Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Lando, you cannot just sit here all day,” his mum said, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorway.

Lando sprawled across the sofa, face buried in a pillow, groaning dramatically.

“Mum, I’ve tried. No one wants me. I applied for—like—twenty jobs last month. Maybe thirty. I’m blacklisted. Blacklisted, I tell you.”

“You applied for jobs at a bakery, a gym, and… oh, wait—didn’t you once work at a zoo? A petting zoo?” She squinted at the crumpled paper on the coffee table.

Lando peeked up, sheepish. “Yeah, I thought goats liked me.”

His mum pinched the bridge of her nose before slapping a folded newspaper—yes, actual newspaper—onto his stomach.

“Here. Try this one.”

Lando squinted at the circled ad.

Personal Assistant to CEO – Fintech company. London-based. Competitive salary.

He sat up. “Mum, seriously? Do I look like someone who knows anything about fintech?”

“You don’t have to,” she shot back. “You just need to answer emails and make coffee. Which, frankly, is about your limit.”

“Rude,” Lando muttered, but he was already rereading the listing.

London, competitive pay… and if nothing else, maybe the CEO guy had goats at the office.

His mum smirked. “Apply. You might surprise yourself.”

Lando sighed, dragging his laptop closer.

“Fine. But if I end up filing tax reports or whatever fintech people do, you owe me a lifetime supply of Nando’s.”

As he typed in his details, he muttered under his breath, “Just until I figure things out…”

Little did he know, the figure he’d be figuring out was about six feet tall, razor-sharp in a tailored suit, and very much not a goat.

“Mr. Norris, right? Please, sit.”

The HR manager’s smile was polite but stiff, her clipboard perched like a weapon.

Lando sat, tugging at the collar of his only dress shirt—slightly wrinkled, but he’d argued with the iron and lost.

“So, tell me,” she began, flipping to a fresh page, “how do you handle working under pressure?”

Lando blinked. “Define pressure.”

Her pen paused. “…Deadlines. Tight schedules. Demanding meetings.”

“Oh.” Lando leaned back. “Well, if I’m under pressure, usually I order a takeaway, play video games until I stop panicking, and then… yeah. Usually it works out.”

The HR woman’s brows shot up. “…I meant professionally.”

“Right, yeah. Same thing but without the takeaway?”

There was a long silence.

She tried again. “And how do you handle difficult personalities?”

“Oh, easy,” Lando said brightly. “My mum yells at me all the time. I just smile and nod until she calms down.”

The HR woman pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Mr. Norris, this position requires close proximity to the CEO. He’s very… particular.”

Lando grinned. “Oh, I’m particular too. About Nando’s orders. Lemon & herb, extra chips. If we’re talking serious business, that’s where I shine.”

The HR woman set her pen down. “This is a very high-pressure role. We need someone who can stay calm and adapt quickly.”

“Good news then,” Lando chirped.

“I adapt all the time. Like last week, when Deliveroo gave me the wrong order? I didn’t even cry. Just ate it. That’s resilience.”

The HR woman stared at him like he’d dropped from Mars. Then, against all logic, she scribbled a note.

“Alright, Mr. Norris,” she sighed. “We’ll… be in touch.”

As he left the office, Lando exhaled in relief. “Nailed it,” he muttered to himself.

Lando was halfway through a mountain of cereal when his phone buzzed against the table. He almost ignored it—probably another rejection.

But then he caught the subject line:

Final Interview – CEO Meeting

Milk dribbled down his chin as he sat up straighter. “Mum! Mum, it’s them!”

His mum poked her head into the kitchen. “Who?”

“The fintech people!” Lando shoved his phone at her with cereal still stuck to his spoon.

“They want me to meet the CEO tomorrow. Two p.m. London office.”

His mum squinted at the email. “Oh, that’s good!”

“Good? Mum, no—it’s terrifying. I can’t meet a CEO. CEOs wear fancy suits. CEOs are scary. CEOs… CEOs don’t eat Coco Pops at 10 a.m. in their mum’s kitchen.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just dress nicely. Speak clearly. Don’t mention goats.”

“I only mentioned goats once!” he protested.

She ignored him, already heading for the ironing board. “We’ll fix your shirt this time. Properly. And get a haircut.”

Lando groaned, faceplanting onto the table. “Why does he want to meet me anyway? I’m a disaster. A walking, talking, human typo.”

But somewhere deep down, beneath the panic, a flicker of curiosity burned.

Who exactly was this Oscar Piastri? And why would a man like that want to waste his time on someone like Lando?

Tomorrow, he’d find out. Assuming he didn’t combust first.

The clock on the office wall ticked past five as Lisa, HR manager extraordinaire, hovered outside the glass door.

Inside, Oscar Piastri sat behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, eyes fixed on the spreadsheet in front of him.

He didn’t look up when he said, “You’ve been standing there for thirty-two seconds. Either come in or don’t, Lisa.”

Lisa pushed the door open with a sigh. “One of these days, I’ll sneak up on you.”

“Unlikely,” Oscar replied, finally glancing up. His tone was mild, but his gaze sharp.

“What is it?”

She placed the candidate file on his desk.

“I interviewed someone today for the PA role. Name’s Lando Norris. And… I think he’s exactly what you need.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

“That’s what you said about the last one. He lasted two weeks and cried when I told him not to double-book my meetings.”

“Yes, well—” Lisa pinched the bridge of her nose.

“This one’s different. He’s… adaptable. Not polished, but intuitive. A bit—” She searched for the word.

“Chaotic.”

Oscar’s brow arched. “And you think chaos is what I need?”

Lisa gave him a look. “I think you need someone who can keep up with you without being terrified of you. Someone who’ll actually drag you out of the office before you forget what daylight is.”

Oscar smirked faintly, almost hidden. “Sounds more like a babysitter than a PA.”

“Call it what you like,” Lisa said. “But I have a gut feeling about him.”

Oscar glanced at the file again, tapping it once against his desk before setting it down.

“Alright. Schedule him for a final. Two days from now. Two p.m.”

Lisa exhaled in relief. “Good. Thank you.”

As she left, Oscar picked up the file again, flipping to the photo stapled to the CV. The candidate looked young.

Wide smile. Trouble written all over his face.

Oscar shook his head, setting it aside. “God help me if she’s right.”

Lando tugged at his jacket sleeve one more time before the meeting room door opened.

His palms were sweaty, his tie already slightly askew, but at least his mum had forced him into a suit.

Blue shirt underneath, curls trimmed shorter but still stubbornly messy.

And then he saw him.

At the far end of the table sat Oscar Piastri—sharp suit, posture straight, expression calm but unreadable.

Not old, like Lando had expected. Not boring either. Just… intimidating in the way someone could be when they didn’t even need to raise their voice.

Lisa was beside him, smiling encouragingly. “Mr. Piastri, this is Lando Norris.”

Oscar’s gaze swept over him once, then settled. “You own a suit. That’s already more than I expected.”

Lando blinked. “Should I… say thank you? Or is that an insult?”

“Both,” Oscar said smoothly, leaning back in his chair.

Lisa cleared her throat. “Why don’t we begin?”

Oscar nodded. “Mr. Norris, why do you want to be my assistant?”

Lando hesitated. “Want is a strong word.”

Lisa nearly choked, but Oscar’s mouth curved just slightly.

“Go on.”

“I mean,” Lando fumbled, “it’s not like I grew up dreaming of answering emails and booking flights. But… I’m good with people. And I figure, maybe you need someone who tells you when to stop glaring at your laptop screen before you burn holes through it.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I need that?”

“Yeah,” Lando said without hesitation. “A bit.”

Lisa buried her face in her notes.

Oscar’s lips twitched, dangerously close to a smirk. “Interesting answer.”

“Thanks. I practiced in the mirror.”

“Didn’t work,” Oscar deadpanned.

Lando grinned despite himself. “You’re funny. In, like, a scary way.”

For a moment, Oscar just studied him—calm, unreadable, but clearly intrigued.

Maybe, just maybe, Lisa’s gamble wasn’t as mad as it sounded.

When Lisa excused herself—“I’ll just let you two talk privately”—Lando swore he heard doom music playing in his head.

The door clicked shut, leaving him alone with Oscar Piastri, CEO of half the fintech empire of London, staring straight at him like he was an equation that didn’t add up.

Oscar folded his hands on the table. “So. Without HR here to rescue you—why should I hire you?”

Lando shifted in his seat. “Because… I’m charming?”

Oscar blinked once, expression flat. “That’s subjective.”

“Well,” Lando leaned forward, matching his tone, “subjectively, I think I’d make your life easier.”

Oscar tilted his head. “On your CV, you listed ‘team player’ as a strength. Convince me you’re not just parroting something you Googled at two a.m.”

“I’m a gamer,” Lando said.

Oscar arched a brow. “And that helps me how?”

“Think about it,” Lando continued, warming to his own nonsense.

“I spend hours working with random people online—half of whom are twelve-year-olds yelling slurs at me. If I can keep a team alive in a game while that’s happening, I can keep your calendar alive in the real world.”

For the first time, Oscar let out a quiet laugh—short, sharp, but real. “That’s the worst analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, but you’re smiling,” Lando shot back, pointing triumphantly.

Oscar’s smile vanished in an instant. “I don’t smile.”

“You just did!”

“I don’t recall.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Alright, Mr. Stoneface. Fine. Don’t smile. But admit it—you’d be bored out of your mind if you had someone dull sitting here right now.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, studying him again with that same unreadable gaze. Then, slowly,

“You’re reckless.”

“Thank you,” Lando said brightly.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It sounded like one.”

For a long beat, silence stretched between them. Then Oscar spoke again, voice calm but decisive.

“You start Monday.”

Lando’s jaw dropped. “Wait—what? Just like that?”

Oscar rose smoothly from his chair, already gathering his notes. “Lisa will handle the paperwork. Don’t be late. I dislike lateness.”

“Uh—” Lando scrambled to his feet. “I don’t usually wake up before ten, but for you, I’ll make an exception.”

Oscar gave him one last look, dry as ever. “Try not to make me regret this.”

And with that, he walked out, leaving Lando grinning like an idiot in the empty room.

Oscar stepped out of the meeting room, Lando’s CV tucked neatly under his arm. Lisa was at her desk, surrounded by a couple of the HR team still wrapping up their day.

They all looked up as he approached, their collective expressions hovering somewhere between hope and dread.

He set the CV down on her desk. “Norris starts Monday.”

For a second, silence. Lisa blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

Oscar gave her the driest look in the building. “Do I look like I make jokes about staffing decisions?”

Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut before she broke into a grin. “You won’t regret this.”

Behind her, one of the junior HR staff actually fist-pumped the air. Another muttered, “Finally, someone cracked him.”

Lisa hissed at them to be quiet, but her eyes were practically sparkling. “We’ll handle the onboarding. Don’t worry, he’ll be ready.”

Oscar only raised a brow. “I’d be surprised if that boy is ready for anything.”

Still, there was the faintest curve to his mouth as he turned to leave—too small to be called a smile, but Lisa caught it.

And when he was out of earshot, the entire HR team exploded like England had just won the World Cup.

Lisa clapped her hands once, triumphant.

“Alright, team. We’ve done the impossible. Now… God help us all.”

Monday morning.

Lando had set four alarms. One at 6 a.m., one at 6:30, one at 7, and a backup at 7:15.

Naturally, he managed to snooze all of them—except the backup, which startled him so badly he rolled off the bed and hit the floor.

