itslusii

[itslusii]

operation drs — OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x actress!reader summary: Oscar watches from afar as you and your co-star set the internet ablaze with chemistry on your press tour. He tries to convince himself he's not jealous at all. tags: jealous oscar, secret relationship, miami gp 25, reader stars in tbosas & has indiacorey and zeglyth levels of chemistry w her costar (iykyk!), tom blyth is here, pr team governs all, the woes of being long-distance, one teensy smut scene. minors dni wc: 13.8k words :D a/n: [taps mic] hi... [waves].. tons of actors sharing good chemistry with their costars as of late... wondered how oscar would act in a similar situation... Alas

Oscar could not let go of his phone. 

It’s all rather inconvenient when the algorithm has him pegged. How could it not? He’s a simple guy with even simpler interests: sim racing, ESPN highlights, and you. 

Hollywood's up and rising. Darling songbird. His long-term girlfriend.

His watch history is a clear smoking gun: Cast Trivia on IMDb. Challenges on Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Behind-the-scenes teasers. A leak of your chemistry read. Press interviews—millions of them. He thinks he’s watched each interview from each country. Interviews with you interviewing the other. 

And he thought media day was tedious. 

He scrolls past a fan edit and exhales, long and weary; he feels a little hostile. 

He thinks it’s jealousy. 

The exact genesis of it is a mystery. All he knew was that you were suddenly busier than ever. 

Not the usual kind of busy—long shoot days or back-to-back matinees where you barely had time to check your phone. Not the kind where, if he was lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of your day on your story. Maybe a ten-minute call before you dozed off.

This was a different kind of busy. Bigger. Public. Cameras trailed you from presser to presser. Your ensemble roles on Broadway and supporting acts in art house films hadn’t garnered this much scrutiny.

You were everywhere now. He didn’t have to wonder where you were or what you were doing—Lionsgate made sure of it. 

They lavished on the ad spend: an international press tour when cross-country would’ve sufficed. Print. Radio. Television. Every feed, every timeline, flooded with the kind of lead-couple chemistry execs prayed would recapture the magic of the originals.

You’re both so rarely on the same televised frequency. Reels of his and Lando’s post-race debriefs bleed into autoplay trailers on TikTok. Even Hattie saw the trailer of your movie play right before lights out on a race weekend. Prime slot, full saturation. 

He’s proud of you. 

No one can discount your credibility. Raised on stagecraft with enough street cred that intrigues producers and makes you worth defending on Twitter. The same trajectory as the modern greats.

You’re headed there. He’s sure. Your fanbase themselves are sure. The world can’t help but pay attention when a star is born. Hold their breath, place their bets. Oscar’s already cast his, and they’re all in your favor. 

But he scrolls and reads comments. Gets uncomfortably hot at the chest when he considers the truth they hold. 

They’re literally in love. 

Just date already. 

There it was—a flicker of insecurity. Snake bites on Adam’s unmarred skin. 

Your agent had advised you to keep your relationship private. Said it could hurt promotional activity. Poor promo hurts the box office. And box office sales were, more or less, championship points in your world. 

He liked the privacy. The secrets? Not so much. The peace was a blessing, especially when he’d heard other drivers complain about the media digging into their partners’ lives against their wishes.

And while he wasn’t blind to the merits of a private relationship, he also saw their bright smiles whenever they get to mention their significant others in interviews, the posts on Instagram. Flirty comments and tags in photo dumps.

God, did he want to hold your hand in public. Bring you to races. Walk into the paddock with you by his side. Wishes you were here now, lounging with him in his driver’s room.

He wants to say your name when interviewers ask him, What drives you, Oscar? Wants to see your face at the barriers of parc fermé after getting P1. He even wouldn’t mind posing for a pap or two, arm around your waist. Unmistakably his. 

Instead, you did interviews with your co-star. Talked on and on about how easy it is, how natural the chemistry sparks. The interviewers attest to this in confidence, and journalists call it electrifying and undeniable and incessant even when cameras aren’t rolling! 

It’s unfair, honestly, to blame your co-star. Anyone in your immediate orbit, given a few moments with you, would fall headfirst. 

You—so considerate, so warm, and so unbelievably easy to love.

After all, it only took him seconds to clock the thought: you might be it for him. 

His phone dings. 

you you have NO idea what we did today. oscar Nothing dangerous, I hope you we did an interview with kittens. KITTENS. one climbed up my shoulder.  I named him Oscat :) Sent an image

It was a selfie of you cradling the kitten, cheek against its furry head. The corners of his lips tug up. He reacts with a heart.

oscar What an honor Any chance I could meet Oscat? you Tom said we should adopt it

The mention of your co-star makes him frown a bit, but he brushes it off.

oscar Do you want to? you even if I did we couldn’t  we’d be terrible parents, away all the time.

He has to bite back a smile at the idea of you two being parents. It’s a welcome image that makes his world tilt a little bit off its axis. 

Somebody whacks his head from behind. Lando snickers and sends him a knowing look. “What’s got you looking silly?” 

“Piss off,” he laughs. His smile grows a little wider.

oscar Next time then :) Sure there are plenty of oscats around the world Don't you worry you 💔💔💔💔💔💔 gotta go now love you raceboy good luck with FP1 tomorrow!!!!

He wants to ignore the last bit. Really. If it were anyone else, but it was you, so he reluctantly searches for the waving hand emoji and hits send.

“That the leading lady?” Lando asks, plopping down beside him on the couch. 

He raises his eyebrows at the nickname. “Yeah.”

“Still keeping it under wraps?”

Oscar sighs. “Yep.”

“That’s unfortunate. They’ve been all over my feed, her and that fellow.” 

“Tom’s a nice guy,” Oscar says, though he doesn’t know why he finds the need to defend the dude. “He knows we’re together.” 

Lando rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Oscar has a vague idea of where this conversation is headed and he doesn’t like it. “Is there a problem?”

“The problem is you have no rage.”

If only he knew.

“It’s a contractual relationship,” Oscar says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Like we are,” he adds belatedly, but winces when he realizes the argument is flimsy. 

“Oh, absolutely. ‘Cause we are the exemplar of professionalism, yeah?”

Lando sits up and looks at him straight in the eye. “Your girl’s great, don’t get me wrong. I dunno, though. I can’t sit still when some bloke is all over my teammate’s girlfriend.” Lando places a hand over his chest. “I’m an empath.”

Oscar scoffs. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, can I? I’m not a douche, Lan.” 

“I’m not asking you to be a douche. Just… don’t be a saint!” 

He gets the urge to strangle him. He did not need Lando playing enabler. 

“And you can do something about it, actually.”

His words hang in the air like bait. Oscar is no better person than what Lando says he is.

“…What do you mean.”

“I’m just saying. It’s not strange for an F1 driver to be into Hollywood and movies.”

“No clue what you’re trying to say, mate.”

“Just… hit like on a few photos here and there. Fans’ll pick it up, put two and two together, then wrap up their BS.” 

And Lando leaves it at that.

It feels like crossing a boundary—breadcrumbing the press without your consent, so he lets Lando’s ill-advised scheming pass without comment. 

Until Entertainment Weekly. 

It’s a cast feature. The article features close-up portraits with your face squished against Tom’s, your hands pinching his cheeks, both of you mid-laugh as the photographer catches the moment.

They’re gorgeous shots. You’re gorgeous.

If Tom’s face weren’t basically fused to yours, Oscar might’ve made one his lockscreen.

There’s a tantrum bubbling up in his throat. He holds it in just barely. It’s his rest day, but he’s considering calling his trainer to punch it out.

It’s no mystery why the press has you pegged as Hollywood royalty’s next in line.

Then he makes the mistake of clicking the video link in the article.

The title alone slaps him across the face—three reads in, and it still stings.

Classic clickbait: loud, shameless, and almost believable if you’ve ever been online for more than five minutes. Fans will eat it up like it’s a confirmation in and of itself.

Tom Blythe Fell In Love with His Co-Star, YN

Oscar scrolls past clipped film stills and scans the article for where the fuck it says about him falling in love with you.

She’s just so alluring. Have you heard her sing? It pulls you in. I don’t even have to be in character to feel that pull. It’s magnetic, our rehearsals. I’ve worked with many people, and it’s hard to click with someone this easily. She’s—she’s very easy to fall in love with. The first time I met her… 

He has to put his phone down. Oscar rolls his eyes so hard he sees the back of his brain. 

He attempts to justify this revolting feeling worming through him—surely, Tom must be crossing a line? He’s never paid attention to Hollywood, but onscreen couples can’t be this intimate—this blatant—across the media, can they? 

He does a quick Google search. 

Hollywood co-stars turned couples. 

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Leighton Meester and Adam Brody. Tom Holland and Zendaya.

It’s a long list of more names he doesn’t recognize, but it’s the last one that drives the hammer home; he recalls you calling them “goals” once. He’s seen all the Spider-Man movies with you, so he gets the hype.

Fine. He is jealous. 

Turns out the stifling feeling in his chest is a load of self-righteous anger after all. His jaw clenches. It’s triggering all other emotions he’d rather not be feeling.

The nerve of this man. 

Oscar swipes back to the article, scrolls up to a photo of you and Tom in some preview event: you, every bit an angel in that white satin dress, and Tom, tall, blonde, with that princely aura Oscar knows he’ll never quite pull off. His stomach unclenches only when he sees Tom’s arm around your shoulder, not your waist.

He hates imagining himself in the same frame.

Next to Tom, he’s awkward. Pedestrian. Unsure in anything outside a race suit. 

He hates imagining himself at all.

Then—like you’re psychic—a message pops up. 

you hi baby my handsome boy just letting you know the final trailer drops in three hours 😁  I’m reaaally excited for you to see this one

Guilt punctures him in the gut. This feels worse than jealousy—the fact that he had let doubt creep in. That you’d leave him for someone you, technically, met at work. Foolish. Foolish.

oscar Are you a ghost? you ??? oscar Nothing. Was thinking about you when your message came in

Your contact card pops up. Incoming call. His lips perk up at your photo: it’s a stupid-looking high-angle shot of you frowning, your cheeks between his hand.

“What part about me were you thinking of, baby boy?” Your voice trickles through the speakers, sultry and low. He snorts. He can tell you’re holding back a laugh.

“Oh, you know, just about everything,” he replies. He plays along like it’s breathing.

There’s a pause. “Everything?”

“Everything.” 

Your unguarded laugh is a bright thing. “Naughty. I hope you were alone.” 

He laughs along until a wave of something washes over and an ache seizes his chest. His grip on his phone tightens. “I miss you,” he murmurs. 

“I miss you too, Osc,” you say, quiet yet clear over the line. Somehow, you always sound so surprised. “Switch to FaceTime?” 

“You aren’t busy?” He asks. Hates how surprised he sounds.

“I’ve got a couple of hours before a Zoom meeting.” 

He waits while you switch on the camera, heart beating unusually fast. 

When your face comes up, so does his heart. It’s all caught in his throat. Your hair is loose, and he thinks it’s his old sweater you’re wearing. 

“Hi,” you’re smiling, propping your phone on a table. 

“Hi,” he gushes, head tilting in fondness. His next words spill out involuntarily. “You’re pretty.” 

You go shy. He bites his tongue in a grin when you hide and groan. Your blush triggers a dopamine hit, the kind that rushes in when winning, and he thinks he looks fairly dopey on your end. 

“Thank you? I love you. Now—stop deflecting. I want to know why you sound like a sad puppy.” 

“Hah. Okay. Uh, don’t get mad?”

“You can’t really decide that for me, but I’ll try.”

Oscar sends a screenshot of his recent Google search. Co-stars turned couples.

You lean in and nod. “Hmmm. I see.” 

It takes a few seconds longer than it’s supposed to take. He scoffs lightly, amused. You definitely did not see. 

You sigh and give up valiantly. “Babe, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. I’m not mad at your lack of Hollywood knowledge, if that’s the case? I might even prefer it that way.”

“That’s not— Okay, um.” Oscar scratches his jaw. He glances back at you, brows scrunched, and braces himself. “So I might have been feeling a little.. Just a little. Jealous. Of you and Tom. Er… Reasons being Entertainment Weekly.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“…Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Like, Tom, my co-star Tom?”

“Are there any other Toms I should be aware of?”

“No?”

“Good.”

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m not keen on repeating that part, but yes. I am.”

“Wow.”

“You sounded just like me.” 

“It’s just…” You bite your lip, and Oscar spots the faint divot in your cheek, a telltale sign you were trying terribly hard not to laugh. 

Fuck my life. He wants to crawl into a cave. “You can laugh, you know. I know it’s stupid.”

“You’d feel bad if I laughed! And you’re completely entitled to feel that way!” You grin. “But you’re right. It is a little stupid. It’s like me getting jealous of Lando.”

Oscar’s lips form a pout. “Why would you get jealous of Lando?”

“Exactly.”

Not only is he still confused, he’s also feeling an inch worse because your reaction makes it all seem like he’s just overreacting, acting irrational. He can’t help it—his usually sound judgment goes haywire whenever you’re involved. 

His skin feels a little tight. Uncomfortable. Admitting it now felt like a terrible idea.

It must be written all over his face, because you lean closer to the camera. “Oscar.”

He’s still too upset to answer. When you call him again, your voice is a little more urgent.

He avoids the camera but hums, a tad grumpily, just to let you know he’s listening.

“I love you, softy. Just you.”

When he looks up, there’s a small smile on your face.

“I mean it. No acting here.”

All he can do is stare—wide-eyed, soft. Starstruck. 

Maybe it’s the way you say it. I love you. Said in the same way you always do. All candid confidence. It’s the same I love you before he jets off. The I love you when you end a call. It’s instinct. Easy. The words, all the same, warm and worn like a well-fitted glove.

Or maybe it’s the way you’re staring. Eyes crinkled in mirth. The faintest dimple on your cheek. Incredulity—the gentle kind, the one reserved for lecturing little kids and, apparently, him—is written all over your face because he should’ve known.  

I love you. You were so sure. 

He forgets that he hasn’t spoken.

So you say it again. Firmer.

“You’re mine, Piastri. Got that?”

He has to clear his throat. Screw being jealous. He was yours—lanky shoulders, awkward grins, and all the uncertainty his confidence couldn’t quite cover. 

You take home all.

He leans back on the couch, hides his reddening face behind his hands. “Overkill,” he mutters. “I got it the first time.”

You scoff. “Sure you did.” 

“I swear.”

“Pffft.”

Oscar studies your face on his significantly small screen and wishes you were right next to him instead. “I love you.”

The mischief melts from your eyes. “I know.” It turns soft. “And I love you, too. Case it wasn’t clear.” 

He laughs. Oh, God. You make it hard for him, sometimes. 

And then he goes quiet. Not on purpose. But because there’s a stifling feeling in his chest. Emotions, too much of them. He has to let out a sigh. 

You frown at that. “You really okay? And don’t fucking lie. I can tell.” 

He rolls his eyes, gets very close to the camera. “I promise, baby. Thank you.”

A message comes through a couple of minutes after.

come to think of it. jealous and territorial thing could work in the bedroom. what say you 😉😇

This time, he really laughs.

He bags two wins from the triple-header. Finally: a week of grace. 

By then, there’s another feature of you and Tom. You send him a link to the magazine’s official Instagram.

you sending you, my dearest boyfriend, another shoot I had with Guy I Work With  oscar You can call him by his name I’m not that petty 🙄 you 😛 oscar Oh wow these shots came out well you right!! 🥹

Oscar scrolls through the comments, mostly mindless now.

Jealousy was exhausting. Irrational. Oscar Piastri is above such emotions. That’s how they were raised in the Piastri household. 

He scrolls daringly. 

The ones gushing about your chemistry barely bother him. The ones insinuating you and Tom are dating? Only slightly grating. He believes he’s made progress.

His chest swells at the sheer amount of love you’re getting.

One comment makes his thumb pause

⇢ the way he looks at her BROOO whoever yn’s bf is is better than me

Oscar sits up a little straighter. Grabs a cushion in case he needs to squeeze something. 

He opens the reply thread against his better judgment.

⇢ “Whoever her bf is” when it’s literally tom LMAOO ⇢ i'd cheat if i were her #tbh ⇢ idt she’s dating anyone tho so the agenda lives on ⇢ MAYBE respect their private lives and not make this weird for them  ⇢ why she would be single is beyond me of course she has a boyfriend

He hmms and huhs through the comments. Somewhat entertained, very much ticked.

It’s only after he gets to the end of the thread that Oscar realizes he’s pressed Like on the original comment. 

“Ah shit.”

He immediately unlikes. 

Oscar stares at his phone for one, two, three long seconds. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Surely, this person wouldn’t know him? Didn’t get a notification for a like he quickly retracted? At least, he thinks he was quick enough. 

Not everyone follows Formula One, anyway. There are thousands of other sports in the world, so surely…

Oscar cautiously taps on the commenter’s profile. His heart drops.

There, at the top of the person’s profile, is a dedicated highlight labeled F1 🏁

Okay. So this person is into F1. Cool. 

He’s one of the less popular drivers, so it’ll be fine. It’s just his third season. He’s only won stuff just recently. Probably a Leclerc fan. Won’t care about him at all.

But then he scrolls down their profile. There’s a photo of them posing in the middle of the grandstands, pointing to a papaya cap with the number 4 emblazoned on the brim. 

Just his luck: A fucking Lando Norris fan blowing his cover.

user: oscar just liked my comment on instagram..?  ⇢ WHAT do you mean  ⇢ this is the comment he liked ⇢ ????? wtf does he have to do with tbosas or yn or her boyfriend lol ⇢ UNLESS HE’S THE BOYFRIEND?

Nothing ever remains a secret for too long in these circles.

He’s surprised it’s gotten this far. 

Somewhere, a gossip columnist cracks their knuckles and thinks finally, some good fucking food. It’s a field day for the tabloids and overtime for your PR team. 

Not his. McLaren couldn’t care less about who he’s dating. That’s exactly why Oscar feels like crap.

One elaborate Twitter thread becomes the de facto source for every other video uploaded on Tiktok and Youtube—the new bloods of Motorsports and Hollywood, here’s everything you need to know!

Oscar’s slip-up is a drop of blood in shark-infested waters, and they’re quick to catch scent. Fan theories climb up the algorithm. Discourse drives the headlines. Your digital footprints get timestamped, reverse-searched, and stitched into Reddit threads formatted like crime scene dossiers.

It’s easy forensic work when both of you live half your lives in public.

To be fair, you haven’t made it hard, either.

You’ve flirted with exposure more than once: an Australia photo dump, repeated use of the orange heart emoji, that one offhand interview comment about being attracted to “people who chase their dreams at full speed.”

All harmless fun when the whispers didn’t exist.

Now, each breadcrumb’s been turned into ammo against you both.

“What a waste of talent. They could be doing investigative work for fucking Interpol and yet it’s our little lives they choose to pick apart,” You say on speaker as he drives to the MTC for their debriefs. 

He knew your little ways of rebelling, the secret joy you get tiptoeing around PR restrictions. “This sucks. I liked playing cryptic.”

He can hear you pouting. “My poor girl,” Oscar coos.

You huff again, glassware clinking faintly in the background. Longing hits him like a spell; it’s been a while since he’s made morning tea by your side. 

“I saw a vintage McLaren poster the other day and was tempted to upload a story of it. ” 

He makes a turn. “I think you do want to get caught.”

“Ish.”

Oscar snorts. “Well, dearest, you’ve gotten exactly what you wished for.”

“But I wanted it to be without consequence.” You heave a dramatic sigh. “We could’ve watched it slowly unfold, avoid this flashbang in the morning.” 

As much as he feels bad that he spoiled your theatrical soft launch, he can’t help but find your moping infinitely endearing. “Yeah, my bad. Slippery fingers.”

You pause to take a sip. “It’s okay. No idea what they’re talking about in the PR meeting they’re having, but— What’s that thing they say? Any press is good press?” 

The dip in your tone doesn’t make you sound convincing. This alarms him. “I didn’t make things complicated for you, did I?”

“No, don’t worry,” you say. He hears the lie, and his grip on the wheel tightens a little. He calls your name again. He wasn’t buying it. 

You give in. “Fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Isn’t it a sensitive thing, having us Hollywood folks poke around your sport? Fans hate that, right?” 

Oscar already knows you’re biting the inside of your cheek. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care about what a few motorsports purists have to say, and neither should you.”

You hum in response. Distant. 

“Hey,” he calls. The end of the line is quiet. He has to double-check his phone. “Don’t get too in your head when I’m not there.” 

“Hm?”

“I said get out of your head, baby.”

“Oh. Sorry.” You sound sheepish. “I think I’m gonna order in for breakfast. Let me know how the debrief goes, okay? Love you.” 

He hums, still worried. “Bye. Love you too.”

The debrief, without any racket, goes. Everyone’s happy with the wins. He shoots a few videos with Lando for marketing, runs a few rounds on the sim. The day was supposed to end there, if not for Zak gesturing him over to the meeting room.

Lando notices and gets the hint way before he does because he asks if he can join in. 

“I’ll eavesdrop if you say no.” Zak doesn’t have much of a choice.

It doesn’t take too long for him to piece together this impromptu meeting—not when the only people in the room are from Marketing or PR. 

They all look a little confused when Lando walks in with him, but Zak waves them off. 

“Hi, everyone. Just here for a good time,” his teammate greets. Everyone settles into their chairs. Lando leans in and whispers, “PR time, baby.”

On the side, someone rolls their eyes and mutters, “We’ll need an extra NDA.”

“Normally, we wouldn’t arrange a PR stunt because of a driver’s love life, but yours is a bit special,” Chrissy, the head of this entire op, says after giving them the rundown. 

He nods in understanding. “Yeah. Cause she's a public figure, right?”

She knits her brows. “Yes, but it’s also more of a money thing. Some studio people wanted to mitigate this issue in case it hurts the box office. Crisis into opportunity and whatnot.” 

It makes no sense. Oscar widens his eyes for lack of a better reaction. “Wow. Okay, sure. Didn’t know I could bring in such bad press.”

“You are when you’re getting in the way with one of their biggest selling points.”

“I’m in a relationship with one-half of their biggest selling points,” he deadpans.

Lando lets out a low whistle. “A bunch of stodgy Hollywood producers got in contact with McLaren?” 

“Just one producer made the call. But yes.”

“Ozzz. You have got to stop messing with PR.” He grins. “You know Alpine still hasn’t recovered to this day?” 

“Jesus..” Oscar rubs at his temples. “I will muzzle you.” 

“Seriously. I respect the hustle. Why stop at F1? Why not terrorize Hollywood Hills while you’re at it?”

“Mate.” 

“Hah. Sorry. Anyhow, I give my full support to Oscar’s second stint at appeasing the media via…” Lando looks over at Chrissy and gestures to the PowerPoint. “What’s this called?”

“Pardon?”

“This thing. This operation. Does it have a name?”

“We don’t really have a name for it.”

“You don’t?” His teammate’s face genuinely drops at this information. “Well. You must.”

“Um. Operation Big Reveal?”

Lando blows a raspberry. “Horrible. Next.”

“Operation Soft Launch?”

“What? No. Boring. Okay. Sit with it for a few minutes.”

Zak and the other company big shots escape while they can. 

“Osc?”

“No. Can we go home now.” 

“Just one bloody name.”

Someone giggles. “Rob thought of a great name.”

Oscar doesn’t know who Rob is, but he hopes he puts an end to this conversation. Lando urges him on. “Well, spit it out, then.” 

“DRS.” A beat. They wait for him to elaborate. The tips of Rob’s ears turn a deep red. “Deploy Romance Strategically.”

“Operation DRS,” Lando grins, nodding. “You absolute genius.” 

Oscar is impressed, embarrassed, but mostly relieved that Lando’s been satiated. “You’ve held onto that for a while, have you?”

Chrissy approaches Oscar while Lando chats the team’s ears off. “You can give your girlfriend a heads up that we’ll be in contact with her team soon.” 

His cheeks warm at the mention of you, not used to hearing them address you so casually. “Sure, Chrissy. Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it. It’s been a while since the team’s gotten to do anything on this scale—no offense.” 

“None taken. Run through the NDA with Lando again, will you? He’s too loose for my liking.” 

The next morning, a WhatsApp group is made.

OPERATION DRS — Miami GP PR Plan

Chrissy: Hi team!! Here’s the game plan for the upcoming race week just so we’re all aligned on tone + handling buzz during and after the GP. The goal is to soft-launch the relationship of Oscar and YN without making it a spectacle + clear up the rumors between the two leads in a way that still boosts promo for the film.  I’ve already sent tailored briefs to your media reps, so you can direct your questions to them if you have any. Chrissy sent a file. 

Oscar reads the file twice, thrice. He memorizes his talking points and yours for good measure. He usually doesn’t care about the media; the consequences are too intangible in the grand scheme of things. But now, he takes it seriously. Because it concerns you.

Oscar doesn’t take risks with you.

And so he hangs onto every word in this document, places your welfare and your career’s success into the hands of experts. Trusts the process.

Your call is out of the blue. 

Weird. He does a quick calculation—It’s 8 AM, and London is five hours ahead of New York, meaning it’s 3 AM right now where you are. 

He picks up. “Hi? You having trouble sleeping?”

“Hi. No, I’m okay.”

“Wanna switch to FaceTime?”

“No!” You say abruptly, then catch yourself. “I mean, no. It’s fine.”  

Okay, now you were truly acting weird. “O…kay? If you say so. Why’re you still up?”

There’s a sigh at the end of the line. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to check if you were busy today.” 

“Oh. Nah, I’ve got a free day today. Some training, but nothing heavy.”

“When do you leave for Miami?”

“Hmm. Not in five days,” he replies, then he remembers the whole media plan, and the corners of his lips turn up. “Can’t wait to see your face then.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a soft quality to your voice. He hears the smile in your answer. “Me too, Osc. Can’t wait to cause some damage.”  

He tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the cabinet for something to eat. “You think your fans will hate me?”

You pause, thinking. “Nah. I’ve met some of them, they’re chill.” But then you add lightly, “It’s the shippers we have to worry about. They’re somewhat insane.” 

He inwardly sighs when he realizes there’s nothing passably nutritious (an old box of Weetabix, a few cans of Monster). 

“I figured.” Then, he hears the distinct sound of a car horn, which makes him pause. “Wait. Are you in a car?”

“Why would I be in a car?” you ask, sounding too blithe for someone awake in the bleak hours of morning.

He shuts the cabinet door. “Well, that sounded really close. You’re not driving, are you? Don’t you live on the twenty-sixth floor?”

“Car horns are really loud, Oscar.”

Hm. If only you were acting in front of a camera and not him, he might have been fooled. 

His heart starts to pick up. 

He didn’t want to assume, but he thinks he hears a frightfully quaint accent that is very much not of a New York City cab driver. 

He holds his breath when he pulls up the Find My app. 

He stills. You’ve turned off your location—the flicker of truth in your lie. 

His blood begins to hum. 

If he wasn’t hearing things, if he wasn’t chasing some daydream… Then you were on your way to him.

“Oscar?” You call out gently. “You there?”

It genuinely takes a gargantuan amount of self-restraint to keep the fondness from his voice. “Sorry, love. Just got a notification.”

You sound relieved when you reply, now that you think he’s off the scent. “Free day my ass. Go answer those emails. I’m getting sleepy.” 

“Okay.” He’s never been happier to hear you lie. “Sleep well.”

You blow a kiss into the receiver. “Night. Love you.” 

“Love you most.”

When the call ends, he laughs to himself.

He can’t even remember what he was doing before—whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Hunger dissolves into static.

He doesn’t know how far you are, only that you’re in England. And you’re on your way.

Still dazed, he starts tidying up. There’s a stupid grin on his face he can’t quite get rid of.

He puts on one of your pre-show playlists hoping it might settle his heart, which doesn’t know what to do with itself. Chopin trickles through the small speakers.

It’s someone’s dog at the door, tail wagging, thinking: Yes. Yes. Yes. You. Here. Soon.

The playlist is halfway through when the doorbell rings.

His heart gives a little kick. Jump starts his entire nervous system. He sprints to the door and nearly skids on the hardwood.

Oscar peers through the peephole.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He fumbles with the lock.

There you are—luggage in tow, a brown paper bag in hand, the faint smell of butter and dough curling into the air. 

“Delivery for Oscar Piastri?”

His brain, operating on the thought of you alone this entire morning, short-circuits completely. You barely utter another sentence before he’s stumbling forward, all limbs and relief. The bag hits the ground before you can save it.

“Ack! Oscar, the food—”

“Later,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. 

He squeezes you until the space between you disappears. No more miles, no more time differences. Just solid, present warmth. 

Your body sighs against him. Arms wound tighter around his neck, and he relishes how the pull seems as desperate as his. It’s never easy, the distance. This time took a lot longer than usual. 

He inhales a lungful of your scent and nearly whines. It all feels like coming home. Finally.

Too long. Too goddamn long.

“Hi,” you grin when you pull away, grasping onto his hoodie. 

Oscar laughs, eyes crinkling, unbelieving. “Hi, pretty girl.” Then he leans in for a kiss.

You breathe into him, and he presses down a little harder. He’s missed this—your taste, the shyness of your lips.

A soft giggle erupts moments before the kiss gets too emotional, too heated. You lean your forehead against his, breathless. 

He raises a brow when you bite your lips, holding back another fit of laughter.  You’re all childish glee when he mutters ‘brat’ before he pecks you.

“Surprise,” you grin. 

He rolls his eyes and smirks. “You can turn your location on, now.”

Your mouth falls open. “You noticed.”

“It’s you,” he shrugs. Something molten glimmers in your eyes. He’s not sure what it is, but he gets an inkling. 

You kiss him again.

When you’re home, he makes it a point never to leave your side. 

It’s like his heart’s outgrown his chest—stretching into the room, spilling into the kitchen, taking up all the space around you.

He takes the chair beside you rather than the one across. Glues his body to your side. Eats with one hand so the other can rest on your knee while you explain how you nearly missed your flight. 

When he’s finished his food, he leans in and buries his head into your neck, sniffing without thinking. You’re in his hoodie, bare legs folded, socks peeking underneath the soft hem. 

And it’s this: this specific blend of you, with a whiff of him. Balmy and warm and all-familiar comfort. It shoots up straight to his neural pathways like a drug. 

You bring your free hand to stroke the side of his head. Oscar hums lowly, furrowing deeper. “Mm,” he presses a light kiss against your neck. He wants nothing more than to make a home here.

God, it’s like he’s intoxicated. Dipped in honey. He looks at you, struck by the sunlight gliding over your edges like something divine. 

He picks out a goddess from memory. Hera. Athena. No—Aphrodite, he decides. There has to be a film about her somewhere. Maybe in that Nolan film you gushed about. Unfortunate, he thinks. They didn’t know the perfect girl for Aphrodite was in his arms.

If he had any creative acumen at all, he’d write a film just to watch you become her. 

Alas, he was just Oscar. 

“You are not real,” he murmurs. 

“I don’t feel real,” you reply, eyes drooping. It must be all the warm food. The timezones catching up. He doesn’t know it’s because of all the attention he’s giving, layering on you lovingly like a weighted blanket. 

You yawn, full-bodied and conclusive. He’s already slipping his arms under your knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You let out a yelp. “But we haven’t seen each other in months… I can’t go to sleep now.” 

Oscar kisses your forehead and whispers directly into your ear, “I’ll make you sleep. Send you straight into REM.”

He gently lowers you onto the bed. 

This is how he takes care of you: with hot licks and wet kisses against your core. It’s slow and lethargic. Nary a destination in mind when he draws out the laps of his tongue like a pastime. 

There’s no rush, even when his fingers slip in. Languid, coaxing. A lullaby. 

You sigh. Fall apart when he presses into the spot. Enough, you insist with a whine. He pretends not to hear, even when you tug his hair and cry out your thanks. 

Everything is soft. Your thighs, the sound of your mewls. He allows himself to be greedy for a minute and sucks. 

“Babe—” you gasp.

It’s useless. There’s no casting out the possessed. 

He lasts for another round. This time, you don’t call for mercy. Only his name. 

Oscar can tell when you’ve tipped over the edge of consciousness—You barely catch his ruined face when he comes to stroke your head. 

Aftercare is a diligent affair. Runs the cloth over your skin like a ritual rather than a routine. He’s pleased. Overjoyed, really, over the fact that you’re here, sprawled across his bed, fast asleep. 

He cleans himself up and crawls under the sheets, pulling you to his chest. This might be the best feeling in the world.

Training can wait.

Operation DRS is divided into three phases.

“Phase one focuses on riding along on fan speculation. So no teasing. On your end, at least. Any hint dropping will be coordinated by your reps.” 

It’s mostly social media work: you, keeping up the online banter with Tom and reposting whatever needs to be shared. Tweets. Likes. Comments that make you two seem like a couple to those who didn’t know better. 

Would’ve sent Oscar spiraling, too, if your head wasn’t on his lap while you went about it. 

Having you around before he had to fly off to Miami is a gift. He likes hearing your voice across the room. Likes blowing kisses behind your camera during an interview, likes the faces you make when Mark’s on speaker, reacting to brand deals and podcast invites. 

