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dearlenore · 3 months ago

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THE FIRST, FIRST LOVE COMPLEX • S.REID • PT2

SUMMARY: after revealing the shocking truth of Spencer Reid’s first, first love, the team does as the unsub instructs, retracing his steps all the way to Las Vegas.

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears sun dresses and bikinis, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of eating disorder, mentions of death, stalking, etc

a/n: i finally wrote part two please don’t hurt me

w/c: 4.8K

PT1

TAGLIST: @miyah-kaulitz @celestial-dome @lqu91s @ningeology @anthropsych @kore-of-the-underworld (sorry if I couldn’t tag u angels🥹💋)

The BAU’s jet touched down in New York just past noon, the sky a dull, unbroken sheet of grey. Heavy clouds clung to the tips of the city’s steel giants, muting the sunlight and casting a somber haze over the skyline. The low hum of the engines faded, but Spencer’s mind continued to race — fast and relentless — like a needle skipping on a broken record.

He sat rigid in his seat, shoulders tight and posture stiff. While the others moved with calm efficiency, gathering their bags and briefing one another quietly, Spencer remained frozen. His fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against his knee, each tap betraying the nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin.

She’s out there somewhere.

The thought looped through his mind like a mantra — or a curse. Every worst-case scenario unraveled in his head, each one more suffocating than the last. His last memory of you played over and over, taunting him. Your bright smile had been framed by golden sunlight, hair tousled by a lazy breeze as you lounged on a park bench with a book balanced in your lap. He remembered the way you’d tucked your hair behind your ear without looking up, too engrossed in the pages to notice him watching.

She’s safe like this, he had thought at the time. Happy. Warm. Free.

But now? Now you were somewhere in the heart of a city too vast, too unpredictable — a place that swallowed people whole. And Spencer had no idea where you were or what the unsub’s next move would be. That uncertainty clawed at him, tightening his chest until breathing felt like a conscious effort.

“Reid.”

Hotch’s voice cut through the spiral of thoughts — calm yet commanding. Spencer blinked, suddenly aware that the others were standing near the exit, waiting for him.

“JJ and I will handle this,” Hotch said firmly. “You stay here and go through the evidence again.”

“I should be there,” Spencer shot back, his voice too sharp, too fast. His breath hitched. “If he contacts her, if there’s a pattern I missed—”

“You’re too close to this,” Hotch interrupted, tone steady but unyielding. “We need her calm when we find her, not terrified because you’re pacing like you are now.”

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. Hotch was right — Spencer knew that — yet the logic did nothing to quiet the gnawing panic threatening to consume him. His mind refused to slow down, cycling through probabilities and variables, imagining scenarios he couldn’t control.

“We’ll bring her back safe,” JJ added softly. Her hand squeezed his arm — brief, warm, and grounding. “I promise.”

Spencer swallowed hard and nodded, but the tension coiling in his chest refused to loosen. As Hotch and JJ disembarked, Spencer stayed behind, staring blankly at the clutter of files spread across the table.

His gaze fell to the photograph at the top of the stack — your face, mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with warmth. The memory of that moment blurred with his anxiety, twisting the image in his mind. What if this unsub had already—

No.

Spencer inhaled deeply, shakily, and forced himself to refocus. He grabbed a pen, determined to find something — anything — that could lead them to you before it was too late.

The law firm’s reception area was sleek and imposing — marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, towering glass walls that seemed to stretch endlessly upward, and a front desk staffed by a sharp-looking receptionist whose tailored blazer was as precise as her clipped tone. She barely flicked her gaze up when Hotch and JJ approached.

“We’re here to see Y/N L/N,” Hotch said firmly, flashing his badge with practiced ease.

The receptionist’s eyes barely lifted from her computer screen. “She’s assisting Mr. Connelly in a meeting,” she replied flatly. “I can leave her a message.”

“It’s urgent,” JJ pressed, her voice calm yet underscored with quiet insistence. “It’s a matter of her safety.”

The receptionist’s cool façade faltered, her gaze flicking from JJ to Hotch and back again. For a moment, she hesitated, clearly debating whether to push back or comply. Finally, her professional demeanor gave way to uncertainty. “I… let me get her.”

Moments later, you appeared from the hallway — heels clicking crisply on the marble, posture sharp and poised. A sleek blazer framed your figure, lending you an air of effortless confidence. Yet despite your composed appearance, warmth still lingered in your eyes — a warmth that flickered brighter the moment you recognized JJ. She was Spencer’s co worker, the one you were convinced he would be with once you were gone.

“JJ?” you greeted, surprise softening your features. “What are you doing here?”

JJ’s smile was brief, weighed down by something heavier. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

The concern in her voice dimmed your initial excitement, and you nodded, gesturing for them to follow you into a quiet office down the hall. The room was simple — modern furnishings, a tidy desk, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. As soon as the door clicked shut, JJ’s warm expression shifted to something more serious.

“We believe someone’s been following you,” Hotch said, his voice low and firm. “We have reason to believe your life is in danger.”

Your smile faltered, confusion knitting your brows. “What? Why?”

“We think it’s connected to Spencer,” JJ added gently. “He didn’t want to scare you, but… we need to get you somewhere safe.”

“Spencer?” His name felt foreign on your tongue — distant yet familiar all at once. Your expression softened for a brief moment before unease crept in. “I haven’t seen him in… God, years.” You paused, your mind scrambling to piece things together. “Wait… is this about those weird letters I’ve been getting?”

JJ’s gaze sharpened. “Letters?”

You nodded, moving to your desk and retrieving your purse. “I thought they were just from some weird admirer, but… yeah. They’d show up in my mailbox — poems, quotes about angels and music. It was sweet at first, but then they started mentioning things about my past.” Your fingers drifted to the delicate chain around your neck, absently toying with the pendant — a nervous habit you hadn’t shaken. “I figured it was just someone from high school who remembered me.”

Hotch’s expression darkened. He exchanged a grim look with JJ, and the silent weight of their concern settled over you like a cold shadow.

“Those letters are likely from the person targeting you,” Hotch said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

You blinked, the air suddenly feeling too thin. “This has something to do with Spencer?”

“We believe the unsub’s fixation started with him,” JJ explained carefully. “But somewhere along the way, they became obsessed with you.”

The weight of her words pressed heavily on your chest. Memories of Spencer stirred — late-night conversations whispered across shared coffees, the warmth of his hand on yours when he thought no one was looking, the way his gaze softened when you laughed. He had always been cautious with you — overly protective in a way you didn’t fully understand at the time.

Maybe now you did.

“I need to get my things,” you said quietly, your voice thinner than you intended. You reached for your purse, suddenly aware of how exposed you felt — the glass walls, the polished floors, the endless corridors all seemed too open, too vulnerable.

“We’ll walk you out,” Hotch said firmly, his stance shifting slightly as if preparing for the worst.

JJ offered you a small smile — one meant to reassure — but there was no hiding the tension that hung in the air.

The moment you stepped back into the reception area, the city’s distant noise seemed louder — sirens wailing faintly in the background, muffled conversations humming just outside the glass walls. As you walked between Hotch and JJ, their presence was comforting yet unsettling — a constant reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching.

And you had no idea what they were planning next.

Spencer barely looked up when Hotch and JJ returned to the station with you. He was pacing near Garcia’s workstation, phone in hand, scrolling through messages for any missed calls. His fingers trembled slightly against the device, his mind spinning in frantic loops.

When he finally noticed you walking in, relief flooded his face — but the tension in his body didn’t ease. His anxiety kept him rooted in place, shoulders rigid and breath uneven.

“Spencer…” Your voice was soft, almost hesitant, yet it broke through the buzzing noise in his head.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, his voice tight. “Thank God.”

You crossed the room quietly, your steps measured. Your hand found his arm — gentle, barely a touch — yet steady enough to pull him from his spiral.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” you said softly, your fingers curling slightly against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said, his eyes flicking between yours like he was trying to memorize your face all over again. “I should’ve told you sooner — I should’ve kept in touch. I—”

“You’re here now,” you interrupted quietly, your voice steady but tender. “That’s enough.”

Before Spencer could say more, Penelope’s voice broke the moment.

“Spence… you need to see this.”

Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, her usual brightness dimmed beneath a layer of unease. The screen displayed a new email — subject line: “For My Angel.”

With shaky hands, Spencer clicked the message open.

The letter was written in the same looping script as the others:

She saved my life once, your angel did.

Her music was like light — soft and warm — and she never knew I was listening.

She’s everything pure in this world, and you’re tainting her.

I’ll take her away, away from you, and give her the peace she deserves.

She won’t need to suffer anymore.

Attached were two video files. Spencer clicked the first.The screen filled with a sunlit beach — the camera shaky and handheld. You stood near the water’s edge, the breeze teasing strands of your hair loose from their pins. The fabric of your bikini clung to you as you laughed, warm and carefree, before playfully splashing Spencer.

“I’m serious!” Spencer’s voice laughed from behind the camera. “You’re gonna get cold.”

“The water is nice, come on!,” you teased, your smile softer than your words. The sound of your voice — light and fond — was enough to hollow out Spencer’s chest.

The video cut off.

The second file played — a dimly lit restaurant this time. You sat across from Spencer, your fingers slowly tracing the rim of your cocktail glass. Your gaze flicked downward as you stirred the straw absentmindedly, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmured without lifting your eyes.“Like what?” Spencer’s voice countered.

“Like you’re profiling me,” you said quietly, finally glancing up.

“I can’t help it,” Spencer’s voice returned, quiet and certain. The look on his face — the love in his eyes — was undeniable.

The video ended.

“That’s enough,” Spencer muttered, stepping back from the screen. His chest felt painfully tight, like he couldn’t draw in a full breath.

“Why would they send this?” you asked softly. Your voice didn’t tremble — it barely rose above a whisper — but the unease was clear in your eyes.

“He’s fixated,” JJ said carefully. “Not just on Spencer — on you. He’s convinced that somehow… you saved him.”

“Saved him?” you repeated, your brows knitting together.

“In high school,” Spencer murmured, piecing it together. “The music, the kindness — you must’ve done something that he clung to.”

You lowered your gaze to your hands, your fingers loosely fidgeting with the chain of your necklace. “I used to play my flute in the park,” you said quietly. “There was this boy… I didn’t know his name, but he was always sitting alone. I played because… I don’t know, I thought maybe it’d help.”

“That’s it,” Hotch said grimly. “You gave him something to hold onto.”

“And now,” JJ added, “he thinks he’s saving you in return.”

For a long moment, you were silent — your fingers still absently twisting the necklace chain.

“We need to find him before he gets that chance,” Spencer said firmly. His voice was low, but the urgency behind it was unmistakable.

You gave a small nod, your fingers tightening around the delicate chain. The air in the room felt heavier than before — thick with unspoken fear — but when Spencer’s hand found yours, you let him hold on.

Quietly, you let yourself believe that somehow, despite everything, you’d be safe.

The morning air was cold — the kind that clung to your skin and sank into your bones — and it carried with it a weight that pressed heavily on Spencer’s chest. He stood beside Hotch and JJ, his fingers twitching restlessly against his side, the unease winding tighter with every breath.

The plan had seemed secure — two officers stationed with you, experienced and reliable. Spencer had reviewed their backgrounds twice, grilling Hotch on their credentials as if he could force some kind of guarantee. But it hadn’t been enough to quiet the gnawing panic in his chest.

He’d argued. Begged, even.

“She should stay here,” Spencer had insisted, voice rising despite himself. “Or— or somewhere safer. A hotel, one with security, or maybe—”

“I just want to go home,” you’d interrupted, your voice quiet but unwavering. “I can’t breathe in here. I need to feel normal again.”

Spencer’s protests had faltered. He’d hated that he understood.

He knew that suffocating feeling — that desperate need to reclaim some semblance of control after fear had robbed you of it. He knew what it felt like to want your space back, to convince yourself that normalcy could be enough to keep you safe.

So he’d let you go — but not without hesitation.

He remembered standing by the station doors, fingers clenched at his sides, feeling like there was something more he should’ve said — something that might’ve changed your mind. When you turned back for him, your gaze softened, and suddenly he couldn’t hold himself back.

He’d closed the distance in an instant, arms wrapping tightly around you. His fingers curled into the fabric of your coat like he could anchor you there with him.

“Please be safe,” he whispered into your hair. His voice had wavered, barely audible even to himself.

“You’ll see me tomorrow,” you promised, voice soft yet certain. “Bright and early.”

But Spencer had held on just a little longer, as if he knew that promise might be one you wouldn’t get the chance to keep.

The apartment felt foreign — like someone else’s home disguised in your own familiar comforts. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the air, and the pastel throw blankets you’d folded just the night before lay neatly across the armchair. Yet none of it felt real. It was like you were standing in a stage set, where everything looked familiar but nothing felt safe.

You’d brewed a cup of tea — something warm and calming — but your fingers barely touched the mug. It sat untouched on the counter, steam curling lazily upward.

Detective Alvarez and Officer Greene moved with quiet diligence, checking the locks for the fifth time that morning. Their presence should have been reassuring, but instead, it only deepened the unease gnawing at your chest.

“We’ve got this,” Alvarez said, flashing you a confident smile. “No one’s getting in.”

You tried to smile back, but it felt thin, forced. The words didn’t stick.

Your gaze kept drifting to the windows. Each shadow seemed to stretch too far, each silhouette in the corner of your eye felt like someone lurking just out of sight.

You turned on the TV, letting the dull hum of the morning news fill the silence. The voices blurred together — static, muffled — but you kept the volume high, hoping to drown out the noise in your head.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Miss L/N?” Greene’s voice called. “It’s me.”

You frowned, setting your tea down. “Didn’t you just check in?”

“Just want to update you,” he answered. “Everything’s clear outside.”

Something felt off — the words too casual, too light. You hesitated, fingers curling around the door handle. Still, you turned the lock and opened the door just a crack — enough to see Greene’s face.

He smiled, but something was wrong. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes — too tight, too forced.

And then you saw it — the smear of blood just beneath his collar.

Your breath caught.

Before you could react, he shoved the door open. The impact sent you sprawling backward, your shoulder striking the wall and your head slamming against the sharp corner of your bookshelf.

“W-What…?” Your voice barely broke the air, slurred and thin as dizziness clouded your vision. The room spun, shadows warping and shifting.

The man standing above you wasn’t Greene. His uniform hung loose on his frame, and the dark glint in his eyes twisted your stomach with dread.

“Im sorry it had to be this way,” he murmured, voice low and venomous.

The street was a blur of flashing lights and frantic voices when the BAU arrived. Spencer shoved past the officers crowding the sidewalk, ignoring the calls for him to slow down. His breath hitched when he reached the threshold of the building.

Two bodies.

Detective Alvarez lay crumpled in the stairwell, his chest dark with blood. Officer Greene’s body was slumped near the front door — his badge still clutched tightly in his hand. Blood smeared the floor like a cruel map of what had unfolded, but none of it mattered.

You weren’t there.

“She’s gone,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely holding together. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. “He took her…”

“We’ll find her,” Hotch said firmly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.

“He has her right now!” Spencer snapped, his voice breaking as he turned sharply toward him. His breath stuttered again — this time more ragged, more desperate. “Right now…”

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was softer as she approached. “We found something inside.”

Spencer barely heard her. His gaze remained fixed on the bloodstains, the smeared footprints leading away from the doorway. His mind kept looping back to the last thing you’d said to him.

“You’ll see me tomorrow. Bright and early.”

But tomorrow had arrived — and you were nowhere to be found.

The living room was a wreck — papers strewn across the floor, cushions gutted and tossed aside, the coffee table shoved halfway across the room. The scent of overturned candles and stale air clung to the space. Yet none of it mattered — not the mess, not the chaos.

What stole Spencer’s breath was the envelope on the coffee table.

His name was scrawled across the front in jagged, uneven letters — the ink pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, dread coiling tightly in his chest.

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was soft, but it barely registered.

With shaky hands, he tore the envelope open. The paper inside was rough beneath his fingertips — thin and cheap, like something torn from a notebook.

“I trusted you to keep her safe. How could you let her suffer like this?

She’s perfect — but she’s broken.

You never even noticed. While you smiled and held her hand, she was starving herself just to stay small enough for you to love her.

She’s an angel… my angel.

I’ll fix her now. I’ll save her from you.”

Spencer’s breath faltered, his fingers tightening around the paper until it crumpled in his grip. His vision blurred as the words seared themselves into his mind.

“What… what does he mean?” Spencer rasped, his voice thin and uneven.

JJ stepped closer, her expression carefully composed yet unmistakably concerned. “Spencer… did she ever mention struggling with food?”

“Yes.” His voice broke on the word. “She’s… she’s always smiling, always full of life…she got better…”

But even as the words left his mouth, memories began to surface — disjointed and sharp.

The quiet way you’d push food around your plate, always insisting you weren’t that hungry.

The faint tremor in your fingers when you were tired — or when you thought no one was looking.

The way your dresses sometimes seemed a little too loose, like they didn’t quite fit the way they once had.

Moments he’d brushed off as nothing — little things that felt insignificant at the time but now twisted painfully in his mind.

You were hurting… and he hadn’t seen it.

“Oh God…” Spencer’s breath hitched, and his knees buckled. He sank onto the edge of the couch, the crumpled letter still clenched in his fist. “I didn’t see it.” His voice broke, raw and strained.

“It’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly, stepping into his line of sight. “This unsub is projecting his own obsession — twisting it to blame you.”

“No,” Spencer choked out, shaking his head. His voice faltered, barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve known… I should’ve noticed.”

JJ knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm. “Spence… you love her. That’s what matters right now.”

But Spencer barely heard her. His mind spiraled, looping back to the last time he’d seen you — the softness in your smile when you’d promised him “bright and early.”

He thought about the way you’d hugged him a little longer than usual — how fragile you’d felt in his arms.

You needed him… and he hadn’t seen it.

“I can’t lose her,” Spencer whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t…”

“We’re going to find her,” Hotch said firmly. “But we need you with us — thinking clearly.”

Spencer forced a shaky breath and wiped a trembling hand across his face. He clung to the only thing that mattered now — the promise he silently made to himself as he stared at the crumpled letter in his hand.

He would find you.

He wouldn’t fail you again.

The room was silent except for the furious rhythm of Garcia’s fingers flying across her keyboard. Spencer hovered beside her, too restless to sit. His breath came in shallow bursts, his mind cycling through worst-case scenarios on a relentless loop.

“Come on…” Garcia muttered. “Come on, you sick freak… give me something…”

The seconds dragged painfully on — each one tightening the coil of panic in Spencer’s chest.

Then — ping.

“Got him!” Garcia cried. “A security camera caught him heading toward an abandoned warehouse five miles outside the city.”

Hotch was already barking orders, agents scrambling for their gear. Spencer didn’t wait — he was out the door, heart racing.

The warehouse reeked of mold and rust, the air heavy with dust that clung to Spencer’s throat. The floorboards groaned beneath his steps, each creak splintering the silence. His pulse pounded in his ears — too loud, too fast.

Then he heard it.

A faint sound — soft, stifled sobs.

His chest tightened.

“Y/N…”

He followed the sound, moving faster now. His heart nearly stopped when he saw you — slumped against a metal pole, wrists raw and bruised from the rope that bit into your skin. Your hair clung to your face, damp with sweat, and your breathing was shallow.

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice broke on your name.

Your head lifted weakly. “Spence…”

Before he could reach you, a figure emerged from the shadows.

The unsub.

He was wiry, face gaunt and eyes wild. The knife in his hand gleamed under the dim light.

“You didn’t deserve her,” the man spat, his voice shaking with rage. His glare locked onto Spencer, burning with venom. “You let her suffer, and you didn’t even notice.”

“Please…” Spencer raised his hands, voice tight but steady. “You don’t have to hurt her.”

