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localwhoore · 2 months ago

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autumn leaves ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar loves you through the seasons. (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff, angst -ish. mention of food. established/long-distance relationship, oscar is down bad :(, just a lot of sweetness all around. ꔮ commentary box: cold coffee is one of the fics i've gotten the most love about, and so it feels apt to roll this out today! this can be read as a standalone. birthday podium for the birthday boy, lfg <𝟑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ autumn leaves, ed sheeran. home, new west. please don't change your mind, lizzie no. can this morning never end, david kingston. thumb war, ande estrella. something tells me, bailen. falling in love at a coffee shop, landon pigg.

Oscar spends winter in your café.

It’s technically the circuit’s summer break. A two-week reprieve, but it’s smack dab in what Melbourne considers to be its gripping cold spell. And so he calls it what it is— a winter spent with you.

A few mornings a week, he shows up at the café with no real reason other than the excuse of needing a warm drink. He always says he’ll only stay a little while, but you notice how often his mug lingers empty on the table long after he’s finished drinking. He picks the seat near the corner window, lets the sunlight stretch across his arms, and listens as you hum to the tune of whatever’s playing over the speakers.

“You like being here,” you say once. It’s not a question.

Oscar looks up from the crossword puzzle you left by his cup. He blinks, caught, then shrugs. “It’s peaceful.”

You raise a brow. “You travel the world, but you call my dinky little café peaceful?”

“Exactly,” he says without missing a beat.

Sometimes, he helps behind the counter. Especially on slower days. You hand him an apron once, mostly as a joke, but he ties it on with alarming sincerity. It turns into a bit, the two of you inventing fake menu items while you refill the pastry case.

He gets flour on his cheek once and you don’t tell him until you’ve stared at it long enough to memorize the curve of his jaw. You saw his hand away every time he tries to steal a bit of chocolate for himself, and his touch lingers on your fingers like it physically pains him to pull away.

At night, after you lock up, he walks you home. You don’t invite him in; the act seems a little too intimate, and he seems happy to just see that you’re safe at the end of your shift.

It becomes routine. The world outside the café might be spinning on a faster axis, but here, with the two of you, time is gentle.

You learn why he doesn’t like to drink coffee. He finds out why you can’t function until your second cup. He tells you about his sisters; you show him photos of your kindergarten self. He watches you pour latte art with the same reverence he gives to telemetry data.

And then, one night, it snows.

It’s a treat. Whenever it snowed in Melbourne, it was mostly in High Country. You’re more well-versed with grey clouds and frost on the sidewalk.

That evening, the two of you linger on the front step of the café as the snow falls— sure but steady. A snowflake lands in your hair. Oscar brushes it away gently, but not without a small voice in the back of his mind murmuring Beautiful.

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and rocks back on his heels like he’s working up to something. “You ever get scared it won’t last?” he asks suddenly. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

You glance at him. “What won’t?”

“This.” He motions between the two of you. “Us. This… whatever we’re figuring out.”

As it is, the two of you are still an open-ended question. This was the wait-and-see part of dating, the carnage of you giving Oscar your number after he’d supposedly pined over you for years.

You think about it. About how he has a plane ticket waiting and a team counting on him. About how your days are measured in regulars and espresso shots, while his are measured in laps and podiums.

Two entirely different lives. You, staying in place; him, always leaving one way or another.

Are you scared it won’t last?

“Yeah,” you admit. “Sometimes. But it also feels worth it.”

Oscar’s gaze finds yours in the soft glow of the streetlight. “It does, doesn’t it?”

You nod, and before you can overthink it, you reach for his hand. He meets you halfway.

Fingers laced, cold breath between you, Oscar leans in until his forehead rests gently against yours. “Thank you,” he says out of the blue.

“For what?”

“Letting me be a person here. Not a driver.”

It feels like such a small thing, a small grace, and you don’t realize the gravity of it. He’s a renown racecar driver, sure, but he’s also the same guy who came in with his sisters; the guy who saved the café when he contracted you as a race caterer that one prix. In that moment, you’re only thinking of the way your fingers slot together as you gently squeeze his hand. “Always.”

Under the hush of falling snow and the hum of something unspoken, Oscar lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, winter could last a little longer.

You fall into something softer after that. There are no declarations, no explicit conversations about what it all means. But he lingers longer. He clings to you in the back room when no one’s around. He texts you from his parents’ place late at night, asking if you’re still up, if you want to go for a walk, if you’re cold and want to borrow his scarf.

You tease him about being a romantic. He rolls his eyes. Tells you to hush. (But he smiles every time.)

And then, there’s that unassuming Saturday— one where you’re baking early, radio humming in the background. Oscar is seated at the counter, still warm from sleep, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he peels an orange.

Your friend from the shop next door pops her head in. “Hey, your boyfriend’s blocking the cream cheese again.”

Oscar snorts, standing to move. “Sorry, sorry— didn’t mean to keep your resources hostage.”

You laugh, shooting your friend a look before turning back to your tray. But it isn’t until she’s gone that you register what had happened.

She had referred to Oscar as your boyfriend. And he didn’t even flinch, had taken it in stride. Whether or not he realized it is yet to be seen.

The thing is, you want to see. And so you glance at him, brows lifted. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Oscar pauses mid-peel. It seems to dawn on him, then, as he mumbles a soft cuss of shit. He looks struck, like he hadn’t realized it much either. This was the impression the two of you were giving people— that you were in a relationship. And he hadn’t corrected her.

“You liked that,” you tease.

“Don’t be mean,” he groans, covering his face with his fruit-stained hands.

“Well, boyfriend,” you say, savoring the word, “do you want to help me with the frosting or just hide behind your orange?”

Oscar lowers his hands. There’s a kind of wonder in his expression, the kind that’s not just embarrassment. Something rawer, gentler.

“You’re not mad?”

“I doubled down, didn’t I?”

And that’s when it happens— he makes a noise so flustered, so delighted and overwhelmed that he knocks his elbow into the tray of clean spoons. They clatter to the floor in a chorus of chaos.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”

Oscar is red to the tips of his ears, bending to pick them up with a muttered, “That’s fine. Totally fine. Not at all indicative of how much I’ve wanted to call you that.”

You crouch beside him, brushing your shoulder against his. “You can call me that whenever you want,” you say, trying to hide just how giddy you are at the prospect.

Oscar isn’t faring any better. He chews his lower lip as if he’s biting back a smile, but you can see in the glint in his eyes that he’s just as happy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then. Girlfriend.”

The title bursts out of him like it’s something he can’t hold himself back from saying. The moment the word has escaped him, he gives up on his facade of nonchalance. He laughs, disbelieving and low— and with a courage he could almost applaud himself for— he leans in.

In that kitchen, surrounded by cinnamon and sugar and the soft drip of rain outside, Oscar kisses you like he’s been waiting for winter his whole life.

Spring is strange when you’re chasing it across time zones.

Some race weekends, Oscar lands in cities where it’s still snowing. Others, it’s already sweltering— sticky with heat and the sharp scent of tarmac. But somewhere between Melbourne and Monaco, in the blur of media days and debriefs, he realizes it feels like spring anyway.

Because of you.

In between sessions and flights, there are your texts. Photos of latte art attempts gone wrong. Updates on which flowers you’ve planted outside the café. A blurry snapshot of your handwritten specials board with a cheeky text of Guess who forgot how to spell ‘mocha.’

He lives for them. For the quick selfies of you squinting into the sun. For the way your good morning texts come in while he’s wrapping up his day. It grounds him, makes the whirlwind feel a little more like a rhythm.

He doesn’t expect you to watch his races live. You’re busy, and he knows the café doesn’t run itself. Still, he catches glimpses of your support— the congratulatory messages, the carefully curated playlists you send before back-to-back races. One time, you mail him a tiny good luck charm, and he tucks it into the lining of his travel bag without telling a soul.

It’s late in Japan when it happens. The call starts as usual: You in your flat, him in a hotel room with his hair damp from the shower and exhaustion clinging to his voice. He props his phone against the pillow and lies on his side, just watching you talk.

You’re rambling about a new barista who can’t steam milk properly, and Oscar is smiling like an idiot. He could listen to you talk for hours, he’s sure. But then somewhere in the middle of your story, your words slow, your eyelids start to droop.

“You tired?” he asks gently.

You blink, shake your head. “No, I’m— still talking, just…”

Your voice trails off. A beat passes.

Then another.

And then you’re out, cheek squished against your pillow, the phone still in your hand. Mid-sentence, mid-reassurance, mid-call.

Oscar doesn’t hang up. He watches the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch every now and then. There’s a soft crease between your brows that he wants to smooth out with his thumb.

His chest aches.

It’s a new kind of ache. Tender, full. A knot of something warm that tightens when he realizes you fell asleep with him on the line. That you let him be there, even if only in pixels and soft light.

He takes a screenshot before the screen dims. Not to tease you with later (though he probably will). But to remember this. The quiet intimacy of it. The small, gentle trust of falling asleep.

“Sleep well,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear it.

Then he closes his eyes, the echo of your voice still playing in his head, and lets himself pretend— just for a little while— that he’s wherever you are.

Melbourne’s spring is a finicky thing.

It’s sunny one minute, rain-lashed the next. The mornings might begin clear and bright only for the wind to pick up by midday, scattering leaves down the laneway and making the café's front windows rattle.

You keep a spare jacket hung by the espresso machine, switch the fans off and on at least twice a day, and have long given up trying to guess if you’ll need an umbrella.

Some things don’t change, though.

Like the way your chest tightens when you see Oscar on the television screen. The way the café hushes when he’s announced on the grid, your regulars quietly cheering for him with their cappuccinos in hand.

Race Sundays are sacred in your café. You mute the usual playlist and flip on Sky Sports. The regulars know better than to ask you questions during qualifying. You serve flat whites on autopilot, one eye always on the TV. And when Oscar’s car crosses the finish line— when he clinches another win— you’re already reaching for your phone.

The messages aren’t elaborate. Just a few words, sometimes a stupid emoji. Nice one, champ. Or: Still faster than you talk. Once, just a GIF of a trophy and a smug-looking penguin. You send something every time, whether he finished on the podium or in the points or neither.

He doesn’t always respond right away. Sometimes it’s hours. Sometimes it's the middle of your night when your phone buzzes against your bedside table.

But he always replies.

Couldn’t have done it without the world’s best barista, he texted once, followed by a rare selfie. His champagne-drenched face, a peace sign, and a smile that he reserves fro you.

You had laughed. Saved the photo, too.

That’s the thing about Oscar. He’s everywhere, all the time— jetting from country to country, circuit to circuit. And yet, he still finds a way to feel near. Like springtime warmth breaking through the clouds. Like a small, bright constant in a city that never quite decides what weather it wants.

You watch him during post-race interviews, grinning at how he deflects praise with the same awkward charm you first met him with. You listen for the jokes he doesn’t quite finish. You catalogue the curve of his grin, the way his eyes crinkle when he knows he's done well.

And always, always, you keep your phone nearby.

Just in case he replies with something that makes you blush in front of the espresso machine.

Just in case he reminds you that no matter how far he is, you’re still a part of his every win.

Summer in Melbourne means winter break for the racing world; whatever it is, it also means Oscar is yours again for a couple of weeks.

He returns during the off-season like he never left, easing back into routine with a kind of softness you wouldn’t expect from a man who spends most of the year under pressure. He doesn’t text to say he’s coming. He just shows up— like clockwork— pushing open the café door with his usual boyish grin and an apologetic wave if the bell above the door startles you.

He slides into the same seat near the corner window. Orders the same drink. Teases you the same way he always does when you write his name wrong on the cup.

And when the regulars begin to whisper— recognizing him in quiet awe— he keeps his head down and eyes on you, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

On some days, when it’s slow and the air conditioning hums lazily against the heat outside, Oscar hops behind the counter. He doesn’t ask. He just washes his hands and starts helping. Restocking cups, organizing the pastry shelf, sneaking samples of cookies when he thinks you’re not looking.

People talk. Of course they do.

Oscar Piastri has a girlfriend. Oscar Piastri, McLaren F1 driver, hometown hero— is in love with you.

Strangers whisper when he wipes down tables. When he brings you a drink before you can ask for one. When he laughs too loudly at something only you could’ve said. Someone snaps a photo once, subtle but unmistakable. You pretend not to see it. He pretends not to care.

But later, when you’re in the back room counting inventory, you let the anxiety creep in.

“You know, they’re starting to figure it out,” you say, not looking at him.

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Figure what out?”

You glance over your shoulder. “Us.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Good.”

“Good?” You set the clipboard down. “Oscar, I don’t want this to hurt your image. Or make things harder for you.”

He crosses the rooms and slip an arm around your waist. “You think I care what strangers on the internet think?”

You give him a look. “You should.”

“I care what you think,” he says firmly. “And if the whole world knows I’m crazy about you, then great. Saves me the trouble of saying it myself.”

Your heart skips, because he says it like a fact. Like gravity. Like the sun rising in the summer sky.

“I mean it,” he adds, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “I’m not hiding from anyone. Not from this. Not from you.”

You lean into him before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Outside, the sun blazes. Inside, he kisses you like this part of your relationship is going to last forever. Being private but not a secret. Stealing quiet moments with each other as an invisible timer hangs overhead, every second nearing the moment when he has to go again.

And then, summer, like all good things, comes to its inevitable end.

But before it does, Oscar makes a point of being the boyfriend he doesn’t always have the time to be. He borrows his mum’s car and convinces you to shut the café down for two days. Just two, he promises, hands wrapped around your wrists and lips pressed to the side of your neck. You give in. Of course you do.

You leave before sunrise, the windows down, the wind teasing your hair as Melbourne fades behind you. The Great Ocean Road stretches ahead like something out of a film. The sea is to your left, wild and endless. The radio plays a messy mix of whatever stations come through clearly.

Oscar sings along, because you once said it’s your favorite thing in the world— having things of him that he doesn’t give to anybody else. There’s not a lot that he can give, so he grants you this. His belting, his hand on your thigh, his eyes on the road even though he wants so badly to look at you with the little time he has left.

“You know you’re tone-deaf, right?” you tease, glancing at him from behind your sunglasses.

Oscar, entirely unbothered, turns up the volume. “And yet you stay,” he screeches over the pop song and the waves and the thrum of your heart.

“Regretting it now.”

“Liar.”

You grin and lean your head against the window, the salty breeze kissing your skin. The road winds and weaves, dipping into forests and sweeping along cliffs. You stop for coffee at tiny beach towns, for photos near the Twelve Apostles, for stretches where you do nothing but exist side by side in easy silence.

Eventually, you find a quiet cliffside lookout. The sea churns below, sun low on the horizon, casting everything in golden light. Oscar spreads a blanket on the grass, and you sit with your knees drawn up, the wind cooler here but not unwelcome.

