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”

The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.

“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”

Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”

You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”

“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”

You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”

“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”

You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.

Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.

You’re quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course you’d manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.

“I wasn’t going to,” you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.

He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.

“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, you definitely did,” Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.

Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesn’t bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.

“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back. 

“Promise?” you say in a small voice. 

Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.” 

“Already? You rented it already?”

Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”

You’re frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”

Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.

You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”

“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”

“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”

Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s trying to make a break for it.

Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”

“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”

See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.

You barely look around because this isn’t new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.

Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.

By the time evening swallows the apartment, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.

The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.

Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.

He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. He’s a grown man. Sort of.

Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.

You’re wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”

You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”

Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”

You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”

That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.

You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”

He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”

A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.

“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point. 

Oscar doesn’t mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What happened?”

“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”

You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”

“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.

He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”

Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.

Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for. 

The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.

Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist. 

You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”

Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”

“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”

He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.

You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens. 

What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between. 

“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me. 

It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.

Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds. 

Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.

There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.

Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”

You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”

“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.

“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”

The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading. 

You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”

“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”

Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.

“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.” 

And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.

The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”

Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, don’t wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.

Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it. 

He catches the damn thing midair and begrudgingly presses it to his chest. ⛐

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

Remember when Matt Murdock was like "God, if he even exists, has forsaken me and life has no meaning. You should put me down like a dog." And then he cleared his sinuses with a Netipot and was like, "Nevermind, God is real and righteous and I'm his chosen weapon to vanquish evil. Mother, bring me someone I can beat up."

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

as we used to say, i think my ovaries have exploded 😫

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

lando: u get me gaming n karting u get me happi. mega day via lando on tiktok

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

Soooooo I’m going to go sob now excuse me

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

green light ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

r/aita · @piastriprincess asked, “aita (m25) for hating all my best friend’s boyfriends?”

ꔮ starring: lando norris x best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 7.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. flashbacks, max fewtrell (<3) haunts the narrative, yearning…,  best friends to lovers. title inspired by both lorde’s (i’m waiting for it, that green light, i want it) and tate mcrae’s (i’m still waitin’ at the green light to tell you what i feel like) song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: confession time—i’ve always felt a bit hit-or-miss when writing for lando, but this one… i reaaally like how it turned out 🚦 everybody say ‘thank you, lily’ for the banger prompt!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The McLaren P1 isn’t exactly designed for emotional turmoil. 

It’s low to the ground and louder than sin. Not the kind of car you want to be brooding in. But here Lando is, idling at the curb outside your flat in Bristol, watching the rain tattoo the windscreen and trying to pretend he’s not bracing for whatever weird tension you’ve decided to lace this car ride with.

You appear in the rearview mirror like a final boss. Hoodie up, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking like you’re headed to war rather than a birthday party.

Lando presses the button to open the door. You hesitate, which you never used to do. You slide into the passenger seat like it physically pains you. He half-expects you to bring holy water.

“You know,” he says, because silence is worse than bad jokes, “most people would be thrilled to be chauffeured in a million-pound hypercar. You look like you’re entering a hostage negotiation.”

You don’t laugh. You do that half-smile thing that doesn’t reach your eyes, and suddenly Lando wants to kick himself for knowing the difference.

“Thanks for the lift,” you say, polite enough to pass for normal. 

It isn’t. It really, really isn’t.

Lando flicks the wipers on. The rain makes a rhythmic hiss against the windshield. It used to be that rides like this meant music and shared snacks and you yelling at him for taking corners too aggressively. Now, it feels like he has to tiptoe around your mood as if it's an open flame.

He eases the car away from the curb. “So, Birmingham,” he says. “Home of Fewtrell’s yearly descent into unchecked ego.”

You huff out a laugh through your nose, barely audible. It should make him feel triumphant; instead, it makes his chest tight.

What’s a spark when you used to light up around him? No matter how many people crowded your lives—teammates, friends, plus-ones at dinner tables—you were always his person. That one human who saw him beyond the grid, who didn’t care about lap times or social media engagement.

Lando knows something broke. He just doesn’t know when.

The car hums beneath him, taut with energy it can’t release in Bristol traffic. Maybe it’s a metaphor. Maybe everything is.

“You doing okay?” he asks, too casually.

You look out the window. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

There it is. He could write a dissertation on your avoidance techniques. In fact, he probably should. Title: How to Be Ghosted by Your Best Friend Without Them Technically Leaving the Chat.

He lets it go for now. Because the motorway is long, and the rain’s getting heavier, and there’s still two hours between here and the truth.

Lando doesn’t know when the silence between you became a living thing.

It’s not just still. It’s tense. It’s textured. It breathes like it’s third-wheeling from the back seat, wedged between you two with crossed arms and a wisenheimer expression.

He fiddles with the volume knob, turning the music down so low it’s practically just rhythm. Normally, you’d complain that it’s criminal to listen to music and not let it play properly. You’d grab his phone and queue some obnoxiously long indie playlist called something like orange show speedway and make him admit that you have taste.

Today, nothing.

He risks a glance sideways. You’re staring out the window like you’re auditioning for a breakup scene in a rainy film.

You used to talk to him about everything. 

Shared inside jokes. Shared chips. Shared one toothbrush once on a trip to Mallorca, which he’s never quite recovered from. Every girl he ever liked, you sized up with terrifying efficiency. Every victory lap, you were the first person he texted. Every racing-related heartbreak, you were the one who told him to shut up, cry it out, then get back in the car.

He doesn’t remember a version of his life that doesn’t include you in the passenger seat.

So what the hell happened?

His car purrs along the motorway, cutting through the wet roads with the kind of grace only British engineering can pull off. They pass a familiar neighborhood and Lando slows a little, almost unconsciously.

He recognizes it before he wants to. The red-bricked semi with the peeling paint and the tragically optimistic garden gnome. He looks towards you, forces a grin.

“You remember this place?” he asks, way too chipper. “Your first boyfriend lived there. What was his name again? Something that sounded like a bootleg Marvel villain.”

You sigh. “Connor.”

“Right. Connor. God, he had the personality of a paper towel.”

You don’t smile. You just go back to looking out the window, past the brick house and the neighborhood that once felt like Lando’s entire world. 

The silence, smug bastard that it is, stretches its limbs and settles in again.

Lando grips the wheel tighter. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe he should’ve driven straight through and pretended the past wasn’t sitting in the backseat, wearing a stupid letterman jacket and reminding him of everything he didn’t say back then.

He can’t help but add, “He was an idiot, by the way. Never deserved you.”

That gets a flicker. Not a response, exactly, but a shift. A pause. A breath caught in your throat.

For a second, Lando remembers it. That summer. The start of all this. The spark, the fester, the personal betrayal of the friendship that was never quite enough for a man who wanted it all.

The first time Lando meets Connor, he’s already mentally uninstalling him like a glitchy app.

It’s some after-school club thing. Yearbook, or debate, or something equally cursed. The point is: Lando doesn’t belong here. He’s there because you asked him to walk you home, and you insisted he wait until the meeting ended. Which would’ve been fine, if the meeting hadn’t devolved into social hour and you hadn’t suddenly started radiating this stupidly obvious crush energy toward a guy in a rugby hoodie.

Connor.

The name alone sounds like someone who owns too many types of protein powder.

He’s tall in the way sixth-formers think is impressive. Smiles like he’s waiting for a camera to flash. And he talks—God, does he talk. About running drills. About his coach. About, and this is not a joke, a recent dream he had where he was chosen as the face of a sports drink campaign.

“He said, ‘I think I have the jawline for it,’” Lando recalls later in a whisper, as if traumatized.

Back in the moment, Lando tries to be polite. He stands there, hands in pockets, nodding like he’s buffering. “Right. That’s cool,” he mumbles, after Connor launches into a story about a pulled hamstring.

You glance over, eyes bright, clearly hoping Lando will be nice. So he tries again. “Do you, like, play matches every weekend, then?”

Connor nods solemnly. “Unless I’m injured. But I usually push through it.”

“Cool,” Lando says, tone flat as a pancake. He considers throwing himself out the nearest window.

He checks his phone. Fifteen minutes of this. That’s longer than he lasted in his first karting endurance run. He’s about to make a quiet escape—fake a text, mumble something about dinner, the works—when you touch his wrist.

“Stay?” you ask.

You say it soft, barely audible over the buzz of the room, and it derails his exit plan completely. He sighs. Dramatically. Just enough so you know he’s suffering, but not enough to actually mean it.

“Fine,” he grits out. “But if he brings up Real Madrid again, I’m eating the fluorescent lightbulb.”

You beam at him like he just agreed to co-sign your mortgage.

He stays for another twenty agonizing minutes. Listens to Connor talk about macro splits. Lets you giggle at jokes that barely qualify as sentences. Pretends not to notice the way your foot inches closer to Connor’s under the table.

Lando doesn’t know it yet, but something inside him knots that day. Small and quiet. Tight enough to notice. Deep enough that it’ll take years to unravel.

Connor lasts six months.

Six months of bland texts, gym selfies, and Lando resisting the urge to stage a small, tasteful intervention.

He suffers through it all like a war veteran. Group hangs where Connor brings up creatine unprompted. School events where Connor stands behind you like a security detail. One truly cursed double date to the cinema where Connor clapped at the end of the movie.

Lando logs every moment like evidence for a trial that never comes. Until one Tuesday afternoon, when you text him the four most beautiful words in the English language.

I dumped him lol.

Lando shows up at your door within the hour, snacks under one arm, self-righteousness under the other.

You look strangely relaxed. Legs curled under you on the sofa, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, as if the breakup lifted a fog you didn’t know had settled.

“Turns out,” you say, accepting a bag of crisps from him, “dating someone who talks about himself in third person isn’t actually fun.”

Lando gasps, hand to chest. “Lando is shocked. Who could’ve predicted that?”

You roll your eyes. “Bug off.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, sinking into the cushion beside you, “some of us knew from day one that Connor was a human rice cake with delusions of grandeur.”

You snort, the laugh bubbling out of you before you can stop it. “Fine, fine. You were right.”

“Finally.” He makes a show of looking to the heavens. “It only took six months, three public arguments, and one extremely awkward bowling night.”

“Never again,” you groan, tossing a crisp at him. “No more athletes.”

Lando recoils like you slapped him. “Excuse you. I’m an athlete.”

“You’re an exception. You’re, like, emotionally literate.”

“That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”

You laugh again, easier this time, and Lando feels something shift. It’s a small, prideful flicker of knowing: Connor probably never made you laugh like that.

He watches you tip your head back against the sofa, eyes fluttering closed. The late afternoon light spills across your face, and for once, there’s no boyfriend shadowing your smile.

It’s just you and Lando. 

And just like that, Boyfriend Number One is out of the picture.

The wipers fight a losing battle, flailing side to side in frantic arcs, trying their best to keep the view ahead from turning into an impressionist painting. The P1 glides through it all with the confidence of a car built to outrun lightning, but even Lando—lover of speed, master of circuits, alleged adult—has to admit.

This is not exactly ideal driving weather.

You’ve been silent for most of the ride. The kind of silence that has teeth. It presses against the back of Lando’s neck, daring him to say something dumb.

Then, finally—

“Lando,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “it’s getting really bad.”

He blinks, snapped out of the existential spiral he’d been mentally free-falling through. Turns slightly toward you, brow cocked in mock offense. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

You give him a tight, unimpressed look. “A man who once rear-ended a shopping cart at Tesco car park.”

“That was one time. I was seventeen. And it came out of nowhere.”

“It was stationary, Lando.”

“It was aggressively stationary.”

Your knuckles go white against the armrest as another gust of wind slams against the car. Your worry hangs thick in the space between you, louder than the rain. Lando feels it like static beneath his skin.

He huffs, puffing up with the defensive pride of a man desperate to impress someone who already knows every version of him, embarrassing stories and all.

“I’ve driven Spa in a thunderstorm, you know. This?” he gestures with one hand. “This is drizzle with a flair for the dramatic.”

Cue cosmic timing.

The car hydroplanes.

It happens in an instant. A slick patch, a twitch of the wheel, the rear kicking out just enough to raise the hair on his arms. The tail of the car fishtails right, then violently left, the P1 tilting off center in a slow-motion ballet of oh-god-oh-no.

Lando reacts on instinct. Years of karting, racing, muscle memory firing like it’s just another corner at Silverstone. He counter-steers, stabilizes, corrects. The car obeys, just barely. But what he doesn’t think about is the way his arm flings across your chest, holding you in place.

It’s ridiculous. There’s a five-point seatbelt system. The car is practically a carbon-fiber cocoon. All the same, his body makes the decision before his brain does: protect you first.

The tires grip. The fishtail stops. The car straightens.

His heart tries to break the sound barrier.

You’re both silent, the only noise your unsteady breathing and the rhythmic thump of his heart echoing in his ears. He doesn’t wince when you practically screech, “What the hell was that?!”

“It was a save,” he mutters, as if saying it in a smaller voice will make it sound more reasonable. He grips the wheel like it personally betrayed him.

You round on him as if he just tried to murder you with style. “A save? I thought I was about to become modern art on the side of the M5!”

“I had it under control.”

“You swore it was drizzle!”

“Water is water, babe!”

Your hands go to your face in pure exasperation. “You absolute bellend.”

For some reason—maybe the adrenaline, maybe just you finally sounding like you again—Lando laughs. It starts low, then builds, bubbling up like he’s been holding it in for weeks. 

He watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re alive, irritated, breathing. For the first time in what feels like forever, your voice has weight. You’re not tiptoeing around him. You’re calling him out. Loud and unfiltered and exactly as you used to be.

“Missed that,” he says, almost to himself.

“What?”

He keeps his eyes ahead, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His grin is trying to stay small but refuses to be ignored. “The sound of you telling me off,” he says, plain and simple and honest to a fault. 

In the thick of rain and tension, there’s a crack of warmth. The silence that follows isn’t the old silence. It’s not angry or tense or drowning in things unsaid. It feels like the kind that comes after something.

Maybe not a full repair, but a start.

Lando pulls into the gas station. You’d asked him politely but firmly to pull over, just for a bit, to wait out the rain. And for once, he doesn’t argue.

The fluorescent lights hum above as he shifts the car into park. Rain still drums on the roof, but the chaos outside feels farther away now. Muted. Contained. It gives the illusion of control, even if everything still feels slightly sideways.

You unbuckle and stretch, exhaling like you’ve been holding your breath since the near-spin. Maybe you have. Lando watches you from the corner of his eye, trying not to make it weird. Failing a little.

It’s this station. Your station. Not legally, but in spirit. 

He remembers all the times you’ve dragged him here over the years: late-night snack runs, dares to buy the weirdest item on the shelf, one very ill-advised slushie taste test that ended with blue tongues and a stomach bug. This place has been witness to everything from your worst hangovers to your best impressions of cursed TV ads.

He glances at the flickering store sign, then at you.

“Remember when you dated the cashier here?” he says, because clearly he has a death wish.

You groan. It’s visceral. From the chest. “Can we not talk about Tom?”

“Oh, Tom now. We’re using names.” Lando grins, all teeth and zero mercy. “He sold you expired milk on your third date.”

You cover your face. “I’m going to open this car door and let the rain take me.”

“And abandon me here? In the sacred land of lukewarm sausage rolls and scratch cards?”

You laugh. You actually laugh. And even if it’s mostly directed at your own poor decisions, Lando will take it.

“God,” you grumble, still hiding behind your hands. “I was so dumb.”

“No,” he says. “You were just hopeful. With tragically low standards.”

You peek at him through your fingers, eyes narrowing. “Is that your version of comforting me?”

He shrugs, fighting a laugh of his own. “I thought it was pretty accurate.”

You’re still smiling when you turn your face back toward the rain-blurred window. Lando watches the way your expression fades into something softer. More distant.

He thinks of the way you used to look at Tom. And the way you looked after it all went to shit.

The memory creeps in, uninvited. The same way that godforsaken ‘boyfriend’ did.

Tom was a phase.

Lando says it then, says it now, says it like a mantra. A phase. Curtain bangs, the keto diet, Vine. 

He never meets Tom properly. Not in the same way he met Connor, all tight smiles and passive-aggressive protein talk. No, Tom appears in your life like a Wi-Fi outage: disruptive, inconvenient, and wildly inconvenient at the worst possible time.

Lando’s already racing in the lower formulas when it starts. Barely home. Living out of suitcases and duffel bags, counting time in flights and practice laps. He sees it unfold from the periphery. A flicker of chaos just off-track.

He catches glimpses of it in your Snapchat stories. Blurry concert videos. Gas station selfies. One particularly haunting Boomerang of you and Tom doing shots with a caption that just says YOLO in Comic Sans font.

That was the first real red flag.

The second comes from Max, in a text that just says: Why is your best friend dating the guy who once tried to pay for gum with a Greggs coupon.

Lando doesn’t even respond. He only closes his phone and exhales like he’s been personally wronged.

Tom is a lot, from what he can tell. The kind of guy who thinks sarcasm is a personality trait and only follows meme accounts. He wears those tiny sunglasses ironically. Calls himself a ‘creative entrepreneur’ because he once made a custom iPhone wallpaper in Canva.

Lando doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t get why you’re laughing so hard in those stories, or why your texts to him have started thinning out, shorter and more sporadic. He doesn’t get how this man—this man who lists “vibes” as a core value—has managed to take up space where Lando should be.

But he tells himself it’s just a phase. 

You’ve had them before. The Twilight obsession. The time you tried to become a minimalist and nearly cried getting rid of a shoebox of concert tickets. This is the same thing, just with more snapbacks and ‘u up?’ texts.

And so Lando watches from a distance. A blur of airports and circuits and hotel rooms, tuning into your life in fifteen-second increments.

He tells himself not to get worked up. Not to overthink it. It’s just a phase.

The thing about phases is they leave a mark when they pass.

After God-knows-how-long of on-again, off-again, the end comes in the form of reliable gossip from Max. 

Lando doesn’t hesitate. Max barely gets the words out—“She’s really done this time. Like, done done.”—and Lando’s already pulling up the British Airways app with the grace of a man who’s been waiting for this moment since Tom entered your life. 

The flight to Bristol is boring. The snacks are stale. The woman beside him spends forty minutes playing Candy Crush with her volume on full blast and a grim determination Lando hasn’t seen since the Monaco GP. But none of it matters, because his leg is bouncing with a rhythm only anxiety or maybe anticipation can tap out.

He hasn’t seen you in three months. Not properly. Not since the last time Tom slithered his way back into your life like a parasitic vine, and Lando watched helplessly as you got tangled again. Like you were boarding a ship headed straight into a hurricane with a neon sign that read this is fine.  Lando, from the shore, had to wave and pretend he didn’t want to light that ship on fire.

Now he’s here. Rented car. Cap tilted low. Heart wired.

He texts Max to stall, tells him to play dumb if you ask questions. Pulls into your driveway like it’s any other Wednesday, not a dramatic friendship intervention wrapped in emotional whiplash and British Airways peanuts.

You open the door, and both of you balk at the sight of each other. 

“You flew here?” you breathe. 

“You dyed your hair?” he counters immediately, because yeah, you look different. 

Still you, but brighter around the edges. Like maybe the weight of Tom has finally stopped sitting on your chest. You’re in a hoodie he hasn’t seen in a while. The grey one you used to steal from him back when you were neighbors and everything was stupid and easy.

“You flew here?” you repeat, incredulous. There’s a defensive slant to your tone, like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to feel touched.

He shrugs, stepping past you into the hallway like he hasn’t just crossed countries to make sure you’re okay. “Was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d pop by, insult your ex, steal your biscuits.”

You smile. A real one. Tentative, but real..

He follows you to the kitchen, where the kettle’s already half-boiled and the air smells like tea bags. You sit, curled into the chair like you’re trying to fold yourself down to a more manageable size. Lando hates that. Hates that you look like you’re bracing for the next hit, hates that you think you had to be anything but yourself in this devastating situationship. 

“Max said you were done,” he says outright.

You nod. “I am.”

“Good,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Because if I had to pretend to like him one more time, I’d have developed a stress twitch.”

You laugh, and it feels like sunlight breaking through a cloudy week. Broken and bright. It does something to Lando’s chest. A little lurch. A little click. A puzzle piece slotting into place.

“Remember when he said Manchester was in Scotland?”

“God, or when he thought almond milk came from baby almonds?”

“Or when he tried to fight that goose?”

That one breaks you. You snort, full-on wheeze, laugh so hard your shoulders shake and your face disappears into your hands. Lando watches you like he’s trying to memorize every second. Like if he stares hard enough, he can bottle the sound of your joy and take it with him when he’s fighting for his life on Sundays.

You look up, cheeks flushed, eyes finally shining with something other than sadness. “He really did try to fight a goose, didn’t he?”

“He lost,” Lando deadpans. “To a bird with a vendetta and no moral compass.”

You giggle again, softer this time, settling into it. Into him.

Lando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding since the plane took off.

This. This is what he came for.

To see you smile like that. To make you laugh again. To remind you who you are outside of the storm cloud that was Boyfriend Number Two.

Even if it’s just for a little while.

Lando’s staring straight ahead when it blurts out of him: “Why have you been avoiding me?”

The words hit the windshield just as hard as the rain does, fast and sharp and impossible to ignore. Yobegu stiffen in the passenger seat.

“I haven’t,” you say, too fast. Too rehearsed. Lando can see you in your bathroom back home, preparing for the conversation in front of your mirror. 

Lando scoffs. Loudly. Dramatically. Because what else is he meant to do with a lie that transparent?

“Right. So all the unanswered texts, the missed calls, the five-second voice notes that end with ‘Sorry, gotta go’ even though I can literally hear you not going anywhere—,” he pauses, takes in a breath, goes on, “that’s just you being, what? Efficient?”

You cross your arms. Classic defense stance. He sees the way your jaw tenses, the way you shift your weight as if you’re prepping to run a marathon. Or escape a conversation.

“I’ve been busy,” you offer.

“With what, a monastic vow of silence?”

“Lando.”

“Don’t ‘Lando’ me,” he snaps, turning toward you now, fully, anger prickling beneath his skin. Not white-hot fury. A low, aching kind. The kind born of hurt. “You disappear on me for weeks and think I won’t notice?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

He laughs, humorless. “Jesus. Just say it, then. Whatever it is you’re clearly trying not to.”

“There’s nothing to say,” you argue.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Silence, heavy and cloying, stretches between you like something physical. And then you reach for the door.

Lando blinks. “Are you serious? It’s pissing it down outside.”

You push it open anyway.

“Oh my God,” he groans, reaching across to try and stop you, but you’re already halfway out. Rain slapping hard against your hoodie, the wind catching your hair.

“This is so unnecessarily dramatic,” he shouts over the downpour. “Even for you!”

You flip him off without looking over your shoulder. Lando exhales like he’s just aged ten years.

Of course this is happening.

Of course you’re trying to escape a deeply emotional conversation by drowning yourself in goddamn weather.

And of course, he’s about to go after you anyway.

Lando has chased you through paddocks, airports, and one ill-advised IKEA on a bank holiday weekend. But this? This is a new low. 

You’re walking down a rain-slicked road like it’s a runway, soaked to the bone, one arm stretched out like you’re auditioning for a 90s road trip comedy.

“Will you please get in the bloody car?” Lando yells, jogging a few paces behind you, hoodie already useless against the downpour. 

Rain pelts his face. His trainers are definitely ruined. There are probably frogs watching from the ditch with more dignity than he currently possesses.

You don’t look back. You just wave your hand in a vague go away gesture and keep walking as if the pavement’s not a slip hazard waiting to happen.

“What are you even doing?” he calls again. “Trying to get kidnapped? Start a new life in Wales?”

“I’m proving a point!” you shout over your shoulder.

“What point?” Lando throws his arms up. “That you’re allergic to staying in a parked car with me for more than five minutes?!”

You stop walking long enough to turn. Hair dripping, mascara smudged, and cheeks pink with cold and fury. “I’m not letting you deflect like you always do.”

“I’m the one deflecting?” Lando screeches. “Who’s the one playing out the third act of a Nora Ephron film on the side of the A38 right now? The one you watched with—”

“Don’t.”

You narrow your eyes. He knows that look. That look has preceded at least two near-misdemeanors and one regrettable shared tattoo.

“Don’t what?” he bites out anyway. 

“Don’t make this about him.”

Lando stops short. The wind shoves water into his face. 

You cross your arms, jaw tight. “That’s a low blow, Lando,” you say tersely. 

He sighs, remembering himself. Runs a hand through his dripping curls. “Okay. Yeah. That one might’ve been on me.”

You glance away, lips pressed tight. 

Even now—even drenched, and stubborn, and maybe seconds from catching pneumonia—you look heartbreakingly familiar. 

Lando doesn’t say it. Doesn’t even think it too loud.

He only watches the past creep back in like a drizzle.

His name is Matthew. Not Matt. Not Matty. Not some delightfully ridiculous hybrid nickname you’d shout across a car park. No, it’s Matthew. 

Like a grown-up. Like a man who knows how to fold a fitted sheet and use words like ‘conscientious’ in casual conversation.

Lando hates him immediately.

Not for any real reason. Matthew is tall, polite, and somehow always smells like eucalyptus. He wears jumpers with elbow patches and irons his jeans. He volunteers on the weekends. Max meets him once and texts Lando, bro he’s NICE nice, which somehow makes it worse.

Because Matthew is nice. Objectively. Irritatingly. The kind of nice that doesn’t even flinch when your gran asks invasive questions or when your dog throws up on his shoes. Lando tries to catch him out—waits for a bad joke, a sarcastic smirk, a single out-of-pocket comment—but Matthew plays a clean game. Doesn’t even double dip.

It drives Lando mad.

And what’s worse? You’re happy. Genuinely happy. 

Glowing in a way that makes Lando’s stomach twist, because it’s not for him. It never has been, not really. Not in the way he wants. Sure, he’s had his chances. He’s danced around it for years, leaving breadcrumb jokes and half-hearted flirtations in your path like you might trip over them one day and fall into his arms.

You never did. You fell for Matthew, and for all the right reasons.

Lando tries. God, he tries. Plays the supportive friend card with a smile stretched too tight. Tells you he’s glad for you, then goes home and grumbles to Max about how Matthew probably has a sock drawer organized by color.

It’s not that he wants Matthew to be awful. He just wants something—anything—that makes this ache in his chest easier to justify. Some glaring red flag. Some hidden flaw. But all Lando’s got is a deep, gnawing sense of falling behind, of watching the credits roll on a film he thought he was starring in.

He’s not happy for you. Not in the way you might want. That, somehow, is the most infuriating part of all.

Matthew stays in the picture for a whopping three years.

