Archive of Our Own ^beta

People often said hate was a strong word. But to you, it wasn’t strong enough.

There needed to be a word that carried weight — something dense and unrelenting. A word that held the power of what lived inside your chest. Something that could explain the way heat flooded through your veins, slow and deliberate, crawling beneath your skin until you felt too warm from the inside out. A word for the way your fingers curled tight into your palms, nails biting down until half-moon marks bloomed in their wake. A word that could capture the feeling — the rage, the pressure, the intoxicating sense of power that surged through you whenever it took hold.

You hated that soft kind of rain, the kind that fell so gently it barely disturbed the pavement but still managed to soak you straight through to the bone. You hated how impatient people became in traffic, how they cut you off without a second thought. You hated how cruel people could be to retail workers and bar staff, how it always made something sharp and protective rise in your chest. You hated how old your apartment was, hated that the air conditioner always broke exactly two weeks into the unforgiving Australian summer.

But most of all—

You hated Oscar Piastri.

You hated the way he smirked at you like he was holding onto a secret you’d never be allowed to know. You hated how his eyes tracked you whenever you entered a room, sharp and assessing, like he was waiting for you to slip so he could pounce. You hated how you were always the butt of his jokes — calculated, precise, always at your expense. You hated how much your parents adored him, how your mum cooed that she wished she’d had a son as clever as him, how your dad’s face lit up whenever Oscar walked through the door. You hated that you were forced to spend time together, just as you had been since you were five years old. You hated that your mums were inseparable, best friends determined to stitch your lives together whether you liked it or not.

But most of all, you hated that there was a time when you didn’t hate Oscar Piastri. Not even a little bit.

You sat rigid at the table, fingers curled tight around the silver cutlery, eyes fixed into a sharp glare as he smirked across from you. He was mid-conversation with your dad, explaining something mind-numbingly dull with that calm confidence of his, and it took everything in you not to roll your eyes at every word.

Hattie sat to your left, animated and bright as she told you a story that was probably interesting — just not interesting enough to pull your attention away from Oscar’s stupid, infuriating face.

It was a weekly tradition. Your families gathered around a dinner table to eat, drink, laugh, and pretend everything was perfect. Sometimes you went out, sometimes — like tonight — you suffered through it in each other’s homes.

And that drove you insane.

You’d moved out almost two months ago, but having Oscar in your space still made your skin itch. The way he drifted around the room like he belonged everywhere. The way your mum rested a warm hand on his arm, praising him like he was something precious.

It was nauseating.

But it hadn’t always been like this.

There was a time, long ago, when you were friends. When you waited eagerly for him to come over, desperate to show him your favourite TV show or the colouring book your grandparents had bought you. That was before everything changed. Before he became selfish. Before he learned how to hold your gaze with that knowing twinkle that made your skin prickle.

You caught the curl of his lips as Hattie launched into another story, her words blurring as you felt his attention settle on you. You’d tried every excuse to avoid tonight — work, plans, exhaustion — but your mum’s guilt had been relentless.

Hattie barely finished her sentence before you snapped your head toward him.

“What are you staring at?” The words left you sharp and clipped. Your fingers tightened around your cutlery as his own sat loose in his hand, caveman-like, just as your dad turned away and spared himself from the usual spectacle.

“I’m not sure,” he said smoothly, that infuriating smile still in place. “They’re yet to find a name for this species.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to Hattie. No one paid attention anymore. Once you’d officially labelled each other enemies, everyone else stopped intervening. Your mum liked to say you fought like people who knew each other too well. Your dad joked that boys were meaner when they liked you. It made your blood boil.

Because you were the only one who saw through him. The only one who saw how carefully he curated his charm, how he used it to stay one step ahead of you.

“You’re so annoying,” you muttered.

You’d learned early to stay sharp around Oscar. Ever since your thirteenth birthday — the day everything fractured — you’d made it your mission to outpace him. Sometimes you lost, and it stung because he was smart and quick and knew you better than anyone. Other times, you won, and you savoured the way his jaw tightened, the way colour crept into his cheeks.

You focused on your food, ignoring the heat of his gaze against your cheek.

“You don’t like your mum’s cooking?” he drawled.

Your knife hit the plate with a sharp clang. No one looked up.

“I’m eating it, aren’t I?”

“You’re stabbing it. There’s a difference.”

“Don’t psychoanalyse my dinner. Maybe I’m pretending it’s you.”

“I’m not,” he replied lightly. “I’m just judging.”

You hated how his voice lingered, how it slid under your skin and stayed there long after he spoke.

“You really can’t stand it when I’m not paying attention to you, can you?” You spat.

“Like you can’t stand it when I am.”

With a frustrated huff, you pushed your chair back and stood, grabbing your plate.

“I’ve lost my appetite. I’ll prepare dessert.” You didn’t break eye contact as you stalked into the kitchen.

Later, once everyone was full and content, you curled into the two-seater couch beside Hattie, peering at her phone as she showed you a designer she’d saved on Instagram. Oscar leaned in the doorway, half-listening to your dad. Your mum’s were nowhere in sight.

“How’s the dating life?” Hattie asked gently.

“Tragic,” you sighed. “Everyone’s either a moron or wants a housewife with no ambition.”

You'd dated before, had relationships. Real ones, on paper at least. They always ended the same way — not in flames, but in the slow realisation that you were settling. Like agreeing to quiet when some part of you had grown used to noise, reaching for something that never quite reached back. Hattie’s eyes lit up in that way they always did when she thought she was onto something.

“Oh my god, I need to tell you about this guy who just started working with Oscar,” she said, excitement bubbling over as she leaned closer to you. “You’ll love him. He’s so funny, and smart, and—”

You stilled. It was subtle, barely anything at all. But your fingers, which had been lazily resting against the cushion, curled slightly into the fabric. Your breath caught just for a second too long before you forced it back out through your nose.

Working with Oscar. Anyone who did couldn't have a sharp head on their shoulders, you thought.

Across the room, something shifted. Oscar, who had been half-listening to your dad with that practiced ease of his, straightened just a fraction. The casual lean he’d been settled into disappeared, his shoulders squaring as if he’d been bracing for impact. His gaze flicked over — quick, sharp — before he dragged it away again like he’d been burned.

You noticed.

You weren’t sure why you did, only that the way his jaw tightened made something unpleasant twist low in your stomach.

“Oh,” you said finally, tone carefully neutral. “Does he?”

Hattie nodded eagerly, completely oblivious. “Yeah! They’ve had a few shifts together, and Osc says he’s really good at what he does. They get along great.”

Oscar didn’t comment. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t interrupt. That alone was suspicious.

You shifted slightly on the couch, adjusting your position until you were angled more toward Hattie — and just far enough away that you knew Oscar would clock it. You told yourself you didn’t care. Told yourself this was nothing. Just idle gossip.

But the idea of him standing there, listening, sent a flicker of something sharp and vindictive through you.

“So,” you said, feigning casual interest as you picked at a loose thread on the cushion. “What’s he like?”

Hattie practically bounced. “He’s really easy to talk to. Not arrogant at all, which is refreshing. And he actually listens when you speak.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself.

“That is refreshing — husband material,” you murmured, unable to resist.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Oscar’s hand flex at his side, fingers curling briefly before he shoved them into his pockets. His gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder, focused too intently on absolutely nothing.

“Is he seeing anyone?” you asked, forcing the question out lightly, like it didn’t matter either way.

Hattie paused for half a beat. “Nope. Single. Recently, I think.”

Something warm and tight settled in your chest — quickly followed by annoyance at yourself for noticing.

“Oh,” you said again, softer this time. “That’s good to know.”

You laughed when Hattie said something else, leaning closer as she kept talking, nodding along and asking questions you told yourself were harmless. Normal. Friendly.

You didn’t look back toward the doorway.

You didn’t see the way Oscar’s eyes never left you after that — dark, focused, his jaw set like he was biting down on something he didn’t know how to name. Like he was watching something slip just out of reach, realising far too late that he cared.

And you definitely didn’t acknowledge the small, traitorous thrill that bloomed in your chest at the thought of it.

~~

“No, Hattie.”

Oscar felt like he had repeated himself so many times that he was half-tempted to get the words tattooed across his forehead. Hattie had been on his case for the past twenty-four hours — calling, texting, practically begging him to throw his new co-worker straight into the lion’s den.

And he was not having it. Not for any other reason than because he wanted to spite you.

“Oh but Osc,” she coaxed, undeterred, “he’s a nice guy and she deserves someone nice, don’t you think?”

Oscar had his phone pressed to his ear as he worked, her persistence earning nothing but a slow roll of his eyes.

“I’m not setting him up on a date with the devil,” he snapped, “so stop asking.”

Hattie only laughed, her tone soft, maddeningly calm. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Shut up, Hattie. Don’t be ridiculous.”

It was a quieter morning than usual, the kind where time stretched lazily and the track hadn’t yet filled with noise. He hadn’t minded answering her call — but had he known she’d latch onto this, he would’ve let it ring.

“Then why won’t you even humour me? Just let them meet?”

“Because—” His words stalled as his eyes caught on his new co-worker walking through the door, a bright, easy smile already in place.

“Morning, Oscar,” Lando chimed, voice as cheerful as ever.

“Is that him?” Hattie giggled down the phone.

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “I’ll call you back later,” He hung up before she could reply. “Morning,” he said instead, glancing up as Lando joined him behind the counter, his energy enough to draw a quiet laugh from Oscar’s chest.

