Chapter Text
The headquarters of Sainz Enterprises loomed above Madrid, twenty-five stories of glass and precision that caught the sunlight and refused to let it go. From the street, the mirrored panels reflected the city back at itself, sleek cars gliding past, expensive shoes tapping along the pavement, people who walked like they had somewhere important to be. When Oscar Piastri looked up, his reflection stared back at him, small and uncertain against the glittering façade. For a brief moment, he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. The building didn’t look like somewhere you applied to work. It looked like somewhere you earned your place, one polished step at a time.
Inside, the air was cooler, quieter, as if even the oxygen obeyed the discipline of the Sainz legacy. Everything smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and something sharper, like polished metal or money that never stopped moving. The marble floors gleamed beneath Oscar’s worn sneakers, their reflection soft and ghost-like against the white stone. Around him, people moved with the kind of confidence that came from belonging. Their voices stayed low, their laughter measured, their steps perfectly timed. He tried not to stare at the towering digital screens lining the walls, each one flashing images of innovation and triumph, all accompanied by the same face: Carlos Sainz Jr., the company’s young CEO, smiling with a confidence that seemed effortless but probably wasn’t.
At the far end of the lobby, a portrait dominated the wall. Carlos Sainz Sr., captured in oil and authority, stared down at the room he had built. His eyes seemed to follow Oscar as he walked, sharp and knowing, full of the pride that could just as easily become disappointment. Beneath that painted gaze, the glass elevators moved soundlessly, carrying sleek silhouettes toward meetings that shaped more than just business. The entire building felt alive, a living machine powered by ambition and restraint, and Oscar was suddenly aware of every sound he made, every breath that might echo where it shouldn’t.
He tightened his grip on the folder in his hands, the thin stack of papers that represented months of searching and uncertainty. The job interview wasn’t supposed to be anything special, just a small administrative role, a paycheck that would keep him in school and help with rent. But standing there, surrounded by the weight of legacy and expectation, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was already in over his head. Something about the place felt too controlled, too careful, as if it was waiting to see whether he would rise to meet it or crumble beneath its shine.
The interview ended more quickly than Oscar expected. It began in a small glass meeting room on the eleventh floor, bright with afternoon light and the hum of quiet efficiency just beyond the door. The woman conducting it introduced herself as Elena, head of administration, her voice smooth and brisk in a way that made Oscar sit a little straighter.
She leafed through his résumé, pausing now and then to make neat notes in the margin.
“You’re still studying at the Polytechnic University?” she asked.
“Yes. Mechanical engineering,” he replied, keeping his hands folded to hide the nervous tapping of his thumb.
“And this position,” she glanced up, smiling politely, “you understand it’s administrative? Scheduling, coordination, errands. Not technical.”
Oscar nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I just need something steady for the year. I’m good at organising things. People, too, sometimes.”
That earned a small laugh, the first break in her professional tone. “You’d be surprised how rare that is here.”
For a while, the questions blurred together. Availability, references, and how well he handled pressure. He answered carefully, not rehearsed but measured, wanting to sound capable without trying too hard. Elena seemed satisfied. She closed the folder, offered him a reassuring smile, and said they would be in touch within the week.
He rose from his chair, relief beginning to loosen the tightness in his chest. He was halfway through a quiet thank-you when a soft knock came at the door. Elena frowned slightly, pressed the intercom on her desk, and murmured something in Spanish too low for him to catch. When she turned back to him, the faintest trace of surprise lingered in her expression.
“Mr. Sainz would like to see you,” she said.
Oscar blinked. “Mr. Sainz… as in…?”
She only nodded. “You can leave your folder. Someone will take you up.”
The words felt strange in the air, heavier than they should have been. He followed an assistant out into the corridor, his pulse quickening as they approached a private elevator guarded by a single man in a dark suit. As the doors closed around him, the hum of the office floor faded away, replaced by the quiet, rising thrum of anticipation.
When the elevator doors opened again, Oscar stepped into a world of deep wood, soft lighting, and silence so absolute it felt deliberate. Somewhere beyond the curved glass windows, Madrid glimmered in the distance. And behind a desk carved from walnut and history, Carlos Sainz Sr. was waiting.
The carpet softened Oscar’s footsteps. The corridor stretched ahead like something out of a museum,all symmetry and restraint, the air perfumed faintly with leather and cedar polish. At the end stood two tall doors marked with the Sainz crest. The secretary waiting outside didn’t smile; she simply nodded and gestured him forward. Her heels barely made a sound, but Oscar could hear the rhythm of his own heartbeat in his ears. She knocked once, then opened the door.
The office was enormous, though not cluttered. Everything was placed with care, each piece of furniture existing for a reason. Sunlight poured in from the wide windows, spilling over dark wood and polished steel. Madrid glittered far below, distant and untouchable. Behind the desk sat Carlos Sainz Sr., older now than the photos Oscar had seen, but with the kind of presence that made age seem irrelevant. His gaze lifted as Oscar entered, and in that instant, Oscar understood why people called him formidable.
“Mr Piastri,” Sainz said. His voice was deep, steady, shaped by years of giving orders no one dared to question. “Sit.”
Oscar obeyed before he realised he had moved. The chair beneath him was softer than it looked. He tried to relax, but the silence between them pressed close, as if the walls themselves were listening.
“I read your file,” Sainz said after a moment. “You are young, disciplined, and ambitious. Not easily distracted. That is good.”
Oscar nodded. His throat felt dry. He wanted to thank him, but the words stuck.
“You study mechanical engineering,” Sainz continued. “Good field. Demanding.” He leaned back slightly, his eyes sharp and unreadable. “You must have applied here for the internship program?”
“Yes, sir,” Oscar said quietly. “I was told it was a general assistant role in administration.”
“Mm.” The sound was neither agreement nor denial. “You are organised, yes? Reliable?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sainz studied him for a long time, as though testing the truth of the answer. “I believe there is a better place for you in this company. My son, Carlos, has recently assumed the position of chief executive. He is talented, but he lacks focus. Too much energy, not enough direction.”
Oscar kept his eyes fixed on a point just above the man’s shoulder. The words sounded careful, deliberate, but underneath them, he heard something sharper: disappointment that had not softened with time.
“I would like you to assist him,” Sainz said. “Personally. You will manage his schedule, handle his communications, and travel with him when required. And you will keep me informed.”
The last words carried a weight that sank deep in Oscar’s chest. He almost asked what that meant, but the older man’s tone left no room for questions.
Sainz’s expression did not change. “You will see things,” he said. “I do not expect judgment. Only awareness. My son has inherited the company, but I have not yet decided if he has inherited my discipline.”
Oscar felt his pulse quicken. He tried to tell himself this was just a job, just a responsibility with a higher paycheck. But the thought did not convince him. It sounded like he was being asked to stand between a man and his own legacy.
“You will be compensated fairly,” Sainz said, watching him closely. “More than fairly. I trust that will make your decision easier.”
Oscar hesitated. Rent, tuition maybe even luxury. The numbers ran through his mind like a quiet calculation of guilt.
“When would I start?” he asked.
Sainz smiled faintly, not with warmth but with satisfaction. “Tomorrow morning. Eight sharp. My assistant will send you the details.”
Oscar stood, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor. The older man rose too, extending a hand. His grip was firm, unyielding, the kind that communicated both approval and ownership.
As Oscar left the office, the city stretched out below the glass, pale in the afternoon light. He tried to steady his breathing. It was only a job, he told himself again.Only work. But as the elevator doors closed, the thought didn’t feel true.
When he reached the lobby, the air felt thinner, as though the building itself had exhaled him back into the world. His hands still carried the faint tremor of nerves, and when he glanced at his reflection in the mirrored wall, he barely recognised himself. He looked smaller than before, like someone who had agreed to something he didn’t entirely understand.
The offer should have felt like good news. More money than he could make anywhere else, a chance to step inside one of the most powerful companies in Spain. But all Oscar could think about was the way Carlos Sainz Sr. had said keep me informed, not as a suggestion, but as an order. It wasn’t an opportunity. It was an assignment.
He lingered outside for a while, pretending to check his phone while the late afternoon sun turned the glass tower into a blade of light. Around him, executives and interns streamed past, their conversations clipped, their laughter artificial. He wondered if any of them had ever spoken to the man on the top floor, or if they, too, felt like pieces being moved around a chessboard they couldn’t see. The idea that he had just been chosen to stand next to one of the kings made his stomach twist.
He thought about calling his mother, about telling her the news, that he had landed a position at Sainz Enterprises, that things were finally looking up. But he already knew what she would hear in his voice. The hesitation. The unease. She would tell him to trust his instincts, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if he could.
That night, the city hummed beyond his apartment window, but Oscar barely heard it. He sat at his small desk, the light from his laptop flickering over scattered papers and the cold coffee beside him. He told himself it was just research, preparation for his new role, but it felt more like reconnaissance. He typed Carlos Sainz Jr. into the search bar, and the screen flooded with headlines, interviews, photographs, a curated life in high definition. There he was at red carpets and after-parties, in tailored suits and fast cars, smiling with the easy confidence of someone who had never needed to ask for permission. The captions called him brilliant, driven, a visionary reshaping the Sainz empire. But in every photo, Oscar saw something else. The smile never quite reached his eyes. The confidence looked too sharp, too deliberate, like a mask honed through repetition.
The more he read, the less he liked him. There were stories about impulsive decisions, whispered scandals, and charm that cracked under scrutiny. One journalist called him charismatic but combustible, which felt less like praise and more like prophecy. Oscar could almost hear the echo of his father’s measured disappointment behind every flattering quote. He closed the laptop, the screen fading to black, and sat back in silence. Tomorrow he would meet Carlos Sainz Jr.,the man at the centre of it all and something in him already resisted. The thought left a knot in his chest, the same feeling he’d had standing beneath that painted portrait in the lobby: small, temporary, a spectator in a legacy too heavy for him to touch.
Notes:
Hey everyone, thank you so much for reading Chapter One! I’ve been so excited (and a little nervous) to finally start writing this fic. It’s the first long fic I’ve ever attempted, so any constructive criticism is super appreciated!
Next chapter, we’ll get our first proper look at Carlos Sainz Jr, and let’s just say Oscar’s first day doesn’t exactly go smoothly 👀
New chapters drop every week, at least one (sometimes more if I’m feeling generous lol). If you liked this, please leave a comment or a little heart, it honestly means the world and keeps me motivated to keep writing!
I’ve got about 20 chapters planned for now, but that might change depending on how things go. I’ll update the number as the story develops!
Thanks again for reading!!!
Chapter Text
Oscar arrived ten minutes early, which immediately felt like the wrong choice. The twenty-third floor was unnervingly quiet, not empty, but efficient. Every sound seemed subdued, the clicks of keyboards and muted phone calls blending into a rhythm of quiet productivity. The air smelt faintly of citrus and something more sterile, like polished glass. Even the sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows seemed measured, carefully portioned.
He had spent too long that morning trying to decide what “executive casual” meant. Every shirt had looked either too stiff or too soft. He’d changed ties twice, ironed the same shirt three times, and still ended up feeling like an imposter in someone else’s skin. By the time he’d reached the building lobby, his palms were already slick, his reflection in the mirrored elevator doors too bright-eyed to belong here.
A woman in a navy skirt suit approached him with the kind of brisk professionalism that brooked no delay.
"Mr. Piastri?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," Oscar replied, straightening instinctively.
"I'm Marta, HR liaison for the executive wing. Let's get you set up."
She handed him an ID badge, a slim black tablet, and a narrow folder containing a printed floor plan of the level. "Your workstation is just next to Mr. Sainz's office," she explained as they walked toward the elevators. "You'll be handling his daily correspondence, scheduling, travel management, and any executive requests he delegates.” She handed him a thin lanyard .
“This gives you access to the private elevator, Carlos’s office, and about half the secrets of the building. Use them wisely. That includes discretion—everything you see or hear stays between these walls.”
Oscar nodded, the words discretion and executive feeling heavier than they should have. Marta didn’t look like she was joking.
The elevator chimed, and the air on Level 23 changed entirely. The layout was minimal, sleek, almost surgical. People moved with quiet purpose, confident but not loud. Marta led him past a row of glass-walled offices, introducing faces as they passed.
"That's Roberto Merhi, head of partnerships—he’s close to Mr. Sainz," she said, lowering her voice slightly. "The one with the sharp haircut is Pierluigi Della Bona, internal strategy. He and Mr. Sainz go back years."
She hesitated before gesturing to a woman in red lipstick speaking briskly into a headset. “That’s Sofia, comms director. Do not cross her. She’s Carlos’s unofficial gatekeeper.”
Each name came with a whisper of warning, a subtle note of hierarchy that Oscar tried to memorise. Everyone here carried themselves like they belonged, and he already felt like he was trying to keep up.
"Mr. Sainz runs a tight ship,” Marta continued as they passed another corridor. “No personal gossip, no social media leaks, no drama. He doesn’t tolerate lateness or excuses. He’s...” She hesitated for the first time. “Particular.”
Oscar tried to smile. “Particular’s fine. I can be particular.”
She gave him a look that said you’ll learn.
Marta stopped near a glass partition etched with silver letters: C. Sainz — Chief Executive Officer. The frosted pane blurred the office beyond, but Oscar could see the faint outline of movement, a hand gesturing, the flicker of a shadow pacing near the window.
"This is your desk," Marta said, gesturing to the minimalist workstation just outside the glass wall. "Mr. Sainz values efficiency and punctuality. You'll learn his rhythms soon enough." She offered him a quick smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good luck, Mr. Piastri."
He set his bag on the pristine desk that would now be his command center, arranging pens and folders with exaggerated care to mask trembling fingers. From here, he could faintly hear Carlos’s voice —low, confident, almost lazy in its authority—separated from him by a pane of glass and an ocean of hierarchy. The air smelled of expensive cologne and fresh eucalyptus, as if the building itself had been instructed never to sweat. Oscar rolled back his shoulders, rehearsing the polite neutrality he’d wear like armour. He hadn’t anticipated how intimate surveillance could feel: every breath measured, every heartbeat counted, all while pretending he was simply another cog in an immaculate machine.
He scrolled carefully, eyes widening at the dense wall of entries: meetings with investors, product launches, private dinners, press calls, and travel itineraries that stretched across three countries. Everything was colour-coded, perfectly organised yet relentless. Carlos’s calendar looked more like a military operation than a workday. But scattered between the blocks of structure were odd gaps: unlabelled slots at night, sometimes hours long. No notes, no explanations. Just silence.
He frowned. Personal time,maybe. Or something less innocent.
He clicked into the staff directory next, scanning names and faces until they began to blur—the PR manager, the financial director, and the communications assistant. Every biography seemed polished, rehearsed, flawless. By the time he closed the app, his head ached with too many names and too little context.
And yet… his mind snagged on those gaps in Carlos’s calendar.
Through the glass, he saw a flicker of movement, a figure crossing the office, tall, purposeful, radiating that kind of quiet command that didn't need words. For a moment, Oscar couldn't tell if Carlos Sainz Jr was aware of him, but then the man paused, head tilting slightly toward the glass, as if sensing eyes on him.
Oscar quickly looked down, pretending to study the tablet again, though his pulse betrayed him.
For a while, Oscar tried to look busy. He arranged the pens on his desk twice, adjusted the monitor height, checked the tablet for notifications that didn’t exist. A small part of him wanted to prove he belonged here, even if no one was watching—but mostly, he just didn’t want to seem like he was waiting for something to happen.
Every few minutes, the shadow behind the glass shifted. He caught glimpses of a profile, a hand gesturing as someone spoke, the faint glint of a watch. The space inside Carlos Sainz Jr’s office looked more like an apartment than a workspace—low leather seating, shelves of books, a gleaming bar cart in the corner. It was a room meant for power and conversation, not hesitation.
At one point, he thought he heard laughter—a sharp, low sound through the glass. Roberto and Gigi passed by Carlos’s door moments later, grinning like they’d just shared a private joke. “He’s in one of his moods,” Gigi murmured, not realising Oscar could hear. “Better the rookie-intern than me.”
Before Oscar could ask what that meant, the intercom on his desk crackled softly to life. A low voice came through, smooth, controlled, and unmistakably his.
“Mr. Piastri. Inside.”
Oscar’s stomach tightened as he straightened his shirt, smoothed his hair, and tried to convince himself he didn’t look like a terrified intern about to meet a firing squad. He exhaled quietly, then pushed open the glass door.
The space felt immediately different,colder, quieter and heavier somehow. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Madrid, throwing clean sunlight across the dark walnut desk where Carlos sat. The man himself didn’t glance up. He was leaning back in his chair, pen in hand, signing something on a tablet with quiet precision. His expression was unreadable: calm, detached, the kind of composure that didn’t need to raise its voice to command attention.
Oscar hesitated near the door, unsure whether to speak or wait. Seconds stretched. The silence thickened until it felt almost deliberate. He cleared his throat lightly...nothing. Carlos continued writing, the scratch of stylus against glass the only sound in the room.
After a moment too long, Oscar decided the only thing worse than standing there was doing nothing at all. He moved forward, chair legs whispering softly against the floor as he eased himself into the seat opposite the desk. The leather was cool under his palms; his pulse wasn’t.
Still, Carlos didn’t look up. Oscar tried to steady his breathing, scanning the office for something safe to focus on—the shelves lined with neat files, the minimalist clock ticking too loudly, the faint scent of cologne that clung to the air. Every inch of the place felt meticulously controlled, like its owner.
When Carlos finally spoke, it was without preamble. “Walk me through my morning.”
Oscar fumbled for his tablet, startled. “Board briefing at nine, investor call at ten, luncheon with the Madrid Chamber of Commerce at twelve—”
“Cancel the luncheon,” Carlos said flatly, still looking at his screen. “Reschedule the call for three. If I’m late to the briefing, tell Roberto to start without me.”
Oscar hesitated. “But the investors requested you specifically—”
That earned him a brief look—dark eyes, cool and measuring, as if he’d just interrupted something important.
“Then make them believe they still have me,” Carlos replied. His tone was calm, but it landed like a challenge. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To make things easier.”
