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Oscar Piastri’s earliest memory of Bristol wasn’t the damp cobblestones or the grey drizzle that clung to the city like a second skin.

It was the fence.

Specifically, the rickety wooden one separating his family’s new garden from the Norrises’ next door.

He was twelve, fresh off the plane from Melbourne, his accent still thick with Aussie vowels, his skin perpetually sunburnt despite the English gloom. The Piastri family—Chris, Nicole, and their four kids—had traded the sprawl of Australia for a semi-detached house in a quiet Bristol suburb. Oscar, the eldest, was skeptical of the move. Kangaroos to rainclouds? No thanks.

But then he met Flo Norris, his exact age, all wild curls and sharper wit, who scaled that fence like it was her personal Everest. “Oi, new kid,” she’d said, perched atop the splintered wood, one leg dangling like she owned the place. “You gonna stand there staring or come help me nick some apples?”

The Norrises had an apple tree, gnarled and generous, and Flo, it turned out, had a knack for roping people into her schemes. That was the start of it—Oscar and Flo, inseparable from that first summer, united by a shared disdain for authority and a love for sneaking into each other’s houses through back doors and open windows.

The Piastri and Norris houses sat side by side, their gardens kissing through that creaky fence. Oscar’s household was loud and loving: his parents practical, his three younger sisters—Hattie, Edie, and Mae—sticky-fingered and full of endless questions. The Norrises were chaos of a different breed: Adam and Cisca with their four kids—Oliver, the aloof eldest at sixteen; Lando, fourteen and already halfway to a motorsport addiction; Flo, Oscar’s equal in age and energy; and little Cisca Jr., who trailed behind Flo like a shadow in glittery wellies.

The families clicked like they’d been designed to. Back doors were always unlocked, keys swapped “just in case.” Oscar had a permanent seat at the Norris dinner table, and Flo had one at the Piastrias’. It was home, split across two addresses.

As kids, Oscar and Flo were a menace. They’d race bikes down the street, weave through neighbors’ washing lines, and once got caught trying to build a “secret tunnel” under the fence (it was mostly a muddy hole).

Lando, two years older, was always just out of reach—cooler, faster, always tearing off to karting tracks. Oscar idolized him, though he’d never admit it. Lando would ruffle Oscar’s hair, call him “Pastry,” and toss him a spare helmet to mess around with in the garage.

Those moments—Lando’s laugh echoing through the garden, his easy confidence—planted something in Oscar. A warmth he didn’t understand until years later.

By 16, Oscar knew. He was sprawled on Flo’s bedroom floor, her posters of horses and Olympic showjumpers plastered on the walls, when she asked, point-blank, “You got a crush on anyone?” He froze.

The Norrises’ house smelled like fresh laundry and apple crumble, and Flo was braiding Cisca Jr.’s hair while the younger girl played with a toy horse. Oscar’s mouth went dry.

He’d spent the last year hyper-aware of Lando—his messy curls, the way he’d lean too close when showing Oscar how to fix a bike chain, the stupid butterflies Oscar got when Lando slung an arm around him. “No,” he lied, staring at the carpet.

Flo snorted. “Liar. You’re red as a tomato.” She paused, squinting at him. “It’s a boy, isn’t it?”

Oscar’s heart stopped. He wanted to bolt, but Flo just grinned, tossing a pillow at him. “Chill, Osc. I don’t care. Who is it?” He didn’t say Lando’s name—not then. But a week later, over stolen biscuits in the Piastri kitchen, he mumbled, “It’s your brother.”

Flo’s eyes went wide, her biscuit frozen halfway to her mouth. “Which brother?!” she yelped, voice cracking with mock horror. “Please don’t say Oliver, he’s a nerd!” Oscar flushed, mortified, and muttered, “Lando, obviously.”

Flo’s face softened, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Oh, mate, how could I have missed it? It’s the way you linger when he talks, isn’t it? Always offering to grab his tools in the garage, laughing too hard at his dumb jokes.” She leaned forward, smirking. “I should’ve clocked it sooner. Lando’s an idiot, but yeah, I get it. He’s fit.”

She swore not to tell, and she never did. Not even when Oscar, at 17, came out to her properly, his hands shaking as they sat on the fence under the apple tree. “You’re still you,” she said, bumping his shoulder. “And I’m still me. Deal?”

Flo was the first to know he was gay, the first to know he loved Lando, the first to know how much it hurt to watch Lando rocket toward fame—karting championships, then Formula 3, Formula 2, and eventually Formula 1.

Oscar, meanwhile, stayed grounded. He wasn’t built for speed like Lando or leaps like Flo, who was already competing in showjumping by 18, her name popping up in local papers.

Oscar was steady, practical. He studied hard, got into accounting at uni in London, and carved out a life of spreadsheets and predictable coffee orders. His sisters teased him for being boring, but he liked the quiet. It let him keep his feelings locked tight, where they couldn’t make a mess.

Now, at 24, Oscar’s life is split between London and Bristol. In London, he has a small flat near his accounting firm, where he crunches numbers for mid-sized businesses and keeps his desk tidy. He likes the structure—suits, early mornings, the hum of the Tube. But Bristol is home.

When he visits, he stays in his old bedroom at his parents’ house, the walls still faintly marked with pencil lines from when his mum measured his height. Hattie’s 22 now, Edie’s 20, and Mae’s 17, always stealing his hoodies. The Piastri house is quieter these days, but the Norris house next door still hums with life.

Flo, also 24, is a professional showjumper now, traveling Europe for competitions, her Instagram a mix of horses, podiums, and chaotic selfies. She lives in a rented flat near London when she’s not on the road, but like Oscar, she comes back to Bristol when she can.

They always plan their visits together, syncing schedules so they can crash at their parents’ houses, share a bottle of wine, and bicker over who gets the comfier sofa. Flo’s still Oscar’s best friend, the one who texts him at 2 a.m. with horse memes or calls to rant about a bad jump. She’s still the only one who knows about Lando, though she’s stopped asking if Oscar’s “over it.” He says he is. He’s not.

Oscar’s feelings for Lando have faded to a dull ache, buried under years of distance. Lando’s life is a blur of racetracks and headlines, and Oscar’s is tax season and grocery lists.

They’re worlds apart, but the fence still stands, the key to the Norris house still hangs on a hook in the Piastri kitchen. Some things don’t change.


****

Oscar’s Friday drive from London to Bristol was a familiar ritual, the M4 stretching out like a grey ribbon under his tyres. After five days of spreadsheets, client calls, and the hum of his accounting firm, the weekend was his exhale.

He’d worked Saturday through Wednesday this week, a brutal stretch, but it meant a long weekend in Bristol—home, where the air smelled of damp grass and the past. Flo was back too, their visits synced as always, her latest showjumping competition in Germany leaving her with a bronze medal and a need for “proper British tea.”

Oscar’s beat-up VW Golf hummed along, the radio low, his mind drifting to the quiet comfort of his parents’ house, where he’d crash in his old bedroom, Hattie probably stealing his charger and Mae begging him to watch her latest TikTok obsession.

His phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Flo. 'Get donuts and coffee, pleaaaase. Krispy Kreme. You know my order. 🐴'

Oscar rolled his eyes, muttering, “Bloody menace,” but a smile tugged at his lips. Flo’s order was muscle memory: two glazed donuts, one with sprinkles, and a caramel latte. He was already passing the Krispy Kreme near Bristol’s outskirts, so he swung into the drive-thru, ordering her stuff plus his own black coffee and a single plain donut for himself. The cashier handed him the warm box and steaming cups, and he balanced them carefully as he merged back onto the road.

By the time he pulled into the Piastri driveway, the sun was dipping low, painting the Bristol suburb in gold. The Norris house sat next door, its garden fence still as rickety as ever, the apple tree’s branches heavy with late summer fruit.

Oscar parked, grabbed the donut box and coffee tray, and crossed the lawn to the Norrises’ back door. He juggled the items in one hand, fumbling with the key that always hung in the Piastri kitchen. The lock clicked open like it had a thousand times before—he didn’t even knock anymore. This was his second home.

“Flo!” he shouted, kicking the door shut behind him, his voice echoing through the familiar hall. “Come get your bloody donuts before I eat them!” His work clothes—a navy button-up and grey trousers—were slightly rumpled from the drive, his hair a mess from running his fingers through it.

He was halfway to the kitchen, ready to plant a kiss on Cisca’s cheek like he always did, when he glanced into the living room and froze.

The entire Norris family—minus Oliver, who was at work in London—was there. Cisca Sr. was kissing Lando’s cheek, her arms wrapped around him like he was a kid again. Cisca Jr., now 18, was glued to Lando’s side, hugging him tightly. Adam sat on the armrest, grinning proudly. Flo lounged on the couch, smirking like she’d just won the lottery. And next to her was a girl Oscar didn’t know—pretty, with sleek blonde hair and a smile that felt too perfect, like it belonged on Instagram.

But it was Lando who stopped Oscar’s heart. Lando, standing in the middle of the room, all messy curls and that same disarming grin, looking at Oscar like no time had passed. Three years. Three years since Oscar had last seen him in person, since Lando’s Formula 1 career had pulled him into a world of podiums and paparazzi.

Oscar’s hands tightened around the donut box, coffee sloshing dangerously in the tray. His tie felt too tight, his hair too messy, his everything too… ordinary. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his work clothes, the faint coffee stain on his cuff, the way his glasses slid down his nose.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, then louder, “Sorry, I—didn’t mean to interrupt.” He stumbled over the words, already backing toward the kitchen, ready to dump the donuts and bolt.

“Oscar!” Lando’s voice cut through the room, warm and familiar, like a song Oscar hadn’t heard in years. “Mate, where you going? Get back here.” He crossed the room in three strides, all easy confidence, and before Oscar could protest, Lando pulled him into a hug. It was quick, casual, but Oscar’s brain short-circuited—Lando’s cologne, his warmth, the way his hand lingered on Oscar’s shoulder. Three years, and it still hit like a freight train.

Cisca Sr. laughed, swatting Oscar’s arm gently. “Silly boy, interrupting? You’re family, love.” Her smile was soft, but it did nothing to calm the storm in his chest.

Oscar made the mistake of glancing at Flo. She was still on the couch, her eyes glinting with mischief, wiggling her eyebrows like the chaos gremlin she was.

That’s when it hit him. Fucking Flo. She hadn’t told him Lando was coming home. On purpose. He shot her a look that screamed betrayal, but she just grinned wider, popping a piece of imaginary popcorn into her mouth. He was going to kill her.

****

Oscar should’ve known better than to think he could escape. He’d tried—oh, he’d tried. As soon as Lando’s hug loosened and Cisca Sr.’s warm words settled, Oscar had mumbled something about needing to unpack at his parents’ place. “Just gonna head back, long drive, you know,” he’d said, already inching toward the door, the donut box and coffee tray abandoned on the kitchen counter.

But Flo, that traitor, had pounced like a hawk. “Unpack? You’ve got one bag, Osc. Come on, stay for dinner!” When he’d countered with, “Mae’s probably waiting for me,” Flo had smirked, folding her arms. “Mae’s at a sleepover. I texted her. Sit your arse down.” Every excuse—tired, work emails, fictional plans—was shot down with the precision of a showjumper clearing fences.

Defeated, Oscar slumped into his usual seat at the Norris dinner table, the one right between Flo and Cisca Jr., where he’d eaten a thousand meals before.

The table was a chaos of familiarity—Adam carving a roast, Cisca Sr. passing around mashed potatoes, Cisca Jr. sneaking extra peas onto Flo’s plate just to annoy her. But the air felt different tonight, heavier, because of Lando. He sat across from Oscar, his grin as bright as ever, his arm slung casually around the back of the chair where the new girl sat.

Lando was back from Italy, he explained between bites, his two-week break from Formula 1 a rare chance to “breathe and see the family.” The girl next to him was introduced as Isabella, a Portuguese model with long blonde hair, blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass, and a smile that screamed photo shoot. She was pretty—stunning, really—but there was something about her that made Oscar’s stomach twist, though he couldn’t place why.

His chest tightened every time Lando leaned toward Isabella, brushing a strand of hair from her face or laughing too loudly at her murmured comments about Italian sunsets. It was like watching a movie he’d seen before, one that ended with him alone, nursing feelings he’d sworn he’d buried.

The butterflies from his teenage years were back, fluttering against his ribs, but they were tangled with something sharper—jealousy, maybe, or just the raw sting of what could’ve been. He hated how his eyes kept drifting to Lando’s hands, the way they moved so easily, so carelessly. Three years, and Lando still had the power to unravel him with a single glance.

Oscar flicked his gaze to Flo, desperate for an anchor. She widened her eyes, lips pursed like she was swallowing a scream, her silent commentary louder than words. He raised his brows in return, their telepathic shorthand kicking in: 'What’s up with you?'

Flo’s exaggerated eye-roll screamed back: 'Agh, gross.' Oscar bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking, grateful for her shared disgust at Lando’s lovey-dovey display.

Flo kicked him lightly under the table, her foot nudging his shin as if to say, 'Can you believe this guy?' It was a lifeline, her mischief pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts.

But the relief was fleeting. Every time Isabella’s hand grazed Lando’s arm, Oscar’s mind flashed to late nights in the Norris garden, Lando teaching him how to change a bike tyre, their shoulders brushing.

He’d been 16, too scared to name the warmth in his chest. Now, at 24, he was supposed to be over it—steady, practical Oscar, with his flat in London and his predictable coffee orders. Yet here he was, heart racing like a teenager, his fork trembling slightly as he pushed potatoes around his plate.

He felt exposed, like his feelings were written across his face for everyone to see. Flo’s knowing glances didn’t help—she’d clocked his crush on Lando at 16, and now her wiggling eyebrows were a reminder that she saw right through him.

Dinner dragged on, the Norrises’ warmth clashing with the strange tension Isabella brought. She complimented Cisca Sr.’s cooking, her voice smooth, but her smiles felt rehearsed, like she was performing for an audience. Lando didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in his stories of near-crashes and Italian gelato runs.

Oscar tried to focus on Adam’s jokes, on Cisca Jr.’s teasing about Flo’s pea-covered plate, but his mind kept circling back to Lando—Lando’s laugh, Lando’s ease, Lando’s hand on Isabella’s chair. It hurt in a way he hadn’t expected, a dull ache that spread with every shared glance between them.

When the plates were cleared, Oscar seized his chance. “Right, I should head back,” he said, standing so fast his chair scraped the floor. “Early start tomorrow.” The same blatant lie again, and Flo’s narrowed eyes called it out instantly.

She grabbed his wrist before he could escape. “Nuh-uh, you’re not ditching me. Come upstairs, I need to show you… horse stuff.” Her tone was too casual, her grip too firm. Oscar didn’t argue—he needed out of this room, away from Lando’s easy affection with Isabella and the memories it dragged up.

In Flo’s bedroom, the walls still plastered with horse posters and faded showjumping ribbons, Oscar shut the door and spun on her. “You,” he hissed, pointing a finger, his voice low but shaking with a mix of panic and betrayal. “You didn’t tell me he was back!” His heart was still racing, his hands tugging at his hair, the image of Lando’s grin burned into his mind.

Flo flopped onto her bed, curls bouncing, and gave him an innocent shrug that was anything but. “Oops?” she said, her grin pure chaos. Oscar paced the small space, his emotions a mess—anger at Flo, longing for Lando, dread at Isabella’s presence.

“Oops? Flo, I nearly had a heart attack out there! And who’s she?” He jerked his head toward the door, meaning Isabella. Flo’s eyes gleamed, and she motioned for him to sit. “Oh, mate, you’re in deep now. Let’s talk.”

****

Oscar leaned against the wall of Flo’s bedroom, arms crossed, his heart still racing from the chaos of dinner. The familiar clutter felt like a safe haven, but Flo’s smug grin was anything but comforting.

He’d dragged himself up with her to demand answers, and now she was sprawled on her bed, looking far too pleased with herself. “Alright, spill,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “Who’s Isabella, and why the hell didn’t you warn me Lando was back?”

Flo propped herself up on her elbows, her curls a wild halo around her face. “Isabella,” she said, dragging out the name like it was a bad taste, “is Lando’s latest disaster. Portuguese model, all cheekbones and Instagram filters. Been with him a few months, met in Monaco or some nonsense. She’s…” Flo grimaced, searching for the right word. “Awful. Pretty sure the whole family hates her. Mum’s too polite to say it, Dad just grunts, and Cisca Jr. keeps giving her side-eye. You saw it at dinner.”

Oscar frowned, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Hates her? Why?” He’d felt the unease around Isabella, the way her smiles didn’t reach her eyes, but he needed specifics. Flo wasn’t one to throw around accusations lightly—not unless she had receipts.

Flo sat up, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s a mess, Osc. Racist comments, Islamophobic tweets from a couple years back—stuff she tried to delete but, you know, the internet never forgets. And get this: she cheated on her last boyfriend. Multiple times. Even leaked his nudes when they broke up. Proper vile.”

Oscar’s jaw dropped, his brain struggling to process. “What?” He blinked, trying to reconcile the polished girl at the dinner table with Flo’s words. “That’s… disgusting. I don’t understand why Lando’s with her, then.” His voice was tight, a mix of shock and something else—anger, maybe, or that old, stubborn ache for Lando, who deserved so much better.

Flo rolled her eyes so hard Oscar thought they’d get stuck. “Because Lando’s an idiot who sees good in everyone. He’s all, ‘Oh, she was only 18 when she did that, people change.’ Like, okay, and? Doesn’t erase the red flags.” She flopped back onto her pillows, exasperated. “He’s too trusting. Always has been.”

They sat in silence, the weight of Flo’s words settling between them. Oscar stared at the ceiling, his mind replaying Lando’s easy laughter at dinner, the way he’d looked at Isabella like she hung the moon. It stung, more than he wanted to admit. He’d spent years convincing himself he was over Lando, that the butterflies of his teens were gone. But tonight had cracked that lie wide open. He sighed, rubbing his face. “He’s happy, though. Isn’t he?”

Flo snorted, but her expression softened when she looked at him. “Lando needs someone like you, Osc.” Her voice was quiet, earnest in a way that caught him off guard.

Oscar laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Yeah, okay, Flo.” He shook his head, trying to brush it off, but her words landed like a punch.

“No, seriously,” she insisted, sitting up straighter. “Lando’s an idiot, always chasing the next shiny thing, but he needs a you in his life. Someone steady, who gets him. I’m pretty sure Mum would agree.”

Oscar laughed again, louder this time, like she’d suggested he sprout wings. “Flo, he’s not even gay.” The words felt heavy, a truth he’d clung to for years to keep his hopes in check.

Flo stared at him like he’d just said the sky was green. “Dude,” she said, slow and deliberate, “he literally has a video of him grinding against a guy in a club on the internet. Be serious.” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to argue.

Oscar’s mouth opened, then closed. “That… doesn’t mean anything,” he said weakly, but his mind was racing. A video? He hadn’t seen it—hadn’t wanted to see Lando’s life splashed across social media.

“So, what, I should date your brother to give him direction in life? Isn’t that selfish, Flo?” He tried to keep his tone light, but his voice cracked, betraying the hope he didn’t want to feel.

Flo sat up fully now, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to face him. “Oscar, no, that’s not what I meant. You both need each other. I’m pretty sure, deep down, Lando likes you too.” Her eyes were fierce, like she was willing him to believe it.

Oscar stared at her, then burst out laughing, the sound bordering on manic. “Flo, you’re actually delusional, you know that, right?” He shook his head, standing to pace again, his hands tugging at his hair.

Lando, liking him? It was absurd. Impossible. But Flo’s words burrowed under his skin, stirring up feelings he’d locked away years ago. He wanted to dismiss it, to laugh it off like he always did. But a tiny, traitorous part of him wondered—what if?

