Archive of Our Own

It happens on a random Tuesday night, or morning depending on where you are in the world. There is nothing remarkable about it at first. Across the world, people are going about their lives like they would on any other ordinary day. Dinner plates are being cleared from tables. Traffic crawls beneath city scrapers. Televisions murmur in living rooms. Somewhere, a baby is being rocked to sleep. Somewhere else, a couple is in the middle of an argument they both think they will still remember in the morning.

Then the world breaks. The sound comes first. It’s not thunder, not an earthquake, not anything that fits neatly into the language people already have for disaster. It is a single, deafening detonation that seems to come from everywhere at once, a sound so immense it rattles windows, shudders through concrete and steel, and sinks straight into the bone. The entire planet seems to flinch beneath it.

A heartbeat later, the sky erupts in light, white, blinding and endless. It sweeps across continents in a violent pulse, a luminous shockwave racing over oceans and mountains, through crowded cities and empty farmland, rolling over the earth like something alive. The blast wave follows, sharp and brutal, knocking people off their feet, sending glasses smashing to kitchen floors and car alarms screaming into the night.

For one suspended, impossible moment, the whole world is silent after it.

Then everything changes.

No one knows what it is. In the hours and days that follow, people give it different names, each one carrying its own kind of fear. Some call it an anomaly. Others whisper that it’s the end of time. Conspiracy forums flood with theories about parallel universes tearing open, about reality splitting at the seams. Religious leaders call it a reckoning. Scientists refuse to name it at all, not yet.

What everyone does knows is simple, and yet somehow, far more terrifying. One moment, people are living their ordinary lives. The next, they’re waking in places they don’t recognise, in unfamiliar beds, in unfamiliar homes, in cities they have never seen, beside strangers whose faces somehow carry the intimacy of something they cannot yet understand.

Worse still, they are awake, conscious, aware of what is happening around them, aware that everything feels wrong. But they have no control. They are trapped behind their own eyes, passengers inside their own bodies as they move through lives that are not yet theirs. Their hands reach for objects they don’t remember owning. Their mouths speak words they never choose. They watch themselves kiss people they’ve never met, sign papers they have never seen, cradle children they have never imagined.

Five years.

That is what the scientists eventually call it when the data begins to align. The Chronospatial Displacement Event, or CDE, becomes the official term, a clinical name for something that feels anything but clinical. The leading theory, proposed by physicists studying anomalies in gravitational waves and temporal distortion, is that the explosion created a Localised Temporal-Spatial Projection Field, a rupture in the fabric of spacetime that forcibly displaced human consciousness along its own worldline.

In simpler terms, the entire human race is thrown five years forward. For a single night, every person on earth is made to witness the life waiting for them. Five years into the future.

And when they wake the next morning back in their own beds, in their own time, with the echo of that impossible life still clinging to them, the world is no longer the same.

…

Lando Norris is halfway through a computer game when the world changes.

He is sprawled back in his chair in the gaming room of his Monaco apartment, headset slightly crooked over his curls, one hand flying across the keyboard while the other works the mouse with practised ease. The glow from the monitors paints the room in blues and whites. It’s late, after midnight but you’d never know with the noise and lights from the bustling streets below spilling through the windows behind him.

“Mate, that was absolutely shocking,” Max Fewtrell says through the headset, voice crackling all the way from the UK. “Tell me you did not just miss that overtake.”

Lando laughs, the sound easy and warm. “I didn’t miss it, your call was just shit.”

“My call is never shit.”

“Your entire existence is a bit shit.”

The familiar scoff crackles back through his speakers, followed by Max’s muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Lando grins to himself and leans forward, eyes fixed on the game.

For the first time in what feels like years, life is beginning to settle into something almost manageable for Lando.

He is a world champion now. The 2025 title still sits in the back of his mind like something unreal, a dream he occasionally has to remind himself actually happened. Now nearly halfway through the 2026 season, he’s still in papaya, still beside his teammate Daniel Ricciardo, still carrying the weight and privilege of that number one status on his car.

Lando is halfway to laughing at something Max said when the sound hits. One second, he is leaning back in his chair in Monaco, one leg tucked under him. The next, the entire apartment seems to vibrate around him. It’s not a bang so much as a rupture. A sound so enormous it feels like it comes from inside his skull.

“What the fuck was that?” Lando blurts, wrenching one side of the headset off.

On the other end, Max is already talking over him, voice sharp and startled. “Mate, tell me you heard that?”

Another pulse tears through the air. The windows rattle in their frames.

Lando is on his feet instantly, chair wheels skidding backwards across the floor as he moves towards the balcony doors. Beyond the glass, Monaco is in chaos, he can hear the sounds of people screaming as they run for cover in the streets, car alarms are going off and the sirens of emergency service vehicles echo in the distance.

But it’s the sky that has Lando’s eye widening. A band of white light stretches across the horizon.

“Max,” Lando says, voice low with disbelief. “There’s something wrong with sky.”

There is a beat of silence, then Max says, “Yeah.”

Lando turns sharply, frowning even though Max cannot see him. “What do you mean, yeah?”

“I mean I can see it.” Max sounds just as stunned. “Out my window. White light, whole sky’s lit up.”

Lando’s stomach twists. “That’s impossible. I mean, you’re in the UK.”

“I know.”

The light moves. It’s not like lightning, it’s not like anything natural. It rolls forward in a perfect, blinding wave, heading straight towards the Monaco coast, straight toward him.

“Lando,” Max says, voice suddenly tight. “Something’s coming.”

The blast wave slams into the building, glass trembles violently, the floor bucks beneath his feet. White light floods the apartment, swallowing every edge, every shadow, every sound. Lando feels his feet give out beneath him but everything goes black before he even registers that he’s falling.

…

He wakes to warmth, wrapped in familiar soft sheets, sunlight peaking through the curtains. He registers the faint scent of coffee and someone else’s cologne. His mind is slow and heavy, still caught in the space between sleep and consciousness.

It takes him a moment to realise that he can’t move and that’s when the panic hits. He’s willing his eyes to open, his hands or legs to move, anything, but nothing works. It takes another second for him to realise he can’t make himself speak either.

It’s then, with his head screaming in panic, that his eyes open and he takes in the fact that he’s in his bedroom which settles some of his panic. He can make his eyes move, which in the scheme of things, he’s not sure is a good thing or not.

As his eyes take in the room, he realises it’s different, there are little changes everywhere. A second phone charger on the bedside table, a dark green hoodie slung over the armchair that is definitely not his, a framed photo he doesn’t remember being on his dresser, it’s turned slightly away from him so he can’t make out the photo.

He feels it then, warmth pressed against his side in the shape of someone body. Someone is in the bed with him.

Lando’s pulse spikes.

The man beside him is curled in close, light brown hair mussed from sleep, face half hidden in the pillow. His skin is pale, soft looking and littered with dots and moles. There’s a familiar sort of ease in the way he is tucked against Lando’s body.

But Lando doesn’t recognise him.

Before Lando can even properly think, the man stirs. A hand slides over Lando’s chest, warm and lazy, as it curves around Lando’s waist and pulls him closer to this mystery man.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. Australian, the accent curling around the word.

Lando’s own mouth responds before he can stop it. “Morning, baby.” His heart nearly stops at the pet name.

The man lifts his head, hair curling into his face as sleepy brown eyes meet his. He smiles, it’s a soft, intimate smile, the kind of smile that’s reserved for someone who sees you every morning.

Lando’s mind is spinning. Who are you? This is also not the time or place for his mind to helpfully notice that this guy is attractive, and completely and utterly his type.

The man shifts, pushing himself up onto his elbow so he’s leaning face to face with Lando. Lando takes his features in, more of the scattered moles and the blush that spreads across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Fuck, he really is pretty.

The guy leans forward and kisses him. It’s not tentative, it’s practised and familiar, a slow, sleepy press of lips that speaks of hundreds of mornings just like this one. Lando feels his own body respond automatically, one hand sliding up to cup the back of the man’s neck. The movement is so natural it makes him dizzy.

The stranger hums happily against his mouth and pulls away slowly. “As much as it sucks that the next two races were cancelled, I’m not complaining about getting to have more of these slow mornings together.”

Lando hears himself laugh before reconnecting their lips in a short kiss. It’s when he pulls away that Lando catches sight of it, a ring. Silver, simple and elegant. And sitting perfectly on the other man’s left hand, on that finger. God, are they engaged or married? Or worse, did Lando sleep with a taken man?

The man pulls back, smiling to himself as he settles his chin against Lando’s shoulder. “You know,” he says, voice still rough, “if we keep sleeping in this late, we’re never going to finalise the seating chart.”

Lando’s stomach drops. That sounds like possible wedding planning.

His body lets out a groan that sounds familiar and fond. “Don’t start with the seating chart before coffee.”

The other man laughs, warm and bright. “You’re the one who insists that Max and Daniel can’t be next to each other.”

Lando almost chokes. “Because they’ll be pissed before entrées.”

The laugh that answers him is genuine and affectionate. “Fair point.”

The morning unfolds around him while he remains trapped behind his own eyes. They move through the apartment like this is home for the both of them. The stranger (his fiancé), steals one of Lando’s hoodies from the chair and pulls it on, hiding his pale, dot scattered chest.

He looks comfortable here, like he belongs here, in Lando’s apartment.

Lando’s body follows him into the kitchen. There are magnets on the fridge now, race schedules mixed with printed venue layouts and what looks suspiciously like florist options. One sheet has a handwritten note in neat black ink:

·       final tasting friday

·       call venue re flowers

·       confirm vows

Lando’s head spins, this cannot be real but god does it feel real.

His fiancé is already at the coffee machine. “You’re doing the cake tasting this time,” he says, glancing over his shoulder.

Lando’s body leans against the counter beside him. “I did the last one.”

“You picked chocolate, caramel, and more chocolate.”

“It was excellent.”

“It was diabetes.”

Lando laughs before he can help it, the sound warm and instinctive. “Okay, rude.”

The man turns then, coffee cup in hand, smiling in a way that makes something inside Lando tighten, he is beautiful with his sharp jaw, dark lashes and deep brown eyes.

“So what do you want?” Lando hears himself ask.

The man thinks for a moment. “Vanilla bean for the bottom tier. Lemon for the second. Maybe raspberry for the top?”

Lando’s body makes a face. “Lemon?”

“It’s refreshing.”

“It’s disgusting.”

The man laughs again and steps closer, sliding one hand into the front of Lando’s shirt. “You are such a child.”

Lando’s hand settles instinctively on his waist. The ring catches the light again. “Still marrying me though.”

The man’s expression softens. “Obviously.” Then quieter, almost teasing, “Unless you keep trying to put Max and Daniel on the same table.”

The man pulls him in for another kiss. It lasts longer this time, the kind that lingers. Lando feels the intimacy of it like a punch to the ribs. His mind doesn’t know this man, yet his body clearly does.

A moment later, the man sets his laptop open on the kitchen island. Lando takes in the telemetry graphs, simulation data and McLaren branding. Is he an engineer? For McLaren? But Lando can’t remember ever seeing this guy around the MTC.

The man glances at the time and sighs. “I’ve got an online meeting soon. Andrea wants to discuss the latest sim data before the debrief.”

Lando’s mind snags on that titbit of information. So this man does work with him at McLaren.

His body reaches out, brushing fingers through the man’s hair. “Try not to work too hard.”

The man smiles. “Says the Formula One driver.”

Before Lando can keep piecing it together, the room shifts, the edges blur, his vision swims and the kitchen tilts.

