Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Oscar Piastri preferred the library.

It wasn’t that he hated people. He just liked the idea of them more than the reality. The noise, the chaos, the casual cliques in the courtyard—it all felt like a TV show he was watching from behind glass. Sometimes, he imagined what it’d be like to belong to it. Most days, he was happy not to.

Oscar was the kind of student who teachers loved—quiet, reliable, sharp as a tack. His uniform was always neat, his notebooks color-coded, and his lunch usually eaten alone under the old jacaranda tree near the history wing. Everyone knew who he was in that vague, oh yeah, that guy’s smart kind of way, but no one really knew him.

Except, of course, for how he felt about Lando Norris.

The school didn’t just treat Lando like a student—they treated him like a celebrity in training. Which, to be fair, he was. A rising star in Formula 2, Lando was already plastered across motorsport blogs and Twitter threads, his Instagram followed like gospel by most of the student body. Even the teachers acted like they were lucky to have him walk their halls—cutting him slack when he missed homework for a race weekend, letting him slide into class late with that easy grin and tousled hair.

Oscar didn’t follow motorsports. He didn’t care about racing. He thought the whole thing was kind of ridiculous, if he was being honest—cars going around in circles at dangerous speeds for applause and sponsorships. It wasn’t him.

But Lando was.

Not the racing version. Not the swaggering kid being mobbed outside class. The other Lando. The one Oscar sometimes caught glimpses of—the version that leaned back in his chair during morning assemblies and doodled on his palms with pen, or the one who chewed gum even though it was banned and somehow got away with it. The version who once held the door open for a frazzled Year 7 and grinned when the kid thanked him like he’d saved his life.

Oscar knew it was stupid. Everyone had a crush on Lando Norris. It was like having a crush on the sun—brilliant, unreachable, and absolutely not looking in your direction.

So he never said anything. Not to his classmates, not to his two acquaintances who sometimes joined him at lunch, and definitely not to himself. Because that would make it real. And the second it became real, it would become painful.

Instead, Oscar focused on his future. He buried himself in coursework, obsessing over his grades and Oxford applications. He’d mapped his life out by the time he was sixteen—law school, internships, barrister by thirty, maybe a dog if his landlord allowed it. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. Not by someone like Lando, who existed in a different stratosphere. Who smiled like it didn’t matter if he got a question wrong because he’d be flying a hundred miles an hour around Monaco next weekend.

Still, Oscar noticed him. In the cafeteria, where Lando laughed too loud. In the halls, where girls and boys turned to look at him with the same awe. In assemblies, when Lando would tilt his head to the side and scratch his neck, bored out of his mind. It wasn’t love, Oscar told himself. It wasn’t even a real crush. Just admiration, maybe. A fascination with someone so opposite of who he was.

But late at night, when Oscar couldn’t sleep and the silence pressed in like static, he’d let himself imagine what it would be like. Just for a second. To be someone Lando noticed. Someone Lando smiled at, instead of past. To have something more than polite nods in passing. To be the kind of person Lando could… want.

It was ridiculous.

So Oscar tucked the feeling away. Like all things that didn’t belong in his carefully structured world, he filed it under irrelevant distraction and moved on. He had more important things to focus on. College entrance exams. His mock trial prep. The scholarship essay he had rewritten three times but still hated.

And if, once in a while, his eyes lingered too long when Lando passed him in the hall—grinning, golden, surrounded by people—well.

He was only human.

****

Oscar’s days at St. Augustine’s Academy moved like clockwork. Same halls, same classes, same half-hearted hello from teachers who knew him more by GPA than personality. It wasn’t flashy, but it was safe. Safe was good.

His mornings started early—toast with too much peanut butter and coffee strong enough to jolt him awake, even if it tasted like regret. Earbuds in, backpack on, and constitutional law podcasts queued up to drown out the world. He liked it this way—focused, forward, fine. Mostly.

By lunch, Oscar was in his usual spot in the library, half-eaten apple next to his laptop, pages of economic notes spread around like a paper-fortress. The quiet was a comfort, a buffer between him and a school full of people who didn’t quite see him. He liked existing in the margins. Or, at least, he’d convinced himself he did.

His phone buzzed. A message from Mia—his debate partner and one of the few people he actually texted back—asking him to look over her opening argument. He shot back a quick, Sure, send it over, before rubbing at his eyes. The words on the screen had started to blend into one another. He needed a break. He just… didn’t know how to take one.

So instead of resting, he packed up. Two thick econ textbooks, The Great Gatsby, a spiral notebook with neatly color-coded tabs. He had a study room booked—an hour to rehearse his argument out loud, away from distractions. Away from people.

The hallway was packed, voices bouncing off the walls like pinballs. Oscar tucked his books against his chest and slipped into the flow of students, head down, just trying to get to the door at the end.

He didn’t even see Lando until the collision happened.

One second, he was avoiding a cluster of loud sophomores, and the next, his shoulder smacked into someone else’s. Hard. Books flew. Papers fluttered. His earbuds yanked out as he stumbled, catching himself with a palm against the wall.

“Shit, sorry!”

Oscar froze. He knew that voice. Of course he did.

Lando Norris stood in front of him, brows slightly raised, curls sticking out in too many directions, phone shoved halfway into his jacket pocket. His racing jacket was open, revealing the untucked school shirt underneath, and he looked a little breathless, like he’d been jogging down the hall.

Oscar wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Preferably before his face turned any redder.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled quickly, already kneeling to gather his scattered books. He didn’t dare look up. Please just let this end quickly. Please.

But Lando didn’t walk away.

“Here—let me help,” he said, crouching down beside him. He reached for the thickest textbook before it could slide further away and turned it over in his hands. “You carrying a small library or something?”

Oscar’s fingers paused on his notebook. He glanced up before he could stop himself—and regretted it instantly.

Lando was smiling. Not the showy, attention-catching one he wore in the quad, but something softer. Almost amused. Almost… kind.

Oscar swallowed. “Class,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “AP Econ.”

Lando let out a low whistle, handing over the book. “Serious stuff. I took regular econ and barely survived.” Then he grabbed The Great Gatsby and flipped it by the spine. “Literature too? You’re not just smart—you’re, like, terrifyingly well-rounded.”

Oscar blinked, unsure if that was a compliment or some kind of joke. But Lando didn’t sound like he was mocking. Just… talking.

“I study a lot,” Oscar said, straightening up and clutching the books close to his chest again like armor. “That’s all.”

Lando stood too, brushing off his pants. “You’re Oscar, right? Oscar Piastri?”

Oscar’s brain momentarily short-circuited. He knew my name. He knows my name.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

Lando smiled again—an easy, crooked thing that did nothing to settle the fluttering chaos in Oscar’s chest. “Cool. I’ve seen you around. You’re always on those top student lists. Kind of a legend.”

Oscar blinked again. He wasn’t sure what shocked him more—that Lando had seen him, or that he thought he was some kind of legend. He wasn’t. He was just… the quiet kid with the glasses and the perfectly organized planner.

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly. “And, um… thanks for helping.”

“No big deal.” Lando gave a casual wave like it actually wasn’t a big deal, like it hadn’t just upended Oscar’s entire internal stability. “Gotta stop charging around corners like I’m still on the track. Catch you later, Oscar.”

And with that, he turned and jogged off down the hall, where his friends were already calling his name. Oscar just stood there, heart hammering like he’d run a mile, books still pressed to his chest like a life vest.

It was just a moment. One bump in the hallway. Probably nothing to Lando. A blip.

But to Oscar? It felt like a tectonic shift.

The rest of the day passed in fragments—debate practice, a quick, silent dinner, more library hours until the custodian gently reminded him it was time to go. And through it all, the moment played on loop in his head: You’re Oscar, right? Catch you later, Oscar.

It shouldn’t matter. It really, really shouldn’t. But it did.

Later that night, lying in bed, the house dark and quiet around him, Oscar stared up at the ceiling and let the weight of it all settle in.

Lando Norris had looked at him. Spoken to him. Known his name.

And Oscar—bookish, predictable, invisible Oscar—was going to be thinking about it for a long, long time.

****

Oscar’s dorm room was small and plain, but it was unmistakably his. Bed made with corners sharp enough to pass inspection, desk overflowing with neatly stacked textbooks, color-coded notes, and a single mug that read I’d rather be litigating. Everything had its place. It was the only way he knew how to breathe.

Oscar didn’t call home often. Not because he didn’t miss it—but because he did, and that made everything harder.

The time difference between the UK and Melbourne was a cruel thing. By the time Oscar finished school, his parents were getting ready for bed. By the time he had a moment to sit and maybe hear their voices, it was too late. Or he was too tired. Or he convinced himself that homesickness was just another distraction he didn’t have room for.

Still, some days, the ache crept in.

Like today.

Propped against a pile of law journals sat a photo frame. It was old—bent slightly at one corner—but the picture inside was his favorite. Two summers ago, back home in Melbourne. His family sprawled across a sand-dusted picnic blanket: his sisters mid-laugh, his mum’s sunhat caught in a gust, and his dad feigning horror as he reached for one of Oscar’s chips. In the center, Oscar himself, smiling like he didn’t know what it meant to feel pressure yet.

He looked at it now, eyes lingering on the shape of that moment. Warmth. Closeness. A version of himself that felt like it had been shelved the second he set foot in England.

The ache came quietly, like it always did. A twist behind his ribs. He missed home in flashes: the smell of garlic from his mum’s kitchen, his sisters’ bickering over what to watch, the gentle background hum of cricket on TV and the sound of his dad’s laugh during a joke he’d already told three times.

