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Oscar sat in the corner of the McLaren motorhome office, shoulders hunched, staring at the letter in his hands for the hundredth time. His chest felt tight every time his eyes trailed back over the words.

Notice of Ineligibility. Residency status under review. Failure to resolve may result in removal from the UK.

It didn’t even feel real. He had been in the UK for years now, training, racing, building the career he’d dreamed of since he was a kid in Melbourne. And yet, here it was, one bureaucratic screw-up threatening to uproot it all.

When the lawyers finished talking, the room was too quiet. Oscar lifted his eyes, meeting the worried stares of the McLaren legal team.

“So,” he finally said, voice flat, “if this doesn’t get fixed, I… what? Pack up and go back to Australia?”

“Not immediately,” one of the lawyers rushed to clarify. “But yes—without a valid residency status, your work permit becomes void. Which means no races. No staying in the UK long-term. It’s…” She hesitated. “…serious.”

Oscar pressed his lips together, fighting the heat rising behind his eyes. Serious. That was one word for it. It felt catastrophic.

“There are solutions,” another lawyer said quickly, glancing between the drivers’ schedules pinned on the wall. “Appeals. Additional sponsorship visas. But all of that could take months. The season won’t wait that long.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. Months. He didn’t have months. He barely had weeks.

“What’s the fastest fix?” Zak Brown asked, his American drawl cutting through the tension like a blade.

The room went still. Papers rustled. A cough. Then one of the lawyers cleared his throat.

“…Marriage,” he said, almost apologetic.

“Marriage to a UK citizen would immediately stabilize your residency application.”

Oscar’s head snapped up. “What?”

“It’s the most straightforward path,” the lawyer continued carefully. “Of course, it has to be a legitimate union. There would be checks. Interviews. But legally speaking… it’s the fastest.”

Oscar’s stomach turned. Marriage? He didn’t even have girlfriend or boyfriend whatever, let alone someone he could ask to tie themselves to him for a visa.

“That’s insane,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I can’t just… find someone and marry them.”

The silence stretched. Everyone avoided looking directly at him—until a familiar voice from the back spoke up.

“Well,” Lando said, leaning lazily against the doorway with his arms crossed, “you don’t have to find someone. You’ve already got me.”

“You’ve got to be joking!” Oscar snapped, rolling his eyes so hard it almost hurt.

Of course it was Lando. Who else would stroll into a meeting about a serious life problem and toss out something ridiculous like that?

He was still propped against the doorway, grinning, curls sticking out from under a McLaren cap, the picture of someone who clearly didn’t grasp the weight of the situation. Too much talking, too loud a laugh, too damn…Lando.

“Dead serious, Oscar,” Lando said as he sauntered into the room and dropped into a chair like this was all some casual chat over lunch. “You need a British passport holder? Boom.” He pointed both thumbs at himself. “I’m right here.”

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No, I’m practical,” Lando countered, leaning forward on the table. “Think about it—who else are you gonna ask? You don’t have someone, you don’t even like going out, and unless you’re secretly dating people in the Red Bull garage, I don’t see many volunteers lining up.”

Zak Brown cleared his throat, clearly fighting a smile. The lawyers looked both horrified and intrigued, flipping through their folders like they might somehow find a clause against teammates marrying each other.

Oscar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. They were close, sure. Friends. They spent more time together than with anyone else, between the factory, the sim, the track, sponsor events.

But marriage? Fake marriage? To Lando?

“This is insane,” Oscar muttered, his voice lower now, more to himself than anyone else.

“No, this is brilliant,” Lando said, his grin widening, almost like he was enjoying pushing Oscar’s buttons. “Come on, Oscar —you have no choice. I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”

For the first time, Oscar looked up and really stared at him. Lando wasn’t laughing now. He still had that cheeky glint in his eye, but there was something steadier under it.

And that was somehow even scarier.

Oscar paced the length of his flat, hands in his hoodie pocket, jaw tight. The legal team’s words echoed in his head like a damn metronome. Fastest option. Immediate stability. Marriage.

Marriage. To Lando.

He stopped by the window, staring down at the London street below. It wasn’t like he had options. Not really. Without residency, he was off the grid, out of McLaren, out of F1. His career would stall before it had even begun.

Still, it grated against him. Oscar Piastri didn’t like being forced into anything. He liked control. He liked certainty. And this—this was messy, unpredictable, reckless.

When Lando showed up at his door later that evening—unannounced, of course—he was balancing two takeaway bags in one hand and grinning like he’d just won a bet.

