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Aug 28, 2025

Stranger Danger

Summary: What happens when you're being followed by a staff member in McLaren's motorhome on your first day of work and a certain driver saves you. . . .

Song: Noah Cyrus & XXXTENTACION · Again

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 8.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engines was still a distant, theoretical hum in your mind as you stepped out of the paddock’s designated transport, the crisp morning air carrying the faint scent of tire rubber and high-octane fuel.

This was it. Your first day at McLaren Racing. Not just any day, but the start of your senior position as a Sports Scientist – Human Data Science.

The title felt like a perfectly tailored suit, a culmination of years of relentless study and ambition.

You were here, at the pinnacle of motorsport, ready to dive deep into the physiological and biomechanical intricacies of peak human performance.

Your objective for the morning was clear: find Zak Brown. You’d been given a rough map of the McLaren motorhome – a sprawling, two-story edifice of orange and black, a mobile fortress of innovation – but maps, you quickly discovered, were notoriously unhelpful when faced with a labyrinth of identical corridors, bustling crew members, and the sheer, overwhelming scale of it all.

You clutched your brief, official-looking folder a little tighter, a nervous smile plastered on your face as you tried to project an air of confident competence.

Inside, however, your stomach was doing more laps than the MCL38. The motorhome was a hive of activity, a vibrant ecosystem of engineers hunched over screens, mechanics meticulously polishing components, and media personnel weaving through the throng with cameras poised.

You tried to blend in, to look purposeful as you navigated what felt like an endless series of identical doors.

“Excuse me, are you lost?”

The voice, a little too close to your ear, made you jump. You turned to find a man standing there, perhaps in his late forties, early fifties, dressed in a standard McLaren team polo.

He had a tight, almost forced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which seemed to linger a little too long.

“Oh, no, thank you,” you replied, injecting as much politeness as possible into your tone. “Just trying to find my way to Zak Brown’s office. I think I’m almost there.”

You gestured vaguely down a corridor you were sure led to a dead end.

“I can show you,” he insisted, taking a step closer. His hand reached out, then dropped, as if he’d thought better of touching your arm.

“That’s very kind, but I think I’ve got it,” you said, forcing another smile.

You really, really didn’t want to be led around like a child on your first day. You were a Senior Sports Scientist, for crying out loud.

You started walking, a little faster, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t. Instead, his footsteps matched yours, falling into an unnervingly synchronised rhythm.

“It’s easy to get turned around here on your first day,” he continued, his voice still too close. “Especially with all the unfamiliar faces. You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yes, it’s my first day,” you confirmed, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m the new Senior Sports Scientist.” You thought mentioning your position might deter him, establishing some professional distance. It didn’t.

“Ah, a scientist,” he mused, his smile widening unnaturally. “Very interesting. My name’s Mark. Anything I can help you with, you just let me know.”

You swallowed, your pace quickening. You had tried polite, you had tried firm, and now a prickle of unease was starting to bloom in your chest.

His presence felt… oppressive. His gaze felt like it was tracing your back, even when you weren't looking.

“Thank you, Mark, but I really am fine,” you said, pushing open a door that led into a bustling, open-plan area filled with engineers and their monitors. You hoped the crowd would be a deterrent.

It wasn't. He followed you in, a shadow clinging to your heels. You could feel the eyes of other staff members glancing your way, curious about the impromptu procession.

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and growing anxiety. This was not how you wanted to make your first impression.

You ducked around a large screen displaying complex telemetry data, trying to put a physical barrier between you and him.

"Honestly, I need to focus on finding my way,” you explained, finally allowing a hint of exasperation to creep into your voice. “I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Zak Brown can wait,” he chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “I’m sure he’ll understand. A pretty face like yours shouldn’t be wandering lost.”

The compliment landed like a cold, wet cloth. Your breath hitched. Pretty face? The unease solidified into a knot of genuine fear.

This wasn't helpfulness; this was something else. You were alone, a stranger in a strange place, and this man was making you feel distinctly unsafe.

You debated whether to just turn and confront him, or find the nearest person in authority and demand he leave you alone.

But you were new, you didn't want to cause a scene. You just wanted to disappear.

Just as you were about to turn a corner, desperately looking for an exit or a friendly face, a voice, calm and clear, cut through the tension.

“Mark, everything alright here?”

You almost sagged in relief at the sound, spinning around to see who had spoken. Standing there, leaning casually against a doorframe, was Oscar Piastri.

He was dressed in a team polo and track pants, looking effortlessly composed, a slight frown creasing his brow. His presence commanded attention, and the air around you suddenly felt a little less suffocating.

Mark, the creepy staff member, visibly stiffened. His forced smile faltered, replaced by a look of wary deference. “Oh, Oscar. Yes, everything’s fine. I was just helping our new colleague find her way. She’s a little lost.” He gestured to you, his hand a little too close, a little too possessive.

Oscar’s gaze flickered to your face, and he seemed to pick up on the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way you unconsciously recoiled from Mark’s gesture.

His eyes, a striking brown, held yours for a moment, a silent question passing between you. You managed a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head, a plea for help.

“Is that right?” Oscar asked, his tone still even, but with an underlying steel that was unmistakable. He pushed off the doorframe, taking a step towards you both. “And have you introduced yourselves properly?”

“Of course,” Mark chimed in, too quickly. “I’m Mark, I help with…”

“She’s the new Senior Sports Scientist, isn’t she?” Oscar interrupted, his gaze still fixed on you. “I heard you were starting today. Welcome to McLaren.” He extended a hand towards you. “Oscar Piastri. Nice to meet you.”

His hand was warm, firm, and you grasped it like a lifeline. “Thank you,” you breathed, your voice a little shaky. “Yes, I’m… I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, to be honest.”

Oscar’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “It happens. The motorhome can be a maze. Who are you looking for, specifically?”

“Zak Brown,” you managed, feeling a surge of gratitude for his intervention.

Oscar nodded, then turned his gaze to Mark. “Mark, could you actually go and check on the telemetry readings for turn four? Lando was mentioning something about a slight anomaly this morning. It’s urgent.”

Mark’s face tightened. “But I was just…”

“It’s fine, Mark. She’s with me now,” Oscar stated, his voice polite but unwavering. “I’ll make sure she finds Zak. You go sort out that telemetry.”

There was no arguing with the young driver. Mark’s shoulders slumped, and he gave you one last, lingering look that made your skin crawl, before he mumbled, “Right. Telemetry. Of course,” and shuffled away, disappearing around the corner.

You let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding, a wave of relief washing over you so potent it almost made your knees buckle.

“Thank you,” you said again, looking at Oscar, your gratitude radiating from you. “Truly. He was… he was making me quite uncomfortable.”

Oscar’s smile softened. “I gathered. He can be a bit… persistent. Are you alright?”