But he’d chosen this. St. Augustine’s. The plan. Oxford wasn’t going to wait around for kids who wanted comfort more than credentials.

Oscar blinked hard and sat up straighter. His economics problem set was still waiting, half-finished. The lines blurred slightly as he stared at the page, but he forced himself to write a few more numbers, graphs weaving across the margin. Focus. This was how he survived—by staying ten steps ahead, by giving himself no room for doubt, for dreams, for—

A knock jolted him out of the trance.

He glanced at the clock: 4:37 p.m. Weird. Too late for Mia, and no one else really visited unless it was academic.

He opened the door to find Ms. Harper, her red-framed glasses slightly askew and an apologetic smile tugging at her mouth.

“Oscar. Good, you’re in.” She stepped in without waiting, like she always did, her presence somehow both brisk and gentle. “I won’t take up much of your time. Just something important.”

He nodded, shutting the door behind her, feeling a prickle of apprehension.

“You’re one of my best students,” she began. “Not just this term. Consistently. Your work is polished, insightful, and frankly, you make half my colleagues look lazy.”

Oscar shifted where he stood, awkward under the praise. “Thank you. Um, is something wrong?”

“No,” she said quickly, then hesitated. “Well—not with you. It’s about another student. Lando Norris.”

His brain did a tiny backflip.

He schooled his expression. “Oh.”

“You know him?”

Oscar shrugged, trying for casual. “Sort of. We bumped into each other. Literally. In the hallway.”

Ms. Harper gave him a curious look—almost amused—but moved on. “Lando’s falling behind. His economics grade is hanging by a thread. And if he doesn’t bring it up, he’ll lose his extracurricular privileges—including racing.”

Oscar’s stomach tightened. Racing was Lando’s entire identity. Everyone knew that. Even Oscar, who avoided gossip like the plague, couldn’t help but notice the posters, the trophies in the trophy case, the way Lando lit up when talking about a podium finish.

“And…?” Oscar asked cautiously, already sensing the trap.

“I’d like you to tutor him.”

There it was.

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“You’re the best fit. You understand the material, you’re patient, and—frankly—you could teach the class yourself. I’ve already spoken to the headmaster. If you’re willing, we’ll set up a weekly session. Just an hour or two.”

An hour or two with Lando. Alone.

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it. Everything inside him screamed no. Not because he didn’t want to help. But because it was Lando. The boy who’d smiled at him in the hallway like it was nothing. Who’d remembered his name. Who existed in Oscar’s mind far more than he cared to admit.

He could already feel the ache curling under his skin again.

“I know you’re busy,” Ms. Harper added gently. “But it would mean a lot. To Lando, and to the school.”

Of course it would. Everything always meant a lot. Everything was always important. And Oscar… Oscar was always the one who stepped up.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, quietly.

She smiled like she already had her answer. “Thank you. Truly. I’ll send you the schedule tomorrow.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Oscar stood there for a long moment after the door clicked shut, heart thudding in his chest, every part of him suddenly buzzing. Tutor Lando. Be near him. Hear his voice. Try not to care. Try not to fall harder.

He dropped onto his bed, eyes drifting to the beach photo again. His sisters looked like they were mid-joke. His mum’s hat was still flying away. And his smile—god, he missed that version of himself.

He was chasing a dream, wasn’t he? Oxford. The courtroom. A life bigger than shadows.

But now there was a new variable.

And he didn’t know how to build a wall high enough to keep Lando Norris out of it.

****

The library was quieter than usual. That kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful, but expectant—like the room itself was holding its breath.

Oscar sat at a table tucked away near the back, the same one he always picked when he needed to disappear. His economics textbook lay open in front of him, untouched, its pages swimming with graphs he knew by heart. His notebook was lined up beside it, neat as always, margins perfectly ruled. His leg bounced under the table, a steady rhythm of nerves he couldn’t shake.

He’d arrived early—fifteen minutes early, to be exact. Mostly because he always arrived early. But this time, it wasn’t about punctuality. It was about control. About preparing. About having time to calm the chaos inside his head before he arrived.

Lando Norris.

Oscar had spent the entire weekend going over the econ syllabus, writing out simplified definitions, even rehearsing how to explain supply and demand without sounding like he was giving a TED Talk. But nothing—nothing—could settle the twist in his stomach. The feeling that maybe he didn’t belong in this dynamic at all. That Lando would show up, take one look at him, and wonder why on earth he was the one chosen to help.

He checked the clock. 4:02 p.m. Lando was late.

Oscar’s fingers tapped against the table. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d bailed. That was fine. It would make things easier. Less humiliating. Less… hopeful.

Because that was the worst part, wasn’t it? The hope. The stupid, flickering thing inside him that had taken root since that hallway encounter—since Lando had said his name with that crooked little grin and handed him his book like it wasn’t the most ordinary thing in the world.

Oscar had let himself believe, even for a moment, that maybe… maybe Lando didn’t see him as just another academic ghost in the background.

The library door creaked open. Oscar looked up.

Lando walked in, all slouched shoulders and disheveled curls, his racing jacket half-shrugged off one arm, backpack hanging loose from his fingers, headphones hanging around his neck like a careless afterthought. His eyes swept the room and landed on Oscar with a sigh so audible, it made Oscar's spine straighten instinctively.

He looked… tired. Frustrated. Definitely not like someone who wanted to be there.

Oscar’s stomach did a slow, sinking drop.

Lando crossed the room, dropping his bag onto the table with a heavy thud that made Oscar flinch.

“This the spot?” Lando muttered, dragging out a chair and slumping into it without waiting for an answer. He didn’t look at Oscar, just started rummaging through his backpack with the kind of energy usually reserved for rooting through a junk drawer.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Lando said, his voice was sharp, defensive. “I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m not dumb, I just don’t care about econ, alright?”

Oscar stared at him for a second too long, the words catching somewhere behind his teeth.

Right. Of course. Of course this was a chore for Lando. Just another thing on his list. Just another reminder that Oscar wasn’t wanted—only needed. And barely that.

Oscar blinked. “Right. Okay. Um… I figured we’d start with supply and demand curves? You missed a few of the lectures, so I—”

“Yeah, I know what I missed,” Lando interrupted, tone clipped. “I’m not an idiot.”

Oscar flinched before he could stop himself. “I didn’t say you were.”

Lando didn’t respond. He looked everywhere but at Oscar—out the window, at his shoes, at the dusty bookshelves near the exit. The silence settled awkwardly between them, thick and unkind.

Oscar tried again, quieter this time. “I just meant… if you wanted help reviewing the basic models, I can—”

“Look,” Lando said, finally meeting his eyes, “I’m only doing this so Harper gets off my back. You don’t need to give me the full lecture voice thing. Just… do whatever and I’ll listen.”

Oscar’s throat felt tight. His fingers curled around the edge of his textbook, trying not to show how badly his hands were trembling.

This was a mistake.

Of course it was. He’d let himself imagine something else—a kind of connection, a flicker of possibility—and now here was the real Lando Norris. Sharp-edged. Distant. Mildly irritated.

Oscar felt stupid.

He nodded, eyes trained on his notes. “Sure.”

They didn’t speak for a while. Oscar flipped to the right page and began explaining, voice even and professional, the way he always sounded in class. But this time it felt mechanical—like he was reading someone else’s words off a script he didn’t believe in. Lando didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask questions, just stared blankly at the table with his jaw clenched.

At one point, Oscar risked a glance at him and immediately wished he hadn’t. Lando looked so checked out, like being here was painful.

Oscar’s chest burned. You really thought he’d want to be your friend? his mind spat cruelly. You misread the look. The smile. That was just who he is with everyone. And you let yourself think you mattered.

He pushed on, finishing the explanation and sliding the notes across the table. “You can take these,” he murmured. “If you want. I— I made extra copies.”

Lando didn’t look at them, didn’t take them.

Oscar didn’t ask again.

They finished the session in silence, and when it was over, Lando stood up without a word, shoved his hands in his pockets, and left.

Oscar stayed seated for a long time after that, staring at the doorway long after it had closed, the quiet now somehow louder than before.

But as he stepped outside, the air colder than he expected, Oscar felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if keeping his head down would be enough to keep his heart safe.

****

Oscar lay on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might blink first.

His dorm room was quiet—too quiet. That kind of silence that presses in around the edges, not peaceful but suffocating. The only light came from the orange glow of the streetlamp outside, slipping through the blinds in thin slats and painting shadows across his walls. Everything felt still, but inside his chest, the storm hadn’t stopped since the moment Lando had walked out of the library.

His glasses sat folded on the nightstand beside the photo of his family. He didn’t need to look at it to know every detail: his sisters’ wind-tangled hair, his mum’s floppy sunhat trying to escape down the beach, his dad’s squinty grin as he reached across the picnic blanket for a stolen chip. And in the center—Oscar. Smiling. Easy, open. A version of himself that now felt like a stranger.

Melbourne felt like another life.

Back home, he was weird, sure—but not foreign. Here, everything about him stood out in the worst ways. His accent. His quietness. His awkward stammer when put on the spot. He didn’t understand the slang. Didn’t get invited to things. People didn’t mean to exclude him—most days, they probably didn’t even notice him.

He shifted onto his side, curling slightly, the cold sheets pulled tight around his body. His muscles ached with the weight of keeping everything in all day. His brain, normally so ordered and efficient, was fraying at the edges.

