Haileybury College didn't feel like home—not to Oscar Piastri, not really. It was all cold stone and manicured hedges, a campus that smelled like rain and expectations. But it's where he was. Where she was. That made it bearable.
Oscar and Costanza had been together for almost two years—though "together" wasn't a loud word at Haileybury. It was passed between them like folded notes and quiet glances across the dining hall. A boarding school relationship required subtlety, something they'd perfected. She was all fast wit and fire under pressure, and he was the silent sort, calm until something mattered.
Then came Oliver Shellford.
British. Polished. Perfectly disheveled hair and the kind of laugh that sounded rehearsed. He joined mid-term, straight from some school in Surrey. He slid into their year like he already knew how things worked. Within days, he was asking people if they wanted to "grab a pint" even though they were seventeen and very much not in a pub.
Oscar watched it happen.
He watched Oliver orbit closer to Costanza.
It was subtle, at first. A comment about her handwriting in Economics. A lingering question about her Italian during morning break. Then: "Do you want to study together sometime?" Too casual to be serious. Too familiar to be innocent.
Cocco laughed it off the first time. "He's just bored," she said. "Don't combust over it."
Oscar didn't combust.
But he did start pressing his pen too hard when they sat next to each other in the library.
Then came the group project.
History. Twentieth Century Warfare. Mr. Caddel, a man who wore corduroy unironically, assigned random pairs. "Shellford and Piastri," he said. "Second World War propaganda. Focus on domestic morale. Due in two weeks."
Oscar didn't react. Not visibly.
Oliver turned and smiled. "Guess we're on the same team now."
The first meeting was a disaster. Oscar arrived with color-coded notes. Oliver brought a laptop and zero context.
"You're intense," Oliver said midway through their planning. "Chill, mate. It's just school."
Oscar didn't look up. "Then you should have no problem doing your part."
He redid Oliver's section the night before they presented. Rewrote the slides. Checked every source. His patience wore thinner than the tracing paper he used to map out their visual examples.
The morning of the presentation, Oscar barely spoke. He just clicked through their shared PowerPoint while Oliver gestured vaguely at wartime posters and said things like "fear-based messaging" and "British resilience."
Cocco sat in the front row. Took notes in the margin. Raised one eyebrow when Oliver claimed cinema was the "most powerful weapon" of the war.
After class, Oliver turned to Oscar with a grin. "See? Went fine."
Oscar was already packing up. "You're welcome."
That afternoon, he found Costanza in the common room. She was curled up on one of the oversized armchairs, history book open, a packet of revision flashcards splayed out on the floor.
"Good presentation," she said without looking up.
"His part was garbage."
She smirked. "I know. I saw your footnotes."
That made him pause. "You read them?"
"I always read your footnotes."
He sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It never was.
"He likes you," Oscar said.
"I know."
"And you let him."
That made her close the book.
"I'm not interested in Oliver Shellford," she said, turning toward him. "I like people who actually do their work."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "He thinks I'm just the guy who drives fast cars."
She looked at him—really looked. "No. He thinks you're the guy who doesn't say much."
Oscar looked back at her, eyes steady. "Is there a difference?"
She reached into her notebook and pulled out a folded piece of lined paper. Passed it to him.
It was one of their old notes. From last year. Pre-season, pre-tests, pre-everything. She'd written,
"We are not here to impress people. We are here to do what we do best. You: drive. Me: correct Ms. McLeod's pronunciation of Dante."
He unfolded it, then folded it back again. Slowly. Like it was something important.
"I don't care what Oliver thinks," she said softly. "And I don't want a boy who flirts with everyone. I want the boy who rewrote an entire project because he couldn't stand lazy research. The boy who color-codes citations and thinks footnotes matter."
Oscar looked down, quiet. Then: "I thought you didn't like when I got jealous."
"I don't," she said. "But I do like when you fight for something that matters."
He looked up. "You matter."
Her smile was quiet. Steady. "I know."
He leaned in, forehead to hers. There, in the middle of a silent common room filled with murmured revision and pages turning, they sat still.
And later that evening, as Oliver tried once more to sit beside Cocco in the study lounge, Oscar simply raised one eyebrow.
She smiled.
And kept walking.
....
A few days after the history presentation, the atmosphere at Wycliffe settled back into its usual rhythm—quiet competition, whispered gossip, and endless cups of bad tea during prep. But Oliver Shellford wasn't quite ready to let things drop.
He found Costanza alone in the library on a Thursday afternoon, tucked in her usual corner with a red pen in hand and two open books beside her. The air smelled like old paper and floor polish.
"Hey," Oliver said, leaning against the edge of her table.
She didn't look up right away. "If this is about your bibliography, I'm not fixing it."
He chuckled. "No, nothing academic." He sat down across from her without asking. "I just wanted to talk. Properly."
That made her pause. She set her pen down and raised an eyebrow. "Okay."
Oliver gave her what she assumed he thought was a charming smile. "Look—I know you and Piastri have a thing, but I was wondering... why?"
She blinked. "Why what?"
"Why him?" Oliver leaned in, voice low but not quite conspiratorial. "He barely talks. He walks around like he's got a permanent scowl. He's got this whole brooding vibe, and I get it, some girls are into that. But you're... not some girl."
Costanza stared at him. "You done?"
"I'm just saying," he pressed, "you and I actually talk. You laugh at my jokes. You're sharp. We'd get on, you and me."
She sat back, folding her arms. "You don't know me."
"I'd like to," he said, too quickly. "I could, if you let me."
A pause.
Then Costanza said, calmly, "I'm with Oscar."
"Yeah, but—"
"No. Not 'yeah, but.' Full stop."
Oliver hesitated, unsure if she was serious. She didn't look angry—just precise, like someone making sure the message was delivered with no room for misinterpretation.
"I'm not interested in you, Oliver. Not as a backup. Not as a maybe. Not even as a flirt."
He laughed, a little awkward. "You don't have to be rude."
"That wasn't rude. That was honest."
For a second, Oliver looked like he might protest. But then he saw something in her expression—something immovable.
So he stood, muttering something that might've been "whatever," and walked off.
Costanza exhaled through her nose and went back to underlining a quote about post-war Italy.
She didn't even notice Oscar standing at the end of the row until she turned the page.
He didn't say anything—just raised an eyebrow.
"How long were you listening?"
"Long enough to hear 'not as a maybe.'"
She smirked. "You were worried?"
Oscar shrugged. "I trust you. I don't trust him."
"He's not your problem anymore."
He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then whispered, "Still think I scowl too much?"
"No," she said without looking up. "You scowl just enough."