“I would never! She’s not safe with you,” the man snapped. “She’s too kind — too good — and you didn’t even see how much she was hurting.” His voice wavered. “But I did.”

Spencer’s heart twisted painfully. “I know you believe that,” he said carefully. “But you’re not helping her this way.”

“I can fix her!” the man barked, his hand tightening around the blade.

“By starving her?” Spencer’s voice rose, breaking with emotion. “By scaring her like this?”

The unsub flinched as if Spencer’s words had struck him. His grip faltered, the knife dipping slightly.

“I wouldn’t starve her! I- I’m not like you.” The unsub held his head with his free hand, waving the knife about. It went quiet for a moment.

Then your voice broke the silence.

“Hey…”

Both men froze as you lifted your head. Your voice was soft — weak yet unwavering.

“Hey,” you tried again, a little stronger this time — gentle, soothing, like you were speaking to a frightened child.

The unsub’s gaze flicked to you. His face twisted with confusion. “You… you don’t have to be scared,” he stammered. “I’m saving you.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know you think you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught. He wanted to move — to reach you — but he knew better than to push.

“I remember you,” you said, your voice steady. “From high school… you used to sit on the far bench by the fountain.”

The unsub blinked rapidly. “You remember?”

“Of course I do,” you said with a faint smile. “I used to play my flute there… and you’d always listen.”

“You… you played beautifully,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You don’t know what that meant to me. I was… I was going to kill myself that day. But then I heard you playing, and I thought… maybe there’s still something good in the world. You were that something.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “I’m so glad you didn’t,” you said softly. “You deserved to find peace… to heal. But this isn’t the way.”

The knife wavered in his hand.

“I know you think I’m broken,” you continued gently. “But I promise… I’m okay now. I’m trying to be.”

The unsub shook his head fiercely. “No, no… you’re not okay. I saw you — barely eating, wasting away. He let you hurt yourself.” His eyes flicked back to Spencer, sharp with blame.

“I know,” you said carefully. “But that wasn’t his fault.”

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“I was sick,” you explained gently. “The weight loss… it wasn’t my eating disorder. It was my medication.” Your gaze shifted to Spencer, soft and unwavering. “He’s always been there for me. And right now… I need him.”

The unsub’s face crumbled. His fingers slackened around the knife.

“You’ve been carrying this pain for so long,” you said softly. “But you don’t have to anymore. Let me help you now, the way you once helped me.”

The blade clattered to the floor.

“I just wanted to protect you,” the man whispered brokenly.

“I know,” you murmured, eyes kind. “But it’s over now. You protected me.”

The team rushed in, Morgan and Hotch seizing the unsub before he could react. The man barely resisted — his gaze stayed locked on you, his expression crumpling as tears streaked down his face.

“You saved me,” he mumbled as they dragged him away. “You saved me back then… and you saved me now…”

“And you saved me,” you responded.

Later, after you’d been checked over by paramedics, you found Spencer sitting quietly outside the ambulance. His head hung low, wrists encircled by handcuffs — protocol after crossing into the scene without waiting for backup. His fingers twisted anxiously, his breathing uneven.

“Hey…”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. When he looked up and saw you standing there — bruised but smiling — his chest caved with relief.

“You’re okay…” His voice broke, and he blinked rapidly.

“I’m okay,” you promised. “Thanks to you.”

“I… I should’ve known,” Spencer stammered. “About the medication… about everything. He was right — I didn’t see it.”

“You couldn’t have,” you soothed. “But you’ve always been there when it mattered.”

Spencer swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to think about that.” Gently, you reached for his hand, your fingers threading through his.

Spencer exhaled shakily, eyes flicking downward.

“Do you remember…” You paused, smiling softly. “When I used to play for you?”

His gaze lifted, brow furrowing slightly.

“I’d still play for you someday,” you offered. “If you want.”

Spencer let out a breath — a faint, tired laugh — and nodded.

“I’d like that.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #x reader #spencer reid x reader #fanfic #criminal minds fluff #cm #fluff #request #criminal minds angst

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millerillusions · 6 days ago

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Invest In Me | Harry Castillo x f!reader

Summary: Your life has always been structured, dependable. You don’t stray, and it’s gifted you affluence. When you rashly decide to go on a blind date and they don’t show, you’re left with another fruitless, lone night of solitary. Until one equally lonely Harry Castillo invites himself to your dinner table and offers you a partnership just maybe worth investing in.

Pairing: Harry Castillo (Materialists) x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected piv (don’t be silly, wrap your willy.), oral (f!receiving), pull out and pray, cum eating, praise, wealthy hedge fund manager reader, lucy doesn’t exist/isn’t mentioned, fancy wine drinking, smoking, fluff, so much flirting, the authors limited knowledge of business and chess, no description of reader other than female anatomy and wears a dress/heels, a little easter egg referencing the kitchen scene bc i couldn't help myself

A/N: yes.. i did just post about my current wips.. but then i watched materialists, and came home and immediately wrote (no major spoilers in this). wanted to write something where Harry finds a partner who's also rich and work-oriented. i caved too quick for him and had to. sorry. thanks to anyone who reads <33 dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Masterlist

Blind dates are foolish.

You knew this. You’ve always thought this. Have never been convinced otherwise.

They’re wishes; a hopeful fantasy that two people will somehow be able to run an effective, effortless conversation despite knowing nothing about the other prior. They’re unorganised, variable.

Inconsistent. Nothing in your life is inconsistent.

You wake up at 5:30AM. Have a shower. Do your hair. Face. Slip on business casual clothes. Breakfast paired with a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. At work by 7AM. At your desk by 7:30AM. Home by 4:30PM.

Sure, sometimes the schedule can dip and maneuver in the later hours of the night in accordance with your current work load, but the point is- you have a schedule. It’s unwavering, sustained. Perfectly crafted to suit your needs and the straining pressure of your job.

You don’t do foolish acts like going on a blind date that the incompetent Rebecca you sometimes have a decent conversation with who sits at the desk opposite yours coerced you into believing would be enjoyable.

Witless, you think, as you stare blandly towards the empty plate opposite yours, framed by silver cutlery and a flawlessly folded napkin, pressed to delicacy. The third glass from the 2020 bottle of Argiano Toscana clenched between your impeccably manicured nails that tap an insistent, mindless rhythm against the stem. The liquor swirls like a bleeding wound in your glass, swishing up against the edges in crimson waterfalls each time you twirl it. It’s bitter on your tongue. Some blackcurrant and dark cherry bullshit of a far too expensive amalgamation of Merlot and Sauvignon Blanc.

Plus, there’s also the delicate lace-trimmed Stygian black dress curled around your body that flows down to your shin with a slit up along to the thigh, paired with simple but efficient silver heels. It’s not the most comfortable item you’ve ever worn- but it’s nice. Extravagant, if you look at it close enough.

Reckless, you think, glaring across at that empty plate on the opposite side of your two-person table that belongs to a person who hadn’t shown up. Toby, Troy, or something. Someone who apparently worked in luxury Real Estate, but who couldn’t even sell you one night of fulfillment or anything close to it. You had to call three different acquaintances to even acquire this table booking tonight, and this is apparently how gratitude is expressed back for your effort.

The candlelight flickers and illuminates the few tables scattered around the devastatingly wealth-painted Italian restaurant, the light laying across one side of your face like some sort of forlorn, two-faced golem sat isolated in the corner. Each of the other tables are occupied, mostly with couples on some feigned romantic date they paid too much to obtain, murmuring words of faux-affection across the flutter of a gentle flame and small portions of meals that took half of their last pay to afford.

“Were we still waiting on ordering, ma’am?” A voice abruptly chips into your carefully molded self-preservation, drawing your gaze slowly up to the waiter with the unpigmented mesh apron wrapped tight around his waist. You blink, eyes unfocused after glaring sharpened blades into the plate ahead of you like it might magically force a meal and a person to form.

“Yep. Still waiting,” You confirm, a grimace tugging at your features as you watch the waiter hesitate, glancing between you and the empty chair opposite. The situation you’re in is ridiculously obvious, like an open gash starkly revealed to everyone in the establishment.

He nods in understanding anyways, pivoting on polished shoes to leave, when you chip up to him, voiced edged with an indignation you fail to swallow back.

“Mind fetching the bottle?”

The man blinks back over his shoulder, peering down towards the glass in your hand, mapping out which wine bottle he needs to fetch. His brows twitch for just a beat- though you’re not sure if it’s in concern or awe- before he’s offering you a polite smile and dipping his head, whisking back to the kitchen to follow through.

You exhale sharply through your nose like the very breath is strenuous, eyelids fluttering closed before you’re leaning back in your chair. Dragging your gaze across the restaurant, the tungsten lighting- warm, reassuring, meaning to console the guests. Currently, it just makes you feel dreary.

You’re preparing to go on another wistful subconscious rant about the disadvantaged woes of blind dates whilst wondering if your vibrator’s batteries have been charged when a figure does appear. Looming like an assured shadow before lowering down into the seat opposite. Your head reels up to stare rather owlishly towards the newcomer’s sudden appearance. He leans back into the wooden seat like he belongs there, has already marked ground, a suave kind of allure hovering around him that you’re surprised you don’t immediately find smarmy, especially combined with the easy grin that upturns the corner of his lip.

Brown eyes are amongst the first things you notice.

The kind of brown that ensures it peers right into you without missing a beat, cooling the simmering apprehension in your chest like it’s effortless. Then the way he’s dressed. A black mesh top- formal enough for the establishment but not so lavish it’s considered profligate. He has a Roman kind of curve to his nose, full lips with a littering of a mustache that combs out into a stubble. He’s handsome, to say the least. Enough to make your heart stutter in a beat, but you blame it on alarm.

His brow curls upwards in a quirk at you as though expecting you to speak first, breaking you away from your pensive observation, mouth slightly parted like you’re spellbound. This can’t be Troy, Toby, Something. He looks too put together to fit the category of Rebecca’s acquaintances.

“You’re not my blind date sent by Rebecca, are you?” You ask blatantly.

He doesn’t look offended by the question. Rather, he seems amused.

“You’re the Hedge Fund Manager.”

His voice comes as a lower drawl than you expected. You can’t pinpoint the accent, but it’s like a rumble of a lullaby past your ears, twirling in mollifying notes with the gentle lull of the piano chords whisking in the air through the speakers. His residence here within just moments of seeing him is zephyr-like, as though he shifts and changes in accordance to the room he’s stationed in, all whilst commanding it with just the broad capability he clearly holds.

Your face falls slightly at his unforeseen mention of your occupation. You tilt back in your own chair, unsure if you’re trying to build an air of nonchalance or trying to create distance between you and this stranger that isn’t just the polished timber of the table.

“I dabble in that, sure,” You reply candidly, idly cautious. His eyes seem to lighten with satisfaction in the faint sandstone lighting. Like he’s trying to breach the space you created, he leans himself forward, tucking his elbows onto the table.

“You recently funded the last deal I brokered. Luxe Escapes,” He explains coolly. You perked slightly, gaze whisking along him, trying to regard him with a more inquisitive glance, wondering distantly if you had ever communicated with him before. It feels unlikely. You think you would’ve remembered a face like this.

“How were you involved in that?” You question, distantly wondering if you had clashed with him over the deal and that’s why you dismissed his existence following the conflict; act as though it never happened until the complication eventually dissolves itself into ash whilst you’re left with your triumph.

“I was the Sales Executive,” He assures, noting the slight pull of your shoulder blades in anticipation of a tense conversation. You blink, frets smoothed over swiftly.

“You were the Sales Executive?” You echo, giving him a once-over. Truthfully, it’s not difficult at all to imagine him pacing around a vast space of some grey-painted living room, footsteps leaden and quick as he prattles on about why some company or item would be efficient and worthwhile to invest in.

“That’s me,” He confirms, but he doesn’t look exactly supercilious or smug. Definitely not like that hotel branch company of luxury stays that conform the guests into the daydream of ‘escaping reality’ is rapidly becoming worth millions of dollars.

“And you are?”

“Harry.”

You tsk softly, tongue clicking against the roof of your mouth, seemingly unimpressed. Your head tilts, along with your wine glass as you circle it with mindless consideration, tone sardonic. “Harry. Fancy.”

He smirks lopsidedly, fingers flexing where they curl neatly over each other on the table. “Thought it’d sound less formal than saying Harry Castillo outright like this is a business meeting.”

“You’ve only talked about business so far,” You remind him facetiously.

“That’s fair. Let me try again,” He concurs. Then he rolls his thickset shoulders back to fixate his posture, a good-natured smile stretching along his inviting lips. He tilts himself forward, outstretching his hand towards you over the table. “Harry. I saw you sitting here over here alone and thought I’d come join you.”

You pause for just a beat, gaze fluttering to his outstretched hand, then back to him. Brazenly and uncharacteristically, you decide to amuse whatever this is. Leaning forward to meet him, you stick out your arm and take his hand, offering your own name back. His palm curls over yours, practically swallowing the proportions of your hand. It makes your throat tight realising how large he is, taking up the space like a polished, debonair boulder.

“You didn’t think about if I’d tell you to go away?” You hum, squinting towards him in silent challenge, attuned to keeping up this impression of satire he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand is still engulfed over yours- and instead of shaking, he squeezes once, before attentively turning your palm downwards, until he’s holding just your fingers in his grip. He bends down further, dipping his head down to lay an amiable but lingering kiss against your knuckles.

But what sends your heartbeat tripping calamitously in your ear drums is the way he keeps his eyes perched towards you, unwavering and unmoving. Drowning you in a melody of heat that seeps over you like dripping, melted sugar. That subtle flicker of interest swirling within the embrace of coffee-coloured warmth.

“I did. But I just had hope that you wouldn’t,” He rumbles in reply as he lifts back up, tentatively dropping your hand. It hovers sluggishly in the air for a beat too long before you finally regain control of your motor functions and let it fall back to your thigh. You huff a short, disbelieving laugh disguised as an exhale.

“Hope sourced from what?”

He crosses his hands over his lap, head cocking to the side as he considers the question for a moment, a sense of susceptibility murmured through the language of gaze. It’s not exactly pitying, just heartening.

“From the way you look like you could use some company,” He answers sincerely, his eyes flickering over you in an appreciative once-over that doesn’t feel like he’s leering, only valuing like you’re something cherishable. “And, admittedly, in good faith I couldn’t let that dress go to waste. It looks too good on you to do so.”

Jesus, he’s pulling out every move in the game.

Atypical in comparison to your usual indifferent composure, you can feel your cheeks heating, burning your skin. Actually flustered for the first time in what feels like months.

As if your own personal saviour dedicated to assuaging all your needs, the waiter swoops back in with the bottle of wine you requested held in two hands. He pauses for a second as he notices Harry, incredulity flicking through his eyes. But then he sends you a pleased smirk and unscrews the cork of the bottle, refilling your glass with repeated precision.

You murmur a quick gratitude, and the waiter takes the initiative to fill up the wine glass in front of Harry, who nods his own thanks. He plucks it up from the stem, gaze flickering from the rich scarlet liquid as he swirls it before returning back to you as he takes a sip, gaze remaining set on you. You mimic his actions, eyeing him from over the translucent rim, gaining back your conviction.

“Merlot,” He muses as he lowers the liquor from his lips. Your purse your own with amusement.

“You know wine?”

“No. The bottle's label says Merlot,” He says matter-of-factly, mirth ringing in his tone as he gestures off-handedly to the bottle. You blink quickly, that flushed tint coiling back over your skin, which only spurs him on.

“Fancy,” He comments steadily.

You breathe out sharply, lifting the glass back to your mouth to take a quick sip, lifting your shoulders in a careless shrug. “Didn’t think I was going to have any company.”

“I hope I’ll live up to any expectations you had for tonight,” He says, intentions genuine. But he clearly noticed how the table was set up for two when he approached, and yet only holding you.

It’s correctly jarring and disorienting considering your former thoughts on blind dating just a short while ago. Sure, this meeting wasn’t set up between you and Harry- but it was still accepting an offer of company from a stranger you knew nothing about prior, just as you would on a blind date. Harry continues to persuade you into telling him more about yourself, which you tentatively immerse yourself with.

Much to your bewilderment, you don’t entirely despise the conversation that you slip into with him. It’s smooth, undemanding, and light.

You tell him mundane things like what you had for breakfast, how early you usually wake, your pet lizard who lives back at your parent’s home in LA- before dipping into the story of why you were seated alone in this abundantly ornate and elaborate restaurant. Sheepishly laying out the story of how Rebecca had somehow coerced you into going on a blind date with a guy you can’t remember the name of, and how he stood you up. You shield any mortified winces with expressions of contempt, fingers starting up that irritable tapping against the stem of your glass again.

You go back and forth on sharing short, meaningless information about yourselves. Learning how Harry got into sales, explaining he grew up being surrounded by factors of money and influence constantly. He gestures back to a pair sheltered in a side booth, both hunched over the table and murmuring to each other like deadly secrets are being transferred. He elucidates with a grimace about how they’re newly-weds, boisterous and too sickeningly loving, which is what first led him to approach you when he couldn’t stand another second of third-wheeling his own kin and his newfound wife.

“So I guess we were both just feeling a bit lonely tonight,” You evaluate, chin tilting your face sideways slightly, wondering, are you lonely just like me?

“I suppose so.”

“Any thoughts on how to quench loneliness?” You ask, tone coy, one leg lifting to cross over the other. His gaze follows the movement, dropping to the table as though he can see it through the glossy wood.

“You want me to be honest?” He murmurs, eyes returning to your face, your features cast with casual curiosity.

“Of course.”

“I’d like to invite you back to mine tonight,” He admits, unhesitant.

Your moulded expression falters with the outright confession, heart tripping with it.

“You would?” You almost gawk.

“Only if you’re interested,” He assures, mouth thinning slightly as if he mistook your reaction for apathy.

“It’s not that I’m not entirely interested,” You correct, drawing out a soft sigh to collect yourself, propping one of your elbows onto the table. “I’m just.. weighing the pros and cons.”

He gives a slanted grin as you rest your chin on the palm of your hand. “Pros; you won’t be spending the night alone. Cons; you have to deal with repeats of Pink Floyd continuously playing during the car ride.”

You can’t help the gladdened snort that falls from you at the jest. You purse your bottom lip thoughtfully.

“And what do you expect to get in return?” You try to keep your voice methodical.

“Company,” He answers easily, his tone not housing any insistence for you to acquiesce.

You squint towards him, studying and observing. Maybe slightly teasingly, weighing the options over in your head like you’re being faced with a task from your employer.

“It sounds like an investment strategy,” You comment off-handedly.

“More like a mutual agreement.”

You lean back into your chair, hands falling back into your lap, giving a purposeful show of tipping your head to the side again.

“To fuck?” You question crudely. You catch the brief surprise that whisks along his features, but also the way the corner of his mouth twitches in the starts of a smile.

“To not be lonely,” He rectifies.

“Just for a night?” You test, your arms crossing over your middle loosely in a subconscious move of defence.

“Or we could see where it goes after,” He says with that enticing interest painted over his eyes again, with maybe some mingled hope tangled through it.

“After we fuck,” You lift your chin up, humour dour, like the thought of going back to Harry’s doesn’t send adrenaline pulsing through your veins.

He lets himself grin at your bluntness this time around. “Sure.”

“And if I’m thinking about saying no?” You croon, just to scrutinise his reaction, see if this gallant, poised persona of his can stumble.

His jaw clenches in consideration. “How do you usually approach your possible investments?”

You only pause for a beat.

“Like a game of chess.”

“Chess?” He parrots, intrigue evident. You nod.

“Investment is a game of chess. You think about all the strategies you need to win the board over, not just about your next move,” You cerebrate, eyes tipping down to your wine glass, fingertips etching a mindful pattern over it. “Each piece has its own pros and cons, like multiple investments do. If you move a piece in the right direction, it can become a more powerful player. It can grow in importance over time. But, a rash decision can leave you vulnerable and perceptible to attacks, or you can strategise and reach a checkmate. You need to invest foresight before anything else.”

