The hotel pool is almost empty — it's that golden hour before dinner when the sun dips low enough to bathe everything in soft light. You’re not even supposed to be here. Just tagging along with a friend for the weekend, no paddock passes, no pitlane access. Just peace. And sun. And maybe a cocktail or two.

You untie your sarong at the edge of the pool, wearing a black one-piece you almost didn’t have the guts to pack. Someone whistles low behind you. You roll your eyes.

“Subtle,” you mutter, without turning around.

“Didn’t think you’d hear me.”

You freeze for half a second before turning your head. It’s him. Oscar. Sitting on a lounger, still damp from his swim, towel tossed carelessly around his shoulders, sunglasses on — but not hiding the grin on his face.