Chapter Text
The official onboarding company handbook didn’t cover this. Which, frankly, felt like an oversight.
There was no clause. No fine print. No helpful little bullet point anywhere in the Employee Code of Conduct that explained what to do if your boss — your CEO, your terrifyingly composed, impeccably tailored, offensively attractive boss — became your boyfriend.
Lando Norris knew this because at 6.17 a.m he was sitting cross-legged on his bed, hair doing something illegal, phone in one hand, laptop in the other, aggressively rereading the handbook like it might patch itself overnight.
It did not. He scrolled faster.
Benefits.
Dress code.
Harassment policy.
Conflict of interest—
“Oh,” Lando said, sitting up so fast his neck cracked. “Oh no.”
He clicked. Conflict of interest was thorough.
There were charts. Examples. A cheerful little flow diagram that ended with DISCLOSE TO HR IMMEDIATELY in bold red letters, like a threat.
Lando slammed the laptop shut as if it had personally betrayed him. “Nope,” he informed the empty room. “We’re not doing that. Absolutely not.”
Because that would involve words. And forms. And people. And Lisa from HR giving him that calm, knowing look over her glasses — the one that said I already know and I will never forget.
This was confidential. Classified. Backstreet. Extremely illegal vibes.
He flopped back onto his pillows and stared at the ceiling. “I am dating my boss,” he whispered, once again horrified by the concept.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.
Literally.
Oscar Piastri. CEO. Control incarnate. The kind of man who probably alphabetized his spice rack and enjoyed it.
And now—his boyfriend. Lando pressed his palms into his eyes. “This is illegal in at least three moral dimensions.”
His phone buzzed.
He froze. Slowly — cautiously — like the device might explode, he lifted it.
Oscar: Morning love.
That was it.
No emoji. No punctuation flourish. Just calm. Controlled. Boyfriend-shaped minimalism. Lando’s soul attempted to leave his body via his throat.
He typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted harder.
Finally—
Lando: morning 🩷
Too much. Delete.
Lando: morning.
Too cold. Delete.
He groaned into his pillow, muffling a small scream, then tried again.
Lando: good morning. hope you slept okay.
He stared at it. Sent it. Immediately regretted every life choice he’d ever made.
The typing dots appeared almost instantly.
Oscar: I did. You?
Lando’s brain blue-screened.
You?
Just you?
Not Norris?
Not Hope you’re prepared for the 9 a.m board call?
This was dangerously intimate. This was boyfriend behavior. Oscar was already acting like this was normal and that felt… suspicious.
Lando: yes! slept great! very normal amount of sleep. no overthinking whatsoever.
There was a pause.
Then—
Oscar: Lando.
Oh god.
Oscar: You’re overthinking.
Lando rolled onto his stomach and kicked his feet against the mattress like a teenager with a crush and a pending HR violation.
Lando: i’m not overthinking. i’m thinking in advance. proactively. strategically panicking.
Another pause.
He could feel Oscar smiling somewhere.
Oscar: We agreed to take this slowly. And quietly.
“Yes!” Lando whispered to no one. “Exactly! Quiet! Extremely quiet! Monastic, even!”
Oscar: Nothing has changed at work.
Lando stared at the screen. Nothing has changed. Except Oscar had kissed him against his office desk less than twelve hours ago, hands warm and certain at his waist, voice low and honest and—
He shook his head violently.
Focus. Professionalism. Confidentiality.
Lando: right. nothing has changed. just two professional men. doing professional capitalism.
Oscar: That’s not a sentence.
Lando: it is if you believe in it.
Oscar’s reply took a little longer this time.
Oscar: You’ll be fine. Just act normal.
Lando laughed out loud — a short, hysterical sound. Normal.
He glanced at the pile of rejected outfits on his floor, the milk he’d forgotten to drink, the scarf he’d already decided would be necessary indoors. “Sure,” he told his phone.
“Normal.”
By the time Lando arrived at the office, he was operating purely on adrenaline and denial.
He’d chosen his most neutral outfit. No bright colors. No statement pieces. No emotional support Labubu visible (they were hidden inside his bag, for emergencies).
He walked into the lobby like a man entering a crime scene he was personally responsible for.
And then— “Good morning, Lando.”
He physically flinched. Oscar stood near the elevators, coat over one arm, coffee in hand, looking exactly as he always did calm, immaculate, unreadable.
Except his eyes softened when they met Lando’s. Just a fraction. Just enough. Lando’s soul left his body.
“Morning,” he said, voice cracking just slightly.
“Boss.”
Oscar’s brow lifted — subtle, but there. “We’re at work.”
“Yes! Exactly. Which is why I said—boss. Professionally. With boundaries.”
Oscar’s lips twitched. “Of course.”
They stepped into the elevator together. The doors closed. The silence was… loud.
Lando stared very intently at the floor numbers lighting up. “So. Elevator. Great invention.”
“Lando.”
“Yes?”
Oscar’s voice dropped, just enough. “Breathe.”
Lando inhaled sharply. Exhaled. Tried again.
Oscar watched him for a moment, then — quietly — reached out, brushing his knuckles against Lando’s wrist. Not holding. Not lingering.
Just grounding. It was nothing. It was everything. The elevator dinged. Oscar stepped back instantly, composure snapping back into place like armor.
“After you,” he said evenly. Lando walked out on legs that barely worked. Okay. This was happening. They could do this.
Strictly confidential. Utterly professional.
No one would ever know. Behind him, Oscar watched the way Lando squared his shoulders, muttering to himself as he walked. A small, private smile curved his lips. God help him — this was going to be impossible. And it had only just begun.
Being Oscar Piastri’s personal assistant had never been simple.
Lando had survived spreadsheets that felt personally threatening, board meetings capable of draining morale in under ten minutes, and an emotional reliance on caffeine strong enough to concern medical professionals and baristas alike.
But this? This was a new tier of problem.
Because somewhere along the line, Oscar Piastri — CEO, terrifying executive, physical embodiment of calm authority — had looked him straight in the eye and said, Just act normal.
Which was, in hindsight, a lie. A bald-faced, beautifully delivered lie.
Because apparently Oscar’s definition of normal now included kissing his assistant in places with mirrors, cameras, and absolutely no regard for Lando’s cardiovascular health.
Elevators, specifically.
Not sweet, rom-com kisses either. No — these were the heart-stopping, doors-about-to-open, brain-goes-completely-blank kind.
The kind that left Lando staring at reflective surfaces afterward like they were about to testify against him in court.
The worst one had happened last week.
And Lando thought about it every single time the elevator doors slid shut.
It had been late. Too late. The building was mostly empty, lights dimmed into that end-of-day corporate gloom where everything felt slightly unreal and deeply illegal.
Lando had stepped into the elevator first, shoulders slumped, tie loosened, hair doing that exhausted stick-up thing that screamed overworked assistant clinging to sanity.
Oscar followed him in. Calm. Collected. Entirely unfair.
The doors closed with a soft thunk, sealing them inside a box of polished steel and tension. The numbers lit up one by one as the elevator began its descent.
Lando leaned back against the wall, eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor indicator. He could still see himself in the mirrored surface — flushed cheeks, tired eyes, lips faintly pink from too much coffee and not enough sleep.
Oscar noticed. Of course he did. “You’re tired,” Oscar said quietly.
Lando huffed. “That’s what happens when you give your assistant twelve meetings and emotional trauma.”
The corner of Oscar’s mouth twitched. A smile he pretended not to have.
Then he stepped closer.
Not touching — just close enough that Lando could feel the warmth of him, the subtle brush of suit fabric when the elevator shifted.
