as we are

bf!oscar who’s big on forehead kisses—especially when he’s jet-lagged or you’re sleepy. It’s his way of grounding himself. after races, he’ll pull you into his arms, bury his face in your neck, and just breathe you in. you’re his calm after the chaos.

bf!oscar who always saves the window seat for you, even if he secretly prefers it.

bf!oscar who when’s he’s away, he’ll send you pictures of sunsets, hotel breakfasts, and blurry selfies captioned “Wish you were here.”

bf!oscar ‘s favorite place is wherever you are—especially if it involves lazy Sundays, fuzzy socks, and you curled up next to him with a book.

bf!oscar who absolutely insists on his photo dumps being 50% silly pictures of you. even if his PR manager asks (more like pleads…) him to please cut on the amount. even if he gets teased by other drivers and fans alike for it. even if you beg him to post at least better pics of you where you’re not eating ramen at 12 am or squirting milk out of your nose. all of it doesn’t matter to him because you are the only thing he ever truly loves and he’ll be damned if the whole world doesn’t see you through his eyes.

bf!oscar who will just randomly call you ‘wife’ because he feels like it. doesn’t matter if you’re alone, barefoot in the kitchen, attempting to save burnt pasta or if he’s in an after-race interview and they ask him about his plans later. it’s not even on purpose, just a silly habit he became addicted to during his f2 years, and never seemed to outgrow. bf!oscar who thinks of you every time he sees something you like. if he sees your favorite color? yep, everyone within in a hearing vicinity will be hearing about it. your favorite bird that you mentioned offhandedly 7 months ago? trust, he is taking a million photos—and trust he is sending all of them to you with a too-nonchalant ‘Saw ur rav bird today’ which is basically a telltale sign that the he is totally grinning like a stupid idiot behind the screen.

bf!oscar who secretly scrolls through your pinterest boards to get an idea of what you want without you ever having to say it out loud. does he feel bad about it? 100%, and he’s considered stopping because it is an invasion of your privacy but god—when he sees that huge smile on your face when he buys you some silly gift from your Wishlist board, it feels alright to him.

bf!oscar who has no idea who the hell Lana Del Rey is or what the lyrics are to Spaghetti by LE SSERAFIM are but will—without hesitation—hand you the AUX of his car just so he can hear your voice (albeit it’s horribly off tuned, but by the way he’s beaming

bf!oscar who—despite him calling you his wife for years—will fumble if you do the same to him. Like full on stuttering, red-faced and fumbling fingers when you say something as simple as ‘How’s your day been, my husband?’ & it’ll be even funnier because your preoccupied with something else but then when you don’t hear anything from for like 5 minutes and you decide to look up and he’s just like a mess. In the cutest possible way.

bf!oscar who is your childhood sweetheart. the same boy who’s been through your painful period pains and university graduation. You—the same girl who’s witnessed his first F1 win & F1 WDC loss.

bf!oscar who is your one and only love.

It was obvious for the whole week.

After all, he’s a man of many talents but lying is not his strong suit. So when you asked him halfway through the week on a lazy Saturday night, “Is everything all right, Oz? You’ve been acting odd.”

And all he replied with is, “Oh yeah, just don’t know what to get Lando.” with a type of nonchalance that can only be achieved if you try too hard.

That’s when you knew something was wrong. Or at least, different. A sort of change.

But you didn’t want to force it out of Oscar, (and to be quite frank, it was the holiday season and you’re too lazy to start an investigation).

You’ll sit with his excuse—albeit you told yourself a different one though since his wasn’t really that reassuring; his birthday present to you will be absolutely horrible. Yeah, that’s it.

Or maybe he procrastinated for too long or maybe your Pinterest ‘Wishlist’ board wasn’t that obvious, or the fact that you repeatedly told him how much you wanted a Ducati V4 LEGO set just didn’t register with him

However the reason was, you decided to just settle with that lie. It wasn’t even that hard of a subject to forget about—considering how hectic the holidays are.

— 1 DAY BEFORE \\

It’s Christmas Eve morning when Oscar starts to act up again. But not really nervous-nervous, more like the type where your about ask a teacher a question you definitely know she’d answered before but you weren’t paying attention. Oddly specific? Yes. But there was no other way to describe it.

You’re pouring pancake batter onto the pan when you feel his hands wrap around your waist and his head nestle into the crook of your neck. You can’t help but smile at the domesticity.

