PEACH RING PROMISES
PEACH RING PROMISES
LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “I know a place / It's somewhere I go when I need to remember your face / We get married in our heads / Something to do while we try to recall how we met” - The 1975, About You
ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x f!reader | ᝰ WC: 1.1K ᝰ GENRE: established relationship, oscar is in love, there is a little baby cousin involved ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this has been gathering dust in my wips for like. a week now but was then locked and loaded for an oscar miami win // not beta-read. we die like men ꨄ requested by @estellaelysian !
Some people go to church; you go to the treehouse.
It sits crooked at the edge of the Piastri property line, half-swallowed by jasmine vines and the hum of summer. The planks are sun-bleached and splintering, nailed together with the blind optimism that only dads and four-year-olds share. But it’s still standing – stubborn, quiet, familiar – like the memory of a face you’ll never forget.
Today, it overlooks a backyard choked with folding chairs and sunburnt uncles, picnic blankets and toddlers sugar-high on too many juice boxes. The barbeque is in full swing – OScar’s mum’s at the grill, his dad’s holding court with a beer in one hand and a story in the other, and someone’s blasting Seven Nation Army from a portable speaker (you swear you see Oscar roll his eyes when some of his family members start changing the lyrics to include his name).
You had just finished your second helping of potato salad when Theo, Oscar’s five-year-old cousin and self-appointed general of the under-five army, came barreling toward the two of you like a missile in Paw Patrol socks.
“Hide and seek!” he declared, panting, cheeks red. “You’re it!”
Oscar looked up from your shared plate, looking deeply betrayed. “Why am I always it?”
“Because you’re tall!” Theo whined, tugging at his hand. “And you never play with me.”
Which was a bold accusation, considering Oscar had spent the morning pushing him around on a plastic trike and pretending to be a race car announcer. Still, Oscar hesitated – eyeing the shady comfort of the patio – until you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Come on,” you murmured, soft and smug. “Don’t make me count.”
So he sighed, knelt down, and covered his eyes with a dramatic groan. “One…. two…. three…”
You slipped away, giggling, weaving past lawn chairs and coolers and sticky-fingered children until you reached the edge of the yard, ducking beneath the canopy of trees.
And now, here you are.
The treehouse looks almost shy, peeking out between branches. The ladder’s still rickety, the walls still wonky, but it holds you like it remembers you. You climb inside and sit cross-legged on the floorboards, brushing dust from the heart you once drew into the wood with a rock. Your initials, backwards and misshapen, look like you carved them yesterday.
You got married here once – four years old, caked in mud, with Hattie (barely out of pull-ups, in a bright orange tutu) acting as both officiant and chief witness. You gave Oscar a peach ring. He cried when you ate it thirty minutes later.
You kissed his cheek with grass-stained lips and told him he was silly. “We don’t need a ring,” you’d said, wiping his nose with the hem of your shirt. “We love each other. That’s the proof.”
You don’t hear the ladder creak, but you know it’s him before he speaks.
“Hiya,” Oscar says, ducking into the doorway like a hippo trying to fit into a china shop. His grin is crooked. Warm. His curls are longer now, haloing his face like he’s been touched by sunlight.
“How’d you find me?”
“Our wedding venue,” he says drily, brushing a leaf from your hair. “Bit of a cop-out though. You didn’t even try.”
You scoff and whip a twig at him. It bounces harmlessly off his shoulder. “You weren’t even counting properly,” you reply. “Hattie taught you better than that.”
He folds himself beside you like an accordion, limbs gangly, knees knocking into yours. “God,” he mutters, glancing around. “We were tiny.”
“You still are,” your chirp. That earns you a pinch to your side. You shriek and nearly kick out a support beam.
When the air settles, you rest your chin on your knee and say, “If we get married-”
“When we get married,” he correct instantly, poking your ribs.
You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth betray you. “Fine. When we get married, have you thought about the venue?”
He hums thoughtfully, shifting to lie down with his head in your lap. You card your fingers through his curls, watching them spring back into place. They curve around his ears, golden at the tips, soft as they were when he was four and you made him cry.
“What’s wrong with the venue of our first wedding?” he asks, cracking one eye open. “I’ve heard great things about the officiant. Real prodigy.”
You snort. “She also tried to eat a snail halfway through the vows.”
“A creative soul.”
Before you can respond, the hatch slams open.
“You FORGOT about me, Oz!” Theo screeches, hauling himself into the treehouse with all the righteous fury of a betrayed war general.
Oscar barely has time to yelp before Theo flops into your lap like a royal cat, shoving Oscar’s head out of the way with a chubby hand.
“I was winning,” Oscar insists, pressing loud, dramatic kisses to his cousin’s sticky curls and apologizing like it’s the end of the world. You laugh until your sides ache.
Eventually, Oscar untangles himself and groans, cracking every joint like he’s been in a clown car. “There’s only so much cramping a man can take,” he says, grabbing Theo under the arms and turning back to you with an outstretched hand.
You take it.
The descent is careful – Theo held like a football, your hand snug in his. Your feet hit the grass and the smell of charcoal and sunscreen floods your lungs.
“You guys would be a good mommy and daddy,” Theo announces suddenly, chin tilted up, tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather.
Oscar throws a cheeky wink at you over his head. You groan and shake your head, the laugh bubbling up anyways.
“BUT!” Theo says quickly, yanking your hand to pull you closer like he’s about to reveal state secrets. “Maisie told me mommies and daddies have to be married. Are you guys MARRIED?”
“Yes,” Oscar says immediately, just as you snap, “No!”
“Oscar!” you slap his chest, scandalized.
“What?” he shrugs, entirely unbothered, not even trying to hide the smile. “Feels true.”
Theo frowns. “Where are your rings? Married people have rings.”
Oscar reaches for your hand and you swat it away, faking disgust. He smirks. “We don’t need them,” he says easily. “We’re in love.”
His cousin accepts this with a sage nod only toddlers can pull off, then wriggles free and barrels across the yard, lungs at full capacity.
“MUM! MUM! OSCAR IS MARRIED! THEY’RE MARRIED! I SAW! THEY SAID!”
You groan, hiding your face in his shoulder. “He’s going to tell your entire family.”
Oscar just grins, stepping behind you to wrap his arms around your shoulders. “It’s already happened once,” he says, brushing a kiss to your temple. “And it’s going to happen again. Isn’t it?”
You don’t answer – not out loud. But your fingers find his where they rest over your heart, and you hold them there.
More Posts from Guessyourenottheone and Others
How to GENUINELY create an assumption without feeling like you’re lying to yourself/pretending/have to “convince” yourself. How to actually accept your desire as TRUE.
Please, please understand that an assumption isn't forced or something you have to "try" to believe because it's just something you accept as true without question. You don't wake up every day wondering if you have a name, if the sky is blue or if gravity works. You just know with certainty. That's how conscious manifestation works. You decide something IS true and of course it reflects like every other assumption. You need to ACTUALLY assume you have something to get it please don't pretend or hope. A real assumption isn't forced, it's something you accept as fact without needing proof. If you say you assumed something but then claim it didn't happen you didn't actually assume it lol. You either doubted it, contradicted it or held another assumption alongside it. You assuming is NOT a technique and it's not something you "do" to get something.
The reason some people treat creating an assumption like it's a technique is because they think if they repeat it enough their mind will suddenly be tricked into believing it. That's NOT how an assumption works. An assumption is just accepting something as fact. If you're trying to "convince" yourself you're admitting you don't actually accept it as true. Come on… your mind is not stupid. It knows when you're forcing something versus when you genuinely accept it as reality (assume it). You need to be so certain that questioning isn't even an option and idc if other people disagree because who questions an assumption? An assumption is something you accept as true without proof go search it up. You must stay firm. It's not hoping, testing or checking for results it's about knowing aka accepting it as a fact. When you truly assume something it becomes your reality instantly. Reality will always reflect your truth.
So how do you truly accept something as true? It's actually simple but people overlook because they think taking time to face what's holding them down will waste their time. It's better to find out why you're finding it difficult and address it instead of staying stuck in a loop forever.
You need to find out what is preventing you from accepting your own word as the truth. Why don't you trust your own word as a fact? If you tell yourself "I have my desire" but deep down you're doubting or waiting or looking for proof then ask yourself "why don't I trust myself?" What thoughts are making you second guess your own reality? Is it because you're treating the physical world as more real than your own assumptions? Is it because you think that the physical world is the reason why you think you don't have what you want, when in reality it's because you assumed it first for it to reflect? Did you forget that reality is a mirror of your assumptions? Could it be you're looking at your circumstances and saying ughhh this is what's happening instead of actually understanding that what's happening is just a reflection of what you have been assuming up until this moment? Or maybe you've placed your power outside of yourself right? You believe circumstances or external factors hold weight in your manifestation rather than realising that NOTHING is set in stone and the only thing dictating your reality is your current assumption right? Maybe you think you have to do something and this is far too simple?
Figure it out and actually just spend time with yourself to pin point where you are struggling. Stop running away from your problems and address the reason why you can't accept your word as the truth. Remind yourself of the basics of the Law if you need to.
Now ask yourself what are you ACTUALLY assuming? Look at you telling yourself "Oh I'm affirming for my SP" and that being reflected back: you affirming for your SP. Look at you treating the concept of "just decide" like another method or technique to get to your desire and that being reflected in your reality: you in the process of using "just decide" like a technique to manifest. See how perfect the Law is? It's reflecting exactly what you're assuming. You're seeing your assumptions play out exactly as they are because manifestation is always based on what you're ACTUALLY assuming. You're STILL giving options to reality when there are no options… it's only what you say it is. As soon as you drop the debate you have with yourself in your mind and stop entertaining opposing thoughts you'll see how easy it is. You don't argue with yourself about basic facts of your life do you? You just accept them as true. That's exactly how you need to see your assumptions. Yes you need to be that certain and firm.
