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amyelevenn · 6 days ago

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pride ☆ cl16

genre: smut, manipulation, erotic literature, egotistical reader+charles, rivals to "lovers", tennis!reader, a bit of fluff and humor, mentions of depression, mentions to suicide, mentions of alcoholism

word count: 14.1k

pride (noun) — a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...pwp, unprotected sex, cowgirl, doggy style, fingering, fingers in mouth bc why not?

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh] !

cherry here!...thank you all for being so patient with me and for sticking around—welcome to the twisted world of prideeee mwah!

You’re both on opposite sides of the world with very little knowledge about one another when they break the news.

You and the Monegasque like to think that your guys’ reaction was quite valid.

“Fuck!”

Smashing your tennis racket against the green court, you let out a yell slithered with a deep trace of agony, feeling your vocal cords threaten you to snap with how raw and cruel the sound is. That alone makes your manager, Lisa, flinch harshly, quickly covering her ears as she squints her eyes with bewilderment. Up and down, you raise the paddle, each time crushing it harder against the concrete, pieces of plastic flying everywhere as your face burns red with fury. And for a moment there, the blond woman who’s devoted most of her life to you and your religiously famous family, begins to wonder—what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Letting go of the racket, you stomp on it this time until it’s no longer recognizable. Lisa curses beneath her breath, somehow having it mixed with a wince as she takes a steady step back before hugging her tablet against her chest as some sort of shield, just in case you decide to swing at her next. Lord knows you have it in you. Grinding your teeth, your dark eyes finally meet hers as you inch closer, enough that you can spit at her if that was really your intention. She prays it’s not.

Who got the cover?

“Fuck!”

Throwing his steering wheel worth more than life itself, Charles lets out a yell, something that catches everyone around him by surprise because he’s not usually like this. He doesn’t normally lose his temper this way, and if he ever does, it’s definitely not in front of his loyal team.

As soon as it makes its impact with the floor, it shatters into a million little pieces, making him scream until his throat hurts, foot stomping all over, making things much, much worse. Isaiah, his manager, nearly makes a run for it as soon as the Monegasque reaches for his helmet, chucking it towards the nearest wall, a loud crack following rapidly. He hears the murmurs behind the heat of his ears, he hears the way the mechanics all mumble to one another, but honestly, he doesn’t give a single fuck about any of that right now.

Who got the cover?

Right—the cover to the most prestigious magazine of all time. Generations and generations of actors, singers, models, entrepreneurs—athletes—who have fought their way against one another for it. To stand out in ways very few can.

Vogue.

Everyone has the same goal—to be the face printed onto the front page. It’s plain and simple. But to get there was the trouble.

May’s issue. That’s where you’re trying to be. And the funny thing is that you should've been chosen by now. You’ve been having your best season yet. Becoming a professional tennis player has always been a part of your destiny, since birth. It’s just the way things have played out in your favor. How exactly? Well, because your father injected his talent into your veins—he was no ten-time Grand Slam winner for no reason.

Your entire childhood has been filled with luxury all thanks to him. You saw trophies shine brighter than stars, you felt medals weigh heavier than boulders, and you savored all his accomplishments as if they were your own. And in hindsight, they sort of were.

Like it was just yesterday, you can still picture him, forming a gun with his fingers, shooting it at you with a proud smile, crinkles indicating his pure euphoria. Three fingers, aimed at you and your two older brothers—one to indicate Bennett, one to indicate Vinnie, and one to indicate you. Your mother never liked that stupid celebration of his, she never understood it, but you didn’t really care about that—it was never meant for her, so why was it to matter?

You remember the way you’d tag along to his tennis practices, to his prestigious photoshoots, and you remember how much you loved it. Time and time again, you begged him to teach you how to play, how to win. Only that was where you learned his secret to success.

“You have to view everybody else as the loser,” he’d advise with a cigarette in his mouth. You rarely saw him smoke, but when you did, he became a little bit more open and honest. He’d cover your nose with a spare towel to prevent you from inhaling too much second hand smoke and made you swear not to tattle on him, and you always promised the exact same thing: this is just between you and I. “Think of yourself as the winner. Think about winning because there is no other option. Do you want to be pitied?”

“No,” you’d respond firmly. “I want to be just like you.”

He’d laugh, always that same laugh. The one that sounded like it was fading into the clouds, but at the same time, more alive than ever. Your eyes would twinkle, indicating your admiration towards him like no other.

“There’s only one me, sweetheart.” A sly smile. “But there’s only one of you.” Blowing a gray puff of smoke into your face, you’d giggle, digging it deeper into the clean rag. “And I think that’s worth more.”

He died a few years later. Your mother blamed it on the drugs, your brothers blamed on the fame, but you blamed it on the heartbreak of being left to die in the dust as soon as new blood entered the game. Whatever it was, it ruined what was left of your family.

Only recently, you’ve been going through a rough patch yourself. You can’t put a finger on the last time you won a match, one that boosted your ego the same way it boosted your paycheck. The thrill was dying and apparently so was your talent. So, yeah, you need the Vogue cover.

You needed validation.

“You’re s-still under consideration, Charles,” Isaiah stutters, tucking his chin in order to avoid his strict gaze. “You just need to stand out, that’s all.”

He knows what Isaiah means by that—he needs to win again in order to gain their attention.

Quite frankly, the Ferrari driver never really cared for things like this. He never understood what the fight was for, it was never a part of his agenda. Until this year. When Lewis first joined the team, the Monegasque was quick to be waterboarded with all of his accomplishments—his championships, his race wins, his pole positions, his podiums. Everything about him screamed utter perfection.

And regularly, he wouldn’t let that get to him. This was his friend, he should be proud of that, but all of the comparisons are what wore him down eventually, one sucker punch at a time. Then, the opportunity to be the face of Vogue’s May issue came up.

“Wow.” Lewis whistled, brown orbs trained onto the screen where Zhou took his Ferrari on a test run. He smiled, dimples forming. “That’s a pretty big deal, innit?”

Was it? To be fair, the green eyed driver couldn’t tell, but the way the Brit said it made him think, yeah—it was a massive deal. Charles chuckled, arms crossed with his excitement building up higher than any skyscraper planted on Earth. “It’d be kinda cool to get it, I suppose.”

“Cool?” Lewis teased light heartedly. “It’ll set you for life, man, that’s what it’ll do for ya.”

And he couldn’t help but ask, he couldn’t help but feel confused. The Monegasque titled his head, thick brows knitting together. “Set me for life, how?”

Just then, Zhou pulled back into the garage, gaining Lewis’ attention, and he’s about to walk away, but before he had the chance to, he shrugged sheepishly.

“I’d put a heavy layer of respect onto your last name, that’s for sure.”

And he was right. Getting the cover of Vogue would make everyone take him seriously. He’d no longer be the one hiding in Lewis’s shadow, he'd no longer be the scapegoat or Ferrari's dry spell—he’d be the one.

He needed it.

“You’re up against Charles Leclerc,” Lisa said all at once, waiting for you to throw another tantrum. But it never comes. Instead, you ask—

Who’s that?

Isaiah freezes. “How do you not know who she is?”

Charles sighs. “I don’t have time for this, just tell me, will you?”

The black haired man shakes his head, swiping a finger along his tablet for a split second before flipping his screen towards him. There, with the brightest screen ever, the Monegasque squints, reading your name, followed by a last name that comes off far more familiar than he’d like to admit.

“Wait a second—she’s the daughter of that one tennis player? You know, the one who won eight Grand Sla—”

“Ten,” Isaiah corrects him like a little know-it-all before deflating beneath the harsh glare. “But yes. That would be her. She’s had a spectacular year. Well, up until—”

Lisa’s eyes widened. “How do you not know who Charles Lecelrc is?”

“Leclerc,” you repeat, furrowing your neat brows. “Leclerc, Lerclerc, Lecelerc…huh?” And then it hits you harder than a tide. You snap your fingers loudly. “Hold on! He’s the son of that one driver so long ago, uh, what’s his name? Ju…Ju…”

“Jules Bianchi?” Lisa offers, making you nod fiercely. She laughs. “Only that’s not his son, he’s his godfather. His father was Hervé Leclerc. He passed away a couple years ago.”

“Oh,” you mumble. “Yeah. My father used to be friends with his, I think.”

Charles rubs his eyes. “My father used to be friends with hers. I remember now.”

Isaiah grins, as if his realization might mean something to him. It doesn’t. “She’s been having a bit of bad luck on court, but she’s one of the highest grossing tennis players of all time.”

“So what?” Charles shoots back. “I’m one of the highest grossing drivers of all time, aren’t I? Are they seriously pitting me against a nobody?”

“—he looks like such a snob,” you declare, grabbing a small towel from your duffel bag, patting yourself dry, no longer interested in practicing, though you could really use it. “Like he assumes everything is for him. It’s obnoxious.”

“—she looks like a petty little princess,” Charles announces, slipping his gloves off as he reaches for his water bottle, chugging down most of it in less than a second. Pulling away from his straw, he rolls his eyes. “It's like she thinks everything will fall into the palm of her hand. It’s obnoxious.”

Lisa bites her tongue.

Isaiah bites his tongue.

Sitting down on a wooden bench, the one your father and yourself would rest on most Sunday’s growing up, judging the way your brothers would attempt to play tennis, never really as good as you two, you hum, waving her off. “Doesn’t matter—they’re going to pick me over him, anyways.”

“There’s no way they’re going to choose her over me,” Charles points out, walking into his driver's room as the black haired man follows him squeamishly. “They’d have to be out of their minds in order to do that.”

Lisa makes a face. “Here’s the thing, honey…”

Isaiah lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, so here’s the thing…”

They want you guys to fight for it.

“Fight for it?” Charles echoes, scoffing sourly. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Fight for it?” you ask, face pinched up. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Isaiah shakes his head, tapping his fingers against his tablet, the sound itself making the Monegasque clench his jaw. It was quickly starting to irritate him. “Make the best athlete win.”

Lisa smiles, trying to encourage you. “Make the best athlete win.”

A loud cackle rolls off the tip of your tongue, making her question your sanity. “Give me a break! Formula One drivers are not athletes.”

“Tennis players aren’t even athletes!” he pipes up, laughing at the thought of you and him being placed on the same level. “If anything, that takes her out of the equation, they should just give me the issue.”

“It belongs to me,” you declare, your voice breaking with how disturbed you were at the fact that you had to go through any of this. “I should be on the cover of Vogue, not him.”

Lisa licks her red lips. “And you will be, don’t worry. We just have to beat them to it. Shouldn’t be too hard, you’re a prodigy at what you do, everybody loves you—they’ll see that.”

“You’re the best at what you do, Charles,” Isaiah reassures his client. “We just have to jog their memories up a bit. After, they’ll have no other choice than to pick you, you’ll see.”

You don’t know why you ever doubted yourself.

He doesn’t know why he ever doubted himself.

You’re one of the best athletes of all time.

He’s one of the best athletes of all time.

You’ve got it locked down.

He’s got it locked down.

You smile, nodding with a mischievous look in your eyes. “You’re right…”

“You’re right…” Charles whispers, nodding with a roguish smile.

It’s obviously going to be me.

You’re in Monaco.

You’re here for a match he doesn’t quite care about, but he finds himself attending anyway. He wants to see what he’s up against, if you will.

Smack!

Piercing green eyes struggle to keep up with your figure as you glide from side to side with such ease, following the neon ball, rapidly firing it back to your opponent with a certain determination in your eyes. The kind he's never seen before, the kind that doesn’t let the other player respond on time.

The kind that makes you win.

Bowing gently, you wave towards the massive crowd of people that celebrate you, chest rising hard and fast as you soak in this much needed victory. This is what sports were all about. This is what you knew like the back of your hand. This is what you’ve come to memorize.

This is what you were made for.

He pays close attention to the way you talk, how soft your voice comes across besides the fact that you look tough enough to snap back if necessary. He pays close attention in the way your eyes glint with excitement. He pays close attention in the way you wink at the camera, signing it with a white marker nicely before doing a quick finger gun, shooting sheepishly, and making your way off the court, leaving everyone to lose their minds at the infamous move your father was once known for.

As soon as you disappear, the Monegasque is fast to rise to his feet, following after you. And no one asks questions, no one wonders where he’s headed. That way—he reaches you in a second.

“I’m a huge fan!” he shouts, watching as you come to a halt. “Can I get a signature?”

Spinning back to face him, he’s instantly hit with a whiff of florals, which is weird because you’re practically drenched in sweat. Only, you don’t look half as gross as the other girl—you appeared to be absolutely breathtaking. Stunning. Radiant.

“Do I know you?” you ask, pink lips forming into a suspicious smile, slightly startled by his presence, he can tell.

The brunette grins, extending his arm out towards you. “I’d say so.” Linking your small hand into his, you giggle, somewhat dreamy eyed over his broad stature. “I’m Charles Leclerc.”

In less than a second, your face drops, suddenly scratched with hatred. Ripping your hand back, you pull it to your side, wiping it down against your skirt for good measure. “No wonder you looked so…familiar.” A beat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You use that word quite lightly, enough for him to know that you don’t mean it. By now, you’ve crossed your arms, bumping your hip out as you look up at him with a sense of boredom. He didn’t even want to be here, but of course, the fact that he was is what stroke your ego sickeningly well. He shrugs, tilting his head smugly. “Came to see you play. You were flawless out there.”

“You don’t mean that.” A click. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason why?”

And he doesn’t hesitate even by a bit.

“I want you to turn down the Vogue cover.”

Silence, then: “Sure.”

He blinks. “What?” You nod, continuing your march back to your dressing room, hearing the way he follows you like an abandoned stray. You bite back all kinds of snarky comments before he speaks up again. “Why are you making this so easy for me?”

Opening the door, you jut your head to the side, catching his confused expression. He hadn't expected this when he first showed up. He didn’t expect this when he first spoke to you. He simply didn’t expect this at all. A slow smile slowly starts to spread across your lips as you play with the golden knob. “I never stood a chance. You’re Charles Leclerc—it was bound to be you.”

He feels himself start to feel bad for pushing you to this. Pity. It’s not something he’s completely accustomed to, but you’ve brought it out of him it seems like, and now he’s left perplexed. “Wow. That’s, uh, really kind of you.”

“Kindness doesn’t always make you successful in life,” you note, stepping inside, leaning against the doorframe. “Sometimes you just have to be the bigger person and admit defeat, you know?”

“Sure,” he says. “The bigger person, yes.”

You giggle. “Yeah! And we both know that isn’t you, right?”

“Right,” he agrees before coming to the quick realization of what you’re actually saying to him. “Wait—are you calling me small?”

“Well…” Forest green nails tap against the wooden, slightly chipped frame as his blood begins to boil. And there it is again, his burning irritation. “If the shoe fits.” Flashing a dopey smile, you wave gingerly. “It was so nice to finally put a face to the man I’m going to outbeat!” you cheer before shutting the door right in his face.

Staring directly at your name that is spelled out in fancy cursive, the Monegasque hums to himself, glaring and wishing it was harsh enough to kick your door down.

Yeah. You definitely weren’t going to go down without a fight.

You extend your stay in Monaco for one reason and one reason only.

His home race.

You studied him later that night, after he chased you down like a desperate bloke. You read all the articles you were able to find on him, took notes too. He was young, he was successful, and he was a heartbreaker. It's no wonder everyone stupidly falls for him. But much like you, he was sort of stuck in a predicament—he wasn’t winning as often as he once used to.

Which is why it catches you by surprise to see him zip past the checkered flag, claiming first place as if it was something he was born to do. And maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, and maybe your opinion didn’t matter.

You hated seeing him gloat like a champion, something he clearly was not. Electricity flies through the air as he stands on top of his car, screaming with triumph as he jumps down, running towards his team who waits for him with open arms and loud chants of Italian. You don’t need to understand any of it to know that he’s made them proud.

Up on the podium, drenched in champagne that probably cost more than one’s college tuition, the Monaco native raises his trophy with pure accomplishment. You partially respect it, but you can’t help but feel your stomach twist at the sight.

You find him heading to his motorhome, shoulders high and mighty, and it takes all of you to not sucker punch him on his way there, though you heavily considered it.

“I’m a huge fan!” you call out, making him stop dead in his tracks. “Can I get a signature?”

Charles lets out a mocking laugh, facing you with his golden baby on full display, showing off without missing a beat. “If that’s what you want, then yes—I’ll give you anything you ask from me.”

You physically have to stop yourself from squirming. You wouldn’t dare stroke his ego in that way or any other. Swallowing, you regain your composure before it slips away again, and you narrow your eyes with subtle warning. “I’m not here to have you flirt with me, I’m here to have you back down.”

It takes him a second to register what you're asking him to do, but once he does, all he can do is chuckle, eyes crinkling childishly. “You’re insane.”

An eye twitch. “Then you must be too because if I recall correctly, you begged for the same thing from me a couple days ago, no?”

The Ferrari driver rolls his eyes, a certain flush painting his cheekbones. “I didn’t beg, it was a simple request.”

“Fine then, call it what you want,” you sigh. “I’m requesting the same thing as you. You have to say you’re no longer interested in accepting the cover and move on.”

Green eyes flicker with amusement, seeing you for who you really were. Not some sweet girl, no, but rather someone willing to track him down just to ask him to do her a simple favor. In your own manner, but still. A couple mechanics walk by, patting him on the shoulder as they exchange a couple words of wisdom before running off. He lets out a soft breath. “I think I get you now,” he states, making you frown. A nod. “Yeah. I get where you’re coming from, I get why you don’t want to back down first.”

“And why is that?” you challenge, raising a neat brow with curiosity to see how he might turn this around.

Charles licks his pink lips, leaving them moist and wet. “You’re used to getting your way in life, so the one time it doesn’t work out, then you’re desperate enough to ask for your opponent to give up and let you have it.”

Your stomach churns with his accuracy. “Aren’t I in the same position to say the same thing about you?”

Slapped with the precision of playing the same game as you, the Monegasque rolls his jaw, mixing it with a dark smile. His grip tightens around his trophy, knuckles turning as white as paper as he tries his best to remind himself that you’re a girl—a pretty one, too—and that he can’t take out his anger on you in ways he wishes he could.

“Alright then, yeah,” he agrees. “We’re the same, you and I. It’s a shame we’re not friends the same way our father’s once were.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Shame.”

A moment lingers.

“Why do you want to be on the cover of Vogue so bad, anyways?”

You flinch. “I don’t know—why do you?”

He flinches. Then, he fixes himself, seeming to be the same Charles as before. Fun and easygoing. Yeah right. “Come out and have dinner with me, won’t you?”

You can’t help the blush creeping up because despite the fact that you hate his guts right about now, you’re able to admit to yourself that Charles fucking Leclerc is strikingly beautiful. You hum, biting down on your bottom lip subconsciously before shaking your head adamantly, as if that will be enough to hold you back. “I already told you, I’m not here to have you flirt with me.”

“And I’m not flirting,” he shoots back, pushing you into a pool of embarrassment. “I’m simply inviting you out for dinner.”

I have a proposition for you.

You scoff playfully. “A proposition?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “I promise you that I’ll make it worthwhile, you’ll see.” When you fail to make up your mind, he sets the golden cup down onto the floor and walks closer to you, making you freeze almost as natural instinct. Leaning down, he comes close to your face, grinning teasingly. “Unless you’re too scared to find out what it is…”

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are,” you whisper, staring intently into his colorful eyes. Being this close lets you see that they aren’t just green, but they also have a thousand other colors mixed in them. In any other scenario, you would have let yourself be a fool, but in this one, you push back the need to memorize them in all their glory. “And I am not scared—I’m just not interested in wasting my time on you.”

“Oh, no—you wouldn’t be wasting it on me,” he points out, extending back up to his full height, looking down at you, heat shooting through his body, one that he’s quite familiar with. He makes a face. “You’d be wasting it on us. Isn’t that intriguing?”

And fuck it, it was.

Which is how you find yourself cooped up in his Monaco flat because according to you, you’d rather die a slow and painful death than be seen out in public with him. God forbid people think you two got along, or worse, were dating. A complete nightmare is what that would be.

Filling up your glass with red wine, the brunette finds a spot right besides you, making note of the way you’re able to maintain eye contact for so long. And honestly, he was filled with awe because of it.

“You father was my favorite tennis player, you know?”

Any mention of the first man you once loved is enough to soften you up a bit. Your shoulders let loose, your smile becomes a bit more sincere, and you’re suddenly not that cold and strict. “He was?”

“Yeah,” he says, opening up because it was true. “His post celebration was my favorite thing to do growing up.” Doing a sloppy gun with his fingers, he clicks his tongue smoothly. “My mum wasn’t a big fan, though. When I did it, at least. Said it was too violent for a little kid to learn and do. A bad example?”

“I suppose she’s right,” you laugh. “My mother hated it, as well. Tried to get my father to come up with something else countless times, but his heart…” You look down onto your lap. “His heart was set on it for us.”

He doesn’t ask what you mean by that because he knows what your father’s celebration already meant. It was aimed at you and your brothers—not as an act of violence, but rather out of love. Very few understood that, and once he heard him explaining to his father in one of their hangouts at his house growing up, he understood it too.

With splotchy cheeks, your eyes connect back with his, letting out a dry chuckle. “Anyhow—what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

Looks like the subject wasn’t something you wanted to touch up on too much, so he followed your change of topic. “I want us to take a business-trip together.”

A beat. “A business-trip? Just you? And me? Alone?” He nods boyishly, grinning as if nothing and you can’t help the mocking giggle that slides up your throat. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! Oh my God—you seriously think I would accept, just like that?”

He was hoping you would, and he was feeling pretty confident about it too, up until now. Charles sets his glass down, sighing tiredly because apparently he was dealing with an immature girl who seems to be the only female in this world who wouldn’t jump at the chance he’s given her.

“And what for, too, man?” you question, still laughing, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. “If you would be so kind enough to explain, of course—”

“Shut up and maybe I will,” he ricochets back, making you raise a brow with his snappy response. A pause. “I want us to come to an agreement by ourselves.”

“What does taking a so-called ‘business-trip’ have to do with anything?”

“It would allow us to get to know each other, for starters,” he points out. “Not just by what we think we know about one another, but rather the truth.”

“I don’t think the rumors are that far off about you,” you joke, making him roll his eyes at the fact that you don’t seem to be taking this as seriously as him. You purse your lips, a wobbly smile threatening to slip. “Sorry, continue.”

“We could work on our communication skills,” he adds. “That way—”

“Are you trying to fuck me?”

He sighs. “—you don’t jump to any conclusions. Much like now.”

You shrug.

“I can learn how to understand you from your perspective, you can learn how to understand me from mine.”

“As if that would ever happen,” you mumble stubbornly against the rim of your glass, silently sipping on the alcoholic beverage as the Monegasque edges closer to snapping due to your many disruptions.

“And lastly, we can come up with a mutual decision on who deserves to have the Vogue cover.”

“You’re telling me you have faith in this plan of yours?” you ask.

“I do.”

“And you’re telling me that you and I can come to an agreement without ripping out each other's throats?”

“I think we can.”

Your safest bet is to debrief with Lisa. She can tell you what to do, how to do it, and beat him at his own game, once and for all. But something deep inside tells you that you can have the best spin off of your entire life if you really thought this through.

You can have him fall in love with you.

Yes. You can do that. You can play it up real nice, and you can have him falling faster than he’s ever known. Then, once you have him, you would gently—ever so fucking gently—have him give you what you want without him even realizing because he’ll be too busy thinking that if anyone deserves it, then it’s probably going to be the girl that he adores.

Green eyes watch as you weigh your options and that gives him enough space to come up with a plan of his own because his idea didn’t blossom from nowhere—no. It was meant to benefit him.

He was going to have you fall in love with him.

You won’t see what hit you until it’s too late, and by then, you would’ve already handed him the one and only thing he's been chasing after. That stupid cover. You’d think it was your idea, perhaps, but you wouldn’t care too much about it because you love him and you’d want him to have it, not you.

“All in?” he asks, extending his hand out for a shake to make things official.

You nod, fitting your delicate hand into his. “All in.”

And like Lisa and Isaiah once said.

Make the best athlete win.

You two settle on having this ‘business-trip’ up in Switzerland. You’re in between seasons, he’s in between seasons—it just works. Plus, you’ve never been there.

The breeze is cool against your skin upon arrival, enough for you to grow goosebumps. He smiles because eating outside was your idea. Rubbing your arms up and down to try and gain some warmth, you chew slowly on your grilled salmon. “I’m glad we chose this place. It’s always been a dream of mine to visit.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“I come here all the time.”

You drop your stare, frowning theatrically. “Do you have to try and one up me every time?”

Charles laughs, dropping his fork against the porcelain plate, causing a loud clink to ring through the air. “I wasn’t trying to, my bad.” Biting down on your giggle threatening to fly out, you look away, your side profile on full display. The gentle wind that kisses you makes his heartbeat quicken. Just a tad bit. He forces a cough, regaining your attention once again. “I want you to teach me how to play tennis.”

Amusement strikes your soft features. “Are you being serious?”

“Completely.” A beat. “And I’ll teach you how to drive a Formula One car. Sort of.”

This time you let out a snort, finding his words genuinely appalling because there’s no way any of that can happen without an argument taking place. “Why would we do any of that?”

The brunette rolls his eyes, resting his arms against the table. Like this, you’re able to admire his muscles that pulse like the feeling between your legs. Oh God, no, not him, anyone but him. Swallowing, you raise a brow, feigning indifference.

“We’re here to learn about one another, right? See who deserves the chance to be on Vogue—in order to understand you as an athlete and vise-versa, we need to be in each other's shoes.” He sighs dreamily. “Show me the struggle or whatnot.”

“Or whatnot?” you tease.

“Well…yeah,” he says, orbs still trained onto you. A certain flush paints your cheeks now that the temperature has dropped. “I just don’t think tennis is that hard, is all.”

Almost in a reflex, you sit up straight, narrowing your eyes with darkness. “Oh, and driving a car is?”

“Actually, yeah, I do think driving a car for a living at a fast velocity is much more difficult than chasing after a neon green ball like some Golden Retriever.”

The absolute nerve that this guy has.

Hitting him with a dirty glare, you scoff. “Please! All you do is go around in circles like some manchild who doesn't know the difference between left and right!”

“That happened one time!” he argues, recalling the mishap he had back at the airport. You snicker, sliding your legs up, sitting criss-crossed as he leans back against his chair in return. Sighing tiredly, his shoulders sag, a large hand coming up to rub his temples. “Just…trust me, m’kay?”

You don’t—not fully—but if you wanted him to like you, you needed to suck it up and go with it. Play along to the best if your ability and not be so snappy.

Forcing a smile, you nod sweetly, surprise clearly locked in his eyes.

“Sure—I trust you, Charlie.”

That fucking nickname came out of fucking nowhere.

And it’s fucked with him all fucking night and now he can’t fucking think straight anymore because the only fucking thing living in his fucking head is you and your fucking voice that sounds like fucking honey and he bets that if you said it one more fucking time then maybe he’d fucking risk whats left of his dignity and for God’s sake what the fuck was he thinking asking you to do this and better yet why the fuck were you wearing the smallest and tightest tennis dress he has ever fucking seen in his fucking entire life and why was he fucki—

“Ready?” you ask, hitting the ball in his direction as he snaps out of this trance you suddenly have him in, pushing away the spiral you’ve caused.

Gulp. “R-ready.” Great, now he’s tongue tied. Another gulp. “I’m ready.”

Turns out, it’s not as easy as he once thought it’d be. He completely missed the mark and now you’re on your forth racket because apparently breaking them was a silly little thing you do when things didn’t go your way.

“I’m usually an avid instructor, what the fuck are you on, man, are you fucking joking?”

Bright red crosses the bridge of his nose as he wipes away a drop of sweat. He winces, squinting hard due to the burning sun, but also, your killer glare that is harsh enough to make a grown man cry if he really thought about it for too long. “I-I’m sorry, let me try again. I promise I’ll get it right this time.”

Without saying anything, you strut to the opposite side of the court, looking over your shoulder to warn him like—don’t screw this up. It’s both attractive and scary. You’re asking for something simple, something easy, and somehow, he finds the way to mess up his serve for what seems like the millionth time that day.

He can tell you want to beat him with the purple racket next. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m trying, but my forearm hurts!”

“Because you’re not holding it right!” you yelp, marching up to him once again and snatching the paddle from him harshly. “Fuck it, let’s do your thing now.”

You hate Charles Leclerc.

He’s showing off now, yeah, that’s exactly what he was doing. You gave him so much shit for not being able to excel in your world, and now he’s returning the favor.

“My neck hurts so bad,” you groan, massaging it as he lends his hand for you to grab, helping hoist you out of the car. There was a race track nearby, a lousy one kind of, but it’s enough for you to get the gist of driving a Formula One car. You were scared to step on the accelerator a tad bit too hard, you were scared when you spun into the barrel, and you were more than scared when he zoomed past you with ease. You swore you heard him laugh at you behind his helmet.

Taking in the fresh air, you sigh contently, shutting your eyes and thanking God for living to see another day. The Monegasque snickers, sharing a quick conversation with the owners who begged him for a photo and his signature before making his way back to you. “Not so easy, is it?” A beat. “Ha—and this doesn’t even come close to the real thing. That’s where you should be terrified.”

“I did just fine,” you grit, pushing your sweaty hair back. Your face is flushed, bare, and angelic. It’s nearly too much for him to take in. Switching his gaze back to the open track, he brings his arms to rest on his hips. “How do you do this for a living?”

A hum. “How do you play tennis for a living?”

“Fair,” you say, shrugging with a yawn. “Can we head back now?”

As soon as you make it past the door, you eagerly rush towards the couch, plopping down lazily as the green eyed boy sighs, reaching for a blanket from a nearby cabinet. You’re so fast asleep that you don’t seem to notice the moment he covers you up, but you do cuddle into the warmness like a maternal instinct that has suddenly kicked in.

He doesn't have much to do either because quite frankly, this thing between you and him has been enough to keep him occupied. He thinks of shit he can get done in the meantime. See, usually he’d hop into his at home stimulator, but right, that couldn’t be the case being so far away from Monaco. He could binge watch that one show Pierre had nagged him on for so long, but that doesn’t sound too appealing.

But you did.