Long enough to survive two surprise party meltdowns, a full flat renovation, and a group trip to the Dolomites where Max nearly dies trying to ski backwards. Matthew’s in every photo, every inside joke, every weekend plan. He’s at your side in Instagram posts and tagged stories, smiling like he belongs there. 

Matthew helps Max fix his sink. He gets Lando a birthday gift without needing a reminder. He has a spreadsheet for your shared groceries. He knows your order at five different coffee shops. He does everything right.

Lando hates, hates, HATES it. Not because there’s anything wrong with Matthew, but because there isn’t.

Because every day you seem a little more out of reach.

Because you don’t text him at midnight with weird thoughts anymore. Because you cancel plans, rebook dinners, drop conversations halfway through. Because now Lando only hears about your day in secondhand summaries at group hangouts. 

When he does finally get a one-on-one lunch, you’re distracted. Checking your phone. Smiling at something you won’t tell him about.

It drives him insane in that quiet, gnawing kind of way. The slow unravel. The you-shaped silence growing wider each week.

Then Matthew asks him.

Lando’s in line at a coffee shop, still wearing his hoodie from a bad simulator session, phone in hand. Matthew taps him on the shoulder, all pleasant charm and water-repellent outerwear.

“Hey, mate. Sorry to bother, but—um—do you happen to know her ring size?”

Lando balks. “What?”

“Her ring size,” Matthew laughs nervously. “I’m thinking of… you know. Eventually. Not now-now. But sometime.”

He says it all casual, like it’s a weather update. Like he’s not detonating a landmine in the middle of Lando’s soul.

Lando laughs. Loud. Too loud. The barista glances over.

“Sorry, erm, just… had a flashback to when she got one of those mood rings from a vending machine and insisted it meant she was dying,” he stammers. “No clue on size, though.”

Matthew chuckles. Thanks him. Moves on.

Lando, meanwhile, forgets what he came here for. Leaves without coffee. Gets in the car and sits there for twenty-three minutes, hands gripping the wheel like he might snap it off.

He doesn’t cry. 

But he does punch the steering wheel once. Then again. “Fuck,” Lando grits out through his teeth, fist landing the steering wheel a third, softer time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Matthew thinks it’s end game. You probably do, too. Lando’s the only one who hasn’t gotten the memo. 

It sneaks up on him. The ensuing distance. Not yours, for once, but his.

It’s subtle at first. Missed texts, delayed replies, a string of excuses that sound convincing even to him. You, ever gracious, ever unbothered, don’t push. Until one day you ask, plainly, with that look that always cuts straight through him: “Are you avoiding me?”

Lando—cornered in the world’s most dangerous trap, your honesty—says the worst thing possible. He lies.

“What? No. Just busy.”

You nod, but your eyes hold there, suspicious. He changes the subject so fast it practically leaves a skid mark.

He tries afterwards. God, he really does. Makes more effort to be a better best friend. Starts sending you memes again. Asks about your week. Makes jokes about your taste in romcoms like he’s not the one who’s watched Notting Hill six times. With you. Voluntarily.

But it’s like trying to balance on ice. Because every time Matthew’s name comes up—when he picks you up from dinner, or when you show up in one of those blouses Lando knows weren’t your taste until someone else said they liked them—Lando short-circuits a little.

Matthew’s a man-shaped Post-it stuck to every part of you Lando doesn’t get to touch, and it all but kills him for those three years.

Lando’s terrified of becoming the footnote in your story. Of standing at your wedding someday, raising a glass and making a joke about how he always knew, when really he never wanted to know.

You’re the one who shows up this time. 

No warning. No text. Just the doorbell to his apartment, and you, and eyes that look a little red, and a voice so small he almost misses it when you say: “Can I come in?”

Matthew’s not with you.

Matthew’s not coming.

You sit on his couch. You take your shoes off and set them aside. You don’t speak right away. You curl your knees up and hold a pillow against your chest like a shield. Lando doesn’t ask questions.

You say, “We ended things.”

He waits for the joy. For the surge of self-righteous relief. For the I told you so itching to leap off his tongue.

None of it comes.

Instead, you cry. 

For the first time—really cry over a breakup in front of him. Shoulders shaking. Silent tears at first, then the full-body, rib-wracking kind. Lando just sits there. Not joking. Not speaking. Only shifting closer until you fold into his side like muscle memory.

He holds you.

All he feels is this: sadness. Yours, his, collective.

No more pretending. No more pretending this doesn’t hurt. No more pretending he’s only ever been your best friend.

Lando kisses the top of your head. 

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair, and he means it. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Please,” Lando calls, already drenched through. “I don’t want to die for Max, of all people.”

You don’t even look back. Just keep walking, thumb out like you’re genuinely trying to hitchhike. In the middle of nowhere. In the pouring rain.

“Oh, come on,” he yells. “This is not the moment to recreate the climax of your favorite romcom.”

You spin on him. “Why? Scared you’ll end up in the headlines?”

He stops short, blinking water out of his eyes. “No, I’m scared you’ll actually get in some random stranger’s van and I’ll have to chase it down like an idiot!”

You huff, cross your arms. “I don’t need saving.”

“I never said you did!”

“Then what do you want, Lando?”

What does he want?

What does he want?

A World Driver’s Championship, dry clothes, a dog. Most of all—

“I want you to come back,” he says, and it’s not just about the car anymore. 

His voice cracks on the words, like his lungs are tired of holding the weight in. He thinks of the distance, the years, the boys. He thinks of what it was like when it was just you and him against the world. 

“Come back to me,” he breathes, “Just—come back.”

In the back of his mind, he adds: Pleasepleaseplease. I’ve never begged for anything and I’ll be horrible. Don’t make me do that. Come back to me, please. 

You look at him like he’s just punched you in the chest. And for a second, he thinks he’s messed everything up. Again.

A laugh escapes you, but it’s not happy. 

It’s bitter, and broken, and fraying at the edges. “That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?” you spit. 

“What?” he asks, throat tightening.

“You,” you say, voice sparking now. “You’ve always been the problem.”

He recoils like you’ve physically hits him. “I—I don’t understand.”

You step closer, jabbing a finger into his hoodie. “You want to know why no man’s ever lasted? Why every boyfriend I’ve had eventually walked away, or I did?”

Lando doesn’t speak. Can’t.

“It’s you,” you seethe. “Even Matthew, for all his perfection, for all the ways he was kind and patient and stupidly good at making pancakes—he knew. He knew there were parts of me that didn’t belong to him. That never would.”

You slam a fist to Lando’s chest, and he stumbles backward despite it not being all that forceful. 

“Because those parts belonged to you,” you sob, and something in the silence cracks open. “So much of me—��s all with you.”

Lando doesn’t realize he’s crying until the rain can’t account for the salt.

He stands a few feet in front of you on the shoulder of the road, headlights casting long shadows, mist curling at his knees like the world’s stage crew is setting up a very dramatic Act Three.

Maybe this is Act Three. Or Act Twenty-Five. Whatever. He’s tired. And wet. And done being careful.

He thinks about all the times you’ve asked him—offhand, casual, never really casual—what he thought of the guy you were dating. The little glances after a joke, a compliment, a moment you hoped he’d noticed. He always pretended he didn’t.

About how you once skipped a two-year anniversary dinner because he’d binned it in Q1 and couldn’t even make eye contact in the garage. You showed up with pizza and no expectations, just sat with him until the world felt less unbearable.

About how every year, without fail, you still get him a birthday card and write the same stupid inside joke in it. How your playlists have songs he said he liked once. How there’s always a seat saved for him, in every version of your life.

He moves before he can think better of it.

Closes the distance, rain pouring off his curls, hands cupping your face like you’re a flame he’s terrified of snuffing out. You blink up at him, stunned, lips parted to protest, or breathe, or remind him of something impossible.

“God, you’re such an idiot,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s too wet. Too much nose. Possibly some teeth. But it’s real, and it’s him, and it’s you, and he’s been dying to do this since the moment he realized you were the only person who’s ever made him feel like more than just a wheel in motion.

He pulls back a fraction, mouth brushing yours, breath ragged. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, the words spilling out of him in a stream. “I can’t settle for just parts of you. I want all of you. All the stupid parts. The loud parts. The ones that break things just to fix them better. You. I want you.”

Turns out Lando Norris knew how to beg after all. 

Your eyes are shining now, but not from the rain. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

You fist the front of his hoodie and kiss him again. Like you’re furious he didn’t do this sooner. Like you’re scared he’ll stop.

Like there’s no such thing as bad timing, or broken umbrellas, or boyfriends who came before. Just this moment, and this road, and the sound of everything finally falling into place.

You finally, finally give in. Lando manages to herd you toward the car with all the finesse of a wet sheepdog, wet curls plastered to his forehead and shoes squelching with every step. You duck inside the passenger seat, and Lando shuts the door behind you with a thud that feels suspiciously like relief.

He cranks the heater, grabs a towel from the back, and starts dabbing at your arms before realizing that’s probably weird. You snatch the towel from him with a soft scoff and wrap it around your shoulders.

“I hate you,” you say heatlessly.

Lando snorts. “You kissed me like you were trying to win a bloody Oscar. Hate’s a strong word.”

You roll your eyes. “I was cold and emotionally compromised.”

“You still are.” He reaches over to adjust the vents so they’re aimed directly at you. It feels too domestic, too tender, as if this is just a normal night and not the latest installment of your mutual slow-burn, star-crossed, soap opera.

But then you laugh.

Not the quiet, breath-through-your-nose kind you’ve been rationing for the last few weeks. No, this one bubbles out of your chest like champagne, loud and undignified, echoing around the car like a challenge to the storm outside.

Lando glances at you, startled. “What?”

“You’re being weird,” you accuse, grinning. “Like—boyfriend weird. Hovering. Fiddling with the heater. Are you about to offer me your hoodie next?”

He shifts in his seat, brows furrowing. “I mean… yeah?”

“Seriously?”

“I just kissed you in the rain like a Nicholas Sparks protagonist. I think I deserve to be called your boyfriend.”

You stare at him, towel clutched around you. He stares back, every nerve ending in his body doing laps. Then, slowly, you lean across the center console and kiss him.

No preamble. No hesitation. Just your mouth on his, warm and sure and rain-slicked and a little desperate.

He groans, half in disbelief, half in oh thank fuck, and immediately fumbles for your waist, pulling you over the console and into his lap.

“Lando,” you protest into his mouth, breathless, “your seats—”

“Fuck the seats,” he mutters, kissing you harder, both hands tangled in your damp hair. “Fuck the car.” 

And fuck all the boys before, too, he nearly adds, but you’re kissing him back before he can bitch about it. It’s a welcome way to be shut up. 

Max opens the door to find you and Lando shivering on his doorstep. 

It’s not exactly how he envisioned this moment going down—less triumphant reentry, more drowned rats with trust issues—but then again, with you two, it was never going to be smooth.

“Look who finally made it out of the wild,” Max deadpans, stepping aside to let you two in. “Welcome to Birmingham. Population: two soggy disasters with no sense of direction.”

Lando mutters something about missed turns, a road that may or may not exist on modern maps, and sheep with murder in their eyes. You chirp out a very sincere, very breathless, “We’re so sorry we missed the party,” as you toe off your wet shoes, leaving a trail of puddles like you’re starring in a very damp Hansel and Gretel reboot.

Max lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. You missed the party, the group photo, the snacks, my DJ set, and my famous mini quiches. Tragic, really.”

“There were quiches?” Lando asks, eyes wide with betrayal.

“There were never quiches,” Max says dryly. “But if there had been, you’d have missed them. Along with the firework display and the ice sculpture of Toto Wolff.”

You and Lando shuffle inside like two kids caught sneaking back after curfew, still damp despite the towels draped around your shoulders like battle-worn cloaks. You look like someone who’s cried, laughed, kissed, and threatened murder all in one afternoon. Lando looks like a boy who’s finally gotten what he wanted and is now terrified of losing it. 

Honestly, Max has never seen the pair of you look better.

You nudge Lando with your shoulder. He elbows you back. You squawk something about fragile bones. He mumbles something about delicate drama queens. It’s like watching a tennis match, if tennis involved way more bickering and accidental flirting.

Friends again, Max notes. But also…

It’s in the little things. The way Lando brushes a strand of wet hair off your cheek, his eyes tracing your face with a reverence that borders religion. The way your hand lingers at his back, fingers resting there like it’s instinct. The way you press a kiss to his cheek when Max turns to grab a towel, clearly forgetting that he lives here and has functioning eyeballs.

“Right,” Max says, chucking a fresh towel at Lando’s head. “Don’t get my couch pregnant. It’s the only thing in this flat that hasn’t betrayed me.”

Lando sputters, towel smacking against his face, while you laugh so hard you nearly fall onto the aforementioned couch. “You love us,” you say, beaming up at Max from where you’re sprawled.

“I tolerate you,” Max corrects, but he’s smiling.

Lando flops beside you, damp clothes making a half-hearted squelch against the upholstery. You both look like chaos wrapped in human skin, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there’s a weird sort of peace between you. The kind that comes after a storm, literal and emotional.

Max leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you two settle in like you haven’t been emotionally exhausting all week. He scrolls through his phone and quietly closes the Weather app.

There was never any party.

Just a text thread, a fake group chat full of complicit friends, and one extremely coordinated schedule that might strand a stubborn driver and his emotionally constipated soulmate in the middle of nowhere.

Max smiles to himself.

