Chapter Text
There are a lot of things a sixteen year old boy should worry about.
School, acne, college applications.
The fact that his best friend keeps flirting with him ironically but also maybe not ironically, and Alex honestly does not have the emotional bandwidth to figure it out.
Alex, however, worries about none of that.
Not when he is the only functioning adult in his deeply absurd, post-divorce family. He yanks open the passenger door of his dad’s car — Dad, formally known as Oscar Piastri.
A software engineer, introvert level 3000, world champion of pretending feelings don't exist— and climbs into the dark green Audi his daddy definitely bought because papa once said he “looked stupidly hot in green.”
Alex throws himself inside and slams the door with the exact amount of force required to express both teenage suffering and deep disappointment in his daddy’s ongoing series of catastrophic life choices.
The car smells faintly of coffee, burnt sugar, and whatever dignity his daddy lost this morning.
“Okay, we’re only… fifteen minutes late,” Alex mutters, checking the time. “This is actually an improvement. Yay congratulations.”
Oscar slams the door on his side with the panicked energy of someone who hasn’t fully recovered from a social interaction.
His hair sticks up in three different directions, like static electricity personally chose him as a victim.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Oscar blurts immediately.
Which is how Alex knows it was absolutely, unquestionably, 100% his fault.
Alex buckles his seatbelt and gives his daddy the exhausted, soul-ancient stare of someone who, at the age of sixteen, has already lived through more domestic crises than a married couple in therapy.
“Dad,” he says, calm, measured, almost saintlike. “You set the kitchen on fire.”
“It wasn’t on fire,” Oscar argues, starting the car with the timid determination of someone afraid it might explode. “It was just… smoky.”
“Dad, the smoke alarm was screaming in three different languages.”
Oscar winces. “Okay, maybe it was a little—”
“And you know why we’re late?” Alex continues, leaning back like a disappointed probation officer. “Because someone decided to cook breakfast. Again.”
Oscar grips the steering wheel so tightly it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap. “I wanted to make pancakes. For you. Because I am a thoughtful and nurturing parent.”
“You put the batter in a blender.”
“That’s how Lando used to—”
Oscar cuts himself off. His shoulders pull up. His jaw clicks. Silence drops into the car like a brick.
Alex sighs internally.
Here we go again. Divorce Fallout: Episode 47.
It’s been six months. Six entire months since the great split of 2025 turned his life into a two-house survival schedule — Dad’s too-big IT guy apartment Monday through Thursday.
Papa’s dramatic South London townhouse, Friday to Sunday — their old house, the one Daddy moved out of after the divorce. Alex still wasn’t sure why they kept it, but considering his parents’ track record with logic, he stopped questioning things years ago.
Their custody system changed more often than they changed their phone backgrounds. Every argument, every soft moment, every tiny shift in mood seemed to rewrite the schedule. Alex just went where he was told, hoping neither of them noticed the whiplash.
And somehow this idiot still slipped up with, “that’s how Lando used to—” before choking on his own nostalgia like he hadn’t been divorced for six whole months.
And honestly? Alex is so done.
Between a forever heartbroken fashion designer papa who sends beautifully embroidered passive-aggressive reminders to his dad like:
Hope someone remembered to iron your shirts :)
And a software engineer dad who nearly burned the flat down because he saw a photo of Lando on Instagram last week…Alex is starting to think school is the least stressful part of his life.
Alex raises an eyebrow. “See? You still need Papa for this stuff. You can’t function without him.”
Oscar gives him a narrow, betrayed look like a cat whose personal flaws have been exposed. “I function perfectly fine.”
“You set water on fire last week.”
“That pot was faulty.”
“You boiled pasta without water.”
“That was one time.”
“Dad. You tried to unplug the toaster with a metal fork.”
Oscar goes bright pink, the exact shade he turns whenever Lando’s name comes up or someone tries to express affection toward him for more than five consecutive seconds.
Alex studies him for a moment — his awkward dad in a black hoodie that absolutely does not match his jeans, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the last lifeline separating him from emotional vulnerability.
He sighs, stares at the windshield like a soldier accepting his fate, and begins his daily duty,
“So… do you want me to tell Papa you said hi?” Oscar nearly drives into a mailbox.
By the time Alex arrived at school, he had one clear, unwavering conclusion, His parents were idiots. Not the fun, sitcom, oops-we-lost-the-remote kind of idiots.
No.
He was stuck with two divorced but still flirting idiots who were emotionally clueless. Childhood sweethearts in total denial — the kind of people who could raise a kid, but absolutely could not act like normal adults.
Oscar pulled up to the drop-off lane in front of St. Augustine’s Academy—London’s most aggressively pretentious private school—where students treated iPads like accessories and parents acted like they’d been personally wronged if the valet took more than ten seconds.
Alex didn’t even blink at the parade of luxury vehicles lined along the curb like someone was filming a music video.
It was absurd. It was excessive. It was just a Monday.
Alex stepped out of Oscar’s green Audi—the only car here even remotely purchased because of romantic bias—and hoisted his backpack without ceremony.
“Have a good day, Alex,” Oscar said, leaning over the centre console like he was offering his son freedom from captivity.
Alex gave him a look. “Sure. Try not to burn the apartment down.”
“Alex—”
“Maybe order lunch. From someone with functioning hands.”
Oscar rolled his eyes, but the tiny smile betrayed him. “Go. Learn things.”
Alex shut the door with the gentle finality of a teen accepting he was the only responsible adult in his entire gene pool.
The crisp London air slapped his cheeks as he walked up the main path. Around him, students strutted out of Teslas, snapped “first day back” selfies, and loudly complained about their winter holidays being “too short because St. Moritz was soooo crowded this year.”
Alex passed through them all like a ghost.
Money? Status? Designer socks?
Not even in the top fifty things ruining his life.
His brain was too busy replaying the post-divorce disaster—featuring, in no particular order:
- One (dad) is too stubborn, introverted, emotionally allergic, and socially anxious to admit he misses his ex-husband.
- The other (papa) is too dramatic, expressive, and catastrophically sentimental to admit he wants him back.
- Alex? He is stuck in the middle like an emotional UPS service, transporting feelings neither adult is brave enough to deliver themselves.
Sometimes he wondered how he ended up more emotionally stable than two grown adults.
It wasn’t fair. Sixteen year old were supposed to worry about exams, TikTok drama, and why Ethan from chemistry got stupidly attractive over the summer—not whether thei parents were two seconds from remarrying or from killing each other with their weaponized, painfully bad flirting.
He passed through the school gates and nodded to a girl bragging about a Cartier bracelet her mum “just bought her for fun.” Inside the main hall, the air buzzed with expensive perfume, teenage gossip, and the sound of £700 shoes tapping against marble tile.
His friends were probably already in homeroom, “subtly” gossiping about the new geography teacher or debating whose family chalet in Switzerland had the best hot chocolate.
Alex had no mental bandwidth for any of that. He reached his locker—same one he’d had since Year 9—and began swapping books mechanically. His mind drifted again, replaying the memories no one liked to talk about.
Why had they even divorced? He’d asked both of them. He’d tried to understand.
Oscar, eyes tired but soft, said, “We just needed space.” Lando, red-eyed and clutching tea, whispered, “It’s just better this way.”
Both lies. Terribly delivered ones.
Alex had grown up watching them fall in love every day and fall apart every night. He knew the difference between something broken and something scared.
His parents weren’t broken. They were just… cowards.
The locker slammed shut—far too loudly—pulling him back. Alex blinked, turning to see Noah leaning there, eyebrows raised.
“Mate,” Noah said, voice amused, “you look like you’re about to commit a felony.”
“I am,” Alex replied immediately.
“…What?”
“A metaphorical one.”
“Huh?”
Alex let out a long, dramatic sigh—the sigh of a boy carrying the emotional weight of two adults who should know better. He slung his bag over his shoulder like he was preparing for war.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I have to fix my parents.”
Noah stared at him like he’d just declared he was starting a cult. “…Like… fix-fix them? Or ‘stop them from using you as a messenger pigeon’ fix?”
“Yes,” Alex said simply.
Noah blinked. “Dude. Normal teens want their parents to stop flirting. You are literally trying to force yours back together.”
“They’re not normal,” Alex said. “Have you met them?”
“That—yeah. Fair point.”
Alex bumped his locker shut with a decisive clang.
Today, he decided, he wasn’t going to stress about maths, chemistry, or how half the kids here had ski instructors who probably made more money than most adults.
Today, Alex was beginning Phase One: Find out why Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri—the most obvious soulmates on planet earth—ever divorced in the first place.
Because they clearly shouldn’t have. Because they clearly still loved each other. And because Alex was tired.
So unbelievably tired. Someone in this family needed to be the adult. And apparently, that honor fell on him. Sixteen years old. Barely passing physics. Emotionally stable enough for three people.
God help them all.
By lunchtime, Alex had already survived double mathematics, an unsolicited monologue from a classmate about her family’s ski chalet in Verbier, and a pop quiz that felt like a personal attack.
But nothing—truly nothing—tested Alex’s emotional endurance like his dramatic, freshly divorced, absolutely-still-in-love papa.
Alex sat in the mess hall, picking at a buffet tray of food that glistened in a way food categorically shouldn’t, when his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. A third time.
He didn’t need to look. He knew. No one texted him this aggressively at 12:16 p.m. on a Tuesday except one man:
Lando “emotionally endangered” Norris.
Alex sighed like someone preparing for battle and unlocked his phone.
Sweetheart, did you eat lunch? 💛
Across the table, Noah paused mid-bite. “…Your papa again?” Alex let his forehead fall onto the table with a dull thud. “End me now.”
Another buzz.
What did you eat? Something with vegetables, right? Right???
A third.
Alex groaned into the wood. “Why is he like this?”
Noah leaned over, reading the screen. “Oh my god. He’s doing the vegetable check again?”
“EVERY. DAY.” Alex hissed. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner—papa’s religious nutrition ritual.”