His eyes round towards you as you tatter contemplatively, a deference evident in the solemn features of his gaze.

“So it’s a high-risk, high-reward situation,” He suggests, drawing your attention squarely back to him. A sly, knowing smile pulls at your mouth.

“That’s only considering it is a high reward.”

He doesn’t back down, fishing out a lighthearted jest, willingly taking the extra leap to solidify the blatant idea whisking between you. An idea you both already know was agreed to the moment he complimented your sleek dress earlier. “You could always find out. The customer is offering a first-hand demonstration.”

“Well, I do have to adapt to my opponent’s moves,” You hum wittingly, an easy, unarmed smile replacing your artful coquettishness.

“Is that an agreement we’re coming to?” He questions, optimism lighting his face the same way the candlelight casting along the strong curve of his jaw does.

“A mutual one, yes,” You assent, your stomach fluttering like a rocket preparing for launch, excitement twirling through you in searing ambers now that you’ve concretely settled on your decision.

“My driver can be here in the next ten minutes,” He suggests, brow raising. You agree zealously, smoothing your slightly clammy hands down the front of your dress as you rise to a stand. Harry fetches both his wallet and phone from his pants pocket, swinging a text his brother’s way to let him know he won’t be returning to advise him on how to keep his freshly-made wife appeased, and then calling his driver to your location. Placing a few hefty bills as a tip on the table even though neither of you ordered any food- which you belatedly realise- before he’s turning back to you, guiding you out of the establishment, his hand hovering just above the small of your back, barely grazing his touch along you.

You breathe out sharply as the pair of you move out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk, the New York nighttime traffic bustling, the usual tumultuous honk of a horn and the blinding streak of striking lights second-hand nature to you by now. You lean back against the rust-coloured brick of the building, hooking out a cigarette from the packet you kept stashed in your purse, just a pick-me-up in case Troy, Toby, Something ended up being a mundane bore.

Now you light the end, watching the embers burn as they smear tobacco into your lungs in hopes it’ll cool your anticipation long enough to arrive at Harry’s place first before you accidentally slip up and decide to crash your lips against his now and try to lick that blackcurrant wine right off his tongue against this brick wall.

“Drive shouldn’t be too long. I have a penthouse just up in up-town Manhattan,” Harry explains, peering down at his phone to confirm the driver’s journey to you both, settling next to you. You exhale, the smoke pluming up above you, catching away with the blur of a gentle breeze that’s swiftly turning frigid despite the mellow spring weather.

“You own a penthouse in up-town Manhattan?” You echo with only a tinge of bemusement intertwined.

“That surprising?” He raises a brow with a serene look.

“Not really,” You answer quickly. It wasn’t surprising at all, truthfully. He carried the staunch of his wealth with every step, his frame swallowing up the space he accompanied like he had banked out millions worth of cash just to own it, even somewhere as mundane as a sidewalk. It makes your breath hitch all the more as you watch his sombre eyes flutter down to your lips as they part to allow a plume of whitened smoke to trail up past your nose.

“Good,” He murmurs, gaze flickering back up to meet yours after a moment too long has passed.

You swallow gratingly at the simple way he eases into such a winsome persona, glamour and charisma tailing him constantly. He ushers you forth with a warm hand at the top of your spine as the car arrives, letting you stub out your half-smoked cigarette on the sidewalk before holding the door open for you as you slide into the backseat of the lush vehicle, smiling stiffly towards the driver, nerves growing fretfully in a churn in your lower stomach. Harry settles into the leather seat beside you, addressing the driver deferentially and directing him to upper Manhattan, back home.

As promised, the trip is entirely filled with the pleasant, tranquil lull of Pink Floyd drifting through the speakers, mingled with occasional talk between you and Harry. But for the most part, there’s just an effortless, unworried quiet between you; no demand to appear modish or shrewd- just a mutual understanding of comfortability.

The driver pulls up to the curb not long after, Harry swiftly hopping out of the car and trudging around to help you out. This time around, his hand settles more firmly against the base of your spine, fingers curling slightly as he leads you up to his penthouse with a phlegmatic gait, nodding his chin in polite greeting to the staff you pass. Your face is shrouded with a sanguine expression, heartbeat growing more erratic as you step inside the elevator.

Harry opens the dark-oaked door for you, allowing you to move inside the space first, his hand falling away from your lower back. Just with a first glance, you can tell how sumptuous it is. A wide, inviting hallway that opens out into a lavish living room and curves around to a dining table and kitchen, extensive floor-to-ceiling windows combing the expanse of the far wall. The hallway has two other doors perched at the opposite end, which you suppose lead to the bathroom and bedroom. It has similar lighting to the restaurant, only lit by the oscillating flutter of the city lights outside the windows, casting shadows inside and streams of gentle light, along with the low copper glow of a lamp sitting on the coffee table.

“You want a drink?” Harry asks, trotting through the living room in the direction of a side-bar set up opposite the dining table. You turn your gaze back to him, away from the darkened New York City skyline, a sight that somehow augmented your confidence.

“You don’t want to get straight to the business part of tonight? Close the deal?”

He pauses by the counter littered with liquors, blinking over his shoulder back towards you, a beguiled surprise whisking along his features. He diverts his actions, hand falling away from the wine he had been reaching for, instead turning around to face you. He leans back slightly against the bartop, a brow lifting with a teasing fashion.

“Well, I was hoping to try and charm you a bit first,” He replies steadily, his gaze looking even darker in the subdued lighting, casting over the entire length of you. Your body tenses slightly under the regarding look of cherishing esteem, your blood buzzing alight beneath your skin, anticipation coiling.

You take a step forward to meet him, which prompts him to kick off from the edge of the bar, taking purposeful steps towards here.

“Inviting me here was enough,” You murmur when he’s only a few short footsteps from you, deliberately fluttering your eyelashes and craning your neck up to meet his auburn-painted eyes swallowed by a blazing darkness. The side of his mouth twitches, as if with amusement, before it’s mellowing and darkening into something more decisive, nearly hungry-looking.

“Well, in that case..” He mumbles, more to himself, closing the distance between you. His hands lift to steady themselves on your hips, fingers curling around your frame with a durable finality. Your throat tightens with suspense, hopefulness whisking through you as his head tilts, eyes dropping down towards your lips. But neither of you shy away, your gaze mimicking his and wavering down to the fullness of his mouth that suddenly seems so close.

He leans in, and you mirror the movement, going to meet him- his breath brushes along the skin of your mouth which parts on instinct, eyes dropping to slip closed. His hands flex against your sides, and he pauses, pulling back with just a murmur of dubiety shadowing him.

“Though- you can pull out of this investment at any time, you know,” He reminds you, earnestly searching your gaze. You appreciate the effort to reassure and console you, but you fear your knees might give out beneath you if you have to go back and forth with this bashful, coquettish teasing any longer.

“Okay. Enough with the business metaphors. Just kiss me,” You husk back, one of your hands sliding up to curve around the nape of his neck and bring his face back down to yours. He meets you halfway, your lips meeting in a secure, firm kiss.

Your other hand lifts to balance yourself against his covered chest as his mouth slots over yours. It’s not rushed or heady like you might have expected in this case; but instead slow, deep. Assured. Bounding in a way that makes your lips part when his tongue drags along your bottom lip, coaxing. You acquiesce easily, sighing as his tongue meets yours, tangling in a precise dance that gradually grows more resolute, determined.

You sigh into his mouth as if you’re alleviated as his arms curl around your waist, tightening his hold on you, large hands tracing over the dress painted over your back. You tilt your head to the side to purposefully deepen the kiss, which he easily follows, movements quickly growing more desperate, a heat you thought had become a long-lost friend burning at the base of your spine, looping around in curling tendrils to your belly, warming. Your hand traces up from his neck to the edge of his jaw, then up into his hair- softer than you expected, threading through your fingers like silk.

You tug gently, urging. He sounds a low groan into the kiss, arms pulling you flush with the firmness of his body, the two of you swaying slightly to the side, unbalanced. He grips at your waist and guides you backwards. You stumble slightly in your heels, to which his hands curl tighter around your sides, nearly lifting you from the floor and carrying you backwards. He delicately but hurriedly pushes you back against a small side-table where he placed his keys by the door in the hallway, mouth working more urgently over yours. You respond with equal enthusiasm, a desperation clawing through each of your movements as your ass presses back into the edge of the wood, hips tilting.

He keeps one arm wrapped around your body whilst the other dips down, fingers toying with the edge of your dress where the split ends on your thigh. His fingers tilt beneath the fabric, carefully skimming along the softer skin of your inner thigh, making you keen towards him. He then swiftly grabs at your hips, and hoists you up onto the table.

The sudden action has you gasping with incredulity, lips disconnecting from his. He doesn’t waste a beat of not occupying his mouth, head dipping downwards to attach his lips to your neck. He kisses down the length of your throat, tongue tipping out to drag along your pulse, feeling it flutter frantically beneath the muscle.

He travels down further with open-mouthed kisses, to the exposed line of your collarbone. He curls his lips, sucking a small, blooming mark of purple into the small dip by the bone, his tongue smoothing over it. You should scold him, knowing you’ll have to cover it when you go into work next- but your thoughts are swiftly disoriented as he steps between your legs which part instinctually for him, his body moving flush to yours. You can feel the bulge of his arousal pressing into where your dress begins to hike up.

Need barrels into you harsher than you expected. With hasty fingers, you slide both of your hands down his body to his waist, hands working urgently at his belt. You barely get the buckle undone before his hands are covering yours, fingers dipping down to curl over your wrists and cease your actions.

He tuts, lifting his head from your neck.

“Not yet, honey. Wanna taste you first.”

You go to groan your objection, but it’s quickly swayed and swallowed by his mouth again, laying a prompt yet lingering kiss before he’s nipping at your chin, your jaw, working downwards. He lathes swift, small pecks of his lips over the curve of your chest, before following further down to your middle, his hand returning to your thigh, dragging beneath the hem of your dress beneath the slit, gliding upwards to your inner thigh, right by where you need him most.

He drops down more, his knees crouching down with a slight strain, and you notice the gentle wince that pulls at his face, the angle just not right. The table an inch too tall for him to comfortably try and settle between your thighs without an awkward position of having his body half-hunched and knees bent gracelessly, like some clumsy structure of a tower.

“You don’t have to crouch awkwardly, Castillo,” You inform through a rather breathless laugh, mirthful. Not mocking him, just finding his rushed enthusiasm endearing. You tug gently at his hair, coaxing him back enough for you to slide off the edge of the side-table so you’re pressed back against it again, ass squished against the wood. “I can just lean back on this.”

His eyes flutter up to yours with an inkling of vulnerability that’s quickly replaced with his own amusement as he comfortably settles onto his knees in front of you, now at the precise height to meet you.

“Great point. Underestimated my height,” He rumbles with gaiety, hiking one of your legs up so it’s resting half on the table, whilst looping your calf over his shoulder, opening you up further to him.

His fingers curl over through the fabric through the slit on your thigh, hiking up your dress enough to rumple it around your hips and give himself more access, both of his hands curling around your shins, before sliding up the expanse of your legs to your thighs with a reverent touch, like he’s sculpting a statue from just the rawness of his fingertips. He opens your dress like he’s unveiling a museum artifact, slowly opening the sheen curtains of the hem.

A nearly distraught sound falls from him.

“Jesus,” He breathes, eyes rounding, locked towards your covered core. Wrapped in a delicate black lace. His thumb swipes out to prod and stroke gently over the gusset he finds already damp, making his eyes flutter and his eyes drop with a ravenous look.

Your breath hitches, and his insatiable attention lifts up to you, locking his gaze on yours like an enchanting siren call.

“This was for him?” He mutters, calling back to your blind date who never showed up. He keeps his eyes on your face as he dips forward, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Not anymore,” You reply throatily, fingers carding through his hair, urging. He smiles, nearly smug, boastful. Then lowers his head and presses another kiss to you, this time right against the soaked fabric of your panties, over your soaked folds held beneath. His hands slide higher beneath your dress to your hips to hook his thumbs through the waistband of the lace, dragging your panties down your legs with meticulous slowness. He curls the moist material in his fist after hooking it over your heels, before he’s tucking it into the back pocket of his pants like a secret fantasy hidden away.

His eyes drop down to where you’re now revealed to him, hands returning to your inner thighs, widening the stance, slotting his broad shoulders between them. You hear his breath stumble as he takes in the sight of you; puffy folds drenched with need, clit basically begging for his attention, hole clenching around nothing like it’s already calling him directly to you.

“So pretty, darlin’,” He murmurs, his thumb stroking out to swipe along the edges of your lips, spreading them wider for him. You feel your heart loop around in a scattered carousel as he lowers his face completely between your legs, his tongue flicking out to flatten against your cunt, then smooth upwards in one slow, long line.

You gasp at the wet heat of his tongue, and he responds with a drawling groan, his hand wrapping tight around your thigh. Then he’s lapping more insistently at your dripping slit, collecting your juices on his tongue like it’s the sweet nectar of a maple tree. His mouth lifts, suckling your clit past his lips, his tongue stroking over it in a smoothing motion that makes you twitch, chest arching upwards with a sharp inhale.

His tongue dips down, experimentally sliding inside you, curling to taste the slick right off your fluttering walls, slick pooling on the muscle. The motion has a devastating whimper slipping from your lips, your hand tightening and yanking lightly at his hair. He moans into you, the sound reverberating right up your spine in a quiver and making your hips flex into his mouth, which he only responds to with an eager, nearly debauched slurp, his mouth covering the entirety of your pulsing core like it’s his personal alter.

He licks into you, maneuvering between plunging his tongue in and out of your hole and sucking against that sensitive bundle of nerves that makes your knees threaten to give out. His eyes slip closed with a fervent expression as he suckles against your clit, his hand coiling up from your thigh to work his middle finger into you, your tightness wrapping around the digit as your mouth parts pendulously, body eagerly accepting the stretch of his thick finger.

He begins to dip his finger in and out of you with strenuous slowness, letting you feel each drag of it along your walls, making you drip more shiny slick onto him, drooling down onto his palm. He swipes his tongue out to collect it right from the source, drawing a ragged moan from both of you as he experimentally plunges his tongue into you alongside his finger. The act is followed by an obscene squelch as he licks up your fallen juices, the curve of his nose pressing against your clit.

“Oh, shit, like that-” You puff, chest heaving upwards. You urge him impossibly closer to you with the end of your heel pressing into his shoulder blade. He avidly complies, his finger moving faster inside you, submerging his tongue and twirling it inside you, curling and lapping. Your hips twist as he finger fucks you, but he stills you with one hand against your hip, whilst the other dips down to flatten his palm against your mound, his thumb slicking out and circling tightly over your clit.

You jerk, a whine curdling up past your throat as the tendrils simmer through your pelvis, the triple stimulation of his finger fucking into you repeatedly alongside his tongue catching any of your dribbling slick, and the rub of his thumb over your bundle of nerves making you lean further back against the side-table.

"Tha's it. You gonna come for me?” He asks into your cunt, voice muffled into your skin, sending another shiver up along your spine whilst you nod earnestly, quickly, lips pursing with another impure moan.

He redoubles and amplifies his efforts, sinking his middle finger deeper inside you, fucking it into you with rougher, sharper movements designed to make you uncoil like thread around his digit. His tongue continues to cuff and curl inside you, licking at you. His thumb strokes acute, tight circles around your clit until your thighs are clenching around his head.

Your hips roll down eagerly, impaling yourself further onto his tongue and finger, eyes slipping closed as your rapture tightens through your system, burning up along your spine and lashing over your chest like a smoothing of velvet honey. You’re pushed and diving thirstily down into the looping ravines of bliss, gushing down onto his tongue, your hand fisting in his hair.

He makes a starved sound against you, his tongue eagerly pushing and swiping, drinking down everything you have to offer like it’s something holy, an amalgamation of sweetness and headiness he’s rapidly becoming addicted to.

You wrench at his hair more insistently as he continues his ministrations against you, although slower, savouring each drip of your slick onto his skin and tongue. You whimper as the overstimulation of the flick of his tongue has your hips tilting away, his thumb a steady pressure against your puffy clit. He grins against you, smug, but relents, lifting his face up from between your thighs and peering up towards you with a lopsided smirk, pleased and satisfied.

“Okay?” He asks raspingly, like his lower face isn’t smeared with your release, lips glossy with you. You don’t reply, instead curling both of your hands over his cheeks and practically dragging him back up your body, lifting him up from his sore knees until his mouth is pressing back to yours, fervent, like you’re starved. You lick into his mouth to taste yourself on his tongue, moaning against him.

His nose bumps against yours as the kiss escalates, famished and keen, his hand grabbing at your jaw to direct your face and deepen your movements, his slick middle finger smearing your want against your skin. His other hand grabs at your hip to steer you away from the side-table, leading you backwards to those two doors by the end of the hall, mumbling into your mouth. “Want you in my bed.”

You both stumble slightly, but quickly anchor yourselves, polished leather and the plastic of heels clacking against the linoleum floors. His hand on your jaw drops down to snake behind you and fiddle with the zipper of your dress until it eventually comes loose, dragging it down to the base of your spine. The glossy material slides off your frame, pooling at your ankles. He helps you step out of it, guiding you backwards through the doorway to where you assume is his bedroom, his lips never breaking away from yours.

He kicks off his shoes whilst you wrestle off your heels, dropping down a few short inches as his hands covetously travel over you, melding over your curves like he can’t trace enough of you in the time he has- which is the entire night. He unclasps your bra, discarding it carelessly to the side with a soft clatter, leaving you completely bare for him.

His large hands come to immediately cup your breasts, squeezing carefully, his thumbs swiping over your nipples that quickly pebble under his attention. You whimper softly, pulling your lips from his and pushing your chest up into his hold, head slinging back with a breathy sigh. He takes the initiative, dipping his head down and attacking along the underside of your jaw, his tongue prodding at that sensitive skin behind your ear.

It’s heady, potent, a mix of heavy breaths and mingled want clashing into a nearly violent need. A different kind of greed than that of desire for wealth, desire for love or affection- but instead something rawer. Unbridled, weighty lust.

You barely get a glance around the costly expanse of his bedroom as you’re grabbing at his shoulders, directing him in a pivot until the back of his knees hit the edge of his king-sized mattress. You gently yet imperatively shove him back onto his bed, the silk sheets shifting with his weight as he lands back against them, his arms falling away from you.

He moves further up the pillows as you climb up onto the prodigious bed to join him, thighs framing his waist. His eyes draw up your bare frame towards you, inky black, his pupils swallowing out the brown of his irises almost completely in the soft lighting and in the consummation of his want.

His hands settle around your waist, squeezing as you dip down to press a swift kiss against his lips, your breasts squishing against his chest whilst your fingers slide down and tangle with his half-open belt, looping it finally through the fabric, before flicking it to the side. You nibble at his bottom lip before pulling away and unbuttoning his pants, zipping them down. You slide down briefly to urge and tug the fabric away from his legs, whilst he takes measure to tug his long-sleeved top over his head.

You crawl back over him, legs straddling his hips, your hands dropping to splay over the broad, warmth expanse of his exposed chest, his body left in just his boxers beneath you, an inviting happy trail of darkened brown hair littered above the waistband. Licentiously, you roll your hips down into him, dragging the soaked state of your core over the bulge of his boxers, making his cock twitch beneath the fabric, a groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck, honey,” He huffs, head falling back into the pillows, hands gripping your waist as you move against him in a teasing downwards grind, a carefully precise rhythm. “Can’t wait to have that sweet little cunt wrapped around me.”

