Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alex Albon prided himself on two things.

First: his instincts. Second: his nose.

It wasn’t something he advertised — that would be strange, and HR-adjacent — but Alex had always been sensitive to details other people missed. Shifts in tone. Changes in posture. And yes, scents.

Which was why, every Monday morning stand-up, he made a point of sitting near the door. Fresh air. Good exit. Optimal observation point.

The conference room buzzed with low conversation as departments filtered in, laptops open, coffees steaming.

Marketing clustered on one side, already arguing over campaign timelines. Finance whispered in tight circles, numbers and forecasts murmured like secrets. Operations looked tired before the meeting had even begun.

Legal took their seats with thick folders and sharper expressions, already bracing for risk. Procurement hovered near the back, comparing vendor quotes and delivery dates under their breath.

Product spread out in the middle—roadmaps open, wireframes glowing—while Engineering arrived last, hoodies on, half-awake, plugging in chargers and quietly judging everyone’s assumptions.

HR slipped in with careful smiles and attendance lists. Compliance settled beside Legal, silent but watchful.

Data and Analytics claimed the corner near the screen, dashboards already up, numbers waiting to speak.

It was every department a fintech company ran on, packed into one room—each convinced this meeting was about someone else’s problem.

Alex was halfway through a croissant when the room quieted.

Mr. Piastri had arrived. Their boss Oscar Piastri entered the room the same way he always did — calm stride, hands in his pockets, presence settling over the room like gravity.

Someone else carried his laptop (Lando Norris, personal assistant, currently pretending not to exist).

The CEO nodded once in greeting, expression neutral, immaculate as ever. Alex inhaled automatically. And froze.

Because something was… wrong. Not bad. Just—different. Usually, Mr. Piastri smelled like expensive bergamot. Clean. Sharp. Masculine in a way that suggested a tailor, a boardroom, and a quiet threat to underperformers.

Alex had catalogued it mentally as CEO Scent.

But today? Today it was softer. Sweet. Vanilla. Icing sugar. Warm, faint, unsettlingly familiar.

Alex’s brows knit together. That wasn’t bergamot. That wasn’t even adjacent to bergamot. That was— His eyes flicked, slow and careful, toward Lando Norris.

Lando sat two seats away, hunched slightly over his notebook, pen tapping too fast, jaw tight like a man trying very hard not to breathe wrong. He smelled exactly like that.

Alex blinked.

Once. Twice. No. Surely not.

Mr. Piastri moved past him, heading toward the front of the room. The scent followed — subtle but undeniable. Alex leaned back in his chair, heart rate picking up. Okay, he thought.

Let’s not jump to conclusions.

Plenty of people used vanilla-adjacent products. Body wash. Laundry detergent. Some cursed hotel soap. But still. Alex glanced back at Lando. Lando did not look up. Lando never looked up when Alex looked at him.

Interesting.

The meeting began. “Morning,” Mr. Piastri said, voice steady. “Let’s keep this efficient.”

Alex tried to focus. He really did. Marketing updates. Timelines. Deliverables. But his brain was too busy doing math it hadn’t consented to.

Mr. Piastri leaned slightly toward Lando at one point, murmuring something under his breath. Lando nodded immediately, cheeks faintly pink, and passed him a document without making eye contact.

Alex watched. And watched. And watched. No, he told himself firmly.

Do not be that guy.

He took another discreet breath. Vanilla. Sugar.

Lando.

Alex closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, Mr. Piastri had already moved on to the next agenda point — calm, composed, completely unaware that Marketing had just lost the ability to think about KPIs.

Alex swallowed. Very carefully.

Huh, he thought. That was new. And Alex Albon never ignored new information.

Oscar stood at the front of the room, expression set into his usual composed seriousness, one hand resting on the edge of the desk as he spoke.

“Q4 is our final opportunity to stabilize before year-end,” he said evenly. “I want realistic projections, not optimistic ones. Whatever we commit to now will determine how we enter next year.”

Slides changed behind him. Charts. Numbers. Clean, precise lines.

“This isn’t about growth for the sake of growth,” Oscar continued. “It’s about sustainability going into Q1. I expect each department to align accordingly.”

Heads nodded. Pens scribbled. Finance looked stressed. Alex Albon did his best to look exactly like everyone else.

He nodded at the right moments. He typed intermittently. He kept his face neutral. What he was not doing was taking notes on Q4.

Because his laptop screen was dimmed just enough to avoid attention, and the document open was very much not titled Budget Forecast.

It was titled: Q4 Projections

(They update each quarter. HR had almost caught that once.)

Alex’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

He glanced up at Oscar. Still serious. Still CEO. Still radiating calm authority.

And still—Alex inhaled subtly again—Smelling like vanilla icing sugar.

Alex’s jaw tightened. Slowly, quietly, without changing his expression, he typed a new line into the spreadsheet.

Entry #90 – Mr. Piastri smells like Norris.

Notes: vanilla / sugar / not bergamot. Possible contamination?

Action item: confirm after meeting.

He paused. Then added:

Probability: 78%

Alex hit save.

Oscar was still talking. “Marketing,” he said, gaze sweeping the room, briefly landing on Alex. “I want revised timelines by Thursday.”

Alex nodded immediately. “Noted, sir.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lando stiffen slightly at the sound of Oscar’s voice directed anywhere near Marketing.

Interesting.

Alex typed another private note.

Cross-reference: Lando has been using vanilla shampoo since last month.

He frowned, deleting the line.

Too far. Too creepy.

Focus.

At the front of the room, Oscar shifted his weight, turning slightly to gesture at the next slide. As he did, he leaned just a fraction closer to Lando’s seat to murmur something quiet and precise.

Lando nodded. Too fast. Too compliant.

Alex watched the exchange with the intensity of a man watching two chess pieces move in perfect, suspicious sync.

Oscar resumed speaking. “Any questions before we move on?”

Silence.

Alex kept his hand down. For now.

He glanced once more at the spreadsheet, scrolling just enough to see the growing list beneath item #90.

People were already voting. Someone had added a comment.

Smelled it too. Thought I was imagining things.

Alex smiled faintly, lips pressed together.

He lifted his gaze back to the front of the room, where Oscar Piastri was wrapping up a very serious discussion about next year’s strategic direction—completely unaware that Marketing had just reclassified Q4 projections as a scent-based investigation.

Alright, Alex thought, closing his laptop with care.

Let’s see what happens after this meeting.

The meeting wrapped the way these things always did.

Chairs scraped back. Laptops snapped shut. Departments peeled off in clusters, already complaining about deadlines and coffee. Within seconds, the room emptied—except for a few stragglers.

Alex. Daniel. One intern who looked like he regretted every life choice that led him here.

Oscar was still at the front, asking one last question about timelines, voice calm, precise, entirely CEO. “Daniel, I want that adjusted by end of day,” Oscar said.

Daniel nodded. “Yes noted, sir.”

Alex stayed seated, polite, patient, pretending he wasn’t vibrating internally.

Then— Lando moved.

Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just a quiet shift from his seat near the projector, walking casually toward the room where Alex sat.

Close enough that Alex assumed this was finally the moment—work questions, follow-up, maybe something marketing-related.

Alex straightened slightly. Lando leaned down instead. And whispered, barely audible— “Do you still have cookies on your desk?”

Alex blinked.

Once.

That was not… a KPI. “I—” Alex started, then stopped himself. Because suddenly, Lando was right there.

And Alex’s nose— Oh.

Oh no.

There it was. The same scent. Vanilla. Soft sugar. Warm. Familiar. Identical.

Alex’s brain went quiet in the way it only did when a theory stopped being a theory.

Oscar finished his sentence at the front of the room, voice steady. “—we’ll revisit that next week.”

Alex didn’t even look at him this time. He looked at Lando. At the exact same scent. At the exact same warmth.

At the way Lando hovered for half a second longer than necessary, waiting for an answer like this was the most normal question in the world.

Alex swallowed. “…Yeah,” he said carefully. “Top drawer.”

Lando’s face visibly relaxed. “Oh thank god.” He straightened, already stepping away, and murmured, “I owe you one.”

Then he was gone—slipping back toward Oscar’s side like gravity had quietly reclaimed him. Alex sat very still. Very calm. Very certain. Daniel leaned over, whispering, “What was that about?”

Alex closed his laptop slowly. “…Cookies,” he said. But in his head, the spreadsheet updated itself.

Entry #91 – CONFIRMED.

Mr. Piastri smells like Norris.

100%.

Alex leaned back in his chair, lips twitching. Oh, he thought. This is going to be a very interesting quarter.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft ding, sealing them inside the quiet glass box heading up to the twentieth floor.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Lando leaned back against the mirrored wall, scrolling aimlessly on his phone like he hadn’t just risked his entire professional life for a cookie.

Oscar stood beside him, jacket still on, posture composed—too composed, actually. It lasted exactly three seconds. “What was that?” Oscar asked.

Lando didn’t look up. “What was what?”

Oscar glanced at the floor indicator. Fifteen. “You leaned very close to Alex.”

Lando blinked, then looked up, genuinely confused—before realization hit and he laughed. “Oh my god. That?”

Oscar’s expression didn’t change. Which, unfortunately, meant everything.

“Are you jealous?” Lando grinned, delighted and deeply unserious. “I literally asked if he still had cookies. You know, the ones on his floor? Marketing has way too many snacks. I like that.”

Oscar turned his head slightly. “You have cookies on your desk.”

Lando’s grin faltered. “…No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No,” Lando said firmly. “They’re gone. I forgot to buy more.”

Oscar sighed. A quiet, long-suffering sound. “You forgot to restock.”

“I was busy,” Lando said. “Being professional. And panicking.”

The elevator passed seventeen. Oscar looked at him now, eyes soft but unmistakably annoyed. “You don’t need to lean into other departments for snacks.”

“I leaned,” Lando protested, “because I was whispering. That’s how whispering works.”

Oscar didn’t argue that. He just shook his head slightly. “Later,” he said, already resigned, “we’ll refill it.”

Lando brightened instantly. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Like—properly?”

