Archive of Our Own ^beta

The air is simmering, unpleasant noises pierce your ears even underneath the orange headset, and it feels like every person in the garage reeks of gasoline and sweat. The grandstands roar with cheers. The sun flares through the window, blinding you even through your massive sunglasses. You're positively overwhelmed. There's a bottle of champagne sweating in a bucket next to you. You grab the bottle neck and pour a hefty amount into your flute. You've gone through this charade a million times before, but it never gets easier.

You've known Oscar for a long time. Your parents have been friends for nearly a lifetime, meaning you've grown up alongside the Piastri siblings. The Piastri household displays framed photos of memories you can no longer remember, Oscar and you at birthday parties and get-togethers. The same pictures are mirrored in your own home, above the fireplace or in the foyer. Every day, you pass by the photograph of you bawling your eyes out as Oscar dumps your own pink birthday cake on your head.

It is difficult to say you know him, though, as even when you were kids, you thought he preferred to be by himself rather than with you. Both of your parents tried to get you to become closer, organising playdates and enrolling you in the same extracurriculars. He despised your gymnastics classes, and you always cried at his karting rings. You quickly drifted apart as your parents learned their lessons. You grew up, buried yourself in schoolwork, and he flew across the world to pursue his motorsport career. In your teenage years, you did not exchange a single word with Oscar. At Christmas parties and July barbecues, when he would come back from the UK, he was always the centre of attention, whether he wanted to be or not. You learned that staying in the shadows when Oscar was around was the best way to avoid your family's questioning gaze.

You weren't childhood friends. Hell, you were never even close to friends.

When Oscar joined F3, then F2, then F1, his absence at family gatherings was more common. However, even if he was not there in the flesh, the topic of conversation often reverted to him and his career. Your parents thought it was stupid at first. You remember doing your homework at the dining room table when your mother brought it up. A subtle sense of pride had risen in your chest to find out he was really doing it. Pursuing his dreams. Then your father laughed. A sick, mocking laugh. Your mother parroted it back, and they spent the night gossiping about how reckless the Piastri's were. You spent the rest of that night in your room.

However, Oscar got better and better, and with each new contract he signed, the more your parents tried to impress him. They asked him for tickets for every Grand Prix his own parents were attending, dragging you across the world to sit in the scorching sun and watch cars drive in a circle. The initial awe of the motorsport world faded quickly with each new race you attended, with every scene of your parents trying to suck up to a boy your own age, with each stale conversation you held with him just to pass the time.

Out of the entire Piastri family, you feel the most familiarity with their mother, Nicole.

As if sensing your thoughts, Nicole turns with a warm smile and holds out her hand for you to grasp, ''My beautiful girl. You grin back, ''Are you having fun today?''

You shrug, ''I'm having enough fun. It's always the same, but the alcohol makes up for it.'' Your mother shoots you a sharp glare that she covers with a laugh as Nicole turns to her.

''Our daughters just like to tag along for the food and drinks, huh?'' She laughs kindly. Hattie sits next to you, texting vigorously. The TV in the corner of the room starts up with a broadcast of the qualifying.

Hattie pipes up, ''I'm sorry, guys, my boyfriend just arrived and the security won't let him in.'' She rolls her eyes, ''I'm going to get him.'' She grabs her purse and bounds out of the room.

Nicole follows her retreating figure, then turns to you, ''Why don't you bring anyone to the races, sweetie? I'm sure you would have much more fun.'' You tense, the smile you held comfortably now unnaturally frozen in place.

Your mother rests her hand on your forearm, ''Oh, she just loves hanging out with her parents, don't you, love?'' You nod quickly.

You bring the flute up to your lips once more and rest your sunglasses atop your head. The commentators gather your attention to the screen, where Oscar is putting in his lap for Q2. He looks very fast, even to you. You're listening to the commentators with one ear and your parents talking to Nicole with the other. The speakers crackle from the volume of the TV. The champagne slides down your throat and settles heavily in your chest. There is a slight burn that distracts you as Lando takes the fastest lap time from Oscar. Shame.

''How are you settling in, Y/N?'', Nicole pulls your attention.

''It's been good. I'm a bit overwhelmed with everything, I mean, it's so different from Melbourne.'' You laugh nervously, ''But I've been settling in fine. The paperwork is all done and the apartment is furnished, so it's been good.''

Nicole purses her lips, ''How's the social life though? Have you made friends from work at least?''

The intention is thinly veiled. It has been obvious to everyone in your family and the Piastri's that you aren't necessarily sociable. You understand their concern, but sometimes, it feels less like understanding and more like condescension most of the time.

The commentators on the TV pipe back up as Q3 starts. You turn your head quickly to see that Oscar passed through easily. Nicole touches your hand gently.

''I haven't had that much time to socialise. I mean, I just moved and the people are a bit different from back home.'' You don't take your gaze off the TV as a Mercedes sets the first lap time. ''Don't worry, though, I'll be fine.'' You squeeze her hand.

Nicole's eyes light up, ''Well, Oscar is closer to you now, I'll make sure he checks up on you regularly. Maybe he can introduce you to Lando, he's in London fairly often.'' You smile slightly, but don't respond.

You do not want Oscar to check up on you. He does not owe you friendship because you're lonely. You're not lonely, you're just alone more often. That's fine. Besides, you prefer being alone, you tell yourself as you watch Oscar pull away from the pits with new softs.

He sends it. With the timer ticking off its last seconds, the McLaren flies over the finish line. Purple, green, purple. The room is silent as Max Verstappen takes his last attempt. Oscar is on provisional pole. You clasp your flute tighter, with the uncomfortable grip of hope circling itself around your chest, lungs, throat. Max is a few hundredths off. Oscar takes pole position. His first career pole. You release a breath and laugh with your family at your table. You watch everybody in the room shake hands and exchange hugs as you smile into the tip of your flute and down the last of your champagne.

Race day was uneventful. Oscar won. You stayed at the same table as the day before and sipped a mojito. Your parents huddle near the railing to catch a glimpse of Oscar accepting his trophy. Hattie and Edie sit with you at the table and chat about something you lost track of a while ago.

You keep your eyes on the television and watch as some important man gives out the trophies. Oscar is standing on the top step, glistening with sweat, eyes squinted and lips pursed because of the sun getting in his eyes. You wish the TV were closer, more defined, to see Oscar properly. As Oscar receives the first-place trophy, he admires the piece for a split second as an uncontrollable smile takes over his face. He lifts it with one hand, and the camera pans to the McLaren team celebrating in parc fermé.

Oscar hated attention. You knew that, so you wondered how he could be so carefree on that top step, knowing everyone was watching. You feel as if he was always stronger than you. He's out in the sun, getting sprayed by champagne, while you sit at a table talking to none of the souls that surround you. He's relishing in the glory, you're disappearing in your own skin. You take a sip of your mojito, Oscar wipes champagne from his eyes, and laughs. He's completely drenched, you notice, beads of sweat and champagne dripping down his lips and neck, gathering in his race suit. You grip your glass tighter.

You order another cocktail, one you haven't heard of, with more alcohol in it, and excuse yourself to the bathroom. You pause in front of the mirror above the sink. The sunglasses atop your head are slightly crooked, your hair peeking out in curious directions. Feeling it does not flatter you, you tuck your sunglasses in the collar of your shirt and rake your fingers through the strands. You catch your own eyes in the mirror, bright and wide with innocence, but also tired. The concealer under your eyes barely covers the dark circles that dim your eyes. The corners of your lips are pulled down subtly. Not pouty, not sad, just… there. You look exhausted. You look old.

Splashing your face with a bit of water, then regretting it immediately because of your makeup, you tidy yourself up and slap on a sunnier expression. As you make your way out of the bathroom, you crash into a taller figure. You turn to apologise, when you realise the person was soaked and now your clothes are slightly damp and sticky.

''I'm sorry, are you okay?'' Oscar asks with genuine concern, one hand reaching out for your shoulder while the other grips the trophy.

'''M fine.'' You murmur, eyes transfixed on the shiny thing. It really is beautiful. It exudes glory, and Oscar looks so natural with it.

You snap your eyes up, meeting his own with a new sense of urgency. His were already looking at you. They're crinkled at the edges, you note, as a small smile graces his soft features. His bunny teeth peak out. The hand resting on your shoulder is heavy and reassuring.

''Congratulations! That was incredible, Oscar. I'm really proud of you.'' You beam up at him, the words spilling out easily. You were proud of him. He does deserve all the praise.

You feel some uncontainable glee take over you, and you launch yourself at him without thinking, enveloping his shoulders in a tight embrace. He laughs a bit, part shocked, part happy. A moment later, you do feel embarrassment crawling up your ears, and you let him go, smiling sheepishly at him. His hand stays on your forearm.

''Thank you. I'm happy you came and watched this one. The last one was really tough.'' He sighs. You couldn't make it to the Australian Grand Prix before this one. However, you know he was referencing his mistake that cost him the podium. How could you not know?
''How was the move, by the way?''

''It was okay. I'm still settling in, y'know.'' You turn your gaze to the floor. ''About Australia, I get it. You made up for it in the best way, though.'' You punch his shoulder lightly, ''You should go celebrate with your team, I don't want to keep you with mindless small talk.''

You fidget with the hem of your shirt, which is sticky from champagne now. You notice his trophy has fingerprint stains on it already. Oscar smiles kindly at you. ''I enjoy talking to you. I just wanted to say hi to my mom and sisters. And you, too.''

He ushers both of you into the hospitality room. He keeps a hand at the small of your back as you walk. It's warm.

When they see Oscar, the patrons immediately break into cheering and clapping, which Oscar takes in stride. He smiles shyly, but you can see he's glowing from the appreciation. His mom makes his way over to him first, then grabs his cheeks to pull him down and kiss his forehead. You take the opportunity to stalk away from the man of honour and make your way to your table, where your cocktail is waiting for you. Your parents brush past you towards Oscar and shout compliments his way. His sisters are no longer at your table, and you see them slowly walking from the balcony to greet their brother. Your side of the room is empty, as everyone huddles closer to pat him on the shoulder, muss his hair, and congratulate him. You sit down and sip your cocktail. His eyes meet yours across the room, and he gives you a small smile. You see his mother making him lean down to whisper something in his ear, pointing not so subtly at you. His eyes widen, and he nods slowly, taking his eyes off of you quickly.

The entire interaction makes you squeamish. Uncomfortable in your own skin. Frustrated. You choose to make your way over to the balcony alone and watch as the sun slowly sets. You hug yourself, try to make yourself as small as possible. Unnoticable. The noise from the room slowly dies down. You feel a presence beside you.

''Hey'', Oscar whispers.

''Hi.'' You whisper back. ''What did your mom put you up to now?''