You bite down against your swollen bottom lip, body straining with arousal, and hook your fingers through the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down his thighs, swiping them off his legs. Your throat tightens. His cock, thick and throbbing, slaps up against his stomach, the tip red and engorged, dripping a bead of translucent pre-come onto his belly, his balls full and heavy between his thighs. He keeps his gaze settled on you as you gawk like a renaissance painting; his eyes needy, dark, hungry. Unrestrained.

You exhale shakily, hand gliding down to curl around the base of him, manicured nails delicately smoothing over the sensitive, soft skin. You give him the smallest pump with your fist loosely clenched, and his cock twitches in your grip, hipbones flexing beneath you.

“Gotta be honest. M’ not gonna last if you tease me like that, baby,” He rasps sincerely, lips spreading with a rugged exhale like he’s struggling to contain himself and this bubbling need threatening to boil over between you. The confession only sends electrified wire sizzling along your veins in the form of arousal, and you nod in acknowledgement quickly, lifting your hips. You squeeze gently at the base of him, angling his cock until it’s nudging against your entrance.

“There you go,” He breathes, exhaling out through his nostrils, whilst you tilt your hips slightly, slowly sinking down onto his thickness. Your mouth dries at the sheer size of him stretching your clenching walls, jaw falling slack as your hips roll, determinedly swaying down until he’s entirely sheathed inside you to the hilt. You both sound a simultaneous groan of thrill, his brows pinched with concentration as he gives you time to adjust, your hips continuing to absently swirl in circles as the prior dull pain swiftly bleeds out into pleasure, hooking into the base of your spine like a hook.

His jaw works in a grating clench when you tighten around him as you slowly lift your hips, as though your body is trying to keep him inside you. You raise until just his tip is notched inside you, before you’re sinking back down. Slow, steady, his cock curving against the deepest part of you, nudging against that soft, sensitive place that makes your eyes roll back into your skull.

You gradually begin to increase the pace, elevating your hips just to drop back down on him, repeatedly stretching yourself over his girth. His gaze hops over you like he doesn’t know where to settle his attention on; your tits bouncing with your steady pace, the slick of his cock as he’s sheathed in and out of your gripping pussy, folds spreading around him, the inviting line of your neck pulsing as your hips roll. He finally settles on your face, captivated in watching the way your eyes twist with bliss, pleasure striking up along your body, your thighs squeezing around his waist.

“Fuck.. look at you,” He pants, his hands curling tighter around your waist, aiding you, guiding your hips into a slightly firmer tempo. “Look like a goddess on top of me. Like a bloody gift sent just for me.”

You whimper, nodding quickly, cunt squeezing around him, egging him on.

“So pretty taking this cock,” He mumbles mindlessly, eyes drawing to watch where you take him again, your inner thighs quivering. Your fingers curl against his chest, nails digging soft, crescent moons into his skin as you heave yourself up, before slamming down harsher, both of you moaning wantonly at the pressure. Your ass begins to slap wetly back onto his thighs as you rise and fall quickly, your back arching each time his cockhead brushes and prods into your G-spot.

“Other guy doesn’t know what he missed out on,” Harry husks, eyes drawing a searing line up your body as if he’s mapping you out, committing you to memory. His hips sway, grinding himself up to meet your repeated dropping motions, rolling himself flush into you each time. He chuckles, the noise strained with pleasure. “I can’t say I’m that sympathetic for him, though.”

His hands smooth further up along your curves, before he’s hiking himself up enough to wrap his arms around your body, your chest arching into his. You buck down into him, his face burying against the crook of your neck, breathing hot and rasped against your skin, your pulse fluttering frantically beneath it, tensing with each shameless moan that crawls out from your throat.

“Get it all to myself, huh?” He mumbles, sucking against that spot he left on your collarbone earlier, darkening it further, the bruise blooming with red and violet, like a stain against your skin you currently wear with unadulterated pride. Your cunt makes a vulgar, moist squelching sound around him as you jerk yourself onto his cock, riding his lap with a lacerating wildness.

“Yes, baby, fuck- like that,” He moans, tilting his head back to peer up at you, his blackened-out eyes shimmering with lust and something bordering on worship. “S’ all for me, yeah?”

“Mhmm- yes, all you,” You agree haplessly, your tits jerking with your body as you bounce on his dick, chasing that twist you already feel pulverising and chewing at the frayed edges of your burning bliss.

His hand dips down between you, the tips of his fingers consciously rubbing sternly over the engorged swell of your sensitive clit that’s peeking out beneath the hood. You jolt at the added stimulation, pace stumbling, and Harry takes the chance to curl his robust arms tighter around your frame, and before you can process his movement, your vision is whirling in a blinded blur as he flips you both, his cock still impaled in you. He lowers you down into the cushiony comfort of the mattress, silk spilling out around your head.

“You’ve had your turn,” He says with a crooked smirk, dipping his head down to bite gently at the edge of your chin. You go to grumble in petulant protest, but he cuts the sound off from the tip of your tongue with an unyielding, borderline harsh thrust into you, silencing you with his cock.

He repeats the action, slower this time, letting you feel the ridge and veins of his length, sliding through your slick, sensitive walls. Grinding down into you, that coarse thatch of curls at the base of him that’s slowly greying rubbing against your swollen clit peeking out from beneath the hood. You sound a rapturous, libidinous moan, head falling back into the pillows and chest arching upwards with a heave.

His hips jerk at the sight, before restraint snaps like a thread untying, the chain unsnapping that shielded the rabid dog to the pillar. He slams into you, hips slapping wetly against yours, cock plunging into you with brisk speed, firm.

“Yeah, you can take it, can’t you baby?” He moans in a gruff rumble, a sheen of sweat tilting over his temple. “So fuckin’ good. Feel so good wrapped around me- better than I imagined.”

You whimper, arms looping beneath his, hands curling over to his back. You dig your nails deeper into his skin than you meant to, leaving dim, red marks down the length of his back. But he doesn’t seem deterred- if anything, it spurs him on to pound into you swifter, relentless.

“So sweet and wet,” He mumbles more to himself than you, fucking you into his mattress. “Dripping all over my cock, aren’t you?”

His hasty, muttered questions are rhetoric, slipping from his lips like the drip of honey, curdling with sweetness. You couldn’t think to answer even if you wanted to anyways, shameless moans pouring from you in tumbling sways of bliss, body sliding up the bed with each jackhammering thrust of his hips.

You squeeze around him, legs loosely splayed wide for him to pummel into you, cunt slick and hot around his throbbing length, your face flushed and hair splaying widely around your head on his pillows. His hands settle on either side of your head, his eyes settling on yours intensely as his hips swing into yours, his eyebrows saddled with focus, dense breaths and groans drawing out of him. His chest shines with a thin line of sweat, his biceps flexing and the veins in his forearms bulging as he bucks himself forward, fucking you ruthlessly.

It’s shameless, a tangle of bodies and limbs that intertwine like second nature, like your frames automatically blend into each other. As if you hadn’t just met tonight, starting as strangers when you were both meant to grovel around in your own solitary. As if you were both molded to be here; with you beneath him, his cock hammering into your pulsating hole.

“Fuck, m’ not gonna last much longer,” He admits, glancing down between you to watch where your abdomen rolls to grind your hips up into his sharp, plunging thrusts. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

Your mouth feels numb, eyes glazed over with the pleasure that curdles along you. But you nod eagerly, nails digging further into his flesh. He pants, using the last of his renowned energy to buck harder into you, chasing you both to those releases burning through your blood, sizzling to an unstoppable height before it captures the pair of you.

His head drops down, forehead pressing to yours, your mingled noises tangling in the heated air between your mouths.

“Go on, honey. Come for me. Let me feel you squeezing me,” He mutters frantically, and his mumbled coaxing that rasps past your ears are the final length that stretches before that release curls around your veins, splashing like liquid ecstasy through you. Your mouth catches open in a noiseless whine, your eyes rolling back into your head.

Your thighs clamp around his waist, cunt tightening around him before spasming, juices slicking over him in streams, dripping down to his balls and smearing each time they slap against the curve of your ass. He sounds a groan that sounds pained, his hips stuttering in their pace as your walls squeeze and flutter like they’re trying to milk him of everything he’s worth.

“Fuck. That’s it, that’s it, so good for me-” He groans jarringly whilst you mewl hopelessly, hips bucking up. His thrusts turn erratic, uncoordinated as he unceremoniously chases his own orgasm, slamming down into you with propelling hips, sinful, the force staggering.

His mouth pinches in effort as your cunt slicks another gush around him, and with a hiss of restraint, he pulls himself out of your wet embrace at the last moment. His hand hastily dipping down to wrap around himself, length soaked and throbbing. He barely pumps himself once before his thighs are locking up, a trembling moan that whisks off into a whimper as the bliss hits him squarely in the gut, and his cock is jumping in his hold, ropes of thick white painting over your stomach in ropes of heat, nearly reaching your breasts.

You squirm, limbs aching, dipping your chin down towards your chest to see where he weakly strokes over his cock to milk out the last of his come, which dribbles down to your mound, warm and smooth and sticky.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the hoarse panting of your shared breaths as you both reel through the after effects, foreheads still pressed together. Your eyes flutter closed, body sated, a content afterglow burning low through you. You feel him shift above you, dipping his hand down to your stomach.

Slowly, reverently in a way that feels nearly pious, he swipes a thick finger through the layer of his come on your belly, smearing it over your skin and collecting it on the pad of his digit. And then-

He’s carefully lifting it up between your warm bodies to your parted, swollen mouth. His finger taps softly against your bottom lip, coaxing your eyes open to meet his. They’re still dark, inky, but there’s a softer kind of benevolence swimming through them now, tender.

You swipe your tongue out to collect his come from the tip of his finger, letting your jaw fall slack as he guides it into your mouth. You moan softly at the salty taste of him, stifled as you curl your lips around his finger, sucking the essence of his release right from his skin. You hear his breath hitch as he laboriously slides his finger out again, swiping over your bottom lip. A beat passes before he’s dipping down and pressing his mouth to yours, tasting himself on you.

The kiss is delicate, still amorous but with a fondness burning through it. He pulls back, his tongue carefully swiping over his lower lip like he’s relishing the flavour of both of you combined, your need like a physical, potent taste.

He gives you an unhurried, warm smile, before his hefty body is moving from atop you, and he’s dragging himself off the bed with strained, exhausted movements. You exhale shakily into the slightly humid air, your skin gradually cooling as he pads into the connected ensuite. You hear the tap running as the room lulls around you, head drooping to the side, eyelids feeling heavy.

He returns a moment later, crawling to your side. You almost jolt as the warmth of a damp washcloth meets your sensitive skin. He prods it gently over your stomach, cleaning his own release from you, padding it gently against your sore, puffy core. His movements are nothing short of reverent.

He carelessly chucks the rag onto the floor, before he’s maneuvering your body onto your side, settling down behind you, his brawny arm curling around your waist, your arms tucking in front of you. His fingers brush against your wrist as his body presses into yours from behind, broad and assured.

For a while, neither of you speak, simply relishing in the afterglow that drapes over you like a blanket, especially after Harry moves the glossy silk of the sheet over the two of you, the coolness inviting on your warm skin. Consoling, he presses a slow kiss against the curve of your shoulder from behind.

“You know, I’d like to invest further in this, if you’d be so kind as to allow me,” He murmurs into your skin, careful but unhesitant in his decision. There’s a tinge of amusement intertwined with his tone at the inane ridiculousness of the continued jesting metaphors of a business transaction being shared between you.

“What are you offering?” You whisper back into the dull smoothness of his lavish bedroom, a knowing smile lilting up the corner of your lips. You feel his own mouth upturn in a grin against you.

“A second date. If you want it.”

You’re gladdened by the fact he can’t entirely see your face so you can shield the giddy, elated expression that tilts over your expression. Your heart thumping with a vertiginous stutter at the thought of going out on another date with Harry, to share precious time with him again.

Time where you’re both aren’t under the restraints and tensions of your jobs, where you can relish in the taste of each other, the feel of each other, the simpleness of comfort found within tenderness and lasting looks. A time in which you don’t have to be perfect- you can just be.

You tilt your head back, coaxing his face into the crook of your neck, hearing him inhale softly as he breathes you in, the scent of sex and something softer lingering in the air.

“That can definitely be arranged,” You answer, coyness blooming in your voice, but settled with an undeniable soft rawness. His arms tighten gently around you, the both of you ravelled in the other in his large bed, the milk-dipped moon waving somewhere high above the heights of colossal towers that loom like spires, the scintillating but gentle whisk of the city lights peeking into the room, something like nectar settled on the tips of your tongue, saccharine and honeyed, settling into the air like promise.

And now you think; when you return to work, maybe you actually will thank Rebecca for convincing you to go on that blind date.

“But I have infinite tenderness for you. I always will. All my life long.” - Blue Is the Warmest Color (2013)

Comments, reblogs and feedback are so gratefully appreciated! I’m slowly starting a tag list, so if you’d like to be added, let me know.

#need me a tall glass of this man #materialists #harry castillo #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x female reader #harry castillo x f!reader #materialists fanfic #pedro pascal character fic #pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #harry castillo smut

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sunbeamlessreads · 2 months ago

Text

Private Negatives - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader] ~7.8k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, smut, voyeurism themes, power imbalance, emotionally explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids), workplace tension

you’re the one behind the lens. but he’s the one who sees you.

notes: this one was super fun to write for me. i really hope i didn't screw anything up lol. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3

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You keep your head down as you move through the paddock, your camera strap biting into your collarbone and a fresh credential swinging at your hip. The McLaren media lanyard feels heavier than it should. Not in weight—in implication. New territory, new rules; three races embedded with the team, to finish off the season. Vegas, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Your name on the contract, your watermark on the final selects.

Just don’t make noise.

The paddock is already thick with it—generators humming, pit lane chatter bouncing off the concrete, PR staff herding talent like overcaffeinated sheepdogs. You’ve worked in motorsport before, mostly on the American side: IndyCar, IMSA, a brief stint with NASCAR that taught you everything you never wanted to know about beer sponsorships and flame decals.

But Formula 1 is something else. Sleeker. Sharper. Quieter, even in its chaos. Everyone moves like they already know what comes next. You’re the only variable.

You duck into the McLaren garage and make yourself small in a corner, lens already raised. You find your rhythm fast—motion in bursts, posture quiet, shutter clicks softened by muscle memory and padded gloves. You’re good at being invisible. Better at looking than being looked at.

That’s when you see him.

Oscar Piastri, back turned, talking to an engineer in low tones. Fireproofs rolled to his waist, team polo damp at the collar. His posture is precise—his arms are folded, one foot is slightly out, and his weight is settled like he’s bracing for something. You know the type. Drivers are like that: built for pressure, too used to watching every move replayed in high-definition.

You lift your camera and catch the side of his face—jaw set, eyes somewhere far off. The light’s doing strange things to his skin. You click the shutter once. Just once.

He doesn’t notice.

You lower the camera and frown. It’s not a good shot. Or maybe it’s too good, too telling. You can’t tell.

You move on. The lens doesn’t linger.

Through the next hour, you cycle between pit wall and garage, hospitality and media pens, cataloging the edges of everything: mechanics with grease under their nails, engineers pointing at telemetry with a ferocity that doesn’t match the volume of their voices, Lando laughing too loud at something a comms assistant said. You catch him mid-gesture, mouth open, eyes crinkled—a perfect frame. That one will make the cut.

Oscar again, later—seated now, legs splayed, one knee bouncing under the table during a pre-FP1 briefing. Someone’s talking at him. He’s listening, but only barely. You zoom in. Not close enough to intrude, just enough to see the faint vertical line between his brows.

Click.

He glances up, just then. Not directly at you—at the lens. It’s only for a second.

You drop the camera a beat too late. You’re unsure if he saw you, or if you just want to believe he did. Doesn’t matter. You move.

By the time the session starts, your card’s half full and your shoulders ache. You shoot through it anyway—stops at the pit, tire changes, helmets going on and coming off. Oscar’s face stays unreadable. You begin to think that’s just how he is. Not aloof. Not rude. Just… held.

Held in. Held back.

You catch a frame of him alone in the garage just after FP1. Not polished, not composed. Just tired, human, real.

Click.

You keep that one.

You spend the next hour doing what you’re paid to do, but not how they expect.

Most photographers chase the obvious: the cars, the straight-on portraits, the victory poses. But you don’t work in absolutes. You’re not looking for the image they’ll post. You’re looking for the one they won’t realize meant something until later.

Lando’s easier. He moves like he knows he’s being watched—not in a vain way, but in a way that’s aware. Comfortable. Charismatic. You catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet while waiting for practice to start, race suit zipped to the collar, gloves half-pulled on, teasing a junior mechanic with a flicked towel and a crooked grin.

Click. Click.

He’s animated even in stillness.

You crouch by the front wing of the MCL39 as the garage clears and the mechanics prep Oscar’s car for the next run. The papaya paint glows under the fluorescents, almost too bright. You let the car fill your frame—the clean lines, the blur of sponsor decals, the matte finish of carbon fiber. You shoot the curve of the sidepod, the narrow precision of the halo, the rearview mirror where someone’s scribbled something in Sharpie.

You zoom in: “be still.”

It’s faded. Private. You don’t ask.

Oscar again.

He’s suited now, fully zipped, gloves tugged on sharp fingers, balaclava pulled to his chin. A McLaren PR assistant hands him a water bottle, saying something you can’t hear. He nods once. That’s all.

You adjust your position. The light behind him throws his figure into sharp contrast—full shadows across the orange and blue of his race suit, his name stitched at the hip, his helmet in hand. It’s a photo that shouldn’t work. But it does.

Click.

Helmet on. Visor down. The world shifts. He’s gone behind it again.

You lower your camera. Breathe out.

The difference between a person and a driver is about seven pounds of gear and one hard blink. You’ve seen it before. But this is the first time it’s made your fingers tremble.

You offload everything just before sunset, feet sore, mouth dry, memory cards filled past your usual threshold. The McLaren comms suite is quieter now—the day's buzz winding down into a lull of emails, decompression, and PR triage.

You’re at a corner table, laptop open, Lightroom humming. You work fast, fingers skimming across the touchpad and keys, instinctively flagging selects. You’re not here to overshoot. You’re here to find the frames. The ones that breathe.

A shadow crosses your table.

“Show me something good,” Zak Brown says. His voice is casual, but not careless. Nothing about him ever really is.

You shift the screen toward him. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans in. Just enough to see, not enough to crowd.

Silence.

You’ve pulled ten frames into your temp selects folder: Lando mid-laugh, a mechanic half-buried in the undercarriage with only his boots showing, Oscar’s car being wheeled back into the garage under high shadow, smoke curling from the brakes.

Then there’s him.

Oscar, post-FP1. Fireproofs peeled down to his waist. Sitting on the garage floor with his back against the wheel of his car.

Zak exhales. “Didn’t know the kid had this much presence. Or soul.”

You hover the cursor over the next shot—Oscar standing behind the car, half-suited, helmet under one arm, visor still up. His gaze off-frame. Brow furrowed. Light skimming the cut of his jaw.

Zak glances at you. “You ever thought about sticking around longer?”

You don’t answer. Not because you haven’t thought about it, but because you’re not sure you should.

That’s when you feel it. The shift in the air. That quiet, unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching.

You turn.

Oscar is standing a few feet away.

No footsteps. No sound. Just there—calm, unreadable, still in his fireproofs. His eyes are on the screen.

“That’s not what I look like,” he says.

His voice is even. Not guarded, not accusing. Just… uncertain.

You click the laptop shut. “That’s exactly what you look like.”

A pause.

He looks at you, not the screen. “You’re good at your job.”

Then he turns and walks off, no nod, no glance back—just the low hum of the paddock swallowing him whole again.

You don’t head out with the rest of the team.