But you had to leave eventually. Some pop-up event with a brand, you had explained with a sad smile. Just a couple of days before flying to Miami, too. Right before Media Day. 

The alarm already went off twice. He didn’t want you to leave. 

He was a heavy sleeper, and while often a drawback, it worked to his advantage now. His arms clung to your frame defiantly.

You pat his arms. “I know you’re awake.”

“M’not,” he mumbled against your neck, eyes tightly shut. “I’m asleep. Leave in the morning.”

“It is morning.” There’s another attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. He pulls you impossibly closer. You sigh, “Oscar.” 

“This is abandonment.”

“I’ll see you in two days, remember?”

He scoffed and tried taming down his whine. He was no better than a child.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re gone too quickly,” he says. It comes out more serious than expected. 

You go still in his arms.

“Can I please face my boyfriend while we have this conversation?” 

He lets go—reluctantly. Like he wants to fight it.

You twist around and cup his face in your hands. 

His skin is warm, eyes intense. They don’t meet yours. 

A light dusting of stubble prickles your palms. You feel his breath, slow and steady, fan across your cheek and try your damnest not to take the easy way out by kissing him instead.

“We’ve talked about this,” you say quietly. He looks up. You search his eyes, trying to gauge if he’s being serious. 

His smile looks half-hearted. “I know. It’s just…”

“Yeah?”

“Feels different this time. Next time I see you, I have to pretend. Put up an act. I know it’s just for a while, but—I don’t like pretending,” he huffs. “Don’t think I can.” 

You realize, then, how different this must feel for Oscar; You, used to acting, to slipping into another person’s skin, into another world. This was easy. A bit of fun, truly.

You hadn’t thought about how Oscar really thought about it. Not when he broke the news or told you the plan. He’d be playing a part, reciting some lines. Pretend that, for a while, you were just another person in his garage.

It nearly brings you to pieces, how quickly he takes the plunge when you’re in the picture. He hasn’t even said anything until now. 

“It won’t be an act. None of it will.” You promise quietly, resting your forehead against his. 

“Would be easier if this were about anything else,” he mumbles.

A younger you would’ve taken immediate offense. Not now, though. Because you understand. Because you spent more years arguing with him before being with him. Because of this, you know what he means: This isn’t just anything. It’s you. 

You were everything to him.

Warmth simmers in your bones.

“Good thing I’m not easy,” you say, disguising your joy as impudence. Oscar nudges your nose. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

He closes in, resting his lips on yours. Not kissing, just to be as close as he can. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I know it’s a little unreasonable.”

A peck. “Never unreasonable. Not with you.”

You show him a little mercy, cuddling and stealing time you don’t have. It’s the nature of your relationship. Trading places, who leaves and who stays. But it helps, just a bit, these short moments sitting in denial.

Your embrace breaks just before dawn does. He sits up, and you feel his eyes tracking you as you get ready.

In the middle of shoving packing cubes into your carry-on and picking which hoodie to steal (“Don’t you have anything that isn’t in damn papaya?!”), you don’t notice Oscar spiraling in the background.

He’s nervous. While he usually doesn’t let voices from the outside get to him, he couldn’t help but think of what—or who—was at stake. 

Oscar scrolls through his socials the next day. He stops at a photo of you at the brand pop-up and has to physically stop himself from smiling. 

You were dressed in orange—in papaya. Flashing a sweet smile at the camera with no traces of shame for any rumors you would start fanning.

user: wearing that shade of orange at this time was NOT a good move user: I’m crying did she do this on purpose or is she just blissfully unaware ⇢ I don’t think she cares that some driver liked a comment about her tho ⇢ fr god forbid a guy likes pretty movie stars  ⇢ SOME DRIVER????????????   user: Tom liked!!!!!

Your phone pings. Several times.

Nellie (PR) PR would appreciate a heads up on any easter egg dropping moving forward, but they’ve decided it’s a good call. Said we’re getting enough “healthy speculation” to transition to the next phase. 

Oscar Hi. Cute outfit ☺️🧡 Can’t wait to see you

Tom You are honestly so obvious

The team plants a tip anticipating your arrival with Tom for FP1 and Sprint Qualifying. It’s officially Phase 2 of Operation DRS. 

Sparks fly as Hollywood’s newest stars are seen together trackside in Miami. 

It doesn’t take long for the gossip sites to follow, skewing your visit into something entirely different, which is exactly what your team wants them to do.

Stars land in Miami—but which team gave them the paddock pass? 

Who is YN really cheering for? Tom, or one lucky driver?

“I’m nervous,” Tom says as you both walk towards the Paddock Club suites. A wave of camera shutters goes off in your direction. You didn’t realize they were so… in your face, even on the paddock.

Both of you are led upstairs into the thick of the Miami Paddock Club. It's considerably crowded, a blur of designer sunglasses and neon-accented lanyards on tailored suits and deep plunge dresses. Laughter bounces off the glass railings. A few heads turn as you and Tom make your way through, towards a more private sitting area tucked behind a velvet rope.

There’s a flat screen streaming the broadcast, and you have one eye on it in case Oscar appears. 

You’re grateful for the pocket of peace. You return to Tom. “He’s nice. You’ll be fine. And it’s not like you’re meeting him now. He’s already in the garage,” you say. “We’ll do some real damage tomorrow.” 

“Psh. I’ll do some real damage now.” Tom lifts his phone towards you and coos, “Smile!” 

You pose with a wink.

Tom’s thumbs fly across the screen and you feel your phone buzz. 

Fast times with @ mclaren ! Someone’s stoked to be here @ yourname 

You smirk, repost the story with I’ve got good company 🤷‍♀️

He snorts at your repost. “Now you’re being PR compliant.” 

You ignore his comment with a roll of your eyes and raise your phone. “Your turn.”

Tom dons his McLaren cap and poses, pointing at the live feed with a grin.

The comments start flooding in. Your rep sends you a thumbs-up emoji. Everything’s according to plan.

You stare at the stream, willing it to cut to Oscar. This PR fuss is making you sick with longing.

When it cuts to him slipping his balaclava on, your heart lurches. At once, a series of oohs echoes in the room. Chit-chat multiplies. Only incrementally, but it’s noticeable. Some even take their phones out. You realize everyone else is staring at the same person on the screen.

Who wouldn’t? The Championship Leader. Record-breaker. Fastest man on the grid. Number one.

You bite the inside of your cheek and tamp down the sudden, ugly rush of possessiveness. You wish you’d brought his hat. Wish you’d worn his entire team kit, have his number emblazoned on your back. 

You’re already opening up your photo gallery.  

You scroll and scroll and land on one Hattie had taken in Australia—You on Oscar’s back, arms snug around his neck. Legs hooked between his arms. Smiles wide, skin flushed, lush greenery and trail signs peeking from behind. 

It becomes your new wallpaper. 

It’s shot a little wide, faces not too visible from afar, but the shot is affectionate enough for a follower to do a double-take. Just innocent enough. But petty. So petty, in fact, but you can’t help but pray someone catches it. Takes a photo, sends it online. 

A little oops moment is all it would amount to. Can you blame a girl? 

You put your phone aside, appeased. 

Jealousy hadn’t thought to spare you either. 

Sprint quali goes by similarly. You take photos. Joke around with Tom. Interact with other VIPs. It kills you that you’re obliged to network instead of paying attention to his lap times. You try not to get too upset when Oscar barely loses the sprint pole, knowing there’s a camera somewhere. You weren’t his girlfriend, not publicly, and so you shouldn’t be concerned with whether he places P1 or P20.

Back at the hotel, Tom retreats to his room. And while you have every intention of marching up to Oscar’s suite and making out with him like you’ve been separated for years, you could not wait to wash off the sticky heat of the Miami sun.

You’re in the middle of your skincare routine when you hear a soft knock on your door. 

Through the peephole, Oscar stands with his hands in his hoodie, hair mussed, staring right through you. You immediately open the door.

He doesn’t say anything, just steps in to wrap you in his arms with a groan. 

“Longest session of my life.” 

You don’t even hear him, senses blocked by strong arms and a solid chest.

“Would’ve run through the paddock and tackled you to the ground if I had any say in it,” you mumble, voice muffled by the fabric. Oscar hears it perfectly, though, and you feel the rumble of a laugh erupt deep in his chest.

He gently pushes your body away from his, and you look at him with a raised brow. 

He tilts his head to the side, teasing, eyeing you up and down, and you tighten your grip on him. You suspect he’s making fun of you in his head. The flicker in his smile tells you so.

You narrow your eyes. Who knows what else is going on inside that brilliant brain of his? It makes you want to wipe that smirk off his face.

“What?”

“What,” he parrots, mouth twitching upwards. 

“Stop that.”

“Hm?” He tilts his head again, like he can’t help it.  

“Stop looking at me funny.”

“You’re cute.”

“I’m not a stress toy.”

“You are to me.”

“Ugh,” you shut your eyes in quiet frustration. 

Oscar takes the chance to press a soft kiss to your lips. 

The contact unspools the tight coil in your stomach that’s wound taut from not seeing his face the entire day. You melt into him.

“Missed you today,” you confess once you’re buried in the sheets. “F1’s so different.”

Oscar props himself up with an elbow. “Yeah?” 

“Nothing like your earlier races.” You climb onto his body. He adjusts himself so you can properly rest your chin on his chest. “Everyone’s an Oscar Piastri fan, now.” 

His face contorts into something that can only be described as smug. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Comes with winning, baby.”

You continue like this, taking turns recounting the day before sleep claims Oscar, and you have no choice but to follow. 

Sprint and Qualifying permit you to fan the flames ever so slightly. 

PR had arranged for you and Tom to have garage access during the Sprint and later in Quali, where he’s expected to reach Q3, meaning your boyfriend will be within your line of sight throughout the day.

You aren’t sure he’s aware, so you send him a quick selfie with the headset on. It’s not like he’ll see it, but—just in case. 

You wish him luck on the sprint. 

Still, no direct interaction is advised. 

Soon. 

Oscar gets a glimpse of you when he starts getting ready.

Your eyes are already on him, and he immediately lights up. He winks, half-smiling. You bite your cheek and mouth good luck.

The cameras, thankfully, don’t catch the exchange. Nobody does—except for Tom. He pokes your cheek in warning. “Keep it together, lover girl.” 

You roll your eyes at him, not knowing that there’s a camera trained on you both this time around. You’ll find out how much the internet eats that up later in the day.

When the lights go off, you and Tom grab each other in a way that would seem overdramatized if you two weren’t genuinely invested in Oscar snatching back the lead. But then he holds the inside line, and race leader becomes his. No longer do you two look out of place with the McLaren garage erupting in fist pumps and shared yelps. 

You let out a sigh of relief when his pitstop goes smoothly. Quietly curse at the same time he does when the safety car makes its untimely arrival, costing him the win. 

P2 for the sprint. You applaud from where you are, giving your PR team room to breathe; nothing over the top, nothing to fuel the rumors. As discussed, you’re led out of the garage before Oscar returns. 

You shoot off a quick text to Oscar, not expecting a reply until after his media obligations and debriefing. Nice P2, baby :) 

He replies just an hour later. I’ll come find you once I’m done. Love you. 

You and Tom are busy licking your spoons clean of gelato inside the Hard Rock Stadium when a McLaren staff member approaches you. 

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s alright,” you reply, smiling, albeit confused. His face is familiar—you try to pinpoint where, and recall him from one of the Zoom meetings prior to race week. 

“Oscar’s looking for you. I can walk you inside—a lot safer than entering yourself, case anyone pries.”

“Oh! Um-” You look at Tom apologetically. He waves you off. “Go on. I’ll go bother my manager while you rendezvous.” 

On the way there, you apologize to the staff for having to play middleman to a pair of PR troublemakers, but he insists that it’s fine. Really. Having the opportunity to be photographed next to an actress is one of the more exciting aspects of the job, apparently.

Your escort helps you slip into the motorhome. It’s not as discreet as you’d hoped.

Someone snaps a photo and uploads it to Twitter.

user: yn with a mclaren staff. what goes ONN. i dont think she’s just a rando vip guest…  user: no cause did you see how she was reacting to the sprint fhsdjghsg user: guys i think she might actually be oscar’s personal guest ⇢ Well now that’s pushing it user: have we forgotten how she and tom were literally flirting in the garage

He’s lying horizontally on his physio bench when you come in. You snort at the sight of him.

In his shorts. Shirtless.

Oscar gets up with a grunt and automatically wraps his arm around your chest, then shyly thanks his staff for escorting you. They shut the door with a wink. 

He pecks your lips in greeting. “I’ve got about ten minutes? Fifteen, max.” 

“Nap first. Talk later.” 

He kisses your cheek, muttering against it. “Can I lie on your lap?”

Your hand reaches up to pat his face. “Come on,” you say. 

It’s cramped in his driver’s room—the floor would be a better option. You sit up against the wall and urge him over. 

“And put a shirt on.” 

He rolls his eyes at you like the little brat he sometimes is, but listens anyway. 

When he’s finally dressed, he comes over and lays his head in your lap. You’re relieved the floor is carpeted.

Your hand finds his hair instinctively, fingers stroking his scalp, pulling gently at the back, knowing he likes the pressure. He sighs, subdued and content.

“All good so far?” he mumbles, half-asleep already. 

“Yeah. PR team’s been quiet, so I guess that’s a good thing. Tom’s having fun, too.”

He hums softly. “M’glad to hear.”

And just like that, he’s knocked out. You smile, infinitely endeared. 

You pass the time just like that: stroking Oscar’s head, playing with his curls, counting the freckles on his face. You think it’ll please his fans if they learn how feline he is when he’s affectionate.

You’re at twenty-six (twenty-six!) freckles when your phone starts buzzing. 

Ten minutes is up. 

“Oscar, darling,” you whisper into his ear. “Wake up.”

When he doesn’t stir, you scatter pecks all over his face. His eyes flutter open.

“Quali time,” you say quietly, and it’s enough to pull him out of the post-nap disorientation. He sits up with a groan of a grandpa and leans on you like a sloth.

“Thanks, baby,” he mutters into your hair. You kiss him for good luck and stand up to leave. 

“You in the garage later?” He asks while slipping on his fireproofs.

“Only during Q3, if you get there.” 

Oscar scoffs. “I think you mean when I get there.” 

The smirk you’re nursing turns into a grin. “Of course I did, raceboy.” 

Oscar meets expectations and is up to Q3.

By this time, you and Tom stand at the sidelines of the garage, notably not behind the stanchions where the other VIPs are corralled—a small but indicative freedom. It’s already earned you and Tom a few furtive looks; your paddock pass is, undoubtedly, a personal invitation. 

It’s quiet between you and Tom now that Oscar’s on a hot lap. The garage is charged. All eyes are glued to a screen. You are willing everything, down to each pebble on the asphalt, to align for pole. 

When he’s back in the garage, your senses snap to attention. The hairs on your skin stand. His bright helmet found at the end of your tunnel vision. 

You try not to pay attention. Try.  

He’s busy watching his monitors. You bite your lip, eyes trailing his hand when he reaches for his flask. Maybe it’s because you held that same gloved hand an hour earlier, kissed the face under that helmet. Or maybe you’re just down bad, the way watching Oscar in race mode does to you—but every motion in the cockpit makes your belly tie up in very big knots.

The secrecy thrills you more than you could ever admit.

Oscar’s reviewing his onboards when the screen connected to the broadcast cuts to you—eyes glued to the screens, wide and focused. A face that doesn’t resist the camera and makes him stop in his tracks. 

The small banner below you reads ‘Actress’—he half-expects ‘Oscar Piastri’s Partner’ to appear right after it. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. His stomach still curdles at its absence. 

He realizes he’s been fooling himself this entire time if he thought he could still keep you to himself. Spare you from the scrutiny, at least from his corner of the world. 

He realizes belatedly that the camera had cut to him next; it’s a small relief that his entire face is covered. He wonders if these consequent cutaway shots are a pure coincidence or a PR setup. 

Either way, he hopes, selfishly, that the fans read into it. 

P4 feels like a slap in the face.

The team claps his back and shakes his shoulders, but it’s Lando who’s P2. 

But you’re there, and you’re beaming. You’re not supposed to—not with his results. Not with the PR directives in place. 

No direct communication. Not even a shared look. It’s too loaded, near incriminating.

The time isn’t now. He knows that you know this.

And yet.

He tempts fate. He’d gamble anything for your touch right now. 

It helps that there isn’t a rope fencing you in. He glances at the live feed—they’re busy interviewing the front row. He’s got a minute—maybe half?—before it becomes too risky. Better odds than usual.

Still, there are eyes everywhere. 

Restraint. He thinks of the plan. He thinks of P4. He thinks about how a hug from you would blow over the sting of losing pole. 

He reads your panic when he starts walking over. You hadn’t expected him to approach. 

It’s delicate right now, he knows. He feels a small tug on the invisible thread between you two: Go away. 

It makes him smirk a bit, your voice in his head.

Oscar pulls his gloves off. 

He’s close enough to brush his knuckles against yours. 

He doesn’t have to do more. 

The point of contact sets a trail of fire running up his arm. For him, it’s enough. 

When you meet back at the hotel, he doesn’t hold back. He’s all over you, and you all over him. 

Race day. Ground zero. 

Chrissy: It’s race day! Who’s ready to pour gasoline all over these rumors 🔥

It’s rightfully insane—a media team mobilized to ease fans into accepting your relationship. How artificial it reflects in the grand scheme of things. 

“Showbiz, baby,” you mutter to yourself. 

The groundwork is done. Talks of why you’re here can’t seem to die out in fan circles—too close to simply be a VIP guest. Too seen with Tom that you can’t be explicitly linked to Oscar (yet), yet too affected by race results to be anyone outside his inner circle. 

Feedback from socials comes to you in WhatsApp reports: Less hostility towards Oscar from your fans. Shippers continue their steady streak of denial. Ample support from Oscar fans in general. 

Your media rep, Nellie, leaves out some of the harsher details. But it doesn’t escape your notice—the bitterness of you and Tom’s supporters, the dissection of the tabloids. 

You just hope the balance tips a little more in your favor by the end of it all. 

The directive for today is simple: priority is Oscar and his race results. The team loosens the leash a little, gives you space to breathe. Play the docile, supportive girlfriend. Be subtle enough that people can gloss over it during the broadcast, but sincere enough that when the tape rewinds, everyone can go, ‘Ah.’

Not sure about docile, but you suppose the rest is doable. 

You’re with Tom, shooting a few Tiktoks just for the joy of it. Out of love for the film and each other and the work you’ve both done. Promoting with no obligations. 

At some point, your mind wanders to Oscar—his involvement in all this makes you a little tight-chested. 

You wonder if you might have set things up for ruin. 

You try not to dwell on it.

Oscar drives like a superhero if you’ve ever seen one. 

There’s something supernatural, nearly beyond human comprehension, about the way he drives.

You’ve watched his races before, back when he was in F3 and your names barely registered in the world’s peripheral. Two irrelevant rookies in your fields. Too green, too untested. A lack of experience and appeal.

But for the first time, you’re in the front row. And Formula One doesn’t forgive.

It takes you back to the theatre. Your first love. Live, unedited, no room for mistakes. Equally cruel in its demands. You may star in films now, but nothing beats the high-wire act of live performance.

Oscar flies past the pit straight: the most unyielding protagonist in modern media.

He hits every turn like a cue. Executes instinct like it was written in the script. Delivers well-timed improv when his enemies close in.

You’re fully immersed in the act—headset on, breath held—and all you want is for him to win. So, so badly.

Unbeknownst to you, your team negotiated two cutaways during the broadcast—should Oscar do anything superhuman.

It’s effectively Oscar v Max. Your hands are clasped, eyebrows drawn, caring too deeply for someone supposedly here on a business invite.

If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s undeniable now.

The camera’s timing is nothing short of impeccable. Your distressed face appears mid-broadcast. 

Crofty’s commentary escalates. Oscar overtakes Max.

Another cutaway. Zoomed. You’re celebrating—just you, Tom’s out of frame. You’re eyes gleam with pride. The emotion on your face is telling enough. 

A move that didn’t need spelling out. That’s a PR win.

Somewhere, there’s a group chat with all your reps. They try not to get ahead of themselves, but are very happy with where this is going. Very happy.

Oscar drives and drives. Builds the gap. Lando catches up behind. 

The two cars are flying. It’s a pace advantage sanctioned by the God of Speed himself. No other team stands a chance. 

The checkered flag zooms by.

He wins.

🔍 Recent Searches   oscar yn dating oscar griddy oscar piastri miami oscar tom yn yn tom movie release date yn miami gp yn reaction

user: HELLOO??>!>@#2SKNXND DID EVERYONE SEE THAT user: just confirm it atp idk why theyre playing with us user: her eyes ohhh im gonna be SICK you dont look at a friend like that 😭 user: Tom barely shown in the broadcast guess who wasted two hours of their life user: this obvious wag treatment user: I FIND THEM CUTE EVERYONE SHUTTTT  ⇢ you’re not alone dw ⇢ am i the only one who thinks she suits lando ⇢ ?  ⇢ ? ⇢ ? ur sick user: thread of yn’s reactions during the miami gp 🏎️

Tom is somewhere in the garage, advised to let you have a definitive moment by the barriers. He pouts, but understands. 

“Chris!” You spot Oscar’s dad at the barriers. You’d met briefly last night, a quick catch-up in the lobby before his dinner with Oscar. You would’ve as well, but you weren’t exactly “soft-launched” as of yesterday.

“Congratulations,” you smile and hug him. His grin is an echo of Oscar’s. “Goes for both of us, sweetheart.”

“Not a bad win, eh?” 

“Not bad at all.” Chris chuckles, teary-eyed. You feel for the man. You’ve never seen him stand as tall as he is now. “Especially in the middle of this media circus.” 

You feel sheepish. “Did Oscar say?” 

“It was Mark, actually.” 

Just then, a celebratory tune starts blasting out on the speakers, and George’s victory clip appears. You both turn your eyes upwards. 

George comes out. Then, Lando.

And finally, Oscar. Beautiful, lovely Oscar. 

The crowd roars from behind. His team chants his name. You and Chris look at each other and laugh—a vivacious sound. 

You look back up at Oscar and something lodges in your throat. It’s too big an emotion.

Whatever it is, you hope it reaches him. 

Paps line the paddock like snipers. They’ve received the tip—and they’re waiting. 

Meanwhile, you and Tom are on the second floor of McLaren’s motorhome scrolling on Twitter. 

“I’ll miss being the internet’s OTP with you,” Tom sighs dramatically.

“Who says we’re stopping?” You show him a screenshot of him during the broadcast, headset on, jaw slack. He’s wearing the Miami cap. “Look at you, you papayahead!”

He grins, not one bit embarrassed. “Please. I’m already holding you onto a paddock pass for the next race. Don’t you dare leave me out. We have the same presser schedule.” 

“Bribing my girlfriend for paddock passes now, are we?”

You whip your head around— Oscar’s leaning by the top of the staircase, still in his fireproofs. 

His eyes are steady on you, stance unnervingly casual. Like he hadn’t just won his third Grand Prix in a row.

Something violent overcomes you. 

You don’t know Oscar to be so suave, but on the rare occasion he is, it’s unintentional. So unbelievably effortless that it makes you want to rip your hair out.

You hound in towards him. There’s a twinkle in his eye; he meets you halfway with his arms wide open and crushes your bones.

“You—!” You crash into his body mid-expletive. His jaw finds your shoulder. Anchors itself. It’s not the most coordinated embrace—one arm’s between your chests and the other’s jutting off to the side—but it’s everything you need.

The skin around his neck is sticky. He reeks of victory. 

Three days in. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re here and not a time zone away. That he can just walk across the paddock and have you in his arms. It invigorates him—the immediacy. Of you, of your touch. Feels like crossing the checkered flag ten times over.

Maybe next time you won’t have to hide. It doesn’t feel too impossible, now.

Tom snaps a photo of you both discreetly. 

You pull away, eyes gleaming and hair mussed. Emotion clogs your throat. 

I should speak. A sentence. Maybe a sound. 

A stilted croak trickles out. 

Oscar grins—a wild sort of expression. His chest is puffed up. “Wow. That bad?”

When words fail, actions speak. You hit him square in the chest. 

Oscar gasps, but his eyes soften. He nudges your chin and says, “I know.”

Something like love spills out in the small smile you cough up. “Some kind of driving.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Supersonic.”

He kisses the back of your hand and finally acknowledges the other presence in the room. “Hey, Tom.” 

Your co-star walks over to you both, grinning. “Great to finally meet you, man. Congrats on the win.” 

Oscar and Tom dap each other up. You watch with the fondness of a mother seeing her kid making strides in their social life. 

“Fancy grabbing dinner with us back at the hotel?” Oscar asks when the small talk passes. You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. Even Tom looks surprised.

“I mean, I’d love to, mate, but don’t you have a victory to celebrate? With the team?”

“Well,” Oscar gestures to the McLaren cap on the table. “You’re pretty much Team Papaya now.”

“Huh!” You react out loud. 

“See you at 8?”

“8 it is,” Tom smirks. “Have fun with the paps.” 

Realization hits like a bucket of cold water. You and Oscar groan in unison.

There are fewer people on the paddock now that the sun’s begun its descent. Mostly podium teams wrapping up their post-race celebrations, itching to move out to wash off the day’s sweat and grime. The track was still technically their workplace. 

“Last time I checked, you were jealous of Tom.” You mutter next to him when you go through the VIP exit. He appreciates the effort of a normal conversation. There’s a hammering in his chest, knowing there’s some freakishly long telephoto lens angled at you both from a vantage point tipped by your team. 

“Not my brightest moment, unfortunately.”

Then, a rather loud camera shutter goes off from a nearby building. He shares a look with you, and it’s enough eye contact to trigger a fit of giggles from you both. 

“This must be what birds feel like.” 

What? Oscar raises his brows. “What?”

“Feels like we’re in a nature documentary,” you stage-whisper. “Caw, caw.” 

There’s an intense look in his eyes that you can’t define. He either wants to kiss you or hurl you over his shoulders. You brace yourself.

But suddenly, he’s taking one step back and frames you with his fingers, tilting his head with one eye closed. You raise a brow, wondering what the hell he’s up to.

The accent comes at you like a blow: “Crikey! Ain’t she a beauty.” 

You freeze. Glitch. 

What in the world—

The snort you let out is gross and loud. Your knees buckle, and you keel over in a full-bodied, silent laugh. You hear Oscar’s groan before you feel his grip.

“Oh my god, get up. You look like you’re having a seizure.” 

You’re dying. “Are you supposed Steve Irwin?!” A few side eyes get thrown your way. 

He goes fully red. “Tried to make you laugh.”

“W-Wh-” You wheeze. “What do you think I’m doing?” 

“By virtue of my nationality, I have the right to impersonate Steve Irwin. No matter how terrible you think it is.”

Oscar’s fully embarrassed, if the pink blush across his face is any indication. You are extremely entertained—and in love. 

You are so in love. 

‘Small, but definitive,’ had been the directive given to you both. That meant a shared smile or a hand behind your back. Not a boisterous laugh, not something so brazen and without regard for the rest of the world. 

It was the opposite of Oscar’s image. A different dynamic compared to how you are with Tom. It could upset your fans, the shippers. 

People disliked change. You needed to ease them into it. Into this.

But you can’t help it. It finally feels like this was how you were supposed to love Oscar. Loudly and honestly. The way truths are upheld. 

The internet bares its teeth after the photos drop on Monday morning.

user: let’s just say I didn’t peg oscar to be the actress-type lol user: her vibe is weird idk user: all this time we’ve been calling yntom the second tomdaya.. we were played  user: the way she’s laughing im afraid we’ve lost her folks ⇢ LIKE CAN SHE GET UPPP user: yntom is So over user: Im confused isnt yn dating her costar or user: Guys they havent confirmed anything yet they could just be really good friends. And yn is pretty funny of course that driver would fold.  ⇢ whatever makes you sleep at night user: what do they even have in common /gen ⇢ i was thinking the same thing 😭 randomizer ahh couple

It’s mean. It comes at you in Instagram comments, Tiktok hot-takes, and WhatsApp updates from Nellie keeping you informed whether you like it or not. F1 WAG accounts pick apart your outfits from the weekend. There’s a fan war on Twitter between Tom’s fans and yours. You haven’t even seen Oscar’s side of the internet yet.

Meet F1’s newest WAG, A Hollywood Upcomer

Another Hollywood Star Dips Her Toes in Sports

Did we get played? YN and Tom — Just Friends? 

You’re gorgeous, irrelevant, real, and attention-seeking; vitriol and praise for breakfast. 

The chatter squalls at a volume that’s near grating. It feels like static under your skin. 

You knew it would be loud. Still, anticipation doesn’t soften the blow. 

It’s Tom who becomes the first line of defense. 

He uploads a carousel on Instagram the same day: an outfit shot, a couple of candid “boyfriend” photos you helped him take, a tray of paddock appetizers, a selfie with you in the garage, a three-second clip of him cheering with you beside him, and finally—a photo of the dinner you three shared last night. He tags you and Oscar on each dish. 

tomblyth Miami GP with one of the best people I know. Made a new friend :)

He uploads it way earlier than advised—you’re supposed to let things simmer. Give it a chance to blow over. 

It’s then you realize he’s done this of his own accord. No publicist whispering in his ear. Just a friend running interference. 

Tom Sent an image You're welcome Have you seen my post? 😝

It’s a photo of you and Oscar in the motorhome; You, squished in his arms, torso curved into yours. His number splashed across his back. 

You bite your cheek. It’s a lovely, candid shot. You stare at it longer than you need to.

You weigh the consequences.

You’re supposed to upload something, too. “Own the narrative.” A soft confirmation. Something that won’t hurt.  

This, however. It’s quite blatant. Harder for fans to swallow.

You trust your work. You trust the production. You trust the characters you and Tom gave life to, the chemistry that doesn’t require showmanship. That’s what audiences will remember. 

The bathroom door is wide open. Oscar, hair utterly untamed, is brushing his teeth half-asleep. 

Most of all, you trust Oscar—so why does this still feel so impossible? Like a freefall with no harness.

You shake your head. It’s good. And it will sell good. This PR stuff shouldn’t matter. You repeat it until it rings true.

“Hey,” he calls out, eyes squinting at you. “It doesn’t have to be scary.”

You sigh. “Didn’t realize I was thinking too loud.” 

He makes a rough sound of assent.

You let out a soft ‘fuck it’ and start tapping away. Oscar hums.

The carousel goes like this: Outfit check. Paddock club hors d’oeuvres. A silly photo of Tom. A beautiful photo of Tom, so he doesn’t kill you. Racetrack views. Confetti during the podium. 

The hospitality photo that looks like your heart. Better fit in between journal pages than an Instagram grid. 

You type out a caption. Pick out a song. 

Your thumb hesitates. Apprehension seizes your stomach. Go back. Back. Delete the last photo from the carousel. 

You can’t—you can’t do this. 

It was too resolute. A piece of you and Oscar you didn’t want the world to get hold of. 

You wondered if you could do this. Without the games, the coy breadcrumbing. Escape the limbo hanging between confirmation and denial. 

Instead, you scroll through Nellie’s folder and pick out one of her approved shots—a harmless, breezy shot of you walking in, all casual sweetness and your lanyard slung around your purse.  

The pass on your bag was perfectly clear. Visible enough for a fan to zoom in and read it: Oscar Piastri – Guest. “That should say enough,” Nellie had texted earlier.

Confirmation without the brazenness. Tame. Safe.

Playing safe never hurt anyone. 

yourname Lights, camera, a… and away we go?

You send it for checking and are given a green light.

Even then, you’re double-checking the post, triple-guessing the life you’d chosen before hitting upload and throwing your phone across the bed, muffling a scream with your hands. 

Oscar picks it up. “It’s live.” You don’t notice him fiddling around with it while you’ve given yourself a timeout for being dramatic.

When you’re done, you flop onto the bed next to your boyfriend. 

“Posted mine,” Oscar says, nudging you with his foot. 

You see the notification. 

oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

What? 

You stare at him. His face remains focused on his phone. “Were we allowed to tag each other?” 

oscarpiastri liked your post. oscarpiastri commented on your post: ☺️ oscarpiastri tagged you in a story.

“What the fuck are you doing.” You sit up, heart beating terribly fast. “It’s supposed to be a soft launch, Osc.”

You swipe through his post.

oscarpiastri All my favourites in one weekend

His fist pump on his car. The bottle of champagne raised high on the podium. Him clutching the trophy. The griddy in parc fermé. 

The pap shot of you two leaving the paddock, grinning at each other like two damn idiots. It’s brazen. It’s defiant.

But still, it’s not the one you’re tagged in.

You swipe to the last photo: Oscar’s looking out of the stadium, Miami trophy between his legs, and you’re tagged right there—on his chest. Your name appears just above where his heart is. 

A soft hiccup erupts from your chest. You can feel his eyes on you. 

It’s the kind of non-compliance that should have repercussions. Especially on a PR campaign mandated to ease fans into accepting change. 