“Yes, much better now,” you confirmed, feeling a blush creep up your neck. You, a senior professional, almost reduced to tears on your first day. “I was just trying to get to Zak’s office, but I keep getting lost. I tried telling him I was fine, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Standard procedure for the McLaren motorhome,” Oscar said with a light chuckle. “It’s a labyrinth, especially on your first day. Come on, I’ll walk you to Zak’s. It’s on my way to the gym anyway.”

He started walking, a comfortable, unhurried pace, and you fell into step beside him. He wasn't overtly charismatic in the way some drivers were, but there was an easy confidence about him, a quiet strength that was immensely appealing.

You noticed the subtle details – the way his hair fell across his forehead, the lean musculature of his arms, the focused intensity in his eyes. He wasn't just a driver; he was a presence.

“So, Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, that’s a mouthful,” he said, glancing at you with an amused expression. “Sounds important.”

You laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound this time. “It is, I hope. I’ll be working on optimising driver performance through physiological data analysis, biomechanics, recovery strategies… The whole spectrum.”

“So, you’ll be making me faster, then?” he quipped, a playful glint in his eye.

“That’s the goal,” you affirmed, feeling a spark of professional enthusiasm ignite. “Working with you, Lando, and the rest of the team to ensure you’re all in peak condition, both physically and mentally.”

“Good luck with that last part,” he murmured, a wry smile touching his lips. “Especially on race weekends.”

You found Zak’s office without further incident, thanks to Oscar’s escort. He waited patiently while you knocked, then offered a reassuring smile as Zak’s assistant waved you in.

“Good luck with the new role,” he said, just before you stepped through the door. “And if you get lost again, just shout. Or find me in the gym.” He gave a slight nod, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the motorhome’s bustling corridors.

You met Zak, the discussion was engaging and inspiring, but a part of your mind kept replaying the earlier encounter. Oscar Piastri.

The name now carried a different weight, a personal resonance beyond his public image.

He wasn’t just a rising star; he was the person who had saved you from a profoundly uncomfortable situation on your first day.

The meeting with Zak Brown was, thankfully, a much calmer affair. He’d greeted you with genuine warmth, his expansive office a stark contrast to the labyrinthine corridors outside.

The conversation flowed easily, covering your impressive credentials, your vision for the Senior Sports Scientist role, and the exciting challenges that lay ahead at McLaren.

You felt a wave of professional satisfaction wash over you, the earlier unpleasantness with Mark receding to a faint, irritating hum in the background.

When your initial discussions concluded, Zak leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile on his face. "Well, Y/N, it's clear we've found exactly who we were looking for. Welcome to the team."

He stood, extending a hand, and you shook it, a thrill of accomplishment running through you. "Now, I imagine you'd like to meet some of the key players. And perhaps get a proper feel for our bustling motorhome. It's quite the hive, as you've no doubt discovered."

You chuckled, a genuine smile replacing the polite ones you’d been forcing earlier. "I'd appreciate that, Zak. It certainly is quite a place."

He led you from his office, not back into the main thoroughfare, but through a series of discreet doors that opened into a larger, more informal gathering area.

It was less a meeting room and more a vibrant lounge, dotted with comfortable couches, high-tech screens displaying various data streams, and small groups of people in team gear engaged in animated discussions.

This was clearly where the magic happened, where ideas were sparked and strategies honed.

As you entered, a hush fell, and several heads turned. Zak, ever the showman, clapped his hands together. "Alright, everyone, listen up! I'd like you all to give a massive McLaren welcome to our newest member of staff. This is Y/N, our new Senior Sports Scientist."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, followed by a chorus of warm greetings. You felt a familiar professional composure settle over you, pushing down the last lingering traces of your earlier anxiety.

This was your element – meeting colleagues, discussing your work, becoming part of a high-performance team.

You stood beside Zak as he introduced you to a succession of senior personnel: Andrea Stella, the calm and focused Team Principal; Mark Temple, the Head of Performance; Piers Thynne, the Chief Operating Officer.

Each introduction was met with a firm handshake and an intelligent, probing question about your area of expertise.

You found yourself drawn into conversations about data analytics, biofeedback, and the nuances of driver conditioning, feeling a surge of excitement at the intellectual challenge.

As you engaged with various team members, a subtle awareness began to prickle at the back of your mind. It was a familiar presence, a quiet anchor amidst the bustling energy of the room.

Without directly looking, you knew Oscar was there. You could feel his eyes on you, not in the intrusive, unsettling way Mark’s had been, but with a steady, almost curious warmth.

He wasn’t at the forefront, or even in the immediate circle, but rather lingered slightly to the back, leaning against a pillar, a casual observer.

You caught his gaze once, fleetingly, as you explained a complex physiological concept to the Head of Human Performance.

He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a hint of a smile touching his lips, and a wave of unexpected warmth spread through your chest.

It was a silent acknowledgment, a shared understanding that made you feel a little less like an outsider, a little more… seen.

The introductions continued for another twenty minutes, your hand growing tired from the numerous shakes, your voice a little hoarse from enthusiastic explanations.

You met engineers, strategists, PR managers – a diverse tapestry of talent that made up the McLaren family. Everyone was welcoming, genuinely interested in the new perspective you brought.

Finally, Zak clapped his hands again, drawing the attention of the now fragmented groups. "Alright, I think Y/N has met enough of you for one morning! She needs to get her bearings. Does anyone want to give Ms. Y/N a proper tour of the motorhome and help her settle into her office?"

Before the words had even fully left Zak’s lips, a hand shot up from the back of the room. It was Oscar. He pushed off the pillar he'd been leaning against, his movement fluid and deliberate, and began to walk towards you both. His gaze, once again, was fixed on you, a clear, unwavering intensity in his brown eyes.

"I can do it," Oscar suggested, his voice clear and confident as he approached, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Almost immediately, another voice cut in, sharp with a hint of exasperation. "Oscar, you literally have a simulator session in ten minutes. Tom’s got the whole team waiting." It was Tom, Oscar Piastri’s race engineer, emerging from a nearby doorway, a tablet tucked under his arm. He looked at Oscar, then at you, a knowing smirk on his face.

Oscar didn't even break eye contact with you. "I can finish it before then," he persisted, his tone firm, a challenge in his voice that was utterly charming. He was making it clear, without having to say the words, that this was important to him.

A blush crept up your neck. You knew, with a certainty that made your heart flutter, that his offer wasn't just about being helpful. It was about you.

Zak looked from Oscar to Tom, then back to you, a shrewd glint in his eyes. He seemed to assess the situation instantly, a quiet amusement playing on his face. "Well, Tom, I'm sure a few minutes won't hurt. Our new Senior Sports Scientist does need a proper introduction to her new domain, after all. And who better than one of our star drivers to show her the ropes?" He winked, a barely perceptible gesture, at Oscar.

