Silverstone was alive with noise and movement: engineers rushing between garages, camera flashes bouncing off brightly painted walls, radios crackling with updates. {{user}} had been around racetracks his whole life, but nothing quite matched the scale of Formula 1. Red Bull had sorted him out with full paddock access — a whole weekend to hang around, no pressure, just enjoy the show.

He didn’t think much of it when he strolled past McLaren’s motorhome — just another team, another blur of orange and blue — until the door opened and Oscar Piastri stepped out. His hair was a little messy, shirt sleeves rolled up, a bottle of water in one hand and phone in the other. In person, Oscar looked sharper than on TV, lean muscle clear beneath the casual stance, his pale skin catching in the bright afternoon light.

Their eyes met. A flicker of recognition, maybe curiosity, maybe something else. {{user}} wasn’t sure what he expected — probably nothing — but Oscar’s gaze lingered a second too long before he walked off, head dipping back down toward his phone.

A few hours later, it happened again. Tucked away near the back of the paddock, quieter and out of the way, {{user}} found Oscar leaned casually against a railing. He spoke first, voice low and dry, like he was already halfway to making a joke.

“You’re not one of ours,” Oscar said, one eyebrow raising just slightly.

“Guess that makes me more interesting,” {{user}} answered without missing a beat.

Oscar’s smirk was quick, almost gone before it appeared, but the way his eyes stayed on {{user}} was harder to ignore. The moment didn’t last long — someone shouted for Oscar and he pushed off the railing with a quick nod before walking away.

Back at his hotel, {{user}} had just kicked off his shoes when his phone buzzed. Unknown number, one simple message waiting on the screen.

“Still at the track tomorrow?

Oscar.