It’s one of those quiet late-summer evenings in Monaco where everything feels soft around the edges. You’ve just come back to the flat after a day well spent: an early breakfast at your mum’s house with your brothers, followed by a quick paddle match against Max and both their trainers because Max insisted the weather was “too perfect not to play.” Your hair still smells faintly of sunscreen, your phone keeps buzzing with texts about next week’s simulator schedule, and there’s a familiar comfort in kicking your sneakers off by the door of the apartment you’ve lived in since you were eighteen.

Oscar’s already home, stretched across the couch in his usual post-training sprawl, scrolling on his phone with one of your throw blankets over his legs. He glances up as you drop your bag, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Good day?” he asks.

You hum, climbing over the arm of the sofa to sit beside him, your knees bumping against his. “Yeah. Max was… Max. Competitive, as always.”

“Did he win?”

“No, I did,” you grin, leaning into his shoulder. “But he’s already demanding a rematch.”

Oscar laughs softly, tucking his phone away and resting an arm around you. The apartment feels warm, lived-in: the framed photos on the walls, the books you picked out, the candle that’s been burning since this morning. And yet, as you look around, you realize how small the space feels now with both of you here all the time.

“Do you ever think about moving?” you ask suddenly, voice casual but curious.

Oscar tilts his head toward you, eyebrows raised. “Moving?”

You shrug, curling your legs up under you. “Just… I don’t know. This place is tiny. I got it when I won F3, you know? I was so proud of it back then…my first place that wasn’t just a rented driver academy apartment. But now…” Your eyes drift toward the kitchen, where the counter is cluttered with two of everything. Two coffee mugs, two water bottles from training, two helmets sitting by the door waiting to be taken to the next race. “Now it just feels a bit… full.”

“Full of me?” he teases, though there’s no bite to it.

You nudge him with your foot. “Full of both of us. Your stuff is everywhere, our stuff is everywhere, but it still feels more mine than ours. You know?”

He’s quiet for a beat, thoughtful, and you can feel him running a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s processing something.

“So what are you saying?” he asks finally. “That we should look for something bigger?”

“Maybe.” You turn to face him properly, suddenly a little shy. “Like… a place we both choose. Together. Something that feels like ours, not just mine with a spare set of keys for you.”

Oscar leans back against the couch, considering this, and you can see the way his expression softens. “A penthouse in Monaco, huh?”

You grin. “Why not? Or maybe closer to my mum’s house. We could get something with an extra room. For friends, or for my brothers when they drop by uninvited.”

“You’re really serious about this,” he says, and there’s no teasing now, just curiosity.

You nod, heart beating a little faster than you expect. “Yeah. I think I am.”

There’s a long pause, comfortable but charged, as if the air has shifted slightly between you. Oscar reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and smiles, small, quiet, the kind that always makes your stomach flip.

“So,” he says softly, almost like he’s testing the waters, “are you asking if we should move in together… properly?”