Tom sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "Fine, but if you're late, Oscar, there will be consequences. Consequences involving Lando and a very large bucket of water."

Oscar merely grinned, unperturbed. "Understood, Tom. I’ll be there." He turned his full attention to you, his expression softening. "Ready to see the real McLaren?"

You nodded, a genuine smile blossoming on your face, your earlier apprehension dissolving completely. "Lead the way, Oscar."

As you walked out of the lounge, leaving behind the bustling team and Tom's grumbling, a sense of lightness filled you. Oscar led you down a wide corridor, quieter than the one you'd been lost in earlier, and the air around him felt different now, more open, less guarded. He walked with a relaxed confidence, occasionally glancing at you, his eyes twinkling with a shared secret.

"So, what kind of trouble did you manage to get into this morning before I rescued you?" he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You laughed, the sound easy and unforced. "Nothing I couldn't handle, eventually. You just… expedited the process." You chose your words carefully, not wanting to dwell on Mark, but not wanting to dismiss Oscar’s intervention either.

He seemed to understand, his smile a little more genuine. "Good to know. But seriously, this place is a maze. It took me weeks to figure out where everything was." He gestured down a brightly lit hallway. "This is one of our engineering bays. You'll probably be spending a lot of time in here, or the one next door, collaborating with the performance engineers."

He opened a door, revealing a cavernous space filled with the hum of computers and focused individuals. The walls were plastered with schematics, graphs, and intricate diagrams. You felt a thrill of professional excitement. "This is incredible," you murmured, stepping inside.

"It is," Oscar agreed, watching your reaction. "It’s where all the data comes to life. And speaking of data, that's where you come in, isn't it? Making sense of all the numbers from, well, us." He gestured vaguely at himself.

"Precisely," you confirmed, your gaze scanning the impressive setup. "My job is to translate those numbers into actionable insights to improve performance, prevent injury, and optimize recovery."

"Sounds like you'll have your work cut out for you with Lando," Oscar quipped, a playful dig at his teammate.

You chuckled. "I'm sure he'll be a fascinating subject."

He led you through several more areas – the impressive simulation room (where Tom was no doubt drumming his fingers), the state-of-the-art gym, which was blessedly empty at the moment, and even a small, surprisingly peaceful garden area tucked away between two buildings. With each step, the conversation flowed more easily. You asked him about his training regimen, his typical race weekend routine, and the mental demands of Formula 1. He, in turn, asked about your previous research, what excited you most about this new role, and even a few personal questions about where you were from and what you liked to do outside of work.

It struck you that this was a side of Oscar Piastri the public rarely saw. He wasn’t just the fiercely determined, articulate driver from interviews. He was thoughtful, genuinely curious, and possessed a dry wit that perfectly matched his quiet confidence. He made you feel comfortable, truly at ease, in a way you hadn’t expected to feel on your chaotic first day.

As he showed you to a sleek, modern office designated as yours, strategically located near the performance analysis hub, you felt a pang of disappointment that the tour was ending. "Thank you, Oscar," you said, turning to face him, your voice imbued with sincere gratitude. "That was… invaluable. And much appreciated."

He leaned against the doorframe, a familiar pose, but this time it felt relaxed, inviting. "Anytime, Y/N. Like I said, it’s a maze. And I wouldn't want you to get lost again and end up with… another Mark situation." His tone was light, but his eyes held a subtle seriousness, a comforting undertone of protection.

You looked down, a small smile playing on your lips. "No, definitely not another Mark situation." You met his gaze again, feeling a warmth spread through you. "I think I’m officially un-lost now, thanks to you."

He pushed off the doorframe, checking his watch. "Looks like I’ve got about two minutes before Tom sends a search party. So, I’d better make a dash for the simulator." He paused, a slight hesitation in his movement. "But if you ever need anything else, or just want to grab a coffee, you know where to find me. Or, well, you know where most of my day is spent." He gestured vaguely towards the gym.

You laughed. "I’ll keep that in mind. And good luck with the simulator session."

"Thanks," he said, a genuine, easy smile lighting up his face. "Welcome again, Y/N. Really glad to have you on the team."

With a final, lingering look, he turned and disappeared down the corridor, leaving you standing in your new, pristine office. The hum of the motorhome was still present, but now it sounded less overwhelming, more like a gentle background melody. You looked around your space, then out into the bustling corridor, a sense of belonging blooming in your chest.

Your first day at McLaren had been a roller coaster, starting with unease and ending with an unexpected connection. Oscar Piastri, the quiet, formidable driver, had not only salvaged your day but had also left an indelible impression on your heart. You had come to optimize driver performance, but it seemed you might just find a performance of a different kind unfolding in your new life here – one with a very promising co-star.

You unpacked your bag, a new sense of anticipation bubbling within you. The labyrinthine motorhome no longer seemed daunting. With Oscar showing you the way, perhaps finding your path here, both professionally and personally, wouldn’t be so hard after all. You wondered if he really would be in the gym later. You might just have to "get lost" looking for a coffee, just to see.

The fluorescent hum of the McLaren Technology Centre had once felt like a sterile, intimidating presence, a stark contrast to the lively, chaotic energy of race weekends. But now, as the senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, you’d carved out your niche, the hum becoming a comforting thrum beneath your skin. You were part of the machine, a crucial cog in the relentless pursuit of speed and human optimisation. You understood the data, the intricate dance between physiology and peak performance, but sometimes, the humans behind the numbers were a little less predictable.

You found yourself fitting into the McLaren team better than you ever thought possible. The initial awkwardness of being a "data person" amongst the high-octane personalities of Formula 1 had dissolved. You learned to navigate the complex ecosystem of engineers, mechanics, and drivers, each with their own unique demands and idiosyncrasies. You were part of the family, and a part of that family now included a quiet, watchful gratitude towards Oscar.

You started seeing him more often, naturally, in the course of your work. But also, just around. Most of the time, he was with Lando, their contrasting energies a delightful spectacle. Lando, all boisterous charm and cheeky grins, would inevitably nudge Oscar, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, muttering something you couldn’t quite decipher but always ended with a burst of laughter from Lando. Oscar, in turn, would push him back, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips twisted into a pout that struggled to hide a playful smile. They’d walk away, still bickering and laughing, a constant, comforting presence in the background of your days. You’d find yourself watching them, a soft smile forming on your lips.

Your job, though, was less about watching and more about scrutinising. As the senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, your world revolved around the numbers, the physiological metrics that dictated performance, recovery, and potential. You dealt with terabytes of information: heart rate variability, sleep cycles, muscular output, cognitive load, hydration levels, biometrics sensors, even eye-tracking data. And yes, a significant portion of that data belonged to Oscar and Lando.

