I'm halfway to the Williams garage when Carlos' laugh reaches my ears.

He's near the edge of the paddock, leaning back against a barrier with a couple of drivers, posture loose, conversation unguarded. A few mechanics are still packing up nearby, pretending not to listen in the way people always do when they absolutely are. Alex is there too but not in the circle, off to one side by himself, present but not involved. I am tempted to come over to ask him why, but I don't make it that far.

"Lando", Carlos calls out, warm and friendly, "Come over here".

I hesitate for a minute, but then remind myself this is safe. All my friends are here and nothing bad can happen. Just some chatting at the end of the day.

They're talking about Monaco — the margins, the pressure, how the place gets inside your head if you let it. Someone jokes about how one bad weekend here can tilt an entire season. Carlos nods along, amused.

"When I was at McLaren", he says casually like he's reminiscing of our good old days, "things were simple. Now it's complicated as hell when drivers can't even focus on such a simple task as driving."

I feel that subtle shifts before Carlos finishes the sentence, fully understand what's hidden under his joke.

"And that's how you end up with a defeated season and the World Champion title out of reach", Carlos continues, still smiling as his eyes flick to me with curiosity, "You know that, right, Lando?"

The words hang there, polished and harmless on the surface. No one reacts outright. There's a soft chuckle somewhere, a hum of half-heartedly agreement. No one looks directly at me and no one looks away fast enough either.

I know exactly who he aims and my mind flashes with the way Oscar held me like staying with me was a choice, was his choice. But Carlos never made me his choice, no matter how much I begged him to stay. So I turn my head slightly and answer Carlos, as easy as breathing.

"Funny, because what I see every day is someone who's locked the fuck in". I'm surprised with my own even tone, "So maybe don't pull his name into stories to explain things you won't ever understand, yeah?"

Silence stretches, thin and unmistakable. Carlos blinks, surprise spreads across his face before it smooths out. He doesn't argue. He doesn't push either. He just nods once, like the conversation has reached a natural end.

No one says anything else.

People drift apart under the excuse of things to do and places to be. I stand there for a second longer than necessary, pulse loud in my ears, wondering when I became the kind of person who steps into moments of heat like that instead of around them.

I feel Oscar before I see him.

He steps out from behind one of the motorhomes, expression unreadable, eyes steady. He looks at me like he's measuring something then jerks his chin toward our garage.

"Come on," he says quietly. "Let's go back, Andrea is looking for you".

No comment. No reaction of whatever just happened out there.

As we walk away side by side, close but not touching, relief and scare sits together in my chest. Oscar never asks me to defend him but no one could ever talk shit about him when I'm present either, because I won't ever let it pass without consequences.

Leaving the circuit feels like shedding a skin I'm not sure I needed anymore.

The walk back to the car is routine and dull, which feels wrong after the kind of day Monaco demands. I nod to people, answer everything and nothing at once then let the noise slide past me without writing any down to my memory. By the time I reach the apartment, the adrenaline has drained away, leaving something quieter behind.

I kick my shoes off by the door and drop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling as I wait for a knock to come. Overestimated my possibility of being awake, I drift off soon after and only wake up when the knock comes an hour later. Soft and careful, like the door might bite him.

When I finally stand up to open it, I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Oscar is standing there in a ridiculous oversized hoodie, cap pulled low, sunglasses still on despite the fact that it's very much nighttime. His long wavy hair is now in a bun, being put back by a decent amount of hair gel. He clears his throat before speaking, "Hi. My name is Kangaroo. I don't know any Piastri around".

I stare at him for a second, shove him inside then start to laugh hysterically. "Wow, convincing. All Monaco is completely fooled".

The moment the door clicks shut, he presses his back against it and exhales so hard, ripping off the sunglasses. "Oh my fucking God", he says, running a hand through his hair. "That was stressful as hell".

"You have got the worst cover, like the worst. Maybe call Leclerc sometimes to get his advice?", I suggest.

"I almost got recognized", he says indignantly. "Someone stared at me for a full five seconds".

"Because you were wearing sunglasses indoors."

"That's not the point."

I'm smiling before I can stop myself. My cheeks are in pain because of how wide the smile is, but I don't care. Oscar crosses the room and drops onto the couch then pulls me down with him. Just with a swift motion, I'm already in his arms like the most natural thing ever. Then he leans over and kisses me.

The kiss is not rushed or careful, just full of certainties and lust. I kiss him back immediately, hands finding his hoodie, fingers curling there like they know exactly what to do.