Grabbing his computer that sits on the edge of the kitchen island, he’s quick to open up a new tab, Googling your name. Instantly, a million different articles come up, some solely focused on you, others on your family, and a lot of them about your career.

But only one in particular catches his eye.

“Holy…” Scroll. “Shit.”

Your father died before his. Charles thought it was heart failure, that’s what his mum told him it was the moment he asked why he wasn’t coming around as often anymore, but now he’s left in a puddle of doubt.

“What are you doing?” a raspy voice questions over his shoulder.

Flinching, the brunette turns back to face you, color draining from his usually lively face. His eyes flicker up towards the clock that hangs on the wall and that’s when he finally notices that it hasn’t in fact been five minutes of your deep slumber, but rather two hours. Had he really been this caught up?

“N-nothing.” He slams his screen shut. “You look much better, you really did need a quick nap, didn’t y—”

In a flash, you lean over, picking up the electronic device once again and freezing as soon as you read the same title you’ve been re-reading ever since that God forsaken journalist published it with zero respect towards you and your family.

“She doesn't know what she's talking about,” you mutter, exiting from the page before rudely throwing the computer back onto the table, making him frown because he wouldn't be too surprised if he finds a crack on it next time he opens it. “I swear to God, if I ever meet this so-called Lissie Mackintosh, I’ll curse her out so good, she won't ever want to write another article in her life ever again.”

Charles bites down on his tongue, choosing not to admit that he knows Lissie, and that she was actually a super cool girl. It's probably best that he keeps that piece of information to himself. Hesitantly, he licks his dry lips, looking up at where you remain tense. “I—”

“Do you agree with what she wrote about me?”

Honestly—he doesn't even know where his opinion stands given how you've reacted.

He swallows. “I don’t think you should care what I think.”

You don’t like his response, he can tell in the way you shift position, avoiding him now almost. You wish he had lied, you wish he had lied to you and said, you know what, no, I don’t agree with what Lissie wrote, and you do reserve the right to sue if you really wanted to.

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t—he doesn’t know you like that yet.

Nodding rigidly, you murmur an lame excuse to flee, and he finds himself wishing he had said something else to make you stay.

Even if that just meant having you in silence.

Whoosh!

Letting out a yelp, your eyes grow wide, watching as the tennis ball hits the fence with a loud smack. Charles laughs. How was that? “Not bad,” you respond, grabbing another ball and hitting it back towards him with a simple smile. “That was actually really good, Charlie.”

His jaw ticks.

Cutting him off on a curb, a move he probably wouldn't have pull, but you somehow managed to make it work, he finds himself swerving to avoid crashing, and the fact that he was scared of that happening in the first place is enough to make his stomach roll because how did you manage to do that so smoothly?

How was that? you ask once you climb out of your car, excited as ever.

The Monegasque tilts his head, helmet still on. “You were…” He lifts his visor up, green eyes twinkling with amusement. “A natural—you were a fucking natural.”

You blush.

It's a hard thing to admit to yourself, but you were starting to enjoy having Charles as a companion.

And unbeknownst to you, he felt the same way.

That afternoon, during dinner, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He tried, he really did, but the more you rambled on and on about how much better you were at driving than him and at playing tennis, the more he realized that you weren’t all that bad.

“I think the choice is clear—it should be me who gets to keep the cover.”

But fuck, why couldn’t he have met you in different terms?

Sitting up straight against his chair, the brunette makes a face of disagreement. “I don’t think so, actually…” A loopy grin. “If anything, I should be the one who gets it—I think I’ve outshined you in both your own sport and mine.”

“Bull!” you yelp, fighting the urge to kick him under the table. “That's just your opinion.”

“You did the exact same thing!” he argues back, wondering if you truly knew that you were being a hypocrite of some sort. “If we both don’t agree with one another, then we haven’t made a decision, no?”

He was right.

Annoyed, you stand up, chair screeching. “Fuck you.”

The sun turns from golden to pearl white and you two haven’t spoken a word to each other ever since. You shouldn’t be mad, you shouldn’t be upset, you’re well aware, but you truly thought he’d let you have it by now. He’s been looking at you differently, you’ve caught him a couple times throughout the weeks, especially during your lessons, but you suppose he wasn’t quite there yet.

And, well, now that you know that—you’d take a different approach and be more straightforward with your intentions.

Knocking on his door, you wait impatiently, playing with your hair as a way to pass time, but really it was only three seconds. With a swing, you find yourself face to face with the Monegasque who looks like he just awoke from a late nap. You muster up a warm smile. “I wanted to apologize. About before. My outburst wasn’t…necessary,” you finish with a struggle because something tells him you don’t mean it, not completely. “I wanted to invite you out for a cup of coffee. What do you say?”

As expected, it was a yes.

Peeking an eye over to where he grabs your guys’ order with a charming smile, and a giggly barista who wishes there weren’t a drastic language barrier between them, you stifle a gag, forcing a tight grin when he returns. “Thanks,” you chirp, fluttering your lashes flirtaciously, hoping the blond girl was still looking—she was. And you don't know why that satisfies you.

Or why you felt a pang of jealousy in the first place.

“What’s your dream?” you ask after a few minutes of walking in silence. Mid-sip, he raises a dark brow. You nod gingerly. “What do you wish for in life?” A beat. “And you can’t say winning a world championship—that’s too basic.”

Charles sticks his tongue out with humor before bumping his shoulder against yours, making you laugh dreamily. Realizing how stupid you sound, you straighten out your lips, ignoring the need to pinch your arm for being so soft all of a sudden.

“To not be so prideful.”

His confession catches you off guard because of course you knew he was such a thing, but the fact that he knows it too is what blew your mind—the fact that he admits to it. Drinking carefully, you taste the rich flavor of dark roast and hum to yourself, as if still weighing in his words.

A beat. “I think being prideful isn’t always a bad thing.”

The green eyed boy shakes his head with a simple click of his tongue. His gaze lingers for a moment too long, and it should be intimidating, but it’s not. Charles rolls his jaw, gently running his hand through his hair. “What’s your wish?”

“To not be so prideful.”

This gets a laugh out of him, one that’s laced with mirth. “See—this is why we’re so alike. You and I just…get each other, you know?”

You hate that he’s spot on about it. You hate that he knows the way you think because he’s too busy thinking the same.

She’s playing me, Charles thinks to himself, realizing what game you’re taking part in because as stated before—you two are practically the same person.

You smile tightly. “I like that.” A beat. “Don’t you?”

The Monegasque forces a grin. “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s hard not to get in any kind of trouble when you’re with him. Getting pulled over for going over the speed limit on your way back to the AirBnB is a harsh reminder.

And he’s honestly a bit ticked off with you, but he does a good job at hiding it. “That’s alright, I’ll pay for it.”

You sigh. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

Sharing a sweet smile, one that’s soft as jello, the brunette gingerly grabs the ticket from your grasp, sending a reassuring look. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t worry about something like this.”

Oh yeah, you think to yourself as you blink stupidly. He’s playing me. You would know—you’re doing the exact same thing.

“You’re such a dream,” you mutter, clenching your teeth with a fake smile of your own.

What are the odds?

The kiss was a total accident. It wasn’t a part of your plan. It wasn’t a part of his.

It’s been three weeks now and neither of you have given up. You flirt, he flirts back. You wear a short dress, he walks around shirtless. It’s even, it’s fair, and it’s messing with your head.

He honestly didn’t think it’d be this hard.

He’s tried his best to get you to fall for him, but every time he tries to wink smoothly, you bite your lip seductively. At times, he even thinks about just surrendering and letting you have the cover, then, he reminds himself that you’re just brainfucking him, and that instantly slaps him back into reality.

But the kiss—that came to mess with you both.

It’s early morning, and you two are yet to change, comfortably lounging in pjs. It’s a funny view, to see him in anything other than fancy linen. Instead, he stretches coolly on the couch with plaid cotton pants and a simple white tee. Meanwhile, you wear an a pair of shorts with an oversized t-shirt that once belonged to Vinnie—or was it Bennett’s?—whatever, doesnt matter.

“I bet I could I could draw a constellation with all the moles you have,” you hum, lazy feet kicked up as he flickers his gaze to where you are. In a separate couch, not too far from him, but the floral scent radiating off your body is enough to convince him that you were closer than he'd like. He thinks it’s too tempting, and it was—you were tempting him to cross the invisible line.

Charles raises a brow. “Wanna try?”

This is the game, this is what you both are into. Silently, you walk over, laying right besides him as you rest an arm gently over his firm chest and draw a finger along his face with a teasing smile. His breath hitches, realizing how much power you have over him now that he’s given it up, and how much he’s enjoying all of this. That can’t be a good sign. “From here,” you whisper, drawing shapes. “To here—it looks like a heart.”

“Yeah?”

Your stomach flips with how he’s looking at you, and suddenly, your hand feels clammy. You get the sense that you’re enjoying this more than you'd like. That can’t be a good sign. You nod. “You know, beauty marks are a portal into your past life. It’s where your loved one once kissed you.” A giggle. “Looks like you were quite lucky.”

Green eyes focus on the corner of your lips, smiling softly. “Looks like you were too.”

You blush, bringing a hand up to your cheek. “I hate mines. Doesn’t look half as good as yours.”

This gets a frown out of him, as if he’s genuinely bothered by you not liking a mole of yours. It was small, and not really there, but if you pay close attention—just like him—then you’d learn to appreciate it. “What are you talking about? It makes you look like a doll.”

A beat. A blink. “You think I look like a doll?”

Charles chuckles, sitting upright as you follow along, still astonished by how much his words meant to you. “Are you kidding? You have got to be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

A surge of affection bubbles within you as you look away, biting down onto your bottom lip. Compliments—they were never something you could ever receive. It always seemed like the most difficult task, but now that you have him here, with a sincere look in his eyes, you learn that you kind of like it.

So long it comes directly from him.

His attention is stuck on you like superglue, you feel it tug you closer and closer. You try to ignore it, God knows you’ve tried to ignore it, but the more either of you try to fight it, the more it…feels right.

He didn’t know a kiss could feel like this—so hot and cold, all at once. One one side, he know he should be running from you, he knows you’re not the kind to fall in love, but the other side of him is screaming with satisfaction because he never knew you'd taste so goddamn intoxicating.

You should probably pull away, you should probably remind yourself that he’s not one to count on, but you almost can’t seem to help it. Not when his long fingers run through your hair with the need to ease your nerves or with the way he sighs contently against you whenever you move your lips at a certain angle.

This was just—

The plan.

He has you. He comes to the conclusion that he has you now.

You have him. You come to the conclusion that you have him now.

“Do you—”

“Yes,” he answers in a heartbeat. “Do you—”

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “Is that even a question?”

He smiles.

You don’t want to. You really don't want to share your past trauma with him.

But if you want this cover to be yours, you have to pull at his heartstrings a bit. Enough.

And it looks as if he was thinking about doing the exact same thing.

You lick your lips numbly, twiddling with your fingers. “I just want to preface that I’m not a bad person.” Charles nods, smiling reassuringly. “Okay then—ask away.”

It was his idea. To each get ten minutes to ask each other all the hard hitting questions. All the questions that would help you and him resonate with one another. It sounded easy, but it wasn't.

“Are you still close with you mum? With your brothers?”

You swallow. “Not after my fathers death, no, we’re not as close as before.”

“Have you ever cheated in any match of yours?”

You grind your teeth. “Yes.”

His eyebrows raise with surprise. “How?”

“Using hand signals.”

“Huh.” A beat. “Clever.”

“What’s your biggest fear in life?”

“Being a loser.”

“But you’ve lost many matches before,” he rebuttals.

“Sure—but I’ve never lost a Grand Slam.”

His lips quirk. “Don’t you think that that’s a possibility?”

“Only if I allow it.”

Charles laughs. “You quite a tough girl, you know that?

“I do know that,” you answer confidently. “But it’s also called having a winners-mentality. It helps eliminate the competition. It helps you overachieve.” You can tell that he's amused with the way he leans back against his chair, manspreading as if his life depended on it. “It allows you to—”

“Why do you want to be on the cover of Vogue? Why do you deserve it?”

Your breath gets caught in your chest. You knew this would happen. You knew that he would bring this up sooner or later, but you just didn't think it would bother you this much.

“If I answer truthfully…” you start, slowly and unsure. “You promise you won’t judge?”

“Promise,” he reassures you with zero hesitance.

You could lie. You could make something up that would be enough to gain his sympathy and call it a day, but this somehow felt like therapy, and you somehow felt as if he might understand. Gathering you words, you look up at him blanky. “I don’t want to be a failure.” A beat. “Like my father.”

You father? And failure? In the same sentence?

That’s just unheard of.

“Just hear me out,” you say, adjusting yourself and licking your lips in preparation to explain. “I’m sure you don’t agree with what I’ve said, but I want a Golden Slam. I want it because he never got it.”

The Golden Slam. Of course you'd go for the Golden Slam.

“He was an amazing tennis player, but he wasn’t always the best father,” you mumble, sort of wishing to take it all back, but no. You're in too deep. “I first noticed us starting to grow apart the moment my career started to pick up.”

Charles remembers that. He remembers all the headlines of your father coming face to face with his own daughter and how everyone all around the world started to place bets. First it started with millions, then it went to billions, and then it started to move on to real estate properties and businesses, and later even children. It was a fucked up world of gambling. One you had no clue you were a part of.

“I started beating him at his own game, one he dominated for years before me. And he—he didn’t like that.” Your cheeks burn up with the reminder of once being your fathers favorite, to later being someone he resented harder than anyone else in life. “He stopped talking to me, but our matches still continued. I think it had to do a lot with me.”

“How so?” Charles whispers, too afraid to make you shy away.

You shrug. “I think he wanted to win against me—even just once. But apart from that, things were never really the same.”

The green eyed boy nods rigidly. “And what does Vogue have to do with this?”

“Technically nothing,” you respond lamely, then smile menacingly. “I just want to rub it in his face, that’s all. That I’m still able to accomplish things he never could.” A short chuckle. “That’s the ideal situation for me—that’s it.”

The competition was never between you and him. Not the way he once thought it was.

It was between you and your father.

“You get where I’m coming from, don’t you, Charlie?”

His chest tightens.

You smile flirtatiously. “Athlete to athlete here, you understand what it means to win, right?”

In this moment, one he never thought he’d be a part of, he wonders that if by answering this question he’d be signing his life away to you. It nearly felt like it with the way you were looking at him right in the eye, sharp and smooth. He shivers, intimidated by you and your cold stare. “I do.”

“Great,” you whisper, leaning in to peck his lips and leaving him to accept it with a heavy sigh. What about Lissie? Your eyes darken at the mention of her name. “What about Lissie?”

His gaze flickers curiously once again. “Do you agree with what she wrote you?”

He switching up the question on you. You had once asked him if it mattered to him, and now he was doing the exact same thing to you. It was smart. You roll your eyes, separating yourself. “In a sense, yes. Maybe.”

The article was published a year after your fathers death.

To the public and your mother—he died of alcohol poisining.

To your brothers—he died because of all the dark enegry surrounding his fame.

To you—he died of heartbreak.

But in reality.

“I think it had to do a bit with everything,” you claim calmly.

Lissie Mackintosh was an up and rising journalist, one that caught the eye of many. Specifically, the world of Formula One. And there came a time where she published a single piece of article once every few weeks on her blog she was known for. Honestly, you never cared enough to learn the name. It gained attention—lots of it—so much so, that people were always anticipating for the next piece to drop, always excited to read away.

But then, she went on a long hiatus. And when she came back.

Shit hit the fan.

She had chosen to switch it up a bit and write about the world tennis. Out of all things…tennis.

She dove into your life as if it was already hers. You didn’t like that. You didn't like that what seemed to be the most interesting topic to her was your father’s death. Because that meant digging. And boy, did she find out about a lot of things.

In her now taken down article, the Brit wrote about how the possibility of your talent might have pushed your own father to pass away before getting the chance to reach his sixties. Suicide wasn’t a conspiracy before that, but after millions clicked to read, it sort of was.

It made your mother go crazy. She started blaming you because maybe you did have to do with his drinking problem, maybe you did have to do with his depression.

Maybe you did have to do with his death.

Bennett and Vinnie—well, they were always momma’s boys so there wasn’t even a second thought for them to choose her.

And that left you. Just you. Alone and pensitive.

Did you have to do with his passing?

And even you can admit to something like that in private—yes. You probably did have to do with it.

You killed his ego. You killed his winning streak. You killed his fanclub.

And honestly, you didn’t care if he killed himself by drinking his way to his grave.

But Vogue? Vogue was just the cherry on top. And you pray—pray—that when you get it…he’ll see how successful his descendant was able to become without his help.

You hope he rots in Hell for outcasting you out of pure jealousy.

“I think he just gave up on life, is all,” you wrap up right when the timer rings. “It happens, ya know?”

“Yeah,” Charles murmurs, looking you in the eye to see if you were truly as soulless as you sounded. “I suppose that could be it.”

Humming softly, you start the ten minutes up again and smile brightly over at him, making him snap out of his sticky daze. “Looks like it’s your turn, Charlie. First question…” Silence. “Did I scare you?”

Heat rises to his ears. “Wha—no. Not at all.”

You eye him suspiciously. Once. Twice. Three times. Four even. Then, you push it aside. “Alright then—have you ever cheated on a race?”

Fuck. Of course you’d return the question. He grinds his molars before smiling tightly. “I have.”

“How?”

“My mechanics made my car light enough to win, hence, allow me to drive faster.”

“How did you not get caught?”

“The FIA agent checking my car at the time was easy enough to bribe.”

“Who did the bribing?”

A beat. “I did.”

“Wow,” you whisper with a loopy grin. “I mean, wow—I didn’t think you’d have it in you when I first asked.”

“Can we move onto the next question?” he grumbles, ashamed to be identical as you.

“Yeah, yeah, no, yeah,” you say, a teasing smile slipping once before letting it fall. “Just—which race was it?”

This is what he didn't want you asking. And he could lie. He really, really could. But he doesn’t.

“Monaco.”

“Oh shit!” you exlaim, letting out a loud laugh and clapping excitedly as he withers with embarrassment. “That day! That I went to see you race—you cheated?”

Green eyes flip with danger. “I saw your coach sending you hand signals the day I went to go see you play—in Monaco,” he snaps back, making your lips part with surprise that he had even noticed. “So I wouldn't be talking if I were you.”

This gets you to shut up because yeah. The day he went to go pay you a visit was the day you cheated for your win. It seems like the universe keeps finding ways to remind you two that you're looking into a mirror when you’re looking at each other. Biting the inside of your cheek, you brush him off, thinking of your next question.

“Do you hate anyone?”

“You,” he answers, half-jokingly, half-serious. “Only when you get on my nerves, though.”

You giggle. “Which is almost always?”

Charles’ lips quirk. “Which is almost always, correct.”

Nodding, you squint your eyes, making his stomach twist like a pretzel. “Why do you deserve to be on the cover of Vogue?”

Pause. “I don’t want to be a failure. Like many people that I know.”

You encourage him with a gentle nod. “Do you mind explaining?”

His blinks feverishly. “I want to be better than my father. Better than Jules.” Your eyebrows dart up with surprise. He continues. “I love them—God, do I still love them—but they never reached their full potentials. Given, yeah, their deaths had a lot to do with that, but I guess that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Being forgotten?” you speak up. “You’re afraid of being forgotten…just like them.”

The brunette grimaces. “Part of me thinks that I’m doing this for them, but I know that’s not the truth—I’m doing this for myself.” His jaw clenches and it’s almost as if you’ve spilled truth serum in him. “I’m selfish. I’m vain.” Connecting his gaze up to yours, his eyes soften like a child pleading for help. “But I wasn’t like this before…”

“Oh, Char—”

“And the thing is that I don’t hate it,” he says meekly, almost embarrassed to be admitting something as dumb as this. “No, I don’t, and you want to know why? Because it has helped me win. It has helped shape me. Everything else can fail on me in life, but my ego won’t. It’s the only thing I have.”

Athlete to athlete, you get what I mean, don’t you?

Plump lips part, pink and wet. And you do. You do get where he’s coming from. You understand because you’re just the same. Resting a delicate hand over his, you feel his skin, warm and calloused from gripping onto a steering wheel for a living.

“I do,” you whisper. “I get you what you mean.”

And just like that, his ten minutes are up.

And you're both left confused on who deserves May's issue more.

Because both reasons are pretty fucking good.

You’re down to the last week in Switzerland and Lisa keeps calling you and saying—

“This isn’t a good idea, how many times do I have to keep reminding you? He’s obviously going to choose himself, you’re obviously going to choose yourself. Both of you—you're just wasting each others time.”

You sigh tiredly, rubbing your eyes because she really was starting to sound like a robot. “I actually do think that we can come up with a mutual decision, him and I.”

“Jesus, it’s like talking to a brick wall,” you hear her mutter before clearing her throat. “Don’t let him sweet talk you is all I'm asking, okay? Men are deceiving.”

“Women are deceiving. It's the number one thing I learned from college," Isaiah speaks through the static. Right now, if the Monegasque were to look out the window, he’d spot you on a call, much like him, but he’d be too busy dealing with his manager to linger on about it. “I’m starting to think you like wasting your time on her.”

“What?” the brunette accuses. “That’s not true.”

“Right,” Isaiah hums suspiciously. “Whatever you say. Just don’t let her sweet talk you—that’s another thing they're good at.”

Goodbye now, Isaiah.

Bye-bye, Lisa.

Hanging up, you squint towards the wide window where Charles peeks out. “Ready?” he hollers.

“Ready,” you confirm.

It was a two-in-one kind of day. Usually, you either play a round of tennis or you race a few laps, but due to your trip coming to an expiration date, you’ve both decided to wrap it up and give your sports a farewell before going your separate ways and moving on with life.

He was going to miss it, though. Especially now that he’s so good at it.

“Fifteen-love,” he calls out, making you blink with bewilderment. For the past few weeks, he’s gone from not knowing how to play, to sort of keeping the game alive. But never—ever—has he scored a point on you. Charles snickers. “You can serve if you’d like.”

“Don’t say it like you’d be doing me a favor,” you snap, shooting daggers at him for even assuming you’d be into that. “Just hit the damn ball.”

The game continues and your anger begins to burn.

Thirty-love.

Forty-love.

Panting, you let out a scream, crashing your racket against the court. He flinches at the sound, watching as you quickly lose what’s left of your temper. “No, no, no, no, no!” you shout, raising the paddle before smashing it twice as hard. “Fuck me! No! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Relax,” he tries soothing you from a large distance. “It’s just a game.”

Freezing, you breath hard as your movements come to a pause, an eye twitching with irritation. “Relax? Are you seriously telling me to…relax?”

Charles doubles down. “I’m just saying—it’s no big deal. Losing is a part of life.”

“No,” you spit out. “Loosing is a part of your life. Of Jule’s. Of your fathers and mines, so please—don’t you dare add me into the mix.”

Here, in a tennis court that you’ve rented out for an hour or so, it dawns on him that even though you two may agree on many things in life, and though you may be more alike than if he were to have a twin—you two were never really going to get along. Not at all. Because you’d always remind him how much better you thought you were. And how could that ever work out when he thought the opposite?

The drive to the race track is laced thick with tension.Neither of you say anything up until he instructs you to your car, keeping steady eyes to where you push the helmet over your head and fix your attire. And he can tell that you're still sore about losing to him.

And you take it out on him on track.

You press on the gas angrily, with no sense of precaution of keeping you and him safe from crashing. Though, he sort of thinks that if you were to collide, then you wouldn’t care either.

What you wanted to do was beat him at his own game—and you do.

“She was faster than you by two seconds,” the man behind the counter explains, eyes trained on the data in his computer. Charles freezes, eye twitching. Say that one more time. The man sighs. “Actually, by one, but hey, that’s still pretty good for being a newbie.”

“Ha!” you cheer, rubbing it in his face. “Faster than a Formula One driver, who would’ve thought?”

Two seconds was bad, but for some reason, one was worse. Yeah, it was, because that meant he was nearly there—but you somehow managed to win.

They gift you a trophy for that. A trophy that doesn’t last long.

“Can I see that real quick?”

“Sure,” you answer, handing it to him with a simple smile.

“Thanks.” In a single movement, he throws it onto the floor, a loud crack following as you gasp. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yells out, stomping the tiny broken pieces until they practically turn into dust. “Fuck me! No, no, no, no, no!”

And despite not liking what he did, you’re not mad. You’re more so…satisfied.

Rolling your eyes as he breathes hard, not really wanting to apologize, but doing it anyways, you shake your head like a parent scolding their four year old.

“Relax, Charlie. Losing is a part of life, isn’t that so?”

Forcing a tight grin, he hums sourly, leaving you to yourself.

Back at the house, the view is particularly beautiful today. It always is, but right now? The sun shines bright, the birds chirp beautifully, and it looks like just the right time to make peace.

Let’s have dinner outside tonight, you had said the moment he awoke from his nap. You had taken one before him, hence why you were able to start up on dinner. To celebrate our last few nights together. You know you’ll miss it.

He knows he will. He knows he’ll miss having you around, even if it’s just to get him mad. He knows he’ll miss his private lessons and watching you swing with those mini skirts you like to wear. He knows he’ll miss hearing the sound of your voice, especially when you yell at him.

He’s just going to miss you.

Chewing gently, you wash down your food with a bit of sparkling soda. Peach, to be exact. You purse your lips, your free hand playing with the tall grass. From here, the mountains stand out in green and the flowers replicate a rainbow. It was gorgeous.

“Will you be biased?” He raises a brow with subtle confusion as you shrug, playing with a nearby tennis racket that had been lying around for a while now. He had been practicing his backhand a couple days ago, and it appears he left it out in open. You pretend it’s a guitar, slowly stroking your fingernails along the plastic. “Based on your decision, will you be biased?”

“I actually think I’ll be fair,” he answers truthfully. “And you know what? I think you deserve it.” You freeze, heart caught in your throat by his words. He smiles, popping a dimple. “Will you be biased?”

A beat. “I was actually thinking about being fair...” Your eyes soften. “I think you deserve it.”

“Oh.” Okay then, definitely unexpected. “So what do we do now?”

You knew about his intentions all along. You knew about his project to get you to fall in love and choose him for the Vogue cover—you just never thought it’d work.

He knew about your intentions all along. He knew about your project to get him to fall in love and choose you for the Vogue cover—he just never thought it’d work.

“I don’t know,” you admit, chewing on your bottom lip, lashes fluttering. “I have no idea.”

A moment of silence lingers upon the open blue sky, filling your mind with a race of it’s own because how is he so composed? How is he so unbothered? And how is he so goddamn handsome? It's a crime of it's own, his looks.

Your delicate fingers continue to strum up and down, avoiding his gaze because suddenly something as simple as that is intimidating to you. It takes a second for him to process that you're nervous. The strong and independent girl you've always been is long gone and that get's a sweet smile out of him.

"I wish we had met sooner," he confesses, hoping that will receive some sort of reaction out of you. Real, fake, anything at this point. He's desperate. And you do. React, that is. Gazing up at him, your round eyes soften up, young and beautiful, and he triple swears that his heart gets caught up in his throat and it's no longer his own, but rather yours. The green eyed boy nods gingerly. "Wouldn't it have been nice to have known each other since kids?" A snort. "I mean, our fathers were friends, why couldn't we have been too?"

"Because people like you and I aren't meant to get along,” you rebuttal, still playing with the racket.

"Don't do that."

You blink. "Do what?"

Charles rolls his eyes, scooting closer to you and making it hard for you to breathe. "Don't push me away."

"I-I'm not," you stutter. "I'm just telling the truth. Look at us...we consider each other a threat and we're not even a part of the same sport, it's ridiculous." A beat. "And you're trying to convince me that we could've been friends if we had met under different circumstances?" This time you have to laugh, which bothers him. "The way things are...are the way they're supposed to be."

He's looking to contradict your words. He's thinking, the wheels are spinning, and you can see it.

"No," you let out, picking up the racket and placing up towards your face as some sort of shield that might keep you from him. From making a mistake. He frowns, thick brows knit tightly together. You wince poorly. "Let's just...not, yeah?"

He doesn't answer. Nope. He simply continues to move forward until he kisses you, tennis racket still stuck between you both, making you freeze. It's an odd kiss, you both know that's true, but what he's trying to prove to you is that nothing really matters to him.

Not as much as you.

A simple peck and you're hooked.

How could either of you have fallen for this trap?

Straddling the Monegasque, you keep a desperate hand in his hair as you play with it, the other holding steadily onto his broad shoulder. “Y-you should be on the cover,” you pant against his lips as he shuts you up by squeezing your hips harshly, making you let out a whine.

“Non—it should be you,” he groans, imagination running wild when your begin to draw circles back and forth. “Fuck.”

It’s as if a wave of yearning has finally caught up to you two, leaving you with no room to act normal. Instead, he eagerly slides your panties to the side as you whimper at the sudden stretch.

It burns, and you deeply consider biting down onto his shoulder, but something in your brain tells you not to, too afraid to appear sensitive. Which you were, but he didn’t need to know that.

“God, you were made for this,” he praises when you start bouncing up and down, hair swaying from side to side. You moan softly against his ear. “So pretty—having you like this.”

“Char—” you begin, but fail to conclude your sentence when he starts sucking on your neck. It's brutal, it's barbaric, and it's making you loose your patience. Leaning back rudely, he reaches out to keep you in place, too distraught at the thought of having you leave him, even for a second. You don't, though.

Cradling his cheeks with both soft hands of yours, you graze his skin gently, almost as if you can't quite believe any of this was happening. It's an innocent moment, one that belongs to both of you, and suddenly you were an angel up on top of him to claim and write your name on.

Smiling to yourself, your eyes flicker back and forth, admiring his nose, his lips, his everything. He lets you do just that, too busy doing the same. Then, a lazy finger starts to play with his lips and he’s left to just accept your childlike behavior, the corner of his mouth tempting to let out a grin of his own.

“Open,” you whisper gingerly, instructions loud and clear. His green eyes darken and he raises a brow. You nod, watching as his lips slowly start to part, leaving you to hum.

Once his mouth is on full display, you poke his tongue, making his stomach churn, flinching a bit along the way. You tap his teeth, focused on how white and straight they were. They couldn’t have been veneers. Was he truly this perfect?

