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Chapter Text

Monaco, May 29, 2022. The Principality was a living paradox, its opulent streets transformed into a gladiatorial arena where dreams and disasters collided at 300 kilometers per hour. The air thrummed with the pulse of Formula 1—a heady cocktail of scorched rubber, acrid fuel, and the salt of Mediterranean breeze. Grandstands overflowed with Tifosi, their scarlet flags a tidal wave of devotion, their chants a rhythmic prayer: “Le-clerc! Le-clerc!” At 24, Charles Leclerc was more than a driver; he was Monaco’s anointed son, Il Predestinato, the destined one, carrying the weight of a nation’s hopes in his Ferrari-red cockpit. Today, the Monaco Grand Prix, his home race, was his to conquer.

Inside the SF-22, Charles sat cocooned in carbon fiber, the Ferrari’s cockpit a second skin molded to his frame. His gloves, white with red accents, flexed against the steering wheel, the leather cool and taut against his calloused fingers. His helmet, emblazoned with Monaco’s diamond pattern, shielded green eyes that burned with a quiet, unshakable focus. This was his second year with Ferrari, and the SF-22 was a beast—responsive, hungry, its V6 engine snarling with barely restrained power. Qualifying had been a masterclass; he’d claimed pole position, threading the needle through Monaco’s unforgiving corners with a precision that silenced doubters. The Tifosi’s roars still echoed in his ears, a symphony of faith that drowned out the ghosts—Jules Bianchi’s radiant smile, Hervé Leclerc’s steady hand, Anthoine Hubert’s infectious laugh. They were with him, always, their losses a shadow that sharpened his resolve. For them. For Ferrari. For Monaco.

Charles adjusted his visor, the tinted shield catching a glint of sunlight. His breath was steady, each exhale a ritual to center himself. The dashboard glowed with data—tire temps, fuel load, ERS status—all green, all perfect. He could feel the car’s heartbeat through the seat, a low vibration that synced with his own. This is it, he thought, the words a silent vow. Today, I win. The grandstands blurred into a sea of red, the harbor’s yachts gleaming like jewels under the Mediterranean sun. Monaco was his home, its streets his childhood playground, and today, he’d etch his name into its legend.

The five red lights above the grid flickered on, one by one, each a heartbeat in the suffocating silence. Charles’s grip tightened, his pulse quickening. The world held its breath. Then, in a blink, the lights went out.

The SF-22 surged forward, a scarlet arrow launched from a bow. Charles nailed the start, tires biting the asphalt as he carved into Turn 1, Sainte Dévote, with surgical grace. The corner was a beast—tight, treacherous, a funnel where ambition met reality. He held the inside line, the Ferrari’s nose inches from the barrier, the crowd’s roar a distant hum beneath the engine’s scream. Behind him, the pack jostled, a cacophony of revving engines and screeching tires. He glanced in his mirrors—Max Verstappen’s Red Bull was climbing, already past Sergio Pérez, but Charles was untouchable, his lead a fraction of a second that felt like a lifetime.

Then, chaos erupted.

A piercing screech tore through the air, metal on metal, a sound like the world splitting open. Charles's eyes flicked to his right mirror, catching a flash of silver—George Russell’s Mercedes, brakes locked, sliding out of control. The car veered, its nose slamming into Lando Norris’s McLaren with a bone-shattering crunch. The orange machine spun, a violent pirouette, its rear clipping Oscar Piastri’s sister McLaren. The impact was a chain reaction, a nightmare unfolding in milliseconds. Oscar Piastri’s car lurched left, directly into Charles' path.

There was no time to react. The McLaren’s nose struck the Ferrari’s side, a brutal jolt that sent a shockwave through Charles’s body. The SF-22 lifted, its rear wheels breaking free from the asphalt, the world tilting into a surreal blur. No, no, no— His mind screamed, but his hands were useless, the steering wheel a dead weight as the car flipped. Once. Twice. Three times. The sky and track became a kaleidoscope of blue and black, the crowd’s gasps drowned by the deafening crack of carbon fiber splintering. The chassis buckled, a sickening snap that reverberated through Charles's bones, the Ferrari tearing apart at its core. The front half, with Charles strapped inside, hurtled forward, a scarlet comet trailing smoke and debris. It struck the barrier with a force that shook the earth, metal crumpling like paper, the halo bending but holding, a fragile shield against oblivion.

Charles’s world was a maelstrom of sensation. The impact slammed his head against the seat, his helmet cracking against the roll hoop. Pain exploded in his spine, a white-hot fire that radiated down his left leg. The smell of burning rubber and molten metal filled his nostrils, acrid and choking. His vision blurred, the grandstands a smear of red and white, the Tifosi’s faces frozen in horror. He tried to move, to speak, but his body betrayed him, heavy and unresponsive. The radio crackled—his team principle Fred Vasseur’s voice, frantic: “Charles, can you hear me? Charles!”—but it was distant, fading like a signal lost in static.

Memories flooded, unbidden, as the world darkened. Jules, laughing in the karting paddock, his brown eyes bright with dreams. Papa, his hand steady on Charles Leclerc’s shoulder, whispering, “You’re my champion, mon fils.” Anthoine, grinning after a late-night card game, his voice teasing, “You’ll win Monaco one day, Leclerc.” Their faces blurred together, a trinity of loss that had shaped him, haunted him. I’m sorry, Charles thought, the words heavy in his mind. I tried. His heart monitor beeped erratically, then flatlined, a single, endless note that swallowed everything.

Darkness claimed him.

In the Ferrari garage, time stopped. Fred stood rooted, his face a mask of ash, eyes locked on the monitors. The telemetry feed was a nightmare—heart rate zero, vitals gone, a red warning blinking like a death knell. “Charles, answer me!” he shouted into the radio, his French accent thick with panic. Static answered, cold and final. A mechanic dropped a tablet, the screen shattering on the concrete floor, the sound a gunshot in the silence. The pit crew stood frozen, their red overalls stark against the sterile white of the garage, their breaths shallow, waiting for a miracle.

The grandstands were a graveyard of hope. The Tifosi, who had waved their flags like a battle cry, now clutched them like lifelines, their chants replaced by sobs and whispered prayers. Monaco knew tragedy too well—Jules Bianchi’s crash at Suzuka lingered in its corners, a wound that never healed. Hervé Leclerc’s quiet passing, Anthoine Hubert’s brutal loss at Spa—they were ghosts that haunted Charles, and now the Principality held its breath for its prince. A woman in the crowd clutched a rosary, her lips moving silently. A child in a Ferrari cap hid his face in his father’s shoulder. The circuit, alive with speed moments ago, was now a requiem.

Marshals swarmed the wreckage, their orange vests a stark contrast to the smoldering debris. The Ferrari was a ruin, its front half embedded in the barrier, a twisted sculpture of red and black. Smoke curled upward, a ghostly shroud, and shards of carbon fiber littered the asphalt like fallen stars. The halo, dented but intact, had saved Charles’s life—for now. The medical team worked with grim precision, cutting through the mangled cockpit, their tools glinting in the sun. Charles was motionless, his helmet cracked, a trickle of blood seeping from beneath the visor, staining his white balaclava crimson. They lifted him onto a stretcher, his body limp, a fallen warrior in scarlet armor. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath that echoed like a wave.

The medical car sped away, sirens piercing the silence, carrying Charles to a helicopter bound for Nice. The paddock was a storm of chaos—reporters shouting, cameras flashing, officials barking orders. Red flags waved, halting the race, but the world beyond the barriers felt irrelevant. Charles Leclerc, Monaco’s hope, Ferrari’s destined one, was gone from the track, his fate uncertain.

In the hospital in Nice, Charles was a ghost in a sterile world. Doctors induced a coma to control swelling from severe spinal injuries and a fractured left leg. The prognosis was a litany of devastation: permanent damage to his lower spine, a limp that would never fade, chronic pain that would haunt him in cold and rain. His racing career was over, a dream shattered in a heartbeat. Pascale Leclerc sat by his bedside, her hands clasped around a rosary, her eyes red but unyielding. Arthur Leclerc, barely 21, stood vigil, his own racing dreams overshadowed by his brother’s fight. Lorenzo Leclerc, the eldest, fielded calls from Ferrari, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

The paddock buzzed with grief and speculation. Social media exploded—#PrayForLeclerc trended worldwide, fans posting montages of Charles’s overtakes, his dimpled smile, his Monaco pole lap. Red Bull’s accounts, already obsessed with Charles (reels of his battles with Max, TikToks of his press conference quips), went silent, a mark of respect. The Tifosi flooded Ferrari’s Instagram with messages: “Forza Charles!” “Come back to us!” But Charles was unreachable, lost in a darkness deeper than the Mediterranean night.

Charles remained unconscious for three weeks, his body a battleground of machines and monitors. The hospital room was a cocoon of white—beeping ventilators, the hum of IV drips, the faint scent of antiseptic. Pascale whispered to him in French, tales of his childhood races, of Hervé’s pride, of Jules Bianchi’s belief in him. Arthur read F1 news aloud. Lorenzo coordinated with Ferrari, shielding the family from the media’s relentless hunger.

Outside, the world moved on. The Monaco Grand Prix was abandoned, a rare concession to tragedy. The paddock mourned, but races resumed, the circus relentless. Charles Leclerc’s name lingered in commentary—“Leclerc would’ve loved this track,” “His duel with Verstappen was iconic”—but it was tinged with pity, a fading echo. For those who loved him, the silence was deafening.

Charles’s mind was a fog of fragments. Dreams bled into memories—Jules’s voice calling him “petit champion,” Papa’s hand ruffling his hair, Anthoine’s laugh echoing in a Monaco sunset. The crash replayed in loops: the screech, the flip, the bone-deep pain. He saw the Ferrari’s nose crumpling, felt the fire in his spine, heard Fred Vasseur’s voice fading. I failed them, he thought, the words a weight in the darkness. I failed Ferrari.

But somewhere, in the deepest part of him, a spark remained. A whisper of red, of speed, of sempre. He wasn’t done yet. Not entirely.

Chapter Text

The Monaco Grand Prix grid vibrated beneath Max Verstappen’s Red Bull RB18, the air dense with fuel and anticipation. Starting P4, he trailed Charles Leclerc’s pole-sitting Ferrari, its scarlet blaze cutting through the Mediterranean sun. Their rivalry—sharp, electric—throbbed in Max Verstappen’s chest, but a quieter pull stirred, Charles’ green eyes and soft smile flickering in his mind like a spark he couldn’t name.

The lights went out, engines howling, and Max surged forward, tires gripping asphalt. Sainte Dévote loomed, a crucible of chaos. He held his line, eyes fixed on Charles’s Ferrari, its red curves slicing the turn with precision.

Then, a banshee’s wail split the air—metal shrieking against metal. From his cockpit, Max saw it unfold: George Russell’s Mercedes slammed into Lando Norris’s McLaren. The orange car spun, its rear clipping Oscar Piastri’s McLaren, which crashed into Charles’s Ferrari. The SF-22 lurched, lifting off, flipping end over end, a scarlet comet tearing through Monaco’s sky. The chassis snapped, a bone-crushing crack echoing in Max’s chest, debris—carbon fiber shards, a tire, a wing—scattering like ash. Smoke erupted, thick and black, swallowing the wreck as it slammed into the barriers, halo bending, Charles’s helmet barely visible, still—too still.

Max’s breath stopped, his hands trembling on the wheel, the RB18’s vibrations a roar against his panic. “Red flag! Red flag!” he shouted into his radio, Dutch accent thick, voice splintering. “Charles—is he okay?” His engineer, Gianpiero Lambiase—GP—replied, clipped: “No word, Max. Slow down, pit lane.” Max’s vision blurred, hot tears stinging his eyes, a sensation so foreign it terrified him. He’d faced danger before—his own crashes, near-misses, the brutal grind of F1—but this was different. This was Charles.

“Red flag confirmed,” GP’s voice crackled through the radio. “Pit lane, now.” Max eased his Red Bull RB18 back, hands trembling on the wheel, the cockpit a suffocating prison. As he climbed out, his legs gave way, staggering steps faltering, a violent tremor wracking his body from the crash’s terror. Christian Horner watched, as the Red Bull’s crew swarmed. Max’s trembling hands, staggering steps, and shaking frame were undeniable. The race wasn’t yet abandoned, but Max was done, his distress a signal Red Bull couldn’t ignore. Christian’s voice cut through: “Max, you’re out. Get to your drivers’ room—calm down and stay out of the media’s eyes.” His anguish—like one grieving a loved one—too stark for a mere rival’s crash.

In the drivers’ room, a stark space of lockers and benches, Max sank onto a chair, Red Bull suit unzipped, fireproof undershirt clinging to his chest. His hands shook, the crash’s sensory assault—smoke’s choke, debris’ glint, that crack—looping in his mind. His phone was a tether, but Charles’ contact mocked him—silent, unreachable. He’d texted yesterday: “Crush it, mate.” No reply. Now, he typed: “Please be okay.” His thumb hovered, but he didn’t press send. What was a text to a man fighting for his life? Max's girlfriend Kelly Piquet slipped in, dark hair pulled back, eyes soft with worry. “Max,” she said, sitting close, her hand reaching for his. “They’ll get him out. He’s tough.”

Max jerked away, jaw tight, her touch jarring against his turmoil. “I saw it, Kelly,” he rasped, voice raw. “Right there—the flip, the smoke… he wasn’t moving.” His blue eyes were distant, Charles’ still helmet searing his vision. Kelly’s presence, once grounding, felt like a misstep, clashing with the fierce, unnamed feeling for Charles consuming him. “I can’t deal with this,” he muttered, standing, pacing, hands raking his hair. Kelly’s eyes followed, hurt flickering, but Max’s focus was Charles, his voice breaking: “I need him to be okay.” Kelly’s words—“I’m here, Max”—hung unanswered, her touch a shadow he couldn’t hold.

Max left the drivers’ room, drawn to the pit lane where drivers huddled, faces pale, awaiting news. Fernando Alonso, Sebastian Vettel, Kevin Magnussen, Nico Hülkenberg stood together, their shared memory of another crash haunting them, but Max didn’t join their murmurs, his fear for Charles isolating him. Lando gripped his shoulder, his brown eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He’s not awake, Max. They got him out, but… it’s bad.” Lando’s voice cracked, his usual humor buried under the weight of the moment. Oscar, ashen, muttered, “It was my car…” his guilt was raw. Max barely heard them, he staggered, catching himself on a barrier. Not awake. The words were a blade, slicing through him. He’d seen Charles race, fearless and brilliant, their wheel-to-wheel battles a dance of fire and precision. He’d felt the pull of something deeper—unspoken, buried under rivalry—every time Charles glanced his way, green eyes catching his in a fleeting moment of connection. Now, the thought of losing him, of never seeing that smile again, was a void Max couldn’t fathom. His chest ached, a tangle of fear and something more, something sensual in the way he remembered Charles’ hands on the wheel, the curve of his jaw under the helmet, the quiet intensity that made Max’s heart race off the track.

Still nothing by the end of the day, desperation drove him to act. He called Christian Horner, Red Bull’s Team Principal, his voice urgent. “Christian, what’s happening with Charles? Ferrari’s giving nothing. Can you ask them?” Christian’s tone was measured. “I’ll try, Max, but they’re in lockdown. It’s chaos.” Hours later, Maxback in his aparment, Christian called back, his voice grim. “No dice, mate. Ferrari’s shut tight. No updates.”

Max’s frustration surged, a wildfire in his veins. He dialed Fred, his fingers trembling. Voicemail. “Fred, it’s Max Verstappen,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please, just tell me if Charles is alive. Anything. I’m begging you.” Silence answered. Social media was a void—#PrayForLeclerc trended, but Ferrari’s posts like “Our thoughts are with our driver” were empty. Red Bull’s accounts, usually alive with Charles Leclerc content (reels of his overtakes, TikToks of his laugh), went dark, a gesture that felt like defeat. The media offered nothing but speculation, a cruel tease of hope and dread.

The Leclerc family’s request, relayed through Ferrari, kept Max from the hospital—No visitors, please, not now. Red Bull’s grip was firm: “Stay here, Max.” The paddock was chaos—reporters swarming, Tifosi wailing—but Max was untethered, Charles’ fate his only anchor.

For a week, Max waited, trapped in a purgatory of silence. He stayed in Monaco, avoiding the team’s calls. He checked his phone obsessively, scoured news sites, but Charles’ condition was a black hole—no leaks, no statements, no hope. The paddock moved on, the Baku race looming, but Max was paralyzed. He dreamed of Charles—flames, wreckage, green eyes fading—and woke gasping, his sheets tangled, his chest tight. That fierce feeling—fear, need, something more—burned, Kelly Piquet’s presence fading. When she called, voice soft, pleading, “Max, I’m worried. Can we talk?” Max stood in his Monaco apartment, harbor lights cold, Charles’ image—fierce, vibrant—etched in his mind. “I can’t, Kelly,” he said, voice low, raw. “It’s Charles. I need to focus on him.” He hung up, her silence a relief, his heart fixed on Charles.

Next day he drove to the Leclerc family’s home in Monaco, unannounced, his heart pounding. The city’s streets were subdued, the post-race glamour replaced by a lingering grief. Pascale answered, face etched with exhaustion, eyes red. “Max,” she said, voice weary, French accent thick. “Why now?”

“I’ve got nothing,” Max stammered, voice raw. “Ferrari won’t talk. Christian tried—nothing. I called Fred—voicemail. Is Charles okay?” His hands twisted his cap, blue eyes pleading.

Pascale’s gaze softened, “He’s alive,” she said, the words a fragile lifeline. “He’s in a coma, in Nice, Lorenzo is with him. The doctors… they’re waiting. That’s all we know.” Her voice trembled, a mother’s strength fraying at the edges.

Max exhaled, a shudder of relief mingling with dread. Alive. It was something, but not enough. “Can I help? Please, I… I need to do something.” He felt useless, a champion reduced to a beggar.

“Come tomorrow,” Pascale said after seeing the raw pain in the blue eyes, her tone gentle but firm. “Lunch with Arthur and I before we go back to Charles.” The invitation was a bridge, a connection to Charles when Max had nothing else.

Lunch was a quiet ritual. Pascale's warmth flickered, but Arthur, hollow-eyed, barely spoke. “He’s still in the coma,” Pascale said, hand on Max’s. “But he’s fighting.” Max clung to the words, uncertainty gnawing.

Max raced in Baku, his campaign a blur, winning but hollow, his heart in Monaco. He kept Charles’ name alive: “Charles would’ve owned this corner.” Red Bull’s social media posted #LeclercLives throwbacks. Fans rallied, a spark in the dark.

Charles Leclerc remained in a coma, and Max Verstappen lived in a haze, that fierce feeling a silent prayer for a man he couldn’t lose.

