"I need a few more check-ups with medical. I think I will catch the next flight"

I say it casually at the end of our debrief, leaning back in the chair to see all over the room. The engineers pause, someone raises an eyebrow. There's an unspoken question hanging in the air like humidity, "why aren't you going with Oscar?".

They all know we usually travel as a pair for home races – PR and marketing need us more than ever. But the kiss still lingers like burnt sugar on my mouth – something sweet and twisted with smoke and guilt, something keeps replaying in endless, unbearable slow motion.

"Medical wants to check the bruises again to make sure I'm okay for the next race" – I lie, a desperate attempt to shield myself from the emotional fallout I'm not ready to face.

Andrea Stella nods thoughtfully, but even his eyes spark up with suspicion.

Oscar doesn't speak, doesn't move. He stands up perfectly fast on the other end of the table, posture rigid and unreadable. He quickly says goodbye to everyone in the room and leaves, not leaving space for anyone to question him.

I laugh and talk with everyone around a little too loudly, try to ignore the fact that Oscar is ghosting me in front of the whole team.

***

That night, when I'm all alone on the hotel bed, my thoughts unwillingly drift to him.

I hate – truly, painfully hate – how my chest tightens at the space he leaves between us.

Also hate the fact that I miss him deeply, and the shame of it is a bruise deeper than the crash.

Why would I miss someone who can kiss me like I am his oxygen one night then vanish into silence the next morning? Why should I crave the presence of a person who might be pretending that a kiss in Jeddah was a shock response and nothing more?

A notification on my phone pops up, I hope it's him even though I know it's not. The silence fills in the room like a fog, settling into my skin, wrapping around my ribs like something possessive.

I miss him so much it's humiliating.

Every few minutes, my mind slides back to the way his hand shook when he touched me. The way he said my name as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

But actions always scream louder than words and right now, all he wants to tell me is he regrets the kiss. Maybe that's why he won't look me in the eyes. Maybe I imagined the softness, the meaning.

The thoughts spiral, looping faster than the corners in Jeddah ever could until I'm curled sideways on the bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for clarity or anesthesia. Neither comes, but exhaustion does drag me into sleep instead.

When morning creeps in with its pale merciless light, I feel no better, just emptier.

***

Oscar's face is everywhere.

Billboards. Flags. Posters taped on barriers. Sharp, proud version of himself stretched across banners.

It's the kind of hometown adoration that looks enviable from distance. Something I would never get, considering the fact that Silverstone isn't only mine. I feel a twisting in my stomach but still put on a brave face for the flashing lights out there. Trying to pretend the pressure isn't suffocating me on his behalf.

I push the door open, making my way into McLaren's department. Everyone is busy with their own stuffs, walking, chatting, running around. Andrea welcomes me with an examination look before asking "Lando, did the doctors tell you to starve yourself to recover?"

"I guess. There's no good food for me to eat."

"Get something then. You live right next to five-star restaurants."

"But no lamington" – I sigh dramatically – "I swear if I don't get authentic Australian lamington I'll just wither on the spot. Collapse mid-session. Tell the marshals to drag my corpse out of the car"

Andrea chuckles, which makes me feel like I'm a 12-year-old kid trying to negotiate for more desserts at dinner.

My eyes caught a glimpse of Oscar.

He's not supposed to be here. I double-checked the schedule earlier and he should have been in the city center with press, meetings, fan signs – obligations that come with being the golden boy.

Oscar's cutting through the paddock like a God himself, walking too proudly, too determined. He slows down a bit when he hears me and Andrea talking, but not enough for him to come over and speak to us. He heads out to the door, where his team is sitting.

Trying to brush off the thoughts lingering in my head, I'm back discussing new strategies and changes for the race. After all, I am here to win again, aren't I?

***

By the time I am back to my hotel room, the sun has already set, painting the sky with warm purple color. I drop onto the bed face-first, limbs splayed out like a starfish that's given up on life, breathe into the pillows as it might calm the storm living in my ribs.

I doom-scroll Tiktok, then Instagram, then Snapchat, then Facebook. Anything to get my mind off the day, really.

Nothing exciting is going on at the moment, but as I am about to drop my phone on the pillow, a teeny tiny small message pops up.

Oscar Piastri: My mom makes great lamington, chocolate and raspberry. Come over for dinner tomorrow?

My heart stops. Fully stops. Like my blood slams an emergency brake.

Everything hits me like a ridiculous emotional roller-coaster: panic, hope, surprised, confusion, longing – and the urge to scream into the void. I scream into a pillow instead.

A sound - something between a dying seagull and medieval trumpet – comes out of my throat and directly falls into the pillow.

The ceiling remains silent as I stare at it, demand for an answer. Is he trying to be nice, testing me or teasing me? Is this a peace treaty, a cease fire or attempt to kill me so no one ever found out about our kiss?

I sit up suddenly, hair sticking up everywhere.

I type a reply. Delete it.

Type a longer paragraph. Delete.

Add emoji then emojis. Delete.

