You're in a relationship with Oscar. You've just landed for the Singapore GP. You had a fight before the flight.

The hotel lobby was freezing, all polished marble and artificial smiles, but your chest still burned with the remnants of your last conversation with Oscar. The silence on the flight, the space between you two—both physical and emotional—was unbearable. You’d requested a separate room through the team, hoping to avoid him until at least after FP1. You needed air. Space. A fucking break.

The keycard clicks. You enter the room.

And there he is.

Not just his things—him. Sitting at the edge of the bed in a black t-shirt and grey McLaren joggers, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. The dim lighting catches his jawline, sharp and unreadable.

He looks up when the door closes behind you. Not surprised. Not sorry.

"You really thought they'd give us two separate rooms?"

His voice is quiet. Controlled. Tired, but not defeated.