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The flat was still quiet when Oscar slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Felicity or the small bundle curled into her side. It was a trick he’d perfected over the last seven months: extract himself without disturbing either of his girls, tiptoe to the kitchen, start the day.
Their flat was small — technically two bedroom, but they were both quite sure that the second bedroom had probably once been a closet because it didn’t even have a window, a galley kitchen with a window that faced a brick wall, and a tiny living room that doubled as Oscar’s remote sim setup and Felicity’s revision station, decorated with a stack of F3 trophies on the shelf next to Bee’s first ultrasound picture.
He loved the mismatched mugs in the cupboard and the fact that the fridge was always crammed with pump bags and leftover soup. He loved that every surface had something of Bee’s on it — a pacifier, a sock, a half-chewed giraffe toy named Benedict.
None of his teammates were doing this. They were all at training camps, posting gym selfies, living the kind of single-minded life you were supposed to have before F1.
But Oscar… he really loved mornings like this, when the world was quiet and still, and he could pretend — just for a moment — that this life was the only thing that mattered.
By the time the kettle clicked on, he heard it—the soft rustle of blankets, a muffled sigh, and then a tiny, insistent noise that meant Bee was up and hungry.
He smiled, leaning into the doorway just in time to see Felicity sit up against the headboard, hair a mess, their daughter wriggling in her arms.
“Morning,” he said softly.
Felicity gave him a bleary smile. “Morning.”
Bee blinked at him, wide-eyed and already reaching one chubby hand in his direction. He leaned down and kissed her curls. “You’re impatient today, huh?”
Felicity chuckled, adjusting her as Bee started to feed. “She knows when you’re about to make tea. She’s got your timing down.”
Oscar busied himself in the kitchen, moving on instinct: mugs, Felicity’s toast with just enough butter, scrambled eggs because she always forgot to eat enough protein on mornings with lectures.
It was their routine now: Felicity fed Bee while he made breakfast, simple and quiet. And then he’d make sure she had tea, a proper meal, and all the parts of the breast pump washed before she dashed out the door to catch the Tube to Imperial.
“Scrambled or fried?” he called softly over the sound of Bee’s soft swallowing.
Eggs and Toast were the extent of his culinary prowess, but at least he was allowed in the kitchen by now. Even though it was mostly supervised…and only for breakfast.
“Scrambled,” Felicity replied, voice low so as not to disturb their daughter.
Oscar plated the eggs with toast and avocado and set her tea beside Felicity on her bedside table. He’d learned, quickly, that keeping her fed and hydrated made breastfeeding easier.
Felicity looked up when he brought the plate over, tired but smiling. “You’re spoiling me.”
“You’re keeping our daughter alive,” he said simply. “Breakfast’s the least I can do.”
She laughed softly, leaning over Bee’s downy head to kiss his jaw.
When Felicity padded into the kitchen twenty minutes later, Bee tucked against her shoulder and half-asleep again, he was packing the cooler bag she would take with her, filled with the parts of her breast pump.
“You’re a saint,” she murmured, kissing his cheek before settling at the table.
“Practical,” he corrected, already reaching for the breast pump parts she’d left soaking. “You’ve got class in an hour. No way you’d have time to wash these before running to the tube.”
She gave him a look, equal parts tired and grateful. “Saint.”
He grinned, rinsing the parts carefully. He’d gotten good at it—knew exactly which seals had to be checked twice, how to line everything up on the rack so it dried faster. It wasn’t glamorous, but it made her life a little easier, and right now, that felt like the most important job in the world.
By 7:30, Felicity was dressed and packing her bag, Bee in Oscar’s arms making happy little squeaks as she tried to chew on his hoodie string.
“You sure you’ll be okay?” Felicity asked for the tenth time.
Oscar grinned. “We’re going running, aren’t we, Bumblebee? Training starts early.”
Bee responded by blowing a very wet raspberry.
“I think that’s a yes,” Oscar said solemnly.