Before Noah could respond, a fourth buzz.
Also, random question. Totally unrelated.
Do you think your daddy misses me today?
Alex jerked upright so fast he nearly ricocheted off the chair. “No. No. Absolutely not. This cannot be my real life.”
Noah stared. “He’s asking again?”
“HE. ALWAYS. ASKS.” Alex scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m being emotionally waterboarded.”
Noah sat back, deeply entertained. “Just tell him yes so he stops.”
“I’m not lying to my parents,” Alex said automatically—then reconsidered. “Actually, I am very willing to lie. Just not in a way that will create… more chaos.”
Another buzz.
He looked sad on Sunday, right? He did. He DID. I KNOW IT.
Alex dropped his head back onto the table with a muffled scream. “I’m being cyberbullied by my own papa.”
He typed with the weary thumbs of a child raising two grown men,
Papa, I am eating. Please stop being weird.
Three dots appeared.
“NO,” Alex whispered. “Not the dots. He’s writing something long. I can feel it.”
Lando Norris never texted short messages. He texted novellas.
And sure enough—
I’m NOT being weird. I’m asking as a normal, concerned co-parent. Who absolutely has NOT been thinking about your Daddy all morning.
Not at all. Not even once. Not even when I was sketching the new collection. Not even when I saw a man wearing a black hoodie like the one he loves.
Anyway—did HE miss me?
Noah snorted so hard he dropped his fork. “Your papa is unhinged.”
“You have no idea,” Alex muttered. “He wakes up dramatic.”
The worst part was… Alex got it.
Papa was lonely. Papa was dramatic. Papa loved Oscar the way poets loved heartbreak—loudly, excessively, and with the emotional subtlety of a foghorn.
But Alex had rules. And rule number one was:
Do NOT let either parent use you as an emotional carrier pigeon.
He typed back with grim determination.
Papa, STOP. Talk to him yourself.
Lando’s response was instant.
He doesn’t want to talk to me 🥺
Alex snorted. “He wants to talk to him every second of every day. They’re both delusional. Delusional is hereditary, apparently.”
Noah gave him a sympathetic look. “You okay? You look like you’re about to start drinking at sixteen.”
“I’m sixteen.”
“Exactly.”
Alex slumped back in his chair, poking at his carrot like it personally offended him.
“Why did they even divorce?” he muttered. “If they miss each other this much? If they still care in the most embarrassing, pathetic way possible?”
Noah shrugged, sipping his juice like a wise old man. “Maybe they’re scared.”
“Of what?”
“Dunno. Loving too hard? Losing each other again? Being vulnerable?”
Alex let out a dry laugh. “My parents? Scared? They’ve done skydiving. Real estate. Parenthood. Nothing scares them.”
“Except each other?” Noah suggested.
Alex paused. …Damn. Maybe.
He looked at his phone again. Another message had arrived.
So what you’re saying is… he DOES miss me??
Alex lowered his head to the table again with the slow, heavy descent of a boy who had accepted his tragic fate.
This mission was going to be long. Longer than his sanity could survive. Maybe longer than the lifespan of the kitchen.
By the time school ended, Alex felt exhausted. He threw his books into his black backpack—the one that had survived tea spills, paint disasters, and Papa trying to “bedazzle” it when he was ten—and headed to the exit.
Outside, the usual parade of fancy cars waited in a glossy, glittering line, a Ferrari idling beside a Bentley, a Porsche parked like it owned the pavement, and a chauffeur polishing a Rolls-Royce hood ornament like it was a sacred artifact.
Alex didn’t even blink.
His phone buzzed.
Hey, kid. I’m stuck at the office. Won’t make it in time. I’m really sorry.
Alex sighed through his nose, but not angrily—just in the resigned, bone-deep way of someone who had been reading this text since he was old enough to recognize letters.
Life as a software engineer meant Oscar Piastri was always buried under code, bug reports, endless meetings, and dramatic panic over “production pushes.”
Alex grew up knowing that “I’m stuck at work” wasn’t an excuse—it was basically his dad’s official job title.
Sometimes Alex wondered why Papa had been so patient about it during the marriage.
Then he remembered: Papa had the emotional tolerance of a saint… and also possibly no self-preservation instincts when it came to Oscar.
Alex tucked his phone away without complaint. He already knew what to do.
He headed straight past the fancy cars, past the kids boasting about dinner reservations their nannies had booked, and walked to the bus stop at the corner. The cold air wrapped around him, crisp and familiar, as the red double-decker rounded the bend.
He tapped his card, climbed aboard, and took his usual seat by the window.
The bus rattled through London—past cafés where people typed aggressively on laptops, past a street musician playing violin in the freezing wind, past a flower shop displaying wilting roses that reminded Alex vaguely of his parents.
His phone buzzed again.
I promise I’ll cook dinner tonight to make it up to you.
Alex’s entire soul recoiled.
He typed back quickly:
PLEASE don’t. Last time the saucepan cried.
Three dots. Then,
I can try something simple? Omelette? Pasta? Stir-fry?
Alex stared at the screen with the hollow eyes of someone who had witnessed two kitchen fires and one melted spatula.
No. Absolutely not. Order takeout.
I’m begging you.
A beat.
…Okay.
Alex sighed in relief. One crisis averted.
The bus turned onto Oscar’s street—a quiet row of townhomes and modern flats, neat and sterile, the kind of neighborhood where everyone owned a Fitbit and pretended they enjoyed quinoa.
Oscar’s building was tall, glassy, minimalist—much like the man himself. The lobby smelled faintly of eucalyptus and money. The elevator hummed softly as Alex pressed the button to the 14th floor.
He stepped inside the apartment and flicked on the lights.
Silence.
Nothing personal. Nothing cozy. Just clean, modern lines and empty white walls. Oscar’s place always felt like a hotel room someone forgot to decorate.
No framed pictures. No clutter. No warmth.
Alex dropped his backpack on the sofa and sighed.
This apartment was the physical embodiment of his dad’s emotional repression.
And honestly? Alex hated it a little.
He pulled off his blazer, hung it neatly on a chair, and walked into the kitchen to pour himself water—using the last of the clean glasses because Oscar refused to buy more even though they only owned three.
While sipping, Alex glanced around the sterile living room.
Was this what “space” meant? This cold, empty quiet? This strange, lonely version of his Daddy?
He didn’t know.
But he knew one thing:
Papa would never survive in here longer than a day. Papa needed color. Chaos. Noise. A thousand photos in mismatched frames. Papa needed warmth.
Papa needed Dad. And Dad —whether he admitted it or not—needed the same.
Alex exhaled and leaned on the counter. Operation Reunite My Idiot parents was officially underway. And it was going to be a long, messy mission.
A very, very messy one.
By eight o’clock, the apartment was still dark.
Alex sat curled into the corner of the couch, school trousers wrinkled, hoodie half-zipped, scrolling aimlessly through his phone as the silence pressed in from every direction. Oscar’s apartment didn’t just lack personality — it actively repelled it.
Neutral walls. Neutral furniture. Neutral life.
The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator, which honestly had more emotional presence than his daddy's interior design choices.
The oven clock blinked 20:07, pulsing like a passive-aggressive heartbeat.
Oscar was, unsurprisingly, still at work.
He’d texted earlier — something about a server crashing, a client panicking, and someone named “Craig” committing what sounded like a crime against humanity (and basic IT common sense). Alex wasn’t mad. He was used to it. Completely desensitized.
But he was also hungry.
Very, very hungry.
He glanced at the immaculate kitchen counters — everything beige, everything empty — and came to a simple, mature, life-sustaining conclusion:
Screw it.
He was ordering pizza.
He grabbed his phone, thumb already hovering over the app, ready for the divine cheese-laden miracle about to bless his soul — when the screen lit up.
Incoming call: Papa
Alex’s soul momentarily left his physical body.
He contemplated ignoring it. He contemplated throwing the phone out the window. He contemplated faking his own death and starting a new life in Switzerland.
But Lando Norris possessed a sixth sense for when he was being ignored — and it was terrifyingly accurate.
Alex accepted the call.
“Sweetheart?” Papa’s voice burst through the speaker, dramatic enough to suggest he was mid-faint.
“ARE YOU ALONE RIGHT NOW?”
Alex blinked, deadpan. “…Yes?”
A gasp. A real gasp. As if Alex had confessed to living inside a haunted house. “As in… COMPLETELY alone? In that sterile, soul-crushing bachelor apartment??”
Alex glanced around at the blank walls and lonely IKEA furniture. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Oh my GOD,” Lando wailed. “Has your daddy abandoned you? At night?? On a SCHOOL day??”
“He’s at work.”
“He’s ALWAYS at work.”
“That’s how jobs work, Papa.”
“That’s how boring jobs work,” Lando corrected, offended. “Creative jobs are different. They feed the soul. They nourish the spirit.”
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. “Papa, what do you want?”
“Have you eaten?” Lando demanded, shifting immediately into Parental Interrogation Mode. “Properly? Not like… crackers? Or those sad protein bars your daddy thinks are ‘snacks’?”
Alex hesitated. He really should lie. But Papa had a supernatural sense for nutritional crimes.
“…I was about to order pizza.”
A horrified shriek rang through the phone.
“PIZZA? On a MONDAY?”
“Papa, it’s fine—”
“It has NO vegetables!”
“I’ll put mushrooms—”
“Mushrooms don’t count!”
“They absolutely count—”
“They’re FUNGI, ALEXANDER!”
Alex deflated into the couch cushions. “I’m hungry, Papa.”
Silence.
Long, dramatic silence.
Which meant: Papa was entering emotional-processing mode. A dangerous place. A place without logic or brakes.
“…Did your dad forget to feed you again?” Lando whispered, voice drenched in mother-hen heartbreak.
Alex didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Which is why I’m ordering pizza now.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT—”
“Papa, I swear—”
“No child of mine is surviving off melted cheese and despair!”
Alex dragged a hand down his face. “Papa.”