Oscar sighs, clenches his jaw and runs a hand through his damp hair. You have to tear your eyes away from the sight. ''She wants me to bring you to the McLaren party tonight. Introduce you to Lando and the others.'' You hug yourself tighter. ''I don't think it's such a bad idea.'' You turn to him incredulously.

''Wh-Wh-uhh… Huh? Why would it be a good idea?'' You laugh nervously.

''Well, everyone can see you're bored out of your mind here with your family,'' he says matter-of-factly. ''And she said you haven't really met anyone in England yet. This could be a start.''

You pointedly keep your eyes away from him.

''And… we never hang out anymore.'' He says quietly. You tense. ''It could be fun.''

You're slightly confused because Oscar… didn't really like you, not when you were kids. You turn to look at him and see him staring at you with those wide, hopeful eyes. You sigh, defeated.

''Fine.''

The club is loud.

You wore the least respectful thing you packed, which was a strapless black dress you felt pretty in. Armed with a sweaty gin tonic in hand, you lean against the bar while you watch Oscar talk to some engineers. Pretty girls were coming up to him the entire night, and you watched him turn them away with an easy smile. You know he has a girlfriend, some British girl he met a while ago. You've never met her, as he never brought her to any family gatherings. You wonder how they met, if he had the same easy smile he has now, if she was charmed by his laugh, if she knows he's got scars on his knees from falling over his bike all the time. You wonder if he pursued her or if she pursued him. Did she bat her eyelashes and twirl her hair? Was it natural to her? Was she sweet, funny, mean, boring? Did she nurse gin tonics in the club and feel lonely, too?

You turn away from Oscar and order another drink. The bartender serves you with a smile and turns to talk to two other girls who've been chatting him up all night. As you pick up your drink, a shot glass filled with something clear enters your viewpoint. A warm hand circles your shoulders and squeezes you tightly, coming face to face with Lando Norris.

''Hey, beautiful, what do you say to a couple of shots with your new neighbour?'' Lando is not your neighbour, hell, he's in Monaco most of the time too. However, his easy smile and cheerful eyes are enough to make you laugh at his joke and clink your shot glass with his. You down the liquid, a burning minty sensation rolling over you as you slam the glass down on the bar. Lando laughs with you and orders another pair.

You met Lando in Oscar's first season with McLaren. He is joy and sunshine and spice and everything nice. He greets you, remembers your name and buys you glasses of champagne when he passes your part of the paddock. That's the extent of your relationship. However, when he learned that you had moved to London, his face split with a smile and promises of hangouts, outings to his favourite places and so on. You knew half of it would not come true, but you were content either way. As Oscar was whisked away by his bosses, sponsors, managers, and the like you could not name, Lando made sure to introduce you to each of them and get you drunk enough to let loose. You think he knew how out of place you felt and put in double the effort to make you feel welcome.

He probably put in double the money, too, as the shots kept coming at a speed that broke the passage of time. With each shot, time started passing slower and faster at the same time. Lando and you are laughing at his senior managers dancing to a dubstep remix of a Dua Lipa song, slowly joining them on the dance floor.

The songs kept coming and going, as did the gin tonics in your hand that were replaced so quickly they didn't even have time to gather condensation on their surface. You felt freer than you have before. None of these people really knew you, and you could laugh as loudly as you wanted, swing your hands and toss your hair wildly at Lando, who only smiled with mirth.

''Are you willing to bet that Will busts out another Moet later?'' Lando points to his race engineer, who's got his hands around Zak Brown, singing earnestly to the Pussycat Dolls song that's playing. Zak is equally as enthused, but clumsier in his steps and, obviously, has never heard of this song before.

''Why would I take that bet if I know I'm losing?'' You smirk, spinning Lando around jokingly. At that moment, Will yells out orders for more champagne, and bartenders come carrying buckets of ice with the bottles inside, sparklers sticking out from the side and lighting up the dim club.

You both bound from the dancefloor to the McLaren crew table, slipping over wet spots and bumping into people. Will greets you with a smile and gives you two flutes he poured. You aren't even sure which glass you're in as the music changes from easy pop songs to hard-hitting bass notes and sultry vocals, but you know you're in deep.

And you're so happy. Oscar is still being showered with congratulations somewhere in the club. You're proud you made a friend, as you look at Lando's side profile while he tells you the story of his first win in Miami. The night is still young at those small hours, the club is bumping, and you're ready to keep going. You're filled with a warm sense of content, and you look out at the floor with wonder. You feel welcomed.

At that moment, a young guy with brown hair comes up to Lando and they greet each other with a familiarity only possible from years of friendship. They launch into their own conversation easily.

''Yo, man, sorry I'm late, the girlfriend wanted to get dinner at this fancy restaurant in town. It lasted 5 fucking hours, like who does that? I get they have a Michelin star and all, maybe I would enjoy it if I didn't have to get to my boy over here.'' He lightly hits Lando in the abdomen. ''P2 is mega, by the way.''

''Thanks, Max. At least you're here now, and the party can really start!'' They hug each other around the shoulders and stalk off together.

He left without a glance over his shoulder.

The club suddenly feels louder and colder and dimmer from where you're standing. Alone. In the middle of the dance floor.

You suddenly feel exposed in your dress. It's ridiculous. You look ridiculous. Why did you ever think you could fit in? You're wearing ballet flats when everyone is wearing Manolos.

You felt pretty. Now, you feel so fucking stupid. You can't even blame any of them, especially not Lando. They have each other and their friends, with whom they would rather hang out. This is their night, they won, they have a double podium to celebrate and not to entertain a lonely little girl who isn't even interesting or smart or pretty or-

You don't even fucking know what fucking mega means, and Oscar kept saying it and Lando, and you keep hearing it from your coworkers, and you will never understand because you can never fit in and-

A calloused hand grasps your shoulder, pulling you away from the dance floor. You feel the world crumbling underneath your feet, your head spinning, your vision betraying you. The lights start strobing, and the bass amplifies the heartbeat drumming in your ears. Another hand rests at your waist, as the other moves from your shoulder to your cheek. You don't hear anything. Your vision is blurry.

''Y/N? Are you okay? Where's Lando? I'm sorry I got caught up, I wanted to hang out with you guys, but I couldn't shake them off. I'm so sorry. Y/N? Y/N!'' Oscar shakes you slightly.

You focus on his face. You try to ground yourself. He looks so concerned. So sweet. His eyebrows are furrowed. His lips are pink and wet from whatever he had been drinking. His breath fans your face, and you can almost taste the Grey Goose on his tongue. His hair is messed up and slightly damp. He's a little sweaty, but still smells sweet. One strand hangs loose above his eyes and frames his face prettily. His eyes, oh, preciously brown, focusing on you, crinkled in worry. Oh, why is he so worried, what is bothering him-

You finally feel the ground settle beneath you. His hand stays on your cheek, warm and heavy and manly and large. You blink, a lone tear falls down your cheek, onto his hand. It rolls over his knuckles and falls to the floor. Your head keeps spinning. It's so heavy, you lean your cheek deeper into his hand. His other hand tightens around your waist.

''Why doesn't he want me?''

Your earnestness surprises you. An emotion you did not wish to place, coming out in a string of sorrowful words, softened by the gin coating your tongue. Oscar pulls back slightly, his eyes widened.

''What do you mean?'' He tucks a loose strand behind your ear.

You pick your head up and look him directly in the eyes.

''No one wants me here. You barely want me here; your mother had to beg you to hang out with me.'' He shakes his head resolutely. ''Lando was nice until he found something better. Someone better. Of course, he doesn't want me. No one ever wanted me. I brought my hopes up for any kind of romance. God, we're in a fucking club, why wouldn't he at least kiss me?''

Oscar is shocked. You've never spoken so openly to him.

You're shocked. You've never been so honest with your feelings to anyone, not even yourself.

''You like Lando?''

''Yes. No. I don't even know.'' You drop your head in shame. Another tear catches in your eyelashes. ''I think I just want him to want me. Anyone. I want to feel loved for once, Oscar. For god's sake, I just want to feel welcomed somewhere for once.''

He brings his other hand to your other cheek. He wipes his thumb under your eye, then he lifts your head.

''I want you here. I will make you feel welcome everywhere from now on, always.''

You shake your head. ''You can't keep that promise.''

He smiles sadly and drops his hands to his sides.

''I missed you a lot.'' You frown. ''I miss us from when we were kids.''

You furrow your brow. ''What did you miss? We weren't even friends.''

''Yes, we were. We hung out every week.'' He looks hurt. ''Your parents would come hang out at my house and we would play games for hours. Then you would do homework, while I played racing games, and then we would have dinner.''

You completely forgot. To you, it had always felt like Oscar was just hanging out with you because he had to. You started doing your homework because you felt bad for him, for putting up with you for his parents. You wanted to give him some rest from you.

''Then you just stopped coming with your parents when we were like 12. I thought I did something for the longest time, I didn't want to bother you when we would see each other at, like, Christmas or something.''

Your eyes well up with more tears. ''I stopped coming because I thought I bothered you.'' You sniff. ''Then you moved for karting.''

He nodded sadly. ''I always regretted never asking you why.''

''Oscar…'' You sigh. ''I don't know how to be a good friend. To you or to anyone. I'm sorry. I thought you never liked me.'' A pause. ''I've never even had true friends, really. Except you.'' You smile sadly. ''But I bungled that affair, didn't I?''

''We can be friends now.'' He smiles down at you. His eyes were hopeful. God, those eyes.

''I would like that a lot.'' You smile at him. He envelopes your shoulders in a hug that you can only describe as coming home. Welcoming.

At that moment, you hear Lando calling both of your names from the bar. You untangle yourself from Oscar to see him and his friend, Max, hopping toward you. Both of them are carrying two glasses of champagne.

''I was wondering where you went, neighbour.'' Lando looks at you kindly, then he hands you a flute of champagne. ''I wanted to introduce you to my best mate.'' He gestures to Max.

''Max Fewtrell, nice to meet you, love.'' He holds his hand out for you to shake.

''Hi.'' You answer shyly. Oscar squeezes your shoulder reassuringly.

''She was Osc's best mate growing up.'' Lando gestures to you while talking to Max. Then he turns to you, ''Max here lives in London full time. I was just telling him how he would love you.''

You feel stupid again. In a nice, warm way. Stupid, because you do feel welcomed. They do want you here. This might be the start of something new, you think, as you look at Oscar and Lando and Max. Oscar gives you a beaming smile, you can tell he is bursting with happiness, and you can't help but return the same. Your cheeks hurt.

You turn to Lando and ask, ''What the fuck does mega mean?''

The next morning is awful, but it also isn't. Your head is pounding beyond belief. You feel cold and sweaty at the same time. However, you're spread out on a deckchair near the hotel pool with Oscar and Lando. Lando bought all of you fancy croissants and is currently half asleep on his chair. You're nursing your second iced coffee of that morning, because it's the only thing that makes you feel okay. Oscar, who's sitting right next to you, is drinking orange juice because he hates coffee.