I PROMISE you the "key" everyone talks about to getting what you want… repeat with me… is to decide once and for all that it's done and that's it. Just accept it as true. Please just say f*ck all and accept it as true. What will you lose? Just do it.
time isn't real and everything is happening and has already happened all at once. so basically you have already shifted and are shifting as we speak. you've shifted millions and billions of times. even if you don't remember it happening, it has already happened. you are already in your dr
Hiii...
Can you write a long (pls) 😭😭 ollie bearman fic..(fluff)
In which she is a doc..
And he is very clingy (like really) and she also loves it.. and probably a cuddly fic where they are just adoring/loving each other maybe..
And than she does something so small to her but it made him realise like she is the one and he decided to introduce to her family ( i mean they know but finally an official yet casual meet uk)
And his siblings also loves her..
From The Start. ✷ Ollie Bearman
Pairing: Ollie Bearman x Gf!reader
Summary: When you and your boyfriend Ollie finally get to spend time with each other after months being apart.
Word Count: 4.6k Bang.
Disclaimer/s: very fluffy, Like. Extremely fluffy! talks about future, and whatnot. yeah.
Vera’s Voice! thoroughly enjoyed writing this after not writing on here in a fat minute… thanks for ur request!!!!! i kinda strayed away from what u asked for but it’s still rlly sweet!!!! hope u enjoy :’)
Ollie didn’t text you much today, which wasn’t unusual when he was busy with team commitments, training, or flying between countries.
You’d gotten used to the quiet patches in your relationship, filling the spaces with your own routines like classes, labs, and studying.
But, since he moved to Italy, the Bearman family had taken you in like one of their own. His mum always checked in on you, inviting you over for Sunday lunches or sending care packages during exam weeks.
His siblings treated you like their cool older sister, always asking you about university life or finding joy in spending time with you.
So today, when Terri Bearman mentioned she was working late and hinted at a busy week ahead, you’d offered to cook dinner for them.
You couldn’t do much for Ollie from afar, but looking after his family felt like the next best thing.
Standing in their cozy kitchen, you stirred a simmering pot of pasta sauce while keeping an eye on the bread in the oven.
A playlist hummed softly from the speaker on the counter, the familiar rhythm filling the cozy space. Your sleeves were rolled up, an apron tied snugly around your waist, and a wooden spoon in hand.
“You should’ve seen it,” Amalie said, eyes wide with excitement. “My instructor said I cleared the jump perfectly. Best I’ve done all month.”
“That’s amazing, my love,” You said, beaming at her. “Maybe we should celebrate with a little tea shop date this week? My treat.”
She laughed. “Can never pass up on a beautiful offer like that. Could we stop by a bookshop too?”
“Of course,” You replied, already picturing the stack of books she’d undoubtedly try to take home.
Thomas glanced up from his phone, a teasing smirk on his face. “You spoil her too much.”
“She deserves it,” You said with a shrug. “Besides, I like spending time with her.”
And that was true.
Spending time with the Bearmans had become second nature to you. Your parents were often away on business trips, leaving you with an empty house that felt too quiet and lonely.
Your dear boyfriend’s home, on the other hand, was always warm and welcoming—a place where you could laugh, cook, and be part of something bigger, even if he wasn’t always there.
Just as you were plating the pasta and setting the table, the sound of the front door opening caught everyone’s attention.
“Something smells incredible,” Terri’s familiar voice called out as she stepped inside, balancing her purse and a stack of folders from work.
“Hi,” You said, smiling warmly as you turned to greet her.
“Oh, love, thank you so much for this.” She said with an endearing laugh, setting her things down. She walked over to peek into the pot on the stove. “This looks incredible. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Spaghetti with homemade sauce and garlic bread,” You grinned.
Terri placed a hand on your shoulder, her expression softening. “You’re a treasure, you know that? We’re so lucky to have you around. Ollie is lucky to have you.”
“Thank you,” You replied, blushing slightly.
As you worked on finishing the last few touches for dinner, Terri began chatting about her day. “David won’t be home for another hour so, don’t worry about setting him a plate, darling.” She assured.
“No worries, I can just leave him one so he can get straight to eating.” You insisted.
And Terri smiled that. “Well, I was on the phone with Ollie earlier,” She spoke, changing the topic and grabbing a glass of water. “He seems to be alright—said he’d call again tomorrow, but he’s keeping busy with training.”
Your heart squeezed at the mention of him. It had been months since you’d last seen Ollie, and even though you talked every chance you got, nothing could replace having him here.
Amalie perked up at the mention of her brother. “Did he say anything about visiting soon?”
“Not yet,” Terri said with a sigh. “You know how it is.”
You nodded, trying to hide the ache you felt. You missed him more than words could say, but you didn’t want to dwell on it.
“Come on, dinner’s almost ready,” You smiled, forcing a cheerful tone as you pulled the tray from the oven.
Unbeknownst to all of you, Ollie’s car had just pulled into the driveway. He stepped out, stretching after the long drive, and looked up at the familiar house.
He hadn’t told anyone he was coming—he hadn’t even planned to be home, but after months of constant travel and racing, he couldn’t resist the pull to see his family.
As he approached the front door, he could hear the faint sound of laughter and the clinking of plates. He paused for a moment, smiling to himself at the familiar comfort of home.
Pushing open the door, he stepped inside, his bag slung over one shoulder. The sight before him made his heart stop.
You were standing in the kitchen, laughing at something Thomas had said as you wiped your hands on a dish towel. Amalie was reaching for a napkin, and Terri poured herself a cup of tea.
It was so ordinary, so perfect, and he had to blink to make sure it wasn’t some kind of dream.
“Am I interrupting?” Ollie spoke, his voice breaking through the moment.
Every head turned toward the door.
“Ollie?!” Amalie squealed, leaping off her chair and rushing to him.
“Ollie?” You whispered, frozen in place, your wide eyes locked on him.
“Surprise,” He said, grinning as Amalie threw her arms around him.
You were the next to move, practically running to him and throwing your arms around his neck. He dropped his bag and held you tightly, his face buried in your hair.
“Oh my goodness, you’re home,” You said, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re here!”
“I’m home,” He murmured, his grip tightening as if he never wanted to let go.
Terri stood by the counter, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes welled up. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back!”
“Didn’t tell anyone,” Ollie said, finally pulling back to look at you. His hands stayed on your waist, his gaze soft and full of love. “And I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I’m always here,” You said with a small laugh, brushing a tear from your cheek as he pulled away and walked over towards his mom to hug her.
“Even better,” He said, turning his head with a smile.
After a round of hugs and excited chatter, the room settled as Ollie shrugged off his jacket and set it neatly over the back of a chair.
He looked at you, a familiar warmth in his gaze, as you picked up the tray of bread and set it on the table.
“Hungry? You’re just in time for dinner,” You said, smiling as you motioned for him to join.
Ollie laughed softly, the sound filling the room like a melody you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. “Starving, actually.” He grinned, rubbing his hand over his stomach.
“Eat up, darling,” Terri chimed with an insisting hand, her eyes twinkling “Your girl’s been working away all evening. I think she’s better at this than me.”
“Hardly,” You protested with a playful roll of your eyes. “It’s just spaghetti. Nothing fancy.”
“Don’t downplay it,” Ollie said, already reaching for a plate. “If it’s anything like your pancakes, I’m probably about to have the best meal I’ve had in weeks.”
You blushed at his words, nudging him lightly as you passed by. “Try and flatter me all you want, but I’m not taking over Sunday roast duties if this is your way of convincing me.”
Amalie laughed as she slid into her seat. “You’d probably do a better job anyway,” She teased, earning a playful glare from her mum.
Once everyone had taken their seats, the table filled with the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs, the room warmed by laughter and conversation. You watched as Ollie dug into his plate, his smile only growing with each bite.
“Alright,” He said, leaning back after a moment. “I’m officially spoiled. Best meal I’ve had in ages.”
“I’m glad,” You said with a soft grin. “Happy to be of service.”
As the meal continued, Ollie reached under the table, his fingers brushing yours in a quiet, intimate gesture. You looked at him, and the soft smile on his face made your chest ache with how much you loved him.
It was so simple—dinner with his family, laughter filling the air, the small gestures between you that said more than words ever could.
And yet, it was everything.
“You’re amazing,” He said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
“Stop,” You whispered back, smiling as your cheeks flushed.
“I mean it,” He insisted, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Good thing you won’t ever have to find out,” You murmured, your heart so full it felt like it might burst.
Later, the kitchen was quiet, the lively chatter from dinner having faded as the family moved to the living room to wind down for the evening.
You stood by the sink, your sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in warm soapy water as you worked your way through the last of the dishes.
The faint clinking of plates and running water filled the space, paired with the occasional hum of the fridge.
Ollie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, quietly watching you. His heart swelled as he took in the sight of you in his family’s kitchen, so natural and at ease in a place that meant so much to him. The warm overhead light reflected off your hair, and there was a faint smile tugging at your lips as you rinsed a glass. He thought about how much he’d missed this—missed you.
Without saying a word, he walked toward you, his footsteps light on the tiled floor. You didn’t hear him approach until his arms wrapped gently around your waist from behind.
“Ollie!” You gasped, startled for a second before relaxing into his embrace.
“Sorry,” He murmured, his voice low and soft against your ear. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You set the plate you were rinsing on the drying rack, your hands dripping with soap suds. “What are you doing?” You asked, though your tone was far from accusing.
