Formula One Shots

Authors Note/

 I've wanted to write about Oscar and Doriane for a while — I don't know why but In my heart they feel like a perfect match? 

Hope you'll enjoy!

Pov will start with Oscar and switch between them throughout the chapter.

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Oscar's pov/

It wasn't even my session. I was supposed to be focused on the collected data from my own race, hydrating, maybe comparing some telemetry from Lando too before the post-race debrief. 

But instead, I was leaning against the back wall of the McLaren garage, eyes glued to the live feed of the F1 Academy — watching her moves on the track like I had to write a report about it afterward.

"Thirty-one four... holy shit, she's pushing hard into Sector 2."

It slipped out before I even realized — barely more than a breath, but still loud enough to break the relative quiet of the garage. The engineers around me didn't even blink. They were used to my quiet muttering. It's just that lately... it was her name. Her times. Her driving.

Doriane Pin.

I'd been following her for a while. Quietly. Casually at first. A couple clips from Spa. A race replay from the Ferrari Challenge days. Then the move to Mercedes, the F1 Academy buzz, the podium interviews that showed she had the steel to match the speed. 

She was something else — fire and calculation, like someone had mixed Lauda's race craft with Leclerc's finesse and strapped it into a twenty-year-old French girl with zero patience for anyone's bullshit.

Now here she was, carving through the Melbourne support grid like a samurai. Her lines were savage. Her overtakes — art. 

She went into corners late and came out earlier than physics should allow. A move in the chicane near Turn 11 made my breath hitch like I'd just been slapped.

"Oh my god," Lando's voice sounded somewhere between horrified and delighted, "you're doing it again mate."

I jumped, blinking out of my hyper-focus as he popped up beside me, munching noisily on some horrifying energy bar — nuts between his teeth. 

"Doing what?" I asked, very much aware of the heat creeping up my neck.

"You were whispering her times like a bloody commentator in a trance," he grinned, pointing at the monitor, "and don't pretend this is the first time. I caught you rewatching her Barcelona onboard last week. And before you say 'just analyzing technique' again — mate, you're obviously fanboying."

"What? Definitely not," I said — already too defensive to sound convincing. The heat reached my chin. "It's not like that, just... she's good."

"She's insane," Lando agreed. "In the best way. But come on. The flushed cheeks? The whispering? You looked like you were about to ask the screen out for dinner." He laughed.

I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling my blush stretch from collarbone to earlobe. "You're exaggerating." I chuckled.

"Am I?" he said, raising a smug eyebrow and dramatically imitating my voice: "'Sector 2 — thirty-one four... That's her best lap yet.'" He looked at me like he'd just cracked some long-unsolved code. "You're so into her."