Oscar swallowed hard. “Of course, Ca—” He stopped himself just in time, too late.
Carlos’s gaze sharpened. “What was that?”
Oscar’s voice faltered. “Sorry. I meant, of course, Mr. Sainz, I’ll handle it.”
For a moment, there was only silence, then a flicker of amusement ghosted across Carlos’s face. “See that you do.” Carlos reached for his phone, signaling dismissal, but paused. “I need coffee. Black. Two sugars. If I have to ask twice, I consider it incompetence.”
Oscar lingered for a second too long, unsure if he was supposed to wait for dismissal that wasn’t coming. He hated the way it made him feel—invisible, small, like an accessory to someone else’s control. When he finally turned to leave, he couldn’t help the small flare of resentment twisting in his chest.
He was almost at the door when Carlos’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unhurried.
“Oh, and Piastri.”
Oscar turned. “Yes?”
Carlos didn’t look up. “Next time you come into my office, you ask for permission to sit. And you address me as Sir. Just because my father hired you doesn’t mean you’re above the rules.”
The words froze him in place. Heat crept up the back of his neck. He nodded quickly, voice barely steady. “Understood.”
Carlos’s mouth curved upwards—not kindly. “Good.”
Oscar stepped out into the hallway, the door shutting behind him with a quiet hiss. He sank into his chair, every nerve still buzzing, the faint outline of Carlos’s silhouette visible through the tinted glass. The man hadn’t needed to raise his voice, and yet somehow Oscar already disliked him. He hated the way Carlos could make him feel so small with nothing more than a sentence,hated it, and, more confusingly, couldn’t stop replaying it.
By ten-fifteen, Oscar had rescheduled half the day, sourced the demanded coffee (black, two sugars, the foam artfully disguised beneath a lid), and fielded a curt phone call from Carlos Sr. himself. “Remember why you’re there,” the deep voice warned, equal parts threat and reminder.
When Oscar returned to his desk, coffee in hand, the tinted pane revealed Carlos leaning against it from the other side, arms folded, head angled in silent assessment. The barrier between them might as well have been smoke; Oscar’s pulse jackhammered as he crossed the threshold and offered the cup. Carlos accepted without thanks, took a single sip, and let an eyebrow lift in quiet approval—permission, it seemed, to breathe again.
Oscar retreated to his desk, pulse still unsteady, the faint taste of roasted beans and adrenaline lingering on his tongue. It struck him then—survival here wasn’t about competence. It was about control. And he wasn’t sure whose he’d just surrendered to.
By noon, Oscar’s nerves were shot enough that the idea of eating felt ridiculous. Still, his stomach had other opinions. He made his way to the executive cafeteria—a sleek expanse of glass and chrome that looked more like a boutique hotel than a workplace canteen. The scent of roasted coffee and truffle oil clung to the air; even the cutlery gleamed with the kind of polish that screamed “expensive.”
He was halfway through convincing himself to just grab a sandwich and disappear when someone called his name.
“Piastri, right?”
Oscar turned to find two men seated at a table by the window. He recognized them immediately—Roberto Merhi and Pierluigi Della Bona, known throughout the office as Carlos’s inner circle. Roberto, all easy charm and sharp edges, waved him over with a grin. Pierluigi—“Gigi” to everyone who knew him—looked up from his phone, expression unreadable but not unkind.
“Uh—yeah,” Oscar said, forcing a polite smile as he approached. “Oscar. I started this week.”
“Right, the new PA,” Roberto said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve got the fun job, then.”
“Fun,” Oscar repeated, because the word sounded safer than stressful or nerve-wracking.
Pierluigi snorted softly. “He means impossible. Don’t take it personally.”
Oscar sat down across from them, grateful for the invitation even if his pulse hadn’t quite caught up. “You’ve worked with Carlos for a while, right?”
Roberto nodded. “Too long. Long enough to know when he’s about to bite someone’s head off. You’ll learn his moods soon enough.”
“He has moods?” Oscar asked before he could stop himself.
Pierluigi’s mouth twitched. “You’ll see. He pretends he doesn’t, but you can tell when something’s… off. He gets quiet. Real quiet.”
Roberto’s grin faded slightly. “Yeah. Or when he starts working later than usual. That’s when it’s better not to ask questions.”
Oscar hesitated. “Does that happen often?”
Both men exchanged a glance—a flicker of something unreadable that passed too quickly for Oscar to name. Finally, Pierluigi shrugged. “Not lately. But it has.”
The silence that followed felt deliberate, like a closed door.
Roberto clapped his hands once, breaking the tension. “Anyway! You’ll be fine. You’ve got that polite, don’t-bother-me energy. He likes that. Just don’t try to impress him too much—he hates brownnosers.”
Oscar smiled faintly, unsure whether to feel relieved or warned. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”
As they stood to leave, Roberto added over his shoulder, “And if he ever cancels a meeting last minute? Don’t take it personally. It’s not about work.”
“Then what’s it about?”
But neither of them answered.
Oscar watched them go, the question sitting heavy in his chest long after they disappeared down the corridor.
By late afternoon, the office began to thin. Gigi passed his desk, offering a sympathetic smile. “You survived day one. That’s better than most.” Roberto followed, dropping a file with a grin. “If he didn’t yell, you’re ahead of schedule.”
Oscar forced a laugh, waiting until they disappeared before letting his shoulders sag. He glanced again through the glass wall,Carlos was still at his desk, expression unreadable, sleeves rolled, pen moving steadily across a stack of reports. Not even a flicker of emotion.
What exactly am I supposed to be watching? Oscar thought. The man looked incapable of chaos. No drugs, no women, no late-night scandals—just relentless work and perfect control. He looked more machine than human.
Oscar leaned back, fingers drumming absently against the tablet. Carlos Sr. had been so serious in his office days earlier, voice low with purpose. Keep an eye on him. Report back if anything seems off. But what could possibly seem off about this?
Maybe the elder Sainz was paranoid. Or maybe there was something deeper—something no one else saw.
Oscar’s eyes drifted to the faint reflection of Carlos through the tinted glass again. The man barely blinked, every movement efficient, contained. It was unnerving in its perfection.
He exhaled softly. What are you hiding, Carlos Sainz Jr.?
The question lingered long after the lights dimmed.
Late in the day, after everyone else had gone, Oscar sat at his desk scrolling through the next week’s schedule. He couldn’t help but notice it again: those strange gaps. Unmarked. Repeated. Friday night, 1 a.m. Saturday, 3 a.m. What executive held meetings at that hour?
He leaned back, staring through the tinted glass at Carlos, still at his desk, one hand pressed to his temple as he read. There was no sign of exhaustion—just that eerie focus. Yet every so often, Carlos’s phone buzzed, and he’d glance at it with a faint smirk before flipping it over, unreadable.
Oscar frowned. What exactly am I supposed to be watching?
Carlos Sainz Jr. didn’t look like a man on the edge of scandal. He looked like someone who’d already mastered the art of hiding it.
A thought flickered, uninvited. Maybe that’s what his father feared. Not that Carlos would fall apart, but that no one would notice when he did.
When the workday finally ended, Oscar packed up in silence. Most employees had already vanished, leaving only the low hum of cleaning crews and the faint clink of glass from somewhere down the hall. He risked one last glance toward the corner office. Lights still on. Carlos, still working. Of course.
In the elevator down, Oscar’s tablet buzzed—a system ping from Roberto’s shared calendar, some trivial reminder about next week’s board dinner. But his eyes weren’t on the screen. They were on the reflection in the metal doors: his own face, tired, tense, and something else.
Curiosity, maybe. Or danger disguised as it.
When Oscar finally left the office that night, Madrid was draped in silver. The city’s pulse felt slower than his own; his nerves still buzzed with leftover adrenaline from a day spent navigating Carlos’s moods. He walked home through streets that smelled faintly of rain and exhaust, loosening his tie only when he reached the worn steps of his apartment.
Inside, he dropped his bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch, the glow of his tablet lighting the dark. He told himself he was just reviewing notes—just making sure he hadn’t missed any details for tomorrow. But somehow, his fingers opened Instagram instead.
Professional curiosity, he reasoned. Background research.
Carlos’s account was private, of course it was. No profile picture, no bio, just that smug grey padlock and a follower count that climbed into the hundreds of thousands. Oscar stared at the blank screen a moment longer than he should have before moving on.
Roberto’s page was easy enough to find — glossy, curated chaos. Photos from company events, rooftop drinks, and weekends at race tracks. Carlos appeared in several posts, but not the version Oscar had seen today. Here, he was smiling, laughing with his head thrown back, sunglasses perched low on his nose. There was something magnetic about the carelessness—the loosened collar, the tanned forearms, the hand resting too comfortably on someone’s thigh.
Oscar’s thumb hesitated above the screen. The caption read: Meetings are more fun after midnight 🍸 #SainzStandard
Peluigi-Gigi ,he reminded himself ,had commented with a string of laughing emojis and the words: Can’t believe you survived that night, jefe.
Carlos had replied: Barely. But the bruises were worth it.
Oscar froze. His stomach tightened, the kind of twist that wasn’t entirely discomfort but definitely wasn’t pleasant either.
He scrolled further, skimming through photos that blurred together in light and champagne — club shots, hotel lounges, late-night selfies with beautiful people whose names meant nothing to him. Roberto and Gigi tagged each other often, the comments littered with inside jokes that made Oscar feel like an intruder reading a language he wasn’t supposed to understand.
Then he saw it — a comment thread buried beneath an old post of Carlos and Roberto leaning against a sports car.
Gigi: Hope he wasn’t still mad about the champagne.
Carlos: He wasn’t by sunrise.
Roberto: Playboy of the boardroom strikes again.
Carlos: Occupational hazard.
Oscar’s thumb hovered over the screen, pulse quickening. This was the other Carlos Sainz Jr. The one his father feared. The one hidden behind tinted glass and polite efficiency.
He shouldn’t have cared. He told himself it was disgust—unprofessional, shallow, irresponsible. But something about it lodged beneath his skin anyway. The ease. The confidence. The way Carlos could exist so freely in a world Oscar barely understood.
He scrolled one last time, and his heart gave a stupid little stutter.
A photo of Carlos, pressed close to a man Oscar didn’t recognise, both mid-laugh, Carlos’s hand resting low on the other’s back. The caption was in Spanish, half a joke, half a dare. Roberto’s comment read: Classic Sainz : two drinks away from trouble.
Gigi replied with: Or one kiss.
And Carlos’s own reply: Depends who’s asking.
Oscar’s throat went dry. His rational mind whispered irrelevant, personal, none of your business, but another part of him—something warmer, heavier, more dangerous—wouldn’t stop replaying those lines.
He set the tablet down, leaning back against the couch. His reflection stared back from the black screen—tired eyes, clenched jaw. He had a job to do: to monitor, to report. And yet, as he lay in the quiet hum of the city, all he could think about was the way Carlos had said, You address me as Sir.
Oscar’s stomach twisted, though he couldn’t have said why. It wasn’t judgment exactly. More disbelief. This was the man who had scolded him for sitting without permission? Who measured every word, every glance? The same man who slipped out at midnight and kissed strangers in shadowed bars?
Maybe that was the truth of it. Carlos Sainz Jr. was a man of two worlds: precision and chaos, restraint and indulgence. And Oscar, inconveniently, was caught between them.
He sat in the dark for a long time, the afterimage of Carlos’s smile burned behind his eyes.
The glow of the tablet brightened as Oscar picked the tablet up again. Midnight had crept up unnoticed, the hum of the city outside soft and far away. His chest felt tight,too full of thoughts that didn’t belong to him, of images that wouldn’t fade no matter how hard he blinked.
He should have gone to bed. Instead, he opened his encrypted mail.
A new draft blinked up at him, the subject line already filled in from a template he hadn’t had to think about:
To: Carlos Sainz Sr.
Subject: Daily Progress Report – C. Sainz Jr.
Oscar hesitated, fingers hovering above the keyboard. He reread the blank page twice before he finally began to type.
Summary:
Day one – preliminary observations. Mr. Sainz Jr. maintains a rigorous work ethic. Office behaviour is consistent with professional standards. Staff defer to him with clear respect. No signs of misconduct or irregular activity observed within office hours.
Additional notes:
Mr. Sainz Jr. appears highly disciplined, if somewhat detached. He delegates with precision but avoids unnecessary interaction. However, gaps in his schedule—late evening and early morning hours—remain undocumented. Possible personal engagements; further observation required.
General impression:
Efficient. Controlled. Intense.
Difficult to read.
I will continue to monitor routine patterns and behaviour for any irregularities.
He stopped, reading the final line over and over again. It felt cold. Distant. Exactly the kind of thing Carlos Sr. wanted.
And yet, it wasn’t the truth,not completely.
Oscar added one final sentence, fingers hesitating before pressing send:
He keeps everything under control. Maybe too much.
Then, after a moment’s pause, he deleted it.
When the cursor blinked on the screen again, the lie sat there, clean and professional. Oscar hit send before he could change his mind.
The message disappeared into the dark, and for a long time after, he just sat there, the tablet’s faint light reflecting in his eyes. He wasn’t sure whether he’d written a report,or a warning.
Notes:
Okay, so… this was not how this chapter was supposed to go. The original outline had a neat little plan — a quick intro, a few crisp office scenes, maybe a hint of tension. And then, somewhere between Oscar’s first day jitters and Carlos’s very specific brand of control, I completely lost the plot (in the best way).
Oscar was only meant to watch Carlos not stalk him… but apparently, he didn’t get the memo either.
So yes, the plan’s gone out the window. We’re officially in the “let’s see where this takes us” phase. I’m just as swept up as Oscar is — probably should be worried about that, but honestly? I’m having too much fun.
Please leave a comment with feedback and lemme know how you guys are liking it so far xxx
Chapter Text
By the end of the second week, Oscar had started to believe he was learning the rhythm of Carlos Sainz Jr.’s world,or at least, its surface.
He’d tried arriving early every morning, determined to get a head start, to prove he wasn’t just another new hire waiting for instructions. The first day, he’d shown up at 7:45. Carlos was already there. The next, 7:30, same result. By the fourth day, he arrived at 7:10, convinced he’d finally beat him.
The elevator doors opened to the twenty-third floor, and there it was: the faint sound of typing, a light already glowing behind the glass office. Carlos, jacket draped over his chair, sleeves rolled up, coffee in hand, perfectly composed, as if he’d been there for hours.
Oscar couldn’t help but wonder if Carlos even went home.
The man was everywhere. Always first in, always last out, a ghost that ruled the building by presence alone. People adjusted their steps, their voices, their posture the moment they sensed him near. His efficiency wasn’t loud, it was contagious.
Oscar had started to anticipate his rhythms: coffee before he asked, notes laid out before meetings, calls pre-dialed. He knew the exact tilt of Carlos’s head that meant he was about to cut a conversation short, the slight pause before he dismissed someone. It was a quiet choreography, and Oscar had convinced himself he was learning the steps.
Until Thursday, when everything went wrong.
That morning had been chaos disguised as order. Emails piled up, calls buzzed nonstop, and Carlos’s instructions came in that deceptively calm tone that made disobedience sound impossible. “Make sure the schedules don’t overlap,” he’d said.
Oscar had nodded, certain he could handle it. After all, he’d done this for two weeks now.
But he’d misread one email chain, crossed one time zone, and by the time he finished rearranging flight details for Madrid’s investor summit, the damage was done. Two meetings. Same time slot. Rival companies.
He only realised when Roberto appeared at his desk, tablet in hand and a half-pitying, half-amused look on his face.
“Tell me you didn’t double-book Montero Holdings and Celeste Energy,” Roberto said, voice low but weighted.
Oscar’s heart stuttered. “Wait, what?”
Roberto turned the screen toward him. There it was—plain as day:
12:30 PM — Meeting with Montero Holdings (Conference A)
and just below it:
12:30 PM — Lunch with Celeste Energy (Boardroom)
Oscar stared at it like it might rearrange itself if he blinked hard enough.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” Roberto replied. “And Carlos hasn’t noticed. Yet.”
Oscar’s throat felt dry. “Can we move one?”
“Not unless you can convince either company to wait on him. Which, spoiler—no one does.”
Oscar’s stomach turned. “Then what do I do?”
Roberto’s grin was quick and sympathetic. “You tell him. Before someone else does.”
Oscar hesitated outside the glass office, trying not to see his reflection trembling faintly in the panel. Carlos sat at his desk, perfectly poised, jacket off, sleeves rolled, the city spilling gold light behind him. He didn’t look up when Oscar knocked.
“Yes?”
“I—there’s been a scheduling issue,” Oscar began, voice tighter than he wanted. “The Montero and Celeste meetings are… overlapping.”
Carlos stopped writing. Slowly, he looked up. “Overlapping.”
Oscar nodded. “Yes. I must’ve—”
“You must have what?”
The question was soft, but it froze him.
“Mistyped the—”
Carlos’s silence did more damage than anger could. His gaze lingered, assessing, until Oscar’s pulse started pounding in his ears.
“I’ll fix it,” Oscar blurted. “I’ll move Celeste, or delay Montero—”
“No.”
The single word cut clean through the air.
Carlos leaned back, folding his hands. “You’ll leave it.”
Oscar blinked. “Leave it?”
“Yes. I’ll handle it.”
Which somehow sounded worse than shouting.
Carlos rose, buttoning his jacket. “You caused the problem. You’ll come with me and watch how it’s solved.”
The next hour was agony.
Carlos handled the impossible double booking with surgical precision. He started with Montero Holdings in the main conference room, delivering a twenty-minute briefing so dense and decisive that the executives barely noticed when he excused himself early.
Oscar trailed behind him through the glass corridor as Carlos moved straight to the boardroom, switching tone and posture in a heartbeat—now relaxed, charming, leaning against the table as if he hadn’t just steamrolled through another meeting. Celeste Energy’s team was smitten within minutes.
Oscar watched, equal parts impressed and terrified.
By the time both groups had left, neither realised they’d shared the same timeslot. Carlos returned to his office in silence, the only sound the click of his shoes and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
When he finally turned to Oscar, his voice was almost calm. Almost.
