#He also does this when someone else is driving

[delta-pavonis]

So I've seen these screencaps of Tom Sturridge talking about what he thinks about the Endless as a whole and it just SCREAMED at me that this is the kind of analysis Hob would make and put together when none of the Endless themselves have. So here's this half-baked snippet that comes somewhere in the early/middle of a fic where Dream and Hob have continued meeting and are close enough friends that Dream tells him about all the rest of his siblings, maybe even introduces Hob to a few of them.

(Rated T)

"Huh," Hob says as he sits back in his seat on the couch, staring into the fireplace for a minute and resting the tumbler of whisky in his left hand on his knee. The logs crackle and pop softly as Dream watches Hob watch the fire. He supposes that his friend might need some time to process all of what he has just learned. It vastly expands his understanding of the universe, no doubt.

"Well, that's a neatly wrapped bundle, innit? Makes so much sense."

Or... not.

Dream sits up straight on his side of the sofa and stares at Hob. "What?"

He turns in his seat to face Dream, curling one leg under him. "All you Endless. Separated you are all your functions, but together... You're love. It's rather poetic really." He finishes off his drink and puts the empty glass on the coffee table.

Confusion, true lack of understanding, has never been something that visits Dream often. "Excuse me?" He can feel how tightly his brows knit.

Hob's eyebrows, on the other hand, rise high up. "Love. All of you and your siblings, together, as a family, represent love." When Dream's jaw just falls open Hob continues. "There's nothing stronger than love. Love is a delight, certainly, but can also drive you well into delirium, drive you totally mad. And obviously heartbreak is its own special category of despair. Not to mention that, in my experience, it is the loss of a great love that brings someone the lowest, to the true pits of despair." He starts gesturing as he speaks, tilting forward excitedly, as emphatic and confident in his analysis as Dream is completely stunned by it. "Love, even when it is not romantic or sexual love, always includes desire for something: a person, a community, a feeling. And what destroys someone more thoroughly than love? What else other than love allows people to piece the world back together after destruction?"

As Hob approaches Dream's place in the sequence, the King of Nightmares feels his insides squirm and twist... only to be drawn out further.

"Love is often talked about like a destiny, a fated meeting of souls, two halves meant to be together. And death, well," Hob swallows and looks away from Dream for the first time since he started his little speech. "Love is made all the more precious by the knowledge that it, too, can die. Not to mention that, sometimes, the embrace of death is its own kind of expression of love. As for dreams..." When Hob meets Dream's gaze again he is very much blushing. But he doesn't look away. "Well, for those who have loved, isn't one of their nightmares always losing said love? And what thing or creature or person doesn't dream of experiencing at least some form of love? I can only imagine, if flowers dream?" He makes it a question and pauses.

"They do." Dream whispers.

The warm light flaring in Hob's eyes, his gentle smile at confirming that tidbit, like it is the most pleasant of discoveries, makes Dream feel almost... dizzy? Is that what this is? He lists forward with it, towards Hob.

If he notices the movement, he doesn't show it. But Hob's voice, when he speaks again, is softer and more lovely for it. "Splendid. They do. Yes, ah, I assume if flowers dream it is, at least sometimes, of the Sun?" Dream nods, speechless at how his friend is making these leaps. "To a flower, what is the warm embrace of sunlight, but a kind of love? And does it not dream of that love when it is gone? Yearn for it?"

Their knees touch and Dream's whole form ripples with the surprise. When had they gotten so close? But Hob doesn't look away, so neither does Dream.

"What is being in love if not a dream?" He can feel Hob's breath ghost across his face, but still the human doesn't stop speaking. "Being in love... isn't it a dream of the destined finding each other? A dream of the death of loneliness? A dream of being willingly and utterly destroyed by just a kind word or a sweet smile from your beloved?"

Hob's nose almost brushes Dream's, but he pulls back just a fraction at the last second. There is a fire in his eyes now, hotter than any that might burn in a fireplace, and Dream is nothing short of captivated. Further, Hob is no longer speaking in the hypothetical; Dream can feel how he now is speaking of his own dreams.

"A dream of being desired? A dream of being someone worthy of feeling despair over? What is being in love if not a dream that brings you to the most joyful, delirious extremes of delight?" His head tilts to the side, inviting Dream even closer. So close.

"Tell me, Dream of the Endless," and oh how Hob saying that name makes him burn, "how well do you know love? Does it live within you? Right now? As it does me?"

"Hob," slips out from Dream's throat as a moan before their lips brush. It is a temptation Dream has no will to resist.

They crash together, hands cradling necks and jaws and faces. Dream surges up into Hob's lap, suddenly ravenous for him, only to have Hob push back, toppling them over so that he has Dream on his back beneath him on the couch. The whole time their mouths never part.

Has this been here all along? Just waiting for Dream to notice? Has Hob been waiting for him all this time?

They kiss and writhe and grasp and their bodies fit too perfectly together for it to be a coincidence.

Or maybe it has been Dream waiting for this? Waiting to be craved like this? Waiting be seen like this?

Hob pulls away, panting, holding himself up on unsteady arms. "Dream. I need to know. Before I lose myself in this. Because I will, if you let me... You don't... Do you love me only because I dream you do?"

"You, Hob Gadling," he says with fondness, cupping his cheek, "are out-thinking yourself. Your dreams are only a billionth of a billionth of a fraction of all the dreams that make me."

"So I can't coerce you in some way? Intentional or not?" He leans into Dream's touch.

Ah. There is the crux of it: Hob doesn't know if what Dream feels for him is real.

"No, my sweet Hob." How he shivers above Dream at that pet name is delicious. "I am here purely by my own free will."

"And I'm not dreaming?" He smirks even as he says it.

"No," Dream chuckles. "You are most definitely not dreaming right now."

"Oh," Hob says, relief palpable. "Brilliant."

[tousey-mousey]

"If you had no rules, you'd have nothing to roleplay about" is the most This Is The Autism Website thing I've read in a while actually. Like.

If you're running a campaign based on exploring a world trying to get Something Specific done, who cares what, then the rules are "can we achieve this thing, given that we live in a society?"

Like. Okay, let's imagine we're running a campaign in... hmm, let's say the present day, a world most people are familiar with (I can't say everyone, because I have met humans before you see).

You're tasked with trying to do something challenging but eminently possible. Let's say... escape a major city while being pursued by the mob. It's certainly not impossible, people do it all the time, but people also fail to do it all the time.

You have absolutely no ruleset. Go with god.

HOWEVER!

You need to convince everyone around the table that your planned action for the next however-long-everyone-lets-you-have-a-turn-for is sensible.

"I hijack a car"

Okay then, mate. Walk me through this process. Because I feel you're probably assuming that hijacking a car - that is, stopping a moving vehicle, getting a driver out, getting inside unstopped, and driving away safely - is as easy as you think it is. And it's really not! So... let's do it.

When you go to attempt something, someone might say "I mean that feels like your plan is basically 50/50", so someone else says "let's say if they succeed based on a coin flip!" and if everyone agrees, cool then you do that. There's no strict rule, but it works so go for it.

If someone says "I use my mind powers to make them stop", then most people will probably go "I am desperate to hear how you have mind powers" and if you can talk them round, cool! Now mind powers exist, you have them, and you get to roleplay about them. If they DON'T exist... You have just, in character, stared at a guy really hard and muttered "I am using mind powers..." under your breath while your friends start getting concerned about your sanity. That is also a fabulous chance for roleplay.

Literally none of that requires written rules. Combat? Also does not require written rules: you can negotiate EVERYTHING.

