Chapter Text
The Monday morning espresso machine line was longer than the queue for Glastonbury tickets, and Lando was five seconds from abandoning caffeine altogether. Almost.
Then Oscar showed up.
“Morning,” Oscar said, soft and sleep-rough in that Aussie accent that made Lando’s brain gently reboot.
He wore the pale blue button-up again—the one that fit too well across his shoulders and made his tie hang just a little crooked. He had that half-focused frown he always wore before his first coffee. It was deeply unfair. Some people looked tired in the mornings. Oscar looked like a Calvin Klein intern who accidentally wandered into a marketing job.
Lando nodded, played it cool. “Hey.”
Oscar yawned and leaned one hand against the counter, inches from Lando’s. Lando tried not to hyperventilate. Oscar had freckles. He had freckles. And long fingers. And a pen tucked behind his ear like he was in a ‘90s romcom no one had told Lando was real.
The machine hissed. Lando jolted. Coffee overflowed into his cup.
“Shit—dammit—”
Oscar reached over, flipping the switch expertly. “You’ve gotta tap it twice after it starts pouring. Learned that the hard way.”
“You’re a coffee whisperer,” Lando muttered.
“I’m just caffeinated enough to function.” Oscar glanced down at Lando’s soggy printout. “That your report for McKinney?”
“Was. Now it’s a cautionary tale.”
Oscar smiled. “See you at the team sync.”
He walked off. Lando stared at the coffee like it had committed a war crime.
Slack Messages – 9:13 AM
Lando: I need a new brain
George (HR): Is this about Oscar again
Lando: I’m changing my name. Starting over in a lighthouse in Cornwall.
George: Just tell him
Lando: I did. Once. Through the medium of latte foam.
George: That doesn’t count. That’s milk art.
Lando: He smiled.
George: Because he thought it was a leaf.
Lando: …I hate everything.
Oscar sipped his coffee slowly as he watched the printer whirr its way through three client briefings and one highly suspect document labeled: Norris_Project_Don’tOpen_FinalFINAL.pptx.
Lando was a mystery.
Loud. Hilarious. Effortlessly confident during pitches—but weirdly jumpy around Oscar. And clumsy. Always dropping things. Spilling things. Walking into things. Once, he’d knocked over an entire stack of mockups just trying to say “morning.”
Oscar wasn’t oblivious. Not really. He just… wasn’t sure.
Was it flirting? Or just Lando being Lando?
He’d caught Lando looking at him more than once. Lingering glances. The time their knees brushed under the table. The elevator moment. The “you smell like productivity” line.
What does that even mean?
Oscar chuckled quietly. Whatever it was, Lando was entertaining. Kind. Looked unfairly good in rolled-up sleeves.
But he probably flirted like that with everyone. Probably.
Email Thread
Subject: Printer War Crimes
From: Lando Norris
To: Oscar Piastri
hey.
printer jammed again. i think it’s haunted.
also—
your collar’s flipped. just fyi.
-N
Subject: Printer War Crimes: Retaliation
From: Oscar Piastri
To: Lando Norris
Appreciate the recon.
Don’t die in there.
I’ll avenge you.
He noticed the coffee. He noticed the email. He SMILED at the email. Does he smile like that at other people? Wait, is he smiling at me RIGHT NOW?
Lando choked on his water.
Oscar looked up. “You good?”
Lando waved a hand. “Fine! Just… drowning a little. But in, like, a hydration way.”
Oscar smiled and turned back to his screen.
Lando slumped into his desk. “This is hell,” he muttered. “A sexy, collared-shirt hell.”
The office was mostly empty. Lando watched Oscar through the glass of the break room—leaning against the fridge, scrolling his phone, golden under the overhead light. Calm. Unbothered.
Lando wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if he just told him.
I think about you all the time. I bring you coffee just to stand next to you. You’ve made every Monday bearable and every Friday unbearable because I have to wait two days to see you again.
He didn’t say any of that.
Instead, he deleted the heart emoji from the project file and called it a night.
The printer jammed on his way out.
It felt personal.