Chapter Text

The crash had been a lightning strike—instantaneous and apocalyptic. Fred Vasseur had watched it unfold on the monitors, his heart lurching as George Russell’s Mercedes, brakes failing, screeched and slammed into Lando Norris’s McLaren. The orange car spun, clipping Oscar Piastri’s, which careened into Charles Leclerc’s Ferrari. The SF-22 lifted, flipping three times, a scarlet comet tearing through the Monaco sky. The chassis snapped, a bone-shattering crack that echoed through the garage’s speakers, and the wreckage smashed into the barriers with a force that shook the earth. The halo bent but held, a fragile shield against oblivion, but Charles’s telemetry flatlined, a scream of red on the screens.

“Charles, can you hear me?” Xavier Marcos Padros, Charles Leclerc’s race engineer, shouts into the radio, his Spanish accent taut with panic. “Charles, respond!” Static hisses, a cruel void. Fred joins, voice raw: “Charles, talk to us, please!” The silence mocks them, louder than the Tifosi’s fading roar. The replay sears into Fred’s mind—metal crumpling, debris scattering, smoke shrouding the wreckage. The data is a graveyard: no heart rate, no throttle, no vitals. Fred's chest tightens, guilt a vise. He’d watched Charles rise since GP3, a boy with Jules Bianchi’s fire and Monaco’s soul, a boy who’d bled Ferrari red since karting, whose pole lap yesterday had been a masterclass, threading Monaco’s corners with a precision that silenced doubters. He was Il Predestinato, the destined one, and Fred had sent him onto that track.

The race warden’s response is swift, marshals sprinting to Sainte Dévote, their orange vests flashing under the Monaco sun. Henri Dubois, the FIA’s lead marshal, barks orders, his voice cutting through the chaos: “Clear the debris, secure the driver!” Marshals wield cutting tools, sparks flying as they slice through the Ferrari’s mangled chassis, their urgency a desperate race against time. Medical cars screech to a halt, paramedics rushing with stretchers, their faces grim. The warden’s efficiency is a flicker of hope, but the telemetry’s silence drowns it.

Iñaki Rueda, Ferrari’s strategist, stood beside Fred, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the telemetry. “The halo held,” Iñaki said, his Spanish accent low, as if convincing himself. “It has to have held.” But his voice wavered, the data’s silence louder than any assurance.

Xavi tries the radio again, his voice cracking: “Charles, please, come in.” Static replies, relentless.

A young mechanic, Luca, barely 20, sank onto a stool, his face buried in his hands. “He was supposed to win,” he whispered, the words a prayer to a deaf universe. Luca had idolized Charles Leclerc, his Monaco roots tying him to the driver like a brother. Now, his scarlet overalls seemed a shroud, his hands trembling as he clutched a torque wrench like a talisman. The other mechanics were statues, their eyes darting between the monitors, waiting for any response from Charles.

Carlos Sainz stumbled into the garage moments later, starting P2, his car made it through the crash without a scratch. The scarlet fabric strains against his shoulders, his breath ragged from the near-miss at Sainte Dévote. “Fred,” he rasps, his eyes wild with Spanish fire, “is he alive?” Fred, jaw clenched, mutters, “We don’t know, Carlos.”

“I saw it,” Carlos whispers, his voice cracking, his accent thick. “His car flew. I swerved, barely made it.” His gaze holds Fred’s, heavy with the weight of survival, a silent plea for absolution. Carlos then slumps against the pit wall, his hands trembling, his usual charisma shattered. “He was P1, Fred,” he mutters, punching the wall, a rare crack in his composure. “This can’t happen.”

Outside, the Tifosi’s grief was a tidal wave, crashing against the grandstands’ steel. The sea of red, vibrant with hope an hour ago, was now a requiem, flags clutched like lifelines, banners sagging under the weight of despair. A woman in a Ferrari cap sobbed openly, her rosary glinting in the sun, her lips moving in fervent prayer. A child, face painted with Charles Leclerc’s number 16, hid in his father’s arms, too young to grasp the loss but old enough to feel the crowd’s anguish. The Tifosi’s chants had died, replaced by a low, keening wail that carried to the garage, a sound that pierced Fred Vasseur’s heart. “Forza Charles,” a man shouted, his voice breaking, but the words dissolved into the crowd’s sorrow.

Monaco’s history of loss hung heavy, a shadow that darkened the circuit’s glamour. Jules Bianchi’s ghost lingered, his 2014 Suzuka crash a wound that never healed. Jules Bianchi, Ferrari’s protege, Charles Leclerc’s godfather, had been Monaco’s son too, his smile a beacon until it was snuffed out. The Tifosi remembered—banners from 2015, “Jules, toujours avec nous,” still appeared at races—and now they feared for Charles Leclerc.

By dusk, the Monte Carlo casino banner shifts, no longer Daghe Charles or the usual post-race Merci Charles. Now, Forza Charles Sempre glows scarlet against the night, a vigil crafted by Monaco’s soul. A group of Italian fans unfurl their own banner: “Charles, Il Predestinato, Non Mollare,” its red letters a blood oath, their eyes wet but defiant. Social media ignites—#ForzaCharles trends globally, fan edits of Charles Leclerc’s pole lap flooding X, prayers in Italian and French weaving a digital tapestry. Yet darker posts creep in, whispers of Jules Bianchi’s fate, comparisons to Ferrari’s cursed history, a shadow the Tifosi fight to outshine.

Fred heard the Tifosi’s grief through the garage’s open doors, a sound that clawed at his resolve. Charles was their prince, Monaco’s heartbeat, and Fred had let him fall. He turned to Silvia Hoffer, Ferrari’s press officer, who stood by the pit wall, her tablet buzzing with notifications. “What are they saying?” Fred Vasseur asked, his voice low, dreading the answer.

Silvia’s face was grim, her Italian accent clipped. “Sky Sports is live—replays, speculation. Autosport’s calling it ‘catastrophic.’ Canal+ wants a statement.” She hesitated, her eyes flickering to the monitors. “They’re saying… he might not make it.” The words were a blade, slicing through the garage’s fragile hope. Fred’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. “No statement,” he said, his voice steel. “Not until we know.” Silvia nodded, but her hands trembled as she typed a generic post for Ferrari’s social media: “Our thoughts are with Charles Leclerc and his family.” It was a shield, thin but necessary, against the media’s hunger.

The media frenzy was a beast, clawing at Ferrari’s silence. Reporters swarmed the paddock, their microphones thrusting like spears. Sky Sports’ David Croft, voice thick with emotion, narrated live: “Charles Leclerc, Monaco’s hero, airlifted after a horrific crash.” Ted Kravitz roamed the pit lane, his camera capturing the Ferrari garage’s closed shutters, his voice hushed: “No word from Ferrari, but the Tifosi are in mourning.” Autosport’s live blog updated furiously: “Leclerc’s condition unknown; career in jeopardy.” Italian outlets, Gazzetta dello Sport and Corriere dello Sport, ran headlines: “Tragedia a Monaco,” “Leclerc in Pericolo.” The frenzy was global—ESPN, BBC, Canal+—each outlet feeding a world desperate for news. Fred’s phone buzzed—Christian Horner, then Max Verstappen—but he ignored them, his focus on Charles.

Inside the garage, the team unraveled. Matteo, the telemetry engineer, replayed the data, his eyes bloodshot, searching for answers. “The car was perfect,” he muttered, his voice shaking. “Tires, ERS, aero—all green. It was Russell’s brakes, not us.” But the flatline mocked his words, Charles’s vitals a ghost on the screen. Iñaki paced, his hands raking through his hair, his strategies useless against this enemy. “The FIA’s asking for our data,” he said, glancing at Fred Vasseur. “They want to know why it escalated.”

“Let them ask,” Fred growled, his accent sharp. “We give nothing until Charles is safe.” His voice cracked on Charles’s name, a rare break in his stoic facade.

A mechanic, Elena, broke the silence, her voice trembling. “We should… do something. For Charles.” Her eyes were wet, her scarlet gloves clenched. The idea sparked—a banner, flowers, a message to the Leclercs. Luca, the young mechanic, nodded, his voice fierce. “For Charles, our champion,” he said, echoing the Tifosi’s devotion. Fred Vasseur approved, his throat tight. “Keep it quiet,” he said. “No cameras.” The team needed this, a way to fight the helplessness, to honor their prince.

The garage’s speakers crackled—FIA officials, confirming the race’s abandonment. “Monaco Grand Prix canceled,” the voice said, a rare concession to tragedy. Fred’s eyes stung, the decision a weight. Charles had been on pole, untouchable, the Tifosi’s dream within reach. Now, their dream was a hospital bed, a ventilator’s hum. The Tifosi’s wails grew louder, a chorus that seeped into the garage, mingling with the team’s grief. A banner appeared in the grandstands: “Forza Charles, Sempre,” its red letters a blood oath against the darkening sky.

Fred stepped to the pit wall, needing air, the garage’s walls closing in. The paddock was chaos—marshals clearing debris, medical teams retreating, reporters circling like vultures. He saw the Tifosi, their faces a mirror of his own—grief, fear, defiance. A group of fans knelt, candles flickering, their prayers a soft chant: “Charles, non lasciarci.” Fred’s chest ached, Jules Bianchi’s memory rising unbidden—his crash, his coma, his loss. Jules Bianchi had been Ferrari’s hope, Charles’s godfather, and Monaco had mourned him. Now, history threatened to repeat, and Fred couldn’t bear it.

Silvia approached, her tablet glowing with updates. “The media’s out of control,” she said, her voice low. “They’re asking about his condition, his career. Some are… saying he’s gone.” Fred’s eyes flashed, his voice a growl. “They know nothing. Tell them nothing.” But the frenzy was unstoppable—cameras panned to the wreckage, now cleared, leaving a scarred barrier. Sky Sports replayed the crash, David Croft’s voice breaking: “A dark day for Formula 1.” Gazzetta dello Sport posted a photo of Charles Leclerc’s pole lap, captioned: “Il Predestinato, tieni duro.” The Tifosi’s grief fueled it, their social media posts—#PrayForLeclerc, #ForzaCharles—trending worldwide, a digital vigil for their prince.

Fred returned to the garage, his eyes on the monitors, now dark, the telemetry’s flatline burned into his memory. The team gathered, their scarlet a united front, their silence a vow. Charles was their heart, and they’d fight for him, even as Monaco’s ghosts—Jules Bianchi, the circuit’s cruel history—whispered of loss. Fred’s phone buzzed again—Christian Horner, Max Verstappen, even Sebastian Vettel—but he didn’t answer. His focus was Charles Leclerc, their Predestinato, and the faint, flickering hope that he’d wake.

The Tifosi’s prayers rose, a tide of red against the dusk, and Ferrari’s garage held its breath, waiting for a miracle.

Chapter Text

The hospital room at Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace is a cocoon of sterile white, its silence broken only by the soft beep of monitors and the rhythmic hum of medical equipment. Pascale sits by her son’s bedside, her hands clasped tightly, a rosary threaded through her fingers. Her blond hair, streaked with silver, falls loosely over her shoulders, her face etched with exhaustion yet unyielding strength. Charles lies motionless, his face pale beneath the fluorescent lights, a tangle of tubes and wires snaking from his body. Weeks have passed since the Monaco Grand Prix crash, a lightning strike that tore through their lives on Lap 1 at Sainte Dévote. The ventilator, removed days ago, is a small victory, Charles’ chest rising and falling on its own, but his eyes remain closed, locked in a medically induced coma.

Lorenzo stands by the window, his silhouette sharp against Monaco’s glittering skyline. He’s taken on the family’s burden, his shoulders squared with responsibility. His phone buzzes—another reporter, another demand for updates—but he silences it, his jaw tight. The media frenzy that erupted after Charles’ crash has quieted, but the vultures linger, camped outside the hospital, their cameras glinting like predators’ eyes. Lorenzo handles Ferrari’s calls, his voice steady when he speaks to Fred Vasseur. At first, he called daily, relaying every shift in Charles’ condition—heart rate spikes, oxygen levels, surgical updates. After a week, with no major changes, he limited updates to significant moments, a boundary to shield his family’s grief.

Arthur slumps in a chair across the room, his restless energy dulled by weeks of waiting. His dark curls, so like Charles’, are mussed, his eyes red from sleepless nights. He clutches a Ferrari cap, Charles’ number 16 stitched in red, turning it over in his hands like a talisman. Arthur’s optimism, his belief that Charles would wake with a grin and a quip, has frayed, but he clings to it, whispering to himself, “He’s strong. He’ll make it.” The room smells of antiseptic and wilted flowers, bouquets from fans piling up in the corner, their cards scrawled with Forza Charles and Monaco ti ama. The Tifosi’s love is a weight, a reminder of Charles as Monaco’s prince, a title that feels like a curse now.

Pascale’s gaze never leaves Charles, her lips moving in silent prayer. She’d raised three boys alone after Hervé’s death, her resilience a steel core beneath her warmth. Charles, her middle son, had been her dreamer, his karting trophies lining their Monaco apartment, his Ferrari contract a family triumph. Now, he lies broken, his dreams shattered at Sainte Dévote, and Pascale fights the fear that she’ll lose another piece of her heart. Jules Bianchi’s shadow lingers—her godson, Charles’ mentor, taken by a 2014 crash. She pushes the memory away, her rosary beads clicking softly, a rhythm to anchor her hope.

Lorenzo glances at his watch—mid-June, nearly three weeks since the crash. The doctors, led by Dr. Claire Moreau, a neurosurgeon with a calm Monegasque accent, had warned of a long recovery. Charles’ injuries—spinal fractures requiring plates, a shattered femur, internal bleeding—required multiple surgeries, steel plates now holding his spine together. The coma, induced to reduce brain swelling, is a double-edged sword, protecting him but prolonging their agony. Claire’s latest update was cautious: “He’s stable. We’ll try weaning him off sedation soon.” Lorenzo clings to “stable,” but the word feels hollow when Charles’ green eyes remain shut.

Arthur shifts, his chair creaking. “He moved yesterday,” he says, voice low, as if afraid to jinx it. “His hand twitched. I saw it.” Pascale nods, her smile faint but encouraging. Lorenzo sighs, rubbing his temples. He’d seen no twitch, only Charles’ stillness, but he lets Arthur hold the hope, knowing it’s all they have. The room’s monitors beep steadily, Charles’ heart rate a fragile thread. Outside, Monaco hums—yachts in the harbor, tourists in the streets—but here, time is suspended, measured in breaths and beeps.

A soft groan breaks the silence. Pascale freezes, her rosary slipping. Charles’ eyelids flutter, a flicker of movement that sends Arthur bolting upright, the Ferrari cap tumbling to the floor. “Maman, he’s waking!” Arthur’s voice cracks, hope surging. Lorenzo spins from the window, his heart pounding. Charles’ fingers twitch, his brow furrowing, a faint grimace crossing his pale face. Pascale leans forward, her hand gripping his, her voice trembling: “Charles, mon chéri, can you hear me?”

Lorenzo’s hand shakes as he presses the call button, its buzz piercing the room. “He’s moving,” he says, voice tight, when a nurse bursts in. “Get Dr. Moreau.” The nurse, a young woman with kind eyes, checks the monitors, her movements swift. Charles groans again, his head shifting slightly, eyes still closed but fighting to open. Arthur hovers, his breath hitching, whispering, “Come on, Charles, you got this.”

Claire arrives, her white coat crisp, her face calm but alert. “Let’s give him space,” she says, her Monegasque accent soothing. She checks Charles’ vitals—heart rate elevated, oxygen steady—her gloved hands gentle as she lifts his eyelids, shining a penlight. Charles flinches, a low moan escaping, and Pascale’s tears spill, her hand tightening on his. “He’s responding,” Claire says, her voice steady. “The sedation’s wearing off. It’s a good sign, but he’ll be disoriented.”

Charles’ eyes crack open, green slivers clouded with confusion. His gaze darts, unfocused, landing on Pascale’s tear-streaked face. “Maman?” he croaks, voice hoarse from disuse, barely audible. Pascale sobs, pressing his hand to her cheek. “I’m here, Charles. We’re all here.” Arthur grins, tears streaming, gripping Charles’ other hand. “You scared us, idiot,” he chokes out, his relief raw. Lorenzo stands back, his composure cracking, a tear slipping down his cheek as he watches his brother return from the abyss.

The next hours blur, a flurry of medical checks and quiet relief. Claire adjusts Charles’ IV, monitoring his vitals as he drifts in and out of consciousness, his body fighting the fog of sedation. His left leg, encased in a brace, throbs faintly, the spinal plates a dull ache in his lower back. The room’s antiseptic scent clings to his senses, grounding him in a reality he doesn’t yet grasp. Pascale stays glued to his side, her strength a lifeline, her rosary now tucked in her pocket, its work done for now. Arthur chatters, filling the silence with stories of Monaco’s summer, his voice a tether to normalcy. Lorenzo steps into the hall, calling Fred Vasseur, his voice steady but thick: “He’s awake, Fred. He’s talking.”

Fred’s relief crackles through the phone, a rare break in his stoic demeanor. “Thank God. How is he?” Lorenzo hesitates, glancing at Charles’ frail form. “He’s… here. But it’s early.” Fred promises to keep Ferrari at bay, respecting Lorenzo’s request for privacy, but the weight of Il Predestinato lingers, a title that binds Charles to Maranello even in this sterile room. Lorenzo returns, his phone buzzing with ignored texts—reporters, friends, Max Verstappen—but he focuses on his family, their fragile reunion.

Charles’ lucidity grows over days, the haze lifting like Monaco’s morning fog. He speaks in whispers, his throat raw, asking for water, for Pascale, for clarity. The pain creeps in, a dull fire in his leg and back, sharper when he shifts. He notices the brace, the IV, the monitors, but avoids the questions burning in his chest. Arthur’s optimism buoys him, his brother’s grin a reminder of life beyond the hospital. Pascale’s touch, her hand stroking his hair, anchors him, her strength a shield against the fear he senses but can’t name. Lorenzo’s quiet presence, his steady gaze, speaks of duty, of a family holding together.

The media lingers outside, their presence a low hum. A Sky Sports van idles, reporters whispering about Charles’ condition, their cameras trained on the hospital’s entrance. #ForzaCharles still trends, the Tifosi’s digital vigil unbroken, but headlines shift: “Leclerc Awake, Future Uncertain,” Gazzetta dello Sport reports. Lorenzo fields Ferrari’s PR, Silvia Hoffer’s voice gentle but probing. “The Tifosi need hope,” she says. Lorenzo’s reply is firm: “They’ll wait.” He protects Charles, knowing the world’s pity would crush him.

By late June, Charles is stronger, sitting up with effort, his green eyes clearer but shadowed. The pain is constant, a dull throb in his back, sharper in his left leg, a reminder of the crash he can’t yet recall. Claire visits daily, her updates cautious: “Your vitals are improving, but recovery will be long.” Charles nods, his introspective nature surfacing, his silence a shield. He senses the unspoken, the way Pascale’s smile falters, Arthur’s chatter avoids racing, Lorenzo’s gaze holds weight. The Ferrari cap on the bedside table, its number 16 faded, mocks him, a relic of a life he fears is lost.

