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Chapter Text

★★★

That night, the sky over Abu Dhabi shattered, a burst of fireworks—fiery red, glittering gold merged to form sprays of light dancing in the air. A wave of sound from the crowd roared, yet for a moment, everything fell silent as the sparks began to arrange themselves into a shape familiar to millions of eyes, a prancing horse, the Cavallino Rampante, the eternal symbol of Ferrari. The entire circuit seemed to hold its breath. Then, as the silhouette became perfect, the cheers erupted, louder than the fireworks themselves.

Today, history was rewritten. After decades of waiting, the most sacred trophy in the world of racing had finally returned home to Maranello. The Formula 1 World Driver Championship for so long a distant legend—was now in Ferrari’s grasp. The sound of bells did not cease in Maranello, every tifosi heard it, saw it, felt it.

Beneath the podium, Ferrari team crowded together, their eyes red, their cheeks wet. No one was ashamed of their tears tonight. They gazed upward, toward the one figure standing on the highest step of the podium, his face radiant, Charles Leclerc. Il Predestinato. Their golden boy long seen as Ferrari’s destiny had fulfilled it. Several mechanics bowed their heads, almost as if in reverence, as though the young man was the hero who had freed them from the curse of the past. A crew member waved a red Scuderia flag high, it whipped about wildly, catching the light of the fireworks. Then, from the crowd, a powerful sound began to rise—the Italian national anthem. One voice became dozens, then hundreds. Tears mingled with song, chests vibrating with pride. The entire Ferrari team sang, heedless of raspy voices or words broken by emotion. The Abu Dhabi night trembled, not just from the fireworks, but from the echo of pride from a nation, a family, a legend.

On the podium, Charles closed his eyes for a moment and let out a deep sigh. His shoulders trembled. He wasn't just a champion. This was his dream finally made real, the dream of millions of tifosi who had only ever been able to hope. He could feel the gaze of his tearful mother, of Arthur and Lorenzo beaming with pride below the podium, of Andrea and Joris who couldn't stop crying, and of Jean, who watched him with glistening eyes. That night, Charles Leclerc, as Ferrari's 16th world champion—he had fulfilled his destiny and brought Ferrari back to the highest throne once more, back to its rightful home.

By Charles's side stood Carlos, his right hand pressed to his chest as if to steady a heart still beating wildly out of control. Charles may have brought home the driver championship, but together, they had secured the constructors' trophy tonight. As the powerful strains of the Italian anthem boomed from the speakers, Charles closed his eyes, his face tilted slightly upward toward the sky, still streaked with the remnants of fireworks. His lips moved with the lyrics, soft but full of feeling, as if he were singing a prayer. Carlos glanced at him, and a small smile spread across his face. It was a smile not just of pride for the team, but of a deep warmth for standing right next to the person he had always known would reach this point. Today, Carlos thought, will be etched in my memory forever.

On the other side stood Max Verstappen in third place. The spotlight gleamed softly in his eyes. Carlos glanced over and saw Max's gaze fixed solely on Charles—it held something softer than admiration, a genuine respect, and a peculiar glint that made Carlos frown. He recognized it. It was obvious, far too conspicuous. Max, the late reigning champion, was not hiding his admiration for Charles tonight in the slightest. Carlos let out a soft, almost inaudible snort, drowned by the roar of the anthem. He shook his head slowly, somewhere between amused and unwilling to dwell on it. “So obvious, Verstappen,” he muttered under his breath, before turning to face forward again, singing the final verse with all his might.

★★★

Max was still trembling, the lingering adrenaline mixed with podium euphoria not yet subsided. His breath felt heavy, not from exhaustion, but because his chest was tight with an emotion he couldn't quite name. Today, even though he had only finished third, somehow felt like one of the best days of his life. Charles and Carlos had given him a real fight on the track, hard but beautiful, and the moment still echoed in his head like the crowd's cheers that refused to die down.

When he stepped out of his car, he went straight to Charles. The warmth of Charles’s body still lingered against his own chest, as if unwilling to leave. The embrace was brief, but deeper than any words could be. Charles was now the world champion. Max patted his back, whispering in a voice that was almost breaking,

“Congratulations… congrats, Charlie… you deserve it… this was your destiny…”

“Thank you, Max.”

Max was still walking, his trophy in one hand, the other pressed against his own chest. His cheeks ached from smiling for so long a sweet pain he gladly endured. To an outsider, it might have looked like he was the one who had won the championship—such was the joy he radiated. But no, tonight was clearly not his. Tonight belonged to Charles… and to Ferrari.

He had finished his interviews, though few questions had come his way. All the cameras, all the microphones, all the spotlights were directed at two people, Charles, the champion, and Carlos standing faithfully by his side. Max knew his place. He was merely a visitor on this stage. Yet, strangely, he didn’t mind.

On his way back to his driver’s room, he ran into Christian, who had just finished congratulating Fred. His boss clapped him on the shoulder, his eyes twinkling with their usual humor.

“You look happy… for a man who only finished third.”

Max let out a soft laugh, releasing a long sigh. “Well… it’s Ferrari we’re talking about. Like Seb always says, everyone is a Ferrari fan.”

Christian chuckled, shaking his head slowly. “Ah, speaking of Seb—did you know? He was in the Ferrari garage today. Apparently, he booked a ticket just this morning. Seems he knew Charles would win. Right now, he’s over there… holding a crying Charles against his chest.”

Max fell silent for a moment, then smiled again—a soft, relieved smile. Of course Seb was here. How could he not be? He was the one who had first watched Charles grow at Ferrari. He was the one who knew just how difficult the journey had been. And tonight, of course, he had to be here. He had to witness the moment Charles finally achieved his greatest dream.

★★★

Red lights pulsed in the room, music throbbed, and the smell of alcohol mixed with expensive perfume saturated the air. That night, Ferrari had thrown its doors wide open to everyone—drivers, managers, old legends, and mechanics who usually stayed out of the camera's spotlight. The “Prancing Horse Party” lived up to its name, wild, loud, and utterly unrestrained.

Max had long lost count of how many times he’d raised his glass. Champagne, beer, whisky—it all blended together in his head, which was feeling lighter by the minute. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright. On one level, he could still hear the echoes of Charles's victory cheers from the podium, but now it was all mixed with the thumping music and roaring laughter around him. Nico suddenly slung an arm around his shoulders from behind, nearly causing Max to drop his glass. “Bruder! You're drinking like the man who won the championship, not the one who came in third!” he boomed with a loud laugh.

Max just raised his glass high, his face crimson. “Today… I do feel like I won.”

Lando collapsed into a chair opposite them, his special edition Ferrari cap that he stole from a mechanic askew. As he adjusted it, he clicked his tongue. “Charles and Carlos are so busy. I haven't even had a chance to congratulate them. They keep getting pulled in every direction.”

George, sitting beside him with his tie undone and shirt half-unbuttoned, chimed in with a lopsided grin. “Well mate, it is Ferrari's day, after all. We're just the guest stars.”

“Guest stars who are way too drunk,” Lando elbowed him.

Yuki yelled, holding a halfempty bottle. “Hey, do you think they'll build a temple for Charles in Maranello?”

A burst of laughter erupted around the table. Max raised his glass, grinning widely even as his eyes grew heavy. “They should… and I'll be a worshipper.”

The laughter grew even louder. Oscar nearly choked on his drink, George slapped the table repeatedly, and Lando just shook his head, “You’re crazy.”

Pierre suddenly joined them, dropping into the seat next to Max with a breath that clearly smelled of tequila. “Hey, if you're the worshipper, I'll be the priest!”

In the corner of the room, Charles and Carlos were still surrounded by a crowd, but they occasionally glanced over at the table of half-drunk drivers and laughed at their antics. Charles shook his head slowly, but a smile never left his face.

Max didn't care anymore. The world felt light, laughter flowed freely, and for once, without rivalry, without tension, without a circuit—everyone was just friends, this is the last dayo f this season. Tonight belonged to Ferrari, it belonged to Charles, but somehow, Max felt like he was a part of that magic, too.

A roar of cheers erupted as Carlos finally made his way to their table, his face flushed not just from the wine, but from all the attention he’d been showered with all night.

“Wooo, our red boy finally arrives!” Lando yelled, banging a bottle on the table for emphasis.

Oscar, who was half slumped in his chair with a wide grin, quickly shifted to make space. “How does it feel to win in red?”

Carlos sank into the seat with a long sigh, his body still heavy from the emotional toll of the podium. He smiled, weary but still drunk on euphoria. “Incredible… I don’t even remember the last time I felt like this. It feels so good…”

He took a swig from a glass that probably wasn’t his, then leaned back. “Ah, Max—Charles is asking for you. He’s out on the balcony on the left.”

For a moment, the table fell silent. Then Pierre, his face halfslack with drink, blurted out, “Putain, Charles is summoning his worshipper…”

The table exploded with laughter. George slapped the table repeatedly, Yuki nearly fell off his chair, and Lando laughed so hard he started coughing.

Carlos frowned, confused. “Worshipper? What?”

Max let out a long sigh, trying to suppress his growing smile. “They’re talking nonsense. Don’t listen to them.”

“No, no, this is serious!” Pierre pointed dramatically at Max. “He said he’d be a worshipper if Charles got a temple in Maranello! You can’t escape it, Verstappen!”

“Shut up, Pierre.” Max pushed himself up, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m going…”

Another round of cheers followed, this time mixed with teasing and laughter. “Off to confession—Leclerc is waiting!” “Bring us back some holy wine!”