Lando’s shoulders went rigid, fingers tightening around his coffee cup like it was a safety device.
“Boss,” Lando warned, voice thin.
Oscar tilted his head, gaze dropping. Lingering.
“Your lips are red,” Oscar said thoughtfully. Like he was discussing profit margins.
“What—” Lando blinked. “What does that even—”
“They’ve been red all day,” Oscar continued calmly. “I thought it was the lighting. But now—”
“Oscar,” Lando hissed, darting a glance at the ceiling. “There are cameras.”
Oscar followed his gaze upward, slow and deliberate.
Then he looked back at Lando, expression still composed — but his eyes softened, something reckless and warm slipping through the cracks.
“I wanted to know,” he said quietly, “if they were soft too.”
And then he kissed him. Not rushed. Not aggressive.
Just a brief press of lips — warm, sure, lingering long enough for Lando’s brain to completely shut off.
Oscar’s hand lifted instinctively, fingers brushing Lando’s jaw, thumb resting near the corner of his mouth like it belonged there.
Lando made a noise — half gasp, half protest — and shoved lightly at Oscar’s chest. “We’re — we’re in an elevator,” he whisper-yelled, face burning.
“There’s CCTV! This is a crime scene!”
Oscar pulled back just enough to look at him, utterly unrepentant. “You tasted like sugar.”
“That’s my coffee!”
“You should drink it more often.”
“Oscar!”
The elevator dinged. Lando practically launched himself out the moment the doors opened, heart attempting to escape his ribcage.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe properly until he was halfway down the corridor.
Oscar, infuriatingly, looked pleased. He quickened his pace to catch up to Lando.
“Hey—wait for me.”
What he didn’t know — what he would never be allowed to know — was that Lando didn’t sleep that night.
Because once the adrenaline faded, paranoia set in.
Hard.
Lando lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment frame by frame. The mirrored wall. The camera dome. The imagined timestamp glowing quietly in the corner of his mind.
What if someone reviewed the footage?
What if IT flagged it?
What if HR—
By 4 a.m he was fully spiraling. By 5, he was dressed. And by 6:02 a.m, Lando Norris stood outside the office building, London still half-asleep around him, dawn barely touching the skyline.
The lobby was silent. No receptionist. No security desk chatter. Just the hum of lights and the echo of his own footsteps as he swiped Oscar’s CEO access badge — borrowed (definitely not stolen) — granting him immediate executive clearance.
“Of course it does,” Lando muttered. “Must be nice.”
He moved quickly toward the security floor, corridor lights flicking on one by one like they were judging him.
Inside the security room, it smelled like old coffee and electronics. Monitors lined the wall, feeds cycling through empty hallways and dormant elevators.
Lando shut the door behind him and exhaled shakily. “Okay,” he whispered. “In, delete, out. Professional crisis management.”
His fingers flew over the controls — thank you, Oscar, for insisting he learn everything. He pulled up the elevator feed. Scrolled back.
And there it was.
Two figures. One very obvious kiss.
“Oh my god,” Lando groaned, covering his face. “We’re idiots.”
He deleted the clip.
Paused. Deleted the five minutes before it. Then the five after.
“…Just to be safe,” he whispered, glancing around like the cameras might judge him.
He slipped out of the building before seven, returned the badge, and never spoke of it again.
Which was why — standing in the office a week later — Lando flinched every time Oscar glanced toward a camera.
Every time an elevator dinged. Every time someone said the word security.
Oscar, meanwhile, acted like a man who had never told a lie in his life. Unbothered. Relaxed. Straightening his tie with infuriating tenderness.
“You’ve been jumpy all day,” Oscar murmured as he passed Lando’s desk.
Lando didn’t look up. “I have no idea what you mean, boss.”
Oscar leaned in just enough for only him to hear. “You came in early last Tuesday,” he said softly. “Very early.”
Lando froze. Slowly, he lifted his head. “…How do you know that.”
Oscar’s eyes sparkled. “Security logs.”
Lando dropped his head onto the desk with a muffled groan. “I’m dating a menace.”
Oscar smiled — soft, fond, devastating — as he walked away. “You kissed me first.”
“I literally DID NOT” Lando muttered into his sleeve. Still, despite everything— He smiled.
It had been three weeks since the confession — since Lando had stood in Oscar’s office with his heart in his throat, blurting out something stupid and honest about feelings.
And things had not gone back to normal. They were still doing everything they always did — long workdays, endless emails, lunches eaten over keyboards — but now there was an undercurrent.
A hum. A problem.
Oscar would glance up from his laptop mid-meeting just to catch Lando’s eyes. His fingers would brush Lando’s when passing a folder, lingering half a second too long like it was an accident worth repeating.
And every single time, Lando’s brain would combust like it was his first day on the job.
The worst part? No one could know.
Lando had been very clear about this. “No telling anyone, okay?” he’d said, pacing Oscar’s office. “Not finance, not legal, not marketing, not even Sean the driver—”
“Sean already knows,” Oscar had said calmly.
“WHAT.”
“He saw us holding hands in the backseat.”
“OSCAR!” Lando had screamed, genuinely considering throwing himself out a window.
So now their lives had turned into a full-blown romantic stealth operation. This morning was a prime example.
The elevator doors dinged open on the twentieth floor — executive level — and Lando stepped out first, clutching his laptop and coffee like a man entering battle.
Oscar followed behind him, immaculate as always. Dark grey suit. Pale blue shirt. That maddening air of calm authority that made even printers behave better.
Lando could feel eyes on them.
Nothing was happening. Nothing had happened. (Okay. Something had happened last week in the elevator, but they had narrowly escaped an HR-level catastrophe.)
Still, people looked. Or maybe Lando was just paranoid. Very paranoid. He cleared his throat and walked faster toward his desk.
“Okay. Remember. We’re just coworkers. Boss and assistant. Completely normal.”
Oscar’s voice floated behind him, far too amused. “We are coworkers.”
“Exactly.” Lando nodded fast.
“Who happen to spend every weekend night together,” Oscar added smoothly, stepping closer, voice dropping just enough to mean trouble.
“Tangled up in bed, breathless—”
Lando nearly dropped his coffee. “BOSS!”
Oscar passed him with infuriating ease, lips twitching. “You started it.”
Lando stared at his back, muttering, “He’s going to get me fired and I’m going to thank him for it.”
As if summoned, Oscar’s voice came through the internal line on Lando’s phone.
“Lando. My calendar looks wrong. Can you come in?”
Lando groaned. “Coming, boss.”
He stood, straightened his still-slightly-crooked tie, and marched into Oscar’s office.
Oscar didn’t look up at first, fingers moving over his keyboard. “Close the door.”
Lando did, immediately suspicious. “What’s wrong with your calendar?”
Oscar finally looked up. Smiled. “Nothing.”
Lando blinked. “Nothing?”
“Nothing work-related.”
“Oh no,” Lando said instantly. “No. We’re not doing this. Not here.”
Oscar stood, slow and deliberate, and stepped around the desk. “Doing what?”
“The thing,” Lando said wildly. “The flirting. The eyes. The tone. The—whatever you’re doing.”
Oscar stopped in front of him, lowering his voice. “You mean the part where I love you?”
Lando squeaked. Actually squeaked. “Boundaries!”
Oscar reached out, catching Lando’s pointing finger easily. “We crossed those.”
“Not. At. Work.” Lando hissed. “There are cameras!”
Oscar smirked. “Then don’t say my name so loud.”
“You are unhinged!”