****

Oscar woke on Saturday morning to the faint smell of his mum’s pancakes drifting through the Piastri house, a small comfort after the emotional whiplash of the previous night. Flo’s bombshell about Isabella had kept him up late, his mind churning with equal parts disgust and confusion.

Why was Lando with her? Flo’s insistence that Lando needed someone like Oscar, that he might like him back, was absurd, but it had planted a seed of hope Oscar couldn’t quite uproot. He’d tossed and turned, replaying Lando’s hug, his grin, that stupid club video Flo had mentioned. By morning, he was exhausted but determined to shove it all down.

At breakfast, Cisca Sr. mentioned casually that Isabella was only visiting for a day, leaving that night for Paris to “meet up with friends.”

Flo, sipping her tea, had rolled her eyes so dramatically Oscar thought she’d strain something. “Thank God,” she muttered under her breath, earning a curious glance from Adam. Oscar didn’t comment, but relief flickered in his chest. One less day of watching Lando drape his arm around her, one less day of pretending he was fine.

By Saturday evening, the Piastri house was a hub of noise and chaos, the way it always was when Flo and Cisca Jr. were over. Mae, 17 and full of energy, had dragged Cisca Jr., her best friend, into the living room for an impromptu hangout.

Oscar and Flo were already there, sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bowl of popcorn between them. Mae was scrolling through TikTok on her phone, Cisca Jr. painting her nails a violent shade of purple, and Flo was ranting about a showjumping judge who’d “robbed” her last competition. Oscar, still in his comfy joggers and an old hoodie, was half-listening, his mind drifting to Lando—where he was, what he was doing now that Isabella was leaving.

Cisca Jr. looked up from her nails, her voice cutting through Flo’s tirade. “You know, Isabella was flexing this new necklace to me yesterday. All, ‘Oh, Lando got it for me in Milan, isn’t it gorgeous?’” She mimicked Isabella’s polished tone, then scoffed. “God, Lando’s so fucking stupid.”

“Cissy!” Oscar snapped, his big-brother instincts kicking in. “Watch the language.” The room erupted in laughter—Mae cackling, Flo snorting, and Cisca Jr. grinning unapologetically. Oscar tried to keep a straight face but cracked, shaking his head. “You’re 18, not 12. Still gotta call you out.”

Mae, still giggling, leaned back on the carpet. “She’s right. Lando is such a loser for buying her stuff. But… she’s so pretty, though.” Her voice was wistful, her eyes dreamy, like she was picturing Isabella’s perfect cheekbones.

Flo and Cisca Jr. groaned in unison, their voices overlapping. “Damn Piastris and their stupid ability to see good in everyone,” Flo said, tossing a popcorn kernel at Mae. Cisca Jr. nodded, pointing her nail polish brush at Oscar. “Yeah, you lot are hopeless. Always finding the silver lining.”

Oscar felt his cheeks warm, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He caught Flo’s eye, and she gave him a pointed look, her brows raised. “You know, with how Lando is, he’d fit right in with the Piastris, no?” she said, her tone teasing but deliberate. “All heart, no brain, always seeing the good in people.”

Oscar’s smile froze, his face flushing hot. He glared at her, his eyes screaming, Shut up, Flo. No one else knew about his crush—not Mae, not Cisca Jr., not even his own sisters. Flo’s comment was too close to the truth, and the way she smirked told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

Mae and Cisca Jr. were too busy laughing to notice, but Oscar’s heart raced, the weight of Flo’s words from last night—Lando likes you too—echoing in his head. He grabbed a pillow and chucked it at her, muttering, “You’re the worst,” to cover the blush creeping up his neck.

Flo caught the pillow, her grin widening. “Love you too, Osc,” she said, and he knew she wasn’t done meddling.

****

Oscar was sprawled on Flo’s bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the soft hum of her playlist filling the room. The Sunday evening air in Bristol was cool, seeping through the cracked window of Flo’s bedroom.

Flo lounged opposite him, her back on the bed, feet propped on the headboard, lazily scrolling through her phone. The tension of Friday’s dinner and Saturday’s hangout with Mae and Cisca Jr. had settled into a quieter ache in Oscar’s chest.

Isabella was gone—off to Paris with her friends, and Oscar was trying not to think about Lando, or Flo’s ridiculous insistence that Lando might like him back. The music, some indie band Flo was obsessed with, was a decent distraction.

The door swung open without a knock, and Lando strolled in, all casual confidence in a loose hoodie and joggers, his curls messier than usual. “Oi, Flo, you hogging Oscar all to yourself?” he teased, flopping onto the bed between them, his shoulder brushing Oscar’s.

Oscar sat up instantly, his face warming, his attempt at nonchalance ruined by the way his hands fumbled to adjust his glasses. Flo rolled her eyes so hard Oscar was sure she’d sprain something, her lips twitching like she was holding back a laugh.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Flo shot back, kicking Lando’s shoulder lightly. “What, you bored now that your PR girlfriend’s off to Paris?” Her tone was sharp, but Lando just grinned, unfazed, stretching out like he owned the place.

“Nah, just missed my favorite neighbors,” Lando said, glancing at Oscar with a playful smirk that made his stomach flip. “Been ages, hasn’t it, Osc?”

Oscar cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay steady. “Yeah, mate. Three years.” He aimed for casual, but it came out too soft, too honest. Flo’s foot nudged his head under the pretense of stretching, and he shot her a warning look. She just smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

They fell into easy chatter—Lando talking about his last race in Italy, Flo roasting him for a clumsy overtake he’d posted about on Instagram, Oscar chiming in with dry sarcasm that made Lando laugh louder than necessary.

It was like being kids again, the three of them sprawled in the Norris house, except now Oscar was hyper-aware of every glance Lando threw his way, every brush of their elbows. Flo’s knowing looks weren’t helping, her eyes glinting with mischief every time Lando leaned closer to Oscar to emphasize a point.

“Hey,” Lando said suddenly, sitting up and turning to Oscar. “Fancy a FIFA sesh tonight? My room, say… nine? Been ages since I’ve kicked your arse at it.” His grin was all challenge, but there was something warm in his eyes, something that made Oscar’s heart stutter.

Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he managed, his voice betraying a hint of nerves. Lando’s grin widened, like he’d won something, and he clapped Oscar on the shoulder before rolling off the bed and heading for the door, tossing a “See you later, losers” over his shoulder.

The second the door clicked shut, Flo’s eyebrows shot up, wiggling so dramatically Oscar wanted to throttle her. “Oh, FIFA night, how romantic,” she drawled, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.

Oscar flipped her off, his face burning. “Fuck off, Flo,” he muttered, flopping back onto the bed, but his mind was already racing—Lando’s room, tonight, just the two of them.

He told himself it was nothing, just mates catching up. But Flo’s smug grin and the memory of Lando’s warm hand on his shoulder said otherwise.

****

Oscar stepped into Lando’s room at nine sharp, the familiar scent of motor oil and aftershave hitting him like a wave of nostalgia. The space hadn’t changed much—posters of racing legends on the walls, a cluttered desk with model cars, the same worn-out rug from their teenage years.

Lando was already sprawled on his bed, PlayStation controllers in hand, the FIFA menu glowing on the TV. “Ready to lose, Pastry?” Lando teased, tossing Oscar a controller with that infuriating grin that still made his stomach flip.

Oscar snorted, settling onto the beanbag by the bed. “In your dreams, Norris.” They dove into the game, picking teams—Lando with his predictable McLaren-branded squad, Oscar sticking to his old reliable Arsenal.

The trash talk flowed easily, like they were 16 and 18 again, shouting over each other as the virtual players sprinted across the screen. Oscar’s fingers moved on instinct.

By the end of the match, Oscar’s team was up 3-1, and Lando was groaning, tossing his controller onto the bed. “Mate, how are you still this good?” Lando laughed, running a hand through his curls. “I’m actually offended.”

Oscar smirked, leaning back. “Some of us don’t need practice.” But his heart wasn’t in the banter. Being here, in Lando’s room, their knees brushing as Lando leaned over to grab a water bottle, was too much. It was too close to the past, to nights spent laughing until midnight, to the crush Oscar had buried but never killed.

They took a break, the TV paused on the victory screen. Lando stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, and Oscar stayed on the beanbag, fiddling with the controller to avoid looking at him.

They talked about random stuff—Lando’s stories from the F1 paddock, Oscar’s boring accounting clients, the time Flo nearly set the kitchen on fire trying to “bake.”

It was easy, comfortable, until Oscar, feeling bold, said, “Hey, congrats on the Austrian GP win, by the way. Saw it on TV. Mental race.”

Lando’s grin softened, his eyes catching Oscar’s in a way that made his breath hitch. “Yeah,” Lando said, voice quieter now. “Got your monthly ‘congrats on the win, Lando’ text. Always do.” There was something in his tone, warm and unguarded, that made Oscar’s chest tighten. “It’s stupid, but I look forward to those.”

Oscar froze. His fingers curled around the controller tightly. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Lando’s eyes didn’t leave his. “You’ve always texted. Even when we weren’t really talking.” Oscar looked down, trying to bite back the ache blooming in his chest. “Just... habit, I guess.”

Oscar forced a smile, awkward and strained. “And also, gotta keep up the fan club, yeah?” He meant it as a joke, but it fell flat, his voice too tight. Lando’s gaze lingered, and for a moment, the room felt too small, the air too thick.

“I miss you, you know,” Lando said softly, almost hesitant, his eyes searching Oscar’s face.

Oscar’s heart stopped, then shattered. He knew what Lando meant—missed him as a friend, as the kid next door who’d always been there, not as anything more. The hope Flo had planted last night, that ridiculous idea that Lando might like him back, burned to ash in his throat.

He swallowed hard, the words he wanted to say—I’ve missed you every day for three years, I’ve loved you since I was 16—stuck behind a wall he’d built long ago. Instead, he forced out, “I miss you too, mate.” The word mate tasted like venom on his lips, bitter and wrong, a reminder of the line he’d never cross.

Lando nodded, looking away, and the moment broke. “Another round?” he asked, grabbing his controller, his voice back to its usual lightness. Oscar nodded, his smile brittle, and they dove back into FIFA, but the ache in his chest lingered, sharper than ever.

****

Oscar woke to the smell of coffee and the faint sound of Mae singing off-key in the shower, the Piastri house buzzing with its usual morning chaos. Sunlight streamed through his old bedroom window, glinting off the pencil marks on the wall from when he was a kid.

Last night’s FIFA match—and that agonizing “I miss you too, mate” moment with Lando—clung to him like damp clothes. He groaned, pulling the duvet over his head, willing himself to shove it all down. Just a friend. Just a stupid crush. He was 24, not 16. He could handle this.

Downstairs, the kitchen was a minefield. Flo was already there, perched on the counter, munching on toast and scrolling through her phone. She looked up as Oscar shuffled in, still in his rumpled hoodie, and her grin turned predatory. “So,” she drawled, “FIFA date went well?”

Oscar froze mid-step, his hand on the kettle. “It wasn’t a date,” he muttered, focusing way too hard on filling the kettle with water. “We played FIFA. I won. End of story.” His voice was flat, but his cheeks betrayed him, a faint flush creeping up.

Flo snorted, hopping off the counter to block his path to the fridge. “Oh, come on, Osc. You looked like a kicked puppy when you came back last night. Spill. What happened?” Her eyes gleamed with that chaos-gremlin energy, but there was a softness there too, like she actually cared.

He sighed, rubbing his face. “Nothing happened, Flo. We talked, played, whatever. It’s Lando. It’s always…” He trailed off, the words it still hurts stuck in his throat. Flo raised an eyebrow, relentless, and he cracked. “Fine. It sucks, okay? Being around him, it’s like—like I’m still that dumb kid with a crush, and he’s just… Lando. Happy, oblivious, with his bloody girlfriend.” The admission burned, and he looked away, grabbing a mug to avoid her gaze.

Flo’s smirk softened, and she nudged his shoulder. “Right, you’re a mess. We’re getting you out of this house before you start listening to sad songs. Errands, lunch, my treat. No arguments.” Oscar opened his mouth to protest, but her glare shut him up. “I’m saving you from yourself, Piastri.”

An hour later, they were in Flo’s beat-up Mini, weaving through Bristol’s streets toward the shops. Oscar slouched in the passenger seat, half-listening to Flo rant about a new saddle she wanted. He was grateful for the distraction, but his mind kept drifting to Lando’s soft words.

He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice the car door opening until Lando slid into the backseat, all grins and messy curls. “Heard we’re running errands. I’m in,” Lando said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Flo’s eyes flicked to Oscar, then to the rearview mirror, and Oscar could practically hear her mentally punching Lando. “Great,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm only Oscar caught. “The more, the merrier.” Oscar shot her a look—you didn’t warn me, again—but she just smirked, pulling into traffic.

At the café where they stopped for lunch, the mood was light—Flo teasing Oscar about his boring coffee order, Lando recounting a disastrous attempt to cook pasta in Italy.

But then a voice cut through the chatter: “Oscar? Flo? Oh and Lando?” A guy approached their table, tall, with dark hair and a grin Oscar recognized instantly. Jake, from their old secondary school, who Oscar had hooked up with once at a party two years ago—a drunken, one-off mistake he’d told Flo about in a moment of weakness.

“Bloody hell, it’s been ages!” Jake said, clapping Lando on the shoulder and highfiving Flo before turning to Oscar. “Didn’t expect to see you here, mate. Still breaking hearts?” He winked, and Oscar wanted to sink through the floor.

Flo’s eyes lit up, her grin pure evil as she leaned forward, feigning innocence. “Breaking hearts? Jake, what’s this about?” She propped her chin on her hand, batting her eyes like she hadn’t heard every detail of that night already. Oscar kicked her hard under the table, his glare screaming, shut up.

Jake laughed, oblivious. “Just a fun night a couple years back, yeah? Oscar’s a dark horse.” He winked again, and Oscar’s face burned, his heart pounding as he felt Lando’s eyes on him.

Lando raised an eyebrow, his grin faltering, replaced by a look of surprise and… curiosity? “Didn’t know you had it in you, Pastry,” he said, his tone light but his gaze heavy, like he was piecing something together. Oscar’s stomach twisted, caught between embarrassment and the sudden, stupid hope that Lando cared.

Flo, undeterred, kept her innocent act going. “Oscar, you never told me! Details, come on!” Another kick from Oscar, harder this time, but she just smirked, clearly enjoying Lando’s reaction.

“Drop it, Flo,” Oscar muttered, his voice tight, wishing he could teleport back to London and away from this nightmare.

****

It was Monday afternoon, and the Norris house was a rare pocket of quiet. Adam and Cisca Sr. were out, probably at work or running errands, while Cisca Jr. was off with Mae, likely causing chaos somewhere in Bristol. Lando had mentioned meeting up with old mates, leaving Oscar and Flo to their own devices.

They’d ended up in Flo’s room, as usual, sprawled on beanbags with her playlist humming softly in the background. The window was cracked open, letting in a cool breeze, and Flo was rummaging through her desk drawer with a grin that screamed trouble.

“Jackpot,” she said, pulling out a small tin. Inside was her stash of weed, carefully saved for moments like this—long weekends at home or her rare visits to Oscar’s London flat. They didn’t smoke often, but when they did, it was a ritual, a way to unwind and laugh until their sides hurt.

Flo expertly rolled a joint, her fingers quick and practiced, and lit it with a flourish. She took the first drag, moaning dramatically. “I’ve missed this.” She passed it to Oscar, her eyes already gleaming with mischief.

Oscar took the joint, the familiar burn hitting his throat as he inhaled. It had been months since they’d done this, and the warmth spreading through his chest felt like a hug he didn’t know he needed.

“God, that’s good,” he hummed, leaning back into the beanbag, his glasses fogging slightly from the smoke. The open window carried the smell away, keeping their secret safe.

The door flew open, and Lando stormed in, his face a mix of shock and irritation. “You both smoking fucking weed?!” His voice was loud enough to startle Oscar, who nearly choked, thanking every deity the joint was in Flo’s hand and not his or it’d be on the floor.

Flo rolled her eyes, unfazed. “Shut the fuck up and sit down, Lan.” She patted the beanbag next to her, and to Oscar’s surprise, Lando actually did, dropping onto it with a huff, his curls bouncing.

Flo passed him the joint. He looked every bit the disapproving older brother—and yet he still took the joint when Flo offered it, eyeing it like it might bite him before inhaling too fast and immediately coughing like he was dying.

“Oh my god,” Flo said, laughing. “You’re such a loser.”

“Shut up,” Lando wheezed, voice wrecked, eyes watering. “You guys do this?”

Flo lit another joint, smirking. “You really don't know us, Norris.” Oscar snorted, passing Lando a water glass, their fingers brushing. He ignored the spark it sent up his arm.

A beat of silence settled, the room hazy with smoke and the low strum of music. Then Flo turned to Oscar, with red eyes glinting with mischief. “So, Osc, how’s it with that dude Harry?” She dragged out the name, her grin pure evil.

Oscar’s stomach dropped. She knew his few dates with Harry—a guy he’d met in London—had been a total flop, awkward and forgettable. She was doing this on purpose, dangling his love life in front of Lando like bait.

“Flo, fuck off,” Oscar snapped, flipping her off, his face heating up. He pinched her arm for good measure, hoping to shut her up, but Flo just cackled, dodging his hand.

“Who’s Harry?” Lando asked, his voice curious, his eyes fixed on Oscar with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

“Oh, some dude Oscar was making out with in a nightclub,” Flo said, her tone gleefully exaggerated. “Supppperr fit, yummy.” She wiggled her eyebrows, and Oscar pinched her harder, his glare screaming, I will murder you.

Lando’s eyes widened, his joint paused halfway to his mouth. “You go to nightclubs?” he asked, astonishment clear in his voice, like he couldn’t picture Oscar anywhere near a dancefloor.

Oscar blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I just—” Lando shrugged, gesturing vaguely. “You don’t seem the type.”

“What the fuck is that suppose to mean?” Flo snapped, smacking Lando’s leg. “He’s not a bloody monk.”

Oscar laughed, shaky, his ears scorching. “Yeah, when Flo’s in London, we hit clubs. Dancing, drinks, the lot. It’s fun.” He loved it—losing himself in the thumping music, dancing with Flo, stolen kisses in the dark, the rare hookups with strangers who didn’t know his quiet accountant life. No one in Bristol would guess, not with his buttoned-up demeanor, but it was his escape.

“Willingly?” Lando asked, half-teasing, but his gaze was intense, searching.

Flo punched his arm. “Of course willingly, you twat.” Oscar nodded, mumbling, “Yeah,” unable to meet Lando’s eyes.

Lando was still watching him. And this time, the surprise in his expression had faded into something else—something quiet and unreadable. “You never mentioned any of that,” he said, not accusing, just… soft.

Oscar looked away, suddenly aware of how close Lando was. The room was hot with smoke and tension. “It never came up.”

Silence stretched again, this time heavier.

He risked a glance at Lando, who was staring at him, still astonished but with something else in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or something heavier that made Oscar’s heart skip.

****

The weed’s warm buzz had faded, leaving Oscar raw and restless, his head a mess of Lando’s shocked “You go to nightclubs?” and that lingering, unreadable stare.

He’d bolted from Flo’s room after the joint sesh, mumbling about needing a nap, and now he was holed up in the Norris guest room, sprawled on the creaky single bed, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of lavender and old books, a far cry from the smoky haze of Flo’s room, but it couldn’t quiet the spiral in his mind.

Lando’s voice kept looping—You never mentioned that—and the way his eyes had pinned Oscar, like he was seeing a stranger. It stung, sharp and unfamiliar, and Oscar hated how much he cared.

