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Lando Norris had heard it all before.
That omegas didn’t belong in Formula 1. That their instincts were “too distracting.” That no matter how talented, they’d always be ruled by biology.
But from the moment he first pulled on a helmet, Lando had decided he wasn’t going to let anyone write his story for him.
He was an omega, yes.
And he was also quick. Sharp. Relentless. He was the kind of driver who could thread a car through rain-soaked corners like it was second nature.
The kind of driver who would fight tooth and nail for every position. If the world expected him to bow his head, he only lifted it higher.
By 2025, he’d carved out his space on the grid.
He wasn’t “Lando the Omega.”
He was just Lando Norris: McLaren’s fighter, a driver the fans adored, a name that lit up the timing boards.
And if sometimes his body tugged at him in ways he didn’t care to admit—restless nights, the instinct to hoard warmth, the flicker of longing when his scent tangled with someone else’s—he buried it deep beneath race prep and adrenaline.
No one had to know. No one ever would.
At least, that’s what he thought. Because sharing a team with Oscar Piastri meant his carefully kept walls would be tested. Oscar was an alpha, calm where Lando was fiery, grounded where Lando sparked.
The paddock called him the “golden boy,” unflappable even under pressure.
To Lando, he was more complicated than that—quiet eyes that saw too much, a presence that made his instincts hum.
And one night, in a hotel room that smelled of rain and tired engines, Oscar would walk through a door Lando hadn’t meant to open.
Straight into the soft, hidden part of himself that he thought he’d never show anyone.
Oscar had a talent for observation. He didn’t speak much in the paddock unless necessary, but he watched. He noticed things.
And when it came to Lando, there was a lot to notice.
On track, his teammate was fire—sharp turns, bold moves, laughter that sometimes sounded reckless but hid a precise edge.
Off track, though, Oscar picked up on details the rest of the world never saw.
Like how Lando always carried an extra hoodie in his bag, even in summer. Or how he bristled if someone borrowed one without asking, his shoulders tight until it was returned.
How he always sat in the same spot at debriefs, chair pulled slightly closer to the wall.
How he lined up his water bottle and gloves neatly on the table before slipping into the car, like small anchors he couldn’t let go of.
They were small things—easy to miss. But Oscar didn’t.
One evening, after practice in Austria, he found Lando curled up in the corner of the motorhome lounge, wrapped in two hoodies at once.
Everyone else had gone, the lights dimmed, the hum of rain against the windows filling the silence.
“You’re going to overheat like that,” Oscar said quietly, stepping in.
Lando’s head shot up, cheeks pink. “I’m fine.”
His tone was defensive, but his body betrayed him—curling in tighter, clutching the sleeves like they were lifelines.
Oscar didn’t push. He only nodded, filing the moment away with all the other little pieces of Lando Norris he kept noticing.
Because it wasn’t weakness, Oscar realized. It was instinct. Quiet, unspoken, but strong all the same.
And he had a feeling he hadn’t even begun to see the whole picture yet.
For all the noise that followed him—media questions, camera flashes, fans tugging at his name—Lando had carved out one space that was entirely his.
His hotel room.
His nest.
He never called it that out loud. It was too omega, too raw, too revealing. But in truth, it was exactly what it was: a little sanctuary built from the scraps of comfort he could gather.
Pillows stolen from the other bed, blankets tugged from housekeeping carts, hoodies layered one on top of the other until the corner of the room turned into a cocoon.
It was messy, chaotic, and completely unlike the polished image he showed outside.
When the pressure clawed too close, when every microphone shoved in his face made his chest tight, Lando retreated here. He curled into the pile, buried his nose in the fabric, and let the world fade.
Lately, though, the pile had changed.
It wasn’t just random blankets or his own hoodies anymore. There were pieces that didn’t belong to him—subtle at first, a cap Oscar had left behind after a sponsor shoot, a water bottle sleeve that still smelled faintly like him.
Then came the hoodies. Soft cotton with Oscar’s scent clinging stubbornly to the fabric, something sharp and grounding beneath the faint mix of fuel and hotel soap.
Lando hadn’t meant to collect them, not really. One left in the motorhome, another tossed his way on a cold evening—each one found its way into the nest before he even realized what he was doing.
It was embarrassing, if he thought about it too long. Wrong, maybe, to want the steadiness of his alpha teammate so close.
But when the walls closed in and his own thoughts tangled, curling up in Oscar’s scent made it easier to breathe.
And no one had to know.
No one ever would.
At least, until the night Oscar opened the wrong door.
Oscar didn’t lose things. He was careful like that—methodical with his gear, precise with his belongings, almost obsessive about knowing where everything was.
So when his favorite McLaren hoodie went missing after practice in Japan, he knew it wasn’t carelessness.
He retraced his steps: from the garage, to the motorhome, to the hotel.
Nowhere.
Not in the laundry, not in his bag, not hanging where he usually left it.
Finally, curious and a little annoyed, he asked one of the hotel cleaning staff if they’d seen it.
“Oh,” the woman said, tilting her head.
“Your teammate already took it.”
Oscar blinked. “Lando?”
She smiled. “Yes, Mr. Norris. He said it was yours but he wanted to keep it safe.”
Safe.
Oscar thanked her politely, but the word echoed in his head long after she walked away. Why would Lando need to keep his hoodie safe?
It wasn’t the first odd thing he’d noticed, either. The way Lando tensed if someone tried to sit on “his” hotel bed.
The way he always seemed to hoard the softest blankets in the motorhome lounge. The faintest whiff of his own scent clinging to Lando’s bag once, so subtle Oscar almost thought he imagined it.
Something was there.
Something Lando wasn’t telling him.
And while Oscar didn’t push—didn’t want to corner him—he knew, with the same quiet certainty he saved for race day strategy, that eventually he’d find out the truth.
Oscar hadn’t meant to walk into Lando’s room.
He’d been on his way to drop off a set of race notes, half-distracted, half-tired, and when the keycard beeped green instead of red, he didn’t think twice.
Until the door clicked open.
And he froze.
The room smelled like Lando, sharp with adrenaline and the faint sweetness of omega pheromones—and layered beneath it, unmistakable, his own scent.
Faint but present, clinging to fabric, soaking into the air.
In the corner, against the bed, was a nest.
Not just a mess of blankets—no, this was deliberate. Pillows stacked, duvets folded in on themselves, a cocoon of softness.
And tucked among it all, his missing hoodie. Another one too. A cap. A sleeve. Little pieces of him woven into Lando’s secret sanctuary.
Oscar’s chest tightened. Not with anger—never anger. Something warmer, quieter. A tenderness so strong it made his throat ache.
Lando appeared from the bathroom, hair damp from a shower, towel draped around his neck. He froze mid-step. His eyes widened, darting from Oscar to the nest and back again.
“Shit,” Lando whispered, voice breaking. His cheeks flushed red, hands twisting in the towel.
“It’s not—it’s not what it looks like, I swear—”
Oscar raised a brow, calm as ever. “Really? Because it looks like you stole my hoodie.”
Lando’s ears went scarlet. “I didn’t steal it, I just—borrowed. And—and it helps, okay? It’s stupid, I know, just—don’t—”
His words tumbled over themselves, frantic, embarrassed. “Don’t laugh at me.”
Oscar didn’t laugh. He stepped further into the room, eyes softening as he took in the nest again.