Max just shook his head, but the smile never left his face. He set his glass down on the table and stepped away from the circle of drivers still laughing and singing. The music and roar of the party slowly faded as he walked toward the balcony, where Charles was waiting. The balcony door creaked softly as it opened, and the cool, dry night air greeted him, cutting through the thin fabric of his jacket. The sensation helped clear some of the alcoholic haze still swirling in his head. At the far end of the balcony, Charles stood leaning against the iron railing, his face half-illuminated by the city lights. The silhouette was so calm, a stark contrast to the pulsating chaos of the party still throbbing behind the door.

Max’s steps halted for a moment, as if he needed time to assure himself the scene was real. Then he walked closer, positioning himself beside Charles, their shoulders nearly aligned, the cold railing pressing against his back.

“Congratulations again, champ…” His voice was low, yet clear enough to cut through the sound of the wind.

Charles turned his head, his lips curving into a wide smile. Deep dimples appeared, so captivating they nearly stole Max’s breath. “Thank you, Max.”

A sudden silence hung between them. Max’s eyes gazed out at the cityscape, but his heart was fixed on the warmth beside him. “It really was an incredible win…”

“Thank you…” Charles repeated, this time softer.

Max’s gaze shifted, tracing the lines of Charles’s face, lingering on the lips that had just spoken. The words slipped out before he could hold them back. “You were so beautiful on track today…”

Charles chuckled, then turned to face him fully. His gaze was sharp yet soft, his smile playful. “Are we going to do this all night? You compliment me, and I just say thank you?”

“If that’s what you deserve,” Max replied, his tone firm but trembling faintly.

Charles’s eyes glinted, as if something behind them wanted to break free but was still being held back. “You didn’t even ask why I called you over…”

“Don’t need to.” Max lowered his face slightly, looking at Charles with an intensity he couldn’t hide. “I’d have come anyway. Even if you hadn’t called.”

Charles let out a short breath, then, with a slow but electrifying movement, tapped his own chest. Lightly, almost playfully, yet enough to send a wild rush through Max’s veins. “You’re dangerous, Verstappen…”

The corner of Max’s lips lifted faintly. “Everyone says that.”

Charles’s laughter burst out again—clear, beautiful, filling his ears. It made the world around them feel quieter, as if they were the only two people there that night.

Silence fell once more, but this time it was heavy—laden with something unexplainable. Charles shifted his position, looking at him more deeply, his face slightly flushed. “Okay, serious now… I called you because… maybe you’ve forgotten…”

Max frowned. “Forgotten what, Charlie?”

Charles looked down, his cheeks growing even redder, and the sight pierced something deep in Max’s chest. Something was rising—a feeling long suppressed, now surging forward, wild and impossible to ignore.

“Back when we were still in karts… about when I became world champion…”

They were still teenagers back then. A small circuit on the outskirts of town, an old warehouse storing rusty karts their only witness. A fierce battle had just ended, Charles beating him with a maneuver that made Max’s blood boil.

Beside the warehouse, it was just the two of them. Charles was still wearing his helmet, and it only fueled Max’s frustration.

“Take your helmet off! Don’t be a coward, look me in the eye!” Max’s arms were crossed over his chest, his voice a clear challenge.

Charles snorted, the sound muffled by his visor. “You don’t deserve it!”

A vein throbbed at Max’s temple, his brow furrowed deeply. “You’ll never be a world champion if you’re this petty, Leclerc!”

It worked. Charles let out a hard scoff and roughly pulled off his helmet. His brown hair fell in a messy, sweat dampened tumble. His cheeks were flushed, his sharp green eyes glittering. “I’m not the one terrorizing the entire grid!”

Max took a step forward, his gaze piercing. “I don’t terrorize, they’re just too weak.”

Charles gave a lopsided smile, his lips curling with satisfaction. “Oh, so that means I’m the strongest… because I managed to beat you.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Max nearly shouted.

“Then what, Verstappen?” Charles stepped closer, their faces almost level.

Max let out a hard breath, then swatted the air as if the argument was pointless. “Forget it. All I know is this will the last time I lose, and I’m going to Formula 1. I’m going to win multiple championships. And I won’t let anyone beat me again.”

Charles’s eyes blazed with conviction. “Hey, I’m the one who’s going to do that.”

Max tilted his head back, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Oh, really?”

“Of course I’m going to win the championship!” Charles shot back, puffing out his chest.

“Ah, of course, Leclerc. Keep dreaming.”

Charles moved even closer, his tone turning cold and startling Max. “It’s not a dream. When I do it… I’ll win in red of Ferrari.”

Max snorted, crossing his arms again. “Ferrari? The team that hasn’t won since Raikkonen? You’re joking.”

The fire in Charles’s eyes was unshakable. “If you’re going to underestimate Ferrari like that, how about a bet.”

Max’s eyebrows shot up. “A bet on what?”

Charles looked at him intently, a mysterious curve to his lips. “I want you to grant me three wishes when I become world champion with Ferrari.”

“Three wishes? What kind of wishes?” Max’s tone was suspicious, as if already looking for a loophole.

Charles just shrugged, his smile a challenge. “Hmm… I’ll tell you when I’m actually world champion.”

“That’s not fair!” Max almost yelled again, his fists clenching.

“Fine, loser. Have it your way.” Charles rolled his eyes, then turned and started to walk away.

In that instant, Max felt his ego rebel. There was no way he was letting Charles win off the track, too. “Okay, deal!” he yelled loudly, his voice echoing off the walls of the old warehouse.

Charles paused for a heartbeat, glancing back over his shoulder with a thin, victorious smile, then continued walking away.

“Oh shit… that promise.” A faint smile touched Max’s lips as he looked deeply at the man who was no longer his rival. “So what do you want, Charlie?”

Charles’s cheeks flushed, the city lights making the red hue even more pronounced. There was something fragile yet dangerous in that expression, making Max’s chest tighten. For a moment, Charles looked small, almost vulnerable, like a child afraid to reveal a big secret.

“Hmm… okay, the first wish…” Charles took a short breath, swallowed, then his voice came out almost inaudible. “I want you… to kiss me.”

Time seemed to stop. The night air stilled in his ears, the thumping music from inside vanished, and only the echo of that sentence spun in Max’s head.

Charles looked down hurriedly, his face growing even redder. “I… I, if you don’t want to, it’s fine. Forget it, I’m talking nonsense…” His words choked off, full of panic, as if he instantly regretted them.

Max’s brain shortcircuited. His whole body went rigid, yet in his chest, something pressed urgently, uncontrollably. Damn, this is what’s been buried all along, and now it’s out. Without giving Charles a chance to retreat further, Max cupped his face with both hands, his grip firm yet gentle. Before fear could fully take over those green eyes, his lips were already on Charles’s.

The first kiss was stiff, full of hesitation, but warm. Charles froze, his body tense. But only for a moment—then something broke. Charles’s hands came up, grasping his head, his fingers tangling desperately in his hair.

A short gasp escaped between them. Max pulled closer, his hands sliding from Charles’s cheeks to his waist, drawing that body tightly into his embrace. Charles responded, their chests meeting, the warmth of their bodies igniting a fire that had long smoldered in both their hearts.

The night wind blew again, but now its chill meant nothing. The world outside the balcony could have crumbled, and for Max, there was only one reality, Charles’s lips now kissing him back fully, the hands clutching his hair, and the body that was finally melting into an embrace that should have happened a long time ago.

Max wasn’t entirely sure how his body had moved from the party to the hotel. The next thing he was truly aware of was sitting on the edge of the bed, his cool skin against the sheets, his breath still heavy, and his naked body bearing the indelible marks of an impossible night. His head throbbed faintly, the lingering effects of the alcohol still there, but the final memory hit him hard, Fuck… he’d slept with Charles fucking Leclerc.

His hands came up, covering a face that felt hot despite the cool room air. Guilt, shock, and something far deeper churned in his chest. His gaze then shifted to the other side of the bed. Empty. The sheets were still rumpled, a trace of warmth remained there, but Charles was gone. His heart beat faster. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it had all just been a drunken, exhausted dream. But on the nightstand, his phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with a message.

Charles : Chéri, sorry I had to leave early, Maranello is calling. Don’t forget to eat breakfast!’

The message was both a slap and an embrace. Max’s eyes were glued to it, reading it once, twice, three times, until a faint smile finally appeared on his face, still half-submerged in confusion. Happiness—the feeling just appeared, tickling his stomach, making his chest feel like it was lightly bursting. This was real. Not a dream, not a fantasy. Charles had truly been here last night, had truly written those words, had truly left his mark on his body and his heart.

★★★

A week had passed since that night. They hadn’t seen each other again. Charles had been sucked into the whirlwind of victory—Italy had made him a hero, days long parties were held to celebrate Ferrari’s champion. In Monaco, even the royal family hosted a special celebration, as if the entire world wanted to embrace him all at once. Yet, behind the spotlight, the messages still came. Brief chats late at night, light sentences laden with meaning, random emojis that made a smile appear unconsciously. They sent each other photos of their days. No labels, no official declarations—just moments they let flow, as if naming it would make it shatter.

Max was drifting through his days listlessly. Hours of streaming were his escape while his body rested from the long season. Today was the same; his chair creaked as he stretched, his shoulders stiff from sitting too long. He stood up, fed Sassy and Jimmy who were waiting patiently, and grabbed his phone from the table.