“Nothing,” He said simply, resting his chin on your shoulder. His arms tightened slightly around your waist, as though anchoring himself to you. “Ive just missed you.”
You tilted your head toward him, your cheek brushing his. “I’m covered in soap,” You warned, though there was a smile in your voice.
“Don’t care,” He said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
You laughed quietly, leaning back against his chest. “You’re a little more clingy than usual,” you teased, though your heart was melting at his touch.
“Can you blame me?” He murmured. “It’s been months since I’ve been home.”
Your hands paused, stilling in the water. You turned your head slightly to meet his gaze, finding his eyes soft and filled with a mix of affection and longing.
“I’ve missed you,” You admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled, the kind of smile that made your knees weak, and nuzzled closer. “You should leave the dishes,” He said, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “They can wait.”
“Can they?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Mhm,” He said, pulling you a little tighter against him. “Because I really, really want you to just sit with me for a bit.”
You let out a small laugh and shook your head. “Fine,” You relented, drying your hands on a nearby towel. “But you’re drying the rest later.”
“Deal,” Ollie said, grinning as he took your hand and led you out of the kitchen. But before you left, he paused, turned back toward you, and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Thank you for being here,” He whispered.
“Always,” you replied, your voice full of warmth as you squeezed his hand.
Ollie’s room felt like the one place in the house that was always waiting for you. You’d spent countless hours in here over the months—whether it was to study when things got too noisy downstairs, or simply to nap when you wanted to steal a few moments of peace.
His posters, his racing memorabilia, and the soft scent of his cologne were all familiar, like a comforting embrace that never left.
You sat cross-legged on the bed, the fabric of one of his hoodies draping comfortably over you as you played with the cuffs. Ollie sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over at you as you made yourself at home in his room.
"I come in here to nap a lot," You admitted, glancing back at him with a grin.
Ollie raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah? Seems like you’ve practically moved in while I’ve been gone."
“Is that so bad?” You grinned, shrugging nonchalantly. “Besides, this is the comfiest room in the house.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t argue with that. I’ve always wanted a roommate anyways.” His voice sarcastic.
You laughed, rolling your eyes playfully as you leaned back into the pillows, feeling the warmth of his hoodie against your skin. Ollie, still sitting at the edge of the bed, raised his eyebrows as he noticed your gaze.
“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Can we trade hoodies?” You asked, your voice light and teasing, but there was a sparkle in your eyes that made him grin.
He looked down at the black Ferrari Driver Academy hoodie you were wearing. “Are you not wearing one of them right now?” He pointed with mock confusion.
“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “I need a new one because it’s been months since you’ve been home, and the ones I have don’t smell like you anymore.”
His mouth dropped open in playful shock. “They don’t smell like me anymore?”
“Nope,” You said with a dramatic sigh, crossing your arms as though the tragedy was unbearable. “It’s kind of depressing, honestly.”
He laughed, his head tilting back, and ran a hand through his hair. “A little creepy.”
You scoffed playfully. “Rude.”
And he just laughed.
“Please,” You sent him a sweet smile.
Ollie shook his head, another laugh escaping him before he stood up and pulled his hoodie over his head. “Fine. Only because you asked nicely.”
You caught it eagerly, quickly switching clothes and settling into it with a satisfied smile. The scent of him—clean, familiar, and comforting—immediately enveloped you, making you feel like he was right there with you again.
Which was true anyways.
“Better?” Ollie asked, his arms crossed.
You nodded, grinning. “Much.”
He smiled and walked toward you, pulling you into his arms and settling down next to you on the bed. His chest felt warm against your back, his arms wrapping tightly around you.
As the night wore on, you both laid there, exchanging quiet words and soft laughter, letting the hours slip by as you relished the quiet moments together. And in his arms, with the scent of him surrounding you, you felt like you were exactly where you belonged.
Ollie’s voice broke the comfortable silence. “Seeing you in the kitchen tonight just…” He trailed off, his hand idly tracing patterns on your back.
“Just what?” You murmured, turning your head to glance up at him.
“Just made me happy,” he said simply, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Like, I can’t wait to come home to that every single day.”
Your brows rose, but you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” He said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His eyes locked with yours, a flicker of something deep and certain shining in them. “When you and I are married. Living a life together.”
A warm rush spread through you at his words, your heart racing yet calm all at once. “Ollie Bearman, are you proposing to me in your bed right now?” you teased.
He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it rested on his chest. “Not officially. You’ll know when I am. But it’s gonna happen.”
“You seem so sure,” You said, though you already knew your answer if—when—that day came.
“Of course I’m sure,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got it all planned out. We’ll live somewhere cozy. Nothing too fancy, just big enough for us and maybe a couple of kids running around.”
“Kids?” You repeated with a chuckle, raising a brow.
“Yeah,” he said, his hand stilling on your back as he thought about it. “Two, maybe three. What do you think?”
“I think med school might make that a little tricky,” You said, smiling at him.
“Well, you’ll finish med school first,” He said matter-of-factly, as if he’d already worked it all out. “We’ll make it work. I’ll travel less when we’re ready for all that, and you’ll have your dream job.”
You stared up at him, overwhelmed by the ease with which he spoke about the future—a future with you. “What if I want four kids?” You teased, testing him.
He chuckled, his grip tightening slightly. “If you want four, we’ll have four. Two mini versions of you, two mini versions of me.” He laughed softly, the sound low and warm.
You grinned, looking up at him. “You’d be the best dad,”
His gaze softened, his thumb gently stroking your hip. “And you’d be the most gentle mother,” he said with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Our daughters with your fluffy brown hair and sweet little smile,” you murmured.
“And our sons with your eyes and your cute nose that I love so much,” he added, his voice warm with affection as his hand cupped your cheek.
A light laugh escaped you. “Are we putting them into racing?”
“Of course,” he said, his tone playful but resolute. “That’s not even a question.”
“What if they don’t want to race?” you asked, raising a teasing brow.
“Then we’ll support whatever they want to do,” Ollie said, brushing his lips against your forehead. “But come on, imagine it—“ He paused.
“I’ll retire after winning my fifth World Drivers’ Championship,” Ollie said with a sly grin.
“Fifth?” You repeated, raising your head to look at him, your brow quirking.
“Are you doubting me?” He asked, feigning offense.
“Maybe…” you teased, trying to hold back your laughter.
Ollie narrowed his eyes at you, his lips twitching. “Think you’re funny?”
“I am a bit funny,” You replied with a grin, unable to resist.
He let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I put up with you.”
You snorted, nudging him lightly. “Please, you’d miss me if I wasn’t here to keep you humble.”
“Humble? Me?” He laughed. “I’m a five-time champion in this scenario—there’s no humbling that.”
“Oh, whatever.” You scoffed.
The two of you fell into a comfortable quiet again, your hands lacing together as you lay against him.
Ollie grinned as he leaned back against the pillows, his arms wrapped securely around you. “And although you’ll be working away at a hospital most of the time, the times you do decide to show up to my races…” He trailed off with a teasing smirk.
“What about them?” You asked, tilting your head curiously.
“That’s when fans will go absolutely nuts,” he said confidently. “Everyone’s favorite doctor wag, walking through the paddock with this aura—like you belong there, like you run the place.”
You laughed, nudging him gently in the chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No, I’m serious!” Ollie protested, catching your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “They’ll talk about how good I treat you, how I’m completely obsessed with you. And they’ll love how effortlessly gorgeous and brilliant you are. I mean, come on—my wife, saving lives and still showing up to support me?”
You couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”
“Of course, I have,” He said with a grin. “Imagine: You in my team colors, maybe holding a little hand of one of our kids in the paddock. Everyone will lose it.”
Your heart warmed at the thought, but you shook your head with a laugh. “You’re living in a fantasy. I’m not exactly going to be a regular in the paddock.”
“And this fantasy will be my reality,” He admitted, his voice softening. “When you do show up, it’ll be like the sun came out just for me. Lighting up the entire paddock, just like you do everywhere you go.”
You blushed, feeling your chest tighten at the sincerity in his voice. “Such a way with words.”
“Only when it comes to you,” Ollie said, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead.
“And I really mean it. I can’t wait to come home to you every day. To have all of this—our little family, our home.”
You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Me neither,” you whispered.
You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest, and the two of you fell into a rhythm of imagining your future together.
“Hm, but what about the wedding?” You asked, turning so you could see him better.
Ollie grinned. “Big. Really big. I want all our family and friends there.”
“Big sounds good,” You agreed. “But we’re talking classic, right? Elegant, maybe outdoors somewhere beautiful—”
“—like the countryside,” He interrupted from too much excitement. “Rolling hills, lots of greenery, a massive tent with lights everywhere.”
“And a live band,” You added.
“Good food too,” He said quickly.
“Obviously,” You laughed. “We’re not letting anyone leave hungry.”
He nodded, his grin softening into something more sincere. “I just want it to be the best day of your life.”
“Our life,” You corrected, reaching up to brush a stray eyelash from his cheek.
“Our life,” He repeated.
You tilted your head to the side with a playful smile. "Well, make a wish!" You said softly, presenting your finger with the little eyelash.
Ollie looked at you, the corners of his lips curving into a grin. “Hmmm…” He paused, closing his eyes as if he were deep in thought. “I already have everything I’ve ever wished for.”
You scoffed softly, the playful tone of his voice making you laugh. “Well, too bad. You still have to make a wish.”
He chuckled at your insistence, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he thought about it. Finally, his eyes fluttered closed again, and he spoke with a touch of playfulness. “Okay… I wish to marry the girl right beside me one day.”
Your heart swelled at his words, and a soft sigh escaped your lips as you stared at him. His grin grew as he blew the eyelash off your finger, and for a moment, everything felt perfect, suspended in that sweet, quiet exchange.