"I fire a gun"

Cool, we can all agree she definitely hits him right? Okay, you've fired a 9mm at a guy's... where did you aim?

"That'd be for his body, chief"

At a guy's trunk. You hit him... I dunno, someone name a bodypart?

'SPLEEN'

At a guy's... lemme google this... "splenic ruptures can cause life-threatening internal bleeding causing shock", jesus okay. You hit his spleen and he screams like you have shot him, because you have shot him. Hmm... I think he's probably gonna collapse, and when he collapses he'll bust the shitty shaky floor out under him as he falls into the room below.

FUCK I needed his keys, okay okay does anyone have rope?

Kay we are wearing pyjamas why in gods name would we have rope??

I dunno babe, worth a try.

Uhhh, we're in an abandoned living room yeah? I'm gonna look around for an electrical device.

Hey chief, can I take this one?

Yeah sure.

You find an old-ass lamp, also I do NOT like where this is going and am SO desperate to see it.

Wait hang on, a LAMP? In this ABANDONED TRAP HOUSE?

Everyone's gotta see, I'm taking the lamp. I could fish around in the walls for the internal wiring if you like, I've punched through drywall before it's not that hard.

No, no, good point, go off

Okay. I am using my knife - y'all remember my knife, we've been through my knife before - to slice off the power cord. I'm gonna say 1.2m sounds around right, I've seen lamps with that.

Sure.

So. Kay, do you wanna... you know...?

JESS ARE YOU SUGGESTING I ABSEIL DOWN A HOLE IN THE FLOOR ON THE END OF FOUR FEET OF ELECTRICAL CABLE?

...Yes.

ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Oh come on it'll be fine.

MEANWHILE as you two dipshits bicker over who is the biggest moron, you hear sirens outside.

F U C K

Folks I'm gonna suggest we hurry this up?

No, yeah, nah, yeah, good point.

She's right, we're good.

Cops are about 15 seconds away from breaking into the room, who's doing what?

---

Like. You can do A LOT with no rules. Roleplay can be enhanced by rules or hindered, it really just depends who you are. Some people NEEEEED structure, others rebel against it. It's just a thing.

Everyone has gotta stop treating TTRPGs like there's this dial between "rules" and/or "combat" and "narrative" and/or "roleplaying" and as one goes up the other must go down.

[lemonadary]

choso never really paid much attention to the cheerleaders performing in the field during his games. this is the first time he's actually going to sit on the benches and watch them perform, and it's all because you, his girlfriend of three months, are a part of the cheering squad.

you didn't ask him to watch the performance for you, no. you actually wanted him to focus on getting well-rested and hydrated during the three minutes that your team would be performing in the field during his football game.

but choso wants to watch. he wants to watch you. and now that he's finally looking at the field and not at his phone, he's noticing all these new things. he should really pay more attention to these cheering performances.

first, how effortlessly pretty you are. your team sported a shirt and shorts version of the university's cheering uniform for the game (and also because of the summer heat). he knows they're tailored to fit, but by god, does he think you look absolutely amazing in it.

second, the way you move. choso remembers you filming tiktok dances in his room while he plays games, and you always thought he didn't pay attention. but he's always been stealing glances when you're focused. he knows you're a great dancer, but seeing you perform on the field, it's like you're on a whole other level from when you're doing silly tiktok dances.

and lastly, the way you charm the crowd. you're great at making facial expressions, and your energy just gets the crowd going. it's no wonder the cheering squad values you so much. even choso feels like he's fallen in love all over again.

after the game, choso waits for you in his car, ready to take you home. you come in, put your things in the backseat, and give him a kiss, praising him and his team for their win. choso has always been a bit nervy. he gets all nervous when you kiss him, or hold his hand, but right now, you can feel something's different with him.

"cho, baby? what's wrong? are you not feeling okay?" you ask, worried that he might have injured himself out on the field. but he doesn't answer. it's not when you're about to ask if he needs to go to the nurse that he cuts you off with a kiss. you're surprised.

he pulls away, looks at you, before he takes his seatbelt off and holds you by the shoulders to go in for a deeper kiss this time. your arms wrap around him, but you're still confused as to why he's suddenly acting like this.

almost as if he heard your thoughts, he pulls away again, breathlessly saying, "you looked gorgeous in that uniform, baby. it's driving me crazy."

so that's what this is about.

you smile, asking him if he really does think that, and he nods against your neck, trailing kisses all over. it's a good thing he's parked in a more shaded spot of the parking lot, or else someone would've caught you two already.

choso brings you to the backseat of his car, letting you straddle him. this isn't the first time you guys have done it, but this is your first look at choso being assertive. he's always been so respectful and sweet, but right now, it's like he hates your fucking guts.

he's got you on his lap, now with your back against his chest, legs held up by his hands as he thrusts up into you, and the feeling has you screaming. well, you would be if you weren't covering your mouth with your hand.

minutes later, he's got you in doggy. one of your hands reaches behind to hold his arm for support, and he lets you, because he's nowhere near done with you yet.

"did such a great job out there, baby. charmed the crowd and all," he says, slurring over his words from how good he feels. "but you're all for me, right?" he pinches at your chest, eliciting a bit more noise from you. you nod frantically, and choso pushes you down to rest your head on the seat as he leans closer to you.

"gotta hear you say it, pretty... you're all mine, right? this cutie's all f'me..." he kisses your neck, and it takes you babbling over and over that you're all his for him to finally let up.

when you two have come down from your highs, choso dresses you back up, driving you to his house so he can make sure you're feeling alright before he sends you back home. gone is that choso who gave you the best however many minutes you spent in that car, and back is the sweet and respectful choso. you'll have to wear that uniform again sometime.

[yurrrsssss-ghoul]

whats ur ideal characterization of the al ghuls ?

This might come across as more or less a biased perspective, but I'll try to put them into sections (littler parts so it'll be more digestible) and back up with actual evidence with canon materials as to avoid being completely fanon-y.

First, I'd like to admit my flaws that sometimes I do tend to fall to certain tropes. I'm a complete sucker for mother-ly/childish/fun Talia who has her own things going on (the run where she was the CEO of LexCorp? Love it), I like to see more of Ra's being some sort of radical environmentalist and I do appreciate it when Damian acts more or less like a kid with love for art and theater.

However, I also understand that I can't have everything, and that their lifestyle also dictates their characteristics, so I'll try my best to keep both things balanced.

First, let's get a few things out of the way. The al-Ghuls are strict, they're disciplined and certainly smart and strong. Whatever I'm saying next does not negate any of these things; they certainly do commit wrong-doings here and there, though I feel like when discussing about the 'correct' characterization of the al-Ghuls, I think it all falls down under a single issue.

I'd like to see them more emotional.

Contrary to popular beliefs, the al-Ghuls aren't 'unfeeling monsters'. In fact, I believe that the primary factor that drives them towards their goal is the fact that they're emotional beings, ruled by their love if not passion, among other things.

Ra's love for the environment drives him to raise an eco-terrorist organization, Talia's love for the men in her life ultimately leads her to her demise, not to mention how she conducted an international hunt for her mother's killer outside of Ra's knowledge, Damian's love for his parents destroyed him altogether.

One way or another, all of them were (I supposed, martyred) for their love of someone else, or something else. Doomed.

The best I could describe this is by using the 'White guy philosophy'. Like how, if you can't imagine Batman comforting children, then you didn't imagine Batman. You just imagine some guy in a bat costume beating up criminals.