The first thought in his head: had Charles replied to his message?

The phone screen lit up. There was a notification. Not from Charles.

[𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙴𝚂 𝙻𝙴𝙲𝙻𝙴𝚁𝙲, 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼𝚄𝙻𝙰 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝙾𝙽, 𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙲𝙴𝚂 𝚁𝙴𝚃𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃]

The world stopped. His eyes were glued to that string of words, his brain refusing to process them, as if there was some colossal mistake. His throat tightened, air became hard to find, his stomach churning violently.

Then his body reacted faster than his mind. Max ran to the kitchen, his knees nearly buckling, and vomited into the sink. His hands gripped the ceramic edge, his breath coming in ragged gasps, cold sweat dripping from his temples.

That headline still danced in his head, each word a knife. Charles. Retirement.

His stomach was empty, but his chest felt even hollower.

Chapter Text

★★★

Two years have passed since the day that left the world of Formula 1 in stunned silence. Charles Leclerc, the World Champion, the “Il Predestinato” who had fulfilled his destiny with Ferrari, had suddenly vanished. Not merely leaving the team, not simply retiring young—he had disappeared without a trace. There were no leaks. No clandestine photographs. Even Charles’s famously obsessive fans, the ones who could usually track a driver’s life down to the tiny café where they drank their espresso, had come up completely empty. Every lead was a dead end. Ferrari had sealed everything shut. It was as if the entire Red team of Maranello had conspired to hide Charles from the world.

The world was given only one final moment a farewell press conference. Charles sat at a table, with Fred, Carlos, John Elkann, and Jean Todt flanking him, surrounded by a sea of cameras and a storm of flashbulbs. His gaze was hollow, his lips trembled but offered no answers. There was no Q&A, no clarification. Just a brief statement read in a ragged, choked voice. He was leaving Formula 1. He offered his thanks. He asked the world to respect his decision. As he stopped speaking, a single tear traced a path down his cheek. Fred Vasseur immediately leaned in, wrapping a protective, almost fatherly arm around him. On his other side, Carlos placed a hand on Charles’s back, rubbing it gently, his expression a mix of deep concern and resigned solidarity. That was the last public image anyone ever saw of Charles Leclerc. From that day forward, he was gone. His family vanished too, seemingly moved from Monaco, though Arthur continued to race in GT Endurance—and of course, he too remained silent, offering nothing whenever the press inquired about his brother.

That same day, every Ferrari’s employe social media simultaneously uploaded a tribute photos, videos, memories, messages full of love. “Grazie, Charles. Per sempre uno di noi.” (Thank you, Charles. Forever one of us.) But not a single, real answer as to why. Within days, the tifosi gathered outside the gates of Maranello, holding up banners, shouting, some even trying to sneak inside for an explanation. They all went home empty handed. The mystery only deepened. At least Nico Rosberg was still seen after his shocking retirement announcement. Charles Leclerc was just… gone.

For two years, Ferrari had moved forward, at least on paper. Carlos Sainz now shared the garage with Oliver Bearman, the Ferrari Academy talent who had raced for Haas last season, hailed as the future of the team. They formed a solid, professional, even occasionally warm partnership—yet everyone could feel one thing a void. There was a space that could never be filled, a shadow that perpetually followed them. The name Charles still echoed through the paddock, whether people liked it or not.

And elsewhere, Max Verstappen was living through two strange seasons. He seized two more world championships back-to-back, driving a Red Bull with monstrous performance, like a man chasing something he couldn't see. But it wasn't just his speed that had changed—his demeanor had cracked. Max grew to despise the media more than ever. His face was a mask of tension at every press conference. His answers were short, sharp, and sometimes cutting. That first season without Charles felt like a waking nightmare for him. Many saw the frustration in his eyes, something he couldn't quite hide a void that wasn't Ferrari's alone.

One particular moment became paddock legend. An incident where Max and Carlos were involved in a heated argument. Eyewitnesses claimed Max’s voice rose, almost to a shout, demanding that Carlos tell him where Charles was. Carlos, with a gaze as cold as steel, had simply replied,

“If you truly respected him, you would stop asking. It was his decision, Max. Not ours.”

That was all. And from that day on, Carlos sealed his lips shut. The world kept turning, race after race unfolded, trophy after trophy changed hands. Max even asked Pierre, but the answer was the same as Carlos's. Yet the shadow of a man with the number #16 still lingered, a ghost in every corner, on every podium, behind every checkered flag that waved.

This season, like the two before it, felt like an endless, monotonous rerun. Lewis had retired last year, while Max and Red Bull remained at the peak of their dominance. Every race seemed pre ordained, a script written on paper Max out front, the rest chasing his shadow. If he maintained this consistency, a seventh world championship was just a matter of time. But this week was Monaco. A city he hated not for its tight corners or its cruel walls, but because every alleyway, every balcony, every cheer from the crowd felt haunted by the ghost of Charles Leclerc. This city was Charles's home, the stage where his dreams were born. And Max felt besieged.

They had dueled more times than he could count—the list was long, innumerable. Every corner, every brake test, every fierce battle down to the last second had formed a narrative only the two of them truly understood. Charles wasn't just another driver on the grid. He was a mirror. He was the one who forced Max to find an extra gear he never knew he possessed. Even when the Red Bull was dominant, Charles would appear from nowhere, always clinging on, always daring. They would battle until the paint was scratched from the cars, until the tires were worn to the canvas, until the marshals held their breath.

Without Charles, victory felt hollow. Every time Max stood on the podium, every time the champagne sprayed, there was an empty space inside him. There was no sharp gaze from the second step. No wry, knowing smile Charles would toss his way after a brutal fight. No hand offering the trophy with a defiant pride that seemed to say, ‘You won this time, but next time, I’ll take it.’ Now, when Max stood on the podium, there was only a deep, resounding silence. Others might see it as absolute domination, the golden era of a champion. But for Max, it was just an endless, straight line—no resistance, no reason to fight harder. He missed those moments the engine roaring, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, and Charles in his mirrors, waiting for the smallest mistake to pounce. Their rivalry wasn't just racing—it was a dance. Two opposites, moving in perfect, complementary sync around a circuit.

And now the dance had stopped. Charles was gone, having left the stage.

Since that day—Max had never found true peace. For months after that farewell press conference, he had tried to reach Charles. Dozens of messages sent, phone calls that never connected. Until one night, his phone vibrated. A single reply.

Charles: I'm sorry Max. I always wanted you to know that I love you. I need you to respect my decision.

The message was a full stop. A door slammed shut. It was an answer that explained nothing and yet everything. It was the ghost that now shared his podium, the silence that screamed in his ears on every victory lap. It was the reason Monaco, and every other track, felt so unbearably empty. The words were a knife. Max read them over and over, searching for a hidden meaning, a reason, anything he could hold onto. But there was nothing. No explanation. No answer to the questions that hammered against his skull every single day. How was he supposed to respect a goddamn decision when Charles never even explained what that decision was? Respect what? His silence? His disappearance? Or the love that was thrown out and then snatched back just like that?

★★★

Max sat on the sofa in his apartment, the lights dim, only the hum of the air conditioner filling the space. He massaged his temples, trying to relieve the pressure of a headache that was a near constant companion. His body felt like a machine forced to keep running, but his heart… was hollow. On his chest, Sassy—his beloved cat slept soundly. Her small breaths rose and fell, occasionally releasing a soft purr that vibrated gently against him. The little creature was the only thing that could calm him now. Max stroked the soft fur on Sassy’s back, letting the rhythmic purr travel into his own heart.

But even as the cat soothed him, his mind kept spinning. His eyes drifted back to his phone screen, to the last message he had never replied to. His fingers had often hovered, almost typing, ‘Charles this week is the third race in Monaco without you.’ But he deleted it. All that remained was the emptiness, a pain wrapped tightly in anger. Max bowed his head, his forehead resting on his bent knees. His jaw clenched. His breathing was heavy. Monaco. Always Monaco. Always him.

The phone on the coffee table vibrated incessantly, its notifications pinging like tiny bullets firing into the apartment's silence. Max let out a long sigh, closing his eyes for a moment as he leaned his head back against the sofa.

“What now…” he muttered, his tone a mix of exhaustion and irritation. He was sure it wasn't his turn for a press conference today—there was no way his team or the media should be bothering him this much.

Lazily, he reached for the phone. The facial recognition unlocked it, and the blue light instantly assaulted his eyes. Dozens of unread messages. A group chat he hated but couldn't leave the F1 Drivers’ Group. Max frowned, scrolling through the notifications with his thumb. It was too much. He didn't care about Lando’s silly jokes or George and Pierre’s long winded debates. He scrolled straight down, looking for the source of the commotion.

Then his eyes stopped.

The latest message.

And in an instant, his body, which had been languid and loose, went rigid. He sat up sharply, making the sofa creak in protest. Sassy, who had been sleeping peacefully on his chest, startled, let out an indignant meow, and leapt down, darting into a corner of the room.

Max didn't even notice. His eyes were locked on the short, frantic sentences piling up on the screen

Guys, you see the news?

This is insane, is this for real?

I heard a direct confirmation from the FIA.

He’s actually coming to the paddock this week.

The name appeared again and again amidst the messages.

A name that for two years had only lived as a whisper, a mystery, a wound.

Charles Leclerc.

Max swallowed hard, his chest suddenly tight. His fingers gripped the phone tighter, as if he wanted to crush it.