He joins you, shoulder to shoulder, gaze fixed on the water. For a while, it’s just the rhythmic crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

Then, softly, Oscar says, “I’m going to miss you.”

You turn to him. He’s not looking at you, but his jaw is tight, eyes glassy with unsaid things.

“I know it’s not forever,” he continues, voice low, “but every time I leave, it feels like I’m putting us on pause. And I hate that. I hate that I can’t stay.”

Your heart clenches.

You reach for his hand.

“You’re not putting anything on pause. We’re still us, even when you’re away,” you remind him.

It’s true, at least on your end. His papaya car can take him from the starting line to the chequered flag, can put him in countries all across the world. At the end of it all, he’s still the same Oscar you’d do anything and everything for.

He doesn’t say anything much after that. You can only hope he agrees, that he’s reassured. It comforts you that Oscar has always been a man of action, not so much of words.

When he leans in, when he kisses you there with the sun dipping behind you and the ocean singing below, it feels like summer is bending into something softer. Something that might just last.

Autumn comes quietly, almost unnoticeably. One moment i’'s late summer— your hand in his as you both watch waves kiss the Great Ocean Road— and the next, Oscar is gone again.

Back in a race suit, back on the grid, back to being the driver the world demands him to be.

The season restarts with a rush: Press events, simulator work, endless travel. Countries blur into each other. Time zones fracture his routine. He wakes up jet-lagged more often than not, sometimes unsure of what day it is until he checks his calendar.

In one city, it's humid and bright; in another, the rain feels like hurricanes. But somewhere in his chest, it feels like autumn. Like something has started to drift.

He still texts you. Still calls when he can. But the gaps between your conversations stretch, elastic and fragile. Sometimes he sends voice notes— quick, clipped, often in between meetings or on the way to a track. Sometimes you hear the edge in his voice, exhaustion making his tone heavier.

He apologizes more than he used to.

Sorry, I meant to reply last night.

Sorry, my flight got delayed.

Sorry, I missed our call.

And you’re kind. Always so, so kind.

You tell him you understand. That you’re proud of him. That you’ll just be here.

But Oscar starts to worry that your kindness is a finite resource. That even the gentlest patience has an expiration date.

He watches you through his screen most days. Watches the way you smile softly when he asks how you are. Watches your fingers cradle your mug, the steam curling between your knuckles. It hurts, in ways he never expected, to see you pixelated after having you differently.

Because yesterday— what feels like yesterday— you were with him. And today, you’re miles away.

And none of it feels simple anymore.

In the end, he doesn’t mean to wake you.

It’s late in Japan, or early, depending on how you look at it. The hotel room is dim, lit only by the glow of his phone screen and the occasional blink of city lights beyond the window. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, thumb hesitating over the screen.

You answer on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Osc?”

“Hey,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d actually pick up.”

“You called.”

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “I just... I needed to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then the rustle of blankets, the sound of you shifting closer to the mic.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “What’s up?”

He closes his eyes, lets the words settle. His hands fidget with the edge of the hotel duvet, reminding him of the worn, well-loved comforter you have back at your own place. His mind is louder than it should be at this hour, cycling through worries like laps on a circuit.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” he admits. “It’s just... everything’s so fast right now. The races, the media, the pressure. And I keep thinking— what if I drop the ball with you? What if you get tired of waiting for the person I keep promising to be?”

You’re quiet for a moment.

Then: “Oscar, listen to me.”

He does.

“You don’t have to earn my patience. You don’t have to prove yourself to me every time the world starts spinning too fast,” you say. “I know who you are, even when you’re tired and stressed and a thousand kilometers away.”

His throat tightens. He stares at the carpet, blinking back something heavy.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” you say gently. “You love me. I love you. That’s the whole thing.”

Oscar swallows hard. He’s never been good at this sort of thing; he’s honest when he has to be, sure, but the emotional part of everything has never been his forte.

He sticks to his honesty. “I wish I was there,” he says.

“I know.”

“It’s autumn now.”

“I know.”

“I’d hold you so tight you’d forget I ever left.”

You chuckle, sleepy but fond. “I don’t forget. But I forgive.”

He presses the phone closer to his ear, like proximity might make the distance easier to bear. And in that quiet, in your breath and your heartbeat slowed by sleep, he finds a thread of calm to hold onto.

“I’ll come home soon,” he promises, quiet but certain.

And when you say “You always do,” he wants so, so badly to give you everything he has.

It’s why he fulfills his promise sooner than what was probably expected.

After a brutal triple-header weekend, the kind that chews drivers up and spits them back out in time zones that blur together, Oscar finds himself on a red-eye to Melbourne before he can talk himself out of it.

He’s running on less than four hours of sleep, still in his team hoodie and airport sneakers when he finally gets to your door. The flowers in his hand are half-crushed, stolen from the bushes just outside your café— he knows he should’ve stopped somewhere proper, but he just couldn’t wait any longer.

He rings the doorbell. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.

You answer groggily in an oversized McLaren jersey, hair a mess, blinking at him like you’re not sure if he’s real.

“I know, I know,” he starts before you can say anything. “They’re from outside the shop. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan this well. I just— I had to come home. I couldn’t stop thinking. I missed you. I’ve been shit at this, haven’t I? I mean, not just the flowers— everything.”

You take one look at him, wild-haired and a little breathless, with dirt on his cuffs and sincerity in his eyes, and your heart cracks open in the quietest, softest way.

You step forward and kiss him, then. Still sleepy, still barefoot. It’s not hurried or desperate. It’s grounding. Like you’re reminding him he’s here now. Like you’re saying, It’s okay, I’ve got you.

He kisses you back with a gentleness that belies the hoops he had to go through to get here. He could be more desperate, urgent, but it’s not something he wants to push while you’re half-awake. While you’re soft, practically melting in his arms. He settles on kissing you as if it’s an apology, a confession, and a promise all rolled into one.

You take the flowers from his hand and pull him gently inside.

“Welcome home,” you murmur against his lips, and Oscar exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

It’s not complicated, not really. Not when love looks like showing up, like late flights and half-crushed flowers, like a kiss in the early morning and a place to rest your heart.

The apartment is quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the early morning birdsong outside your window. The light through the curtains is soft, golden— the kind that makes you pause and breathe a little deeper. After the flowers have been put in a vase and Oscar has changed into more comfortable clothes, you pad into the kitchen.

You start the coffee, the motions muscle memory by now. As it drips into your mug, you lean against the counter, waiting for Oscar to inevitably follow suit.

You don’t hear his footsteps, but you feel him. The way his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder like it belongs there. There’s probably an alternate universe where this could be your reality. Lazy mornings with Oscar, where he doesn’t have to fret over return flights and race strategy and all that.

It’s not something you yearn for. You’re happy with the cards you’ve been dealt, with the Oscar you have right now.

He hums lowly, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Can I have some too?”

You blink, startled. “You? Want coffee?”

“Might as well learn to like it,” he murmurs into the side of your neck. “Means I get to be awake with you longer.”

You turn in his arms, eyebrows raised. “Oscar... you don't have to change yourself for us.”

He shrugs, a lazy, boyish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know. But maybe I want to anyway.”

With half an eye roll, you hand him your mug instead. It’s exactly how you like it, and— to no one’s surprise— it’s everything he hates. He takes a sip and immediately grimaces.

“Still tastes like regret, huh?” you joke as your arms find purchase around his middle.

“Worse,” he says, and then pulls you in for a kiss before you can say anything more.

It’s a little coffee, a little toothpaste, and all you. There’s a little more of an edge to this, a promise of something more later, but it’s also just a reminder in itself. This is what the two of you had. This is what the two of you could work with. And it would last, would go on for as long as the two of you put in the work.

Oscar pulls back only when he absolutely has to, forehead against yours, breath warm.

Outside, the trees rustle in the breeze, gold and red and fading brown. The autumn leaves fall slowly, drifting one by one in a soundless, unhurried dance.

Oscar falls in love like that, too— quietly, fully, with every part of him.

He falls in love with you again, right then, in the middle of the kitchen, with bitter coffee on his tongue and your smile against his. ⛐

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localwhoore · 2 months ago

Text

me😭😭and😭😭😭😭who😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

cold coffee ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“best thing about your hometown?” “apparently it’s the coffee. i don’t drink coffee so i don’t know. for me, it’s just that it’s home.”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, fluff. mention of food. set in melbourne, spans a couple of years (alleged slowburn), oscar pines!!! so much!!!, cameos from oscar's sisters. ꔮ commentary box: lots of love all around i.e. contract renewal + home race. had to do it to 'em. inspired by this video, where two of my friends immediately demanded to see a barista!reader. did a bit of a spin on it, but the concept is intact! ☕ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ cold coffee, ed sheeran. something, somehow, someday, role model. i'd have to think about it, leith ross. time, angelo de augustine. keep the rain, searows. the view between villages, noah kahan.

It starts with Hattie.

Oscar’s younger sister had spent the morning badgering him, pleading in the way only a sibling with endless energy and zero regard for his sanity could. She’d tugged on his sleeve, whining about the new café down the street, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.

“We’ve been home for two weeks, and you haven’t done anything fun,” she’d accused, arms crossed as she blocked his way to the fridge. “Come with me. Pleeease?”

Which is why, against his better judgment, Oscar is now standing in line at a café that smells overwhelmingly like roasted coffee beans and vanilla. He eyes the display of pastries, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, and tries to ignore the way his hair sticks to his forehead from the walk over.

“You should get something,” Hattie says, nudging his side.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

She rolls her eyes, as if this is a personal insult. “They have other stuff. You could try tea. Or a hot chocolate. Or—”

“Next!”

Oscar looks up, and that’s when he sees you.

You’re behind the counter, all smiles and easy confidence, a pencil tucked behind your ear. The apron you wear is a little big on you, the straps tied in a messy bow at the back. There’s a small streak of flour on your cheek and you lean onto the counter like you’re genuinely excited to take their order.

“What can I get for you guys?”

Hattie launches into her order with the determination of a girl on a mission, listing out her exact specifications for an iced mocha with extra whipped cream. You write everything down with a nod, your fingers deftly clicking buttons on the register.

“And for you?” you ask, turning to Oscar with the kind of warmth that makes his skin prickle.

“I, uh—” he clears his throat, resisting the urge to look away. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s okay,” you say, like it actually is. “We’ve got some pretty good non-coffee options. Do you like chocolate? Or maybe something fruity?”

Your kindness is standard Melbourne hospitality, he tells himself. It’s not personal.

But there’s a lightness to the way you speak to him, patient and unbothered, that makes something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Fruit tea’s fine,” he says, trying not to sound as awkward as he feels.

You smile, really smile, like he’s made the best choice in the world. “One fruit tea, coming up.”

And just like that, it’s done.

Hattie drags him to a table by the window, her enthusiasm buzzing loud enough to fill the entire space. Oscar watches as you move behind the counter, steaming milk and melting chocolate, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let Hattie convince him to come back tomorrow.

You carry their drinks to the table with practiced ease, setting them down carefully to avoid any spills. Hattie beams as you place her elaborate drink in front of her. Oscar watches quietly as you slide his drink toward him— a peach iced tea, condensation already gathering on the glass.

“Enjoy,” you say with that same warm smile.

Oscar mutters a thanks, wrapping his hands around the cold glass. He takes a sip, the sweetness clinging to his tongue, and casts a glance at the door.

He could leave. They’ve got their drinks, Hattie’s satisfied, and his obligation is technically fulfilled.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he sits back in his chair, sipping at his tea like he’s got all the time in the world. Hattie chatters about her netball games and how she’s trying to convince their parents to get a puppy, but Oscar only half-listens, eyes flicking up every now and then to watch you.

Maybe he should buy something else.

A snack, maybe.

For Hattie, obviously.

Or he could offer to take Hattie’s cup back to the counter when she’s done. (Except the café has self-service return trays, and he’d already clocked that the second they sat down.)

He hates how obvious he’s being. And he hates even more how he doesn’t seem to care.

Eventually, you circle back to their table, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

“Hey,” you say, leaning slightly against the chair next to Hattie’s. “Everything alright? Drinks okay?”

Oscar nods wordlessly, swallowing his drink. It tastes a bit too sugary now.

“It’s so good,” Hattie gushes, kicking her legs under the table. “I’m gonna make mum bring me back next weekend!”

Your eyes brighten. “That’s great. We’ve only been open a few weeks, so we’re still figuring stuff out. The owner’s a nice guy, but he’s old school. Doesn’t know how to use the cash register half the time.”

Oscar finally speaks, his voice scratchy as if he’s forgotten how to use it. “You work here by yourself?”

“Most days,” you admit, shrugging. “He’s got grandkids, so sometimes he dips out early to see them. But I don’t mind. It’s just part-time, and I live nearby.”

Oscar processes this slowly, like if he takes long enough, the conversation won’t end.

“How old are you?” Hattie asks, her bluntness making Oscar cringe.

You don’t seem to mind, though. You laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Fifteen. I’m starting Year 10 next term.”

Oscar blinks. The fact that you’re the same age as him shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, but it lands like a surprise punch to the gut.

“I’m fourteen,” Hattie announces proudly.

"That’s a fun age," you tell her kindly; she looks at you like you’re the coolest person in the world, and Oscar is half-inclined to agree.

Then you glance at Oscar, head tilting. “What about you? You go to school around here?”

He shifts in his seat, rubbing at the condensation ring his glass left on the table. “Boarding school,” he says curtly. “Just home for the summer.”

“Ah,” you say, like that explains something.

Hattie pipes up again, because of course she does. “He races cars,” she declares. “He’s, like, really good.”

Oscar feels his face heat. He glares at Hattie, who just grins, already licking melted whipped cream off her finger.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s awesome,” you say, and you don’t sound condescending or anything. You sound genuinely awed, and Oscar fears he’s going to replay it in his head the entire night.

“We should go,” he says abruptly, pushing back from the table.

“What?” Hattie pouts. “But I want a pastry!”

“We can get one,” Oscar promises through gritted teeth, standing and grabbing her empty cup so fast the ceramic clinks loudly against the saucer. He forces himself to slow down, his fingers a little shaky. “Next time.”

Hattie hops out of her seat, already skipping toward the door. Oscar follows, grateful for the escape, but you call out before he makes it too far.

“I hope you do come back,” you say, smiling again. This time, it feels like it’s just for him. The words, the smile, the look.

Oscar nods stiffly, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie.

He doesn’t know if he will. But, as he lingers on the way out, he wonders how many summers he has left— and how many excuses he can make before you start to notice.

Inevitably, his appearances at the café become almost routine.