Slowly, without a word, he tugged the hoodie off his shoulders—the one he’d been wearing—and set it gently on top of the pile.
Lando blinked, stunned. “…What are you doing?”
Oscar finally looked at him, gaze steady. “Adding to it.”
Silence stretched, heavy and fragile, until Lando buried his face in his hands, groaning.
“You’re supposed to be mad, not—whatever this is.”
“Mad?” Oscar tilted his head. “Why would I be mad? You made a nest. With my stuff. That’s… cute.”
“Don’t call it cute,” Lando muttered, muffled behind his hands. His ears burned, his whole body coiled with embarrassment.
But Oscar only smiled faintly, the warmth in his chest spreading like fire. Because in this room, in this secret pile of blankets and hoodies, he didn’t just see Lando’s vulnerability.
He saw trust.
And it made his heart ache in the best possible way.
Lando was still red-faced when Oscar finally set the envelope of race notes on the desk.
It felt almost surreal, the normality of it — technical breakdowns and tire strategy sitting in a room that smelled like warm pheromones and embarrassment.
Oscar straightened, dusting his hands like nothing unusual had just happened. “By the way,” he said casually, “next time you want one of my hoodies, you could just ask.”
Lando peeked at him through his fingers, groaning. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
Oscar tilted his head, lips twitching. “Not when you keep sneaking around like a thief in the night.”
“I’m not sneaking,” Lando protested, cheeks still pink. “I just—needed it.”
Oscar leaned against the desk, arms folded. His tone softened, but his eyes gleamed with quiet mischief.
“If you need something, Lando, I’ll give it to you. You don’t have to silently rob my wardrobe like some omega Robin Hood.”
Lando dropped his hands, glaring half-heartedly. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe.” Oscar’s mouth quirked.
“But seriously. No more stealing. You want a hoodie? Take it. You want all of them? Fine. Just—don’t think you have to hide it from me.”
Lando’s throat bobbed. His instinct fought with his pride, his omega urges tangled with the fear of giving too much away.
“You make it sound so easy,” he muttered.
Oscar shrugged, utterly calm. “It is easy. You want something of mine, I’ll give it to you.”
He let the pause stretch, then added with the faintest smirk “Blankets. Hoodies. Hell, you could probably ask for my whole bed and I’d still say yes.”
Lando’s eyes went wide. “Don’t joke like that.”
Oscar pushed off the desk, stepping closer just enough to let his scent brush warm against Lando’s space, steady and grounding.
“Who said I was joking?”
The air tightened, charged. Lando’s cheeks flamed all over again, his heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with embarrassment this time.
And Oscar, calm as ever, simply picked up the race notes again and tapped them against Lando’s chest.
“Read these. Then get some rest. Your nest isn’t going anywhere.”
The Saudi airport heat still clung to Oscar’s skin by the time he walked through the lobby doors of the hotel.
Cool air-conditioning wrapped around him, and the low hum of voices carried across the marble floor — staff, drivers, and the usual chaos of race week arrivals.
He spotted Lando instantly.
Not because he was looking, but because Lando’s voice carried — sharp, panicked, tumbling over itself at the front desk with a poor McLaren procurement staffer caught in the line of fire.
“What do you mean my luggage isn’t here?” Lando’s voice pitched higher than usual, his hand raking through his hair.
“You don’t get it — I need it. It’s not just clothes, it’s—” His words cut off, panic flickering in his eyes.
Oscar set his bag down and walked over, calm as a tide. “Lando.”
Lando turned, wild-eyed. Relief hit his expression for half a second, then frustration took over again.
“Oscar, they lost my bag. My—my important bag.”
Oscar’s brow lifted, deliberate, grounding.
“Important like… toothbrush and socks important? Or important like… hoodie stash important?”
Lando’s face went red instantly, ears burning. “Shut up. It’s not funny.”
Oscar almost smiled — almost — but he schooled his expression into something softer.
He placed a steady hand on Lando’s shoulder, his scent slipping out in quiet reassurance, wrapping calm around the edges of Lando’s panic.
“Hey. Breathe. We’ll sort it out.”
Lando exhaled shakily, still tense but a fraction steadier under Oscar’s touch.
“They don’t understand,” he muttered.
“That bag had—stuff I need this week.”
Oscar squeezed lightly, leaning closer so only Lando could hear. “I know what was in it.” His voice dropped, teasing but kind.
“Don’t worry. Worst case, you’ve already got one hoodie waiting upstairs. Two, actually. And if that’s not enough, I’ve got plenty more.”
Lando groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe.” Oscar’s mouth curved, finally letting a smile slip. “But I’m also right. You’ll be fine. We’ll get the bag back. Until then…”
He gave Lando’s shoulder one last grounding press. “You’ve got me.”
For a moment, the chaos of the lobby fell away. Lando let out a breath, shoulders easing, tension bleeding off him like steam.
And though he wouldn’t admit it out loud — not here, not in front of anyone else — the only thing that really calmed him wasn’t the promise of his luggage.
It was Oscar.
It was past midnight when the knock came.
Oscar was stretched out on his bed, half-asleep, scrolling through race notes he’d already memorized twice.
The sound startled him, quiet but insistent, a rhythm that spoke more of nerves than confidence.
He got up, padded barefoot across the carpet, and opened the door.
Lando stood there. Hoodie pulled tight around himself, eyes wide and restless, like he hadn’t slept a minute.
Oscar’s chest tightened. “Lando.”
“I—” Lando swallowed, glancing down the hall, then back up at him. His voice was low, frayed around the edges.
“I can’t… I can’t settle. Not without my stuff. I tried, but it’s just—too much. I keep—” He shook his head, frustrated with himself.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”
Oscar didn’t let him spiral. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, voice calm, steady. “Don’t apologize.”
Lando fidgeted with his sleeve, cheeks burning. “I sound pathetic.”
“You sound like you need rest.” Oscar tilted his head, studying him for a beat, then stepped aside and opened the door wider.
His voice softened. “How about here? You can sleep here. If my scent’s okay.”
Lando blinked, caught between disbelief and something that made his throat tight.
“You—you mean that?”
Oscar shrugged lightly, as if it wasn’t monumental, even though his chest ached with the weight of it.
“Of course. You’ve been stealing my hoodies for weeks. Might as well go straight to the source.”
Lando’s ears went red. “You’re insufferable.”
But he stepped inside.
Oscar shut the door gently, the room falling quiet again. For a moment, neither of them moved — until Lando’s shoulders sagged, tension slipping out of him like air from a balloon.
Oscar nodded toward the bed. “Go on. Get comfortable. I’ll stay on this side.”
Lando hesitated only a second before crawling under the covers. His body curled instinctively, face pressed into the pillow where Oscar’s scent clung strongest.
His breathing slowed almost instantly, shaky edges smoothing out.
Oscar settled beside him, not too close, not crowding — just enough. Watching the tension unravel from Lando’s frame, he felt warmth flood his chest, steady and quiet.
He hadn’t planned for this. But he knew, without question, he’d let Lando knock on his door every night if it meant he could finally rest.
Qualifying had gone to hell.
Lando barely made it out of Q1 before his car sputtered, technical gremlins shutting down any chance of progress.
By the time he dragged himself back into the paddock, his chest was tight with frustration, his jaw aching from how hard he’d been clenching it.
But it wasn’t just anger.
The scent that clung to him wasn’t the usual bright-spark adrenaline of competition.
