elliebubblee

[elliebubblee]

Last Minute Driver Part 3

Part1 and part2 is here

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader

Genre: Comfort fluff, slow mornings, lighthearted moments

Warnings: Soft cuddles, casual kisses, someone being a bit too friendly in the paddock, Oscar’s quiet “you’re mine” energy

Summary:

It’s race day morning. The paddock is buzzing, but your world is still — wrapped in sheets, in Oscar’s arms, where everything is quiet and warm.

Later, someone’s gaze lingers on you a little too long. Oscar doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to.

He may not be loud about it, but when it comes to you… he makes it clear: he’s yours, and you’re his.

Author's Note: Small celebration fic for Oscar’s win — my heart is so full!! Hope this gives you a smile too. Also english is not my first language, so please be kind about any small mistakes. I’m doing my best and I hope you enjoy the story! 💗

The first thing you notice as you wake up is the silence filling the room. You don’t know what time it is, but the light filtering through the curtains tells you the morning is already far gone. Your head aches lightly, but you know it’s not because of the two glasses you had last night. It’s the aftershock of feelings—the echo of your heart from the night before.

You pause for a moment when you realize you’re still wearing your jacket. Black, slightly plush inside, a bit too big on your shoulders…

Oscar’s jacket.

His scent still lingers on it: clean, fresh… and so very Oscar.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, your hand brushes the sleeve, as if touching it will confirm to yourself, “Was it real?” Your lips still carry the warmth of the night, but your heart’s irregular beats tell a different story.

Then your phone rings. Or rather, it starts vibrating like crazy all at once. Notifications flood in back-to-back.

Before your eyes focus, you scroll the screen.

Headline:

“Oscar Piastri and the ‘Last Minute Driver’ way too close at Monaco night!”

Below, a blurry but very telling photo. Oscar’s hand resting on his waist. You’ve turned toward him, barely any space left between you two. Dim lights and a crowded club blur in the background… but everyone except you two is out of focus.

The photo almost whispers:

“These two kissed last night.”

A lump forms in your throat. It’s hard to name what you feel: some panic, a bit of shame, but more than anything… excitement. Your eyes fixate on the photo when your phone vibrates again. This time, a media rep is calling.

You inhale before answering.

“Good morning,” he says, tired. “Or… as good a morning as it can be. The photos are spreading. For now, we’re avoiding comments, but social media’s gone wild. We canceled one interview. Can you try to make your relationship with Oscar look a bit more… professional?”

You can’t help but smile inwardly. Professional… If only it were that easy.

If only your lips hadn’t just mixed with his.

If only you didn’t remember that night so clearly.

But you do.

Right then, the screen lights up again.

Oscar.

The very person the media rep just told you to keep professional with.

Oscar:

“If I buy you breakfast, will the media call me romantic, or just a hungry guy?”

An involuntary smile appears on your face. Before you even finish reading, another message comes:

Oscar:

“Well… you still like me, right? You weren’t drunk, were you? Just wanted to be sure.”

Your heart skips a beat.

You weren’t expecting him to ask so plainly. But it was Oscar—always direct, always honest… and a little bit recklessly brave.

Leaning back on the pillow, your fingers hover over the keyboard, weighing your words. This message matters. Your reply will either completely reassure him… or spark new tension.

But you’re honest too.

Last night wasn’t just a fleeting closeness. And you weren’t drunk.

You:

“I accept the breakfast. But only if you’re the one who’s hungry.”

You pause a second and add another message:

“And yes… I like you. I wasn’t drunk.”

After hitting send, you take a deep breath. Seconds later, the screen lights up again.

Oscar:

“Then I have 20 minutes to pick you up. Don’t dress fancy. Let’s not make headlines again. Or… should we?”

You smile.

The day may have started crazy, but… deep down, you kind of like the idea of that headline.

***

Getting ready after Oscar’s message takes less than 15 minutes, but your heart works overtime like it’s racing a Grand Prix. You don’t fuss too much in front of the mirror; you tie your hair loosely, swipe on a bit of concealer and nude lipstick—because this isn’t a date. No, it’s not.

Just… breakfast.

Oscar is waiting for you in the hotel lobby. His hair’s still messy, his black T-shirt more “carelessly impressive” than yesterday’s, and there’s a faint tiredness under his eyes. But the moment he sees you, his lips curl up.

“I checked my watch—you’re here in 18 minutes. Ready to race,” he says.

You can’t help but smile. But you keep a little distance on your face. Because this morning, it’s time to face reality.

***

You move to a small café. Quiet, calm, away from the crowd. Oscar orders a latte, you a black coffee. Alongside, a croissant, a slice of bread, some cheese… and way too much eye contact.

A silence falls. And you use that moment.

“We just… need to talk about something,” you say. Your voice is firm, but there’s a tremble inside.

Oscar looks up.

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not sure what we’re in exactly. But I’m not sure people should know either. Or rather… it’d be better if they didn’t.”

His brows knit slightly. As if he misunderstood you:

“You mean last night? Because for me—”

“Of course I mean last night, but not just that!”

Your voice rises, then quickly lowers as you look around. No one seems to know you here, but you have to be careful.

“Look, Oscar,” you lean in a little more. “I was a last-minute addition here. This seat, this chance… it didn’t come easy.

And if anyone finds out about this relationship… They won’t see talent. They’ll just say I opened my legs for you.”

Oscar’s expression changes instantly. Your words hit him like a slap. He looks away first—then back at you, but this time there’s a hint of shame in his eyes. A faint color creeps onto his cheeks. The regret on his face is clear in the silence.

Without a word, he lowers his head and takes a sip from his coffee. His stirring slows. He wants to say something, but weighs the words. Finally, he looks at you. Serious, but not overwhelming.

And sincere.

“This sport is sexist,” you say for him. “You should know that better than me.”

Oscar nods. This time, it’s clear he truly understands.

“I know,” he says. “It’s unfair. Especially to women. And you shouldn’t have to prove anything to anyone… but you’re still proving it.”

Your eyes well up, but you don’t break. That strong side of you is still standing tall. Silence stretches for a few seconds. Only your breathing and the steam from your coffee fill the quiet.

Oscar continues:

“Whether we hide it or live it openly someday… whatever we do, we’ll do it on your terms. Okay?”

You just nod. The lump in your throat feels stronger than the coffee. The weight on your back seems a little lighter, but it’s not gone.

You smile together, and the silence softens. You tear off a piece of the croissant beside you, but a tiny crumb sticks to the corner of your mouth. Just as you reflexively reach to wipe it away, Oscar is quicker. His fingers gently brush the crumb off your lip.

The warmth of his touch hits your skin, and your eyes meet. This silence is different: fuller, charged with tension.

After removing the crumb, he looks into your eyes and smiles softly.

Then his voice comes low but clear, laced with warmth and a hint of desire:

“I’m surprised I’m holding myself back this close.”

Your cheeks start burning within seconds. He watches your reaction with a slight smirk. Now, you’re not two people who just argued, but two who’ve known each other for years.

“Is this flirting?” you say with a light laugh, trying to pull yourself together.

“If it is, it is. If it’s a threat, it’s a threat,” he replies. “But trust me, the only thing that’ll embarrass you is me being slower than you in a race.”

Inside, you feel something stirring. The fear is still there, the media is still there. But Oscar is here. And for now… at this breakfast table, it’s just the two of you.

***

After breakfast, Oscar offers to drive you back to your hotel. You say it’s unnecessary since you walked here anyway, but he insists. When you get in the car, Oscar rolls down the window a bit, lowers the music; a soft indie song hums quietly in the background. His left hand grips the steering wheel, his right hand free. Then, that free hand lightly touches your knee.

At first, just a gentle touch. But after a few seconds, his fingertips begin to move softly, drawing small circles just above your kneecap.

The moment he touches you, your body reacts instantly. Your shoulders tense up, your heart skips a beat. You clench your legs involuntarily. You try not to show it to Oscar. You say nothing. And he doesn’t ask either. Maybe he’s aware, maybe not… but his fingers move so slowly and tenderly that somewhere inside, you start to relax. Your muscles loosen. The initial tension melts into a warmth, like a quiet peace trapped inside a circle.

Oscar is clever enough to notice. Without breaking eye contact, he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

“Everything okay?” His voice is low, with that familiar smile playing on his lips, but his eyes are serious.

You just nod. A small, “Mhm,” confirms it. Because if you said anything else, you’d probably laugh or utter something embarrassingly needy like, “Please don’t stop.”

Oscar’s fingers slowly slide a bit higher, but stop just at the edge—he knows exactly where to hold back.

When you arrive at the car park, Oscar pulls over and turns off the engine. Outside, the May morning sun bathes the sky in gold, but inside the car, the atmosphere is different: a mix of anticipation and tension. As if you’ve both been preparing for this moment for hours.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, and Oscar turns toward you.

“The taste of your lips… hasn’t left my mind all night. Was it the same for you?” His voice is soft, eyes searching. There’s a hint of teasing, but also something he’s looking for from you. Confirmation? Honesty? Or a clear invitation?

“Yes,” you say simply.

Oscar smiles. “Good.”

And then he leans in slowly. You can’t take your eyes off him. He approaches so deliberately that every second feels like an hour.

Just as his lips are about to touch yours...

“The window...” you whisper urgently, like a warning. “It’s open.”

Oscar pauses for a moment. Blinks. Then, annoyingly calm, he pulls back and reaches for the window button. The glass slides up, but his eyes never leave yours.

“Closed,” he says. “So, do you still have an excuse?”

Before you can answer, his hands cup your face. His palms are warm, burning your skin. And then, suddenly and without hesitation... he kisses you.

Not slow, not gentle like morning coffee; more like a sharp espresso shot—short, intense, and electrifying. His lips stick to yours, your breath catches. His fingers weave through your hair, and your body leans into him. The only thought running through your mind:

“Why did we wait this long?”

Oscar’s kiss is bolder than you expected but so controlled. He doesn’t overwhelm you; he simply wants you—very clearly and unmistakably. And you want him just the same.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest against each other, your lips still breathing in sync.

If he kissed you again right then, you wouldn’t complain. But this time, you’re faster. Your hands go to his collar, pulling him closer. And as the morning sun floods through the car window, two race drivers get lost in each other’s presence.

Oscar looks at you, lips still marked by your kiss. You sit quietly in your seat, a little shy, a little smiling with your eyes as you watch him.

The silence isn’t awkward—it’s deep, meaningful. Neither of you wants to break it.

Oscar looks away first, then turns back to you.

“Um…” he says, voice slower than usual. “I don’t want to rush things, but…”

He stops. Bites his lip, choosing his words carefully.

“There are three nights left until the next race. And… I live in Monaco.”

He shrugs lightly, as if it’s no big deal. But the look he gives you is clear.

“If it’s not too much… I mean, if you want… I’d like you to spend those three nights at my place.”

Your heart skips a beat. Was he serious? He seemed serious—but at the same time…

“Well,” you say, voice barely steady. “Oscar, that’s… really…”

“Too fast?”

He tilts his head, genuinely curious about your answer.

You hesitate for a moment. Your flight leaves in a few hours. You had plans. But after what just happened that morning, the word ‘plans’ feels meaningless. There’s an invitation in Oscar’s eyes—not just to his home, but a small step into his life.

“Okay,” you say. “But only three nights. The fourth, it’s your place on the grid.”

Oscar locks his eyes on yours.

“Then those three nights… have to be unforgettable.”

Packing your bag at the hotel, butterflies start a migratory journey inside your stomach. You’re going to Oscar’s place. For a few days. This isn’t just a little summer getaway. This is a turning point in your story.

***

Your phone rings while you’re packing. It’s your mom.

You take a deep breath and answer.

“Mom, um… I canceled my flight. I’m staying at a friend’s for a few days.”

“What friend?” Her voice is unusually calm—usually, that means danger.

“You know… the one in those photos in the press? That friend.”

You pause. Oscar is watching you from across the room, a curious smile playing on his lips.

“Mom, it’s just a friend,” you say quickly. “I mean… a friend.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow and smirks silently, mouthing, “Really?”

After you hang up, he shakes his head and laughs.

“A ‘friend,’ huh?” He says, bending down to grab your suitcase. “This friend just kissed you, you know that?”

You smile, not answering. But inside, you think:

Maybe these three nights will be more than you ever imagined.

***

You get in Oscar’s car again, but this time the ride feels different. His taste lingers on your lips, his fingertips on your skin. You settle into the seat and take a deep breath. No airport, no stress about missing flights. Just him, you, and the winding roads of Monaco.

As you start driving, there’s a quiet but sweet atmosphere in the car. Oscar glances at you, and you look away, as if trying to hide from his gaze.

Taking a curve, his left hand stays on the wheel while his right hand slowly reaches your leg—this time, higher up. The warmth of his palm seeps through the fabric onto your skin.

This time, you don’t flinch. You close your eyes and let the touch sink in, as if his hand belongs exactly where it is. His fingertips trace gentle circles, and your breath slows. A calm filled with desire wraps around you.

“Are you comfortable?” Oscar asks without taking his eyes off the road.

“Yes…” you whisper.

Oscar smiles. “Good. Because I’m going to spoil you way too much these next few days.”

***

When you arrived, he stopped the car in front of an apartment among narrow streets and flashy buildings. Your first impression of the building was clear: Oscar’s place wasn’t big, but it had style. Black shutters on the windows, geraniums lining the balconies… Inside, dim lights, shelves full of books, and a few racing trophies caught your eye.

As you took off your shoes, Oscar grabbed your suitcase from your hand. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the upstairs. You climbed the stairs. The upper floor was even nicer—bathed in light filtering through a skylight, with a modern yet personal warmth.

And then… Oscar headed straight to his own room. He opened the door and placed your suitcase right next to his bed. Wait. His own room. Your suitcase. One bed.

Your eyes widened. Your chest warmed instantly. “Oscar…” you said, your voice a little high-pitched. “So… I’m staying here?” Oscar leaned against the doorframe and looked at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “If you want, I can set up a bed for you right in the living room, between the trophies,” he teased. “But think about who you want to wake up next to in the morning.”

You looked away, scratching the back of your neck nervously. And your face… it was a blazing fire. Oscar watched you, tilted his head slightly, and then slowly stepped closer. “You know,” he said with a naughty smile in his voice, “you drive at 250 km/h, you win the Monaco GP… but right now, you’re totally red.” And he took one more step. “That’s seriously mesmerizing.”