By some miracle, he stumbled into the office building half an hour earlier than his actual start time, hair sticking up in random curls and tie already crooked.

He wandered through the lobby with wide eyes, clutching his bag like it might saved him.

“Mr. Norris?” the receptionist asked kindly.

“That’s me!” he said too loudly, nearly tripping over his own shoes.

“Well, not mister, that makes me sound old, but yeah—Norris. New guy. Personal assistant to the big boss.”

Half the people in the lobby turned to look. Lando flushed. “Sorry. First day nerves. Don’t fire me.”

She smiled politely and directed him upstairs.

By the time he reached the HR office, Lisa was already waiting with a neat stack of papers. “You’re… early.”

Lando puffed out a breath, plopping into the chair. “Better than late, right?”

“Considering who you’ll be working for, yes,” she said with a knowing look.

The rest of the morning blurred into a whirl of onboarding videos, legal documents, and a benefits package so long Lando thought he’d misread it.

“Wait—health insurance, gym membership, AND free coffee?” He stared at the sheet in disbelief. “I’ve peaked. This is it. My mum was right, I should’ve gone corporate sooner.”

Lisa tried not to laugh. “Don’t get too comfortable. Your real work starts tomorrow.”

“Which means today is, what, a tutorial level?”

“Exactly,” she deadpanned.

By the time he left HR that afternoon, Lando was still half-convinced someone was going to yank it all away and say just kidding. 

But his employee badge was real. His benefits were real. And apparently, so was his job.

Which meant tomorrow, he’d officially meet Oscar Piastri as his boss—not just the terrifyingly handsome CEO in a meeting room.

And that thought alone was enough to make Lando both giddy and very, very nervous.

By the time the clock ticked toward noon, Lando’s stomach was growling loud enough that even the intern at the next desk gave him a side-eye.

He didn’t have a clue where he was supposed to eat—did people bring lunch? Order it in? Pretend they didn’t need food like Oscar seemed to do?

Before he could spiral, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with an easy grin appeared beside his desk. “You’re the new PA, right? Lando?”

Lando looked up, relieved. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Daniel,” the guy said, offering a hand.

“Finance. Come on, we’re heading to the cafeteria.”

Before Lando could even stand, another voice chimed in. “And don’t let him fool you—he’s just here for the free desserts.”

A sharp-eyed man leaned casually against the partition, smirk firmly in place. “Alex. Marketing. Welcome to the circus.”

Lando blinked, then laughed. “God, thank you. I was about to eat a vending machine sandwich and cry in the stairwell.”

“Classic first-day move,” Alex said. “Come on, you can sit with us.”

The cafeteria was buzzing—rows of long tables, employees chatting between bites, and the faint hum of espresso machines in the corner. Daniel steered them to a spot near the windows.

“So,” Alex said, unwrapping his sandwich. “You’re working directly under the boss?”

Lando froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “…Yes?”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “Brave.”

Alex shook his head in mock sympathy. “Good luck, mate. No one lasts more than a year in that seat. He’s… particular.”

“Particular?” Lando repeated.

“Schedules like a machine, works like a robot, scary good at everything. Doesn’t… do small talk,” Daniel added with a shrug. “You’ll see.”

Alex leaned forward conspiratorially. “But hey—if you survive, you basically become untouchable in this company. Working straight under Oscar Piastri? It’s like being knighted.”

Lando stabbed his salad dramatically. “Great. So I’m either dead within a year, or I’m royalty. Love that.”

Both Daniel and Alex laughed, and just like that, Lando felt a little less alone.

Still, as he ate, he couldn’t help the nervous buzz in his chest. Because tomorrow, his real job began.

And tomorrow, he’d be sitting right across from Oscar Piastri himself.

Lando was back at his desk, nursing a paper cup of coffee that tasted suspiciously like cardboard, when Lisa appeared.

She dropped a thick stack of papers onto his desk with a thud that made him jump.

“This,” she said, sliding into the chair beside him, “is Mr. Piastri’s schedule. And more importantly—his do’s and don’ts.”

Lando eyed the stack like it might explode. “That’s… a lot of paper for one man.”

Lisa gave him a look. “You’ll thank me later.”

He flipped the first page, squinting.

Do not schedule meetings before 9 a.m. (“Fair, I don’t function before 9 either.”)

Do not schedule meetings after 7 p.m. (“Okay, vampire hours, got it.”)

Coffee: black, no sugar, no milk. Never attempt latte art. (“Wait, people attempted latte art?”)

Lunch: optional. Remind him, he will forget.

Dislikes: chatter in meetings, lateness, interruptions.

Likes: efficiency, punctuality, silence.

Lando blinked, then looked up. “Silence? That’s… his like?”

Lisa pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes. Which means your work style and his will… clash.”

“Oi!” Lando protested, flipping another page. “Look—he also likes football. I like football! We’ll bond over that.”

“Except he doesn’t watch with commentary,” Lisa said. “Too distracting.”

Lando gawked at her. “He watches football in silence?”

“Like I said—particular.”

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his curls. “This is impossible. He sounds impossible. He’s going to hate me.”

Lisa stood, smoothing her skirt. “You’re his PA, not his soulmate. He doesn’t have to like you—just don’t annoy him.”

“Don’t annoy him?” Lando scoffed. “Lisa, have you met me? That’s my default setting.”

She gave him a long, sympathetic look before walking away.

Lando stared down at the files again, muttering under his breath. “Alright, Mr. Silence-and-Black-Coffee, challenge accepted.”

By the time Lando got home that evening, he felt like he’d been hit by a bus made entirely of spreadsheets.

His bag was heavier than his dignity—inside it, a shiny new company laptop, a work phone, and a stack of orientation documents that he was 90% sure he’d never read.

He collapsed face-first onto his bed, groaning into the pillow. “I’m not built for corporate life. I should’ve just run away to Ibiza and become a DJ.”

The phone buzzed.

Lando rolled over, squinting at the unfamiliar device. His personal phone was silent on the nightstand; this was the company-issued one. He tapped the screen.

From: Oscar Piastri

Subject: Meeting cancellation

Message: Cancel tomorrow’s 10 a.m. with Parkview. Reschedule for next week. – O.P.

Lando blinked at it, sitting up. “…What?”

He stared at the message again, as if it would change. No hello, no please, no thank you. Just straight to business.

“Is this—” he muttered aloud, “—is this… for me? Did he mean to send this to Lisa? Am I already… am I in?”

His chest puffed a little. Maybe Oscar trusted him already. Maybe he was already indispensable.

Then the panic set in. “Oh my god, what if I mess it up? Do I… reply? Do I say ‘yes sir’? Do I—do I call him?”

He flopped back onto the bed, clutching the phone to his chest like it was a live grenade.

“Why couldn’t I have a normal boss? One who sends emojis or writes like a human being?”

The phone buzzed again—another email.

From: Oscar Piastri

Subject: Re: Meeting cancellation

Message: Confirm you’ve read this.

Lando sat bolt upright. “Bloody hell, he’s testing me.”

His fingers flew over the keyboard,

“Read and confirmed! Meeting cancelled, will reschedule for next week.”

He stared at it. Too eager? Too many exclamation marks? He erased them, typed again, erased again.

Finally he hit send with a plain, “Read and confirmed. – L.N .”

He threw himself back onto the bed, groaning. “God help me, this man is going to kill me with emails before the job does.”

By 8 a.m. sharp, Lando was already at the 20th floor, a bundle of nerves wrapped in a white shirt and chinos.

He looked more like a university student who’d accidentally walked into the wrong building than someone’s Personal Assistant.

The receptionist at the executive room smiled warmly at him. “Good morning, Mr. Norris. Welcome. You’re early.”

Lando grinned nervously, clutching his bag. “Yeah, thought I’d… you know… get a head start. Scope out the battlefield before the commander arrives.”

She blinked, then politely ignored the comment.

“Your desk is right here, just outside Mr. Piastri’s office.”

He followed her, trying not to gape at how sleek everything looked. Glass walls, clean lines, the faint hum of money in the air.

His desk was neat and empty, save for the laptop he’d brought home yesterday.

As he set it up, he whispered to himself, “Okay, Lando… new chapter, new life. Don’t screw it up. Don’t spill anything. Don’t—”

His eyes drifted to the gleaming coffee machine nearby. Right. The survival guide. Oscar’s coffee: black, no sugar, no milk.

Lando grabbed a cup, pressed the button, and watched the dark liquid fill to the brim. He sniffed it and immediately recoiled.

“Who the hell drinks this? This isn’t coffee, this is punishment.”

Still, he carried it carefully to Oscar’s desk, muttering under his breath.

“Here you go, Mr. Silence-and-Black-Coffee. Hope it doesn’t kill you. Or me.”

He set the cup down just as he heard the elevator doors open with a soft ding.

Voices echoed down the hallway. The receptionist greeted someone in a tone noticeably more formal than the one she’d used with him.

Lando froze. His heart stuttered.

Oscar Piastri had arrived.

The man himself appeared a second later—immaculate suit, calm stride, face unreadable as stone.

His eyes flicked briefly to Lando’s desk, then to the steaming cup on his own.

Lando’s palms sweated. This was it. First impression.

Oscar picked up the cup, sipped, then gave the tiniest nod.

“Good.”

Lando nearly collapsed with relief. “Glad it didn’t poison you.”

Oscar’s brow arched. “Excuse me?”

“Uh—I mean,” Lando stammered, cheeks flushing, “glad it tastes good, sir.”

Oscar stared at him for a beat too long before moving past into his office, shutting the glass door behind him.

Lando slumped into his chair, whispering to himself, “Day one, and I’m already talking about poisoning the boss. Brilliant start, Norris.”

Lando stood outside Oscar’s office, clutching the company phone like it might explode.

He’d been staring at the buzzing schedule for ten minutes, trying to make sense of it all, before finally deciding—sink or swim, he had to go in.

He knocked.

“Enter.”

Lando stepped inside, straightening his shirt like that would make him look more professional. “Right, boss here’s today’s rundown.”

Oscar glanced up from his laptop, expression cool as stone. “Go on.”

“Okay…” Lando scrolled through. “So, the Parkview thing’s already cancelled—got your email last night, very intimidating, thanks for that.”

He cleared his throat. “Which means the next one, with the legal team, can be moved up to ten, if you want.”

Oscar nodded. “Do it.”

“Done.” Lando tapped quickly, then frowned. “But that pushes you straight through without a break until, uh…” He squinted at the screen.

“Coffee break at fifteen hundred.”

“I’ll skip that,” Oscar said smoothly. “We’ll keep the quarterly review at three instead.”

Lando blinked. “Skip it? You can’t just skip it.”

“It’s just a break, Norris.”

“It’s not just a break,” Lando shot back, waving the phone like a sword.

“You’re already cramming meetings like Tetris blocks. You need to eat. Humans need food, last I checked.”

Oscar’s brow ticked. “I manage fine.”

“Well, I don’t!” Lando blurted. “And if you’re not eating, then I’m not eating, and if I’m not eating, I get cranky. And you do not want a cranky PA shadowing you.”

Oscar stared at him for a long moment, face unreadable. Lando’s palms started sweating. Maybe he had gone too far—

“Unusually insistent,” Oscar finally said, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah, well,” Lando muttered, cheeks heating, “I’m unusually hungry.”

The corner of Oscar’s mouth twitched, almost a smile—but not quite. “Fine. Lunch at fifteen hundred. Don’t make me regret it.”

Lando grinned, practically bouncing on his feet. “Deal.”

As he left the office, he whispered under his breath, “Score one for Norris.”

