Lando had noticed it days ago. Oscar was never the loudest person in the room, but this was different. The flight had passed in near silence, the occasional answer clipped to a hum before his attention drifted back out the window. Media day hadn’t been much better. Where Oscar usually threw out dry little comments or the odd sarcastic remark, today he’d barely spoken unless someone asked him directly. Even then, his smile looked practiced, disappearing the second the cameras turned away. Lando had told himself he was probably just tired. Everyone had off weeks.

The hotel room was quiet now, save for the muted hum of the air conditioner. Their beds sat opposite one another, separated by a narrow aisle littered with chargers, shoes, and discarded team kit. Lando had been half-asleep, staring lazily at the television mounted on the wall, when he heard movement behind him. Fabric rustled. A zipper opened, then closed. There was another quiet sound—barely more than a shaky breath—followed by more shuffling that seemed oddly restless.

His brow furrowed. It had been going on for several minutes now, enough that he finally pushed himself upright against the headboard. He glanced over his shoulder toward Oscar’s bed, only able to make out the silhouette of his teammate with his back turned, shoulders rising and falling just a little too unevenly in the dim room. Whatever he was doing, he seemed determined to keep it quiet.

“You alright, Osc?” Lando asked, his voice still rough with sleep, concern slipping through before he could soften it. The room fell still for a beat, the only sound left the distant buzz of the city outside the hotel windows as he waited for an answer that, somehow, he wasn’t convinced was going to be honest.