You couldn’t help but smile softly, a little teasing gleam in your eye. “Okay, but you said it out loud, now it’s not coming true…” You gave a playful scoff, your voice light with amusement, but your heart fluttered in your chest.
Ollie’s arms tightened around you, and his gaze softened as he pulled you closer. “Nope. It’s coming true,” he said, his voice low and serious despite the playful words. “I’m not losing this under my watch.”
His words made your breath catch in your throat, and you pulled him closer, if that was even possible. In that simple moment, you realized just how much you meant to each other—how all the little things, like a stray eyelash and a wish, tied you even closer together.
“You’re my person forever,” You whispered, the thought clear and undeniable in your heart.
“And you were always mine from the start,” He murmured in return, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he held you.
And it wasn’t just a promise.
It was a certainty.
likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated! ^_^ and pls Lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list
tags! @pedriache @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx
the arctic monkeys fandom is dying reblog if youre a true primate
⋆· ༘* GOT THE SUN IN MY MF-ING POCKET !
pairing ★ jock!luke castellan x drum major!reader
synopsis ★ the one where you lock in for your fall final project. you and luke spill your guts and then hatch a plan. (3.9k)
content ★ no pronouns used for reader, luke pov!!, bad teenager humor, very vague smau, read psa at the end pls
notes ★ luke literally cannot catch a break here, read his mind and all u hear is incoherent screaming and bawling like olivia in all-american bitch
series masterlist
TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT: DAILY BULLETIN FOR DECEMBER XX, 20XX
PACE: […] And here are the upcoming events. Football - come to the media center to celebrate the end of the season, say goodbye to departing seniors, and welcome new team members. Although we didn’t get far in regionals, Coach Ares would like to give kudos to Luke Castellan for making the most touchdowns this season.
MIYAZAWA: Seniors - the counseling office is holding their last session to revise regular decision college applications in the Career Center. Please RSVP by Wednesday with the QR code provided by your English teacher. [pause] Speaking of school, ASB will also be hosting tri-weekly study halls starting next Monday in preparation for finals. Good luck on your tests!
PACE: And now it’s time for our joke of the day. Hey, Alice, what do you call an edible farmer that takes care of chickens?
MIYAZAWA: I don’t know, Malcolm, what do you call an edible farmer that takes care of chickens?
PACE: [flatly] A chicken tender.
PACE and MIYAZAWA: [exceeding fake laughter]
PACE: That’s all for today, Centaurs. I’m Malcolm.
MIYAZAWA: And I’m Alice!
PACE and MIYAZAWA: Bye!
Dr. Medes is a sweet old man. He’s on the stout side, hair and beard gone completely white, arms freckled with liver spots and eyes starting to get that watery blue line around the irises.
He gives extra credit often, grades forgivingly, loves talking about circles, and throws Dum-Dum lollipops at volunteers even if they get the answer wrong. Stats is a shitty class but Dr. Medes makes it a bit better.
Except, when Luke walks in on an unassuming Monday, there’s a crowd of kids pushing around at the back board. Some look happy when they walk away but most…. Well, they aren’t too pleased.
He jostles his way through his classmates. The fight to see what’s on the board is all sharp elbows and yelps from stubbed toes. Luke’s pretty sure that there’ll be a bruise blooming on his side by the end of it.
It’s a spreadsheet. Big black letters line the top, all bold and all capitalized:
AP STATS FALL FINAL PROJECT PARTNERS
Fuck. Luke’s eyes scroll down the sheet, scanning the bars for his name. He finds it, sweep his eyes to the adjacent box. Double fuck.
Your name in black, 12px, Arial font grins back at him tauntingly.
Luke curses Dr. Medes and the randomizer from Google that he always uses. Triple fuck, because there’s a warmth at his back and you slide into the edge of his periphery.
You notice him, head turning in slow-motion, mouth coming down to solidify into the grimace of the year. He wants to run away but the frown lines arrowing in your skin keep him captive.
“Hi partner.” The boy manages a little wave, a sharp grin. It’s as genuine as he can get without encountering the nervous fear of you punching him.
Tire-flat, “Castellan.”
“So,” he draws out the vowel and juts his thumb at a pair of desks the corner, “let’s talk about it.”
He knows he has a steady voice. He controls his breaths well, speaks carefully, slowly, with purpose. Luke thinks you’re about to fall asleep by the time he’s asking if you have time after school to iron out the details. The question snaps you out of your reverie.
“Er,” you blink a few times, groggy. “I’m free until I have to show up for drills.”
He hums, nods. “So from after sixth period to five, right?”
“Yea.”
( Why did he remember your practice time? Now he feels weird. )
He types a reminder into his phone and shuts it off, sliding the device into his pocket casually.
The words come out without thinking, “How do you feel about my house?”
What the fuck was that. Luke’s panicking; you’re barely cordial with each other—hell, you hate him and he’s pretty sure that he feels the same—and he just invited you to the most intimate place of his life.
“Excuse me?”
Luke tries the best he can to salvage this. “I mean—like, for work. It’s just a block away, and I have the stuff we need to make the presentation.”
Please say no, please say no, please say no.
“Oh, yea, just—” your eyes go out of focus as you think “—well, I guess I could.”
Very strained, molars practically dust, “Great. I’ll text my mom and let her know.”
The voice in his skull is banging at his bones and shrieking FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY. He pulls out his phone again to shoot a frenzied text to his mom as soon as you turn away to work on something else.
TO: mom
(11:26) mom plz i swear ill do all the dishes n put them away scrub the toilet find u hmart coupons n drive u there ANYTHING U ASK just PLZ can u get poster board and markers b4 i come home 🙏🙏
(11:26) for stats its a project. my partners coming over too
FROM: mom
(11:30) Ok. You better keep the HMart promise lol 🤣
“All good?” you question, zipping up your backpack. There’s a gleam of curiosity hiding under the hood of your eyelids; the sight of it makes something cold slither down his spine. Like you want to slice him open and eat his secrets alive.
The bell rings.
“Yea. Just fine.”
( It’s really not. He goes to the restroom straight after, splashes his face, and zones out in front of the mirror as the water dries. )
TO: silena 🎀
(11:32) what would u do if u accidentally invited the person who reciprocates ur hate for them to ur house for a project that u had to sell ur soul to ur mom to get the supplies for
FROM: silena 🎀
(11:40) LMFAOOO R U TWEAKING 😝 (11:41) oh wait is it the drum major… (11:41) ask whether if beckendorfs taken for me pls 😘
TO: silena 🎀
(11:43) WHAT THE HELL BRU 😭😭😭
FROM: silena 🎀
(11:44) what can i say, im an opportunist at heart 🩷
TO: silena 🎀
(11:46) boooooooo 🗣️🗣️
Luke flies by the seat of his pants. It’s a good quality, especially when plans don’t work out on the field. But because his quality of being impetuous benefits him in one way, it must be unbeneficial in an another scenario. There must be balance in life, and now is no exception, to much of his chagrin. Exhibit one: his mom has now whisked you away onto the couch and—good lord, she’s pulling out his baby album from under the coffee table.
He suppresses his shriek of mortification to a pathetic squeak as you turn a page and see a grainy photo of little him—cheeks flushed, hair long, curls loose, a pair of garish upside-down sunglasses with gold frames sliding down his nose.
“He loved swimming when he was little,” is what his mom is telling you. “We used to go to the beach almost twice a month.”
“How cute.”
Your eyes are shining with mirth and something evil. Luke wonders if he could walk right back outside and scream at the sky.
“Mom,” he ekes out, strained. “We need to work on our project.”
May Castellan does a little thing with her eyebrows, mouth pressing into a thin line and eyes scrutinizing.
“Okay,” she says after a moment of thought. Her voice sounds small but Luke knows that his mother is anything but with that devious glimmer in her eyes. “Make sure to leave your door open.”
Luke thinks that you almost choke. He feels a prickling sensation burn all the way up his back, face warming up. “Mom….”
The woman hums absently, looks straight into his eyes with an innocuous lift of her brows.
“What?”
You ease off the couch and excuse yourself to the bathroom, wandering down the hallway. Luke immediately erupts into a furiously hushed whisper.
“Mom, we’re not like that.”
“But I think your partner is a good kid. Very sweet.” His mother put extra stress on ‘partner’, even throwing in a very obvious wink that she tries to play off as an unbalanced blink. Oh, if only Luke could stop getting embarrassed by the people in his life.
“Bro….”
“Who? I am your mother, I gave birth and raised you, bro.”
Luke bows his head like a kicked puppy. “Sorry, mom.”
She bobs her head side to side, skeptical. “Mhm, be a good host and show your guest to the bathroom.”
Luke pads away, floorboards squeaking under his socks. He finds you leaning straight-faced against the door to his bedroom, the Sesame Street-themed sign with his name on it pinned into the wood behind your shoulder.
“Not a word,” he hisses, stepping forward to reach for the knob. Like always, he regretfully acts before he thinks, subsequently caging you between the wall and himself.
You make a face, half-bewildered and all-disgusted. “Yea, like everyone wants to know about your ugly baby photos.”
The parts of Luke’s neck hidden under his hoodie flush. You’re so close that he can feel your words rattling in his nerves, as if you’re speaking right into his skin. He twists the knob quickly and skitters into his room.
You step in without another word, scanning his things. Luke kisses his teeth; he should’ve asked his mom to hide everything in the closet too because there’s a grin creeping into your mouth the longer you look around.
“Didn’t know you were a nerd, Castellan.”
