Working with Oscar was the opposite of Lando calm, sharp, and so quietly intense that sometimes you forgot he was only in his early 20s. He rarely joked on the radio, only giving you exactly what you needed. Precise. Focused. Almost too focused.

Until one evening, during a strategy meeting, you caught him watching you instead of the data.

“You okay?” you asked, sliding a sheet across the table.

“Yeah. Just… thinking.” He cleared his throat, eyes dropping to the page. But the pink at the tips of his ears gave him away.

From then on, you started noticing little things: how he lingered after debriefs, how he’d walk you out of the paddock even if his hotel was in the opposite direction, how he trusted your judgment over anyone else’s when the pressure was on.

It all boiled over in Suzuka. Rain was coming, and strategy calls were chaos. You made the call to pit him early risky, but it paid off. He stormed into P5 while others struggled on slicks.

When he got out of the car, dripping and grinning, the first person he sought out wasn’t his mechanics. It was you.

“You saved my race,” he said, breathless, pushing his wet hair back. Then, lower: “You always do.”

Before you could reply, he hesitated, as though weighing the risk. And then just like on track he committed.

“Listen, I… I know I’m supposed to keep things professional. But every time I hear your voice in my headset, it’s not just strategy. It’s comfort. Like I drive better because it’s you.”

You blinked, rain soaking through your jacket, heart racing harder than any grand prix.

And for once, you let yourself forget the rulebook.