Felicity laughed, kissed them both, and was gone in a flurry of scarf and wool coat.
The flat went quiet again. Oscar looked down at Bee, who was gnawing on her fist and staring up at him with wide, trusting eyes.
“Just us, huh?” he said softly.
She gurgled.
***
Before 8 am rolled around, Oscar had Bee strapped into the jogging stroller, pulling on his running shoes, and stepped out into the cold London air.
The park was still half asleep when Oscar jogged through the gates, Bee bundled up in her fleece-lined romper with the little ears on the hood, strapped snug in the jogging stroller. The air was sharp with February cold, the grass glittering with frost.
Bee’s eyes were wide, taking in everything as she usually did on their runs.
“Alright, Bumblebee,” he said, adjusting his pace as they hit the path. “Today’s course: two laps around the pond, no chasing pigeons, and we wave at at least five dogs. You think you can handle that?”
Bee responded with a delighted “BA!” and kicked her tiny feet.
“That’s what I thought.”
He always talked to her like this. Like she understood every word. Maybe she didn’t — but the way her little face lit up when he narrated their runs made him think some part of her did .
“Okay, corner coming up. Lean into it. There we go. Future F1 champion right here.” He tapped the stroller lightly, grinning. “You hear that, Bee? Papa’s training you early. Your kart’s gonna have glitter on it, isn’t it?”
Bee squealed like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Oscar laughed, slowing slightly as they hit a small incline. “You’re gonna tell everyone your dad ran you around Hyde Park in the cold when you were seven months old. Builds character, right?”
His phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He slowed to a walk and fished it out, pushing the stroller with one hand. Mark Webber.
He swiped to answer. “Hey, Mark—”
“You sound like you’re running a marathon,” Mark said, amused. “Did I catch you mid-session?”
“Uh. Sort of. Park run.”
There was a pause. “Park run?”
Oscar glanced at Bee, who chose that exact moment to blow a spit bubble. “With Bee.”
“Right. Of course you are.” He could hear the fond exasperation in Mark’s voice. “We were meant to go over some F2 prep, but—”
“—you can talk,” Oscar said quickly, starting to jog again. “She’s good with the stroller; I can listen.”
There was a rustle on the line. Then Mark’s voice, a little softer: “Hang on.”
Oscar frowned. “Hang on to wh—”
The screen shifted as the call flipped to FaceTime.
“Oh, for—Mark—”
“Shut up,” Mark said cheerfully. “Let me see her.”
Oscar angled the phone down toward the stroller. Bee blinked up at the camera, then let out a delighted squeal and slapped her mittened hands against her sides.
Mark’s face softened instantly. “Look at you. Hey, little kangaroo.”
Bee squealed again like she knew exactly who it was.
Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “This is supposed to be an F2 strategy call.”
“It is,” Mark said, still watching Bee. “Strategy: you keep doing whatever you’re doing. She looks happy. You look happy. That’s half the work done.”
Oscar’s chest tightened a little at that. He glanced down at Bee, who had moved on to trying to grab the edge of her blanket with serious concentration.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, we are.”
Mark smiled faintly on the screen. “Alright, mate. Run now, talk later. Tell Felicity I said hi. And tell Bee she’s still my favorite Piastri.”
Bee shrieked like she agreed.
Oscar laughed, jogging forward again. “She heard you.”
“Good,” Mark said. “Keep running, Dad of the Year.”
The call ended, and Oscar tucked the phone away, shaking his head.
“Alright, Bumblebee,” he said, adjusting his grip on the stroller as the cold air bit his cheeks. “Let’s finish this lap and earn that duck pond visit. Uncle Mark says we’re doing great.”
Bee kicked her feet in response, and Oscar grinned.
Yeah. They really were.
***
By the time Oscar got back to the flat, his legs were pleasantly sore and his fingers were half-frozen from the February air. Bee, on the other hand, was absolutely buzzing, her cheeks pink, her bear-ear hood slightly askew.
