repentemptation
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“Wait,” Lando says in a lower, familiar register. “I do remember you.”
Oscar freezes. A sudden, violent wave of nausea shoots through him, there and gone in a second. He feels the wound again then, the hollow way it gapes around the air, synapses grasping onto aching lack. Thinks of backs of garages, lapses in conversation, sidestepped eye contact.
Go on, then. Say it.
Or: That McLaren seat never came. Three years after winning F2, Oscar’s a data architect, doing fine. Racing is strictly a thing of the past — except for the late-night sim sessions, the side gigs, the petulant teenager he’s coaching.
And, impossibly: Lando.
Bookmarked by repentemptation
26 Jun 2026