Sometimes, you really do have to drive people into a storm to get them to admit they’re in love. ⛐

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

girl the curves on that body…

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

kinda wanna prove everyone wrong and get my life together but also kinda wanna kill myself ://

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

baby fever - ln4

summary: when lando and his girlfriend visit max's house to meet lilly lily, lando can't help but get baby fever. wc: 2.3k

folkie radio: hiii! small fic bc i don't have much time to write lately but i hope you like it. let me know your thoughts <3

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

"Lando, the chocolates!" you remind him as he's about to close the car door in the Verstappens' driveway.

"Right! Can't forget P's favorite," he grabs the special package from the backseat. You'd specifically stopped at her favorite chocolate shop in Monaco because according to Lando, "You can't visit a six-year-old empty-handed."

The drive to Max and Kelly's place had been filled with Lando's excited chatter about meeting little Lily. He's been like this since Max sent the first photo three months ago, completely besotted with his best friend's daughter. The way his eyes lit up at each new picture or video Max shared made something warm bloom in your chest.

Walking up to the house, you can hear the faint sound of children's laughter from inside. Before you can even ring the doorbell, the door swings open to reveal Kelly's warm smile, and suddenly you're both nearly knocked over by a small force of nature.

"LANDO!" Penelope shrieks, completely ignoring you to wrap herself around Lando's legs. Her hair bounces as she jumps up and down, her blue sundress twirling with each movement.

"Princess P!" Lando scoops her up with practiced ease, making her giggle. The nickname had stuck since her birthday when Lando crowned her with a tiny tiara. "I brought you something special."

Her eyes light up at the sight of the chocolate box, widening with recognition. "The ones with the strawberry inside?"

"Of course! Would I ever forget your favorite?"

You watch them with a soft smile as Kelly pulls you into a hug, the scent of her familiar perfume mixing with what you've come to know as baby powder. The interior of their home is cooler than the Monaco heat outside, the sound of a distant fan humming somewhere.

"She's been asking when 'her Lando' would visit for weeks now," Kelly confides, leading you into their open-plan living room where sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Her Lando?" you raise an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh yes, according to P, she's going to marry him when she grows up," Kelly laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Max is thrilled about that, as you can imagine."

"Oi, keep your hands off my daughter, Norris," Max's voice carries from the hallway. He appears moments later, carefully cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in pink. The sight of the usually intense Max Verstappen being so gentle makes your heart melt. He's wearing a soft t-shirt instead of his usual Red Bull gear, and there's a burp cloth draped over his shoulder, a far cry from his racing persona.

The room fills with the soft cooing sounds of baby Lily, and you watch as Lando's attention immediately shifts, his eyes fixed on the precious bundle in Max's arms.

"P, love," Kelly's voice is gentle as she notices Lando's transfixed expression, "why don't you show YN your new dollhouse while I steal Lando for a minute?"

"But Mama..." P pouts, still clinging to Lando like a koala, her small fingers wrapped in his t-shirt.

"I'll come see it right after, promise," Lando sets her down carefully. "Plus, I need to meet my new racing rival first."

Penelope sighs with all the drama a six-year-old can muster but grabs your hand. "Fine. But you promised!"

As she leads you toward the sweeping staircase, you catch a glimpse of Max carefully transferring Lily into Lando's arms. The soft "oh my god" that escapes your boyfriend's lips makes your chest tight with emotion.

P chatters away, her excitement evident in every bounce of her step. Her room is a princess's paradise, all soft pinks and purples, as she launches into a detailed explanation of each doll's name and backstory, you can hear the murmur of voices from downstairs, punctuated by occasional baby coos and Lando's soft laughter.

Twenty minutes and a comprehensive tour of P's dollhouse later (including introductions to every stuffed animal and a very serious discussion about which doll would make the best racing driver), you make your way back downstairs.

The scene that greets you makes your breath catch. Lando's on the plush cream-colored couch, completely entranced by the sleeping baby in his arms. His racing calluses look rough against Lily's delicate pink onesie, but his touch is impossibly gentle. The usually energetic Lando is utterly still, as if afraid the slightest movement might disturb her peaceful slumber.

"She hasn't cried once," Max sounds impressed from his spot in the adjacent armchair, a half-empty cup of coffee on the side table beside him. "Usually she only stays quiet for me or Kelly."

"She knows quality when she sees it," Lando whispers, careful not to wake her. His thumb gently strokes her tiny hand. "Don't you, little champion?"

"Quality?" Max snorts, but there's fondness in his voice. "More like she can sense similar mental age."

"Shut up, I'm having a moment with my niece."

You sink into the soft cushions beside him, breathing in the sweet baby powder scent mixed with Lando's familiar cologne. Lily's peaceful face is perfectly framed by her tiny pink hat, her lips making small suckling movements in her sleep. She's gorgeous, a perfect mix of Max and Kelly, with Max's distinctive nose and Kelly's delicate features.

"Want to hold her?" Lando offers, but his arms tighten protectively when you reach out, betraying his reluctance.

"Mate, you have to share," Max laughs, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "You can't hog my daughter all afternoon."

"But she's so tiny," Lando pouts, looking down at Lily like she's made of precious glass. "And she likes me."

"Lando," you give him a look, trying not to smile at his attachment.

"Fine," he relents, carefully beginning the delicate transfer process. "Support her head- no, like this- there you go."

"I know how to hold a baby," you roll your eyes fondly, but your heart swells at his protectiveness.

The peaceful moment is broken by the thunder of small feet on the stairs. "LANDO!" P's voice rings out. "You promised to see my dollhouse!"

"Inside voice, love," Kelly reminds her, "Lily's sleeping."

"Sorry Mama," P whispers dramatically, though it's still closer to a stage whisper. "But Lando promised."

"I did promise," Lando stands reluctantly, his fingers lingering on Lily's tiny foot. "Be right back, little champion," he whispers to her, and you catch Max hiding a smile behind his coffee cup.

As P drags him upstairs, her excited whispers float down. "When you marry me, can we have a baby like Lily?"

Max chokes on his drink while Kelly tries to suppress her laughter. The sound makes Lily stir slightly in your arms before settling again.

"Ah, well," Lando stammers, his voice carrying down the stairwell. "Shouldn't you focus on your studies first, Princess P?"

"I suppose," she sighs with the weight of the world. "But you'll wait for me, right?"

"I think YN might have something to say about that," Kelly calls up after them, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"YN can be the flower girl at our wedding!"

The room fills with quiet laughter, careful not to disturb Lily. The peaceful weight of the baby in your arms, the distant sound of P's chattering and Lando's patient responses, the comfortable domesticity of it all, it feels right in a way that makes your heart ache sweetly.

Fifteen minutes later, Lando returns looking slightly disheveled, a plastic tiara perched crookedly on his head and glitter somehow dusting his cheek. You bite back a laugh, apparently, the dollhouse tour had evolved into a full royal tea party.

"Not a word," he warns playfully, but his mock stern expression melts instantly as he takes in the sight of you holding Lily. He sinks back into the couch beside you, his arm finding its way around your shoulders as naturally as breathing. His other hand reaches out, and Lily instinctively grabs his finger in her sleep, her tiny fist holding on tight.

"She's perfect, isn't she?" he whispers, his breath warm against your ear.

"She is," you agree, noticing the way he's looking at both you and Lily, like he's seeing his future painted in front of him.

"Makes you think, doesn't it?" his voice is soft, meant only for you. The plastic tiara slips slightly, and you reach up to adjust it, your fingers lingering in his hair.

You turn to meet his eyes, recognizing that look, the same one he had when you first moved in together, when he first said 'I love you'. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. His lips linger there as he whispers, "Maybe... maybe soon?"

Your heart does a familiar flutter. "Yeah," you whisper back. "Maybe soon."

The moment is broken by Max's voice from the kitchen doorway, where delicious smells of dinner have been wafting through. "If you two are done planning your future family on my couch," he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel, "dinner's ready. Kelly's lasagna waits for no one."

"Just for that, I'm teaching Lily to support McLaren," Lando threatens, still not moving from his position next to you.

"Over my dead body, Norris," Max scoffs, but his eyes are soft as he looks at his daughter.

"LANDO! Sit next to me!" P's voice carries from the dining room, where the sound of plates being set mingles with Kelly's gentle instructions to her daughter about careful handling of the cutlery.

"Sorry Max, your daughter calls," Lando grins, carefully helping you up without disturbing Lily. The movement makes his tiara fall completely, and P gasps in horror from the doorway.

"She better grow out of this crush before I have to actually consider you as a son-in-law."

In the dining room, the table set with care and what you recognize as Kelly's favorite plates. P has already claimed her spot, patting the chair next to her impatiently. You watch as Max gently places Lily in her bassinet next to Kelly's chair, the baby somehow still sleeping peacefully despite the movement.

The evening unfolds in a comfortable rhythm of good food and better company. P monopolizes Lando's attention with stories about her school and her dreams of becoming a racing driver ("Like Papa Max!"), while you and Kelly coo over Lily when she finally wakes for her evening feed. The conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and the occasional competitive banter between Max and Lando.

But throughout it all, you don't miss the way Lando keeps looking at you, especially when you're helping Kelly with Lily. His hand finds yours under the table more than once, squeezing gently, a silent conversation passing between you.

As the evening winds down and night settles in, P fights a losing battle with sleep, her head nodding even as she tries to convince Lando to read "just one more story." Kelly eventually scoops her up, the little girl too tired to even protest.

"Say goodnight to Lando and YN, love," Kelly prompts softly.

"G'night," P mumbles, then suddenly perks up enough to add, "Don't forget you promised to marry me, Lando."

"Oh, did he now?" you tease, helping Max clear the dinner plates as Lando blushes.

"Sweet dreams, Princess P," Lando says diplomatically, earning a sleepy smile before Kelly carries her upstairs.

You spend another hour chatting in the living room, Lily passing from arms to arms (though mostly staying with Lando, who's become surprisingly adept at handling her). The conversation drifts from racing to family life, with Max sharing stories about his first three months of fatherhood that have you all laughing.

When it's finally time to leave, P is long asleep upstairs, and Lily has just dozed off in her bassinet. The goodbyes are warm, with promises to visit again soon. Kelly hugs you both, whispering something in Lando's ear that makes him blush and smile.

"Drive safe," Max says, then adds with a smirk, "And Lando, try not to steal my daughter's heart too much. Either of them."

The drive home is quieter than the journey there, but it's a comfortable silence filled with unspoken thoughts.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you ask, watching his profile in the passing streetlights.

"Just thinking," he says, then after a pause that feels full of possibility, "You looked really good with Lily today."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he smiles, squeezing your hand. The streetlights catch the softness in his eyes. "Really good."

You know what he's not saying. After years together, you've learned to read between his lines, to understand the weight behind his simple words. The car fills with comfortable silence again as you both process the day's events and their implications.

"We should practice first," you suggest casually, watching his reaction from the corner of your eye. "Maybe get a dog?"

His face lights up like a Christmas tree, brighter than the Monte Carlo casino you're passing. "Really?"

"Really," you squeeze his hand, feeling the familiar calluses under your fingers. "One step at a time."

"One step at a time," he agrees, but his smile tells you he's already thinking several steps ahead. You can practically see the wheels

Later that night, as you're getting ready for bed, you catch him looking at baby clothes online. He quickly switches tabs when he notices you watching, but you pretend not to see, hiding your smile as you climb into bed beside him.

"Max sent more pictures," he says, showing you his phone. The screen displays a sleeping Lily in her bassinet.

"She's beautiful," you murmur, curling into his side.

"Our kids will be cuter though," he says confidently, then freezes as he realizes what he's said.

But you just laugh and kiss his cheek. "Obviously. They'll have your eyes."

His answering smile is brighter than all of Monaco's lights combined. You fall asleep that night dreaming of tiny racing suits and baby giggles, knowing that your "maybe soon" is slowly but surely turning into "definitely soon."

The next morning, you wake up to find Lando has already researched the best dog breeds for families with children. You don't mention it, but you do bookmark the page for future reference.

One step at a time, indeed.

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

Stop 🥹🥹🥹 a kid that’s karting is wearing Lando’s blob helmet and kept Lando’s name, but uses his own number and I can’t 😭😭😭😭

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

Recipe For Heartbreak - Lando Norris X PrivateChef!Reader

summary: his 'girlfriend' is the one in the spotlight. you’re the one he finds in the quiet, where his hand lingers just a little too long on yours. (8k words)

content: PR relationship, slightly toxic Lando, forbidden feelings, private vs public persona, crawling back

AN: got asked to do a toxic Lando fic & this is the result! inspired by my real world situationships that haunt me every night in my sleep lol

---------------------------------------------

Lando’s kitchen always smelled like him.

Not the cologne-and-race-fuel version of him that the public knew—the one who showed up on grid walks and in brand campaigns, draped over some model’s shoulder like a sun-kissed trophy boy. No, this kitchen smelled like sleepy citrus body wash, sea salt, the ghost of his last protein shake, and the warm, smoky scent of the espresso you brewed for him every morning.

It was your favorite time of day. Early light poured showered the streets on your walk to his place, the sea just visible past the row of terracotta roofs. The Cap d’Ail stillness was a gentle thing, in stark contrast to the busier Monte Carlo where he lives. 

Lando Norris’ private chef, a title that sounded much more glamorous on paper than it did when you were trying to get him to eat quinoa instead of beige carbs on a Tuesday. You traveled the world with him and his team, kept him fueled during back-to-backs, cooked through jet lag and media days. But it was the in-betweendays you loved the most — the quiet, domestic ones like this.