Then he placed a gentle kiss on your cheek. It wasn’t hungry or cheeky—just a touch sealing your vulnerability with tenderness. “And yes,” he whispered, “if you sleep next to me tonight… you’ll just sleep next to me. Promise. Not yet…” He paused, looked you over again, “…if you’re not ready for more, I’ll just hold you.”

You couldn’t say a word. You just nodded slowly because words felt pointless compared to his gaze.

Time at Oscar’s place passed strangely fast. First, you toured the house together. When Oscar showed you the kitchen, he joked, “I work miracles here, but I must admit, my relationship with the toaster is deeper than with the microwave,” making you laugh.

You spent the afternoon together, the flirtation in the air like a scent—vague but intoxicating. You sipped lemon soda on the balcony table, and when Oscar caught your gaze mixed with laughter, he smiled. Your fingers brushed a few times without meaning to. No words were spoken, but everything was said.

In the evening, Oscar suddenly said, “Shall we cook?” “What can you even do?” you giggled. “I can chop tomatoes. For the rest… I’m happy to watch your light in the kitchen.” “Hmm, a passive spectator mode, huh? Fine, I’ll give you small tasks.”

You made pasta together, with lots of laughter and small kitchen mishaps. While stirring the sauce, Oscar pulled you toward him under the pretext of handing you a forgotten ingredient—just a second of that touch sparked a warmth spreading to the corners of your lips. You tried to keep your cool. Or at least, tried. Not very successfully.

After dinner, you both sank into the couch and opened a random comedy show on Netflix. Oscar laughed at every joke before you, then looked at you as if checking your reaction. When he rested his head on your shoulder, he quietly wrapped his arm around you. You could feel your heart beating close to your ear.

When your eyelids started to get heavy, Oscar gently placed his hand on your knee and whispered, “Let’s go to bed.”

While you unpacked your pajamas, Oscar was busy changing in the room. You glanced at him sideways… and at that moment, he took off his shirt.

Your eyes searched for an escape. His defined muscles, broad shoulders, every curve was flawless. And something else—naturalness.

Oscar noticed you looking away and chuckled softly. “Don’t worry,” he said in a low voice. “This is how I sleep every night. Seems like shirts are just too tight for me.” He winked.

You swallowed hard. No reply. You grabbed your pajamas and ran to the bathroom. When you looked in the mirror, you smiled shyly. Your cheeks were bright red. “Stop it,” you whispered to yourself. “We’re just going to sleep.”

Back in the room, Oscar was pulled to one side of the bed. A thin sheet covered him, but his arms were still open. He looked at you, then motioned you over with his arm. “Come here,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. Maybe just hold you a little.”

You laughed quietly and climbed into bed.

At first, you tried to keep some distance, but Oscar silently reached out and wrapped his arms around your waist. When you rested your head on his chest, your heartbeat invited you to peace. He buried his nose in your hair and took a deep breath.

“I’ve wanted this moment for so long,” he murmured. “So, inviting me to your place to impress me in pajamas?” “No,” he whispered. “Knowing you’re here with me. Really.”

Your eyes closed. Oscar’s warmth, his arms, his breath… Everything was so real. For the first time… you felt completely at peace.

***

As the first light of morning slipped through your eyelids, you found yourself under Oscar’s arm. His chest rose and fell softly, his breath steady. And when you moved slightly, he tightened his arm and leaned in closer.

You didn’t move for a while. You didn’t want to break the spell. Then Oscar murmured, “Waking up with you… strangely addictive.”

You just smiled. “Waking up with you is… warm. In every sense.”

After lingering in bed for a bit, you finally got up. Oscar went to the kitchen, his hair tousled, still shirtless. “Breakfast is on me,” he said. “Chef Oscar on stage.” “You’re just toasting bread!” “That’s an art too.”

While he made the toast, you squeezed fresh orange juice. Every stolen glance at each other gave more energy than the breakfast itself. A few jokes, a little toast fight, and when it was finally time to get dressed, you quickly ran to the bathroom. It had become a habit—you weren’t quite ready to change in front of him… but knowing his curious eyes were on you warmed your insides.

When you came back dressed, Oscar fired up the simulator. “Simulator time. As Monaco winner, you start first.”

You took the wheel while he lounged in the chair, snacking and watching you. “You take those turns so well, I’m almost jealous.” “Let’s not overdo it,” you winked.

After some rounds on the sim, Oscar stretched and turned to you. “Time to work out. The body stays fit not only with racing but with morning weights too.”

You moved to the small home gym. After a few warm-ups, Oscar started lifting weights showing off. “Look at this,” he said, shrugging and lifting the barbell on his shoulders. “Watching me lift this should count as meditation for you.”

“Carrying your ego is heavier,” you retorted, struggling not to laugh.

His muscles became more defined with every rep, and looking away was nearly impossible.

Sweaty, you both wiped your faces. “Your turn to shower. You can use my bathroom if you want.” “Thanks,” you said, starting to dig through your suitcase. But then— You paused.

Clothes? You had packed your bag ready to head home.

Your eyes grew wide.

No way.

Oscar took a step closer, his voice teasing but kind: “If you want, I can give you some boxers that are a bit small for me. They’d fit like shorts on your legs.”

Your eyes widened again. “Oscar!” “Hey, it’s comfortable. I can even give you some extra shirts too.”

You stayed silent. Your blush had crept all the way up your neck. Oscar smiled watching you. “You stay calm when the whole world’s watching on the grid, but when it comes to underwear… you blush. So cute.”

You tilted your head slightly and glanced at him from under your lashes. Your hand brushed lightly against his chest—more a ‘if this goes further I’ll melt’ kind of touch than a push.

Oscar pulled back just a bit and winked. “If you want, we can go shopping. But honestly… I think my clothes look cuter on you.”

You were still shy, and Oscar grinned. “Walking around in a shirt with your name on it? Wouldn’t that just feed your ego a little too much?” “That’s not your shirt. You’re in it. Big difference.”

You gave a shy smile and nodded softly. “Okay.” “If you wear my boxers, just know I’ll beat you in morning workouts,” you warned. “Oh, a threat?” “No, just a sweet warning.”

***

When the warm water started to cascade down your shoulders, all your muscles relaxed. The morning workout and the lingering fatigue from the night slowly began to leave your body, until the faint knock on the front door startled you.

Oscar’s voice came from outside, calm but respectful: “I’m not coming in, just reaching out. Left a towel, a t-shirt, and… shorts on the counter. I’m closing my eyes, activating my guardian angel mode.”

You giggled. “Thank you, Oscar.”

The door creaked open slightly, only an arm reached inside. He really hadn’t even looked. After placing the clothes on the counter, the door shut again. That little care softened your heart just a bit more.

After your shower, you examined the items on the counter. The t-shirt was gray and a bit loose. It had a small “Piastri Performance” logo — probably custom-made for the team. He also left a black boxer underneath. It really looked like a tiny pair of shorts on you. You wrapped your hair in a towel, slipped the new clothes onto your slightly damp body. Comfortable. And very much… Oscar’s.

As you stepped out of the bathroom, Oscar was sitting on the couch, fiddling with his phone. His eyes scanned you, then he whistled softly. “Wow… so this is my t-shirt. But I guess it’s stolen from me now.” “Maybe I’ll give it back later,” you said, your cheeks warming again.

Oscar approached, raising his eyebrows teasingly. “If that boxer looks like that on you… why does it look normal on me?” “Off. Right now. Shower. Please.” “Okay, okay, I’m going…” He laughed as he walked toward the bathroom, pulling the t-shirt off his head on the way. The muscles on his back winked at you for a moment.

While Oscar showered, you stretched out on the couch. Your muscles loosened, the warm water’s effect combined with the comfort of the loose clothes was lulling you gently to sleep. You rested your head on the cushion, pulled your legs up close to your chest. The t-shirt smelled like Oscar — a soft floral, soapy scent mixed with a hint of warm asphalt, strange but alluring. Your eyes slowly closed.

***

When Oscar came out of the bathroom, his hair was still wet, drops trickled down his forehead. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, but the steam from the bathroom had flushed his cheeks pink. Quietly stepping into the living room, he saw you.

Curled up on the couch, nose buried in the collar of his t-shirt. Your feet crossed, your face peaceful. He smiled.

He came closer. As the drops slid from his hair onto the floor, he leaned over and looked at you quietly. “Finding you like this… it makes me feel really good,” he whispered.

He continued drying his hair with a towel, but his eyes never left you. …

***

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you noticed was the soft fabric of the t-shirt. You immediately recognized the scent: Oscar. Then you realized your head was resting not on a pillow but on the couch cushion. You stretched lightly, blinking slowly. Just then Oscar called out: “The princess who woke up doesn’t have lunch ready, but I can make coffee at least.” You blinked and lifted your head. “Coffee… sounds good.” Oscar headed to the kitchen, running a hand through his damp hair. He wore a gray t-shirt and loose shorts.

You sat upright on the couch, still wearing Oscar’s t-shirt and those infamous boxers. Half-asleep, you giggled softly. “I… really overslept.” “I noticed. Didn’t do any psycho stuff like sneaking over to watch you sleep, just took a picture of how your hair poofed up.” “What?!” “Just kidding. But I wish I did.” Your cheeks flushed again.

While you sat together in the kitchen, Oscar handed you your coffee and sat down with his usual relaxed attitude. “The weather is great today,” he said, looking out the window. “Shall we go out for lemonade? There’s a cute little café at the corner, their lemonade is homemade.” “I mean, I knew I’d have to go out today, but not like this,” you said, gesturing to your outfit. Oscar looked at you, then with a sly smile said: “You definitely need to change your clothes because if people see you like this, they’ll definitely think you’re mine.” Your eyes widened. “Oscar!” “What’s the matter, babe? I’m joking… but that outfit really suits you, so it’d be pretty normal if they thought that.”

You grabbed a bag from your suitcase — a loose t-shirt and shorts. While Oscar was in the living room, you dashed to the bathroom to change. You even put on a light makeup — just some mascara and lip balm… natural but sweet.

***

When you stepped outside, the weather was exactly as Oscar said: warm, with a gentle breeze. You ordered two lemonades at the café on the corner. Ice-cold, lightly minty. You felt refreshed with the first sip.

While sipping your drinks, you talked about everyday things. Team mates, media days, even the cartoons you watched as kids… Occasionally, your arms brushed against each other.

After leaving the café, you started walking toward the seaside road. The sun was warm but sweet against your skin. Your footsteps matched the rhythm of his, your heart beating a little faster.

Oscar stopped for a moment and looked at the water. “This silence… it’s nice.” “Yeah,” you said, then glanced at him lightly. “But even in this silence, there’s a buzzing inside me. Like I’m on the last lap of a race.” Oscar squinted and looked at you. “When I’m with you, I always feel like I’m on the last lap too. But that’s a good thing.” A light breeze blew. Your hair fluttered, and Oscar reached out to tuck it behind your ear. “I think we won this day, too,” he said. “Do you think so?” “Yes. Because you’re still here with me.”

***

On the way back from the beach, the sun slowly began to set, spreading a pink glow across the sky. The streetlights started to flicker on one by one. Your footsteps echoed on the pavement as Oscar, walking beside you with a pleased look, turned and said: “For dinner… should we order pizza?” You paused for a moment, raising an eyebrow at him. “Hmm… if you ate the pizza I make, you’d never want to eat outside again.” Oscar’s eyes lit up immediately. “Is that so?” “Absolutely.” He spread his arms wide and spoke dramatically: “Then we should make it at home! Teach me your legendary pizza, oh mysterious driver.” You laughed. “Okay, but being this dramatic about pizza is a bit much.” “It’s my way of appreciating my stomach’s art.” You stuffed the shopping cart with tomatoes, mozzarella, mushrooms, olives, and plenty of basil. Oscar spun around the aisles, constantly commenting: “After this, we’ll need a pit stop for the stomach, not the race car.” “Just don’t let your stomach stay empty; I’ll feed you.” Oscar tilted his head and looked at you. “You say dangerous things.” “I’m telling the truth.” “And you’re tempting me. But for your pizza alone, I’ll forgive you.”

At the checkout, while you packed the bags, Oscar pulled out his card. “I’m paying because technically we’re not eating pizza outside, but I did invite you to come eat pizza at my place.” “You have a lot of rules,” you said. “There are secret rules in every flirtation,” he said, winking.

After leaving the store, you shared carrying the bags on the way home. Oscar carried the two big bags to spare you, but you insisted on taking the smaller one. “Teamwork,” you said, laughing. Oscar bumped your shoulder lightly. “More fun than racing with you.”

Back home, he put on some music. Soft jazz played in the background as Oscar pulled out his keys and opened the door. “Ready? Now the real test begins. Because I’m leaving the kitchen to you.” “You made your biggest mistake,” you said as you placed the groceries on the counter. Oscar watched you with a faint smile on his lips. “You’re looking like the tastiest mistake of my life.”

***

In the kitchen, there was flour in the air, the scent of cheese, and a rising tension. But this tension wasn’t like the one during qualifying laps; it was the kind that quickens your heartbeat, tickles your insides, and leaves an involuntary smile playing on the corner of your lips. You sprinkled some flour on the counter and dumped the dough from a large glass bowl. As you started kneading with your fingers, Oscar, turned away from you, began grating the mozzarella cheese. Each scrape accompanied the silence of the kitchen, and every now and then he muttered, “Oh, these arm muscles aren’t just for driving, you know.” “I heard that,” you said, turning your head. Without facing you, Oscar just raised his hand. “Would you believe me if I said I built these muscles for you?” “No.” “You’re so realistic... and so charming...” “You’re full of talk.” “And you... you knead dough really well.” You couldn’t hold back a smile. While you rolled the dough flat, Oscar sliced the sausages thinly and chopped the olives, placing them on a plate. When he came over to show you the ingredients, his arm brushed against yours. You paused for a moment but didn’t pull away. On the contrary, his body warmth felt nice. “Ready, chef,” he said, giggling. “Let’s get the ingredients on the counter,” you replied. While placing the toppings on the pizza together, Oscar put his hand over yours. “Wait, this olive has to go right here. Like a masterpiece...” You swallowed. His eyes met yours. He was a bit too close now. His fingers gently brushed over yours as if to caress them. You coughed lightly and turned your head away. “I’m putting it in the oven,” you said, carefully placing the pizza on the tray. Oscar adjusted the oven settings while you started cleaning the counter. As you both reached out simultaneously to grab something, your hands collided again. This time, Oscar didn’t pull away; his hand stayed on top of yours. “I really like doing... even these simple things with you,” he said softly. “Dangerous talk,” you said, averting your eyes. “Because even if part of my mind is on the pizza, the other part is definitely on your lips.” You searched for something to say when Oscar leaned in. His lips lightly brushed yours — like a breeze gently touching your skin. It was so brief that you barely had time to figure out why your heart was racing before he placed another kiss. This one was longer, softer. Your eyes locked. Only the crackling from the oven filled the silence. “So... was this before or after the pizza on the menu?” you asked. Oscar tilted his head. “A little appetizer before dessert.” You smiled as he ran his fingers along your cheek. “Be ready, because even if you’re not the spice in the pizza... you’re definitely the one who changes the flavor.” When the pizza came out, the kitchen was filled with an irresistible aroma. The melted mozzarella cheese stretched lightly, olives were slightly crispy, and the sausages were perfectly crunchy. Oscar carefully sliced the pizza and handed you a piece. “This might be my proudest kitchen creation yet,” he said as he handed you the slice. “You meant ‘our’ creation,” you said with a laugh.

