Abu Dhabi had turned into a blur of champagne showers and thumping music. You hadn’t planned to stay long at the afterparty you weren’t the type. But Oscar had found you nursing a drink on the sidelines.

“You’re not much of a party person, are you?” he asked, voice calm even here, in the middle of chaos.

“Not really,” you admitted, smiling. “But someone has to keep an eye on you lot.”

He smirked, his tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up. “Well, lucky for you, I don’t cause trouble.” Then, after a pause, “Unless you count stealing my engineer’s attention.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Smooth, Piastri.”

The rest of the night slipped away in a haze of quiet moments with him: sitting on the balcony while others danced, sharing stolen jokes, his knee brushing yours a little too often. It was… nice.

And then fade to black.

You woke up in a pristine hotel room, the sheets far too soft to be yours. The air smelled faintly of cologne, and when you sat up, you saw Oscar, sitting at the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, looking relieved. “Don’t worry, nothing happened. You just fell asleep. I couldn’t exactly drop you off at your hotel like that.”

Your cheeks burned. “God. I must’ve looked pathetic.”

He shook his head immediately. “Not pathetic. Just… human.” His gaze lingered on you a second too long. “Besides, I liked having you here.”

The room went quiet, tension humming between you like static. He hesitated, then added, “I know we’re not supposed to blur lines, but last night I didn’t feel like your driver. I just felt like a guy who… really likes being around you.”

The Constructors’ win might’ve been McLaren’s biggest achievement. But waking up in his hotel room? That was the start of something entirely different.