One morning, as sunlight spills through the window, Charles breaks the silence. “I need to know,” he says, his voice firm despite the tremor, his Monegasque accent soft but resolute. Pascale freezes, her hand on his. Arthur glances at Lorenzo, his optimism faltering. Lorenzo nods, his face tight, stepping to the door to summon Claire. The family gathers, a united front, their love a buffer against the truth they’ve dreaded sharing.

Claire arrives, her expression professional but empathetic, a chart in hand. “Charles,” she begins, her voice steady, “you’ve been through a severe trauma.” She details the crash’s toll—spinal fractures requiring plates, a shattered femur, internal injuries healed but scarring. His left leg will limp permanently, the nerves damaged, chronic pain a lifelong companion, worsening in cold or rain. Charles listens, his face pale, his hands gripping the sheets. The room’s antiseptic scent chokes him, the monitors’ beeps a cruel metronome.

“And racing?” he asks, his voice a whisper, eyes locked on Claire. Pascale’s breath hitches, her hand tightening. Arthur looks away, tears brimming. Lorenzo stands rigid, his duty a shield. Claire meets Charles’ gaze, her empathy raw. “I’m sorry, Charles,” she says. “The physical demands of Formula 1… your injuries make it impossible. You’ll walk, live, but racing is over.”

The words are a guillotine, severing Charles’ identity. Il Predestinato, Monaco’s prince, Ferrari’s hope—gone in seconds at Sainte Dévote. His mind flashes to Jules Bianchi, his godfather’s crash, Hervé Leclerc’s death, Anthoine Hubert’s loss, a trinity of loss that now claims his dreams. Tears spill, silent, his chest heaving. Pascale pulls him close, her sobs muffled, her strength cracking. “We’re here, mon chéri,” she whispers, her voice fierce. Arthur grips his hand, his own tears falling. “You’re still our champion,” he chokes out. Lorenzo steps forward, his hand on Charles’ shoulder, his silence a vow.

Charles stares at the Ferrari cap, its prancing horse a cruel reminder. The pain in his leg flares, a physical echo of his shattered dreams. He sees Monaco outside—yachts, glamour, the circuit’s ghosts—and feels alien, a prince dethroned. The Tifosi’s love, their Forza Charles Sempre banner, feels like pity, a weight he can’t bear. Ferrari looms, Fred’s loyalty a chain, the team’s dreams now ash. Charles’ introspective heart turns inward, grief swallowing hope.

Pascale wipes her tears, her resilience resurfacing. “You’re alive,” she says, her voice steady. “That’s enough for now.” She strokes his hair, her touch a lifeline. Arthur forces a grin, picking up the cap. “We’ll put this back on you soon,” he says, his optimism a flicker in the dark. Lorenzo meets Charles’ gaze, his eyes steady. “We’ll get through this,” he says, his voice low, a promise carved in duty.

The hospital room holds them, a fragile sanctuary. Outside, the media waits, the Tifosi pray, Monaco mourns. Charles closes his eyes, the pain in his body and soul a tide pulling him under. Jules Bianchi’s smile flashes, Hervé Leclerc’s pride, Anthoine Hubert’s laugh—a trinity of loss he now carries. The monitors beep, a reminder he’s alive, but the life he knew is gone. The Leclercs stand united, their love a shield, but Charles feels Ferrari’s dreams slipping away, a void where his purpose once stood.

The sun sets over Monaco, the casino’s Forza Charles Sempre banner glowing in the dusk. The family holds its breath, waiting for Charles to find his way back, their resolve a quiet echo: Forza Charles, sempre.

Chapter Text

Charles lies in the hospital bed. His body a fragile relic of the crash that splintered his spine and femur, extinguishing his dream of clinching the 2022 Formula 1 championship—a vision woven with Jules Bianchi’s mentorship, Hervé Leclerc’s quiet sacrifices, and his relentless duels with Max Verstappen. Lucid but frail, the reality that he’ll never race again carves a hollow in his chest, his green eyes dulled, stripped of Il Predestinato’s spark. I let it slip away, he thinks, guilt a relentless undertow. The title was ours. Pascale sits beside him, Lorenzo guards the hallway, Arthur slumps in a corner. The family anchors Charles, but he drifts, Monaco’s prince lost.

At night, when chronic pain denies him rest, Charles slips his phone from under his pillow, its faint glow a beacon in the ward’s sterile hush. His spine pulses with fire, his leg a dull throb, and as the hospital slumbers, he replays a Sky Sports clip of the crash, dissecting the moment his Ferrari faltered: green lights dimming, his throttle hesitating, Russell’s Mercedes plowing into Norris’s McLaren, Piastri’s car smashing his. If I’d taken another line, he thinks, heart hammering against his ribs. I’d have carried Ferrari to the title. Ferrari’s telemetry exonerated him—Russell’s brake failure—but Charles’ mind churns: I failed Jules, Papa, Max. Pascale’s words from the afternoon—“It was bad luck, Charles”—fade against the clip’s merciless cycle, Jules’ unfulfilled Ferrari dream a shadow over every frame.

Max Verstappen, sweat-soaked from the Canadian Grand Prix, lingers in the Montreal paddock, the roar of the crowd still echoing in his ears, when his phone vibrates. It’s Pascale Leclerc, her voice trembling through the line. “Max, it’s Charles,” she begins, and Max’s heart leaps, a surge of hope cutting through his fatigue. “He’s awake?” he asks, voice bright, already picturing Charles’ crooked grin. “How’s he doing? Is he talking? How’s his spirit?” Pascale’s pause is a knife, her French accent heavy with sorrow. “He’s awake, yes, but… he’ll never race again.” The words land like a blow, Max’s breath catching as emotions collide—relief that Charles lives, joy at his awakening, devastation for the career that defined him, guilt for standing on a podium while Charles lay broken. His fingers tighten around the phone, the paddock’s noise fading to a dull hum. I should’ve been there, he thinks, throat constricting. “Never?” he whispers, voice cracking. “His spine, his leg… the damage is too severe,” Pascale says, her voice wavering. “He’s not the same, Max. He’s… lost.” Max swallows hard, the memory of their duel—a wheel-to-wheel dance under Ferrari’s gaze—binding him to Charles. “I’m coming,” he says, resolute. He’s more than a rival.

Max’s first visit comes days later, the hospital air thick with antiseptic. Lorenzo steps in, “Max is here,” he says. Charles, propped against pillows, feels a flicker—Max, his championship shadow. He’s kind, but I let him down. “Alright,” he mumbles, voice scraped raw. Max enters, Max enters, casual clothes wrinkled from travel, blue eyes alight with a mix of relief and pain. “You scared the hell out of me,” he says, dragging a chair close, his Dutch accent warm but strained. “P1 in that title fight, then this? You’re built tougher than that track.” Charles’ chest constricts, Max’s warmth a reminder of his failure. He doesn’t know I lost it all. “You don’t have to do this,” he says. “Not out of guilt,” gaze drifting to the window, Monaco’s skyline a haze. Max leans forward, his hand hovering near the bedrail, hesitant. “It’s not guilt. It’s because I care.” And for a second, Charles lets himself believe it. But when Max adds, “I miss that fight—we were brilliant together,” something in him recoils. Charles shakes his head, voice tightening. “That version of me is gone, Max. I failed. Ferrari… everyone.” Pascale smooths the blanket over his chest, her silence a quiet plea he can’t yet hear.

Weeks later, after the British Grand Prix, Max returns. “Max again,” Lorenzo says with a sigh—by now, he’s grown used to Max’s presence, sometimes once a week, sometimes more. His voice carries a note of caution, but no longer surprise. Charles, fingers tracing the phone’s edge, the clip frozen at his steering input, nods. “Let him in,” he says, voice flat, pain pulsing in his leg. Max walks in without ceremony, his hair mussed, exhaustion clinging to him like humidity. He starts talking about the track—how Silverstone felt under his tires, the way his rear snapped mid-corner, a strange issue Red Bull couldn’t diagnose. Things he shouldn’t be telling Charles, things he used to say without thinking. He pauses, hands shoved in his pockets. “I just want to say,” Max admits after a moment. “I don’t care about the championship anymore. I just—” he falters, words catching. “I want you to come back. To anything. Just… not this.” Charles’ panic surges. His spine aches. His heart pounds. He thinks I’m still worth something, but I’m not. “Stop,” he says, voice cracking. Max leans closer, his hand resting lightly on Charles’ arm, a fleeting warmth. “You’re still here, Charles. That has to count for something.” But the words are too kind. Too cruel. And Max’s eyes—so full of belief—make it worse. Charles jerks away, his voice rising, trembling with anguish. “I failed, Max. I failed Ferrari, Jules, Papa.” Max doesn’t flinch. “It wasn’t your fault, Charles—” “Get out!” Charles yells, tears spilling, body shaking as he clutches the bedrail. “I’m not your hero! It’s my fault! I lost the title, Jules, Papa, you!” If I’d read the grid better, he thinks, the clip’s echo a roar in his skull. “Get out, Max! I don’t deserve this!” Pascale grips his hand, her fingers trembling, as nurses rush in. Max stumbles into the corridor, his face ashen, Charles’ cries searing into his heart like a brand.

Charles builds a wall around himself, shutting out the world. Pierre Gasly, his best friend, calls, his voice fractured with worry. “It wasn’t you, mate,” Pierre says, pleading. “You were out front, trading P1 with Max. It was bad luck.” Charles cuts the call, Pierre’s pain a distant sting he can’t face. In the quiet hours, his leg throbbing, he replays the clip, pausing at the moment his Ferrari dipped too low into Sainte Dévote. If I’d braked later. Carlos Sainz stands outside the hospital room, having come without expectation. He knows Charles won’t open the door. Still, he speaks, his voice steady through the wood. “You couldn’t have stopped it, Charles. You were leading. You did everything right.” Charles remains silent, eyes fixed on the wall, the door locked between them. Carlos’ words echo, bitter and hollow. Fred Vasseur’s voicemails—“You’re still our heart, Charles”—pile up, deleted unheard, Ferrari’s faith a weight he can’t bear. I betrayed them, he thinks, the Tifosi’s Tieni duro, Charles cards stacked unopened, their love a suffocating reminder of the prince he was. Pascale sets a bowl of broth on the bedside table, her hand lingering on his. “Try, Charles,” she murmurs, her eyes searching his. He stares at the wall, the clip’s shadow louder than her plea. I failed.

October 2022, the Leclerc family home in Monaco. Charles returns, too frail for his apartment, his frame gaunt, shadowed by muscle lost and nights without rest. His legs are marred with bruises from repeated falls, each one a punishment he refuses to prevent with the use of a cane. I deserve this, he tells himself, wincing as another crash to the hardwood drives pain through his side, purple blooming under pale skin. The living room—once alive with laughter and karting trophies—is hushed now, the curtains drawn halfway, dust settling over a faded prancing horse stitched into his discarded Ferrari cap.

Each day, Charles drifts to the same window and settles into the same chair. Sainte Dévote stares back at him, still and silent beneath the shifting Monaco sky. The debris is gone—swept away by crews, traffic resumed, barriers replaced—but in Charles’ eyes, the wreckage remains. His gaze doesn’t move. Neither does the tension in his back until it locks with pain. If the crash hadn’t happened, I could have carried Ferrari to glory, he thinks, sweat dampening his temples.
Pascale finds him like that often—rigid, trembling, eyes unblinking. Her voice is a trembling thread when she touches his arm. “You’re tearing yourself apart, Charles.” She guides him away, one careful step at a time. He does not resist. His voice is barely a whisper: “I failed, Maman.”
The toastie she brought earlier sits on the table, the cheese hardened at the edges, the bread gone stiff. He hasn’t touched it. He hasn’t touched anything.
Arthur tries to reach him, his voice soft with a memory. “Remember that karting race with Jules? You spun out but fought back to P2. He was so proud.” Charles’ eyes stay on Sainte Dévote, his voice hollow. “I lost everything this time, Arthur.” Arthur sets the Ferrari cap on the bedside table, his grin forced. “You’re still our champion, Charles. Max said so too, in the hospital.” Charles flinches, the memory of his scream—“Get out!”—a blade in his chest. Max doesn’t know I failed him. Lorenzo stands in the doorway, holding a tablet with Ferrari’s telemetry, wanting Charles to see the actual numbers, the hard facts. The data that cleared him—the brake failure, the timing, the lack of any room to react. “The data’s clear, Charles,” he says, his voice firm but pained. “Russell’s brakes failed, not you.” Charles shakes his head, fingers twitching toward the tablet’s glow. “I failed Ferrari, Jules, Papa, Max.” The family’s fear grows—Pascale’s prayers whispered in the dark, Arthur’s restless footsteps, Lorenzo’s clenched fists—their dreamer slipping away.

Max arrives one October day, a chocolate cake in hand, their shared birthday month a fragile thread—Max born September 30, 1997, Charles on October 16, 1997. He’d always thought of Charles as his equal, his counterweight on the grid. Sitting in the Leclercs’ living room, the cake on the coffee table in front of him, Max feels the loss settle deeper. Pascale returns alone, her eyes weary. “He won’t see you,” she says, her voice soft with sorrow. “But you’re welcome to stay. I’m cooking.” Max stays. He doesn’t say much, just nods when Pascale gestures to the dining table and tells him to sit. The kitchen fills with quiet, comforting sounds—vegetables hitting oil, the low hum of a simmering pot, Pascale humming an old tune under her breath. Max sits with his hands clasped between his knees, staring at the cake still resting on the counter, its bright icing a jarring contrast to the muted space. Pascale sets a plate in front of him. “Eat,” she says gently. “He won’t. At least someone should.” Max murmurs a quiet thank you. The food is simple—warm bread, roasted chicken, lentils and lemon—but it feels heavier than anything he’s eaten in weeks. Each bite anchors him, though he barely tastes it. “I used to make this before his karting finals,” Pascale says, sliding into the chair across from him. Her voice is steady, but her eyes shimmer. “He’d eat half and say he was too nervous. Then come back after the race and eat the rest cold.” Max smiles faintly, but the lump in his throat makes it hard to reply. They eat mostly in silence. When Max stands to leave, the plate half-finished, he hesitates by the hallway. He looks at the closed door to Charles’ room like it might open, like Charles might suddenly step out and say his name. But the house stays quiet. “Bonne nuit, Max,” Pascale says softly from the kitchen. He nods once, slipping on his jacket. “Thank you. For dinner.” “And for not giving up,” she says, not looking up. Max swallows, then leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

Chapter Text

The decision to retire crystallizes over weeks—not a single moment, but a slow surrender to an unyielding truth: Charles Leclerc’s body, broken beyond repair, can no longer carry Ferrari’s dream. The championship, Jules Bianchi’s legacy, Hervé Leclerc’s hopes, Max Verstappen’s rivalry—all are ashes now. Facing the paddock, the Tifosi’s cheers, the prancing horse, knowing he fell short, is unbearable. I can’t keep pretending, Charles thinks, the crash clip’s final frame a merciless verdict. One evening, he summons Lorenzo, his voice steady despite trembling hands. “I’m done racing,” he says, the words final, a release from the burden carried since Sainte Dévote. Lorenzo nods, jaw tight, and steps into the hall to call Fred Vasseur. “Charles is retiring,” he says, voice heavy. Fred’s silence mirrors shared grief, but Ferrari respects Charles’ choice—no posts, no videos, no public words from him. The team’s statement is stark: “Charles Leclerc retires from Formula 1.” At Charles’ insistence, Lorenzo ensures the Tifosi are informed clearly, sparing them false hope. Ferrari’s announcement, posted on X, is unflinching: “Charles Leclerc has retired from Formula 1 due to injuries sustained in the Monaco Grand Prix. We honor his legacy as Il Predestinato.” The message silences the Tifosi’s prayers; their Charles, non mollare banners give way to quiet tributes—candles at Maranello, flowers at Monaco’s barriers, a collective farewell to their prince.

At Yas Marina Circuit, the 2022 Formula 1 season ends with Max Verstappen’s championship crown. In an Abu Dhabi bar, Red Bull’s celebration roars—champagne sprays, music pulses, mechanics chant Max’s name. Max, nursing a drink in the corner, feels nothing. The cheers are distant, the confetti meaningless. He opens and closes his chat with Charles, words unsent, when a notification on X pops up. He means to swipe it away but clicks instead. The headline hits like a fist: Charles Leclerc retires from Formula 1. Max stares, breath caught, forgetting to blink. His stomach drops, pulse spiking. Pushing through the crowd, past congratulatory hands, he steps outside. The air is thick, hot, yet he feels cold.

He dials Charles. Voicemail. Again. Again. Silence deafens. He texts Lando: “Call Charles.” Lando replies, “Blocked, mate.” Pierre’s voice trembles: “He’s ghosted me, Max. I’ve called a dozen times.” Carlos, Daniel, George, Alex—everyone tries, everyone fails, hitting the same wall of silence. Max scrolls X, thumbs shaking. The Tifosi flood timelines with #GrazieCharles—photos from Monaco’s barriers, candles at Maranello, a video of young Charles karting, captioned Il nostro campione per sempre. The weight settles on Max’s chest. In his hotel, he sits on the bed’s edge, head in hands, the trophy an afterthought. His eyes burn, not just from fatigue. “He’s really gone,” he whispers to the empty room. The championship feels hollow.

A message from Arthur Leclerc pings: “Charles is not doing well.” Max’s chest tightens, confirming the abyss Charles has fallen into. What can I do? He won’t even talk, he thinks, pacing the balcony, Abu Dhabi’s skyline glittering coldly. Max knows one person who might break through: Sebastian Vettel, Charles’ mentor, a fatherly figure from Ferrari days. Max respects Seb—not just for four world championships or his Red Bull legacy, but for his empathy, his quiet strength. They’ve messaged after nearly every race, their bond deepening since Charles’ crash. Max dials, voice urgent. “Seb.” Sebastian answers, calm as ever. “Max.” “I need your help.” Seb softens. “I know. I just spoke with Pascale—barely a minute ago.” “You’ve been talking to her? How’s Charles? I can’t reach him. No one can.” Seb sighs. “I hoped he’d come around, but… he’s stuck, Max. Spiraling.” Max grips the phone. “Will he listen to you?” “I don’t know,” Seb admits. “He needs space—away from Monaco, away from what he’s lost.” Sensing resolve in Seb’s tone, Max exhales. “You have a plan.” Not a question. The next morning, Sebastian Vettel—less than 24 hours after his own Formula 1 retirement—flies to Monaco.