"Worth it", he murmurs against my mouth.

"Definitely", I say, breathless.

We pull apart just enough to look at each other, noses touching. His eyes are bright, softer than they ever are in public and it hits me again how different he looks when he's not performing for anyone. That shade of hazel is something I would willingly to die for.

I hesitate, then ask quietly, "What did you hear?"

He knows exactly what I mean. Oscar shrugs, "Enough to get the idea." He pauses, then adds, "I didn't need you to step in".

I nod, expected that.

"But", he says, softer now, eyes steady on mine, "thank you".

That's it. No big talk. No unpacking every implication. Just gratitude placed gently between us.

I lean in again, slower this time, kissing him hungrily. He hums quietly, hand sliding up to cradle the back of my neck, thumb brushing my skin.

"I hate sneaking around," he admits quietly, lips still close. "But I'd do it again and again just for you".

"Because I'm the best thing ever in your life and so so irresistible?"

"You are more than the best thing in my life, Lando."

I was gonna just tease him at first, didn't know he would be that serious about it. Damn if my heart didn't melt completely at his confession. We end up lying back against the cushions, sprawl together in a way that feels natural now. His head on my chest. My arm around him.

He presses a kiss to my collarbone, then another, then looks up at me - "You know," he says lightly, "for someone who claims he doesn't do drama, you're very dramatic".

I snort. "You're the one in disguise".

"Fair".

We laugh quietly, the sound soft and private, and then he kisses me again, deeper this time, like he's not in a hurry and doesn't need to be. I don't say I love you. But the thought is there, warm and steady, no longer sharp enough to scare me.

The moment Oscar's mouth open under mine, everything makes sense again. Seeing each other from the other side of the garage is too much for me to bear, sometimes I feel like I'm a mad man in love. I keep kissing and kissing Oscar, a desperate attempt to let him know how much I want to be with him. I try to tell him everything I can't afford to say out loud with my kiss, my hands, my body.

We stumble toward the bedroom, hands everywhere, urgency overtaking coordination. Delight to see such a hard bulge growing in his pants, I shove him on the bed, stay on top of him. I pull Oscar's shirt over his head, then mine, clumsy and impatient as hell. Not having that much experience so I just do one thing I guess I could be good at – grinding against his hips until his hands reach for my shorts, gently pulling it down.

"You sure?", Oscar looks up at me, still asking for permission, "There's no going back from this Lando".

I am going crazy over here and that guy still has the audacity to ask me again. Am I in love with a nun or a nerd, this I cannot say. But all those mocking can be saved for later, as the only thing in my mind right now is how Oscar's length feels on me. So I lock my gaze with him and plea, "Oscar, please give me what I have been yearning for".

***

Monaco Grand Prix has always been my favorite.

I have said it for years, meant it too. The precision. The punishment. The way it demands respect instead of bravado. But lately with everything pressing in from everywhere, I'm not sure if that is still true – or if I'd been clinging to the idea of it because the heat of Monaco used to feel familiar.

When my car rolls onto the grid, the doubt is still there, presents right in front of my eyes. It fades quickly by the third corner though. The car moves the way it always has, but I don't. Not in the way I've been moving lately. There's no tightness in my chest, no buzzing panic under my skin. The thoughts that have been clawing at me for weeks don't follow me into the cockpit. They don't fit here.

Monaco doesn't reward chaos, so I don't bring any with me.

I drive clean. Not cautiously but decisively. Each corner arrives exactly when I expect it to, each braking point met without argument. I'm blending in the track and it welcomes me with open arms.

And somewhere between Sainte Dévote and the tunnel, the realization lands so hard it almost knocks the breath out of me. I am the only thing has turned different. The car, the setup, our strategy remains the same as other previous races, it's only me who has changed.

I'm not bracing for impact anymore. I'm not driving like I'm waiting for something to be taken away. The constant tension I've been carrying — the vigilance, the fear — it's gone, stripped clean, leaving something steadier in its place.

Oscar's face flashes through my mind, uninvited and undeniable. Just the quiet certainty of him. Being with him didn't add noise to my life — it took it away.

My mind drifts to the apartment where we spent peaceful time together with loud and careless laughter behind locked doors. I choose him and this relationship over fears and doubt, and I would never regret it.

