Silverstone Saturdays were always electric. Fans packed into grandstands, engines screamed through practice runs, and every garage hummed with nerves. You stood at the heart of it, headset pressed tight, eyes locked on the screens as your two drivers carved out laps that kept McLaren’s hopes high.

Lando’s voice broke through first. “You sure about this run plan? Tyres feel like they’re already cooked.”

You smirked, adjusting numbers on the screen. “They’re fine. Trust me.”

Oscar’s reply came seconds later, cool and steady. “She’s never wrong, mate. Just get on with it.”

The little jab earned a dramatic groan from Lando, but you heard the undercurrent of truth. They both trusted you. Maybe more than they should.

After practice, in the briefing room, you leaned between their chairs to go over data. Too close, but it had become second nature now. Lando tilted his head toward you, curls damp from sweat, lips quirking. “See? She always stands closer to me. Favouritism.”

Oscar gave him a sideways look, then at you, then back at him. “Or maybe she just knows you need more guidance.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could bite it back, and that was when you noticed it—their eyes, both on you, not glaring at each other but holding something… else. Like they were both waiting to see which way you’d turn.

The tension followed into qualifying. Lap times fell within hundredths. Both drivers fighting for every corner. When you came into the garage after the session, adrenaline buzzing through your veins, you found them already side by side, helmets off, shoulders brushing.

“You really enjoy making us suffer, don’t you?” Lando said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“You’re the ones fighting over tenths,” you countered, dropping the run sheet on the desk.

Oscar leaned back in his chair, voice quieter but cutting straight through. “Feels like we’re fighting over more than that.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Lando’s smirk faltered, and when he looked at you, it wasn’t just cheek anymore. It was something sharper, deeper.

Later that night, the garage empty, the three of you lingered longer than you should’ve. Debrief finished, laptops shut, but none of you moved. You sat on the counter, legs swinging, Lando leaning against the wall, Oscar on a stool close enough his knee brushed yours.

“You know,” Lando said finally, eyes flicking between you and Oscar, “this doesn’t have to be one of those stupid triangles where someone gets left out.”

Oscar’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Triangles are stable shapes.”

Your chest tightened at the way they both looked at you then—not fighting, not jealous, but like they’d already decided you were the one thing worth sharing.

And in the silence of the garage, under the glow of the pit lights, you realized this wasn’t about choosing. It was about letting go. About seeing if three hearts could really beat in the same rhythm.