***

“This is seriously good,” you said with your mouth full. Oscar lounged in the chair, enjoying your reaction. “I knew it. What we make together... is pretty satisfying.” “I still haven’t forgotten that line, by the way,” you said, raising your eyebrows. “Then don’t forget this one either: After this pizza, I don’t want anything else. Maybe... if you’re by my side.” You both giggled as you finished the pizza, then agreed to “leave the dishes for tomorrow” and settled in front of the TV. Soft music played quietly in the background, and all the lights were off except the kitchen lamp. You rubbed your stomach softly and murmured, “I ate too much...” Oscar leaned his arm behind you. “Want me to give you a nice back massage?” “Not a massage, but... just being with you tonight is really comforting.” Oscar turned to look at you. For a few seconds, your eyes met. His gaze was gentle yet deep — a perfect mix of trust, slight curiosity, and plenty of desire. He slowly leaned toward you. His lips brushed your forehead, then your cheek. Then your chin, and finally, he trailed down your neck slowly. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice almost trembling. You held your breath. The tiny kisses on your neck made the hairs on your skin stand on end. Your heart started pounding faster, but calling it “fear” would be wrong — it was more like an overwhelming unknown. While Oscar’s lips were still on your neck, his hands wrapped around your waist. He pulled you close. His fingers slowly slipped under your shirt, touching your skin, and you tensed involuntarily. He noticed immediately. His lips pulled back. His hands retreated gently. He tilted his head slightly to see your face. “Hey… did something happen?” His voice was worried but calm. You nodded, your cheeks burning like fire. You couldn’t even move. “Was my touch too fast? If you want me to stop, I will immediately.” You struggled to breathe. “No, I mean... yes? I mean... you didn’t do anything, Oscar. It’s just... I got really... tense.” Oscar moved closer again, but this time without touching. His eyes found yours. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he whispered. “But whatever you feel, it’s yours. And I fully respect that.” You just nodded. The chaos inside you kept your voice silent, but in Oscar’s eyes, there was no judgment. Only understanding, compassion... and something that looked like a gentle disappointment. It was clear he cared about you and wouldn’t pressure you. You both stayed quiet for a while. Then Oscar gently reached out and stroked your cheek. “If you want, we can sleep. I can just be there with you. I promise.” And so the night passed with a different kind of softness. This time, no kisses — only meaning, respect, and heart connection wrapped you both.

***

Early in the morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains. The silence still hung between you, but it was no longer the shy quiet of the night — it was the slowly unraveling reality of morning. You quietly moved to the edge of the bed. Oscar was still rubbing his eyes but sat up as soon as he noticed you. His gaze wasn’t worried — just cautious. He was waiting. Trying to figure out what to say, how to approach you. You bit your lip and nodded slightly. “For last night... I’m sorry,” you said almost in a whisper. Oscar frowned, but it wasn’t anger — it was genuine confusion. “I thought I did something to you, but... now you’re apologizing? No. Really, no need. Please don’t be ashamed of anything.” He moved closer and took both your hands in his. His touch was warm, reassuring. As his fingers gently stroked yours, he leaned his head slightly and looked at you. “I just want you to know... it will be however you want it to be. Whenever you want. Or even if you never want it... I’ll be here.” You paused. Your heart began to beat a little faster in your chest. The words were right there on your lips but speaking them was hard. Even your swallowed voice sounded loud to you. You looked away and said, “I’m... 21 years old,” your voice started firm but then turned almost childishly shy. “And... I’ve never... I mean...” Your voice dropped lower. “I’m a virgin.” The word slipped from your lips, and your heart seemed to drop to your stomach. Then you quickly added: “I’m not saying that means I don’t want to be with you. It’s just... life, racing, everything kept me busy. And... I guess I was waiting for the right person.” Oscar’s gaze didn’t change. He still looked at you with the same gentleness. He said nothing at first. Just leaned in and gently kissed your lips. The kiss was a calm thank you. Neither rushed nor withdrawn. It was simply a touch that said, “I understand. And I’m here.” Then he pulled away and kissed your forehead. “So...” he said with a soft smile. “Then we’ll go at that pace.” “How?” you whispered. “As slowly as you want... we’ll go that slowly.” “And... if one day I want to stop?” “We’ll stop.” “And if I want to run?” Oscar winked. “Only if you promise not to let go of my hand, I’ll run with you.” You just nodded. The only thought in your mind was how much you wanted to surrender to Oscar’s warmth. And in the softness that wrapped you, how he made you feel accepted exactly as you were. All the shame left over from the night turned into a peaceful trust.

***

That morning, Oscar was arranging the empty plates on the kitchen counter when you quietly approached from behind. Even his everyday, simple look gave you a sense of security—just like the understanding he showed you that morning.

You hesitated for a moment. But then the warmth growing inside you didn’t stop you. With your fingertips, you touched his waist and said softly but firmly, “I’m ready.”

Oscar turned around, surprise mixed with focused attention in his eyes. “For what?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. You just smiled gently and moved closer. When your lips met his, you realized something had shifted—you were the one leading now. The kiss was innocent, maybe, but the courage behind it made Oscar pause.

Your hands slipped under his T-shirt, first to his waist, then slowly moving upward. Your fingers brushed over his toned abs and chest, making Oscar twitch slightly.

“Whoa…” he whispered with a laugh, then his lips found yours again. “You’re getting harder and harder to handle,” he murmured, admiration in his voice, no complaint.

You didn’t want to pull your hands back. You wanted to feel his warmth, his solid body a little more. As you traced his chest, you realized you could count his heartbeat—not just fast, but almost matching your own rhythm.

Oscar took a step back. His breath was a bit quicker, but his gaze steady. “Is it okay if I do this?” he asked, gently touching the bottom edge of your T-shirt with both hands.

You nodded. “Yes. Just… slowly.”

His fingers slid inside your shirt, following your waist toward your back. His fingertips explored your skin—neither rushed nor hesitant. Just careful, respecting your boundaries.

The space between you almost vanished. When skin touched skin, his touch didn’t scare you; instead, it gave you a warmth that accepted you as you were.

Oscar rested his forehead against yours. “You know you started this, right?” he whispered.

You smiled. “And I’m not stopping yet.”

With your hands still on his chest, feeling his skin warm under your fingers, the air between you thickened noticeably. But you didn’t want to stop—not just yet.

Looking into his eyes, you slowly kissed his neck. You felt his breath change. Then you pulled back slightly, took his hand, and stepped away.

One step. Then another. And one more.

Oscar looked at you, surprised. “Where are you taking me?”

“The bedroom,” you said calmly. “But not just to lie down…”

He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Aren’t we supposed to go slow?”

You hesitated, then leaned toward him with a playful smile. “But slow allows for little detours, right?”

Oscar laughed out loud. “You’re like a slow-motion crash…”

“And you’re not complaining about this crash,” you replied, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, but right now I feel like I’m losing control…”

You both moved into the room. As you closed the door, Oscar’s eyes stayed fixed on you. You smiled softly, then walked toward the bed. As he followed, you grabbed his arm and gently pulled him back. He sat on the edge, and you sat facing him, leaning onto his knees.

Oscar didn’t move at first—he looked at your face, then slowly placed his fingers on either side of your waist, sliding under your T-shirt.

At the same time, your hands found his T-shirt. Your fingertips traced a path from his sculpted abs up to his chest.

“I like being synchronized with you,” you said softly, your eyes locked on his.

Oscar smiled faintly. “Being in sync with me might be a bit dangerous, though…”

Suddenly, he leaned in. His lips touched yours—soft at first, then a bit deeper. The kiss was determined, but patient.

When you parted, you touched his forehead. “We’re moving slow, but… I still can’t stop kissing you.”

Then you kissed him again—longer, deeper. His hands stayed under your shirt, his thumbs gently stroking your waist.

Your hands still exploring inside his shirt, roaming over his back, you tried to get used to his muscles and warmth, but each touch sent new waves through your body.

Oscar hesitated for a moment, looking into your eyes. “Is it okay if I do this?”

Both hands still inside your shirt, he seemed to want to feel you more.

“No,” you said. “Yes. But slowly.”

And as he pulled off your shirt, he planted another kiss on your lips.

Then another—under your chin.

A third one trailed down to your collarbone.

You grabbed his T-shirt, looking into his eyes like saying, “My turn.”

Your fingers roamed over his abs as you started pulling his T-shirt up.

Oscar raised his arms, and together you pulled it off.

“Damn…” you said involuntarily, eyes wandering over his chest.

He smirked, raising an eyebrow. “I want a review. Am I five stars?”

“In my book… six stars,” you said with a light laugh.

And then you kissed him again—this time on his chest.

Where your kisses left marks, his breath changed, and his hands slid down to your hips.

As your touches grew bolder, kisses moved from lips to chest, your arms wrapped around each other, and your legs intertwined, your heartbeats matched rhythm perfectly. But not a single move from Oscar was rushed.

Every time he looked into your eyes, it was like saying, “If you say stop, I will.”

That feeling of control being yours made everything even more special.

That night, maybe you didn’t take a step further—but you got closer than ever before.

After whispering a few last words in the dim light, Oscar reached out and turned off the light.

That brief darkness made all the feelings clearer.

Lying side by side in bed, backs almost touching, your bodies’ warmth pressed together.

The silence in the room invited you to listen only to your heartbeats.

Minutes passed. Sleep was coming, maybe—but your thoughts nudged your most honest self before sleep.

You took a deep breath.

“Oscar?” Your voice was almost a whisper.

A sleepy but attentive “Hmm?” came from him.

He didn’t move. He waited.

You couldn’t say anything for a while.

Then—with a shy, almost embarrassed hesitation: “I heard… first times… like… hurt.”

There was a little movement in the dark. Then an arm slowly pulled you close, over your shoulder.

Leaning on Oscar’s chest, his voice echoed in your neck.

“Hey… hey… baby… whoever told you that, left out some details.”

His hand traced slow circles on your back with his palm.

“Whenever you’re ready, however you want… nothing’s rushed. And I would never, ever hurt you. On the contrary—everything is for your comfort.”

He planted a kiss behind your ear.

Before you could say anything, Oscar’s hand moved to the side of your face, his thumb gently stroking your skin.

“If you want, we can just cuddle. Or just talk. And one day, when you’re fully ready…” A pause. Your eyes met. “…not just physically, but feeling it inside too… that’s when I’ll show you what it really means.”

You shifted, resting your head on his chest.

You nodded slightly.

“Oscar…”

“Say it.”

“With you… I feel… so safe.”

Oscar tightened his arms a little more, pulling you deeper into that warm, safe embrace.

“That’s all I ever wanted.”

And that night, the words spoken in silence reached deeper than any touch.

 I’d love to hear what you think! Would you like to read the next part? Let me know your thoughts or any ideas — messages and asks are always welcome! 💖

[elliebubblee]

Last Minute Driver (Part 2)

Part 1 in here

Pairing: Female F1 Driver x Oscar Piastri Genre: Enemies to lovers, slow burn, F1 AU, angst & fluff Warnings: Mild language, competitive tension, emotional vulnerability, high-speed flirting Summary: Thrown into the F1 world as the sport’s only female driver, she’s not here to play nice. But when fierce rivalry with Oscar Piastri starts to blur the lines between hate and something dangerously close to desire, both are forced to question: is this just competition, or something more?

Contains:Lots of banter, unexpected moments of softness ,the occasional crash (emotional and otherwise)

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for all the love and support on the first part — I honestly didn’t expect that kind of reaction, and it means the world to me! 💖 If you’d like to see a Part 3 (maybe with a little more spice 👀), feel free to let me know in the comments! Your feedback keeps me writing, and I already have some ideas brewing... 😉

English isn’t my first language, so thanks for your patience with any mistakes! 💖

Your arrival in Monaco passed quicker than you expected. The city welcomed you like a spoiled little prince(ss): narrow streets, flashy cars, and that sparkling sea view—it all started showing off right away. The team car picked you up from the terminal and took you to the hotel in a short but dazzling ride. The room was spacious, bright, and its balcony overlooked the marina directly. It was real... your first Monaco weekend on the grid had begun.

Before unpacking, you went to the window. It was noisy outside, but inside, there was only silence. Not fear, not excitement... just that familiar race week tension. Just as you were about to flop onto the bed, your phone buzzed.

Oscar: Don’t tell me Monaco already stole your heart. You’re not skipping sim practice tomorrow, right? 9 AM sharp. Don’t make me come drag you out of bed.

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips curled up.

You: Please. If anyone’s skipping, it’s you. I’ve seen how "motivated" you get when it’s early morning and no cameras are around.

Oscar: Rude. I’m trying to be responsible here. You said you wouldn’t bail, remember? Imola. Sim room. You, me, bad jokes, and lap times.

You: I remember. I just didn’t think you’d be this eager to lose.

Oscar: Oh, I’m counting on it. But if I do lose, you’re buying coffee after.

You: Deal.

The next morning. You’d woken up before your alarm. Not tired, just... more alert. You put on something simple, but paused a bit longer in front of the mirror. A little mascara, a natural shade on your lips. "Not dressing up—just freshening up," you told yourself. This wasn’t a race with Oscar, but it counted as a warm-up.

When you entered the sim room, Oscar was already there. Not in the seat, though—he was leaning against the wall, water bottle in hand, watching you.