“Don’t start,” Oscar warned before he even set foot inside.

“What? I brought Thai food.” Lando shouldered his way in, dropping the bags on the counter, making himself at home as always. “And I figured you’d be sulking alone, so…” He spread his arms. “Ta-da. Your knight in shining armor.”

Oscar closed the door behind him with a sharp exhale. “You’re not my knight. You’re—” He cut himself off, rubbing his temple. “This is insane.”

“It’s not insane,” Lando said between unwrapping cartons. “It’s paperwork. That’s all. You sign, I sign, we laugh about it in five years when you’re world champion.” He popped a spring roll into his mouth. “Just business, right?”

Oscar’s shoulders stiffened. He hated how easily Lando boiled it down, how casually he spoke about something that made Oscar’s chest ache with unease.

But he wasn’t wrong.

With his career on the line, he had no choice.

“I can’t believe I’m even considering this,” Oscar muttered, finally sinking into a chair. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the storm behind them.

Lando leaned across the table, cheeky smile softening into something more certain. “Then don’t consider. Just agree.”

Oscar met his gaze, silence stretching. This was his decision. His responsibility. His future.

Finally, with a clipped nod, he said, “Fine. We’ll do it. But remember—this is just paperwork. Just business.”

Lando smirked, eyes glinting. “Sure, mate. Just business.”

But Oscar had a sinking feeling Lando didn’t know the meaning of just.

Three days before the courthouse appointment, Oscar was still telling himself this wasn’t real. It was a contract. A loophole. Just paperwork.

That mantra worked fine—until Lando burst into the simulator room mid-session and announced, “We need rings.”

Oscar blinked, pulling off his headset. “What?”

“Rings,” Lando repeated, like it was obvious. “You know, the shiny little circles people wear when they’re married? We can’t just show up without them. What are we, amateurs?”

Oscar’s mouth opened, then closed. “We don’t need rings. It’s not a real marriage.”

Lando’s grin was infuriatingly wide. “The Home Office will think it’s real. Which means we need props. Come on, Oscar!, you’re supposed to be clever.”

Before Oscar could argue, Lando had already slung an arm around his shoulder and started tugging him toward the door. “We’re going shopping.”

Cartier, as it turned out, was Lando’s idea of “somewhere simple.”

Oscar stood stiffly under the warm lights of the boutique, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, while Lando moved through the glass cases like a kid in a candy store.

“This one’s too plain,” Lando said, waving off a sleek platinum band the sales associate presented. “And this one—nah, looks like something my granddad would wear. Ooh, but this one—” He leaned closer, his curls bouncing as he grinned. “That’s got some personality.”

Oscar rubbed at the back of his neck, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. “They’re rings, Lando. Circles. Metal. That’s it.”

“Don’t be so boring.” Lando shot him a look over his shoulder, mischief dancing in his eyes. “If we’re gonna do this, we might as well do it properly. You’ll thank me when people believe we’re madly in love instead of just two blokes filling out forms.”

Oscar bit back a sigh. His brain was still trying to catch up with the fact that he was about to stand in a courthouse and legally bind himself to Lando Norris. Ring shopping felt like a fever dream.

And yet, when the sales associate slipped a brushed gold band onto his finger for sizing, Oscar didn’t pull away. He just stared at it, heavy and unfamiliar, while Lando beamed like he’d just won another karting trophy.

“See?” Lando said, nudging him lightly. “Looks good on you. Feels right, doesn’t it?”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but his voice came out quieter than he intended. “It feels… strange.”

Lando smirked. “Get used to it, husband.”

Oscar’s stomach flipped. He told himself it was nerves.

Just paperwork. Just business.

The registrar’s office smelled faintly of old paper and lemon disinfectant. Not exactly the stuff of fairy-tale weddings.

Oscar stood stiff in a suit that felt a size too tight, clutching the paperwork like it was a lifeline. Across from him, Lando looked far too relaxed for someone about to get married—tie slightly crooked, grin tugging at his lips.

“Cheer up, Oscar!,” Lando teased under his breath as the official flipped through their documents. “We’re making history here. First McLaren drivers to tie the knot.”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “You think this is funny?”

“Little bit,” Lando whispered back, eyes glinting. “But don’t worry. I’ll make you the happiest man alive.”

Oscar resisted the urge to groan.

The ceremony itself was short, almost transactional. They stood before the registrar, answering questions in clipped tones.

Yes, they consent. Yes, they understood. Yes, they wished to be legally joined in marriage.