“How’s my wife doing?” He mumbles into your neck, voice rough with sleep. You momentarily freeze, but only for a moment. How could you not? The word wife made your stomach do somersault every time you’ve heard it from him. Your partnership hasn’t been acknowledged by the government—not yet, at least. But you’ve both been calling each other the respective names; Husband and Wife.

An odd habit he gained after your 3rd anniversary and on the day of his dramatic maiden F2 win. (He ran to you immediately acoger he hopped out of the car, ran to you and yelled excitedly “My wife! I won it! Did you see?

I can’t believe it. All of that, that was for my future wife—you!” A moment that was undoubtedly caught on cameras and was circulated heavily across social media, but that’s a story for another day.)

Point is, after that special weekend, his nickname for you stuck and soon after you also started calling him his word.

No matter how many times the nickname’s been said in your household, it always makes your hurt stutter and breath trip. No matter how many times he’s referred to you in that manner in front of his friends/family/the public, a small ugly part of you wishes he would just hurry on with it and—

“These smell sososo good.” He interrupts your train of thought, loudly biting into a pancake he stole from the pile you’ve been working for like, the past hour, as he walks to sit at the dinner table. God, how romantic he can be sometimes!

You breathe out through nostrils, and flip the pancake—it’s burnt.

“Oscar—babe, can you be like patient for 5 minutes and wait for me to finish?” You try to come off as stern, but there’s not bite to your voice at all. Just slight humor and the soft filter of mornings.

He barely sits down for a minute before he’s up and padding around across the kitchen’s island.

He tasks out loud, and delivered in his terrible dry humor/deadpan “Can’t do that. You know I’m not a patient man.”

God, you have your back to him but you can practically hear him shaking his head. That stupid dork.

Your Christmas morning does not start the way they’re depicted in movies; no soft festive music, no breakfast-in-bed, no snow falling outside your window.

Instead, it’s the absolute opposite.

First of all, you wake up to the glaringly loud noise of the smoke detector and your nose is automatically assaulted with the distinct smell of burnt food—like someone just threw char into a microwave and forgot about it.

So before you’ve even had your coffee, you’re already running darting across your bedroom and down the stairs—almost falling twice—to the kitchen.

Who do you find when you do circle the corner and enter the kitchen? Oscar. Because of course, why not?

The scene is chaotic, with black, ugly smoke billowing up in the tight atmosphere of the kitchen, and the even uglier scent of burnt pancakes—which is now tenfold worse because you’re in the same room as it—wafting around in the air.

Your next moves are all a haze. All you can remember is rushing all over the place while yelling obscenities and complaining very loudly about how it’s not even—checks the clock—eight in the fucking morning! While Oscar slips words of apologies a mile a minute while also moving out of the way so he can’t get in your way.

Once the whole morning fiasco is over, you both find yourself sitting on the couch watching children’s cartoon while eating some unknown brand’s health attempt version of Cocoa Puffs Cereal.

Oh, and the part in the movies where there’s beautiful white snow piling outside your house? Well, congrats! You live in Monaco which is in the heart of the Mediterranean, where snow barely ever appears in the lovely month of December.

The show you’re currently watching, some old 90s show about a group of four kids finding the true meaning of Christmas, when Oscar breaks the odd silence between you.

“I’m really sorry, my love. I, uhh, I just wanted—”

You cut him off, willing your voice to be as positive as one can be in this situation. “Don’t worry, Oz. It’s Christmas morning, how about we open those presents up?”

You both shuffle over to the small pile of presents under the tree, the faint jingles from the cartoon still echoing in the background. Oscar sits cross-legged on the carpet, his hair still messy from sleep and the chaos of the morning, while you curl up beside him.

He pushes a neatly wrapped box toward you. “This one’s from me,” he says, his voice softer than usual, almost hesitant.

You raise a brow, teasing, still recovering from the adrenaline rush of the morning, “It’s not another burnt pancake, is it?”

Oscar chuckles, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s a smaller present, but I think you’ll like it anyway.”

You grin, fingers tugging at the ribbon. “I’m sure I will. Let’s see…” You peel back the overly festive paper—that’s riddled with cute cartoons of dogs in Santa hats and cats with candy canes— lift the lid, and freeze.

Inside, nestled against velvet, is a ring.

Your breath catches. “It’s… a ring?”

Oscar’s hands are already trembling as he takes it out, his eyes locking onto yours with a nervous determination. “Will you marry me?”

The world seems to still. The cartoon fades into background noise, the faint smell of burnt pancakes lingers, but none of it matters. All you can see is him—his hopeful eyes, his shaky smile, the way his entire being seems to be holding its breath.