Lando had barely looked at him. Had sighed through explanations, tossed out frustration like it was nothing. And Oscar had tried—god, he’d tried. He’d shown up prepared, had brought extra notes, had even rehearsed how to make demand elasticity sound… interesting. Worth caring about.

But Lando hadn’t cared. And somewhere deep down, Oscar had known that would be the case. He just hadn’t expected it to hurt like this.

He rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow, that smelled faintly like the lavender detergent his mum used to buy, the same brand she’d sent over in a care package last term. The scent had once made him feel safe, cocooned. Now it just reminded him of what he’d left behind.

You should’ve known better, he thought bitterly. You always do.

But the hope had crept in anyway, soft and stupid. It always did. Ever since that stupid hallway moment—Lando’s grin, his voice saying Oscar’s name like it wasn’t just another word. That one moment had cracked something open in Oscar, and now he was bleeding over it.

He hated that.

And maybe that’s why his brain dragged him even further back, years back—back to when the cold hadn’t just been about weather.

He’d been thirteen. Fresh off the plane, suitcase clutched in one hand, jetlagged and nervous and trying not to show it. St. Augustine’s had loomed tall and ivy-covered, full of traditions he didn’t understand and kids who saw his accent as a novelty to poke at.

The teasing hadn’t been cruel in the beginning. Just… constant.

“Kangaroo boy,” one boy had called him in the lunch line. Another had mimicked his vowels in class, earning laughs when Oscar had tried to answer a question. The locker room had been worse—books knocked from his arms, notebooks “accidentally” spilled into puddles, snide whispers he wasn’t meant to hear.

He’d learned quickly that blending in was safer than standing out.

And so he did. He became the quiet kid with perfect grades. The one teachers adored and classmates tolerated. Debate club gave him a voice—but only when he was behind a podium. In the halls, he was still background noise. Still alone.

But it still hurt.

Oscar let out a shaky breath into the pillow, eyes hot.

This was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be past that now. Stronger. Smarter. Focused. But all it had taken was one tutoring session and a few clipped words from Lando Norris to drag him back to that scared kid in the cafeteria.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t Lando’s fault.

Lando hadn’t said anything truly cruel. He hadn’t mocked Oscar. He hadn’t even meant to hurt him. But the disappointment had still hit like a punch.

Oscar had let himself hope again.

Hope that maybe someone like Lando—loud, golden, magnetic—might see him.

And that? That was on him.

The first sob caught him off guard—just a tight breath that cracked in the middle. Then another. And suddenly, he was crying quietly into his pillow, the tears hot and messy, the kind he’d taught himself to avoid years ago.

No one was coming to check on him. No one would hear.

He cried because he felt stupid. Because he felt seen in the wrong way. Because he missed his family so much it sometimes felt like a physical ache, especially on nights like this. Because no matter how many debate trophies or academic leaderboards he topped, the loneliness never left.

Because part of him had wanted Lando Norris to be kind.
And the bitter truth was?

Oscar should’ve known better.

Because people like Lando didn’t choose people like him. Not when there were better options. Not when the world already handed him everything—fame, talent, charm, a future in racing and a fan club. Oscar was just a shadow on the wall of his life, barely worth noticing.

He cried for the version of himself that still wanted to believe someone would choose him. That maybe—just maybe—he could be seen.

Oscar eventually pulled the covers up to his chin, the pillow damp beneath his cheek, breathing slow and uneven.

He wasn’t going to quit tutoring Lando. That wasn’t how he worked. He kept going. He always did. He would show up, explain the content, nod when Lando rolled his eyes, and then go back to his room and add it to the list of things that hurt quietly.

No more hoping. No more wondering.

This was school. This was duty. Nothing more.

But as he finally closed his eyes, heavy with exhaustion, the image of Lando’s smile—the first one, the real one—lingered behind his eyelids. Soft. Unguarded.

And Oscar hated how badly he still wanted to see it again.

****

The morning light streamed through the blinds in thin, golden lines, slicing across Oscar’s desk like reminders that a new day had begun—whether he was ready for it or not.

He wasn’t.

His chest still felt sore, like there was something sitting heavy on it that hadn’t quite lifted overnight. His eyes were puffy from crying, but he didn’t dare look in the mirror long enough to confirm it. Instead, he went on autopilot: shower, brush teeth, press his glasses into place. He made his coffee too strong—again—and drank it in silence, forcing the bitterness down like it could cauterize whatever was still hurting inside.

He’d mastered this routine. Smile politely when needed. Speak when spoken to. Head down, get through. If he didn’t give the pain too much room, maybe it wouldn’t get any bigger. Maybe no one would notice how hollow he felt.

He told himself today was just another Tuesday. That he hadn’t cried into his pillow until he fell asleep. That he hadn’t let himself feel anything at all.

By the time his afternoon tutoring session with Lando rolled around, Oscar was already seated at the back of the library, everything laid out perfectly—textbook, notepad, even a color-coded printout of elasticity graphs he’d stayed up late making. Not because Lando had asked. But because Oscar didn’t know how to do anything halfway.

He sat rigid in his seat, willing himself to stay composed. To keep it professional. To be what he always was—dependable, focused, detached.

But under the table, his fingers were picking at the skin around his nails again. Little tugs, then tears. The sting barely registered.

The door creaked open right at 4:00, and Lando walked in like he had somewhere better to be. Still zipped into his racing jacket, backpack hanging loosely off one shoulder, his face unreadable but less sharp than it had been last time.

“Alright, let’s do this,” he muttered, dropping into the chair across from Oscar. No smile, but no scowl either. Just… tired, maybe.

Oscar didn’t look at him. He just nodded and nudged the textbook across the table. “We’re doing price elasticity today,” he said quietly. “It’s about how demand shifts in response to changes in price.”

Lando rolled his eyes but cracked open his notebook. “Sounds thrilling,” he muttered under his breath.

Oscar ignored the sarcasm. He opened his own notebook and began explaining, voice steady but distant, like he was reading from someone else’s script. He pointed to graphs, broke things into digestible parts, kept it clinical—like he could wall himself off from the way his chest still felt tight, like his lungs were taking half-breaths.

Lando didn’t interrupt this time. He didn’t ask questions or pretend to care much, but he was listening—or at least pretending to. That was enough. Oscar could work with that.

At first, he looked like he was zoning out again, like the words were going in one ear and out the other. But as Oscar kept talking, something shifted in Lando’s expression—something quieter. Less distracted. Focused.

Because Oscar kept pausing to pick.

He didn’t realize it at first, not really. But as he talked, his left thumb found the pad of his right index finger, and his nail pressed into the dry skin until it peeled. A nervous habit. One he couldn’t break. His fingertips were already raw from the night before, but he kept digging. A little deeper. A little more.

Until the sting cut through the numbness and blood pooled under the nailbed.

“Hey,” Lando said, sudden and sharp.

Oscar froze.

He looked up, startled—and that’s when he realized Lando was staring directly at his hands.

“You’re bleeding,” Lando said, voice lower now. Less irritated. More… something else.

Oscar blinked, confused, then followed Lando’s gaze down.

His right index finger was raw—angry red skin torn near the cuticle, a bead of blood welling up and smudging across the pad of his finger. The others weren’t much better—nicked, bruised, some nails bitten too close. He hadn’t even noticed. His stomach twisted as he curled his hands into fists, pulling them into his lap.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, fumbling in his bag for a tissue and pressing it to his thumb. “Just—habit.”

He didn’t mean to sound defensive, but the heat crawling up his neck made it hard to breathe.

Lando didn’t respond right away. He just watched, his earlier sarcasm forgotten, brow furrowed in something that looked suspiciously like… concern.

“You always do that?” he asked, voice quieter now. “The picking thing.”

Oscar hated how gentle it sounded. He hated even more that it made his throat tighten.

“I said it’s fine,” he murmured, not looking up. “Can we just… focus?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Lando nodded, his voice a little more careful now. “Yeah. Sorry. Elasticity, right?”

Oscar nodded, wordless. He shoved the tissue into his pocket, forcing himself to go back to the graphs. To the clean definitions and predictable charts. Anything to anchor him back to the surface.

The rest of the session passed in a fog. Lando asked a few half-hearted questions. Oscar answered without emotion. Their usual roles—one distant, one disinterested—settled back into place. But something was different. The silence between them wasn’t as sharp as before.

Lando didn’t rush to leave when their time was up. He packed up slowly, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, lingering just a moment too long before speaking.

“Hey, uh…” he started, scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t pick your fingers raw next time, yeah? It… looks like it hurts.”

Oscar blinked. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t pity, either. Just… something unpolished. A little clumsy. A little real.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Oscar nodded without meeting his eyes. “I’ll try.”

Lando gave a small, unreadable smile. Then, like before, he was gone.

Oscar sat there for a long time afterward, the textbook still open in front of him, his bloody thumb now wrapped in a second tissue. He stared down at his notes, not seeing any of the words.

Lando had noticed. Not just the bleeding—him.

And Oscar didn’t know what to do with that.

Not yet.

****

The next morning was grey and wet in that classic English way—the sky like a damp wool blanket stretched over St. Augustine’s, pressing down on the campus with a kind of quiet. Oscar hated mornings like this. They always made the world feel a little smaller, a little heavier. He moved through his routine the way he always did: robotic, efficient, practiced. The bruised skin around his fingernails throbbed with every movement, a subtle reminder of yesterday’s mess.