It was supposed to be easy. Just signatures. Just paperwork. But when the registrar asked them to exchange rings, Oscar’s chest tightened. Lando slid the band onto his finger with a grin that looked alarmingly real, and Oscar’s hands trembled when he returned the gesture.

Then came the vows. Short. Legal. Straightforward. But the moment he said them aloud, looking directly into Lando’s eyes, Oscar felt something shift—like the words carried more weight than the lawyers or the team or even he had prepared for.

And then, the final blow,

“You may seal your union with a kiss.”

Oscar froze. His brain screamed this isn’t real, but his body locked into place. Lando tilted his head slightly, mouth parting in a cheeky grin, clearly expecting Oscar to chicken out or joke his way out of it. But Oscar didn’t.

He closed the gap in one sharp motion, pressing his lips to Lando’s.

It wasn’t long, just a firm brush, but it knocked the air out of both of them. Lando’s laughter died mid-breath, replaced by wide-eyed surprise. For a split second, the world outside the registrar’s office didn’t exist—just the warmth of the kiss, the faint hitch in Lando’s breath, and Oscar’s heart hammering like he’d just taken Eau Rouge flat out.

When Oscar pulled back, his jaw was set, voice steady. “There. Done.”

Lando blinked at him, stunned silent for once. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved into a softer smile than Oscar had ever seen.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Done.”

But Oscar knew, deep down, nothing about that kiss felt fake.

After the courthouse, they didn’t talk about the kiss.

They signed the papers, shook hands with the registrar, endured the PR team’s hushed reminders about keeping it under wraps—and then walked out separate doors like nothing had happened.

Oscar told himself it was better that way. Clean. Uncomplicated. Just business.

But the rings stayed on.

At the McLaren Technology Centre, Oscar caught Lando fiddling with his band during a simulator debrief. Spinning it around his finger like a toy, grinning when the engineers pretended not to notice.

“You’re going to drop it,” Oscar muttered, eyes fixed on the telemetry.

Lando shot him a sideways glance. “What, jealous? Afraid I’ll lose my ‘wedding ring’ and break your heart?”

Oscar gave him the flattest stare he could muster, but his ears burned anyway.

In the garage, squeezed between engineers and flashing cameras, Oscar’s gaze snagged on the ring glinting on Lando’s hand as he adjusted his gloves. For a split second, it didn’t look like paperwork. It looked like—something else.

“Ready?” Lando asked, tossing him a grin before ducking into the car.

Oscar cleared his throat. “Always.”

Sometimes they had lunch together at the factory canteen. Not planned, not formal. Just… happening. Lando talked too much, as usual, gesturing wildly with his hands, while Oscar poked at his food and pretended he wasn’t listening as closely as he was.

“You ever notice,” Lando said once, mouth full of chips, “how people don’t even ask about the rings? Like, they just assume?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “Maybe they don’t care.”

“Or maybe we’re convincing.” Lando smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe we’re that good.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but under the table, his thumb brushed the edge of his own band.

Heavy. Familiar. Constant.

Just business, he reminded himself. But every time he caught Lando’s laugh echoing through the MTC halls, every time their eyes met over a crowded garage, every time the ring caught the light—Oscar wondered who he was trying to convince.

Oscar never thought he’d notice the way Lando drove. Not just the race craft, not the lap times, but the little things—the way he cut too close on track walks, the way he joked about pushing limits in practice, the way he treated every simulator run like a game.

It was reckless. Brilliant, but reckless.

And lately, it made Oscar’s chest tighten. “Don’t take too much curb in six,” Oscar told him one afternoon after practice. “You’ll unsettle the rear. And stop throwing the car into twelve—you’ll bin it.”

Normally, Lando would have laughed him off. Maybe even tried it harder, just to prove a point. But this time, he only raised a brow, then nodded once. “Yeah, alright.”

Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “…You actually listened?” Lando shrugged, tugging off his gloves. “You sounded serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

“Exactly.” Lando flashed him a grin, softer than his usual cheek. “So I listen.”

It kept happening.

On track walks, when Oscar told him to stop messing around near blind corners, Lando obeyed. In debriefs, when Oscar pointed out a line was too risky, Lando adjusted without complaint. Even on sim days, when Oscar told him to quit cutting so aggressively, Lando just… nodded.

It was disorienting. Everyone at McLaren knew Lando didn’t take orders easily—not from engineers, not from Zak, not even from Andrea. But from Oscar? He did.

Oscar found himself watching Lando more closely, a strange protectiveness simmering under his skin. Every time Lando pushed too hard in practice, every time he clipped the grass in quali, Oscar’s hands clenched unconsciously.

