Melbourne was supposed to be perfect. His home race. His family in the stands. And then your voice in his ear, firm: “Stay out. Hold position.”

Minutes later, the McLaren twitched, sliding into the grass at high speed. He saved it just. But the collective gasp of his home crowd still echoed in your chest hours later.

That night, the team gathered in the hotel lounge, but Oscar was nowhere near the group. You found him outside on the balcony, city lights glowing below, beer bottle dangling from his hand.

“You’re avoiding me,” you said softly.

“Trying to,” he replied, eyes fixed on the skyline.

You swallowed. “Oscar, I had to think big picture. Constructors’”

He turned then, eyes sharp, voice low but loaded. “You nearly humiliated me in front of everyone I’ve ever known. My home race. My family. And you want me to care about the big picture?”

The hurt in his voice landed heavier than anger ever could.