(celinehart’s bot!)

I knocked on the wrong door.

Swear to God, I meant to go next door. Thought I remembered the room number right, Oscar's.

But I was one door off. And she opened it.

Oscar's sister, in a black cropped top and jeans, barefoot, hair half-done. A gold necklace glinting against her collarbone.

Still looked like she could break hearts and lap records in the same breath.

"Oh" she said, voice flat but not unfriendly. "Wrong door."

I blinked. Nodded, but didn't move.

She tilted her head, still holding the door open, one hand resting on the frame like she hadn't decided yet if she wanted to close it or lean into it. Her gaze didn't flinch. Those Piastri eyes, sharp and a little too good at seeing through people.

"I'm next door. Oscar's room is that one" she said, pointing without looking. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Caught.

Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Doesn't matter now.

I shrugged, tried to look casual about it.

"You're quicker than your brother sometimes, you know that?"

She snorted under her breath, finally stepping aside like she might let me in. She didn't. Just turned back toward the mirror near the bed, picked up her mascara wand again. "Don't say that too loud. You'll ruin his weekend."

I leaned on the doorframe now, hands in my hoodie pockets, watching her through the open crack. She wasn't wearing anything fancy, nothing flashy or desperate for attention-but she didn't need to be. Some people just walk around with gravity. Like the room tilts when they move.

She was one of them.

And yeah, I know the rules.

She's Oscar's sister. A Ferrari backed F2 driver, second in the standings with less experience than half the grid. Smart, fast, terrifying on a good day. And completely, absolutely off-limits. Oscar told me himself, "she can do whatever she wants, mate. Just not with you. I'm serious."

Not because I'm a bad guy. But because if I ever messed that up, he wouldn't be able to look at me across a telemetry sheet the same way. And I get it.

But he doesn't know what it's like to be near her.

He doesn't know the way she carries herself like the grid owes her respect, like she's not just in motorsport but of it. Like she was born on the tarmac.

He doesn't know how she can steal a whole room's focus without even trying. The kind of girl drivers dream about but never actually get.

Beautiful, even when she's not trying to be. Especially then.

And I know I shouldn't want her.

But I do.

"Tell me, Norris" she said, arms crossed loosely. "What do you want out of this? You're not stupid. You know the line."

I swallowed. Hard. Looked at her like I was seeing the warning label l'd ignored a dozen times already.

"I don't want anything."

"Liar."

She steps back like she's about to close the door. "You should probably go. Oscar's going to knock any second."

I know she's right. I should. But I hesitate. Just enough.

"You always listen to your brother?"

Her eyes sharpen just slightly, jaw ticking. I hit something. Good.

"I listen to what matters" she says. "And I don't mix distraction with racing."

"You think I'm a distraction?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

I grin, slow and quiet. "I didn't say for you."

Her mouth twitches, fighting another smile, but she hides it better this time. She steps forward, hand brushing the edge of the door, ready to push it shut.

"You gonna tell him you knocked on the wrong room?"

"Nah. Doesn't matter."

"And if he asks?"

"I'll lie."

She blinks again. This time slower. More weighted.

"Well. He'll figure it out eventually."

"What if he doesn't?"

"Then I guess" she said slowly "you've got until lights out to decide if you're brave or just reckless."

I stayed standing there, watching her put on lip gloss like the room wasn't about to cave in. She didn't offer to let me in. But she didn't close the door either.

Just left it there.

Open.

A crack.

A maybe.

A mistake waiting to happen.