"Wow," he said, scanning you head to toe. "Either it’s the Monaco air or it’s you... but one of you is definitely looking extra good this morning."

You tried not to smile. Failed. "If you came here to flirt, you’re in the wrong room, Romeo. This is sim training."

"Flirting is my default mode," he said with a mock-wink. "But fine, sim time."

You sat down together at your setups. The track wasn’t real, but the adrenaline felt the same. From the wheel vibrations to brake pressure—it was all a serious rehearsal.

"You still take right-handers a bit too aggressively," you said at one point.

"I drive with passion. Don’t critique my art," he replied.

At the end of the session, you glanced at your lap time. Oscar peeked over and smiled.

"0.05 seconds?" you squinted. "Seriously?"

"Well... you made the deal. Loser buys coffee. I’m just honoring the terms," you said, shrugging and trying to hide your grin.

Oscar tilted his head, a sly smile on his lips. "That’s sneaky. I respect it."

By the time you finished, you both felt more relaxed. It wasn’t serious, but it was useful. And most importantly, it seemed like you both enjoyed the flirty tension. As you walked out, Oscar stepped closer.

"Think you’ll be just as good on the real track tomorrow?"

"I might’ve answered, but the words 'real track' made me laugh a little."

"Say what you want," he said with a look that almost passed for a wink. "But I’ll have coffee ready. Maybe you’ll owe me one after the race, who knows?"

Back at the hotel, you wanted to crash onto the bed but remembered media day and sighed.

When you opened your wardrobe, your first thought was: "Not too bold, not too plain." A pair of high-waisted black trousers and an elegant crop top would do. Your makeup was a little more defined—some eyeshadow to bring out your gaze, a nude gloss on your lips. Hair straightened. The mirror said, "serious but stunning." Perfect.

Just as you were putting on your shoes, your phone buzzed.

Oscar: Heading to the paddock soon. Want to come with me? I’ll wait in the lobby.

You smiled.

You: Give me 5. Don’t leave without me, or I’m sending your worst sim lap to the engineers.

Oscar: Terrifying. You’ve convinced me.

When you got to the lobby, Oscar had already spotted you. He’d thrown on a light jacket over a black tee. Hair a little messy, but still perfectly laid-back.

"Look at us. Like two professionals or something," he said with a grin.

"Don’t get used to it," you said, joining him. "Tomorrow we’re back to helmets and engine noise."

"Honestly? I’m fine with both, as long as you’re still this tolerable."

"Wow," you rolled your eyes. "A compliment wrapped in an insult. Classic you."

The car ride was quiet, but Monaco never is. As you passed through the narrow streets, you were surrounded by flashy cars, cameras, and race posters.

Looking out the window, Oscar said, "This place... it’s ridiculous."

"Built to drive in. A bit too glamorous to live in," you replied.

"Do you think it’s more special to win here, or to score your first points?"

You thought for a moment. "To win. Because everyone’s watching. And they remember you."

Oscar was silent, then turned to you. "So winning makes you unforgettable, huh?"

"Absolutely. And if you win... you’re more like 'unforgettably loud' than anything."

He laughed. "Your honesty always gets me."

By the time you arrived at the paddock, the media zone was already buzzing. Team members, mics, whispers backstage... everyone trying to make their driver shine. All you had to do was play your part.

The first reporter smiled. "You had a strong start in Imola. Do you think Monaco will be more challenging, especially as a rookie on a street circuit?"

"Every track is challenging. But street circuits... they reward precision and punish ego. I know which side I’m leaning on."

Another jumped in quickly. "There’s been a lot of talk about your dynamic with Oscar Piastri. Friendly rivalry or something more?"

You narrowed your eyes, raised an eyebrow. "Let’s just say we push each other—in lap times and sarcasm."

Oscar seemed to be listening nearby. When he heard your answer, he smirked. When it was his turn, he pointed at you and said:

"She’s fast. Too fast sometimes. But don’t tell her I said that."

As you left the media area, you stuffed your phone back in your pocket with a sigh. Oscar walked up beside you, equally worn out.

"Journalists," he muttered. "They either want drama or a headline. Preferably both."

"And we just want to race," you giggled.

You were walking toward the garage when Oscar slowed down a bit.

"Hey... later tonight. Want to grab something? Just the two of us. To detox from all this press madness."

You turned to him, eyeing him sideways. "Just the two of us, huh?"

"Just coffee," he said, that familiar half-smile back on his lips. "Unless you want to make it something more..."

You shrugged. “I guess I can spare an hour for my favourite rival.”

Oscar gave a small nod. “Besides, I owe you a coffee. That sim lap? Still haunts me.”

You laughed. “0.05 seconds, Oscar. Sometimes big talk ends in tiny espressos.”

He smiled. “Text me when you’re back at the hotel. I know a place.”

“Let’s say I’m ready to be outqualified. Just to spice things up.”

You burst out laughing. “Didn’t that already happen in Imola?”

Oscar placed a hand on his chest. “Wounded. Deeply.”

Later that night, he dropped you off at your hotel. There was a quiet moment as you said goodbye.

“Hey… Tomorrow. Try not to crash into me, yeah?”

“Only if you stay out of my way.”

He winked as he walked away. You watched him go, smiling to yourself.

—

The alarm buzzed with a soft smile still lingering on your lips. After breakfast, you slipped into your team tee and shorts, tied your hair up, dabbed a little concealer under your eyes and added a bit of lip balm. Nothing more—after all, it was race day.

Down in the hotel lobby, Oscar was waiting in the corner with two coffees.

“White or black?” he asked.

“Black. Like my sense of humour.”

“Perfect. Match made in Monaco.”

As you walked together, Oscar brought up something from the sim.

“By the way… that fake-out at turn 10 yesterday? Planning to try that in FP1?”

“Depends. Planning to copy me again?”

Oscar laughed. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?”

As you neared the paddock, the engines roared louder. That familiar thrill returned—the sweet chaos of race day settling into your bones.

“Ready, partner?” Oscar asked, locking eyes with you.

You were.

The sun kissed your skin as you sipped your coffee, heading toward the gate. Oscar walked beside you, both in team gear, quiet smiles playing under the morning light.

A teenage girl suddenly rushed up, notebook in hand, eyes wide with nerves.

“Can I… can I get your autographs? Both of you? Please!”

You smiled. Oscar nodded. “Of course,” you said.

She asked for yours first, then Oscar’s. As she fumbled with her pen, she glanced between the two of you, curious.

“Are you guys, like… together?”

You froze for a split second, then laughed. “No, no. We’re just… teammates.”

Oscar’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent. The girl thanked you and ran off. You both watched her go.

You turned to him. “That was awkward.”

Oscar nodded. “Hmm. That was… inaccurate.”

Your brows shot up. “Sorry?”

But he just smiled and looked ahead. “Nothing. Just saying… you didn’t exactly deny it with much conviction.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Oscar…”

“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping slightly closer. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”

FP1 and FP2 were some of the most intense parts of the weekend. The day began with team meetings, media duties, technical briefings. Then… it was time.

Helmet on. Visor down.

FP1 was all about learning. The track still held the chill of morning, the tarmac slick, corners biting back. Oscar had the upper hand for a while, but you topped his time in the final stint, earning a quiet “Nice job” over the radio.

FP2 turned up the heat. Heavier cars. Faster pace. You could hear Oscar’s sector times crackle through the radio. Your goal wasn’t just to improve. It was to beat him.

And you did. Just barely.

As evening settled, the team packed up the garage. Exhausted, you changed out of your gear and slung your backpack over one shoulder. In the mirror, you caught your reflection—messy hair, smudged makeup, tired but proud eyes.

Back at the hotel, your phone lit up with a few notifications. You ignored them. Showered. Threw on a tee. Collapsed onto the bed.

And as your head hit the pillow, it wasn’t your lap times that played in your mind.

It was his words.

“That was… inaccurate.”

What had he meant? A joke? A hint? Just tired flirting?

Your phone buzzed. His name lit up.

Oscar Hey. You alive?

You smiled. Eyes on the ceiling, you typed:

You Barely. If I die in my sleep, tell the world I died faster than you in sector 3.

Oscar Noted. But I’d prefer if you stayed alive a bit longer. Makes it more fun to lose to you.

You hovered for a moment, wanting to ask:

“That thing you said earlier... what did you mean?”

But you didn’t.

You backspaced the whole thing.

And sent a white heart instead.

Oscar didn’t reply. But you saw he was online. And he stayed there… for a while.

—

Your alarm rang. You squinted at the screen—6:42. The sun barely up. You closed your eyes a few more seconds, still lost in your dream. Back on the track. But this time, Oscar wasn’t your rival.

He was laughing beside you.

You shook your head and sat up. Shoulders sore, legs heavy. But it was the good kind of tired.

You looked in the mirror. “Alright,” you said to yourself, toothbrush in hand. “Let’s go stir up the grid again.”

Dressed, packed, ready. You checked your phone.

No message from Oscar. No reply. But you remembered he was online. And somehow, that was enough.

Maybe that silence was his answer. Maybe… he just got it.

The hotel lobby was quiet. You grabbed your coffee from the barista with a nod and headed to your ride.

Out the window, the track’s familiar curves came into view. Your pulse quickened.

At the paddock gate, the guard recognized you and lifted the barrier.

Cool air brushed your face through the window.

The engines hadn’t started yet—but Monaco was already alive.

You stepped into the garage, greeted by familiar scents—rubber, oil, metal. Anticipation.

You made your rounds. Engineer. Media officer. The team was still waking up, shaking off the morning fog.

As you walked past the pit wall, a voice called out:

“Early bird.”

You turned. Oscar stood there, leaning casually, hair a mess, holding a coffee mug and wearing that annoyingly relaxed team shirt.

“I didn’t bring you one,” he said. “I know your order now. This one’s mine.”

You raised your brows. “Charming and selfish. Love that combo.”

As you walked past, your shoulders brushed.

“Ready?” he asked. Voice serious. But still with that glint.

“Always,” you said. “You?”

Oscar glanced toward the track. Then back at you.

“Let’s just say… I race better when I know you’re watching.”

Your heart flipped. But you kept walking.

“I always watch,” you called back. “Even when I beat you.”

His laugh followed you all the way to the garage.

“Five minutes till briefing!” someone from the pit crew shouted.

Oscar sighed. “Highlight of the day.”

“For now,” you said, stepping in.

—

Track was busier during FP3. Monaco’s narrow corners left no room for error. A millimeter could ruin everything.

After final checks with the team, you hit the track.

On your second lap, the car ahead slowed abruptly. Your lap was ruined. Nearly a collision.

You cursed quietly, trying to stay focused.

Oscar’s voice cut in through the McLaren radio, annoyed:

“Are they even watching their mirrors? She was on a flyer! That’s ridiculous.”

The team responded instantly. “Copy. We saw it. Reporting now.”

By the end of FP3, both McLarens were in the top five. The garage buzzed with cautious optimism. Engineers grinned.

Oscar pulled off his helmet, turned to you.

“You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for the backup.”

He smiled. “Always.”

**

There was a mild buzz in the garage as quali approached, but your inner voice was surprisingly calm. Your heart was pounding, but not from fear — it was the thrill of competition, and maybe a strange sense of security from the presence of a familiar helmet nearby. Q1, Q2 — the tempo kept building. Monaco offered no room for error, but your laps were near perfection. Q3 had started. Oscar went out first. He was fast, but on his final lap, traffic caught up with him. A slow car ahead ruined his line. A slight slide, a millisecond loss — the kind Monaco never forgives. His frustration crackled over the radio: “We were supposed to time that better.” The pit wall responded: “Copy. P3 for now.” You had waited. Clean track, warmed tires, breath held in perfect focus — you began your final lap. Pushing harder with every corner. No cars in the mirror. Just you, the wheel, and Monaco. Out of the final corner, you went full throttle. As you hit the straight, the team radio erupted: “That’s it! That’s pole! P1! Incredible lap!” Your hands were still shaking on the wheel when you returned to the pits. The engineers greeted you with shining eyes. As you took off your helmet, your gaze searched for Oscar. Before he could reach you, Antonelli stepped in, smiling. “Congrats. That was insane.” “Thanks,” you said, but your eyes were still on Oscar. He walked toward you, calm expression in place — but his eyes said something else. “Not bad,” he said, voice a little husky. “First pole, huh?” You nodded with a soft smile. “You almost had me.” He stepped closer. “Yeah. Almost.” A pause. He met your eyes. “Guess I’ll just have to chase you tomorrow.” Oscar had taken P3. Someone else had snatched P2. And as he turned and walked away, the only thing on your mind was: The race hadn’t started, but your heart had already crossed the line.

**

You were determined to spend the evening before the race alone in your room. Lights dimmed, phone on silent, TV on but volume low. The thoughts in your head wouldn’t shut up. You stepped out to grab water from the hallway — and turned the corner straight into him. Oscar, in comfy sweats, holding a drink can, smiled slightly when he saw you. “Didn’t expect to see you out of your cave,” he teased gently. You raised a brow. “Needed water. Some of us hydrate properly, you know.” Oscar chuckled. “Touché.” You both paused. Even the empty hallway felt full with the two of you in it. He didn’t look away. “Big day tomorrow.” You nodded. “Yep. First pole. Pressure’s on.” Oscar shrugged. “Pressure makes diamonds.” He looked you in the eye. “You’ll shine.” That line hit you. You swallowed. “Thanks. You too. P3 isn’t bad. Good launch, good strategy… Who knows?” “Who knows indeed,” he said with his signature smirk. Then took a step back. “Anyway, I should let you rest. Don’t want you falling asleep behind the wheel tomorrow.” You smiled. “Sweet dreams, Piastri.” Oscar turned, then paused. He glanced back at you. “You too. And hey…” A moment’s hesitation. “Good luck out there. Not that you’ll need it.” As he walked away, you stood there frozen. You’d left your room for water — but the warmth Oscar left behind was more satisfying than anything you could’ve poured into a glass.

**

You didn’t wake up from sunlight seeping through the curtains. Truthfully, you hadn’t really slept at all. Thoughts spinning in your head, adrenaline running through your veins despite the weight of the day. Excitement sat right in the center of your stomach — but it didn’t scare you. It kept you alive. Wasn’t this what you lived for? Racing. Competing. Winning. You caught your reflection in the mirror. Your eyes had a glint you hadn’t seen before. This wasn’t an ordinary day. It was race day. In Monaco. Your first pole.