“Alright, Bumblebee,” he murmured as he carried her up the stairs, “training session complete. Ten out of ten. Except for the bit where you threw your mitten at the pigeon. We’ll talk about sportsmanship later. Time for a bottle.”
She made a soft “mmm” noise that sounded suspiciously like agreement and patted his face as he carried her into the kitchen. The flat was quiet except for the hum of the heater and the distant noise of a bus passing outside.
He moved through the routine on autopilot — warming the bottle to the perfect temperature, peeling back her layers of wool like an onion until she was just Bee again — tiny and warm and soft.
Feeding her had gotten easier over time. After everything they’d been through in those first months — the surgeries, the NICU tubes, the weight checks, — giving her a bottle now felt almost peaceful.
He settled her in the crook of his arm, the lights dim, the flat quiet except for the soft rhythm of Bee’s breathing as she latched onto the bottle like it owed her rent.
Oscar hummed something under his breath — Let it Be, from the Beatles, because for some godforsaken reason that was all Bee settled down for. Bee’s eyes fluttered. Her tiny fingers curled around the edge of his hoodie.
By the time she finished, she was practically asleep in his arms.
“Fought hard,” he whispered, brushing her curls back. “Didn’t even cry during your cooldown lap.”
He burped her gently, pressing a kiss into her hair, then held her for a few more minutes — because how could he not?
Then Oscar eased her into the moses basket, they had wedged into one corner of their living room — Bee’s “day bed” — and laid her down.
She sighed in her sleep, one hand fisting into her sleepsack, cheeks flushed and peaceful.
The moment she was down, Oscar turned into Driver Piastri, Simulation Goblin .
He moved quietly — just enough time to grab the shaker bottle from the fridge, check on Bee twice, and slide into the sim seat they had squeezed into the living room between the bookshelves and the radiator.
He strapped in, booted the program, and dropped into the zone. The circuit loaded. The headset clicked into place.
His hands steadied on the wheel, breathing falling into rhythm.
Sector 1.
Lift.
Throttle.
He was gone.
For two hours, he was just Oscar-the-driver again — carving lines, testing setups, shaving milliseconds — while, two metres away, Oscar-the-dad listened to his daughter’s soft sleeping breaths.
It wasn’t glamorous.
This wasn’t the morning routine of any of his teammates. None of them paused between stints to check if their kid had rolled onto her side. None of them calculated lap deltas with burp cloths on their desk.
And yet, as the car roared virtually down the straight and Bee’s soft breathing beside him, Oscar couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.
***
Bee was bundled into her carrier, cuddled against Oscar’s chest, her cheeks flushed pink against the February chill as Oscar carried her down the narrow side street lined with old brick buildings. The familiar smell of oil and warm metal reached him before he even saw the sign above the garage.
JONES & JONES RESTORATIONS.
Oscar pushed the door open carefully. The smell hit him first: warm oil, old leather, and a faint tang of metal shavings. Malcolm’s garage always smelled like history in the making — or maybe history being lovingly put back together.
Malcolm looked up from the workbench, grease smudged on his jaw like war paint. “Well, if it isn’t my second-favorite Piastris.”
Bee let out a delighted squeal, stretching her arms toward him. Oscar laughed, “Careful, mate. She’ll trade me in for you in a heartbeat.”
“Smart girl,” Malcolm said, wiping his hands on a rag before holding them out. Oscar opened the carrier to give Bee over to Malcolm. She immediately grabbed for his glasses with toddler accuracy.
“Oi, none of that,” Malcolm scolded, though his voice softened in a way that always caught Oscar off guard. He nodded toward the back of the garage. “She’s under the Jaguar.”
Bee let out a delighted squeal.
Oscar glanced over to see Felicity’s legs sticking out from beneath the chassis of a ’68 E-Type, her voice muffled, “What are you two doing here?” she asked
“Surprise pickup,” Oscar said. “Figured you might want someone to walk you home.”
