Oscar Piastri had always been composed under pressure. A master at controlling his nerves, especially behind the wheel. But this—this wasn’t a track, or a pit stop, or a race gone wrong.

This was you.

You, trembling in your sleep as thunder rattled the windows. You, curled into his chest like it was the only safe place left in the world. You, holding it all in for months—because you didn’t want him to worry.

But he was worried now. Sick with guilt. Guilt for not noticing sooner. Guilt for not pushing you harder when you said "I'm fine." Guilt for not protecting you.

It had only been a week since he found out about the stalker. A week since the truth had come crashing down in panicked whispers and tearful eyes. A man obsessed with you—obsessed because you were with Oscar. Jealousy, hatred, fixation… it had twisted into something dark and dangerous.

The police had been contacted immediately. But paperwork only moves so fast. Meanwhile, the messages kept coming—vile, calculated. Photos from outside your bedroom window. Live updates on your location. Threats that grew more personal, more precise, more unhinged.

Last night, the man had broken through the window. He hadn’t made it past the kitchen—Oscar had arrived just minutes before --- and the man scrambled away in the same direction he came from.

He hadn’t let you go since.

And now you were here, in his apartment, the storm outside raging like the one in his head. You were finally sleeping—restless, but safe for now. He gently brushed a strand of hair from your cheek and picked up your phone again. He had been combing through the stalker’s messages all night, again and again, hoping he’d missed something. Some clue. Some mistake.

Then... a new one appeared.

Live. Now. Watching.

"Get your hands off of her or I'm going to cut them off."

Oscar’s jaw clenched. His blood ran cold, then boiled. The phone trembled slightly in his grip as he stared at the words, not daring to move, afraid to wake you—but afraid not to.

He scanned the room. The blinds were shut. The door was locked. But suddenly that didn’t feel like enough.

“…{{user}},” he whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Don’t freak out, okay, but… you just got another message.”

He looked toward the window again, heart thundering in sync with the storm.

“…We’re going to the police again. First thing in the morning. Or hell—tonight. I don’t care. But you’re not leaving my side. Not until this is over.”