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everythingne · 10 days ago

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AA23: falling without caution

EVE’S 2K CELEBRATION 🎤: you should’ve known going to a party at lando’s frat was a bad idea in the first place …… ft. foolish one by taylor swift, people watching by conan gray

pairing: university!alex albon x university!reader

contents: university au, reader and oscar are resident assistants, rookies and f2 drivers are freshmen in college, suggestive kind of, sprinkles of landoscar, george is an english major and he is There, open-ending, dedicated to @2manytabsopen kesh ily

word count: 4.2k

a/n: i am not american so i tried my best to do research on how college residency/resident assistants work but if i got anything wrong kindly ignore it :) this idea came to me in a vision. also shoutout to this environmental engineering project i found and decided to use (fanfiction is wild yall)

You hate move-in day. Which, considering that you willingly signed up to be a Resident Assistant for a second year in a row—well. It’s not great.

You’ve already dodged three parents crying at the entrance of the building, and told off five different students for smoking in their dorms. Oscar likes to call today organized chaos. You call it a headache.

“If you hate being an RA so much, why did you sign up again?” Oscar asks, watching as you staple glittery letters to your MEET YOUR RA bulletin board.

“Reduced housing. Single dorm room. Looks good on a resume,” you say nonchalantly.

Oscar arches a brow. You roll your eyes.

“I don’t hate being an RA. It’s just��move-in day. Almost as bad as syllabus week.” You see a freshman carrying a pile of boxes up the stairs and you can only hope he isn’t as scrawny as he looks. “People haven’t stopped going to class yet or decided to drop out or just… given up. It’s crowded everywhere and everyone moves so slowly. Not to mention all the freshmen come running to me like I’m their mother and not like I have a senior project to work on.”

Oscar has that half-smile that he does whenever he’s amused. You picked up on it last year—back when the two of you first signed up to be RAs for the same floor. “How’s that going, by the way?” he asks, arms folded over his chest.

“Terribly,” you sigh. “An on-site treatment system for wastewater is so much more complex than Professor Vettel made it sound last semester.” You raise your head to look at Oscar, stapling one glittery exclamation point with more force than necessary. “Some days I genuinely think he hates me.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “He doesn’t hate you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Tell that to the two separate proposals I have to write on septic systems with leaching fields and subsurface constructed wetlands.” You stare at your board blankly. The T in MEET YOUR RA is crooked. “He wants me dead.”

“At least your bulletin board is looking good,” he offers with a half-shrug.

“I made a Pinterest board for it,” you say, muttering a curse when your stapler locks. “Are you done with yours?”

“Yep.”

“Can I guess what it looks like?” Oscar shrugs, and you smile amusedly. “Construction paper. Sharpie. Maybe one motivational poster from an office supply store.” A laugh scratches against the back of your throat. “I bet you got one with a koala.”

“No,” he responds, a beat too quickly. Oscar doesn’t look fazed—though the red tint of his ears gives him away immediately. He averts his eyes. “It was an eagle poster,” he mutters.

You snort. Last year, he asked you to write everything out in cursive for him. You suppose this could be viewed as a step in the right direction—the fact that he at least had some foresight to decorate his board on his own. Then—you remember. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be three RAs for our floor this year?” you ask him, finally putting down your stapler. “Where’s number three?”

“He hasn’t decorated yet,” Oscar says, even though that’s not what you asked him. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, turning the screen towards you to show you his messages with a number he’s unceremoniously saved as Resident Assistant #3. “And he texted me, actually. Said there was an issue with his old building, and was called in to help.”

You roll your eyes. “A shitty excuse. And I better not be saved in your phone as Resident Assistant number two.”

Oscar ignores your last comment and pockets his phone. “I told him he could go.” He shrugs. “I mean, it was just us last year. I think we’ll be fine for the day.”

“Yeah, I guess.” You clean your hands against your jeans, accidentally leaving purple glitter on your clothes. “You should at least put up a few fun facts about you on your board.”

He raises a brow, not seeming particularly enthusiastic. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, like—you’re Australian.”

Oscar scrunches his nose. “That’s not a fun fact.”

“It can be.”

He just blinks at you, crease between his brows to show he is not following your train of thought. You don’t have one, so you don’t really care.

You roll your eyes and stand up. Most of your residents should’ve settled in by now. “Is it time for dorm checks?”

“Yep.”

“You really do have a way with words, Oscar.”

Dorm checks go as they should—uneventfully. You give your residents a rundown of the rules—no animals, no smoking, no drinking, no doing anything that could potentially constitute a fire hazard. You’re only missing the last couple of rooms when you decide to ask,

“Hey, are you going to Lando’s tonight?”

Oscar shrugs again, always too nonchalant for you to get a proper read on him. “Lando’s making me. So.”

You grin. “Oooh, he’s making you, is he?”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but before he can say anything, one of the doors you’ve yet to knock on opens and out pops a head of shaggy brown hair. Josep María—Pepe, if you’re not mistaken. He spots you two and gives you a lopsided smile. “Hey, do either of you guys have a lighter?”

Both of you blink at him. The two of you wear matching sticker name tags that read HI! I’M YOUR RA in black marker.

“Smoking is not allowed in the building,” Oscar deadpans.

Pepe blinks once. Twice. You can hear shuffling from inside his dorm. “So… is that a no?”

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Are you smoking in there?”

“…No?”

You shrug, reaching for the sleeve of Oscar’s shirt to pull him onto the next dorm room. “Fine by me.��

He furrows his brows. “What? But he was definitely—”

“Yeah, but if he admits to it, we have to write a report,” you say simply. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not doing that day one—not when we’re already behind schedule.”

You glance back at Pepe, who’s still looking around the hall to see if he can spot anyone with a light. Freshmen.

“Hey!” He stiffens, turning towards the sound of your voice. “If you burn anything, I will make it my personal mission to make your life a living hell for the rest of the term.” You smile brightly. “Happy move-in day!”

Here’s an honest truth: neither you nor Oscar are big on frat parties. But it’s only the start of the term, and you’re feeling like you want to step out of your comfort zone. That—and Lando’s frat always orders pizza for these things. So, free food.

By the time the two of you step into the party, it’s already in full swing. Somehow, under the violet-turned-red lights and the mass of bodies dancing, Lando manages to spot you the second you two cross the threshold of the house. You distantly hear your name and Oscar’s being called out, before a pair of arms wraps around you and lifts you up into a spin.

“It’s barely ten. How are you drunk already?” you ask Lando as he finally puts you down, green eyes only slightly disoriented and curls tousled.

“We started pregaming at, like, six or seven,” Lando says, turning to Oscar with a pout. “You said you’d be here at seven.”

Oscar shrugs. “Got held back.”

“You always say that,” Lando says, eyes narrowed. Then, as if remembering something, his gaze flicks to you. “Hey—I should warn you.” You raise a brow. “Your dick of an ex is here.”

Annoyance trickles into your skin. “Of course he is,” you say, rolling your eyes. “He spent the entire summer posting stories of him clubbing and partying. So, no surprise there.”

Oscar furrows his brow. “I thought you said you’d blocked him.”

Fuck. “Did I?” Oscar doesn’t seem to buy it, so you figure that if you’ve already been found out, then you might as well… “Where is he?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Last I saw, he was busy sucking some poor freshman’s face,” Lando responds, not missing a beat. You wonder whether his filter is gone because he’s not sober, or whether he’s just telling you this because he hates your ex and feels like being messy. “Which is, like, sooo wrong—‘cause she was a ten, and he’s barely a five on a good day.” Lando squints at something from across the room, and you can feel Oscar’s mildly uneasy stare boring into your cheek. You make the executive decision of ignoring it. “Oi—nearly forgot, but I have some friends I want you guys to meet.”

Lando slings his arm over your shoulder, bringing both you and Oscar closer to each side of him as he leads you towards the opposite end of the room. A few guys whose faces seem somewhat familiar nod at Lando.

You think he might be talking to you as Lando clumsily maneuvers the two of you across the room. Either way, his voice gets drowned out somewhere between the music and your quiet deliberation. You decide it then—under the fluorescent lights and the smell of cheap beer, you make your decision. You’re gonna find someone who’s hot. Someone who’s available. For once, you’re gonna have fun before the academic stress of the year catches up to you.

It takes you too long to ground yourself back in reality and realize Lando is halfway through introducing you to a group of people you decidedly do not know.

“—emeber George? He’s the one that accidentally sent that email I told you about to Professor Hamilton.”

The blue-eyed man winces, turning to Lando with an odd expression. “You don’t have to introduce me like that every time, mate.”

“But it’s funny.”

George narrows his eyes. “You’ve done worse things drunk. I know that for a fact.”

“Maybe,” Lando shrugs nonchalantly. “Though nothing my thesis supervisor knows of. Can you say the same, Georgie?”

George mutters something under his breath, hiding his face behind his red solo cup. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“You will,” Lando chirps. “I have long arms, y’know. Means people see me as trustworthy. ‘Cause I look like I give good hugs.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I read an article.”

“You mean you saw it on a Tiktok.”

“Don’t patronize me, Russell.”

“Alright, enough out of you two,” a man says, and you only then notice his presence in the circle. You don’t know how you missed him, really—not when he’s tall, has wispy brown hair and a smile already tugging at his lips. His eyes flicker to you for just a second, a breath—and maybe you’re delusional, but you’re certain his gaze sweeps across your frame, checking you out.

“He started it,” George interrupts, scowling.

“He started it,” Lando mocks. “You should get, like, at least a tiny bit plastered, mate. I mean, live a little. Make sure Alex holds onto your phone, though. Wouldn’t want you emailing any other professors.”

“I can’t stand you.”

Lando holds his hands to his chest. “Oh god. I’m devastated. You’ve devastated me.”

The tall guy with the pretty smile rolls his eyes, nudging Lando. He tilts his head to the side. “So, are you not gonna introduce your other friends?”

Lando perks up at that. “Right—always so keen, aren’t you, Alex?”

Alex, you note mentally. His face doesn’t ring a bell—not even now with a name attached to it. Even so, he doesn’t look like a frat boy, which you suppose could be considered a point in his favor.

“—and George you already know Oscar,” Lando finishes, wrapping up introductions. You bring your can of beer to your lips as Lando clasps his hands together. “So! Now that everyone knows each other, I will be taking Oscar with me to the DJ booth. Don’t break anything while I’m gone—and if you do, just… blame it on somebody else.” With that, he promptly reaches for Oscar’s wrist and drags him along.

George, Alex and you all stare at Lando’s retreating frame. You furrow your brows. “Sorry. DJ booth?”

“It’s cardboard boxes with a tablecloth over them,” Alex deadpans, prompting an amused smile from you.

You glance at George, then back at Alex. You tilt your head, vaguely gesturing between the two of them. “So. Did Lando just choose to befriend the two tallest guys he could find in his frat or…?”

Alex snorts, and George instantly looks borderline insulted. “We’re not frat boys,” George clarifies immediately. “Just to be clear.”

Alex gnaws at the inside of his cheek, hiding a smile. “Yeah—no, us and Lando go way back. We knew each other before uni.”

You hum appreciatively. “Not in the same major, then?”

Alex shakes his head, still smiling. “Can you guess?”

You raise a brow. “George is an English major,” you say, and Alex snorts.

“She just called you pretentious, by the way,” Alex says with a nudge.

George furrows his brows. “Wha—but I am an English major.”

Alex throws you a look that reads, can you believe this guy? It makes a smile tug at your lips. He grins. “So, what about me?” You make a face of faux concentration. “If you say Business or Econ, I’m taking it as a personal slight against me.”

You laugh, and Alex seems to perk up at that, eyes brightening. “I wanna say… Engineering?”

Alex shakes his head in a so-so motion. “Computer Science.”

“Oh, you’re one of those.”

George is the one chuckling now, nudging Alex back. “She just called you a nerd—just so you know.”

Alex shrugs, bringing his red plastic cup to his lips. “I’ll take it.”

George glances at something behind you. “Hey—it looks like they’re setting up a beer pong table,” he says.

“I am a notoriously bad shot,” you say, laying down your empty can on some cluttered table. “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah! I knew I liked you,” George says, throwing a smug look at Alex. “Can’t ditch me now, Albon”

Alex rolls his eyes, but starts walking to the peer pong table anyway. “I’m giving all my drinks to George.”