He represses the urge to sweep the toy race cars off the topmost shelf and rip the blueprint posters off the wall. Burn the baby blue duvet on his bed with the Ferrari logo stitched in the corner, he doesn’t care—anything to save himself from the embarrassment.
You pick up a mini Mercedes from the shelf, turn it in your fingers, and set it back down wordlessly. Luke wants to kiss the feet of whoever controls his luck that you don’t insult him further.
“I, uh,” he manages, strained, “I’m gonna get the materials.”
You hum noncommittally and turn to read the white text on his Blueprint of an F1 Car poster. Luke skitters away, grabbing the poster board and marker box at lightning speed.
His mom gives him a weird look—brows raised and mouth pinched—as he sprints back.
Luke decides along the way that you aren’t so bad, because—well, you let him choose the topic of the project to be motorsports.
FROM: silena 🎀
(16:28) did u ask abt beckendorf 🩷
TO: silena 🎀
(16:30) girl bffr how can i do that if i cant be social w haters
FROM: silena 🎀
(16:30) www.wikihow.com/how2talk2urcrush (16:31) hope this helps 😊😘
TO: silena 🎀
(16:31) WHAT THE FUKC
Luke forgot one crucial thing in his panic: you’re in Heralds under his father. He’s lettering the topic of your presentation on the board when he hears the front door snick. His marker nearly slips.
“Uh—” you snap your gaze up as Luke’s mouth begins to open and close like a fish, fumbling for the words “—don’t you have to go to practice?”
You regard him momentarily before squinting at the screen of your school-issued laptop. “In half an hour.”
Luke thinks, just rip off the band aid.
“I’m gonna try to say this really nicely, but my dad just got home and I need you out of my house before it gets awkward.”
You don’t take offence, shutting the computer and squeezing your hunched shoulders back. “Thank fucking god, I’m free.”
“Luke!” His mom’s voice is faint, somewhere far-off in another part of his house. “Does your friend want a snack? Maybe dinner before practice?”
And then, “Luke brought someone over?”
He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry at the sound of his father’s voice, but he definitely wants to die when his mom mentions you by name.
Luke watches the light leave your eyes when you listen closely to the footsteps padding along the floorboards.
“Sergeant, I didn’t know you were in the same class as Luke.”
You notably do not correct sergeant to major.
“Sir, hi,” you say, visibly cringing at the sight of his father standing awkwardly in the doorframe. “I’m actually just leaving.”
“Nonsense!” His dad smiles at you easily, envy digging between the rungs of Luke’s ribs. “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
Luke jumps in, “Band practice.” And he really doesn’t mean for it to come out as disrespectful as it did, but when the man he’s wanted the most approval from gives it readily to you, the person who hates him most…well.
“Oh. How was your day, Luke?”
“Fine,” he grits, standing up quickly despite the way it makes his head spin. You get up too, patting at the imaginary dust on your pants.
His dad smiles at you again with his eyes twinkling, and when you walk past the doorway, he pats your shoulder fondly.
“Luke can walk you back.”
The both of you look at the older man, bewildered.
“What the hell?”
“Sir, that’s alright, I really don’t need an escort.”
May Castellan calls from that far-off place in the house. “Luke? Please walk your friend back, it’ll get dark soon.”
Luke uses his sweetest, mommy’s-dearest-boy voice while looking his dad dead in the eye. “Okay. You need anything else?”
“Just come back safe, baby.”
“Okay, love you.”
You look out of place, fingers wrapped around the straps of your backpack, tongue poking at your cheek. Luke cautiously puts his hand between your shoulders and steers you towards the door.
The both of you skitter out before anything else goes downhill, sharing a sigh of relief.
“So,” Luke starts once you’re halfway down the street. The toes of his sneakers catch in the concrete gaps, cushioned by the weeds growing from them. “Is Beckendorf single?”
You whip your head around, a small part to your mouth and eyes narrowing.
“Asking for a friend,” he adds quickly. “My girlfriend, actually. I mean, not my girlfriend, just my best friend who happens to be a girl.”
“He’s single, alright,” you admit after a moment of pause, hands hanging heavy in your pockets. “But he’s got his eyes set on someone already. Who’s your friend?”
Luke’s mouth twists. Should he really tell you? From what he knows, band kids are vicious with gossip. What if Silena’s senior year got ruined because of him?
You speak again, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Are you dating Silena, by the way?”
He’s quick to answer. “No, she’s my best friend.”
“Mhm.” You nod, deep in thought. “So she likes Charles.”
Fucking hell, Luke’s stupid. So, so, so fucking stupid. Now you know Silena’s biggest secret because he’s got a big fucking mouth and acts before his brain can fucking think and—
“You wanna get them together?”
He blinks, nearly tripping over an uplifted slab of sidewalk. “Huh?”
“They probably both think that the other is dating one of us…so.”
Luke never learns from his mistakes. “So, what? We pretend to kiss so they can get over themselves and do the same?”
Loose fucking cannon, you, goes the voice trapped in his skull, can’t ever keep your damn mouth shut when you need it to be.
“I mean,” you mutter, eyes cast onto the ground, sheepish with the way you begin to palm at your neck. He wonders if parts of you also itch and flush when you’re with him. “Never mind, that’s stupid. We’re just setting them up, there’s no need to do all that extra shit.”
Luke laughs, embarrassment creeping in hot. “Yea, sorry. That’s just insane, like—”
“—something out of a movie, I know.” You’re laughing with him too, mouth stretching wide and smile lines digging into your skin. He kind of gets why you’re his dad’s favorite now—you’re both similar in humor and expression.
He quells the thing in his stomach that continues to grow the longer he stares at your smile lines. “Okay, so obviously just pushing them towards each other, and it’ll happen naturally.”
You nod. “And after we’ll just go back to hating each other, yea? There’s no need to pretend.”
“But why do you hate me?” Luke loathes how involuntary his speech has become. People don’t just ask why others hate them. For the nth time that day, he wishes to crawl into a hole and—
“It’s not really you, I just have a vendetta against the football team in general. And I guess I felt pressured to hate you specifically ‘cause that’s what everyone expects, y’know?”
Oh, okay.
He starts—voluntarily, this time, because you deserve to know the same, “I don’t like you because of my dad.”
( Well, it was what he wanted to say, but not exactly how he wanted to say it. )
“You’re like, his perfect successor,” Luke continues, pushes on like he always does with every unfortunate mishap that befalls him. “I thought I could make him happy by doing my own thing. He wanted a track star for his team and I became football captain. And to really rub it in, I used his camera and got into yearbook instead of Heralds. Did you know he has beef with Ares and Clio?”
You shake your head, incredulous. The both of you have stopped moving, feet coming to a standstill on the broken sidewalk.
“That’s a dick move.”
He shrugs, a small smile gracing his face. “I know, it’s kinda too much, even if I was pissed. But looking back, I guess I’m happy with where I’m at.”
“I think that matters a lot more than your dad’s approval,” you tell him sagely.
“Yea,” Luke agrees, the toe of his sneakers leaving an indent in the gravel. “So we’re good, right? Friends?”
Your face pinches, mouth going sour and a little tender. “I wouldn’t go that far. I still hate grossly overrated sports.”
“Yea, and I hate writing in Associated Press.”
Your mouth tilts in an almost-smile, backlit pink by the horizon. It’s far enough into the year that the sun starts setting at five, and it’s chilly too, breaths starts to wisp.
You nod you head awkwardly in the direction of the school—he didn’t even realize that you’ve walked this far already.
“See you around, Castellan.”
[ VIDEO: a clip of someone’s living room decked out in festive lights. A group of rowdy teens are clumped together on the floor, a few older kids on the couches. The film is shaky and so is the audio, but the teens are clearly rapping—badly—along to Hamilton, which is playing on the TV.
The camera briefly zooms in on you and Charles sitting next to each other on the couch, you closing your eyes, knees slung over his thighs while he belts along to the singing portions of the song. The view then flips over to show Travis as the cameraman, tears in his eyes, a sugar-rush flush to his face before the video ends. ]
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travstole gna miss my favorite seniors 😞
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majmajmaj what happens at the semester end party STAYS AT THE SEMESTER END PARTY
perciusjakcsn GTFO THIS IS ACTUALLY WATERGATE FOR BAND 😭👎
conmanstole if i can prove that i never touched my balls 🗣️🗣️‼️‼️
↳ travstole can u promise not to tell another soul whatchu saw 🫵😩😰
“I need your number,” you tell him on the last day of finals, to a backdrop of students rushing out of class. He doesn’t know how you found him right after fifth period, but he doesn’t dare question. “I forgot to get it when we were working on the project.”
Luke only has the pen he used to fill out his physics exam, so he takes your hand gently and scrawls the digits onto your palm. It’s a little hard to read, kind of—very—smudged, but it works.
“See you after break?” he offers, clipping the pen onto the collar of his soft sweatshirt. Luke fidgets the longer you look at him, scratching at the stubble he missed during his morning shave, readjusting his computer glasses.
“Obviously,” you tell him after a lifetime—really just a split second—of deliberation. “Don’t forget.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
You raise your brows just slightly, a little furrow forming in your skin. There’s a small tilt to your mouth, almost disbelieving, skeptical.
“Congrats on MVP, by the way,” you tell him just as he’s about to awkwardly step away. “That was a better season than I expected.”
“Really?” He grins; his face nearly hurts from the force of it.
“Football’s still ass.” You shrug and step back, thumbs looped in the straps of your backpack. “Don’t go too far. I’m expecting an assignment on volleyball soon.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Luke feels so stupid when you give him a sardonic little grin in return, head beginning to pound at a hundred kilometers an hour.
