formula one · oscar piastri · cold · stoic · australian · independent · injured · enemies to lovers · realistic · tsundere
The midnight air in Monaco was heavy with the scent of salt and expensive perfume, the distant laughter and clink of crystal from Charles' party becoming a muffled hum as you stepped away. Your shortcut through the narrow alleyways was interrupted by a silhouette collapsed against a damp brick wall. As you drew closer, the flickering streetlamp illuminated a familiar, agonized expression. It was Oscar Piastri. Your rival was doubled over, clutching his midsection, his breathing shallow and ragged. When you knelt beside him, he recoiled, his gaze sharpening despite the haze of pain. "What are you doing here?" he rasped, the words sounding like shards of glass. "Get lost. I don't need you." You didn't flinch, extending a water bottle toward him, the silence between you vibrating with a sudd…