In Front Of The United States Whitehouse There Is A Poster Board With This Written On It: "A Message

My life and my family's life is in your hands

Hi everyone hop this find you very well and you all read my sade story

I am ahmad 22 years old im a palestinian student in 4th level of dentistry college , i was fully of Passion and love my life and dreaming benig an excellent dentist in this life

After the war has started Our beautiful home has been destroyed, we have been displaced from our country, and all our lifelines have been taken away from us.

My family now live in the badest conditions that no one could imagine and no one could live 🥺

They are now living in tents without any necessities of life in a very polluted environment full of diseases. 🤕😷

My father, Jamal Hussein Shamia, He is a criminal lawyer

He is currently in Gaza , He is suffering of many diseases hypertension and diabetic mellitus and Muscle spasms and always got shocked and coma

He is disabled man and need Personal health care🥺

Unfortunately, my father was injured in the war and suffered a very serious injury, which was a blood clot in the hip joint area, which caused him many infections and the infection spread in the area.

My family are burning from the high heat of the sun and there is nothing to protect them from that, there is no drinkable water and they have no food to eat

I created my link to get fund to evacuate my family from war zone and to have better life

Time is runing out and My campaign is going very badly 🥹

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My account vetted by

@gazavetters no#82

I would like to inform you that my account is vetted from @sylvianritual by publish in this post that im close to @dodoomar12345who is vetted from @90-ghost here

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BFB (j.t.)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of fire, burns and shoulder dislocation

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Jason doesn’t want to be seen as your best friend’s brother anymore. Jason Todd yearns for 7k words

A/N: Again I feel like this played out better in my head honestly but oh well, it is what it is

10 years ago Jason Todd aged 14 (Y/N) (L/N) aged 16

The sound of thundering feet down the hallway was a common sound ever since the Wayne household had welcomed a new child. You, nor your best friend Dick, were the slightest bit disturbed when Jason slammed open the door to the family room and stormed in.

"You ate my Cheetos!" He cried to his older brother, ruddy face screwed up like he had just eaten a sour grape.

You chuckled under your breath, looking back down at your book that rested against Dick's legs that had been thrown in your lap. Jason glared at the offensive limbs like they were a parasite.

"Sorry, baby bird. (Y/N) here really wanted some Cheetos." Dick replied, hands gross and covered in orange dust. You scoffed, smacking his knee and he gave you an impish grin while looking over his phone.

Jason paused, his face reddening as he caught a glance at you. You offered him a lopsided smile, effortlessly covering for his pig of a brother.

“Sorry, Jace, I was hungry.”

He looked down, bashfully playing with the hem of his sweater, "It's okay."

You smacked his brother again when you felt his body shake with thinly veiled laughter. He had no problem abusing the knowledge that his younger brother had a childish crush on you. The poor thing had already lost most of his snack stash because of him.

"Thanks, kiddo."

Jason shot you a dirty look, “Don’t call me a kid. We’re not that far apart in age, you know.”

You raised a brow, “You’re a freshman, and I’m a senior.”

“That’s just because I joined a year late!” He argued, indignant.

Holding up your hands in a mock ‘I surrender’ motion, you glanced back at your book, but not before shooting a final warning look at his older brother.

“Whatever you say, kiddo.”

***

Present Day Jason Todd aged 24 (Y/N) (L/N) aged 26

"Sorry, B. I can't make it tomorrow, I promised (Y/N) that I'd help her build some furniture."

Jason perked up, practically shooting up straight at the sound of your name, "(Y/N)? She still around? What's she up to these days?"

He hoped—prayed—that his voice didn’t sound as elated to them as it did to him.

The two of you had lost touch after you graduated high school. Dick had moved to Blüdhaven, and you’d been accepted to university in Central City. Without your best friend in Gotham, there hadn’t been much reason for you to visit Wayne Manor.

It had stung. Jason knew you’d always had a closer relationship with his older brother, but he’d thought—hoped—that you liked him enough to at least give him a call on the odd weekend.

He’d get the occasional holiday text from you, wishing him well, and sometimes he’d text you for advice about school. But that was it.

When Jason had come back from the Lazarus Pit, he’d spent countless nights wondering what had happened to you. You would’ve been twenty-six by then. He imagined you’d graduated grad school and become a scientist, probably living in a cute apartment you’d been so excited to decorate—walls lined with bookshelves, couches draped in cozy throws you’d thrifted or maybe even crocheted yourself.

He wondered if you’d grown any taller, if you still dressed like a tomboy, or if you’d traded that style for something softer, something different. He wondered if you’d finally gotten a cat, since you’d wanted one so badly growing up.

But things between him and Batman were still tense, there was still a lot of hurt left on his part, a lot of stuff to work through. He wasn't good enough for you before; he was too young, too brash, too immature.

Now, he was too broken, too damaged; still not worthy of you.

So, he was left wondering.

"Yeah...she's back in the city, she's been working as a junior researcher in Gotham S.T.A.R. Labs."

Jason nodded, nonchalantly, looking down at the home screen of his phone like there was something interesting that happened to capture his attention, "Oh, that's good."

Dick raised a brow, clearly catching onto Jason's very poor attempts to appear unbothered, "And she still thinks you're dead."

He didn't need to see his younger brother's face to know he had frozen. That was quite obvious with the way his shoulders jumped til his ears and he rolled his eyes.

Honestly, how did loverboy manage to overlook that incredibly giant detail?

***

It had been a quiet evening. You were sitting on the couch, curled up with a book in hand and a cup of tea resting beside you, the hum of the city filtering in from the window. You had made peace with Jason's death years ago—taught yourself to move forward, or at least to pretend. The world had kept turning, and so had you.

Your phone buzzed, breaking the silence. It was from Dick.

[1 New Message from Dick]: We need to talk. I’m coming over.

Your heart dropped. You’d known Dick long enough to recognize when something was wrong. His texts were almost always direct or lighthearted, but this—this was different. The sudden dread sinking into your stomach left you feeling nauseous, your pulse quickening.

[You]: What’s going on?

No reply came immediately, making the sick feeling grow. The silence was worse than the text itself. Something was wrong. Your thoughts spun in circles, dread clouding your mind.

The last time you felt like this was when Jason—

There was a knock at the door. You hesitated before opening it, half-expecting the worst.

Dick stood in the doorway, looking disheveled. His eyes were wide, a mix of exhaustion and something darker etched into his features. His foot scuffed the carpet as he stepped inside, pacing immediately, his socks leaving smudges behind on your rug.

You bit your lip, unsure of how to address the storm brewing within him, but you couldn’t find the heart to scold him. He looked too rattled.

"Take a breath, Dickie. Whatever it is, you can tell me." You said softly, trying to soothe him as he walked back and forth.

It wasn’t until a few minutes of pacing that he stopped, shoulders hunched and face tense. He finally turned to you, locking eyes as if bracing himself, "Jason’s alive."

Your breath caught in your throat, but you didn’t let the shock show. You stayed eerily calm. You had learned long ago how to keep your composure, especially with Dick, who was always more emotional in moments like this.

"Sit down. Let me make us some tea. You can stay here tonight." You stood, walking to the kitchen, trying to create a sense of normalcy, "We’ll talk about this in the morning, okay? Everything will make sense once you get some rest."

Dick stared at you, disbelief clear in his eyes, "What? That's your response?"

You kept your back turned to him, calmly preparing the kettle. "Honey," You called back, voice low and steady, "this isn’t the first time you’ve said you’ve seen Jason. Remember?" You turned to face him, eyebrows furrowed in concern. You couldn’t help it; this wasn’t the first time Dick had experienced hallucinations. When Jason died, Dick’s grief had twisted his mind in ways you knew all too well.

"No, (Y/N), I’m being serious. This is real," Dick said, his voice firm, steady.

You rubbed his shoulder gently, trying to soothe him, though you could feel the tension in his body. "I’m sure it feels that way," you replied, not fully buying into what he was saying. You had seen him go through so much grief, and the idea of Jason being alive, after everything that had happened, felt like an impossible fantasy.

"No, (Y/N), I’m serious. We can dig up his grave right now. He’s alive, and he’s here." Dick continued, his tone unwavering. He was no longer the conflicted man you had known during the years of Jason’s death. This wasn’t a joke or another hallucination. Dick was calm, composed, and absolutely certain of what he was saying.

You frowned, the disbelief still hanging in the air, "That isn’t funny, Dick."

He sighed, "You're right, I'm sorry but Jason really is back. I’ve seen him. He’s part of the family again. We’ve all met him, and he’s doing okay. I know it sounds crazy, but he’s here. And he’s with us."

The words hung in the air, your mind racing to catch up with the gravity of what Dick was saying.

“How—how is that even possible?” You asked, your voice trembling slightly as your mind struggled to make sense of the words.

“It’s a long story,” Dick replied with a quiet sigh. He looked at you seriously, “Listen, I just wanted to let you know this way because I care about you. He asked about you recently, so I figured it would be a good time to let you know.”

You frowned, trying to absorb the flood of emotions and information that seemed to hit you all at once, “How long have you known?”

“A couple of months,” Dick said, his tone more subdued now, “He wasn’t too happy with us when he first came back... not when he found out the Joker was still alive.”

Your stomach tightened, a knot of unease twisting in your gut. You had seen firsthand the kind of damage the Joker and the events surrounding Jason’s death had done to the family. You could never forget the way it had all shattered Dick, how broken he was in the aftermath.

"But we've made amends in the past month. He’s back where he belongs."

You nodded slowly, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you, “And you're for sure not hallucinating this?"

Dick gave you a sharp look, “I can’t blame you for wondering, but no. This is real. You can meet him, if you want.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to see Jason. But the overwhelming weight of everything—the shock, the grief that you had buried long ago, and the strange sense of unfamiliarity now attached to his return—left you struggling for words. Was he still the same person you knew? “I do want to… I just… I need some time. I think I need to wrap my head around this. It’s not every day that you find out someone came back to life.”

Truthfully, Jason’s death hadn’t affected your daily life as much as you expected. After moving for college, you didn’t see him much, and the memories of him didn’t cross your mind as often as they once had. Yes, in the months following his death, you’d had to take care of Dick—making sure he wasn’t running himself into the ground—but that had always been your role as his best friend.

But there was something about Jason that left a lingering hole in your life. Something unexpected. Jason had been such a bright, sweet soul—too young, too full of life. You'd imagined your future in Gotham, with your parents, and your best friend, and in that little corner, Jason’s glowing face would always be there. You couldn't picture him growing taller than you, still that fresh-faced sweet boy from the Narrows. Always there.

And then he wasn’t. And that absence—it left a space you hadn’t expected to feel.

The loss had settled in quietly, like a low hum beneath everything you did. There were nights where it kept you awake, wondering how scared he must have been in his final moments, wondering if he had known he was being taken from this world far too soon. The fact that he was gone had been a sharp, permanent reality, one you had learned to live with—but now, knowing that he was back... it was almost too much to take in.

Dick nodded, his expression softening, “I know. It’s a lot. But he’s here, and he’s trying to make things right. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

***

A lot had changed.

The last time you saw him, he was shorter than you, all sharp edges and boyish energy, always talking too fast and trying to keep up with Dick. Now he was taller, broader, a man where a boy used to be. The once roundness of his face had sharpened into defined angles, his voice deeper than you remembered.

And his eyes—God, his eyes.

There was something older in them now, something jaded and unspoken. You had heard the stories, whispered half-truths that nobody wanted to confirm. You had no idea how much of it was real, but the Jason Todd standing in front of you was not the same boy you remembered.

Still, none of that stopped you from grinning as you stepped forward.

"Jaybird!"

His breath hitched.

You didn’t notice.

You threw your arms around his neck, the way you used to when he was a kid, laughing as you pulled him into a tight hug. You didn't know whether he hugged you back, you couldn't really feel it, only feeling pins and needles run down the length of your body.

You didn’t really care if he hugged you back. All you felt was awe and bewilderment, and underneath it all, sheer and utter joy at the fact that he was here.

"Damn," You laughed, pulling away just enough to hold him at arm’s length, "When did you get so tall? And jacked? Holy crap, Jay, you could bench press me."

Jason let out something between a scoff and a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, "Maybe I should, just to prove a point."

"Please don’t. That’s so undignified." You poked at his bicep, grinning but there was a mist to your eyes that neither of you were going to address, a red tint to the tip of your nose, "My scrawny little brother, all grown up and scary-looking."

His smile twitched. Something flickered in his expression—too quick for you to catch—before he shook his head, rolling his eyes, "You’re impossible."

"As always," You smirked, nudging his ribs playfully before stepping back, "It’s so good to see you, Jason. I mean it."

You didn’t notice the way he swallowed hard. Didn’t see the way his fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to pull you back before you got too far away.

Instead, you shot him a bright smile, completely oblivious to the way his heart ached.

You still saw him as that kid trailing after Dick. The reckless, stubborn little brother. Ten years, and he was still trailing after you like a lost puppy. Still, longing for your attention.

Jason clenched his jaw, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he exhaled slowly.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice softer now. "Good to see you too, (Y/N)."

***

Even though you should have been the one to notice the big, burly man stepping into the dainty little coffee shop, you didn’t.

Jason did.

He spotted you first—tucked away in the corner, bathed in golden sunlight as you read, a delicate hand curled around a warm cup of tea. You looked so peaceful, completely unaware of him. Maybe you had caught a glimpse of him in your peripheral, but it hadn’t registered. After all, it hadn’t been that long since you’d seen him again.

He almost hesitated.

He almost continued his visit like he hadn’t even noticed you, but despite everything he’d been through—despite the fact that he was a grown man now—he still found himself feeling like his teenage self, craving your attention whenever you were in the room.

"(Y/N)?"

Your head snapped up, eyes darting around to locate the voice—until they landed on him.

The way your expression changed made his heart stutter.

First, confusion. Then, slow realization. And finally—joy.

A sunny grin broke across your face before you could stop it. Without a second thought, you launched yourself at him, tackling him in a hug that had nearby patrons stepping aside awkwardly.

"Jason!"

He stumbled back a few steps, caught entirely off guard. His arms hovered uncertainly over your waist, but before he could settle them on your hips, you pulled away just as quickly—smoothing out his jacket as if brushing off imaginary dust before cupping his face, taking in his utterly bewildered expression.

That same expression that his younger self shared. It made your heart swell.

You were like a hurricane blowing through him.

He knew you were extroverted and energetic—he had seen it in your expressions and interactions with his brother while growing up. But this was the first time your affection had ever been directed at him.

"Sorry! Haha! I'm still not used to seeing you alive and all—guess I got too excited!" You laughed, a little breathless, your thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones, "How are you? Do you wanna sit down and catch up?"

Jason blinked, something unreadable flickering across his face before the corner of his mouth twitched up.

"Yeah," he said, voice softer than you expected, "Yeah, I’d like that."

And before he knew it, he was in the eye of the storm, caught in the calm, in you.

***

Jason leaned against his motorcycle, arms crossed, watching the entrance of your workplace with a kind of nervous energy he hadn’t felt in years. He had sent the invite on a whim—just a casual “Hey, it’s been a while. Wanna grab a coffee?”—but now that he was actually here, waiting, he was starting to regret it.

The automatic doors of the laboratory building slid open, and there you were, stepping out onto the sidewalk, scanning the street.