Oscar had been working at the karting track for a few years now, ever since university — a stopgap that had somehow become routine. He’d studied engineering, worked himself into the ground for a degree that now sat unused, his early twenties stretching out in front of him with no clear direction.

But he liked it here. He'd spent so many weekends here as a kid, it seemed to fit around his life like a glove. The regulars. The kids who looked up at him. The familiar rhythm of it all.

And Lando fit into that rhythm easily.

A Brit on a working holiday, he’d started a few weeks back and immediately made the shifts go quicker. He listened when Oscar talked, laughed easily, learned fast.

And sure — Lando was objectively good-looking. He might’ve been your type. But that didn’t mean Oscar was going to set him up with you.

Not because he was jealous — or whatever it was Hattie was trying to imply.

It was because you were — well, you. Frustrating. Always clawing your way under his skin. Boring too, droning on about the same things that numbed his brain. Nothing like Lando. You’d have nothing in common.

That was what Oscar told himself. Again and again.

He ignored the way his stomach twisted at the thought of you laughing at Lando’s jokes the way you should laugh at Oscar’s. The way anger coiled hot and sharp at the image of you tucking your hair behind your ear while Lando complimented you. He didn’t examine those thoughts. Didn’t linger on them.

Because they meant nothing. Just like you did.

“Was that your sister?” Lando asked, grabbing rags from beneath the counter.

“Yeah. She was being annoying.”

“So it runs in the family?” Lando teased.

Oscar rolled his eyes just in time to throw a roll of receipt paper towards Lando, the other grinning as it flew past his head, tossing the rags back in retaliation, laughter bubbling up.

“She wants to set you up with this girl we know,” Oscar said, distracted as he wrote down the float. “It’s annoying.”

Lando leaned closer. “Is she hot?”

“What?”

“The girl. Is she hot?”

Oscar glanced up, irritation and something else tangling together in his chest. “She’s probably not your type.”

“So she is hot.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

Oscar scoffed, answering far too quickly. “I don’t find her hot.”

“Right,” Lando said knowingly.

Oscar swatted him away. “Get to work. You’ve been here five minutes and done nothing.”

“Ah,” Lando said suddenly, like he’d unearthed something precious. “Is she that one?”

“What one?”

“Your enemy number one.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The one you talk about all the time," Lando smirked, "Well, if it’s not a big deal, tell her to meet us at Joe’s on Friday.”

“What?”

“Did you not clean your ears out or something this morning, Osc? You’re being a bit dim.”

“Will you just get to work and leave me alone?”

“Come on,” Lando grinned. “Maybe she’ll fall in love with me at first glance and finally leave you alone. Isn’t that what you want?”

Another bundle of rags flew his way as Lando laughed and disappeared into the back. But Oscar stayed rooted behind the counter, heat crawling up his neck, ears burning.

Because he’d been reminded of you. And how annoying you were. Not because the thought of you falling for Lando left something sour and heavy settling in his chest.

Oscar stayed where he was long after Lando disappeared into the back, his hands braced against the edge of the laminate like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The track was quiet — too quiet. No engines roaring, no kids yelling, no distractions. Just the hum of the lights overhead and the echo of Lando’s words rattling around in his head.

Maybe she’ll fall in love with me at first glance.

Oscar exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as his fingers flexed against the laminate. His chest felt strange, tight in a way that had nothing to do with anger. He rolled his shoulders back, like he could physically shake the feeling loose.

You weren’t his problem. You hadn’t been for years. And yet, the thought of you had crept in anyway — uninvited, unwelcome, familiar.

He pictured you the way you always looked when you laughed for real, not the sharp, sarcastic thing you reserved just for him. Your eyes would soften, shoulders relaxing, head tipping back slightly as if you trusted the moment enough to let go. He’d seen it happen with Hattie. With other people.

Just never with him anymore.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the memory morphing into something more dangerous. You standing at the counter here, leaning in the way you always used to when you were younger and visited the track for fun, elbows propped up as you talked too fast about something you were excited about. You stealing his cap and refusing to give it back. You sitting beside him on the kerb outside, legs swinging, close enough that your knee brushed his.

That was the thing that scared him the most.

Not that you might like Lando.

But that you could.

Lando was easy. Warm. Uncomplicated. He didn’t know how to push your buttons because he’d never spent a lifetime learning where they were. He wouldn’t tease you until you snapped or look at you like he was daring you to challenge him.

He wouldn’t hurt you the way Oscar already had.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut briefly, thumb pressing into the side of his index finger until the pressure grounded him again. He knew exactly when everything had gone wrong — the moment you’d started looking at him like he was something to brace against instead of something safe.

And maybe he deserved that.

Because no matter how much he wanted to tell himself otherwise, no matter how often he called you annoying or difficult or exhausting, the truth sat heavy and unavoidable in his chest.

He didn’t hate you. He hadn’t hated you then. And he sure as hell didn’t hate you now.

What he hated was the idea of standing back and watching you move on — watching you smile at someone else, choose someone else — because it would confirm what he already feared. That he’d missed his chance.

And that if you met Lando, you might finally realise you deserved better than whatever unfinished thing Oscar had been holding onto all these years.

He dragged in a steady breath, straightening as footsteps echoed from the back. By the time Lando reappeared, Oscar’s face was carefully neutral again, the familiar armour slipping back into place.

Because wanting you was dangerous. And wanting you when you didn’t want him back was worse.

~~

Joe’s was a tradition. Though that implied something longer and more sacred than a handful of Fridays strung together. Still, it felt like one.

A dive bar perched on the edge of the city, sticky floors and low ceilings, the kind of place where the lights were always dimmer than they should be and the music buzzed just a little too loud. Everyone knew everyone, or at least pretended to. The bartender greeted you with a nod, the drinks were cheap and heavy-handed, and no one judged how long you stayed.

Lando loved it for that reason alone.

Oscar had brought him once, early on, wanting to show him something real, something not curated or polished. Lando’s eyes had lit up like he’d discovered gold, a grin splitting his face as he took it all in. That had been enough to seal it.

Now it was theirs.

They were crammed around a small, circular table, pints sweating in their hands as the week was dismantled piece by piece. Lando talked with his whole body, hands moving, expressions animated, laughter loud and unguarded. Oscar listened, chiming in when he needed to, relaxed in a way he rarely was anywhere else.

Until something shifted.

It wasn’t a sound exactly — more like a pressure change in the air. Oscar’s eyes lifted without conscious thought, attention snapping toward the door as it creaked open.

Hattie burst in first, pink hair impossible to miss, weaving through the crowd like she owned the place. Oscar straightened instinctively, irritation already rising.

And then he saw you.

Wrapped in a denim jacket he recognised immediately — too familiar — following a step behind her, shoulders drawn in, eyes scanning the room like you were already planning your escape.

His stomach dropped.

Oscar was on his feet before he’d even realised he’d stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he stalked toward you both.

“What the fuck are you both doing here?” he snapped, eyes flicking between you and Hattie.

Hattie just grinned, unbothered, arm looping around your shoulders as she leaned into you proudly. You stayed half a step behind her, gaze fixed on the floor like you were bracing for impact. Then Hattie raised an arm and waved. Oscar followed her wave with a sharp turn of his head. Lando was still at the table, smiling and lifting his hand in an easy wave back, completely oblivious.

Oscar turned back slowly, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

“Well, you wouldn’t entertain my idea,” Hattie said brightly. “So I took matters into my own hands. Showed him a picture,” She squeezed your shoulder. “He was very interested.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. Hattie waved him off before stepping forward to greet Lando. You hesitated only a second before stepping forward to pass him, but his body reacted faster than his brain. His hand closed gently — too gently — around your upper arm, stopping you.

“You came?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

You finally looked at him then. Just for a second. Eyelashes fluttering as though you weren't about to crack his chest wide open.

“She said he was nice,” you whispered, tugging your arm free and moving toward the table before he could respond.

Oscar stood there for a beat too long, chest tight, lungs burning like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Then he turned and dropped heavily back into his chair.

This was hell.

He watched from the sidelines as Hattie threw herself into introductions, practically vibrating with excitement. You smiled — that real one, the one Oscar hated because he knew it — as Lando leaned across the table, offering his hand.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Lando said, warm and genuine.

“Pleasure,” you replied, his name rolling easily off your tongue.

Oscar’s fingers tightened around his pint. Condensation soaked his hand, the glass slick and cold, but he didn’t loosen his grip. His knuckles burned, jaw grinding every time you laughed — really laughed — at something Lando said.

You leaned in when he spoke, tilting your head like you were listening closely. Oscar’s knee bounced under the table, foot tapping against the wood in a restless rhythm. He tried to focus on Hattie’s voice, nodded at the right moments, but his eyes betrayed him.

They kept finding you.

The way your mouth curved when you smiled. The way you tucked hair behind your ear without thinking. It was like his body hadn’t got the memo that he wasn’t supposed to care. He told himself it was nothing. Just noise. Just irritation.

Then Lando made you laugh again — head tipping back, hands clapping together softly — and something hot and ugly twisted in Oscar’s chest.

He stood abruptly, chair screeching against the floor.

“Another drink,” he muttered, already moving away.

You watched him go, even as you pretended not to care. Your eyes followed him through the crowd, stomach fluttering in a way you absolutely refused to analyse. You were enjoying this. Or at least, you told yourself you were. Every time Lando asked you something, you leaned a little closer. Every time he smiled, you mirrored it, basking in the way Oscar’s grip tightened when he returned, pints in hand, eyes dark and unreadable.