“You told me to loosen up.”
“I meant emotionally!” Lando said. “Not this!”
Oscar hummed, eyes dark with amusement. “Noted.”
When Lando tried to turn away, Oscar casually reached out and straightened his tie — smoothing it, fingers brushing his throat just long enough to make Lando’s breath hitch.
“That’s harassment,” Lando said weakly.
“You’re blushing,” Oscar replied. “That hurts your case.”
Lando panicked. Which was how he ended up grabbing Oscar’s arm and squeezing his bicep like it was a stress ball.
“STOP,” Lando hissed. “Right now.”
Oscar froze. Then smiled. Slowly. Dangerously. “…Did you just grab me to assert dominance?”
“I grabbed you to make you shut up!”
Oscar leaned closer. “That’s not how that works.”
Lando realized — too late — that squeezing Oscar’s bicep only made him want to kiss him.
“Do not,” Lando warned, still holding on. “I swear to god.”
Oscar’s voice dropped. “You’re very cute when you panic.”
Lando let go immediately and fled. “I’m going to die at my desk.” Oscar’s quiet laugh followed him all the way out.
And it only got worse.
A text mid-meeting in Slack, You look good in blue.
A Post-it on his monitor, Focus. Stop glaring at me through the glass.
A whisper in the hallway, “Patience, love.”
By five p.m Lando was one teasing smirk away from committing an HR-eligible crime. He slammed his laptop shut and stormed into Oscar’s office. “You’re testing me,” he hissed.
Oscar looked up, perfectly professional. “Am I?”
“Yes!”
“And you’re still here.”
“Because I work here!”
Oscar leaned back in his chair. “You’re very good at it.”
Lando covered his face. “You’re the worst human alive.”
Oscar’s voice softened. “And yet.”
“I’m telling HR.”
Oscar stood, brushing past him, fingers grazing Lando’s wrist. “HR reports to me.” Lando froze. Oscar walked away, leaving only cologne, chaos, and emotional damage behind.
As the office lights dimmed, Lando dropped his head onto his desk. “Professionalism is dead,” he muttered. “And I killed it by grabbing my boss’s bicep.”
There were many things Lando Norris could handle. Oscar’s endless work emails. Investors who wanted “just one more revision.”
A printer that had once caught fire on the fourteenth floor and somehow still worked afterward.
What he could not handle—under any circumstance—was Oscar Piastri in boyfriend mode while Sean the driver sat three feet away.
It was late, well past nine. London slid past the tinted windows in streaks of gold and violet, the city humming softly around Oscar’s Maybach.
The car was quiet, smooth, expensive—much like the man beside him. Oscar had undone the top two buttons of his shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to expose forearms that should honestly be regulated.
His hair was slightly mussed from the day, posture relaxed in that infuriating way that suggested exhaustion simply did not apply to him.
Lando stared very hard at the window.
And because Oscar Piastri had no concept of mercy, he turned casually and said, “So. When are you moving in with me?”
Lando inhaled wrong. “I—what?!”
Oscar looked genuinely confused. “You’re there every weekend.”
“That’s visiting,” Lando said sharply. “I visit. I leave. I go back to my mum’s house like a respectable adult.”
“You keep your charger at my place.”
“Emergency charger.”
“Your hoodie.”
“Seasonal hoodie.”
“The cat mug.”
“That’s sentimental!”
Oscar’s mouth curved. “You’ve nested.”
“I have not,” Lando hissed. “I am strategically distributed across locations for safety reasons.”
“For HR reasons?”
“Exactly!”
Oscar hummed thoughtfully. “Your black Crocs are still at my home.”
Lando snapped his head around. “Those are inside shoes.”
“With what's that called? Jiby?” Oscar added calmly. “Multiple.”
“It's Jibbitz,” Lando screeched. “They’re Jibbitz charms. And they’re comfy!”
Oscar nodded as if noting a data point. “They’re by the door. Like you live there.”
“I do not live there!”
“You also keep your skincare in my fridge.”
Dead silence. “…My what,” Lando said faintly.
“Your vitamin c serum,” Oscar continued serenely. “The one that ‘can’t get warm.’ It’s next to my coke.”
Lando made a noise that did not belong to any known language and slid down in his seat. “We are at level twenty of dating.”
Oscar considered this carefully. “I’d say eighty-five.”
“You cannot quantify feelings!”
“I’m a CEO. Everything is numbers.”
Lando gasped. “Sean can hear you!” Sean cleared his throat again, voice noticeably weaker. “Traffic’s… heavier tonight, sir.”
Translation, Please stop flirting before I drive into the Thames.
Oscar smiled smugly. “See? He’s fine.”
“He is not fine,” Lando said, mortified. “I am not fine!”
Oscar opened his mouth. Lando reacted on instinct. His hand flew out and covered Oscar’s mouth. “No,” Lando said firmly. “You’re done. You do not get to finish that sentence.”
Oscar’s eyebrows lifted—then his eyes softened, sparkling with laughter as he deliberately murmured something against Lando’s palm.
Lando’s face went nuclear. “Do not murmur. I know that tone.”
Sean’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Arriving in two minutes, sir.”
“THANK GOD,” Lando muttered, dropping his hand and fumbling for the door handle. “I’m getting out the second this car stops.”
Oscar chuckled, unbothered. “You say that every time.”
“And every time you’re wrong.”
Oscar’s voice gentled, teasing slipping into something sincere. “I just like the idea of you there. Full-time.”
Lando crossed his arms, staring straight ahead. “I like my mum. And her cooking. And not sharing a bathroom.”
Oscar smiled. “Weekends only, then.”
“That’s already happening!”
“And it could keep happening.”
Lando swallowed. “…You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still here.”
“Because you’re driving me home!”
Oscar leaned in just enough to make Lando’s pulse stutter. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”
“DON’T YOU—”
Sean, mercifully “We’ve arrived, sir.”
Lando bolted out before the car fully stopped. “Goodnight, Sean!” he called, then leaned back through the open window, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
“Goodnight, Oscar.”
Oscar’s answering smile was warm. Private. Entirely his. “Goodnight, love.”
As the Maybach pulled away, Sean exhaled deeply. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“You two are going to kill me one day.”
Oscar’s smile lingered as he watched Lando disappear into the house. “Then you’ll die serving something beautiful.”
Sean muttered, “Underpaid for this,” but Oscar barely heard him. He was too busy thinking about black Crocs by his door, skincare in his fridge, and the undeniable fact that Lando Norris had already moved in— he just hadn’t admitted it yet.
It was an ordinary weekday — or at least, that’s what it was supposed to be. Morning meeting. Lunch with clients. Afternoon review session.
Everything color-coded, printed twice, and neatly tucked in Lando’s folder — because if Lando didn’t organize the universe, Oscar Piastri would run it purely on caffeine and willpower.
It should’ve been simple. Routine. Professional.
Except, apparently, Oscar had decided today was “shadow my personal assistant like a lost puppy” day.
“Boss,” Lando said carefully, trailing behind him as they left the conference room, “you don’t have to wait for me to pack the projector.”
“I don’t mind,” Oscar replied smoothly. Which would’ve been fine—except for the fact that he was standing right behind him.
Close enough that if Lando turned too quickly, he’d get a face full of custom Italian suit.
Lando zipped up the bag, muttering, “You’ve developed some sort of emotional support dependency.”
“That’s a strong accusation,” Oscar said mildly, tone perfectly polite but suspiciously amused.
“You’ve followed me to three rooms in the last hour!”
“It’s efficient,” Oscar said.