He observes your curiosity. He feels it too. But the weirdest part of all is that he’s not telling you to stop. It’s something interesting to him, something that’s never happened, and probably never will again.

Then, it’s a singular finger. Then two. Then three.

Then…he realizes.

It’s a loaded gun. You’ve formed a finger gun—inside of his mouth. Your eyes sparkle with something he can’t describe, but all he knows is that you like seeing him spiral with hesitancy.

“So pretty,” you mumble, keeping your hand in place and his eyes close for a second before opening up again, this time unusually lustful. “Having you like this.”

You have control. You did this to claim control. That’s why. But two can play this game.

Moving his head to the side, your fingers slip out of his mouth, making you giggle happily to know that you’ve gotten to him. But what you seize to remember is that he has you in a vulnerable position.

Pushing a digit along your sensitive clit, you squeal with pleasure. He mocks you with a big kiss, though it’s messy and not quite right. His speed quicken and you can’t help but squirm stupidly, therefore, clenching around his cock.

“Do that again, do that again.” You repeat your actions, watching his eyes shut with pleasure and his jawline tick. “That’s it, baby, just like that.”

You don’t get the chance to do it again because before you know it, he’s pushing you off and fixing you fiercely onto all fours. You cry out, already missing his warm touch that seemed to not have mattered to you a few weeks ago, but now appeared to be the lost important thing.

Thrusting in rapidly, the brunette grunts when your arms give out, ass up in the air for him to keep his gaze stuck on. He chuckles, somehow enjoying your lack of words as you babble on and on about God knows what.

“Repeat after me—I deserve to be on the cover of Vogue.”

“It should be y-you,” you stammer. “Not me.”

“That’s sweet, baby, but it needs to be you.” Reaching your g-spot, Charles sighs when he feels it pressed against his tip. “I don’t want it anymore.”

And something clicks inside of you. Forgetting the intensity that shoots through your body, you disconnect yourself, pulling your dress back down angrily and furrowing your brows with accusation.

“Oh my God—you feel bad for me, don’t you?”

He blinks once before pulling his pants up. “What? No!”

“Why the change of heart, then, huh?” you question, feeling a burst of fury swirl inside of you. “You heard my sob story about my daddy issues and now you want to play the role of being some sort of savior complex, right?”

“That’s not true!”

Sharing a bitter laugh, you shake your head with disappointment, and during it, he narrows his brows sharply. “If you don’t mind me asking—why do you suddenly want me to have the cover?”

Silenece.

Charles scoffs. “Oh, fuck you. You’re doing the exact same thing! You pity me!”

“I do not,” you snap, standing up and walking back towards the direction of the lively house. “I was just trying to be nice, you asshole.”

Chasing after you with long strides, the Monegasque shares a sarcastic chuckle. “Let me tell you one thing and one thing only, alright?”

“What?” you challenge, spinning back to face him. His skin is still flushed, and his collar is still wrinkled, but he look just as handsome as before, making your stomach flip. You lift your head up. “What is it?”

The green eyed boy stiffens. “I don’t need your permission to accept something that has always belonged to me.”

“I’m sor—belonged to you?” Your face drowns with annoyance. “This was never a competition, you were never in the running, please!”

“Is that really what you think?” he rebuttals. “Do you really think that a tennis player like you has a chance against a Formula One driver like me?”

A beat.

Stick to fucking, princess. That’s all you're good for, anyways.

He feels the sting right away, and he knows he deserves it not long after.

Your lips open dryly, then close, a trace of hurt coloring your irises. “I never want to see you again.”

“Done,” he confirms, nostrils flaring as he pushes past you, entering the AirBnB without a doubt that you were insane.

Completely—and utterly—insane.

You haven’t seen him in three months, but honestly, that’s probably for the best.

Whatever happened in Switzerland feels like a fever dream by now, and none of it makes sense anymore. Did you two really think you could come to an agreement by yourselves?

Because of that, no one has been chosen for May’s issue, and time was ticking. And a result, and because the date is closing in on you, an emergency meeting has been declared.

Just you. Lisa. Isaiah.

And Charles.

Entering the spacious office, one that has about a million photos of you and your family, the Monegasque starts to wonder if your manger was secretly a super fan that just lucked out on working with you. It was extremely creepy.

“Hello you two,” Lisa welcomes with a bright smile and red lips. “What a beautiful day to have you here with us!”

“Thanks for hosting, Lisa,” Isaiah chirps happily. “Why don’t we get started?”

They both call you out on your sense of delusion. For thinking that a trip to Europe might’ve helped to make a decision amongst you two without the need of them. Clearly that wasn’t the case.

“Since you two couldn’t make a decision like two grown adults, looks like we’ll just have to settle with a simple round of rock, paper, scissors.”

You face drops. “That’s it? That’s your solution to all of this?”

“Yeah, man, what the fuck?” Charles yelps, sending a glare over at Isaiah who looks ready to wither away. “A child’s game is bullshit.”

Lisa narrows her beady eyes with subtle threat. “You either play, or you don’t—it’s your choice. One round.”

“What if we tie?” you murmur, orbs stuck on the Monegasque who keeps his eyes trained on you as well. “What happens then?”

“You share the cover,” Isaiah says. “It was always an option.”

“No,” Charles responds. “It’s not.” He smiles. “Let's play.”

“Fine then,” you hum, tilting your head. “Let’s play.”

One round. Just you and him.

But you want to humiliate him—one more time.

Only he had the same thought as you.

Rock.

Paper.

Scissors.

Shoot—

“A gun?” Isaiah ponders with pure confusion, squinting and rubbing his eyes tiredly. But he’s not imagining it, in front of him, you and Charles shoot—a hand formed into a gun.

Your breath hitches because you know he’s using your father celebratory against you. He’s aware that he now knows something that you wouldn’t want anyone finding out about. Your family secrets, your history of cheating—any of it.

His breath hitches because he knows that you’re threatening him just the same. You now know something that you can hold over his head. His actual point of view over Jules and his father, his history of cheating—any of it.

It’d ruin both of your careers.

You were even, it was fair, but—

“I can’t work with him.”

“I can’t work with her.”

With that, Charles exits Lisa’s office, not sparing a single goodbye to any of you. You flinch, eyes following him as he leaves before the door even clicks shut, having you remind yourself that this really was over.

Parting your lips, you stand up, sharing a look with both managers from very different worlds of sports, before abandoning them to try and understand what just happened.

“Do you have a clue as to why she doesn’t want to do it?” Isaiah asks, attention glued on the wooden door, almost as if waiting for either of you to come back.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m a hundred percent sure that she wants to—that’s just her pride talking.” Lisa angles her head over to Isaiah. “You have any clue as to why he didn’t want to go through with it?”

Isaiah shrugs. “He’s the exact same way—it’s his pride.”

Mixing pride with pride?

It never works out.

And it never will.

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting @chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire @alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious @notkaryna @wanderingreigns @aykxz98 @ruti26-11 @esposamultifandom @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @r0nnsblog @aeriblu @inchidentofftrack @natashaklein @rutaceae-gelato @bowielovesyou @lilypat @folklaur21 @dustie-faerie @ajordan2020 @oscobabe @briefkittenearthquake @anayaverse @cassielikereading@satorinnie @ginsengi @n3versatisfied @koalalafications @ashley-k @mxm47max @jaejer-chan@oddends @sweetwh0re @fortunapre @formulahoney

#I can’t even begin to form words rn #this is so so sooooo good #a masterpiece #truly #charles leclerc x reader #cl16 #ames’ fic recs ! ✧#f1

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amyelevenn · 8 days ago

Text

Oh Ann. My sweet sweet Ann. YOUVE DONE IT AGAINNNN OMLLLLL. I’m so unwell, how could you?!?!

THE FLAT NEXT DOOR | OP81

an: @iimplicitt started drawing a firefighter oscar and next thing i knew, i was writing this story. it's so dear to me, firefighter!oscar you mean so much to me. also ive written something similar to this called sunflower syndrome (i dont think ive posted) which i can post, its next door neighbours and shes a single mum as well, its completed just never been posted lol - lemme know if you want it

summary: a firefighter with a soft heart & no idea what he’s doing with his life. a single mum who gave up everything for a tiny pair of shoes. a six-year-old matchmaker with a butterfly painted on her cheek. and the slow, aching kind of love that feels like coming home.

wc: 14.1k

Oscar hadn’t planned on becoming a firefighter. In fact, he hadn’t really planned on anything. Life, so far, had been a series of decisions made more out of avoidance than ambition. Moving to England from Australia at fifteen had felt like starting over in the middle of a film, he’d missed the beginning and had no idea what the plot was meant to be. His accent had softened over the years, but the disorientation never quite left.

By the time he finished school, uni felt like a trap more than an opportunity. He wasn’t academic, not really. His girlfriend back then had big dreams and a UCAS application filled out before the rest of them even figured out their predicted grades. She wanted him to come with her. Scotland, maybe, or Manchester, but he couldn’t pretend to want something just to stay close. Long distance sounded like a slow death, and he was already tired of pretending to care about futures he couldn’t picture. They broke up in late spring, somewhere between the last exam and prom. He barely remembered the conversation now, only the strange mix of guilt and relief afterwards.

The fire service had been a suggestion from someone he barely knew, his mate’s older brother or a careers advisor he met once. The idea stuck, though. It felt solid, practical. So he moved to a town just outside London, somewhere not too fast but not too sleepy either. Now, in his mid-twenties, he still wasn’t sure it was what he wanted, but it was something. A job, a flat, a rhythm.

The flat was part of a red-bricked terrace that hadn’t aged gracefully but wore its wear with a sort of tired charm. Peeling paint on the railings, a communal garden mostly made of grass that didn’t grow right, and neighbours you recognised before you knew their names.

For a while it was quiet on his floor until his neighbour moved in not long after he did, though they didn’t speak properly for months, he always saw her. She was quiet, but not unfriendly. Always rushing, school runs, shopping bags, the sort of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from doing everything yourself. She had a daughter, six years old and full of questions, the kind who shouted hello from the doorstep and thought Oscar was a superhero just because he had boots by the door and came home smelling faintly of smoke.

He didn’t know much about her. She kept to herself, didn’t bring people round, and handled things with a quiet efficiency that made Oscar feel both impressed and slightly in the way. He saw her most often on Sunday mornings, pyjama bottoms tucked into socks, mug in hand while she coaxed the little one into her coat. He wondered, sometimes, if she had ever had a plan, or if she, like him, had simply found herself in a life that looked like it belonged to someone else.

The town had a softness to it in the early mornings, before the cars filled the roads and the high street buzzed with prams and pensioners. The air still held a trace of mist, clinging to hedgerows and the slate roofs that lined the close. Oscar liked this time of day, even if he wasn’t a morning person by nature. There was a quiet permission in the hush, like the world was still deciding what kind of day it wanted to be.

His flat smelled faintly of laundry detergent and burnt toast. He tugged on his jacket, the navy fire service one with the embroidered badge half-unpicked from where it had snagged last month. His boots were by the door, laces loose from habit. The station wasn’t far, a ten-minute walk if he didn’t stop for a coffee or get caught by someone with too many questions.

He swung the door open and nearly collided with her.

“Sorry—” they said at the same time, both stepping back, the awkward shuffle of neighbours not expecting to meet in the narrow shared walkway.

She was crouched beside Aurelia, zipping up a purple puffer coat that was already streaked with breakfast. Her hair fell forward as she glanced up at him, blinking through the unexpected encounter.

Oscar straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t see you there.”

“That’s alright,” she said, standing up. Her voice was warm, light, with the kind of casual tiredness that didn’t sound like complaining.

Aurelia grinned up at him, gap-toothed. “Are you going to fight fires today?”

He chuckled, crouching a little to her level. “If they start, yeah. Hopefully not too many, though. I’ve just cleaned my helmet.”

She giggled at that, and her mum gave him a grateful sort of smile, small, quick, like she wasn’t used to people being gentle with them.

Oscar stood again, unsure what else to say. The kind of silence that stretched just a second too long settled between them.

“School run?” he asked, just to fill it.

“Yeah. She’s already tried to convince me she’s sick twice.”

“I am sick,” Aurelia insisted. “Sick of spelling tests.”

That made her mum laugh, the kind of laugh that sounded like it didn’t come often enough.

Oscar smiled, then pointed toward the road. “I’d better get going before Zak starts calling. My boss has the patience of a gnat.”

She nodded. “Alright. Have a good shift.”

He hesitated for half a beat. “You too. I mean—have a good school run. And day. And… everything.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You too, firefighter.”

As he walked down the path, he heard Aurelia whisper, “Mummy, I think he’s cool.”

He grinned all the way to the station.

The station smelled of instant coffee, damp gear, and the faint chemical tang of smoke that never really washed out. Oscar pushed through the side entrance, nodding at the watch crew already gathered in the mess room. The TV was on mute, rolling through the morning headlines, and someone had burned toast again, the fire alarm had a nasty habit of reacting more to that than actual emergencies.

He dumped his bag in his locker and shrugged off his jacket, already feeling the dry warmth of the place settling into his bones. There was a comfort to the station, rough around the edges, but reliable. It reminded him of the school changing rooms back in Melbourne: paint chipped from too many boots, the faint echo of shouts in the corridor, the shared understanding that none of it was glamorous, but it was theirs.

“Morning, mate,” came a voice from across the room.

Oscar looked up to see Andrea, one of the senior firefighters on his watch, cradling a mug with World’s Okayest Firefighter printed in peeling letters. He had salt and pepper hair, always grumbling about overtime, and somehow managed to be everyone’s uncle without trying.

“Morning,” Oscar replied, reaching for the kettle. “Anything going on?”

“Not yet. Callout at half three, car in a ditch near the A-road, but that’s about it. Oh, Zak wants a word when you’ve got a sec.”

Oscar groaned quietly. “Do I need to be nervous?”

Andrea grinned. “Always.”

He found Zak in his office, chewing on a pen lid and frowning at a stack of paper that looked older than both of them. He waved Oscar in without looking up.

“You busy this weekend?” Zak asked, without preamble.

Oscar blinked. “Uh, not really. Why?”

Zak finally looked up. “We’ve been asked to send someone to this community thing at Chestnut Grove Primary. Little safety talk, couple of demos, let the kids have a go with the hoses, all that, see the truck.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Chestnut Grove? The one down the road”

“Yeah. Saturday morning. Council’s pushing the whole community engagement thing again. You up for it?”

He could’ve said no. He wasn’t the best with big groups, especially ones full of excitable children and clipboard-wielding parents. But something about the name clicked in his head, a flicker of memory. Hadn’t he seen little Aurelia in a forest green uniform?

“I’ll go,” he said, surprising even himself.

Zak blinked. “Right. Well. That was easy. Cheers.”

He left the office feeling oddly restless. Community events weren’t usually his thing, too many people, too many eyes. But he figured it was just one morning. How bad could it be?

Back in the mess, Andrea glanced up from the paper. “You’ve got that face on.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’ve agreed to something and immediately regretted it.”

Oscar shrugged, pouring himself a coffee that tasted vaguely of plastic and burnt hopes. “Just volunteered for the school event.”

Andrea gave a low whistle. “Brave man. Good luck dodging flying juice cartons.”

Oscar smiled to himself, thinking of Aurelia’s grin that morning, the way she’d looked up at him like he was some kind of action figure come to life. If nothing else, maybe it would be nice to see some children think he was a hero he 100% wasn’t.

It was one of those spring mornings where the sun tried its best, but the chill hadn’t quite loosened its grip yet. The air was sharp, fresh with that faint green smell of grass and new leaves, and the sky had that washed-out blue that promised warmth later, maybe.

Oscar parked the spare appliance near the edge of the school field, just where the tarmac gave way to a patch of uneven grass. The truck was technically out of use, something to do with the hydraulics, Zak had said, but it looked the part and that’s what mattered. He unfolded the little step ladder and opened up a few side panels to make it look more interactive. A pop-up banner flapped in the wind beside him, showing a smiling child in a tiny fire helmet with the slogan Be Cool, Stay Safe in cheerful red letters.

The fair itself was already in full swing: bunting strung between gazebo poles, the smell of frying onions from a burger van, and a trail of small children darting between stalls clutching glittery cupcakes and face paint flyers. Oscar had been given a little corner to himself on the edge of the field, which suited him fine. He liked watching the buzz of it all from a slight distance, present, but not in the thick of things.

He was in full kit except for the heavy jacket and helmet, both left hanging neatly inside the cab. Just his white fire service shirt rolled up at the forearms, and the braces of his overalls snug over his shoulders. He leaned against the side of the truck, hands in his pockets, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his shirt.

A few curious kids had wandered over already. Two boys who’d wanted to climb inside the cab and press every button, a shy little girl who’d asked if he had ever rescued a cat from a tree, while he hadn’t, he said yes, and a boy who only cared about the siren.

Oscar found himself smiling more than he expected. There was something easy about it. Maybe it was the way kids didn’t expect anything except enthusiasm and the occasional high five. Maybe it was the way parents hovered a few feet away, grateful for five minutes of peace while someone else answered the never-ending questions.

He took a sip from his coffee flask, just as he heard the unmistakable patter of small feet sprinting across grass.

“Neighbour firefighter!”

He turned, and there she was, Aurelia, bounding across the field with a neon butterfly painted across one cheek and a balloon animal in one hand. Her plimsolls were slightly muddy and her coat was half unzipped.

Oscar laughed, straightening up. “Oh, I know you!”

She skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless with excitement. “Mummy said we might see you but I didn’t really think you’d be here!”

“Well, I don’t lie about fire engines,” he said, crouching down to her level. “That’s a very serious thing.”

She grinned, already peering into the open side of the truck. “Can I go in?”

“Course you can—but hang on a sec, where’s—?”

And then he saw her. Walking at a slower pace across the grass, hands deep in her coat pockets, eyes already on him. The breeze lifted the edge of her scarf, and her hair glinted slightly in the sun. She looked different here, more relaxed somehow, out of the usual early morning rush and into something softer.

“Hi,” she said, when she reached him. “Looks like you’ve got an assistant now.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, “bit short for the uniform, but she’s got enthusiasm.”

Aurelia had already clambered halfway up the step ladder, peeking into the cab with the confidence of someone who fully expected to be given the keys. Her balloon animal was now tucked under one arm like a sidekick.

Her mum laughed, folding her arms loosely as she watched. “She’s been bouncing off the walls since breakfast. I think she thought she’d get to drive it.”

Oscar grinned. “Could probably teach her. Might be more focused than some of the lads at the station.”

She gave him a look, one of those amused half-smiles he was starting to recognise, a little dry, a little warm. “You here all day?”

“No, just the morning. Couple of hours, bit of leafleting, bit of ‘don’t play with matches’ chat. Then I get to drag all this lot back to the station and pretend it never happened.”

“Well,” she said, glancing toward Aurelia now balancing with one foot on the step and the other poised mid-air, “you’re already a highlight. She’s going to talk about this for weeks.”

Oscar watched Aurelia for a beat, her complete absorption in twiddling the dials on the dashboard, and then turned back to her mum, catching the moment her eyes dipped.

Just for a second.

A quick flicker downward, over the rolled sleeves, the broad line of his shoulders beneath the white shirt, the dark straps of his overalls snug against his chest.

He smirked. “Careful, you’re staring.”

Her eyes snapped up, sharp and just slightly horrified. “I am not.”

“You are. It’s alright. Happens all the time,” he said, leaning casually back against the truck, utterly insufferable now.

She scoffed, but her ears had gone pink. “No! I just think it’s a nice shirt. Very crisp. Good cotton, probably.”

Oscar chuckled, folding his arms. “I’ll let the fire service know. Get one sent out to you.”

“Oh, good,” she said dryly. “Nothing says flattering like free uniform merch.”

Aurelia’s voice rang out before he could reply. “Mummy! Come look at the back bit! There’s hoses!”

She gave him a look that said this isn’t over, then stepped past him to help Aurelia down. Oscar caught a whiff of her perfume as she moved, something light and clean, like citrus and soap, and tried not to look too pleased with himself.

He crouched again beside the little girl. “Want to hold the thermal imaging camera?”

Aurelia gasped like he’d offered her a crown. “Can I?”

“Course you can. Let me just grab it.”

While he disappeared momentarily into the side compartment, her mum looked after him, one eyebrow raised, like she was still debating whether to be annoyed or amused. Maybe both.

When he returned, holding the chunky bit of kit with both hands, he caught her smirking to herself.

“What?” he said, passing the camera to Aurelia.

“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “Just admiring the shirt again.”

Oscar grinned. “Thought so.”

And if he stood a little straighter for the rest of the morning, well, no one could blame him, really.

By midday, the fair was starting to wind down. The bouncy castle had deflated into a sad, crumpled mess, and a few stalls were already packing away jars of pick ’n’ mix and rain-speckled flyers. The sun had climbed properly now, still not warm, but bright enough to squint against.

Oscar stood by the truck, arms folded loosely, watching as Aurelia gave the thermal imaging camera a final, dramatic sweep across the grass, pretending to detect imaginary fires. Her mum hovered a few steps behind, rummaging in her bag, trying to locate a missing glove.

He caught her voice, half-muffled by the breeze. “Alright, Rels, we’ve got to go soon. Last bus is at twelve and I’m not chasing it again.”

Oscar straightened a little. She was looking at her watch, already slipping back into that quiet, slightly hurried rhythm he recognised from mornings in the shared walkway.

He pushed off from the side of the truck and wandered over, deliberately soft-footed across the grass. He stopped just behind her.

“Boo.”

She jumped about a foot in the air and turned, hand instinctively going to her chest. “God, don’t do that!”

He grinned. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

She exhaled sharply, trying not to smile. “You’re a menace.”

Oscar nodded toward the road beyond the fence. “You’re heading off?”

She gave a small nod, still a little breathless. “Yeah. Got to catch the bus before it disappears into the void. It’s only once an hour out here.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, hands back in his pockets now. “Let me give you a lift.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ve got to drive the truck back to the station anyway, and Aurelia’ll love it. And I brought my car in this morning, first time in ages, I was running late, so I can just take you both home after.”

She stared at him, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. I mean, that’s kind of you. I don’t want to, um…”

“Inconvenience me?” he finished, one brow raised. “You wouldn’t be. It’s just a lift.”

She hesitated, glancing at Aurelia, who was now poking at the truck’s steering wheel with something close to reverence. “We don’t usually talk this much.”

Oscar gave a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Thought I’d change that.”

She looked like she might say no, just on instinct, like she didn’t want to be a bother, but the words never quite came. Instead, she sighed and gave him a resigned sort of look.

“Fine. But only because Aurelia will probably combust if you offer.”

Oscar turned to the little girl, crouching again beside her with mock seriousness.

“Hey, Aurelia,” he said, “want to ride in the fire truck?”

Her eyes went wide. “What? Really?”

“Really,” he said, gesturing grandly toward the cab. “I need a co-pilot.”

She shrieked in delight and immediately threw herself at her mum, already halfway into the truck in her head. “Mummy, mummy, we’re going in the fire engine!”

Her mum shook her head with a quiet laugh, murmuring as she passed Oscar, “You’re going to regret this.”

But he was still smiling, already opening the cab door, like he doubted that very much.

Once he checked that everything was back in place, Oscar jogged over to the headteacher, a harried-looking man in a tweed jacket with a clipboard under one arm, who, thankfully, tended right to it and began talking to the stall holders.

When he turned back, he found Aurelia had already jumped in and her mother was right behind her attempting to get up herself. He came up behind her quietly, hand brushing gently around her waist as she shifted her weight.

“Easy,” he said near her ear, low and careful. “Didn’t want to startle you again.”

She tensed slightly, then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He tightened his hands around her waist and hopped her up into her seat then stood on the ledge. “Right then, Aurelia you’ll have to sit on your mum’s lap,” he told her, lifting her up onto her mother’s lap. “I haven’t got a booster seat, and I reckon you’d get swallowed up by that seatbelt on your own.”

“Okay!” Aurelia chirped, already clambering in. She nestled against her mum, legs swinging slightly, her face bright with excitement.

“Hold still a sec,” Oscar said, reaching in to pull the seatbelt across both of them. His arm brushed hers as he clicked it in, and when their eyes met briefly, he gave her a look that was pure cheek.

“Safe and sound.”

She raised a brow. “You enjoy this far too much.”

“I really do,” he grinned.

He stepped back, shut the door with a solid thunk, and jogged round to the driver’s side. Once inside, he leaned over and handed Aurelia a chunky black handset.

“Alright, Firefighter Aurelia,” he said, reaching for the cab’s radio. “We’ve got a very important mission.”

He pressed the button and spoke into it in his best dramatic voice. “Control, this is Unit Seventeen. We've received reports of a rogue ice cream van, repeat, rogue ice cream van, causing mayhem in the residential zone. Suspect is armed with sprinkles. Requesting permission to pursue.”

Aurelia squealed with laughter and clutched the handset like it was made of gold. Her mum shook her head, but Oscar caught the smile she was trying not to show as he flicked the ignition.

The old appliance groaned slightly as it rolled off the grass and onto the gravel path. The gate swung open ahead of them, and they bumped gently onto the road.

The drive was short, fifteen minutes or so, but it was quiet, in a good way. Aurelia made soft siren noises under her breath the whole time, practically vibrating in place, and her mum kept a steady hand around her middle to stop her launching herself at every passing tree or pigeon.

When they finally pulled into the station yard, the engine still humming beneath them, Oscar spotted Lando through the open shutters. He was parked in a camp chair just inside the bay, arms folded, head tipped back, fast asleep with a half-eaten bag of crisps in his lap.

Oscar flicked his gaze up to Aurelia, then caught her mum’s eye.

“Wanna wake up Sleeping Beauty?”

Aurelia’s face lit up. “Can I? Really?”

“Go on then,” he said, reaching up to the dash. “Just one burst, yeah?”

She bounced in her seat as he tapped the siren switch. The wail screamed to life, echoing through the yard. Lando nearly fell out of his chair, crisps flying in every direction.

Oscar killed the siren after two seconds, laughing as Lando stood up blinking, dazed and scandalised.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Lando shouted, wiping crumbs off his shirt.

Oscar stuck his head out the window. “Community engagement, mate.”

Aurelia was giggling so hard she nearly dropped her balloon animal.

Her mum shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re going to get sacked.”

Oscar smirked. “Not unless he grasses.”

He parked the truck, turned off the engine, and helped them both down one at a time.

As he pulled up, he looked at her sideways. “Worth it?”

She gave him a wry look. “You’re completely ridiculous.”

He grinned. “And yet, look at the smile on your daughter’s face”

She didn’t respond straight away, just looked at him, that same half-smile playing at her lips, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. Not because she wasn’t happy, but because she wasn’t used to all this. The ease of it. The way he fit so seamlessly into an afternoon that wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a spring fair and a sugar crash.

Aurelia, oblivious to the grown-up moment passing quietly over her head, was already tugging at her mum’s hand.

“Mum! Look! Look, it’s like Fireman Sam! The pole! Can we slide down it? Can we?”

Oscar chuckled and crouched beside her. “You’ve got a good eye, Aurelia. That’s the real thing. Only the grown-ups are allowed on it though, bit dangerous, that one.”

She pouted, considering the injustice, then lit up again. “When I’m a grown-up, I’m going to work here with you.”

“Deal,” he said, offering her a pinky. “You’ll be the best firefighter in the place.”

She pinky-swore with great ceremony, and then launched into an intense interrogation about hoses, helmets, and whether or not he’d ever saved a dinosaur (he hadn’t, but he’d chased a very angry goose once, which she seemed to find acceptable).

Eventually, the sugar high began to dip and she slumped a little, thumb sneaking toward her mouth before her mum gently steered her hand away. Oscar caught the silent exchange and didn’t say anything, just gestured toward the far end of the garage.

“Car’s parked out the back. You ready?”

Her mum nodded, brushing a stray curl off Aurelia’s forehead. “Yeah. Let’s go before she falls asleep standing up.”

Oscar got changed out of his gear and wore just a hoodie and a pair of shorts as the girls walked to his car. They bundled into his car, Oscar making a show of unlocking the door like it was a limo and she was royalty, and within five minutes, they were on the road again, the fire truck a quiet memory behind them.

Aurelia was asleep before they turned onto their street.

Her head lolled against her mum’s arm, soft snores escaping in little puffs. Her butterfly face paint had mostly faded, a faint smudge of pink and glitter under one eye.

Oscar pulled into the car park behind the flats and cut the engine. The stillness after the hum of the engine felt sudden, like stepping into a moment that didn’t quite belong to the day.

She shifted carefully, not waking Aurelia, and glanced over at him.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For all of that. You didn’t have to.”

He leaned back in his seat, eyes still on the dashboard for a moment before he looked at her.

“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”

They got out quietly, and he came round to open the door for her, taking Aurelia gently from her arms and settling her against his shoulder without fuss. She stirred but didn’t wake, hand fisting into the fabric of his shirt as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

They climbed the stairs together, slow and careful, her just a step ahead as they reached their landing. She unlocked her door quietly, reaching out to take her daughter back.

Oscar passed her over gently. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“She’s all legs,” she whispered, smoothing Aurelia’s hair.

He nodded, hands slipping back into his hoodie pockets. For a second, neither of them moved.

The corridor was still. Just the hum of an old light overhead and the faint smell of fabric softener from someone’s laundry down the hall.

“I should… put her down,” she said, but her voice didn’t carry much urgency.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. “This was nice,” he said. “Spending time. With you.”

She held his gaze, surprised by how much that simple truth settled somewhere deep in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment, soft and honest. “It was.”

Neither of them quite knew what to say next. But it didn’t feel awkward, just quiet. Comfortable.

Then she smiled, just a little, and nodded toward her door.

“See you tomorrow, neighbour.”

He smiled back, stepping slowly away.

“Sweet dreams, Aurelia,” he said, softly, before turning and heading for his own door, the warmth of the moment still clinging to the edges of him.

And behind her closed door, she stood for a beat longer than she needed to, heart ticking just a little louder than usual.

A couple of days had passed, and the brightness of the spring fair had faded into a more typical grey sort of morning. The kind that didn’t quite rain, but threatened to at any moment. Oscar was shrugging into his station fleece, keys already in hand, when he stepped out into the corridor and nearly tripped over something on the doormat.