Sebastian arrives at the Leclerc home, the Mediterranean’s churn visible through windows. The air is heavy, the living room dim, dust on Charles’ Ferrari cap. Charles sits by the window, gaunt, eyes locked on Sainte Dévote, the turn that shattered his dream. His spine aches, leg throbs, limp a constant reminder of the crash. I failed them, he thinks, the crash clip a nightly torment. Pascale greets Sebastian, eyes weary but warm. “He’s barely living,” she murmurs. Lorenzo nods, duty etched in his posture. Arthur hovers, hope in his gaze. Sebastian sits across Charles, his greying stubble and calm eyes a contrast to Charles’ storm. “Charles,” he says, firm yet kind. “This can’t go on.” Charles’ fingers tighten on the windowsill, voice rasping. “There’s nothing left, Seb.” Sebastian leans forward. “You’re wrong. You’re still here. You have a choice.” Charles turns away, Sainte Dévote’s pull unyielding. Sebastian draws on his own scars—2020’s Ferrari struggles, unmet dreams. “I know what it’s like to feel you’ve let Ferrari down,” he says. “But you’re more than a driver, Charles. Jules saw it. Hervé saw it.” Charles flinches, hearing Jules’ voice—Drive with your heart. “I was supposed to win for them,” he says, voice cracking. “I crashed. My fault.” Sebastian shakes his head. “You fought until Sainte Dévote took you out. Jules would’ve been proud.” Tears well in Charles’ eyes. Would he? Sebastian stays, sharing stories of failure—lost titles, Ferrari’s chaos—blending empathy with resolve. “You can’t change what happened,” he says. “But you can change what will happen.” Charles’ gaze shifts, a flicker of the boy who karted with Jules. Sebastian offers his Thurgau cottage—a haven to heal, far from Monaco’s ghosts. “Come with me,” he says. “Start there.” Charles resists, but Seb’s faith stirs something. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbles. Pascale’s eyes glisten, Lorenzo nods, Arthur grins. “You’ve got this,” Arthur says. That night, Charles lies awake, pain flaring, but Seb’s words linger: You can still change what will happen. A memory of Hervé’s pride surfaces. Maybe I can try.

December 2022, Thurgau, Switzerland. Snow blankets the valley, coating pines and rooftops. Sebastian’s cottage nestles beneath the Alps, its roof sagging under snowfall. Beams creak with warmth, a fireplace crackling. Through frosted windows, a frozen lake glints under moonlight, wind whispering through birches. Charles arrives with the Leclercs’ blessing, his limp stark, cane in hand—a reluctant necessity. Accepting it was harder than surgery, cursed until a spinal flare forced surrender. “It’s not weakness,” Seb had said. “It’s strength to keep going.” The cold bites, but the air soothes, cleaner than Monaco’s salt-heavy breeze. Pascale adjusts his scarf. “You’re stronger than you know,” she says, hugging him. Lorenzo grips his shoulder, Arthur waves, their hope a quiet force.

Charles’ room overlooks the lake, moonlight skimming ice like silver paint. Far from Sainte Dévote, this place feels untouched by ruin. Hanna, Seb’s wife, welcomes him, her warmth easing the strangeness. Their children’s laughter fills the cottage—life where Charles forgot how to live. Sebastian guides gently. “No pressure. Just be here.” Charles begins physical therapy: neuromuscular re-education for his leg, hydrotherapy for joints, postural training for his spine. Pain radiates—sciatic nerve flaring, reconstructed knee swelling. The cane becomes a second limb. On cold days, he wakes stiff, breath shallow. I’m not that driver, he thinks, faltering in snow. Progress creeps: less pain, steadier gait. His therapist, Dr. Lukas Meier, says, “You may never be pain-free, but we can manage it.” Charles scoffs, but moves.

Emotionally, he teeters. Therapy with Dr. Anna Keller introduces EMDR for crash flashbacks. Journaling becomes ritual: Failed Ferrari. Failed Max. Can I be enough? The crash replays—screech, flip, silence. He resists, stares at the lake, recalls Jules’ laugh. Sebastian’s talks anchor him. Over coffee, Seb says, “You’re not that clip. You’re Charles, who raced with heart.” Charles’ voice cracks. “I don’t know who that is.” Seb’s gaze steadies. “You’ll find him.” Max texts, informed by Seb: “I’m still here, Charles. You made me better. Keep fighting.” Charles reads, chest tight, unready to reply but touched. He still believes.

Chapter Text

December 2022, Monaco. The winter chill seeps through Monaco’s streets, the circuit’s barriers dormant, the roar of Formula 1 silenced until spring. Max Verstappen, 25, champion of 2022, walks the familiar path to the Leclerc family home, his breath fogging in the dusk. The weight of his second title hollow since Charles Leclerc’s retirement shattered their rivalry. He’s out there, fighting, Max thinks, his phone silent in his pocket, no reply from Charles since he left for Switzerland with Sebastian Vettel. The city’s lights twinkle, but Max’s heart is anchored at the Leclercs’ door, where he’s become a regular, a surrogate son in Charles’ absence.

Pascale opens the door, her smile warm despite the weariness in her eyes. “Max,” she says, her French accent soft, pulling him into a hug. “Come, it’s cold.” The living room glows with lamplight, the air rich with the scent of roasted chicken and herbs—Pascale’s signature dish, the one Charles loved before karting finals. Lorenzo sets the table, his nod a quiet welcome. Arthur, sprawled on the couch, grins, tossing a Formula 2 cap aside. “Ready to school me again, champ?” he teases, referencing Max’s driving tips. Max forces a smile, his thoughts on Charles. Is he eating? Walking?

Dinner is a ritual, a tether to normalcy. Pascale serves, her hands steady, recounting a story of Charles stealing extra bread as a boy. Max chuckles, the warmth easing the ache in his chest. “He’d still do that,” he says, voice soft, earning a laugh from Lorenzo. Arthur leans in, eager. “So, turn 3 at Jeddah—how do you hit that apex without locking up?” Max sketches a line on a napkin, explaining weight transfer, brake balance, his expertise a gift to Arthur’s ambition. Charles would love this, he thinks, the absence a shadow. Pascale watches, her gaze grateful. “You’re good for us, Max,” she says later, clearing plates. Max shrugs, throat tight. I’m here for him.

After dinner, Max steps onto the balcony, the Mediterranean a dark expanse below. He pulls out his phone, typing a text to Charles: “Arthur’s getting faster. You’d be proud. Keep fighting, mate.” He hits send, knowing it’ll go unanswered, like the dozens before—messages of support, race updates, quiet pleas. Read them, Charles, he thinks, staring at the screen, the “delivered” status a cold comfort. His vigil is a one-way street, but he won’t stop.

January 2023. The F1 offseason drags, testing still weeks away. Max trains in Monaco, running the circuit’s empty streets, his breath syncing with memories of Charles’ Ferrari flashing past in 2022. We were neck-and-neck in Imola, he thinks, the ghost of their duel a pulse in his veins. At the Leclercs’, he’s a fixture, sharing coffee with Pascale, debating tire strategy with Lorenzo, coaching Arthur on simulator data. “You’re too aggressive in sector two,” Max tells Arthur, pointing at the screen. “Ease off, feel the grip.” Arthur nods, hungry to learn, his dark curls so like Charles’. He’s out there, getting stronger, Max tells himself, clinging to hope.

Sebastian’s updates are lifelines, sparse but vital. A call comes mid-January, Sebastian’s voice steady over the line. “He’s walking more, Max,” he says from Switzerland. “The cane’s helping, but the pain’s still there.” Max grips the phone, leaning against his apartment window, Monaco’s skyline glittering. “And… his head? Is he talking?” Sebastian sighs. “Some days are better. He’s journaling, starting therapy. It’s slow.” Max nods, unseen, relief mingling with longing. “Thanks, Seb. Keep him safe.” He’s fighting, Max thinks, but the silence from Charles stings.

Max sends another text: “Seb says you’re walking. Proud of you, mate. Monaco’s waiting.” No reply, but he pictures Charles reading it, maybe hesitating, maybe feeling something. He’s still in there.

Kelly Piquet notices his distraction, her gaze lingering as Max picks at his dinner in their Monaco apartment, the candle between them flickering with every breeze that seeps through the half-open balcony doors.

“You’re not here, Max,” she says at last, setting down her wine glass with a quiet clink. Her voice isn’t sharp, not really. Just tired. “You haven’t been, for a while.”

Max lifts his head slowly. He opens his mouth, but no words come.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she says. “Charles.”

The name lands between them like a dropped plate.

Max freezes. His fork stalls midway to his lips. His throat constricts.

“It’s not like that,” he murmurs, barely audible.

Kelly arches an eyebrow, but her tone softens. “Isn’t it?” she says again. “You light up when someone mentions him, even now. You talk about his crash more than your own wins. You text him every night like he’s your heartbeat, even when he never replies.”

Max doesn’t deny it. He can’t. The guilt creeps up from the base of his spine, cold and twisting. He looks away, his hands clenched under the table.

Kelly isn’t angry—there’s no fire in her voice, no cutting remark. Just quiet devastation.

“You love him,” she says, simply. “Not the way you loved me. Not even the way he might need. But you do.”

Max swallows hard. Her words settle in his chest like snowfall—gentle, but suffocating all the same.

He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t need to. Because in the quiet that follows, it comes to him—not like thunder, not like lightning, but like breath. Like gravity. Like truth.

He loves Charles.

Not the way he once admired him across a podium. Not the way he used to crave their on-track duels. This is something different. Something raw. He can’t even pinpoint when it started—only that it’s been there for a while now, curled inside him like a secret. A longing not just to see Charles heal, but to be part of that healing. To carry some of his pain. To witness his joy. To hear him laugh again and know he had something to do with it.

He thinks of the way Charles used to glance at him in interviews when the tension was high and one of them cracked a joke. How his laugh had warmth in it, not just air. He remembers a thousand unspoken things. A thousand ways Charles saw him, understood him, without trying to change him.

And Max never had to pretend with Charles. Not once.

“I love him,” Max whispers, his voice breaking. “I think I have for a long time.”

Kelly nods. Her eyes shimmer but don’t fall. She’s beautiful in the quiet—dignified, kind, letting him go even as her heart probably clenches.

“Then don’t keep pretending,” she says gently. “Let me go.”

There’s a silence as they both exhale. The plates on the table grow cold. Monaco glows behind the windows, indifferent.

The breakup isn’t a scene. There are no slammed doors, no raised voices. Just the slow unraveling of something that had already frayed. Kelly begins to pack that night, folding her clothes with calm finality. Max doesn’t offer to help. She doesn’t ask.

She stands in the doorway before she leaves, suitcase in hand, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I hope he sees what you’re offering,” she says. “Not many people would wait like this.”

Max nods, throat tight. He can’t speak.

She hugs him—brief, warm, the kind of hug that says you mattered. Then she steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind her with a soft click.

And just like that, it’s done.

Max stands there in the silence of the apartment, the walls suddenly cavernous, the air full of ghosts. He doesn’t move for a long time. Eventually, he sits at the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

He opens their message thread.

Types:

“I ended things with Kelly. I think… I know I love you. Come back when you’re ready.”

His finger hovers over the send button. He breathes in. Holds it. And then—

He hits save instead. Not yet.

But he knows it now. Every bone in his body knows it.

He loves Charles Leclerc.

February 2023. Max tests Red Bull’s RB19 in Bahrain, the car’s grip a thrill, but his mind drifts to Switzerland. Is Charles watching? He dines with the Leclercs weekly, their home a second refuge. Pascale’s lasagna warms the table, Lorenzo shares news of Ferrari’s upgrades, Arthur quizzes Max on Monaco’s turn 1. “Brake later, trust the downforce,” Max advises, sketching on a coaster. Charles taught me that, he thinks, the memory sharp. Pascale pats his hand. “He’ll come back, Max.” Her faith fuels his, but the unreplied texts pile up: “Bahrain’s hot, car’s fast. Thinking of you.”

Sebastian’s next update is cautious. “He’s journaling more,” he says. “Talks about Jules, Hervé. But he’s not ready to reply.” Max paces his apartment, the sea a restless mirror. “Is he… okay?” Sebastian pauses. “He’s trying, Max. That’s enough for now.” Max nods, heart heavy. Keep trying, Charles. He texts: “Seb says you’re writing. That’s strong, mate. I’m here.” The silence persists, but Max holds fast, his vigil a quiet vow.

March 2023. The F1 season begins, Max dominating in Bahrain, Saudi Arabia. Victories feel empty without Charles’ Ferrari in his mirrors. We were meant to fight, he thinks, spraying champagne, his smile forced. At the Leclercs’, he shares race stories, Arthur hanging on every word. “How’s the RB19’s aero?” Arthur asks, eyes bright. Max grins, explaining downforce tweaks, but his thoughts stray to Charles. Pascale serves coffee, her voice soft. “Arthur says you’re texting him.” Max nods, throat tight. “He’s not ready.” She squeezes his hand. “He will be.”

Kelly’s absence leaves space for clarity. Max trains harder, runs the Monaco circuit at dawn, Charles’ ghost in every corner. He’s getting stronger, he tells himself, fueled by Sebastian’s updates. A late-March call brings hope. “He’s walking with the cane more steadily,” Sebastian says. “Therapy’s helping, but he’ll never live without it. He’s learning to live with it.” Max’s heart lifts. “Tell him I’m proud.” Sebastian chuckles. “I will.” Max texts: “Seb says you’re mastering the cane. Badass, mate. Miss you.” No reply, but Max imagines Charles’ faint smile, a spark of Il Predestinato.

April 2023. Max expects Charles’ return to Monaco, his excitement building. He’s strong enough to live alone, Sebastian said in his last update. Max pictures Charles at the Leclercs’, sharing Pascale’s chicken, laughing with Arthur. He’s coming home. He texts: “Monaco’s ready for you, mate. Can’t wait.” The silence feels different, hopeful. But a call from Sebastian shifts everything. “He’s not coming to Monaco,” Sebastian says, voice gentle. “He’s moving to Milan, finishing his MSc at Politecnico di Milano. Started it part-time years ago.” Max’s heart sinks, disappointment a cold wave. Milan? Why not here? He stares at the sea from his balcony, the horizon blurring. I thought we’d…

He visits the Leclercs, Pascale’s lasagna a comfort. “He’s studying again,” she says, eyes proud but sad. “It’s good for him.” Lorenzo nods. “He needs this, Max.” Arthur adds, “He’ll visit, you know.” Max forces a smile, his chest tight. He’s moving on, without me. He texts: “Milan, huh? Proud of you, mate. Keep shining.” No reply, but Max’s vigil holds, a flame in the dark.

The Tifosi’s #GrazieCharles tributes fade, their candles at Maranello cold, flowers at Monaco wilted. Pierre, Carlos, Lando—blocked by Charles’ silence—ask Max for updates. “He’s in Milan,” Max says, voice flat, their concern mirroring his. He’s out there, living, he thinks, gripping his phone, the unreplied texts a chronicle of his wait. I’ll be here, Charles.

Chapter Text

He started the degree before the trophies. Before Monaco. Before the roar of engines turned him into a household name.

Mechanical Engineering, part-time, age eighteen—just in case. Hervé’s voice had rung steady in his ears back then: “Racing’s your heart, but knowledge is your shield.”

Back then, it had been Plan B. A quiet contingency. Now, it was the only path left.

After the crash, Charles clung to numbers like lifelines. Aerodynamic coefficients. Fluid dynamics. Composite material tolerances. Equations gave him something racing never could—control. There were no crashes in thermodynamics. No chaos in CFD simulations. Only logic. Only rules that held.

He took comfort in the absolutes. In a world he could predict, shape, command.

The doctors in Monaco had warned him this could happen. That the plates in his leg and spine were strong, but not perfect. That failure was possible. Likely, even, depending on how much he pushed. Charles hadn’t asked if—only when.

When arrived in May.

A low, steady pain that bloomed into something sharp. Swelling. A limp he couldn’t hide. X-rays confirmed it: one of the tibial plates had begun to shift. Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. But enough. Expected. And still—it felt like betrayal.

The surgery was booked for early June, just days after he defended his thesis and graduated first in his class at Politecnico di Milano. He didn’t tell anyone the full story. Not about the pain. Not about the failure. Certainly not about the surgery. Not even his family.

Pascale had wanted to come to the ceremony. So had Arthur and Lorenzo. Charles made up a lie about limited seating. COVID precautions. Strict university protocols. Things people no longer questioned.

Instead, he received his degree in the admin office on a quiet Thursday morning. No cap. No applause. Just a woman in glasses behind a plexiglass screen handing him a diploma folder with a polite “congratulations.” He nodded, thanked her, and stepped back into the sunlit corridor, alone.

Later that evening, Pascale called him, eyes wet with pride over FaceTime.

“Tu me rends si fière,” she whispered. You make me so proud.

Charles swallowed the lump in his throat and smiled until the call ended.

Arthur and Lorenzo sent him a bottle of wine with a note tucked into the ribbon.

Smartest Leclerc now.

He laughed. Genuinely. For the first time in weeks.

The next morning, he checked into the private clinic under a pseudonym. No press. No family. No distractions. He let the anaesthesia take him under without resistance. When he woke, groggy and aching, the surgeon said it had gone well.

“You’re lucky,” they added. “No infection. Clean correction. But Charles… you have to slow down.”

He nodded, but he didn’t agree.

His physiatrist in Milan—stern but kind—adjusted his rehab plan. Less weight-bearing. More controlled resistance. More therapy. He kept the cane close this time. At first out of necessity. Then out of practicality. Then… something else.

Eventually, he stopped pretending he might stop needing it.

There was a moment, one evening, late summer, standing by the mirror in his Milan flat—shirt half-buttoned, tie loose around his neck. He studied his reflection and realized: the cane wasn’t going anywhere. The doctors had confirmed as much. The fusion in his lower spine was stable, but the scar tissue and nerve routing meant stress would always find its way down to his knee. Some days would be fine. Others would not.

The pain might dull. But it would never leave.

So he accepted it.

He’d always loved fashion anyway. Loved lines, silhouette, aesthetic balance. So he made the cane part of him. Not a burden. Not a mark of failure—but a choice.

He began collecting them.

One matte black, carbon fiber, razor-slick and modern. One polished cherrywood, classic and elegant with a brass cap that reminded him of his grandfather. One collapsible, foldable into his satchel, because practicality still mattered. One deep navy with a grip he wrapped in custom Scuderia-red leather, though he didn’t let himself think about what that meant. One that glowed in the dark—because why not? It made him laugh the first time he saw it online.

He wore them like watches. Like ties. Like armor.

Lorenzo teased him.

“You’ve got one for every outfit now, don’t you?”

Charles just smirked. “At least I’ll limp in style.”

By the time he moved to London that autumn, the cane was no longer a compromise. It was a part of him—like his scars. Like the strength in his voice when he said no. Like the hollow he no longer tried to fill with speed.

Strangers still stared sometimes. Especially when they saw his face and recognized who he used to be. But the longer he walked through the world with his chin lifted and his pace deliberate, the less it mattered.

The cane didn’t make him weak.

It made him seen.

It made him real.

He resumed Zoom sessions with Dr. Anna Keller twice weekly. She didn’t press him to reconnect with anyone on the grid. She seemed to know instinctively that the wounds there were still raw.

“You don’t have to run before you walk,” she said once, during a session where Charles hadn’t said much at all.

“I’m not running,” he replied. “I’m surviving.”

The distinction felt important.

He didn’t speak to Pierre. Didn’t open Max’s messages. Not yet.

But Max never stopped sending them.

