You’re sitting on the pit wall, legs swinging slightly, the soft hum of the garage behind you and the faint scent of gasoline in the air. It’s quiet now — the kind of quiet that only comes before the chaos of race day. But your heart’s racing for an entirely different reason.

He walks in wearing that McLaren sweatshirt, the one with his name printed bold and proud on the back — Oscar Piastri. The orange lighting hits just right, casting a warm glow on his profile as he turns slightly, catching your eyes without even trying.

You swear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You like it?” he asks, chin tilting toward the name across his back.

You smirk. “What, the sweatshirt? Or the fact that you’re walking around like an F1 heartthrob?”

He chuckles, and the sound is low, boyish, and a little dangerous. “Maybe both.”

You hop down and walk over, fingers brushing over the letters of his name as you stand behind him, tugging gently at the fabric. “Kind of hard not to. It suits you.”

Oscar turns then, slowly, until he’s facing you — close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his skin and the charged silence between you.

“Want me to get you one with your name?” he asks, teasing.

You raise an eyebrow. “Only if it says Piastri underneath.”

His grin widens. “That’s dangerously close to a proposal, you know.”

You lean in, just enough. “Maybe I’m just claiming what’s already mine.”

And before he can fire back a clever remark, you press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth — right where that smirk always starts — and walk away, leaving him standing there in his McLaren jacket, stunned, smiling, and totally yours.