He rolled onto his side, clutching a pillow, and let his thoughts drift to Harry. Those few dates in London last year—awkward drinks, a sweaty club kiss, a half-hearted hookup—were supposed to be a distraction. From Lando. From the ache that never left, no matter how many spreadsheets Oscar buried himself in or how many nights he danced it out with Flo.

Harry was nice enough, fit enough, but he wasn’t… him. Nobody was. And now Lando knew, thanks to Flo’s big mouth, and the way he’d looked at Oscar—like he was surprised, intrigued, different—made Oscar feel exposed, like his carefully built walls were crumbling.

A soft knock broke his spiral. Flo poked her head in, her curls tamed in a loose bun, her eyes still a bit red from the weed but softer now, less chaotic.

“You actually napping, or just hiding?” she asked, slipping inside and shutting the door. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like she could see right through his bullshit.

Oscar sighed, sitting up, his glasses fogged from lying face-down. “Hiding,” he admitted, voice rough. He rubbed his face, trying to shake the fog of the high and the weight of his thoughts. “It’s stupid. I just… Lando looked at me like I was someone else. Like he didn’t expect that version of me. Like I wasn’t just—” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “It felt wrong.”

Flo’s smirk was gone, replaced by a rare gentleness. She sat on the bed’s edge, nudging his knee. “It’s not wrong, Osc. He’s just late to the party. You’re not the quiet kid from next door anymore. You’re… well, you. Clubs, hookups, weird music taste and all.”

She paused, searching his face. “But it still hurt, huh?”

He nodded, throat tight, unable to lie to her. “Yeah. Too much.” The high had stripped away his defenses, leaving the truth bare: he wasn’t over Lando, not even close.

Every glance, every laugh, every fucking “Pastry” nickname was a knife to the chest, and Lando’s curiosity about Harry only made it worse. What was that look? Surprise? Jealousy? Or worse .. judgment?

Flo sighed, patting his leg. “You need a break from him, mate. Just… some space to get your head straight.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were kind, like she knew how hard it was.

Oscar nodded again, the decision settling like a stone. “Yeah. I’m gonna keep my distance. Just till I’ve got this under control.” He forced a weak laugh, knowing full well he had no control at all.

Not when Lando was next door, not when his smile still lit up Oscar’s world, not when every moment felt like a step closer to breaking. He’d stay away, keep to the Piastri house, avoid those late-night talks. For now.

Spoiler: it wouldn’t work.

****

Tuesday morning draped the Piastri house in a soft grey light, the kind of Bristol gloom that made Oscar want to stay buried under his duvet forever.

He’d woken early, the ache from yesterday’s weed-fueled chaos and Flo’s relentless meddling still clinging to him like damp fog. His resolve to keep his distance from Lando felt flimsy, but he was determined to try. No more late-night FIFA sessions, no more letting Flo drag him into Norris family chaos.

Just a quiet day in his old bedroom, maybe catching up on emails or pretending to read the book he’d abandoned on his nightstand.

He shuffled to his desk, still in his grey sweats and a faded hoodie, his hair a mess from tossing and turning. The room was a time capsule—pencil marks on the wall from his mum’s height checks, a dusty lego car Lando had given him when they were kids, a stack of old accounting textbooks he’d never bothered to move.

His window was cracked open, letting in a cool breeze that carried the faint scent of the Norris garden’s apple tree. From here, he could see across the narrow strip of grass separating the houses, straight into the Norris place—Flo’s room with its horse posters, usually a stage for their late-night window chats, and Lando’s room, which was often empty, a ghost of his absence.

Except it wasn’t empty today.

Oscar froze, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth, when he caught movement in Lando’s window. Lando was there, fresh from a shower, a white towel slung low around his hips, his skin still glistening with water. The morning light hit him just right, highlighting the lean lines of his body, tanned from months under the sun in places like Monaco and Italy.

His shoulders were broader than Oscar remembered, muscles taut from the relentless physicality of Formula 1, his chest dusted with faint freckles that trailed down to a defined abdomen, the kind of effortless athleticism that made Oscar’s breath catch. Lando’s curls were damp, clinging to his forehead, and he was rubbing a hand through them, oblivious to the world.

Oscar’s face burned, his heart thudding so loud he was sure it echoed across the garden. He ducked to the side of his window, pressing himself against the wall, his mug nearly slipping from his grip. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, he chanted in his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

This was exactly why he needed distance—Lando, half-naked and unfairly gorgeous, was a walking assault on his self-control. He was supposed to be over this, over the way Lando’s presence turned him into a fumbling teenager again.

But curiosity was a traitor. His eyes cracked open, and he leaned just enough to peek around the curtain. Lando was still there, standing by his bed, one hand adjusting the towel. Then, as if the universe was testing Oscar’s resolve, Lando let the towel drop.

Oscar’s breath caught in his throat. Lando stood there, fully exposed, his cock on display. It was thick, even at rest, hanging heavy between his thighs, the skin a shade darker than the rest of his body, with a slight curve that made Oscar’s pulse race. The head was broad, flushed a soft pink, nestled against a neat patch of dark curls. Veins traced subtly along its length, giving it a weighty, almost intimidating presence.

Lando turned slightly, unaware of his audience, and the movement made his cock sway, a sight that sent a jolt of heat straight to Oscar’s core.

The length and shape seared into Oscar’s mind in a way that felt both thrilling and wrong. It was intimate, private, something Oscar had no right to see, and yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away, his pulse racing as heat pooled low in his stomach.

He slid down the wall, his back pressed against the cool plaster, his sweats suddenly too tight. His hands trembled as he set the mug on the floor, guilt clawing at him. This was wrong—Lando didn’t know he was being watched, didn’t know the effect he had.

But the image was burned into his mind, vivid and unrelenting. His hand moved almost on its own, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of his cock. He hissed softly, the contact electric.

He closed his eyes, but that only made it worse—Lando’s body, his cock, filled his mind’s eye. Oscar’s fingers wrapped around himself, his grip firm but hesitant, as if he could stop himself at any moment. He couldn’t. He stroked slowly at first, his thumb brushing over the slick tip where precum had already gathered.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his free hand gripping the edge of his shirt, pulling it up to expose his stomach. The guilt was there, sharp and gnawing, but it only fueled the heat pooling in his gut.

He imagined Lando’s hands, not his own—those calloused fingers, the ones he’d seen gripping a steering wheel or tossing a ball, now touching him. Oscar’s strokes grew faster, more desperate, his hips bucking slightly into his hand.

He bit his lip to stifle a moan, the sound catching in his throat as he pictured Lando’s cock again, imagining it hardening, growing even thicker under his gaze. His palm slid over his length, slick with precum, the friction sending sparks through his body. His other hand drifted lower, cupping his balls, rolling them gently as his strokes became erratic.

The wall was cold against his back, grounding him even as his mind spiraled. He was so hard it hurt, his cock pulsing in his grip, the head flushed a deep red. He tightened his fist, mimicking the pressure he imagined Lando’s body could offer. His breath hitched, a low whimper escaping as he neared the edge.

The guilt surged again, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming need, the image of Lando’s naked form pushing him closer and closer.

With a choked gasp, Oscar came, his release spilling over his hand, warm and sticky, coating his fingers and dripping onto his sweats. His body shuddered, his head tipping back against the wall as waves of pleasure crashed through him.

He sat there, panting, his hand still wrapped around himself, the aftershocks making his thighs tremble. The guilt hit harder than the pleasure, a cold wave that left him slumped, his hand sticky, his chest heaving.

He pressed his forehead to his knees, muttering, “Fuck,” under his breath, hating himself for it. Lando was just next door, living his life, while Oscar was here, falling apart over a glimpse he had no right to.

He cleaned himself up in a daze, splashing water on his face in the bathroom, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. Back in his room, he kept the curtains half-drawn, refusing to look at the Norris house again.

His phone buzzed on the desk—Flo, probably, with some chaotic plan to drag him out. He ignored it, sinking onto his bed, the weight of his decision to keep distance feeling heavier than ever.

But the fence was still there, the key to the Norris house still hung in the Piastri kitchen, and Lando’s window was just across the garden.

Distance, Oscar knew, was a lie he couldn’t keep.

****

Wednesday afternoon brought a rare burst of Bristol sunshine, the kind that made the grass glisten and the air hum with the promise of summer.

The Piastri and Norris families had seized the moment, throwing together a last-minute BBQ in the shared garden, a chaotic farewell before Oscar, Flo, and Lando scattered on Thursday—Oscar back to his London flat, Flo to her next showjumping gig in France, and Lando to Silverstone for the British Grand Prix.

The rickety fence between the houses stood as a silent witness, draped with fairy lights Cisca Jr. had insisted on stringing up, while the apple tree loomed heavy with fruit, its branches swaying in the warm breeze.

The garden was a riot of noise and motion. Adam and his dad manned the grill, flipping burgers with a theatrical flourish, their aprons stained with ketchup and pride.

Cisca Sr. darted between tables, piling plates with potato salad and his mom's famous coleslaw, her laughter mingling with Nicole’s as they swapped stories about their kids’ childhood misadventures.

Mae and Cisca Jr., inseparable as ever, were blasting a pop playlist through a portable speaker, dancing with exaggerated twirls that sent Hattie and Edie into fits of giggles. Flo, in a sundress and her trademark chaotic energy, was roping Oliver—home from London for the day—into a makeshift game of frisbee, which mostly involved her throwing it into the neighbor’s hedge and cackling.

Oscar, perched on a folding chair near the edge of the chaos, nursed a lemonade and tried to blend into the background. His grey hoodie and jeans felt too warm under the sun, but he hadn’t bothered changing, too preoccupied with avoiding Lando.

The memory of Tuesday morning—Lando’s tanned, dripping-wet body in his window, the guilty heat of Oscar’s hand in his sweats—burned in his mind, leaving him raw and jittery. Every laugh, every glance from Lando across the garden felt like a spotlight on his shame.

He’d spent the last day dodging him, sticking to the Piastri house, mumbling excuses about work emails. Flo had noticed, of course, her knowing smirks and pointed nudges making it clear she wasn’t buying his “I’m fine” act.

Lando, infuriatingly, was everywhere—helping their dads at the grill, tossing a football with Mae, teasing Flo about her frisbee skills. He was all easy smiles and sun-kissed curls, his white t-shirt clinging to his shoulders in a way that made Oscar’s throat dry.

Every time Lando’s eyes flicked his way, Oscar busied himself with his phone or a random conversation, anything to avoid that searching gaze. He felt like a teenager again, caught staring at the boy next door, except now the stakes were higher, the ache sharper.

The BBQ rolled on, chaotic and warm. Mae and Cisca Jr. roped Oscar into a round of charades, and he played along half-heartedly, earning laughs for his terrible impression of a giraffe. Flo, predictably, turned it into a competition, shouting answers and accusing Oliver of cheating.

Oscar caught Lando watching him during the game, his grin soft and unguarded, and Oscar’s heart stuttered. He excused himself to grab another lemonade, his face hot, his resolve to keep distance crumbling under the weight of Lando’s presence.

As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in pinks and oranges, the crowd thinned. Oliver headed back to London, Hattie and Edie retreated to scroll TikTok, and their parents started cleaning up, bickering fondly over who’d burned the sausages. Mae and Cisca Jr. were sprawled on a blanket, giggling over some inside joke, while Flo had disappeared—probably to call her coach or sneak a cigarette.

Oscar, seeking escape, slipped away to the apple tree, its gnarled branches offering a quiet corner. He sank onto the grass, his back against the trunk, the cool ground soothing his nerves. The fairy lights twinkled above, and the distant hum of the party felt like a world away.

He was tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick, trying to shake the image of Lando’s window from his mind, when footsteps crunched behind him. “Hiding again, Pastry?” Lando’s voice was warm, teasing, and Oscar’s stomach flipped.

He looked up, and there was Lando, holding two beers, his silhouette haloed by the fading light. He wore that same white t-shirt, now slightly rumpled, and his grin was softer than usual, almost hesitant. “Mind if I join you?”

Oscar swallowed, his throat tight. “Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, scooting over to make room, though the tree was plenty wide. Lando dropped onto the grass beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed, and handed Oscar a beer. The cold glass was a lifeline, something to focus on besides the heat of Lando’s arm against his.

They sat in silence for a moment, the clink of their bottles the only sound. It wasn’t suffocating, though—surprisingly, it felt easy, like the old days when they’d sneak apples from this very tree. Oscar’s guilt still gnawed at him, but Lando’s presence was a strange comfort, like a song he’d forgotten the words to but still knew the melody.

“Been a mad weekend, huh?” Lando said, his voice low, his eyes on the fairy lights. “Feels like we’re kids again, running around this garden. And your mum making that weird coleslaw with raisins.”

“She still does that,” Oscar muttered, a small smile tugging at his lips.“Tried to sneak some onto my plate earlier.”

Lando laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and Oscar’s chest ached with how much he’d missed it. “She’ll never stop. It’s tradition.” He nudged Oscar’s arm with his. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Oscar froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. “I—uh, just been busy,” he lied, his voice too tight. Lando raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push, just took a swig of his beer, his throat bobbing in a way that made Oscar look away fast.

“Listen,” Lando said after a beat, his tone shifting, more serious. “I’m heading to Silverstone tomorrow for the Grand Prix. Whole family’s coming—Mum, Dad, Cisca, even Mae’s tagging along. You should come, Osc. Been ages since you saw me race in person.”

Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “I, uh, don’t know. Work’s pretty hectic,” he said, the excuse weak even to his own ears. He hadn’t been to a race since Lando’s karting days, back when Oscar was still nursing his teenage crush from the sidelines.

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft. “So lie. Or reschedule. Or pull a sickie. I’m not asking you to move mountains. I’m asking you to watch me do the one thing I’m actually decent at.”

Lando sighed, his eyes bright, insistent. “Come on, mate. It’s Silverstone. Home race. I’m getting you a paddock pass, so don’t let it go to waste.” He nudged Oscar’s shoulder again, harder this time, his grin all challenge and warmth. “You can’t say no to that.”

Oscar’s chest twisted.

He wanted to say no, to stick to his plan of distance, to protect himself from the inevitable ache of watching Lando shine in a world Oscar could never touch. But Lando’s grin, the way his eyes crinkled, was too much.

“I’ll… check my schedule,” Oscar said finally, his voice soft, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself.

Lando’s grin widened, like he’d won a race already. “That’s more like it, Pastry.”

They drank in silence, the night settling around them, the apple tree’s branches rustling softly. Oscar’s guilt lingered, but for the first time in days, it didn’t choke him.

Lando’s shoulder against his, the cold beer in his hand, the familiar garden stretching between their houses—it felt like enough, for now.

****

Oscar was back in his London flat, the familiar hum of the city filtering through his half-open window—car horns, distant chatter, the occasional siren cutting through the evening. It was Thursday night, and the stark contrast of his quiet, orderly flat to the chaotic warmth of the Bristol BBQ felt like whiplash.

His desk was tidy, spreadsheets closed for the day, a single coffee mug (flat white, no sugar) sitting in the sink. But his mind was elsewhere, stuck in the Piastri-Norris garden, replaying Lando’s grin under the apple tree, the nudge of his shoulder, the Silverstone invite that felt like both a promise and a trap.

He sprawled on his couch, phone pressed to his ear, Flo’s voice crackling through with her usual mix of chaos and affection. She was in France, holed up in a hotel room before her next showjumping competition, and their call had already veered from her ranting about a “dodgy” French bakery to Oscar.

“Mate, that croissant was a crime,” Flo was saying, her voice muffled like she was eating something. “It was, like, soggy. Who fucks up a croissant in France? I should’ve thrown it at the waiter.”

Oscar snorted, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “You didn’t even tip, did you?”

“Tip? For that? I nearly asked for a refund on principle,” she shot back, and he could hear her grin. “Anyway, shut up, you’re one to talk. Remember when you tried to make toast at my flat and set off the fire alarm? You’re banned from my kitchen forever.”

“That was one time, Flo,” Oscar groaned, rubbing his face, a smile tugging at his lips. “And your toaster was ancient. It was practically a fire hazard before I touched it.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that, Gordon Ramsay,” she cackled. “Next time I'm in London, I’m hiding my appliances. You’ll be eating cereal for every meal.”

Oscar laughed, the sound easing the knot in his chest. Flo’s chaos was a lifeline, pulling him out of the Bristol-shaped hole in his head. But, as always, she had a knack for zeroing in on what he was avoiding.

“So,” she said, her tone shifting to that dangerous, meddling edge, “are you going to Silverstone?”

Oscar’s laugh died, his fingers tightening around the phone. He stared at the ceiling, the memory of Lando’s “Don’t let it go to waste” echoing too loudly. “I’m not sure,” he said, his voice hesitant, almost a mumble. He wasn’t ready to admit how much he wanted to go—or how much he feared it.

Silverstone was Lando’s world, all speed and spotlight, and Oscar would just be the accountant mate from next door, nursing a crush he couldn’t shake.

Flo scoffed, loud and dramatic, like he’d personally offended her. “Come on, man, you know Lan never invites people unless it’s really important to him. He’s not out here begging just anyone to show up at his races.”

Oscar paused, his heart doing that stupid flip it always did when Flo dangled hope in front of him.

Silverstone was huge for Lando—his home race, a chance to shine in front of his family, his fans, maybe even Oscar. If Lando won, if he stood on that podium, grinning that grin, and Oscar was there… maybe, just maybe, it’d mean something. He could picture it: Lando’s eyes finding him in the crowd, that shared moment of triumph. The thought was dangerous, a spark he couldn’t afford to let catch.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally, a soft smile creeping onto his face despite himself.

Flo screeched, so loud Oscar yanked the phone away from his ear. “NO, you are GOING! Or else I’m coming from France to drag your arse there myself, Piastri. Don’t test me—I’ll book a flight and shove you in the trunk.”

Oscar burst out laughing, the image of Flo, all five-foot-four of her, trying to wrestle him into a car too absurd to handle. “You’re unhinged, you know that? You’d probably get arrested before you even got to London.”

“Worth it,” she shot back, and he could hear her smirking. “I’d bribe the French police with my soggy croissants. They’d let me go just to get rid of me.”

“You’re a menace,” Oscar said, still chuckling, his shoulders loosening for the first time all day. “How do you even function in society?”

“Barely,” she admitted, her voice bright. “Speaking of menace, remember that time we tried to sneak into that Bristol pub when we were 16? You got so paranoid about getting carded you forgot how to speak English.”

Oscar groaned, his face heating at the memory. “Don’t remind me. I literally said ‘Beer, please, uh, sir’ to the bartender like I was in a period drama. You’re the one who dragged me there!”

“And you loved it,” she teased. “You were all blushy when that cute bar guy winked at you. Bet you’re still dreaming about him.”

“Fuck off,” Oscar laughed, but his mind traitorously flicked to Lando—his wink at the BBQ, his nudge under the apple tree. He shook it off, desperate to keep the conversation light. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you try to flirt with that same bartender by asking if he ‘knew any horse facts’?”

Flo howled, the sound so loud it crackled through the phone. “Oh my god, I forgot about that! He looked at me like I’d asked him to solve world hunger. Poor guy probably still has nightmares about horse girls.”

Oscar was laughing so hard his sides hurt, the tension from Bristol melting away, if only for a moment, but he knew she’d circle back to Silverstone eventually. She always did when it came to Lando.

Sure enough, her tone softened, less chaotic now. “Seriously, Osc. Go to Silverstone. Lan wants you there. You know he does. And if he wins? You’ll kick yourself for missing it.”

Oscar’s smile faded, his fingers drumming on the couch. “Yeah,” he said quietly, the weight of her words settling in. “I’ll think about it. Promise.”

“Good,” Flo said, satisfied. “Now, tell me—any hot accountants at your firm I should know about? I need a backup plan if Merlin ditches me for good.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, grinning despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” she shot back, and he couldn’t argue with that.