Lando had seen. Again.

And worse—he’d cared.

Oscar hadn’t known what to do with that. Still didn’t.

So he buried it under textbooks and tightly wound restraint, as if enough pages and perfectly sharpened pencils might insulate him from how raw everything suddenly felt.

By the time 4 p.m. crept near, he was already seated at their usual library table, textbook open to cost curves, diagrams carefully annotated in the margins. He’d spent the night working on them, not because Lando asked, but because it gave his brain something to grip onto while everything else spun.

He checked the clock. 3:55.

Lando would probably be late again. He usually was. Oscar stared at his hands, trying not to pick, pressing his fingertips into the soft wood of the table instead. One breath in. One out. Just get through it. That was the goal.

But then the door creaked open.

Oscar glanced up—and blinked.

Lando strolled in. Early.

He looked different today. More relaxed. His racing jacket was unzipped, hoodie peeking out underneath, and there was the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—not the sharp, amused kind Oscar had seen in the hallways, but something quieter. Something softer.

“Hey,” Lando said, dropping his bag onto the table like it wasn’t even a question anymore. “Ready to make me an econ genius?”

Oscar stared. He wasn’t sure what threw him more—the fact that Lando was early, or that he sounded… nice. Like he wanted to be here.

“Uh,” Oscar said, brain short-circuiting slightly. “Yeah. Sure. Um… we’re doing cost curves.” He pushed his glasses up with shaking fingers, heart tripping over itself. “It’s not that bad once you get it.”

Lando leaned in, elbow on the table, eyes on the open book. “Cool. Let’s do it.”

They fell into a rhythm that Oscar barely noticed forming—he explained, Lando listened. Really listened. Not fake nodding or messing with his phone, but actual questions. Clarifying ones. Jokes, even.

“Why do these curves look like angry eyebrows?” Lando muttered, squinting at the page.

Oscar huffed a laugh, startled. “That’s… the marginal cost curve. But yeah, it kind of does.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

But his hands—it was always his hands.

He hadn’t realized how badly he was picking at them again until he felt the sting—fresh blood welling up around the side of his thumb. He flinched slightly, instinctively trying to hide it beneath the table, but Lando was faster.

“Hey, Oscar—wait,” Lando said, cutting him off mid-sentence, reaching across the table before Oscar could retreat.

His fingers closed around Oscar’s hand—warm and solid and completely unexpected.

Oscar’s breath caught.

Lando’s thumb brushed gently against his own, inspecting the torn skin with a furrow between his brows. “You’re doing it again.”

Oscar tried to pull away, heart hammering in his ears. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “Just a stupid habit.”

Lando didn’t let go.

Instead, he grabbed a tissue from his bag, dabbing carefully at the blood before wrapping it around Oscar’s thumb like it wasn’t a big deal. But his hands were gentle—so gentle Oscar could hardly bear it.

“You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself,” Lando said, voice low. “I mean, I know stress is a bitch, but… doesn’t mean you have to bleed for it.”

Oscar swallowed hard. The words lodged somewhere between his ribs. “I’m fine.”

“You can always say that,” Lando murmured, pulling something small from the pocket of his hoodie and sliding it across the table.

A set of silver fidget rings. Simple, polished, with little spinning bands.

“Figured you could mess with these instead,” he said, not quite meeting Oscar’s eyes. “A mate of mine uses them all the time during exams. Thought maybe… yeah.”

Oscar stared at them like they were foreign. Like they couldn’t possibly be meant for him.

“You… got these for me?” he said, too quietly.

Lando scratched the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “I mean. Yeah. Figured it might help. Or at least hurt you less.”

Oscar reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the cool metal. His throat tightened. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“And…” Lando hesitated, then looked at him properly. “About before. The first sessions. I was… kind of an ass. Okay, I was an ass. I was pissed at school, and Harper, and myself—and I took it out on you. Which was unfair.””

Oscar looked away. “It’s okay. I am use to it.”

“No, it’s not,” Lando said firmly. “And you shouldn't You be use to it, you were just trying to help. And I treated you like you were some punishment.” He shook his head. “That wasn’t fair.”

Oscar felt the burn behind his eyes return, but he blinked hard, forced it down. He didn’t know how to hold kindness when it was offered without warning. It always left him shaky. “You don’t have to say that,” he mumbled.

“I do, though,” Lando said. “You deserve better than that.”

The words lodged in Oscar’s chest, caught somewhere deep and tender. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

They went back to the textbook after that, and this time, the silence between them wasn’t heavy or tense—it was companionable. Easy. Oscar spun one of the rings slowly on his thumb while explaining cost curves, and when he stumbled over a definition, Lando didn’t laugh or roll his eyes. He just waited. Patient. Steady.

When the session ended, Lando lingered.

“Hey,” he mumbled, suddenly shy. “Um. Do you still have those extra notes you made for me?”

Oscar looked up, startled.

“The ones I ignored on the first day,” Lando said, cheeks going red now. “I, uh… wouldn’t mind looking over them. If that’s okay.”

Oscar blinked once, then twice—and slowly reached into his folder, pulling out the neatly stapled packet he’d held onto anyway. Just in case.

He handed them over wordlessly.

Lando took them carefully, tucking them into his bag like they were something valuable.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, standing. “Seriously.”

He hesitated at the edge of the table, then gave Oscar a lopsided smile. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

As Lando turned to leave, he paused at the door and glanced back over his shoulder.

“And Oscar?” he said.

Oscar looked up.

Lando smiled again—smaller this time, but gentler. “Don’t forget the rings.”

Oscar looked down at his fingers, now wrapped in silver and silence.

“I won’t.”

And before Oscar could say anything else, he was gone.

Oscar sat still for a long time, the fidget ring cool against his palm. He’d spent so long convincing himself that Lando Norris was a storm to weather. But maybe—just maybe—he was something else entirely.

A shift in the air. A soft place where the ache didn’t feel so heavy.

And for the first time, Oscar wondered if he might not be as invisible as he always thought.

****

The library wasn’t hostile anymore.

It had started that way—tight-lipped silences, clipped words, Oscar trying not to shrink into himself while Lando gave off the energy of someone trapped in a dentist’s chair. But something had shifted. Slowly, quietly. It wasn’t exactly comfort, not yet. But it wasn’t resistance either.

Today, Lando leaned forward in his chair, brows scrunched as he scribbled something in his notebook, chewing the cap of his pen. “So… marginal cost,” he muttered, eyes flicking between the graph and his messy writing. “That’s, like, the cost of producing one more… thing, yeah?”

Oscar nodded, warmth curling in his chest. “Yeah. The extra cost of making one more unit. That’s it.”

Lando beamed—beamed—at him, like this small win was the best part of his day. “See? Told you I had a genius hidden in here somewhere.”

Oscar didn’t smile, not fully. But something tugged at the corner of his mouth. He kept his eyes on the textbook, grounding himself in charts and definitions, pretending that his heart hadn’t just fluttered in his chest like an idiot.

The fidget ring on his thumb spun smoothly, and Oscar let it. It had become a quiet comfort, something to hold when the silence felt too loud or his thoughts started to spiral. His hands were healing, the scabs fading, and every time he reached for the ring instead of his skin, he remembered: Lando gave me this.

It still didn’t make sense. That Lando had noticed. That he cared. That he’d apologized.

But it had happened. And it kept happening—in small ways. Like the way he showed up on time now. The way he actually listened when Oscar spoke. The way he was trying.

The quiet between them was broken by a sudden vibration. Then another. Then a third, each one a sharp buzz that rattled the table. Lando’s phone lit up with a string of notifications, bright flashes of movement that made Oscar flinch slightly.

Lando glanced down. His jaw tensed. Then he flipped the phone over and pushed it away.

Oscar hesitated. His fingers paused on the ring, the motion stilled by curiosity. He shouldn’t ask. He never asked. But something about the tightness in Lando’s shoulders made it impossible to stay quiet.

“…Everything okay?” he asked, carefully.

Lando exhaled, dragging a hand through his curls. “Yeah. Manager stuff. He’s freaking out about my last F2 test—telemetry readings, aero balance, some drama about downforce. Basically, everything’s falling apart unless I magically fix the car with my mind.”

Oscar blinked. “Right,” he said, and absolutely none of that made sense to him. He didn’t even know what telemetry was. “That… sounds serious?”

Lando laughed, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was low and easy, rolling out of him like a release of pressure. “It’s always serious. Apparently, the car’s having a meltdown, and that means I’m having a meltdown. But it’s whatever. I’ll survive.”

Oscar nodded slowly, the words sticking in his throat. He didn’t know how to ask more—not about the car, or the pressure, or how it felt to have an entire sport resting on your shoulders. So instead, he admitted something else. “I don’t… really know much about racing.”

Lando looked up. “No?”

Oscar’s cheeks flushed. “I mean, I know of you. Everyone does. But I don’t watch it or anything.”

“I am kinda of devastated but fair,” Lando said, grinning as he leaned back. “Most of it’s just blokes driving really fast in circles and hoping they don’t end up on fire. Not exactly Shakespeare.”

Oscar snorted before he could stop himself, then covered it with a cough. “You make it sound so… poetic.”

Lando grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself. “You got a sport, then? Or are you strictly textbooks and debate trophies?”

Oscar hesitated. Then, in a voice so quiet it barely made it across the table, he said, “Cricket.”

Lando’s entire face lit up with mock horror. “Cricket?! Mate. That’s the most Australian answer you could’ve given. You lot play for five days and call it a draw.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little. “It’s strategic,” he said. “There’s thought in it. You have to be patient.”