Oscar glanced at him. “I’m not doing this again tomorrow.”

Lando beamed. “I love you.”

Oscar closed his eyes for half a second. “You leaned too close.”

The elevator dinged. Twentieth floor. Lando stepped out first, smug and victorious. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous, you know.”

Oscar followed him out, calm restored. “You’re unbearable when you’re hungry.”

“Then buy me cookies,” Lando said sweetly.

Oscar sighed again, already pulling his phone out to make a note.

“Unbelievable,” he murmured—fond, resigned, and already planning a grocery order large enough to prevent Lando from ever whispering to Alex from Marketing again.

By four p.m the office was still buzzing. Not productive buzzing. Stress buzzing.  The kind that came from too many meetings, not enough daylight, and the creeping realization that the weekend was still very far away.

Lando stared at his screen. Then at the clock. Then at the screen again. His brain produced exactly one coherent thought,

I need sugar or I will perish.

He leaned back in his chair and glanced through the glass wall into Oscar’s office. Oscar was still on a call.

Suit jacket off. Sleeves rolled. One hand pressed to his temple, the other gesturing lightly as he spoke—focused, serious, absolutely not in the mood to be disturbed.

The universal sign of do not knock unless the building is on fire.

Lando sighed. He checked the coffee situation. His mug was full. Freshly refilled. Strong enough to wake the dead.

Oscar would survive. Which meant— He grabbed his badge. “I’m just going to the fourteenth floor,” Lando muttered to himself. “For cookies. This is a business decision.”

The elevator ride down felt suspiciously long. When the doors opened on the fourteenth floor, Lando was immediately hit with noise.

Phones rang in overlapping rhythms. Keyboards clattered without mercy. People hovered half-standing, half-sitting at their desks like no one had committed to rest in weeks.

Someone from Finance was whisper-arguing near the printer, one hand clutching a spreadsheet, the other gesturing wildly like numbers had personally betrayed them.

A whiteboard screamed Q4 CLOSE – FINAL FINAL FINAL in three different colors.

Marketing occupied the other half of the floor, equally frantic but louder about it—open tabs, mood boards scattered across screens, someone stress-eating candy canes while debating font choices for a holiday campaign that was already live.

An intern stood frozen in the middle of it all, holding three coffees like they were defusing a bomb, eyes wide and terrified.

Lando blinked, taking it in. “Wow,” he murmured. “The fourteenth floor really said festive panic.”

“Oi!” Alex’s voice cut through the noise. Lando looked up just in time to see Alex swivel in his chair, grin already forming like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Well, well,” Alex announced loudly, far too loudly, “if it isn’t the Prince of the Twentieth Floor.”

Several heads turned. Lando froze. “…No,” he said weakly. “No, don’t say it like that.”

Alex stood up dramatically. “What brings His Highness down to our humble department?”

“I’m just here for cookies!” Lando said immediately, pointing at the snack table like it was a legal defense.

“I don’t want updates. I don’t want opinions. I don’t want to know why everyone looks like they’re on the brink of mutiny.”

Daniel glanced up from his desk. “We are.”

“Yeah,” an intern added. “We are absolutely mutiny-adjacent.”

Alex leaned against his desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp and amused. “You don’t usually leave your floor at four.”

Lando grabbed a cookie and held it up like evidence. “I do when I’m dying.”

“That’s chocolate chip,” Alex said. “Stress choice.”

“I don’t have time to unpack that,” Lando replied, already biting into it.

Alex’s gaze flicked over him—not subtle this time. One second longer than necessary.

Interesting.

“So,” Alex said casually, “how’s upstairs?”

Lando stiffened. “Normal.”

Alex hummed. “Funny. You don’t usually come down here unless—”

“I FORGOT TO BUY SNACKS,” Lando said loudly, cutting him off. “And my desk is empty and I am a victim.”

Daniel snorted.

Alex laughed. “Relax. I’m just saying—you look… comfortable today.”

Lando choked on a crumb. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Alex said innocently. “Just an observation.”

Lando grabbed a second cookie. And a third. “I’m leaving.”

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“Tell your floor we said hi,” Alex added cheerfully.

Lando pointed at him. “Don’t.”

He turned on his heel and marched back toward the elevator, cookies in hand, dignity in shambles.

As the doors slid shut, Alex watched the numbers climb. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Alex smiled slowly.

“Oh,” he murmured to no one in particular. “This is definitely not about cookies.”

Back on the twentieth floor, Lando stepped out of the elevator, sugar secured, resolve restored.

He glanced once more at Oscar’s office. Still on the call. Still serious. Still completely unaware that his personal assistant had just descended into chaos, been declared royalty, and barely escaped a marketing interrogation with baked goods.

Lando sighed, bit into another cookie, and muttered, “I hate this building.”

From behind the glass, Oscar finally glanced up—and softened instantly at the sight of Lando holding three cookies like survival rations. And just like that, the sugar mission had been worth it.

By Wednesday, Christmas week had fully breached the building.

It wasn’t subtle about it, either.

Tinsel crawled along the exposed concrete walls of the open space like it had grown there naturally, draped between glass meeting rooms and whiteboards filled with half-erased sprint plans.

Tiny plastic Christmas trees appeared overnight on desks like invasive species—wedged between dual monitors, standing proudly beside mechanical keyboards and reusable coffee cups with fintech conference logos.

Someone on Finance had gone all in. Full red-and-green domination. Desk mats. Mousepads. A Santa hat stretched tragically over a standing desk lamp. It was so aggressively festive it hurt to look at before noon.

IT was worse.

Someone from IT—no one knew who—was playing instrumental Christmas music through the shared speakers. Not loud enough to complain about. Just loud enough to notice.

A calculated volume. Plausible deniability. Bells chimed softly while people pretended to debug payment flows and fraud dashboards without losing their minds.

The pantry smelled like cinnamon syrup and burnt espresso. Someone had stuck a “Merry Christmas, Please Refill the Beans” sign on the coffee machine.

A half-deflated balloon shaped like a snowman hovered near the ceiling, trapped there since Monday.

Everywhere in the building had started decorating.

Everywhere except—The twentieth floor.

Oscar’s floor remained aggressively neutral.

No fairy lights wrapped around glass railings. No wreaths taped to doors. No sad little reindeer clinging to monitors with tape that definitely violated office policy.

Just clean lines, steel accents, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the constant, low hum of productivity.

Desks were immaculate. Screens displayed dashboards, code, market graphs. The lighting was white and unforgiving. Even the plants looked disciplined.

It was the kind of floor that silently judged you for using novelty mugs.

He snorted softly to himself. Of course Oscar’s floor didn’t do Christmas. Not a single bauble dared to cross that line.

Lando noticed this around eleven a.m, halfway to the cafeteria to grab lunch he would absolutely forget to eat.

He made it exactly five steps inside before— “Norris.”

Alex. Of course.

Lando turned, already bracing himself. “Hi. If this is about cookies, I didn’t take the last one.”

Alex stared at him for a long second, then sighed. “No. This is… bigger than cookies.”

That was never a good sign.

They grabbed trays and slid them along the counter together, the smell of overcooked vegetables and something suspiciously festive hanging in the air.

Alex glanced around, lowering his voice. “Can you talk to your boss?”

Lando nearly dropped his tray. “What—why—what did he do?”

Alex blinked. “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

They found a table near the window. Lando sat carefully, eyes wide. “Okay, you’re scaring me.”

Alex leaned forward. “Can you tell Mr. Piastri that maybe… we could celebrate Christmas this year?”

Lando froze.

“…This year?” he echoed faintly. “What do you mean this year? I thought last year you guys had fun. Like—Secret Santa, ugly jumpers, some kind of chaos?”

Alex’s face went flat.

Then sad.

“No,” he said quietly. “Last year, he said Christmas was boring and a waste of time.”

Lando’s mouth fell open. “He said what?”

“He canceled the decorations,” Alex continued. “Canceled the event. Said we should ‘focus on closing the year strong.’”

Lando stared at the table.

That… sounded like Oscar.

Oh no.

“So,” Alex said, voice hopeful now, “please talk to him. We don’t need anything huge. Just… something.”

Lando swallowed. “Something like what?”

“A small event,” Alex said quickly. “Secret Santa. A dinner feast at the office. Literally anything. Even ugly jumpers.”

“Ugly jumpers?” Lando repeated weakly.

“Yes,” Alex said firmly. “We deserve joy.”

Lando imagined Oscar Piastri in an ugly Christmas jumper.

His brain short-circuited.

“I—” Lando inhaled sharply. “I can’t promise anything.”

Alex nodded, already standing. “We know. But he listens to you.”

That landed heavier than it should have.

Lando laughed nervously. “He… listens professionally.”

Alex smiled in a way that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. “Sure.”

Lando watched him walk away, tray forgotten, soul burdened.

Oscar doesn’t like Christmas.

That explained a lot.

It also explained why the twentieth floor felt like a Scandinavian furniture catalog year-round.

Lando poked at his food, mind racing. Secret Santa. Office dinner. Decorations. He glanced up toward the elevators, heart thudding. Talking to Oscar about quarterly projections was one thing.

Talking to him about Christmas?

That felt… personal.

And somehow, Lando suspected this conversation was going to matter more than anyone in Marketing realized.

By seven p.m., snow had started falling again.

Soft at first. Then steady. Thick flakes drifting past the glass like the city was trying to quiet itself down.

The office, however, had not received the memo. Most floors were dark now, desks abandoned, screens asleep. The twentieth floor should’ve been empty too.

It wasn’t.

Oscar was still there.

Same spot. Same chair. Laptop open. Emails stacked like they were breeding. His posture was still upright, but his eyes—when Lando finally noticed—were red.

Not crying-red. Tired-red. The kind that came from staring too long and blinking too little. Lando stopped outside the glass wall.

Didn’t knock.

Office hours were over. This wasn’t a PA moment anymore. He stepped inside instead. “Oscar,” Lando said quietly. “You need to go home.”

Oscar didn’t look up. “One more minute.”