You laugh, a choked, tearful sound, before throwing your arms around him. “Yes, Oz. Of course, yes.”

The relief that floods his face is almost comical. He exhales so loudly you think the neighbors might hear, then scoops you into his arms, spinning you around until you’re both dizzy.

When he finally sets you down, he presses his forehead against yours, whispering, “You know… I’ve been waiting to say this for real.”

You tilt your head, curious, and he grins, eyes sparkling. “My wife!” he shouts, just like he did after that maiden F2 win. The memory hits you like a wave—the cameras, the crowd, the way he ran straight into your arms yelling those exact words.

Only now, it’s not just a nickname. It’s a promise.

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, sliding the ring onto your finger with hands that are still trembling.

The two of you collapse onto the couch, cartoons still playing in the background, burnt pancakes lingering in the air, Monaco’s winter sunlight streaming through the window. It’s not the picture-perfect Christmas morning from the movies—but it’s yours. Chaotic, imperfect, and unforgettable.

Oscar kisses your hand, eyes never leaving the ring. “Guess I didn’t mess up your present after all.”

And for the first time, you realize the truth: every messy, clumsy, chaotic moment with him has led to this one. The moment where “My wife” finally becomes forever. ❄️

⚙️ I ONLY WRITE FOR —

FORMULA ONE: OSCAR PIASTRI. ALEXANDER ALBON. ESTEBAN OCON. ISACK HADJAR. LEWIS HAMILTON. // INDYCAR: NOLAN SIEGEL. MARCUS ARMSTRONG. // MOTOGP: MARCO BEZZECCHI.

╰── MASTERLIST //

— MY FAVORITES: 🐳 • — MDNI: 🔞

⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏 ,, OSCAR PIASTRI

🗝 After the Year ⊹ girlfriend!reader, romance, angst. 3k.

🗝️ A GIFT IMMEASURABLE ⊹ girlfriend!reader, romance, fluff. 1k.

MORE TO BE ADDED !!

\\ REQUEST RULES ──╮

✅ fluff/humor/crack. smut (to an extent//nothing too intense). angst/heartbreak. romance. age gaps. non-f1 au’s. based on media ( prompts. songs. poetry. movies/tv/film ). platonic. situanship/in between. death/murder (to a certain extent)

🚫 male!reader. poly/non-monogamous relationship. non-platonic for any pilot under 18. sh/suicide. gender swap. cheating/racism (only when it is irrelevant to the plot). sexualised age play. rape fantasy.

✳️ 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒/𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐎 ⁞ not pressure me into series / part 2s. use basic human decency & no hatred of any kind (except certain drivers / controversial people !!!). emoji anons are okay. reblog reblog reblog !!! ( tumblr HATES when people only like and comments will make me want to give you a kiss on the forehead !! )

🎬 READY FOR ACTION??? REQUEST HERE [ ▸ ]

7 days since Abu Dhabi. 160 some hours since Lando Norris was crowned world champion, receiving his controversial #1 title and casting the golden trophy across millions of fans.

But it’s also been a week since Oscar lost. 3 months since the infamous Monza switch. 64 weeks since his Baku DNF.

Suffice to say, the ending of this year’s championship fight was a disappointment. A fucking shitshow, if you’re being honest. For the 81 side of the McLaren garage, for you, and most devastatingly—Oscar. After all, he was the championship leader for most of the race. He was, at some point, the most logical option for the championship. After Norris’ DNF, it was practically almost impossible for him to lose. Of course, God or whoever was up there had other plans. The Universe saw that making him suffer was absolutely needed. And so Papaya Rules happened. And then Max Verstappen entered the game. And then Singapore and it all went downhill. Because of course it did.

Hope and success and happiness were snatched from his very own palms.

So, when he distanced himself from you the night the F1 season ended, you didn’t push. Didn’t press when he was silent the whole plane ride back to your shared apartment in Monaco. When you woke up to the empty, cold side of his bed, and a text that simply reads:

Couldn’t sleep. Went to the gym. Will be back for breakfast. Love you❤️

You didn’t insist. Never sent a “Let’s talk about it.” text.

In hindsight, you 100% should have. But he’s Oscar Piastri—a man who knows his boundaries and draws them clearly in the sand. And you’re a woman who clearly respects them, who loves him enough to give him space.