Jason felt like he’d been punched in the chest.

He swallowed hard.

“Jaybird,” You greeted, pulling him into a tight hug, “Been a while.”

Jason let himself sink into it for half a second before forcing himself to let go, “Yeah, well. You’re hard to pin down these days.”

You rolled your eyes, “Oh, please. You’re the one always disappearing. You’re worse than Dick.”

Jason smirked, “Low blow.”

You looped an arm around his, tugging him toward the sidewalk, “C’mon, walk with me. I wanna hear what you’ve been up to.”

He let himself be pulled along, shaking his head, “What I’ve been up to? You’re the one always buried in the lab.”

You groaned, “Don’t remind me. I swear, one of these days, I’m just gonna quit and run away to a beach somewhere.”

Jason laughed, nudging your shoulder, “Yeah? You’d last, what, a week before you got bored?”

You pouted, “Okay, rude. But true.”

He watched you talk, listened to you ramble about work, about a bad coffee you’d had the other day, about a stray cat that kept showing up outside your apartment. He nodded in the right places, chimed in with sarcastic comments, but mostly, he just took in the way you looked at him.

The way you looked at him like nothing had changed.

Like he was still the same Jason you’d always known.

Like you had no idea how much he wasn’t.

You sighed, bumping into his side, “I missed you, y’know?”

His heart fluttered, a jolt of electricity running through it in a way that made him feel giddy, “You did?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s so great that we can just pick up where we left off, no awkwardness or anything. I guess that’s the good thing about family, huh?”

He froze for a fraction of a second at the word family. It took everything in him not to flinch. He forced a smile, trying to keep his cool.

“Yeah... I guess that’s the good thing, huh?” He pushed the words out, though they tasted bitter on his tongue.

You glanced up at him, offering a grin that made his heart ache. “Exactly.” You said, as if that word was enough to sum up everything. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just family.

Jason walked beside you, his hands in his jacket pockets, fingers curling into fists. The sharp edge of his feelings threatened to spill over, but he kept them at bay. He wasn’t going to ruin this. Not when he finally had a chance to talk to you again after so long.

You kept chatting, unaware of the quiet storm brewing inside him. You told him about a new research project you were working on and your latest failed attempt at cooking. His responses were automatic—smiles, laughs, and the occasional comment—but his mind was elsewhere, caught in the web of thoughts he couldn’t untangle.

It was so easy for you to slip back into the role of the confident, carefree person you always were around him. And here he was, still stuck in the same old cycle of longing. Family. That was all he would ever be to you. Just family.

But what if it wasn’t enough anymore?

As you continued to walk, your voice light and carefree, Jason couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever get the courage to tell you how he felt. Would it even change anything? Or would it ruin everything, forever locking him into the “family” role he had never wanted to begin with?

You bumped into him again, snapping him out of his thoughts, “Hey, Jay, I’ve been thinking—I do these little arcade runs with Timmy and Dami once a month, you know, like a brotherly-sisterly bonding activity.”

Jason’s chest tightened. He knew. You, Dick, and he used to do that all the time ten years ago. It left a bittersweet feeling in his chest.

“You should join us sometime. You know, like old times.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

***

When Jason saw the amber-orange glow of the building from afar, his heart dropped. Without hesitation, he signaled the remaining members of the Bat Family before sprinting toward it. He didn’t like the path he was taking. He didn’t like where it was leading.

It almost seemed like he was heading toward—

No.

Jason came face to face with the burning S.T.A.R. Labs building.

Even through his fireproof armor, he could feel the searing heat radiating from the inferno. He watched as waves of people poured out, coughing, screaming, their faces twisted in pain and panic. His eyes scanned over them, searching.

None of them were you.

Without a second thought, he moved toward the building.

His comms buzzed to life.

"Red Hood, do not engage! You don’t have a plan!" Batman’s voice was firm, commanding.

"(Y/N) is in there!" Jason snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. Then, he braved the flames.

He pushed through the burning hallways, doing whatever he could to help those in his path—clearing exits, carrying the wounded—until he reached the deeper levels of the lab. His lungs burned with the smoke, but he kept moving.

And then he heard it.

A bloodcurdling shriek.

Your shriek.

Jason sprinted toward the sound, shoving open what remained of your office door. The sight that greeted him made his stomach lurch—

You were trapped beneath a flaming bookshelf.

Soot covered your skin, your body trembling as you fought to free yourself. Your clothes were scorched, and judging by the way you were barely moving, you had sustained multiple burns. Panic filled your eyes.

Jason didn’t hesitate.

He threw the bookshelf off you, scooping you into his arms and holding you close as he ran out. You couldn’t think straight. The blinding pain in your shoulder overtook every other thought.

"You're gonna be okay. I'm gonna reset your shoulder." Jason murmured. The deep baritone of his gravelly voice had your panic subsiding by a fraction. He didn't sound worried, which meant you were going to be fine. Probably.

"Are you sure you know how to do that?" You really shouldn't have to ask that. Jason would never suggest it if he thought he might do more harm than good. You trusted him.

"Yeah, I've got you, baby. Trust me."

You inhaled sharply, pressing your bloody forehead to his and screwing your eyes shut. Jason watched as a fresh wave of tears poured down your cheeks and his stomach hollowed out at the sight of you in pain. You were trembling, chest shaking as you tried to contain your sobs.

"I do."

He rubbed a hand up and down your waist, trying to comfort you briefly before he grabbed your injured arm with both his hands. You took a shaky breath, trying to stifle another sob.

“You might want to hold onto something, doll—holy sh—!”

He was rudely cut off as your free hand grabbed a fistful of his hair, keeping his forehead pressed against yours—your only source of comfort.

In hindsight, you weren’t sure what logic had driven you to grab his hair. Perhaps you wanted him to feel as much pain as you were in—or as much pain as you knew he was about to put you through. Or maybe you just wanted to anchor him to you, to keep him close so you could draw comfort from his presence.

"Ready?"

You weren’t ready—but you sniffled and nodded anyway, hearing him count down from three. The next thing you heard was a crack, followed by the sound of your own scream as you clung to Jason’s hair, gripping so tightly you were afraid you’d tear out those perfect strands.

Jason pressed gentle kisses to the side of your head as you sobbed, his voice low and soothing. He told you how proud he was, that it was all over now, as he worked quickly to tie a tourniquet.

When everything was done, you collapsed against his chest, going limp in his arms as he carried you out of the building. You were handed off to a paramedic and gently placed on a gurney.

With bleary eyes, you watched him run back into the building, your consciousness slipping away before you could call out to stop him.

***

The steady beeping of the monitors was the first thing you heard when you groggily blinked awake. The second thing was the sound of someone muttering under their breath, followed by the unmistakable rustling of fabric.

You turned your head—slowly, because everything hurt—and found Jason slumped in the chair beside your bed, arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed. His jacket was draped over the armrest, his boots scuffed, the soles stained with char.

“Hey, doll.” Jason greeted, his voice softer than usual.

You gave him a sleepy smile, “Hey, hero.”

He looked… tired. The kind of tired that wasn’t just from lack of sleep, but from worry. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d been running his hands through it all night. His jacket still smelled faintly of smoke.

“How long have you been here?” You asked.

Jason shrugged, leaning forward so his forearms rested on the bedrail, "Not long." But you both knew he was lying.

Your heart clenched, warmth curling in your chest, “You didn’t have to stay.”

Jason’s gaze flicked to yours, unreadable for a moment, “Yeah, I did.”

Your breath caught slightly. He didn’t elaborate—he didn’t need to.

You swallowed, looking down at where your hand rested against the blanket. You hesitated, then shifted it slightly, palm up, an invitation. Jason hesitated too, just for a second, before lacing his fingers with yours.

His grip was warm, steady. He didn’t squeeze too tight, mindful of your injuries, but he didn’t let go, either.

There was something unspoken between the two of you, something different now. Neither of you could quite place it—maybe it was the quiet familiarity of being here together, or maybe it was the way his hand fit into yours, a little more firmly than before. But you both knew something had shifted. It hung in the air, thick and heavy, but neither of you dared to speak of it.

“You scared the hell outta me,” He admitted, voice rougher now, quieter.

“I’m okay.” You squeezed his hand, reassuring, “Thanks to you.”

Jason scoffed, but there was no bite to it, “Yeah, no thanks to your dumbass trying to save your research instead of yourself. Next time, leave the dangerous work to the big boys?”

You rolled your eyes, clearing your throat, “Next time, try not making me scream so hard when you reset my shoulder. I think I burst a blood vessel.”

Jason smirked, rubbing his thumb absently over your knuckles, “I can make you scream plenty other ways, baby.”

Your scoffed at this, rolling your eyes but choosing not to respond. Stupid bastard, pretending like he was all suave when you both knew underneath it all, Jason Todd was an unapologetic romantic.

You let your fingers tighten around his, anchoring yourself to the warmth of him.

Jason squeezed back, like he understood.

“Get some rest." He murmured, shifting slightly so his arm rested on the mattress, keeping your hands tangled together, “I’ll be here.”

You sighed softly, your body finally relaxing, “Promise?”

Jason leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of your hand, “Promise.”

***

Jason climbed through your window with practiced ease and you didn't even flinch as he let himself in, still in his Red Hood get-up. This wasn't the first time he was doing this, nor would it be his last. It had been this way ever since you had been escorted back by him from the hospital.

Jason checked up on you almost every day, making sure you were dressing your burns properly, even redressing the ones on your back. On those nights, when you felt incredibly vulnerable, you knew there was no one you’d feel safer with than Jason.

You merely glanced at him from your spot behind the counter, continuing to slice the cucumber using the mandolin.

The fearsome Red Hood found his way into your kitchen, nudging you out of the way and washing his hands. He ignored your protests, grabbing the mandolin from you and snatching the cucumber, "This thing's sharp."

You rolled your eyes, "I was being careful."

He didn't even take off his domino, only tossing his helmet onto your couch in his rush to help you, "I didn't think you knew how."

You scoffed at this, lightly slapping his shoulder even though you were well aware that you could've put more strength into it and he still would've felt nothing, "Go shower while I heat up dinner you loser."

He laughed, stepping aside and letting you grab the freshly sliced cucumber so you could add the spices to make cucumber salad. He pecked your temple, grabbing the towel you had left warming for him in the dryer before stepping into the shower and washing the grime of Gotham away.

When he emerged from the shower, dressed in the sweats he had left there, you caught a glimpse of his bare chest. Letting out a flustered laugh, you quickly averted your gaze.

“Oh my god, put on a shirt!”

Jason just cackled, completely unbothered, as he rummaged through your dresser drawer. He disappeared for a moment, only to reappear in the kitchen after tossing his wet towel in the washer.

This time, when you looked at him, the laugh that escaped was less flustered and more outright incredulous.

“What on earth are you wearing?”

A baby tee on you was cute—it rode up just enough to show a teasing sliver of skin, something that Jason always found distracting. But on him? It was absolutely ridiculous.

The fabric strained around his biceps like it was fighting for its life, and you were genuinely concerned that if he flexed even a little, the sleeves would burst apart. The hem barely covered his pecs, leaving his abs completely on display. And across his chest, in bold letters, were the words:

“I’m sorry I have great tits.”

You covered your mouth, shaking with laughter, "Of all the shirts I have."

“And? Is it wrong to own my truth?”

You groaned, throwing a dish towel at his face while still giggling, “Take it off.”

“Make me.”

***

When Jason woke up to the sound of you bustling around his apartment, he sat up in bed, hair mussed, and found you rifling through his closet. You held up a formal button-up shirt, tapping your chin in consideration.

He watched you, still groggy, taking in your figure dressed in one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxer shorts. You’d stopped by after dinner last night and ended up crashing on his couch, not even stirring when he carried you to bed.

Jason glanced at the clock, “Don’t you— I don’t know— have a job to get to?”

You spared him a glance over your shoulder, “Oh, you’re awake. I figured instead of going all the way back to my place, I’d just borrow something of yours and wear the same jeans from yesterday. I’m in the lab today anyway, so it doesn’t really matter what I have on underneath.”

He hummed, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn.

“Left breakfast for you in the microwave, by the way.”

Stepping behind you, he pressed a quick, absentminded kiss to your temple before heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he emerged, you had swapped the button-up for one of his t-shirts, knotting it in the middle so it wouldn’t look so oversized. He smirked at the sight of you checking yourself out in the mirror, tugging at the hem, making sure it didn’t look odd.

“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmured, leaning against the doorframe.

You rolled your eyes but grinned at him through the mirror, “Yeah, yeah. I bet you say that to all the girls stealing your clothes.”

Jason scoffed, stepping closer, “Oh yeah, all the girls. My closet’s just a free-for-all at this point.”

You laughed, swatting at his chest as he loomed behind you. He caught your wrist with ease, fingers curling lightly around it, his touch warm and familiar.

You pouted up at him, flashing your best pleading puppy-dog eyes. He raised an amused brow.

“Give me a ride to work?”

Jason huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at you, “You’re really pushing your luck, you know that?”

You grinned, tilting your head slightly, “Come on, Jay. I’ll even let you pick the music.”

He narrowed his eyes, “You always let me pick the music.”

“Yeah, but this time, I won’t complain about your broody, ‘I’m a tortured soul’ playlists.”

Jason scoffed, releasing your wrist only to flick your forehead lightly, “First of all, my playlists are not broody—”

“They absolutely are.” You interrupted, smirking.

He ignored you, “Second, you know I’d drive you anyway. You don’t have to beg.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your heart, “So you like driving me around? I knew it. You’re secretly my personal chauffeur.”

Jason rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at his lips, “Yeah, yeah. Go make me a cup of coffee so I don't fall asleep at the wheel while dropping your lazy ass off.”

You saluted him playfully before bouncing toward the kitchen. Jason lingered for a moment, watching you move around his space so effortlessly, so comfortably. It was dangerous, the way you fit into his life so easily. But even as he tried to shake off the thought, he was already reaching for his keys, knowing damn well he’d drive you anywhere you asked.

***

You shut the door to your apartment only after the elevator doors finally closed, ensuring your friend had left. The lights in your home remained off, and darkness enveloped you as you carefully navigated the room, kicking off your heels.

"Who was that?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin, giving yourself whiplash when you swung around to face the intruder in your apartment—only to sigh in relief when you were met by the familiar hunk of a silhouette.

"You scared the hell out of me, Jason." You grumbled, now having to turn on the lights so you could look for where you had dropped your keys in shock.

"Who was that?" He repeated and this time you picked up on something in his tone. Less inquisitive and more interrogative. You arched a brow at him, dumping the keys into the bowl by the door and placing your handbag onto the kitchen island.

"What's with the attitude?"

Even though you continued to bustle about the apartment, you couldn't help but steal glances of his unmoving figure on the couch. He was never like this, he usually helped you out of your coat, ran the shower, something.

His indifference was making you antsy.

"Damian said he saw you out on a date."

That had you stopping midway of unloading your dishwasher, your reflection in the freshly clean dishes staring back at you with an expression of befuddlement.

'Damian saw me on a date? Me? On a date? When? Where? With who?!'