You were about to make something to eat when your phone buzzed. Oscar: Morning, pole sitter. Join me for breakfast? Don’t worry, I saved you a seat. Your fingers hovered over the message. Politeness? Routine? Or something more? Then your gaze fell on that last part — I saved you a seat — and you smiled. You didn’t even need to reply. You were going.

**

Hotel lobby Oscar was waiting in the hotel’s small breakfast area. It wasn’t too warm yet, but the room was dim and cozy. He wore a black T-shirt, sunglasses perched on his head, his face tired but relaxed. He looked worn out, but the second he saw you, something lit up in his expression. He locked eyes with you and gave a slight nod. “Didn’t oversleep. Impressive.” You grinned. “You said breakfast. I came. Can’t defend pole on an empty stomach.” As you took the seat across from him, Oscar raised his orange juice. “Not poisoned, I promise.” “Yet,” you said, eyeing him sideways. Your voice was calm, but the flutter inside was hard to ignore. Being alone with Oscar — especially like this — was never easy. Sweet, but never easy. And you didn’t like easy things.

You nodded. “For both of us.” You had more to say, really. But sometimes, the eyes felt safer than words. Oscar reached for a strawberry on the plate, and his voice softened a little. “Can I tell you something?” he said, leaning in slightly. “Seeing you ahead of me on the grid? Annoying. But also… motivating.” You tilted your head slightly without squinting. That familiar, challenging smile appeared on your lips. “Don’t try to pass me, Piastri. Watching from behind suits you.” Oscar chuckled, a glint in his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

Time slowed, just a little. You set your fork down, and for a moment, you thought: If there was a good luck charm hidden in this morning, maybe it was Oscar’s smile. And maybe, something as thrilling as pole position... was playing this game with him.

By the time you finished breakfast, only a few crumbs remained on your plates—but what truly lingered wasn’t silence. It was a kind of anticipation, a tension hanging in the air. Sweet, sharp, dancing on the tightrope before a race. It wasn’t just about racing—you knew it, and so did he.

Oscar stood and stretched. “Ready to play hero today?” As you stood, your eyes met. “Only if you play the villain.” His gaze narrowed slightly. “Oh, I wear black for a reason.”

No one stopped you as you left the lobby together, but a few heads did turn. It was race morning in Monaco. The only female driver on the grid and Oscar Piastri, who trailed you by a hundredth of a second in the final quali run, walking side by side. Even that felt like a photograph-worthy moment.

You got into the private car that would take you both to the paddock. Outside the window, Monaco's chaotic glamour slid by—the glinting yachts, crowds lining the streets, the stacked apartments. But your mind was only on corners. Rascasse. Casino. And of course, that infamous tunnel.

Oscar sat silently beside you—not anxious, but focused. When you looked at his profile, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. This was his race mode. And somehow, it put you into yours.

When the car pulled up to the paddock entrance, you stepped out first. The salty, slightly rubber-scented Monaco morning air filled your lungs. You were used to it. This was your battlefield.

Oscar stepped up beside you and paused. As he put on his sunglasses, he leaned in close and whispered: “See you out there, superstar.” Then he walked off toward his garage.

Despite the chaos pounding in your chest, you kept walking with calm, steady steps. This was your day. This was your track. And the woman on the front row of the grid? She was ready to make history.

You stopped the car right on the line. When you shut off the engine, your heart still hadn’t slowed down. Your hand lingered on the steering wheel. It really happened. Monaco. You’d won. With a wide grin on your face, you leaned your head back.

As you undid your seatbelts, the voices in the team radio turned into screams. The sun hit your face differently the moment you opened the door and stepped onto the track. You squinted.

And then—two arms lifted you off the ground.

Oscar had picked you up onto his shoulders.

The crowd went wild. The fans were losing it. Oscar held you up like he was carrying a champion— But that cocky grin of his? Like he maybe felt a tiny bit responsible for the win too.

Oscar (grinning): “Told you. Wildest celebration ever starts now.”

You laughed, holding onto his shoulder as your hair whipped in the wind. You waved to the crowd while cameras snapped like crazy. You raised one hand in a victory sign.

Climbing the car – celebration continues

Once he set you down, you ran to your car with all that adrenaline still burning. Using the halo for support, you climbed up and sat on the nose. Then you stood. Arms spread wide, head tilted back. Your eyes were watery—but you weren’t crying.

A wave rose from the crowd. They were chanting your name.

You (shouting toward your team): “We did it!”

Celebrating with the team

You jumped down and ran straight into your team’s arms. They wrapped around you instantly. A couple of engineers were jumping. Someone spun you around. Sparkling water bottles burst open. Your shirt was soaked, but you didn’t care. You tossed your helmet somewhere. Your hair was a mess, but you’d never looked more beautiful.

Oscar stood to the side, watching. That familiar, meaningful smile on his face. Then he walked up to you—slowly.

Oscar: “I was gonna say something clever, but… then you crossed that line and I forgot everything.”

You raised an eyebrow.

You (grinning): “Well, I did win, didn’t I?”

Oscar (leaning in): “Then I guess I owe you the rest of the wildest celebration… tonight.”

For a moment, the world quieted. Cameras turned elsewhere. It was just the two of you. You didn’t move closer, but the spark between you? It was burning hotter than the Monaco Grand Prix itself.

Podium Ceremony

You grabbed your helmet and walked to the podium. The crowd parted like a curtain. When your name was announced, you stepped up. Your face lit up. You raised the champagne bottle.

It exploded. Foam sprayed through the air. You leaned your head back as Oscar sprayed you— You got him right back. Leclerc smiled in between you two like he knew what was up.

But you only had eyes for each other.

Parc Fermé – Post-race Interview

You were still drenched in sweat, but your eyes sparkled. Microphones were shoved toward you. Flashes popped like crazy.

Reporter: “Congratulations on your first F1 win—and in Monaco, no less! How are you feeling?”

You (laughing): “Like I just rewrote a dream. The team was amazing. The car was on fire today. And Monaco? You couldn’t script this better.”

Reporter: “You’ve shown incredible composure under pressure. Especially with Oscar and Antonelli right behind—what was the battle like?”

You: “They’re both insanely talented. Oscar kept me on my toes the whole time. Honestly? I had to push like hell.”

Oscar was in the background, leaning casually. He winked. You caught it, of course.

Hotel Room – Evening

The adrenaline had just begun to fade into a soft exhaustion when you stepped out of the shower. You looked in the mirror. Not a world champion now—but a young woman about to shine again.

You dried your hair, giving it soft waves. Slipped into a satin dress—not flashy, but elegant. Enough to remind the room who the star was.

A message lit up your phone:

Oscar: “I booked us a VIP spot. Drinks are on me. Don’t be late, champ.”

Your cheeks flushed.

Monaco Nightclub – The Night Begins

The club pulsed with lights. The bass of the music thrummed in your chest. Oscar met you at the entrance. Black shirt, a button undone, hair perfectly messy. He handed you a drink.

Oscar: “To your win… and to the fact I didn’t cry about P3.”

You (toasting): “To keeping it classy, Mr. Piastri.”

First shots. Then cocktails. A few dances… then a few more. Oscar was always nearby. When your hands brushed, he didn’t pull away. Every glance lasted longer.

Oscar: “You know, you’re kinda hard to look away from tonight.”

You (leaning slightly in): “Blame the lighting.”

Oscar (smiling): “Nope. I’m blaming you.”

Later in the Night – Club

Oscar: “Guess we’re past pretending now, huh?”

You: “Seems like it.”

You danced. You laughed. When Oscar’s hand found your waist, you didn’t hesitate. Everyone was having fun—but what was building between you two? That was something else entirely.

Club Balcony – Late Night

City lights reflected on the water. Silence for a few seconds.

Oscar turned to you. He gently took your hand.

Oscar (softly): “Still thinking about the race?”

You: “Actually… no. Right now, I’m thinking about this exact moment.”

His eyes locked with yours. And then he leaned in—slowly, like this moment had been waiting forever.

Your first kiss came in the Monaco night—tasting of champagne and adrenaline.

You were a little buzzed, sure. But your heart? Wide awake. The world kept spinning—but you were only spinning in each other.

Oscar stepped closer. His hand hovered near your waist, fingers pausing in the air— As if he wanted to feel not just your skin, but your whole soul.

His gaze locked with yours. This wasn’t flirting anymore. This was real.

Oscar (barely a whisper): “If I kiss you now… you’ll never forget it.”

You tilted your head slightly. You didn’t say a word—but the answer was loud and clear. Your eyes fluttered closed. Your heart skipped a beat.

Then… his lips touched yours.

The first touch was tender, almost hesitant—like he was checking if this was real. His breath mingled with yours—citrus, night air, and something electric. His fingers finally settled on your waist—gentle, like he was wrapping you in a thought.

When your hand reached his cheek, your heart couldn’t contain itself. The kiss deepened. No longer a dance—but your lips found a rhythm all their own. Forward, back. No rush. Just fullness.

Time slowed. The club’s noise faded. City lights gleamed on your skin. But you? You were only in each other.

His fingers tangled in your hair. And in that moment, no victory, no podium had ever felt this big.

When he pulled back, your eyes were still closed. Your lips slightly parted. Your breath uneven.

Oscar (chuckling): “Told you.”

You smiled. Turned your head shyly—but your cheek was still burning.

Uber – On the Way to the Hotel

You rested your head on Oscar’s shoulder. His calm breath, his quiet presence— Everything you’d felt that night settled even deeper.

Oscar glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. He smiled. His hand landed gently on your thigh, drawing small circles with his fingers. Oscar (whispering to himself): "Tough girl… but you melt like butter."

You had already fallen asleep.

Hotel Entrance – Late Night When Oscar woke you up, his voice was soft. Oscar: "Hey, champ. We’re here."

When you opened your eyes, you still felt warm and tender. The ride up in the elevator was quiet, but this time, the silence was easy—comfortable. The lights from the lobby glowed over you. Oscar walked you to your door.

You stood there for a moment, both choosing not to speak. Then he leaned in slightly.

Oscar (with narrowed eyes): "One more for the road?"

His lips touched yours again. This kiss wasn’t as long as the first, but it was bolder. More familiar. More you two.

When he pulled back, there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes. Oscar: "Funny thing is… I haven’t thought about Norris all night." You (giggling): "You’d better not. I don’t kiss distracted boys."

Oscar laughed, shaking his head. Oscar: "Let him. Tonight? Tonight was just ours."

He slowly slid his fingers off yours. Took a step back. But his eyes never left you.

Oscar: "Sleep tight, pole queen."

And then he was gone.

As you closed the door, your heart was still caught in your throat. You leaned your back against it. A smile rose right from where his lips had touched yours. Only one thought crossed your mind: “If this was a race… I won.”

[elliebubblee]

Last Minute Driver (Part 1)

Pairing: Female Driver x Oscar Piastri Genre: Romance / Sports Drama / Friends to Something More Warnings: Some tension, playful teasing, mild language, mentions of menstruation and related discomfort Summary: In a world where speed is everything, their rivalry is just the beginning. As the races heat up, so do their feelings — but neither is ready to admit it yet.

Contains: Fast cars, sharper words, secret smiles, moments that make hearts race faster than the track, and the ups and downs of menstruation reality.

English isn’t my first language, so thanks for your patience with any mistakes! 💖

Last Minute Driver

Your phone rang after midnight. And nothing good ever comes at that hour.

Half-asleep in bed, you turned over and glanced at the screen— your reflexes kicked in instantly.

Andrea Stella – McLaren.

Your heartbeat spiked. Why would the team principal call you at this time?

“Hello?” Your voice still laced with sleep, but adrenaline was already creeping in.

Andrea didn’t waste a second: “Lando broke his arm while cycling and won’t be racing in Imola. He might miss the next three races. Pack your bags; you’re flying out tomorrow morning.”

A heartbeat of silence.

People always say, “Be ready.” Now, the moment had arrived— and you didn’t even have time to wonder if you were ready. You were already packing.

When you arrived at the paddock, all eyes were on you.

Your name was printed on the back of your team shirt. Wearing the McLaren race suit as the only female driver on the grid meant carrying a weight that wasn’t visible, but felt with every step.

Team personnel, rival drivers, the media— every glance was laced with curiosity, some even with clear skepticism.

When it was time for the press conference, the microphones came at you like a storm.

“How do you plan to seize this opportunity?” “Does being the only woman on the grid put extra pressure on you?” “What will it be like teaming up with Oscar Piastri?” “Do you think you actually deserve this spot?”

That last one hit a nerve. But you smiled—cool and controlled. Your voice steady, your words sharp:

“Being on the grid isn’t a surprise to me. If it is to some of you, you better start getting used to it.”

Oscar was standing at the back of the room. No smile, no nod. Just watching. But in that one moment, his eyes told you something loud and clear: He never underestimated you. He had already taken you seriously.

When Oscar entered, he silently sat next to you, and for a moment, your eyes met.

“How were the boring press questions?” he asked, his tone flat, eyes fixed on the screen— just a few words. But still, he was there.

“One of them looked shocked when they realized I’m a woman,” you replied.

Oscar’s lips twitched—almost a smirk.

“F1 fans,” he said. “Expectations are low. Very low.”

“You too?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

A short silence.

“I only care who’s fast,” he said. “Everything else… just noise.”

That was it. And somehow, it was enough to steady your nerves.

The Morning of Free Practice 1

When you walked into the garage that morning, your reflection in the mirror looked strong— but there was still a slight knot in your stomach. Today, the track was yours. Or at least, it had to be.

Oscar was already there. His helmet set aside, eyes on the screens with an engineer. When he noticed you, he gave a small nod. In Piastri language, that meant: “Good morning.” You returned the gesture. Nothing dramatic. A quiet kind of harmony—oddly... comfortable.

Track Walk

It was time for the track walk. You had to walk side-by-side. Andrea, a few engineers, and a data analyst followed behind. You tried to focus on the racing line, but Oscar spoke out of nowhere:

“Anyone who brakes late here is either very brave... or very stupid.”

You smiled. You were starting to realize how few words he used— but how precise they were.

“I’m one of the brave ones,” you said.

“Then make sure you’re not the stupid one,” he replied, eyes never leaving the white line.

Classic Oscar.

At the end of the walk, when everyone started to split up, Oscar paused. He turned to you. There was something in his eyes— a seriousness that hadn’t been there before.

“If you have questions, don’t hesitate. I’ll help.” And then, even softer: “This… isn’t easy.”