They came like rain—steady, unrelenting. Sometimes after races. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Max never asked why Charles didn’t reply. He just kept writing: paddock updates, offhand comments about the weather in Singapore or Spa, the occasional photo.

Charles never opened the thread—but he still saw the previews. Lock screen glimpses. Notification fragments.

That’s how he found out Max had broken up with Kelly.

A blurred photo of an empty Monaco apartment and a single caption, visible in the banner above his home screen:

Quiet, finally.

There were voice notes too. Charles didn’t play them. Couldn’t. But he read the transcript previews—half-cut sentences like:

You would’ve loved the…

Felt weird without you at…

Don’t know why I’m telling you this but…

He never responded. But he didn’t delete anything either.

He let them pile up.

Dozens. Then hundreds.

Unread. Unanswered. Unforgotten.

Only one person F1 related reached out in a way Charles could tolerate.

Sebastian.

He didn’t text often. He didn’t push. Sometimes it was a recipe. Sometimes a photo of his kids building something crooked and glorious out of scrap wood.

Once, he sent a hand-written letter—scanned and emailed.

“It’s okay to start again slowly. You don’t have to become someone new to be someone whole.”

Another time, just a single line:

“You’re still you. The best of you. That part doesn’t break.”

Charles never replied. But he reread them when the pain flared up. Especially the one about breaking.

Imperial College was rigorous and cold in the way Charles liked. It asked everything of him. And he gave it, piece by piece.

Lectures. Labs. Simulations. Assignments on vibration modes and pressure wave collapses. Long nights with an ache in his spine and black ink bleeding through pages. He liked jet propulsion most. The sheer force of it. Thrust and drag, lift and control—everything he no longer had in his own life.

And somewhere along the way, the question changed.

At first, he had returned to education to survive. To shield himself from a world that no longer made space for him in the cockpit. And continued to Masters degree without a break to keep himself grounded. But as the months wore on—as equations turned into possibilities and thesis drafts grew into design frameworks—he started to wonder:

What if I can still help them win?

What if he couldn’t be the one behind the wheel anymore—but he could be the one making the car faster, safer, smarter? He had lived it. Breathed it. Felt every slip of grip in his bones. He knew what speed demanded. And now, he was learning how to translate that knowing into something others could use. To turn pain into precision. Instinct into innovation.

By spring 2024, his thesis had a title.

Strategic Fluidity and Aerodynamic Legacy: Ferrari’s Championship Trajectories in the Hybrid Era.

It wasn’t just academic. It was personal. A love letter. A diagnosis. A blueprint.

His name appeared below the title in small, black print. But in every margin note, in every chart, in every equation that bled red into white, it said something louder:

I remember everything. And I’m not done yet.

He moved into a narrow flat near Hyde Park, two floors above a café that smelled like burnt toast and lemon. He took the stairs every day, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. He began keeping a strict routine. Wake. Stretch. Study. Class. Lab. Physical therapy. Piano. Sleep.

He played every night now. Sometimes the classical pieces, sometimes compositions of his own—haunting and unresolved, scattered with accidentals and pauses that felt like memory. He sent one recording to Lorenzo. Another to Pascale. Neither asked where the songs came from.

In the summer 2024, Charles earned a commendation from the department for a group project designing a sustainable propulsion system for satellite re-entry. He accepted it quietly, head down, grateful. His name was printed on a plaque he never looked at again.

During Autumn break, he stayed in London. Wrote code for a research assistantship. Studied atmospheric data. Refined his thesis. Buried himself in numbers, and in them, found peace.

When his classmates talked about the world, Charles stayed quiet. They talked about the economy. He talked about air density. They talked about Red Bull and how “people got bored” of Formula 1. He nodded. He didn’t tell them that he used to be the one worth watching.

But he heard it all. The back-to-back championships. The dominance. The lead in 2024.

He saw the headlines when he checked the weather.

Verstappen unstoppable.

Red Bull rule unchallenged.

Max, still king.

Max’s name felt like a bruise under his ribs. Something that never healed properly. But never once did he mute the notifications. Never once did he block the number.

Because Max hadn’t left.

He just… waited.

By the end of 2024, Charles had passed every module with high marks. His thesis was half complete. He could recite six lines of code for control gain tuning in his sleep. He was exhausted—but stable.

He didn’t go anywhere that year, not even home—until Christmas.

Just a short trip, he told himself. Just a break.

He landed in Patagonia in mid-December, chasing silence again. But this time it was different—he was stronger. More stable. The cane stayed in his backpack most days. He hiked shorter trails. He took more photos. Smiled at strangers. Played piano in hostel lounges. Woke up without nightmares.

He didn’t think about Ferrari. Or Monaco. Or Max.

Not until Christmas Eve.

He ducked into a warm bar with fogged windows and strings of mismatched fairy lights. He ordered wine. Let the music wash over him. The air smelled like pine and tobacco. There were five other people inside, laughing softly in Spanish.

Then he looked up.

A television in the corner—muted, its colors slightly washed from the sun—was replaying the 2024 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.

He didn’t mean to watch. He meant to look away. Just background noise, something distant.

But his eyes stayed.

Max was on the screen. The Red Bull. The number 1.

The final lap flickered—Max carving through the corners like poetry, every input perfect, every line clean. The car moved with conviction. Confidence. Grace.

Then the feed cut to the podium.

Max stood in the center, champagne clinging to his suit, head tilted back.

His eyes were closed.

And then—Charles’s phone buzzed.

He didn’t need to check it to know.

Pascale.

Will you be home for Christmas?

The screen.

The message.

The weight of two years.

Something inside him snapped.

Not gradually. Not in pieces. All at once.

His breath hitched. His throat locked. A tremor bloomed beneath his sternum and spread until his hand around the wineglass shook.

He felt the radio crackle. The snap of carbon. The weightless twist. The moment the world went silent.

But this wasn’t about the crash. Not anymore.

It was about everything after.

He thought of Max.

Of all the messages, unread but not deleted. The voice notes he never played. The photo from Monaco. The words Max never stopped sending.

He thought of Sebastian. Of the emails. The letters. The gentle, open-ended nudges that never came with expectations.

He thought of everyone else on the grid. Drivers who had reached out once. Twice. Then stopped. Drivers he couldn’t bring himself to face. Drivers who tried.

He thought of Pierre. Of Alex. Of Lando. Of people who once stood beside him on podiums and laughed under champagne spray.

He thought of his family.

Of Lorenzo, who called every few weeks just to ask about nothing.

Of Arthur, who sent memes and guitar covers and “no pressure, just miss you” texts.

Of Pascale, who never stopped asking if he was eating. Sleeping. Coming home.

They all reached for him.

And he barely replied.

He closed his eyes. His jaw clenched. His grip around the glass turned white-knuckled.

It wasn’t just the silence. It was how carefully he’d maintained it. How he’d let people think he was healing, studying, rebuilding—when really, he’d just gone quiet.

Max on the screen. Pascale in his hand.

And his own reflection, caught dimly in the glass behind the bar.

He didn’t look like the man he used to be. He didn’t look like someone who belonged anywhere near a racetrack.

And still—

He thought of the last time Max had looked at him. Not as a rival. Not even as a memory. But like Charles was still his future.

He thought of the cane propped beside his seat. Glow-in-the-dark. Practical. Absurd. His.

He had spent so long trying to survive, trying to keep the world at a distance.

But in this moment—this quiet, flickering, accidental moment—it all surged back in.

Longing. Guilt. Grief. Love.

He didn’t want silence anymore.

He didn’t want to be untouched.

He didn’t want to be alone.

For the first time in years, Charles wanted to go home.

Chapter Text

Max won the 2023 World Championship in Suzuka—his third consecutive title.

He stood on the podium as gold confetti drifted through the autumn air like tired snowflakes. Champagne clung to his gloves. The anthem roared, pressing against his skull.

When a journalist asked if this one felt more special, Max didn’t flinch.

“I wish Charles was still racing,” he said. “I think about him every time I cross the line.”

The silence that followed was sharp and clean. Like the inside of a wound.

The 2024 season passed in fragments.

Max didn’t dominate—not like the year before. The car was still strong, but fallible. McLaren surged. Ferrari surprised. Strategy errors crept in. Every weekend felt earned, not inevitable.

But Max fought. And he won.

Nine races. Enough to secure his fourth straight World Championship.

The grid called it resilience.

The press called it grit.

The fans whispered the era was ending. Maybe they were right.

But Max didn’t care.

He wasn’t racing for legacy anymore.

He raced like Charles was still out there—just behind him. Just ahead. Just... missing.

By 2025, Red Bull had started to fracture.

GP was gone—stepped into a quieter role, closer to home. Christian Horner was spread too thin, his focus splintered. The garage felt colder now—less certain. The harmony that once electrified the team had quietly unraveled.

The cracks showed early.

Bahrain: Brake issues, poor balance, a botched stop. P6. The RB21 overheated and wore through tires fast.

China: Front-to-rear instability. Max called it “the fourth-fastest car.” Only the hard compounds offered any grip.

Suzuka: A win—but deceptive. Cooler temps flattered the setup. Beneath it, the car was fragile.

The results looked decent on paper. But Max could feel it. The car didn’t trust him the way it used to. The team hesitated where it once anticipated. Every conversation with his new engineer, Theodore, felt like trying to speak through fog.

The only thing steady was something—someone—off-track.

Ever since Charles had left Sebastian’s place in Switzerland, he’d gone quiet. No contact with the grid. Minimal contact with Seb. Even his family only heard from him in scattered, abbreviated check-ins. He hadn’t wanted anyone at his bachelor’s graduation. Just texted a photo of his diploma into the family group chat—no cap, no ceremony, no fanfare. Just proof.

But something had shifted this year.

According to Pascale, Charles had started texting again. Calling, sometimes. He’d even shown up in Monaco, on spring mornings when the market smelled like rosemary and salt air, and the city moved a little slower.

But somehow, the visits always landed on race weekends.

And Max always missed him.

Arthur had mentioned Charles would be home for Easter.

Max had smiled when he heard it—hope blooming before he could stop it. Then he checked the calendar.

Saudi Arabia.

Race week.

He’d be gone.

Racing. Alone.

If he couldn’t see Charles in person, Max settled for the next best thing.

A visit to the Leclercs’ house. A haircut from Pascale.

Something steady. Something kind. Something that didn’t shift under pressure the way everything else in the Red Bull garage did lately.

The Leclercs’ home smelled just as he remembered—lavender, citrus, and that quiet, lived-in warmth that clung to the walls like memory. It wrapped around him the moment he stepped through the door.

Pascale greeted him with la bise—two light kisses on the cheeks, just like always. “You look well,” she said, her voice gentle and a little knowing.

Max smiled, small and tired. “Do I?”

“Sit,” she said, already turning toward the kitchen drawer.

He lowered himself into the familiar chair—worn at the arms, faintly tilted to one side—the chair designated for family haircuts. Pascale busied herself behind him, pulling open drawers, laying out her tools with practiced ease.

“So,” Max said, trying to sound casual, “is Charles staying long for Easter?”

Pascale didn’t pause. Just combed gently through his hair, like she hadn’t noticed the tremor under the question.

“He’ll be here on the 17th,” she said. “Staying through Easter Monday.”

Max exhaled through his nose. “Perfect timing,” he murmured.

Charles had done it again—arrived just after Max left. Like clockwork. Like fate was teasing them with near-misses.

“What are we doing today?” Pascale asked, draping the cape around his shoulders with a soft flick.

“Short on the sides,” he said. “Leave the top.”

She hummed, her fingers working gently through his curls. “He always liked it long.”

The scissors clicked. Clean. Familiar. Comforting.

“You know,” she said, snipping near his temple, “he never let anyone else cut his hair. Even when he was flying between three countries in five days. He always made time to come back to me.”

“Control freak,” Max murmured, almost fondly.

She smiled. “Maybe. Or maybe it was the only place he ever felt safe.”

She moved around him, her presence steady and sure. In the mirror, their eyes met.

Max looked away first.

“You love him,” she said, voice quiet but clear.

The words landed like glass breaking.

Max froze.

“I—” He swallowed. His voice cracked at the edges. “I didn’t mean to. I’d never… I wouldn’t push him. He doesn’t have to know. I swear I’d never—”

His hands clenched under the cape, fingers curled tight into fists.

“I’d never be a problem for him,” he whispered.

Pascale paused her cutting, then reached out to place a hand on his shoulder—firm, warm, grounding.

“Max,” she said gently, “you don’t have to apologize.”

Pascale resumed combing, slower now, gentler. The scissors hung unused in her hand.

“I’ve seen a lot of boys sit in this chair,” she said softly, “but you’re the only one who comes in looking like he’s lost something he still hopes to find.”

Max didn’t answer. His throat felt too tight.

Pascale continued, “I knew you were special to him. Even before the crash. He never said anything—Charles never does—but I’ve been his mother long enough to recognize what he doesn’t say.”

She brushed the loose hair from Max’s neck and circled back in front of him, setting the scissors down with a soft click.

“But I also know my son. He’s slow with the heart. Careful. He notices everything on track, every gust of wind, every half-second gap. But when it comes to love?” Her expression turned wistful. “He never sees it until it’s already there. And even if he does… he’s afraid of what it might take from him.”

Max blinked, hard. “He never—he never gave me a reason to think he—”

“I know,” she interrupted gently. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

He looked down at his hands. “I stayed anyway. After the crash. I kept sending messages. Every race. I didn’t expect an answer, I just… I didn’t want him to disappear.”

“You didn’t let him,” she said. “That matters more than you know.”

She tilted his chin so he would look at her. Her eyes, green like Charles’s, though warmer, older, held no judgment. Just a calm sort of understanding.

“I don’t know what his future holds,” Pascale said. “I don’t think he does either. He’s still healing, in his body and in his soul. But Max—” she softened her voice, “—after everything Charles has survived, all I want for him is a life that’s peaceful. Safe. Full of someone who sees him, truly sees him, and never looks away.”

Max swallowed, hard. His chest ached—that slow, compressed ache that came when hope pressed too close to fear.

“I don’t need him to feel the same,” he said, eyes closing. A tear slipped down his cheek. He hadn’t even felt it leave.

“Not now. Maybe not ever. I just want to be around… if he ever lets me.”

Pascale didn’t respond right away. She stepped away instead, quiet as breath, giving him space. Max wiped his face with the back of his wrist, embarrassed by the way his voice cracked open when he said, “I’m sorry.”

She paused in the doorway. “For what?”

“For… loving him like this.”

There was a rustle from the hallway, the soft sound of her returning with a towel, or maybe just silence.

“You don’t have to apologize for love,” she called back, voice steady and warm. “Especially not here.”

And somehow, that—more than anything—made Max want to cry again.

When she returned, her hands were empty, but there was something determined in her step. She crossed the room and opened a wooden cabinet tucked behind a stack of old albums and a vase of fading peonies.

She took out a bundle wrapped in dark red silk.

Max sat forward, breath hitching.

“I’ve been keeping this,” Pascale said, “because I didn’t know what else to do with it. But maybe… maybe it was waiting for you.”

She unfolded the cloth with slow, reverent hands.

The helmet inside gleamed beneath the overhead light, battered but unmistakably his—Charles’s 2022 Monaco Grand Prix helmet. Red and white, the Monegasque crest dulled by scrapes. The visor scratched. A fracture spidered along the rear panel, delicate but deep. The side bore a long hairline crack where the carbon had split under the crash.

Max stared at it like it had punched the air from his lungs.

“It’s cracked,” he whispered.

“He asked me to throw it away.”

Max looked up, eyes wide, raw. “Why didn’t you?”

Her fingers brushed over the helmet’s curve, lingering just above the break.

“Because I couldn’t,” she said. “Because some things deserve to be held. Even when they’re broken.”

Max reached out, his hands trembling.

He touched it with a reverence normally reserved for relics. His fingers brushed the faded shell, lingering over the gouges, the gashes. The splintered edge just under the visor looked like it had been sliced by a god.

He sank to his knees on the floor, helmet cradled in his hands and pressed his forehead to the helmet, as if some trace of Charles might still live in the shape of it. His tears fell without resistance.

“I wasn’t ready to lose him,” he said, voice thick, wrecked.

“You didn’t,” Pascale murmured, kneeling beside him. “He’s still here. Just finding his way back.”

That night, Monaco shimmered beneath Max’s apartment window—streetlights threading gold through the curves of La Condamine, the harbor stretched out like a mirror of stars.

Inside, everything was still.

The helmet sat on the table by the glass, its battered shell catching slivers of city light. Max hadn’t turned on the lamps. The only glow came from the streets below—and the soft, pale screen of his phone, resting against his knee.

Charles’s voice drifted through his earbuds. An old interview. Familiar. Distant. A ghost pressed into soundwaves.

“I don’t believe in fate,” Charles had said once, laughing. “But if I did… it would be red.”

Max swallowed the knot in his throat.

He opened the chat again.

I miss the debriefs. I miss your sarcasm. I miss racing you. I miss watching you race.

Too much.

He deleted it. Rewrote it slower.

You were always poetry in motion. Even now, I see you in every corner.

No reply came. He never expected one.

But tonight, the silence didn’t feel so hollow.

Somewhere out there, Charles was breathing. Living. Piecing himself back together, in his own time. His own way.

And Max—he would wait.

He didn’t believe in fate.

But if he did?

It would be wearing red.

Chapter Text

He’d started coming home after Pascale’s message before Christmas.

Short visits. Always on race weekends. Because it was the safest time to be in Monaco. Everyone else was gone. Gone to Sakhir, to Australia, to China, to Japan. Gone from the streets, the cafés, the familiar corners. It eliminated the slightest possibility of running into another driver by accident. Not Max. Not Lando. Not even Pierre. Especially not Pierre.

When Pascale asked him to stay longer, he always had a reason—exam prep, physio appointments, simulations to run. Pascale never questioned it. Not out loud. She just pressed containers of leftovers into his hands. Her smile gentle but knowing.

But this time, he stayed.

For Easter, Pascale didn’t insist—she simply asked, with that maternal softness that left no room for refusal.

“Just stay through Tuesday, chéri. I’ll make lamb. Arthur says he’ll cook too. The garden’s starting to bloom. It would mean a lot.”

So he did.

The train rolled into Monaco just after noon, the coastline glittering past like a film Charles had watched too many times. Familiar. Distant. Still too bright.

He stepped off with a canvas duffle slung over one shoulder and a box of Easter chocolates in the other. The taxi smelled like warm leather and pine cleaner. The driver didn’t ask where he’d been.

Pascale answered the door when he knocked, and let him in like he was just returning from the supermarket down the street.

“Salut, maman,” Charles said softly, then leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks.

She smelled like thyme and dish soap, and something warmer underneath—something steady. Home.

The hallway smelled the same too—lemon polish, clean tile, a faint trace of lavender from the laundry. Arthur’s jacket was slung over the banister. The mail sat in a neat stack on the console table. A framed photo of the three boys in karting gear leaned slightly to one side, like always.

Charles slipped off his shoes and set the box of chocolates on the entryway table. His cane clicked softly against the tile as he moved through the familiar hush of home.

