Oscar is in the shower and I'm stretched out on the bed listening to the water run, the steady sound of it fills the room as I sink in awareness about my ability of being a pervert. My mind draws a steamy scene of Oscar rubbing soap on every inch of his body, letting water carry away the tiredness of the day. Then he's all mine for the night.

It's strange how quickly everything settles into a normal pace again - sharing most nights together despite what the paperwork says, navigating the rules with the confidence of people who already know where they belong.

Formula 1 has been good to us. Perhaps too good. Our results have been strong and clean. Oscar is deep in the championship fight now, close enough that we feel it's returning home with us again this year. The car is speaking the same language as he is - English with a hint of Australian accent - and the most important part is they understand each other instinctively. Our telemetry still lines up in ways people don't like to quantify out loud. Even our own engineer steer clear of digging too deeply but we've learned to live inside that attention without letting it choke us.

We're careful, discipline, skip pointless parties weekly even when we're expected to be there to celebrate our wins. Instead, we find room for this quiet, stubborn happiness that sits between two supposedly rivals. There are moments I catch myself thinking it feels like a dream and I shut that thought instantly, because dreams are dangerous once you start expecting them to last.

The water cut off and a few seconds later, Oscar steps out of the shower, hair damp, towel slung low, steam trailing behind him into the room. He raises an eyebrow when he catches me staring.

"You look miles away. Should I be offended?"

"Just thinking."

"That's never good news". Oscar replies while walking around, looking for a shirt to put on. I do my best to stop him from doing so because Oscar shirtless is such a sight for my sore eyes.

Oscar's gaze drops on the floor and points at an envelope lying there neatly, plain and unremarkable. "Did you order room service in paper form?", he asks.

"Nope, must be letter from my secret admirer. I'm the fans' favorite, after all."

"You are kidding. We all know I'm the superior McLaren boy."

I toss a pillow at Oscar and he bends over to pick it up, giving me full view of his round ass and several inappropriate ideas. Oh, things I would do to that ass later. I stop day dreaming when Oscar tosses the letter into my lap, curiosity wins as I open it faster than ever.

The smile drains from my face fast, like something pulled the blood straight out of me. My hands go cold as I stare down at the contents, my brain stops working.

Oscar notices immediately and runs over to me. "What happened?"

I don't answer him. The pictures slip from my finger and fall down on the floor, scatter everywhere. The photos are taken in the perfect angles, unmistakable outline of our bodies in every single on of them. Monaco, my apartment, us kissing by the window. Woking, us smiling and touching hands. Amsterdam, dinner, us drinking together. MTC, Oscar pulling me in for a hug. The timestamps are printed cleanly at the bottom of each image, too precise, too consistent to argue with.

Oscar goes still beside me. Any trace of joking evaporates, replaced by something sharp and alert. The room feels unbreathable, the happiness we have now collapsing under the weight of those weightless pictures.

We stand there for what feels like forever, neither of us moving nor speaking, hoping the room might reset itself when we give it enough time. No matter how many times I blink, the photos stay the same in my hand, refused to turn into something safer. If this was a nightmare, I would have woken up by now. The fact that I haven't means this must be real. Reality, it turns out, really sucks.

Oscar reaches out and gently takes the envelope out of my hand as if he realizes it's hurting me. He flips through those carefully taken pictures again, slower this time to find out some more evidence.

Monaco sits at the center of it all. My apartment. The window. The fucking perfect bitter angle. The familiarity makes my skin burned, because this wasn't luck of coincidence. Whoever did this didn't stumble into proof. They were waiting for it.

"There's.... uhm.... something else". Oscar speaks up so small as he fears he might trigger me again but little does he know his voice is the only calming thing in this chaos situation.

He reaches inside and pulls out a smaller sheet of paper, folded once, trying not to draw too much attention to itself. Oscar's eyes track the line once, then again and again before he hands it out to me.

The print is clean, emotionless, the kind of font you'd see everywhere. Nothing stands out at all, which gives us almost no clue to start thinking.

Oscar, withdraw from Mexico GP.

Vague is the last word anyone could use to describe this threat. Seeing Oscar's name printed like that settles a cold nauseous feeling in my stomach. This isn't aim at us as an idea of joke but more like a mastermind plan.

My thoughts race ahead despite myself, landing immediately on everything that sentence implies without spelling it out. The championship fight. The timing. The little leverage we just got. The championship is close, yet so far for us.

They don't even bother to include my name in it, because they know I'm already gone. My back-to-back championship isn't happening this year. But Oscar - Oscar is so perfectly positioned for the most wanted trophy in this world.

"They are not asking."

I nod, agree with the realization that Oscar just found out. The calm in his voice is worst than panic, it means he sees it exactly for what it is. There are two paths for us to choose, and both of them lead to our broken heart. I won't ever forgive myself if being with me means taking away Oscar's chance at winning his first title – the one I did my best to ensure him a shot and he did his best not to let me down.

Never been much of a thinker nor visualizer, I quickly wipe off the tears on the edge of leaking out, pull Oscar down on the floor, put our phones on DND and start our roles as private investigators.