Lando stared at him. Then glanced at the clock. “You said that an hour ago.”

Oscar sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just let me finish this.”

“No,” Lando said flatly. He crossed the room, planted himself in front of the desk, and leaned down until he was fully in Oscar’s line of sight.

“Get up. Now. Before I throw that laptop out the window.”

Oscar finally laughed. A soft sound. Tired. Real.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a brief second—just long enough to breathe.

When he opened them again, he actually looked at Lando.

At the missing tie. At the hoodie pulled on over his shirt. At the sleeves pushed up, curls slightly messier than usual.

Domestic. Comfortable. Boyfriend.

“Okay,” Oscar said quietly. “Okay. You win.”

Lando exhaled in relief. “Good.”

Oscar shut the laptop at last, the sound decisive. He stood slowly, stretching his shoulders, blinking like a man re-entering the world.

“You stayed,” Oscar said, more observation than question.

“Someone has to stop you from living here,” Lando replied, reaching for his coat. “And before you argue—Sean texted. The car’s ready.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “Of course he did.”

They walked toward the elevators together, the office lights dimmed behind them, snow still falling outside.

As the doors slid shut, Oscar reached out, fingers brushing Lando’s wrist—just a touch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Lando glanced at him, cheeks warm. “You don’t get to thank me. You get to sleep.”

Oscar hummed. “At home?”

“At home,” Lando confirmed. Then added, softer, “With me.”

The elevator descended.

Outside, the snow kept falling. And for the first time all day, Oscar Piastri let himself stop working.

By the time they were in the car, the snow had thickened. Not the polite, decorative kind that belonged on postcards—the heavy, relentless kind that swallowed sound, blurred streetlights into glowing halos, and softened the city until it felt distant and unreal.

The Maybach cut through it smoothly, windshield wipers moving in steady, hypnotic arcs.

Inside, the back seat was warm. Too warm. Intimate warm. The kind that made Lando suddenly aware of everything—his coat half-open, his scarf abandoned somewhere, his pulse still buzzing from the day.

Lando slumped back dramatically, head tipped against the leather, exhaling like a man who had survived a war. “I’m never doing work again,” he declared weakly. “I’ve peaked. That was it. That was my legacy.”

Oscar sat beside him, jacket folded neatly on his lap, posture infuriatingly composed for someone who had just danced in an office full of witnesses.

He glanced at Lando, then at the window, then—without warning—leaned in and brushed his fingers lightly over Lando’s knuckles.

Once. Casual. Familiar.

Lando immediately gasped like he’d been shot. Oscar didn’t even look at him. “So,” he said calmly, “what reason did you give your mum this time for not coming home?”

Lando answered instantly. “I said it’s too cold to commute, so I’m staying at a friend’s again.” He said it proudly. Confidently. Like this was a completely airtight excuse.

Oscar turned slowly to look at him. Then laughed. Not loudly—just a soft, fond laugh, the kind that slipped out before he could stop it.

“Lando,” Oscar said gently, reaching up to nudge the tip of his nose, “you’re a terrible son.”

Lando spluttered. “Excuse you?”

Oscar leaned closer, forehead nearly touching his, and—very deliberately—snuzzled his nose against Lando’s cheek, warm and affectionate and entirely unnecessary.

“You’re lying to your mother,” Oscar continued, amused, “and badly. Your nose is already too long. If you keep this up, she’s going to hear it over the phone.”

Lando groaned and collapsed sideways, pressing his shoulder into Oscar’s arm like he needed physical support to continue existing. “I don’t have a choice,” he whined. “She’ll ask questions. So many questions. Emotional questions. Background questions.”

Oscar’s thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles over Lando’s knuckles. “I can answer questions.”

“That’s terrifying,” Lando muttered instantly. “You’ll be too honest. You’ll ruin everything.”

Oscar smiled, eyes warm. “I’m not some pervert man stealing her son.”

Lando twisted to look at him, horrified. “Please never phrase it like that again.”

Oscar snorted softly and bumped his nose against Lando’s cheek once more, clearly enjoying this far too much. “I’m serious. You don’t have to keep lying.”

Lando’s bravado faltered. He turned his head toward the window, watching the snow streak past, shoulders curling inward just slightly.

“…Just not yet,” he said quietly.

Oscar didn’t push. He nodded once. “Okay. Not yet.” The car turned onto a quieter street, tires crunching softly over snow.

Oscar squeezed Lando’s hand, gentle but sure. “Next time, I’ll talk to her.”

Lando reacted instantly, bolting upright. “NO.”

Sean, in the driver’s seat, visibly tensed—shoulders drawing up as if he wished the seat could swallow him whole.

Oscar laughed, warm and easy. “Relax. I’ll wait.”

Lando slumped again, forehead pressing into Oscar’s shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

Oscar kissed his hair lightly, just once, then rested his cheek against Lando’s temple like it was the most natural thing in the world. “And you’re worth the trouble.”

In the front seat, Sean stared very intently at the road, questioning every decision that had led him to chauffeuring mutual domesticity in a snowstorm.

Outside, the snow fell harder. Inside the car, Lando closed his eyes—and for once, didn’t feel like he was lying just to survive.

Dinner ended up simple.

Takeout containers spread across the kitchen counter. Warm food, shared quietly, eaten standing because neither of them had the energy to pretend they were civilized.

Oscar washed the dishes without being asked. Lando dried them badly on purpose.

By the time they changed into comfortable clothes, the snow outside had settled into a steady hush.

Oscar wore an old long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed up. Lando stole one of Oscar’s hoodies again—too big, too soft, already familiar.

They crawled into bed not long after.

The lights were low. The city glowed faintly through the curtains. Oscar wrapped an arm around Lando from behind, pulling him in without thinking, nose tucked against the back of Lando’s neck like it belonged there.

Lando sighed, content.

Then—like a thought that had been marinating all evening—he spoke.

“Our floor has no Christmas decorations.”

Oscar blinked. “…Yes.”

Lando turned slightly in his arms. “That’s not normal.”

Oscar tightened his hold reflexively. “It’s efficient.”

“It’s sad,” Lando corrected immediately. “Every other floor looks festive. Finance has tinsel. HR has a tree. Someone on fourteen has a reindeer wearing a tie.”

Oscar hummed. “Excessive.”

“We should decorate,” Lando said, voice gaining momentum. “And also we should have an event.”

Oscar didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

Lando froze.

Slowly, he twisted around until he was facing Oscar fully, hair a mess, eyes bright and offended. “What do you mean, no?”

Oscar sighed, already bracing himself. “Christmas events are loud, distracting, and inefficient. They interrupt workflow and—”

“This is my first time,” Lando cut in sharply.

Oscar stopped.

“My first time,” Lando repeated, glaring now, “celebrating Christmas in this company. And with you.”

Silence settled between them. Lando pushed himself up on one elbow, expression fierce. “I want it.”

Oscar searched his face, clearly unprepared for the intensity of this particular battle.

“You don’t even like office events,” Oscar tried.

“I like this one,” Lando shot back. “I want decorations. I want lights. I want Secret Santa. I want people smiling instead of whispering about Q4.”

Oscar frowned. “You’re emotional.”

“Yes,” Lando said proudly. “It’s Christmas.”

Oscar exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “We have targets to hit.”

“And we’ll hit them happier,” Lando argued. “Morale matters. HR literally sends emails about it.”

Oscar stared at the ceiling like it might save him.

“You hate Christmas because you don’t let yourself enjoy it,” Lando added, softer now but no less determined. “But I want to.”

Oscar looked back at him.

At the way Lando’s brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a stubborn line. At the way he held onto Oscar’s sleeve like this mattered. Like he mattered.

“…You’re serious,” Oscar said quietly.

“Yes,” Lando replied. “Very.”

Another beat. Then Oscar sighed—the deep, resigned kind. “One small event,” he said carefully. “No chaos.”

Lando’s eyes lit up instantly. “Define small.”

“No glitter,” Oscar added quickly.

Lando grinned. “I can’t promise that.”

Oscar groaned. “I knew this was a mistake.”

Lando lunged forward and hugged him tight. “I love you.”

Oscar wrapped his arms around him automatically, muttering into his hair, “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re festive now,” Lando said smugly.

Oscar closed his eyes, holding him close as the snow continued to fall outside. Christmas, it seemed, had finally made it to the twentieth floor— whether the CEO liked it or not.

Oscar arrived at the office late.

Not CEO-late. Investor-late.

The kind of late that came from three back-to-back meetings in glass rooms with men who smiled too much and asked for too many assurances.

By the time his car pulled up, his head ached faintly, tie already loosened, patience worn thin.

That morning had already been chaos.

They’d woken up early. Too early. Snow still clinging to the windows. Oscar had insisted Sean drop Lando off like usual.

“No,” Lando had said immediately, already pulling on his coat. “What if security sees that?”

“They see you every day.”

“Yes, but not arriving with you,” Lando argued, kissing him quickly by the door like punctuation. “I’ll take the tube. Like a civilian.”

Oscar had sighed. “At least let Sean—”

“No,” Lando repeated, firm. “I’ll see you later.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Which was how Oscar now found himself stepping out of the elevator on the twentieth floor at eleven a.m, expecting the usual calm, controlled silence of his domain.

Instead— He stopped dead.

There was… color. Too much color.

Lights twinkled along the glass walls. Actual, honest-to-god fairy lights. Green garlands wrapped around railings that had never known joy. Someone had put red ribbons on the chairs.

And directly in front of the receptionist desk— Oscar blinked.

Once. Twice. “…Is that a real tree?”

It was.

A tall, full, very real Christmas tree, towering proudly near reception, decorated within an inch of its life.

Ornaments. Lights. Candy canes. A gold star perched triumphantly on top.

The receptionist looked up, cheerful. “Morning, sir!”

Oscar stared at the tree. “Why is there a tree.”

She smiled brightly. “Mr. Norris said it was approved.”

Oscar closed his eyes. Of course he did. He took a breath and continued toward his office, brain trying—and failing—to recalibrate.

The hallway smelled… different.