You’d spend hours poring over their readouts, looking for patterns, anomalies, areas of improvement, or potential strain. You knew Oscar’s resting heart rate, his peak VO2 max, his optimal sleep duration, the slight asymmetry in his muscular output after a particularly demanding race. You knew how his mental fatigue correlated with his reaction times during simulator sessions. You knew Lando’s tendency to run a little hotter, his unique recovery profile, the subtle indicators in his data when he was fighting off a cold. You knew them, in a way, more intimately than almost anyone else, a purely scientific, data-driven intimacy.

This unique insight made you a go-to person for Lando, especially when it came to Oscar. Lando, bless his energetic soul, had adopted you as Oscar’s unofficial medical proxy. Whenever Oscar had a bad result, a frustrating practice session, or a particularly gruelling physical training day, Lando would materialise at your office door, leaning against the frame with a worried frown.

“He’s a bit down today, you know,” Lando would announce, as if you hadn’t already seen the dip in Oscar’s cognitive load metrics and the slightly elevated cortisol levels reported by the smart patch. “His lap times were… not great. Is he, like, okay? Physically? Mentally?”

You’d nod, pulling up Oscar’s latest data. “His recovery from last week’s race was a little slower than usual, Lando. We’re working on adjusting his cool-down protocols. And he had a slightly interrupted sleep cycle last night, which could affect focus.” You’d carefully explain the science, your voice calm and reassuring, knowing that Lando, for all his japes, genuinely cared about his teammate.

Another time, after a particularly punishing triple-header, Lando found you in the cafeteria, looking utterly dejected. “Oi, Data Queen, you seen Oscar? He’s been quiet, not his usual quiet, but like, really quiet. And he keeps rubbing his neck.”

You’d already noted the slight increase in muscle tension activity around Oscar’s cervical spine in the previous day’s sensor data. “He’s experiencing some mild neck strain, likely from the high G-forces and extended track time. We’ve scheduled a physiotherapy session for him this afternoon, and I’ve recommended some targeted stretches. He’s probably just a bit sore.”

Lando would visibly relax, a grateful smile spreading across his face. “Right, okay. Good. So he’s not, like, actually broken then?”

You’d roll your eyes playfully. “Not yet, Lando. My job is to make sure he doesn’t get there.”

It was clear that Lando saw you as Oscar’s de facto doctor, capable of fixing any physical or mental ailment simply by consulting your screens. And in a way, you were. You were Oscar’s early warning system, his performance guardian.

One crisp morning, you were out on the MTC track, following Oscar and his personal trainer during one of their "big training sessions." These weren't just gym workouts; they were intense, multi-disciplinary sessions designed to simulate race conditions, pushing the drivers to their absolute limits. Oscar was a machine, his focus unwavering, his movements efficient and powerful. He powered through interval runs, then seamlessly transitioned to a series of high-intensity circuit training exercises, sweat beading on his forehead, his breath coming in controlled gasps.

You were there with your tablet, monitoring real-time data streaming from his multiple sensors. You watched his heart rate climb, his oxygen saturation remain steady, his power output consistent. He was performing exceptionally.

After a particularly gruelling sprint, his trainer called for a brief pause. “Okay, Oscar, let’s get a quick heart rate check. Stand still for a moment.”

The trainer placed a manual sensor on Oscar’s wrist, waiting for a stable reading. Oscar, still catching his breath, his chest heaving under his training gear, happened to look up. His eyes, usually sharp and concentrated during these sessions, found yours across the small expanse of the track.

You were just standing there, observing, your pen poised over your tablet, a professional, objective presence. But the moment his gaze met yours, something shifted. A spark, a recognition, passed between you. His lips, slightly parted from exertion, curved just a fraction upwards.

And then, the trainer’s voice broke the silence, a note of surprise in it. “Hmm. That’s an interesting spike.” He gave Oscar a questioning look. “Heart rate just jumped a good ten beats there, mate. Did you just get a sudden burst of adrenaline?”

Oscar’s eyes, still locked with yours, widened almost imperceptibly. A faint blush began to creep up his neck, just like the times Lando nudged him. He quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat, his hand instinctively going to the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, probably,” he mumbled, his voice a little rougher than before. “Just… thinking about the next set.”

You felt a blush of your own rising, mirroring his. You knew exactly what had caused that spike. It wasn’t adrenaline from the next set. It was you.

The air between you, which had always been purely professional, suddenly crackled with a new, unspoken awareness. The data, the numbers you meticulously analysed, had just proved something undeniably human, undeniably romantic. Your presence, your gaze, had elicited a measurable, physiological response in him.

From that moment on, every interaction felt charged. The casual greetings held a little more weight. His glances, once fleeting, now lingered a moment longer. You found yourself catching his eye across the garage, or in the paddock, and a silent, knowing smile would pass between you. The data in your endless spreadsheets suddenly had a face, and that face was Oscar Piastri’s, now etched not just in numbers, but in the burgeoning hope of a connection that felt as thrilling and unpredictable as a perfect lap. You were no longer just the Sports Scientist, and he was no longer just the data for you. He was the man who saved you, and the man whose heart, even just for a moment, had quickened at the sight of you. And that, you realised, was a data point even you hadn't anticipated. . . .

The fluorescent hum of the McLaren Technology Centre was a familiar lullaby by the time most people had long since clocked out. For you, the Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, it was usually just the beginning of the quiet, deeply focused hours. Months had blurred into a rhythm since your first day here, a challenging but exhilarating dance with algorithms and athlete biometrics. Your office, a sleek testament to innovation, often felt like a second home, especially when the data decided to whisper its secrets only after sundown.

Tonight was no different. You were deep in the intricate patterns of a driver’s recovery metrics, a complex tapestry of heart rate variability, sleep quality, and muscle activation data. The screens glowed, painting your face in cool blues and greens as your mind mapped out potential improvements, strategies for peak performance. It was a world you loved, a world where numbers told stories of human potential. The clock on your monitor read past 10 PM. A sigh escaped your lips – a mix of satisfaction and exhaustion. The last few lines of code clicked into place, a new model ready for testing. You leaned back, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying pop of your spine.

The building, usually a hive of activity, was eerily silent now. The only sounds were the distant whir of the server rooms and the soft hum of power. You gathered your things, a stack of printouts, your laptop, and various notebooks, the weight of a productive day settling in your hands. The empty corridors stretched before you, polished floors reflecting the overhead lights like a modern art installation. You were one of the last, as usual, a solitary figure moving through an architectural marvel. It was a testament to your dedication, perhaps, but tonight, a tremor of unease brushed against you. The silence felt heavier than usual.