He told himself it was normal. Teammates cared about each other’s safety. That was all.

But then, one evening after sim work, Lando caught him staring. “What?” Lando asked, tilting his head, curls falling into his eyes.

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “You drive like you’ve got nine lives.” Lando smirked, about to toss out a witty line—but something in Oscar’s expression stopped him. The words died in his throat.

Instead, he just said quietly, “Good thing I’ve got you, then.” Oscar didn’t answer. He just looked away, but his chest felt unsteady the rest of the night.

Then of course, started small. Oscar had barely sat down in the hospitality unit when a tray slid across the table toward him. His favorite post-practice meal—chicken, rice, nothing fussy, nothing greasy. Exactly the way he liked it.

He looked up to see Lando hovering with two coffees in hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” Lando said, sliding into the seat across from him. “I’m a thoughtful husband. Comes with the package.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he didn’t push the food away. “You’ve never been thoughtful a day in your life.” “Rude.” Lando sipped his coffee with exaggerated offense. “I bring you food, I bring you coffee, and all I get is abuse.”

“Because you won’t shut up about it.” Lando grinned, bright and boyish, like he’d been waiting all morning for the comeback. And somehow, despite himself, Oscar’s lips twitched.

It became a routine. At the MTC, Lando appeared in the cafeteria line just as Oscar reached for his tray. “Don’t get that—try this, it’s better,” he’d say, dropping a side onto Oscar’s plate without asking.

At race weekends, they ended up at the same hospitality table, coffee cups between them, talking about anything but racing. Lando rambled about golf, about memes he’d seen, about whatever random thought popped into his head.

Oscar mostly listened, chiming in with the driest one-liners—so dry that sometimes the mechanics at the next table didn’t even realize he was joking until Lando burst out laughing loud enough for the whole unit to hear.

“You’ve got the worst sense of humor,” Lando wheezed one morning, wiping his eyes.

“Not my fault you’re the only one who gets it,” Oscar deadpanned, stirring his coffee.

“That’s because I’m brilliant.” Oscar snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

Lando leaned his chin on his hand, smiling across the table like he wasn’t supposed to. “See? You do like me.” Oscar didn’t answer, just sipped his coffee. But his silence was telling, and Lando knew it.

For everyone else at McLaren, it looked normal—two teammates, young, close, always together.

But for Oscar, every small gesture felt heavier than it should. The ring on his finger dug into his skin like a reminder. The sound of Lando’s laugh lodged in his chest like a secret.

And he hated to admit it—he didn’t want any of it to stop.

The first text came to Lando. A formal message from the registry office, all official tone and stiff language, confirming their scheduled home visit.

He stared at it for a solid thirty seconds before blurting across the garage, “Oscar—we’re screwed.”

Oscar blinked from where he was reviewing data, still in his race suit. “What?”

“They’re coming. To the house. Government people.” Lando held up his phone like evidence. “Next week.”

Oscar’s face drained of color. “Next—next week?”

Before Lando could answer, both their phones buzzed again. This time, Mclaren legal lawyer. We’ve been informed. Standard procedure. You’ll need to present as cohabiting and stable.

Lando tossed his phone onto the desk and leaned back, trying to look casual. “Relax, it’s just some people checking if we’re living together.”

“That’s not ‘just,’ Lando.” Oscar was pale, his usual composure cracked. “They’ll ask questions, they’ll look around—what if something doesn’t add up?”

“Then we make it add up.” Lando shrugged, already grinning like this was a game. “We’ve got a week. Plenty of time to get our story straight. Buy some extra toothbrushes, throw your hoodie on my sofa, whatever.”

Oscar rubbed his face. “This isn’t funny.”

“Course it is,” Lando shot back, his smile widening. “They’re basically asking us to be married, properly. You know—shoes at the door, his-and-his mugs in the cupboard…”

Oscar groaned. “Lando.”

Lando leaned closer, lowering his voice so the others couldn’t overhear. “You panicking is making me less panicked, by the way. Which means you owe me coffee after this.”

But even as he joked, there was a flicker in his eyes—like the reality of their paper marriage suddenly felt heavier, more real, than either of them had expected.

Oscar hadn’t realized “proving they lived together” meant actually… living together.

But three days later, he found himself standing in the doorway of Lando’s apartment, surrounded by moving boxes with his name scribbled across them.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, shoving one box inside. “We’re not sixteen-year-olds sneaking around, Lando. We’re adults. Professionals.”