Lando leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Yeah, or just bored out of your mind.”

Oscar looked away, but his smile lingered, soft and fleeting.

The moment quieted. The library seemed to still around them.

Then Lando spoke again, more gently this time. “You miss it, don’t you? Australia.”

Oscar’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what answer to give, because of course he missed it. Not just the sun or the food or the way people said his name right. He missed the way his house smelled when his mum cooked. He missed his sisters arguing over nothing. He missed feeling like he belonged somewhere without trying.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Every day.”

Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just watched him, something unreadable in his eyes. Not pity. Something quieter. He nodded, like he understood.

“Come on,” he said after a beat, shutting his notebook. “Let’s take a break. You look like your brain’s about to explode.”

Oscar let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Okay.”

They sat there in easy silence—Lando scrolling through his now-muted phone, Oscar spinning his ring again. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t ask anything of him. No talking, no explaining. Just… being.

When the hour wound down, Lando moved to pack up, then paused. “Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck—his new nervous tell, Oscar was learning. “Those notes you gave me last time? They were actually… kind of brilliant.”

Oscar blinked.

Lando kept going. “I know I was a bit of a dick about them before. But if you’ve got more…”

Oscar reached into his bag, already pulling out a fresh set—typed, highlighted, annotated to a degree that probably bordered on excessive. “Here,” he said, quieter than before. “They cover the next two chapters.”

Lando took them, his grin spreading again. “Seriously, Oscar. You’re kind of the best.”

Oscar didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t. He just nodded, fingers spinning the ring on his thumb again.

“See you tomorrow,” Lando said, and it sounded less like a promise and more like something he was looking forward to.

Oscar watched him go, the quiet settling around him again—but it wasn’t the lonely kind.

He sat for a while, the notes still open, the warmth from Lando’s words lingering like a blush beneath his skin. He still didn’t know what this was. Still didn’t dare hope. But the cracks in his walls were there, undeniable, and somehow, Lando Norris kept finding his way through them.

And for once, Oscar wasn’t sure he wanted to stop him.

****

Oscar was already at their usual table when the library door swung open like it had something to prove. He didn’t look up at first—just kept tracing his pen under a line in the textbook, pretending not to notice the flurry of movement and breathless energy charging toward him.

Lando stumbled in, curls damp with sweat, his jacket half-zipped and his bag slung over one shoulder like he’d wrestled it mid-run. He dropped it with a thud and flopped into the chair across from Oscar, still catching his breath. “Sorry, mate,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair, which only made it stick up worse. “Got caught in a chat with my engineer. Whole breakdown on tire degradation and sector times—I swear, he talks in riddles.”

Oscar blinked. “Okay.”

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” Lando added, leaning forward slightly. His tone was earnest, and for once, not soaked in irony or performance.

Oscar risked a glance up—and immediately regretted it. Lando was flushed from the run, cheeks pink, lips parted, curls clinging to his forehead. He looked real and alive and far too good to be sitting across from someone like Oscar.

“It’s fine,” Oscar said quickly, ducking his head. He cleared his throat, opening the textbook to the next topic. “We can start with market structures. Today’s monopolies.”

Lando exhaled like he wasn’t quite ready to dive into graphs just yet. “Hold on—before we get into all the thrilling monopoly drama,” he said, tugging his phone from his pocket, “we should swap numbers.”

Oscar froze. His pen stopped mid-stroke. “What?”

“Y’know, so if I’m running late again—or if you bail on me and I need to guilt trip you into coming back.” He smiled, like it was obvious, like this wasn’t monumental.

Oscar’s brain did a full reboot. Lando wants my number. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs. He nodded slowly, trying not to overthink it, but already overthinking everything. “Um. Yeah. Sure.”

His hands shook just slightly as he pulled out his phone, thumbs fumbling over the screen before he slid it across the table. Lando typed his number in with confident taps, like it was nothing. Then he handed over his own phone, eyes expectant.

Oscar entered his number slowly, too aware of every breath, every brush of his skin against the case. When he passed it back, their fingers touched—barely—and Oscar felt it like a jolt.

“There,” Lando said, flashing a crooked smile. “Now we’re officially in contact. Fancy stuff.”

Oscar let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He nodded, focused too hard on flipping to the right page. “Okay. Monopolies,” he repeated, quieter now. “When one firm dominates the market, usually due to barriers to entry…”

But even as he spoke, his eyes kept flicking to the phone now resting on the table beside him, screen dark but filled with possibility.


---

A few days later, during their next session, the library was quieter than usual. The light slanted in through the tall windows, warm and lazy, and everything felt suspended—slow, calm, like the world had decided to hush itself for a bit.

Oscar was halfway through explaining oligopolies when Lando slid something across the table. A cup of coffee.

Oscar blinked at it. “What’s this?”

Lando sipped his own cup and shrugged, casual as ever. “You looked half-dead last time. Thought you might need one. I didn’t know what you liked, so I just got the least offensive option.”

Oscar wrapped his fingers around the cup, the warmth sinking into his palms. He mumbled a thank-you, his voice small, but something inside him stirred—something soft and a little overwhelmed.

The coffee wasn’t anything special. But it was for him.

They continued the session in the usual rhythm—Oscar talking, Lando scribbling notes, asking thoughtful questions between half-jokes. The tension between them had thinned out over the past week, softened into something unspoken but present. Comfortable, maybe.

Then Lando leaned back in his chair with a groan. “Alright, brain full. No more curves and price fixing. I’m officially done.”

Oscar looked up, mildly amused. “We have ten minutes left.”

“Which I’m using to ask something more important,” Lando said, stretching his arms behind his head. “You going to Jake’s party this weekend?”

Oscar’s blood ran cold.

Of course he knew about Jake’s party. Everyone knew. Jake was popular, loud, and rich in that obnoxious way that made people flock to him anyway. His parties were borderline legendary. But Oscar had never been invited. He didn’t even cross into those circles—not enough to be noticed, definitely not enough to be wanted there.

“No,” he said, voice flat. “I don’t go to parties.”

Lando blinked like that was new information. “Ever?”

Oscar’s fingers twitched, immediately going to the fidget ring on his thumb. “Not really my scene.”

Lando tilted his head. “Why not?”

Because no one ever asks. Because I’ve walked into rooms where people didn’t even remember my name. Because I’ve stood alone in crowds, surrounded by laughter I couldn’t touch.

Oscar just shrugged. “Too loud. Too many people.”

Lando didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked bothered—like he couldn’t believe someone would choose to be left out of that kind of chaos. “You should come,” he said, earnest now. “I’ll be there. We can hang out. I promise I’ll keep the drunk idiots away from you.”

Oscar gave a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

Which was code for no.

But Lando grinned anyway, like he didn’t hear the hesitation. “Good. I’ll hold you to that. Seriously.”

He winked—actually winked—and started packing his things. Oscar sat still, fingers curling around the coffee cup like it could anchor him.

Once Lando was gone, the library felt too quiet again. The hum of life he brought with him had vanished, leaving Oscar with nothing but his notes and the lingering echo of that smile.

He looked at his phone. Lando’s name sat there in his contacts like it belonged. Like it hadn’t upended everything.

Oscar wouldn’t go to the party. He already knew that. He wasn’t brave enough, or bold enough, or Lando-Norris-enough to walk into that world.

But still, that soft, dangerous hope nestled in his chest. That maybe, just maybe, someone like Lando really had noticed him—and not just because of his grades.

And Oscar didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet.

****

Oscar sat cross-legged on his bed, a political science textbook open in his lap, bathed in the low, amber glow of his desk lamp. The dorm room was quiet, save for the hum of the radiator and the occasional groan of old pipes in the walls. His notes were spread neatly around him, highlighters arranged by shade like tiny, plastic soldiers. Everything was in order—except him.

His eyes kept drifting from the pages, the words on checks and balances blurring and reappearing every time his thoughts slipped back to the same place: the party. Jake’s party. The one Lando had practically begged him to come to. The one he hadn’t been invited to.

He could picture it too easily—people crammed into some too-big house, music rattling the walls, laughter spilling from open windows. And Lando—of course—somewhere in the center of it all. Lit up by fairy lights or maybe nothing more than the gravity of being Lando Norris. Charming. Loud. Effortless.

Oscar’s chest ached at the thought. He’d considered it—just for a second. Maybe he could go. Maybe he could hover at the edge of the room, stick to the walls, sip water and pretend he belonged. Lando had said he’d be there. That Oscar would know at least one person.

But then came the shame, the twist in his stomach that always followed hope. You weren’t invited. Not by Jake. Not by anyone else.

And showing up uninvited? That would mean walking into a space that had already decided you didn’t exist.

He shook his head, staring hard at a paragraph he wasn’t reading. Political science was easier. Safer. Clear rules. No parties. No people. No Lando.

He underlined a sentence just to do something with his hands. The fidget ring on his thumb spun slowly—his anchor when his thoughts got too loud. And tonight, they were screaming.

His phone buzzed.

Oscar flinched.

It lit up on his nightstand, screen glowing like it knew he was already looking. A message from Lando.

yo, where you at? party’s in full swing. you coming or what?

Oscar stared at it, breath held like it might change if he waited long enough.

Another buzz.

mate, you good?

Then:

don’t tell me you’re bailing.

And finally:

oscar, c’mon. get over here.