“Fair,” you say with a shrug.

“Wha—no?” George stammers. “Not fair. Not fair at all—I’m supposed to be meeting with Professor Hamilton tomorrow at eight-twenty.”

“Then it’s a good thing he already knows what you sound like when you’re drunk.”

The three of you settle around one half of the table, laughs being shared much to George’s dismay. The plastic cups are already positioned like a triangle as people start to gather around the opposite end of the table.

Then you spot him. Sidling up with the opposite team, your ex-boyfriend has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair messy like someone has been running their hands over it. Even under the shifting fluorescent lights, you’re almost certain you catch a glimpse of lipstick near his neck.

Your stomach drops. He sees you a beat later, recognition dripping with a smugness that grates at you. Lando’s right—he is a prick.

Alex gently nudges your side. “Hey,” he says, a little cautiously. His brows are furrowed, and a reckless part of you considers running your thumb over his skin to smooth it over. Maybe you’re drunker than you thought. “You good?”

Your jaw twitches, making an active effort to avoid looking back in your ex’s direction. “Great,” you say, a little too dry.

You made a promise to yourself. You were gonna find someone hot. Someone who’s actually your type and can serve as a big, neon-lit Fuck You to your ex.

You glance at Alex just as he jumps up to celebrate scoring against the opposite team. He’s cute. Has a nice smile, a pretty face—he even has a matching humor to go alongside it. More so—he’s been glancing in your direction like you’re not picking up on it.

You miss your shot once again, throwing your head back with thinly veiled annoyance. Alex just watches you, amusement dancing in those dark brown eyes. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were a bad shot, huh?” he teases.

“Hey,” you say, no sharpness to your tone. “I warned you.”

He shakes his head, smiling. It’s the other team’s turn—and despite currently winning by a clear margin, they seem to be noticeably slower at turn-taking than your team.

You turn to face Alex completely now, tilting your head. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you spot your ex glancing in your direction. “So, what’s your deal?” you ask, and Alex arches a brow questioningly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Alex actually laughs before he has the chance to look surprised at your newfound boldness. “Straight to the point, huh?”

“Please,” you respond with a good-natured roll of your eyes. You blink, and your hand is nudging against his on the pingpong table. Distantly, you think the other team messes up their shot. “You’re acting like you haven’t been checking me out since Lando introduced us.” You shrug, coy. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Alex’s tongue swipes along his bottom lip. He looks confident, but you don’t miss his sharp inhale. “I wasn’t going for subtle,” he says.

You hum. “Hey,” you say, and this time, you fully reach for his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. You tilt your head towards the kitchen area. “Wanna go with me to refill my drink?”

Alex grins. “Sure.”

The two of you are already walking away when George calls out, “You’re ditching the team now?”

Alex doesn’t even blink. “You’ll manage, George.”

“This isn’t very sportsmanlike!”

You reach the kitchen faster than you should’ve, with Alex guiding you across the crowds of people dancing and grinding on each other. The carpeted floor already feels wet with what you can only hope is spilled beer.

As soon as you reach the kitchen, the music seems to dull into the background. He turns to face you as you casually press your back against the counter. His eyes are alight with mirth when he asks, “So, what do you wanna drink? I think I saw a few Redbulls, Whiteclaws, maybe some vodka—”

You raise a brow. There’s a playfulness to his tone that tells you he’s playing dumb, acting like he doesn’t know this was an excuse—like you haven’t caught him staring at your lips for most of the night. Like he hasn’t pretended not to notice when you did the same. “You think you’re cute,” you say.

“I think you’re hot.”

You tilt your head, ignoring the way his comment makes something warm curl around your gut. Even when he’s leaning closer to you, he seems hesitant—as if making sure whether there’s an excuse to keep some distance between the two of you.

Tonight, however, you’re feeling particularly impatient.

“Are you gonna do anything about it?”

Alex thinks he’s the one that leans in first. You’re sure it’s you. Either way, the result is the same—his lips on your lips, tongue swiping against yours. He licks into your mouth, eager.

Still, the angle feels odd. And even with his hand finding its way on your hip, you can tell he’s craning his neck at a weird angle.

Alex mutters something against your lips, something you don’t manage to catch, before both his hands are wrapping around your thighs and he’s pulling you up onto the counter. You make a surprised sound that he swallows with a pleased hum.

“Much better,” he says, now on eye-level with you. And there’s that smile again—self-satisfied, maybe a little cocky, but softer at the edges.

You press your lips against his with a smile. “You’re cute,” you murmur into him, and you feel the exact moment those words register in his brain. How, in a blink, he seems to melt into you.

Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers absentmindedly toying with his hair. He’s gentle, which you respond to by grazing his bottom lip with your teeth. He lets out a sound into your mouth that fuels you. His hands still rest against the side of your thighs as you bracket him between them.

Alex pulls away for a second—just a second—but it’s enough for you to catch a glimpse of his blown-wide pupils. You blink, and his kisses are trailing down to the slope between your shoulder and neck. He gently brushes away your hair, finally settling over your pulse point.

You inhale sharply as he nips at your neck. He laughs quietly against your skin, and you can feel his smug smile as he kisses the spot.

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning with my building,” you say, voice coming out like a bit of a whine as your hand tugs at Alex’s hair to make him face you. His lips look kiss-swollen and bruised. “If you leave a hickey, I’m giving you a matching one, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alex responds breathlessly, and he leans closer to chase your mouth again.

“Someone needs to turn off the sun.”

You meet Oscar in the hallway, squinty-eyed with pillow marks still indented into his skin. He looks like he got run over by a truck. You imagine you’re not that better off.

“I feel like my ears are still ringing,” you mutter, falling into easy stride with him. You wince, ear drums blasted from last night. You mentally decide that if you lose your hearing by your thirties, Lando’s gonna be footing the bill.

The meeting room

“Yeah,” Oscar says, voice rough with sleep—or lack thereof. “Feels like I barely saw you last night, though.”

You shrug as the two of you get on the elevator. Oscar pushes the button for the residence hall’s lounge. “Yeah. I got… busy,” you say vaguely.

“Busy?” Oscar asks, raising a brow. He turns to face you, and his eyes widen as he catches a glimpse of something in the elevator mirror. “Fuck me, was he trying to eat you?”

You furrow your brows and turn to him, confused. “What?”

Oscar gestures at the mirror. “Your neck. You have this, like—” You scan your reflection, catching sight of the blaring purple mark sitting on the slope of your neck just as Oscar lands on, “You have a hickey.”

“Fucking…” you trail off, letting down your hair in an attempt to cover it. It’s not like you can run back to your dorm and get your concealer. You can’t be an RA and be late to your first floor meeting with your residents. “Is it too obvious?”

Oscar blinks. “I mean. It’s not subtle.”

“Fuck.” What are the chances that the third RA carries concealer or a foundation that’s similar to yours? You fix your hair again, untucking it from behind your ear and pulling the collar of your shirt further up. It’s a poor attempt at hiding it.

“At least tell me it wasn’t him,” Oscar says.

“It wasn’t,” you shoot back.

“Someone I know, then?”

You sigh as the elevator doors slide open with a ding. “Lando’s friend. Alex. You know—one of the two tall guys you left me with when you ditched me for Lando?” Oscar’s brows shoot up. “What?”

“I don’t know. Guess I didn’t think Lando’s friends were… your type.” He considers it for a moment. “Though based on your previous relationships, I could see how that tracks.”

“Fuck off,” you say lightly, shoving him to the side. “He wasn’t like, a frat boy or anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Oscar says, unconvinced.

“I mean it!” you insist. “Besides, it wasn’t like it was serious. Like, yeah, he was cute. But I’m probably never gonna see him again, anyway.”

The two of you stride into the lounge side-by-side. Chairs have already been arranged into a neat circle, a plastic plate with oreos and off-brand cookies placed at a table by the corner.

The guy arranging the last chair into place turns around. Brown eyes meet your gaze. Your blood runs cold.

He looks more put-together than both you or Oscar. His hair is still tousled, but there’s a certain charm to it. What draws your eye, however, is the matching purple mark resting on his neck.

“Um,” Alex stammers, blinking at you like he’s expecting you to vanish the next time he closes his eyes. “Are you one of my residents?”

Oscar pauses. Tilts his head. Realizes. “Isn’t that the guy you—”

“You’re the other RA,” you say dumbly. Alex’s eyes drop to the sticker name tags on both you and Oscar’s chests. The ones that read HI! I’M YOUR RA.

He swallows. “Shit.”

“Shit.”

#OHHHH YHIS IS SO GOODDD #i need a full novel neooowwwww 💳 ❗️

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everythingne · 11 days ago

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The Hating Game ╰┈➤ OP81

summary: y/n and oscar, two competitive co-workers who can’t stand each other. as they fight for the same promotion, their rivalry takes an unexpected turn—from hate to something much more complicated.

[word count] 16.7k

🎶 crush by ethel cain, cupids chokehold/ breakfast in america by gym glass heroes, imgonnagetyouback by taylor swift, loved you first by one direction, iris by the goo goo dolls, back to friends by sombr, I wanna be yours by arctic monkeys, pink lemonade by james bay + fool for you by zayn

there's always been something off about the elevator at work.

it could be that no matter how many times maintenance replace the lights, they continuously flicker. not enough to be concerning, but just enough to be annoying.

it could also be the mirrors that line every single square inch of the elevator. it looks fancy sure, but you're tired of wiping off finger prints and oil marks of others off the glass—are you the only one who values cleanliness in this place? seriously.

or it could be—yes, most definitely could be—the way oscar piastri stands beside you in it, shoulders back, dress shirt perfectly tailored and ironed, that is the most sinister of it all. because every single day, monday to friday like clockwork, oscar piatsri stands exactly 3 feet away from you on the elevator ride up to your shared space.

neither of you speak. not in the elevator.

it's like a game really.

you both arrive to the lobby at the same time and then wait for the elevator to pick you up. oscar presses the correct button, and you pretend to not notice him eye you irritably when you apply lipgloss in your compact mirror and then smack your lips together for an even spread.

then the doors slide open and you're both walking.

it's been like this for almost 8 months. 8 long months of pretending like oscar piastri doesn't make coming to work feel like entering a war zone.

there are three certainties in your life.

1. you are very good at your job.

2. you loathe oscar piastri.

and 3. oscar piastri knows it, and he despises you just as much.

he works in strategic development for the publishing company you're under, while you work in creative marketing for said company. both used to be very separate sections of publishing, meaning you and oscar used to be blissfully unaware of each other existence—until the third floors pipes combusted leaving no option but for both sections to merge together.

you weren't happy with having to share a space with a development team. mostly because they are all frat bros turned developers who reek of misogyny and cockiness, but also because merging together meant having to share an office space with one of them.

and that one ended up being oscar piastri.

it was a decision that still reeks of bad karma and even worse interior design.

that first day, you'd stepped out onto the second floor with a smile and your desk fern in your hands. despite your distaste for the new arrangement, you wanted to get off on the right foot. after all, you didn't know how long this would last, and being friendly with your office mate was the first step in making it more tolerable.

but when you walked in, introduced yourself to him with an outstretched hand and cardigan, the man who's name you now know is oscar, looked you up and down. slowly. and then walked out of the office space without uttering a single word.

from that moment on, you and oscar have turned into mortal enemies.

your desks face each other. directly. sitting six feet and three inches apart—yes, you measured—separated by nothing except a tasteful area rug and enough shared tension to kill a houseplant.

it's fine. really.

⸻

the morning starts the same as every other morning. you're already waiting by the elevator doors by the time oscar walks over—2 minutes after you—with a steaming coffee in a starbucks takeaway cup in hand, and an expression on his face that suggests he's recently been told emotions are contagious.

he doesn't look at you. just takes a slow and steady drink of his coffee.

the doors open with a rhythmic ding and you step in first—like usual—long winter coat swinging around your sheer tight covered calfs as you spin to face the doors.

oscar presses the button to your floor and then leans back. his coat is open, revealing his black button down and the tie he always wears slightly loose—like he just walked off a damn magazine cover for men who are too handsome to smile.

screw him and his sharp jawline.

but unlike every other morning, the tension filled silence doesn't linger between you. instead, oscar piastri must have decided that he wants to start your daily battle early.

he doesn't look up from his phone when he speaks. "morning sunshine," your shoulders tighten with irritation as the demeaning nickname rolls of his tongue—one he's been referring to you as for months now.

his eyes flick towards you. warm brown. just a flick. "try not to blind anyone with your optimism today."

quickly, you recover from the shock of his voice already, and snap into defensive mode just as fast. "oh, I brought extra sunglasses. want a pair?" you hold your oversized purse, digging around theatrically. "I think I've got a pair next to the hopes and dreams you crushed yesterday."

oscar doesn't even blink. "those weren't dreams. that was a poorly written pitch deck."

