The sea is calm tonight. You can hear it from the balcony — the waves rolling softly against the shore, the muffled laughter of people walking down by the marina, the faint chime of glasses from a restaurant somewhere below. The air smells like salt and sunscreen, and the last light of the day stains the sky gold and pink.

You and Oscar have been here almost a week now. No flights, no press, no engineers, no simulators. Just quiet mornings, slow breakfasts, long swims, and lazy afternoons on the terrace with books neither of you really read. It feels like breathing after months of holding your breath.

Oscar’s sitting on the couch behind you, bare feet propped up, one arm lazily draped along the backrest. He looks sun-tired — skin a shade darker, hair a bit lighter, a small scar still healing on his forearm from a pit lane graze in Hungary. He’s been more relaxed here than you’ve ever seen him, but it’s the kind of peace that makes you ache a little because it’s so rare.

You’re standing by the open doors, a glass of cold white wine in your hand, eyes on the horizon. The sea moves slowly, endlessly.

He speaks first. “You’re quiet.”

You glance back at him, smiling. “You say that like it’s unusual.”

He smirks. “You? Not talking? Yeah, a little unusual.”

You roll your eyes and join him on the couch, curling up beside him. His arm drops naturally around your shoulders. The quiet returns — comfortable, weightless. But there’s something else beneath it tonight, a thought that’s been pressing against your ribs all day.

It’s stupid, maybe. It’s small. But you can’t stop thinking about it.

You trace your finger along the rim of your glass before saying, casually — or trying to sound casual — “Do you remember when you said I was ‘too career-driven to ever settle down’?”

Oscar blinks, then lets out a small laugh. “God, that was ages ago.”

“Mid-2023,” you confirm. “Silverstone weekend. We barely spoke back then.”

“You barely tolerated me,” he corrects, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You lean into him with a mock glare. “You started it. You said something snappy about my love life.”

“I did, didn’t I?” he says, amused. “You told me you weren’t planning on marrying anyone ever.”

You pause — let the memory hang there for a moment. The balcony doors breathe out a warm gust of wind, brushing against your skin.

“I lied,” you say quietly.

Oscar tilts his head slightly. “What?”

“When I said I don’t believe in marriage,” you repeat, still looking out toward the fading light. “That was a lie.”

For a heartbeat, everything stops. You can feel his arm go still behind you, his chest tightening against your shoulder as if he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then he laughs softly — not mocking, not disbelieving, just a quiet, surprised sound. “That’s… quite a confession for a Thursday evening,” he says, voice low, like he’s trying not to startle the moment.

You smile, but don’t look at him. You can feel his eyes on you though — warm, searching, a little cautious.

“What changed?” he asks after a moment.