He’s already there when you arrive — because of course he is. Leaning against the counter like some kind of lifestyle shoot for “athlete at home.” Barefoot, hoodie half-zipped over a t-shirt, hair sticking up in several carefully disheveled directions. His phone is in his hand, but it’s very obvious he’s been listening for the sound of the terrace door.

“You’re late,” he says, still staring at his phone like this is a casual observation and not the most blatant lie of the morning.

“5 minutes, Norris,” you reply, setting your bag on the island. “Civilisation hasn’t collapsed.”

“You know I should fire you for wasting a World Champion’s valuable time.”

This from a man who isn’t even World Champion yet, who’s been late to at least two of his own simulator sessions this month, and who currently has something suspiciously jam-like on his sleeve. (You make a mental note to check the laundry situation later.)

“Not world champion yet,” you remind him, opening the fridge. “Eat your oats, Lan, then we can discuss statues.”

He drags himself to the island with the same energy as someone walking the final steps of a marathon. Chin propped in his hand, he watches you with an intensity usually reserved for race replays.

“You’re just gonna stand there and stare?” you ask, chopping fruit.

“Part of the process,” he says without missing a beat. “Chef under pressure, high stakes… It’s like MasterChef, but hotter.”

You roll your eyes, which earns a grin from him—the dangerous kind. He leans forward, elbow on the counter, and his gaze follows your every movement like it’s a sport in itself.

He steals a berry from the cutting board. You swat his hand away with the knife (blunt side, obviously—though the dramatic gasp he gives suggests you’ve gravely injured him).

“You know this is my favorite part of the day,” he says casually, like it’s nothing.

You don’t look up. “Breakfast?”

He tilts his head. “No. This. You. Acting like I’m a nuisance, but still letting me sit here anyway.”

You pause, stirring the oats. “I let you sit there because it’s easier than dragging you out. Don’t overthink it.”

He just grins. “Sure. That’s the only reason.”

“You love this,” he teases. “Me annoying you in your natural habitat.”

“I tolerate it. Barely.”

“Nah.” His smirk softens, his voice dipping just enough to make your pulse do something inconvenient. “You are a terrible liar.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. .

This is the problem. If he said it with his usual cheeky grin, you’d roll your eyes and keep cooking. But here, in this kitchen, there’s no media, no crowd to play to, just Lando barefoot, hoodie-wearing, hair-messy, looking at you like you’re the one piece of his life that doesn’t require performance.

Which is unfair. Deeply unfair.

Because you know how this goes. This is the part where he’ll stand in your kitchen looking at you like that, stealing bites, getting under your skin, and then… there’ll be a photo tomorrow of him holding hands with her. Perfect-hair, perfect-nails PR girlfriend. You’ll see it while scrolling on your phone between chopping courgettes and pretending not to care.

But you don’t think about that. Not now. Not when he’s still sitting there, chin in his hand, eyes all lazy warmth, like this kitchen is his favorite place to be.

You slide the oats toward him, careful not to brush his fingers. Not because you don’t want to, but because you really want to.

He takes a bite, leaning back with a sigh that is far too dramatic for oats. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“It’s literally oats.”

“Elite oats,” he says, spoon pointed at you. “Chef’s kiss.”

You shake your head, turning to tidy up. His gaze is still on you. You can feel it. It’s always there.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, tone softer.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, but there’s that small smile again—the one that feels like it’s only for you. “Just like having you here.”

And just like that, you’re in dangerous territory again. The sunlight’s a little warmer, the sea a little quieter, and Lando Norris is looking at you like this is exactly where he wants you to be.

…

Some people board flights, sit down, and try to be unobtrusive. Lando is not some people. He’s a constant presence. Elbow nudges. Tapping the armrest to the rhythm of whatever’s in his headphones. Subtly (or not-so-subtly) leaning over to see if you’re watching something more interesting than him.

“Working again?” he asks, eyeing the laptop balanced on your knees.

“Yes. Some of us do that for a living.”

He grins, leaning his head against the seat. “You work for me darling, you can relax.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “You are the pickiest eater I know, Norris. I need top rep before we land, unless you want me to feed you fish tonight.”

He pretends to think about it. “For you I’d try.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no denying the comfort of it. The easy rhythm between you, even in the cramped, artificial air of a team flight. The bubble follows you.

…

It’s a race weekend, which always feels like living in a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking. Everything’s moving, crowded, noisy. And yet somehow, when she’s not here, there’s a strange calm that slips in at the edges.

You hate yourself for how much you enjoy it. But you do. Without her, there are no staged photos, no dinners for the cameras. He’s less brand and more… himself. He lingers in the McLaren kitchen, leaning against the counter while you work. He follows you back to the hotel lounge after team dinners with some flimsy excuse about reviewing his nutrition plan—like he needs you there to function. It’s quieter, easier, the way it was before you started noticing every line you shouldn’t cross.

And that’s the problem. You’re the safe place he comes to when he doesn’t want to be that Lando. You’re the comfort, the quiet, the thing he can have in the shadows while the spotlight is busy somewhere else. But the spotlight will come back eventually. And you know that all too well.

The text comes at one in the morning.

Not a normal-person text. Not even a polite hi, sorry to bother you. Just two words, no punctuation, no explanation.

bring snacks

Of course it’s him.

You stare at your phone from the safety of your pyjamas and hotel bed. This is the part where a rational person says no. This is the part where you remember that he has a girlfriend whose PR team is probably asleep in Monte Carlo, secure in the knowledge that their client is playing his role exactly as scripted. This is the part where you turn off your phone, roll to your side, and let him fend for himself with whatever’s left on his room service table.

Instead, you type:

what’s in it for me

The reply comes almost instantly.

company best company you’ll get at 1am anyway

And that’s the problem. He’s not wrong.

You know exactly what you’re doing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. This is how heartbreak happens: slowly, predictably, with both of you watching it unfold from opposite sides of the line and stepping over it anyway.

Your key card is in your pocket before you’ve even thought of another reason to say no.

…

The hallway is quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, makes you hyperaware of every step. The thick hotel carpet swallows the sound of your footsteps, but it doesn’t do anything to dull the thud in your chest.

You know exactly what this is. Exactly where it leads. And still, you’re walking toward his door like you have no control over your own feet. Each step feels suspiciously like walking into trouble, but by now, trouble is familiar. Trouble has a face, a laugh, a stupid hoodie you’ve probably washed more times than he has.

You pause in front of his suite. There’s half a second where you consider turning around, going back to bed. Then you knock—lightly, as if the sound itself is already an admission.

The door swings open almost immediately, like he’s been standing there waiting.

“Finally,” he says, leaning against the frame. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, and his hoodie hangs loose over his shoulders. There’s that grin—the one that doesn’t just say I’m glad you’re here, but I knew you’d come.

“You’ve been starving for all of ten minutes?” you say, brushing past him and holding up the bag.

“I was wasting away,” he replies, shutting the door behind you.

“You ordered half the room service menu.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, voice dipping just enough to land somewhere warmer. “Room service doesn’t come with you.”

And there it is. That tone. The one that keeps you rooted exactly where you are instead of rolling your eyes and walking out.

His suite smells like him. Not the sharp, expensive cologne of press days, but warm soap and faint salt from the open balcony door. That quiet, comfortable scent you only ever notice in moments like this.

The coffee table is a mess of food: a burger, pasta, three kinds of fries, and a salad that’s clearly been ordered to meet some nutrition target before being abandoned entirely.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, sinking onto the couch.

“You love me.”

“Love is a strong word,” you say, leaning back. “I tolerate you.”

“I tolerate you too, darling.” He drops onto the opposite end of the couch, stretching out until his knee almost touch your knee.

The TV hums quietly in the background, playing something neither of you is watching. The sound is there to fill the space, but it doesn’t. The air feels different here, like this suite exists in a different timezone from the rest of the weekend.

He leans back against the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, a fry dangling between his fingers.

“You know what’s tragic?” he says.

“That you’re about to eat a third portion of fries?”

“That too,” he smirks, “but no. FP2. Did you see the track temps? Thought the car was going to melt underneath me.”

“You complain like you were out there barefoot.”

“Would’ve been less frustrating. At least then I’d have an excuse.” He tosses the fry into his mouth, tilting his head toward you. “And don’t even get me started on the debrief with the team afterwards.”

“Oh, I heard,” you say, reaching for the ketchup. “The engineer with the death wish?”

Lando groans. “If he brings up brake balance one more time, I’m—” He stops, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m fine now.”

You glance at him, catching the way his voice has softened. “You sound fine now,” you say lightly.

He shrugs, lips twitching. “What can I say? Fries help. You help more.”

You try your best to ignore the comment but the butterflies in your stomach won’t let you.

“I should be scolding you for all this junkfood but to be fair I needed it too.”

He just smiles.

At some point, you stretch your legs and your knee brushes his. It’s nothing, an accident, probably. But neither of you moves.

His gaze lingers. The air shifts, charged.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I don’t think I’d survive these weekends without you.”

You pick at a fry, pretending not to notice the weight of the words. “You’d survive. You’ve got a whole team.”

“They keep me alive.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “You keep me sane.”

room feels smaller now, as if the walls have shifted closer just to trap the two of you in this thin strip of charged air. The glow from the TV barely reaches him, but you can see his eyes perfectly—fixed on you, steady, searching. He’s still watching you like he’s trying to decide something, like there’s a word hovering on his tongue that might shatter the little sanctuary you’ve built.

Your breath catches, a shallow inhale that feels louder than it should. He leans in—not much, just a fraction, but enough that you catch the faint smell of his shampoo, the quiet hitch in his breathing. You swear his gaze dips to your mouth for a fraction of a second.

For a heartbeat, you’re almost certain he’s going to close the distance. The tension tightens, almost visible, and your chest goes heavy, bracing for something that feels inevitable.

And then—

A knock at the door.

The sound cuts through the moment like a wire snapping.

He sits back abruptly, glancing toward the hallway. “Room service,” he says, and there’s a reluctant curve to his mouth, like he’s annoyed at the interruption.

You exhale, realising you’d been holding your breath the whole time.

He crosses the room, pulling the door open, his voice dropping low as he exchanges a quiet word with the staff. The door closes again with a soft click, and he’s holding another portion of fries when he turns back to you.

“In my defence,” he says, setting them on the table, “these are for both of us.”

You give him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and amusement. “Uh-huh.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. The air doesn’t fully reset—the tension hangs there, invisible but tangible, a thread that hasn’t quite been cut.

You stand to leave a few minutes later, hoodie pulled tighter around you. The air feels too warm, and you’re sure it’s not from the room temperature. He gets up almost instinctively, falling into step behind you, walking you to the door like it’s a ritual.

“Thanks for the fries,” you say, aiming for light but hearing the uneven edge in your voice.

“Thanks for coming,” he replies, and the way he says it is quieter, heavier.

You step toward the hallway, but his hand catches your wrist. Not tight—just enough to pause you. The contact is light, almost nothing, but it stops you cold.

His hand lingers, just that fraction too long. His thumb brushes your knuckles, slow, absent-minded, like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Or maybe he does.

You meet his eyes, but there’s nothing you can pin down there. Just the same unspoken thing that’s been hovering all night.

“Goodnight,” he says, the word sitting heavy and strange in the space between you.

“Goodnight,” you manage, though your voice feels small.

You step into the hallway, his touch ghosting your skin. You walk back to your room with your pulse still racing, the echo of his voice, his hand, that almost, trailing behind you like a ghost.

…

The kitchen smells like rosemary and olive oil, the kind of comfort that normally keeps you grounded during race weekends. Not today.

You’re stirring a pan, watching the oil shimmer, when your phone buzzes on the counter. You reach for it absently, expecting a text from a supplier. Instead, Instagram.

You shouldn’t open it. You know better. But your thumb swipes anyway.

It’s a post notification from her.

You don’t even know why you turned those on. You couldn’t help yourself. It’s like your stabbing yourself in the chest but then again the thought of not knowing may be worse. At least it serves as a reminder why it would never work. 

A glossy story: her in some perfectly chosen outfit, smiling for the camera, with the text missing you 🧡 good luck this weekend @ lando

You could live with that. You’ve lived with worse. But then the next story plays automatically: an old photo, but not old enough to feel distant. The two of them kissing. The kind of photo that gets shared around pinterest and gossip accounts. See you soon.

The sound in the room dims for a moment, the sizzle from the pan turning faint. You set the phone face down and reach for a knife, movement maybe a little sharper than necessary.

“Smells good in here,” a familiar voice says behind you.

You don’t turn. “Does it.”

He steps closer, leaning against the counter like it’s habit. “That was… not a happy ‘does it.’”

“I’m just busy today,” you say, eyes fixed on the cutting board.

“You always say that when you’re annoyed,” he says, a faint grin in his voice. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” The knife moves faster than it needs to, slicing through herbs like they’ve offended you personally.

He tilts his head slightly, still watching you. “Sure.”

You ignore him, stirring the pan, moving from counter to stove in sharp, efficient motions. You don’t mention the post, the photo, the way last night’s almost-moment in his suite dissolved into something scripted for public eyes.

For a while, he doesn’t speak. Just stays there, grabbing a piece of bread from the counter, taking a bite, leaning quietly in the background. The silence should make it easier. It doesn’t.

Then, softly: “Hey.”

You pause mid-stir, not looking at him.

“You’re wound up,” he says, voice lower now, close enough that you can feel the sound more than hear it.

You open your mouth to deflect, but before you can, he’s stepping closer, sliding a hand lightly to your arm.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. His tone is steady, gentle, but there’s something in it that makes your throat tighten. “Whatever it is—you’re okay.”