Instead, Oscar hard launches you into oblivion.  

You’re biting down hard on your jaw. You open the story next and your breath catches. 

Thanks for the shot @ tomblyth  Kept it quiet long enough :) 

It’s on all his socials. Twitter and Instagram and freaking Tiktok. 

You close your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “You absolute reckless piece of shit—”

He kisses you flat on the lips. 

“First. I’m sorry. Also, Tom sent me the photo, too.” 

“Still a piece of shit-”

“Who you still love?”

“I do,” you reply grumpily. “Were you two scheming behind me this whole time?”

He gives a sheepish smile. “He said, quote ‘Let’s just get this over with, man.’ End quote. His words, not mine.”

It still doesn’t pacify the clamor in your stomach.

“But to answer your question, no. It was all my doing. Tom’s just, uh, gonna help me soften the blow.” 

Despite everything, this makes your mouth twitch. “And you’re qualified to call the shots how?”

“I’m internet savvy enough.”

“Right.” You tug on the drawstrings of your hoodie and retreat further into the bed. He wraps his arm around you.

He continues spewing out nonsense. You watch him doomscroll on his phone. He skims through his playlist and asks for help picking a song for his next post, though they all sound the same to you. 

Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. The air feels warmer. You feel safe. Somewhere in between you forget the part where you were spiraling.

“Won’t McLaren PR tell you off or something?” 

He scrunches his face. “Nah. They don’t care for my personal life. If anything, Sophie’s keen on letting me post you more. Think she might be a fan.” 

You roll your eyes. “I doubt.”

“I’m serious! She’s probably following you.”

You’re tempted to open Instagram and check, but the thought of looking at your socials right now makes you want to barf. 

Suddenly, you start talking like all along this was the topic of conversation. “You don’t get it. If I post it, it’s like the final nail in the coffin—and for a moment, I had some resolve. I was going to post the photo, Osc, I was. But I got scared. I thought of the fucking internet and then I—”

“Got cold feet,” he finishes for you, like it’s the most forgivable thing in the world.

“Internet’s plenty terrifying,” he says, turning to level his eyes with yours. He moves to sit before you, propping his legs up on either side of you so there’s no escaping. His eyes are big and honeyed and still sleepy at the edges. 

“Fuck ‘em,” Oscar says. He cradles your face, thumb pressing softly into your jaw so you look at him. He says it again when you don’t respond. “Hey, hey. Fuck. Them.”

The message gets across. You nod. “Fuck them.”

He smirks and nudges your nose. “S’my girl,” he mumbles. Oscar leans in and rests his chin on your head. “And for the record, I would post you every day until you stop caring.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He grins. “Try me.”

Oscar doesn’t tell you how pleased he is now that it’s public. A silent “mine” in every post he’d have of you from now on.   

The jealousy never really went away. 

Tom, as promised, replies to Oscar’s comment on your post. Even reposts the story.

tomblyth replies: 🤨 tomblyth reposts: Couldn’t stop her from running off with a racecar driver yourname reposts: skill issue

Crazily enough, it works. The narrative shifts, and suddenly, Tom is the relatable third wheel the internet never knew it needed. He takes the brunt of the joke like a champ. 

Oscar, for the most part, stays the same. And so do you. If not a little more comfortable now. 

Oscar Sent a link. “F1 driver” I have a name you know 🙁

Oscar Also. Been informed that you and Tom have some chemistry test challenge or whatever. How is it your co-star tells me before you do

Oscar Hey so Your lockscreen is making rounds on Twitter :) Sneak. Round 2 this summer break? Hattie told me she wanted to try out this new trail

Oscar Have you booked flights for Monaco yet?  I got Tom a pass if he wants to come Missing you a little extra tonight

Oscar is on his phone.

He sees the tweets, the comments, the tags. Sometimes, they get things right. How he does have heart eyes for you, how they can tell you’re sickeningly in love when either name comes up in interviews.

But.

It’s easy to get things wrong, too. They can never quite discern the full picture. 

He finds peace in that.

He taps on the replay of your premiere’s livestream. Finds the playback of you and Tom on the red carpet of your movie’s premiere. 

His thumb stops. There. You’re radiant.

The camera zooms in on you and Tom sharing a bit of banter before posing for the cameras. Does it annoy him? Only marginally.  

He still gets jealous of the co-stars. All of them—Tom not excluded. Past, present, and future. That they get to be near you. That they get to know the sound of your laugh and have access to the contours of your face. Your lips, too, if they’re lucky enough.

1 new message. You booked tickets! see you in monaco baby <3 

Even then. 

They didn’t get to have you. No one did. 

Though by some miracle, you let him.

They loved you. But he had you. 

It’s something. 

Something he has no plans to give up. Even when you’re both past your prime. Even when the world doesn’t want you two anymore. When the podiums and stages find new occupants and there’s no one left to fight you for. 

(This, he doubts. You’re striking—there’s something godlike, beyond human comprehension, about the way you perform. There will always be someone to fight.) 

It’s commitment, he realizes.

He feels a smile tugging at his lips. There’s peace in that, too. 

Oscar knows he’ll outlast them all. Competition was barely worth mentioning.

Besides, he made sure the world understood it the first time—that he was yours.

whew! if you enjoyed operation drs, please do let me know or drop any in the tags!! like every other author here, i live for comments :)

[itslusii]

“why do you still use tumblr?”

listen— i have to keep track of my hyper fixations somehow

[itslusii]

[itslusii]

te amo mi gordo

BELGIAN GP 2025 | oscar on the podium after finishing p1

[itslusii]

Not an accident

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Oscar gets asked about his daughter in an interview. It does not go well. 

Warnings and Notes: Chris Piastri bashing (The poor guy hasn't done anything in real life (As far as I am aware at least) but I needed a bad guy and he fit the bill. Sorry. Mention of Bee's very traumatic birth.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar Piastri sat in the chair with the usual polite calmness etched into his features, the lights warm against his skin, the mic clipped neatly to his collar. He’d hundreds of interviews by now—race recaps, performance breakdowns, media days—but this was one of the first few times he’d walked in knowing the questions wouldn’t stop at racing.

Not after the reveal.

Not after the world found out about Bee.

He braced himself without moving, only the faint twitch of his fingers against his knee betraying any tension.

The interviewer was the usual type: bright smile, confident voice, a clipboard full of questions that made Oscar’s stomach twist the moment he saw the label “life off-track.”

And then it started.

“Oscar,” the interviewer began smoothly, “you became a father at just nineteen years old, and that’s a massive responsibility. How difficult has it been to balance being a father at such a young age with the demands of Formula 1?”

Oscar exhaled slowly. Once. Deliberate. He lifted his gaze, eyes flat and unreadable.

“I don’t balance them,” he said.

The interviewer blinked, startled. “You don’t?”

Oscar’s voice was steady. “No. Because that question assumes my family is something I need to compromise on to succeed. And they aren’t.”

A pause stretched between them like a held breath.

Oscar blinked, fingers tapping the armrest now. His jaw ticked, just barely.

“I’ve been racing since I was a kid. My entire life has revolved around this sport. And then my daughter was born, and suddenly, I had something even more important. That didn’t take anything away from my racing—it gave me more to race for.”

The interviewer tilted his head slightly. “You don’t think it held you back?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “No.”

“But wouldn’t it have been easier if you had waited? Focused on your career first, then thought about settling down later?”

His jaw tightened. The polite edge in his expression vanished, replaced by something sharper.

“You seem very concerned about how I live my life.”

The interviewer faltered for the first time. “It’s just—most young drivers aren’t in your situation. They’re traveling freely, making the most of their careers without the extra weight—”

Oscar’s entire body went still.

“Extra weight?” he repeated, voice low.

“I just mean—”

Oscar’s tone sliced through the room like a scalpel. “No, I heard exactly what you meant.”

His eyes locked onto the man, cold and dark.

“I don’t consider my wife and daughter ‘extra weight.’ They’re the best thing that ever happened to me. My career isn’t something that exists separate from them—it’s because of them. Everything I do, I do for them. If you think loving my family is a burden, that says a lot more about you than it does about me.”

The interviewer cleared his throat, tried to pivot. “Well, balancing Formula 1 and a family is a lot for anyone, let alone someone so young. Some people might say it’s—”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Some people might say what?”

“That it’s a distraction. That it could have—held you back.” The interviewer paused, then added almost casually, “You became a father at just nineteen, which isn’t exactly… typical. I mean—surely that wasn’t planned?”

Oscar’s silence was lethal.

“What did you just say?” he asked quietly.

“I just meant—”

Oscar leaned forward slightly, calm but unmistakably furious. “No, I want to hear you say it again.”

The interviewer hesitated now. The air in the room was thick, tense, electric.

Oscar’s voice dipped even lower. “You’re asking me if my daughter was an accident. Live. On television. …Are you serious right now?”

Silence.

The interviewer shifted, suddenly nervous. But it was too late.

Oscar leaned in, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Did you seriously just imply that my daughter was a mistake?”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you—”

“No, say it. Be a man about it. Say exactly what you meant.”

“I—I just meant if it was difficult—”

“Difficult?” Oscar let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You sit there and ask me if my daughter was a complication, like she’s some kind of setback? Like she’s something I have to work around?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“That’s exactly what you meant. And let me tell you something, since you clearly don’t get it.”

He leaned forward again, voice calm, words lethal.

“First of all, whether my daughter was planned or not is absolutely none of your business. But since you’re so interested in my personal life—no, Beatrice wasn’t an accident. She was very much wanted. She was very much planned.”

His tone was steel. Precision. Fury cloaked in professionalism.

“You sit there, smiling, asking if my daughter was an inconvenience, if she ‘complicated’ my career. Like she’s a hurdle I had to overcome. Like she’s some kind of burden.”

His jaw clenched. The camera caught the twitch in his cheek.

“Let me make something perfectly clear. My daughter is not—has never been and will never be—a burden. She and her mother are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Bee is the one thing in my life that is bigger than racing. And if you think for a second that I regret having her, then you have absolutely no idea who I am.”

Silence.

“You wouldn’t ask Max that about his girlfriend. You wouldn’t ask Lewis if his family was a ‘challenge’ to his career. But you think it’s okay to sit here and imply that my daughter was a mistake? You’re acting like my wife and daughter are a burden. Like I should regret them. Like I’d be better off without them.”

Oscar’s voice dropped, deadly calm. “You don’t get to talk about my family like that. You don’t get to act like my biggest joy is some kind of inconvenience. Like the love of my life and the little girl who calls me Papa are things I should have avoided.”

The studio was silent.

“You think I wasn’t ready for this. That because I was nineteen, I couldn’t have possibly wanted this life. Like I didn’t make a choice. Like my wife and I didn’t sit down and decide that we wanted a family. That we wanted her.”

The interviewer’s voice was paper-thin. “I was just asking—”

“No, you weren’t just asking,” Oscar snapped. “You were making a point. A pathetic, lazy point. So let me make one of my own—”

He leaned in, every word clipped and crystalline. “I have never, not once, questioned whether being a dad would hold me back. Do you know why?”

A beat.

“Because loving my wife and daughter doesn’t make me less of a driver. It makes me better.”

Oscar’s tone turned to steel. Absolute and final.

“So let me spell it out for you, since you seem to have a hard time understanding. My daughter was not an accident. My daughter is not a challenge. My daughter is not an obstacle. She is my world. Fliss and Bee are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

The pause that followed was blistering.

Oscar’s eyes cut through the silence.

“And if you ever—ever—talk about them like that again, this will be the last time I answer any of your questions.”

The interviewer was ghost-white, gripping his notes like a lifeline.

Oscar didn’t look at him again.

He leaned back. Let the silence linger.

And then, coolly:

“Next question.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1insidergirl: oscar piastri just verbally assassinated a journalist on live tv for implying his daughter was an "inconvenience" and honestly? good.

@/lanblessed: you can see the moment oscar goes from calm to australian dad rage. interviewer said "extra weight" and oscar said "time to die"

@/verstappenvevo: if i was felicity i would’ve made that entire interview my ringtone

@/gridchaosofficial: lando watching that interview like: 😳🥹😨💘🐝📊🧁

@/f1girlboss: oscar piastri just verbally suplexed that interviewer with the calm fury of a man who’s been waiting YEARS to be asked that exact question. father of the year. husband of the decade. driver of my heart.

@/beewatch24: the way he went from calm to “say it again. be a man about it.” like sir this is formula one not game of thrones

@/trackmoments: Oscar being asked if having a family held him back and him answering “it made me better” has me curled up in a ball. you don’t understand.

@/michelinmealwife: interviewer: “surely it wasn’t planned?” oscar, full deadpan fury: “what did you just say?” me: cancels everything for the rest of the day to watch this meltdown on loop

@/mclarencult:  he really said “if you ever talk about them like that again, this will be the last time I answer any of your questions.” THAT’S a man. THAT’S a husband. THAT’S a father.

@/undercutcentral: You could hear the exact moment the interviewer realized he f**ked up. Piastri went from “media trained” to “do not test me.”

@/felicitynation: Everyone talking about Oscar defending Bee but don’t forget he said “Fliss and Bee are the best thing that’s ever happened to me” LIKE OKAY I’M CRYING

@/haasapoint: Oscar Piastri just did more for paternal representation in motorsport than 50 years of PR combined.

@/beatriceupdates: The way he didn’t raise his voice once. Just iced that man out with pure devotion and fury. He’s not called Ice Spice Piastri for nothing.

@/nobodysgirlfriend:  you can literally see the moment oscar’s expression shifts from neutral to I will end you 10/10 dad rage. I respect it.

@/felicitysbreadloaf: imagine being a journalist and walking into an interview thinking you can imply a child is a “setback” and walking out with your dignity in ashes. couldn’t be me.

@/racingbeeupdates:  🚨 Oscar Piastri just eviscerated a journalist live on air for implying his daughter was a “mistake.” I have never seen someone go from calm to lethal that fast.

@/beeandflissupdates:  Not to be dramatic but if anyone ever implies Bee was a burden again I hope Oscar drives a McLaren directly over their kneecaps.

@/gridtea: the way oscar kept his voice even the entire time?? no yelling. no swearing. just pure, icy rage and surgical verbal destruction. I would have cried on set.

@/formulalads: oh my god did oscar piastri just evaporate that interviewer on live TV???????

@/lan_doughnut: Lando’s probably backstage with popcorn like “YES KING DESTROY HIM”

@/engineeredforlove:  Him: I don’t balance them. Interviewer: 😬 Him: Because my family is not something to compromise on. Me: dead

@/wheelfeels:  This is your reminder that Oscar Piastri became a dad at 19, chose that life, and then defended it like a seasoned lawyer in a murder trial. 💅

@/notyouagainf1:  sorry but what was that interviewer ON. “Surely she wasn’t planned?” WHO SAYS THAT OUT LOUD. ON CAMERA. TO A FATHER??

@/beeandfliss: The question wasn’t even subtle like… “do you regret your child?” is INSANE journalism. Did they think Oscar was just gonna smile and nod???

@/theundercutpod: Imagine sitting across from Oscar Piastri and thinking “yo, let me imply his daughter is a mistake and see what happens.”

@/f1reactions: Oscar’s response was a MASTERCLASS in composure and fury. The interviewer should be ashamed. You don’t talk about people’s families like that. Ever.

@/tiresmokeandtea:  The way the interviewer spiraled from “how’s parenting?” to “your kid was an accident right?” in 45 seconds like it was casual small talk. WILD.

@/f1legalbriefs: PR should’ve cut the mic the moment “extra weight” left his mouth. Unprofessional. Dehumanizing. And Oscar had every right to shut it all the way down.

@/griddreams:  i’m sorry but who LET that interviewer cook?? like did they genuinely think asking “was your daughter a mistake” on live tv was gonna go well???

@/f1familychronicles: literally who approved those questions. “did you plan your child?” “isn’t your wife a burden?” what the actual hell

@/paddockwivesanon:  Let’s be clear: that wasn’t journalism. That was misogynistic, condescending BS dressed up as an “honest question.”

@/oversteerandtears: listen I’ve seen dumb F1 media questions but “was your daughter an accident?” is straight-up career suicide. like. sir. be serious.

***

Lando had seen Oscar angry before.

Not often—Oscar wasn’t the slamming-doors or yelling-in-the-garage type. His anger was usually cold, controlled. The kind that showed up in clipped sentences and narrowed eyes and a post-race debrief that ended early because he’d already told them three times what was wrong with the setup.

But this?

This wasn’t that.

Lando stood just off-set, arms folded, watching as Oscar stalked out of the interview area like a man who had just walked away from a wreckage—calm on the outside, but with wreckage in his wake. His jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid. And his hands? Shaking. Barely. But shaking.

And that scared the hell out of Lando more than anything.

Because Oscar didn’t shake.

He didn’t snap.

He didn’t break.

The interviewer, pale as a sheet, hadn’t moved from his seat. PR was scrambling. The camera crew had stopped pretending to work. Lando just stood there, stunned, as Oscar walked past him like he didn’t even see him.

“Mate,” Lando said, reaching out instinctively, “what the hell happened?”

Oscar didn’t stop walking. Just muttered, “They called Bee a mistake.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

“They asked if she was an accident.” He said it like the words still tasted like ash. “If she held me back.”

And then he was gone—shoulders taut, eyes fixed ahead like he was afraid if he stopped moving, the fury would swallow him whole.

Lando didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.

Because that? That wasn’t race-day frustration or missed-lap anger.

That was something else.

That was Oscar Piastri, quiet and even-tempered and scarily precise, brought to the edge of rage.

And Lando—who’d spent years next to him in briefings and press junkets and those awful team-building days—had never seen anything like it.

He swallowed hard.

Oscar had always been calm, cool, calculating.

But now Lando understood something he hadn’t before:

You don’t mess with the people Oscar loves.

Because if you do?

He will burn you down with perfect diction and a smile so sharp it cuts.

And you won’t even realize you’re bleeding until it’s far, far too late.

***

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Oscar hated that.

He had spent years mastering stillness. Learned early that silence could speak volumes, that restraint was sometimes more powerful than reaction. He could wait out storms. He could hold pressure in his bones and still keep his voice steady. He could drive through chaos at 300 kph and come out the other side calm.

But not this.

Not that question.

Not the way the interviewer said it, so casual, like Bee was an unexpected speed bump in a promising career. Like Felicity was a mistake he hadn’t learned from yet.

His hand trembled as he pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen blurred for a second. Then cleared.

Fliss 💛

He hit call.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Hi, love,” she answered, breath warm, voice soft and familiar, like home. Like the low light of the farmhouse kitchen at night, the way she always said "you're back" when he stepped through the door, like she hadn’t expected him to leave a piece of himself behind on every flight.

He sat down hard on a bench just outside the studio. Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked instantly, picking up on something in the silence.

He hadn’t said a word yet.

“I’m fine,” he said, and the lie sounded wrong even to him.

A pause. Then: “Oscar.” Her voice was quieter now. Serious. “What happened?”

He swallowed. Let the words sit there like stones.

“They asked if Bee was an accident.”

Silence.

“They asked if I regretted having her,” he said, voice low. “If she ruined my career. If she was a distraction. If—if we hadn’t meant to have her.”

Her inhale was sharp and audible through the line. “What?”

“I shut it down.” His voice cracked despite him. “Hard. Probably too hard.”

“No such thing.” She sounded furious now—quietly, lethally furious, like the way she only got very rarely and that promised vengeance. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

Another pause.

Then, gently, “Where are you?”

“Back hallway. Between media and the McLaren room.”

“I’m going to kill someone.”

He smiled. Brief. Shaky. “You don’t have to. I did enough damage for both of us.”

“Don’t care. You okay?”

He looked down at his hand, still clenched around his phone like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“I just—” He swallowed again. “They don’t know. What it was like.”

He didn’t have to explain. She knew.

The hospital walls. 

The sound of monitors screaming as they wheeled Felicity into emergency surgery. 

Oscar standing there, useless, blood on his hands and no idea if his wife or daughter would survive the next ten minutes. 

Signing papers he didn’t understood, that felt like a death warrant, but where the only, the only way to even have a chance to safe them. 

Bee in the NICU, with more wires attached to her than she had limbs, a newborn baby girl with a scar all the way down her chest where surgeons had cut her open to save her life. 

Felicity unconscious, her skin grey and cold, as they pumped her body full with medication and sedatives and antibiotics and anything else they could think off. 

3 days until he could hold his daughter for the first time. 6 days until his wife opened her eyes again. 

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Oscar whispered.

Her voice cracked. “I know.”

“They don’t get to talk about you like that. Or Bee.” His voice sharpened again. “Like I wasn’t the luckiest person alive the moment I got both of you back.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I almost lost everything before I ever really got it,” he murmured. “And now people want to act like I should be… what? Regretful? Like I should have waited? Like if I could go back, I wouldn’t choose this?”

A sound came through the phone—her breath catching.

“Fliss,” he said, his voice breaking for real now, “I’d still choose you. I’d still choose her. Every single time. Even knowing how terrifying it was. I’d still choose it.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I would too.”

He could hear Bee’s babbling in the background, talking to Button about her cereal like the world wasn’t on fire.

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes burning.

“Can you—can you put me on speaker?” he asked softly.

There was a rustle, a beep, and then—

“Papa?”

Bee’s voice. Bright. Clear. Safe.

“Hi, Bumblebee.”

“Button said he wants ice cream but I said no, because it’s not a food group.”

Oscar laughed through the tears he hadn’t realized were there. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I saved you some cereal,” she added seriously. “But I ate most of it. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, Bumblebee. I love you. I’ll be home soon,” he said.

“We’ll be here.”

He sat there for a while longer after Felicity hung up, phone still warm in his hand, eyes closed.

The anger was still there. But quieter now.

He could breathe again.

***

Andrea Stella had sat through hundreds of driver debriefs in his career.

He’d worked with World Champions. Managed egos the size of paddocks. Navigated every kind of media disaster F1 could throw at a team. He liked to think he was hard to rattle.

But this?

This had rattled everyone.

The media room was still humming with tension when they got back to the motorhome. Sophie from PR was already mid-crisis mode—headphones in, phone glued to her palm, tapping out what Andrea suspected was a fire extinguisher disguised as a media statement.

Lando slumped into the nearest chair, wide-eyed and weirdly quiet. That alone set off Andrea’s internal alarms.

Zak Brown stood with his arms crossed, watching Oscar, who had yet to sit down.

Oscar Piastri, who was usually measured to the point of maddening, stood like a man who had just walked out of a courtroom, not a media call. Shoulders stiff, jaw set, eyes unreadable.

Andrea cleared his throat.

No one spoke.

Right. So that was how this would go.

“I take it we’ve all seen the footage,” he said finally, quiet but firm.

Sophie didn’t look up from her phone. “It’s already trending. Hashtag Oscar Piastri is the number one global tag on X. Half the comments are calling it iconic. The other half are debating whether or not it was professional.”

Lando raised a hand. “Just to be clear, I’m in the ‘iconic’ camp.”

Zak gave him a look.

Oscar didn’t move.

Andrea turned to him carefully. “Oscar. Do you want to tell us what happened?”

Oscar’s fingers curled once around the edge of the table. “They asked if my daughter was a mistake.”

Silence.

Andrea inhaled slowly. He hadn’t seen the full interview—just the snippet Sophie had shown them before hauling everyone in. But he’d heard the tone. The steady, controlled fury. The kind that didn't explode—but flayed.

“And your response was…” Andrea paused. “Passionate.”

Oscar looked up at that, eyes dark and guarded. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I would,” Andrea said without missing a beat. “I’m not here to reprimand you.”

That seemed to surprise everyone, including Oscar. Even Sophie glanced up.

“I’m here to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“By muzzling him?” Lando asked suddenly, sitting forward. “Because if that’s the plan, I’m out.”

“We’re not muzzling anyone,” Andrea said calmly. “We’re protecting our drivers. That question should never have made it through the vetting process. Sophie?”

Sophie sighed. “It was an independent syndicate. We only got the final questions ten minutes before.”

“That’s ten minutes too late,” Andrea said. “We’ll be stricter. From now on, no interviews with unvetted press. I don’t care if it’s the New York Times or Top Gear or someone’s bloody podcast.”

Zak nodded once in agreement. “Fine by me.”

Oscar finally sank into a chair. He looked tired now, the adrenaline clearly ebbing, replaced by something heavier.

Andrea leaned forward, voice softer. “Oscar, no one here is angry with you.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. ““I was asked, live on television, if having a family ‘held me back.’ If I should’ve waited. If my daughter—my three-year-old daughter—was a complication. And then he asked if she was planned.”

Zak let out a long breath through his nose. “Yeah. I saw it. We all did.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, the picture of exhaustion. “What exactly do you want me to do? Apologize?”

“No,” Andrea said immediately. “You were right.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Oscar,” Andrea continued, measured, “I have worked in this sport a long time. I’ve seen what it does to young drivers. To people who start young, who grow up here, who become machines to survive. You didn’t lose your temper. You didn’t lash out. You defended your family.”

Oscar blinked. Slowly.

“But—” Sophie began.

Andrea raised a hand. “That interviewer was out of line. Deeply. Recklessly. He made assumptions about your wife, your daughter, your entire life. If anything, I’m proud you didn’t throw the chair at him.”

Zak gave a soft snort. “Yeah. If it were me, there would’ve been a chair.”

Oscar didn’t laugh. Not exactly. But some of the iron in his shoulders unspooled. “So what happens now?”

“We control the narrative,” Sophie said, slipping into PR triage mode. “You’re not apologizing. We’re framing this as a boundary. You were disrespected, you responded with clarity and composure. You’re a father, and a husband. And people are going to understand that.”

“We’ll have to smooth things with a few sponsors,” Zak added. “But honestly? Most of them like when a driver shows some spine. Especially over something that personal.”

Lando finally stirred. “You know people are already calling it ‘The Piastri Clapback of the Year,’ right? I mean. I thought you were going to ice that guy through the floor.”

Oscar looked away. “I wasn’t angry for me.”

Andrea’s voice softened. “We know.”

“I was angry because… she’s going to grow up in this world. And if people talk about her like that now, when she’s not even old enough to go to primary school—what the hell are they going to say when she’s fifteen? Or twenty?”

That landed hard.

The room fell quiet again.

Andrea looked at the young man across from him—this precise, quiet driver who never caused a fuss, who internalized stress like it was a competition, who everyone said was unshakable.

And thought, No wonder this cracked him open.

“You did the right thing,” Andrea said, final and firm.

“You’re a father first. A driver second.”

Oscar exhaled, just once. But this time, it sounded like relief.

And Andrea—keeper of calm in the chaos—made a silent promise to himself.

If anyone ever went after Oscar’s family again?

He would not be nearly so diplomatic.

***

GRID GROUP CHAT

Lando: I WOULD LIKE TO FORMALLY STATE FOR THE RECORD THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE TERRIFIED OF OSCAR PIASTRI THAN I AM RIGHT NOW

Charles: He didn’t raise his voice once I felt physically ill Like I had disappointed a headmaster I respected

Pierre: I have never been so terrified And I wasn’t even in the room

George: The way he said “next question” like he had just buried a body and wiped his hands on his fireproofs 😭

Pierre: He surgically dismantled that man with calm vocabulary and fatherly wrath. 10/10. Would follow into battle.

Lewis: He protected his family. Good. Also: that interviewer needs a vacation. And perhaps a priest.

Carlos: I paused the video halfway through and had to take a walk.

Yuki: He made no threats. But I felt threatened.

Lando: I was IN THE BUILDING HE WALKED PAST ME I SAID "ARE YOU OKAY" AND HE SAID "THEY CALLED BEE A COMPLICATION" AND KEPT WALKING I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO BREATHE SINCE

Max: if someone said that about penelope i would have flipped a table oscar’s version was scarier respect

Lance: Was that interviewer okay after?

Esteban: Define “okay”

Daniel: They showed the full clip on Sky. I was eating a sandwich and almost choked. Man said “extra weight” and Oscar’s soul left his body before returning as a precision airstrike.

Valtteri: He smiled. That was the worst part. He smiled and ruined that man.

Charles: i’m genuinely scared for Bee’s kindergarten teacher if she ever gets a bad report card

Oscar: I can read this, by the way.

Lando: and we love that for you

also: remind me to never, ever, ever imply that your wife or daughter are anything short of divine blessings thanks

George: No seriously, that was… devastatingly composed. Are you alright?

Oscar: Fine now. Fliss and Bee are okay. That’s all that matters.

****

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

Nicole: I just saw the clip. Oscar. That man is lucky you kept your cool.

Hattie: I would’ve punched him. On live TV. Straight up.

Mae: You were so calm. But brutal. I’m proud.

Edie: You okay, Osc? That was intense.

Oscar: I’m fine. He crossed a line. I responded.

Chris: Okay, hang on. Before we all get defensive, maybe the interviewer didn’t mean it badly. He just said what a lot of people probably think. Oscar, you were 19. It was early. No one expected—

Oscar: Don’t.

Chris: I’m just saying—

Oscar: Don’t. Don’t ever say that again.

Chris: Look, I understand you were upset. But the interviewer wasn’t totally out of line. He was just saying what a lot of people are thinking.

Nicole: Chris.

Chris: What? We’ve talked about this before. Bee wasn’t exactly planned. You two were what, 19? The guy just said what’s on a lot of people’s minds.

Oscar: Stop.

Chris: I’m just saying—

Oscar: No. You’re not just saying. You’re repeating something I’ve told you a hundred times not to say. Bee was not an accident. She was wanted. Chosen. Loved before she even existed. Fliss and I made that decision. Together.

Nicole: Chris. Stop.

Oscar: You think I haven’t heard this before? That I don’t know what people say behind my back? That I threw away my career, that I was too young, that it was an accident, a mistake? You think I don’t know?

Oscar: But to hear it from you— To hear you STILL think that after everything—after what Fliss went through, after what Bee went through— Do you have any idea what that feels like?

Chris: It’s not about judgment. I’m just trying to be realistic—

Oscar: You want realistic? Realistic is Felicity and I making a decision and standing by it. Realistic is Fliss fighting for her life after giving birth. Realistic is Bee in surgery at 20 minutes old while I sat in a hospital chair praying she’d live long enough to roll over one day. Realistic is us building a life from scratch. So don’t come in here, years later, and tell me what you think we should’ve done instead.

Nicole: Oscar, honey, take a breath—

Oscar: No, Mum. I’m not doing this again. Not with him. Not anymore.

Hattie: …Okay, Dad. Maybe read the room for once?

Mae: He named her after Mum, and you’re still acting like she wasn’t supposed to exist.

Edie: You know who wasn’t ready? You. You’re the only one who still can’t accept this family looks different than what you expected.

Chris: I just wanted the best for you—

Oscar: And yet you never once trusted I knew what that was. I’m done justifying my life to you. If you can’t respect my family—my wife, my daughter—then don’t expect to be part of it. I won’t let Bee grow up thinking love has conditions. Not from anyone.

****

Felicity’s phone buzzed as she wiped Bee’s fingers clean of strawberry jam.

It was nearing dusk, the light outside golden and syrup-thick, catching the curve of the farmhouse windows. Bee had insisted on a picnic dinner in the lounge—mostly crackers and fruit and a lopsided sandwich she had "made herself." 

She glanced at the screen: Nicole Piastri (Mum-in-law) – Calling…

Felicity blinked. Nicole rarely called unprompted. Especially not during dinner hours.

She picked up, already half-bracing. “Nicole?”

There was a pause, just a breath too long. Then— “Hi, love. Is this a bad time?”

Felicity sat back on the floor, one arm absently wrapping around Bee, who had settled in her lap. “We’re mid-picnic, but you’re fine. What’s going on?”

Nicole’s sigh was soft, but it wasn’t casual.

“I just… wanted to let you know something. Before Oscar does.”

Felicity went still. “Okay?”

“There was a… situation. In the family group chat.”

Felicity didn’t speak, but something in her chest curled. She could guess.

Nicole went on. “Your father-in-law…” Her voice wobbled, just slightly. “Chris said some things he shouldn’t have.”

Felicity closed her eyes. “About Bee.”

“Yes.”

“I figured.”

Nicole exhaled. “He still thinks she was an accident. That you and Oscar should’ve waited. That it would’ve been ‘easier’ if she’d come later.”

Felicity was quiet for a long time. Bee squirmed slightly, and she ran her fingers through her daughter’s curls, keeping her grounded.

“Did Oscar say anything?”

There was a pause. Then— “He snapped. Properly. Not like yelling, not unkind. Just… done. He told Chris he didn’t get to rewrite history to make himself feel more comfortable. That Bee was chosen. Wanted. He told him if anyone calls her an accident again, they don’t get to be around her.”

Felicity swallowed around the knot in her throat. “Good.”

Nicole’s voice dropped, soft and apologetic. “I didn’t know he was still holding onto that.”

“Chris never said anything to me,” Felicity murmured. “But I always wondered why he was a little… distant, when we told him. Not upset, just—off.”

Nicole’s silence said enough.