It starts small: once a week, maybe twice, a stop by for a drink he doesn’t actually want. But Hattie catches on fast, and soon she’s dragging Edie and Mae along too, the three of them whispering and snickering at a volume they absolutely think is subtle.

“I like the pastries,” he claims when Edie wiggles her eyebrows at him.

“Sure,” Mae chirps, swinging her feet as she dangles them off her chair. “Totally the pastries. Not the barista who always makes your drink herself even when there’s someone else on shift.”

Oscar gives her a withering look, but she remains undeterred, biting into her muffin with the smugness of someone who knows she’s right.

He denies it. Again and again. Because he doesn’t know what to do with the idea of having a crush, let alone on you. He’s already awkward enough on his own, and he refuses to fuel his sisters’ relentless teasing.

But then he comes in one day— alone, this time— and you’re not there.

Oscar knows he shouldn’t care. It’s not like you promised to be here. And yet, disappointment settles heavy in his chest.

The barista on shift is nice enough, but Oscar barely listens as he orders. He can’t even remember what he picked when he sits down, staring at the drink like it personally offended him.

The café feels quieter without you buzzing around, chatting with regulars and teasing old Mr. Callahan about his crossword puzzles. The emptiness gnaws at him, and he knows he looks so obvious, sulking into his untouched drink.

He tells himself he’ll leave after finishing it. He lingers for an hour.

Oscar doesn’t look back at the café as he leaves, but he feels its absence like a dull ache. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, chin tucked to his chest as he stalks down the street.

He tells himself it’t stupid to feel this way. He doesn’t even know you. He definitely shouldn’t care if you’re there or not.

And yet.

Fine.

It’s over. He’ll get over it.

He’ll spend the school term back at boarding school, surrounded by motorsport and homework and people who don’t know how to steam milk into a heart shape.

It’ll be better this way.

At least that’s the plan.

He’s halfway home when he nearly collides with you on the footpath.

“Oh! Oscar, right?” you say, blinking up at him like he’s an unexpected surprise.

He freezes. “Um.”

“You left in a hurry. Not a fan of the other barista?” You tilt your head, a teasing smile tugging at your mouth.

Oscar feels like he might short-circuit. “I— I just noticed you weren’t there,” he blurts out, horrified as the words tumble out without permission.

Your smile grows. “Noticed, huh?”

“I mean—” He’s desperate to backtrack, but it’s useless. The damage is done. You’re grinning, and he can already imagine the relentless teasing he’d get if his sisters caught wind of this.

“You’re heading home?” you ask, mercifully letting him off the hook.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already planning to walk faster. Maybe he’ll get away with half-jogging the entire way.

“Big plans for your last day of summer?”

He squints at you. “How’d you know it’s my last day?”

You tap your temple. “I’m observant.”

“Or you got it out of Hattie.”

“Maybe,” you say, shameless. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Wanna grab a bite at Albert Park?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“There’s a food truck that sells the best fish and chips,” you explain. “It’s not too far. C’mon, it’s your last day home.”

“I—” He should say no. He was just lecturing himself on the walk back.

But you’re looking at him like it’s not a big deal, like you’re not aware of the internal war waging in his head, and Oscar’s resolve crumples like paper.

“Okay,” he hears himself say, voice tight.

You beam. “Cool.”

Oscar follows you to Albert Park, his heart thudding with every step. He wonders if he’ll ever forgive himself for agreeing to this. Or if, maybe, it’ll turn out to be the best mistake he’s ever made.

The fish and chips are at least good. Better than good, actually, and Oscar begrudgingly tells you so between bites, like the admission costs him something.

He tries to be subtle about how much he likes it, chewing carefully, but you notice anyway, your grin bright and uncontainable.

“Told you,” you say smugly, elbow propped on the table as you pick at your fries. “You doubted me, didn’t you?”

“I don’t usually trust people who enjoy serving coffee for a living,” he deadpans.

You laugh, and the sound rattles through him like a loose bolt. “Fair,” you concede. “But I’m right about most things, so you should get used to it.”

Oscar snorts but doesn’t argue. He’s happy enough to let you fill the gaps in conversation, listening as you ramble about everything from the café’s horrible playlist to how the Albert Park sunset is always a little better in the summer.

He only nods and hums, content to let your words fill the space between bites.

But then you flip the script.

“So,” you start, resting your chin on your hand. “When do you start boarding school again?”

“Monday.”

You make a face. “Brutal.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” you say, dubious. “And racing? How’s that going?”

His fingers pause around a chip. “You remember I race?”

“I’m not some ditzy barista, you know.” You tilt your head, like you’re studying him. “I know you kart. Or, karted?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I moved up to junior formulae this year.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s huge, right?”

“I guess.”

You nudge his foot under the table. “Don’t be modest. It’s cool.”

He looks away, that telltale heat prickling at his collar again. “It’s not, like, F1 or anything.”

“Yet,” you point out.

Oscar smiles, small and self-conscious. “That’s the goal, I guess.”

“You guess?” You feign offense, sitting up straighter. “You guess? Come on. Say it with your chest.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Then, a little louder, a little firmer, “I want to drive in F1.”

“See?” you say, satisfied. “Not so hard, was it?”

Oscar’s throat tightens around the next bite. It is hard— saying it out loud. It makes the dream sound ridiculous, even when he knows exactly how much he’s giving up to chase it.

It makes it sound real.

But you don’t tease him. You only smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s awesome,” you say. “Can I have your number?”

Oscar nearly chokes. “What?”

“Your number,” you repeat, leaning back with an easy grin. “Would be cool to have a future F1 driver on speed dial.”

He huffs out a laugh, assuming you’re joking. You must be joking. People don’t ask for his number.

Oscar doesn’t give it to you, brushing it off like it’s nothing, and you don’t press. The two of you linger at Albert Park until the sky blushes purple, talking until Oscar’s curfew has him bidding you goodbye.

It’s only when he’s halfway home, kicking at loose gravel on the footpath, that it hits him like a freight train.

You might’ve actually been serious.

Oscar groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He reconciles with the fact that he’ll only see you in the summers and during off-seasons. It becomes a rhythm he slips into with practiced ease, like shifting gears without thinking.

His sisters’ teasing remains relentless, but he endures it because they’re right— he can’t seem to stay away from the café.

It’s a quiet sort of comfort, walking in and hearing your voice floating through the space, catching snippets of your conversations with regulars before you inevitably drift his way.

He contemplates asking for your number or your socials more times than he can count, always catching himself at the last second. The thought lingers like an engine idling, never quite stalling out but never revving forward either.

He tells himself it’s fine. The café is your domain, a fixed point in the chaos of his ever-moving life.

It’s fine. It’s enough. It has to be.

In the break before he transitions into Formula Two, you place his usual non-coffee drink on the counter with a different sort of grin.

“You’re looking at the new owner of this place,” you announce, voice light with amusement. “The old man decided to go on a lifelong cruise. Said he wants to see the world while he still can.”

Oscar blinks. “He gave you the café?”

“Left it in my name. He figured I’d been running it anyway, might as well make it official.” You tilt your head. “What about you? I saw the news — Formula Two, huh? That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s... a step closer.”

You lean against the counter, eyes warm. “Congrats, Piastri. Guess we both got what we wanted.”

He smiles and mumbles a quiet “Congrats to you too,” but as he takes his drink and watches you serve other customers, he’s not sure how true that statement is.

Because he thinks about how your name is tied to this café now, how you belong to this little pocket of Melbourne while he chases circuits around the world.

And he wonders— for the first time, with startling clarity— if what he wants might not be as far from this place as he thought.

Oscar doesn’t have time to dwell on it.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s too busy. Too preoccupied with the whirlwind of signing with McLaren, of finally reaching the dream he’s been chasing since he first wrapped his fingers around a steering wheel.

He celebrates with his family, his sisters loudly teasing him, his parents beaming with pride. It should be enough.

But then he finds himself at the café, hovering by the entrance, fingers curled around the door handle.

The bell jingles when he steps inside, sharp against the hum of the espresso machine. You glance up from wiping down the counter, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“We’re closed in ten,” you call out, drying your hands on a dish towel.

Oscar nods, shutting the door behind him. The sleeves of his hoodie are shoved up to his elbows, hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. His heart is pounding, and he tells himself it’s just leftover adrenaline from the day’s excitement.

“I know. I just—” He falters, mouth opening and closing before he finally blurts out, “I got signed. With McLaren.”

You blink, then toss the dish towel onto the counter.

“Wait, what?”

He barely gets a nod in before you’re circling out from behind the counter, barreling into him with enough force to make him stumble back a step. Oscar stiffens at first, arms hovering awkwardly around you— then he exhales, tension seeping from his shoulders as he wraps his arms around you in return.

“Holy crap,” you say, squeezing him tight. “You did it. Oscar Piastri, you’re a Formula One driver.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. His voice is quieter when he adds, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

You pull back, beaming up at him. “I’m so proud of you. Seriously. I can’t wait to see you race.”

His heart thuds against his ribs, too loud, too fast. He drops his arms when you do, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

His face feels hot, but you don’t seem to notice, already launching into a ramble about how you’re going to make the café play the races on the TV in the corner.

Oscar watches you talk, nodding along, though he can’t really process your words. All he can think about is the way your smile had split your face, how easily you’d hugged him, how your arms had fit around him like you belonged there.

He leaves that night more certain than ever.

This crush isn’t going anywhere.

Oscar privately decides he’ll use the feelings to his advantage. A secret, unspoken fuel source. It becomes most obvious at his first-ever home race.

The roar of the crowd fades into static beneath the hum of his engine, but he knows they’re there. Knows the grandstands are packed with fans waving papaya flags, knows somewhere among them are his parents and sisters— and maybe you.

He pretends you are. Imagines you leaning forward in your seat, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer. He thinks about how you’d probably tease him later if he botched his first home race, how you might promise him a pity pastry from the café if he placed last.

That thought alone keeps his foot steady on the throttle.

He crosses the finish line in eighth, his first points in Formula One. The team is ecstatic, patting his back and ruffling his hair until he can barely breathe through the congratulations.

Later, at the house, the celebration is in full swing. His family is buzzing with excitement, and the living room is littered with leftover food and streamers. Still, Oscar keeps glancing at the door, brow furrowed.

He tells himself the weight in his chest is only exhaustion, not the ridiculous, misplaced disappointment that you aren’t at the post-race party.

“What’s your problem?” Edie asks, plopping onto the couch next to him.

He shrugs, pretending to focus on the race replay flashing on the TV. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Edie snorts. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been looking at the door like a lost puppy. Thought you’d finally get your act together and invite your favorite barista?”

Oscar flushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” Edie smirks, then gestures toward the kitchen. “They sent stuff, by the way. Practically wiped out their stock.”

He blinks, heart thudding as he follows hsi sister into the kitchen. The counter is packed with pastries and drinks, each one carefully labeled. A small, folded note sits on top of the pile, your handwriting unmistakable.

For future world champion OP81. I’ll save a spot on the TV for your podium finish.

Oscar stares at the note for a beat too long, then flips it shut, like that’ll stop the embarrassing warmth spreading through him.

He’s suddenly, overwhelmingly glad you’re not there, because he might’ve done something incredibly stupid. Like kissed you.

Or worse— asked you to keep a spot open forever.

Oscar’s schedule is relentless, though. An endless cycle of races, travel, media obligations. He still makes it back home when he can, even if it’s just for a few days. The café becomes a pit stop as routine as visiting his parents.

He never stays long, though. He catches glimpses of you between customers, exchanges pleasantries, hears about you secondhand through his sisters’ chatter.

Edie mentions you started taking a business course. Hattie swears you went on a date (Oscar pretends he doesn't care). Mae tells him you got a new coffee machine.

But it’s never from you.

Until one evening, when he swings by the café, and you ask him to stay until closing.

His heart lodges itself in his throat.

The café empties out, and Oscar helps you stack chairs and wipe tables. His fingers jitter against the rag, adrenaline buzzing under his skin like he’s on the starting grid. He wonders how he’ll respond when you confess, how to let you down gently when he inevitably leaves for another race weekend.

(He also can’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss you.)

When you finally sit him down, your words knock the air out of his lungs.

“The café might close,” you say, tone steadier than your hands wringing your apron in your lap. “Rent’s gone up, and I just... I don’t know if I can keep up."

Oscar stares, words dissolving before they can form. He thinks about the old man who first owned the place, about you proudly taking over. He thinks about all the hours he’s spent lingering here, all the drinks you’ve made him, all the moments he’s stolen just to see you.

The idea of it all disappearing feels like a punch to the chest.

“I just thought you should know,” you continue, voice quieter now. “You've been coming here for years, and— I don’t know, I guess I wanted to thank you for that. For being a loyal customer.”

Oscar frowns. “I’m not just— I mean, yeah, I like the café, but…”

You smile, but it’s small, tired. “I know. But still. It means a lot. And hey, we had a good run, right?”

He hates the way you talk like it's already over.

Without thinking, he reaches across the table and covers your hand with his own. You flinch, just barely, before curling your fingers around his.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, like it’s something you should apologize for.

“Don’t be,” he says back.

He doesn’t know what else to offer. And so he holds your hand, and the two of you sit in relative silence.

Oscar tries not to think of this being the last time he’ll get to do this. He resists the urge to study the weight of your hand, because then that would be admitting to a certain kind of preemptive loss.

You close up shop, the two of you lingering outside the café under the glow of the streetlights, hands still linked. The night air is cool, the streets quiet, and it feels like you’re waiting for something.

Oscar doesn’t know what.

He racks his brain for words, for solutions, for something that might make you stay, but all he comes up with is static. The same helplessness he feels when a car failure knocks him out of a race.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Good night, Oscar.”

“Good night,” he says, his fingers tightening around yours for a fraction of a second before he’s letting you go.

He watches you walk away, the distance stretching between you like a rubber band about to snap. And— as usual— he doesn’t realize what to do or say until much, much later.

But he knows you’ll forgive him for this one.

It takes some convincing, some pulling of strings. In the end, he doesn’t know if he even manages it. Not until he’s back in Melbourne for the prix, and Lando is bringing him closer to the spot he’s tried to avoid all morning.

“New caterer this year,” Lando says, peering at his phone. “Some local place. Looks sick.”

Oscar feigns interest, even as dread pools in his stomach.

He lasts all of twenty minutes before Lando physically drags him to the hospitality area. Oscar immediately clocks the familiar pastries, the neat line of carefully curated drinks— but it’s the sight of you, grinning behind the counter, that sends his pulse into overdrive.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” Lando jokes. “I might never leave.”

Oscar, meanwhile, contemplates leaving immediately.

You spot him mid-pour, your smile faltering. And Oscar knows he’s screwed.

The confrontation comes after Lando flits away, croissant in hand, leaving Oscar cornered by the espresso machine.

“You.” You jab a finger at his chest. “You did this.”