''I can't believe you drink that shit, the Y/N I know wouldn't do me like this.'' Oscar laments, slurping his orange juice loudly.

You keep your eyes closed and reach your hand out to swat his arm. ''The Y/N you know is 12.'' Opening your eyes, you turn to him, already looking at you. ''This is the new and improved version.''

He smiles lightly. ''Can't wait to know her.'' Then he turns on his back and puts his sunglasses on. ''Unless she has more god-awful takes.''

You laugh sunnily, putting your own sunglasses on and relaxing.

You feel welcome.

You're basking in the sun with your eyes closed when you feel a shadow blocking the warmth. You open your eyes and raise your sunglasses to see your mother, standing in front of you with her hands on her hips.

''Y/N, you need to pack. Your flight is in a few hours, and you do not want to miss it. I will not be buying you another ticket.'' She scolds you. Then she turns to Oscar and slaps on her saccharine smile, the one she saves for him. ''Hello there, I hope my daughter wasn't bothering you too much. Thank you, Oscar, for taking care of her, you're such a sweet boy.'' She pinches his cheeks. He frowns.

Your smile drops, and you put your sunglasses back on. ''Just a moment longer, mother. I want to finish my coffee first.''

Your mother looks at you disprovingly, ''Very well, Y/N. If you miss your flight, it's your fault.'' She turns on her heel and leaves the rooftop.

You gaze off at the pool and sip your coffee.

''Well, she's kind of a bitch.'' Lando pipes up. His entire face is covered with a straw hat he was wearing earlier. You thought he was dead asleep; he hadn't said anything in half an hour. The comment catches you off guard, as does the fact that Lando is awake. The shock tears a throaty laugh out of you. Lando lifts the hat slightly to meet your eyes and winks.

''She is kind of bitch.'' You agree. There's a small smile playing on your lips. That's the first time you admitted it out loud. Oscar laughs beside you.

''I never really got why my mom hangs out with her.'' Oscar meets your eyes.' You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, but don't press. You're starting to feel uncomfortable talking about your mother in that way.

Lando seems to sense your mood and changes the topic quickly. You spend the rest of the morning in easy conversation, munching on buttery croissants and lamenting the weather that's preventing you from taking a dip in the pool. It is early April, and the sky is a sunny grey.

Oscar had too much sugar and was animatedly talking to Lando about Australian cricket. You observe him closely. His hands are waving through the air. They're big. He has pale, soft hands that are adorned in places with thick calluses from his steering wheel. You notice his nails are slightly longer, which reminds you of his karting days. If Nicole cut his nails too short, he would lose each time. His bunny teeth are poking out from his lips, which are pulled into an excited smile. His hair is a bit greasy, and you notice it's longer than the last time you saw him. You pull your gaze away and stare at the ice melting in your glass.

''So, Y/N, have you got any special boy in your life?'' Lando asks suddenly, looking at you expectantly, sipping on his espresso. They're both staring at you with curious eyes, waiting for your response. You feel smaller than usual.

''Er, not really.'' You answer. ''I haven't really got any dating experience at all.'' You add quietly. Oscar's eyebrows shoot up.

Lando slips his sunglasses off just enough to stare at you with his uncanny eyes. ''Really?! I would think guys would be crawling all over you.'' You feel yourself blush. In response, you laugh quietly and wave him off. You can feel Oscar's eyes on you.

''I'm serious.'' He continues. ''I know about 10 guys who would love to go out with you in London. I could set you up.''

You raise your hands in front of you and start shaking your head. ''Please, I'm content being by myself. You really do not have to go out of your way. I do not want to put you out.''

''Oh, really, it's nothing-''

''Really, it's fine.'' You beg. ''Please.''

Lando looks like he's going to add something, but then his phone rings loudly. He excuses himself, saying it's his girlfriend. He leaves you and Oscar alone by the pool.
''So,...'' He starts, awkwardly. ''Have you really never had a boyfriend?'' You're stunned, Oscar's the last person you would think cared. He must've seen the look on your face, so he added, ''Or girlfriend? Maybe.''

You laugh at his nervous expression. ''No girlfriends. '' You grin, before becoming serious. ''I've had kisses and dates with guys before, but nothing really stuck. No one really liked me that much, I think.''

''Then they're idiots.'' Oscar responds defiantly. ''So, do you like being single?''

''Not really.'' You laugh.

''Why did you turn Lando down then?''

This catches you off guard. Because you don't really know why.

''I just didn't want to be indebted to him. Or if it went wrong, I don't want him to dislike me because of that.'' You answer honestly. ''I would love to have a relationship. It sounds really nice to have someone who's just always there for you.''

Oscar is listening intently. The seriousness of his gaze makes you nervous.

''I've never really had close friends.'' You add quietly. ''I had people whom I hung out with. None of them really stuck around past high school or past university. They were just… situational friendships. I never wanted to ask them for anything because I felt like they would stop hanging out with me if I asked for too much.''

Oscar sits up and leans over the table between you. He's looking intensely in your eyes, with barely concealed indignation.

''If anyone refuses to be your friend because you reach out or ask for anything, they're assholes who do not deserve to even be near you.'' He says slowly, as if he wants you to memorise each word. Your throat tightens. ''You have me now, you had me before, but now I won't let you push me away. You can ask me anything. I will travel across the world if you ask me to bandage your papercut.''

''That's a bit extreme, isn't it?'' You joke quietly. He smiles.

''Nothing is too extreme.''

You beam and say nothing. The silence spreads between you and folds his words into convictions you memorise faithfully.

You pick up your coffee once more when Oscar adds, ''So do you want me to set you up with someone?''

You pause. ''Why?''

''Because you obviously want to. Lando may not know you that well, but I do. I can vet each date for you beforehand. I'm an excellent judge of character.'' He smirks.

You ponder his offer. It sounds a bit ludicrous, but you've been alone for so long. The more you think, the prospect of having someone to watch stupid shows with, to kiss and cuddle, to try new things with, to support you. And you're so lonely. So, you nod at Oscar and he beams.

''I'll give you three dates to find me my future husband. '' You joke. He nods seriously.

You pause. ''I really hope you know what you're doing.''

''Don't worry, you're in good hands.'' He smirks. ''I'll get Olivia to vet for me when you meet her.''

You smile, but you can't ignore the tightness in your chest. Probably because you're nervous about the dates. Right?

The first date comes when you least expect it.

You're having drinks with some of your coworkers. Oscar has inspired you to branch out and actually try to make friends at your new job. The girls you share your office with extended their kindness to you, which you took with gratitude. All of you ordered the same martinis to gossip over. Andie checks out every guy who passes through the door and asks you both if you approve. Miranda is career-focused and serious, but Andie brings out the silliest side of her. When an older man in a suit offers to buy you a drink, Miranda notes that something must be wrong with him if he's still single. You vehemently agree, simply because you didn't want to branch out that much, while Andie pouts. They're fun. They're sweet and kind, like helping you with the printer at work you cannot seem to figure out, or like going with you to pick out new cutlery at Ikea. You're supremely grateful for the two of them.

They've met Oscar, and they cannot stop teasing you about him. You roll your eyes each time and revert to teasing Andie's newest conquest. So when your phone lights up with a text message next to Miranda's pack of Marlboro Reds, both of their eyes zero in on the contact name.

''Ooo, it's Mr. Loverboy, what's he up to now?'' Miranda starts.

''I'm guessing he was getting hot and heavy in the car, thinking about our sexy girl here.'' Andie continues.

You giggle and roll your eyes, looking over the text message: I found the perfect guy. Get ready, Saturday at 20h. You blink.

It's been months since you've talked about him setting you up on dates. Honestly, you've forgotten about it. You've been so satisfied with your life right now that adding romance seems like overkill.

Oscar and you have been hanging out every time you're both not busy. You're binging Sex and the City because you couldn't believe he'd never heard of it. You've taken to exploring England together on free weekends, as Oscar never had time to in boarding school. Your friendship is stronger than ever, even in the quiet, dull moments or the moments you're far apart. Max and Pietra, his girlfriend, take you out to brunch on Sunday mornings. Lando and you have a long-standing thread of TikToks you send each day that you do not watch, but when you meet up, you go through them all. Miranda and Andie added the perfect cherry atop the cake of your new life.

You're happy, you're content. You're hesitating about going on this date.

''You turned white. What does it say?'' Andie takes the phone out of your hand and reads the message out loud.

Miranda snorts, ''Are you actually dating? I didn't take you for a homewrecker.''

You glare at her and take your phone back. ''It's not with him, you muppet. It's for a blind date. I don't know if I should go.'' You tell them about the entire conversation on the plane.

''Why wouldn't you go?'' Andie questions, pushing her blonde curly hair from her angelic face.

''I agree, you have nothing to lose.'' Miranda adds.

You look at them both, so gorgeous and smart and kind. Miranda is opening a pocket mirror to reapply her red lipstick and fixing the fringe of her pixie cut. Andie is taking the olive out of her martini and nibbling on it. You wonder if they ever had issues in their love life. You sigh.

''I just… I don't want to be disappointed again.''

''The only way you're not going to get disappointed is by doing nothing.'' Miranda says sharply, closing the mirror with a click. ''And that's no way to live.''

Andie nods in response, and then a mischievous glint finds itself in her doe eyes. ''Unless our girl has a different person in mind…''

''You gotta stop with the Oscar agenda, I'm begging you.'' You roll your eyes. They both giggle, and Miranda adds, ''How did you know she was talking about Oscar?''

They fall into a fit of giggles, and a smile pulls on your lips against yourself. You open your phone and type a quick message: Alright.

You meet Oscar at his Woking apartment on Saturday for lunch. You cook, he cleans. Then you sit down on his couch and watch a few episodes of Sex and the City. It's how you like it. You're happiest when you simply exist with him, like you couldn't when you were kids, your mother always breathing down your neck, making sure you didn't bother him.

This Saturday, though, you barely get through the first episode when his doorbell rings. He hops from the couch and makes his way to the door. You don't see who it is, you just hear faint conversation from your position on the couch.

You keep your attention on the show as Oscar comes back, with an unfamiliar girl in tow. She has the brightest smile on her face, showing a perfect row of teeth. Her hair is long and curly, framing her slender face and accentuating her green eyes. She's a bit shorter than Oscar, but still tall and lean. Simply put, she's gorgeous.

She holds her hand out for you excitedly, ''Hi, Y/N! Oscar's been telling me so much about you, it's as if you're my best friend too.''

You connect the dots. Olivia. You shake her outstretched hand and return her smile. ''Oh, Oscar's probably exaggerating it. It's very nice to meet you, Olivia.''