No drinks. No debrief. No passing your card off to the media coordinator and pretending to relax. You just take your hard case, your bag, and the image of Oscar Piastri walking away burned somewhere behind your eyes.

You don’t touch the selects folder.

You open the other one. The one you didn’t label. Just a generic dump of the shots you couldn’t delete but didn’t want reviewed, not yet.

Inside, there are maybe five frames.

One of Lando, overexposed and blurred, laughing so hard his face distorts like motion through glass. Another of a mechanic in the shadows, holding a wrench like a confession. A stray shot of the track, taken too early, too bright. A mistake. But not really.

And then there’s the one of him again.

Oscar.

Captured between moments—not posed, not aware. He’s sitting on the garage floor, one knee bent, one glove off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His suit is creased. His helmet is behind him, forgotten. His head is tilted just slightly toward the light. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel real.

You zoom in, slowly.

The edge of his jaw is lined with sweat. Not the fresh kind—the dried kind, salt clinging to skin after exertion. There’s a furrow between his brows, soft but persistent. His lips are parted like he’s just sighed and hasn’t caught the next breath yet.

You should delete it.

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too still. A kind of stillness that belongs to someone when they think no one’s looking. It feels like something you weren’t supposed to witness, let alone keep.

But you don’t delete it.

You hover the cursor over the filename. The auto-generated one: DSC_0147.JPG.

Your fingers drift to the keyboard. You add a single character.

DSC_0147_OP81

No tags. No notes. No edits. Just the letter. Just the truth, you’re not ready to say out loud.

You sit there for a long time after that. Laptop closed. Lights off. The glow of the city is bleeding through the curtains in faint, uneven lines.

You wonder if he knows—not about the photo. About what it means to be seen like that. About how rare it is, and how dangerous.

The hospitality suite hums around you in low tones—lights on dimmers, coffee machine off but still warm, the faint scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the corners. The carpet is that neutral industrial gray meant to hide wear. The kind of flooring that swallows footfalls. The type of silence you can live inside.

The rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You told them you needed to finish sorting shots for socials. No one questioned it. Louise nodded once, already halfway out the door, and Zak offered a distracted goodnight without looking up from his phone.

Technically, it’s not a lie.

You told them you were sorting selects. You didn’t say which ones.

You’re tucked into a corner booth at the back of the room, laptop open, knees drawn up, one foot pressing flat against the faux-leather seat. The day’s weight settles in your spine—low, dull, familiar. Your body aches in the ways it always does after being on your feet too long, shouldering gear heavier than it looks.

You haven’t eaten since lunch. You haven’t cared.

A few dishes rattle faintly in the back as catering finishes their sweep. After that, it’s just you. You and the quiet click of your trackpad. You move like you’ve done this a hundred times—and you have. This is your space. Not the paddock. Not the pit wall. Not the grid. Here. The edit suite. The after-hours.

This is where the truth lives. After the lights are off, the PR filters are stripped, and no one’s watching but you.

You scroll through today’s selects—the public ones. The safe ones. There’s one of Lando on a scooter, wind in his curls, mid-laugh, and practically golden in the late light. He’ll repost it within the hour if you give it to him. Another of the mechanics elbow-deep in the guts of a car, all orange gloves and jawlines under harsh fluorescents. Sweat stains, sleeve smears, real work.

And then… him.

Even in the selects folder, Oscar’s different. Cleaner. Sharper. More precise. You didn’t filter him that way. He just arrived like that. Controlled. A study in restraint.

But that’s not the folder you’ve got open.

You tab over. The unlabeled one. The one you didn’t offer.

Five images. One thumbnail bigger than the rest—clicked more. Held longer. A private gravity.

The shot is unbalanced. Technically imperfect. You should’ve deleted it hours ago.

You didn’t.

You should color correct. Straighten the angle. Try to fix it. But some part of you—the part that works on instinct more than training—knows that would ruin it. The frame only matters because it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not even by you.

You sit back against the booth and stare at it. Not studying. Just being with it.

And then you feel it—not sound, not movement. Just a shift in the air.

A presence.

You glance up.

Oscar’s standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds his place near the threshold, one hand resting loosely on the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting. He’s changed—soft team shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp. Not a look meant for a camera. Not a look meant for anyone, really.

“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” he says.

You sit up a little straighter. “Didn’t expect to be.”

He steps in quietly, letting the door close behind him. Doesn’t make a move to sit or leave. Just hovers a few paces off, gaze flicking from the booth to the glow of your screen.

“What are you working on?” he asks, softer this time. Not performing curiosity. Just… genuinely curious.

You pause. Then turn the laptop slightly in his direction.

“Sorting photos,” you say.

He tilts his head to see. You expect him to take the out, nod, change the subject, or wave off the offer like most drivers do. Instead, he steps closer. One hand is on the booth’s divider for balance, and the other is loose on his side.

He looks at the screen. Really looks.

You’ve clicked back to the safer folder. The selects. It’s still full of him, though—his car in profile, a side view of his helmet under golden light, his hands resting lightly on the halo as a mechanic adjusts something behind him. Not posed. Just there. Present.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet.

Then: “Do I really look like that?”

The question isn’t skeptical. It’s not even self-deprecating. It’s something else. Wonder, maybe. A genuine attempt to see himself from the outside.

You don’t answer right away.

You scroll to the next frame. Him post-practice, hands on hips, visor up. Sweat cooling on his neck. The curve of tension in his spine visible through the suit. You scroll again—him in motion this time, walking past a barrier, the shadow of a halo bisecting his cheekbone.

He leans closer. Almost imperceptibly.

You look up at him. “What do you think you look like?”

He exhales slowly, not quite a laugh. “Flat. Quiet. Efficient.”

You click on the next photo—one you weren’t planning to share.

Oscar, half-turned. Not looking at anyone. Not performing. His face caught in mid-thought, eyes unfocused, something private flickering there and gone.

“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But you’re not right either.”

He studies the screen. Closer now. You can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He’s not watching himself anymore—he’s watching what you saw. And something about that visibly unsettles him.

“These are different,” he says after a moment.

You nod once. “They weren’t meant for the team folder.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Not guarded. Not suspicious. Just aware of you, of the space between you, of whatever it is this moment is starting to become.

You don’t look away from him. Not when his eyes finally lift from the screen. Not when they meet yours.

It’s not a long stare. But it’s not short either.

He blinks once and turns back to the laptop, brows drawing together—not in discomfort, but in something closer to focus. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’ve caught something he didn’t know he was showing.

You let the silence hold. Let it stretch into something close to peace. There’s no PR rep in the room, no lens turned back on him. Just you, the laptop, the low hum of refrigeration from the kitchenette, and Oscar Piastri looking at himself like the photo might answer a question he’s never asked out loud.

He gestures faintly toward the screen. “Do you photograph everyone like this?”

You know what he’s really asking. Not about composition. Not about exposure. About intention. About intimacy.

“No,” you say.

That’s it. One word. No performance. No clarification.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like a muscle catching a thought before it can turn into something else.

Another moment passes.

Then he shifts his weight slightly, hand brushing the table's edge as he leans in just enough to be beside you now, not just behind. Not touching. Not crowding. But near.

You don’t move away.

And he doesn’t move forward.

You both stay still, eyes on the screen now, like that’ll save you from the implication already thick in the air.

On the screen, he’s in profile. Brow relaxed, mouth parted like he was about to speak but didn’t. You remember the exact shutter click. You hadn’t meant to capture that. It just happened.

“I don’t remember this moment,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You almost say, That’s what made it real.

Instead, you close the photo. Not to hide it. Just to breathe.

You don’t open another image. You don’t need to.

He’s still standing beside you, and the silence between you has started to feel like something structural—a pressure system, an atmosphere. He hasn’t moved away. And you haven’t pulled back.

You’re not touching. But you feel him. The warmth of his shoulder. The stillness of his breath. The way his presence shifts the air around your body like gravity.

You glance sideways.

He’s not looking at the screen anymore.

He’s looking at you.

Not boldly. Not playfully. Just… plainly. Like he’s seeing you in real time and letting it happen.

He doesn’t speak right away. You think he might—you think the moment’s cresting into something spoken, into confession or contact or maybe just a name dropped between sentences. But instead, his gaze flicks once back to the laptop. Then to you again.

And all he says is:

“You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show.”

It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. It’s not judgment either.

It’s just true.

You swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think he expects an answer.

He steps back.

Not abruptly. Just enough to break the spell.

His hand brushes the table's edge as he moves—the lightest contact, accidental or deliberate, you don’t know. Then he straightens.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say goodbye.

Just leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him like a shutter closing.

You don’t move for a long time.

The garage is quieter after a successful qualifying than anyone ever expects.

There’s no roar of celebration, no sharp silence of defeat—just the low, rhythmic scrape of routines. Cables coiled. . Tools clacking back into cases. Mechanics speaking in shorthand. Half-finished water bottles stacked in corners like the day couldn’t quite decide to end.

You stay late to shoot the stillness. The after. The details no one asks for but everyone remembers once they see them: the foam of rubber dust around a wheel arch, the long streak of oil under an abandoned jack, the orange smudge of a thumbprint on a visor that shouldn’t have been there. These are your favorite frames—the ones no one knows how to stage.

You think you’re alone.

You aren’t.

Oscar’s there—crouched beside his car, still in his fireproofs, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt is damp across his back. His gloves are off. One hand rests on the slick curve of the sidepod, like he doesn’t want to leave it just yet.

He doesn’t look up at you. Not at first. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re there.

But you raise your camera anyway.

Not for work. Not for the team. Just to capture what he looks like when no one’s telling him how to be.

You half-expect him to move—to shift, to block the frame, to glance up with that quiet indifference you’ve learned to recognize in him.

He doesn’t.

He lifts his head.

And holds your gaze.

You freeze, viewfinder still pressed to your eye. Your finger hovers over the shutter. One breath passes. Then another.

You click once.

The sound is soft but rings like a shot in the hollow space between you.

He doesn’t blink.

You lower the camera.

He stands. He steps closer.

Not dramatically. Not like someone making a move. Just a fraction forward, enough that you catch the warmth of his body before you register the space between you is gone. His suit still carries the heat of the day—sweat-damp fabric, residual adrenaline, maybe even rubber and asphalt baked into the fibers.

You could step back.

You don’t.

You look at him. Not through a lens. Not through the controlled frame of your work. Just him. Face bare, eyes steady, skin flushed faintly pink from the effort of the race, or maybe from this—from now.

His gaze drops—not to your lips. Not to your hands. To your camera. Still hanging there. Still between you.

“I thought it’d bother me,” he says, voice low. “Having someone follow me around with a camera.”

You don’t speak. Just let him say it.

“But it doesn’t,” he adds. “Not with you.”

That lands somewhere in your chest, soft but irreversible.

You tilt your head slightly. He mirrors it, barely perceptible—like you’re both circling something you’ve already agreed to, but neither of you wants to be the first to name it.

Your hand twitches—a half-motion toward his arm that you stop before it lands. He catches it anyway. You see it flicker in his eyes: awareness, restraint, the line he’s thinking about crossing.

And for a second, you both just breathe.

You can hear his, shallow and careful. You wonder if he can hear yours.

He looks at you again, not past you, not through you. At you.

He takes that final step toward you.

Close now—too close for the lens, too close for performance. Just the space where breath meets breath. Where silence turns into touch.

Your camera strap tugs lightly at your neck, caught between your bodies. The lens bumps his ribs—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

He glances down at it. Then back up at you.

You hesitate.

For a moment, it’s a question: leave it on, keep the wall up, pretend this is still observational. You could. You’re good at hiding behind it.

But not now.

Not with him.

You reach up, slow, deliberate, and lift the strap over your head. The camera slides down and into your palm with a soft weight. You turn and place it on the workbench beside you. Careful. Quiet. Final.

When you face him again, the air feels different.

Lighter. Sharper. Bare.

He looks at you like something just shifted—like whatever existed between you when you were holding the lens has burned away, and now you’re just here. With him.

You take a breath.

So does he.

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No performance. Just the simple, exact motion of someone who’s been thinking about it too long.

His lips find yours with surprising clarity—not tentative, not rushed, but precise. Like he knows how not to waste the moment. Like he doesn’t want to use more force than he has to. His hand comes up to your jaw, steadying. Guiding. His thumb brushes just beneath your ear.

You sigh into it before you realize you’ve made a sound.

It isn’t a long kiss.

But it says enough.

You part—barely—breath warming the inch between your mouths.

Oscar looks at you the way he did in of some your photos. Like he sees you and doesn’t need to say it.

You don’t speak.

You just pull him back in.

After that second kiss—deeper, hungrier, not rushed but no longer careful—your back bumps against the edge of the workbench. Something shifts behind you, a soft clatter of tools or metal. Neither of you reacts, beyond a quick glance to make sure your camera is still ok.

Oscar’s hand finds your waist. Not pulling. Just grounding. He’s breathing hard now—not from nerves, but from restraint. From the way his body wants more than it’s being given.

You want more too.

But not here.

The garage is still too open. You can feel the risk of movement beyond the wall, the flicker of voices down the corridor. You know better than to do this out in the open. And so does he.

You draw back slightly. Not far. Just enough to say: we can’t stay here.

He meets your eyes. Doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

You slip out through the back corridor, your boots soft on the concrete, camera long forgotten. The hallway narrows. The air feels different—more insulated. Familiar layout. You’ve walked this path before, with your eyes forward and your badge visible.

But this time, you pause.

The door ahead is unmarked, but you know it’s his.

You don’t hesitate.

You open it.

Inside: the quiet hum of ventilation. A narrow cot. A low bench. His helmet bag in the corner. A duffel unzipped and half-collapsed against the wall. One small light left on, warm and low. A private space, lived-in but untouched. No one else is supposed to be here.

The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s quiet. Not padded silence—earned silence. The kind you get after twenty laps of tight corners and exact braking. The kind where everything else falls away.

You put your camera on the bench now.

Oscar stands behind you.

You feel him before you hear him—a shift in air, in presence. And when you turn, he’s already moving.

This kiss is different.

Less measured. More real. His hands find your waist, then your back, sliding up beneath your shirt—fingertips slow, but sure. Like he’s still learning the shape of permission. Like he won’t take anything you don’t give.

But you give it.

You pull at the hem of his undershirt, and he lets you. It peels off in one clean motion. His skin is flushed, chest rising with each breath. The restraint that’s lived in his shoulders for days has nowhere left to go.

Your hands map over it.

He kisses you again, harder now, with that same focused precision you’ve seen in every debrief photo, every lap line, every unreadable frame. But this time, it’s turned inward. On you.

He makes a sound when you push him back onto the bench—not a moan, not yet. Just a low breath punched from his chest, like he didn’t expect you to take the lead. But he doesn’t stop you.

He just watches.

You settle onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs, and he lets his hands drag up your sides like he’s cataloguing every inch. Your shirt rises. His mouth follows.

He kisses you there, just beneath your ribs, then lower.

By the time you reach down to tug at the knot in his fireproofs, his breath is uneven. Controlled, but slipping.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods. Swallows.

Then, quietly: “You’re not what I expected.”

You lean in, lips at his ear.

“Neither are you.”

Oscar doesn’t rush.

Even as your fingers fumble with the tie at his waist, even as his hands trace your hips like he’s memorizing something that won’t last, he stays grounded. Breath steady. Eyes on yours. Like he’s still trying to be sure—not of you, but of himself.

You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his cheek, and whisper, “Lie back.”

He does.

You shift to the cot together, clothes half-off, half-on—his fireproofs peeled down, your underwear already sliding down your thigh, your shirt somewhere behind you on the floor. It’s not perfect. It’s not staged.

But it’s real.

He lets you settle over him first. Let's you find the angle, the rhythm, the breath. His hands stay at your hips, thumbs pressing into the softness there like he doesn’t want to grip too tight, like this might still vanish if he closes his eyes.

He exhales sharply when you take him in.

You sink down, slow, controlled—the way he drives, the way you shoot. Like it’s all about reading the moment.

His breath stutters. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

Then he says it. Quietly.

“Thank you.”

It’s not a performance. Not something meant to be romantic. It slips out like instinct, like he doesn’t know how else to name what’s happening.

You still, just slightly, your hand on his chest.

“For what?” you breathe.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely unguarded for the first time. His answer is barely audible.

“For seeing me.”

You freeze, just for a breath.

It’s not what you expected. Not from him. And not here, like this. But he says it without flinching, without looking away.

And then, just as your chest tightens, just as you reach for something to say, he exhales sharply through his nose—

And flips you.

Your back hits the cot with a soft thud, the thin mattress barely muffling the motion. You barely manage a breath before he’s over you, hips slotting between your thighs like they’ve always belonged there.

It’s not rough. It’s measured. Intentional. Every part of him radiates heat, tension, and restraint held so tight it hums beneath his skin.

Oscar leans in—forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh as he presses it up, open, wide. He looks down at you like you’ve stopped time. Like he’s memorizing what it feels like to have you under him.

“You don’t get to do all the seeing,” he murmurs, voice low and firm. “Not anymore.”

Then he thrusts in.

Slow. Deep. Full.

You cry out—not from pain, not even surprise, but from the way it takes. All of him. All at once. The way he fills you like your body was waiting for it.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds there. Buried inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. He dips his head to your neck—not kissing, just breathing there, letting the moment press into both of you.

Then he rolls his hips.

Long, steady strokes. Not fast. Not shallow. Each one drags a breath from your lungs, makes your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything you can hold.

“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

He shifts, adjusting your leg higher on his hip, changing the angle—

God.

He feels the way your body stutters, tightens, clenches around him, and groans—quiet, rough, broken. His control flickers. You feel it in the way his pace falters for just a second, then steadies again, even deeper now.

Your thighs shake.

Your nails dig in.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your lips—hot and open, tongues brushing, messy now. Focused turned to need.

He thrusts harder. Not brutal. Just honest. Like he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

“You wanted this,” he pants into your mouth. “You watched me like—like I wouldn’t notice.”

You nod, breathless. “I did. I couldn’t—fuck, Oscar—”

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“I wanted you.”

His hips snap forward.

“I want you.”

He groans, low in his throat, and fucks you harder.

The cot creaks under you. The air is damp. Your legs are wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, locking him in. He thrusts deep, precise, again and again—your body no longer holding shape, just pulse and friction and heat.

He knows you’re close.

You feel him watch you—not just your face, but your whole body as it trembles under him. His hand slides down, between your thighs, two fingers pressing exactly where you need them, circling once—

And you break.

It tears out of you—sharp and full and shattering. You gasp his name. Your back arches. Your whole body pulses around him, and he feels it—curses once, softly, like he’s never come like this before.

He thrusts twice more, rougher now, chasing it, falling into it.

Then he groans deep in your ear and comes, spilling into you with a low, drawn-out moan. His body stutters against yours, then goes still.

You stay like that. Twined together. Sweaty. Breathless. Quiet.

Not speaking yet.

Just feeling everything settle.

He stays inside you for a few long seconds—breathing hard, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, the heat between your bodies thick and grounding.

Neither of you speaks.

Eventually, he shifts.

Withdraws with a low groan, like he didn’t want to but had to. You wince a little at the loss, at the sensitivity. He notices.

“Hang on,” he murmurs.

He stands—a little unsteady, a little flushed—and crosses to the corner without putting anything back on. You watch him: tall, bare, hair a mess from your hands. He grabs a towel from a low shelf and brings it back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up.

You half-laugh through your haze. “Didn’t take you for the towel type.”

“I’m methodical,” he mutters, like that explains it.

You tilt your head. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just focuses on being careful—one hand steady on your thigh, the towel warm and folded, the silence less awkward than it should be.

Then, quietly: “I’m sorry I didn’t have a condom.”

You blink.

His voice is low, calm, but not casual. Intent.

“I’ll get Plan B tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll—figure it out. I just didn’t think…”

He trails off.