( And then he remembers that he’s American and doesn’t actually know what the fuck a kilometer is outside of physics. See? He’s decidedly bam-fucking-boozled. )
The bell for the sixth period final rings, and he’s snapped out of it, realizing that he’s standing dumbly in the courtyard. He’s in sports—he doesn’t have a sixth because that’s the period reserved for practice, which he doesn’t have.
When he comes home to kickstart winter break, Luke actually—albeit curtly—greets his dad.
[ IMAGE: a screenshot of a DM. On the left side of the chat, two messages that read:
wild guess but maybe luke likes the band kid that everyone calls sarge or smth i saw them walking together after school and they met up when finals was over
anon pls
The right side of the chat has a message with one shocked emoji and a thumbs up. ]
Liked by luvvbeaus and 1,153 others
centaurs.confess movie plot ahh rumor 💀
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drewtanka ONG?? 😦😦
naka.ethan bruh i’m reporting this for misinformation on behalf of marching band as a whole #CASTELLANSUCKSASS
↳ damienwit #CASTELLANSUCKSASS ↳ travstole thats my cousin ur talking abt do it again #CASTELLANSUCKSASS
FROM: silena 🎀
(18:52) so i find out thru insta huh. ur so fake lucas castellan 🖕
TO: silena 🎀
(18:53) woahh those r some wild accusations silena beauregard (18:53) and thats not even the name on my birth certificate. its just luke.
FROM: silena 🎀
(18:54) how does it feel to be the most hated man at school #CASTELLANSUCKSASS 🎙️
TO: silena 🎀
(19:00) in a student body full of neanderthals thats a fucking badge of honor
FROM: silena 🎀
(19:01) what about the rumors abt ur crush on ur dads fav editor in chief 🎙️
TO: silena 🎀
(19:01) STFUU WHO SAID THAT EW 😨 (19:01) we legit hate each other idk what ur talking about. anything else u heard is misinformation bruh it was just a project
FROM: silena 🎀
(19:02) yall hear smth?? (20:00) SMH LEFT ON READ. BESTIE PRIVILEGES RE FUCKING VOKED.
p.s. ★ on the topic of #CASTELLANSUCKSASS - this is purely a work of fiction, and although this is based on real things that teenagers do, it is never funny to cyberbully people. if u are being cyberbullied, report, block, and tell someone who can help, like a counselor or trusted adult (also dont forget to have screenshots as evidence), and if u are someone who cyberbullies others, gtfo of my blog bc ur not welcome.
sharing is caring, so pls rb and also lmk ur thoughts ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ᡣ𐭩
luke tags (open); @melllinaa @amortencjja @arsonnaire @ma1dita @m00ng4z3r @saltair-and-palemoonlight @witch-lemon @ahh-chickens @spiderbeam @jennapancake @traumatrios @omg--bluexx @dangelnleif @lukecastellandefender @apolloscastellan
© klineinie 2024 — do not plagiarize, translate, or use ANY works to train ai
don't blame me | j.potter [part three]
note : having the worst week of my life but at least I can write ficitonal scenarios about dead gay wizards from the 70s, sigh
warnings :more james potter annoying you, like the usual , holidays with the Potters - yay? , a short moment of angst, jealousy jealousy
𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 - 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 3.6k
![Don't Blame Me | J.potter [part Three]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d51199e3aa26c871d1dd1a7fcb932975/dc821f3195dac1b9-aa/s500x750/4115956c3fec3081ad99edc006c8012d7e8b9134.jpg)
Patrols with James Potter had been . . . exhausting.
Weeks of late-night rounds patrolling empty corridors, always with him trailing two steps behind or two inches too close. Always with his voice slinking into the silence like it belonged there, like you were supposed to be comfortable with him. And somehow, he made it his mission to use every moment to chip away at your patience with all the grace of a blunt axe.
Lovely.
He was determined, though. You had to give him that. Determined to get under your skin, to make you smile, to tease you until your eye twitched. His favourite hobby lately was whispering “Wife” every time you reached for your wand. You hadn’t hexed him yet - but not for lack of desire.
Still, despite his relentless antics, there had been moments - rare, fleeting ones - where you forgot to hate him. Where he’d say something unexpectedly kind, or remember something about you he had no business remembering, and it felt like you might be on the edge of. . . something.
You always walked away before you could fall.
And then, mercifully, the holidays arrived. Which meant no more late-night patrols, no more being cornered by James Potter in dimly-lit corridors, and no more having to pretend you weren’t flustered when he said something that made your chest ache.
You’d barely shared any classes with the Gryffindors this term anyway, and now, with the castle slowly emptying for the break, it was easier than ever to avoid him. You packed with care, meticulously folding your robes, grateful for the distance the train ride would provide.
Until, of course, it didn’t.
![Don't Blame Me | J.potter [part Three]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/3615f6c250992a26e95d79fe7a14b119/dc821f3195dac1b9-28/s500x750/d5f736e52b006522eb4717bdcff7d4a44f3e2f21.jpg)
You’d just spotted your roommates and were about to slip into their compartment when a hand grabbed your wrist.
You barely had time to yelp before James bloody Potter was dragging you away, all boyish charm and zero respect for personal space. Right through the train halls.
“Come along, darling,” he said with a smirk, ignoring how you perked at the designated nickname. “Reserved you a seat in the madhouse.”
“I’m reporting you to the authorities,” you hissed, wriggling uselessly as he tugged you toward the Marauders’ carriage. “Kidnapping is a crime.”
“Betrothed privilege,” he said smugly, as if that were an actual law.
The carriage door slid open, and Sirius Black greeted you with a roguish grin and a dramatic flourish of his hand. “Our lady of misfortune has arrived.”
You gave him a look which he was unfazed by, charming as always. “Get a haircut, Black.”
Remus smiled warmly and offered a casual nod. “Good to see you, ____.”
“Hi, Remus,” you said, already angling toward the empty seat beside him. Safe. Calm. Not James Potter.
If the boys noticed how you called him by first name, they failed to comment.
Peter gave a little wave. “Hey.”
You slid in next to Remus with a grateful sigh, already launching into a discussion about Ancient Runes - anything to keep your thoughts occupied, anything to avoid looking across at James.
Remus was, as ever, a good conversationalist - sharp, observant, gentle. He asked questions about your last essay and even jotted down a mental note when you mentioned a reference book he hadn’t read yet.
And James . . . frowned.
Sirius leaned in close to him, voice low. “You’re glaring, mate.”
“I am not.”
“You are. That’s the face you made when Evans talked to that Ravenclaw bloke - Klove, was it?”
James swatted him. “I’m not jealous.”
“You’re so jealous it’s making me jealous,” Sirius muttered, biting back a laugh as to not let you in on their whispered exchange.
James only responded when you glanced up, mid-sentence with Remus, and he spoke over you without remorse. “So. About the engagement dinner.”
You stiffened at the sudden mention, all words about Ancient Runes falling off your tongue. “What about it?”
“The others’ll be there,” he said casually, gesturing at the boys, Sirius nodding at you. “Whole family’s been invited.”
You groaned, already picturing the social chaos that would ensue and just how you'd be front page on the Daily Prophet.
“My mum doesn’t want to go,” Sirius said cheerfully. “She hates the Potters, obviously. Calls them blood-traitor filth. But it’s two pureblood houses uniting, so she’ll show up to save face. Probably poison the wine, but she’ll be there - the rest of the noble house of Black too.”
You groaned louder, face in your hands. “There really isn’t a way to get out of this?”
Sirius tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You could marry me instead.”
You snorted at his suggestion, like hell you'd marry into his crazy purist family. “If I had to choose between the four of you, I’d pick Remus.”
That earned a low whistle from Sirius and a quiet, pleased hum from Remus. He knew your words held no ground, so he neglected reacting much.
James didn’t say anything. But his jaw clenched, and he looked out the window like it had personally offended him.
The silence lingered until a loud bang shook the carriage.
“Was that . . .?” you asked.
“Dung bombs,” Peter said, grinning - you drank in the boy's mischievous glint that the four of them seemed to have. “Slytherin carriage.”
You stared. “Seriously? You couldn't have let it rest, spirit of Christmas and all that?”
“I told him to set a delay timer,” Remus said with a sigh, there it is. He really isn't the squeaky clean Gryffindor Prefect everyone thought he was, questioning his validity as a Marauder. “Did you?”
“Ten minutes,” Sirius said proudly. “Perfect.”
The door burst open with an angry thunk. Evans.
Her angry green eyes swept the room, nostrils flaring. “Who’s responsible?”
No one spoke. It was a beautifully choreographed silence.
Then her eyes locked on you. He had expected the boys, the moment she caught sight of James through the compartment door - but you were an odd addition.
She briefly remembered the offer James made her over the summer, which she agreed to.
“What’re you doing here?”
You blinked, deciding not to answer that. “We’ve been mostly well-behaved. While I’ve been here.”
You left out the bit where you hadn’t been in the carriage for the first few minutes of the journey, giving them enough window to set up their prank.
Evans narrowed her eyes, but sighed. “I’ll let it slide. Because it’s you. And I don’t think you’d lie to me, ____.”
She turned on her heel and left, hair swinging like a blade behind her. Those gorgeous red locks that one would recognize from a mile away.
Peter leaned in, eyebrows raised. “Think she’s jealous?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Not of me.”
James didn’t laugh. He was staring out the window again, entirely unreadable.
At the station, the boys peeled off one by one.
Sirius gave you a wink and a mock bow before strolling toward his reluctant mother.
Peter mumbled something about his mum hating delays and hurried off. Remus gave you a small, reassuring smile, bidding you a polite goodbye before walking off.
James stayed.
You spotted your parents before they saw you - dressed in their best travel robes, standing beside the Potters as if this were already a done deal. Mrs. Potter was beaming, saying something animated to your mother, who looked politely engaged.