"a pitch deck with personality," you retort, "you should try it sometime."

he snorts—his version of laughing. maybe. possibly just a nose issue.

the elevator dings, doors opening again before oscar can respond. and thank god, because you think if you have to hear anything else come out of his mouth before having your own coffee, you might just kill him.

in sync you both step off—like two sides of a coin destined to never face the same way. co-workers all around send you both curious glances, no doubt wondering what kind of blow up between you and oscar will unfold today.

will it be another stapler heist like a few months ago when oscar swore you took his stapler—you did, but denied it anyways. that day turned into both of you taking turns swiping the stapler from one another while the other wasn't paying attention.

will it be him stealing the last keruig pod—lightly roasted. your favourite. and then smugly drinking it while looking at you over the rim of his mug like he's done too many times to count.

or maybe it will be a repeat of yesterday where you and oscar spent the entire 8 hour day sending each other revised versions of the same report back and forth just to prove a formatting point.

only time will tell.

it's 2 hours after you join oscar in your shared space—and only after making that cup of coffee you were needing, while dealing with the rush of morning editing and responding to overnight emails—does the day truly begin.

the afternoon lulls and the fluorescent lighting above hums. you slide a report into the outbox tray with a little more force than necessary, the thunk echoing slightly too loud in the otherwise quiet office.

oscar doesn't look up from his keyboard. "wow. dramatic. did the paper personally offend you or are you just naturally heavy handed?"

you don't miss a beat, "i'm trying to match the energy of your typing. you sound like you're threatening the keyboard into submission."

oscar smirks faintly, but doesn't look up. "it sbmits because it respects me. you could try that with your reports sometime—instead of letting them look like a printer throw up on them."

you spin in your chair, leaning on the backrest with a sweet, venom-laced smile. "funny coming from someone who's last presentation had a typo in the title slide."

that makes oscar glance up. briefly. fingers faltering over the keyboard for a passing beat. "and yet, I still got complimented by upper management. maybe they like their work with a little personality. unlike yours, which is always so clinically precise and painfully dull."

your jaw clicks. god, he's insufferable, you think. always so smug. so composed—like he's never spilled coffee on a single spread sheet in his life. you'd bet money he alphabetizes his groceries.

oscar leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, giving you a once over that borders dangerously close to assessment. "you always get this twitchy when I outperform you, or is this a new shade of professional jealousy?"

you scoff, "please. if I wanted to compete with mediocrity, i'd race a printer."

that makes oscar laugh—low and unexpected and you have to blink a few times to digest the sound. "you're obsessed with printers today," he teases, "you okay? or do you miss the days when you could hit the 'staple' button without overthinking your entire career?"

you're trying to rile him up, oscar decides. you always get a certain glimmer in your eyes when you're about to say something brutal—kind of a smug little glint like you know exactly how to draw blood with words.

and yet, he keeps sparring back. he could ignore you. he should ignore you. but then you bite down on your bottom lip, like you're waiting for his response, and oscar completely forgets what spreadsheets are.

you pick up a glittery stress ball from your desk—something someone decided was a suitable gift during a team bonding seminar that ended it someone crying and oscar rolling his eyes—and toss it lazily up in the air.

"I don't need to overthink my career," you sigh, "unlike you, I'm not coasting on charm and generic cologne."

oscar raises an eyebrow. "so you've been thinking about my cologne?"

your mouth parts in shock for a moment before you compose yourself—narrowing your eyes in his direction. "only because it smells like you bathed in the men's section of abercrombie."

he grins like you've slipped up. you haven't—not really—but oscar takes it in stride and uses the opportunity to rage bait you further. shifting in his chair, he leans further back, hands clasped behind in his head in a way that makes his biceps look huge. "so you've imagined me bathing?"

there's a pause. slight. barley half a second. but enough.

without knowing what to say, you hurl the stress ball at his face.

oscar catches it, smug and unbothered. "aggressive. is this how you express affection?"

"if I ever feel affective towards you, you'll know. i'll send a fruit basket. with a bomb in it."

he smirks. barley. "so dramatic."

"so punchable." you mutter before hastily pushing off you desk, kitten heels clicking against the wooden flooring as you walk out of the office. oscar's triumphant sigh invades your ears and—yup, you definitely need more caffeine.

⸻

you end up leaving only an hour after your tiff with oscar that day. claiming a headache and waltzing out of there without so much as a second look in his direction.

when in reality you couldn't stand to look at oscar's face for a second longer—all smug smirk and annoying typing. it was driving you mental. you had to get out, and prepare for the process to repeat the following day.

it's a thursday now. almost a week later. you're halfway through pretending to work—highlighter in hand as you drag the neon yellow colour across paragraphs that don't really need to be highlighted—when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

it's not oscar—who sits silently across from you—but instead, it's lando. from marketing. he's leaning casually against the corner of your desk, a half shy smile on his face. his tie is loose, sleeves rolled up just enough to look intentionally effortless.

"hey," he says, paper bag clutched tightly in his hand. "just got back from that vendor meeting. they brought extras. grabbed your favorite—a chocolate croissant."

lando sets the bag down on your desk next to a mini captain america action figure you got in a kinder surprise egg, like it's a gift wrapped in gold. his fingers brushing the edge of your notebook—a little too close to casual. you blink, caught off guard.

"no way," you say, surprised. "you remembered?"

he shrugs, like it's no big deal. "told them we had someone on the team who actually appreciates flavor. had to balance out the robots in developing."

lando glances pointedly toward the desk directly across from yours, and you don't even need to look to know that oscar heard that. the subtle twitch in his jaw confirms it.

still, he keeps his eyes glued to his screen—"we may be robots," he mutters without looking up, "but at least we submit reports on time."

you give a light laugh, distracted as you open the paper bag. the buttery scent of the croissant wafts into the air, warm and rich. you bite into the warm croissant. it's buttery, flaky, perfect and you almost groan out.

lando chuckles like he's in on some private joke, eyes dancing between you as you wipe croissant flakes off your top, and oscar's deadpanned expression.

when oscar doesn't join in, lando clears his throat awkwardly, turning his attention back to you.

"you just saved my afternoon. seriously." you moan between bites.

"you can pay me back," lando suggests, leaning in slightly, a hopeful tilt to his smile. "maybe...dinner sometime? just the two of us."

completely oblivious to his suggestion, you nod enthusiastically. "sure! i'm always up for food."

lando seems to linger a beat too long, waiting for something else—maybe a blush, maybe a spark—but you're already halfway through your croissant, more focused on the chocolate than his eyes.

with a small, slightly disappointed smile, he gives a nod and strolls off. it's not like you don't like lando—he's great and handsome and nerdy in a way that all your exes were—you're just...totally oblivious to his flirting and don't see him as anything other than the guy from two rooms down.

you're barely two bites in when oscar's voice cuts through the quiet. "wow," he says, voice dry. "that was subtle."

you look up to see that he's swiveled around in his chair to face you fully, his arms crossed like a shield. oscar's expression is unreadable—part amusement, part judgment, part something else you can't place.

you can't help but frown, confusion lacing your drawn eyebrows. "what?"

"lando. the guy practically wrote 'please love me' across his forehead," he snorts, "you just... accepted the pastry like it was a proposal."

you set the croissant down with exaggerated care. "he's just being nice."

oscar raises an eyebrow, his voice low and annoyingly calm. "sure. because 'dinner sometime' is absolutely what friends say. right before they schedule their wedding."

"you're being ridiculous," you laugh—sharp and humorless. "It's nothing."

he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on top his knees. his eyes are dark, narrowed, searching. "I didn't realize your standards were that low."

the words hit harder than you would expect. you blink, "excuse me?"

something flashes on his face, but he doesn't act on it. oscar just shrugs, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. "lando's fine, I guess. If you like guys who say 'teamwork makes the dream work' and thinks bringing you a croissant is some grand romantic gesture."

you rise slowly from your chair, heart thudding. "why do you even care?"

"I don't."

"you clearly do."

oscar stands now too, almost mirroring your movements like he can't help but to match your energy. his arms cross tightly again, mouth pressed into a flat line.

"I just find it interesting," he notes, voice clipped, "that someone who's constantly harping on me about professionalism is two seconds away from dating the human version of a self-help podcast."

you step around your desk, closing some of the space between you. "are you jealous or something?"

there's a pause. a flicker of something in his expression—surprise, maybe. guilt. resentment.

oscar's jaw clenches so tight that it looks painful. his eyes dart away for a beat, a deep breath expanding his chest. then, what feels like hours later, he looks back at you. voice quieter.

"If you had half a clue," he says, "you'd realize I'm not concerned about his intentions."

the space between you changes, shrinking and weighing down on your chest. you stare at him with confusion coupled with disbelief. "then whose are you worried about?"

he looks at you like he's trying not to say something. like if he says what's on his mind, it'll burn everything to the ground. oscar's eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

your breath catches in what feels like surprise.

and then oscar exhales through his nose and turns back towards his desk. "forget it," he picks up his pen, muttering as he gets back to work without sparing you another look. "enjoy your croissant."

you watch him silently, analyzing his odd demeanour—the tension lingering in his shoulders. the rhythmic click of his keyboard picks up speed, a little too harsh. a little too loud.

eventually, you too drop back into your own chair, heart still racing—and all you can do is stare at the half eaten pastry in front of you like it's the problem.

what the fuck was that? that wasn't teasing—you note. that wasn't oscar's usual easy smugness. that argument was...quick. something real. something too sharp and way too complicated.

across from you, oscar still doesn't look up, not even when he hears the croissant hit the bottom of your garbage can with a dull thump.

⸻

you and oscar don't really speak all day friday. you're both too stubborn and way too competitive to break whatever weird cast as been over your shared office since lando's surprise pastry drop off.

yesterday, before you left work for the day, lando caught you in the parking garage, asking if you wanted to grab dinner the following evening.

and maybe because you were tired or maybe because you were picturing oscar's face—jaw all tight and clicking—as you walk into work in the morning wearing something date worthy. whatever it is—you act on it, and agree to meet lando at a local bar about a 5 minute walk down the street from the office.

now, almost 8 hours into your shift, you're definitely regretting walking to work in pretty yet impractical heels. your toes are so smooshed that they've probably morphed into one big toe.

it's also raining now, which is great because not only do you have to walk in death heels, but you'll be soaking yet while doing so.

the office is quiet saved for the coffee machines whirling and your pen hitting the edge of your notebook as you finish up your report. most of the staff clocked out hours ago, leaving behind the low hum of overhead lights and the rain pelting against the windows.

it's only you and oscar left—well, maybe clara from HR is still reading up on reports down the hall. but she's so quiet that you don't even remember she's here half the time.

once you've sent off your work to diane—the head of your department and one of the most fashionable 60 year olds you know—you move. the chair shoots back and almost hits the wall.

obviously it catches oscar's attention. he doesn't lift his head, but his eyes flicker over in your direction.

you don't look. instead, you shrug on your pea coat with an extra sense of pride, brush off a speck of invisible lint from your plaid skirt, and adjust your collar like it matters. you apply a layer of lipgloss in your compact mirror, right by your desk and then smack your lips together like always.

without a glance in oscar's direction, you start to walk out.

you don't get halfway across the floor when you hear his voice behind you. "that look for a client dinner, or are you finally moonlighting as a bond girl?"

his tone is light, sardonic—that trademark mix of charm and irritation he seems to reserve just for you.

you roll your eyes because you can't help it. you haven't spoken all day and he's acting like nothing has changed from your usual banter. he's got to be fucking with you.

"do you rehearse those lines or do they just fall out of your mouth like that?" you spin in your heel and prop a hand on your hip—clearly unimpressed and even more so annoyed.