“Exactly,” Lando said cheerfully, kicking the door shut with his foot. “Professionals who are married and living together. Welcome home, husband.”

Oscar gave him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t start.”

But the more boxes he dragged inside, the worse it got. The place was chaos. Controllers tangled on the sofa, shoes in random corners, empty water bottles lined up like trophies on the counter.

Lando’s clothes weren’t in drawers—they were draped over chairs, on the floor, hanging off the back of the sofa like art pieces.

Oscar stopped dead, jaw tightening. “You live like this?” Lando shrugged, unfazed. “It’s organized chaos.”

“This isn’t organized—this is a health hazard.” Oscar grabbed a hoodie off the dining chair, holding it like it might bite. “You didn’t even fold this.”

“I was going to wear it again!” Lando shot back, half laughing, half defensive.

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I married you.”

“Not my fault you didn’t check the fine print,” Lando teased, already rummaging through one of Oscar’s boxes. “Ooooh, neat little stacks. Wow. You fold your socks?”

“Yes,” Oscar said flatly, snatching them back.

“God, we’re like a sitcom,” Lando said, plopping himself onto the couch with his usual grin. “Grumpy husband moves in with chaotic husband. One cleans, one makes mess. I’d watch it.”

Oscar gave him another sharp look, but for some reason, the corner of his mouth twitched.

By some miracle—and Oscar’s relentless standards—they made it work.

Lando’s apartment no longer looked like a war zone. Oscar had insisted on cleaning until everything gleamed. There were now pairs of things everywhere, two toothbrushes in the holder, two coffee mugs side by side, two sets of running shoes neatly lined up at the door.

And the pièce de résistance—a framed photo of them together from a McLaren event, set casually on the shelf like it had always been there.

Oscar’s trophy and one of his helmets were placed right next to Lando’s, as if it was natural that their careers shared the same space.

Oscar had to admit, it almost looked… convincing. Which made his heart pound even harder when the knock finally came.

Two officials in tidy suits stepped inside, flashing IDs and polite smiles that felt anything but casual. Clipboards in hand, they scanned the place with sharp eyes, taking in every detail.

“Mr. Norris, Mr. Piastri,” one of them said, “thank you for having us. Just a few questions to confirm your residency situation.”

Oscar forced a polite nod, his palms slick. Lando, on the other hand, leaned casually against the counter like he’d been born for this.

“Of course,” Lando said smoothly. “We understand.”

The questions started simple. Who handled groceries. Which side of the bed each of them slept on. Oscar’s stomach twisted with every answer, terrified he’d miss a beat. But then—

“And why,” one inspector asked carefully, “has your marriage not been publicly announced?”

Oscar froze. His mind scrambled for a believable answer. But before he could speak, Lando beat him to it.

“Well,” Lando began, smiling in that easy, disarming way of his, “we’re both pretty well known. We didn’t want our private life turned into headlines. This is ours. Not for cameras, not for PR. Just for us.”

He said it with such casual warmth that even Oscar almost believed him. The inspectors scribbled notes, nodding, apparently satisfied.

But Oscar—sitting there with his heart pounding, watching the way Lando delivered those words without missing a beat—couldn’t stop the thought burning in his mind.

If only it really was just for us.

The inspectors flipped a page on their clipboard.

“Now,” one of them said, “we’ll need to ask some personal questions. To verify the authenticity of your relationship.”

Oscar straightened in his chair, all nerves and sharp posture. Lando? He leaned back, legs stretched out, grinning like he was about to ace an exam he hadn’t studied for.

“Of course,” Lando said, smug as ever.

The first question was tame: “Who usually cooks dinner?”

Oscar opened his mouth, but Lando cut in. “Him,” he said, jerking his thumb toward Oscar. “If I cook, it ends in smoke. He doesn’t trust me near the stove.”

That earned a nod from the inspector. Then came: “What’s your partner’s worst habit?”

Oscar hesitated. “He—he’s messy.”

“Oi!” Lando shot back, laughing. “And he’s a neat freak. You should’ve seen the fit he threw over my socks. Thought he was going to divorce me after two days.”

The inspectors actually chuckled. Oscar glared at him, ears turning pink.

Then the questions got sharper.

“When did you last argue?”

“Two nights ago,” Lando said instantly. “About laundry. He thinks shirts should be folded a certain way. I think if it’s clean, job done.”

Oscar muttered, “Because there’s a right way.”

Lando smirked. “See?”

The inspector scribbled again. “And… intimacy? How would you describe your relationship in private?”

Oscar’s pulse stuttered. “Intimacy?” he repeated, voice tight.