Sweet.

Sugar. Vanilla. Cinnamon.

Oscar frowned. “Why does it smell like a bakery.”

Someone from Finance walked past wearing a Santa hat. Oscar did not acknowledge this. He reached his office door, already bracing himself.

Opened it. And froze. Light exploded into the room.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Warm white lights framed the windows. His previously minimalist office now glowed like a festive showroom. A wreath hung on the inside of the door. His bookshelf had tinsel.

His desk— He stopped breathing. On the couch sat a Labubu. Not small.

Twice its usual size.

Wearing a tiny Santa outfit. Oscar stared. The Labubu stared back. “…Lando,” Oscar said faintly, even though Lando was not there.

He stepped fully inside, eyes scanning the room in disbelief.

More lights. A bowl of candy canes. A faint scent of sugar hanging in the air like a crime. “This,” Oscar murmured, rubbing his temple, “is a hostile takeover.”

“Surprise!”

Lando popped up from behind the desk like a festive demon. He was wearing a bright red shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to look intentional, and a ridiculous Santa-patterned tie hanging slightly crooked down his chest—the kind with tiny reindeer and bells printed on it.

Subtle was clearly not the goal.

Oscar’s eyes squinted on instinct, like his brain was trying to decide whether this was a visual threat or a deliberate personal attack.

He sighed and pointed slowly at the giant Labubu. “Why,” he said flatly, “is there a monster on my floor.”

Lando beamed, hands on his hips like he’d just solved a national crisis. “Decorations!!!”

Oscar stared at him. Then at the Christmas tree visible through the glass wall—tinsel, lights, the whole crime scene. Then back at Lando.

“You decorated my floor,” Oscar said, voice dry enough to dehydrate the room.

“Yes.”

“My office.”

“Yes.”

“With a real tree.”

“Yes!”

“And a giant monster in Santa clothes.”

Lando nodded proudly. “You noticed.”

Oscar sank into his chair slowly, head spinning. “I was gone for three hours.”

Lando leaned on the desk, eyes bright. “You said one small event. You didn’t say no decorations.”

Oscar opened his mouth.

Closed it. Tried again. “It smells like sugar.”

“That’s the cookies,” Lando said cheerfully. “Fourteenth floor helped.”

Oscar stared at the ceiling. “I need coffee.”

“I already made it,” Lando said, sliding a mug toward him. Christmas mug. Snowmen.

Oscar took it automatically.

Took a sip.

Paused. “…This is my favorite.”

Lando grinned.

Oscar sighed, deep and resigned, staring at the festive chaos that had overtaken his carefully controlled space.

“…You’re impossible,” he said quietly.

“And you love me,” Lando replied, entirely unrepentant.

Oscar glanced at him. At the lights. The tree. The Labubu. Then, despite himself— He smiled. Oscar managed to calm down.

Eventually.

It took coffee. It took silence. It took staring at the giant Santa Labubu long enough that his brain simply… accepted reality.

By the time Lando slipped back out to his desk, Oscar was seated again, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, CEO mode reinstalled—just with twinkle lights reflected faintly in his glass wall.

Lando sat down, cracked his knuckles, and opened Slack. He stared at the keyboard for exactly three seconds.

Then— He typed. Too fast. Too excited. With absolutely no regard for restraint. Fifteen minutes later, the notification hit the entire company.

#company-announcements

Lando Norris
🎄✨ HELLO EVERYONE ✨🎄

Christmas is officially happening on the 14th floor this FRIDAY 🎉

Please kindly (but enthusiastically) note the following:

🎅 DRESS CODE:
Christmas vibes encouraged!! 🎄
Ugly jumpers, festive colors, Santa hats, reindeer energy — all welcome ✨
(Yes, even you, Finance.)

🎁 SECRET SANTA:
Yes. We are doing it.
Details + name draw will be shared shortly 👀🎁
Please participate in the spirit of joy and not corporate fear.

🍽️ FOOD:
There will be A LOT of food.
Like… too much food.
Dinner together for the entire floor because teamwork 🫶

🍷 DRINKS:
Wine will be available (please drink responsibly, HR is watching somewhere).

Special thank you to our boss @OscarPiastri for supporting this event 🎄✨🩷

Let’s end the year warm, festive, and slightly unproductive (just this once) 🎄💫

Lando hit send. Then immediately froze. Across the office, Oscar’s phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Oscar glanced down.

Read.

Did not move for a long moment. Lando slowly slid down in his chair, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “I tagged him.”

From inside the glass office, Oscar lifted his head.

Their eyes met. Oscar raised an eyebrow. Then—very deliberately—he opened Slack, typed one message, and hit reply.

CEO - Oscar Piastri

Approved.

The channel exploded.

🎄55+ 🎉50+ 🩷70+ 🍷100+ 🎅60+

Lando peeked through his fingers, eyes wide. Oscar leaned back in his chair, glancing once more at the Santa Labubu before shaking his head fondly. “…I’ve lost control of this company,” he murmured.

And somehow— he didn’t hate it.

The office did not react. It detonated. Lando’s Slack pinged once.

Then twice.

Then his screen began lighting up like a Christmas tree powered by poor decisions and unchecked enthusiasm.

🎄 🎉 🎅 🍷 🩷 ✨ ✨ ✨

Messages stacked faster than he could read them.

The #company-announcements channel became unusable within thirty seconds.

Marketing - Alex Albon

FINALLY 😭🎄

I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME

Finance - Daniel 

WAIT WINE???? ON A FRIDAY???

Finance Team

Approved??? BY WHO???

HR

👀

Intern (Marketing)

I VOLUNTEER TO DECORATE ANYTHING

Someone from Ops

IS THERE A DRESS CODE FOR SHOES OR CAN I WEAR REINDEER SLIPPERS

Someone else

@OscarPiastri THANK YOU SIR 🙏🎄✨

Lando stared at the screen, mouth slightly open, as emoji reactions multiplied like a living organism.

Someone reacted to his message with seven Santa emojis in a row.

Someone else replied only with:

🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

Lando scrolled. Bad idea. People were already coordinating.

Marketing Group Chat (Muted but Visible):

Marketing - Alex:

SECRET SANTA BUDGET?? 👀

Finance - Daniel:

DO WE GO CHAOTIC OR WHOLESOME

Intern #3:

I’M MAKING A LIST

Marketing - Alex:

I’M MAKING SPREADSHEETS

Lando groaned softly and dropped his forehead onto his desk. “This has escalated,” he whispered.

Across the glass wall, Oscar watched the madness unfold in real time.

His Slack was exploding too.

Mentions. Tags. Thank-yous.

Someone from Finance had sent him a message that simply read “Did we die and go to heaven?”

Oscar exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “This,” he said calmly to no one, “is a loss of operational control.”

He glanced up. Lando was still face-down on his desk. Oscar stood, walked to the glass, and tapped once.

Lando looked up, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean for—”

Oscar held up a hand. The office noise had changed now.

Not stressed.

Not rushed.

Excited.

People were laughing. Standing. Already arguing about decorations. Someone was humming a Christmas song off-key.

Oscar looked out at his floor.

Then back at Lando. “…Friday,” he said carefully, “is going to be a problem.”

Lando swallowed. “A good problem?”

Oscar paused. Then nodded once. “A good problem.”

Lando’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank god.”

At that exact moment, a new message popped up.

Marketing - Alex:

QUESTION: DOES SECRET SANTA ALLOW GIANT GIFTS???

Oscar closed his eyes. Lando slapped his hands over his mouth to stop laughing.

The emojis kept coming. The office was officially preparing for Friday.

And somewhere between Santa Labubus, wine approvals, and an uncontrollable Slack channel, Oscar Piastri realized something unsettling.

His personal assistant hadn’t just decorated the floor.

He’d changed the mood of the entire company.

And Oscar—against all odds—was looking forward to it.

The office eventually… settled.

Not fully. But enough.

The Slack notifications slowed to a tolerable hum. People returned to their desks, still smiling, still whispering about Secret Santa budgets and whether wine meant wine-wine.

The twentieth floor glowed softly now—half festive, half corporate denial.

Inside Oscar’s office, work resumed.

Lando sat at the small side desk, laptop open, fingers moving fast as he sorted emails, updated schedules, and tried very hard to pretend he hadn’t just rewritten company culture with a single Slack message.

Papers were stacked neatly between them. Oscar reviewed documents with his usual focus, glasses on, jaw set, pen moving decisively.

For a while, it was just… normal. The comfortable kind of quiet. Then Oscar spoke. “Lan.”

Lando hummed without looking up. “If this is about budget approvals, I already—”

“I don’t have an ugly jumper.”

Lando’s fingers stopped mid-type. “...What?”

Oscar glanced up from his screen, completely serious. “For Friday. I don’t own one.”

Lando turned slowly in his chair. “You don’t own any?”

“No,” Oscar said calmly. “I don’t see the purpose.”

Lando stared at him like he’d just confessed to a crime.

“Well,” Oscar continued, unaware of the danger, “I could wear my usual. A neutral jumper. Black. Maybe navy.”

Lando gasped. Actually gasped “ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

Oscar blinked.

“No,” Lando repeated, already standing.

“No, no, no. This is a Christmas event. Your Christmas event. You cannot show up looking like the final boss of corporate misery.”

“I am not miserable,” Oscar said mildly.

“You will be if you wear navy,” Lando shot back. “People will think you’re judging them.”

Oscar frowned. “I am always judging them.”

“Not on Friday!” Lando declared. “Friday you are festive. Approachable. Jolly-adjacent.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “I am not wearing a jumper with blinking lights.”

“We’ll see,” Lando said ominously.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Lan.”

“I will dress you,” Lando announced, already pulling out his phone. “This is non-negotiable.”

“You are not—”

“I absolutely am.”

Oscar watched as Lando started scrolling with frightening speed. “You trust me with your calendar. Your inbox. Your entire life. But not one jumper?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“My reputation is at stake.”

Lando looked up, eyes sparkling with something feral. “Exactly.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “I regret approving this.”

