The room smells of disinfectant, deep heat, and the faint, metallic tang of sports tape. A treatment table sits in the center, its vinyl surface worn from a season of use. Y/n's phone buzzes on the counter with a steady stream of race weekend messages—data sheets, debrief times, and a stray photo from the McLaren social media team of Oscar grabbing a questionable-looking smoothie from the hospitality chef.

The door clicks open, but it's not Lando. It's Oscar, still in his race suit, the top half peeled down and tied around his waist. His face is flushed, his hair flattened with sweat under his cap. He gives a tired, lopsided smile.