"It's a gift," he says, pushing off his desk.

you don't respond before turning away again, making your way out of the office—cursing silently when you hear his shoes following close behind. it's doesn’t take long for oscar to fall into step beside you, both of approaching the elevator.

guess he's also done for the night.

"so... where are you going all dressed up?" oscar's question fails at hiding his disgust—and based on that, you're pretty sure he knows the answer already.

"lando," you say simply.

oscar snorts like his suspicions were confirmed. "of course. that guy's got a type, and apparently it's women who are too easily distracted by croissant to understand what he really wants"

you give him an incredulous look. "takes one to know one."

he chuckles a laugh under his breath, but there's something tighter about it this time—like the joke only half-landed. you push the elevator button and cross your arms tightly, trying not to let your expression soften.

he always does this—picks and prods until you give in and snap back. It's a dance, and you're both too stubborn to sit it out.

rain lashes against the windows as crack of thunder booms in the distance. a storm has moved in properly, fast and loud. you glance outside with a gentle gulp.

"fucking rain."

"worried your hair might actually frizz?" he teases, but it's gentler this time. when you look at him, he's already watching you—not with his usual smirk, but with something unreadable.

something quieter.

you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and pray for the elevator to hurry. "no umbrella," you mutter. "guess I'll have to call an uber."

oscar hesitates for a second, some internal battle clearly happening in his mind. and then—"I'll drive you."

you blink. "what?"

"you heard me." he shrugs, like it's not a big deal. "where are you headed? i'm sure it's close enough if you were planning to walk."

you don't answer—still too confused at oscar's sudden shift to properly address him. "since when are you nice to me?"

he smirks again, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. "let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm just not in the mood to watch you melt in the rain like a particularly sarcastic wicked witch."

the elevator dings.

you step in without responding, heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with the storm. oscar follows, and the doors slide shut with a soft hiss.

the silence stretches— heavy and humming with something unsaid.

he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, glancing sideways. you watch the floor numbers blink overhead, each one slower than the last. you cross your arms and then immediately uncross them when you start to feel hot.

"just davids bar," you swallow, eyes flickering over to him. "that's where i'm meeting him."

oscar purses his lips and nods. doesn't say anything else.

"you don't actually hate me, do you?" you ask quietly. you're unsure where the question came from—or the vulnerability that laces is. you surprise yourself, quickly averting your eyes.

oscar looks at you then—properly. his eyes scan your face, lingering at your lips for a second longer than they should.

"no," he admits after a beat, so gentle that it almost doesn't seem real. "but it's easier than the alternative."

your throat tightens. "which is?"

he shifts closer, the space between you disappearing inch by inch. oscar's voice drops low, like it's not meant for anyone else—like it's a secret, or a confession.

perhaps is it.

"wanting you."

your breath catches. he's standing so close now you can smell the clean scent of his cologne—something warm, like cedar and citrus, subtle but intoxicating. you stare up at him, pulse thudding in your neck, your chest, and your fingertips.

you try to be flippant, but your voice is softer than you intend. "that's not funny"

"no," he murmurs. "it's not."

you laugh, breathless and laced with hesitance. "you're ridiculous."

oscar doesn't miss a beat. "you're stalling."

you back hits the mirrored wall of the elevator. without noticing, you and oscar have drawn closer. you blink, lips parting in something you can't decipher as you search his expression—searching for any traces of humour.

you find none.

one of his hands braces beside your head, palm flat against the mirror while the other lightly brushes your waist under your coat. you almost jolt at the feeling.

his eyes flick from yours to your mouth and back again.

"I should go," you whisper, though you make no move to leave.

"yeah," he agrees. "you really should."

then, like the elevator has stopped off in some alternate universe, oscar piastri kisses you.

It's not tentative. It's not polite. It's months of tension and banter and unresolved want, crashing into one desperate, breath-stealing moment. his mouth is hot and insistent against yours, and you melt into it, fingers curling in the front of his shirt like you've lost your grip on logic—or never had it to begin with.

you're kissing him. kissing oscar.

and he's kissing you back like he means it—like it's been eating him alive. his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, anchoring you there like he's afraid you'll vanish.

then—too soon, and somehow not soon enough—the elevator dings.

the sound of the doors whirling open is jarring. It slices through the haze like a knife.

you pull back, dazed and hot and even more confused than before.

oscar's hands linger for a second longer at your waist, then after a beat, fall away.

he’s looking down at you, chest heaving, eyes wide, lips slightly parted—not with heat this time, but something closer to disbelief. the kiss flashes through you, and you can feel your breath catch again, pulse racing in places that have nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with what the hell just happened.

neither of you speak.

the silence stretches, thick and awkward in a way that feels brand new. not sharp, not hostile, just raw.

you glance down, quick and little unsure, smoothing the front of your top even though it doesn't need it. maybe you're tying to erase the feeling of oscar's hands. or maybe you're trying to hold onto the feeling a second longer.

"I..." you start, but the words die before they can form.

oscar swallows hard, backing up a step into the open parking garage. you watch nervously as his jaw clenches and unclenches like he's thinking of something to say but can't land on the right version.

"oscar-" you start again, but this time it's him that cuts you off.

"you said david's bar?"

you nod slowly, hugging your arms across your chest. "yeah."

oscar doesn't look at you as he unlocks his car, the fancy beep echoing through the empty lot and over the hammering rain.

the air between you still buzzes—not with tension now, but with something fragile. like whatever just broke open might shatter completely if one of you breathes too hard.

neither of you say a word as oscar holds the door open for you to climb in. hell, he doesn't even look at you. and now, on top of everything else, you feel embarrassed.

the rain continues to drum steadily against the windshield as oscar pulls out of the parking garage, wipers slicing across the glass in quiet, rhythmic swipes.

the air inside the car is warm, almost stifling.

you stare out the window, arms crossed tight over your chest. you can feel the ghost of his hands still on you—the heat of his mouth still pressed against yours—and it's making your skin burn for all the wrong reasons.

the silence gives you time to properly think—about the kiss and the silence that followed suit. about oscar and you're bickering. it doesn't make sense, and the longer you stew on the pile of endless possibilities about what oscar kissing you could mean you can't help but to think of worse case scenarios.

he shifts in his seat. you catch the way his jaw is locked again, and how his fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

"look," he says finally, voice low. "about what happened—"

you cut him off, "don't. seriously. I don't need you pretending it was some accident."

oscar's brows furrow. "I'm not pretending anything.”

you let out a bitter laugh. "right. you just happened to kiss me 10 minutes before I'm supposed to walk into a date with someone else. how convenient."

he glances at you through the glow of street lamps, incredulous. "you think I planned that? you think I kissed you to ruin your night?"

you don't answer. you don't want to say yes, but it would be easier than facing what it might actually mean.

"jesus, y/n," he mutters. "you really think that little of me?"

"I don't know what to think, oscar." your voice shakes, and you clear your throat before continuing. "you argue with me, you roll your eyes every time I speak in a meeting, and then you... kiss me like that? you don't get to act like it didn't mean anything, and expect me to just sit in your car like nothing happened."

he's quiet, and that silence speaks louder than anything.

when oscar pulls up outside the bar, the rain's slowed to a mist, and you're already reaching for the door handle.

"thanks for the ride," you mutter. and then you're out of the car—heels clicking across the wet pavement, heart racing, and chest aching with something you don't understand.

the bar is warm and softly lit, filled with quiet clinks of glassware and murmured conversation. it envelops you like a warm hug as soon as you walk in.

you spot lando almost immediately—tucked into a corner booth, relaxed. he smiles once when he sees you.

"hey," he says, standing to greet you with a friendly hug. "you look... wow."

you smile, but it feels thin. "thanks. sorry I'm late."

"no worries," he gesture towards a glass of white wine on the table. "I ordered you a glass—figured you'd need it after work. hope that's okay?"

you nod, sliding into the seat across from him. lando continues to talk—something about work, some funny thing he saw earlier, but it washes over you like static. you nod, smile when appropriate, but your mind is still trapped in the elevator.

still trying to decode the look on oscar's face after he kissed you. still wondering why it hurt that he let you walk away without saying anything else.

lando tilts his head at you after a pause. "you okay, y/n?" he asks.

"yeah. just... one sec." you rise quickly, forcing a smile. "sorry, I'll be right back."

you make it into the hallway near the restrooms before the weight hits you full-force. you press a hand against your forehead, the other clinging to your purse as your throat tightens.

tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

you don't even know what you're crying for exactly. maybe the confusion. or the frustration. or the fact that you let oscar get to you—again.

a part of you wanted the kiss, and now it feels like you've fallen for something that wasn't even real.

you're wiping your cheek with the back of your hand when you hear footsteps behind you. you spin around, expecting maybe a server—but it's him.

oscar.

he's holding your coat. the coat you'd taken off as soon as you got in the car because you were running so hot you felt like you had no choice—you barley remember taking it off.

but here he is, with it in the hand that 5 minutes ago was sliding over your body like a paintbrush on canvas.

but his expression changes the second he sees your face. "I came to return this," he says quietly—tentatively and assessing you—lifting the coat. "you left it in the car."

you stare at it for a tense beat, and then back at him. "of course you did." your voice cracks despite your best effort.

you hate that he's seeing you like this. falling apart outside a dingy bar bathroom like a mess. crying over him.

despite your clipped and dissolve tone, oscar doesn't move to leave. "are you okay?"

you let out a bitter laugh, wiping at another tear before it drips off your jaw. "do I look okay?"

he swallows hard. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"but you did," you snap. "you kissed me like you meant it, and then looked at me like it was some kind of mistake. like I was."

he opens his mouth, but you don't let him speak.

"I don't know what you were trying to do, oscar. if this was about getting in my head, or screwing with my night just because you hate the idea of me with someone else—"

"It wasn't," he cuts in, voice firm and unwavering. "It wasn't about lando. It wasn't a game."

you don't miss a beat, voice achingly telling. "it's always a game, oscar," shaking your head, you clutch your coat to your chest. "I can't do this with you."

he blinks. "y/n—"

"just leave." the words come out hoarse, but steady. you're not crying anymore, but your cheeks are stained and eyes rimmed with emotion.

oscar's expression falters—like he wasn't expecting that. like maybe he thought the kiss had changed something. that you'd want him to explain, or chase you, or admit something he's not ready to say out loud.

but you don't.

you turn away, pressing your palm against the cool wall, breathing hard through the lump in your throat.

behind you, you hear nothing at first—just the faint music from the bar, the soft click of glasses, the distant hum of life moving on around you.

then, finally, footsteps.

quieter now.

and then the door opens.

and then closes.

you're alone again.

sinking down against the wall, you hug your knees close to your chest and try and breathe through the ache sitting against your ribs.

you don't know what just happened—you only know that for the first time in a long time...you wish he hadn't left.

the days that follow pass quietly, each one folding into the next like pages in a book you're too tired to keep reading.

the dull and unfamiliar ache doesn't vanish—it just finds new places to hide. some mornings it wakes you before the sun. some nights, it drips from your words like venom. and somehow, that's easier. simpler. familiar.

whatever fragile thread had once tied you and oscar together has long since snapped, left to fray in the silence that followed his departure. neither of you mention what happened. or what was almost said. the glances are shorter now—sharper and measured like chess moves, delivered with the kind of cool detachment that used to define the two of you.

the worst part is how easily it comes back—the sarcasm, the side-eyes, the brittle edge in your voice when you say his name. like slipping into an old coat, one that still fits far too well.

oscar walks into the room now and doesn't look at you.

you don't look at him, either.

and somehow, that says more than words ever could.

still—sometimes, in the pause between your shared space, or in the kitchen waiting for the coffee pot to brew, you catch something in his eyes. a flicker. a breath. regret.

but then it's gone, and the game resumes.

like always.

it's monday now. exactly three weeks since the kiss in the elevator that you still dream about and then wake up in tears.

like a usual morning, you read through your overnights emails in silence and pretend that oscar isn't sitting across from you.

you've seen people get fired. promoted. break down over jammed printers. but nothing—and you mean nothing—sends the office into a panic spiral quite like an email with the subject line: "all staff mandatory meeting."

oscar must see it the same time as you, because in a blink he's strolling out of the office. you count to ten before following suit.

the conference room smells like stale coffee and glass cleaner. fluorescent lights hum above, buzzing like insects. you sit at the long oval table, back straight, pen tapping lightly against your notepad—more for focus than notes.

around you, the rest of the team fidgets with their mugs, papers, and phones. you can feel oscar across the table, just out of your line of sight. he's still. too still.

diane, your boss—your sharp, fearless, silk-blouse-wearing boss—stands at the head of the table like she owns the building. honestly, she probably does. emotionally anyways. she clears her throat, and just like that, the room falls into silence.

