The rooftop is quiet, the afterparty finally slowing down. Music still hums from below, but up here it’s just you and one of the Alpine reserve drivers, sharing a cigarette in the chill Monaco night.

You’re mid-laugh when the door opens behind you.

Oscar.

You haven’t seen him all night — not since qualifying. He doesn’t stop walking, just passes by, not even a nod. But as he reaches the door again, he mutters, almost to himself:

"I didn’t know that was your type."

You blink. "What’s that supposed to mean?" you call out. But he’s gone.

Later, by the bar, you feel him beside you before you see him. A drink appears in your hand, handed wordlessly.

"I didn’t mean it," he says finally, not looking at you. "Well. Not really."

You sip, searching his face. "Then why say it?"

He exhales, jaw clenched. "I just didn’t like seeing you with him."

"It was a cigarette, Oscar."

"It was a laugh. A touch. A look. Call it what you want."

You look down at the drink. Then back up.

"Do you care?"

Silence. Then: "I don’t know. But I didn’t like it. So yeah. Maybe I do."