The legal team’s meeting room was already humming when Lando slipped in, notebook and company pen clutched like lifelines.

He scanned for a seat at the back—somewhere he could just fade in, blend with the wallpaper.

But Oscar’s voice cut through, calm and firm. “Here.”

Lando froze. Oscar tapped the empty chair beside him, eyes unreadable.

Lando shuffled forward, cheeks warm. “Uh, right. Sure. Front-row seat to the gladiator arena.”

Oscar ignored him, already reviewing a stack of papers.

So Lando sat. And oh boy—he immediately realized why everyone was scared of Oscar.

Oscar didn’t raise his voice, didn’t slam his hand on the table—he didn’t need to. He just sat there, questions sharp and precise, his gaze cutting like a scalpel.

Every lawyer in the room seemed to shrink an inch each time he spoke.

Meanwhile, Lando scribbled furiously, trying to keep up. Contracts, clauses, deadlines—half the words sounded like another language, but he kept passing Oscar notes when he needed something, shuffling papers quickly into his hands like he’d been doing this job forever.

Hours ticked by.

By 3:15, Lando’s stomach was growling loud enough that he swore one of the lawyers heard. He tried bouncing his knee to distract himself, tried doodling in the corner of his notes—but nothing helped.

At 3:30, he leaned closer, whispering, “Break. Late lunch, sir…”

Oscar’s pen stilled. For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t even breathe—then he glanced sideways, meeting Lando’s pleading eyes.

Something flickered in his gaze, so quick Lando nearly missed it. Amusement? Annoyance? Both?

He set the pen down, looked at the legal team, and said simply,

“We’ll continue tomorrow.”

The lawyers scrambled in relief, gathering papers like survivors fleeing a sinking ship.

Lando slumped in his chair, whispering under his breath, “God bless lunch.”

Oscar stood smoothly, adjusting his jacket. “Come on.”

Lando blinked. “Where are we going?”

Oscar gave him the faintest look, dry as ever. “To feed my unusually insistent assistant.”

Lando grinned. “Finally. Score two for Norris.”

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual late-lunch chaos: trays clattering, pasta steaming, people gossiping about deadlines.

Nobody expected a CEO sighting.

So when Oscar Piastri—the man who normally had food delivered to his office only to let it go cold—stepped inside, the room went dead quiet.

Well, Oscar and the very bouncy shadow attached to his side.

Lando marched forward like a man on a mission. “Come on, boss. Pasta’s calling my name. Oh—and garlic bread, don’t even get me started.”

Oscar walked with his usual calm, but Lando could feel the weight of every single stare on them. Staff whispered, trays paused midair.

“Uh,” one of the canteen staff stammered as they reached the counter. “M-Mr. Piastri… you want your usual… delivery?”

“No,” Oscar said, voice smooth as marble. “We’ll eat here.”

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

Lando, oblivious, was already piling pasta onto his tray, adding a mountain of garlic bread.

“Yes, brilliant. Oh—get the salad, Mr Piastri. Balance, yeah?”

Oscar arched a brow but added the salad. The staff exchanged wide-eyed glances like they’d just witnessed a solar eclipse.

When they sat down, the room didn’t immediately return to normal. People kept sneaking glances, whispering into their cups of tea.

Lando dug in noisily, twirling pasta like he hadn’t eaten in days. “God, this is heaven. Told you, boss. Beats paperwork any day.”

Oscar, perfectly composed, cut into his food in silence. He didn’t flinch at the stares, didn’t acknowledge the gossip. He just ate, methodical as ever.

Lando chewed, then noticed. “Wait. Is this… is this your first time actually eating here?”

Oscar glanced up, expression unreadable. “…Yes.”

Lando nearly choked on his garlic bread. “You’ve been CEO how long? And you’ve never—”

“Food tastes the same in my office,” Oscar replied dryly.

“Except you never eat it!” Lando shot back, crumbs everywhere.

“See? That’s why I dragged you here. Fresh, hot, delicious, and—” He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“Way less depressing than eating alone with spreadsheets.”

For the briefest second, Oscar’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

Lando grinned around his pasta fork. Victory tasted even better than garlic bread.

They’d been sitting long enough that the whispers around the cafeteria died down, staff finally remembering they had deadlines.

Oscar cut another neat bite of salad, then glanced sideways at Lando, who was happily demolishing pasta like it was his last meal.

“So, before this job… what did you actually do?”

Lando perked up instantly. “Oh, you know. Bits and bobs. Tried some marketing internship—disaster.

Worked at a café for two weeks—burned my hand, cried in the freezer, left.”

Oscar hummed, unimpressed. “Promising résumé.”

“Oi, don’t be rude.” Lando jabbed him lightly with his fork. “Best job though—petting zoo.”

Oscar paused, knife and fork still. “…Petting zoo.”

“Yep. Goats loved me,” Lando said proudly, leaning back.

“Like, actually loved me. One followed me around for three hours. Staff thought I’d hypnotized it or something.”

Oscar blinked, as if trying to decide whether this was serious. “Goats.”

“Yep. Proper friendship. Might’ve cried when I left. Still think about him sometimes.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—so faint, so quick—Oscar’s composure cracked. A short huff of laughter slipped out before he caught it, straightening in his chair.

Lando froze, fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide.

“Did you just—wait—oh my god.”

Oscar’s expression was stone again. “No.”

“You did! You laughed!” Lando nearly jumped out of his seat.

“Everyone stop the presses—the CEO has emotions!”

“Eat your pasta,” Oscar deadpanned, but the faintest curve lingered at the corner of his mouth.

Lando grinned like he’d won the lottery. Forget the goats—this was his proudest achievement yet.

One week in, and Lando Norris was… somehow surviving. Barely.

The first few days had been chaos—wrong room numbers, missed email chains, Oscar’s dry stares that could kill a man. But now? Now he had it down to a science.

At exactly 8:25 AM, Lando would be at his desk, two cups of coffee on the tray.

One for him (loaded with sugar, milk, and enough syrup to rot his teeth), and one black, bitter-as-death cup he slid onto Oscar’s desk the moment the CEO walked in.

“Morning, boss,” Lando chirped every time, even when Oscar didn’t respond.

Oscar would just nod once, like clockwork, before opening his laptop.

By 8:40, Lando had Oscar’s desk arranged: contracts needing signatures in one pile, reports in another, calendar reminders printed and placed exactly where Oscar liked them.

He even learned to put the fountain pen Oscar preferred on the right side, uncapped, ready to go.

At 11:00 sharp, Lando was usually dragging Oscar out of a meeting he’d otherwise stretch for three hours.

By 12:30, lunch was delivered—well, Oscar’s was. Salad. Always salad.

“Salad again?” Lando grumbled once, stabbing into his much larger, carb-loaded lunch. “You’re gonna turn green at this rate.”

Oscar didn’t look up from his emails. “It’s efficient.”

“It’s boring,” Lando shot back. “One of these days I’m sneaking lasagna onto your plate.”

Oscar’s lips twitched. Just slightly.

By 3:00, Lando knew to have coffee ready again, paperwork set aside, and Oscar’s schedule reshuffled if something urgent came up.

He had even mastered the art of whispering in Oscar’s ear mid-meeting, “You’re running over time,” without getting his head bitten off.

It was exhausting. And weirdly exhilarating.

Because despite Oscar’s impossible pace, despite the endless sarcasm and the cool, unreadable face… Lando realized something terrifying.

He liked this. He liked being the one who made Oscar’s life easier—even if it meant knowing the man’s routine better than his own.

The building was dead quiet. Lights dimmed, cleaning crews long gone, even the security guards were downstairs sipping tea.

But on the 20th floor, two desks were still lit up.

Lando rubbed his eyes, staring at the spreadsheet he’d been asked to format. Numbers danced, his brain half-asleep, but when he checked his phone it was nearly 10 PM.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, pushing back from his chair. He grabbed his jacket, ready to head home—until his eyes flicked toward the glass office across from him.

Oscar’s light was still on.

Through the glass wall, he sat there, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, papers spread everywhere. Calm, methodical, like it was 10 in the morning instead of 10 at night.

Lando sighed. “Of course.”

He marched across the floor, knocking once before barging in anyway. “Alright, boss. Pack it up. Home time.”

Oscar didn’t even look up. “I’m not finished.”

“You’re never finished,” Lando shot back, hands on his hips.

“That’s not the point. Everyone’s gone, even the cleaners. You’re just sitting here… slowly fusing with your chair.”

Oscar kept typing, calm as ever. “Go home, Norris.”

Lando narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “Not until you do.”

That finally earned him a look. Oscar leaned back, studying him with that unreadable expression.

“You’re my PA, not my babysitter.”

“Wrong. I’m both.” Lando folded his arms. “And as your babysitter, I’m telling you—shut down the laptop and go home, or I’ll drag you out myself.”

For a second, silence hung heavy between them. Then—just barely—Oscar’s lips curved. “You’d drag me out?”

Lando’s stomach flipped. “Don’t tempt me.”

Oscar arched a brow, then—slowly—closed his laptop. The click echoed in the quiet office.

“Fine,” he said, standing, gathering his papers into a perfect stack. “But only because I’d rather not watch you throw a tantrum.”

Lando grinned, grabbing his bag. “Good. Come on”

Oscar slid his coat on, still calm, still composed, but there was something different in the air. Something warmer.

Monday morning, and of course London had decided to dump rain like it was the apocalypse.

By the time Lando trudged into the office his curls were a mess, shoes squeaking on the marble floor.

He was grumpy, damp, and muttering under his breath about moving to Spain—yet somehow, at exactly 8:30, a steaming black coffee was placed on Oscar Piastri’s desk without fail.

“Morning,” Lando mumbled, shoving a napkin toward Oscar too. “For the drips. You’ll thank me later.”

Oscar glanced up, dry as ever. “You’re wet.”

“Wow, what a keen observation,” Lando deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

By 9:00, the entire floor gathered in the meeting room for the weekly stand-up. Heads of department lined up, laptops open, all looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Oscar stood at the head of the table, composed as always. He reached into his jacket pocket, then paused—empty. His pen was missing.

Without a word, Lando leaned forward from his chair beside him and slid Oscar’s favorite fountain pen across the table.

Oscar blinked. “…Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Lando said, chin propped on his palm like this was the most normal thing in the world.

The department heads exchanged subtle glances.

Later, when someone’s presentation ran long, Lando tapped his watch under the table. Oscar cut the speaker off with a perfectly-timed summary.

When Oscar frowned at the next slide, Lando quietly shifted a folder closer with the exact numbers he’d need.

It was seamless. Like Oscar thought, and Lando reacted before the thought was even finished.

By the time the meeting ended, whispers had already started in the hallway.

“Is his PA psychic?”

“No, worse. He’s got him figured out.”

Oscar, meanwhile, packed up his papers with that calm expression. But when he caught Lando’s eye, something faintly amused flickered there.

“You’re frighteningly efficient when you want to be,” he murmured.

Lando smirked. “Nah. I just know you better than you know yourself, boss.”

And for once, Oscar didn’t argue.

By one month, the company had quietly stopped watching the stock market and started watching Lando Norris.

Because if you wanted to survive a meeting with Oscar Piastri, you didn’t check your slides—you checked Oscar’s mood.

And the only person who seemed to know it? Lando.

It started small. A nervous intern asking,

“Is Mr. Piastri… approachable today?” 

Lando shrugged, muttered something about the amount of sugar he silently put in Oscar’s coffee, and the intern survived.

Now it was full-on routine.