It was restless, unsettled, edged with something raw that any alpha could pick up on. And Oscar, walking past the row of driver rooms, noticed it instantly.
He hesitated only a second before knocking once and stepping inside.
Lando was slumped on the couch, still in his fireproofs, staring blankly at the floor.
His hands tugged absently at the sleeves of his undershirt, like he was trying to fold himself into something that wasn’t there.
Oscar closed the door softly behind him.
“Bad session,” he said simply.
Lando huffed a hollow laugh. “You don’t say.”
But his scent betrayed more than annoyance.
It screamed unsettled, the kind of omega discomfort that had nothing to do with lap times and everything to do with the fact that his luggage — his nest — was still floating somewhere between continents.
Oscar crouched down in front of him, steady, voice low. “Lando.”
Brown eyes flicked up, sharp with exhaustion. “What?”
“You need your nest,” Oscar said gently.
“But since your stuff’s still stuck… how about we make one? In my room.”
Lando’s mouth parted, breath catching. “You—you’re serious?”
Oscar’s gaze didn’t waver. “Completely. I’ll help you set it up however you want. Blankets, pillows, hoodies — whatever makes it easier for you. My scent’s already there. If that helps.”
Color rushed into Lando’s cheeks, ears burning crimson. “You can’t just—say things like that.”
“Why not?” Oscar’s tone was simple, almost teasing, but there was weight behind it.
“You’ve been carrying this all alone. You don’t have to.”
Lando’s throat bobbed. He wanted to argue, to brush it off, but the ache in his chest and the tight knot in his gut wouldn’t let him.
And the calm warmth rolling off Oscar’s scent made it harder to hold his walls up.
Finally, quietly, he whispered “Okay.”
Oscar’s lips quirked — not triumphant, just soft. He stood, offering a hand. “Come on, then. Let’s build it together.”
For the first time all day, something inside Lando eased.
Oscar’s room was bigger than Lando’s — neat, sterile, with nothing personal except the open suitcase in the corner. It didn’t feel lived in. Not yet.
But that changed quickly.
“First,” Lando said, already tugging at the hotel bedding, stripping the sheets off with a kind of quiet determination, “you need a base. Something soft.”
Oscar leaned against the dresser, watching with folded arms. “You sound like you’ve already mastered it.”
Lando shot him a look, cheeks coloring. “Obviously. I am an omega, you know.”
Oscar bit back a smile. “Fair point.”
Together, they dragged the thick duvet onto the floor. Lando crouched down, smoothing it out, then tossed the pillows into a pile on top.
He glanced up when Oscar didn’t move. “Don’t just stand there. You have to help.”
Oscar pushed off the dresser, kneeling beside him. “Alright. Teach me.”
So Lando did. He handed Oscar a spare blanket, directing him to fold it “not too neat, it has to feel layered,” and grumbled when Oscar tried to stack the pillows in a perfect line.
“No, messy. Like this.” Lando shoved them into a haphazard pile, then burrowed his face into one.
His shoulders loosened instantly. “See? Much better.”
Oscar’s chest warmed at the sight. “Okay. Messy. Got it.”
Bit by bit, the nest took shape. Lando moved with instinct, weaving the hotel blankets into a circle, scattering pillows, and—finally—pulling out the one thing he’d brought from his own room, his pillow.
He hugged it tight, nose pressing into the fabric before placing it carefully in the center. “This one makes it complete,” he murmured, voice softer now.
Oscar crouched back on his heels, watching. “Because it smells like you.”
Lando’s face burned. “Shut up.”
But Oscar didn’t tease further. Instead, he stood, tugged off his hoodie, and tossed it onto the pile. The faint orange and black stood out against the whites and grays of the hotel bedding.
“Better,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando stared at the hoodie, then at him. “You… really don’t mind?”
Oscar shook his head, eyes steady. “No. If it makes you feel settled, then it’s worth it.”
Lando’s throat tightened. He ducked his head, busying himself with fluffing the pillow pile, but his hands trembled just a little.
They finished together, side by side, the room now transformed into something softer, warmer — a circle of comfort, built not just from blankets and pillows but from the quiet trust between them.
When Lando finally curled into the nest, Oscar lingered nearby, kneeling at the edge. Lando looked up at him, tired but easier than he had been all day.
“You did good,” Lando mumbled, already sinking into the blankets.
Oscar smiled, gentle. “You did better.”
The nest was warm, layered in fabric and scent, Lando curled up right in the middle like he belonged there.
Oscar lingered at the edge, one hand braced on the carpet, not daring to cross into the circle. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
This wasn’t just blankets and pillows — this was Lando’s space, something private, intimate.
“Don’t just sit there,” Lando mumbled, eyes heavy with exhaustion, his voice muffled against his pillow.
Oscar blinked. “What?”
Lando cracked one eye open, gaze unfocused but insistent. “You helped build it. You’re not staying outside. Come here.”
For a second, Oscar couldn’t move. Then Lando’s hand reached out, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve, tugging him closer with a quiet stubbornness that left no room for argument.
So Oscar climbed in.
The world shrank instantly — the cocoon of fabric pressing close, the faint hum of Lando’s scent surrounding him, softer and more vulnerable than he’d ever known.
Lando shifted closer without hesitation, head finding Oscar’s chest, one arm draped lazily across his stomach as though it had always been meant to be there.
Oscar froze. His muscles locked, his heartbeat a thunder in his ears. Because his instincts — the part of him he kept buried deep — roared awake.
Mine.
The word pounded through his blood, fierce and unrelenting, sharper than any adrenaline rush on track.
Every nerve screamed to wrap himself tighter around the omega pressed against him, to shield, to claim.
But Lando was already asleep. His breathing had evened out, soft and steady, trust written in every line of his relaxed body.
Oscar exhaled slowly, burying the instinct down, forcing his arms to stay loose when all he wanted was to hold tighter.
He let one hand settle gently against Lando’s back, barely there, grounding himself in the rhythm of his breaths.
He stared at the ceiling, wide awake, the scent of his omega tangled around him.
Mine, his instincts echoed, relentless.
And for the first time, Oscar didn’t argue.
The knock was sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Oscar’s eyes snapped open immediately, his body going taut. Beside him, Lando stirred, mumbling something incoherent into Oscar’s shirt before trying to burrow deeper.
The knock came again. Louder this time.
Oscar carefully untangled himself, pressing a steadying hand to Lando’s back when the omega groaned in protest.
“Shh. Stay. I’ll get it.”
Lando blinked blearily, but his eyes were heavy, scent still thick with comfort and sleep. He nodded, curling tighter into the blankets.
Oscar padded over to the door, every muscle in his body humming with tension. He cracked it open just enough to see who it was, blocking the view of the room with his own body.
Lando’s manager stood there, arms crossed, worry written all over his face.
“Where’s Lando? He’s not answering his phone.”
“He’s sleeping,” Oscar said, voice even, low. He didn’t budge from the doorway, making sure not a single sliver of the nest was visible.
“Inside. Don’t worry — he won’t be late for the race tomorrow.”
The manager blinked, surprised by the calm certainty in his tone. His eyes darted past Oscar’s shoulder, but Oscar shifted, subtle but deliberate, shutting off the line of sight.
“He’s… in your room?” the man muttered, voice dropping as if the words themselves were dangerous.
Oscar’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
Silence stretched. The manager let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face.