“WHAT?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Me? Dramatic? NEVER.” (A blatant lie.)
Alex groaned. “Papa, what do you want?”
Lando hesitated. Then, quietly — too quietly:
“…Should I call him?”
Alex frowned. “Call who?”
“Your dad,” Lando said, voice slippery with denial. “Just to remind him to come home. And feed you. And be a responsible adult. Totally for you. Not for me. I don’t think about him. At all.”
Alex rolled his eyes so hard he glimpsed the astral plane.
“Papa.”
“What?” Lando asked, all wide-eyed innocence. Fake innocence.
“You don’t want to call him because of me.”
“Of COURSE I do! Your wellbeing is my priority!”
“Papa—”
“Entirely my priority!”
“Papa.”
“…Mostly my priority.”
There it was. The truth beneath the glitter.
“You do not need an excuse to call him,” Alex said bluntly.
“I KNOW THAT,” Lando snapped. Then softer, wobblier, “I mean… maybe I do? If he doesn’t want to talk to me…”
“Papa, he wants to talk to you so badly it’s embarrassing.”
Silence. A fragile one.
“…He does?” Lando whispered, voice small.
Alex exhaled. “Yes. Obviously. Everyone knows. The local pigeons know. The Tesco cashier knows. Literally the entire universe knows.”
A tiny sniff.
“Okay,” Lando said, clearing his throat, rebuilding the theatrics. “Good. Great. Wonderful. I’m glad.”
Three seconds of quiet.
Then—
“So should I call him? Or is that too eager? Should I wait ten minutes? Or pretend you told me he left the stove on—OH MY GOD, DID HE LEAVE THE STOVE ON?”
“No,” Alex groaned. “Please don’t invent emergencies. Please.”
Lando hummed thoughtfully, which was dangerous. Very dangerous.
“Well,” he said at last, “just text me when he’s home, okay? And don’t eat pizza until then. I’ll send you something healthier.”
“Papa, I want pizza—”
“No pizza.”
“I’m starving—”
“Vegetables, Alexander.”
Alex let his head fall back into the couch cushions with a tragic groan. This family was going to kill him.
And he was, unfortunately, the only one with a functioning brain.
Oscar’s eyes were burning.
Not metaphorically. Actually, painfully, miserably burning.
He’d been staring at lines of code for so long they’d started to blur into abstract modern art — a grayscale tragedy titled “Divorced Man Avoiding His Emotions Until His Retina Detaches.”
It was nearly 10 p.m.
The office was almost empty. A cleaning lady hummed somewhere down the hall, and one poor junior analyst sat diagonally across from him, yawning so violently Oscar feared he’d swallow his own soul.
Oscar’s boss had walked by an hour earlier, paused at the sight of him hunched over three monitors, and didn’t even try the usual go home speech.
“Don’t forget to sleep,” the boss said quietly.
Oscar pretended not to hear.
He always pretended.
Because work was easier. Work didn’t ask why he signed divorce papers he regretted. Work didn’t have Lando’s smile. Work didn’t whisper memories of slow Sunday mornings, of Lando’s fingers tracing his jawline, or of a sixteen year old son taller every month, sharper every year—looking at him with too-wise eyes and asking the kind of questions Oscar still couldn’t bear to unpack.
Work didn't feel like failure.
Oscar pushed his glasses up, rubbed his face, and reached blindly for his coffee—
And froze when his phone started vibrating.
Not buzzing with a notification.
Ringing.
He turned it over and saw the contact name.
Home
He still hadn’t changed it.
Not after the separation. Not after the divorce. Not even after Alex teased him mercilessly for it. Because some part of him… still felt it.
Lando Norris was — had been — maybe always would be — home.
Oscar stared. His heart stuttered.
He answered before he could talk himself out of it.
“...Hello?”
A breath. Then, “Oscar Jack Piastri,” Lando snapped, dramatic enough to sound like he was calling from atop a balcony in a Shakespeare play. “Are you STILL at work?”
Oscar stiffened. “I—uh—yes?”
“It is TEN P.M.,” Lando all but shrieked in his ear. “Ten!. And you left your CHILD. ALONE. In that dystopian beige IKEA cave you call a flat!”
Oscar blinked. Reality hit him like a brick. “Alex,” he whispered. “Shit. I— I forgot—”
“Oh, marvelous,” Lando hissed. “Spectacular. Daddy of the year. Should I send child services? should I light a flare gun? should I arrive by ambulance??”
Oscar swallowed, throat tight. “Is he okay?”
“He’s ordering pizza,” Lando said accusingly.
Oscar winced. “God.”
“Yes, GOD indeed!” Then, softer but still sharp “He’s hungry, Ozzy. And he misses you. And—” a pause, heavy with things unsaid, “—I know you’re… drowning in work or whatever self-punishment ritual you’ve invented, but he still needs you. He’s your son.”
Oscar sagged back in his chair.
He felt hollow. He felt stupid. He felt like the kind of man who stayed late at work because going home hurt too much.
“Lando…” he whispered. Silence hummed through the phone — quiet, trembling. Then Lando spoke again, voice gentler, fragile around the edges:
“Look… I know why you’re there. I know what you’re doing. I know it feels easier to stay away than to walk into a home that doesn’t feel like a home anymore.”
Oscar shut his eyes. He hated how true it was. How seen he felt.
“But Alex is there,” Lando continued softly. “Waiting. And he loves you. And you’re all he’s got right now. So, Oscar… please. Go home.”
Oscar swallowed hard. His voice came out cracked. “I didn’t mean to forget him.”
“I know,” Lando murmured. “That’s why I’m calling, not yelling. Well— y’know. Not yelling much.”
Oscar let out a helpless, tiny laugh. Silence stretched, tender and aching. Then Lando said, quietly “Ozzy?”
“Yeah,” Oscar breathed. “Come home,” Lando whispered. “Not for me. For him. And—and maybe a little bit for you too.”
Something stuttered in Oscar’s chest. Something he had been trying very, very hard not to feel.
He stood. Closed his laptop. Ran a shaking hand through his hair.
“…Okay,” he whispered. “I’m going.”
A soft breath on the other end — relief, warmth, something dangerously close to hope.
“Good,” Lando said. “And Oscar?”
“Yeah?”
“Drive safe. And wash your face before you get home — you sound exhausted.” Oscar let out a quiet, watery laugh that hurt more than it healed.
“Always dramatic,” he murmured.
“Always right,” Lando corrected smugly.
Oscar ended the call, grabbed his coat, and stepped into the cold night outside the office.
Work had numbed him. But Lando’s voice — soft, bossy, breaking at the edges — had cut right through the numbness.
Because Lando always knew his weak spot. And Oscar was beginning to think…maybe he didn’t want to keep pretending anymore.
By the time Oscar stepped out of the elevator onto the fourteenth floor, he felt hollowed out. Not just tired — stripped, like someone had carved away everything soft inside him and left only the shell.
The hallway was quiet, washed in that sterile apartment-building light that made every night feel the same. He walked toward the door, keying in the passcode with muscle memory alone.
Inside, the apartment was dim — warm light pooling from a single lamp, the smell faintly clean, faintly floral. Not his work life. Not that harsh glow of screens and deadlines.
This was… softer.
Gentler.
Not home. But something trying its best to be.
And there — curled on the couch under a blanket — was Alex.
His sixteen-year-old son.
Long legs tucked under him, hair slightly tousled, wearing one of Lando’s old oversized t-shirts from a forgotten fashion collection. The neckline hung too low, one shoulder exposed. A half-finished book rested on his knee, thumb marking the last read page.
On the table: an empty container from the vegan place down the street.
Lando probably ordered it because he was in one of his obsessive “everything needs to be organic and vaguely green” moods — the kind where he lectured them about antioxidants while forcing everyone to try kale that tasted like sadness.
Oscar exhaled softly, the exhaustion settling deeper.
“Hey…” he murmured.
Alex looked up — steady, composed, eyes too calm for sixteen.
“Hi, Dad.”
Not accusing. Not upset. Just… taking note, like he’d been doing every night.
Oscar placed his bag down, joints aching, and sank onto the opposite end of the couch. The cushions dipped under his weight.
“You’re still awake?” he asked, voice low.
Alex shrugged, but the meaning was clear. He’d been waiting.
“Wanted to see you,” he said gently.
Oscar’s chest tightened painfully.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he began. “We had a server outage and—”
“Dad.” The word was soft but firm. A small boundary wrapped in kindness.
Oscar blinked at him.
Alex set his bookmark in place, closing the book deliberately. Then he angled toward Oscar with the calm of someone who had rehearsed this in his head.
“You need to slow down.”
Oscar froze, breath caught half in his throat. Not because of the words — but because of the way Alex said them. Measured. Mature. Fearlessly honest.
He stared at his son, the sloping shoulders broader now, the faint shadows under his eyes, the steadiness of a boy who had learned not to rely on the adults in his life as consistently as he once had.
“When did you get so grown up?” Oscar whispered.
“I’m not,” Alex replied softly. “You’re just really, really tired.”
Oscar shook his head weakly. “No. You’ve changed.”
Alex looked down at his hands for a moment, then around the apartment — clean dishes stacked neatly, laundry folded, lights dimmed intentionally.
All things Alex had done. All things Alex always did, without being asked.
“Maybe,” he murmured, “it’s because someone had to be.”
The words hit Oscar so hard he couldn’t breathe for a second.
Not bitter. Not resentful. Just honest.
A necessity spoken out loud.
Somewhere in his mind, a voice whispered,
Lando. Years ago. Saying the same thing to him whenever he pushed himself too far. Ozzy, you don’t have to be the strong one all the time.
Maybe he never learned.
Alex let out a slow sigh.
“Dad… you can’t keep doing this,” he said. “Working yourself into the ground. Forgetting to eat. Skipping sleep. Coming home when you barely even remember we live here.”
Oscar swallowed, throat tight. “I know.”
“You don’t,” Alex said softly. “You think if you drown yourself in work, it won’t hurt as much.”
