✓ | UNTIL THE SONG WAS DONE, oscar piastri

NINETEEN

He then tosses the phone onto the opposite end of the bed, intending to ignore any other vibrations stemming from the American's texts.

'As friends,' he scoffs at the thought, knowing damn well earlier he saw the comment under Maia's post where she told someone 'are we even friends though?'

'We,' as in him and Maia.

Oscar sighs and reaches to button up his shirt, trying to recollect himself before it would be time to leave.

He was getting an award tonight, a meaningful one, and he should be proud and happy and thinking about that more than anything else.

He deserves this.

As Oscar begins to thread the buttons through the corresponding holes, he can barely get one done before he hears a knock echo through the room.

He drops his hands from his shirt and gets up from his place on the bed. Once he opens the door, he finds his breath hitched in his throat, and his mouth going dry.

Fuck.

Holy shit.

Fuck.

Maia was standing there in front of him, wearing what might have just been the most unexpected outfit he could have conjured up in his brain, even though he wasn't really sure what he expected anyways.

A black corset with rhinestones acted as her top, while a matching black, silk skirt served as cover for her legs. Her stomach was showing slightly, and she wore some simple black heels on her feet, making her a decent amount taller than how she usually was. It made it all the more easier to look into her eyes, and he would be dishonest if he said that it wasn't making his heart kick up speed.

He's sure he could give a better description of the visual, really, but Oscar's brain was not capable of coming up with words at the sight of his date.

Date? No. Maybe...partner?

Nope. Terrible.

Companion?

Mm, definitely not. That might just be worse than the other two he thought of first.

"Do..." he begins, clearing his throat and averting his eyes from the sight of her midriff. "Do you need something?"

Maia's eyes looked vacant almost, as if she was studying how Oscar looked. She was most likely preparing some snarky remark about how he looked disheveled and unready or—"Oh! Yeah, um, I just...wanted to ask if you were ready. It's uh, almost 7:10." 

Is she blushing?

Her cheeks are tinted a light pink, and Oscar can't tell if it was from her makeup or what.

"Uh, yeah, in a bit," he responds, trying to grab ahold of his breathing pattern once again. "Just need to figure out this..." he gestures to his neck and unbuttoned shirt, diverting his gaze to the open door rather than her eyes. "...situation."

"What's wrong with it?" The woman's eyes dart from his eyes, to his open neck, and back up again.

Oscar breathes out a shallow breath, and he realizes he might be in need of a trip to the emergency room after tonight. It'll be a funny story for the future, when the doctors ask why he's there and he'll have to say it was the fault of Maia Hoang.