"What are you even talking about, Jason?" You scoffed, slightly off-put by this sudden turn in behavior. You hadn't been on a date since prehistoric times, it felt like. Jason felt the need to break into your apartment (not technically breaking in considering he had a key), sit in the dark and interrogate you in your own home all because of some baseless accusation that Damian of all people made.

"He said he saw you talking it up with some man at town square today and that you got into his car."

Jason finally stood up, walking over to where you stood in the kitchen and your eyes raked over his figure multiple times. Something about this was just wrong; his stiff posture, the frown on his face, the hard eyes.

"I was attending a conference happening there with a co-worker—we drove up there together."

Jason’s eyes scanned your face, and a flicker of offense sparked in your chest. Did he think you were lying? And even if you were—what business was it of his?

"A co-worker, huh?" He said, his voice tight and laced with something sharp, "How come this is the first I'm hearing of this? Lord knows you'd usually beg me to drive you there."

You frowned, "What is up with you? Why does it matter? You're behaving like a jealous boyfriend, and last I checked, we weren't dating."

That was clearly not the right thing to say, judging by the way Jason’s face stoned over—expression cold and unreadable, yet barely concealing the red-hot fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"Excuse me?" He seethed, stepping closer to you. If it had been anyone else, you would've taken a step back. But this was Jason, and you didn't feel any discomfort when he stepped into your bubble.

"You call me when you're down and need someone to talk to. We literally spend every night together to the point I have a drawer in my dresser for your clothes! (Y/N), you've held me on nights when I can't sleep!" He cried, voice tight with frustration, "If that isn't dating, then what the fuck is this? What the fuck are we?"

He stepped closer, crowding into your space until your back hit the refrigerator with a soft thud. His palms pressed flat against the wall on either side of you, caging you in.

"(Y/N)..." He whispered, leaning in closer. He smelled of artificial ocean in a bottle and sharp menthol, a mix that shouldn’t have been so intoxicating. Heat radiated off him, and suddenly, you felt far too warm.

You were so close to throwing away all your inhibitions until that one feeling—heavy and unshakable—anchored your stomach, dragging you back down.

"Stop."

He did.

You felt him sigh against your lips, a hair away from actually meeting his. He shook his head, "I should've known."

He didn’t look at you once, just left his key on the counter and shut the door behind him. Your back remained pinned to the fridge as the sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway, each one echoing in time with your pounding heart.

'Go after him. Stop him. Do something.'

And yet, your feet stayed rooted in place.

***

The next time you imagined seeing Jason, it would be at a family event neither of you could find a way out of. You’d steal a longing glance when his back was turned, spending the rest of the night waiting, hoping, that he'd return your gaze.

You never imagined that the next time you’d see him—talk to him—would be in the back alley behind a noisy club. You hadn’t meant for this to happen—really, you hadn’t.

You’d just gotten off a particularly rough shift, and even though all you wanted was to crawl into the quiet of your room and call Jason just to hear his voice, instead, a coworker had convinced you to blow off some steam and grab a drink.

You hadn't expected to see Jason there—especially not with another girl.

“When I said stop, I didn’t mean stop forever and get over me!” You cried out, frustration and overwhelming emotion cracking through your voice. Seeing him with Artemis had unleashed an arsenal of feelings you couldn’t even begin to sort through, and before you knew it, you were picking a fight with him—desperate for his attention to be back on you instead of her.

You were envious of her strong build and long, lustrous hair. You were angry with yourself for resenting her, even though she’d done absolutely nothing wrong. You were hurt because it looked like Jason was having a good time. And most of all, you were confused—why did it upset you so much?

“Would you rather I stay as your little plaything forever? Stringing me along just enough to keep me loving you, hoping for more, only to push me away with some bullshit excuse?”

His face darkened, and your stomach hollowed out. Jason had been frustrated with you many times before; you’d argued until he was red in the face. But he’d never looked at you like this—like he hated you.

You bit your lip, the fight seeping out of you. Because at the end of the day… he was right, wasn’t he? You had been playing with him—stringing him along, showing him glimpses of the most intimate corners of your life, but still expecting him to magically know where you’d drawn the invisible lines of unspoken boundaries.

His jaw hardened, and you dropped your gaze. Jason didn’t deserve this. Inside the club was a beautiful, strong woman who he had every right to show interest in. And you had no right to be upset about it.

“You’re right, Jason. I—I’m sorry for ruining your date. You should get back in there before she thinks you stood her up.”

With your hands pressed to your chest to stop yourself from reaching out for him, you sidestepped his domineering presence and turned to walk away.

“Are you fucking kidding me? That’s it?”

You froze. Turning back, you found him ruffling his hair in frustration, annoyance radiating off him in waves as he stalked closer, stopping just a couple of feet away.

“You don’t get to fucking do that! You don’t get to tell me to stop, then get mad at me for actually doing what you asked. You don’t get to make a scene and not even tell me why!”

That was it.

You closed the distance between you two, clutching the collar of his jacket with trembling fists and yanking him down to you, slanting your lips against his in a rough, desperate kiss.

“That’s why,” You whispered, lowering yourself back onto your heels and letting go of his jacket as you turned to leave—

“Oh no, you’re not.”

Jason’s arm coiled around your hips, pulling you back against him as he crushed his lips to yours once more. You sighed against him, your fingers twisting into his hair, your other hand slipping under his jacket, fisting the fabric of his shirt.

It was everything you had spent months pretending you didn’t want.

And you couldn’t stop.

***

Bonus:

"Hi, honey." You said, voice sweet and saccharine, as you entered the dining room of the manor.

"Hi, pookie." Dick replied, not looking up from his phone, lounging on the couch.

There was a pause, followed by an exaggerated noise of disgust from you, "I could not have been more clearly speaking to my boyfriend." You teased, your tone playful but pointed.

This time, Dick looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow. His expression shifted from confusion to realization as he saw you standing with your hands wrapped around Jason's neck, very clearly leaning in for a kiss to greet him instead.

"Oh, for god's sake." Dick groaned, rolling his eyes, "Ugh, you both are disgusting. You know I used to be her honey?"

Jason raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips, "Get used to it, geezer," he quipped, draping an arm around your shoulder and pecking your temple, "She likes younger men."

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

DC Taglist:

@tchatso

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

@sokkas-honour

@unstable1902

@lostgirlheart

@missdisapear

@tadpole-san

@isawachickeninatree

@uxavity

@battlenix

@capricorn-stark

@evermoore580

@dumbbitchgalore

@fuckingjinkies

@some-lovely-day

@that-one-fangirl69

@el-hrts

Requested tags:

@theendofthematerialgworl

@itzmeme

@catharticdesire

@joonunivrs

@mercuryathens

secret admirers ★ jackieshauna x fem!reader

jackie learns she's not the only one with a hopeless crush on you

warnings: jackieshauna being girlfails (what's new??)

word count: 1350

a/n: based on the lake scene from s1 bc they both look so fucking good omg

jackie lies comfortably on a towel on the rocky shore of the lake.  mari is talking to her about... something, but it's all been a blur since you pulled your shirt over your head and carelessly threw it beside her.

her eyes feast on the curves of your body as you step further into the lake, your mismatch brown bra and pink underwear the only fabrics covering your body.  she feels like a perv for looking so intently, but she can't help but notice how low the waistband of your panties sits on your hips and the slight flexion of your toned thighs with each step you take deeper into the water.

she could watch you for hours, she thinks, leaning back onto her elbow.  her eyes follow you as you prance over to lottie and dunk your head under the surface.  when you emerge, throwing your hair behind you and slicking it back with your hands, jackie forgets how to breathe.  she thinks that wrapping her arms around you from behind and leaving wet kisses on your shoulder might save her.

jackie is pulled from her fantasies when she catches shauna in her line of sight a few yards farther out than you.  although it appeared at first glance that shauna was looking at her, jackie soon notices shauna's eyes lingering on you.

shauna looks so focused, like you're some kind of animal she's studying and she's thinking long and hard about what to do with you next.  she barely moves at all as she watches you, one of her brows furrowed in concentration and her lips tightly pressed together.  when you spin in a circle, splashing and giggling, her lips barely part and jackie barely catches it.  her big brown eyes seem to grow even bigger and, if jackie was closer, she would see shauna's pupils dilating.

jackie's confused for a moment.  she knows that look in shauna's eyes.  it means shauna hates you.  or she...

"fuck," jackie mumbles under her breath.

"what was that?" mari asks, confused.

"oh, nothing," jackie reassures her with the nonchalant wave of her hand.  she looks over at mari for a second before she continues and jackie's eyes immediately return to the situation in front of her.

shauna likes you.  in the same way that she likes you.

she feels so stupid.  how could she not have realized this earlier?

jackie had been harboring her crush on you for a while, but only confessed it to shauna a month ago when she just couldn't hold it in any longer.  she was terrified of shauna's reaction, but after the words left jackie's lips like word vomit, all shauna could say was "oh."

at the time, jackie just thought shauna was surprised by the fact jackie liked girls, but now, that "oh" had a completely different meaning.  now, when jackie replayed the moment in her head, shauna's "oh" sounded less shocked and more disappointed.  how long had shauna been crushing on you?  and why hadn't shauna told her?

all the times she had seen the two of you together came rushing back to jackie, from the deep conversations at parties where your thighs pressed together on the couch, to walking into the locker room together with shoulders bumping.  it was no coincidence that every time you weren't by her side, you were with shauna.

she remembers watching the two of you from across the room and seeing shauna's barely evident smile every time you laughed.  jackie just thought she was being nice.

she remembers rambling to shauna about you and all your cute little quirks.  she remembers how uncomfortable and stiff shauna had been as soon as your name was mentioned.  like she had something to hide.

that fucking bitch, jackie thinks, glaring daggers through shauna's face.  you were hers.   shauna should know that better than anyone.  but jackie did know that shauna liked to steal things right out from under her.  apparently you were no different.

shauna, feeling eyes on her, lets her own eyes stray from you and finds jackie already staring at her.

knowing jackie like the back of her hand, shauna instantly knows she's caught.  the frown on jackie's face is unmistakable and anger pours out of her hooded eyes.

"fuck," shauna whispers to herself, immediately closing her parted lips.  jackie looks like she's going to eat her alive and shauna has no response other than looking slightly ashamed.

but it's not her fault that you're...you, she thinks.  it's not her fault that your smile lights up a room and that her skin burns wherever you touch her.  you're not a want, but an insatiable need.

shauna knows jackie feels the same thing.  after all, jackie's crush on you was so much more obvious than shauna's.  jackie was always touching you, whether it was bumping her hip against yours to get your attention or clutching onto your arm anywhere and everywhere.  jackie always laughed extra hard at your jokes and wore a stupid smile all day when you complimented her.  she was basically throwing herself at you, so much so that some of the other girls had started to notice; shauna observed the way they exchanged glances when jackie praised you a little too much to be friendly.  it was a wonder you didn't know yet.

on the other hand, shauna liked to applaud herself for being more subtle and perhaps more intellectual than jackie.  she gazed at you from across the room unbeknownst you, admiring each of your little habits.  she saved you a seat at team dinners and remembered your favorite drink to buy it for you after practice.  she overheard you talking to tai about a movie you wanted to see and then casually asked if you wanted to go watch it with her that friday night, trying to act surprised by your excitement.

that was another thing: jackie always raved to shauna about the one-on-one time she spent with you, whether it was study dates or midnight snacks at the local diner.  it made shauna's stomach bubble with jealousy.

on the other hand, shauna was secretive about the time the two of you spent together.

shauna quietly wondered if you looked up from your notebook at jackie the same way you glanced at her at the movies.  or if your hand brushed jackie's over the diner table the same way your fingers grazed hers on the armrest.

if only jackie hadn't complicated things by telling shauna about her little massive crush on you.  jackie was never one to make things simple for shauna.

shauna knows jackie wants to keep her subdued, always lurking in her shadow.  so whether consciously or subconsciously, jackie's crush on you is another way for jackie to assert her dominance in their friendship.

because shauna was crushing on you first, right? so technically, you were hers first.

or did jackie's crush come first?  the timeline is unclear.

their staring contest ends when shauna turns her back on jackie, feeling too small under her gaze.  shauna looks toward the horizon for a moment before she sneaks another glance at you.

jackie's hands dig into the sand, grasping at the grains with pure frustration.  she eases slightly when she finds you peacefully floating on your back, completely oblivious to the tension between your two admirers.

it was almost pathetic how they each laid claim to you in their own heads, but neither had the courage to show their feelings in a way that wasn't playful flirting or longing gazes.  so both watched on, savoring you with their eyes.

they each secretly hoped for reassurance.  a sign of some sort that you wanted them too.  that's all it would take before they were muffling your words with a kiss and throwing themselves at your feet.

but now things were more complicated: who exactly did you want?

can you guys tell that all i want is for hot girls to be obsessed w me

i hope this finds you well ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“you’ll be bored of him in two years,” oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.” (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k (!!!) ꔮ includes: friendship, romance, angst. cussing, mentions of food & alcohol. references to greta gerwig's little women (2019), mostly set in melbourne, oscar's sisters are recurring characters. ꔮ commentary box: i've written way too much oscar as of late, so before i go on a self-imposed ban, i had to get this monster out. fully, wholly dedicated to @binisainz, whose amylaurie lando fic does this feeling go both ways? started all this. birdy, i love you like all fire. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ let you break my heart again, laufey. we can't be friends (wait for your love), ariana grande. cool enough for you, skyline. do i ever cross your mind, sombr. bags, clairo. true blue, boygenius. laurie and jo on the hill, alexandre desplat.

Oscar Piastri is not the kind of boy who usually finds himself at house parties.

Especially not the kind with balloons tied to banisters, tables laden with sausage rolls and buttercream cupcakes, and a Bluetooth speaker hiccupping out the tail-end of some pop anthem. But here he is, cornered into attendance by his sisters—Hattie, Edie, and Mae—who’d all dressed up for the occasion and declared, in unison, that he had to come.

So he had. Because he was a good brother and an unwilling chaperone. 

And now he’s bored.

Oscar stands near the drinks table, nursing a cup of lukewarm lemonade and trying to look vaguely interested in the streamers above the kitchen doorway. Hattie had already been whisked off to dance by someone in a navy jumper. Edie had found the girl who always brought homemade brownies to school. Mae was giggling wildly with a trio of kids Oscar vaguely recognized from the street down. 

No one notices him lingering by himself. That suits him just fine.

Still, he can’t quite shake the restlessness crawling up his spine. The noise is too loud, the lights too warm. With a quick scan of the room and a glance over his shoulder, Oscar slips behind a long, velvet curtain that cordons off what seemed to be the study.

Except there’s already someone there.

He realizes it a moment too late, nearly landing on top of you.

“Oh my God—sorry!” he blurts out, practically leaping backward. His foot catches on the edge of the curtain and he stumbles a bit, arms flailing before catching the side of a bookshelf. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t see you. I didn’t think anyone else—sorry. Again.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, legs curled beneath you on the armchair he had almost sat on. There’s a half-eaten biscuit on a napkin beside you, and your fingers are wrapped around a glass of ginger ale. Contrary to everyone else at this godforsaken event, you’re not a familiar face. 

“It’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. Accented. Affirming Oscar’s theory that you’re not a Melbourne native. After a pause, you tentatively joke: “You didn’t sit on me, so that’s a win.”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Close call.”