That afternoon, Alex, from Marketing—cornered Lando at the pantry, shoving a chocolate bar into his hand like it was some sort of bribe.

“Alright, Norris,” Alex said, hushed. “How’s the big boss? Good mood? Bad mood? I need to know before my one-on-one or it’s my entire career on the line.”

Lando bit into the chocolate without hesitation.

“Mm. He’s fine. Morning coffee was finished, salad for lunch, no calls from the board—he’s stable.”

“Stable?” Alex’s eyes widened. “Like… stable-stable, or stable but ready to snap?”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Relax. Just don’t bring up marketing budget and you’ll walk out alive.”

Alex groaned. “You’re a bloody oracle. How do you do it?”

Lando smirked, tossing the chocolate wrapper. “Simple. I pay attention. Something you lot might try for once.”

When Alex finally trudged off, muttering prayers, Lando returned to his desk—where Oscar was reviewing documents, brow furrowed.

“Chocolate again?” Oscar asked dryly without looking up.

Lando blinked. “…How’d you know?”

“You’ve got crumbs on your shirt.”

Lando looked down, cursed softly, brushing them off. “Fine. But in my defense, I’m basically running your PR department these days. People only approach you through me.”

Oscar finally looked at him then, lips twitching at the corner. “And you don’t mind?”

Lando grinned. “Depends. Do I get hazard pay?”

Oscar’s quiet chuckle was all the answer he got.

It was past 8 PM, and once again the only light left on the 20th floor came from Oscar’s office.

Lando sat sprawled on the leather couch, laptop balanced on his knees, flipping through spreadsheets trying to dig out the right data for tomorrow’s big investment meeting.

He was muttering to himself, scrolling too fast, when he heard it.

A cough.

Sharp, low, quickly stifled.

His head snapped up. Across the room, Oscar was hunched over his desk, typing like his life depended on it.

But his shoulders sagged in a way Lando hadn’t seen before, and when the glow from the screen caught his face, he swore he looked paler than usual.

“…Okay, you’re sick,” Lando said flatly.

“I’m fine.” Oscar didn’t even look up, just kept typing.

“No, you’re not. You’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re a robot, but actually you’re a robot with a dying battery.”

“Shut up, Norris,” Oscar muttered, still typing. “We have a big meeting tomorrow.”

Lando closed his laptop with a snap. “Boss, you look pale.”

“Stop exaggerating.”

“I’m not! You’ve got, like, seven MBAs on payroll who can prep slides in their sleep. You don’t have to do this alone while looking like a corpse.”

Oscar’s typing slowed, but he didn’t stop. His jaw tightened, stubborn as ever.

Lando stood, walked over, and planted himself right in front of the desk, blocking the screen with his body.

“You know what investors hate more than bad numbers? CEOs keeling over in the middle of a pitch. Take a break.”

For a long moment, Oscar just stared at him, unimpressed. But up close, Lando could see it—his boss really did look drained.

Faint circles under his eyes, skin too pale under the office lights.

“Five minutes,” Lando pressed, softer this time. “Sit back. Drink water. Let me handle the files.”

Oscar’s gaze flickered, like he was considering snapping back—but instead, he leaned back slowly, exhaling through his nose.

“Stubborn,” Lando muttered, grabbing a water bottle from the side table and shoving it into his hand.

“You’re lucky I’m here to babysit you.”

Oscar took it, still silent, but there was the faintest twitch of amusement in his eyes as he drank.

And for once, he actually listened.

By now, Lando could officially add “octopus” to his CV. Because apparently being Oscar Piastri’s PA required at least eight arms.

On the couch, his laptop was open on one side, spreadsheets flashing across the screen as he hunted down last-minute figures.

On his phone, he tapped through a pharmacy app, adding flu meds and vitamin boosters to the cart like he was stocking a survival kit.

His thumb hit “order,” while his other hand continued scrolling through investor reports.

Across the room, Oscar had promised “five minutes.” Just five. A short break in his chair before diving back in.

That had been thirty minutes ago.

Now he was slumped back, eyes closed, tie slightly loosened, breathing steady in the kind of sleep you didn’t get on purpose.

Lando glanced over, chewing on his lip. For once, Oscar didn’t look like a CEO—just a very, very tired man.

He didn’t wake him. Didn’t dare.

Instead, he double-checked the pharmacy app delivery status, tidied the files into neat stacks, and kept scrolling with one hand, typing notes with the other.

By the time Oscar stirred awake, blinking like he couldn’t quite remember where he was, Lando was walking back in from the elevator with a white pharmacy bag dangling from his wrist.

Oscar rubbed his eyes, frowning. “…What’s that?”

“Your new best friend,” Lando said, plopping the bag onto his desk. “Cold medicine. Vitamins. Something fizzy that tastes awful but works like magic.”

Oscar stared at the bag, then at Lando. “You went out?”

“Relax, I didn’t abandon ship. Just downstairs. And before you yell at me—yeah, I can multitask. Spreadsheet’s sorted.” He waved his laptop as proof.

For a moment, Oscar just sat there, silent, expression unreadable. Then, finally, he muttered, “You’re… unbelievable.”

Lando smirked, dropping back onto the couch. “I know. You’re welcome, boss.”

The boardroom looked like a warzone in waiting. Polished table, stacks of documents, bottled water lined with surgical precision.

Lando had been there since dawn, orchestrating it all. Snacks for the investors, neat fruit trays, even pastries that wouldn’t crumble too much.

And at the end of the table, next to the CEO’s seat, a tall smoothie glass with a greenish tinge.

Lando leaned against the chair, arms crossed, waiting.

Right on cue, Oscar walked in, suit flawless, expression as unreadable as ever. If not for the faint tiredness in his eyes, no one would’ve guessed he’d been pale as paper last night.

Lando, of course, noticed instantly.

“Morning, boss,” he greeted, tone casual but eyes sharp. “Medicine?”

“Yes.” Oscar didn’t break stride, dropping his laptop onto the table.

“You actually swallowed it, right? Not just nodded at the bottle like a lunatic?”

Oscar finally glanced at him, dry as ever. “What am I, five?”

“Depends. Did you take it?”

Oscar sighed, sitting down. “…Yes.”

Lando smirked, sliding the smoothie closer to him. “Good. Now drink this. Vitamin boost. Don’t roll your eyes, I saw you about to.”

Oscar stared at the glass, then at Lando. “…Is that kale?”

“And mango. And spinach. And like, three other things the barista swore would keep you alive. Don’t argue.”

The corner of Oscar’s mouth twitched—half sarcasm, half something else—but he picked up the smoothie anyway.

By the time the investors filed in, Lando had already done a silent scan: projector working, water bottles full, pens set out, snacks accessible.

And while Oscar delivered the pitch with his usual precision—calm, sharp, commanding—Lando’s eyes never strayed far.

At every pause, he nudged a glass of water closer. At every break, he slid the right document to the top of the pile.

The investors noticed. They whispered.

“His PA’s… efficient,” one muttered.

“Looks like the boss doesn’t lift a finger without him,” another said.

Lando pretended not to hear, but when Oscar wrapped up, handshake firm despite the faint edge of exhaustion, he caught the CEO’s glance across the table.

Just a flicker. A silent acknowledgment.

“Thanks.”

Lando grinned back, like he’d just won the bloody championship.

The door to Oscar’s office clicked shut behind them, the muffled noise of the departing investors fading into silence.

For once, Oscar didn’t immediately stride to his desk. He paused halfway across the room, fingers brushing the edge of the chair before lowering himself into it slowly, like every muscle in his body was ready to give out.

Lando was already hovering, laptop under one arm, worry written all over his face.

“Okay. You look like you just ran a marathon. Sit—actually, no, don’t sit, you should be horizontal right now.”

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “It went fine.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.” Lando dropped the laptop onto the coffee table, crouching slightly to catch his boss’s tired eyes.

“You need to go home. Like, now. The company isn’t going to crumble in twenty-four hours.”

Oscar leaned back, silent.

Lando straightened, decisive. “Right. Done. I’ll call Sean.” He already had the company phone out, typing fast.

“Driver’s going to be in the lobby in ten.”

“Lando—”

“Nope. Don’t fight me on this one.” He crossed his arms. “You hired me, remember? My job is to make your life easier. That includes making sure you don’t collapse like a sack of bricks in front of your shareholders.”

Oscar’s lips twitched, but before he could reply, a sharp knock hit the door.

“Mr. Piastri?” A senior officer’s voice, muffled but insistent. “Do you have a moment? I’d like to go over next quarter’s budget—”

Lando moved faster than Oscar. He was already at the door, opening it just a crack. “Sorry, no. Tomorrow morning is acceptable. He’s done for the day.”

There was a pause. The officer blinked at him, then tried to peer past. “But—”

“Tomorrow,” Lando repeated firmly, he turned back, half-expecting Oscar to scold him for overstepping.

Instead, Oscar exhaled, rubbing at his temple. “…Yes. Just follow Norris. I’m going home today.”

Lando’s chest loosened in relief. He grabbed Oscar’s coat from the stand, held it out.

“Finally. The smartest decision you’ve made all week.”

Oscar gave him a dry look, but slipped the coat on anyway.

And when they left the 20th floor together, Lando couldn’t shake the quiet satisfaction curling in his chest. Because for once, the great Oscar Piastri had listened.

And it was to him.

Sean, Oscar private driver waiting by the lobby doors with the car already running. Oscar slid into the backseat, tugging at his tie with a weary sigh.

Then the other door opened.

Lando.

Casually buckling himself in like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Oscar turned his head, brows furrowing. “…What are you doing?”

“Coming with you,” Lando said brightly, settling in. “Don’t worry, I’ll head back to the office after this. Just want to make sure you’ve got food in your fridge first.”

Oscar blinked. “Food in my—” He cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lando.”

“Yeah?”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Lando said, far too quickly. Then, after a beat: “…Okay, maybe I ordered some groceries to be delivered. But in my defense, last time you said, and I quote,

‘Why buy groceries when you can survive on black coffee and takeout?’ Which is horrifying.”

Oscar gave him a long, unreadable look, the car pulling away from the curb. “…You’re unbelievable.”

“Thanks,” Lando said, like it was a compliment. He leaned back in the seat, grinning.

“Seriously though, don’t stress. I’ll stock the fridge, maybe make you tea, and then I’ll vanish. Back to the office. Lisa won’t even know I’m gone.”

Oscar stared out the window, hiding the twitch of his lips. For all his sarcasm and calm exterior, something about the idea of walking into his apartment and not finding it empty for once… didn’t sound so terrible.

By the time the car rolled up to his building, Oscar hadn’t said another word.

But when Lando bounded out, waving at Sean to wait, and grabbed the grocery bags from the concierge desk like it was his own home—Oscar followed him upstairs without protest.

And maybe that was the strangest part of all.

The door clicked open with a quiet chime, and Lando all but marched inside, balancing the grocery bags against his chest.

He stopped dead in the entryway.

“Oh my god.”

The place was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek furniture, expensive art on the walls—but it didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a showroom.

Cold. Bare.

And then he noticed the details: a laundry bag slumped on the couch like it had been abandoned mid-sprint. An empty coffee cup on the counter. An energy bar wrapper on the table.

“That’s it?” Lando set the bags down and turned, incredulous. “This is what you live on? Coffee and… compressed cardboard?”

Oscar, who had followed him in at a slower, much calmer pace, slipped off his coat. “They’re protein bars.”

“They’re sadness bars,” Lando shot back, already opening cupboards. He found nothing but more coffee beans, tea, and one lonely jar of peanut butter. He gasped dramatically.

