Oscar wasn’t like Lando. At sixteen, he was calm, steady the kind of boy who spoke only when he meant it. And maybe that’s why you trusted him when he asked you to stay after practice one evening.

The two of you sat by the empty track, your helmets between you, the cicadas buzzing in the trees. You pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders, the night air colder than expected. He’d offered it without a word, like he always did thoughtful, careful.

“Do you ever wonder,” you asked, staring at the stars, “if we’ll actually make it? Racing? The big leagues?”

Oscar was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, “I think you will.”

You turned to him, surprised. “Just me?”

He hesitated, looking at his hands. “You’re… different. When you’re out there, it’s like you belong. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do.”

Your chest tightened at the honesty in his voice. And for the first time, you noticed how close you were sitting.

“Thanks, Oscar,” you whispered.

He finally looked at you, his eyes dark under the dim track lights. “Can I… try something?”

You didn’t answer you didn’t need to. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to move away. His lips brushed yours, soft, uncertain, but so full of intent it made your heart stop.

When he pulled back, he was blushing furiously, though he tried to hide it.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just… had to know.”

You smiled, touching his hand. “Don’t be sorry.”

And in that quiet, under the stars, the world felt like it had paused just for the two of you.