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pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter One

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Eek, welcome to the chaos! This one is going to be a whirlwind of emotions. Send me all of your thoughts on the fic and of course what you think of our new OFC, Harper!

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Harper had never meant to like it here.

The East dorms smelled like cheap PVA glue and the radiators hissed like they were always pissed-off, and the girls who lived in the room two doors down were always either screaming at eachother or crying; sometimes both.

The shower water was always lukewarm, the food was worse, and the uniform blazer made her shoulders itch.

Still, she stayed on for term after term. Because slowly — it'd become a safe haven. Better than being at home.

And that, she'd long ago decided, was its own twisted kind of victory.

She sat curled on the window ledge, bony knees pulled to her chest, one cheek pressed against the cold glass. Down below, the grassy stretch was all muddy edges and stone paths. There were a few boys dragging suitcases across it with frowns and hunched shoulders — like they'd rather be anywhere else.

"New intake," said Jane, her roommate, from behind a cloud of dry shampoo and Juicy Couture perfume.

Harper didn't turn around. She just scrunched up her nose and gave the boys another curious kind of look. "Bit late for January, innit?"

"A few brats who've just come back from spending the winter in the Alps. And some kid from Australia — sports scholarship. Karting prodigy or whatever. They've already decided he's going to be the next Hamilton."

Harper snorted. "Because nothing says motorsport champion like dragging your arse to this hellhole."

Jane laughed and rolled her eyes. "You're such a debbie-downer."

Harper didn't answer. She just stared at the last boy stepping out of a black car — tallish, quiet-looking, a duffle slung over one shoulder. He didn't glance up at the windows or anything like that.

Smart.

Most people stared at the building like it was Hogwarts, and were met with heckles for their trouble.

But not him.

Something in her stomach — something small and sudden, like a hiccup of curiosity.

She ignored it.

She moved out of the window and picked up her biology folder. "Come on, Janie. If we're late again, Mr Jones might spank you in the cleaning cupboard."

Jane shrieked. "Shut up, Harper! I told you already — that was just a stupid rumour!"

—

That night, Harper couldn't sleep.

She never slept well in winter. The wind scraped at the windows like it was trying to get in, and the heating clicked off at midnight like clockwork. Their bedroom was pitch black, quiet except for Jane’s breathing and the occasional fox scream from outside.

She slid her notebook out from under her pillow — soft cover, edges frayed, ink smudges all along the bottom corner where her hand dragged. The majority of the pages were full of doodles and fragments: half-written poems, to-do lists, thoughts that she would never say out loud.

Things I Am: • Hard Work • Sarcastic • Ungrateful

Things I Am Not: • Dumb • Ugly • My mother

She paused, pen hovering.

Then, she flipped the page and started sketching instead; a silly half-formed thing. A boy with a duffle bag and a face you could never forget.

⸻

The next morning, they crossed paths.

It wasn't dramatic. Just two kids reaching for the same packet of Weetabix in the dining hall, and then awkwardly backing off. He nodded. She didn't.

"You take it," he said, accent all weird and sunny like it hadn't registered the grey skies yet.

She shrugged and took the box without saying thank you.

Harper didn't do small talk before 9am. Or at all, really.

She wasn't mean. Or snobby. Or any of the other things that people liked to label her as.

She just didn't have the patience required to be the kind of girl with all soft edges.

⸻

Later, in English Literature, he was there again.

Mr. Callahan gestured toward the front of the room. Smiled with his sweetcorn coloured teeth. Gestured with his wrinkled, age-spotted hands. "Mr. Piastri, care to introduce yourself to your new classmates?"

There it was. The ritual humiliation. Worse than being the new kid — being the new kid asked to introduce yourself.

Harper didn't look up, didn't want to make it worse for him by adding another set of eyes. She just stared at the blank margin of her workbook, pen poised like she might be taking notes. She wasn't.

"I'm Oscar Piastri," he said. Accent clipped and his words a bit slanted — probably because he was embarrassed. "I'm from Melbourne. In Australia. I like maths. I, uh, moved to England to work on my career."

The class rippled with whispers. A few people snorted derivatively. Someone in the back muttered something about "wannabe Mark Webber," and a boy near the window pretended to rev a car engine.

