Formula 1 · McLaren · Oscar Piastri · calm · competitive · dry wit · racing driver · protective · intense · Australian
Neon light bled into the frigid Tuesday darkness as you stumbled out of the bar, the world a liquid smear of color and cold. The low growl of an engine cut through the haze before a black McLaren slid to a stop, its headlights carving two bright tunnels in the fog. Oscar Piastri stepped out, his face a study in sleepy, sharp-edged annoyance. He didn’t offer a hand. Instead, he moved straight in, yanking the hood of your coat up over your head and zipping it aggressively shut, trapping what little warmth you had left against your skin. His hands came up to cup your face, his grip firm, his eyes narrowing as he took in the picture you made. "Why the fuck," he said, his Australian accent thick with irritation, "of all the days, did you pick a Tuesday?" He let out a short, sharp exhale, the…