“Do you know what the difference is between control and chaos, Mr. Piastri?”
Oscar shook his head.
“One is knowing the mistake will happen,” Carlos said softly, “and the other is knowing how to make it look intentional.”
He stepped closer, close enough that Oscar could smell the faint trace of cologne—something dark, expensive, impossible to name. The proximity threw him off; suddenly, the air between them felt too small, too warm. Oscar’s breath caught before he could stop it.
“Next time,” Carlos said, “learn the difference.”
Oscar opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Carlos’s gaze lingered for a moment, unreadable again, before he turned away, reaching for his coffee mug with effortless calm. “And get me another,” he added without looking back. “Stronger this time.”
Oscar stood there for half a second too long, pulse hammering, trying to will the flush out of his face before anyone noticed. He could still smell that faint trace of cologne, could still hear the low timbre of Carlos’s voice in his chest.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to move, to step back into the hall like nothing had happened.
For the first time since he started, he realised that watching Carlos Sainz Jr. might be far more dangerous than anyone had warned him.
It didn’t matter how early he came in, how organised he tried to be, how much he thought he was adapting—Carlos was always one step ahead. Always already there, already composed, already watching.
And Oscar hated that part of him was still replaying the sound of his voice.
It was just nerves, he told himself. Pressure. Embarrassment from making a stupid mistake, not… whatever this was. He’d been under stress all morning; anyone would’ve reacted the same way.
But even as he reached for the coffee machine, his hands weren’t quite steady.
That evening, just before Carlos left for a dinner meeting, he handed Oscar his phone across the desk.
“Sync the presentation files with this,” he said, already sliding on his suit jacket. “And send them to Roberto’s drive. Don’t open anything else.”
Oscar nodded, plugging the phone into the dock. The screen lit up, an immaculate grid of apps, unread messages in the hundreds, calendar alerts stacked like dominoes. He told himself he wasn’t snooping. It was work. Just work.
Then the phone buzzed in his hand.
Incoming call: “La Pequeña Tormenta 🌪️”
Oscar frowned. The contact photo was of a smiling brunette woman mid-laugh.
“Uh—Carlos,” he said carefully. “You’re getting a call. From… La Pequeña Tormenta?”
Carlos didn’t look up from his laptop. “Answer it.”
Oscar blinked. “You want me to—?”
“Yes.” Carlos’s tone was clipped, impatient. “I’m busy.”
He hesitated a second too long before swiping to accept. “Hello?”
A woman’s voice, bright and warm, immediately filled the room. “Carlitos! Are you ignoring me again?”
Oscar froze. “Um—this isn’t—”
“Who is this?” she asked, laughter in her voice.
“Uh, Oscar Piastri. Mr. Sainz’s assistant.”
There was a pause, then an amused hum. “Ah. The new one. So he’s making other people avoid his family now. Figures.”
Across the desk, Carlos finally sighed and looked up, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The motion drew Oscar’s eyes before he could stop them, and when Carlos’s gaze met his—sharp, dark, unbothered—Oscar felt his throat go dry.
“Blanca,” Carlos said evenly.
Blanca. La Pequeña Tormenta. His sister.
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” she teased. “You haven’t been home in weeks. Mamá thinks you’ve forgotten where we live.”
“I’ve been busy,” Carlos replied, tone smooth but defensive.
“You’re always busy. Papá says the same thing right before he sends you to fix something for him.”
Oscar tried not to react, though the words tugged at something uneasy in him. Carlos, meanwhile, looked perfectly composed—one hand in his pocket, the other resting against the desk as if this conversation were merely another line item on his schedule.
Blanca’s voice softened. “Anyway, Mamá’s birthday is tonight. Don’t you dare use work as an excuse again.”
Carlos’s jaw tightened. “Blanca—”
“She’s been setting an extra place at dinner every week, you know. Just in case you show up.”
Oscar’s stomach twisted at that, and for the first time since he’d met him, Carlos didn’t have a ready answer. His gaze flicked away, unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached over and ended the call.
Silence stretched.
Oscar cleared his throat. “Should I, um… add something to your schedule for tonight?”
Carlos hesitated, then said quietly, “Yes. Buy a gift for my mother. Something… classic.” He turned back to his screen. “You can pick it.”
“Me?” Oscar blinked.
Carlos didn’t look up. “You seem detail-oriented. Don’t make it sentimental.”
Oscar typed a note on his tablet, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. He wasn’t sure why the task—buying something for Carlos’s mother, because Carlos had told him to—felt so oddly personal.
The phone buzzed again.
Incoming call: C. Sainz Sr.
Carlos’s expression hardened. “Take it.”
Oscar hesitated, pulse spiking. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He swiped to accept. “Mr. Sainz’s office.”
The elder Sainz’s voice came through like polished steel. “Is my son there?”
Oscar glanced at Carlos, who gave no sign of moving. “He’s… occupied, sir.”
“Of course he is. Tell him this—he will be at his mother’s birthday dinner tonight. No excuses. He’s embarrassed her enough already.”
Oscar’s stomach sank. “I’ll… tell him.”
“Good. And Piastri—keep him in line, will you?”
Oscar managed a weak, “Yes, sir,” before the call ended.
He set the phone down gently. “Your father says you should go tonight.”
Carlos didn’t even glance up. “Noted.”
“You’re not going, are you?”
“Correct.”
Oscar frowned before he could stop himself. “She’s your mother.”
That earned him a look—sharp, cold, dangerous. The kind that made Oscar’s chest tighten even as he stubbornly held Carlos’s gaze.
“Maybe you don’t care about family obligations,” Oscar said, voice quiet but trembling slightly, “but some people actually notice when you’re not there.”
Carlos studied him for a long, unbearable moment. Oscar felt the heat rise up his neck, into his cheeks, and cursed inwardly at how obvious it must be.
Then, slowly, Carlos’s lips curved,not a smile, not really. “Noted, Mr Piastri. Anything else you’d like to critique?”
Oscar swallowed hard. “No. Sir.”
The word sir came out softer than he meant it to, almost a breath. Carlos’s gaze flicked down, amused, and Oscar felt his ears burn.
“Good.”
Carlos stood, smoothing his jacket, movements smooth and deliberate. He was halfway to the door when he paused.
“You can deliver the gift yourself,” he said. “I’ll have the driver take you to the house at eight.”
Oscar blinked, thrown. “Wait—what?”
“Tell her I was delayed. You’re competent enough to make an excuse sound believable.”
Then he was gone, the faint scent of his cologne lingering like a fingerprint.
Oscar sat there, still flushed, still trying to process the last two minutes. His pulse hadn’t caught up to his thoughts yet. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, “You absolute nightmare of a man.”
But the words didn’t sound convincing, even to him.
He glanced at the dim phone screen again—his own reflection faint in the glass—and exhaled shakily. He hated how easily Carlos got under his skin. Hated how his chest reacted whenever that cool, level gaze lingered on him just a second too long.
It was supposed to be simple: observe, report, remain detached.
But as he sat alone in the hum of the office, cheeks still warm from embarrassment and something he didn’t want to name, Oscar realised with a sinking feeling—Carlos wasn’t just under his supervision anymore.
He was under his skin.
The driver dropped him off outside the Sainz estate just before eight-thirty.
Oscar had expected something cold and modern, but the house—no, the villa—was warm and golden under the lights, all terracotta and ivy and the faint hum of music drifting through open windows. It smelled like home; cooked food and expensive wine, a far cry from the glass-and-steel chill of the office.
He held the carefully wrapped gift box tighter against his chest as he climbed the steps. Inside, laughter spilled from a dining room somewhere down the hall. He could hear snippets of Spanish, warmth, teasing, the clink of cutlery and glasses.
He was supposed to drop the gift off, offer polite excuses, and leave. That was the plan.
But the moment he rang the bell, the door flew open.
“Oh my god!” Blanca stood there, radiant and exasperated, a mirror of her brother’s sharp cheekbones but softer, kinder somehow. “He actually sent someone!”
Oscar blinked. “Good evening. I—uh—Mr. Sainz Jr. asked me to deliver this.” He held out the gift awkwardly. “For your mother. From him.”
Blanca eyed him for a long moment before sighing. “You’re the assistant, right? The one who answered my call?”
He nodded.
“Well, you’re not leaving.” She stepped aside, gesturing him in. “If he can’t show up himself, the least you can do is fill his seat.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Do not argue with me on Mamá’s birthday.”
And just like that, Oscar found himself seated at the long dining table of the Sainz family home, surrounded by warmth, conversation, and the faint sense that he had accidentally trespassed into someone else’s memory.
Mamá Sainz—Reyes—was gracious and charming, her smile so effortlessly kind it made Oscar’s chest ache a little. She thanked him for the gift (a silk shawl and a handwritten note he’d convinced Carlos to sign before leaving) and insisted he try the food.
He did. It was incredible.
Blanca leaned in after a few minutes, resting her chin on her hand. “So, tell me—what’s it like working with my brother?”
Oscar almost choked on his wine. “He’s… professional.”
“Professional?” She arched a brow. “That’s one word for it.”
Across the table, Reyes sighed softly. “He’s not coming, is he?”
The words landed like a small, private heartbreak. Blanca didn’t answer. Oscar’s fork stilled.
“He’s just busy,” he heard himself say before he could stop it. “Long hours. Meetings. He didn’t mean—”
Blanca tilted her head. “You’re defending him?”
The realization hit him a second too late, and he flushed. “I just—he works hard, that’s all.”
Something in Blanca’s expression softened. “You sound like him,” she said gently. “Always making excuses.”
Before Oscar could respond, a deep voice interrupted from the doorway.
“Where’s Carlos?”
Carlos Sr. stood there, still in his suit, late and unsmiling. The room shifted immediately, conversation dimming, the warmth thinning into something taut.
Blanca’s tone was clipped. “Working. As usual.”
Sr. sighed heavily. “He forgets who built that empire he’s so busy running.”
“He hasn’t forgotten,” Oscar said before thinking. His voice came out sharper than he meant it to.
Every head turned. Heat rushed to his cheeks.
“I just mean,” he stammered, “he’s… carrying a lot. Maybe he doesn’t have time to—”
“To what?” Sr. asked, eyebrow lifting.
Oscar swallowed. “To breathe.”
The table went quiet for a moment, the air humming with something between surprise and discomfort. Blanca blinked, then let out a low laugh. “Well. At least someone still believes he’s human.”
Oscar looked down at his plate, mortified. He didn’t know why he’d said that—or why the knot in his chest felt like anger on Carlos’s behalf.He wondered if his Carlos avoided the family because of his father.
His Carlos.
The thought flickered, uninvited and dangerous. His stomach dropped. No, not his. The correction felt too late, though, because it was already there, echoing in his head like an admission.
He didn’t hear the next question. He barely tasted dessert. He was too busy trying to untangle why the words had felt so natural.
When the dinner finally ended, Reyes hugged him goodbye. “Tell Carlos we miss him,” she said, her voice soft. “And thank you, Oscar, for coming. You have kind eyes.”
Outside, the night air bit cold against his skin. He walked down the steps slowly, the gift box replaced by the heavier weight of guilt and confusion.
In the back seat of the car, he stared at the dark screen of his phone, at his reflection in the glass.
He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.
But the image of Carlos,calm, composed, untouchable,kept burning behind his eyes, tangled now with the warmth of the family he’d ignored.
Oscar closed his eyes, whispering to the dark, “What the hell are you doing to me, Carlos?”
The car pulled away from the villa, Madrid’s lights flickering against the windows like fading stars.
By the time Oscar reached his apartment, the city had gone still. The kind of quiet that made thoughts louder. He kicked off his shoes, dropped his jacket somewhere near the couch, and sank into the darkness. The faint scent of the Sainz family dinner still clung to his sleeves, wine and rosemary and something that felt too much like warmth.
He hated how much it stayed with him.
He thought about Reyes’s soft voice, the way she’d smiled even when disappointment had been sitting plain in her eyes. About Blanca’s sharp humour, her quiet sadness tucked between teasing lines, about Carlos Sr, his voice all iron and expectation.
And then, inevitably, about him.
Carlos Sainz Jr calm, polished, and unreadable. The man who could silence a room with a look and reduce him to a stammer with a single word. The man whose absence had left a hollow space at that table, filled only by excuses Oscar hadn’t meant to make.
He ran a hand over his face. “Get it together,” he muttered to himself. “He’s your boss. He’s a job.”
But the words didn’t settle. They felt like lies, flimsy ones.
When his phone buzzed, he almost didn’t look. But the name on the screen stopped him cold.
Carlos: Did you deliver the gift?
Oscar hesitated, thumbs hovering before typing back:
Oscar: Yes. Your mother says thank you.
A pause. Then another message.
Carlos: How was it?
Oscar stared at the screen, unsure what that meant—the dinner? The family? Seeing what you’re missing? He typed, deleted, then finally settled on the safest truth he could manage.
Oscar: Warm. They miss you.
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, and then—
Carlos: That’s unfortunate. Goodnight, Piastri.
Oscar exhaled a shaky laugh, part frustration, part something else entirely. The implication of that text—the tone of it— cold, dismissive, perfectly composed—should have made him angry. Instead, it made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.
He dropped the phone onto the couch and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
He’d seen the two sides of Carlos Sainz Jr. now: the disciplined executive and the absent son. Both perfectly controlled, both hiding something he couldn’t yet name.
But the worst part was realising that, somewhere between the office glass and the dinner table, Oscar had stopped seeing Carlos as a subject to monitor.
He was watching him for all the wrong reasons now.
Notes:
Chapter 3 done.
Lemme know how you guys like it and any predictions or suggestions you guys want of little moments or scenes for what you guys want for the upcoming chapters.
Thank you for the support and kudos !!!
Chapter Text
By the following week, Oscar had almost convinced himself that the dinner hadn’t meant anything.
Almost.
He’d told himself it was just part of the job that he had gone there to smooth things over. Yet, every time he looked up and saw Carlos through the glass partition, that quiet dinner replayed in the back of his mind: the warmth of his mother’s smile, the disappointment in his father’s tone, and the hollow space where Carlos should have been.
Carlos, meanwhile, seemed more untouchable than ever. If anything, he was working harder, or pretending to. No matter how early Oscar tried to arrive, there was always a faint light already glowing behind the tinted glass, the silhouette of a man hunched over files, movements sharp and restless. Sometimes, Oscar thought he caught Carlos rubbing at his temples or leaning too long against his desk as though the act of standing still cost him something. But by the time Oscar entered with his usual coffee, that moment of weakness was gone replaced by that same effortless control.
“Morning,” Oscar said one day, placing the cup beside him.
Carlos didn’t look up immediately. The pen in his hand kept moving across a tablet as though Oscar wasn’t there. A flicker of his eyes finally lifted, cool and assessing, and Oscar felt the familiar, inexplicable flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat.
“Your usual,” Oscar added, trying to sound professional, though his fingers lingered on the edge of the cup longer than necessary.
Carlos’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long for Oscar’s comfort. “Thanks,” he said finally, voice calm and controlled but carrying that weight that always made Oscar self-conscious. The brief nod followed with a small smirk was enough to make Oscar straighten in his chair, fingers gripping his tablet a little tighter.
As Oscar retreated to his own desk, he forced himself to focus on the schedule, on the spreadsheets, on anything but the faint shadow of warmth and chaos that had been Carlos at the family dinner. Yet even as he tried, the memory of Carlos’s hand taking the coffee, the slight smirk, the way he looked over the rim of the cup, it pressed against the edges of his mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
Oscar was typing a report when the first buzz broke the silence.
A small vibration, nothing more than an insect hum. Then another.
He looked up.
Through the glass, Carlos barely moved. His pen froze mid-sentence, eyes flicking toward the phone on his desk. The buzz came again—louder this time, vibrating against the wood like a mosquito that refused to die. Carlos’s jaw tightened. He ignored it.
Oscar tried to refocus, but the next buzz followed almost instantly, and then another, and another—steady, rhythmic, maddening. From where he sat, he could see the faint glow of the phone screen through the tinted partition.
Then it rang.
The sound pierced the office’s carefully curated calm, too loud, too personal. Carlos’s head snapped up; he muttered something under his breath and pressed the phone face-down. The ringing stopped. A few seconds passed. Then it started again.
And again.
Oscar watched, uncertain. He could see the tension ripple through Carlos, could see the way his hand gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles went white. Finally, Carlos stood abruptly, the movement sharp enough to jolt the silence.
He crossed the office, shoulders tense, and opened the door between them. “I’m taking five,” he said, voice low, clipped. “Don’t go in and don’t touch anything.”
“Of course,” Oscar replied automatically, but he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt final.
Through the glass, the empty office glowed in cold, unwavering light. The phone lay on the desk, its screen pulsing every few seconds, vibrating like a persistent heartbeat. Oscar told himself to ignore it. It wasn’t his concern. He had emails, a schedule, a list of tasks—plenty to occupy his mind.
But curiosity is a slow poison.
Another vibration buzzed—a longer one this time—followed by the sharp chime of a new voice message. Against his better judgment, Oscar rose. The glass door groaned softly as he stepped inside. The air still carried the faint trace of Carlos’s cologne—dark, clean, intoxicating.
The phone flashed again. Oscar’s eyes flicked to the screen, drawn despite himself.
The screen lit up instantly with messages. Dozens of them. All from one contact: L.
Oscar’s breath caught.
L: You can’t keep ignoring me. We’re not done.
L: I’m in Spain. Meet up.
L: I know where you are, Carlitos. Don’t test me.
L: How’s the perfect CEO thing working out for you?
L: You said you loved me. Did you lie?
Oscar’s stomach twisted. Each message felt like it pulsed with heat, the kind of toxic attachment that didn’t fade but festered. More bubbles appeared—one after another, the tone turning sharper, more venomous.
L: I’m starting to lose my patience now.
L: This hard-to-get act is getting old, mate.
L: Meet me tonight. Usual place.
He exhaled slowly, the air tight in his chest. His first instinct was anger—not disgust, not pity, but something fierce and defensive. Whoever L was, they didn’t deserve to have that power over him.
Carlos didn’t deserve it.