Then—gently—  “I wanted to call because I don’t want you thinking we all feel like that. I don’t. And neither do the girls. Bee is ours. Entirely. You are, too.”

Felicity’s eyes stung.

“I know,” she whispered. “Thank you.” Felicity’s throat tightened. “We really did plan her, you know. We talked about it for months.”

Nicole cleared her throat. “I know. And… just for the record? That little girl has brought more light into our lives than I knew we needed. And the way Oscar talks about you, about her—I don’t think he’s ever had a single doubt.”

“I know he hasn’t.”

“I just wish his father could see it that clearly.”

Felicity looked down at Bee, who had fallen asleep in her lap, one sticky hand clutching a cracker.

“He doesn’t have to,” she said softly. “He’s not the one raising her. We are.”

Nicole paused. Then— “I’m so glad you’re part of this family, Felicity.”

Felicity smiled, even if her heart was still aching. “I’m glad too.”

They ended the call quietly.

Felicity sat on the floor for a while longer, rocking slightly, Bee warm against her chest. Then she whispered into the crown of her daughter’s hair:

“You were never a mistake. You were the beginning.”

***

Felicity had tried.

 Really, she had.

She’d been patient. She’d bitten her tongue in every family dinner conversation where Chris made offhand comments about “young love” and “life coming at you fast” like Bee had crash-landed into their lives instead of being wanted, planned for, and loved before she ever existed.

But after Nicole’s call, after hearing what was said in that group chat—

She was done.

She sat down at her vanity table, opened the shared folder titled “Project Lemonade: TTC 2019” on her laptop, and pulled up everything she needed.

Screenshot of her fertility tracking app, calendar view, June–November 2019 marked in obsessive detail.

The appointment confirmations from June 2019, two weeks after their wedding.

The notes from her OB consultation.

Even a screenshot of a text thread from that July, where Oscar had written, “Let’s make a tiny human who looks like you. I’m serious.”

And her reply, “Okay. But I’m charting this.”

She copied all of it—PDFs, screenshots, date-stamped calendar entries—and dropped it into a zip folder titled: BEE WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT.

Then, she opened her messages with Chris.

And typed:

Felicity: Since it seems like there’s still some confusion, here’s the full documentation of when and how Oscar and I decided to try for Bee.

 June 2019. After our wedding. With intent and love and actual spreadsheets.

You’ll find medical records, cycle tracking logs, and a conversation from the week we decided we were ready.

Bee was not a surprise. Bee was planned. Loved. Hoped for. Wished into existence with intention and care and spreadsheets and so many vitamins I smelled like a pharmacy.

 And I am done pretending your “jokes” or “concerns” are harmless.

Attached: [Bee_Was_Not_An_Accident.zip]

***

She hit send. 

Across the room, Bee was asleep in the big bed, curled up with Button and a blanket Felicity had crocheted when she was still pregnant—months after that first calendar entry.

Planned.

Wanted.

Cherished.

Felicity exhaled and turned her phone screen off.

There.

Now it was in writing.

She never wanted to have this conversation again.

***

Chris hadn’t meant for it to spiral.

He really hadn’t.

He sat in his home office, the late afternoon sun slanting across the papers he hadn’t touched, the coffee beside him going cold. His phone was on the desk, buzzing once, then going still.

New message: Felicity.

He glanced at it absently—expecting a polite clarification, maybe a tense thank you for his input, though he hadn’t quite expected gratitude. Not after the group chat. Not after what Oscar had said.

He hadn’t meant to start a war.

But the moment he opened the message, he knew he’d lost.

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was… clinical. Final. Devastating.

His eyes skimmed the words once.

Then again.

And again.

The words stung in their simplicity, in how clearly they were laid out, how organized and timestamped and unshakeably real they were.

June 2019. After our wedding. With intent and love and actual spreadsheets.

Spreadsheets.

He swallowed.

He opened the zip file without thinking. It was all there. Meticulously kept. Organized by month and theme. Felicity had highlighted her ovulation charts. The OB consult letter was dated two weeks after their wedding. The texts with Oscar were warm and real, giddy in that quiet, unmistakably them way. A young couple building something with both hands, even if the world around them didn’t understand.

His son’s message:

“Let’s make a tiny human who looks like you. I’m serious.”

Her reply:

“Okay. But I’m charting this.”

Chris sat back in his chair. Staring.

He hadn’t thought it was a big deal. Not really. He thought they were too young. Too quick. He had told himself he was being reasonable. Concerned. Offering perspective.

But what he’d done—over and over—was chip away at something sacred.

He had called love a mistake.

He had taken his son’s joy and dressed it in skepticism. He had looked at his granddaughter—the brilliant, bright-eyed little girl who called him Grandad with strawberry jam on her chin—and failed to see the miracle of her.

He had, with every casual word, implied she shouldn’t have existed.

And Felicity had stayed silent.

She had never once snapped at him. Never yelled. Never stormed out of a room or thrown it back in his face. She had smiled politely through dinners. Let him hold Bee. Answered his small talk. Shared updates when asked.

And now—now, finally—she had said what he hadn’t been willing to hear.

I am done pretending your “jokes” or “concerns” are harmless.

He stared at the line.

Then closed the file.

And sat in silence.

There were no words he could send back that would fix this. No response clever enough to untangle the damage.

He thought of Oscar in that interview—so composed, so furious, his voice like ice.

He thought of Felicity holding it in for years.

He thought of Bee.

He had always loved her, in his way. But maybe not the right way. Not in the way that said I believe in how you came to be. I believe your life is a gift, not an accident.

And now?

Now he wasn’t sure if they’d ever let him close enough to prove he’d learned.

Chris looked at the blinking cursor in the message box. His fingers hovered, stilled, then pulled away.

For once in his life, he didn’t hit reply.

Because some things—finally, painfully—had been said exactly as they needed to be.

And it wasn’t his turn to speak anymore.

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Chris Piastri

Chris: I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened. What I said in the group chat. I want to apologize. Properly. You were right to call me out.

Chris: I let my own assumptions get in the way. I didn’t listen. I didn’t respect the decisions you and Felicity made. I see that now.

Chris: You didn’t need judgment. You needed support. And you deserved that from me—from the beginning.

Chris: I’m sorry, Oscar. For what I said. For what I didn’t say. For making you feel like Bee wasn’t a gift.

Oscar: … Where is this coming from?

Chris: I’ve been thinking. And reflecting. And I received some things today that made it very, very clear I’ve been wrong.

Oscar: What things?

Chris: Felicity sent me a file. With everything. The charts, the messages. The appointment letters. It was… undeniable.

Oscar: She sent you what?

Chris: She wanted to make sure I understood. That there was no room left for doubt. And there isn’t. Not anymore.

Oscar: She shouldn’t have had to do that.

Chris: I know. But I’m glad she did.

Oscar: You think a file is what makes Felicity credible? That her tracking spreadsheets make her believable? Is that really what it takes for you?

Chris: No. I just… I didn’t understand how much care went into it. How much planning. I didn’t want to believe it was real because I was afraid for you. I let that fear turn into something else. And it came out wrong. Again and again.

Oscar: She didn’t tell me she sent you anything. You realize that, right?

Chris: She probably didn’t want to put you in the middle again. Or maybe she just didn’t want to make a big deal of it.

Oscar: It is a big deal.

Oscar: Felicity had to defend our daughter’s existence with spreadsheets. You do understand how insane that is, right?

Chris: I do.

Oscar: I’m not angry that you got the file. I’m angry that it had to happen at all. That she had to pull medical records just to get basic respect.

Chris: I’m sorry. Truly.

Oscar: You want to show you’re sorry? Stop acting like we owe you an explanation for the life we built.

Chris: I’ll do better.

Oscar: Don’t say it for me. Say it for Bee. Because she’s going to grow up smart enough to know when someone’s love comes with strings. And I won’t let her think that’s what family looks like.

Chris: Understood.

***

The front door creaked open just after midnight.

Oscar stepped into the farmhouse with his bag slung over one shoulder, his hoodie damp from the misting rain that had rolled in while he was driving. He closed the door gently behind him and breathed in the familiar quiet.

The house smelled like lemon balm and vanilla and something else—cinnamon? Maybe Bee had talked Felicity into baking again. That thought alone made his chest ache with something he couldn’t name.

He toed off his shoes by the door, left his bag where it fell, and padded softly through the hall.

The lounge light was still on. Dim. Warm.

Felicity sat curled up in the armchair in one of his old hoodies, a cup of tea balanced on her knees, one leg tucked under her. Her hair was twisted up, messily clipped back like she hadn’t really planned on staying up—but she always tried to wait for him after a race. Even now. Even still.

Oscar stopped in the doorway.

She looked up, met his eyes, and smiled quietly. “Hi.”

He didn’t smile back—not yet.

“Did you sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Bee did,” she murmured. “I just… couldn’t quite. Not until you were home.”

Oscar stepped into the room, his eyes scanning her face.

Then, without preamble: “Why didn’t you tell me you sent him the folder?”

Felicity stilled, the tea cooling in her lap.

Oscar sat down across from her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he was holding something fragile.

“I found out from him,” he added softly. “And I—God, Fliss, I had no idea. You had that ready? All this time?”

Felicity didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled and set the tea down on the side table.

“I wasn’t hiding it from you,” she said at last. “I just… didn’t want to burden you with it.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed. “You think defending our daughter’s existence is a burden?”

“No,” she said gently. “I think you already carry enough. I’ve seen what those comments do to you, Oscar. I didn’t want to add to the weight.”

“You didn’t add anything,” he said, sharper now. “He did.”

Felicity dropped her gaze. “He said it again, didn’t he?”

Oscar nodded slowly. “And you knew he would.”

“That’s why I sent the file.”

There was a beat of silence. Only the soft tick of the old kitchen clock and the distant wind brushing the farmhouse walls.

“Do you remember Novmber 2019?” she asked quietly.

His brow furrowed. “Of course I do.”

“We got that positive test.” She smiled, small and private. “And we both cried. Do you remember that?”

“I remember shaking,” Oscar whispered. “Because I couldn’t believe it. Because I was so happy I felt sick.”

Felicity looked up, eyes shining now. “That’s what I wanted him to understand. That this wasn’t a mistake. That we wanted her. Planned for her. Loved her before she was even real.”

“You shouldn’t have had to prove that.”

“I know. But I needed to say it. On my terms.”

Oscar stood up, crossed the room, and knelt beside her chair.

He reached for her hands, cradling them between his.

“You know what scared me?” he said softly. “Not that you sent him the folder. That you felt like you had to do it alone. That you didn’t tell me because somewhere deep down, you thought maybe it wasn’t my fight too.”

Felicity blinked fast. “It wasn’t about keeping you out. It was about protecting you. That interview—what they said about Bee—you were already carrying so much.”

He leaned in and kissed her knuckles, each word slow and steady: “You don’t have to protect me from defending our family.”

She exhaled, trembling a little, then pulled him into her arms. Oscar sank into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist, head tucked beneath her chin. She held him there, rubbing gentle circles into his back.

“You were brilliant in that interview,” she whispered. “Brutal. Beautiful. Like always.”

He huffed a small, tired laugh. “I didn’t know my voice could sound like that until I said it.”

“You meant every word.”

“I did.”

She kissed his hair. “So did I. In the folder. Every timestamp. Every note. Every line.”

Oscar pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.

“She’ll never doubt it,” he said softly.

“No,” Felicity murmured. “She never will.”

[itslusii]

call me your fool — oscar piastri

oscar piastri x fem!reader [1.7k] summary: he's pretty good at making your legs shake, but he's even better at taking care of you in the aftermath. warnings: 18+ implied smut & explicit language, aftercare and fluffy banter a/n: wrote this initially as a blurb, but it took on a life of its own and I just kept expanding on it until I got this. thank you for all the love lately, it means the world to me!! please don’t hesitate to leave feedback <3

It feels like your breath has been stolen from you, sucking in air through your mouth because simply breathing through your nose isn’t enough. The ache in your lungs remind you of when you go for those intensive runs with your boyfriend, where your ten kilometre jogging makes you tap out as your side cramps, whining until he eventually leads you to the nearest shop to treat you for an ice cold drink.

The sweat on your skin lays like a film, clammy and warm and it takes a while for you to blink the spots away from your eyes. It takes even longer to turn your head where it lays on the pillow, finding brown eyes staring back at you with a smile dripping with so much amusement that you would’ve laughed if you had the strength to.

“You alright?” Oscar asks, like he hadn’t just rocked your world and simultaneously turned it upside down fifty times over.

There’s a lot to be said with the way your legs are shaking, splayed out in front of you on the bed. He eyes them up appreciatively before reaching for the covers to cover your lower half as best as he could. It makes your chest expand with adoration for him, a smile playing on your lips when he scoots closer to you.

“It feels like I’ve ran a marathon.” You reply after a beat, throat dry as you swallow. “Your stamina is on a whole new level right now.”

It makes him laugh when your eyes widen in amazement, reaching a hand up to smooth your hair away from your face. He watches your skin pebble at the touch of his hand, trailing a finger up the side of your throat to your jaw.

“The perks of being a formula one driver, I guess.” He says it so modestly that you laugh, your warm huff of breath hitting his finger when he thumbs your lower lip lovingly.

You accept the kiss when he bends to give it to you, a little chapped from the previous activities but you lick into his mouth like you’re starved. It makes Oscar’s stomach turn, how needy you always are for him. It makes him feel good. Great. Like he can conquer anything if he has you by his side.

He can’t help but trail his unoccupied hand up to grasp your throat, hearing you whine and feeling you swallow against the palm of his hand. You press into his hold, almost urging him silently to put pressure on it but Oscar knows that you’ve reached your limit for tonight, you’re way too sensitive and he’d hate to cross the line even though you’re asking for it so prettily. But he can’t resist his hand travelling down your sternum, feeling the pudge of your stomach and the way it dips when you suck it in, in anticipation. Like you’re waiting for him to touch your centre and bring you to the fifth high of the night.

He stops right over your bellybutton, smiling against your lips when you stop kissing him to glare. Your faces are too close and it makes the both of you go almost cross eyed. Oscar pulls back a little to get a better look at you, breath hitching in his throat at the way your eyelashes frame your eyes so prettily; How kissable your mouth looks. You look well and truly fucked, and Oscar’s chest inflates in pride because he did that.

“You’ve really missed me, huh?” He bites his bottom lip to keep the smug smile at bay, and you roll your eyes even though your mouth is twitching with a held back smile.

You act like you hadn’t missed him, but you really had. Granted, you’d only been away from each other for two weeks but they had felt like years. There was only so much video calling and texting you could do before you grew tired and sad, wishing that the distance between the two of you could lessen and you could touch.

Oscar knows how much you had missed him, not only because you’d voiced it out loud, but because he’d missed you just as much; If not more. That’s mainly why he’d skipped the dinner with the team in Singapore in favour of locking the both of you in his hotel room, determined to make the most of this night before the race sucked every ounce of energy from his body.

“Only one part of you.” You grinned as you palmed the top of his thigh, watching him squirm at your touch as you got dangerously close to where he was sensitive and spent.

He needed at least half an hour to recuperate, but there was no stopping the slight twitch in his groin when your thumb nudged him.

“You’re a shit liar.” He leaned his head down far enough to bite your shoulder, making you squeal with laughter. He always loved how ticklish you were.

“You’re a shit boyfriend.” You said with no heat behind it, the smile on your face defeated the purpose of it. “You’re supposed to be carrying me to the bathroom and draw me a bath. Where’s my bottle of water and the tiramisu you promised me, Piastri?”

Oscar’s smile grew wider the longer you rambled, watching you silently. He loved when you got into these moods, playful and teasing after sex. Especially when he’d wrung you dry of orgasms and could get his fill of you by looking at you, letting you playfully jab at him when just moments ago, you were begging for him to be nice to you. To let you come.

“You’re not allowed to leave this bed.” He said lastly and your eyebrows shot up in amusement.

“Oh really?” You sat up in bed and stared him down. “What if I starve to death?”

“Then you’ll just have to resort to cannibalism and eat me. I hear it’s a trend these days.” He offered and you stifled a giggle.

“That’s a generous offer, I’ll take it.” You said with a nod, scrambling to swipe away the covers so you could swing one leg over to straddle him.

Oscar’s hands immediately found your hips, placing them there as you palmed his chest for support. You almost got lost in his beauty, how he managed to look as gorgeous as he did beneath you. The pink of his cheeks and the redness of his lips, it was all too breathtaking.

“Now, where to start?” You posed the question to yourself, bending down and making a show of inspecting his body. Like you didn’t know every inch of it already.

Oscar suppressed laughter as you hummed.

“This looks like a good place.” You said, touching his collarbone. “But this does too.”

His breath hitched in his throat when your fingers stroked the delicate skin of his throat, right over his pulse. It jumped in excitement under your fingers, and you must’ve felt it but he didn’t have time to analyse your face before you bent down completely to mouth at his neck.

The way you licked and sucked was way too aggressive not to leave marks, but his nerves sang with pleasure and excitement because a big part of him wanted you to mark him up. It would make things more fun when the both of you arrived at the paddock tomorrow, and he’d surely go for a shirt that did fuck all to cover it.

Oscar stroked his hands up your naked back, mouth falling open in wordless pleasure as you found his sweet spot; Right under the lobe of his ear.

You were so into it, his heavy breathing in your ear and the taste of his sweat on your tongue that you barely noticed when one hand left your body. What you did react to was when his palm made contact with your asscheek, a resounding sound echoing in the room and you jumped at the contact.

Oscar was grinning when you sat up, eyes wide and mouth gaping in shock and he didn’t dare to blink as he gripped a handful of flesh in his palm; Watching your eyelids flutter in pleasure.

“No funny business.” He warned you and you opened your eyes to pout at him. “Don’t give me that look. I’m fucking spent and you are getting in the bathtub.”

“Aren’t you getting in with me?” You frowned sadly, finding one of his hands to grab.

He pulled it closer to his mouth and separated each finger to kiss the tips of them. The little loving gesture made your stomach tighten.

“I’ve got some room service to order, don’t I?” He smiled. “You wanted that tiramisu, no?”

You gave him a slow smile as you slid off his body, swinging both your legs over the edge of the bed and Oscar took a moment to stare at you. His eyes flitted from head to toe and you squirmed a little under his attention when he sucked his lips into his mouth; Like he was holding back on saying something.

He didn't have to say it though, everything was showing in his eyes and the flush that was creeping up his neck and blossoming gorgeously over his cheeks.

"I think I want a different kind of dessert." You said, stretching a hand out and wiggling your fingers dramatically.

It made your boyfriend smile, and eventually grab your hand so you could pull each other up. It was a struggle and your legs were still shaking like your legs were bambi on ice, which was a little embarrassing. Oscar placed both hands on your naked hips in silent support, guiding the both of you into the vast bathroom of the hotel room.

"What am I gonna do with you?" He asked the question in your ear, voice low enough to send shivers down your spine as you craned your neck to peer up at him over your shoulder. "So insatiable."

The grin that you were working to keep off your face finally broke out, and Oscar leaned his head down to press a kiss to it.

"With you? Always."

[itslusii]

MI MUJER ― FC43.

Lucía Torres gana el primer premio de su carrera, y de paso aprovecha para soft launchear su relación con cierto piloto argentino de Fórmula 1.

🏁: franco colapinto x actress gf! oc.

• face claim: maia reficco / warnings: modismos argentinos muy marcados. escrito + smau.

a/n✨: HERMANAS. mi primer fanficsito para franquitooooo🙏🙏. perdonen por no hacerlo tipo franco x reader, me siento más cómoda con este formato de OC en español , aunque nunca descarto el formato de 'x reader' para un futuro👉👈. ojalá les guste y lo disfruten como yo disfrute los cuarenta minutos de pura imaginación e inspiración que me cayeron del cielo mientras escribía esto. perdón de antemano si hay leves incoherencias o errores de redacción, así como se me ocurrió lo empecé a armar jeje. gracias🤧🏁

El ambiente es un maravilloso y lujoso caos. Famosos por todos lados, murmullos en todas las mesas y los flashes de las cámaras cegando a Lucía cada vez que gira la mirada.

No es la primera vez que esta en un lugar así, pero es la premiación más importante a la cual asiste, y no sólo eso; esta noche está nominada.

Usualmente Lucía asiste a estos eventos como mera parte de un elenco coral, o incluso como la plus one de otra amiga y colega que tiene la consideración de invitarla. Pero hoy está ahí por propio merito, como invitada de lujo, como nominada a Mejor Actriz en una Mini Serie.

Y no es cuestión de ego, o tal vez sí, pero muy honestamente Lucía cree que esta será su noche. Tiene que ser su noche. Por ella, por sus fanáticos, por su familia en Argentina viendola en la tele. Y por él.

Lucía siempre quiso una típica pareja hogareña y establecida. Pero cuando su carrera fuera de Argentina comenzó a ascender supo que eso ya no era del todo viable. Y por años eso la asustó; ¿cómo voy a formar una pareja estable y seria si estoy fuera de casa el 80% del tiempo?

Esa pregunta la persiguió hasta en audiciones, hasta que un día apareció él.

Fue en unas vacacionesen Argentina, justamente. Parecía que, incluso sin conocerse, Franco y Lucía compartían la misma neurona, o al menos eso pensó ella cuando Fanco "invadió" su espacio especial en medio de una joda. Esa esquina específica en el patio de atrás del mítico boliche a las afueras de Pilar.

Mientras que Franco salía para tomar un poco de aire, Lucía se refugiaba allí cada vez que la ansiedad la atacaba en medio del baile, al punto de necesitar fumarse su cigarrillo de emergencia.

Cuando la encontró, muy concentrada en ningún punto específico, Franco sintió el flechazo casí de manera instantánea. No le habló mucho, tenía miedo de cagarla si decía una palabra de más, y estaba seguro que ella lo había notado nervioso.

No tardaron mucho en reconocerse, "Franco Colapinto, corrí un par de carreras en Fórmula 1 este año, no sé si me sacás la ficha."

La pinta de chamuyero mezclada con los evidentes nervios de Francos - ocacionados por tenerla a ella en frente, con su mirada intensa y su cigarrillo en la mano - causaron en Lucía un sentimiento semejante a la ternura.

"Mi hermano vió todas tus carreras, no sé si podrá decir lo mismo de mis proyectos", le contestó asintiendo.

Franco rió, sus manos en sus bolsillos por el aire fresco de la madrugada. "¿Qué hace una actriz de Hollywood fumando en el patio de un boliche rancio?

Lucía levantó una ceja, tirando el cigarrillo y pisándolo con su zapato. A Franco le gustó la expresión de su cara, para nada inmutada de que él la reconociera. "Te podría preguntar lo mismo con lo del boliche rancio, tu profesión es más lujosa que la mía."

Franco levantó los hombros, "Pasa que estoy desempleado, o más o menos."

"Ah mira vos, a mi me estaría pasando lo mismo."

Ambos soltaron una risita. Y no mucho después, él la invitó a que volvieran adentro para seguir con la noche.

Emocionalmente, no se volvieron a separar. Y acordaron llevar las cosas con calma, para que la distancia no sea un obstáculo, sino un simple desafío que, como personas con estilos de vida similares, pudieran ir superando, juntos.

La mañana del evento, aproximadamente siete meses después, ya recontra de novios, Franco le envía un mensaje, varios en realidad. Ella en Estados Unidos, él encerrado en el simulador de Alpine, preparando la carrera de Austria.

Fran💫: me están mandando al simulador otra vez, y después tengo reunión para chequear data, me odian estos tipos

Fran💫: hice los cálculos horarios, anda a saber si están bien

Fran💫: creo que salgo justito para cuando termine la ceremonia, ojalá lo primero que vea sea un video tuyo con el premio

Lucía repasa esos mensajes a cada rato durante la premiación, divagando por momentos. Hasta que el susuro de una compañera de elenco, Bailee, la sacó de sus recuerdos.

"Están por anunciar tu categoría."

Cuando la anuncian como ganadora la mesa entera explota de emoción. Una de sus manos tapando su boca, la otra va directo a su pecho. Caminar hasta el escenario sólo le toma dos minutos, pero se siente como una hermosa eternidad.

La cabeza le da vueltas. No preparó ni una sola oración para decir en caso de ganar, así que mientras improvisa en español dentro de su cabeza, su cerebro lo traduce en inglés para el micrófono.

<< "Uf, no planeaba llorar apenas arrancara a hablar pero bueno, es lo que hay", el salón entero ríe. "Estoy, sin palabras. Esta serie y este personaje tienen un peso enorme para mí. Sinceramente han hecho de mí una mejor actriz y persona. Noah es una chica dramática, soñadora, con un carácter especial y una historia que interpela a todo que la conoce, y en cierta manera Noah soy yo, una chica que viajó sin expectativas a probar suerte, con nada más que un sueño que hoy estoy cumpliendo."

"Gracias a HBO. Sara, nuestra directora de casting, por la oportunidad inmensa, a mis compañeras de elenco que considero mis nuevas hermanas. A mi familia en Argentina, ojalá esto no esté saliendo muy tarde allá porque mañana temprano todos trabajan", esto provocó nuevamente risas y más aplausos. "Y en especial a una persona que ojalá esté viendo esto, si no lo tienen todavía encerrado en el simulador.", bromea levantando un poco más la estatuilla y mirando directo a cámara. "Este personaje me hizo una persona más amena, pasional y abierta a nuevas experiencas. Y me alegra saber que esa fue la versión de mi que conociste esa noche veraniega de Buenos Aires, cuando nos conocimos. Te extraño, adoro, admiro y amo muchísimo. Muchas gracias a todos." >>

El salón de inunda de aplausos, pero una vez más, todo en lo que puede pensar Lucía es en los mensajes de Franco.

Una hora mpas tarde, cuando la premación estpa en sus momentos finales, su celular vibra varias veces. Cuado ve que la notificación va acompañada de un "Fran💫", Lucía se apura en mirar el contenido de los mensajes.

Fran💫: RECIÉN ME LARGAN, RECIÉN VEO TODO, TE AMO

Después de algún que otro intercambio de mesajes, y muchos "te amo", Franco le envía una captura de pantalla. Son las tendencias en Twitter.

Número 1: Lucía Torres.

Número 2: Franco.

Número 3: SIMULADOR, así en mayúsculas.

Fran💫: la relación privada se nos jodió un poquito che Fran💫: que cosa increíble como unieron todo, igual re lerdos si hace seis meses que tiramos palitos por todos lados Fran💫: si vos queres hablo, sino me hago boludo

Lucía se aguanta la carcajada bajo la atenta mirada de todos en su mesa. Después de un rato, agarra el celular y se saca una selfie rápida con la estatuilla. Mordiendose el labio, se la manda.

Lu🎭: dejalos que hablen un ratito más, si querés mañana le tiramos la bomba Fran💫: ah buenoooo 😍😍 Fran💫: la bomba sos vos, mi amor. que considerada 🙏🙏

luciatorres03 just posted.

liked by dannyramirez, isabelamerced, francolapinto and others.

luciatorres03 anoche pasaron cositas!!. gracias, un millón de gracias a todos por su apoyo incondicional, desde mis profes de teatro en la primaria hasta mis colegas, a todos les debo algo de lo que soy hoy en día. ❤️✨

(las fotos con el premio las voy a subir cuando acepte el hecho de que en todas salgo llorando y con el maquillaje corrido🥴)

view all comments...

user1: sobre lo del supuesto novio en el simulador vamos a fingir demencia?

torresupdates: te amamos reina!

delfichaves: que orgullo lu! ❤️

colapintohq: franco en los likes??? listo hermanas, más tardar hoy a la tarde tenemos publicación confirmando todo

francolapinto just posted.

liked by luciatorres03, alex_albon, carlossainz55 and others.

francolapinto si mi mujer gana su primera estatuilla, yo puedo subir las primeras fotos que le saqué cuando nos conocimos o me vas a matar luciatorres03? completamente merecido mi amor, te amo❤️

view all comments...

colapintohq: me llamaron loca...

user2: SIIIIII MIS PAPIS

user3: amamos cuando se juntan dos lindos

user4: "mi mujer" !!!!!!!!

alex_albon: thank god, you can stop texting me about how miserable you are when she's not around 🙏 congrats tho

francolapinto: I'm gonna keep texting you when she's not around, sorry mate 🤷🏻‍♂️

alex_albon: pierregasly help

luciatorres03: malísimo ese vino pero valió la pena cada gota porque significó la mejor conversación de mi vida❤️ te amo mucho, gracias por ser mi gran sostén ✨

© rqsie63 • 23.06.25

[itslusii]

today in class they mentioned Dead Poets Society and i obviously freaked out

[itslusii]

this just made my morning. 😪😪😪

most assuredly ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. he opens his mouth to ask for the special. instead, oscar says, “would you like to get married?”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 15.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, humor. mentions of food, alcohol. marriage of convenience, fake dating, set mostly in monaco, serious creative liberties on citizenship/residency rules, google translated french. title from the fray’s look after you (which i would highly recommend listening to while reading). ꔮ commentary box: i thought this would be short, but i fear i’m physically incapable of shutting up about oscar piastri. sue me. wrote this in one deranged sitting, and i leave it to all of you now 💍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ almost (sweet music), hozier. a drop in the ocean, ron pope. hazy, rosi golan ft. william fitzsimmons. fidelity, regina spektor. just say yes, snow patrol. archie, marry me, alvvays.

Oscar Piastri fails his second attempt at Monaco residency on a Tuesday.

The rejection letter is folded too crisply, sealed in a government envelope so sterile it might as well be laughing at him. He stares at it while sipping overpriced espresso from the balcony of his apartment—well, technically, his team principal’s apartment, but the view of the harbor is the same. He watches a seagull steal a croissant from a toddler and thinks: that bird has more rights here than I do.

It’s not that he needs Monaco, but it would make things easier. Taxes, residency, team logistics. Mostly, he just hates the principle of it. He’s raced these streets. Risked his life at La Rascasse. Smiled through grid walks, kissed the trophy once, twice. How much more Monégasque does he need to be?

Still, the Principality remains unimpressed.

Oscar is dreadfully impatient about it all. 

He walks to lunch out of spite. Refuses the team car. Chooses the one place that doesn’t care who he is: Chez Colette, tucked between a florist and a family-run tailor, with sun-faded menus and the same specials board since 2004. It smells like lemon and anchovy and garlic confit. Monaco’s soul in three notes.

You’re wiping down a table when he steps in. You don’t look up right away.

He knows your name, but he won’t say it aloud. That would make it too real. Instead, he watches the way your fingers move over the woodgrain, the tiny gold cross around your neck. No wedding ring. 

Definitely Monégasque. Probably born here. He’s seen your grandmother in the back, slicing pissaladière with a surgeon’s precision.

You approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. He opens his mouth to ask for the special.

Instead, he says, “Would you like to get married?”

There’s a beat of silence so clean you could plate oysters on it.

Your brow lifts, just slightly. “Pardon?”

Oscar’s own voice catches up with him. “I mean. Lunch. And then—maybe—marriage. If you’re free. Not in the next hour. Just in general.”

Another beat. Then you laugh, low and incredulous. Your English is heavily accented. A telltale sign you learned it for the express purpose of surviving the service industry. “Is this because of the citizenship thing?”

He stares at you.

You shrug, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the first to ask.” 

Oscar groans and slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not.”

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

“How do you feel about pissaladière?” you ask, scribbling on your notepad.

“Is that a yes?”

You walk away without answering. He watches you disappear into the kitchen, the sound of your laughter softening the corners of his day.

He’s not sure what he just started. But he knows he’s coming back tomorrow.

And so Oscar returns the next day. Then the day after that. And the one after that.

At first, it’s curiosity. Then it’s habit. Eventually, it becomes something closer to ritual. Lunch. Sometimes dinner. Once, a midnight snack after sim practice, when he told himself he needed carbs and not just a glimpse of the waitress with the tired eyes and fast French.

He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.

You mumble French at him when he walks in. The first time, he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or warning. Now, he knows it’s both.

You’re usually wiping something down or balancing three plates on one arm. You never wear makeup. Your apron’s always tied in a double knot. And you never, ever miss a chance to call him out.

“If you’re here to poach the brandamincium recipe, you’ll have to marry my grandmother,” you tell him one afternoon.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I hear she’s already married to the oven.”

You snort, and his chest flares with something stupid and bright.

The regulars give him side-eyes. Your grandmother watches him like she’s trying to solve an equation. Still, you never ask him to leave.

He tips well. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just grateful. For the peace. For the food. For you.

One night, the lights are low and the chairs are half-stacked when he shows up with two tarte aux pommes from the bakery down the street. You look at him like you’re considering throwing him out. Instead, you pour two glasses of wine and sit.

He peels the parchment off the pastries. “Chez Colette. Named after your grandmother?”

You nod. “She started it with my grandfather. 1973.”

He glances around. The cracked tiles. The curling menus. The handwritten notes on the wall that must be decades old. “And now it’s yours”

“Sort of,” you say dismissively. “I wait tables. I do the books. I fix the pipes. Mostly I pray the rent doesn’t go up again.”