“It’s clingy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is when we’re at work!” Lando hissed, gesturing with the remote like it might ward him off. “Boundaries, remember? HR exists!”
Oscar arched a brow, unbothered. “You said that last week.”
“Yeah, and you ignored me last week too!”
He just smiled faintly — that infuriating, barely-there expression that made Lando’s brain short-circuit every time.
They were in a client’s office now — one of those sterile, high-end firms where the floors gleamed and everyone spoke in acronyms.
And there, in the middle of the presentation, Oscar Piastri sat right next to him. Not across. Not diagonally. Next to.
Their knees brushed every time Oscar shifted, and every brush made Lando’s focus die a little more.
Oscar looked completely at ease, answering every question with that quiet authority that made investors nod like disciples.
But whenever Lando opened his laptop or reached for his notes, Oscar’s gaze flicked toward him — quick, sharp, always noticing.
“Mr. Piastri,” the client said, “this new integration feature looks promising. Could we discuss implementation timelines?”
Oscar nodded smoothly. “Of course. Lando, could you pull up the projection details?”
Lando blinked. “The—oh, right.” He fumbled, hitting the wrong tab twice before finally pulling up the right file. His hand brushed Oscar’s again when he passed the remote back.
Oscar didn’t move away. By the time the meeting ended, Lando was about three degrees short of spontaneous combustion.
He barely had time to breathe before Oscar’s hand landed at the small of his back, steering him toward the exit like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Lando nearly tripped. “Boss! I can walk!”
“I’m aware.”
“Then stop hovering!”
Oscar gave him a sidelong glance. “You’d get lost in the corridor.”
“It’s a straight hallway!”
“Still,” Oscar said, utterly serious.
By lunchtime, Lando was losing his mind.
They stopped at a quiet restaurant near the client’s building — soft jazz, linen napkins, way too fancy for his fried-rice budget. Lando went to grab napkins. Oscar followed.
“To the counter,” Lando hissed. “You’re following me to the counter.”
“I didn’t like the way that waiter looked at you.”
“He asked if I wanted still or sparkling!”
“Exactly.”
“Oh my God.”
Oscar hummed, settling back into his chair like he hadn’t just dropped the most absurd line in recorded history.
He looked completely professional — posture perfect, cufflinks gleaming — but Lando knew better.
This was deliberate. Calculated chaos. Oscar Piastri, world-class CEO, was testing his patience for sport.
By the time they made it back to their own building, Lando was done. He dropped his bag on his desk with a groan. “Can’t even breathe without you right behind me—”
“Lando,” came the voice from behind him.
“SEE?!” Lando turned around, arms flailing. “Exactly like that!”
“I was going to ask if you wanted coffee,” Oscar said, holding two cups.
“Oh.” Lando deflated a little. “…Yeah. Thanks.”
Oscar handed it over with a perfectly polite nod — except his fingers brushed Lando’s for just a beat too long. “I have a board call in ten minutes.”
“Right, I’ll prep the notes—”
“Come with me.”
Lando froze mid-sip. “What?”
“You make me focus better.”
“Boss,” Lando said flatly. “That’s the most insane sentence you’ve ever said.” Oscar didn’t blink. “It’s still true.” Lando’s brain shorted out. “You’re hopeless.”
“Possibly.”
“You’re in love with me, aren’t you?”
Oscar took a slow sip of his coffee. “I am.”
“Stop saying it like that’s normal!”
“You asked,” Oscar said mildly.
And somehow, ten minutes later, Lando was sitting beside Oscar during a board meeting — again — whispering death threats under his breath while Oscar stayed perfectly poised, completely in control, occasionally brushing his thumb over the back of Lando’s hand under the table where no one could see.
When it finally ended, Lando slumped back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “I did nothing.”
“Exactly,” Oscar murmured. “That’s what I like about having you here.”
Lando blinked. “You can’t flirt after a budget report!” Oscar turned to him, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Why not? You already make the numbers look better.”
“Oscar!”
He leaned in, just enough that his voice dropped low — teasing, quiet, meant for no one else.
“You know,” he said softly, “for someone who keeps demanding professionalism, you let me get away with a lot.”
Lando glared, cheeks flushed. “You’re impossible.”
Oscar’s smirk turned into something softer, warmer. “You already said that.”
“Then I’ll say it again.” Oscar looked at him for a long moment — then murmured, “You already won, Lando.”
“…What?”
“You won me.”
And that was it. The last thread of Lando’s patience snapped clean in half — not with anger, but with that helpless, dizzy warmth that only Oscar could pull out of him.
Because for all his teasing and all his control, Oscar Piastri was quietly, irreversibly in love. And the worst part?
He knew exactly how to weaponize it.
By the time the office lights dimmed and the last of the staff had gone home, Lando Norris was done.
Not tired-done. Not mildly inconvenienced-done. He was existentially, spiritually, professionally bankrupt done.
He had spent the entire day attempting to maintain the illusion of professionalism while his boss — his CEO, his boyfriend, his personal threat to workplace ethics — drifted through the office with the serene confidence of a man who knew he was breaking at least six rules and did not care.
Now it was just the two of them. The city hummed faintly below the floor-to-ceiling windows, London reflected back at them like a witness.
Somewhere down the hall, a cleaning robot bumped softly into a wall and gave up.
Oscar sat behind his desk, spine straight, jacket still perfectly aligned, fingers moving calmly across his keyboard. He looked like a stock photo titled Leadership Under Pressure.
Which was deeply offensive, considering Lando had personally watched him follow him into three meeting rooms, the kitchenette, and — briefly — the client restroom.
Lando paced like a man preparing a case for the International Court of Justice. Laptop tucked under his arm like evidence.
Tie crooked. Hair doing that thing it only did when he was seconds from losing his mind.
“Okay,” Lando said tightly, stopping. “We need to talk.”
Oscar didn’t look up. He finished a sentence. Deleted it. Retyped it.
“That sounds ominous,” he said calmly.
“It is ominous,” Lando snapped. “Because you — Mr. CEO — do not understand what low profile means.”
Oscar finally lifted his gaze. Patient. Curious. Like he was indulging a loud but fascinating creature. “You’re upset,” he observed.
“I’m panicking,” Lando corrected. “You followed me to the restroom.”
“I had a question.”
“You asked if I wanted hand sanitizer!”
“You did.”
“That does not require proximity!”
Oscar smiled.
“No smiling,” Lando barked, slamming his laptop onto the desk and flipping it open. “We’re making rules.”
Oscar leaned back, folding his arms. “Rules.”
“Yes. Rules. A document. Shared privately. With you.” He jabbed the screen. “I even gave you editing access, which I regret already.”
Oscar leaned forward to read the title.
PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES – BACKSTREET RELATIONSHIP PROTOCOL (O.P & L.N)
Internal use only
Last edited: L. Norris (7 minutes ago)
There were tabs. Color coding. Conditional formatting.
Oscar’s lips twitched. Lando stabbed the screen. “Rule number one: no touching at work.”
Oscar scanned the sub-bullets.
1.1 No holding hands
1.2 No brushing fingers “accidentally”
1.3 No guiding hands on back
1.4 Absolutely no elevator incidents (see Incident Log – Tab 3)
“Define touching,” Oscar said calmly.
Lando’s eye twitched. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“I prefer clarity,” Oscar replied. “For compliance.”
“You are weaponizing HR language.”
“I’m reviewing policy.”
“Rule number two,” Lando said quickly, scrolling. “No pet names at work.”
Oscar frowned faintly. “I don’t—”
“You called me love at the coffee machine.”