Oscar hesitated, thumb hovering over the voice note just above the screen. His pulse drummed in his ears. He shouldn’t. He absolutely shouldn’t.
But the notification pulsed insistently, the blue waveform taunting him until curiosity cracked whatever professional restraint he had left. He pressed play.
L (voice note): “Carlos, are you serious right now? I’m in your country, and you can’t even pick up the damn phone? You said you needed space — I gave you space. I waited. I put up with the side flings and the headlines and all that bullshit because I thought it was just noise. But ignoring me? After everything?
The Spanish Grand Prix’s next week — I came early to see you. You will see me. You always do. You can choose how — on your terms or mine.”
The voice—young, smooth, and confident—sent a chill through Oscar’s chest. It wasn’t just the words; it was the tone beneath them. The kind of charm that wrapped itself around a threat and called it affection.
Oscar’s stomach twisted. Whoever L was, they knew Carlos—really knew him. The message carried history, tension, something darkly familiar.
He placed the phone back exactly where it had been, fingers trembling, and returned to his desk as if nothing had happened. But his mind was already unraveling.
His pulse was loud in his ears.
Oscar opened his tablet and began typing before he could second-guess himself. A search bar blinked back at him.
“Spanish Grand Prix 2025 — drivers list.”
Results flooded the screen—articles, interviews, glossy PR spreads. His eyes scanned the lineup until one name stood out like a flare.
Lando Norris.
There it was—the “L.” British, young, famous, the kind of person who made headlines just for existing. Oscar clicked on a recent photo from a sports magazine. Lando Norris, all easy charm and movie-star grin, holding a trophy and smirking for the cameras.
A few clips showed up of Lando winning last years race and other press coverage from the previous season. One caught Oscar’s eye.
He clicked.
It was a highlight reel from last year’s Grand Prix weekend: Lando stepping out of a car, cameras flashing, reporters shouting over one another. The commentary was upbeat, effortless.
“And joining him trackside again this weekend, his long-time friend, Spanish entrepreneur Carlos Sainz ,” the commentator said.
The camera panned briefly, catching Carlos in the background—dark suit, sunglasses, expression carefully blank. He looked younger, lighter somehow, the edge of a rare smile curving his mouth as Lando clapped a hand to his shoulder.
Oscar’s chest tightened. “Friend,” the reporter had said. But the way Lando looked at him, and the way Carlos’s gaze flicked back, unreadable but charged, didn’t feel like friendship.
He replayed the clip once. Then again.
Whatever history existed between them wasn’t just casual. And if Lando was back in Spain, it wasn’t for the race alone.
A few minutes later, the door swung open. Carlos re-entered, silent but wound tight, moving like a man navigating a minefield. The air seemed to shift around him. He sank into his chair, exhaled, and for the briefest moment, he looked… tired.
Then the phone buzzed again.
Once. Twice.
And then it rang.
Carlos froze. The muscles in his jaw twitched. Without warning, he snatched the phone from the desk and hurled it—hard—against the far wall. Glass and metal collided with a sharp crash, fragments scattering across the polished floor.
Oscar froze, eyes wide, unsure whether to move or speak.
Then he straightened, crossed the room, and leaned against the doorway with practiced calm. “Should I call maintenance to clean that up,” he asked evenly, “or leave it as modern art?”
Carlos didn’t answer, chest rising and falling in measured fury.
Oscar stepped closer, pressing the intercom on his desk. “Maintenance to the executive office. And someone order a new phone for Mr. Sainz.”
He paused, then added, without looking up, “I trust it was backed up.”
At that, the faintest twitch lifted the corner of Carlos’s mouth—a ghost of amusement, or maybe just exhaustion. He said nothing, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a hand over his face. Taking the silence as permission, Oscar retreated to his cubicle.
From behind the glass, he watched. The distance between them had never felt so thin—or so dangerous.
Because in that brief glimpse of anger, of fragility, he’d seen the man behind the control. And it stirred something inside him he wasn’t ready to name.
Oscar leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the glass partition. Carlos sat inside, hunched over his work again, the same cold control restored—as if nothing, and no one, could reach him.
But Oscar couldn’t stop thinking about the messages. About the voice note. About the crack in Carlos’s voice when he’d finally snapped and thrown the phone.
Maybe this was why he kept his distance—from everyone. Maybe avoiding Lando wasn’t so different from avoiding his father, or even his mother’s birthday dinner.
Both required control. Both required shutting the door before anyone could see the mess on the other side.
Oscar swallowed hard, fingers tapping idly against the desk. The thought settled in his chest, heavy and unwanted: maybe Carlos wasn’t just protecting himself. Maybe he was protecting everyone else from whatever this was—whatever had turned him into someone who couldn’t bear to be seen.
An hour passed in slow, distracted stretches. The office was quiet except for the low hum of computers and the occasional rustle of paper, but Oscar’s focus refused to settle. His eyes kept drifting toward the glass partition, toward the calm silhouette inside. Carlos looked unchanged, as if the shattered phone and the fury that came with it had never happened. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. The messages, the voice, the name—they lingered in Oscar’s mind. This Lando Norris had once seen a version of Carlos that no one else got to—close enough to hurt him, close enough to make him break.
Oscar hated the idea.
He hated the thought of anyone holding that kind of power over Carlos, of anyone speaking to him as if he belonged to them. The possessiveness hit him sudden and sharp, irrational—a flash of heat he couldn’t name. Carlos wasn’t his. He was his boss, his responsibility, his daily routine. And yet the thought of Lando—the voice, the entitlement—made something protective and dangerous twist low in Oscar’s chest.
He was still trying to shove the feeling down when movement caught his eye. Carlos had looked up—briefly—from his work, eyes flicking toward him through the glass. The glance wasn’t questioning, exactly, but it felt aware. A faint crease of curiosity furrowed his brow before he returned to his tasks, as if nothing had happened.
Oscar exhaled, realizing too late he’d been caught staring. The heat in his chest was half embarrassment, half something darker he refused to name.
He didn’t remember deciding to move. One minute he was staring at his screen, the next he was halfway to Carlos’s office, tablet in hand, as if it could disguise the real reason he was there.
Carlos looked up as the door clicked open. The glass partition lent every movement a deliberate weight, like entering a room meant for invitation—even when it wasn’t.
“Oscar,” Carlos said, tone even but not unkind. “Something wrong with the schedule?”
“No,” Oscar replied too quickly. He hesitated at the doorway, pretending to check something on the tablet. “I just wanted to—uh—let you know my university term starts tomorrow.”
Carlos leaned back slightly, studying him. “I’m aware,” he said. “It’s in the calendar.”
“Right,” Oscar muttered, fingers tightening on the tablet. “I’ll only be in three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday—and those are early lectures, so I’ll be getting in around noon. I’ll stay late to make up the hours.”
Carlos nodded once. “That won’t be necessary.”
The words should have ended the conversation. They didn’t.
Oscar shifted his weight, throat dry. “Still, I’d rather keep things running smoothly. You’ve got a lot coming up, and I didn’t want it to… disrupt anything.”
Carlos’s gaze lingered—steady, unreadable, but not detached. Every excuse Oscar had rehearsed felt transparent under that look.
“Was there anything else?” Carlos asked softly.
Oscar’s mouth opened, then closed. Yes, he wanted to say. Why do you look so tired? Why does it bother me when you don’t speak? Why do I keep finding excuses to come in? Why does that voice message still echo in your eyes?
Instead, he said, “No, sir. That’s all.”
He turned to leave, pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with timetables or university schedules.
“Good luck with your classes,” Carlos said quietly, just as he reached the door.
Oscar froze mid-step. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the softness behind them, something almost human that slipped past the usual armor.
When he finally looked back, Carlos was already writing again, the brief moment gone as if it had never happened.
Oscar exhaled, forcing a small, private smile. “Thank you,” he murmured, before retreating to his side of the glass—where it was safe to pretend the conversation had meant nothing.
The rest of the week blurred in quiet repetition. Meetings, reports, half-finished coffees. Carlos was quieter than usual—not distant exactly, just… unreadable. Their exchanges were limited to clipped updates and passing glances through the glass, each carrying more than either dared to voice. By Friday evening, Oscar had convinced himself that the strange, fragile moment between them had dissolved into routine, just another forgotten detail of office life.
Oscar stepped into the office later than usual, the morning sun high enough to feel like a small betrayal. The quiet hum of Level 23 greeted him, punctuated by the usual click of keyboards and faint murmur of voices. He paused at the glass partition, catching sight of Carlos’s silhouette hunched over his desk.
The moment their eyes met, Carlos’s expression shifted—just slightly, almost imperceptibly—but it was enough. Relief, brief but unmistakable, flickered across his face. The corner of his mouth lifted, a ghost of a smile that made Oscar’s chest tighten for reasons he didn’t want to name.
“Morning,” Oscar said, trying for calm and professional, despite the flustered way he held his bag.
Carlos nodded, eyes softening slightly, then returned to his work. “Right on time,” he remarked lightly, though the faint edge in his tone suggested he had noticed the tardiness.
Oscar made his way to his desk, noticing a faint scrape of movement behind the glass. A small cluster of HR personnel were gathered outside Carlos’s office, speaking quietly, pens and folders in hand. His curiosity pricked despite himself. He lingered by the partition, straining just enough to catch snippets.
“…replacement PA?” one voice—clearly HR—was saying.
Carlos’s calm, controlled voice carried back through the glass. “No. I’m not replacing Piastri.”
There was a pause, then the HR voice tried again. “But given the new responsibilities and your travel schedule—”
“I said no,” Carlos interrupted, firm but quiet. “He’s staying. There’s no need. I trust him.”
Oscar’s stomach flipped. Relief, pride, and a confusing warmth mixed in equal measure. He hadn’t realized how much he’d feared that conversation—the idea of being sidelined or replaced. Hearing Carlos speak so clearly on his behalf—so quietly, so definitively—made him momentarily light-headed.
By the time the meeting ended, Carlos had already turned back to his desk, posture relaxed in a way Oscar rarely saw. From behind the glass, Oscar watched him for a moment, feeling protective and, oddly, possessive—a thought he immediately scolded himself for entertaining.
He pulled himself together, set his bag down, and opened his tablet, determined to focus on the day—but the memory of that brief glance, that slight relief in Carlos’s expression, lingered, threading through his thoughts like a subtle, unshakeable current.
The afternoon dragged on longer than Oscar expected. His three classes at uni had left him more exhausted than anticipated, and the office, with its constant hum of controlled activity, felt heavier than usual.
By mid-afternoon, his head nodded over the tablet, fingers limp against the keyboard. A stray folder slid off the edge of the desk, waking him just enough to groan before letting himself collapse fully onto the surface.
Minutes—or maybe an hour—passed in a haze of half-dreams, numbers and schedules blending into the dull ache behind his eyes. He didn’t notice the faint shift of light across the glass partition at first, nor the quiet footsteps approaching.
“Piastri.”
The voice was soft, calm, yet carried that weight that always made Oscar’s chest tighten. He stirred, eyes half-closed, squinting at the silhouette framed by the office door.
Carlos.
Leaning slightly against the frame, sleeves rolled up, posture casual yet taut with that unmistakable tension in his shoulders, he seemed effortless—and dangerous. Relief—or something warmer—flashed across Oscar’s chest, making him sit up a little straighter despite himself.
Without a word, Carlos stepped a few paces closer, closing the distance with that effortless control that always seemed to unnerve Oscar. In one fluid motion, he ran a hand through Oscar’s hair. The gesture was brief, almost imperceptible, yet it carried a weight of familiarity and authority that left Oscar frozen.
“Long day,” Carlos murmured, low and controlled, but threaded with a softness that made Oscar’s heart pound against his ribs.
“I—uh…” Oscar stammered, cheeks warming, fumbling for words that wouldn’t come. He felt exposed, flustered, but couldn’t look away from the measured calm in Carlos’s gaze.
Carlos gave a small nod, hand lingering a moment longer before moving away. “Go home. Early start tomorrow.”
Oscar blinked, trying to process the brief intimacy, the closeness, and the simplicity of the command all at once. His throat felt dry, mind spinning, but he managed a weak, “Yes, sir.”
As Carlos returned to his desk and disappeared behind the glass partition, Oscar exhaled slowly, heart still racing. He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to ground himself. The office felt colder, emptier, yet the weight of that small gesture lingered—subtle, impossible to shake.
The next morning felt off from the start. Carlos was gone before sunrise—off to some high-stakes board meeting—leaving the office too quiet, too polished, too still.
Oscar worked in silence, the hum of his computer the only sound on Level 23. Every so often, his eyes flicked to the glass partition, half-expecting the familiar silhouette to appear. But the space beyond the glass was empty.
He was halfway through reviewing a supplier contract when the elevator chimed.
Footsteps followed. Slow. Confident. The kind that didn’t hurry for anyone.
Oscar looked up and froze. A man he recognised instantly—not from the office, but from headlines, from clips, from research. Lando Norris.
He embodied every inch of the persona the media had built: designer jacket, expensive sneakers, sunglasses pushed up into dark curls. No smile. No acknowledgment. Just a cold scan of the office, as if it were beneath him.
“Can I help you?” Oscar asked, standing automatically.
Lando’s eyes flicked toward him at last. “I’m here for Carlos.”
“Mr. Sainz is in a meeting,” Oscar said, keeping his voice professional. “You’ll need an appointment.”
A faint curve touched Lando’s lips—not a smile, but sharper, harder. “No, I don’t.”
Before Oscar could respond, Lando was already moving, fluid, unhurried. The glass door to Carlos’s office opened with a soft click.
“Sir, you can’t—”
But Lando was already inside. He didn’t look back.
Oscar’s jaw tightened as he watched him stroll through the office, claiming it effortlessly. Lando didn’t touch anything—just scanned the room, lingering on the desk, the framed photo near the corner, then eased into Carlos’s chair like it belonged to him.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling lazily.
Oscar crossed his arms, forcing himself to remain composed. “He won’t be back for at least another hour,” he muttered.
Lando didn’t respond. Only a faint hum under his breath, as though he hadn’t heard—or didn’t care.
Oscar’s instinct screamed to order him out, to remind him whose office this was. But there was something in Lando’s posture—a bored, effortless confidence—that made clear he wouldn’t obey.
Fine. Let him wait.
Oscar sat back at his desk, trying to focus, but his gaze kept drifting to the glass. Lando lounged there, the image of casual arrogance, one leg crossed over the other, eyes sweeping the room like he was inspecting it. Occasionally, he smirked at something on his phone—a private joke no one else was invited to.
Minutes stretched, painfully slow. The silence thickened, broken only by the low hum of the air conditioning.
Then the elevator chimed again. Oscar’s shoulders snapped taut.
Carlos.
The door slid open, and he stepped inside—sharp suit, expression unreadable, mid-call. He froze the moment he spotted Lando through the glass. A flicker—too brief to name—passed across his face: shock, then something tighter, sharper.
Lando rose smoothly, sliding hands into his pockets, a lazy, calculated smile playing on his lips.
“Miss me?”
Carlos didn’t answer. The silence that followed was electric, pressing against Oscar’s chest like a physical weight.
He watched from his desk, pulse hammering, as the wordless exchange unfolded like a private storm behind the glass—Carlos standing perfectly still, Lando smiling as if he’d already won.
Oscar wasn’t sure who he wanted to punch more.
Carlos remained rigid, posture like a line drawn in pencil: firm, deliberate, unyielding. Every second of silence felt taut, like a held breath. Oscar’s pulse throbbed in his ears; every instinct screamed.
Lando’s grin softened, just slightly, into something almost pleading. The bravado cracked. Fingers drummed against his thigh; he swallowed twice before speaking, voice low, meant only for Carlos and the glass between them.
“You said you needed space,” Lando murmured. “I gave you that. I’ve been… trying to respect it. But I’m here, Carlos. I flew early. I don’t leave until you talk to me.”
Carlos’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to—” He cut off, scanning Lando’s face for a place to land his anger. “You don’t get to come in here and make demands.”
Lando’s breath hitched. “I know. I know.” His hand rose, then fell. “The race is in two days. I can’t focus. I can’t perform if I don’t know you’re okay. I came for a reason.”
The words were small, raw—not the showman’s taunt Oscar had expected. The pleading beneath them made it worse, like watching someone scrape at a wound that would never heal.
Carlos’s eyes flickered—not acceptance, not yet—but there was fatigue there, real and bone-deep, the kind that comes from rehearsing resistance until the words themselves grow thin.
“Not here,” Carlos said finally. “Outside.”
Lando stepped half a pace closer, blinking as if surprised by the concession. “I’m not leaving until you listen,” he insisted. “I won’t leave you. Not again.”
Those last two words hung heavy, landing in Oscar’s stomach like a stone: accusation, apology, confession—all at once. He didn’t know the details—and he didn’t want to—but the undercurrent between them was intimate, raw, almost obscene in its closeness.
Carlos exhaled, shook his head once, and with the smallest tilt of resignation, followed Lando out of the office.
The elevator swallowed them. The glass partition separated the empty space where they’d been, yet the air felt crowded, heavy with everything left unsaid. Oscar stayed frozen, hands clenched on his tablet until his knuckles ached.
Carlos Sainz Sr.’s office was never a place for hesitation. Oscar knocked, straightened his shirt, swallowed, and stepped inside. The older man looked up from a stack of reports, eyes immediately pinning Oscar in place.
“Where is he?” Carlos Sr. asked, no preamble, no softness.
“He left with Lando Norris,” Oscar said. The words felt flat, professional—but the tremor of the morning lingered beneath them.
For a long moment, Sainz Senior's face remained unreadable. Then it hardened, sharp enough to make Oscar’s throat dry.
“Again,” Sainz said. Cold, controlled. “He’s been reckless.”
“He—” Oscar began, then stopped. Duty, not feelings. “He’s been… under pressure. Lando kept pressing—”
“That boy has history with my son,” Sainz said, his gaze sharp. “I don’t know exactly what happened between them, but I know this—Carlos was never the same after he left. If he’s back in Carlos’s orbit, I want to know everything.”
Oscar straightened. “I’ll stay close, sir. Keep watch.”