Oscar feels a twist beneath his ribs. He’s spent millions on cars. Watches. Sim rigs. But this—this tiny restaurant and your soft frown—feels more fragile than any of it.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

You look at him with the sort of grin that unravels him. “It’s dying.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes a bite of tart. Lets the silence sit between you. He swallows his mouthful of pastry, then says, “Then maybe we save it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We?”

Oscar smiles. When you don’t tell him to leave, he makes a decision. 

He returns three days later, after hours. He doesn’t mean to knock twice, but the restaurant is dark, the chairs up, the shutters half-drawn like the building itself is asleep. Still, he raps his knuckles on the glass, envelope in hand, because this isn’t something he can deliver over a text. Or a tart.

You appear after a minute, hair pinned up, sweatshirt on instead of your apron. You squint at him through the glass like he’s forgotten what day it is.

“We’re closed,” you say as you open the door halfway.

“I know,” Oscar replies, holding up the envelope. “I brought... paperwork.”

Your brows knit. You glance down at the crisp white rectangle like it might bite. “If that’s a menu suggestion, je jure devant Dieu—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s—alright, this is going to sound completely mental, but just let me get through it.”

You cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

Oscar takes a breath. You’re still not letting him in; he figures he deserves it. “There’s a clause,” he starts slowly, “in the citizenship law. A foreign spouse of a Monegasque national can apply for residency after one year of marriage and continuous residence in the Principality.”

“I’m aware.” 

He opens the envelope and slides out three neat pages, stapled, formatted like a sponsor contract. He’d asked his agent to help without saying why. Said it was a tax thing. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.

“This is a proposal,” he continues. “One year of marriage. Eighteen months, technically, to be safe. We live here, we do all the legal bits. Then we file for annulment, or divorce, or whatever keeps it clean. No... weird stuff. Just paperwork.”

You stare at him. He rushes on.

“In return, I’ll wire you 10% of my racing salary during the term. That’s around 230,000 euros. And 5% annually for five years after. You can use it however you want. To keep Chez Colette open. Renovate. Hire help. Buy better wine. I don’t care.”

You say nothing. The silence stretches. A bird flutters past the awning. Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not asking for a real marriage. Just a legal one,” he manages. “You’ve seen how hard it is for people like me to get a foothold here. I’ve driven Monaco more times than I’ve driven my home streets. I want to stay. I just... can’t do it alone.”

You look at the contract, then back at him. “You typed up a prenup for a fake marriage?”

“Technically it’s a postnup,” he mutters, half to himself.

Something in your face shifts. Not quite a smile. But not a no, either. “You’re serious,” you say, scanning his face for any hint of doubt.

“I really am.”

You shake your head, understandably overwhelmed and disbelieving that this acquaintance had plucked you out of nowhere for his grand citizenship scheme. “Give me a few days. I need to think.”

Oscar nods. He doesn’t push. He just hands you the envelope and steps back into the fading light of Rue Grimaldi.

Two days later, you tell him to come over once again. You give him a specific time.

The restaurant is closed again, but this time it’s by design—chairs down, kettle on, one ceramic pot of lavender still bravely holding on near the window. The table between you is small. A two-seater wedged against the wall beneath a sepia photo of Grace Kelly. 

Oscar sits across from you, spine a little too straight, as if you’re about to interrogate him in a language he doesn’t speak. You’re reading the contract like it’s the terms of his parole.

“Alright,” you say, flipping the page with a deliberate rustle. “Ground rules.”

He nods, trying not to look as if he’s bracing for impact.

“One: I’m not changing my last name.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Oscar says.

“Two: no pet names in public. No ‘darling,’ no ‘chérie,’ and absolutely no ‘babe.’”

He makes a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘babe’ in my life.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

You tap the next section of the contract. “Three: no sharing a bed. We alternate who gets the apartment when the press is nosy, but I don’t care how Monégasque the walls are. We are not reenacting a romcom.”

“I like my own space.”

“Four,” you continue, now fully warmed up, “if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend in another country who thinks this is all some hilarious prank, I will go on record. Publicly. With—how do you say?—receipts.” 

Oscar’s eyes widen, then he laughs. He can’t help it. You’re glaring, but it only makes him grin harder. “There is no secret girlfriend,” he assures, still smiling. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

You study him a second longer. He meets your gaze. Not in a cold way. More like someone trying very hard to be worthy of trust.

“Alright,” you murmur, sitting back. “We have only one problem.” 

“Do we?” 

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the contract, the table, and him. “This is very convincing on paper. But people will ask questions. My grandmother will ask questions.”

“I figured as much,” Oscar says, drawing a breath. “Which is why we’ll need to... date. First.”

“Date,” you say, testing the word out on. Your nose scrunches up a bit. Cute, Oscar thinks, and then he crashes the thought into the wall of his mind so he nevers thinks it again. 

“Publicly. Casually. Just enough to sell the story,” he explains. “Lunches, walks, one trip to the paddock maybe. Something the media can sink its teeth into. I’ll—I’ll pay for that, too.”

“You’re telling me I have to pretend to fall in love with you,” you say skeptically. 

Oscar’s smile tilts. “Not fall in love. Just look like you could.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you drop your head into your hands, laughing once—sharp and disbelieving. “Dieu m’aide,” you mumble into your palms. “Fine. One year. No pet names. Separate beds. And if you make me wear matching outfits, I walk.” 

Oscar’s heart soars. “Deal,” he says, sealing it before you can back out. 

He reaches out to shake on it.

You hesitate. Then take his hand.

And just like that, you’re engaged.

A photo of Oscar with a takeaway bag from your restaurant makes the rounds on a gossip account. The caption reads, Local Hero or Just Hungry? Piastri Spotted Again at Chez Colette. He doesn’t comment.

Then, a week later, he’s asked on a podcast what he does on his days off in Monaco. He shrugs, smiles, and says, “There’s this little place down on Rue Grimaldi. Family-owned. Best tapenade in the world.”

The host jokes, “That’s oddly specific.”

Oscar just sips his water. “So’s my palate.”

After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????

He never confirms. Never denies. Just keeps showing up like it’s natural. He opens doors. He holds your bag when you need to tie your shoe. He stands a little too close when you’re waiting in line. The story builds itself.

Until one night, a photo leaks.

It’s at the back entrance of the restaurant, late, after a pretend-date that turned into real laughter and too much wine. You’re saying goodbye. He kisses you—cheek first, then temple, then, finally, the crown of your hair.

That’s the money shot. Oscar, his lips pressed atop your head; you, with your eyes closed. Turns out both of you are pretty good actors. 

The internet implodes.

Lando calls the next morning.

“Mate.”

Oscar winces. “Hey.”

“You’re dating?” Lando sounds honest-to-goodness betrayed. Oscar almost feels bad. 

The Australian squints at the espresso machine like it might save him. “Technically, yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“I was enjoying the privacy,” he deadpans.

Lando hangs up. Oscar makes a mental note to apologize when they see each other next at MTC. For now, though, he has more pressing matters to handle. One he discusses with you while he’s helping you close up shop.

Oscar nudges you gently. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“I need to use a pet name.”

You whip your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hear me out. It’s weird if I call you ‘hey’ in interviews. People are starting to notice. One. Just one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic air. “Darling.”

You shake your head. “Too Downton Abbey.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Too American.”

“Snugglebug?”

You stare.

“That was a test,” he says defensively.

“Try again.”

He considers. “Just—how about ‘my future wife.’”

You look away—too quickly. He sees it. The flicker. The way your lips twitch before you hide them. 

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good. 

You don’t say it back, don’t promise to call him your future husband. It’s alright. As it is, he has a couple more hurdles before he can even get to the wedding bells part of this arrangement. 

Oscar has faced plenty of terrifying things in life: Eau Rouge in the rain, contract negotiations, Lando in a mood. None of them compare to this. Your grandmother’s dining room, cramped and full of porcelain saints.

He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.

You sit between Oscar and her, valiantly attempting to translate. The infamous Colette says something sharp and direct in French.

You smile saccharinely sweetly at Oscar. “She wants to know if you have real intentions.”

Oscar clears his throat. “Tell her yes. Tell her I think you’re… remarkable.”

You raise an eyebrow but translate. Your grandmother hums noncommittally, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then she asks another question. You translate again. “She wants to know what you like about me.”

Oscar panics. “Tell her you’re bossy.”

You give him a look.

“In a good way! I like that you tell me what to do. It’s grounding,” he backtracks. “And that you don’t laugh at my French, at least not out loud. And that you know exactly what you want and refuse to settle for less.”

Shaking your head, you deliver the words in French. Oscar has no way to know if it’s verbatim or if you’re somehow making him sound better. Regardless, your next translated words hold true. “She says she still doesn’t trust you,” you say wryly. 

“Fair,” he says. 

The meal continues. Your grandmother asks about his family, his racing, what he eats before a Grand Prix. You relay each question in English, Oscar doing his best to keep up, alternating between charming and catastrophic. He drops his fork once. He mispronounces aubergine. You have to explain what Vegemite is, and it nearly causes an incident.

Finally, somewhere between the cheese course and dessert, he reaches for your hand. It surprises both of you, the way his fingers find yours without fanfare.

Your grandmother notices. She watches for a long second, then exhales through her nose. Her next words don’t sound as cutting. You murmur, translating, “She says she’ll be keeping an eye on us.”

Oscar nods solemnly. 

Outside, later, as the night air cools your flushed cheeks, he lets out a breath like he's crossed the finish line. “Think she’d be open to babysitting the fake kids one day?” he asks ruefully. 

You laugh. Hard.

He’ll take it, he decides. 

The season starts. You stay in touch. Oscar shows up at the restaurant after three months on the dot, still smelling faintly of champagne and podium spray. “I brought the trophy,” he announces, holding it out like a peace offering.

You stare at the intricate cup accorded to him for crossing the finish line first, then at him. “You think I want a trophy in exchange for emotional labor?”

“I also brought you a pastry,” he adds, brandishing a delicate tarte tropézienne.

You take the pastry.

He follows you inside, slipping into your usual booth in the back, where the sound of the espresso machine muffles any chance of a quiet moment. You sit across from him, pulling your apron over your lap like a barrier.

“So,” he begins. “We should probably talk about... the proposal.”

“You’re really not wasting time,” you chuckle. 

“We’ve got a timeline. Press, citizenship, nosy neighbors. I have to make it look like I can’t bear to be without you.”

You snort. “That’ll be a performance.”

He grins. “Oscar-worthy.”

You try not to smile at his joke. “What do you even envision? You just collapsing in the paddock and screaming that you must marry me immediately?”

“That was my backup plan.”

You sip your coffee, watching him over the rim. “And what would be the first plan?” 

“Something classic. You’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll get down on one knee. Ideally, there will be flowers, soft lighting, maybe a string quartet hiding behind a hedge.”

You shake your head. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want something like that?”

You hesitate. Just for a bit. “Fine,” you admit. “If it were real, I suppose I would want something simple. Something quiet. Not in front of a crowd. No flash mobs.”

“Noted. Absolutely no synchronized dancing.”

“And I’d want it to be somewhere that means something. Like... the dock near the market, maybe. Where my parents met. Just us. Some lights over the water. Nothing fancy.”

Oscar has gone quiet. It bleeds into the moment after you answer. You’re glaring at him heatlessly when you demand, “What?” 

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

You roll your eyes, but the blush betrays you. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Should we make it the market dock, then? For the fake proposal.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. “Alright,” you concede, all the fight gone out of you. “But if you get a string quartet involved, I will throw you into the sea.” 

“No promises,” says Oscar, even as he cracks the smallest of smiles.

Oscar FaceTimes his sisters on a Sunday morning, two hours before his second free practice session in Imola. He’s still in his race suit, hair slightly damp from the helmet, seated cross-legged on the floor of his motorhome like a boy about to beg for pocket money.

“Alright,” he says, flashing the camera a sheepish grin. “Before you say anything—I know it’s been a while. But I have news.” 

Hattie appears first, her hair in rollers, holding a mug that says #1 Mum despite not having kids. Then Edie, still in bed, squinting at her phone like it betrayed her. Finally Mae joins from what appears to be a café, earbuds in, already suspicious.

“You’re not dying, are you?” Mae says apprehensively. “Because you have ‘soft launch of a terminal illness’ face.”

“No one’s dying,”  Oscar says exasperatedly. “I’m—okay, this is going to sound a bit mad, but I need you all to come to Monaco next weekend.”

A beat. Silence. A spoon clinks against ceramic.

“Oscar,” Edie says slowly, “if this is about the cat again—”

“No, no! I swear, it’s not about the cat. I’m—proposing.”

Three sets of eyebrows go up. Even Hattie lowers her mug.

“Is this the waitress?” Mae asks, frowning. “She’s real?” 

Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, she’s real. You’ve met her—at Chez Colette, remember? She works there. Thick accent. Quietly judges people with just her eyebrows.”

Recognition dawns slowly. “The waitress who told dad his wine palate was embarrassing?” Hattie says, remembering the one and only time Oscar had taken them to the restaurant, post-race. Back when it was just a place for good food and not ground zero for a marriage of convenience. 

“The very one,” he says. 

“I liked her,” Edie says. “Sharp. Didn’t laugh at your jokes.”

“So what’s the rush?” Mae’s eyes are narrowed. “You’re not the spontaneous type.”

Oscar hesitates. There’s a script he wrote for this exact moment, but it crumbles like a napkin in his hands. He tries the truth, or at least a gentle version of it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what matters,” he says. “About building something. And... Monaco’s home now, in a weird way. But it’s not really home without her.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole story.

There’s a pause, then Hattie sniffs and says, “Well, if this is how I find out I need a bridesmaid dress, I expect champagne.”

“I want seafood at the rehearsal dinner,” Edie adds.

“And we need a proper girl’s day with our sister-in-law-to-be,” Mae mutters, smiling despite herself.

Oscar grins, relief warm and fizzy in his chest.

“So you’ll come?”

“Of course we’ll come,” they say in near-unison.

The screen glitches for a moment, freezing them mid-laughter. Oscar watches their pixelated faces and thinks, oddly, that maybe this fake proposal has a bit too much heart in it already.

They fly in. His parents, too. The local press catch wind of it; rumors fly, but he says nothing. He’s too busy watching proposals on YouTube and figuring out how to make this halfway convincing. 

On the day, Oscar finds that the dock near the market smells like sea salt and overripe citrus. The string of lights overhead flicker like they know what’s about to happen. Oscar stands at the edge, jacket wrinkled, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag tucked under one arm like he’s hiding pastries or nerves.

You arrive five minutes late. On purpose. He doesn’t look up right away, too focused on adjusting something in the bag. When he does glance up, there’s a boyish flush in his cheeks like he’s trying very hard not to bolt.

“You’re early,” you tease.

“I’m punctual,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You walk toward him slowly, letting the moment settle like dust in warm air. Behind the crates of tomatoes and shutters of the market stalls, there’s the faintest sound of movement—your grandmother, probably, crouched next to a box of sardines with Oscar’s sisters stacked like dolls behind her. His parents, also trying to be discreet as they film the proposal on their phones. All of them out of earshot. 

Oscar clears his throat. “So,” he says. “I was going to start with a speech. But I practiced it in the mirror and it sounded like I was reciting tyre strategy.”

You fold your arms. "Now I’m intrigued."

Oscar pulls the ring out of the paper bag like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a simple one. No halo, no flash. Just a slim gold band and a small stone, found with the help of a very patient assistant and a very anxious jeweler.

“I know it’s not real,” he says. “But I still wanted to ask properly. Because you deserve that. And because, if I’m going to lie to the world, I want to at least mean every word I say to you.”

He kneels. One knee on the old dock planks, the other wobbling slightly.

You try not to smile too much. You fail.

He looks up. Cheeks flaming, eyes glinting. “Will you marry me, mon amour? For taxes, for residency, and the longevity of Monaco’s local cuisine?”

You take the ring. Slide it on. It fits like something inevitable. “Yes," you say softly, amusedly. “But only if you promise to do the dishes when this all goes sideways.”

He laughs, rises, pulls you into him like he’s trying to remember the shape of this moment for later. The lights flicker above you, the market quiet except for the faint sound of someone muffling a sneeze behind a barrel of oranges. You lean in, mouth near his ear.

“There’s nothing more Monégasque than what I’m about to do.”

Oscar pulls back. “What does that—”

You grab his hand and hurl both of you off the dock.

The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.

He surfaces first, sputtering. “I didn’t even bring a string quartet!”

You shrug, treading water, the ring catching the last of the sunset. “Welcome to the Principality, monsieur Piastri.” 

Somewhere above, the dock creaks and the lights swing, and a family of co-conspirators starts clapping. The water tastes like the beginning of something strange and maybe wonderful. Monaco, at last, lets him in.

One blurry photo on Instagram is all it takes. 

Oscar, soaked to the knees, hair flattened to his forehead, grinning like someone who’s just robbed a patisserie and gotten away with it.

You’re next to him, clutching a towel and wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between incredulity and affection. The ring—small, elegant, unmistakable—catches the light just enough.

His caption is a single word: Oui.

It takes approximately four minutes for the drivers’ WeChat to implode.

Lando is the first to respond: mate MATE tell me this isn’t a prank.

Then Charles: Is that my fucking neighbor????

Followed by George: This is either extremely romantic or deeply strategic. Possibly both.

Fernando simply replies with a sunglasses emoji and the words: classic.

The media goes feral. Engagement! Surprise dock proposal! The Chez Colette Heiress™! There’s already a Buzzfeed article ranking the most Monégasque elements of the proposal (you jumping into the sea is #1, narrowly edging out the string lights). Someone tweets an AI-generated wedding invite. The official F1 social media releases a supportive statement.

By Thursday’s press conference, Oscar has a halo of smug serenity around him. He had fielded questions all morning, deflecting citizenship implications with the precision of a man who’s done thirty rounds with the Monégasque bureaucracy and lost each time.

Lando, seated beside him, nudges his elbow.

“So,” he says into the mic. “Do we call you Mr. Colette now, or…?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Only on the weekdays.”

A ripple of laughter. Cameras flash. “I’m just saying,” Lando continues, faux-serious, “first you get engaged, next thing you know, you’re organizing floral arrangements and crying over table linens.”

“I’ll have you know,” Oscar replies, “the table linens are your problem. You’re best man.”

“Wait, what?”

But Oscar’s already looking past the cameras, past the questions, to the text you sent him that morning: full house again tonight. your trophy is in the pastry case. i put a flower in it. don’t be late.

He shrugs at the next question—something about motives, politics, tax brackets. All he says is, “Chez Colette’s never been busier. She looks beautiful with that ring. I’m winning races. Life’s good.”

And for once, no one argues. (Except Lando, who mutters, “Still can’t believe you beat me to a wife.”)

But then the hate makes its way through the haze. A comment here. A message there. Oscar doesn’t find out until much later, but you supposedly ignored them at first. The usual brand of online cruelty wrapped in emojis and entitlement. It curdled, slow and rancid, like spoiled milk beneath sunshine.

DMs filled with accusations. Gold digger, fame-chaser, fraud. A journalist who called the restaurant pretending to be a customer, asking if it’s true you forged documents. The restaurant landline, unplugged after the fourth prank call. 

By the end of the week, someone mails a dead fish to Chez Colette. Wrapped in butcher paper. No return address. A note tucked inside reads: Go back to the shadows.

You find it funny. Morbidly, anyway. You show it to your grandmother like a joke, like something distant and absurd. She doesn’t laugh.

Oscar doesn’t either.

He hears about it secondhand—Lando lets it slip, offhandedly, after qualifying. Something about the restaurant and a very unfortunate cod. He chuckles at first, caught off guard, then notices the way Lando avoids his gaze.

He texts you that same afternoon. what’s this about a fish?

You send back a shrug emoji. He calls you. You don’t pick up.

The silence between you is short and volatile. He digs. He finds out. He walks into the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled, still in his race gear. “You should’ve told me.”

You’re wiping down the bar with the same rag you always use when you’re pretending you’re fine. “It’s not your problem.”

His jaw ticks. He’s too still. That particular quiet you’ve only seen once. After a bad race, helmet still in his lap, staring out at nothing, eyes unblinking. “It is my problem,” he says, voice low, tight. “We did this together.”

“We faked this together,” you correct, sharper than you meant.

“Don’t split hairs with me right now.”

You glance up. There’s a glint in his eye Not anger, exactly. Something colder. Something surgical. Protective. That night, he drafts the statement himself. It’s short. No PR filters. No fluffy team language. No committee approval.

If you think I’d fake a proposal for a passport, you don’t know me. If you think insulting someone I care about makes you a fan, you’re wrong. Leave her alone.

He posts it without warning. No team heads-up. No brand consultation.

The fallout is immediate. And loud. Some applaud him—brave, romantic, principled. Others double down, clawing at conspiracy theories like they hold inheritance rights. But the worst voices get quieter. The dead fish don’t return. You stop sleeping with your phone on airplane mode.

A few sponsors call to ‘express concern.’ He answers them all personally. Later, again in the restaurant kitchen, he leans against the counter while you wash greens, trying to act like it didn’t cost him anything to do what he did. Like it didn’t make something shift between you.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, picking at the label of a pickle jar with too much focus. “I just didn’t want our story to tank before I get my tax break.”

You don’t look at him. He shifts, awkward. Adds, “And... I guess we're friends now. Loosely.”

You pass him a colander without comment. He holds it as if it’s evidence in a case he’s trying to solve. “Still not reading into it,” you say, finally, absolving him and thanking him all at once.

“Good.”

When you turn away, he watches you a little too long. And when you laugh—just barely, just once—he lets himself smile back.

The restaurant is full, as always. Someone just ordered two servings of pissaladière and asked if the newly engaged couple is around tonight.

Your grandmother rolls her eyes and tells them, in her stern, stilted English, “Only if you behave.”

The wedding planning happens in the margins. Between races, between airports, between whatever strange reality the two of you have created and the one that exists on paper. Oscar reads menu options off his phone in airport lounges. You text him photos of flower arrangements with captions like Too romantic? and Is eucalyptus overdone?

Neither of you want something extravagant. The more believable it is, the smaller it needs to be. Just close family. A quiet ceremony. A reception in the restaurant, chairs pushed aside, candles on the table. You call it a micro-wedding. Oscar calls it a tax deduction with canapés.

Still, some things have to be done properly. Rings. A few photos. Legal documents with very real signatures. He misses most of it, but you keep him looped in with texts and the occasional FaceTime call, grainy and too short. It’s always night where one of you is.

On one of his rare trips back to Monaco, he stops by the restaurant to say hello. Your grandmother tells him through gestures that you’re at a fitting two blocks away. He finds the boutique mostly by accident. Sunlight catching on the display window, the bell chiming softly as he pushes the door open.

You’re on the pedestal, the back of the dress being pinned by a seamstress. Simple silk, off-white, the kind of dress that wouldn’t raise eyebrows in a civil hall or turn heads on a red carpet. Your hair is pinned up, loose and a little messy. 

Still, he freezes.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and gasp. “Oscar!” you yelp, spinning to look at him. “It’s bad luck to see the dress!”

He blinks, caught. “It’s not a real wedding,” he huffs. 

You squint at him. “Still. Don’t ruin my fake dreams.”

He steps further in, slow, like he’s not sure what rules he’s breaking. “So that’s the one?”

You shrug, turning a little in the mirror. "It’s simple. Comfortable. Feels like me."

He nods, too fast. “It’s nice. You look…”

You wait.

He swallows. “Very believable.”

“High praise.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes still on the mirror, or maybe just on you. There’s a feeling crawling up his throat, unfamiliar and slightly inconvenient. “I should go,” he says. “Let you finish.”

“You came all this way. Stay. I want your opinion on shoes.”

“Right, because I am famously qualified to judge footwear.”

And so he sits, cross-legged in a velvet chair that probably costs more than a front wing, and watches you try on shoes, one pair at a time. You argue over ivory versus cream. You make him close his eyes and guess.

He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin.

He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

The day of the wedding arrives like a postcard. Sun-drenched, breeze-cooled, the sea winking blue behind the low stone wall where the ceremony is set up. Your grandmother insists on arranging the chairs herself. Oscar offers to help and is swiftly redirected to stay out of the way.

Chez Colette is shuttered for the day, but still smells like rosemary and flour. The reception will spill into the alley behind it, where the cobblestones have been hosed down and scattered with mismatched café tables, each with a little glass jar of fresh-cut herbs.

For now, the courtyard near the water has been transformed with folding chairs, borrowed hydrangeas, and a string quartet (at Oscar’s insistence and your distaste) made up of one of your cousins and her friends from the conservatory. They play Debussy with just enough off-tempo charm to feel homemade.

Oscar stands at the front, hands shoved into his pockets, tie slightly crooked despite Lando’s earlier attempts to straighten it. His shoes pinch slightly. He’s convinced his shirt collar is a size too small. Lando is beside him, fidgeting like he’s the one about to get married.

“You good?” Lando whispers, leaning in just enough.

“No.”

“Perfect.”

Oscar smooths the paper in his pocket for the eighth—no, ninth—time. It’s creased and slightly smudged from nerves and a morning espresso. He didn’t memorize his vows. He barely even finished them. But they’re his, and he wrote them himself. With some help from Google Translate and an aggressively kind old woman on the flight to Nice.

Guests trickle in like sunlight. Your friends in summer dresses and linen suits, their laughter lilting in the sea air. His family, sunburned from the beach, trying to look formal but cheerful. Hattie gives him a thumbs-up. Edie mouths, Don’t faint. Mae just grins and adjusts the flower crown someone handed her.

Then you walk in.

And the world does that annoying thing where it goes quiet and dramatic, like a movie scene he wouldn’t believe if he were watching it himself. You wear the simple dress. Ivory, sleeveless, the hem brushing your ankles. Your hair is down this time, soft around your shoulders. You have a hand wrapped around your grandmother’s arm, and your smile is the kind that turns corners into homes.

Oscar forgets what to do with his face.

The ceremony begins. The officiant says words Oscar doesn't register. Lando keeps elbowing Oscar at appropriate times to remind him to nod, and once to stop picking at the hem of his jacket.

You go first, when the vows come. Your voice is steady, low, threaded with amusement and something else. Something real. You say his name like it matters. Like it might keep meaning more with every time you say it.

You make promises that are half-jokes, half truths. To tolerate his road rage on normal roads. To always keep a tarte tropézienne in the freezer for emergencies. To have him; sickness and health, Australian and Monégasque. 

His turn.

He pulls the paper from his pocket. Unfolds it like it might disintegrate. Clears his throat. Glances at you.

“Je... je promets de te supporter,” he begins, awkwardly, his accent thick and uneven. “Même quand tu laisses la lumière de la salle de bain allumée.”

There are chuckles. His sisters blow into handkerchiefs. A pigeon flutters past like it, too, is here for the drama. He stumbles through the rest.

Promises to make you coffee badly but consistently. To bring you pastries when you're angry with him. To never again get a string quartet without written approval. He throws in a line about sharing his last fry, even if it's the crispy end piece.

Halfway through, he glances up. And sees it. The shimmer in your eyes. The not-quite-contained tears that threaten to spill. It knocks the air out of him.

By the time the officiant is saying, And now, by the power vested in me—, Oscar doesn’t wait. 

He leans forward and kisses you, hands framing your face like he can catch every single tear before it falls. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not rehearsed, but it’s right. You melt forward, like the kiss was always part of the plan.

The crowd cheers. Your grandmother sniffs like she always knew it would come to this. One of your cousins whistles. Lando punches the air with both fists.

The reception begins in the cobbled alley behind Chez Colette, strung with borrowed fairy lights and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The scent of rosemary focaccia and grilled sardines fills the air, mingling with the crisp pop of celebratory champagne.

Someone’s rigged an old speaker system to loop a playlist of jazz and golden-age love songs, occasionally interrupted by the soft hiss of the espresso machine still running inside. Your grandmother commands the kitchen like a general, spooning barbajuan into chipped bowls and muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Monégasque. 

The courtyard buzzes with the kind of warmth that can’t be choreographed. Oscar’s sisters are deep in conversation with your friends, comparing childhood embarrassments. Mae pulls up a photo of Oscar in a kangaroo costume at age six and your side of the table erupts in delighted horror. One of your cousins has started a limoncello drinking contest beside the dessert table.

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

The music shifts from upbeat to something softer, slower. Oscar’s mother pulls him onto the floor for their dance. He resists at first, shy in the way only sons can be, but she hushes him gently and holds him like she did when he was five and fell asleep in the backseat of the family car.

They sway to the music, and halfway through, she wipes at her eyes and whispers something that makes Oscar nod too quickly and look away, blinking hard.

Later, it’s your turn. He finds you near the edge of the alley, holding a half-eaten piece of pissaladière, watching the lights flicker across the windows and the harbor beyond. There’s flour on your wrist and a tiny smear of anchovy oil on your collarbone.

“May I?” he asks, offering his hand.

You smile, place your hand in his, and let him pull you in. The music lilts, old and romantic, like something out of your grandmother's record player. You move together in small steps, barely more than a sway, but it’s enough. “A year and a half starts now,” you murmur, eyes on his shoulder.

He hums. “We’ll manage.” 

You let out a breath, equal parts hope and hesitation. “Still feels like we’re tempting fate.”

He leans closer, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe we should tempt it properly.”

You look up at him, the warning written all over your face. But he’s already grinning like he’s fifteen again, mischief blooming across his face. “You said you wanted something Monégasque,” he hums.

“Don’t you dare—”

He scoops you up before you can finish, and you yelp, arms flailing around his neck.

“Oscar Piastri, I swear—”

“Too late!”

He runs. Through the alley, past your grandmother shouting something scandalized in, past Lando who drops his glass and whoops, past chairs and flower petals and startled guests, and straight for the harbor. 

The water meets you like a shock of laughter and salt, the world disappearing in a splash and a blur of white fabric and suit sleeves. When you surface, gasping, your hair clinging to your cheeks, Oscar is beside you, beaming, his jacket floating nearby like a shipwrecked flag. “Revenge,” he says, breathless, “is so damn sweet out here.” 

You splash him, teeth chattering and smile unstoppable. “You are insane.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

On the dock, guests are cheering, others filming, your grandmother shaking her head with a tiny smile and muttering something about theatrical Australians. The string quartet starts playing again, undeterred. Lando appears holding two towels like a game show assistant and shouts, “You better not be honeymooning in the marina!”

Oscar swims closer, hands catching yours underwater. “You know,” he says, nose almost touching yours, “you never did say I do.” 

You kiss him. Soft and sure and salt-slicked. “That count?” you murmur against his lips. 

He laughs. “Yeah. That counts.”

Beneath the twinkle lights and the ripple of music, the harbor keeps your secret, just for a little while longer.

The headlines arrive before the sun does.

Oscar sees them on his phone somewhere over the Atlantic, legs stretched across the aisle, wedding band catching in the reading light. The screen glows with speculation: Secretly Expecting?, Tax Trick or True Love?, From Waitress to Wifey: The Curious Case of Monaco's Newest Bride.

He scrolls past them all, thumb steady, face unreadable. The truth was never going to be enough for people, he knew that. It didn’t matter that your grandmother cooked the wedding dinner herself or that your bouquet had been made of market stall leftovers and rosemary from the alley. It didn’t matter that Oscar’s mother cried during the ceremony or that you whispered something to him under your breath right before the kiss that made his heart knock painfully against his ribs.

None of that sells as well as scandal. In interviews, he dodges the worst of it with practiced ease. “It was a beautiful day,” he says, and “She looked stunning,” and “No, I’m not changing teams.”

Lando, naturally, finds every headline he can and reads them aloud in the paddock. “‘She’s either carrying his child or his offshore holdings,’” Lando recites dramatically, leaning back in a folding chair, grin wide.

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get invited to the harbor plunge.”

“Mate, you threw your bride into the sea.”

“She started it.”

The grid has a field day. Drivers he’s barely spoken to before raise their eyebrows and offer sly congratulations. Someone leaves a baby bottle in his locker with a bow. Social media eats it up and spits it back out, pixelated and sharp-edged.

But he tunes most of it out. Especially when it turns nasty. He has a team for that now. Official statements, social monitoring, the occasional DM deleted before he can see it. Still, he keeps an eye on the worst of it. Makes sure nothing slips through. Nothing that might reach you.

He lands in Monaco two weeks later with sleep in his eyes and a croissant in a paper bag. He stops by the restaurant like he always does and finds you at the register, wrist turned just so. The ring glints beside the band. Matching his. “You’re wearing it,” he says dazedly. 

“We’re married.”

He shrugs, hiding a smile. “Feels weird.”

“That’s because it’s fake.” 

“Still,” he says, tapping his own ring against the counter. “Looks good on you.”

You roll your eyes and hand him a plate. “Compliment me less. Pay for lunch more.”

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that your laugh sounds like music, that the lie is starting to feel like it’s been sandpapered into something real and delicate. Instead, he sits in the booth by the window, watching you refill the salt shakers, and thinks—the world can say what it wants.

You know the truth, and so does he.

