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The press room smelled of coffee, damp suits, and the faint tang of nerves.
Lando sat stiff in his chair, shoulders squared, chin up. He didn’t even glance to the side, where Oscar was already answering some smug question with that calm, irritating tone of his.
“Of course I think I had the pace to win,” Oscar said, voice steady, accent clipped.
“If the team had given me the right strategy, I would’ve been ahead.”
A sharp click of Lando’s jaw. His hand curled around the mic before the moderator had even gestured to him.
“Well, maybe if you actually pushed your tires properly, you wouldn’t need to rely on strategy, would you?”
The words slipped out sharp, venom-laced. A ripple of laughter ran through the reporters.
Oscar’s mouth twitched—whether in irritation or amusement, Lando couldn’t tell.
There it was again. That gnawing heat under his skin whenever Oscar opened his mouth.
Not the kind that came with his biology—Lando wasn’t in heat, not even close—but something instinctual and infuriating.
His omega wanted to bare teeth, to prove dominance, to fight. The urge burned bright and reckless, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
Oscar, of course, didn’t flinch. He turned his head just slightly, gaze flicking to Lando, and something heavy settled in the air between them.
Alpha to omega.
A pulse of quiet authority. Lando’s body betrayed him—his pulse stuttered, his chest tightened. He hated it.
Hated that even after years of training himself to stay steady, some instinct still wanted him to react to Oscar’s presence.
To bristle. To yield.
“Funny,” Oscar murmured, leaning into his mic. “Coming from the guy who overheats his tires every other stint.”
The room erupted again. Reporters scribbled furiously. McLaren PR looked like they wanted to melt into the carpet.
By the time the press conference ended, Lando was vibrating with frustration. He stormed out first, shoving past the curtain, ignoring the flashes of cameras still trained on them.
His breaths came shallow and quick, his body still thrumming from that unwanted alpha-omega push-pull.
“Lando—”
He spun, catching Oscar trailing behind him, expression unreadable as always.
“What? Here to lecture me too?” Lando snapped.
Oscar stopped a pace away. Close enough that Lando could feel the warmth radiating off him, too close for the wild edge of his instincts.
His scent hit—clean, sharp, laced with something grounding. It punched straight through Lando’s ribs, made his stomach flip.
“I was going to say,” Oscar replied slowly, “that you need to watch yourself. They’re going to start noticing.”
Lando’s breath stuttered. “Noticing what?”
Oscar’s eyes softened, just for a second “You slipped, in there.” He didn’t explain further, but he didn’t need to. They both knew what he meant.
That little crack in Lando’s control. The omega flare no one else would’ve caught—except an alpha tuned too closely to him.
Lando swallowed, throat dry. “Stay out of my business.”
Oscar tilted his head, gaze still pinned to him, unreadable but heavy.
“I would,” he said, voice dipping lower, “if your business didn’t pull at every instinct I have.”
The words landed like a punch. Hot, humiliating, terrifying. Lando stumbled back, as if distance would steady his racing pulse, his trembling hands.
He wanted to tell Oscar to shut up, to get lost, to leave him alone. But the words stuck, caught in the sudden silence stretching between them.
For the first time since they’d been shoved into the same team, Lando couldn’t tell if he hated Oscar—or if something in him was dangerously close to craving him.
The pills rattled in his palm like little betrayals.
Three. He usually only took one, maybe two at the most, if a race week aligned too closely with his cycle.
But this time—this time Lando tipped all three into his mouth, swallowed them dry, and let the burn chase down his throat.
The chemical chill spread quickly, dulling the edges of his biology.
Suppressants were brutal things—numbing heat before it even had the chance to spark, stripping an omega of scent, of instinct, of the natural hum that lived under their skin.
It was like cutting off a part of himself just to stay composed. Good. That was the point.
If Oscar Piastri thought he could read him, if he thought he could pick up on every flicker of weakness, every slip of instinct, he was wrong.
Lando wasn’t going to give him that power again.
The garage was humming, mechanics darting around, telemetry spitting numbers across screens.
Lando stood at his station, helmet tucked under his arm, watching Oscar’s car roll back from a run.
His rival. His teammate. His shadow.
Oscar pulled off his gloves slowly, fingers deliberate, face set in that irritatingly calm expression.
When his eyes lifted, they caught on Lando. For a heartbeat, it was like the world narrowed to the two of them.
Lando straightened, jaw tight. He kept his breathing even, his scent flat and lifeless thanks to the drugs.
Empty. Untouchable.
Oscar frowned. Just slightly. Barely there. But Lando caught it, and it felt like victory.
“Problem?” Lando muttered, low enough only Oscar could hear as he brushed past him toward the engineers.
“No,” Oscar said, but his gaze lingered a beat too long. “Not yet.”
The words snagged like hooks. Lando ignored them.
The suppressant hit harder as the day wore on. His head ached, his stomach churned, and under the artificial calm was a strange hollowness, like being wrapped in cotton.
It worked, though—no scent, no pull, no slip of omega heat to betray him.
But by the time night fell and he collapsed in his hotel room, the silence in his body was almost unbearable.
Instincts clawed at the chemical wall he’d built, restless and suffocated. He buried his face in the pillow, forcing himself to breathe steady, to believe this was better. Safer.
A knock at the door startled him. Sharp, firm. Lando groaned, dragged himself up, and pulled it open.
Oscar stood there, hair damp from a shower, dressed down in a t-shirt and joggers.
But his presence still filled the space like it belonged there. Alpha to omega. Gravity to fragile bone.
Lando’s stomach flipped. He swallowed it down. “What do you want?” he snapped.
