Chapter Text
Oscar Piastri is used to schedules.
His life is recorded in lap times and predictably—timetables every weekend, every hour belonging to someone new.
He likes it that way.
Formula One has a rhythm to it—a dance Oscar has spent his entire life learning, a dance that became instinct within moments of stepping onto the grid.
Wake up at six.
Breakfast finished by six-thirty.
By eight, it’s three different meetings.
By nine, it’s simulation sessions and media duties.
By ten, it’s track walks.
Then flights, then recovery and the inevitable repeat of it all next weekend.
It’s predictable.
Some people call it monotonous. Oscar calls it comforting. There are very few surprises in Formula One—weekends are mapped out months in advance, days slot perfectly into each other. Every minute is taken into account, every hour is planned. Every destination is decided before a suitcase is even packed.
Predictability leaves little room for disappointment.
Oscar likes it that way.
There’s comfort in knowing what comes next.
He knows when he’ll wake up, where he’ll be by noon, which airport he’ll be flying out of and, most importantly, when he’ll be expected to be back in the car.
Even the unexpected has a schedule in Formula One.
A red flag.
A safety car.
A rain delay.
The type of thing normal people don’t plan for.
The type of things that might throw off the flow of the carefully planned weekend, but the type of things that never truly surprise him.
There’s always a plan, always a second route to take.
There’s always someone with a clipboard and a contingency plan, always someone with a headset, and always someone telling him where to be next.
Oscar has always been good at following directions. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t mind the constant movement.
One week, he’s home in Melbourne for the Grand Prix.
Next, he’s in Shanghai.
Then Monaco, Miami, Monza.
Eventually, the track names blur together—becoming nothing more than unfamiliar hotel ceilings and empty beds, airport terminals and paddocks that all start looking alike.
Oscar doesn’t mind it.
He’s never been much of a sentimental person, especially not about unfamiliar places.
It’s people that make things complicated.
People don’t follow schedules.
People cancel plans at the last minute. They say things they don’t mean and mean things they don’t say. They arrive when you least expect them to, and most of the time, leave before you have the chance to ask them to stay.
Oscar has never understood the appeal.
That’s why his circle is small.
His Family. His team. Lily and Magui.
A handful of online friends scattered throughout different timezones.
People who understand that sometimes a message goes unanswered for six hours because he’s flying between countries for the third time in a month, and people who understand that a call sometimes gets cancelled because a meeting has run over.
It’s easy.
It works.
Or, it has until now.
The problem with a carefully constructed life, is that eventually something that doesn’t fit, wants to be a part of it anyway.
Unpredictably always squeezes its way into a predictable cycle.
For Oscar, it happens on a Tuesday morning in London.
Not at a racetrack. Not at a hotel. Not even at an airport terminal.
It happens in a quiet coffee shop, after a meeting that ran too long, after a train was missed.
In hindsight, it feels fitting.
Oscar has never been crazy for coffee. Never been good at it.
But he knows what he likes.
Flat white, no sugar.
Nothing complicated, something easy.
He’s ordered the same thing every time he’s needed a hint of caffeine. Which isn’t often. But today, with his missed train and a two hour wait, a stop in at a coffee shop doesn’t seem like a bad idea.
For the first time in a long time, his schedule is free, and he doesn’t particularly know what to do with it.
He pushes the door of a small cafe open—
The type of small that has it tucked away in a side street, nestled between an old bookstore and a record store that gets a regular once in a blue moon.
The type of small that Oscar has missed since he moved to Monaco.
The barista smiles at his presence at the door, and before he even reaches the counter, his order is punched into the computer.
“The usual, I hope?”
Oscar nods as he reaches for his wallet. “You know me too well.”
“You’re the same guy you’ve always been,” the barista shrugs. “Being a big star driver doesn’t change your coffee order.”
Oscar shrugs at that, even his coffee order is reliable and predictable.
“I’ll call it when it’s ready.”
Oscar steps aside as he waits, pulling out his phone and scrolling through data that Tom sent overnight.
“Uh… Excuse me?—God, I’m so sorry,”
Oscar looks up.
Someone’s standing beside him.
The stranger looks about his age, curls tucked under a backwards baseball cap, a dark hoodie that’s probably worth more than half of Oscar’s salary, and sunglasses hanging from the collar despite the overcast London weather.
“Sorry,” the stranger says again, this time holding up an embarrassed smile. “Would you mind watching my stuff for like… thirty seconds?”
Oscar glances at the table behind the stranger—an open laptop sits on the table next to a coffee and a half-eaten croissant, with an abandoned guitar case sitting idle in the empty chair.