“God, if this ever gets out—this’ll be a headline in seconds.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed, sharp as glass. “Then don’t let it.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other — the manager weighing risk, Oscar radiating an alpha’s quiet protectiveness. Finally, the man exhaled and stepped back.
“Fine. But make sure he’s sharp tomorrow.” His voice was clipped, resigned. Then he turned, disappearing down the hall.
Oscar shut the door firmly, the latch clicking into place.
When he turned back, Lando was awake, sitting up among the blankets, hair sticking up, eyes wide. “Who was it?”
“Your manager.” Oscar walked back over, kneeling by the nest. He brushed a thumb absently over Lando’s wrist, grounding him.
“Don’t worry. I told him you were safe.”
Lando swallowed, guilt flickering across his face. “You… you didn’t let him see, did you?”
Oscar shook his head. “No. Your nest is yours. No one else gets to see it.”
Lando’s breath caught, his chest tight — not from panic, but from something else entirely.
Something softer.
The room was quiet when Oscar stirred awake. The first light of morning seeped in through the curtains, warm against the hotel carpet.
Lando was still curled deep in the nest, blanket tangled around his legs, breathing steady.
Oscar slipped out carefully, not disturbing him, and padded to the bathroom. By the time the shower hissed to life, Lando was beginning to stir.
He blinked groggily, stretching a little, the faint ache of last night’s tension gone. The nest smelled good. It smelled like home.
But when he sat up, rubbing at his eyes, the bathroom door opened with a soft click.
Oscar stepped out, towel slung low at his waist, droplets of water still sliding down his chest.
His hair was damp, pushed back, a little wild. For a second, Lando just… stared.
And then Oscar’s voice broke through, casual, grounded. “Go wash yourself. We’ll grab breakfast and head to the circuit.”
Lando snapped his gaze up, cheeks hot. “Y-yeah. Right.” He scrambled to his feet, tugging his hoodie straight. “I’ll, uh… go use my own shower.”
Oscar only hummed, turning toward his suitcase as if completely oblivious to the omega practically burning up at the sight.
Lando shuffled to the door, but paused with his hand on the handle. He glanced back, the nest still sprawled across the floor, blankets warm with his scent. His chest tightened.
“Don’t…” He hesitated, ears pink, then mumbled, “Don’t destroy my nest.”
Oscar turned, towel still at his waist, one brow raised. Then — softer than usual — he smiled. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Lando ducked out quickly before his face could give him away, heart pounding like he’d just run another quali lap.
Inside, Oscar chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his damp hair. But the smile lingered, long after the door shut.
Oscar leaned against the wall just outside Lando’s hotel room, hair already dry, dressed in his usual Mclaren tee and team shorts.
He scrolled absently through his phone, but his ears pricked the moment the door clicked open.
Lando stepped out, fresh from the shower, damp curls falling into his eyes, Mclaren hoodie soft and slightly oversized.
His scent hit immediately — warm, sweet, grounding — sharper now that the steam and soap had amplified it.
Oscar inhaled before he could stop himself. Fuck. His shoulders stiffened, instincts roaring to attention.
Lando blinked at him, a little startled. “You’ve been waiting here?”
Oscar tucked his phone away, straightening with a shrug. “Didn’t want you running late. And…” His lips quirked.
“Making sure you didn’t sneak back into your nest instead.”
Lando flushed, glancing away. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Mm.” Oscar didn’t argue. He just fell into step beside him as they made their way down to the breakfast hall.
The hotel restaurant was already buzzing with staff and a handful of other drivers.
Oscar grabbed them a quiet corner table, sliding into his seat like it was second nature. Lando followed, pulling at his sleeves, still looking a little self-conscious.
Oscar studied him over the rim of his coffee cup. “You smell different.”
Lando choked on his juice. “You can’t just say that in public!” he hissed, ears burning red.
Oscar smirked, amused. “What? It’s true. Fresher. Sweeter.” He tilted his head, leaning in just a fraction.
“Like you finally slept.”
Lando ducked his head, stabbing at his eggs with unnecessary force. “You’re impossible.”
But the corner of his mouth curved upward, just enough for Oscar to notice.
They ate in companionable quiet after that, their legs brushing occasionally under the table, subtle but not accidental.
No one seemed to notice the way Oscar leaned closer when Lando muttered something, or how Lando instinctively mirrored his posture.
To everyone else, it was just two teammates sharing breakfast before a long day at the track.
But to Oscar, every second was a fight not to reach across the table and lace their fingers together.
The paddock buzzed with its usual chaos — mechanics darting between garages, reporters clustering at barriers, fans chanting from behind fences.
Lando walked through it all with his hood up, head down, his scent soft and sweet in a way that was almost too noticeable to anyone who knew what to listen for.
Zak Brown noticed.
The older alpha wasn’t loud about it. He never was. But his sharp gaze followed Lando from the moment he stepped into the garage, lingering on the subtle shifts — the way the omega tugged his sleeves tighter, the faint flush to his cheeks, the soft edge of his scent.
It wasn’t weakness. No. If anything, it was steadier than usual.
Calmer. Settled.
And every time Zak’s eyes tracked Lando, he found the same thing; Oscar.
Hovering nearby, just a fraction closer than necessary. Leaning in when Lando spoke, hand brushing his shoulder as if grounding him.
Watching, with a quiet intensity that screamed of instinct rather than coincidence.
Zak’s jaw tightened around a half-smile, his thoughts sharp. He’d been around long enough to recognize the signs: an alpha stepping into a role he hadn’t announced, an omega shifting his scent without even realizing it.
He didn’t say anything. Not yet. He just observed.
And when Oscar caught his gaze across the garage — protective stance obvious, shoulders squared — Zak lifted one brow, as if to say, I see you.
Oscar didn’t flinch. He just met the look, steady and unyielding, then turned back to Lando with a quiet hand on his back, guiding him toward the engineers’ briefing.
Zak exhaled through his nose, folding his arms.
This wasn’t going to stay hidden for long.
The podium celebrations spilled back into the garage, bottles still half-full, champagne spraying in arcs that left everyone soaked and sticky.
Mechanics cheered, engineers whooped, and the air was a haze of sweat, sugar, and pure victory.
Lando was at the center of it, laughing breathlessly as another burst of champagne hit him square in the chest.
His curls were plastered to his forehead, eyes sparkling as he shoved one of the crew back with playful vengeance.
Oscar stood nearby, arms damp, shirt clinging, watching with a grin that refused to fade.
He couldn’t help it — seeing Lando glow like this, cheeks flushed, laughter unguarded, made something in his chest twist tight.
“Oi, Oscar, you’re not safe either!” Lando yelled, darting closer and aiming his half-empty bottle at Oscar.
Oscar laughed, dodging half a second too late, catching the spray full on his shoulder. The cold fizz hit, but he only shook his head, still grinning.
“You’re dead, Norris.”
The garage roared with laughter, team members egging them on.
It was in the middle of that chaos that Zak appeared, moving slower than the rest, but with that ever-watchful presence.
He clapped one mechanic on the back, let the noise wash over him, then turned just slightly—towards Oscar.
Oscar was still laughing, eyes on Lando, completely at ease in the madness. That’s when Zak leaned closer, his voice low, steady, meant only for him.
“Careful, son…” Zak’s eyes flicked toward Lando, soaked and radiant in the center of it all.
“…maybe I need to call an emergency meeting in case you both slip in here.”