Oscar glances around him. The Netflix boom microphone is gracefully not around. No one from his team is, either.

He allows himself this small joy of bickering with you. “Technically, McLaren did this,” he says dryly.

“Bullshit.” Your eyes narrow, but there’s no real venom. “You got me this gig so I could afford to keep the café, didn’t you?”

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “You’ve got no proof.”

You stare at him for a beat, then you let out an exasperated sigh. That smile of yours— the one that has ruined Oscar for everyone else— threatens to break on your face. “I could kiss you, you know,” you say, and he privately wishes you’d run him over with a car instead.

You’re kidding. You sound like you’re kidding. But Oscar isn’t fifteen and stupid anymore. The only thing that hasn’t changed from back then is the way he feels for you, and it’s what has him finally giving in.

“How about I give you my number first?” he says.

It takes you a moment. A full thirty seconds to realize what he’s getting at.

When it does hit you, though, you laugh. “A couple years late, Piastri,” you jab.

Oscar dares to meet your eyes. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face— the way his heart is clenching in his chest.

His voice is quieter when he says, “Please tell me you still want it.”

Your smile softens.

He braces himself for a gentle denial, a spiel about friendship. Instead, he holds his breath as you fish for your phone.

“Put it in before I change my mind,” you say, sliding it across the counter. Your coolness is betrayed by just the hint of giddiness in your tone, because you’ve wanted this for as long as he has, haven’t you? You hadn’t been kidding back then, and you still want this.

Still want him.

Oscar fumbles to type his number, adrenaline roaring louder than any engine. When he hands the phone back, your fingers brush his, lingering just a second too long.

“Good luck out there,” you tell him.

Oscar doesn’t feel like he needs any luck.

Not when he finally, finally got the win that mattered most. ⛐

2K notes · View notes

localwhoore · 2 months ago

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I do wonder if any of them look back on it and think “what the actual fuck was I doing?”

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localwhoore · 2 months ago

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May this love hunt me down (except rhe divorce part)

most assuredly ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. he opens his mouth to ask for the special. instead, oscar says, “would you like to get married?”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 15.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, humor. mentions of food, alcohol. marriage of convenience, fake dating, set mostly in monaco, serious creative liberties on citizenship/residency rules, google translated french. title from the fray’s look after you (which i would highly recommend listening to while reading). ꔮ commentary box: i thought this would be short, but i fear i’m physically incapable of shutting up about oscar piastri. sue me. wrote this in one deranged sitting, and i leave it to all of you now 💍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ almost (sweet music), hozier. a drop in the ocean, ron pope. hazy, rosi golan ft. william fitzsimmons. fidelity, regina spektor. just say yes, snow patrol. archie, marry me, alvvays.

Oscar Piastri fails his second attempt at Monaco residency on a Tuesday.

The rejection letter is folded too crisply, sealed in a government envelope so sterile it might as well be laughing at him. He stares at it while sipping overpriced espresso from the balcony of his apartment—well, technically, his team principal’s apartment, but the view of the harbor is the same. He watches a seagull steal a croissant from a toddler and thinks: that bird has more rights here than I do.

It’s not that he needs Monaco, but it would make things easier. Taxes, residency, team logistics. Mostly, he just hates the principle of it. He’s raced these streets. Risked his life at La Rascasse. Smiled through grid walks, kissed the trophy once, twice. How much more Monégasque does he need to be?

Still, the Principality remains unimpressed.

Oscar is dreadfully impatient about it all.

He walks to lunch out of spite. Refuses the team car. Chooses the one place that doesn’t care who he is: Chez Colette, tucked between a florist and a family-run tailor, with sun-faded menus and the same specials board since 2004. It smells like lemon and anchovy and garlic confit. Monaco’s soul in three notes.

You’re wiping down a table when he steps in. You don’t look up right away.

He knows your name, but he won’t say it aloud. That would make it too real. Instead, he watches the way your fingers move over the woodgrain, the tiny gold cross around your neck. No wedding ring.

Definitely Monégasque. Probably born here. He’s seen your grandmother in the back, slicing pissaladière with a surgeon’s precision.

You approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. He opens his mouth to ask for the special.

Instead, he says, “Would you like to get married?”

There’s a beat of silence so clean you could plate oysters on it.

Your brow lifts, just slightly. “Pardon?”

Oscar’s own voice catches up with him. “I mean. Lunch. And then—maybe—marriage. If you’re free. Not in the next hour. Just in general.”

Another beat. Then you laugh, low and incredulous. Your English is heavily accented. A telltale sign you learned it for the express purpose of surviving the service industry. “Is this because of the citizenship thing?”

He stares at you.

You shrug, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the first to ask.”

Oscar groans and slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not.”

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

“How do you feel about pissaladière?” you ask, scribbling on your notepad.

“Is that a yes?”

You walk away without answering. He watches you disappear into the kitchen, the sound of your laughter softening the corners of his day.

He’s not sure what he just started. But he knows he’s coming back tomorrow.

And so Oscar returns the next day. Then the day after that. And the one after that.

At first, it’s curiosity. Then it’s habit. Eventually, it becomes something closer to ritual. Lunch. Sometimes dinner. Once, a midnight snack after sim practice, when he told himself he needed carbs and not just a glimpse of the waitress with the tired eyes and fast French.

He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.

You mumble French at him when he walks in. The first time, he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or warning. Now, he knows it’s both.

You’re usually wiping something down or balancing three plates on one arm. You never wear makeup. Your apron’s always tied in a double knot. And you never, ever miss a chance to call him out.

“If you’re here to poach the brandamincium recipe, you’ll have to marry my grandmother,” you tell him one afternoon.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I hear she’s already married to the oven.”

You snort, and his chest flares with something stupid and bright.

The regulars give him side-eyes. Your grandmother watches him like she’s trying to solve an equation. Still, you never ask him to leave.

He tips well. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just grateful. For the peace. For the food. For you.

One night, the lights are low and the chairs are half-stacked when he shows up with two tarte aux pommes from the bakery down the street. You look at him like you’re considering throwing him out. Instead, you pour two glasses of wine and sit.

He peels the parchment off the pastries. “Chez Colette. Named after your grandmother?”

You nod. “She started it with my grandfather. 1973.”

He glances around. The cracked tiles. The curling menus. The handwritten notes on the wall that must be decades old. “And now it’s yours”

“Sort of,” you say dismissively. “I wait tables. I do the books. I fix the pipes. Mostly I pray the rent doesn’t go up again.”

Oscar feels a twist beneath his ribs. He’s spent millions on cars. Watches. Sim rigs. But this—this tiny restaurant and your soft frown—feels more fragile than any of it.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

You look at him with the sort of grin that unravels him. “It’s dying.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes a bite of tart. Lets the silence sit between you. He swallows his mouthful of pastry, then says, “Then maybe we save it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We?”

Oscar smiles. When you don’t tell him to leave, he makes a decision.

He returns three days later, after hours. He doesn’t mean to knock twice, but the restaurant is dark, the chairs up, the shutters half-drawn like the building itself is asleep. Still, he raps his knuckles on the glass, envelope in hand, because this isn’t something he can deliver over a text. Or a tart.

You appear after a minute, hair pinned up, sweatshirt on instead of your apron. You squint at him through the glass like he’s forgotten what day it is.

“We’re closed,” you say as you open the door halfway.

“I know,” Oscar replies, holding up the envelope. “I brought... paperwork.”

Your brows knit. You glance down at the crisp white rectangle like it might bite. “If that’s a menu suggestion, je jure devant Dieu—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s—alright, this is going to sound completely mental, but just let me get through it.”

You cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

Oscar takes a breath. You’re still not letting him in; he figures he deserves it. “There’s a clause,” he starts slowly, “in the citizenship law. A foreign spouse of a Monegasque national can apply for residency after one year of marriage and continuous residence in the Principality.”

“I’m aware.”

He opens the envelope and slides out three neat pages, stapled, formatted like a sponsor contract. He’d asked his agent to help without saying why. Said it was a tax thing. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.

“This is a proposal,” he continues. “One year of marriage. Eighteen months, technically, to be safe. We live here, we do all the legal bits. Then we file for annulment, or divorce, or whatever keeps it clean. No... weird stuff. Just paperwork.”

You stare at him. He rushes on.

“In return, I’ll wire you 10% of my racing salary during the term. That’s around 230,000 euros. And 5% annually for five years after. You can use it however you want. To keep Chez Colette open. Renovate. Hire help. Buy better wine. I don’t care.”

You say nothing. The silence stretches. A bird flutters past the awning. Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not asking for a real marriage. Just a legal one,” he manages. “You’ve seen how hard it is for people like me to get a foothold here. I’ve driven Monaco more times than I’ve driven my home streets. I want to stay. I just... can’t do it alone.”

You look at the contract, then back at him. “You typed up a prenup for a fake marriage?”

“Technically it’s a postnup,” he mutters, half to himself.

Something in your face shifts. Not quite a smile. But not a no, either. “You’re serious,” you say, scanning his face for any hint of doubt.

“I really am.”

You shake your head, understandably overwhelmed and disbelieving that this acquaintance had plucked you out of nowhere for his grand citizenship scheme. “Give me a few days. I need to think.”

Oscar nods. He doesn’t push. He just hands you the envelope and steps back into the fading light of Rue Grimaldi.

Two days later, you tell him to come over once again. You give him a specific time.

The restaurant is closed again, but this time it’s by design—chairs down, kettle on, one ceramic pot of lavender still bravely holding on near the window. The table between you is small. A two-seater wedged against the wall beneath a sepia photo of Grace Kelly.

Oscar sits across from you, spine a little too straight, as if you’re about to interrogate him in a language he doesn’t speak. You’re reading the contract like it’s the terms of his parole.

“Alright,” you say, flipping the page with a deliberate rustle. “Ground rules.”

He nods, trying not to look as if he’s bracing for impact.

“One: I’m not changing my last name.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Oscar says.

“Two: no pet names in public. No ‘darling,’ no ‘chérie,’ and absolutely no ‘babe.’”

He makes a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘babe’ in my life.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

You tap the next section of the contract. “Three: no sharing a bed. We alternate who gets the apartment when the press is nosy, but I don’t care how Monégasque the walls are. We are not reenacting a romcom.”

“I like my own space.”

“Four,” you continue, now fully warmed up, “if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend in another country who thinks this is all some hilarious prank, I will go on record. Publicly. With—how do you say?—receipts.”

Oscar’s eyes widen, then he laughs. He can’t help it. You’re glaring, but it only makes him grin harder. “There is no secret girlfriend,” he assures, still smiling. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

You study him a second longer. He meets your gaze. Not in a cold way. More like someone trying very hard to be worthy of trust.

“Alright,” you murmur, sitting back. “We have only one problem.”

“Do we?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the contract, the table, and him. “This is very convincing on paper. But people will ask questions. My grandmother will ask questions.”

“I figured as much,” Oscar says, drawing a breath. “Which is why we’ll need to... date. First.”

“Date,” you say, testing the word out on. Your nose scrunches up a bit. Cute, Oscar thinks, and then he crashes the thought into the wall of his mind so he nevers thinks it again.

“Publicly. Casually. Just enough to sell the story,” he explains. “Lunches, walks, one trip to the paddock maybe. Something the media can sink its teeth into. I’ll—I’ll pay for that, too.”

“You’re telling me I have to pretend to fall in love with you,” you say skeptically.

Oscar’s smile tilts. “Not fall in love. Just look like you could.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you drop your head into your hands, laughing once—sharp and disbelieving. “Dieu m’aide,” you mumble into your palms. “Fine. One year. No pet names. Separate beds. And if you make me wear matching outfits, I walk.”

Oscar’s heart soars. “Deal,” he says, sealing it before you can back out.

He reaches out to shake on it.

You hesitate. Then take his hand.

And just like that, you’re engaged.

A photo of Oscar with a takeaway bag from your restaurant makes the rounds on a gossip account. The caption reads, Local Hero or Just Hungry? Piastri Spotted Again at Chez Colette. He doesn’t comment.

Then, a week later, he’s asked on a podcast what he does on his days off in Monaco. He shrugs, smiles, and says, “There’s this little place down on Rue Grimaldi. Family-owned. Best tapenade in the world.”

The host jokes, “That’s oddly specific.”

Oscar just sips his water. “So’s my palate.”

After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????

He never confirms. Never denies. Just keeps showing up like it’s natural. He opens doors. He holds your bag when you need to tie your shoe. He stands a little too close when you’re waiting in line. The story builds itself.

Until one night, a photo leaks.

It’s at the back entrance of the restaurant, late, after a pretend-date that turned into real laughter and too much wine. You’re saying goodbye. He kisses you—cheek first, then temple, then, finally, the crown of your hair.

That’s the money shot. Oscar, his lips pressed atop your head; you, with your eyes closed. Turns out both of you are pretty good actors.

The internet implodes.

Lando calls the next morning.

“Mate.”

Oscar winces. “Hey.”

“You’re dating?” Lando sounds honest-to-goodness betrayed. Oscar almost feels bad.

The Australian squints at the espresso machine like it might save him. “Technically, yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“I was enjoying the privacy,” he deadpans.

Lando hangs up. Oscar makes a mental note to apologize when they see each other next at MTC. For now, though, he has more pressing matters to handle. One he discusses with you while he’s helping you close up shop.

Oscar nudges you gently. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“I need to use a pet name.”

You whip your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hear me out. It’s weird if I call you ‘hey’ in interviews. People are starting to notice. One. Just one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic air. “Darling.”

You shake your head. “Too Downton Abbey.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Too American.”

“Snugglebug?”

You stare.

“That was a test,” he says defensively.

“Try again.”

He considers. “Just—how about ‘my future wife.’”

You look away—too quickly. He sees it. The flicker. The way your lips twitch before you hide them.

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good.

You don’t say it back, don’t promise to call him your future husband. It’s alright. As it is, he has a couple more hurdles before he can even get to the wedding bells part of this arrangement.

Oscar has faced plenty of terrifying things in life: Eau Rouge in the rain, contract negotiations, Lando in a mood. None of them compare to this. Your grandmother’s dining room, cramped and full of porcelain saints.

He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.

You sit between Oscar and her, valiantly attempting to translate. The infamous Colette says something sharp and direct in French.

You smile saccharinely sweetly at Oscar. “She wants to know if you have real intentions.”

Oscar clears his throat. “Tell her yes. Tell her I think you’re… remarkable.”

You raise an eyebrow but translate. Your grandmother hums noncommittally, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then she asks another question. You translate again. “She wants to know what you like about me.”

Oscar panics. “Tell her you’re bossy.”

You give him a look.

“In a good way! I like that you tell me what to do. It’s grounding,” he backtracks. “And that you don’t laugh at my French, at least not out loud. And that you know exactly what you want and refuse to settle for less.”

