After Australia, this was supposed to be the fresh start of the season. Shanghai seemed promising, and even though he hadn’t flourished in the sprint nor qualifying, Oscar was optimistic.

But that went to shit pretty quickly.

First, it was Lando’s car, something wrong with it, Oscar wasn’t bothered too much. He was focused on himself; he had to be. He just needed to get out there. He was itching too. He needed to prove himself after the disaster that was his home race.

And then, as he lined up for the formation lap, the radio came through, and he was wheeled away, the car back in the garage.

Oscar didn’t care to know what was wrong, not right now. All he could think of was that this was his second DNS in a row. Two races had come and gone this season and Oscar had raced in none of them.

And he was angry. Angry at McLaren, angry at the FIA’s stupid regulations, and most of all, angry at himself.

Oscar stands around in the garage, some engineer trying to explain something to him. He’s not listening but nodding along, half of him watching the screen that’s showing the race, the other half wondering where you are.

And there you are.

Hair messy, OP81 cap askew, looking like you’d ran here. Oscar can’t control himself — he leaves the engineer mid-sentence, walking briskly over to you.

Aware of the cameramen sprinkled around, he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, and you lace your fingers through his to remind him that you’re there.

He pulls back. And you pull him in again.