“Yes,” the inspector said smoothly. “We need to ensure this is more than a paper arrangement.”

Before Oscar could form words, Lando leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping into something far too casual. “Private? He’s the boss. Always has been.”

Oscar whipped his head toward him, eyes wide. “Lando—”

“What?” Lando asked, all innocence, but his grin gave him away. “It’s true. He gives the orders. I follow. Works for us.”

The inspector’s brows rose. “So Mr. Piastri is more dominant in the relationship?”

Oscar wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His neck was burning red now. “I— That’s not— I mean—”

But Lando just leaned back, hands behind his head, smirking. “You could say that.”

The inspector smiled faintly. “Noted.”

Oscar clenched his jaw so tight it hurt, glaring daggers at Lando across the room. Lando winked at him.

And damn it, despite the humiliation, Oscar felt heat curl low in his chest. Because the worst part?

Lando wasn’t lying.

The door finally shut behind the inspectors. Their polite thank-yous echoed faintly down the hall, and silence settled over the apartment.

Oscar stood frozen, shoulders tight, listening to the click of their shoes fade. He didn’t move until he was absolutely sure they were gone. Then, slowly, he exhaled—a shaky, pent-up breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Lando, on the other hand, threw himself face-first onto the couch with a groan. “God. You look like you aged five years.”

Oscar shot him a flat look, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s because I probably did.”

“You worry too much.” Lando rolled onto his back, grinning up at him. “See? They bought it. We’re golden.”

Oscar didn’t answer. He paced once around the living room, then finally sat down on the opposite end of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. His heart was still racing, but Lando was right—their story had held up. For now.

“You made half of that sound like we’re in some rom-com,” Oscar muttered.

“You’re welcome.” Lando’s grin widened, far too smug. “They loved us. Best fake married couple they’ve ever seen.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the twitch of his mouth. He hated how easy Lando made it all seem.

A beat of silence passed, both of them staring at the ceiling. Then Oscar sighed. “I’m hungry. We cook or takeaway?”

Lando turned his head lazily. “You cook. I’ll keep the couch warm.”

Oscar gave him a sharp look. “Not happening.”

“Fine,” Lando groaned, throwing an arm dramatically over his eyes. “Takeaway. But you’re choosing, because last time you insulted my taste in pizza.”

Oscar’s lips twitched again. “Because putting pineapple on it should be illegal.”

“Blasphemy,” Lando mumbled, grinning into his sleeve.

And just like that, the tension began to loosen, replaced by something… almost comfortable. Two drivers, two friends, two idiots with rings on their fingers, trying to survive a mess that was starting to feel less like paperwork and more like life.

At first, it was all for show.

Holding hands when someone official might be watching. Sharing a smile when cameras lingered too long. A casual arm around the shoulders during sponsor dinners.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being only performance.

They got good at it—too good. Inside jokes bounced between them like sparks, timing so natural that people laughed and said, God, you two are inseparable. They finished each other’s sentences without thinking. They moved in sync, like they’d been practicing for years instead of weeks.

Oscar hated how easy it was.

At the track, Lando would grab his wrist to pull him along, laughing at something only the two of them would get. In the motorhome, Oscar would hand Lando his coffee exactly the way he liked it, without asking.

They didn’t even notice anymore when their shoulders brushed while reviewing data, or when Lando leaned in too close to whisper a snide joke about Zak.

The problem was, it didn’t always feel like acting.

Oscar realized it one evening, back at the apartment. Lando was sprawled on the couch with his laptop, hair damp from a shower, still in one of Oscar’s hoodies he’d “borrowed” and never given back. He looked up, eyes crinkling with that ridiculous smile, and something in Oscar’s chest went tight.

This was supposed to be fake. A deal. Just paperwork.

But watching Lando laugh at something dumb on his screen, wearing his clothes, his ring glinting under the lamp—Oscar couldn’t shake the thought that it felt real. Too real.

And he wasn’t sure anymore if that scared him… or thrilled him.

It started with a blurry paddock photo.

Oscar hadn’t thought twice about it when he slid his gloves off, tossing them on the table during a debrief. But the camera had caught the glint on his left hand.

A ring.

Lando’s ring.

By Monday morning, the internet was on fire. Matching rings? Lando & Oscar confirmed? Twitter threads, Instagram fan accounts, TikToks with side-by-side zoom-ins of their hands. Even Reddit had theories ranging from married in secret to it’s just PR.

Oscar scrolled once, then shoved his phone away, jaw tight.