The man’s expression changes instantly. “Lan?”

Everything suddenly pulls sideways. Lando feels the floor disappear as everything goes black.

…

He wakes with a violent gasp. He’s lying on the hardwood floor of his gaming room, his monitors still glowing, the ‘game over’ feature flashing across the screens. His headset is half off, one ear cup pressing painfully into his neck.

“Lando!” Max’s voice crackles through the speakers.

Lando groans and pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Jesus.”

“Mate, are you alright?” Max sounds breathless, almost panicked. “It sounded like you feel, I thought you’d smashed your head. Was trying to get your attention but then I…” he trailed off.

Lando sits up slowly, pressing a hand to his temple and wincing at the throbbing pain there. His pulse is still racing. “What the fuck just happened?”

There is a beat of silence before Max says, “I don’t know. One minute I was talking to you and then… I wasn’t.” Max doesn’t say anything else straight away.

The line stays open, faint static humming through Lando’s speakers, the kind of quiet that feels heavier than it should. Lando pushes himself properly upright, leaning his back against the side of his desk, headset still half twisted around his neck. His heart hasn’t settled yet, it’s still racing like he’s just finished a qualifying lap.

“Mate,” Lando says, voice rough, “say something.”

Max lets out a breath on the other end. “I’m trying to figure out how to explain it without sounding completely insane.”

“Too late for that.”

A small, strained laugh. “Yeah, fair.”

Lando drags a hand over his face, trying to ground himself in something real. The room looks exactly the same, same monitors, same cables, same mess he’s been meaning to clean up for weeks. Nothing has changed except everything has.

“Just tell me,” Lando says.

There’s a pause then Max says, slower now, like he’s choosing his words carefully, “I woke up somewhere else.”

Lando’s chest tightens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Same.”

“I was in a house,” Max continues. “Like a suburban house. I’d never seen it before but it was a proper place, you know? Like… an adult, family house.”

Lando huffs a breath that might be a laugh. “Shocking.”

“Shut up.” Max exhales again. “It felt real, that’s the weird part. It wasn’t like a dream. It felt like I was actually there. I couldn’t move or say anything though, so that was a bit scary.”

Lando nods to himself even though Max can’t see it. “Yeah, me too.”

Max shifts on the other end, something rustling, like he’s sitting up straighter now. “There was someone there with me.”

Lando stills. “Who?”

“A girl.” Max’s voice softens slightly, something almost disbelieving threading through it. “Blonde hair. I don’t know who she is, I’ve never seen her before, but I don’t know... it felt like I did, you know?”

Lando presses his hand harder against his temple. “What is going on?”

Max ignores him and continues. “She was making me tea, knew exactly how I liked it, and was talking to me about something I had on that day, work stuff,” there’s something almost fond about the way he says it.

“What kind of work?”

Max lets out a short laugh. “Quadrant.”

Lando blinks. “What?”

“I was running it,” Max says. “Like properly. There were offices, staff, expansion plans. There were documents everywhere. It wasn’t just… us messing around anymore, it was big.”

Lando leans his head back against the desk behind him. “That’s mad.”

“I know.” Max’s voice drops slightly. “And then she…” He hesitates. “She said something about the baby.”

Lando’s eyes snap open. “The what?”

“The baby,” Max repeats, still sounding like he doesn’t quite believe his own words. “She was pregnant, with my kid.”

Lando lets out a breath, slow and shaky. “Jesus, this is insane Max. What the hell did we see?”

“Yeah.” Max clears his throat. “Wait, what did you see?”

Lando let’s out a shaky breath. “I was in my apartment in Monaco,” he says. “Or… it looked like my apartment, just… different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know, lived in,” Lando says. “It wasn’t just me living there, there were things that weren’t mine.”

Max hums, listening.

“There was someone there,” Lando adds.

“Yeah?” Max says. “Who?”

Lando swallows. “A guy.”

There’s a beat of silence which makes Lando’s heart plummet before Max says, carefully neutral, “Okay.”

Lando huffs. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird.”

“You’re making it weird.”

“I literally said one word.”

Lando almost smiles despite himself, then it fades just as quickly. “He was in my bed,” he says.

Max goes quiet again. “And?”

Lando stares at the dark reflection of himself in his monitor. “And it felt normal,” he says quietly. “Like… not surprising, like that’s just how things are.”

Max doesn’t interrupt.

Lando drags his hand down his face. “We were… together,” he says. “At least I’m assuming we were. He had a ring on,” Lando adds.

Max exhales sharply. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Max says, softer now, “Do you know who he was?”

Lando frowns slightly because up until this moment, it hadn’t even crossed his mind. The familiarity of it all, the way it felt so lived in, so natural, it never occurs to him to question it. But now, thinking back, replaying it properly, piece by piece, Lando’s stomach drops.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly.

Max goes quiet. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know,” Lando repeats, sitting up straighter now, he lets out a breath, something close to a laugh but not quite. “I never got his name.”

Max is silent for a second, then, “That’s… actually insane.”

“Tell me about it.” Lando presses his fingers harder into his temple, trying to hold onto the details before they start slipping. “He was Australian,” he says suddenly.

Max perks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, his accent was definitely Australian.”

“Okay, that’s something.”

“He worked for McLaren,” Lando adds. “An engineer, I think. He had sim data up on a laptop and mentioned a meeting with Andrea.”

Max lets out a low whistle. “So in this dream that felt way too real you were engaged to a McLaren engineer you’ve never met.”

“Apparently.”

“You’re an idiot,” he can practically visualise Max shaking his head.

“It’s not like I could physically make myself ask though could I?” Lando says back. “What about you, did you get your mystery woman’s name?”

“I did actually,” Max says, sounding proud of himself. “Her name’s Pietra.”

Lando shakes his head. “It didn’t feel like a dream,” he says quietly.

“No,” Max agrees. “It didn’t.”

…

The engineering library is almost empty by the time Oscar Piastri glances up from his laptop. The digital clock in the corner of the screen reads 11:47 p.m.

Most of the other students have long since packed up and gone home, the usual late night crowd dwindling down to a few scattered figures hunched over desks beneath the harsh white lights. Somewhere in the far corner, a printer whirs to life, then falls quiet again. The air smells faintly of coffee gone cold and old textbooks.

Oscar barely notices any of it. His focus is fixed on the simulation model open across the two monitors in front of him, one screen filled with pages of equations and calculations, the other with a CAD design that still is not behaving the way it should.

He rubs a hand over his eyes, blinking away the burn. The assignment isn’t due until next week, but according to the schedule he’d painstakingly mapped out the day it was assigned, his own self-imposed deadlines already have him behind. He adjusts his glasses, leans closer to the screen, and starts typing again.

A chair scrapes against the floor opposite him. Oscar doesn’t even look up.

“You know normal people have gone home by now, yeah?”

He lifts his head to find Logan Sargeant dropping into the seat across from him, takeaway bag of food in hand and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Oscar exhales softly, almost a laugh. “Normal people don’t have a systems modelling report due.”

Logan glances at the screen, then at the stack of books beside him. “Oscar, it’s due next week.”

“Exactly.”

“That means you don’t need to be here at midnight.”

Oscar shrugs and looks back at the laptop. “I’m making progress.”

Logan leans forward, squinting at the code on the screen. “Mate, I don’t know what any of that means, but you look like you’re about ten minutes from passing out.”

“I’m fine.”

Logan gives him a look, a very pointed look. “You say that every single time.”

Oscar’s fingers keep moving over the keyboard. “Because I am.”

Logan sighs and leans back in the chair, watching him for a moment. The silence between them is familiar. They have had this conversation more times than Oscar can count.

Finally, Logan says, quieter this time, “Come on Oscar, you really need to start having a life outside of Uni?”

Oscar pauses. “What?”

Logan gestures vaguely at him, the library, the screens, the textbooks, the entire scene. “This, it’s always this. There’s more to life than textbooks and assignment and you’re missing it.”

“I have you,” Oscar shrugs.

“I don’t count,” Logan shoots back. “Because if you had your way you wouldn’t spend time with anyone outside your classes, so I took that choice away from you.”

Oscar frowns slightly. “I’m here on exchange to study though not... party.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Logan’s voice stays gentle, but there is something frustrated under it. “But studying can’t be your whole life. You are allowed to enjoy yourself every now and then.”

Oscar lets out a breath through his nose. “I do enjoy myself.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What did you do last weekend?”

Oscar opens his mouth then promptly closes it again.

Logan gives him a knowing look. “Exactly.” Logan softens, resting his elbows on the table. “I just…” He hesitates, then says, “I want more for you than this.”

Oscar stills. He knows Logan means well, he always does, and maybe there’s a part of him that knows he’s right. His engineering course at Imperial has become his everything, classes, labs, assignments, research hours, late nights in the library, takeaway coffees, too little sleep. His social life is basically Logan dragging him out for food once every few days and occasionally forcing him to leave their apartment for something that vaguely resembles fresh air. Oscar knows he’s not exactly living, he is just moving from deadline to deadline.

Before he can answer, a sound tears through the building. Both of them freeze at the deafening, bone-rattling explosion that seems to come from everywhere at once. The windows along the far wall shudder violently. Students elsewhere in the library start shouting.

“What the hell?” Logan says sharply, already rising from his chair.

Oscar is on his feet too, heart thudding hard against his ribs. The lights overhead flicker then the room is flooded with a white light that’s bright and blinding. It pours through every window in the library, so intense Oscar has to throw an arm over his eyes. Outside, the London skyline is swallowed by it, the entire sky glows.

Logan moves closer to the windows, staring out in disbelief. “Oscar,” he says, voice almost breathless, “how is that possible?”

Oscar steps up beside him and takes in the wall of white light that’s suddenly racing across the city. It looks almost like a wave. A shockwave of light moving straight towards South Kensington.

His stomach drops as the floor trembles beneath them. The entire library jolts so violently that books topple from shelves and chairs skid across the floor. Someone screams. Oscar is thrown sideways into the desk. A pressure wave slams into him, hard enough to steal the air from his lungs. Then everything goes dark.

…

He wakes slowly, soft sheets wrapped around him, warm and impossibly comfortable. Sunlight spilling in through curtains he doesn’t recognise. There is the faint scent of fresh coffee in the air, rich and bitter, mixed with something warm and expensive that lingers in the sheets and the room around him.

Oscar’s alert almost instantly, the panic hitting when he cannot move. He tries to flex his fingers but nothing happens. He tries to shift his legs beneath the sheets, also nothing. His heart kicks violently against his ribs. He tries to speak, to force out a sound, a word, anything, but his mouth refuses to obey. What the fuck?

Inside his own mind he is yelling, willing his body to do something, anything, when finally his eyes open. His gaze darts around the room and immediately clocks that this isn’t his room. This isn’t his single university supplied bed, there’s no desk littered with textbooks and sheets of paper against the wall. This is not his room, and it’s not anywhere he’s ever been before.

The ceiling is higher than his student accommodation, the room larger, softer, finished in warm neutral tones that look expensive without trying too hard. But even through the panic, Oscar notices the little things. A papaya orange cap tossed carelessly over the chair by the window. A pair of racing gloves half hanging out of an overnight bag on the floor. A trophy shelf built into the wall opposite the bed, silver and glass catching the morning light.

Oscar is brought back to situation happening when he feels his hand start to drag along someone’s chest, someone’s very firm and muscular chest.

“Morning,” he hears himself murmur in a sleepy voice.

“Morning baby,” a man says in a familiar British accent.