Oscar froze for half a second, grin still on his face but his chest tightening. He glanced at Zak, who wore a knowing smile, the kind that didn’t need explanation.
And then Zak was gone again, blending into the celebration, leaving Oscar with the faintest echo of warning humming in his ears.
Across the garage, Lando caught his gaze and waved him over, still dripping, still laughing.
Oscar shook off the weight, stepping back into the noise, but Zak’s words lingered like a brand against his skin.
The hotel hallway was quiet, a stark contrast to the roaring garage hours before.
Their laughter had faded, but Lando still carried that glow with him — victory lingering in his posture, his smile soft but unstoppable.
Oscar unlocked his door, stepping aside automatically. He didn’t even have to invite Lando in anymore; the omega slipped past him like he belonged there.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of the nest they’d built days before. Lando’s scent clung to the sheets, the pillows, the hoodie draped at the edge of the bed.
It hit Oscar the second he closed the door behind them, and his pulse stumbled.
Lando tugged his hoodie over his head, tossing it carelessly onto the chair. His curls were still damp from the champagne, his grin looser, freer than Oscar had seen in months.
“Figured I should undo it before housekeeping thinks you’ve gone feral,” he teased, kneeling by the bed.
Oscar chuckled, leaning against the wall, watching as Lando carefully pulled apart the nest — folding his blanket, tugging his pillow free, smoothing out the sheets with gentle hands.
And it was then — when Lando leaned over the bed, humming under his breath, his scent spilling out warm and sweet, like strawberries in the sun — that Oscar felt something inside him crack.
Maybe it was adrenaline still buzzing in his veins. Maybe it was the victory high that made everything sharper. Or maybe it was just Lando, smiling soft, scent wrapping around him like a promise.
Oscar pushed off the wall, crossing the room before he could think better of it.
“Lando…”
The omega turned, blinking up at him, a little startled.
Oscar leaned closer, not quite touching, close enough that Lando could feel his warmth.
His voice dropped, rough with something unspoken. “You smell… happy.”
Lando swallowed, lips parting. His lashes fluttered, and then — almost instinctively — he closed his eyes.
The world seemed to still around them, suspended in the quiet. Oscar’s breath caught, hovering at the edge of a line neither of them had dared to cross.
And for the first time, Lando didn’t step back.
His eyes stayed shut, lips parted ever so slightly, as if he was waiting.
Oscar’s chest tightened. He should step back, should remind himself this was dangerous, that Zak’s words were still echoing in his head.
But with Lando standing there, scent so sweet it made the air heavy, he couldn’t.
He leaned in.
Softly, carefully, he pressed his lips to Lando’s.
The kiss was tentative at first — the lightest brush, like testing fragile glass — but the moment Lando sighed against him, melting forward, Oscar’s control frayed.
One hand came up, cupping the back of Lando’s neck, pulling him closer.
It wasn’t hungry, not yet. It was slow, warm, full of everything Oscar hadn’t allowed himself to say.
And Lando kissed back with equal softness, fingers curling into Oscar’s shirt, clinging as if afraid he’d let go.
The world outside didn’t exist. Just the two of them, pressed together in a hotel room that smelled like safety, like strawberries, like home.
Oscar deepened it, lips parting slightly, tasting the sweetness that had been driving him mad for weeks.
Lando let out the faintest whimper — small, unguarded — and it sent fire through Oscar’s veins.
He wanted more. God, he wanted—
Ring. Ring.
The sound shattered the moment.
Lando jolted, pulling back with wide eyes, cheeks flushed pink. His phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand, screen lighting up with his manager’s name.
“Shit,” Lando muttered, fumbling to grab it, pressing the phone to his ear.
“Yeah? …What? Oh. Okay.” He paused, shoulders slumping, then forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Right. Got it.”
He hung up, turning to Oscar with a sheepish look. “They said the jet will be ready in an hour. We’ve got to leave soon.”
Oscar stood frozen, lips tingling, heartbeat still racing in his throat.
Lando’s gaze darted to him, then away, as if the silence was too much to bear. “Um… we should probably pack.”
Oscar nodded, but he didn’t move. His thoughts were a blur, his body still screaming mine.
That first kiss had been a mistake. A dangerous, reckless mistake.
And yet… he already knew he’d do it again.
Another race week.
The airport chaos, the long flight, the media gauntlet — it all blurred together until finally, finally, the team spilled into the hotel lobby.
Drivers half-asleep, engineers dragging their cases, managers huddled over last-minute schedules.
Lando sat slouched on the couch, hoodie tugged tight around him, thumb tapping aimlessly at his phone screen.
His luggage, for once, sat safely at his feet — no disasters this weekend, at least not yet.
Oscar dropped his bag nearby, settling into the seat beside him. He stretched his legs out, rolling his shoulders like the travel hadn’t touched him at all.
For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the hum of the lobby filling the gaps. Then, casually — so casual it made Lando’s heart stumble — Oscar said,
“Just… stay at mine, yeah?”
Lando blinked, head snapping toward him. “Wh—what?”
Oscar’s eyes softened, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “The nest. I’ll help build it again.”
His tone was low, meant only for Lando, but steady. Certain.
Heat rushed up Lando’s neck, painting his ears pink. He fumbled with his phone, clutching it like armor, anything to keep his hands from shaking.
His chest squeezed so tight it was hard to breathe.
“Y-you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Oscar interrupted gently, gaze never wavering.
The lobby was too loud, too bright, too open for this kind of conversation. And yet, in that moment, it felt like there was no one else there.
Just Oscar, waiting, offering something Lando couldn’t deny.
Lando swallowed hard, eyes dropping to his lap. Slowly, he nodded, the tiniest movement, but enough.
Oscar’s grin deepened, satisfied, before he leaned back in his chair, arms folded like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But Lando’s heart was a mess, thudding wildly as he clutched his phone tighter.
Because the truth was — he wanted it too.
The keycard clicked, and Oscar’s hotel room door swung open. Without a second thought, Lando lugged his suitcase inside and let it thump against the wall.
His own assigned room down the hall stayed dark, untouched, like it didn’t exist.
Oscar tossed his bag onto the bed, glancing over at the growing pile of Lando’s things in his space.
He didn’t comment, not out loud — but there was the smallest flicker of a smile on his lips as he straightened up.
“You hungry?” he asked, tone casual, though his eyes lingered a little longer than necessary.
Lando blinked, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie. “Uh… yeah, maybe.”
Oscar grabbed his wallet from the nightstand, slipping it into his back pocket.
“Heard butter tarts in Canada are meant to be good. Want to go try?”
The suggestion was so normal it almost startled Lando. He’d expected a debrief, a nap, maybe fussing over the nest.
Not this — not something that sounded dangerously close to a… date.
Still, he nodded quickly, trying to ignore the heat rising in his chest. “Yeah. Okay.”
They both knew better than to make a scene, so when they left the hotel, it was without fuss.
Sunglasses on, caps tugged low, shoulders close but not quite brushing. Just two drivers slipping out into the Toronto afternoon.
The air was cool, crisp with a breeze that tugged at Lando’s hood. His steps were quick, almost nervous, like he expected a swarm of fans to appear at any moment.
Oscar matched his pace easily, hands tucked in his pockets. “Relax,” he murmured, low enough only Lando could hear. “We’ll be fine.”
And somehow, that steadied him.
They found a little bakery tucked on a corner, warm light spilling out the windows.