Oscar studied him, quiet and unnerving. “You’re different,” he said at last.
“No scent. No… anything. You’ve been dosing.” Heat prickled at the back of Lando’s neck. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is if you’re hurting yourself.”
Lando barked a laugh. “Hurting myself? Please. I’m fine. Better than fine.” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the blank space around them.
“See? Nothing for you to pick up on anymore.” Oscar’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, too close, the air between them thickening.
“You think this makes you untouchable? You think I can’t feel it anyway?”
Lando’s breath caught. His body betrayed him, even muted by chemicals. His pulse quickened, instincts screaming behind the suppressant wall.
“Stay out of my head,” Lando whispered, but the words cracked.
Oscar’s eyes darkened, steady and relentless. “I’m not in your head, Lando. You’re in mine.”
The silence between them buzzed, sharp and unbearable. For one dangerous moment, Lando thought he might let himself fall into it.
Instead, he slammed the door. And then slid down against it, heart pounding, suppressants burning bitter in his gut.
Four pills.
They rattled down his throat with barely a sip of water. His fingers shook as he set the empty blister pack back on the table.
Four—double what even the most reckless omega would risk. But Lando wasn’t reckless. He was determined.
He was tired of Oscar’s eyes lingering on him. Tired of every little slip being noticed, of being read too easily.
This time, he would make sure there was nothing left for Oscar to sense. No scent, no instinct, no weakness.
By the time he walked into the garage, his body already felt weightless. The ground seemed to tilt beneath his boots, and a dull ringing buzzed in his ears.
But he forced his chin high, his stride steady. He had a race to win, and proving he could beat Oscar was worth more than whatever poison was coursing through his veins.
The mechanics moved around him in their orange blur, engineers tapping away at laptops. Somewhere, Oscar’s laugh carried, low and easy, from across the garage.
It grated against Lando’s already frayed nerves.
He ducked into his seat, helmet balanced on his knees, and willed his pulse to steady.
Focus on racing. Focus on winning. Focus on being better than him.
But then—A shadow loomed. A scent. Not his own—Lando couldn’t even feel his anymore—but Oscar’s.
Sharper than usual, thick with something protective, something dangerous.
“You’ve dosed again.” Oscar’s voice was low, almost lost beneath the noise of the garage. But it still hit like a hand to his chest.
Lando rolled his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.
“Congratulations. Want a medal for noticing?”
“You smell sick.” Oscar didn’t move away. His presence pressed against Lando, heavy and unrelenting.
“It’s wrong. Your body’s fighting it.”
Lando’s laugh came brittle, cracking at the edges.
“Good. Then maybe you’ll finally stop sniffing around like some—some overgrown watchdog.”
But Oscar didn’t back down. His hand brushed against the back of Lando’s chair, not touching, but close enough that Lando could feel the heat of it.
“You think this is strength? Numbing yourself into the ground?”
“Shut up.” Lando’s breath came shallow, his ears still ringing, his vision edged in white.
He clutched his helmet tighter, nails biting into the padding. “I don’t need your alpha instincts, I don’t need—”
His words cut off when his stomach lurched, bile rising sharp and fast.
He shoved to his feet, stumbling, nearly colliding with the wall as he bolted for the bathroom tucked at the side of the garage.
Oscar followed. Of course he did.
By the time Lando hit the sink, retching, his legs barely held him upright.
His reflection in the mirror was a stranger: pale, eyes too bright, lips bloodless. He splashed water over his face, but it didn’t help.
Oscar’s hand landed firm on his shoulder, steadying him when his knees threatened to give.
“Don’t touch me,” Lando rasped, though his body leaned into the anchor before he could stop it.
Oscar’s scent rolled out stronger now—protective, grounding, threaded with alarm.
It wrapped around Lando’s chemically hollow body like a safety net, coaxing something buried deep in his omega instincts to stir.
“You’re burning yourself alive with those pills,” Oscar said, his voice rough, clipped with barely contained instinct.
“You think you’re hiding, but all you’re doing is broadcasting how much you need help.”
“I don’t—” Lando tried, but his voice broke on the words. His chest heaved, his body betraying him with every ragged breath.
Oscar’s grip on his shoulder tightened, steady but not suffocating.
“Let me help you, Lando. Just this once. Before you destroy yourself.”
The words burrowed deep, unwelcome but impossible to shake.
And for the first time, Lando didn’t have the strength to snap back.
Oscar was everywhere.
In the garage, standing too close. In the paddock, shadowing Lando’s steps.
In the hotel hallway, leaning against the wall like he had every right to be there. Wherever Lando turned, Oscar was there—calm, steady, unbearably present.
It was driving him insane.
And when he returned to his room after debrief, bone-tired, the sight that greeted him nearly tipped him over the edge.
His suppressants.
The pills.
The only thing keeping him in control. Gone from the bedside table. Lando’s stomach dropped. He tore the room apart, flinging open drawers, shoving aside bags.
Until finally, with a sick twist in his chest, he spotted them—an entire blister pack scattered across the closet floor, the cardboard box ripped open, the foil torn.
And Oscar, standing there with that infuriatingly calm face, as if he hadn’t just ripped away Lando’s lifeline.
“You—” Lando’s voice cracked, too sharp, too loud. His fists curled at his sides.
“You had no right.”
Oscar didn’t flinch. “You were killing yourself with them.”
“That’s my choice.” Lando’s pulse thundered in his ears, his body buzzing with anger—or maybe panic.
“You don’t get to decide for me!”
Oscar’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed even.