When Hattie disappeared to the bathroom and Lando asked what you liked to do for fun, you lied. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough to see Oscar stiffen. Enough to see his mouth press into a thin line before he slammed his pint down and muttered something about another round.

You felt a thrill — sharp and dangerous.

Until Lando leaned in, mirroring your posture, voice lowering. “So why do you hate him so much?”

Your throat went dry.

“I mean,” you shrugged lightly, forcing a smile, “you know him.”

“I don’t think he’s that bad,” Lando said softly, studying you.

There was something in his gaze — curiosity, interest — and it made your skin prickle. You leaned forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist, tugging it gently toward you, daring yourself not to think about how different this felt.

“You don’t know him that well,” you whispered.

A throat cleared loudly. You both looked up. Oscar stood there, towering, two fresh pints in his hands, eyes locked on where your fingers rested on Lando’s wrist.

“Not interrupting, am I?” he said flatly.

Lando immediately stood. “Nah mate — actually, I was just heading to the loo.”

Oscar set one pint down harder than necessary before dropping into his seat, leaning back, gaze never leaving you.

“You both looked comfortable,” he said after a moment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you shot back, crossing your arms.

“It means he was laughing at your jokes.”

“Yeah,” you snapped, heart pounding. “People do that when they like you.”

“Must be new to you.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You swallowed, anger flaring — or maybe something else.

“Some people are just inherently nice,” you said firmly. “Not that you’d know anything about that, Oscar.”

To your surprise, he smiled. Slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

He leaned forward, palms flat on the table, closing the space between you. Heat flared everywhere he was close — your breath hitching despite yourself.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes boring into yours, “if you actually hated me half as much as you pretend to, this would be a lot easier.”

Your chest tightened. “Careful.”

“Or what?”

“You might say something you can’t take back.”

For a moment, it looked like he might. His mouth opened — then closed. The smirk returned, but his eyes didn’t soften.

When Hattie and Lando came back, the moment shattered. Laughter filled the space again. Drinks were raised. Conversation resumed.

But the air between you and Oscar stayed charged.

You were acutely aware of his gaze. Of the way your stomach twisted when he finally looked away.

And Oscar hated how much it bothered him that you noticed when he did.

~~

Sunday arrived sooner than you had wanted. It always did. But this time, it wasn’t the looming work week that sat heavy in your chest — it was the memory of Oscar. The way he had looked at you on Friday night, how his words had hovered between you like something unfinished, something dangerous. The way his voice had wrapped around you like a hand around your throat, not squeezing, just there. Constant. Inescapable.

And it lit a fire inside you. One that burned too bright, too hot, too close to something you didn’t want to name.

Lando had seemed nice. Genuinely so. There had been no sharp edges to him, no constant push and pull. He listened when you spoke, asked questions that didn’t feel performative, laughed in a way that made you feel seen rather than studied. And as much as you’d been putting on a performance for Oscar’s benefit — leaning in, laughing louder, touching where you normally wouldn’t — it had been nice talking to someone who seemed interested in what made you tick.

You were only a little disappointed that he never asked for your number when you’d said goodbye that night. Just a flicker. Barely anything. Though he had said he hoped he would see you again as he wrapped you into a gentle hug, his arms warm and safe and uncomplicated, and that had been enough to make your heart flip despite yourself.

Hattie had giggled the whole taxi ride home, going on and on about how she knew you’d like him. You almost stopped her. Almost told her she was wrong. Almost said you didn’t like him, that you never had feelings for Oscar.

(It was only when she said Lando’s name that you realised who she was talking about and felt a blush creep up your neck, heat blooming where you didn’t want it.)

You always dreaded Sundays. Not because it marked the end of the weekend but because it was the designated family meal day. The one you were always forced to attend even when you wanted to beg, steal, or borrow to get out of it. Luckily this time it was at an Italian restaurant not too far from your apartment, which meant you could escape sooner rather than later.

You turned up just as your parents arrived, swapping hugs and pleasantries as you walked through the door.

The restaurant was intimate — soft lighting cast everything in a warm glow, the smell of pasta and herbs thick in the air. You followed them to the regular table, sliding into a seat at the end with one chair between you and your dad. You silently hoped Hattie would take it. Your mum sat on the opposite end of the table, of course, already saving space for her best friend.

This dinner was larger than usual. More of the Piastri siblings had turned up for once, and you let out a quiet breath of relief. The more people there were, the easier it was to disappear. To avoid him.

“Speak of the devil,” you muttered under your breath as Oscar walked through the door.

You didn’t look up straight away. You didn’t need to. You could feel him before you saw him — the subtle shift in the room, the way your shoulders tensed without permission. He was wearing a cord jacket that suited him far too well, and you rolled your eyes as your dad stood to greet him, clapping a hand on his back. Your mum pulled him into a hug like he belonged there more than you did.

You kept your eyes on the menu. It was only when you felt his warmth settle beside you, too close, that you finally looked up. Just as he sat in the chair next to you. Between you and your dad.

“I was saving that—”

“First come, first serve.” He grinned as he placed his jacket over the back of the chair, scooting it in closer than necessary. Close enough that your knees nearly brushed.

“You don’t have to sit that close.”

“There aren’t any other chairs.”

“There absolutely are.”

“Then move.” He turned his head toward you as he said it, leaning in just slightly — enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your response died on your tongue as noise filled the room, the rest of his family arriving in a flurry of greetings. You stood quickly, grateful for the interruption.

Dinner settled into a familiar buzz. Orders were taken, drinks poured. Hattie and Edie claimed the seats opposite you and Oscar, and you focused on them, on their voices, on anything that wasn’t the steady awareness of him beside you.

You hated how tuned in you were to him. Every shift of his body, every quiet exhale. You hated that you could tell something was off.

Other than the jab when he arrived, he barely engaged with you at all. He ignored your glances, didn’t rise to your comments, didn’t snap back when you baited him. He focused on whoever was speaking, polite and detached.

Oscar was ignoring you. And it reignited that fire inside your chest — hot, sharp, unreasonable.

By the time the food arrived, your stomach was growling. You dug in eagerly, moaning softly as the flavours hit.

“Wow, this is so good.”

“I picked this place.” You heard quietly from beside you. You snapped your head toward him. The smirk was there, faint but smug.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

The rest of the dinner passed in uneasy peace. You should have been relieved. Instead, his quiet gnawed at you. There was something in the way he held himself — tense, withdrawn — that tugged at something beneath your ribs. Something you didn’t want to examine too closely.

That must have been why you followed him outside after you’d said your goodbyes to everyone else. Why you placed your hand on the door of his car just as he tried to open it.

“What do you want?”

“What’s going on with you?” You asked, your eyes set on his.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” you said quickly. “But you haven’t insulted me half as much as you normally do and that’s a concern.”

“I’m not in the mood for your bullshit, just let me go.”

“So there is something going on?” You pointed a finger at him, triumphant.

Oscar rolled his eyes and opened the door again. “I told you I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

The sharpness in his tone hit differently. This wasn’t the familiar sparring. This was something raw. Something brittle. And it made worry flood your veins before you could stop it.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.

Silence stretched. Oscar shut his eyes, exhaling heavily.

“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

You nodded.

“Fine, get in.”

Without thinking, you ran around the car and climbed in. The silence inside felt louder than the restaurant ever had. You shifted in your seat, the leather creaking beneath you.

“Is this where you finally murder me?” you teased, forcing a lightness into your voice that didn’t quite land.

His grip tightened.

“No, I just — I’m taking you home.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The quiet pressed back in, thicker now. You watched him from the corner of your eye — the tension in his jaw, the way he dragged a hand through his hair before returning it to the wheel. He didn’t look at you. Not once.

“You’re actually scaring me a little Oscar,” you admitted, fingers twisting together in your lap.

He exhaled sharply, like the air had been trapped in his lungs for hours. Finally, he turned onto your street and pulled up alongside your building.

The engine hummed softly beneath you as the car idled, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thing neither of you dared disturb. Oscar’s hands stayed locked around the steering wheel, knuckles pale, shoulders hunched forward as though he was bracing himself for something unseen.

“It’s my parents.”

You turned toward him fully then, your body angling in his direction without you meaning it to. The streetlights filtered through the windshield, casting his face in shadow and gold. His head dipped forward, forehead almost touching the wheel.

“What about them?” you asked softly.

“They just won’t get off my back,” he said, voice tight. “Keep telling me to get a real job when — I don’t even know what I want to do.”

His words tumbled out now, frustration fraying at the edges. “But I like working at the track. Sure it barely covers my rent but I’m happy — isn’t that important? I have this stupid fucking degree that I don’t even know what to do with, that they wanted and I just — I just don’t know.”

By the end of it, his voice had dropped, rough and raw, and something inside your chest twisted painfully.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand reached across the space between you and settled on his upper arm, warm and steady. You felt him freeze beneath your touch before slowly — cautiously — turning his head to look at you.

“Oscar,” you said quietly, and his name felt different on your tongue now. Softer. “I will never admit I have ever said any of this, but you’re really smart, you know that.”

His eyes searched your face, like he was waiting for the punchline.

“I know your parents will be worried about you, and it might come off as them being overbearing, but — they just care. And they want what’s best for you.” Your thumb brushed absentmindedly against his sleeve, grounding both of you. “And if you’re happy at the track, then tell them that. Knowing them, they’ll be happy just knowing you’re happy.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His arm stayed beneath your hand, neither pulling away nor leaning in — suspended in the space between.

