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The first thought through her head is fuck Logan has gotten big, the next registers the burning smell in the air, and she’s reminded the smoke alarm is going off, and Logan has, in fact, never learned how to use an oven.
“Get away you idiot!” Oscar pushes him, as she immediately grabs a tea towel and pushes through her apartment to drop the burnt clump onto her balcony. “Logan! What did you even do?! I told you not to touch it!”
“But you said the cake needed 400 degrees.” Logan pouts at her.
Oscar sighs, and rubs her forehead, this idiot, “Fahrenheit… 400 Fahrenheit, my oven runs on Celsius.”
Logan takes a moment to process and decides to keep his mouth shut as she’s now waving around the tea towel to disperse the smoke. Actually– “at least you know your smoke detector works.”
Oscar glares at Logan, the tea towel limp in her hand as she leans against the doorframe of the balcony. “Oh, wow, a silver lining. Thanks, Logan. Next time I’ll invite you over to test my fire extinguisher.”
Logan grins, clearly pleased with himself despite the chaos. “I mean, multitasking, right? Baking and safety checks? You’re welcome.”
Oscar groans, stepping back inside to inspect the damage. At least the smoke is starting to disappear, making the air at least breathable without being reminded of the coal monstrosity.
Oscar stares at Logan, trying to figure out if she’s more annoyed at the disaster or the fact that she still finds him ridiculously attractive. How is it possible for someone so dense to look like he walked off the cover of some stupid gym magazine? she thinks, her irritation bubbling higher.
“Logan,” she says slowly, enunciating each word like she’s talking to a child. “Improvising does not mean destroying my kitchen.”
“Destroying is a little harsh,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans like he’s just finished a hard day’s work. “I think the cake had potential. It just… didn’t meet the timeline.”
Oscar pinches the bridge of her nose and counts to five. “The timeline? Logan, you set my cake on fire. You turned my oven into a mini volcano.”
“Well, maybe if you labelled your oven controls better–”
“It’s an oven, Logan! Not a spaceship!” She’s fully yelling now, the absurdity of the argument outweighing any effort to stay calm.
There’s a beat of silence where Logan looks like he’s about to come up with another dumb excuse, but then he breaks into a sheepish laugh, running a hand through his too-perfect hair. “Okay, yeah, I screwed up. My bad. I’ll clean it up.”
Oscar narrows her eyes. “You’ll clean? Like last time, when you put a cast-iron skillet in the dishwasher and flooded my kitchen?”
Logan holds up his hands in surrender. “Fair. You’re the cleanup queen. I’ll just– supervise?”
“You’ll go shower.” Oscar points to the bedroom door. “You better be ready, before they get here, or I will lose whatever shred of patience I have left.”
Logan is halfway through the door to her bedroom when he turns around, grinning. “Hey, if it makes you feel better, the smoke made your apartment smell kinda… rustic. It’s nice.”
She throws the nearest utensil at him. It bounces off the door as he flees, laughing all the way down the hall.
Oscar is strongly regretting saying yes to Charles at this moment, her apartment is now smelling of burnt brownies, and it’s absolutely not a pleasant smell. The family joke developed into monthly dinners with Charles, and whoever was in the Leclerc family group chat.
She just needs everything to be perfect, she finally has made new friends on the grid, who aren’t her teammate or someone she grew up with like Logan and Zhou.
At least the actual food will be delivered soon, she hadn’t trusted herself to make anything beyond the cake, and now she is regretting that. She should have calculated that Logan would be staying with her, and that needs a chaos clause of its own.
Speaking of the food, the doorbell chimes, and she’s quick to descend the stairs into the lobby, tipping the delivery boy and then hoisting everything back up to her apartment. She can hear the shower going and gives herself a sigh of relief that at least he’s listening, for now.
She starts putting the food from the containers into her own dishes, as she realises some of it needs to be kept warm, she had not thought about that at all… Suddenly she’s not regretting Logan ruining her brownies, because it means she can actually use her oven.
Then comes the discarding of all the containers so nobody but her – and Logan – will know she didn’t actually make the food.
Small white lie.
The table stands pristine.
She doesn’t even make this much effort when her actual family flies in to visit, she had even asked if they couldn’t just eat out of plastic plates so she didn’t have to do the dishes. Her mum was not pleased by that at all.
Oscar shoots a thought to Lando, and blames him for all of it. Her stupid teammate who had told her all girls know how to host a dinner party, what else do girls know? She had pushed him after, and then went out and gotten a better quali time just to prove her point. Lando had already forgotten his comment by then, and she had felt silly for letting it bother her.
But now it’s weaselled its way under her skin, what if they realise all she can cook is salmon and rice? She can’t have them think less of her now, she has worked too hard and sacrificed too much to jeopardise everything over a stupid dinner.