Damn it.

Damn it.

★★★

Thursday in Monaco was always a media circus, but this time the atmosphere was utterly different. The paddock was a disturbed beehive—buzzing, dense, and pulsating with a frantic energy. The number of journalists flooding the area felt twice the usual size. Cameras and microphones sprouted from every corner, a forest of antennas ready to swallow every word. And every conversation revolved around one thing, and one thing only Charles Leclerc.

The official confirmation from Ferrari three days prior had sent seismic shockwaves through the sport. It wasn't a rumor, not an anonymous whisper. It was an official statement Charles Leclerc would be present in the paddock on race day. In Monaco.

The news had struck like lightning. The tifosi had begun arriving early, some even gathering outside the paddock gates since morning, waving red flags emblazoned with the prancing horse. The media descended on anyone wearing a shred of Ferrari red. Carlos was stopped repeatedly, his face a mask of calm even as journalists tried to pry out more than he could ever say. The young Oliver looked awkward, offering stiff, downcast smiles as if terrified of saying the wrong thing. Even Fred Vasseur wasn't spared his steps were quick, his answers clipped, his expression a careful smile that didn't quite reach his wary eyes.

Amidst it all, Max walked through media day as he always did. His stride was steady, his face a flat, unreadable plane, his sunglasses shielding most of his expression. As if he hadn't re-read Ferrari's post a dozen times the night before. As if his chest hadn't been tight since he’d seen that name again. He pretended it was all normal, but every camera lens felt like a predator, searching for a crack.

A reporter finally intercepted him. A microphone was thrust perilously close to his face.

“Max, as someone who knew Charles for so long, what’s your reaction to his attendance in three days?”

Max stopped.

For a fraction of a second, his eyes went blank, as if the words had jammed in his throat. The muscle in his jaw tightened his hands clenched at the sides of his race suit. A thousand answers fought to be unleashed— He drew a breath, straightened his shoulders, and then glanced at the camera with a thin, forced smile.

“I…” His voice was slightly hoarse. He cleared it and tried again, more controlled. “Yeah… it’s good. Everyone is looking forward to it.”

No additional words. No room for a follow up, and before the reporter could form another question, Max was already stepping away, moving quickly, almost at a half-jog, leaving the scrum behind. The cameras tried to follow, but his strides were long and cold, cutting the interaction short with a brutal, silent finality.

★★★

The Ferrari hospitality suite was packed that afternoon, more than usual. Normally, it was just the team, invited guests, and a few drivers stopping by. But today, it seemed almost every driver who had ever shared a track with Charles Leclerc had been drawn to it, pulled to this one point as if by an irresistible magnet.

Carlos was the center of attention. He stood with a coffee cup in his hand, his face looking weary, as if he’d already answered the same question a hundred times. The other drivers formed a loose circle around him. Pierre looked agitated, Lando was curious but cautious, and Esteban was visibly trying to restrain himself from asking too much. George, Alex, Oscar, and Yuki stood a little further back, their ears keenly tuned to catch every word.

Pierre finally broke the circling small talk, his voice low. “Look, honestly… this will be the first time I’m seeing him in years, too.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression strained. “All this time, I’ve only been in contact with his family. And they all say the same thing—don’t overwhelm him. Don’t bombard him with questions.”

A low murmur rippled through the group. Lando frowned, his eyes flicking toward Carlos.

Carlos took a slow sip of his coffee before continuing, his voice calm but clear. “Ferrari only told me three days ago. Same as you. I was shocked, too. I tried to ask Fred, but he only said one thing—‘don’t make Charles uncomfortable.’ That’s it.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Each driver seemed to sink into their own thoughts. Some were anxious, some curious, some quietly angry at having been kept in the dark for so long.

At the far end of the room, Max stood alone. He leaned his back against the wall, his own arms crossed over his chest. From a distance, he appeared calm, but anyone watching closely would have seen the tight clench of his jaw and the heavy, frequent breaths he drew. He’d lost count of how many times he’d sighed since entering the room. His eyes weren’t focused on the crowd, but on an empty spot on the floor, as if he were holding something immense inside himself—an urge to question, to demand, to scream. But he knew if he opened his mouth now, everyone would see just how fractured he really was.

Pierre glanced briefly in Max’s direction, then back to Carlos. “So… we really know nothing?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos gave a slow, resigned shrug. “Nobody knows, Pier. I think only Charles himself has the answers.”

And that statement, though neutral, made the pressure in Max’s chest tighten unbearably. He turned his face away, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to contain the storm of anger and longing that was becoming impossible to hold back.

Chapter Text

★★★

@f1
He’s back 👀 Charles Leclerc spotted in the Ferrari garage after 2 years away. The atmosphere in Monaco is electric. 🇲🇨❤️ #F1 #CharlesLeclerc

@skysportsf1
BREAKING: Charles Leclerc makes his first official appearance in the paddock since 2025. Ferrari confirm he’ll be present for the Monaco GP race day.

@gazzettadellosport
“Bentornato a casa, Charles.” Leclerc ritorna nel paddock Ferrari. Un momento storico per Maranello e per tutta l’Italia. 🇮🇹

@canalplusf1
Charles Leclerc est à Monaco, et c’est officiel. Les tifosi n’ont jamais été aussi bruyants. 🔥

@autosport
Charles Leclerc’s unexpected return has shaken the paddock. Ferrari confirm he will attend Sunday’s race in Monaco.

@corrieredellosport
L’abbraccio con Fred Vasseur, le chiacchiere con Carlos. Charles Leclerc torna come figlio di Maranello.

@espnf1
Charles Leclerc is back in the paddock. 2 years away, and the Ferrari star returns at his home race in Monaco.

@motorsportitalia
“Il Predestinato” è tornato. Charles Leclerc a Monaco con la Scuderia Ferrari. Emozione pura.

@scuderiaferrari
Look who’s with us today! our beloved world champion @charles_leclerc <3

[📷 Pic 1: Charles in a FerrariStyle red hoodie, light blue jeans, glasses, laughing with Bryan (Now Ollie’s race engineer) and Alessandro]
[📷 Pic 2: Charles wearing Ferrari headphones, Fred with his arm around his waist stand in the pit wall]
[📷 Pic 3: Charles talking with Carlos and Ollie]
[📷 Pic 4: Charles waving toward the camera with a small smile]

Comments:
@ferera16 I can’t believe this is real, after 2 years 😭
@maxlechardream OMG OMG I can’t breathe, he’s with Carlos again 🥺
@maria_loei Monaco’s boy has come home, this feels like a dream
@viva_mara literally shaking, our Charles is back in the paddock!
@olliebearmanfan Ollie + Charles + Carlos = my little Ferrari family 🔥
@scuderiaheart I’m not ready when the Italian anthem plays with him in the paddock 😭
@racingfangirl still shocked Ferrari actually kept this secret for 2 years??
@verstappen16world I just wanna know Max’s reaction 👀
@charles_sunshine red hoodie + smile = I’m officially dead ✨
@formulalover Please go to Monza Charlie!!! 

★★★

After the drivers’ parade, Max finally saw him. On the massive screen in the paddock area, the cameramen seemed tirelessly focused on the Ferrari garage today, and of course, that face appeared once more. Max felt his fingers reflexively zip his racing suit all the way to the base of his neck, as if the air around him had suddenly turned too cold, too biting. His eyes were locked on the screen—Charles. For some reason, his chest ached faintly, as if something were piercing him from the inside. Charles hadn’t changed much, the lines of his face were still the same, the faint smile Max had always known. But there was something else... his hair was longer, falling across his brow, and—strangely—lighter than Max remembered, as if the Monaco sun had clung to every strand. Oversized sunglasses hid much of the expression in his eyes, the baggy red hoodie and his signature loose pants added to his usual casual, distinctly Charles vibe. But Max was too accustomed to noticing details, too used to stealing glances back when they shared the track. That’s why his eyes immediately caught what others might have missed... Charles’s body. He looked thinner. His neck seemed more prominent, his collarbones more defined even though the oversized hoodie tried to hide it. It wasn’t just style, not just a fashion choice—Charles had genuinely lost weight.

Max frowned, his breath catching in his throat. Retired drivers usually gained weight; freed from strict diets, freed from brutal schedules. But Charles... was the opposite.  And it unsettled him, something was wrong. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white, his jaw tightened, his eyes still fixed on the screen. He hated how his body reacted, how his heart hammered uncontrollably against his ribs. Charles Leclerc was back in the paddock, and for Max, the world he had forced to stay steady for two years... was trembling once again.

“Max, get ready!” GP’s voice cut clearly through his ear, jolting Max slightly from his trance.

Max blinked, as if suddenly aware he’d been staring at the screen for too long. “What is it?” he asked quickly, trying to sound normal. But GP had already followed his line of sight.

GP’s gaze fell on the large screen, which was still fixed on Charles and his characteristically shy smile. A soft chuckle came from the Italian man. “Ah,” he murmured, his voice full of meaning, “I miss that little ray of sunshine, too.”

Max turned his head sharply, his brows furrowing tightly. “Miss who?” His tone was defensive, sharper than he’d intended.

GP just gave him a sidelong glance, his expression calm, even a little mischievous. “Charles? Isn’t that why you were staring at his face on the screen without blinking?”

A fraction of a second of silence. Max felt heat creeping up the back of his neck, but he covered it with a sharp glare. “Nonsense,” he said coldly, quickly stepping away. He tugged on the zipper of his racing suit again, even though it was already sealed.