You reached the main entrance, the glass doors gleaming. The cool night air beckoned, promising relief from the artificial climate within. You pushed through the revolving door, stepping out into the hushed darkness of the McLaren campus. The parking lot was mostly empty, a vast expanse punctuated by a few lone cars. Your own, a modest electric vehicle, was a comforting beacon in the distance.

You were halfway across the plaza, the gentle breeze rustling the papers in your hand, when you felt it – a sudden, jarring grip on your wrist. Your heart leaped into your throat, a primal instinct flaring through your veins. You spun around, your breath catching in your lungs, to come face to face with Mark.

Mark. The name was a ghost from your first week, a memory you’d carefully filed away and tried to forget. You hadn't seen him since then, not a glimpse in the corridors, not a whisper in the staff room. He wasn't in his crisp McLaren uniform now. His clothes were rumpled, his hair dishehevelled, and his eyes, bloodshot and narrowed, held an anger that made your stomach churn. The smell of stale alcohol hung around him like a toxic cloud.

"You!" he snarled, his voice thick and slurred, but laced with a venom that cut through the quiet night. "You were the reason I lost my job, weren't you?"

His grip tightened, his fingers digging uncomfortably into your skin. Shock rooted you to the spot. Your papers, clutched loosely, slipped from your grasp, scattering across the paved ground like fallen leaves. Your carefully plotted graphs and insightful analyses lay vulnerable beneath the lamplight.

"Mark, I— I'm sorry if I got you in trouble," you stammered, the words barely escaping your parched throat. You tried to pull your wrist free, but his hold was iron-strong. His accusation, though vaguely understood, hit you with the force of a physical blow. You remembered the HR meeting, the hushed questions about a "misunderstanding" on your first day. You hadn't explicitly reported him, but you hadn't denied the 'harassment' either. Your discomfort had been obvious enough to someone.

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" he roared, his voice echoing in the stillness. He started pulling you, roughly, towards the parking lot where a few dimly lit cars sat. "You ruined my life! My career! My everything!"

Panic, cold and sharp, coiled in your gut. There was no one around. The security office might be occupied, but it was too far, too out of sight. The vastness of the McLaren campus, usually a point of pride, now felt like an endless, desolate expanse. You kept apologizing, a desperate, automatic response, your voice small and trembling. Each step he forced upon you was a testament to your powerlessness. Your mind raced, searching for an escape, an explanation, anything to de-escalate the situation, but Mark was beyond reason, his eyes burning with a drunken fury that terrified you.

He dragged you past the manicured lawns, past the gleaming water feature, towards the employee parking lot. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. This was it, you thought, a horrifying, sickening realization. This was how it ended, here, in the dark.

Just as the shadowy outlines of cars grew clearer, a new voice, calm and steady, cut through the tension.

"Mark, I think you should let her go."

Your head snapped up, your eyes frantically scanning the darkness. From the shadows between two parked cars, a figure emerged, tall and composed. Relief, so potent it was almost painful, flooded through you. It was Oscar Piastri. He stood there, not in his racing gear, but in a simple t-shirt and jeans, looking surprisingly normal, but his presence was anything but. In his hand, neatly gathered, were the papers you had dropped.

Mark, startled, loosened his grip for a fraction of a second, just enough for you to wrench your arm free. You stumbled back, clutching your wrist, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Mind your own business, Piastri!" Mark slurred, turning his rage towards the new arrival. "She got me fired! She ruined my life!"

Oscar didn't flinch. His gaze was unwavering, a quiet intensity in his eyes that seemed to absorb Mark’s drunken tirade. "Your actions got you fired, Mark. Not hers." His voice, though soft, carried an undeniable authority. "Now, I suggest you leave. Before things get worse for you."

Mark continued to yell, a torrent of accusations and self-pity, but the fight had visibly drained from him. The presence of a McLaren driver, even off-track, seemed to sober him just enough to realize the precariousness of his position. He cursed, glared, and then, with a final, pathetic snarl, he stumbled away, disappearing back into the deeper shadows of the parking lot.

The sudden silence was deafening. You stood there, trembling, the adrenaline crash hitting you like a physical wave. Your legs gave out, and you sank to the ground, a choked sob escaping your lips. The cool pavement felt rough against your palms as you braced yourself. Your entire body shook, the fear still coursing through you.

Oscar was instantly by your side, kneeling down, his presence a warm anchor in the chaos of your mind. He didn't touch you, but his gaze was soft, concerned. He extended the papers to you, a neat stack. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.

You couldn't speak, only shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

He waited patiently, then, "Would you like me to drive you home?"

You looked up at him, your vision blurry with unshed tears. His face was etched with genuine concern, a hint of something more, something protective. You managed a small, shaky nod. The thought of being alone, of driving yourself, felt utterly impossible.

Oscar helped you to your feet, a steadying hand on your arm. His touch was light, respectful, yet firm enough to convey support. He didn't pry; he just led you to his car, a sleek McLaren Artura, parked a little distance away. The vehicle was a blur of smooth lines and power, a stark contrast to the quiet, vulnerable person you felt like right now. He opened the passenger door for you with a silent grace, and you slid inside, sinking into the plush leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of new car and something subtly masculine – a clean, fresh scent.

The drive was initially silent, punctuated only by the soft hum of the hybrid engine. The darkness outside mirrored the hollow silence within you. You stared out the window, watching the familiar roads pass by, yet feeling utterly disconnected from them. Your hands were still trembling, clasped tightly in your lap.

"I… I didn't know you were still here," you finally managed to whisper, your voice hoarse.

Oscar glanced at you briefly, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. "I was just doing some simulator work. Went longer than I expected. Saw Mark on my way out, looking agitated. Then I saw him grab you." He paused. "I'm glad I did."

A wave of embarrassment washed over you. You, the Senior Sports Scientist, reduced to a trembling mess in front of one of McLaren's star drivers. "Thank you," you said, the words barely audible. "You… you really saved me."

"He shouldn't have been there," Oscar stated, his voice firm, a hint of steel beneath the gentleness. "And he definitely shouldn't have touched you."

You swallowed, remembering Mark’s accusations. "I think… I think someone reported him after our first day. He was… quite inappropriate. I didn't mean for him to lose his job, but I guess my discomfort was clear."

Oscar nodded slowly. "Actions have consequences. You have every right to feel safe at your workplace. And anywhere, for that matter." His words were a balm, a quiet validation that eased a sliver of the lingering shame.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy or awkward, but comfortable, punctuated by the soft purr of the engine and the quiet rhythm of your breathing. You found yourself stealing glances at him – the strong line of his jaw, the focused intensity in his eyes as he navigated the road, the way his hands rested easily on the steering wheel. He was calm, collected, and strikingly handsome. A different kind of warmth, soft and unfamiliar, began to bloom in your chest, slowly pushing away the lingering fear.