****

Friday morning in London was grey and restless, much like Oscar’s mood. His flat felt too small, the walls closing in as he sat at his desk, laptop open to a half-finished spreadsheet he couldn’t focus on.

The Silverstone invite loomed like a storm cloud and Flo’s screeching threat to drag him there herself. Oscar’s cursor blinked mockingly on the screen, his work schedule a blur of meetings and deadlines he could probably shuffle, if he was honest. But honesty meant admitting he wanted to go, wanted to see Lando race, wanted to be part of his world, even if it terrified him.

He pulled up his calendar, scanning for excuses. A client call on Monday, a report due Tuesday—nothing immovable. His fingers hovered over his phone, tempted to text Mae for details. She’d be there with the Norrises, all of them cheering Lando on, and the thought of joining them sent a mix of warmth and dread through him.

What if Isabella was there, all perfect cheekbones and sharp smiles, hanging off Lando’s arm? What if Oscar was just the childhood friend, out of place in the sleek chaos of Formula 1?

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of his spiral. A text from Lando, as if summoned by his thoughts: You better be coming, Pastry. Don’t make me look like a muppet. A winking emoji followed, and Oscar’s heart did that stupid flip, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile. Lando’s cheeky tone was so him, so effortlessly disarming, and it made Oscar’s resolve wobble.

He typed a quick reply to Mae instead, keeping it casual: Hey, you going to Silverstone? What’s the plan? Her response was instant, a flurry of exclamation points: Yesss! Me and the whole Norris crew. You HAVE to come, Osc! Lando’s been banging on about it. Oscar stared at the text, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. No escape now—Mae’s enthusiasm was as relentless as Flo’s.

Another buzz, this time a call from Flo, her name flashing like a warning. He sighed, answering with a mock-weary, “What now?”

“Don’t you sound so thrilled,” Flo teased, her voice crackling from her French hotel room. “Just checking you’re not chickening out on Silverstone. No boring-arse accountant suits in the paddock, Osc. I’m serious. Wear something cool, please.”

Oscar snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Cool? What does that even mean, Flo? I’m not you, I don’t own glittery boots or whatever you’re wearing these days.”

“Glittery boots are iconic, you bitch,” she shot back, and he could hear her grinning. “I’m just saying, don’t show up looking like you’re auditing McLaren’s taxes. Lando’s gonna be in his fancy race suit, all sweaty and heroic. Step it up.”

Oscar’s face heated at the image of Lando in his race suit, helmet under one arm, curls damp with sweat. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Flo’s cackle was loud enough to make him wince.

“Touchy, touchy,” she singsonged. “You’re going, right? No backing out? ‘Cause I swear, I’ll ditch my horses and storm to London. Picture me, in glittery boots, dragging you to Silverstone like a sad puppy.”

Oscar laughed despite himself, the tension in his chest loosening. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Just… don’t expect me to wear a vibe, whatever that is.” He paused, his voice softening. “Thanks, Flo.”

“Anytime, mate,” she said, her tone gentler now. “You’ll be fine. Lando’s gonna lose his mind when he sees you there. Trust me.” She hung up before he could argue, leaving him staring at his phone, her words stirring that dangerous spark of hope again.


---

Sunday morning at Silverstone was a sensory overload. The paddock thrummed with energy—engines revving in the distance, mechanics shouting, fans clamoring for a glimpse of their heroes. Oscar felt out of place in his jeans and a black polo (Flo-approved, after a heated text exchange about “not looking like a tax consultant”).

The Norris family was a whirlwind around him—Cisca Sr. fussing over everyone’s passes, Adam cracking dad jokes, Mae and Cisca Jr. snapping selfies with the McLaren garage in the background. Oscar trailed behind, clutching his paddock pass like a lifeline, his stomach a knot of nerves and anticipation.

He hadn’t seen Lando yet, but the thought of him—suited up, focused, in his element—made Oscar’s palms sweat. He’d spent the drive up from London to Silverstone with his mind occasionally drifting to Tuesday’s guilt-soaked moment by his window, to Lando’s cheeky text, to Flo’s insistence that Lando wanted him here.

What if he was just another face in the crowd to Lando?

A shout broke his thoughts. “Oscar!” Lando’s voice cut through the paddock noise, and before Oscar could brace himself, Lando was there, striding toward him in his orange McLaren race suit, helmet in his hand, curls already a mess.

His grin was blinding, and he pulled Oscar into a tight hug, his arms strong and warm, the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint tang of motor oil. Oscar’s breath caught, his body stiffening before melting into the embrace, his hands awkwardly patting Lando’s back.

“Mate, you made it!” Lando pulled back, his hands lingering on Oscar’s shoulders, his eyes bright with something that looked like genuine joy. “Knew you wouldn’t let that pass go to waste.” His grin was infectious, and Oscar couldn’t help but smile back, even as his heart raced.

“Yeah, well, Flo threatened to kidnap me,” Oscar said, aiming for casual but sounding too soft. Lando laughed, loud and carefree, and Oscar’s chest ached with how much he’d missed that sound.

They were interrupted by a flash of blonde hair and a polished smile—Isabella, appearing like a storm cloud in a white sundress, her arm looping through Lando’s with easy familiarity. “Lando, you didn’t tell me your neighbor was coming,” she said, her voice smooth but her eyes sharp, sizing Oscar up. Oscar’s stomach twisted, the warmth of Lando’s hug replaced by a cold pang of jealousy.

“Didn’t know he’d make it,” Lando said, his grin faltering just a fraction as he glanced at Oscar. “Osc’s family, though. Had to get him here.” The word family stung, a reminder of the box Oscar was still in—childhood friend, nothing more.

Isabella’s smile didn’t waver, but it felt rehearsed, like she was posing for a camera that wasn’t there. “How sweet,” she said, her hand tightening on Lando’s arm. “You must be so proud, watching him race.”

Oscar nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. Always.” He meant it, but the words felt heavy, laced with everything he couldn’t say.

Lando’s eyes flicked to him, searching, but before he could say anything, a mechanic called him over, and he was gone, Isabella trailing behind like she belonged there.

Oscar stood rooted, watching Lando disappear into the McLaren garage, his race suit hugging every line of his body. He was in his element, all confidence and purpose, a world away from the kid who’d tossed apples over the fence.

Oscar felt a rush of awe—Lando was a star here, untouchable, and yet he’d hugged Oscar like he mattered. But the insecurity crept in, too, gnawing at him. He was just the accountant from next door, out of place in this glittering chaos, watching Lando shine while Isabella clung to his side.

Mae bounced over, snapping him out of it. “Osc, come on, let’s get closer to the garage! You gotta see the cars up close!” Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Oscar let her drag him along, but his eyes kept drifting to Lando, now deep in conversation with his team, his world so far from Oscar’s.

****

The Silverstone grandstands roared, a tidal wave of sound crashing through the McLaren garage where Oscar stood, wedged between Mae and Cisca Sr., the Norris family buzzing with nervous energy.

The air was thick with the smell of rubber and fuel, the hum of engines vibrating in Oscar’s chest as he watched the race unfold on the massive screens. His palms were sweaty, his paddock pass dangling around his neck, and his eyes kept flicking to Lando’s orange car slicing through the track, battling for the lead.

Mae gripped his arm, her nails digging in every time Lando pulled a daring overtake, while Adam muttered stats under his breath, and Cisca Jr. filmed the screens for her Instagram story.

Oscar’s heart was a mess—pride, awe, and that familiar ache twisting together. Lando was in his element, fearless and precise, every corner a testament to why he belonged here.

Oscar felt small in comparison, just the neighbor kid in jeans and a polo, out of place in this world of speed and glory. Isabella was there too, poised at the edge of the garage, her blonde hair catching the light, her presence a sharp reminder of the gap between Oscar’s hopes and reality.

The final lap was a blur. Lando held the lead, fending off Max Verstappen and George Russell with a grit that had the garage erupting in cheers. When he crossed the finish line, the screens flashing Lando Norris – P1, the roar was deafening.

Mae screamed, jumping into Cisca Jr.’s arms, while Cisca Sr. clutched Adam’s hand, tears in her eyes. Oscar’s chest swelled with pride, his lips curving into a grin despite the knot in his throat.

Lando had done it—his first British Grand Prix win, his home race, a dream etched into every kid who’d ever karted around Bristol.

The pit lane was chaos as Lando pulled in, his car swarmed by the McLaren team. Oscar followed the Norrises and Mae to the barriers, his heart pounding as Lando climbed out, ripping off his helmet to reveal sweat-soaked curls and a grin that could light up the track.

The crowd chanted his name, and other drivers—Max and George among them—patted his back, their smiles genuine despite their own battles. Lando was a whirlwind, hugging his engineers, fist-bumping his mechanics, his joy infectious.

Then he reached his family. Cisca Sr. pulled him into a fierce hug, kissing his cheek as tears streamed down her face. “My boy,” she kept saying, her voice breaking. Adam was next, wrapping Lando in a bear hug, his pride silent but fierce. Mae and Cisca Jr. piled on, squealing, and Lando laughed, his eyes glassy with emotion.

Isabella was waiting, her arms open, and Lando stepped into her embrace, her lips brushing his cheek as she murmured something Oscar couldn’t hear. Over her shoulder, Lando’s eyes found his.

Oscar’s heart cracked, a familiar ache blooming as he watched Isabella cling to Lando, her hands possessive on his race suit. But he forced a smile, raising a thumbs-up, his pride for Lando outweighing the sting. Lando’s face softened, his grin turning gentle, almost private, and he nodded back, a silent thank you that made Oscar’s chest tighten.

For a moment, it was just them, the noise fading, the pit lane blurring. Then a mechanic clapped Lando’s shoulder, pulling him toward the cooldown room, and the moment broke.

Oscar stayed with the Norrises, watching the podium ceremony on a nearby screen. Lando stood on the top step, Max and George flanking him, the British anthem echoing through Silverstone. He looked ethereal, drenched in sweat, his curls catching the sunlight as he lifted the trophy.

His eyes scanned the crowd, locking onto Oscar’s, and a grin spread across his face—bright, unguarded, like they were kids stealing apples again. Oscar smiled back, his heart full and breaking all at once, clapping until his hands stung as Lando and the others sprayed champagne, the crowd roaring.

The celebrations spilled into the paddock, a blur of interviews, photos, and McLaren’s orange army chanting Lando’s name.

Oscar lingered, watching from a distance as Lando was mobbed by media, Isabella never far, her arm looped through his, her lips brushing his in a quick, public kiss that made Oscar’s stomach lurch.

He felt drained, the high of Lando’s win clashing with the weight of seeing him with her, so effortlessly part of his world. Oscar was just a spectator, the kid from next door who’d never belong here.

He found Cisca Sr. near the garage, her eyes still bright with tears. “I’m gonna head out,” he said, his voice rough, forcing a smile. “Work tomorrow, you know. London calls.”

She frowned, reaching for his arm. “Already, love? Stay a bit longer—Lando’ll want to see you.” Her warmth was a knife, twisting the guilt of leaving without a proper goodbye.

Oscar kissed her cheek, his smile brittle. “I’ll text him. Promise.” He hugged Mae and Cisca Jr., dodging their protests, and slipped away, weaving through the paddock’s chaos to the parking lot.

In his car, the air felt too thick, his chest tight like he couldn’t breathe. He gripped the steering wheel, staring at the dashboard, the image of Lando’s grin—first on the podium, then with Isabella—burning behind his eyes. He wanted to be happy for him, and he was, but the ache was louder, a reminder of everything he’d never have.

His phone felt heavy in his pocket, but he pulled it out, typing his ritual text with shaking fingers: 'Congrats on the win, Lando. Absolute legend today.' He hit send before he could overthink it, then started the engine, the hum of the car drowning out the distant roar of Silverstone.

As he drove toward London, the road stretching dark and empty, he felt the weight of leaving without saying goodbye to Lando, the one person he’d come for.

****

Oscar woke to the muted grey of his London flat, the morning light filtering through blinds he hadn’t bothered to adjust. His bed was a tangle of sheets, his suitcase still half-unpacked by the door, clothes spilling out like a confession he couldn’t make

A half-eaten carton of Chinese takeaway sat on the counter, cold and forgotten, the chopsticks stuck to the side like an accusation of neglect. The silence of the flat was oppressive, a stark contrast to the roar of Silverstone yesterday—the engines, the crowd, Lando’s grin as he climbed out of his car, champion of his home race.

He rolled over, grabbing his phone from the nightstand, his thumb hovering over the screen. He knew what he’d find on social media: Lando’s victory splashed across every F1 account, podium shots with Max and George, Isabella’s perfect smile clinging to his arm, maybe a clip of their kiss that had gutted him in the paddock.

He couldn’t face it. Not yet. Instead, he opened his work email, hoping the monotony of spreadsheets would anchor him. It didn’t.

At the office, his boss—a well-meaning but nosy woman named Karen—raised an eyebrow as he fumbled through a client call, his responses sluggish. “You seem off, Oscar,” she said, her tone half-concerned, half-annoyed. “Everything alright?”

“Didn’t sleep well,” he mumbled, the lie slipping out easily. She nodded, unconvinced, but let it go.

Oscar stared at his monitor, numbers blurring as his mind drifted back to Silverstone—the barrier moment, Lando’s eyes locking onto his over Isabella’s shoulder, that soft smile that felt like it was just for him. It played on a loop, each replay twisting the knife deeper.

By late evening, back in his flat, Oscar was sprawled on the couch, a lukewarm coffee in hand, when his phone buzzed. His heart lurched when he saw Lando’s name: 'Wish you’d stayed. Was looking for you.'

The words were simple, but they hit like a freight train, stirring the ache he’d been trying to bury all day. He stared at the message, his thumb tracing the edge of the screen, unsure how to respond.

He opened their chat, re-reading his own text from the drive home before typing: 'Sorry mate, had work in the morning'. It was short and safe.

But Lando’s follow up message came quickly, almost too quickly: 'You were there. That’s what mattered'. Oscar’s breath caught, his chest tightening with something he didn’t dare name. Hope? Longing? It was too much, too heavy, and he locked his phone, tossing it onto the couch like it burned.

He kept seeing Lando on the podium—ethereal, drenched in champagne, his grin bright enough to rival the sun. And that moment at the barrier, when their eyes met, when Oscar’s thumbs-up had been both a shield and a surrender.

He typed a response, deleted it, typed another. Glad I was there. You were unreal. Too much. Thanks, mate. Too cold. Finally, he settled on: 'You looked happy yesterday. You deserved it'. He hit send before he could overthink it, then slumped back, staring at the ceiling, the ache in his chest as raw as ever.

---

Two days later, Oscar’s flat was still a mess, his suitcase now a tripping hazard by the door. He was halfway through a lackluster attempt at folding laundry when the buzzer rang, sharp and insistent.

He opened the door to find Flo, her curls wild, a bag of Thai food swinging from one hand and a bottle of cheap wine in the other.

“Surprise, you miserable bastard,” she announced, shoving past him without waiting for an invitation. “I’m in London for one night before Spain eats me alive, and you’re not allowed to mope.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile. “I’m not moping,” he lied, shutting the door as Flo dumped the food on his counter, already rummaging for plates like she owned the place.

“Please,” she scoffed, tossing him a container of pad thai. “You’ve got heartbreak written all over your face. I bet you’ve been staring at Lando’s text for hours.” She pointed a plastic fork at him, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Oscar went quiet, his face heating as he focused way too hard on opening the takeout. Flo’s ability to see through him was uncanny, and he hated how exposed it made him feel. He sank onto the couch, shoving a bite of noodles in his mouth to avoid answering.

Flo plopped down beside him, kicking off her boots and tucking her legs under her. “Alright, spill,” she said, her tone softer but still relentless. “You went to Silverstone, saw Lan win, and now you’re acting like someone ran over your dog. What happened?”

Oscar shrugged, his eyes fixed on the food. “Nothing happened. He won. It was… amazing. He was amazing.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him, and Flo’s smirk vanished.

“You’re heartbroken,” she said, not a question this time. Her voice was gentle, but it cut through the fog of his denial like a blade.

He didn’t confirm or deny it, just stared at his plate, the noodles blurring as his throat tightened. Flo sighed, setting her food down and scooting closer, her shoulder bumping his. “Osc, you’ve got to stop being such a coward about this. At least admit it to yourself. You’re in love with him. Always have been.”

Oscar laughed, sharp and hollow, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter, Flo. He’s got Isabella. He’s… Lando. He’s a bloody F1 driver, and I’m just—” He gestured vaguely at his flat, the laundry, the half-eaten takeaway. “This.”

Flo groaned, grabbing his face with both hands like he was a stubborn horse refusing a jump. “You’re not just anything, you idiot. You’re Oscar fucking Piastri, and Lando’s been texting you about missing you at his big moment. That’s not nothing.” She let go, her eyes fierce. “Talk to him. Tell him how you feel. Or at least stop pretending you’re over it, ‘cause you’re fooling exactly no one.”

Oscar’s laugh was softer this time, more genuine, though his chest still ached. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Lando, great win, by the way, I’ve been in love with you since we were kids’?” He shook his head, the idea absurd. “He’d run for the hills.”

Flo smirked, stealing a spring roll from his plate. “Maybe. Or maybe he’d surprise you. He’s an idiot, but he’s your idiot.” She paused, her tone turning serious again. “Just think about it, yeah? You can’t keep running from this. You’re gonna explode.”

Oscar didn’t say no, didn’t argue, just nodded faintly, his eyes drifting to his phone on the coffee table. Lando’s text was still open, glowing like a beacon he couldn’t ignore.

****

Time had a way of slipping through Oscar’s fingers, the days blurring into a haze of spreadsheets, client calls, and the quiet monotony of his London flat.

It was early August now, the city humid and restless, and Oscar was still nursing the ache from Silverstone. The memory of Lando’s podium grin, his soft text, lingered like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.

He’d thrown himself into work, hoping it would drown out the noise in his head, but his focus was still shot, his thoughts drifting to Lando’s eyes locking onto his over Isabella’s shoulder.

His phone buzzed on his desk, pulling him from another half-hearted attempt at a financial report. A meme from Lando—a blurry photo of a cat in a race helmet with the caption: 'When you win Silverstone but still can’t parallel park.'

Oscar snorted, his lips twitching despite himself. Lando’s texts had become a lifeline these past weeks, random and silly, each one a jolt to his heart. A video of Lando trying to cook pasta and burning it, captioned 'Help, I’m a danger to society.' A screenshot of a ridiculous F1 headline—Norris to Swap Helmet for Chef’s Hat?—with Lando’s: 'Mate, they’re onto me.'

Oscar replied every time, keeping it light: 'Stick to driving, chef' or 'That cat’s got better skills than you.' But each message was a tether, pulling him back to Lando, making Flo’s advice impossible to follow. Getting over Lando felt like betraying something sacred.

He was mid-reply, typing a quip about the cat’s podium chances, when an email from his boss pinged. A conference in Monaco, plus client meetings, starting Monday and running through Friday.

A week in Lando’s backyard, of all places. Oscar’s stomach flipped, equal parts dread and thrill. He wouldn’t tell Lando—couldn’t. The idea of seeing him, of being in his world again, was too much after Silverstone’s emotional gut-punch. He’d keep it professional, stick to the conference, avoid the glitz of Monte Carlo’s F1 haunts.

Big mistake, telling Flo. They were on a video call that night, Oscar sprawled on his couch, Flo in a French hotel room, her hair damp from a post-competition shower.

She was ranting about her horse Merlin’s latest tantrum—“He kicked over a water bucket, Osc, I swear he’s plotting my downfall”—when Oscar mentioned the Monaco trip, casual as he could manage. “Just work, you know. Conferences, meetings, boring stuff.”

Flo’s eyes lit up, her grin pure mischief. “Monaco? You’re shitting me. Lando’s literally there. You’re telling him, right? You’re not gonna sneak around like a bloody spy.”