It’s not like he has anything better to do while he waits.
“Sure.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
The stranger disappears past the small group of customers standing by the counter.
Thirty seconds somehow turns into three minutes.
Oscar starts to think he’s been tricked into babysitting a very expensive guitar.
Eventually, the stranger returns carrying an absurd amount of napkins.
“They were out.”
Oscar stares.
“Looks like they have some now.”
The stranger stares at the pile in his hands, as if finally registering how many napkins he actually grabbed.
“I may have overreacted.”
Oscar smiles despite himself.
From there, the conversation dies, the stranger thanks Oscar for the one hundredth time and moves back to his table.
———
“Flat white for Oscar!”
The stranger glances up from his table as Oscar moves towards the counter.
By now, the small cafe is reasonably full, and Oscar considers trying to find an empty table to sink into.
“It’s free, if you’re looking.”
He steps closer to the stranger’s table, drags the chair out from under the table.
“Thanks.”
“You know,” the stranger looks up from his laptop. “You didn’t strike me as a coffee drinker.”
“You seem very confident about that.” Oscar takes a sip of his coffee.
It’s warm, not hot, but warm enough that it’s comfortable to drink. There’s more chocolate in the taste than usual, like the barista knows him all too well—in all honesty, she probably does.
He’s been coming here since he was a teenager. No amount of celebrity fame could stop him from showing up at this small cafe.
“I am,” the stranger takes a sip of his own, Oscar’s sure it’s lukewarm by now. “You don’t look like one.”
“They have a certain look?”
The stranger nods. “Usually look less like you,” he waves a hand vaguely over Oscar’s figure. “And more like me.”
“More like you?” Oscar questions again. “So, someone trying to hide a thousand secrets?”
“Exactly.” The stranger nods, a glance is shot towards his laptop screen.
“I won’t pry,” Oscar shakes his head. “I don’t even know your name.”
The stranger’s brows furrow, as if that information is only just dawning on him.
“Lando.” He says.
Oscar raises a brow.
“My name’s Lando,” he says again. “And your’s is Oscar.” He points to the name on Oscar’s cup, Oscar nods.
“You’d be correct.”
The conversation dies after that, though it’s not awkward. They simply don’t know each other enough to try and keep it going.
Lando’s attention moves back to his laptop, and Oscar does the same with his phone.
For a while, that’s enough.
The cafe carries on around them—the clatter of cups placed onto saucers. The hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. The call of the barista’s voice. Someone’s quiet laugh from a table on the opposite side of the cafe.
Oscar finds himself settling into it.
Into the quietness of it.
He’d expected the gap in his schedule to be more annoying—more tedious.
He’d expected to spend the next ten minutes regretting the fact that he actually sat down with Lando—counting the minutes until he could leave, checking the time and mentally running through his next step.
But this… It’s nice.
There’s no rush to be anywhere, and Lando clearly has no idea who he is. The change of pace is refreshing, to say the least.
Across from him, Lando shifts in his seat.
Oscar doesn’t pay much attention to it.
He hears the rustling of fabric, the tapping of Lando’s foot against the hardwood floors, and the unmistakable sound of a coffee cup being placed against a saucer.
Oscar’s eyes lift.
Lando’s staring out the window like the scenery of the old bookstore across the laneway personally offended him.
His hand plays idly with the sunglasses hanging from his collar, thumb tracing over one of the lenses before letting the frames fall back against his chest.
Oscar stares for longer than he should.
He isn’t sure why.
Maybe it’s the way Lando looks different now. Quieter.
Oscar doesn’t watch television, barely pays attention to advertisements, but something familiar about Lando tugs at his chest.
His smile has disappeared, replaced by something Oscar doesn’t try to name. It’s weird. He’s known Lando for what? Fifteen minutes?
Maybe twenty?
And yet, he’s already seen two different sides of him.
The one who asked him to watch his stuff, and the one he’s sitting across from.
Oscar’s eyes flick back to his phone, he should probably leave. By all means, he has time to kill, but he’s already stayed longer than intended—he had a walk in mind, was probably going visit a few stores, was probably just going to window-shop.
But there was some form of plan.
“You okay?”
The question slips before Oscar thinks about stopping it.
Lando’s hand stills against his sunglasses.
“Yeah.”
His eyes stay focused on the bookstore across the laneway.
Oscar’s brows furrow.
That’s the type of answer people give when they don’t want to talk about it. Oscar knows because he’s given it enough times himself—to his team, to his family, to Daniel.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Lando finally looks at him—there’s a flicker of something in his expression. Surprise, almost.