A clang, a muttered curse, and then she slid out, hair escaping her bun and smudge of grease across her cheek. She looked tired but happy, the way she always did here.
“Hey,” she said softly, sitting up and looking for Bee. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Bee squealed, still in Malcolm’s arms.
Oscar bent to kiss Felicity’s temple, leaning to pull her up. “You look good under a Jag.”
“You always say that,” she teased, leaning into his hand for a second before standing.
Ian appeared from the back room, wiping his own hands on a tea towel. “Ah, my favorite shift change.”
“Hi, Ian,” Oscar said warmly.
Ian smiled at Bee, who immediately reached for him too. “And hello to you, Little Mechanic. Helping your mum with carburetors yet?”
“She mostly tries to lick the socket set,” Felicity said dryly, and Ian chuckled.
“Every genius starts somewhere,” he replied, before handing her back to Felicity, who greeted her daughter with a kiss pressed to her forehead.
They left just as the sky turned dusky purple, Felicity slipping her hand into Oscar’s while Bee was curled in the carrier against his chest again, already drowsy from the warmth and noise.
“She loves it there,” Oscar murmured, watching the little garage shrink in the distance.
Felicity smiled softly. “So do I.”
***
Oscar had always thought of race weekends as the most intense thing in his life.
The pressure. The focus. The margins.
But evenings like this?
They required a different kind of precision.
Felicity was nursing Bee on the couch, her hair loose and half-damp from a quick shower, Bee tucked against her like she was still part of her body. The only light came from the lamp in the corner and the kitchen under-cabinet LEDs that buzzed slightly. It cast everything in honey.
Oscar moved quietly through the kitchenette, assembling the chaos from the day’s pumping sessions into a neat system of bags, labels, and containers. The pumping parts were already cleaned, drying on a rack beside Bee’s spare pacifiers.
He could do it in his sleep by now — the measurements, the labeling, the transfer to freezer or fridge. Felicity did everything else. The least he could do was handle the logistics of a damn breast pump.
Behind him, Bee let out a drowsy sigh.
“All done,” Felicity whispered. “You want to put her down?”
“Always.”
He took Bee carefully, heart full in a way he never quite got used to. Her weight had shifted again — heavier than last week, her body longer, curls thicker. He kissed her head, warm from Felicity’s skin, and carried her to the bedroom.
He laid her down gently in her cot, and watched her settle, thumb drifting to her mouth.
By the time he came back out, Felicity had changed into her favorite of his old hoodies and was barefoot in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan that smelled like garlic and thyme.
“You didn’t have to cook,” he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
“I wanted to.” She leaned into him briefly. “I needed to do something. I spent half the day under that Jag.”
“And what a lucky Jag.”
She snorted. “Set the table, Piastri.”
Dinner was simple — pasta with roasted vegetables and the last of the cheese they’d been pretending wasn’t expensive. They ate sitting side-by-side, Bee’s monitor hummed on the windowsill.
They didn’t talk much. Just passed each other water glasses and shared bites. It wasn’t quiet because they were tired — it was quiet because this was the good part.
Afterward, Felicity retreated to the couch with her notebook and engineering textbook, highlighter cap between her teeth.
Oscar pulled his laptop into his lap on the armchair and started flipping through onboard footage and team notes.
The room filled with the soft hum of life — keys clicking, pages turning, a sharp sigh from Felicity when she realized she’d highlighted the wrong equation.
“Need help?” he asked without looking up.
“From you? On fluid dynamics ?”
“Unbelievable disrespect.”
She laughed. “Make it up to me by getting me the biscuits.”
He did. They shared them wordlessly, one at a time, until the study session faded into fatigue and the race notes all started to blur.
When they finally climbed into bed, it was with that bone-deep exhaustion that didn’t need to be explained.
Oscar curled around Felicity, one arm slung across her waist, her back warm against his chest.
“You know,” he murmured, half-asleep, “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am right now.”
Exhausted.
Happy.
Completely, utterly home.