“Too late,” Lando said cheerfully. “You already thanked yourself publicly.”

Oscar groaned. “What are you planning.”

Lando smiled. Wide. Dangerous. “Something tasteful.”

Oscar did not believe him for a second.

“…No antlers,” Oscar said firmly.

Lando paused. Considered. “I can’t promise that.”

Oscar closed his eyes. “I should have canceled Christmas.”

Lando leaned over and kissed his cheek quickly, soft and triumphant. “You love me.”

Oscar opened one eye. “You’re ruining my life.”

“And improving your wardrobe,” Lando replied, already typing. “Now sit still. We’re going shopping.”

Oscar watched him, helpless, fond, and deeply aware that by Friday— He was going to be wearing something festive. And it would absolutely be Lando’s fault.

They left the office around seven.

Carefully.

Strategically.

Lando went first. He slipped out of the glass doors like a spy with a tote bag, head down, hoodie up, badge already tucked away. He didn’t look back.

Didn’t hesitate. Just made a beeline for the waiting Maybach and slid into the back seat with a soft thump.

Safe.

Thirty seconds later, Oscar followed.

Calm stride. Phone in hand. Jacket on. The image of a man who was definitely just leaving work and absolutely not coordinating a secret getaway with his personal assistant.

He got into the car smoothly, door closing with a quiet seal of victory. Lando exhaled dramatically. “Thank god. No one saw that.”

Sean pulled away from the curb like this was a perfectly normal day. “Good evening, sirs.”

Lando leaned forward between the seats, eyes bright. “Sean, we’re on a mission.”

Sean glanced at the rearview mirror. “Sir?”

“We are going to hunt,” Lando announced, pointing dramatically, “the ugly Christmas jumper.”

Oscar groaned immediately. “I already regret this.”

Sean, unfazed. “Any preferred destination, sir?”

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “Selfridges.”

Oscar stiffened. “No.”

“It has options!” Lando argued. “Tasteful ugly. Designer ugly. Ugly with intention.”

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing about this sentence comforts me.”

Sean nodded. “Selfridges it is.”

The car merged into traffic, London glowing outside the windows, Christmas lights already strung across streets like the city itself was complicit in this disaster.

As they drove, Oscar stared out the window, visibly rethinking every life decision that had led him here.

“I choose the color,” he said suddenly.

Lando turned to him, suspicious. “Why?”

“Because I will not wear red,” Oscar replied flatly. “Or green. Or anything that jingles.”

Lando grinned. “What if—hear me out—we do matching ones?”

Oscar turned slowly. “Now you understand matching when it’s ugly?”

“Yes!”

Oscar deadpanned. “Tragic.”

“You’d look cute,” Lando added sweetly.

“I am not aiming for cute.”

“That’s the problem,” Lando said, poking his arm. “You’re always aiming for intimidating.”

Oscar sighed. “I am intimidating.”

“You’re wearing a Christmas jumper on Friday,” Lando reminded him cheerfully. “That ship has sailed.”

Sean cleared his throat politely. “For what it’s worth, sir, matching jumpers are… memorable.”

Oscar glanced at the mirror. “You’re not helping.”

Sean smiled faintly. “I never am.”

The car slowed near Oxford Street, Selfridges’ lights blazing ahead like a festive warning.

Lando bounced slightly in his seat. “This is going to be fun.”

Oscar stared at the building like it was about to betray him personally. “…I should have stuck to navy.”

Lando grabbed his hand, squeezing once. “Too late.”

The car stopped. Sean opened the door.

And Oscar Piastri, CEO, fear of investors everywhere, stepped out into the cold London night— about to buy the ugliest Christmas jumper of his life.

All because he loved his assistant. And somehow, that felt worth it. 

Oscar let himself be pushed. That, in itself, was alarming.

The moment they stepped into Selfridges, warmth and light swallowing them whole, Lando’s energy spiked visibly.

He wasn’t on his tenth hour of work today. He wasn’t running on coffee and responsibility. He was free. And that was dangerous.

“Oh my god,” Lando breathed, eyes already sparkling. “Look at this place.”

Oscar barely had time to orient himself before— “Go,” Lando said, hands on his back.

“What—” Lando shoved him forward. Gently. Enthusiastically. “You first.”

Oscar stumbled one step into the Christmas section, immediately assaulted by color.

Red. Green. Gold. Sequins. Too many sequins. Lando darted ahead and grabbed the first thing his hands touched.

It was bright red. Painfully red. Covered in reindeer. And—Oscar squinted—tiny bells. “No,” Oscar said instantly.

Lando held it up against his chest anyway. “But imagine—”

“No.”

“It jingles!”

“I said no.”

“Okay, okay,” Lando said, undeterred. “Plan B.”

He abandoned the red one and lunged for another. This one was green. Aggressively green. With a knitted Santa whose eyes followed you.

Oscar recoiled. “Absolutely not.”

Lando pouted. “You didn’t even try it.”

“I don’t need to,” Oscar replied. “I can feel it judging me.”

“Fine,” Lando sighed dramatically. “Third time’s the charm.”

He tried again.

And again.

A jumper with flashing lights. A jumper with pom-poms. A jumper that said CEO HO HO HO in glitter.

Each time, Oscar’s response was the same.

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

At some point, an associate slowed nearby, pretending not to listen. Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m selective,” Oscar corrected calmly. “There’s a difference.”

Then— Lando stopped. His eyes caught on something further down the rack. “…Oh.”

Oscar followed his gaze.

It was cream.

Soft.

Subtle.

Still festive—but restrained. Small embroidered trees along the cuffs. A faint gold thread woven through the knit. No bells. No lights. No crimes.

Lando pulled it off the hanger carefully and held it up. “This,” he said quietly, suddenly serious, “might work.”

Oscar studied it. Then nodded once. “That’s acceptable.” Lando smiled, triumphant. “Try it.”

Oscar stepped into the fitting area without argument. When he came back out, the jumper fit perfectly—broad shoulders, clean lines, cream against his skin softening him in a way Lando hadn’t anticipated.

Oscar glanced at his reflection. “…It fits.”

Lando stared. Like, fully stared. “Oh,” Lando said faintly. “Oh no.”

Oscar turned. “What.”

“You look—” Lando swallowed. “—unfair.”

Oscar’s mouth curved slightly. “You approve?”

Lando nodded immediately. “Yes. Absolutely. This one.”

Oscar exhaled. “Good.”

Lando stepped closer, tugged lightly at the sleeve, straightened the hem without thinking. “You’re still festive. Just… CEO festive.”

Oscar looked down at him, amused. “You planned this.”

“Maybe,” Lando admitted. “I wanted ugly. I got elegant.”

Oscar leaned closer, voice low. “You’re disappointed?”

Lando shook his head, smiling. “No. I’m doomed.”

Oscar paid without complaint.

As they left the section, Lando looped his arm through Oscar’s, vibrating softly with victory.

“One down,” Lando said cheerfully. “Now mine.”

Oscar sighed, already resigned. “I knew there was more.”

Outside, Christmas lights reflected off the glass. And somewhere between cream knitwear and quiet laughter, Oscar realized— Letting Lando push him around like this might be the best decision he’d made all week.

Lando did not choose subtly. Which, honestly, Oscar should have anticipated. The moment it was his turn, Lando vanished into the racks like a man possessed by festive spirits and poor financial decisions.

“Okay,” Lando said, already reappearing with a red scarf looped over one arm. “This is non-negotiable.”

Oscar eyed it. “It’s… very red.”

“It’s festive,” Lando corrected, draping it around his own neck and spinning once. “Next.”

He disappeared again. Oscar watched, arms folded, as Lando returned holding a deer headband.

With antlers. “Absolutely not,” Oscar said immediately.

Lando slipped it onto his head anyway. “Look at me.”

Oscar looked. Regretted it. “You look like a woodland HR violation,” Oscar said flatly.

Lando gasped. “Rude.” He tilted his head. “But cute?”

Oscar exhaled through his nose. “Unfortunately.”

Encouraged, Lando darted back again and emerged with a jumper.

Red.

Aggressively red.

Knitted reindeer. Snowflakes. Something that looked like a Santa doing a thumbs-up. Possibly glitter. Definitely texture.

Oscar stared at it like it might attack him. “No,” Oscar said firmly.

“This one is for me,” Lando declared, already pulling it over his hoodie. “It’s ugly on purpose.”

“It’s… committed,” Oscar allowed.

Lando beamed. “Exactly!”

He grabbed another jumper from the rack. And then another. “Lan,” Oscar warned.

“This one has lights!”

“No.”

“And this one says Sleigh All Day—”

“Lando.”

He held up a third option, eyes sparkling. “Backup.”

Oscar stepped in front of him, gently but decisively, placing both hands on Lando’s shoulders. “Lan,” he said calmly, “you are not cosplaying.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

“You are attending an office Christmas event,” Oscar continued, voice patient but firm. “Not starring in a holiday parade.”

Lando frowned. “…But what if I want options?”

Oscar leaned in slightly. “You already have a scarf. Antlers. And a jumper that violates several aesthetic laws.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a boundary,” Oscar replied.

Lando stared at him. Then slowly smiled. “You’re learning.”

Oscar sighed. “I live with you.”

Lando laughed and finally relented, hugging the red jumper to his chest. “Fine. This is enough.”

Oscar relaxed—too soon. “Oh!” Lando said suddenly, reaching for something else.

Oscar caught his wrist mid-air. “No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Lando pouted. “You’re no fun.”

Oscar softened, thumb brushing lightly over Lando’s wrist. “You’re plenty.”

Lando’s pout melted into a grin. “You love me.”

“Yes,” Oscar said without hesitation. “But I will not let you turn into a festive traffic hazard.”

They paid, or Lando paid using Oscar card.

Lando wore the scarf immediately. The antlers stayed on for exactly five minutes before Oscar gently removed them and placed them back in the bag like evidence.

As they stepped back into the cold London night, Lando bounced happily at Oscar’s side, bags swinging. “I’m going to win best dressed,” Lando announced.