At the factory later that week, it got worse. They’d carpooled again—mostly because it was easier than fighting over who drove—but arriving in the same car didn’t exactly help. A photographer caught it. Two McLaren drivers stepping out of one car, laughing like they’d shared the best joke in the world.

By the next day, headlines:

“Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri: Just Teammates, or Something More?”

“Spotted: McLaren Duo Wearing Matching Rings.”

Inside the garage, the engineers were whispering. Paparazzi hovered outside the gates. Even Zak shot them a long, unreadable look during briefing.

Lando, of course, found it hilarious. He sprawled in his chair, phone in hand, chuckling at the memes. “Oscar!, they’re calling us husbands of McLaren. That’s gold.”

Oscar pressed his lips into a thin line. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” Lando grinned, nudging his foot under the table. “Come on. It means we’re convincing. Government’s got nothing on us.”

But Oscar’s stomach twisted. Convincing was one thing. Having the world speculate about them—about him—was another.

And the worst part? He couldn’t exactly deny it. Not when the rings were real. Not when they really did share a car. Not when the laugh Lando gave him in that photo was real, too.

The thing was—most of McLaren didn’t know.

Zak, Andrea, and the inner PR team were the only ones in on the truth. To everyone else in orange, Oscar and Lando were just… Oscar and Lando. Teammates. Friends. A pair of young drivers who, sure, were close—but nothing out of the ordinary.

Which was why the headlines hit like wildfire.

The whispers in the garage got louder by the hour. Mechanics glanced between them with raised brows. Engineers paused mid-conversation when Oscar walked in, only to resume in hushed tones. Someone had even pulled up the matching-ring photo as a screensaver on the telemetry computer, until Andrea barked for it to be removed.

Oscar could feel it—the shift. The sideways looks. The quiet chuckles when he and Lando stood too close reviewing data. Even the catering staff smiled knowingly when they grabbed lunch together, like they were in on a secret that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Lando, naturally, thrived in it.

He leaned into the rumors with that trademark grin, joking with anyone who teased him. “What, jealous? Can’t a bloke share a car ride with his best mate?” He made it sound easy, harmless.

But Oscar felt the weight of it differently. Every whisper was a reminder that their marriage—meant to stay locked between lawyers and officials—was bleeding into the open.

One afternoon, he caught Zak’s eye across the garage. Zak gave him a subtle nod, calm but firm, like: We’ll handle it. Just keep steady.

Oscar nodded back, but inside, his chest was tight.

Because the more people whispered, the less it felt like a secret arrangement. And the more it felt like everyone was seeing something real.

Something Oscar wasn’t ready to admit—even to himself.

It was the little things.

At first, Lando thought Oscar was just being his usual no-nonsense self—efficient, practical, always three steps ahead. But lately… lately it felt different.

Like when Oscar showed up one morning at hospitality with a coffee. Not just any coffee—Lando’s order, exactly right, down to the stupid caramel drizzle he thought nobody remembered. Oscar set it down in front of him without a word, like it was nothing, before turning back to his own notes.

Or during media day, when the sun was brutal and Lando was too busy messing about with fans to notice. A firm hand tugged him back by the elbow, steering him into the shade of the canopy.

“You’ll overheat,” Oscar muttered, shoving a water bottle into his hand. He said it like a scolding, but the grip lingered a beat too long.

And then there were the unconscious touches. Like brushing stray hair out of Lando’s face before a photo, fingers quick and precise, no hesitation. Lando had laughed it off at the time, making some dumb joke—but his skin buzzed where Oscar’s knuckles had skimmed him.

The worst, though, was the staring.

Because now Lando caught himself doing it.

Like before quali, when Oscar stepped out of the garage in full race suit, gloves tucked under his arm, visor flipped up. There was something about the calm set of his jaw, the sharp focus in his eyes, that made Lando’s throat tighten.

He looked every bit the professional, every bit the man holding everything together.

And Lando realized, with a jolt, that he was staring too long.

He blinked, shook his head, forced a grin. Made some dumb comment to cover the silence.

But the truth sat heavy in his chest.

This wasn’t supposed to be real. They were supposed to be pretending.

So why did it feel more real every single day?

The email came late in the afternoon, while they were both still at the factory.

Oscar read it first, eyes scanning quickly, and for the first time in weeks, his shoulders loosened. “We passed.”

Lando looked up from his phone, grin breaking across his face. “Seriously? That’s it? We’re in the clear?”

Oscar nodded, relief flooding through him like a wave. “Yeah. No more inspections. Visa secured.”