Similarly, if you can't imagine Ra's crying over animals that died or mourning his family, or Talia saving women or children and comforting them and loving her family, or Damian willing to sacrifice himself for his family— then you didn't imagine the al-Ghuls. You, in fact, are seeing them through the rose-tinted glass of stereotypical vision.

Consequently, anything that implies them pursuing a relationship because of genetics, blood, power, or whatever is inherently revolting.

A part of me died whenever people emphasized how they (the al'Ghuls) only reproduce to acquire the 'perfect heir,' when nothing could be further from the truth. Ra's genuinely loves his wives, and he didn't press it when Talia (his favorite daughter, by the way, and by his definition, perfect) refused to lead the LoA. Talia genuinely loves Bruce and wanted to have a family with him, but alas gave it up when she saw how he was endangering himself for her.

Thankfully, Damian is 14. And I haven't seen such claims made about him.

It all ties back to the al-Ghuls being 'unemotional', that everything has some sort of ulterior motives for them. That the notion of them conceiving or starting a family doesn't have anything to do aside from some grand plot of bringing down humanity.

It also fuels a lot of other issues, a can of worms I'm opening for another day.

Ra's wouldn't seek out someone to produce the perfect heir, he wouldn't condone animal cruelty or even unjust terrorism. Talia isn't some seductress that lures men to feast on them or whatever, and she certainly wouldn't sit alright if she witnessed a form of violence. Damian isn't some stupid, spoiled brat that scream out, "I'm the blood son" every other second.

Make them romantic people. Make them kind. But also make them fight to be kind, make their kindness be the end of them. That their virtues are also the sins that condemned them to hell. They are demons on Earth because they are angels that were exiled from heaven.

Also, like, separate them from what they do? Let Ra's sometimes just take a walk at his many gardens and care for animals, let Talia travel the world and allow her to go on her own adventures and let Damian act however he wants to be.

I'm ending this now because I really don't want it to go far beyond what was expected, but here are some things I'd love to be more incorporated into their writings.

[grimeye-j]

[benevolenterrancy]

mark your words, wei wuxian

(I have modern sports aus on the brain and decided that if we're taking away their swords we should at least arm them with sticks, so it became a hockey4hockey au)

[oddballenvy]

realized i might possibly have feelings for someone. day ruined.

[pokemonfrommemory]

He’s free!

[buttercup-barf]

Under the cut are mostly self-insert doodles of decreasing quality. Again, not much directly tied to Team Fortress 2. Might as well toss these out while I have no access to my puter. Much yapping under the cut and in the tags incoming.

Another self-insert, this time less of a "here's me as a tenth class" and more of a "here's my game experiences translated into the class I would take the place of". The Cleaner. Although I guess they could still be wearing either suit. It doesn't matter that much.

That one Convict's Case taunt with Backup would be extremely funny, because the man would be on the verge of a breakdown (he does not want to go to jail so bad you have no idea). The second image- I owe no explanation. You know what I am. You see the pattern with my favourites.

The duality of the man. Resting face versus "just heard you express interest in religion/Russian folklore" face. He's not that hard to make friends with, when you pull him away from all the explosions.

Some doodles of trying to figure his face out. Unfortunately, the more I stare at him, the more I worry that he looks like A Certain Guy With The Last Name "Kazarin", and the fear of never being original in my life caught up to me.

Don't look at me, don't perceive me, I refuse to explain any of my actions to you.

[skoulsons]

[ectoplasmer]

rgrhrgrhgr going insane thinking about how I have felt so much love and affection for a character from a card game anime of all things!! for over two years!!! one of the most frustrating guys ever nonetheless!!!!

[microwaving-tesilid-argente]

snivelling crying and whimpering, why is ailette's character voice SO hard to grasp

[plethorawrites]

I feel like Jason Todd, being the paranoid, mistrusting man he is, would pick up on every single habit you have. He'd know the meal you always order at a restaurant, the steps of your skin care (from watching you do it while leaning on the door), the scents you loved, the weather you hated. He'd know the time you wake up, the time you go to bed, the time you typically get hungry, etc.

So, when you make ANY changes, he instantly gets suspicious. Like...super paranoid.

And he hates it. He does.

It kills him that when you say you're going to the grocery store on a Saturday evening, he doesn't believe you. Because you hate going on the weekend, since it's too busy and you hate driving between 5-6 because of the glare from sunset.

And then, you had to go and take a work call at three in the afternoon when you guys were getting lunch. But you always shut your phone off for lunch. Always.

He hates how paranoid it makes him. He hates how he starts to assume the worst because he wants to trust you. He does. And if you knew that his mind wandered to thoughts of betrayal, you'd be furious or heartbroken. Maybe both.

But when it does eventually come out (Either through a fight or just him finally being honest) you're neither. You're, to his surprise, completely understanding about his worry. Because everyone betrayed him at some point and you never wanted him to think you would do the same.

You explain every past discrepancy that had him worried and from then on— your boss told you to keep your phone on specifically to reschedule something, you were out something you needed desperately from the store, etc.

You also explain any future changes.

Yes, you typically went to the dentist every three months, but you were going twice in a single week (not because you were hooking up with your dentist, the way his stupid intrusive thoughts told him) but because your tooth started hurting. You know it's a bit overboard, having to explain every change in your routine, but you do.

Because it helps him.

And it takes a bit, but that constant need to know why things were off, even slightly, eventually fades.

You say you'll be home late and his mind no longer assumes you're stopping at someone else's house. You say you're too tired to go out to eat and his mind no longer wanders to thinking you're ashamed of being seen with him. You fall asleep with your back to him and he no longer immediately feels like you're falling out of love with him.

He trusts you.

You would never betray him or break that bond. Never.

And let's be honest...how often do you willingly choose to sleep on your side of the bed when you could be in his arms? Not often.

[cheftsunoda]

Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’. 

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

[parrish-the-thot]

A continuation of this post I made

I imagine Steve genuinely doesn’t think about Eddie, like at all. Besides the occasional “what is he yelling about in that table” or “ Munson actually showed up to class” or once in sophomore year he thinks “how much does Munson charge for an ounce of weed? Would he take a $50 for an ounce” which causes Eddie to wait around all day at the picnic table wishing for some shmuck to offer $50 for just an ounce, but no one shows up (Steve had to go pick up Dustin after school and didn’t want him to find weed the weed when he inevitably starts going through Steve’s car)

The lack of soulmate thoughts really irks Eddie, because he knows his soulmate is in Hawkins, but he never thinks about Eddie, like at all??? Positively or negatively?? Eddie jumps on more tables, he blares loud music from his van, he is in a band, he is the drug dealer for all the teens in Hawkins and all his soulmate thinks is “why the fuck did Munson double park his van, I’m going to be late looking for a parking spot now” it absolutely drives him crazy.

He eventually figures out his soulmate must be a jock of some kind because one day he hears “what is Munson doing under the bleachers?” when some sports team is let out of playing with balls practice. He is briefly heartbroken his soulmate isn’t a nerd like him, but then spends the night thinking about how a certain fluffy haired jock could play with his balls anytime.

Steve isn’t not thinking about Eddie on purpose, but they just don’t run in the same circles, so he doesn’t really think about him too much, just in a genuine, “I don’t know them, don’t interact with them, so I don’t really think about them” sort of way. Especially after befriending the kids, Steve’s focus goes to keeping them safe and being a babysitter instead of finding his soulmate.