“No way. Do you actually live here or is this just your… Batcave or something?”

Oscar leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the chaos unfold with the faintest smirk.

“You’re in my home criticizing my dietary choices?”

“Yes,” Lando said firmly, already unpacking groceries. “You’re lucky I’m here. Look at this place. Cold. Empty. Honestly, it’s tragic.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Tragic?”

“Tragic,” Lando repeated, waving a loaf of bread like evidence. “But don’t worry. I’ll fix it. First step, actual food in the fridge. Second step, maybe a throw pillow. This place needs some soul.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here I am, saving your life one vitamin smoothie and grocery trip at a time.”

Lando shoved the last bag into the fridge and turned, hands on his hips. “Now, go sit down before I make you tea and force-feed you toast.”

Oscar tilted his head, dry humor back in place. “You do realize you’re bossing around your boss, right?”

“Yep,” Lando said, grinning. “And you love it.”

Oscar didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth curved just enough to betray him.

By the time the last carton of milk was tucked into the fridge and the kettle clicked off, Lando felt like he had wrestled a small miracle into existence.

The once-empty shelves now looked—well, not bursting, but at least alive.

He turned, mug in hand, only to find Oscar stretched out on the couch. Jacket gone, tie loosened, head tilted back against the cushions.

His eyes were closed, breathing steady in a way that looked too much like sleep.

“Uh—boss?” Lando whispered, creeping closer. “Not yet. You’ve gotta eat first, yeah?”

Oscar cracked one eye open, heavy-lidded and unimpressed.

Lando held out the tea like an offering. “Drink this. Then food. Then you can pass out like Sleeping Beauty or whatever.”

That earned him the faintest huff of amusement. Oscar sat up slowly, taking the mug.

His movements were sluggish, but he obeyed, sipping in silence as Lando busied himself plating something quick from the grocery bag.

It wasn’t much—just reheated soup and bread—but Oscar ate it without complaint.

When he finished, he set the bowl down and leaned back, eyes closing again. “…Thank you.”

The words were quiet. Genuine.

Lando blinked, caught off guard. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.

“Yeah, uh. No worries. Just… try not to starve yourself while I’m not around, okay?”

Oscar’s lips curved faintly, but he didn’t open his eyes.

Taking the hint, Lando grabbed his jacket, heading for the door. “Alright, I’ll get out of your hair. Sleep. I’ll cover the office for the rest of the day.”

There was no reply—only the steady rhythm of Oscar’s breathing, already slipping into sleep.

Lando allowed himself one last look at the CEO slumped peacefully on his sofa before stepping out, closing the door with a soft click.

And for the first time since starting this job, he didn’t feel like just an assistant.

He felt… needed.

By the time Lando got back to the office, it was just past three in the afternoon. He dropped into his chair, powered up his laptop—and nearly groaned out loud.

Twenty. New. Emails.

Half were marked urgent. The rest had subject lines that made his head ache:

Follow-up Request, Budget Adjustments, Immediate Scheduling Inquiry.

“Oh, brilliant,” Lando muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Nothing says welcome back like an inbox having a meltdown.”

He got to work, firing off replies, moving appointments, juggling meeting rooms like puzzle pieces.

But when he reached one particular chain—from Marketing, demanding a slot at five tomorrow evening—he pushed back from his desk, grabbed his notepad, and marched straight down to their floor.

The department looked up in surprise as he stormed in, curls slightly frizzed, shirt sleeves rolled up like he was about to fight someone.

“Alright,” Lando announced, smacking the notepad against his palm. “Who thought a 5 PM meeting with the CEO was a good idea?”

A couple of people glanced guiltily at each other. Alex—Marketing’s golden boy—raised a hand sheepishly. “Uh… we did?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed. “Do you like sleeping in this office, Alex? Because unless you want to move your pillow under your desk, maybe don’t demand a meeting when everyone’s meant to go home.”

Alex blinked. “…It’s just the only time we thought he’d be available—”

“No. Wrong. Try again,” Lando cut him off, scribbling something onto his notepad.

“You get a slot at 3 PM. Perfectly reasonable. Everyone still has a life. Even your boss, believe it or not.”

The entire department went silent. Then someone whispered, “He actually said ‘life’ and ‘Oscar’ in the same sentence.”

Lando shot them a look. “Yeah, well, get used to it. Because unless you want me dragging all of you into the canteen for surprise pasta lunches, you’re going to stop sending me chaos like this.”

Alex exchanged looks with his colleagues, then held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Three o’clock it is.”

“Good lad.” Lando scribbled it down, then turned on his heel and strode back out, muttering under his breath.

“I swear, it’s like babysitting an entire building sometimes…”

Back upstairs, he collapsed into his chair again, feeling oddly victorious.

Somehow, without meaning to, he was starting to sound less like Oscar’s PA—and more like his bodyguard.

The apartment was dim when Oscar stirred awake. His neck ached from falling asleep on the couch, and the faint scent of tea still lingered in the air.

For a moment, he just sat there in the quiet, disoriented. Then instinct had him reaching for his phone on the coffee table.

15 unread emails.

He braced himself for chaos—except… it wasn’t.

His calendar was already blocked and color-coded. The late marketing meeting had been shifted to 3 PM, annotated with a neat line,

Confirmed by Marketing, per Lando. 

Another note read, Budget review consolidated with Finance. No need for duplicate sessions.

Oscar scrolled further, finding polite but firm replies signed off under his name:

“Mr. Piastri will be unavailable at this time. Please redirect all urgent concerns to the executive office.”

“This matter will be addressed tomorrow morning. Thank you for your patience.”

The CEO blinked, sitting up straighter. He hadn’t written any of this.

It was all Lando.

A faint, incredulous laugh escaped him as he set the phone down. The kid had reorganized an entire day in the span of an afternoon, rerouted half his inbox, and somehow still made it sound like him.

Oscar leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. He should have felt annoyed at the audacity—but instead, all he felt was… relief.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the mountain of work didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

“…What are you doing to me, Norris?” he muttered to the empty apartment.

Outside, the city hummed on. Inside, the fridge was stocked, the calendar was clear, and for the first time in a long while, Oscar let himself believe tomorrow might not be so impossible.

The elevator doors opened right on schedule, and for once the CEO of Piastri Holdings didn’t look like he’d crawled out of a warzone.

Oscar stepped into the executive floor in a crisp suit, hair combed, shoulders straight—not exactly cheerful, but fresher, less frayed at the edges.

Enough that the receptionist blinked twice, whispering to her colleague as he passed.

In his office, the usual black coffee waited on his desk. But next to it sat something unusual, a small takeaway container, steam still curling from it, along with a neatly packed portion of sliced fruit and bread.

Oscar stared at it like it might be a trap.

Lando’s head poked around the doorframe, curls already unruly from rushing between departments. He grinned when he caught Oscar’s expression.

“Before you say anything,” Lando continued, holding up his hands,

“I ordered breakfast. Proper breakfast. Because I just realized you never eat anything. Which, y’know, is apparently bad for humans.”

Oscar blinked at him. “…You ordered this?”

“Yeah.” Lando shrugged. “Nothing fancy. Fruit, bread, eggs. The basics. You don’t need to thank me, just eat before you dive into emails again.”

He started to retreat, muttering something about needing to chase down Finance, when Oscar’s voice stopped him.

“Lando.”

The assistant turned back.

“…Good morning,” Oscar said simply.

It wasn’t much. But it was more than his usual silence.

And Lando, grinning like he’d just won a small victory, nodded. “Morning, boss.”

Out in the hallway, whispers spread fast. The CEO looked different. The PA had walked into his office carrying food. Something was definitely going on.

By three o’clock sharp, the Marketing team was already seated in the conference room, nine laptops open, the projector humming with charts and projections.

Oscar walked in, expression unreadable, and took his seat at the head of the table. Lando followed quietly, notepad in hand, sliding into the chair just off to the side.

The presentation began. Numbers flickered across the screen—budget requests for next month, campaign costs, expansion proposals.

Ten minutes in, Oscar’s sharp questions started.

“Why is this line item double the amount of last quarter?”

“Your projections don’t account for fluctuation in ad performance.”

“And if you’re requesting this much additional funding, what metrics guarantee return on investment?”

The room grew tighter, the air heavier with every exchange. Voices raised slightly, defensive explanations tumbling out.

Oscar, relentless, leaned forward. “You can’t just throw numbers at me and expect approval. If you can’t justify them properly, we’re done here.”

The Marketing head paled, scrambling for an answer.

And then—quietly, smoothly—Lando reached into his pocket, unwrapped a candy, and slid it across the table. Straight toward Oscar’s hand.

Everyone froze.

Oscar glanced at him, brow furrowing. “…What is this?”

“Sweet,” Lando said, tone casual but eyes firm. “Your voice gets sharper when you haven’t had any. Just eat it.”

For a beat, Oscar just stared. Then, with a faint huff that might have been a laugh, he actually unwrapped the candy and popped it into his mouth.

The tension broke. The air shifted.

“Now,” Oscar said, calmer, gesturing to the projector. “Walk me through this again. Slowly. Show me the breakdown.”

The nine marketers shared bewildered looks. Alex mouthed across the table: He just listened to him.

Lando leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at his lips. Crisis averted. Again.

The moment Oscar dismissed the room, the nine members of Marketing practically scrambled to pack up.

Nobody wanted to linger when the CEO was in one of his moods—even if he seemed strangely… manageable at the end there.

Oscar stood, adjusted his jacket, and without another word, left for his office. Lando started to follow, notebook tucked under his arm—

“Oi. Norris.”

He barely made it two steps before Alex from Marketing snagged him by the elbow and yanked him back.

Suddenly he was surrounded—eight more curious faces closing in, the conference room door clicking shut behind them.

Lando blinked. “…Uh, can I help you?”

Alex jabbed a finger toward him. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?”

“You shoved him a candy,” another marketer said, eyes wide. “And he ate it. He actually calmed down. Do you realize he’s never calmed down for anyone in that room before?”

Lando tilted his head, playing dumb. “Maybe he just… likes candy?”

A chorus of disbelieving scoffs.

“Mate, I’ve been here three years,” one of the seniors said. “He’s never eaten anything in a meeting. Not even water. And today you tell him to eat a sweet and he just—does it? Like it’s the most normal thing in the world?”

Alex leaned closer, whispering like it was classified. “Are you some kind of CEO whisperer?”

Lando grinned, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m just his PA.”

“No,” Alex said flatly. “You’re a miracle worker. For the sake of every department in this building, please keep him fed. And sugared. And—whatever else you’re doing. We’ll fund your candy stash if we have to.”

The whole group nodded solemnly.

Lando laughed, hands up. “Alright, alright, don’t make it weird. Just… don’t tell him, yeah? Last thing I need is the boss thinking I’m bribing him with sweets.”

Alex smirked. “Deal. But seriously—good luck working straight under the dragon. You might actually survive where the rest of us couldn’t.”

And with that, they let him go.

Lando shook his head as he slipped out, muttering under his breath. “Dragon, huh? More like a tired cat that bites.”

The executive floor had gone back to its usual hush after the Marketing showdown. Lando was off at one of the work pods, hunched over his laptop with headphones in, trying to wrestle Oscar’s schedule into something resembling sanity for next month.

Inside the CEO’s office, however, Oscar picked up his phone and dialed an internal line.

“Lisa. My office.”

Five minutes later, Lisa, the HR manager, stepped in—neatly dressed as always, but with a wary look. She shut the door behind her, clutching a tablet to her chest.