He blinked down at the small tupperware tub sitting neatly against his door, like it had been placed there with great care.

Inside, through the foggy plastic lid, he could just about make out a few slightly lopsided fairy cakes, frosting a bit wonky, a generous scattering of rainbow sprinkles on top. They weren’t shop bought. Not a chance. They had that unmistakable homemade charm, the kind that didn’t care about appearances but would taste better than anything in a bakery.

Tucked underneath the corner of the lid was a small card, folded over like a secret note passed in class. His name was scrawled across the front in purple felt-tip, the letters slightly uneven.

He crouched down, picked it up, and flipped the card open.

Dear Mr Oscar,

Thank you for letting me drive the fire truck. You are the best firefighter in the world. I made you fairy cakes. Mummy helped but I did the mixing.

Love from,

Aurelie (age six and a HALF)

Oscar stared at the note for a long moment, a smile spreading slowly, unstoppably across his face.

He glanced at their door, tempted to knock, but it was early, and quiet behind the wood. Probably the usual hushed breakfast rush in there, uniforms, pony tails and cereal on the floor. He didn’t want to interrupt. Not yet.

So he tucked the card into his jacket pocket and examined the container, before heading off down the stairs with the kind of ridiculous warmth in his chest that made even a dreary Tuesday feel a little golden around the edges.

By the time Oscar got home, it was well past eight. His shift had overrun, as they often did, from a small domestic fire to someone’s car keys that were stuck in the car. He was knackered, hungry, and somehow still smiling like an idiot every time he glanced at the now empty cake tub in his hands.

He’d saved one. The best one, in his opinion. A bit sunken in the middle, heavy on the sprinkles, the icing smudged at the side like someone small had licked their thumb and tried to fix it. It was tucked into a bit of kitchen roll in the pocket of his coat.

The corridor light flickered as he climbed the stairs, his boots quiet on the worn carpet. Their doors faced each other, and for a moment, he just stood there, unsure if he was about to come off charming or really quite tragic.

But then he knocked.

Soft, just enough to be heard over whatever bedtime might sound like on the other side.

A pause. Then the click of the latch, and she opened the door just a crack before widening it when she saw him. She looked cosy, oversized hoodie, hair up, bare feet. The kind of comfort people didn’t wear unless they felt safe at home.

“Hi,” she said, surprised but not in a bad way. “Everything alright?”

Oscar held up the empty container like a peace offering. “Official return of government property. Wouldn’t want to be accused of fairy cake theft.”

She smiled, hand resting on the doorframe. “Did she really give you those?”

“Left them on my doormat. Full note and everything. Genuinely the highlight of my week.”

“She was very serious about it,” she said, laughing gently. “Kept asking if I thought you’d know they were from her. I told her you’d probably figure it out from the purple pen.”

“There was a lot of purple,” he nodded solemnly. “It was a full forensic giveaway.”

She laughed properly then, a hand over her mouth, and the sound curled around his ribs like a warm drink.

“I, um…” he shifted a little, suddenly aware of his own nerves, “I saved one. If she wants it back.”

She raised a brow. “You saved one?”

He held up his hands. “For sentiment, not greed.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, amused. “Well, she’s out like a light. Crashed in the middle of Matilda. Completely missed the part where Miss Trunchbull throws a child across the playground.”

“Shame. That’s the best bit.”

They stood there for a second longer than was casual, silence stretching warm between them.

Then, soft as anything, she said, “You want to come in?”

Oscar blinked. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “If it’s not weird.”

She stepped aside to let him pass. “It’s a little bit weird,” she said honestly, then smiled. “But not bad-weird.”

He slipped inside, brushing past her in the doorway, and something about the quiet of the flat, the low lamplight, the faint scent of strawberry shampoo in the air, it made him feel like he was somewhere he wasn’t quite ready to leave.

She shut the door behind them, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like just the neighbour with a fire truck.

He felt like someone she wanted to keep close.

The flat was warm in a lived-in sort of way. Not spotless, but comfortable. A couple of cushions on the floor, a half-folded blanket draped across the back of the sofa, a mug left forgotten on the coffee table with a teabag still inside. It felt like somewhere someone lived, not just existed.

Oscar stood a little awkwardly in the middle of the room at first, unsure whether to perch or hover. She motioned towards the sofa, already heading into the kitchen.

“Put the telly on if you want. I’ve got, like, two channels that work properly and one that just plays antiques shows.”

He chuckled, watching her disappear round the corner. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He heard the clink of mugs and the whirr of the kettle. The sofa gave slightly under him when he sat, still warm where she’d been earlier, and he glanced around, a framed photo on the side, probably her and her daughter at the beach. Wind-swept hair, noses sun-pink, a proper grin on Aurelia’s face. That same grin she’d worn all day at the spring fair.

She came back in with two mugs, one hand curled round each handle.

“I wasn’t sure how you take it, so it’s builder’s,” she said, offering him one. “Strong enough to put hairs on your chest.”

He took it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into his fingers. “I’ll risk it.”

They sat, not far, not quite close, but comfortably between. The telly was on in the background, some low-budget crime drama no one was really watching. The soft light pooled across her legs where she’d folded them under her, and the sleeve of her jumper kept slipping over her knuckles as she held her tea.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, nodding at the mug, then motioning towards the kitchen. “And for the cakes. And the note. That really made my day.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “She loves you, you know. Keeps calling you our firefighter.”

“Our?” He raised a brow, teasing. “Possessive, that.”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word. “You did give her a lift in an actual fire engine. Might’ve set the bar a bit high.”

“Bugger,” he muttered playfully. “Should’ve started with something less exciting. Bin lorry, maybe.”

They both laughed, a quiet, comfortable sound. The kind that filled the little flat without echoing, like it belonged there.

There was a lull then, not awkward, just gentle. She reached down to pull the blanket from the floor and tossed one end over his legs without a word, settling the other across her own.

He blinked down at it, then looked at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sharing blankets now, are we?”

She didn’t even look at him. “You’re the one who looked cold.”

“Right. Humanitarian effort. Got it.”

He sipped his tea to hide the grin, eyes on the telly though he couldn’t have said what was happening. Every so often, her knee brushed his. Not enough to make a thing of, but enough to notice.

Eventually, she said, quiet enough that he almost missed it, “It’s nice. Having you here.”

He turned to her then, properly, softly. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

The telly droned on. Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, two mugs slowly cooled on the table, and two people who hadn’t meant to mean anything to each other found themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder beneath a blanket, realising maybe they did.

It had been just over a week since that quiet evening on the sofa, and things had shifted in the sort of way you only noticed once it had already happened. There hadn’t been any grand declarations, no big talk, no labels. Just little things.

Oscar now offered her a lift any time he saw her out shopping, even if she only had a single bag. He’d insist it was on his way, even when it clearly wasn’t. He started carrying her parcels up without being asked, shoulder-barging the stairwell door open with a grin and a “Special delivery!” like it was no big deal. He always handed them over with one hand and a joke but his eyes always lingered just a beat too long. She didn’t seem to mind.

She didn’t say no to him, either.

It wasn’t just about her, though. He was clearly soft on Aurelia too, somehow managing that delicate balance between fun and dependable, chaos and calm. He never tried too hard, never made her feel like a chore. Just… showed up. It mattered.

So when he spotted the two of them coming back from school one afternoon, something in his chest twisted.

Aurelia wasn’t bouncing the way she usually did. Her hand was tucked tightly into her mum’s coat, and her face was blotchy in that telltale just-finished-crying sort of way. She wasn’t sobbing now, but she wasn’t smiling either.

Oscar frowned, stepping out of his doorway just as they reached the landing. “Alright?” he asked gently, eyes flicking between the two.

She gave him a small, weary look, and then crouched to Aurelia’s level. “Go on, love. Go get changed into your pyjamas, yeah? I’ll be in in a minute.”

Aurelia nodded mutely, her little lip still trembling, and padded through the front door. It clicked softly shut behind her.

Oscar stayed quiet for a beat. Then, low and careful, “What happened?”

She let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall, arms folded. “It’s nothing big. At least, not to anyone else. But to her…”

He waited.

She glanced down at the floor. “It’s bring your dad to school day tomorrow. They’re doing some assembly thing. A lot of the kids’ dads have these big jobs —marine biologist, police, pilot, someone even works at a zoo. And obviously she doesn’t have anyone. She asked if she could take her god father, but he’s away, and my brother’s not really around.”

Oscar’s brows pulled together slightly, the picture forming. He could feel the weight of it even now, the pressure that sort of thing put on a kid. Everyone else parading a parent around like a badge of honour. And her? Just trying to smile through it.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a lot for her to carry.”

“Yeah,” she said, voice quiet. “She didn’t say anything about it until just now. Said she didn’t want to upset me.” She scoffed lightly at herself, blinking fast. “She’s six, for God’s sake. She shouldn’t be worrying about me.”

Oscar’s gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted slowly to meet hers. “Why don’t I go?”

She blinked. “What?”

“To the school. For the thing. I mean.” he shrugged, awkward now, eyes flicking away “If she wants me to. I’m technically a firefighter. That’s still cool, right?”

She stared at him.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “I’ve got the day off. And I’ve got the uniform. Not the proper helmet, that’s locked up, but I could bring the jacket. Talk about smoke alarms and what happens if you leave your toast in too long.”

“You’d really do that?”

Oscar looked at her properly now, really looked, and all the gentle affection in him softened his voice. “Yeah. If it’ll help. I’d do a lot for her. And you.”

Her lips parted like she might say something, but nothing came out straightaway. Instead, she just nodded, slowly, almost like she didn’t quite trust her voice yet.

“I’ll ask her,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But thank you, Oscar.”

He gave a half-shrug, like it was nothing, but his heart was thudding behind his ribs.

“Tell her I expect a very professional introduction,” he said, backing away toward his flat, trying to keep it light.

And just before he stepped inside, she called after him, voice soft but sure.

“She’ll be over the moon.”

He didn’t say anything back.

He just smiled.

And his whole chest felt full.

Oscar had never had stage fright in his life. He’d once crawled through a burning pub roof, half convinced it was going to come down on his head, and hadn’t flinched. But standing outside the Year Two classroom, fiddling with the zip on his fire service fleece while a sea of tiny faces peered through the glass?

Yeah. That did it.

Aurelia stood proudly beside him, hand firmly in his, like she was escorting a VIP. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered with complete sincerity. “You’re the best one.”

That undid him a bit.

The door opened and a teacher with a rainbow lanyard and a kind smile welcomed them in. Oscar ducked slightly out of habit, as though the ceiling might lower to match the size of the furniture. The classroom was bright and chaotic in the way only a primary room could be. Walls plastered with glittery artwork, phonics charts, paper bunting with all the kid’s faces and a corner reading nook with two bean bags that had seen better days.

Aurelia immediately tugged him by the hand to the back wall. “These are mine,” she said, pointing to a messy collage of tissue-paper flowers, a painted hedgehog, and a bright crayon rainbow. “And that’s my favourite one.”

He leaned in, smiling, and then paused. Nestled in the middle of the display, in a wonky black felt-tip frame, was a drawing of three stick figures.

One tall with brown hair and blue scribbles on his shoulders. One with long lines of hair and a dress in Aurelia’s favourite shade of pink. And one, small and neat, holding both of their hands.

His throat did something strange.

Aurelia tapped it with pride. “That’s you,” she said. “That’s me. And that’s Mummy.”

He blinked. Swallowed. “Right.”

No one had ever drawn him before. Not like that. Not part of something. Not holding hands.

She didn’t notice his pause, already rifling through a drawer of coloured pencils, humming quietly. The rest of the class buzzed around them, but in that little corner, time felt like it had narrowed.

“We’re allowed to make a new picture for home if we want,” she said. “I’m going to do one for Mummy.”

He crouched beside her, watching her draw two wonky hearts and a triangle house with smoke coming from the chimney.

“Can I help?”

She nodded and handed him a green pencil.

He added a little tree with apples. Then, below the drawing, in his slanted, firefighter has to fill forms handwriting, he wrote carefully:

Mummy is the prettiest of them all.

Aurelia giggled and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I think mummy is going to love that.”

He smiled at her, warm and full. “I hope so.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of picture books, wide-eyed questions from excitable children, and a slightly panicked moment when one kid asked how many people he'd "seen explode."

But through it all, it was Aurelia's face he kept coming back to. The way she looked at him with pride, like she’d brought in something precious to share. The way she whispered his name to her friends, like she was letting them in on a secret. The way she slid her hand into his without even looking, like it was just the natural place for it to be.

And maybe the strangest bit?

It felt like home.

After the school visit, Oscar hadn’t quite been ready to say goodbye. Not yet. So when Aurelia mentioned, rather loudly and unsubtly, that she fancied an ice cream, he’d raised a brow in her mum’s direction and said, “Well, I suppose it is practically summer…”

She didn’t protest.

So they ended up walking to the corner shop, Aurelia skipping ahead with a swirl cone in one hand and rainbow sprinkles already melting down her fingers. He paid for the lot, obviously, brushing off any protests with a lazy, “Call it my speaker’s fee.”

When they got back, Aurelia darted inside first, cone long gone and hands sticky, only to stop dead in the kitchen.

“Mummy! Look!”

Aurelia pulled out the paper from her book bag with sticky hands, but her mum took it delicately, like it was something rare. Her eyes softened as she read the words beneath the sketch. Then, without a word, she reached for a magnet and pinned it to the fridge, pride of place, just above the shopping list.

Oscar watched from the doorway, the weight of something quiet settling in his chest. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

That night, just before he was about to settle in for a late dinner and a bit of telly, there was a soft knock at his door.

He opened it to find her standing there in joggers and an oversized hoodie, a small container in her hands.

“I made this,” she said. “It’s not much. Just lasagne. But it’s a thank you. For today.”

His lips curled into a slow, lopsided smile. “I see where Aurelia gets it from.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. He took the container from her, their fingers brushing for a second too long, and the air between them shifted—just slightly, but enough to notice.

They stood in the corridor for a moment. It was quiet. Still. A pause between heartbeats.

Then, softly, almost shyly, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He froze, just for a second. Her lips were warm, gentle. She was already pulling back, the beginnings of an embarrassed smile forming as she started to turn away.

But he caught her.

“Wait.”

His hand came up, firm but tender, fingers tilting her chin towards him. His thumb brushed her cheek, and then—

He kissed her.

Not tentative. Not uncertain.

He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. Because he had.

She gasped just a little and then melted into him, her hands sliding up into the front of his hoodie, bunching in the fabric like she needed something to hold onto. And when she let out the tiniest, breathy moan against his mouth, he smiled into the kiss, cocky and utterly undone all at once.

“Alright there?” he murmured against her lips, his forehead resting lightly against hers.

She was breathless. “It’s been a while.”

His eyes softened, thumb still stroking along her jaw. “Worth the wait, though.”

She nodded.

And neither of them moved. Not for a long while.

Just them. Just warmth. Just… something that felt very, very real.

They stood there for a while, neither of them quite ready to let go.

Eventually, she nudged her nose against his cheek and whispered, “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

He blinked at her, lips still curved from the kiss. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She led him back into her flat, closing the door softly behind them. The hallway light cast a warm, golden glow over the walls, and the familiar smell of home. He followed her into the living room, everything dim and quiet. Aurelia’s newer drawings were still scattered across the coffee table. A soft throw had been kicked half off the sofa.

She turned to him, suddenly sheepish, running a hand through her hair. “I feel like I’m at uni, sneaking someone in,” she said with a small laugh.

He grinned. “I never went.”

She tilted her head, surprised. “Me neither.”

He looked at her for a second, then nodded towards the closed door down the hall. The one with a glittery star-shaped sticker on it.

“That why?”

She glanced back at the door. Something shifted behind her eyes. A quiet sadness, old but not forgotten.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I was supposed to. Got in and everything. Nottingham. English Lit. But I was nineteen and stupid and thought I was in love.”

She walked over to the sofa, sat down, and he followed. Their knees brushed. She stared at her hands for a moment before continuing.

“Didn’t know I was pregnant until I’d already turned down the offer. Was going to reapply the next year. But then she happened. And everything got really real, really fast.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened, his body angled towards her, giving her the space and the safety.

“Her dad left when she was four months old,” she said, with a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Just sort of disappeared. Too young, too overwhelmed, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.”

He was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was gentle.

“Of course it matters.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Not in the way people expect it to. I’m not bitter. I’m just tired sometimes. It’s a lot. But then she does something like draw me with a crown and a sparkly dress and labels it Queen of Mummies and I forget everything else.”

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’re incredible, you know.”

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh. “I’m tired and a bit moody and have approximately seventeen loads of laundry waiting, but thanks.”

He reached out, his hand brushing gently over hers. “I meant it.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft and a little glassy in the low light.

There was a pause, weightless but full of something.

“You’re not sneaking me in,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re letting me in.”

And that, God, that did something to her.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he tucked her in without thinking, arms coming round her like they’d always belonged there.

They sat there like that. Still. Quiet. Her fingers tracing absent-minded shapes on his forearm. The world outside fell away, no alarms, no homework, no long nights of dishes and lost socks.

Just this. Just him. Just her.

And the hum of something beginning to bloom.

It had been about a month since that first kiss in the corridor.

Oscar still had his own place, but he spent two, sometimes three, nights a week at hers now. It wasn't official, they hadn’t talked about labels, but the toothbrush beside hers in the bathroom said enough. So did the way he’d taken to calling her flat home without thinking, or how Aurelia would lean sleepily against his leg in the mornings while she waited for her eggs to finish cooking.

They had a rhythm now, dysfunctional but quiet and real.

He’d learnt how not to wake Aurelia when he rolled in late, how to turn the key in the lock with just the right amount of pressure and not let the hinge on the bathroom door creak when he showered after a night shift. She, in turn, had mastered the morning shuffle. Tiptoeing around the flat while he slept off the early hours, even closing cupboard doors with that soft, deliberate touch only mothers and night nurses seemed to perfect.

Some mornings, if his shift ended early and she had a bit more time, she’d curl back into bed beside him for a half hour. No words. Just warm limbs tangled together under the duvet while the outside world waited.

It was gentle, it was something he’d never thought he’d get, something he’d never thought he’d deserve.

That night, though, the fire station ws quiet and all he could think about was home. He was half slumped in one of the chairs in the rec room, sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug and watching some repeat quiz show on mute. It was just him, Lando, and two of the more senior lads, all of them looking somewhere between exhausted and wired.

Then the alarm started blaring.

The tone was different, lower, more urgent. Not a false alarm or a test. Not a bin fire or a smoke detector in a student flat.

Oscar was already on his feet before Control came through the speaker.

“House fire reported, scratch that, pub fire, multiple reports of visible flames, location. The Fox and Hound, Chapel Lane.”

That made him pause. The Fox and Hound was a big one. Old building. Thatched roof. Always busy on weekdays and visible from his little flat.

It was 2am.

“Let’s go!” Andrea shouted, already moving. Oscar hauled his gear on, the straps familiar and fast now. His thoughts flicked to her, to Aurelia, how they were safe at home but bound to wake up to the sound of sirens. He tucked it away. Couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about anything but getting there.

The engine roared to life, tyres heavy on wet tarmac. Blue lights bounced across empty roads and shuttered shopfronts. No one spoke. Lando checked the comms, while Oscar stared out the front window, jaw tight.

As they got closer, they could already see the glow. Not just smoke, flames. Licking skyward in bright, vicious tongues.

He felt it then. That buzz in his blood. Not fear, exactly, something sharper. Something colder.

They pulled up just outside the pub. Heat rushed at them as soon as the doors opened. People were gathered at a safe distance, coats over pyjamas, phones in hand, eyes wide.

Oscar jumped down, helmet secure, heart thudding.

“All right,” came the voice in his earpiece, “we’ve got reports of staff inside, one maybe trapped, two might’ve made it out the back.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Which floor?”

“Upstairs flat. Left side.”

And just like that, they moved. Through the smoke, through the roar and the crack and the chaos.

He didn’t think of her again until they were inside. But when he did, it was like armour.

She’s waiting. You get out. You go home.

The heat hit him like a wall.

By the time Oscar got inside, the fire had already taken hold of the bar. Bottles of spirits cracked and burst like fireworks, sending shards and fuel across the floor. The wood panelling burned fast—too fast. There was a reason fire crews hated pub jobs. Alcohol and timber made for a nasty combination.

His mask filtered the worst of the smoke, but visibility was poor. He ducked low, sweeping the hose with one hand while shouting into the crackling dark, “Fire and Rescue! Anyone inside?”

There was no reply, just the moaning groan of the ceiling starting to go.

They cleared the ground floor quickly. A member of staff had managed to stumble out the back, coughing and panicked, mumbling about another one unaccounted for.

Oscar was halfway out, half a breath from turning back, when he caught sight of the stairs through the smoke.

Stairs.

He froze, then turned back to Control. “This place has rooms. It’s an inn.”

There was a pause in his earpiece.

“Confirmed. It’s a pub with letting rooms. Upstairs. Go careful.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He ran.

The heat intensified as he climbed. Fire moved like a living thing, chewing through floorboards, plaster, lives. The smoke was blacker here, thicker, laced with that acrid sting of burning plastic and varnish.

He moved fast, sweeping left and right. Doors half-open. Sheets scorched. The moan of fire too close.

And then he heard it.

A sob.

Small. Choked. From the far room, left corner.

He found her curled up on a narrow bed, knees hugged to her chest, cheeks streaked with soot and tears. Couldn’t have been more than eight. Long brown hair stuck to her face, and she was shaking.

“Mum?” she whimpered.

Oscar’s breath caught.

For half a second, she wasn’t a stranger. She was Aurelia. She was his little one. In a different place, a different time, but just as small. Just as scared.

He didn’t hesitate. Ripped off his oxygen mask and crouched down beside her, voice steady.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. I’m here to help. We’re getting out of here, alright?”

She nodded, hiccupping sobs now. He wrapped her in his jacket, pulled her close, and hoisted her into his arms.

“Close your eyes for me, alright? Tight. Don’t look.”

She did.

The flames were close now. He felt the blistering heat crawling up the corridor behind them as he turned, shielding her with his body.

The ceiling above the stairwell was starting to sag. There wasn’t time to think. Only move.

He bolted.

Smoke seared his lungs. His mask hung useless at his hip. He pressed her tighter to his chest, ducked as a beam groaned and crashed just behind him, sparks flying past his shoulders.

The front exit was blocked. Too hot.

He spotted a smashed window in the corridor off the landing—low enough. Maybe.

He didn’t think, just acted.

He lunged for it, twisted his body to take the brunt, and threw his arm over her head as he pushed through.

Glass scraped his back. A cry tore from his throat, but he held her steady.

And then—

Air.

Cool, blessed air.

He stumbled out onto the pavement, coughing, the girl still cradled tight against him.

A medic ran forward and took her. She was sobbing, but alive. Alive.

Oscar slumped to his knees, gasping.

Lando was beside him in seconds. “Mate—what the hell?!”

Oscar waved him off, catching his breath, throat burning.

“She was in there. A kid.” He looked up. “Could’ve been her, Lan.”

Lando didn’t need to ask who her was.

It took another hour to put the fire out completely. They lost the roof, and two rooms, but no lives. None.

Oscar sat on the pavement long after the hoses went still, his turnout gear soaked through, back bleeding, lungs scorched, but he was upright.

He couldn’t stop seeing the girl’s face.

Couldn’t stop seeing Aurelia in it.

By the time they got back to the station, Oscar was soaked through with sweat and soot. His shirt stuck to the grazes along his back, stiff with smoke. His hands trembled when he took his gloves off.

The station was quieter than usual. No jokes. No kettle boiling. No telly. Just that heavy silence that follows the worst kind of shout.

Zak caught his eye as he stepped down from the truck.

“You’re done for the night, Piastri,” Zak said quietly, hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Oscar.”

Oscar opened his mouth to argue, to say he was fine, standard procedure, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t fine. He didn’t feel anything close to fine.

So he nodded. Wordless. Stripped off his gear and shoved it in the drying room. Pulled a hoodie from his locker and walked out of the doors with the smell of burny wood still clinging to his hair.

The cab ride home was a blur. He didn’t remember much except asking the driver to leave him on the corner, needing the walk to clear his head.

But it didn’t help.

Because all he could see was her. That little girl, curled up in the bed, sobbing for her mum. The one he carried out. The one who had Aurelia’s eyes.

He didn’t even realise his key had missed the lock twice until the door opposite his flat opened.

And then she was there.

She took one look at him and moved without thinking. “Oh my God—Oscar—”

He barely got the door open before she crossed the hallway, hands on his chest, eyes scanning him like she needed to count all his fingers and toes just to believe he was still whole.

“I heard there was a fire. We could see it from here, someone said it was your station that went out and—” Her voice cracked as she clung to his hoodie. “You didn’t answer your phone so I assumed you’d gone but—”

He didn’t mean to. But his arms went round her like instinct, and his voice finally gave out as he buried his face into the side of her neck.

“I need to see her.”

She didn’t ask who. She just nodded.

He stepped inside her flat and moved straight to the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, the way it always was. Soft light from her nightlight spilled onto the hallway carpet.

Aurelia was fast asleep, curled on her side, clutching that stuffed bunny she never went to bed without.

Oscar watched her chest rise and fall. Just breathing.

Just alive.

And that was all it took.

His knees buckled slightly, hand braced on the doorframe, and tears spilled hot down his cheeks. She was there in an instant, arms around his waist, and he didn’t try to stop it.

He wept quietly, forehead resting against hers, chest heaving as every unspoken terror bled out of him.

She reached up and cupped his face gently. “Come on,” she said softly, “let me take care of you, yeah?”

He didn’t argue.

She led him by the hand to the bathroom, flicked the light on low, and turned the tap to fill the bath.

Without a word, she reached for the hem of his hoodie, and he let her lift it over his head. Her fingers brushed the grazes on his back, and she exhaled, not quite a gasp, but almost.

He looked down at himself. Soot-stained, battered, worn thin.

She didn’t say anything. Just tugged his joggers off gently, like she was handling something fragile.

When he was bare before her, she stepped closer, pressed a kiss to his sternum, and wrapped her arms around his middle.

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in. Clean. Warm. Real.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

“I thought she was going to die,” he choked. “She was crying for her mum. She was—she looked just like—”

“I know,” she murmured, and her hand found his. “You saved her.”

She helped him into the bath, then climbed in behind him, still in her top having discarded her leggings, gathering him close like he was the one who needed holding now. And maybe he was.

No more sirens. No more shouting. No fear.

Just soft water. Warmth. Her.

Home.

The steam had fogged up the mirror, and the water had gone lukewarm by the time she pulled the plug. Neither of them moved for a moment. Limbs heavy, breath slow, her arms still wrapped around him from behind. His back rested against her chest, and her cheek was pressed to the crown of his head.

Eventually, she stirred first, nudging his shoulder gently.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice hushed like she didn’t want to wake the world. “Let’s get you dry.”

He let her guide him up, hands loose in hers. She reached for a towel and wrapped it round his waist, then took another and ran it through his hair, careful and slow like she was unravelling the knots of the day with each movement. His eyes stayed on hers the whole time, soft and unreadable. She dried herself as he put some clothes on, watching him as he slipped on the pyjamas he left yesterday, while she opted for a pair of shorts and a tank top.

She led him into her bedroom with nothing but the quiet creak of floorboards between them. Her hand rested on the small of his back, grounding him.

When she turned to face him, he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like she was something he still didn’t quite believe was real.

“Lie down,” she said softly.

He did, not like it was an order, more like a suggestion he’d been waiting for. He lay back against the pillows, hair damp, skin warm. He looked younger in the low light. Unarmoured. All soft edges and tired eyes.

She climbed in beside him and straddled his hips, in the vest and shorts she’d pulled on a second ago. Her fingers ghosted over the scrapes on his shoulder, her brow creasing.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live.”

“Still.” She leaned down, brushed her lips over one graze like it deserved an apology. “You gave too much of yourself tonight.”

He let out a slow breath, hands resting on her thighs. “Didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

“I know.” She kissed another spot. Then another. “But you don’t always have to carry everything alone, you know.”

He swallowed, his throat tight. “I don’t know how to do this slowly,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with you. Not after tonight.”

She leaned forward until her forehead rested against his. “It doesn’t have to be slow,” she murmured, lips brushing his. “It just has to be soft.”

And it was.

No rush. No fumbling. Just touch, and breath, and the quietest kind of yes in every movement.

His fingers curled around her hip, grounding himself, and when he kissed her back it was like he needed her to know. I’m here. I’m yours. I came home to you.

She smiled at him, the warmest smile he’d ever seen.

It wasn’t fireworks or declarations.

Just warmth.

Home.

She kissed him again, this time slower. Deeper. Her fingers slid into his damp hair, anchoring him to her, and his hand found the curve of her hip again, drawing her in without thought.

The air between them felt thick with warmth, not heat, like the moment before a storm breaks, all hush and anticipation. There was no rush in it. No fumbling. Just the steady build of something that had been waiting in the quiet between them for weeks.

She shifted a little, her legs bracketing his, the hem of her vest brushing the tops of his thighs. His hands slid up, tracing her shape like he was learning it by heart. The small of her back, the line of her waist, the softness of her ribs. She leaned down, her breath warm against his cheek.

“Is this alright?” she asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose along hers. “More than alright.”

She kissed him again, deeper this time, and he responded with a soft noise at the back of his throat, his hands gripping a little tighter, his body rising to meet hers. Their movements found a rhythm, gentle, reverent. He helped her lift her vest, pulling it slowly over her head, and she let it fall to the floor beside the bed. There was no embarrassment in her. No hesitation. Just trust, and something else, something fragile and burning beneath the surface.

He sat up, mouth brushing her collarbone, then lower, until she gasped, not from surprise, but from the quiet ache of being seen. Wanted. He pressed kisses down her chest, hands steady on her waist, as if every part of her mattered. Like she wasn’t just something beautiful, but something sacred.

Her fingers found the waistband of his joggers and tugged them down with a quiet smile. “I think you’re overdressed.”

He huffed a laugh against her neck. “Been saying that about you for weeks.”