"effective immediately," diane starts, voice smooth, "we're opening a new role—executive director of brand strategy."

the words hang in the air like smoke, and instinctively your spine straightens.

a few heads turn. someone lets out a soft exhale. your stomach continues to tighten like a vice. you feel the shift in the room—a ripple of quiet buzz, the kind that precedes a storm.

but across from you, oscar doesn't even blink. he's composed. polished. his fingers are steepled under his chin like he's already strategizing how to own the title.

you hate how still he is. you also hate how your own pulse kicks harder in response.

diane continues, voice almost too casual.

"and we've narrowed it down to two final candidates."

then—like some twisted movie—she does it. she looks directly at you, and then directly at oscar.

of course.

"y/n and oscar."

there's no applause. no chorus polite "oh wow" or fake congratulations. just a sharp, invisible oh shit that passes through the room like a draft. the tension turns electric. no one breathes. not really.

oscar turns his head slightly, just enough to catch your eye. and like you've seen many times before, that smug, unreadable look already warms the edges of his expression. his mouth twitches—the ghost of a smirk or maybe a challenge.

you meet his gaze head-on.

you refuse to blink first.

diane, smiling like a lion with a full menu, continues like she didn't just restart world war 3 in the office. "final selection will be made in two weeks. In the meantime, both of you will continue working closely and collaborating on analysis and reports."

oscar speaks first. calm. smooth. predictable.

"looking forward to it." he even smiles when he says it—the kind of smile that says I'm already ahead of you.

you tilt your head, and smile sweetly. "same here. you'll need all the help you can get."

he raises an eyebrow. "that sounded like an insult wrapped in encouragement."

"because it is."

the meeting starts to dissolve around you—people shifting, gathering papers, murmuring things that sound like 'wow', 'good luck', 'yikes'.

you know, real good stuff.

chairs scrape. someone claps a little too enthusiastically, trying to lighten the mood.

you remain seated. so does oscar.

of all the people in this company, it had to be him pitted against you. just like usual, you and oscar will be battling for a top spot in this office. oscar—the man who always has one more slide, one more angle, one more clever comment about budget review.

he leans slightly over the table, voice lower now—just for you. "try not to sabotage me before lunch, alright?"

you lean in just as far. one bump and you're sure your noses could touch. "i'd never sabotage you. that would imply you're a threat."

his smile widens, but there's a flicker of something sharp in his eyes. something he tries to hide, but not fast enough. "you're going to make this fun, sunshine." he says.

you grit your teeth. "haven't you learned by now, oscar? I make everything more fun."

diane walks past, pausing just long enough to give you both a knowing look. "play nice," she says, not unkindly—but pointed.

you both mumble some version of "always" at the same time, with the exact amount of sarcasm that makes her chuckle as she walks off.

the room empties, the door swinging closed behind the last person, and still, you and oscar sit there—facing each other like it's a chessboard instead of a conference table.

"two weeks," he says, his voice is quiet now. measured.

"plenty of time to crush you."

he laughs—a short, amused sound. then he stands, smooth and unhurried. "then may the best liar win."

he walks out and you sit there for a second longer, staring at the empty chair he left behind like a moron.

the next morning, the office feels different.

colder.

sharper maybe?

every time you walk past someone's desk, they glance up like you've grown horns overnight. maybe you have. after all, you're in competition mode now. so is oscar. and everyone in the office seems hyper aware of the fact. hell, they parted like the red sea when you both stepped off the elevator this morning.

when you open your computer, your inbox is full. you slack is worse.but what keeps repeating in your mind—over and over like a curse—is the way diane said it.

"...both of you will continue working closely."

you assume that meant co-leading meetings, sharing slide decks, subtle sabotage over reports. what you absolutely did not assume was a 9:00 am scheduled calendar even for today tilted—"team building: offsite trust & resilience retreat (mandatory)"

"obstacle course challenge?" you read aloud, horrified. "what are we, army recruits?" you're not actually looking for an answer, eyes squinted as you re-read the words like they’re going to change.

across the room, oscar doesn't look up. of course he doesn't. he's probably already building a strategy to crush every single one of you and claim the metaphorical office flag.

"oh great," he mutters, tapping away on his laptop. "more excuses for people to fall and cry."

"It's not crying if you break your ankle, oscar. that's called pain."

finally, he looks up at you, one eyebrow lifted in a completely unamused way. "planning to injure yourself preemptively so I feel guilty and throw the game?"

"I don't need to fake anything. I plan on winning with flair, charm, and sheer chaotic brilliance."

"so... no plan at all, then."

before you can craft a suitably devastating retort, clara from HR starts calling through the office, telling everyone to get their climbing pants on.

you can feel oscar's eyes rolling.

twenty minutes later, you're in the back of a charter bus, surrounded by coworkers in branded hoodies and team spirit that makes your eye twitch. the air smells like overenthusiastic optimism and granola bars.

oscar takes the seat next to you without asking.

of course he does.

"assigned seating?" you mutter.

"just thought you'd appreciate a front-row view of my inevitable victory."

you turn your head, slowly. "oscar, if we end up on opposite sides of a rope bridge, I won't hesitate to 'accidentally' loosen your harness."

he chuckles, then leans back, arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched like he owns the bus aisle. "noted. you want to kill me, but only after the promotion's official."

"exactly."

as the bus pulls onto the highway and the skyline disappears behind you, you glance out the window, trying to push away the nerves humming beneath your skin.

promotion. competition. him.

you exhale as a wave of dizziness washes over you.

let the games begin.

by the time you arrive at the offsite location—a wooded "adventure center" that looks like it was designed by someone who hates introverts—you're already regretting everything.

there's mud—real mud—and it's already caked your boots. the instructors are wearing headsets and high five like it's a cult.

you look around with a grimace, already in your harness. you catch lando's eyes across the lot, and he waves, half in his own harness. you smile politely, but then oscar's by your side and you're annoyed with the world again. it doesn't help that he's stretching like he's warming up for the olympics.

"you ready, partner?" he asks, rolling his neck with a smug grin.

"we're not partners," you mutter, tugging on your gloves. "we're rivals with matching shirts."

"team yellow," he says, gesturing to the gaudy branded shirt you both had thrusted into your chest as soon as you stepped off the bus. "It's like fate dressed us the same."

"It's like fate wants me to commit a felony."

the first challenge is a giant cargo net wall. probably about 10 feet high. there's a lot of rope and even more mud. someone blows a whistle and you let someone else go first—some enthusiastic intern who yells, "let's crush this, team!" like he's in a commercial.

oscar glances sideways at you, a knowing look on his face. "don't tell me you're stalling."

you don't look at him. "don't tell me you're still talking."

you step forward and grab the net because you can't let oscar be right—even though you were most definitely stalling.

halfway up, your muscles burn hotter than expected and your head pulses behind your eyes, a subtle throb that started on the bus and hasn't gone away.

you blame the weather. and oscar.

he's right below you, moving quickly, climbing like he's done this before. because he probably is the kind of weirdo who has.

"struggling already?" he calls up, breathless but smug.

"no," you grunt, "i'm just enjoying the view from above you."

he laughs, and the sound somehow shoots directly down your spine.

at the top, you pause for a second too long. the wind hits your face and your balance shifts. the world tilts. and before you can register what's going on, your hand slips off the rope.

"whoa—y/n."

oscar's voice cuts sharp as he reaches up instinctively, grabbing your wrist—grip warm, firm, and grounding.

you freeze, eyes locked on his.

there's a beat where you're both breathing harder than you should be.

"let go," you utter quietly.

"you sure?" he asks, eyes flicking briefly down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "because for a second there, it looked like you were about to fall for me."

you snort. "If I fall, it's because you keep breathing in my space."

still, you let him steady you as you climb down. neither of you mention the way your hand lingers in his half a second too long.

the next challenge ends ups being a low-crawl under ropes, straight through the mud. you drop to your elbows, oscar beside you in that god awful yellow shirt, and the two of you crawl like soldiers in some romantic comedy gone feral.

"you know," he says, "this is the most time we've ever spent face down in the dirt together."

"speak for yourself," you snap. "I work under you every time I have to fix one of your idiotic campaign briefs."

"wow. that's how you're gonna talk to your future executive director?"

you grunt, elbowing him in the ribs as you pass. "not if I get the title first."

oscar groans but lets you pass, mud splattering across both of you. your heads throbbing even harder now, like your skill is shrinking and has become too small for your brain. the pounding makes your stomach churn.

you wipe sweat from your brow and tell yourself it's just the heat.

after chugging water and breathing through nausea, you and your co-workers huddle around the final obstacle. you stare up at the two person rope bridge, suspended over a bit of water, and you're already feeling sick again.

you're paired with oscar, obviously, because apparently your two other yellow team members want you to suffer more than usual.

"this is a trust exercise," the instructor chirps. "you'll have to balance each other."

oscar glances at you. "you sure you can carry the emotional weight of this relationship?"

you step onto the first rope plank without looking at him. "I've been carrying this team since Q1."

halfway across, the bridge starts to sway. your knees buckle slightly—and not just from the height.

instinctively, your grip tightens on the ropes, knuckles turning pale. you breath shakily through your mouth, eyes closing for brief moment as you attempt to not pass out.

"y/n?" oscar's voice softens behind you. "you doing okay?"

"fine," you snap, blinking hard. your vision is swimming now, and the pit below seems farther than it is.

oscar steps closer, one foot at a time, slow and steady. his eyes dart around your sickly pale and dewy complexion, "you don't look fine."

"well then maybe you should stop looking at me."

you glance up at him—sweat dripping down your temple, breath shallow. despite your snippy tone and inability to act weak in front of oscar, your eyes swim with the opposite.

and oscar sees it. he takes another step closer, hand brushing along your lower back as the bridge tilts again. "I've got you," he murmurs.

and for one stupid second—you let him. you let oscar touch you gently and breath over your helmet covered head like it's normal. you bathe in his warmth and presence like it's the same.

his palm stays there, warm through the soaked shirt. he doesn't push. he doesn't guide you. he just keeps you steady.

you don't speak, you just keep breathing in and out in a desperate attempt to not be sick.

and oscar notices. he always notices.

"you're pale," he notes quietly, lips close to your ear. "and you're shivering. this isn't just the mud and nerves, is it?"

you shake your head, too stubborn to fully accept his help. "It's nothing. I just—need to finish this."

"y/n." the way he says your name is different. like it costs him something.

you don't want him to care. you don't want you to care that he does.

but when the bridge sways again, and you stumble like a baby deer, he catches you, arms bracing you against him easily. the ropes creak underfoot but you barley hear it over the throbbing in your head.

"alright," he says. "you're getting off this bridge, and then I'm taking you to get checked out."

"you're not the boss of me," you mumble weakly.

"yet." he smirks teasingly, but it's gentler this time.

you let oscar lead the rest of the way, your hand gripping his wrist with more pressure than necessary. the bridge sways, but you don't fall.

at the end, when you step back onto solid ground, your legs wobble pathetically—but oscar's hand is still at your back, unwilling you to fall.

"you're burning up," he says, voice low. "stop pretending you're not."

you hate how good he is at reading you.

"I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he says. "but for once, maybe let someone help."

you glare at him.

he stares right back.

neither of you move.

but then—the world tilts.

oh no.

not in the dizzy, dramatic way—no, this is worse. It's subtle. slow. your legs feel like soaked towels, and your stomach churns violently, rebelling against gravity.

you blink, willing the dizziness away, your fingers still twisted in oscar's sleeve.

"y/n?" oscar's voice sharpens. "you're not okay."

"I said I'm—"

your throat clenches before you can finish. the heat rushes up the back of your neck, and then it hits—that awful, final swell in your gut.

you barely make it two steps before you double over and empty the contents of your stomach. throwing up right into the bushes behind the rope bridge. mud splatters. your knees hit the ground.