The silence after is not awkward, exactly. Just shy. The two of you are tucked away behind a curtain, neither fully sure what to do next. Oscar takes the plunge first, figuring it’s the least he could do after intruding on your escape.

“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he adds unnecessarily. He gestures vaguely toward the chaos outside. “Dragged here by my sisters.”

“I figured you were with the girls,” you reply amusedly. “I’m new. Just moved here a few weeks ago.”

Oscar’s brows lift. “So this is your introduction to the madness?”

“Pretty much.” You offer a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really know anyone, and pretending to be cool isn’t really my thing.”

“Mine neither,” he says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “Hence the hiding.”

That earns him a soft smile. It’s a pretty smile, Oscar privately notes. 

He gestures to the empty bit of couch beside you. “Mind if I sit? Promise to check for limbs first.”

You shift slightly to make room. “Be my guest.”

He sits, careful this time, knees bumping slightly against yours as he settles. The party noise feels far away behind the curtain—muted like a dream. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, curiosity bright beneath his awkwardness.

“Got a name, new kid?” he asks, because even though he had agreed that he doesn’t like feigning coolness, he’s still just a teenage boy with a god complex. 

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, careful with the syllables like he’s folding them into memory.

A few more minutes pass, filled with idle chatter. You talk about your move, the weird smell of paint still lingering in your new house, and the fact that none of the cupcakes at this party have chocolate frosting, which is a tragedy. Oscar, in turn, tells you about his sisters. How Mae once tried to dye her hair green with a highlighter and how Hattie got banned from school discos after she snuck in a smoke machine.

The laughter between you is easy. Unforced.

Then you say it, maybe without thinking too hard. “We should dance,” you muse, finishing off the last of your biscuit. 

Oscar freezes. His eyebrows shoot up, alarmed. “Dance? With me?”

“Unless you’d rather go back to pretending the streamers are fascinating.”

“I don’t dance with strangers,” he says, half-laughing, half-panicked.

“We know each other’s names now,” you point out. “That makes us not-strangers.”

With a beleaguered sigh and a scrunch of his nose, Oscar comes clean. “I’m bad at it,” he grumbles. 

“Who cares?”

“My sisters. They’ll see. And I’ll never live it down.”

You purse your lips, tapping your glass lightly against your knee. Then, a spark lights in your eyes. It’s the kind that spells trouble; Oscar has seen it in his siblings’ faces, right before they do something so invariably stupid and reckless. “Come with me. I have an idea,” you urge. 

He hesitates, a part of his brain screeching something like stranger danger! in flashing, neon lights. In the end, he follows.

You slip out through the back door, motioning for him to stay quiet as you lead him down the wooden steps and out onto the wrap-around porch. The party sounds are muffled here, only the faint thump of bass slipping through the walls.

“Out here,” you say, turning to him with an expectant grin. “Nobody to laugh. Just us.”

Oscar stares at you. “This is crazy.” 

“Shut up and dance.”

And so he does.

Awkwardly, at first, because you start them off with wild moves and dance skills that are much more abysmal than his. It gives him the confidence to start swaying a bit, his laughter poorly stifled as he watches you flail like an octopus. 

You take his hands, and he lets you spin him gently, sneakers squeaking against the porch boards. There’s no rhythm to it, not really. Just swaying and clumsy steps and the faint thrum of music in the background.

The porch light flickers above you, casting long shadows. Somewhere inside, someone cheers. But out here, it's just you and Oscar.

Two kids dancing badly and not caring.

“You’re a weird one,” he says with a smile that splits his face open.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, fingers squeezing his as you twirl yourself through his arm. It’s a gross miscalculation and you end up stumbling, the two of you cackling as you attempt to detangle from the mess of limbs you’ve entangled each other in. 

For the first time that night, Oscar thinks he might actually like this party after all.

Christmas morning in the Piastri household always comes with a sort of chaos—the kind born of slippers skidding across hardwood, sleepy giggles, and the rustle of wrapping paper long before the sun climbs properly into the sky.

This year, however, there’s something new. A wicker basket sits on the porch, ribbon-wrapped and dusted in the faintest layer of frost. 

It’s heavy with gifts, each one handmade and meticulously labeled in curling script. Hattie, first to spot it, gives a shriek loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Within minutes, the whole family is gathered in the living room, the basket placed like treasure at the center.

“It’s from the new neighbors,” their mum announces, plucking a card from the basket. Her voice is touched with surprise and delight. “The old man and his granddaughter. Isn’t that sweet?”

Hattie unwraps a pair of knitted socks, blue and gold. Edie lifts out a jar of spiced jam. Mae discovers a hand-bound notebook. Each gift is simple but exquisite, the sort of thing you only receive from people who notice details.

“She’s the one who doesn’t talk to anyone,” Hattie says knowingly, curling her legs beneath her on the couch. You were in the same level as her, it seemed—a year below Oscar. 

“That house is huge.” Edie glances out the window, towards your home. “Do you think her parents are loaded?” 

“I heard they aren’t even around,” Mae whispers. “Just her and the grandfather. He looks ancient, though. Like, fossil ancient.”

“Girls,” their mum cuts in sharply. “That’s enough. They were kind enough to send gifts. We will be kind in return.”

Oscar, perched on the armrest of the couch, stays quiet through the speculation. His hands toy with the tag on his gift—a simple wooden bookmark, engraved with an amateur sketch of a stick figure dancing. He doesn’t say anything about the study, or the curtain, or the ginger ale.

But the memory floats to the front of his mind: the soft hush of the party behind a curtain, the brush of knees, your laugh when he had called you weird. 

“We should make friends with them,” Oscar says finally, looking up. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

The girls pause. Hattie raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about new neighbors?”

He shrugs, trying not to look too interested. “Just saying. It wouldn’t kill us to be nice.”

Their mum smiles, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”

Oscar glances back down at the bookmark, running a thumb over the edge.

He finds your family acquainting with his soon enough.

On a sunny afternoon, right as Edie is pouring cereal into a bowl and Oscar is elbow-deep in the dishwasher, the home phone rings. Hattie picks up, listens for a moment, then calls out, “Mae’s at the neighbor’s. She fell off her bike.”

There’s a rush of clattering cutlery and footsteps, and in no time, Oscar finds himself trailing behind his sisters down the sidewalk, toward the big house next door—the one with the sprawling lawn and mismatched wind chimes on the porch.

When they arrive, Mae is perched on your front steps, a bandage already wrapped around her knee and a juice box in hand. She waves lazily as Hattie and Edie fall upon her with a dozen questions. Your grandfather, white-haired and kind-eyed, stands nearby, looking amused by the commotion. He introduces himself and ushers them all inside despite their protests.

Oscar hangs back for a moment until he spots you just behind the door, barefoot and half-hidden by the frame. You glance up, catch his eye, and grin.

“You again,” you say, stepping out onto the porch. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, just scraped her knee,” Oscar replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks for patching her up.”

“We had a pretty solid first aid game back at my old school. I’m well-versed in playground accidents.”

He chuckles, leaning against the porch railing. “That so? Must be a pretty rough school.”

“Brutal,” you agree solemnly. “There were snack thieves and dodgeball champions. It was a jungle.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“It built character,” you say with mock seriousness, then flash him a grin. “Want to come in? I made too much lemonade.”

Oscar nods and follows you inside. The kitchen smells like lemon zest and fresh biscuits. Hattie and Edie are now harrowing your grandfather with questions about the old piano in the corner and whether the house is haunted. He answers everything with a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the attention.

You hand Oscar a glass and settle across from him at the kitchen table. He takes a sip. “You weren’t lying,” he says through another swig. “This is good.”

“Of course not. I take my beverages very seriously.”

“You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m starting to think it might be a compliment.”

You clink your glass against his in cheers. He smiles, and something warm unfurls in his chest. A startling kind of certainty. Like something’s taking root—a real friendship, honest and surprising and entirely unplanned.

Oscar is surprised to find that he doesn’t mind. 

It happens gradually, like most real things do.

You begin spending Saturday afternoons with the Piastri bunch, lounging on their back deck with Hattie and Edie, gossiping about the neighbors or watching Mae attempt increasingly dangerous trampoline flips. You get good at knowing who takes how many sugars in their tea, when to duck because Edie’s chucking a tennis ball, or when Oscar is about to try and quietly leave the room.

You’re there for board games on rainy days and movie nights on Fridays. You help Hattie with her French homework, braid Mae’s hair when her fingers get too clumsy with excitement, and lend Edie your favorite books. Their mum always saves you an extra slice of cake, and their dad asks how your grandfather’s garden is faring this season.

It starts to feel like you’ve always belonged there, wedged into the rhythm of their household like a missing puzzle piece finally found.

Oscar is often quieter than the others, but he’s still a constant. You and he become fixtures in each other’s orbit. Trading messages about school, tagging each other in silly videos, or sending one-word replies that only make sense to the two of you. 

Despite being one year his junior, the two of you are close in a way that you aren’t with the girls. He swears it’s because he met you first, because the two of you have emergency dance parties and cricket watch parties that nobody else knows about.   

He leaves for boarding school, and the absence sits awkwardly on both your chests at first. But he never really disappears. He always texts when he’s back. Always walks you home at least once before he has to leave again. Always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

And then—one summer—he comes home and something’s different.

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t swoon. He doesn’t speak in slow motion. It’s just... subtle.

Oscar stands taller. His shoulders are broader. His voice has deepened slightly. There’s a small scar at the corner of his lip you don’t remember, and when he grins, it strikes you—how he’s grown into himself, soft and sharp all at once.

You catch him staring at you too, once or twice. Like he’s trying to recalibrate what he thought he knew. Your hair is a little longer, and your skin is tanned from all the days in the sun. He remembers the freckles; he doesn’t remember when they became so prominent.

But it never becomes a thing. You don’t talk about it. You fall back into your usual rhythm.

Because even if your faces are a little older, your banter is still quick and familiar. You still chase each other down the street. You still squabble over the last biscuit. He still rolls his eyes at you, and you still prod him for his terrible taste in music.

Whatever has changed, whatever is beginning to, you both keep it tucked away. For now, it’s enough just to have each other nearby.

It’s a fact Oscar remembers as digs his toes into the hot sand. His jaw is tight; he watches the waves break in even swells. The sun’s beating down hard, but he barely feels it. Not with the way his chest still burns from the shouting match earlier.

Hattie had stormed out of the house with her towel clutched like a shield, and Oscar had followed, only because everyone else was pretending like nothing had happened. His sisters always expected him to be the reasonable one, and today—he hadn’t been.

He’d snapped. Something petty. A dig at her choice of music in the car. Then something sharper about her always having to be right. And before he knew it, she’d looked at him like he was someone else. 

He hadn’t apologized.

Now, he sits beneath the shade of a crooked umbrella, arms wrapped around his knees. He watches the group scatter across the sand and into the waves. Hattie’s already out with her board, paddling strong into the break like she’s trying to prove something. Edie is further down the shore, half-buried in a sandcastle war. Mae’s running between them, laughing.

You drop into the sand beside him, skin glinting from seawater, hair tied back and still damp. “You two going for the title of Most Dramatic Siblings today?” you ask, unsurprisingly up to date. Hattie probably told you all about it while the two of you were getting changed. 

Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was a bit of a tosser this morning,” he says dryly. 

You nod, not offering him an out. Just letting the honesty settle.

“She’ll forgive you. Eventually,” you add. “You Piastris always find your way back.”

He tilts his head, watching you. The sunlight makes your nose wrinkle when you squint toward the water. Your shoulders have lost some of their shyness from when he first met you. You’ve become more sure of yourself, laughing louder, teasing easily. Comfortable. Confident. Certain. 

He likes that. 

The two of you sit in silence until Oscar stands, grabbing his board. “I’m going out.”

“Be nice,” you call after him, and he flashes a grin over his shoulder—tight but genuine.

In the surf, Oscar feels the tension bleed out with every push through the waves. The water’s cold and biting, salt sharp in his mouth. He catches sight of Hattie up ahead and paddles after her, trying not to let the guilt slow him down. Hattie notices him, grimaces, and rushes on. 

Trying to prove something. 

The waves pick up. Hattie catches one, standing briefly before wiping out. She resurfaces quickly, almost laughing, but Oscar watches her expression shift just moments later. There’s a sudden pull in the water, subtle but unmistakable. A riptide.

She paddles against it. Wrong move.

Oscar feels the fright hit like a tsunami. 

He’s been scared before. Of course he has. He’s terrible when it comes to horror movies. He’s seen his karting peers fissure into pretty nasty accidents. But this, the fear of this, of his younger sister— 

He starts shouting, but the wind carries his voice sideways. Instinctively, he glances to shore—and sees that you’re already running. Board abandoned, feet flying across wet sand. You make it to him in record time, that crazed look in your eyes mirroring his.

Together, you plunge into the surf. Oscar’s strokes are strong, slicing through the current. He reaches Hattie just as she starts to panic.

“Float! Don’t fight it!” you yell, coming up on her other side.

Oscar grabs her wrist, firm but steady. You’re on the other, speaking calm, clear instructions, guiding her body as the three of you angle sideways out of the current. 

You’re the voice of reason; Oscar is the force that perseveres. 

It’s slow. Exhausting. But eventually, the pull lessens.

You reach the shore heaving, salt-stung, and shaking. Hattie collapses onto her knees, coughing up seawater, and Oscar sinks beside her, heart hammering. His hands rest at her back, as if he’s scared she’ll go down under the moment he lets go. 

Hattie says nothing at first. She just looks at him with wet, furious eyes.

It’s a look Oscar is used to seeing on Hattie’s face. They’re siblings. Of course they squabble, and they fight, and they know where to hit for it to hurt. Such was the curse and blessing of being a brother. 

Underneath all that, though, Oscar goes back to two cardinal truths: Being the eldest, he made his mum and dad parents—but when Hattie came around, they made him a sibling. 

And a sibling he would always be, come hell or high water. 

“You didn’t even say sorry,” Hattie sputters, like that’s still the worst thing that has happened this afternoon. 

Oscar can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh. You hover nearby, giving them space. But not too much.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s I’m sorry for picking a fight, and I’m sorry for being a bad brother sometimes, and I’m sorry I never taught you about riptides. 

Hattie sniffles, then swats at him. “You better be.”

And that’s how they make up.

Later, as the sun begins to dip, casting everything in amber, Oscar finds you rinsing your arms at an outdoor shower.

“Hey,” he says, stepping close with your towel in his hands.

You look over your shoulder. “Hey.”

He shuffles awkwardly. With salt in his hair and gratitude tangled in his ribs, Oscar thinks there’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when the tide pulls under. 

But there’s something deeper, something closer to guilt gnawing at him. 

You sense it, in the same way you know when Oscar’s about to have a bad race weekend or when he’s overwhelmed with schoolwork. Stepping out of the shower, you take your towel, wrap it over your shoulders, and gesture at Oscar to follow you. 

The two of you walk along the shore, away from where Edie is snapping photos of her sandcastle and Mae is reading some trashy romance novel. Hattie is passed out on a beach blanket, the excitement of the near-drowning taking the fight out of her. 

“If she had died,” Oscar tells you, his tongue heavy as lead, “it would’ve been my fault.” 