Oscar stared at him — this tall, quiet boy who used to cling to his leg, who used to crawl into bed between him and Lando, who used to beg for another bedtime story.
And now?
Now he was the one remembering dinner. Remembering appointments. Checking the door was locked. Charging Oscar’s phone because he kept forgetting.
Being the adult Oscar wasn’t capable of being lately.
Oscar let out a trembling breath. “Did…the divorce do this to you?”
Alex didn’t answer immediately.
His eyes softened, gaze drifting around the impersonal apartment — the plain white walls, the untouched shelves, the empty space where framed photos used to hang.
Then, quietly “Yeah. I think it did.”
Oscar’s heart cracked. He opened his mouth — apology forming, guilt crushing — but Alex nudged him with a socked foot before he could get a word out.
“Dad. Don’t cry. Seriously.”
Oscar blinked hard, moisture pricking his eyes. “I’m just… I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Alex offered a small, tired smile — too gentle, too understanding.
“I know. And you don’t have to say it every day. Just… try a little, okay? Try taking care of yourself.”
Oscar nodded, barely holding himself together. “I will.”
“Good,” Alex said softly, pulling the blanket across Oscar’s lap, tucking it in like he’d seen Lando do years ago. “Because Papa’s going to yell at both of us if he comes back and finds you half-dead.”
Oscar let out a weak, choked laugh.
Because it was true. And because hearing Lando’s name still hit like an earthquake.
He leaned back into the couch, the weight in his chest shifting slightly — not gone, but lighter.
And for the first time in a long time, Oscar realized:
He wasn’t the only one holding on by threads. Alex was, too.
Growing up too fast. Taking on too much. Trying so hard to be okay so Oscar didn’t fall apart completely.
Maybe it was time — finally — for Oscar to be the parent again.
Maybe it was time for him to be better. For Alex. For himself.
For the family that was broken — but not beyond fixing.
Friday morning came faster than Oscar liked.
He stood in the kitchen in an unwashed hoodie, staring blankly at the kettle as it boiled like it personally offended him. The apartment was still cold, still quiet, still too big for just the two of them.
A post-divorce museum exhibit titled, Man Attempts Functioning.
He poured himself a cup of black tea—no milk, no sugar, because apparently he enjoyed suffering—and unwrapped a sad-looking protein bar that tasted like punishment.
Across the counter, Alex crunched on cereal, one leg tucked under him, hoodie sleeves half-covering his hands, phone buzzing next to his bowl. He looked sixteen in the way that hurt Oscar the most—tired, capable, too perceptive for his own good.
It was the kind of morning that looked normal from far away.
But up close, it was full of things unsaid.
“You already pack?” Oscar asked, voice soft, tentative.
Alex nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Papa said he’ll pick me up after school.”
Oscar nearly dropped the protein bar.
“Oh.”
Just one syllable. Small. Quiet. But it hit him like a truck.
He bit his lip, staring down at his tea like it might offer emotional support.
He wanted to ask Are you excited?
He wanted to ask Has he been okay?
He wanted to ask Will you remind him to eat something other than liquid spinach?
But the words stayed trapped somewhere behind his ribs.
Alex finally looked up, spoon hanging loosely from his fingers.
“Dad,” he said, gently but firmly, “you’re staring.”
Oscar jerked his eyes away. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
Oscar cleared his throat, scrambling for dignity. “I just—just text me when he picks you up, yeah?”
Alex nodded. “I will.”
Silence settled again, but not the comfortable kind. The kind with edges.
Oscar took a breath, hesitated, then tried—carefully, awkwardly—
“And, um… when you’re there with him… can you just… make sure your papa's… okay?” he said, the end of the sentence shrinking into nothing.
Alex blinked at him once.
Twice.
Then deadpanned, “I’m his son, Dad, not his emotional support human.”
“I know, I just—he forgets things. He doesn’t sleep enough. And last time he tried that all-green cleanse he fainted at Whole Foods—”
Alex groaned, dropping his spoon. “Dad.”
Oscar soldiered on anyway. “So maybe just… nudge him? Remind him to eat something that isn’t grass? And maybe check he’s—”
“Dad.”
Oscar stopped.
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose and said, with the exhaustion of a man three times his age:
“Please. For the love of God. Just tell him yourself.”
Oscar sputtered. “I—I can’t just— He’ll think I’m—”
“Still in love with him?” Alex supplied without looking up.
Oscar choked on air.
Alex rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t leave orbit. “Dad. He knows you care. He also knows you’re emotionally constipated. You telling him to take care of himself is not going to shatter the universe.”
Oscar sank a little in his chair. “I’m not emotionally constipated.”
“You absolutely are.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I live here.”
Oscar muttered something sad at his tea.
Breakfast finished quietly after that—Alex checking his timetable, Oscar pretending his protein bar didn’t taste like consequences.
By 7:45, they were out the door.
The ride to St. Augustine’s was silent but warm, the kind of silence they’d grown into—language made out of glances, sighs, and shared exhaustion.
Oscar pulled up to the usual drop-off lane, the Audi blending in among the expensive cars and stressed parents.
Alex grabbed his backpack and reached for the door.
But before stepping out, he paused, turned back, and with terrifying teenage accuracy, said:
“Dad… I’ll tell him you said hi.”
Oscar’s fingers slipped off the steering wheel.
His ears went red instantly. Then his cheeks. Then—god help him—his neck.
“I—I didn’t— I didn’t say—” he sputtered, mortified.
Alex only smirked, little menace that he was. “See you next week! Enjoy your weekend,” he said, sliding out of the car with the confidence of someone who’d just detonated a bomb.
Oscar watched him go, heart pounding in ways he refused to examine.
As Alex disappeared through the school gates, Oscar dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel and groaned.
Friday was going to be a very long day.
A very, very long day.
School ended with the usual chaos—slammed lockers, shouted goodbyes, the distant threat of a fire alarm being pulled, and one kid loudly bragging about “flying to Monaco just for the weekend, bro.”
Alex ignored all of it.
He stood at the front gate, backpack over one shoulder, watching parents’ luxury cars roll up like a parade of unnecessary wealth.
Then— The loudest, brightest, most violently orange vehicle in London turned the corner.
A McLaren.
Papa’s McLaren.
It gleamed obnoxiously in the sun, as if screaming:
LOOK AT ME. I COST AS MUCH AS YOUR FUTURE. I AM A CRY FOR ATTENTION WITH FOUR WHEELS.
Alex exhaled.
Here we go.
The car purred to a stop in front of him. The door flew open with dramatic flair.
And there he was. Lando Norris — fashion designer, chaos incarnate, wearer of seven rings minimum per hand, three necklaces layered like he woke up and chose sparkle, and sunglasses slightly too big for his face.
He wore a soft, expensive-looking knitted jumper in a shade of cream that absolutely did not match the weather.
His hair was perfectly styled, of course—messy on purpose, held together with product, stress, and pure main-character energy.
“Hi sweetheart!” Lando practically sang, voice bright enough to blind.
Normally, Alex would be mortified.
Today, however, Alex had a mission.
He climbed into the passenger seat as Lando’s rings clinked against the steering wheel—because of course Lando wore enough jewelry to make a light breeze sound like wind chimes.
Alex buckled in. Lando stared at him with a level of affection that could melt steel.
Alex didn’t waste time.
“Dad says hi.”
Simple. Casual. Deadly.
Lando froze instantly.
Completely.
Like someone had pressed pause on his entire soul.
His fingers—stacked with silver rings—stopped mid-tap on the steering wheel. His breath caught. His blush began at his collarbones (where two necklaces rested, one shaped like a tiny star, the other like his initials, and crept upward in a brutal emotional ambush.
“…H—hi?” Lando squeaked.
To the air.
To the universe.
To a man who was not present.
Alex kept a straight face by sheer force of will.
Lando shoved his sunglasses higher, even though they were already at maximum elevation and offered zero help. His rings scraped dramatically against the frames.
“Oh. He… he said that?” Lando’s voice cracked, breaking in the middle like a violin string giving up.
“Yes,” Alex said neutrally. “Right before school.”
Lando inhaled like he’d been stabbed by a memory.
“Oh. Oh. That’s—well. Lovely. Nice. Amazing. Wonderful. Great!”
He nodded so fast his necklaces jingled.
Alex blinked at him. “Papa, why are we not moving?”
“Oh GOD—right! Yes! Driving! I can do that! Totally! Absolutely!”
They lurched forward. The McLaren, a precision-engineered masterpiece, had never experienced such flustered, unhinged piloting in its life. Lando kept fidgeting.
Adjusting the AC. Lowering it. Raising it. Turning it off.
Fixing his hair. Fixing it again. Tugging at his jumper. Checking his rings. Adjusting his necklaces like they personally offended him.
“So he said hi,” Lando muttered under his breath. “Just… casually? Or more like he… you know… misses…”
“Just hi,” Alex lied calmly.
Oscar had said nothing. But romance required strategic manipulation. Lando swallowed hard. His cheeks were so red he looked like a limited-edition cherry-flavored fashion designer.
“Right. Right. That’s—fine. I’m fine. Totally fine.”
He was not fine. He wasn’t even on the same planet as fine. Alex leaned back in his seat, watching him with the scientific curiosity of someone observing an endangered dramatic peacock.
“So,” Alex said slowly, “how’s your week been?”
Lando choked on nothing. “My—MY WEEK?? Busy! Yes! Busy! Designing. Sketching. Fitting. Crying. Not crying. Thinking. Definitely not thinking about your daddy. Nope. Not at all. Why would I? That’d be crazy—”
He slapped a hand over his mouth.
His many rings clinked together loudly.
Alex hid a smirk. Perfect.
Operation Reunite My Idiot Parents: Phase One Completed.
They pulled into Lando’s driveway—an artistic chaos of plants, LED lights, and a welcome mat that said “Fashionably Late.”
Lando practically leapt out of the car.
