Monaco at night is almost cruel in how stunning it is.

The city glows the way it always does, gold spilling down the hillside, expensive yachts anchored like secret in the dark water. I have lived here long enough that this should feel ordinary, but tonight it doesn't.

I drop my suitcase by the door and don't even bother to turn on all the light. The apartment is immaculate and hollow but at least it's something I can call mine. Picking up my phone out of the bag, I already know what I'm going to type down.
Lando: Door code's unchanged.

I stare at the message and feel the relief washes through me when the reply comes within a minute.
Oscar Piastri: ETA 11pm.

The waiting is unbearable, especially when you have already lost the rights to want openly. I slide the balcony doors open to welcome some cool night air in, as to remind myself that I am here and everything is real. My mind unwillingly drifts to the thought of not having Oscar and how it slowly kills me from the inside. I don't think I would ever be able to recover from that kind of pain.

When the door finally opens, it's silent. No knock nor announcement needed – I am waiting for no one other than that one guy only. The sound of the lock turning stops and before I take another breath, Oscar is already inside, looking like he belongs here.

I walk over to lock the door again, something in his posture softens and he exhales like his body only now remember it's allowed to. Neither of us speaks, not wanting to break this fragile moment.

But then Oscar is suddenly in front of me, close enough that the world narrows to the space between us. He leans in for a hug, and I hold him back even tighter, as if he's the only thing keeping me on my feet. We stand there for what feels like forever, no words needed to express ourselves. In his arms, I found myself again, calm and clear.

Fuck all those enforcements, fuck all the policies.

My hands are on him before any nasty thoughts catch up. My fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, his shorts, ground myself in the proof that he's real and here, no longer pretending that he doesn't want to look at me. His forehead drops against my own, his lips on mine, exhales my name like it's been trapped in his lungs for weeks.

I pour every emotion left in me in that kiss – hunger, desperate, hope, longingness. Oscar's chocolate scene is everywhere, filled my lungs with reassurance in the calmest way possible.

"God", he mutters, almost a laugh, "Being away from you is torture. How am I supposed to do it again now that I remember what your lips feel like?"

I don't argue. I can't. I pull him closer until there is no space left between us, not even the thinnest thread can go over.

"I don't want to be the reason they take everything from you", he says finally, the edge of fear slipping through, "I don't want to kill off your dream."

Oscar's hands are still on me when I answer, thumbs brushing my ribs like he's counting my breaths to make sure I am not a ghost of his dream, "And I don't want you turned into the problem. I don't want them deciding you're easier to blame than to protect."

We stand there, bodies still pressed together, both of us saying the same thing without saying it.

"I won't ever leave you".

"I won't ever leave you either", I say back, not louder but firmer.

We sink into the couch eventually, tangled more than sitting, his leg hooked over mine, my arm around his shoulders like it's been trained to be there. Outside, the city keeps glowing, filled with noises. Inside this small apartment of mine, everything is too much and not enough all at once. Oscar drifts off to his sleep, relaxes a bit when I'm around.

When Oscar's head settles against my chest, the truth rises up so fast it almost escapes my mouth – "I love you". It presses against my throat, shining in such incandescent glow. I feel it there as clearly as I feel his heartbeat under my palm. But I don't say it yet, not when I don't trust myself enough.

I kiss his hair, his temple, his cheeks, hoping he would forgive for my coward. The kisses are slow enough like I'm mapping something sacred with my lips. Fear, anger, uncertainties, ugly truths – none of them matters when I'm lying next to him.

Oscar doesn't know about the great war going on in my head but still, in his subconsciousness, he shifts closer to me, arm tightening around my waist, possessive and sure. Like he's already answered me in a language I haven't learned how to doubt.

I wake him up as gentle as possible, face close enough that he can feel my ticklish hair on his nose. "Let's go to bed Osc".

***

I wake up slowly, like my body doesn't trust the quiet yet.

For a moment I don't know where I am. The light is wrong, too soft and golden, spilling though the sheer curtains. Monaco mornings always feel chilled in a very luxurious way.

Then I feel him.

Oscar is pressed against me, warm and solid, one arm slung over my waist and for a moment I thought it's always belonged there. His breathing is slow, deep, unguarded. The kind of sleep you only fall into when you don't expect to be interrupted. My heart sinks at the sight of peacefully Oscar.

We've shared rooms before. Endless hotel rooms for long weekends and duties. Exhaustion that knocked us out immediately the moment we set foot in the room. But this is different. This is waking up chosen.

I don't move at first. I just let myself exist inside the shape of us, memorizing the weight of his arm, the way his knee fits between mine, the faint warmth where his shoulder rests against my shoulder. I tell myself I'll remember this later, when things get too loud again.

He shifts, murmurs something incoherent and burrows closer. His hand tightens at my waist, pulls me in closer.

I smile into the pillow before I can stop myself. "Morning", I whisper, barely any sound at all.

His eyes blink open slowly, unfocused at first. Then they find me and something soft breaks across his face — relief, disbelief, affection.

"Oh," he breathes. "You're real."

"Unfortunately you're stuck with me for a while."

He laughs, quiet and warm. We stay like that for a long second neither of us wants to be the first to acknowledge the day waiting outside these walls.

"We're still here", he says. Not a question but simply a statement.

"Yeah. We are. Together."

We don't rush. There's no urgency, no countdown ticking in the background. We drift through the morning slowly, lazily, as if time itself has decided to give us mercy. Coffee goes cold on the counter. The city hums below, distant and irrelevant.

At some point we end up on the couch again, covered in blankets, legs thrown over each other in a mess that would look ridiculous to anyone else. He scrolls through something on his phone then pauses.

"Important question," he says seriously. "How I Met Your Mother or Friends?"

I groan. "You can't be serious."

"I am more than serious", he replies to me, eyes bright. "This is critical compatibility information."

"How I Met Your Mother is better", I answer without needed time to think. "Deeper arcs. The ending is shitty though."

He scoffs. "Friends is iconic."

"If that's your opinion," I say, sitting up dramatically, "then clearly we can't be together."

He grins, unfazed. "We're together forever. You can't run away from me. There's no "we are on a break" phrase here".

The words stuck with me for a while and I hope, truly really hope that is our future.

The fragility sneaks back in, sharp and unwelcome. I suddenly see how easily this bubble could vanish. How quickly the world would remember our existence. I don't say any of it.

I lean forward instead, kiss him like I'm trying to seal the moment into memory. Forehead to forehead, the thought of "Monaco has never felt more like home than right now" slowly seeps in.

I carry that thought with me later, when I'm strapped into the car and the world narrows to carbon fiber and instinct.

Three hundred kilometers an hour doesn't leave room for doubt. Monaco doesn't forgive hesitation. You choose a line, you commit, and you trust yourself enough not to flinch when the walls rush toward you like they mean it.

People call this place dangerous. They always have. No one ever asks if it's worth it - because the answer is obvious as daylight.

I think of him as I thread the car through corners that don't allow mistakes. I think of how close everything is, how precise it has to be, how once you turn in, there's no space to second-guess.

This is what it feels like.

Loving him isn't reckless. It's knowing exactly where the edge is and choosing it anyway.

And as I cross the line, heart steady, hands calm, I understand something with sudden, blinding clarity: If protecting this means driving closer to the wall, then I won't ever lift.