Harper bit her lip.

I like maths.

Brave thing to say in front of Mr. Callahan, a man who had once declared long division "the enemy of poetic soul."

Still, it was honest. Or maybe just literal. Boys like him — boys who were not British — usually were.

Moved to England to work on my career.

Not many people her age had a single clue what they wanted to do with their lives — let alone any of them actually have the guts to travel halfway across the world and actually do something worthwhile for the sake of their futures.

She imagined what it might've looked like for him — saying goodbye to his mum at an airport gate, suitcase heavier than his bones, chasing speed across countries when most kids their age couldn't catch a bus on time.

Harper's pen shook. Just for a second.

Mr. Callahan cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Piastri. Seat behind Harper, second row."

She felt, more than saw, the shift as he passed her. Quiet footsteps. A soft cough. And then the sensation of being watched — not in a creepy way, just... watched.

For the rest of the lesson, Harper didn't turn around. But she caught herself pressing harder into the page than usual, the letters carved into the page instead of written.

He smelled good.

Like soap and something else that she couldn't put her finger on.

It was a nice change from the boys who usually just stank of B.O and cheap beer.

—

That night, curled into a ball on her side in bed, she added something new to her notebook.

People to pay attention to: • Oscar Piastri

—

The next morning, the Weetabix basket was empty.

Harper stood in front of the cereal shelf, arms crossed and expression soured. Rows of sad Cornflakes and soggy-looking bran flakes mocked her.

Someone had left a single Shreddies square on the counter like a bad joke.

She didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Her pout said it for her — the subtle downturn of her mouth, the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her shoulder rose just a touch as she turned to walk away, resigned to jam on toast or something equally as boring.

"Hey."

She turned around.

Oscar Piastri was stood a few feet away, breakfast tray in hand, holding a fresh, unopened box of Weetabix. He offered it toward her without a word, just a faint shrug, like no big deal.

Harper blinked. "What, you just... found it?"

"Got it just now," he said, quiet and a bit sheepish. "Last one. Figured you might want it."

Harper stared at him for a second too long. Not in a swoony way; she'd never admit to that, but in a what-kind-of-person-actually-thinks-that-far-ahead kind of way.

"You were thinking about me?" She asked dryly, reaching for the box. Her tone was classic Harper: half-defensive, half-a-test.

Oscar didn't flinch. "Nah. Just noticed you looked kinda gutted yesterday when there was almost none left."

She stared at him.

Noticed.

Most people only noticed Harper when she said something sharp or raised her voice. Not when she was quiet. Not when her disappointment stayed on the inside of her mouth.

"Thanks," she mumbled, trying not to sound like it hurt to say. Then, a little louder, with a tilt of her head. "You're nice."

He smiled; barely. "Yeah. People say that a lot."

They stood in the middle of the cafeteria; two awkward kids who weren't quite sure what to do next. Harper shifted her tray from one hand to the other.

"You sitting with anyone?"

Oscar glanced around. "Nah."

"Cool. You can sit with me, but don't talk for the first ten minutes. It's a no-chat zone until I've eaten my cereal and drank my juice."

He nodded sagely, like she'd given him an important instruction and not a ridiculous one. "Understood."

They walked side by side toward the back table where Harper usually sat, their footsteps quiet, their trays clinking with spoons and silence.

And Harper didn't say it aloud, obviously. But that morning, for some weird and unnamable reason, her Weetabix tasted better than usual.

—

Three weeks later, breakfast had quietly become a thing.

Neither of them ever said it out loud, least of all Harper, but it was a foregone conclusion.

Oscar always got there early and saved her at least one box of Weetabix. She gave him half of her toast when the dining hall ran out of the nice raspberry jam. They sat at a table toward the back windows, never exactly chatting, but never not aware of each-other.

He'd wait for her before eating every single morning — even if she was running late. She'd roll her eyes like he was somehow annoying for doing it. Then she'd sit down next to him and they'd divvy out their trays like it was the most normal thing in the world.

This morning, she dropped her tray beside him and flopped into her usual seat with a tired mumble of 'Morning'.

He held out the box wordlessly.

She took it and gave his bed head an amused glance. "Nice hair," she said, poking the corner of the cereal box with her thumbnail.