It's not elegant. It's not dramatic. It's real and miserable and totally humiliating.

"shit."

you hear him more than you see him—his voice, low and urgent. oscar's at your side in a second, crouched beside you in the muck, hand on your back without hesitation. not hovering, but firm. supportive.

you cough weakly, spit, breathe. gag again but nothing comes up this time.

you want to say something. anything—joke it off, snap at him, pretend it didn't happen.

but you can't.

oscar doesn't say anything for a moment. he just stays there like a steady presence. he reaches up, yanks the stupid yellow branded bandana from his neck, and gently presses it to your forehead.

"you're really burning up," he says, voice low and careful now. "you're burning up. jesus. why didn't you say anything?"

"didn't want to—" you start, but your voice cracks before you can finish.

"—what? look weak? screw that."

oscar crouches lower, practically kneeling now, one arm braced around your shoulders as your head tips forward again. you expect him to pull back. to let go. to make a joke about bodily fluids or being stuck babysitting you.

but he doesn't.

he just holds you steady like he's done it before. like he's done it for you before.

"i've got you," he says again, quieter. no trace of sarcasm this time. "just breathe."

you hate this. the closeness. the kindness. the way your body leans into his because you can't stop it. the way he feels solid—maddeningly warm and real.

a small group of coworkers stop nearby, unsure whether to intervene or run in the opposite direction.

oscar throws them a sharp look, "someone get the medic. now."

they scatter.

you cough again, then groan softly, finally lifting your head. "this isn't... how I wanted today to go."

oscar looks at you. he's got mud streaked across his cheek and concern tightening the lines around his eyes. for a second, he says nothing.

but then he snorts—not mean, but soft—and his mouth curves at the edge. "well," he says, "if you were trying to distract me before the promotion, puking on my shoes was a bold strategy."

you glance down. you missed his shoes—barley.

"I could aim better next time," you croak.

his laugh is quiet, but real, "please don't."

there's another pause.

he still hasn't let go of you.

"y/n," he says, "you don't have to power through everything. you don't have to prove something all the time."

your chest tightens. not from sickness. not from fever. something else. "I'm not trying to prove anything."

"yeah," he says gently, "you are."

you don't have the strength to argue. not now. "I just didn't want you to see me like this," you admit. barely a whisper.

his expression shifts at your sickly confession. just slightly. there's a flicker of something behind his eyes—not pity. not amusement. something else. something quieter.

"too late," he says, voice steady. "and I'm still here."

the seatbelt digs into your shoulder as you lean your head against the cool window, allowing the march drizzle outside to cool your otherwise hot skin. you're still a little clammy, and your stomach has settled into something that feels like a truce rather than a victory.

the worst part of the whole getting sick at a mandatory work event, isn't that you threw up in front of everyone. and it's also not the fact that you're still wearing damp socks from the mud crawl, or that your yellow shirt has some puke on it.

it's that oscar offered to drive you home—and you said yes.

honestly, you'd been too dizzy to argue or to understand the repercussions that call come from this journey—and too tired to pretend that you didn't notice how his hand rested lightly on your back while you tried to breathe through the lingering nausea.

how he didn't say a single sarcastic word while you sat slumped on a folding chair in the medical room. your face in your hands, feeling humiliated and weak and seen in the worst way.

the car hums quietly now, filled only with the soft sound of tires on wet pavement and the occasional swipe of the wipers. it's not raining enough to be concerned, but the drizzle persists, leaving the streets shiny and grey.

you risk a glance at him, eyes still heavy and stomach even more so.

oscar's hands are at ten and two on the wheel. obviously. he's not looking at you—another obvious one—but there's something tense in his jaw. like he's deep in thought or trying not to be.

"you didn't have to do this," you murmur, swallowing roughly. your mouth taste like puke. it has you taking a sip of the gatorade oscar grabbed from his back seat before buckling you in.

your voice still sounds off. thinner. fragile in a way you hate.

he glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. "yeah, well. no one else volunteered. and I figured you'd rather throw up in my car than in an uber."

you almost smile. almost. teasing words coming too easily. "you're all heart."

oscar exhales through his nose, and you think he might be fighting a smile too. "I know. it's exhausting."

silence again. it's not brittle like the past few weeks. this feels stretched thin, like an elastic band ready to snap.

you pull your coat tighter around yourself, the damp fabric cool against your arms. he notices—you catch the way his eyes flick over to you again, lingering.

"feeling any better?"

slowly, you nod. "yeah. mostly just embarrassed now."

"you don't have to be."

you look over at him again, flanked by the softness in his voice. oscar's fingers tap the steering wheel once, then still. "everyone gets sick. you pushed yourself too hard," his warm eyes find yours, a half smile tugging at his lips, "course was bullshit."

"you breezed through it."

he shrugs. "still bullshit."

you don't know what to say to that. he's being... kind. not in a loud, obvious way. just in the way he's always been when you weren't looking close enough to notice it.

the tension between you—the heat and confusion and whatever that kiss was—it's still here. barley, but still lingering. although, it feels different now. like you're both aware of it, but neither of you wants to disturb the fragile kind of peace that's settled between you.

oscar pulls up to your apartment building and shifts the car into park. the engine hums over the backstreet song playing through the radio.

you move to unbuckle your seatbelt, but he stops you with a quiet, "hey."

you freeze, eyes meeting his.

"about the other night..." he begins, then trails off. oscar looks down at his hands, then back at you—his voice is careful. "I've been thinking about it. about us."

your heart gives a slow, unsteady thud. "there is no us."

oscar nods, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes. "I know. but it doesn't feel like nothing anymore."

you don't answer because he's right. and because part of you still doesn't trust it—or yourself.

after a pause, he gestures to your building. "come on. i'll walk you up."

"I can manage."

"you're still pale." he counters. he's got a point though, and the chances of your knees buckling when you step out of the car are too high.

still, you send him a look. "you're still annoying."

oscar smiles, and it's real this time. it's not smug, and it's not teasing. just tired and warm and maybe a little relieved.

you don't argue again.

the two of you walk up the stairs side by side, quiet but not distant, letting this newfound peace settle between you. at your door, you fumble with your keys, and oscar stands just behind you, not hovering—just there.

you finally turn to face him, the key still in your hand. "you didn't have to take care of me today."

his gaze meets yours, and holds steady. "I wanted to."

there's a charged pause, and suddenly the space between you feels too close and yet also too far.

you take a tentative step back. "thanks for the ride."

"get some rest, yeah?" oscar nods once, hands tucked into his slacks while his eyes search yours. maybe looking for answers—maybe simply checking your wellness.

you're not sure. you just nod back, meekly. and as oscar walk back down the steps of your building, you feel that same aching confusion settle in your chest again. only now, it's heavier with the knowledge that something has truly changed now.

not in a dramatic, kiss in the elevator kind of way. but in the quiet way that feels harder to undo.

the following morning you end up calling into work. unfortunately for you, it was a stomach bug that you undoubtedly caught when you sister and niece visited your place on the weekend.

you try not to think about oscar, but it's hard when the only things you're doing include laying in bed, scrolling tiktok and dealing with cold sweats.

it doesn't help that around 11 a.m—the time at the office just before you would usually take lunch—you get a text.

drink water. at least one glass before your fourth coffee. don't be stubborn.

— o.

you blink at it.

then roll your eyes.

and then—you smile.

⸻

four days after the team building obstacle course, you're sitting back at your desk. your inbox is overwhelmingly full, the marketing team is two days late delivering added for a campaign that was already behind. your coffee from this morning sits cold and untouched as you attempt to sort everything out, and your stomach still hasn't properly recovered from your sick days.

and for some reason, about six feet and three inches away, oscar is pretending you don't exist. which would be easier if he wasn't doing it so deliberately.

you haven't made eye contact since you walked into the building this morning. not once. he was quiet in the meeting yesterday—unusually so. no snarky comments or passive-aggressive remarks that use to do your head in.

this morning, he even dropped a file on your desk without making a single joke about you throwing up on your shoes in front of everyone. and not even when an hour after that lando stops by and laughs about it.

not. even. then.

you should be grateful, but it feels like silence wrapped in barbed wire.

you're trying to focus on your screen. focusing on the empty document and trying not to glance across the office again.

you don't need this. you're over it. whatever it was.

still.

you keep seeing him in flashes—the way he looked at you that night after the kiss. the way his voice softened in the car. the quiet tension in his shoulders when he watched you walk through your apartment door.

and suddenly everything revolves around oscar. not loudly and not all at once—but just enough to notice. just enough to hurt.

"you good?" a voice says suddenly from the open entryway of your shared office.

you flinch and spin in your chair so quick it almost topples over. It's clara from HR, a coffee cup in hand, brows raised in polite curiosity.

"yeah," you lie. "fine. just... tired."

she nods sympathetically. "still recovering from the obstacle course from hell? because same."

you smile tightly and wave as she walks off. when you glance back at oscar's desk, he's looking right at you.

you freeze.

he doesn't look away. not this time.

he just stands slowly, grabs a folder, and walks toward the copy room. and then waits.

there's no words uttered under his breath. no subtle gesture—just a tentative glance over his shoulder before he disappears inside.

you don't even think before you follow him.

the door clicks shut behind you. the air in here is cooler, quieter—the kind of silence only offices and confessionals seem to master.

oscar's leaning against the counter by the printer, but he's not looking at it. or you, to be honest. his thick arms are crossed, eyebrows furrowed as he trains his gaze in his shoes—like he's figuring out how to start.

before you can stop yourself, you beat him to it.

"why are you avoiding me?"

his head snaps up, eyes sharp. "I'm not."

you laugh and it sounds low and bitter. "bullshit."

oscar exhales slowly. "I didn't know what to say."

"you didn't have to say anything," you pause to swallow through your tightening throat. "but I guess it's easier to pretend nothing happened, right?" you add on. bitter.

your voice is quiet, but it cuts through him like you’re shouting. you weren't planning to say that—or maybe you were. maybe it's been simmering too long to hold in for a second more.

oscar looks at you for a long moment. silent. but then—"it wasn't nothing."

the words settle between you like a drop in water. small, but echoing.

you swallow, suddenly unsure of your own footing. "then what was it?"

oscar steps forward slightly. still cautious. still not close enough. "I don't know," he admits with a breath. "but I'm not pretending it didn't mean something. I just..." he trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I don't want to mess this up. you and me. whatever version of this exists."

"there is no version," you say—too fast. too fake.

he looks at you, eyes narrowing knowingly. "you keep saying that, but you keep showing up."

his words hits harder than you expect. mostly due do the fact that they are unarguable. you fold your arms over your chest, trying to hold...something in. despite your best efforts to stay composed, you can't help the way you voice cracks. "you think I wanted to be driven home by you? or kissed by you? or cry in a hallway while you stood there looking like—"

"like I didn't know how to fix it?" oscar finishes knowingly, his voice is low now and steady.

you meet his eyes, and something about the way your eyes lock has you thinking back to the elevator. minutes before he kissed you—when oscar was simply just...looking. an unspoken gesture passes between you—not heat this time, but gravity.

"you scare the hell out of me," you admit before you can stop yourself, hugging your arms close to your body like you need a shield—not from oscar, but from the weight of change.

at that, his expression shifts— not smug or satisfied. something genuine. oscar steps closer, words coming out no louder than a whisper. "you scare me too."

there it is again. the silence. thick like usual, but with intention. you don't expect oscar to expand any further, but then softly, he does—"can we stop pretending?"

you blink in surprise, and take your bottom lip between your teeth shyly. you look away, "how?"

you question, so vulnerable and you, has oscar's heart clenching. he swallows, "come over to my place tonight. we can talk."

you meet his gaze and nod unsurely—like you're still trying to place the pieces together, "after work?"

"please."

that's how you end up pacing outside oscar piastri's apartment building—a tupperware container full of homemade cookies that you obviously panic baked after work, clutched in your hands.

you've been standing outside the building for seven minutes—to be exact. not knocking. not buzzing up. not leaving. just existing nervously on the sidewalk like a raccoon holding found treats.

you shift your weight to one foot, then the other while your fingers drum against the plastic lid like it might give you answers.

oscar invited you. even said please. you're not sure why you feel so nervous. or uninvited even. maybe because you know this could be it—the calm after the storm. or maybe you're nervous because there's a chance the storm hasn't broken yet.

regardless, you're panicking and psyching yourself out because it's oscar.

your eyes flicker up to the building, painted thumb hovering over the buzzer—then you pull back like it's about to shock you.