The radio crackles but it feels distant, like it belongs to another version of me. I answer when needed, keep my voice even, my hands steady. There's no room for panic or second-guessing. The walls are still there, close enough to punish the slightest mistakes but they don't feel like threats I'm scared of anymore.

When the chequered flag comes out, it feels almost inevitable.
Winner of the day – Lando Norris.

There's a flicker of satisfaction, but it's not explosive. Standing in parc fermé later, cameras flashing, voices overlapping, the truth settles in fully — heavy, impossible to ignore: Choosing Oscar didn't distract me. It steadied me.

All this time, I thought loving him would cost me something I couldn't afford in this sport. That it would make me slower, softer, less sharp. But Monaco doesn't lie. It exposes what you bring into the track.

And what I brought today wasn't fear. It was clarity.

I walk back to our usual debrief room only to see it's already filled with people. PR, marketing, strategists, engineers – you name them, you see them. They don't ask but insist on us going to the after-race party. It's dressed up in polite language with endless important words as sponsors, visibility, have fun, celebration, Monaco tradition.

Zak relays it like a minor inconvenience but Oscar doesn't even wait for Zak to finish his sentence.
"No, we are not going", he says firmly.

I add mine a second later, "That would be a bad idea".

The room is left in confusion, as I used to be the first one to cry for a post-race after party in Monaco, insisted everyone had to show up. Someone mentions optics, someone else chimes in "it'll look worse if you don't show". The word "rumors" hovers without anyone brave enough to say it out loud, so they replace with "it". Zak's jaw flexes but Oscar doesn't even care.

"McLaren doesn't need its drivers clinking glasses on a yacht pretending they are superior and everything going on is just a champagne problem".

Silence. Zak exhales through his nose, tired in a way that has nothing to do with this weekend. "That's fine", he finally makes the decision, "We don't need more trouble to take care of. No party then".

The party goes on without us, eagerness spreads out all over the garage. None of it matters to me.

I'm back at the apartment earlier than I expect, still wired, still restless. The win hasn't settled yet. Neither has the waiting. I pace, straighten cushions that are perfectly set aside. I wipe down a counter that's already spotless, just to give my hands something to do.

When the door finally opens, I turn too fast.

Oscar slips inside barefoot, shoes dangling from his fingers. He's wearing a huge Ferrari-red shirt that definitely isn't his, hanging off him like a crime scene. The color is so wrong it almost makes me laugh.

"Before you say anything", he says quietly, already smiling, "I had to".

"Red is definitely not your color, never consider joining Ferrari for real", I tell him.

"Only if you come with me. Leclerc can pull off orange, I guess", he replies, shrugging.

The door clicks shut behind him and the apartment exhales with us. We don't rush. We have no reason to. He presses a kiss to my mouth like he's been saving it all night, like it's something private and defiant all at once. I kiss him back, hands sliding under the ridiculous shirt, let myself fall under Oscar's touch.

He tells me he has to leave early. Before sunrise. Less chance of being seen.

"Wake me", I say immediately. "I want to say goodbye".

He nods. "I will".

We lie together after, the city finally sleeping outside. He traces idle patterns on my arm. I tuck my face into his neck and breathe him in, committing the moment to memory like it might be rationed later. I kiss him carefully, carving the moment in my subconscious. He kisses me back with the same care, neither of us wants to be the first to break it.

Sleep takes me away no matter how much I say "I want to stay awake all night with you". Sleeping in his arms always feels like the easiest thing to do.

But the warmth is gone and now I wake up to light with no one by my side. The bed is empty.

For a split second, the absence hits hard enough to steal my breath. Panic flares, sharp and instinctive, until I see a note on the bedside table. Folded twice neatly – such a nerdy move of Oscar. I open it carefully.

Didn't wake you.
You're adorable when you sleep.
Had to go now, see u in Canada
Zak's still monitoring my phone, so don't text :)

There's no signature, there doesn't need to be.

I sit there longer than I need to, the note warm in my hand, the bed still holding the shape of him. Eventually, I stand and step out onto the balcony. Monaco is quiet in the early morning. The city looks innocent, like it didn't just demand everything from me yesterday.

The apartment feels hollow again. Not empty — worse than that. Like it remembers him.

I lean against the railing and breathe in the morning air, letting the ache settle fully where it belongs. I miss him already. The sound of his voice. The weight of him beside me. The way he makes even this place feel less lonely.

Home isn't Monaco anymore, it's wherever I could be with Oscar. I laugh at how fast my thought could change in the span of 24 hours but why would I be bother?