“You spilled coffee.”
“You called me sweetheart during an audit.”
“You dropped your pen.”
“That was FINANCE!”
Oscar considered this. “Still applicable.”
“You cannot emotionally support me in public!”
Oscar leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “You looked stressed, love.”
Lando short-circuited. “That’s exactly what I mean!” he squeaked. “If you keep doing this, by next week everyone in this company will know I’m dating the boss!”
Oscar tilted his head. “They already know you’re indispensable.”
“That is NOT the same thing!”
“Rule number three,” Lando said hoarsely. “Minimum distance. One meter.”
Oscar stood immediately.
“Don’t—”
He crossed the space and stopped exactly one meter away. “There,” Oscar said softly. “Compliant.”
“You’re too close.”
“I measured.”
“You eyeballed!”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m furious!”
“Sure.”
Lando scrolled again, voice rising. “Rule number four: No following me everywhere.”
Oscar glanced at the bullet point.
4.1 No shadowing
4.2 No ‘right hand’ excuses
4.3 No ‘he sits beside me’ during meetings unless required
“You are my right hand,” Oscar said mildly.
“You’re the CEO. You have ten hands!”
“I prefer mine.”
“That’s NOT PROFESSIONAL.”
Oscar reached out and clicked into the document.
Lando gasped. “Don’t edit it!”
“I already am.”
“What—Oscar—no—”
“You skipped numbering,” Oscar said calmly, fixing it. “And your font usage is inconsistent.”
“I was emotionally compromised!”
“You misused conditional formatting,” Oscar continued. “This red doesn’t trigger correctly.”
Lando made a noise like a dying kettle.
“You’re fixing my spreadsheet.”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to be scared of this document!”
“I respect structure,” Oscar replied serenely. “Also your IF statement is wrong.”
“My what.”
Lando slapped his hands over his face. “I hate you.”
Oscar smiled warmly. “No, you don’t.”
Lando peeked through his fingers. “…Rule number five: Personal space remains enforced until 6 p.m.”
Oscar paused. “…Until?”
“Yes.”
Oscar clicked Add Comment. Lando’s stomach dropped. “What are you doing.” Oscar said nothing. Just typed. Lando leaned over, reading.
Comment – O. Piastri:
Rule number six: All rules expire at 6:00 p.m.
Lando stared at the screen. Then at the clock. 9:02 p.m.
“…I hate this company,” Lando whispered.
Oscar stood, calm as ever. “Come here, sweetheart.”
“No.”
“You’re off the clock.”
“That’s not in the handbook!”
Oscar smiled — smug, soft, unapologetic. “We’ll write a new one.”
And Lando knew, with chilling certainty, that if Oscar kept calling him love like that? This entire company wouldn’t need spreadsheets to figure it out.
Friday afternoon, just after lunch, Lando found himself hovering in Oscar’s office doorway like an email draft he hadn’t dared to send.
Oscar was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, reading something on his tablet with the calm focus of a man who had already eaten and therefore held power. The office was quiet in that post-lunch lull where productivity pretended to exist.
Lando cleared his throat.
Once. Twice.
“Uh—Boss?” he said, keeping his tone carefully neutral, hands clasped behind his back like he was presenting quarterly results instead of asking a personal favor. “May I request permission to leave early today?”
Oscar looked up immediately.
Not startled. Not annoyed. Just attentive. “What time?” he asked, professional first.
“Around three,” Lando replied, words coming out faster now that he’d started. “My mum’s at a friend’s place in Richmond, so I need to pick her up, then we’re stopping by my grandma’s place—she has some boxes, a few bags, maybe a lamp and some framed photos—and after that we’re having dinner at home. I’ve checked my schedule and everything urgent is already covered.”
He stopped. Realized he was rambling. Straightened.
Oscar studied him for a second longer than strictly necessary. “You’re nervous,” Oscar said quietly.
Lando blinked. “I’m… being thorough.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. “You don’t need permission.”
Lando stiffened slightly. “I do. Professionally.”
Oscar closed his tablet and set it aside. “Then professionally,” he said evenly, “you’re cleared to leave at three. I’ll handle the rest.”
Relief hit Lando so fast his shoulders dropped without permission. “Thank you, boss,” he said quickly, already stepping back. Then, catching himself, he added more softly, “I’ll make sure everything’s wrapped up before I go.”
“I know,” Oscar replied. Lando nodded once, composed again, and he stepped closer, just enough that the glass wall behind him reflected only Oscar’s desk, not them. His fingers curled briefly into Oscar’s sleeve.
“Pick me up later?” he whispered. “Around seven.”
Oscar nodded once. “I’ll be there.”
Lando leaned in and kissed him—quick, stolen, barely a brush of lips—then immediately panicked. “Okay no one saw that,” he blurted. “If HR know it, I’m blaming you. I love you—bye!!”
And then he was gone, leaving Oscar alone with a faint smile and the quiet certainty that his entire weekend had already been planned around Lando.
By the time dinner rolled around, the day had settled into routine. Lando stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing plates while his mum dried them beside him. The radio hummed softly in the background, something old and familiar. Outside, the sky had already darkened.
“I won’t be home this weekend,” Lando said casually—too casually—as he passed her a plate. “Staying over at a friend’s.”
His mum hummed, not looking up. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Work thing. Sort of,” he said, shrugging. “Easier that way.”
She glanced at him then, eyes sharp despite the softness in her smile. “A friend?”
Lando nodded far too quickly. “Yeah. Just a mate from work.”
“Mm,” she said, placing the plate down carefully. “A mate from work.”
The silence stretched. Not awkward. Just… observant. By the time the dishes were done, night had fully settled in. Rain followed soon after—soft and steady, turning London’s narrow streets into rivers of light. The air smelled like wet pavement and cold tea.
Lando kissed her cheek, grabbing the duffel bag already waiting by the door. “Don’t wait up, yeah? I’ll see you Monday.”
She watched him for a second too long, then smiled. “Travel safe.”
Lando slipped out. The door clicked shut.
Almost immediately, his mum moved to the window, lifting the curtain just enough to peek outside. And there it was. That car.
The sleek black Maybach she’d seen before—the one that always arrived at odd hours, with the polite driver and the umbrella.
Sean stepped out first, opening the back door. And inside, impossibly composed, sat Oscar Piastri.
Lando hesitated on the curb, gesturing wildly as he spoke—she could tell by the way his hands flew. Oscar smiled, brief and calm, and Lando’s shoulders dropped instantly.
He climbed into the car. The door shut. The Maybach disappeared into the night.
Lando’s mum shook her head, amused. “Liar,” she murmured fondly. “Why is my son always getting picked up by his boss?”
Meanwhile inside the car, Lando clutched his duffel bag like a life raft. “You’re sure,” he said for the third time, “it’s just the weekend?”
Oscar didn’t look away from the rain-streaked window. “Unless you want it to be longer.”
“Boss—”
“Boyfriend,” Oscar corrected smoothly.
Lando groaned. “You can’t just say that with Sean right there.”
Sean cleared his throat politely. “I don’t hear anything, sir.”
“See?” Oscar said mildly.
Lando muttered something about HR, terrible decisions, and emotional manipulation, but his heart was already racing. A moment passed. Then Oscar sighed—quiet, thoughtful.
“Lan,” he said at last, turning toward him. “I feel like I’m brainwashing you.”
Lando stiffened. “What?”
“You keep lying to your mother,” Oscar continued, tone calm but sincere. “And I don’t like it. I’m not some… perverted older man sneaking you out of the house.”