"this is stupid," you whisper. "you're being stupid. It's just a conversation. about...the kiss. the obstacle course. you know, the vibes. all of it. totally chill."

the front door swings open before you can hype yourself into pressing the button—or attempt to press, anyways.

and there he is.

oscar, in a dark navy hoodie, gray sweatpants, and that same unreadable expression on his face that makes your stomach do unathletic flips.

"I figured you were down here," he says. "you buzz like a scared raccoon."

you blink. "how do you know how raccoons buzz?"

"you tell me," he says, looking pointedly at the cookies. "you're the one holding snacks like you're about to beg me not to trap you in my backyard."

you roll your eyes, even as heat creeps into your face. "these are peace offerings. or...discussion fuel. I don't know. you invited me. you don't get to mock me for showing up."

he leans against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised. "I didn't mock. I described."

you hold out the container instead of nervously rambling further. thankfully, he takes it, barely glancing down before flicking his gaze back to yours. "chocolate chip?"

"Is there any other kind?"

oscar smiles all half lipped and handsome. "you didn't have to bring anything,"

you shrug. "yeah, well... I wasn't sure what kind of conversation this was gonna be. cookies are kind of a neutral third party."

he opens the door wider, stepping aside. "then bring your neutral party upstairs. let's talk."

you hesitate for half a second—eyes darting between the empty hall and his—just long enough for him to notice.

"hey," he starts, voice quieter now. "I meant it. I want to talk. you're not here by accident."

your eyes flick up to meet his. there's no teasing this time. just oscar, honest and a little nervous too.

"okay," you nod after a beat. "let's talk."

oscar's apartment is somehow nothing like you excepted but also so oscar that you should've. his place is tidy—not spotless, but that lived-in kind of clean that makes everything seem warm and domestic. clean lines, warm lighting, shelves lined with books and a few things you had to double take to comprehend; a record player, mismatched mugs, a pair of runners left by couch.

you slip off your coat, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

oscar's in the kitchen now, pouring hot water into two mugs.

"I didn't think you'd actually come," he says over his shoulder. his voice is casual, but there's something careful tucked just under it.

you walk further in, the soft click of your boots echoing against the floor. oscar looks up at the sound, and you send him a closed mouth smile when your eyes meet. "I didn't either," you admit.

a flicker of a smile passes over his face before he looks down again, dropping a teabag into each mug.

he slides one across the counter to you.

"chamomile. best I could do on short notice."

"you're full of surprises, piastri."

"you have no idea."

you take the mug, letting the warmth settle into your palms. the quiet stretches out—not awkward, not exactly. just... full. like there's more neither of you is saying.

he nods toward the couch, "you can sit, you know. I don't bite."

you arch a playful brow. "lies."

that makes him laugh—a quiet, genuine sound that hits low in your chest. you sit anyway, curling one leg beneath you, tea balanced in your hands. still too hot to sip, you let its warmth envelope your hands.

oscar joins you after a moment, leaving just enough space between you to feel intentional.

the tv is off. no music. no noise. just the sound of your breathing, the hum of the radiator, and the rustle of oscar's hoodie as he leans back and glances at you sideways.

"you feeling better?" he questions. you think he's referring to a few days ago and the whole puking incident. you shudder just thinking about it.

you nod with a grimace. "mostly. still avoiding stairs."

"smart. stairs are a trap."

you smile, and oscar watches it happen. another beat of quiet settles between you and you take the opportunity to take a sip. it's still hot, but its comforting.

he taps the lid of the cookie tupperware that he'd previously put on the coffee table with one finger. "so, uh. these smell incredible, by the way. are these the 'please like me' batch or the 'this is fine and we're just coworkers again' batch?"

you blink at his bluntness, a little shocked as you string together a response. "...I didn't label them."

"tragic. would've made things easier."he gives you a quick side glance. you're not sure if he's joking, or nervous, or both. probably both.

"I panicked and baked. don't read too far into it."

he lets out a breathy chuckle, "too late."

you snort, finally relaxing enough to lean back against the cushion. "you said you wanted to talk."

he smiles, but it's brief. controlled. and his fingers stop moving. "okay, so. elevator."

your breathe catches—here we go. "right. the kiss."

oscar's eyes twinkle as if to say—yeah the kiss that was so much more than a kiss but rather months of built up tension coming to the surface against the wall of an elevator kiss. anyways.

"the kiss. which I initiated. while you were... very clearly going on a date. with lando. not me."

you cringe slightly. "yeah. I was definitely wearing date lipstick."

"I noticed. very powerful shade. extremely threatening." a beat passes free his teasing, and you take the time to try and find a way to sit causally while your heat ping pongs in your chest.

your lips part once, nothing coming out. but then, after a small breathe, you manage to speak. "I didn't stay."

oscar looks over, surprised. "you didn't?"

"no," you swallow, a little harsh because your throat feels like sandpaper. "no, I umm. after you left, I told lando I ate something funny at work and wasn't feeling well. which—not that i'm saying it out loud—feels like a bad excuse. especially after he saw you come after me."

his lip quirks up—just enough to let you know that he likes that. "I probably owe him an apology."

you almost snort. "me too."

another beat passes, this one lighter than the last. oscar studies you—not accusing, but rather observing.

and then, because you're kind of tired and a little high on the chocolate chips you'd been munching on while baking, you finally start to crack—"I never know where I stand with you," the words are sudden enough for oscar's spine to straighten.

you don't notice. you shift the mug in your hands, eyes trained on the tea instead of him. "It's like one minute we're arguing, the next you're taking care of me, and then you kiss me and pretend it's nothing."

oscar doesn't respond right away. and when he does, his voice is low and steady. "I never said it was nothing."

finally, you glance back at him—sharply, almost accusing—but he's not looking at you anymore. he's looking at the space between his hands, thumb brushing over the rim of his mug like he's trying to coax answers from it.

"you didn't say anything at all," you remind him, voice shaking in a way that you curse.

"because if I did, I wouldn't have known how to stop...saying."

that silences you.

you stare at him—really stare—and for once, he lets you. no deflecting. no half smirk. just him. quiet and real and so obviously holding something back.

and maybe it's the tea and cookies. or maybe it's the way you can still feel the way oscar's hands squeezed your flesh while his lips traced yours, but suddenly, you don't want space.

you don't want safety.

you want him.

you set your mug down.

he notices.

you move first—just slightly—shifting towards him like it's the only thing you know how to do. like you're testing the air between you.

oscar turns his head slowly, gaze flickering down towards your mouth and then back to your eyes.

"don't," he pleads quietly. but he doesn't move. he can't.

you swallow softly, fingers twitching at your side, "why not?"

"because if I kiss you again, I won't want to stop."

you whisper, "then don't stop."

and that's it. you words so desperate and pleading are the final nail in the coffin before oscar piastri is on you—or maybe you're on him. but either way, it's happens fast and slow all at once. like not molasses in a gingerbread cookie.

his hands finds your waist, sliding beneath your shirt like he's once again familiarizing with your shape. while your fingers bury themelsves in the curls at the nape of his neck.

this kiss is different than the one in the elevator. it's not as urgent or a mess of tongue and teeth. this kiss in controlled and intentional—like oscar's trying to show you what he voiding say before.

and you feel it.

all of it.

the pent up restraint and the undeniable want—the quiet truth hiding in every breath.

somewhere between the kissing and touching, you end up across oscar's lap, straddling him like you've done it before. it feels so good that you wish you had. his large palms slide over every curve and bump of your body, squeezing just often enough to have you gasping.

this is better than the elevator. because this time, you don't doubt that it's real.

when you pull back, your forehead pressed to his and still half grinding on his hard on, oscar's still holding onto your hips like he's not ready to let go.

you're both breathing hard—not from passion, but from everything being too much and not enough at the same time.

you don't say anything.

neither does he.

but he doesn't look away either, not even when he starts mouthing at your neck like a starved vampire.

for several long minutes, and after some more less than PG14 kissing, you don't say anything. you let the cirty glow outside his window and your breathy noises sit between you like a dream.

then—

"this doesn't mean I like you," he murmurs. his warm eyes flicker back to yours, and with the blush on his cheeks and fond grin pulling across his swollen lips, you know he doesn't mean a word.

you smile, soft and just as swollen. "god, I would hate that," you whisper back, as soft as the breaths between you.

oscar laughs against your shoulder lowly, and then presses a lingering kiss to the same spot.

and you realize: you're completely screwed.

⸻

there's a new game now with oscar.

it's subtle and less obvious than the first. it's quiet looks across the conference table, the slight brushing of his hand when no one's watching, and his voice softening when he says your name. you pretend you don't notice. he pretends he doesn't care who does.

but unfortunately for the whole secretive thing you're trying to achieve, everyone's noticing.

clara catches you both coming out of the storage room one morning—your lipgloss slightly smudged and oscar looking far too pleased with himself. she raises a overplucked brow but says nothing, just sips her coffee like she's watching a show she's been invested in since season one.

then there's that meeting on wednesday.

oscar sits across from you, not beside you. the air between you hums with the weight of the night before—his mouth against your throat, his hands gripping your hips, the way he whispered, "you drive me fucking crazy" before pulling you into him again.

now you're trying to focus on the budget presentation and miserably failing because all you can think about is ripping his clothes off.

your pen taps a little too loudly on your notepad. it's gains oscar's attention, because it always has—he looks up—sharp, amused—and you catch his eye before quickly glancing away, heat rising to your cheeks.

afterward, clara leans in while everyone files out.

"you and oscar, huh?”

"what?" you blink and fain innocence which obviously sucks.

she just smiles knowingly. "okay, sure."

you brushed off her tone and the glimmer in her eye easily. but the pit in your belly only intensifies. nothings official with oscar. not really. there's been no definition to your relationship or post-sex 'what are we' talk.

it's just late nights, locked doors and whispers of things that feel too soft to be causal.

there are three new certainties in your life now.

1. you are still very good at your job.

2. you like oscar piastri.

and 3. oscar piastri knows it.

⸻

it's friday, two hours before you can clock out and undoubtedly end up wrapped in oscar's bedsheets.

the copy room smells like warm ink and fresh paper, and for the first time in a long time, you smile when you catch the clashing scents.

you're waiting for your papers to finish printing when your phone buzzes in your pocket. it's oscar.

meet me in ten. conference room c.

you smile before you can stop yourself. willing your reports to finish quicker, you impatiently stack them all in a messy, unorganized pile that future you will curse upon.

just as you begin to leave the room, two voices in the hallway stop you in your tracks. the conversation sounds casual. they're laughing about something.

but your stomach drops.

"dude, I'm telling you, he's got her wrapped around his finger."

"didn't even think he liked her."

"doesn’t have to. It's smart, right? get in her head, get her off her game. that promotion's basically oscar's if he keeps playing her like that."

you've completely stop breathing.

“you think that’s what he’s doing?”

“he didn’t deny it man.”

the words hit too fast to process, each one driving in deeper and deeper into your heart. you don't know who's talking and frankly it doesn't matter.

before you can will yourself to look, they're walking off, the sound of their footsteps and snickering fading into nothing but clicking keyboards and phones ringing.

you just...stand there, kitten heels glued to the worn tiles beneath your feet.

the air feels muggy now—too hot and sticky—clinging to your skin in the worse way. the printer is humming and you're gripping the edge of the counter hard enough for it to hurt.

suddenly, it's all too loud.

the way oscar never talks about what this is—or rather doesn't. the looks and the touches. the kisses that feel like confessions but never are.

you think about his deep voice in the dark, saying "If I kiss you again, I won't want to stop."

now all you can hear is: "It's smart, right? get in her head."

you blink hard to try and dissolve the sting behind your eyes, and swallow the lump in your throat. you can't help but to think that maybe this whole time, you, oscar and everything between you, was just another part of the hating game.

when you've finally calmed down enough to walk without your legs shaking, you find oscar by the elevator, bag hung over his shoulder casually. he's got his phone in hand, brows furrowed while he types away.

your chest tightens as you approach. "oscar."

the sound of your cracking voice has him looking up quickly, eyes a little guarded and wild and surprised. he tucks his phone in his pocket and begins reaching out for you.

you think he's saying something, but you're not listening.