Steve’s experience with his soulmates thoughts is completely different. Starting in middle school he heard his soulmate think he was cute which he thought was nice. As he got older his soulmate would still think he was cute, but also handsome or pretty which, he doesn’t know any girls who call their boyfriends pretty but ya know, he can roll with that. He thinks he will have to roll with a lot of stuff, since hai soulmate seems to into a…a lot of interesting things, to say the least. Steve has dated a lot of girls but none of them seemed to want to rub their face in his chest hair like his soulmate did, who also wonder is Steve was that hairy everywhere which- he was but he didn’t think a girl would want to know about that.

He would be in the middle of a basket ball game and he hit with a 15 minute monologue about how wonderful his ass looked in “thise little green shirts that ride up his ass in the best way” and how his soulmate “wanted to be those shorts” causing Steve to miss three different shots. Also with all this wildly kinky stuff and even general sex things Steve has never heard of or thought about he figures he should become more knowledgeable to better be prepared for his soulmate.

One day when Steve is cleaning up a drink he spilled in the cafeteria and heard “god Harrington looks good on his knees, bet he would look even better with my cock in his mouth” figures chances are his soulmate isn’t a girl at all.

With not much else to loose and a new door opened up to him, Steve starts spending time thinking equally horny thinvs about different guys he sees in class, just to see if they will react to what he is thinking. This is how he figures out Eddie is his soulmate.

Steve notices eddies table is getting a little rowdy, as is always does before Eddie gets up on someone’s table and he rants about jocks and preppy girls while stepping on people’s lunches, Steve thinks “what if comes over here, spits in my stretched out hole, and fucks me right next to Heathers Halloways tuna sandwich”

Eddie, whose soulmate didn’t even think about Eddie that one time his car got spray painted a fit was all the school talked about for a week, was NOT expecting that at 12:30 on a Tuesday and promptly trips on a chair and slams face first into the lunch table, breaking his nose.

Eddies friends rush him to the nurse and Steve is torn between this being a sign Eddie is soulmate or Eddie just clumsy, Steve has seen him walk into a door twice, so he don’t 100% sure. Steve decided to test this anytime he has a clear viewpoint of Eddie and starts thinking the most horny, kinky things possibly about Eddie to see if Eddie reacts proves he is Steve’s soulmate (also revenge because Steve had to go through years of Eddie horny pondering interrupting Steve during important tasks games or tests so Steve figures he should pay that forward during eddies dungeons and dorks games)

[pucksandpower]

Midnight Sun

Oscar Piastri x astrophysicist!Reader

Summary: for the first time, the girl who studies stars becomes someone’s sun

You are not built for this.

Not the headphones clamped too tight on your ears, not the sterile studio lighting that hums faintly overhead, and definitely not the bright-eyed producer trying to coax a smile out of you like it’s some quantum equation.

“You’ll be great,” she insists, bouncing on her toes like the floor’s electrified. “Just … a little looser, yeah?”

You blink. “That sounds like medical advice.”

She laughs too hard, probably to cover up the silence on the other side of the glass where the sound engineer sits. You glance toward him, but he’s preoccupied adjusting levels. You consider making a run for it.

“You said the guest was from Doctor Who,” you say instead, squinting at the notes you scribbled on the back of an old star chart. “I prepared for someone who at least pretends to know physics.”

“Close,” she chirps, already halfway to the door. “He’s dealt with time — just at 300 kilometers an hour.”

You don’t process that fully before the studio door swings open and someone breezes in with the kind of easy, unhurried energy of a man who lives without traffic or consequences.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s almost apologetic. His accent curls around the syllables like it’s trying to make them less obtrusive. “Sorry I’m late. Cab driver took us to the wrong building. Twice.”

You look up.

And you blink.

“That’s Oscar Piastri,” someone whispers into your headphones — probably the producer, definitely smiling — and suddenly you understand the joke. He’s not from Doctor Who. He’s from McLaren.

You stare at him. He notices.

“I know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “not exactly Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

“No,” you reply, slowly peeling off one headphone. “But he also hasn’t won Baku.”

“Yet,” he grins.

You’re not smiling. Not exactly. But you’re no longer glaring either, and he seems to take that as a win.

***

They mic him up quickly. He sits across from you, spinning a pencil between his fingers like he’s back in school, half-listening to the rules being rattled off in his ear. When the producer gives the signal, the red recording light blinks on.

“Welcome to Stars Between Us,” you say into the mic, voice steady, clipped. “I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I study black holes, gravitational waves, and all the strange ways time can bend and fold. Joining me today is — unexpectedly — Oscar Piastri.”

He laughs. “Unexpectedly is fair.”

You glance at your notes. They're useless. None of your questions about the TARDIS or relativity in sci-fi apply now.

“So,” you say, pivoting, “what brings a Formula 1 driver to a podcast about astrophysics?”

He leans in, suddenly serious. “Honestly? I’m curious. There’s a lot about racing that feels … surreal. Like time moves differently when you’re in the car. I wanted to know if that’s just adrenaline or if there’s something real behind it.”

You narrow your eyes, reluctantly intrigued. “You’re asking about time dilation?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

You nod. “Special relativity. When you approach the speed of light, time moves slower for you compared to someone standing still.”

“Sounds useful in a race.”

“Only if you’re traveling at 299,792 kilometers per second. You’re just … fast.”

He smiles. “Thanks, I think.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward, but considering.

“What does that feel like?” You ask, almost against your better judgment. “Driving that fast?”

He pauses, and something shifts in his face. He doesn’t reach for a joke.

“It’s quiet,” he says. “Everything else fades. The noise becomes background. It’s just … instinct and motion. Like the world slows down and speeds up at the same time. You’re nowhere and everywhere.”

You stare at him.

“That’s … poetic.”

He looks startled. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughs again. It’s warm, low, not forced. The producer signals something behind the glass, but you wave it off.

Oscar rests his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours like the room’s contracted around the two of you.

“What about you?” He asks. “What’s your version of being in the car?”

You pause.

There’s a constellation blooming behind your ribs now, hesitant and bright.

“I watch stars collapse,” you say finally. “And try to make sense of why they do. I teach, late at night. I go home. I draw them, sometimes.”

He raises his brows. “Draw them?”

“In a notebook,” you mutter. “It’s not important.”

“No, it is.” His eyes flicker. “Why draw them if you already know what they look like?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Not really.

“To remember that they’re real,” you say after a while. “That they’re not just data. That they existed.”

He nods, slow.

“That’s the thing about fame, too,” he says. “People think it’s this massive, burning light. But it’s only a flare. It burns out quick.”

“Like a supernova.”

“Exactly.”

You both sit with that for a minute.

Then he glances down, sees your fingers resting on a battered leather notebook, and grins.

“Let me guess — constellations?”

“Mostly. Sometimes nebulae.”

“You ever draw racetracks?”

You snort. “No.”

He looks disappointed in the theatrical way, like you’ve just told him Santa isn’t real.

“Guess I’ll have to bring my own then.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave.

The red light on the mic blinks off. You both pull off your headphones. The studio suddenly feels smaller.

He stands, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, and stretches like he’s been sitting still for too long.

“Thanks for not kicking me out,” he says, half-teasing.

“I considered it.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” He smiles. “But seriously. That was cool. Weirdly calming.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who needs calming.”

He gives a little shrug. “That’s ‘cause I’m good at pretending.”

You should say something polite. Professional. You don’t.

Instead, you ask, “Do you ever wish you’d done something else?”

He looks genuinely surprised by the question. But he doesn’t brush it off.

“Sometimes,” he says. “I don’t know what. But sometimes I think about it. Especially when I’m not sure who I’m doing this for anymore.”

