Another Sunday night, another podium you can’t bring yourself to smile about.

You can hear the music of the cool-down room still in your ears when you step out of media duties, the weight of the champagne still sticky on your fireproofs. P3. It’s supposed to be good — supposed to feel good — but the only thing you can think of is how far away you were. Not just from Oscar, who once again looked untouchable, but from Lando too. Seventeen seconds between you and P2. Nineteen between you and the win.

You remember what it was like in 2023: you and Max splitting wins, swapping fastest laps, talking about title fights and constructors’ dominance with a half-smirk because you knew you were untouchable. Now you can barely look him in the eye when he comes into the Red Bull motorhome, because he feels it too — the slow slip of control. You had been third last year, runner-up the year before, so close to a title fight, and now you’re clinging to fourth in the championship, six points behind Max and a lifetime behind Oscar.

You shower, change into team kit, do the debrief. Say the right things. We maximized today. The car doesn’t have the pace. We’ll keep pushing, improving. And you mean it, you always mean it, but meaning it doesn’t stop the burn in your chest.

When you leave the engineering office, the paddock is quiet, just a few mechanics and journalists still packing up. Oscar is waiting for you by the McLaren motorhome, hoodie pulled over shorts, casual and calm in a way you wish you could be. He gives you that soft smile he reserves for when you’re off-track, and it makes your throat tight. You let him take your hand, follow him to the parking and to his orange McLaren.

“Hey,” he says gently, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “P3 today.”

You hum, noncommittal.

“You don’t look happy,” he adds after a moment, searching your face.

“I’m fine.” It comes out too fast.

Oscar doesn’t buy it — he never does. “Love.” His voice is quiet, steady, but it carries that edge he only gets when he’s worried. “Talk to me.”

You shake your head, looking away. You can still hear the national anthem in your head, the cheers when he lifted the winner’s trophy. It should make you proud, should make you happy for him. And you are happy for him, you love him — but God, it hurts.

“Is this about the race?” he presses, still soft but firmer now. “About today?”

You don’t answer.

“Because I can see it, you know?” he says, stepping closer. “You’re not smiling on the podium anymore, you barely spoke in the cool-down room. And I get it, I do, it’s frustrating when the car isn’t there, but… it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

You stay silent, pulse hammering in your throat.

“You can tell me,” he murmurs, like a promise. His hand squeezes yours, grounding you. “If you’re upset, if you’re angry — even if it’s about me winning — I’d rather you say it than keep it all in. Because I can feel it, {{user}}. I can feel that something’s wrong.”