Pascale led him into the kitchen without saying anything more—and somehow, that meant everything.

“Arthur’s at the market,” she said, moving to the stove. “He promised to get the good wine this time. Not the cheap bottle with the screw cap.”

Charles gave a quiet laugh and set the chocolates down on the counter. “He’s growing up.”

“Don’t say that too loudly,” she replied, smiling as she stirred something in a cast iron pot. “He might panic and leave the country.”

He leaned against the counter, weight mostly on his good leg, watching her. She moved through the kitchen with ease—measured, focused, like she hadn’t missed a beat.

She handed him a glass of cold citronade, kissed his cheek in one smooth motion, and turned back to the stove without another word.

No questions. No tears. Just the rhythm of home.

He drank slowly. The citrus stung just enough to make him feel present.

“I put fresh sheets on your bed,” she said over her shoulder. “The blue ones with the stars. I know they were always your favorite.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared down into the glass. “Thanks.”

“You can rest for a bit if you want,” she offered. “We’ll eat around five.”

“I’ll unpack first.”

She paused—brief, almost imperceptible—then nodded. “Good.”

By the time they sat down to dinner, the sun had dipped behind the hills, casting the kitchen in a soft, coral haze. The table was modest but beautiful: roasted lamb, glazed carrots, a dish of ratatouille glistening under olive oil, a loaf of fougasse still warm from the oven. A bottle of red breathed beside Pascale’s elbow—real cork, not screw cap. Arthur had delivered.

Charles sat where he always used to, the cushion already tied to his chair.

They ate slowly. Arthur complaining about how long the checkout line had been, Lorenzo correcting his grammar mid-sentence, and Charles—quiet but listening—nodding in time with their rhythm. Let the warmth creep in around the edges.

It felt… strange. Not in a bad way. Just different. Familiar, but rearranged. Like the same song played in a lower key.

Halfway through the meal, Arthur reached for another slice of bread and said casually, “Oscar sent me a reel the other day. Some edit of you from Brazil. Full rain race. Soundtrack was awful.”

Charles looked up. “You still talk to him?”

Arthur shrugged. “Yeah. Here and there. Sends me clips. Memes. Once asked if you still like Nutella.”

Charles gave a small, crooked smile. “He never even liked Nutella.”

“Exactly,” Arthur said, grinning.

“They all check in.” Pascale leaned back in her chair. She said it simply, like a fact. Not heavy. Not charged. Just placed on the table between the roast potatoes and the salad.

“Lando. Lewis. Even Esteban wrote a letter last month. Said he didn’t want to intrude, but he wanted you to know he’s still cheering for you.”

Charles lowered his fork. “You didn’t tell me.”

“You weren’t ready to hear it,” Pascale replied. “I kept them. They’re in the drawer with the passports.”

Lorenzo looked up from his plate.

“And Max...”

Charles didn’t flinch this time.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know about Max.”

He hadn’t—not really—until a few weeks ago.

It had come out in a phone call with Arthur. Charles had been walking along the South Bank, wind biting through his coat, phone pressed to his ear as Arthur rambled about GT World Challenge Europe Endurance Cup he’d be racing in and about life in Monaco.

And then—half teasing, half resigned—Arthur had said:

“You’re out there being brilliant in London, and Max is here—loyal and tragic—helping Mum do the dishes and talk about the weather like he’s your long-forgotten wife.”

Charles had gone still.

Arthur hadn’t noticed. Just kept talking.

“Honestly, sometimes I think he’s in love with you.”

Charles had laughed it off. Said, “Don’t be ridiculous.” Said, “There’s no way.”

But something in him had shifted.

He’d always known Max was trying to get in touch—that he sent messages. Dozens. Then hundreds. Then thousands. Some messages were three words. Others, paragraphs.

Charles had never opened them.

He told himself it was easier that way. Cleaner. That nothing Max said could change anything. That whatever Max felt was grief, or guilt, or nostalgia—nothing real. Nothing lasting.

But this—this was different.

He hadn’t known Max had been there. At the house. In the kitchen.

Arthur had said it like a joke, like a sigh. But Charles hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “I didn’t expect them to wait.”

“They’re not waiting,” she said. “They’re remembering.”

He looked down at his plate. “I wouldn’t know what to say to them now.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replied. “But it’s good to know you’re not forgotten.”

A long silence passed, filled only by the scrape of cutlery and the low hum of the oven cooling behind them.

Then, gently, Pascale added, “Pierre called too.”

Charles didn’t look up.

“He asked if we’d heard from you. I think Sebastian told him something—about London, maybe. He sounded angry.”

She paused. “Hurt, more than anything.”

Charles’s breath caught on something he hadn’t named in years. Guilt, maybe. Memory. The ache of old loyalty.

“He was your best friend, chéri.”

A beat.

“He still is.”

Charles closed his eyes. “I tried,” he said quietly. “Saw his name on my phone. Couldn’t open it.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to be who I was when he last saw me.”

Pascale’s gaze didn’t waver. “He wasn’t calling that person. He was calling you.”

Charles hesitated, voice tight. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to know,” she said gently. “Just say something.”

Later, after the meal, Charles sat on the edge of his childhood bed with the phone in his lap.

The room smelled faintly of starch and lavender, like it always had. The shutters were half-open. His fingers hovered over the screen.

He pressed Call before he could change his mind.

His phone buzzed once. Then again.

Pierre didn’t look up at first. He was elbow-deep in a stubborn sauce reduction, headphones in, music on low. The Alpine kitchen was warm, filled with the low hum of an off-week evening. No obligations. No PR. Just dinner for one and a glass of Sancerre.

The third buzz got his attention. He glanced at the screen, fingers slick with olive oil.

And froze.

Charlie L

He stared.

It didn’t make sense. That contact hadn’t lit up in over two years. Not after the crash. Not after the memorial visits. Not after the birthdays that passed like funerals.

And now the screen was blinking, alive and pulsing in his hand.

He answered before he could think.

“Putain de merde.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “Salut.”

Pierre sat down hard on the kitchen stool. His chest cracked open.

“C’est pas vrai,” he whispered. “No fucking way.”

The voice on the other end was unmistakable. Softer, older. Still Charles. Still his best friend, somehow.

“No shit it’s you,” he snapped. “I haven’t heard your voice in two fucking years.”

“I know.”

“You ghosted me, Charles. You don’t just get to—what—the hell are you even calling me for?”

“I know.”

“Without a word,” Pierre said again, breath catching. “After everything. I was at the hospital. I was there. And you just—what—decided I didn’t exist anymore? Charles, I mourned you. Do you understand that? I grieved you like someone who died. I kept messaging until I felt insane. I played your stupid playlist on every long flight like a fucking idiot.”

“I wanted to disappear,” came the answer. Quiet. Honest.

Pierre’s throat went tight.

He didn’t know whether to cry or scream. The relief was unbearable.

He stood, pacing now, one hand gripping the back of his neck. “You scared the shit out of me, man. I thought you were—”

“I wanted to be,” Charles said.

Pierre went still.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of Monaco. Of silence after impact. Of blood on red carbon. Of a cane that should’ve never been needed. Pierre’s grip tightened on the phone. He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his chest stuttered trying to remember how.

“And now?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

A breath. The faint sound of wind through an open window. Then:

“Now I’m trying.”

Pierre pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes. “Fuck.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Charles said. “I just… needed to hear your voice.”

Pierre let out a bitter little laugh. “You don’t get to say things like that after disappearing for two years, Charles. You don’t get to make me the one who cries.”

“I’m not trying to make you cry.”

“Well, congratulations anyway.”

A silence stretched between them—not sharp, but aching. Pierre sat back down, staring at the half-burned sauce, the flickering stove light, the phone still clutched in his hand like it might vanish again.

“You sound different,” he said finally.

“I am.”

“Better?”

“Not yet,” Charles said. “But I think I’m done trying to vanish.”

Pierre let his head fall into his hand. “You don’t know what it was like. The silence after the crash. The waiting. The not knowing. I kept thinking—what if I said something wrong? What if I pushed too hard? What if it was my fault you didn’t call back?”

“It wasn’t,” Charles said. “It was never you.”

“Then why?”

“Because I couldn’t be who I was anymore,” he said. “And I didn’t know how to be anything else. You knew me best—so I couldn’t face you.”

Pierre’s breath hitched.

He looked down at the phone again, voice cracking as he said, “I missed you so fucking much.”

“I missed you too.”

Another beat. Then softer, Pierre asked, “Are you home?”

Charles hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Like—home home?”

“Monaco. With Pascale. For Easter.”

Pierre gave a soft, stunned laugh. “Is this a temporary resurrection, or are you staying?”

“I’m here for Easter break,” Charles said. “Then I’ll head back to London.”

A beat.

“But I’m not disappearing again.”

Pierre exhaled—slow, shaky—something tight in his chest starting to give. “Okay. That’s something.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“I’m glad you called.”

“So am I.”

Pierre sat there, staring into the golden pool of unfinished sauce, heart pounding like he was twenty again—like Charles had just asked him if he wanted to walk the track backwards for luck.

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist.

“You still like Sancerre?”

Charles let out the barest laugh. “Still can’t pronounce it properly.”

“Good. Some things shouldn’t change.”

A soft exhale from the other end. “Neither should you.”

Pierre picked up his spoon again, stirred the sauce without looking. “Call me again tomorrow?”

“I will.”

And this time, Pierre believed him.

Before he left for London, Lorenzo pulled him aside in the hallway—just past the coat rack, where the light was soft and the house smelled faintly of old wood and rosemary.

“Will you be my best man in June?” he asked, voice light but eyes serious.

Charles blinked. “I’ll have to check with my professor,” he said. “Deadlines, defense, everything gets hectic around then…”

Then, quieter:

“But it’s not an excuse. Not this time.”

Lorenzo smiled.

“You’ve got a suit,” he said. “That’s the important part.”

Charles let out a soft breath. “Yeah. I’ve got a suit.”

Chapter Text

It started with a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Instagram story.

Max had been invited to Lorenzo Leclerc’s wedding. The envelope had arrived in Monaco months earlier—ivory cardstock, embossed in gold, with his name written in Pascale’s elegant script. Formal, thoughtful. Max had RSVP’d yes almost immediately. He wanted to be there. For Lorenzo, for the Leclercs. For the chance—however slim—that Charles might show up the moment Max did.

But Red Bull had other plans. Three days before the wedding, Christian called.

“Simulator. Milton Keynes. Canada upgrade.”

Just like that.

“We need your feedback before shipping. You’re the benchmark, Max.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even sigh. He just nodded and said, “Okay.”

So on the day of the wedding, while the Leclerc family danced on sun-warmed stone under open skies, Max was in a cold simulator room, chasing tire model deltas through a sea of telemetry.

He hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten until the engineer beside him yawned and stretched, and someone dimmed the overhead lights. Only then did Max check his phone—just for a second.

Lorenzo had already replied to his message from earlier, the one where Max had sent his congratulations and apologized for not making it.

No worries, mate. You were missed. Hope Canada treats you well. He’s here, by the way.

He didn’t have to ask who he was.

Heart knocking once—hard—against his ribs, Max opened Instagram.

He knew Arthur would be posting. He clicked into the thread of stories, thumb tapping forward, eyes scanning too fast, too desperate. One after another—blurry table shots, the bride posing with bridesmaids, Lorenzo spinning Pascale across the courtyard, a slow pan of the wedding cake.

Nothing.

Max almost gave up. His thumb hovered, ready to exit.

Then it happened.

A sun-drenched group video—maybe five seconds, maybe six. A quick pan across the crowd: champagne flutes glinting, tailored suits in every direction, the bride laughing in a blur of white at the edge of the frame. Arthur grinning into the camera.

Joy in motion. Ordinary.

Max almost tapped past it without watching again.

But then he saw him.

There, at the edge of the frame.

Half-turned. Talking to someone. Laughing.

Charles.

Laughing, alive.

Flesh and blood and breathtaking poise. Not just a voice from Arthur, or an echo through Pascale’s kitchen. Not a thesis title or a hospital memory. But a man—standing in sunlight, whole and real and undeniably there.

Charles Leclerc, no longer just the ghost of Il Predestinato, stood slightly apart from the group, half-turned in conversation with one of the family friends. The wind caught his curls just enough to lift them from his forehead. His black linen suit fit like sin—no tie, crisp shirt open at the collar, a glimpse of skin at his throat. He wasn’t posing. He wasn’t even aware the camera was on him.

And yet, he commanded the frame.

His green eyes glinted as he smiled at something off-camera, sharper than they used to be. Laugh lines deeper. The curve of his mouth hinted at something private, unreadable. Older. Stronger. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t just aesthetic—it was brutal. Like architecture. Like a cathedral that had burned and been rebuilt with fireproof stone.

But it was the cane that undid everyone, and Max.

Carbon black, matte gold tip, held loosely against his thigh with a kind of casual ownership that made it feel more like a weapon than a medical aid. He twirled it slowly between two fingers as he listened—bored, composed, utterly devastating. Like a king tolerating court. Like a man who had been claimed by death, fought his way back, and now held dominion over every inch of his skin.

Max didn’t realize he was crying until a tear hit the back of his thumb. He blinked hard.

Not now.

He still had a job to do. Max turned off his phone and shoved it into the bottom of his bag. Zipped it shut like he was sealing something inside.

By the time Max returned to the hotel and sank into bed, the story was already gone. Maybe Arthur had realised. Maybe someone had told him. Maybe it was just instinct—protective.

By then, screenshots had already flooded every platform. Threads. Twitter. TikTok. Even Tumblr rose from the ashes like a phoenix clutching a thirst trap.

The comments were a collision of nostalgia and thirst, grief and admiration. Feral energy tangled with gentleness.

“That’s not a man, that’s an era.”

“The hair. The jaw. The cane. I'm on my knees.”

“He looks like he gives orders in bed with his hand around your throat and a Rosary on the nightstand.”

“The Dom has logged on.”

“Max Verstappen better be ready to say ‘yes sir’ and mean it.”

But mixed in—threaded through the chaos—were the soft ones. The ones that made it feel like Charles had walked back into a room full of people who never stopped hoping he'd return.

“Good to see him again.”

“Missed him so much it hurts.”

“Long time no see, Charles.”

“Hope he’s healing. He looks strong.”

“Cried a little when I saw this. He’s still our Charles.”

“He survived.”

And somehow, those were the ones that hit Max the hardest.

Max lay back against the pillows, phone cradled against his chest, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with racing. He hadn't been ready for this. Hadn't known how badly he needed to see Charles until he was there—whole and radiant and goddamn dangerous again.

Max’s thumb trembled as he tapped into a reposted story.

“He Came Back Stronger (And Hotter) – Charles Leclerc 2025.”

It started with Monaco 2022—Charles’s helmet lowering into place, eyes blazing. Then black. The words “He vanished. We waited.” appeared. Cue music.

Then the wedding footage: Charles laughing, cane in hand, gleaming like revenge. Voiceover of his old radio: “Leave me alone, I know what I’m doing.”

Then the kicker—a slow-motion clip from 2021, Charles in the Ferrari garage, tugging on his gloves. Max in the background, half out of frame. Just watching him.

“He was always the one,” the caption read.

Max stared.

He clicked the comment box. No name attached—it was his burner account. Anonymous.

He typed:

He looks good. He always did.

Then deleted it.

Tried again:

Glad to see him smiling again.

Backspaced. Closed the box. Locked the phone.

There was no version of this where he could say what he really meant.

That it undid him. That he wanted to reach through the screen and touch him. That he’d forgotten what it felt like to see Charles—not as a name dropped in passing, not as a memory softened by time—but as a man.

A man alive. And more beautiful than Max remembered.

He locked the phone. Rolled onto his side. Turned the screen face-down on the nightstand.

But the image remained, seared into his mind.

Charles.

Laughing. Strong.

Cane in hand. Skin golden from sun and survival.

Alive.

He didn’t try to stop the dream when it came.

The room in the dream was drenched in honeyed light.

Max was on his knees, naked on a bed that felt too soft beneath him. Charles didn’t speak at first. Just touched—one hand grazing the nape of Max’s neck, the other warm and steady on his lower back. Max arched instinctively.

“You’re trembling,” Charles murmured.

Max nodded. “I know.”

“You want this?”

“Yes. Please.”

Charles leaned in, his breath brushing Max’s ear. “Then breathe. And be still.”

The click of lube. Then two fingers, confident and slow, sliding inside. Max moaned, head down, hips arching. The pressure was everything—full, electric, maddening.

“You open up so easy,” Charles murmured. “You like this?”

Max’s only reply was a sob.

Charles worked him open with precision. Patient. Deep. Max melted around it, until he was begging, breathless. Then—emptiness.

Max whimpered.

“Patience.”

A pillow slid under his hips. The blunt head of Charles’s cock pressed against him. Max froze.

Then Charles pushed in.

Inch by inch, deliberate, endless. Max gasped, writhing, stuffed full and shaking.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Charles whispered.

“It’s not,” Max choked. “Don’t stop.”

Charles set the pace—slow, hard, ruthless. Max could barely keep himself upright, pleasure lancing through him every time Charles angled deeper. He couldn’t think. Could only feel.

“You’re mine like this,” Charles growled. “So perfect like this.”

“Yes—yours—please—”

And when Max came, sobbing into the mattress, he didn’t even hear himself cry out.

He only felt Charles follow, hips stuttering, heat flooding deep inside.

Then breath. Then silence.

Charles kissed his shoulder, his back.

And Max whispered, in the dream:

“I’ll never let you go.”

Max woke with a gasp.

His body jerked beneath the sheets, breath ragged, skin damp with sweat. For a few suspended seconds, he couldn’t tell where he was—whether the heat pulsing through his limbs was real or imagined, whether the weight behind his spine was still there.

But the room was quiet.

Dark.

The early morning light hadn’t touched the sky yet—only the dim orange glow of a streetlamp spilled through the curtains, striping the walls like faded memory.

His chest heaved.

His boxers were soaked through.

No fucking way.

He sat up slowly, the sheets falling away from his body, clinging damply to his thighs. His hands shook as he shoved them aside and looked down at himself.

His cock was soft now. But his skin still burned, flushed and hypersensitive, as though every nerve had been lit on fire in his sleep. His thighs trembled. There was a raw, hollow ache low in his abdomen, where heat and pressure had once been.

And that smell—his own come, his own need—still hung in the air.

Max dragged his palms over his face, groaning into them like he could press the memory away, bury it deep beneath his ribs. But it was no good.

He could still feel it.

The phantom weight of Charles behind him. The press of a palm to the back of his neck. The voice—low, commanding, impossibly gentle—whispering be still.

“Jesus Christ,” Max muttered, barely more than breath.

He couldn’t even pretend it had been a typical sex dream. Not when the details still felt etched into his skin. Not when he could still feel the phantom stretch in his spine, the ghost of Charles’s cock sliding in, the way he’d arched into every thrust like his body had been made for it.

It hadn’t just been about being fucked.

It had been about belonging.

About being seen. Held. Owned. Wanted.