But those early gym sessions quickly turned into all day workouts. He started to get late to breakfast. Stopped eating said breakfast, opting to instead sit silently at the table with you, as he would read long lists of data. (When you asked him to at least take a bite, he would tell you:

“I had a protein bar earlier” / “My appetite hasn’t caught up to me yet” / “I am trying a new diet.” / “Wouldn’t want me to finish all your food, would I?” with a too tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes.)

And if he wasn’t at the gym? When you would beg him not to go, and he would finally listen?

Well, it wasn’t much better.

On those occasions, he would be lying on the couch. Sometimes—if you were lucky—he would engage in dry conversation with you. But usually, he would just nod along to what was coming out of your mouth with his spaced out eyes, letting out the odd hum at your words if he noticed your gaze.

Every so often—if you insisted he stays home, but he was still awake enough not to crash the couch— he would also use his F1 rig fitfully. Eyes hyper-focused, hands turning ghost-white gripping the steering wheel, his whole body moving as if he were in an actual race car, chasing an actually apex, rather than just sitting in front of a computer, for fucksake.

Although more often than not, he would be fast asleep on the furniture, body dropped awkwardly across the sofa, eye bags heavy under his eyes. Lips dry and face pale, cheeks hollow and fingers twitching.

God, he was a fucking ghost of the person you started dating. A shell of your Oscar. A stark contrast of the Man he was before McLaren sunk their teeth into him, and the man who now seldom talks to you.

Here he is, working himself during winter break, almost killing himself while all of his grid-mates were posting cute photo dumps, partying like tomorrow’s doomsday, and actually enjoying themselves.

One day, during a quiet afternoon where the sun was shining outside and the birds sang, you were doing mindless useless chores (to distract yourself from thinking about Oscar’s state too much, but you refuse to acknowledge that), you had decided that enough was enough and that it was time for a change of scenery.

To go breathe some air, maybe eat some ice cream, and recreate goofy Pinterest couple photos like you had talked about during the early days of the 2025 season.

When he was still hopeful. When he still had the chance.

And so you decided to head down to the gym, to where he always had spent his time nowadays. His second home, if you wanted to be dramatic.

So you put on an outfit that didn’t have spending too much time in front of the mirror, but also wouldn’t cause you to be social media’s new laughing stock. Lord knows you learned from your mistakes.

You find yourself standing in front of the mirror, nonetheless. But it’s not to look at your reflection, no, instead you’re staring at the edges of it.

The Polaroids of you and him that are plastered across the surface. You glance at each once, studying both of your expressions. The chaotic nature of some, the relaxed vibes of others. The radiating love shared in all.

As you wander, your gaze lands on one that’s tapped at a slanted angle attached lazily close to the bottom.

It’s of you (wearing a black dress), and Oscar (who’s in a half unbuttoned white shirt), and—

Lando.

It’s at some pre-season party before the 2025 one, the blur of people a background to the main focus—you three. Shoulder to shoulder, practically on top of each other.

Oscar’s in between you and his teammate, a possessive arm wrapped around you, his face angled towards you with a smile the sun could rival.

You’re returning his smile, with an even wider grin that’s all gum and teeth and love. But it’s not your smile that caught your attention, hell, you’re it’s not even on your boyfriend. Instead, you’re focused on him.

The 2025 world champion. Lando fucking Norris.

Of course, in that moment he’s nothing but a young man with too much potential and the loyalty; a boy with a bright future, just not one close enough.

But as you’re scanning over the picture, a new realization dawns on you: He’s looking at yo—

No. No. That can’t be. Your back automatically straightens, and you lean in further to analyse the scene. Quickly ripping the photo off from the wall (luckily, you used cheap poster tape), you trace over his features.

Try to reason with yourself, maybe it’s because of the odd night lightning, or the awkward camera angle or—

But there’s no way you can deny yourself out of this one. He’s looking straight at you, leaning a bit to the front, in fact. In difference to you and Oscar’s face though, a conservative smile (although it’s more a line turned upwards) is on his lips, something akin to a PR training quality. His eyes are stone cold, but there’s no possibility to know at which part of you he’s looking at. He’s too drunk for that.

Your eyes can’t stop darting between the two teammates, and their faces—

Wait, what were you supposed to be doing?

Your mind blanks for a second. And for that split second, both their expressions are plastered across your eyelids. Oscar’s warmness and Lando’s coldness. Warm and cold. Soft and bitter.

Oscar. Lando. Oscar. Lando. Them. Both. McLaren. “LandOscar” “Oscando” (as some fans called the “ship”). Papaya. Papaya. Championshi—

Oscar, the gym! You wer—you are suppos— will go get Oscar so that you two have a nice day out. Yes. Fuck, yes.

