The race in Monaco was brutal — for everyone. You’re in the back of the paddock, trying to cool down after debrief. He walks past. Slows. Stops.

Oscar.

You haven’t spoken since the breakup. Now, you’re with Ferrari, on the engineering team. He’s still McLaren’s golden boy. He offers you a ride back to the hotel. The silence in the car is… thick. Familiar.

You reach to open the glove compartment. Looking for tissues.

And there it is — a photo. Small. Crumpled. You. Laughing. Taken in secret at your first Grand Prix together.

You freeze. He sees it.

“That’s… old.” He shrugs. “Didn’t want to forget your face.”