Shaking your head, you deliver the words in French. Oscar has no way to know if it’s verbatim or if you’re somehow making him sound better. Regardless, your next translated words hold true. “She says she still doesn’t trust you,” you say wryly.

“Fair,” he says.

The meal continues. Your grandmother asks about his family, his racing, what he eats before a Grand Prix. You relay each question in English, Oscar doing his best to keep up, alternating between charming and catastrophic. He drops his fork once. He mispronounces aubergine. You have to explain what Vegemite is, and it nearly causes an incident.

Finally, somewhere between the cheese course and dessert, he reaches for your hand. It surprises both of you, the way his fingers find yours without fanfare.

Your grandmother notices. She watches for a long second, then exhales through her nose. Her next words don’t sound as cutting. You murmur, translating, “She says she’ll be keeping an eye on us.”

Oscar nods solemnly.

Outside, later, as the night air cools your flushed cheeks, he lets out a breath like he's crossed the finish line. “Think she’d be open to babysitting the fake kids one day?” he asks ruefully.

You laugh. Hard.

He’ll take it, he decides.

The season starts. You stay in touch. Oscar shows up at the restaurant after three months on the dot, still smelling faintly of champagne and podium spray. “I brought the trophy,” he announces, holding it out like a peace offering.

You stare at the intricate cup accorded to him for crossing the finish line first, then at him. “You think I want a trophy in exchange for emotional labor?”

“I also brought you a pastry,” he adds, brandishing a delicate tarte tropézienne.

You take the pastry.

He follows you inside, slipping into your usual booth in the back, where the sound of the espresso machine muffles any chance of a quiet moment. You sit across from him, pulling your apron over your lap like a barrier.

“So,” he begins. “We should probably talk about... the proposal.”

“You’re really not wasting time,” you chuckle.

“We’ve got a timeline. Press, citizenship, nosy neighbors. I have to make it look like I can’t bear to be without you.”

You snort. “That’ll be a performance.”

He grins. “Oscar-worthy.”

You try not to smile at his joke. “What do you even envision? You just collapsing in the paddock and screaming that you must marry me immediately?”

“That was my backup plan.”

You sip your coffee, watching him over the rim. “And what would be the first plan?”

“Something classic. You’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll get down on one knee. Ideally, there will be flowers, soft lighting, maybe a string quartet hiding behind a hedge.”

You shake your head. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want something like that?”

You hesitate. Just for a bit. “Fine,” you admit. “If it were real, I suppose I would want something simple. Something quiet. Not in front of a crowd. No flash mobs.”

“Noted. Absolutely no synchronized dancing.”

“And I’d want it to be somewhere that means something. Like... the dock near the market, maybe. Where my parents met. Just us. Some lights over the water. Nothing fancy.”

Oscar has gone quiet. It bleeds into the moment after you answer. You’re glaring at him heatlessly when you demand, “What?”

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

You roll your eyes, but the blush betrays you. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Should we make it the market dock, then? For the fake proposal.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. “Alright,” you concede, all the fight gone out of you. “But if you get a string quartet involved, I will throw you into the sea.”

“No promises,” says Oscar, even as he cracks the smallest of smiles.

Oscar FaceTimes his sisters on a Sunday morning, two hours before his second free practice session in Imola. He’s still in his race suit, hair slightly damp from the helmet, seated cross-legged on the floor of his motorhome like a boy about to beg for pocket money.

“Alright,” he says, flashing the camera a sheepish grin. “Before you say anything—I know it’s been a while. But I have news.”

Hattie appears first, her hair in rollers, holding a mug that says #1 Mum despite not having kids. Then Edie, still in bed, squinting at her phone like it betrayed her. Finally Mae joins from what appears to be a café, earbuds in, already suspicious.

“You’re not dying, are you?” Mae says apprehensively. “Because you have ‘soft launch of a terminal illness’ face.”

“No one’s dying,” Oscar says exasperatedly. “I’m—okay, this is going to sound a bit mad, but I need you all to come to Monaco next weekend.”

A beat. Silence. A spoon clinks against ceramic.

“Oscar,” Edie says slowly, “if this is about the cat again—”

“No, no! I swear, it’s not about the cat. I’m—proposing.”

Three sets of eyebrows go up. Even Hattie lowers her mug.

“Is this the waitress?” Mae asks, frowning. “She’s real?”

Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, she’s real. You’ve met her—at Chez Colette, remember? She works there. Thick accent. Quietly judges people with just her eyebrows.”

Recognition dawns slowly. “The waitress who told dad his wine palate was embarrassing?” Hattie says, remembering the one and only time Oscar had taken them to the restaurant, post-race. Back when it was just a place for good food and not ground zero for a marriage of convenience.

“The very one,” he says.

“I liked her,” Edie says. “Sharp. Didn’t laugh at your jokes.”

“So what’s the rush?” Mae’s eyes are narrowed. “You’re not the spontaneous type.”

Oscar hesitates. There’s a script he wrote for this exact moment, but it crumbles like a napkin in his hands. He tries the truth, or at least a gentle version of it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what matters,” he says. “About building something. And... Monaco’s home now, in a weird way. But it’s not really home without her.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole story.

There’s a pause, then Hattie sniffs and says, “Well, if this is how I find out I need a bridesmaid dress, I expect champagne.”

“I want seafood at the rehearsal dinner,” Edie adds.

“And we need a proper girl’s day with our sister-in-law-to-be,” Mae mutters, smiling despite herself.

Oscar grins, relief warm and fizzy in his chest.

“So you’ll come?”

“Of course we’ll come,” they say in near-unison.

The screen glitches for a moment, freezing them mid-laughter. Oscar watches their pixelated faces and thinks, oddly, that maybe this fake proposal has a bit too much heart in it already.

They fly in. His parents, too. The local press catch wind of it; rumors fly, but he says nothing. He’s too busy watching proposals on YouTube and figuring out how to make this halfway convincing.

On the day, Oscar finds that the dock near the market smells like sea salt and overripe citrus. The string of lights overhead flicker like they know what’s about to happen. Oscar stands at the edge, jacket wrinkled, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag tucked under one arm like he’s hiding pastries or nerves.

You arrive five minutes late. On purpose. He doesn’t look up right away, too focused on adjusting something in the bag. When he does glance up, there’s a boyish flush in his cheeks like he’s trying very hard not to bolt.

“You’re early,” you tease.

“I’m punctual,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You walk toward him slowly, letting the moment settle like dust in warm air. Behind the crates of tomatoes and shutters of the market stalls, there’s the faintest sound of movement—your grandmother, probably, crouched next to a box of sardines with Oscar’s sisters stacked like dolls behind her. His parents, also trying to be discreet as they film the proposal on their phones. All of them out of earshot.

Oscar clears his throat. “So,” he says. “I was going to start with a speech. But I practiced it in the mirror and it sounded like I was reciting tyre strategy.”

You fold your arms. "Now I’m intrigued."

Oscar pulls the ring out of the paper bag like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a simple one. No halo, no flash. Just a slim gold band and a small stone, found with the help of a very patient assistant and a very anxious jeweler.

“I know it’s not real,” he says. “But I still wanted to ask properly. Because you deserve that. And because, if I’m going to lie to the world, I want to at least mean every word I say to you.”

He kneels. One knee on the old dock planks, the other wobbling slightly.

You try not to smile too much. You fail.

He looks up. Cheeks flaming, eyes glinting. “Will you marry me, mon amour? For taxes, for residency, and the longevity of Monaco’s local cuisine?”

You take the ring. Slide it on. It fits like something inevitable. “Yes," you say softly, amusedly. “But only if you promise to do the dishes when this all goes sideways.”

He laughs, rises, pulls you into him like he’s trying to remember the shape of this moment for later. The lights flicker above you, the market quiet except for the faint sound of someone muffling a sneeze behind a barrel of oranges. You lean in, mouth near his ear.

“There’s nothing more Monégasque than what I’m about to do.”

Oscar pulls back. “What does that—”

You grab his hand and hurl both of you off the dock.

The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.

He surfaces first, sputtering. “I didn’t even bring a string quartet!”

You shrug, treading water, the ring catching the last of the sunset. “Welcome to the Principality, monsieur Piastri.”

Somewhere above, the dock creaks and the lights swing, and a family of co-conspirators starts clapping. The water tastes like the beginning of something strange and maybe wonderful. Monaco, at last, lets him in.

One blurry photo on Instagram is all it takes.

Oscar, soaked to the knees, hair flattened to his forehead, grinning like someone who’s just robbed a patisserie and gotten away with it.

You’re next to him, clutching a towel and wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between incredulity and affection. The ring—small, elegant, unmistakable—catches the light just enough.

His caption is a single word: Oui.

It takes approximately four minutes for the drivers’ WeChat to implode.

Lando is the first to respond: mate MATE tell me this isn’t a prank.

Then Charles: Is that my fucking neighbor????

Followed by George: This is either extremely romantic or deeply strategic. Possibly both.

Fernando simply replies with a sunglasses emoji and the words: classic.

The media goes feral. Engagement! Surprise dock proposal! The Chez Colette Heiress™! There’s already a Buzzfeed article ranking the most Monégasque elements of the proposal (you jumping into the sea is #1, narrowly edging out the string lights). Someone tweets an AI-generated wedding invite. The official F1 social media releases a supportive statement.

By Thursday’s press conference, Oscar has a halo of smug serenity around him. He had fielded questions all morning, deflecting citizenship implications with the precision of a man who’s done thirty rounds with the Monégasque bureaucracy and lost each time.

Lando, seated beside him, nudges his elbow.

“So,” he says into the mic. “Do we call you Mr. Colette now, or…?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Only on the weekdays.”

A ripple of laughter. Cameras flash. “I’m just saying,” Lando continues, faux-serious, “first you get engaged, next thing you know, you’re organizing floral arrangements and crying over table linens.”

“I’ll have you know,” Oscar replies, “the table linens are your problem. You’re best man.”

“Wait, what?”

But Oscar’s already looking past the cameras, past the questions, to the text you sent him that morning: full house again tonight. your trophy is in the pastry case. i put a flower in it. don’t be late.

He shrugs at the next question—something about motives, politics, tax brackets. All he says is, “Chez Colette’s never been busier. She looks beautiful with that ring. I’m winning races. Life’s good.”

And for once, no one argues. (Except Lando, who mutters, “Still can’t believe you beat me to a wife.”)

But then the hate makes its way through the haze. A comment here. A message there. Oscar doesn’t find out until much later, but you supposedly ignored them at first. The usual brand of online cruelty wrapped in emojis and entitlement. It curdled, slow and rancid, like spoiled milk beneath sunshine.

DMs filled with accusations. Gold digger, fame-chaser, fraud. A journalist who called the restaurant pretending to be a customer, asking if it’s true you forged documents. The restaurant landline, unplugged after the fourth prank call.

By the end of the week, someone mails a dead fish to Chez Colette. Wrapped in butcher paper. No return address. A note tucked inside reads: Go back to the shadows.

You find it funny. Morbidly, anyway. You show it to your grandmother like a joke, like something distant and absurd. She doesn’t laugh.

Oscar doesn’t either.

He hears about it secondhand—Lando lets it slip, offhandedly, after qualifying. Something about the restaurant and a very unfortunate cod. He chuckles at first, caught off guard, then notices the way Lando avoids his gaze.

He texts you that same afternoon. what’s this about a fish?

You send back a shrug emoji. He calls you. You don’t pick up.

The silence between you is short and volatile. He digs. He finds out. He walks into the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled, still in his race gear. “You should’ve told me.”

You’re wiping down the bar with the same rag you always use when you’re pretending you’re fine. “It’s not your problem.”

His jaw ticks. He’s too still. That particular quiet you’ve only seen once. After a bad race, helmet still in his lap, staring out at nothing, eyes unblinking. “It is my problem,” he says, voice low, tight. “We did this together.”

“We faked this together,” you correct, sharper than you meant.

“Don’t split hairs with me right now.”

You glance up. There’s a glint in his eye Not anger, exactly. Something colder. Something surgical. Protective. That night, he drafts the statement himself. It’s short. No PR filters. No fluffy team language. No committee approval.

If you think I’d fake a proposal for a passport, you don’t know me. If you think insulting someone I care about makes you a fan, you’re wrong. Leave her alone.

He posts it without warning. No team heads-up. No brand consultation.

The fallout is immediate. And loud. Some applaud him—brave, romantic, principled. Others double down, clawing at conspiracy theories like they hold inheritance rights. But the worst voices get quieter. The dead fish don’t return. You stop sleeping with your phone on airplane mode.

A few sponsors call to ‘express concern.’ He answers them all personally. Later, again in the restaurant kitchen, he leans against the counter while you wash greens, trying to act like it didn’t cost him anything to do what he did. Like it didn’t make something shift between you.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, picking at the label of a pickle jar with too much focus. “I just didn’t want our story to tank before I get my tax break.”

You don’t look at him. He shifts, awkward. Adds, “And... I guess we're friends now. Loosely.”

You pass him a colander without comment. He holds it as if it’s evidence in a case he’s trying to solve. “Still not reading into it,” you say, finally, absolving him and thanking him all at once.

“Good.”

When you turn away, he watches you a little too long. And when you laugh—just barely, just once—he lets himself smile back.

The restaurant is full, as always. Someone just ordered two servings of pissaladière and asked if the newly engaged couple is around tonight.

Your grandmother rolls her eyes and tells them, in her stern, stilted English, “Only if you behave.”

The wedding planning happens in the margins. Between races, between airports, between whatever strange reality the two of you have created and the one that exists on paper. Oscar reads menu options off his phone in airport lounges. You text him photos of flower arrangements with captions like Too romantic? and Is eucalyptus overdone?

Neither of you want something extravagant. The more believable it is, the smaller it needs to be. Just close family. A quiet ceremony. A reception in the restaurant, chairs pushed aside, candles on the table. You call it a micro-wedding. Oscar calls it a tax deduction with canapés.

Still, some things have to be done properly. Rings. A few photos. Legal documents with very real signatures. He misses most of it, but you keep him looped in with texts and the occasional FaceTime call, grainy and too short. It’s always night where one of you is.

On one of his rare trips back to Monaco, he stops by the restaurant to say hello. Your grandmother tells him through gestures that you’re at a fitting two blocks away. He finds the boutique mostly by accident. Sunlight catching on the display window, the bell chiming softly as he pushes the door open.

You’re on the pedestal, the back of the dress being pinned by a seamstress. Simple silk, off-white, the kind of dress that wouldn’t raise eyebrows in a civil hall or turn heads on a red carpet. Your hair is pinned up, loose and a little messy.

Still, he freezes.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and gasp. “Oscar!” you yelp, spinning to look at him. “It’s bad luck to see the dress!”