She rushes into her bedroom, her clothes are lying on the bed, the dress more akin to a 50’ties housewife style, but that’s what the internet said you should wear when you’re hosting a dinner party. And what else was she going to do?
The dress has barely slipped over her head, revealing her delicate shoulders and elegant neckline. As she adjusts the fabric, ensuring it falls perfectly against her figure, Logan steps into her bedroom from the bathroom, his dark hair still damp from the shower. A single droplet of water clings to his chin, capturing her eyes, before gracefully descending onto his exposed, chiselled chest. The glistening droplet catches the light, showing off his sculpted physique, and adding an air of allure to his already captivating presence.
Oscar tears her eyes away, to look anywhere else.
“You look good.”
She acts like the words have no effect on her, another lie.
“Thanks, I’m supposed to.”
“Sorry– uh… I forgot my clothes in the guest bedroom.” Logan clears his throat and shuffles out of her bedroom and across the hallway into where he has been sleeping the last two days.
Oscar exhales a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, her pulse quickening despite her best efforts to stay cool. She smooths down the fabric of her dress and forces herself to focus. It’s just Logan. Stop acting like you’re thirteen with a crush on the hot, clueless kid at the karting ring.
Except Logan is hot, and still clueless. And worse, now he’s wet and walking around her apartment like it’s a Calvin Klein ad shoot.
She shakes her head furiously, turning back to her reflection. The dress clings in all the right places, and the cinched waist looks a bit clumsy on her, but it’s making her look like she actually knows what she’s doing – not just with dinner parties but in life, on and off the track. “Okay, Oscar,” she mutters to herself. “You’ve got this. Food’s sorted. Table’s set. Logan’s… mostly dressed. You’re golden.”
Except, of course, nothing with Logan is ever simple.
The sound of clattering from the kitchen jolts her out of her pep talk. She storms out of her room, heels clicking against the floor, only to find Logan standing over the table, his broad frame blocking the centrepiece.
“Logan!” she barks. “What are you doing?”
He spins around, a guilty look on his face. He’s managed to button his shirt – crookedly, because of course – but his hair is still damp, sticking up in every direction as if he tried to style it with a whisk. In one hand, he’s holding a wine bottle. In the other, a corkscrew. “Uh… opening this? Thought I’d be helpful.”
Oscar narrows her eyes, her patience hanging on by a thread. “Logan. That’s a twist cap.”
He glances down at the corkscrew, then at the bottle, then back at her. “Oh.” He sets the corkscrew on the table like it’s radioactive. “Well, now you know your… wine bottle is, uh, functional.”
She doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Instead, she grabs the bottle from him and twists the cap off with ease. “And, just…”
She starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“Wow– Wow! OS–CAR!” Logan stutters out, “At least buy me dinner first.”
She rolls her eyes as she starts re-buttoning his shirt once more, correctly this time. Trying to ignore the way she can feel his chest against her fingertips. Her fingers move deftly, though her face burns as Logan’s teasing grin widens. He’s clearly enjoying this far too much.
“It’s called basic coordination, Logan,” she snaps, deliberately not meeting his gaze. “Something you apparently left behind in school, along with your ability to follow instructions.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “You seem pretty coordinated to me.”
Oscar’s fingers falter for the briefest moment on the last button, but she presses on, smoothing the fabric of his shirt flat before stepping back. “There. Presentable. Try not to embarrass me.”
Logan gives her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Anything else you want to fix? My hair, maybe? Or my whole face?”
She rolls her eyes but turns away quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the heat creeping up her neck. “Your hair is a lost cause. And your face is fine. Just… Go sit down or something.”
“Fine? Just fine?” he says, pretending to look wounded. “Oscar, you wound me.”
“Logan, I swear to God–”
The doorbell rings, mercifully cutting off her retort.
She quickly throws on an apron, rubs some flour on it to look dirty, and then she practically bolts for the door, grateful for the distraction. When she opens it, Charles is standing there, his ever-perfect hair and smile in place, holding another bottle of wine.
“Bonsoir, Oscar,” Charles says warmly, stepping inside with his usual charm. Max follows behind wearing clothes she immediately knows Charles picked for him, considering it’s not white, nor a T-shirt. Instead, it’s a nice black knitted sweater, and she wonders for a moment how Logan would look in it.
Then Ollie comes barrelling through the door, and she immediately forgets about it, “I brought flowers! My mum told me to bring flowers, so I brought flowers, and look they’re red like–”
Charles laughs, she laughs too, and Ollie hands the flowers over to go snoop in her apartment. She is so happy, that she had forced Logan to help her clean behind every nook and cranny, as Ollie starts picking up some of her displayed model cars. “Arthur is late.”