Carlos Sr. studied him, measuring. “You’re closer to him than most,” he said finally. “Use it. Don’t let him isolate himself. Track his schedule, his movements. Keep him in the office when you can. And if Norris tries again, I want you in the middle of it—document, report, protect.”
Oscar’s throat tightened. “Yes, sir.”
“And Oscar?” The older man’s voice softened—just slightly. “If it comes to it… push Norris away. Carlos won’t listen to me. He listens to you.”
The command landed like both an order and a plea. Oscar felt something harden under his ribs—resolve laced with dread. He left the office with those words echoing: protect. Stay close. Report.
Back at his desk, Roberto intercepted him before he could sit. The tension in the room hadn’t broken—it had only shifted. Roberto’s face was pinched, a mixture of fury and worry.
“You saw them?” Roberto asked without preamble.
Oscar nodded. “They left. He went with Lando.”
Roberto let out a short, disgusted laugh. “Of course he did.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That man… he knows exactly how to push Carlos. I hate him.”
“Is Carlos—safe?” Oscar asked, his voice tight.
Roberto’s jaw clenched. “That’s the question. He’s not good for him. You saw him in there—he wasn’t himself.”
Oscar swallowed. “What should I do?”
Roberto studied him, eyes sharp. “Do your job,” he said. “But don’t act like some passive observer. If you see something wrong, you come to me. We handle it.”
For a moment, Oscar felt his role shift. His job had become an investigation. Carlos Sr had ordered it. Roberto had endorsed it. The weight of both their expectations pressed down on him, tight and unyielding.
Notes:
Say hi to Lando… or don’t. He doesn’t take no for an answer. Can Oscar survive this? Can you? Let me know your predictions.
Chapter Text
Oscar had barely slept.
His mind kept replaying the image of Carlos leaving the office with Lando — the way he hadn’t looked back, the way the door had clicked shut like the end of a chapter Oscar hadn’t realised he’d been reading.
By morning, the worry had settled in his chest like a stone. He’d checked his inbox twice before seven, refreshed his messages four times, and even called the driver service to ask if Carlos had booked transport that morning. Nothing.
By eight, the office felt wrong without him.
Too quiet. Too still.
Carlos’s glass-walled office, normally glowing by dawn, sat dark. The blinds half-drawn. The silence inside heavy enough to press on Oscar’s ribs.
By ten, he was pretending to work — replying to emails he’d already sent, reorganizing files that didn’t need reorganising. Every time his tablet buzzed, his pulse jumped. Every time it didn’t, the unease clawed deeper.
When Roberto appeared in the doorway, Oscar’s stomach dropped before the man even spoke.
“Still nothing?”
Oscar shook his head. “Not a word.”
Roberto exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering something in Spanish before meeting Oscar’s eyes. “Go.”
Oscar blinked. “Go?”
“To his place.” Roberto’s tone left no room for argument. “You’ve got your office lanyard? That’ll get you through the building’s security. He won’t answer for me, but maybe for you.”
“Sir, I—”
“If he gives you grief, tell him it was my idea,” Roberto said curtly. Then, after a pause: “And keep me updated.”
Oscar hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The words came out steadier than he felt.
The drive to Carlos’s apartment was short but excruciating. Oscar’s fingers drummed against his thigh the whole way, his reflection in the window pale and drawn.
He told himself it was professional concern. That he was just doing his job.
But every passing streetlight made that excuse sound thinner.
The building was a sleek glass tower — exactly the kind of place Carlos would live in, modern and expensive, with a lobby so polished it made Oscar feel like an intruder.
The building’s concierge barely looked up when he showed the Sainz Group ID.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Sainz’s assistant,” the man said, checking the list. “You’re cleared for access.”
Oscar’s stomach tightened at the word. Assistant. Somehow, it felt heavier today.
The elevator ride up was painfully slow, the kind that made his reflection in the mirrored walls hard to look at — pale, tense, rehearsing excuses that didn’t sound convincing even to himself.
When the doors opened, the hallway was quiet. Too quiet. The apartment door loomed ahead, black steel and glass, understated but impossibly expensive.
He hesitated for a second, then pressed the bell.
No response.
He tried again. Nothing.
His hand was shaking when he finally used the keycard Roberto had authorized. The lock clicked, and the door opened into stillness.
The apartment was… not what he expected.
It was beautiful — minimalist, yes, but not sterile. Books left open on the table. A half-empty glass of whiskey on the counter. A jacket draped carelessly over a chair. It looked lived in, but not occupied. Like someone had been here and then abruptly stopped being.
“Mr. Sainz?”
His voice echoed faintly.
He took a cautious step forward, every sound amplified — the soft scuff of his shoes, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint whir of the city outside.
Then, a noise.
A low exhale.
Oscar followed it down the hall, past the faint scent of cologne and something heavier — maybe alcohol, maybe exhaustion.
The bedroom door was half open.
He pushed it lightly with his fingertips.
And froze.
Carlos was lying on his side across the bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway, sleeves crumpled, hair a mess. One arm was thrown carelessly over his eyes, the other limp beside him, fingers brushing the edge of a glass on the nightstand.
For a terrifying moment, Oscar thought—
But then Carlos stirred, blinking groggily toward the light.
His voice came out rough, low. “You’re not room service.”
Oscar’s throat went dry. “You didn’t come in to work.”
“Observation skills — impressive as ever,” Carlos muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Did Roberto send you to babysit me?”
Oscar’s instinct was to retort, but his voice came out quieter than he meant. “He was worried.”
Carlos let out a small, humorless laugh. “He worries too much. I’m fine.”
He didn’t look fine. His eyes were bloodshot, his movements sluggish. There was something restless about him, like his body hadn’t quite caught up with his mind. The sheets were twisted around his legs, and there was a faint tremor in his hand when he sat up.
Oscar couldn’t look away.
“You look…” he began, then caught himself. You look like hell felt too cruel; you look beautiful felt too dangerous.
He settled for, “Tired.”
Carlos smirked faintly, leaning back on his hands. “What gave it away? My charming disposition?”
Oscar crossed his arms to keep them from fidgeting. “You haven’t eaten.”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
“Yeah,” Oscar said quietly. “That’s not an excuse.”
That earned him a look — sharp, assessing, but not unkind. “You sound like my father”
“Maybe he’s right sometimes,” Oscar said before realizing how that sounded.
Carlos’s gaze sharpened, cutting through him. “Careful.”
Oscar took a breath. “I’m just doing my job.”
Carlos studied him for a long moment — eyes flicking over his face, his stiff posture, his trembling hands. Then, with the faintest trace of amusement: “You’re terrible at lying, Oscar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are,” Carlos said, leaning his head back with a faint smile. “You’re worried.”
Oscar didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He didn’t know how to explain that his chest hurt just looking at him — that the faint tremor in Carlos’s fingers made him want to reach out, steady him, protect him.
Carlos sighed, the sound quieter this time, as though the fight had gone out of him. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m fine. Just… a bad night.”
“I’ll make you something,” he said abruptly.
“Don’t bother—”
“I’m not asking.”
Carlos blinked, eyebrows lifting slightly. “You always this insubordinate at home visits?”
Oscar turned before Carlos could see the flush rising to his cheeks. “Only when someone’s trying to starve themselves out of spite.”
The kitchen was open to the rest of the flat, so he could feel Carlos’s eyes on him as he moved — pulling open cabinets, checking the fridge, setting out pans.
There wasn’t much to work with: eggs, some bread, black coffee grounds. It would have to do.
He focused on the motion — butter sizzling, the rhythmic scrape of a spatula, the way the warmth of the stove cut through the morning chill. It was grounding, almost too domestic.
“Do you always cook for people who don’t ask?”
Oscar jumped. Carlos had drifted closer, barefoot, leaning against the counter. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows now, skin still flushed faintly from the shower he’d just taken.
He looked better — but still… off.
“Do you always interrogate people who are trying to help you?” Oscar shot back, keeping his tone even.
Carlos tilted his head. “You call this helping?”
“You call this living?”
Silence.
Carlos’s lips twitched — not in amusement this time, but in something heavier.
“Careful, Oscar,” he said softly. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”
Oscar’s pulse jumped. He flipped the eggs a little too fast. “Maybe I do.”
That made Carlos pause. For the first time, his expression shifted — a flicker of something raw, unguarded. Then he looked down, smirk returning like armor.
“Dangerous habit,” he murmured. “Caring about people like me.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not smart enough to stop.”
The air between them went still — sharp and warm and fragile all at once.
The kitchen smelled faintly of butter and coffee. Sunlight had crept in through the tall windows, turning everything warm and too-close. Oscar set the plate down in front of Carlos, trying to steady his hands.
“Eat,” he said, soft but firm.
Carlos gave the faintest smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “You always this bossy before breakfast?”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Only when I’m talking to stubborn CEO’s who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”
That earned him a quiet huff of laughter. But Carlos didn’t reach for the food immediately—he just watched him, that unreadable look settling on his face again.
“You haven’t eaten,” Carlos said after a moment. It wasn’t a question.
Oscar blinked. “I’m fine.”
Carlos gestured toward the second plate Oscar had set down absentmindedly, an extra serving he hadn’t meant to make. “Sit. Eat with me.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither was I,” Carlos said, voice low. “And yet here we are.”
The silence stretched. Oscar hesitated, feeling his pulse quicken under the weight of Carlos’s gaze. It wasn’t a command, not really—but it felt like one. Like refusing would break something delicate and unspoken between them.
He finally sat, more to escape that gaze than to meet it. The chair scraped quietly against the marble floor.
“Better?” Carlos asked, picking up his fork.
Oscar didn’t answer. He tried to focus on his own food instead, but his hand brushed the edge of Carlos’s plate as he reached for the salt. Their fingers didn’t touch, but it was close enough to make him freeze.
Carlos noticed. Of course he did. He didn’t look away.
“Relax,” Carlos said softly, amusement curling around the word. “You look like I’m about to bite.”
Oscar swallowed, heat rushing to his cheeks. “I just— It’s weird. Sitting here. Like this.”
“Like friends?”
Oscar almost choked. “You don’t have breakfast with your friends.”
Carlos smirked, a slow, knowing thing that made Oscar’s stomach twist. “I don’t, no.”
He took another sip of coffee, his gaze lingering over the rim of the cup. Oscar found himself watching the movement of his throat as he swallowed, the faint sheen of light against his skin, the small scar near his collarbone—how had he never noticed that before?
He looked away quickly, pretending to focus on his plate. His fork scraped against the ceramic, too loud in the quiet.
Carlos set his cup down with a soft click. “You’re thinking too hard again.”
“I’m not,” Oscar lied.
“You always do,” Carlos said, his tone quieter now—gentler, almost. “You walk in like the whole world is your responsibility. Maybe that’s why Roberto likes you.”
Oscar’s lips twitched despite himself. “I think Roberto just likes that I can handle you.”
Carlos’s smile sharpened. “Can you?”
The air thickened instantly—sharp, charged. Oscar didn’t trust his voice enough to answer, so he stabbed at a piece of toast instead.
Carlos chuckled quietly, leaning back in his chair, utterly at ease again. “Thought so.”
Oscar dared to glance up, and for a heartbeat, their eyes locked—Carlos, still rumpled and warm from sleep; Oscar, flushed and trying desperately not to notice.
And maybe, just for a moment, Carlos let the mask slip. His expression softened, something unguarded flickering through before he looked away.
“Thanks for breakfast,” he said finally. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” Oscar said. “But I wanted to.”
Carlos’s gaze returned to him then, slower, steadier. “That’s what worries me.”
Oscar watched Carlos finish the last of his coffee, the silence between them stretching thin. The air had shifted — quieter now, but heavier. He wanted to say something. Needed to. The memory of Lando standing in that office, the smug grin, the way Carlos had looked — pale, hollow, like something had been dragged out of him — had replayed in his mind all night.
He cleared his throat softly. “Carlos?”
Carlos hummed, not looking up from his plate.
“About yesterday,” Oscar began carefully, fingers tightening around his cup. “That guy — Lando. He just showed up out of nowhere, and I… I didn’t know if I should call someone or—”
Carlos’s fork stilled. Just a fraction. But enough.
“—or if he was, you know, someone you trusted.”
That earned him a short laugh. Sharp, humorless. “Trusted,” Carlos repeated, like the word itself was a joke.
Oscar hesitated. “You knew him from before, right?”
Carlos leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the window. For a moment, he didn’t answer. When he finally did, his voice was quieter, rougher at the edges. “Yeah. From before.”
There was a beat of silence that felt longer than it was. Oscar’s pulse picked up. “I just— you looked… I don’t know. Different. After he came by.”
Carlos’s jaw flexed, his fingers tapping absently against the edge of the cup. “People like him have a way of showing up when you least want them to.”
Oscar frowned. “What do you mean?”
Carlos turned to him then, gaze steady — the kind of look that pinned you in place. “Let’s just say he’s very good at leaving,” he said, voice low, even. “Especially when things get difficult.”
Something in the way he said it made Oscar’s stomach tighten.
“He left,” Carlos continued, eyes unfocused. “And when he came back, he thought the world hadn’t changed. That I hadn’t changed.” His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “It’s hard to explain what that kind of mistake costs.”
Oscar swallowed hard, unsure what to say. The air between them felt fragile, like any wrong word would make it shatter.
He wanted to ask what exactly had happened. Why Carlos still looked haunted when he said leaving. But Carlos’s expression — detached but tired, a little too carefully neutral — told him not to push.
So instead, he murmured, “He shouldn’t have come back.”
Carlos’s eyes flicked to him then, something unreadable passing through them. “No,” he said quietly. “He shouldn’t have.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It buzzed with too many things unsaid — guilt, anger, maybe something closer to grief.
Oscar’s chest ached with the urge to reach out, to say something that would fix it, soften it, but he didn’t know how. So he settled for sliding the rest of his toast toward Carlos’s plate, a small, wordless offering.
Carlos looked at it, then at him, and for the first time that morning, a faint hint of warmth returned to his eyes. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
Oscar smiled, faintly. “Not when it comes to you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. The moment hung — sharp and dangerous.
Carlos’s gaze flicked to him, steady and knowing, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Careful, Oscar.”
Oscar looked down at his hands. “I know.”
But the truth was, he didn’t. Not really.
He hesitated, the quiet stretching again, until the question that had been gnawing at him all morning slipped free. “Are you going to go? To the Grand Prix, I mean.”
“Why?” Carlos asked without looking up.
Oscar shrugged lightly, pretending it didn’t matter. “I just thought… he’ll be there.”
A muscle jumped in Carlos’s jaw. “Yeah,” he said softly. “He will.”
Carlos’s eyes lifted then, sharp and assessing. “And how do you know he’ll be there?”
Oscar froze, halfway through pushing his fork through a half-eaten piece of toast. “What?”
Carlos tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. “The Grand Prix, mi asistente. How would you know Lando’s racing if you don’t know him?”
“I— I don’t,” Oscar said too quickly. His voice cracked slightly, which didn’t help. “I mean, I didn’t. Not— not like that.”
“Not like that,” Carlos echoed, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “So how did you find out?”
Oscar’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I just… saw a clip. Online.”
“A clip,” Carlos repeated slowly. “Right. Of him.”
“Of you,” Oscar blurted before he could stop himself.
The silence that followed was sharp. Carlos’s brow lifted a fraction higher, interest flickering across his face. “Of me?”
Oscar’s stomach dropped. “I mean— it was about you both, not— I was just… curious.”
“Curious,” Carlos said, voice warm with amusement. “So you were watching old race footage.”
“I was doing research!” Oscar snapped, face burning now. “Because you were in it and I— I wanted context. For work.”
Carlos’s smirk deepened, the kind that could make blood rush straight to your ears. “Context,” he repeated, savoring the word. “Of course. Always so… dedicated.”
Oscar groaned quietly and pushed his plate away, glaring at his coffee like it had personally betrayed him. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re blushing,” Carlos said softly, that teasing edge melting into something gentler — something dangerously close to fondness.
Oscar’s breath caught, the room suddenly too warm, the air too thin. “I’m not,” he muttered, even though they both knew he was.
For a moment, the silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was charged — alive, almost humming.
Then Oscar, desperate for an escape, pushed on. “So, you’re not going to see him, right? At the race?”
Carlos’s expression shifted instantly, like a shutter closing. The warmth drained from his face, leaving something colder, harder. “You think I’d want to?”
Oscar hesitated. “He clearly still wants to see you.”
Carlos let out a soft, humourless laugh. “Of course he does. That’s what he’s best at … wanting.”
Oscar frowned. “What does that mean?”
For a moment, Carlos didn’t answer. His gaze had gone distant, the teasing completely gone. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, rougher. “It means he only ever shows up when it’s too late.”
Oscar’s stomach twisted. He wanted to ask what that meant, what really happened, why Carlos looked so tired when he said it. But he didn’t. He just sat there, watching him.
Carlos must’ve felt his stare, because his eyes flicked up, meeting Oscar’s. “You looked like you wanted to ask something,” he said.
Oscar swallowed. “I just… You looked like you used to care.”
Carlos smiled, small, crooked, and utterly without humour. “Caring,” he said softly, “was the problem.”
The words landed like a bruise.
Oscar didn’t know what to say after that, so he said nothing , he just sat there, pulse stuttering, the faint sound of the city bleeding through the silence as Carlos leaned back, eyes closing, as though the conversation itself had exhausted him.
And for reasons he couldn’t quite name, Oscar wanted to reach across the table — to shake him, or touch him, or both.
Instead, he picked up the empty plates and said quietly, “I’ll clear this up.”
Carlos didn’t stop him this time. He just leaned back in his chair, eyes following him as he moved through the kitchen that unreadable gaze tracking each small motion, like he was trying to decide whether Oscar was real or a hallucination he hadn’t shaken yet.
When Oscar came back from the sink, the silence felt thicker, heavy with things unsaid. Carlos’s phone was off. The curtains were drawn halfway. He looked better than he had an hour ago, more composed, but the faint tremor in his hand as he reached for his water didn’t escape Oscar’s notice.
“Ever seen Rush?” Carlos asked suddenly, voice low but oddly casual.
Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “The racing movie?”
Carlos tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah, loud, dramatic. About as subtle as you are in the mornings.”
Oscar froze halfway through wiping his hands. “I—what? Excuse me?”
That earned him a soft laugh, a real one this time. It wasn’t mocking, not quite, more like a sound that cracked through the air and somehow made Oscar’s pulse skip.
“Come on,” Carlos said, already standing. “You’ll like it.”
“I really should—”
“Stay.” The word cut through the space between them. Not a command, not entirely a request but something in between. “Just one movie.”
Oscar hesitated. His brain supplied a dozen reasons to leave: it was late, it wasn’t appropriate, this was not in his job description. But none of them stuck.
“Okay,” he said finally, voice softer than he meant it to be. “One movie.”
The living room glowed faintly in the TV light when they settled in. Carlos had changed into a dark hoodie, the sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair falling slightly out of place. He looked comfortable, domestic even — which was somehow more disarming than the version of him in tailored suits and boardrooms.
Oscar took the far end of the couch, careful to keep space between them. Still, he could feel the warmth of Carlos’s body, a steady presence that made it hard to breathe evenly.
The movie started, sound roaring softly through the surround system. Carlos leaned back, half-shadowed, eyes trained on the screen. “When I was younger,” he murmured, “I wanted to be Hunt.”
Oscar glanced at him. “The loud one?”
Carlos’s lips twitched. “The loud, reckless one. The one who didn’t care who he pissed off.”
Oscar hummed, pretending to watch the screen, but his thoughts betrayed him.
Loud, he thought, then immediately flushed at the direction that took. I’d like to see how loud you can get.
The thought slammed into him like cold water. His eyes went wide. Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with you, Piastri?
He shifted on the couch, desperate to disguise the heat crawling up his neck. Carlos didn’t seem to notice — or if he did, he was merciful enough not to mention it.
“Trust me,” Carlos added after a pause, eyes still on the movie, voice lower now. “I learned to be quiet.”
Oscar turned to look at him properly. “Quiet doesn’t suit you.”
Carlos’s gaze flicked over briefly, assessing, the smallest spark of amusement ghosting across his features. “No?”
Oscar’s throat felt dry. “No.”
For a second, neither of them looked away. The TV flickered between them, the light painting their faces in alternating gold and blue. Then Carlos leaned back again, gaze returning to the screen — breaking the tension, or pretending to.
Halfway through, Carlos said something under his breath, too quiet for Oscar to catch at first.
“What?” he asked softly.
Carlos didn’t look away from the screen. “You’d probably like the other guy better anyway.”
“Which one’s the other guy?” Oscar asked before he could stop himself.
Carlos let out a low laugh — quiet, unguarded, the kind that reached his eyes. “The one who doesn’t set fire to everything he touches.”
Oscar smiled faintly, though his heart ached a little at the words. He didn’t know what Carlos meant exactly, but he didn’t like the quiet bitterness underneath it.
By the time the credits rolled, Carlos’s head had tipped slightly back, his breathing evened out. Sleep had claimed him — slow, reluctant, the kind that came only after too many sleepless nights.
Oscar sat there for a long time, watching the way the flickering light brushed against his face. Without the walls of the office, without the suits and control, Carlos looked almost human. Soft. Breakable.
Don’t, Oscar told himself. Don’t think like that.
But when Carlos shifted slightly, head tilting toward him, Oscar froze — every muscle locked. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
After a long moment, he reached for the remote and lowered the volume. The room dimmed into quiet, filled only with the soft sound of Carlos breathing.
Oscar stood, hesitant. “Goodnight,” he whispered, too low to be heard — then, after a beat, added under his breath, “Sir.”
He turned, walking out quietly, the echo of that forbidden word and the sound of Carlos’s laughter from earlier haunting him all the way home.
Carlos didn’t come in early the next morning. He didn’t message either.
Oscar told himself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t his job to track Carlos’s every move, that Roberto or Pierluigi would have heard from him if it were serious. But as the hours crawled by, each tick of the clock felt heavier, louder, until he was staring at his inbox without reading a single word.
When the elevator finally chimed at noon, the sound made him jolt.
Carlos stepped out slowly, the light catching at the edges of his sharp suit. His tie was gone, shirt collar open, his eyes hidden behind dark lenses that didn’t belong in an office. For a second, Oscar thought maybe he hadn’t slept at all.
He looked... wrong. Not dishevelled, exactly — Carlos never was — but muted, like someone had drained the colour from him overnight.
“Morning,” Oscar said, voice small and uncertain.
Carlos didn’t answer. He just walked past, the faint smell of smoke and cologne trailing behind him — something heavy, sleepless, and sharp. He disappeared into his office, the door sliding shut with a soft click.
Oscar stared through the glass partition. Carlos didn’t sit. He just stood there, hands braced on the desk, head bowed. It wasn’t anger, not quite — it was something quieter, rawer.
For the rest of the day, the rhythm of the office limped along. No one dared disturb him. Every once in a while, Oscar caught the faintest glimpse through the glass — the slow drag of a hand across Carlos’s face, the hollow stillness between breaths.
By the time the sun dipped behind the skyline, the office had emptied. Roberto had left hours ago, Pierluigi following close behind, muttering something about not wanting to be there “when the silence starts to eat the walls.”
Oscar lingered anyway.
He told himself he was catching up on reports, but his screen had long since gone idle. His eyes kept flicking to that glass door, to the faint light still glowing inside.
When he finally gathered his things and crossed the hall, his heart was pounding too hard for how quiet everything was.
He knocked once — gently. “Sir?”
A pause. Then a low, tired voice. “Come in.”
Carlos was still at his desk, jacket discarded on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up. His hair was slightly mussed, a crease marking the edge of his forehead where he’d clearly rested it on his hand for too long.
Oscar hesitated at the threshold. “You should go home.”
Carlos gave a quiet, humorless laugh, the sound thin, brittle. “That’s rich. You’re still here.”
Oscar swallowed. “I was finishing reports.”
“Mhm.” Carlos’s mouth twitched, an acknowledgement of the lie they both knew. “You’re terrible at that.”
The silence stretched between them. The low hum of the city below pressed against the glass.
“Did Roberto send you?” Carlos asked suddenly.
Oscar blinked. “What? No. I just—”
Carlos finally looked up. The exhaustion there was brutal in its honesty and something else too, something that made Oscar’s chest tighten. “You just?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Carlos leaned back slowly in his chair. “I’m fine.”
He said it like a reflex. But his voice cracked, just barely, on the second word.
Oscar didn’t move. The space between them felt charged — too full of everything neither of them wanted to say.
Carlos exhaled, pressing a hand to his eyes for a moment, then said quietly, “You stayed last night.”
Oscar frowned, caught off guard. “What?”
“When you came by,” Carlos said, still not looking at him. “You stayed until I fell asleep.”
Oscar froze. “I— yeah. I didn’t think you should be alone.”
Carlos’s mouth curved, the faintest hint of irony. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes it harder.”
Oscar’s heart skipped. “Harder for who?”
Carlos looked up then — really looked. And in that moment, something inside Oscar splintered.
“For both of us.”
The words landed soft but heavy, leaving the air brittle and charged.
Oscar swallowed hard, searching for something to say, but nothing came.
Carlos broke the silence first, his tone shifting back to something steadier, more distant. “Go home, Piastri. It’s late.”
Oscar nodded, but his feet didn’t move. Not until Carlos turned his gaze away, looking toward the window as if the skyline could anchor him.
At the door, Oscar hesitated, then said quietly, “You don’t have to keep pretending, you know.”
Carlos didn’t respond. But the muscles in his jaw flexed,a silent tell, a crack in the armour.
“Goodnight, Sir,” Oscar said softly.
As he stepped out, he heard Carlos murmur something under his breath — too quiet to be sure, but it sounded like, “Neither do you.”
Notes:
Sorry, this is like 2 weeks late. Life got in the way. It's a bit short, but it's something. Lemme know how you guys like it, and if anyone has any requests for me to add something specific, I am open to suggestions. Kudos and comments fuel me at this point, so don't be stingy with those. Thank you!!!
Chapter Text
Oscar had never been more aware of someone’s presence in his life than he was of Carlos’s—and the worst part was how silent it all was. Nothing dramatic had happened. No confessions. No touches that could be called anything more than accidental, or almost-accidental, or technically professional if he forced himself to believe it. And yet the air between them felt charged lately, as if every word, every glance, every breath carried a weight neither of them acknowledged.
Oscar tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend he wasn’t replaying the movie night, the almost-touching knees, the slow rhythm of Carlos’s breathing as he drifted into sleep. But the memories tugged at him, warm and intrusive, slipping into his thoughts when he least expected them.
The office only made things worse. It had become its own quiet battlefield—buried emotions, unasked questions, and that damned glass partition that let Oscar see everything he shouldn’t.
Carlos leaning back in his chair, eyes closed for a beat too long.
Carlos pacing, jaw clenched like he was fighting something inside himself.
Carlos glancing up—not into the office beyond, but toward Oscar’s desk—as if checking whether he was still there.
And every time their eyes met, a spark of something sharp and dangerous lodged itself under Oscar’s ribs.
It was stupid—perilously stupid—how much Oscar had started depending on those small, stolen moments.
The day felt off when Carlos didn’t look up within the first hour of work. His mood dipped when Carlos walked past without a comment, even a sardonic one.
And when Carlos did pause—when he said Oscar’s name a certain way, or brushed a hand against his shoulder, or stood too close while reviewing a document—Oscar’s thoughts skidded into territory he had no business even circling. Territory that made his stomach twist and his pulse stumble like he was sixteen again.
He kept telling himself it was just him—that Carlos was probably too consumed by his own mess to notice the way he was quietly wrecking Oscar’s focus, his sleep, his sanity. But then there were moments—tiny, fleeting, maddening—where Carlos’s gaze lingered, or his voice softened, or his posture tilted subtly toward him instead of away. Moments that made Oscar wonder if he was imagining everything… or if Carlos was simply better than him at hiding how badly the lines between them were starting to blur.
And lately, Carlos had been different.
Not enough for anyone else to notice—but Oscar wasn’t “anyone else.” He worked too close, watched too closely, thought too much.
From his desk, he could see Carlos through the glass: sleeves rolled up, posture tight, jaw clenched. His pen scratched rapidly across a document, the rhythm broken by abrupt pauses, like his concentration kept slipping out of his grasp. Once, Carlos pressed his fingers hard against the spot between his brows, exhaling sharply before forcing himself to keep writing.
Oscar’s eyes lingered too long, cataloguing every shift.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Carlos’s fingers drummed against the desk—quick, uneven, restless. Then stopped all at once, curling into a fist like he’d caught himself mid-habit.
Oscar swallowed. Long week, he thought. Stress. Fatigue. It made sense.
Except it didn’t.
Later, delivering a stack of files, Oscar saw it again. Carlos stood by the window, shoulders rigid, staring down at the city as though trying to anchor himself. His reflection blinked a fraction too slowly. When Oscar cleared his throat softly, Carlos turned—smooth, composed, unreadable.
But not before Oscar saw the faint tremor in the hand Carlos lowered to his side.
“You need something?” Carlos asked, voice-controlled enough to make Oscar question whether he’d imagined it.
Oscar held out the folders. “Just these.”
Carlos reached for them. Their fingers brushed.
The contact jolted Oscar. Warmth. Steadiness. But beneath it—tension, like coiled wire under skin. A flicker of something frantic behind the eyes.
For a split second, Oscar almost asked if he was okay.
He didn’t.
He stepped back instead, heart racing, climbing behind excuses that felt thinner with each passing day: He’s tired. He’s stressed. He hasn’t been sleeping. He’s dealing with Lando. With… whatever else.
He clung to them like a shield.
But the cracks kept widening.
In the afternoon, Carlos emerged from the bathroom with water droplets clinging to his wrists, as though he’d splashed his face repeatedly. He pulled his cuff down too quickly. Their eyes met through the glass; Carlos offered a small, dismissive half-smile—polite, practised, designed to reveal nothing.
And yet Oscar’s stomach flipped traitorously. Even hiding, Carlos managed to look composed. Controlled. Strong.
But Oscar knew better.
And something cold and protective twisted inside him.
The undercurrent between them only sharpened it. Every time Oscar walked into the office, Carlos’s gaze flicked up. Every time they stood too close, Carlos leaned in instead of away. Every time their shoulders brushed, Oscar felt heat crawl up his neck.
And Carlos never pulled back.
By late afternoon, Oscar caught himself staring again—chin on his hand, eyes drawn to Carlos like a magnetic pull. He didn’t realise it until Carlos looked up, eyes locking onto his through the glass.
Oscar froze.
Carlos tilted his head—just slightly—an unspoken What’s wrong?
Oscar dropped his gaze immediately, cheeks burning, pretending to focus on his tablet even though he hadn’t processed a single line of text in ten minutes.
He didn’t know what was happening. Between them. Inside him. Inside Carlos.
He only knew one thing with agonising clarity:
Something was shifting.
Something was wrong.
And Oscar couldn’t tell where the danger lay—
in Carlos’s unravelling control, or in the way Oscar was losing control of himself around him.
Oscar didn’t realise how deeply cursed he was and how much God hated him until Roberto appeared beside his desk with a clipped, “Pack a bag. You’re going with Carlos to Milan.”
Oscar blinked. He knew about the Milan trip — it had been on the company calendar for weeks, highlighted, colour-coded, printed in the weekly brief. But he had assumed, very reasonably, that he was not going. He was the PA who handled schedules and documents, not the one who followed Carlos across borders. Nobody had said anything about him being included. Nobody had hinted. Nobody had even vaguely implied.
Apparently, everyone but Oscar had simply known.
It took Oscar a full three seconds to process Roberto’s words. Then another two to feel the blood drain from his face, because of course this was happening. Of course, the universe looked at his inability to function like a normal human being around Carlos and decided, cheerfully: Yes. Let’s escalate.
He stole a glance toward the glass office. Carlos was on the phone, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled high on his forearms. His posture was all sharp lines and contained energy—focused, demanding, and somehow still unfairly magnetic. When he caught Oscar looking, his eyes flicked up, dark and direct, and something inside Oscar’s chest skittered like a shocked animal.
“This is a simple client review,” Roberto continued. “Two days. Maybe three.”
Oscar nodded mechanically, trying not to show how his stomach swooped. Two to three days. With Carlos. In another country. In unfamiliar rooms. In close quarters. He didn’t even trust himself to share an office with him without falling apart; how the hell was he supposed to survive a whole trip?
And then Roberto added, almost as an afterthought, “Hotels are overbooked because of the conference. You two will have to take connected rooms.”
Oscar’s heart stopped. His brain followed. His soul left his body.
Connected rooms. As in: one door away. As in: he would hear Carlos moving, walking, breathing. As in: he was going to actually die of proximity before the trip even began.
Oscar cleared his throat, trying to gather what was left of his dignity. “Right. I’ll… I’ll start packing after work.”
Roberto gave him a look that suggested he had already seen the future and found Oscar’s attempts at composure amusing. “You’ll start packing now. Carlos wants to leave tonight.”
Tonight. Oscar’s pulse stuttered. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t have time to mentally prepare, emotionally prepare—spiritually prepare—for being trapped inside two connected hotel rooms with a man who had just spent the last week unravelling in ways Oscar didn’t know how to name.
Then Roberto’s expression shifted, something harder sliding into place. “And Oscar? Keep an eye on him.” His voice dropped, low enough for only Oscar to hear. “He’s not sleeping. He’s not eating properly. And—” He hesitated. “If he seems off, don’t ignore it.”
Oscar’s stomach twisted at the seriousness in his tone. Before he could respond, a phone buzzed sharply from inside Roberto’s pocket. Another buzz followed. And another. Roberto grimaced as he pulled it out, glancing at the screen. The name flashing there made Oscar’s chest go cold.
Land Norris
Three messages in rapid succession.
Still trying him? Oscar wanted to ask. Still not getting through?
Roberto exhaled through his nose. “Persistent little—” He caught himself, pocketing the phone with a clipped shake of his head. “Just go. Carlos will pick you up at seven.”
Oscar spent the rest of the afternoon pretending to work and failing spectacularly. His fingers hovered over his keyboard, unmoving, while his brain spiralled through an embarrassing number of scenarios: What if Carlos expected him to dress formally? What if he expected casual? What if connected rooms didn’t actually mean connected rooms, and Oscar ended up sleeping in the hallway because he misread the booking email? By the time 6:30 rolled around, Oscar had repacked his suitcase three times, changed shirts twice, and stared at himself in the mirror long enough to start doubting his own facial features.
At 6:47 p.m., his phone buzzed.
Roberto: He’s downstairs. Don’t make him wait.
Oscar nearly dropped his phone. Of course, Carlos wouldn’t text him directly—why would he? No, he sent Roberto to do it for him, which weirdly made Oscar’s heartbeat quicken even more. He grabbed his bag, smoothed his shirt for the eighth time, and jogged down to the building’s entrance.
The car waiting for him was sleek, dark, and unmistakably expensive—the kind of vehicle that didn’t belong outside student housing. A driver stepped out immediately and opened the back door with a practised nod. But Oscar barely registered him, because sitting inside, half-shadowed by the tinted glass, was Carlos. Sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar slightly undone, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as they flicked up at Oscar’s approach.
Relief flashed there—quick, quiet, gone too fast for anyone but Oscar to notice.
Oscar swallowed hard. “Hi,” he managed, voice embarrassingly soft.
Carlos didn’t say anything for a beat—just looked at him. Really looked. Then he nodded toward the seat beside him. “Get in.”
Oscar did. Or tried to. He fumbled the handle twice before managing to slide into the leather interior that smelled faintly like cologne and some expensive car scent he didn’t have a name for. The door shut with a muffled thud, sealing them in a pocket of tense quiet as the driver returned to the front.
Then—
Bzzzzzz.
A phone vibrated aggressively against the console. Oscar’s eyes flicked to the screen before he could stop himself.
L.
Three missed calls. Then four. Then a message preview:
Pick up. I’m not doing this again.
