Oscar Piastri was in Las Vegas for a Grand Prix — which he was disqualified from, fuck his life — and he found himself, first, in a bar with Lando, and then, outside of a bar without Lando. With a drunk girl attached to his hip.

You.

You were pretty, and you were drunk, and you were vulnerable. The man you’d latched yourself onto was beautiful, in a Greek painting sort of way, stone-cold sober and stable.

Oscar, like at most times in his crazy life, was not sure what was going on. He had a beer in hand, McLaren cap on his head, and he was listening to a drunk American girl ramble.

He’d learned that you were the same age as him, you didn’t live in Vegas but in Missouri — he hadn’t picked up how you got here? — and you really, really liked pink margaritas.

Your hand was on his knee — orange manicured nails, Oscar fights a smile — and not even in a sexual way. More in a grounding way.

“That’s all really interesting,” he murmurs, the quiet but steady sound cutting through your ramble about either the stars or his black hoodie.

“Oh my God,” you giggle, head thrown back, Oscar caught off guard. “You’re Australian! Your accent!”

“I am, yeah,” he nods, smiling awkwardly, his arm still patting you gently on the back. “Look, I kind of have to get back to the flat, but it was… nice meeting you.”

You stand up suddenly, slightly wobbling in your heels. Oscar stands up reflexively to hold you upright. “Nice meeting you too, fairy bread,” you giggle at your own joke — you giggle at everything — then state something about pink vodka shots and make for the entrance to the bar.

It was true that Oscar didn’t know you — not your name, not anything else — but he knew one thing, and that was that you were not to be having any more alcohol.

He doesn’t let you go.

“Um…” Worst decision of his life, probably. Don’t do it, Osc. Let the pretty lady give herself alcohol poisoning, why should you care? “… do you want to come with me?”

It’s not suggestive. Oscar hardly ever is.