“Your body was failing. I won’t stand by and watch you destroy yourself.”
“You won’t stand by?” Lando barked out a laugh, wild and bitter.
“What the hell do you care, huh? You think this makes us friends? Teammates?” He shoved a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until it hurt.
“I don’t want this, Oscar. I don’t want you hovering, I don’t want your alpha instincts choking me—”
His breath hitched, words tumbling out before he could stop them.
“I don’t want to mate!”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Oscar’s gaze darkened, sharp and unreadable. But he didn’t move. Didn’t look away.
Lando’s throat burned. He kept going, desperate, reckless.
“What if it happens on a race weekend, huh? What if I go into heat before qualifying? What then?”
His chest heaved, fury and fear spilling raw. “Is that your strategy for winning this championship? Tie me down, keep me distracted so you come out on top?”
The words echoed too loud in the hotel room, too heavy to take back.
Oscar’s expression flickered—something sharp, wounded, but gone before Lando could catch it. His voice, when it came, was low.
Controlled.
“Is that what you really think of me?”
Lando froze, lips parting, but no sound came out.
His heart hammered against his ribs, panic and anger tangling until he couldn’t tell them apart.
Oscar stepped closer, slow, deliberate. His scent rolled out—quiet, restrained, but firm.
Not a push. Not a claim. Just… steady.
“You think I want to win because of you?” His voice dipped lower, dangerous in its calm.
“No, Lando. I want to win with you. But not if it costs you everything.”
The words landed heavy, cutting deeper than Lando wanted to admit.
His fists shook, his whole body trembling on the edge between fight and collapse.
“You don’t get to say that,” he whispered, almost breaking.
Oscar held his gaze, unflinching. “Then stop making me prove it.”
For one unbearable moment, Lando wanted to scream.
Or punch him. Or lean forward until there was nothing but the heat of him, the steadiness, the impossible pull that no amount of suppressants could erase.
Instead, he shoved past, slamming into the bathroom, locking the door.
And when the echo of it faded, Lando sank against the cool tile, knees drawn up, chest burning.
His suppressants were gone, his walls cracking, and for the first time he couldn’t tell if he was furious at Oscar—or terrified of himself.
The countdown to the next race had already begun.
One week. Seven days.
The McLaren Technology Center was buzzing with its usual precision—sim sessions, endless debriefs, strategy meetings with engineers.
Everything timed to the second, every variable mapped. Lando buried himself in the grind, because work was safe. Data didn’t care about biology. Sim laps didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer.
He slid into the simulator pod, gloves on, eyes narrowing at the monitor. The track lit up before him, corner by corner, line by line. Focus. That was all he needed.
And then—
The air shifted. Not much. Barely a flicker at first. But it was there.
Sweet, warm, cloying in a way that slipped under his guard before he realized what was happening.
Lando blinked hard, shook his head, pressed down harder on the throttle.
Ignore it. Just a trick. Just your brain playing games.
But it didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger. Curling into his lungs, wrapping around his chest, dripping heat down his spine.
Sweet and sharp, like something designed to catch him, pull him closer.
His grip on the wheel faltered. The sim car jerked.
What the fuck?
He stole a glance through the pod’s narrow opening—across the room, Oscar was standing with an engineer, bent over a screen.
His profile calm, his posture easy. And that scent. God, that scent—steady alpha warmth, threaded with something rich, addictive.
Lando’s stomach lurched. His mouth went dry. His body felt too hot inside the fireproof sim suit.
No. No, no, no. Suppressants. You took them. You covered it. You—
Except he hadn’t. Not since Oscar tore them away. And now, with nothing dulling the edges, his body was stirring awake, instincts clawing through the cracks.
The first stage. Heat.
His pulse spiked, too fast, too loud. The edges of his vision pulsed, his ears ringing faintly.
He dug his nails into the wheel, trying to ground himself.
It couldn’t be starting now. Not here. Not with everyone around.
And why—why the hell was it Oscar? Why could he only feel it from him, like the entire room had vanished and narrowed down to one stupid, steady alpha?
“Oh, fuck.” Lando whispered it under his breath, chest heaving.
“I fucked up.”
Because he had. He’d ignored the warnings, pushed his body past its limits, drowned himself in pills until the backlash hit like a freight train.
And now, with his suppressants gone, his body wasn’t just slipping—it was locking on.
Not just to any alpha.
To Oscar.
Panic flared, sharp and bitter. He shoved the sim visor up, gasping for air, heart hammering as the heat curled tighter around him.
From across the room, Oscar’s head turned. His gaze locked instantly, eyes narrowing, like he’d scented it too.
Lando’s throat closed. His body screamed run. His instincts screamed closer.
And for the first time, he couldn’t tell which one he was more terrified of obeying.
Oscar leaned over the console, finger dragging along the track map on the screen as he spoke quietly with the engineer beside him.
Sector three needed tightening. The softs were graining quicker than expected. Details, numbers, margins—his head was buried in it, focused, sharp.
And then it hit.
Like someone had flipped a switch in the air, flooding the room with it.
A scent—sweet, molten, heavy. Thick enough to catch in his lungs, curl in his chest, and drag every thought away from strategy, from numbers, from racing.
It rolled over him, intoxicating in a way that hit low in his gut, sparking through every inch of his nerves.
His voice faltered mid-sentence. His hand froze on the screen. The engineer glanced up at him, confused, but Oscar barely heard it. Because his instincts were already roaring to life, sharp and undeniable.
Omega. Heat.
His head snapped up before he even thought about it, eyes scanning the room. Searching, hunting, pulled by that scent like a tether.