Coming from him, that was practically a declaration.

You dipped your head slightly. “I’ll manage,” you said. “But thanks, Iceman.”

And then it happened— the corners of his lips twitched. Almost a smile. But of course, Oscar Piastri doesn’t smile. He just… looks.

Free Practice 1

When the session started, every corner of the track was a personal challenge. The vibration through the steering wheel, the engine’s growl, the engineer’s voice in your ear… And each time your heart raced, your eyes flicked to the timing screens— looking for Oscar’s lap times. Every time, you reminded yourself:

“I belong here — I really belong here.”

By the end of the session, you returned to the garage. Oscar was already there. He took off his helmet—hair matted with sweat— but his expression was unchanged.

He approached you and said just one word:

“You were solid.”

“Just solid?” you asked, your lips curving slightly.

He repeated, “You were solid. Not fast yet, but… consistent.”

Then he turned and walked away. And that— from Oscar— was high praise.

You smiled to yourself and thought:

“Everyone on the grid might be watching me… but him? He sees me.”

After Practice

The exhaustion lingered in your muscles. You had taken off your team shirt, your hair loosely tied up with a clip. The idea of staying alone in your quiet hotel room felt suffocating.

You decided to head downstairs to the hotel lounge. Maybe a hot tea… maybe just a moment of stillness.

But fate has a twisted sense of humor.

There he was— Oscar—sitting in one of the corner chairs. His back slightly hunched, a book in his hands. No coffee. No phone. Just him… and the pages.

You paused.

You weren’t even sure he’d noticed you, but the way he turned the page shifted. Without lifting his eyes, he spoke:

“If you want to sit here, there’s space.”

His tone was flat— predictably Oscar.

You slowly took the seat next to him. One cushion of distance. Silence stretched between you. The sound of pages turning, the occasional inhale.

Eventually, you tried to break it.

“What are you reading?”

“A book,” he replied without looking up. Then, a moment later— as if he realized that was unnecessarily blunt:

“Murakami.”

“Of course,” you said, chuckling. “You’re like the personification of a cool bookstore.”

Oscar turned slightly, just for a second, to glance at you. Quick enough to miss—if you blinked.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked:

“Today… when you were on track, what did it feel like?”

The seriousness in his voice caught you off guard. You shrugged— but your words came out honest.

“I wanted to prove I belong there. To myself. To them. To you.”

Oscar was silent for a while. Then he closed his book.

“You did.”

Just two words— but they carried weight.

Validation. Respect. Quiet admiration.

You looked away.

Oscar leaned back in his chair. Without turning his head, he spoke again:

“As long as you keep racing, the media will keep coming after us. If they ask who I support, I won’t answer.”

A strange heaviness settled between you.

You raised your brows.

“Why not?”

“Because if I answer... it’ll draw attention.” He finally turned his eyes to you. “And watching you without all the noise… is better.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. It sounded like something else—if spoken in another language.

But this was Oscar. He didn’t say what he felt. He just… hinted at it.

“So is that a compliment, or... something creepy?” you teased, smiling.

“Neither,” he said. “But maybe… a bit of instinct to protect.”

Another pause.

But this one didn’t suffocate.

It… settled.

Safe. Familiar.

Then Oscar stood up.

“Not goodbye. Just… sleep time.”

He paused, studying you for a second.

“Tomorrow, the grid’s going to be more interesting with you on it. Hope you wake up in time.”

And then, he walked away.

You stayed on the couch. Your heart raced— but not from an engine this time.

Race Weekend – Saturday Morning

You woke up before your alarm. Your mind was full… but clear. Today was qualifying day—your first official race weekend as the only female driver on the grid.

The moment your feet hit the floor, you felt something unusual. Not the pressure of eyes watching you— but a strange sense of power in knowing they would.

Team Meeting – 09:00

When you walked into the meeting room, Oscar was already there. He had two cups of coffee— and silently slid one across the table toward you as you sat down beside him.

No empty seat between you this time. Subtle.

The engineer started the briefing: track conditions, wind speeds, slipstream scenarios… the classic F1 morning script.

Then: simulation data.

The screen displayed lap predictions: Oscar: 1:16.445 You: 1:16.812

Your facial muscles tensed—just for a second.

Almost identical. But not quite. And that “almost” gnawed at you.

Engineer: “Sim says Oscar will have the edge. That gives us a chance to plan positioning—if timing’s right.”

Oscar cut in immediately: “Not worth it. Lap time should stay clean.”

The engineer raised an eyebrow. “You sure? DRS might help.”

Oscar looked at you. Directly. His next words weren’t for the team— they were for you.

“It’s your first quali. It’s more important you find your own rhythm.”

You hesitated. It was a kind gesture— but some part of you, fiery and ambitious, didn’t want to just accept the gap.

Instead of thanking him, you nodded slightly, voice firm:

“You beating me today is expected. But one day, I’ll be your equal. And after that… I’ll beat you.”

A few heads turned. Oscar didn’t flinch. Just a slight smirk—barely there, but right at the corner of his eye.

“Could happen,” he said. “Would be... interesting.”

After the Meeting

As you grabbed your bag, you heard his voice again:

Oscar: “Maybe we do the next sim session together. What do you think?”

You froze.

Internally: “Wait, what?”

Outwardly, you squinted:

“If I work with you, your data might finally get realistic,” you said.

A tease, but it landed.

Oscar nodded. “Cool. I’ll text you next week.”

Then, he left. You stood still for a few seconds.

You weren’t the fastest sim yet… But close enough to be respected. And close enough to be invited.

This—this was the real beginning.

Free Practice 3

The garage was quiet in the morning. Outside, engines were warming up— Inside, your crew worked with surgical precision, prepping your car.

Before FP3 began, you picked up your helmet. In the mirror, you caught Oscar’s gaze. He gave you the slightest nod—no words, no smile. Just a look that said: “You ready?”

FP3 went live. The track was still a little damp during the first run. Keeping the car stable until the tires reached temp was like walking a tightrope.

But on your second attempt… In Tamburello, you lifted off the throttle just a fraction too early.

It cost you 0.150 seconds.

Timing screen:

Verstappen – 1:15.892 Oscar – 1:15.918 You – 1:16.042

As you returned to the pit:

Engineer (on radio): “Nice run, but early braking out of Turn 9.”

You: “Copy.”

But deep down… You already knew— That mistake? It wasn’t repeating in the race.

Qualifying – Q1

Short stint. Steady push. The track was still cool. You just needed a clean lap to make it through.

You posted a 1:16.4—P5. Oscar went 1:16.2—P3. Verstappen’s radio: “This traffic is a joke.”

Classic Red Bull complaint.

Your radio: “Clean air. Good entry. Target +0.20 delta next run.”

You were locked in.

Q2

New softs. Track evolving.

First sector: purple. Second: green. Tiny understeer in the final corner— but you floored it.

On screen: P2. Oscar: P4. Verstappen: P1, one lap later.

The three of you—separated by just 0.250 seconds.

Q3

This was it. Two laps. Two shots.

First attempt: Clean, but a bit too much kerb on the final corner. Time: 1:15.912

Radio: “P3 for now. Verstappen ahead. Oscar hasn’t gone out yet.”

Then Oscar launched his final lap. The engine note faded at pit exit.

Timing screen lit up:

Sector 1: Purple – Oscar Sector 2: Purple – Oscar Sector 3: Green – but enough!

P1 – Oscar Piastri – 1:15.748 Verstappen – 1:15.801 You – 1:15.834

You were only 0.086 seconds behind. P3 on the grid.

A brief silence on the radio— then:

Engineer: “Unbelievable lap. Well done. P3. We’re proud of that.”

Your hands stayed on the wheel for a moment. Deep breath. Helmet off—sweat on your face, but fire in your eyes.

Oscar had stepped out of his car. He didn’t speak when he approached you. Just looked you up and down— Then gave a subtle nod.

You: “Nice lap.”

Oscar: “Close again.” Then came that signature, cold-but-smirking line: “You alright… or are you getting a little faster?”

You raised your brows, tilted your head. You: “What do you think?”

Oscar didn’t laugh. But his eyes did.

And just like that— Race day was approaching.

The front three of the grid: Piastri, Verstappen… and you.

Imola – Quali Night

When you walked into your hotel room, it felt like your feet were still dancing between throttle and brake.

You dropped your helmet bag. Slowly peeled off your team shirt. The mirror showed a face that was tired… but proud.

You’d just qualified P3 in your first ever F1 weekend. Among dozens of men on the grid, you were thirteen hundredths behind Verstappen. Just six hundredths behind Oscar.

If you’d just braked a fraction later in Sector 3… Maybe the narrative would be different.

But it didn’t matter. Because you were here now. Your name. Your speed. Your everything—was enough.

You lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Thinking about one thing.

Oscar.

His short replies. His refusal to act warm. And yet—every glance left something behind.

When he came over in the garage after quali, those few words nearly cracked open your chest.

“Close again.” “You alright… or are you getting a little faster?”

From Oscar, those nearly-compliments were worth a thousand words.

Your phone buzzed.

Engineer: “Briefing tomorrow at 14:45. It’s race day—let’s plan it together.”

Short. Clear. Disciplined. Just like you in race mode.

Race Day – 10:47

The breakfast room already had a few team members scattered around. You had oatmeal and coffee—something light. And then the door opened.

Oscar. Messy hair. Thermos in hand. That gray hoodie.

You made eye contact. He gave you a small nod. A silent hello. One he didn’t give anyone else.

As he passed by: Oscar: “Sleep okay?”

His voice was cold—like morning air— but the concern peeked through.

You: “Not bad. You?”

Oscar shrugged.

Oscar: “Dreamed I passed Verstappen. Woke up in P1.”

For the first time, you smiled wider than breakfast required.

You: “Nice try. But maybe today… I’ll pass Verstappen.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes.

Oscar: “I already want to see you on the grid.”

And then he walked off.

What did that mean? Did he really want to see you? Or just see you in his mirrors?

You walked toward the garage, your mind still tangled in that question.

The flutter in your belly— wasn’t from breakfast. And definitely not PMS.

Garage – 13:41

There’s never true silence in the paddock. But today… there was harmony.

Everyone was in place. Cameras set up. FIA officials with tablets walking around. And you— You hadn’t zipped up your race suit fully yet. Half-zipped, standing outside the motorhome. Helmet bag on the ground. Your hair dancing in the wind.

A team member approached: “Engineer will call you in five minutes. Final briefing.”

You nodded, but your mind was elsewhere.

Oscar was a few meters away, walking past the Red Bull hospitality. Race suit in hand. Headphones around his neck. Serious face.

You made eye contact.

His face? Poker-straight. But his eyes… They held yours for a second too long.

And just as he turned to walk away— he stepped back.

Oscar: “I’m on the left at the start. If you get a good launch… inside line is yours.”

Your brows furrowed. Was that advice? A challenge?

You: “If I take the inside… you gonna give me space?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then—a barely noticeable curl at his lip.

Oscar: “No. But at least now you know where I’ll be.”

And he walked away.

You swallowed.

Not sure what you felt. But your heart? It was pounding loud enough to drown out the engines.

14:49 – Inside the Garage

Your suit zipped up fully. Engineer stood waiting, tablet in hand.

Engineer: “Verstappen’s likely to squeeze inside. Your reflexes are strong—Alonso behind might apply pressure. Strategy: A1 – soft, medium, soft. If Safety Car comes out, switch to B2. Agreed?”

You: “Got it. I’ll avoid contact in Turn 1, but I’m not giving up position.”

He paused. Then quietly added:

Engineer: “Remember, it’s your first race. Know your limits.”

You glanced at the screen. Your name—P3. Oscar—right next to you.

Just like yesterday.

The paddock’s eyes were on you. A woman in a grid full of men. Each step carrying the weight of history. But that weight… it gave you strength.

Oscar’s car was already on the grid. As you passed by, he was crouched with his engineer. Yet his head turned slightly—at the sound of your footsteps.

A small, deliberate wink.

Your face flushed with heat. But this time… You didn’t hide it.

16:00 – In the Car

Helmet on. Radio check complete. Your fingers trembled slightly on the wheel.

Your engineer’s voice came through:

Engineer: “Drive clean. Start smooth. Be safe, but don’t be slow. Remember—you’re not just a name on the grid anymore.”

You closed your eyes. Took a deep breath. Oscar’s voice echoed in your mind:

“I’m on the left.” “You gonna give me space?” “No.”

You smiled.

This was it.

The battle was about to begin.

Imola GP – Race Start – 16:02

The engines roared.

The world… went silent.

Five red lights lit up— And just before they went out, you whispered to yourself:

“Come on, girl. Show them who you are.”

Your launch? Sharp. But Max, cool as ever, sealed off the inside line. Still—you were right there, side-by-side.

And the race had only just begun.

You had to take the outer line at Turn 1. Oscar had already rocketed ahead. But you held position.

P3.

But you didn’t come here just to be in the story. You came to write it.

Lap 11 – Incident at Turn 11

Stroll spun out exiting Turn 11, slamming into the barriers. Yellow flags waved. Seconds later, the Safety Car was deployed.

Over the radio, a quick update came in:

Engineer: “Safety Car deployed. Mind the delta. You're P3.”

Just ahead—Verstappen.

This was a strategy flashpoint. One of those moments that could flip a race.

After the Safety Car

Once the Safety Car peeled in, Oscar nailed the restart. But you…

You were breathing down Max’s neck.

Radio: “Green flag, green flag!”

One corner. Two corners…

At the third, Max stayed wide.

You dove inside.

Wheel to wheel. You braked just a beat later. The tires locked—briefly. But you held the car.

Radio (screaming): “BEAUTIFUL MOVE! You’re P2!”

Your heart was punching your ribs from the inside.

But then… something felt off.

At first, it was just… dampness. Heat. Uncomfortable, but familiar.

You tried to stay focused. Tried to keep your mind in the race.

But the sensation grew stronger.

Moisture was spreading underneath you. With every bump, every turn— There was weight. Pressure.

“No… Not now.”

A dull ache spread across your lower belly. A twisting tension, crawling deeper.

Period.

Inside your helmet—you exhaled. You thought about telling the team… But the whole world was watching.

And you didn’t want to make it a thing.

You had to stay in this race. At least… for now.

Verstappen was still haunting your mirrors.

He attacked. Again and again. You defended. Again and again.

But there was a cost: your tires.

Those softs that had carried you through the first stint? Now, they were screaming for mercy.