Then, amusement.
“You’re observant.” His voice smiles.
“So I’ve been told.”
“I mean it.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow.
Lando shifts to face him. He smiles.
Only slightly.
“I am okay.” Lando insists.
Oscar studies him.
He doesn’t believe a word. But he doesn’t know Lando well enough to pry.
So he nods. “Alright.”
Lando looks back towards the window, and the silence returns.
Oscar lets it.
He doesn’t know Lando well enough to try and pry him open. Doesn’t know him well enough to ask why he’s sitting alone in the middle of a cafe on a random Tuesday afternoon, dressed like he’s trying to blend in.
Doesn’t know him well enough to wonder why his phone hasn’t stopped vibrating. Doesn’t know him well enough to ask why his laptop is open, and why the guitar case is idle at his side.
Doesn’t know him well enough to ask why he keeps checking the door every few minutes.
But Oscar notices. Because, of course, he does.
He notices everything, it’s a part of his job.
The way the driver notices the smallest changes in the car—a vibration that wasn’t there a lap before, the difference between a fraction of a second in a single corner.
Like something is slightly wrong.
Lando is something slightly wrong.
Oscar doesn’t know that. He just knows it’s there. Like the hair on the back of his neck is standing on edge.
“You’re staring.”
Oscar hadn’t realised.
Lando is watching him now, watching every thought fly through his expression.
Oscar blinks.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.” Oscar debates.
“While staring.”
“No,” Oscar shakes his head. “I zoned out.”
“You’re staring.”
“You’re sitting in front of me.”
“That’s denial.” Lando points.
“No.”
Lando’s eyebrows lift.
“No?”
“No.” Oscar nods.
For a second, Lando just stares—his mouth half agape in surprise.
Then he laughs.
Oscar doesn’t think he’s said anything remotely close to funny.
But apparently, Lando found him hilarious.
“You know,” Lando settles back against his chair. “Most people are subtle.”
“About what?”
“Staring.”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You’re doing it again.”
Oscar looks away. “You’re annoying.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” Lando nods.
Oscar raises a brow.
“Constantly, actually.”
Oscar nods. “Seems accurate.”
Lando laughs, again.
This time, Oscar smiles.
It’s barely there, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but Lando catches it.
His laughing dies down, his smile softens.
“There,” he says.
Oscar looks at him. “What?”
Lando smiles into his coffee. “Nothing.”
The conversation falls quiet again, Oscar scrolls on his phone and Lando stares at the screen of his laptop.
“What do you do for work?” The question itself comes out of nowhere, but Lando’s drowning in more curiosity than it’s worth.
“Formula One.” Oscar sips his coffee as Lando looks up.
“Oh.”
Oscar raises a brow.
Lando’s eyebrows pull together slightly—not quite recognition. Something closer to trying to figure out what exactly he’s supposed to do with that information.
Oscar waits.
Lando says nothing.
Oscar takes another sip.
“That’s it?” Lando looks at him, again.
“What?”
“That’s your answer?” Lando questions.
“You asked what I do.”
“Yeah, but—“
“That’s my job.”
“You’re just going to say Formula One?”
“It’s my job.” Oscar repeats.
“Right,” Lando nods. “Okay.”
Oscar watches him.
Something about Lando’s expression bothers him.
It’s not like it’s a bad type of bother… Moreso, a curious one.
“You don’t know what Formula One is?” Oscar tests the waters.
Lando shrugs. “I know of it,”
Oscar waits.
Lando takes a sip of his coffee.
“I know there’s cars,” Lando says again. “Fast cars.”
Oscar stares.
Lando stares back.
“Very fast cars.” Lando nods.
“Right.” Oscar finally says.
“On a track.”
“Usually how it is.” Oscar nods.
“Usually?” Lando questions. Then, “Right. Street circuits.” His brows furrow.
“Yeah.” Oscar nods.
“See,” Lando points at him. “Not too shabby.”
“That’s barely passed basic knowledge.”
“I don’t watch sports.” Lando defends.
“You don’t watch Formula One.”
“No.” Lando shakes his head.
“Why?”
Lando shrugs. “Never really got into it.”
Oscar hums.
He doesn’t find it offensive, not in the slightest.
Mostly because he doesn’t remember the last time he watched a sport that didn’t involve his job.
“Do you know drivers?”
Oscar watches the gears turning in his head.
“You.” Lando smiles.
“I don’t count.”
“Then… No.”
A pause.
Oscar almost smiles again. Almost.
“And what about you?” Oscar nods towards the guitar case. “What do you do?”
“I play.”
“Professionally?”