Oscar groaned, rubbing his face. “It’s work, Flo. I’m not telling him. I’ll be in and out, no drama.”

She cackled, pointing at the screen. “Oh, you’re so fucked. I’m in Monaco next week too—some sponsor thing. I’m telling Lan you’re coming. He’ll lose his mind if you don’t.”

“Flo, no,” Oscar snapped, his heart racing. “Don’t you dare. I’m serious.”

“Too late,” she singsonged, already typing on her phone. “You can’t hide from this, mate. Time to face the music.” She winked, and Oscar knew he was screwed.

---

Sure enough, his phone buzzed the next morning, Lando’s name flashing like a warning. 'You’re coming to Monaco and didn’t tell me? What’s that about, Pastry?'

The text had a playful edge, but there was a hint of something else—hurt, maybe, or frustration. Oscar’s stomach knotted, guilt mixing with the usual flutter of seeing Lando’s name.

He typed back, keeping it light: 'Just work stuff, mate. Conferences, boring as hell. Didn’t want to bother you.' A lie, and a weak one. He stared at his phone, waiting, his coffee going cold on the counter.

Lando’s reply came fast: 'Bother me? Nah, you’re staying with me after your work thing’s done. Picking you up from your hotel Friday. No arguments.'

A second text followed, a meme of a cartoon dog driving a car, captioned: 'Me coming to kidnap you.' Oscar laughed, his chest tight, the idea of staying at Lando’s apartment both thrilling and terrifying. He could picture it—Lando’s sleek Monte Carlo place, all modern lines and ocean views, probably littered with racing trophies and empty energy drink cans.

He tried to protest: 'I’ve got a hotel, Lan. Don’t need to crash your place.' But Lando was relentless, firing back: Not a request, mate. 'You’re staying. Got a spare room and everything. Bring your nerdy accountant vibes, I’ll survive.' A winking emoji sealed it, and Oscar knew he was outmaneuvered. Lando didn’t take no for an answer, not when he was set on something.

Oscar slumped back in his chair, his phone warm in his hand. Flo’s words echoed—Stop being a coward—but Lando’s silly texts, his insistence, made it harder to let go.

Every meme, every Pastry, was a thread tying him to Lando, and the thought of a week in Monaco, of nights in Lando’s world, felt like stepping into a fire he wasn’t ready to face.

****

Oscar stepped off the plane and straight into the blinding, pretentious gleam of Monaco sunshine. The Mediterranean air tasted like salt and smugness. Yachts glittered in the harbor like oversized jewellery. Lamborghinis purred down narrow streets. And all of it—every square inch of this place—reeked of Lando.

He adjusted the strap of his bag and made a beeline for his hotel. Not a luxury suite with mood lighting and infinity pools. Just a modest, business-friendly place tucked far from the Monte Carlo glitz. It had been intentional. The kind of strategic detour an accountant makes when trying not to spontaneously combust around old feelings.

His phone was silent, no new memes from Lando since their text exchange about the trip, and Oscar was both relieved and disappointed.

The conference was a blur of PowerPoint slides and networking small talk, held in a sleek convention center with views of the sparkling sea. Oscar sat through panels on tax regulations, his notepad filled with doodles instead of notes, his mind drifting to Lando’s texts and Flo’s gleeful betrayal in telling him.

He kept his phone on silent, half-expecting Flo to ambush him with a call about her Monaco sponsor event. She’d texted that morning, a selfie with her horse Merlin and a cheeky Don’t hide too well, spy boy, which he’d ignored with a groan.

He stuck to the conference venue, avoiding the nearby cafés and bars where F1 drivers might hang out. But Monaco was small, suffocatingly so, and by Wednesday, his luck ran out.

He was grabbing a coffee at a quiet stand near the hotel when a familiar cackle stopped him cold. “Oscar Piastri, you sneaky bastard!” Flo’s voice rang out, and there she was, striding toward him in a sundress and her infamous glittery boots, her curls bouncing. “Thought you could dodge me in Monaco? Amateur move.”

Oscar’s face heated, his coffee nearly spilling. “Flo, what the hell? How’d you even find me?” He glanced around, half-expecting Lando to pop out like a jack-in-the-box.

She grinned, stealing his coffee and taking a sip. “I’ve got spies, mate. Okay, fine, I saw your hotel on your Insta story before you deleted it. Sloppy.” She winked, leaning against the counter. “You’re coming to dinner with me tonight. No excuses. And don’t worry, I didn’t tell Lan exactly where you’re at.”

“Flo, I’m here for work,” Oscar protested, his voice weak even to his own ears. But her smirk said she wasn’t buying it, and he knew she’d drag him into trouble before the week was out.

---

Friday evening came too fast. The conference wrapped with a dull cocktail hour, and Oscar was back in his hotel room, packing his suitcase with a knot in his stomach. Lando’s texts had been relentless all week—random memes, a blurry selfie of him on a yacht ('Wish you were here, Pastry'), and a final, firm 'Picking you up at 7. Be ready.'

Oscar had tried to protest again, citing work fatigue, but Lando’s 'Not hearing it, mate. You’re mine for the weekend ' shut him down, complete with a winking emoji that made Oscar’s heart stutter.

At 7:03, a sleek McLaren pulled up outside the hotel, Lando leaning against it in a white t-shirt and jeans, his curls a mess, his grin brighter than the Monaco sunset.

“Pastry!” he called, waving like an overexcited kid. “Get in, loser, we’re going home.” His enthusiasm was infectious, but Oscar’s nerves were a live wire, his duffel bag heavy in his hand as he approached.

“Lan, you didn’t have to do this,” Oscar said, his voice tight as he slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled like leather and Lando’s cologne, a dangerous combination that made his head spin.

Lando laughed, starting the engine with a rev that turned heads. “Like I’m letting you stay in some boring hotel when I’ve got a perfectly good spare room. Plus, there’s a party at Charles’ place tomorrow night—my mate, Ferrari driver. Gonna introduce you to the lads. They’ll love you.”

His eyes sparkled, but there was a flicker of something else—concern, maybe—when he glanced at Oscar. “You okay? You’re all quiet and… accountant-y.”

Oscar forced a laugh, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Just tired. Long week.” The lie felt thin, and Lando’s raised eyebrow said he wasn’t fully convinced, but he let it slide, launching into a story about nearly crashing a go-kart with Charles last week.

Oscar nodded along, trying to focus on Lando’s voice instead of the panic rising in his chest. A party with Lando’s driver friends? He was already out of his depth, and the thought of Isabella showing up made it worse.

“Where’s Isabella, anyway?” Oscar asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it, his tone too casual, his heart pounding.

Lando shrugged, eyes on the road. “Oh, probably out shopping or something. You know how she loves her Monaco sprees.” His tone was light, dismissive, but it didn’t ease the knot in Oscar’s stomach.

Lando’s apartment was everything Oscar had feared—sleek, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Monaco harbor, the kind of place that screamed F1 star. Racing gear was strewn across a couch—a helmet here, a pair of gloves there—and a shelf held trophies that gleamed under the lights.

But what stopped Oscar cold was a small, framed photo on a side table: him and Lando, maybe 13 and 15, grinning in the Bristol garden, their arms slung around each other, apple juice stains on their shirts.

The nostalgia hit like a punch, stirring memories of simpler days when Lando was just the boy next door, not a champion with a girlfriend Oscar couldn’t compete with.

“Make yourself at home,” Lando said, tossing his keys onto the counter and grabbing two beers from the fridge. “Spare room’s down the hall. You hungry? I’m shit at cooking, but we can order something.” He grinned, oblivious to the storm in Oscar’s head, and Oscar nodded, mumbling a “Sounds good” as he set his bag down, avoiding the photo.

The door buzzed before Oscar could settle, and Flo burst in, a whirlwind of curls and two pizza boxes.

“Surprise, bitches!” she announced, kicking off her boots. “Couldn’t let you two have all the fun without me.” She winked at Oscar, her grin pure evil. “Told you I’d find you, spy boy.”

Lando laughed, high-fiving her. “You’re a menace, Flo. What’s this about Osc sneaking around Monaco?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes flicked to Oscar, searching, and Oscar’s face burned.

“Just work stuff,” Oscar muttered, shooting Flo a glare that screamed shut up. She ignored it, plopping onto the couch and opening the pizza box.

“Oh, please,” she said, tossing him a garlic bread. “You’re just allergic to fun. Lan, he’s been holed up in conference hell all week. I had to hunt him down." She smirked, and Oscar nearly choked on his beer, kicking her shin under the table.

“Fuck off, Flo,” he hissed, but Lando just laughed, oblivious, launching into a story about Charles’ last party and how someone (probably Pierre) ended up in the pool.

Oscar tried to relax, the beer and banter easing his nerves. Isabella’s absence was a relief, but Lando’s casual brush-off about her whereabouts kept her shadow looming, and the party tomorrow felt like a gauntlet he wasn’t ready to run.

****

The Saturday night party at Charles Leclerc’s Monaco penthouse was a sensory overload, a glittering chaos of F1 glamour that made Oscar feel like he’d stepped into a movie he didn’t belong in.

The apartment was all sleek marble and neon lights, with a DJ spinning tracks that pulsed through the crowd, the bass vibrating in Oscar’s chest. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the Monte Carlo skyline, yachts twinkling in the harbor below, and the air smelled of expensive cologne, champagne, and the faint tang of sea salt.

Oscar tugged at the hem of his black turtleneck, paired with tailored black pants—Flo had approved the outfit, declaring it “sexy accountant”—but he still felt out of place among the drivers, models, and socialites mingling like they owned the night.

Lando was in his element, a beacon in a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, his curls catching the neon glow. He’d dragged Oscar into the fray the moment they arrived, his arm slung around Oscar’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Time to meet the lads, Pastry,” he’d said, his grin infectious, and Oscar’s nerves had momentarily eased, despite the ever-present ache in his chest.

The introductions were a blur—Charles Leclerc, all charm and dimples, shaking Oscar’s hand like they were old mates; Pierre Gasly, cracking a joke about Lando’s obsession with gaming; and Carlos Sainz, Lando’s teammate, whose warm smile put Oscar at ease. “So, this is the famous Pastry we can’t get Lando to shut up about,” Carlos said, his Spanish accent thick with mischief as he clapped Lando’s back.

The other drivers laughed, and Oscar swore he saw a flush creep up Lando’s neck, his grin faltering into something shy. “Mate, come on,” Lando muttered, elbowing Carlos, but his eyes flicked to Oscar, quick and unreadable, before he laughed it off.

Oscar’s heart stuttered, the words famous Pastry echoing in his head. He managed a weak smile, mumbling, “He talks about me?” which earned another round of teasing from Pierre—“Oh, all the time, mate. ‘Oscar this, Oscar that.’ You’re basically his hero.” Lando rolled his eyes, but the blush was still there, and Oscar clung to it like a lifeline, even as he told himself it meant nothing.

The moment was shattered when Isabella appeared, gliding through the crowd in a silver dress that caught every light, her arm looping through Lando’s with practiced ease. “There you are,” she said, her voice smooth, her smile sharp as she leaned into Lando, her hand resting possessively on his chest.

Oscar’s stomach twisted, the familiar ache flaring as Lando’s attention shifted to her, his grin softening but not fading. Oscar excused himself, muttering about needing a drink, and slipped away before he could see more.

At the bar, Oscar nursed a gin and tonic, the ice clinking as he tried to focus on the music instead of Lando, now across the room, laughing with Charles, his hand wrapped around Isabella’s waist. The sight burned, and Oscar looked away, his fingers tightening around the glass.

Flo was nearby, flirting shamelessly with a guy in a leather jacket, her laughter cutting through the crowd as she tossed her curls and made exaggerated heart-eyes. She caught Oscar’s gaze and winked, mouthing, “He’s fit, right?” Oscar snorted, shaking his head, her chaos a brief reprieve from his own headspace.

“First time here?” a voice said, pulling Oscar’s attention. A guy his age slid onto the stool beside him, blonde hair tousled, blue eyes bright with a friendly grin. “I’m Logan. Haven’t seen you around.”

Oscar smiled, relaxing slightly. “Oscar. Not from here—just visiting for work.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m… not exactly a regular at F1 parties.”

Logan laughed, easy and warm. “You’re doing fine. These things are a lot, but you're fitting right in.” His gaze lingered, a hint of flirtation in the way he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Oscar’s. “So, what’s your deal? You with Lando’s crew?”

“Just a friend,” Oscar said, the word bitter on his tongue. “Grew up next door.” Logan nodded, his interest clear, and they fell into easy conversation—racing, London.

Logan was charming, his accent a soft drawl, and when his hand grazed Oscar’s arm, light but deliberate, Oscar didn’t pull away. It was nice, the attention, the distraction from the weight of Lando’s presence across the room.

But he felt it—a burning stare on his back, like a laser cutting through the crowd. He didn’t turn, didn’t dare, convincing himself it was the gin or the lights playing tricks.

Logan, oblivious, kept talking, his touches growing bolder—a hand on Oscar’s knee, sliding up to his thigh. “Come on, you can’t sit here all night,” Logan said, grinning as he stood, tugging Oscar toward the dance floor. “Let’s have some fun.”

The Weeknd’s Moth to a Flame pulsed through the speakers, the beat low and sultry, and Logan pulled Oscar close, their bodies pressed together as they moved.

Oscar let himself get lost in it, the heat of Logan’s hands on his hips, the rhythm drowning out his thoughts. Logan was a good dancer, confident but not showy, his breath warm against Oscar’s ear as he leaned in, murmuring something about the party being better now.

Oscar laughed, his hands resting on Logan’s shoulders, the contact grounding him, a temporary escape from the ache. But then he saw Lando.

He was across the room, standing with Isabella, his arm still around her, but his eyes were locked on Oscar. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, intense and unreadable, like he wanted to storm over and build a wall between Oscar and Logan.

Oscar’s heart lurched, his steps faltering, but he shook it off, blaming the drinks, the lights, his own desperate hope. Lando couldn’t be jealous—not with Isabella right there, her hand on his chest, her lips brushing his jaw. Oscar turned back to Logan, forcing a smile, letting the music pull him under again.

By the end of the night, Oscar was buzzed, his head light from gin and dancing, his body warm from Logan’s closeness. They’d stumbled off the dance floor, laughing, and ended up against a quiet corner wall, the party’s chaos fading behind them.

Logan’s hand was on Oscar’s cheek, his lips hot and insistent as he kissed him, a hungry edge to it that made Oscar’s pulse race. It was reckless, easy, a moment free of Lando’s shadow. When they parted, Logan grinned, slipping a piece of paper with his number into Oscar’s hand. “Call me whenever you want,” he said, his voice low, before disappearing into the crowd.

Oscar stood there, the paper crumpled in his fist, his lips tingling, his heart a mess of guilt and thrill. He glanced across the room, but Lando was gone, swallowed by the party, probably with Isabella.

The high of Logan’s kiss faded, replaced by the familiar ache, and Oscar wondered if he’d ever outrun it.

****

Oscar woke to the soft glow of Monaco’s morning sun filtering through Lando’s guest room blinds, the distant hum of the harbor reminding him he wasn’t in London anymore. His head throbbed faintly from last night’s gin and the dizzying memory of Logan’s mouth against his on a shadowed wall at Charles’ party.

His black turtleneck and pants were crumpled on the floor, and Logan’s number was still tucked in his pocket like a tiny, evil curse. He rubbed his face, trying to shake the image of Lando’s stare from the dance floor, the way his eyes had burned like he wanted to tear Logan’s limbs off and drag Oscar away.

Probably the drinks, Oscar told himself.

He padded barefoot to the kitchen, the marble floor cool against his feet, and found Lando perched on the counter with a bowl of cereal like some gremlin prince.

He was in a loose tank top and sweats, his curls a glorious, chaotic mess, milk dribbling down his chin as he shoved Coco Pops into his mouth like they were a coping mechanism.

The sight was so absurdly normal—Lando Norris, global F1 star, looking like a teenage raiding the pantry—that Oscar couldn’t help but smile, even if it felt fragile.

“Morning, Pastry,” Lando said, voice clipped, the usual warmth undercut by something sharp and brittle. He didn’t look up. Just kept scraping his spoon like he was digging through the mud. “Rough night? You look like shit.”

Oscar blinked. “Thanks. You really know how to make a guy feel welcome.”

He grabbed a bowl, sliding onto the counter beside him, trying not to let his eyes linger too long on Lando’s collarbone or the ink smudge of a freckle beneath it.

“Says the guy eating cereal like it’s a personality trait,” Oscar tried, shooting for their usual rhythm. But it landed weird. Off. Like someone had changed the radio station and no one told him.

Lando’s mouth twitched, not quite a grin, and the silence that followed was weirdly loud. They ate in silence for a moment, the clink of spoons louder than it should’ve been. Oscar’s mind raced, replaying Lando’s stare from the party, the way he’d gripped Isabella tighter when he saw Oscar with Logan.

“So, uh,” Oscar started, desperate to fill the quiet, “Flo was wild last night. Saw her leaving with that leather-jacket guy. Reckon she’s still out there, terrorizing Monaco.”

Lando snorted, but it came out bitter, eyes still on his cereal. “Yeah. My sister’s a bloody disaster. Probably shagged him in some alley and called it romance.” He gagged dramatically, but but it felt forced, his jaw tight. “Disgusting.”

Oscar laughed, the sound shaky but genuine, trying to lighten the mood. “Bet she’s strutting back now, glittery boots and all, like she owns Monaco.” He could picture Flo, all curls and confidence, leaving a trail of chaos and bad decisions.

Lando finally looked at him. Eyes sharp. Smile tight. “Speaking of last night.” he said, his voice low, a bite to it that made Oscar’s stomach twist. “You were proper cozy with Logan? Didn’t know you were so keen on pulling drivers, Pastry.” His words were teasing, but there was venom beneath them, his spoon stabbing at the cereal like it owed him money. “What was that, your big Monaco fling?”

Oscar’s heart thudded, his spoon freezing mid-bite. Lando’s tone was like a blade, playful but cutting, and the way he said Pastry felt like a jab, not a nickname.

“Just dancing,” Oscar said, too quickly, his face heating as he remembered Logan’s hands on his hips, the press of their bodies to Moth to a Flame. “He’s nice. We got talking, that’s all.”

“Sure,” Lando’s eyes narrowed, his grin more a smirk than a smile. “Looked more like you were two seconds away from fucking on the DJ booth. Real subtle, mate.”

He leaned back, his posture casual but his gaze heavy, pinning Oscar like a spotlight. Their eyes locked, the air thick with something raw—jealousy, maybe, or something Oscar wouldn’t name. Oscar’s pulse raced, caught between the thrill of Lando’s attention and the sting of his words.

Then—

The front door slammed open.

Flo stumbled in like a feral storm cloud, sundress rumpled, curls a disaster, glittery boots swinging from one hand. “Morning, losers,” she announced, unfazed by her walk-of-shame aesthetic.

Lando recoiled like he’d seen a crime scene. “Fucking hell, Flo,” he snapped, cereal bowl clutched like a lifeline. “You look like roadkill. Did you shag the entire Monaco nightlife or just half?”

Flo flipped him off, tossed her boots at the couch. “Bite me, Lan. Not all of us want to spend the night fake-dating our PR girlfriend.” She smirked, raiding the fridge for a yogurt, and Oscar burst out laughing, the tension in his chest easing as Lando’s scowl deepened, his disgust at Flo’s state almost comical.

“Get out of my flat,” Lando muttered, pointing his spoon at her, but his lips twitched, betraying a hint of amusement.

“Make me,” Flo said around a mouthful of peach yogurt, unbothered, and Oscar shook his head, grateful for the distraction but still reeling from Lando’s sharp words about Logan.