You nod. Quiet understanding passes between you like an electrical current.

“Maybe you should draw more racetracks,” you murmur.

He smiles, opens his mouth to respond-

Then his phone buzzes. A sharp interruption.

He checks it, winces. “I’ve got to go. Team thing.”

You nod, already pulling your thoughts back into your chest like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Good luck,” you say, casual, a little too clinical.

He hesitates, then starts to walk to the door — stops, spins back.

“Oh. My water bottle-” He looks around. “Did I leave it?”

You glance at the table. “No idea.”

“Damn. Well, no worries.”

He waves, one last flash of a smile, then he’s gone. The door clicks shut.

You exhale, sit for a moment, then begin to gather your things. The headphones. Your notebook. A pen that’s run dry.

And there, tucked just beneath the edge of the table, almost hidden-

His water bottle.

Plain. Scuffed. You reach for it, about to set it on the counter for someone to return, when you see it:

A small sketch drawn in Sharpie.

It’s crude, but deliberate. A racetrack — one you recognize from the way the corners loop, the way the chicane bends back on itself. Monaco.

You pause.

Your thumb runs gently over the linework.

Then, without really thinking, you slide it into your bag.

Later, when the lights are off and the stars are out, you’ll press your fingers to that curve again and try to understand why your heart is moving like it’s found some new orbit.

***

The message arrives two days later.

It’s early evening and your phone buzzes as you’re halfway through transferring rough calculations from a whiteboard to your notebook, elbow-deep in chalk dust and equations about stellar death. You glance at the screen.

Instagram DM from oscarpiastri

Your first thought is why do I even have notifications on for this app?

Your second thought is oh no.

You stare at it. Don’t open it. Just … look.

You’ve barely touched your Instagram account since undergrad. It’s a digital graveyard of telescope selfies and star trail experiments. You don’t even know how he found you. You consider not opening it at all. But curiosity — that wretched, shimmering thing — wins.

The message is short. Innocent.

oscarpiastri

Thanks for the chat the other day. Really enjoyed it.

You don’t reply.

You tell yourself it’s not personal. You’re just not someone who does casual messaging. You don’t like small talk, and Oscar Piastri feels like small talk. Fast cars, bright lights, the occasional philosophical tangent — but none of it rooted in the quiet gravity you orbit.

You close the app.

And then, three days later — another ping.

This time, it’s 2:17 a.m. You’re on your balcony with a mug of tea, too wired from class to sleep and watching Orion climb over the skyline like he owns the place.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of that star you mentioned? The red one near the edge of Taurus?

You stare at it, baffled.

He remembers. He listens.

You type. Delete. Type again.

Then finally, you send.

yourusername

Aldebaran.

The response comes in less than a minute.

oscarpiastri

That’s the one. Looked it up, but your way of describing it was better.

You bite your lip. He’s probably just being nice. But something flickers inside you anyway — soft and unsettling.

You should leave it there.

But then you type:

yourusername

It’s often called the “eye” of the bull. It’s not actually part of the Hyades cluster, it just looks like it is from here.

oscarpiastri

So it’s a loner pretending to be part of the group?

You pause.

yourusername

Something like that.

***

After that, it unspools gradually. Almost imperceptibly.

Not a flood of texts or calls. Nothing loud or demanding.

Just … voice notes. Little ones. Scraps of sound tossed across time zones.

The first is from him. Late. You can hear hotel AC in the background and the faint rumble of a distant elevator.

“Hey. I’m in Suzuka now. Couldn’t sleep. Watched this video about neutron stars you mentioned in the podcast and my brain hurts. Did you really say one teaspoon of that stuff weighs four billion tonnes?”

He pauses.

“I think that’s the weight of my eyelids right now. Good night. Or good morning. Or whatever it is where you are.”

You listen to it twice.

Then you send one back.

It’s short. You’re walking home after a night lecture, boots crunching over salt-stiff pavement. Your voice is low, breath visible in the cold.

“Technically, it’s about a billion tonnes, not four. But the number’s less important than the idea. Density like that — it defies everything we understand. Anyway. Hope you got some sleep.”

You almost don’t send it. But then you do.

And after that, it becomes a habit.

A quiet ritual.

***

“Have you ever felt like time changes depending on the country?” He says one day. “Like, I landed in Australia and my brain reset to childhood. Haven’t been here in ages. The stars are upside-down.”

You laugh into your phone.

“They’re not upside-down. You just never learned the southern sky.”

“Then teach me.”

And so you do. Piece by piece. Over fragmented voice notes and links to star charts. He sends photos from hotel windows — night skies dulled by light pollution, but earnest in their effort.

One day, you’re in the lab, cleaning equipment after a lecture, and a colleague walks past your open laptop.

“Is that Oscar Piastri quoting you?”

You glance up. “What?”

She points at the screen. A muted interview is playing on auto-repeat from a motorsport feed. You hadn’t realized the tab was still open.

The caption underneath reads.

“We think of time as constant, but it stretches and shrinks depending on your frame of reference. It’s wild.”

— Oscar Piastri, in an interview from Jeddah.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t breathe.

Because that line — that exact phrasing — is yours. You said it to him. Offhand. At 3 a.m. in a voice note while explaining why GPS satellites have to account for relativity.

You sit down.

Hard.

Your heart’s doing something very stupid in your chest. And the worst part?

You don’t hate it.

***

Later that night, he sends you a photo from a Melbourne airport bookstore.

It’s a star map. Rolled up, rubber-banded, creased in one corner.

oscarpiastri

Thought of you. Bought this while flying back from visiting family. Gonna hang it above my bed.

You grin despite yourself.

yourusername

That’s the northern sky. You’re in the southern hemisphere, genius.

oscarpiastri

… Shit. What if I hang it upside down?

Then, a follow-up photo.

It’s blurry. The lighting’s terrible. But the subject is clear.

A tiny telescope. Child-sized. Plastic. The kind you buy in the “educational toys” aisle.

It’s perched on a hotel windowsill.

oscarpiastri

Bought one. Fix it?

You laugh so hard you drop your phone.

***

By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late.

You’re used to him now.

To the unpredictable pings of his name across your screen. To the long silences followed by sudden outbursts of curiosity. To the way he says “your stars” like they belong to you.

You don’t tell anyone. Not because it’s secret, but because it’s yours. And that — somehow — feels rarer than anything.

And it’s not romantic. Not exactly.

But it’s also not not romantic.

You’re standing in a grocery store one evening, half-reading a list off your phone when your screen lights up with a new message.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of the star that’s always behind you?

You frown.

yourusername

Behind me when?

oscarpiastri

When you’re walking home. I see it in your stories sometimes. The one that flickers near the rooflines. Looks stubborn.

You blink.

You hadn’t realized he watched those.

You scroll through your own stories. Grainy footage. A lamppost. A shimmer.

yourusername

Altair. Part of the Summer Triangle.

oscarpiastri

Sounds like a spaceship.

yourusername

It kind of is. It’s spinning so fast it’s not even round anymore.

There’s a pause.

Then another photo comes through. His telescope again, now perched next to a hotel room cup of tea and a very rumpled travel pillow.

oscarpiastri

Gonna find it tonight.

You reply before you can stop yourself.

yourusername

You won’t. It’s not visible from where you are.

Another pause.

oscarpiastri

Then tell me what is. I’ll watch your stars tonight instead.

You freeze.

The message sits there. Not loud. Not pushy. Just … real.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you record a voice note. Your voice is soft, uneven.