No one seemed to pay them much attention, and for once, it felt like they could just… be.
Lando sank into a booth, pulling his cap lower, while Oscar ordered two butter tarts and coffees at the counter.
When he came back and slid into the seat across from him, their eyes met for a moment too long, both of them hiding smiles.
It was quiet, it was simple — but for Lando, it felt like the most dangerous thing of all.
The butter tarts arrived warm, golden filling glistening beneath flaky pastry.
Lando eyed them suspiciously, fork poised like he wasn’t sure whether this Canadian delicacy was trustworthy.
Oscar raised a brow across the table. “What? Scared of a little sugar?”
Lando shot him a glare, but it lacked heat. “I’m just saying, it looks like it’ll burn my tongue.”
“Then wait,” Oscar replied simply, already cutting into his own tart with practiced ease.
He took a bite, hummed, and leaned back in satisfaction. “Okay, that’s good. Like… really good.”
Lando narrowed his eyes, then, not to be outdone, he scooped a piece onto his fork and shoved it into his mouth.
The sweetness hit instantly, rich and buttery, and his face lit up despite himself.
“Alright,” he admitted around the bite, “that’s actually amazing.”
Oscar smirked, watching him too closely. “Knew you’d like it.”
They settled into an easy rhythm, the hum of the café around them fading into the background.
Every so often, Oscar would glance up from his tart and find Lando chewing in exaggerated thought, or kicking him lightly under the table as if to say don’t look at me like that.
It was normal. It was safe. It was—
“Hold still,” Oscar interrupted his own thoughts, leaning forward.
Lando froze. “What—”
Oscar reached across the table, thumb swiping just at the corner of Lando’s mouth where a bit of sticky filling clung.
He wiped it away with casual ease, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Except it wasn’t. Not when Oscar’s touch lingered a beat too long, his eyes darkened in amusement.
Not when Lando felt his entire body go hot under the brush of skin.
“There,” Oscar said softly, withdrawing his hand, licking the bit of sugar from his thumb like it was nothing. “Messy eater.”
Lando’s ears turned crimson. “Shut up.”
Oscar chuckled, leaning back into his seat, clearly pleased with himself. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it a secret.”
The words hung between them, heavy with an unspoken like everything else we’re hiding.
Lando ducked his head, stabbing his fork into the tart again just to have something to do.
But his lips tingled, and his chest ached, and God, this felt more dangerous than any track in the world.
The race was chaos from start to finish. McLaren’s strategy had unraveled lap by lap, pit stops mistimed, weather calls all wrong.
By the checkered flag, both orange cars limped home far from where they’d started.
Oscar pulled his helmet off in parc fermé, jaw tight but expression unreadable, shoulders squared in that calm, collected way that made him impossible to read.
He gave the required interviews, clipped and professional, the kind of lines that didn’t give away the frustration burning just under his skin.
Lando wasn’t as composed.
The cameras caught everything — the slump of his shoulders, the way his voice cracked just slightly as he muttered about “missed opportunities” and “not what we deserved.”
His eyes gave him away, sharp and wet with disappointment, like the weight of the world was pressing down on him in front of millions.
A question cut too deep — “Do you feel like you’re falling short compared to your teammate?” — and Lando’s face faltered.
That was when Oscar appeared.
No words. No grand gestures. Just a hand slipping onto Lando’s shoulder, a light squeeze of steady warmth.
The cameras were still rolling, the microphones still in his face, but Lando’s lips twitched.
The disappointment didn’t vanish, but it softened, dulled at the edges. His body straightened, like someone had reminded him he wasn’t carrying it alone.
Oscar stayed beside him, silent but unmovable, until the interview ended.
Later, as they walked back toward the garage, Lando bumped their shoulders together, voice low enough only Oscar could hear.
“Thanks.”
Oscar didn’t look at him, just shoved his hands in his pockets. “Anytime.”
The hotel room was quiet when they returned, but the silence wasn’t peaceful.
It clung to the walls like static, thick with everything the cameras hadn’t captured — the cracks in Lando’s voice, the way his scent had soured with disappointment.
Oscar leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching.
Lando didn’t speak. He barely even looked at him. He just moved.
The bedcovers were stripped in one sweep, dragged to the floor. Pillows piled high. Hoodies, jackets, and blankets gathered with frantic precision.
His own suitcase lay half-open, spilling clothes as he rummaged through it like he was running out of time.
Oscar’s travel blanket ended up on top of the heap. The hoodie he’d worn last night, folded neatly before, was tugged free and buried in the center.
A pair of his joggers. His spare cap.
Piece by piece, the nest grew larger, wider, until it swallowed nearly the entire corner of the room.
Lando crawled into it without ceremony, curling in the middle, hoodie pressed tight to his chest like an anchor.
His breaths came unevenly, scent sharp with exhaustion and something brittle.
And Oscar — for the first time — realized how delicate this really was.
On track, Lando was fire and steel, sharp edges and stubborn grit. But here, stripped of cameras and helmets, he looked breakable.
A boy clinging to fabric, to scent, to scraps of comfort that should’ve been his all along.
Oscar’s chest ached. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. He just watched.
Because this wasn’t something to laugh at. It wasn’t something to tease. This was Lando unraveling, showing him the soft, hidden truth no one else got to see.
And maybe he cared more than he should — because all Oscar wanted to do was climb into that nest too, wrap himself around Lando, and promise he’d never have to piece himself back together alone again.
“Hey…”
Oscar’s voice was quiet, almost unsure, as he finally stepped away from the doorframe.
The floor creaked under his weight, the only sound in the dim room besides Lando’s uneven breaths.
Lando shifted, just barely, but didn’t look up. His face was half-hidden in Oscar’s hoodie, curls messy, eyes heavy with the kind of exhaustion no amount of sleep could fix.
Oscar crouched by the edge of the nest, fingers brushing the pile of fabric like he was testing it.
“Bad days happen sometimes,” he murmured. “No need to worry much. You’ll bounce back.”
That earned him the faintest sound — a snort, bitter and tired. “Easy for you to say.”
Oscar swallowed, throat tight. He should leave it there, let Lando have the space. But something tugged deeper, heavier, and before he knew it, he was pushing his way inside.
The nest dipped under his weight.
Lando’s eyes snapped up, wide and startled, locking with his.
And God, Oscar realized in that instant he was wrong — so wrong — for looking directly into them.
Wrong because what he saw there was raw, unguarded, meant for no one else. Fragility and longing, trust and need, all tangled in one impossible gaze.
Oscar’s chest ached. His hand moved on instinct, settling over Lando’s wrist, grounding.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said softly.
Lando blinked at him, lips parting like he wanted to argue — but then the fight drained out of him all at once.
He leaned forward, just enough that his forehead brushed Oscar’s shoulder, hoodie slipping against bare skin.
Oscar exhaled, something primal curling tight in his chest. He shifted closer, wrapping an arm around Lando’s back, pulling him in until they fit together in the mess of blankets and pillows.
Protective. Claiming. Mine.
Lando sighed against him, a sound small and shaky, but when Oscar tightened his hold, he melted completely, curling into the safety offered.
For the first time all weekend, his scent softened — no longer sharp with stress, but warm, sweet, almost content.
And Oscar knew, deep in his bones, there was no turning back.
The buzz in his pocket pulled Oscar half out of sleep. He stirred, shifting just enough to reach for his phone — careful, so careful, not to disturb the weight pressed warm against his chest.
