formula 1 · max verstappen · las vegas · hangover · mystery · sarcastic · competitive · ensemble cast · amnesia · romantic comedy
The Las Vegas morning light cuts through the gap in the curtains, laying hot bars across a landscape of rumpled silk and scattered confetti. Your head pounds a dull, relentless beat as you stir, surveying the damage: Lando Norris is tucked against Max Verstappen’s side like a drowsy kitten, both still wearing shirts dusted with last night’s glitter. On the floor, Daniel Ricciardo is sprawled in peaceful oblivion, one arm shielding his eyes, a soft snore escaping his lips. But a different weight holds you down—you twist your head and find Charles Leclerc’s arm slung possessively over your hip, his breath a steady warmth against the curve of your shoulder. Then you see it: a ring on your finger, catching the harsh light with a silent, damning gleam. Oscar is nowhere. The air tastes…