“Look due west. About thirty degrees up. You’ll see Canopus, it’s one of the brightest. You’ll know it when you do. It doesn’t twinkle as much.”

You hesitate.

Then add, almost inaudibly. “It’s always made me feel less alone.”

You hit send.

And the night moves on. But something else stays.

***

A few days later, you receive a package at your office.

No note.

Just a Southern Hemisphere star map — this one beautifully illustrated — and a sleek black journal with faint constellations etched into the cover.

You trace the lines.

And in that moment, for the first time in your measured, structured little life, you let yourself fall just a little bit out of orbit.

***

You’re not supposed to be watching the race.

You’re supposed to be prepping slides for your 6 p.m. lecture on stellar nucleosynthesis — the chart on the evolution of elemental abundances still half-finished, your notes scattered like meteor debris across the desk.

But your laptop, traitorous and gleaming, is open to a livestream. The race is in its final laps.

Oscar is leading.

Your heart is misbehaving in ways you’ve tried to intellectualize and failed. It pounds — not like something mechanical, but like something alive, startled and pacing.

You adjust the volume and pretend this is just … scientific curiosity. A physics-enthusiast’s idle interest in speed, aerodynamics, G-forces. But when his name flashes across the top of the leaderboard, glowing in white against black, you make a sound — soft and involuntary — that doesn’t belong in any academic setting.

When he crosses the line first, fist raised, team yelling in the background, you press a hand to your mouth.

And then, quietly, you whisper to no one, “You did it.”

You don’t message him.

You know his phone’s probably a furnace of alerts. It’d be ridiculous. Presumptuous.

Still, you keep the window open, watching the post-race interviews unfold like a dance you’re learning in reverse.

At one point, he smiles — really smiles — and it’s like the stars blink out for a second, jealous of the attention.

You close the laptop.

Then you do something completely uncharacteristic.

You open your camera.

Not the front-facing one. Never that.

Instead, you aim it upward, from the park bench outside the department building. The sky tonight is low and smeared with a watercolor wash of indigo and silver. There’s a crescent moon tucked behind the clouds like a secret. Your notebook is open on your lap, constellations half-sketched in pencil. A tea flask beside you. Your coat wrapped around your legs like armor.

You take the photo.

And, after five full minutes of hovering over the send button, you DM it to him.

yourusername

Congratulations.

That’s it.

No emoji. No overthinking.

You shut your phone off and go back to your lecture slides, trying not to hope.

***

He calls two hours later.

Not with a voice note.

A video call.

You freeze when you see his name blinking on the screen.

The rational part of your brain — mildly frantic, deeply British — screams, decline it, for god’s sake, you’re not even wearing proper socks.

But your hand moves of its own accord.

You answer.

The screen goes black, then flickers to life.

He’s on a rooftop.

Lit by golden streetlamps and distant city noise. His hair’s damp, curled a little from the shower. He’s wearing a hoodie and eating something out of a paper bag.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s not 3 a.m. in London. Like this isn’t completely insane.

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“Hi,” you manage. “You won.”

“I did.” He grins, mouth full. “Thought about you.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“During the cooldown lap. I was thinking about that thing you said. About time. How it stretches.”

“Time dilation.”

“Yeah. It felt like that. Like I was moving through something slower than everyone else. It was … quiet. Clear.”

You stare at him through the screen, barely breathing.

“And then,” he adds, grinning again, “I saw the photo.”

You look down, cheeks hot.

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you mutter. “It’s not even of me, not really.”

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But it is you.”

You don’t say anything.

He shifts the camera. Shows you the skyline — soft orange lights, a tower blinking red in the distance.

“I’m on the team hotel roof,” he explains. “It’s quiet up here. I wanted to see stars but there’s too much light. Still nice though.”

You smile without meaning to. “I can tell you which ones are behind the clouds.”

“I’d like that.”

And just like that, you fall into orbit again.

The conversation stretches.

From the sky to the race to the taste of churros from a street vendor (“Life-changing,” he says, waving the bag at the screen). He asks about your students, and you tell him about the undergrad who thought neutron stars were “just edgy white dwarfs.”

He laughs so hard you worry he’ll drop the phone.

Time dilates, just like you said it would.

You only realize how much of it has passed when the sky behind you turns pale.

“Is that dawn?” He asks, blinking.

You glance behind you. “Looks like.”

He rests his chin on his fist. “Should we sleep?”

You consider it. “Probably.”

But neither of you ends the call.

Instead, you both sit there.

Watching a world shift toward morning.

***

You don’t mean to let him in.

Not like that.

But three nights later, it all breaks open.

You’re supposed to be asleep. You’ve got your departmental review the next morning — a committee of stone-faced academics armed with funding reports and agendas.

But you wake up in a cold sweat. Palms tingling. Heart galloping like it’s trying to outpace the past.

You sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, and try to breathe through it.

It’s not your first panic attack. It is your first in months.

You try every trick: grounding, counting, reciting star names like prayers.

It’s not working.

So — on a reckless, breathless impulse — you call him.

He picks up on the second ring.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just listens.

You don’t speak either. Not for a full minute. All he hears is your breathing — ragged, shallow, afraid.

Finally, you whisper, “I’m okay. I just … I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

Still, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He’s there. Solid and quiet as gravity.

After a while, your breathing evens out. You wipe your face. You lean back against the cold tile.

You don’t even realize you’re speaking until the words are already halfway out of your mouth.

“My mother died when I was seventeen,” you say.

Oscar’s breath catches faintly on the other end.

“She was sick for a long time. I’d just gotten my first telescope. She used to sit outside with me, even when she was too tired to stand. Said the stars helped her forget her body was failing.”

You close your eyes.

“After she died, I stopped going outside for a while. But eventually … I came back to it. Because it was the only thing that still made sense. The only thing that felt big enough to hold it all.”

You swallow.

“Stars are all I have left.”

Silence.

Then, his voice — rough, certain.

“You have more than that now.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Because if you speak, you’ll cry again.

But you don’t hang up.

And he doesn’t go anywhere.

***

The next day, your departmental review passes without incident.

Your pulse is steady the whole time.

When you get home, there’s a message waiting for you.

oscarpiastri

I found Canopus again. Still stubborn.

You smile.

And for the first time in your life, the space between stars doesn’t feel so lonely.

***

You say yes to the awards ceremony because saying no would have drawn more attention.

That’s the irony, isn’t it?

You’d rather drink comet dust than be in a room full of polished people and flashbulbs. But this is for a science outreach grant, and your department is quietly ecstatic. You’ve become a reluctant poster child for “brilliant and relatable,” thanks to the podcast and your stargazing voice notes that somehow got repurposed for a university social media campaign without your permission.

You try to laugh it off.

But it feels like your insides are folding.

Because Oscar will be there.

McLaren’s a sponsor of the initiative. Something about youth engagement and STEM and sleek orange backdrops. He texted you about it with the kind of emoji-free confidence you’ve come to recognize as his version of enthusiasm.

oscarpiastri

Looks like we’re both on the guest list. Wear something with stars.

You hadn’t replied.

You couldn’t.

***

The night before the event, you ghost him.

Delete your Instagram account.

Turn your phone off and shove it into the bottom drawer of your desk.

You spend the evening in the astronomy lab with the lights dimmed low, pretending to fine-tune your lecture notes while your chest caves in by the hour. Your email inbox piles up. Your hands tremble.

You try to picture yourself standing next to him. In public. Under bright lights, photographers shouting names you don’t even want to be called.

But the picture won’t form.

Not fully.

Not without a fight inside your skin.