“IS IT HOT TODAY??” he gasped, fanning himself with his hand. “IT’S SO HOT. WHY DID I WEAR WOOL? THIS IS A CRIME!”
“Because you like to suffer for aesthetic,” Alex said dryly.
“Yes,” Lando nodded gravely. “Exactly.”
He tugged dramatically at his jumper, rings glinting, necklaces chiming softly.
They headed inside—Lando still blushing, still jittery, still vibrating with the emotional equivalent of a fireworks show.
Alex felt the warm, victorious glow of a strategist whose plan was working beautifully.
Step one: Fluster Papa. Achieved.
Step two: Reignite unresolved romantic tension. In progress.
Step three? Pure, delicious chaos.
By the time Alex stepped out of the bathroom—steam still fogging the hallway mirror, damp hair sticking to his forehead, wearing yet another one of Papa’s oversized shirts (this one bright purple with sequins because “fashion is EXPRESSION, Alex!”)—the house already smelled like basil, garlic, and desperation.
The townhouse always hit him in the chest.
Not painfully. Not exactly.
Just… heavily.
It was the house he’d been brought home to as a newborn. The house where he took his first steps. The house where Oscar used to dance him around the living room on tired Friday nights while Lando filmed them, laughing into the camera.
It was home. His only home, really.
Everything in it still looked like the life before the divorce:
-
the painting Oscar bought in Italy still hanging crookedly because he never fixed things properly,
-
the couch they chose together after arguing about fabric samples for three hours,
-
framed photos of the three of them in matching sweaters at Christmas — still on the wall, still untouched.
Sometimes, Alex felt like the house remembered their family better than any of them did.
He padded toward the kitchen.
“DINNER’S READY, SWEETHEART!” Lando shouted, voice echoing like he was performing in a West End musical.
Alex rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.
Dinner is done, but Lando still stared at his phone like it was a bomb.
Not a large bomb. A tiny, pastel-colored, emotional bomb covered in glitter and rhinestones and poor life choices, ticking softly with romantic desperation.
Alex, sixteen and already spiritually ninety, lifted his fork halfway to his mouth as he ate his ice cream, watching with the hollow expression of a man witnessing a car crash he’d seen far too many times.
“Okay,” Lando whispered to himself. “I can do this. I am a capable, mature adult.”
Alex didn’t even look up.
Lando corrected quickly, nodding. “An emotionally unstable adult, but still an adult.”
He unlocked his phone.
And Alex—who was not snooping, he was just cursed with eyes—saw the contact name glowing on the screen:
Alexander Dad🧡
Alex stopped chewing.
“Papa,” he said, voice flat. “You… saved Dad’s contact as my dad?”
The blush that exploded across Lando’s face could’ve powered the national grid.
“I panicked!” he squeaked. “After the divorce it felt weird to keep calling him ‘Ozzy,’ but I couldn’t change it to ‘Oscar’ because that felt cold, and I couldn’t delete the little heart because that felt like murder—”
“So you added an orange heart,” Alex said.
Lando nodded so hard his curls bounced. “It was THAT or the crying kitten emoji.”
Alex inhaled deeply through his nose. “Just call him,” he muttered.
Lando inhaled like he was preparing for battle. Exhaled like he was dying. Then held his breath as if the air itself was too emotionally risky.
He pressed call. The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
In that time, Lando managed to do: • three laps around the kitchen, • two nervous hair-rakes, • one whispered, “Do I look okay?” despite being on an audio call.
Then— Click.
The call connected. Lando froze mid-pace. Alex froze mid-chew. Time itself stopped out of secondhand embarrassment.
“…Hello?” Oscar said, voice low and tired and so gentle it practically wrapped around the room.
Lando’s knees turned to soup. “H–Hi,” he squeaked. “Hi, Oscar. Hi. Hello. Um. Hi.”
Alex slapped a hand over his own face hard enough to see stars.
There was a pause on the line. A soft one. A surprised one.
“Lando?” Oscar’s voice warmed instantly. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Lando made a noise that sounded like an injured baby dolphin.
“No! I mean—yes! I mean—I just wanted to… check in. Casually. Like a normal person. I’m very normal.”
Alex choked on nothing.
Oscar sounded amused. Actually amused. The soft, smiling kind of amused Alex hated with passion.
“Oh?” Oscar asked. “Check in about what?”
Lando did a panicked twirl.
“Are you—um—eating? Or resting? Or like—breathing? Are you hydrated? Are you—”
“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently, the way someone tames a skittish animal. “I’m fine.”
Lando’s voice cracked like a teenager’s. “Are you sure, Ozzy? You sound tired.”
Alex’s soul left his body.
Oscar chuckled. Softly. Tenderly. “I am tired,” he admitted. “It’s been a long day.”
Lando gripped the counter, knuckles white. “You should go home,” he whispered urgently. “Right now. Immediately. Before your spine turns into dust.”
On the line, Oscar smiled. You could hear it. “Are you ordering me home?”
“Yes!” Lando blurted. “Because your body needs rest and your stupid long hours make me—make everyone—concerned.”
“Uh-huh,” Oscar said. “Everyone? Or… someone?”
Lando nearly swallowed his own tongue.
Alex tried very hard to die.
Lando stammered. “Both! Everyone! Someone! No one! Don’t ask follow-up questions!”
Oscar laughed under his breath.
God, he was soft with him. Too soft. Softer than he’d been during the entire six months of separation.
“I’ll head home soon,” Oscar promised. “Thank you for calling, Lan.”
Lando made a squeaky noise of pure meltdown. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “Just… co-parent things.”
Oscar hummed—warm, low, intimate enough to make Alex gag.
“Well… goodnight, Lando.”
Lando practically melted.
“G-Goodnight,” he breathed.
The call ended.
Lando slowly lowered the phone. Stared at nothing. Then collapsed into a chair like he’d just survived a helicopter crash.
Silence.
Then—
He let out a high-pitched screech into his hands.
“Oh my GOD,” he wailed. “WHY AM I LIKE THIS?!”
Alex rubbed his temples with both hands.
“Because you’re dramatic. And in love. And ninety-seven percent chaos.”
Lando peeked up, eyes round.
“…He sounded happy, right?” he whispered. “Like… really happy to hear my voice?”
Alex stared at him with dead eyes.
“Papa,” he said slowly. “He practically PURRED.”
Lando made a strangled giggle-squeal hybrid noise and flapped his hands like a baby bird learning flight.
Alex considered eating the plate.
This household was going to destroy him. Emotionally. Mentally. Biologically.
And he was only sixteen.
Saturday mornings at Papa’s house were normally simple. Either Alex played video games until midnight while Lando yelled things like, “REVIVE ME, SWEETHEART! WHY ARE YOU LETTING ME DIE—REVIVE ME! I’M TOO PRETTY TO BLEED OUT!”
Or Papa dragged him to some overpriced South London café where the avocado toast cost £18 and came arranged in the shape of the Big Dipper.
But today?
Today was not normal. Today was Phase Two.
Alex padded into the kitchen in his pajamas—hair messy, expression deliberately bleak, posture radiating “my life is pain and no one understands me.” He took a seat at the counter with a dramatic slump.
Papa turned around, glowing, holding a plate of breakfast so unnecessarily fancy it belonged on a tasting menu, fluffy scrambled eggs sprinkled with chives, toasted sourdough arranged like art, and a side of fruit in a perfectly symmetrical fan.
Alex stared at it. Then stabbed it.
Slowly.
Dramatically.
Like he was auditioning for the role of “depressed victorian child #3.”
Lando froze mid-sip of his oat-milk latte. “Sweetheart?” he asked cautiously.
“Why are you… attacking your eggs?”
Alex sighed. A long, suffering, heroic sigh. “I dunno.”
Lando blinked. Hard. “…Are they too fluffy?” Alex shook his head.
“Too salty?” Another slow shake.
“Too… not fluffy enough?”
Alex looked at him with eyes dripping with ancient sorrow. “No, Papa. I just…” He paused. He let his voice crack—just barely.
“I just miss things.”
Lando straightened instantly, alarm flashing across his face. “Miss… what things?” he whispered as if Alex had just revealed he’d lost the will to live.
Alex poked the eggs again like they’d personally betrayed him. “You know… back then.”
Lando’s breath caught. Alex kept going, soft, careful, perfectly weaponized. “When we used to eat lunch together. All of us. The three of us.”
Silence.
Lando’s face folded like a cheap lawn chair. “Oh… sweetheart,” he breathed, hand flying to his chest. “You miss that?”
Alex nodded with tragic misery. “Just sometimes,” he whispered. “I miss… us.”
There it was. The kill shot.
Lando’s bottom lip wobbled violently. He blinked too fast. His curls trembled as if personally offended by the emotional damage. Alex kept his face perfectly solemn. Inside, he was holding confetti cannons.
Finally, Lando whispered “Okay. Okay. Okay… I’ll text your dad.”
Papa scrambled for his phone, knocking over a jar of chia seeds, which exploded across the counter like bird food. He didn’t even notice.
He opened messages, thumbs trembling like he was about to send an anonymous love confession on Tumblr in 2014.
Alex watched without blinking. Lando typed something. Backspaced. Typed again. Deleted everything. Groaned. Pulled at his curls. Looked at the ceiling like Jesus might offer emotional guidance.
“What do I even SAY?!” Lando panicked. “ ‘Want lunch?’ is too blunt! Too cold! What am I, a tax accountant?!”
He gasped. “What if he says no?” He gasped harder. “What if he says yes?!”
Alex actually had to hold onto the counter to keep from sliding off the stool. “Papa,” he said, exhausted. “Just ask if he wants to have lunch with us.”
Lando stared at him like he’d suggested marriage counseling. “That’s so intimate.”
“It’s LUNCH,” Alex said. “Not a vow renewal.”
Lando began pacing the kitchen like a caffeinated squirrel. “I need mascara,” he muttered. “I can’t text emotional things without mascara.”
“You are deranged,” Alex said.
“Yes,” Lando agreed instantly. “So help me!”