Oscar glanced down at him, cream jumper perfect, expression fond. “You already did.”

Lando looked up, startled. “…That was smooth.”

Oscar smirked. “Don’t tell anyone.”

They walked on, mismatched but perfectly in sync— one elegant, one aggressively festive, and both very ready for Friday. 

They made it back to Oscar’s place just after nine.

The city was quiet now, snow muffling the usual noise, the penthouse lights welcoming them back with a soft glow. Shopping bags were abandoned by the door like casualties of a festive war.

Lando kicked off his shoes immediately.

Not gently. Not neatly. He toed them off, bent down, and slid into his black Crocs—the ones Oscar hated with a passion that bordered on personal betrayal. They were decorated, of course. Jibbitz proudly displayed like medals.

Lando shuffled dramatically toward the couch, dragging his feet on purpose.

Oscar watched from behind him, jacket still on, already reaching instinctively toward the kitchen.

“Oscar baby,” Lando said without turning around, flopping onto the couch like a man who had survived retail. “Stop that.”

Oscar paused mid-step. “I know that look,” Lando continued, eyes closed, arms stretched along the back of the couch. “You’re about to press the coffee machine.”

Oscar glanced at the counter. Then back at Lando. “I wasn’t—”

“It’s late,” Lando cut in calmly. “And you don’t consume coffee before bed.”

“I have meetings tomorrow.”

“It’s not milk,” Lando added pointedly.

Oscar sighed. Actually sighed. He removed his jacket at last, draping it neatly over the chair instead of committing caffeine crimes. “You’re policing me now.”

“Yes,” Lando said easily. “This is my new role.”

Oscar walked over, standing in front of him, arms crossed. “You wore Crocs into my living room.”

“They’re house shoes.”

“They’re rubber.”

“They’re comfortable.”

Oscar looked down at them like they might spread. “…They have charms.”

“They’re Jibbitz,” Lando corrected immediately. “And they express my personality.”

Oscar sat beside him, conceding defeat with dignity. “Your personality is loud.”

“Festive,” Lando replied, wiggling his feet. The Jibbitz clacked cheerfully.

Oscar leaned back, resting his head against the couch. “I bought a Christmas jumper today.”

Lando opened one eye. “I know. I dressed you.”

Oscar hummed. “You also stopped me from drinking coffee.”

“Because I care about you,” Lando said, turning his head to look at him now. “And because if you don’t sleep, you become… terrifying.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “Only to people who deserve it.”

Lando scoffed. “You’re terrifying to the kettle.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, snow falling quietly outside, the penthouse warm and lived-in in a way it hadn’t been before.

Oscar reached over, lacing their fingers together.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?” Lando asked.

“For today,” Oscar replied. “For Friday. For… all of this.”

Lando squeezed his hand. “You’re welcome.”

Then, with a grin: “Now drink water and go change. You smell like Selfridges.”

Oscar laughed quietly, leaning in to press a kiss to Lando’s temple. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re not allowed near the coffee machine,” Lando said smugly.

Oscar glanced once toward the kitchen. Then back at Lando. “…Fine.” Lando smiled, victorious, Crocs firmly planted on the couch like a declaration.

Home, it seemed, now had rules. And Oscar Piastri was learning to live with them.

By the time they made it to bed, the penthouse had gone quiet.

Oscar moved through the rooms methodically, turning off lights one by one until the only brightness left came from the bedroom—warm and steady, spilling softly across the sheets and the wooden floor.

He sat on the edge of the bed, back against the headboard, phone in hand. His glasses were on.

His posture was relaxed. He was half-reading emails, half-scrolling—CEO brain refusing to fully power down.

Lando, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the wooden floor in front of the tall glass mirror, surrounded by a small army of bottles and jars.

Serums. Creams. Things with French names Oscar refused to pronounce.

Lando leaned closer to the mirror, patting something into his skin with focused intensity.

Oscar glanced up. “Your face looks… sticky.”

Lando froze. Slowly, he turned his head. “What did you say.”

“It looks sticky,” Oscar repeated calmly. “If you do that every night, it can’t be good.”

Lando gasped like he’d just been personally attacked. “It’s called a night skincare routine.”

Oscar hummed. “You’re just putting things on your face.”

“They’re formulated things.”

Oscar lowered his phone. “I wash my face.”

“With what.”

“Soap.”

Lando’s eyes widened in horror. “What kind of soap.”

Oscar thought about it. “…Body soap.”

Silence.

Then— “THAT’S A CRIME,” Lando shouted, scrambling to his feet. “That is an actual crime against skin!”

Oscar blinked. “It’s still soap.”

“It is NOT face soap!” Lando waved a bottle dangerously close to Oscar’s face. “Your pores are screaming!”

“My pores are fine.”

“They are not fine! You’re a thirty-year-old man with investor meetings and you’re using body wash on your face!”

Oscar tilted his head. “You look fine.”

“That’s because I respect my skin,” Lando snapped, already dragging Oscar off the bed by the wrist. “Come here.”

“Lan—”

“No excuses.”

Oscar allowed himself to be guided—betrayal evident in every step—to the bathroom.

Lando lined up products on the counter like a surgeon. “Okay. First rule: gentle cleanser. Not whatever industrial thing you’re using.”

Oscar eyed the lineup. “How many steps is this.”

“Don’t panic,” Lando said soothingly. “Just… six.”

Oscar closed his eyes briefly. “…Six.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lando dabbed cleanser into his hands and pressed it gently to Oscar’s face. Oscar stood still, obedient, eyes half-lidded.

“This feels unnecessary,” he murmured.

“You feel unnecessary,” Lando replied, scrubbing carefully. “Tilt your head.”

Oscar did.

Lando rinsed, then immediately reached for another bottle.

“What’s that,” Oscar asked warily.

“Toner.”

“Why.”

“Because life is harsh.”

Oscar sighed. “I approved a Christmas event today.”

“And this,” Lando said seriously, “is harder.”

By the time they were done, Oscar’s face was clean, moisturized, and glowing against his will.

Lando stepped back, satisfied. “There. See? Not sticky.”

Oscar studied his reflection. “…I do look better.”

“Obviously.” They returned to the bedroom, lights still warm, the world outside silent.

Oscar set his phone aside and pulled Lando into bed beside him, arms wrapping around him easily.

“You’re very bossy,” Oscar murmured.

Lando yawned, curling in closer. “You love it.”

Oscar smiled into his hair. “I do.”

The light stayed on a little longer. Just enough. Because some routines— even chaotic, dramatic ones— were worth keeping.

Friday arrived too early. Lando woke up vibrating—not metaphorically. Physically. Like his body had decided today was a national holiday and sleep was no longer relevant.

He launched himself out of bed, tugged on his black coat and zipping it all the way to his chin, deliberately hiding the ugliest Christmas jumper known to mankind underneath.

Red. Aggressively red. A crime scene in knit form. The reindeer looked possessed. The jingle bell sewn onto the sleeve absolutely did not need to be there.

The antlers were already secured in his bag, lying in wait. He bounced through the lobby like a man on a mission.

“Morning!” the security guard called. Lando skidded to a halt. The guard was wearing a headband. With tiny, blinking Christmas trees.

Lando gasped. Hand to chest. “Oh my god.”

The guard grinned. “Mr. Norris. Happy Friday.”

“This is everything,” Lando said solemnly. “You understood the assignment.”

The guard saluted him. By the time Lando reached the 20th floor, the office had transformed overnight.

Soft Christmas music hummed from somewhere—probably Ops, who had absolutely hijacked the playlist. Tinsel draped lazily across cubicle dividers.

Someone had strung fairy lights around the coffee machine like it was a sacred object. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and pine, and the usual hand sanitizer had been replaced with something festive and suspiciously moisturizing.

Even the printer had a paper Santa taped to it. At exactly 9:00 a.m the elevator dinged.

Oscar Piastri stepped out. Dark coat. Calm stride. Hands in his pockets. Composed as ever.

And somehow—criminally—still devastatingly handsome even surrounded by tinsel and Mariah Carey playing softly in the background.

Lando didn’t even say hello properly. He spun on his heel and fell into step beside him immediately, whisper-shouting as they walked down the hall.

“Boss. Boss. Tell me you wore it.”

Oscar glanced sideways, expression serene. “Good morning to you too.”

“Did. You. Wear. The jumper.”

“Lan—”

“Because if you didn’t, I will cry,” Lando warned. “On the desk. Publicly. HR will have to get involved.”

Oscar unlocked his office and stepped inside. Lando followed, shutting the door behind them with shaking hands.

“Well?” Lando demanded. “Tell me.”

Oscar didn’t answer. He simply reached up, unbuttoned his coat—and opened it.

There it was. The cream jumper. Soft knit. Perfect fit. Just festive enough to suggest Christmas, not scream it. Sitting on Oscar’s shoulders like it had been tailored specifically to ruin Lando’s day.

Lando stared. Then audibly gasped. “Oh my God,” Lando whispered. “You wore it.”

Oscar watched him, entirely too pleased. “I said I would.”

“You look—” Lando pressed a hand to his chest, genuinely winded. “—illegal.”

Oscar smirked faintly. “You picked it.”

“Yes, but I didn’t expect you to look like that,” Lando said, horrified. “This is a crime. You’re supposed to wear the ugly red one. That’s the rule.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “There was no rule.”

“There was an understanding,” Lando insisted. “You can’t just show up looking soft and rich and devastating while I look like a rejected mall Santa.”

Oscar hummed, clearly enjoying this far too much.

Lando laughed helplessly and then surged forward, hugging him without thinking, burying his face in the jumper like it was dangerous and warm and unfair.

Oscar stiffened for half a second. Then relaxed, arms coming around him easily.

“Lan,” Oscar murmured, amused, “it’s nine in the morning.”

“I don’t care,” Lando said into his chest. “It’s Christmas.”

Oscar glanced toward the glass wall, then back down at him. “You’re wearing yours too.”

Lando froze.“…How do you know?”

Oscar leaned down slightly, voice low. “You’re vibrating.” Lando grinned and dramatically unzipped his coat.