Lando nearly choked. “What—no! No, no, no.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Then why won’t you tell her?”
“My mum is dramatic,” Lando said instantly. “She’ll ask questions. So many questions. Where we met, how long, what you do, why you’re picking me up in that car—”
Oscar rolled his eyes gently and reached over, taking Lando’s hand. “Should I talk to her instead next time?”
Lando panicked so hard he almost laughed. “Absolutely not!”
“I’m very polite.”
“She’ll love you too much. That’s worse.”
Oscar smiled, squeezing his hand. “You’re afraid.”
“I am terrified,” Lando admitted. “She’ll know. She always knows.”
Oscar leaned back, satisfied but not pressing. “We’ll tell her when you’re ready.”
Lando exhaled, shoulders relaxing. “…Thank you.”
The city lights blurred into gold as the car pulled toward Oscar’s building. The penthouse felt different at night—less pristine, more lived-in.
Lando dropped his bag on the couch, surveying the space like he’d accidentally trespassed. “Why does this still feel illegal?”
Oscar slipped off his jacket. “Because you’re lying to your mother.”
Lando gasped. “You think like that?”
“You said it out loud before.”
“I thought I thought it.”
Oscar poured two glasses of wine. “You don’t whisper when you’re stressed.”
Lando groaned into his hands. “I’m a terrible son.”
Oscar handed him a glass, voice soft. “You’re an excellent boyfriend.”
“Stop being smooth,” Lando muttered. “I’m trying to panic responsibly.”
Oscar smiled, calm and fond. “You’re doing wonderfully.” And despite himself, Lando smiled too—already halfway into a weekend he absolutely was not ready to explain.
Steam curled along the glass like smoke, turning the bathroom into something soft and hazy, golden light leaking in through the half-open blinds. The air smelled faintly of citrus shampoo and that expensive soap Oscar insisted was “unscented,” which was a lie — clean, sharp, unmistakably him.
Lando stood under the spray, eyes closed, fingers scrubbing through his hair as he hummed off-key to a pop song he’d pretend to hate if anyone asked.
The door clicked.
He froze.
“Oi—occupied!” Lando shouted over the water, heart jumping. From the other side came that infuriatingly calm voice, unbothered as ever.
“Relax. I just need to—”
The door opened wider.
“OSCAR!” Lando’s voice shot up an octave. “No, no, no—you’re not coming in here!”
Too late.
Oscar stepped into the steam like it belonged to him. Shirtless, of course. Hair still mussed from the morning, darkened slightly at the ends, skin already damp as the humidity kissed it. He looked devastatingly casual — like this was entirely reasonable, like walking into Lando’s shower was just another item on his morning agenda.
“It’s efficiency,” Oscar said mildly, hands slipping into his pockets as his eyes tracked Lando without shame. “You said we’re going shopping after this.”
Lando clutched his towel tighter around his waist, scandalized and painfully aware of the heat pooling low in his stomach. “Efficiency?! That’s not how efficiency works!”
Oscar’s mouth curved, small and teasing. “You waste water when you take too long.”
“Oh my god, you’re insane.”
Oscar took another step closer, steam clinging to his skin, voice dropping into something quieter, slower. “Lan,” he murmured, unhurried. “If you keep shouting, the neighbors will think something.”
Lando glared, cheeks burning. “You don’t have neighbors!”
Oscar tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “True.”
“Then get out!”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?!”
Oscar’s tone dipped lower, smug and soft all at once. “You’d miss me.”
“I would not!”
“You already are.”
“OSCAR!”
Oscar laughed — that quiet, infuriating sound that somehow still made Lando’s heart trip — and reached past him to grab a towel. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ll be quick.”
As he stepped closer, steam curling around him like it had been waiting. He paused just outside the spray, gaze steady, expression unreadable in that infuriatingly calm way that always meant he knew exactly what he was doing.
Then, casually — like it wasn’t about to ruin Lando’s morning — Oscar hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants.
Lando’s breath caught. “Oscar—” he started, far too late.
Oscar slid the soft cotton down his hips and stepped out of them with unhurried ease, kicking them aside toward the hamper. No showmanship. No rush. Just quiet intention, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Lando turned bright red instantly.
Heat flooded his face, ears burning, eyes snapping anywhere but there — the tiled wall, the fogged mirror, the shampoo bottle — and then, disastrously, drifting back down again before he could stop himself.
Wrong direction. Wrong. Direction.
He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut like that might help. It did not. Oscar noticed, of course.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth — softer than smug, warmer than teasing — as he stepped fully under the spray, water slicking over his shoulders, close enough now that Lando could feel the heat of him through the steam.
“Sweetheart,” Oscar murmured, voice low and amused, “you’re blushing.”
“I am not,” Lando lied immediately, face absolutely on fire. “And my eyes are doing nothing wrong.”
Oscar hummed, leaning in just enough that Lando’s shoulder brushed his chest. “If you say so.”
Lando groaned, pressing his palms to his own face. “You are evil.”
Oscar’s smile deepened — fond, devastating. “You knew that already.”
By the time they emerged an hour later, Lando was a walking contradiction — damp curls, shirt half-tucked, skin flushed, muttering curses under his breath like prayers.
Oscar followed calmly, sleeves rolled, composure back in place, looking every bit the picture of serenity — which somehow made it worse.
“You—” Lando turned, glaring weakly. “You absolute menace!”
Oscar blinked innocently. “What?”
“You know what! I can’t even walk straight!”
Oscar slipped on his watch, tone dry. “Then we’ll drive.”
“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!”
“Efficiency,” Oscar said smoothly, brushing past him toward the living room.
Lando’s jaw dropped. “Efficiency my ass!”
Oscar paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder, voice dropping to that dangerous, teasing hum. “It was, actually.”
“OSCAR!” Oscar’s quiet laughter echoed off the marble as Lando hurled a towel at him. It hit his shoulder and slid harmlessly to the floor.
Lando stomped after him, only to realize halfway through the living area that his clothes was on backwards.
“Bloody hell—” he muttered, ripping it off, cheeks blazing. Oscar appeared a moment later, holding out a clean one like it was part of some grand romantic comedy routine. “Need help?”
Lando snatched it from his hands. “No! No, thank you! You’ve done enough!”
Oscar leaned in anyway, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
“Stop flattering me!”
“I’m not flattering you,” Oscar murmured, lips still near his skin. “I’m appreciating the view.”
Lando made a strangled noise. “You’re impossible!”
Oscar smiled. “You say that like it’s new information.”
“Stop smiling!”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
Oscar’s hand found his fingers fitting without hesitation. His voice softened. “Because you’re here.”
Lando’s breath caught — the kind of pause that sits too long between heartbeats. “You’re gonna be the death of me, boss,” he whispered.
Oscar pressed another kiss to his temple. “Then I’ll make it a beautiful one.”
Lando shoved him lightly toward the bedroom. “You and your stupid perfect words. Get dressed! We’re late!”
Oscar’s laughter trailed behind him, smooth and infuriating. “Efficiency, remember?”
“Efficiency my bloody—” But even as Lando cursed under his breath, he couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips — the kind that said he’d already forgiven him, the kind that made Oscar’s heart steady all over again.
By the time they got back to Oscar’s penthouse, the sky had melted into shades of orange and violet, the kind of London evening that felt cozy enough to make Lando forget his outrage about the “Italian fashion robbery” earlier.
They’d agreed—well, Lando had insisted—that they wouldn’t cook tonight. “Because last time you said efficiency and I couldn’t walk straight for three hours,” Lando muttered while placing the order.
