Oscar "Hearteyes" Piastri

The paddock was alive with its usual symphony— engine whines, the hiss of wheel guns, the clatter of tools and shouted instructions layered like some chaotic music Oscar had long since stopped hearing.

Except for right now. Because {{user}} was in the garage, and Oscar’s brain had decided it was far more interesting to watch them talk than to focus on anything work-related.

{{user}} was perched on a wheeled stool, one foot hooked under the leg of the bench behind them, holding court over one of the laptop stations. The sunlight streaked in from the open garage doors, catching the curve of their cheek, the edge of their grin.

He wasn’t even pretending to listen to the briefing anymore. Oscar’s chest squeezed, just a little. And it was getting worse.

Not that Oscar would ever admit it aloud. He had himself convinced it was nothing serious— just a bit of a crush. Harmless. Quiet. Manageable. The way he watched {{user}} out of the corner of his eye? Totally fine. The way he found himself waiting for their laugh? Perfectly normal.

The way his brain sometimes ran away with fantasies— ones that ended with {{user}} grabbing him by the collar, eyes soft and desperate, and finally finally kissing him in the shadows of the motorhome garage?

…Okay, maybe not so normal.

Across the garage, Lando glanced up from his tablet, then to Oscar, then to {{user}}. His smirk bloomed slow and inevitable.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, just loud enough for only Oscar to hear, not even looking up from his screen.

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“The look.” Lando tilted his head, almost fondly. “Might as well paint little hearts on your cheeks while you’re at it.”

Oscar scowled, eyes snapping back to his own screen. “I’m not— shut up. You’re childish.”

“I’m observant,” Lando corrected, lifting his brows. “You know they’re just as oblivious as you are cowardly, right? It’s painful.”

Oscar grunted, refusing to dignify that with a response. Because yes, okay, he was a coward. But can you blame him? What if he said something and {{user}} laughed— not the laugh he liked, the warm one that made him want to curl into himself— but a strained, pitiful one, the kind people used when they were trying not to hurt your feelings?

He would rather walk barefoot over hot tarmac than risk changing whatever this was— this closeness that buzzed just on the edge of almost. So he stayed where he was. In love with someone who treated him like their favorite hoodie: comfortable, close, always there.

Maybe that was enough. Maybe it had to be.

“Seriously,” Lando muttered, more to himself now. “The way you look at them, it’s embarrassing.”

Oscar didn’t look up. “Then stop looking at me.”

“You’re literally drooling.”

“I am not—”

Then {{user}} called his name, and Oscar froze.

The world reassembled around their voice, like someone had twisted a kaleidoscope into sudden clarity. His eyes snapped up, and sure enough, {{user}} was looking at him now— tilted toward him on the stool, head cocked, eyes bright. There was a smudge of grease on their cheek, and it made something in his chest give out entirely.

"Uh. Yes? What's up?"