As he walked toward the car, he added in a flat voice, almost like a mutter to himself, “We should be focused on winning the race today.”

GP just shrugged behind him, but Max didn’t see it. He didn’t want to see, didn’t want to hear. Because he knew that just one more word about Charles would be enough to shatter all his defenses.

★★★

As predicted, Max closed the Monaco weekend with an absolute victory. Yesterday’s pole position transformed into total dominance in the race, and now, on the podium towering high in the heart of Monte Carlo, he raised the trophy to the sky after Prince Albert had officially presented it. The cheers of the Red Bull team erupted below the podium, a mix of shouts and the roar of superyacht engines docked in the harbor. Cameras flashed, flags waved. To his right and left, Carlos stood with a stiff smile holding his second place trophy, while Pepe, his new teammate this year, bowed his head briefly on the left, trying to contain both his shock and the joy of his first podium finish of the season.

For Max, it all should have felt routine. Another win, another trophy. But his eyes—as if pulled by a magnet—drifted to the sea of red clustered below the podium.

And there he was.

Charles.

Standing next to Fred, the red Ferrari hoodie hanging loosely from his shoulders, a small, faint but serene smile on his face. His hair fell across part of his face, but Max could recognize that figure even in a crowd of thousands.

Time seemed to slow.

Max unconsciously held his breath, and then his chest suddenly felt tight. He didn’t know if it was just an illusion, if it was just his mind playing tricks on him after two years of longing. But he felt—truly felt—that Charles’s eyes had met his. Just for a fraction of a second, brief, almost unreal. But it was enough to hit him like a freight train.

Max smiled bitterly. The trophy in his hands suddenly felt heavy, the cheers around him fading into nothing. Something churned in his chest—not pride, not the euphoria of victory. Instead, it was a pain he hated to admit, that today’s win was nothing compared to the feeling of seeing Charles standing there.

★★★

As per the long-standing tradition for the winner of the Monaco Grand Prix, a dinner with the Royal Family awaited. For Max, this was nothing new—Gemma had arranged his black suit perfectly, the slim tie, the cufflinks he’d fastened himself before getting into the car. He’d been through this several times before, and usually, he attended with an air of calm, bordering on boredom.

The Grimaldi Palace stood imposingly behind golden-yellow lights. A royal assistant greeted him as usual, escorting him to the vast dining hall with its high ceilings and glittering crystal chandeliers. At the head of the long table, Prince Albert and his family stood waiting to welcome the champion. Max responded with a formal smile, shaking hands with each of them one by one.

Then his eyes froze.

Among them stood Charles.

Max’s smile vanished instantly, his chest feeling as if it were being squeezed. Charles stepped slowly toward him, his black suit immaculate, his white shirt glowing softly under the palace lights. His hair was slightly tousled, the sunglasses from earlier now perched on his face, making him look… mature, elegant, but also distant.

Max swallowed, once, twice. The sounds around him seemed far away; even the warm praise from the princess didn’t register. His focus was on one thing only: Charles.

Charles stopped in front of him and extended his hand.

“Max…” His voice was low, soft, so familiar it pierced straight into Max’s chest. God, Max had even missed the way Charles said his name. “Congratulations on your brilliant victory today…”

Max stared at the hand. Long fingers, slightly thin, the skin paler than he remembered. He suppressed a tremble as he finally reached out and took it. Instantly, his body froze. Charles’s grip was too light, too fragile. The bones of his fingers were starkly evident in Max’s grasp.

“Thank you… Charles.” The name slipped from Max’s lips, bitter, foreign, as if his own tongue refused to say it.

For a moment, they just stood there, hands still clasped. Max’s gaze was intense, searching for something behind those lenses. Charles offered a small, polite, formal smile—a smile that should have been warm but felt like a knife to Max.

The palace dining hall was bathed in the warm glow of long candles arranged on the white marble table. The first course had been served, the aroma of wine and spices mingling with the soft strains of music from a corner of the room. Max took his seat on the right side, almost directly across from Charles. Max drew a deep breath, trying to straighten his posture, but every time his gaze inadvertently met Charles’s, his heart raced. Charles sat with a calm composure, offering polite smiles whenever addressed by the royal family. His glasses reflected the candlelight, making his eyes difficult to read.

Prince Albert raised his glass, delivering the traditional welcome speech. His voice was calm, full of authority, yet carried the warmth of a gracious host. “Tonight, we not only celebrate the victory of Max Verstappen, who once again conquered the streets of Monaco in spectacular fashion,” he said, his eyes glancing toward Max with a proud smile. “But we also welcome a son of this city, who, after so long, has finally returned home. Charles, you know full well that Monaco has always been proud of you. And what would a celebration be without inviting you as well?”

Light laughter rippled around the table, everyone nodding in agreement. Charles offered a small smile and a polite nod. “Thank you, Your Highness. It is truly an honor to be back here.”

Max only stared blankly at his plate, the fork in his hand trembling faintly. So that was the reason—Charles was Monaco’s son, an icon never truly absent from the hearts of its people. And tonight, he happened to be in the city.

For Max, sitting at the same table as Charles wasn’t just a formality. It was a subtle torture—hearing that voice again amidst the conversation, seeing that smile from across the table, and feeling a distance more painful than Charles’s absence over the past two years. Max gulped his red wine too quickly, hoping the heat of the alcohol would burn away the tightness in his chest.

Charles chuckled softly at a light joke from Princess Caroline. That smile—smiling for others, not for him anymore. Max looked down, his jaw tightening.

He had come here as the champion of Monaco. But tonight, sitting across from Charles Leclerc, Max felt as though he had lost.

★★★

The long night finally came to an end. After exchanging handshakes and offering perfunctory thanks, Max stepped quickly out of the palace hall without looking back. He knew a pair of green eyes followed him until his back disappeared from view, and that alone was enough to make his breath catch. Outside, the Monaco air was cooler, the scent of the sea mixing with the gasoline from the line of luxury cars in the courtyard. A valet handed him his car keys with a polite smile. Max was nearly at the driver’s door when that voice came, soft yet piercing.

“Mind if I tag along? I didn’t bring a car—Lorenzo dropped me off earlier…”

Max froze. That voice. Damn it. He turned slowly. Charles stood a few steps away, his suit slightly loose, his glasses still perched on his face, the palace lights reflecting off the lenses.

“Why don’t you call Lorenzo?” Max’s voice was hoarse, sharper than he intended.

Charles offered a small smile, almost like the old days, but with a bitterness at the corner of his lips. “I don’t feel like riding in a Ferrari tonight… I want to ride in your Aston Martin.”

Damn you, Charles. Max let out a quiet huff, turned, and got into the car. Before the door closed, he held it open for a moment, glancing outside. “Get in… before I change my mind.”

Charles didn’t waste a second. He walked quickly, opened the passenger door, and slid in. As soon as the door shut, Charles’s cologne filled the cabin—a faint yet sharp blend of cinnamon and citrus. Max took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, then pressed the accelerator.

The engine roared as the Aston Martin pulled out of the palace courtyard.

The atmosphere inside the car was stiff, tense. Only the sound of the engine filled the air. Finally, Charles broke the silence.

“So… how have you been, Max?”

Max didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the road, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t know where to take Charles, didn’t want to ask either. So he just drove in circles through Monaco’s narrow streets, moving slowly.

“Depends. Who’s asking?”

Charles turned, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. “What if it’s Charles asking?”

Max held his breath. His lips moved, his voice cracking softly. “Terrible.”

A moment of silence. Charles looked down, then whispered, “I’m sorry, Max…”

The words cut deeper than Max expected. He suddenly pulled the car over at the edge of a cliff, the lights of Monaco twinkling far below them. His hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white.He turned sharply, his blue eyes flashing with anger and pain. “You… have you even looked at yourself, Charles?! You left me without a reason, disappeared for two full years, and now you just come back—and apologize as if it’s that easy?!”

Max’s voice broke in the air, mingling with the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. His chest rose and fell, his breath ragged.

Charles fell silent, staring at Max with trembling eyes, as if thousands of words were stuck in his throat.

“Forgive me, Max…” Charles’s voice trembled, on the verge of breaking. “I… I never imagined it would be like this.” He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking softly, then drew a long breath before lowering them again.

Max swallowed, his throat dry. “Then… try to explain it to me. Explain your reason.”

“I…” Charles removed his glasses, his fingers trembling as they held the frames. His usually sharp green eyes were blurred with tears. “My eyesight deteriorated… the doctors said I couldn’t race anymore with my vision as it is now…”

Silence.

Outside, only the roar of the waves below the cliff, crashing against the rocks like an echo of Max’s own shattered feelings.

“Finding this out just days after I won the championship…” Charles continued, his voice breaking. “It broke me. At first, I couldn’t accept it. Being forced to stop racing just like that… it hurt, Max. It felt like my life was being ripped away from me.”

He looked down, his fingers tracing the lenses of his glasses as if searching for an anchor. “I even started to believe I was literally the unluckiest person in the world.”

Max stared at him, his jaw tightening. He remembered—he’d watched that GQ interview where Charles talked about his poor eyesight. Max had replayed it over and over because Charles looked so beautiful in it.

“I… Max…” Charles’s voice nearly broke again. “I’m sorry for disappearing. I was ashamed… to face you again, to face everyone. My career ended because of something so… trivial. I… I fell into severe depression. For two years, I tried to heal myself, tried to… breathe again.”

