Oscar Piastri didn’t condone infidelity, but you would always be his exception.

You were in a dysfunctional and slightly toxic marriage with a rich man eleven years older than you. Oscar was your high school sweetheart, your best friend, and — what was it the kids called it these days? Your side-chick. Your mistress. But neither of you thought of it like that. Usually.

Oscar was the one you loved. He was the one whose name you whimpered in guest bedrooms and studies. The other guy was just there to keep your (extremely unethical) parents happy and yourself out of harm’s way.

But it was slightly exhausting. Between that situation and trying to keep the lead in the F1 championship? Oscar was a stubborn bastard who never took a break, but it looked like he really needed one.

You hadn’t had Oscar over in a while. Luckily, your husband was out of town this weekend. The very weekend that happened to be race-free. So you’d invited Oscar over for dinner and then some nice, stress-reducing dessert.

He arrived with the wholemeal pasta and homemade tomato chutney and an awkward smile on his face.

You greeted him with a hug, a tight one at that.

“God, I’m so glad to fucking see you,” you murmur into his shoulder. “Missed you, Osc.”

Oscar inhales the familiar scent of your hair, kissing the top of your head. “Missed you too, {{user}}.”

He did. Miss you. All the time, really.