So you stay.

Safe.

Invisible.

***

You don’t expect him to come.

You definitely don’t expect him to show up in person.

But the next day, mid-afternoon, you’re walking across the stone quad on your way back from a student meeting, notebooks clutched tight, trying not to overanalyze a second-year’s strange interpretation of gravitational lensing.

You see the hoodie first.

Then the cap, pulled low.

Then the boy underneath it, standing awkwardly beside the bench under the cherry tree that never quite blooms properly in spring.

Oscar.

Your breath stops.

He’s holding nothing. No bag. No sunglasses. No shield.

Just his hands jammed into his hoodie pocket like it’s the only armor he’s got.

You freeze mid-step. The wind kicks at your coat.

He sees you.

And it’s over.

He walks toward you, slowly. Not fast. Like you’re a scared animal and he doesn’t want to startle you.

“I was going to wait,” he says, voice low and wrecked and somehow still gentle. “But I figured if I waited, I might not get the chance.”

You glance behind you. Around. Anywhere but directly at him.

“Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then-

“You disappeared.”

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You hug the notebooks closer to your chest. “You don’t understand. I’m not built for that world.”

“It’s just an event-”

“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “It’s not just an event. It’s cameras. It’s questions. It’s people looking at me like they know who I am because they watched a five-minute clip. It’s being asked to perform a version of myself that I don’t even recognize.”

He steps forward, slow again.

“I wasn’t asking you to perform.”

You’re already unraveling, you can feel it — the tightening in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.

“You don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking now. “You live in the spotlight. You’re seen. All the time. You get parades and podiums. I survive by disappearing.”

He stares at you. Really stares. Not like he’s judging. Just … taking it in.

Then he exhales.

Hard.

“I didn’t come here to drag you into anything,” he says, quieter now. “I just wanted to say one thing.”

You say nothing.

He takes one more step, and you don’t back away this time.

He lifts a hand — carefully — and cups your face like it’s something fragile and familiar all at once.

“Then I’ll find you in the dark,” he says, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone, “every time.”

The words hit you like gravity.

Your breath shudders out.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that pocket of the world where time bends — somehow still, somehow heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been afraid to say.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.

He smiles, barely.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

***

The conversation that follows isn’t neat.

You cry. Not in some cinematic, graceful way — your nose runs, your eyes puff, and at one point, your voice cracks so hard you almost don’t recover it.

But you tell him.

You tell him about the version of yourself you’ve had to build over years — quiet, professional, unobtrusive. A woman of data and precision and folded-back emotions, so she couldn’t be mistaken for weak or needy or out of place in a room full of men.

You tell him about being seventeen and seeing your mother’s name etched into a hospital form the day she stopped responding to treatments.

You tell him about watching friends peel away in the aftermath. About learning how to be okay alone.

And then, at the end, you say it again.

“I don’t want to be seen.”

His hand is still on your cheek.

“Too late,” he says.

***

Later, somehow, you end up sitting beside him on that same campus bench, your shoulder brushing his.

He offers you half a chocolate croissant from a paper bag. “Bribery,” he says.

You take it.

Only because your hands are shaking less now.

He nudges you gently.

“I didn’t come here to pull you out of hiding,” he says. “I came here to be wherever you are.”

You look down.

“Even if where I am is nowhere?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Then I’ll make nowhere feel like home.”

***

You stay up all night. Thread between your teeth and needle in hand, stitching constellations you know will be beyond the clouds tomorrow onto the hem of your sleeves.

You only poke your finger twice.

***

The next morning, you show up at the awards ceremony.

Wearing a dress with tiny embroidered constellations along the sleeves.

Oscar’s already there, talking with someone from the foundation, looking infuriatingly calm. He spots you and stills completely.

Then smiles.

It’s not for the cameras.

It’s for you.

And just for a second, you let yourself smile back.

Even if you still want to disappear.

Even if you’re still afraid.

Because maybe you don’t have to do it alone anymore.

***

You don’t speak for weeks.

Not after the ceremony. Not after the photos. Not even after you sat beside each other in a quiet car on the way home, his pinky brushing yours like a question you never answered.

It starts with silence.

Then continues because neither of you knows how to break it.

You think about texting him every day.

You draft a hundred different messages.

Delete them all.

Because what would you even say?

“Sorry I panicked?”

“Sorry I don’t know how to be someone people look at?”

“Sorry I don’t know what you want from me?”

No version sounds like enough. Or safe.

So instead, you disappear again.

But this time, the quiet isn’t comforting. It’s suffocating. You don’t retreat into stargazing or sketching or soft evenings with tea. You just fold inward. Disappear even from yourself.

You cancel two nights of lecture Q&As. You stop checking your work email. You ignore your friends’ texts, your supervisor’s concerned voicemails. You walk home in the rain without an umbrella, letting it soak through your coat, because maybe that’s what it takes to feel something right now.

You convince yourself it’s over.

That you ruined it.

That he must’ve realized what a terrible idea it all was — that you’re too much, or too little, or just too you.

You sit at your desk one night, chin in your hand, staring at the mug of cold tea beside your notebook, and whisper, “You idiot.”

Not to him.

To yourself.

Because why would someone like him wait for someone like you?

***

The package arrives on a Thursday morning.

No sender listed. Just a small cardboard box with a Woking return address you don’t recognize. It’s light, padded, taped up neatly.

You hesitate before opening it.

Then tear the seal.

Inside is a mug.

A simple white ceramic mug with a black line printed around the side.

You stare at it, blinking, because it’s the track.

That track. The one from his water bottle. The one you held in your hands months ago, running your fingers over the tiny, smudged Sharpie lines like they meant something.

And they did.

Now, they’re printed clean and perfect on the mug’s curve, looping around like a silent orbit.

Underneath the track, in unmistakable handwriting:

Still orbiting.

You don’t mean to cry.

But your throat tightens instantly.

You press a hand to your face. Sit down hard in your desk chair. Stare at the mug like it just cracked open a part of your chest you’d buried deep under logical layers.

And then — without thinking — you pick up your phone.

No hesitation this time.

No drafts.

You dial.

He picks up on the first ring. “You got it?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah.”

Another beat. You think maybe he’s holding his breath too.

“I didn’t want to crowd you,” he says. “But I didn’t want to disappear either.”

“I thought you were done,” you say, voice thin. “I thought I pushed you too far.”

He exhales, low and rough. “You could push me into another galaxy, and I’d still find a way back.”

Your hand tightens around the mug. “Oscar …”

“I missed your voice,” he says. “Even when it’s telling me about gamma-ray bursts at 2 a.m.”

You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I’ve been a coward.”

“No,” he says. “You’ve been surviving.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Not until your voice steadies.

Then, softly, like the words are being born as you say them. “I want to come to you.”

Silence again.

But this time, it’s charged with something electric.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say. “But I want to try.”

***

You book the ticket that night.

Direct to Nice.

Your first time flying in years.

You don’t tell anyone, not even your department. Just leave a sticky note on your office door that reads back soon, not quitting and hope no one panics.

The airport is chaos. The flight is worse. You nearly turn around three times, your heart hammering at the gate, in the bathroom, mid-air turbulence over the Channel.

But then Monaco.

Sunlight. Sea. Heat.

And him.

He’s waiting just outside arrivals.

Baseball cap. Hoodie. Trainers. A bouquet of white daisies in one hand.

No cameras.

No entourage.

Just him.

When he sees you, his whole face lights up. Not in a dramatic, movie-star kind of way. Just quietly. Completely.