His pulse thudded hard, the low growl of his instincts pressing against his composure.
And then his gaze found it. Found him.
Lando.
Slumped in the simulator pod, helmet half-off, jaw clenched, throat working like he was swallowing down something impossible.
His skin flushed too pink, his breathing shallow, his hands trembling where they still gripped the wheel.
The scent was pouring off him, flooding the room, and Oscar swore his body locked up entirely.
Lando.
Of all people. Of course it was him. The engineer said something—asked if Oscar was okay, if he’d heard—but the words bounced off him, meaningless.
All he could hear was the hammering of his own pulse, the crackle of instinct clawing at him, telling him to move, to claim, to anchor.
But he didn’t. Not yet. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he forced the instincts back.
He couldn’t. Not here. Not with the entire team in the room.
Still, his eyes refused to leave Lando.
And as if he could feel it, Lando’s head lifted. Their gazes collided—Lando’s wide, panicked, pupils blown too dark.
He looked like he’d rather vanish than be caught like this.
Oscar’s throat went dry. Every nerve screamed to go to him.
To pull him out of that pod, out of this room, out of sight.
To fix it. To take care of him.
Because this wasn’t just heat. This was Lando.
And Oscar knew, in the sharp punch of that realization, that nothing about this rivalry would ever be the same.
The simulation ended. The room emptied with the low shuffle of engineers and staff, screens dimming one by one.
Lando’s headset was already halfway off before the lead engineer could say “good work today.” His chest was tight, lungs dragging in air that only seemed to worsen the burn spreading through him.
He needed out.
The second the session was over, Lando shoved his notes into his bag, muttering something about checking data later, and bolted.
His trainers squeaked against the polished floor as he rushed down the MTC corridor, trying to ignore the way his body screamed for relief, for distance, for silence.
He couldn’t afford this. Not now.
Pharmacy first. Suppressants. Anything stronger. Double dose, triple dose if he had to.
He’d shove them down his throat until Oscar’s scent didn’t claw at his nerves anymore. Until his body remembered who was in control.
But then—The air shifted.
Sweet, grounding, a scent he hated himself for recognizing instantly.
No. No. No.
Lando’s nose twitched before he could stop it. He knew that scent, knew it in the marrow of his bones now, because his body wouldn’t let him forget: Oscar.
And he was close. Too close.
“Lando.”
The sound of his name was low, steady, but it tightened everything inside him like a wire. He spun, already defensive, already bristling.
Oscar stood there, not even winded despite clearly having followed him.
His shoulders were squared, his gaze sharp but laced with something heavier. Something Lando couldn’t stand to see right now.
“Please, Oscar,” Lando’s voice cracked against the sterile air of the hallway, more plea than anger even though he wanted it to come out sharp.
“Just—leave me alone.”
He tried to step back, but Oscar mirrored him, closing the space without a word.
The scent between them grew thicker, almost tangible, like a rope tugging both of them closer no matter how much Lando’s mind screamed at him to run.
His hands shook around the strap of his bag, knuckles white.
“Why are you—” Lando started, but cut himself off, his throat too dry.
Oscar’s eyes flickered, narrowing slightly as though every piece of instinct in him refused to look away.
“You’re not okay.”
“I’m fine,” Lando snapped, too quick, too sharp. His ears were ringing again, his vision swimming.
“I just need—” He swallowed hard. “I just need space. And you not breathing down my neck every damn second.”
But even as he said it, the truth pressed against him, his body didn’t want space. His body wanted the exact opposite.
And Oscar? He was close enough now that Lando’s skin felt like it was burning.
“I just need space. And you not breathing down my neck every damn second.”
The words left his lips with all the bite he could muster, but before the echo even faded, Lando’s knees buckled.
His bag slipped from his shoulder, crashing to the floor as his body swayed.
“Shit—Lando!”
Oscar’s reflexes were faster than his own. Strong hands caught his arms, steadying him before he could collapse against the wall.
Lando clutched at his chest, breath hitching, eyes wide as pain lanced through him sharp and wrong.
He had been through heats before. He knew how they started, the slow build, the warmth, the fog.
But this—this was different. It burned under his skin, crawled through his veins, dragged at his muscles until he was trembling.
“What the fuck is happening?” Lando gasped, barely able to stand.
Oscar’s grip didn’t loosen. His voice was firm but not unkind. “You’re not okay.”
“No—” Lando tried to jerk away, but his legs gave out again, and this time Oscar didn’t let him fight.
He hauled him upright, keeping his arm braced firmly around his waist.
“I don’t—” Lando’s voice cracked, raw in his throat. “I don’t understand, it shouldn’t—why does it hurt?”
Oscar’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark as he studied him. “Because you’ve been choking down suppressants like they’re candy.”
Lando froze, stomach sinking. He hated how quickly Oscar had put the pieces together.
“That’s not just delaying your heat,” Oscar continued, steadying Lando as he leaned heavier against him.
“It’s poisoning you. Your body’s fighting itself, and now—” His words cut off, his nostrils flaring against the thickening scent curling from Lando.
Lando wanted to deny it, wanted to argue that he had it under control, but another wave of pain rolled through him, making his vision blur.
He had no strength left to fight, no ground to stand on.
Oscar didn’t waste another second. He bent, grabbed Lando’s dropped bag with one hand while keeping the other locked firmly around him.
“Come on. You’re not staying here.”
Lando shook his head weakly. “No—don’t. Don’t take me to you—”
“I’m taking you home.”
The tone in Oscar’s voice left no room for argument. He guided Lando through the quiet MTC corridors, ignoring the curious stares they got from the few late-night staff still around.