“It’s nice you being nice to me,” he said quietly.

“Don’t get used to it,” you replied, forcing a small scoff as you pulled your hand back. “It was a one off.”

You reached for the door handle.

“Wait—”

Oscar leaned across you, his hand catching the handle before you could pull it open. The sudden closeness stole your breath. His chest brushed your shoulder, his face so close you could see the faint freckle near his eye, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. He looks at you like the truth is clawing its way up his throat — like if you push him just a little harder, he’ll stop pretending he doesn’t want you more than his own pride.

“Osc,” you breathe, and the name slips out before you can stop it — soft, familiar, dangerous.

You freeze, heat rushing to your face as the weight of it lands. You haven’t called him that in years.

But Oscar stills completely, like the world has tilted. Like that one syllable is proof that something old and unfinished is still alive between you — and for the first time, he looks at you like maybe, just maybe, there’s still a chance.

“Why can’t we be like this?” he asked, voice low, almost pleading.

He retreated slightly, but not fully. Still close enough that the air between you felt charged.

“What do you mean?”

“Why can’t we go back to this?” His eyes held yours, searching, desperate. “Why do you hate me so much?”

Your stomach dropped.

“You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head.

“Because I just do,” you whispered, breaking eye contact, staring down at your hands clenched in your lap.

“There has to be more than that,” he pressed. “We were fine and then it was just your birthday and then—”

“It wasn’t just my birthday,” you snapped, the words sharper than you meant them to be. “It was my thirteenth birthday and you — you went to Sarah Jackson’s party instead of mine.”

You finally looked at him again. Watched the way his face fell, confusion giving way to something like guilt as he tried to piece the memory together.

“That’s — that’s why you fell out with me?”

“It was a good enough reason.”

“I mean, I don’t really think—”

“You would have rather gone to some stupid girl’s birthday party just because you fancied her than coming to mine,” you interrupted, voice rising despite yourself. “So yes, I think it’s a good enough reason.”

The words echoed in the car, heavier than they had any right to be.

You swallowed hard, throat tight. Because it had never just been about the party. It had been about standing on the sidelines, realising you weren’t the one he chose. About understanding, far too young, that he could like someone else. Someone who wasn’t you.

You blinked rapidly, refusing to let tears fall.

“Thanks for the ride home,” you muttered, yanking the door open before he could respond.

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped out, slamming the door shut behind you. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

And Oscar stayed there, hands still on the wheel, chest tight, staring at the space you’d just occupied — not yet understanding that the thing he lost all those years ago hadn’t just been a friendship at all.

~~

Oscar’s mind was a mess. Truth be told, it always kind of was. There was always something running through it, something loud and relentless — silence had never found comfort between the walls of his brain. But ever since that conversation with you in his car, and the thought of you going out with Lando, his thoughts had turned feral. Tangled. Sharp.

He kept replaying the way you’d snapped at him, the way your voice had cracked when you’d told him the reason you hated him so much. The sound of it lodged itself deep in his chest, like a splinter he couldn’t dig out. He’d known exactly what you were talking about, too — the memory replaying in his mind as vividly as if it had been burned onto a DVD, scratched and overused from years of guilt.

But what he couldn’t work out was why.

Why it had hurt you so deeply that he’d gone to Sarah Jackson’s birthday instead of yours. Why that single choice had spiralled into almost ten years of trading insults like currency. Sure, it had been shitty — choosing a girl he liked over his best friend. But why had it ended in you being unable to stand within five feet of him without bristling?

The sun was slowly setting outside the shop, casting long shadows across the track. Oscar leaned against the countertop, arms folded tight across his chest. It had been a quiet day — a few kids stopping by to race, some regulars lingering longer than necessary, just enough noise to keep the day moving. Lando was due in soon to take over the late shift.

And Oscar found himself wondering again, circling the same question like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.

Before that day, you’d been inseparable.

Your mums had met at some toddler-and-me class when you were barely five, their friendship blooming almost instantly. You and Oscar had been shoved into each other’s orbits by proximity at first — only a few months between you — but it hadn’t taken long before you were choosing each other. The years blurred together, your friendship growing with time, not thinning out like most did.

When Oscar’s younger siblings came along, he’d been terrified that you'd drift away — that you’d rather play princesses with them than pretend to be Formula One drivers with him. But you never did. You stayed. Always.

Even as school introduced other friends, other circles, you both orbited back to one another like gravity refused to let go. We’re best friends for life, you’d told him once, fierce and certain, when he’d sniffled about being replaced.

He’d known, even then, that something had shifted as you both got older. The way his eyes lingered on you when you weren’t looking. The way he scanned crowds just to find you, relief flooding his chest when he did. It made his heart twist in a way he never wanted to untangle.

Confused, he’d gone to his mum once, admitting how he always wanted you close, asking what that meant. She’d just smiled and told him it was because you were best friends.

He remembered how hurt you’d looked when he told you he wouldn’t be coming to your birthday. Sarah Jackson was having a trampoline party. She’d said his eyes were pretty. He’d thought she wasn’t too bad. (She wasn’t as pretty as you, but he didn’t know what that meant yet.)

He remembered the tremble of your lip, your eyes filling with tears as you asked how he could not want to come — you were best friends. Thirteen-year-old Oscar had just shrugged. He hadn’t understood what he was doing. Hadn’t realised that the feeling in his chest ran deeper than friendship, or that this would be the last day you ever looked at him with those sparkly eyes.

You ignored him for a week after that. Your mums acted as messengers, rolling their eyes and smiling, certain it would pass. But a week turned into a month. Even at family dinners, when your mum forced you into a pink dress and sat you beside him, you refused to look his way — colouring on placemats like he didn’t exist.

A month became two.

Oscar cried to his mum one night, asking why you didn’t want to be his friend anymore. She kissed the top of his head and told him you’d grow out of it.

You never did.

Instead, he confronted you — pulling you aside before dinner one night, eyes red and desperate — asking why you didn’t want to be his friend. You’d smirked then. A rotten smile that stretched too wide. You told him you didn’t want to be friends with someone who dropped people so easily. Someone who was so selfish.

And from that day on, Oscar vowed never to be nice to you again.

He exhaled heavily now, the memories weighing him down. It had been cruel. Stupid. If he could turn back time, he would undo every mistake he’d ever made when it came to you. But still, he couldn’t understand why it had hurt you so deeply.

Unless it wasn’t about the party.

The thought struck him so suddenly it almost stole the breath from his lungs. It had never been about the party. Because even then, even as a kid, he’d felt something for you that went far beyond friendship.

And you must have felt it too. Why else would it have hurt so badly?

The realisation burned through him, and he almost laughed at the cruelty of timing — almost wanted to grab his younger self and shake him awake.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Oscar flinched as Lando’s voice pulled him back to the present. Lando stood in front of him, uniform slung messily over his shoulders, grin bright and careless. Oscar stared for a second too long before Lando tossed his bag onto the counter and hopped up.

“You looked properly away with the fairies, mate. Thought I might need an exorcism.”

Oscar forced a smile. “Quiet one today. Doubt you’ll get much excitement tonight.”

“Ah, if I get bored I’ll just text your mate.”

Oscar froze halfway into his jacket.

“What mate?”

“The one from Friday,” Lando grinned. “You know. The one you hate.”

“Why would you put yourself through that pain?”

“Because she’s hot, and Hattie said she’s interested in me.”

“But she’s not interested in you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because.”

Oscar watched Lando pull his phone out like it was nothing. Just a simple movement. Casual. Thoughtless.

The screen lit up between them and Oscar felt something inside his chest snap — a thin, brittle thread pulled too tight. His shoulders stiffened immediately, back straightening as if his body was bracing for impact. He told himself to relax, to unclench his jaw, but his teeth stayed locked anyway.

“If it’s quiet,” Lando continued, already scrolling, “I'll message her. See if she wants to grab a drink or something.”

There it was.

Oscar’s hand curled around the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the laminate hard enough that he was sure it would leave marks. His pulse thudded loud in his ears, drowning out the hum of the shop, the distant whirr of karts on the track.

You grabbing a drink with Lando. You laughing the way you had at Joe’s — head tipped back, eyes crinkled, completely unguarded.

Something dark and panicked flared in his stomach.

“You don’t want to do that,” Oscar said quickly, the words spilling out before he’d fully decided on them.

Lando paused mid-scroll, looking up at him. “Why not?”

Oscar swallowed. His throat felt dry, like he’d been breathing dust instead of air. He could feel heat crawling up the back of his neck, prickling beneath his skin.

“Because,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing a step away like that might help him think. “Because she’s — a lot.”

Lando laughed. “Yeah? I kinda got that vibe. But I don’t mind that.”

Oscar turned back sharply. “You should.”

That got Lando’s attention. His grin softened, brows knitting together. “Mate, what’s your deal? You talk about her like she’s a nightmare.”

“She is,” Oscar said, too fast. Too sharp. He forced himself to slow down, to smooth it over. “I mean — she’s intense. You don’t just chat with her. She attaches.”

Lando shifted on the counter, phone lowering slightly. “Attaches how?”

Oscar hesitated, guilt flickering briefly before he crushed it. This was already happening. There was no half-way now.

“She was telling Hattie she’d already thought about baby names,” Oscar said, staring at a spot on the floor like it might absolve him. “About venues. About what kind of ring she’d want.”

The words tasted awful in his mouth.

Lando blinked. Once. Twice.

“You’re serious?”