No, Oscar’s brain unhelpfully supplies. He feels his head lift on its own and it’s then that he takes in the man lying next to him. This isn’t just some random apartment he’s ended up in. This is Lando Norris’ apartment. He has seen glimpses of it online before, in carefully curated Quadrant videos and post-race interviews filmed in his home, but this is different.

There is a coffee mug on the bedside table with the faded outline of coffee stains around the rim. Except Lando Norris definitely doesn’t drink instant coffee from a chipped mug that says, ‘World’s Okay-est Engineer.’

His panic only sharpens when his attention is brought back to the fact that the man lying next to him is Lando Norris. He’s close enough that Oscar can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiny mole near the edge of his mouth and the way his curls are flattened on one side from sleep. The reality of it nearly knocks the breath out of him.

Before Oscar can even begin to process it, he feels his body move again without his control. He’s pushing himself up so he’s now at face level with Lando. Oscar takes in the details he never sees on a screen, the dark sweep of his eyelashes, the faintest of flush over his cheeks and the little moles scattered over his tan skin. There’s the scar on the bridge of his nose that Oscar vaguely remembers hearing commentators mention he got after his first win.

Then Oscar feels his own body lean forward, closing the distance and pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to Lando’s lips. Lando responds immediately, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Oscar’s neck. Holy fuck, he’s kissing Lando Norris.

Oscar hears himself hum happily against Lando’s mouth before pulling away slowly. “As much as it sucks that the next two races were cancelled, I’m not complaining about getting to have more of these slow mornings together.”

Oscar hears Lando laugh softly before Lando reconnects their lips in a short kiss. His mind is still reeling, what the hell is happening right now?

Oscar settles back against him, his own body moving with a familiarity that makes something in his chest seize. He feels his chin come to rest on Lando’s shoulder, the warmth of him solid and real beneath his cheek. From this close, Oscar can see the curve of Lando’s neck, the messy fall of curls at the nape and a little mole just below his ear that he never would have known was there if it wasn’t for this. It feels far too intimate but also natural.

“You know,” Oscar hears himself say, voice still rough with sleep, “if we keep sleeping in this late, we’re never going to finalise the seating chart.”

His mind catches on the words immediately, what?

Lando lets out a groan that sounds fond and deeply familiar, like this is a conversation they’ve already had half a dozen times. “Don’t start with the seating chart before coffee.”

Oscar laughs and it startles him how instinctive it feels. “You’re the one who insists that Max and Daniel can’t be next to each other.”

Lando nearly chokes on a laugh, shoulders shaking beneath Oscar’s cheek. “Because they’ll be pissed before entrées.”

The laugh that leaves Oscar is genuine and affectionate. “Fair point.”

His chest tightens. This doesn’t feel like a dream. Dreams blur, they skip over details. This is too detailed. This feels too real.

The morning continues to move forward, Oscar a passenger in his own body it seems. He follows Lando through the apartment, his body moving automatically, feet knowing exactly where to go.

The apartment opens out into a sleek, sunlit kitchen and living space, floor-to-ceiling windows framing Monaco in a wash of gold morning light. The harbour glitters below, yachts scattered across the water like white brushstrokes. Oscar’s mind falters at the sight.

His body moves easily through the space, heading straight for the coffee machine. His gaze drops down to watch what he is doing and immediately clocks his left hand where it rests against the marble counter. More importantly the ring that is wrapped around his finger, that finger. It’s simple silver and elegant.

His stomach flips. His head piecing together the small bits of information and coming to conclusions, seating plans and now a ring?

Oscar’s head moves to glance over his shoulder. “You’re doing the cake tasting this time.”

“I did the last one.” Lando says back.

“You picked chocolate, caramel, and more chocolate.”

“It was excellent.”

“It was diabetes.”

Lando laughs. “Okay, rude.”

Oscar’s body turns, coffee cup in hand. What they’re discussing is really what he thinks it is isn’t it? Oh God.

“So what do you want?” Lando asks.

Oscar’s own mouth answers before his mind can catch up. “Vanilla bean for the bottom tier. Lemon for the second. Maybe raspberry for the top?” Ew, even Oscar knows that sounds like a terrible combination.

Lando makes an exaggerated face. “Lemon?”

“It’s refreshing.”

“It’s disgusting.”

Oscar laughs again, and this time he feels his own hand slide into the front of Lando’s shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin. The intimacy of it makes his pulse spike. “You are such a child.”

Lando’s hand settles instinctively on Oscar’s waist. “Still marrying me though.”

So Oscar was right, this is what is happening. In this weird dream-like state, which is creeping him out immensely, he is getting married to Lando Norris.

“Obviously,” he responds. Then teasing in a way that feels private and treasured, “Unless you keep trying to put Max and Daniel on the same table.”

Oscar’s feels his body lean in, kissing Lando again. Oscar’s head his screaming at him because his mind knows exactly who Lando Norris is. Formula One driver, reigning world champion, public figure. He’s the man splashed across magazine covers and podium celebrations. He is not the man a guy like Oscar Piastri would ever end up marrying.

A moment later Oscar feels his own body crossing to the kitchen island and grabs a laptop from under a pile of papers. When he opens it, the screen glows with telemetry graphs, simulation modelling, lines of data, McLaren branding bright in the corner.

His stomach drops again. No, this has to be a dream, there’s no way. His eyes flick across the data instinctively, recognising sim output and performance comparisons, tyre degradation modelling, sector overlays. This is the kind of work he already loves. The kind of work he stays in the library until midnight for.

Oscar glances at the time in the corner of the screen and hears himself sigh. “I’ve got an online meeting soon. Andrea wants to discuss the latest sim data before the debrief.”

His own thoughts snag immediately. He is dreaming, he has to be. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamed of doing his dream job as an engineer in formula one. It’s definitely the first time he’s dreamed of Lando Norris like this however.

Lando’s hand reaches out, fingers brushing softly through Oscar’s hair. The tenderness of it makes something ache in his chest. “Try not to work too hard.”

Oscar smiles despite the panic still simmering beneath everything. “Says the Formula One driver.”

Lando smiles back.

And for one horrible second, Oscar wants this but before he can think any further, the room shifts, the bright lines of the kitchen begin to swim. The harbour outside seems to smear into light.

Lando’s expression changes instantly.

“Lan?” his voice sounds off, muted somehow.

Everything suddenly pulls sideways, Oscar feels the floor vanish beneath him. Then everything goes black.

…

The first thing Oscar feels is someone grabbing his shoulders and shaking him hard.

“Oscar, mate, wake up.”

His eyes fly open with a gasp, lungs dragging in air like he has been underwater. The library ceiling swims above him, harsh fluorescent lights cause him to screw his eyes shut again almost instantly.

For one awful second, everything overlaps, Lando’s apartment and his University library.

When he comes to completely, he is slumped awkwardly against the desk, cheek pressed to the wood, laptop screen still glowing faintly in front of him. Logan is crouched beside him, both hands still on his shoulders, eyes wide.

“There you are,” Logan breathes, somewhere between relieved and wildly excited. “Jesus Christ, I thought you’d cracked your head on the desk.”

Oscar blinks up at him, still trying to catch his breath. His head is pounding and his pulse is still racing. “What…” His voice comes out rough. “What happened?”

Logan stares at him for half a second then his entire face lights up with excitement, the kind of bright, almost manic energy that only Logan can somehow find in the middle of a possible global catastrophe. “Oh my God, you saw something too, didn’t you?”

Oscar pushes himself upright slowly, a hand braced against the desk. Around them, the library is chaos in a strangely subdued way. A few books have fallen from nearby shelves. Chairs are skewed at odd angles. Students are sitting up, dazed, some talking in hushed, disbelieving voices.

The lights are still on, the building is still standing. Everything looks normal except nothing feels normal.

Logan is practically vibrating. “Oscar.”

Oscar looks at him.

Logan leans in, eyes wide, like he is about to reveal the secret of the universe. “I think I just saw the future.”

Oscar’s stomach drops.

Logan barrels on. “No, seriously, listen to me.” He drags a hand through his hair, pacing the tiny space between desks now. “One second I’m here with you, trying to convince you that normal people actually go home and sleep occasionally,” he says, pointing accusingly at Oscar, “and then the next second I wake up somewhere completely different.”

Oscar stills.

Logan keeps going, words tripping over themselves in his excitement. “I was in this apartment,” he says. “Like, not our student accommodation but an apartment with massive windows, city skyline, proper expensive furniture. It looked like something out of one of those ridiculously wealthy YouTubers’ places.”

Despite everything, Oscar almost smiles. “That tracks for you.”

Logan ignores the comment completely. “And my phone,” he continues, eyes wide, “was going absolutely mental.”

Oscar frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Like buzzing every two seconds. Messages, emails, calendar alerts, social notifications, everything.” Logan leans even closer. “Oscar, I was working in motorsport media.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“I’m serious.” Logan gestures wildly with both hands now. “There was a laptop open on the kitchen bench with editing software up. Video files everywhere. Titles like Silverstone Breakdown and McLaren Upgrade Analysis.”

Oscar’s stomach twists slightly at the word McLaren.

Logan is too excited to notice. “There was an actual paddock pass on the counter,” he says, voice climbing in disbelief. “Like one of those proper all-access ones. My face was on the screen of the laptop, mate.”

Oscar stares.

Logan’s grin gets bigger. “I think I had my own show.”

Oscar exhales a quiet laugh.

“Seriously,” Logan says, almost bouncing in his seat now. “I was getting calls from producers, there were run sheets for a live segment, and one of the emails literally said Singapore Grand Prix preview panel.”

Oscar shakes his head slightly, still trying to process his own experience, but Logan’s excitement is infectious enough to cut through the fog. “That actually sounds very you.”

Logan points at him triumphantly. “Exactly.” He drops back into his chair, still grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. “I was basically being paid to talk about Formula One.”

Oscar lets out another breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That does sound like your dream.”

“It is my dream.” Logan leans forward again, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a conspiracy. “And the weirdest part?”

Oscar looks at him.

“It felt real,” Logan sighs. “Mate, what if it was some weird parallel universe?”

Oscar blinks.

Logan’s eyes get wider. “Or aliens.”

Oscar almost smiles.

“Or,” Logan says, clearly warming to his own theories now, “what if the explosion was like… some sort of time-space rupture?”

Oscar just stares at him.

Logan points upward dramatically. “A cosmic event.”

“Of course it was,” Oscar just humours him at this point.

“I’m being serious.”

“You sound insane.”

Logan grins. “Maybe. But tell me you didn’t see something weird?”

Oscar’s chest tightens. He hesitates just long enough for Logan to notice.

“Oh my God,” Logan says immediately, eyes widening all over again. “You did.”

Oscar looks away, gaze dropping to the scattered papers across the desk. “Yeah.” For some reason, the thought of saying any of that out loud makes his stomach twist. He doesn’t understand why, it would be easy enough to tell Logan. Logan would probably lose his mind, if anything. But something in Oscar resists it, something protective almost.

“What did you see?” Logan says immediately, eyes wide and pointing at him.

Oscar opens his mouth, closes it and then lies. “Nothing major,” he says carefully.

Logan narrows his eyes.

Oscar forces himself to sound casual. “I was just… working, I think.”

Logan blinks. “That’s it?”

Oscar shrugs. “Some engineering job. I was in an office, had a laptop full of spreadsheets. Nothing weird.”

Logan stares at him like he cannot decide whether to believe him. “That’s suspiciously boring.”

Oscar gives the smallest lift of one shoulder. “Sorry.”