It’s the kind of thought he figures only you will understand. Not because you have any siblings of your own, not because you had been there, but because you’ve always read Oscar like he was a dog-eared book you could keep under your pillow. 

“She’s fine, though,” you say delicately, but he’s started and he can’t stop. 

“What is wrong with me?” A laugh escapes Oscar—the self-deprecating kind, one that grates more than the sand beneath your feet. “I’ve made so many resolutions and written sad notes and confessed my sins, but it doesn’t seem to help. When I get in a passion—” 

A passion. A fit. With his siblings, with his mates, with you. He can’t count the amount of times his sarcasm has offended you. The instances where he’s made you cry, intentionally or not. 

And when he’s racing. God, when he’s racing. 

In a couple of months, he’s slated to join Formula 4. He has a stellar karting career behind him, one he can barely even remember—because he had seen red throughout it all. Oscar was clinical and cutthroat and cruel the moment he got behind a wheel, and a part of him worries that’s who he’ll always be. 

A man who would stop at nothing to be at the top step of any podium. A boy who would insist on being right like his life depended on it. 

“When I get in a passion,” he tries again, “I get so savage. I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.” 

It’s a damning confession. The kind that could absolutely ruin and unravel Oscar. But he knows, he trusts that it’s safe in your hands. You hum a low sound like he hadn’t just bared his heart out for you to sink your claws into.

“I know what that’s like,” you say, and he has to do a double take. 

“You?” He studies the side of your face, as if checking for insincerity. “You’re never angry.” 

You’re annoyed with him often and you’ve got a hint of fire in everything you say. But there’s never been rage, never been the sort of flame that could incinerate. And so it shocks him all the more when you confess, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life.” 

“You are?” 

“I’m not patient by nature. I just try to not let it get the better of me,” you offer, glancing up at Oscar. 

The two of you have come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline. Soon, you’ll have to get back to his waiting sisters. For now, though, he surveys your expression and finds nothing but the truth. 

He files the facts away in that mental cabinet he has containing what he knows about you. Angry, nearly every day. And then he takes to heart the rest of your words, the roundabout advice of not letting it consume him.

The blaze in him stops roaring for a minute. With you, it’s like a campfire. Inviting and warm. 

Better. You make him better.

“Look at us,” he says, tone almost awed. “After all these years, looks like I can still learn a thing or two from you.” 

There’s something in your eyes that Oscar can’t quite place. You’ve always looked at him a certain way, but he could never really put a word to it. It’s tender and pained all at once; subtle, ultimately, buried underneath whatever he needs you to be at the moment. 

“It’s what friends are for,” you respond, your voice catching on the word in the middle. He pretends not to notice. 

Friends.  

Oscar’s Formula 4 debut is everything he thought it would be.

The pressure, the lights, the nerves so sharp they buzz under his skin—it’s all there, and then some. He tries to soak in every second, from the chorus of engines roaring around him to the feel of the wheel under his gloved hands. But even with everything happening so quickly, even in the blur of adrenaline and pit stops, there’s still time for his thoughts to drift back home.

More specifically: To you.

It starts small. Just a notification that you’ve made a new post. A photo.

You with your boyfriend.

A guy Oscar’s met once, maybe twice. The sort of guy who plays guitar at parties and wears cologne that smells like department store samples. He isn’t bad—just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t match the version of you Oscar has always known. The one who once danced on a porch, hair a mess, daring him to keep up.

He doesn’t know what to do with the bitter feeling that curdles in his chest. You’re not his, per se. You’ve never been. But surely you could do better than this Abercrombie-wearing, Oasis-playing asswipe. 

Summer arrives like it always does—hot and sprawling, with cicadas humming in the trees and long days that stretch lazily into nights. Oscar is home for a few weeks between races. 

You’re still around, too. A little less, though, because your boyfriend is a demanding thing who insists he “doesn’t like Oscar’s vibe.” You fight for the friendship, citing it as a non-negotiable, and when Oscar finds out, he doesn’t even try to hide his smugness. 

The two of you steal away one evening, climbing onto the roof of the Piastri house with cans of lemonade and a bag of sour candy. It’s tradition by now. The tin roof is warm beneath you, and the stars blink faintly above, a faded scattering against the navy sky.

You sit close, your shoulder brushing his every so often.

“You’ve changed,” you say, head tilted toward him.

“Have not.”

“You look taller.”

“I’ve always been taller.”

You laugh, a soft sound. “Okay. You’ve changed in a good way.”

Oscar bumps your knee with his. “So have you.”

The two of you are older, now, more accepting of the facts of life. Time is not your enemy. It’s just time. You’re still in school, and Oscar is still racing. Your paths have diverged, but the road home is one you both know like the back of your hand. 

You go quiet, fiddling with the tab on your lemonade. He watches you closely, trying to read what you’re not saying. You’re nervous. He figures that much out from the fiddling. Nervous about what, though, he can’t— 

“I want to run away with him,” you say suddenly.

Oscar stiffens. He wants to call you out for making such a stupid joke, for not having all your screws on straight. You go on, eyes fixed on the dark street below. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Eloping,” you muse. “I’ve never been one for big weddings, anyway.” 

“Why?”

“Why don’t I like big weddings?” 

“No, stupid. Why the sudden plan of eloping?” 

“Because I love him.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, the slope of your cheek in the half-light, the determination behind your words. It doesn’t sit right. This isn’t you. You make rash decisions, but none so life-altering. Not anything that would give your grandfather grief, and most especially not anything that would disclude Oscar. 

“You’ll be bored of him in two years,” Oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the words hang between you. Those two things could co-exist. Your love for this loser (Oscar’s word; not yours), and the fact that there was nothing in the world that could electrify quite like your friendship with Oscar Piastri. 

He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He hadn’t realized this would be so serious, that he’d been away long enough for you to start considering marriage with what’s-his-face. 

“I don’t expect you to know what it’s like, Oscar,” you say eventually. “To want to be shackled.”

And there it is. 

You’ve always supported Oscar’s career. You have years worth of team merchandise for all his loyalties; you’ve been there for every race that mattered, each one that you could make. 

But you were also selfish in ways that his family wasn’t. You got moody whenever he had to go away after breaks. You made snide comments about him always being the one who leaves. He’s grown to tolerate that petulance, to take in stride your fears of him failing to come back in one piece. 

For the first time ever, Oscar feels what you do. And, God, it doesn’t feel good. 

“I just hate that you’re thinking of leaving me.” The words are past his lips before he can reel them in. 

It sounds desperate, so unlike him, that he understands the shock that flits across your face. There’s a split-second where he sees a hint of anger, too, like you’re mad at Oscar for being honest, for saying all this after his redeye flights and janky timezones. 

He goes on, because what’s the point of backing down now? “Don’t leave,” he presses. 

“O…”

You’re the only one who calls him that. O. OJ, when you’re feeling playful—Oscar Jack. He’s teased you time and time again about not falling back on Osc, as if you were desperate to carve out a nickname that belonged to you and you alone. 

“God,” he interrupts, eyes turning skyward, as if the stars might hold answers. “We’re really not kids anymore, huh?”

You were kids together. Now, you’re teenagers—young adults. Complicated, messy. Entangled in more than limbs and waves.

“Our childhood was bound to end,” you say, and then you reach out to put a hand on his knee. He considers joking something like Careful, your boyfriend might try to pick a fight and you know I have a mean left hook, but then you might come to your senses and pull your touch away. 

He doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. You just sit there on the roof, side by side, listening to the quiet hum of summer and the distant echoes of who you used to be.

You break up with your boyfriend sometime in early spring, citing incompatibility in a text that Oscar reads while lying flat on the floor of his hotel room in Baku. 

He blinks at the message, reads it twice, and then tosses his phone across the bed. The relief that floods through him is disproportionate, almost unsettling. He chalks it up to instinct. Or something like that.

He tells himself it’s just the same feeling he gets when Edie starts seeing some guy from her literature elective, a summer not too long after you joked about eloping. Maybe it’s the older brother in him, wanting to be protective of the women in his life. 

That’s what he’s muttering to himself when you catch him scowling at Edie’s date from across the local food park. He was chaperoning once again, though this time Edie had banished him to hang out with you while she was making heart eyes at this lanky transfer student. 

“I thought you’d be pleased,” you tease Oscar, popping a chip into your mouth.

Oscar doesn’t look away from where Edie is laughing at something the guy just said. “At the idea of anybody coming to take Edie away? No, thank you.”

You smirk. “You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”

He finally glances at you, one brow raised. “I’d like to see anyone try.”

“So would I!” you shoot back, grinning as you sip your soda. Oscar’s withstanding singleness was something the two of you joked about often, even though he always reasoned that he was busy. Busy with racing, busy with family, busy with you. “That poor soul wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Oscar opens his mouth to reply, but then you pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. It’s a thing you picked up since you got to uni, and Oscar’s frown deepens at the sight of it. At your audacity. Before you can light it, he snatches it from your fingers.

“Oi!” you protest.

He waves it out of your reach. “None of that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

You lunge for it, but he’s already up and jogging backward, the cigarette held aloft in triumph. You chase after him with a string of cusses, half-laughing, half-serious, and Edie and her date pause to watch you and Oscar bolt down the street like kids again—legs flailing, shouts echoing against the sidewalk.

“Are they—?” Edie’s date asks, and the Piastri girl only heaves out a sigh.

Oscar doesn’t stop until he hits the corner, chest heaving from laughter. You skid to a halt beside him, hair wild in the wind, eyes bright. The cigarette’s long gone, tossed in a bin somewhere behind them. 

“That was expensive,” you whine. 

“More incentive for you to quit it, then,” he responds. 

You glare up at him. He rubs a knuckle into your hair, his free hand snaking to your pocket to grab the rest of the pack. You screech profanities as he bins it, but he makes it up to you with a meal of your choosing. It takes a sizable chunk out of the racing salary he sets aside for leisure, but you’re unrepentant and he’s wrapped around your finger. 

You’re both older now. But sometimes, it still feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Albert Park is golden in the late afternoon. 

The sun spills through the treetops, casting shadows across the path as Oscar kicks absently at a stray pebble, hands buried in his jacket pockets. You’re walking beside him, careful to match his pace even as his strides grow longer with whatever is bubbling up inside him. 

A new year. A new contract. A new team, new plan, new person he has to be. 

“It’s all happening so fast,” he mutters. “The Renault thing. Tests. Travel. They said it’s everything I ever wanted—and it is, it is—but I can’t stop feeling like I’m coming apart.”

You glance at him, brows furrowed. “Coming apart how?” 

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, but you’ve always had this philosophy that helped him be more honest around you. Say it first, you’d say. Backtrack later.

“I’m just not good like my sisters,” he blurts out, reaching and settling for a familiar comparison that might make him more comprehensible. “They’re—Hattie’s top of her class, Edie’s already talking uni offers, Mae’s got that whole ‘brightest light in the room’ thing. And me? I’m angry, and I’m restless, and I drive fast cars because I don’t know how to sit still.”

“You don’t have to be, O.” 

He lets out a dry laugh. "Why? Are you about to tell me that I’m patient and kind, that I do not envy and I do not boast?"

You stop walking. He does too, when he notices.

You’re just a step or two behind him, the afternoon sun bathing you in a light that practically rivals the warmth you radiate. But there’s something so utterly stricken on your expression, something so undeniably raw that Oscar feels everything click into place.

The look on your face is one his parents sometimes give each other. He’s seen it in movies, seen it in the photos of his mates with long-term relationships. It’s the expression you’ve given him for years, and years, and years, and he feels like the world’s biggest fool for missing all the signs. 

“No,” you say softly, denying him of his cruelty, of his failures. You think of him like that—patient, kind, humble. 

The makings of a person who deserves—

Oscar begins to shake his head, saying, “No. No.” 

“It’s no use, Oscar,” you say, your fingers curling into fists at your sides, and that’s his first sign that this is really about to happen. Not O, not Piastri, not any of the dozen annoying nicknames you’ve assigned him over the years. 

“Please, no—” 

“We gotta have it out—” 

“No, no—” 

Your conversation overlaps. It’s a twisted kind of waltz, as if the two of you are out of tune and out of step for the first time in your lives. Oscar starts pacing. Like he might somehow be able to run from what’s about to come. 

You barrel on. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Oscar,” you breathe, following his panicked steps. “I couldn’t help it, and I’ve tried to show it but you wouldn’t let me, which is fine—”

“It’s not—” 

“I’m going to make you hear it now, and you’re going to give me an answer, because I can’t go on like this.” 

He flinches, takes a half-step back. Tries to say your name with more of those despairing please, don’ts, which fall on deaf ears. 

You step toward him like the whole park is tilting and he’s the only thing keeping you upright. The words pour out too quickly now, too long held back. Years worth of yearning, bearing down on an unassuming Saturday. 

“I gave up smoking. I gave up everything you didn’t like,” you say. “And I’m happy I did, it’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I—”

You stutter, swaying on your feet like the weight of your next words was too heavy for you to shoulder. You soldier through like a champion; that’s why Oscar listens, hears them out, even though they rip through him as if he’s crashed right into a wall. 

“You know, I figured you’d love me, Oscar.” 

A damning confession. The kind that should be safe in Oscar’s hands, but his fingers are shaky and his eyes are wide and he thinks he’s going to die, then and there, over how absolutely heartbroken you look that he’s not agreeing with you immediately. That his love was something vouchsafed, a promise for a later time. 

“And I realize I’m not half good enough,” you whimper, “and I’m not this great girl—” 

“You are.” Helplessness wrenches the words out of Oscar’s chest. It’s the same emotion that has him surging forward, his hands darting out to hold your shoulders and keep you upright, keep you looking at him. “You’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you and I’m so proud of you. I just—”

He falters. You gave him your honesty, so he fights to give you his. 

“I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to,” he confesses. “I don’t know why.” 

Your voice gets impossibly smaller. “You can’t?”

His eyes close, just for a moment, before he answers. “No,” he says slowly, each word measured against your frantic ones. “I can’t change how I feel, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so desperately sorry, but I just can’t help it.” 

You step back; his hands fall to his sides. The distance opens like a wound.

“I can’t love anyone else, Oscar,” you say dazedly. “I’ll only love you.” 

“It would be a disaster if we dated,” Oscar insists. “We’d be miserable. We both have such quick tempers—” 

“If you loved me, Oscar, I would be a perfect saint!”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed.”

And he has. He’s had sleepovers with you, wondering what it might feel like to wrap his arm around your waist. He had once contemplated holding your hand during a movie. He figured it would be a given; no one would bat an eye. You and Oscar. 

Except his heart had never fully gotten the memo, and now he pays the price for only ever being able to love the thrill of a race. 

Your voice catches on your next words. “Everyone expects it,” you say in a ditch attempt to change his mind. “Grandpa. Your parents, your sisters. I've never begged you for anything, but—say yes, and let’s be happy together, Oscar.” 

“I can't," he repeats, each syllable heavy. “I can’t say yes truly, so I’m not going to say it at all.”

The evening light keeps on glowing. The world doesn’t end. But you feel like it might've anyway, and he’s right there in that boat with you. You’re willing to settle for scraps, while Oscar refuses to give you half-measures. The silence between you stretches taut, pulling thinner and thinner until it threatens to snap.