Red. Loud. Antlers peeking from the neckline.

Oscar blinked. Once. Then laughed. Actually laughed. “You look,” Oscar said carefully, “like a festive hazard.”

“I look like joy,” Lando replied proudly.

Oscar shook his head, fond and helpless. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“To let everyone see,” Oscar said, opening the office door. “You didn’t start a Christmas event just to hide in my office.”

Lando squealed softly as they stepped back into the glow of lights and music. The day had officially begun. And the twentieth floor had never felt more alive.

Oscar took his coffee mug like it was a declaration. White porcelain. Black coffee. No sugar. Steam curling lazily into the air.

Lando immediately fell into step beside him, practically orbiting.

They were a sight. Oscar in the cream jumper—soft against the sharp lines of him, almost criminally unfair.

The white collar of his shirt peeked neatly at the neckline, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest intention rather than comfort.

His hair was sleek this morning, styled with care, and for once he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Without them, his eyes looked sharper. Colder. Focused.

Dangerously handsome. The kind of handsome that made people forget what they were supposed to be doing.

Even the intern at the coffee station froze mid-stir, cheeks flushing bright red as Oscar passed. Her eyes lingered a second too long before she snapped them back to her cup, mortified.

Lando noticed. Of course he did.

He didn’t glare—no, that would’ve been obvious. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, lips pressed together, silently judging the room.

Why are they all looking so… thirsty?

It’s 9 a.m. Get a grip.

And Lando—red jumper screaming for attention, scarf slightly crooked, energy vibrating at a frequency only dogs and HR violations could detect—looked entirely pleased with himself.

They stepped onto the elevator. “Where are we going?” Lando whispered.

Oscar took a sip of his coffee. “A tour.”

“A tour?”

“You wanted visibility,” Oscar said calmly. “I’m providing it.”

The doors opened.

17th floor — Procurement & Operations.

Silence. Then— “Oh my god,” someone whispered.

Heads turned. Conversations stalled. A procurement analyst dropped a tablet. Someone from Operations actually walked into a glass partition.

Oscar nodded once, polite and composed, coffee mug steady in his hand like this was a completely normal outfit choice. Lando beamed like a proud menace.

“Morning,” Oscar said.

A chorus of “Good morning, sir!” followed—louder than usual. Slightly panicked. Reverent.

An intern whispered, “He looks like… expensive.”

They moved on.

16th floor — Product & Engineering.

Someone clapped. Actually clapped. A developer murmured, “Is this a Christmas update?” Another whispered, “He’s not wearing a suit.”

Oscar remained serene. Lando waved enthusiastically.

15th floor — Data & Risk Analytics.

People stared like they were analyzing a statistical anomaly. One analyst muttered, “This doesn’t align with historical behavior.”

Oscar walked on.

14th floor — Marketing & Finance.

Chaos.

Absolute chaos. Marketing lost their minds. Phones came out. Someone squealed. Someone else whispered, “Is this allowed?” Finance stared harder, calculating the emotional ROI of this moment.

Alex stood near reception wearing a full Santa outfit. Hat. Jacket. Belt. The beard pushed to the side because it was itchy and clearly a bad decision.

Everyone else was in jumpers. Festive. Loud. Color-coordinated. Alex turned. Saw Oscar. Stopped breathing. The room went dead silent.

Oscar Piastri—CEO, destroyer of joy, enemy of Christmas—stood there in a cream jumper, coffee mug in hand, calm as ever. Alex’s jaw dropped. “Oh,” Alex said faintly.

“Oh wow.” Legal gasped. Someone whispered, “He looks… happy.”

Oscar lifted his mug slightly. “Good morning.”

There was a beat. Then— “GOOD MORNING, SIR!” the entire floor erupted.

Applause broke out. Someone actually cheered. Alex slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes shining. “IT’S REAL.”

Lando leaned closer to Oscar, whispering loudly, “They’re witnessing history.”

Oscar’s mouth curved—just barely. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am thriving,” Lando replied. Alex stepped forward, grinning like a man who had just won a bet. “Sir,” he said, gesturing dramatically at the jumper, “you look… festive.”

Oscar inclined his head. “I’ve been told.”

Alex’s eyes flicked—briefly, sharply—to Lando. Then back to Oscar. Then back to Lando. His nose twitched. His smile widened.

“Interesting,” Alex murmured. Lando stiffened. Oscar took another sip of his coffee, entirely unbothered. “Enjoy the day,” he said, turning back toward the elevator.

As the doors closed, Lando let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “…Alex knows something,” he whispered.

Oscar glanced down at him. “Alex always knows something.”

“That’s worse!” Oscar smiled faintly, eyes warm, coffee steady in his hand. “Relax. It’s Christmas.”

12th floor — HR & Legal.

HR stared in stunned silence. Legal blinked. Once. Twice.

An HR manager whispered, “We did not plan for this scenario.” Legal replied, “But technically, there’s no violation.”

Oscar gave them a calm nod. Lando offered a thumbs-up.

HR made a note titled: Update Employee Handbook — Holidays.

The elevator hummed upward. Behind them, the entire floor was still buzzing. And somewhere between blushing interns, festive legal teams, and a CEO who had finally embraced knitwear— The entire company realized one thing: This Christmas was going to be unforgettable.

Somehow—They still worked.

For half a day. Emails were sent. Calls were taken. Decisions were made. Oscar chaired meetings like a man who hadn’t just destabilized the company’s emotional equilibrium.

Lando tried very hard to act normal while wearing antlers and a jumper that violated several internal dress codes.

By 4:00 p.m, professionalism officially clocked out. Music started blasting from the 14th floor.

Not softly. Not subtly. Festive music. Loud enough to travel through vents. Loud enough that no one pretended not to notice.

People began migrating. Lifts filled with laughter. Someone carried a tray of cookies like it was sacred. Another wheeled in boxes of Secret Santa gifts with dangerous enthusiasm.

Twinkle lights everywhere. Garland wrapped around railings. Tables lined with food—pasta, roasted vegetables, pastries, desserts stacked three levels high.

Wine bottles already opened. Someone had brought mulled wine. Someone else had brought something labeled homemade and slightly threatening.

The room was full. All departments. All energy levels. All Christmas.

And somehow— Lando was handed a microphone. “Wait,” he said, eyes wide. “Why do I have this.”

Alex grinned. “Because you started this.”

Daniel patted his back. “You’re the spirit of Christmas now.”

“That feels like liability,” Lando muttered.

But the music dipped. People turned. The room quieted just enough.

Lando stood there, mic in hand, antlers slightly crooked, red jumper bright under the lights. He glanced once toward the back of the room.

Oscar stood there. Cream jumper. Coffee finally replaced with a glass of wine. Relaxed. Watching him like this was exactly where Lando was supposed to be.

Lando swallowed. Then smiled. “Okay,” he said into the mic, voice echoing slightly. “Hi. Um. Wow.”

Light laughter rippled through the hall. “I just want to say—first of all—thank you all for coming. And for trusting me with… this.” He gestured vaguely at the chaos. “Which, to be clear, got out of hand very fast.”

More laughter.

“But also—thank you for working insanely hard this year. Seriously. I see you. Even if our printers don’t.”

Applause broke out. Lando grinned wider. “So today,” he continued, “we eat. We drink responsibly—” he glanced at HR, “—hi, love you— and we stop pretending we don’t like each other just because Slack exists.”

Someone whooped. “We have food. We have Secret Santa. We have music.” He paused, then added, softer, sincere. “And we have a boss who said yes.”

All eyes turned.

Oscar raised his glass slightly, acknowledging the attention. Applause thundered. Lando felt his chest warm.

“So let’s celebrate,” he finished, lifting the mic. “Merry Christmas, everyone!”

The room erupted. Music surged back louder than before. People cheered. Someone popped a cork. Someone hugged someone they definitely only emailed before.

Lando handed the mic back, breathless and smiling. As he stepped down, Oscar appeared beside him, voice low. “You’re very good at that.”

Lando laughed, flushed. “I was panicking.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

Lando looked up at him. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

Oscar’s gaze softened. “Thank you for bringing this here.”

They stood there together, surrounded by lights and laughter and something that felt like a beginning. Christmas had officially arrived. And the company— for once— felt like a place people wanted to stay. 

The party settled into its rhythm. Music hummed warmly through the hall. People clustered in easy groups now—laughing, eating, finally relaxed.

Oscar moved through the room with practiced ease, cream jumper still immaculate, wine glass in hand as he spoke with department heads about Q1 projections and next year’s plans like this was just another meeting—only with tinsel.

Lando, meanwhile, was exactly where he belonged.

Near the dessert table. He had a plate. Actually—two plates. One with pastries. One exclusively reserved for anything sweet.

He was mid-bite of something chocolate when Alex passed him and said, “You’re glowing.”

“I’m eating sugar,” Lando replied seriously. “This is my natural state.”

Across the room, Oscar glanced over unconsciously—like his attention had a magnetic pull. Lando caught the look and waved with a fork.

Oscar smiled. Subtle. Fond. Gone in a second. And then— Lisa from HR clinked her glass and lifted the microphone.

“Okay, everyone!” Lisa announced brightly into the mic. “If I could have your attention—yes, even you, Marketing.”

Immediate groans. Someone booed. Someone else applauded sarcastically. Chairs scraped.

People abandoned standing desks and drifted toward the center of the open space, clutching paper cups of coffee like emotional support objects.

“It’s time,” Lisa said, eyes glittering dangerously, “to start Secret Santa.”

Cheers erupted. Actual cheers.

“Oh no,” Lando whispered, instantly suspicious. “Why does this feel like a trap?”

Names were called one by one.

Someone from Legal received a mug that read ‘I Survived Another Compliance Review’ and looked visibly moved.

Someone from Ops got a plant labeled ‘Please Keep This Alive Longer Than the Last One’—passive-aggressive but heartfelt.

Finance got socks. Identical black socks. No one claimed responsibility.

Then— “Alex Albon.”

Alex stepped forward confidently. Too confidently.