You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you, really looks, and nods once. More to himself than you.

He tosses the towel to the floor. You sit up slowly, legs unsteady, shirt still off, everything about this moment too real to feel like aftermath.

He starts to pull his fireproofs back up.

You watch him for a second. Then, without thinking, you ask:

“Do you regret it?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says. Then, quieter: “Do you?”

You shake your head.

“I don't think so,” you whisper.

And you mean it.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then your eyes drift to the bench, where your camera still rests, right where you left it.

You reach for it.

Not out of instinct. Out of something slower. Softer. He watches you, but doesn’t stop you.

You flick it on. Adjust nothing. Just cradle it in one hand as you shift down onto the cot again, your body still warm, your shirt forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Oscar follows.

He lies beside you, then settles halfway across your chest—head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm looped around your waist. His breathing slows against your skin.

He doesn’t speak.

You lift the camera, carefully—just enough to frame the moment.

No posing. No styling. Just him, resting against you, the tension drained from his body, his face soft in a way you’ve never seen it before.

You take one shot.

Just one.

No flash. No click loud enough to stir him. Just the soundless capture of something unrepeatable.

You lower the camera and let it rest on the floor.

Then you press your hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the sweat-damp hair there.

He doesn’t move.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself close your eyes too.

The light coming through the slatted blinds is too thin, too early, and absolutely not the kind of light you wanted to wake up to.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then freeze.

Oscar is still asleep on your chest.

His arm’s heavy across your stomach. His mouth is parted just slightly, his breath warm against your ribs. The sheet barely covers either of you. Your leg is tangled between his. Your camera’s on the floor, lens cap off, body smudged from where your hand landed in the dark.

And from somewhere beyond the door, you hear voices.

Early. Sharp. Professional.

Your blood runs cold.

“Oscar,” you hiss.

He doesn’t move.

You jab your fingers into his side.

He grunts. Groggy. “Five more—”

“No, Oscar. People are arriving.”

That wakes him up.

He blinks fast, eyes wild for a second, then zeroes in on your very, very naked body, “Shit.”

You’re already rolling off the cot, grabbing for your shirt, your underwear, anything. He sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking hard like he’s trying to reboot.

“Where are your—?” he starts.

“Somewhere under you,” you snap, tugging your jeans over your legs with one hand while trying to find your bra with the other. “How the fuck are people already here? It’s—”

He glances at the clock.

“Five fifty-eight.”

You freeze. “AM?!”

He shrugs, one leg in his fireproofs. “We’re a punctual operation.”

You glare. “You owe me a coffee for this.”

“I’ll bring it with the Plan B,” he mutters, hopping on one foot, still trying to get the other leg into his pants.

You both freeze.

Half-dressed. Half-wrecked. Fully undone.

Your eyes meet—and something flickers. Not fear. Not regret. Just recognition.

Then the laugh slips out.

His first. Yours chasing after it. Quiet. Breathless.

It’s not elegant. It’s not even sane. But it cuts through the panic like oxygen.

And somehow, it’s enough to pull yourselves back into motion.

By the time you make it out of Oscar’s room, it’s six-fifteen.

The sky is still dark, just starting to take on that pale, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look more suspicious. The air is cool against your sweat-damp skin. Your shirt clings uncomfortably beneath your jacket. Your hair’s a disaster. There’s dried spit on your collarbone.

You try to ignore it.

You sling your camera bag over one shoulder and walk fast, like speed is professionalism. Like maybe if you move quickly enough, no one will notice that your bra is in your pocket.

The paddock is starting to stir—lights in the garages flipping on, early logistics staff wheeling carts, someone laughing too loud over a radio.

You don’t look at anyone.

Instead, you beeline for the McLaren hospitality suite—the same corner booth you’d claimed last night.

You slide into it like you’ve been there for hours.

You open your laptop. Plug in your card. Scroll through a few photos like you’re reviewing footage from a very long, very productive night.

You sip from the cold cup of tea you left there the evening before.

Someone passes by and nods. You nod back, like, Yes, I live here now.

And when you’re finally alone again—no footsteps, no voices, no Oscar—you flick through the frames.

And there it is.

Oscar. Half-asleep on your chest. One arm slung across your waist. Face soft. Human. Completely unguarded.

You don’t smile. You don’t linger.

You just right-click and rename the file:

DSC_0609_OP81

Then you close the folder.

The room is quiet. Still holding the shape of him.

You let it sit for a few more minutes—the aftermath, the ache, the image that still feels too close.

Then you move.

Hotel. Shower. Clothes. Routine like armor. You scrub his breath from your skin and pull your hair back like a statement.

By the time you reappear, you look like someone who’s been working since dawn.

You slip back into the hospitality suite just after seven-thirty, hair still damp, your badge hanging neatly over a neutral jacket. You walk like you’ve been here all night. Like you didn’t sneak out of Oscar Piastri’s driver’s room just before the first truck arrived.

The booth where you left your laptop is still yours—same coffee cup, same open Lightroom window, same half-edited photo of brake dust curling off a rear tire. You slide into the seat like nothing’s changed.

Your body aches.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a you-should-not-have-done-that-on-a-thin-mattress-with-an-F1-driver kind of way.

You sip lukewarm tea. You click through a few photos. You try to find your place again—in the day, in your work, in your skin.

You almost have it.

And then Oscar walks in.

He’s clean. Composed. Damp hair pushed back. Fresh team polo. His eyes sweep the suite once, briefly, and stop on you.

Not long. Just enough to register.

You feel it in your throat. In your chest.

He keeps walking.

You don’t look up again. You wait until he’s out of sight.

Then, casually, like you’re just checking the time, you unlock your phone.

There’s a tag notification at the top of the screen.

@oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

Your stomach tightens.

You tap it.

The photo loads slowly—the Wi-Fi is never good this early—but you already know. You can feel it before it appears.

And there it is.

One of yours.

Oscar, from Friday. Fireproofs rolled to the waist. Helmet in hand. Standing just off-center, eyes somewhere past the camera. The light is warm and sharp. The moment is quiet.

He looks human. Present. Exposed.

You didn’t submit that one for publishing yet.

You didn’t even color-correct it.

But he posted it.

No caption. No emoji. No flair.

Just a tag.

Your throat goes dry.

You swipe up to see the comments.

'he NEVER posts like this' 'why does this feel personal' 'who took this photo?? i want names' 'soft launch energy or what'

You lock the screen.

Then unlock it again.

Same image. Same tag. Same hush in your chest.

He chose this. Publicly. Silently. Deliberately.

You don’t know what to feel.

Except seen.

And maybe a little bit fucked.

You flip back to Lightroom, but your fingers don’t move.

The cursor hovers over a batch of unprocessed photos. Tire smoke. Candid Lando. Engineers pointing at telemetry. Everything you’re supposed to be focused on. Everything you usually love.

You stare straight ahead, forcing your breath to even out.

Footsteps approach—light but confident.

You don’t look up until he’s beside you.

Zak.

Coffee in hand. Shirt pressed. Sunglasses hanging off his collar like it’s already noon. He doesn’t sit; he just leans one hand on the booth’s divider and glances at your screen.

“Anything good in there?” he asks.

You click once, purely for show.

“A few,” you say.

He nods. Then gestures vaguely toward your phone, which is still facedown on the table.

“You see what Oscar posted?”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This morning.”

There’s a pause.

You don’t fill it.

Zak hums. A noncommittal sound. But there’s something behind it. Something knowing.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him post a photo of himself that wasn’t mid-action,” he says. “Certainly not one that… quiet.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s scanning the room, like he’s talking about the weather.

Then he looks down.

“That one yours?”

You nod. “Yeah. From Friday.”

“Hm.” He sips his coffee. “Good frame. Eyes open. Looks like a person.”

You don’t answer.

Zak straightens, adjusts his watch.

“Well,” he says, already turning away, “don’t let him steal your best work for free.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move.

Because your heart is pounding.

Not from guilt.

From the sick, unshakable feeling that something real is happening, and people are starting to see it.

You’ve made it almost four hours without thinking about it.

Or at least—without actively thinking about it.

You’ve answered emails, flagged selects, and dropped a batch of your best Lando photos into the team's "for publishing" drive. You’ve even had a second coffee. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, professionally and invisibly, just like always.

But your phone’s still sitting face down next to your laptop. And it keeps catching the corner of your eye like it knows.

You flip it over. No new notifications.

You open Instagram anyway.

The post is still there. Still climbing.

Sixty thousand likes now. More than three hundred comments. You stop scrolling after the third one that says something about the way he looks at the camera, like he knows who’s behind it.

You close the app.

You open it again three minutes later.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for.

Until the screen lights up.

Oscar Piastri

10:02 a.m.

You okay with me posting that? Didn’t mean to make things harder.

You read it once.

Then again.

Then three more times, like you’re searching for a different meaning. Like the phrasing might shift if you look long enough.

It doesn’t.

You picture him typing it—sitting somewhere behind the garage partition, race suit half-zipped, that permanent crease between his brows as he stares at the screen too long before hitting send. You picture him thinking about the photo. About what it looked like. About how it felt.

About you.

You rest your phone on your thigh and stare out the window beside your booth.

It’s bright now—full daylight. The paddock’s humming. Lando’s somewhere laughing too loudly. Zak just walked by again, talking about tire wear. You’re surrounded by normal.

But nothing feels normal.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same name.

Oscar Piastri

10:06 a.m.

I’ll still get the Plan B. After work. Just didn’t want you to think I forgot.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Not because you were worried—but because he remembered.

Because even now, back in uniform, back on the clock, back in the world where no one is supposed to see what happened, he still thinks about what comes after.

You rest your phone on the table. Thumb hovering.

You type:

Thank you. Don’t worry about the post.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t reread it. You just hit send.

And that’s enough.

INBOX

Subject: Assignment Continuation: Photographer, Track & Driver Coverage

Hi,

Following an internal review of mid-season content delivery, we’d like to formally request that you continue in your current capacity with McLaren through the following season. Your on-site coverage—particularly around driver documentation and live access environments—has added measurable value across platforms.

Please note that this recommendation also reflects internal feedback, including a request from one of the drivers for continuity.

If you’re open to continuing, we’d be happy to align on updated terms and logistics for the remaining calendar.

Best regards,

Lindsey Eckhouse

Director, Licensing & Digital

McLaren Racing

notes: well... it's no 'let him see,' but i'd say not too shabby. let me know what you think!! <3

taglist: @literallysza @piceous21 @missprolog @vanteel @idontknow0704 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @andawaywelando @yeahnahalrightfairenough @whatsitgonnabeangelina @missprolog @emily-b @number-0-iz @vhkdncu2ei8997 @astrlape

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

#f1 #f1 smut #f1 x reader #oscar piastri #op81 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri smut #ln4 #mclaren #op81 x reader

815 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Four

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, autistic breakdown on page, racing accidents (Las Vegas 2023), domestic fluff, slight (?) cliffhanger

Notes — Another longggg one! Hope you love it.

2023 (Las Vegas)

It was one of those overcast afternoons where the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or not. The light through the huge windows was grey and flat, and the air inside the rented house-slash-shoot-location had that odd, sterile warmth that came from too many camera batteries and ring lights and people trying to look casual for content.

The house itself was the kind of place you couldn’t quite imagine anyone actually living in — all clean lines, brushed steel, and exposed concrete. There were too many stairs. Too many echoey corners. And absolutely no soft lighting. It had been chosen for aesthetics, not comfort.

Amelia sat curled in the corner of the oversized leather sofa, knees tucked under her, one hand gripping her iPad, the other fidgeting absently with the drawstring of a hoodie that had somehow ended up in her lap. She hadn’t asked for it. Someone had draped it over her when she sat down, and now it was hers, apparently. That was fine. She liked the weight of it.

Her focus, however, was fixed entirely on her screen. The Vegas GP loomed ahead — a race full of unknowns, simulations stacked high with red flags and conditional parameters that changed every time she blinked. The track was new, the surface barely tested, the layout odd and inconsistent. Every variable gave her brain another reason to loop. And loop. And loop.

She was halfway through calculating braking loads based on preliminary corner speeds when Lando wandered past, all soft socks and too-long limbs, dragging one arm into a puffer jacket he wasn’t really planning to zip. He slowed when he saw her, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You gonna wear that for a photo?” He asked, nodding at the hoodie.

Amelia didn’t look up. “No.”

He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You sure? You’d look cute.”

She blinked once, then met his eyes. “I’m not in the mood for cute. I’m calculating brake performance for a track we have literally never raced on before. There are so many variables. I’m stressed.”

Across the room, Max Fewtrell barked a laugh, his voice echoing faintly as he adjusted a light stand. “That’s the most Amelia sentence I’ve ever heard. Like, ever.”

Pietra, seated on the floor nearby in flared jeans and a cloud-soft crewneck, turned toward Amelia with a gentle smile. She had a scrunchie looped around her wrist and two bracelets Amelia had given her after a layover in Japan. “You can do both,” Pietra said warmly. “Be cute and stressed.”

Amelia looked at her, expression softening around the eyes. “Honestly, I just want to stay sat down.”

“Okay,” Pietra said, and leaned sideways to gently press her shoulder against Amelia’s. “Then we’ll sit. Together.”

Amelia didn’t say thank you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Lando reappeared a moment later with a bottle of water in one hand and a small protein bar in the other. He plopped onto the armrest beside her, knees brushing hers. His eyes flicked to the hoodie.

“You know that one’s technically mine.”

“I don’t care,” Amelia said without looking up.

He grinned. “I figured.” He nudged her ankle gently with his socked foot. “Still think it’d look better on you anyway.”

“That’s not difficult,” she replied, tugging the cuff of the hoodie over her hand. Then, after a pause, she added flatly, “That was a joke.”

Max dropped into a nearby chair, flinging one leg over the side with practiced drama. “Just one picture of you, Amelia? Come on, people would love it. Bit of behind-the-scenes. The fans adore when you’re in anything.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “No thank you.”

Lando snorted into his water bottle. Pietra let out a warm laugh. “Stop bothering her, Max. Lando does enough of that.”

“Oi,” Lando said, mock-affronted. “Leave me out of this.”

“You’re both bothering me,” Amelia replied, perfectly even. “I’m trying to work. I already hate the Vegas track.”

He turned his full attention to her now, brows lifting. “Why? We haven’t even been yet.”

“Because it’s new!” she burst out, sharper than she meant to. The volume bounced off the walls. She winced immediately, ducking her head into her shoulder. Her voice dropped low, controlled. “Because it’s new and we haven’t raced it before and that means no past data to lean on. That means sim work based on theoretical grip levels. That means error margins get wider. And that means I have to prepare twice as hard with half as much certainty.”

There was a pause.

“...Fair enough,” Lando said gently.

“I hate guessing,” she mumbled.

“No one likes guessing,” Pietra offered.

Amelia gave a small nod. “I like control. I like knowing.”

Max opened his mouth like he was about to tease her, then caught the subtle tension in her shoulders and wisely shut it again.

Lando tapped the top of her tablet lightly with one finger. “Well. You’ll figure it out, baby. You always do.”

She glanced up at him. “Because it’s my job.”

“And because you’re brilliant.”

She didn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth ticked upward.

“Are you wearing that to dinner later?” Pietra asked, gesturing to the hoodie.

Amelia looked down at it, then back at her. “Yes. I don’t want to change. I’m comfortable.”

Pietra smiled. “Good. I’ll wear mine too. We’ll match.”

“Accidentally?”

“Deliberately.”

Amelia considered that. “Okay. But only if we sit near the window.”

Pietra beamed. “Done.”

Lando looked between them, then leaned back on his hands. “You’ve replaced me.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “I only want to kiss you.”

He made a thoughtful face. “Alright. I’ll allow it.”

Max rolled his eyes. “You’re both so weird.”

“I’m autistic,” Amelia said plainly.

“You’re the weird one,” Pietra added to Max.

“Rude,” Max said.

Lando grinned. “You’re still in love with us.”

“Terrible.”

Outside, the sky finally made up its mind — light rain pattering against the windows in slow, scattered streaks.

Inside, Amelia tucked the hoodie tighter around her, legs still folded, checklist still glowing on the iPad in her lap. Her head leaned lightly against Pietra’s shoulder now, and Lando’s hand rested on her shin — grounding, present, always within reach.

They’d survive Vegas. They would.

Amelia exhaled through her nose. “I need a backup plan for the Sector 2 hairpin.”

“You’ll come up with one,” Lando said, completely sure.

And she would.

Because she always did.

—

The sim suite smelled faintly of coffee and carpet glue.

It was making Amelia feel violently ill.

It was well past nine in the evening, and the McLaren Technology Centre was mostly dark — lights dimmed, staff dispersed, and only the low hum of servers and quiet keystrokes from the strategy team still working in the next room. On the main screen, a full layout of the Las Vegas circuit was overlaid with predictive data. Telemetry lines in orange and blue flickered in real time, charting Oscar’s run.

Inside the sim rig, Oscar exhaled sharply and let the steering wheel go slack as the run ended.

“Turn ten still feels off,” he said, voice crackling slightly through the headset. “Rear snaps too easily on downshift. It’s like— I don’t know. It just unloads.”

Amelia stood beside the sim rig, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t look at Oscar as she replied. She was looking at the data instead. “We’re too aggressive with the engine braking into the apex,” she said. “You’re already on a mid-bite diff setting. I can pull back the torque map slightly — see if we can stabilise it.”

Oscar lifted his visor and blinked into the low lighting. “We tried that earlier though.”

“That was with a higher track temp sim,” one of the strategy engineers chimed in from his desk.

Amelia nodded. “This time we’re modelling it colder. Night session, cooler surface, lower grip. It’s a different profile now.”

Oscar gave her a skeptical look. “You think it’ll make the difference?”

“I don’t know,” she said flatly. “We run tests. And I wait for the results.”

He frowned at her. “You’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed,” Amelia replied. “I’m tired. And annoyed. This track is stupid.”

The strategist behind her snorted into his water bottle. “That’s the technical term, is it?”

“Yes,” she said, deadpan. “Stupid.”

Oscar raised a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. No argument from me.”

Amelia stepped forward and typed something into the control console. “I’ll load the next setup with the revised map and a minor front wing tweak. You’ll run sectors two and three only.”

Oscar nodded, settling back into the seat. “Short run. Got it.”

“Not just short,” Amelia added. “Precision. I want minimal steering corrections. No overcommitting. If we’re going to adjust setup for the race, I need to see your clean line.”

Behind her, Lando’s voice chimed in from the doorway, “someone’s feeling bossy tonight.”

Amelia didn’t turn around. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m just here to observe,” Lando said, stepping in with a smoothie and a faint smirk. “Oscar’s face is funny when he gets told off for oversteering.”

Oscar flipped him off without lifting his head.

Amelia keyed in the updated run. “I don’t care what his face does. I care about what the car does.”

Lando walked over, watching the screen over her shoulder. “What’s the target delta?”

“Half a second gain from his last run if the balance correction holds.”

Lando let out a low whistle. “Ambitious.”

“It’s not,” Amelia replied. “It’s necessary.”

There was a pause.

“You doing okay, baby?” He asked, a bit more gently now.

“I will be fine,” she said. “After Vegas is over and no one asks me to model tyre deg on untested tarmac again.”

Oscar cleared his throat from the rig. “Not to interrupt, but—uh—ready when you are.”

“Go ahead,” Amelia said, refocusing instantly. “Cold tyres, revised torque, short sector two and three run. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,” Oscar replied.

The sim kicked back into life. Virtual Vegas, all garish lights and overblown spectacle, unfurled across the screen. Oscar’s car dove into sector two with smoother transitions, noticeably fewer corrections in the corners.

“Better,” Amelia muttered, half to herself.

Oscar’s voice came through again. “Still doesn’t feel natural, but it’s drivable now.”