The week of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and impossibly blue. The streets of the Principality shimmer under the sun, fences rising overnight like scaffolding for a play the city has performed a thousand times. Everything smells faintly of sea salt and fuel, and by mid-morning, the air is alive with the buzz of anticipation and finely tuned engines echoing off marble walls. But this year, the script reads a little differently.

Oscar Piastri is not just another driver on the grid.

The press reminds him of it daily, with a barrage of questions and not-so-subtle headlines. There’s always been one Monégasque darling. Now there’s the new almost-Monégasque.

A man with a newly minted Monégasque wife, a wedding video that’s gone viral twice, and a story that seems too picturesque not to speculate on. Is it for love? For tax benefits? For strategic branding? The opinions come loud and fast, and Oscar finds himself blinking under the weight of it.

He fields the questions with a practiced smile. “No, I’m not replacing Charles. No, I don’t think that’s possible. Yes, Monaco means something different to me now.”

They ask about pressure. About performance. About legacy. He says all the right things. But in the quiet of the restaurant kitchen, where you’re prepping tarragon chicken for your grandmother and your hands smell like thyme, he confesses: “I feel like I might throw up.”

You look up from your chopping board. “That’s not ideal. Especially not in my kitchen.”

He slumps into the stool near the flour bin, the one that squeaks when someone shifts too much weight on it. He rubs his temples, his posture more boy than racer. “It’s just—this place. This race. You. The whole country’s looking at me like I’m trying to steal something.”

You cross to him, wiping your hands on a faded dish towel. The kind with embroidered lemons curling at the hem. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re earning it,” you remind him. “Like you always do.”

He groans, slouching further. “You’re too good to me. I hate that.”

“You love it, actually.”

“That’s the problem.”

The morning of the race is electric. The sun spills golden light over the yachts and balconies, gilding the grandstands in a glow that feels almost unreal. The paddock is a blur of team radios and cameras, the air tight with nerves.

You find him just before the chaos begins. He’s already in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the kind of laser-sharp focus on his face that tells you he’s trying to keep the noise at bay. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just enough to give him away.

You touch his arm. “Oscar.”

He turns, eyes snapping to yours, and before he can speak, you rise on your toes and kiss him. Not a peck. Not performative. Just real. Your hands rest briefly on his waist. His helmet almost slips from his grip.

He blinks when you pull back. “What was that for?”

“Luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“No,” you say. “But I do.”

He grins then, a little sideways, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. He starts P3. Ends P1.

The crowd roars. The champagne flies. The Principality erupts in noise and color. From the podium, as gold confetti floats like sunlit snow and the Mediterranean glitters beneath the terrace, he lifts the bottle, sprays it with abandon—and then he points directly at you.

A clean, deliberate gesture.

When he finds you after the ceremonies, helmet gone, hair mussed, face flushed with sweat and triumph, he pulls you into his arms like he needs to anchor himself.

He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled but sure. “You kissed me and I won Monaco. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m never letting you go.”

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

Your honeymoon is late. A stolen few days during the season break, tucked between sponsor obligations and simulator hours. But it’s enough.

Melbourne is crisp in the winter. Sky the color of chilled steel, air sharp with wattle blossoms. Oscar meets you at the airport with a bouquet of native flowers and the look of a man trying not to sprint.

He’s a different version of himself here. Looser, unspooled. Driving on the left like it’s second nature, narrating every corner you pass with stories from childhood. “That’s where I broke my wrist trying to skateboard. That’s the bakery Mum swears by. That field used to flood every winter—perfect for pretending to be Daniel Ricciardo.”

He takes you everywhere. Fitzroy cafés for flat whites and smashed avo on toast, laughing himself breathless when you wrinkle your nose at Vegemite. St. Kilda for long walks along the pier, the scent of salt and fried food curling around you like a scarf. Luna Park for nostalgia’s sake; he wins you a soft toy at one of the booths, the thing lopsided and overstuffed. You carry it anyway.

He insists on a ride on the Ferris wheel, and you sit in the slow-spinning cage, knees bumping, breath fogging the glass. He holds your hand the entire time, thumb grazing your knuckles.

He shows you his high school, points out the old tennis courts and the library he never quite liked. You joke that he peaked too early, and he grins, nudging your shoulder. “I'm still peaking. Haven’t you heard? Married a local princess.”

You eat fish and chips out of paper by the beach, ketchup on your fingers, your laughter carrying over the dunes. You splurge on a seven-course tasting menu with matching wines the next night.

He doesn’t bat an eye at the bill, just watches you sip the dessert wine like it's the best part of the whole trip. The waiter calls you madame and monsieur, and Oscar almost chokes on his amuse-bouche trying not to laugh.

One afternoon, you stop by a museum, wandering slowly between exhibits, your steps in sync. He buys you a ridiculous magnet in the gift shop and sticks it in your handbag without telling you. “A memento,” he says later, as if the entire trip isn’t becoming one already.

On the third night, after a movie and a tram ride that rocked you gently against his side, you end up in the small rented flat he insisted on decorating with local flowers and candles from a boutique shop in South Melbourne. He lights them all before you even step through the door. There’s soft jazz playing on a speaker, and a tiny box of pastries on the kitchen counter. He remembered you liked the lemon ones best.

You turn to him, laughing. “You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”

His smile falters only a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

But that night, he kisses you like he forgot. Like the boundary lines have been redrawn in candlelight and warmth and the way your laughter fills up his chest.

Oscar, for all his planning and fake vows and clever PR angles, starts to think he doesn’t want to fake a single thing anymore. Not the way your hand fits in his. Not the way you snore just slightly when you’re too tired. Not the way you sigh his name in your sleep like it’s always been yours to say.

Six months into the marriage, Oscar finds it alarmingly easy.

There’s a rhythm now. Races and rest days, press conferences and pasta nights. He wires you money at the start of every month without being asked, a neat sum labeled restaurant support in the memo line, though he likes to pretend it’s something more casual, more romantic.

Sometimes he sends it with a picture. The menu scrawled in your grandmother’s handwriting. A photo of you wiping down the counter, hair tied up and apron on. A video where your voice is muffled under the clatter of pans. He tells himself he does it to keep the illusion going. That the marriage needs its props.

But the truth is, he just wants Chez Colette to survive. Wants your grandmother to keep slicing pissaladière with the same steady hands. Wants your laughter to keep floating through the narrow alleyway outside the kitchen window. Wants to be the reason the lights in the dining room never go out.

That part doesn’t feel fake at all.

In Singapore, the air is thick as molasses and twice as slow. Oscar starts P2. He ends up P4.

The move had been perfect. He was tailing Max, toes on the line, pressure in every nerve. Then the moment came and he hesitated. A flicker. A brake. Not even full pressure—just enough.

Max takes the win. And Oscar sits with it. Sits with the loss, the pause, the decision that shouldn’t have happened but did.

The press room is cold with fluorescent light and smugness. Oscar unzips his race suit halfway and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for the inevitable. His jaw is tight. His eyes sharper than usual. Max gets asked first. He smirks.

“I knew he’d brake. He’s got a wife now,” the Red Bull driver teases. “Has to think twice about these things.”

Laughter. Some loud. Some knowing. Some cruel. Oscar stares at the microphone in front of him like it personally offended him.

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

A beat of silence. Then chaos. Max laughs like it’s a joke. Oscar lets it sit that way. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smile.

He keeps a straight face through the rest of the conference. But there’s something restless behind his eyes, something simmering. Later, the clip goes viral. Memes. Headlines. Polls ranking it as one of the most dramatic moments of the season.

Some people say he’s being possessive. Some say it’s adorable. Others speculate wildly. Pregnancy rumors, tension in the paddock, impending divorce. A few even suggest it’s all a publicity stunt.

Oscar ignores all of it.

He scrolls through his phone in the quiet of the hotel room, looking at a photo you sent that morning. You in a sundress. The restaurant in full swing behind you. A bowl of citrus glowing in the window light. The ring on your finger catching just enough sun to drive him insane.

He should’ve won today. He should be angry at himself. At the telemetry. At the choice he made in that split second.

Instead, he’s angry at Max. At the snickering tone. At the way your name came out of someone else’s mouth like it belonged to everyone but you. Like it was part of a joke he didn’t get to write.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he replays the moment again, the way the word wife sounded when he said it. Sharp, defensive, protective. Not fake. Not rehearsed.

Oscar doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s haunted by the braking point. But because he wonders, for the first time, if he lost the race on purpose. If he braked because the idea of not seeing you again felt worse than losing. If the risk he once lived for now had consequences he isn’t willing to stomach.

He’s never been afraid of risk.

But he’s starting to learn that love, real or pretend, rewrites the whole strategy. And somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten which parts were meant to be fake.

He falls asleep as the sun comes up, the photo still glowing on his phone screen, your smile seared into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Eight months in, Oscar begins to catalogue his realizations like a man trying to make sense of a soft fall. A slow descent he never noticed until the ground felt far away.

He returns to Monaco between races. You meet him outside the market, where the fruit vendors already call him Oscarino, and where the cobblestones wear your footsteps like a second skin.

He watches you point out the small things: the fig tree tucked behind the old chapel wall, the narrow stairwell with the best view of the harbor, the café that serves coffee just a shade too bitter unless you stir it five times.

“Why five?” he asks, half-smiling.

“No idea,” you say. “It’s just what my father used to do. It stuck.”

He nods like this is sacred knowledge. Like he’s been let in on a secret the rest of the world doesn’t deserve. And there it is—realization one: Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now. It’s the way you slip through alleys with familiarity, the way you greet the florist by name, the way your laughter belongs to the air here. It clings to the limestone. It softens the sea. 

You show him the bookshop that sells more postcards than novels, the stone bench under the olive tree where your grandmother once waited for a boy who never came. You walk ahead sometimes, pointing out a new pastry shop or pausing to listen to street music, and Oscar lets himself trail behind, watching you like you’re the most intricate part of the landscape.

Realization two: it takes no effort to call you his wife.

He’s stopped hesitating when people say it. Stopped correcting journalists or clarifying the situation. It spills out naturally now, that possessive softness—my wife. Sometimes he says it just to see how it feels. Sometimes he says it because it’s easier than explaining how this all started. But lately, he’s saying it because it makes him feel something solid. Something like belonging. 

“This is for my wife,” he says as he buys a box of pastries for the two of you, and he realizes nobody had even asked. He just wanted to say it, wanted to call you that. 

At dusk, you both sit near the dock where he proposed. You split a lemon tart, the crust crumbling between your fingers. The lights blink to life along the harbor, flickering like a breath caught in your throat.

“You’re quiet,” you say, licking powdered sugar from your thumb.

He’s quiet because he’s on realization three: he’s in love with you.

Not in the way he warned you against. Not in the doomed, reckless way he once feared. But in the steady kind. The kind that snuck in during long nights on video calls, during your terrible attempt at learning tire strategy lingo, during the sleepy murmurs of your voice when you answered his call at two in the morning just to hear about qualifying.

You nudge his knee with yours. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say you. Or everything. Or I think I’d do it all over again, even if it still ended as pretend.

Instead, he leans over and kisses you. Softly. Just for the sake of kissing you. 

Oscar returns to racing with the kind of focus that borders on fear.

The panic builds up quietly, like the slow tightening of a race suit. Zip by zip, breath by breath, until his chest feels too small for his ribs. Every weekend brings new circuits, new stakes, new expectations. Somewhere beneath the roar of the engines, the hum of media questions, the blur of tarmac and hotel rooms, there is a ticking clock. A deadline for when papers have to be filed. He races away from it. 

It starts simple: a missed call. Then another. A message from you—lighthearted, teasing, as always. Tell your wife if you’ve died, so she can tell the florist to cancel the sympathy lilies.

He sends a voice memo in response, tired and rushed. Laughs a little. Says he’s just busy. Promises he’ll call when he gets a moment. The moment doesn’t come.

You begin to write instead. Short texts. Then longer ones. Notes about the paperwork, your grandmother’s health, the weather in Monaco. You remind him, gently at first, that his declaration needs to be signed before the deadline. That the longer he waits, the more eyes you’ll have to avoid. You joke about bribing a notary with fougasse. He hearts the message but doesn’t reply.

And slowly, your tone shifts.

I know you’re busy, one message reads, plain and raw. But I haven’t properly heard from you in six weeks. Just say if you don’t want to do this anymore. I won’t make a scene.

He stares at it in the dark of his hotel room. He doesn’t respond that night. Or the next.

In interviews, he smiles too easily. Jokes with Lando. Brushes off questions about Monaco, about the wedding, about how it feels to be the Principality’s newest almost-citizen. He avoids looking at the ring he still wears.

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.

The Abu Dhabi heat wraps around the Yas Marina Circuit like silk clinging to skin. The sun is starting its slow descent over the water, dipping everything in that soft golden wash that photographers live for and drivers hardly notice. Oscar notices, because you’re there.

You’re standing just past the paddock entrance, sundress fluttering lightly at your knees, sunglasses perched high, arms crossed like you’re trying to look casual and failing, which is how he knows you didn’t tell him you were coming.

He stops in his tracks, sweat already drying on the back of his neck from the final practice run, and stares. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says unceremoniously.

“McLaren flew me in,” you reply with a little shrug. “Apparently, there are...rumors. Trouble in paradise.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Trouble manufactured by your absence, more like.”

You raise a brow, just enough for him to catch the sting tucked beneath the humor. “You’ve been making it hard to keep up the illusion.”

Oscar exhales, jaw tightening. He wants to say he knows, that he’s been unraveling with every missed call, every message he didn’t answer because it felt too close to the thing he couldn’t name. Instead, he just says, “I thought the distance would help.”

“It didn’t,” you say simply.

The silence between you stretches, broken only by the far-off roar of another car doing laps in the distance. One of the crew members brushes past, giving Oscar a brief nod, and then disappears into the garage. And then you add, voice softer, “It’s not like I need you to be in Monaco every weekend. But sometimes it felt like you didn’t want to be there at all.”

That lands harder than anything else. There’s tiredness under your eyes, tension in the way you hold your hands together. But you’re here. You flew thousands of miles for a pretend marriage that doesn’t feel so pretend anymore. That has to mean something.

Because of that, Oscar thinks the race is going to be a mess. He thinks he’s going to falter, distracted by the pressure to make the act believable, especially now with you in the crowd and the cameras already tracking every flicker of expression. He thinks he’s going to crash.

He doesn’t.

From the moment the lights go out, he’s more focused than he’s been all season. Every corner feels crisp. Every overtake, calculated. His hands are steady, his breathing even. He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

P1.

He finishes second overall in the standings. But in this moment, it feels like first in everything.

The pit explodes around him. Cheers, backslaps, mechanics tossing gloves in the air. Oscar climbs out of the car, champagne already being popped somewhere, the air sticky and electric. Helmet off, hair damp, grin tights.

He scans the crowd like he always does after a win, but this time he’s looking for someone. You’re pushing through the throng, one of the PR girls parting the sea for you with a practiced flick of her clipboard. You stumble once in your sandals, catch yourself with a laugh, and keep going. He doesn’t even wait. He surges forward, meets you halfway. 

Oscar cups your face and kisses you, champagne and sweat and adrenaline on his lips. The cameras go wild. The crowd screams. Somewhere, someone yells his name like they know him. He doesn’t care.

He kisses you like he forgot how much he missed it, how much he missed you, how long it's been since something felt this real. The kiss isn’t perfect—your nose bumps his cheek, his thumb smears makeup from beneath your eye—but it doesn’t matter.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and breathless against your ear. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Apparently, I did,” you grumble, already failing to sound irked. “You keep getting lost without me.”

He laughs, something quiet and incredulous. Then, he holds you tighter and buries his face in your neck for one private second before the next cameras flash.

Monaco in the off-season is softer, like the city exhales after the last race and slips into something comfortable. The streets smell of sea salt and early-morning bread. The market thins out, the water calms, and Oscar returns.

He doesn’t text that he’s coming. He just shows up at Chez Colette on a Tuesday morning, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to apologize just by existing.

Your grandmother spots him first. “Tu as pris ton temps,” she grouses, and swats his arm with a dishtowel. “Si tu la fais attendre plus longtemps, je te servirai ta colonne vertébrale sur un plateau.”

Oscar grins, sheepish, and mumbles, "Yes, Madame." He finds you in the back kitchen, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes like it’s a form of therapy. You don’t look up at first, but you know it’s him. You always know.

“You’re late,” you say noncommittally.

“I brought flowers,” he says, setting them down between the pepper and the oregano. “And an apology. And—a real estate agent.”

That catches your attention. “What?” 

“You said the building has plumbing issues. And your grandmother keeps threatening to fall down the stairs,” he says meekly. “I figured we could find something close. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by wishful thinking and rust.”

Your lips part. “Oscar—”

“We don’t have to move,” he adds quickly. “But I want you to have the option. I—I want to help. Not because of the contract. Because I care for you and the restaurant and your grandmother who wants to serve my spine on a platter for being a terrible husband.”

The silence that follows is thick but not heavy. He reaches out, gently prying the peeler from your hand, and brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “You taught me how to love this city,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

You kiss him before you can think about it. Softly. Slowly. Like you’re reminding yourself what it feels like.

The days that follow move in a familiar rhythm. Oscar doesn’t race. He wakes with you and helps with deliveries. He lets your grandmother teach him how to deglaze a pan, how to make stock from scratch, how to use leftover vegetables for the next day’s soup. He burns the onions twice, gets flour on the ceiling once, and swears he’s getting better. He insists on learning to make pissaladière from scratch and ruins three baking trays in the process. The kitchen smells of olives and chaos.

You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market. 

He holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. And sometimes, when no one’s around at all, he still kisses you like someone might see.

You try not to talk about the timeline. About the looming expiration date. About the day one of you will have to be the first to say it out loud. Instead, you let him tuck your hair behind your ear. You let him draw a smiley face in the steam of your mirror after a shower. You let him fold your laundry even though he does it wrong. You let him dance with you in the living room while something slow and old plays on the radio.

And when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter one evening, his mouth warm against yours, you don’t stop him.

The winter chill makes the cobblestones glisten; Monaco is always sort of a dream after midnight, all soft amber streetlights and the hush of waves echoing off stone. Your laughter fills the alleyways like a song no one else knows. Oscar is drunk. Absolutely, definitely drunk. And you are, too.

You’re both wrapped up in scarves and half-finished wine, weaving through the old town with flushed cheeks and noses red from the cold. Oscar’s coat is too big on you, or maybe you’re just small inside it, and every few steps you bump into his side like a boat tethered too close.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” you ask, tripping a little over a curb. You clutch his arm.

“Nope,” he chirps, tightening his grip around your shoulders. “But we’re not lost. We’re exploring.”

You grin up at him, and it hits him again—how stupidly beautiful you are. Not in the red carpet, glossy magazine kind of way. In the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and how you say his name like it means something. He’s pretty sure his heart’s been doing backflips since the second glass of wine.

You stop by a low stone wall that overlooks the port. The moon sits fat and silver on the horizon, and Oscar feels like the entire world has tilted slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something?” he says, leaning his elbows on the wall beside you.

You nod. Your breath comes in puffs of white.

“What do you know about love?”

“Hm,” you murmur, intoxicated and contemplating. “I know it is tricky. I know it doesn’t always feel like butterflies. Sometimes it’s just... showing up. Letting someone in. Letting them ruin your favorite mug and not holding it against them.”

He huffs a laugh. “That happened to you?”

“Twice,” you say. “Same mug. Different people.”

“Did you love them?”

You pause. “I think I loved the idea of them. The idea of being seen.”

Oscar looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why he cares so much about your answer. Maybe because he’s been feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something enormous. Something irreversible.

“What about you?” you ask, nudging him. “Any great romances, my dearest husband?” 

“Not really,” he admits. “There were people. Nothing that lasted. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Because of racing?”

“Because of everything,” he says. “Because I’m good at pretending. And it felt easier than trying.”

You nod slowly, then rest your head against his shoulder. It’s not flirtation. It’s not even comfort. It’s something else. Something steadier. Oscar swallows. His thoughts are a mess of wine and wonder. You, against his side. You, in his jacket. You, not asking him for anything except honesty.

This is love, he thinks. 

Not the crash of the waves, not the fireworks. This. He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair.

You sigh, content. “You always say that like you’re not coming with me.”

And he smiles, because he is. Of course he is.

Morning comes, spilling into the bedroom like honey, slow and golden. Monaco hums faintly beyond Oscar wakes to the warmth of your body, the tangle of your leg thrown over his, your hair a soft mess against his chest. He doesn’t move.

There’s a stillness in the morning that doesn’t come often, not with his schedule, not with the pace of the season. But here, now, he lets it hold. This was the second rule you two had broken—realizing that a warm body was something you could both use, even if it wasn’t for the sake of making love. Just to have something to hold. 

He remembers the wine from last night, the stumbling laughter, your hand in his as you leaned into his side. This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

His hand drifts along your spine, drawing lazy patterns only he can see. You shift slightly, nuzzling into him, the smallest sigh escaping your lips. You once said you liked how he spooned. It had been early on, somewhere between forced breakfasts and joint bank statements. It had made him feel stupidly triumphant.

He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave this bed. He wants to memorize the weight of you against him, the sound of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch in your sleep. But then his phone buzzes. The alarm is gentle, insistent. He reaches for it without moving too much, careful not to jostle you.

A calendar reminder glows on the screen.

ANNIVERSARY IN 1 WEEK. START CITIZENSHIP DECLARATION.

Oscar stares at it. The words feel like they belong to someone else. A script he memorized, not a life he lives. He dismisses it. HitsSsnooze like he’s defusing a bomb. 

You stir, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he lies, tucking the phone under his pillow.

You hum, unconvinced but too tired to push. He shifts, pulling you closer, curling his arm under your neck, bringing you closer the way you like. Your back fits into his chest like a missing piece. You sigh, warm and content. Within moments, you’re asleep again.

Oscar stays awake. He counts your breaths, anchors himself to the rise and fall of your shoulders. The bed is quiet, your dreams peaceful, but something aches behind his ribs.

One more week. He holds you tighter.

Just a little longer.

Oscar doesn’t mean to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, but the words are sitting like a stone in his chest. They jostle every time you laugh, every time you brush your fingers against his arm, every time you ask if he wants a sip of your drink, already holding the straw out for him.

You’re barefoot, perched on the ledge of the terrace, hair loose. There’s leftover risotto on the table between you and the scent of oranges from the orchard down the street. It should be enough. He should leave it alone. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because a contract is a contract and he refuses to shackle you more than he already has.

“What do you want to do for our anniversary?” he asks, voice low.

You go still. It’s not immediate, but he sees it. The flicker behind your eyes, the pause too long before you smile.

“We could do something small,” you say eventually, your voice gentler than before. “Dinner. Maybe at that place with the sea bass. You liked that one.”

He nods, forcing a smile. “I did.”

You twist the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “And after that,” you say, “you can submit your declaration.”

There it is.

You say it like you’re reading from a recipe card. Like you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. Like you’re trying very hard to pretend your chest doesn’t hurt. Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t trust himself to. You sip your wine, and he watches the way your hand trembles just slightly, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Like you’re preparing.

“Okay,” he says, plain and simple.

You smile. You always do.

When he gets up to leave for the gym, you walk him to the door. It’s quiet. You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, and he turns just enough to catch your lips instead. It happens without thought. Without ceremony. The way it always has.

He pulls back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

But even as you say it, he can feel it. The detachment. The quiet retreat. You’re drawing the curtain in your head, beginning the soft choreography of letting go. Because this is how the plot was written. Because this is how it will go. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer. 

He walks out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like the slow fade-out of a film. One where the hero doesn’t get the timing right. One where love comes too late.

On the day of your wedding anniversary, Oscar wakes up early.

Monaco hums quietly beyond the window, still in the lull between morning coffee and the world waking up. He turns onto his side and watches you sleep, for a moment pretending today is just another morning. He tries not to think of it as a Last Good Day.

Still, he makes sure everything is perfect.

He picks out the white dress shirt you said made him look like someone in an Italian film. He even tries to iron it for once. He buys your favorite flowers and then arranges them in the living room vase. He lets you sleep in and makes coffee the way you like it, with a dash of cinnamon. The two of you eat breakfast on the tiny balcony, knees knocking gently beneath the table.

When you smile at him over the rim of your cup, he kisses you. Long, sweet, steady. Like he means it. Because he does.

He books a quiet table at the small bistro tucked into one of the back streets of the city, a place you once said reminded you of Paris. You laugh too loudly over wine, your hand finding his easily over the tablecloth. For a few hours, you let yourselves be the kind of couple you’ve always pretended to be.

Then, slowly, the shadows lengthen.

“Ready to go?” you ask, voice soft as the sun begins to set.

He swallows. “Not really.”

Still, you walk hand in hand down the cobbled streets. The mairie—the city hall—waits like an afterthought, a quiet door at the end of a narrow alley. Oscar detours.

“Gelato?” he offers.

You smile sadly. You know what he’s trying to do. “Before filing paperwork?”

“It’s tradition,” he lies. “One year deserves dessert.”

You let him. You always let him. You get gelato; he tastes one too many samples. He pretends to get lost as you walk through the market, even though Monaco is probably the easiest map to remember in the world. He takes you to the docks, just for a minute, just to watch the boats rock gently in the water. You lean into him, silent, warm, your head tucked beneath his chin. He feels you there, but something else, too. The soft press of reality.

“We should go,” you whisper eventually.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

“Five more minutes,” he says. “Please.”

You let him delay. And delay. And delay.

The moment you file the paperwork, the clock starts ticking in a new way. You’re both aware the curtain is about to fall, but no one wants to call out the final act. So you stay there, together. Not speaking. Just watching the harbor. Pretending it’s still the first day, and not the last good one.

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

You walk into the government building side by side. Oscar’s hand grazes the small of your back as the two of you wait at the numbered queue, the soft whir of the ticket printer, the low hum of bureaucratic silence filling the air.

He signs the papers for the Ordinary Residence Permit with an orange pen you handed him from your bag. You’ve always kept pens on you. He knows that now, like the many other things he’s come to know and love about you. You watch him scrawl his name, carefully, and when he finishes, he exhales through his nose like it took something out of him.

The official behind the desk looks at the documents, stamps them, hands them back with a nod. Oscar is granted residency. Carte Privilège and citizenship are now visible, shimmering just over the next hill.

Neither of you speaks of endings. Not yet.

You agree to drag it out a little more. Not for legal protection now, not even for optics, really. Just to ease the world into the conclusion. He wires you ten percent of every monthly deposit still, but it’s no longer transactional. It’s a quiet act of love, of investment. A stake in something that outlasted the farce.

Two years instead of one and a half. Long enough for the lines to blur beyond recognition.

He’s there when your grandmother needs surgery. You’re there when he misses the podium in Spa and sits, soaked in rain, on the garage floor. 

The divorce happens on a random off-season day. A Tuesday, maybe. The restaurant is closed. Oscar wears a hoodie and sunglasses like he’s hiding, but the clerk doesn’t even look up to recognize him.

The two of you sign quietly. No rings on your fingers anymore, but his tan line still shows.

“Take care,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.

He nods. “You, too,” he says, and he means it as much as he knows that he’ll never love anybody else. 

The story ends, quiet as it began—

Monaco is a small place. The kind of small that lives in the bones, that lingers in the echo of footsteps down alleys, that smells like salt and baked peaches even in February. Oscar thinks, at first, that he might be able to avoid you. He’s wrong.

He runs into your grandmother before he sees you. She catches his wrist in the produce aisle of the market and drags him toward the tomatoes. 

“Ce sont mauvais,” she says, inspecting them with a frown. "Viens avec moi."

Oscar doesn’t protest. He never does with her. Her hand is still strong, her voice still unimpressed by celebrity. She mutters in French about overpriced zucchini and tourists ruining the flow of the Saturday market. He follows her like he used to, like he always will. She doesn’t ask about the divorce, and Oscar is half-tempted to grill her about how you might’ve justified it. In the end, he decides it won’t do him any good. 

She feeds him a small pastry over the counter at Chez Colette, dabs powdered sugar off his chin, and says nothing when he glances over at the kitchen, where you aren’t. But you’re there later, arms flour-dusted, laughing with a vendor, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in your hair. And when your eyes meet, the silence isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Familiar. Something like home.

You greet him with the same smile you used to wear when you were both still pretending. “Back already?” you ask, brushing your hands on your apron.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he says. It’s mostly true. Okay, no: it’s entirely true.

In the aftermath, the press circles like gulls. Questions echo at paddocks and press conferences, in magazines and murmurs: Why did the marriage end? Was it all just for the passport? Was there heartbreak? Had there ever been love?

Oscar gives clipped answers. “We’re still friends. It ended amicably. I’ll always care about her.”

He says them all with the same practiced ease he once used on the track. But none of them touch the truth: that sometimes, in the quiet of his apartment, he still thinks of you when he hears the clink of wine glasses. That he misses the sound of your laugh bouncing off tile. That he still folds his laundry the way you taught him. That he sometimes forgets and checks his phone for your texts before remembering you no longer owe him any.

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

Friendship is easier than silence. You both settle into it like a well-worn coat. You pass each other notes on delivery slips, meet for drinks that stretch into hours, walk the promenade without ever having to explain why. You send him soup when he’s sick during the off-season. He fixes the restaurant’s leaky sink without being asked. You tell him about your new dates, gently, and he listens too closely, nodding like he’s not tallying every man who isn’t him.

He learns to exist in proximity to the past. Learns to let his gaze linger on your cheekbones without reaching out. Learns that the ache isn’t something that ever really goes away. He sees you in the blur of every streetlight, in the smell of garlic on his hands, in the soft echo of French murmured over dinner.

The years go on. Races come and go. The restaurant thrives. He doesn’t kiss you again, but he lets you lean your head on his shoulder on cold nights, and you let him hold your hand under the table at weddings. At your grandmother’s birthday, he still helps serve the cake. 

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

And Monaco stays small. Always small. Just enough room for memories, for weekend markets, for a kind of love that doesn’t ask for more—but still dares, in the quietest way, to linger.

Three years after the divorce, Oscar renews his Ordinary Residence Permit. It feels less momentous than it should. There are no trumpets, no ceremony. Just a polite government clerk stamping a paper, and a weight Oscar didn’t know he was carrying suddenly easing.

You come over that evening. He insists on cooking.

You arch a brow, leaning against the doorway to his small kitchen. “If you burn the garlic again, I'm calling your mum.”

“She’s the one who taught me this, actually,” he replies, a little too proudly.

The meal is simple: pasta with olive oil, lemon, and garlic, tossed with cherry tomatoes and a flurry of parsley. You watch him plate it with a kind of reverent amusement, your wine glass in hand. He lights a scented candle. It’s too much and too little all at once.

You take a bite of his labor of love. “You’ve improved.”

“No burns this time.”

“Progress.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, the sort of silence that only exists between people who have known one another across the worst and best of themselves. Then, without looking at you, Oscar asks: “Why are you still single?”

The question isn't accusatory. It's soft, tentative, like he's peeling back a layer he doesn't have the right to touch. You don’t answer right away. He glances up.

You're still. Your fork rests against the rim of your plate. You have one or two silver hairs now, and laugh lines from the years. Oscar likes to think one or two of them might be from him. You smile, slow and crooked. Your voice is impossibly sad without taking away from the amusement of your words.

“To be married once is probably enough for me.”

It lands somewhere between a joke and a wound. Oscar nods, because what else can he do?

The pasta is a little too al dente. The wine is already warm. The truth lingers in the corners of the room, unspoken but present. You both sip, chew, avoid. Later, he sees you to the door. You press a kiss to his cheek, brief, like a punctuation mark. “Happy anniversary.” you half-joke.

He leans against the doorframe after you’ve gone, watching the hallway where your footsteps fade. 

One full year later, Oscar invites you out again. 

Except he doesn’t take you to a restaurant, doesn’t cook some pasta dish for you. Not really. He asks you to walk instead, your hand in his like old times. You go without question, winding through the tight alleys and open plazas until you reach the harbor.

It’s dusk. The dock stretches long and narrow, lined with the boats of old money and new dreams. The sea breathes soft against the pilings. The air is salted and damp, heavy with the scent of brine and engine oil. Lights flicker to life over the water—dancing like stars, like possibility.

He slows as you reach the edge of the dock. The sky is dipped in indigo, the sun a smear of molten orange far behind the hills. You shiver slightly, just enough for him to offer his jacket, which you take with a smile that softens something in his chest.

And that’s where he kneels.

Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, because you’re looking at him like he’s insane. He deserves that, he figures. 

His French fails him in the worst way. All the rehearsed lines dissolve on his tongue. He switches to English, because he’s desperate, because he needs you to know. 

“We married for taxes once,” he says. “What do you say about marrying for love?” 

He opens the box.

You gasp.

It’s not new. Not a cut-glass showpiece or anything plucked from a catalogue. It’s old. Your birthright. An heirloom. A week ago, Oscar sat across from your grandmother armed with months of practiced French. He told her the whole story, spoke of his devotion, and came out of the conversation with this blessing. 

There is so much he wants to say.

How he wishes he could have fallen in love with you in a normal way; how he still probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

How he agrees to be married once is enough, which means he wants to marry you over and over again. In Monaco, in Melbourne, in whichever corner of the world you’ll have him. 