“You called?”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, eyes briefly flicking to the frosted glass where Lando’s silhouette moved in the distance. Then he looked back at Lisa.

“Can we skip the pleasantries? Straight to the point.”

Lisa frowned. “Of course. What do you need?”

Oscar tapped his pen against the desk. “Norris. He’s still on probation, correct?”

Lisa blinked, caught off guard. “…Yes. He’s only been here like two months.”

“Good.” Oscar’s voice was even, matter-of-fact. “Draw up a new contract. Full-time. Effective immediately.”

For once, Lisa’s professionalism cracked. “Excuse me?”

Oscar arched a brow. “Was I unclear?”

“No, no, it’s just—” She faltered, then lowered her voice, as if someone might overhear.

“Boss, it usually takes three months to confirm someone from probation. Six, if we’re being careful. You’ve never—never—asked for someone’s contract this early.”

Oscar set his pen down. “And yet here I am. Asking.”

Lisa blinked again, searching his expression. “May I ask why?”

Oscar’s jaw flexed, but his answer was simple. “He works.”

Lisa studied him for a beat longer, then exhaled. “…Alright. I’ll prepare the paperwork.”

As she turned to leave, Oscar added quietly, “And Lisa? Don’t tell him yet. I’ll handle it myself.”

Lisa froze, then nodded slowly. “Understood.”

When the door shut behind her, Oscar sat in silence for a long moment, eyes drifting back to the blurred outline of Lando at his desk—gesturing wildly at his screen, probably muttering at the scheduling software like it had personally offended him.

For the first time that day, Oscar allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

End of month always meant chaos. Reports piled high, departments scrambling to finalize numbers, last-minute meetings clogging the calendar.

For Lando, it meant running himself ragged—typing schedules with one hand, ordering catering with the other, sprinting between offices while juggling three different phones (two company, one personal).

By Friday night, he was so drained he swore the floor tilted beneath him every time he stood up.

Most of the building had already emptied. But on the 20th floor, the lights in Oscar Piastri’s office still glowed. And so did the light on Lando’s desk.

“Mr. Norris.”

The low voice made him flinch. Lando looked up, eyes bleary. Oscar stood in his doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled.

“…Yes, boss?”

“Come in. Sit.”

Lando shuffled into the office and collapsed onto the couch, blinking at him. “What’s up? Do we have another meeting or—”

Oscar didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crossed the room, set a folder down on the coffee table in front of Lando, and nudged it toward him.

“Sign it.”

Lando blinked. “…What is it?”

“Your contract.”

“My—what?” Lando fumbled with the folder, flipping it open. His eyes widened. The bold header read Full-Time Employment Agreement.

His name was typed neatly beneath. Start date: retroactive to his first day two month ago.

He looked up, mouth half open. “But—I thought I was still on probation? Lisa said—”

“I don’t care what Lisa said.” Oscar’s tone was dry, matter-of-fact. “You’ve worked here a month. That’s enough. You’re staying.”

Lando just stared, heart pounding. “Boss, that’s… that’s insane. No one gets confirmed this early.”

“Then you’re no one.” A faint flicker of humor passed over Oscar’s face. “You’re mine.”

Lando’s ears burned. He looked back at the contract, then at Oscar—who, typically, gave away nothing. Just calm, expectant silence.

Finally, Lando grabbed the pen. His signature scrawled across the line, messy but certain.

When he looked up again, Oscar nodded once. “Good.”

Lando let out a shaky laugh. “That’s it? No speech? No—‘well done, Norris’?”

Oscar tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t push it.”

And just like that, he turned back toward his desk, leaving Lando staring at the contract in his lap—grinning like an idiot.

Saturday morning. For once, Lando didn’t wake up to three alarms and a buzzing work phone. Just the smell of toast drifting up the stairs and the sound of the kettle whistling in the kitchen.

He padded down, hair a mess, hoodie thrown over his pajamas. His mum was already at the table, flipping through the paper with a mug of tea in hand.

“Morning, love,” she said without looking up. “Rough week?”

“You have no idea.” Lando slumped into the chair opposite her, yawning. “But—I’ve got news.”

That made her glance up, curious. “Oh?”

He couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. “I, uh… signed a full contract yesterday. At the office. I’m official now. No more probation.”

Her eyes widened, and then she broke into the brightest smile. “Oh, Lando! That’s wonderful!”

She leaned across the table to squeeze his hand. “I knew it. I had a feeling this job would suit you.”

Lando ducked his head, cheeks warm. “Honestly, I still don’t know how I survived the first month. Oscar—he’s… intense.”

His mum chuckled knowingly. “And yet here you are. Still standing. That must mean you’re doing something right.”

Lando picked at his toast, unable to hide the pride bubbling in his chest. “Yeah. Maybe I am.”

For the first time in months, the future didn’t look so uncertain.

The start of Q2 hit like a storm. Budgets, reviews, planning for the next quarter. Oscar was in meetings from dawn till dusk, sharp as ever, and somehow Lando was expected to keep pace.

Which meant juggling twelve email threads at once, two different vendors blowing up his inbox, and Oscar’s calendar that looked like a war map.

By Thursday afternoon, his eyes were fried, his fingers typing faster than his brain could catch up.

Subject: URGENT — Catering Confirmation

He hammered out the reply without thinking,

“Yes, I’ll make sure those documents are signed and back on your desk by end of day. Also, I’ve scheduled the investor call for 10 AM sharp tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

Send.

Lando stretched, satisfied. Another thing off his plate.

Except—his phone buzzed thirty seconds later. Company email. From Oscar Piastri.

Oscar: “Norris. Did you just tell me not to be late?”

Lando froze. “…Oh no.”

He clicked open the sent folder. His stomach dropped. The catering vendor never got his message. No—Oscar Piastri, CEO of Piastri FinTech, did.

Lando buried his face in his hands. “Bloody hell.”

Another email pinged.

Oscar: “For the record, I am never late.”

And then, two seconds later:

“Fix the vendor. And don’t mix my inbox with chicken skewers again.”

Lando scrambled, firing off the proper email this time—face on fire. He could practically hear Oscar’s dry tone in his head, the little smirk he definitely wore while typing that reply.

By the time he dared peek into Oscar’s office an hour later, coffee in hand as a peace offering, Oscar didn’t even look up from his laptop.

“Careful, Norris,” he said smoothly, “one more email like that and I’ll start charging you rent in my inbox.”

Lando groaned. “Boss, I swear it was one time—”

Oscar’s lips twitched. Just barely. “We’ll see.”

By six o’clock, most of the office floor was dark. Not Oscar’s. Not Lando’s desk either, because wherever Oscar went, his PA went too.

“Norris, with me.” Oscar’s voice cut across the office like it always did—smooth, final.

Lando blinked up from his screen. “…Now?”

“Now.”

Which was how Lando ended up slumped in the leather seat of Oscar’s Maybach twenty minutes later, tie half undone, wishing for his bed.

Across from him, Oscar looked… exactly the same as he had at 8 a.m. Not a crease in his shirt, not a hair out of place.

Laptop balanced on his knees, one hand scrolling through a pitch deck, the other holding a glass bottle of still water like they were on a private jet instead of stuck in traffic.

“You’re unbelievable,” Lando muttered, watching the blue glow of the screen reflect in Oscar’s sharp features.

“It’s six p.m., we’ve been in the office since eight, and you’re still—what?—working through slides? You’re not human.”

Oscar didn’t look up. “Correction: I’m the reason this company functions. You just bring me coffee.”

Lando gaped. “Excuse me? I also save you from starving, fix your calendar disasters, and—oh, right—stop you from collapsing when you forget what food is.”

A dry hum, almost amused. “So you admit your role is babysitter.”

Lando sat up straight, pointing an accusing finger. “Personal assistant. Big difference.”

Oscar finally glanced up, dark eyes glinting with faint humor. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Lando huffed, crossing his arms. “One is a professional career path, the other’s a… toddler job.”

Oscar closed the laptop with a quiet snap, leaning back as the car rolled forward. “Then I suppose I should be grateful you’re house-trained.”

Lando’s jaw dropped. “…Did you just—”

“Sit up, Norris. We’re here.”

Sure enough, the car was already pulling into the glowing drive of an exclusive Mayfair restaurant. Oscar slid out smoothly, adjusting his cuffs, every inch the CEO.

Meanwhile, Lando stumbled after him, still fuming and somehow, against his will, grinning too.

The restaurant gleamed with polished wood and low golden light. Oscar led the way inside, Lando trailing half a step behind, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Their dinner companion was already waiting—a heavyset man in an expensive but ill-fitting suit, his tie askew.

Beside him, a young secretary with a neckline far deeper than was appropriate for a Tuesday night.

“Mr. Piastri!” the man boomed, rising to clap Oscar on the shoulder. “And this must be…?” His gaze slid to Lando, lingering a beat too long.

Oscar’s reply was brisk. “My assistant. Norris.”

Lando smiled politely, offering a small nod. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Dinner started fine—business trading figures, expansion talk, cautious negotiations.

Oscar handled it all with surgical precision, barely glancing at the menu before ordering for both himself and Lando.

Lando just picked at the food, occasionally chiming in when Oscar gave him a look that said take notes of this later.

It was only when dessert arrived—molten chocolate cake, espresso on the side—that the tone shifted.

“So, Norris,” the man said, leaning back in his chair, eyes gleaming. “How long have you been working for our Mr. Piastri?”

Lando blinked, taken off guard. “Uh—few months now.”

“Mm. And tell me—” the man’s voice dropped into something oily, “does he keep you this busy every night, or does he let you have fun once in a while?”

The secretary smirked behind her wine glass.

Lando’s cheeks burned. He laughed awkwardly. “I—I’m just here to work, sir.”

Oscar’s fork clinked sharply against the plate. His gaze cut across the table like a knife. “That’s enough.”

The man chuckled, pretending not to notice the sudden chill in Oscar’s tone. “Oh, come now, Piastri. I’m just saying—you’ve got an eye for talent, clearly.” His glance slid back to Lando, bold and deliberate.

This time, Oscar didn’t even let Lando try to respond. His voice was low, controlled, but cold enough to frost glass. “Norris is my assistant. He’s not on the menu.”

The table went silent. The secretary coughed, looking away.

The older man raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Don’t get your tie in a twist.”

But Lando could see Oscar’s jaw tighten, his hand flex once under the table before settling back against his glass.

Dinner limped to a close soon after, polite but strained. And when the car doors shut behind them, silence filled the Maybach like a heavy weight.

Lando risked a glance sideways. Oscar was staring out the tinted window, knuckles white where he held his glass of water.

“…You didn’t have to do that,” Lando said softly.

Oscar didn’t look at him. “Yes. I did.”

By the time dessert plates were cleared, it was past ten. Lando’s eyelids felt like lead, his stomach full but knotted from the weird turn the night had taken.

The Maybach purred back onto the road, the city lights flickering past tinted glass. For a while, the silence held—Oscar leaned back, jacket off now, tie slightly loosened, the faintest signs that even he felt the weight of the day.

Lando shifted, trying to shake off the tension. “Well…” he said lightly, “that went… great. Ten out of ten. Definitely didn’t feel like a pawn on a very uncomfortable chessboard.”

Oscar’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “You handled it.”

Lando huffed. “Barely. You could’ve warned me your partner was going to—what’s the polite term?—treat me like dessert.”

This time, Oscar did smirk. “You are not dessert, Norris. Too messy.”