Oscar shrugged, chewing on a bite of toast. "Grew it myself."

"Fuck off." She said. "Were all the pancakes gone?"

He swallowed. "Probably. You're later than usual."

She made a face. "Yeah. Sorry. I got stuck queuing for the bloody shower block. Jacqueline, you know her? The blonde one with the red lipstick? Yeah. She was hogging the third stall all morning, and everyone knows that the third stall is the only one that has warm water in the mornings."

He scratched at the back of his neck. "Boys showers are disgusting so I just... avoid them at all costs. Middle of the night is safest, right after the cleaners have been."

She hummed. "I peeked my head in there once. Wanted to see if you guys had more room than us — you know, sexism and all that. All I managed to actually see was three inches of disappointment and enough steam to know for a fact that you get way more hot water than us."

He gave her that awkward half-smile he did sometimes, like he wasn't totally sure if he was joking or being serious.

They ate in silence for a bit after that. Harper mashed her weetabix into her milk and then set it aside for a second to thicken up.

Oscar tilted his head toward her notebook, which was sat open on the table beside her tray.

"Is that the code for that website you're building?"

Harper tensed — just slightly. "You can read upside down now?"

He blinked. "Sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy."

She stared at him, then exhaled. "Sorry. Got defensive. It's still early. But — yeah. It is."

He peered over at it again. "It all looks... really complicated."

"It's not." She shrugged.

"You say that like it doesn't look like the Matrix just threw up in your notebook."

She cracked a reluctant smile — God, he was so dry. So unfunny. "It's just logic, Osc."

Oscar squinted at the page. "But that's, like... maths."

"No," she said sharply. Then, after a beat, she softened and said. "Well — yeah. But no."

He frowned at her.

"I suck at maths," she added, quieter this time. "You know that already. It's why I'm in a lower bracket than you even though we're the same age. And it's not like... normal bad either. It's 'wired differently' bad."

Oscar's brow creased.

She sighed. "It's called dyscalculia. It's like dyslexia, but with numbers. Different for everyone, but I can't read clocks properly. I count on my fingers, even if it's just like seven plus two. I fail every single timed test they set. I swap digits in equations and don't even realise I've done it." She took a breath and gave her weetabix a poke with her spoon. "I used to think I was just stupid. Teachers thought I wasn't trying. My mum used to just call me lazy, which, in hindsight, is hilarious. Because I haven't been relaxed since I was eight."

Oscar's lips tugged up slightly — a bit wry.

"But coding," she continued, "that makes sense to me. It's all structure. No weird fractions or mental math traps. Just... clear instructions and consistent answers."

She expected him to nod absently, like he'd stopped listening a while ago. Or change the subject. Or say something vaguely patronising.

But Oscar just said, "That's kind of cool."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That I'm a functionally useless human being?"

"Well, no, you're not." He argued flatly. "But I meant that I think it's cool that your brain works differently and you still taught it to do that." He waved at her notebook.

Harper blinked. For a second, she forgot to be sarcastic. "You're so weird," she muttered, but there was no venom in it.

"Thanks," he said, smiling into his spoon like he didn't know what else to do with his mouth.

She looked back at her code. Then at him.

He was chewing on his toast and staring at his phone. He had the latest iPhone. It had a blue case.

His t-shirt was creased and his hair was still an absolute mess.

And still, she couldn't stop looking at him.

—

It was a Saturday, grey and windy, and Harper was buried under a school-issued fleece blanket in the common room, laptop on her knees, headphones on.

She wasn't working on anything important — just cleaning up a chatbot code, fiddling with syntax like it was a loose tooth. Her headphones were playing some lo-fi thing she didn't even like. She just needed the white noise to help her focus.

Across the room, the door creaked open. She didn't look up until someone said, "You'll get square eyes."

Oscar.

She paused her music and pushed her headphones off, raising an eyebrow at him. "Yeah? Fucking ace. I'll go on Britains Got Talent and become a niche celebrity."

He grinned sheepishly, his cheeks going a bit red, and then nodded behind him. "Didn't come alone."

Behind Oscar stood a man in a zipped-up jacket, casual slacks, and sneakers that were too clean to belong to a teenager. Same posture as Oscar. Same gentle eyes.