She smiles at that, at least something is like usual, “I even told him that it did not only take 10 minutes to drive to the airport.”
“He never listens.” Charles chats as he hangs up his coat, Oscar realises Max has already slinked his way into the living room, probably to say hi to Logan, or more likely to just not get in the way of Oscar and Charles catching up.
“Ah,” Charles notices her apron, “did we catch you still cooking?”
“Just finished up actually.” Oscar is really good at lying.
Charles smiles warmly, seemingly impressed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Oscar. I can already tell this is going to be a wonderful evening.”
Oscar forces a gracious smile, gripping the bouquet Ollie brought with a little too much intensity. “Thank you. Make yourselves comfortable… I’ll just put these in some water.”
Charles nods and wanders toward the living room, his voice floating behind him as he greets Logan. Meanwhile, Oscar hurries to the kitchen, carefully arranging the flowers in a vase. It gives her a moment to collect herself, her mind racing.
Just finished cooking, she thinks with a mix of pride and panic. Yeah, right. I can’t believe I’m pulling this off.
“Need help?” Logan’s voice cuts through her thoughts, and she jumps slightly. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his hair slightly drier now but still a mess. He’s grinning, of course, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking.
“No,” she says quickly, placing the vase on the counter and adjusting it unnecessarily. “You’ve done enough.”
“Hey, I cleaned up. And I’m being charming,” Logan says, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s got to count for something.”
Oscar scoffs. “You? Charming? Don’t make me laugh.”
Logan tilts his head, his grin morphing into something she can’t recognise. “You laughed earlier when Ollie came in.”
“Yes? Shouldn’t I have?”
“Uh– yes of course.”
She snorts, “You’re being weird, I told you I’ve been spending more time with them ever since the entire adopting thing. It’s weird, he’s like my brother now.”
“Yes, brother.” Logan sounds off, as he shifts against the door frame, he looks ridiculous, and yet in another world, he would be the small-town guy in a Hallmark movie. Although he’s from the big city, which would make her the small-town girl– She needs to get a grip.
She takes off the apron and acts like she can’t feel Logan’s eyes on her. A few strives across the kitchen puts her front of him.
“C’mere.” She mumbles, and Logan leans down slightly, she is quick to fix his hair for him, he doesn’t really need to bend down. She’s barely shorter than him, especially now that she’s wearing heels she’s pretty sure she’s even taller, yet… Logan still bends down as she carts her fingers through his hair and tries not to think about it too hard.
Someone coughs, and Oscar withdraws her hands.
“Welcome drinks!” She turns around and immediately goes for the fridge remembering the drinks she prepared earlier.
Logan is following after her as she puts them on the sofa table, Max is checking out her sim rig, “I didn’t take you for someone who put her sim in the living room.” Max comments.
“Ah well, normally it’s in the guest room, but you know, Logan is staying over, so it had to go somewhere.” Oscar rambles, she doesn’t even really know why she’s rambling, everything is making her nervous. Going 300 kilometres per hour seems so easy in comparison to hosting her friends– her fake family.
Max looks up from the rig, arching an eyebrow in amusement. “Logan kicked it out, huh? He must be an important guest.”
Oscar opens her mouth to retort, but Logan, of course, beats her to it.
“Obviously,” he says, plopping himself onto the couch with a dramatic stretch. “I bring value to this household.”
Charles chuckles as he settles into an armchair, but Max just shakes his head, muttering something in Dutch under his breath.
She prays, that they don’t find out, she’s just some cringe girl who has nothing going for her but racing and wasting the rest of her time pining for an All-American boy. She hopes Max doesn’t call her out for clearly having to fully disassemble her rig, and reassemble it to have moved it through the bedroom door.
“Cocktails?” She says instead.
They all live in Monaco after all, nobody needs to worry about driving.
Charles leans forward, his gaze flicking between the two of them with a curiosity that Oscar doesn’t quite like. “So, how long has Logan been staying here?”
Oscar shrugs, trying to play it off as casually as possible. “Just a few days. Neither had many plans for summer vacation.”
“Oh really?” Max asks, deadpan.
Oscar feels her face heating up, her voice cracks a bit. “Yeah.”
“Anyway…” she trails off, handing Charles a drink before taking a seat on the edge of the couch.
Ollie plops down next to her, his energy finally contained now that he’s examined every inch of her apartment. “So, when’s dinner? I’m starving.”
“Soon,” Oscar says, glancing at the clock and mentally calculating how long she can keep up the charade of having cooked everything. “Why don’t we start with the appetisers?”
Logan perks up. “What appetisers?”
She glares at him. “The ones you helped set up earlier.”
He blinks, realisation dawning on his face. “Oh, right. The... uh... fancy cheese stuff.”
Charles tilts his head, amused. “Fancy cheese stuff?”