Oscar nodded, forcing himself to meet his eyes. He made his voice steady, reasonable. Protective. “Said something about printing pictures from your Instagram. I’m just saying — I don’t think you’re looking for that. And I don’t think it would end well.”

There was a beat of silence. Oscar watched it all play out on Lando’s face — the disappointment, the recalibration, the quiet mental step backward. He hated himself for noticing how gentle Lando looked even when he was deflating, how undeserving he was of this.

“Shit,” Lando muttered, rubbing his jaw. “I mean yeah. I’m definitely not ready for anything that serious.”

He glanced back down at his phone, thumb hovering uncertainly over the screen.

Oscar’s chest tightened.

This was it. This was the moment he could still stop it. Laugh it off. Say he was joking. Let Lando text you and deal with the consequences like an adult.

Instead, he said nothing.

He just stood there, heart hammering, telling himself that this was necessary. That this was kinder. That you didn’t need to be dragged into something that would end messily. That Lando didn’t deserve to be suffocated by expectations he wasn’t ready for.

That he didn’t deserve to watch you fall for someone else.

Lando locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket with a sigh. “Yeah, nah. Probably best I steer clear then,” He looked back up, offering Oscar a grateful smile. “Thanks for the heads up, mate. You saved me from a headache.”

Saved me.

Oscar forced a smile in return, though it felt like his face didn’t quite remember how to do it properly anymore. His chest ached — not sharp enough to call pain, but constant, heavy, pressing.

“Anytime,” he said.

As Lando hopped down and wandered toward the back, Oscar stayed where he was, staring at nothing. His reflection in the darkened window looked older somehow. Tired.

He told himself this would fix things.

That if Lando stayed away, nothing would change. That you’d still be there — still arguing with him, still looking at him like he was infuriating but familiar. That it was better this way. Safer.

Because as long as you hated him, you weren’t gone.

And that, he realised grimly, was the part of himself he was most afraid to admit.

~~

You hadn’t meant to think about him.

That was the most frustrating part — how it kept happening without your permission. How he slipped into the quiet spaces of your mind when you weren’t actively guarding yourself against it. You told yourself it was just because everything had been dragged back up again. The past. The car ride. The look on his face when you’d finally said it out loud.

But still.

You stood in the cereal aisle, staring blankly at rows of brightly coloured boxes you had no intention of buying, your mind drifting despite yourself. You could still see the way Oscar had looked at you in the dim glow of his dashboard lights — shoulders slumped, hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to seeing. In a way you hadn’t let yourself see in years.

You’d hated how much it had affected you.

You rolled the box back onto the shelf with more force than necessary, exhaling sharply through your nose. You shouldn’t care. You didn’t care. And yet, the thought lingered — unwelcome and persistent — that maybe you’d been holding onto this anger for too long. That maybe you’d built him into something worse than he really was because it was easier than admitting how much he’d once meant to you.

Maybe, maybe if he’d just explained it differently back then. Maybe if he’d stayed.

You shook your head, irritated with yourself as you pushed the trolley forward. This was ridiculous. He was still Oscar. Still infuriating. Still selfish enough to hurt you without even realising it. People didn’t just change because you wanted them to.

And yet. The thought settled uncomfortably in your chest that, if he tried — really tried — you might not fight him as hard as you used to.

You were reaching for a bag of pasta when a familiar voice made your stomach drop.

“Hey.”

You froze.

Slowly, you turned your head, already knowing who it would be. Lando stood a few feet away, basket hooked loosely over his arm, dressed down in a hoodie and trainers, that same easy smile on his face. For a second, relief washed through you — the reminder that he was real, that the past week hadn’t been some strange fever dream.

“Oh, hi,” you said, surprised at how normal your voice sounded.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he laughed lightly. “Small world, yeah?”

“Something like that.” You gestured vaguely at the shelves. “Guess we all need carbs.”

He chuckled, shifting his weight. There was an awkward pause then — not uncomfortable exactly, just tentative. Like you were both hovering on the edge of something that never quite took shape.

“I, uh,” Lando started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I meant to speak to you actually.”

Your heart gave a small, traitorous leap. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Just to say, I had a nice time the other night. You’re really easy to talk to.”

Warmth spread through you, genuine and soft. “I had a good time too.”

His smile faltered just slightly — not enough that you’d have noticed if you weren’t already watching him carefully.

“But,” he added, exhaling slowly, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to take it any further.”

The word but hit like a cold splash of water.

“Oh,” you said again, this time quieter.

“I hope that’s okay,” he rushed, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s nothing you did. I just—” He hesitated, eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to you. “Oscar mentioned some stuff and I figured it was best not to get involved.”

Your stomach twisted.

“What stuff?”

Lando winced, like he already regretted opening his mouth. “He just said you weren’t really looking for anything casual. That you get— intense. Serious. That you might’ve already had certain expectations.”

The word intense rang in your ears. Expectations.

Slowly, something sharp and hot unfurled in your chest, coiling tighter with every second that passed. “Did he say anything else?” you asked, your voice deceptively calm.

Lando hesitated again before he let everything out, like he couldn't quite keep it inside. “He said you might not take it well if things didn’t go anywhere.”

A laugh bubbled up in your throat — brittle and humourless. “So he told you I was crazy.”

“No— I mean—” Lando shook his head quickly. “Not like that. He was just looking out for me. And maybe you too.”

Looking out for you. The phrase landed wrong, sat sour on your tongue. Because suddenly everything clicked — the distance, the avoidance, the way Lando had pulled back so neatly without ever giving you the chance to decide for yourself.

Oscar hadn't changed. Not at all.

You felt your jaw tighten, your nails digging into the handle of your trolley. Any lingering softness you’d allowed yourself to feel evaporated in an instant, replaced by something old and familiar and burning.

Right. Of course.

You forced a tight smile, nodding once. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I really am sorry,” Lando said sincerely. “You’re great. Truly.”

You barely heard him. Because all you could think about was Oscar — about the way he’d sat silently in his car, about the confusion in his eyes, about how you’d almost convinced yourself he wasn’t that bad anymore.

Almost.

“Well,” you said, straightening, heat flooding your veins, “thanks for being honest.”

Lando nodded, relief flickering across his face as you exchanged brief goodbyes. You watched him walk away down the aisle, disappearing between shelves, and the moment he was gone your hands began to shake.

Crazy. Intense.

You abandoned your trolley without a second thought, already digging your phone out of your bag as you stormed toward the exit. Your heart hammered against your ribs, anger surging fast and furious, drowning out every reasonable thought.

You knew exactly where Oscar would be.

And this time, you weren’t going to bite your tongue.

~~

You were sick of it.

Sick of the way he looked at you — like he could see straight through every wall you put up. Sick of the way he always needed to have the last word, how he spoke like he was circling you, waiting for you to trip. You were sick of how he ran rings around you, physically and verbally, like you weren’t capable of holding your own ground, like he knew exactly which buttons to press and took sick pleasure in pressing them.

You were sick of how he always beat you to the punch, his remarks cutting sharp and precise, leaving you bleeding out long after the moment had passed. Until there was nothing left but the desperate, burning desire to hurt him back. Sick of how he was now lying about you, just to land another hit.

But most of all, you were sick of the way your breath hitched whenever he was near.

Sick of how your body betrayed you before your mind ever could. How you were so consumed by him that he haunted your dreams, lingered in the corners of your thoughts, threaded through every waking second. You were sick of the knot that lived permanently in your stomach, of how badly you wanted to know what his hand would feel like in yours — if his skin was as soft as it looked, if his moles trailed further down his body than what you’d already memorised against your will.

You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up at his apartment.

The red mist of your anger had carried you there, feet moving on instinct alone, fury guiding every step. But here you were nonetheless. Your knuckles tapped violently against his door, the chipped blue paint flaking beneath the force as you shouted his name, your voice sharp enough to cut through the hallway.

“Oscar, I know you’re in there,” you yelled, uncaring of who heard. Let them hear. Let them know what kind of idiot lived behind this door. “Open the fucking door.”

Your knuckles were red and aching by the time it finally swung open. Oscar stood there in a maroon t-shirt — oversized, worn, soft — clinging to his broad shoulders like it belonged there. Grey shorts hung low on his hips, cut just above his knees. His hair was messy, like he’d just dragged himself out of sleep or a spiral. And his eyes — those eyes — were narrowed, dark, sharp as they pierced into you.

Something twisted violently in your stomach.

“I have neighbours, you know,” he snarked as you shoved past him, barging into his apartment like you owned it. “Yeah, come on in, make yourself at home,” he added sarcastically as he shut the door behind you.

You tossed your bag to the floor and spun to face him, hands on your hips, chest heaving.

“I can’t believe you,” you shouted. Your voice cracked, raw and frayed as everything you’d been holding back finally boiled over. “I was actually starting to think you were a decent guy. But I was right about you this whole time. You’re an arsehole.”

“What are you talking about?” He had moved closer to you now, leaning against the wall, arms folding over his chest like armour.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you accused, eyes burning, lips trembling despite your effort to stay strong. “I actually trusted you. I can’t believe you’d do that.”

“You’re going to need to clear something up for me,” he said, voice husky, confused — too smooth. You were sure it was an act. It had to be. Everything had to be. “You’re acting insane.”

The fury surged again. You marched toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest, pressing hard, digging into muscle.

“You told him I had printed pictures of him and put them on my wall,” you hissed, shoving again. “That I was obsessed with him. You said I’d already named our children. Are you fucking insane?”