“Yeah.”
“Like pubs?”
“No,” Lando scoffs. “Like stadiums—sell out showstoppers, the good shit.”
Oscar glances at the guitar case again.
Lando stares at him.
“So concerts?”
“Yeah.”
Oscar nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“How many people?” Oscar asks again.
“Depends on the place.”
Oscar looks at him.
Lando smiles.
He’s unsure what surprises him—maybe because Lando doesn’t look like the type of person to stand in front of millions to perform.
He looks like he gets lost in train stations and cafes.
Someone who orders the wrong thing. Someone who forgets his sunglasses are hanging on his collar.
He doesn’t look like the performing type.
“What’s your name?”
Lando blinks. “Sorry?”
“Your full name.” Oscar looks down at his phone.
“Lando Norris,” he says.
The name feels familiar. Not from music, but somewhere else—a Billboard. Or maybe a magazine cover. Or a television in an airport lounge.
Familiar in a way Oscar can’t pick out.
Lando’s smile grows. “Are you Googling me?”
He opens his browser, types in the name.
“I want to know if you’re actually famous.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“You said you play in stadiums.”
“I do.”
“So prove it.”
Lando laughs—it’s something mixed between humour and shock. Like he wasn’t expecting to be Googled today.
“I’m not proving my career to you.”
Oscar looks up. “Why not?”
“Because it’s insane.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
Oscar considers that. In all honesty he’s never Googled someone while they were in front of him, but this seemed like the right thing to do—at least to figure out who he’s really talking to.
“Okay.”
Lando shakes his head.
Oscar’s eyes flick towards his phone, the results finally load.
“You’re weird.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Oscar freezes.
Billboards.
Magazines.
Album artwork.
Awards.
His top albums from the last three years, listed on the front page.
A name that seems to be everywhere and anywhere—a name that Oscar has quite literally only seen briefly.
Oscar looks up.
Lando’s still watching him, his smile is immediate.
“There it is.” He says.
Oscar looks back at the screen. Then up at Lando again.
“You’re that Lando Norris?”
“I’m that Lando Norris.” Lando nods, his grin widens.
Oscar stares.
It finally dawns on him why Lando looks like he’s trying to hide. Why, at first, he was wearing sunglasses inside, and why Lando looked so surprised when Oscar didn’t recognise him.
“Oh.” Is what slips out.
“Is that all you have to say?”
Oscar looks up at him. “Music isn’t my thing.”
Lando laughs.
The type of loud laugh that gets people to stare.
Oscar wants to hide until it’s over.
“It’s true.” But despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I know.” Lando nods.
“You asked.”
“I did,” another nod. “I think I like that you didn’t know.”
“You did?” Oscar’s brows raise. “Why?”
Lando looks at coffee for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to word his answer.
It doesn’t come for at least a minute.
“It’s refreshing,” he says eventually. “Everyone knows Lando Norris. But they don’t know me.”
Oscar studies him. There’s something different in his voice now. Something softer.
Oscar doesn’t know Lando well enough to ask.
“I don’t know you.”
Lando looks up. “No?”
“No.”
Despite the answer, Lando smiles. It’s small, honestly barely there compared to his last one.
“But you could.” His eyes dart to the napkins like he’s considering something.
Oscar’s heart doesn’t skip, he refuses to let it.
Instead, he picks up his coffee as Lando reaches for a napkin.
“Maybe.”
Lando reaches for a pen, scribbles something down and pushes it towards Oscar.
“In case you want to get another coffee.”
Oscar studies it—there’s nothing special about it. Just his name, and his number.
His mouth twitches. “I’ll think about it.”
———
It isn’t until later that afternoon, when Oscar’s finally tucked away in his hotel room, that Lily calls.
‘How was your day?’ She hums.
“Missed a train,” he says. “Got coffee. Met a guy.”
‘Met a guy?’
Oscar pauses.
There’s something about the way that she repeats it, that makes him regret saying it all together.
“Yes.”
‘What type of guy?’
Oscar looks at the ceiling, his phone flat on his chest.
He should’ve known this was coming. He should’ve kept his mouth shut.
“Just a guy.”
‘Oscar.’
“What?”
‘You don’t just meet guys.’
“Yes, I do.”
‘No,’ something on the other line shifts. ‘You don’t. I know you.’
Oscar frowns. “I’ve met plenty of people.”
‘That’s not what I mean,’ she sighs, and for a moment, the call falls silent.
Oscar’s eyes trace every line of the hotel ceiling while he waits. Then—
‘Do you like him?’