“We don’t need natural,” she said. “We need consistency.”

Oscar snorted. “You should get that put on a mug.”

“I did,” Lando added from behind her. Sarcastically. “It’s in our kitchen. Pink ceramic. Very cute.”

Amelia didn’t respond to that. She was too busy watching the data smooth out. Torque delivery flattened. Brake pressure stayed linear. The car made it through turn ten without any hint of snap.

Finally, she let out a breath. “Alright. That’s something we can build on.”

Oscar coasted to a stop in the sim. “You going to sleep tonight?”

“No,” Amelia said plainly. “I’m going to write a full report for Andrea and then run sector modelling for Sunday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll sleep.”

Lando moved closer, brushing his hand against hers lightly. “You’ll sleep. I’ll make sure of it.”

Amelia didn’t argue, but she didn’t confirm either.

Instead, she turned back to the engineers. “We’ll do a full load run tomorrow, weather sim in two parts. I’ll rework the wing config tonight.”

Oscar pulled off his gloves. “Do we ever do anything the easy way?”

“No,” Amelia said simply. “But if we want to win, we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

Lando smiled at that. “Now that should go on a mug.”

—

The Woking flat was dark except for the glow of Amelia’s laptop screen and the soft blue hue of the night bleeding in through the curtains.

Lando had been asleep for the last hour. Or at least, he’d been pretending to be—chest rising slow and steady under the covers, one arm thrown across the pillow she’d vacated earlier. He hadn’t moved, even when she’d shifted to the desk by the window and started typing furiously with only a desk lamp and the stars for company.

She’d barely noticed how stiff her back had become. Her legs were tucked beneath her again, one sock half-rolled, posture twisted into something unnatural. Her fingers moved with focused speed, mapping Oscar’s sector performance against a projected tyre wear curve.

“Amelia,” Lando said, voice rough from sleep but still gentle. “Baby. Come back to bed.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve been almost done for forty minutes.”

“That’s because I keep finding new things to optimise,” she replied, tapping a key with just a little too much force. “The grip model’s still off in sector three. I think the sim is overcompensating for the surface temp. If Oscar brakes, he’s going to overshoot.”

Lando sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know you’re going to fix it all tomorrow anyway, right? It doesn’t all need to happen tonight.”

“It does,” she said immediately. “It does, because it’s unpredictable, and if I don’t account for everything now, I’ll be scrambling when I’m supposed to be thinking clearly. And I hate scrambling.”

He rolled out of bed with a sleepy grunt and crossed the room to her, quiet and barefoot on the plush carpet. When he reached her, he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded, watching her for a long moment. Not judging. Just… taking her in.

“You’re spiralling,” he said simply.

“No, I’m working.”

“Amelia.”

That one word, soft and firm and Lando-shaped, made her pause.

She didn’t meet his eyes, but her hands stilled over the keyboard. Her mouth was set in a thin line. Tired. Frustrated.

“I don’t know how to switch it off,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Not when I know I haven’t solved the problem.”

“I know,” he said, and gently reached to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. “But right now the problem is that you’re running on fumes, and if you don’t rest, you’re not going to solve anything.”

“But—”

“You’ll still be brilliant in the morning. I promise.”

She swallowed, jaw tense. “I hate how much I care. I hate that it makes me feel—” She clenched one hand into a fist. “Like I’m chasing something I can never quite catch. Because there’s always something else to fix.”

“I know,” Lando said again. “But you’re allowed to rest without fixing everything first. That doesn’t make you less good at your job. It just makes you human, yeah?”

Amelia looked at him finally. Her eyes were glassy, but not tearful. Just full — with pressure, with effort, with the weight of wanting to be the best and feeling like she had to prove it constantly.

He reached down and took her hand in his.

“Come to bed,” he said gently. “I’ll lie awake with you if your brain won’t shut up. We can talk about strategy, or nothing at all. But I want you with me.”

Amelia hesitated. Then closed her laptop with a soft click.

“Okay,” she said, voice a little hollow from the sudden shift in momentum. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Lando squeezed her hand and led her back toward the bed. She climbed in beside him, limbs slow and uncertain, like she wasn’t sure how to be still. He wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“You’re allowed to rest,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to exist outside of your job.”

She let out a long, shaky breath. “I know.”

“Say it like you believe it.”

“I’m allowed to rest,” she repeated, curling into him. “Even if I haven’t fixed everything.”

He smiled against her skin. “Good girl.”

Amelia relaxed by inches, not all at once, never that, but her breath began to slow, her hands stopped fidgeting, and the tension in her shoulders faded as his warmth soaked into her.

It was enough.

—

Amelia stirred slowly, the weight of Lando’s arm still draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even behind her.

Her brain came online before her eyes opened. The first thought was always a race.

Telemetry. Overnight sim data. Updated Vegas surface temps. Sector three.

She kept her eyes shut. Just for a moment longer.

Her hand reached, automatically, half-blind, toward the bedside table. She found her phone and lit the screen — brightness low, eyes squinting. There was a new email flagged from McLaren strategy. An attachment from the sim team. A message from Oscar. Just a quick one.

Brake marker change in T11? Feel like it’s off. Can we run it again?

Her thumb hovered over the reply button.

Then a low, sleepy voice rumbled behind her ear. “If you answer that, I’m going to bite you.”

She stilled.

Lando’s voice was rough with sleep, his face still half buried in her hair, but his grip on her waist tightened just slightly — enough to ground her, enough to keep her in the moment.

“I wasn’t going to answer,” she said softly. “I was just checking—”

“You were doing the exact thing we talked about,” he said, not unkindly. “Waking up and not even giving yourself ten minutes to take care of yourself before you start thinking about everyone else.”

She blinked. Her screen dimmed and went black. She let the phone fall gently back onto the bed.

Lando pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. “Thank you.”

“I really wasn’t going to do anything,” she murmured again, not sure why she was defending it. “I just needed to know what’s going on. So I could stop thinking about it.”

“I get that.” He kissed the back of her neck this time, a little firmer. “But I also know you. One look turns into an hour of work. You don’t know how to stop unless someone physically pins you down.”

She rolled onto her back to look at him. His hair was flattened on one side. His eyes were sleepy but open now, watching her like she was something fragile he was determined not to drop.

“I just don’t want to miss something important,” she said. “Vegas is proving to be a nightmare.”

“We’ll be fine. You’ll be better than fine.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can guarantee that if you burn yourself out now, you won’t be able to fix the problems when they actually matter.”

Her lips twisted into something half-smile, half-grimace. “That’s annoying because it’s true.”

“Mm.” He nuzzled her hairline. “I like you when you’re being all smart-pants Amelia,” Lando said, pulling her closer again. “But I like it better when you’re well-rested.”

She sighed and let herself relax, her head falling against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat — steady and calm — the opposite of her usual thrum of anxious energy.

He tapped her hip. “Tell you what. You stay here, in bed, with me for fifteen more minutes. Then I’ll get up and bring you your laptop, your iPad, three highlighters and whatever else you need. Deal?”

She closed her eyes. Thought about saying no. Thought about Vegas. Then she nodded.

“Deal.”

Lando smiled against her temple. “My girl.”

—

Las Vegas

Amelia found herself blinking too fast at the way the skyline shimmered. There was no charm, there was only overstimulation. Neon screamed from every building; engines echoed off concrete; something in the air smelled like fried sugar.

Her stomach turned.

As they moved through the paddock, she turned sharply to her dad, who was walking beside her, and asked, "Can I do a track walk later? I need to see the surface in person. Kerb structure, cambers. The sim doesn’t replicate the actual feel, not at night."

Zak gave her a careful look, then a sigh that told her the answer before he said it. “Honey… I’m sorry. They’re limiting access this weekend. Safety regulations, plus a logistical headache with all the road closures. Sorry, kiddo."

She stopped walking entirely. “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous. My understanding of this track is directly tied to driver performance.”

“I know that,” Zak said, placating. “But it’s out of my hands. FIA’s ruling.”

Amelia blinked. Hard. Her jaw set. Her brain scrambled to make the logic work — and couldn’t. The denial didn’t make sense from a safety standpoint or a performance one, and worse, it was illogical and personal.

She threw both hands out in disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now? What kind of regulatory framework tells the people making car decisions that they can’t assess the track in person?”

Zak ran a hand down his face. “I know. Believe me, I tried. I even—”

“No, this is absurd,” Amelia went on, ignoring the curious glances of passing engineers and team staff. “I’m being told to rely on visual models and telemetry estimates on a track that doesn’t exist on any previous calendar. Dad.”

That word slipped out sharp and unimpressed.

Zak winced. “You’re mad at the wrong person.”

Amelia exhaled through her nose and folded her arms. “I’m mad at everyone.”

Lando, a few steps ahead, doubled back when he realised she wasn’t beside him anymore. “Everything okay?”

“She’s not allowed to walk the track,” Zak supplied.

Lando’s brows rose. “Why not?”

“Ask the FIA,” Amelia muttered, rocking slightly on her heels, clearly overstimulated and trying not to explode about it.

Lando gave a low whistle, stepping up beside her. “That’s proper stupid.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said, voice clipped.

Lando’s hand slid to the small of her back. Just the lightest pressure. She leaned into it instinctively, grounding herself.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “You’ve been simulating this track for two months. You probably know it better than anyone else already.”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She looked out at the chaos of the strip behind the paddock fencing, then back at the rows of garages, the closed doors, the high fences. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

Zak, softer now, said, “Hey. Don’t give this the power to make you wobble, alright? You’ve got this!”

Her face didn’t soften, but her posture did, just slightly. She nodded, tight and short.

Then, “If Oscar crashes because I misjudge Turn 12 apex grip, I’m going to email the FIA and tell them to eat gravel.”

Lando grinned. “There she is. My beautiful, terrifying wife.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss the side of her head and whispered, “Now stop worrying so much.”

—

The media room was lit like a game show. Two stools, a camera crew, a backdrop with the McLaren logo, and a table of whiteboards and markers.

Oscar looked mildly bored. Lando looked amused. Amelia looked like she’s been forced to be there (she had).

A social media coordinator beamed behind the camera. “Okay, welcome to a special edition of 'Who Knows Her Best!' We’ve got our race engineer Amelia here, and joining us are her driver, Oscar Piastri—”

Oscar gave an awkward little wave.

“—and her husband, Lando Norris!”

Lando winked at the camera.

Amelia stared dead ahead. “You have ten minutes. I have things to do.”

“Great! First question—What’s Amelia’s favourite food?”

Lando started writing instantly.

Oscar hesitated. “Does coffee count?”

Amelia frowned. “No. You don’t chew coffee.”

He groaned and scrawled something anyway.

“Alright—reveal!”

Lando flipped his board: Marco’s Italian Marinara Pizza Oscar’s board: …Toast?

Amelia pursed her lips. “Lando’s right.”

Oscar muttered, “She eats toast every morning.”

“I eat it because it's efficient, not because it brings me joy,” she replied.

Next question.

“Okay—what’s Amelia’s biggest pet peeve?”

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

Lando paused and narrowed his eyes. “Only one?”

They flipped.

Oscar: Inefficiency Lando: People breathing loudly near her

Amelia blinked. “Both are right. I can’t put one above the other.”

Lando smirked. “So I get half a point?”

“We didn’t agree on half points.” She huffed.

Oscar stifled a laugh.

The coordinator laughed nervously. “Alright! Final question: What’s her idea of a perfect day off?”

The boys scribbled.

Reveal:

Oscar: A quiet room, iPad fully charged, noise-canceling headphones Lando: No phones. No noise. Me, her, somewhere nobody can find us.

Amelia looked at both answers, then spoke flatly.

“Oscar’s is my ideal race-weekend. Lando’s is correct for a non-race-weekend.”

Lando grinned. “Boom.”

Oscar sighed. “I should’ve said that.”

“You were just guessing.” She shrugged.

The social media manager clapped. “Well! Looks like… Lando wins!"

Amelia stood. “Great. I’m going back to run a qualifying simulation now.”

She left frame without saying goodbye.

Oscar and Lando both laughed as the camera faded to the McLaren logo.

—

The McLaren garage buzzed with the low hum of machinery and murmured radio checks. Engineers moved with purpose, but Amelia sat on the edge of Oscar’s workstation, unusually still, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Oscar was halfway into his race suit, glancing at her between sips from his bottle.

“You’re staring at me,” he said, trying to make it light.

“I’m thinking,” she replied flatly.

He waited. She didn’t elaborate.

A beat passed.

Then, in that clipped, low tone of hers, “Track’s colder than ideal. Grip will suck the first stint. You’ll want to push, but don’t chase the feeling if it’s not there. Let it come to you.”

He nodded, tightening his gloves. “Copy.”

“Stay out of traffic, especially Sector 2. If someone impedes you, don’t get emotional about it. Just report and reset.”

Oscar studied her. “You okay?”

“I’m briefing you.”

“…Right.”

She unfolded her arms slowly, like the motion took effort. Her jaw was tense. The usual snap in her delivery was duller, like she was wading through fog and didn’t want to show it.

“You don’t need to prove anything to anyone today,” she said finally, without meeting his eyes. “Not to me. Not to the paddock. Just get the data. Clean session. That’s the win.”

Oscar hesitated. “You sure you’re alright?”

She finally looked at him. Her expression didn’t shift, but there was something behind her eyes—tired, maybe. Not physically. He couldn’t tell.

“Focus on your job, Oscar.”

A long pause.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s do it, then.”

He turned to leave for the car, but her hand briefly touched his forearm.

It was the first time she’d done that all season.

“You’ve got this,” she said.

And then she was gone; disappearing behind a headset and a screen, shutting the world out with precision.

Oscar didn’t say anything.

But when he climbed into the car and pulled his belts tight, his shoulders were a little squarer. His breathing calmer.

—

The TV feed cut to chaos. Red flag. Marshals sprinted onto the track. Carlos’s Ferrari was being craned away. Oscar hadn’t even managed to leave the garage yet.

Amelia stood at the pit wall, arms crossed, headset still on. She hadn’t blinked in fifteen seconds.

Her dad appeared behind her, phone in hand, expression a blend of irritation and corporate damage control.

“What happened?” He asked.

“Drain cover came loose,” she said flatly. “Sainz drove over it at 320. Floor’s completely destroyed.”

Zak frowned. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The cover wasn’t welded properly. Obvious risk. They didn’t check.”

He looked at the monitor. “Are we running Oscar?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She turned her head slowly toward him. “Because there’s a hole in the track.”

Zak didn’t respond.

She continued. “Sending a car out now is negligent. I already told Race Control we won’t participate until they give a structural inspection report. I won’t risk Oscar’s chassis because someone forgot a torque wrench.”

Zak sighed. “Okay.”

Behind them, mechanics hovered awkwardly, unsure whether to continue prep or stand down. Amelia tapped her headset.

“FP1 is over,” she said, voice clipped. “Go back to base. Check Lando’s floor and cooling ducts for debris. Full diagnostic.”

Oscar walked up, half-suited, helmet under his arm. “What’s going on?”

She looked at him. “You’re not going out. Drain cover came off. Session’s red-flagged.”

“That’s it?”

“It could’ve killed someone,” she said. “So yes. That’s it.”

He blinked. “Right.”

She turned to walk back toward her workstation.

Zak called after her. “Don’t be angry!”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. “I’m not. Anger won’t fix the track.” Then, after a beat, she said, “But I think someone should be fired.”

And she walked off to find her husband.

—

The lights along the Strip hadn’t dimmed, but everything else had gone strangely quiet.

It was well past midnight. The garage, usually crackling with anticipation before a session, felt more like a waiting room. Too many people moving too carefully, voices lowered like something had been interrupted. Amelia stood at the pit wall, headset already pinching slightly against her temple, her fingers motionless over the trackpad. Waiting.

She hadn’t said much in the last hour. Not out of some dramatic mood, she just didn’t feel like filling the air with worthless commentary.

When the green light finally blinked on at the end of the pit lane, there wasn’t relief. Just exasperation.

She keyed her mic, steady. “Box out. Let’s see how everything feels.”

Oscar responded immediately. “Copy.”

The car pulled away, the hum of the engine disappearing into the neon distance. She stared after it a beat too long.

They hadn’t run in FP1. None of the planned setup work mattered anymore, this was just about salvaging time, collecting data.

But now, every drain cover was now a threat. Just another thing to add to her list of concerns.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to the screen, watching Oscar’s telemetry as if she could will the suspension to stay intact through every straight.

Two chairs down, her dad made some offhand joke about this being “the most expensive late-night go-kart session ever,” and she smiled with half her face, but didn’t turn.

The data streamed in. Amelia’s brain parsed it automatically, throttle traces, brake pressures, steering angles, but the usual focus wasn’t clicking the same way tonight. She pressed the mic button. “Feeling okay with the grip?” She asked.

“Better than expected,” Oscar replied. “Still a bit green, but manageable.”

“Copy that. Let’s try Mode 7 next lap.”

A beat passed.

“You alright?”

She blinked. The question had come in over a private channel. Just him. “Yeah,” she said. “Just having to watch everything twice. Sorry if I sound a bit distracted.”

She didn’t add that the neon lights were starting to feel like they were flickering behind her eyes, or that the pressure in her chest hadn’t really gone away since the FP1 red flag. Or that the silence before the sessions had settled into her bones in a way that didn’t feel temporary.

But none of that mattered. Not tonight. He had 90 minutes, and they had to make every single one of them count.

She shuffled on her hair, opened the sector comparison window, and let out a quiet breath. “Let’s go hunting, ducky.”

—

Amelia sat on the edge of a low bench, her headset off, fingers tapping absently on the worn fabric of her skirt. Oscar slid next to her, helmet still under one arm, face flushed from the heat of the track.

“You did well out there,” she told him.

Oscar smiled, the kind that barely touched his eyes. “You sure? It felt like I was half driving with one eye on every drain cover.”

She let out a soft, humourless chuckle. “Yeah, well, that’s what we get for racing on a casino parking lot.”

He glanced at her, watching for the flicker of something beneath her calm. “You okay?”

Her eyes caught his. “I’m fine. Just... processing. You know how it is.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. If you need to step back or—”

“No.” She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “No. I’m fine.”

Oscar leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Roll on tomorrow, eh?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Tomorrow.”

—

Oscar and Lando stood by the side of the track, away from the chatter and TV cameras, sharing a rare moment of quiet.

“She’s different,” Oscar said, voice low, like sharing a secret. “Not in a bad way. Just... more quiet, more serious. Even when she talks, it’s like she’s somewhere else.”

Lando nodded, eyes scanning the pit lane as if he could spot the cause in the distance. “Yeah. Noticed. You think she’s pushing herself too hard?”

Oscar shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t want to be that guy who notices too late.”

“Good call,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll try to get it out of her tonight, but I appreciate it.”

Oscar smiled, half relieved. “Anytime, mate.”

—

The lobby’s glare hit Amelia like a punch, each flicker of neon and burst of laughter hammering against the fragile calm she’d been clinging to all weekend. Every unfamiliar voice seemed to multiply, overlapping into a chaotic storm behind her eyes. Her skin prickled, nerves sparking in every inch of her body. She tried to focus on the steady rhythm of her own breath, but it felt shallow, too fast.

The weekend had been a relentless tide of changes — the new track layout, unexpected strategies, the flood of questions from media she barely had energy to endure. Everyone expected her to be sharp, ready, unflappable. But inside, her mind was scrambling to process it all, the sensory overload making everything worse.

She could feel the walls closing in, the pressure building behind her ribcage, tightening like a vice.

Just breathe. But the breath didn’t come easy. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers trembling.

She tried to steady herself, a practiced smile pressed onto her face for the reception staff, for Lando, for Oscar. But it was too much. Too loud. Too unpredictable.

The floodgate broke.