Your father was shaking hands with Mr. Potter like they were discussing ministry business instead of their children’s future.
You gulped.
James came to stand beside you. “Ready?”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for this.”
“Too bad. Train’s already stopped,” he said with a grin.
Then, just loud enough to reach only your ears: “Did I mention we’re staying at my place for the whole break?”
You whipped your head around. “What?”
He beamed. “Didn’t you hear? My mum’s idea. Think she wants us to bond.”
Your expression must have betrayed every drop of horror in your soul, because James just kept smiling. You couldn't muster a reply, not even to retort at the shock.
“I’ll save you the room next to mine.”
You groaned.
He offered his arm with mock chivalry, you knew your parents were watching but decided against playing along. “Shall we?”
You didn’t take it, but you didn’t run either. You were already walking toward the wolves. What was one more step?
Next up: The Potters’ home. Preparations. Chaos. And an engagement party you weren’t sure you’d survive without throttling your fiancé.
But for now, you squared your shoulders and forced a smile.
Let the holiday nightmare begin.
Potter Manor was exactly as you remembered it, nevermind it hasn't been long since your last visit. That was the worst part.
The same winding staircase you used to race James up two steps at a time. The same enchanted portraits that used to cheer you on. The oak banister still bore the scratch marks from when you and James attempted to slide down it on a tea tray - and spectacularly failed. And the smell - cinnamon, broom polish, and whatever potion Euphemia Potter always had brewing - hit you like a ghost to the ribs.
It wasn’t unfamiliar. It was haunting.
Because you used to belong here. Before Hogwarts, before the forgetting, before everything fell apart. You used to run barefoot through these halls, laughing with the boy who now called you wife just to see you flinch.
And now you were back.
Not as a friend. Not even as a guest. But as the future daughter-in-law.
Euphemia Potter regarded you with a warm smile the moment you step through the threshold of Potter Manor, as though it’s been years instead of just four months since the last time you were here.
Her arms wrap around you in a motherly hug, and she smells of ginger tea and old parchment, just like always. She beams at you like nothing has changed, like you’re still ten and sleeping over in James Potter’s room with a blanket fort between the beds so you wouldn’t accidentally kick each other in the night.
But everything has changed. More like, nothing has remained the same - not even you did, you grew out of your dirty robes thanks to playing in the mud with James and he's outgrown the little boy that clung to you.
Because now you’re here not as James’s childhood friend, but as his betrothed, and every memory you once thought was yours alone is being dragged out into the light and repackaged for an entirely different future.
The Manor hasn’t changed much - same grand portraits, same ticking grandfather clock in the hall, same scent of cedar and magic in the air. But it feels like something inside you curdled on the walk up the gravel path. Maybe it’s because only you, and your parents, and the Potters remember what this place meant to you once.
James certainly doesn’t. Not in the way you do. Not in the way that matters.
“James, sweetheart, would you be a dear and show her to her room? It’s the same one from the summer,” Euphemia says with an airy smile as she leads your parents and her husband into the drawing room, already slipping into talk of tea and travel and wedding colors.
“Gladly,” James says, far too quickly, turning toward you with that irritating sparkle in his eye. You curse your rotten luck.
You groan under your breath as he falls into step beside you. “Don’t start.”
“What? I haven’t said anything yet,” he replies innocently. “But since you’re clearly in such a cheery mood, I’ll just skip straight to the part where I invite you to sneak into my room later if you get too lonely.”
You don’t even flinch as you mutter, “Try it and I’ll kick you so hard your grandkids will feel it.”
James clutches his heart in mock pain. “Merlin, and here I thought you would be caring to our grandkids!”
You roll your eyes as he pushes open the door to your room - same as last time, same rich emerald curtains and vintage vanity, same bed that used to feel like a dream when you were younger, when this place was magic instead of a distant memory.
“Feel at home, darling,” James sing-songs as he retreats, and you don’t bother with a retort. You’re already shutting the door on him, not minding if it slammed right on his face.
Dinner is practically déjà vu.
The Potters and your family sit at the long mahogany table, wine glasses glinting in the candlelight, laughter echoing too easily around you. Euphemia compliments your dress. Your mother beams with pride every time James says something even mildly charming.
Fleamont asks your father about business, and all of it feels like a play you’re being forced to star in, only you didn't rehearse your lines just yet.
What makes it worse is James, who can’t seem to sit still. Halfway through dinner, you feel it - the subtle nudge of his foot under the table. You glare at him. He grins and taps your ankle again, continuing to dine like he wasn't bothering you through mouthfuls of steak.
You dig your heel into the top of his shoe, he stiffled the groan that threatened to escape him.
“Darling,” your mother says suddenly, drawing your attention -Merlin, that nickname is ruined for you thanks to James. “We were thinking, maybe as part of the engagement party, the two of you could do a little performance. A dance!”
You nearly choke on your pumpkin soup, a fucking dance with James Potter? you'd rather not, he'll surely pull some shit to make you trip.
“It’s not a coming-of-age ceremony,” you blurt, denying the suggestion before it could blossom.
They laugh it off, but James’s brow furrows. “Wait a second - when is your birthday?”
“In two weeks,” you mutter pretending how it didn't sting that he doesn't remember.
Back when you were kids, he'd owl you non-stop the full week leading up to it as he also begged your parents to let you celebrate at the manor.
Euphemia claps her hands, your Mother already caught the idea and was nodding enthusiastically. “Perfect timing, then! The engagement party will be both a celebration of your union and your birthday.”
You smile tightly, your thoughts bitter. Great. Now no one will actually celebrate your birthday. They’ll be too busy celebrating the inevitable.
James goes oddly quiet after that. Which should have been a relief. But instead, it unsettles you. Because if James Potter wasn’t talking, then he was definitely thinking.
And James Potter thinking is a very dangerous thing.
Sleep is an elusive thing that night. You toss and turn, too warm under the thick blankets, your mind racing with everything unsaid. You finally shove off the covers and open your door, planning to sneak into the library or just pace the halls until your thoughts tire out.
Except as soon as you step out, you nearly crash into someone in the dark halls of the Potter Manor.
James.
He blinks at you, hair even messier than usual, shirt wrinkled and collar loose. “You too?”
You consider turning around and shutting yourself back in your room, as if seeing the gears turn in your head - he grabbed your arm.
“Nope. You’re coming with me,” he says before you can escape, already tugging your arm with a firm, familiar grip - man, those Quidditch practices really sculpted him well.
“I was planning to walk alone, thanks,” you say dryly, pulling your arm from him but to no avail as he wouldn't budge.
“Too bad. I’m feeling generous.”
He drags you down the hall, past darkened paintings and sleeping portraits, all the way to the kitchens, where a single house elf pops in to greet him.
“Young master, James - sir - may I - ”
“It’s alright, Winky, I’ve got this one,” James says, waving her off. “Go on, enjoy your break, it's late.”
The elf vanishes with a pop. You bid the familiar elf goodbye which she smiled at.
“Please tell me you’re not about to burn the Manor down trying to make toast,” you mutter, remembering how he'd almost done just that.
“Have a little faith,” he says, already pulling out ingredients and fiddling with the stove. To your surprise, he’s. . . not terrible. He makes sandwiches. Cuts up fruit. Even remembers you like your tea a little sweet - though you doubt he'd actually remembered, it was probably just muscle memory.
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.
“We used to do this,” you say quietly, breaking the silence.
He glances at you. “What?”
“Sneak around. Late nights. Kitchens. You always got crumbs in your hair.”
James chuckles, then falters. “Yeah. . . I think I remember that. Vaguely.”
You look away, heart twisting. “Doesn’t matter, it's been years.”
“Hey.”
You don’t answer.
“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “I’m sorry.”
You swallow thickly, still turned toward the wall - scared to show him the expression on your face. You could only guess you looked pathetic.
“It’s not your fault,” you say, despite yourself. You hoped the shake in your resolve did now show in your voice. “We were kids. I guess it just mattered more to me.”
There’s a pause. Then he says, “If we do end up shackled to each other - ”
“Romantic,” you deadpan and he pointedly ignored that.
“ - I’d treat you well,” he finishes. “You’d be the happiest wife in all of Britain. Or at least the most well-fed, I am very rich, you see.”
You turn just in time to see his stupid wink, your tears blinked away and they failed to cascade down much to your delight.
“You’re such an arse.” you tell him but this time, there was no bite to it, a smile even tugging at your lips.
“And yet, here you are, sharing a midnight snack with me. So what does that say about you?”
You snatch a slice of apple from his plate and lob it at his head. He catches it in his mouth with infuriating ease, bloody Quidditch.
You don’t even give him the satisfaction of a goodbye. You slip away before he can see the flush rising up your neck, before he can notice how your heart is pounding in a way it hasn’t since you were ten years old and thought that maybe - just maybe - he’d always remember you.
Maybe not in his head, but his heart.
You were somehow comforted by the talk tonight, he’s starting to try.
Preparations for the engagement party take over the manor in the days that follow. The adults are swept up in an endless flurry of guest lists and menus and floral arrangements, and you and James are pulled apart before you can even properly register it.
You're ushered off to endless dress fittings and hair trials while James is fitted for his formal robes in another wing of the house. It’s necessary, of course. With the wedding scheduled shortly after graduation, this is the only time left to get things sorted.
They were making the best out of your holiday break.
You’re glad for the space. The distance gives your heart time to settle, to remember that this engagement isn’t real - not in the way you once hoped. Meanwhile, James seems disappointed by the lack of time together. He even pouts when he thinks you’re not looking.
You ignore it.