After ten full minutes of chaos, Lando typed a message.
hey… um… we were thinking maybe—if you’re free—lunch? the three of us? no pressure! totally casual!
He hovered over the send button like it was connected to nuclear launch codes.
“Papa.”
“Yes?”
“Send it.”
“Are you SURE?!”
“Yes.”
“What if this is too much?!”
“SEND THE MESSAGE, OLD MAN—”
“DON’T CALL ME OLD!”
“—or I will text him myself.”
Lando shrieked and hit send like the phone was burning his hand. Then he pressed it against his chest and walked in frantic circles around the kitchen. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my GO—”
Alex calmly ate his eggs. He was a genius. And if everything went to plan?
By noon, both of his idiot parents would be sitting awkwardly across from each other at a restaurant, trying not to flirt.
Phase Three: Incoming.
The kitchen smelled faintly of chives, lemon zest, and the unmistakable tang of someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Lando was humming—badly, off-key, absolutely illegal levels of bad—as he slid the last plate into the dishwasher. He moved too fast, too jerky, like a man trying to convince the universe he was fine while his heart did parkour inside his chest.
His fingers shook as he pushed the dish into place. The plate rattled against the rack.
He winced at the sound.
Be cool, he ordered himself.
Be calm.
Be someone who doesn’t lose emotional stability every time Oscar Piastri inhales within a 50-mile radius.
The dishwasher beeped. He stabbed the start button, exhaled too loudly, and pressed both palms to the counter as if grounding himself.
Then—his phone buzzed.
A sharp, violent buzz that felt like fate reaching out and flicking him in the forehead.
Lando froze.
Not figuratively. Actually froze. Like someone had hit him with a Medusa curse made of pure panic.
His shoulders tensed. His neck locked. His eyes widened in slow-motion horror as he turned toward the kitchen island, where his phone lay face-down like a coiled snake.
It buzzed again.
He made a tiny noise—somewhere between a squeak and a dying balloon—then wiped his hands on a towel with trembling fingers and approached the phone like it was radioactive.
He flipped it over.
One notification. One message. From the contact that turned every rib in his chest into a vice,
Alexander Dad 🧡
His heart detoured straight to his throat.
He tapped.
Oscar’s message popped up—clean, simple, devastating
Okay. I’ll go to your place— just use my car, we can go together.
I’ll be there around 12:00.
Lando produced a sound no human anatomy textbook could explain.
A squeak. A shriek. A panicked inhale that turned into a whistle. A noise so aggressively teenage that every 14-year-old on earth felt validated.
He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes huge.
“Oh. My. GOD.”
He reread the message. Then again. Then again—faster, more deranged.
Then he screamed.
“ALEXANDER DUNNE PIASTRI!!! GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!”
Alex appeared in the doorway mid-hair-drying, holding a towel over his head. He looked alarmed, wary, and already exhausted by existence.
“What now?”
Lando shoved the phone in his face like evidence at a murder trial.
“What do I reply?!” he demanded, voice cracking.
“HOW DO I REPLY TO THIS? WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?! WHY IS HE COMING HERE?! WHY ARE WE USING HIS CAR?! WHY ARE WE—” He flailed with both hands. “—GOING TOGETHER?!”
Alex blinked at him. Once. Slowly. Like he needed to reboot.
“Papa. It’s lunch.”
“IT IS NOT JUST LUNCH!” Lando wailed, pacing two frantic steps to the left.
“This is SYMBOLIC. This is EMOTIONAL. THIS IS A STATEMENT.”
Alex sighed and sat at the table like he knew a war was coming. He folded his towel neatly on his lap, preparing himself.
Lando marched across the kitchen and back, clutching his phone in both hands like a baby bird he was definitely going to drop.
“He’s coming here,” Lando whispered dramatically. “He’s coming to my house.”
“Yes,” Alex said dryly. “Because you invited him.”
“I DIDN’T INVITE HIM TO MY HOUSE, I INVITED HIM TO LUNCH—THOSE ARE DIFFERENT.”
“They are not.”
Lando gasped like he'd been stabbed. “They are SO different. One is casual. The other is—” He waved both hands like broken wings.
“—intimate! Sentimental! Domestic!”
“He’s literally just picking us up,” Alex said. “Not proposing.”
Lando made a strangled noise.
“Alex, sweetheart, angel of my life, LISTEN TO ME.”
“No,” Alex said immediately.
But Lando was already spiraling down a cliff.
“Do I clean the house? Is twelve too early? Should I wear something nice? Should I hide the photos? Should I PUT OUT the photos? Should I look like I’ve moved on or like I’m emotionally available?!”
Alex dropped his forehead into his palms with a bone-deep groan.
“I want to throw myself into the sea.”
Lando held the counter, knuckles white.
“He said we can use his car,” he whispered. “HIS car. His precious Audi. He doesn’t even let his coworkers TOUCH it.”
“So?” Alex said.
“So?!” Lando shrieked. “SO??? ALEXANDER, that means he wants to drive me. That’s basically a romantic gesture!”
“No,” Alex corrected. “That’s literally just carpooling.”
“It is NEVER just carpooling!”
Alex stared at him like he was observing an unusual species.
“I understand I need Advil,” he said.
Lando paced in a frantic loop, muttering, shaking out his hands, rereading the message every five seconds like it might grow new words.
“What if he texted the wrong person? What if he regrets sending it? What if he’s only coming because he feels BAD? Oh god—what if he thinks I’m pathetic?!”
“You are pathetic,” Alex said helpfully. “But he already knows.”
Lando hurled a dish towel at him. Alex leaned aside with the reflexes of a child raised by emotionally chaotic parents. Then Lando stared at the message again, softer this time, like it hurt him.
“He’s coming… here,” he whispered. “At noon.”
Alex nodded. “Yes, Papa.”
Lando looked up at him—eyes wide, cheeks flushed pink, lower lip trembling.
“Sweetheart,” he said in a tiny voice, “I’m nervous.”
Alex stared. Then exhaled like a 40-year-old accountant carrying two mortgages.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can tell. You’re vibrating.”
“I AM VIBRATING.”
Alex pushed his chair back with a scrape and stood up.
“Okay. We have three hours. Let’s clean the house, pick your outfit, and make sure you don’t lose your mind before noon.”
Lando placed a dramatic hand on Alex’s shoulder.
“You’re a good boy,” he whispered tearfully.
“I want to die,” Alex replied.
By 10:30 a.m., Alex had officially given up on the concept of adulthood. If this—this—was what grown-ups were like, then humanity was doomed and society needed to be rebuilt from scratch.
Because for the last two hours— two entire, agonizing, sanity-draining hours— his Papa had been in the bedroom screaming like he was being murdered in surround sound.
Alex lay sprawled across the living room sofa, legs dangling off the armrest, phone balanced on his chest as he played a game with the apathetic emotional detachment of a man three decades older.
He had accepted his fate.
He was the single father of a thirty-nine-year-old emotional catastrophe.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALEX!”
There it was. The fifth scream that hour. (Technically sixth, but one of them had been high-pitched enough to qualify as a squeal.)
Alex didn’t look up. “What now, Papa,” he droned, thumb tapping his screen as he dodged digital fireballs.
From the bedroom came a frantic, breathless wail “I HAVE NO CLOTHES!”
Alex let out a sigh so long and defeated it aged him spiritually by ten years. “Papa,” he called back, eyes still fixed on his game, “you’re literally a fashion designer.”
“EXACTLY!” Lando shrieked. “WHICH MEANS I CAN’T JUST WEAR ANYTHING! I NEED A LOOK! A VIBE! A— A STATEMENT!”
A muffled thump echoed against the wall. Then a hanger bounced onto the carpet outside the doorway. Then came another tortured scream “THIS SWEATER IS TOO TRY-HARD!”
Alex did not blink. “Then don’t wear it,” he said, calmly executing a combo move in his game.
“BUT IF I DON’T WEAR IT, HE’LL THINK I DIDN’T TRY!”
Alex let his head drop backward onto the couch cushion with a dull thud. This wasn’t parenting. This was hostage negotiation.
Something else clattered inside the bedroom—another hanger? A shoe? Possibly Papa himself?—then another anguished moan rose from the depths of Lando’s ego.
“WHY DOES NOTHING FIT RIGHT TODAY?!”
Alex scrolled. Beat another level. Felt no joy.
Another scream shook the hallway.
“ALEXANDER DUNNE PIASTRI, GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW! I NEED YOUR EYES—YOUR PERFECT, BROWN, OSCAR-PIASTRI-COPY-PASTE EYES—TO TELL ME IF THIS COAT MAKES ME LOOK LIKE I’M TRYING TOO HARD TO IMPRESS YOUR DADDY!”
Alex didn’t even flinch.
“Papa,” he called back, monotone. “Wear literally anything and dad will still compliment you. He’s obsessed with you.”
Silence.
A stunned, fragile, awestruck silence.
Then Lando’s voice, tiny and trembling “Alex… you… you think so?”
“Yes,” Alex said, eyes still glued to his phone. “He thinks everything you wear is perfect. Even when you dress like a beige mushroom.”
“HEY!” Lando squawked. “THAT OUTFIT WAS EXPERIMENTAL.”
“Papa.”
“What?!”
“Pick a shirt. Pick pants. Stop panicking.”
“I’M NOT PANICKING!” A drawer slammed loud enough to make the hallway echo.
“I AM SIMPLY EMOTIONALLY INVESTED IN TODAY’S LUNCH!”
Sure. Emotionally invested. Translation: behaving like a teenager who just found out their crush was assigned to the same group project.
The rustling, clattering, and occasional dramatic gasp continued for a solid thirty seconds.
Then Lando emerged in the doorway like a man stumbling out of a battlefield—hair sticking up, cheeks flushed pink, holding two shirts like they were sacred artifacts.
“Sweetheart,” he said breathlessly, “which one says ‘I’m effortlessly charming but also subtly vulnerable and available without looking desperate?’”
Alex stared at him.