He doesn’t answer immediately. He’s known Lando for barely two hours, one of which was spent across from him at a coffee table.
They’d argued about coffee, talked about their jobs, and that was that. Nothing more.
There was nothing to like. Not really.
“He was… Alright.” Oscar shrugs.
‘Yeah?’ Lily hums.
“Yeah.”
‘That’s your review?’
“He was nice,” Oscar starts. “Funny.”
‘Okay.’
“He was a talker,”
Oscar closes his eyes, he knows where this is inevitably going.
‘Oscar.’
“What?”
‘You liked him.’ She says.
And she insists on it like she’s his mother.
“I didn’t say that.” He bites.
‘You didn’t have to,’ she says. ‘I know you.’
Oscar opens his eyes again. “I’m hanging up.”
Lily laughs. ‘No, you’re not.’
“Yes, I am.”
‘You met a guy.’ She says again.
“Apparently.”
‘You don’t even know anyone outside of racing.’
“That’s not true.” Oscar debates.
‘Your team doesn’t count.’
“They’re people.”
‘That’s pushing some form of line.’
Oscar rolls his eyes as Lily’s laugh sounds through the phone.
He shifts further into the hotel bed, eyes once again shutting.
“He’s a musician.”
There’s a beat of silence.
‘Oh.’
Oscar immediately knows that tone.
“What?”
‘Nothing.’
“Lily,” he sighs. “You’re doing that thing again.”
‘What thing?’
“The thing where you’re thinking something.”
‘I’m always thinking.’
“Exactly.”
Another beat.
‘What’s his name?’
Oscar hesitates. Lily catches it.
‘Oscar.’
“Lando.”
Oscar’s eyes open, he looks at the ceiling.
‘Lando what?’
He can still picture him—the messy curls barely hidden behind his baseball cap, the sunglasses hanging from his collar, the way he stared at the bookstore like it personally offended him.
The way he laughed when Oscar told him he didn’t know who he was.
Another beat of silence follows before Oscar answers.
“Norris.”
More silence.
Oscar wonders if he’s said something wrong.
“Lily?”
‘You’re joking.’
Oscar frowns. “I’m not.”
‘You met Lando Norris?’
“Yes.”
‘The Lando Norris?’
Oscar sighs. “Apparently.”
‘The musician?’
“Apparently.” Oscar repeats.
‘The one who—‘
“Lily.” He sighs.
‘Sorry.’
Oscar catches her laugh again.
‘How did you not know who he was?’
“He didn’t know Formula One.”
‘That’s different.’
“How?”
‘Because you’re Oscar Piastri.’
Oscar stares at the ceiling. “Correct.”
‘And he’s Lando Norris.’
“Your point?”
‘You two are probably the most recognisable people in your respected industries,’ she says. ‘And neither of you knew each other?’
“Nope.”
Lily laughs again.
Oscar picks up his phone. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
‘I am.’ She laughs.
“What’s so funny?”
‘You don't see what’s funny about two famous people accidentally meeting in a coffee shop and neither of them knowing who the other is?’
“Not really.”
‘Of course, you don’t.’
Oscar can practically hear her eye roll.
He knows this story is going to get repeated, probably to everyone Lily knows—and eventually, it’ll reach his family.
He should’ve kept his mouth shut.
‘Did you get his number?’
Oscar stays silent. Lily gasps.
‘You did!’
“No.”
‘Oscar.’
“We exchanged numbers.”
‘Same thing.’
“Not really.”
‘Why’d you exchange numbers?’
Oscar thinks about it, pulls the napkin from his pocket.
Technically, it was an exchange, though Oscar never handed his over.
Taking the napkin was easier than saying no, because in all honesty, Oscar enjoyed the company.
He shrugs. “For coffee.”
‘For coffee?’ She repeats.
“Yeah.”
‘You’ve already had coffee.’
“For another.” He says.
‘With Lando Norris.’ She sings.
“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “Just a coffee.”
‘Next time you’re in the same town?’ She asks.
“Yeah,” a beat. “I guess.”
Lily sighs.
‘It’d be nice to have him as a friend, though,’ she says. ‘You’re never in one place for too long—neither is he.’
Oscar stays silent.
He knows exactly what she means.
She doesn’t have to explain it.
There’s a certain irony in it. Being told two people whose entire lives are built around leaving and moving, that they might be better off together.
Oscar has never been good at staying.
Not because he’d rather leave.
But because there simply isn’t much opportunity.
His life exists in weekends spent away, in arrival and departure boards. Between hotels and race circuits—between one country and the next. Even when he’s home for Christmas, he’s never home for long, never home long enough to settle into the feeling of it.