Logan tumbles up and heads to the kitchen, she feels it’s a mistake, yet she doesn’t make it to go help, because Charles starts speaking again. “You seem wound up, has Logan been bothering you?”
“WHAT?! No!” She sputters out, “just, a long day? I–”
The doorbell saves her.
She doesn’t know where the media has got the impression she’s a chill person, she doesn’t feel very chill right now.
Oscar practically leaps off the couch, muttering something about getting the door as she bolts for the entryway. The doorbell has never felt more like a lifeline.
When she opens it, Arthur is standing there, looking apologetic. Fred is right behind him, happily smiling and looking like he has been giving Arthur the shit he deserves.
“Oscar!”
“Fred!” Oscar exclaims, her voice an octave higher than normal, though she quickly clears her throat to recover. She’s so happy to see him, it suddenly hits her. It’s been far too long since they’ve all been together.
Arthur gives her a quick hug, before rushing in to probably yell at his older brother.
She pulls Fred into a hug, “how was the flight?”
“Quicker than expected,” Fred tells her as he pulls back, she clocks his lack of bags. “Arthur said I’m staying with him since Logan is here.”
“Oh thank god, I don’t think my couch is that good to sleep on.” Oscar jokes.
“Sleep on where?” Logan asks, she turns around as Logan pops up. He throws an arm up to wave to Fred, before putting a hand on Oscar’s waist. It feels good, she shakes her head. She’s being weird about it.
“Don’t worry about it, man.” Fred laughs, “Nobody is stealing her from you.”
Stealing who from who? Oscar wants to ask, but then the hand disappears from her waist. Fred and Logan hug, then leave her alone in the hallway, and like always, she’s left to run behind to play catch up.
Oscar lingers in the hallway for a moment, exhaling slowly as she gathers herself. Fred’s casual comment echoes in her mind – stealing her from you. What the hell did that mean? And why did Logan’s hand on her waist feel... comfortable? Too comfortable. She shakes her head, willing herself to focus. This is dinner, focus on dinner.
By the time she steps back into the living room, Fred is already the centre of attention, and the rest seem to be munching on the crackers with cheese.
“Why are you here, Fred? This is for the Leclerc family.” Charles jokes.
“Felt left out, Logan gets to be here, and it is summer holiday,” he smiles. “Why not come and act like the weird uncle?”
“I’m the weird uncle!” Arthur protests.
The room bursts into laughter at Arthur’s indignant tone, and Fred leans back against the arm of the couch, arms crossed smugly. Oscar feels like she can finally breathe, it’s fine, it’s good, everyone is here, and it’s good.
“You’re not weird enough, Arthur,” Fred quips. “It’s a competitive title. Step up your game.”
“Competitive?” Arthur scoffs, crossing his arms to mirror Fred. “I’m plenty weird.”
Logan jumps in before Arthur can defend his self-proclaimed title further. “I don’t know, Fred. Arthur did once accidentally wear two different shoes to a sponsor dinner.”
Arthur points an accusatory finger at Logan. “You were the one who distracted me while I was getting dressed!”
“Distracted you?” Logan smirks. “I just asked if you thought Oscar was going to show up late. Somehow that made you forget how shoes work.”
Arthur sputters while everyone else erupts into laughter. Even Max, who’s been quiet up until now, lets out a low chuckle.
Oscar watches the chaos unfold with a faint smile, grateful for the distraction from the weird knot of emotions in her chest.
“Alright, alright,” she says, cutting through the noise. “Dinner’s ready, and if you keep talking about who’s the weirdest uncle, I’m going to make you all eat in the hallway.”
The threat works, and everyone starts making their way to the dining table.
Logan sidles up to her as the others settle in, his voice low so only she can hear. “You okay? You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, though she can’t meet his eyes. “Just making sure everything goes smoothly.”
“You’re killing it, Oscar,” he says, bumping her shoulder gently. “You’re doing well.”
Charles goads her into presenting the food like this is some fancy event, and she can feel the doubt start to creep back in, Lando’s words echoing once again. All girls know how to host a dinner party, what else do girls know? She’s starting to feel nauseous. Focus on the food, so she does, carries it in, and acts like she doesn’t have feelings about acting like a maid. She’s more than that, she stands on the same footing as everyone around this table. They’re her friends, her chosen ones.
She keeps coming with plates and plates, and nobody offers to help, she doesn’t really understand why it hurts, she didn’t even make the food… Yet they don’t know about that.
As Oscar sets down the last plate, she forces a smile, but her chest feels tight. The laughter and conversation around the table blur slightly as she takes her seat, exhaustion and frustration settling in like an unwanted guest.
Charles raises his glass, his voice cutting through the noise. “A toast,” he says, smiling warmly at her. “To Oscar, for hosting us all tonight and making us feel like family.”