Once. Twice.
“Neither,” he said. “They both say ‘I’m losing my mind over my ex-husband and pretending it’s casual.’”
Lando recoiled like he’d been slapped with poetry. “How DARE—!”
“Papa,” Alex cut in. “Wear the blue one. Dad likes blue.”
The white shirt dropped from Lando’s hand like it had been cursed.
“OH MY GOD YOU’RE RIGHT!”
And with the energy of a possessed squirrel, Lando spun around and sprinted back into the bedroom.
A door slammed. Something fell. Something else fell. Lando made a noise that might’ve been a laugh or a sob.
Alex returned to his game and sighed.
This family was absolutely going to kill him.
Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.
And worst of all?
He wasn’t even getting paid for this.
Not even minimum wage.
Oscar stood in front of the mirror in his apartment, staring at his reflection with the expression of a man discovering terrible news for the first time.
The news did not change.
He tugged at the sleeves of his black hoodie. Again. And again. As if the seventh tug would suddenly make it couture.
It did not.
He sighed, long and hollow. He looked like himself— which was to say
Tired.
Lightly wrinkled in the corners of the eyes from too much screen time.
Overworked in a painfully sexy, emotionally unavailable way. And dressed in the exact same outfit Lando always roasted into ashes.
Black hoodie. Black skinny jeans. Black trainers.
Oscar had pretended it didn’t affect him. (It affected him.) But now was not the time to crumble. He needed something safe. Something normal. Something that didn’t scream:
Oscar Piastri tries to look nice for his ex-husband because he still loves him and has zero chill.
Because if he tried too hard? Lando would notice.
Lando always noticed.
Oscar inhaled, exhaled, inhaled again for safety. He grabbed his keys, stepped outside, and locked his apartment while trying not to pass out from overthinking.
His heart was beating too fast for someone who insisted he was “fine” and “not thinking about anything.”
Lies. Bold, unconvincing lies.
At 11:59 a.m., Oscar turned onto Lando’s street.
And it hit him. The neighborhood. The row of pastel townhouses. The same hedges Lando once tried to trim and accidentally shaved bald on one side.
The familiar Saturday quiet. His chest tightened. By 12:00 p.m., Oscar was parked in front of the townhouse.
Their townhouse. The one they bought after three months of debating wallpapers. The one they remodeled while Lando refused to read any instruction manual ever written.
The one where baby Alex walked for the first time and Lando cried for fifteen minutes while live-recording it from five angles like a paparazzi.
Oscar swallowed hard. He turned off the engine and sat frozen, gripping the steering wheel. He hadn’t walked through that door in too long.
He could feel the memories pressing against him like ghosts. His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his jeans.
Still sweaty. He wiped them on his hoodie. Now the hoodie was sweaty.
Fantastic.
Meanwhile Inside the house…
Alex sat calmly on the sofa, playing a game like a man who had abandoned hope. But Lando— Lando was running around the house with the panic level of a debutante before prom.
He had put on the blue shirt. The blue shirt. The one Alex said Oscar liked, which meant Lando spent five extra minutes ironing it, which he would deny until death.
His curls were immaculate. His cologne was illegal-level enticing. His soul was crumbling.
At 12:00:14, the doorbell rang. Lando screamed. Like actually screamed. Alex didn’t even blink.
“Papa… breathe.”
“I can't,” Lando hissed, chest heaving.
“THAT’S YOUR DAD AT THE DOOR.”
“Yes,” Alex said. “That’s why we’re here.”
Lando slapped his cheeks rapidly, panicking.
“Oh my god do I look okay? Do I smell okay? Do I look available? No—no, too available—should I button this? Unbutton this? Do I look casual? Not casual enough? DO I LOOK LIKE I TRIED? I CAN’T LOOK LIKE I TRIED.”
Alex stared at him with the dead eyes of a child who has seen too much.
“You look fine.”
“I DON’T WANT TO LOOK FINE! I WANT TO LOOK—”
The doorbell rang again. Lando froze.
Alex closed his game, stood up, and patted Lando’s shoulder like he was comforting a traumatized service animal.
“It’s just Dad.”
“That,” Lando whispered, eyes wide, “is the problem.”
Alex rolled his eyes and opened the door.
Oscar stood there. Frozen. Glitching. A human error message. Black hoodie. Black jeans. Black shoes. Same outfit. Different tension.
But when Lando stepped into view behind Alex— Oscar forgot how to inhale.
Lando looked… God. Beautiful didn’t cover it.
Alive. Warm. Blue-shirted. Curls perfect.
Eyes soft. Smelling like citrus and longing. Oscar’s heartbeat tried to escape his body via ribcage explosion.
Meanwhile, Lando also stopped functioning.
Because Oscar, messy hair, hoodie sleeves pushed up, mouth soft, eyes gentle— looked like someone took every weakness Lando had and arranged it in his doorway.
His knees actually weakened. Physically. Because Oscar always had that effect on him. Always.
Alex looked between them. He nearly gagged. “Oh my god. Say hi like normal people.”
Oscar cleared his throat, voice soft. “H—hi.”
Lando clutched the doorframe like it was life support. “Hi,” he breathed, voice trembling like a wet chihuahua.
They stared. Blushed. Stared again.
Alex resisted the urge to launch himself into the sun.
“Okay,” he declared loudly, grabbing his backpack, “let’s go before I lose any more brain cells.”
Oscar blinked, startled back to life. He stepped aside awkwardly, shy.
“Um—yeah. I parked outside. We can… go together.”
Lando nodded too enthusiastically. “Okay! Yes! Let’s—let’s do that.” They both tried to move through the doorway at the same time.
They nearly collided. Alex shoved between them.
Idiots. Both of them.
But as he walked out ahead, he felt something shift in the air behind him.
Something warm. Something familiar.
Something that had been broken… but maybe not beyond repair.
Something was starting again. And Alex was absolutely going to make sure it finished.
The moment they stepped outside, Oscar rushed ahead to open the passenger door for Lando.
He didn’t mean to. It wasn’t premeditated. It was pure muscle memory from a life where they used to do this every day.
And Lando— Lando froze for half a second, eyes wide, cheeks pink— before slipping into the front seat like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Alex watched the whole thing with dead eyes. He climbed into the backseat, shutting the door quietly, like someone resigning himself to fate.
Oscar got into the driver’s seat, nervous hands gripping the wheel like it might run away if he didn’t hold on tight.
Lando buckled his seatbelt, smoothing down his blue shirt in that way he always did when he was flustered. Alex could practically hear the tension in the air.
Silence.
A soft cough.
Oscar adjusted the mirror. Not for safety. Not for the road.
To see Alex. To avoid staring too long at the man sitting next to him.
“Um… where to, Alex?” Oscar asked.
His voice was gentle. Too gentle. The kind of gentle that meant he was trying very hard to appear unaffected.
Alex raised an eyebrow at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He could feel the emotional turbulence radiating off both parents like heat waves.
He sighed. “A new Korean barbecue place,” Alex answered. “I want to try it.”
Lando perked up immediately. “Oh! Korean barbecue?! That’s cute! Oh my gosh, I love that for us— I mean, for you— I mean, for lunch— I mean—”
He slapped a hand over his mouth, horrified at himself.
Alex slid lower in his seat. Oscar gave a tiny laugh — one of those soft, genuine ones he used to make when Lando was embarrassing himself in the most endearing way.
“Okay,” Oscar said quietly, eyes flicking to Lando for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Korean barbecue it is.”
Lando sank into his seat like a wilting flower.
The car started moving. Alex, meanwhile, tried very hard not to scream into his jacket.
The first three minutes were silent.
Not peaceful silent. Not comfortable silent.
No — the kind of electric, blistering silence that made Alex feel like he’d walked into a slow-burn fanfiction and was trapped in the filler chapter where both idiots refused to talk.
Lando kept fidgeting with his seatbelt. Then his sleeves. Then his hair. Then his seatbelt again.
Holy god, he was a mess. Oscar kept gripping the wheel tighter every time Lando sighed, like he physically felt every shift in Lando’s mood.
At one point, Oscar reached to adjust the AC — his hand brushed Lando’s — and both of them jolted like they’d been electrocuted.
Alex buried his face in his hoodie. “Kill me,” he whispered to himself. “Someone kill me now.”
Oscar cleared his throat again. It sounded painful.
“So…” Oscar said, voice too casual to be casual, “this new place—what’s it like? Did you hear about it from a friend?”
Alex blinked at the mirror. “Oh,” he said, dry as sand, “Papa found it. He said I wanted to go.”
Lando, from the passenger seat, made a strangled noise. “I—I DIDN’T SAY THAT! I just— I thought maybe you’d like it! It looked cool! And fun! And— and the review was REALLY GOOD, OKAY?”
Oscar raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “So it was your idea?”
Lando went bright pink. “No! I mean—yes! I mean—it’s not— I wasn’t— Alex said—”
Alex didn’t even look up from his phone. “Papa. You shoved your phone in my face at 7 a.m. and said ‘LOOK. LOOK AT THIS. WE’RE GOING.’”
Lando covered his face with both hands. “I WAS BEING ENTHUSIASTIC, NOT BOSSY.”
Oscar snorted. A real, unfiltered, undignified snort.
Lando’s head snapped up, scandalized. “Are you— laughing at me?!”
Oscar coughed, straightening. “No. No, of course not.”
Another snort escaped. Lando gasped. “OH MY GOD YOU ARE.”
Oscar blushed. HARD. He nearly swerved.
Lando turned his entire face toward the window, blushing so aggressively it reflected off the glass.
Alex put a hand over his mouth to hold in his scream. He was in hell. A front-row seat to divorced ex-husbands flirting while pretending they weren’t flirting.
This was possibly the worst day of his life. The car finally turned onto the street of the Korean barbecue restaurant.
“Okay,” Oscar said gently, “we’re here.”
Lando let out a breath he’d apparently been holding the entire drive.
Alex unbuckled, muttering, “Thank god,” under his breath.