And Lando—
Oscar barely knows him.
But from what he’s gathered, Lando isn’t much different.
His life exists in airports lounges and unfamiliar hotels, tours that last months. A new city every few days.
Maybe that’s what Lily means.
Maybe someone might actually understand—someone who wouldn’t ask why he has to leave again. Someone who wouldn’t expect him to promise he’ll be around next week because there’s no guarantee he’ll even be in the same city. Someone who might understand that a person can still care with a boarding pass in their pocket.
Oscar doesn’t understand why that makes him feel strange.
He shifts against the pillows, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
“It’s not like that,” he says eventually.
‘Like what?’
“Like you think.” He frowns.
‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’
Oscar sighs. “Lily.”
‘Okay, fine.’ She laughs softly. ‘What do you think?’
“I don’t know.”
Lily stays quiet.
Oscar knows her well enough to know what the silence means—she’s waiting, not pushing.
Just waiting for him to fill in the gaps himself.
It’s annoying. Mostly because it works.
Oscar shifts in bed again.
“He’s nice.”
‘Mhm.’
Oscar frowns.
“There it is again.”
‘What?’
“You’re doing that thing where you agree with me even though you don’t.”
‘I haven’t said anything.’
“Exactly.”
Lily laughs. Oscar rolls his eyes.
“He is.” Oscar says again.
‘Okay.’
“He was funny.”
‘Right.’
“He didn’t know anything about Formula One.”
There’s a pause.
‘That’s what you took away from the whole thing?’
Oscar pauses, chews at his lip.
“No.”
‘What else?’
Oscar doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t know how to explain it. Lando had been easy. Talking to him was… Easy.
Oscar had spent years learning how to keep people at a safe distance without entirely meaning to. His life was too busy for close relationships—friendships became phone calls over time zones, relationships became something he’d squeeze in between races.
It was easier to not have it. Easier not to wonder what would happen if he did.
But Lando—
He sat across from Lando and somehow, the hour disappeared. Oscar hadn’t checked his phone until it was time to go. Hadn’t watched the time. Hadn’t thought about why he was there in the first place.
He’d simply just sat there, and talked.
“He didn’t care.” Oscar says finally.
‘About?’
“About who I was.”
Lily goes quiet. Oscar swallows.
“He didn’t know who I was.”
‘You said he knew you were a driver.’
“That’s different.” Oscar’s brows furrow.
‘How so?’
Oscar looks at his hands momentarily. “I don’t know.”
It’s the truth. He honestly doesn’t.
Maybe it’s the fact that Lando had looked at him like he was just a regular guy—not a McLaren driver, not a person whose face shows up on televisions around the world.
Just a guy sitting across from him in a cafe.
It had been… Nice.
Different in a way Oscar doesn’t want to put a name on.
Oscar doesn’t say that part. Lily doesn’t need to know it.
“I don’t know.” He repeats.
‘Oscar.’
He closes his eyes. “Fine,”
A beat passes.
“Yes.”
‘Oh.’
“Don’t.”
‘I didn’t say anything.’
“I know you,” Oscar says. “You were about to.”
‘I wasn’t.’
“You were.”
Lily laughs. “Alright,” she says. “Maybe, I was.”
Oscar groans. “I’m not doing this.”
‘Doing what?’
“This.” Oscar gestures vaguely around the empty hotel room, even if Lily can’t see him.
‘Look,’ Lily’s voice softens. ‘You spend your whole life knowing exactly what’s going to happen,’
There’s a beat. Oscar doesn’t respond.
‘You know where you’re going. Where exactly you’ll be in two months. You know when you’re leaving and when you’re coming back,’
There’s another pause. Lily sighs.
‘Maybe it’s okay if you let something surprise you sometimes—maybe you don’t have to know exactly what it is.’
His eyes shift toward the napkin next to him.
He sits up in bed.
For a moment, Oscar just stares at it.
Objectively, it’s nothing.
A small piece of paper that’s been folded all too many times, slightly crumpled and covered in creases. The edges soft from how many times it’s been handled since Oscar left the cafe.
In all honesty, he tried to forget about it.
Oscar reaches for it, unfolds it carefully.
There’s only a few words written on it—a name, and a phone number.
Oscar stares at the hand writing. He remembers the moment it happened.
Lando had scribbled it down with a pen he pulled from his pocket, pushing the napkin across the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“In case you want to get another coffee.”
Oscar had told himself he wouldn’t.
Not because he disliked Lando, but because it was easier to keep him at a stranger’s distance.
It was easier to leave things where they were.