The others raise their glasses, echoing Charles’ sentiment, but it doesn’t feel as comforting as she’d hoped. Logan catches her eye, his brow furrowed slightly as if he can sense something is off. She quickly looks away, focusing on her own drink – a soda to their wine.
The meal progresses with its usual chaos, Arthur nearly spills his wine, Ollie and Fred debating something ridiculous, and Max quietly cuts in with a dry one-liner that makes Charles burst out laughing. Normally, this would make Oscar feel at ease – like everything was falling into place. But tonight, she can’t shake the gnawing sensation of being overlooked, of being reduced to a background player in her own dinner.
It only gets worse when Fred says, “Oscar, where’d you learn to cook like this? This is restaurant-level.”
Everyone’s eyes are on her, and her throat tightens. “Oh, I just– picked things up over time, I guess,” she lies, hoping her voice doesn’t betray her nerves.
“You’ve been holding out on us,” Charles adds, smiling. “Next time, we’re making you cook for every gathering.”
The table laughs, and Oscar’s smile feels like it’s carved from stone. She catches Logan’s gaze again, and this time, his expression is unreadable.
Logan shifts slightly in his chair, his eyes lingering on her longer than usual. It’s like he’s silently calling her out on the facade she’s barely holding together. She grips her glass tighter, wishing she could vanish into it.
“Yeah, Oscar’s been hiding her Michelin-star skills,” Logan says, it’s supposed to be a joke, she knows it, yet right now she doesn’t feel as though it’s teasing at all. “Guess we’ll have to keep showing up at her place to see what else she’s been ‘picking up over time.’”
The group chuckles again, and Oscar forces another smile, but her jaw aches from the effort.
“Alright, alright, let’s give Oscar a break,” Charles says, clapping his hands lightly on the table. “She’s already done enough. This dinner’s a knockout.”
“Agreed,” Max chimes in, his rare compliment catching her off guard.
Arthur nods enthusiastically, lifting his glass. “Yeah, it’s amazing. Thanks, Oscar.”
Their words are kind, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach her. She murmurs her thanks, feeling a knot tighten in her chest. Why does it still feel like she’s not enough?
As plates start to clear and the conversation shifts, Logan leans in closer. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low enough that no one else can hear.
“Fine,” she says quickly, not looking at him. Her fingers clutches the tablecloth under the table, it’s the nice white one she got from her mum when she moved out. The one with lace details.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his tone sceptical. “You’ve said that a lot tonight.”
Logan’s hand lands on her thigh, giving it a squeeze and it helps her relax slightly, mostly because her thoughts all head straight down the decrepit hole – in the back of her mind – filled with everything she shouldn’t think about Logan. Just friends.
Oscar feels the heat creeping up her neck again, but this time it’s not from frustration or embarrassment. Logan’s touch is grounding, yet it sets her nerves alight in a way she can’t quite explain. She’s grateful the others are too caught up in their conversation to notice the moment.
She turns her head slightly to meet Logan’s gaze, and his expression softens, concern etched into the curve of his brow. He’s not teasing now; this is a rare glimpse of the Logan who gets under her skin for all the right reasons.
“I’m fine,” she repeats, softer this time, as if convincing herself as much as him. His hand lingers for a second longer, then withdraws, leaving her both relieved and oddly unmoored.
Charles interrupts the moment with a cheery clap of his hands, pulling everyone’s attention back to him. “Dessert, Oscar? Or do we need another toast to gear up for it?”
Oscar jolts into action, standing quickly. “Dessert! Yes, coming right up.” She busies herself gathering the plates, and Logan starts to stand, presumably to help, but she waves him off. “I’ve got it.”
He hesitates, then settles back down, his gaze trailing after her as she disappears into the kitchen.
Once alone, Oscar grips the counter, inhaling deeply. Get it together. It’s just a dinner, just Logan, just– She cuts off her spiralling thoughts and grabs the cake platter, cringing slightly as she remembers the burnt brownies on the balcony, there is no way to salvage that. It would be better off as charcoal.
She needs to think of something now.
Oscar sets the cake platter down with a little too much force, the sound of it hitting the counter snapping her out of her frantic thoughts. There’s no salvaging the brownies—fine. But she’s not about to admit defeat, not with everyone out there expecting dessert. She yanks open her fridge, scanning its contents like a woman on a mission.
Her eyes land on a pint of vanilla ice cream tucked into the back corner, a half-empty jar of caramel sauce, and a package of strawberries. A makeshift dessert idea begins to form in her mind—something simple but passable. It’s not a perfectly iced cake, but at least it won’t catch fire.