You prodded his chest again, harder this time, the muscle beneath your finger solid and unyielding. You wanted it to hurt. Needed it to.

His eyes never left yours. His brows twitched before narrowing, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth — proud, infuriating.

“I mean, you did say he was husband material.”

His arms stayed crossed. You refused to look at the way his t-shirt strained against his biceps, the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast.

“I was joking,” you snapped. “It was a joke. That doesn’t mean you get to tell him I planned our wedding and named our kids. He was a decent guy — the first I’d met in a while — and you blew it for me.”

The anger coiled tight in your chest, flames licking higher with every word.

“Didn’t think he was your type anyway,” he said coolly. “So why are you so bothered?”

You scoffed, stepping closer, yanking your finger back and throwing your hands up.

“Because I thought he might actually like me,” you shouted. “And you fucking blew it because you can’t stop being an arsehole.”

“You’re the arsehole,” he shot back. “I never said shit that wasn’t half true.”

“You twisted my words, Oscar. You made me sound obsessed.”

“Well, if he was such a decent guy, maybe he wouldn’t have freaked out. Maybe I did you a favour.”

You laughed — sharp, humourless. “You’re an arsehole.”

“I know. You’ve said.”

Silence fell heavy between you. You stared at each other, breaths uneven, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“Why?” you asked finally, voice quieter now, stripped of its sharp edge.

“Why what?” he said, jaw clenched.

“Why did you do it?” Pain threaded through your words, raw and exposed.

“You know why.”

The certainty in his voice stunned you. He saw it — the way your brows lifted, the way your mouth fell open slightly.

Before you could respond, his hands were on your waist.

Gentle. Careful.

He pressed you back until your spine met the wall, his palms warm, grounding. There was no anger in his touch. No malice.

Your heart stuttered.

You should have pushed him away. You knew that. But your body betrayed you, eyes locked on his as he hovered close, breath warm against your skin.

“Tell me you know why,” he whispered.

You shook your head, barely breathing.

“You know why,” he repeated, voice like a spell.

“I — I don’t,” you breathed.

“You’re not an idiot,” he murmured, fingers sliding beneath your t-shirt, sending fire racing across your skin. He pulled you closer until you were flush against him, every line of his body fitting far too perfectly.

“Oscar,” you whispered.

He groaned softly. “I hate it when you say my name like that. It drives me crazy.”

“Oscar,” you said again.

“Tell me you don’t want me.”

There was a pause, a moment of silence as your body shook — from the proximity, from him — as if answering for you.

“I— I don’t want you,” you lied.

“Then why are you trembling?”

You knew you should push him away. Every rational part of you was screaming to do it — to shove at his chest, to tell him to stop, to storm back out the door and pretend none of this had ever happened. It was how it always went. Anger. Distance. Silence.

But having him this close — his breath warm against your cheek, his chest brushing yours every time he inhaled — made it impossible to think straight.

His hands stayed on your waist, not gripping, not pulling. Just there. Like he was waiting. Like he was giving you time to change your mind.

And the restraint in it undid you far more than urgency ever could.

You pressed up onto your tiptoes before you’d fully decided to, your body betraying you again. Your hands slid from your sides to his waist, tentative at first, as if testing whether this was real. He tensed beneath your touch — just slightly — his breath hitching as your palms flattened against him.

Your brain screamed stop. But your hands kept moving.

They travelled slowly up his chest, fingers splaying, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath his shirt. He was warm. Solid. Real. You swallowed hard, aware of how close his face was now, aware of the way his gaze flicked briefly to your lips and then away again — like he didn’t trust himself to look for too long.

You reached his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape, and you hesitated.

Just for a second.

Enough time for him to murmur, “You don’t have to,” like he was trying to convince both of you.

That was what broke you.

You pulled him down.

The kiss wasn’t immediate fire — it was hesitant at first, uncertain, like neither of you quite believed you were doing it. His lips brushed yours once, barely there, testing. You inhaled sharply, breath catching, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

When his mouth finally pressed fully against yours, it was slow. Careful. As if he was holding back, afraid of crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

That restraint snapped.

The kiss deepened — messy and urgent — teeth knocking, breaths stuttering. You gasped when he bit your lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make your pulse spike. Your hands clutched at him like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

He groaned into your mouth, your name spilling from his lips like a confession he’d been holding onto for years.

One of his hands stayed firm around your waist, anchoring you to him. The other came up to the wall beside your head, palm flat, like he needed the support — like he was physically holding himself back from doing more.

You kissed like you were arguing. Like every unspoken thing between you was crashing together all at once.

You moaned his name and he answered with yours, over and over, like saying it might make this make sense.

At some point his lips left yours, trailing slowly along your jaw, down your neck, each kiss deliberate — unhurried — like he was memorising you. You tugged harder at his hair, a quiet, desperate sound leaving your throat.

His lips slowed against your skin.

Not stopped — just slowed — like something had caught in his chest.

You felt it before you saw it: the way his body went stiller against yours, the way his hand flexed once at your waist and then loosened, as if he were physically forcing himself to let go. His forehead rested briefly against your shoulder, his breath uneven, hot where it ghosted across your collarbone.

“Wait,” he murmured.

The word barely made it out.

Your heart stuttered, panic flaring sharp and immediate — not because you didn’t want this, but because you wanted it too much. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still tangled in his shirt, unwilling to let go completely.

His eyes were darker now. Torn. There was want there, raw and unmistakable, but underneath it sat something heavier — something that looked like guilt.

“Lando,” he said quietly, like saying the name hurt. His jaw tightened. “I— I shouldn’t have—”

The words fell apart before he could finish them.

Of course it was Lando. Of course it was everything. You’d walked into his apartment ready to tear him apart, and now you were standing here, breathless and undone, your body still humming from the way he’d touched you.

You should stop this, you told yourself. You should be angry. You should walk away while you still could.

But the thought of stepping back — of putting space between you again — made your chest ache in a way that felt unbearable.

You searched his face, the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth like it was muscle memory, the way his hands hovered uselessly at his sides now, like he didn’t trust himself to touch you again.

“You’re allowed to want things,” you said softly, surprising even yourself.

His breath hitched.

“I want you,” he said immediately, like the truth had been clawing its way out of him this whole time. “I always have. I just—” He swallowed, hard. “I don’t want to hurt you. Or him. Or ruin this by being — selfish.”

The honesty in it wrecked you. You stepped into him again, slow this time, deliberate. You took his hands — actually took them — and placed them back on your waist, grounding both of you.

“This isn’t just you taking something,” you said, steady despite the way your pulse raced. “I am too.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“You’re sure?” he asked, quieter now. Not challenging. Not teasing. Just needing to know.

You nodded, pressing your forehead to his. “I want this,” you admitted. “I’ve wanted it longer than I care to admit.”

That did something to him.

You felt it in the way his hands tightened, not rough, just desperate — like he’d been holding himself together by sheer will alone. He let out a shaky breath, something close to a laugh but broken at the edges.

“God,” he whispered. “You have no idea how long I’ve been trying not to.”

You smiled faintly, heart pounding. “Then stop trying.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Like he was memorising you. Like he was afraid if he blinked, this would disappear.

Then he kissed you again — slower than before, deeper, aching with all the wanting he’d been bottling up for years.

As he touched your waist, you felt the hesitation ripple through him again — not doubt, not regret, but that careful, aching restraint he always carried when it came to you. Like he was bracing for loss even while reaching for you.

You realised then that this was the difference between you.

Oscar wanted you like something precious, something he was afraid to break, afraid to touch too hard in case it vanished. Every step he took toward you felt earned, measured, almost reverent — like he’d been waiting years for permission he’d never let himself ask for.

You, on the other hand, were done waiting.

You knew this would complicate things. You knew tomorrow would come with questions and consequences and the familiar ache of unfinished conversations. But standing here, with his fingers pressed against your skin and his pulse jumping beneath your thumb, you weren’t afraid of wanting him anymore.

You raised your hands to his neck again  — a small, decisive motion.

Not asking. Choosing.

And the way his shoulders sagged, the way his breath left him like he’d finally stopped fighting a losing battle, told you everything you needed to know.

It was intentional.

Like neither of you was running from anything anymore.

~~

You woke to silence.

Not the peaceful kind — the kind that pressed too hard against your ears, made your chest tighten before you’d even opened your eyes. The space beside you was cold, the sheets slightly rumpled but unmistakably empty, and dread pooled low in your stomach before you could stop it.

Oh god.

You sat up too quickly, the world tilting as the memories came crashing back in disjointed flashes — his hands, his voice saying your name like it meant something, the way he’d held you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he loosened his grip even a fraction.

What have I done?

Your fingers curled into the duvet, knuckles white as your mind spiralled ahead of itself. You could already hear it — the awkward silence, the jokes masking discomfort, the inevitable return to bickering like nothing had happened. Like this hadn’t cracked something wide open between you.

You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling shakily.

You’d let yourself believe, just for a moment, that this had been different.

And then — uninvited, unwanted — his voice surfaced in your mind.

Soft. Barely there. Spoken into your hair like a secret he wasn’t sure he should say.

“I love you.”

Your breath caught.

You stared at the wall opposite the bed, heart thudding as confusion tangled with panic. You hadn’t imagined it — you knew you hadn’t. The memory was too clear, too precise, threaded with warmth that still lingered in your chest.

But people said things they didn’t mean in moments like that. Didn’t they?

The sound of movement outside the bedroom made you flinch.

