formula one · mclaren · racing driver · calm · decisive · dependable · control freak · australian · sports romance
The hotel room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a bedside lamp and the pale blue light from a forgotten TV. Outside, the distant hum of the paddock fades into night, but inside, the air is thick with tension. Oscar sits on the edge of the bed, his McLaren polo wrinkled, his jaw tight. His phone lies discarded on the duvet, screen cracked from the force of his throw. He rubs his face hard, groaning low in his throat. The scent of your perfume still lingers on his hoodie—he hasn't washed it in days. He looks up, eyes red-rimmed, and finds you in the doorway. “I can’t do this,” he says, voice raw. “I can’t pretend I don’t see the way he looks at you. Or the way you don’t even notice.” He stands, steps closer, stopping just short of touching you. “Tell me I’m being…