Grabbing everything at once, she quickly rinses the strawberries and slices them, arranging them on small plates with an unpractised precision that makes it all look slightly wonky, homemade. A scoop of ice cream goes in the middle, topped with a generous drizzle of caramel. She adds a sprinkle of crushed nuts she miraculously finds in the pantry.
It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s presentable.
As she sets the plates onto a tray, she exhales, trying to gather herself. She can hear Logan’s laughter from the other room, that low, rumbling sound that always manages to pull something from her. Her pulse quickens as she imagines his inevitable teasing about the improvised dessert.
“Just get through this,” she mutters to herself. “They’ll never know.”
When she steps back into the living room, balancing the tray of plates, the conversation lulls, and all eyes turn to her. Charles beams, always the first to notice when food arrives. “That looks amazing,” he says, standing to help her distribute the plates.
“Just something light,” Oscar says casually, avoiding Logan’s gaze as she hands him a plate. “Thought I’d keep it simple.”
Logan doesn’t take the plate immediately. Instead, he leans closer, inspecting the dessert with a grin that’s half admiration, half mischief. “Light, huh? You whipped this up in five minutes? What can’t you do?”
Oscar rolls her eyes and shoves the plate into his hands. “Eat, Logan. I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m just saying–”
“Logan burnt the brownies.” Oscar spits out, she doesn’t even know why she says it, but the way Arthur and Fred both light up, makes her shoulders settle down a bit. They immediately both bite onto the information, ready to make fun of Logan.
Arthur’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Logan burnt the brownies?” he repeats, dragging out the words with the same energy he’d use to announce a podium finish.
Fred leans forward, his grin practically splitting his face. “Oh, this is gold. What did you do, Logan? Forget they were in the oven? Try to cook them on a bonfire instead?”
Logan groans, taking a dramatic bite of his dessert as if to escape the barrage. “It wasn’t that bad,” he mumbles through a mouthful, but his ears are definitely tinged pink.
“You put the oven on 400 Celsius.” Oscar smiles at him.
Arthur cackles, slapping the table. “Oscar, please tell me you have pictures. For the group chat. Or better yet, I’ll make a meme!”
“Absolutely not,” Logan interjects quickly, holding up a hand. “No memes. No evidence. None of it happened. In fact, I think we’re all forgetting this already.”
Oscar finally allows herself a small laugh, the tension in her chest easing as Fred and Arthur continue to rib Logan.
“Forget it?” Fred says with mock incredulity. “Mate, I’m so posting this on Twitter.”
“It’s on the balcony, go ahead.” Oscar waves a hand to the door, and Logan turns his head to pout at her. Arthur and Fred both scramble up from their chairs, chasing after each other to get there first, competitive in everything, as they all are. In everything. Oscar gets the sinking feeling in her stomach again, they’ll all know her dinner wasn’t perfect.
Charles sniffs the air, “thank god, I didn’t want to mention the burning smell. I was hoping it was bad incense.”
Max rolls his eyes at that, “I think you’re the only one here who uses those burning wooden sticks.”
“It’s incense.” Charles corrects him. The two older drivers share a look.
Oscar’s hand finds Logan’s for a moment. It’s callus and rough, her own a mirror to that, another sacrifice to be one of the fastest people in the world. Logan squeezes her hand, and she’s brought back to the table by Ollie loudly acclaiming that, “Kimi thinks Logan is a worse baker than a driver.”
“Hey!” Logan lets go of her hand to lounge out after Ollie’s phone.
She doesn’t correct Ollie that she was the one who made the cake, Logan was just supposed to put it in the oven. The younger boy quickly gets up from his seat, running and throwing himself on her couch, probably to keep texting Kimi.
“You know,” Logan says as he sits back down, turning his attention back to her, “you’re awfully quick to throw me under the bus for someone who let me near the oven in the first place.”
Oscar arches an eyebrow. “Oh, so it’s my fault now?”
“I’m just saying,” he replies, leaning forward, his grin widening. “You knew the risks.”
Fred whistles from over by the balcony door, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “You two sound like an old married couple.”
Oscar freezes for a split second, her cheeks flushing. “What? No, we do not.”
Logan, ever the opportunist, smirks. “Careful, Fred. You’ll give her ideas.”
Oscar glares at him, throwing her napkin at his head. He ducks, laughing as it sails past him, narrowly missing Charles. “Eat your dessert, Sargeant. And next time, stay out of my kitchen.”
“Gladly,” he quips, taking another bite.
Arthur and Fred return from the balcony, one holding the tray with the charred remains of the brownies like it’s a trophy. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Arthur announces, his voice filled with mock solemnity, “I present to you: Logan’s masterpiece.”
Fred pulls out his phone, snapping a picture as Arthur strikes a dramatic pose with the tray. “This needs a filter,” Fred mutters, swiping through options.