"This is my dad," Oscar said. "Chris."

Chris stepped forward and offered a hand to shake, like Harper was a grown-up and not a fourteen-year-old-girl who'd spent the last two nights using toothpaste on her forehead acne to try and get rid of it. "You must be Harper. Oscar's told me about you."

"Oh. Right. Cool," she said. Then she stumbled to her feet, abandoned her laptop and her headphones and the fleece, and hastily shook his hand before it become awkward. "I'm Harper."

Chris laughed, warm and unbothered. "I know. Oscar told me you've been helping him with his English work."

Oscar made a noise of protest. "Dad, come on."

"I'm yeah," Harper said. "He's awful at it. Can't string together a sentence to save his life." She gave Oscar a teasing glance.

Chris turned to his son. "One failed class and you're risking your scholarship. Don't let that happen."

Oscar stared at him. "I won't fail any of my classes." He said, without missing a beat.

She bit her lip and looked between them — the way Oscar didn't shrink even a little bit around his dad. The way he could be quiet and awkward and it was fine. Safe.

"Anyway," Chris continued, "just wanted to say hi before I head home. I fly out tomorrow."

Harper blinked. "Back to Australia?"

"Yeah. Stuck around to help Oscar settle in. Make sure his gear arrived in one piece, check out the karting circuits, learn how to pronounce Hertfordshire without offending the locals."

Oscar rolled his eyes. "He's still saying 'Hurt-Fard-Sheyre'"

Chris laughed. "Don't let the Brits fool you, son. They put vowels in weird places on purpose."

Harper smiled before she could stop herself.

Chris checked his watch. "Right. I'm going to have a word with the headmaster about Oscar's travel plans, but it was really nice meeting you, Harper."

"Yeah. You too." She said.

Oscar sat down next to her, picking at the corner of the couch cushion.

"Your dad's cool," she said, and meant it.

"Yeah," he replied, but his voice was smaller now. "He is."

"You okay?"

Oscar hesitated. Then nodded, but not very convincingly. "Just weird. Makes the whole staying here on my own thing feel more... real. Now that he's leaving too."

Harper looked at him carefully. "You can call him whenever, though, right?"

He snorted. "Yeah. And about seven backup methods. He's the type to send a courier pigeon if I don't answer a text within ten minutes."

She wanted to say 'you're lucky'. But that would make it sound like she was bitter. And she wasn't. Not exactly. So she just said, "That's... nice."

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then Oscar added, a bit shyly, "He liked you."

Harper shot him a look. "I was terrible. I don't know how to socialise with adults who don't expect me to be, like, all stuck-up and perfect."

"Right." Oscar said, a bit awkwardly. "I mean, he just — I think he's glad I've made a friend, you know?"

Harper's chest clenched. She didn't know what to say to that — so she didn't. She nudged his knee with hers instead. "You're not bad," she said.

Oscar smiled at her.

And then Harper opened her laptop again, and when Oscar picked up her legs to drape them over his legs so he could sit back on the sofa, she didn't even blink.

—

The chill of the late Hertfordshire night nipped at Harper's cheeks as she and Jane sprinted across the empty quad, sneakers barely squeaking against the dew-slick paving stones. Their hushed giggles echoed in the dark. Jane, always the instigator, had convinced her to sneak out—"Just for five minutes! I swear!"—to the locked astroturf behind the science block.

They slipped through a gap in the fence, flashlights off, relying on moonlight and adrenaline. Harper dropped to the ground, fingers brushing the fake grass. "Feels like we're on another planet," she whispered. Jane flopped down beside her, smirking. "The planet of the incredibly bored."

Ten minutes later, just as Harper dared to close her eyes and breathe in the strange peace, floodlights blazed to life like a stadium mid-match. "Run!" Jane hissed.

They didn't get far.

Now, Harper sat in the back of a golf cart, arms crossed, heart racing, as one of the groundskeepers muttered something about "ridiculous girls" and "Headmaster's office come morning." Jane had managed to charm her way into walking.

Across the dormitory court, high up in the boys' wing, a window cracked open.