Oscar, out front in clean air, was stretching the gap.

The difference? 6 seconds. Then 7. Then 8.

Radio: “Box, box. Plan A. Soft to Medium.”

When you pitted, the seat felt unmistakably wet. The pressure… heavier now.

But you didn’t say a word.

The pit crew? Perfect.

2.4 seconds. Clean. Cold-blooded. Professional.

Final 5 Laps

With five laps to go, The cramps in your belly were no longer whispers— They were demands.

But Verstappen was behind you now. And Oscar…

Oscar was too far ahead to catch.

One thought rang in your head:

“P2 is enough. Just for today—enough.”

Final Corner – Finish Line

As you rounded the last turn, The pit wall erupted into applause.

Oscar was first to see the chequered flag.

But you?

You crossed the line with a P2 that would go down in history.

Under the helmet, you exhaled. And your eyes welled up—not from pain— From victory born in pain.

P2 Board

You stopped the car carefully. In front of you, a bold white sign: P2.

You didn’t take off your helmet. Just leaned forward on the steering wheel.

The warmth spreading beneath your suit was still there. But you didn’t care.

Because today…

You had won a battle. Both on the track— And within your own body.

Minutes After the Race

The race had ended minutes ago. But you were still in the car. Still.

Your breathing had begun to settle, But the dampness beneath you, The cooling fabric of your suit— It told no lies.

Oscar’s POV – Pit Wall

Back at the McLaren pit wall, A team engineer leaned over to Oscar and whispered discreetly:

“P2 car hasn’t exited yet. Something might be off. Keep an eye.”

Oscar was already planning to check on you. But this? This changed everything.

Oscar – Approaching You

Still buzzing from post-race adrenaline, His eyes locked onto your car. You hadn’t taken off your helmet. Your arms rested on the steering wheel. The nose of your car pressed against the P2 board.

It didn’t look like you wanted to move.

Oscar’s walk quickened into a fast stride. Cameras followed him, but he didn’t care.

He crouched beside you, tapped your visor gently.

Oscar: “Hey… still alive in there?”

You cracked open your visor. Your eyes met his. Your voice was shaky.

You: “I’m fine. Just… something small. I… I think I got my period. It might have… gone through. Cameras… everyone’s watching.”

Oscar’s face said it all: “That’s it? That’s all?”

He smiled. Soft. Unbothered.

Oscar (grinning): “Still drove like hell though. Bravo.”

Oscar Gets Into Position

Oscar leaned in. You did exactly what he said: Zipped your suit down to your waist, pushed it below your hips. In his shadow, shielded by his body, you stepped out.

Then...

The world tilted. Your vision blurred. One hand instinctively grabbed Oscar’s shoulder.

Without hesitation, he wrapped an arm around you—steady, firm.

Oscar (softly): “Breathe… just breathe. I’ve got you.”

The crowd, the cameras, the team’s cheers— all became a dull hum. Your world spun only in Oscar’s eyes.

The blackout passed within seconds. You gave a slight nod.

You: “Okay… it’s gone. I need to go celebrate with the team.”

Oscar didn’t let go. He stepped forward with you.

Oscar: “P2. On your period. And still standing. Now that’s worth celebrating.”

Celebration With the Team

As you neared the McLaren wall, cheers grew louder. Oscar stayed just behind you—subtle, instinctive. No one noticed.

Finally, you smiled. Not just smiled—beamed. Genuinely, triumphantly.

Cameras flashed. Oscar raised your hands in the air beside you.

Almost whispering to the world, he said:

Oscar: “Look what she did… bleeding and still flying.”

Post-Race Interview Zone

Your race suit still unzipped to the waist. Lower part carefully adjusted—no visible stain. But the cold sticky discomfort lingered; cramps, pressure building. Your ears buzzed. Your steps steady—but deep down, uncertain.

Reporter: “That was an incredible performance today. Watching your battle with Verstappen was thrilling. But after the race, you didn’t get out of the car right away. Is everything alright?”

You smiled—thin, professional, exhausted. Faint shadows under your eyes, unnoticed by cameras.

You: “Ah… just a minor hiccup. After a race that intense, sometimes your body asks for a little attention. But everything’s under control.”

The reporter nodded, eyes hunting for juicier details. Oscar stood close, ready to shield if needed.

Reporter: “Piastri, congratulations on the win! We noticed your teammate had trouble getting out of the car. Do you know what happened?”

Oscar paused. Silence hung heavy. His gaze flicked from you to the camera.

Then, in his cold, signature tone:

Oscar: “There was nothing that impacted her performance.”

The reporter blinked, caught off guard. Oscar said no more, walking straight to the podium.

You looked away. Ears ringing. Sweat beading on your brow.

Cool Down Room

All three drivers entered the room. Max grabbed water immediately. Oscar sat down. You stayed standing. You leaned lightly on Oscar’s chair, keeping distance. Your pulse still racing.

Max (eyeing you): “Hey… you okay? You look a bit pale.”

You couldn’t explain, but Oscar stepped in.

Oscar: “She’s had better days. Still beat you though.”

Max chuckled. You smiled faintly, nodding. Inside, suppressing growing cramps. Race suit still damp. Mind echoing into silence.

Podium Celebration

The moment arrived. Champagne exploded. Oscar and Max lifted bottles high— You clutched yours with effort. Smiled, posed— But lips pale.

Oscar came close, gently touching your shoulder.

Oscar (whispering): “Hang in there. Just a bit more.”

Behind the Podium

Celebrations ended. All three started walking off. Max led. You followed Oscar.

Then— Your legs grew heavy. Vision blurred. Ringing filled your ears, then silence. You grabbed a wall. Nails scraped metal. Your knees gave out.

Oscar (turning and seeing you): “You okay?!”

Last thing you remembered: slowly collapsing— Oscar catching you. Warm grip. World blurred around you.

High-pitched ringing replaced by Oscar’s urgent shout:

Oscar: “Shit! Someone—medical team! Now!”

He ran to you, hands trembling, gripping your shoulders.

Oscar (softly): “Stay with me… just stay…”

Last thing your eyes saw before closing— Shadows on the metal floor… And terror mixed with worry in Oscar’s eyes.

In the Medical Room – Afterwards

You opened your eyes. White ceiling lights hit your pupils. Room cool. Light blanket on you. Faint antiseptic smell.

You (whispering): "...what happened..."

Chair scraped beside you. Oscar.

Oscar (deep breath, smiling): “Welcome back. You scared us all pretty badly.”

Your eyes fixed on his face. Pale, but alert. He held your wrist, stroking your skin gently.

You: “How many people saw? They’ll say I’m weak... so many watched...”

Oscar leaned in, husky whisper:

Oscar: “Hey, no. You just… pushed too hard. That’s not weakness. That’s humanity. And… you’re still one of the strongest on the grid.”

A nurse came to check your blood pressure. You looked away, buried deeper in the pillow. Shame gnawed you. But Oscar stayed. Didn’t leave.

Oscar: “The team’s proud of you, you know? If someone gives that performance—drenched in sweat and pain, still standing tall on the podium… they’re not weak. They’re a legend.”

You closed your eyes, smiled faintly. Outside whispers, race chaos, internet noise—all stopped. Because Oscar was there. And he didn’t let you fall.

Press Room – After the Race

You sat center stage, tired but clear. Eyes sparkling like glass.

Journalist #1: “There are rumors you collapsed and fainted after the race. What’s your health status? Doesn’t that shadow your performance?”

You took the mic. Paused. Looked straight into the camera.

You: “Yes, I had a brief drop in blood pressure after the race. But no, it didn’t affect my performance or skills. We’re human. Sometimes the body reaches its limits. When men have this happen, you call them warriors. Why is it a ‘fitness debate’ for me? I’m genuinely curious.”

Murmurs rose.

Journalist #2 (annoyed): “But some say women aren’t physiologically suited for this sport. Your thoughts?”

You lifted the mic slightly, calm but sharp:

You: “Those comments come from people who don’t even know my finishing position. If you question my suitability, talk to the two people who finished ahead of me. One’s sitting right next to me now.”

You looked to the camera, adding:

You: “Our media training taught us respect. Maybe one day some journalists will get that too.”

Oscar nodded, faint smile.

When Oscar took the mic:

Journalist #3: “Piastri, your rookie teammate struggled. Surprised she pushed so hard so early?”

Oscar, short and cool:

Oscar: “No. Not surprised. She finished second.”

The journalist blinked. Oscar continued:

Oscar: “If she were a bad driver, why were 18 men behind her on the grid?”

Silence.

Oscar: “If she were a man, everyone would call it a legendary debut. But because she’s a woman, you ask ‘can she handle it?’ I don’t accept that double standard. She’s on my team. If she were my rival, I’d still be worried.”

Back in the Paddock

You returned to the team, applause ringing. Your boss said, “Takes guts to be that clear with the press.”

Oscar brushed your shoulder lightly as he passed.

Oscar (quietly): “Still drove like hell, huh?”

You nodded, smiling.

You: “And you saw us shut them up.”

Oscar let out a soft chuckle. The reply came, short and classic:

Oscar: “Good.”

Celebration Party — Imola Night

The night shimmered like the Imola sky. Your team’s sponsor had thrown a luxury party, packed with F1 stars and flashing cameras. But Oscar only had eyes for one person. You.

You wore a short black satin dress. Hair down, makeup simple—but impossible to ignore.

When Oscar spotted you, he paused—just for a second—like his mind had short-circuited. Then he made a beeline for you.

Oscar: “If I’d known you’d show up looking like that, I’d have dressed to impress.”

You (laughing): “You already do. Don’t you know that?”

He rolled his eyes, but the pink in his cheeks betrayed him.

As the music thumped louder, you danced, twirled, laughed. He stayed close—always a step behind. Sometimes offering a drink. Sometimes just watching you like you were the only one on the floor.

And every time you smiled, tossed your hair, or caught his eye—there it was again: The silent question.

"Are you okay?" "Still dizzy?" "Want to take a break?"

You just grinned, brushing it off every time.

You: “I’m fine.”

But at one point, the lights spun just a little too fast. You lost the beat. Oscar caught your arm, smooth and subtle, before anyone else even noticed.

Oscar (leaning in, whispering): “We’ve celebrated enough. Come on, let’s get some air.”

On the Hill Above Imola

Below you, the city glittered like scattered stardust. You sat on a bench, shoulder to shoulder.

Oscar: “I know you’re trying to prove how strong you are… but there’s a reason I’ve been checking on you all night.”

You (looking away): “I know. I just... don’t want people thinking I’m weak.”

Oscar: “Weak? The weak are the ones who couldn’t even step into that car with you. You raced. You passed. You spoke up. You stood tall. If anyone else had done what you did today, they’d be worshipped.”

You: “What would you do if I actually won a race…?”

Oscar (smirking): “Carry you around the track on my shoulders.”

You (laughing, wide-eyed): “Me? On your shoulders? You sure about that?”

Oscar (playfully offended): “What—are you saying I’m not strong enough?”

You (grinning): “If I win... then we’ll talk.”

He narrowed his eyes.

Oscar: “When that day comes, I promise you the wildest celebration the world’s ever seen.”

A silence settled between you. The kind that makes you forget everything else.

But the distant hum of music reminded you: the night wasn’t done yet.

Oscar reached out his hand. And without a second thought—you took it.

One night. One podium. One look.

And someone who sees all of you—and still says, "You're enough."

If you enjoyed this part, please feel free to leave a comment! I’d be happy to continue with a part 2 if there’s interest. Thank you so much for reading! 💕

Part2 is here <3

[elliebubblee]

Stay With Me

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader (Fem!Reader) Genre: Fluff, soft angst, period comfort, emotional intimacy, slow burn Warnings: mentions of period pain, emotional vulnerability, and extreme boyfriend sweetness. Comfort-heavy & fluffy. Summary: You’re in pain. Oscar’s got a hot water bottle, a smug mum on speakerphone, and a degree in Spoiling You 101. This morning? It’s yours. And he’s not going anywhere.

Contains: A very respectful boyfriend. A reader trying not to cry over cramps. An Australian mother giving way too much unsolicited advice. And the warm kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything back — just closeness.

First time posting a fic! Feedback is very welcome.

English isn't my first language, so thank you for being kind about any mistakes! 💗

The sun gently warmed your eyelids as it filtered through the white curtains, casting golden light across Monaco. You were still half-asleep, curled up against Oscar’s chest, lost in the rhythm of his calm breathing. You wore only a thin pair of pajama shorts and a T-shirt; Oscar’s arm was wrapped around your waist—not tightly, but gently… just like the way he treated you.

Oscar took a deep breath. He was awake.

For a few seconds, he lay still, staring at the ceiling. Then, as he tried to slowly pull his arm away, he felt something. A slight dampness… He pulled his fingers back and looked. That’s when he noticed.

Blood. It had stained the sheets, just a little.

Oscar’s brows furrowed slightly, not out of worry but with that brief internal look of “What should I do now?” He thought for a few more seconds before gently leaning closer to your ear.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice still thick with sleep. “I think you got your period.”

You opened your eyes, initially unable to grasp what was going on. But within a few seconds, everything clicked. Your eyes widened. You suddenly sat up in bed, your face flushing, your hands bracing on your knees.

“What? No… No, no… Are you serious?” you said in a panic, glancing at the sheets. There was, indeed, a small but noticeable stain.

“Shit,” you murmured, pushing your hair back. Embarrassment flooded you. “This is a disaster…”

Oscar stayed seated, not moving away. He just looked at you—one of those classic Oscar stares… expressionless, yet with that quiet softness behind his eyes.

“Hey,” he said again. His voice was gentle but grounding. “It’s just blood. Chill.”

You lowered your head, covering your face. “But I got you messy. I ruined the bed. This is so embarrassing. It’s gross.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly. Without breaking eye contact, he glanced at the sheets, then back at your panicked state.

He tossed the blanket off himself and got up. There was barely a stain on his gray shorts. He didn’t even care. Quietly, he walked to the closet and pulled out a towel. Then he returned to you.

“Come on,” he said, extending a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

As you stared at his hand, a tiny smile tugged at his lips. “You didn’t kill anyone. You just bled. It’s normal.”

Your eyes had filled with tears, but you couldn’t help but smile. “Are you always this calm about everything?”

Oscar shrugged, avoiding your eyes. “I drive at 300 kilometers an hour every weekend. This? This is nothing.”