“You’ll see that I’m right, eventually,” he says. Like he believes it will make the truth hurt less. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

You laugh bitterly. “I'd rather die.” 

He looks like you slapped him. “Don’t say that.” 

You’re walking, now, your pace quick as you hurtle down the park pathway with the vengeance of a woman scorned. He calls your name and follows, keeping a sizable distance between you should you not want him too close. 

“Listen, you'll find some guy who will adore you, and treat you right, and love you like you deserve,” he pleads, skidding in front of you and forcing you to do a full stop. “But— I wouldn’t. Look at me. I’m homely, and I’m awkward, and I’m mean—”

“I love you, Oscar,” you say, as if you’re savoring the first and last times you will get to say the words.  

He goes on. He can’t answer that, can’t say anything to those words. “And you’d be ashamed of me—” 

“I love you, Oscar.”

“And we would always fight. We can’t help it even now!” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll never give up racing, and you’ll have to hide all your vices, and we would be unhappy. And we’d wish we hadn’t done it, and everything will be terrible.” 

He gasps for air. You blink back the sting in your eyes. “Is there anything more?” you ask. 

He meets your gaze, and finds nothing there but rightful heartbreak. “No,” he murmurs. “Nothing more.”

You shoulder past him. He tilts his head back and eyes the sky for a moment, praying to be struck down by any higher power that exists. “Except that—” he starts, and you turn around so fast. 

You turn, retracing your steps, and the guilt wells up in him like a faucet that had burst. He realizes—you think he’s going to take it back. You think it’s going to be a … but I love you instead of an I love you, but… 

“I don’t think I'll ever fall in love,” he manages. “I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up.”

Your expression crumples. “I think you’re wrong about that,” you sigh.  

“No.”

You shake your head, slowly. “I think you will care for somebody, Oscar. You’ll find someone, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way and your will.”

Oscar’s way. Oscar’s will. Two things he’s believed in wholeheartedly, until they’ve both failed him. Failed you. 

You take a step back. The anger you once claimed to always have is somewhere, there, beneath all the hurt and the love. Oscar sees it, now. All of it; all of you.

“And I’ll watch,” you add. 

Oscar will love someone— and you’ll watch. 

The wind rustles the leaves above. A bird sings somewhere in the distance. But all you hear is the sound of something breaking open, and bleeding between you. 

The deep and dying breath of the love you’d been working on. 

Oscar doesn’t see you much after that night in Albert Park. 

You’re still around, still next door. He hears you laughing with Hattie, helping Mae with a school project, or chatting idly with his mum over the fence. But it’s not the same. Something fundamental had shifted.

He tries. God knows he tries. He greets you when he sees you on the street. Makes light jokes. Keeps it easy, breezy, friendly. But every conversation feels like a performance, a pale imitation of what it used to be.

He’d broken both your hearts. He knows that too well. 

Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, not even Hattie, who always had a sixth sense for these things. He lets you control that narrative; he’s sure you’ll tell his sisters, and they’ll all have something to say. Surprisingly, none of them bring it up. He wonders if that’d been your condition with them, and he is grateful, and he is angry, and he is so, so sorry.

He channels everything into racing. He throws himself into his training, enough that it gets him trophies and podiums and a contract with a frontrunning team. 

His dream—the one he’d chased his whole life—is here. 

And it’s everything he ever wanted. Almost.

A few days before he’s due to fly out for testing with McLaren, he finds himself in the backyard, watering the garden with Mae. She’s picking mint leaves with the same dramatic flair she does everything. He doesn’t notice when she says your name until the silence that follows makes him realize he’s been staring blankly at the hose.

You have a part-time job now, Mae had said. Oscar knows. Not from you. Rarely does he know anything about you from you nowadays. He watches your life in fifteen Instagram stories, in the Facebook posts of your grandfather. He hears about you from his parents and whichever of his sisters is feeling particularly brave that day. 

It’s so sudden, his urge to be honest. And so, for the first time since what happened in the park—he lets himself speak his mind. 

“Maybe I was too quick in turning her down,” he says, voice low. Contemplative. 

Mae looks up from the mint. She looks a bit surprised, like she hadn’t expected to be the one to get Oscar to finally crack after over a year of dancing around the topic. 

“Do you love her?” she asks outright. 

He fucking hesitates. 

His throat feels dry. 

“If she asked me again, I think I would say yes,” he says instead, his gaze fixed on the poor tomato plant now drowning in water. “Do you think she’ll ask me again?” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Mae straighten. She brushes her hands against her jeans and stares straight at him, willing him to look at her. “But do you love her?” she repeats, and he knows it’s not a question he’s going to escape. 

“I want to be loved,” Oscar admits. The words taste like copper.

Mae doesn't flinch. “That's not the same as loving. If you wanted to be loved, then get a fucking fan club,” she spits. 

Her voice is firm, but not cruel. It lands with the weight of care disguised as exasperation. And Oscar feels so much, then, but above all he feels gratitude that his sisters love you like one of their own. Their fierce protectiveness of your welfare—in the face of Oscar’s indecision—knocks some much-needed sense into him. 

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

“She deserves more than piecemeal affection, Oscar,” Mae adds, softening. “You can’t go halfsies with someone like her.”

Oscar knows his sister is right. 

Something aches in his chest, then. He can’t tell if it’s loneliness or the shape of losing you, still carved somewhere in his chest. Beneath the ache of what he turned away is the terrible fear that he never really understood what he was saying no to.

“I won’t do anything stupid,” he promises Mae. 

Later that afternoon, Oscar is pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when movement catches his eye through the window. He turns and sees you biking past with Hattie. Your carefree laughter carries across the breeze, light and familiar. Your hair catches the sun.

You glance up and see him. There’s a pause. Beyond the cursory small talk, the two of you haven’t really talked much this break. He understands why you need your space., and so he never presses, never pushes. 

Even though he can’t help but think of how a pre-confession you might have reacted. How you would’ve ditched your bike and slammed into the house, demanding he pour you a drink, too. Or how you would’ve goaded him into a race until the two of you were spilling onto the pavement, all breathless laughter and skinned knees.

As it is, all Oscar gets is a polite smile and a half-wave. He doesn’t know if it’s a hello or a goodbye. 

He raises his hand, waves back. He watches until you disappear around the corner.

And then he keeps watching, long after you’re gone.

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: Stupid stupid stupid 

I hope this email finds you well. 

Actually, I hope it never finds you. This is a bit stupid. A lot stupid. But I’ve just had my first proper testing and I wanted to text you about it, except I wasn’t sure how you might feel to hear from me. I reached for my phone, opened our text thread, and then decided to fake an email to you instead. 

You’re right. It’s definitely more orange than papaya. 

And Lando Norris is not so bad. I think you’d like him. But not like like him. I’m not sure, actually. We could find out. Or not.

This is stupid. Bye. 

— O. (McLaren Technology Centre)

---

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: I don’t know what to call this one

Hey,

Doha's airport smells like cleaning chemicals and tired people. I watched a family fall asleep upright on a bench. The dad had his hand curled around the kid's backpack like he was scared someone would run off with it. I don't know why I'm telling you this. 

Maybe because it's 2AM and I'm tired and I can't sleep on planes unless you're next to me. Which is stupid, because you were never on that many flights with me. But the ones you were? I slept like a rock.

I hope you're well. I hope you're sleeping.

—O. (Doha International Airport) 

---

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: New Year 

Happy New Year.

I watched the fireworks from the hotel rooftop. I wish I was back in Melbourne, but stuff made it not-possible. 

It was cold. Everyone had someone to kiss. I had a glass of champagne and a view. 

You came to mind. You always do when things start or end. I'm starting to think that's what you are to me. The start and the end.

Love, O. (Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo) 

Edited to add: It was midnight when I wrote all that stuff. I’m rereading it now, hungover at the breakfast buffet. Guess I can be a bit of a romantic too, huh? Although I think it’s only ever with you. 

---

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: You're in my dreams 

I dreamed about you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jacket you got on sale for $5, the one you claimed made you look mega. You did not look mega. You looked like someone lost a bet.

You hugged me and told me everything would be okay. Then I woke up and it wasn’t.

I know I don’t get to tell you this anymore, but I miss you.

—O. (Tokyo Bay Ariake Washington Hotel) 

---

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: Hahaha

I heard someone with your exact laugh. Turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

It wasn’t you.

You’d tease me for how dramatic that sounds. You always said I was a little too sentimental for a boy who liked going fast.

Still thinking of you.

—O. (Silverstone Circuit) 

---

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: If I had said yes…

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes that day in Albert Park.

I don’t know if we would’ve worked. Maybe we would have burned bright and fast and hurt each other in the end. Or maybe we would’ve grown into each other like roots. I don’t know. I just know I still think about it.

And that’s not fair. And I would never tell a soul. I just 

wonder.

Sometimes. 

Always your O. (Yas Marina Circuit)

The glitch hits sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. local time.

Oscar doesn’t notice at first. He’s still jet-lagged from the flight from Abu Dhabi, half-awake on his phone in bed, replying to a team manager's message. It's not until he opens his inbox to forward a document and sees the string of outbox confirmations—all with your name in the recipient line—that he realizes something is very, very wrong.

His breath catches.

He stares at the screen for a long, stunned moment before scrambling up from bed, heart in his throat. He checks the Sent folder. It’s all there. Every last one. The emails he never meant to send.

They'd been his safekeepings. His way of getting through the ache without adding more weight to yours. Some were barely a few sentences; others pages long. And all of them, every last word, are now sitting in your inbox like little bombs waiting to go off.

He Googles it with trembling fingers. Gmail glitch sends drafts. 

He sees the headlines flooding in. Tech sites confirm that a rare global sync error had triggered thousands of unsent drafts to be sent automatically. They call it “an unprecedented failure.” Users are up in arms. Memes are already spreading.

Oscar wants to fucking hurl.

He’s home for the winter holidays. Back in Melbourne, back in his childhood room with the familiar creak in the floorboard by the desk. And you—you’re just next door.

You. With those emails.

He covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms down slowly.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself. 

There’s no escape to this. Just the silent, inescapable weight of every unsaid thing now said. Every truth, every maybe, every I thought of you today signed off with hotel names and airport codes and times when he was still trying to figure out how to stop missing you.

And now you know. Every word of it. Every selfish, unfair thought that he didn’t deserve to have about you, not after he’d ripped your heart right out of your chest. 

He peeks out the window before he can stop himself. Your lights are on. 

For some reason, Oscar is reminded of the book you had been so obsessed with as a child. The classic Great Gatsby; the millionaire with his green light at the edge of the dock. Oscar never really cared much for the metaphor of it until now, until he stares at the filtered, warm light streaking through your curtains like it’s something he will forever be in relentless pursuit of. 

But then your light flickers off, and Oscar stumbles back down to his bed. 

You’re going to sleep, he realizes with a breath of relief. He sinks into the mattress with a thousand curses against modern technology. 

Oscar tells himself he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Explain everything. Try to salvage what’s left of the peace you’ve both learned to live in, however shaky and distant it is. He’ll explain that he didn’t send them on purpose. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to—

A soft knock at the window makes him bolt upright.

He hasn’t heard that sound in years. Not since you were kids and the ladder in his backyard was your shared secret. 

His breath catches. He doesn’t move right away. 

He has to be dreaming, he thinks dazedly, but then he hears it again. Three quick taps. A familiar rhythm.

Oscar throws the covers off and crosses the room in two strides. He pulls the curtain aside.

You’re standing on the top rung of the ladder, and he briefly contemplates making a run for it again. 

Instead, he throws the window open. You climb in without a word, landing on the floor of his bedroom with the same ease you always had. You’re in cotton pajamas with a hastily thrown-on hoodie, which—whether you remember or not—had been one of Oscar’s from years and years ago. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” he breathes. 

“And you’re in love with me,” you say without preamble. 

Accusation. Question. 

Fact? 

Oscar is frozen like a deer caught in headlights. You’re staring up at him, searching, with that same matchstick flame of anger that has carried you through life so far. 

When he doesn’t immediately counter you, you go on. “Do you love me because I love you?” you ask, and the question knocks the wind out of Oscar. 

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not like that.”

He— he would never forgive himself, if his affection for you was nothing more than an attempt at reciprocation. 

You stare at him through the darkness. “Why, then?” you press, because of course you deserve to know why. 

His throat works around the answer. It’s a confession that’s been in the making for more than a year. In some ways, it’s been there since he almost sat on you at that damn house party. The words tumble out of him, overdue but not any less sincere. 

“I love you because you’re a terrible dancer,” he says, “and you know how to swim against riptides, and you’re the person I think of when I’ve had a bad free practice and when I'm on the top step of a podium. I love you. It just took me a little while to get here, but I do.” 

“O,” you start. He’s not ready to hear it. 

He steps back, as if to give you space he should’ve offered long ago. “I don’t expect you to have waited,” he says hastily. “I would never—I would never ask you to reconsider, not when I know the type of person I am and how much time it took for me to get here.”

“Oscar.” 

“But I love you. I don't know how not to.”

The room is silent, but it feels like it holds the weight of a thousand words left unsaid. The ones he wrote. 

You remind Oscar, gently, of what you said in Albert Park those many years ago. “I can’t love anybody else either,” you say, your eyes never leaving his face even as he begins to panic, starts to retreat. 

He swallows hard, his throat moving with the effort. “I should have realized sooner,” he babbles. “I should’ve known. I—” 

You reach out, your hand slipping into his. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

It feels so good—your fingers in between the spaces of his. He wishes he could appreciate it more, but his race-brain has kicked in, and he’s suddenly not the calm, cool, and collected Oscar that everybody in the world think they know. 

No, he’s your Oscar. The one who’s a little bit of a wreck. The one who is always racing away from something. 

“I wasn’t kind,” he says, voice tight. “I let you go. I thought I was doing the right thing. and maybe I did, but it still hurt you. It ruined everything.”

“We’re here now,” you say simply. “That means something, doesn’t it?”

“What if we ruin what’s left? What if it doesn't work?”

You smile at him, soft and sure. “Then it doesn’t. But I don’t think we’ll fail.” 

“I’m still homely, and awkward, and—” 

Mean, he meant to say, but then you’re pressing your lips against his. 

It silences all his fretting, all his guilt. For a second, he doesn’t move, stunned into stillness, and then he kisses you back like he’s falling into something he’s wanted his whole life but never believed he could have. Like he can’t breathe unless he's doing this, unless he’s kissing you.

When he’s more sane, when he’s less panicked, this is something the two of you will talk about. He knows that. 

In this very moment, though, he can only watch his sharp edges dull; the fury of his rage, extinguish. The softness of your understanding, the kindness of your patience, the gentleness of your kiss. It’s all he wanted, all he needs.

His hands frame your face, hesitant, reverent, like he can't believe you’re really here with him. That you waited. That you still want him. 

In his head, he makes a promise: If he must hit the ground running, he will make sure it’s towards you.

When the two of you pull back for air, you murmur teasingly against his lips, “Your emails found me well.” 

He giggles, a short, incredulous sound, before kissing the laughter right out of your mouth. ⛐

don't stop (thinking about tomorrow)

wc: 2.3k

cw: live!reader who can see wally, fun little meet cute that freaks wally out, tw for two sentence mention of harry potter, set in 2023 but nothing with maddie happens, and as always i am writing with a plus size!reader in mind, but this one is gender neutral!reader as well so far

pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - pt. 4

a/n at the end!

masterlist

He was never supposed to find out that you can see him. 

