The quiet hotel room welcomes me back with the mess I never bother to clean. It makes me feel more relaxed somehow, although I know for certain Oscar's room is always as spotless as new. I drop my bag by the door and go straight to the desk, pull a sheet of paper toward me and start writing numbers like I can solve something if I line them clearly enough.

Races left.
Points available.
Average finishes.

I write Oscar's name at the top, then mine beneath it. I map it out carefully as the way we do in briefings, the way I've done a hundred times in my head during long flights.

If we both keep racing, if we both stay sharp, if neither of us has a bad weekend that spirals, we are still in this. Both of us. The championship doesn't belong to either name yet. It's still open, still breathing.

Then I take one thing away - Canada.

I draw a clean line through my name for that weekend and write a zero beside it.

The math changes instantly. The numbers just rearrange themselves into something final. One missed race doesn't wound my title fight – it brings the end to it. No amount of consistency afterwards to close the gap. No late-season brilliance rewrites a weekend where I don't exist.

The championship doesn't slip from my hands slowly. It drops cleanly, decisively, the way things do when there's no room left for denial. I have been dreaming of having my name carved on the Champion Cup for the second time even in my sleep. Not that I starve for success. I just don't want to be called daddy's son over and over again because people refuse to count how many times I have bled on the track, to pretend like the scars on my hands are invisible.

Oscar's column still holds together, even without me.

He loses ground, yes, but the structure remains. He can still fight. He can still line up on Sundays believing the year belongs to him if he's good enough. The door stays open for him. He can still do it.

But if Oscar sits out this weekend, then he'll lose his chance of touching the most prestigious Driver Championship. There's nothing he can do to reverse that outcome.

I stare at the page until my vision blurs, something old and sharp rises in my chest, a memory I hadn't invited in. Oscar, blunt as always, dumped his anger through the team's radio channel when we collided in Singapore, "If he has to avoid a collision by hitting his teammate, then he's done a pretty shitty job."

I remember nodding at his words and how sorry I was at the time. But now I'm thinking back of that day under a whole different perspective.

I choose to hit the wall this time. Take all the impact for myself, just to hope he'll be okay. I don't have many ways to protect him so this is pretty much the only thing I can do to ensure Oscar can still fight his fight. If I disappear for a weekend, he gets to keep trying.

The realization hurts more than I can bear. It doesn't come with drama or tears. It settles heavy, like pressure on the sternum, like something being pressed into place and locked. I call Zak before I can start bargaining with myself.

"I'll sit out Canada", I say immediately as he picks up his phone. My voice sounds steady, which surprises me. "If I race, the question stays open. If I don't, it closes. He still has a chance."

Zak doesn't interrupt. He doesn't try to talk me out of it, waits until I'm done talking then agrees with the decision. If I can see the outcome this clearly, he must have sensed it ages ago.

"All right", he says after a moment. "We'll proceed that way."

When the call ends, I stay where I am, that piece of paper still opens in front of me. The championship doesn't feel stolen. The cup I have been chasing all season doesn't disappear in a rush but dissolving itself into empty space with my decision.

I don't feel noble. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

This isn't sacrifice in the way people like to romanticize it. This is my own choice and whatever kind of consequence comes next, I'll take it fully.

This is love, doing what it has always done to people, quietly and without asking for permission. You put someone else first, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

***

I just woke up when the team statement goes live. In an hour, that will be the only thing pop up on my accounts no matter what platform I open, so I try to read it carefully for once to avoid reading it a hundred times later.

"McLaren MasterCard F1 Team confirms that driver Lando Norris will not participate in the upcoming Canada Grand Prix.

This decision has been made following internal discussion conducted in cooperation with the FIA as part of an ongoing technical review.

Lando Norris will make his appearance to support the team throughout the race weekend.

Further details will be addressed following the conclusion of the review process."

The statement is professional, empty in the way only corporate language can be. I can already hear how it will sound when repeated by multiple commentators in the paddock. I lock my phone and put it faced down, feeling something bitter settled behind my ribs.

I didn't even have time to think about it before the door opens without a knock.

Oscar stands there like he ran straight into my room without stopping to think, hair still damp, hoodie wrinkles, eyes wide with something between panic and disbelief. He looks at me and then the phones, eyes keep moving between us.

"What the hell is that?" – he asks, already moving deeper into the room. "I thought we were supposed to go in together this morning. I thought Zak and Andrea—" his voice breaks before he can finish. "Did they really decide this without us?"

He reaches for his own phone, thumb already moving, and I know exactly who he's about to call.

"Don't", I say, standing up and catching his wrist gently before he can step away. "Oscar, stop."

He looks at me like he doesn't recognize me, like I've just stepped into the wrong role. "No. I'm calling them. This isn't fair. This is your year too. They can't just—"

"I know", I say calmly though my chest tightens when his eyes start to shine. "But this isn't something you can argue your way out of."

He stares at me for a long second then the fight drains out of him all at once. He drops his phone onto the bed and scrubs a hand over his face, breath hitching despite his effort to keep it together. "I didn't want this", he says, voice rough. "I didn't want you to sit out."

I step closer, not rushing him, just closing the space until my presence is undeniable. When he looks up again, his eyes are wet and furious in that quiet way that hurts more than shouting ever could.

I lean in and kiss him, soft at first, deliberate, the kind of kiss meant to interrupt a spiral rather than ignite one. He freezes for half a second then melts into it, fingers curling into my shirt as if he's holding on to something solid. I kiss him again, slower this time, grounding rather than urgent, until his breathing evens out and the tension in his shoulders finally eases.

When I pull back, his forehead rests against mine. "They didn't make the decision," he asks me quietly, still not convinced of the decision. "Did they?"

I don't correct him. Not now. Not yet.

"You don't need to think much about it", I try to redirect his attention instead. "What you need to do is race. Do it on my behalf too."

He lets out a shaky laugh that doesn't quite sound like one. "You're unbelievable".

I smile faintly. "You've always known that".

He exhales, long and tired, then looks at me with an intensity that makes my stomach flips. "Okay then. Let me be your eyes and your hands this weekend. I am you on the track".

Damn if my heart doesn't melt right there in a steady and certain way. "Landoscar rule", I say lightly, though it means more than the joke lets on.

He snorts despite himself, then presses his forehead back to mine. "You're an idiot."

I don't hesitate. "Yeah. But I'm yours."

That finally breaks something open in him, and he laughs softly, tears slipping free anyway. He kisses me unguarded and sincere and I let myself sink into it without thinking about tomorrow or headlines or consequences.

I know I am not waiting for Canada Grand Prix to come, but I sure want to see how Oscar can race freely without any fears following him around.