When they came together it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth, and weight, and breath. Her hand slid into his, fingers laced tightly, like she needed the grounding. He moved slowly, gently, his forehead resting against hers, his free hand stroking up the length of her spine in time with the soft rhythm between them.

Neither of them spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything important was already there, in the way their bodies met, and parted, and met again. In the way she whispered his name like it meant something. In the way he held her like she was the only safe thing left in the world.

And when it was over, when her body relaxed against his, and his arms came around her like instinct, they stayed there, skin to skin, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and the quiet hum of something that felt a lot like love.

He brushed his fingers through her hair, soft and absent.

She pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, her voice barely more than a breath.

“I’ve never had this,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got it now.”

And she did.

The flat was filled with the kind of early morning stillness that only came after a long night. The light outside hadn’t quite brightened, but it wasn’t dark either, that muted, silvery sort of grey that hinted at a day gently waking up.

Oscar stirred first, arms curled around her, legs tangled in the duvet. Her head was on his chest, one of her hands tucked beneath his shirt like it belonged there, like it always had. He blinked slowly, heart still steady in the after-glow of everything, and let the moment stretch.

No alarms. No radios crackling to life.

Just breath. Just her.

Then came the familiar shuffle of small feet padding across the hallway, a door creaking ever so slightly, the rustle of a blanket being dragged along the floor.

Aurelia.

He felt her tense slightly against him, just a flicker, the instinct of a mum on alert, but she didn’t move to untangle herself from him. Instead, she sighed, soft and sleepy, and whispered, “She’ll come to the kitchen first.”

Sure enough, a cupboard door opened with a tiny clatter. A pause. Then the quiet clink of a cereal bowl.

He smiled. “She does this every time, doesn’t she?”

“She thinks she’s sneaky.”

“Is she?”

“Not even slightly.”

He laughed gently and kissed her hairline before slipping out of bed. He pulled on his joggers and one of her hoodies that hung by the door, the sleeves a little short on him, then padded into the kitchen.

Aurelia looked up from the kitchen table, spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes went wide for a second, not surprised, just curious, and then her face broke into a grin.

“You slept over again.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly a bit shy. “Yeah. That alright?”

She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re in mummy’s hoodie.”

Oscar laughed. “I am. D’you reckon it suits me?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Yeah. But your sleeves are funny.”

Just then, her mum appeared in the doorway behind him, wrapped in one of his T-shirts, hair tousled, still sleepy-eyed.

Aurelia beamed.

Oscar glanced back at her, and something in his chest pulled, that same quiet tug he’d felt last month, in the classroom, staring at a child’s drawing of a life he hadn’t known he’d wanted until he saw it sketched out in crayon.

The three of them. A little sun in the corner. Lopsided hearts.

She came up behind him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, a soft morning kind of kiss, and brushed past to the kettle.

Aurelia watched them both, spoon hanging from her mouth. Then, very simply, she said,

“You should just live here now.”

They both looked at her.

She shrugged. “You always make mummy smile.”

Oscar blinked, caught a little off guard. He looked over at her, the woman who’d somehow become the best part of his days, and saw the faint blush creeping up her neck.

“We’re working on it,” she said gently, reaching to ruffle her daughter’s hair.

And maybe they were.

They didn’t have a grand plan, or timelines, or promises inked in stone, but they had something. And in typical child nature, after dropping a bomb like that, Aurelia left her bowl and moved onto drawing.

Oscar was mid grabbing the butter from the fridge when his phone started to buzz with a FaceTime call.

He frowned at the screen, then smiled. “It’s my mum.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You gonna answer?”

“Suppose I’ve got to now,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and tapping the green button.

His mum’s face filled the screen, tanned and bright-eyed, her hair swept back, sunshine spilling in behind her through the windows of her kitchen in Melbourne.

“Oh! Look who it is!” she grinned. “Took you long enough to answer. I was starting to think you’d moved to the moon.”

Oscar chuckled. “No, still Earth-side.”

She narrowed her eyes, playful. “That is not your flat, Oscar Jack. I know your tiles. Is this Lando’s place?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but just then, Aurelia let out a small triumphant cheer as she held up her finished drawing. “Look, Oscar, it’s us in the fire engine again!”

His mum’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that’s not Lando either.”

Oscar looked down at the floor for a moment, then gave a sheepish smile.

“Right,” he said, shifting a little. “So… bit of a life update.”

He turned the phone round gently, showing his mum the cosy kitchen, the mess of crayons, the fireman sticker Aurelia had slapped onto the fridge, and finally, her.

She smiled warmly, caught off guard for just a second by being the centre of attention, but not pulling away. She gave a small wave. “Hi.”

Oscar cleared his throat, a little hoarse with nerves. “Mum… meet the woman who’s kept me sane the last couple of months.”

His mum blinked, a beat of silence, and then she smiled so wide it softened every line in her face.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Now that makes sense.”

He laughed, a quiet, breathless sort of sound, and she leaned into his shoulder slightly, her hand resting on the table beside his. Aurelia had already resumed drawing, now completely absorbed in adding stars to the day sky.

His mum nodded, still smiling. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” he said, before he could even think to stop himself.

There was no panic in it, no need to explain further. Just truth, warm and steady between them all.

“You look happy, love,” his mum said at last. “Properly happy.”

He glanced sideways, saw the way she was looking at him, like he’d finally landed somewhere soft.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

Just as he was about to speak up again, Aurelia called his name demanding his immediate attention, and to Oscar, she deserved immediate attention so he left the phone on the island with her and wandered off into the living room to see what she needed.

“So,” his mum said, leaning her chin on her hand, “you’re the one that’s brought my son back to life huh.”

She laughed softly, brushing a crumb from the table. “I don’t know about that. He’s done plenty of the heavy lifting.”

His mum tilted her head. “You’ve got no idea, have you?”

She looked up, brow furrowed just slightly.

“That boy,” his mum said, with the fondness she recognised as a parent, “has always been kind. But I haven’t heard him sound like that in years. Like there’s a little bit of sunshine in his voice again.” Her eyes stung, just a little, but she kept her smile. “He makes it easy to be kind to him.” “I’m glad he’s got you,” she said, voice quieter now. “And I’m glad he’s got her too. It seems your little one is a bundle of magic.”

She nodded, looking toward the living room where they were both laughing. “She’s my whole world.”

There was a pause, and then Oscar’s mum said, not unkindly, “Must’ve been hard. Doing this all on your own.” “It was,” she admitted, honest without bitterness. “Still is, some days. But it’s better now. Easier, with him.”

His mum’s smile turned into something a little misty. “Well. If he’s half as good to you as he was to his little cousins back home, you’re in very safe hands.”

“I think I am,” she said, quietly.

Oscar’s voice called from down the hallway then, something about star stickers and him being promoted to co-pilot of the living room space rocket, and they both laughed.

“I should go help him survive his new role,” she said, pushing her chair back.

Oscar’s mum smiled. “Tell him I said he’d better ring again soon. And you, look after each other, yeah?”

“We will.”

And as she ended the call and stood, walking towards the warm sound of her two favourite voices down the hall, she realised it had been a long time since things felt this much like home.

Seven months had passed, and life had woven itself into something steady, soft edges and everyday joy.

Oscar had sold his flat back in April, after a lot of faffing and a surprisingly emotional trip through storage boxes. Now, all his belongings lived here, in the flat that had once felt like hers and hers alone, but now smelled like them. His mugs were in her cupboards, her shoes were tangled up with his by the door, and there were three toothbrushes in the bathroom, hers, Aurelia’s, and his. One day, quietly, it had stopped feeling like he was staying over, and started feeling like home.

They had routines now. Quiet ones. Aurelia would burst into the bedroom at seven on the dot if it was his day off. On early mornings, he’d creep in at six, just off a night shift, and she’d leave the landing light on for him like a lighthouse. He knew how she took her tea, and she’d learnt not to make noise until he’d actually had some of it. He made dinner most nights, unless she’d had a good day at work and was feeling ambitious.

It was simple. Not perfect, not glossy, not always easy. But it was theirs. And it was good.

This morning, the flat was busy with the chaos of first-day-back energy. Year Three. New backpack. New lunchbox. New plaited hairstyle that had taken them two goes to get right.

Aurelia had been buzzing from the moment she opened her eyes.

“Am I late? Is it time? I’m going to forget cursive. I bet I’ve forgotten cursive!”

“You can write better than most adults, you’ll be fine,” Oscar said, dropping a kiss to her forehead as she wriggled into her shoes.

Her mum gave her one last once-over by the door, brushing a bit of fluff off her shoulder. “You look beautiful, baby.”

Oscar grinned. “You look cool. Very Year Three.”

She beamed. “I’m going to boss Year Three.”

He dropped her off that morning, gave her a high five at the gates, and watched her disappear into the swarm of backpacks and bright socks and morning yawns.

But it was that afternoon that stopped him still.

He’d offered to do pick-up. Thought it’d be a nice surprise. He stood by the railings, hands in his jacket pockets, feeling strangely nervous in a sea of parents and buggies and scooters.

Then she came running out of the gates.

Pointed straight at him.

And with the biggest grin, shouted, “My dad is here to pick me up!”

Oscar froze.

The word rang out in his head like a church bell. Like something he wasn’t quite supposed to hear.

Dad.

His chest tightened. Not with panic. Not with fear. But something much bigger. Something messier.

She ran straight into his arms and he lifted her with a small laugh, though it came out shaky. She chattered the whole way home, about spelling tests and Miss Price’s new earrings and how someone brought in a tarantula, but he barely caught any of it.

Because one word had wrapped itself around his ribcage.

Later, once she was tucked up on the sofa with a biscuit and the telly on low, he stepped into the kitchen, where she was rinsing mugs by the sink.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little quieter than usual.

She turned, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Hey, you alright?”

He just looked at her for a moment. His eyes were glassy.

“She called me her dad.”

She paused. Slowly put the towel down.

“I went to pick her up and she saw me and said it. My dad is here to pick me up. Just like that.”

He let out a shaky breath, a small, astonished sort of laugh. “I thought I was going to cry right there in the playground like an idiot.”

Her heart clenched. She stepped toward him, and he pulled her in like a lifeline.

“She meant it, didn’t she?” he whispered into her hair.

“She did,” she said softly. “She really, really did.”

That night, after the dishes had been done and the flat had settled into its usual hush, Oscar found himself stood in the doorway to Aurelia’s room.

She was half asleep already, the telly's low hum from the living room barely audible through her door. She stirred slightly, sensing him, blinking one eye open.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

He stepped in, crouched beside her bed. “Just checking in on you.”

“You always do,” she said sleepily, reaching for his hand.

He smiled. “Habit now.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re the best one, you know. I’m really glad you’re mine.”

Oscar swallowed. “I’m really glad I’m yours too, pickle.”

She wriggled a bit, yawning into her blanket. “Love you, Oscar.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Love you more.”

And in the quiet of that room, with the soft rise and fall of her breathing, he stayed just a minute longer, heart full in a way he never thought it could be.

Over the years, things changed. For the better and never the worst.

They got married in a small ceremony at the register office, all low-fuss and laughter and Aurelia dropping petals like she was queen of the world. He wore his uniform jacket, she wore a soft blue dress that matched her eyes, and Aurelia insisted on holding both their hands the whole way through the vows.

He officially adopted her not long after that. There was paperwork, a hearing, signatures, all formal, all necessary, but what he remembered most was the moment she looked up at him, fidgeting with the sleeve of her cardigan, and said, “Can I have the same name as you?”

He cried. Fully. In public. No shame.

“You sure?” he’d asked, voice thick.

She nodded with a smile that could’ve split the sky. “I want to be the same as you.”

After that, life kept growing. Gently, beautifully.

They hadn’t planned on having another child. Not because they didn’t want to, more that they’d built a home already, and it felt enough. But life, as ever, had other plans. It happened one quiet spring, and when she told him, he’d gone very still and said, “Are you serious?” and when she nodded, he sank to his knees with his arms round her middle like she was something holy.

That pregnancy was nothing like the first. It wasn’t fraught with fear or pain or the weight of being alone. This time, she had someone holding her hair back when the sickness kicked in. Someone who learnt how to make the weird toast she liked at four in the morning. Someone who ran baths and rubbed her back and whispered “you’ve got this” against her skin when she needed it most.

He took proper paternity leave too, remembering how he told Zak, “Don’t give me grief, Zak, it’s the law”, and when he finally did go back to work, he did it dragging himself out of bed with bags under his eyes, a half-eaten banana in one hand and a tiny sock stuck to the back of his uniform trousers.

But he was happy.

Proper, head-to-toe, bone deep happy.

Oscar, who used to dread going back to his childhood home, now booked flights to Australia every year like clockwork. Family trips, beach towels, squabbles over carry-ons, and Aurelia teaching her little brother how to build sandcastles while their mum took pictures and Oscar applied suncream with the seriousness of a soldier preparing for war.

And when he looked back, years later, in the slow quiet of a Sunday morning, coffee in hand and the flat filled with life, he sometimes thought of the school fair. Of the day he met her. Of balloon animals, and face paint, and one very small girl yelling “Neighbour firefighter!”

And he’d smile, every single time.

Because somehow, against all the odds, it had been the beginning of everything.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

#this is a masterpiece #I need him so desperately #it’s a problem #but damn this is sooo good 😩#oscar piastri my beloved #oscar piastri #op81 #f1 #ames’ fic recs ! ✧

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amyelevenn · 9 days ago

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charles' face 😭

#it’s a mug off #and he CLEARED

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amyelevenn · 11 days ago

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just putting this out here early.

#needing this quite desperately unfortunately #never would’ve thought it but oh well

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amyelevenn · 12 days ago

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Sobbing in my room at 2:15am like a lunatic but OMGGGG UGHHHHH YES PLS

most assuredly ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. he opens his mouth to ask for the special. instead, oscar says, “would you like to get married?”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 15.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, humor. mentions of food, alcohol. marriage of convenience, fake dating, set mostly in monaco, serious creative liberties on citizenship/residency rules, google translated french. title from the fray’s look after you (which i would highly recommend listening to while reading). ꔮ commentary box: i thought this would be short, but i fear i’m physically incapable of shutting up about oscar piastri. sue me. wrote this in one deranged sitting, and i leave it to all of you now 💍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ almost (sweet music), hozier. a drop in the ocean, ron pope. hazy, rosi golan ft. william fitzsimmons. fidelity, regina spektor. just say yes, snow patrol. archie, marry me, alvvays.

Oscar Piastri fails his second attempt at Monaco residency on a Tuesday.

The rejection letter is folded too crisply, sealed in a government envelope so sterile it might as well be laughing at him. He stares at it while sipping overpriced espresso from the balcony of his apartment—well, technically, his team principal’s apartment, but the view of the harbor is the same. He watches a seagull steal a croissant from a toddler and thinks: that bird has more rights here than I do.

It’s not that he needs Monaco, but it would make things easier. Taxes, residency, team logistics. Mostly, he just hates the principle of it. He’s raced these streets. Risked his life at La Rascasse. Smiled through grid walks, kissed the trophy once, twice. How much more Monégasque does he need to be?

Still, the Principality remains unimpressed.

Oscar is dreadfully impatient about it all.

He walks to lunch out of spite. Refuses the team car. Chooses the one place that doesn’t care who he is: Chez Colette, tucked between a florist and a family-run tailor, with sun-faded menus and the same specials board since 2004. It smells like lemon and anchovy and garlic confit. Monaco’s soul in three notes.

You’re wiping down a table when he steps in. You don’t look up right away.

He knows your name, but he won’t say it aloud. That would make it too real. Instead, he watches the way your fingers move over the woodgrain, the tiny gold cross around your neck. No wedding ring.

Definitely Monégasque. Probably born here. He’s seen your grandmother in the back, slicing pissaladière with a surgeon’s precision.

You approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. He opens his mouth to ask for the special.

Instead, he says, “Would you like to get married?”

There’s a beat of silence so clean you could plate oysters on it.

Your brow lifts, just slightly. “Pardon?”

Oscar’s own voice catches up with him. “I mean. Lunch. And then—maybe—marriage. If you’re free. Not in the next hour. Just in general.”

Another beat. Then you laugh, low and incredulous. Your English is heavily accented. A telltale sign you learned it for the express purpose of surviving the service industry. “Is this because of the citizenship thing?”

He stares at you.

You shrug, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the first to ask.”

Oscar groans and slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not.”

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

“How do you feel about pissaladière?” you ask, scribbling on your notepad.

“Is that a yes?”

You walk away without answering. He watches you disappear into the kitchen, the sound of your laughter softening the corners of his day.

He’s not sure what he just started. But he knows he’s coming back tomorrow.

And so Oscar returns the next day. Then the day after that. And the one after that.

At first, it’s curiosity. Then it’s habit. Eventually, it becomes something closer to ritual. Lunch. Sometimes dinner. Once, a midnight snack after sim practice, when he told himself he needed carbs and not just a glimpse of the waitress with the tired eyes and fast French.

He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.

You mumble French at him when he walks in. The first time, he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or warning. Now, he knows it’s both.

You’re usually wiping something down or balancing three plates on one arm. You never wear makeup. Your apron’s always tied in a double knot. And you never, ever miss a chance to call him out.

“If you’re here to poach the brandamincium recipe, you’ll have to marry my grandmother,” you tell him one afternoon.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I hear she’s already married to the oven.”

You snort, and his chest flares with something stupid and bright.

The regulars give him side-eyes. Your grandmother watches him like she’s trying to solve an equation. Still, you never ask him to leave.

He tips well. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just grateful. For the peace. For the food. For you.

One night, the lights are low and the chairs are half-stacked when he shows up with two tarte aux pommes from the bakery down the street. You look at him like you’re considering throwing him out. Instead, you pour two glasses of wine and sit.

He peels the parchment off the pastries. “Chez Colette. Named after your grandmother?”

You nod. “She started it with my grandfather. 1973.”

He glances around. The cracked tiles. The curling menus. The handwritten notes on the wall that must be decades old. “And now it’s yours”

“Sort of,” you say dismissively. “I wait tables. I do the books. I fix the pipes. Mostly I pray the rent doesn’t go up again.”

Oscar feels a twist beneath his ribs. He’s spent millions on cars. Watches. Sim rigs. But this—this tiny restaurant and your soft frown—feels more fragile than any of it.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

You look at him with the sort of grin that unravels him. “It’s dying.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes a bite of tart. Lets the silence sit between you. He swallows his mouthful of pastry, then says, “Then maybe we save it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We?”

Oscar smiles. When you don’t tell him to leave, he makes a decision.

He returns three days later, after hours. He doesn’t mean to knock twice, but the restaurant is dark, the chairs up, the shutters half-drawn like the building itself is asleep. Still, he raps his knuckles on the glass, envelope in hand, because this isn’t something he can deliver over a text. Or a tart.

You appear after a minute, hair pinned up, sweatshirt on instead of your apron. You squint at him through the glass like he’s forgotten what day it is.

“We’re closed,” you say as you open the door halfway.

“I know,” Oscar replies, holding up the envelope. “I brought... paperwork.”

Your brows knit. You glance down at the crisp white rectangle like it might bite. “If that’s a menu suggestion, je jure devant Dieu—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s—alright, this is going to sound completely mental, but just let me get through it.”

You cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

Oscar takes a breath. You’re still not letting him in; he figures he deserves it. “There’s a clause,” he starts slowly, “in the citizenship law. A foreign spouse of a Monegasque national can apply for residency after one year of marriage and continuous residence in the Principality.”

“I’m aware.”

He opens the envelope and slides out three neat pages, stapled, formatted like a sponsor contract. He’d asked his agent to help without saying why. Said it was a tax thing. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.

“This is a proposal,” he continues. “One year of marriage. Eighteen months, technically, to be safe. We live here, we do all the legal bits. Then we file for annulment, or divorce, or whatever keeps it clean. No... weird stuff. Just paperwork.”

You stare at him. He rushes on.

“In return, I’ll wire you 10% of my racing salary during the term. That’s around 230,000 euros. And 5% annually for five years after. You can use it however you want. To keep Chez Colette open. Renovate. Hire help. Buy better wine. I don’t care.”

You say nothing. The silence stretches. A bird flutters past the awning. Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not asking for a real marriage. Just a legal one,” he manages. “You’ve seen how hard it is for people like me to get a foothold here. I’ve driven Monaco more times than I’ve driven my home streets. I want to stay. I just... can’t do it alone.”

You look at the contract, then back at him. “You typed up a prenup for a fake marriage?”

“Technically it’s a postnup,” he mutters, half to himself.

Something in your face shifts. Not quite a smile. But not a no, either. “You’re serious,” you say, scanning his face for any hint of doubt.

“I really am.”

You shake your head, understandably overwhelmed and disbelieving that this acquaintance had plucked you out of nowhere for his grand citizenship scheme. “Give me a few days. I need to think.”

Oscar nods. He doesn’t push. He just hands you the envelope and steps back into the fading light of Rue Grimaldi.

Two days later, you tell him to come over once again. You give him a specific time.

The restaurant is closed again, but this time it’s by design—chairs down, kettle on, one ceramic pot of lavender still bravely holding on near the window. The table between you is small. A two-seater wedged against the wall beneath a sepia photo of Grace Kelly.

Oscar sits across from you, spine a little too straight, as if you’re about to interrogate him in a language he doesn’t speak. You’re reading the contract like it’s the terms of his parole.

“Alright,” you say, flipping the page with a deliberate rustle. “Ground rules.”

He nods, trying not to look as if he’s bracing for impact.

“One: I’m not changing my last name.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Oscar says.

“Two: no pet names in public. No ‘darling,’ no ‘chérie,’ and absolutely no ‘babe.’”

He makes a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘babe’ in my life.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

You tap the next section of the contract. “Three: no sharing a bed. We alternate who gets the apartment when the press is nosy, but I don’t care how Monégasque the walls are. We are not reenacting a romcom.”

“I like my own space.”

“Four,” you continue, now fully warmed up, “if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend in another country who thinks this is all some hilarious prank, I will go on record. Publicly. With—how do you say?—receipts.”

Oscar’s eyes widen, then he laughs. He can’t help it. You’re glaring, but it only makes him grin harder. “There is no secret girlfriend,” he assures, still smiling. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

You study him a second longer. He meets your gaze. Not in a cold way. More like someone trying very hard to be worthy of trust.

“Alright,” you murmur, sitting back. “We have only one problem.”

“Do we?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the contract, the table, and him. “This is very convincing on paper. But people will ask questions. My grandmother will ask questions.”

“I figured as much,” Oscar says, drawing a breath. “Which is why we’ll need to... date. First.”

“Date,” you say, testing the word out on. Your nose scrunches up a bit. Cute, Oscar thinks, and then he crashes the thought into the wall of his mind so he nevers thinks it again.

“Publicly. Casually. Just enough to sell the story,” he explains. “Lunches, walks, one trip to the paddock maybe. Something the media can sink its teeth into. I’ll—I’ll pay for that, too.”

“You’re telling me I have to pretend to fall in love with you,” you say skeptically.

Oscar’s smile tilts. “Not fall in love. Just look like you could.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you drop your head into your hands, laughing once—sharp and disbelieving. “Dieu m’aide,” you mumble into your palms. “Fine. One year. No pet names. Separate beds. And if you make me wear matching outfits, I walk.”

Oscar’s heart soars. “Deal,” he says, sealing it before you can back out.

He reaches out to shake on it.

You hesitate. Then take his hand.

And just like that, you’re engaged.

A photo of Oscar with a takeaway bag from your restaurant makes the rounds on a gossip account. The caption reads, Local Hero or Just Hungry? Piastri Spotted Again at Chez Colette. He doesn’t comment.

Then, a week later, he’s asked on a podcast what he does on his days off in Monaco. He shrugs, smiles, and says, “There’s this little place down on Rue Grimaldi. Family-owned. Best tapenade in the world.”

The host jokes, “That’s oddly specific.”

Oscar just sips his water. “So’s my palate.”

After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????

He never confirms. Never denies. Just keeps showing up like it’s natural. He opens doors. He holds your bag when you need to tie your shoe. He stands a little too close when you’re waiting in line. The story builds itself.

Until one night, a photo leaks.

It’s at the back entrance of the restaurant, late, after a pretend-date that turned into real laughter and too much wine. You’re saying goodbye. He kisses you—cheek first, then temple, then, finally, the crown of your hair.

That’s the money shot. Oscar, his lips pressed atop your head; you, with your eyes closed. Turns out both of you are pretty good actors.

The internet implodes.

Lando calls the next morning.

“Mate.”

Oscar winces. “Hey.”

“You’re dating?” Lando sounds honest-to-goodness betrayed. Oscar almost feels bad.

The Australian squints at the espresso machine like it might save him. “Technically, yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“I was enjoying the privacy,” he deadpans.

Lando hangs up. Oscar makes a mental note to apologize when they see each other next at MTC. For now, though, he has more pressing matters to handle. One he discusses with you while he’s helping you close up shop.

Oscar nudges you gently. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“I need to use a pet name.”

You whip your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hear me out. It’s weird if I call you ‘hey’ in interviews. People are starting to notice. One. Just one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic air. “Darling.”

You shake your head. “Too Downton Abbey.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Too American.”

“Snugglebug?”

You stare.

“That was a test,” he says defensively.

“Try again.”

He considers. “Just—how about ‘my future wife.’”

You look away—too quickly. He sees it. The flicker. The way your lips twitch before you hide them.

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good.

You don’t say it back, don’t promise to call him your future husband. It’s alright. As it is, he has a couple more hurdles before he can even get to the wedding bells part of this arrangement.

Oscar has faced plenty of terrifying things in life: Eau Rouge in the rain, contract negotiations, Lando in a mood. None of them compare to this. Your grandmother’s dining room, cramped and full of porcelain saints.

He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.

You sit between Oscar and her, valiantly attempting to translate. The infamous Colette says something sharp and direct in French.

You smile saccharinely sweetly at Oscar. “She wants to know if you have real intentions.”

Oscar clears his throat. “Tell her yes. Tell her I think you’re… remarkable.”

You raise an eyebrow but translate. Your grandmother hums noncommittally, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then she asks another question. You translate again. “She wants to know what you like about me.”

Oscar panics. “Tell her you’re bossy.”

You give him a look.

“In a good way! I like that you tell me what to do. It’s grounding,” he backtracks. “And that you don’t laugh at my French, at least not out loud. And that you know exactly what you want and refuse to settle for less.”

Shaking your head, you deliver the words in French. Oscar has no way to know if it’s verbatim or if you’re somehow making him sound better. Regardless, your next translated words hold true. “She says she still doesn’t trust you,” you say wryly.

“Fair,” he says.

The meal continues. Your grandmother asks about his family, his racing, what he eats before a Grand Prix. You relay each question in English, Oscar doing his best to keep up, alternating between charming and catastrophic. He drops his fork once. He mispronounces aubergine. You have to explain what Vegemite is, and it nearly causes an incident.

Finally, somewhere between the cheese course and dessert, he reaches for your hand. It surprises both of you, the way his fingers find yours without fanfare.

Your grandmother notices. She watches for a long second, then exhales through her nose. Her next words don’t sound as cutting. You murmur, translating, “She says she’ll be keeping an eye on us.”

Oscar nods solemnly.

Outside, later, as the night air cools your flushed cheeks, he lets out a breath like he's crossed the finish line. “Think she’d be open to babysitting the fake kids one day?” he asks ruefully.

You laugh. Hard.

He’ll take it, he decides.

The season starts. You stay in touch. Oscar shows up at the restaurant after three months on the dot, still smelling faintly of champagne and podium spray. “I brought the trophy,” he announces, holding it out like a peace offering.

You stare at the intricate cup accorded to him for crossing the finish line first, then at him. “You think I want a trophy in exchange for emotional labor?”

“I also brought you a pastry,” he adds, brandishing a delicate tarte tropézienne.

You take the pastry.

He follows you inside, slipping into your usual booth in the back, where the sound of the espresso machine muffles any chance of a quiet moment. You sit across from him, pulling your apron over your lap like a barrier.

“So,” he begins. “We should probably talk about... the proposal.”

“You’re really not wasting time,” you chuckle.

“We’ve got a timeline. Press, citizenship, nosy neighbors. I have to make it look like I can’t bear to be without you.”

You snort. “That’ll be a performance.”

He grins. “Oscar-worthy.”

You try not to smile at his joke. “What do you even envision? You just collapsing in the paddock and screaming that you must marry me immediately?”

“That was my backup plan.”

You sip your coffee, watching him over the rim. “And what would be the first plan?”

“Something classic. You’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll get down on one knee. Ideally, there will be flowers, soft lighting, maybe a string quartet hiding behind a hedge.”

You shake your head. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want something like that?”

You hesitate. Just for a bit. “Fine,” you admit. “If it were real, I suppose I would want something simple. Something quiet. Not in front of a crowd. No flash mobs.”

“Noted. Absolutely no synchronized dancing.”

“And I’d want it to be somewhere that means something. Like... the dock near the market, maybe. Where my parents met. Just us. Some lights over the water. Nothing fancy.”

Oscar has gone quiet. It bleeds into the moment after you answer. You’re glaring at him heatlessly when you demand, “What?”

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

You roll your eyes, but the blush betrays you. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Should we make it the market dock, then? For the fake proposal.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. “Alright,” you concede, all the fight gone out of you. “But if you get a string quartet involved, I will throw you into the sea.”

“No promises,” says Oscar, even as he cracks the smallest of smiles.

Oscar FaceTimes his sisters on a Sunday morning, two hours before his second free practice session in Imola. He’s still in his race suit, hair slightly damp from the helmet, seated cross-legged on the floor of his motorhome like a boy about to beg for pocket money.

“Alright,” he says, flashing the camera a sheepish grin. “Before you say anything—I know it’s been a while. But I have news.”

Hattie appears first, her hair in rollers, holding a mug that says #1 Mum despite not having kids. Then Edie, still in bed, squinting at her phone like it betrayed her. Finally Mae joins from what appears to be a café, earbuds in, already suspicious.

“You’re not dying, are you?” Mae says apprehensively. “Because you have ‘soft launch of a terminal illness’ face.”

“No one’s dying,” Oscar says exasperatedly. “I’m—okay, this is going to sound a bit mad, but I need you all to come to Monaco next weekend.”

A beat. Silence. A spoon clinks against ceramic.

