The lights of the paddock shimmer over the asphalt, the Texas heat still heavy even long after sunset. COTA glows faintly behind you — the tower, the grandstands, the faint hum of the paddock dying into silence. The champagne has dried on your suit. Your hair still smells like podium confetti. And yet, even now, adrenaline clings to you like humidity.

You won. You finally won.

After Austria, everything had shifted — the upgrades, the feeling in the car, the rhythm you’d been missing all year. P3 after P3 had started to taste bitter, but now the fight feels real again. You can almost see it: the orange cars just ahead in the standings, Lando twenty-six points in front, Oscar forty. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

He finds you at Red Bull hospitality, still in his McLaren kit, cap pulled low, smile easy but faint. The crowd around you hums with team chatter, glasses clinking, Max’s laughter echoing from somewhere near the bar. Oscar slides through it all until he’s standing in front of you, his eyes softening when they find yours.

“Nice drive,” he says.

“P5 doesn’t suit you,” you answer, smirking.

“Neither does modesty,” he fires back, the grin returning.

You laugh, bumping your shoulder into his. It feels normal — public, natural, no need to hide the way your hand brushes against his back as you leave together.

The paddock outside is quiet now, half-empty. You walk toward the parking lot where the rental McLaren waits, still tinted orange under the sodium lights. Your footsteps echo softly between the trucks.

“They asked about you in my media pen,” he says suddenly, voice casual, but his hands are buried in his pockets.

“About me?”

He nods. “Yeah. They wanted to know if it’s harder fighting for a championship against my girlfriend than someone else.”

You chuckle. “And what did you say?”

He looks ahead for a second, as if replaying it. “I told them it’s nice. That it’s… special, being able to share something like this with you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s sweet. Suspiciously sweet.”

“I wasn’t done,” he says, glancing sideways, that playful glint flashing behind his calm tone. “I also told them that if there’s anyone I’d want to be in a championship fight with, it’s you.”

You blink, your steps slowing just a fraction. “Because?”

He stops walking. The orange car is right there, its reflection stretching across the tarmac. The air between you feels suddenly denser, the sounds of the night dimming.

“Because whoever wins,” he says quietly, “I’ll still be happy. Either I win… or you do.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest. “That’s—”

“Cheesy?” He half-smiles. “Probably.”

You search his face for the joke, but there’s none. Just warmth. Sincerity. And something else — that quiet intensity that always shows up when he’s thinking like a racer, not a boyfriend.

“Forty points isn’t much,” he adds, softer now, but the undertone makes you lift your head.

You narrow your eyes slightly, a smile playing at your lips. “No. It’s not.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer than he should, something unreadable flickering there — admiration, challenge, maybe both. Then he opens the car door for you, stepping aside with a gesture that’s half chivalry, half warning.

“You’re not going easy on me now, are you?” you murmur as you slide into the passenger seat