Lando laughed, the sound breaking some of the heaviness in the car. “Oi! Rude.”

For the first time all day, Oscar actually looked relaxed—head tilted back, expression softer than the marble-mask he usually wore.

The car slowed at a light, and Lando cleared his throat. “Uh… you can just drop me at the nearest bus stop. I’ll figure it out from there.”

Oscar’s eyes snapped open, sharp again. “No.”

Lando blinked. “No? Oscar, it’s late. You live on the other side of the city, and my place isn’t anywhere near the route. It makes zero sense—”

“Sean.” Oscar’s voice cut forward to the driver. “Drop Norris home first.”

“Yes, sir,” Sean replied smoothly, flicking on the indicator.

Lando’s jaw dropped. “Wait—what? No, no, no, you’re wasting time, you’ve got an early start tomorrow—”

Oscar turned his gaze back to him, calm but immovable. “You’ve been on your feet since eight a.m. You’re tired. You’re not getting on a bus at eleven at night.”

“But—”

“No.”

The single word landed like a gavel. Final.

Lando groaned, sinking into the seat. “Unbelievable. You’re actually serious.”

Oscar’s smirk returned, just the faintest curve of lips. “You’ll live, Norris. And you’ll get home safely.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but his chest felt oddly warm as the car redirected toward his flat.

The Maybach hummed steadily along the highway, headlights washing over empty asphalt.

For forty-five minutes, neither of them said much—Lando drifting in and out of half-sleep, Oscar quiet, scrolling through his phone but not really working anymore.

When Sean finally pulled into the leafy street lined with familiar houses, Lando stirred, blinking at the sight of his parents’ porch light still on.

He fumbled with his bag, rubbing at his eyes.

“Okay,” he muttered, pushing the car door open. “Thanks for the lift, boss.” He paused, turning back toward Oscar with a crooked grin.

“Once you get home, remember—straight to bed. Don’t even think about opening that laptop again. We’ve got tomorrow, yeah?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly forward in his seat, the streetlight catching the sharp edge of his jaw. “You still have the energy to talk that long, huh?”

Lando laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Just—don’t overdo it.”

For a second, their eyes met—Lando’s warm and earnest, Oscar’s unreadable but softened by something in the quiet.

Then Lando waved, stepping back onto the curb. “Night, boss.”

He jogged up the short path to the door, fumbling for his keys. Behind him, the Maybach didn’t pull away immediately.

Oscar watched from the back seat until the door finally clicked shut and the light inside the house glowed to life.

Only then did he nod once to Sean.

“Home.”

The car rolled away into the night, leaving the street silent.

The front door clicked shut behind him, and Lando exhaled, finally dropping his bag by the stairs. He stretched, ready to stumble up to bed—

“Jesus, Mum!”

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, tea mug in hand.

“You scared me half to death!”

His mum rolled her eyes, completely unbothered. “Scared you? Please. You’re the one creeping in past ten like some teenager sneaking out.” She gave him a once-over, head tilted.

“Now you really do look like an adult. Coming home late from work, hair a mess… And whose car was that? Looked fancy from the window.”

Lando rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks warming. “Er… company car. Boss’s driver.”

Her brows arched, unimpressed. “And your boss just happens to drop you off at the front door? At this hour?”

He groaned. “Mum, don’t start—”

“Mm-hm.” She sipped her tea, eyes twinkling. “Must be some boss.”

“Mum.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

Lando grumbled, escaping past her toward the stairs. “I’m too tired for this interrogation. Night!”

“Don’t forget to wash your face!” she called after him. Then softer, with a smile he didn’t see— “And don’t forget you deserve good things, Lan.”

Upstairs, Lando flopped face-first onto his bed, pillow muffling his groan. His mum’s voice still echoed in his head, though, stubbornly warm.

By morning, the office was already buzzing. Lando pushed through the glass doors with two coffees in hand, trying his best to look alive.

The reality? He’d barely scraped together four hours of sleep. His mum’s teasing had kept him tossing, and the adrenaline of yesterday hadn’t worn off.

He dropped one coffee on Oscar’s desk, then set about arranging papers, pretending like nothing was wrong.

But when Oscar arrived—sharp suit, measured steps—his eyes flicked over Lando once and narrowed.

“You didn’t sleep,” Oscar said flatly.

Lando froze, halfway to his own desk. “What? ’Course I did.”

“You’re too loud,” Oscar said. “And you’ve been humming the same off-key song for ten minutes.”

“Maybe I’m just in a good mood,” Lando shot back, grinning too wide.

Oscar didn’t reply, but the way his gaze lingered made Lando’s ears heat.

Soon after, the stand-up meeting began. Department heads crowded into the conference room, the air thick with anticipation.

Oscar moved toward the front, flipping through his notes.

Without thinking, Lando stepped forward, tugging lightly at Oscar’s tie to straighten it. “Hold still.”

The room went silent.

Oscar blinked down at him, surprised.

Lando realized a beat too late what he’d done. His hands froze on the silk fabric. “Uh—sorry. Just… it was crooked. Looked weird.”

Oscar’s lips pressed together, somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Around them, the department heads tried not to stare, suddenly very interested in their notebooks.

Lando coughed, retreating fast. “Right. Coffee’s still warm, by the way.”

Oscar adjusted his tie once more himself, expression unreadable—but the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The second the meeting wrapped, Lando bolted. He mumbled something about grabbing water and escaped to the pantry, slumping against the counter.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he muttered, rubbing his face.

“Adjusting his tie in front of everyone? Brilliant, Norris. Real professional. Might as well polish his shoes while you’re at it.”

He poured water into a paper cup, glaring at his reflection in the microwave door. “Great. Just great.”

The door creaked open, and a head poked in—Peter, one of the office boys. He looked nervous.

“Uh… Mr. Norris?”

Lando straightened, trying to act casual. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Piastri is looking for you.”

Lando groaned, tilting his head back like the ceiling had wronged him personally. “Of course he is. I’ve been gone five minutes. Five!”

Peter  shrugged, sympathetic. “He doesn’t like waiting.”

“Tell me about it.” Lando shoved his cup into the bin, squaring his shoulders. “Right. Back to the lion’s den.”

He marched out, muttering under his breath. By the time he reached the corridor leading to Oscar’s office, he was already rehearsing excuses.

But when he stepped inside, Oscar was standing by the window, tie still straight as an arrow.

“You disappeared,” Oscar said simply, turning to look at him.

Lando exhaled through his nose, forcing a grin. “I went to drink water, not to Narnia. Five minutes, boss.”

Oscar’s brow arched, unimpressed. “I don’t like five minutes.”

Lando swallowed the obvious retort, biting his tongue. Yeah, and I don’t like babysitting a grown man through lunch, but here we are.

Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Fine. Next time I’ll sprint back.”

Something flickered in Oscar’s eyes, too quick to catch, before he returned to his desk. “See that you do.”

By Wednesday, Lando had decided he’d had enough. If Oscar wasn’t going to take care of himself, then fine—he’d force it.

And what better way than through the one thing Oscar never ignored? His calendar.

So, between the endless meetings and investor calls, Lando slipped in his own appointments:

• 12:30–13:00: “Client Lunch (mandatory protein)”
  
  
• 15:00–15:15: “Investor Walkthrough (literally, go outside and walk)”
  
  
• 16:45–17:00: “Confidential: Vitamin Break”

Oscar found the first one when his phone pinged at half past twelve. He frowned, staring at the notification.

“Client lunch?” he muttered. “I don’t recall—”

“Yep,” Lando cut in, dropping a plate with a sandwich onto his desk. “Client’s name is Turkey Club with extra lettuce. Very important.”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “Cute.”

But he ate it. Every bite.

At three, when “Investor Walkthrough” popped up, Oscar sighed audibly. “Norris—”

“Yeah, boss?”

Oscar lifted his phone, showing the appointment. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Come on, up you get.”

And to everyone’s shock on the 20th floor, the CEO of the company was seen circling the block outside with his PA, hands in his pockets, silent but obedient.

Later, at 16:45, the reminder buzzed again. Oscar almost ignored it—almost—until Lando appeared at his office door, holding out a vitamin bottle and a glass of water like a nurse with no patience.

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is absurd.”

“Then stop showing up,” Lando teased.

Oscar hesitated a fraction too long before downing the pill.

Lando grinned. “Knew it. You love my fake appointments.”

Oscar muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Idiot,” but he didn’t delete a single one.

Floor 20 had always been a shrine to professionalism: clean lines, muted colors, silence so sharp you could hear a pen drop. Exactly how Oscar liked it.

Or… how it used to be.

Two months with Lando Norris as his PA, and the once-sterile space was starting to look suspiciously… lived-in.

It began with a single succulent. “Air purifier,” Lando had said innocently, plopping it onto his desk.

Then came a leafy fern by the window. “For oxygen.”

A week later, fairy lights appeared draped around the edge of his monitor. “Mood lighting, boss.”

Now, there was a framed meme—one of those ridiculous cat ones—tucked beside the printer.

Oscar noticed it when he went to grab a contract. He paused, staring at the cat with sunglasses. The caption read: ‘Another meeting that could have been an email.’

His brow ticked. “Norris.”

Lando swiveled in his chair, wide-eyed. “Yes, boss?”

“What,” Oscar drawled, holding up the frame, “is this?”

“Motivation,” Lando said without missing a beat.

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re turning my office floor into a student dormitory.”

“Correction,” Lando said cheerfully, “our office floor. And you should thank me, actually—everyone says the vibes are better.”

Oscar’s lips twitched—almost a smile—but he forced it down. “This is an executive space, Norris. Minimalism. Professionalism.”

“Plants are professional. Happy assistants are productive assistants,” Lando sing-songed, returning to his laptop.

Oscar placed the meme back on the shelf with a sigh, muttering under his breath.

“Ridiculous.”

But he didn’t remove it.

The monthly company dinner was one of HR’s pride-and-joy traditions. From interns to executives, everyone crammed into the big event hall: food stations lining the walls, drinks flowing, laughter bouncing off the high ceilings.

Oscar Piastri rarely attended. When he did, it was tie, cufflinks, a shadow of a smile—and then gone in an hour.

But tonight? No tie. Buttons undone at the collar, sleeves rolled. A picture of relaxed authority. People whispered like they’d spotted a rare solar eclipse.

Lando hovered close by, plate in hand, practically vibrating with energy. He watched as Oscar reached for a platter of shrimp skewers—

“No, no,” Lando cut in, smacking his wrist lightly. “Didn’t you say you had allergies? Shellfish, right?”

Oscar froze. Half the buffet line froze with him.

“…Yes,” Oscar admitted reluctantly.

“Then what are you doing, boss?” Lando swapped the shrimp for grilled chicken, plopping it onto Oscar’s plate.

“Here, safer. And this salad’s fine, but avoid that dressing—it’s got nuts.”

“Do you plan to monitor every bite I eat?” Oscar deadpanned.

“Yes,” Lando said, completely serious.

Across the room, employees were gaping. The CEO—The Piastri—was listening to someone. Worse, he was following instructions without complaint.

Later, when Oscar sat down, Lando leaned over again. “You’re not touching that steak. It’s too rare. Your stomach’s still a mess from last week.”

Oscar shot him a sharp look, but shifted his fork to the roasted vegetables anyway.

“Good lad,” Lando said smugly, earning himself an eye roll.

Around them, whispers multiplied. Alex from Marketing muttered to Daniel from Finance, “Are we watching Mr. Piastri get… parented?”

Daniel shoved more food in his mouth. “Mate, I think Norris is the only person alive who can tell him what to do and live.”