“Oscar,” Edie says slowly, “if this is about the cat again—”

“No, no! I swear, it’s not about the cat. I’m—proposing.”

Three sets of eyebrows go up. Even Hattie lowers her mug.

“Is this the waitress?” Mae asks, frowning. “She’s real?”

Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, she’s real. You’ve met her—at Chez Colette, remember? She works there. Thick accent. Quietly judges people with just her eyebrows.”

Recognition dawns slowly. “The waitress who told dad his wine palate was embarrassing?” Hattie says, remembering the one and only time Oscar had taken them to the restaurant, post-race. Back when it was just a place for good food and not ground zero for a marriage of convenience.

“The very one,” he says.

“I liked her,” Edie says. “Sharp. Didn’t laugh at your jokes.”

“So what’s the rush?” Mae’s eyes are narrowed. “You’re not the spontaneous type.”

Oscar hesitates. There’s a script he wrote for this exact moment, but it crumbles like a napkin in his hands. He tries the truth, or at least a gentle version of it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what matters,” he says. “About building something. And... Monaco’s home now, in a weird way. But it’s not really home without her.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole story.

There’s a pause, then Hattie sniffs and says, “Well, if this is how I find out I need a bridesmaid dress, I expect champagne.”

“I want seafood at the rehearsal dinner,” Edie adds.

“And we need a proper girl’s day with our sister-in-law-to-be,” Mae mutters, smiling despite herself.

Oscar grins, relief warm and fizzy in his chest.

“So you’ll come?”

“Of course we’ll come,” they say in near-unison.

The screen glitches for a moment, freezing them mid-laughter. Oscar watches their pixelated faces and thinks, oddly, that maybe this fake proposal has a bit too much heart in it already.

They fly in. His parents, too. The local press catch wind of it; rumors fly, but he says nothing. He’s too busy watching proposals on YouTube and figuring out how to make this halfway convincing.

On the day, Oscar finds that the dock near the market smells like sea salt and overripe citrus. The string of lights overhead flicker like they know what’s about to happen. Oscar stands at the edge, jacket wrinkled, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag tucked under one arm like he’s hiding pastries or nerves.

You arrive five minutes late. On purpose. He doesn’t look up right away, too focused on adjusting something in the bag. When he does glance up, there’s a boyish flush in his cheeks like he’s trying very hard not to bolt.

“You’re early,” you tease.

“I’m punctual,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You walk toward him slowly, letting the moment settle like dust in warm air. Behind the crates of tomatoes and shutters of the market stalls, there’s the faintest sound of movement—your grandmother, probably, crouched next to a box of sardines with Oscar’s sisters stacked like dolls behind her. His parents, also trying to be discreet as they film the proposal on their phones. All of them out of earshot.

Oscar clears his throat. “So,” he says. “I was going to start with a speech. But I practiced it in the mirror and it sounded like I was reciting tyre strategy.”

You fold your arms. "Now I’m intrigued."

Oscar pulls the ring out of the paper bag like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a simple one. No halo, no flash. Just a slim gold band and a small stone, found with the help of a very patient assistant and a very anxious jeweler.

“I know it’s not real,” he says. “But I still wanted to ask properly. Because you deserve that. And because, if I’m going to lie to the world, I want to at least mean every word I say to you.”

He kneels. One knee on the old dock planks, the other wobbling slightly.

You try not to smile too much. You fail.

He looks up. Cheeks flaming, eyes glinting. “Will you marry me, mon amour? For taxes, for residency, and the longevity of Monaco’s local cuisine?”

You take the ring. Slide it on. It fits like something inevitable. “Yes," you say softly, amusedly. “But only if you promise to do the dishes when this all goes sideways.”

He laughs, rises, pulls you into him like he’s trying to remember the shape of this moment for later. The lights flicker above you, the market quiet except for the faint sound of someone muffling a sneeze behind a barrel of oranges. You lean in, mouth near his ear.

“There’s nothing more Monégasque than what I’m about to do.”

Oscar pulls back. “What does that—”

You grab his hand and hurl both of you off the dock.

The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.

He surfaces first, sputtering. “I didn’t even bring a string quartet!”

You shrug, treading water, the ring catching the last of the sunset. “Welcome to the Principality, monsieur Piastri.”

Somewhere above, the dock creaks and the lights swing, and a family of co-conspirators starts clapping. The water tastes like the beginning of something strange and maybe wonderful. Monaco, at last, lets him in.

One blurry photo on Instagram is all it takes.

Oscar, soaked to the knees, hair flattened to his forehead, grinning like someone who’s just robbed a patisserie and gotten away with it.

You’re next to him, clutching a towel and wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between incredulity and affection. The ring—small, elegant, unmistakable—catches the light just enough.

His caption is a single word: Oui.

It takes approximately four minutes for the drivers’ WeChat to implode.

Lando is the first to respond: mate MATE tell me this isn’t a prank.

Then Charles: Is that my fucking neighbor????

Followed by George: This is either extremely romantic or deeply strategic. Possibly both.

Fernando simply replies with a sunglasses emoji and the words: classic.

The media goes feral. Engagement! Surprise dock proposal! The Chez Colette Heiress™! There’s already a Buzzfeed article ranking the most Monégasque elements of the proposal (you jumping into the sea is #1, narrowly edging out the string lights). Someone tweets an AI-generated wedding invite. The official F1 social media releases a supportive statement.

By Thursday’s press conference, Oscar has a halo of smug serenity around him. He had fielded questions all morning, deflecting citizenship implications with the precision of a man who’s done thirty rounds with the Monégasque bureaucracy and lost each time.

Lando, seated beside him, nudges his elbow.

“So,” he says into the mic. “Do we call you Mr. Colette now, or…?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Only on the weekdays.”

A ripple of laughter. Cameras flash. “I’m just saying,” Lando continues, faux-serious, “first you get engaged, next thing you know, you’re organizing floral arrangements and crying over table linens.”

“I’ll have you know,” Oscar replies, “the table linens are your problem. You’re best man.”

“Wait, what?”

But Oscar’s already looking past the cameras, past the questions, to the text you sent him that morning: full house again tonight. your trophy is in the pastry case. i put a flower in it. don’t be late.

He shrugs at the next question—something about motives, politics, tax brackets. All he says is, “Chez Colette’s never been busier. She looks beautiful with that ring. I’m winning races. Life’s good.”

And for once, no one argues. (Except Lando, who mutters, “Still can’t believe you beat me to a wife.”)

But then the hate makes its way through the haze. A comment here. A message there. Oscar doesn’t find out until much later, but you supposedly ignored them at first. The usual brand of online cruelty wrapped in emojis and entitlement. It curdled, slow and rancid, like spoiled milk beneath sunshine.

DMs filled with accusations. Gold digger, fame-chaser, fraud. A journalist who called the restaurant pretending to be a customer, asking if it’s true you forged documents. The restaurant landline, unplugged after the fourth prank call.

By the end of the week, someone mails a dead fish to Chez Colette. Wrapped in butcher paper. No return address. A note tucked inside reads: Go back to the shadows.

You find it funny. Morbidly, anyway. You show it to your grandmother like a joke, like something distant and absurd. She doesn’t laugh.

Oscar doesn’t either.

He hears about it secondhand—Lando lets it slip, offhandedly, after qualifying. Something about the restaurant and a very unfortunate cod. He chuckles at first, caught off guard, then notices the way Lando avoids his gaze.

He texts you that same afternoon. what’s this about a fish?

You send back a shrug emoji. He calls you. You don’t pick up.

The silence between you is short and volatile. He digs. He finds out. He walks into the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled, still in his race gear. “You should’ve told me.”

You’re wiping down the bar with the same rag you always use when you’re pretending you’re fine. “It’s not your problem.”

His jaw ticks. He’s too still. That particular quiet you’ve only seen once. After a bad race, helmet still in his lap, staring out at nothing, eyes unblinking. “It is my problem,” he says, voice low, tight. “We did this together.”

“We faked this together,” you correct, sharper than you meant.

“Don’t split hairs with me right now.”

You glance up. There’s a glint in his eye Not anger, exactly. Something colder. Something surgical. Protective. That night, he drafts the statement himself. It’s short. No PR filters. No fluffy team language. No committee approval.

If you think I’d fake a proposal for a passport, you don’t know me. If you think insulting someone I care about makes you a fan, you’re wrong. Leave her alone.

He posts it without warning. No team heads-up. No brand consultation.

The fallout is immediate. And loud. Some applaud him—brave, romantic, principled. Others double down, clawing at conspiracy theories like they hold inheritance rights. But the worst voices get quieter. The dead fish don’t return. You stop sleeping with your phone on airplane mode.

A few sponsors call to ‘express concern.’ He answers them all personally. Later, again in the restaurant kitchen, he leans against the counter while you wash greens, trying to act like it didn’t cost him anything to do what he did. Like it didn’t make something shift between you.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, picking at the label of a pickle jar with too much focus. “I just didn’t want our story to tank before I get my tax break.”

You don’t look at him. He shifts, awkward. Adds, “And... I guess we're friends now. Loosely.”

You pass him a colander without comment. He holds it as if it’s evidence in a case he’s trying to solve. “Still not reading into it,” you say, finally, absolving him and thanking him all at once.

“Good.”

When you turn away, he watches you a little too long. And when you laugh—just barely, just once—he lets himself smile back.

The restaurant is full, as always. Someone just ordered two servings of pissaladière and asked if the newly engaged couple is around tonight.

Your grandmother rolls her eyes and tells them, in her stern, stilted English, “Only if you behave.”

The wedding planning happens in the margins. Between races, between airports, between whatever strange reality the two of you have created and the one that exists on paper. Oscar reads menu options off his phone in airport lounges. You text him photos of flower arrangements with captions like Too romantic? and Is eucalyptus overdone?

Neither of you want something extravagant. The more believable it is, the smaller it needs to be. Just close family. A quiet ceremony. A reception in the restaurant, chairs pushed aside, candles on the table. You call it a micro-wedding. Oscar calls it a tax deduction with canapés.

Still, some things have to be done properly. Rings. A few photos. Legal documents with very real signatures. He misses most of it, but you keep him looped in with texts and the occasional FaceTime call, grainy and too short. It’s always night where one of you is.

On one of his rare trips back to Monaco, he stops by the restaurant to say hello. Your grandmother tells him through gestures that you’re at a fitting two blocks away. He finds the boutique mostly by accident. Sunlight catching on the display window, the bell chiming softly as he pushes the door open.

You’re on the pedestal, the back of the dress being pinned by a seamstress. Simple silk, off-white, the kind of dress that wouldn’t raise eyebrows in a civil hall or turn heads on a red carpet. Your hair is pinned up, loose and a little messy.

Still, he freezes.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and gasp. “Oscar!” you yelp, spinning to look at him. “It’s bad luck to see the dress!”

He blinks, caught. “It’s not a real wedding,” he huffs.

You squint at him. “Still. Don’t ruin my fake dreams.”

He steps further in, slow, like he’s not sure what rules he’s breaking. “So that’s the one?”

You shrug, turning a little in the mirror. "It’s simple. Comfortable. Feels like me."

He nods, too fast. “It’s nice. You look…”

You wait.

He swallows. “Very believable.”

“High praise.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes still on the mirror, or maybe just on you. There’s a feeling crawling up his throat, unfamiliar and slightly inconvenient. “I should go,” he says. “Let you finish.”

“You came all this way. Stay. I want your opinion on shoes.”

“Right, because I am famously qualified to judge footwear.”

And so he sits, cross-legged in a velvet chair that probably costs more than a front wing, and watches you try on shoes, one pair at a time. You argue over ivory versus cream. You make him close his eyes and guess.

He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin.

He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

The day of the wedding arrives like a postcard. Sun-drenched, breeze-cooled, the sea winking blue behind the low stone wall where the ceremony is set up. Your grandmother insists on arranging the chairs herself. Oscar offers to help and is swiftly redirected to stay out of the way.

Chez Colette is shuttered for the day, but still smells like rosemary and flour. The reception will spill into the alley behind it, where the cobblestones have been hosed down and scattered with mismatched café tables, each with a little glass jar of fresh-cut herbs.

For now, the courtyard near the water has been transformed with folding chairs, borrowed hydrangeas, and a string quartet (at Oscar’s insistence and your distaste) made up of one of your cousins and her friends from the conservatory. They play Debussy with just enough off-tempo charm to feel homemade.

Oscar stands at the front, hands shoved into his pockets, tie slightly crooked despite Lando’s earlier attempts to straighten it. His shoes pinch slightly. He’s convinced his shirt collar is a size too small. Lando is beside him, fidgeting like he’s the one about to get married.

“You good?” Lando whispers, leaning in just enough.

“No.”

“Perfect.”

Oscar smooths the paper in his pocket for the eighth—no, ninth—time. It’s creased and slightly smudged from nerves and a morning espresso. He didn’t memorize his vows. He barely even finished them. But they’re his, and he wrote them himself. With some help from Google Translate and an aggressively kind old woman on the flight to Nice.

Guests trickle in like sunlight. Your friends in summer dresses and linen suits, their laughter lilting in the sea air. His family, sunburned from the beach, trying to look formal but cheerful. Hattie gives him a thumbs-up. Edie mouths, Don’t faint. Mae just grins and adjusts the flower crown someone handed her.

Then you walk in.

And the world does that annoying thing where it goes quiet and dramatic, like a movie scene he wouldn’t believe if he were watching it himself. You wear the simple dress. Ivory, sleeveless, the hem brushing your ankles. Your hair is down this time, soft around your shoulders. You have a hand wrapped around your grandmother’s arm, and your smile is the kind that turns corners into homes.

Oscar forgets what to do with his face.

The ceremony begins. The officiant says words Oscar doesn't register. Lando keeps elbowing Oscar at appropriate times to remind him to nod, and once to stop picking at the hem of his jacket.

You go first, when the vows come. Your voice is steady, low, threaded with amusement and something else. Something real. You say his name like it matters. Like it might keep meaning more with every time you say it.

You make promises that are half-jokes, half truths. To tolerate his road rage on normal roads. To always keep a tarte tropézienne in the freezer for emergencies. To have him; sickness and health, Australian and Monégasque.

His turn.

He pulls the paper from his pocket. Unfolds it like it might disintegrate. Clears his throat. Glances at you.

“Je... je promets de te supporter,” he begins, awkwardly, his accent thick and uneven. “Même quand tu laisses la lumière de la salle de bain allumée.”

There are chuckles. His sisters blow into handkerchiefs. A pigeon flutters past like it, too, is here for the drama. He stumbles through the rest.

Promises to make you coffee badly but consistently. To bring you pastries when you're angry with him. To never again get a string quartet without written approval. He throws in a line about sharing his last fry, even if it's the crispy end piece.

Halfway through, he glances up. And sees it. The shimmer in your eyes. The not-quite-contained tears that threaten to spill. It knocks the air out of him.

By the time the officiant is saying, And now, by the power vested in me—, Oscar doesn’t wait.

He leans forward and kisses you, hands framing your face like he can catch every single tear before it falls. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not rehearsed, but it’s right. You melt forward, like the kiss was always part of the plan.

The crowd cheers. Your grandmother sniffs like she always knew it would come to this. One of your cousins whistles. Lando punches the air with both fists.

The reception begins in the cobbled alley behind Chez Colette, strung with borrowed fairy lights and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The scent of rosemary focaccia and grilled sardines fills the air, mingling with the crisp pop of celebratory champagne.

Someone’s rigged an old speaker system to loop a playlist of jazz and golden-age love songs, occasionally interrupted by the soft hiss of the espresso machine still running inside. Your grandmother commands the kitchen like a general, spooning barbajuan into chipped bowls and muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Monégasque.

The courtyard buzzes with the kind of warmth that can’t be choreographed. Oscar’s sisters are deep in conversation with your friends, comparing childhood embarrassments. Mae pulls up a photo of Oscar in a kangaroo costume at age six and your side of the table erupts in delighted horror. One of your cousins has started a limoncello drinking contest beside the dessert table.

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

The music shifts from upbeat to something softer, slower. Oscar’s mother pulls him onto the floor for their dance. He resists at first, shy in the way only sons can be, but she hushes him gently and holds him like she did when he was five and fell asleep in the backseat of the family car.

They sway to the music, and halfway through, she wipes at her eyes and whispers something that makes Oscar nod too quickly and look away, blinking hard.

Later, it’s your turn. He finds you near the edge of the alley, holding a half-eaten piece of pissaladière, watching the lights flicker across the windows and the harbor beyond. There’s flour on your wrist and a tiny smear of anchovy oil on your collarbone.

“May I?” he asks, offering his hand.

You smile, place your hand in his, and let him pull you in. The music lilts, old and romantic, like something out of your grandmother's record player. You move together in small steps, barely more than a sway, but it’s enough. “A year and a half starts now,” you murmur, eyes on his shoulder.

He hums. “We’ll manage.”

You let out a breath, equal parts hope and hesitation. “Still feels like we’re tempting fate.”

He leans closer, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe we should tempt it properly.”

You look up at him, the warning written all over your face. But he’s already grinning like he’s fifteen again, mischief blooming across his face. “You said you wanted something Monégasque,” he hums.

“Don’t you dare—”

He scoops you up before you can finish, and you yelp, arms flailing around his neck.

“Oscar Piastri, I swear—”

“Too late!”

He runs. Through the alley, past your grandmother shouting something scandalized in, past Lando who drops his glass and whoops, past chairs and flower petals and startled guests, and straight for the harbor.

The water meets you like a shock of laughter and salt, the world disappearing in a splash and a blur of white fabric and suit sleeves. When you surface, gasping, your hair clinging to your cheeks, Oscar is beside you, beaming, his jacket floating nearby like a shipwrecked flag. “Revenge,” he says, breathless, “is so damn sweet out here.”

You splash him, teeth chattering and smile unstoppable. “You are insane.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

On the dock, guests are cheering, others filming, your grandmother shaking her head with a tiny smile and muttering something about theatrical Australians. The string quartet starts playing again, undeterred. Lando appears holding two towels like a game show assistant and shouts, “You better not be honeymooning in the marina!”

Oscar swims closer, hands catching yours underwater. “You know,” he says, nose almost touching yours, “you never did say I do.”

You kiss him. Soft and sure and salt-slicked. “That count?” you murmur against his lips.

He laughs. “Yeah. That counts.”

Beneath the twinkle lights and the ripple of music, the harbor keeps your secret, just for a little while longer.

The headlines arrive before the sun does.

Oscar sees them on his phone somewhere over the Atlantic, legs stretched across the aisle, wedding band catching in the reading light. The screen glows with speculation: Secretly Expecting?, Tax Trick or True Love?, From Waitress to Wifey: The Curious Case of Monaco's Newest Bride.

He scrolls past them all, thumb steady, face unreadable. The truth was never going to be enough for people, he knew that. It didn’t matter that your grandmother cooked the wedding dinner herself or that your bouquet had been made of market stall leftovers and rosemary from the alley. It didn’t matter that Oscar’s mother cried during the ceremony or that you whispered something to him under your breath right before the kiss that made his heart knock painfully against his ribs.

None of that sells as well as scandal. In interviews, he dodges the worst of it with practiced ease. “It was a beautiful day,” he says, and “She looked stunning,” and “No, I’m not changing teams.”

Lando, naturally, finds every headline he can and reads them aloud in the paddock. “‘She’s either carrying his child or his offshore holdings,’” Lando recites dramatically, leaning back in a folding chair, grin wide.

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get invited to the harbor plunge.”

“Mate, you threw your bride into the sea.”

“She started it.”

The grid has a field day. Drivers he’s barely spoken to before raise their eyebrows and offer sly congratulations. Someone leaves a baby bottle in his locker with a bow. Social media eats it up and spits it back out, pixelated and sharp-edged.

But he tunes most of it out. Especially when it turns nasty. He has a team for that now. Official statements, social monitoring, the occasional DM deleted before he can see it. Still, he keeps an eye on the worst of it. Makes sure nothing slips through. Nothing that might reach you.

He lands in Monaco two weeks later with sleep in his eyes and a croissant in a paper bag. He stops by the restaurant like he always does and finds you at the register, wrist turned just so. The ring glints beside the band. Matching his. “You’re wearing it,” he says dazedly.

“We’re married.”

He shrugs, hiding a smile. “Feels weird.”

“That’s because it’s fake.”

“Still,” he says, tapping his own ring against the counter. “Looks good on you.”

You roll your eyes and hand him a plate. “Compliment me less. Pay for lunch more.”

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that your laugh sounds like music, that the lie is starting to feel like it’s been sandpapered into something real and delicate. Instead, he sits in the booth by the window, watching you refill the salt shakers, and thinks—the world can say what it wants.

You know the truth, and so does he.

The week of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and impossibly blue. The streets of the Principality shimmer under the sun, fences rising overnight like scaffolding for a play the city has performed a thousand times. Everything smells faintly of sea salt and fuel, and by mid-morning, the air is alive with the buzz of anticipation and finely tuned engines echoing off marble walls. But this year, the script reads a little differently.

Oscar Piastri is not just another driver on the grid.

The press reminds him of it daily, with a barrage of questions and not-so-subtle headlines. There’s always been one Monégasque darling. Now there’s the new almost-Monégasque.

A man with a newly minted Monégasque wife, a wedding video that’s gone viral twice, and a story that seems too picturesque not to speculate on. Is it for love? For tax benefits? For strategic branding? The opinions come loud and fast, and Oscar finds himself blinking under the weight of it.

He fields the questions with a practiced smile. “No, I’m not replacing Charles. No, I don’t think that’s possible. Yes, Monaco means something different to me now.”

They ask about pressure. About performance. About legacy. He says all the right things. But in the quiet of the restaurant kitchen, where you’re prepping tarragon chicken for your grandmother and your hands smell like thyme, he confesses: “I feel like I might throw up.”

You look up from your chopping board. “That’s not ideal. Especially not in my kitchen.”

He slumps into the stool near the flour bin, the one that squeaks when someone shifts too much weight on it. He rubs his temples, his posture more boy than racer. “It’s just—this place. This race. You. The whole country’s looking at me like I’m trying to steal something.”

You cross to him, wiping your hands on a faded dish towel. The kind with embroidered lemons curling at the hem. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re earning it,” you remind him. “Like you always do.”

He groans, slouching further. “You’re too good to me. I hate that.”

“You love it, actually.”

“That’s the problem.”

The morning of the race is electric. The sun spills golden light over the yachts and balconies, gilding the grandstands in a glow that feels almost unreal. The paddock is a blur of team radios and cameras, the air tight with nerves.

You find him just before the chaos begins. He’s already in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the kind of laser-sharp focus on his face that tells you he’s trying to keep the noise at bay. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just enough to give him away.

You touch his arm. “Oscar.”

He turns, eyes snapping to yours, and before he can speak, you rise on your toes and kiss him. Not a peck. Not performative. Just real. Your hands rest briefly on his waist. His helmet almost slips from his grip.

He blinks when you pull back. “What was that for?”

“Luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“No,” you say. “But I do.”

He grins then, a little sideways, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. He starts P3. Ends P1.

The crowd roars. The champagne flies. The Principality erupts in noise and color. From the podium, as gold confetti floats like sunlit snow and the Mediterranean glitters beneath the terrace, he lifts the bottle, sprays it with abandon—and then he points directly at you.

A clean, deliberate gesture.

When he finds you after the ceremonies, helmet gone, hair mussed, face flushed with sweat and triumph, he pulls you into his arms like he needs to anchor himself.

He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled but sure. “You kissed me and I won Monaco. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m never letting you go.”

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

Your honeymoon is late. A stolen few days during the season break, tucked between sponsor obligations and simulator hours. But it’s enough.

Melbourne is crisp in the winter. Sky the color of chilled steel, air sharp with wattle blossoms. Oscar meets you at the airport with a bouquet of native flowers and the look of a man trying not to sprint.

He’s a different version of himself here. Looser, unspooled. Driving on the left like it’s second nature, narrating every corner you pass with stories from childhood. “That’s where I broke my wrist trying to skateboard. That’s the bakery Mum swears by. That field used to flood every winter—perfect for pretending to be Daniel Ricciardo.”

He takes you everywhere. Fitzroy cafés for flat whites and smashed avo on toast, laughing himself breathless when you wrinkle your nose at Vegemite. St. Kilda for long walks along the pier, the scent of salt and fried food curling around you like a scarf. Luna Park for nostalgia’s sake; he wins you a soft toy at one of the booths, the thing lopsided and overstuffed. You carry it anyway.

He insists on a ride on the Ferris wheel, and you sit in the slow-spinning cage, knees bumping, breath fogging the glass. He holds your hand the entire time, thumb grazing your knuckles.

He shows you his high school, points out the old tennis courts and the library he never quite liked. You joke that he peaked too early, and he grins, nudging your shoulder. “I'm still peaking. Haven’t you heard? Married a local princess.”

You eat fish and chips out of paper by the beach, ketchup on your fingers, your laughter carrying over the dunes. You splurge on a seven-course tasting menu with matching wines the next night.

He doesn’t bat an eye at the bill, just watches you sip the dessert wine like it's the best part of the whole trip. The waiter calls you madame and monsieur, and Oscar almost chokes on his amuse-bouche trying not to laugh.

One afternoon, you stop by a museum, wandering slowly between exhibits, your steps in sync. He buys you a ridiculous magnet in the gift shop and sticks it in your handbag without telling you. “A memento,” he says later, as if the entire trip isn’t becoming one already.

On the third night, after a movie and a tram ride that rocked you gently against his side, you end up in the small rented flat he insisted on decorating with local flowers and candles from a boutique shop in South Melbourne. He lights them all before you even step through the door. There’s soft jazz playing on a speaker, and a tiny box of pastries on the kitchen counter. He remembered you liked the lemon ones best.

You turn to him, laughing. “You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”

His smile falters only a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

But that night, he kisses you like he forgot. Like the boundary lines have been redrawn in candlelight and warmth and the way your laughter fills up his chest.

Oscar, for all his planning and fake vows and clever PR angles, starts to think he doesn’t want to fake a single thing anymore. Not the way your hand fits in his. Not the way you snore just slightly when you’re too tired. Not the way you sigh his name in your sleep like it’s always been yours to say.

Six months into the marriage, Oscar finds it alarmingly easy.

There’s a rhythm now. Races and rest days, press conferences and pasta nights. He wires you money at the start of every month without being asked, a neat sum labeled restaurant support in the memo line, though he likes to pretend it’s something more casual, more romantic.

Sometimes he sends it with a picture. The menu scrawled in your grandmother’s handwriting. A photo of you wiping down the counter, hair tied up and apron on. A video where your voice is muffled under the clatter of pans. He tells himself he does it to keep the illusion going. That the marriage needs its props.

But the truth is, he just wants Chez Colette to survive. Wants your grandmother to keep slicing pissaladière with the same steady hands. Wants your laughter to keep floating through the narrow alleyway outside the kitchen window. Wants to be the reason the lights in the dining room never go out.

That part doesn’t feel fake at all.

In Singapore, the air is thick as molasses and twice as slow. Oscar starts P2. He ends up P4.

The move had been perfect. He was tailing Max, toes on the line, pressure in every nerve. Then the moment came and he hesitated. A flicker. A brake. Not even full pressure—just enough.

Max takes the win. And Oscar sits with it. Sits with the loss, the pause, the decision that shouldn’t have happened but did.

The press room is cold with fluorescent light and smugness. Oscar unzips his race suit halfway and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for the inevitable. His jaw is tight. His eyes sharper than usual. Max gets asked first. He smirks.

“I knew he’d brake. He’s got a wife now,” the Red Bull driver teases. “Has to think twice about these things.”

Laughter. Some loud. Some knowing. Some cruel. Oscar stares at the microphone in front of him like it personally offended him.

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

A beat of silence. Then chaos. Max laughs like it’s a joke. Oscar lets it sit that way. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smile.

He keeps a straight face through the rest of the conference. But there’s something restless behind his eyes, something simmering. Later, the clip goes viral. Memes. Headlines. Polls ranking it as one of the most dramatic moments of the season.

Some people say he’s being possessive. Some say it’s adorable. Others speculate wildly. Pregnancy rumors, tension in the paddock, impending divorce. A few even suggest it’s all a publicity stunt.

Oscar ignores all of it.

He scrolls through his phone in the quiet of the hotel room, looking at a photo you sent that morning. You in a sundress. The restaurant in full swing behind you. A bowl of citrus glowing in the window light. The ring on your finger catching just enough sun to drive him insane.

He should’ve won today. He should be angry at himself. At the telemetry. At the choice he made in that split second.

Instead, he’s angry at Max. At the snickering tone. At the way your name came out of someone else’s mouth like it belonged to everyone but you. Like it was part of a joke he didn’t get to write.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he replays the moment again, the way the word wife sounded when he said it. Sharp, defensive, protective. Not fake. Not rehearsed.

Oscar doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s haunted by the braking point. But because he wonders, for the first time, if he lost the race on purpose. If he braked because the idea of not seeing you again felt worse than losing. If the risk he once lived for now had consequences he isn’t willing to stomach.

He’s never been afraid of risk.

But he’s starting to learn that love, real or pretend, rewrites the whole strategy. And somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten which parts were meant to be fake.

He falls asleep as the sun comes up, the photo still glowing on his phone screen, your smile seared into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Eight months in, Oscar begins to catalogue his realizations like a man trying to make sense of a soft fall. A slow descent he never noticed until the ground felt far away.

He returns to Monaco between races. You meet him outside the market, where the fruit vendors already call him Oscarino, and where the cobblestones wear your footsteps like a second skin.

He watches you point out the small things: the fig tree tucked behind the old chapel wall, the narrow stairwell with the best view of the harbor, the café that serves coffee just a shade too bitter unless you stir it five times.

“Why five?” he asks, half-smiling.

“No idea,” you say. “It’s just what my father used to do. It stuck.”

He nods like this is sacred knowledge. Like he’s been let in on a secret the rest of the world doesn’t deserve. And there it is—realization one: Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now. It’s the way you slip through alleys with familiarity, the way you greet the florist by name, the way your laughter belongs to the air here. It clings to the limestone. It softens the sea.