Briskly standing up, you slam the Polaroid face down against the counter—with force that seems a tad bit excessive— and you head down the hallway to put your shoes on.

You’re halfway through tying your shoelaces when a dull thud echoes from downstairs.

It’s not loud. Not alarming. Just… wrong.

Oscar never drops weights. He never missteps. He never loses control of anything in that gym, because that gym is the only place he still has control.

Your fingers freeze mid‑loop.

Another sound follows—metal scraping against rubber flooring, uneven, like something being dragged. Or someone.

Your stomach plummets.

“Oscar?” Your voice barely carries across the foyer, but the silence that answers is worse than any shout or scream of blood.

You stand so fast your vision blurs around the edges, a sudden headache sprouting, but you don’t care. You’re already moving, heart pounding in your throat, you leave your phone and the other shoe lying down on the ground abandoned, and run out the door.

The hallway feels longer than usual. The air heavier. The stairs look like they’ve multiplied in quantity. Every step echoes with the same thought:

Please be fine. Please be fine. Please be fine.

When you reach the gym door, it’s cracked open. A sliver of fluorescent light spills into the dim hallway.

You push it open.

And there he is.

Oscar is sitting on the floor beside the squat rack, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. Not collapsed, not unconscious—thank God—but breathing hard, like he’s just sprinted a marathon.

His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead. His clothing is soaked through. But his hoodie also hung looser around his frame, his checks hollow like a Tim Burton character. His hands tremble where they rest on his knees.

But what hits you hardest is his face’s expression.

He looks… lost. Not angry, not focused, not even sad. Just empty. Like someone scooped out everything that made him Oscar and left the shell behind. Like he’s stuck between acceptance and something you can’t quite name.

He doesn’t look up when you enter. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.

It honestly scares you show stone-still he is.

You swallow, stepping closer.

“Oz?”

Nothing. Straight silence.

You kneel in front of him, gently touching his wrist. His skin is hot. Too hot.

“Oscar, look at me.”

Slowly—painfully slowly—his eyes lift to yours.

And God, they’re red. Exhausted. Haunted.

“Did you hurt yourself?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head. A tiny movement. Barely there.

“I’m fine.” He croaks out, voice rough.

He’s not. He’s so clearly not.

You exhale shakily, attempting to keep your composure. Despite how much it hurts to see himself like this, you can’t cry. Not right now.

“You dropped something. I heard it. All the way from upstairs.”

His gaze flickers to the barbell beside him, plates uneven, one side tilted dangerously low.

“Grip slipped,” he mutters, placing his face in his hands. “I’m just tired.”

Tired. The understatement of the century.

You sit beside him, shoulder brushing his. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t lean in either. He just… exists. Barely.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, quietly, you try again.

“Oscar… would you like to leave the house? Just for a bit. We can go to the farmers market. The new park. Something that isn’t this room.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes drop to the floor like rocks in an ocean.

“I can’t.” His declaration comes out muffled, but still somehow echoes in the room.

“Why not?”

He pauses. And then, in a voice so small it cracks:

“Because if I stop… I’ll think about it.”

Your breath catches.

He finally looks at you—really looks at you—and the devastation in his expression nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“I’ll think about how close I was,” he whispers. “How I had it. How I lost it. How everyone thinks I choked. How Lando—”

He cuts himself off, swallowing hard.

You don’t push. You don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Just stay silent as he continues on.

“I can’t think about it,” he says again, voice breaking. “So I have to keep going. I have to be better. I have to—”

His breath stutters. His hands shake harder, if that’s even possible.

You reach for him, covering his trembling fingers with your own.

“Oscar,” you murmur, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

He closes his eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, you hold him. Truly, and openly, cradle his aching body.

For the first time in a while, he lets his forehead fall against your shoulder.

Not a subsidence. Not a breakdown. Not even a collapse.

Just a surrender.

A tiny one, at that. But a start regardless.

You stay with him on the gym floor until his breathing evens out. Not normal—just less frantic. Less like he’s drowning. And more like he’s just plain overworked.

When he finally lifts his head from your shoulder, his eyes are glassy, lashes clumped together. He wipes at them quickly, almost angrily, as if emotion itself is a weakness he can’t afford. Something he doesn’t deserve after this season’s finale.

You don’t comment, don’t mention the way his breath still stutters every few seconds. You just stand up and offer him your hand.