Logan squints at him for another second, then seems to decide he has more important things to focus on. “Okay, but mine was definitely cooler.”

Oscar lets out a breath that is almost a laugh. “Obviously.”

Logan drops into the chair opposite him, still buzzing. “I’m telling you, this is going to be all over the news by the morning. Something happened, like, globally.”

Oscar nods absently. Logan is probably right but Oscar barely hears the rest of his theorising. His mind is still somewhere else. He doesn’t know why he lies. He doesn’t know why saying Lando’s name feels too intimate somehow, too real. Maybe it is because once he says it out loud, it becomes something he has to examine. Something he has to ask questions about. And right now that’s not something he wants to do, so he decides it’s not worth looking into why. At least not tonight.

…

The day after the explosion, the world feels as though it has stopped turning. Not literally, obviously, traffic still moves, flights still line up on departure boards, coffee shops still open. But everything underneath it feels suspended, like everyone on earth is moving through the same collective disbelief. Every television is tuned to the same thing, every news alert is the same headline. A worldwide press conference in which global scientists are going to address the unexplained event.

In Monaco, Lando sits on the sofa with his television turned louder than it needs to be, one leg tucked beneath him, coffee cooling untouched on the table in front of him. His phone is propped against a cushion beside him on FaceTime. Max’s face fills the screen from his apartment back in London, hair a mess, hoodie pulled on, looking equally wrecked. Neither of them had really slept, not after whatever the hell had happened last night and finding out that it wasn’t an isolated incident, billions of people all over the world had collapsed at the same time and experienced some sort of dream-like state.

The live press conference begins with a panel of scientists and government officials. Astrophysicists and neurologists and people with titles so long Lando barely catches them. Behind them, a graphic rotates across the giant screen, warped lines bending around what looks like a projected spacetime model.

A woman steps to the podium. “Following global analysis of the event, we are now prepared to offer a preliminary explanation.”

Lando leans forward. On his phone screen, Max does the same.

“The phenomenon appears to have caused a temporary conscious projection along an individual’s most probable temporal pathway, approximately five years into the future.”

“Five years,” Max echoes, disbelief evident in his voice.

The scientist is quick to stress that it is a projected future, a probable pathway. It is not guaranteed. “These pathways remain mutable. They are statistical likelihoods based on current trajectories, environments, and interpersonal developments.”

Lando exhales slowly. It sounds insane but yet it also makes complete sense when thinking about how real it felt.

He glances toward his phone. Max is watching with narrowed eyes.

“Well,” Max says dryly, “at least we know we’re not both losing it.”

Lando lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Feels a bit like that.”

The scientist continues speaking about altered probabilities, branching futures, the impact of changed choices. Lando barely hears it, all he can think about is the warmth of that apartment and the mystery man in his bed, the feel of his skin and lips on Lando’s.

Max notices the look on his face. “You’re buying this.”

Lando looks back at the television. “It sort of makes sense.”

Max snorts. “I guess.”

“It’s enough.”

…

Across London, Oscar watches the same press conference from the engineering common room, and everything about it sits wrong. Not the science of it, but the way the whole world immediately leaps to certainty.

Around him, students are already whispering, words floating around like ‘soulmates, fate, destiny, second chances.’ People are laughing nervously about seeing future weddings, babies, promotions. Someone near the window is already talking about how they’re going to text the person they saw in their projection.

Oscar hates it.

Logan meanwhile, looks fascinated. “This is unbelievable.”

Oscar folds his arms tighter.

The scientist on the tv screen keeps talking about projected interpersonal bonds. That phrase lodges under his skin, like relationships are already laid out, like his life with Lando already exists somewhere ahead of him. He doesn’t want that, at least not like this.

Logan turns to him. “You don’t buy it do you?”

Oscar exhales slowly. “No.”

“Why?”

Oscar stares at the screen. How is he meant to explain this without sounding completely irrational? Because the issue isn’t the science, it’s what comes after.

“If I ever end up with someone,” he says carefully, “I want it to be because we choose it.”

Logan studies him.

Oscar keeps going. “Not because two people think they have to follow some future they’ve already seen.” He pauses. “What if the only reason it happens is because now they think it’s meant to?” The words come out quieter than he expects, more vulnerable.

Logan’s expression softens, and then, almost instantly, sharpens again. His eyes narrow slightly as he turns more fully towards Oscar, all the earlier excitement draining into something far more focused. He knows him too well. “Oscar.”

Oscar keeps his gaze fixed on the screen.

The scientist on the television is still talking about probability pathways and temporal projections, but the words have long since blurred into background noise.

“Oscar,” Logan repeats, slower this time. “That’s not what this is about.”

Oscar’s shoulders tense. “What?”

Logan gives him a look that would almost be funny if Oscar’s stomach wasn’t currently somewhere near his shoes. “That,” Logan says, gesturing vaguely between them, “was not the reaction of someone who just saw that his future is him in a boring engineering job.”

Oscar says nothing.

Logan leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You lied.”

Oscar exhales slowly, eyes dropping to his hands folded in his lap.

Logan waits him out.

Finally, Oscar mutters, “I didn’t exactly lie.”

Logan lets out a short laugh. “Oh, brilliant. So we’re doing technicalities now.”

Oscar rubs a hand over his face. “It was engineering.”

Logan stares at him for a beat then his eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

Oscar closes his eyes. “Don’t.”

“You saw something way bigger than just work.”

Oscar groans quietly. “Logan.”

Logan leans forward so quickly his chair squeaks against the floor. “Who was it?”

Oscar’s heart kicks hard against his ribs. He hesitates.

Logan’s brows lift. “Oscar.”

Oscar swallows. “I saw…” He pauses, then exhales. “I was in Monaco.”

Logan blinks. “Okay.”

Oscar looks away. “In an apartment.”

“Whose apartment?”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He already knows where this is going, he can already feel Logan about to lose his mind. He should have kept lying but Logan is staring at him with that maddeningly expectant look. And Oscar has never been particularly good at lying to people who know him this well.

He exhales. “Lando Norris’.”

For one glorious second, Logan just stares. Processing. Then it lands and his entire face lights up. “No.”

Oscar winces. “Yes.”

“No way.”

Oscar drags both hands down his face. “Please keep your voice down.”

Logan ignores that completely. “You saw yourself in Lando Norris’ apartment?”

Several heads in the common room turn. Oscar shoots Logan a look that should probably kill him on the spot.

Logan lowers his voice immediately, but only in volume, not excitement. “Oscar.” He is grinning now, absolutely beaming.

Oscar hates him a little bit. “He was there,” Oscar admits quietly.

Logan’s mouth drops open, he looks moments away from physically vibrating out of his chair. “You were with him?”

Oscar’s silence is answer enough.

Logan slaps a hand over his mouth, then immediately drops it again. “No, no, no. Start from the beginning.”

Oscar glares. “I absolutely do not need to start from the beginning.”

“You absolutely do.”

Oscar lets out a long, suffering breath. He stares at the dark screen of the television for a moment, then finally gives in. “I woke up in his apartment,” he says quietly. “In Monaco.”

Logan leans in even closer. “And?”

Oscar can feel heat rising up his neck. “He was in bed with me.”

Logan’s eyes go comically wide. “No.”

Oscar closes his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

“Oh my God.”

“Please stop saying that.”

Logan is grinning so hard it’s honestly offensive. “Oscar, this is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“It didn’t happen to you.”

“It emotionally happened to me.”

Oscar shakes his head. “We kissed,” Oscar says before he can stop himself.

That finally renders Logan speechless for about two seconds. “You kissed Lando Norris?”

Oscar nods once, miserable. “A few times actually.”

“Oh my god…” Logan trails off, clearly trying not to be inappropriate in the middle of a university common room.

Oscar looks at him flatly.

Logan presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “This is insane.”

Oscar exhales. “There’s more.”

Logan’s grin somehow widens.

“We were engaged.”

Logan makes a noise so strangled that Oscar immediately looks around to make sure no one else heard. “Engaged?”

Oscar nods. “There was a ring. We had conversations about seating charts and cake tastings.”

Logan is staring at him like Christmas has come early. “Oscar.”

Oscar already hates whatever comes next.

 “You saw yourself engaged to Lando Norris.” He says it with so much delight that it sounds almost absurd.

Oscar groans. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

Logan blinks. “Why on earth would you not tell me?”

Oscar turns to him fully now. “Because look at you.”

Logan places a hand over his heart. “I am being extremely normal.”

Oscar just stares.

Logan relents first, grin softening slightly. “Okay, maybe not normal.”

“Definitely not normal.”

Logan leans back in his chair, still looking ridiculously pleased. “This explains literally everything.”

Oscar frowns. “What?”

Logan gestures at him. “The way you were talking just now.”

Oscar looks away.

Logan’s voice softens. “This isn’t about whether you believe the science.”

Oscar says nothing.

“It’s because now you’re worried that if you ever meet him…” Logan starts. “It won’t be because it’s real.”

Oscar swallows. “I don’t want to meet someone already carrying the weight of what we’re apparently supposed to become.” The words come easier now that it’s out. “I want it to mean something because we actually choose it.”

Logan studies him for a moment. Then, in very typical Logan fashion, the softness breaks into a grin again. “Counterpoint.”

Oscar sighs. “Logan.”

“It’s Lando Norris.”

Oscar lets out a helpless laugh despite himself. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m serious.” Logan leans forward again, excitement returning full force. “Future you has excellent taste.”

Oscar shakes his head, smiling despite every attempt not to. Because as ridiculous as Logan is, some of the tension in his chest has finally eased.

…

Three days later, McLaren finally clears essential travel following The Chronospatial Displacement Event as they’re calling it, and simulator work is to resume in a limited capacity. The world is still shaky, airports are in chaos and news channels are still running analysis segments twenty-four hours a day, but the sport of Formula One has to move forward eventually.

Lando lands in London that evening bound for the MTC. He barely makes it through the simulator debrief before texting Max. ‘you around?’

Max replies almost instantly. ‘always.’

They meet later that night at Max’s place. The second Max opens the door, one look at Lando’s face is enough. “You’ve been thinking about him.”

Lando exhales sharply.

Max steps aside. “Come in.”

Lando drops onto the sofa with the kind of exhaustion that’s less physical and more something under the skin.

Max sits opposite him.

For a moment, neither says anything. Then Lando says it. “I’ve been searching.”

Max’s expression doesn’t change much, like he already knows. “Right.”

Lando leans back, dragging a hand through his hair. “I know it sounds insane.”

“It does.”

Lando glares at him.

Max shrugs. “But it also makes sense.”

Lando looks up.

Max leans forward. “You saw someone who felt real. Then you found out there’s a possibility it could be real.”

Lando’s throat tightens. “Yeah.”

“And now you want to know if he is.”

Lando nods. “I’ve been checking engineering pathways. University partnerships. Graduate programmes.”

Max lifts a brow. “Mate.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean.” Max lets out a laugh. “You really have been searching.”

Lando drops his head back against the sofa. “I can’t stop thinking about him.” That is the first time he says it plainly.

Max watches him for a moment. “You still don’t know his name.”

Lando laughs once, humourless. “That’s the worst part.” Because it makes the whole thing feel even more ridiculous. He knows how the man laughs, how he kisses, the way he leans into Lando in the kitchen. But the most basic thing, a name, is the one thing he doesn’t know.

Max folds his arms. “And what if you find him?”

Lando goes quiet. He stares at the dark window, the London lights reflecting faintly back. “I don’t know, guess I haven’t really thought beyond actually finding him yet.”