"You dropped these," he said suddenly, looking over at you. He reached across the console, handing you the neatly stacked papers. Your fingers brushed as you took them, and a jolt, subtle but undeniable, shot through you. His skin was warm, firm. For a moment, your eyes met, and in that brief exchange, something unspoken passed between you – a shared moment of intensity, a recognition. It was more than just gratitude; it was an awareness, a spark.

"Thank you," you murmured again, suddenly shy. You tucked the papers into your bag, your heart doing a strange little flutter.

The car pulled up to your apartment building, its sleek form looking almost out of place on the quiet residential street. He turned off the engine, plunging the interior into a deeper, more intimate silence. The streetlights cast long shadows through the windows.

"Are you sure you'll be alright tonight?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching yours. The concern was still there, but now, mixed with something else, something softer, perhaps a touch of curiosity.

You took a deep breath. The trembling had subsided, replaced by a lingering exhaustion and a surprising sense of calm, largely due to his presence. "Yes," you said, finding your voice. "I think so. Thank you, Oscar. Truly. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there."

He gave a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. Just glad I was." He paused, then, "Perhaps… we could grab coffee sometime? Properly, I mean. Not under quite such… dramatic circumstances."

Your heart skipped a beat. A genuine smile, radiant and unforced, finally graced your lips. "I'd like that very much, Oscar."

He nodded, a hint of relief in his expression. "Good. Get some rest. And if you need anything, don't hesitate to call security. Or… me." He offered a hesitant, almost shy small smile then.

You felt a blush creep up your neck. "Thank you," you repeated, your voice softer now, tinged with a new, unexpected emotion. You reached for the door handle, but hesitated, turning back to him. "You know, for someone who avoids attention, you're pretty good at being a hero."

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your knees feel a little weak. "Just being in the right place at the right time. Or perhaps, the wrong place at the right time for Mark."

You stepped out of the car, the cool night air feeling less menacing now. He waited until you were safely inside the building, watching from his car, before his taillights flared and the McLaren Artura glided away into the night.

You walked into your apartment, the silence here feeling different now, no longer empty but filled with the echo of a brave voice, a kind gaze, and the unexpected promise of a future you hadn't dared to imagine just hours ago. The fear hadn't completely vanished, but it was overshadowed by a new, hopeful warmth. Your wrist would likely bruise, but the memory of Mark’s grip was already fading, replaced by the memory of Oscar’s steadying hand, his quiet strength, and the unexpected tenderness in his offer of a ride home. And that invitation for coffee… a surprising, delightful thought that settled gently into your heart, turning a terrifying night into the most unlikely of new beginnings.

The hum of the McLaren Technology Centre had become your second heartbeat over the past two months. As a Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, you’d been thrown headfirst into the high-octane world of Formula 1, and you loved every nanosecond of it. Your expertise lay in deciphering the subtle language of the human body under extreme pressure, transforming raw biometric and performance data into actionable insights. It was a demanding, exhilarating role, and you’d quickly endeared yourself to the team, finding an easy camaraderie with everyone, including the two young stars, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri.

But this weekend was different. This was your first race week, and a fizzing excitement had taken root deep in your gut. You couldn't wait to see the data stream in real-time, to witness the tangible impact of your work.

The initial buzz, however, quickly met the harsh reality of the circuit. Free Practice unfolded like a cruel joke for Oscar. Session after session, his name stubbornly clung to the lower half of the top ten, never quite breaking through. Tenth, eleventh, ninth – consistently out of reach of the front-runners. You watched the telemetry, the subtle shifts in his heart rate, the minute adjustments to his steering input, trying to pinpoint the elusive issue. Meanwhile, Lando, a vibrant splash of orange against the track, dominated, consistently placing in the top three. The contrast was stark, almost painful to observe.

Then came Qualifying. The tension in the garage was palpable, a thick, suffocating blanket. Your eyes were glued to Oscar’s monitor as Q1 passed, a relief, but then Q2 began. He pushed, you could feel it through the data, a desperate surge of effort. Then, a sudden, sickening halt. Engine failure. The words echoed through the comms, cold and final.

Silence descended, broken only by the whirring of cooling fans and the distant roar of other cars. You saw Oscar’s car being marshalled off the track on the big screens. When he eventually returned to the garage, his helmet was still on, but even through the visor, you could sense the rigid frustration emanating from him. He removed it, his jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead, avoiding everyone’s gaze. He didn't shout, didn't punch anything; he simply exuded a quiet, intense disappointment that was far more unsettling than any outburst. You watched him disappear into his room, a knot forming in your stomach.

Lando, meanwhile, oblivious to everything but his rhythm, delivered a superb lap, snatching pole position. The team erupted in cheers, a bittersweet cacophony that felt jarring against the scene of Oscar’s quiet defeat.

After the debrief, a subdued affair where Oscar offered only curt, clipped responses, he vanished, the lock on his driver’s room clicking shut with an almost audible finality. A few minutes later, the familiar, lanky figure of Lando appeared in your office doorway, then slumped into one of your visitor chairs.

He ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. "He hasn't spoken to me since the debrief. He never does that! He always talks to me afterwards, even when things are bad." Lando’s voice was laced with a frustration born of worry. "I just... I don't know what to do."

You leaned back in your chair, your fingers still hovering over your keyboard. "Maybe he needs some time alone to think of how he can improve himself, Lando. Give him some time." You offered, hoping it was true, yet feeling a pang of unease yourself.

Lando sighed, then looked at you, a familiar, mischievous grin slowly spreading across his face. "Sure, maybe… or maybe you can speak to him?"

You looked up, genuinely confused. "Why me?"

"You two look close," Lando suggested, his grin widening. "Maybe he might listen to you."

You paused, processing his words. Close. You and Oscar had indeed found an easy rhythm. Your daily data check-ins often morphed into longer chats about anything and everything. He always had a ready smile for you, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that had become surprisingly endearing. He’d even started asking you questions about your work, genuinely curious, which was a refreshing change from some of the more technical heads you usually dealt with. Yes, you supposed you were close friends.

"Okay," you finally conceded, pushing away from your desk. "I'll talk to him after the race tomorrow."

Lando’s face lit up. "Great! See you, Y/N!" He sprang up, clearly relieved, and headed for the door.

"Bye, Lando," you called after him, a small smile touching your lips. "And great job on pole position."

The next day, a nervous energy pulsed through the paddock. You kept a watchful eye on Oscar. He looked a little better, his usual composed demeanor mostly restored, if a touch more reserved.

Out on track for the warm-up, he managed to clock a respectable tenth, a small glimmer of hope.

The grid formed, engines roared, and the lights went out. The race began. Oscar, starting further back, drove with a quiet determination. You watched his telemetry, saw his focus, his precision.

He was gaining positions, slowly but steadily climbing. Tenth, then ninth, then eighth. Hope flickered, tangible and warm.