Before you could overthink it — before you could retreat back under the covers or armour yourself with sarcasm — Oscar appeared in the doorway.

He stopped short when he saw you awake. For a second, neither of you spoke.

He looked different. Softer. Hair still messy, a worn hoodie pulled over a plain t-shirt. In his hands was a tray — toast, coffee, and something that smelled warm and grounding.

“Hey,” he said quietly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him say it any louder.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

He hesitated, and that alone felt monumental. Oscar Piastri didn’t hesitate — not with words, not with you. But now he hovered in the doorway like he was waiting for permission.

“I, um,” he started, then huffed a small breath. “I didn’t know if you’d be hungry, but I figured worst case, I eat it.”

That earned a weak huff of a laugh from you before you could stop it. He relaxed a fraction at the sound, shoulders lowering as he stepped inside and set the tray down on the bedside table.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said, voice quieter than you intended.

“I wanted to.”

Simple. Earnest. No edge to it at all.

That scared you more than if he’d joked.

You tucked your knees up slightly, fingers worrying at the sleeve of his t-shirt you were still wearing. “So,” you said carefully, “is this the part where we pretend last night didn’t happen?”

His head snapped up, brows knitting together instantly. “What? No.”

The immediacy of it made your chest ache.

“I thought maybe you just—” You faltered, words tripping over themselves now. “I mean, we were angry, and it happened, and maybe you just needed—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Not crowding you. Not touching you. Just close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“I didn’t sleep with you because I was angry,” he said, voice low and steady. “And I didn’t say what I said because it felt right in the moment.”

You finally looked at him then. Really looked. There was no smugness in his expression. No victory. Just something open and almost painfully sincere.

“I’ve wanted this,” he continued, eyes flicking down to where your hands twisted together before meeting yours again. “I’ve wanted you — not just like that — for a long time. I just didn’t think you’d ever want me back.”

Your throat tightened.

“And last night?” you asked softly.

He swallowed. “Last night felt like finally stopping a fight I’ve been losing for years.”

The room fell quiet again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was careful.

You exhaled slowly, the spiral in your chest loosening just a little.

“So you’re saying,” you said, attempting lightness through the tremor in your voice, “this wasn’t just sex.”

A corner of his mouth lifted — not a smirk, not teasing. Something warmer.

“I’m saying,” he replied, “if you’ll let me, I’d like to try. Properly. No games. No pretending we don’t care.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

This scared you. God, it did. But so did the idea of walking away now.

“I don’t know how to do properly with you,” you admitted.

He nodded, eyes soft. “Neither do I.”

Then, after a beat: “But I’m willing to figure it out.”

And somehow — impossibly — that felt like the bravest thing either of you had ever said.

You eyed the tray beside you, then him, then back again, a familiar instinct rising like armour.

“So,” you said lightly, nudging the plate with one finger, “did you just make me breakfast so I don’t notice you running for the hills later?”

It was meant to be a joke. Sharp enough to sting. Familiar enough to retreat behind.

Oscar stilled.

Not offended — just caught.

His fingers tightened briefly where they rested on his knee before he looked at you again, eyes earnest to the point it almost hurt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quickly. Too quickly. Like the idea had already been haunting him. “I know we—” He gestured vaguely between you, the room, the last decade. “There’s a lot we need to talk about. Last night. Before last night. All of it.”

Your smile wavered, just a fraction.

“But,” he added, softer now, “I don’t need to fix ten years overnight if it means I get to stay. I just—” He hesitated, then exhaled. “I’m just really glad you’re still here.”

Something twisted in your chest. You leaned back against the headboard, studying him. “You realise this is going to involve a lot of arguing, right? Possibly screaming. Definitely swearing.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “I’d be concerned if it didn’t.”

“And you’re not going to throw this back in my face the next time I call you an idiot?”

“I might,” he admitted. Then, more seriously, “But not like before.”

You hummed, unconvinced, watching the way his thumb tapped anxiously against his knee — a tell you remembered from years ago. He was trying so hard to be calm. To not scare you off. Like one wrong word might undo everything.

“You look like you’re waiting for me to bolt,” you said quietly.

His gaze dropped, then lifted again. Honest. Vulnerable.

“Can you blame me?”

That did it.

You reached out, just barely — fingers brushing his wrist, grounding both of you.

“I’m still mad at you,” you warned. “About a lot.”

“I know,” he said, almost relieved. “That makes sense.”

“And this doesn’t mean we’re magically fine.”

“I don’t want magic,” he replied. “I just want a chance.”

You held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed.

“Okay,” you said finally. “But if you hurt me again, I will ruin your life.”

His smile this time was small, real — threaded with something like awe.

“Fair,” he said. “I’d deserve it.”

And as he shifted closer — careful, like he was afraid even comfort might be too much — you realised something quietly terrifying.

For the first time in ten years, Oscar wasn’t bracing to fight you.

He was bracing to lose you. And somehow, that made staying feel easier than leaving.

Oscar shifted closer without really meaning to, his knee brushing yours. It was accidental — you could tell by the way he immediately froze, like he was waiting for you to pull away.

“I just—” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. Tried again. “I don’t regret last night.”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist. He looked at you then, really looked at you, like he was committing the sight to memory. His mouth opened again, the words right there, balanced on the edge of his tongue.

“I—” You felt it before he stopped himself. The way his breath caught. The way his jaw clenched, like he’d bitten down on something dangerous. “I care about you,” he finished instead, quieter than everything else he’d said that morning.

Something hot and sharp bloomed behind your ribs.

Because you knew what he’d almost said.

Your mind spiralled instantly — anger rushing in first, loud and familiar. Ten years of sharp words, missed chances, feeling second-best, feeling stupid for caring so much it hurt. You wanted to grab hold of that anger, cling to it like armour.

But beneath it was something worse.

Want.

Want so deep it scared you. Want that had survived years of resentment and denial and late nights telling yourself you were over him. Want that surged now, undeniable, curling low in your stomach when you looked at him sitting there, hands fisted in his lap like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

You swallowed hard.

You were furious with him. And at the same time, you wanted him so badly it made your chest ache.

You thought of his mouth against yours, the way he’d whispered your name like it meant something sacred. The way he’d held you afterward — not triumphant, not smug, but careful. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

And the worst part?

Somewhere in the mess of it all, beneath the anger and the confusion and the stubborn refusal to forgive him too easily, was the terrifying truth clawing its way to the surface.

You might love him back.

The thought hit you so hard you had to look away.

Oscar noticed, of course. He always did. His shoulders slumped just slightly, like he’d lost something without even risking it.

“I’m not trying to rush you,” he said quickly, anxiety bleeding into his voice. “I just— I don’t want you thinking this was nothing. Or that you were just—” He stopped himself again, lips pressing together. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said finally. Honest. Bare. No sharp edges left.

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.

You were so angry at him. And you wanted him anyway. And you weren’t sure those two things could exist separately anymore.

And so you just smiled at him. Softly. Carefully.

The clink of cutlery felt obscene in how loud it was.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, plate balanced awkwardly on your thighs, pushing eggs around like they might rearrange themselves into something easier to swallow. Oscar had taken the edge of the mattress, shoulders slightly hunched, elbows resting on his knees as he ate with careful focus — like if he concentrated hard enough on chewing, he wouldn’t say the wrong thing.

It was strange.

Normally there would be something by now. A comment. A jab. A sarcastic remark about how you always left the best bits. Something sharp enough to cling to.

Instead, there was just quiet.

You stole a glance at him over the rim of your mug. He was staring at the floor, jaw ticking faintly, foot bouncing like it always did when his mind was sprinting ahead of him. He looked painfully unsure — a version of him you hadn’t seen since you were kids, sitting side-by-side in awkward silences that hadn’t yet learned how to turn into fights.

“So,” you said finally, because you couldn’t take it anymore. “Is this what not hating each other looks like?”

Oscar snorted before he could stop himself, a huff of breath breaking free. He looked up, startled, like he hadn’t meant to laugh.

“I think so,” he said. “Feels illegal.”

You smiled despite yourself, then quickly sobered when the silence crept back in. He shifted, setting his plate down on the bedside table, fingers lingering on the edge like he was anchoring himself there.

“I don’t really know how to do this,” he admitted quietly.

Your brows knit together. “Do what?”

“Be normal with you.” He met your eyes now, earnest and a little raw. “We’ve spent so long being whatever the hell we were. I don’t want to mess this up.”

That made something twist deep in your chest — the weight of how carefully he was choosing his words, how afraid he sounded of slipping back into old habits.

“You’re doing okay so far,” you said, softer. Then, after a beat, “Suspiciously okay.”

He smiled, then sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“I know we can’t pretend last night fixed everything,” he said. “Or that everything else just disappears.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“But,” he continued, voice steadier now, “I don’t want to go back to pretending I don’t care. I don’t want to go back to hurting you because it’s easier than being honest.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you.

“That’s new,” you murmured.

He swallowed. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. Especially with the whole — you know, Lando thing.”

The words settled between you, heavy but necessary. You drew a slow breath, setting your mug down before your hands started shaking.

“Okay,” you said. “Then we need to talk.”

Oscar stiffened — not defensively, just bracing. “Yeah.”

“About last night,” you continued. “And about before. And about why we’re like this.”

“I figured,” he said, attempting a small smile. “You always were terrifying when you got serious.”

You huffed. “You’re not getting out of this with humour.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

There was a pause. A choice hanging in the air.

You slid off the bed, moving to stand in front of him. He looked up at you, hopeful and terrified all at once.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” you warned.