Max nods slowly. “I’m going to say something, you’re probably not going to like it, but I need you to hear me out.”

Lando turns, a frown on his face.

Max keeps going. “What if going looking for him changes it? As in chances how things end up for you both?”

“What do you mean?” Lando whispers.

“I mean,” Max sighs. “What if you find him but then everything feels forced because you think that you’re supposed to end up engaged, not because you choose to be. But maybe if you meet him naturally, maybe then everything will happen as it’s meant to.”

“So I could ruin it?” Lando says quietly.

“Potentially,” Max shrugs. “Or you could let it just happen.”

Lando stares at him.

Max’s expression softens. “If it’s real, mate, it’ll happen.”

That thought sits with him long after he leaves, following him out into the cool London night and all the way back to his hotel. In the quiet of his room, with the city lights glowing beyond the window, Lando makes the decision to stop searching for answers and instead lets the uncertainty settle in his chest. Maybe Max is right. Maybe trying to chase a future he doesn’t fully understand only risks breaking something before it even begins. If this man is truly meant to find him, then he will.

…

Oscar submits his assignment just after two in the morning because despite the world going into absolute chaos, Imperial’s engineering department still decided that the assignment deadline stands.

The library is almost empty, only a handful of exhausted students left hunched over glowing laptop screens. His shoulders ache from hours spent bent over equations and simulation models, and his eyes burn behind his glasses, but there is a strange sort of satisfaction in finally clicking the submit button.

Logan, sprawled across the chair opposite him with an energy drink and absolutely no reason to still be awake, looks up as Oscar leans back. “Finally.”

Oscar exhales a tired laugh. “You say that like you’ve been suffering.”

“I have,” Logan says, deadpan. “I haven’t seen you outside of this library and the engineering building in six days.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, already shutting down his laptop. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’re deeply concerning.”

Despite himself, Oscar smiles. It feels good to be finished, to have something in his life return to normal, even if only slightly. Ever since the time jump, normal has been in short supply. Even now, as he packs up his things and walks back across campus with Logan under the cold London night sky, his mind keeps catching on flashes of Monaco sunlight and green eyes and a silver ring.

The next morning, he walks into class expecting the usual, a lecture, a project brief, probably another assignment. Instead, the room is buzzing. Students are talking in low, excited voices, and at the front of the lecture hall, Professor Hughes is standing beside the lectern with a folder in his hands and the sort of expression that immediately draws everyone’s attention.

Oscar slides into his usual seat beside Logan.

Logan glances over. “Why does this look ominous?”

Oscar shrugs.

Professor Hughes waits until the room settles. Once he gets everyone’s attention, he smiles knowingly. “I have something rather extraordinary to announce.”

The room quiets immediately.

Oscar straightens in his seat.

“It is not often that opportunities like this present themselves,” the professor begins, voice carrying easily through the lecture theatre. “In fact, in all my years teaching here, it has never happened before.”

A ripple of murmurs move through the room.

Logan sits up beside him.

Professor Hughes lifts the folder slightly. “As a result of a new partnership initiative, McLaren Formula One Team has offered a select number of engineering students the opportunity to attend an intensive training programme at the McLaren Technology Centre.”

The room erupts as the words land. Gasps and whispers echo around the room. Someone near the back audibly says, “No way.”

Oscar feels his stomach flip. For one bright, immediate second, excitement rushes through him. This is everything, this is exactly the sort of opportunity he’d come to London for, hands-on engineering work and real world motorsport applications. Exposure to one of the most elite performance environments in the world. It is the kind of thing that changes careers before they even properly begin.

Beside him, Logan is already half turned in his seat. “Oscar.”

Oscar can barely hear him.

Professor Hughes continues. “This will be a highly competitive programme. Only a small group will be selected based on academic performance, project work, and faculty recommendation.”

Oscar’s pulse is racing now, he can feel it in his throat.

Logan nudges his arm. “Oscar, you could meet Lando.”

Oscar’s breath catches so sharply it almost hurts. The excited murmur of the lecture hall fades into something distant and indistinct, voices blurring together beneath the sudden rush of blood pounding in his ears. His pulse, already racing, spikes so violently he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, in the tightness spreading across his chest.

Logan says it so casually, like it’s exciting, like this is just another incredible opportunity.

His stomach drops so fast it feels like missing a step in the dark. This isn’t theoretical anymore. This isn’t some strange, impossible future that he can keep tucked away in the back of his mind and pretend it doesn’t matter.

There is a real possibility that in a few weeks he could walk through the glass doors of the McLaren Technology Centre and come face to face with the man whose mouth he can still remember against his. The thought sends a sharp spike of panic through him.

Oscar grips his pen tighter, knuckles whitening.

Beside him, Logan is still talking, still clearly thrilled. “This is literally meant for you.”

Oscar doesn’t answer.

Professor Hughes opens the folder. “I will now read the names of the students selected for the initial intake.”

The room falls silent. Oscar’s heart pounds.

The professor begins reading names. The first few names don’t mean anything to Oscar. The professor continues to read out the names and Oscar can’t decide whether he feels disappointment or relief that his name hasn’t been called yet.

“Logan Sargeant.”

Beside him Logan turns to Oscar with wide, disbelieving eyes, a grin already breaking across his face. “No way,” he breathes, equal parts stunned and thrilled.

“And lucky last,” the professor continues. “Oscar Piastri.”

The sound of his own name seems to echo. He barely registers the heads turning around him, the whispered congratulations.

Logan grabs his arm. “Oscar!” His voice is bright with disbelief and excitement. “You got it, we both got it.”

Oscar blinks. He should be thrilled, and he is, a part of him really is. This is huge, this could be career defining. But underneath it, there is that same cold twist in his stomach, because now the possibility is no longer abstract. Now there is a real chance that he walks into the McLaren Technology Centre and comes face to face with Lando.

Professor Hughes is still speaking, outlining schedules, start dates, expectations, Oscar barely hears any of it.

Logan leans closer, voice low. “This is incredible.”

Oscar finally looks at him. “Yeah.” The word comes out quieter than Logan’s excitement deserves, but Logan either doesn’t notice or chooses not to.

“This is insane,” he whispers, leaning in closer so the professor at the front of the room can’t hear him over the continued explanation of dates and transport details. “Do you realise what this means?”

Oscar’s stomach twists again because, unfortunately, yes, he realises exactly what it means.

Logan nudges his arm again, eyes bright with barely contained excitement. “We are literally going to meet your future husband.”

Oscar nearly chokes. He turns so fast to glare at him that Logan has to bite back a laugh. “Do not,” Oscar hisses under his breath.

Logan raises both hands in mock innocence. “What? I’m just saying.”

“You are absolutely not saying that.”

Logan leans back in his seat, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Oscar, mate, this is unbelievable.” His voice drops into an exaggerated whisper. “You had a time jump vision where you’re engaged to Lando Norris and now McLaren is inviting both of us to the MTC. If that’s not the universe doing something deeply weird, I don’t know what is.”

Oscar presses a hand briefly to his forehead, heat creeps up the back of his neck. “Can you please stop calling him that?”

Logan’s brows lift. “What, future husband?”

Oscar shoots him a look. “Yes.”

Logan’s grin turns wicked. “Fine.” He pauses just long enough to make Oscar think he might actually drop it. “We’re going to meet your fiancé.”

Oscar closes his eyes. “Logan.”

“I’m kidding,” Logan says, though the smile never leaves his face. “Mostly.”

Oscar exhales slowly, trying to will the panic in his chest back down.

Beside him, Logan softens just a fraction. “Hey,” he says more quietly. “I know this is a lot.”

Oscar glances at him.

Logan gives him a small, understanding smile. “But it’s also incredible. Career wise, this is huge. And whatever happens with… that side of it,” he says, deliberately not saying Lando’s name this time, “we deal with it when it happens.”

Oscar nods, though the knot in his stomach doesn’t ease. Logan is right, this is incredible. It’s everything he’d come to London for, everything he’s working toward. He chooses to focus on that for now.

…

A month later, the McLaren Technology Centre rises out of the morning mist like something unreal. Even from the car park, it looks less like a workplace and more like a monument, all curved glass and silver lines, the lake in front of it perfectly still beneath the grey English sky.

Students around Oscar are already murmuring in excited voices, craning their necks for a better look as they follow the faculty liaison towards the main entrance.

Oscar feels sick.

This is the sort of place he’s dreamed about since he first started caring about engineering beyond equations in textbooks. A place where ideas become machines, where data becomes speed, where the best minds in the world work towards tenths and thousandths. Normally, he would be beside himself. He should be beside himself.

Beside him, Logan bumps his shoulder lightly. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Oscar adjusts the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Logan gives him a look that says liar but mercifully doesn’t push.

Inside, the building is somehow even more overwhelming, bright white floors, glass walls, papaya accents threaded through sleek, modern spaces, and large screens displaying live data and historical race footage. People move through the corridors with quiet purpose, badges clipped neatly to jackets, tablets in hand, conversations half-whispered in the language of performance and precision.

Oscar’s heart pounds. Every time he hears footsteps behind him, he glances over his shoulder. Every time a papaya-clad figure rounds a corner, his stomach drops.

For the first few days of the programme he develops a system, stay with the group, never linger alone, keep his head down and be forgettable, invisible. It becomes almost absurd how carefully he moves through the building. He times bathroom breaks to avoid busy corridor windows. He lets Logan speak for both of them whenever they’re introduced to staff. He positions himself in the back of every room, half-hidden behind taller students and presentation screens.

Logan notices by lunchtime on the second day. “Oscar.”

Oscar keeps his eyes on the simulation monitor in front of him. “What?”

“You’re acting like there’s a sniper in the building.”

Oscar exhales slowly. “Can we not do this here?”

Logan leans closer, lowering his voice. “You know this isn’t sustainable.”

The thing is Oscar knows that but every time he imagines turning a corner and seeing Lando Norris standing there, his chest tightens so sharply he can barely breathe.

By the end of the first week, Oscar almost convinces himself he’s overreacting. Neither Lando nor Daniel have been seen around the engineering areas. Most of the programme is contained to development floors, simulation labs, and meeting rooms. Maybe he can get through this week without seeing Lando.

It’s now late Thursday afternoon and the group has just finished a session in one of the telemetry analysis rooms, and Oscar volunteers to return a set of printed simulation sheets to the engineering office because it gives him an excuse to step away from the crowd for a minute.

The corridor is quiet. His trainers squeak softly against the polished floor as he rounds the corner too quickly and walks straight into someone. The papers slip from his hands instantly, fluttering across the floor.

“Oh, shit, sorry!”

Oscar freezes, that voice registering as familiar almost instantly. Slowly, he looks up and takes in the sight of Lando Norris standing in front of him. Green eyes, curls messy and looking impossibly soft and small in a large McLaren hoodie.

For a moment the whole corridor seems to narrow until it’s just the two of them, the scattered papers at their feet, and the sound of Oscar’s pulse thundering in his ears. He can only stare, rooted to the spot, as the reality of finally standing in front of Lando settles over him like a wave.

…

Lando blinks once and his eyes widen as his entire expression changes. For Lando, it feels like the ground shifts beneath him. The person standing in front of him is his mystery guy. Only now he’s standing in front of him in the middle of the MTC with papers scattered around their feet and a look on his face like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.

For one bright, immediate second, Lando feels something almost like relief. The last month of searching, of second-guessing himself, of wondering whether Max is right and he’d imaged everything, falls away.

He smiles before he can stop himself. “Hi.”