Before he can start, you’re sinking down to your knees, too. The dock creaks beneath you both.

You kiss him all over the face—temples, nose, cheeks, lips—laughing and crying all at once. “You idiot,” you whisper. “You stupid, beautiful idiot.”

He pockets the box, and, hands shaking, reaches for your waist, your shoulders, your hair. He laughs into your shoulder. “Is that a yes?” he breathes, but you’re too busy sobbing to get any words out. 

That’s okay, Oscar thinks to himself as he pulls you as close as he can. 

He can wait. ⛐

[itslusii]

THE THRILL OF A TRIPLE LIFE!

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

SUMMARY: Some cute moments between you and your boyfriend: Spiderman!

WORD COUNT: 2K

WARNINGS: Light angst, mentions of blood/injury, mostly fluff :), Y/N usage

FEATURING: Spiderman!Oscar Piastri x Reader

NOTE: New layout maybe? How do we feel about the colors? idk… I love you Spiderman Oscar

RAIN POURED AGAINST YOUR WINDOW, the streets of Monaco twinkling from below your high-rise apartment. You huffed a sigh, cradling a cup of hot cocoa in your hands whilst you settled down into the sofa. Your favorite movie was on but you weren’t watching. Instead, your focus was pinned to the doorway. Oscar Piastri, your crime-fighting boyfriend, was roughly thirty minutes late now. As expected.

You were starting to worry. He sounded so serious this morning when he promised dinner at 7:00 PM sharp. It was late, sure, but he was taking his night watches into consideration. He couldn’t promise earlier—that was unrealistic. But it seemed he couldn’t promise this either.

You picked up your phone, ready to dial his number when suddenly you heard the sound of a window squeaking open. You flinched until you saw your boyfriend stumble in, clutching his stomach. He struggled to shut the window behind him, using only one hand. You perked up, setting your mug aside.

“You know there’s a front door, right?”

“That’s too suspicious,” He groaned. “Doors aren’t for Spiderman. Windows are.”

You could tell he was in pain, so you scurried off to the bathroom to locate the first aid kit. When you returned, you pointed to the couch with a stern expression. “Sit.” Oscar obeyed, yanking his mask off as he flopped down onto the couch, his body slumped against the cushions. His hair was slightly messy from the mask. “Move your hand, spidey.”

He shakily lifted his arm aside, revealing a shallow gash that cut through his suit. You sighed, dropping to your knees to carefully dab at the wound. It would heal just fine, but that didn’t mean you weren’t worried about him. He could tell, too. How could he not?

“You promised dinner at seven.” Maybe it was a bad time to bring it up while you were wiping his wound with saline solution.

“I know, I’m sorry, but there was a bus with broken breaks and—”

“And a collapsing building with a bunch of orphans who needed your help trapped inside, yeah?” You finished, and he let out a weak laugh.

“Not this time, no.” You both fell back into silence—uncomfortable silence. He watched you carefully, his eyebrows knitted together. You were clearly upset and he wanted to fix that, but he didn’t know how. “Y/N…” Oscar reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You looked up at him with expectation. “I’m sorry I keep disappointing you.”

You sighed, letting your head drop with your chin tucked in. After a moment, you started to help him shimmy out of the top of his suit, letting it sit at his waist. You began to wrap his wound in bandages. “You don’t disappoint me, Osc. You worry me.” He opened his mouth to apologize again, but you cut him off, “I just want you to stop scaring me so much. Every time you’re late I start to wonder if you’re gonna show up at all. I start to wonder if I’m gonna hear about your death in the news paper before I even get the chance to say goodbye-”

He grabbed your wrist, because while you were rambling, you had unintentionally wrapped him up too tight. You muttered a sheepish apology, unwinding the wrappings to redo your work. “I wish I could give you a normal life, Y/N.” He muttered as he finally let go of your wrist.

“I don’t want normal, Oscar. I want you. I just don’t want you to shut me out, okay? If you’re gonna be late, just call me and let me know. I can’t stand worrying over you nonstop.” You tore the bandage with your teeth and tucked it in securely. He helped you sit up on the couch next to him, and you brought his bruised knuckles to your lips to gently kiss them.

“I can’t promise you a lot…” He murmured, his eyes soft. “But I can promise you that.”

“Good…”

You leaned your face into his neck, and he held you close. It wasn’t often he got to enjoy your presence like this, free from his duties of being a hero for just a few more hours.

YOU FOUND THE FIRST STICKY NOTE IN THE MORNING. And by sticky note I don’t mean the yellow ones that had adhesive tops, but rather a note card webbed to a surface by your boyfriend. Oscar had stuck it to the toaster, almost as if he knew you were going to make yourself some toast that morning.

‘Are you a toaster? Because a bath with you would send me straight to heaven! - 🕷️’ You laughed at his stupid pick up line, finding the cute little spider drawing to be adorable as well.

The next one was after you finished enjoying your breakfast. You stepped into the bathroom to brush your teeth, finding another note stuck to the mirror. ‘You look beautiful today! Even with toothpaste on your shirt ;) - 🕷️’ After reading the note, you looked down… And then cursed under your breath. Indeed, you had dribbled some of the minty substance onto your top, leaving a white stain. Damn you, Oscar.

He knew you too well.

The last one was in the fridge, on top of the box of leftover pizza from a few nights ago. ‘Don’t even think about it…’ You grumbled, because he also webbed the box stuck, that little jerk.

You found yourself sitting on the fire escape, a small sketch pad in hand. You listened to the sound of vehicles whizzing by and the occasional car alarm going off. Every now and then you could see Oscar swing through the tall buildings, and you tried to push away the heavy feeling in your heart, because you missed him so bad.

“Delivery!” A voice called out from above you. Oscar dropped down right in front of you, hanging upside down by one of his webs. He was in his full Spiderman suit to conceal his identity, but you knew him well enough. You grinned when he held out a brown paper sack, the bottom slightly greasy. “One sandwich from your favorite restaurant.”

He lowered himself onto the platform, upright this time. You both sat on the edge, your feet dangling over the edge as you split the sandwich in half. Oscar raised his mask high enough to eat, but before that he dinked his half against yours, like a glass of fine wine.

“I didn’t know you swung across cities for sandwiches now.”

“Only for my favorite girl.” He scooted just a tad bit closer to you, your shoulders brushing. He smiled, his mouth the only visible feature. “Did you like my notes?”

“I thought they were a bit dorky.”

“But in a cute way, right?” He took a large bite of his sandwich, staring at you while he chewed.

Your gaze softened, your grin somewhat lovesick. “Yes. In a cute way. You’re my cute, super-powered, wall climbing dork.”

He seemed happy with that answer. After a moment, he swallowed, and added on, “You’re still not eating my pizza.”

“Dangit.”

BOYFRIEND BY MORNING, RACER BY AFTERNOON, SUPERHERO BY NIGHT. That’s essentially the life Oscar lived, and you were both fine with that. He dedicated all the free time he could to you, which maybe wasn’t a lot some days, but you were fine with it. You loved him and everything that he came with. The whole triple life thing was just part of the package. If you couldn’t handle him when he came home beat up, then you didn’t deserve him when he was the sweetest boyfriend alive.

However, it was a Sunday, which meant it was time to put the life-saving aside for long enough to win a damn race. It was always dangerous, but he had you constantly checking the news. If anything happened, you’d call a red flag and send your boyfriend out to save the day. He always made it back just in time to finish the race and sweep you off your feet again.

“Good luck out there, Osc.” You spoke as he kissed you on the lips, grinning in response. “Don’t be too dangerous. Monaco needs their hero, still.”

“Yeah, yeah. I promise.”

The race seemed to be going well, until you heard some murmurs from the engineers. You poked your head out of the garage, examining your surroundings. With your headset on, you could hear Oscar over the radio asking if everything was okay. His senses were definitely tingling.

You looked out to the stands, watching as a figure in a trench coat shoved through the crowds, making his way closer to the track. You rushed to Oscar’s engineer, begging for him to be called in and for a red flag, because there was clearly something suspicious going on.

They listened, because for some reason your instincts were always correct. You rushed Oscar into his drivers room where he slipped into his hero suit, and made a grand escape out the window. It didn’t take long for him to return, just as everyone cheered over Spiderman, once again, saving the day.

Thankfully you had Lando standing outside, stalling for more time while Oscar got back into his suit. You gave him one last kiss for good luck and he rushed off.

“You better win!” You called after him.

And he did.

The night was filled with orange confetti and champagne showers for the team with yet another 1-2. When he found you and pulled you into his arms, he was grinning. “Yet another win for Spiderman,” He whispered between the two of you. The cameras were pointed, but you had raised your palm to cover your mouths.

“I don’t get how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Stop mid race to kick ass, and then get back in the car like it’s nothing.”

“Just wanna make my girl proud.” You rolled your eyes as he sealed the deal with a dramatic kiss on the lips.

OSCAR WAS DEDICATED TO BEING YOUR BOYFRIEND TONIGHT. He was determined to make this a crime-free, Spiderman-free, date. He had his phone off to where only Lando, his partner in crime, could get through to him, so his attention was entirely on you.

It was a breakfast date too, which meant the rates of crime at that time were generally low. You guys both sat down at the quaint parlor, enjoying the ambience. Nobody recognized him, either. Life was great.

“Alright, place your bets. How many pancakes can you finish until you’re called out?” You asked as you speared a cut off piece of one of your own pancakes with a fork, scooping the syrupy bite into your mouth.

“Hey, what makes you think I’ll be called out at all?”

“Oscar, be serious. Our dates are cursed! You’re always called out.”

“I think I’ll make it to the bottom this time. I’ll bet you a whole stack of ‘em.” You held out your hand, happy to take up that bet.

And then immediately after his phone started buzzing.

“No way.” You giggled into your palm.

“No.” He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No. If I ignore it, it’s not there.”

“Oscar.”

“Y/N…” He frowned, almost like a pout.

“Go. It’s alright, I promise.” He huffed, pushing his chair back and standing up.

“Are you sure?”

“The city needs you, dork. Hurry up!” He rushed off to the bathroom to change, giving you one last look over the shoulder before he disappeared.

You grabbed his plate. “Jokes on him. I’m eating his pancakes…” He did owe you a whole stack, after all.

You didn’t mind. Downside of dating Spiderman was only getting halfway through your dates, but he made up for it in other ways!

[itslusii]

Oscar’s got me taking photos of my computer like a proud mom

[itslusii]

[itslusii]

i hope this finds you well ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“you’ll be bored of him in two years,” oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.” (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k (!!!) ꔮ includes: friendship, romance, angst. cussing, mentions of food & alcohol. references to greta gerwig's little women (2019), mostly set in melbourne, oscar's sisters are recurring characters. ꔮ commentary box: i've written way too much oscar as of late, so before i go on a self-imposed ban, i had to get this monster out. fully, wholly dedicated to @binisainz, whose amylaurie lando fic does this feeling go both ways? started all this. birdy, i love you like all fire. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ let you break my heart again, laufey. we can't be friends (wait for your love), ariana grande. cool enough for you, skyline. do i ever cross your mind, sombr. bags, clairo. true blue, boygenius. laurie and jo on the hill, alexandre desplat.

Oscar Piastri is not the kind of boy who usually finds himself at house parties.

Especially not the kind with balloons tied to banisters, tables laden with sausage rolls and buttercream cupcakes, and a Bluetooth speaker hiccupping out the tail-end of some pop anthem. But here he is, cornered into attendance by his sisters—Hattie, Edie, and Mae—who’d all dressed up for the occasion and declared, in unison, that he had to come.

So he had. Because he was a good brother and an unwilling chaperone. 

And now he’s bored.

Oscar stands near the drinks table, nursing a cup of lukewarm lemonade and trying to look vaguely interested in the streamers above the kitchen doorway. Hattie had already been whisked off to dance by someone in a navy jumper. Edie had found the girl who always brought homemade brownies to school. Mae was giggling wildly with a trio of kids Oscar vaguely recognized from the street down. 

No one notices him lingering by himself. That suits him just fine.

Still, he can’t quite shake the restlessness crawling up his spine. The noise is too loud, the lights too warm. With a quick scan of the room and a glance over his shoulder, Oscar slips behind a long, velvet curtain that cordons off what seemed to be the study.

Except there’s already someone there.

He realizes it a moment too late, nearly landing on top of you.

“Oh my God—sorry!” he blurts out, practically leaping backward. His foot catches on the edge of the curtain and he stumbles a bit, arms flailing before catching the side of a bookshelf. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t see you. I didn’t think anyone else—sorry. Again.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, legs curled beneath you on the armchair he had almost sat on. There’s a half-eaten biscuit on a napkin beside you, and your fingers are wrapped around a glass of ginger ale. Contrary to everyone else at this godforsaken event, you’re not a familiar face. 

“It’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. Accented. Affirming Oscar’s theory that you’re not a Melbourne native. After a pause, you tentatively joke: “You didn’t sit on me, so that’s a win.”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Close call.”

The silence after is not awkward, exactly. Just shy. The two of you are tucked away behind a curtain, neither fully sure what to do next. Oscar takes the plunge first, figuring it’s the least he could do after intruding on your escape.

“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he adds unnecessarily. He gestures vaguely toward the chaos outside. “Dragged here by my sisters.”

“I figured you were with the girls,” you reply amusedly. “I’m new. Just moved here a few weeks ago.”

Oscar’s brows lift. “So this is your introduction to the madness?”

“Pretty much.” You offer a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really know anyone, and pretending to be cool isn’t really my thing.”

“Mine neither,” he says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “Hence the hiding.”

That earns him a soft smile. It’s a pretty smile, Oscar privately notes. 

He gestures to the empty bit of couch beside you. “Mind if I sit? Promise to check for limbs first.”

You shift slightly to make room. “Be my guest.”

He sits, careful this time, knees bumping slightly against yours as he settles. The party noise feels far away behind the curtain—muted like a dream. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, curiosity bright beneath his awkwardness.

“Got a name, new kid?” he asks, because even though he had agreed that he doesn’t like feigning coolness, he’s still just a teenage boy with a god complex. 

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, careful with the syllables like he’s folding them into memory.

A few more minutes pass, filled with idle chatter. You talk about your move, the weird smell of paint still lingering in your new house, and the fact that none of the cupcakes at this party have chocolate frosting, which is a tragedy. Oscar, in turn, tells you about his sisters. How Mae once tried to dye her hair green with a highlighter and how Hattie got banned from school discos after she snuck in a smoke machine.

The laughter between you is easy. Unforced.

Then you say it, maybe without thinking too hard. “We should dance,” you muse, finishing off the last of your biscuit. 

Oscar freezes. His eyebrows shoot up, alarmed. “Dance? With me?”

“Unless you’d rather go back to pretending the streamers are fascinating.”

“I don’t dance with strangers,” he says, half-laughing, half-panicked.

“We know each other’s names now,” you point out. “That makes us not-strangers.”

With a beleaguered sigh and a scrunch of his nose, Oscar comes clean. “I’m bad at it,” he grumbles. 

“Who cares?”

“My sisters. They’ll see. And I’ll never live it down.”

You purse your lips, tapping your glass lightly against your knee. Then, a spark lights in your eyes. It’s the kind that spells trouble; Oscar has seen it in his siblings’ faces, right before they do something so invariably stupid and reckless. “Come with me. I have an idea,” you urge. 

He hesitates, a part of his brain screeching something like stranger danger! in flashing, neon lights. In the end, he follows.

You slip out through the back door, motioning for him to stay quiet as you lead him down the wooden steps and out onto the wrap-around porch. The party sounds are muffled here, only the faint thump of bass slipping through the walls.

“Out here,” you say, turning to him with an expectant grin. “Nobody to laugh. Just us.”

Oscar stares at you. “This is crazy.” 

“Shut up and dance.”

And so he does.

Awkwardly, at first, because you start them off with wild moves and dance skills that are much more abysmal than his. It gives him the confidence to start swaying a bit, his laughter poorly stifled as he watches you flail like an octopus. 

You take his hands, and he lets you spin him gently, sneakers squeaking against the porch boards. There’s no rhythm to it, not really. Just swaying and clumsy steps and the faint thrum of music in the background.

The porch light flickers above you, casting long shadows. Somewhere inside, someone cheers. But out here, it's just you and Oscar.

Two kids dancing badly and not caring.

“You’re a weird one,” he says with a smile that splits his face open.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, fingers squeezing his as you twirl yourself through his arm. It’s a gross miscalculation and you end up stumbling, the two of you cackling as you attempt to detangle from the mess of limbs you’ve entangled each other in. 

For the first time that night, Oscar thinks he might actually like this party after all.

Christmas morning in the Piastri household always comes with a sort of chaos—the kind born of slippers skidding across hardwood, sleepy giggles, and the rustle of wrapping paper long before the sun climbs properly into the sky.

This year, however, there’s something new. A wicker basket sits on the porch, ribbon-wrapped and dusted in the faintest layer of frost. 

It’s heavy with gifts, each one handmade and meticulously labeled in curling script. Hattie, first to spot it, gives a shriek loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Within minutes, the whole family is gathered in the living room, the basket placed like treasure at the center.

“It’s from the new neighbors,” their mum announces, plucking a card from the basket. Her voice is touched with surprise and delight. “The old man and his granddaughter. Isn’t that sweet?”

Hattie unwraps a pair of knitted socks, blue and gold. Edie lifts out a jar of spiced jam. Mae discovers a hand-bound notebook. Each gift is simple but exquisite, the sort of thing you only receive from people who notice details.

“She’s the one who doesn’t talk to anyone,” Hattie says knowingly, curling her legs beneath her on the couch. You were in the same level as her, it seemed—a year below Oscar. 

“That house is huge.” Edie glances out the window, towards your home. “Do you think her parents are loaded?” 

“I heard they aren’t even around,” Mae whispers. “Just her and the grandfather. He looks ancient, though. Like, fossil ancient.”

“Girls,” their mum cuts in sharply. “That’s enough. They were kind enough to send gifts. We will be kind in return.”

Oscar, perched on the armrest of the couch, stays quiet through the speculation. His hands toy with the tag on his gift—a simple wooden bookmark, engraved with an amateur sketch of a stick figure dancing. He doesn’t say anything about the study, or the curtain, or the ginger ale.

But the memory floats to the front of his mind: the soft hush of the party behind a curtain, the brush of knees, your laugh when he had called you weird. 

“We should make friends with them,” Oscar says finally, looking up. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

The girls pause. Hattie raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about new neighbors?”

He shrugs, trying not to look too interested. “Just saying. It wouldn’t kill us to be nice.”

Their mum smiles, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”

Oscar glances back down at the bookmark, running a thumb over the edge.

He finds your family acquainting with his soon enough.

On a sunny afternoon, right as Edie is pouring cereal into a bowl and Oscar is elbow-deep in the dishwasher, the home phone rings. Hattie picks up, listens for a moment, then calls out, “Mae’s at the neighbor’s. She fell off her bike.”

There’s a rush of clattering cutlery and footsteps, and in no time, Oscar finds himself trailing behind his sisters down the sidewalk, toward the big house next door—the one with the sprawling lawn and mismatched wind chimes on the porch.

When they arrive, Mae is perched on your front steps, a bandage already wrapped around her knee and a juice box in hand. She waves lazily as Hattie and Edie fall upon her with a dozen questions. Your grandfather, white-haired and kind-eyed, stands nearby, looking amused by the commotion. He introduces himself and ushers them all inside despite their protests.

Oscar hangs back for a moment until he spots you just behind the door, barefoot and half-hidden by the frame. You glance up, catch his eye, and grin.

“You again,” you say, stepping out onto the porch. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, just scraped her knee,” Oscar replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks for patching her up.”

“We had a pretty solid first aid game back at my old school. I’m well-versed in playground accidents.”

He chuckles, leaning against the porch railing. “That so? Must be a pretty rough school.”

“Brutal,” you agree solemnly. “There were snack thieves and dodgeball champions. It was a jungle.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“It built character,” you say with mock seriousness, then flash him a grin. “Want to come in? I made too much lemonade.”

Oscar nods and follows you inside. The kitchen smells like lemon zest and fresh biscuits. Hattie and Edie are now harrowing your grandfather with questions about the old piano in the corner and whether the house is haunted. He answers everything with a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the attention.

You hand Oscar a glass and settle across from him at the kitchen table. He takes a sip. “You weren’t lying,” he says through another swig. “This is good.”

“Of course not. I take my beverages very seriously.”

“You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m starting to think it might be a compliment.”

You clink your glass against his in cheers. He smiles, and something warm unfurls in his chest. A startling kind of certainty. Like something’s taking root—a real friendship, honest and surprising and entirely unplanned.

Oscar is surprised to find that he doesn’t mind. 

It happens gradually, like most real things do.

You begin spending Saturday afternoons with the Piastri bunch, lounging on their back deck with Hattie and Edie, gossiping about the neighbors or watching Mae attempt increasingly dangerous trampoline flips. You get good at knowing who takes how many sugars in their tea, when to duck because Edie’s chucking a tennis ball, or when Oscar is about to try and quietly leave the room.

You’re there for board games on rainy days and movie nights on Fridays. You help Hattie with her French homework, braid Mae’s hair when her fingers get too clumsy with excitement, and lend Edie your favorite books. Their mum always saves you an extra slice of cake, and their dad asks how your grandfather’s garden is faring this season.

It starts to feel like you’ve always belonged there, wedged into the rhythm of their household like a missing puzzle piece finally found.

Oscar is often quieter than the others, but he’s still a constant. You and he become fixtures in each other’s orbit. Trading messages about school, tagging each other in silly videos, or sending one-word replies that only make sense to the two of you. 

Despite being one year his junior, the two of you are close in a way that you aren’t with the girls. He swears it’s because he met you first, because the two of you have emergency dance parties and cricket watch parties that nobody else knows about.   

He leaves for boarding school, and the absence sits awkwardly on both your chests at first. But he never really disappears. He always texts when he’s back. Always walks you home at least once before he has to leave again. Always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

And then—one summer—he comes home and something’s different.

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t swoon. He doesn’t speak in slow motion. It’s just... subtle.

Oscar stands taller. His shoulders are broader. His voice has deepened slightly. There’s a small scar at the corner of his lip you don’t remember, and when he grins, it strikes you—how he’s grown into himself, soft and sharp all at once.

You catch him staring at you too, once or twice. Like he’s trying to recalibrate what he thought he knew. Your hair is a little longer, and your skin is tanned from all the days in the sun. He remembers the freckles; he doesn’t remember when they became so prominent.

But it never becomes a thing. You don’t talk about it. You fall back into your usual rhythm.

Because even if your faces are a little older, your banter is still quick and familiar. You still chase each other down the street. You still squabble over the last biscuit. He still rolls his eyes at you, and you still prod him for his terrible taste in music.

Whatever has changed, whatever is beginning to, you both keep it tucked away. For now, it’s enough just to have each other nearby.

It’s a fact Oscar remembers as digs his toes into the hot sand. His jaw is tight; he watches the waves break in even swells. The sun’s beating down hard, but he barely feels it. Not with the way his chest still burns from the shouting match earlier.

Hattie had stormed out of the house with her towel clutched like a shield, and Oscar had followed, only because everyone else was pretending like nothing had happened. His sisters always expected him to be the reasonable one, and today—he hadn’t been.

He’d snapped. Something petty. A dig at her choice of music in the car. Then something sharper about her always having to be right. And before he knew it, she’d looked at him like he was someone else. 

He hadn’t apologized.

Now, he sits beneath the shade of a crooked umbrella, arms wrapped around his knees. He watches the group scatter across the sand and into the waves. Hattie’s already out with her board, paddling strong into the break like she’s trying to prove something. Edie is further down the shore, half-buried in a sandcastle war. Mae’s running between them, laughing.

You drop into the sand beside him, skin glinting from seawater, hair tied back and still damp. “You two going for the title of Most Dramatic Siblings today?” you ask, unsurprisingly up to date. Hattie probably told you all about it while the two of you were getting changed. 

Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was a bit of a tosser this morning,” he says dryly. 

You nod, not offering him an out. Just letting the honesty settle.

“She’ll forgive you. Eventually,” you add. “You Piastris always find your way back.”

He tilts his head, watching you. The sunlight makes your nose wrinkle when you squint toward the water. Your shoulders have lost some of their shyness from when he first met you. You’ve become more sure of yourself, laughing louder, teasing easily. Comfortable. Confident. Certain. 

He likes that. 

The two of you sit in silence until Oscar stands, grabbing his board. “I’m going out.”

“Be nice,” you call after him, and he flashes a grin over his shoulder—tight but genuine.

In the surf, Oscar feels the tension bleed out with every push through the waves. The water’s cold and biting, salt sharp in his mouth. He catches sight of Hattie up ahead and paddles after her, trying not to let the guilt slow him down. Hattie notices him, grimaces, and rushes on. 

Trying to prove something. 

The waves pick up. Hattie catches one, standing briefly before wiping out. She resurfaces quickly, almost laughing, but Oscar watches her expression shift just moments later. There’s a sudden pull in the water, subtle but unmistakable. A riptide.

She paddles against it. Wrong move.

Oscar feels the fright hit like a tsunami. 

He’s been scared before. Of course he has. He’s terrible when it comes to horror movies. He’s seen his karting peers fissure into pretty nasty accidents. But this, the fear of this, of his younger sister— 

He starts shouting, but the wind carries his voice sideways. Instinctively, he glances to shore—and sees that you’re already running. Board abandoned, feet flying across wet sand. You make it to him in record time, that crazed look in your eyes mirroring his.

Together, you plunge into the surf. Oscar’s strokes are strong, slicing through the current. He reaches Hattie just as she starts to panic.

“Float! Don’t fight it!” you yell, coming up on her other side.

Oscar grabs her wrist, firm but steady. You’re on the other, speaking calm, clear instructions, guiding her body as the three of you angle sideways out of the current. 

You’re the voice of reason; Oscar is the force that perseveres. 

It’s slow. Exhausting. But eventually, the pull lessens.

You reach the shore heaving, salt-stung, and shaking. Hattie collapses onto her knees, coughing up seawater, and Oscar sinks beside her, heart hammering. His hands rest at her back, as if he’s scared she’ll go down under the moment he lets go. 

Hattie says nothing at first. She just looks at him with wet, furious eyes.

It’s a look Oscar is used to seeing on Hattie’s face. They’re siblings. Of course they squabble, and they fight, and they know where to hit for it to hurt. Such was the curse and blessing of being a brother. 

Underneath all that, though, Oscar goes back to two cardinal truths: Being the eldest, he made his mum and dad parents—but when Hattie came around, they made him a sibling. 

And a sibling he would always be, come hell or high water. 

“You didn’t even say sorry,” Hattie sputters, like that’s still the worst thing that has happened this afternoon. 

Oscar can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh. You hover nearby, giving them space. But not too much.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s I’m sorry for picking a fight, and I’m sorry for being a bad brother sometimes, and I’m sorry I never taught you about riptides. 

Hattie sniffles, then swats at him. “You better be.”

And that’s how they make up.

Later, as the sun begins to dip, casting everything in amber, Oscar finds you rinsing your arms at an outdoor shower.

“Hey,” he says, stepping close with your towel in his hands.

You look over your shoulder. “Hey.”

He shuffles awkwardly. With salt in his hair and gratitude tangled in his ribs, Oscar thinks there’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when the tide pulls under. 

But there’s something deeper, something closer to guilt gnawing at him. 

You sense it, in the same way you know when Oscar’s about to have a bad race weekend or when he’s overwhelmed with schoolwork. Stepping out of the shower, you take your towel, wrap it over your shoulders, and gesture at Oscar to follow you. 

The two of you walk along the shore, away from where Edie is snapping photos of her sandcastle and Mae is reading some trashy romance novel. Hattie is passed out on a beach blanket, the excitement of the near-drowning taking the fight out of her. 

“If she had died,” Oscar tells you, his tongue heavy as lead, “it would’ve been my fault.” 

It’s the kind of thought he figures only you will understand. Not because you have any siblings of your own, not because you had been there, but because you’ve always read Oscar like he was a dog-eared book you could keep under your pillow. 

“She’s fine, though,” you say delicately, but he’s started and he can’t stop. 

“What is wrong with me?” A laugh escapes Oscar—the self-deprecating kind, one that grates more than the sand beneath your feet. “I’ve made so many resolutions and written sad notes and confessed my sins, but it doesn’t seem to help. When I get in a passion—” 

A passion. A fit. With his siblings, with his mates, with you. He can’t count the amount of times his sarcasm has offended you. The instances where he’s made you cry, intentionally or not. 

And when he’s racing. God, when he’s racing. 

In a couple of months, he’s slated to join Formula 4. He has a stellar karting career behind him, one he can barely even remember—because he had seen red throughout it all. Oscar was clinical and cutthroat and cruel the moment he got behind a wheel, and a part of him worries that’s who he’ll always be. 

A man who would stop at nothing to be at the top step of any podium. A boy who would insist on being right like his life depended on it. 

“When I get in a passion,” he tries again, “I get so savage. I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.” 

It’s a damning confession. The kind that could absolutely ruin and unravel Oscar. But he knows, he trusts that it’s safe in your hands. You hum a low sound like he hadn’t just bared his heart out for you to sink your claws into.

“I know what that’s like,” you say, and he has to do a double take. 

“You?” He studies the side of your face, as if checking for insincerity. “You’re never angry.” 

You’re annoyed with him often and you’ve got a hint of fire in everything you say. But there’s never been rage, never been the sort of flame that could incinerate. And so it shocks him all the more when you confess, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life.” 

“You are?” 

“I’m not patient by nature. I just try to not let it get the better of me,” you offer, glancing up at Oscar. 

The two of you have come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline. Soon, you’ll have to get back to his waiting sisters. For now, though, he surveys your expression and finds nothing but the truth. 

He files the facts away in that mental cabinet he has containing what he knows about you. Angry, nearly every day. And then he takes to heart the rest of your words, the roundabout advice of not letting it consume him.

The blaze in him stops roaring for a minute. With you, it’s like a campfire. Inviting and warm. 

Better. You make him better.

“Look at us,” he says, tone almost awed. “After all these years, looks like I can still learn a thing or two from you.” 

There’s something in your eyes that Oscar can’t quite place. You’ve always looked at him a certain way, but he could never really put a word to it. It’s tender and pained all at once; subtle, ultimately, buried underneath whatever he needs you to be at the moment. 

“It’s what friends are for,” you respond, your voice catching on the word in the middle. He pretends not to notice. 

Friends.  

Oscar’s Formula 4 debut is everything he thought it would be.

The pressure, the lights, the nerves so sharp they buzz under his skin—it’s all there, and then some. He tries to soak in every second, from the chorus of engines roaring around him to the feel of the wheel under his gloved hands. But even with everything happening so quickly, even in the blur of adrenaline and pit stops, there’s still time for his thoughts to drift back home.

More specifically: To you.

It starts small. Just a notification that you’ve made a new post. A photo.

You with your boyfriend.

A guy Oscar’s met once, maybe twice. The sort of guy who plays guitar at parties and wears cologne that smells like department store samples. He isn’t bad—just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t match the version of you Oscar has always known. The one who once danced on a porch, hair a mess, daring him to keep up.

He doesn’t know what to do with the bitter feeling that curdles in his chest. You’re not his, per se. You’ve never been. But surely you could do better than this Abercrombie-wearing, Oasis-playing asswipe. 

Summer arrives like it always does—hot and sprawling, with cicadas humming in the trees and long days that stretch lazily into nights. Oscar is home for a few weeks between races. 

You’re still around, too. A little less, though, because your boyfriend is a demanding thing who insists he “doesn’t like Oscar’s vibe.” You fight for the friendship, citing it as a non-negotiable, and when Oscar finds out, he doesn’t even try to hide his smugness. 

The two of you steal away one evening, climbing onto the roof of the Piastri house with cans of lemonade and a bag of sour candy. It’s tradition by now. The tin roof is warm beneath you, and the stars blink faintly above, a faded scattering against the navy sky.

You sit close, your shoulder brushing his every so often.

“You’ve changed,” you say, head tilted toward him.

“Have not.”

“You look taller.”

“I’ve always been taller.”

You laugh, a soft sound. “Okay. You’ve changed in a good way.”

Oscar bumps your knee with his. “So have you.”

The two of you are older, now, more accepting of the facts of life. Time is not your enemy. It’s just time. You’re still in school, and Oscar is still racing. Your paths have diverged, but the road home is one you both know like the back of your hand. 

You go quiet, fiddling with the tab on your lemonade. He watches you closely, trying to read what you’re not saying. You’re nervous. He figures that much out from the fiddling. Nervous about what, though, he can’t— 

“I want to run away with him,” you say suddenly.

Oscar stiffens. He wants to call you out for making such a stupid joke, for not having all your screws on straight. You go on, eyes fixed on the dark street below. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Eloping,” you muse. “I’ve never been one for big weddings, anyway.” 

“Why?”

“Why don’t I like big weddings?” 

“No, stupid. Why the sudden plan of eloping?” 