“Come upstairs,” you say softly—as if willing an injured dog. “Just for a bit.”

He hesitates, eyes flicker between your hand and the abandoned gym equipment. You watch the way the gears in his brain turn as he thinks about both options, like he’s assessing whether he should let it all go or work.

You win, obvious by the way his hand timidly reaches out for yours.

His grip is cold.

Deathly gelid.

Which is strange, considering the fact he is wearing a hoodie and sweatpants that would have any normal functioning adult absolutely drenched in sweat like it was in the middle of the summer.

You try not to dwell on the health implications of this.

Instead, you busy yourself with helping him up. It’s alarmingly easy, his loss of weight is extremely apparent. Suddenly, every morning of the past 20 some days flashes through your mind: every missed breakfast, every half lunch and forgotten dinner plates. The amount of moments where you turned a blind eye, listened to his excuses at the surface level and ignored his physical stae.

Fucking hell.

In the kitchen, the silence is gentler. Not comfortable, but not suffocating either. You move around quietly, pulling out the leftover soup you made last night—the one he didn’t touch. You heat it up without asking. He sits at the counter, elbows on the table, head bowed like he’s praying.

When you set the bowl in front of him, he stares at it for a long moment.

You don’t push. You don’t speak. Just nudge the silverwear closer to him.

Eventually, he picks up the spoon.

The first bite is tiny. Barely anything. But he swallows it. Then another. And another.

You watch his shoulders slowly drop, tension bleeding out of him with each mouthful. His breathing steadies. His eyes soften. He looks… human again. Not whole, not healed, but present.

Halfway through the bowl, he pauses. Staring into the soup, his jaw tightening.

“Thank you.” His voice is quiet. Fragile.

You smile. “Always.”

He nods, staring into the soup like it holds answers.

“I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“I know.”

He takes another bite. Then another. And for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself believe this is the turning point. That maybe he’s coming back to you.

But then he sets the spoon down.

And the moment shatters. The sudden shift is so noticeable, you frown.

“I need to go back to training after this.”

Your heart sinks. “Oscar—”

“I lost the championship,” he says, voice flat. “I can’t afford to waste time.”

“You’re not wasting time,” you argue gently. “You’re eating. You’re resting. You’re—”

“I’m falling behind.” He states bluntly, like it’s fact proven by years of research, and not just his overthinking and self-deprecation.

You blink, not surprised but still taken aback. “Behind who? It’s winter break. No one is—”

“Lando is.”

There it is.

The name hits the counter like a dropped glass. You remember the Polaroid, his eyes fixed on you, cold and unreadable. An unwanted guest. An annoying fly who won’t leave you alone in the sticky, summer heat.

You inhale slowly. “Oscar, you don’t know what Lando is doing right now.”

“I know he’s not sitting around eating soup.”

Your jaw tightens. “He’s probably on a yacht somewhere, Oz. He’s not grinding himself into dust.”

“You don’t know that.” He counters, arms folded.

A tired sigh leaves you. “And you don’t either.”

His eyes flash—anger, fear, exhaustion, all tangled together.

“You don’t get it,” he snaps. “You don’t understand what it feels like to be second. To be the one who almost had it. To be the one everyone thinks choked.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” you breathe out, the action proving fruitless when your chest tightens again.

You take a step forwards towards him. “But what I do understand is how it feels like to watch the person I love destroy himself.”

He flinches.

Good. Maybe he needed to.

You step closer, voice trembling but steady.

“You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’re pushing yourself until you collapse on the floor. That’s not training, Oscar. That’s punishment.”

He looks away. “Maybe I deserve it.”

Your breath catches. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” His voice breaks.

“It’s abso-fucking-lutly not.” Without meaning to, your voice raises.

He stands abruptly, chair scraping back. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything you worked for.”

“And you don’t know what it’s like to lose you,” you fire back.

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Brutal.

Raw.

He stares at you, chest rising and falling too fast. His hands shake again.

You take a step toward him.

He takes a step back.

And that hurts more than anything he’s said.

“Oscar,” you whisper, “I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I just need to work.”

A cold, bitter, unbelievable laugh bubbles out of you. You find it comical how even though his body had simply given up, his mind still clung to this fuckass illusion of control.

“You need to breathe.”

“I need to be better.”

“You already are.”

He shakes his head violently. “Not enough.”

Your voice cracks. “Enough for who?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because you both know the truth.

Not for McLaren. Not for the fans. Not for the championship. Not for himself.

And maybe—not even for you. 🩻

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