Oscar, hoodie drawn up, leaned on the sill. He squinted into the brightness—and there she was. Harper. Eyes wide, lip curled in protest, being hauled across the lawn like a criminal. The surreal procession made him chuckle despite himself.

She looked furious. Or maybe mortified.

Their eyes met, briefly.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

Harper, red-faced, stuck her tongue out at him.

—

Harper sat on the edge of her narrow dorm bed, fingers frozen around her phone. The headmaster had promised one call home "just to inform," but of course her mother had demanded a personal conversation. She always did. Control disguised as concern.

The line clicked.

"Harper Grace," her mother's voice hissed like steam through a cracked teapot. "I knew leaving you at that school was a mistake. God forbid I get one term without a phone call from some smug administrator telling me my daughter is playing fugitive on school property!"

Harper clenched her jaw. "It wasn't like that."

"No? Then do explain it to me. You snuck out. You trespassed. You embarrassed yourself and—by extension—me. Again."

Harper swallowed the ache in her throat. "It was just the astroturf. Jane—"

"Oh. Jane. Of course. I knew that girl was trouble the minute I saw her on your Instagram. She's got you playing shadow to someone else's mess — just like you always do. No spine. No judgment."

There was a pause. Harper didn't speak. That was the trap—engage, and her mother won.

"You're wasting every opportunity I've broken my back to give you," her mother continued, voice tightening. "You are not some ordinary girl, Harper. Do you think your tuition fee grows on trees? Do you think I work hard every single day so you could roll around on fake grass like a delinquent?"

Harper stared at the ceiling, eyes hot. "No, Mum."

"Exactly. So you'll fix this. You'll write an apology letter to the headmaster. You'll stay away from that Jane girl. And you'll remember who you are. Because I will not have my daughter become another pathetic little scandal. Do I make myself clear?"

A long silence stretched between them.

"Yes," Harper said softly. "You're clear."

"Good," her mother snapped, already moving on. "Now go and do something useful, will you? Preferable something that won't ruin your life and discredit our family name."

The call ended.

Harper sat frozen, the low hum of the disconnected line ringing louder than the yelling ever had. She didn't cry. She hadn't because of her mum in years. But her chest felt splintered all the same—like something small and important had cracked.

From the hallway, she heard Jane's laugh—unapologetic, alive. For a moment, Harper wished she could step into her skin and exist in the peace for just one beautiful day.

Then she put her phone face down and stared out the window, toward the corner of the West building, where Oscar's light was still on.

—

Saturday breakfast at Haileybury was always quieter than weekdays—no teachers barking about uniforms, no ridiculous assemblies looming. Just a murmur of voices, the clink of spoons on bowls, and the comforting scent of burnt toast and cheap blackcurrant cordial.

Harper found Oscar already at their usual corner table, grey school hoodie half-zipped, one hand absently twirling a spoon through a rapidly dissolving Weetabix. She slid in across from him without asking.

He looked up. "Hello, criminal."

She rolled her eyes. "Very funny."

"Did they handcuff you?"

"I was in a golf cart. Not a police car."

"Same thing."

She tried to suppress a smile, then gave up and let it bloom. "Shut up."

Oscar nudged a plate of toast toward her without looking. She took a slice. Their fingers brushed but neither of them blinked.

The conversation, such as it was, drifted between silence and occasional muttered words. Harper hated explaining herself, and Oscar never asked too many questions. She liked that. He was content to just exist, solid and easy.

She reached for the plate of butter and jam packets; he slid it toward her before she could ask. A beat later, her socked foot bumped his under the table, and when she didn't move it, neither did he.

Oscar leaned his elbow on the table, close enough that their arms almost touched. His pinky brushed hers once, twice. Stayed.

"You're quiet," he said, not looking at her. "Did you get in actual trouble?"

Harper shrugged, chewing toast like it was a strategy. "No. Just a warning. I'm just... tired."

"Yeah." A pause. Then, "Your mum?"

She hesitated—long enough that Oscar glanced at her. She didn't meet his eyes, but her hand drifted over the table between them, her fingers brushing the cuff of his sleeve. Light, thoughtless. He didn't pull away.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "She was... her usual self."

He didn't say sorry. Didn't offer advice. Instead, his hand turned slightly under hers, letting their fingers rest together for a moment—awkward, warm, electric.

