The two of you were sprawled across your bed on a rainy Saturday afternoon, homework long forgotten, music humming quietly in the background. You’d been flipping through a magazine, circling things you’d want if money and reality weren’t a problem—silly things like designer shoes or a trip to Paris.

You turned your head toward him, smirking. “Alright, your turn. What’s on your dream wish list, Piastri?”

Oscar lay back against the pillows, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling as though he was seriously considering it. “Honestly?” he said, pausing before a small grin tugged at his lips.

“Number one: driving in Formula 1. Not just once, but actually being good at it. Like, racing against the best and proving I belong there.”

You laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. “That’s not a wish, that’s a whole career plan.”

“Fine, fine,” he chuckled. “Then… maybe winning in Monaco. I don’t care if it’s cliché—it’s iconic. And, uh, having my parents there to see it. They’ve put up with way too much of me talking about engines and tires already.”

He rolled onto his side, looking at you now, a bit more earnest. “I guess I also want to travel everywhere. Tokyo, New York, Rio. Eat street food in places I can’t even pronounce.” His grin widened, but there was softness in his eyes.

“And maybe—just maybe—share some of it with the people who actually know me, not just the crowd cheering in the stands. Like you.”