Formula 1 | One Shots

Fight For Me Part 1 | Oscar Piastri & Charles Leclerc

Authors Note: This storyline was requested by user: -lechair-

6,876 words. Ya'll are getting too spoiled lately 👹

Part 1 of 2.
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I'm standing in line at my favorite cafe, the scent of freshly baked pastries filling the air. It's early, but the place is already packed with people, the line slightly longer than usual. I'm on my phone, texting my older brother Fitz, who's trying to convince me to go out with him and his friends tonight. 

'Come on, Lee, you never go out anymore. It'll be fun, I promise.'

I roll my eyes, even though he can't see it. He's right, I haven't been out in a while. Work's been busy, and honestly, the idea of a quiet night reading my new book sounds like a lot more fun. But it's Fitz. He's always been good at dragging me out of my bubble, and sometimes I need that. 

'Maybe, who's going?' 

As I wait for his answer, I glance up at the line. It's moving slowly, which is fine by me. I enjoy these quiet moments in the morning. Monaco is always so busy, but there's something special about the early hours. My phone buzzes again. 

'Just a few of the usual guys. Trust me, it's gonna be great!'

I bite my lip, considering. I can already feel myself caving. 'Okay, fine. I'll go. But no staying out until 3 a.m., Fitz.'

His reply comes almost instantly. 'Deal! I'll pick you up at 8.' 

I smile at my phone, shaking my head. Fitz always wins. I finally reach the front of the line and order my usual, a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. The barista, who knows me well by now, hands it over with a smile, and I nod in thanks. I'm already excited for that first sip as I push open the door and step outside. But just as I'm about to walk down the street, a blur rushes past me, and suddenly slams into me. My coffee slips from my hand, splashing all over the sidewalk. 

"Ugh, vraiment (ugh really)?!" I mutter, my frustration boiling over. "Faites attention (ay attention)!" I snap in French, staring at the person who's just slammed into me. 

He stops and turns around, looking slightly panicked. "I...uh...I don't speak French," he says, his voice awkward and apologetic. 

I look up, about to respond rudely again, but my words get caught in my throat. He's...sweet looking. Messy brown hair, light eyes, and a genuinely concerned expression. I blink, suddenly feeling my cheeks blush, realizing I'd just been ranting at him in a language he didn't understand. 

"I...um, sorry," I mumble, suddenly embarrassed. 

"No, no, it's my fault," he says quickly, hands raised in a gesture of apology. "I wasn't paying attention. I'm so sorry about your coffee." 

His Australian accent is hard to miss. He looks down at the spilled coffee on the ground, then back at me. 

"Please let me buy you another one?" 

I hesitate. It's just coffee, but still, I was annoyed, and now he's offering to make up for it. There's something safe about him, and I can't help but soften. 

"Okay, sure," I finally agree, trying to brush off the embarrassment. "That would be nice." 

He smiles, clearly relieved. "Great. I'm Oscar, by the way." 

Oscar. There's a sense of recognition in the back of my mind, but I can't place it. He looks familiar, but I can't figure out where I've seen him before. Maybe we've crossed paths around Monaco.