Rewrite the whole text. Delete.

Consider calling him then laugh at myself for even imagining that level of bravery.

Finally – after mentally aging five years – I type down the most neutral, emotionally cowardly message possible then send it out before I chickened out again.

Lando: ok

***

The taxi pulls away with a soft hum, leaving me alone on the quiet residential street of where Oscar lives with his family. My palms are sweating, how ridiculous it is.

His home sits at the end of the corner, modest and warm, washed in leftover afternoon sunlight. I try to breathe but the air feels thicken around me, full of the weight of hidden meaning behind this dinner. It's walking into a space created, sacred for Oscar and Oscar only.

The door swings open before I got the chance to knock.

Piastri, on the other side of the door, with soft damp hair, hoodie loose, eyes wide open. For a while, neither of us says a word.

"You came" – somewhere between disbelieve and surprised, I catch him there

"You invited" – I shrug, stay as unaffected as possible.

He steps aside and I step in. The scent hits first. Vanilla, toasted coconut, chocolate. The unmistakable scent of something made with love.

And then – "Lando!"

The shout coming from the kitchen, almost sends my soul out of this body. Oscar's mother flies into hallway, hands clasped like she's greeting a God in human form.

"Lando, you look even cuter than last year. What has your mom feeding you at home?

"Mum" – Oscar hisses, face turning red – "Leave him alone"

She shuts Oscar down "Mind your own business. Let me have my time with my favorite boy"

I step out of my shoes as Oscar's mom takes my coat, offers me slippers then takes me inside where his dad is making the table. It all feels like stepping into a warm bath – comforting, overwhelming, borderline intrusive but feels good after all.

Before I can sit down, his mom turs, eyes sparkling – "We have heard so much about you, darling"

I freeze. Oscar freezes harder.

"MUM, stop"

"You talk about him all the time" – Oscar's mom ignores his protest. She leads me to the table and urges me to sit down – "Dinner is ready now"

Oscar takes the seat besides me, our shoulders brush, our knees touch. He doesn't say a word, acts like it all normal. And so do I.

I secretly watch Oscar under the soft kitchen light before it hits me – this is him without an armor. Not a young talented driver who races at 300km/h under pressure, but a boy who is adored and loved by his own family. Oscar without the world watching, media naming.

Oscar's mom seems to be happy to see me intruding his personal space while he looks like he wants to melt into the floor. She complains about his diet on racing days, tell me endless funny things happen at home and his childhood stories.

The conversation drifts, his parents chattering, Oscar keeps mumbling half-hearted protests. My eyes wander around to avoid looking at him and somehow they land on the living room shelf.

That one particular picture of him caught my attention. Younger Oscar, probably just 10 or 11, sitting in front of a piano, fingers on the keys, head titling gently to the side. Feels like I just discover the most private secret of his, I glance at him – really really glance – and the corner of his mouth twitches, knowing exactly what my look means.

"It's nothing" – the brunette guy mutters under his breath – "Mum made me take lessons back then"

His mom scoffs – "He was brilliant with a bright future ahead but stopped to focus on racing". The warmth in her voice was unmistakable, beamed with pride.

My heart twists at the fact that now there's a part of him that I am the only one aware of – a hidden, delicate piece of a masterpiece.

Dinner ends slowly, like the last lingering notes of a song no one wants to stop. Oscar's mum insists on making me 3 different flavors of lamington, his dad makes jokes about "drivers are practically boys with expensive toys and never grow up". And Oscar Piastri – poor little Oscar – suffers beside me, cheeks pink, shoulders tense, knees still touching me beneath the table in a way that feels unintentional but intentional at once.

When his mum stands to clean up the table, I rise too, almost on instinct. The house feels too warm, too gentle, too full of love and I just can't forgive myself if I don't do anything to show my gratitude towards them.

We move to the kitchen with sink filled with plates and utensils. Oscar steps, stands beside me, towel in hands, ready to dry the dishes. Close enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushes mine with every movement he takes.

We work quietly, no sound is made expect for my heartbeat. My embarrassingly loud heartbeat keeps going on, like it's trying to climb out of my chest and confess something.

So I try.

Take a slow breath, place the dish on the nearby drying rack, wipe my hands on a towel, take all the courage left in me. My throat feels tight, voice too fragile but I open my mouth anyway.

"Oscar, about the kiss...."

The plate in his hand slips. Not enough to fall, just enough to betrays him.

"Don't" – he says quietly, not wanting anyone to hear a word.

My heart sinks, but I push it anyway, softer than how I push my car.

"I.... Maybe.... I don't know. We could..... talk about it?"

A long silence welcomes me, stretches like pulled wire. Then his words hit me like cold water poured down my spine.

"It meant nothing. Heat of the moment"

I swallow hard, try to not feel the pain settles under my ribs. I stare at the dishes because looking at him now would just kill me.

"Oh" – I finally manage to say something, soft and stupid.

Oscar nods, leaving me alone in the kitchen, doesn't bother to look at me twice.