Max rubbed his own face roughly, his chest rising and falling. “Damn it, Charles… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t.” Charles shook his head quickly, his eyes still glistening. “Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault.” He fidgeted with his glasses again, restless, as if there was something else he wanted to say but couldn’t. Max waited… and waited. But Charles remained silent.

Finally, Max spoke, his voice low but filled with pain. “Where were you all this time…?”

Charles let out a long sigh. “I was in Switzerland, with my Maman… and sometimes Arthur, when he wasn’t racing. Lorenzo stayed in Monaco with his wife, but he visited often. The hospital there… has the best facilities.” Charles stared blankly at his glasses. “Seb was the one who told me to move. He found the hospital… and a place for me and my mother.”

Max watched him for a long moment, emotions swirling inside him, before finally gathering the courage. Slowly, he reached for Charles’s hand, the one still nervously playing with the glasses. His fingers curled around it, holding it gently but firmly.

“Charles…” Max bowed his head, his voice hoarse and nearly broken. “I… I’m so sorry for what you went through.”

Charles smiled bitterly, his eyes glassy. “Max, you should be angry with me… not like this.”

Max’s grip tightened, almost too tight, as if letting go even slightly would allow Charles to vanish back into the darkness of those two years. The distant lights of Monaco streamed through the windshield, alternately sweeping across Max’s face—his blue eyes watery, his lips trembling as he held back words. The car’s AC hummed softly, but all Max could hear was the pounding of his own heart against his chest.

“I was angry, Charles,” his voice cracked, heavy, almost like a groan. “For two full years, I was angry. I woke up every morning with that feeling… went to sleep every night with the same rage.” He turned, looking directly at Charles, who sat beside him, his face half shadowed by the dashboard. “I hated myself for waiting for you. I hated the fact that I… couldn’t forget you, even though you left without a single word.”

Charles fell silent for a moment, as if all the words he had prepared vanished into thin air. His fingers still clutched the sunglasses, turning them aimlessly until they finally slipped into his lap. He blinked rapidly, and then the tears fell—slowly, one drop landing on the grey trousers he wore. He hurriedly wiped them away with the back of his hand, but they only fell faster. His shoulders shook, and his breathing hitched, broken and ragged.

“I… I don’t deserve that, Max,” his voice cracked, barely audible. “I hurt you… I left you, I—”

His words dissolved, swallowed by the sobs that finally broke free. Charles buried his face in his palms, his body curling forward, shoulders rising and falling. The crying was muffled, choked, but the car’s interior was too small to hide anything.

Max watched him, his own chest tightening. Every sob from Charles felt like a new crack forming inside him. Without thinking, Max shifted his body, unbuckled his seatbelt, and reached for Charles—only then realizing Charles hadn’t been wearing his own seatbelt this whole time.

His large hands circled those thin shoulders, pulling him against his chest. Charles resisted for a moment, as if ashamed, but then collapsed, sinking into Max’s embrace with the full weight of his body. His face pressed against Max’s chest, damp with tears.

Max gently stroked the nape of Charles’s neck, a motion that contrasted with the tight grip of his hands, as if he would never let Charles go again.

“Shh…” Max bent his head, his lips nearly touching the disheveled strands of long brown hair. “Don’t speak. Don’t apologize anymore.” His voice was low, hoarse, but filled with resolve. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

Charles sobbed harder against Max’s chest, his own hands finally daring to wrap around Max’s waist, as if he, too, feared Max might let go.

And for the first time in two years, Max felt like he could breathe—even with his chest soaked in Charles’s tears, even with his heart still in pieces. Because in this cramped cabin, under the quiet Monaco sky, he was finally holding the person he had waited for the most.

Chapter Text

★★★

The Circuit de Barcelona, Catalunya smelled as it always did—a potent cocktail of high-octane fuel, hot engine oil, scorched rubber baked into the tarmac, and the dry Spanish air bouncing off the concrete grandstands. The familiar scent clung to the back of his throat, sharp and acrid, yet comforting. A pungent reminder that the racing season was a relentless, unending machine. Max stood in front of his garage, face a neutral mask, listening to the hive-mind activity of his mechanics fine-tuning his car. But his eyes weren't truly focused on the telemetry screens. There was a pause in his mind, a hollow space that, for the past week, had been consistently filled by the thought of one person. It had been a week since his encounter with Charles.

A week since the confession... the deteriorating vision, the depression, the two lost years.

A week since Max had finally heard the truth he’d been waiting for, yet a strange residue of doubt remained, a feeling that some part of Charles’s story was still being held back.

And in that week, something had shifted. Charles had given him his new phone number. A simple string of digits, but to Max, it felt like a door being nudged open after a long period of being locked. Since that day, they had been texting. Sometimes the messages were light, sometimes awkward, sometimes frustratingly brief, but each one was enough to make Max read and re-read them long into the night. Charles had taken to sending small, seemingly mundane photos that, to anyone else, would be insignificant. To Max, they were tiny windows into a world that made the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. A shot of a dock at dusk, a messy dinner table littered with pizza boxes, even a blurry picture of a neighbour's cat that had wandered into his new garden. They all felt intensely alive, filling the previously empty screen of Max’s phone, the last photo was of a stack of unopened cardboard boxes, clothes strewn carelessly over a chair, and Charles’s own tired face offering a faint smile in the background. The caption was simple, “Home sweet Home.”

A fierce, sudden urge had gripped Max to just fly there, to help him unpack, to arrange Charles’s books on a shelf, or simply to sit on the cluttered floor with a coffee. But the break before the Spanish GP was too short, just a handful of days. When he’d offered, Charles had simply replied,

Charles : It’s okay. Focus on your race, Max. Go win it again! 🏎️💨

Now, standing in the blistering heat of the Catalunya paddock, Max felt his chest tighten with the irony of it all. The smell of petrol and the shouts of his crew should have commanded his entire being, yet his mind kept drifting back.

To the sound of Charles’s voice a week ago.

To the tremor in his hands as he held his glasses.

To the small smile on his phone screen that felt more real than the roar of thousands of fans in the grandstands.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket, a short, sharp notification. Max glanced at the screen.

A message from Charles.

Charles : Good luck Max! 🍀 although I am supporting Carlos for this one... 😏

The corner of Max’s lip lifted in a thin, wry smile that he quickly suppressed. It was a strange feeling, but a pleasant one. Charles still knew how to get under his skin in the simplest way possible.

★★★

The Spanish Grand Prix had been a grind. The fierce heat had turned the tarmac slippery, and tyre degradation was merciless, chewing through rubber faster than anyone had predicted. Max had started from P2, but from the very first lap, his car had been a handful, twitching nervously through the long, demanding corners. Oscar and George had sailed off into the distance with clean, clinical strategies, while Max found himself locked in an exhausting battle with Lando for P4 at least. Time and again he’d tried to push, to find a way past, but the car understeered, washing wide out of Turn 3. His radio crackled with the calm voice of his engineer, urging patience, reminding him to manage the tyres. Max gritted his teeth, the frustration a hot coil in his stomach.

Lap after lap, he never found his rhythm. Finally, after a gruelling 66 laps, he crossed the finish line in fifth place. Not a disaster in terms of points, but a world away from where he expected to be.

On the podium, the victorious faces beamed with pride. Oscar stood tall in the centre, flanked by George on his right and Isack on his left. Confetti swirled, champagne fizzed through the air, and the cheers of the crowd echoed around the circuit. Max watched from a distance, pulling off his helmet with a flat, unreadable expression.

A few sympathetic pats landed on his back as he trudged back through the paddock.

“Don't worry about it, Max,” a Red Bull staffer said. “Your lead in the championship is still huge. It's safe.”

“Yeah, you're still miles ahead,” another added.

Max just nodded, offering no words in return.

When he finally made it to the sanctuary of his motorhome, Gemma was waiting. “Your phone,” she said simply, handing him the small device. He took it immediately, and as the screen lit up, a new notification was waiting.

A message from Charles,

Charles : ah... sorry about your race... I feel like I jinx you ☹️

Max’s breath hitched. His thumbs flew across the screen.

Max : What the hell Charlie, don't think like that! You didn't curse anyone. This is racing, anything can happen.

He moved to unzip his fireproof race suit, to peel away the sweat-soaked layer, but another notification chimed, freezing him in place.

Charles : Hmm... forgive me...

Max let out a short, exasperated huff, typing quickly.

 

Max : Stop apologizing.

The reply came almost instantly, as if Charles had been hovering over his phone.

Charles : Sorry...

eh, I mean... alright 😅

Max stared at the screen for a long moment, then let out a soft, unconscious sigh. Somehow, for reasons he couldn't quite explain, the sharp edge of his race-day frustration felt just a little bit smoother. A little bit lighter.

★★★

The hotel room was swallowed by a deep silence. The dim lamp on the desk cast only a faint glow, and the television screen, which had earlier been replaying the race, was now dark. Max sat on the edge of the bed, his body still half-tense, when his phone vibrated softly. That name again.

-Charles-

Max swallowed, then answered the call. “Hello?”

A brief silence, then a faint breath from the other end. Then, the voice came, quiet and hesitant.

“Max... sorry, I’m bothering you again. I just... tonight, I didn’t want to be alone.”

Max let out a sigh, but not out of annoyance—more because his chest felt tight with a strange warmth. “You’re not bothering me, Charles. Talk to me.”