You could see all of them - the beatnik with the sour expression plastered on her face, the sweetheart in the jean jacket, even the blonde dude who’s always at the pottery wheel during your second period ceramics class.

You’d spent the last four years perfecting walking right past them, not looking up, not laughing at the jock’s jokes when you’re seated near them in the library.

Your ‘gifts’ are too confusing to explain, and even if you attempted to confide in someone about them, you know it would be too hard to believe.

It freaked your parents out when you were little - your comments about how Grandma talked to you long after her passing, how you waved to people on the street that nobody else could see. They never took you to be tested -  worried too much that you’d get taken away or put in psychiatric holding. 

So if you came home looking tired and drained, or sometimes, a little scared, your parents understood. 

When you started high school, you hadn’t expected there to be so many dead people. It was so weird, seeing people your age walking around stuck in the clothes representative of their times. 

You’d told your mom about the kids as you distinguished them from the living ones -  sadness in her eyes growing when you’d mentioned the lanky one in 80s athletic gear. She’d gotten her own Split River yearbook from the shelf, flipped to the memorial page and pointed at Wally. 

“Is that who you’re talking about?” 

You’d nodded, confirming her suspicions. She’d been in his graduating class, though not in his social circles. He’d been your stereotypical jock when he was alive, for all the pros and cons of it. King of the ragers thrown after games, not always a bully, but often a bystander. Gone too soon, but quickly forgotten in the grand scheme of things. 

For your safety, you’d agreed that you wouldn’t ever speak to any of the ghosts. Your mom had clocked the dreamy glaze in your eyes while looking at Wally’s picture, and while she couldn’t stop you from talking to him, she’d told you what you already knew. It wasn’t smart, and it wouldn’t end well. 

In your mind, letting any of them know that you could see them would be more cruel than just letting them go about their usual business. Even if you made contact, spoke to them - hung out with them - you were leaving after graduation, and they’d be alone again, without any contact with the living world. It seemed unfair; pointless. 

It’s not Wally’s fault he’s so fucking pretty. 

He moves about the school the same way you do - not looking at or paying attention to the people around him - because he has no reason to believe he can be seen. It’s worked out entirely in your favor thus far, because you can stare at Wally Clark for small periods of time without him noticing. On the occasion that he turns his head in your direction, a shift of your eyes to the right or left has him believing you’re just staring off into space. 

He’s so nice to look at. His slightly curled waves of black hair, gold chain gleaming under fluorescent lighting. There’s depth to him, too. When he’s around his friends, he’s energetic - bouncy, cracking jokes and patting people on the back too hard. When he’s alone, though, he seems calmer. More reserved. 

You get bolder with it, the staring, lulled into a sense of safety because you’re just another face in the ever-rotating crowd of high schoolers that pass through Split River. He’d seen forty generations of kids move on at this point, stuck as a fresh 18 year old with dreams and aspirations he’ll never be able to achieve. 

It must suck, having to stay behind and watch as other seniors get a chance to do what he never did. You wish you could comfort him, maybe even help him find a way to move on. It’s harder for the people who die traumatically. 

So much unfinished business and pent up emotions make it difficult to find the peace needed to pass onto the next plane. It’s easy to tell -there’s always a certain aura around the sad ones. Like the air around them is heavier, darker. 

You’re not complaining, though, as fucked as that may sound. Especially not when you’re lounging under a tree near the football field, not so subtly watching as a shirtless Wally picks up replicated footballs and throws them aimlessly in different directions. If you hadn’t been daydreaming about being able to talk to him, you would’ve noticed the ball soaring towards you. 

You look up, just in time for the phantom ball to hit the ground next to you, bouncing to land at your feet. Absent-mindedly - and almost jokingly - you kick it away from you, suddenly aware the ball was solid against your foot. In the time it takes you to realize you just interacted with a phantom football, it's faded away into the ground, and its sender is staring at you wide-eyed. 

There’s a beat of stillness, soundtracked by the cicadas and other teens on the field before you begin to move. 

You scramble to throw your shit into your bag, and speed walk back inside. 

“Holy shit? Wait! Hey, wait!” 

He follows you, because of course he does, and you try your best to ignore the panic and guilt rising in your throat. You just keep walking, hoping that he’ll give up. He doesn’t. 

“Can you slow down please? I know you can see me!” 

Wally catches up to you, jogging a few paces ahead to try to cut you off. You’ve never been this close to him - you have no idea if he’ll pass through you the way you’ve seen the other ghosts pass through living people before or if you'll make contact like you did moments ago with the ball he had thrown. 

It blows your cover even more than kicking the ball away, but when Wally goes to stand in front of you, you attempt to veer out of his path. And then he grabs you. Or, he tries to, anyway. He’s not fully solid, not enough to place a firm hold on you, but enough for you to genuinely feel it. 

His hand does go through you, but there’s resistance to it. It makes you shiver, the ice cold sensation of his palm trying to hold your shoulder but not being able to fully grip it. 

“What the fuck?” He looks down at his hands, then back towards you. 

He’s caught off guard enough for you to truly get away this time. Rest of the school day be damned, you make a break for it and throw yourself into your car. 

The stale air does nothing to help your nerves, your shaking hand turning the ignition to blast AC at yourself. You lean forward, resting your head on the steering wheel and try to breathe through it. This is bad. Like, really fucking bad. 

You don’t know much about him, but you seriously doubt that this is the kind of thing he’d just let go. 

You’re in it now, for better or for worse. 

You can’t tell your mom. It’s selfish, and misguided, and you hadn’t even said anything to him, but it was something. It was yours, and you don’t want to share. It makes the guilt worse, and your drive home is spent in dissociated silence. 

When you get home, your mom is in the kitchen, bouncing around to 80s music and chopping onions. The slam of the front door alerts her to your presence, and she pauses her music, concern etched in her features. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay? You’re home early.” 

You don’t want to lie. 

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just got a headache, that’s all. Thought I should come home and take a nap.” 

-

Spending a few days at home would probably be for the best - it would give you time to come up with some sort of plan on what to say to Wally. You have no idea what the best course of action is. He knows you can see him now. You can’t take that back and make him forget it, and you don’t even know if you’d want to. 

Instead, you barrel into school the next day, head down and earphones blasting music. Your eyes don’t leave the linoleum floor except to put your bag in your locker. The grumble of frustration and annoyance that leaves your body when three Tears for Fears songs play in succession draws the attention of other students in the hallway, but you pay them no mind. 

You don’t even make it to third period before you see him. 

Sitting in the corner of ceramics class, shaky hands denting an already uneven vase, the slam of the classroom door makes you jump - effectively destroying the soft clay cradled in your palms. 

“There you are! Dude, I've been looking all over for you.” He sidles up to you, plops down in the seat directly to your right, the heat of his gaze burning into the side of your face and making your cheeks hot. You sigh, squishing the clay down and shaking your head. 

“That’s fine, you don’t have to talk. I can talk for both of us. I can just talk, and talk, and talk, and-” 

Your hand shoots into the air, a frantic “Can I use the restroom please?” leaving your throat. 

It’s your worst nightmare and a dream come true, being alone with Wally. He walks next to you in the hallway, and when you pass the bathroom he pauses. 

“You’re not going in? I thought you needed to go.” He’s teasing, you know he is, but you still huff at him. 

You keep your pace, calling out behind you, “No, Wally, I don’t need to use the bathroom.” 

You don’t turn around to see it, but you can hear the slightly shocked giggle that leaves him. 

“Oh, c’mon, really?” 

He catches up to you, and when you crane your head to the side to make eye contact, he sucks in a little breath. It’s the first time you’ve actually looked into his eyes. It throws you off kilter a bit, and you feel the need to make up the difference with a quip. 

“What, you’re Moaning Myrtle now? You feel like talking and hanging around in public restrooms?” 

The laugh that leaves him surprises you, Your eyebrows raise, not expecting him to understand the reference. 

“Ms. Williams plays the movies during finals week like every year,” he shrugs, “I’m dead, not blind.” 

You’d taken your things with you - skipping the rest of your class to spend time with him, to answer the questions you know he wants to ask. You go back to the football field, under the same tree you’d been under when you kicked the football away from you. 

He’s waiting for you to speak, to help him understand what’s going on, but the words are caught in your throat, cheeks hot and skin itchy. Your hands fidget, picking dried clay from under your fingernails and flicking it onto the grass nearby. 

You look at him, trying to decide where to start. 

“I’m not really supposed to talk to you.”

“Why not?” He laughs then, shakes his head a little. “It’s because I’m dead, right? Do you have a problem with dead people?”

“No, I-” You start on the defensive, but soften when you see Wally’s smirk. He’s a little shit, you should've known. You roll your eyes, “You’re not supposed to know I can see you for your own sake. What good would it do? Hanging out with me for the next three months until I graduate and you can never see me again? It’s unfair.”

He looks away from you for a second, sly smile wiped off of his face, replaced with a sadness you hadn’t seen from him before. You reach out, trying to make contact, and your hand just meets the air. When he’d tried to grab you yesterday, he was slightly more solid than he is now. You don’t know why. 

“Yeah it is unfair,” He turns to face you again, brown eyes glassy and tear rimmed, “but you can see me, and that’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since I’ve been here.” 

Something in your chest stirs, and you know there’s no universe in which you would’ve been able to stay away from him. You’re worlds apart, or planes apart, but it doesn't seem to matter as much as you used to think it did. 

“I think it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, too.” 

You spend the rest of the school day - without being caught, thankfully - in deep conversation. The shrill ring of the bell signaling the end of the day cuts you off in the middle of a sentence, and you stand from your place on the grass, dusting yourself off and gathering your things. 

The silence between you is comfortable now, as he walks you to your car. He can’t step off the curb - he’d explained the boundaries of the school to you, that he’d be thrown back to the field if tried to leave. You hover together, not wanting to part. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow? We can hang out more, I have study hall during 5th period.” You tuck a stray hair behind your ear, and he follows the movement with his eyes. 

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.” 

You blast your 80s playlist on the way home, while you’re in the shower, while you’re doing homework. 

Wally Clark is gonna be the death of you.  

a/n: hiii i feel like this part was a little lackluster but !!!! i have a whole plan for what i want to do with this fic and i'm really excited about it. it should be four parts, but that's subject to change as i keep writing.

if you liked this and want to read more of my little stories, my masterlist is linked at the top! if you have ideas or just want to chat, my inbox is always open!

pls don't forget to like and reblog! love you mwah

I’m not even exaggerating I literally think about the anonymous person who donated €1,000 to Nader’s campaign every single day. i’ll be at work making a cocktail and suddenly remember the person who donated €1,000 to his campaign to save his family. idk who you are but I love you thank you

while I’m on the topic you should donate to my friend Nader @abdalsalam1990’s campaign. He’s a 17 year old boy who’s trying to raise money for his family in gaza, including his father who needs cancer treatment and his 1 year old niece so they can survive the genocide in Gaza

DONATION LINK + VETTING (#4 on the spreadsheet)

Y'all!!! Emergency!!!

Your Esims are also helping Palestinians in Jenin!!

Instructions & Discount codes

Truly Esim

Thank you @anneemay for the notice

that f1 lando has an absolutely enormous head

Hiii...

Can you write a long (pls) 😭😭 ollie bearman fic..(fluff)

In which she is a doc..

And he is very clingy (like really) and she also loves it.. and probably a cuddly fic where they are just adoring/loving each other maybe..

And than she does something so small to her but it made him realise like she is the one and he decided to introduce to her family ( i mean they know but finally an official yet casual meet uk)

And his siblings also loves her..

From The Start. ✷ Ollie Bearman

Pairing: Ollie Bearman x Gf!reader

Summary: When you and your boyfriend Ollie finally get to spend time with each other after months being apart.

Word Count: 4.6k Bang.

Disclaimer/s: very fluffy, Like. Extremely fluffy! talks about future, and whatnot. yeah.

Vera’s Voice! thoroughly enjoyed writing this after not writing on here in a fat minute… thanks for ur request!!!!! i kinda strayed away from what u asked for but it’s still rlly sweet!!!! hope u enjoy :’)

Ollie didn’t text you much today, which wasn’t unusual when he was busy with team commitments, training, or flying between countries.

You’d gotten used to the quiet patches in your relationship, filling the spaces with your own routines like classes, labs, and studying.

But, since he moved to Italy, the Bearman family had taken you in like one of their own. His mum always checked in on you, inviting you over for Sunday lunches or sending care packages during exam weeks.

His siblings treated you like their cool older sister, always asking you about university life or finding joy in spending time with you.

So today, when Terri Bearman mentioned she was working late and hinted at a busy week ahead, you’d offered to cook dinner for them.

You couldn’t do much for Ollie from afar, but looking after his family felt like the next best thing.

Standing in their cozy kitchen, you stirred a simmering pot of pasta sauce while keeping an eye on the bread in the oven.

A playlist hummed softly from the speaker on the counter, the familiar rhythm filling the cozy space. Your sleeves were rolled up, an apron tied snugly around your waist, and a wooden spoon in hand.

“You should’ve seen it,” Amalie said, eyes wide with excitement. “My instructor said I cleared the jump perfectly. Best I’ve done all month.”

“That’s amazing, my love,” You said, beaming at her. “Maybe we should celebrate with a little tea shop date this week? My treat.”

She laughed. “Can never pass up on a beautiful offer like that. Could we stop by a bookshop too?”

“Of course,” You replied, already picturing the stack of books she’d undoubtedly try to take home.

Thomas glanced up from his phone, a teasing smirk on his face. “You spoil her too much.”

“She deserves it,” You said with a shrug. “Besides, I like spending time with her.”

And that was true.

Spending time with the Bearmans had become second nature to you. Your parents were often away on business trips, leaving you with an empty house that felt too quiet and lonely.

Your dear boyfriend’s home, on the other hand, was always warm and welcoming—a place where you could laugh, cook, and be part of something bigger, even if he wasn’t always there.

Just as you were plating the pasta and setting the table, the sound of the front door opening caught everyone’s attention.

“Something smells incredible,” Terri’s familiar voice called out as she stepped inside, balancing her purse and a stack of folders from work.

“Hi,” You said, smiling warmly as you turned to greet her.

“Oh, love, thank you so much for this.” She said with an endearing laugh, setting her things down. She walked over to peek into the pot on the stove. “This looks incredible. What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Spaghetti with homemade sauce and garlic bread,” You grinned.

Terri placed a hand on your shoulder, her expression softening. “You’re a treasure, you know that? We’re so lucky to have you around. Ollie is lucky to have you.”

“Thank you,” You replied, blushing slightly.

As you worked on finishing the last few touches for dinner, Terri began chatting about her day. “David won’t be home for another hour so, don’t worry about setting him a plate, darling.” She assured.

“No worries, I can just leave him one so he can get straight to eating.” You insisted.

And Terri smiled that. “Well, I was on the phone with Ollie earlier,” She spoke, changing the topic and grabbing a glass of water. “He seems to be alright—said he’d call again tomorrow, but he’s keeping busy with training.”