“You’re all children,” Logan mutters, slouching in his seat. But there’s no real heat in his tone, just resignation.
“We’re the weird uncles!” Arthur reminds Logan, and in return is making Oscar giggle a bit, Logan is about to say something more but is instead cut off by the way Charles leans over to inspect the tray, his nose wrinkling. “How did you even manage this, Logan? It’s impressive in its own way.”
“It’s art,” Arthur says with a grin. “Abstract. The metaphorical expression of kitchen incompetence.”
Logan groans, covering his face with one hand, he peaks out between his fingers. “Big words from the French.”
“WE’RE MONEGASQUE!” Charles shrieks, it makes Max laugh harder than Oscar would have expected, it’s really not that funny.
By the time dessert plates are cleared, the teasing has settled into a comfortable hum of conversation. Charles and Max are debating racing strategies, while Ollie is still on the couch typing away at his phone, giggling intermittently, he’s definitely still texting Kimi.
As the conversations around her flow, Oscar finds herself retreating inward, her laughter and smiles fading into the background noise. The teasing has been lighthearted – fun even – but as she watches the group seamlessly banter and bond, the weight of her own insecurities creeps back in.
She glances at Charles and Max, their effortlessness radiating a confidence she sometimes feels she’ll never have. Even Ollie, sprawled out on her couch, texting Kimi, seems more at ease in her space than she does.
Oscar’s gaze drifts to the tray with the charred remains of Logan’s brownies, still sitting on the table where Arthur had left it. It’s a small, silly thing, but it sticks in her mind like a thorn. They’d laughed it off, but she can’t shake the thought that it’s yet another mark against her.
She’d wanted tonight to be perfect – a showcase of her ability to pull off something so normal. She wasn’t just a racer, wasn’t just Oscar the driver, always chasing the next tenth of a second. She wanted them to see her as more than that. She’s a normal girl, perfect, and good at everything. But instead, the evening feels like a patchwork of half-truths and barely contained disasters.
The laughter around her only amplifies the hollow ache in her chest.
“What’s wrong with me?” she mutters under her breath, so quietly she knows no one else will hear.
“Hey.”
The single word startles her, and she looks up to find Logan starring at her once again, a faint crease of concern on his forehead. He’s close enough that she can smell the faint traces of her soap on his skin, the kind of detail that only makes her feel more unmoored.
“You okay?” he asks, once more, “no more I’m fine.”
Her resolve crumbles for a second, before she picks it right back up, “dishes, need to finish the dishes.” She stands up, immediately starting to gather all the plates, painfully ignoring the charred cake, a monstrosity.
“Are you clearing the table?” Charles asks it’s moronic to do so, yet he still does. “Guess it has been getting late, Max?”
Max gets out of his own chair, and for some reason, Ollie takes this as his cue to get up as well, like he really is the pair’s son, has to head out with his parents.
“Bye Oscar!” The Brit calls out, as Logan seems to pick up the task of following them to the door, Arthur and Fred trailing right behind. All seemingly forgetting about her, telling Logan how good it all tastes, and all the other pleasantries she has been striving to hear all week, all day, this entire time. Yet, Logan gets them all because her hands are full of the dishes they ate out of.
Oscar moves mechanically, collecting the plates and glasses with the practised efficiency of someone who’s trying not to think too hard. Her mind, however, refuses to cooperate. The compliments they’d casually tossed to Logan sting more than they should, a reminder of how easily the spotlight shifts away from her. Even in her own home.
She takes a shaky breath, her chest tightening as the apartment empties around her. Arthur’s booming laugh fades down the hall, Fred’s voice trailing after it with another joke about Logan’s brownies. Even Ollie’s exuberant “See you soon!” rings hollow in her ears.
By the time the door clicks shut and silence settles over the apartment, it feels almost deafening. Oscar places the last of the dishes on the counter, staring at the pile like it’s mocking her. Her chest feels heavy, a familiar knot of inadequacy tightening until she has to grip the counter for support.
She thought she’d left this behind, this gnawing doubt that always seemed to creep in when she wasn’t looking. She was Oscar the 2nd driver, Oscar the teammate, Oscar the stoic professional, but here? Hosting a simple dinner? She’d wanted to be something more. Someone more.
But instead, she feels invisible.
Logan’s voice cuts through her spiralling thoughts, startling her. “Oscar?”
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, too quickly, as she grabs a sponge and starts scrubbing at a plate with more force than necessary.
“Right. Because scrubbing a hole through your plate is totally normal behaviour,” he quips, stepping closer.
Oscar exhales sharply, dropping the sponge into the sink with a wet splat. “What do you want, Logan?”
“Just to check on you,” he says, his voice softening. “You’ve been off tonight.”