One conversation. One afternoon. One coffee.
Nothing more.
A small, insignificant interruption to an otherwise perfectly planned life. Something that could gladly exist without needing to be made into something more.
Oscar had folded the napkin and placed it in his pocket, all because that was easier than saying no.
He told himself that was the end of it.
Except it wasn’t.
Because now, the napkin is sitting on the end of his bed, and Lando’s number is being punched into his phone.
And somewhere between his missed train and his flat white, Oscar had somehow agreed to see him again.
Oscar looks down at the number, and then at his phone.
He scrolls through the just-made contact. His finger hovers over the message icon.
He could say something. Anything.
Something simple and harmless.
But he doesn’t know what.
Instead, he continues staring at the name plastered at the top of the contact details.
Lando Norris.
It feels strange, in a way.
Not because of the same itself, but because he knows what it means now.
He’s seen the articles, the photographs, the magazine covers and billboards, the sold out stadiums and the fame surrounding him.
Lando is famous, as crazy to him as that is.
Lando is really famous.
The kind of famous Oscar knows how to understand.
The kind where there is no such thing as walking down the street unnoticed, the kind where every mistake becomes a headline, the kind where every relationship becomes public property.
Oscar knows what that life is like. He knows the cost of it.
Maybe that’s why he understood the look in Lando’s eyes when he’d said everyone knows Lando Norris but not him.
Oscar looks at the napkin again.
Maybe that’s why Lando let him sit with him. Not because the cafe was full. Maybe because Oscar hadn’t recognised him. Maybe because, for once, Lando could be someone else.
Just Lando.
A stranger with a guitar case and all too many problems to count.
Oscar smiles faintly.
He picks up his phone. Types.
Then deletes.
And types again.
[Oscar]: do you always give your numbers to strangers in coffee shops?
He stares at it.
Deletes it again.
Way too forward.
Tries again.
[Oscar]: when are you around for that second coffee?
Oscar sends it before he has the chance to reconsider.
The response comes immediately.
[Lando]: depends.
[Lando]: when are we in the same city?
‘You still there?’ Lily hums after a while.
Oscar honestly forgot she was still there. “Yeah.”
‘You’re texting him.’
Oscar glances down at the messages. “I’m not.”
‘You definitely are,’ she says. ‘Why else would you be dead silent?’
Oscar doesn’t answer.
The three dots appear under Lando’s name, then disappear.
Then appear again.
Oscar’s thumb hovers over the keyboard.
He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say—his mind’s already running through his schedule.
His next race, his next flight out of town, his next hotel room. He knows exactly where he’ll be for the next three months.
He could, by all means, tell Lando. He could send him the calendar.
But that feels like too much.
They’ve had one coffee. That’s it.
One coffee in a small cafe on a Tuesday afternoon.
One coffee that started a conversation that lasted longer than either of them intended.
Oscar doesn’t know why he’s making this more complicated than it needs to be.
[Oscar]: I don’t know.
‘What’s he asking?’
“What?”
‘You’re silent again,’ she says. ‘What’s he asking?’
Oscar looks down at his phone. The message is still there.
He reads it over and over again. As though the answer might change if he reads it enough.
“He asked when we’re in the same city again.”
There’s a beat of silence.
‘Oh.’
Oscar frowns.
“What?”
‘Nothing.’
“Lily.”
‘No, I’m just—‘
“Lily.” He says again.
‘It’s kind of cute.’
Oscar expression twists.
“No.”
‘What?’
“It isn’t.”
‘He wants to see you again.’
“He wants another coffee.”
‘Same thing.’
Oscar pauses for a moment. “He just wants to finish another conversation.”
‘A conversation that lasted an hour?’
Oscar hadn’t realised it at the time. Hadn’t realised until he was rushing towards the train station again.
‘You gave him your number.’
“He gave me his,” Oscar corrects. “It’s different.”
‘Either way, you have it.’
“It’s not a big deal.”
‘Okay.’
Oscar narrows his eyes. “What?”
‘Nothing.’
“You keep saying that.”
‘And you keep getting defensive,’ Lily bites. ‘It’s okay to meet new people, you know.’
“I’m not defensive.”
‘You are.’
Oscar looks at his phone again, the cursor blinks in the white chat box.
When are they in the same city again?
Oscar flies out to Melbourne next week.
He opens his calendar, scrolls until he finds an, almost, empty day.
Next Wednesday.
He stares at the date.
If Lando’s still in London, he’ll technically have the time before his late night flight.
It’s not much time, but it’s enough.
[Oscar]: u still in london next wed?
He sends it.
Lily makes a sound as he lets out a breath.
