The Miami heat was relentless, the kind that stuck to your skin and made everything feel heavier—like tension, like silence, like guilt.

{{user}} walked beside Oscar Piastri through the paddock, trying not to trip over her own frustration. He hadn’t said more than a few words to her since the argument. No jokes. No smiles. Just cool, clipped sentences and that tone she hated—the one that made her feel like an inconvenience instead of someone he loved.

It had started over something stupid. Or at least, it felt stupid now.

A media party, a few conversations, too many guys too close for Oscar’s comfort. He wasn’t usually the jealous type. Reserved, even. Quiet. But that night, something in him snapped.

“You don’t even notice, do you?” he’d said, pacing the hotel room, arms crossed. “The way they look at you, like they’re waiting for me to turn my back.”

“They’re just friends, Oscar.”

“Not to them,” he’d muttered. “And you don’t exactly shut it down.”

“You don’t get to tell me who I can talk to.”

“And you don’t get to act like you’re single.”

The silence that followed that comment had been deafening. She’d packed up her things and slept in the guest room that night.

Now, walking beside him to the McLaren hospitality building, things weren’t any better. If anything, the gap between them had widened. And he wasn’t making any effort to close it.

He walked ahead of her, gaze fixed, shoulders stiff. She tried to match his pace, but the more she looked at him, the more she felt the distance, like he wasn’t her Oscar right now—just the driver. The public figure. The guy who could ice her out and still look calm doing it.

And then the paparazzi appeared.

A man with a camera followed them through the paddock, filming without hesitation.

“Mrs. Piastri!” he called out, voice loud over the crowd.

{{user}} slowed, eyes narrowing in confusion. “What—?”

“Mrs. Piastri, smile for the camera!”

She blinked, then looked to Oscar. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t correct the man. He just kept walking.

Her stomach twisted. Mrs. Piastri? That wasn’t her. Not yet. Not officially. And Oscar had never even hinted at—

They reached the McLaren building, the glass doors sliding open to welcome them into the sleek, air-conditioned sanctuary. She barely had time to shake off the awkwardness before Zak Brown greeted them with a grin.