She laughs bitterly, shaking her head. “Off? What does that even mean? I hosted, didn’t I? Everyone ate, everyone laughed, and everyone had a great time. What more could you possibly expect?”
Logan’s brows knit together, and he moves closer, his tone still calm but more insistent. “Oscar, this isn’t about what I expect. What’s going on?”
Her hands tighten around the edge of the counter, the words bubbling up before she can stop them. “It’s just–” She stops herself, shaking her head. “Forget it.”
“No,” Logan says firmly, stepping into her space. “Talk to me. Please.”
She looks at him, his expression open and earnest, and something in her finally snaps. “It’s never enough,” she says, her voice cracking. “No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I just wanted tonight to be perfect, to show that I’m still you know… Good at all this girl– woman stuff. And I thought maybe, just maybe, I could pull it off. But I didn’t. I couldn’t even manage dessert.”
Her voice wavers, and she turns away, her chest heaving as she fights back the tears threatening to spill over. “And then everyone leaves, and all I hear are compliments for you, Logan. Like you’re the one who made it all happen. Like I’m just… a background character in my own life.”
There’s a long, heavy silence. Then Logan steps closer, his voice soft but steady. “Oscar, look at me.”
She hesitates, then slowly turns to face him, her arms crossed defensively over her chest.
“You’re not a background character,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “You’re the main event. And if anyone made tonight work, it was you. The food– okay, maybe not the food uh– no you did well ordering it? I liked the centrepiece. And uh… the fact that this place doesn’t look like a tornado hit it, that’s all you.”
She lets out a shaky breath, but Logan isn’t done.
“And yeah, they gave me compliments. But that’s just because… well, they’re stupid. It’s not because I did anything special. You did all of this, Oscar. And you need to give yourself credit for that.”
His words hang in the air, and for a moment, she doesn’t know how to respond. She feels exposed like he’s peeled back the layers she’s worked so hard to keep in place.
Finally, she manages a weak, “I just wanted them to see me.”
Logan’s expression softens even further, and he steps closer, his hand finding hers. “They do,” he says quietly. “I see you. And you’re more than enough.”
The tears she’s been holding back finally spill over, and she looks away, embarrassed. But Logan doesn’t let go of her hand.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he continues. “Not to them, not to me, and definitely not to yourself. You’re already everything you need to be, Oscar.”
His words hit something deep inside her, and for the first time all night, the ache in her chest begins to ease slightly.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.
Logan's other hand finds her waist as he crowds her back against the sink. His thumb lightly rubbing up and down her side, it’s making her head spin, or maybe it’s just because of the tears. His eyes catch hers.
“Those are not the only things about you, you’re more than the bullshit others say about you. I don’t know what has gotten into your head tonight. Normally you’re hard to shake, but I know you. I know you, Oscar.” Logan steps even closer. Her breath hitches, “I like you for what you are, not whatever you think you need to be. And yeah, you look wonderful in this housewife get-up. But you look just as good if not better in your fireproofs, in fact, I think you look pretty kickass.”
“Logan–” She chokes out. He’s smiling at her so dotingly, she tries to wipe her eyes. “Don’t– don’t be stupid.”
His thumb keeps rubbing against her side, the warmth blooming from his touch, shooting to her stomach, she can feel the butterflies spreading their wings and getting ready to fly. She knows her face is probably splotchy and red, and she certainly doesn’t feel pretty right now, yet Logan looks at her in a way he has never even looked at a trophy, and he has looked at plenty of those before Formula 1.
“I’m not.” He smiles. “Not when it comes to you.”
She giggles at that, leaning in to rest her head against his, drawing in a deep breath, she can smell his terrible cologne, one she probably got him herself. She knows about as much about perfume as the rest of the guys, which is to say. Not a whole lot.
His breath tickles her nose, and she should probably do something about it.
Her hands find their way behind his head, one hand in his blonde hair, the other on his shoulder blade.
He pulls her closer.
God, he’s so fucking hot.
She does something about it.
As their lips gently touch, she feels the same rush of warmth spreading through her body, her eyes flutter close. The air is filled with a soft, subtle scent of the flowers Ollie brought. She wishes for a moment it had been roses. The sound of their breaths mingles, creating a delicate symphony of them.
Her lips widen as a smile breaks out on her face, she can his low rumble of a chuckle, he’s pulling back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath. She slowly opens her eyes to take in his, they’re blown wide open and the pupils all dilated – she probably looks the same – he seems so happy, despite it being just her.
The dishes lay forgotten in the sink, as she finally feels like she can breathe again, even if it’s just for now, for this moment.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
“Then do it again,” she teases and pulls him right back.
She feels like the protagonist of one of those Hallmark movies, but this — his lips on hers, the weight of all her doubts quickly fading away — this feels real.