---

Later, Oscar sat alone in Lando’s guest room, suitcase half-unpacked, Logan’s number still folded in his hoodie pocket like a dare. He was half-scrolling through his phone, avoiding the news, when he made the mistake.

Instagram. A fan account.

Lando and Isabella, sitting outside some chic café. Her arm around his shoulders. His smile wide and easy. The caption gushed: “Lando and Isabella serving couple goals in Monaco!”

Oscar’s chest tightened, jealousy flaring hot and bitter, the image of Lando’s arm around her at the party merging with this new one, a reminder of everything he’d never have. That same smile from last night—Isabella tucked under his arm like she belonged there. The silver dress replaced by a sundress. Easy. Pretty. Public.

He tossed the phone onto the bed like it burned.

Lando’s biting tone from breakfast—Didn’t know you were so keen on pulling drivers—echoed, laced with something that felt like betrayal.

Oscar fished out Logan’s number. It felt heavier now, like a choice he hadn’t realized he was going to make. Logan was nice. Simple. He didn’t come with a decade of tangled memories or inside jokes that now stung.

He’d text him.

Not now.

But soon.

He couldn’t keep standing in Lando’s shadow. Couldn’t keep bleeding from every meme, every look, every biting joke that wasn’t really a joke.

His gaze landed on the photo beside the bed—him and Lando as kids, gap-toothed and sunburned, arms around each other like the world hadn’t split them yet.

Oscar turned it face down.

The ache in his chest stayed right where it was.

****

Monday morning in Monaco dawned bright and relentless, the Mediterranean sun slicing through Lando’s apartment windows, casting harsh light on the sleek furniture.

Oscar’s flight back to London was scheduled for that night, and he was counting the hours. His suitcase sat half-packed in the guest room, Logan’s number still crumpled in his pocket like a silent rebellion. The weekend had been a whirlwind—Charles’ party, Lando’s cutting remarks about Logan, the photo of Lando and Isabella that had seared itself into his memory. He was ready to go. To retreat to the cold, quiet safety of his London flat, where Lando’s presence didn’t burn so close.

He was sipping coffee in the living room, scrolling through flight details on his phone, when the door buzzed. Lando, sprawled on the couch in a hoodie and track pants, jumped up to answer it. “That’ll be Iz,” he said, his voice casual but warm, and Oscar’s stomach twisted, the nickname a fresh jab.

Isabella swept in, all polished elegance in a cream blouse and tailored trousers, her blonde hair perfect, her smile a practiced curve. “Morning, babe,” she said, kissing Lando’s cheek, her hand lingering on his arm as her eyes flicked to Oscar, cool and assessing.

“Hey, Isabella,” Oscar said, forcing a smile, trying to keep things light despite the weight in his chest. “Good to see you again. How’s Monaco treating you?”

Her smile tightened, barely reaching her eyes. “Fine, thanks,” she said, her tone clipped, like she was humoring him. “Just enjoying the city. You must be thrilled to be here, playing tourist.” The words were polite but sharp, laced with something that made Oscar’s skin prickle.

He nodded, fumbling for a response, but the conversation stalled, her gaze sliding away like he wasn’t worth her time. The air felt thick, awkward, the silence screaming everything Oscar couldn’t say.

Lando’s phone rang, shattering the tension. “Shit, it’s my engineer,” he said, glancing at the screen. “Gotta take this. Be right back.” He stepped onto the balcony, leaving Oscar and Isabella alone in the living room, the hum of Monaco outside doing nothing to ease the suffocating quiet.

Oscar shifted, clutching his coffee mug, searching for something to say. “So, uh, you been to any of the races here?” he tried, his voice too soft, too careful.

Isabella turned, her stance rigid, her eyes narrowing with a disgust that made Oscar’s breath catch. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Oscar,” she said, her voice low and venomous, each word a blade. “I know what you want. You think you can just waltz in here, batting your eyes at Lando, acting like you belong? Fucking faggot.”

The words hit like a physical blow, stealing the air from Oscar’s lungs. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, his mind reeling, shunned into silence by the raw hatred in her voice.

He stood frozen, the mug trembling in his hands, her words echoing in his head, slicing through every fragile hope he’d clung to. He wanted to snap back, to defend himself, but his throat was tight, his body rooted to the spot.

The balcony door slid open, and Lando stepped back in, oblivious to the venom hanging in the air. Isabella’s face transformed instantly, her smile sweet and perfect as she turned to him. “All good, babe?” she asked, her voice honeyed, her hand sliding onto his shoulder like nothing had happened.

Lando nodded, but his eyes flicked to Oscar, catching the way he stood rigid, his knuckles white around the mug. “You alright, Osc?” he asked, his brow furrowing, sensing something off despite Isabella’s flawless act.

Oscar forced a smile, timid and brittle, his heart pounding so loud he was sure Lando could hear it. “Yeah, fine,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “Just… tired.”

Before Lando could press, Isabella pulled him close, kissing him square on the lips, slow and deliberate, her eyes flicking to Oscar as she did it, a silent claim.

Oscar’s chest cracked, the sight a fresh wound on top of her words. “I’m gonna… pack,” he said, his voice cracking as he set the mug down and fled to the spare room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Inside, he sank onto the bed, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his hands shaking as he pressed them to his face. The room spun, Isabella’s words—fucking faggot—looping in his mind, mingling with the image of her kissing Lando, her smug glance, Lando’s oblivious concern.

It was too much, a tidal wave of pain and shame crashing over him. His chest tightened, his vision blurring, a full-blown panic attack clawing at him. He forced himself to breathe, counting in his head—one, two, three—until the world steadied, but the ache didn’t fade.

He pulled Logan’s number from his pocket, staring at the crumpled paper, then set it aside.

This wasn’t about Logan. It wasn’t even about Isabella, not really.

It was about Lando. About the years Oscar had spent loving him from the sidelines, hoping for something more. The kid photo. The stupid memes. The jealousy in Lando’s voice when he’d mentioned Logan.

He couldn’t do this anymore. Not the hoping, not the hurting, not the pretending he could outrun it.

Oscar stood, his decision solidifying like ice in his veins. He’d leave tonight, go back to London, and cut the cord. No more feelings, no more memories, no more chasing a boy who belonged to someone else.

He’d survive, even if it felt like tearing out his own heart.

****

Four months had passed since Monaco—enough time for the sharp edges to soften, but not enough to forget. Oscar was back in London, his life stitched together by lukewarm routines and quiet attempts at distraction.

His flat had become a familiar kind of chaos: laundry draped over chairs, cold takeaway boxes stacked by the sink, and the glow of his laptop a weak substitute for comfort. The ache still lived in his bones, dulled but insistent, like an old bruise he kept pressing just to feel something.

The day after his flight, he’d texted Logan. The number scrawled on that crumpled paper felt like a dare, a lifeline, or maybe just a bad idea dressed in good timing. Their first date was casual—a dim pub in Camden, drinks in hand, banter easy and irreverent. Logan was as warm as Oscar remembered, all sunlit charm and a Florida lilt that smoothed London’s harshness.

The night ended in Logan’s hotel room, a tangle of limbs and heat that was electric but fleeting. They’d both felt it—sexually, they clicked, no question, but the spark fizzled outside the bedroom. Over coffee the next morning, they’d agreed: friends, not lovers, but with a casual openness to hook up when their paths crossed. No strings, no complications.

It worked, mostly. Whenever Logan was in England for F1 or sponsor gigs, he’d text Oscar—Drinks tonight, mate?—and they’d meet, trading stories about racing crashes and tax audits over beers.

Sometimes it ended with them stumbling into Oscar’s flat or Logan’s hotel, clothes shed in a haze of gin and laughter, but more often it didn’t. They’d talk for hours—Oscar grumbling about spreadsheet errors, Logan talking about suspension issues and PR disasters—building a friendship that was steady, uncomplicated, a balm against the storm of Lando. Logan never asked about him, and Oscar was grateful.

Lando’s texts still came almost daily, small and silly, a thread Oscar couldn’t cut. Oscar replied every single time. It was light. Detached. Safe. But each one tugged at the thread Lando never stopped pulling—He still loved Lando, the ache as raw as ever, but moving on was a war he fought daily.

He still hadn’t told Flo what Isabella had said.

He knew she’d lose it—would storm into Monte Carlo herself and set something on fire and tell Lando everything. And Oscar… he couldn’t. Oscar couldn’t do that to him, couldn’t risk ruining Lando’s perfect life, no matter how much it hurt to stay silent.

So he carried it. Alone.

It was a Thursday in late November, London soaked in a drizzle that turned everything grey and mean. Oscar trudged home under a broken umbrella, Karen’s voice still ringing in his ears: You’ve been distracted, Piastri. Focus. As if focus were a switch he could flip. As if a meme from Lando that morning hadn’t derailed his entire day.

He’d texted back 'You’re unhinged', but the ache came anyway. It always did.

Now, in his flat, he kicked off wet shoes, peeled off his damp button-down, and pulled on a hoodie that smelled vaguely of old detergent. He dropped onto the couch, letting MasterChef Australia fill the silence. Someone was ruining a Wellington. Oscar scoffed, half-smiling. “Mate, you’re cooked,” he muttered at the screen.

Then—a knock.

Sharp. Quick. Not a polite neighbor knock. Urgent.

His whole body stilled.

It wasn’t Logan. He was in Italy, prepping for some PR thing. Flo was in Netherlands—texting him pictures of Merlin in a stupid Christmas blanket. No deliveries. No guests.

He muted the TV. The knock came again—louder this time, as if whoever it was didn’t want him thinking too long.

Heart hammering, he padded barefoot across the flat. The doorknob was cold in his hand, the air tense with something electric.

He opened the door, half-expecting a stranger, but the figure standing there made his breath catch, the world tilting under him.

****

There stood Lando, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, his grin bright and boyish under the dim hallway light. “Surprise, Pastry!” he said, his voice warm, his curls peeking out from a beanie, as if he’d just stepped out of an Italian summer instead of a London drizzle.

Oscar froze, his brain short-circuiting. “Lan?” he breathed, half-convinced it was a hallucination. Instinct took over, and he pulled Lando into a hug, his arms tight, testing if he was real. Lando laughed, a rich, familiar sound that vibrated against Oscar’s chest, his bag thumping to the floor as he hugged back, strong and solid.

“Mate, you’re acting like I’m a ghost,” Lando teased, pulling back to grin at him, his eyes crinkling in that way that always made Oscar’s heart stutter.

“You might as well be,” Oscar managed, his voice shaky as he stepped aside to let Lando in, his flat suddenly feeling too small, too ordinary for Lando’s larger-than-life presence. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Lando kicked off his shoes, tossing his bag onto the couch like he owned the place. “In London for a day or two—sponsor thing tomorrow, then some media stuff. Thought I’d crash with you instead of a boring hotel. You cool with that?” His grin was cheeky, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes, like he was testing the waters.

Oscar nodded, still reeling. “Yeah, ‘course. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.” He tried for casual, but his heart was hammering, the memory of Monaco rushing back like a tide.


---

It was late now, past midnight, the London drizzle tapping against the windows. Oscar and Lando were sprawled on the couch, a half-empty pizza box between them, cans of beer sweating on the coffee table. MasterChef was long forgotten, the TV screen dark, and their conversation had stretched into hours, flowing like it hadn’t in years.

They’d laughed about Flo’s Monaco walk of shame, reminisced about stealing apples in Bristol, and traded stories—Lando’s chaotic F1 season, Oscar’s office dramas. But there was something different in the air, a weight beneath the laughter, an unspoken current that made Oscar’s skin prickle.

Lando leaned back, his beanie discarded, his curls a mess as he nursed his beer. His eyes were softer now, less guarded, fixed on Oscar with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant, “I proper missed you at Silverstone. After the race, I kept looking for you, but you were gone. Felt… weird, you know? Like something was off.”

He paused, his fingers picking at the label on his can, his other hand twitching toward Oscar, a fleeting, aborted gesture that landed on his own knee instead, like he’d caught himself.

“Why’d we drift, Osc? We used to be…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely between them, like he couldn’t find the word for what they’d been.

Oscar’s throat tightened, his heart a drumbeat in his chest. He knew the answer—Isabella’s fucking faggot, the kiss that had gutted him, the years of loving Lando in silence—but the words stuck, too heavy, too terrifying to say aloud.

He stared at his beer, the condensation cold against his fingers, and managed a weak, “Dunno, mate. Life, I guess. You’re busy being a superstar, I’m… here.” The lie tasted bitter, but the truth felt like a cliff he wasn’t ready to jump off.

Lando frowned, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hand twitching again, like he wanted to reach for Oscar but didn’t dare. “Nah, that’s bullshit. It’s not just life. You pulled back, Osc. I felt it. After Silverstone, after Monaco… you’re different. Like you’re keeping me at arm’s length.”

His voice was raw, more vulnerable than Oscar had ever heard, a crack in his usual bravado that made Oscar’s chest ache. “Did I do something? ‘Cause if I did, you gotta tell me, mate. I can’t fix it if I don’t know.”

Oscar’s breath hitched, his eyes stinging. He wanted to spill it all—Isabella’s cruelty, the panic attack, the love he’d buried under memes and distance—but fear clamped his jaw shut. “You didn’t do anything,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… complicated.”

He met Lando’s gaze, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, the couch a universe, their history a tether pulling them closer.

Lando’s eyes searched his, soft but piercing, like he could see through Oscar’s walls. “Complicated how?” he pressed, his voice gentle but insistent, his fingers twitching again, brushing the edge of the couch near Oscar’s thigh before pulling back.

“Osc, we’ve known each other forever. You can tell me anything. You know that, right?” The plea in his voice, the way his hand hovered, unspoken feelings flickering in his eyes, made Oscar’s heart scream I love you, but his lips stayed silent.

Oscar opened his mouth, grasping for something safe, when his phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with Logan’s name: 'Back in London next week. Drinks?' The text was casual, familiar, but it landed like a bomb in the quiet.

Lando’s eyes flicked to the screen, and Oscar saw it—the same heat from Monaco, a flash of something dark and intense, like he wanted to snatch the phone and hurl it out the window. His jaw tightened, his voice low and sharp when he spoke. “You’re still talking to Logan?”

Oscar’s stomach twisted, the air thick with that unspoken current again. “Yeah,” he said, trying for nonchalance, his fingers gripping his beer can. “It’s… casual. Just mates, you know. Drinks sometimes.” The half-truth felt flimsy, the memory of Logan’s hands, their occasional hookups, a guilty secret he hadn’t shared.

Lando’s gaze didn’t waver, the heat in his eyes flickering into something softer, almost hurt. “Casual,” he echoed, the word clipped, like it tasted wrong. He leaned back, breaking eye contact, his fingers drumming on his can. “Right. Good for you, mate.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the easy flow of their conversation gone, replaced by a tension Oscar could feel in his bones.

He wanted to say more, to explain, to bridge the gap, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he stared at the pizza box, the crusts cold and forgotten, and wondered if this was what moving on felt like—a slow, aching unraveling of everything that mattered.

****

The drizzle had stopped, leaving London’s streets slick and reflective under the streetlights. Oscar was sprawled on his couch, the TV flickering with a rerun of The Great British Bake Off, a faint distraction from the turmoil churning in his chest.

Lando’s surprise visit the night before—his vulnerable Why’d we drift, Osc? and the heat in his eyes at Logan’s text—had left Oscar restless, his flat feeling too small to contain the weight of it all. He’d barely slept, replaying Lando’s hand twitching toward him, the unspoken plea in his voice, and the way his own fear had kept the truth locked tight.

A sharp knock jolted him upright, his heart lurching. He muted the TV, his bare feet cold on the floor as he crossed to the door, expecting a neighbor or a misdelivered package.

Instead, Lando stood there, his smile tired but warm, no duffle bag this time, just a paper bag of Indian takeaway in one hand, his jacket damp from the evening mist. “Couldn’t leave London without seeing you again, Pastry,” he said, his voice softer than last night, his eyes searching Oscar’s face like he was looking for something he’d missed.

Oscar’s breath caught, his hand gripping the doorframe. “Lan, you’re supposed to be at some fancy sponsor thing,” he said, stepping aside to let him in, his voice betraying the flutter in his chest. Lando’s presence filled the flat, his familiar cologne mingling with the scent of curry, making the space feel both too big and too small.

“Finished early,” Lando said, setting the takeaway on the coffee table and shrugging off his jacket. “Figured you’d rather have tikka masala than watch me charm people."

He didn’t mention last night, but it hung in the air between them anyway.

They settled on the couch, the TV forgotten, the takeaway bags spilling naan and containers of curry between them. They ate in bursts, trading light jabs about Lando’s inability to handle spice and Oscar’s questionable taste in TV shows, but the laughter felt fragile, a thin veneer over something deeper.

Lando set his plate down, leaning back, his eyes fixed on Oscar with a quiet intensity. “Osc,” he started, his voice low, stripped of its usual playfulness, “I don’t want us to keep fading like this. You’re… important. More than you know.”

He swallowed, his fingers fidgeting with a napkin, his gaze steady but vulnerable, like he was laying himself bare. “I keep thinking about you, mate. Silverstone, Monaco, all of it. Feels like I’m losing you, and I hate it.”

Oscar’s heart slammed against his ribs, Lando’s words a spark to the dry tinder of his emotions. The sincerity in his voice, the way he leaned closer, unraveled the walls Oscar had built.

He set his plate down, his hands trembling, the truth clawing its way up his throat. “Lan, there’s something I need to—” he started, his voice cracking, the confession teetering on the edge—I love you, I’ve always loved you—but his phone buzzed sharply on the table, Isabella’s name flashing on the screen like a guillotine.

Lando’s eyes flicked to the phone, his jaw tightening, the vulnerability in his face shuttering into something harder. He answered it, his voice clipped. “Hey, Iz. Yeah, I’m at Oscar’s. Just grabbing food.” A pause, her voice a faint murmur through the speaker, and Lando’s gaze darted to Oscar, heavy with something unspoken. “I’ll call you later, yeah?” He hung up, but the moment was gone, the air thick with the ghost of her presence.

Oscar’s chest ached, his confession swallowed back, the weight of Isabella’s call and her venomous words from Monaco crashing over him. He forced a laugh, deflecting, “She’s got you on a short leash, huh?” The joke was weak, bitter, and Lando’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Nah, she’s just… checking in,” Lando said, his tone flat, his fingers drumming on his knee. He looked at Oscar, his gaze lingering, sensing the shift. “You were gonna say something, Osc. What was it?”

Oscar’s throat closed, fear choking him. He shook his head, grabbing a naan to avoid Lando’s eyes. “Nothing, mate. Just… glad you’re here.” The lie stung, but the truth felt too dangerous, too close to shattering everything.

Lando frowned, his hand hovering like he wanted to reach out, but he dropped it, leaning back with a sigh. “Right,” he said, the word heavy, and the silence that followed was a chasm neither knew how to cross.

****

The London rain had softened to a fine mist by the following Tuesday, the city’s neon lights smearing through the damp air as Oscar pushed through the door of The Rusty Anchor, the pub he and Logan had claimed as their spot since that first date months ago.

His heart was still raw from Lando’s visit, the near-confession cut off by Isabella’s call, her name on the screen a fresh wound.

Lando had left for Monaco the next morning, his goodbye hug lingering in Oscar’s bones, but the silence since had been deafening, punctuated only by a single meme. Oscar had replied weakly, the ache in his chest had grown heavier, a weight he couldn’t shake.

Logan was already at their usual booth, his blonde hair catching the pub’s warm light, a drink in hand. He grinned as Oscar slid in across from him, his Florida drawl cutting through the pub’s low hum.

“Mate, you look like you’ve been through a war. Rough week?” He slid a gin and tonic toward Oscar, the ice clinking, his blue eyes crinkling with that easy charm that always made Oscar feel lighter, if only for a moment.