“I know.”

“And I might still say things I don’t mean.”

“I probably will too.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then nodded.

“But if we’re doing this,” you said quietly, “we do it properly.”

Oscar stood, closing the small space between you — not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the pull still humming quietly beneath everything else.

“Properly,” he echoed. And then, softer, “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

Your heart stuttered.

The silence returned — but this time, it wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

~~

The week passed in a strange, fragile truce.

You didn’t see Oscar. Not properly. No sharp words thrown like reflexes, no accidental collisions that turned into arguments. Just distance — deliberate, respectful, almost reverent. You’d agreed, without ever saying it outright, to give each other breathing room.

It was worse than fighting.

Because fighting had rules. Fighting meant you knew where you stood — opposite him, braced, ready. Hatred had been loud, familiar, a kind of shelter. Ugly, yes, but safe.

Without the noise, all you were left with was him. And the quiet asked something far more dangerous of you. It asked you to choose. You’d always thought hate was the worst thing you could feel for someone. It turns out it was just the loudest.

The way his voice had sounded in the dark. The way he'd told you he loved you when he thought you were sleeping. The way he’d almost said love again but stopped himself like it was something sharp enough to cut both of you open. The way his hands had held you afterward — not like a victory, not like something conquered, but like he was afraid you’d disappear if he loosened his grip.

You told yourself distance was protection. That going back to the old way — barbs, bitterness, pretending you didn’t care — would be easier. Safer.

But now the truth was out. Now you couldn’t unknow it. And part of you — traitorous, hopeful — didn’t want to.

Sunday arrived too soon. Family dinner was unavoidable. A neutral battlefield neither of you could avoid.

You arrived braced for tension — only to find him already there, standing in the kitchen with your dad, sleeves rolled up, laughter soft and unguarded. He looked different. Less sharp around the edges. Like he wasn’t armouring himself.

It unsettled you more than his anger ever had.

You hated how easily your chest tightened at the sight of him like this — open, relaxed — as if this version of him had always existed and you’d just never been allowed to want it.

When you walked in, he noticed instantly. His eyes flicked up, softened, tracked you across the room in a way that made your stomach dip. Not possessive. Not smug. Just relief. Like he’d been holding his breath without realising it.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” you replied.

The word hung heavier than any insult ever had.

Dinner was calm — unsettlingly so. No sharp words tossed across the table, no familiar barbs wrapped in sarcasm. Just the weight of everything unsaid pressing in around you. Oscar’s knee brushed yours under the table once, accidentally, and he went still — then shifted away like he’d touched fire.

He passed you the salt and his hand hovered for half a second too long, fingers flexing before he pulled back again. Too careful. Too restrained. Like touching you might break something fragile beyond repair.

It would have been easier if he hadn’t cared. Easier if he’d been careless.

Instead, every almost-touch landed harder than contact ever had. Heat pooled low in your stomach, equal parts longing and resentment. You hated that you noticed. Hated that you wanted him to close the distance even as you told yourself not to lean in.

Hattie noticed. You saw it in the way her eyes flicked between you, the way her mouth curved knowingly as she said nothing at all.

It’s her, actually, who suggests the walk. Casual. Innocent. Like she isn’t fully aware she’s sending you both toward something irreversible.

Now you’re outside, side by side, the streetlights casting long shadows ahead of you. Oscar keeps a careful distance at first — close enough to feel, far enough to retreat if you decide to. His hands shove into his pockets, then come back out again, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know where to put them.

The night air feels heavier than it should. Like it’s waiting.

“I’m still angry,” you say, breaking the quiet.

You half expect him to deflect. To joke. To bristle.

“I know,” he answers immediately. Not defensive. Not flippant. Just honest.

You stop walking. He does too — instantly, instinctively — like his body knows before his mind catches up. When he turns to face you, there’s nothing sharp left in his expression. No smirk. No armour. Just nerves and something unbearably sincere.

“You don’t get to pretend everything’s fine because we slept together,” you say.

“It doesn’t erase ten years of bullshit just because you finally stopped fighting me,” you took another deep breath. “Hating you was easier,” you admit. “It meant I didn’t have to hope. Didn’t have to wonder what would happen if I wasn’t enough again.”

“I’m not pretending,” Oscar says, voice tight. “I’m terrified.”

That throws you.

He lets out a breathy laugh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m terrified you’ll walk away if I say the wrong thing. Or if I say the right thing too soon.”

You hadn’t prepared for fear. You’d braced for guilt, for excuses, for arrogance. Fear feels intimate. It feels like standing too close to something alive.

Your chest aches — deep and inconvenient.

“You hurt me,” you say quietly. “You didn’t just choose someone else,” you say. “You made me feel like I was embarrassing for wanting you. Like caring was something I should be ashamed of.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t interrupt. He nods. “I spent years telling myself I imagined it. That if I’d been better — less sharp, less loud, less me — you wouldn’t have looked past me.”

“I know,” he says again, and this time it sounds like it settles something heavy inside him. “I thought keeping you at arm’s length meant I couldn’t lose you. Turns out all I did was convince you I never wanted you.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty — it hums, charged and fragile. It asks what you’re going to do now that the truth is standing between you.

“What scares me isn’t that you hurt me once,” you say. “It’s that you’ll do it again when it’s easier. When I’m inconvenient. When loving me costs you something.”

Oscar exhales slowly, then reaches for you. Not your hand yet. Your wrist. Light. Careful. An offering more than a claim.

You consider pulling away. Ending it here, where anger could still protect you. Where the past could stay intact and unchallenged.

You don’t.

When his fingers finally slide into yours, the contact sends something warm and steady through your chest. Simple. Familiar. Devastating. His thumb brushes over your knuckle like he’s grounding himself in the reality of you — and you realise, distantly, that he’s shaking just a little.

“I can’t do that anymore,” he says. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t choose you. I’ve been choosing you since we were kids — I was just too scared to say it out loud.”

Your throat tightens. Your fingers curl around his instinctively, holding on like if you let go, you might fall backward into everything you’ve been carrying for years.

A couple walks past on the other side of the street, laughing. Oscar doesn’t even glance at them.

“I love you,” he says. Clear. Steady. Unhidden.

He doesn’t rush to soften it. Doesn’t fill the space with humour or qualifiers. He just stands there, bare and waiting — like he’s handed you something breakable and trusts you not to drop it.

“I don’t trust you yet,” you say honestly. “But I trust this,” You gesture weakly between your joined hands. “And I trust myself enough now to walk away if you break it.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. You want to be angry. Part of you still is. The past doesn’t vanish just because he’s brave now. But standing here, his hand warm in yours, you realise something else too — you’re tired of bleeding over it. Tired of carrying the weight alone.

“You fuck this up,” you say, voice shaking just a little, “and I will ruin your life.”

His mouth curves — not amused, not cocky. Relieved.

“Fair,” he says. “I’ll take the risk.”

You search his face, looking for cracks, for doubt. All you find is fear — and devotion layered right on top of it.

“You don’t get to run anymore,” you add.

“I won’t,” he promises instantly. “I swear.”

Something inside you loosens. Not everything. But enough.

You step closer because you want to. Because for once, you aren’t reacting to him — you’re choosing him. Oscar doesn’t move until you do, until your joined hands press between you, until there’s no space left for distance or deflection.

“This is a start,” you say. “Not a fix. I don’t forgive you yet,” you whisper. “But I don’t want a future where I keep pretending I don’t love you either.”

“I’ll take a start,” he says softly.

You step closer again.

It feels like crossing a fault line — like if you hesitate now, the ground might close back over everything you’ve just admitted. Oscar still doesn’t move. He waits. Let's you choose him. His hand tightens around yours just enough to tell you he’s there, just enough to tell you he’s barely holding himself together.

When you lift your free hand, his breath stutters. You feel it before you see it — the way his chest rises too fast, the way his shoulders tense as your fingers brush his jaw. He leans into your touch without thinking, like it’s muscle memory, like he’s been wanting this longer than he’ll ever say out loud.

“Okay,” you whisper. Not forgiveness. Not forever. Just permission.

That’s all it takes.

He kisses you like he’s afraid the moment will disappear if he doesn’t anchor himself to it.

Slow at first — hesitant, almost reverent — his lips pressing to yours like he’s learning you again. Like he’s reminding himself this is real. His thumb grazes your knuckle, grounding, steadying, while the rest of him is anything but.

Something unravels in your chest. His hand trembles when it rests at your waist — not from nerves, but from how hard he’s fighting not to pull you closer.

The anger doesn’t vanish — it loosens. Makes room. You kiss him back, deeper now, your hand sliding into his jacket, fingers curling like you’re afraid to let go. He exhales against your mouth, a quiet sound that feels like relief, like surrender, and it sends a shiver straight through you.

This kiss isn’t desperate. It’s worse than that.

It’s intentional.

Years of almosts press between you — every fight that ended too soon, every look held too long, everything unsaid finally finding somewhere to land. His other hand comes up, warm against your waist, careful even now, like he’s still afraid you’ll pull away. You don’t. You step closer instead, closing the last of the space, letting him feel exactly how much you want this too.

He rests his forehead against yours when you finally break apart, breath uneven, eyes dark and searching. Like he’s memorising you. Like he’s terrified and elated in equal measure.

“This is me choosing you,” he murmurs, barely audible.

Your chest aches — full, fragile, terrifying.

You used to think hate wasn’t a strong enough word for what you felt for him.

Standing here, lips swollen, heart wide open, you realise love might not be either.