Lando was still asleep. Completely gone. His curls tickled Oscar’s skin where his face had burrowed into him, breath slow and even.
One hand had somehow fisted in Oscar’s shirt during the night and never let go.
Oscar’s chest tightened. He should move. He should wake him. He didn’t.
The phone lit up. A message.
Where are you? Jet’s ready.
Oscar blinked, the words sinking in. Shit. He’d forgotten. He’d asked Max last night if he wanted to share the flight home, and of course Max had said yes. Now he was waiting.
Oscar glanced down again.
Lando shifted slightly, sighing in his sleep, nose brushing against his chest like even unconscious, he was seeking more of him.
The fragile scent in the room had softened, wrapped around Oscar like a blanket, warm and trusting.
Oscar’s thumb hovered over the keyboard for a beat too long before he typed.
Sorry mate. I’ll take tomorrow’s jet. Lando’s feeling unwell.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself.
For a moment, guilt pricked at him — Max would cover for him, probably tease him later — but it didn’t matter. Not compared to this.
To Lando, curled against him, finally looking peaceful after days of sharp edges and heavy eyes.
Oscar set the phone face-down, sliding it away, then tightened his arm just a fraction around Lando’s waist.
“Sleep,” he whispered into the messy curls, though Lando couldn’t hear him. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time in a long while, Oscar let himself believe it.
The first thing Lando felt was warmth. Not just from the nest of blankets around him, but the steady, solid kind radiating from the chest his face was pressed against.
His lashes fluttered open. Morning light leaked through the hotel curtains, painting everything in soft gold.
For a moment, he stayed still, letting himself sink into it — the slow rise and fall of breath under his cheek, the quiet thrum of a heartbeat, the arm slung securely around his waist.
Then it hit him.
He wasn’t alone.
Lando stiffened slightly, head tilting up. Oscar was still there. Awake, apparently, because his green eyes blinked down at him, a little bleary but calm.
“Morning,” Oscar murmured, voice low and rough.
Lando blinked, brain stuttering. “You… stayed?”
“Yeah,” Oscar said simply, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though it absolutely was. He shifted just enough to stretch, but didn’t pull his arm away.
“Didn’t feel right leaving.”
Heat crept up Lando’s neck, quick and sharp. “Oh.”
They untangled slowly, reluctantly, until the nest spilled open around them. Neither of them said much as they got dressed, the silence comfortable but fragile — the kind where every brush of shoulders or glance lasted too long.
Breakfast came in the form of room service, set between them on the table. Croissants, fruit, coffee. Lando picked at his plate, still too aware of how his skin hummed from last night.
It was only halfway through his coffee that he froze, realization crashing in. “Wait. Shit.”
His eyes went wide, darting to Oscar. “You said yesterday you were flying back with Max, right? Oh no…”
Oscar stilled, fork halfway to his mouth.
Lando’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry, Oscar. You missed it because of me, didn’t you?”
Oscar set the fork down, meeting his eyes evenly. There was no frustration there, no regret. Just quiet certainty.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But it’s fine. I’ll go tomorrow instead.”
“But—”
“Lando.” Oscar’s voice was steady, cutting through his spiral. “I wanted to stay.”
Lando froze, words caught in his throat.
For a second, neither of them moved. Then Lando’s lips twitched into the smallest, unsure smile — like he didn’t quite know what to do with the weight of that truth.
And Oscar, very much aware of how wrong it was to look directly into those brown eyes again, let himself do it anyway.
What was supposed to be a quick stopover after the race stretched into something else entirely. One day bled into two, then three, until even the staff around them started raising eyebrows.
Lando’s manager texted first.
“Why are you still in Toronto? You’ve got commitments in Monaco this week.”
Lando read it, thumb hovering, then locked his phone without replying.
Oscar’s phone wasn’t any quieter. His own manager, blunt as ever, kept calling. And when Oscar ignored the fourth call, a message arrived instead,
“Your bodyguard’s still here, too. We were supposed to be home days ago. What’s going on?”
Oscar rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slow. Across the room, Lando was curled on the hotel bed, scrolling aimlessly, pretending not to notice.
Even his bodyguard looked confused, still stationed discreetly in the lobby.
He’d asked once if plans had changed, and Oscar had only muttered something about “schedule mix-ups” before brushing it off.
The truth was harder to explain.
Because how could he tell them that he stayed because of this — because of Lando, sitting cross-legged on the bed, hair messy from sleep and hoodie too big for him, looking like he belonged here?
Lando glanced up suddenly, catching Oscar’s eyes. “They asking again?”
Oscar hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Yours too?”
“Mm.” Lando’s smile was quick, crooked.
“Didn’t answer.”
Oscar’s lips twitched. “Neither did I.”
It should’ve felt reckless. It was reckless — defying schedules, ignoring obligations, letting people wonder.
But as Lando shifted closer, legs brushing against his, Oscar felt that pull again, strong enough to make every unanswered message worth it.
They’d go back. Eventually.
Just… not yet.
Toronto felt strangely safe. Different from the paddock chaos, from Monaco’s constant flashing cameras.
Here, tucked into side streets and little cafés, Oscar and Lando found something that almost felt like normal.
They slipped out of the hotel one afternoon, baseball caps tugged low, sunglasses in place.
Lando stuffed his hands deep in his hoodie pocket, walking close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then.
Oscar caught the motion in the corner of his eye — the tall figure following a few paces behind, casual but unmistakable. His bodyguard.
Only this time, not in McLaren orange, no logo to give him away. Just jeans, a dark jacket, blending in.
Lando noticed too. His lips curved in a suppressed grin. “He looks like he’s on some undercover spy mission.”
Oscar snorted. “Pretty sure he hates this more than I do.”
Still, neither of them slowed down.
They ducked into a small bakery again, the kind with steamed-up windows and shelves stacked with butter tarts and maple scones. The bell above the door chimed, and Lando immediately made a beeline for the counter, eyes lighting up at the rows of pastries.
Oscar followed, leaning against the glass display. “Don’t buy all of them. We can’t smuggle an entire bakery back to the hotel.”
“Watch me.” Lando ordered two, then turned, icing sugar already dusting his fingers before they even sat down.
They took a corner table, quiet, the hum of conversations around them just background noise. Lando leaned forward, cheeks puffed as he bit into the tart, a little crumb clinging to the corner of his lip.
Oscar reached over before he could think twice, thumb brushing it away. “You’re a mess.”
Lando froze, eyes wide. Heat flared across his cheeks before he ducked his head, muttering, “Thanks.”
For a moment, the world outside didn’t matter — not the managers calling, not the bodyguard hovering just out of sight, not the inevitability of going back.
Here, it was just them. Their bubble.
And neither of them seemed ready to let it go.
It started small. Subtle enough that no one outside their circle would notice.
But Lando did.
He noticed the way Oscar began walking closer, always keeping a hand at his back when the paddock crowd grew too tight.
The way Oscar’s voice softened when he spoke to him — a little lower, a little steadier, like he was trying to anchor Lando without saying so.
And off-track? Somehow, Lando kept ending up at Oscar’s flat.
It wasn’t planned. Not at first. Just one afternoon that stretched into an evening. Then another week, another reason — “I’ll drop by,” “we can watch footage together,”
“I’ll bring dinner.” Until it wasn’t strange anymore that Oscar would leave his door unlocked when Lando texted on my way.