‘You just told him.’
“Yeah.”
‘You barely thought about it.’
“I thought about it long enough.”
‘Oscar.’
“What?”
There’s a beat. ‘Nothing.’
“Stop saying that.”
Lily laughs.
Oscar looks back at his phone, the response is already there.
[Lando]: you’ll still be in london?
[Oscar]: fly out that night
The three dots appear and disappear more times than Oscar wants to count.
He waits.
He isn’t sure why he waits. He could put his phone down, could continue whatever conversation Lily wants to have, could roll over and call it a night.
In all honesty, he probably should.
But instead, he stares at the screen and waits.
[Lando]: what time?
Oscar’s brows furrow.
He glances towards the clock on the bedside table.
His flight isn’t until late, he has all day.
The second message comes almost immediately.
[Lando]: whats your schedule like?
[Oscar]: free until my flight
Oscar stares at the screen.
He knows what Lando is asking, but he isn’t sure why the question makes him hesitate.
The reply takes a second.
[Lando]: so you’re free?
His heart gives that strange, unfamiliar beat again.
It’s ridiculous.
He’s been asked if he’s free before—by family, by friends, by his team, on numerous occasions.
But somehow, coming from Lando, it feels different.
[Oscar]: i guess so.
[Lando]: that means i can steal u for a few hrs.
Oscar’s thumb freezes.
He reads it again. And again.
And again.
He can practically hear Lando’s voice saying it.
The casual confidence, the teasing edge.
Oscar types.
Deletes.
Types again.
[Oscar]: steal me?
[Lando]: temporarily borrow.
[Oscar]: thats not any better.
[Lando]: sounds better.
Oscar smiles.
He hates that Lando keeps making him do that.
The deal was arms length. A safe distance for an almost-friend.
Not smiling at text messages two hours after they met.
[Lando]: i’ll return you before your flight
[Oscar]: you don’t even know where i’m staying.
[Lando]: true. where is your hotel?
Oscar pauses.
He probably shouldn’t tell him. That’s the exact thing his security would tell him not to do.
He types anyway.
[Oscar]: hilton.
[Lando]: i know where that is ;)
There’s a pause.
[Lando]: i mean. i know the area.
[Oscar]: don’t sound so suspicious will you
[Lando]: no promises
Oscar pauses.
Oscar laughs. The sound is quiet in the empty hotel room.
Lily makes a sound.
Oscar forgot she was there. He hangs up before she gets the chance to make another comment.
He’ll deal with those consequences later.
[Lando]: how does this work?
Oscar’s brows furrow.
[Lando]: obviously coffee. but.. after
Oscar stares at the message.
There it is.
The question Oscar honestly wanted to avoid. The question that asks for more than Oscar wants to give.
What happens after the coffee?
He doesn’t know. He’ll be on a plane to Melbourne.
Besides, he’s never been good at responding to questions he can’t predict the answers to.
But maybe Lily’s right.
Maybe, Oscar doesn’t have to this time around.
[Oscar]: we’ll figure something out
Oscar’s heart does that weird stutter again.
He stares at the word.
We.
It’s nothing more than a pronoun, just a simple word.
But Oscar feels something settle somewhere in his chest.
[Oscar]: u said u were stealing me
[Lando]: temporarily borrowing.
[Oscar]: still means u should have a plan, no?
[Lando]: i’ll think of something
Oscar smiles.
[Oscar]: make sure its good.
[Oscar]: i’ll leave you if its boring.
[Lando]: ouch.
There’s a pause. A pause that makes Oscar think he’s said too much.
[Lando]: no pressure then.
The conversation dies from there, and something easy settles in Oscar’s chest.
The type of easy that feels like you’ve known someone for longer than a day.
Not in the way that comes with knowing someone for years, but in the strange way that comes with meeting someone and immediately skipping the awkward part.
Oscar types.
Pauses.
Then sends.
[Oscar]: i’ll see you wednesday.
Lando’s response is immediate.
[Lando]: yeah.
[Lando]: i’ll see you wednesday.
Oscar looks at his calendar.
Wednesday.
At first, it was nothing more than another space between races—another date on his schedule.
Now—
Oscar puts his phone down.
He looks at the time.
He should sleep.
He has a full day ahead of him—an early morning start followed by all too many meetings.
It’s just another part of the same predictable cycle.
But now there’s something else waiting in the middle of it.
Something he can’t plan out in explicit detail, something he can’t predict—something that makes him look at his calendar and actually smile.
Wednesday.
Same cafe. Same coffee.
This time, with a side of a Lando Norris plan.