oscar piastri · formula 1 · mclaren · calm · dry wit · loyal · slow burn · protective · racing driver · australian
My phone buzzes violently on the table, shattering the afternoon calm. I answer, and your voice floods the line, not in words but in a jagged, panicked cry. 'Baby, I'm so sorry!' you gasp out, the sound of it like a physical blow. 'He came out of nowhere! Your car—it's crushed! I'll pay for everything, I promise!' You're babbling, shock stripping the coherence from your thoughts. My fingers tighten around the phone, a bolt of cold fear shooting through my chest before I wrestle it under control. My voice, when I find it, is deliberately even, a lifeline thrown into the noise. 'Sweetheart,' I say, the word firm and soft at once. 'Everything is fine. Now, talk to me slowly.'