You show him the bookshop that sells more postcards than novels, the stone bench under the olive tree where your grandmother once waited for a boy who never came. You walk ahead sometimes, pointing out a new pastry shop or pausing to listen to street music, and Oscar lets himself trail behind, watching you like you’re the most intricate part of the landscape.

Realization two: it takes no effort to call you his wife.

He’s stopped hesitating when people say it. Stopped correcting journalists or clarifying the situation. It spills out naturally now, that possessive softness—my wife. Sometimes he says it just to see how it feels. Sometimes he says it because it’s easier than explaining how this all started. But lately, he’s saying it because it makes him feel something solid. Something like belonging.

“This is for my wife,” he says as he buys a box of pastries for the two of you, and he realizes nobody had even asked. He just wanted to say it, wanted to call you that.

At dusk, you both sit near the dock where he proposed. You split a lemon tart, the crust crumbling between your fingers. The lights blink to life along the harbor, flickering like a breath caught in your throat.

“You’re quiet,” you say, licking powdered sugar from your thumb.

He’s quiet because he’s on realization three: he’s in love with you.

Not in the way he warned you against. Not in the doomed, reckless way he once feared. But in the steady kind. The kind that snuck in during long nights on video calls, during your terrible attempt at learning tire strategy lingo, during the sleepy murmurs of your voice when you answered his call at two in the morning just to hear about qualifying.

You nudge his knee with yours. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say you. Or everything. Or I think I’d do it all over again, even if it still ended as pretend.

Instead, he leans over and kisses you. Softly. Just for the sake of kissing you.

Oscar returns to racing with the kind of focus that borders on fear.

The panic builds up quietly, like the slow tightening of a race suit. Zip by zip, breath by breath, until his chest feels too small for his ribs. Every weekend brings new circuits, new stakes, new expectations. Somewhere beneath the roar of the engines, the hum of media questions, the blur of tarmac and hotel rooms, there is a ticking clock. A deadline for when papers have to be filed. He races away from it.

It starts simple: a missed call. Then another. A message from you—lighthearted, teasing, as always. Tell your wife if you’ve died, so she can tell the florist to cancel the sympathy lilies.

He sends a voice memo in response, tired and rushed. Laughs a little. Says he’s just busy. Promises he’ll call when he gets a moment. The moment doesn’t come.

You begin to write instead. Short texts. Then longer ones. Notes about the paperwork, your grandmother’s health, the weather in Monaco. You remind him, gently at first, that his declaration needs to be signed before the deadline. That the longer he waits, the more eyes you’ll have to avoid. You joke about bribing a notary with fougasse. He hearts the message but doesn’t reply.

And slowly, your tone shifts.

I know you’re busy, one message reads, plain and raw. But I haven’t properly heard from you in six weeks. Just say if you don’t want to do this anymore. I won’t make a scene.

He stares at it in the dark of his hotel room. He doesn’t respond that night. Or the next.

In interviews, he smiles too easily. Jokes with Lando. Brushes off questions about Monaco, about the wedding, about how it feels to be the Principality’s newest almost-citizen. He avoids looking at the ring he still wears.

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.

The Abu Dhabi heat wraps around the Yas Marina Circuit like silk clinging to skin. The sun is starting its slow descent over the water, dipping everything in that soft golden wash that photographers live for and drivers hardly notice. Oscar notices, because you’re there.

You’re standing just past the paddock entrance, sundress fluttering lightly at your knees, sunglasses perched high, arms crossed like you’re trying to look casual and failing, which is how he knows you didn’t tell him you were coming.

He stops in his tracks, sweat already drying on the back of his neck from the final practice run, and stares. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says unceremoniously.

“McLaren flew me in,” you reply with a little shrug. “Apparently, there are...rumors. Trouble in paradise.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Trouble manufactured by your absence, more like.”

You raise a brow, just enough for him to catch the sting tucked beneath the humor. “You’ve been making it hard to keep up the illusion.”

Oscar exhales, jaw tightening. He wants to say he knows, that he’s been unraveling with every missed call, every message he didn’t answer because it felt too close to the thing he couldn’t name. Instead, he just says, “I thought the distance would help.”

“It didn’t,” you say simply.

The silence between you stretches, broken only by the far-off roar of another car doing laps in the distance. One of the crew members brushes past, giving Oscar a brief nod, and then disappears into the garage. And then you add, voice softer, “It’s not like I need you to be in Monaco every weekend. But sometimes it felt like you didn’t want to be there at all.”

That lands harder than anything else. There’s tiredness under your eyes, tension in the way you hold your hands together. But you’re here. You flew thousands of miles for a pretend marriage that doesn’t feel so pretend anymore. That has to mean something.

Because of that, Oscar thinks the race is going to be a mess. He thinks he’s going to falter, distracted by the pressure to make the act believable, especially now with you in the crowd and the cameras already tracking every flicker of expression. He thinks he’s going to crash.

He doesn’t.

From the moment the lights go out, he’s more focused than he’s been all season. Every corner feels crisp. Every overtake, calculated. His hands are steady, his breathing even. He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

P1.

He finishes second overall in the standings. But in this moment, it feels like first in everything.

The pit explodes around him. Cheers, backslaps, mechanics tossing gloves in the air. Oscar climbs out of the car, champagne already being popped somewhere, the air sticky and electric. Helmet off, hair damp, grin tights.

He scans the crowd like he always does after a win, but this time he’s looking for someone. You’re pushing through the throng, one of the PR girls parting the sea for you with a practiced flick of her clipboard. You stumble once in your sandals, catch yourself with a laugh, and keep going. He doesn’t even wait. He surges forward, meets you halfway.

Oscar cups your face and kisses you, champagne and sweat and adrenaline on his lips. The cameras go wild. The crowd screams. Somewhere, someone yells his name like they know him. He doesn’t care.

He kisses you like he forgot how much he missed it, how much he missed you, how long it's been since something felt this real. The kiss isn’t perfect—your nose bumps his cheek, his thumb smears makeup from beneath your eye—but it doesn’t matter.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and breathless against your ear. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Apparently, I did,” you grumble, already failing to sound irked. “You keep getting lost without me.”

He laughs, something quiet and incredulous. Then, he holds you tighter and buries his face in your neck for one private second before the next cameras flash.

Monaco in the off-season is softer, like the city exhales after the last race and slips into something comfortable. The streets smell of sea salt and early-morning bread. The market thins out, the water calms, and Oscar returns.

He doesn’t text that he’s coming. He just shows up at Chez Colette on a Tuesday morning, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to apologize just by existing.

Your grandmother spots him first. “Tu as pris ton temps,” she grouses, and swats his arm with a dishtowel. “Si tu la fais attendre plus longtemps, je te servirai ta colonne vertébrale sur un plateau.”

Oscar grins, sheepish, and mumbles, “Yes, Madame.” He finds you in the back kitchen, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes like it’s a form of therapy. You don’t look up at first, but you know it’s him. You always know.

“You’re late,” you say noncommittally.

“I brought flowers,” he says, setting them down between the pepper and the oregano. “And an apology. And—a real estate agent.”

That catches your attention. “What?”

“You said the building has plumbing issues. And your grandmother keeps threatening to fall down the stairs,” he says meekly. “I figured we could find something close. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by wishful thinking and rust.”

Your lips part. “Oscar—”

“We don’t have to move,” he adds quickly. “But I want you to have the option. I—I want to help. Not because of the contract. Because I care for you and the restaurant and your grandmother who wants to serve my spine on a platter for being a terrible husband.”

The silence that follows is thick but not heavy. He reaches out, gently prying the peeler from your hand, and brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “You taught me how to love this city,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

You kiss him before you can think about it. Softly. Slowly. Like you’re reminding yourself what it feels like.

The days that follow move in a familiar rhythm. Oscar doesn’t race. He wakes with you and helps with deliveries. He lets your grandmother teach him how to deglaze a pan, how to make stock from scratch, how to use leftover vegetables for the next day’s soup. He burns the onions twice, gets flour on the ceiling once, and swears he’s getting better. He insists on learning to make pissaladière from scratch and ruins three baking trays in the process. The kitchen smells of olives and chaos.

You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market.

He holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. And sometimes, when no one’s around at all, he still kisses you like someone might see.

You try not to talk about the timeline. About the looming expiration date. About the day one of you will have to be the first to say it out loud. Instead, you let him tuck your hair behind your ear. You let him draw a smiley face in the steam of your mirror after a shower. You let him fold your laundry even though he does it wrong. You let him dance with you in the living room while something slow and old plays on the radio.

And when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter one evening, his mouth warm against yours, you don’t stop him.

The winter chill makes the cobblestones glisten; Monaco is always sort of a dream after midnight, all soft amber streetlights and the hush of waves echoing off stone. Your laughter fills the alleyways like a song no one else knows. Oscar is drunk. Absolutely, definitely drunk. And you are, too.

You’re both wrapped up in scarves and half-finished wine, weaving through the old town with flushed cheeks and noses red from the cold. Oscar’s coat is too big on you, or maybe you’re just small inside it, and every few steps you bump into his side like a boat tethered too close.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” you ask, tripping a little over a curb. You clutch his arm.

“Nope,” he chirps, tightening his grip around your shoulders. “But we’re not lost. We’re exploring.”

You grin up at him, and it hits him again—how stupidly beautiful you are. Not in the red carpet, glossy magazine kind of way. In the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and how you say his name like it means something. He’s pretty sure his heart’s been doing backflips since the second glass of wine.

You stop by a low stone wall that overlooks the port. The moon sits fat and silver on the horizon, and Oscar feels like the entire world has tilted slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something?” he says, leaning his elbows on the wall beside you.

You nod. Your breath comes in puffs of white.

“What do you know about love?”

“Hm,” you murmur, intoxicated and contemplating. “I know it is tricky. I know it doesn’t always feel like butterflies. Sometimes it’s just... showing up. Letting someone in. Letting them ruin your favorite mug and not holding it against them.”

He huffs a laugh. “That happened to you?”

“Twice,” you say. “Same mug. Different people.”

“Did you love them?”

You pause. “I think I loved the idea of them. The idea of being seen.”

Oscar looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why he cares so much about your answer. Maybe because he’s been feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something enormous. Something irreversible.

“What about you?” you ask, nudging him. “Any great romances, my dearest husband?”

“Not really,” he admits. “There were people. Nothing that lasted. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Because of racing?”

“Because of everything,” he says. “Because I’m good at pretending. And it felt easier than trying.”

You nod slowly, then rest your head against his shoulder. It’s not flirtation. It’s not even comfort. It’s something else. Something steadier. Oscar swallows. His thoughts are a mess of wine and wonder. You, against his side. You, in his jacket. You, not asking him for anything except honesty.

This is love, he thinks.

Not the crash of the waves, not the fireworks. This. He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair.

You sigh, content. “You always say that like you’re not coming with me.”

And he smiles, because he is. Of course he is.

Morning comes, spilling into the bedroom like honey, slow and golden. Monaco hums faintly beyond Oscar wakes to the warmth of your body, the tangle of your leg thrown over his, your hair a soft mess against his chest. He doesn’t move.

There’s a stillness in the morning that doesn’t come often, not with his schedule, not with the pace of the season. But here, now, he lets it hold. This was the second rule you two had broken—realizing that a warm body was something you could both use, even if it wasn’t for the sake of making love. Just to have something to hold.

He remembers the wine from last night, the stumbling laughter, your hand in his as you leaned into his side. This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

His hand drifts along your spine, drawing lazy patterns only he can see. You shift slightly, nuzzling into him, the smallest sigh escaping your lips. You once said you liked how he spooned. It had been early on, somewhere between forced breakfasts and joint bank statements. It had made him feel stupidly triumphant.

He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave this bed. He wants to memorize the weight of you against him, the sound of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch in your sleep. But then his phone buzzes. The alarm is gentle, insistent. He reaches for it without moving too much, careful not to jostle you.

A calendar reminder glows on the screen.

ANNIVERSARY IN 1 WEEK. START CITIZENSHIP DECLARATION.

Oscar stares at it. The words feel like they belong to someone else. A script he memorized, not a life he lives. He dismisses it. Hits snooze like he’s defusing a bomb.

You stir, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he lies, tucking the phone under his pillow.

You hum, unconvinced but too tired to push. He shifts, pulling you closer, curling his arm under your neck, bringing you closer the way you like. Your back fits into his chest like a missing piece. You sigh, warm and content. Within moments, you’re asleep again.

Oscar stays awake. He counts your breaths, anchors himself to the rise and fall of your shoulders. The bed is quiet, your dreams peaceful, but something aches behind his ribs.

One more week. He holds you tighter.

Just a little longer.

Oscar doesn’t mean to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, but the words are sitting like a stone in his chest. They jostle every time you laugh, every time you brush your fingers against his arm, every time you ask if he wants a sip of your drink, already holding the straw out for him.

You’re barefoot, perched on the ledge of the terrace, hair loose. There’s leftover risotto on the table between you and the scent of oranges from the orchard down the street. It should be enough. He should leave it alone. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because a contract is a contract and he refuses to shackle you more than he already has.

“What do you want to do for our anniversary?” he asks, voice low.

You go still. It’s not immediate, but he sees it. The flicker behind your eyes, the pause too long before you smile.

“We could do something small,” you say eventually, your voice gentler than before. “Dinner. Maybe at that place with the sea bass. You liked that one.”

He nods, forcing a smile. “I did.”

You twist the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “And after that,” you say, “you can submit your declaration.”

There it is.

You say it like you’re reading from a recipe card. Like you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. Like you’re trying very hard to pretend your chest doesn’t hurt. Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t trust himself to. You sip your wine, and he watches the way your hand trembles just slightly, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Like you’re preparing.

“Okay,” he says, plain and simple.

You smile. You always do.

When he gets up to leave for the gym, you walk him to the door. It’s quiet. You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, and he turns just enough to catch your lips instead. It happens without thought. Without ceremony. The way it always has.

He pulls back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

But even as you say it, he can feel it. The detachment. The quiet retreat. You’re drawing the curtain in your head, beginning the soft choreography of letting go. Because this is how the plot was written. Because this is how it will go. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer.

He walks out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like the slow fade-out of a film. One where the hero doesn’t get the timing right. One where love comes too late.

On the day of your wedding anniversary, Oscar wakes up early.

Monaco hums quietly beyond the window, still in the lull between morning coffee and the world waking up. He turns onto his side and watches you sleep, for a moment pretending today is just another morning. He tries not to think of it as a Last Good Day.

Still, he makes sure everything is perfect.

He picks out the white dress shirt you said made him look like someone in an Italian film. He even tries to iron it for once. He buys your favorite flowers and then arranges them in the living room vase. He lets you sleep in and makes coffee the way you like it, with a dash of cinnamon. The two of you eat breakfast on the tiny balcony, knees knocking gently beneath the table.

When you smile at him over the rim of your cup, he kisses you. Long, sweet, steady. Like he means it. Because he does.

He books a quiet table at the small bistro tucked into one of the back streets of the city, a place you once said reminded you of Paris. You laugh too loudly over wine, your hand finding his easily over the tablecloth. For a few hours, you let yourselves be the kind of couple you’ve always pretended to be.

Then, slowly, the shadows lengthen.

“Ready to go?” you ask, voice soft as the sun begins to set.

He swallows. “Not really.”

Still, you walk hand in hand down the cobbled streets. The mairie—the city hall—waits like an afterthought, a quiet door at the end of a narrow alley. Oscar detours.

“Gelato?” he offers.

You smile sadly. You know what he’s trying to do. “Before filing paperwork?”

“It’s tradition,” he lies. “One year deserves dessert.”

You let him. You always let him. You get gelato; he tastes one too many samples. He pretends to get lost as you walk through the market, even though Monaco is probably the easiest map to remember in the world. He takes you to the docks, just for a minute, just to watch the boats rock gently in the water. You lean into him, silent, warm, your head tucked beneath his chin. He feels you there, but something else, too. The soft press of reality.

“We should go,” you whisper eventually.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

“Five more minutes,” he says. “Please.”

You let him delay. And delay. And delay.

The moment you file the paperwork, the clock starts ticking in a new way. You’re both aware the curtain is about to fall, but no one wants to call out the final act. So you stay there, together. Not speaking. Just watching the harbor. Pretending it’s still the first day, and not the last good one.

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

You walk into the government building side by side. Oscar’s hand grazes the small of your back as the two of you wait at the numbered queue, the soft whir of the ticket printer, the low hum of bureaucratic silence filling the air.

He signs the papers for the Ordinary Residence Permit with an orange pen you handed him from your bag. You’ve always kept pens on you. He knows that now, like the many other things he’s come to know and love about you. You watch him scrawl his name, carefully, and when he finishes, he exhales through his nose like it took something out of him.

The official behind the desk looks at the documents, stamps them, hands them back with a nod. Oscar is granted residency. Carte Privilège and citizenship are now visible, shimmering just over the next hill.

Neither of you speaks of endings. Not yet.

You agree to drag it out a little more. Not for legal protection now, not even for optics, really. Just to ease the world into the conclusion. He wires you ten percent of every monthly deposit still, but it’s no longer transactional. It’s a quiet act of love, of investment. A stake in something that outlasted the farce.

Two years instead of one and a half. Long enough for the lines to blur beyond recognition.

He’s there when your grandmother needs surgery. You’re there when he misses the podium in Spa and sits, soaked in rain, on the garage floor.

The divorce happens on a random off-season day. A Tuesday, maybe. The restaurant is closed. Oscar wears a hoodie and sunglasses like he’s hiding, but the clerk doesn’t even look up to recognize him.

The two of you sign quietly. No rings on your fingers anymore, but his tan line still shows.

“Take care,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.

He nods. “You, too,” he says, and he means it as much as he knows that he’ll never love anybody else.

The story ends, quiet as it began—

Monaco is a small place. The kind of small that lives in the bones, that lingers in the echo of footsteps down alleys, that smells like salt and baked peaches even in February. Oscar thinks, at first, that he might be able to avoid you. He’s wrong.

He runs into your grandmother before he sees you. She catches his wrist in the produce aisle of the market and drags him toward the tomatoes.

“Ce sont mauvais,” she says, inspecting them with a frown. "Viens avec moi."

Oscar doesn’t protest. He never does with her. Her hand is still strong, her voice still unimpressed by celebrity. She mutters in French about overpriced zucchini and tourists ruining the flow of the Saturday market. He follows her like he used to, like he always will. She doesn’t ask about the divorce, and Oscar is half-tempted to grill her about how you might’ve justified it. In the end, he decides it won’t do him any good.

She feeds him a small pastry over the counter at Chez Colette, dabs powdered sugar off his chin, and says nothing when he glances over at the kitchen, where you aren’t. But you’re there later, arms flour-dusted, laughing with a vendor, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in your hair. And when your eyes meet, the silence isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Familiar. Something like home.

You greet him with the same smile you used to wear when you were both still pretending. “Back already?” you ask, brushing your hands on your apron.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he says. It’s mostly true. Okay, no: it’s entirely true.

In the aftermath, the press circles like gulls. Questions echo at paddocks and press conferences, in magazines and murmurs: Why did the marriage end? Was it all just for the passport? Was there heartbreak? Had there ever been love?

Oscar gives clipped answers. “We’re still friends. It ended amicably. I’ll always care about her.”

He says them all with the same practiced ease he once used on the track. But none of them touch the truth: that sometimes, in the quiet of his apartment, he still thinks of you when he hears the clink of wine glasses. That he misses the sound of your laugh bouncing off tile. That he still folds his laundry the way you taught him. That he sometimes forgets and checks his phone for your texts before remembering you no longer owe him any.

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

Friendship is easier than silence. You both settle into it like a well-worn coat. You pass each other notes on delivery slips, meet for drinks that stretch into hours, walk the promenade without ever having to explain why. You send him soup when he’s sick during the off-season. He fixes the restaurant’s leaky sink without being asked. You tell him about your new dates, gently, and he listens too closely, nodding like he’s not tallying every man who isn’t him.

He learns to exist in proximity to the past. Learns to let his gaze linger on your cheekbones without reaching out. Learns that the ache isn’t something that ever really goes away. He sees you in the blur of every streetlight, in the smell of garlic on his hands, in the soft echo of French murmured over dinner.

The years go on. Races come and go. The restaurant thrives. He doesn’t kiss you again, but he lets you lean your head on his shoulder on cold nights, and you let him hold your hand under the table at weddings. At your grandmother’s birthday, he still helps serve the cake.

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

And Monaco stays small. Always small. Just enough room for memories, for weekend markets, for a kind of love that doesn’t ask for more—but still dares, in the quietest way, to linger.

Three years after the divorce, Oscar renews his Ordinary Residence Permit. It feels less momentous than it should. There are no trumpets, no ceremony. Just a polite government clerk stamping a paper, and a weight Oscar didn’t know he was carrying suddenly easing.

You come over that evening. He insists on cooking.

You arch a brow, leaning against the doorway to his small kitchen. “If you burn the garlic again, I'm calling your mum.”

“She’s the one who taught me this, actually,” he replies, a little too proudly.

The meal is simple: pasta with olive oil, lemon, and garlic, tossed with cherry tomatoes and a flurry of parsley. You watch him plate it with a kind of reverent amusement, your wine glass in hand. He lights a scented candle. It’s too much and too little all at once.

You take a bite of his labor of love. “You’ve improved.”

“No burns this time.”

“Progress.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, the sort of silence that only exists between people who have known one another across the worst and best of themselves. Then, without looking at you, Oscar asks: “Why are you still single?”

The question isn't accusatory. It's soft, tentative, like he's peeling back a layer he doesn't have the right to touch. You don’t answer right away. He glances up.

You're still. Your fork rests against the rim of your plate. You have one or two silver hairs now, and laugh lines from the years. Oscar likes to think one or two of them might be from him. You smile, slow and crooked. Your voice is impossibly sad without taking away from the amusement of your words.

“To be married once is probably enough for me.”

It lands somewhere between a joke and a wound. Oscar nods, because what else can he do?

The pasta is a little too al dente. The wine is already warm. The truth lingers in the corners of the room, unspoken but present. You both sip, chew, avoid. Later, he sees you to the door. You press a kiss to his cheek, brief, like a punctuation mark. “Happy anniversary,” you half-joke.

He leans against the doorframe after you’ve gone, watching the hallway where your footsteps fade.

One full year later, Oscar invites you out again.

Except he doesn’t take you to a restaurant, doesn’t cook some pasta dish for you. Not really. He asks you to walk instead, your hand in his like old times. You go without question, winding through the tight alleys and open plazas until you reach the harbor.

It’s dusk. The dock stretches long and narrow, lined with the boats of old money and new dreams. The sea breathes soft against the pilings. The air is salted and damp, heavy with the scent of brine and engine oil. Lights flicker to life over the water—dancing like stars, like possibility.

He slows as you reach the edge of the dock. The sky is dipped in indigo, the sun a smear of molten orange far behind the hills. You shiver slightly, just enough for him to offer his jacket, which you take with a smile that softens something in his chest.

And that’s where he kneels.

Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, because you’re looking at him like he’s insane. He deserves that, he figures.

His French fails him in the worst way. All the rehearsed lines dissolve on his tongue. He switches to English, because he’s desperate, because he needs you to know.

“We married for taxes once,” he says. “What do you say about marrying for love?”

He opens the box.

You gasp.

It’s not new. Not a cut-glass showpiece or anything plucked from a catalogue. It’s old. Your birthright. An heirloom. A week ago, Oscar sat across from your grandmother armed with months of practiced French. He told her the whole story, spoke of his devotion, and came out of the conversation with this blessing.

There is so much he wants to say.

How he wishes he could have fallen in love with you in a normal way; how he still probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

How he agrees to be married once is enough, which means he wants to marry you over and over again. In Monaco, in Melbourne, in whichever corner of the world you’ll have him.

Before he can start, you’re sinking down to your knees, too. The dock creaks beneath you both.

You kiss him all over the face—temples, nose, cheeks, lips—laughing and crying all at once. “You idiot,” you whisper. “You stupid, beautiful idiot.”

He pockets the box, and, hands shaking, reaches for your waist, your shoulders, your hair. He laughs into your shoulder. “Is that a yes?” he breathes, but you’re too busy sobbing to get any words out.

That’s okay, Oscar thinks to himself as he pulls you as close as he can.

He can wait. ⛐

#finally got around to reading this (apologies)#and boy was I not disappointed!!!#needing him so desperately #oscar piastri #my humble king #op81 #ames’ fic recs ! ✧

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amyelevenn · 12 days ago

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it looks like a school trip 😭

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amyelevenn · 12 days ago

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#he is so pookie #mv33

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amyelevenn · 13 days ago

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sobbing

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amyelevenn · 15 days ago

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Fighter Isack truly is everything to me… I would sell my soul for him

a thousand cuts ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

“you said fighting is all you are good at,” you say, voice cracking with each word. “but you are wrong, isack hadjar. i think you are very good at loving me, no?”

ꔮ starring: underground fighter!isack x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 7.5k. ꔮ includes: angst, romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-f1; descriptions of a fight, blood, injuries. isack is a loverboy, established relationship e.g. childhood best friends -> lovers, google translated french. title is from taylor swift’s death by a thousand cuts. this happens directly after afterglow, but you don’t have to read that to understand this! ꔮ commentary box: i swear i’m going on my little writer’s break,, right after this (lol). this one goes out to @amyelevenn, who inspired me to finish this second part! 🤍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The gym is colder than usual.

Isack wraps his hands in silence. The tape stretches tight across his knuckles, over skin that’s more scar than flesh. His fingers tremble slightly. Not from fear, but from wear.

He doesn’t look up when Christian mutters something about the odds, about the crowd, about how the other guy hasn’t lost in six fights. How they’re expecting a show. How the purse will be heavier if it lasts more than three rounds.

None of it matters. Not really.

Isack’s knuckles are already aching from the last round. Skin split where it hasn’t healed. Bruises stacked on bruises, like someone painted him in layers of violence. He flexes his fingers, breathes slow.

In. Out.

He pictures the locket. Gold, delicate, shaped like a heart. The glint of it against your collarbone. The way you smiled that day in the market, soft and shy like maybe you could already imagine it on you. He remembers thinking, in that moment, that he’d give up a lung just to keep that look on your face.

Three days. Your birthday is in three days.

Isack just needs this one match. One last time. One more set of punches to buy the memory of cake and candlelight and your arms around him, warm and proud and safe.

“You good?” Christian asks from the corner, towel slung over his shoulder.

Isack nods once. Tight. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t feel good. He feels like a lie wearing gloves. Like a man walking to the edge of a cliff with his eyes open. Isack exhales, rolls his shoulders, slaps his face lightly twice. Starts toward the ropes.

And then—

He sees you.

You’re standing at the edge of the crowd, near the entrance, framed by peeling walls and harsh lighting. You look like someone who’s taken a wrong turn and ended up in a nightmare.

You don’t belong here. Not with your cardigan sleeves pulled past your palms. Not with your wide eyes and trembling mouth. Not in this world of blood and teeth and bets scribbled on paper napkins. Not with people yelling odds and someone already drunk in the corner.

Isack freezes mid-step. Your eyes find his instantly. There’s a beat of stillness. The noise dulls.

He watches your face crumple, slowly, like paper in a fist. And God, he wishes the ground would open beneath him. He wishes he could undo the morning, the call, the hoodie tugged over his sore body. The lie he left you on a Post-It, the one claiming he had errands to run. .

“Amour,” he breathes, stepping down off the mat. He’s across the room before he even realizes he’s moving, fists still wrapped, gloves half-dangling. It’s like instinct, like his body knows it’s you before his brain does.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Your silence says enough; your eyes do the rest.

He reaches for you. Stops short. Drops his hands. They’re weapons he’s too ashamed to hold. “Chérie,” he mumbles, flinching around the pet name. It’s not something he feels like he can say. Not now. Not here. “What are you doing here?”

Your expression flickers like you’ve been slapped. Last night, he had held you, had said no more fights for your birthday. Had sealed it with a kiss to your forehead.

“You promised,” you whisper, and Isack’s heart kicks against his ribs.

“I know. I know I did,” he says despairingly, “but—”

“You looked me in the eye, Isack. You held me. You said no more.”

He can’t look at you for too long. It burns, the same way being called Isack feels like being lit up and not in a good way. Shame sinks hot into his chest.

He sees your face in the mirror again, that night in the bathroom. Hears the way your voice cracked when you said you didn’t want anything but him. Isack’s voice breaks when he tries again. “I thought I could keep it from you. Just one more. For you.”

“You think I want this? You think I want you bleeding for me?”

Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise like a blade. Around you, the crowd shifts. Christian looks away. Isack’s opponent pretends to be busy with his taped. No one wants to watch this part—the part where a heart breaks without blood.

Isack shakes his head. “I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t give you nice things without this,” he says. “I can’t give you anything without this.”

You blink hard, once, and it’s like something inside you cracks wide open. “You could’ve just come home.”

He steps closer. His voice is a prayer now. “Please. Just wait for me after. We can talk. Je vais réparer ça. I swear.”

You stare at him for a long, breathless moment. Isack turns back to the ring. A part of him hopes that you’ll turn around, that you’ll walk away from it all and wait for him at home. Another part of him knows that’s not about to happen.

He climbs between the ropes. The bell rings. You’re still standing where he left you, and it’s his worst nightmare come to life.

Isack doesn’t move right away. He stands still for half a breath, staring across the ring where Pierre Gasly waits—stone-faced, shoulders taut, already bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. They’ve known each other too long for this to feel like anything but personal.

Once, they trained under the same roof. Shared bruises, shared meals, shared silence after losses that hurt too much to name. There was a time Pierre had watched Isack ice a broken wrist in the dark, and Isack had patched a gash above Pierre’s eye with shaking hands and duct tape.

Now they’re opponents. Chosen not by rivalry but by circumstance, by desperation.

Pierre gives a short nod. Not a greeting. An apology. But there’s no softening in the way he steps forward. No pull of the punch. This is the deal they made when they entered this world.

No mercy. Not here.

Isack exhales through his nose. His body starts moving before the next breath. He shifts left, keeps his guard high, leads with a jab. Pierre blocks, counters. A low hook, almost too fast to see. They fall into rhythm like a memory: jab, dodge, step back, strike. They know each other’s timing like old dance partners, every hit echoing with familiarity and fatigue.