Harper blinked. Neither of them looked down.

Somewhere across the room, Jane shouted something about hashbrowns. Plates clattered. The world moved on.

But at their table, it seemed to pause. Just for a brief moment.

—

It wasn't a date.

That's what Harper told herself when Oscar muttered, barely above a mumble, "If you're not doing anything tomorrow... I've got a session. Karting. Local place. You could come, if you want."

She hadn't answered right away—just nodded and said, "Sure," like it wasn't the most exciting offer she'd received in months.

Now she stood behind a sagging wire fence at Rye House Kart Raceway, the tang of petrol thick in the air, her hands jammed into her coat pockets. The morning was all grey light and loud engines, but something about it felt oddly calm. Like a different frequency from school life. Like she'd somehow stepped into Oscar's world and it'd welcomed her with open arms.

He was already out there when she arrived—helmeted, gloved, tucked low into the kart like it'd been built around him. She might not know the first thing about apexes or tires, but she could tell that he was fast. Efficient. Focused.

The kart didn't fight him; it moved with him.

One of the mechanics, a guy with oil-stained hands and a thick Northern accent, noticed her hovering. "You Harper?"

She blinked. "Yeah?"

"Well, shit. He told us you might show up today. Nice to meet you. Kid doesn't stop talking about you."

Harper flushed. "Oh."

The man grinned and pointed toward the pit lane. "You can stand closer. He won't mind. Nobody will say anything — I'll make sure of it."

So she did.

She leaned against the low rail as Oscar pulled in, lifting his visor with one hand. His hair was plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed red from the cold and the adrenaline.

"You came," he said when he saw her, his eyes slightly wide.

"You invited me." She said with a shrug.

"Didn't think you would actually come." He admitted.

She raised an eyebrow. "Do I seem that unreliable?"

He gave her a sarcastic once over. "A little bit."

She nudged him with her shoulder. He nudged back—more of a lean, really, casual and warm, his helmet tucked under his arm.

He glanced down at her hand, fiddling with the cuff of her coat. "You wanna sit in it?"

She froze. "What?"

"The kart. You'll fit. You're smaller than me. Won't make you drive it. You can just... sit. See what it's like."

Her heart kicked up—something small but definite. "Okay."

He guided her by the wrist, gently, like he didn't even realise he was doing it. The kart was lower than she expected, more cramped. When she settled in, Oscar crouched beside it, adjusting a loose strap around her shoulder like it mattered; even though she wasn't even moving.

"Suits you," he said, voice cracking. His cheeks flamed red as he cleared his throat.

She looked up at him, her knees scrunched and her spine stiff against the plastic shell of the seat. "I feel like I'm going to get a foot cramp."

Oscar snorted. "Yeah. You get used to that." He crouched beside her, the team-branded grease-stained hoodie pulled over his head, a smudge of oil near his temple he hadn't noticed—or didn't care to. He leaned on the side of the kart like it was his second skin, completely at home here.

Harper squinted up at him. "You don't look like you've ever had a cramp in your life."

"Permanent state of cramp, actually," he said. "But the adrenaline outweighs the pain."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. The sound seemed to catch the attention of the crew around them.

One of the younger mechanics, a guy maybe nineteen with bleached tips and a cheeky grin, sauntered over. "So this the infamous Harper, yeah?"

Oscar looked vaguely alarmed. "Don't call her that."

The guy stuck out his hand. "I'm Cal. Oscar's part-time therapist-slash-punching bag. You hungry? We usually get a delivery of sausage rolls around eleven."

She blinked. "I mean... yeah. I wouldn't say no to a sausage roll."

That was all it took.

Within half an hour, Harper had been half-dragged, half-adopted into the garage crew's rhythm. Someone threw her a hoodie—two sizes too big, slightly smelling of petrol.

Someone else tossed her a bottle of orange Lucozade. They didn't ask who she was or where she came from. No grilling. No polite smiles that felt like there razors hidden underneath.

They just let her be.

Oscar didn't hover. He just looked over now and then between runs on the track—when she laughed at Cal's bad imitation of an Aussie accent, when she actually tried the sausage roll and grumbled in bliss at the greasy goodness, when she leaned back against a stack of tires, hoodie sleeves rolled over her fingers like she belonged there.