The guy takes a small step back. “Sorry,” he says quickly, crouching to gather the papers. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Lando crouches too, immediately reaching for the scattered sheets. “It’s alright.”

Their hands brush over the same page, Lando feels the spark that shoots up his arm at the touch. The guys jerks his back and Lando feels the warmth in his expression falter slightly. “I’m Lando,” he says, carefully.

The guy, his guy, is crouched opposite him, carefully gathering the rest of the scattered sheets with movements that look almost too precise, like he’s concentrating on that instead of the fact that they’re both kneeling in the middle of the corridor, knees almost touching.

Lando’s heart is still racing. Up close, the details hit even harder than they did that morning, the wide brown eyes, the soft swoop of hair falling over his forehead, the faint flush high on his cheeks that deepens every time their eyes accidentally meet.

Lando hands him the last of the pages. “Sorry about that.”

The guy takes the papers from him quickly, fingers brushing his again before pulling back almost immediately. “It’s fine,” he responds, a little too clipped.

Lando tries to smile through the sudden knot of confusion in his chest. “I’m Lando,” he says again, because somehow saying it feels ridiculous when the whole world obviously knows who he is, but also because it feels like an opening. Like maybe if they can just get past the weirdness of colliding in the corridor, something will settle.

The guy looks at him for half a second too long. “I know.”

Something about the way he says it makes Lando’s stomach twist. It feels loaded, like there’s something sitting underneath the words that Lando can’t quite get to.

Lando lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Yeah, sorry. Stupid thing to say.”

The guy’s mouth twitches, but it doesn’t quite become a smile.

The silence that follows is painfully awkward. Lando isn’t usually bad at this, talking to people, meeting people, making conversation. But this feels different, like there’s more weight to what he says. He clears his throat. “You’re here with the training programme?”

The guy nods once. “Yeah.”

Lando’s confusion deepens. “Engineering?”

Another nod. “Mm.”

This is going so much worse than anything he’d imagined. He shifts slightly, leaning back against the wall so he doesn’t seem like he’s crowding him. “How’re you finding it?”

“Good.” His responses are still clipped, still careful, still with that same strange tension pulled tight across his shoulders.

Lando frowns, trying to work out what he’s missing. Is he just nervous? Starstruck? Or is it something else? Because there’s something about the way the guy looks at him, like recognition layered under panic, that makes no sense.

Lando tries again, softer this time. “I’m really glad to meet you.” He finds that he means it.

For the first time, the guy properly looks at him. There’s something in his expression then, something almost guilty, that catches Lando off guard. “Thanks.”

Lando waits, hoping for something more, a name, an introduction, anything. But it never comes, instead, the guy shifts the papers higher against his chest like a shield.

The corridor suddenly feels too quiet, too full of everything unsaid. Lando glances down at the papers in his hands, mostly simulation printouts and session notes, but there’s nothing on the visible pages that helps.

“Well,” Lando says finally, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice, “I’ll let you get back to it.”

The guy nods. “Yeah.” Then, after a pause that feels almost painful, he says, “Sorry.”

Lando blinks. “For what?”

The guy’s eyes flick up to his, wide and unreadable. “Nothing.” And then he’s gone. He turns too quickly, trainers squeaking softly against the polished floor as he heads down the corridor without another word.

Lando just stands there, confused as hell. The corridor stretches quiet around him. He stares after the retreating figure until he disappears around the corner. What the hell was that? For the past month, Lando had let himself imagine this moment more times than he wants to admit. Instead, it felt like he had walked into the middle of a conversation he didn’t even know he was having. And now he has a real person attached to that impossible future, a real face, real eyes, real nerves, and somehow he’s left with less certainty than before. All he knows is that whatever just happened in that corridor, it definitely doesn’t feel normal and Lando can’t stop thinking about why.

…

Lando is barely through Max’s front door before the words are out of him. “I met him.”

Max is halfway through opening a packet of crisps, freezes and slowly looks up. “I’m sorry, what?”

Lando drags a hand through his hair, still feeling wrung out from the awkwardness of the afternoon. “The guy, from the time jump, my mystery fiancé guy. I met him.”

Max’s eyes widen. “No way.”

Lando drops onto the sofa and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Yeah.”

“And?”

Lando turns his head to look at him. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

Max sits down opposite him, packet forgotten. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“It was weird.” Lando exhales sharply. “He was there with the training group. We literally ran into each other in the corridor. It was him, Max, it was definitely him.”

Max’s expression softens slightly. “Okay.”

“But he was… off.” Lando frowns, trying to find the right words. “Nervous, I guess. Really awkward, like he didn’t want to be talking to me.”

Max lifts a brow. “Could be because you’re Lando Norris.”

Lando lets out a humourless laugh. “Maybe but it felt like more than that.” He looks down at his hands. “I still don’t know his name.”

That makes Max wince. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” Lando stares at the floor for a moment. “I kept thinking he was going to say something, like there was something right there, but then he just apologised and left.”

Max studies him for a beat. “And now you’re overthinking it.”

Lando gives him a flat look. “Correct.”

Meanwhile, at Imperial’s student accommodation, Oscar barely gets through the door of his and Logan’s apartment before Logan is on him. “Well?”

Logan is sitting cross-legged on their couch, clearly having been waiting for him, laptop abandoned and full attention locked on Oscar’s face.

Oscar drops his bag on the kitchen bench. “We met.”

Logan’s entire face lights up. “You met him.”

Oscar groans softly, already regretting saying anything.

Logan sits up straighter. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Logan stares at him. “Oscar.”

Oscar sighs and leans back against the desk. “I bumped into him in the corridor.”

Logan’s eyes widen. “Like physically?”

“Yes, Logan, physically.”

“Oh my God.”

Oscar rubs a hand over his face. “Can you stop saying that?”

“No.” Logan points at him. “What did he say?”

Oscar hesitates. “He introduced himself.”

Logan’s jaw drops. “Lando Norris introduced himself to you.”

Oscar gives him a look. “You know what I mean.”

Logan grins. “So what did you talk about?”

Oscar’s silence is apparently all the answer Logan needs, his grin slowly disappears. “You didn’t.”

Oscar looks away.

“Oh my God, Oscar.”

“Please stop.”

Logan throws his hands in the air. “No, absolutely not. You literally run into your future fiancé and you run away?”

Oscar winces. “When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad.”

Oscar sinks onto the edge of the bed, guilt already curling in his stomach again. “It was awkward.”

Logan softens a little. “Awkward how?”

Oscar exhales slowly. “He was nice.” That, somehow, makes the guilt worse. “He said he was glad to meet me.”

Logan’s expression shifts. “Oh.”

Oscar nods, staring at the floor. “And I basically acted like I wanted to be anywhere else.”

For once, Logan doesn’t immediately tease him instead, he looks almost sympathetic. “Oscar.”

Oscar presses his palms together between his knees. “I didn’t know what to do.”

The room goes quiet then Logan, and because he’s still Logan, leans forward slightly and says, “So… was he as hot in person?”

Oscar looks up, horrified. “Logan.”

Logan grins. “I’m taking that as a yes.”

…

Lando walks into the MTC the next day knowing it’s the last day of the programme. The last day there’s a guarantee, at least for now, that his man is going to be breathing the same air as him. If Lando doesn’t do something now, there’s every chance he never sees him again.

That thought follows him through the debrief he only half listens to. Every time he walks a corridor, his eyes lift instinctively. Every brown haired student at the edge of his vision makes his stomach tighten for half a second before logic catches up.

He doesn’t go looking for him but the thought circles anyway, should he? Would it be weird if he did? More weird than yesterday already was?

By late afternoon he still hasn’t seen him. Then one of the programme coordinators catches him just outside the simulator suite. “Hey, any chance you could do one last Q&A with the uni students before they head off?”

Lando blinks, this feels like the universe having a laugh. “Uh yeah,” he says, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah, of course.”

The briefing room is already mostly full when he walks in. A low buzz of conversation settles into excited murmurs the moment the students notice him. Lando slips into the easy public smile that usually comes so naturally. His eyes immediately start scanning the room. He finds him at the back, almost half-hidden behind a blonde guy. He’s standing near the wall with his arms folded across his chest, looking like he’s trying to disappear into it.

Lando’s chest tightens.

The blonde guy, however, looks positively delighted, he’s looking back and forth between Lando and the man like he’s just won the lottery.

He steps to the front and starts the Q&A. The usual questions come first, what’s the biggest adjustment between simulator work and real track conditions? How much driver feedback impacts setup? What race weekend routines actually look like?

Lando answers automatically, years of media and fan-facing events making the rhythm second nature. Every now and then his gaze drifts to the back of the room, even now, just the sight of him does something strange to Lando’s chest.

Then one of the coordinators starts asking the students to introduce themselves before their final questions. Lando’s focus sharpens as students start to introduce themselves. It gets to the blonde guy who says his name is “Logan Sargeant.”

Then the coordinator turns to his mystery man. “And you?”

The man straightens slightly. For one awful, ridiculous second, Lando realises he’s actually holding his breath.

“Uh, Oscar Piastri.”

Lando feels something in his chest loosen and tighten all at once. Oscar, he repeats it silently in his head. The name feels immediately familiar, like it’s been waiting there all along.

When the Q&A wraps up, the room dissolves into movement. Students gather their bags and faculty members start ushering them towards the exits. The noise rises, chairs scraping softly across polished floors.

Lando glances at the clock. If he lets Oscar walk out now, there’s no guarantee he ever sees him again. “Hey, just give me a sec,” he says to one of the staff members trying to pull him into another conversation.

He slips out the side door of the briefing room and heads around the corridor loop that leads towards the main atrium. The students usually filter that way. He catches sight of Logan’s blond hair disappearing around the corner and quickens his pace.

“Oscar?” The name feels strange yet right on his tongue.

No answer. By the time he reaches the atrium, it’s chaos. Groups of students saying their goodbyes, university staff herding people towards buses, engineers crossing through with laptops and coffees. There’s too many people and too much movement. He scans the crowd but there’s no sign of Oscar.

By the time he reaches the front entrance, the bus doors have already closed and are driving off. His heart sinks. He stands there for a long moment, staring through the glass as the bus disappears down the road. For the second time in two days, Lando is left standing still with more questions than answers.

…

By the time Oscar and Logan get back to their apartment, the sun is already starting to dip, washing London in that soft grey-blue light that makes everything feel quieter than it really is.

The whole ride home, Oscar barely says a word. He sits by the window on the bus, headphones around his neck but not actually on, staring out at the blur of buildings and lights slipping past while Logan watches him from the seat opposite.

The front door clicks shut behind them. Logan drops his bag by the couch and turns immediately. “Alright.”

Oscar doesn’t look up.

“There is no way we’re doing the whole silent tortured thing,” Logan says, his arms crossed over his chest.

Oscar toes off his shoes slowly, movements deliberate, tired. “I’m just exhausted Logan.”

Logan folds his arms. “That’s not true.”

Oscar lets out a slow breath. “It’s been a long week.”

“Okay that one is true,” Logan says, “but it’s not what this is.”

Oscar’s shoulders tense. He hates that Logan knows him this well.

Logan steps a little closer. “You’ve been in your head since yesterday.”

Oscar turns away, heading for the kitchen as if maybe a glass of water can save him from this conversation. “It doesn’t matter.”

Logan lets out a short laugh. “Right, because the fact that your future fiancé finally learns your name definitely doesn’t matter.”

Oscar closes his eyes. “Can you not.”

Logan’s expression softens slightly. “Oscar.”