With Kelly, sex had been fluid, exploratory. She’d been curious. Open. Max had liked that—had never been ashamed of what felt good, of liking pressure, being touched inside, letting go.

But this… this had gone deeper.

This wasn’t experimentation. It wasn’t even about pleasure.

It was need.

He didn’t just want to be touched.

He wanted Charles.

He wanted Charles to push him down, to tell him to stay, to steady him with one hand while undoing him with the other. He wanted to look up and see those green eyes darkened with intent, not pity. He wanted to feel chosen. Claimed.

And the fact that it was Charles—the same Charles he’d once see broken and bleeding and deathly still—only made it more potent. Max had held that version of him, fragile and fading. He had mourned him.

And now?

Now all he wanted was to give himself over to the version of Charles that had survived.

Dominant. Composed. Whole.

Max swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the cool floor. Elbows on knees. Hands dangling loose, useless. A single drop of sweat trickled down his spine, catching in the waistband of his ruined boxers.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand and played the fan edit again in silence.

Charles laughing in soft golden light. Charles with the cane twirling in his hand. Charles turning just slightly toward the camera, his expression unreadable but steady—so there.

Max scrolled past the feral thirst.

Found the gentler ones again.

“He looks strong.”

“Hope he’s healing.”

“He’s still our Charles.”

“We missed him.”

“It’s good to see him smile.”

Max let the words sit there, glowing softly in the dark.

A breath caught in his throat.

He set the phone down, screen-up, unable to look away from the last one.

He’s still our Charles.

Except Max didn’t want to share him anymore.

He wanted him entirely.

Max whispered, not to the room but to the ache buried in his chest:

“I never stopped wanting him.”

And maybe now… he was finally starting to understand just how much.

Chapter Text

Ferrari’s team rebuild hadn’t come overnight.

The rot had set in years ago—buried beneath polished press releases and fragile podium highs. It festered through inconsistent leadership, splintered departments, and the silent tug-of-war between egos too proud to yield. Even during the Vettel years, cracks had begun to form. Wins were no longer momentum; they were anomalies. Isolated sparks. Hope dressed as progress. PR dressed as unity.

Ferrari hadn’t moved as a single organism in over a decade.

And across the paddock, Red Bull changed too.

The death of Dietrich Mateschitz—one of Red Bull Racing’s original architects—sent tremors through Milton Keynes. As Christian Horner admitted later, off the record, in a moment that felt more like confession than commentary:

“The personal relationship is no longer there.”

Without that bond, the team’s backbone weakened. Pressure mounted. Fault lines spread. The atmosphere turned brittle.

Then came the final blow: allegations of controlling and coercive behavior from a female colleague. The investigation dragged on for weeks, feeding a media frenzy and splitting the paddock down invisible fault lines. Though the formal complaint was eventually dropped, something more insidious had been lost—trust.

Horner didn’t wait to be pushed.

He stepped down.

Ferrari saw the opening—and they moved.

Florence, May 2025
Private Room, Villa San Michele

Rain shimmered like silk across the Tuscan hills. The windows were open to the vineyards, blurred by mist, the air thick with petrichor and old stone. Inside, the table was laid with untouched espresso.

Christian Horner sat with his blazer hung neatly over the chair. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, crisp as if he’d just walked out of a strategy meeting. Across from him sat Piero Ferrari—posture regal beneath a dark wool coat, fingers resting lightly on a leather-bound notebook. His gaze carried the weight of legacy, of bloodline and burden.

“The problem is not the car,” Piero began quietly. “It’s not even the drivers. They are capable men—each of them. But capable alone is not the same as capable together.”

Christian inclined his head, listening.

“We are fragmented,” Piero continued. “Strategists contradict engineers. Engineers contradict drivers. The pit wall reacts when it should anticipate. No one leads. No one listens.”

Christian leaned forward. “You’ve seen this coming. This isn’t new.”

“No,” Piero agreed. “But I let it fester. Out of loyalty. Out of fear that too much change would shatter what little was left.”

He opened the notebook and turned it toward Christian. “This is the season in numbers. Finishes. Pit errors. Seconds lost to silence, crossed wires, internal contradiction.”

He tapped a column. “And this—morale. Anonymous survey. They don’t believe anymore. Not in the process. Not in the dream.”

Christian flipped through the pages. His expression didn’t shift, but his silence did.

“You’ve built a team of survivors,” he murmured. “Everyone just trying not to be the one blamed.”

Piero nodded once. “Exactly.”

“And you want me to fix it.”

“I want you to conduct it,” Piero corrected. “Like an orchestra. The instruments are here. But without harmony, they only make noise.”

Christian sat back. The air here was heavier than Milton Keynes. Thicker. It pressed in from the walls, from the hills, from the ghosts of victories and funerals.

“You know people will say I’m not Ferrari enough,” he said. “That I’m an outsider. An opportunist. That I don’t understand the soul of this team.”

Piero let out a quiet laugh, almost fond. “They said my father was too stubborn. That he would rather lose than change. He was. And sometimes, he did. But even Enzo knew—when the music stops, you don’t replace the violin. You replace the conductor.”

Christian didn’t smile.

“You’re not asking me to fix things,” he said. “You’re asking me to tear it all down.”

“No,” Piero replied. “I’m asking you to remind them who we are. We are not nostalgia. We are not tragedy. We are not a museum. We are speed. And fire. And purpose. We are meant to win.”

The rain ticked against the windowpane, steady and soft.

Piero slid a red folder across the table.

Christian opened it.

He stopped at the first page. One name.

Leclerc.

“You’re serious,” Christian said.

Christian stared at the name printed at the top of the dossier, then looked up.

“I want him back,” Piero said evenly. “But not as a symbol. As a solution.”

Before Christian could reply, Piero reached for his phone. A few quick taps, and he held the screen out across the table.

“The paddock didn’t forget him,” Piero went on. “The world didn’t either. He is still our Il Predestinato. The chosen one. Not because we declared it—but because they believed it.”

The video shows Charles in Ferrari red, stepping onto the Bahrain podium, eyes half-lidded with focus and sunlight. A slow-motion shot of his helmet tilt just before lights out in Saudi Arabia, red gloves tightening on the wheel. Fans waving flags with Il Predestinato painted in bold scarlet script. Old interviews layered over newer edits. Charles laughing beside Sebastian. Charles kneeling by his car in Parc Fermé. A piano score curled underneath it all—melancholic, reverent.

The caption read:

He never really left. He just became legend.

Christian didn’t blink.

He’d seen these before. Dozens. Maybe more.

Whenever Red Bull’s social team had posted anything about Charles—an archive clip, a podium stat, even just a throwback photo—engagement had surged. The fans didn’t just remember him.

They kept him.

“Silverstone. Spa. Even Zandvoort,” Christian said quietly. “When his name came up on the jumbotrons—highlight reels, tribute laps—”

He paused, letting the silence stretch. Then:

“They didn’t cheer. They rose.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes still locked on the frozen frame of Charles—helmet under his arm, surrounded by tifosi, drenched in sun and legacy.

“He was Ferrari’s,” Christian said. “He still is. Even Red Bull fans wore his number that season. No one ever did that for Vettel. Not like that.”

“Charles Leclerc isn’t just a former driver. He’s a lit match,” he said. “Every time someone sees him, they remember what Ferrari could’ve been. And now…”

His eyes flicked toward the red folder.

“…he might be the only one who can show them what Ferrari still can be.”

He set the phone down beside the untouched espresso.

“And belief matters here. You know that. You’ve seen what happens when a team believes in one man. When the factory has someone to fight for.”

Piero sat back.

“Charles brought us together once,” he said. “And he can do it again. Only now, he’s not just beloved. He’s qualified.”

He gestured toward the red folder.

Christian flipped through it again—slower this time. Simulations with annotations in Charles’s familiar scrawl. Engine mapping suggestions cross-referenced with tire wear models. Communication protocols with interdepartmental bridges and fallback trees. Internal audits.

And then, tucked in the back, an academic printout.

Christian read the title aloud.

“Strategic Fluidity and Aerodynamic Legacy: Ferrari’s Championship Trajectories in the Hybrid Era. Written by Charles M H P Leclerc”

“It was published last month. Peer-reviewed. Imperial and Politecnico signed off jointly.”

Christian’s eyes flicked to the bottom of the page. There it was:

Published in the European Journal of Motorsport Engineering and Applied Aerodynamics.

Christian turned the paper over, inspecting the abstract. His eyes caught on a line halfway through: The Prancing Horse does not stumble because it is weak, but because the ground beneath it was never made to hold legacy and ambition in equal measure.

He looked up. “He wrote this?”

Piero nodded. “Every word.”

Christian leaned back slightly, red folder still open in his hands. There was a weight in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

This wasn’t just technical prowess. This wasn’t some sentimental return of a former driver with a soft spot for the team. This was Charles—stripped down to his core—laying bare every failure, every pattern, every fault line Ferrari had refused to name aloud.

Piero folded his hands. “He doesn’t just understand what we are. He understands what we could be.”

Christian let the folder close beneath his fingertips.

“Does that sound,” Piero asked, voice quiet now, “like someone who forgot us?”

Christian met his gaze. “No,” he said. “It sounds like someone who never stopped dreaming of us.”

Charles sat at his desk, ankle crossed over his good knee, eyes skimming a paper on energy deployment strategies in sector two at high-altitude circuits. A cup of mint tea had long gone cold beside him. Outside, London drizzled.

Charles had thought about going back to the paddock—eventually. Maybe in a couple of years. He’d imagined, once or twice, drafting an email to Ferrari. Polite. Professional. Testing the waters.

He never thought they would reach out first.

When the email arrived, he almost ignored it—just another notification flashing in the corner of his screen. But then he saw the domain.

@ferrari.it

His breath caught. He clicked it open.

Subject: Proposal – Confidential Discussion
From: Christian Horner

One a Team Principal for Red Bull, the other a driver for Ferrari. Their paths had crossed in press briefings, exchanged the occasional nod in the paddock—but never more than that. Not directly. Not like this.

The message was formal. Measured. It didn’t feel like PR. It felt real.

Charles,

I understand this may be unexpected. I’m writing on behalf of Ferrari, in my new capacity as Team Principal for 2026 season. We’d like to discuss a possible role for you in our technical and strategic team for the 2026 season.

This is not a courtesy offer. We’re not interested in symbols. We need capability. Precision. Leadership.

I’ll be in London later this week. If you're open to a meeting, I’d prefer to speak in person.

Warm regards,
Christian Horner

Charles sat back, the cursor blinking in the reply box.

Christian Horner.
Ferrari.

The world felt strange for a moment, like it had tilted ten degrees to the left.

He arrived early.

The café was tucked behind the front bar, wood-paneled and softly lit, full of quiet chatter and the clink of silver. Charles sat at a table by the window, his cane hooked neatly against the side of the chair. He hadn’t taken off his coat. A part of him still didn’t believe this was real.

When Christian walked in—no Red Bull gear, no entourage, just a navy coat and a neutral expression—Charles stood.

Christian offered a polite smile. “Hi, Charles. I appreciate you making the time. You look well.”

Charles gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching but never quite forming a smile. “You weren’t with Ferrari.”

Christian sat down across from him. “I am now.”

Charles exhaled—dry, not quite a laugh, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Since when?”

“Officially? Not yet. The announcement won’t come until the end of the season,” Christian said. “Unofficially? A few weeks.”

Charles nodded slowly, gaze unreadable. “I didn’t expect it to be you.”

“But here we are.”

A waitress came and went. Christian didn’t order anything. Neither did Charles.

“We want you back at Ferrari,” Christian said. “As a race engineer. You’d work with one of our incoming drivers.”

Still, Charles said nothing. His expression was unreadable.

After a beat, he asked softly, “Why now?”

It wasn’t bitterness. Just exhaustion, measured carefully.

Christian leaned forward. “We’re not looking for nostalgia,” he said. “We’re looking for reconstruction.”

A beat.

“You know the system. You know where it cracks under pressure. You know the politics. You know the patterns—how we lose momentum mid-season, how we trip over legacy when we should be sprinting forward. You see the team from both sides now—inside and out. From behind the wheel. From the hospital bed. From the classroom. You’ve studied it. Lived it. From the silence.”

Charles’s gaze stayed fixed on the table.

“Why me?” he murmured. “Ferrari has options.”

Christian didn’t hesitate. “Because Ferrari needs you.”

That earned a blink. Slow. Hollowed.

“No one’s needed me in years,” Charles said. It wasn’t self-pity. Just a truth said plainly.

Christian shook his head. “That’s not true. They’ve just been too broken to admit it.”

Silence.

Then he opened the folder again and tapped the academic printout still lying between them.

“The prancing horse does not stumble because it is weak,” Christian quoted, “but because the ground beneath it was never made to hold legacy and ambition in equal measure.”

Charles’s eyes lifted, brows faintly drawn. “You read it?”

“I did,” Christian said. “Three times.”

Charles blinked. Once. Twice.

“I don’t want a puppet,” Christian said. “I want someone dangerous. Someone who understands Ferrari’s soul and isn’t afraid to hold it accountable.”

Charles stared at him.

“You think I can fix it?”

“No,” Christian said. “But I think you can anchor it.”

Charles’s voice, when it came, was low. “I need time.”

“Take it,” Christian said. “But don’t take too long. ”

Chapter Text

Charles didn’t answer Christian right away.

Not that night. Not the next day. Not even when Christian followed up with a polite message: Let me know if you need more time. The offer stands. —CH.

Instead, Charles buried himself in his thesis.

Not writing it—he’d already published the final version last month, peer-reviewed and signed off jointly by Imperial and Politecnico. But there were always refinements that could be made. Additional models to run, comparative data to fold in, paragraphs to restructure for clarity. The kind of edits that wouldn’t change the outcome, but gave his hands something to do. Gave his mind somewhere to go that wasn’t back there—in a garage filled with red, or in a meeting room where Horner had looked at him like he still mattered.

So he stayed up late reworking a section on dynamic flow correlations. Re-ran simulations for tire degradation. Adjusted his appendix to include a new case study from the 2025 Saudi Grand Prix. Not because it was required—his thesis was already bound and catalogued—but because it was easier than deciding whether he could walk back into the paddock and still belong.

Easier than facing the folder Christian had left behind.

Easier than facing himself.

His phone buzzed once. Then again.

Pierre groaned. He reached over blindly, blinking at the screen. His vision took a second to focus.

Charles L

He didn’t hesitate.

“Do you know what time it is here?” Pierre rasped, voice still hoarse from sleep.

There was a pause.

“Oh, shit,” came Charles’s reply. “Canada. I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

Pierre sat up, rubbing his face. The room was still mostly dark, a faint city glow sneaking in from the window.

“It’s four in the morning, con.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you dying?”

“No.”

“Is anyone else dying?”

“No.”

“Then you’re forgiven.”

He reached for the bottle of water beside the bed and took a long drink. “What’s up?”

“I got a message from Christian.”

Pierre blinked. “Horner?”

“Yeah.”

“Red Bull?”

“Nope, Ferrari.”

Pierre paused, the fog in his brain clearing faster than it should’ve at 4 a.m.

“…Pardon?”

“I know you’re still half-asleep,” Charles said, voice dry. “So you probably won’t remember any of this in the morning. But if you do, please don’t tell anyone. This is top secret.”

Pierre blinked again, now sitting up against the headboard.

“You’re telling me Christian Horner—ex-Red Bull, Mr. Unshakeable Stability—is with Ferrari? And you’re just… calling me in the middle of the night to casually drop that?”

“Yes. The announcement will come at the end of the year. But he’s already working. Putting things together for 2026,” Charles said. “And there’s more.”

Pierre groaned and flopped back against the pillows. “Of course there is.”

“He offered me a role.”

There was a pause. “As…?”

“Race engineer.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“At Ferrari?” Pierre asked slowly, like he needed to hear it out loud to believe it.

“Yes,” Charles said again. “I told you. There’s more.”

Pierre stared at the ceiling, wide awake now.

“You realize this is something normal people deliver with wine and maybe a power-point, not dropped on their best friend at 4 a.m. like it’s weather.”

“I figured if you were too tired to react, I’d survive it.”

Pierre snorted. “Oh no, I’m awake now. I’m very awake. So… have you said yes?” Pierre cannot think of anyother answers.

“No,” came the reply.

A single word. Barely there.

“Why?”

There was a long pause.

Pierre didn’t fill it. He just stayed there, still as breath, waiting.

And then—finally—Charles spoke.

“Because I don’t know if I can face all of it,” he said quietly. “The paddock. The team. Myself. I don’t even know what version of me I’d be bringing back.”

Pierre didn’t answer.

Not right away.

He let the confession settle in the dark like dust. Let it breathe.

Because he understood.

This wasn’t about strategy sheets or simulation data or the press room echo chamber.

It wasn’t even about Ferrari.

It was about walking into the place that had once destroyed him—not to relive it, but to reclaim it.

It was about stepping back into the paddock not as a driver. Not as a ghost. But as a man rebuilt in silence.

A man who walked with a cane now.

A man who had to calculate every motion—every descent into a chair, every twist of the torso.

A man whose name had once meant championship promise and now lived as an asterisk in a season review.

Charles didn’t know if that man was welcome.

Didn’t know if he could belong again—not as a legacy, but as something living.

Pierre leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the cool grain of the nightstand. Eyes shut.

And then—gently:

“Then bring the version that survived.”

There was no poetry in his voice. Just certainty.

“Bring the one who learned how to walk again. The one who reads tire degradation like scripture. The one getting a fucking master’s from Imperial. The one who called me before Easter, even though he probably thought I’d never forgive him.”

He exhaled, quiet but firm.

“Bring that version.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And when Charles finally spoke, his voice was soft. But steadier now.

No longer trembling at the edges.

“Thanks, mon ami.”

“Always,” Pierre replied, eyes drifting closed again. “Now let me go to sleep before I start charging you for performance coaching.”

Graduation day dawned bright and brittle.

London’s skies were mercurial as always—sunlight bleeding through clouds, wind catching on mortarboards like a warning and a blessing. The air was cold enough to bite but gentle enough not to bruise. Spring trying, as always, to be something steadier than it was.

Charles stood quietly on the stone steps of Imperial College London, the navy and gold of his academic robes draped heavy over his frame. He shifted his weight slightly, fingers curled around the carved handle of his cane. His left knee ached, as it always did when the weather turned, but he stood anyway.

The courtyard buzzed with noise—families gathering, students laughing, the rustle of paper programs and the click of cameras. But in his corner, it felt quieter. Still.

His family had flown in the day before. Pascale wiped her eyes behind oversized sunglasses, clutching her handbag with the same reverence she’d once reserved for rosary beads. Lorenzo beamed, hair slicked back like he was the one graduating. Arthur took enough photos to break iCloud storage—candid ones, awkward ones, blurry ones that would later become favorites.

“You look like a professor,” Arthur teased as they waited in line.

Charles gave a faint smile. “Maybe one day.”

But the words tasted foreign, even now. He didn’t feel like a scholar. Didn’t feel like a miracle. Just a man who had managed to keep walking when everything said he shouldn’t.