Each one chipped away at him. He couldn’t reply—not yet. Couldn’t lie, couldn’t tell the truth. He tried focusing again, but the words on the page danced cruelly.

He picked up the phone, typed a reply.

Sorry, got caught up with studying. Maybe next time.

He hit send before he could take it back, then tossed the phone onto the bed like it burned.

It was a lie. And Lando probably knew it. But it was easier than explaining what it felt like to always be on the outside. To want to belong so badly it hurt—and still never quite be enough.

Oscar sat there for a long time, the ring spinning faster and faster, his heart tight in his chest.

Then came the knock.

Sharp. Twice.

He stared at the door like it might open on its own. Nobody knocked on his door, especially not at night. He barely got visitors during the day.

Cautiously, he stood, padded across the room, and opened it.

Lando.

Flushed. Messy curls. Racing jacket half-off, a fitted shirt clinging just a little too well. Slightly breathless, like he’d run the whole way.

Oscar’s brain stalled.

“Lando?” he managed, voice small. “What… how did you—?”

“Saw Mia at the party,” Lando cut in, stepping inside like it wasn’t a big deal. “Asked her where you lived. She pointed me here.” He turned on his heel, facing Oscar with hands on his hips and a frown pulling at his usually smug mouth. “What the hell, Oscar? Why didn’t you come?”

Oscar blinked, backing toward his desk like he needed something to hold him up. “I told you. I was—”

“Studying?” Lando’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t bullshit me. You’ve got highlighters for every day of the week, and I’ve never seen you not study. You could’ve taken one night off.”

Oscar swallowed hard, the words lodged in his throat. But Lando was waiting, and the room felt too small, too loud with everything Oscar didn’t say.

“I wasn’t invited.”

It came out barely above a whisper.

Lando blinked.

Oscar kept going, because if he didn’t now, he never would. “Jake didn’t invite me. His friends didn’t. You did. You’re the only person who asked. And maybe that should’ve been enough, but… it’s not that simple.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the fidget ring clinking against his knuckle. “You walk into a room and people light up. You’re… in it, Lando. That world? That party? It’s yours. But me? I’d just be… there. Hovering. Out of place. Pretending I belonged, when I never have.”

Lando opened his mouth, but Oscar pushed on.

“Have you ever seen me at a party? With people? Even once?”

Silence.

Oscar looked up, pain written across his face. “I’m not from your world, Lando.”

And there it was. All of it, out in the open.

Lando’s anger melted into something quiet—something wide-eyed and soft. He stepped closer, slower now. “Oscar…”

Oscar shook his head, swallowing the knot in his throat. “I don’t have a group. I don’t get casual invites. I sit in the back, and I read books, and people know me as smart but not enough to want around. You—you’re the opposite. You’re wanted. You belong.”

Lando looked stricken. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” Oscar whispered. “You don’t see it unless you’re on the outside.”

The room fell still. Only the muffled bass of music through the wall reminded them there was still a party happening somewhere.

Lando stepped forward again, slower this time, like he was approaching something fragile.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Not rushed. Not defensive. Just… genuine. “I really didn’t know. I should’ve—should’ve thought about it more. About what it’s like for you.”

And Oscar hated that. He hated how he’d opened something raw and ugly and now had nothing to show for it but silence.

But then Lando took a step forward. Then another.

“Shit,” he said, voice low. “Oscar…”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, suddenly softer around the edges. “I didn’t know. I thought you just didn’t want to come. I thought it was you being you.”

Oscar tried to laugh, but it came out as a sigh. “Yeah. I’m so mysterious.”

Lando smiled at that, a small one. “No, you’re just… complicated. And I’m a dumbass.”

Oscar didn’t correct him.

Lando glanced around the room—his eyes pausing on the tidy desk, the over-organized notes, the single photo of Oscar’s family stuck on the wall. “Your dorm’s terrifyingly neat, by the way. Like, serial killer neat.”

Oscar snorted, startled. “Thanks.”

“I mean it in a sweet way,” Lando said, grinning now. “It’s… you.”

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed like it was nothing. Like this was normal. “Sit down. No econ. No parties. Just—be here.”

Oscar hesitated. Then crossed the room and sat, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if this was real.

Lando didn’t move, didn’t push. Just sat beside him, hands in his lap, close but not too close.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, Oscar could breathe.

****

Oscar’s dorm room suddenly felt smaller with Lando sitting on his bed—like his world had shifted a few inches off center, just enough to notice. The mattress dipped under Lando’s weight, not uncomfortably, just enough to remind Oscar he wasn’t alone.

His political science textbook sat abandoned on the desk, pages still splayed open like it was mid-sentence, but the words didn’t matter anymore. Not tonight. Not with Lando here.

Oscar reached for the small tin on his nightstand—a simple, dented container with faded corners and a sticker his little sister had put on the lid. Inside, a taste of home: a half-dozen Tim Tams, carefully rationed from the last care package his mum had sent. He hesitated, then cracked the tin open.

“Want one?” he asked, voice soft but steady as he offered the tin out. “They’re… Tim Tams. Chocolate biscuits. From home.”

Lando’s face lit up like Oscar had just handed him gold. “Mate, you’ve been hiding these from me?” He plucked one out and examined it like it was an artifact, then bit into it—and promptly looked like he’d seen God. “Holy shit. These are insane. And you’ve had a stash this whole time?”

Oscar shrugged, trying to suppress the smile tugging at his mouth. “They’re hard to find here,” he murmured, taking one for himself. “I make them last.”

They sat like that for a while—two boys on a slightly-too-narrow dorm bed, legs brushing when they shifted, chewing chocolate in silence that wasn’t awkward, just... still. Oscar spun his fidget ring absentmindedly, the motion grounding him.

He didn’t know what this was. Lando, here. No racing talk. No party. No homework. Just them. And biscuits.

“I, uh…” Oscar began, not quite sure why. Maybe it was the chocolate. Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe it was Lando’s presence, warm and solid and unexpectedly kind. “When I moved to England, it was… rough.”

He didn’t look at Lando as he said it. His eyes stayed fixed on the tin in his hands.

“I was thirteen. Didn’t know anyone. Kids made fun of how I talked. Threw stuff sometimes. I didn’t get it—like, why I stood out so much. But eventually I figured if I kept my head down, I could just… disappear a bit. Easier that way.”

Lando didn’t interrupt. Oscar could feel him still, listening, not pushing.

“I miss home a lot,” Oscar said, softer now. “Mum’s cooking. My sisters. Cricket in the backyard. The sea.” He swallowed, voice almost cracking. “Sometimes I forget what it feels like to belong somewhere.”

And just like that, he regretted saying it. He tucked his hands into his lap and looked down, his face hot. “Sorry. That was—”

“No,” Lando said, gently cutting him off. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologise for saying how you feel.”

Oscar blinked, startled.

Then Lando reached over and covered Oscar’s hands with his. Not forceful. Not dramatic. Just… there. Solid. Warm.

“You’re not invisible,” Lando said, and the way he said it—quiet and honest, no performative grin—made Oscar’s breath catch. “Not to me. I see you.”

Oscar didn’t move. Couldn’t, for a second.

His heart thundered in his chest, and everything about the moment felt too much. Too good. Too dangerous. He carefully pulled his hands away—not because he didn’t want it, but because he wanted it too much. The fidget ring spun again, fast and anxious.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice tight. Then, desperate to redirect, he asked, “What about you? What’s next? After F2?”

Lando leaned back, the question easing some of the emotion out of the room. “F1, obviously. That’s the dream. Big teams, fast cars, world titles—y’know, the usual madness.” He glanced sideways at Oscar. “And you? What’s the dream for someone with colour-coded notes and terrifyingly neat handwriting?”

Oscar smiled faintly. “Oxford,” he said. “Law school. I want to do something that matters. International stuff, maybe. I like systems. Rules. The way things fit together, even when people don’t.”

Lando’s grin returned, bright and disarming. “Figures. You’d absolutely crush it in a courtroom. All those posh lawyers would be crying into their tiny cups of tea while you ripped their arguments to shreds.”

Oscar actually laughed, startled by the image.

“And when I get into trouble for flipping off the stewards or crashing into a billionaire’s yacht, you can be my lawyer,” Lando added, tapping his knee. “Piastri & Partners, Defender of Idiot Racing Drivers.”

“You’d be our biggest client,” Oscar said, eyes shining with amusement.

“Obviously.”

For a second, they just… looked at each other.

Not awkward. Just lingering.

Lando’s phone buzzed again, a soft buzz on the desk. He didn’t reach for it. “That’s probably Jake, wondering where the hell I am,” he said casually. “They’ll assume I got lost trying to find a kebab.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but the insecurity curled in his stomach again. Lando could go back. Probably should.

But Lando didn’t move. He stayed there, leaning into the moment, brushing his shoulder lightly against Oscar’s like it meant nothing—like it meant everything.

“You know,” Lando said suddenly, “I’m throwing my own party. One day. Not a Jake party. One with people I actually like.” He nudged Oscar’s foot with his own. “You’ll come to that one, yeah?”

Oscar smiled down at the Tim Tams in his lap. “Only if there’s chocolate.”

“Mate,” Lando said with mock offense. “There’ll be a Tim Tam cake. You’ve set the standard now.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but the grin stayed. “Alright, then. I’ll be there.”

Lando finally stood, stretching a little, cracking his back with a quiet groan. “Guess I should get back before someone starts a rumour I’ve run off with Jake’s girlfriend.”