"we need to talk. now." you state.

"what's wrong?"

you take a shaky breath and can already feel tears prick behind your eyes. you curse yourself internally, and place a palm to your chest to try and slow your frantic heart.

"about this." you gesture between you, "about whatever the hell this is. because I just overheard those guys in the copy room."

oscar's face shifts—confusion, frustration, something almost desperate. "what guys? what did they say? are you okay?"

"they said you're using me," you huff, "that this whole thing is just some game to mess with my head so you can get ahead."

oscar's brow furrows, eyes wide like you've just punched him. he whispers your name, "that's not true."

your laugh is hollow, bitter. "then why did they say it? they must've said something to you for them to believe it. why didn't you say anything?"

his jaw clenches. "a couple guys asked me about you, yeah. and I told them it's complicated. because it's non of their business. because I didn't want to make it harder."

"it's complicated? make it harder?" your voice rises, shaky but sharp. "do you think this is easy for me?"

he takes a step closer, voice dropping. "no. I'm just... trying to protect you."

you shake your head, tears slipping free now. you angrily wipe them away, gaze unwavering from his. "protect me? by pretending I'm a pawn in your game?"

his hands clench into fists at his sides, frustration bleeding into his words. "it's not like that, y/n. you don't know how much this—"

"don't." you cut him off sharply, voice trembling with pain and anger. "please don't."

oscar stares at you, like he's trying to read you—trying to find the part of you that'll listen. "I'm not playing you. I've never played you."

but you can't breathe. you can't think. you can't forgive him right now.

you turn away, voice breaking and another tear falling off your jaw. "maybe I was wrong about us."

the elevator dings behind you, the doors sliding open like a trap. you don't look back. instead of stepping onto the elevator with oscar like you've done everyday for the past 7 months, you walk away from him.

the office buzz hums around you, but it feels miles away. you drop down to your desk chair in a heap of weak limbs and tears—replaying the conversation like a broken record. his words. his eyes. the desperation and confusion within them.

maybe he's telling the truth—but the doubt's too loud. the voices from the copy room echoing in your mind like the cruel chorus to your least favourite song.

you close your eyes, fingers tightening on your phone. you want to text him, tell him to come back and explain. but pride stops you.

you let out a deep, shaky breath.

you wait at least 30 minutes until leaving, ensuring that oscar won't still be around.

⸻

the next morning you get to the office extra early and immediately drown yourself in promotion stuff. you're glued to the computer screen, jaw tight and fingers stiff over the keyboard—the sting of last nights confrontation still raw.

footsteps sound in your office. you don't have to look up to know it's oscar—you can smell his favourite coffee.

he freezes when his eyes land on you.

you look up, eyes cold, jaw clenched.

for a long moment, you don't say anything.

he clears his throat, voice tentative. "hi."

you don't reply, turning your attention back to your computer screen and praying for your tears to not fall.

he takes a cautious step forward, "look, I—"

you cut him off, voice sharp. "don't."

oscar's brows knit together, hurt flickering behind his eyes. you don't see it. "y/n, please. I'm sorry. I want to fix this."

you scoff, turning back to your screen, voice icy. "fix it? how? by pretending none of this ever happened? by lying about how you feel?"

he swallows hard, spine straightening. "I never lied about how I feel."

"then why didn't you say it? why let me drown in doubt and whispers?"

oscar's shoulders slump, full of defeat, "because I was scared you wouldn't believe me."

that has you finally glancing up, eyes blazing with a million emotions. "well, you were right."

the silence between you feels like a chasm.

oscar meets your gaze, voice low but steady.

"I'm here when you're ready to talk."

you take your bottom lip between your teeth and say nothing. you didn't mean it. of course you don't. it's just...a lot. and you're scared and hurt and have no idea what any of this means.

you watch oscar nod slowly, before turning and walking away, leaving you alone with the silence—and the storm inside your head.

but as soon as he leaves, you wish he was back.

⸻

the air feels thick—almost suffocating—with anticipation. your fingers clench at your sides, breathing shallow.

oscar stands nearby, but something's different: no spark of competitiveness, no fire in his eyes. just a quiet stillness that unsettles you.

it's the day of the promotion, and suddenly everyone in the office feels like they're at the oscars. kind smiles are sent your way and cautious looks sent to oscar. clara bought you a coffee this morning and lando patted your back and whispered good luck.

it all feels too much, and with the way oscar looks so unfazed by it all has you feeling even more unsettled.

diane clears her throat, holding the sealed envelope like it weighs a ton. "thank you everyone for the past couple weeks of hard work and dedication. i've been so busy with this promotion and putting out smile fires that I needed my staff to step up—and you did. so thank you."

everyone claps. you don't—too frozen.

"after careful consideration and, in all honesty, reading through a few applications from outside the company, i've come to a decision for a new head of the department."

time seems to slow and your heart hammers so loud you're sure it's audible. you can't decide if you're nervous about the promotion or if you're nervous because oscar hasn't looked at you.

diane smiles after what feels like an eternity, bright and genuine. "congratulations, y/n."

the room erupts in polite applause, but you barely hear it. your eyes immediately search for oscar. you're almost surprised to find him looking at you considering the morning, but he is.

he's not clapping. or smiling.

your stomach folds in on itself. but in reality—what could you expect. it all has you thinking back to that conversation you overheard. were you really just a pawn in oscar's game? and now that you've come out on top he's frustrated—too frustrated to send you a polite congratulatory nod?

you stand, mumble something about air and a rushed thank you before stepping out of the room. the weight of the announcement and oscar's reaction still hangs all around. suffocating you. your stride falters, and you press yourself to the wall.

your eyes flutter closed for a moment, as if gathering the courage to go back in there. your heart is pounding, and the last thing you want to do is join your co-workers again after looking like a fool and stumbling out of there.

after what feels like an eternity, you open your eyes again.

and that's when you see him.

it's like all the walls you've built around yourself come crashing down. the faux pride and shark looks that meant nothing—all fade into emptiness.

you should walk away. but you can't. because oscar's here. in front of you with apologetic eyes and flexing hands hanging at his sides.

"y/n," he starts. voice soft. he takes a deep breath a little unsteady but real. "congratulations. you deserve it."

"thanks." you mutter, arms crossed over your chest like an invisible shield.

a beat passes before oscar's swallowing again—running a hand over the back of neck like it might give him answers. "I need to be honest with you y/n."

here it comes, you think. the truth. the lies. the deception. the confirmation that your relationship with oscar—whatever it was—was nothing more than a meaningless game for him.

but then—

"I withdrew my application for this promotion weeks ago."

your breath hitches, disbelief and something tender swirling inside. "what?"

oscar meets your eyes, vulnerability cracking through his usual guarded expression. "yeah, I umm—I realized the promotion wasn't worth it if it meant standing in your way. you deserve this. you deserve everything."

his voice trembles, honest and fierce. your breath catches, new tears threatening to make an appearance. you don't say anything as oscar steps closer, the space between you growing fragile yet charged.

"I'm not perfect," he mumbles, eyes searching yours. "I'm terrible at this. but I can't keep hiding how I feel—I've been trying to find the right words for weeks, but somehow it never felt like the right moment."

he shifts, running a hand through his hair, "I wasn't sure if you'd even want to hear it, or if I'd sound like a fool."

"oscar," you cut him off gently—studying his vulnerability like it's a miracle. the oscar you thought you used to know—sharp and powerful and a little condescending—isn't here. instead you're met with this oscar. the one who kisses you softly, holds your hand back when you're sick and tells you things he had to build up courage to say.

"the truth is...from the moment we met, i’ve been completely captivated by you." he smiles softly, and it's genuine, not the usual smirk. he continues, "not just because you're smart or ambitious—though you're both, endlessly. but it's the little things. like how you bite your lip when you're thinking, or how you always tap your pen against your notebook during meetings. I notice when you get frustrated but don't want to admit it. the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. the stubborn way you defend your ideas, even when you know you're wrong."

oscar laughs quietly, shaking his head. "and god, are you stubborn."

you can't help but smile despite yourself, watery and genuine and oscar's heart thuds at the sight. he takes another step closer, more confident than before, his voice almost dropping to a whispers as he continues.

"I wanted to tell you all this the first day we met, but I was so damn nervous looking at you with your glossy lips and even prettier smile, that I couldn't even get a sentence out. I kept rehearsing what I'd say for weeks after that, but anytime I saw you, all the words just vanished."

he exhales, eyes locked on yours. "I wanted to be honest from the start, but I was terrified of messing everything up."

you feel something raw and real in that moment, something that makes the walls between you tremble.

"so I stayed quiet. and I let you think whatever you wanted. and that was the biggest mistake." oscar swallows hard, then reaches out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. "but I'm done hiding. I love you, sunshine. every part of you—the brilliance, the chaos, the stubbornness. I love it all. and I want you to have everything you deserve, because you deserve the world."

he's looking at you, waiting, hope and fear mingling in his gaze.

and without thinking you wrap your hands around his neck, pull him down and kiss him. and in this moment, that says everything.

⸻

the apartment smells faintly of lukewarm takeout and the lingering ghost of oscar's earlier culinary disaster—something involving burnt garlic, a suspiciously aggressive amount of paprika, and, tragically, shrimp. somewhere under the crusted frying pan in the sink lies the evidence, but neither of you have moved in hours.

you're both splayed across the couch like lazy cats, limbs tangled and half-covered by a blanket that insists on playing favourites—currently favouring oscar's legs and leaving your toes cold and exposed to the injustice of the living room draft. one of his socks is missing. he claims it's not a metaphor, but you're not convinced.

oscar is half-heartedly flipping through tv channels with a remote that's seen better days, landing on nothing long enough to commit. you scroll your phone without reading anything, stealing glances at him like some lovestruck teen in a coming-of-age movie. It would be embarrassing if it weren't so... nice.

he catches you—of course he does—and smirks without looking away from the screen. "stop it. you’re making me nervous," he says, voice lazy and smug.

you roll your eyes, biting back a grin.

"you? nervous?"

"what can I say, you keep me on my toes." he shrugs, his grin widening into something ridiculous—the kind that makes your chest ache in that inconvenient, happy way.

you laugh, soft and real, and nudge him with your elbow just hard enough to make him fake a dramatic wince. he retaliates by inching closer until his arm's around you, pulling you into the awkward warmth of two bodies trying to fit on a couch designed for one and a half.

"is that why you burned the shrimp? because I'm so intimidating?" you tease, setting your phone down on the coffee table.

"that shrimp burned itself. I was merely a spectator to its self-destruction," he says solemnly, which makes you laugh a real laugh, not the polite kind you use at parties or staff meetings.

"right," you say, shifting to rest your head on his shoulder. "just like how the rice 'mysteriously evaporated' from the pot?"

oscar gestures dramatically to the ceiling. "kitchen sabotage. I'm under attack. It's domestic terrorism in there."

"you're a menace to every spice rack you meet," you murmur, eyes half-lidded now, the weight of the day slowly dissolving under the rhythm of his heartbeat.

he turns toward you, lifting his arm to drape it around your shoulders with all the grace of a sleepy sloth. "yet somehow," he mumbles, leaning in conspiratorially, "you still love me."

"I never said that," you reply, but your voice is soft, too fond to sound convincing.

he presses a kiss to your temple. "didn't have to."

you roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. "don't go getting sentimental on me now."

"oh no, god forbid I express feelings." he clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "take it back."

"never. you'll have to live it now."

you're laughing again, and for a moment, it's just the sound of that—your laugh mixing with his—echoing quietly around the room like the softest kind of music.

then, in a quieter moment, he leans over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers pausing to linger at your cheek.

"deal," he murmurs, almost like a promise. "but only if you promise not to win every argument."

you grin, heart lighter than it's been in weeks.

"no promises."

oscar laughs—this full, unfiltered thing that starts in his chest and spills out into the room. the kind of laugh that makes your chest flutter and your brain short-circuit a little because it feels like home.

nor the neat, polished kind you imagined years ago. not the romantic comedy kind with string lights and perfect playlists. but the messy kind. the kind that smells like old takeout, has mismatched socks, and burns dinner twice in a row.

it's not perfect. but it's easy. real.

and maybe, finally, exactly where you belong.

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