By the time they reached the car park, Lando was practically slumped against his side, too drained to even lift his head.
Oscar got him into the passenger seat, buckled the belt across his chest, then slid behind the wheel without a word.
The car purred to life, headlights cutting across the dark lot.
Lando managed a hoarse whisper as the gates of the Technology Center disappeared behind them.
“Where are we—”
“Your apartment,” Oscar said firmly, eyes on the road.
“You’re not spending the night alone like this.”
Lando squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the tremor that ran through him, the ache in his body that wouldn’t let up.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if he hated Oscar’s presence—or if he was terrified of what it meant that part of him didn’t want him to leave.
The elevator ride up felt endless. By the time they reached Lando’s floor, his whole body was trembling.
His hoodie clung to him with sweat, and when Oscar slipped an arm around his waist to steady him, he could feel the feverish heat radiating through the thin fabric.
“Almost there,” Oscar muttered, more to himself than to Lando, as he dug for the apartment keycard Lando had half-dropped from his pocket.
The door clicked open, and then they were inside—dim light, a faint scent of detergent and motor oil lingering in the air.
Oscar guided him toward the sofa, but Lando shook his head, breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
“Bedroom,” he rasped, almost ashamed of how weak his voice sounded.
Oscar didn’t hesitate. He carried him down the short hall, pushed open the door, and lowered him carefully onto the bed.
For a moment, Oscar just stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the sight in front of him.
Lando Norris, his rival, his sharp-tongued, stubborn teammate—looked breakable. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red as if they burned from the inside.
His hands fisted into the sheets, knuckles white, as if he was trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.
Oscar’s chest tightened. His alpha instincts surged, pressing against his ribs, demanding he do something, anything, to ease the omega in front of him.
The scent of Lando’s distress was thick, acidic at the edges, making every nerve in Oscar’s body flare.
“Don’t,” Lando croaked, eyes flicking to him. He looked desperate, almost wild.
“Don’t come closer.”
Oscar froze. “Lando—”
“You don’t get it.” His voice cracked, broken and harsh.
“If you stay, if this keeps going, I’m gonna—” His throat worked, words failing him as his chest heaved.
“I’m gonna lose it. Go primal. And you don’t want that.”
The words stabbed at Oscar, but not in the way Lando intended. He wanted to say he could handle it, that he wanted to handle it if it meant keeping him safe.
But the sight of Lando fighting himself so hard made him pause, hands curling into fists at his sides.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Oscar said quietly, carefully, as if speaking too loud might break him further.
Lando shook his head, shivering so hard the bed frame rattled.
“You don’t understand. I can’t—if I lose control around you, if this—” His voice dropped to a whisper, eyes burning into Oscar’s.
“I don’t want to be your weakness. Not on race week. Not ever.”
For the first time, Oscar had no comeback. Just the pull of his instincts, and the realization that Lando’s fight wasn’t against him—it was against himself.
So he sat down slowly, deliberately, at the edge of the bed.
Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.
And to both their surprise, Lando’s shaking eased. Not fully, but enough for his body to unclench, enough for a shuddering exhale to slip past his lips.
Oscar didn’t miss the way Lando’s eyes flickered shut, as though his alpha presence—unwanted, uninvited—was the only thing tethering him to sanity.
The hours bled together in silence, broken only by Lando’s ragged breaths and the occasional stifled groan when another wave of heat hit him.
Oscar didn’t leave.
He stayed perched at the edge of the bed, his posture rigid, every muscle thrumming with restraint.
The scent of Lando’s omega was heavy in the room, honey-sweet and fever-warm, coiling through Oscar’s veins and scratching at his self-control.
His alpha instincts begged him to touch, to soothe, to claim. But he didn’t.
Instead, he kept his distance—just enough so Lando could feel him there, but not overwhelmed.
Sometimes he murmured quiet words when the trembling grew too violent:
“Breathe, Lando. Just breathe.”
“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“You’re not alone.”
And, against all odds, it worked.
Every time Lando threatened to spiral into panic, Oscar’s voice grounded him. Every time his body twisted in pain, Oscar’s presence anchored him.
It was tense, fragile, like walking a knife’s edge—but it was enough to pull Lando through the night.
By dawn, the fever had broken.
The light filtering through the curtains revealed Lando curled on his side, pale but no longer burning up.
His breaths came easier, his body slack with exhaustion. For the first time in hours, he looked peaceful.
Oscar let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He shifted back slightly, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to quiet the storm in his chest.
He should feel relieved—Lando had made it through the worst of it. But what clung to him instead was a sharp, unsettling realization.
Lando had no idea how close he had come to breaking.
The thought gnawed at Oscar as he looked down at him. His hair stuck damply to his forehead, lips parted as he breathed softly, fragile in a way Oscar had never imagined. And it struck him, like a punch to the gut:
Lando didn’t care about himself.
Not about his body. Not about the biological needs he was supposed to respect as an omega.
He had shoved it all down, ignored every warning sign, drowned himself in suppressant pills until his body nearly collapsed under the strain.
It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t stubborn pride. It was self-destruction.
Oscar’s fists curled tight in his lap, nails biting into his palms. He thought about every sharp remark, every fight in the press room, every glare Lando had thrown his way when he tried to interfere.
None of it mattered, not really.
Because beneath all of that, Lando was hurting.
And if he kept going like this, Oscar wasn’t sure his body would survive another heat.
Oscar exhaled slowly, eyes lingering on Lando’s sleeping form. For the first time, the rivalry didn’t matter. The championship didn’t matter.
All that mattered was keeping him alive.