Oscar was halfway through his (Lando-approved) vegetables, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, when the buffet stand behind him rattled.

He glanced over just in time to see Lando piling food like a man possessed—steak, pasta, bread rolls, three different sauces balancing on the edge of the plate.

Typical.

Oscar shook his head and returned to his meal.

A minute later, something thudded into his back. He turned, frown sharp—only to find Lando, arms full of plates, wide-eyed like he’d been caught stealing.

“Norris,” Oscar said flatly, “what is that?”

Lando adjusted the precarious tower in his arms, cheeks going pink. “...Dinner?”

“It feels like I haven’t fed you in months,” Oscar muttered, raising an eyebrow.

“You haven’t fed me at all!” Lando shot back indignantly. “I’ve been feeding you! Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t keel over mid-board meeting.”

A laugh—short, quiet, but unmistakable—slipped out of Oscar before he could stop it. “You’re unbelievable.”

Lando grinned like he’d just scored a victory. “And yet, effective.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, eyes following as Lando plopped down beside him and dug into his mountain of food with zero shame.

For a moment, Oscar forgot about the employees sneaking glances, whispering about how their terrifying CEO was… smiling.

By Monday morning, the company was buzzing. Not about quarterly reports or client meetings—but about them.

The CEO and his assistant.

Too many people had seen it, Lando swatting shrimp from Oscar’s hand, Oscar laughing at something Lando said, the two of them bumping into each other like some kind of rom-com trope.

It was Alex Albon from marketing who finally snapped.

“Alright,” he whispered conspiratorially in the break room, laptop open, “if we’re all thinking it, might as well make it official.”

Within twenty minutes, a secret Google Sheet was circulating through Slack under the disguised title Q3 Projections.

In reality? It was a betting pool.

Column A: Employee Name
Column B: Date Prediction
Column C: Odds (if you’re feeling spicy)

By lunch, Marketing had joined. By 3pm, Finance was in. Even HR added discreet entries (“Strictly off the record,” they insisted).

“Two weeks,” muttered Daniel from Finance, typing furiously. “The chemistry’s unsustainable.”

“Three months,” said Lucy from Marketing. “Oscar’s stubborn.”

Alex leaned back smugly, sipping his coffee. “Please. I give it this Friday. You saw how close they stood at the buffet.”

No one noticed that the spreadsheet had already ballooned into fifty entries. Every department was in.

Back on Floor 20, Oscar was buried in reports, oblivious. Lando was doodling on a sticky note, humming under his breath.

The entire office, however, was now running on caffeine, deadlines, and the electric tension of when the boss was finally going to cave.

The executive floor was usually silent, polished marble and muted keyboards. Only the highest-level staff had access.

Today, though, it was almost eerie—just Oscar, Lando, and the receptionist manning her desk at the far end.

After lunch, Oscar appeared at Lando’s workstation, hands in his pockets, gaze cool as ever.

“Do you have a passport?” he asked.

Lando looked up, confused. “Uh… no? Why?”

Oscar’s expression didn’t flicker. “Add my schedule at the end of this month. We’re going to New York. Business trip.”

The receptionist, mid-sip of coffee, froze. New York? With Mr. Norris? Her eyes darted between them like she’d just overheard state secrets.

Meanwhile, Lando’s jaw dropped. “Wait—you’re dragging me across the ocean and didn’t even check if I’ve got a passport?!”

“You’ll get one,” Oscar said smoothly, already turning back toward his office.

“That’s not how it works!” Lando called after him. “There’s paperwork, appointments—like, government-level stuff!”

Oscar glanced over his shoulder, deadpan. “Then I suggest you start today.”

The receptionist nearly dropped her cup. Lando scrambled up from his chair, chasing after Oscar into his office, muttering under his breath.

By the time the door shut behind them, the receptionist had already opened the infamous Q3 Projections spreadsheet. In bold letters, she typed:

UPDATE – New York Trip: end of month. Odds may shorten.

The betting pool pinged alive across departments in seconds.

The next morning, Lando was a man on a mission.

Passport. Tickets. Hotels. Schedules.

His desk looked like a crime scene—papers everywhere, browser tabs multiplying, his phone ringing off the hook as he tried to wrestle with government websites and travel agents.

“Appointment for a new passport… earliest available date… two months?!”

Lando groaned, slumping back in his chair. “I’ll be dead by then. Oscar’s gonna kill me.”

The receptionist peeked over the partition.

“Try the express office. Or bribe them with cookies.”

“Cookies don’t work with the government!” Lando snapped, then immediately scribble check if cookies work on his notepad anyway.

By noon, he had managed a miracle: expedited passport application. He collapsed in triumph, then remembered the next hurdle—plane tickets.

He booked the first thing he found. Economy class, two seats.

Cheap. Done.

At 3 p.m., Oscar appeared by his desk. Lando, smug, handed him the itinerary.

Oscar skimmed the page, then raised his brows. Slowly.

“Do I,” he asked, voice low, “look like I can sit in economy?”

Lando blinked. “…Well, yeah? It’s just a flight.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The receptionist clapped a hand over her mouth.

Oscar leaned down, so close Lando could see the exact shade of irritation in his eyes. “I am the CEO of this company. Not a backpacker on a budget tour.”

“Oh.” Lando swallowed. “…Right.”

Oscar handed the papers back, expression cool as ice. “Fix it.”

As he strode away, the receptionist whispered, “You forgot he was the boss again, didn’t you?”

Lando buried his face in his hands. “Shut up.”

Lando had never sweat this much in his life—and that included the time he almost fainted during month-end reports.

The immigration officer peered at him from behind the glass.

“Expedited passport?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, please,” Lando said, practically bouncing on his toes. “I need it in, like… a week. Okay, four days. No, three. Please.”

The officer raised a brow. “You’re traveling for business?”

“Correct.”

“Then we require your sponsor’s verification.”

Lando froze. “My… sponsor?”

“Yes. The employer who is sending you abroad. Either the paperwork with the company seal or—” she paused, eyeing him, “—the sponsor themselves.”

Lando blinked. “You mean… like… the boss?”

The officer shrugged. “Bring him. That’s the fastest way.”

Cue that evening:

Lando stood outside Oscar’s office door, fidgeting like a kid about to ask for candy.

Oscar didn’t even look up from his screen when he muttered, “What did you do this time?”

“Okay,” Lando started carefully, “sooo funny story. Apparently, to get my passport fast, I… kind of need you.”

Finally, Oscar looked up. Deadpan. “Need me?”

“Not in a weird way!” Lando waved his hands frantically. “Like—at the passport office. They said if my sponsor comes, it’ll be quicker.”

A long silence.

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you want me—the CEO of this company—to take time out of my day to sit in a government office queue with you.”

“Yes,” Lando said, nodding so fast his curls bounced. “Exactly. Please. I’ll owe you forever. I’ll stock your fridge for a month. I’ll—”

Oscar held up a hand. “Enough. I’ll go.”

Lando blinked. “Wait… seriously?”

Oscar’s mouth quirked the faintest bit. “If only to ensure you don’t end up banned from international travel.”

The next morning, the passport office buzzed with tired families, cranky toddlers, and fluorescent lights.

And in the middle of it all stood Oscar Piastri—immaculate suit, expensive watch, radiating I don’t belong here.

People stared. The clerk nearly dropped her stamp. Lando, meanwhile, was sweating bullets.

“This is fine,” he muttered. “Totally normal. Just… bringing my billionaire boss to a government building. Normal.”

Oscar leaned closer, voice low. “You owe me for this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando whispered back, fumbling with the forms. “Tea for a year. Done.”

By some miracle, the little blue book was finally in Lando’s hands. He held it up like it was the Holy Grail, grinning ear to ear.

“Look! I did it! I’m officially international now!”

Oscar, seated beside him in the back of the Maybach, didn’t even glance up from his phone.

“Correction: I did it. You just dragged me to a government building and nearly gave that poor clerk a heart attack.”

“Oi, not fair,” Lando huffed, hugging the passport to his chest. “I filled out all the forms. I took the picture. I paid the fees.”

“You spilled coffee on the first set of forms,” Oscar replied smoothly, still scrolling.

Sean, up in the driver’s seat, kept his eyes firmly on the road. Not a sound. Not a smirk.

Just professional silence, though his grip on the wheel tightened like he was holding in laughter.

“I was nervous!” Lando protested. “You try taking a picture under those lights, it’s like a prison mugshot. And that woman hated me.”

“She hated your handwriting,” Oscar corrected. “Understandable.”

Lando groaned and slumped against the leather seat. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

Oscar finally set his phone aside, glancing at him with that maddeningly calm expression. “Not a chance.”

From the front, Sean cleared his throat lightly, like static over the speaker. Neither of them acknowledged it.

“Fine,” Lando muttered. “I’ll just… be grateful. Thanks, boss. For coming.”

Oscar’s gaze softened for half a second—just long enough that Lando almost missed it.

Then he leaned back, voice cool again. “Tea for a year. Don’t forget.”

Sean’s lips twitched. But he drove on, silent as ever.

Lando thought—hoped—that after the passport chaos, things would finally calm down.

All that was left was booking the flight and hotel. Easy, right?

Wrong.

“First class,” Oscar said without looking up from his laptop, his voice final.

“Right, so, uh—you in first class,” Lando nodded quickly, “and me in economy. Sorted.”

Oscar’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“Cheaper that way!” Lando said brightly, waving his phone with the booking page open.

“Look, the company saves money, and I don’t mind! I’ll be asleep anyway.”

Oscar’s stare could have cut glass. “You are my assistant. You travel with me.”

“I can still travel with you,” Lando argued, pointing at the tiny seat map on his phone.

“You’ll be up there sipping champagne, and I’ll be back here—” he squinted—“in… 47B. Near the toilets.”

A long silence.

Oscar slowly closed his laptop. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes?” Lando said, less sure now.

“No,” Oscar said flatly. “You don’t.”

“But—”

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

“First class. End of discussion.”

Lando slumped back in his chair, muttering under his breath. “You always win everything.”

“I’m the CEO,” Oscar said smoothly, reopening his laptop. “It’s in the job description.”

Flights: booked. (First class. Oscar: 1, Lando: 0.)

Now came the hotel. Easy, Lando thought. It’s just four walls, a bed, maybe a TV. How hard could it be?

Very hard, apparently.

“Alright,” Lando muttered to himself at his desk, scrolling through hotel websites.

“This one looks good. Free breakfast. Big beds. Pool. Done.”

Not five minutes later, Oscar appeared, holding a folder. “Which hotel?”

Lando spun his laptop around. “Ta-da!”

Oscar glanced once at the screen and deadpanned, “You booked us into a three-star airport motel.”

“It’s convenient!” Lando protested. “Close to the airport, free waffles in the morning, and look—the reviews say the staff are friendly.”

Oscar’s silence stretched.

“…What?” Lando said defensively.

Oscar closed the folder. “I am not staying somewhere where the carpet has ‘seen things.’”

Lando groaned. “Fine. What do you want then?”

“Central location. Conference rooms. Security. Quiet.”

“Right,” Lando muttered, typing again. He clicked through more listings, his eyes glazing over. “Okay… this one. Five stars. Business hotel. Happy?”

Oscar leaned down, scanned the details, and nodded once. “Acceptable.”

Lando pumped his fist in triumph. “See? I can do this!”

What he didn’t notice—what his tired brain completely skipped over—was the tiny note in the corner of the confirmation page:

Room Type: Executive Honeymoon Suite.