“Because I love him.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, the slope of your cheek in the half-light, the determination behind your words. It doesn’t sit right. This isn’t you. You make rash decisions, but none so life-altering. Not anything that would give your grandfather grief, and most especially not anything that would disclude Oscar. 

“You’ll be bored of him in two years,” Oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the words hang between you. Those two things could co-exist. Your love for this loser (Oscar’s word; not yours), and the fact that there was nothing in the world that could electrify quite like your friendship with Oscar Piastri. 

He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He hadn’t realized this would be so serious, that he’d been away long enough for you to start considering marriage with what’s-his-face. 

“I don’t expect you to know what it’s like, Oscar,” you say eventually. “To want to be shackled.”

And there it is. 

You’ve always supported Oscar’s career. You have years worth of team merchandise for all his loyalties; you’ve been there for every race that mattered, each one that you could make. 

But you were also selfish in ways that his family wasn’t. You got moody whenever he had to go away after breaks. You made snide comments about him always being the one who leaves. He’s grown to tolerate that petulance, to take in stride your fears of him failing to come back in one piece. 

For the first time ever, Oscar feels what you do. And, God, it doesn’t feel good. 

“I just hate that you’re thinking of leaving me.” The words are past his lips before he can reel them in. 

It sounds desperate, so unlike him, that he understands the shock that flits across your face. There’s a split-second where he sees a hint of anger, too, like you’re mad at Oscar for being honest, for saying all this after his redeye flights and janky timezones. 

He goes on, because what’s the point of backing down now? “Don’t leave,” he presses. 

“O…”

You’re the only one who calls him that. O. OJ, when you’re feeling playful—Oscar Jack. He’s teased you time and time again about not falling back on Osc, as if you were desperate to carve out a nickname that belonged to you and you alone. 

“God,” he interrupts, eyes turning skyward, as if the stars might hold answers. “We’re really not kids anymore, huh?”

You were kids together. Now, you’re teenagers—young adults. Complicated, messy. Entangled in more than limbs and waves.

“Our childhood was bound to end,” you say, and then you reach out to put a hand on his knee. He considers joking something like Careful, your boyfriend might try to pick a fight and you know I have a mean left hook, but then you might come to your senses and pull your touch away. 

He doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. You just sit there on the roof, side by side, listening to the quiet hum of summer and the distant echoes of who you used to be.

You break up with your boyfriend sometime in early spring, citing incompatibility in a text that Oscar reads while lying flat on the floor of his hotel room in Baku. 

He blinks at the message, reads it twice, and then tosses his phone across the bed. The relief that floods through him is disproportionate, almost unsettling. He chalks it up to instinct. Or something like that.

He tells himself it’s just the same feeling he gets when Edie starts seeing some guy from her literature elective, a summer not too long after you joked about eloping. Maybe it’s the older brother in him, wanting to be protective of the women in his life. 

That’s what he’s muttering to himself when you catch him scowling at Edie’s date from across the local food park. He was chaperoning once again, though this time Edie had banished him to hang out with you while she was making heart eyes at this lanky transfer student. 

“I thought you’d be pleased,” you tease Oscar, popping a chip into your mouth.

Oscar doesn’t look away from where Edie is laughing at something the guy just said. “At the idea of anybody coming to take Edie away? No, thank you.”

You smirk. “You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”

He finally glances at you, one brow raised. “I’d like to see anyone try.”

“So would I!” you shoot back, grinning as you sip your soda. Oscar’s withstanding singleness was something the two of you joked about often, even though he always reasoned that he was busy. Busy with racing, busy with family, busy with you. “That poor soul wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Oscar opens his mouth to reply, but then you pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. It’s a thing you picked up since you got to uni, and Oscar’s frown deepens at the sight of it. At your audacity. Before you can light it, he snatches it from your fingers.

“Oi!” you protest.

He waves it out of your reach. “None of that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

You lunge for it, but he’s already up and jogging backward, the cigarette held aloft in triumph. You chase after him with a string of cusses, half-laughing, half-serious, and Edie and her date pause to watch you and Oscar bolt down the street like kids again—legs flailing, shouts echoing against the sidewalk.

“Are they—?” Edie’s date asks, and the Piastri girl only heaves out a sigh.

Oscar doesn’t stop until he hits the corner, chest heaving from laughter. You skid to a halt beside him, hair wild in the wind, eyes bright. The cigarette’s long gone, tossed in a bin somewhere behind them. 

“That was expensive,” you whine. 

“More incentive for you to quit it, then,” he responds. 

You glare up at him. He rubs a knuckle into your hair, his free hand snaking to your pocket to grab the rest of the pack. You screech profanities as he bins it, but he makes it up to you with a meal of your choosing. It takes a sizable chunk out of the racing salary he sets aside for leisure, but you’re unrepentant and he’s wrapped around your finger. 

You’re both older now. But sometimes, it still feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Albert Park is golden in the late afternoon. 

The sun spills through the treetops, casting shadows across the path as Oscar kicks absently at a stray pebble, hands buried in his jacket pockets. You’re walking beside him, careful to match his pace even as his strides grow longer with whatever is bubbling up inside him. 

A new year. A new contract. A new team, new plan, new person he has to be. 

“It’s all happening so fast,” he mutters. “The Renault thing. Tests. Travel. They said it’s everything I ever wanted—and it is, it is—but I can’t stop feeling like I’m coming apart.”

You glance at him, brows furrowed. “Coming apart how?” 

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, but you’ve always had this philosophy that helped him be more honest around you. Say it first, you’d say. Backtrack later.

“I’m just not good like my sisters,” he blurts out, reaching and settling for a familiar comparison that might make him more comprehensible. “They’re—Hattie’s top of her class, Edie’s already talking uni offers, Mae’s got that whole ‘brightest light in the room’ thing. And me? I’m angry, and I’m restless, and I drive fast cars because I don’t know how to sit still.”

“You don’t have to be, O.” 

He lets out a dry laugh. "Why? Are you about to tell me that I’m patient and kind, that I do not envy and I do not boast?"

You stop walking. He does too, when he notices.

You’re just a step or two behind him, the afternoon sun bathing you in a light that practically rivals the warmth you radiate. But there’s something so utterly stricken on your expression, something so undeniably raw that Oscar feels everything click into place.

The look on your face is one his parents sometimes give each other. He’s seen it in movies, seen it in the photos of his mates with long-term relationships. It’s the expression you’ve given him for years, and years, and years, and he feels like the world’s biggest fool for missing all the signs. 

“No,” you say softly, denying him of his cruelty, of his failures. You think of him like that—patient, kind, humble. 

The makings of a person who deserves—

Oscar begins to shake his head, saying, “No. No.” 

“It’s no use, Oscar,” you say, your fingers curling into fists at your sides, and that’s his first sign that this is really about to happen. Not O, not Piastri, not any of the dozen annoying nicknames you’ve assigned him over the years. 

“Please, no—” 

“We gotta have it out—” 

“No, no—” 

Your conversation overlaps. It’s a twisted kind of waltz, as if the two of you are out of tune and out of step for the first time in your lives. Oscar starts pacing. Like he might somehow be able to run from what’s about to come. 

You barrel on. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Oscar,” you breathe, following his panicked steps. “I couldn’t help it, and I’ve tried to show it but you wouldn’t let me, which is fine—”

“It’s not—” 

“I’m going to make you hear it now, and you’re going to give me an answer, because I can’t go on like this.” 

He flinches, takes a half-step back. Tries to say your name with more of those despairing please, don’ts, which fall on deaf ears. 

You step toward him like the whole park is tilting and he’s the only thing keeping you upright. The words pour out too quickly now, too long held back. Years worth of yearning, bearing down on an unassuming Saturday. 

“I gave up smoking. I gave up everything you didn’t like,” you say. “And I’m happy I did, it’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I—”

You stutter, swaying on your feet like the weight of your next words was too heavy for you to shoulder. You soldier through like a champion; that’s why Oscar listens, hears them out, even though they rip through him as if he’s crashed right into a wall. 

“You know, I figured you’d love me, Oscar.” 

A damning confession. The kind that should be safe in Oscar’s hands, but his fingers are shaky and his eyes are wide and he thinks he’s going to die, then and there, over how absolutely heartbroken you look that he’s not agreeing with you immediately. That his love was something vouchsafed, a promise for a later time. 

“And I realize I’m not half good enough,” you whimper, “and I’m not this great girl—” 

“You are.” Helplessness wrenches the words out of Oscar’s chest. It’s the same emotion that has him surging forward, his hands darting out to hold your shoulders and keep you upright, keep you looking at him. “You’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you and I’m so proud of you. I just—”

He falters. You gave him your honesty, so he fights to give you his. 

“I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to,” he confesses. “I don’t know why.” 

Your voice gets impossibly smaller. “You can’t?”

His eyes close, just for a moment, before he answers. “No,” he says slowly, each word measured against your frantic ones. “I can’t change how I feel, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so desperately sorry, but I just can’t help it.” 

You step back; his hands fall to his sides. The distance opens like a wound.

“I can’t love anyone else, Oscar,” you say dazedly. “I’ll only love you.” 

“It would be a disaster if we dated,” Oscar insists. “We’d be miserable. We both have such quick tempers—” 

“If you loved me, Oscar, I would be a perfect saint!”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed.”

And he has. He’s had sleepovers with you, wondering what it might feel like to wrap his arm around your waist. He had once contemplated holding your hand during a movie. He figured it would be a given; no one would bat an eye. You and Oscar. 

Except his heart had never fully gotten the memo, and now he pays the price for only ever being able to love the thrill of a race. 

Your voice catches on your next words. “Everyone expects it,” you say in a ditch attempt to change his mind. “Grandpa. Your parents, your sisters. I've never begged you for anything, but—say yes, and let’s be happy together, Oscar.” 

“I can't," he repeats, each syllable heavy. “I can’t say yes truly, so I’m not going to say it at all.”

The evening light keeps on glowing. The world doesn’t end. But you feel like it might've anyway, and he’s right there in that boat with you. You’re willing to settle for scraps, while Oscar refuses to give you half-measures. The silence between you stretches taut, pulling thinner and thinner until it threatens to snap.

“You’ll see that I’m right, eventually,” he says. Like he believes it will make the truth hurt less. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

You laugh bitterly. "I'd rather die."

He looks like you slapped him. “Don’t say that.” 

You’re walking, now, your pace quick as you hurtle down the park pathway with the vengeance of a woman scorned. He calls your name and follows, keeping a sizable distance between you should you not want him to close. 

“Listen, you'll find some guy who will adore you, and treat you right, and love you like you deserve,” he pleads, skidding in front of you and forcing you to do a full stop. “But— I wouldn’t. Look at me. I’m homely, and I’m awkward, and I’m mean—”

“I love you, Oscar,” you say, as if you’re savoring the first and last times you will get to say the words.  

He goes on. He can’t answer that, can’t say anything to those words. “And you’d be ashamed of me—” 

“I love you, Oscar.”

“And we would always fight. We can’t help it even now!" He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll never give up racing, and you’ll have to hide all your vices, and we would be unhappy. And we’d wish we hadn’t done it, and everything will be terrible."

He gasps for air. You blink back the sting in your eyes. “Is there anything more?” you ask. 

He meets your gaze, and finds nothing there but rightful heartbreak. “No,” he murmurs. “Nothing more.”

You shoulder past him. He tilts his head back and eyes the sky for a moment, praying to be struck down by any higher power that exists. “Except that—” he starts, and you turn around so fast. 

You turn, retracing your steps, and the guilt wells up in him like a faucet that had burst. He realizes—you think he’s going to take it back. You think it’s going to be a … but I love you instead of an I love you, but… 

“I don’t think I'll ever fall in love,” he manages. “I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up.”

Your expression crumples. “I think you’re wrong about that,” you sigh.  

“No.”

You shake your head, slowly. “I think you will care for somebody, Oscar. You’ll find someone, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way and your will.”

Oscar’s way. Oscar’s will. Two things he’s believed in wholeheartedly, until they’ve both failed him. Failed you. 

You take a step back. The anger you once claimed to always have is somewhere, there, beneath all the hurt and the love. Oscar sees it, now. All of it; all of you.

“And I’ll watch,” you add. 

Oscar will love someone— and you’ll watch. 

The wind rustles the leaves above. A bird sings somewhere in the distance. But all you hear is the sound of something breaking open, and bleeding between you. 

The deep and dying breath of the love you’d been working on. 

Oscar doesn’t see you much after that night in Albert Park. 

You’re still around, still next door. He hears you laughing with Hattie, helping Mae with a school project, or chatting idly with his mum over the fence. But it’s not the same. Something fundamental had shifted.

He tries. God knows he tries. He greets you when he sees you on the street. Makes light jokes. Keeps it easy, breezy, friendly. But every conversation feels like a performance, a pale imitation of what it used to be.

He’d broken both your hearts. He knows that too well. 

Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, not even Hattie, who always had a sixth sense for these things. He lets you control that narrative; he’s sure you’ll tell his sisters, and they’ll all have something to say. Surprisingly, none of them bring it up. He wonders if that’d been your condition with them, and he is grateful, and he is angry, and he is so, so sorry.

He channels everything into racing. He throws himself into his training, enough that it gets him trophies and podiums and a contract with a frontrunning team. 

His dream—the one he’d chased his whole life—is here. 

And it’s everything he ever wanted. Almost.

A few days before he’s due to fly out for testing with McLaren, he finds himself in the backyard, watering the garden with Mae. She’s picking mint leaves with the same dramatic flair she does everything. He doesn’t notice when she says your name until the silence that follows makes him realize he’s been staring blankly at the hose.

You have a part-time job now, Mae had said. Oscar knows. Not from you. Rarely does he know anything about you from you nowadays. He watches your life in fifteen Instagram stories, in the Facebook posts of your grandfather. He hears about you from his parents and whichever of his sisters is feeling particularly brave that day. 

It’s so sudden, his urge to be honest. And so, for the first time since what happened in the park—he lets himself speak his mind. 

“Maybe I was too quick in turning her down,” he says, voice low. Contemplative. 

Mae looks up from the mint. She looks a bit surprised, like she hadn’t expected to be the one to get Oscar to finally crack after over a year of dancing around the topic. 

“Do you love her?” she asks outright. 

He fucking hesitates. 

His throat feels dry. 

“If she asked me again, I think I would say yes,” he says instead, his gaze fixed on the poor tomato plant now drowning in water. “Do you think she’ll ask me again?” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Mae straighten. She brushes her hands against her jeans and stares straight at him, willing him to look at her. “But do you love her?” she repeats, and he knows it’s not a question he’s going to escape. 

“I want to be loved,” Oscar admits. The words taste like copper.

Mae doesn't flinch. “That's not the same as loving. If you wanted to be loved, then get a fucking fan club,” she spits. 

Her voice is firm, but not cruel. It lands with the weight of care disguised as exasperation. And Oscar feels so much, then, but above all he feels gratitude that his sisters love you like one of their own. Their fierce protectiveness of your welfare—in the face of Oscar’s indecision—knocks some much-needed sense into him. 

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

“She deserves more than piecemeal affection, Oscar,” Mae adds, softening. “You can’t go halfsies with someone like her.”

Oscar knows his sister is right. 

Something aches in his chest, then. He can’t tell if it’s loneliness or the shape of losing you, still carved somewhere in his chest. Beneath the ache of what he turned away is the terrible fear that he never really understood what he was saying no to.

“I won’t do anything stupid,” he promises Mae. 

Later that afternoon, Oscar is pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when movement catches his eye through the window. He turns and sees you biking past with Hattie. Your carefree laughter carries across the breeze, light and familiar. Your hair catches the sun.

You glance up and see him. There’s a pause. Beyond the cursory small talk, the two of you haven’t really talked much this break. He understands why you need your space., and so he never presses, never pushes. 

Even though he can’t help but think of how a pre-confession you might have reacted. How you would’ve ditched your bike and slammed into the house, demanding he pour you a drink, too. Or how you would’ve goaded him into a race until the two of you were spilling onto the pavement, all breathless laughter and skinned knees.

As it is, all Oscar gets is a polite smile and a half-wave. He doesn’t know if it’s a hello or a goodbye. 

He raises his hand, waves back. He watches until you disappear around the corner.

And then he keeps watching, long after you’re gone.

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: Stupid stupid stupid 

I hope this email finds you well. 

Actually, I hope it never finds you. This is a bit stupid. A lot stupid. But I’ve just had my first proper testing and I wanted to text you about it, except I wasn’t sure how you might feel to hear from me. I reached for my phone, opened our text thread, and then decided to fake an email to you instead. 

You’re right. It’s definitely more orange than papaya. 

And Lando Norris is not so bad. I think you’d like him. But not like like him. I’m not sure, actually. We could find out. Or not.

This is stupid. Bye. 

— O. (McLaren Technology Centre)

*** 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: I don’t know what to call this one

Hey,

Doha's airport smells like cleaning chemicals and tired people. I watched a family fall asleep upright on a bench. The dad had his hand curled around the kid's backpack like he was scared someone would run off with it. I don't know why I'm telling you this. 

Maybe because it's 2AM and I'm tired and I can't sleep on planes unless you're next to me. Which is stupid, because you were never on that many flights with me. But the ones you were? I slept like a rock.

I hope you're well. I hope you're sleeping.

—O. (Doha International Airport) 

*** 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: New Year 

Happy New Year.

I watched the fireworks from the hotel rooftop. I wish I was back in Melbourne, but stuff made it not-possible. 

It was cold. Everyone had someone to kiss. I had a glass of champagne and a view. 

You came to mind. You always do when things start or end. I'm starting to think that's what you are to me. The start and the end.

Love, O. (Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo) 

Edited to add: It was midnight when I wrote all that stuff. I’m rereading it now, hungover at the breakfast buffet. Guess I can be a bit of a romantic too, huh? Although I think it’s only ever with you. 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: You're in my dreams 

I dreamed about you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jacket you got on sale for $5, the one you claimed made you look mega. You did not look mega. You looked like someone lost a bet.

You hugged me and told me everything would be okay. Then I woke up and it wasn’t.

I know I don’t get to tell you this anymore, but I miss you.

—O. (Tokyo Bay Ariake Washington Hotel) 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: Hahaha

I heard someone with your exact laugh. Turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

It wasn’t you.

You’d tease me for how dramatic that sounds. You always said I was a little too sentimental for a boy who liked going fast.

Still thinking of you.

—O. (Silverstone Circuit) 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: If I had said yes…

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes that day in Albert Park.

I don’t know if we would’ve worked. Maybe we would have burned bright and fast and hurt each other in the end. Or maybe we would’ve grown into each other like roots. I don’t know. I just know I still think about it.

And that’s not fair. And I would never tell a soul. I just 

wonder.

Sometimes. 

Always your O. (Yas Marina Circuit)

The glitch hits sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. local time.

Oscar doesn’t notice at first. He’s still jet-lagged from the flight from Abu Dhabi, half-awake on his phone in bed, replying to a team manager's message. It's not until he opens his inbox to forward a document and sees the string of outbox confirmations—all with your name in the recipient line—that he realizes something is very, very wrong.

His breath catches.

He stares at the screen for a long, stunned moment before scrambling up from bed, heart in his throat. He checks the Sent folder. It’s all there. Every last one. The emails he never meant to send.

They'd been his safekeepings. His way of getting through the ache without adding more weight to yours. Some were barely a few sentences; others pages long. And all of them, every last word, are now sitting in your inbox like little bombs waiting to go off.

He Googles it with trembling fingers. Gmail glitch sends drafts. 

He sees the headlines flooding in. Tech sites confirm that a rare global sync error had triggered thousands of unsent drafts to be sent automatically. They call it “an unprecedented failure.” Users are up in arms. Memes are already spreading.

Oscar wants to fucking hurl.

He’s home for the winter holidays. Back in Melbourne, back in his childhood room with the familiar creak in the floorboard by the desk. And you—you’re just next door.

You. With those emails.

He covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms down slowly.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself. 

There’s no escape to this. Just the silent, inescapable weight of every unsaid thing now said. Every truth, every maybe, every I thought of you today signed off with hotel names and airport codes and times when he was still trying to figure out how to stop missing you.

And now you know. Every word of it. Every selfish, unfair thought that he didn’t deserve to have about you, not after he’d ripped your heart right out of your chest. 

He peeks out the window before he can stop himself. Your lights are on. 

For some reason, Oscar is reminded of the book you had been so obsessed with as a child. The classic Great Gatsby; the millionaire with his green light at the edge of the dock. Oscar never really cared much for the metaphor of it until now, until he stares at the filtered, warm light streaking through your curtains like it’s something he will forever be in relentless pursuit of. 

But then your light flickers off, and Oscar stumbles back down to his bed. 

You’re going to sleep, he realizes with a breath of relief. He sinks into the mattress with a thousand curses against modern technology. 

Oscar tells himself he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Explain everything. Try to salvage what’s left of the peace you’ve both learned to live in, however shaky and distant it is. He’ll explain that he didn’t send them on purpose. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to—

A soft knock at the window makes him bolt upright.

He hasn’t heard that sound in years. Not since you were kids and the ladder in his backyard was your shared secret. 

His breath catches. He doesn’t move right away. 

He has to be dreaming, he thinks dazedly, but then he hears it again. Three quick taps. A familiar rhythm.

Oscar throws the covers off and crosses the room in two strides. He pulls the curtain aside.

You’re standing on the top rung of the ladder, and he briefly contemplates making a run for it again. 

Instead, he throws the window open. You climb in without a word, landing on the floor of his bedroom with the same ease you always had. You’re in cotton pajamas with a hastily thrown-on hoodie, which—whether you remember or not—had been one of Oscar’s from years and years ago. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” he breathes. 

“And you’re in love with me,” you say without preamble. 

Accusation. Question. 

Fact? 

Oscar is frozen like a deer caught in headlights. You’re staring up at him, searching, with that same matchstick flame of anger that has carried you through life so far. 

When he doesn’t immediately counter you, you go on. “Do you love me because I love you?” you ask, and the question knocks the wind out of Oscar. 

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not like that.”

He— he would never forgive himself, if his affection for you was nothing more than an attempt at reciprocation. 

You stare at him through the darkness. “Why, then?” you press, because of course you deserve to know why. 

His throat works around the answer. It’s a confession that’s been in the making for more than a year. In some ways, it’s been there since he almost sat on you at that damn house party. The words tumble out of him, overdue but not any less sincere. 

“I love you because you’re a terrible dancer,” he says, “and you know how to swim against riptides, and you’re the person I think of when I’ve had a bad free practice and when I'm on the top step of a podium. I love you. It just took me a little while to get here, but I do.” 

“O,” you start. He’s not ready to hear it. 

He steps back, as if to give you space he should’ve offered long ago. “I don’t expect you to have waited,” he says hastily. “I would never—I would never ask you to reconsider, not when I know the type of person I am and how much time it took for me to get here.”

“Oscar.” 

“But I love you. I don't know how not to.”

The room is silent, but it feels like it holds the weight of a thousand words left unsaid. The ones he wrote. 

You remind Oscar, gently, of what you said in Albert Park those many years ago. “I can’t love anybody else either,” you say, your eyes never leaving his face even as he begins to panic, starts to retreat. 

He swallows hard, his throat moving with the effort. “I should have realized sooner,” he babbles. “I should’ve known. I—” 

You reach out, your hand slipping into his. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

It feels so good—your fingers in between the spaces of his. He wishes he could appreciate it more, but his race-brain has kicked in, and he’s suddenly not the calm, cool, and collected Oscar that everybody in the world think they know. 

No, he’s your Oscar. The one who’s a little bit of a wreck. The one who is always racing away from something. 

“I wasn’t kind,” he says, voice tight. “I let you go. I thought I was doing the right thing. and maybe I did, but it still hurt you. It ruined everything.”

“We’re here now,” you say simply. “That means something, doesn’t it?”

“What if we ruin what’s left? What if it doesn't work?”

You smile at him, soft and sure. “Then it doesn’t. But I don’t think we’ll fail.” 

“I’m still homely, and awkward, and—” 

Mean, he meant to say, but then you’re pressing your lips against his. 

It silences all his fretting, all his guilt. For a second, he doesn’t move, stunned into stillness, and then he kisses you back like he’s falling into something he’s wanted his whole life but never believed he could have. Like he can’t breathe unless he's doing this, unless he’s kissing you.

When he’s more sane, when he’s less panicked, this is something the two of you will talk about. He knows that. 

In this very moment, though, he can only watch his sharp edges dull; the fury of his rage, extinguish. The softness of your understanding, the kindness of your patience, the gentleness of your kiss. It’s all he wanted, all he needs.

His hands frame your face, hesitant, reverent, like he can't believe you’re really here with him. That you waited. That you still want him. 

In his head, he makes a promise: If he must hit the ground running, he will make sure it’s towards you.

When the two of you pull back for air, you murmur teasingly against his lips, “Your emails found me well.” 

He giggles, a short, incredulous sound, before kissing the laughter right out of your mouth. ⛐

[itslusii]

He wouldn't have left us. He wouldn't have. // Jackie, wake up! No! No, Jackie, wake up!

DEAD POETS SOCIETY (1989) YELLOWJACKETS (2021— )

[itslusii]

not my two worlds colliding…

He wouldn't have left us. He wouldn't have. // Jackie, wake up! No! No, Jackie, wake up!

DEAD POETS SOCIETY (1989) YELLOWJACKETS (2021— )

[itslusii]

i am in the same situation today and even worse i refuse to go into twitter but since im SO addicted to the app, the first thing i did when i woke up was to open it. I have a long day ahead of me.

i haven’t been able to watch the new yellowjackets episode and it’s driving me nuts because i still have a full day of uni ahead of me, dance class AND finishing uni work. 💀

[itslusii]

i want need a boyfriend

IN THE DETAILS

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "Don't you think that maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?" - Lady Bird (2017)

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.6K ᝰ GENRE: a case study: to be loved is to be known ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: requested by @princesspiastri007 ꨄ babe you have given me so many phenomenal ideas but this one.... grabbed my by the neck and didn't let go. sometimes, love is in the details...

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Oscar knows you’re having a bad day before you do.

It’s not in the way you sigh or shut your laptop a little too hard, not even in the bite of your voice when you say you’re fine—though he catches all of that too. It’s in the way you make your tea.

Usually, you let it steep for three minutes. He’s timed it—curiosity at first, then just habit. You add just a little honey, enough to coat the spoon but not drip. Oat milk, two swirls, no more. But today, you dunk the teabag three times and toss it. No honey. Milk straight from the carton like it doesn’t matter.

Oscar watches all of it from the kitchen doorframe, shoulder leaned against the wood, still in his hoodie from media day, the one you stole two nights ago and returned this morning with a yawn and a kiss.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re too busy staring into the mug like it holds some kind of answer.

He doesn’t say anything. Just slips past you and pulls out the jar of honey, the spoon, the milk from the fridge that’s been open too long. You let him take the mug. You don’t ask questions when he remakes it properly. Three minutes on the clock. He hands it back to you warm and right, and that’s when you finally breathe.

“Thanks,” you mumble, curling into the corner of the couch.

He sits across from you, ankles brushing yours, arms folded loosely. He doesn’t press. You’ll talk when you’re ready. You always do.

Oscar has learned to read you in the quiet.

You chew your lip when you’re solving something. You bite your straw when you’re bored. You fiddle with your ring when you're overthinking, and you wear his hoodie when you miss him but don’t want to say it out loud.

He keeps an eye on how your playlist changes depending on your mood. Bon Iver when you’re homesick. That one ridiculously long Taylor Swift mashup when you need a cry. You claim you’re not predictable, but he’s learned your patterns like racetracks—memorized them turn for turn, heartbeat for heartbeat.

Oscar knows you hate crowds but love airports. You like being picked up from arrivals because it makes you feel chosen. He shows up every time, even when you insist you’ll get an Uber. He gets there early, waits with a sign that always says something different—once it said “Hot Person I Missed a Lot.” You blushed the whole ride home.

He watches how you always tuck your left foot under your right thigh when you're cold. How you pull your sleeves over your hands when you're overwhelmed. He carries spare hair ties in his pocket just in case. Buys extra lemon sherbets because you get weirdly nostalgic for them once every few months. He keeps your favorite lip balm in the glovebox of his car because you once forgot it before a long drive and sulked for two hours.

Oscar knows when you’re happy because your whole face goes quiet. Not loud like the movies say. Not bright and grinning and explosive. No, your happiness is softer. It's in how your shoulders drop a little, like you’ve let the day go. It's in the way you hum under your breath, off-key and careless, usually something stupid like the jingle from that grocery ad you hate but sing anyway.

He hears it before he sees it—that little tune trailing from the bathroom while you brush your teeth or fold laundry. It always makes him smile, even if he doesn’t know the words.

When you’re happy, you talk to things. The cat that always sits on your windowsill even though it isn’t yours. The kettle. The plants you insist are thriving, even though they’re mostly brown.

“Don’t give me that look,” you’ll mutter to a cactus, and Oscar will peek over the rim of his book, just to watch you argue with a plant. That’s when he’s sure: you’re okay.

But when you’re mad—

Oh, he knows.

There’s a difference between being mad and being mad at him, and Oscar has mapped that line like a tightrope.

When you're just mad, everything gets fast. You clean like it’s an Olympic sport. You open drawers like you’re trying to win a fight against gravity. You text your group chat aggressively and then toss your phone face-down, muttering “Ugh, whatever,” as if that clears the air.

Oscar stays out of your way on those days. He keeps your favorite snack stocked and says things like, “Want to yell into a pillow?” which you’ve actually taken him up on more than once.

But when you're mad at him? That’s different. That’s colder.

You go quiet—not calm, but too still. You answer questions with one word. You say “Oscar” like it’s just a name, not his. And you do this thing where you don’t close doors all the way—just enough to not be open. That’s the part that kills him.

He’ll sit with it. With the silence and the space and the ache. He’s not someone who pushes. But later, when the worst of it has thawed, he’ll crawl into your space and bump his nose against yours and whisper, “Still mad?” like a secret, like an offering.

(He always lets you win, even when you're not keeping score.)

And when you’re getting sick—

God. He catches it before you do.

You get stubborn about it, like your body could be tricked. You’ll insist you're just tired or cold or definitely not getting a sore throat, while Oscar is already grabbing the lemon and the cough drops and setting your favorite blanket out on the couch.

You get clumsy when you’re coming down with something—drop your phone, bump into corners, forget where you put your glasses. Your nose twitches when you sniff, and your voice gets this quiet rasp to it, like you’re speaking from underwater.

He never says I told you so.

He just bundles you up like you’re made of paper, presses a kiss to your forehead, and says, “You always get like this right before the rain,” even if there’s not a cloud in sight.

He reads you in the way people read their favorite novels—by heart, by instinct, by the dog-eared pages and the parts where the spine is softest.

Because you don't need to say it out loud.

You never really have.

He knows.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? Love isn’t in the big declarations. It's in the noticing. The remembering.

It’s in all the things you don’t have to ask for.

And Oscar knows when you’re in love. 

You don’t say it either. Not much, anyway. Not in so many words. But you do all the little things.

He notices. Of course he does.

You set your alarm ten minutes earlier when he’s home, just so you can make him tea the way he likes it. Something floral, but not overpowering. Strong, but not bitter. You pour it into the mug he always reaches for, the chipped one from Melbourne with the faded logo and the worn handle that fits his grip like it was made for him.

You let him ramble about tire degradation and strategy calls and wind tunnels, even when you have no idea what he’s talking about. You nod, lean in, ask questions. Sometimes you draw little race tracks on the corner of your grocery lists, and he finds them stuck to the fridge and stares at them longer than he should.

You pack snacks in his carry-on, even when he tells you not to fuss. Always the same ones: the protein bars he pretends not to like but always finishes. The mints he chews during press. The weird sour candy from your hometown that he claimed was “mid” the first time but now hoards in his glovebox.

He knows you always fold his hoodie and tuck it beside your pillow when he's away. You try to hide it, like you don’t want to seem too soft, but he’s seen the way you bury your face in it when you think he’s not looking.

And when he’s stressed—after a race that went sideways, after a flight delay or a wrong headline—you don’t ask if he’s okay. You just sit beside him, legs tangled up in his, and let him be quiet. You bring him orange slices, his favorite vinyl, your hand resting on his knee like a promise. Like I know. I’ve got you.

You kiss his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. You whisper things like “drive safe” and “text me when you land,” and you mean it like prayers.

You don’t say I love you every day.

But you wait up for him every time. You press kisses to the back of his neck when he’s brushing his teeth. You memorize his schedule. You ask how he’s really feeling, even when he’s trying to hide it behind a half-smile and a shrug.

Oscar knows you’re in love because you see him.

The way he sees you.

You once asked him what he thought love looked like.

He didn’t know then. Not really.

Now he thinks maybe it looks like remembering. Like paying attention. Like making tea the way someone likes it, even when they forget how to make it for themselves.

Oscar doesn’t say I love you often. He’s never been great with words. But he watches you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a loud, fast world.

And maybe that’s the same thing.

Maybe it always was.