''You're watching Sex and the City? I love this show. I tried getting Oscar to watch it last year.'' She pouts for a moment, but it's quickly replaced by that same blinding smile she sported before. You gesture for her to sit down next to you, and you continue watching. You're both laughing at Carrie when she shows up with a pizza at Big's door, when Oscar clears his throat and looks pointedly at Olivia.

''Oh yes, I haven't explained why I'm here.'' Olivia turns to face you and gathers your hands in hers. ''Oscar told me he's trying to set you up with someone, and I knew the perfect guy.'' You feel nerves starting to kick in. You forgot about the date.

''He's from Woking, so I organised the date here, at this gorgeous Italian restaurant. He's handsome, smart and works as a book reviewer for the newspaper I work for. I think he's just on the right side of dreamy without being intimidating.'' She looks to Oscar for approval, but to her dismay, he's scrolling on his phone.

''Oh.. That all sounds great, but how am I getting home?'' Woking isn't far from your neighbourhood in London, but it isn't close either, especially late at night.

''You'll sleep here. In the guest bedroom.'' Oscar pipes up, not taking his eyes off the phone.

You're relieved, ''That sounds great, thank you, Osc.''

''Maybe, you'll get lucky and won't have to sleep here.'' Olivia winks suggestively. You smile nervously. Oscar scoffs.

''She's not doing that, Olivia.'' She frowns.

The restaurant Olivia picked really was beautiful. You arrived a couple of minutes early, too jittery to wait around any longer. She dolled you up in a red dress she had at Oscar's apartment and did your hair and makeup. Oscar spent most of that time stuck on his sim racing rig in another room. You try not to pry into his personal relationships, but the entire afternoon felt… off.

A warm voice pulls you out of your thoughts. The waiter brought you your red wine, which you accepted readily. You notice a man making his way through the restaurant, seemingly coming to your table.

''Hi there, I'm David, Olivia's friend.'' He introduces himself, slightly nervous, which calms you down a bit. You smile kindly at him and introduce yourself as well. The rest of the evening is spent in pleasant chatter, nothing too engaging, but nothing too concerning either. He teases you for your accent in a good-natured way, and you respond with an exaggerated pronunciation of ''bottle of water'' right back at him. You try each other's dishes and share a bottle of wine. The night seems to be coming to its natural conclusion as you both finish off dessert and fall into silence.

''Would you like to continue this date elsewhere?'' David asks, noticing the staff clearing the tables, as the restaurant seems to be closing down. You check your watch. It's late.

''Perhaps it's better to save that for a second date.'' You respond sweetly. ''I should get going before Oscar and Olivia fall asleep.''

You both get up, and he grabs your arm. ''Come on, sweetheart. Just one more drink. Maybe at my place.'' He smirks down at you.

''Really, thank you for dinner, but I think I just want some sleep.'' You pull your arm away from his grasp. His smile falls, and he runs a hand through his hair.

''God, if I had known you were a prude, I wouldn't have agreed to this.'' He mutters to himself, looking away from you. He probably did not mean for you to hear that, but why even say it out loud then? You heard him clearly.

''What did you say?''

''Nothing, hey, let's just save drinks for tomorrow, yeah?'' He tries to grab your hand once more, but you flinch away immediately.

''I was offering you a second date, but now I think we're done here.'' You frown and gather your things. ''Lose my number.''

''I knew you were a bitch!'' David calls after you as you leave the restaurant. "You're an ugly whore! No wonder no one wants you, you had to get your friend's girlfriend to set you up.''

You saunter down the street, trying to look as confident as you aren't until you get behind a street corner. There, you let the shaky breath leave your lips, and your shoulders sag, folding in on yourself in an attempt to shield yourself from the outside world. It's cold, and you feel the wind blowing against your bare legs. You pull out your phone and call the only person who could make you feel safe.

''Hello…?'' You can hear his croaky, deep voice crackle through the speaker. You woke him up. Guilt weasels its way up your throat, but you swallow it down. You know you can rely on Oscar. You should never feel guilty for it. Nothing is too extreme.

''Hey, Osc… The date is over. He turned out to be a creep. I'm at a corner near the restaurant. Could you pick me up?'' You force your breath to steady. ''Please?''

''I'm coming, stay safe.'' You hear the rustle of sheets through the speaker and the clinking of keys as he, presumably, makes his way to his car.

''Thank you.'' You whisper.

''Always, Y/N. Don't thank me.'' He ends the call.

A couple of minutes later, a slick McLaren pulls up next to you. You're shaking, arms pulled against yourself. Oscar opens the door from the inside, and you slide in without a word. He starts the car up again and pulls away from the street.

''Could we drive around for a bit?'' You ask.

Oscar glances at you, eyebrows pulled together in concern. You hate it when he looks at you with that worried look. You hate making him worried. God, you're so grateful for him. How can he care so much?

''Yeah, sure… Do you want to talk about it?''

You shake your head at first. Then Oscar's hand finds your own resting in your lap. He squeezes it once. It's a familiar gesture. The ground settles beneath you once more, and you feel as if the wind quiets down outside the car.

Oscar's grip on the steering wheel gets tighter and tighter as you relay the events of the night. His jaw is clenched, and you have to look away from the sight.

''He's an ass.''

''Please don't blame Olivia for this.'' You plead. ''It's not her fault, she didn't know. Hell, I didn't know until after dessert.''

''She put you in this situation.'' A pause. ''But you're right.'' He purses his lips and loosens his hand on the steering wheel a fraction. ''How do you feel?''

You wind and unwind your fingers in your laps. ''Pretty awful.''

''What he said to you,'' Oscar urges, ''it doesn't mean anything. He said it in anger. You're beautiful, smart, and wonderful. Any guy would be lucky to have you.''

''I think I believe you.'' You whisper, insecure. ''But it's hard to feel that way right now.''

''I know. I'm sorry.'' He sighs. He releases the wheel from his grip and rests his forearms on his thighs, controlling the wheel with his fingertips. ''Let's go home.''

Oscar drives you back to his apartment, where Olivia is waiting for you on the couch. As Oscar explains the situation to her, her eyes widen with horror, and she apologises profusely to you. She makes you tea and hugs you tightly, apologising once more.

She's wonderful, you think, with her arms wrapped securely around you.

You reassure her you don't blame her and make your way to bed. You spend enough time at Oscar's apartment to consider the spare bedroom practically your own.

As your eyelids get heavier, you hear noises from the room next to yours. Oscar's.

A laugh. Soft and sweet, not the kind you share with a friend, but the one you reserve for private moments. It carries through the wall and settles over your head. Next, Oscar's voice. Softer than you've heard it. Fonder. He's not whispering, but speaking so gently as if not to disturb the air around them. You feel as if you're imposing. There's a rustle of sheets as Olivia answers, barely audible. You can almost imagine her fingers running through his hair, or his hand around her waist. Tender. The air around you is heavy, your own breath filling the room, and the deafening silence weighing down your throat.

Then you hear it, barely perceptible, but obvious. An 'I love you'. Olivia's.

Suddenly, there is a crushing weight on your chest, making it harder to breathe in that suffocating room. You're encroaching on a private moment you could never call yours. Will you ever share such loving moments? Will you only meet men who call you a bitch, until you just settle for the least objectionable one? Is Oscar the only kind man you'll ever meet, and he could never be yours?

You shake your head. Oscar's your friend. Olivia is almost your friend.

You're lonely. Another laugh echoes through the walls. You want what they have. You want the comfort of hearing the voice of the person you love, right before you sleep. You want to wake up to that voice. You want to giggle and share 'I love you's. The weight gets heavier. You want to turn on your side, but you can't. Your body is so heavy, your head is spinning, there is no air, you can't breathe, you can't hear anything-

They haven't said anything for a while.

The weight lifts. You turn on your side and screw your eyes shut.

Then, a moan. An unmistakable sound of a kiss. Oscar sighs.

Oh, God. You twist your eyes tighter.

You can hear the sheets rustling. Something hits the floor.

You toss the blanket over your head and curl into yourself.

Oscar's voice, deeper than usual. He groans. Oscar sighs, muffled, probably against her skin. You hear skin, Oscar's skin, his hands, his thighs. He gets louder. Oh, Oscar is saying something. He's saying 'baby'. He calls her his baby. He moans, unrestricted, louder. The bed is creaking, it's creaking under Oscar's weight. He sighs shakily.

You press the palms of your hands against your eyes. You squeeze your legs tighter.

A high-pitched response. Olivia.

Then Oscar whimpers. Oh god, a pathetic, little, quiet whimper. You can hear his mouth press into something as he gets louder, more muffled.

Then, it stops. You hear footsteps in the bathroom. You hear Oscar sighing in the bedroom, the bed creaking as he gets off and paces around the room. He makes his way to the kitchen.

Your eyes are wet. Your throat is tight. There's an ache deep within you that fills you with guilt. You let out a quiet whimper. Somehow, you fall asleep.

The second date comes quickly enough.

This time, Oscar tells you it's with an old friend of his from boarding school. He's an engineer, working at some British automobile company. Oscar and Andrew attended his karting races together, as Andrew interned for some obscure Eurocup team.

You meet at a food truck festival in Regent Park. He wore a blue button-down shirt, and you matched the shade exactly with your sundress. You laugh about it and move on to explore the festival. Andrew had floppy light brown hair and soft eyes. He smiled shyly. Once in a while, when you were really funny, he smiled a sunnier grin, revealing two crooked front teeth. Like a little bunny.

You bonded over your shared love of gimmicky desserts at the festival and split a monstrously large waffle ice cream concoction. He told you about his time travelling for motorsport and how he grew overly stressed because of it. He chose a stable job in London for which he was still very passionate. You listened intently and shared your own impressions from your travels with your parents.

You had your reservations about this date, considering how the last one went. It took some persistence from Miranda over drinks, but in the end, you agreed to go out with Andrew.

There were no regrets, as you were enjoying this date thoroughly. He was kind, attentive, and interesting. A perfectly perfect date.

''So, why did you choose that major?'' He asked, genuine interest shining through his expression. He leans in, chin resting in his hands.

''Well, my parents urged me into that path.'' You fidget with a loose string of your skirt. ''But I found myself becoming really passionate about it. I love my work, I think it's really meaningful, actually.''

Andrew nods, fully engaged. ''It is really cool. I feel the same way about engineering.''

You beam up at him. You're walking around the park, a sensible foot between you. He swings his hands on his side, and you keep yours crossed and tucked on your chest.

''Oscar once told me, when we were kids, that mechanical engineers were the smartest people around.'' You reminisce fondly. ''He said, any other job is worthless in comparison.''

He laughed. ''He certainly grew out of that. I can't imagine Oscar being anything but polite. To anybody, really.''

''Oscar's really special, yeah.'' You gaze up at the sky, sunshine pouring through the blossoming trees above your heads. Clouds are strung across the blue, webbed through the space. Oscar's off racing, somewhere across the world. You hope the sky is just as beautiful there.