Carlos’s jaw tightened, just slightly. He reached out and flipped the phone face-down—an action that was too sharp, too practised, too… tired.
Oscar felt the tension settle over the car like a second atmosphere.
The driver checked the rearview mirror. “Señor Sainz? Aeropuerto?”
Carlos nodded once. “Sí. Vamos.”
The car pulled away smoothly from the curb.
Oscar fumbled for his seatbelt. His fingers shook, and he hoped to God Carlos didn’t notice. Of course he did. Carlos’s gaze flicked over him, briefly, a soft exhale slipping out—more weary than amused.
“You don’t have to look nervous,” Carlos said quietly, voice unreadable in the dim cabin light.
Oscar snapped the buckle into place. “I’m not nervous.”
Lie.
He felt nervous about the trip. Nervous about the connected rooms. Nervous about the dozens of Lando notifications still buzzing faintly from the face-down phone.
But mostly—painfully—he was nervous because Carlos was sitting inches away, close enough that Oscar could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that the air felt charged, close enough that thinking clearly was no longer an option.
And the night hadn’t even started.
Carlos leaned back in his seat, eyes drifting toward the window as the city lights streaked past. His posture looked relaxed, but Oscar could see the truth in the tiny details: the tight set of his jaw, the faint tremor in two fingers where they tapped against his knee, the subtle tension in his shoulders that never quite released. It wasn’t the exhaustion Oscar was used to seeing. It was something heavier. Something more like dread. And every glance at the flipped-over phone made Oscar’s stomach twist uncomfortably.
Oscar shifted in his seat, trying to keep his eyes forward, pretending the silence wasn’t suffocating. But every time the car rounded a corner, the movement rocked them just slightly closer—Carlos’s knee almost brushing his, Carlos’s cologne filling the space between them, Carlos’s presence a constant electric hum against Oscar’s skin. He tried to focus on breathing. On the passing buildings. On literally anything except the man next to him.
“Are you packed properly?” Carlos asked suddenly, voice low, as if he’d been debating whether to speak at all. “You tend to forget things.”
Oscar bristled immediately—even though the comment was… fair. “I don’t forget things. I remember everything. I’m very organised.”
Carlos’s mouth curved—not a smile, exactly, but something close. “Mm. If you say so.”
It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t a tease. It was worse. It was gentle. And Oscar’s heart did an embarrassing somersault because of it.
Before Oscar could reply, Carlos’s phone vibrated again—hard enough to rattle against the console. The name L. lit up in a bright, accusing glow. Carlos stiffened, the reaction so immediate, so visceral, that Oscar’s breath caught. Carlos didn’t move to silence it this time. He just stared at the road ahead, jaw clenched, breathing carefully measured. Oscar watched him—watched the flicker of something raw cross his face for half a second.
And all he could think was:
Whatever Lando did… it still has him by the throat.
The phone stopped buzzing.
But the tension didn’t.
The driver merged onto the highway, and the car smoothed into a faster, quieter glide. The shift in speed seemed to drag Oscar’s attention back to his own breathing, which was suddenly too shallow, too loud in his own ears. It’s just a trip, he told himself. A business trip. Normal. Professional. Adults do this all the time without acting like they’re about to implode.
But then Carlos shifted, the fabric of his suit brushing softly against Oscar’s sleeve, and Oscar’s heart proved that no—his body had no intention of behaving like an adult at all.
Carlos finally spoke again, voice-controlled, too controlled. “Tomorrow, just make notes and keep on record everything that’s said. They’re a new client, so I don’t want any mistakes. It’s an early morning tomorrow, so try and rest on the plane.”
“Right,” Oscar said, nodding too quickly. “Rest. Sure.”
Rest beside Carlos in a metal tube thirty thousand feet in the air. Absolutely. That would be easy. Completely normal.
His stomach flipped just thinking about it.
A moment later, Carlos added, more quietly, “You don’t have to hover. Just… stay close.”
Oscar blinked. The phrasing hit him harder than it should have. Stay close. Not be available. Not keep your phone on. Not handle the schedule.
Stay close.
Carlos’s tone was soft, but the edge of something unsaid clung to it—fatigue, maybe, or fear, or that brittle restraint he’d had ever since Lando forced his way back into his orbit. Oscar swallowed hard, forcing his voice not to shake. “Of course. I’ll— I’m always close.”
Carlos’s eyes flicked to him then, fleeting but piercing, like he’d heard every word Oscar didn’t say.
The airport finally came into view—bright, sprawling, buzzing with movement even at this hour. The driver pulled toward the VIP entrance, slowing to a smooth stop. Carlos straightened his jacket, schooled his expression, and hid every crack Oscar had seen in the past ten minutes. He became the composed version of himself again—the one the world believed existed.
But Oscar saw it. The tiny hesitation before he opened the door. The split-second flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
And when Carlos stepped out, Oscar wasn’t sure which version of him he’d be walking beside for the rest of the trip: the mask, or the man unravelling behind it.
Inside the private terminal, the air felt cooler, quieter—too quiet. Their footsteps echoed on polished floors, the space empty except for a few staff members who nodded respectfully as they passed. Carlos walked slightly ahead, shoulders squared, posture flawless. Anyone watching would assume he was steady, confident, fully in control.
Oscar knew better.
He could see the stiffness in Carlos’s stride, the faint tremor in the hand adjusting his cuff, the way he kept scanning the room like he was bracing for a ghost to step out of the shadows. Lando, Oscar thought, throat tightening. The last thing Carlos needed was another encounter—especially here, where Carlos couldn’t hide behind walls or glass.
A soft vibration buzzed through Oscar’s pocket. At first, he thought it was his own phone, but then he noticed Carlos’s jaw clench—barely, but unmistakably. His phone buzzed again, then again, the sound muffled but relentless. Messages.
Oscar didn’t have to look to know who it was.
Carlos didn’t take the phone out. Didn’t check it. Didn’t even acknowledge it beyond the subtle tightening of his shoulders. But every vibration made him walk a little faster, like he was trying to outrun something that kept catching up.
Oscar followed closely, fighting the urge to say something—anything—to distract him from the tension rolling off him in controlled waves.
Their boarding attendant approached with a polite smile. “Mr Sainz, Mr Piastri, we’re ready for you.”
Carlos nodded, smoothing his expression into something unreadable before looking back at Oscar. “Stay close,” he said again, low enough that only Oscar could hear it.
Oscar blinked. His heart did something stupid and painful in his chest.
“I’m right behind you,” he murmured.
For a flicker of a moment—one heartbeat—Carlos’s eyes softened with relief. Or maybe Oscar imagined it. Because the next second, Carlos nodded curtly and followed the attendant toward the jet bridge, composed again.
But Oscar felt it. The tiny thread pulling them tighter, inch by inch.
The walkway to the plane was narrow—too narrow for comfort—and Carlos slowed just enough that they walked side by side. Their shoulders brushed once, twice, each accidental touch burning hotter than it should. Oscar felt acutely conscious of every breath, every inch of space, every heartbeat.
He shouldn’t want this.
He definitely shouldn’t want to lean closer, to close the distance, to replace whatever—or whoever—was haunting Carlos’s phone.
The cabin was small enough that Oscar could feel Carlos’s presence even when he wasn’t looking at him. Two leather seats faced each other, a narrow table between them, the kind of setup that guaranteed there’d be nowhere to hide. Carlos stepped aside, motioning for Oscar to sit first. A polite gesture. Or maybe a way to keep Oscar in his line of sight. Oscar couldn’t decide which explanation was more dangerous.
He lowered himself into the seat, trying to look composed instead of hyperaware, but his pulse thudded traitorously in his throat. The air smelled faintly of citrus and the cologne Carlos always wore—sharp, clean, expensive. It wrapped around Oscar the moment Carlos took the seat directly across from him, knees nearly touching.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the plane’s systems filled the silence, steady and low. Carlos leaned back, long fingers drumming once against the armrest before going still. His eyes flicked to his phone again, the screen lighting up with another message he didn’t open.
Oscar watched his jaw tighten, watched the controlled inhale Carlos tried to disguise, watched something flicker behind his eyes—frustration, dread, hurt, all of it carved into a mask he refused to let slip.
Oscar’s stomach twisted. Say something, a voice in his head urged. Make it easier for him. Distract him.
But nothing felt safe enough to say out loud.
Finally, Carlos exhaled, tipping his head back against the seat. “He doesn’t know when to stop,” he muttered under his breath.
Oscar froze.
It wasn’t meant for him—Oscar could tell by the way Carlos’s eyes stayed closed, by the way the words slipped out like a leak in armour he hadn’t intended to show. The vulnerability hit Oscar like a physical thing, sharp and unwelcome and intimate.
He licked his lips. “Carlos…” he began, unsure what he wanted to follow with—Are you okay? Do you want me to intervene? Do you want me to stay closer?
But Carlos opened his eyes before he could finish, all softness gone, gaze shuttered. “It’s fine,” he said, voice smooth again. “Just noise.”
The engines rumbled beneath them as the plane prepared for takeoff. Oscar gripped the armrests, not because he was nervous, but because Carlos shifted forward slightly—close enough that Oscar could feel the warmth radiating off him like a gravitational pull.
“Don’t worry about it,” Carlos added, quieter this time, eyes flicking to Oscar’s like he could read the concern there.
“I wasn’t,” Oscar lied.
Carlos’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite disbelief, but something that made Oscar’s heart stutter.
And as the plane accelerated down the runway, the world outside blurring into streaks of light, Oscar had the terrifying realisation that he wasn’t afraid of flying.
He was afraid of being trapped in the sky with Carlos for the next three hours…and afraid of how much he wanted it.
The moment the plane levelled out, Carlos unfastened his seatbelt with a soft click and stretched his legs out — long, casual, deliberate — until the toe of his shoe brushed lightly against Oscar’s. A barely-there touch. An accident, technically. But Carlos didn’t move his foot away.
Oscar’s breath caught, heat blooming up his neck. He kept his gaze glued to the airplane window as if the clouds outside were suddenly the most fascinating objects in the universe. It’s nothing. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Except Carlos wasn’t careless with his body language. Ever.
The awareness of that fact sat heavy in Oscar’s chest, warm and dangerous.
“Relax, Oscar,” Carlos said, voice smooth and low, as if sensing every thought spiralling through Oscar’s head. He leaned back in his seat, head tilted slightly, eyes fixed on him with unmistakable focus. “It’s just a flight.”
“Right,” Oscar said, forcing a laugh that came out thin. “Just a flight.”
Carlos’s gaze didn’t waver. He studied Oscar for a moment that lasted too long, too steady, too intimate. Then, slowly, he shifted his leg — not away, but parallel to Oscar’s, close enough that the space between them felt charged.
Oscar swallowed hard. Every inch of him felt wired, like a live current hummed under his skin.
The silence that followed was calm only on the surface. Beneath it, tension coiled tight and hot. Oscar tried to focus on the safety pamphlet folded neatly in the seat pocket. He read the same sentence three times before realising he couldn’t absorb a single word.
Because across from him, Carlos had settled into an easy slouch—one arm draped along the side of his seat, fingers tapping slowly against the leather armrest, eyes half-lidded in thought. He looked relaxed, almost lazy. But Oscar could see the tiny tells: the tightness in his jaw, the restless shift of his thumb, the faint tremor that appeared and vanished in one hand.
Oscar’s chest tightened. He’s stressed. Or tired. Or—something else.
Something Oscar didn’t know how to name.
The quiet buzz of Carlos’s phone lit up the table between them again. Another message. Oscar didn’t have to guess who it was from.
Carlos didn’t react — not at first. He simply stared at the flashing notification, expression unreadable. Then he locked the phone without opening it and slid it facedown, fingers lingering on the screen a beat too long.
Oscar’s pulse kicked.
“You’re not going to check it?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Carlos’s eyes flicked up — slow, sharp, unreadable. “No.”
The word landed heavy in the space between them, final and brittle.
Carlos shifted slightly in his seat, turning his body so he was angled toward Oscar. Not fully facing him — that would’ve been too direct — but close enough that Oscar felt the warmth of his presence wrap around him like a pressure. The kind that made it impossible to pretend he wasn’t hyper-aware of every inch of space they shared.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the cabin, the low murmur of distant conversations, the faint clink of glasses from the front — it all blended into a soft backdrop.
Then Carlos’s voice cut quietly through it.
“You never talk about yourself.”
Oscar blinked, startled. “I… don’t?”
Carlos’s brow lifted in that impossibly subtle way that somehow felt like a full-body interrogation.
“No,” he said, tone soft but sure. “You don’t.”
Oscar felt heat crawl up his throat. He tucked his hands under the armrest, suddenly unsure what to do with them. “I just… I don’t think my life is particularly interesting.”
Carlos hummed — a low, sceptical sound that felt like it vibrated straight through Oscar’s ribs. “That’s not true.”
Oscar swallowed. He didn’t know what Carlos wanted to hear. Didn’t know why Carlos was looking at him this way — like the rest of the plane had dissolved and there was only Oscar left to focus on.
“I’m just… normal,” he muttered. “Work, Uni, home, sleep. And I don’t… I don’t have much else going on.”
Carlos’s attention sharpened at that, like something about the phrasing hit a nerve.
“You live alone?” Carlos asked. His tone stayed even, almost gentle, but there was a weight to the question — something probing, searching for gaps.
Oscar nodded slowly. “Yeah. I mean… I have roommates, technically, but I spend most of my time at the office. Or… you know. Doing uni work. Or I’m at home.”
Carlos’s gaze dipped down to Oscar’s hands — fidgeting, restless — then back up again.
“And you’re fine with that?”
Oscar let out a short breath, unsure whether it counted as a laugh. “I guess? I don’t really think about it.”
Carlos’s eyes softened. “You should think about it.”
Oscar’s chest tightened. It felt like Carlos was saying something else entirely — something he wasn’t putting into words.
Then Carlos leaned in — not much, barely an inch — but it felt intimate, dangerous, like the air between them thickened.
“What do you actually want, Oscar?” he asked quietly.
Oscar’s heart stuttered. God. Not that.
He opened his mouth — to deflect, to joke, to change the subject — but nothing came out. His thoughts scattered like startled birds, useless and frantic.
Carlos watched him, the barest hint of curiosity tugging at his expression. Not mocking. Not impatient.
Just… waiting.
And Oscar had never felt so exposed by a question he couldn’t answer.
God. Why would he ask that. Why now? Why in a plane seat close enough that Oscar could feel the warmth radiating off him?
His mind answered before he had any hope of stopping it.
You.
I want you.
The words were so immediate, so clear, so loud that Oscar almost choked on air.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Piastri, what is actually wrong with you?
He’s your boss. Your boss. A hot one — a ridiculously hot, morally dangerous one — but still your freaking boss. Why is your brain like this?
“I— I’m not sure,” he said out loud, and the lie tasted like fire. His voice cracked slightly. Fantastic. Great. Exactly what a normal, very-not-in-love employee would sound like.
Carlos didn’t look away; if anything, he studied Oscar with that quiet, unsettling concentration that made Oscar feel peeled open. “You should think about it,” he murmured.
No??
Absolutely not?? Because if I think about it any harder, I’m going to accidentally blurt out that I want you, and that is not employable behavior, Oscar.
He managed a stiff nod, hoping Carlos couldn’t hear the frantic carousel of you you you you spinning in the back of his skull.
Carlos leaned back slightly, eyes drifting to the window, though Oscar could tell he wasn’t really looking at anything outside. “It’s easy to get swept up in everyone else’s expectations,” he said quietly, almost like he was saying it to himself more than to Oscar. “Harder to figure out what’s actually yours.”
Oscar swallowed. That… hit a little too close. He forced himself to breathe normally, aware of how close their arms were, how the small space between them felt charged in a way that made his skin prickle. He wanted to ask Carlos what his expectations were — of himself, of Oscar — but the words stuck in his throat.
Instead, Oscar nodded, staring down at his hands. “Yeah. I get that,” he managed. His voice sounded steadier than he felt.
Carlos hummed softly, a sound that slid under Oscar’s skin and stayed there. “I think you know more about what you want than you let yourself believe.” He turned his head then — not fully, just enough that Oscar felt the weight of his attention settle on him again. “You’re not as indecisive as you pretend to be.”
The implication hit Oscar like a shove: Carlos was talking about more than work. More than general life choices.
And Oscar’s heart — traitor that it was — leapt at the idea that Carlos saw through him.
Great. Perfect. Fantastic. He’s reading me like a book I don’t remember agreeing to publish.
Carlos stretched his legs, exhaling a low sigh that did something embarrassing to Oscar’s pulse. “You’ll need to rest when we land,” he said, sounding almost… gentle. “Tomorrow will be long.”
Oscar made the mistake of glancing at him. Carlos was turned slightly in his direction, lit by the soft overhead light, one hand loosely curled against his jaw. His eyes weren’t sharp for once. They were warm. Focused. And entirely too close.
Oscar’s breath caught. He tore his gaze away so fast he nearly headbutted the window.
“Right,” he said, nodding at absolutely nothing. “Sleep. Got it.”
Sure, Piastri. Like that’s going to happen when he looks at you like you’re the only person on this plane.
Carlos watched him for a moment longer, gaze lingering in a way Oscar felt down his spine. Then, quietly — like he wasn’t sure why he was saying it — Carlos murmured, “You don’t have to look so nervous around me.”
And Oscar wanted to laugh. Or run. Or—
Tell him that he’s the exact reason you’re nervous, genius.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading this chapter! I know this one’s more on the “setting things up” side, but trust me… the real fun starts in the next two chapters. Things are about to get very interesting.
Also… is it just me, or has it been a suspiciously long time since Oscar sent a report to Sainz Sr? I’m sure nothing will come of that at all 👀
And genuinely, thank you for all the kudos and comments — I loved reading every single one of them.
Chapter Text
Oscar had no right to feel this wired over a work trip, but the moment he and Carlos stepped off the plane and into the sleek, echoing brightness of Milan Malpensa’s arrivals hall, something in his chest tightened painfully. Everything here felt too vivid. The polished marble floors. The cool bite of air-conditioning. The low hum of voices bouncing off high ceilings. And in the middle of all of it: Carlos. Walking just ahead of him, long strides unhurried but purposeful, coat draped over his forearm, dark hair slightly mussed from the flight in a way that made something electric crawl up Oscar’s spine. He tried to force himself to focus on anything else, but his eyes kept dragging back to the line of Carlos’s shoulders, the smooth precision of each step, the quiet command he carried like a second skin.