Oscar, of course, didn’t deny it. He only said, “Fine. Takeaway.”
So now, there they were, Lando sitting cross-legged on the expensive Persian rug in Oscar’s living room, surrounded by plastic containers, naan, and the faint, divine smell of chicken masala. Oscar moved calmly around the kitchen, pouring tea into two cups like it was some kind of ritual.
The TV played quietly in the background—a Netflix series Lando had picked purely because it had explosions and emotional monologues.
Oscar carried the tea tray over and sat beside him, folding his legs with the kind of ease that didn’t belong to someone who owned ten expensive watches and a penthouse view of the Thames.
“I don’t understand this show,” Oscar said after exactly ten minutes, eyes narrowing at the screen. Lando blinked. “What’s not to understand? It’s about spies. They’re in love. They shoot people.”
“That’s… confusing.”
“It’s cinema,” Lando corrected dramatically, mouth full of rice.
Oscar looked skeptical. “The plot’s nonsensical. That man just turned on his partner because of a secret twin? How did no one notice the twin?”
Lando groaned, half in amusement, half in despair. “You think too logically, Oscar. Just feel the story!”
“The story doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s a show! It doesn’t need sense—it needs passion!”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “So the goal is chaos?”
Lando grinned, pointing his fork at him. “Exactly! You’re getting it.”
Oscar chuckled softly and took a sip of tea. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here I am in your living room, eating your naan.”
“My naan?”
“Our naan.”
Oscar’s smile faltered for a second — soft, almost shy — before he covered it with a sip of tea. “That’s better.”
Lando pretended not to notice how his stomach flipped. Halfway through the episode, Oscar had fully abandoned the plot in favor of running commentary. “That man just survived falling off a helicopter,” he noted.
“Completely unrealistic.”
“It’s fiction, Oscar!”
“And now he’s confessing his love while bleeding out. Highly inefficient.”
“Oh my god!” Lando shoved another piece of chicken masala into his mouth, groaning dramatically. “Stop applying logic to romance!”
Oscar smirked, voice low. “Says the man who’s dating his boss.” Lando froze mid-bite. “That’s— different!”
“How?”
“Because— shut up and eat your paneer!”
Oscar laughed quietly, the sound soft and rare. “You’re blushing again.”
“No, I’m spicy.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love that about me.”
“Unfortunately,” Oscar murmured.
Lando blinked, then smiled down at his food, pretending not to hear his heart pounding.
An hour later, the TV credits rolled, and their food boxes were empty. Oscar leaned back against the couch, sleeves rolled, tea mug in hand. Lando sprawled next to him on the rug, content and full, cheeks flushed from laughter and curry.
“This was nice,” Oscar said simply.
Lando turned his head toward him, grin lazy. “Told you. You don’t need Michelin stars to have a good night. You just need carbs and chaos.”
Oscar’s eyes softened. “And you.”
Lando snorted. “That’s so cheesy—”
“Still true,” Oscar said, quietly, like it wasn’t even up for debate.
Lando’s chest felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the curry. He turned back to the TV, pretending to be casual. “You’re lucky you’re handsome, boss.”
Oscar smiled into his tea. “Boyfriend.”
“Shut up.”
Oscar chuckled, and Lando’s grin lingered even as the next random Netflix show started playing.
Lando used to have a peaceful monday morning routine. Wake up at his mum’s house. Watch some dumb cartoon rerun. Eat cereal straight from the bowl while sitting like a gremlin on the couch.
Simple. Beautiful. Idiot-friendly.
Now? Now his weekday mornings looked like this.
Lando shuffled out of Oscar’s bedroom wearing one of Oscar’s oversized shirts, curls a wild mess, eyes barely open. He yawned dramatically and scratched his stomach like a man who had never known dignity.
And there, at the kitchen island— Oscar Piastri, already fully dressed, crisp shirt tucked perfectly, sipping black coffee…while watching morning financial news at full volume.
Stock tickers. Market updates. Analysts screaming about quarterly earnings.
And Oscar was nodding along like it was a bedtime story. Lando stopped in the doorway, horrified.
“Oh my god,” he croaked. “I’m living in hell.”
Oscar glanced over, calm and bright-eyed. “Good morning love.”
“It is not a good morning,” Lando muttered as he grabbed his cereal box. “It’s 7AM and some guy is yelling about global inflation. I do not want that.”
Oscar sipped his coffee, completely unbothered. “It’s relevant. Our share price rose two points yesterday.”
Lando blinked at him, confused as hell. “Baby… I haven’t even poured the milk yet. Can we… not talk about adult suffering this early?”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not anymore!!” Lando shouted as the news anchor started screaming about interest rates again.
He slammed himself onto the barstool, hissing when the cold marble touched his bare thighs.
Oscar turned the volume up.
Lando slammed his spoon down. “Stop financial-ing at me!”
Oscar fought a smile. “I’m just catching up on global markets, Lando. You can ignore it.”
“No, I can’t! They’re yelling! Why are they yelling? Why is this how you start your day? You’re like… a psycho.”
Oscar leaned over and kissed Lando’s cheek. “You’re dramatic.”
Lando shoved cereal in his mouth. “And YOU—” munch munch “—are ruining breakfast.”
The anchor mentioned something about fintech valuations.
Oscar hummed. “That’s interesting.”
Lando groaned, dropping his forehead onto the counter. “I miss cartoons.”
“Too bad,” Oscar said smugly. “You moved in with a CEO.”
“I didn’t move in!”
“You’re here three nights a week.”
“STOP HAVING A POINT.”
Oscar gently nudged his bowl so it wouldn’t spill. “Eat your cereal.” Lando glared at him, mouth full, cheeks puffed. Oscar smiled. Ridiculously soft.
Because this—Lando in his shirt, messy curls, complaining while eating cereal—was the best part of his morning. Even if Lando insisted it was the end of the world.
Lando sighed dramatically, slumping. “Okay,” he said, staring into his bowl like it had personally betrayed him. “I guess this is my life now. Goodbye, peaceful idiot mornings. Goodbye, cartoons. Goodbye, joy.”
Oscar tilted his head. “Bit dramatic.”
“I’m becoming a finance bro by proximity,” Lando whispered. “Next thing you know I’ll start saying ‘diversify your portfolio’ unironically.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Give it a week.”
Lando gasped. “You’ve already corrupted me.”
He stood up, pointed his spoon toward the TV like he was addressing a villain. “I refuse. I reject this lifestyle. Next week we’re watching cartoons.”
Oscar tapped his own spoon against the counter. “Whatever you want.”
“And NO economic documentaries as background noise.”
Oscar pretended to think. “No promises.”
“OSCAR!”
Oscar laughed, low and warm, and reached out to pull Lando closer—cereal, chaos, and all. Monday morning had never stood a chance.
Breakfast continued in a fragile state of uneasy coexistence.
Oscar sat at the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around his black coffee, the other lazily scrolling through financial headlines on his tablet like a man preparing for war.
The TV murmured in the background—numbers, markets, words like volatility and outlook floating through the air with all the warmth of a tax audit.
Lando sat opposite him, hunched over his cereal like it was life support.
Every crunch was dramatic. Every sigh was theatrical. Every glance at the TV looked like it physically pained him.
He was halfway through a spoonful when he froze.
Completely still.
The spoon hovered midair. Milk dripped back into the bowl in slow, tragic droplets. His eyes widened, pupils dilating with the exact expression Oscar had learned to associate with two things only: reckless decisions and ideas that should not be encouraged.
Oscar noticed immediately.
He lowered his coffee slowly. Carefully.