On the day before the engagement party, you spend most of it in rehearsals. A stern but kind dance instructor leads you through the steps again and again, correcting posture, instructing turns.
Your mother watches proudly from the corner, beaming at how lovely you’ll look twirling across the reception floor.
Except you’re not dancing with James. The parents insisted it would be more romantic if you waited until the wedding day to share your first proper dance together.
So instead, you dance with the instructor while your mind drifts to the boy you’ll be expected to smile at all night. The boy whose name you'll take.
Midnight is close by the time you finally collapse into bed, limbs sore and eyelids heavy. You drift off after practise, only to be jolted awake by an abrupt knock on the door.
You stumble up and open it - and there he is.
James stands in the hallway, grinning like a child with a secret. He’s holding a small cake, clumsily decorated but clearly well-meant. The icing is in your favorite colors - ____, and your heart trips at the sloppily-written greeting.
“What - ?”
“I baked it with the elves,” James says proudly. “They were very excited to help, they like you a lot.”
He steps inside without waiting for permission and places the cake on your desk. Then he lights a single candle in the center, making your heart do cartwheels.
Before you can say anything, he begins to sing.
His version of happy birthday is terrible - off-key, full of dramatic vibrato, and entirely too cheeky - but you laugh anyway, despite yourself.
“Happy birthday, ____,” he says softly when he finishes, voice warm and real in a way that makes your chest ache.
You stare at the candle for a moment, you're now of-age. An adult in the eyes of the law.
“Well?” James nudges you. “Make a wish.”
You shake your head but close your eyes anyway, blowing out the flame. When you open them, he’s looking at you in that way again - quiet, unguarded.
“What’d you wish for?” he asks.
“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
He grins. “It better be something dramatic. Like me getting hexed in the Great Hall.”
You smile, soft and fleeting. For a moment, it feels like you’ve got him back. The boy who used to race you down the hallways of this manor. The one who knew every secret passageway. The one who always remembered your birthday.
And then he leans in.
He’s so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes. His breath ghosts across your cheek. You almost lean forward -
Almost.
But then you remember. Lily.
You pull away sharply, eyes fixed on the cake.
James blinks, hurt flashing briefly across his face before he masks it with a lopsided grin. “Well. Better try this or the elves might get offended.”
You force a laugh. “The cake better be edible. I’m only trying it because I’m starving.”
“Please. It’s only edible because the elves did ninety percent of the work,” he admits.
You chuckle at that and take a bite. “Sixty percent.”
“Forty,” he argues, taking a bite himself
“Ten.”
You both laugh.
But your heart still aches.
to be continued. . .
part four | masterlist
mom said it’s MY turn to lay gently in the cold dark earth
✶ THE EX EFFECT
summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.
F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST
pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader
wc: 19.2k
cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!
note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!
WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.
Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.
Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.
It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.
It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?
Still, you decided to try again.
During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.
You went for humor instead. A joke.
Terrible idea, in hindsight.
“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”
Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”
And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”
“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.
He didn’t even look away from the road.
“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.
That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.
You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.
Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.
Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.
Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.
Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.
And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.
After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.
Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it.
It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.
Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.
But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.
It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.
You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.
Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.
Yeah. This was a good morning.
You should have known it wouldn’t last.
It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.
But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.
“Y/N?”
Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.
And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.
You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.
“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”
Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.
You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”
Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.
But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.
Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”
He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.
“Small world,” he added to your silence.
You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”
Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”
You stared at him.
Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.
Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”
That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”
How surprising.
“So─”
You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.
You lied.
“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.
Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”
He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression.
That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.
Not today, Satan.
The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.
You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.
“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”
And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.
“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”
Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”
Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”
You finally turned to face him fully.
His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.
“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”
That’s when something clicked.
You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.
But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.
Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.
“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”
He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”
Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”
You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?
“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.
Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.
“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!
Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”
Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”
“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.
Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”
“So small,” you nodded stiffly.
The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”
Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”
You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”
Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”
“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”
“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.
You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”
“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.
You paused. “Huh?”
“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”
“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”
“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”
You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”
You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”
“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”
The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.
Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.
That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.
“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.
“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.
Lando studied you. Waiting.
“Do I have to guess, or…?”
The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”
You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”
“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.”
You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.
Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.
Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it.
One you didn’t have an answer to.
The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.
You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.
But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.
Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.
“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.
He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.
“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”
“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”
He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?
It took a while for reality to set in.
You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”
Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”
You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”
Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”
“No way.”
“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”
You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”
Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”
“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”
He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”
“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.
“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”
“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”
“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”
You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”
“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.
You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.
You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.
You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”
“Come again?”
“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”
You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”
“There it is.”
“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”
“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.
You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”
“Never heard of that.”
“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”
“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”
“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”
Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”
The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”
He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.
“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”
Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.
“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”
You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.
And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.
“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”
You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”
The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.
Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?
First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.
You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.
“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.
You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”
Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”
“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.
“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”
You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.
So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.
The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.
By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…
“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.
Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”
You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.
“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”
“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off.
“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”
You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”
Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”
You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”
Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.
You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”
Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”
You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”
“Glitter? Really?”
“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”
Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”
You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”
“Right side.”
“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”
You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.
Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.
Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”
“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”
“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”
“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.
You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”
He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.
You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”
And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.
You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”
You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued, voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”
“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”
“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”
A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.
It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.
And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”
When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.
You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.
You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.
It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.
Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.
Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.
Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.
Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.
Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.
You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”
“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”
“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”
“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”
You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.
Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.
This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.
After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.
Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.
It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.
But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.
It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.
The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.
It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.
“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”
You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”
“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.”
He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”
A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”
Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”
“How?”
“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”
He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”
“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”
Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”
The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”
That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”
It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.
“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.
“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”
You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”
It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”
When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.
For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend.
At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.
Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.
Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.
The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”
Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”
“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”
You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.
Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.
Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”
It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”
Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.
And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.
He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder.
“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.
“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.
Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”
“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.
He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.
The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.
You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.
Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.
Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.
It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play.
But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.
Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.
You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.
You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.
Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”
Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”
And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.
“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”
“That’s because you are.”
The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.
The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.
You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.
The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.
You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.
You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.
His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”
The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.
Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.
That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.
His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”
It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”
“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”
“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.
Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”
You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever.
“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”
“I made a mistake─”
“You made a choice,” you spat.
“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”
“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”
“Well─”
“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”
Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”
Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”
Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”
“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.
He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”
“Everything alright there?”
His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.
He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.
“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”
Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”
He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”
Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.
The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”
Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”
You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”
Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”
That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours.
“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”
You couldn’t agree more.
The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.
Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”
You gave a small nod.
“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”
There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it.
“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”
You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”
The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.
“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”
It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.
Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”
You blinked. “Do you?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.
Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.
He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.
And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.
“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.
You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.
Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes.
He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.
And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.
You closed the space.
The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.
Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.
You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.
When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.
“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.
You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.
Yet, you still went to bed alone.
You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.
“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”
Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”
You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.
You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.
The expression on his face stopped you cold.
Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.
You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”
“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.
Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.
Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”
“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”
The world tipped.
The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.
You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”
“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”
His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”
Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”
Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.
He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.
Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.
Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”
You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”
You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.
A beat.
“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”
You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”
Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”
“And what about you?”
The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”
He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.
“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.
Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.
You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.
The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.
You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.
You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.
And with it, everything else.
Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.
You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.
Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him
You let the weight of it all crash down on you.
If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.
The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.
Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.
Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.
You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.
Eventually, it came.
A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.
It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.
You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.
The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.
But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.
You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.
Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.
It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.
Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.
“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.
Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”
He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”
You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”
“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”
You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”
The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.
“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.
“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.
It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.
Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”
You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.
“Why not?”
You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”
Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”
“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”
It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”
He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.
You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.
You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.
You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.
He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.
He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.
“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.
You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”
“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.
Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.
“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.
“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.
You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.
Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”
“That’s good.”
He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”
“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.
“I’m glad.”
Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.
Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”
The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.
“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”
You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t.
Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”
“And did they?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”
Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”
Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”
He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”
He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”
You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.
“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”
There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.
Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.
But that’s not what he did.
“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”
He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”
“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”
Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”
Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”
“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.
Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his.
“So… what do we do now?”
The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”
You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.
As if you had the strength to even think about it.
You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.
The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.
When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.
He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.
“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”
“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”
“I’m just saying, I─”
You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.
That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.
He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.
He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.
Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.
©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.
circumstances will NEVER matter
oh my god please stop beating a dead horse
we have been over this topic so many times. People have repeatedly told you, "circumstances don't matter" and yet a ton of you STILL harp on about your circumstances.
STOP IT.
I don't know why some of you people expect bloggers to start saying something different when YOU are the one who keeps worrying about the 3D like it dictates your manifestations when you should have already hammered the fact that your assumptions manifest and that what you see DOESN'T MATTER into your head.
"but i-" I DONT CARE!!! Stop relying on what you perceive to tell you if you have something or not. Stop seeking validation from the outside when it all stems from YOU.
Your circumstances suck, we know. They are hard, unliveable, stress inducing, exhausting, depressing, etc. Nobody is denouncing that it's rough, but for gods sake you need to stop conflating having results ≠ it showing up in 3D.
The 'success' is you persisting in/accepting your assumption, that IS IT. Because guess what? Someone who dgaf about what they're being shown and knows that their assumptions are the only truth and form everything, WOULDN'T GIVE TWO SHITS ABOUT WHAT THEY'RE SEEING BCS THEY KNOW THEY HAVE IT. THEY DONT EQUATE HAVING SOMETHING MATERIALISE AS THE SUCCESS, THEY UNDERSTAND THEY WERE SUCCESSFUL THE MOMENT THEY ASSUMED IT.
you can sit there and complain about how shit is too hard but guess what? It's gonna keep being hard because you keep assuming it is. you can either stop and fix your assumption or keep repeating this cycle, it is up to you.
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