Oscar walked him to the door, awkward and unsure what to do with his hands. Lando paused in the doorway, turning back with that damnable soft grin.

“Thanks for the biscuit therapy,” he said. “And the honesty. Both were—good.”

Oscar nodded, heart fluttering. “Night, Lando.”

“Night, Piastri.”

And then Lando was gone.

Oscar stood there for a moment, the quiet rushing back in like a wave. He glanced at the photo of his family, the Tim Tam tin, the empty space where Lando had sat.

He was still lonely. But tonight, that loneliness didn’t feel like a void. It felt like space—space where something might be growing.

Something with chocolate crumbs, racing jackets, and fidget rings.

Something like hope.

****

Something had shifted since that night in Oscar’s dorm.

It wasn’t dramatic—no grand gestures, no declarations, nothing anyone else would notice. But to Oscar, it was unmistakable. The air between them had softened, like someone had turned the volume down on everything else. Their sessions weren’t just tutoring anymore; they were… something else. Something closer. Something that left Oscar lying awake most nights, staring at the ceiling and thinking too much.

He couldn’t name it. Wouldn’t. But it curled around his ribs anyway, quiet and insistent.

Lando was away in the Netherlands for an F2 race, and Oscar’s phone was buzzing more than usual. Their messages had turned casual ages ago—light teasing, inside jokes, memes Lando probably sent from the pit lane—but this was different. Photos streamed in. Zandvoort’s sweeping dunes, a blurred shot of the sea, the curve of the track under a low sun. Then a selfie: Lando in his race suit, curls a mess under his cap, helmet tucked under his arm and grinning like the world had tilted in his favour.

Oscar stared at the photo a little too long. His thumb hovered over the screen before he finally typed:

Looks amazing. Go win it.

On race day, Oscar tried to study, but the textbook may as well have been in another language. His laptop was open to the timing sheet, constantly refreshing as he paced his dorm in a loop. His heart kicked hard when Lando crossed the finish line first, his name flashing P1.

Oscar grinned without even meaning to.

He picked up his phone instantly.

P1! Congrats, mate. That’s massive.

Lando’s reply came just as fast:

Cheers, Oscar! Wish you could’ve seen it live.

Oscar wished that too.

—

Lando got back to campus on a Monday, dragging his suitcase behind him and still buzzing from the win. He found Oscar exactly where he’d guessed—in the school garden, seated cross-legged under the old oak, books neatly arranged beside him like a military formation.

Without saying a word, Lando dropped a small package onto the grass beside him. “Souvenir,” he said, that familiar smirk playing at his lips but his voice a little quieter than usual. “From Zandvoort.”

Oscar blinked, surprised. He opened it carefully, fingers brushing against the cool plastic of a miniature F2 model—Lando’s car, perfectly detailed, tiny decals and all. It was… a gift. Thoughtful. Specific. Personal.

Oscar’s throat tightened unexpectedly. “This is—really cool,” he murmured, turning it in his hands like it might disappear. “Thanks.”

“Figured you should have something from my world,” Lando said as he dropped onto the grass, shoulder brushing Oscar’s just enough to feel. “Since you let me borrow so much of yours.”

Oscar didn’t answer, not directly. But his fingers lingered on the model longer than they needed to. His heart thudded in that soft, aching way it always did when Lando said things like that—like Oscar wasn’t just a study partner, or a tutor, or a guy he messaged when bored. Like Oscar mattered.

They tried to study, but neither of them was especially focused. Lando sprawled on the grass, flipping flashcards in the air. Oscar leaned back against the tree, barely taking notes. They talked about nothing and everything—the kind of meandering, quiet conversation that only happened when the pressure was off.

Some days, they met in the garden. Other days, Oscar’s dorm. Tim Tams became a ritual. Lando never left without pocketing one, and Oscar stopped pretending he minded. His fidget ring spun less and less now. His nails were healing. Some nights, he caught himself laughing without anxiety gnawing at the edge of it.

Then one afternoon, Lando threw it out like it was nothing: “Come to mine next time. My place. I’ve got actual snacks, and my couch doesn’t squeak like the library chairs.”

Oscar’s stomach did a slow roll.

He nodded, face carefully blank. “Yeah. Okay.”

—

Lando’s apartment was exactly what Oscar expected: chaotic, lived-in, absolutely Lando. Posters. Socks that didn’t match. Racing gear in a pile by the door. He kicked off his shoes and turned on a lamp with a flick of his wrist.

Oscar stood awkwardly near the door, clutching his backpack like a parachute.

“Relax,” Lando said, flopping onto the couch and patting the cushion beside him. “You’re not gonna catch anything. Unless it’s my devastating FIFA skills.”

“I can hold my own,” Oscar said, a little too defensively.

Ten minutes later, he was two goals up and Lando was making wounded animal sounds.

“Are you kidding me?” Lando groaned, dropping the controller. “This is betrayal. You were supposed to suck.”

Oscar’s laugh was shy but real. “You assumed wrong.”

Lando nudged him with his foot. “Bookworm by day, FIFA assassin by night. What don’t you do, Piastri?”

Oscar flushed, suddenly warm all over. “I’m just… good at patterns.”

They didn’t study at all that day. Just played, laughed, shared crisps and stupid stories. At one point, Lando tossed him a hoodie when Oscar mentioned it was cold. It smelled like his cologne. Oscar didn’t give it back for the rest of the evening.

—

Exams came quickly after that. Their study sessions returned to the usual intensity, but the ease between them remained. Lando asked deeper questions. Oscar gave sharper answers. They worked well together.

When the economics grades were posted, they were outside again—scarves pulled up, leaves crunching around their feet. Lando checked his phone, and suddenly yelled, “NO WAY!”

Oscar jumped. “What?”

“I got an A-minus!” Lando was beaming, full body grinning like a child on Christmas. “An actual A! You, Oscar Piastri, are a genius.”

Then, without warning, Lando pulled him into a hug.

It was fast. Messy. A rush of warmth and limbs. But it hit Oscar like lightning.

Lando’s arms around him. His laughter in his ear. His hands gripping the back of Oscar’s coat.

Oscar didn’t know how to breathe.

When Lando pulled back, his hands lingered on Oscar’s shoulders, his eyes still bright. “Couldn’t’ve done it without you,” he said. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to my GPA.”

Oscar mumbled something back—he wasn’t sure what. His head was buzzing too loud. He stared down at the ground, the fidget ring spinning so fast it almost slipped off.

They sat in silence afterward, their legs brushing as they watched students bustle past. It should’ve felt normal. It didn’t.

Lando’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then answered with a soft grin. “I’m with Oscar. Be there in ten.”

He hung up and turned to him. “I gotta go but see you later okay?"

Oscar gave a small, crooked smile. “Okay.”

Day by day, the feelings grew.

It wasn’t just a crush anymore. It wasn’t the distant admiration of a boy too far away to touch.

It was Lando.

Messy, loud, brilliant Lando — who sent voice notes when he couldn’t spell something, who saved the last fry just in case Oscar wanted it, who knew how Oscar took his tea and always brought his backpack to Oscar’s dorm like it was normal.

And Oscar?

Oscar was gone.

Hopeless, aching, silent.

Every look. Every laugh. Every study break spent elbow-to-elbow and every word of encouragement made Oscar feel things he absolutely shouldn’t.

Because Lando wasn’t his.

Lando didn’t know.

And Oscar couldn’t afford to fall for someone who could never fall back.

But every day, it got harder to remember that.

****

The exam results were in, and St. Augustine’s buzzed with the quiet high of an ending. Lando had not only passed economics—he’d aced it. Oscar had expected nothing less. His own grades were flawless, his Oxford application submitted, and now it was all just waiting. Waiting and wondering what came next. The school year was done. Their time at St. Augustine’s—whatever it had been—was winding down.

And tonight, there was a party. Lando’s party.

He’d promised it would be a real one. A proper celebration, loud and bright and a little bit reckless. But to Oscar, it wasn’t just a party. It was his first one. His first step into Lando’s world, and maybe—if he was brave enough—his first real chance to say what he’d been carrying around for months.

He stood in front of his dorm mirror, adjusting the collar of a charcoal button-down shirt. He’d swapped his glasses for contact lenses, and it made everything feel a little off, like he was wearing someone else’s face. He barely recognized himself. A little sharper. A little older. A version of him that might, just might, be brave enough.

The fidget ring spun quietly on his thumb.
You can do this.
Lando wanted him there. That had to mean something.


---

The moment Oscar stepped into Lando’s apartment, the world went blurry around the edges.

Music pulsed through the walls, bass thick enough to feel in his ribs. The room was packed—people dancing, shouting over each other, drink in hand. Laughter and light collided in chaos. He froze in the doorway, overwhelmed by it all. The colours, the noise, the sheer volume of life in here.

He felt like a stranger in someone else’s dream.

Then—

“Oscar!”

Lando’s voice cut through the room like a spotlight. He pushed through the crowd, beaming, curls a mess and cheeks flushed. He was glowing with energy, as if the party had been waiting to start until Oscar walked in.

“You made it!” Lando said, grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “C’mon. You’ve gotta meet everyone.”

Oscar didn’t have a chance to panic. He was swept into a circle of laughing faces and fizzy drinks and arms slung casually over shoulders. Lando’s racing mates, apparently. Max Fewtrell clapped him on the back like they’d known each other forever.

“So you’re the brain behind Lando’s econ miracle?” Max said, raising an eyebrow. “Proper legend, mate.”