Carlos hadn’t said much since they landed, a few clipped instructions, nothing more. “This way,” murmured as he guided Oscar toward passport control with a hand briefly touching the small of his back. “Stay close,” when crowds thickened. “We’ll meet the driver outside,” he said without looking back, voice low and steady in a way that made Oscar’s pulse stutter. None of it was cold. None of it was unkind. But Carlos felt… contained. Tightly. Like he was holding himself together by sheer will, allowing only what was necessary to slip through. Oscar saw it in the tension at the corners of his mouth, the slight tremor in his fingers when he adjusted his cuff, the too-fast blink when he thought no one was watching.
Oscar was always watching.
By the time they reached the private-car pickup, the chaos of the airport fading behind tinted glass, Oscar's nerves were stretched thin enough to hum. He felt too close to something he shouldn’t touch. To Carlos, to whatever shadows were clinging to him after yesterday, to his own traitorous feelings that kept rising like a tide he couldn’t push back. A sleek black town car pulled up, the driver stepping out to open the door with practised stiffness, and it was only when Carlos finally turned toward him, eyes dark, expression unreadable, that Oscar felt the undercurrent snap tight between them. The moment hung there, suspended, charged enough to make Oscar’s breath hitch.
Carlos ducked into the backseat first, sliding across the leather with the fluid ease of someone used to being chauffeured. Oscar followed, heart pounding far too loudly for the cramped space, his knee brushing Carlos’s for half a second too long when he settled beside him. The touch was accidental, completely accidental, but it sent a warm jolt up Oscar’s leg, landing somewhere behind his ribs. He swallowed, carefully shifting an inch away, praying Carlos hadn’t noticed the way his breath caught. If he had, he didn’t show it. Carlos simply angled his body toward the window, jaw tight, hands clasped loosely, but not relaxed, on his lap.
The car pulled away from the curb, the city unfolding in clean, modern lines through the tinted glass. Oscar tried to focus on that, the architecture, the bright signage, the harmless chatter from the radio up front, but his attention kept drifting back to the man beside him. Carlos’s shoulders were stiff, his breathing a shade too shallow, and when he exhaled, it came out quiet but shaky enough to make Oscar’s protective instincts bristle. He wanted to ask if Carlos was okay. He wanted to offer something – comfort, distraction, anything – but his throat wouldn’t cooperate.
Then Carlos’s phone buzzed.
Once. Twice. Then again, in rapid succession.
Carlos didn’t flinch, but Oscar saw the way his fingers curled slightly tighter. The screen lit up in his hand, and Oscar didn’t mean to look; he really didn’t, but in the reflection of the window, just faint enough to catch by accident, he saw a name flash across the notifications:
L.
Oscar’s stomach dropped.
The buzzing continued: fourth message, fifth, sixth, each one making Carlos go stiller, like tension was hardening through him inch by inch. He didn’t open any of them. Didn’t unlock his phone. Just stared straight ahead, jaw locking, eyes going distant in a way Oscar hated. A way that made something hot and ugly spark under his ribs, jealousy, anger, worry, all twisted together so tightly he couldn’t separate them.
Finally, Carlos breathed out, slow and controlled. “Ignore it,” he said, voice smooth but scraped thin at the edges. “It’s…not important.”
Oscar didn’t believe that for a second.
And judging by the unreadable look in Carlos’s reflection, neither did Carlos.
Oscar nodded like he accepted that answer, but his chest felt too tight for something so simple. Nothing about the messages looked unimportant. Nothing about the way Carlos’s shoulders had angled inward, subtly defensive, looked okay. And nothing about Oscar’s own reaction, his pulse spiking, his jaw clenching, that wild urge to snatch the phone away and throw it out the window, felt remotely normal. He stared down at his own hands instead, trying to steady the jittery heat building under his skin. He’s your boss. Not yours. Not like that. Get a grip.
But then the car hit a patch of slow traffic, and in the quiet that followed, Carlos let out a small exhale, barely audible, but frayed at the edges. Oscar’s head snapped toward him before he could stop himself. Carlos didn’t look back; his eyes stayed fixed on the blur of storefronts outside, expression carefully blank. Too blank. It was the same expression he wore when deflecting his father’s comments. Or when Lando had shown up in the office. Or when he’d been holding himself together so tightly, Oscar could practically feel the strain in his own bones.
The line between them wasn’t just blurred anymore; it felt fragile. Dangerous. Like one wrong move, one wrong word, and something would crack open that Oscar wasn’t prepared to face. The car rolled forward again, the city lights cutting across Carlos’s face in fleeting gold stripes. Oscar watched the way they traced over his features, the tension in his jaw, the faint tiredness beneath his eyes, the steady but strained set of his shoulders, and something inside him shifted, slow and deep and terrifyingly certain.
He didn’t want to protect Carlos because it was his job.
He wanted to protect him because he couldn’t not.
The car eased to a stop beneath the glowing awning of their hotel, the kind of sleek Milan landmark built for power and discretion. Before Oscar could reach for the door handle, the driver was already out of the car, circling around briskly to unload their suitcases. Carlos straightened slowly in his seat, rolling his shoulders back as though shrugging into a different skin, one less tired, less frayed, more controlled. Oscar watched the transformation happen with a quiet, helpless sort of fascination. The man who’d spent an hour staring out the window in heavy silence had vanished, replaced by the version everyone else got to see: sharp, composed, untouchable.
The driver opened Oscar’s door first. Cool Milan air spilled in, crisp enough to raise goosebumps along Oscar’s arms. As he stepped out, he caught the driver already lifting both suitcases with professional efficiency, Carlos’s sleek black luggage and Oscar’s slightly battered one. Carlos exited the car a second later, posture collected and commanding. For a moment, Oscar felt painfully aware of the gulf between them. Then Carlos glanced at him, eyes flicking briefly over his face, and something in Oscar’s chest tightened.
They walked toward the hotel entrance in silence. The gentle clack of the driver’s shoes followed behind them as he rolled their bags toward the bellhop. Marble gleamed beneath the warm lobby lights, and the revolving doors swirled with a soft hush that felt too intimate. Carlos moved with the kind of quiet authority that turned heads without trying, and Oscar, God help him, felt every step like a countdown to disaster.
Just as they crossed into the lobby, Carlos’s phone buzzed violently in his hand. Once. Twice. A third time. He checked the screen with the subtlest glance, jaw tightening for a fraction of a second before he turned the device face down. Oscar caught the last flash of the notification before it disappeared.
L: Answer me. You can’t run from this.
Carlos’s expression didn’t change.
Oscar’s did.
Hot, sharp irritation, and something uglier, more instinctive, twisted low in his stomach. He tried to ignore it. Tried to swallow it.
But it didn’t move.
Carlos walked ahead, eyes forward, expression unreadable.
And Oscar followed, pulse thudding, already feeling the tension of Milan begin to coil between them like a fuse waiting to be lit.
Carlos didn’t slow down as they approached the reception desk. If anything, he seemed to settle into himself, shoulders straightening, expression sharpening into that cool, focused version of him that made people move out of his way without him ever asking. The receptionist’s posture changed instantly at the sight of him, smile brightening with the kind of recognition reserved for someone important. Oscar stayed half a step behind, trying not to stare at the subtle twitch in Carlos’s jaw, the restless flex of his fingers—small signs, barely there, but enough to make Oscar’s pulse trip.
“Buonasera, Mr Sainz,” the receptionist greeted. “Your suite is ready. Two rooms, connected, as arranged.” Oscar kept his face neutral. He’d been preparing for this since Roberto dropped the itinerary on his desk. Preparing didn’t help. He still felt like someone had grabbed his ribcage and squeezed.
Carlos took the key cards with a quiet “Grazie,” the pads of his fingers brushing the receptionist’s hand. Oscar felt heat prick the back of his neck, not jealousy exactly, but something adjacent and equally ridiculous. He redirected his gaze to the marble floor, pretending to study its veined patterns instead of acknowledging the stupid little flare in his chest.
“The bellhop will bring your luggage up. Elevators to the right,” the receptionist added.
Carlos nodded and turned toward the elevators, motioning for Oscar to follow.
He could handle this. It was just a business trip. Just a shared suite. Just… Carlos.
And if that last thought made his stomach twist, well, Oscar pretended he didn’t notice.
The elevator ride was too quiet. Not uncomfortable, Carlos didn’t really do uncomfortable silences, but quiet in that dense, charged way that made Oscar hyperaware of everything. The soft hum of the machinery. Carlos’s steady breathing beside him. The faint scent of his cologne ,warm, clean, something woody that clung to the air even when he moved the slightest bit. Oscar focused on the glowing floor numbers like they were emergency exits.
Carlos shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders back. “You’re very quiet,” he said, not accusing, just observing. His voice was low, smooth, and it cut through the silence like a touch. Oscar’s throat tightened.
“I’m… thinking,” Oscar managed.
About you. About this. About how close you are.
But he didn’t let any of that reach the surface. He just kept his expression mild, professional, the way he’d practised in the mirror that morning, like a pathetic lunatic.
Carlos hummed, a soft sound that didn’t reveal whether he believed him. “Don’t overthink tonight. We’ll run through the meeting notes in the morning. I’m prepared.”
Oscar nodded, eyes fixed on the mirrored elevator door to avoid accidentally staring at his boss’s mouth. Or the open collar. Or the tired tension around his eyes, tension Oscar desperately wanted to smooth away with his thumb.
A part of him noticed other things, too. How Carlos’s fingers twitched once, a subtle tapping against his thigh. How he exhaled with a sharpness that felt more like habit than exhaustion. How he blinked a beat too slow, like his head wasn’t entirely clear. Small things. Things Oscar had started to clock without meaning to. Things he didn’t know how to name but couldn’t un-see.
The elevator chimed, and Oscar nearly jumped. Carlos stepped out first, and Oscar followed, trying to steady his breathing as they made their way down the softly lit hallway. The carpets muffled their footsteps, but not the quiet thud of Oscar’s heartbeat in his ears. With each step, the connected rooms felt less like a practical arrangement and more like a test he wasn’t sure he’d pass.
Carlos unlocked the suite and pushed the door open with a sweep of his arm, letting Oscar in first. The space was large, modern, all polished wood and warm lighting. Their two-room doors stood side by side at the far end, closed, but undeniably there, the reminder of proximity humming under Oscar’s skin. When Carlos shut the main door behind them with a soft click, something in Oscar’s stomach swooped, absurd and immediate.
“We should get settled,” Carlos said, shrugging out of his jacket. “Then maybe order dinner.”
Oscar nodded again, because words were dangerous at the moment, and followed him deeper into the room, trying to ignore the way everything felt like walking into the start of something he wasn’t ready for.
Dinner arrived quietly, delivered with the kind of efficiency Carlos seemed to demand from the world. He set the containers out on the low table between the couches, movements smooth and practiced, like this was just another item on his schedule.
“Sit,” Carlos said mildly, already loosening his cuffs.
Oscar obeyed far too quickly.
He perched on the edge of the couch opposite Carlos, knees drawn in, hands folded in his lap like physical barriers. The suite felt different now, somehow smaller, warmer, too intimate. The lighting was low, amber-toned, softening the sharp edges of the room. It softened Carlo,s too, and Oscar absolutely did not need that.
Carlos leaned back, one arm draped along the back of the couch, relaxed in a way that felt unfair. He picked up his fork and nodded toward Oscar’s untouched plate. “You’re not eating.”
“I am,” Oscar said, then immediately picked up his fork to prove it.
He took a bite and registered nothing. No taste, no texture, just the awareness of Carlos watching him, not openly, but enough. Casual. Observant. Like Oscar was something mildly interesting.
Stop it, Oscar told himself. He’s just sitting there. Men are allowed to sit.
Carlos took a sip of water, throat working as he swallowed, and Oscar’s brain betrayed him instantly.
I wonder what—
No.
Absolutely not.
He redirected his gaze to the table. The cutlery. The logo on the napkin. Anything.
“You’re very quiet today,” Carlos said.
Oscar stiffened. “Sorry.”
“Didn’t say it was a problem.” Carlos’s mouth curved faintly. “Just noticing.”
Of course he was.
They ate in silence for a moment, the kind that hummed rather than settled. Oscar was painfully aware of every small sound, the scrape of Carlos’s fork, the shift of his weight on the couch, the subtle brush of fabric when he moved.
Then Carlos shifted closer. Not deliberately, Oscar told himself. Just enough that their knees brushed.
It was brief. Accidental.
Oscar’s entire body reacted like it had been waiting for permission.
Jesus Christ, he thought, horrified. Get it together. You are a functioning adult.
He adjusted his posture, putting more space between them, heart racing for reasons he refused to unpack. His thoughts, meanwhile, were doing laps.
What if he notices?
He probably already has.
Do not think about his hands.
Carlos glanced at him again. “You’re tense.”
“I’m not,” Oscar said too quickly.
Carlos raised an eyebrow. “You’re gripping your fork like you’re about to file a complaint against it.”
Oscar forced his fingers to relax, heat creeping up his neck. “Long day.”
Carlos hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. He leaned back again, stretching slightly, and Oscar had to physically stop himself from tracking the movement. The roll of Carlos’s shoulders. The glimpse of his wrist when his sleeve shifted.
You are censoring your own brain, Oscar reminded himself firmly. This is good. This is healthy.
It did not feel healthy.
Carlos finished his meal first, setting the container aside and watching Oscar with that same unreadable focus. “You don’t have to rush,” he said. “We’re done for the night.”
The words for the night landed far harder than they should have.
Oscar nodded, swallowing another bite he didn’t taste. His pulse felt loud in his ears, his thoughts a mess of static and things he absolutely did not want to name. Every instinct told him to stand up, create distance, and regain control.
Instead, he stayed seated, acutely aware of the space between them and how thin it felt.
He didn’t know when dinner had stopped being about food.
He only knew that by the time he set his fork down, he felt wrung out, overstimulated, and dangerously aware of the man across from him.
And that scared him more than anything else.
They cleaned up in quiet coordination. Carlos gathered the containers, stacking them neatly, while Oscar hovered uselessly for a moment before offering to help and then immediately getting in the way. Their hands brushed once briefly, almost nothing, and Oscar pulled back like he’d touched a live wire.
“I’ve got it,” Carlos said, calm as ever.
Oscar retreated, heart still thudding, and pretended to scroll through his phone while Carlos finished. The suite settled into that post-dinner stillness, the kind that felt heavier than before. Outside, Milan glowed faintly through the windows, city lights blurring into something soft and distant.
Carlos checked his watch. Then his phone.
Oscar noticed because he’d started noticing everything.
Carlos’s jaw tightened for half a second as he read whatever was on the screen. His thumb hovered, hesitated, then typed a brief reply. When he looked up again, his expression was back in place, controlled and unreadable.
“I’m going to step out for a bit,” Carlos said, already reaching for his jacket.
Oscar’s head snapped up. “Now?”
Carlos glanced at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “I won’t be long.”
That was it. No explanation. No invitation.
Oscar nodded because that was his job. “Okay.”
Carlos shrugged into his jacket, movements efficient, but Oscar caught the small tells, the way Carlos’s fingers fumbled briefly with the cuff, the faint tension in his shoulders as he rolled them back. He paused by the door, hesitating just long enough that Oscar wondered if he’d imagined it.
“Try to get some rest,” Carlos said, voice even.
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut softly behind him.
Oscar sat there, staring at the closed door, heart ticking uncomfortably fast. The suite felt different without Carlos in it, too quiet, too empty, like the air had been sucked out. He told himself it was none of his business. People stepped out all the time. Carlos was an adult. His boss. A man with a life Oscar knew nothing about.
And yet.
Oscar stood, drifted toward the window, peering down at the street below. Cars slid past in slow ribbons of light. Somewhere down there, Carlos was moving through the night with purpose Oscar couldn’t read.
He checked the time. Ten forty-seven.
He said he wouldn’t be long, Oscar reminded himself, for no reason at all.
He tried to distract himself, showered, changed, and paced the room. The clock crept forward with infuriating slowness. Eleven. Eleven fifteen. Eleven thirty.
Oscar found himself standing near the connecting door, staring at it like it might offer answers.
This was stupid. Invasive. None of his business.
And yet his chest felt tight with something that wasn’t quite worry but wasn’t not worry either. He replayed dinner in his head, the tension, the flickers of something off in Carlos’s focus. The way his fingers had tapped too fast against his thigh earlier. The way he’d checked his phone like it was a summons.
Oscar exhaled slowly.
You’re projecting, he told himself. You’re tired.
But when the door finally opened again, close to midnight, Oscar knew instantly something was wrong.
Carlos moved quietly, like he didn’t want to be heard. His jacket was gone, shirt slightly rumpled, collar open one button lower than before. He paused just inside the doorway, one hand braced briefly against the wall, head tipped forward like he was collecting himself.
Oscar froze.
Carlos straightened a second later, composure snapping back into place with practised ease. He didn’t look toward Oscar’s room, didn’t seem to realise Oscar was watching through the small crack of his door, breath held.
Carlos crossed the suite and disappeared into his room, the door closing softly behind him.
Oscar stayed where he was, heart pounding, unease curling low in his stomach.
He didn’t know what Carlos had stepped out to do.
He only knew that whatever it was, Carlos hadn’t come back quite the same.
And Oscar had the terrible sense that this was only the beginning.
Notes:
Sorry this chapter is a bit short and late. I originally planned for it to be longer and to post it last weekend (after the Abu Dhabi GP to be precise), but that didn’t quite happen 😅. I needed some time to process the final race, which ended up taking a week....but I’m back now, and so are the weekly updates!
Let me know what you think of the chapter, and feel free to share anything (big or small) you’d like to see in future chapters, and if I can, I’ll try to include it.
Thank you so much for your patience, and I hope you enjoy 🤍
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