Andrew swings his hand closer to yours. You notice his nails are slightly longer than you would expect. His hands are soft and pale, with little calluses on his knuckles. You uncross your arms and let them swing between you. They brush, shyly, sweetly. You're giddy with possibilities. You stare up at him, strong neck and soft features. You see yourself sitting on your couch, eating dinner and watching some show. You get in bed, lying side by side and retell your day to each other. You, maybe, whisper a soft 'I love you' into the air and let it settle over you.

He grasps your hand, just firmly enough that you can let go easily. You slip your fingers between his. The sun shines down as you make your way out of the park. Maybe, just maybe. This could be it.

Later in the day, you sit with Miranda and Andie at your favourite bar. The walls are velvety and dark: the chatter is lively, but low; drinks are flowing, and there's cigarette smoke twirling through the air. Miranda takes a drag from her Marlboro Red, the filter stained with her signature lipstick, and stares you down intensely.

''So you're telling me, you think this guy's the one? After one date?''

''Not the one, Miranda. I'm just saying, I see myself actually having a relationship with Andrew.'' You answer, surprisingly defensive. You take a sip of your wine, the liquor coating your tongue.

Andie chimes in, staring at her perfectly pink manicure. ''He happens to work in the same field as Oscar?''

You're confused. ''Yeah? They're friends.''

She tears her gaze from her hand and eyes you suspiciously. ''Can you show me the picture again?'' You roll your eyes, but comply. You open up Andrew's social media profile, and the picture shows his side profile. You scroll through some posts with her, mostly at the gym or from work. It's polished and professional. He looks handsome.

''And you're attracted to him?'' Miranda asks, after glancing down at the phone across from her. You feel slightly attacked, as if they're both judging you.

''Yeah. I wouldn't be considering starting a relationship with him if I didn't. I mean, look at him.'' You shove the bright screen at Miranda's face. She flinches back and scrunches her nose at you. She flicks her cigarette in the ashtray.

''I'm not saying he isn't objectively handsome, I just want to make sure you really like him. I think Glen Powell is attractive, but I don't find him hot, personally.'' She elaborates. You really don't get her point. ''What specifically do you like about Andrew?''

You ponder. ''I like his hair. It's soft and kind of floppy, if you get what I mean.'' You trace your finger above the screen to emphasise your point. ''He has really cute teeth. They're a bit crooked, but in a good way.''

Andie suddenly gets an alarmed expression. You ignore her.

''And I like the way he's passionate about his work. I don't really get cars, but I can appreciate his enthusiasm. It's not as entertaining as when Oscar talks about his car, but it's still fairly interesting.'' Miranda and Andie both light up at your words. You think you've finally convinced them. Of what exactly, you're not sure yet. A breath releases itself from your lungs, one you didn't know you were holding. Why do you feel so defensive over Andrew?

''And… I think he actually likes me.'' You finish.

''Oh, sweetie.'' Andie reaches for your hand resting on the table. She covers it with her own, stroking the skin with her thumb. There's concern floating in her eyes, one you don't completely understand. Does she pity you? You take your hand back and fold it into your lap.

Miranda crushes her cigarette in the ashtray, the last of the smoke dissipating above your heads. ''What does Oscar say about this?''

''I… I haven't talked to him yet. He would probably approve, he's the one who set me up with Andrew.'' Something across the bar catches your attention. Miranda's eyes are too knowing. A chill passes through your spine. You can't bring yourself to meet her gaze.

Andie and Miranda share a knowing look and order another round of drinks. Something stronger. You keep your eyes away from them.

Andie clears her throat and gently rests her hand on your shoulder. ''Baby, I think you're rushing into this thing with Andrew.''

''Why?'' You're really confused at this point. You take a swig of your new drink, tequila.

''The things you mentioned about Andrew sound really familiar.'' Miranda adds, gently.

''I don't get it.''

Andie hesitates. ''It sounds like Andrew is pretty similar to…'' She takes a breath. ''Oscar.''

Miranda gingerly takes your hand underneath the table. She isn't one for physical affection, so this means she's equally concerned.

You're angry. No, actually, you're fucking seething. You can't believe that they've turned your innocent, hopeful giddiness over Andrew into this pathetic pity party, one where you're the guest of honour.

''Why do you guys always bring up Oscar? Can't I have one fucking thing that isn't about Oscar?'' You down the tequila quickly. ''I don't fucking like him. He has a girlfriend, and he's setting me up on these dates. Olivia's wonderful, and he's really happy with her.''

Memories of the night after your disastrous date come flashing back. The tenderness between them, the way Oscar laughed with her, how she whispered sweet nothings to him. How he sounded when he was vulnerable, how it reverberated in your ribs, how desperately you needed to hear more of him. The whimpers, the groans, the sighs. How you wished it was your neck he pressed his lips against. How you ached within.

How he came to you after the date. How softly he held your hand in the car. How angry he was, on your behalf. You remember the night in the club, where he pressed his palm against your cheek and brought you back from your spiral. You remember the dinners at his house, when you were kids, when he saved an extra serving of your favourite dessert. Just for you. He's always been just for you. Your person. He's everything. You're just… you.

''There's no way he would ever like me…'' You trail off. ''Back.''

And you've ruined it, again.

God, you realise with a sinking hole in your stomach, you liked Andrew only in the ways he reminded you of Oscar. Unattainable, unavailable, wonderful, beautiful, kind Oscar. Who could never like you back. Andrew was a lens of Oscar, only in a way that held up a mirror to your own feelings.

You've ruined it again.

Last time, you thought it was because Oscar didn't like you. Now, you realise it's because you love him.

You can't possibly expect him to tolerate you now, not when you want him. Oscar probably finds you repulsive, like a little sister, who, oh dear lord, listened to him have sex with his girlfriend, who he loves much more than he could ever love you. He would never extend his kindness again. He would never love you in the same way, he would never care for you again, he would never find your hand again, he would never even touch you again-

Not when you-

Not when you love him.

Another tequila finds itself in front of you. Urgently, you knock the shot back. You slam the glass on the table.

Warm, reassuring hands wrap themselves around you. Andie's blonde curls tickle your chin as Miranda rests her head on your own. They bring you back down. You're back in that dark room, with the lively chatter swinging back into your ears. You're okay. Nothing's happened yet. Your girls are holding you tightly, stroking your back, gently caressing your hair.

''We thought you knew.'' Miranda whispers.

You shake your head, suddenly unable to form any words. There's a thick lump stuck in your throat. Pressure is building behind your eyelids. You close them, wet tears clinging to your eyelashes.

''No.'' You croak. ''I didn't.''

Andie raises her head from your chest and presses her palm against your cheek. You lean your head into her hand, suddenly remembering how Oscar's hand felt in that same position. Tears spill forward. Andie wipes them off softly.

''You're okay. We've got you.''

You open your eyes to meet her blue ones. They're slightly crinkled on the edges, downturned and sad.

You laugh wetly. ''God, we look insane right now.''

Your girls return the laugh. They untangle from you, settling back into their seats. Miranda takes another cigarette out of the pack and lights it. She offers you a drag and you take it.

''How am I going to face him again?''

''Andrew or Oscar?'' Andie asks.

''I think Andrew doesn't deserve to deal with my feelings. Or wait until I sort myself out.'' You conclude sadly. ''Oscar… How do I face him after this?''

''As every other brokenhearted girl does.'' Miranda says matter-of-factly. ''You move on.''

''He's my best friend.'' You protest, wetness returning to your eyes.

''I know.'' She answers sympathetically. ''You have to be brave. Either tell him or push it down.''

Andie chimes in. ''You can't tell him. What about his girlfriend? That's not fair to her.''

''Andie's right.'' You sniffle. ''I just have to… bottle it up.''

The rest of the night is spent by Miranda and Andie sharing their stories of heartbreak. You always thought they had it easier; they're beautiful and kind and smart, but they didn't. They hype you up, buy you more drinks, and you end the night by sharing gas station chocolates at the steps to your apartment building. You're bruised and confused and sad, but they held you together. You're okay.

You haven't lost him yet. You can't lose Oscar again.

You turn Andrew down over coffee one morning. You make up some excuse about not being ready for romance, needing to think some things over and not wanting to lead him on while you do so. It's true. It's vague, you know. He knows it's vague, too.

''I had a really good time, so I'm a bit disappointed.'' He smiles easily. ''But I felt this coming.''

There's a knowing look in his eyes. You smile up at him sadly.

''I'm sorry.''

''It's nothing.'' He responds, taking out a crisp bill to cover both of your coffees. You start to protest, but he insists. ''Say hi to Oscar for me.'' You nod sharply as he gathers his things and bids you farewell.

You haven't talked to Oscar in a bit. He has a triple header, so you haven't been in touch as frequently as you usually are. This is somewhat of a relief, as you gather the strength to act like everything's normal after your realisation. On the other hand, you miss him so badly that it hurts physically when you think about him. Which is often. Summer break is a few short weeks away, filling you with dread as to how you will face him, as well as excitement to have him all to yourself for weeks. Not to yourself, to Olivia as well, you remember painfully.

Later that day, Oscar calls you.

You're working in the office when your screen lights up with a picture of him holding up a heart-shaped cookie from Austria, the awkwardest smile on his face and the softest expression in his eyes. You took that photo in the car at the Austrian GP, him clad in all McLaren attire, tired and glowy.

Miranda shoots you a look as you let the phone ring a little too long. You return her an apologetic glance and pick up the call.

''Hello?''

''Hey,...'' Oscar greets you, obviously tired wherever he was, trailing off.

''What's up? I'm at work, so I can't really talk.''

''That's okay, I just wanted to hear your voice.'' He says, softly. ''We haven't talked in a bit.''

Your eyes soften, glancing around the room to see if Andie or Miranda are listening in. ''Yeah, I know. I'm sorry.''

''I've missed you.'' You can imagine him, in his hotel room, wearing that McLaren-branded half-zip sweater you make fun of him for, but secretly adore.

''I miss you, too.'' You whisper. Across the room, you notice Andie perk up. Fuck, of course she was listening in. You continue, ''Listen, I've got to go, we can talk-''

''Andrew told me you rejected him.'' Your heart catches in your throat.

''Oh… What did he tell you?''

''To talk to you.'' Miranda has stopped pretending to work and was just staring at you with interest.

''Yeah, okay. We can talk. When are you coming back?''

''M' flight's on Monday.'' He responds, the words catching on a yawn.

''Okay, I'll see you then, yeah? I've got to get back to work now.'' There's a sense of urgency crawling from your stomach to your throat as you try to hang up his call.

''Okay. Can't wait to see you.'' There's an audible smile on his face.

You pause. ''Me too, Osc.'' You hang up.

Andie shoots you a giddy smile, but gets back to work. Miranda has a knowing smirk on her red lips. You press a hand to your cheek, to find it warm to the touch.