He blinks, caught. “It’s not a real wedding,” he huffs.

You squint at him. “Still. Don’t ruin my fake dreams.”

He steps further in, slow, like he’s not sure what rules he’s breaking. “So that’s the one?”

You shrug, turning a little in the mirror. "It’s simple. Comfortable. Feels like me."

He nods, too fast. “It’s nice. You look…”

You wait.

He swallows. “Very believable.”

“High praise.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes still on the mirror, or maybe just on you. There’s a feeling crawling up his throat, unfamiliar and slightly inconvenient. “I should go,” he says. “Let you finish.”

“You came all this way. Stay. I want your opinion on shoes.”

“Right, because I am famously qualified to judge footwear.”

And so he sits, cross-legged in a velvet chair that probably costs more than a front wing, and watches you try on shoes, one pair at a time. You argue over ivory versus cream. You make him close his eyes and guess.

He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin.

He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

The day of the wedding arrives like a postcard. Sun-drenched, breeze-cooled, the sea winking blue behind the low stone wall where the ceremony is set up. Your grandmother insists on arranging the chairs herself. Oscar offers to help and is swiftly redirected to stay out of the way.

Chez Colette is shuttered for the day, but still smells like rosemary and flour. The reception will spill into the alley behind it, where the cobblestones have been hosed down and scattered with mismatched café tables, each with a little glass jar of fresh-cut herbs.

For now, the courtyard near the water has been transformed with folding chairs, borrowed hydrangeas, and a string quartet (at Oscar’s insistence and your distaste) made up of one of your cousins and her friends from the conservatory. They play Debussy with just enough off-tempo charm to feel homemade.

Oscar stands at the front, hands shoved into his pockets, tie slightly crooked despite Lando’s earlier attempts to straighten it. His shoes pinch slightly. He’s convinced his shirt collar is a size too small. Lando is beside him, fidgeting like he’s the one about to get married.

“You good?” Lando whispers, leaning in just enough.

“No.”

“Perfect.”

Oscar smooths the paper in his pocket for the eighth—no, ninth—time. It’s creased and slightly smudged from nerves and a morning espresso. He didn’t memorize his vows. He barely even finished them. But they’re his, and he wrote them himself. With some help from Google Translate and an aggressively kind old woman on the flight to Nice.

Guests trickle in like sunlight. Your friends in summer dresses and linen suits, their laughter lilting in the sea air. His family, sunburned from the beach, trying to look formal but cheerful. Hattie gives him a thumbs-up. Edie mouths, Don’t faint. Mae just grins and adjusts the flower crown someone handed her.

Then you walk in.

And the world does that annoying thing where it goes quiet and dramatic, like a movie scene he wouldn’t believe if he were watching it himself. You wear the simple dress. Ivory, sleeveless, the hem brushing your ankles. Your hair is down this time, soft around your shoulders. You have a hand wrapped around your grandmother’s arm, and your smile is the kind that turns corners into homes.

Oscar forgets what to do with his face.

The ceremony begins. The officiant says words Oscar doesn't register. Lando keeps elbowing Oscar at appropriate times to remind him to nod, and once to stop picking at the hem of his jacket.

You go first, when the vows come. Your voice is steady, low, threaded with amusement and something else. Something real. You say his name like it matters. Like it might keep meaning more with every time you say it.

You make promises that are half-jokes, half truths. To tolerate his road rage on normal roads. To always keep a tarte tropézienne in the freezer for emergencies. To have him; sickness and health, Australian and Monégasque.

His turn.

He pulls the paper from his pocket. Unfolds it like it might disintegrate. Clears his throat. Glances at you.

“Je... je promets de te supporter,” he begins, awkwardly, his accent thick and uneven. “Même quand tu laisses la lumière de la salle de bain allumée.”

There are chuckles. His sisters blow into handkerchiefs. A pigeon flutters past like it, too, is here for the drama. He stumbles through the rest.

Promises to make you coffee badly but consistently. To bring you pastries when you're angry with him. To never again get a string quartet without written approval. He throws in a line about sharing his last fry, even if it's the crispy end piece.

Halfway through, he glances up. And sees it. The shimmer in your eyes. The not-quite-contained tears that threaten to spill. It knocks the air out of him.

By the time the officiant is saying, And now, by the power vested in me—, Oscar doesn’t wait.

He leans forward and kisses you, hands framing your face like he can catch every single tear before it falls. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not rehearsed, but it’s right. You melt forward, like the kiss was always part of the plan.

The crowd cheers. Your grandmother sniffs like she always knew it would come to this. One of your cousins whistles. Lando punches the air with both fists.

The reception begins in the cobbled alley behind Chez Colette, strung with borrowed fairy lights and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The scent of rosemary focaccia and grilled sardines fills the air, mingling with the crisp pop of celebratory champagne.

Someone’s rigged an old speaker system to loop a playlist of jazz and golden-age love songs, occasionally interrupted by the soft hiss of the espresso machine still running inside. Your grandmother commands the kitchen like a general, spooning barbajuan into chipped bowls and muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Monégasque.

The courtyard buzzes with the kind of warmth that can’t be choreographed. Oscar’s sisters are deep in conversation with your friends, comparing childhood embarrassments. Mae pulls up a photo of Oscar in a kangaroo costume at age six and your side of the table erupts in delighted horror. One of your cousins has started a limoncello drinking contest beside the dessert table.

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

The music shifts from upbeat to something softer, slower. Oscar’s mother pulls him onto the floor for their dance. He resists at first, shy in the way only sons can be, but she hushes him gently and holds him like she did when he was five and fell asleep in the backseat of the family car.

They sway to the music, and halfway through, she wipes at her eyes and whispers something that makes Oscar nod too quickly and look away, blinking hard.

Later, it’s your turn. He finds you near the edge of the alley, holding a half-eaten piece of pissaladière, watching the lights flicker across the windows and the harbor beyond. There’s flour on your wrist and a tiny smear of anchovy oil on your collarbone.

“May I?” he asks, offering his hand.

You smile, place your hand in his, and let him pull you in. The music lilts, old and romantic, like something out of your grandmother's record player. You move together in small steps, barely more than a sway, but it’s enough. “A year and a half starts now,” you murmur, eyes on his shoulder.

He hums. “We’ll manage.”

You let out a breath, equal parts hope and hesitation. “Still feels like we’re tempting fate.”

He leans closer, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe we should tempt it properly.”

You look up at him, the warning written all over your face. But he’s already grinning like he’s fifteen again, mischief blooming across his face. “You said you wanted something Monégasque,” he hums.

“Don’t you dare—”

He scoops you up before you can finish, and you yelp, arms flailing around his neck.

“Oscar Piastri, I swear—”

“Too late!”

He runs. Through the alley, past your grandmother shouting something scandalized in, past Lando who drops his glass and whoops, past chairs and flower petals and startled guests, and straight for the harbor.

The water meets you like a shock of laughter and salt, the world disappearing in a splash and a blur of white fabric and suit sleeves. When you surface, gasping, your hair clinging to your cheeks, Oscar is beside you, beaming, his jacket floating nearby like a shipwrecked flag. “Revenge,” he says, breathless, “is so damn sweet out here.”

You splash him, teeth chattering and smile unstoppable. “You are insane.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

On the dock, guests are cheering, others filming, your grandmother shaking her head with a tiny smile and muttering something about theatrical Australians. The string quartet starts playing again, undeterred. Lando appears holding two towels like a game show assistant and shouts, “You better not be honeymooning in the marina!”

Oscar swims closer, hands catching yours underwater. “You know,” he says, nose almost touching yours, “you never did say I do.”

You kiss him. Soft and sure and salt-slicked. “That count?” you murmur against his lips.

He laughs. “Yeah. That counts.”

Beneath the twinkle lights and the ripple of music, the harbor keeps your secret, just for a little while longer.

The headlines arrive before the sun does.

Oscar sees them on his phone somewhere over the Atlantic, legs stretched across the aisle, wedding band catching in the reading light. The screen glows with speculation: Secretly Expecting?, Tax Trick or True Love?, From Waitress to Wifey: The Curious Case of Monaco's Newest Bride.

He scrolls past them all, thumb steady, face unreadable. The truth was never going to be enough for people, he knew that. It didn’t matter that your grandmother cooked the wedding dinner herself or that your bouquet had been made of market stall leftovers and rosemary from the alley. It didn’t matter that Oscar’s mother cried during the ceremony or that you whispered something to him under your breath right before the kiss that made his heart knock painfully against his ribs.

None of that sells as well as scandal. In interviews, he dodges the worst of it with practiced ease. “It was a beautiful day,” he says, and “She looked stunning,” and “No, I’m not changing teams.”

Lando, naturally, finds every headline he can and reads them aloud in the paddock. “‘She’s either carrying his child or his offshore holdings,’” Lando recites dramatically, leaning back in a folding chair, grin wide.

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get invited to the harbor plunge.”

“Mate, you threw your bride into the sea.”

“She started it.”

The grid has a field day. Drivers he’s barely spoken to before raise their eyebrows and offer sly congratulations. Someone leaves a baby bottle in his locker with a bow. Social media eats it up and spits it back out, pixelated and sharp-edged.

But he tunes most of it out. Especially when it turns nasty. He has a team for that now. Official statements, social monitoring, the occasional DM deleted before he can see it. Still, he keeps an eye on the worst of it. Makes sure nothing slips through. Nothing that might reach you.

He lands in Monaco two weeks later with sleep in his eyes and a croissant in a paper bag. He stops by the restaurant like he always does and finds you at the register, wrist turned just so. The ring glints beside the band. Matching his. “You’re wearing it,” he says dazedly.

“We’re married.”

He shrugs, hiding a smile. “Feels weird.”

“That’s because it’s fake.”

“Still,” he says, tapping his own ring against the counter. “Looks good on you.”

You roll your eyes and hand him a plate. “Compliment me less. Pay for lunch more.”

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that your laugh sounds like music, that the lie is starting to feel like it’s been sandpapered into something real and delicate. Instead, he sits in the booth by the window, watching you refill the salt shakers, and thinks—the world can say what it wants.

You know the truth, and so does he.

The week of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and impossibly blue. The streets of the Principality shimmer under the sun, fences rising overnight like scaffolding for a play the city has performed a thousand times. Everything smells faintly of sea salt and fuel, and by mid-morning, the air is alive with the buzz of anticipation and finely tuned engines echoing off marble walls. But this year, the script reads a little differently.

Oscar Piastri is not just another driver on the grid.

The press reminds him of it daily, with a barrage of questions and not-so-subtle headlines. There’s always been one Monégasque darling. Now there’s the new almost-Monégasque.

A man with a newly minted Monégasque wife, a wedding video that’s gone viral twice, and a story that seems too picturesque not to speculate on. Is it for love? For tax benefits? For strategic branding? The opinions come loud and fast, and Oscar finds himself blinking under the weight of it.

He fields the questions with a practiced smile. “No, I’m not replacing Charles. No, I don’t think that’s possible. Yes, Monaco means something different to me now.”

They ask about pressure. About performance. About legacy. He says all the right things. But in the quiet of the restaurant kitchen, where you’re prepping tarragon chicken for your grandmother and your hands smell like thyme, he confesses: “I feel like I might throw up.”

You look up from your chopping board. “That’s not ideal. Especially not in my kitchen.”

He slumps into the stool near the flour bin, the one that squeaks when someone shifts too much weight on it. He rubs his temples, his posture more boy than racer. “It’s just—this place. This race. You. The whole country’s looking at me like I’m trying to steal something.”

You cross to him, wiping your hands on a faded dish towel. The kind with embroidered lemons curling at the hem. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re earning it,” you remind him. “Like you always do.”

He groans, slouching further. “You’re too good to me. I hate that.”

“You love it, actually.”

“That’s the problem.”

The morning of the race is electric. The sun spills golden light over the yachts and balconies, gilding the grandstands in a glow that feels almost unreal. The paddock is a blur of team radios and cameras, the air tight with nerves.

You find him just before the chaos begins. He’s already in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the kind of laser-sharp focus on his face that tells you he’s trying to keep the noise at bay. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just enough to give him away.

You touch his arm. “Oscar.”

He turns, eyes snapping to yours, and before he can speak, you rise on your toes and kiss him. Not a peck. Not performative. Just real. Your hands rest briefly on his waist. His helmet almost slips from his grip.

He blinks when you pull back. “What was that for?”

“Luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“No,” you say. “But I do.”

He grins then, a little sideways, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. He starts P3. Ends P1.

The crowd roars. The champagne flies. The Principality erupts in noise and color. From the podium, as gold confetti floats like sunlit snow and the Mediterranean glitters beneath the terrace, he lifts the bottle, sprays it with abandon—and then he points directly at you.

A clean, deliberate gesture.

When he finds you after the ceremonies, helmet gone, hair mussed, face flushed with sweat and triumph, he pulls you into his arms like he needs to anchor himself.

He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled but sure. “You kissed me and I won Monaco. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m never letting you go.”

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

Your honeymoon is late. A stolen few days during the season break, tucked between sponsor obligations and simulator hours. But it’s enough.

Melbourne is crisp in the winter. Sky the color of chilled steel, air sharp with wattle blossoms. Oscar meets you at the airport with a bouquet of native flowers and the look of a man trying not to sprint.

He’s a different version of himself here. Looser, unspooled. Driving on the left like it’s second nature, narrating every corner you pass with stories from childhood. “That’s where I broke my wrist trying to skateboard. That’s the bakery Mum swears by. That field used to flood every winter—perfect for pretending to be Daniel Ricciardo.”

He takes you everywhere. Fitzroy cafés for flat whites and smashed avo on toast, laughing himself breathless when you wrinkle your nose at Vegemite. St. Kilda for long walks along the pier, the scent of salt and fried food curling around you like a scarf. Luna Park for nostalgia’s sake; he wins you a soft toy at one of the booths, the thing lopsided and overstuffed. You carry it anyway.

He insists on a ride on the Ferris wheel, and you sit in the slow-spinning cage, knees bumping, breath fogging the glass. He holds your hand the entire time, thumb grazing your knuckles.

He shows you his high school, points out the old tennis courts and the library he never quite liked. You joke that he peaked too early, and he grins, nudging your shoulder. “I'm still peaking. Haven’t you heard? Married a local princess.”

You eat fish and chips out of paper by the beach, ketchup on your fingers, your laughter carrying over the dunes. You splurge on a seven-course tasting menu with matching wines the next night.

He doesn’t bat an eye at the bill, just watches you sip the dessert wine like it's the best part of the whole trip. The waiter calls you madame and monsieur, and Oscar almost chokes on his amuse-bouche trying not to laugh.