Oscar grips the edge of the kitchen bench. Seeing Lando again today, hearing him talk, catching the way Lando looked for him afterwards when the session ends, all of it has been sitting like a stone in his chest for hours. And underneath all of it is the guilt because he’d run, again.

“I just…” Oscar starts, then stops.

Logan waits.

Oscar stares down at the countertop. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.” The admission comes out quieter than he means it to.

Logan’s voice gentles. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Oscar lets out a humourless laugh. “That’s not true.” He turns then, frustration and panic and exhaustion all tangled together. “If I talk to him, then suddenly this whole thing becomes real.”

“It already is real.”

“That’s exactly the problem.” The words come sharper now because he can’t seem to make Logan understand. “I don’t know if he’s talking to me because he actually wants to know me, or because of what we both saw.”

Logan opens his mouth.

Oscar keeps going. “And I don’t know if I even want to know the answer.” Then Oscar shakes his head, already feeling the conversation closing in around him. “I can’t do this right now.” He grabs his bag from where he drops it beside the door.

“Oscar.”

“I just want to be alone.”

And before Logan can stop him, Oscar disappears down the hallway and closes his bedroom door behind him. The click of the lock is louder than it should be.

Logan stands in the kitchen for a long moment, staring after him. He exhales sharply. “Oh, for God’s sake.” He drags a hand through his hair and reaches for his phone. If Oscar is determined to be an idiot about this, then clearly someone sensible has to step in.

Ten minutes later, Logan is sprawled across the sofa, Instagram open, typing into a DM window. ‘hi, this might be a bit weird but are you the max fewtrell that’s friends with Lando Norris?’

The reply comes suspiciously fast. ‘depends who’s asking.’

Logan snorts. ‘my name’s logan, I’m Oscar Piastri’s best mate. I’m hoping you know who Oscar is.’

‘Yeah I know who Oscar is’

‘I’m hoping we can talk about their time jump situation?’

It takes a couple of minutes before Max’s response comes through. ‘oh thank god. finally someone sane. I’m about ready to throttle Lando’

Logan laughs out loud. ‘literally my thought exactly’

Three dots appear, then disappear, then reappear again. ‘lando has been walking around like someone kicked his puppy for two days’

Logan shakes his head. ‘oscar’s hiding in his room like a victorian heroine’

The reply is instant. ‘right. so intervention?’

Logan grins. ‘exactly’

The conversation snowballs from there. Between the two of them, it becomes abundantly clear that their best friends are equally hopeless. Lando is confused and disappointed. Oscar is panicking and avoiding. Neither of them is actually talking to the other. It’s honestly embarrassing.

Max sends through a message a few minutes later. ‘silverstone is next weekend. i can get passes’

Logan sits up straighter. Now that is useful. ‘that could work’

‘and we get them alone’

Logan’s grin widens. ‘now you’re speaking my language’

The plan starts to form quickly. Paddock passes for Oscar and Logan under the guise of a thank you from McLaren for the training programme. Something Oscar would think is completely plausible. And then, once they’re there, Max handles Lando, Logan handles Oscar. They’d separate them from the crowd and steer them towards the same place. Let nature do what the universe has apparently been trying to do for months.

By the time Logan finally puts his phone down, there’s a deeply satisfied look on his face. If Oscar and Lando are determined to ruin this through sheer stubbornness, then he and Max are absolutely not above meddling.

From behind Oscar’s closed bedroom door, there’s still no sound. Logan glances down the hallway and shakes his head fondly. “Honestly,” he mutters to himself, “hopeless.”

…

The panic starts before they’ve even left their apartment. Oscar is standing in the middle of the kitchen in jeans and a McLaren quarter zip from the university programme, staring at the paddock pass on the bench like it’s a summons. His stomach has been in knots since the email comes through. Now, with Silverstone only an hour away, it feels worse.

Logan is in the living room, pulling on a jacket and trying, with limited success, not to look like someone who is absolutely buzzing. “Oscar?” No answer.

Logan appears in the doorway. Oscar is still staring at the pass.

“You’re dressed,” Logan says carefully, “which is a promising start.”

Oscar lets out a breath that sounds halfway to a laugh and halfway to a breakdown. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Logan’s expression shifts immediately. He steps fully into the kitchen. “What do you mean?”

Oscar drags a hand through his hair. “I mean I don’t want to go.”

Logan goes quiet.

Oscar turns away, bracing his hands against the bench. “Because what if he’s there?” It sounds ridiculous the second it leaves his mouth. Of course he’ll be there, it’s his bloody home race. “What if I see him and it all just… happens?”

Logan leans against the opposite side of the bench. “Oscar.”

Oscar shakes his head. “No, listen. I mean it.” He turns toward Logan. “What if I go and I’m immediately back in my head about the time jump and suddenly every conversation feels like we’re just acting out something we already know?” He keeps going before he can stop himself. “I don’t want to become some version of myself because I think I’m supposed to.”

Logan studies him carefully.

Oscar’s voice drops. “And what if he only talks to me because of it too?”

Logan is quiet for a moment. Then he says, very softly, “You know that’s not how choice works, right?”

Oscar blinks.

Logan unfolds his arms, stepping closer. “What you saw wasn’t a contract.”

Oscar says nothing.

“It wasn’t a promise,” Logan continues. “It wasn’t fate handing you a script.”

Oscar looks down at the pass. “It feels like it.”

Logan shakes his head. “No. It feels like possibility.”

That makes Oscar look up.

Logan steps closer. “You saw one version of what your life could look like.” His voice is steady now, less teasing, more grounded. “But it only means something if you still choose it.”

The words land harder than Oscar expects.

Logan keeps going. “You’re acting like going to Silverstone means saying yes to that future. It doesn’t,” Logan says. “It means going to a Grand Prix.” A beat. “And maybe talking to someone you already want to know.”

Oscar’s breath catches slightly.

Logan notices. “There it is.”

Oscar frowns. “What?”

“That face.” Logan points at him. “The one you make every time you pretend this is just about the time jump.”

Oscar looks away. That’s the part he hasn’t wanted to admit, mostly to himself. That beneath all the fear and overthinking, there is something much simpler. He wants to know Lando.

Logan’s voice softens. “Oscar, if you meet him and there’s nothing there, then fine.”

Oscar looks back at him.

“But if there is,” Logan says carefully, “don’t let fear of what it might become stop you from finding out what it actually is.”

Logan’s right, he’s been so focused on avoiding the future that he never really considers the present. This doesn’t have to mean anything more than a conversation.

Logan gives him a small smile. “You don’t have to marry him today.”

Despite himself, Oscar laughs. “That’s reassuring.”

Logan grins. “Good. Because I’m not buying a suit on such short notice.”

Oscar shakes his head, smiling now in spite of the panic still fluttering in his chest. He looks back down at the pass and picks it up from the bench.

Logan’s smile widens. “That’s my boy.”

Oscar exhales slowly. “Let’s go then.”

Logan claps his hands together once. “Excellent.” Then, with a deliberately innocent expression, “And if you happen to talk to Lando Norris…”

Oscar gives him a look.

Logan lifts both hands. “I’m just saying, give it a chance.”

…

The whole Silverstone paddock seems to vibrate around Oscar, a constant rush of sound and motion that sits just under his skin, the distant scream of engines on track, mechanics moving with practised urgency, the swell of crowd noise rolling in from the grandstands every time a car flashes past. The air smells faintly of fuel, rubber, and coffee from the hospitality unit behind him.

It should be easy to lose himself in it. This is exactly the sort of environment he usually loves, the engineering, the logistics, the precision of it all. Instead, every step through the McLaren paddock comes with the same thought looping in his head. What if he’s here?

Logan is practically bouncing. “This is unreal.”

Oscar forces a small smile. “Yeah.”

They spend the first part of the day moving through the paddock in a small group, shown the engineering suite, the hospitality space, a carefully managed glimpse into the garage operations. Oscar tries very hard to focus on the data screens, the tyre strategy boards, the way engineers communicate in short, efficient bursts. Anything but the possibility of turning around and finding green eyes on him.

By early afternoon, they have some free time before qualifying starts. Logan checks his phone and frowns. “Oh.”

Oscar glances over. “What?”

Logan squints at the screen. “One of the coordinators wants to see me. Something about the transport timings for later.”

Oscar barely even thinks about it. “Okay.”

Logan claps a hand against his shoulder. “Five minutes.” Then he disappears into the crowd.

Oscar steps aside near the back of the hospitality unit, trying to look like someone who belongs there and not someone very much hoping to remain unnoticed. The track roars again in the distance, a car in the formula two category goes through the final corner, and the crowd erupts. Oscar turns instinctively towards the sound.

A mechanic pushing a trolley stacked with equipment cases rounds the corner too quickly near the side access lane. One of the wheels catches awkwardly on a cable cover and the whole thing tips. A hard plastic case slides free and skids straight across the polished concrete towards the open service step where Oscar is standing.

He moves without thinking. He catches the edge of it just before it goes over, the weight jolting through his arms hard enough to nearly pull him down with it.

“Careful.” The voice comes at the exact same time as a second pair of hands catches the other side. Warm fingers brush against his.

Oscar’s breath catches. He looks up and meets the green eyes of Lando Norris. The noise of Silverstone drops away around them.

Lando looks just as startled as he lets out a breathless laugh. “Well,” he says, “this is slightly less awkward than the corridor.”

Oscar stares at him for a moment. Then, against all odds, he laughs too. A short, surprised sound that seems to break something open between them.

The mechanic apologises profusely, takes the case back, and disappears down the service lane. Leaving Oscar and Lando standing there in the aftermath.

Lando steps back first, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I uh, didn’t realise you would be here.”

Oscar swallows. “Yeah, I thought maybe I’d managed to avoid seeing you.”

Lando’s brows lift. The honesty seems to catch him off guard.

Oscar immediately regrets saying it and winces.

But Lando doesn’t look offended, he just studies him. “Can I ask you something?”

Oscar’s stomach twists. He nods.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“At the MTC.” Lando’s expression is careful, open in a way that feels almost too vulnerable for someone the whole world thinks they know. “You looked terrified every time I was near you.”

Oscar opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Lando keeps going, quieter now. “If I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’d rather know. So I can apologise.”

The guilt hits like a wave. Oscar shakes his head immediately. “No.”

Lando stills. “No?”

“No.” Oscar exhales shakily. “It’s not that.”

Lando waits. The crowd roars again as another car goes past, but they barely seem to hear it.

Oscar looks away towards the track, then back. Maybe this is the moment, if he doesn’t say it now, he never will. “I remember.” The words are almost swallowed by the noise around them.

Lando hears them anyway and everything in his expression changes. “You remember.”

Oscar nods. “All of it.”

Lando lets out a slow breath. “I wasn’t sure.”

Oscar laughs softly, humourless. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Lando tilts his head slightly.

Oscar drags a hand through his hair. “I’ve been panicking because I don’t know what this is supposed to mean.” The words come faster now, once they start. “I didn’t want us talking just because we think that’s what we’re supposed to do.”

Lando’s expression softens.

Oscar looks down. “I didn’t want to meet you already carrying the ending.” The honesty of it feels almost unbearable. “I want to know that if anything ever happens between us, it’s because we choose it.”

Lando looks at him for a long moment. Then says quietly, “I want that too.”

Oscar looks up.

Lando steps a little closer, enough that the space between them feels intentional rather than accidental. “I’m not trying to recreate that future.”

The words settle something deep in Oscar’s chest.

“I just…” Lando exhales. “I’d like to know you.”

Oscar feels the tightness in his chest ease for what feels like the first time in weeks.