On the other end, Charles was quiet for a few seconds before his voice came through, soft and beginning to crack.

“Sometimes... I feel like there are ghosts following me. Tonight... they came back. I’m scared.”

Max was silent for a moment, then, unconsciously, his lips curved. He let out a soft laugh, a low sound that was more like a relieved exhale. “Ghosts, hm? Charles, you read too many old stories.”

“No, I’m serious...” Charles’s voice trembled, but remained gentle. “I know it sounds stupid. But… I just wanted someone to tell me they aren’t real.”

Max looked down, his fingers tapping a light, rhythmic pattern on his knee, as if he were holding back a wave of mixed emotions—awkwardness, tenderness, and something else he didn't want to acknowledge. The thin, real smile stayed on his face.

“Then listen to me carefully.” His voice dropped, heavy but warm, like a blanket on a cold night. “There are no ghosts, Charles. They can’t touch you. They can’t hurt you. The only thing here is me, listening to your voice right now.” Max paused for a beat, then his lips curved into a mischievous grin. “And if there are any ghosts left, put this call on speaker. I think they’d be scared of my voice.”

From the other end, a small, watery laugh. Charles didn’t answer immediately after that. The silence that fell wasn't an anxious one anymore—it was a soft, gentle quiet, like someone finally able to draw a breath without a weight on their chest. Through the phone's small speaker, Max heard Charles take a deeper, slower breath, followed by a relieved exhale.

“Merci, Max...” His voice cracked slightly, but it was warm, filled with genuine gratitude. “I feel better now...”

Max lay back on the hotel bed, his long frame sinking into the mattress that felt too large and too cold. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes closed. “If that’s what you need, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

There was a short pause, then Charles’s faint voice returned, so quiet it was almost a whisper, as if the words might break if spoken any louder.

“I think I can sleep now.”

Max closed his eyes tighter, the tension in his own chest easing, the faint smile still lingering. “Sleep. I’ll keep the line open.”

And after that, there was only the sound of Charles’s breathing—at first a little shaky, then slowly becoming rhythmic, steady, calm. Max lay in the dark, not ending the call, listening to each breath as if it were the most soothing melody. The night felt quieter, but also more full. Until eventually, his own eyes grew heavy and slowly closed, the phone still clutched in his hand, Charles still on the other end.

★★★

The restlessness didn't fade after the Spanish GP. With only a sliver of time before he had to return to the relentless grind of racing and the factory in Milton Keynes, a persistent unease clung to Max. The entire flight back from Barcelona was spent staring at his phone, re-reading Charles's last message,

Charles : I'm okay. Don't worry about me, Max 😊

The words were too neat, too light. Max had known Charles long enough to recognize a lie, even a well-intentioned one. Gemma had even commented at the airport, “You look like you've lost something.”

The phrase echoed in his mind, and a swift decision was made. He wouldn't go to Milton Keynes first. He instructed the pilot to divert to Nice Côte d'Azur Airport. From there, it was a drive he knew by heart, down to Monaco, a quick stop at his own apartment to drop his bags, and then onto the familiar streets.

The car, one of his most inconspicuous, pulled up along Avenue Prince Rainier III, stopping in front of a small, two story house set slightly back from the road. It wasn't large. Its walls were painted an ivory white, the colour fading gently at the corners, suggesting it had stood there for a long, long time. The dark green wooden shutters on the windows were half-open, allowing the salty, warm Monegasque sea breeze to drift inside. A short, black wrought iron fence framed the front garden. Climbing vines crept up its bars, covering parts of the metal with a wild, warm touch of green. On the narrow porch sat a few simple potted plants—red geraniums, purple lavender, and a pot of rosemary growing with untamed abandon. Their arrangement was haphazard, not the work of a decorator, but of Charles himself, placed by instinct.

A soft yellow light glowed dimly on the porch, casting a gentle glow on the walls and creating faint shadows on the path. An old wooden chair sat in the corner of the veranda, its cushion patterned with faded peonies bearing the impression of recent use. An empty mug was left on a small table beside it, likely from a drink Charles had that afternoon. Though simple, the house exuded a profound sense of comfort—a stark contrast to the glamorous Monaco just beyond its fence. This place felt like a home, not just the residence of a former driver accustomed to a life of glitter. It was a sanctuary.

Max sat motionless for a long moment in the driver's seat. He knew about this house—just last week, when he'd dropped Charles off at Lorenzo's house, they had driven past this very street, and Charles had pointed it out. “That one,” he'd said, “I'll be moving in there soon.”

His heart was pounding harder than when the starting lights go red on the grid. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly before he finally pushed the car door open and stepped out.

Each step towards the small fence felt weighted. His breath was heavy, his hand hovering a few centimetres from the dark wooden door. A pause, filled with hesitation and fear. What if Charles didn't want to be seen? What if he only made things worse? But then other images surfaced—Charles's faint smile, his trembling fingers holding his glasses, the weary voice speaking of the “ghosts” that frightened him. It was enough. A gut feeling pushed him forward.

Finally, he knocked.

The door creaked softly as it opened, revealing Charles. He was wearing a loose grey sweater, his hair slightly dishevelled as if he'd been sitting on the sofa for too long. His glasses were perched crookedly on his nose, and he quickly adjusted them, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Max standing there.

“Oh.” His voice was soft, almost trembling. “Max.”

He opened the door wider, stepping back half a step. “Come in.”

He didn't ask why Max had suddenly appeared. It all felt natural, as if they had a pre arranged meeting, and a wave of relief washed over Max.

Max stepped slowly inside, and the scent of the house greeted him—a blend of stale coffee from the kitchen, old wood from the floors, and the faint, familiar trace of Charles's cologne lingering in the air. It was warm, a stark contrast to the sterile smell of hotels and paddocks he was so used to.

The small living room was untidy yet deeply comfortable. In one corner, a stack of boxes was still partially sealed, labelled in handwritten script, Books, Winter clothes, Misc. An acoustic guitar leaned against the wall, its strap tangled. On the coffee table sat two mugs—one empty, the other holding the dregs of cold tea.

The grey sofa looked slightly too large for the room. Its cushions were soft but mismatched—one a deep navy, the other a cream checkered pattern, clearly not a set but a collection gathered over time. A maroon throw blanket was draped over it, folded haphazardly, as if Charles had been using it and let it fall when he got up. Next to the sofa, a small wooden shelf stood near the window. The thin cream curtains swayed gently in the night breeze seeping through the slightly open window. The shelf wasn't full, just a few personal items carefully placed.

A collection of family photos stood in a row. Arthur, with his characteristic wide grin, dressed in racing overalls, his eyes full of fire. Next to him, a photo of Lorenzo and his wife in front of a Monaco chapel, their faces radiant. Another showed Charles's parents, sitting in a garden with a bouquet of colourful flowers in his mother’s lap while his father’s arm wrapped around her, their expression soft and serene. There was a photo of Jules with a young Charles, and another of Charles with Andrea and Joris—Max recognized it, having seen it on Charles’ Instagram story he'd once viewed from his burner account. There was a photo of Charles with the Todt family, and one with the entire Ferrari team, including Carlos. Max could guess it was from their farewell, he could see their eyes were red rimmed even in the picture.

But Max’s gaze snagged on one frame that was different from the others. It didn’t hold a family photo, but a moment he knew intimately, the Abu Dhabi podium, the night Charles clinched the World Championship with Ferrari. Max could still recall with perfect clarity the red and yellow fireworks painting the prancing horse logo across the sky.

In the photo, Max stood beside Charles, an arm wrapped tightly around his waist, his own face tilted upward as he watched Charles beside him. Charles’ smile was impossibly wide, his eyes blazing with a mix of sheer relief and euphoria.

But something was off. Carlos should have been there too, standing in second place on Charles’ other side. Yet the photo in the frame was cropped—neatly, almost imperceptibly to a stranger's eye, but to Max, who knew that podium by heart, the absence was glaring. Carlos had been edited out, as if the moment belonged only to the two of them, Charles and Max.

Max stared, his chest feeling suddenly heavier. There was a piercing irony to it—Charles kept a memento of his greatest triumph, but not in its entirety. He had chosen to preserve only himself.

“The place is still a mess,” Charles said awkwardly, shifting some books off a chair so Max could sit. “I haven’t finished unpacking everything.”

Max remained standing for a moment longer, taking in the room. It felt… strange. He was so used to seeing Charles in the paddock, in hotels, in a world of bright lights and scrutiny. But here, Charles was just a man in a loose sweater, surrounded by moving boxes, in a small house filled with the traces of his life. Max chose to ignore the photo for now, afraid to ask, afraid of the flicker of hope it ignited in his own heart.

Coward.

“Not bad,” Max finally murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “Better than your flashy old apartment in Monte Carlo.”

Charles, who was pouring water into two glasses, glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. “You remember that!?” His voice held a note of surprise, tinged with something like embarrassment.

Of course Max remembered. The luxurious apartment in Monte Carlo, a towering structure with balconies facing straight out to the sea. From the outside, it was all gleaming glass, a symbol of the glamorous life attached to an F1 driver. But when Max had stepped inside years ago, he’d immediately sensed something off. The rooms were too vast, too pristine, too cold. The walls were covered in expensive art that Max know that art isn’t from Charles’ favorite painter, the overly designed modern furniture looking like the choices of an interior decorator, not of Charles himself. Everything was symmetrical, everything costly, but there was no warmth in it. The only personal touches were a few family photos and pictures of a young Charles, but they were all in small frames, and a lone bookcase stood tilted in a corner as if forgotten.