One afternoon, you stop by a museum, wandering slowly between exhibits, your steps in sync. He buys you a ridiculous magnet in the gift shop and sticks it in your handbag without telling you. “A memento,” he says later, as if the entire trip isn’t becoming one already.

On the third night, after a movie and a tram ride that rocked you gently against his side, you end up in the small rented flat he insisted on decorating with local flowers and candles from a boutique shop in South Melbourne. He lights them all before you even step through the door. There’s soft jazz playing on a speaker, and a tiny box of pastries on the kitchen counter. He remembered you liked the lemon ones best.

You turn to him, laughing. “You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”

His smile falters only a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

But that night, he kisses you like he forgot. Like the boundary lines have been redrawn in candlelight and warmth and the way your laughter fills up his chest.

Oscar, for all his planning and fake vows and clever PR angles, starts to think he doesn’t want to fake a single thing anymore. Not the way your hand fits in his. Not the way you snore just slightly when you’re too tired. Not the way you sigh his name in your sleep like it’s always been yours to say.

Six months into the marriage, Oscar finds it alarmingly easy.

There’s a rhythm now. Races and rest days, press conferences and pasta nights. He wires you money at the start of every month without being asked, a neat sum labeled restaurant support in the memo line, though he likes to pretend it’s something more casual, more romantic.

Sometimes he sends it with a picture. The menu scrawled in your grandmother’s handwriting. A photo of you wiping down the counter, hair tied up and apron on. A video where your voice is muffled under the clatter of pans. He tells himself he does it to keep the illusion going. That the marriage needs its props.

But the truth is, he just wants Chez Colette to survive. Wants your grandmother to keep slicing pissaladière with the same steady hands. Wants your laughter to keep floating through the narrow alleyway outside the kitchen window. Wants to be the reason the lights in the dining room never go out.

That part doesn’t feel fake at all.

In Singapore, the air is thick as molasses and twice as slow. Oscar starts P2. He ends up P4.

The move had been perfect. He was tailing Max, toes on the line, pressure in every nerve. Then the moment came and he hesitated. A flicker. A brake. Not even full pressure—just enough.

Max takes the win. And Oscar sits with it. Sits with the loss, the pause, the decision that shouldn’t have happened but did.

The press room is cold with fluorescent light and smugness. Oscar unzips his race suit halfway and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for the inevitable. His jaw is tight. His eyes sharper than usual. Max gets asked first. He smirks.

“I knew he’d brake. He’s got a wife now,” the Red Bull driver teases. “Has to think twice about these things.”

Laughter. Some loud. Some knowing. Some cruel. Oscar stares at the microphone in front of him like it personally offended him.

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

A beat of silence. Then chaos. Max laughs like it’s a joke. Oscar lets it sit that way. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smile.

He keeps a straight face through the rest of the conference. But there’s something restless behind his eyes, something simmering. Later, the clip goes viral. Memes. Headlines. Polls ranking it as one of the most dramatic moments of the season.

Some people say he’s being possessive. Some say it’s adorable. Others speculate wildly. Pregnancy rumors, tension in the paddock, impending divorce. A few even suggest it’s all a publicity stunt.

Oscar ignores all of it.

He scrolls through his phone in the quiet of the hotel room, looking at a photo you sent that morning. You in a sundress. The restaurant in full swing behind you. A bowl of citrus glowing in the window light. The ring on your finger catching just enough sun to drive him insane.

He should’ve won today. He should be angry at himself. At the telemetry. At the choice he made in that split second.

Instead, he’s angry at Max. At the snickering tone. At the way your name came out of someone else’s mouth like it belonged to everyone but you. Like it was part of a joke he didn’t get to write.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he replays the moment again, the way the word wife sounded when he said it. Sharp, defensive, protective. Not fake. Not rehearsed.

Oscar doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s haunted by the braking point. But because he wonders, for the first time, if he lost the race on purpose. If he braked because the idea of not seeing you again felt worse than losing. If the risk he once lived for now had consequences he isn’t willing to stomach.

He’s never been afraid of risk.

But he’s starting to learn that love, real or pretend, rewrites the whole strategy. And somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten which parts were meant to be fake.

He falls asleep as the sun comes up, the photo still glowing on his phone screen, your smile seared into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Eight months in, Oscar begins to catalogue his realizations like a man trying to make sense of a soft fall. A slow descent he never noticed until the ground felt far away.

He returns to Monaco between races. You meet him outside the market, where the fruit vendors already call him Oscarino, and where the cobblestones wear your footsteps like a second skin.

He watches you point out the small things: the fig tree tucked behind the old chapel wall, the narrow stairwell with the best view of the harbor, the café that serves coffee just a shade too bitter unless you stir it five times.

“Why five?” he asks, half-smiling.

“No idea,” you say. “It’s just what my father used to do. It stuck.”

He nods like this is sacred knowledge. Like he’s been let in on a secret the rest of the world doesn’t deserve. And there it is—realization one: Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now. It’s the way you slip through alleys with familiarity, the way you greet the florist by name, the way your laughter belongs to the air here. It clings to the limestone. It softens the sea.

You show him the bookshop that sells more postcards than novels, the stone bench under the olive tree where your grandmother once waited for a boy who never came. You walk ahead sometimes, pointing out a new pastry shop or pausing to listen to street music, and Oscar lets himself trail behind, watching you like you’re the most intricate part of the landscape.

Realization two: it takes no effort to call you his wife.

He’s stopped hesitating when people say it. Stopped correcting journalists or clarifying the situation. It spills out naturally now, that possessive softness—my wife. Sometimes he says it just to see how it feels. Sometimes he says it because it’s easier than explaining how this all started. But lately, he’s saying it because it makes him feel something solid. Something like belonging.

“This is for my wife,” he says as he buys a box of pastries for the two of you, and he realizes nobody had even asked. He just wanted to say it, wanted to call you that.

At dusk, you both sit near the dock where he proposed. You split a lemon tart, the crust crumbling between your fingers. The lights blink to life along the harbor, flickering like a breath caught in your throat.

“You’re quiet,” you say, licking powdered sugar from your thumb.

He’s quiet because he’s on realization three: he’s in love with you.

Not in the way he warned you against. Not in the doomed, reckless way he once feared. But in the steady kind. The kind that snuck in during long nights on video calls, during your terrible attempt at learning tire strategy lingo, during the sleepy murmurs of your voice when you answered his call at two in the morning just to hear about qualifying.

You nudge his knee with yours. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say you. Or everything. Or I think I’d do it all over again, even if it still ended as pretend.

Instead, he leans over and kisses you. Softly. Just for the sake of kissing you.

Oscar returns to racing with the kind of focus that borders on fear.

The panic builds up quietly, like the slow tightening of a race suit. Zip by zip, breath by breath, until his chest feels too small for his ribs. Every weekend brings new circuits, new stakes, new expectations. Somewhere beneath the roar of the engines, the hum of media questions, the blur of tarmac and hotel rooms, there is a ticking clock. A deadline for when papers have to be filed. He races away from it.

It starts simple: a missed call. Then another. A message from you—lighthearted, teasing, as always. Tell your wife if you’ve died, so she can tell the florist to cancel the sympathy lilies.

He sends a voice memo in response, tired and rushed. Laughs a little. Says he’s just busy. Promises he’ll call when he gets a moment. The moment doesn’t come.

You begin to write instead. Short texts. Then longer ones. Notes about the paperwork, your grandmother’s health, the weather in Monaco. You remind him, gently at first, that his declaration needs to be signed before the deadline. That the longer he waits, the more eyes you’ll have to avoid. You joke about bribing a notary with fougasse. He hearts the message but doesn’t reply.

And slowly, your tone shifts.

I know you’re busy, one message reads, plain and raw. But I haven’t properly heard from you in six weeks. Just say if you don’t want to do this anymore. I won’t make a scene.

He stares at it in the dark of his hotel room. He doesn’t respond that night. Or the next.

In interviews, he smiles too easily. Jokes with Lando. Brushes off questions about Monaco, about the wedding, about how it feels to be the Principality’s newest almost-citizen. He avoids looking at the ring he still wears.

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.

The Abu Dhabi heat wraps around the Yas Marina Circuit like silk clinging to skin. The sun is starting its slow descent over the water, dipping everything in that soft golden wash that photographers live for and drivers hardly notice. Oscar notices, because you’re there.

You’re standing just past the paddock entrance, sundress fluttering lightly at your knees, sunglasses perched high, arms crossed like you’re trying to look casual and failing, which is how he knows you didn’t tell him you were coming.

He stops in his tracks, sweat already drying on the back of his neck from the final practice run, and stares. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says unceremoniously.

“McLaren flew me in,” you reply with a little shrug. “Apparently, there are...rumors. Trouble in paradise.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Trouble manufactured by your absence, more like.”

You raise a brow, just enough for him to catch the sting tucked beneath the humor. “You’ve been making it hard to keep up the illusion.”

Oscar exhales, jaw tightening. He wants to say he knows, that he’s been unraveling with every missed call, every message he didn’t answer because it felt too close to the thing he couldn’t name. Instead, he just says, “I thought the distance would help.”

“It didn’t,” you say simply.

The silence between you stretches, broken only by the far-off roar of another car doing laps in the distance. One of the crew members brushes past, giving Oscar a brief nod, and then disappears into the garage. And then you add, voice softer, “It’s not like I need you to be in Monaco every weekend. But sometimes it felt like you didn’t want to be there at all.”

That lands harder than anything else. There’s tiredness under your eyes, tension in the way you hold your hands together. But you’re here. You flew thousands of miles for a pretend marriage that doesn’t feel so pretend anymore. That has to mean something.

Because of that, Oscar thinks the race is going to be a mess. He thinks he’s going to falter, distracted by the pressure to make the act believable, especially now with you in the crowd and the cameras already tracking every flicker of expression. He thinks he’s going to crash.

He doesn’t.

From the moment the lights go out, he’s more focused than he’s been all season. Every corner feels crisp. Every overtake, calculated. His hands are steady, his breathing even. He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

P1.

He finishes second overall in the standings. But in this moment, it feels like first in everything.

The pit explodes around him. Cheers, backslaps, mechanics tossing gloves in the air. Oscar climbs out of the car, champagne already being popped somewhere, the air sticky and electric. Helmet off, hair damp, grin tights.

He scans the crowd like he always does after a win, but this time he’s looking for someone. You’re pushing through the throng, one of the PR girls parting the sea for you with a practiced flick of her clipboard. You stumble once in your sandals, catch yourself with a laugh, and keep going. He doesn’t even wait. He surges forward, meets you halfway.

Oscar cups your face and kisses you, champagne and sweat and adrenaline on his lips. The cameras go wild. The crowd screams. Somewhere, someone yells his name like they know him. He doesn’t care.

He kisses you like he forgot how much he missed it, how much he missed you, how long it's been since something felt this real. The kiss isn’t perfect—your nose bumps his cheek, his thumb smears makeup from beneath your eye—but it doesn’t matter.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and breathless against your ear. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Apparently, I did,” you grumble, already failing to sound irked. “You keep getting lost without me.”

He laughs, something quiet and incredulous. Then, he holds you tighter and buries his face in your neck for one private second before the next cameras flash.

Monaco in the off-season is softer, like the city exhales after the last race and slips into something comfortable. The streets smell of sea salt and early-morning bread. The market thins out, the water calms, and Oscar returns.

He doesn’t text that he’s coming. He just shows up at Chez Colette on a Tuesday morning, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to apologize just by existing.

Your grandmother spots him first. “Tu as pris ton temps,” she grouses, and swats his arm with a dishtowel. “Si tu la fais attendre plus longtemps, je te servirai ta colonne vertébrale sur un plateau.”

Oscar grins, sheepish, and mumbles, “Yes, Madame.” He finds you in the back kitchen, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes like it’s a form of therapy. You don’t look up at first, but you know it’s him. You always know.

“You’re late,” you say noncommittally.

“I brought flowers,” he says, setting them down between the pepper and the oregano. “And an apology. And—a real estate agent.”

That catches your attention. “What?”

“You said the building has plumbing issues. And your grandmother keeps threatening to fall down the stairs,” he says meekly. “I figured we could find something close. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by wishful thinking and rust.”

Your lips part. “Oscar—”

“We don’t have to move,” he adds quickly. “But I want you to have the option. I—I want to help. Not because of the contract. Because I care for you and the restaurant and your grandmother who wants to serve my spine on a platter for being a terrible husband.”

The silence that follows is thick but not heavy. He reaches out, gently prying the peeler from your hand, and brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “You taught me how to love this city,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

You kiss him before you can think about it. Softly. Slowly. Like you’re reminding yourself what it feels like.

The days that follow move in a familiar rhythm. Oscar doesn’t race. He wakes with you and helps with deliveries. He lets your grandmother teach him how to deglaze a pan, how to make stock from scratch, how to use leftover vegetables for the next day’s soup. He burns the onions twice, gets flour on the ceiling once, and swears he’s getting better. He insists on learning to make pissaladière from scratch and ruins three baking trays in the process. The kitchen smells of olives and chaos.

You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market.

He holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. And sometimes, when no one’s around at all, he still kisses you like someone might see.

You try not to talk about the timeline. About the looming expiration date. About the day one of you will have to be the first to say it out loud. Instead, you let him tuck your hair behind your ear. You let him draw a smiley face in the steam of your mirror after a shower. You let him fold your laundry even though he does it wrong. You let him dance with you in the living room while something slow and old plays on the radio.

And when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter one evening, his mouth warm against yours, you don’t stop him.

The winter chill makes the cobblestones glisten; Monaco is always sort of a dream after midnight, all soft amber streetlights and the hush of waves echoing off stone. Your laughter fills the alleyways like a song no one else knows. Oscar is drunk. Absolutely, definitely drunk. And you are, too.

You’re both wrapped up in scarves and half-finished wine, weaving through the old town with flushed cheeks and noses red from the cold. Oscar’s coat is too big on you, or maybe you’re just small inside it, and every few steps you bump into his side like a boat tethered too close.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” you ask, tripping a little over a curb. You clutch his arm.

“Nope,” he chirps, tightening his grip around your shoulders. “But we’re not lost. We’re exploring.”

You grin up at him, and it hits him again—how stupidly beautiful you are. Not in the red carpet, glossy magazine kind of way. In the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and how you say his name like it means something. He’s pretty sure his heart’s been doing backflips since the second glass of wine.

You stop by a low stone wall that overlooks the port. The moon sits fat and silver on the horizon, and Oscar feels like the entire world has tilted slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something?” he says, leaning his elbows on the wall beside you.

You nod. Your breath comes in puffs of white.

“What do you know about love?”

“Hm,” you murmur, intoxicated and contemplating. “I know it is tricky. I know it doesn’t always feel like butterflies. Sometimes it’s just... showing up. Letting someone in. Letting them ruin your favorite mug and not holding it against them.”