Oscar comes to your apartment on Monday night, straight from the airport. He's exhausted, jet-lagged, and slightly disappointed with the result of the last race in Canada. Yet, when you open the door and face him, fresh-faced and eager, he can feel all of that melt away. Oscar drops his bags by your door and engulfs you tightly into his arms. He can feel you pause for a moment, but you return his embrace in the end.

''Hey, you okay?'' You whisper into his hair, resting your hand on the back of his neck. You're so warm, he thinks, readjusting his arms around your waist.

''I am now.'' He responds.

With his life, it's hard to consider any place his home. Woking is where he works, and he doesn't really come there often anyway. The apartment is just a pit stop between days at the factory. Monaco is just so far removed from anything he would find comforting. It's sterile and grand and massive and small, and it lives within every contradiction of itself. One thing it cannot be is welcoming. Melbourne, that's where his home was, until he felt more estranged each year he returned. He didn't belong anymore.

But this, the warm orange light from all the lamps in your apartment (you hate turning on the big light), the permanent scent of baked goods wafting from the bakery just below your apartment, the heating turned just slightly too cold. You, clad in sweaters and soft garments, huddling under blankets in the dead of summer. You, smelling like the coconut shampoo you claim to dislike, but keep buying because you know he likes it. It feels like home.

You bring him into your apartment and make him tea. He tells you about the last three races. You listen intently. He cleans the counter when you spill some honey on it, without being asked. You tell him about work, and the new bakery you found near your office that you need him to try. It's easy. It's so easy. Oscar always feels like he has to pick his words, wherever he is. Everyone has different expectations of him, his fans, his managers, his family, your family. He's afraid of disappointing all of them by being himself. Being comfortable. He feels like you're the only person in the world with whom he can relax. The only one.

You make your way to your couch, each with a steaming mug in hand. Oscar hands you your blanket, a fuzzy pink one Nicole got you for your 16th birthday. You huddle up on one side of the couch, as Oscar spreads out on the other.

''So, how was the date with Andrew?'' Oscar asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.

You sigh and put your mug down on the coffee table, knowing the question was coming. ''It was a good date. Really good actually.'' You recount the events to Oscar, who sits quietly.

He bounces his knee as you speak. Why did you reject Andrew if the date was so good? He puts his hand to stop his bouncing knee.

''But I just… I didn't want to continue that.'' You conclude.

There's a quiet flutter in Oscar's chest. ''Why?''

You pause, blinking slightly. ''I don't know, it just didn't feel right. I wanted it so badly, but something was stopping me.''

''Wanted what?''

''It. The relationship, the feeling.'' You elaborate. ''It felt like I was chasing something I was supposed to have. Not because I liked him or because I actually wanted the relationship. Just… to be with someone. I didn't want to need him to feel… happy.''

Oscar nods, eyes unfocusing. He appears to be deeply in thought.

''I don't know.'' You sigh. ''It might seem odd, but I just knew it wouldn't be fair to him or to me to pursue that relationship.''

''What do you mean?'' Oscar rubs the base of his neck, gazing at you with furrowed brows.

''I wouldn't be completely invested.'' You state, resolutely. ''Maybe in the parts that I feel like I should. But I don't think I would care about Andrew as much as I should. Not beyond what he meant as an abstract idea. As a boyfriend.''

''I think I get that.'' Oscar ponders.

''Not like you.'' His head snaps up, meeting your eyes. You feel as if you're crossing a line, but the truth is threatening to spill out. You need to say something, confess something closer to the truth, or you'll burst. ''I care about you as a person. I love spending time with you, not just to spend time with someone. Hell, I would probably hang out with you more than Andrew if we got together.'' You laugh, part nervous, part earnest.

Oscar goes silent, pressing his lips together. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but stops. Rethinks. Stays quiet.

He sighs dejectedly and slumps against the couch.

''I, uh… I think I'm too tired.'' He rubs his hand against his eye. ''Can I sleep here?''

You nod. ''Of course, Osc.''

Oscar has his own pillow at your place. You keep it in the corner of your own bed for easy access, as he sleeps over regularly. And not to mix it up with the other pillows. And because it smells a little like him. You bring him his pillow and watch as he snuggles up in the pink, fuzzy blanket. Turned away from you, towards the back of the couch. You stare at him fondly for a moment, heart clenching. The couch must be so uncomfortable after his long flight, you think. A thought pops into your head, leering and unwanted, to offer him your bed. You turn off the light and head to your bedroom.

Unbeknownst to you, Oscar lies awake for hours, staring at the back of the couch, willing his thoughts to stop racing. He knows what he has to do.

You thought the summer break would mean you got Oscar all to yourself. However, you didn't. It took days for him to answer your messages, but when he did, it was always with some excuse. You haven't seen him since the night he came back from Canada. Then, he was away again, so it made sense he was unavailable.

So you waited for the start of his break. Nothing. At first, you were understanding. He had a tough few weeks at work and probably wanted to wind down. It was okay, you understood, you were fine. As time moved on, you thought, okay, maybe he was catching up with his other friends, family, or maybe with Olivia, you convince yourself.

Then, weeks go by, the silence growing louder and louder from his side. There's a week of summer break left, and you haven't gotten a single, proper conversation out of Oscar. You don't understand what's going on, and the paranoia slowly creeps in.

Then, you got a call from Nicole.

''Love, how are you? I asked Oscar and he told me to call you if I wanted to know.'' Nicole chuckled.

''Oh, I'm perfectly fine. You've heard from Oscar? I thought he was busy.''

''No, no, he definitely isn't. He's in Monaco, literally wasting the day away.'' She ranted. ''I told him, he needs to go out more often. Maybe then, he wouldn't be so indifferent. At least with Lando, y'know''

At that moment, you realise. He was avoiding you.

''He didn't tell me he was in Monaco.'' You state quietly.

''Oh, sweetie. I'm sure it just slipped his mind.'' Nicole answers empathetically. ''Listen, he does seem a little more depressed recently, so I wouldn't hold it against him, darling.''

You chat with her absentmindedly for a few more minutes. You hang up and find yourself in the quiet of your apartment. Alone. Consumed with the deafening realisation.

He knows. Oscar knows. God, you've ruined it, you fucking lost him, of course, he knows. Why did you ever think you could just bottle it up and continue your friendship normally? Of course, he knows; he can probably smell the desperation on you, how badly you need him, how hard you tried to shove it down.

Obviously, not hard enough, you think cruelly.

He knows. Oscar knows, and he's so appalled by the knowledge that he can't even bear to reply to your messages. He knows, and he doesn't even want to look at you. He knows, and he knows that you're a pathetic little girl who can't even move on, can't even attract one guy to go out with you, who can't control her own fucking feelings and ends up falling in love with her best friend. He must look at you and see a fucking cliché.

You look down at your hands and your clothing. Soft leggings and sweaters and hair tied up and bare-faced, god, why couldn't you have put in more effort into yourself? Maybe, he would've liked you then.

No, he never would've liked you. Oscar had Olivia. He had a beautiful, kind, wonderful girl at his side. How would he ever fall for you? If you ever put any effort into yourself, he would've probably still seen a clown.

Hot, heavy tears roll down your cheeks, your neck, into the wool of your sweater. Your throat constricts, and you can barely let out a sound. One, pathetic fucking sound. Your vision blurs. Your eyes fucking burn. God, why does it hurt so much?

You lost him.

Sobs spill out of you. The emotion that's been building for weeks finally breaks the dam. You hunch your shoulders into yourself, press the palms of your hands against your eyes. The tears won't stop fucking spilling, no matter how hard you press your hands against them, it starts to hurt, but you can't will yourself to stop. Your own wails echo around the room and settle over you. Your mouth fills with salt. The sobs start hiccupping, and you cry harder. Your hands shake against your scorching cheeks. You curl into yourself, your abdomen shaking with the intensity.

It hurts. Your body hurts from the sorrow. You feel so pathetic.

You lost him.

Again, you did it. Haven't you learned anything? All those years, years of loneliness and rejection and melancholy. Haven't you learned? What will you do now? Without Oscar?

Oh, Oscar. Beautiful, sweet, kind, loving Oscar. Who threw you away without any notice. Cruel, heartless, brutal Oscar.

You love him.

You have to stop. This has to stop. The sobs choke out, you try to stop them, you can't, your throat is searing hot, you're choking, you have to stop. You cannot breathe; there is no air to breathe. The tears run longer, hotter, saltier. You rub the sleeves of your sweater against your wet cheeks; you need to scrub them off, you need to scratch off the evidence. You have to be stronger. There's an open wound splitting you in half, and you're trying to will it closed.

You lost him. You love him.

You clutch your knees. Hugging yourself for comfort. One that doesn't exist. Did your friendship mean so little? Why is your stupid little crush enough to crumble all of the foundations?

The doorbell rings.

You're paralysed. Your head is heavy, your joints are heavy, your chest is heavy. Moving seems like the greatest chore, if it's even possible.

It rings again. Twice.

The tears are drying on your cheeks. Your chest is still heaving. The apartment is deathly silent. Your fingers twitch against the bedsheets, trying to gather some strength to pick yourself up.

Another ring. Then another. And another.

You manage to push yourself onto your elbows, knees still buckling under the weight. Your cheeks sting, scratched from the material of your sweater. The room is blue. Not really, not truly, but it lacks the warmth it usually has. The sun has set.

There's knocking now. Incessant, panicked.

You've managed to get up. You take slow, exhausted steps to the door. The mirror in the hallway catches your attention. Bloodshot, scrubbed, wet face. You turn away.

Now, there's yelling through the door. Someone's yelling your name. Lando.

You've completely forgotten you promised to hang out with him. God, what's he going to say when he sees you like this?

Nevertheless, you open the door. There he stands, fist raised mid-knock. You see the way his eyes rake over your face, drinking it all in. The wet eyelashes, the red-rimmed eyes, the snotty nose, the flushed cheeks. He stands there wordlessly, only for a moment.

Then he steps in, pulling you tightly against him. He doesn't ask, doesn't prod, just squeezes you silently. His embrace is so warm, so comforting, so understanding that you can't help but let go. Let go of the need to contain yourself, of the overwhelming panic that takes over you. You simply bury your face in his chest and let your tears stream down silently. Lando just stays there and strokes your hair.

Your resolution to avoid Oscar was short-lived. Until your mother had called you.

Oscar had a few more days left of summer break, meaning this was the last time he was fully available for his family before Christmas. They had decided to surprise him by coming to Monaco and organising a lively get-together to send him off back to work. Of course, this included your parents. Which included you.

She called to tell you she bought you a plane ticket to Nice and that you need to show up.

''But mother, I have work to do-'' She cut you off immediately.

''I do not care. Take off early on Friday and get over here by any means necessary. I will not have you embarrassing us in front of Oscar and his family, especially not in Monaco.''

''But-''

''No but's!'' She hangs up.

