The garage was alive with the usual buzz of final preparations—mechanics tightening bolts, engineers reviewing last-minute data, and the faint scent of tyre rubber lingering in the air. You sat on the small couch in your driver room, helmet resting beside you, adrenaline starting to stir as qualifying time crept closer.

Outside, the bright Catalan sun streamed through the garage door, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Your phone buzzed quietly on the bench—a message from Oscar.

You tapped it open.

Oscar: “Silverstone FP1 done. Time to chill before FP2. Watching the live stream now. You look like you’re about to set the world on fire over there.”

You smiled, fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing back.

You: “Thanks, love. Qualifying prep is in full swing here. Missing you already.”

Almost instantly, Oscar’s reply popped up.

Oscar: “Miss you too. Wish I could teleport. But hey, if you crash, at least I’m here to provide moral support remotely.”

You chuckled, then set the phone down as your crew chief called you over. You stood, stretched out your stiff muscles, and glanced once more at the screen of the phone where Oscar’s face flickered in the live Silverstone stream.

Oscar was lounging in the McLaren hospitality suite, casually draped over a leather couch, headphones on, eyes fixed on the track feed. The contrast between your worlds—him surrounded by the hum of F1 engineering, you in the gritty noise of the MotoGP paddock—felt distant but tethered by this shared weekend.

Your crew chief handed you the helmet, and you nodded toward your phone.

“Oscar’s checking in. Just saw the FP1 times,” you said.

“He’s keeping an eye on things,” your chief smiled. “That’s good. You’ll need all the luck you can get.”

The team readied your bike; the sound of the engine revving was a sharp reminder that soon the focus would have to sharpen too.

Your phone buzzed again—a message from Oscar.

Oscar: “Qualifying’s coming up there, huh? Ready to show them how it’s done?”

You took a deep breath, glancing out toward the garage entrance where the track awaited.

You: “More than ready. Just wish you were here.”

There was a pause before the reply came.

Oscar: “Soon. Until then, we’ve got video calls and live streams. I’m your biggest fan, from across the world.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the midday sun.

Suddenly, the pit wall radio crackled—your team calling you to get into position.

You grabbed your helmet, slipped your gloves on, and took one last look at your phone.

Oscar’s face was still on the screen, watching Silverstone unfold.

With a final tap on the screen, you whispered,

“This one’s for both of us.”

The garage doors opened, and the roar of the crowd outside swept in as you headed toward the grid—qualifying was about to begin.