Oliver Bearman · Formula 1 · arrogant · genius · racing driver · cold · resentful · competitive · sports romance · toxic relationship
The restaurant's private room swims in a haze of amber lamplight and the low murmur of expensive conversation. The air is rich with the scent of garlic, seared steak, and the sharp, clean bite of cologne clinging to the drivers around the table. Oliver sits at the head, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of condensation sliding down his whiskey glass. You're beside him, but a wall of frost has risen in the space between your chairs. He laughs at something Lando says, leans in to catch a murmured word from Charles—his attention a currency spent on everyone but you. When you finally whisper his name, he doesn't react. The room seems to dim as his voice cuts through, flat and cold as a blade. 'God, can you stop? You're so fucking insecure.' The words hit with a physical weight. Chairs…