Oscar flushed, fumbling with the fidget ring in his pocket. “Just… helped a bit.”

To his surprise, they didn’t mock him. They laughed, sure, but it was warm—teasing in the way that included him. Stories flew fast: Lando’s first tutoring session, the infamous vending machine coffee, how Oscar “looked like a tax auditor but played FIFA like a menace.”

And through it all, Lando hovered at his side—grinning, chiming in, nudging Oscar whenever he went quiet for too long.

Later, Lando dragged him to the centre of the makeshift dance floor.

Oscar tried to protest. “I don’t really—”

“Yeah, yeah, everyone says that until they do,” Lando shouted over the music, his hand closing around Oscar’s. “Trust me.”

His fingers were warm. Oscar’s pulse skipped.

Lando moved like he was made of the beat—loose, unbothered, bright. Oscar stood awkwardly at first, but Lando bumped his hip, laughed, coaxed him in. Slowly, Oscar loosened. His body remembered rhythm. Their shoulders brushed. Then their fingers. Then again. And again.

And when Oscar looked up, Lando was looking back.

Like he saw him.

And suddenly, Oscar wasn’t thinking about parties or music or the strangers swirling around them. He was thinking about how Lando’s laugh curled at the edges. How he always smelled like clean linen and something citrusy. How Oscar hadn’t stopped thinking about telling him the truth.

He was going to do it. Tonight.

He was going to tell Lando the thing he’d been swallowing for months: I like you. Not as a mate. Not as a study partner. Not as a maybe. He was going to risk it, finally, because if this wasn’t something—if Lando didn’t feel it too—then Oscar didn’t know what this was.

“C’mon,” Lando said suddenly, leaning close to be heard. His breath brushed Oscar’s cheek. “Let’s get some air.”

Oscar followed, heart thrumming. Lando threaded their hands together like it was nothing and tugged him toward the balcony. No one noticed them leaving. No one stopped them.

Outside, the air was cool and clear, the stars scattered above like a quiet secret.

Lando leaned on the railing, eyes on Oscar. The grin he wore had faded into something gentler. “I’ve got something to tell you,” he said, voice low. “Something big.”

Oscar’s heart leapt, hope and fear colliding. “Me too,” he said, his voice trembling but determined. They both started speaking at the same time—“Lando, I—” “Oscar, I got—” They cut off, laughing, the tension breaking for a moment.

They both laughed—nervous, awkward, jittery.

“You first,” Oscar said, fingers digging into the fidget ring.

Lando’s eyes sparkled. “I got the call,” he said, barely able to contain the joy. “McLaren. F1. It’s real, Oscar. I leave next week.”

Oscar blinked. It took a moment for the words to settle.

Next week.

F1.

Lando was leaving.

The words hit like a punch, shattering the fragile illusion Oscar had built. His smile froze, his heart plummeting. Lando was leaving. Next week. To chase his dream, a world away from Oscar’s quiet life, from Oxford, from whatever this was between them.

The hope he’d clung to—that Lando might like him the way Oscar liked him, that they could be something more—crumbled into dust. Lando was a star, burning too bright for Oscar to hold onto. He’d been a fool to think otherwise.

His heart cracked with barely a sound.

“That’s…” Oscar swallowed. “That’s incredible.”

He stepped forward, pulling Lando into a hug, his arms tightening as if he could hold onto this moment, this version of Lando who was still here. The hug lingered too long, Lando’s warmth seeping into him, and Oscar memorized it—the scent of his cologne, the feel of his shoulders, the way his breath hitched slightly. It was all he’d have left.

He wanted to stay there. Just for a few more seconds. Just to feel it. All of it.

When they pulled apart, Lando’s hands stayed on his arms.

“Okay, your turn,” he said, eyes soft. “What were you gonna say?”

Oscar opened his mouth. The words were there—I like you, I like you, I love you—but they dissolved. Turned into dust.

Because Lando was leaving. Lando had a future painted in orange and speed and continents Oscar wouldn’t be part of. And whatever was happening between them—whatever this was—Oscar wasn’t sure it could survive a world that fast.

So he smiled. Carefully. Like he was fine.

“Just… I’m proud of you,” he said.

Lando’s grin flickered, like he knew there was something missing. But he nodded. “Thanks, mate.”

They stood there for a long time, quiet, with only the distant thump of music and the night around them. Oscar memorized the outline of Lando’s face in the moonlight. The shape of this moment. The weight of everything he didn’t say.

Because sometimes, the scariest thing wasn’t confessing.

It was knowing that if you did—
Everything might change.

****

The day Lando left for McLaren felt less like a goodbye and more like the world holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

It was quiet. Grey sky, sharp autumn air, trees shedding the last of their leaves like they knew something was ending too. Oscar stood outside Lando’s apartment building, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, the fidget ring spinning furiously on his thumb. His chest felt tight, like it was laced too tightly around something he couldn’t name.

The taxi was already there, humming softly at the curb. Lando’s bags—two duffels and a battered helmet case—were stacked beside the door.

Then he came out.

No fanfare, no goodbyes from the crowd. Just Lando, stepping into the chill in jeans and a hoodie, his racing jacket slung over one shoulder. His curls were windblown. His smile—when he saw Oscar—was real, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“This is it, huh?” Lando said, stopping in front of him.

Oscar nodded. He didn’t trust himself to say much else. His mouth was dry, like the words had stuck somewhere between his throat and his heart.

“I thought it’d feel different,” Lando added, voice quieter now. “Bigger. Louder. I don’t know.”

Oscar managed a smile, small and brittle. “Maybe it’s just… the wrong kind of goodbye.”

Lando didn’t say anything to that. He just looked at Oscar for a long moment, like he was memorizing him. And then he stepped forward, arms opening.

The hug was quiet. Warm. Lingered too long. Oscar tucked his chin against Lando’s shoulder and closed his eyes, breathing him in—fabric softener, aftershave, something distinctly Lando. He held on tight, not ready, not yet, not now.

Neither of them said the thing. Not “I’ll miss you.” Not “don’t go.” Not “I love you.”

But it was there.

In the way Lando’s hand gripped the back of Oscar’s coat.

In the way Oscar’s fingers curled into Lando’s hoodie like he didn’t know how to let go.

In the way they both stood still for a moment after the hug ended, not quite stepping away yet.

Lando finally broke the silence with a crooked smile. “Take care of yourself, Piastri. Don’t let Oxford turn you into a total hermit.”

Oscar huffed out a laugh, eyes stinging. “Only if you promise not to crash into anything gold-plated.”

Lando rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “Deal.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder, pausing by the cab. “I’ll text you. Keep me updated on all the lawyer-y stuff.”

Oscar nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “You’ll do great, you know. You’re going to be—”

Everything.

He didn’t say that part. “—brilliant.”

Lando didn’t answer, just looked at him with something unreadable in his eyes. Then he opened the car door and climbed in. The cab pulled away, slowly, like the world was trying to be gentle.

Oscar stayed there long after the taillights disappeared.

His hands were cold. The fidget ring spun slower now. His chest felt hollow in a way that didn’t quite make sense until he whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear,

“I love you.”


---

Weeks later, Oscar got the letter from Oxford. Accepted. His dream, the one he’d worked for since he was a kid, was real. He sat in his dorm, the letter in his hands, the tiny F2 car model from Lando on his desk. He should’ve been ecstatic, but the joy was muted, overshadowed by the quiet hurt he carried. Lando’s absence was a hole he hadn’t expected, a reminder of the feelings he’d tried to bury but couldn’t escape.

Oxford came with sharp corners and quiet halls. It was beautiful in a way that felt surreal—gothic arches and libraries older than entire countries. The kind of place that demanded everything from you and gave very little back unless you earned it.

Oscar earned it.

He buried himself in books, in lectures, in mock trials and case law and caffeine. He made friends—kind ones, smart ones, people who didn’t look at him like he was strange for loving silence and structure. He joined the debate club. He learned how to speak without stammering, how to argue without shaking.

But at night, when the lights were out and the world finally left him alone, it still came back.

The ache.

The what if.

Lando’s absence wasn’t loud, but it was everywhere. In the fidget ring he still wore. In the little F2 car he kept on his shelf. In the photos he didn’t delete. In the way he still looked at his phone every time it buzzed, just in case.

They kept in touch—at first. Sporadic texts. A blurry photo of a track in Bahrain. A voice note after Lando’s first points finish. A string of emojis that meant nothing and everything.

Proud of you, Oscar texted one night after a podium finish.

Wish you could see it, Lando wrote back.

But time moved differently for both of them.

Lando was everywhere. In Monaco, in Miami, in Monza. His face on TV, his quotes in interviews. His name followed by numbers and press releases. A world Oscar had no place in.

And Oscar was here. In libraries and lecture halls and rain-soaked mornings, trying not to think about a boy who had once made him feel infinite.

Eventually, the texts slowed. Then stopped.

Oscar never deleted the thread.

---

There were moments when he almost reached out. When the ache cracked wide open and he typed I miss you into his phone. But he never sent it.

What would he even say?

That he still thought about him?

That he regretted not saying it when he had the chance?

That he wasn’t sure anyone else would ever make him feel that safe again?

So he kept it quiet.

Kept it close.

Loved him in silence, across distance and years and dreams that ran parallel but never touched again.

And maybe one day, they’d find their way back.

But for now, their story ended not with a bang, not with a breakup, but with a soft, aching silence.

The kind of goodbye you carry with you.

The kind you never really finish saying.