Then, the world seemed to freeze.

A blur of red and orange. A sudden, sickening lurch on the screen. Charles Leclerc’s Ferrari, unseen, clipped Oscar’s rear wheel.

In a horrifying, slow-motion ballet of twisted metal and flying carbon fibre, Oscar’s car was sent spinning, then flipped into the wall, a violent, deafening crunch that reverberated through the very foundations of the garage.

Silence.

Not the quiet, tense silence of frustration, but a profound, chilling void. The commentary died, the cheers from spectators faded into a distant murmur.

Everyone’s breath hitched. Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

The marshals sprinted, a flurry of orange vests against the smoking wreckage. Medical teams were already on their way. You couldn’t do anything. Absolutely nothing.

Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms as you stared at the shattered image on the screen, a cold dread seeping into your bones. The data stream from his car flatlined.

The minutes that followed felt like an eternity. Your eyes flitted between the screens, searching for any sign of movement from the car, any update from the race control.

Lando, who had been leading the race, was now behind the safety car, his car a blur in your peripheral vision, but you knew his focus was also on that mangled orange machine.

Finally, word filtered through, hushed and urgent. Oscar was conscious. He was being extracted.

A wave of relief, so potent it almost buckled your knees, washed over you, followed by another surge of fear. Conscious wasn’t the same as uninjured.

The team erupted into a storm of activity, preparing for the hospital, for the debriefs, for the endless questions. But your world had narrowed to a single point: Oscar.

The professional distance, the analytical approach you cultivated, shattered. All that remained was an overwhelming, unqualified worry. This wasn’t just about data anymore.

Hours later, the paddock emptied, the roar of engines replaced by the distant hum of generators. You found yourself in a sterile, brightly lit hospital waiting room with Zak, Andrea, and Lando.

Time stretched, elastic and slow. Lando paced, his usual ebullience replaced by a an anxious quiet. He kept glancing at the door, then at you, as if searching for reassurance you couldn't give.

Finally, a doctor emerged, grave but with a hint of relief in his eyes. "He's stable," he said, and the collective sigh of the team was almost an audible thing. "Fractured wrist, some bruising, and a significant concussion. But he's going to be okay. He's awake, a little disoriented, but asking for... well, he's asking for a few people. We're keeping him overnight for observation."

"Can we see him?" Lando asked immediately, his voice hoarse.

"Briefly," the doctor conceded. "One at a time, for now. He needs rest."

Lando volunteered first, disappearing down the corridor. You sat, still trembling slightly, trying to process the relief that warred with the lingering shock.

When Lando returned, his expression was a mix of relief and lingering sadness. He gave you a small, encouraging nod. “He’s pretty out of it, but… he asked for you, actually.”

Your breath hitched. He asked for you.

Your turn. You walked down the quiet corridor, your heart thudding a new, anxious rhythm. The door opened to a small, private room. Oscar lay in the bed, pale against the crisp white sheets.

His right arm was in a cast, suspended in a sling. His eyes, usually so sharp and observant, were a little hazy, but they focused on you as you stepped inside.

"Hey, Oscar," you said softly, your voice surprisingly steady. You moved to the chair beside his bed, sitting down gently.

He managed a weak smile, a shadow of his usual charming grin. "Y/N," he rasped, his voice rough. "You're… here."

"Of course I am," you replied, a small, genuine smile curving your lips. "Are you in much pain?"

He shook his head slightly, wincing. "Just… my head. And my wrist. Feels like I went a few rounds with a heavyweight." He chuckled, a dry, painful sound.

You watched him, the raw vulnerability in his eyes a stark contrast to the composed, almost stoic young man you usually saw.

His competitive fire, usually so tightly contained, had been almost extinguished by the crash, leaving behind a fragility that tugged at something deep inside you.

"That was quite a hit," you said, your voice gentle. "Everyone was really worried."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah. Engine failure yesterday. This today." He took a shaky breath. "It's been a hell of a weekend." The anger, the frustration from yesterday, was still there, but now it was layered with a profound weariness. "I just wanted to… I wanted to prove myself. To get some points. And then… this."

You reached out, covering his uninjured hand with yours. His skin was cool, a little clammy. "You were doing brilliantly out there, Oscar. You were climbing through the field. That crash… it wasn't your fault. Charles has already accepted responsibility."

He opened his eyes, looking at your hand on his, then back up at you. His gaze was searching, vulnerable. "It still feels like… like I let everyone down. Like I can't catch a break."

"No one thinks that, Oscar," you insisted, your thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. "We all saw how hard you were fighting. That's what matters. You were incredible." You squeezed his hand. "And we're just relieved you're okay. That's the most important thing."

A genuine, albeit tired, smile finally touched his lips, and a spark, a faint echo of his usual warmth, returned to his eyes. He squeezed your hand back, a weak but definite pressure. "Thanks, Y/N." His gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, the sterile hospital room faded away.

The spell was broken by a soft knock on the door. A nurse peered in, her smile apologetic. "Just checking in, Mr. Piastri. Time for a little more rest."

You took your cue, gently withdrawing your hand. "I should let you get some sleep, Oscar." You stood, the chair scraping softly against the linoleum.

He frowned slightly, the corners of his mouth dipping. "Already?" he rasped, a hint of genuine disappointment in his voice.

You smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached your eyes. "I'll be back tomorrow, I promise. Get some rest." You gave him a small, reassuring nod, then turned and left the room, the image of his pale face and that fragile, hopeful look imprinted on your mind.

Walking back down the corridor, the hospital air felt heavy, yet exhilarating. The raw fear of the crash had finally begun to recede, replaced by a profound relief, and something else – a soft, insistent warmth centered around your heart.

Your professional distance had been shattered by the sight of that mangled car, by the flatlined telemetry, by the terrifying silence. But visiting Oscar, seeing him so vulnerable, so human, had awakened something deeper. This wasn't just about his recovery data anymore. This was about him.

The next few weeks were a blur of recovery, strategy, and an unexpected intimacy that grew between you and Oscar. Your role as Sports Scientist – Human Data Science naturally brought you into his recovery process.

You were tasked with monitoring his initial cognitive function, assessing his physical rehabilitation progress, and ensuring his mental well-being was accounted for alongside the physiological markers.

It was a perfect, professional excuse to see him, to be there for him.

He was discharged a few days later, still sporting the cast on his right arm and a lingering headache from the concussion, but infinitely more comfortable in the privacy of his apartment than in a hospital bed.

McLaren had set up a robust recovery plan, with physical therapists, neurologists, and sports psychologists all on standby. And you.

You'd bring work files, debrief notes, and data simulations to his apartment, ostensibly to keep him engaged and informed, but often staying longer, talking about anything and everything. He was a restless patient, often frustrated by the forced inactivity.