It hadn’t been a big party, just a small gathering arranged by Charles’s mother—a simple intention to celebrate her son with the people he’d grown up with on the tracks. That night, the vast, cold apartment had been filled with laughter. Pierre, Esteban, Alex, George, even Antonio had come, while Max had arrived with Nyck. Max remembered sitting on an overly designed, garishly coloured sofa that was far too low, staring at the simple cake Charles’s mother had made, remembering how Charles had awkwardly blown out the candles while everyone cheered too loudly.

Max didn’t often attend parties, especially personal ones. But that night, in Charles’ apartment, he had stored that memory away. He’d never told anyone, but the moment had stuck with him—Charles with his cheeks flushed and smeared with cream from Pierre’s mischief, laughing until his eyes crinkled shut, his warm mother, and an atmosphere that, while simple, felt utterly genuine.

Now, in this small house with its vine-covered fence and oversized grey sofa, Max shrugged lightly. “At least here you can breathe,” he said, his tone softer than he’d intended.

Charles let out a small chuckle, though a faint blush coloured his cheeks. “That apartment was a design hell,” he murmured, as if laughing at his past self. The cold glass of water passed from his hand to Max’s—just plain water. It was that simple, and perhaps it was all Charles had to offer right now.

Charles’s gaze drifted for a moment, then settled on the surface of the small wooden table in front of Max. A clear glass vase held white lilies, their petals beginning to wilt slightly at the edges, but their scent remained soft, mingling with the fragrance of other flowers from the half-open window. Charles looked down, his slender fingers gently touching a stem, as if searching for a distraction.

He quickly rubbed the back of his neck, which seemed more prominent than before, before his quiet voice broke the silence. “I’m... sorry if I’m a bother to you.” His eyes flickered towards Max for a fraction of a second before falling back to the flowers on the table, his gaze lingering longer than necessary. “I know you should be rest right now. Barcelona must have been exhausting. But... you came anyway.”

Max leaned back into the sofa, making a show of being relaxed even though his heartbeat hadn't steadied since the door opened. His left hand tapped a slow rhythm on the sofa arm, his voice calm but firm. “If I felt bothered, I wouldn’t have come.”

A faint smile touched Charles’s lips, but his eyes still reflected the warm light of the living room lamp, holding back unspoken words.

The answer made Charles blink, then smile a little more genuinely. He looked down again, his fingers tapping lightly on the side of his glasses. “I’m just… not used to it. It feels strange. After two years with only my family and Seb’s, and then suddenly you’re here, sitting in my new untidy living room.”

Max shrugged, a smile tugging at his own lips. “Yeah, it feels strange. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

Charles let out a long sigh, his eyes glancing towards the stack of boxes in the corner. “I haven’t even finished sorting my books...”

“You’ve always been a mess with books,” Max retorted lightly, his tone almost teasing. “I still remember your old apartment, you just left them lying around everywhere.”

Charles laughed, the sound cracking and honest. “Mon Dieu, your memory is too sharp, Verstappen...”

“Hard to forget,” Max countered, this time letting the thin smile show.

A quietness crept back in, coating the small living room with an odd warmth. It wasn't an awkward silence—more of a pause, a still space that gave them both a chance to truly register the other's presence. Seconds stretched out slowly, marked only by the tick of a wall clock and the soft rustle of the sea breeze through the half-open window.

Charles finally moved, sinking back into the oversized sofa. He pulled the maroon throw blanket, which had been draped haphazardly, onto his lap, folding it carelessly as his slender fingers absently stroked the fabric, as if seeking comfort in its simple texture. His eyes didn't meet Max's, instead, they fell to his own hands.

“Max,” his voice was barely a whisper, “I know you're probably tired of hearing this, but I am truly sorry. For disappearing suddenly, for not explaining anything... and you coming here because I acted like a child calling you in the middle of the night.”

Max turned his head, the movement deliberate. His gaze locked onto Charles's face, sweeping over every detail—the tension in his jaw, the slight hunch of his shoulders from anxiety, the eyes trying to hide behind his long lashes. The urge to immediately refute the apology rose on his tongue, but something in that fragile expression held him back. For a moment, he let the silence speak, then finally, his voice came out softer than before.

“Charles,” Max’s voice was barely a whisper, “I know you're probably tired of hearing this, i think you are not a bother, if it's you, then it's never a bother.”

Charles fell silent. His face tightened briefly, as if the words were too difficult to accept at face value, before slowly relaxing again. A faint smile finally appeared—thin, unsteady, but real, lighting a small spark in his previously gloomy eyes.

Max shifted his weight, as if adjusting his position. His eyes glanced over at the nearly empty bookcase by the window, which only held a few old magazines stacked untidily. He leaned forward slightly, a faint crease forming on his brow as his gaze swept the room once more. “Where did you put your piano?” His voice was flat, but sharp, sharp enough to cut through the previously comfortable silence.

Somehow, the question hit Charles like a physical blow. His body stiffened instantly, as if he'd been caught red-handed hiding something. The faint smile vanished from his face. His fingers, which had been nervously crumpling the edge of the maroon blanket on his lap, stopped completely, frozen.

“I...” Charles swallowed, his eyes darting back to the vase of flowers on the table, avoiding Max's gaze. His voice came out fractured, hurried, as if trying to close a gap that had just opened. “I didn't bring it. This house is already... too crowded with my things.”

The excuse landed with an unconvincing tone, too flimsy to be believed.

Max didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was sharp, tracing the line of Charles’s jaw, which was now noticeably stiffer than before, the way his hands suddenly pretended to adjust his glasses—a tell-tale sign of nervousness. Max had known Charles for too long, too deeply, not to sense that something was being hidden. The silence returned, heavier this time. The ticking of the wall clock sounded loud, tapping against their patience. Charles straightened his back stiffly, trying to appear calm, but the muscles in his face were tense.

Max finally let out a long exhale, pushing aside the curiosity that had almost escaped his lips. His sharp gaze softened, and he looked away towards the stack of boxes in the corner. The boxes were tilted, some open, revealing their contents—scattered books, some still wrapped in plastic.

Coward.

“Alright,” Max said, standing up from the sofa and brushing off his hands. “How about we tidy up that empty shelf.”

Charles turned his head quickly, slightly surprised, but a small smile finally reappeared. “You? Helping me organize books? I don’t remember the last time I saw you read anything other than race technical notes.”

Max raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smirk. “Hey, I can put books on a shelf without having to read them.”

Charles chuckled, then stood up. They opened one of the boxes, and a pile of books spilled onto the floor—from thin novels with colourful covers to classic romances with yellowed pages. Max crouched down, picking up one book with a long, complicated French title. He frowned. “Does anyone actually finish reading this?”

Charles took it from Max’s hand with a feigned offended expression. “That’s Shakespare manuscript in French Language Max...”

Max looked at him flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Of course you like dramatic stories. You’re a drama specialist yourself.”

A small laugh escaped Charles, warm and free. He adjusted his glasses on his nose, then picked up a few other books. “During these two years, reading became... my escape. When I couldn’t be on the track, I hid in other worlds. There were days I just sat in bed, lost in stories. Romances, history, even poetry.”

Max placed a few other novels on the shelf, deliberately stacking them upside down. “So you’re a bookworm now, huh?”

Charles patted his shoulder gently. “At least it’s more useful than just rewatching old races, like you probably do.”

Max pretended to be offended, turning with a narrowed gaze. “Old races are history. More real than some handsome prince falling in love with a mysterious girl.”

“And more boring,” Charles retorted quickly, then laughed again.

The wooden shelf was now almost full. Max was still sitting on the floor, his fingers tracing the spines of the books, their colours beginning to fade, until he found one with a worn cover, its edges curved as if it had been opened and read countless times. He picked it up, looking at Charles with a raised eyebrow.

“You must have memorized this one.” he said, his tone more of a statement than a question.

Charles, who had just finished arranging a stack of novels on the shelf, turned abruptly. His eyes widened for a second, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A moment later, he smiled—a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. There was a faint shadow behind it. He stepped closer, took the book from Max's hand, and hugged it to his chest as if it were something fragile. “Well, you already know the answer.”

Max stared at him a moment longer, squinting. “What's it about?” His voice was flat, but his curiosity was evident.

Charles fell silent. His gaze dropped to the floor, then drifted to the window, before finally settling back on Max. “It's... about a love story...tragic, but quite beautiful.”

“Oh, of course again,” Max chuckled, a shake of his head sending a strand of hair falling onto his forehead. “Who else but you would collect that kind of story.”

Charles snorted, tapping Max's shoulder with the book he was clutching. “Shut up, If my taste is bad, at least I have taste. Better than staring at telemetry data all day.”

Max gave a small grin but didn't retort. He just placed a few more books on the shelf, this time more carefully, occasionally glancing at Charles who was still holding the book tightly.

Charles then let out a sigh, a smile spreading across his face again, though it sounded mixed with hunger. “Ahh... instead of you constantly criticizing my taste, we should finish this. Then order some food. I'm quite hungry.”

Max finally let out a soft laugh, standing up and brushing the dust off his hands. “Finally, a normal sentence comes out of your mouth. Come on, let's finish this shelf quickly. Otherwise, you'll probably pick some French restaurant that serves tragic love stories too.”

“This is Monaco, Max!”