That's how you find yourself standing in Monaco, your overnight bag beside you and a pit forming in your stomach.

In your friendship with Oscar, you've never actually gone to Monaco with him, as he started spending most of his time in the UK. Every time he spoke about it, he wasn't necessarily enthusiastic about living there, and you can see why. Yes, the buildings are a marvel, and yes, the marina is azure and glittering in the high noon sky. But the people are standoffish, dressed in perfectly pressed clothing, and the buildings are too pristine, and the city is too loud and too quiet at the same time.

You press your sunglasses behind your ears and begin to move through the city. Lando picked you up in Nice, then dropped you off in front of the restaurant. It's a beautiful vineyard, a little way out of Monte Carlo. The waiter offers to store your bag in the staff room and leads you to the back, where your table is. The restaurant opens up to an outdoor veranda, overlooking a garden, green and bright, with wisteria flowers intertwined with the grapevine, hanging delicately above the tables. White columns circle the garden, holding up the greenery. It's a sunny day, but the vines provide enough shade for it to be bearable.

There are only a few tables scattered around the garden, yours being furthest in the back. The garden stands on a cliffside, you notice, as your table views over the azure sea expands through the Mediterranean. Everyone is already there, your parents seated at the head of the table, chattering with Nicole next to them. All of the Piastri sisters take up one side of the table, heads huddled over the menu, discussing what to order. Opposite of them, there's Oscar.

You feel your breath catch. It's the first time you've seen him in weeks. He got a haircut, to your dismay, but not the god-awful one he tends to get. His hair is still slightly long, draping over his ears and flopping just slightly above his eyes. He's staring at the empty plate in front of him, not engaging in the conversations on either side. There's a glass of orange juice in front of him. Oh, he hasn't really shaved, you notice, with visible stubble decorating his chin.

With dread, you notice the empty chair beside him. There's no way you could bring yourself to talk to him, not in this setting, not here, not in front of everybody. Your hands shake as you make your way closer, which allows you to spot another empty spot, next to your father. The other chair is probably for Olivia, you conclude sadly. Feeling your shoulders drop, you manage to sit down and greet everyone with a wobbly smile.

Oscar hears you coming and lifts his head up so fast, you're scared he got whiplash. He notices your seating arrangement, and a flash of something passes through his eyes. Hurt? No, can't be. Maybe it's resentment. Maybe he's disappointed you're still sitting so close to him, as you're practically opposite each other.

However, he still greets you with a small, uneasy smile. You wave back a little, then turn to your parents and Nicole with cheek kisses. Mae and Hattie are still immersed in the menu, only offering absentminded waves. Edie pours you a glass of wine.

''Okay.'' Hattie starts. ''We decided on the artichoke salad to begin us off, then some steak tartare. For mains, we think everyone should choose their own.''

Mae nods. ''That way we can try everything.'' She turns and whispers to you. You nod exaggeratedly, as if she's told you some great wisdom, sharing a laugh.

''When our dear Oscar is paying, we can get two of everything.'' Your father claps, evidently satisfied with the arrangement. Oscar meets your eye across the table, sporting an annoyed expression, indicating that this obligation was clearly forced onto him. You give him a weak, but sympathetic smile.

Not wanting to financially burden Oscar too much, you order something on the cheaper side, but the meal is still rudely overpriced. Your father orders a steak, your mother pasta and lobster.

There are eyes on you constantly, you know, as Oscar tries to catch your attention throughout lunch. You avoid his gaze, opting to talk to Nicole or his sisters. It's a relatively pleasant time, if you try to forget Oscar's there. Which you can't.

You're so acutely aware of Oscar's presence. For example, you accidentally knock his foot with your own underneath the table, suddenly alert to the closeness of his knees to your own. You could practically touch him, and none would be the wiser. He's radiating heat, you notice. There are points where you, in an attempt to ignore Oscar, completely lose track of the conversation as you focus on forgetting about him. But it's impossible. Your thoughts are completely consumed by him, his presence, his unwavering gaze, his scent, his voice. No matter how hard you try to focus on the discussion at hand, he's always right there. Just looking at you.

''Hey.'' He whispers across the table. You pretend you didn't hear him.

''How's work then, Y/N?'' Mae asks you.
''It's been really good actually.'' You respond. ''I've got great colleagues and the firm is exactly what I was looking for. London isn't too bad, either.'' You laugh.

''I'm sure you've been enjoying your new freedom.'' Nicole smirks. ''Away from the old folks.'' She points to your parents with a falsely mocking expression.

''Yeah, so independent she forgets to call her parents.'' Your father spits, forcefully cutting his steak.

''We talk every week.'' You note weakly. Oscar's eyes darken.

Your mother scoffs. ''For 5 minutes. God knows what you're doing in that country.'' You shrink back into your seat. ''If we had half a mind, we would send you back home.''

Nicole shoots them a stunned gaze. ''Leave the girl be, she's obviously thriving.''

''She could thrive back home, where we could keep an eye on her.'' Your mother sips her wine, eyes fixed on the white tablecloth, filled with a resentment you haven't noticed before.

''She could definitely do better without acting promiscuously and going on all those dates.'' Your father adds bitterly. He turns to you, looking straight at you, eyes wide and mouth agape. ''You're acting shamefully, Y/N. We taught you better than that.''

You slump into your chair, eyes going dull. Everyone has fallen into an awkward silence. The only sounds are from your parents' utensils, scraping into their plates in that ear-shattering way. Oscar is looking down at his hands. You fix your stare on him, burning with quiet rage.

''Did you… Did you tell them about the dates?'' You demand. He's avoiding your eyes, for the first time that day, staying silent. ''Answer me.''

''I told them.'' Your head swivels to the direction of the noise, where Nicole is sitting. ''He told me, over the phone.''

''Does it matter who told us?'' Your mother spits. ''You're the one acting like a little lying whore.''

Stunned silence falls over the table. You feel sorry for the Piastri sisters, caught up in this stupid feud with your parents. Actually, it isn't even a feud. It's them lashing out at you. It's your parents trying to fit you into their own box again. Where it's convenient for them. Where they can control you.

Suddenly, the sound of a chair scraping the wooden floor of the veranda, and resolute footsteps walking from the table. You pick your head up, watching as Oscar rounds the table to your side, dropping a couple of bills on the table. That isn't enough to cover the bill, you think. He holds his hand out for you, pleading with his eyes for you to take it.

''Y/N, please. You shouldn't have to put up with this.'' He begs. ''Let's go.''

Your mother laughs cruelly. ''Oh, so you're fucking him too?''

God, you're so fucking done with them. Years and years of avoiding eggshells. Of never doing anything for yourself. Of tolerating the insults, criticisms, and backhand compliments. Of pretending that this is normal, that this is how parents should act. Harassing you, embarrassing you, berating you. For years, you thought they were right.

Fuck, the reason you even thought you bothered Oscar is because of your parents. Because they apologised to Nicole for bringing you each week. Because they thanked Oscar for putting up with you. It was so ingrained in your mind that you were a burden. That you were unwanted wherever you came, because they made you feel unwanted. They made you want to apologise for your presence, for your existence.

For the first time in your life, you know what acceptance feels like. It liberated you. It freed you from them.

So, you turn to them with quiet rage and quietly pick yourself up, refusing to take Oscar's hand.

''No, I'm not.'' You sling your purse on your shoulder. ''You're being embarrassing, mother. Stop bringing shame to the family. Especially in Monaco.''

You grab Oscar's elbow and turn to leave.

''Pay for your own fucking food,'' Oscar adds over your shoulder. Putting a hand on the small of your back, reassuringly, as you make your way outside.

Faintly, you hear Nicole saying, ''I think we're done here, too.''

As you make it to Oscar's car, the emotions catch up to you. Adrenaline leaves your body and settles into numbness that envelopes you whole. You can't refocus your eyes on what's in front of you; the only comfort you have is knowing you're gone. The situation is over. They can't hurt you, not right now.

You can't even cry. There are so many thoughts racing through your mind, so many emotions weighing on your shoulders. You slump into the leather seats of Oscar's McLaren, curling into yourself, shrinking, trying to disappear.

You're so numb you forget you're in Oscar's car. That he was the one to pull you away. That he talked back to your parents. But you forget only for a moment, as the feeling comes back to your body and the scent of Oscar's cologne overwhelms your senses. You hang your head, hoping your hair can conceal your face from him. He's just sitting there, making no move to start the car.

''I'm sorry.'' He sighs into the silence.

''What for?'' You reply, so quietly you can barely hear yourself.

''For avoiding you.'' He admits. ''And for swearing at your parents.''

You snort. ''One of those doesn't require an apology.''

''And the other?'' He keeps his eyes fixed in front of him. You sneak a peek, watching his hand flex. A nervous habit.

You keep quiet for a moment. Watching him wind his hand harder, relishing in him being the nervous one for once. Then, you release a shaky breath. A little consolation, your lungs relaxing. You pick up your head and rest it against the window, slightly cooler than the summer air.

''Why did you?'' You ask. ''What did I do?''

Oscar looks at you, panicked. Wide, doe eyes quivering, swimming in half-formed tears. You realise, this affected him more than you thought. You've never seen Oscar cry.

''You didn't do anything.'' He explains urgently, shaking his head. ''I just had to think something through, it's been tough, and the championship's been stressful-''

You hold your hand up, silencing him. He knows, you know. There's no reason to address your feelings. It would only be more embarrassing, and you don't know how much turmoil you can handle in a day.

You've missed him, also. A lot.

''It's okay, you don't have to explain yourself.'' You reassure him. ''I know.''

''You do?'' He asks, stunned.

''Yeah.'' You sigh deeply, exhausted. He leans forward, putting his head into his hands.

''Just promise me you won't do that again?''

He glances at you, eyes flickering with something you can't place.

''Promise.''

You reach your fist out to his side, with your pinky spread out. He stares at it for a second, then a shy smile spreads across his face. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, though. He's exhausted, too, you think. He envelopes your pinky with his, shaking your joined fists slightly.

''I missed you.'' You add. ''I don't want these things to change us.''

He freezes in the middle of starting his car. ''Yeah… me too.''

He starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. You don't speak, and neither does he. Quiet comfort, as you breathe in the air he releases. He smells sweet, familiar, in a way that allows you to close your eyes and digest the events of the day. There's a certain resolution, a bittersweet one, that comforts you. Knowing you're able to talk back to your parents. Knowing some people have your back. Knowing that you are able to walk away, even if it's for a short respite. You keep your phone on silent, though.

You arrive at his apartment. Lando was supposed to let you sleep at his place, but now that you have Oscar back, you can't separate yourself from him. Not yet.

He tosses his keys in the bowl at the door as he makes his way to his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt on the way. Toeing your shoes off, you avert your eyes, maybe a second too late to be polite. The entire apartment looks sterile, barely lived in. Only a framed photo next to the TV. You pick it up, a fond smile spreading across your face. It was Oscar as a kid, holding his first karting trophy, grinning toothlessly. Next to him was you, pouting with your arms crossed, in karting gear as well.

