The knock on my hotel door comes late.

Just three careful taps, like whoever is the other side is afraid of disturbing me. I open the door without asking because the answer could only be one.

The Australian boy stands there looking like the weight of the entire weekend has finally settled into his bones. In this light, he is fragile in a way that makes my heart aches for him.

He doesn't say anything at first. Neither do I, but I quickly step aside as an inaudible invitation to let him in. The door clicks shut between us and we collide into each other's arms like two missiles someone pressed "hit" button.

Oscar buries his face into the hollow of my neck, staring at the floor beneath us like it might open and give out an answer. "Why is this happening?", his voice cracks.

I don't have the explanation either, so all I can do is pulling him in closer to me, arms wrapping around his waist with a quiet desperation. We stand there for what feels like eternity, sharing the weight without trying to fix it. His breathing evens out first, mine follows after.

Eventually Oscar breaks the contact, pulls back just enough to hide the sadness. His eyes are glassy, filled with honesty. "I'm scared Lando", he finally admits the truth.

I nod, brushing my thumb gently along his wrist. "Me too, Oscar". A confession, or maybe a promise, saying we are in this together.

Oscar leans in, hesitant, giving me time to stop him. But I don't. Our kiss is soft, lips brushing like they're learning each other for the first time. He exhales against my mouth like the world dissolves and I am the only cure.

We kiss again and again and again, so much that I lost track of time, space and whatever is going on out there. He curls into my side, head tucked under my chin, my arms wrapping around him without conscious thoughts. The bed dips under our weight, and suddenly my chest doesn't feel like collapsing anymore.

Oscar murmurs, already half-asleep beside me, fingers curl into my shirt. "Promise me something Lando."

"Anything."

"Don't give up on me". Oscar's words touched the bottom of my heart and refuse to leave, just stay stuck there.

I rest my forehead against his, answer the question firmly. "I won't, no matter what is waiting for us next."

Oscar's grip loosens, not from letting go but from finally feeling safe. We fall asleep like that, limbs over limbs, arms draping around each other like blanket. I wish time could stand still in this moment, for as long as it could.

***

Imola ends in a blur of noise and colors.

I roll past the line and lift my eyes instinctively to the results board to look for our results.
P2 – NOR
P3 – PIA

The numbers glow white against black, clean and unforgiving. Strong points, good results – the kind of finish I should be proud of. I stare at Oscar's name above mine a bit longer than necessary, relief and grief twist together in my chest. We made it through this race without any crashes or unnecessary violence, but post-race data is the scariest part of it all.

I peel into the garage, helmet still on, pulse loud in my ears. The usual end-of-race chaos is missing, replaced with the stillness. Engineers stand too straight, mechanics hovering instead of moving. And right at the edge of my vision, near the data wall, is someone I don't recall seeing.

Dark suit. FIA badge. Clipboard held with quiet authority.

My stomach drops instantly. I climb out of the car slowly, every movement feels delayed, like gravity has thicken around me and now I can't even take a small step.

Andrea is over there, Zak too. Oscar stands a few meters away, still in his suit, eyes flickering between me and the stranger with dawning horror.

The official clears his throat once, a small, polite sound that somehow lands louder than any shout could make. "This is an official notice."

He looks down at his clipboard, then back up at us without sympathy, "Effective immediately, the FIA is opening a formal telemetry investigation into the Norris - Piastri pairing."

The words fall into our garage like glass slipped out of one's hand – sharp, broken and unavoidable. Blood rushes in my ears so fast it drowns out the world. My hands go cold. Oscar looks frozen, not shocked, but hollowed out, like that damn official just put a knife in his heart with that one sentence.

All I want to do is reaching out to him, waiting for his sweet-nothing reassurances. But I can't. Because we are surrounded by camera with that red light blinking, the world is watching.

Andrea nods once, stiff and controlled, tries not to make a scene right there. Zak closes his eyes for a fraction of second, then opens them again as he's ready to enter a war. The FIA official steps back and walks away, as if he hasn't just set fire to our entire season.

That one sentence keeps looping endlessly in my head – formal telemetry investigation.