His scent lingered there now — faint traces of omega sweetness curling through the air, caught in the fabric of Oscar’s couch, his hoodies, the spare blanket.
One quiet night, Lando was there again. Rain tapped against the windows. His nest — soft and small — was built in the corner of Oscar’s living room. A pile of blankets, pillows, and a familiar McLaren hoodie in the middle.
Oscar stood a few feet away, hair still damp from a shower, watching him. “You really made yourself at home, huh?”
Lando looked up from arranging the last pillow, a shy grin tugging at his lips. “You said I could, didn’t you?”
Oscar hummed, walking closer. “Yeah. I did.”
He knelt, brushing his fingers across one of the blankets — and maybe it was instinct, or maybe something else entirely, but Lando’s chest fluttered with warmth. Because there was no judgment, no teasing — just quiet acceptance.
Something between them had shifted.
And though neither said it out loud, they both felt it — the safety, the pull, the steady hum of something that didn’t feel like just friendship anymore.
The rain outside hadn’t stopped. It drummed lightly against the windows, soft and steady — the kind of sound that made everything in Oscar’s flat feel smaller, warmer, quieter.
Lando was curled up in his little corner of the living room, half-buried under layers of blankets, hood pulled over his messy curls.
The nest had expanded without him noticing — or maybe he had noticed but didn’t care. It smelled like him, and faintly of Oscar. Comfort, safety, warmth.
Oscar switched off the TV, the glow fading to a soft hum from the dim light overhead. He stretched, stifling a yawn. “Alright, you’re settled now. I’ll go crash in my room—”
“Wait.”
The word was small. Almost lost in the sound of rain.
Oscar turned, brows lifting. “Yeah?”
Lando sat up a little, tugging at the edge of the blanket. His cheeks were pink, eyes a bit too wide to be casual. “Can you…” His voice trailed off, the words tumbling out awkward and unsure. “Can you go… in?”
Oscar blinked. “Go in?”
Lando nodded, staring at his fingers twisting in the fabric. “Yeah. I just— it’s easier to sleep when you’re close. Your scent helps.”
For a heartbeat, Oscar didn’t move. Just stood there, watching the small omega in the middle of that soft, makeshift nest. The air shifted — not heavier, but warmer.
Then Oscar exhaled and smiled, quietly. “Alright,” he murmured. “Just for a bit.”
He knelt, easing himself down beside Lando, the blankets rustling as Lando instinctively leaned in. Their shoulders brushed. Lando’s scent — sweet, tired, safe — surrounded him instantly.
“Better?” Oscar asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Lando nodded, eyes half-shut already. “Mhm.”
Oscar reached over and dimmed the light even more, until the room was bathed in soft amber. He stayed still, letting Lando rest his head against his chest.
And for the first time in a long time, Oscar didn’t feel the need to move — didn’t feel the itch to pull back before anyone could see.
Because here, in the quiet hum of rain and warmth and Lando’s soft breathing, it felt right.
It felt like home.
The first thing Lando noticed was the quiet.
Not the usual rush of hotel hallway noise or the faint hum of city traffic — just the slow rhythm of breathing beneath his ear, steady and deep.
He blinked awake, sunlight cutting through the curtains in thin, golden lines. The air still smelled like the night before: warm fabric, faint traces of rain, and Oscar.
It took him another second to realize where he was. Or, rather, who he was on.
His head was pillowed on Oscar’s chest, one arm draped lazily across his waist. Oscar’s hoodie was tangled halfway between them, the same one Lando had been clutching last night.
Lando froze. Completely.
Oh shit.
He shifted slightly, but Oscar didn’t stir — just mumbled something low in his sleep, his hand automatically tightening around Lando’s back in quiet instinct. That small movement, that simple touch, made Lando’s heart skip.
It was ridiculous how right it felt.
He tilted his head up just a little. Oscar’s hair was a mess, sticking up in soft tufts, his jaw faintly shadowed, mouth parted as he breathed slow and even. He looked unfairly peaceful.
And worse — unfairly good like that.
Lando bit back a laugh that came out more like a sigh, muttering softly, “You’re impossible, Piastri.”
He stayed like that longer than he should’ve, tracing lazy circles on the blanket edge, pretending he wasn’t staring.
Then Oscar’s voice, still thick with sleep: “You’re staring.”
Lando jumped, eyes wide. “I— I wasn’t!”
Oscar cracked an eye open, smirking faintly. “You were.”
“Was not.”
“Were.”
Lando huffed, cheeks flushed. “You snore.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Prove it.”
Lando glared at him, but the corner of Oscar’s mouth tugged upward — and just like that, the tension melted into quiet laughter, the kind only shared between two people who’d long forgotten the need to keep their distance.
When they finally got up, the blankets were a mess, their hair even worse. Lando was halfway to apologizing when Oscar stopped him at the door.
“Hey,” Oscar said softly, his voice still rough with sleep. “You can stay again, you know. If the nest helps.”
Lando paused, holding his hoodie to his chest, the smallest smile curving his lips.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It does.”
And as he left for his own room, Oscar realized something that made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite name — he didn’t just want Lando to stay again.
He wanted him to never have to leave.
Race week always had its rhythm — the familiar chaos of flights, press, debriefs, and early mornings. But lately, something had shifted in the way McLaren moved.
Or rather, the way two of its drivers moved.
Oscar and Lando arrived at the circuit together that Thursday. It wasn’t unusual — not really. But the small things were different now. Lando wasn’t jittery like he usually was before media duties; Oscar wasn’t so stiffly neutral beside him.
They walked in sync — same pace, same smile when fans shouted their names. When Oscar spoke to Lando, the omega leaned in slightly, instinctively, like his body had learned to seek that calm.
And when Oscar handed him a water bottle between interviews, their fingers brushed — quick, casual, but enough for a faint mix of scents to hang in the air. Sweet strawberry warmth tangled with steady pine.
The media called it chemistry.
The team called it focus.
But the engineers who worked close enough? They just exchanged knowing glances.
Even Zak noticed, one brow raised as Lando laughed — an easy, bright sound that hadn’t been heard in weeks.
“Whatever you’re doing,” Zak muttered to Oscar, “keep it up. He’s driving better again.”
Oscar only hummed. “He’s just sleeping better, that’s all.”
Zak gave him a look. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
During the strategy meeting, it became even more obvious.
Lando and Oscar sat side by side, quietly sharing a screen. When Lando frowned, Oscar leaned over, whispering something that made the frown vanish.
A small touch to Lando’s wrist — grounding, steadying.
The air shifted around them — not heavy, but warm. Like comfort had a scent, and it was theirs.
Andrea coughed lightly, breaking the silence. “Alright, lovebirds, focus?”
Both their heads snapped up.
“We’re focused!” Lando said, a little too fast.
Oscar didn’t even look up from the tablet. “He means car focus, not… you know.”
The engineers snickered.
Lando flushed scarlet, sinking in his chair. “You’re the worst.”
Oscar only smiled faintly. “And yet you’re still sitting next to me.”
Later, when the day wound down, Lando caught himself glancing across the garage more often than he should — and every time, Oscar was already looking back.
Just a nod.
Just a smile.
Just enough.
The paddock didn’t need to know the details — the quiet nights, the nest, the soft “good mornings.” But the truth hummed between them, unspoken and glowing.
Whatever they were, whatever name it had — it was theirs.