As someone who suffers from anxious attachment, silence destroys me all the time.

The team said they needed time and I know I am supposed to be cool and nonchalant about that but nothing can stop me from sensing déjà vu creeping in. Last time - when the FIA investigation first started - there was the same pause, same calculated distance. I remember how fast procedure replaced reassurance, how easily support turned into neutrality. That memory crawls back now, dragging flashbacks with it.

I told Oscar I needed space and the look on his face almost made me take it back. He offered to stay but I insisted anyway, pretending it was all about focusing for the next race, about sleeping schedule, about anything other than the fact that I needed to fall apart without him watching that scene.

I've always hated how steady he is, how he seems to trust that the pressure won't ever swallow us whole. A part of me envies that confident while the other part resents it. Perhaps I'm older so I'm the pessimistic one. I drag a hand down my face and force myself to exhale slowly. Spiraling won't help. It never does.

Zak asks to see me alone after dinner time, the message brief enough to leave room for interpretation. He's already in the room when I arrive, standing near the window with a drink in hand, casually takes a sip as his eyes wander to the bustling city outside.

"Hey kid. Doing okay?"

I caught off guard by his friendliness, not that it has never been there. I just don't expect to see it right here, right now.

"I owe you an apology."

An apology instead of conditions, warnings or extended contract with added clauses and fewer freedoms? Didn't see that coming if I'm being honest.

"I was shocked", he meets my gaze directly while starts explaining for his behaviors earlier. "I reacted like CEO of McLaren instead of an old man who has known you for years, instead of someone you two could rely on."

He gestures to the chair opposite of him and I sit down, the tension still lingers in my chest but no longer enough to chock me in agony.

"I've watched you grow up. I've seen you messed up, recovered, learned. I was there when you lost and when we got our championships together. We painted McLaren with our legacies hanging on the wall. I've stepped in more times than I can count to stop things spiraling before they became something worse. But this isn't one of those times."

I take a breath, steady myself before the words come out. "I need you to understand this isn't a phrase. I love him. It's been a long time and I'm not pretending otherwise, so I desperately hope McLaren would choose us this time."

Saying it out loud feels terrifying and grounding at once, though I'm not sure which sensation is stronger. Zak nods, absorbs information I just threw out. "I believe your choice and I want you to be happy. Not just driving fast cars and successful. Happy."

"There will be fallout", Zak adds, scared I might not be able to think of those things. "But you won't be facing it alone. The team has your back but that doesn't mean it'll be easy. We'll stand firmly with you and Oscar, but the rest you'll have to fight it yourself."

I get it. No matter how hard the team want to protect us, something still needed to be done alone without help. Public support doesn't eliminate consequences.

"And Andrea?". I don't need to finish the whole question because Zak immediately understands what I want to ask.

"He shares the same point of view but currently working on finding the source of those pictures. Hopefully something useful will be pop out soon."

For once, I feel like luck is taking my side. For once, the anxiety in me lowers a bit, replaced with something else lighter. We exchange some more random news, discuss a bit about upcoming races. Saying goodbye to Zak, I head back to my hotel room, feeling teeny tiny bit better about the whole mess we got in.

***

The team finds out in stages since no dramatic announcement was made.

It starts quietly with a few people looping us in under the guise of logistics and planning, conversations drift naturally into something more personal without making it feel like interrogation. There are raised eyebrows, of course, and occasional pauses where I can feel the image which people have been carried of me for years broken in pieces, but there's no hostility in it. No one demands explanation beyond what's absolutely necessary.

There's an undercurrent of protectiveness I wasn't prepared for. All staffs have collectively decided that whatever this storm brings, it's the one they'll face head-on. I've handed them a mess, something will take time and a lot of efforts to clean up but instead of being angry at me, they've chosen to be with me.

The internet keeps asking why McLaren didn't media-train us better. The truth is – they do try to train, and did try to change me a lot of time, none of the effort fully worked in the past years. The PR head looks up at us, not a hint of surprises showed on her face though we've dragged her down in crisis twice in the span of less than 3 months.

"This isn't about controlling the narrative, it's all about not letting the narrative and media control you."

She starts the meeting with something sounds as old as a tale but still, we are forced to listen intensively to every single word. Oscar handles it way better than I do even though I'm the one who takes more interview than him. I watch him answer calmly, precisely and know that if I fuck things up, he'd always be there to get my back.

We rehearse until our answers feel almost natural, each sentence rolls out of our tongues with confidence. When we're finally dismissed, my throat feels dry and my head aches faintly – the cost of saying the same line over and over again. Oscar laughs at how struggle I am and right before I am about to kick his ass, he offers with a bright smile.

"3 Capri-Suns and 2 Kinder Eggs? On me."

***

By the time we're already on stage, the heat in Mexico has worked its way under my skin and settles there like its home. The sun is brutal, the stage light is unbearable and I am well aware that I'm absolutely fucked if I don't put every ounce of effort I have into answering these questions properly. This isn't a day where I can act stupid and funny then get forgiven later. Every word matters.

The host is already talking, cheerful and energetic, trying to keep things as light as possible as this is just another Thursday. I scan the crowd out of habit and realize there are thousand pictures of us together, some with heart emojis, some with sweet words. A huge banner hangs across the wall with LANDOSCAR tag in capital letters, like we're big stars. I swallow and lean back in my chair, try to drown the fact that my brain is scrambling. We haven't even spoken a word yet the whole world has already known the news.

The event starts with a game, a harmless, supposed to be funny one. I play along, laugh when I have to, pretend like my heart rate isn't doing something wildly inappropriate. Then the shift comes. Subtle but unmistakable.

"So", the host starts, "there's been a lot of discussion about the FIA reports. It's been almost 2 months and yet people are still reading it daily. How has that been for you both?"

This is the kind of question we've rehearsed into muscle memory so Oscar starts first, exactly as planned. He talks about transparency, trust in FIA and our focus on performances. It's clean and controlled and I nod along like this is another simple debrief.

Then it's my turn. I take a breath and deliver the line we practice, word for word, while smiling for the cameras. "We've always worked closely as a team. Nothing has changed for the last few years and definitely not now."

Another question follows, closer now. "A lot of people think the investigation suggested something unfair was happening. What would you say about it?"

Oscar talks about alignment, preparation and how our performances get misread when people are looking for something else. When Oscar finishes, the host looks at the piece of paper she is holding in her hand, hesitates for a moment before drops the bomb.

"There have also been rumors about your relationship, are you aware of them?"

The crowd leans in closer, hopes to devour any words coming out of us. Oscar doesn't look at me this time, he keeps his eyes forward. "We spend a lot of time together. We always have."

That's my cue, my turn. I hold the microphone closer to my mouth, sweat trickling down my back, feel the heat of eyes on me. "We are not very good at pretending otherwise."

For half a second, there is nothing. Silence goes so fast I haven't even had time to notice its arrival. The place erupts in cheering, shouting, laughter. Someone yells something incoherent and joyful. I hear my name and Oscar's in voices that sound delighted rather than scandalized. A question shouts from the audience, loud enough for both of us to hear.

"So you two are dating?"

"We're not here to label anything. What matters is we're honest in how we show up - on and off track."

Wow, even I got surprised with how smooth my answer sounds. The rest of the questions blur together. Distraction? Nope. Performances? Unaffected and still fierce. Focus? Better actually. I repeat the PR-prepared lines over and over again but the fans are so loud that I believe none of my answer are heard.

Hiding is harder than telling the truth, I admit that publicly. None one it feels real until I see the way people are smiling back at us. And I'm willing to carry those happy smiles with me as one of the best memories I've made in this career.