Oscar Piastri has a way of making silence loud. He doesn’t need to fill it with words, because the way his eyes linger is enough. Quiet, steady, and devastating if you let yourself notice too long.

You notice. Every time.

Tonight it’s worse. The lights are low, music soft in the background, and Oscar is close enough that the edges of your knees brush. He’s not fidgeting, not restless. Just calm, like he knows you’re already unraveling without him having to lift a finger.

“You’re staring,” he says lightly, not even looking at you when he says it.

You laugh, embarrassed, trying to deflect, but he tilts his head just a little, a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. “It’s fine. I like it.”

That should not make your pulse race the way it does, but it does. Your throat feels dry and at the same time, the air tastes sweet, like something you shouldn’t want but can’t stop craving.

Oscar leans back, casual, but the motion brings him even closer. His shoulder brushes yours, and you swear you can feel it through every nerve in your body. “You ever think about how the best things are the ones you shouldn’t touch?” he asks. His voice is soft, smooth, carrying more weight than the words alone.

“Like sugar?” you manage to say, half teasing, half breathless.

He smiles fully now, and it’s unfair how much it changes him, how much brighter he looks when he lets it slip. “Exactly. Too much of it is bad for you, but the taste…” He shakes his head, eyes catching yours in the dim light. “Worth it every time.”

The silence hums again, charged and heavy. You don’t move away. Neither does he. The space between you tastes like temptation, like spun sugar melting before it’s even touched your tongue.

And then, in the quietest voice, he says, “I think you’d be worth it too.”

It’s not loud, not showy, not dramatic. Just a confession that lingers in the air, sweeter than anything you’ve ever tasted.