VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 95

[POV: Narrator]

Andi woke to the clatter of pans and the smell of something buttery.

She let out a low, grumbly sound, more a sigh than anything, and stretched her limbs wide like a cat in sunlight. Her hand reached to the other side of the bed — expecting something, not nothing. Eyes still shut, she patted around with a small frown.

Not there.

She groaned, face smushed into the pillow. "Rude," she mumbled to no one.

With some effort — and a few dramatic exhales — she hauled herself from the bed, hair a disaster. She rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand, then stumbled toward the door, bare feet silent on the cool floor.

Oscar was in the kitchenette, fully dressed, cooking away as he hummed to the tune of something vaguely familiar. She stood in the doorway, arms loosely crossed, watching for a second.

She shuffled up behind him, one hand rubbing her eyes again, the other brushing across his lower back as she passed.

"Morning," he said, voice quiet. He didn't turn — just leaned back slightly to kiss her cheek quickly. "You want bacon? Or toast?"

She spoke through a yawn, not even opening her eyes. "Whatever's fine. I'm starving."

He chuckled, the sound warm in his chest.

She turned to go, but with her back to him, he saw her fingers reach for the hem of her shirt. She peeled it off in one motion, arms stretching above her head, the line of her spine catching the light for just a moment — long enough to leave his mouth dry. The shirt hit the floor as she rounded the corner out of view.

He didn't realize the toast was starting to burn until he smelled it. "Shit—"

In the bedroom, she was moving incredibly slowly, yawning between every other movement. The room was a mess of dumped clothes and half-packed bags. She pulled on a loose off-shoulder jumper and cotton shorts that clung to her hips, her legs bare.

Stood at the dresser, she folded some of Oscar's shirts, stacking things into vaguely neat piles, completely oblivious to the slow approach behind her.

He moved in without a sound, chest brushing her back, hands sliding around her waist slowly, possessively.

She paused mid-fold. "It smells like burnt toast."

His mouth brushed the top of her shoulder in a quick kiss. Then his chin settled on it, heavy and comfortable. "You done packing?"

She didn't look up. "Almost. Need to repack yours since you just shoved everything in like a barbarian."

He grinned against her skin.

"Move a minute, I need to get mine."

He didn't listen. Instead, he leaned in and caught the slouchy neckline of her jumper between his teeth, tugging it lower until the fabric slipped further off her shoulder before he pressed a kiss to where it had been.

She snorted. "Jesus." Then shoved her elbow back into his side, laughing. "Can I fold in peace, please?"

"No," he said simply. His hands didn't leave her; One trailed up the front of her, his palm flattening, fingers spreading wide along her ribs. She turned her head to shoot him a look— and he used that opening.

His lips pressed firm against hers, then parted —tongue sliding in to taste her. He already knew what he was doing to her. Her hands pushed at his chest at first with playful resistance. But one second passed. And he kept kissing her. Then another. And she stopped pushing.