Her vision blurred, chest tightening until it felt like the air itself was betraying her. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want anyone to see this unraveling — but she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Lando’s voice cut through the haze — soft, patient, familiar.

“Hey, baby. Let’s go over here.”

His touch was a lifeline, grounding her in the chaos. She stumbled toward him, every shaky breath breaking as the raw exhaustion spilled out.

She wanted to explain, to scream ‘this isn’t weakness!’ but the words caught in her throat.

Lando didn’t say a thing. He just reached out, firm and steady, pressing his hand gently but insistently into the small of her back. A solid, grounding pressure that said, I’m here. I’ve got you.

She leaned into it, breath ragged, heart racing, muscles trembling. His warmth was steady beneath her — an anchor.

Her hands found his arms, clinging like an octopus, desperate for the hold that would stop the spinning. She didn’t have the words to ask for help, but the silent understanding in his touch was enough.

Without a word, Lando lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all, cradling her close against his chest.

The noise of the lobby faded into background white noise as he carried her through it, the solid rhythm of his steps matching the slow crawl of her ragged breathing.

They moved past the glare of the lights, past the curious eyes, straight back to the safety of their room — where she could finally just be.

—

The shower ran hot, steam swirling thick and heavy in the small bathroom. Amelia sat on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up, fingers tightening around her stim toy, the familiar texture a welcome relief. The water hammered down, relentless and fierce and perfect.

Behind the fogged glass, Lando crouched, silent and steady. His presence wasn’t words or pressure, just steady warmth, a solid anchor in the swirling storm she couldn’t always control. His hand rested lightly on the tub’s edge, close enough that if she reached out, she’d find him there.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His calm, wordless support let her unravel at her own pace, gave her permission to sink low and find the fragments of herself again. The tight coil inside loosened, breath slowing, muscles softening.

When she finally reached out, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and exhaled a slow, quiet breath.

—

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Amelia lay on her side, knees tucked in, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might swallow her whole. The bed creaked softly as Lando shifted beside her.

After a long pause, his hand found hers in the dark. “You doing alright, baby?” He asked, voice low but steady.

She hesitated before answering. “No. Not really. Today was... too much. Like everything was spinning, but I was stuck in place.”

Lando squeezed her fingers gently, patient. “You’ve been on edge since we landed.”

A small nod, tight with tension. “Since the plane, yeah. I felt sick the entire flight. And then here—everything just kept coming at me. Noise, people, changes. I thought I could handle it, but it kept building.”

He kept his hand in hers, steady and warm. “Nobody had enjoyed the weekend so far, baby. I promise you, you’re not alone there.”

Amelia finally turned her head to look at him, eyes searching. “I don’t want to sound weak. Or like I’m complaining.”

Lando shook his head, a soft smile breaking through. “You’re the last person that anyone would think was weak.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little, a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding escaping in a quiet sigh. “I’ve just felt physically sick with nerves since we left England. It’s like the whole weekend’s hanging over me, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

“Hey,” he said gently, fingers fluttering over her cheek and eyelids, “We’ll get through it together. We handle tomorrow, then we handle race day, and then we get to go home.”

She gave a small, wry smile. “I might lose it completely if it wasn’t for you.”

Lando chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t let that happen, would I?”

They stayed like that for a while, fingers entwined, silence wrapping around them like a shield.

“I hate feeling like I’m not in control.”

“I know, baby. And I’m sorry I can’t take that feeling away.”

She blinked back the hint of tears, voice softer now. “Thanks for being here.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

—

The morning light spilled gently through the curtains, softening the edges of the hotel room. Amelia was curled up in bed, the duvet pulled just below her chin. Lando balanced a tray with two plates of eggs, toast, and steaming coffee, trying not to spill as he settled it on the bedside table.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked under him, already half-entwined in the quiet comfort of the morning. This wasn’t their first breakfast like this; the three of them, an unspoken little routine born out of long weekends and unpredictable schedules.

Lando grinned as he handed Amelia her coffee. “Here you go. Not too sweet, I promise.”

She gave a small, tired smile, reaching out to take it. “Better than last time.”

Oscar, perched close by, reached for a piece of toast and grinned back at her. “Glad I don’t like coffee. I’m just here for the food.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, sipping. “You remind me of a stray cat sometimes.”

Oscar laughed, warm and easy. “I weirdly don’t mind that comparison.”

Lando shot Amelia a fond look across the bed.

“So, what’s the plan today?” Oscar asked, munching thoughtfully.

Lando shrugged, “Take it slow. FP3 later and then Quali, obviously, but nothing crazy this morning.”

Amelia leaned back into the pillows, her voice quiet but steady. “I might go and buy some Epsom salts. Write some strategy notes in the bath.”

Oscar nodded, eyes kind. “Sounds relaxing”

She glanced at Lando, who gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Hope so,” she said simply.

Oscar reached out and ruffled Lando’s hair. “Christ, mate. You could do with a haircut.”

Lando scoffed, showing him away. “Fuck off. Says you, mister swoop.”

Amelia pursed her lips and hid her smile behind her mug.

—

The gift shop was a small, cluttered oasis of weirdness and nostalgia tucked inside the hotel lobby. Amelia was scanning the shelves with practiced efficiency, eyes locked on the little jars of bath salts.

Lando and Oscar were already browsing the second aisle.

Lando held up a neon cowboy hat. “Mate, how can you say no to this?”

Oscar was inspecting a glittery, oversized keychain shaped like a slot machine. “It’s got lights and sounds. Look.” He pressed a button and the keychain erupted with flashing colours and a cacophony of jingles. “Jackpot! I’m rich.”

Amelia sighed, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Guys, don’t start. I just want some bath stuff.”

Oscar grinned, undeterred. “But we’re just doing cultural research.”

Lando plopped the cowboy hat on his head sideways and attempted a drawl. “Y’all ready for the rodeo?”

Amelia gave him a flat look. “Great look, husband.”

Oscar laughed and reached for a novelty plastic cactus, pretending it was a microphone. “Welcome to the Las Vegas Gift Show! I’m your host, Cactus Carl.”

Lando, clearly in his element, grabbed a toy rattlesnake and slithered it along the floor toward Amelia’s feet. “Don’t step on the snake! It’s venomous.”

Amelia stepped back, raising an eyebrow, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Right. Venomous and ridiculous.”

Finally, she found what she was looking for; a small, unassuming jar of lavender bath salts with a label promising relaxation. She grabbed it, turning to the boys.

“Alright, I’m done.”

Lando tilted his hat back and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Mission accomplished.”

Oscar picked up another keychain. “Hey, look at this one! It’s a limited edition.”

Amelia sighed tiredly.

—

Less than an hour later, the hotel bathroom was filled with the soft scent of lavender from the bath salts Amelia had chosen. The water was just the right temperature, warm enough to ease the tension knotted deep in her shoulders but not scalding. She sank down slowly, letting the heat seep in, her fingers tracing the ripples on the surface.

Outside the bathroom door, Lando and Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall with laptops balanced on their knees. Their voices were low, careful not to break the fragile calm Amelia was clinging to.

“So, the long straight,” Oscar said quietly. “Telemetry showed some unusual brake pressure spikes on your last run.” He said to Lando.

Lando nodded, flicking through the data. “Yeah, I noticed that too. Maybe the surface temperature was throwing off the balance?”

Amelia sighed, eyes closed. “Probably. Felt off the whole session.” She added, only having to speak a little louder than usual to be heard through the ajar door.

Oscar glanced toward the door. “You want us to try something different for FP3?”

She let her fingers trail in the water, thoughtful. “Maybe adjust front brake bias… just a bit.”

Lando nodded. “I’ll write it down.”

There was a pause, the only sound the gentle dripping from the faucet. Amelia opened her eyes a crack. “Thanks for this.”

Oscar grinned. “You asked for company and telemetry. We deliver.”

Lando chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve got nowhere better to be, baby.”

She let herself smile, a quiet warmth spreading beyond the bathwater. In this little bubble of steam and soft voices, the chaos felt a little less relentless.

—

FP3 was more than just practice—it was a chance to claw back control after yesterday’s chaos, and Amelia was feeling the weight of it.

Oscar was in the car, revving the engine, while her headset buzzed with team chatter. The track was unforgiving today, hotter, more demanding, but Amelia’s eyes stayed locked on the timing screen. She flicked through sector times, braking points, tire temps—all the little details she’d been obsessing over for days.

Her gut still fluttered, nerves stubborn beneath the surface, but she pushed it aside. This wasn’t the place for doubts. She spoke into the comms, “brake bias -0.3 for the next run. Watch rear temps.”

Her radio crackled, Oscar’s voice clipped but focused. “Got it. Feels different already.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Keep the feedback coming.”

A few laps later, she caught a subtle improvement in the data—sector two times shaving off milliseconds. Not perfect, but progress. The day wasn’t going to beat her.

By the end of FP3, the sun was blazing, sweat damp on her brow. Amelia’s mind was a swirl of analysis, but beneath it all was something steadier—quiet confidence, the kind that comes after pushing through the noise.

When Oscar pulled into the pits, she let herself exhale. One step closer.

—

Qualifying came in the blink of an eye and Amelia’s eyes were glued to the screen, every pixel of telemetry, every split second on the sector times drilled into her mind.

Oscar’s car cut through the track, precise and aggressive, pushing the limits. Amelia’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk—not from nerves, but calculation, running through every variable in her head. She caught the slight twitch in the rear suspension, the tiny loss of rear grip in sector two. Adjustments would be needed. Not a disaster, but enough to make a difference.

Will was nearby, watching too, but Amelia barely noticed him.

Oscar crossed the line, a clean lap, but not quite the best. Amelia’s brow furrowed. “Sector three’s where he’s losing time. Let’s tweak the brake bias for the final run.”

Will leaned over, quiet but warm. “You think he’s got it?”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “I don't know. He needs the car to behave like it’s supposed to.”

The final moments stretched taut, then Oscar’s second run flashed up. Faster, cleaner. Still not enough to get out of Q1. Her jaw clenched.

Fuck.

—

[Twitter Feed – #protectamelia]

@/f1fanatic123:

just saw that vid of amelia having a full autistic meltdown in the hotel lobby in vegas last night… why don’t you weirdos shut the hell up and disappear into a hole and leave the fucking girl alone omfg

@/raceengineerlvr:

people spreading that clip with zero context? big yikes. amelia is freaking brilliant and deserves respect. stop the ableism.

@/landosupportr:

if anyone can handle this insane pressure it’s amelia. lando’s lucky af to have her, and honestly? so are we. back off.

@/keepitrealf1: autistic, blunt, iconic. amelia’s meltdown is just her being human—get over your toxic asses.

@/f1momlife: as a parent to a neurodivergent kiddo, this blatant ableism online is disgusting. show some empathy. #protectamelia

@/oscarp443:

oscar’s team isn’t complete without amelia. her meltdown shows how much she cares. toxic ‘fans’ need to check themselves

@/nocapf1:

y’all acting like sharing a meltdown is funny or weak. nahhhhhhhh, that’s ableism 101. have some respect or just stay offline ????

@/disabledandproud:

this is EXACTLY why autistic ppl get unfair hate. stop weaponising someone’s mental health moments for clicks. grow up.

@/f1_truthteller:

seeing the clips blow up and ppl twisting it into jokes? pure ableist nonsense. end of.

—

[Instagram – McLaren Official Story]

Video clip of Amelia working intently in the garage, captioned:

"Focused, fierce, and the backbone of the papaya team."

—

[Reddit – r/formula1]

Post Title:

“Can we talk about the video of Amelia Norris? The backlash is unreal and uncalled for.”

Top comment:

“It’s easy to forget these people are human. Amelia’s dedication is clear, and the meltdown just shows how much she gives. This fandom can be toxic. Let’s be better.”

—

Amelia sat rigid, fingers barely twitching on the edge of the conference table. The room felt too bright, too loud—like a spotlight had been slammed onto her without warning. She watched her dad pace. His voice was steady but tight, every word laced with frustration.

“How did we let this happen? The video should’ve been reported immediately.”

She caught Lando’s fists clenching behind her, his jaw set hard. He wasn’t shouting—he didn’t need to. The anger radiated off him like heat, a shield she wanted to lean into.

Oscar was quieter than usual, but his eyes, sharp and steady, burned with the same quiet fury.

They all thought they were defending her.

But inside Amelia, it felt like a thousand static whispers; people’s opinions buzzing at the edge of her brain, overwhelming and unrelenting. She wasn’t weak. She was tired. The energy it took to smile, to explain, to pretend like none of this was a breach of her life felt like a lead weight pressing down on her chest.

The PR team rambled about damage control and messaging, but Amelia barely heard them. Her thoughts slipped away from the room, spinning cold and sharp.

She looked up, met her dads expectant gaze.

Her voice was flat, stripped of any theatrics. “Yeah, it sucked having it put out there. But I’m not going to make a scene about it. I can handle it.”

They waited, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. She knew what they wanted: a show of vulnerability, maybe some anger.

Instead, she smiled inwardly.

She pulled her phone out, thumb hovering. Then, with a quiet kind of defiance, she pulled up a new tweet.

Autism affects 1 in 36 people. Awareness beats stigma.

Also, I married Lando Norris and you didn’t. Suck it.

[Link to autism awareness resource]

She hit send.

Lando’s laugh was the first sound to break the tension. Her dad let out a short, grudging chuckle. Oscar’s eyes flickered with something like pride.

—

[DTS Outtake Clip]

Will Buxton

“Yeah, so… that clip of Amelia, it really went viral, didn’t it? I’m sure she must have thought her weekend couldn’t get any tougher after that moment. But then Sunday came…”

—

Amelia caught Lando just before he stepped into the car. The hum of the track buzzed behind them, but for a beat, it was just them.

She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Good luck. Be safe. Drive fast.”

He smiled, eyes bright with that fierce fire she loved. “Always, baby.”

She turned and headed to the pit wall, heart steady but fierce — ready.

—

The roar of the crowd swallowed the pre-race tension whole as the lights blinked out, one by one. Oscar launched perfectly—an instinct honed from endless hours tracking telemetry and analysing every millisecond. He surged forward, slicing through the tight corners of the Las Vegas street circuit with brutal precision.

Amelia’s eyes locked on the screens, her fingers dancing over the buttons and dials at the pit wall. Every lap was a heartbeat, every split time a breath held. She was the calm centre for Oscar’s storm.

“Sector one clean, good pace,” she told him over the radio, voice even but focused.

“Copy. Tires feeling good,” came Oscar’s crisp reply.

She allowed herself a brief, tiny exhale. This was what she lived for, the rhythm of the race, the flow of strategy, the challenge.

But then, amid the relentless thrum of engines and tires gripping asphalt, the radio sparked. A sudden crackle, then Lando’s voice—strained, quick.

“Car’s sliding—shit—oh fucking—”

The pit wall fell silent except for the crackling radio. Amelia’s chest tightened. The word ‘crash’ hovered unspoken but undeniable in the space between sounds.

Her fingers froze. Her eyes darted to the live feed on the screen; Lando’s McLaren spinning wildly, slamming into the barriers.

Time fractured.

The noise dimmed, the crowd’s roar now a distant wave crashing against the edges of her mind.

“Lando’s out,” the comms guy said quietly beside her. “Full safety car. Medical car dispatched.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the sudden lump forming in her throat. Breathe. Focus.

She had to focus.

Oscar was still out there, still racing.

She shook her head slightly as if clearing fog. “Oscar, you’re clear. Keep the pace, watch brake temps—”

“I’m ok.” Lando reported, but his voice was tight — like he’d been winded.

Amelia’s voice cracked, and she hated herself for it. Hated how much it betrayed her insides.

Oscar’s voice came steady, but she could hear the surprise, the tension. “Shit. That was Lando?”

“Yeah,” she said before she could stop herself. “He’s… he’s climbing out of the car. He’s okay.”

She stole a glance at the live feed showing Lando being helped out, walking with a medic, shaking his head like he was fine. But she knew—knew the physical toll, the adrenaline masking the pain, the shock that would hit later.

She frantically grabbed for her golf ball — she always kept it beneath the monitors, and squeezed it. Grounding herself.

“Focus on the race, ducky. I’m here. We’ve got this.”

Oscar’s voice softened, “You sure?”

She swallowed hard again. “I’m sure.”

Every lap was a razor’s edge now. Amelia ran through data, strategic calls, tire management; but her mind kept drifting back to that crash, to Lando’s face on the screen, the unspoken “what if.”

The pit lane buzzed, the crew working, the team breathing with her through Oscar’s race, but she was somewhere else too.

She bit back a dry sob and pressed on. “Sector two clean. Let’s push on the next lap. You can get Sainz.”

Oscar’s voice returned with renewed fire. “Copy. Let’s make it count.”

She nodded, though no one could see.

And yet.

There was the ache.

The race carried on, unforgiving.

—

The monitor in front of her flickered with telemetry, lap times, sector splits—Oscar’s heartbeat in digital form. She had to be here. Had to be present.

Her fingers danced a quiet rhythm on the edge of the pit-wall console—a practiced stim to keep the rising panic locked behind a steel door in her mind. The world had already cracked around her today.

“Sector three’s slower by two tenths, watch the tyre temps,” she said, voice clipped, tight. Her gaze never left the screen, even as the chaos inside her threatened to seep out. The noise outside, the shouted team radio chatter, the flashing pit boards, it all blurred into one sharp focus: Oscar.

The world had been unpredictable all weekend. The unexpected video circulating. The judgment from people who didn’t know. Lando spinning out and hitting the wall. But here, in this moment, Amelia was the engineer, the strategist. The calm in the storm.

She clenched the golf ball in her palm, fingers twisting the soft silicone shapes until the ridges bit into her skin just enough to bring her back. The tears she hadn’t let herself shed yet pooled behind her eyes, but she swallowed them down. Not now. Not now.

Her radio crackled to life, “Oscar, focus on exit at turn seven, keep it smooth; tyres need managing.”

And then, after what felt like a lifetime of silence, she sensed him before she saw him. A warmth settling over her. Lando, standing just behind her, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. No words.

His arms wound around her waist and he squeezed. Tight and warm and perfect.

The sharp edge of panic softened in that quiet pressure. It was like a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding for hours finally escaped. The knot in her chest loosened.

She kept her eyes on the screen, voice steady but softer now, “Push on the next lap, Oscar. You’ve got this.”

The relief didn’t break her focus. Instead, it sharpened it, gave her the strength to keep Oscar moving forward through the pack.

But just for one brief moment, the whole world faded away, leaving just the hum of the race, the steady pulse of the monitor, and the quiet heartbeat pressing against her back.

—

Amelia sat at the small kitchen table, absently stirring her coffee, her mind half on the morning briefing notes she’d reviewed earlier.

She wasn’t in the mood to think much, really. Too many things buzzing in her head—the weekend, the viral video fallout, the constant undercurrent of stress that never quite left her.

Then, for no particular reason, her hand drifted to her phone, and she opened the calendar app. That’s when it hit her.

The date she’d been quietly expecting had come and gone.

No sign.

A slow, quiet realisation settled in her gut. She hadn’t missed a period in years.

She blinked, staring at the screen. No big dramatic wave of panic. No sudden flood of excitement either. Just… a plain, blunt acknowledgment.

Oh.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself quietly, voice flat but certain. “Should probably tell Lando.”

She stood and walked to the living room, pulling out her phone again.

iMessage — 13:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

She slid the phone onto the table, fingers lingering on the edge for a moment. Missing a period wasn’t a crisis, just a mildly inconvenient fact.

She glanced out the window at the bustling street below. Monaco was doing its usual thing, people rushing, cars honking, life barreling forward.

Amelia took another sip of coffee and muttered under her breath, “Well, that’s new.”

Then, with all the casual decisiveness of someone deciding what to have for lunch, she shoved the thought aside and got back to work.

NEXT CHAPTER

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