You took his hand and got out of bed, your face still flushed. You winced slightly when your feet hit the cold floor, but Oscar wrapped you in the towel and gently guided you to the bathroom.

He gave you a quick glance before you closed the door. He didn’t speak, but in his look was that quiet Oscar way of saying, “You’re still beautiful.” And in that moment, you thought: This boy makes the ordinary feel magical.

You caught your reflection in the mirror and sighed. “I look terrible,” you thought. But just then, you heard Oscar’s voice from outside.

“I’m making tea. Want peppermint or chamomile?”

His tone had a clear “I want to take care of you” vibe, but the words? Classic Oscar—short, plain, honest.

“Chamomile, please,” you answered quietly.

“Okay.”

Simple. But that one “okay” said everything: “Alright, beautiful, take your time. I’ve got the rest.” Oscar-speak always required some emotional translation.

When you came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, the sheets were already stripped. Oscar had changed into fresh shorts. He stood in the kitchen nook, steeping a teabag in a mug, dressed in a clean T-shirt. The air smelled like calm.

You stepped into the living room, still shy.

“The sheets—”

“I put them in the washing machine,” he said, cutting you off with a soft but certain tone.

“My shorts too. And, uh…” He paused, looking away. “…I put some stuff in the bottom drawer. Just in case.”

You walked over and opened it. Pads. Two different sizes. And chocolate.

“…Oscar?”

“Yeah?”

When you turned to him, his expression was unreadable—but the tips of his ears were pink.

“When did you get these?” you asked, laughing softly.

He shrugged. “A while ago. Figured you might need them someday.”

You looked away, gripping the chocolate. Your chest felt too full for your body. All the earlier shame had melted into something warm and safe.

You sat down beside him, legs curled up on the couch, tea in hand. Oscar watched you for a moment, then slowly moved under the same blanket. He leaned lightly against your knee, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes drifting shut.

Silence. That sweet, peaceful morning kind of silence. Then he murmured:

“You okay now?”

You looked at your tea, smiling faintly. “Better. Thanks to you.”

Oscar opened one eye, the corner of his mouth curling just slightly. Then he shut it again.

“Told you. No big deal.”

He leaned back, but reached for your hand. Held it. So gently—like it might break. But it didn’t. It anchored you.

And he leaned his head back again—but gently took your hand and held it. It was such a light touch... but the effect was like an earthquake.

It was afternoon. You were lying side by side under the blanket, a light movie playing on the television. But you could no longer focus on the film. The cramps in your abdomen were getting worse. At first, you thought curling up would help. Then you tried stretching a little. You even quietly let out a soft “ugh.” But Oscar was watching you from the corner of his eye.

“Worse?”

You nodded slightly. “A little…”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but his brows furrowed. He gently placed his hand on your waist and pressed lightly. Even that wasn’t enough.

After a while, you went to the bathroom. The moment you closed the door, Oscar quietly picked up his phone.

He hesitated, then tapped on his mom’s number. He took a deep breath and hit call.

“Mom?”

“Oscar? Is everything okay?”

Hearing the slight panic in her voice, he immediately switched to a whisper. “Yeah, yeah. I just... have a question.”

“…What happened?”

“Well… a girl... is cramping. Menstrual cramps. She seems to be in a lot of pain. What should I do?”

There was a pause on the other end. Then his mom replied in a cheerful tone, “You’re doing a sweet thing, Oscar. First, a hot water bottle. If you’ve got any herbal tea, that too. And just be there for her. Something relaxing. A movie... a massage… maybe even some chocolate.”

Oscar quickly added, “I already made tea.”

“Ah! Good job. You’re doing great. Now keep her warm. And apply gentle pressure to her lower abdomen. Softly, okay? The nerves can be sensitive.”

Oscar nodded like he was taking notes. “Okay, um… where exactly should I massage?”

His tone dropped to a whisper. Then, flustered, he added, “Forget I asked.”

His mom burst into laughter.

When he hung up, you had already gotten back under the blanket in the living room. Oscar tried to act natural, casually walking to the other side of the room.

“What are you doing?” you squinted at him.

He paused for a moment and mumbled without turning around, “Just… something.”

The tip of his nose was bright red. Clearly, he was up to something.

A little while later, he returned holding something familiar in one hand, something else hidden behind his back.

“What is it?” you asked curiously.

He sat next to you in silence, then pulled his hand from behind and offered you a soft, warm water bottle. There was a tiny, cute bear on it.

“It looks silly, but… it keeps you warm.”

You smiled slightly. “Where did you find this?”

“It was in my drawer. My mom must’ve put it there... I think.”

He wasn’t even trying to lie. How sweet you are, Oscar...

As you pressed the hot water bottle against your abdomen, a soft sigh of relief escaped your lips. Oscar was watching you, concern still in his eyes.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes,” you said with a genuine smile. “Everything feels lighter with someone like you beside me.”

Oscar looked down, his ears turning red. But then he composed himself and said softly, “I googled some stuff too. And… maybe called my mom.”

Your eyes widened. “Are you serious?!”

He gave a tiny shrug. “Didn’t wanna mess it up.”

Tiny sparks lit up in your chest. The fact that he could look so calm while being this sweetly thoughtful made you melt a little more with every second.

Oscar turned to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Do you want to sleep a little?” he asked.

“With you by my side… always,” you whispered, resting your head on his shoulder.

And in that moment, you understood: Some mornings are complicated, and some days are painful. But if there’s someone who truly thinks of you and understands you... everything becomes bearable.

Around five o'clock, a notification popped up on Oscar's phone. He muttered under his breath, “Shit... I forgot.”

You turned to him. “What happened?”

Oscar made a face. “There’s something tonight. A team dinner. It’s not formal, but... we kinda have to show up.” Then he looked at you, his gaze soft but serious. “If you’re not up for it, I won’t go.”

Your heart ached a little. “Babe... if it’s important, let’s go. I’ll be fine.”

Oscar furrowed his brows slightly. “You sure?”

You nodded, trying to smile. “Yes. I feel better when you're near me anyway.”

He didn’t say anything else, but his eyes glimmered with something warm.

As you got ready, you moved a bit slower, more carefully. He watched you from across the room, stealing little glances. When you turned your back to put on your boots, he quietly approached and handed you his big gray hoodie.

“You’ll get cold,” he said simply.

You looked up. “Oscar, isn’t this your favorite hoodie?”

“Yeah. And it looks like it’s going to be yours now.”

That sentence wrapped around your heart like a hug. You slipped it on with a small smile. It smelled just like Oscar—clean, fresh, with a hint of something metallic. A little like victory, too.

As you walked down the street, your cramps still lingered, but Oscar seemed to shield you even from the noise of the traffic. He kept asking short but thoughtful questions:

“Should we not walk too much?” “Are you okay?” “Is it warm enough here?”

When Lando came up at one point and said, “You look a bit pale,” Oscar stepped in immediately.

“We went to bed late,” he said with a casual shrug, changing the subject. And as you looked at him in that moment, you realized: you were with someone who could protect you without ever making a scene.

During dinner, Oscar sat right beside you. He turned the menu toward you and whispered, “Pick something without cheese. No need to upset your stomach more.”

You turned to him. “Have you become a period-Google master?”

“Don’t ask me that much,” he muttered. But his cheeks had turned pink.

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Going out with you is like carrying a hot water bottle. The only thing missing is a plush cover.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but his lips curled into a smile. “My masculinity is fading fast.”

“No, it’s being promoted to golden masculinity,” you teased.

He looked at you and, in a tone only you could hear, whispered, “I’m glad you came. I wouldn’t have wanted to leave you like that.”

Throughout the evening, Oscar quietly supported you. He made sure you didn’t have to walk too much, kept you away from crowded areas, and gave you little moments of care. Being on your period had never felt easier. The golden boy was truly made of gold.

You came home that evening after the team event, tired but content. The night had been full of laughter, shared glances, and stolen moments. But the dull ache in your lower belly had only gotten worse.

Oscar noticed. He didn’t say much—he didn’t need to. He just adjusted the blanket over you, waited patiently as you scrolled through movie options, occasionally stealing a glance your way. Then you shifted, wincing.

He leaned over, placing a gentle hand on your waist, applying soft, steady pressure.

“Oscar…” you whispered. “Hmm?” “It’s getting bad…”

He just nodded, eyes full of quiet understanding.

Then his phone lit up.

Caller: Mum

Oscar sighed and looked at you. “It’s my mom.” “Go on, answer it,” you said with a small smile, curious despite yourself.

He picked up. “Hey, Mum?”

Her voice came loud and clear. “Oscar! Sweetheart! You called me yesterday about your girlfriend—did you try what I suggested?”

Oscar sat up straighter in panic. “Mum! Uh—yeah, everything’s fine. Thanks, really.”

But she was on a roll. “Good! Listen, I used to have terrible period cramps too. You know what helped? Orgasm! I mean, the body relaxing and all. It’s very effective. Your father and I—”

“MUM!” Oscar’s voice cracked as you choked back a laugh, eyes wide.

She continued, unfazed. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about! Hormones go wild at that time, and honestly, sometimes you’re even more in the mood—”

Oscar lowered the volume and collapsed into the couch with a groan. “Help me.”

You scooted closer, barely holding in a grin. “Your mom is… really open.” He gave you a withering look. “Do you think we’ll ever forget this moment?” “Oh, I know we won’t,” you teased.

A beat passed. Then you added softly, “So… what she said… is that something you actually thought about?”

Oscar looked down, his lips twitching. “I just wanted to help. But only if you were comfortable with it.”

You hesitated. “You don’t think it’s… gross?”

He shook his head, meeting your eyes. “Helping someone you love through pain? That’s not gross. That’s… human. And I want to be close to you. In every way.”

Something warm blossomed in your chest.

He moved gently, hands brushing against the waistband of your pajamas. He paused, eyes locked with yours. You gave the faintest nod. That was all he needed.

His touch was slow, careful—resting first over your stomach, tracing soft circles that soothed more than the cramps. Then his hands wandered, not seeking anything, just offering presence, comfort. “Is this better?” he murmured. “Yes,” you breathed.

His voice was like a balm. “I know I can’t fix it. But maybe I can make it easier. Safer. Warmer.”

His touch grounded you, like a lullaby made of skin and breath. You melted into it—into him.

“I just want you to feel good,” he whispered. “Inside and out.”

You didn’t need to speak. The way your body reacted—relaxed, opened, trusted—said everything.

When that wave finally crested and passed through you, all that remained was stillness. Peace. Oscar didn’t speak. He just held your hand, anchoring you gently back to earth.

The silence between you was full of everything unsaid, and everything understood.

He rested his forehead against your shoulder. “You okay?”

You smiled sleepily. “I’ve never felt better.”

The morning came softly.

You were curled against Oscar, your face against his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your cheek. You woke first. Then he stirred, eyes blinking open.

“Morning,” he said, voice warm with sleep. “Morning.”

The cramps were gone—or maybe they just didn’t matter anymore, not with him here.

Just as he tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your forehead, his phone started buzzing. Mum.

Oscar groaned. “She’s going to ask. I know it.” You giggled. “Come on. Don’t make her explode from curiosity.”

He picked up.

“Hey, Mum?”

“Oscaaaar! So? Everything alright? Hot water bottle? Massage? Good night’s sleep? And of course… the thing I recommended—did you try it?”

Oscar flopped back into the pillow with a whimper. “Mum… it’s nine in the morning.”

“Oh don’t be shy! It’s just women’s health. When I was your age, your father and I—well, never mind that. But did it help?”

You hid under the blanket, laughing so hard you nearly shook the bed.

Oscar looked at you with wide, panicked eyes and mouthed, Save me.

But behind the horror, there was a hint of a smile.

“We did. And it helped. Thanks... I guess.”

“If it helped…” Her voice turned smug. “Then I’ll back off. For now. But you can always ask, sweetheart. And you, darling,” she added, suddenly addressing you, “this boy can be a bit closed off sometimes, but he’s all heart. Don’t be shy. And give him a hug from me, will you?”

Oscar ended the call with a swift tap. Then turned to you.

“My mum has clearly forgotten how to use a filter.”

You doubled over laughing, then leaned into him, still giggling.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, meeting his eyes. “Last night... did it feel weird to you? I mean—gross or awkward?”

Oscar held your gaze. His answer was firm.

“Whatever happens to you... is never weird to me. If it’s your body, then I want to be by your side. Period.”

You didn’t reply right away—just looked at him. The embarrassment gripping your chest slowly loosened... melting into something else. Something like being accepted. Understood. Loved.

The breakfast Oscar had made was long gone. The two of you were still lounging in your pajamas on the couch, your legs tangled together. Oscar was playing with your hair, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

There was a moment of quiet. Then you glanced down at a small scar on your arm—not from last night’s chaos, just something old—but it suddenly caught your eye.

“You know,” you said softly, “I’m strong. Most of the time, anyway. I know how to pull myself together when things get rough. I don’t always need someone to swoop in and protect me.”

Oscar paused for a second. Then turned to you, his voice calm but serious.

“Sweetheart, I know you’re strong. You radiate that strength in every inch of you. But being strong doesn’t mean you never want to soften beside someone.”

You looked down for a moment.

“I just... don’t want you to see me as someone who needs saving. Not that I don’t appreciate the way you care…”

Oscar smiled gently.

“You… you’re just you. And I’m not trying to protect you. I’m trying to be with you. Sometimes with a hot water bottle, a cozy cuddle... and lots of love.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you without hesitation.

Then he turned his face to yours.

“By the way,” he said with a teasing grin, “I’m strong too, just in case you forgot.”

You laughed.

“Right… that massage last night was suspiciously good. Do you have, like, training or something?”

“I have a certified degree in Spoiling-You 101,” he said, gently bumping his nose against yours.

Your eyes met. The look between you was steady, safe, full of silent understanding.

Oscar leaned in just a little.

“This part is optional, but... I’d love a kiss.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your smile betrayed you.

“If you're willing… I'm very available.”

And then your lips met. Slow. Soft. No rush. A kiss built on trust—and the warmth of something real.

You pulled back a moment later.

“I should get up,” you said. “Might write a little. Maybe turn this morning into a story.”

Oscar smirked.

“Am I the main character?”

As you stood up, you tossed a pillow at him.

“You’re just the side character. The handsome one.”

Oscar burst out laughing. But as your back turned, he caught the small smile curling at your lips. And you both knew it.

In that moment, everything was just right. No pain. No drama. Just warmth—and the truth of it all.