Oscar managed a laugh, taking a sip to steady himself. “Just work. Boss on my case again. Thinks I’m daydreaming instead of working.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either, and Logan’s raised eyebrow said he knew it.

They fell into their rhythm, trading stories over drinks—Logan’s latest Williams debacle, a tire strategy gone wrong in Italy, and Oscar’s tale of a client who thought “tax deductible” meant “free money.”

The pub’s chatter and clinking glasses were a comforting backdrop, but Oscar’s mind kept drifting to Lando’s voice—You’re important—and the way his hand had hovered, almost touching, before Isabella’s call had shattered everything.

Logan leaned back, swirling his pint, his gaze softening. “Can I say something, Osc? I’m still in awe you’re single. Like, you’re a catch, mate—smart, funny, not bad to look at.” He winked, but his tone was genuine, curious. “How’s no one snapped you up?”

Oscar’s laugh was sharp, choking back the pain that surged like a tide. “Well, that one’s on me,” he said, his voice brittle, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

He stared at his glass, the gin blurring as Lando’s face flashed in his mind—his grin, his curls, the kid photo on his side table. The truth pressed against his ribs, demanding release.

Logan’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing with concern. “Hey, what’s your deal, Osc? Really. You’ve been… off, lately. Like you’re carrying something heavy. Wanna talk?”

Oscar’s throat tightened, the weight of months—years—of silence crushing him. Logan’s hand rested on the table, steady and open, and something in Oscar cracked.

“It’s Lando,” he said, the name spilling out like a confession, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been in love with him since we were kids. He’s… everything I have ever wanted, and he doesn’t even know.” The words tumbled faster now, raw and unfiltered. “He’s got Isabella, and she—she hates me, said some awful shit in Monaco, and I can’t tell him because it’ll ruin everything. But every time he texts, every time he looks at me, I’m right back there, hoping, hurting. And I can’t stop.”

His voice broke, his eyes stinging as he stared at the table, unable to meet Logan’s gaze. The pub’s noise faded, the world narrowing to the booth, the truth laid bare for the first time.

Logan reached across, his hands closing over Oscar’s, warm and grounding, his touch a lifeline. “Osc,” he said softly, his voice thick with understanding. “I get it. I’ve been there—wanting someone you can’t have, tearing yourself up over it. It’s fucking brutal.”

Oscar’s breath hitched, tears welling as he gripped Logan’s hands, the dam breaking. “I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I keep trying, but it’s like he’s in my bones.”

Logan’s eyes were soft, steady, no judgment, just empathy. “You deserve better than hurting like this, Oscar. You’re good—really good—and you don’t have to keep punishing yourself for loving him. I hope you’re brave enough to let go, for your own sake.” He squeezed Oscar’s hands, his voice gentle but firm. “You deserve that.”

Oscar gave a wet, trembling smile, tears spilling down his cheeks, the weight of Logan’s words sinking in. Logan slid out of the booth, moving to Oscar’s side, and pulled him into a hug, his arms strong and warm.

Oscar broke, his sobs muffled against Logan’s shoulder, the pain of Lando, Isabella, and years of silence pouring out in a flood. Logan held him, steady and quiet, letting him fall apart without a word.

When Oscar finally pulled back, wiping his face with his sleeve, the pub’s noise crept back in, grounding him. Logan’s hand lingered on his shoulder, a silent promise of support. “You’re gonna be okay, Osc,” he said, his smile small but real. “One way or another.”

Oscar nodded, his throat too tight to speak, the ache still there but lighter, like confessing had cracked open a window in his chest. He didn’t know if he could be brave, not yet, but for the first time, he felt like he might try.

****
Christmas in Bristol was a crisp, glittering affair, the air sharp with frost and the streets glowing with fairy lights. Oscar had arrived at his family’s home a days ago, his suitcase barely unpacked in his childhood bedroom, the familiar creak of the floorboards under his feet a bittersweet comfort. He knew Lando was back too—Flo had mentioned it in a text, her usual chaos laced with a warning: 'Lan’s here, watch out.'

Oscar hadn’t seen him yet, but the anticipation was a live wire, his heart caught between the catharsis of spilling his feelings to Logan and the unresolved weight of Lando’s last visit to London, where his You’re important had nearly broken him.

He stood in front of his bedroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his navy sweater, trying to hide the massive hickey Logan had left on his neck last week. They’d met for drinks before Logan left for a sponsor event, and Logan, with his devilish grin, had planted the mark as a “joke to mess with Lando.”

Oscar had punched him in the arm, groaning at the purple bruise, but Logan’s laugh—Mate, he’ll lose it—had stuck with him. Now, staring at it, he felt a mix of embarrassment and defiance, the mark a bold reminder of his attempt to move on, even if his heart still snagged on Lando.

The doorbell rang downstairs, and Flo’s voice echoed up, loud and teasing. “Oi, Osc, get your arse down here! Dinner’s ready, and you’re not hiding that love bite all night!” Oscar groaned, tugging his collar higher as he descended to the dining room, where both families—his and Lando’s—were gathered for their traditional Pre Christmas Eve dinner.

Flo caught his eye as he entered, her grin pure mischief. “Bloody hell, Logan’s a genius,” she whispered, nudging him. “That hickey’s a proper statement. Gonna make someone jealous, yeah?”

“Shut up, Flo,” Oscar hissed, his face heating as he slid into his seat, avoiding her glittery stare.

The table was a chaos of roast turkey, mulled wine, and mismatched Christmas crackers, the room warm with laughter and clinking glasses.

Lando sat across from him, his green sweater bringing out the green in his eyes, his smile easy but sharp, like he was watching Oscar too closely. Oscar’s skin prickled under his gaze, the hickey burning beneath his collar.

Dinner was a blur of family banter but Oscar felt Lando’s eyes on him, steady and intense, every time he reached for his glass or laughed at a joke. Once, when he glanced up, their gazes locked, Lando’s expression unreadable, a flicker of something dark crossing his face before he looked away, joining Flo’s story with a forced chuckle. Oscar’s heart raced, the memory of Lando’s hand twitching in London a silent echo.

After dinner, as the families lingered over mince pies, Oscar’s phone buzzed. Logan’s name lit up the screen: In Bristol for a night before I head to the States. Meet for a quick drink?

Oscar hesitated, then typed back, Yeah, I’m in. Logan’s easy warmth was a lifeline, a way to ground himself after Lando’s stare, the hickey a reminder he could choose something else, even if it felt like betrayal.

He was in his room, swapping his sweater for a jacket, when the door swung open without a knock. Lando stood there, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with something raw. “Where you off to?” he asked, his voice low, an edge to it that made Oscar’s pulse spike.

“Meeting Logan,” Oscar said, zipping his jacket, trying to keep his tone even. “He’s in town for a bit.”

Lando’s face darkened, his hands clenching at his sides. “You’re not going,” he said, stepping forward, his voice sharp and commanding, like he was calling a race strategy.

Oscar’s anger flared, hot and sudden. “And why the hell not?” he snapped, his hands balling into fists. “What’s your problem, Lan?”

Lando didn’t answer, but he moved, planting himself in front of the door, his body a barrier, his eyes locked on Oscar’s.

The air crackled, thick with confusion and frustration, until Lando’s gaze dropped, landing on the hickey peeking above Oscar’s collar. “What the fuck is that?” he said, his voice low, angry, as he stepped closer, his breath warm against Oscar’s face.

Oscar tugged his collar up, his face burning. “Nothing,” he muttered, stepping back, but Lando followed, closing the gap.

“Who gave you that?” Lando’s voice was a growl, his eyes blazing with something possessive, something desperate.

“Why does it matter?” Oscar shot back, his heart pounding, anger and confusion tangling in his chest.

“It was Logan, wasn’t it?” Lando’s words were sharp, accusing, his body inches from Oscar’s now, the heat of him overwhelming.

“It’s none of your business,” Oscar said, his voice rising, frustration spilling over. “Lando, I don’t understand you. Just—focus on your girlfriend, yeah?”

Lando’s eyes flashed, fire and pain swirling in them. “I would focus on her if I had one,” he said, his voice low, raw. “I broke up with Isabella.”

Oscar froze, the words a shockwave through his chest. “What?” he breathed, his mind spiraling, the room tilting as Lando stepped even closer, his presence suffocating.

Before Oscar could process, Lando moved, pushing him back until his knees hit the bed, and he fell onto it, Lando climbing on top of him, his weight pinning Oscar down. Oscar’s breath caught, his mind a whirlwind as Lando’s fingers tugged his collar down, exposing the hickey.

Lando’s mouth was on it, hot and claiming, kissing and sucking the bruised skin like he was erasing Logan’s mark, replacing it with his own. Oscar gasped, his hands flying to Lando’s hair, gripping the curls as Lando’s lips traced his neck, his tongue grazing Oscar’s Adam’s apple, slow and deliberate.

His mouth moved higher, along Oscar’s jaw, brushing the corner of his lips, a tease that set Oscar’s nerves alight.

Oscar’s body was a live wire, desire and confusion crashing together, but fear surged through, sharp and cold.

THe pushed Lando back, his hands shaking against Lando’s chest. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice rough, his eyes searching Lando’s for answers, his heart a mess of hope and terror.

Lando froze, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with something raw—want, guilt, maybe both. The room was silent, the air heavy with what neither could say, the edge of something new and dangerous stretching between them.

****

The air in Oscar’s childhood bedroom was thick with tension. Oscar lay beneath Lando, his back pressed into the mattress, Lando’s weight holding him there, eyes burning with something raw.

The silence between them was electric, taut with everything they hadn’t said. What are you doing? Oscar had asked, and Lando still hadn’t answered. His ragged breathing filled the space, gaze locked onto Oscar’s like he was trying to memorize him.

The mark on Oscar’s neck throbbed, heat rising where Lando’s mouth had claimed it minutes ago. And in his mind, the words kept circling like a storm surge—I broke up with her.

Hope flared. Fear chased it.

And then—neither of them could say who moved first—their mouths collided, crashing together with all the desperation and years of unsaid things. Lando kissed like he was starving, lips urgent, open, messy. Oscar groaned into it, his fingers tangling in Lando’s curls, pulling him closer, closer, like proximity could answer every question that had ever gone unspoken.

Lando’s tongue swept into his mouth, slick and possessive, a fevered, uncoordinated rhythm that had Oscar dizzy. Their moans tangled, teeth clashing, breathless gasps breaking through as Lando sucked at Oscar’s bottom lip—biting, soothing, tasting. The kiss deepened with each second, growing dirtier, hungrier, like a dam had burst.

Lando’s hands framed Oscar’s face, thumbs skimming his jaw in a quiet contrast to the heat of their mouths. Oscar arched into him, hips rising, a helpless sound catching in his throat when Lando groaned low and deep, the sound vibrating against Oscar’s lips and straight through his body. Oscar’s fingers tightened in his hair, tugging, urging more.

When Lando pulled back, his eyes were dark with lust, lips red and slick. Oscar barely had a moment to breathe before he retaliated, lips pressing hot and wet along Lando’s neck, kissing the pulse point, grazing it with teeth. Lando cursed, soft and wrecked, his head tipping back in surrender. Oscar sucked a faint mark into his collarbone, and Lando’s hands fisted in the sheets beside him.

Impatient, Lando tugged Oscar’s sweater up and over his head, his breath catching as Oscar’s bare chest was revealed—pale skin, lean lines, freckles scattered like constellations. “Fuck,” Lando breathed, like he hadn’t expected to be hit this hard.

Oscar’s skin tingled under the attention, arousal building as Lando’s hands splayed over his chest, thumbs brushing his nipples, drawing a sharp moan from him.

Eager to return the favor, Oscar grabbed the hem of Lando’s green jumper and pulled it off, revealing the golden curve of his back, the hard lines of his torso, the trail of hair vanishing beneath his jeans.

They came together again, bare skin sparking like live wires. Their kisses grew messier, open-mouthed and breathless, hands roaming, nails scratching, hips grinding with increasing urgency. The friction was unbearable, perfect. Oscar whimpered against Lando’s lips as they rutted together through denim, the fabric a torturous barrier.

Lando broke the kiss, his lips swollen, his eyes wild as he slid down Oscar’s body, kissing a path over his chest, his stomach, his tongue flicking against the dip of Oscar’s hipbone. Oscar’s breath hitched, his hands gripping the sheets as Lando’s fingers found the zipper of his jeans, tugging it down with a slow, deliberate rasp.

Lando nuzzled Oscar’s cock through his boxers, the fabric damp with precum, his nose brushing the outline, his breath hot and teasing. Oscar’s mind went blank, a choked “Fuck, Lan—” escaping him as sensation overwhelmed him, his hand flying to Lando’s hair, gripping for dear life.

Lando pulled the boxers down, freeing Oscar’s hard cock, thick and flushed, the tip glistening.

“Fuck, it’s bigger than I imagined,” Lando said, his voice rough, his eyes locked on it with a mix of awe and hunger. Oscar’s thoughts spiraled—Imagined? Lando imagined my cock?—the realization a shockwave, amplifying the heat pooling in his gut.

Lando didn’t wait, his lips closing over the head, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the slit, tasting the salt of precum. Oscar moaned, loud and broken, his hips bucking as Lando took him deeper, his mouth hot and tight, his tongue tracing the vein along the underside.

Lando’s blowjob was filthy, unapologetic, his lips stretching around Oscar’s length, his cheeks hollowing as he bobbed, taking him to the back of his throat with a soft gag. His hand wrapped around the base, stroking in rhythm with his mouth, slick with spit, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.

Oscar’s eyes rolled back, his grip on Lando’s hair tightening, guiding him, though Lando needed no direction, his moans vibrating around Oscar’s cock, sending sparks up his spine. Lando’s free hand cupped Oscar’s balls, rolling them gently, his thumb pressing just behind, drawing a desperate "Lando" from Oscar’s lips.

The pressure built, a white-hot coil in Oscar’s core, his moans turning to gasps as Lando’s tongue flicked relentlessly, his lips sucking harder, his eyes flicking up to meet Oscar’s, dark and possessive.

“Lando—I’m—fuck—” Oscar choked out, but it was too late, his orgasm crashing over him, his cock pulsing as he came hard, thick ropes of cum painting Lando’s lips, his chin, his cheeks. Lando groaned, his own hips jerking, a wet patch spreading in his jeans as he came untouched, his body trembling with the force of it.

For a long moment, all they could do was breathe.

Lando leaned forward, collapsing against Oscar, his cum-streaked face pressed to Oscar’s chest, their breaths ragged in the aftermath.

Oscar’s hand moved on instinct, cupping Lando’s jaw, his thumb brushing the cum on his cheek. He leaned in, licking it off, slow and deliberate, tasting himself on Lando’s skin, the act intimate and raw.

Lando’s eyes widened, a soft "Fuck" escaping him as Oscar pulled him into a kiss, their lips slick with cum, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate dance, the taste of Oscar’s release shared between them.

When they pulled apart, their faces were flushed, their limbs tangled. Lando looked dazed. Hopeful.

But something in Oscar’s chest twisted painfully.

This wasn’t simple. It had never been simple.

The breakup. The years of loving Lando quietly. The hickey from Logan. The fear that this was just heat, just confusion, not something real.

Panic bloomed cold and fast. His heart raced for all the wrong reasons.

Oscar pushed at Lando’s chest, voice tight. “I—I can’t—”

Lando blinked. “What?”

But Oscar was already scrambling up, shaking hands reaching for his clothes. “I need to go.”

“Osc—wait, can we just—talk?”

But Oscar didn’t trust himself to stay. Couldn’t. Not with Lando looking at him like that.

He grabbed his jumper from the floor and fled, the door slamming behind him. Leaving Lando alone on the bed. Shirtless. Breathless.

Heartbroken.

****

The Bristol streets were a blur of frost and fairy lights, the cold biting at Oscar’s bare arms as he stumbled out of his family’s house, his sweater clutched in one hand, his jeans still unzipped from the chaos of his bed.

His chest heaved, the memory of their kiss—hot, messy, tongues tangled—and Lando’s mouth on his cock, the words bigger than I imagined, a relentless loop in his mind. It had been too much, too real, Lando’s eyes burning with something Oscar couldn’t name—lust, maybe, or something deeper that terrified him more.

He’d fled, the door slamming behind him, leaving Lando alone, his heart a mess of want and fear.

He wandered aimlessly, the city’s Christmas glow mocking his turmoil, until he found himself in the park where he and Lando used to play as kids, the swings creaking in the wind. He sank onto a bench, his breath visible in the frigid air, trying to regulate the panic clawing at him.

His hands shook as he replayed it all: Lando’s lips claiming the hickey Logan had left, the moan vibrating around his cock, the cum shared in their kiss, Lando’s wide-eyed stare when Oscar pushed him off.

What if it didn’t mean anything to Lando? A heat-of-the-moment mistake, a rebound from Isabella? What if it did mean something, and Oscar was too broken to handle it?

His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from the spiral. He tugged it out, the screen lighting up with notifications: three texts from Lando:
Osc, please come back
I’m sorry, let’s talk
Where are you?

A missed call from Flo, and one new message from Logan: You okay? Got a weird vibe. Call me.
Oscar’s thumb hovered, his chest tight, but he couldn’t reply, couldn’t face any of them.

He let the phone fall to his lap, his head dropping into his hands, tears burning his eyes. Was he self-sabotaging, running from the one thing he’d always wanted? Or was he protecting himself from the inevitable—Lando leaving again, back to his glittering F1 world, while Oscar stayed behind, heart in pieces?

He broke, a sob tearing from his throat, the park’s silence swallowing it. The cold seeped into his bones, but he didn’t move, questioning everything—his love, his fear, his flight.


---

Back at the house, Flo was pacing the kitchen, her glittery Christmas jumper at odds with her scowl. The dinner plates were stacked, the families dispersed to living rooms and pubs, but the absence of Oscar and Lando’s sulky exit had set her radar blaring.

She’d tried calling Oscar—straight to voicemail—and Lando wasn’t answering either, his phone left on the counter. “Bloody idiots,” she muttered, stomping upstairs, her boots loud on the creaky steps.

She pushed into Oscar’s room without knocking, finding Lando on the bed, his head in his hands, his green sweater rumpled, the air heavy with something raw. The sheets were a mess, Oscar’s jacket gone, and Flo’s eyes narrowed, putting two and two together faster than a race lap.

“What the hell happened, Lan?” she demanded, crossing her arms, her voice sharp but not yelling, sensing the fragility in her brother’s slumped shoulders.

Lando looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, his jaw tight. “I fucked up, Flo,” he said, his voice cracking, a rare break in his usual bravado. “I—he—we…” He trailed off, his hands gesturing helplessly, unable to name what they’d done—kissed, more, everything.

Flo’s expression softened, but her tone stayed firm. “Did you hurt him? Because if you did, I swear, Lando, I’ll kill you myself.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping. “What happened?”

Lando’s breath hitched, his hands scrubbing his face. “I kissed him,” he admitted, the words barely audible. “More than that. And he—he ran. I don’t know why, I don’t know what I did wrong.” His voice broke, a tear slipping free, and Flo’s heart twisted, seeing her brother so undone.

She didn’t yell, didn’t push, just sat beside him, her hand on his shoulder. “You two are a mess,” she said, softer now. “But you need to find him, Lan. He’s probably tearing himself apart out there.”

Lando nodded, his jaw clenching, but before he could move, Flo pulled out her phone, dialing Oscar again. It went to voicemail, and she sighed, leaving a message: “Osc, you don’t have to talk. Just breathe, yeah? I love you. Come home when you’re ready.” She hung up, looking at Lando. “Go find him. You know where he’d go.”


---

Lando knew exactly where. He pulled on his jacket, the cold slapping him as he jogged through Bristol’s streets, his breath puffing in the air.