He caught her eye once across the pit, and her smile was quieter. Less amused, more... settled.

After the second session, she walked the track with him, boots crunching on gravel, their shoulders brushing once, twice, until finally she just left hers pressed against his.

"You l like them," he said, not a question.

"They're..." She trailed off. Words felt clumsy again. "They're nice. Kind. Easy."

Oscar glanced at her sideways. "Not like the people you normally meet, then?"

She shook her head. "My mum would have a full meltdown if she saw this place. She's big on etiquette and thinks that men belong in office buildings."

He let out a bark of laughter. "What does that mean?"

Harper smiled, but it was the sad kind. "It means I grew up learning how to be a cold-hearted bitch instead of... a good person."

Oscar didn't say anything for a while. Just walked next to her, silent. Then, in a voice barely above the hum of tires cooling nearby, "I think you're a good person."

She blinked hard at the ground, heart tight in her chest.

And then she reached out, without thinking, and hooked her pinky through his.

He didn't look at her.

He didn't let go, either.

—

By the third weekend — no one blinked when Harper appeared trackside.

She knew where the best shade was. Knew which toolbox to sit on without getting yelled at. She'd learned to nod like she understood when Cal rattled off tire compound jargon, and even managed to not flinch when someone dropped a torque wrench three feet from her head.

Oscar never really invited her anymore; she just showed up. Like clockwork. Like she belonged.

And the weird part? She kind of felt like she did.

Today, the garage buzzed louder than usual. Something was off; not in a bad way, just... more charged.

Harper felt it before Oscar even pulled back into the garage from the track. A couple of the guys were cleaning things that didn't need cleaning. Cal was actually wearing a clean team polo. And it'd been ironed.

Harper raised an amused eyebrow. "Who died?"

"No one died, mate," Cal said. "It's who's coming."

Before she could even ask, a black SUV pulled up just beyond the gravel lot. Out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in dark jeans and aviators.

Oscar appeared seconds later, clambering out of the kart and instinctively holding out his hands for Harper to unstrap his gloves.

She did so without thinking, keeping her eyes on the guest of honour. "That's..." Harper frowned. "Is that Mark Webber?"

Oscar nodded. "Yeah. He's my manager. Mentor. Basically part-time third parent." He shrugged. "No big deal. Hey." He said to Mark as he approached.

Mark clapped Oscar on the shoulder, firm and familiar. "Hey, kid." Then his gaze drifted to Harper. "And this is?" His Aussie accent was smoother than expected.

Harper stood quickly, brushing dirt from her jeans. "I'm Harper. I, uh—I go to school with Oscar. I just, kind of... hang around here. Sometimes. Sir."

"Yeah. She's really good at it," Oscar teased, smirking.

Mark offered her his hand. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Harper."

She laughed, nervous but charmed. "Yeah. You too."

Later, after a test stint that had the crew whispering about sector times and potential upgrades, Oscar was called over to one of the race officials' tents. When he came back, his expression was unreadable.

Harper swung her legs over the tire stack she'd claimed and watched him approach.

"What did they say?" She asked.

He didn't tell her anything right away. Just stood there, squinting against the sun. "They offered me a spot in WSK. Full calendar."

Her mouth parted slightly. "Oscar... that's—oh my god."

He nodded. "Yeah." He exhaled.

There was a long pause. People moved around them, laughing, working, shouting. But in the middle of it, everything else blurred.

"You're gonna take it, right?" She asked, trying to sound excited, not scared.

He didn't answer at first. Just looked at her for a long time. Like he was memorizing her.

"I think I have to," he laughed dryly.

She nodded, heart thudding too hard. "Yeah. You do."

Oscar took a step closer. Close enough that she could see the flecks of black in his eyes. "You'll still come to watch me practice, yeah?"

"If I'm allowed." She bit her lip.

"You're always allowed." He said; like he was daring anyone to say something different.

She smiled. And without thinking, she reached up and fixed the strap of his race suit, the way she'd seen him do a hundred times.

It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't even a hug.

But when their fingers touched, briefly and completely, it felt like something.

NEXT CHAPTER

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