Lisa handed him a box roughly the size of a shoebox. He shook it once. It rattled. “…I don’t like that,” he said.

He opened it.

Inside: a bright neon-pink foam roller. And taped to it—a laminated note.

FOR STRESS. AND YOUR BACK. AND YOUR ATTITUDE.

The room lost it.

Alex stared. Slowly looked up. “Who hates me this much?”

Daniel doubled over laughing. “BRO.”

“Check the tag,” someone yelled.

Alex flipped the note. The handwriting was neat. Precise. Familiar.

Oscar looked at the ceiling. “Oh my god,” Alex gasped. “THIS IS FROM HR.”

Lisa smiled sweetly. “We care about wellness here.”

Alex hugged the foam roller anyway. “I feel attacked but supported.”

Next.

A junior intern—barely three months in, still wearing their ID like a badge of honor—was called up next.

They accepted a small gift bag with shaking hands.

Inside: a sleek notebook. A high-end pen. And a handwritten card.

Their face went red. Then redder. Then dangerously red.

“Oh,” they squeaked.

“What?” someone asked. “What does it say?”

They clutched the card to their chest. “It—it says… ‘You’re doing really well. Don’t doubt yourself.’”

The entire room collectively awed.

The intern glanced up—and locked eyes with a senior engineer across the room, who immediately pretended to be extremely interested in a spreadsheet.

Marketing whispered, “Oh my god.”

Finance whispered, “That’s a workplace romance.”

IT whispered, “I’m logging this.”

Then— “Lando Norris.”

Lando froze. “…That’s me.”

He stepped forward, antlers bobbing slightly with every step, red jumpers glowing like a warning sign against the neutral office palette.

Lisa handed him a neatly wrapped box.

“And your Secret Santa,” she continued, smiling just a little too knowingly, “was… Oscar Piastri.”

The room went dead silent.

Then—

“OOOOOHHHHH.”

Lando’s head snapped up. Oscar coughed. Actually coughed. Into his fist.

“I—” Oscar cleared his throat. “It was anonymous.”

Alex gasped loudly. “SIR.”

Lando stared at the box. Then at Oscar. Then back at the box. “Oh my god,” he whispered, already smiling.

He tore the wrapping open.

Inside— A tin.

Minimalist. Elegant. Japanese text printed cleanly across the front.

Lando squinted. “…Is this—”

“Imported matcha powder,” Oscar said quietly. “Ceremonial grade.”

Silence.

Then Lando made a sound that could only be described as pure joy.

“Oh my GOD,” he said loudly. “You remembered.”

Oscar’s ears went red. Not pink. Red.

The room detonated. Gasps. Laughs. Whispers. Someone dropped a fork.

Alex slapped Daniel’s arm. “I TOLD YOU.”

Someone from Finance hissed, “That’s expensive.”

Lando hugged the tin to his chest like a priceless artifact. “This is the good stuff.”

“You drink it every morning,” Oscar muttered, failing spectacularly to look calm.

“You remembered it was Japanese,” Lando said, eyes bright. “You imported it.”

Oscar’s cheeks burned. “…It seemed appropriate.”

Lisa smiled into the mic. “How lovely.”

HR was absolutely taking notes.

Across the room, the intern was already typing furiously on their laptop, eyes darting between Lando and Oscar.

Hidden Spreadsheet – Q4 Projections (Definitely That)

Entry #91 – Secret Santa confirmed. Matcha gift.

Imported.

CEO BLUSHED 🆘

Betting odds updated.

Lando finally looked up at Oscar, softer now. “Thank you.” Oscar met his gaze. Didn’t hide it this time. “You’re welcome.”

The music swelled again. The party resumed. But the energy had shifted. Because somewhere between imported matcha, red cheeks, and a Secret Santa no one believed was random—The entire company knew. And Oscar Piastri? He let it happen.

The party did not calm down. It escalated.

Someone turned the music up. Someone else decided the playlist needed “one more song.” Wine glasses refilled themselves through sheer peer pressure.

The lights dimmed just enough to feel intentional, and suddenly the 14th floor stopped feeling like an office and started feeling like a very well-funded mistake.

Oscar was standing near the edge of it all, talking to someone from Legal about timelines for next year, posture perfect, voice even—still half in CEO mode.

Lando watched him for exactly ten seconds. Then decided absolutely not.

He appeared in front of Oscar like a festive menace, grabbed his wrist, and tugged. “Come on.”

Oscar blinked. “Where are we going.”

“To enjoy yourself,” Lando said firmly. “You approved wine. This is the consequence.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Oscar replied, even as he allowed himself to be pulled forward.

“You’re discussing Q2 deliverables,” Lando shot back. “That’s not joy.”

They reached the edge of the makeshift dance floor—if you could call a cleared space between tables and tinsel a dance floor.

Music thumped warmly now, something upbeat, something impossible to ignore. Oscar stopped. “I don’t dance,” he said calmly.

Lando turned, incredulous. “That’s a lie.”

“I don’t,” Oscar repeated.

“You sway,” Lando corrected. “You absolutely sway when you think no one’s watching.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “You’re making things up.”

Lando grinned. “Yes. Now move.”

He placed Oscar’s hands on his own shoulders without ceremony and stepped closer, already moving to the beat. Not dramatic. Not coordinated. Just… happy.

Oscar stood there, stiff as a board. Then— He looked down. Lando was laughing.

Head tipped back slightly, cheeks flushed, antlers crooked, eyes bright with that unguarded joy Oscar rarely got to see outside quiet mornings and late nights.

Something in Oscar loosened. He exhaled.

And let his body follow. Just a little. A shift of weight. A subtle movement. A rhythm.

Lando’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he whispered triumphantly. “Like that. I knew you could dance.”

“This doesn’t count as dancing,” Oscar muttered.

“It absolutely does,” Lando said, leaning closer so he could hear him over the music. “You’re moving voluntarily.”

Oscar huffed a laugh. An actual laugh. Not the polite one. Not the restrained one. The real one.

Lando froze for half a second. Then smiled so hard it almost hurt. They moved together now—not choreographed, not careful.

Oscar’s hands rested at Lando’s waist without thinking. Lando leaned in, too close, absolutely too close for a public space, but neither of them noticed.

Or cared. Around them, conversations slowed. People noticed. Someone from Finance nudged someone from Ops. Alex, across the room, stared openly. “Oh,” Alex said faintly.

“Oh wow.”

Oscar laughed again, softer this time, head dipping as Lando said something ridiculous in his ear. Lando bumped his shoulder into Oscar’s chest, grinning up at him like this was exactly where he belonged.

They forgot. The office. The rules. The watching eyes.

For a few minutes, it was just music and warmth and the way Oscar’s hand tightened reflexively when Lando laughed too hard.

And every single person in that room saw it. Saw the way Oscar looked at him. Saw the way Lando leaned in without fear. Saw a CEO who wasn’t composed—just happy.

The spreadsheet would be updated later. For now— The dance floor belonged to them.

APPENDIX – Internal Slack Log (Private Channel)

Channel: #project-q4 (originally for “budget alignment,” now pure gossip central)
Visibility: Private – 70 members
(Invite-only; every division except CEO and his PA, Compliance, and one confused intern from HR)

Pinned message:

“This is for observation and data-tracking purposes only. Do NOT @ them. Do NOT email screenshots.”

[19:00 PM] Marketing – Alex: DID YOU GUYS SEE IT. TELL ME. TELL ME.

[19:00 PM] Finance – Daniel: SEE WHAT?? I JUST TURNED AROUND AND THE ROOM SCREAMED

[19:01PM] IT – James: I looked up from the router. THE CEO IS DANCING 😮 

[19:01PM] Intern #1: IS HE… LAUGHING??

[19:01PM] Marketing – Alex: HE LAUGHED. I HEARD IT WITH MY OWN EARS.

[19:01PM] Legal – Priya: I have worked here 4 years. I have NEVER seen that man smile like that.

[19:02 PM] Finance – Daniel:WHO IS HE DANCING WITH

[19:02 PM] Marketing – Alex: GUESS.

[19:02PM] Intern #2: NO. DON’T SAY IT ❌

[19:02 PM] IT – James: THE PA.

[19:02 PM] Intern #1: THE PA.

[19:02 PM] Finance – Daniel: THE PA???

[19:02 PM] Marketing – Alex: LANDO HANDS ON WAIST. TOO CLOSE. WAY TOO CLOSE.

[19:03 PM] Ops – Maya: THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HIM IS ILLEGAL

[19:03 PM] Intern #2: IS THIS STILL A SECRET OR—

[19:03 PM] Legal – Priya: It is a corporate secret.

[19:03 PM] IT – James: I AM UPDATING THE SPREADSHEET

[19:03 PM] Finance – Daniel: WHAT NUMBER ARE WE AT⁉️

[19:03 PM] Marketing – Alex: #92. CEO LAUGHED WHILE DANCING WITH PA. CONFIRMED ‼️

[19:04 PM] Intern #1: THEY FORGOT WE EXIST

[19:04 PM] Ops – Maya: THEY DID THE LITTLE LEAN-IN THING

[19:04 PM] Marketing – Alex: THE FOREHEAD ALMOST TOUCHED

[19:04 PM] Finance – Daniel: I AM NOT OKAY ‼️

[19:04 PM] IT – James: THIS IS NOT IN THE EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK

[19:05 PM] Intern #2: I CAME HERE TO LEARN EXCEL

[19:05 PM] Marketing – Alex: YOU ARE LEARNING HISTORY

[19:05 PM] Legal – Priya: Reminder: We saw nothing. We know nothing. We are happy for them.

[19:05 PM] IT – James: NEW PIN PROPOSAL: “Christmas Party – Evidence”

[19:06 PM] Finance – Daniel: APPROVED.

[19:06 PM] Marketing – Alex: I WILL NEVER RECOVER FROM THIS

[19:06 PM] Intern #1: DO YOU THINK THEY KNOW WE KNOW

[19:06 PM] Marketing – Alex: NO. AND THAT MAKES IT BETTER.

End of log.