Setting it down gently, you practically throw yourself onto the couch, soft pillows catching you and moulding against your body. You chill slightly. Then, Oscar shows up with a red version of your favourite blanket. Matching, you smile softly.

Your dress is clinging unbearably to your skin, slightly sticky and sweaty. A shower beckons you, and you bring yourself up slightly, leaning on your forearms. Oscar is scrolling through his phone, glancing at you quickly.

''Oh, no.'' You realise, eyes going wide. ''I left my overnight bag at the restaurant.''

''You can wear my clothes,'' Oscar replies easily. Then, he turns to face you. ''Or do you want to go back?''

You grimace at the idea of running into your parents again. ''Yeah, no.''

Oscar stands up and goes to his room, you padding along behind him. The room is insanely messy, with barely any floor visible from the clothing scattered everywhere. Compared to the rest of his apartment, which is basically empty, this room feels like there are five people living there at once. He steps over the socks, shirts, and pants with expertise.

''What the fuck is wrong with you?'' You laugh at him, gazing over the room with awe.

''Shut up, your house is messy, too.'' He rummages through his wardrobe. ''I didn't have time to clean.''

''Your clean is my messy, mate.'' You start picking up some shirts and folding them up on his bed.

Managing to tidy up a little, you give up quickly. Accepting the clothing from Oscar, a maroon shirt and worn-in shorts, you make your way to the bathroom. You wash your hair with his shampoo, clean yourself with his soap, and dress yourself in his clothing. It feels like you're living inside Oscar's essence, calming you down immediately.

You exit the bathroom, and Oscar perks up from the couch. He grabs your arm and takes you to the bedroom, which is completely clean now. He turns to you with a proud smile, gesturing to the clean floor excitedly.

''Kudos, you can fold a couple of shirts.'' You smirk at him.

He smiles down at you, then his eye catches on your attire, slightly wet hair, freshly washed, bare face. The smile drops slowly, and his hand lingers on your arm. You're getting slightly nervous, but you can't look away. He glances all around your face, lingering around the bottom of your face. Dropping your arm, he turns towards the living room again.

''You make those clothes actually look good.'' He calls over his shoulder, disappearing from your sight.

You smile shyly and follow him.

It must've been hours later when you and Oscar find yourselves in silence, watching some random French TV show. You're tense, as the awkwardness from the past few weeks lingers between you. Oscar's on edge, too, for some reason, probably the same one. He keeps fiddling with his hands, sometimes resting one between you, sometimes behind you on the couch, sometimes in his lap. He laughs forcefully at vaguely funny moments on TV and giggles too hard at any joke you throw his way. Running a hand through his hair so often, he's mussed it up so thoroughly, it's making you feel inappropriate things. You notice him staring at you periodically, choosing to ignore whatever's bothering him. Maybe he remembers that you're in love with him.

Wracking your brain, you try to come up with something, anything, to talk to him about, to ease the tension between you, to soothe the air. Coming up empty, you say the first thing that comes to mind, something to ease his mind, to let him know your love for him won't ruin your friendship.

''So…'' You trail off. ''When's the third date going to be?''

''H-Huh?'' Oscar fumbles over his words, removing his arm from the back of the couch behind you. He turns his body fully, eyebrows drawn and lips parted. ''I thought…''

''That I quit dating?'' You fill in, helpfully. ''Yeah, it was fun, though.''

''Oh…'' He stares in front of him. ''Okay.''

''Do you have anyone in mind?'' You try to keep the conversation going, nerves eating up at you.

He shakes his head.

''Maybe you can ask Olivia again.'' You joke lamely.

He turns to you, a confused look on his face. ''We broke up.''

You're stunned. ''What? Wh-when?''

''Like, months ago,'' Oscar replies. ''After you went out with Andrew. That conversation we had… It changed a lot.''

Oh, God. You feel terrible. He probably figured out you were in love with him after that conversation, and that affected his relationship with Olivia so badly that he had to break up with her. Maybe, maybe, she knew too, and that's why she broke up with him. You're a terrible friend, what the fuck. Maybe, he felt guilty for leading you on and-

''What you said about Andrew.'' He continues. ''Not wanting it for the sake of wanting it. I realised my relationship with Olivia was just that. Superficial. I didn't care about her like-'' He catches himself. ''Like… y'know.''

You nod, bringing a hand to his shoulder and rubbing it affectionately.

''Why didn't you tell me?''

He looks at you, eyes dim, expression tired. ''I…''

It's because he knows. Obviously, you think, he didn't want to give you false hope.

''It's okay.'' You interrupt him. ''Let's just watch something.''

You turn to the TV and switch the programme to Sex and the City,

A few days later, you call Oscar to remind him about the date. If you're not getting over Oscar by avoiding him, maybe you could by finding someone new.

''So what's up with the date?''

''Oh, uhm…'' He croaks out.

''Sorry, did I wake you up?'' You ask, concerned.

''No, no, s'alright.'' He mumbles, obviously just woken up. ''I'll have to see about the date. Let's say Friday at seven? I'll make him pick you up.''

''Sure. I'm free.''

''Cool, cool…'' He trails off.

''So how was the free practice?'' And like that, you fall into easy conversation.

As you hang up, you see a notification on your phone. A message from your mother. We're sorry. Let us make it up to you.

You shut your phone off and decide to focus on that later. If your parents wanted to make up, they would have to do a lot more than a few detached text messages.

Again, the phone lights up, this time a message from Nicole. Love, I'm coming to London next week, I want to see my beautiful girl!!

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest.

It's Friday afternoon, and you've started getting ready for your blind date. Miranda and Andie came over in the morning and left you at least a dozen of their dresses to borrow. You hold up a bright red one, oozing with sex appeal and a green one, which feels more like you. The curler is heating up on your desk, and makeup is spread out all over. You're starting to regret asking Oscar for this date when you realise you can't help thinking about him, constantly. You pick your dress based on what Oscar likes, you won't put eyeliner on because Oscar says it overshadows your eyes, and you curl your hair because Oscar's ex-girlfriend had curly hair.

At that moment, well over an hour before your date should've picked you up, the doorbell rings.

You make your way to the door, raking your fingers through your unstyled hair. Looking down, you remember you're wearing Oscar's maroon shirt and wince. Your date won't notice, probably.

Opening the door, you're shocked to see a nervous, pacing, flustered Oscar. Shoving his hands into his pockets and giving you a wobbly smile, he pushes past you into the apartment and continues pacing in front of you. Then, he stops, takes a deep breath and holds it.

''Oscar?'' You smile at him, confused. ''What are you doing here?''

''There is no date.'' He sighs out, shoulders dropping.

''What?'' You cock your head at him.

''There is no date.'' He repeats, dragging a hand over his face. ''I'm sorry, I tried, but I just couldn't do it. I'm sorry.''

You're so confused, but he continues.

''I know you know, and I appreciate you accepting that and not letting it affect our friendship, but I just can't do this.'' He's exasperated, swinging his hands through the air as he speaks. ''I can't sit here and watch you go out with someone else, no, I can't be the one to set you up on that date.''

Mouth agape, you stare at him in stunned silence. You don't know what to say.

''I'm sorry if that disappoints you, I'm sure you're going to find a nice guy either way, and I'll support you, and it's going to be super fucking hard, but I will.'' He rambles on, eyes wild. ''I'll be okay, eventually, maybe, probably not, but right now, my feelings don't allow me to do this-''

''Your feelings?'' You interrupt him.

''Yeah…'' He stares at you, now equally as confused as you. ''My feelings.''

''What are you on about, Oscar?'' Your heart jumps.

''You said in the car, after the lunch…'' Oscar trails off, a horrified expression taking over his face. He closes his eyes and shakes his head violently. ''Forget it.''

He turns to walk out of your apartment, but you grab him before he can. A wide smile spreads across your face, giddy expression meeting his dejected one.

''What feelings, Oscar?'' He sighs, slapping his palm over his face.

''The ones where I'm in love with you.'' He mumbles through the cracks of his fingers.

You pry his hand off his face, meeting his glittering eyes. ''Repeat that, please.'' You ask, intertwining your hands with his.

He finally sees the ecstatic grin on your face and freezes. A matching one slowly rises to his lips, reaching the corners of his eyes. ''I love you.''

''That's crazy.'' You reply, grabbing his collar roughly and pulling him to you tightly.

Your lips meet in a frenzied tangle of lips, limbs and finally resolved feelings. Pressing firmly against him, you place your hand onto his neck, the other making his was into your hair, moving, caressing, needing him everywhere. His arms, strong, muscular, circle your waist and ribs, clutching you so tightly, he lifts you to your tiptoes. He's so warm. He smells so sweet, like citrus, like sunshine. It's really happening, you think. Oscar sighs contentedly against you, moving his hands to cup your cheeks gently, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. The kiss slows, the rush slowly slipping from your bodies, leaving only adoration, slow, building, sweltering need for one another.

You've got him, you know, Oscar's tongue lightly swiping against your lips. There's no helping it, you try to stop it, but you really can't, it's against your will; you think as the widest smile takes over your face. Laughing against his lips, Oscar can't fight the uncontrollable grin either, your teeth clashing as you try to get serious enough to continue kissing. Laughter fills both of your lungs as you separate just enough to look at each other, matching flushed faces and necks, messy hair and bruised lips. God, you can't stop fucking smiling. You don't want to, you think, if he's going to smile like that every time, too. Oscar's eyes are half closed, looking at you with a need you've never experienced, bunny teeth poking into his bottom lip.

Then, you realise.

''Wait, you didn't know that I was in love with you?''

Oscar looks at you, confused, hands slipping down to your hips, loosely wrapping around them and pulling you closer. ''No? How would I?''

''Oh, God.'' Your eyes widen with horror, pulling one hand away to cover your mouth, which he pulls back against him immediately, holding it against his chest. ''I thought you were avoiding me because you realised I was in love with you. After that conversation about Andrew.''

Oscar laughs. ''No, I was avoiding you because I realised I was in love with you.''

''We're fucking idiots.'' You laugh, resting your head against his neck, lips lightly pressing against the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. ''And I love you.''

''Well, yeah.'' He states matter-of-factly, pressing a kiss against your head. A moment of silence passes, the two of you just standing there, holding each other gently. ''Can we go cuddle on the couch and watch Sex and the City? I want to see what happens with Carrie and Aidan.''

You wince, letting him pull you to the couch and settling against him, warmly, familiarly. He's in for heartbreak. Not from you, of course.

He starts up the show, wrapping a hand around you securely. You press a soft kiss against his lips. Oscar grins and returns the gesture enthusiastically.

You haven't lost him.

Actually, he's all yours.