Like the sun came out of him instead of above.

You walk toward him, suitcase wheels humming.

Neither of you says anything at first.

You stop right in front of him.

His hands twitch — like he wants to hug you but isn’t sure if you’ll let him.

So you make the first move.

You step in, press your face to his shoulder, and wrap your arms around his middle.

He exhales against your hair.

And holds you like he’s been waiting a lifetime.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi,” he says, kissing your temple. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

You don’t cry.

But you want to.

***

His flat is all sun-washed wood and minimalist lines.

Too clean. Too quiet.

He tosses his keys on the counter. Offers you a bottle of sparkling water and a blanket, in that order. Like he knows your order of priorities.

You curl up on his sofa, legs tucked under you, mug of tea he made (with sugar, but not too much — he remembered), and your notebook open in your lap.

He sits beside you, one leg folded, body angled toward yours.

You start to read. An old favourite — Sagan or Leavitt or something soft and scientific and laced with poetry. You lose your place halfway through a sentence when his fingers brush your shoulder.

You pause.

“Keep going,” he says.

So you do.

And his hand moves gently — tracing constellations down your back with one finger.

Scorpius. Orion. Cassiopeia.

“Is this creepy?” He murmurs, lips close to your ear.

“No,” you whisper. “It’s … perfect.”

More silence.

“You know,” he says, “I never cared about stars before you.”

You glance sideways. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, his finger drawing a spiral just above your spine, “they remind me of your voice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He leans in closer, forehead nearly resting against yours.

“You’re not just my sun,” he whispers. “You’re the whole damn sky.”

You close your eyes.

Breathe in.

And let yourself believe it.

***

It’s been six months.

Six months since Monaco. Since a rooftop and daisies and a too-clean flat you made imperfect by shedding your cardigan on his floor and your doubts in his bed.

Six months of airports and voice notes and the soft click of your toothbrush beside his.

He still lives fast. You still live quietly. But the distance doesn’t feel as dangerous as it used to. He finds you in every city. You follow him in the night sky, even when you can’t be there.

You leave him notes in his luggage — tiny Post-its with sketches of constellations he hasn’t learned yet.

He sends you blurry pictures of hotel ceilings and titles them missing you, probably upside down.

Neither of you says “forever.”

But you both say “soon.”

And that’s enough.

***

Now it’s September, and you’re standing backstage at the Barbican, adjusting the mic clipped to your collar, trying not to vomit.

The TED Talk team is bustling behind the curtain. Someone hands you a bottle of water. Someone else adjusts your lighting.

You’re dressed in black, simple, classic. Hair tucked behind one ear. Notebook in hand — not to read from, just to hold. A small anchor.

The talk is on entropy.

You’ve practiced it a hundred times.

But it doesn’t stop your hands from shaking.

Not until you glance out past the curtain, eyes scanning rows of shadowy heads, and spot him.

Front row.

Oscar.

No cap. No hoodie. Just a dark jacket and that stupid, perfect grin.

He’s sitting with one ankle crossed over a knee, hands folded in his lap, like he’s never been more at home in his life.

You mouth, you came.

He winks.

You don’t remember walking out onto the stage.

You just know you’re there.

***

“I want to talk to you about decay,” you begin. “And about love.”

A few eyebrows raise.

You smile.

It’s a soft, self-deprecating thing.

“The second law of thermodynamics tells us that entropy always increases. That systems move toward disorder. That heat dissipates. That structures break down. It’s a law. Not a suggestion.”

You let the words settle.

“There’s a strange comfort in that. That the universe doesn’t make mistakes. That even our undoing follows a pattern.”

You shift on your feet, fingers brushing the edge of the podium.

“But I think about how stars collapse — how they burn through all their fuel and still find a way to shine brighter, just once, before the end.”

Pause.

“And I think about love. How it, too, can feel like entropy. Unpredictable. Messy. Disruptive. We spend so much time trying to contain it. Understand it. Prove it won’t fall apart. But maybe …”

You glance down.

Then up again.

Right at him.

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be controlled. Maybe love is beautiful because it follows its own physics.”

You take a breath.

“In my own work — mapping dark matter, tracing invisible currents through the universe — I’ve learned that the things we can’t see often shape us the most. And that some constants are worth holding on to.”

You close your notebook.

And smile directly at him.

“Even if it breaks the rules.”

***

Backstage is a blur of applause and champagne flutes and someone from MIT asking for your slides.

But Oscar is waiting just beyond the wings, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he’s been standing there his whole life.

You spot him the second you exit.

He lifts an eyebrow. “So, entropy and love, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“What?” He says, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “I was just wondering if I’m the heat loss or the unpredictable variable.”

“You’re the interruption,” you say, smirking, stepping into him. “The system disturbance.”

“I’ll take it.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still full of something that makes your stomach twist in that dangerous, lovely way.

“You were brilliant.”

“I was terrified.”

“You didn’t look it.”

“I was staring at you the whole time.”

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

Quick. Certain.

Like punctuation.

Like gravity.

***

That night, back at your flat, you’re the one who’s quiet.

You’re lying across your bed in your TED Talk outfit, heels kicked off, toes brushing the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow like you forgot you’re not supposed to be the disheveled one in this dynamic.

Oscar is sitting beside you, his shirt wrinkled, tie loosened. He’s holding your hand absentmindedly, like he doesn’t want to forget it’s there.

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

You nod, but don’t reply.

He shifts. “Hey.”

You look up.

“You okay?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Just … I don’t know. That felt like a before-and-after moment.”

“It was.”

You close your eyes. “What if people expect more of me now? What if that was the peak?”

“Then we climb another mountain,” he says, completely serious.

You laugh.

Then sigh. “It’s stupid. I should be happy.”

“You’re allowed to be scared and proud at the same time.”

You squeeze his hand. “Thanks, Professor Piastri.”

He chuckles. “Please. I’d be a terrible professor. I’d forget to assign homework and bring everyone donuts.”

You nudge him. “You’d be great at it.”

“Only if I taught a class on you.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Is it?” He says, standing suddenly and walking to the window.

You sit up. “What are you doing?”

He draws the curtain back.

“Come here.”

You stand, wary. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly.”

He opens the window wide. The city air rushes in — cool, sweet, a little smoky.

“Lay down,” he says.

You glance around. “On the floor?”

“No,” he says. “On the windowsill.”

You stare at him.

He raises a brow. “Trust me.”

You do.

God help you, you do.

You climb onto the wide windowsill — an old Victorian flat, stone ledge cool beneath you — and lie back, careful not to knock over a half-dead succulent.

Oscar settles beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

Above you: stars.

Scattered faintly, blurred by the city glow, but still there.

He points.

“That’s Orion.”

You smile. “I know.”

“That’s the one with the belt, right?”

“Yes.”

“And over there …”

He squints.

You wait.

“… is the one I’m naming after you.”

You blink.

“Me?”

He nods solemnly. “Yep. It doesn’t have a name yet, so I’m calling dibs.”

“That’s not how astronomy works.”

He shrugs. “Sue me.”

You turn your head. He’s still looking up, eyes tracking some invisible pattern across the night.

“You don’t even know which one it is,” you say.

“I do,” he says. “It’s the one that’s always there. Even when the others fade.”

Your heart lurches.

He turns to you then, face barely lit by the city lights.

“I don’t care about the physics,” he says. “Or the rules. Or entropy.”

Pause.

“I care about this. You. Right now.”

You close your eyes.

His hand finds yours on the windowsill.

And somehow, that’s enough to make the whole sky feel closer.