Your breath catches, and you’re not sure if it’s from his words or the warmth of his hand.

And then, without waiting for you to agree or pull away, he eases you back from the counter. His arms come around you,secure, like he’s holding something fragile.

You stand there for a second, rigid in your own stubbornness, but his touch doesn’t falter. His palm moves slowly along the back of your head, fingertips brushing your hair, the kind of absent, careful gesture that feels like it’s meant to comfort him as much as you.

He doesn’t ask again what’s wrong. Doesn’t push. Just holds you there, long enough that you feel the air shift, long enough that your chest aches in a way you don’t want to admit. You allow yourself to sink into this shoulder.

And then, so quietly you almost miss it, he says, “It will be fine, trust me.”

You nod, not trusting your voice, feeling the weight of last night, of this morning, of everything unsaid pressing into the space between you.

He still doesn’t know why you’re upset. But he holds you like he does.

…

Dinner is good. Too good, if you’re honest.

It’s nothing elaborate — roasted potatoes, chicken, a bright salad on the side — but everything feels better in the quiet of his kitchen. Maybe it’s the playlist humming lazily in the background, maybe it’s the way the lights are warm instead of harsh. Maybe it’s because he’s here, leaning an elbow on the counter like he has nothing else to do, watching you with that look he gets sometimes—half amusement, half something you can’t name.

“You didn’t plate it as nicely as you do on race weekends,” he says, stabbing his fork into a potato.

“That’s because it’s just you here,” you reply, sliding your own fork into the salad. “No audience, no photos, no Michelin-star drama.”

“I am the audience,” he says. “Best seat in the house. That deserves five-star plating.”

“You’d spill it on yourself before you finished taking a photo.”

“Possibly,” he says, smirking. “But it would be worth it.”

It’s easy. Too easy. You eat at the counter, shoulders brushing now and then when one of you leans for a drink. He tells you about a sim race with Oscar, waving his fork around like punctuation, his eyes lighting up the way they do when he’s telling a story he really enjoys. You tell him about a ridiculous delivery mix-up that nearly ended in disaster, and he grins like he’s already imagining the chaos.

When the plates are empty, you start to stack them out of habit.

“I should do the dishes,” he says suddenly.

You pause. “You?”

“Yes, me. Let me be a gentleman for once.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? The same person who once tried to clean a pan with… what was it? Washing powder?”

“They shouldn’t call it washing powder, that was not on me.”

“You can try to be a gentleman but maybe you should try being a functioning adult first.”

“Auch,” he says, standing and gathering plates anyway. “Then we do them together.”

You watch him carry the plates to the sink like a man on a mission, sleeves pushed up. “I still don’t trust your technique.”

He glances over his shoulder, grinning. “Trust builds over time.”

“Not with you and sponges.”

You rinse. He dries.

Or at least, he pretends to. More water ends up on the counter than on the towel.

It starts small—he flicks a drop of foam at you when it splashes his sleeve.

“Seriously?” you ask, brushing at the water on your arm.

He grins. “Part of the process.”

You flick a little foam back at him without thinking.

Big mistake.

His expression shifts—mock offense mixed with something gleeful. “Oh, you’ve declared war.”

Before you can back away, he’s flicking more suds in your direction, laughing as you dodge.

“This is sabotage!” you laugh, grabbing the sponge from his hand.

He tries to take it back, reaching around you, and in the ridiculous scuffle you end up face to face, closer than you’d meant to be.

You freeze for a moment.

He’s still smiling, but it’s softer now. His breath is warm where it brushes your cheek.

“You’ve got…” His fingers lift, brushing lightly over your jaw. “Foam.”

You swallow. “Thanks.”

Neither of you moves away.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping just enough to pull at your pulse, “you’re a terrible influence. Always distracting me from my professional dishwashing duties.”

“Maybe you just can’t focus.”

“Maybe.” His hand lingers on your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

And then he leans in.

It’s not rushed. There’s no sudden movement, no dramatic grab. It’s slower than you expected, like he’s testing every inch of space between you. His breath brushes your cheek first, a warm, quiet warning. Your pulse kicks harder.

His lips meet yours in the lightest touch — warm, careful, the kind of kiss that feels almost like a question. His hand lifts, tilting your chin just enough to draw you in closer. There’s a hesitancy in the way he moves, like he’s giving you a fraction of a second to change your mind, to stop him before the line between you shifts completely.

But your fingers are already curling into the edge of his hoodie, knuckles brushing his ribs as if you’re anchoring yourself.

He pulls back just slightly, enough to let the air back between you. His gaze searches yours, steady, as if trying to read the answer you haven’t spoken yet.

“You taste better than anything you’ve ever cooked for me,” he says softly, the words low enough that they feel like they belong only here, only now.

Your breath catches, your voice a fraction shaky when you murmur, “This is a dumb idea. It’s going to complicate everything.”

“I don’t care.” His voice is steady, without hesitation.

“Lando—”

He shakes his head, just slightly. His forehead dips until it rests lightly against yours, his eyes still fixed on you. “Don’t care.”

And then his mouth is on yours again.

The second kiss is different. Deeper. Surer.

His other hand slides to your waist, fingers curling against your side as he tugs you closer. The counter presses firmly against your hip, grounding you even as the rest of you feels like it’s slipping into something weightless. His mouth moves against yours with a quiet confidence, coaxing rather than demanding, and it makes your head spin.

You hesitate for only a second before you give in.

Shyly at first — your lips parting, your hands lifting until your fingers fist lightly in the soft fabric of his hoodie. His body is warm, solid against yours, and you can feel the subtle tension in his shoulders.

His fingers flex at your waist, a subtle press that keeps you close. He tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and your breath hitches when you feel the change in pressure, the steady certainty in the way he’s holding you.

The kitchen seems to fall away. You lose track of how long you stand there like that — pressed between him and the counter, the music a faint hum in the background, the smell of soap and rosemary still hanging in the air. His hands stay steady at your waist, his mouth coaxing yours until your pulse is loud in your own ears.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both a little breathless. His forehead stays against yours, his eyes closed for a moment like he’s catching the same breath you are. His thumb brushes absently along your jaw, a small, grounding touch that makes your chest feel too tight.

“This is going to ruin everything,” you say quietly, the words coming out more like an exhale than a warning.

He grins, soft, dangerous, his lips still close enough that you can feel the shape of the words when he says, “Probably. Still don’t care.”

…

The Richard Mille event is all glass and polish, the kind of venue that looks like it smells expensive. It’s not your first time at one of these sponsor days. They always blur together eventually—rooms filled with the hum of conversations that don’t need you, people you’ll never meet again, the faint clink of champagne flutes. You’re here because you always are, part of the inner circle that moves like a well-rehearsed shadow: his engineer, his trainer, a couple of McLaren people.

Normally, you don’t mind it. You’re good at staying just far enough in the background that the day passes without thought. But today feels different.

Because he’s here.

And not the him from last night. Not the Lando who laughed with you in the kitchen while you threw foam at each other over the sink, leaning in with a warm, careful kiss, and that low, maddening “Don’t care” when you told him it was a bad idea.

No, today it’s public Lando.

The one who arrives in a perfectly fitted team jacket, hair tidy in a way that’s almost certainly intentional, smile already in place. He’s practiced at this—the angles, the tone of his voice, the way his laugh carries just far enough to be heard over the crowd without feeling staged.

And she’s here, of course.

His girlfriend, perfectly composed in a deep red dress that seems almost engineered for the camera flashes. Her hand rests on his forearm like it belongs there, his hand at her waist as they step into the atrium. It’s easy to forget they’re not what they look like on nights like these. They fit the room perfectly—smiling for photos, leaning close for the right sound bites, laughing at something whispered just between them.

You keep moving, because that’s what you do. You check on catering, run over timings with one of the event coordinators, stand with his engineer while he grumbles about a setup delay.

But you’re aware of him in a way that feels impossible to shake. Not because you’re watching, exactly. But because the sound of his voice still finds you, bright and smooth in a way that doesn��t belong to kitchens or quiet playlists.

At one point during the speeches, you catch him looking at you across the room. Just for a moment. The smile softens—not much, but enough that you see it. Enough that you feel that quiet shift of recognition. But then someone calls his name, her hand slides into his, and the look disappears as quickly as it arrived.

Maybe you imagined it.

When the formalities end, he shakes hands, poses for more photos, answers a handful of polite questions. She’s by his side through all of it, polished and effortless, smiling when he does. You know the rhythm of these events. You know it’s all part of the performance.

And yet, by the time the evening winds down, you feel wrung out in a way that has nothing to do with work. You keep smiling at the right people, thanking the right staff, stepping into the elevator with the rest of the inner circle when it’s finally time to leave.

But in the quiet that settles over you on the ride back, you can’t shake the thought: maybe last night’s Lando only exists in moments where no one else can see.

…

The ride back from the Richard Mille event is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy in that way that settles in your chest, like the air’s been thickened just enough to make breathing harder. You’re in the same car, but there’s an entire ocean of unspoken things in the space between you. He scrolls through his phone occasionally, answering a text, giving a short laugh at something his engineer says in the front seat.

Your eyes stay fixed on the blur of lights outside the window.

When the convoy drops you off in Monaco, you slip out of the car quickly, muttering a polite goodnight to the group. You don’t check to see if he’s looking. You don’t think you want to know.

You shower, put on soft clothes, and try not to think about how your hands still smell faintly of the champagne that had been passed around earlier. You’re halfway through making tea when the knock comes at your door.

Of course it’s him.

He’s leaning against the frame, casual like this isn’t the last thing you expected.

“You left fast,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“I was tired.” You move toward the kitchen, not looking at him.

“You didn’t even say goodnight.”

“You seemed busy,” you say, aiming for light but hearing the quiet edge in your own voice.

He watches you for a long second, leaning back against the counter. “If this is about today—”

“It’s not about today,” you cut in. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s about every today.

His brow furrows slightly. “You know how these events work. Sponsors. Press. There’s a way things have to look.”

“I know that.” You turn, finally meeting his eyes. “I’ve been to enough of them to know exactly how it works. But I don’t know if I can handle…” You trail off, searching for the words. “I don’t know if I can handle the two versions of you.”

His expression shifts, faint but there. “Two versions of me?”

“You last night,” you say quietly. “And you today. It’s like they’re two completely different people. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to protect myself from. I feel like a dirty little secret you need to hide, and I know it’s because of that contract, but you are a stranger when you’re in front of the cameras. It’s harsh.”

He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head like he’s trying to make the problem go away by physically brushing it off. “You know that’s not real.”

“Maybe not for you,” you reply, softer now. “But you’re not the one standing there watching it.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then: “I don’t love her. You know that.”

The words are steady, firm, like they’re meant to solve everything.

Your voice dips. “You don’t feel it the way I do. I have to stand there and watch you kiss her while you act like you don’t know me.”

His shoulders drop slightly. “It’s just in my contract. Not like I enjoy it.”

You shake your head, stepping back. “I don’t know. Maybe we should just keep it professional.”

The words hang there, and for a moment the only sound is the faint hum of your fridge. He’s leaning against the doorframe like he’s not ready to accept that, his gaze steady on you.

“Is that really what you want?” he says finally, his voice low enough to make it feel heavier.

You busy yourself with the edge of your sleeve. “Maybe it’s the smart thing.”

He takes a slow step into the room. “You don’t want smart.”

“Maybe I do,” you say, though it doesn’t sound convincing, even to your own ears.

Another step closer. “No, you don’t. You want me showing up here. You want me in your kitchen at midnight, stealing your tea and bothering you about what’s in your fridge.” His mouth curves just slightly, but his tone stays soft. “You want the guy from last night. You want the guy who kisses you until you stop overthinking it.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, because you hate how easily he says it.

He takes another step, close enough now that you have to tilt your chin to keep looking at him. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t care?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s the only point that matters to me,” he says, quieter now. “I finally have you, don’t let me lose you, darling.”

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers over your hand—not demanding, just enough to keep you there. “Don’t make this about what it looks like at an event. Make it about this. About me driving here after a twelve-hour day because I didn’t want you going to bed thinking you’re just… the quiet part of my life.”

There’s a beat where you don’t answer, your pulse a little too quick.

“Let me stay. Tonight can be ours — just me and you, no cameras, no noise.”

It’s so easy the way he says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And that’s how he always gets you — because for all the ways it will ache tomorrow, right now feels like the easiest decision you’ll ever make.

…

The hotel hallway is hushed at night, the kind of stillness that makes every small sound louder. You balance the takeout containers in one hand, knock softly, and wait.

The door opens almost instantly. He’s barefoot, in sweats and a t-shirt, hair damp from the shower.

“Finally,” he says, stepping aside. “I was two minutes away from calling a search party.”

“I should’ve let you starve,” you mutter, walking past him toward the table.

“That’s mean,” he says, closing the door. “After all I’ve been through today.”

“All you’ve been through?” you reply, unpacking the containers. “You had to work for 3 hours today, poor baby.”

He’s leaning against the counter now, watching you like you’re the only thing worth paying attention to. “You get me so well.”

You roll your eyes, but it still warms something in your chest you don’t want to acknowledge.

Dinner is comfortable in the way it always is with him. He sprawls on the couch, bare feet on the coffee table, teasing you about your order, asking about your day like he wasn’t there for most of it. And it’s so easy to fall into the rhythm that you almost forget. Almost.

But not entirely.

Because she’s here this weekend too.

You don’t say anything about her during dinner. You don’t say anything while you clear the table. It’s only when you’re back on the couch that it finally comes out.

