Oscar Piastri | Jealous type

It’s late on a Sunday night following a race weekend. The hotel room in Monaco is dimly lit, the muted hum of the city outside fading into the background. Oscar sits on the edge of the bed, still wearing his black team t-shirt, his hair slightly damp from a post-race shower. Usually, he’s the definition of unshakeable calm—the guy who stays stoic through 300km/h wheel-to-wheel battles and high-stress radio debriefs. But tonight, the atmosphere in the room is heavy with unspoken tension. ​Oscar’s eyes track you as you pace near the window. He’s been quiet for the last hour, but the silence isn’t his usual peaceful composure; it’s loaded. He sets his phone face down on the nightstand, letting out a slow, deliberate breath. ​"Are you going to keep standing over there, or are you going to talk to me?" His voice is quiet, measured, but there’s a subtle edge to it that isn't usually there. ​You cross your arms, avoiding his gaze, feeling the sharp spike of jealousy that’s been twisting in your chest all evening—the way someone was laughing with him in the paddock, the effortless charisma that attracts half the world to him, and the agonizing inner voice telling you that eventually, someone better will catch his attention.

It’s late on a Sunday night following a race weekend. The hotel room in Monaco is dimly lit, the muted hum of the city outside fading into the background. Oscar sits on the edge of the bed, still wearing his black team t-shirt, his hair slightly damp from a post-race shower. Usually, he’s the definition of unshakeable calm—the guy who stays stoic through 300km/h wheel-to-wheel battles and high-stress radio debriefs. But tonight, the atmosphere in the room is heavy with unspoken tension. ​Oscar’s eyes track you as you pace near the window. He’s been quiet for the last hour, but the silence isn’t his usual peaceful composure; it’s loaded. He sets his phone face down on the nightstand, letting out a slow, deliberate breath. ​"Are you going to keep standing over there, or are you going to talk to me?" His voice is quiet, measured, but there’s a subtle edge to it that isn't usually there. ​You cross your arms, avoiding his gaze, feeling the sharp spike of jealousy that’s been twisting in your chest all evening—the way someone was laughing with him in the paddock, the effortless charisma that attracts half the world to him, and the agonizing inner voice telling you that eventually, someone better will catch his attention. ​"I'm fine, Oscar," you mutter, the lie tasting bitter. ​Oscar shifts, standing up smoothly and closing the distance between you. He stops just a foot away, his dark eyes studying your face with that intense, analytical focus he usually reserves for telemetry data. Except right now, all that focus is locked entirely on you. ​"You're not fine," he says softly, reaching out to gently touch your forearm. When you pull back slightly, his expression falters for a fraction of a second—a flicker of genuine hurt crossing his face before his calm mask slides back into place. "You've been distant since qualifying. Every time someone speaks to me, you pull away. Talk to me. Please." ​The barrier breaks. You look up at him, the mix of embarrassment, anger, and insecurity pouring out all at once. "It’s hard, alright? Watching you out there, surrounded by people who are stunning, successful, and fit into your world effortlessly. I see the way people look at you. I see how easy it would be for you to find someone who doesn't come with all this baggage. I hate feeling like this—like I'm constantly on edge, like I'm crazy for being jealous, but I'm terrified of losing you." ​The words hang in the quiet air between you. For a moment, Oscar just stands there, processing the raw emotion you've dropped in front of him. ​Then, the composure cracks entirely. He lets out a soft, breathy laugh—not of amusement, but of pure disbelief. He steps in close, wrapping his hands gently around the sides of your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheekbones. His palms are warm, grounding you instantly. ​"You think you're the one who should be insecure?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, rich with an unexpected vulnerability. "Are you serious?" ​He tilts your head up slightly so you have no choice but to look straight into his eyes. ​"Listen to me," Oscar says, his tone steady, intense, and leaving zero room for doubt. "I drive a car in circles for a living. I live in a world where everything is noisy, fake, and calculated. Do you have any idea what you are to me? You're the only thing that feels real. You're the only person I come back to when all the noise turns off." ​He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, letting you feel his steady breathing. ​"I don't look at anyone else. I don't care about anyone else in that paddock," he whispers, his fingers tightening gently in your hair. "It infuriates me that you think you're replaceable to me. If I could give you my brain for five minutes so you could see how much space you take up in it, you'd never feel jealous again. So if you're terrified of losing me... good. Because I'm absolutely terrified of losing you, too." ​He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, a tiny, genuine smile finally breaking through his serious expression. ​"Now... are we okay, or do I need to stay up all night reminding you why I chose you?"