Lando woke with a start, every muscle in his body aching like he’d been through a crash.
His head pounded, his throat felt raw, and his limbs were heavy as stone. But the fever… the fever was gone.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, unsure if he should feel relieved or terrified. If that had been the worst of his heat, he’d survived it.
Barely. Maybe the suppressants had done their job after all—though his body screamed otherwise, every nerve still sore from the abuse.
Dragging himself upright, Lando swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His reflection caught in the mirror across the room—pale skin, dark circles, hair plastered to his forehead.
He looked miserable.
Weak.
He hated it.
And then he smelled it.
Not his own fading heat, not the sterile scent of his apartment. Something warmer. Grounded. Familiar in a way that made his chest tighten.
Lando shuffled toward the kitchen, the faint sounds of movement guiding him. And there he was.
Oscar.
Still here.
Standing by the stove in one of Lando’s hoodies that he must have grabbed from the chair, stirring something in a pot with a focus that seemed too intense for such a simple task.
The air was filled with the soft, earthy scent of broth and herbs, mingled with Oscar’s alpha scent—steady, calm, unmistakably protective.
Lando stopped in the doorway, staring. His first instinct was to snap, to demand why he hadn’t left, why he was invading his space.
But the words didn’t come. His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, something else slipped out.
“You don’t need to stay a whole night, you know?”
His voice was hoarse, cracked, but not sharp. For once, it wasn’t a weapon.
Oscar turned, spoon still in hand. His eyes softened when they landed on him.
“But thank you, Oscar.”
The words hung heavy in the air. Lando almost wished he could swallow them back down, pretend he hadn’t said them, but he couldn’t.
They were already out, and Oscar was looking at him like he’d just handed him something fragile.
Oscar set the spoon down gently. “I wasn’t going to leave you like that.”
Lando dropped his gaze, staring at his bare feet against the tile. His chest felt tight, his body still sore, and yet—standing here, with Oscar’s scent grounding him—he wasn’t spiraling.
Not like before.
For the first time, he let himself really look at Oscar. Not as a rival. Not as the smug rookie who stole podiums.
Just… Oscar.
And that terrified him more than the heat ever could.
Life didn’t go back to normal.
Not really.
On the surface, it looked the same—Lando and Oscar snapping at each other in debriefs, trading sarcastic jabs during media duties, bickering over simulator data as if their lives depended on it.
To anyone else, they were still the same rivals forced to share a garage.
But Lando felt it.
Everywhere he went, Oscar was there. Not in an obvious way—he wasn’t hovering, wasn’t smothering.
But when the media’s questions grew too sharp, too personal, Lando would feel it: the subtle wrap of Oscar’s scent curling through the press room, grounding him.
When long meetings stretched late into the night and Lando’s exhaustion threatened to show, that same calm presence would slip into the room, steadying his frayed nerves.
It was infuriating.
Because it worked.
And Lando hated that it worked.
One afternoon, after hours of sponsor interviews, Lando slumped against the side of the motorhome, tugging at his collar.
His head pounded with the weight of cameras, questions, expectations pressing down on him. His hands trembled slightly, though he’d never admit it aloud.
Then the air shifted. Sweet, steady, warm.
He didn’t have to look to know. Oscar was there.
“Don’t do that,” Lando muttered, eyes narrowing as Oscar leaned casually against the wall beside him, arms crossed.
“Do what?” Oscar asked, tone dry.
“That scent thing. Wrapping me up like I’m some sort of—of fragile glass.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
“Funny. You’re the one who looks like he’s about to shatter.”
Lando glared, but his shoulders had already eased without his permission. His chest wasn’t tight anymore. His pulse wasn’t racing.
He hated it. He hated how his body betrayed him like this.
“God, you’re unbearable,” he muttered.
Oscar shrugged, the picture of infuriating calm. “And yet, here you are. Still standing.”
Their eyes met—Lando’s sharp, Oscar’s steady—and for a heartbeat too long, neither of them looked away.
It wasn’t softness. It wasn’t surrender. But it was something.
Something Lando didn’t have a name for.
The Monza paddock buzzed with its usual chaos, but inside the driver’s room, it was quieter.
Oscar hadn’t meant to stop by. He just needed a charger—his phone was on 2%, and his own kit had been misplaced. He’d figured Lando wouldn’t be here, that he could just grab what he needed and leave.
But when he reached for the handle, he froze.
Voices.
Not just Lando’s. His manager’s, sharp with frustration.
“Why didn’t you tell me your health result, Lando?”
Oscar blinked, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
Health result?
Inside, Lando groaned, his tone defensive.
“Because it’s not your problem—”
“Oh god, Zak will kill me!” his manager cut him off.
The sound of pacing footsteps echoed faintly.
“Do you even realize what you’re doing? Your next heat will be worse. You heard what the doctor said, right?”
Oscar’s chest tightened.
His pulse thudded against his throat.
“I can handle it,” Lando snapped, but there was no conviction in his voice.
Just exhaustion.
“Handle it?” his manager barked.
“Lando, you almost collapsed last time. You can’t keep forcing suppressants into your system and ignoring your biology. It’ll break you.”
Silence. A long, heavy silence.
Then, quieter—pleading. “Please. Spend your next heat with your alpha, or—or whoever you trust. Don’t do this to your body again.”
Oscar’s heart stuttered in his chest. He felt his instincts spike, sharp and undeniable, his alpha bristling at the words.
Spend it with your alpha. His scent flared before he could stop it, hot and restless, pressing against the door.
Inside, Lando muttered something Oscar couldn’t hear clearly. But his tone was bitter, almost broken.