He huffs a laugh. “That happened to you?”

“Twice,” you say. “Same mug. Different people.”

“Did you love them?”

You pause. “I think I loved the idea of them. The idea of being seen.”

Oscar looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why he cares so much about your answer. Maybe because he’s been feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something enormous. Something irreversible.

“What about you?” you ask, nudging him. “Any great romances, my dearest husband?”

“Not really,” he admits. “There were people. Nothing that lasted. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Because of racing?”

“Because of everything,” he says. “Because I’m good at pretending. And it felt easier than trying.”

You nod slowly, then rest your head against his shoulder. It’s not flirtation. It’s not even comfort. It’s something else. Something steadier. Oscar swallows. His thoughts are a mess of wine and wonder. You, against his side. You, in his jacket. You, not asking him for anything except honesty.

This is love, he thinks.

Not the crash of the waves, not the fireworks. This. He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair.

You sigh, content. “You always say that like you’re not coming with me.”

And he smiles, because he is. Of course he is.

Morning comes, spilling into the bedroom like honey, slow and golden. Monaco hums faintly beyond Oscar wakes to the warmth of your body, the tangle of your leg thrown over his, your hair a soft mess against his chest. He doesn’t move.

There’s a stillness in the morning that doesn’t come often, not with his schedule, not with the pace of the season. But here, now, he lets it hold. This was the second rule you two had broken—realizing that a warm body was something you could both use, even if it wasn’t for the sake of making love. Just to have something to hold.

He remembers the wine from last night, the stumbling laughter, your hand in his as you leaned into his side. This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

His hand drifts along your spine, drawing lazy patterns only he can see. You shift slightly, nuzzling into him, the smallest sigh escaping your lips. You once said you liked how he spooned. It had been early on, somewhere between forced breakfasts and joint bank statements. It had made him feel stupidly triumphant.

He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave this bed. He wants to memorize the weight of you against him, the sound of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch in your sleep. But then his phone buzzes. The alarm is gentle, insistent. He reaches for it without moving too much, careful not to jostle you.

A calendar reminder glows on the screen.

ANNIVERSARY IN 1 WEEK. START CITIZENSHIP DECLARATION.

Oscar stares at it. The words feel like they belong to someone else. A script he memorized, not a life he lives. He dismisses it. Hits snooze like he’s defusing a bomb.

You stir, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he lies, tucking the phone under his pillow.

You hum, unconvinced but too tired to push. He shifts, pulling you closer, curling his arm under your neck, bringing you closer the way you like. Your back fits into his chest like a missing piece. You sigh, warm and content. Within moments, you’re asleep again.

Oscar stays awake. He counts your breaths, anchors himself to the rise and fall of your shoulders. The bed is quiet, your dreams peaceful, but something aches behind his ribs.

One more week. He holds you tighter.

Just a little longer.

Oscar doesn’t mean to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, but the words are sitting like a stone in his chest. They jostle every time you laugh, every time you brush your fingers against his arm, every time you ask if he wants a sip of your drink, already holding the straw out for him.

You’re barefoot, perched on the ledge of the terrace, hair loose. There’s leftover risotto on the table between you and the scent of oranges from the orchard down the street. It should be enough. He should leave it alone. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because a contract is a contract and he refuses to shackle you more than he already has.

“What do you want to do for our anniversary?” he asks, voice low.

You go still. It’s not immediate, but he sees it. The flicker behind your eyes, the pause too long before you smile.

“We could do something small,” you say eventually, your voice gentler than before. “Dinner. Maybe at that place with the sea bass. You liked that one.”

He nods, forcing a smile. “I did.”

You twist the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “And after that,” you say, “you can submit your declaration.”

There it is.

You say it like you’re reading from a recipe card. Like you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. Like you’re trying very hard to pretend your chest doesn’t hurt. Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t trust himself to. You sip your wine, and he watches the way your hand trembles just slightly, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Like you’re preparing.

“Okay,” he says, plain and simple.

You smile. You always do.

When he gets up to leave for the gym, you walk him to the door. It’s quiet. You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, and he turns just enough to catch your lips instead. It happens without thought. Without ceremony. The way it always has.

He pulls back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

But even as you say it, he can feel it. The detachment. The quiet retreat. You’re drawing the curtain in your head, beginning the soft choreography of letting go. Because this is how the plot was written. Because this is how it will go. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer.

He walks out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like the slow fade-out of a film. One where the hero doesn’t get the timing right. One where love comes too late.

On the day of your wedding anniversary, Oscar wakes up early.

Monaco hums quietly beyond the window, still in the lull between morning coffee and the world waking up. He turns onto his side and watches you sleep, for a moment pretending today is just another morning. He tries not to think of it as a Last Good Day.

Still, he makes sure everything is perfect.

He picks out the white dress shirt you said made him look like someone in an Italian film. He even tries to iron it for once. He buys your favorite flowers and then arranges them in the living room vase. He lets you sleep in and makes coffee the way you like it, with a dash of cinnamon. The two of you eat breakfast on the tiny balcony, knees knocking gently beneath the table.

When you smile at him over the rim of your cup, he kisses you. Long, sweet, steady. Like he means it. Because he does.

He books a quiet table at the small bistro tucked into one of the back streets of the city, a place you once said reminded you of Paris. You laugh too loudly over wine, your hand finding his easily over the tablecloth. For a few hours, you let yourselves be the kind of couple you’ve always pretended to be.

Then, slowly, the shadows lengthen.

“Ready to go?” you ask, voice soft as the sun begins to set.

He swallows. “Not really.”

Still, you walk hand in hand down the cobbled streets. The mairie—the city hall—waits like an afterthought, a quiet door at the end of a narrow alley. Oscar detours.

“Gelato?” he offers.

You smile sadly. You know what he’s trying to do. “Before filing paperwork?”

“It’s tradition,” he lies. “One year deserves dessert.”

You let him. You always let him. You get gelato; he tastes one too many samples. He pretends to get lost as you walk through the market, even though Monaco is probably the easiest map to remember in the world. He takes you to the docks, just for a minute, just to watch the boats rock gently in the water. You lean into him, silent, warm, your head tucked beneath his chin. He feels you there, but something else, too. The soft press of reality.

“We should go,” you whisper eventually.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

“Five more minutes,” he says. “Please.”

You let him delay. And delay. And delay.

The moment you file the paperwork, the clock starts ticking in a new way. You’re both aware the curtain is about to fall, but no one wants to call out the final act. So you stay there, together. Not speaking. Just watching the harbor. Pretending it’s still the first day, and not the last good one.

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

You walk into the government building side by side. Oscar’s hand grazes the small of your back as the two of you wait at the numbered queue, the soft whir of the ticket printer, the low hum of bureaucratic silence filling the air.

He signs the papers for the Ordinary Residence Permit with an orange pen you handed him from your bag. You’ve always kept pens on you. He knows that now, like the many other things he’s come to know and love about you. You watch him scrawl his name, carefully, and when he finishes, he exhales through his nose like it took something out of him.

The official behind the desk looks at the documents, stamps them, hands them back with a nod. Oscar is granted residency. Carte Privilège and citizenship are now visible, shimmering just over the next hill.

Neither of you speaks of endings. Not yet.

You agree to drag it out a little more. Not for legal protection now, not even for optics, really. Just to ease the world into the conclusion. He wires you ten percent of every monthly deposit still, but it’s no longer transactional. It’s a quiet act of love, of investment. A stake in something that outlasted the farce.

Two years instead of one and a half. Long enough for the lines to blur beyond recognition.

He’s there when your grandmother needs surgery. You’re there when he misses the podium in Spa and sits, soaked in rain, on the garage floor.

The divorce happens on a random off-season day. A Tuesday, maybe. The restaurant is closed. Oscar wears a hoodie and sunglasses like he’s hiding, but the clerk doesn’t even look up to recognize him.

The two of you sign quietly. No rings on your fingers anymore, but his tan line still shows.

“Take care,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.

He nods. “You, too,” he says, and he means it as much as he knows that he’ll never love anybody else.

The story ends, quiet as it began—

Monaco is a small place. The kind of small that lives in the bones, that lingers in the echo of footsteps down alleys, that smells like salt and baked peaches even in February. Oscar thinks, at first, that he might be able to avoid you. He’s wrong.

He runs into your grandmother before he sees you. She catches his wrist in the produce aisle of the market and drags him toward the tomatoes.

“Ce sont mauvais,” she says, inspecting them with a frown. "Viens avec moi."

Oscar doesn’t protest. He never does with her. Her hand is still strong, her voice still unimpressed by celebrity. She mutters in French about overpriced zucchini and tourists ruining the flow of the Saturday market. He follows her like he used to, like he always will. She doesn’t ask about the divorce, and Oscar is half-tempted to grill her about how you might’ve justified it. In the end, he decides it won’t do him any good.

She feeds him a small pastry over the counter at Chez Colette, dabs powdered sugar off his chin, and says nothing when he glances over at the kitchen, where you aren’t. But you’re there later, arms flour-dusted, laughing with a vendor, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in your hair. And when your eyes meet, the silence isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Familiar. Something like home.

You greet him with the same smile you used to wear when you were both still pretending. “Back already?” you ask, brushing your hands on your apron.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he says. It’s mostly true. Okay, no: it’s entirely true.

In the aftermath, the press circles like gulls. Questions echo at paddocks and press conferences, in magazines and murmurs: Why did the marriage end? Was it all just for the passport? Was there heartbreak? Had there ever been love?

Oscar gives clipped answers. “We’re still friends. It ended amicably. I’ll always care about her.”

He says them all with the same practiced ease he once used on the track. But none of them touch the truth: that sometimes, in the quiet of his apartment, he still thinks of you when he hears the clink of wine glasses. That he misses the sound of your laugh bouncing off tile. That he still folds his laundry the way you taught him. That he sometimes forgets and checks his phone for your texts before remembering you no longer owe him any.

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

Friendship is easier than silence. You both settle into it like a well-worn coat. You pass each other notes on delivery slips, meet for drinks that stretch into hours, walk the promenade without ever having to explain why. You send him soup when he’s sick during the off-season. He fixes the restaurant’s leaky sink without being asked. You tell him about your new dates, gently, and he listens too closely, nodding like he’s not tallying every man who isn’t him.

He learns to exist in proximity to the past. Learns to let his gaze linger on your cheekbones without reaching out. Learns that the ache isn’t something that ever really goes away. He sees you in the blur of every streetlight, in the smell of garlic on his hands, in the soft echo of French murmured over dinner.

The years go on. Races come and go. The restaurant thrives. He doesn’t kiss you again, but he lets you lean your head on his shoulder on cold nights, and you let him hold your hand under the table at weddings. At your grandmother’s birthday, he still helps serve the cake.

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

And Monaco stays small. Always small. Just enough room for memories, for weekend markets, for a kind of love that doesn’t ask for more—but still dares, in the quietest way, to linger.

Three years after the divorce, Oscar renews his Ordinary Residence Permit. It feels less momentous than it should. There are no trumpets, no ceremony. Just a polite government clerk stamping a paper, and a weight Oscar didn’t know he was carrying suddenly easing.

You come over that evening. He insists on cooking.

You arch a brow, leaning against the doorway to his small kitchen. “If you burn the garlic again, I'm calling your mum.”

“She’s the one who taught me this, actually,” he replies, a little too proudly.

The meal is simple: pasta with olive oil, lemon, and garlic, tossed with cherry tomatoes and a flurry of parsley. You watch him plate it with a kind of reverent amusement, your wine glass in hand. He lights a scented candle. It’s too much and too little all at once.

You take a bite of his labor of love. “You’ve improved.”

“No burns this time.”

“Progress.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, the sort of silence that only exists between people who have known one another across the worst and best of themselves. Then, without looking at you, Oscar asks: “Why are you still single?”

The question isn't accusatory. It's soft, tentative, like he's peeling back a layer he doesn't have the right to touch. You don’t answer right away. He glances up.

You're still. Your fork rests against the rim of your plate. You have one or two silver hairs now, and laugh lines from the years. Oscar likes to think one or two of them might be from him. You smile, slow and crooked. Your voice is impossibly sad without taking away from the amusement of your words.

“To be married once is probably enough for me.”

It lands somewhere between a joke and a wound. Oscar nods, because what else can he do?

The pasta is a little too al dente. The wine is already warm. The truth lingers in the corners of the room, unspoken but present. You both sip, chew, avoid. Later, he sees you to the door. You press a kiss to his cheek, brief, like a punctuation mark. “Happy anniversary,” you half-joke.

He leans against the doorframe after you’ve gone, watching the hallway where your footsteps fade.

One full year later, Oscar invites you out again.

Except he doesn’t take you to a restaurant, doesn’t cook some pasta dish for you. Not really. He asks you to walk instead, your hand in his like old times. You go without question, winding through the tight alleys and open plazas until you reach the harbor.

It’s dusk. The dock stretches long and narrow, lined with the boats of old money and new dreams. The sea breathes soft against the pilings. The air is salted and damp, heavy with the scent of brine and engine oil. Lights flicker to life over the water—dancing like stars, like possibility.

He slows as you reach the edge of the dock. The sky is dipped in indigo, the sun a smear of molten orange far behind the hills. You shiver slightly, just enough for him to offer his jacket, which you take with a smile that softens something in his chest.

And that’s where he kneels.

Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, because you’re looking at him like he’s insane. He deserves that, he figures.

His French fails him in the worst way. All the rehearsed lines dissolve on his tongue. He switches to English, because he’s desperate, because he needs you to know.

“We married for taxes once,” he says. “What do you say about marrying for love?”

He opens the box.

You gasp.

It’s not new. Not a cut-glass showpiece or anything plucked from a catalogue. It’s old. Your birthright. An heirloom. A week ago, Oscar sat across from your grandmother armed with months of practiced French. He told her the whole story, spoke of his devotion, and came out of the conversation with this blessing.

There is so much he wants to say.

How he wishes he could have fallen in love with you in a normal way; how he still probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

How he agrees to be married once is enough, which means he wants to marry you over and over again. In Monaco, in Melbourne, in whichever corner of the world you’ll have him.

Before he can start, you’re sinking down to your knees, too. The dock creaks beneath you both.

You kiss him all over the face—temples, nose, cheeks, lips—laughing and crying all at once. “You idiot,” you whisper. “You stupid, beautiful idiot.”

He pockets the box, and, hands shaking, reaches for your waist, your shoulders, your hair. He laughs into your shoulder. “Is that a yes?” he breathes, but you’re too busy sobbing to get any words out.

That’s okay, Oscar thinks to himself as he pulls you as close as he can.

He can wait. ⛐

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localwhoore · 2 months ago

Text

Im cryign actually