Neither adult heard him.
They were too busy sneaking glances at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking.
Idiots.
Absolute idiots.
And Alex?
Absolutely third-wheeling. But he wasn’t done yet.
Oh no.
This was only the beginning. Operation Reunite My Idiot parents was in full motion. And lunch was about to get very interesting.
The hostess led them to a booth near the back — the kind of booth designed for cozy couples or small families who actually functioned like normal human beings.
Warm lighting, wooden partitions, a small table, and a grill directly in the center.
Perfect for a nice family lunch.
Horrific for a child watching two divorced idiots pretend they weren’t still in love.
Alex slid in first, claiming the side that faced both of his parents. He needed the vantage point. The strategic view. The ability to witness every tragic micro-expression in real time.
Oscar and Lando sat on the opposite side.
Together.
Too close.
Way, way too close.
They both did the same thing — leaned away, inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter, like two magnets desperately trying to repel but stuck in a booth too small to allow proper emotional avoidance. Eventually their shoulders met the wall.
And that was it. Now they were sitting rigidly, politely, awkwardly — two divorced adults accidentally recreating the energy of a first date they never admitted to having.
Alex sighed, long and dramatic. He was never going to escape these two.
A staff member approached with a tray full of marinated meats, banchan, dipping sauces, and a cheerful smile that did not yet know she was walking into a custody battle of repressed emotions.
She turned on the grill.
It hissed. Sizzled. Filled the air with warmth.
Lando perked up with childlike excitement. Oscar visibly tensed, like someone had just handed Lando a chainsaw.
Then — the critical moment. The staff handed Lando the tongs. Alex’s soul ascended immediately. If there was one universal truth, Lando Norris with cooking tools was a health hazard.
“There!” Lando announced, dropping the first slices of beef with the confidence of a man who had never burned an entire kitchen. “Listen to that sizzle! LOOK AT IT!”
Alex stared at him, unimpressed. “Yes, Papa. It is… sizzling.”
Lando beamed like he had personally invented fire.
Oscar watched him with such a soft expression that Alex wanted to fling kimchi at him. The man looked like he was witnessing the birth of a star.
When the meat finished cooking, something shifted.
Lando, without thinking, slipped into old habits — the ones older than the divorce, older than the arguments, older than the heartbreak.
He portioned food for others first. He placed a piece on Alex’s plate. “Here you go, sweetheart.”
Alex smiled. “Thanks, Papa.” Then Lando turned to Oscar. His hand hovered. Just hovered in the air — uncertain, hesitant, painfully gentle.
As if he didn’t know if he should do this anymore. As if ex-husbands needed permission to still be loved.
But his body remembered what his mind tried to forget. And Lando set a piece of meat onto Oscar’s plate. “…Here,” he murmured. “For you.”
Oscar froze. He looked down at the meat like it was a love letter disguised as lunch.
He swallowed hard. “Thanks,” he whispered. And then — the crime.
The flirting felony. The moment that nearly murdered Alex Dunne in broad daylight.
Oscar leaned slightly toward Lando while reaching for his chopsticks. He saw how close Lando’s wrist was to the scorching edge of the grill — bare skin, no awareness, pure disaster potential —
And he said, softly, gently, intimately.
“Careful with your hands…” The world fell silent.
The grill hissed. The air stilled. Alex’s sanity disintegrated.
Lando’s entire body went still. His cheeks turned pink. His eyes widened. He made the tiniest breathy sound — “Oh— um. Yeah. Right. Thanks.”
Oscar cleared his throat so violently he almost swallowed it. Alex let his chopsticks clatter onto the table.
“Are you two serious right now?” he asked, monotone with suffering. Both adults jolted. “What?!” Lando squeaked, voice cracking like a teenager.
“We’re just eating,” Oscar insisted, staring directly at the wall.
“No you’re not,” Alex said. “You’re flirting over meat.”
“I WOULD NEVER—!” Lando gasped.
“You literally just served him food like he’s your boyfriend,” Alex replied.
“I did NOT hand-feed—”
“You were one centimeter away.”
Lando opened his mouth. Closed it. Kicked Oscar under the table.
Oscar jerked — then their legs tangled.
Of course they did.
Alex closed his eyes. He was losing neurons. Rapidly.
Lunch continued.
The meat sizzled. Chopsticks clinked. Lando giggled once — actually giggled — when Oscar burned a piece and cursed softly in annoyance. Oscar kept eyeing Lando’s hands like they were fragile works of art. Lando kept “accidentally” brushing their knees.
Alex ate silently.
Watching. Analyzing. Plotting.
Because today? Today was a win. A big one.
The spark was still there. The softness. The care. The stupid, ridiculous love. All Alex needed to do… was push just a little more. And they’d crack themselves open.
By the time the first round of meat disappeared, Alex was already holding the tongs.
Not because he wanted to. Not because he enjoyed being the family chef. But because Papa was too emotionally unstable to be trusted near fire, and Dad kept staring at Papa like he was contemplating slow-roasting him out of devotion.
So Alex — the only functional human in this booth — took charge.
He placed more meat on the grill. The sizzling sound filled the air as smoke curled upward, savory and warm.
He flipped the slices with practiced ease. Sixteen years old, top of his class, and apparently the only adult at this table.
Across from him sat two men doing their worst impression of normal parents. Lando dabbed his forehead dramatically with a napkin. “So! School!” Lando said too brightly, voice wobbling like a faulty car engine. “How’s school?!”
Alex stared. “It’s school.”
Lando clutched his chest like someone had stabbed him through the heart. “Oh, sweetheart… my baby… you’re already so grown…”
Oscar sipped his tea. “Lan, he’s literally eating half the grill.”
“That’s because he’s a growing boy!” Lando sniffed.
Alex flipped another slice. “A growing boy who has a math test on Monday.”
Lando gasped. “WHY ARE THEY GIVING YOU MATH TESTS AT SIXTEEN? He’s a child!”
“Papa, I’m taller than you.”
“That’s NOT the point!”
Oscar choked on his tea trying to hide laughter.
Then it happened. The shift. The tremble. The telltale quiver of Lando Norris’ emotional stability collapsing.
“Oh no,” Alex muttered, already exhausted.
Lando took a deep breath, voice shaking: “Next year… you’ll be seventeen…”
Alex blinked. “Yeah.”
“And then eighteen…”
“Correct.”
“And then…” Lando’s voice cracked with the melodrama of a Victorian widow, “AND THEN YOU’LL LEAVE MEEEEEEEEE—”
Oscar didn't even flinch at the public meltdown. He simply grabbed tissues off the table and handed them to Lando with gentle, practiced precision.
“It’s okay,” Oscar said softly, in that illegal tone of voice he only used with Lando.
“IT’S NOT OKAY,” Lando wailed. “HE’S GROWING! HE’S GETTING OLDER! HE’S an adult!”
“Lan…” Oscar tried not to laugh. “He was literally a baby once. This is called aging.”
“TIME IS EVIL!”
Oscar reached out and brushed a curl off Lando’s forehead before realizing what he was doing — then yanked his hand back like the curl had bitten him.
Lando just stared at him, pink-cheeked and blinking. Oscar stared at the wall like it had personally saved his life. Alex grilled another slice aggressively.
He slapped it onto Lando’s plate. “Eat before you dramatic-cry yourself unconscious.”
Lando sniffed, taking a bite as if this were his final meal.
Oscar slid more tissues across the table.
“Lan,” Oscar murmured, “he’s still here. He’s not leaving yet.”
“FOR NOW!” Lando hiccupped.
A beat of warm tension.
Then Oscar said casually, almost too casually:
“Besides, college isn’t for another two years.”
Lando froze mid-chew. Alex froze mid-flip. Oscar realized too late he had made a mistake. Lando slowly lowered his chopsticks, eyes widening.
“College?” Lando whispered like it was a death sentence.
Alex rolled his eyes. “Yes, Papa. College exists.”
Lando’s voice rose in panic. “WHERE?! Where are you going?!”
Alex shrugged. “I’m keeping my options open.”
Lando’s entire soul left his body.
“No,” Lando said immediately. “No America.”
Oscar blinked. “He didn’t say America.”
“I CAN FEEL IT,” Lando declared dramatically. “One day he’ll wake up and say, ‘Papa, I want to go to New York!’ OR CALIFORNIA! OR SOMEWHERE WITH BEARS! OR GUNS! OR— AMERICAN PORTIONS!”
Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lando, you can’t cage him here.”
“I CAN AND I WILL.”
“Lan…”
“He can study in London!” Lando announced. “Or— or Oxford! Or Cambridge! Or anywhere within train distance!”
Alex stared. “I can’t pick a college based on your separation anxiety.”
“YES YOU CAN!”
Oscar sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.
“Lando… he needs to grow. Wherever he wants.”
Lando glared. “No. If he goes to America, I will follow him.”
Alex’s jaw dropped. “You’re going to follow me?”
“Yes!” Lando said without hesitation. “I will rent an apartment across the street! I will learn how to use a leaf blower if that’s what American dads do! I don’t care!”
Oscar burst into laughter — proper laughter — hand covering his mouth as he leaned into the booth, shoulders shaking.
Lando puffed up like a furious, betrayed puppy. “WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?!”
Oscar wiped his eyes, breathless. “Because you’re… you’re adorable.”
Lando froze.
Oscar froze.
Alex froze so hard he forgot the meat on the grill. For a solid three seconds, no one breathed. Then Lando’s cheeks turned pink. A soft pink. A painfully obvious pink.
Oscar looked away like he'd just confessed a felony. Alex stared at the ceiling. “I am never bringing you two into public again,” he said to no one.
But the damage was done. The flirting had happened. The softness rekindled. The emotional tension thick enough to grill meat on.
Operation: Reunite My Idiot Parents?
Still ongoing. Unfortunately, they’re already acting like they’re halfway to renewing their vows.
Alex smirked. He couldn’t wait for the next development— and with the way these two were behaving, “remarriage” was practically flashing in neon.