Oscar’s hand tightened on the knob. He knew he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be listening. It wasn’t his business. It wasn’t his place.
But it felt like everything had just shifted beneath his feet.
Because now he knew.
And knowing meant he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Lando sat frozen on the sofa long after his manager left, his words still ringing in Lando ears.
Spend it with your alpha.
His stomach twisted, his grip around the phone tightening until his knuckles ached. He hated it.
Hated how those words echoed through his chest, hated how his traitorous mind had supplied a face immediately.
Oscar’s face.
His jaw clenched, the sharp sting of humiliation washing through him.
Of all the people—why him? Why his teammate who drove him insane, who argued with him in every briefing, who never let him forget the tiniest mistake? Why the one person Lando swore he’d never give that kind of power to?
And yet…
Every time his heat edged closer, every time his body betrayed him, it was Oscar’s scent that cut through the noise.
Sweet, grounding, infuriatingly calming. He couldn’t block it out, couldn’t drown it with pills or stubborn will. His body had already chosen.
And it burned.
“Oh god…” Lando whispered, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until his scalp hurt.
“No. No way. Not him.”
Because how was he supposed to tell Oscar?
That his body ached for him, that the thought of another heat alone scared him now, that he couldn’t stop noticing how Oscar’s presence had become the one constant anchor in the chaos?
No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Lando Norris didn’t beg.
Not for comfort. Not for help.
And definitely not for Oscar bloody Piastri.
His chest tightened, his body humming with unwanted instinct, and he shoved his phone into the cushions as if burying it could erase the truth.
But deep down, he already knew.
There was no escaping it.
The garage was loud with cheers, flashes, and champagne spray. McLaren orange felt blinding in every direction, everyone crowding around Oscar—Mclaren driver who had just won Monza. But his mind wasn’t here.
Not fully.
He kept glancing to the side. Lando was there, standing in his hoodie, lips stretched into that polite smile he wore for the cameras.
His hands clapped when they needed to, his mouth moved when someone shouted his name, but the scent—Oscar caught it the second he stood beside him for the photos.
Not the warm, mischievous spice that usually wrapped around him when Lando was teasing or alive with adrenaline.
This was sharp, unsteady, too sweet in a way that made Oscar’s stomach knot. His omega was fighting something again.
And Oscar hated that he thought that word—his.
The celebration blurred, confetti sticking to his race suit as he lifted the trophy, posed, did interviews.
He answered questions automatically, every cheer a little too loud in his ears. Because behind it all, his nose kept telling him one thing: Lando was slipping.
By the time they were herded into the drivers’ room again, Lando had already locked himself inside, hoodie drawn tight, avoiding everyone.
Oscar stayed outside, jaw tight, trophy still in his hand as though he hadn’t yet figured out how to let it go.
Zak and the engineers were still laughing somewhere down the corridor, voices echoing, but Oscar wasn’t listening.
He dropped the trophy onto the table with a hollow thunk and leaned on the door.
“Lando?”
Silence.
He knocked again, softer this time. “You in there?”
A muffled, strained voice answered, “Go celebrate, Oscar. You’re the winner tonight. Not me.”
The words should’ve rolled off him—Lando said stuff like that often, deflecting—but the way his voice cracked, the way his scent pushed through the door, thin and trembling, made Oscar’s chest tighten.
He tried the handle. Locked.
“Lando, open the door.”
Nothing.
Oscar let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face.
He was supposed to be basking in this moment, but all he could think about was the omega on the other side of the door, falling apart quietly while everyone else toasted champagne.
And maybe this was the breaking point—because Oscar wasn’t going to just walk away this time.
The handle rattled once, then again harder. Lando barely had time to flinch before the door clicked open with a sharp shove.
Oscar stepped in, shutting it firmly behind him. The noise from the corridor muted instantly, replaced by the shallow sound of Lando’s breathing.
He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, hoodie sleeves pulled down to his fists, hands trembling so badly they barely stayed clenched.
His eyes were glassy, jaw tight as though he’d bite through his own tongue before letting tears fall.
Oscar’s chest tightened at the sight. He locked the door without hesitation, his alpha instinct rising so sharp it made his pulse pound.
“Hey,” Oscar’s voice came low, steady, coaxing. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” Lando snapped, his lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line. His voice wavered anyway, cracking on the edge.
“It’s just—this stupid body, doing it again. I can’t—” His knuckles pressed to his forehead as though he could hold himself together by force.
Oscar didn’t think. He moved. In two strides, he was crouching down, arms wrapping around Lando’s smaller frame, pulling him in against his chest.
Lando resisted for half a second, stiff in his grip, before the fight drained out of him, shudders betraying the wall he was trying to hold up.
“Lando,” Oscar murmured, steady, close enough for his scent to wash warm between them.
“I want to help. I care about you. Please don’t fight it. I’m here.”
For a moment, everything held still—the roar of the crowd outside, the weight of Monza, the blur of champagne—all of it faded.
Just two drivers on the floor, one breaking, the other anchoring him.
Lando’s fists stayed tight, but his forehead dropped against Oscar’s shoulder, his breath shaky.
His voice was a whisper, almost drowned by the thud of Oscar’s heartbeat.
“You don’t get it,” he said hoarsely.
“If I let go—if I let this choose—you’ll be stuck with me. And I can’t… I can’t do that to you.”
Oscar tightened his hold, scent wrapping stronger, protective, soothing. He didn’t have the answers, not yet.
But he knew one thing—he wasn’t letting Lando go through this alone.
