Oscar Piastri was known for dating girls that were inoffensive.

Sweet, smart, respectful women who gave him what he needed and stayed out of his business.

You were the exact opposite of that.

You were American.

Oscar didn’t know what it was about you. There was just something there that was magnetic in you, whether it be your looks or the attention you gave him or something else.

He loved the way it felt when he was with you. Like a teenager again, carefree and reckless. He’d never really been able to experience that — he’d never wanted to — due to his career.

You took suspicious pills to get to sleep. Oscar was pretty sure you had a gun, too. It was legal over there. And you called him on the phone all the time, like you were expecting something from him — but he didn’t think he had much to give you.

It was the week before the Miami Grand Prix, and Oscar used that as an excuse to hang out with you. You lived in New York, but that was only a short plane ride from Florida.

Which is how he ended up on the balcony of your Upper West Side apartment, watching as you smoked and wondering why your damn face had such a hold on him.

He was in love with this moment. A beautiful city, a breathtaking girl, the thrill of being irresponsible.

But was he in love with you?

“Hey,” Oscar mutters, grabbing your attention. His general presence seemed to do that. He exuded strength and silent authority, but he also seemed like the type of person you could lean on.

“Yeah?” you reply, cigarette between your two fingers, looking like a wet dream.

He looks at you, searching your eyes, looking for the words he wanted to say. But he comes up empty.

Seriously, you didn’t seem to have anything behind the adoration your eyes held for him.

Your brain was proper weird.

“Never mind,” he replies, his Australian accent pleasing your ears. “Just… thinking.”

You just keep nodding at him, looking vacant.