“I think we need to set some boundaries.”

He glances over at you, eyebrows lifting. “That sounds serious.”

“It is.” You tuck your legs beneath you, fingers curling into the sleeve of your hoodie. “It’s hard, Lando. When she’s here. When I have to see you two together all day and then come here like nothing’s different.”

He exhales, leaning back against the couch. “You know what this is,” he says softly. “You’ve always known.”

“I know what this is,” you say, your voice dropping, “but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, and maybe there’s a better way to go about it.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he shifts closer. His knee brushes yours, his arm drapes lazily along the back of the couch. His hand finds your shoulder, thumb brushing in a slow, steady circle.

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he says, voice low. “I want to talk about you. About how you’re the only reason these weekends feel even a little bit normal.”

“Lan, please.”

You should pull away, you should press the point, but then he’s tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, leaning in just enough that his breath is warm on your temple.

“She doesn’t get this,” he murmurs. “This is just ours.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already moving, his hands slipping to your waist.

Before you can react, he lifts you easily onto his lap. “I like you better here,” he says with a smirk, settling you against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You huff a laugh, despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously fond of you,” he corrects, tilting his head to kiss your jaw. One, two, three light pecks, trailing toward your cheek. “Ridiculously grateful you put up with me.” Another kiss at the corner of your mouth. “Ridiculously obsessed with your terrible movie taste.”

You try to keep your expression flat, but your lips curve before you can stop them.

“There it is,” he says softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “That smile.”

And you fold.

He doesn’t let you move, his hands settled easily at your hips, thumbs drawing slow, absent circles that make it hard to remember what you were trying to say in the first place. You lean back just far enough to see his face, and the version of him from earlier—the one in the paddock, smiling for cameras—is gone. What’s left is only this Lando: warm, unhurried, entirely at ease in a way he never is anywhere else.

You study him for a moment, and the ache doesn’t vanish, but it dulls. You know tomorrow will be worse, and the day after that, too. But right now, with the quiet hum of the TV and his gaze fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room, it’s easy to stop thinking about later. You let yourself rest against him, forehead tipping toward his, the space between you settling into something steady and calm.

At some point you both shift back onto the couch, his arm loose over your waist, his body angled toward you like it’s instinct. His breathing slows, even and quiet, and it’s not until the movie is finished that you realise he’s fallen asleep.

You lie still, staring at the ceiling in the soft light, and it’s that familiar contradiction—the safety of his presence like a cocoon wrapped around you, and the trap of knowing you’ll walk right back into this next time, no matter how much it will hurt.

…

The garage feels different today.

It’s not just the sound, though it’s louder—voices sharper, radio chatter more clipped, every engineer keyed into their screen. It’s not just the smell of fuel and rubber in the air, or the way the mechanics move like every second matters.

It’s the tension.

He’s close—so close to the championship—and everyone feels it. It hums in the air like static, in the way no one lingers too long over small talk, in the way every glance at the monitors feels heavier.

Your heart has been in your throat since the start of qualifying.

You keep to your spot, headset on, pressed against the edge of the garage. It’s your quiet corner, the place where you can see him on the screens and watch his car pull in and out of the pit box without being in the way. Normally it feels safe. Today, it doesn’t.

Not with her here.

She’s positioned perfectly for the cameras, just where the team’s PR wants her. Perfect hair, perfect jacket, perfect smile every time the camera swings her way. Every shot is designed to catch her reaction when he flies through a sector or nails a lap. Her presence is deliberate, calculated.

She’s meant to be seen, you’re meant to stay hidden.

And it makes your stomach knot.

But when he’s out on track, none of that matters.

The headset crackles with his voice, controlled and calm in that way it always is in the car. You watch the screen as he threads the car through each corner like he was born in it, every line precise, every exit clean. The lap times come in and your pulse jumps with each sector—green, purple, another purple.

When he crosses the line fastest, the garage erupts. Cheers, shouts, mechanics clapping each other on the back. She’s smiling for the cameras again, the picture-perfect image they want. You stay where you are, the sound of your pulse loud in your ears, your chest light with relief and pride you can’t show anyone.

…

Most of the media has cleared out, the press pens dismantled until tomorrow. Most of the team is already back at the hotel, tucked into rooms that still hum faintly with radio chatter from earlier. The only sounds left are the steady hum of generators and the soft buzz of overhead lights.

You’re finishing up a few last checks, stocking up the fridge with the last meal preps—making notes, checking details, anything to keep your hands busy. The quiet is nice. Rare on a weekend like this. It lets your thoughts stretch out, settle. You don’t expect anyone else to find you here.

So when you hear his voice, it catches you off guard.

“You’re still here,” he says, stepping into the room like he knew you’d be exactly here.

“So are you,” you reply without looking up from the papers in your hand.

He lets the door fall shut behind him, leaning against it for a second before moving in further. “Wasn’t ready to go back to the hotel yet. Too many press outside still.”

He says it lightly, but there’s something different about him tonight. No smirk, no rapid-fire teasing. Just a stillness. His hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms, but he keeps tugging at them like he needs something to do with his hands. His shoulders are tense in a way that isn’t immediately obvious until you look closer.

“You’re nervous,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer at first. His gaze drops briefly to the floor, his fingers tapping against the seam of his hoodie pocket before he looks back at you.

“Feels different this time,” he says finally. “What if I mess up tomorrow.”

“You won’t,” you tell him, and it’s not a question.

That earns you the smallest smile—not the confident grin the cameras get, not the easy smirk he wears for the team. Something smaller. Quieter.

“You always say that like you know for sure.”

“I do.”

There’s a pause that stretches for a moment too long. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like he’s debating something. Then he takes a slow step closer. His voice is lower when he speaks again.

“You have no idea how much you calm me down. It’s ridiculous. I could walk out of a press conference ready to bite someone’s head off, and then I find you, and it’s just…” He stops, like the word is stuck in his throat. “…quiet. With you.”

You watch him, and for once, he’s not playing to an audience. His shoulders aren’t squared, his posture isn’t practiced. His hands move like they’re restless without a steering wheel to grip—tugging his sleeve, brushing through his hair, then back to his pockets again.

Another step closer, until you can feel the faint warmth radiating off him. His eyes search yours for something he hasn’t asked for out loud.

You can see the nervous tells up close now: the faint twitch of his jaw when he swallows, the way his breathing hitches almost imperceptibly before he speaks.

And when he leans in, you don’t stop him.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, like he’s determined not to rush this. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw in a slow stroke that feels more grounding than romantic.

The tension in his shoulders begins to ease almost immediately, like every exhale is shedding a layer of pressure. You can feel it in the way his posture shifts, in the way his hand steadies against your back. It’s like holding him pulls some of the weight off.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead lingers against yours. His breath is steadying now, calmer than when he walked in.

His eyes stay closed for a second longer, and when they open again, they’re softer than you’re used to seeing. His thumb traces a slow line along your jaw before he dips his head, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. It’s brief but deliberate, the kind of touch that settles deep and stays there.

He doesn’t move far when he pulls back—just far enough to find your hands. His fingers thread through yours, warm and firm, his thumbs brushing absent circles over your knuckles.

For a moment, it’s just quiet. The hum of the paddock generators is a faint backdrop, but all you feel is the steadiness of his grip, the quiet weight of his attention on you.

Then, softly: “Will you meet me later?” His voice is almost too quiet to catch. “My room.”

You nod before you can think better of it.

His hands don’t let go immediately; they linger, holding yours in that slow, unhurried way that makes the rest of the world feel far away.

…

The roar is so loud it almost feels physical, rolling through the garage like a tidal wave.

The second the chequered flag waves, it’s chaos. Mechanics shouting so loud their voices crack. Engineers hugging like they’ve just crawled out of a near-death experience together. Champagne bottles appear from nowhere, corks flying before anyone has even processed what’s happened. Zac Brown is crying. The team boss—who never cries.

Headsets are tossed onto desks with reckless abandon.

Lando Norris: 2025 Formula 1 World Champion.

Your heart feels like it might burst.

Even from your tucked-away spot near the back of the garage, the place that’s safe from any camera swing, you can see the pure joy spilling through the team. You hear his voice through the radio feed, breathless, cracking, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He did it. He actually did it.

And you’re proud. Stupidly proud. Proud in the way you shouldn’t be, but are anyway.

You watch him bring the car in, the orange blur against the track lighting. He parks right in front of the garage, where the crowd is a living wall of noise.

He climbs out. Helmet off. Hair damp with sweat.

And for a split second—just before everything else—you see that grin.

The one you know. The one that’s too big, too unguarded, too genuine for cameras.

Your chest tightens in a way that feels like the moment is holding its breath.

He turns—

And then he runs.

Straight past his engineers, past the line of mechanics reaching for him, past the garage where you’re standing like an idiot holding your breath.

Straight to her.

She’s in the perfect place at the perfect time. Of course she is. 

The cameras snap like machine guns as he sweeps her into his arms. Her smile is flawless as she leans into him, their kiss staged at the perfect angle. Hands finding her waist like they find yours in the night.

It’s everything the media wants to see.

You knew this was going to happen. You knew it from the moment the points gap closed enough to make this weekend possible. You told yourself you were prepared.

You weren’t.

Because some small, stubborn part of you still hoped for something else. For a pause. For a glance. For a single moment where he’d break script, where he’d look for you.

And he doesn’t.

He doesn’t look at you at all.

There’s still that awful crunch in your chest, like watching glass shatter in slow motion. Not because you didn’t expect it, but because expecting it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

You clap when everyone claps. You even shout “Well done!” into the general noise because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

And you stay through the initial celebrations because leaving too early would be noticed. And the one thing you will notdo is become a story.

But the second there’s a lull—when the cameras shift leave the garage and the team, when the focus moves away—you slip out.

…

You stand in the kitchen for a second, still holding your bag like you’re not entirely sure what you’re doing here.

Somewhere, not far away, the celebration roars on. Music, shouting, clinking champagne glasses. You can almost feel the vibrations of it through the floor.

It’s ridiculous, how normal everything looks. The knives are lined up neatly on the counter, just like they’ve been all season—your little kingdom of order. The meal prep notebooks are stacked in their usual spot, one with a grease stain on the cover from an unfortunate incident with a leaky container in Singapore.

You exhale and set your bag down.

You start with the knives, rolling them carefully in their case. You’ve done this hundreds of times before — packing them after a race, getting ready for the next round. But this time there’s a strange finality in each fold, each buckle fastened.

Then the notebooks. You stack them carefully, sliding them into your bag. Each one feels heavier than it should, like it’s been carrying more than just grocery lists and portion charts.

Your mug is next. The one you’ve used every morning this season, chipped on the rim from some turbulent flight but still perfectly functional. You pick it up and for a moment you just… hold it. Thumb brushing over the imperfection.

It’s stupid, how it feels like the mug is looking at you in silent betrayal, like oh, so we’re leaving now, are we?

You put it back.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, screen lighting up. Against your better judgement, you check it.

Another notification of her adding to her Instagram story. Great.

It’s staring at you right above the text notification you’d been ignoring for the last hour now.

Meet me at my hotel room tonight x

Your chest tightens. Against your better judgement, you tap hers first.

Loud music. A sweep of the camera across a table scattered with champagne glasses and victory caps. And there he is—grinning, leaning down to hear her over the noise, his arm draped lazily over the back of her chair.

The music feels louder than it should.

You don’t tap his message. You don’t open it.

You set the phone down, screen facedown.

There’s a notepad on the counter. You pull a sheet of paper from it, smooth it against the surface, and pick up a pen.

The letter is short. It has to be—anything longer will say too much.

You keep it simple: a thank you for the season, a congratulations on everything he’s achieved. A goodbye, neatly folded between the lines.

You sign it, fold it cleanly, and leave it on the kitchen counter where you know he’ll see it when he comes back.

For a moment, you stand there, your hand resting on the counter. You trace the edge absently, remembering how many late nights you’ve leaned here—coffee in hand, him at the table, trading quiet words you’ll never say out loud to anyone else.

It feels strange to leave it all behind so quietly.

You pick up your bag.

One last look around—not long enough to get sentimental, just enough to know you won’t come back.

Then you step out into the night, the sound of celebration faint but still there, a reminder that life goes on, with or without you.

And you walk away before anyone notices you’re gone.

…

The last two weeks have been quiet.

Your days have settled into a new rhythm—coffee in your own kitchen, walks along the coast, dinners where you only have to cook for yourself. You haven’t answered his calls. Not because you were angry. Because you needed space.

And still, it’s been impossible to avoid the background noise. The gossip pages have been buzzing—speculation about his girlfriend, whispers about a breakup. Most telling of all: not a single photograph of them together since the championship.

You’ve tried not to care.

This evening, the breeze smells faintly of rosemary as you chop herbs in your little kitchen. The sound of the sea drifts in through the open window. The knock at your door almost blends in with it.

When you open it, he’s there.

No cap, no hoodie pulled low. Just him—hair a little messy, eyes a little tired, holding himself like someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.

“I’ve been calling,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

He doesn’t smile. He just looks at you, like he’s weighing every word before he says it. “I didn’t want to intrude but I need to talk to you. I didn’t want it to be a message you could ignore. I needed to stand here, in front of you, and say it properly.”

You cross your arms lightly, leaning against the doorframe. “Say what?”

“That I am so so stupid.”

The words hang there, heavy and unguarded.