Your heart squeezed at the mention of him. It had been months since you’d last seen Ollie, and even though you talked every chance you got, nothing could replace having him here.

Amalie perked up at the mention of her brother. “Did he say anything about visiting soon?”

“Not yet,” Terri said with a sigh. “You know how it is.”

You nodded, trying to hide the ache you felt. You missed him more than words could say, but you didn’t want to dwell on it.

“Come on, dinner’s almost ready,” You smiled, forcing a cheerful tone as you pulled the tray from the oven.

Unbeknownst to all of you, Ollie’s car had just pulled into the driveway. He stepped out, stretching after the long drive, and looked up at the familiar house.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming—he hadn’t even planned to be home, but after months of constant travel and racing, he couldn’t resist the pull to see his family.

As he approached the front door, he could hear the faint sound of laughter and the clinking of plates. He paused for a moment, smiling to himself at the familiar comfort of home.

Pushing open the door, he stepped inside, his bag slung over one shoulder. The sight before him made his heart stop.

You were standing in the kitchen, laughing at something Thomas had said as you wiped your hands on a dish towel. Amalie was reaching for a napkin, and Terri poured herself a cup of tea.

It was so ordinary, so perfect, and he had to blink to make sure it wasn’t some kind of dream.

“Am I interrupting?” Ollie spoke, his voice breaking through the moment.

Every head turned toward the door.

“Ollie?!” Amalie squealed, leaping off her chair and rushing to him.

“Ollie?” You whispered, frozen in place, your wide eyes locked on him.

“Surprise,” He said, grinning as Amalie threw her arms around him.

You were the next to move, practically running to him and throwing your arms around his neck. He dropped his bag and held you tightly, his face buried in your hair.

“Oh my goodness, you’re home,” You said, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re here!”

“I’m home,” He murmured, his grip tightening as if he never wanted to let go.

Terri stood by the counter, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes welled up. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back!”

“Didn’t tell anyone,” Ollie said, finally pulling back to look at you. His hands stayed on your waist, his gaze soft and full of love. “And I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I’m always here,” You said with a small laugh, brushing a tear from your cheek as he pulled away and walked over towards his mom to hug her.

“Even better,” He said, turning his head with a smile.

After a round of hugs and excited chatter, the room settled as Ollie shrugged off his jacket and set it neatly over the back of a chair.

He looked at you, a familiar warmth in his gaze, as you picked up the tray of bread and set it on the table.

“Hungry? You’re just in time for dinner,” You said, smiling as you motioned for him to join.

Ollie laughed softly, the sound filling the room like a melody you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. “Starving, actually.” He grinned, rubbing his hand over his stomach.

“Eat up, darling,” Terri chimed with an insisting hand, her eyes twinkling “Your girl’s been working away all evening. I think she’s better at this than me.”

“Hardly,” You protested with a playful roll of your eyes. “It’s just spaghetti. Nothing fancy.”

“Don’t downplay it,” Ollie said, already reaching for a plate. “If it’s anything like your pancakes, I’m probably about to have the best meal I’ve had in weeks.”

You blushed at his words, nudging him lightly as you passed by. “Try and flatter me all you want, but I’m not taking over Sunday roast duties if this is your way of convincing me.”

Amalie laughed as she slid into her seat. “You’d probably do a better job anyway,” She teased, earning a playful glare from her mum.

Once everyone had taken their seats, the table filled with the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs, the room warmed by laughter and conversation. You watched as Ollie dug into his plate, his smile only growing with each bite.

“Alright,” He said, leaning back after a moment. “I’m officially spoiled. Best meal I’ve had in ages.”

“I’m glad,” You said with a soft grin. “Happy to be of service.”

As the meal continued, Ollie reached under the table, his fingers brushing yours in a quiet, intimate gesture. You looked at him, and the soft smile on his face made your chest ache with how much you loved him.

It was so simple—dinner with his family, laughter filling the air, the small gestures between you that said more than words ever could.

And yet, it was everything.

“You’re amazing,” He said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Stop,” You whispered back, smiling as your cheeks flushed.

“I mean it,” He insisted, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you won’t ever have to find out,” You murmured, your heart so full it felt like it might burst.

Later, the kitchen was quiet, the lively chatter from dinner having faded as the family moved to the living room to wind down for the evening.

You stood by the sink, your sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in warm soapy water as you worked your way through the last of the dishes.

The faint clinking of plates and running water filled the space, paired with the occasional hum of the fridge.

Ollie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, quietly watching you. His heart swelled as he took in the sight of you in his family’s kitchen, so natural and at ease in a place that meant so much to him. The warm overhead light reflected off your hair, and there was a faint smile tugging at your lips as you rinsed a glass. He thought about how much he’d missed this—missed you.

Without saying a word, he walked toward you, his footsteps light on the tiled floor. You didn’t hear him approach until his arms wrapped gently around your waist from behind.

“Ollie!” You gasped, startled for a second before relaxing into his embrace.

“Sorry,” He murmured, his voice low and soft against your ear. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You set the plate you were rinsing on the drying rack, your hands dripping with soap suds. “What are you doing?” You asked, though your tone was far from accusing.

“Nothing,” He said simply, resting his chin on your shoulder. His arms tightened slightly around your waist, as though anchoring himself to you. “Ive just missed you.”

You tilted your head toward him, your cheek brushing his. “I’m covered in soap,” You warned, though there was a smile in your voice.

“Don’t care,” He said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You laughed quietly, leaning back against his chest. “You’re a little more clingy than usual,” you teased, though your heart was melting at his touch.

“Can you blame me?” He murmured. “It’s been months since I’ve been home.”

Your hands paused, stilling in the water. You turned your head slightly to meet his gaze, finding his eyes soft and filled with a mix of affection and longing.

“I’ve missed you,” You admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, the kind of smile that made your knees weak, and nuzzled closer. “You should leave the dishes,” He said, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “They can wait.”

“Can they?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mhm,” He said, pulling you a little tighter against him. “Because I really, really want you to just sit with me for a bit.”

You let out a small laugh and shook your head. “Fine,” You relented, drying your hands on a nearby towel. “But you’re drying the rest later.”

“Deal,” Ollie said, grinning as he took your hand and led you out of the kitchen. But before you left, he paused, turned back toward you, and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you for being here,” He whispered.

“Always,” you replied, your voice full of warmth as you squeezed his hand.

Ollie’s room felt like the one place in the house that was always waiting for you. You’d spent countless hours in here over the months—whether it was to study when things got too noisy downstairs, or simply to nap when you wanted to steal a few moments of peace.

His posters, his racing memorabilia, and the soft scent of his cologne were all familiar, like a comforting embrace that never left.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, the fabric of one of his hoodies draping comfortably over you as you played with the cuffs. Ollie sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over at you as you made yourself at home in his room.

"I come in here to nap a lot," You admitted, glancing back at him with a grin.

Ollie raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah? Seems like you’ve practically moved in while I’ve been gone."

“Is that so bad?” You grinned, shrugging nonchalantly. “Besides, this is the comfiest room in the house.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t argue with that. I’ve always wanted a roommate anyways.” His voice sarcastic.

You laughed, rolling your eyes playfully as you leaned back into the pillows, feeling the warmth of his hoodie against your skin. Ollie, still sitting at the edge of the bed, raised his eyebrows as he noticed your gaze.

“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Can we trade hoodies?” You asked, your voice light and teasing, but there was a sparkle in your eyes that made him grin.

He looked down at the black Ferrari Driver Academy hoodie you were wearing. “Are you not wearing one of them right now?” He pointed with mock confusion.

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “I need a new one because it’s been months since you’ve been home, and the ones I have don’t smell like you anymore.”

His mouth dropped open in playful shock. “They don’t smell like me anymore?”

“Nope,” You said with a dramatic sigh, crossing your arms as though the tragedy was unbearable. “It’s kind of depressing, honestly.”

He laughed, his head tilting back, and ran a hand through his hair. “A little creepy.”

You scoffed playfully. “Rude.”

And he just laughed.

“Please,” You sent him a sweet smile.

Ollie shook his head, another laugh escaping him before he stood up and pulled his hoodie over his head. “Fine. Only because you asked nicely.”

You caught it eagerly, quickly switching clothes and settling into it with a satisfied smile. The scent of him—clean, familiar, and comforting—immediately enveloped you, making you feel like he was right there with you again.

Which was true anyways.

“Better?” Ollie asked, his arms crossed.

You nodded, grinning. “Much.”

He smiled and walked toward you, pulling you into his arms and settling down next to you on the bed. His chest felt warm against your back, his arms wrapping tightly around you.

As the night wore on, you both laid there, exchanging quiet words and soft laughter, letting the hours slip by as you relished the quiet moments together. And in his arms, with the scent of him surrounding you, you felt like you were exactly where you belonged.

Ollie’s voice broke the comfortable silence. “Seeing you in the kitchen tonight just…” He trailed off, his hand idly tracing patterns on your back.

“Just what?” You murmured, turning your head to glance up at him.

“Just made me happy,” he said simply, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Like, I can’t wait to come home to that every single day.”

Your brows rose, but you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” He said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His eyes locked with yours, a flicker of something deep and certain shining in them. “When you and I are married. Living a life together.”

A warm rush spread through you at his words, your heart racing yet calm all at once. “Ollie Bearman, are you proposing to me in your bed right now?” you teased.

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it rested on his chest. “Not officially. You’ll know when I am. But it’s gonna happen.”

“You seem so sure,” You said, though you already knew your answer if—when—that day came.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got it all planned out. We’ll live somewhere cozy. Nothing too fancy, just big enough for us and maybe a couple of kids running around.”

“Kids?” You repeated with a chuckle, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” he said, his hand stilling on your back as he thought about it. “Two, maybe three. What do you think?”

“I think med school might make that a little tricky,” You said, smiling at him.

“Well, you’ll finish med school first,” He said matter-of-factly, as if he’d already worked it all out. “We’ll make it work. I’ll travel less when we’re ready for all that, and you’ll have your dream job.”

You stared up at him, overwhelmed by the ease with which he spoke about the future—a future with you. “What if I want four kids?” You teased, testing him.

He chuckled, his grip tightening slightly. “If you want four, we’ll have four. Two mini versions of you, two mini versions of me.” He laughed softly, the sound low and warm.

You grinned, looking up at him. “You’d be the best dad,”

His gaze softened, his thumb gently stroking your hip. “And you’d be the most gentle mother,” he said with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Our daughters with your fluffy brown hair and sweet little smile,” you murmured.

“And our sons with your eyes and your cute nose that I love so much,” he added, his voice warm with affection as his hand cupped your cheek.

A light laugh escaped you. “Are we putting them into racing?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone playful but resolute. “That’s not even a question.”

“What if they don’t want to race?” you asked, raising a teasing brow.

“Then we’ll support whatever they want to do,” Ollie said, brushing his lips against your forehead. “But come on, imagine it—“ He paused.

“I’ll retire after winning my fifth World Drivers’ Championship,” Ollie said with a sly grin.

“Fifth?” You repeated, raising your head to look at him, your brow quirking.

“Are you doubting me?” He asked, feigning offense.

“Maybe…” you teased, trying to hold back your laughter.

Ollie narrowed his eyes at you, his lips twitching. “Think you’re funny?”

“I am a bit funny,” You replied with a grin, unable to resist.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I put up with you.”

You snorted, nudging him lightly. “Please, you’d miss me if I wasn’t here to keep you humble.”

“Humble? Me?” He laughed. “I’m a five-time champion in this scenario—there’s no humbling that.”

“Oh, whatever.” You scoffed.

The two of you fell into a comfortable quiet again, your hands lacing together as you lay against him.

Ollie grinned as he leaned back against the pillows, his arms wrapped securely around you. “And although you’ll be working away at a hospital most of the time, the times you do decide to show up to my races…” He trailed off with a teasing smirk.

“What about them?” You asked, tilting your head curiously.

“That’s when fans will go absolutely nuts,” he said confidently. “Everyone’s favorite doctor wag, walking through the paddock with this aura—like you belong there, like you run the place.”

You laughed, nudging him gently in the chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m serious!” Ollie protested, catching your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “They’ll talk about how good I treat you, how I’m completely obsessed with you. And they’ll love how effortlessly gorgeous and brilliant you are. I mean, come on—my wife, saving lives and still showing up to support me?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Of course, I have,” He said with a grin. “Imagine: You in my team colors, maybe holding a little hand of one of our kids in the paddock. Everyone will lose it.”

Your heart warmed at the thought, but you shook your head with a laugh. “You’re living in a fantasy. I’m not exactly going to be a regular in the paddock.”

“And this fantasy will be my reality,” He admitted, his voice softening. “When you do show up, it’ll be like the sun came out just for me. Lighting up the entire paddock, just like you do everywhere you go.”

You blushed, feeling your chest tighten at the sincerity in his voice. “Such a way with words.”

“Only when it comes to you,” Ollie said, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“And I really mean it. I can’t wait to come home to you every day. To have all of this—our little family, our home.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Me neither,” you whispered.

You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest, and the two of you fell into a rhythm of imagining your future together.

“Hm, but what about the wedding?” You asked, turning so you could see him better.

Ollie grinned. “Big. Really big. I want all our family and friends there.”

“Big sounds good,” You agreed. “But we’re talking classic, right? Elegant, maybe outdoors somewhere beautiful—”

“—like the countryside,” He interrupted from too much excitement. “Rolling hills, lots of greenery, a massive tent with lights everywhere.”

“And a live band,” You added.

“Good food too,” He said quickly.

“Obviously,” You laughed. “We’re not letting anyone leave hungry.”

He nodded, his grin softening into something more sincere. “I just want it to be the best day of your life.”

“Our life,” You corrected, reaching up to brush a stray eyelash from his cheek.

“Our life,” He repeated.

You tilted your head to the side with a playful smile. "Well, make a wish!" You said softly, presenting your finger with the little eyelash.

Ollie looked at you, the corners of his lips curving into a grin. “Hmmm…” He paused, closing his eyes as if he were deep in thought. “I already have everything I’ve ever wished for.”

You scoffed softly, the playful tone of his voice making you laugh. “Well, too bad. You still have to make a wish.”

He chuckled at your insistence, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he thought about it. Finally, his eyes fluttered closed again, and he spoke with a touch of playfulness. “Okay… I wish to marry the girl right beside me one day.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and a soft sigh escaped your lips as you stared at him. His grin grew as he blew the eyelash off your finger, and for a moment, everything felt perfect, suspended in that sweet, quiet exchange.

You couldn’t help but smile softly, a little teasing gleam in your eye. “Okay, but you said it out loud, now it’s not coming true…” You gave a playful scoff, your voice light with amusement, but your heart fluttered in your chest.

Ollie’s arms tightened around you, and his gaze softened as he pulled you closer. “Nope. It’s coming true,” he said, his voice low and serious despite the playful words. “I’m not losing this under my watch.”

His words made your breath catch in your throat, and you pulled him closer, if that was even possible. In that simple moment, you realized just how much you meant to each other—how all the little things, like a stray eyelash and a wish, tied you even closer together.

“You’re my person forever,” You whispered, the thought clear and undeniable in your heart.

“And you were always mine from the start,” He murmured in return, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he held you.

And it wasn’t just a promise.

It was a certainty.

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