The crowd presses closer to the ring, shouting and hungry for blood. Beneath the roar, Isack hears the wet thud of fists on flesh, the grunts, the shuffle of feet. His ribs still ache from the last match. He feels the bruises bloom deeper with every strike.

Pierre’s knuckles land against his jaw, his side, his shoulder. He returns the favor with punishing jabs to Pierre’s midsection. A clean shot to the temple. Pierre hisses through the haze, his left eye beginning to swell.

Isack sees you in pieces, between dodges, in the periphery. You’re standing just beyond the ropes, by the far post. Your eyes are wide, mouth parted like you forgot how to breathe. There’s something trembling in your hands. Maybe it’s your fists. Maybe it’s your heart.

You shouldn’t have come.

Isack falters, just for a beat. Pierre doesn’t miss it. He ands a blow to the ribs that knocks the wind from his lungs. Isack reels, coughs, steadies himself. Shakes it off.

He tells himself to focus. Focus on the fight. Focus on what’s at stake. The locket. The cake. Your smile, if—when he gives it to you. If he can just win—this one match, this one night—

He drives forward with renewed force. His fists are a blur, punch after punch. One. Two. Three. Pierre stumbles back. The crowd erupts in a wave of noise. Christian is yelling something, voice hoarse with urgency, but Isack doesn’t catch it. He’s locked in, tunnel vision.

Until he looks at you.

Just for a second.

Your eyes meet. And time fractures.

You look so hurt. Not angry. Hurt.

And that’s all it takes.

Pierre sees the shift. The opening. He lunges.

A low sweep. Isack’s leg buckles. His body crashes to the mat, the breath knocked clean from his lungs. Pain blooms up his spine. Before he can roll away, Pierre is on him, all weight and muscle, pinning him to the floor.

His arm snakes around Isack’s throat. Tight. Controlled. There’s no malice in it—just necessity. “Sorry,” Pierre murmurs against his ear. Quiet, genuine. A friend knowing what is at stake; a fighter who can do only that. Fight.

The final hit is swift and precise.

Isack’s head drops to the mat. His vision swims. He thinks he sees you running, but not towards him. Leaving. Out of here. Away.

His fingers twitch as if he’s trying to reach out. But then the dark claims him, and all of it fades.

The morning light is too bright.

It slices through the blinds like a blade, sharp and merciless, stinging Isack’s eyes before he even manages to open them fully. It aches everywhere. Deep in his ribs, dull behind his eyes, coiled around his spine like regret. He blinks up at the unfamiliar ceiling, cotton-mouthed and heavy-limbed, the taste of blood still clinging to the back of his throat.

“Look who’s alive.”

Ollie’s voice comes from nearby, warm with mockery but laced with relief. He’s perched backwards on a kitchen chair, elbows draped over the backrest, holding a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. His wild curls are tied up haphazardly, and he’s got the look of someone who didn’t sleep much but still chose to stay.

Across the room, Kimi leans against the window frame, arms crossed, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Kimi doesn’t even smoke. He’s just the youngest among all the other fighters, which means he’s always desperate to prove he’s worth his salt.

“Thought we might’ve lost you for a minute there,” Kimi deadpans.

Isack groans, trying to shift upright, but the fire in his side stops him halfway. “Putain.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Kimi mutters, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. He picks up a glass of water from the nightstand and hands it over. “You’ve got bruises layered like sediment. Pretty sure one of your ribs is cracked. Might be two.”

Isack takes the water with a mumbled thanks, sipping slowly. It tastes like metal and pain. Every breath feels earned. The room is quiet except for the sound of Ollie chewing and the faint creak of old floorboards.

“Gasly didn’t hold back,” Ollie says after a moment, voice softer now. “Didn’t think he would, but still… je suis désolé pour ça. Real close, man.”

Isack tilts his head back against the pillow and closes his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. ‘Close’ doesn’t pay rent.”

Kimi exhales sharply, lips twitching like he wants to argue but won’t. “Depends what you were really fighting for,” he says with faux sageness.

What Isack was really fighting for. Rent, sure. That’s where most of the cut went. But your birthday, too, and you—

Isack jerks upright. Pain splinters through his ribs, but he’s already halfway to sitting. “Merde!”

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Ollie’s on his feet in an instant, breakfast abandoned. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I have to get back,” Isack gasps, clutching his side. “I just… left. She saw the fight. I didn’t say anything. I—I have to explain. I can’t just—”

“You can barely stand,” Kimi interjects. “You really think she wants to see you like this?”

“I don’t care,” Isack snaps. His voice is frayed at the edges. “I need to go.”

Ollie swears under his breath and snatches Isack’s jacket from the back of a couch chair. “Fine. But at least wear this before you pass out again. And don’t even think about running.”

Isack struggles into the jacket, every movement stilted and painful. His hands shake as he fumbles with the zipper, and he winces as it brushes the bruises blooming across his chest.

“You think she’ll forgive you?” Kimi asks, quieter this time. He’s watching Isack closely now, no judgment in his voice—just honest curiosity. Maybe even concern.

It’s an open secret. You’re Isack Hadjar’s sweetheart, his darling. Every fight is for you, one way or another. “I don’t know,” Isack murmurs. “But I have to try.”

There’s a rustle of movement. Ollie steps forward and presses a few folded bills into Isack’s palm. It’s heavy, heavier than the payout that Christian would give for a loss. “For the gift,” says Ollie, because they all knew why Isack was desperate to get back into the ring. “Go, before you convince yourself to stay.”

Isack’s heart swells. “I’ll pay you back,” he croaks.

“You won’t,” Ollie says simply. “But get out of here anyway.”

Kimi tosses his unlit cigarette out the window. He advises, “Don’t screw it up worse.”

A faint, crooked smile tugs at Isack’s lips. “No promises.”

And then he’s moving—limping, really—each step a vivid reminder of last night. Of failure. Of the weight he still carries. The hallway feels endless, the stairs even more so, but his mind is already blocks ahead, racing back toward you.

All he wants now is to make it home to you, even if he doesn’t deserve to.

The key sticks when Isack tries to turn it.

For one heart-stopping second, he thinks maybe you’ve changed the locks. Maybe this time, you’ve really gone. But then the door gives way with a click, swinging open to reveal the same apartment he left what feels like a lifetime ago.

Except there’s something off. The quiet is louder. The stillness, tense. It smells like vanilla and stale air, and there’s no trace of warmth. Isack’s vision is swimming, so he nearly misses you.

You, already by the door, shoes on, keys clutched in your hand. Bag slung over your shoulder.

Isack freezes in the doorway. Suddenly, he feels like he’s intruding in his own home. You blink at him, stunned. Then your eyes well up so fast it steals the breath from his lungs.

“I—I was going to look for you,” you whimper, your voice is already breaking. “You didn’t come home. I didn’t know if you were—”

You can’t finish. Your throat closes around the words. You shake your head as tears spill freely down your cheeks, and Isack takes a step forward, reaching for you.

But you flinch back.

That hurts more than the bruises. More than Pierre’s fist to his jaw. More than waking up somewhere he shouldn’t be. “Please,” Isack says hoarsely. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t look at me like I’m someone you don’t recognize, amour.”

You’re already moving. Toward the bedroom. Toward the closet. Isack follows you helplessly. Your duffel bag hits the bed with a soft thud. You open drawers with shaking hands, stuffing clothes in without folding. You won’t look at him.

“Please,” he tries again. “Let me explain. Just talk to me. Please.”

You don’t speak. Don’t pause. The sound of hangers clattering is louder than his heartbeat. You move like you're running out of time, like if you stop, even for a second, you’ll break entirely.

“I did it for you,” he says, desperate now. “For your birthday. I wanted—”

“You lied.”

The words slice through the air, quiet and final. No raised voice. No yelling. Just something cold and irrevocable. You still don’t face him. You keep packing, sniffling, swiping tears from your face with the back of your hand, your breath catching every few seconds like it hurts to even exist in this moment.

“I know,” Isack breathes. He takes another step toward you, wincing. “I know I messed up. I know what I promised. But I thought—I thought if I could just get through it, if I could give you something beautiful, then maybe it would make up for—”

“Being unconscious on a concrete floor?” you shoot back, finally whirling around. Your voice cracks like thunder. “Do you even know what it felt like to watch that? To see you bleeding and limp and—”

You choke on the memory. Your hands tremble at your sides. Isack moves closer on instinct, but you hold a hand up, stopping him in his tracks. “I thought you were dead,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, guilt clogging his throat like smoke. “I’m not. I’m here. I came back.”

You let out a broken laugh. “You came back after disappearing all night, after lying to me, after breaking the only promise I asked you to keep.”

You zip the duffel. He watches your hand shake on the pull. Watches your shoulders hunch like the weight of this love has become too much to bear. “I’m still me,” he says quietly. “Still yours. If you’ll let me be.”

He’s a mess. Bruised, battered, eyes bloodshot and pleading. He’s never looked smaller. Never more afraid. He’s holding onto hope like it’s a thread about to snap. “Tell me what to do,” he pleads, “Just tell me. I’ll do it.”

You press your lips together, the duffel still hanging heavy from your shoulder. For a moment, your gaze flickers to the window. The streetlight catches in your lashes, makes your tears shimmer.

“Quit,” you say.

The word is quiet. Still. But it cracks like lightning.

“Quit like you said you would,” you repeat. “We will make do with what we have.”

Isack closes his eyes. The fire behind his ribs burns worse than any bruise. The silence after your words feels like a verdict. He drags his calloused hands down his face. “It’s not that easy.”

“It should be.”

His breath catches. “You don’t understand. That fight money… I could buy you something nice. Pay rent for two months. I could make sure you wake up to something good. Something new. Not just me.”

“I don’t want new,” you say fiercely, all fire and sinew despite the tremble in your voice and the tears in your eyes. “I want you.”

He shakes his head. “You want me, but you don’t want the part of me that gets us fed. That keeps us warm,” he says, trying to keep the accusation out of his tone. He fails. You hold him accountable.

“No,” you say. “I don’t want the part of you that dies a little more each time you climb into that ring.”

“Are you really going to make me choose?”

You look at him long and hard. And then you say, softly, simply, “It should not be a choice at all. And yet…”

And yet.

He looks at you like he’s dying inside.

It shouldn’t be a choice. He loves you better than anything in the world, and all he wants is to put a ring on your finger and a baby in your belly and live in happiness forever. He knows it’s how it’s supposed to be.

But something’s holding him back. Something’s refusing to let him walk away from the fights. Something’s forcing him to stay.

“It’s one of the only things I’m good at, amour,” he whispers, his voice desperate. He’s pleading with you now, the words coming from some deep, dark place in him that he’s never bothered to look at.

He knows it’s not a fair justification. He knows that it’s a piss-poor reason to keep fighting when there’s a pretty future with a pretty girl waiting. But he doesn’t want to give it up, he can’t, not when there’s a lifetime of birthdays ahead. Not when this pays more than any dead end office job, not when you have dreams and all he wants is for you to get to follow them.

“That’s not true.”

He laughs, low and breathless and bitter. “It is. You think anyone bets on me because they like me? I get punched for a living. I win. I get paid. That’s it. That’s the only thing that works. Se battre est tout ce que j’ai.”

Fighting is all I have.

You move past him towards the closet. He sees the way your hands tremble as you pull another hoodie from the rack, the exact same one that he’s grown so used to seeing on your body in the mornings. It feels wrong. It looks wrong.

You’re supposed to be making breakfast in the kitchen tomorrow morning wearing that hoodie and absolutely nothing else, covered in love bites and laughing at his offkey singing. He wants to grab you in his arms. He wants to drag you back to bed.

You don’t look at him once as you continue packing, like you’re trying your damned best to detach from the apartment you’ve shared for years. And God, does it hurt. There’s pictures of the two of you all over.

Pictures from your childhood, high school graduations, that one trip to the beach in Plage de l'Amour. Pictures on the windowsill, next to the couch, on the fridge. Pictures of you and him, utterly in love and fated to be so forever.

They feel like a taunt now, like they’re laughing at him. Mocking him for all the joy and happiness and love he’s about to throw away. He tries to focus on something else, anything else, but his gaze lands on the bookshelf next to the bed. Your books and his, mixed together in a chaotic mess of genres and languages, the spines all touched and loved. Isack feels sick.

The bookshelf was the first thing the two of you had bought for the apartment. You’d spent an entire weekend putting it together. He remembers the way he’d kiss your knuckles when you nicked a finger. He remembers the way you’d laugh when he got annoyed with the instructions. He remembers how exhausted you were, and how you’d crawled under the sheets together to make love for the first time in this apartment that was now officially yours.

Isack takes a step forward, then a second, and stops next to the bookshelf. His fingers twitch as he reaches for one of the books. It’s one of your favorite novels, one that you’ve read time and time again, and he can feel the way the spine is bent. Like it’s been loved and worn so much by your own hands.

He doesn’t even notice you’re looking at him, watching him, until he hears your voice. “You can keep that,” you say.

The first proper book you’d ever read. One Isack’s own mother had gifted you some time ago. You took it with you from your childhood home to your college dormitory to here, this shared apartment with Isack. Dog-eared, highlighted, with yellowed pages and underlined passages.

It feels like that’s the last thing he wants left of you. He looks up from the book—your first book, your favorite, your gift—and he looks like his entire world is collapsing. “No,” he chokes out. “Don’t.”

He lets it fall from his hands, ignoring the clatter when it hits the ground. He wants to hold you against his chest. He wants to kiss you until neither of you can breathe. He wants to lock the front door and pretend everything is as it’s always been, with you and your books and your picture-perfect smile. He wants to love you to the point of no return.

This time, he tries to approach you; he stops in his tracks when you pull back your arm and hit him with the metaphorical gut punch. “You said fighting is all you are good at,” you say, voice cracking with each word. “But you are wrong, Isack Hadjar. I think you are very good at loving me, no?”

The sound that comes out of his chest is something painful. Something anguished and desperate and heartbroken.

He is good at loving you. He knows that.

He’s good at waking up early to see the way you’ve somehow tangled yourself in all the sheets in the night, good at getting you coffee just how you like it, good at kissing you when you’re still waking up. He’s so, so good at loving you. You’re right.

Isack face crumples, and before you can stop him, he’s on his knees. He’s used to this sort of thing, to being so battered that he’s keeled over and trying to remember all his mother’s old gods. But tonight, the only god he knows of is the woman that owns all of his heartstrings.

“I’ll do anything,” he pleads, palms flat to the wood. He’s just short of clinging to your ankles like a child. “Anything to make you stay. Just please don’t leave me. Please.”

You drop your bag. “Isack,” you chide breathlessly, kneeling beside him, hands grasping at his arms. Despite it all, despite everything, you are not cruel. You could never be cruel to him, and that only makes him want to grovel his way to the countryside and back. “Get up. En haut. Don’t do this.”

He doesn’t move an inch.

“It doesn’t suit you,” you sob. “You’re not supposed to beg.”

“I will,” he says, voice raw. “If it means I get to keep you. If it means you don’t walk out that door. I don’t care what I look like. I don’t care if I break. Just don’t go.”

You pull at him, trying to lift him, but he stays. He sees your frustration mixing with your sadness, sees the way that old irritation bubbles at the surface. “I have told you what I wanted,” you bite out. “Quit fighting. S'il te plaît—can’t we be enough?”

He thinks for a moment, his mind working overtime. He thinks of the fights he’s had. The ones he’s won and the ones he’s lost. He thinks of the money he’s earned, of the way it felt to go home to a full pantry and a full wallet. He thinks of the adrenaline and the blood pumping through his veins. The taste of sweat in his mouth and the sounds of the crowd roaring his name.

He thinks of all of it. And, in the end, it takes so little time to make up his mind.

He breathes you in like incense—slow and sacred, a ritual he doesn't yet know how to unlearn. Your hands on his arms are small and warm. He can feel it in your fingertips, that you don’t want to go, that you’re still hoping. That hope burns brighter than any arena floodlight.

He lifts his head, eyes red and bleary, his breath hitching. A prayer stalling in his throat. “Okay,” he says, barely louder than a heartbeat. “Okay. I won’t fight anymore. For you.”

The words taste like iron, like surrender, like something torn from his ribs. But he means them. He has to. Because you were always the line in the sand, and he’s been foolish enough to toe it for too long.

Your eyes widen, and he sees something flicker there. Relief, maybe, or sorrow. Perhaps both. You watch his face, and he wishes, for a moment, that he was not the type of man who had to ask for more than one chance.

Your voice breaks open like spring frost. “I want you to stop fighting for yourself, mon amour,” you mumble. “Because you want to be alive, and whole."

Whole.

He has never been whole, not really. Not since the first time he learned that bruises bloom faster than flowers and that applause fades faster than pain. But he sees it now—a life in your gaze, the soft promise of shared mornings and quiet rooms and laughter that doesn’t echo from a crowd but from the kitchen, from a bathtub, from a bed where no war follows him home.

It’s a life he wants. It’s a life worth fighting for.

Isack lets out a long, shuddering breath, something between a sob and a vow. He nods, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt like they’re trying to root there. He imagines the long years stretching ahead like a road with no end. No spotlights, no referees. Just Sundays and thunderstorms and the gentle noise of your life tangled with his.

He reaches up and touches your face, reverent. “We’ll be enough,” he rasps. “I’ll make sure of it. Je promets.” I promise.

When you get up from the floor, you take him with you. He goes, because there isn’t a place in the world where he wouldn’t follow you.

You don’t unpack your bag. You move like someone still halfway out the door, but Isack figures he deserves that. You’re here. That’s all that matters as of now.

The bed sheets are cool and smell faintly of lavender and detergent, but it’s your weight beside him that finally makes the bed feel real again. Isack lies still for a moment, eyes tracing the ceiling like it might spell out what to do next. The silence is not heavy, just uncertain. A silence that waits. That breathes.

He shifts slowly, wincing at the sharp pull of bruised ribs, the throb in his joints like old songs with too much history. You notice. Of course you do. You always notice. And before he can say a word, you’re sitting up, turning on the soft light by the bedside.

“Let me,” you murmur.

Your hands are careful, as if every wound is a story you’ve read too many times. The salve smells like mint and eucalyptus. It stings where it meets broken skin, but Isack doesn’t flinch. Not with you. Not when your touch means kindness, means care, means love.

You smooth the balm into the bruise at his side, your thumb brushing bone. He watches you work with the quiet awe of someone witnessing a miracle in slow motion. “This is the last time,” you whisper, though it’s unclear if it’s a question or a promise.

He nods anyway. “It will be.”

He wants to tell you how sorry he is, how many nights he’s counted the bruises instead of blessings, how long he’s been bargaining with higher powers he doesn’t believe in just to keep you within arm’s reach. But the words stay trapped somewhere behind his teeth, crowded by all the others he’s never said.

Instead, he reaches for your hand when you finish, pulling it gently to his chest. “Come to bed,” he says, voice so low it barely crests the air. “Stay. Just stay.”

You do.

You lie beside him, still careful, still guarded. But your hand remains on his heart like it’s keeping time. Isack knows what it is to count small wins. A breath that doesn’t hurt. A room that doesn’t echo. A you that hasn’t left.

Isack watches you as your eyelids grow heavy. He wonders what it is that makes you stay, even now. When he’s all fractures and fury, stitched together by regret. When your love has bent and bent and bent beneath the weight of his choices.

He thinks maybe it’s because your love is one for the ages—the kind sung about in places where language fails, where only feeling remains. The kind that writes its own myths.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s with your warmth beside him and that thought tucked gently beneath his ribcage.

This time, he dreams of growing old.

Isack wakes before you and watches, as though still needing to convince himself that this isn’t some sweet trick of his mind.

Even now, even here—after everything—he’s afraid to breathe too loudly, as if the quiet might break and you might vanish with it.

It’s the day before your birthday.

He remembers this like a tether around his ribs. Something tender, something tight. A date marked not just in his mind but in the marrow of him. If he were a better man, he thinks, he would have gotten it right the first time. But he’s learning that sometimes, love isn’t clean. Sometimes it looks like this: mending the tattered edges, weaving something stronger through the unraveling.

So today, he resolves to get it right.

He dresses quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple before he leaves the bed, the scent of your skin still clinging to his form. In the kitchen, the kettle whistles like a bird too eager for morning. He makes your coffee just how you like it—hot, a little sweet, with milk warmed just enough that it doesn’t scald the porcelain cup.

He slices strawberries for your toast, arranges them like flower petals, and sprinkles just a hint of sugar over the top, the way he’s seen you do when you think no one’s watching. He hums, almost nervously, as he works. Like a husband trying to apologize without words.

When you emerge, sleep still clinging to your lashes, he smiles. “Bonjour, mon ange,” he says gently. “Happy almost-birthday.”

You blink at him, surprised, touched—but wary, too. The stiffness hasn’t quite left your spine. But you take the coffee with both hands. You drink. And you stay.

You stay.

It is not everything, but to him, it is a cathedral.

By midday, the sun is high and the apartment smells faintly of citrus and linen. He watches you from across the room, curled into a corner of the couch with a book. The light catches in your hair, turns you to something out of a painting. There’s something unbearably quiet about the moment, something fragile. He knows he has to go—just for a bit. It feels like leaving something precious unattended. Like placing a dream on a windowsill and hoping the wind won’t take it.

“I’ll be back soon,” he calls out to you, slipping on his coat. “Promise.”

You look up, eyes sharp with something that feels like mistrust. A wound reopened. A question you don’t ask. He sees it all in the way you hold your breath.

He falters. Just for a second. “It’s nothing bad,” he adds, trying to smile.

“Take care,” you mumble, fingers tightening around your book. Wondering, no doubt, if he will come home tonight.

Your silence follows Isack down the stairwell, heavy as iron. He wants so badly to do right by you.

The little shop off Rue de la Liberté smells of polished wood and velvet and time. Dust motes float through a beam of light like memory. He picks the locket quickly—no hesitation, no doubt. He’s seen you glance at it in the window more times than you think.

He runs his thumb over the etching on the front before passing it over the counter. He pays with the cash from his last fight and the rest of what Ollie pressed into his palm with a look that said, don’t make me regret this. Isack won’t. Isack can’t.

After, he stops at Monsieur Yuki’s bakery. The bell over the door chimes. The shop is warm, full of sugar and soft-spoken music. The scent of caramelized butter hits him like childhood. Yuki, dusting flour from his apron, raises an eyebrow when Isack walks in.

“You’re early,” the older man greets, eyes twinkling.

“I want the chocolate gâteau, s’il te plaît,” Isack says.

“A slice?”

“No,” he replies, a little breathless. “The whole thing.”

Yuki smiles, then, a little amused. “Someone is trying to make up for something.”

Isack just nods, hands him the money. The box is heavy with promise.

While he waits, he sits at the counter and watches a little girl press her face to the pastry display. Her mother gently pulls her back and offers her a pink-frosted éclair. There’s a softness in the air, a stillness that feels like maybe the world will give him a second chance.

When the cake is ready, it’s carefully boxed and tied with a satin ribbon the color of early dusk. Yuki even gives Isack pretty matching candles for it.

As he walks home, Isack looks up at the sky. A little too blue, a little too bright. He hugs the cake box to his chest and tries not to imagine your eyes still unsure, still waiting. He hopes—hopes that when he returns, when he lays the locket in your palm and the cake on the table, when he kisses your wrist and says, je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime—you’ll believe he means forever this time.

Here’s the thing: Forgiveness does not arrive like thunder.

It comes in gentle footsteps, in breaths and half-laughter and borrowed time. It slips in through the cracks of the day, through the pauses in conversation, through two people begin to trust the quiet again.

That evening, the apartment is hushed in the way homes get when two people are trying very hard to be gentle with each other. Every movement feels intentional. Cautious but not cold. The fridge hums in the corner like a third presence, bearing witness. The silence isn’t sharp anymore. It has softened into something almost warm.

You catch Isack glancing at the cupboard above the fridge for the third time in as many minutes, and a small, knowing smile tugs at your lips. He’s terrible at hiding things. You’ve known this for years; he has the subtlety of a street performer and the patience of a child waiting for dessert. Still, he tries. And still, you catch him.

“What’s in there?” you ask, leaning against the counter, your tone light but your gaze unwavering.

“Rice,” he says too quickly, voice going up a note like it always does when he’s bluffing.

You raise an eyebrow, not even bothering to press. He fidgets.

“Okay. Maybe something,” he concedes, the corners of his mouth twitching into a sheepish grin. “But you’ll see later.”

You shake your head, pretending exasperation, but the laughter escapes before you can swallow it. That sound—your giggle—makes something inside him settle.

His phone buzzes with calls; he rejects them all. Today, there are only two people in the world. You and him. He will prove that.

Later, the two of you curl together on the couch, a tangle of limbs beneath a blanket still faintly warm from the dryer. A single lamp casts golden light onto the floorboards and your open book, though you’ve been stuck on the same paragraph for ten minutes. He’s pretending not to count the minutes. You’re pretending not to notice how he keeps checking the time on his phone.

You glance at the clock. “Five to.”

He feigns innocence, lounging dramatically. “Five to what?”

You nudge his knee with yours, barely containing your smile. He returns it, all crooked teeth and fluttering nerves. He still can’t believe he’s allowed to have this moment, this version of you—soft, teasing, here.

When midnight strikes, he rises so quickly the blanket falls from his lap. “Stay here,” he says, voice urgent but smiling, and he disappears into the kitchen. You hear him moving around. The rustle of tissue paper, the clink of ceramic, the opening of a drawer. Then, the soft scrape of a match, the tiny hiss of flame. The warm glow precedes him.

He returns cradling the cake. Eight slender candles flicker atop it, their flames trembling as he walks. The light catches in his eyes and softens every edge of him. For a second, you see him as he once was. Before the fights, before the fractures. The boy you met all those years ago, and the man you’re still trying, bit by bit, to understand and forgive.

He starts to sing. A party of one; a tune that has carried you both through your childhood and teenage years.

Joyeux anniversaire. Joyeux anniversaire, mon ange.

Isack kneels beside you, one knee pressing into the carpet, and holds the plate steady with both hands. “Make a wish,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You do. You close your eyes, draw in a breath that carries every weight and every hope you have for the two of you. For the life that awaits. And when you blow, the flames vanish in one breath. The room is hushed in the light’s absence.

You don’t tell him what you wished for. But when you open your eyes and look at him—really look—he knows. Because in the quiet aftermath, your gaze says everything.

He lets you have the first forkful of cake. You’re so damn happy about it, so lit up by the sweet thing that’s such a rarity in this household, that Isack can’t help himself. He leans in carefully, brushing his lips against yours like a question. You taste of sugar and strawberries and the promise of trying again. Something sweeter still—hope, maybe. Or redemption. You kiss him back, softer than he expects, and the cake is forgotten for a moment.

The second kiss is longer. The third, slower still. The fourth is just a smile shared between breaths.

Eventually, the two of you turn back to the gâteau, cutting it into generous slices, your fingers brushing as you pass the plates. You eat quietly at first, but soon, you’re laughing again. About the crooked candles, about Isack nearly dropping the lighter into the icing, about the frosting smudged on the tip of your nose that he kisses away without a word.

In the quiet that follows, the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder, licking forks and murmuring half-thoughts about birthdays past and years ahead. He tells you about the time he accidentally set fire to a paper crown as a child. You tell him about the birthday your father forgot.

Nothing is fully healed. Nothing is perfect. But the night is kind. And that kindness, you both learn, is a kind of balm.

He watches you as you lean your head on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed, the slow cadence of your breath syncing with his own. You are still here. You are trying. That is what matters.

Isack moves quietly through the apartment, barefoot, careful not to wake you just yet. You’re already up, but he still moves as though the day shouldn’t begin until you say so.

You’re humming in the bathroom, half in and half out of the shower, hair tied up in a hasty bun. Steam curls from the open door like the breath of a sleepy dragon, warm and fragrant with soap and your shampoo. Jasmine, he thinks.

You’re wearing the locket. He notices it before he hears you call out.

“I’m not taking it off,” you say from behind the half-drawn curtain. “It can survive the water.”

He walks in slowly, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. You’re peeking out, defiant and glowing, droplets clinging to your shoulders like beads of light. “Mon coeur,” he says, gentle but firm, “please. Not even a day old and you want to drown it.”

You pout. “You’re ruining my rebellion. I want to wear it all the time.”

“I’ll give you something else to rebel against,” he murmurs, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to your wet temple.

You sigh, dramatic, but eventually unclasp it and hand it over like a truce. He takes it carefully, cradling it in his palms like it might melt. The chain is warm from your skin, the metal catching the light like something divine.

He wanders off to the living room and, absentmindedly, opens the locket with a soft click. Inside, the picture—a grainy, haphazardly cut photo of the two of you, taken with a timer on his phone ages ago—is already a little crooked.

You’d slipped it in without telling him. That knowledge unravels him a bit.

The photo is small, but it holds so much. His arm slung over your shoulder, your smile slightly smudged by movement, his own expression caught mid-laugh. A moment suspended in amber. Proof, perhaps, that even he can be happy.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Must be Charles,” you call out from the bathroom, your voice muffled by the running shower. “Mon amour, could you—”

“I’m on it!”

Isack brushes a thumb across the locket before setting it carefully on the coffee table. He heads for the front door, still half in the dream of the morning—of Dieppe, of salted wind and the way your hair will tangle in the breeze, of sand and shared towels and sun-warmed skin. The beachside town you had wanted to go to, now within reach.

Your neighbor, Charles, was always so kind to lend his car to Isack whenever the two of you needed it, as long as the vehicle was returned unscathed and with a full tank of gas.

But when Isack opens the front door, it isn’t Charles with the car keys.

It’s Christian.

The man’s silhouette cuts a sharp line against the hallway light. He’s wearing that coat that smells faintly of expensive cologne and second chances. His eyes scan Isack like a dossier.

“You haven’t been answering my calls, Hadjar.”

Just like that, the salt in the air is gone. The morning folds inward.

Isack stands there, still barefoot, the scent of jasmine trailing behind him, the locket he had bled for sitting only a few feet away.

The distance between who he is and who he might become suddenly feels ocean-wide. ⛐

#like I’m really down bad #the fact I think I have a shot with him is beyond delusional atp #it’s a problem #isack hadjar #my beloved #isack hadjar x reader #ames’ fic recs ! ✧

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