Lando whooped, clapping him on the back, almost knocking the tablet out of his hands. “Told you we were brilliant at this. Best fake husbands in history.”

But then Oscar’s phone buzzed again—another message from their lawyer. His brows furrowed as he read it.

“What?” Lando asked, tilting his head.

Oscar hesitated, then read aloud. “The officer’s notes… they wrote: ‘Believable, convincing partnership. Evidence strong. Primary factor: Mr. Norris’s demeanor. His expression toward Mr. Piastri consistent with genuine affection.’”

The words hung in the air.

Lando blinked. “Wait—what?”

Oscar’s ears burned as he shoved the phone into his pocket. “Doesn’t matter. Point is—we passed.”

But Lando wasn’t letting it go. His grin softened, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “So basically… they believed us because of me?”

Oscar groaned. “Don’t.”

“They thought it was real,” Lando pressed, a teasing lilt creeping into his voice. “Because of how I look at you.”

“Lando.” Oscar’s tone was sharp, warning.

But Lando was already leaning back in his chair, smug and thoughtful all at once. He replayed the words in his head, the note in the officer’s report—genuine affection.

He didn’t say anything else, not then. But later, when Oscar wasn’t looking, Lando caught himself wondering.

Maybe it hadn’t been acting after all.

The news came two weeks after the last race of the summer. Their lawyer, speaking briskly over a call, confirmed what they already suspected—Oscar’s visa was secure, the marriage no longer a legal necessity. If they wanted, they could annul it quietly. No harm, no scandal.

It should have been a relief. For months, the fear of discovery hung over their shoulders like storm clouds. Now the sky was finally clear.

And yet, the silence afterward was heavy. Neither of them rushed to make the call. Neither of them touched the paperwork their lawyer had emailed.

The season rolled on, race after race blurring together, until one night in their shared flat—an odd place that had once been temporary, just a cover for their story—Lando walked in to find Oscar sitting on the couch. Still in team kit, hair damp from a shower, a mug of tea cooling in his hands.

There was something uncharacteristically nervous in his posture, shoulders tight, eyes flicking up only when Lando dropped onto the sofa beside him.

For a moment, the only sound was the muted hum of the city outside and the soft buzz of the fridge in the kitchen.

Then Oscar broke it. His voice was quiet, almost careful.

“Do you… want to end this?”

The question landed between them like a stone in water, sending ripples through Lando’s chest.

He could’ve laughed it off, teased him like always. But for once, he didn’t. Instead, he studied Oscar—really studied him. The crease in his brow. The way he was holding onto that mug too tightly. The way he couldn’t quite bring himself to look straight at Lando, as if he was bracing for the answer to hurt.

Lando felt something tug inside him, sharp and certain.

He leaned closer, close enough to feel the warmth of Oscar’s skin, and whispered, “End this?” A soft scoff, a shake of his head. “Oscar…it stopped being fake a long time ago.”

Before Oscar could respond, Lando kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t staged like the first clumsy photo ops they’d forced themselves through months ago. This was slower, surer—like something that had been building quietly all along. Oscar stiffened for a second, then melted into it, one hand coming up to cup the back of Lando’s neck.

When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, both of them a little breathless, Lando’s grin was softer than anything a camera had ever caught.

“So no,” he murmured. “I don’t want to end this. Not now. Not ever.”

Oscar exhaled a laugh—half relief, half disbelief—before kissing him again, harder this time, like he’d been holding it back for far too long.

The paperwork sat forgotten in an unread email. The flat they shared no longer felt like a disguise, but a home. The whispers in the paddock didn’t matter anymore.

Because somewhere along the line, between the fake smiles and the rehearsed touches, their marriage had become the most real thing either of them had ever known.

And neither of them was letting go.

Sky Sports F1 – Exclusive Report

In a surprising revelation, official government documents have confirmed that McLaren drivers Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri have been legally married for nearly a year.

The private ceremony reportedly took place at a courthouse in the United Kingdom, with no public announcement made at the time. 

Fans had speculated for months about the drivers’ close relationship, citing matching rings, shared travel arrangements, and numerous off-track appearances together.

The newly uncovered documents now confirm what many had guessed: Norris and Piastri’s partnership extended far beyond the racetrack.

Neither Norris nor Piastri have issued an official statement yet, though McLaren declined to comment when contacted.

The revelation is expected to cause a stir in the paddock ahead of this weekend’s race, with both drivers now facing the spotlight not just as teammates—but as husbands.

Sky Sports F1 will continue to follow this developing story.