The park loomed ahead, the swings still, and there was Oscar, hunched on a bench near the apple tree, his face buried in his hands, his sweater discarded beside him despite the chill. Lando’s chest ached, guilt and want tangling as he approached, his boots crunching on the frosty grass.

“Osc,” he said softly, stopping a few feet away, his voice carrying in the quiet. Oscar’s head snapped up, his eyes wet and wide, his breath hitching. Lando stepped closer, his heart pounding. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Oscar stood, his hands shaking, tears streaming now. “This isn’t easy for me, Lando,” he cried, his voice raw, breaking on Lando’s name. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Lando’s heart lurched, and he closed the gap, his hands gently cupping Oscar’s face, his thumbs wiping away the tears. “What’s not easy for you?” he asked, his voice soft, steady, his eyes searching Oscar’s, desperate to understand.

“Loving you,” Oscar choked out, his voice a whisper, the confession shattering the air. “And then watching you go. I don’t think I can keep doing it.”

Lando’s eyes widened, surprise flashing through them, then softened into a gentle smile, his heart laid bare. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Oscar’s, their breaths mingling in the cold.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured, his voice thick with promise. “I’m here now, and I’m not going.” He kissed Oscar’s forehead, slow and tender, the gesture grounding them both, a vow in the quiet park.

Oscar’s eyes fluttered shut, the warmth of Lando’s lips a dream he didn’t want to wake from, his tears slowing as Lando’s hands held him steady.

They stood there, foreheads touching, the park silent around them, the weight of their past and the fragile hope of their future hanging between them.

****

The Bristol park was still, the frost glittering under the streetlights. Lando’s forehead pressed against Oscar’s, his promise—I’m here now, and I’m not going—lingering in the cold air, a lifeline Oscar clung to despite the fear knotting his chest.

His tears had slowed, Lando’s thumbs still brushing his cheeks, their breaths mingling as they stood, tethered by touch and the weight of Oscar’s confession. The world felt suspended, a dream Oscar was terrified to wake from, but Lando’s gentle smile, his hands steady, grounded him.

They pulled apart slowly, Lando’s fingers lingering on Oscar’s jaw before dropping. “Come on,” Lando murmured, his voice soft but firm. “Let’s sit. Talk.” He gestured to the bench, and Oscar nodded, his sweater still crumpled beside it.

They sat close, their thighs brushing, the cold seeping through Oscar’s jeans as he pulled the sweater over his head, hiding the hickey Lando had claimed hours ago.

Lando exhaled, his breath visible, his eyes fixed on the ground. “I broke up with Isabella,” he started, his voice low, deliberate, “because it wasn’t right. She was… perfect, on paper. Glamorous, fun, fit the F1 world. But I wasn’t in it, not really.”

He paused, his fingers fidgeting with his jacket zipper, a nervous tic Oscar hadn’t seen since they were kids. “I kept thinking about you, Osc. How easy it is with you—memes, laughs, just… being us. I didn’t know what it meant, not until Monaco, seeing you with Logan. It fucked me up, more than it should’ve.”

His eyes met Oscar’s, raw and searching. “I don’t know if it’s the same for you, but… you’re not just my mate. You haven’t been for a while.”

Oscar’s heart stuttered, Lando’s words a spark to the hope he’d tried to bury. He swallowed, his voice trembling. “Lan, it’s always been you. But Isabella—she said something to me, in Monaco.”

He hesitated, the memory of her venom—fucking faggot—burning his throat. “She called me a faggot. Said I was chasing you, like I didn’t belong. It’s not a lie, I’m gay, but… it hurt, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to ruin what you had.”

Lando’s face darkened, his jaw clenching, anger flashing in his eyes. “She what?” His voice was low, dangerous, his hands balling into fists. “Osc, I had no idea. I’d have ended it right there if I knew. She had no right—fuck, I’m so sorry.”

He reached for Oscar’s hand, gripping it tight, his anger mingling with guilt. “You should’ve told me. You don’t deserve that, not from her, not from anyone.”

Oscar’s eyes stung, the weight of keeping her words secret lifting, though the pain lingered. “I thought you were happy with her,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to mess that up.”

Lando shook his head, his grip tightening. “You’re more important than she ever was.” He leaned closer, his eyes softening, and kissed Oscar, slow and deliberate, a contrast to the frantic heat of their bedroom clash.

Their lips moved gently, Lando’s tongue brushing Oscar’s, a quiet exploration, their breaths warm in the cold. Oscar’s hand found Lando’s neck, pulling him closer, the kiss a promise, a balm for the wounds they’d both carried.

They broke apart, foreheads touching, Oscar’s heart racing but steadier now. His phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the moment. He pulled it out, seeing Logan’s message: Oscar I am worried.

Oscar hesitated, then typed back: I’m with Lando. Thanks for everything, mate. He hit send, a small smile tugging at his lips, grateful for Logan’s support.

Logan’s reply came fast: Told you the hickey would work. 😉 Proud of you, Osc. Oscar laughed, a soft, genuine sound that felt foreign after his tears. Lando’s eyes flicked to the screen, a flash of jealousy crossing his face, his voice hot and sharp. “What’s so funny? What’s with you and Logan, anyway?”

Oscar pocketed his phone, meeting Lando’s gaze. “We’re just friends, Lan. We tried dating, after Monaco, but it didn’t work. Too much… spark, not enough fire, you know? He’s been there for me, but it’s you. Always has been.” His voice was steady, the truth freeing, though Lando’s jealousy sent a thrill through him.

Lando’s jaw relaxed, but his eyes stayed intense. “Good,” he muttered, pulling Oscar closer, his arm around his shoulders. “Because I’m not sharing you.”


---

The walk back to Oscar’s house was silent but charged, their hands brushing, Lando’s arm occasionally grazing Oscar’s back, a quiet claim.

Oscar felt like he was floating, Lando’s kiss and promise, a fragile anchor. They slipped inside, the house quiet, their families asleep, but Flo was waiting in the kitchen, her arms crossed, a knowing look in her eyes as they shuffled in, disheveled and frost-flushed.

“About time,” she said, her voice low but teasing, her gaze flicking between them. “You two sorted your shit, or do I need to lock you in a room?” She smirked, but her eyes softened, catching Oscar’s red-rimmed ones. “You okay, Osc?”

Oscar nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. We’re… figuring it out.”

Flo raised an eyebrow at Lando, who looked sheepish but defiant, his hand brushing Oscar’s arm. “Good,” she said, standing. “Don’t fuck it up, Lan.” She warned, heading upstairs, leaving them in the warm kitchen glow.

At breakfast the next morning, the families gathered, oblivious to the shift, their chatter about Christmas plans filling the room.

Flo’s knowing look lingered, her foot nudging Oscar’s under the table, a silent I’ve got you. Lando sat close, his knee brushing Oscar’s, his hand finding Oscar’s thigh under the table, a secret tether. They didn’t talk about the future—not yet—but the touch, the shared glances, promised a conversation to come, a path they’d navigate together.

****

Christmas Eve in Bristol sparkled with festive chaos, the town’s Christmas festival alive with carolers, mulled wine stalls, and twinkling lights. The Norris and Piastri families had bundled up, eager to join the revelry, but Oscar and Lando had begged off, claiming exhaustion from the day’s festivities.

Flo, ever the conspirator, backed them up with a dramatic yawn and a wink at Oscar. “Let the oldies have their fun,” she’d said, ushering the families out, leaving the house quiet, the air humming with possibility.

In Lando’s childhood bedroom, the fairy lights outside cast a soft glow through the window, painting the walls in gold. Oscar and Lando were tangled on the bed, Lando’s head on Oscar’s chest, their legs entwined, the warmth of their bodies a shield against the December chill.

They’d been cuddling for an hour, trading lazy kisses, lips brushing soft and slow, then deepening into heated, open-mouthed makeouts, tongues sliding, breaths hitching. The taste of peppermint hot chocolate lingered, sweet and grounding, as they pulled back, foreheads touching, eyes locked.

Lando’s fingers traced Oscar’s jaw, his voice low, vulnerable. “I want this, Osc. You and me. Not just tonight, not just Bristol. I’ve been a fucking idiot, dancing around it for years, but I want you—all of you.” His eyes were earnest, his curls falling into his face, and Oscar’s heart swelled, the fear that had driven him to flee two nights ago melting under Lando’s gaze.

“I’ve always wanted you,” Oscar admitted, his voice soft but steady, the confession easier now after the park, after Lando’s promise. “Even when I thought I couldn’t have you. It’s always been you, Lan.”

He grinned, a playful glint breaking the intensity. “You know Flo’s been scheming to get us together forever, right? Dropping hints since we were stealing apples. And Logan—he sent me a text after the hickey thing. Said we’re ‘meant to be’ or something equally Logan.”

Lando laughed, the sound bright, his eyes crinkling. “Shit? Logan too?.”

The shared joke lightened the air, but the tenderness lingered, electric, as Lando leaned in, kissing Oscar deeply, his tongue sweeping into Oscar’s mouth, slow and claiming, a moan vibrating between them.

Oscar’s hands slid under Lando’s sweater, tugging it off, revealing the lean planes of his chest, the faint trail of hair below his navel. Lando mirrored him, yanking Oscar’s shirt over his head, their bare skin brushing, sparking heat.

Lando straddled Oscar, his thighs bracketing Oscar’s hips, hands roaming Oscar’s chest, fingers teasing his nipples, drawing a sharp gasp. Oscar’s hands gripped Lando’s waist, sliding up his back, nails grazing, earning a low fuck from Lando.

“I want you so bad,” Lando whined, his voice thick with need as he ground his clothed ass against Oscar’s hardening cock, the friction delicious through their jeans. His hips rolled, slow and deliberate, the bulge in his pants dragging against Oscar’s, the denim rough but electric.

“Been thinking about this, Osc,” he purred, his lips brushing Oscar’s ear. “You under me, fucking me till I can’t think. Love your cock already.”

Oscar groaned, his cock throbbing, his hands tightening on Lando’s hips. “Fuck, Lan, you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, arousal pooling hot and heavy.

Lando grinned, wicked, and slid off, tugging his jeans down, his cock springing free, hard and flushed, curving over Oscar’s bare chest. He reached to the side table, grabbing lube and condoms, his eyes locked on Oscar’s, dark with intent.

Oscar’s breath caught, his chest tight with awe as Lando straddled him again, his cock bobbing, precum glistening at the tip. Lando popped the lube cap, slicking his fingers, and reached back, his eyes fluttering shut as he worked one finger into himself, a soft moan spilling out.

“Fuck, Osc,” he gasped, adding a second finger, stretching himself, his hips rocking as he fucked his fingers deeper, the wet squelch obscene in the quiet room. His moans grew louder, dirty, “So good, want you inside me,” his cock leaking onto Oscar’s stomach, his face flushed with pleasure.

Oscar’s hands gripped Lando’s thighs, his own cock aching in his jeans, his eyes glued to Lando’s fingers disappearing into his tight hole, the sight filthy and intoxicating. “You’re so fucking hot,” Oscar growled, his voice rough, “opening yourself up for me like that.”

Lando’s grin was shaky, his fingers slowing as he reached for Oscar’s jeans, unzipping them with trembling hands. He pulled Oscar’s cock free, thick and pulsing, and rolled a condom over it, his touch teasing, stroking once, twice, drawing a hissed fuck from Oscar.

Lando braced his hands on Oscar’s chest, positioning himself, and sank down slowly, the head of Oscar’s cock breaching his rim, tight and warm. “Oh, shit,” Lando moaned, pausing to adjust, his breath ragged as he took Oscar deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated, his ass flush against Oscar’s hips.

“Fuck, Lan, you’re so tight,” Oscar groaned, his hands guiding Lando’s hips as he started to move, slow at first, riding Oscar with rolling thrusts, his cock bouncing, smearing precum across Oscar’s chest.

Lando’s moans were loud, unrestrained, “Fuck me deeper, Osc, need it,” his hips grinding, the slick slide of Oscar’s cock inside him filthy, the bed creaking under them.

Lando’s pace faltered, his thighs trembling, and Oscar took over, thrusting up into him, hard and deep, each snap of his hips hitting Lando’s prostate, pulling desperate whines.

“Yeah, like that,” Lando panted, his hands braced on Oscar’s shoulders, “fuck me harder, Osc, make me feel it.” The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, their moans a raw symphony, Lando’s cock leaking steadily now.

Oscar shifted them, easing Lando off and laying him on the edge of the bed, his legs spread wide, ass raised. Oscar stood, guiding his cock back into Lando’s stretched hole, the angle deeper, tighter.

He leaned down, kissing Lando wetly, their tongues tangling, sloppy and hungry, Lando’s moans muffled against Oscar’s lips. Lando’s legs hooked around Oscar’s waist, locking on his back, pulling him closer. “Louder, Lan,” Oscar rasped, his voice thick with lust. “Love the sounds you make, let me hear you.”

Lando obeyed, his moans turning to cries, “Fuck, Osc, right there,” his hands clutching Oscar’s shoulders, nails digging in. Oscar thrust steadily, the wet slap of their bodies echoing, the house empty but the sound loud enough to carry. Lando’s cock bobbed, untouched, leaking onto his stomach as Oscar fucked him, relentless, the bedframe rattling.

Oscar unhooked Lando’s legs, spreading them wide, almost lifting Lando’s ass off the bed as he fucked harder, faster, his cock slamming into Lando’s prostate with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” Oscar growled, “taking my cock like you were made for it.” Lando whined, high and desperate, his hands sliding to Oscar’s neck, pulling him down into a searing kiss, their tongues fighting, teeth clashing, the taste of sweat and need overwhelming.

Lando’s body tensed, his asshole clenching tight around Oscar’s cock as he came hard, ropes of cum splattering his chest, his abs, a choked Osc tearing from his throat. The tight grip pushed Oscar over the edge, his orgasm crashing through, his cock pulsing as he came into the condom, a low fuck escaping him.

He collapsed onto Lando, half-lying, half-standing, their bodies slick with sweat, cum smearing between them.

They laughed breathlessly, the sound shaky but real, and Lando pulled Oscar into a soft kiss, lips swollen, tasting of salt and them. “I love you,” Lando whispered, his voice raw, his eyes vulnerable but sure.

Oscar smiled, his heart full, the words easy now. “I love you too,” he said, kissing Lando again, slow and tender, their bodies still tangled, the future unwritten but theirs.

****
The Bristol morning was soft and golden, Christmas Day dawning with a quiet snowfall that dusted the Norris house in a fairy-tale glow.

In Lando’s childhood bedroom, Oscar and Lando woke late, tangled in rumpled bedsheets, their limbs a messy knot of warmth. Oscar’s body ached deliciously, the memory of last night—Lando’s moans, the tight clench of his body—stirring a lazy grin as he nuzzled Lando’s curls, still wild from sleep and sex.

Lando groaned, shifting, his thigh brushing Oscar’s, a wince crossing his face as he stretched.

“Fuck, Osc, you wrecked me,” Lando mumbled, his voice rough but teasing, his blue-green eyes cracking open, glinting with mischief. “Worth it, though.”

Oscar smirked, smug, his hand trailing down Lando’s bare back, fingers grazing the dip of his spine. “You were begging for it. Fuck me deeper, Osc—ring any bells?”

Lando laughed, swatting Oscar’s chest, but the sound was cut off by a frantic knock at the door, Flo’s voice piercing through. “Oi, lovebirds, get your arses up! Hot cocoa’s ready.” The doorknob rattled, and panic flashed through them.

“Shit!” Lando hissed, rolling off Oscar, wincing as he limped slightly, scrambling for his boxers. Oscar snorted, grabbing his jeans, tugging them on as Lando fumbled with a hoodie, his curls a chaotic halo.

They barely looked decent when Flo barged in, two steaming mugs in hand, her glittery Christmas jumper clashing with her smirk.

“Morning, slowpokes,” she said, eyes darting between Lando’s flushed cheeks and Oscar’s poorly hidden hickey. “Had a restful night, did we?”

“Piss off, Flo,” Lando muttered, snatching a mug, but his grin betrayed him. Oscar just shook his head, taking the cocoa, the warmth of the mug grounding him as Flo cackled, flopping onto the bed like she owned it.

“Save the details for later,” she said, winking at Oscar. “But Mum’s got breakfast ready, and she’s already side-eyeing your absence. Move it.”


---

Downstairs, the kitchen was a whirlwind of Christmas chaos—plates of pancakes and bacon, carols crackling from a radio, and both families packed around the table, their laughter loud and warm. Oscar and Lando slid in, trying for casual, but the parents were too observant.

Oscar’s mum raised an eyebrow at his rumpled sweater, while Lando’s dad chuckled, “Late night, boys?” Flo’s smirk was relentless, her foot nudging Oscar’s under the table.

Breakfast was a blur of teasing and toasts, but the gift exchange after brought a hush. In the living room, the Christmas tree glowed, presents spilling out beneath it. Lando handed Oscar a small, clumsily wrapped box, his fingers fidgeting, nervous in a way that made Oscar’s heart skip.

Inside was a tiny wooden carving of an apple, their initials—O.P. & L.N.—etched into it, a relic from a Bristol summer when they’d carved their names into a tree. Tucked beside it was a Polaroid, faded but clear: two kids, gap-toothed and grinning, arms slung around each other under that same tree.

“Found it in my old stuff,” Lando said, his voice low, eyes soft. “Figured it says what I couldn’t, for too long. I’ve loved you forever, Osc.”

Oscar’s throat tightened, his fingers tracing the carving, the photo a time capsule of their bond. He leaned over, kissing Lando’s cheek, soft but sure, ignoring Flo’s exaggerated aww and their families’ curious glances. “Love you too, Lan,” he whispered, the words a vow, their future unwritten but shared.


---

Later, as the families scattered—some to nap, others to tackle a snowy walk—Oscar and Flo slipped into the back garden, the air crisp, the snowflakes catching in their hair. They sat the apple tree, mugs of tea steaming, the quiet a rare pause in Flo’s chaos. She nudged Oscar’s shoulder, her eyes glinting but gentle.

“So, you and Lan, huh?” she teased, sipping her tea. “Took you long enough, idiot. I’ve been playing Cupid since we were kids, you know.”

Oscar laughed, the sound easy, his breath visible in the cold. “Yeah, I know."

Flo grinned, but her tone softened, her gaze searching. “Seriously, Osc—are you happy? Like, really happy?”

He paused, the question sinking deep, images flashing—Lando’s I’m not going, the park’s forehead kiss, last night’s I love you.

The fear was still there, a faint echo, but it was drowned out by the warmth in his chest, the certainty of Lando’s hand in his. “Yeah,” he said, his voice steady, a smile breaking through. “I am. Took me a while to be brave enough for it, but… I’m happy.”

Flo’s eyes glistened, pride softening her smirk. “Good,” she said, squeezing his arm. “I’m proud of you, you know? For going after what you wanted, even when it scared you shitless. You deserve this.”

Oscar leaned his head on her shoulder, leaves falling over them, the garden a snow-dusted memory of their childhood. “Thanks, Flo,” he whispered, her warmth a reminder of the family—blood and chosen—that had carried him here.


---

As evening fell, the house glowed with Christmas lights, the families gathered for a final toast. Lando’s arm was around Oscar’s shoulders, their closeness no longer a secret, their parents’ smiles knowing but kind while Flo mouthed Told you so across the room.

Oscar’s hand found Lando’s under the table, their fingers lacing, the apple carving in his pocket a quiet promise.

They didn’t have all the answers—Lando’s F1 world, Oscar’s London life, the challenges ahead—but they had each other, a love carved in Bristol summers and sealed in snowy confessions. As the clock struck midnight, ushering in a new day, Oscar leaned into Lando, their lips brushing in a soft kiss, the world fading to just them, forever finally theirs.