“I made you feel like you were something I had to keep hidden,” he continues, his voice steady but soft. “Like you were an afterthought I’d come to when it was convenient. That was never what you were. Not once. And I hate that I let you walk away thinking that’s all this was.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head slightly, pressing on.

“You’ve been the one constant thing in my life that felt real. When everything else was loud, when everything was staged or scripted… you were the only place I could actually breathe. And I threw that away because I thought I could balance it all. I thought it was fine because I was managing but I completely neglected your feelings. I have taken you for granted when you were all I ever dreamed of having.”

You roll your eyes, but choose not to interupt him.

“I have handeled everything so wrong. I came looking for you that night of the championship, you are the only person I wanted to celebrate with but I fucked up. Prioritized the media circus when I should’ve prioritized you.|”

He steps closer, but not far enough to crowd you. His voice drops just slightly.

“You are perfect in every single way. And I’m an asshole for not meeting you in the middle when you asked me to. I know it’s too late but I’d do anything for another chance.”

He takes a breath, his jaw tightening just faintly. “I can’t promise I’ll get everything right. But I can promise I will spend every bit of whatever time you give me proving to you that this is where I want to be. With you. Just you.”

The doorway is still between you, but the silence feels different now—less like a wall, more like a choice.

You look at him for a long moment, the weight of his words lingering in the salt-heavy air. His gaze doesn’t waver, though you can see the strain in it, like he’s afraid to blink and lose his chance.

Finally, you step back, just enough for him to cross the threshold.

“You’ve got a lot to prove,” you say quietly.

His mouth curves, a flicker of relief breaking through, softening his features. “I know.”

And as he steps inside, it doesn’t feel like stepping back into the same place you left. It feels like something new—on your terms this time.

Before he can say anything else, you lean in, brushing a soft, deliberate kiss against his lips. His breath catches, surprised, and for a moment he doesn’t move, like he’s afraid that doing anything might scare it away.

When you pull back, his eyes stay on yours, wide in that rare, unguarded way you’ve only seen a handful of times. His voice, when it comes, is low, almost careful. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

You turn back toward the hallway, your voice calm, certain. “You’ve got one shot.”

And this time, you mean it.

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

"It’s tough to overstate how difficult what Lando Norris just pulled off truly is. When you are trying to get a Formula 1 car around a race track at speed without making mistakes on your own, it's a huge challenge. With the kind of pressure that he was under for those last five or six laps, from inside the cockpit... I mean he said, he was exhausted. It's not that this is a particularly physical race, he was having to use every bit of his mental capacity to make sure that he did not open that door for Oscar. And, look, credit to him. It was a 12 second gap that Oscar just absolutely chewed up, put him under crazy pressure for those five or six laps, dealing with traffic. Absolutely sublime drive from Lando." - WE LOVE YOU HINCH

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

He really is 😈 irl

But also god damn, he looks so beautiful.

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

“16 points is a huge amount to overhaul”

THESE ARE THE SAME PEOPLE THAT THREW LANDO INTO AN TITLE FIGHT WHEN THERE WAS A 76 POINT GAP AND YOU ALL THOUGHT HE COULD BEAT MAX

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

my girls, our girls | carlos sainz social media au

pairing: carlos sainz x fem head mistress reader

with a private school full of girls the last thing she wanted was for them to find out just who her husband is…

note: can you tell i went to an all girls school and am obsessed with st trinians and wild child…

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | CARLOS SAINZ MASTERLIST

yourusername

liked by yourstudent1, carlossainz55 and 13,092 others

yourusername: it’s september and the girls are back! time for a great school year.

view all comments

user1: i’ll be bad if it means she’s the one disciplining me

yourstudent1: that’s my headmistress????

user2: i mean he has a point

yourusername: please leave my students alone, i can see how old you are based on your profile… i’d cease my actions before i call the authorities

yourstudent2: that’s MY head mistress :P

yourstudent3: clocking and blocking nonces since 2022

carlossainz55: i told you that you should just kill these men but i was the bad person apparently…

lando: what are you doing here i thought this was meant to be a secret?

carlossainz55: LANDO?

lando: how am i the one in the wrong here you commented first

carlossainz55: that can be perceived as innocent?

lando: you told her to kill a man in front of her students… this is not her private page

yourusername: do you guys have any respect for my job? what are we doing here?

lando: he clearly started it?

yourusername: and now you sound like one of my students

lando: well you bang carlos so that makes you a nonce and by carlos’ rule i’m sorry you have to die

carlossainz55: ummmm so this is so much worse than anything i’ve said

carlossainz55: and we’re not banging we’re married ???

yourusername: CARLOS?

yourstudent4: MRS Y/LN IS MARRIED TO CARLOS SAINZ ???

yourstudent5: so that’s where that ferrari came from…

yourstudent6: no wonder she’s always the sub for spanish and italian…

yourusername: @carlossainz55 @lando look what you have done… secret of three years… GONE

carlossainz55

liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 2,493,043 others

tagged: yourusername

carlossainz55: meet my wonderful, amazing, talented and beautiful wife. so many accomplishments that i simply can’t name them all but my biggest accomplishment was being given a chance by you. i love you and can’t wait to retire to be like the librarian or something, anything to be by your side.

view all comments

user6: this post shot me in the face

user7: this retirement you speak of is many, MANY years in the future, right? RIGHT?

yourusername: f1 can keep him for as long as he wants

carlossainz55: omg my wife hates me

yourusername: it’s your dream?

carlossainz55: you’re my dream?

yourstudent7: please let him retire so we can… learn from him?

yourstudent8: can he like be the PE teacher with uniform optional

yourusername: my office. tomorrow morning.

user9: tbf i respect the grind

lando: yay a big post so that means the grudge against lando is lifted!

yourusername: not so fast mr

lando: you can’t summon me to your office too

yourusername: i think jon would approve of some summer work… there’s many acres that need to be mowed

lando: honestly i’d rather you spanked me

carlossainz55: die?

lando: you can’t have all of the spanking time

carlossainz55: JUST STOP

carlossainz55: students present ????

lando: if they’re old enough to have a phone they know what spanking is

yourusername: my 11 year olds are better behaved than you

alexalbon: wait so this is why you suddenly want to play hockey instead of padel?

carlossainz55: kinda?

yourusername: you’ve been playing hockey???

carlossainz55: yes my love

yourusername: with ALEX?

alexalbon: don’t appreciate the tone but whatever

yourusername: he’s hockey cheating on me?

carlossainz55: no he’s just practice… it doesn’t mean anything like our games!

alexalbon: i’m right here?

yourusername: wait - are you practising with alex because you’re embarrassed that i whip your ass every time?

carlossainz55: no…

yourprivaccount

liked by carlossainz55, alexalbon and 34 others

yourprivaccount: the girls haven’t SHUT THE FUCK UP about carlos it’s doing my head in. they’re strongarming me into showing the race on sunday in the great hall… all to see carlos out of the points in that fuckass williams - he can’t embarrass me like that

view all comments

carlossainz55: excuse me?

carlossainz55: just because they have been particularly unruly these first few weeks

carlossainz55: don’t take it out on me!!!!

yourusername: you don’t know how many times i’ve heard smooth operator this week alone

yourusername: they requested it as the MORNING HYMN

carlossainz55: i mean it is a banger

yourusername: i KNOW it is

charles_leclerc: you’re a strong soldier queen

yourusername: i’d say i’d prefer to deal with girl drama but i hAVE HAD THAT AS WELL

charles_leclerc: i’m gonna need you to spill now

yourusername: two girls, two sets of box dye… suddenly i have to give them a trim and give them a lift into the town to see the hairdresser

charles_leclerc: at least it wasn’t someone cutting someone else’s hair?

yourusername: i had to wrangle two bereft 15 year olds into the ferrari and then find parking in the town

yourusername: I GOT A PARKING TICKET

yourusername: they were super sweet and brought me their emergency jammie dodgers as an apology

charles_leclerc: they’re your kids really

yourusername: which is why carlos can’t work here… he’ll get too attached

carlossainz55: nuh uh

yourusername: you cried over the christmas cards they made me

carlossainz55: THEY WERE CUTE AND HANDMADE YOU KNOW THATS MY WEAKNESS

oscarpiastri: so like it’s st trinians right?

yourusername: the cultured one has arrived

oscarpiastri: i wish my head was as cool as you at boarding school

oscarpiastri: it’s so isolating as an international student as well

yourusername: they’re my girlies and they know they can come to me with everything

yourusername: which does mean i’ve heard about way too many nightmares and snapchat relationships

yourusername: but i love them anyway

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, carlossainz55 and 102,493 others

yourusername: the hockey senior girls squad are through to another semi final, all of the mock exams went without a hitch and the year eights put on an impressive halloween fundraiser for the nearby horse sanctuary!

view all comments

user13: omg this is everything teenage me wanted when i watched wild child

user14: i’d actually study if those were my surroundings and she was my head mistress

user15: do we think she’s actually as nice as she says on instagram?

yourstudent9: she’s AMAZING - we love her !!!

williamsf1: mrs y/ln, james would like to know whether the halloween bake sale is why there were orange sprinkles found all over the tables in the meeting rooms at the base

yourusername: i can neither confirm or deny…

williamsf1: show us the items and the evidence will clear everything up!

yourusername: MY GIRLS ARE INNOCENT

williamsf1: sure…

yourusername: watch your tone with me mr vowles

williamsf1: so ‘your girls’ didn’t sell carlos 20 cupcakes for over £500

yourusername: my girls are entrepreneurs NOT thieves

yourstudent10: we did do that though…

williamsf1: see!

carlossainz55: i was wilfully sold those cupcakes and it was mostly a TIP !

user16: i mean when a man has that much money they deserve to be caught out like that

user17: “caught out” bro probably arrived with £100 notes

user18: bro is the father who stepped up for like hundreds now…

lando: so are we thinking another grid trip for the semi finals or ?

yourusername: NO DISTRACTIONS

lando: what if we’re distracting the other team???

carlossainz55: this is serious business lando

lando: don’t tell me you have legitimate beef with a girls school hockey team…

carlossainz55: THEY CHEATED LAST YEAR - I SAW IT, THEY SHOULD’VE CALLED A FOUL

yourusername: how do you know that? i just told you we lost …

carlossainz55: a dedicated fan has his way!

yourusername: so that’s how you were at the house so fast…

carlossainz55: whoops?

f1

liked by yourusername, lando and 1,642,039 others

tagged: carlossainz55 & pierregasly

f1: whoops! carlos sainz is taken out from behind by pierre gasly and the two find themselves in the barriers!

view all comments

user19: carlos is so hot when he’s angry i am so sorry but i am no better than a man

user20: y/n is a lucky woman

user21: jealousy is a disease and i am terminally ill

yourstudent11: BRING THAT CRUSTY, DUSTY FRENCH RAT OUT HERE RIGHT NOW

yourstudent12: the GALL to blame mr sainz - i might sue him for emotional damages

yourstudent13: @pierregasly you lost me three packs of biscuits and a red bull on a bet count your days

pierregasly: @yourusername HELP?

yourusername: you kind of brought this on yourself…

pierregasly: THEY’RE ATTACKING MY NATIONALITY

yourusername: even less reason to care!

yourusername: however, girls? name calling and gambling? not on. we’ll talk in my office tomorrow

pierregasly: finally, some discipline

yourusername: how about you get some personal discipline and KEEP YOUR CAR AWAY FROM CARLOS

pierregasly: eh???

yourstudent14: you did crashout her husband

pierregasly: LEAVE ME ALONE

lando: thought this was going to be cinema and the girls delivered

yourusername: don’t encourage them!

lando: you just yelled at him?

yourusername: my husband was thrown into a concrete barrier at like 250mph i am allowed to

carlossainz55: i am fine though!

yourusername: you also have to say sorry to the girls though

carlossainz55: i am the victim here?

yourusername: you scared us!

yourusername: sign of life call as soon as you can

yourusername: the year sevens won’t sleep until they have proof you aren’t dead

carlossainz55: i’ll tell james to hurry up

carlossainz55

liked by lando, fernandoalo_oficial and 839,204 others

tagged: yourusername

carlossainz55: i’m all good but thank you for all the well wishes - especially from the girls who made me about a hundred get well soon cards. they might be slightly feral but we love them <3

view all comments

user22: euthanise me i’m being so serious

user23: the card made me feel something in my ovaries

user24: i know the other teachers HATE carlos because of how loved he is at that school

user25: i just know race days are insane at that school

lando: where was the celebrations for my podium?

yourusername: they don’t care about you <3

lando: HOW?

yourusername: not cool enough

lando: i am literally half of carlando?

yourusername: carbono is the real duo loved on campus

alexalbon: RESULT

lando: this is a scandal

yourstudent15: step your pussy up

lando: GASP !

yourusername: young lady… you know the deal.

yourstudent15: fine.

lando: your students are so badly behaved

yourusername: excuse me?

carlossainz55: carlando is dead.

lando: EH?

carlossainz55: you heard me. they’re not badly behaved they’re … spunky???

user26: lando just always fighting a losing battle with them

user27: bro will be in detention with the girls leaving hate comments before we know it

yourusername: he’s on mowing duty this summer whether he likes it or not

yourusername: we love you baby, but please stay in one piece for all of our sakes

carlossainz55: my apologies

carlossainz55: let’s see if i can cook up a podium rather than a trip to the hospital

yourusername: thank you my love

yourusername: we can’t have you missing the hockey finals

fin.

note: work is killing me and there's nowhere to watch st trinians i want to die

[hyperfixatingonsmth]

🥹❤️