Lando’s fists stayed balled against Oscar’s hoodie, nails biting into the fabric, his whole body trembling like a bowstring pulled too tight.
For so long, he’d fought it—fought himself, fought the pull—but here, against Oscar’s chest, the fight bled out of him.
His voice cracked when it finally slipped free.
“I can’t—” His throat closed, tears stinging hot. “Oscar, my body already… it already chose you.”
The words were muffled against Oscar’s shoulder, but they hit harder than any crash Lando had ever taken.
His chest heaved, shuddering as if the admission itself broke something open inside him.
Oscar froze only for a moment before his hand pressed firm against the back of Lando’s neck, grounding him.
His alpha instinct purred like an anchor, steady and sure.
“I know,” Oscar said quietly, his voice almost unbearably calm.
“I can smell it, even when no one else notices. We’re already—” he exhaled slow, scent wrapping stronger, protective, “—bonded. Whether you admit it or not.”
Lando’s eyes snapped up, wide, glassy. He searched Oscar’s face like it held every answer he’d been running from.
He wanted to deny it, wanted to keep up the wall—but the truth was there, humming in the air between them.
And then Oscar leaned in, closing the space. His lips pressed firm, grounding, against Lando’s.
Not desperate. Not demanding. Just steady, a promise wrapped in one breath.
“Stop fighting it, Lan,” Oscar murmured against his mouth, his forehead resting against Lando’s.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
For the first time, Lando’s resistance crumbled completely.
His hands unclenched, gripping Oscar’s hoodie not out of defiance, but to hold on.
The ride back to the hotel was a blur. Lando barely remembered stepping into the car, barely remembered Oscar’s steady hand on his shoulder keeping him upright.
By the time the door shut behind them, the weight of exhaustion and heat coiled heavy in his bones.
“Come on,” Oscar murmured, coaxing him toward the bathroom.
His tone was maddeningly calm, like they hadn’t just torn down years of rivalry with a single kiss.
Lando flushed scarlet when Oscar’s fingers brushed the hem of his hoodie.
“I—I can do it myself.”
“You’re shivering,” Oscar countered, already easing the fabric over Lando’s head.
And Lando didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. His body had long since betrayed him, leaning into the warmth instead of pulling away.
One by one, layers fell away until Lando stood bare, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity.
His pulse hammered when Oscar stripped down too, methodical, never rushing. Lando bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting—because who would’ve thought he’d ever see his annoying, smug teammate like this?
Naked. With him.
The bath steamed around them as Oscar guided him in. Warmth licked at his skin, and for the first time all day, Lando’s muscles loosened.
Still, his face burned hotter than the water.
Oscar slid in beside him, unbothered, scent calm and steady as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
Their knees brushed under the water, sending Lando’s nerves into overdrive.
“You sure about this?” Oscar asked finally, eyes locking on his with a weight that made Lando’s breath hitch.
“If we do this, we’re not just messing around. We bond, it’s forever.”
Lando huffed a shaky laugh, trying to cover the way his stomach twisted at the truth of it.
His cheeks were crimson, heat curling higher, but he still managed to meet Oscar’s gaze.
“Yeah,” he murmured, lips twitching in a crooked smile.
“Guess enemies-to-mated-pair is really my thing.”
Oscar’s expression softened, and for the first time, Lando saw it—genuine warmth without the mask of competition. His alpha didn’t push, didn’t rush.
He simply reached across the bath, fingers curling gently around Lando’s hand.
And this time, Lando didn’t pull away.
Steam still clung to their skin when Oscar guided Lando out of the bath, a towel slung around his shoulders, his body flushed from more than the heat of the water.
Lando’s legs felt like jelly, but Oscar’s arm was there, firm around his waist, carrying him toward the bed as though he weighed nothing.
The sheets were cool against his overheated skin. He shivered, not from cold but from the overwhelming pull in his chest, the way his body trembled with want.
“Breathe,” Oscar murmured, scent wrapping around him like velvet, low and steady, coaxing calm into the chaos.
“I’ve got you.”
Lando’s breath hitched when Oscar climbed over him, their bodies pressed close, damp skin sliding together.
Every nerve felt raw, electric, begging. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed this until the moment was right here, until it was Oscar above him.
Their mouths met again, hungrier this time, breathless and desperate. Lando gasped when Oscar’s hand skimmed his hip, tugging him closer, heat pressing flush against heat.
His own body betrayed him, arching, grinding, slipping into a rhythm that left him dizzy.
“Oscar—” His voice cracked, torn between plea and surrender.
Oscar’s growl rumbled deep in his chest, primal and protective.
“Mine,” he muttered, almost a snarl, before he buried his face against Lando’s throat.
His teeth grazed skin, testing, waiting—until Lando tilted his head back, exposing the delicate curve of his neck in silent permission.
The bite was sharp, hot, searing. Lando cried out, his entire body shuddering as instinct screamed relief.
The pain bled instantly into pleasure, his scent flooding the room, answered by Oscar’s steady, anchoring purr.
And then it hit—bond snapping into place, burning bright.
Lando’s hands clutched at Oscar’s shoulders as wave after wave of release tore through him, his body finally giving in, no longer hurting, no longer fighting.
Oscar’s scent wrapped around him fully now, soothing, steadying, pulling him back down from the storm.
When it was over, they lay tangled in sweat-damp sheets, breathless, both chests rising and falling hard.
Lando’s pulse still raced, but the ache that had plagued him for weeks was gone.
Oscar pressed a kiss over the mark glowing faintly at the side of his neck, sealing it. “You’re safe now,” he whispered.
For the first time, Lando believed it.