It was practice day in Miami — the sun hot against the asphalt, engines roaring in the distance, and the paddock buzzing with the usual chaotic energy that clung to everything like static.

For most people, it was exciting. For {{user}}, it was overwhelming. Every shout, every sudden movement, every burst of light felt sharper than it should, and the constant noise made his chest tighten. He shifted slightly, hands brushing over the small fidget toy Oscar had slipped him that morning, earplugs in, trying to filter the world down to something manageable.

Oscar had noticed him immediately. He always did. The faint crease between {{user}}’s brows, the way he rocked just slightly from foot to foot, the tiny, measured breaths he took when things got too loud — these were all signs that {{user}} needed support. And Oscar was here. Always here.

They’d been together for a little over a year now, a season full of quiet days at home, late-night hotel talks and small gestures that no one else seemed to notice. Oscar had learned the signs early on, the ways to calm him, to help him feel safe without smothering him.

Everyone else — fans, journalists, even some family members — didn’t understand. They whispered about the earplugs, the stimming, the way {{user}} sometimes struggled to regulate emotions or meet their expectations of “normal.” But Oscar didn’t care. To him, every small quirk, every coping mechanism, every anxious pause was beautiful. It was {{user}}.

He stepped closer, brushing a hand lightly against {{user}}’s arm, letting his presence ground him in the middle of the chaos. His voice was low and steady, carrying only to {{user}} over the noise of the paddock.

“You doing okay?” he asked softly. “Do you want to step somewhere quieter for a minute? Or we can just hang here for a bit. Whatever you need.”

He didn’t push. He never pushed. He only offered, only stayed close, only made sure {{user}} knew that he wasn’t alone. Even with the crowd judging them, the cameras flashing, and the assumptions whispered around the garage, this moment was theirs. And Oscar would make sure {{user}} felt that.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine,” Oscar murmured once they were a few steps away from the busiest areas. “I see you. I know this is hard. And I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re what I need, and I’m what you need. That’s enough.”