“…What?” he asked, voice flat but wary, like a man sensing a storm.
Lando sat up straight.
Too straight.
Like he’d just unlocked a higher level of consciousness.
“Okay. Listen,” Lando said, pointing the spoon at Oscar with reverence, like a prophet about to deliver divine truth. “I’ve solved everything.”
Oscar frowned. “I doubt that.”
“No, really!” Lando beamed, vibrating with excitement. “I figured out how to get to work without taking the tube, and without getting in your car, and without anyone seeing us together—because subtlety, Oscar, subtlety—and it’s fun!”
Oscar blinked once.
Then again.
“…What nightmare are you about to describe?”
Lando slammed his spoon down with finality. “I’m gonna buy an electric scooter.”
Silence fell over the kitchen. Not even the TV anchor dared interrupt it. Oscar stared at him.
Lando grinned like he’d just invented democracy.
“No,” Oscar said immediately.
“What—what do you mean no??” Lando demanded.
“No,” Oscar repeated, taking another sip of coffee like this was a completely reasonable exchange.
“That’s not an argument!”
“It’s the only argument needed.”
Lando practically choked on his cereal. “Why not?! It’s eco-friendly! It’s fast! It’s FUN! I’ll zoom to work like—” He made an aggressive, deeply inaccurate motor sound.
“VrrrrrrrrrrrMMMMM.”
Oscar set his mug down very slowly.
“You will die.”
“No I won’t!”
“You will die in the first three minutes, Lando.”
Lando gasped, deeply offended. “Wow. So little faith in me.”
Oscar held up a finger. “One—you fall while walking on flat ground.” Another finger. “Two—you tripped on air yesterday.” A third. Three—you nearly died crossing the street because you were staring at a bakery.”
“In my defense,” Lando muttered, sulking, “the croissants looked incredible.”
Oscar leaned back, folding his arms, expression settling into the CEO Face™—the one that ended negotiations and crushed dreams.
“You’re not getting a scooter.”
“But—”
“No.”
Lando slumped forward dramatically, resting his forehead on the counter. “This is oppression.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You want to show up to work with a broken leg and explain to Lisa from HR that your injury is ‘scooter-related’?”
Lando hesitated.
“…Maybe?”
Oscar sighed, stood, and gently lifted Lando’s chin so he had to look up. His voice softened—not teasing now, not amused, just certain.
“You’re not buying a scooter.”
Lando pouted, curls flopping into his eyes. “You’re no fun.”
Oscar grabbed his coat, slinging it over his arm. “I’m not fun,” he agreed, leaning down to kiss the top of Lando’s head. “But I’d like my boyfriend alive.”
Lando froze.
Heat rushed to his face, ears burning.
“…Still oppression,” he muttered, but the fight had gone out of it.
Oscar smirked. “Tube or car?”
Lando groaned. “Fine. Tube. But ONE DAY you’ll let me have a scooter.”
Oscar laughed under his breath as he walked out of the kitchen. “Absolutely not.”
Lando shouted after him, pointing an accusing spoon toward the hallway.
“THIS ISN’T OVER, OSCAR!” It was, in fact, very over.
Lando looked down at his cereal, sighed deeply, and took another bite. Finance bro mornings were destroying him.
But… maybe not completely.
Lando burst through the office doors at 8:59 a.m on the dot like a man fleeing the scene of a crime.
He made it. Barely. But he made it.
The automatic doors barely had time to slide open before he was already halfway through, coat flapping, breath visible in little frantic clouds.
His curls were a complete disaster—wind-tangled, flattened on one side, defying gravity on the other. His cheeks were pink from the cold.
His nose was definitely red. And his lips— His lips were way too red, tingling painfully thanks to the freezing London air he’d bravely faced because someone—someone—had cruelly denied him an electric scooter.
The elevator ride to the twentieth floor felt like it took seventeen years. He bounced on his heels the entire time, leg jittering, replaying the morning in his head the cereal, the news, the scooter argument, Oscar kissing the top of his head like he owned him.
His stomach flipped unhelpfully.
Get it together, he told himself. You’re a professional. A responsible adult. A man who definitely does not panic around his own boyfriend boss.
The elevator dinged. Lando burst out, he didn’t even slow down as he crossed the hallway, and tossed his backpack onto his desk like it had personally wronged him.
His coat followed—slung over the chair in a dramatic arc—before he detoured straight into the pantry. Muscle memory took over. He stepped up to the absurdly expensive coffee machine, pressed the familiar sequence of buttons without looking, and selected Oscar’s usual—strong, no sugar, exact.
Only when the machine began its quiet, indulgent hum did he realize what he was doing and let out a soft groan. He took the cup, coffee already in hand, resignation settling in, Lando marched down the corridor and stopped in front of Oscar’s office door.
Knock knock.
Too fast. Too loud. Nervous.
Before he could rethink it, he open door. Oscar looked up from behind his desk. Coat already off. Sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Black shirt crisp, tucked in perfectly.
Hair immaculate. Calm. Awake. Annoyingly handsome for someone who had, in fact, woken up at the same ungodly hour as Lando.
Lando’s brain short-circuited for half a second. “G–good morning, boss,” he blurted, stepping inside before he could overthink it. His voice came out a little hoarse—cold air, tube trauma, emotional distress.
He crossed the office quickly, set the coffee down on Oscar’s desk like an offering, and immediately pivoted to leave.
No lingering. No eye contact. No risk.
But of course— “You’re cold.” Oscar’s voice was calm. Observant.
Lando stopped mid-step. His shoulders stiffened like he’d been caught stealing. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, not turning around.
A lie. A terrible one. His teeth almost clicked together on the last word.
Oscar stood. The chair slid back softly. Lando’s heart jumped straight into his throat. Before he could reach the door—before he could escape like a startled animal—
Oscar was there. Close. Warm.
One hand came up gently, fingers brushing Lando’s jaw, thumb resting just under his ear. The touch was careful, familiar, grounding.
And then—Oscar kissed him. Right on the lips. Warm. Soft. Brief.
Not rushed. Not secretive. Just… natural. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to do at 8:59 a.m in a CEO’s office.
“There,” Oscar murmured, barely pulling back. His breath was warm against Lando’s mouth.
“Not freezing.”
Lando’s brain shut down entirely. Like a computer crashing mid-task.
Everything froze. “Ohmygodohmygod—” he squeaked, voice shooting up at least five octaves, hands flapping uselessly at his sides.
Oscar smiled. Not smug. Not teasing.
Fond. Deeply, devastatingly fond. Lando’s ears went bright red. His cheeks burned. His entire face felt like it was on fire.
And then—He panicked. He turned and ran.
Just ran.
Straight out of the office, nearly slipping on the expensive marble floor because his legs had stopped cooperating.
He burst into the hallway at full speed, curls bouncing, coat half-open, dignity nowhere to be found.
The executive receptionist looked up just in time to see Lando sprint past like he was fleeing a crime scene.
“…Good morning?” she offered weakly.
No response.
Somewhere behind him, Oscar calmly returned to his desk, sat down, and picked up his coffee.
He took one slow sip, eyes unfocused for a moment. A small smile tugged at his lips “Ridiculous boy,” he murmured to himself.
Down the hall, Lando skidded to a stop, plastered himself against the wall, and covered his burning face with both hands.
“Oh my god,” he whispered desperately.
“Cold lips, my ass—he didn’t need to—why did he—oh god, I’m going to die.”
His heart was still racing. His lips still tingled. And despite everything— He was grinning.
Like someone who’d just had their first kiss from their crush.