The competitive fire, though subdued, still flickered, making him chafe at being benched. You saw past the frustration to the fear beneath, the worry that this crash might set him back, that he might never quite regain his edge.

"It's like my body knows what it wants to do, but my brain's a step behind," he’d sigh, running his uninjured hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. "And this cast… it's really cramping my style for sim racing."

You'd chuckle, "Give yourself a break, Oscar. Your brain just took a pretty big hit. It needs time to defrag. And your wrist needs to knit back together." You'd set down a tablet with some updated telemetry from the previous race. "Lando drove a brilliant race, by the way. He really dedicated it to you."

He'd nod, a small, genuine smile forming. "Yeah, I saw. He messaged me. Said he missed having me there to complain about."

Your conversations flowed easily, often drifting from F1 to mundane life, to shared jokes, to surprisingly deep discussions about his childhood, your career path, the pressures of the sport.

You found yourself looking forward to these visits with an eagerness that surprised you. He, in turn, started calling you, not just for work-related questions, but for company, for a distraction.

"Hey, Y/N, you busy? Just wondering if you know if the new Xbox game came out yet," he'd text, or, "Fancy getting a coffee? I'm craving a decent flat white and I'm not allowed to drive yet."

Lando, ever observant, didn't miss a beat. During one of your visits to the MTC, when Oscar was allowed to come in for some light gym work, Lando cornered you by the coffee machine.

"So, you're practically his personal nurse now, are you?" Lando teased, a playful glint in his eye.

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "I'm his Sports Scientist, Lando. It's my job to ensure his recovery is optimal."

"Right, right," Lando said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Just, you know, 'optimal' often involves less, uh, giggling over bad Netflix shows and more, uh, electrodes and data. Not that I'm complaining. He seems a lot less grumpy when you're around." He winked conspiratorially. "Just saying. Don't let him charm you too much. He's got a reputation, you know."

You scoffed good-naturedly, but a warmth spread through you. Lando saw it too. Everyone did. The connection wasn't just unspoken anymore; it was practically visible.

As the weeks turned into a little over a month, Oscar’s physical recovery was progressing remarkably well. The cast was off, replaced by a brace he wore occasionally.

He was back in the simulator, though cautiously, and gradually increasing his training. His concussion symptoms had mostly abated, though the team was still cautious.

He was set to return to the paddock for the next race, not to drive, but to be with the team, to observe, to feel the familiar thrum of the racing world.

One late afternoon, you were at his apartment. You’d been reviewing some simulated race data for him, comparing it to his pre-crash baseline. He was sitting on the sofa, nursing a mug of herbal tea, watching you.

The setting sun cast a warm, golden glow through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The usual professional banter had died down, replaced by a comfortable silence.

You finished making a note on your tablet and looked up, meeting his eyes. He wasn't smiling, but his gaze was soft, intense. He looked nervous, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

"Oscar? Everything okay?" you asked, a touch of concern in your voice.

He cleared his throat, setting his mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink. He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together. "Yeah, uh… yeah, it is. It's just…" He trailed off, looking away for a moment, then back at you, his brown eyes searching. "I've been thinking."

Your heart gave a little lurch. This felt different.

"About… the data?" you prompted gently, trying to keep your voice neutral.

He gave a short, humourless laugh. "No, not the data. Well, maybe a little. But mostly… about us. About you and me."

Your breath hitched. You waited, a knot forming in your stomach, a mix of apprehension and eager anticipation.

He took a shaky breath, his gaze fixed on some point just past your shoulder, then he forced himself to meet your eyes again. "Y/N, ever since… well, ever since that weekend, and with everything that's happened, and you being here almost every day…"

He paused, visibly gathering his thoughts, his usual composure completely gone. He was rambling, something you rarely saw from the usually meticulous Oscar. "I just really enjoy spending time with you and you really have become someone very special to me and-"

"Hey... calm down, it's okay," you interrupted softly, a gentle smile blooming on your face. You reached out, placing your hand over his clasped ones. His skin was warm, a little sweaty. "Breathe."

He visibly relaxed under your touch, taking a deeper breath. His eyes, still wide with a mix of fear and hope, were now solely on you.

"Sorry," he mumbled, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I'm not usually this… eloquent." He tried a small, self-deprecating smile.

You squeezed his hand. "You're doing fine. What were you trying to say, Oscar?"

He swallowed, his gaze darting to your lips for a fleeting moment before returning to your eyes. "I… I really like you, Y/N. More than just a colleague, or even a friend. I know it's probably crazy, with everything going on, and the team, and my recovery, but… I can't stop thinking about you."

He cleared his throat again. "And I was wondering… if after everything, and when I'm properly back on my feet, if you'd… if you'd consider going on a date with me? A proper one. Outside of this apartment, outside of McLaren."

The world seemed to hold its breath. This was it. The silent understanding that had been building for weeks, now laid bare, vulnerable.

An answering warmth bloomed in your chest, blossoming into undeniable joy. You had suspected, you had hoped, but to hear him say it, to see the raw honesty in his eyes, was something else entirely.

You found yourself grinning, a wide, genuine smile that made your eyes crinkle at the corners. "Oscar Piastri, are you asking me out?" you teased gently, your thumb caressing the back of his hand.

He let out a shaky laugh, a wave of relief washing over his features. "I… I believe I am, yes."

"And you're worried about what the team will say?"

"A little," he admitted, his gaze softening. "But mostly I was worried you'd say no."

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a soft murmur. "Well, you don't have to worry about that." Your smile widened. "I'd love to go on a date with you, Oscar. A proper one."

A genuine, radiant smile finally broke through the nervous tension on his face. It was the first time you'd seen him completely free of the shadows of the crash, completely himself, in weeks.

His grip on your hand tightened, a confident, hopeful pressure. "Really?"

"Really," you confirmed, your eyes twinkling. You felt a lightness in your chest, a sense of rightness. This was a new adventure, one you hadn't planned for when you joined McLaren, but one you were incredibly excited to embark on.

He leaned in slowly, his eyes still fixed on yours, a question forming in their depths. You didn't pull away. Instead, you mirrored his movement, closing the small gap between you.

His lips were soft, hesitant at first, then more confident as you responded. It was a gentle kiss, a promise of something new and beautiful, full of the unspoken feelings that had simmered for weeks.

When you pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your cheek.

"Wow," he whispered, a small, breathless laugh escaping him.

You chuckled, your heart soaring. "Yeah. Wow."

The sun had finally set, bathing the room in soft twilight. The Mclaren data could wait. For now, there was just this, this new, exhilarating connection, forged in the crucible of a terrifying crash and nurtured in the quiet moments of recovery.

This wasn't just about human data science anymore. This was just human. And it was wonderful. . . .

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