“There’s no rush,” Lando adds.

Oscar nods. “No rush.”

Another cheer rises from the grandstand, the sound folds around them.

Lando smiles then, small and warm. “If you’d like, I’m still going to be around for a few days after the race. I was wondering if… if you’d like to get dinner with me?”

Oscar blinks.

Lando huffs a nervous laugh. “If you want.”

Oscar smiles, it suddenly doesn’t feel like destiny, it just feels like a boy asking another boy to dinner at a race weekend. “Yeah okay.”

Lando’s face brightens immediately. “Yeah?”

Oscar nods again. “I’d like that.”

For the first time since the world changed, the future doesn’t feel like something closing in around him. It feels like something they’re allowed to build themselves.

…

From where they’re standing near the edge of the McLaren hospitality unit, Logan and Max have a perfect view. Perfect, in this case, means just far enough away to not be obvious and just close enough to catch every expression.

Logan is practically vibrating. Max, to his credit, is doing a much better job of pretending this is all completely normal. But even he can’t quite hide the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“There,” Logan whispers, like they’re watching wildlife and not their best friends awkwardly circle the same feelings for weeks.

Max follows his line of sight. Oscar and Lando are standing off to the side of the paddock service lane, the chaos of Silverstone moving around them in a blur of mechanics, engineers, and team staff. But they only seem to see each other.

Lando says something.

Oscar’s face, which is usually so carefully composed, shifts into something softer. His shoulders drop. The tension Logan sees him carrying all morning finally starts to ease. Then Oscar actually smiles.

Logan grabs Max’s forearm. “Oh my God.”

Max snorts softly. “They’re talking.”

“They’re smiling.”

As if on cue, Lando ducks his head slightly, grinning at something Oscar says. There’s a faint flush high across his cheeks, just visible even from here. Oscar’s ears are pink too.

Logan turns to Max with an expression of vindication. “I’m a genius.”

Max lifts a brow. “I believe you’ll find this was a joint operation.”

Logan waves a dismissive hand. “Fine. We’re geniuses.”

They both look back. Lando is standing a little closer now, the kind of closeness people fall into when they forget to be careful. Oscar says something quieter. Lando’s expression softens. And then, unmistakably, both of them smile in that slightly helpless way people do when something has finally clicked into place.

Max lets out a quiet, satisfied breath. “Right.”

Logan glances at him. “I think we did it.”

Max folds his arms, trying and failing to look neutral. “I just prefer Lando when he’s not moping.”

Logan laughs. “Sure.”

Before Max can respond, a familiar mechanic rounds the corner pushing the same equipment trolley from earlier. He slows as he spots them and immediately grins. “Well?”

Logan lights up. “You’re a legend.”

The mechanic laughs. “Did it work?”

Max reaches into the tote bag at his feet and pulls out a neatly folded piece of signed McLaren merchandise, a team cap and one of Lando’s signed race weekend shirts. “As promised.”

The mechanic’s eyes widen. “Thank you so much.”

Max hands it over with a grin. “Of course.”

The mechanic takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass. “My daughter is going to lose her mind.”

“And thank you man,” Logan says. “That was absolutely fantastic.”

The mechanic shakes his head, still smiling. “Happy to help, mate. If it means making my teenage daughter this happy, I’d have rolled that trolley into half the paddock.”

Logan bursts out laughing. “That is incredible.”

The mechanic looks over towards Oscar and Lando, still deep in conversation. “Well worth it, by the look of things.”

All three of them turn. Oscar is smiling again. Lando’s face has gone pink in a way that Max hasn’t seen since he’s about nineteen.

Max’s smile softens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Looks like it.”

Logan folds his arms, deeply pleased with himself. “Honestly, I should start charging for matchmaking services.”

Max gives him a look. “Don’t push it.”

But neither of them can stop smiling as they watch the two boys, flushed and grinning and finally, finally talking.

…

12 Months Later

 Lando spends the entire week convinced he is not going to make it. Every time he opens the calendar on his phone, it feels like the universe is laughing at him. Media filming on Thursday night, a sponsor breakfast early Friday, a simulator session that overruns by nearly an hour, a commercial shoot wedged into the middle of the day because someone in marketing apparently decides drivers do not need sleep.

And then, crammed into what little space he doesn’t have, a flight to London in the afternoon, then straight from the airport to Imperial, and if everything goes perfectly, he gets there with minutes to spare.

The problem is, nothing in Formula One ever goes perfectly. By Friday morning he has already sent Oscar two messages, both deliberately crafted to sound disappointed. ‘good luck today ❤️ proud of you. send me photos?’

The guilt hits immediately, he hates lying to Oscar. The thing is, as of two weeks ago, Lando didn’t actually think he was going to be able to attend. Lando’s schedule was too packed for this weekend so he and Oscar had organised seeing each other around that and Oscar’s graduation. But a meeting being rescheduled opened the afternoon enough for him to catch the flight, watch Oscar graduate, and then jump on a flight straight back. And the thought of Oscar turning around in that hall and being surprised at seeing him there is just too tempting.

A year. The thought sits warm and almost unbelievable in his chest. It’s been a whole year since Silverstone. A whole year since that first real conversation by the paddock lane, when they both decided to give this a chance.

Since then, it has become exactly that. Dinners in London that turned into long walks home and even longer goodbyes at train stations. Race weekends where Oscar turns up with a paddock pass and that soft smile that still makes Lando’s chest ache. Late-night calls from hotel rooms, Oscar curled up in bed in London while Lando sits half-dressed in his race kit, debrief long forgotten because Oscar is telling him about some simulation model he is absurdly excited about.

They build something slow, they’re careful, but it’s entirely theirs.

By the time Lando is finally in the back of the car leaving Heathrow, tie loosened and suit jacket folded beside him, he is running on little more than adrenaline and sheer stubbornness. Yet somehow he makes it. The university campus is beautiful in that old, slightly imposing way, stone buildings and wide green lawns filled with clusters of families and students in graduation robes.

Lando slips into the ceremony hall as quietly as he can, hoping no one turns and clocks him before Oscar does. The room is already nearly full. Parents in pressed shirts and dresses, bouquets balanced on laps, phones ready. The low murmur of excitement hums through the space.

He finds Oscar’s family quickly, saying his hello’s and sliding into the seat they’d saved for him.

His eyes find Oscar immediately. He’s halfway down one of the front rows, robe falling neatly over his shoulders, cap slightly crooked in a way that is very Oscar, he’s talking quietly to Logan beside him. God, Lando has never seen him look more beautiful.

As if sensing it, Oscar turns. Their eyes meet, for one beat Oscar just stares then his whole face changes. His eyes widen, his lips part and his face breaks into a smile, bright and disbelieving and so full of warmth that it nearly undoes Lando on the spot.

He mouths, ‘you came.’

Lando smiles and lifts one hand in a small wave.

Oscar’s smile turns almost fond, shaking his head once before facing forward again.

Logan, meanwhile, turns in his seat, spots Lando, and immediately gives him a smug thumbs up.

Lando has to bite back a laugh.

The ceremony begins. He tries to pay attention but every few minutes his eyes drift back to Oscar, watching him laugh quietly at something Logan whispers, watching him sit a little straighter when names begin to be called, watching the nerves settle visibly into his shoulders.

Lando remembers all the nights Oscar would open up about worrying that he wasn’t good enough, the assignments he rewrites three times, the projects he nearly talks himself out of submitting, the way he still sometimes forgets how brilliant he is.

So when Oscar’s name is finally called and he rises to walk across the stage, Lando is already halfway to his feet with the rest of his family, applauding hard enough that Oscar glances over and catches his eye again. The smile Oscar gives him then is smaller but somehow even more devastating.

By the time the formal ceremony ends and the room begins to dissolve into applause and movement, Oscar is up and through the crowd before Lando even fully stands.

“You lied.” The words are soft and breathless and not remotely annoyed.

Lando laughs. “I prefer the word surprise.”

Oscar shakes his head, still smiling. “You said you couldn’t make it.”

Lando lifts a shoulder. “I may have bent the laws of physics and race scheduling.”

Oscar lets out a laugh and then, without hesitation, steps into him and kisses him. His hands settle automatically at Oscar’s waist, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens just enough to make a few people nearby laugh softly. Somewhere behind them Logan makes a dramatic gagging noise. Neither of them pays attention.

When they pull apart, Oscar’s forehead rests briefly against his. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Lando smiles. “There is genuinely nowhere else I’d rather be.”

The ceremony is not quite over, though. As the hall settles again for a final round of faculty announcements, Lando slips into the seat beside Oscar, fingers brushing lightly against his hand.

The woman stepping onto the stage beside the Dean catches his eye. She’s wearing McLaren branding, papaya detailing on the blazer lapel. Lando frowns slightly.

Beside him, Oscar looks equally confused.

The Dean smiles into the microphone. “Before we conclude, we have one final announcement.”

The room quiets.

The McLaren representative takes the mic. “Over the past year, it has been our pleasure to work with a number of exceptional students through our engineering partnership programme.”

Oscar stills beside him.

Lando turns slightly, watching the confusion flicker across his face.

“We are proud to announce that, for the first time, McLaren is formally offering a graduate engineering role within our performance simulation division.”

Lando’s breath catches.

The representative smiles. “And we are delighted to offer this position to…” She pauses, a small smile gracing her face at the anticipation she’s created in the room. “Mr Oscar Piastri.”

For one perfect moment, the whole room erupts.

Logan shouting, “Yes, Osc!”

Oscar just stares. He genuinely looks like he has stopped breathing.

Lando turns fully towards him, laughing in disbelief. “You got it.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“You got it.”

That seems to finally crack through the shock. Oscar lets out the most helpless, disbelieving laugh Lando has ever heard. “Oh my God.”

Lando kisses him again right there in his seat, grinning against his mouth. “I’m so proud of you.”

Outside afterwards, the whole campus is bathed in soft afternoon light. Families take photos on the lawn and there are flowers everywhere. Logan and Oscar’s parents eventually give them a moment alone near one of the stone walkways. Oscar can’t stop staring at the envelope the McLaren representative handed him like it might vanish.

Lando leans back against the wall beside him, unable to stop smiling. “Well.”

Oscar turns to him, still dazed. “Well.”

Lando gestures to the envelope. “Looks like you’re officially a McLaren engineer.”

Oscar laughs, still a little breathless. “That sounds terrifying.”

“It sounds perfect.”

Oscar’s smile softens. “I didn’t even know this was happening.”

“Neither did I, honestly.” Lando looks at him carefully. “You deserve it.”

Oscar glances down.

Lando steps closer. “I mean it.”

Oscar meets his eyes, the emotion there is almost overwhelming. This is what has worked for, what he loves, what he is brilliant at.

Lando suddenly laughing has Oscar narrowing his eyes at him. “What?”

Lando grins. “We should probably tell HR.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

Lando gestures between them. “You know, before you officially become a McLaren employee. Might be good to mention that one of the drivers is also your boyfriend.”

Oscar laughs so hard he has to lean into him. “Oh my God.”

“I’m serious.” Lando tilts his head, smile softening into something more teasing. “Feels like something they should know before your future husband starts distracting you from work.”

Oscar’s cheeks go pink immediately. “Future husband?”

Lando’s smile turns warm. “Just saying. It is written in the stars after all.”

Oscar shakes his head, laughing, then kisses him again. This one is slower, lingering, a celebration and something quietly deeper.

A year since they chose each other. A year since possibility became something real. And now, somehow, the future feels less like something they are shown and more like something they are building, one choice at a time.