And yet, the fact that he was standing here—alive, dressed in robes, about to receive a degree from one of the most prestigious engineering institutions in the world—was a miracle. Quiet, hard-earned, and almost entirely uncelebrated, but a miracle nonetheless.

When his name was called, there was a strange pause in his breath. Like his body wasn’t quite sure it believed it.

Leclerc, Charles.

He stepped forward—not with the ease of his old podium walks, but with something more deliberate. Each movement careful. Grounded. Real.

He reached out and shook hands with the Chancellor, then with two deans—both of whom had quoted his thesis in lectures earlier that term.

He’d written those pages in a flat overlooking the Thames, spine braced with pillows, joints aching, heart wrung dry. He hadn’t expected anyone to care. But someone had. Enough to offer him a job. Enough to ask him back.

The applause that followed was polite. Standard. But somewhere behind it, Pascale’s hands clapped a little harder. A little longer.

Charles turned his head just slightly and caught her smiling. Eyes rimmed red. Face full of something unspoken.

She had told him once—when he was nine, furious after losing a karting race to a kid with newer tires—that victory wasn’t always a trophy. Sometimes, she’d said, it was just getting back up.

That was years before Jules. Before Hervé. Before Monaco.

Before he learned what getting back up really meant.

This—this moment, beneath a sky both stormy and soft—was a victory.

Not the kind the world watched on screens.

Not the kind that came with champagne or national anthems.

But one carved out of pain and silence and survival.

After the ceremony, they spilled into the courtyard. Photographers circled. Students posed. Laughter lifted like confetti.

Charles stood beside his mother for a photo, when she turned slightly and pressed a small white envelope into his hand.

“From Max,” she said quietly.

His breath caught.

Pascale didn’t elaborate.

Charles looked down. The envelope was unmarked except for his name—Charles—in careful, slanted writing. Not Max’s usual hurried scrawl. Different. Intentional.

He didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Not with the wind in his hair and the taste of metal on his tongue.

Not when he still wasn’t sure what seeing Max’s name would do to him.

Instead, he tucked it into his coat pocket. Kept it close.

Later, after everyone had flown home and the flat was quiet again, Charles unpacked the envelope.

There was no letter. No long confession. Just a folded card with a clean red border and a simple message inside:

You did it. I’m proud of you.
—M

No signature. Just that.

Charles stared at it for a long time.

He thought of Max’s voice on the radio, always a beat too sharp. He thought of his eyes, glassy in Parc Fermé, the way they used to search for Charles even when he didn’t win. He thought of the months after the crash—of silence, of static, of messages never answered.

You did it.

He wasn’t sure if Max meant the degree, or the surviving.

Maybe both.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

He folded the card again. Set it on his desk. Then he picked up his phone and opened Pierre’s message. Read it again, even though he already knew it by heart:

Just so you know—
If you do this, I’ll be in your corner. Always.
Not because you’re Charles Leclerc.
But because you’re the guy who survived.
The one who still gives a damn.
And if you don’t do it, that’s okay too.
I just wanted you to hear it again. From me.
Also—congrats on graduating.
You didn’t just get back up. You built something.
I’m proud of you, frère. Always have been.

And then—finally—he picked up his phone, scrolled to Christian’s name, and pressed call.

Chapter Text

Max Verstappen wasn’t used to missing races.

The silence made his ears ring.

No debriefs. No sim runs. No media duties or tire pressure updates. Just a quiet house, a cooling bowl of pasta from dinner, and the hum of a fan in the corner.

After the British Grand Prix—and yet another tangle with George Russell that ended in carbon shrapnel, a penalty review, and twelve points on his super license—Max had earned himself an automatic one-race ban. The first of his career. The headlines were merciless. The internet even worse.

And so, rather than return to his own Monaco apartment to spiral alone in a room full of trophies and tension, Max found himself in the Leclercs’ guest room.

Pascale had insisted.

They’d all had wine with dinner—Arthur had cooked, Lorenzo had called in, and the conversation had tiptoed around racing but never landed on it. Not until Max had looked a little too quiet, his hands wrapped too tightly around the base of his glass.

“You’re not driving anywhere tonight,” Pascale had said, rising with the kind of maternal finality that left no room for argument. “Go wash your face. I’ll find you something to sleep in.”

Max didn’t argue. He was too tired, and the twelve penalty points on his license felt heavy still.

When he came back from the bathroom, face damp and clean, she was waiting in the hall with folded clothes in her arms.

“Charles liked his hoodies oversized,” she said, pressing them into his chest. “This one should be comfy enough to serve as pajamas.”

Max looked down.

The hoodie was white.

Not the famous Ferrari rosso corsa, but still unmistakably theirs. The tiny Scuderia shield stitched neatly over the heart.

He didn’t ask if Charles would mind.

He just nodded.

And now, in that hoodie, he sat cross-legged on the guest bed, holding up the phone, video calling the only two people who still got under his skin the way Charles used to.

The sleeves bunched over his hands as he propped his elbow on his knee, the soft white cotton swallowing the angles of his frame. Behind him, the faint floral pattern on the wallpaper and the distant clink of dishes downstairs made everything feel too still. Too domestic.

“Twelve points,” Max muttered into the screen. “Like I’m some kind of menace.”

On the other end, Daniel Ricciardo leaned back in a battered lawn chair, the warm orange glow of Australian sunset behind him. “Mate, you did launch George into the gravel like a shopping trolley with a death wish.”

“He brake-tested me!”

Daniel held up both hands. “Hey, no argument here. I saw the onboard. But the FIA? Not big fans of murder attempts.”

Lando’s window flickered to life. “You’re the first four-time champion to get benched mid-season for bad behavior. You know that, right? That’s iconic.”

“Red Bull’s a mess,” he muttered. “Post-race meetings feel like funerals. The engineers keep second-guessing the strategy team. No one’s listening to me anymore. And nobody knows what Christian’s up to or just... fading out.”

Daniel’s brow creased. “You think he’s leaving?”

Max shrugged, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. “He is not in the paddock anymore, Andrea Landi is there instead and there’s this weird silence. Like everyone’s waiting for something to drop.”

“And if he goes, the whole operation goes sideways,” Lando said.

Max didn’t argue.

He ran a hand through his curls. “We haven’t won since Baku. Pit stops keep getting fucked. Strategy calls are panicked. I can feel it slipping. And I know what’s coming.”

Daniel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Max stared at the screen, voice quiet now. “My dad.”

That shut them both up.

“Jos?” Lando asked.

Max nodded. “He’s been hovering. Calling more. Sending messages that sound like advice but feel like pressure. Asking about updates. About how I’m letting things slide. About whether I’m still ‘hungry.’”

Daniel sat forward. “Max—”

“He doesn’t say it directly,” Max cut in. “He never does. But I know what he’s thinking. If I lose this year, it won’t just be a bad season—it’ll be a failure. Not just for Red Bull. For him.”

Lando’s face softened. “Max. You’ve won four titles in a row.”

“I haven’t won five,” Max said. “And if I don’t, the narrative changes. I’m no longer dominant—I’m declining. A four-time champion who couldn’t hold it together without Christian. Who let Charles’s ghost and Russell’s front wing fuck him sideways.”

Daniel’s voice was gentler now. “Is that what you think?”

Max didn’t answer. Just looked down at the too-long sleeves covering his hands.

“The paddock moves on fast,” he murmured. “People forget. They already are.”

“Mate,” Daniel said, “you could walk away tomorrow and still be one of the best the sport’s ever seen.”

“But I won’t,” Max said quickly. “Because if I walk away before five—before I defend it—I’ll never stop hearing his voice in my head. Telling me I stopped short. That I threw it away.”

“Jos doesn’t get to write your legacy,” Daniel said, unexpectedly firm.

Max looked up, surprised.

“You do,” Daniel continued. “And maybe defending the title isn’t about proving something to him. Maybe it’s about proving you’re still you, even with all the noise. And if you need to step back to figure that out, do it. You’ve got nothing to prove to us.”

Max tried to smile. It didn’t quite land.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—but it was thick. Laced with the weight of a name none of them wanted to unpack further.

Lando shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward the camera, then away.

He didn’t really know Max’s relationship with Jos. Not like Daniel did. Not enough to offer advice that wouldn’t land sideways. He’d seen the headlines, the footage, the post-race photos—Jos watching Max with that stony, inscrutable stare—but he didn’t know what went on behind closed doors. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

So he cleared his throat.

And, gently, changed the subject. Something that would definitely distract Max.

“Hey, uh… speaking of legacy—my race engineer Will Joseph talked to me the other day. Said he’s worried he might lose his job to Charles.”

Daniel blinked. “Charles?”

Lando nodded, deadpan. “Yeah.”

Daniel tilted his head. “Charles who?”

Lando gave him a look.

Daniel squinted. “Wait—Charles? Our Charles?”

“Yes, Daniel,” Lando drawled. “How many Charleses do you think are out there just graduated last week with a master’s in some fancy-sounding thing and a spine made of titanium and spite?”

Daniel blinked, then laughed. “Okay, fair.”

Max sat up slightly. The hoodie bunched at his elbows.

“Why did your race engineer talk about Charles?” he asked, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

Lando shot him a look. “Because he’s still in play, mate.”

Max’s fingers twitched.

“Maybe he’s not posting selfies or doing interviews,” Lando continued, “but the paddock hasn’t forgotten him. Not even close. I’ve heard here and there—every team’s had feelers out. Ferrari, Alpine, hell, even us.”

Max blinked. “McLaren?”

“Yeah,” Lando said. “And Will is stressed. Says if Ferrari doesn’t grab Charles the second he gets that diploma, someone else will. And if it’s us, Will’s out of a job.”

Daniel laughed. “He’s not wrong. Charles could walk into half the pit walls on the grid and make them look like amateurs.”

“What did he study again?” he added, tilting his head.

Too quickly, Max answered. “Strategic systems and aero. Imperial.”

There was a pause.

Lando raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Specific.”

Daniel chuckled. “You’ve got that filed under important life updates, huh?”

Max frowned. “What? No. I just—heard it.”

Lando grinned, going in for the kill. “Let me guess. You’ve been checking the Imperial website for graduation dates?”

“I haven’t.”

“Oh yeah?” Lando said, mock-serious. “What about LinkedIn? Bet you’ve got alerts turned on.”

Max groaned. “I’m not stalking him.”

“You’re emotionally subscribed,” Daniel said.

“Strategic systems and aero,” Lando repeated, mimicking Max’s cadence. “You said it like you’re on the thesis review board.”

Max looked down at the sleeves pooled around his wrists and muttered, “It came up at dinner.”

Lando blinked. “Dinner with who?”

Max shifted in his seat. “It was dinner with family and it just came up.”

Lando blinked. “Family? Whose family?”

Max hesitated.

Daniel leaned forward, like a wolf catching the scent. “Max.”

Max sighed. “Pascale said it. Over dinner.”

Lando dropped his head into his hands. “Oh my God. You’re having family dinners with the Leclercs?”

“It’s not like that,” Max said quickly. “It was just… Sundays.”

“Plural Sundays?” Daniel’s voice cracked on the word.

Max looked away. “Yeah. For a while.”

Lando let out a stunned breath and blinked. “Wait. Where even are you right now? That’s not your apartment.”

Daniel squinted at the screen. “Is that wallpaper? With flowers?”

Max hesitated.

Lando leaned in. “That’s not your apartment,” he repeated. “That’s way too cozy. There’s a doily on that bedside table.”

Max sighed. “I’m in the guest room.”

Daniel raised a brow. “Guest room where?”

Max stared at his screen for a second too long.

Then: “The Leclercs’ house.”

Lando’s jaw dropped. “You’re what.”

Daniel sat up straight. “As in—you’re at Pascale’s right now?”

“She didn’t want me to go home alone,” Max muttered. “After dinner. After the whole... twelve points thing.”

“You had dinner with them?” Lando asked.

Max nodded, a little too sheepish. “Arthur cooked. Pascale opened wine. We talked. She made me stay.”

Then Daniel smirked. “So. Let me get this straight. You’re curled up in the Leclercs’ guest room. Post-suspension. Post-wine. Possibly post-breakdown. Sounds like a romcom.”

Lando grinned. “Only missing one thing.”

Max blinked. “What?”

“You know,” Lando said innocently, “the guy you actually want to be staying with.”

Max’s ears flushed red instantly.

But Lando didn’t let up. He turned to Daniel, ignoring Max entirely now, voice dipping into mock-analysis. “But let’s be honest—if Charles were actually there, Max wouldn’t be in the guest room.”

Daniel caught on. “Nope. He’d be in Charles’s room.”

“Door shut. Lights off,” Lando added, deadpan. “Phone very much not answered.”

Max did not think he could get any redder. He was already sinking into the hoodie like it might swallow him whole.

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You two are insufferable.”

Daniel laughed. “And yet—still correct.”

Max didn’t deny it.

Lando leaned back, smug. “That’s what I thought.”

They let him stew a moment longer, then—mercifully—shifted gears.

They chatted for a few more minutes—about tyres, simulators, how George somehow still hadn’t apologized—before Daniel leaned back in his chair, stretching one arm behind his head like it was nothing.

“Come out here,” he said casually. “Australia. Stay a few days. Scream at sheep. Ride a quad bike. No media, no sim work, no engineers up your ass. Just dirt and sky and nothing else.”

Max snorted. “Except you.”

Daniel grinned. “I’m excellent company.”

Lando deadpanned, “That’s debatable.”

Max smiled despite himself. It felt strange—foreign—but real. Like a muscle stretching after too long unused.

Daniel’s tone softened. “You need to breathe, mate. And maybe—talk.”

Max’s smile faltered. “Talk about what?”

Daniel raised a brow. “Let me guess: Charles.”

Max rolled his eyes.

Chapter Text

The sheep didn’t move.

Max hurled the wrench anyway.

It arced in the dry morning air, clanged uselessly against the empty trough, and landed in a puff of dust. The sheep, unimpressed, merely blinked at him.

Daniel, leaning on the half-built fence, bit into an apple with a lazy grin. “They can sense it.”

“Sense what?”

“Your emotional constipation.”

Max wiped sweat from his brow and shot Daniel a look. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re the one screaming at livestock, mate.”

Max flipped him off and bent to retrieve the fallen wrench. The sun bore down on his shoulders. The Australian outback stretched wide and empty around them—rolling hills, dry grass, the occasional gum tree swaying in the hot breeze. He’d been here five days. Five days of early mornings and blistered palms. Five days of not checking the F1 app. Five days of not messaging Charles.

The days were honest work. Hammering fence posts. Hauling feed. Watering stubborn patches of garden. Daniel didn’t ask questions. Not at first.

But that night, after a dinner of grilled vegetables and local lamb, Daniel finally nudged the door open.

“You’ve been quiet,” Daniel said, flicking on the porch light. “Even for you.”

Max leaned back in the rickety lawn chair, eyes fixed on the stars. “What’s there to say?”

Daniel poured two beers, set one beside Max’s chair, and kicked off his boots with a sigh. “Is it your dad?”

Max shook his head slowly. “No…”

Daniel’s voice softened. “Charles?”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Okay.”

The cicadas sang. A distant dog barked somewhere out past the tree line.

Finally, Max spoke. “I can’t forget a dream I had about him.”

Max stared ahead at the dark horizon. “This is gonna be really weird.”

“Mate, I once dreamed I was married to Sebastian Vettel and we ran a kombucha farm together in Tasmania. Try me.”

Max gave a short, startled laugh. Then silence again.

Then: “It wasn’t just a dream. It was... more than that. Like, I felt it in my chest. My skin. I woke up and I couldn’t breathe for a second.”

Daniel turned slightly toward him, quieter now.

Max ran a hand through his curls. “He was—fuck. He was in this white shirt. Not buttoned. Just standing there, in some hotel room I’ve never been to. His cane was resting on the nightstand. His eyes—he looked at me like he knew. Like he owned every part of me.”

“And?”

“And he told me to listen.”

Daniel blinked. “That’s it?”

Max shook his head. “No. He touched me. Pushed me down. Climbed on top. Took control. And I—” He swallowed. “I’ve never wanted something so badly in my life. Not even a championship.”

A long silence stretched between them. The breeze picked up, rustling dry leaves.

Daniel took a long sip from his bottle. Then: “So let me get this straight. You dreamed Charles Leclerc dominated you.”

Max buried his face in his hands. “I told you it was weird.”

“It’s not weird. It’s hot. And kind of poetic.”

“I came in my sleep, Daniel.”

Daniel nodded solemnly. “Then it’s also effective.”

Max groaned.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Daniel said more gently. “Seriously. You’ve been through a lot. You saw him almost die. You’ve had no outlet for years. And maybe this is your brain’s way of... letting him be okay again. Powerful. Whole. Even if just in your dreams.”

Max looked over. “I think I want it for real. Like—actually. I want him to do that to me. Not just in my head.”

Daniel didn’t blink. “Then you’re in love.”

“I know that already.”

“So are you going to do something about it?”

“Huh? No! Of course not,” Max scoffed, gesturing wildly with his bottle. “He’s been through so much. He doesn’t need to deal with an ex-rival who’s apparently gay because of him.”

Daniel choked on his beer. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a sentence.”

Max buried his face in his hands. “God. That sounded worse out loud.”

“A little bit,” Daniel said, trying not to laugh. “Max, come on.”

“I’m serious,” Max said, voice muffled through his palms. “He already lost everything. The crash, his career, the life he thought he’d have. He doesn't need me showing up with a—what? A dramatic confession? A sexuality crisis? ‘Hey, Charles, while you were relearning how to walk and rebuilding your entire existence, I was discovering I really want to get railed by you. Hope that’s not too much!’”

Daniel gave a low whistle. “Dramatic and specific. Impressive.”

“I’m being an idiot.”

“No, you’re being scared.”

Max finally looked up, eyes wide and unguarded. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Daniel set his beer down gently. “Of course. I’ve been scared before. I’ve loved people who didn’t love me back. And I’ve lost people before I could ever tell them what they meant to me.” He paused. “But I’d still rather be honest than carry it alone for the rest of my life.”

Max’s jaw clenched. “But what if telling him ruins everything?”

“What if it doesn’t?”

Max didn’t have an answer for that.

Daniel picked at the label of his beer bottle. “And when I talked to Pierre the other day, he was dropping hints. Here and there.”

Max’s eyes flicked over. “What kind of hints?”

“The kind that aren’t subtle.” Daniel smirked. “That guy is terrible at keeping secrets. Always has been. You should’ve seen him try to hide birthday plans back in Toro Rosso days—man cracked under a raised eyebrow.”

Max didn’t smile, not quite, but there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth. “So? What did he say?”

Daniel shrugged, deliberately casual. “Just... asked how you were. Brought up the fact that Ferrari’s been reorganizing. Said things might be shifting.”

“Shifting,” Max echoed, suspicious.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Look. All I’m saying is—Pierre sounded relieved. Like something he’s been holding onto for too long might finally be changing.”

Max throat tight. “You think he’ll come back?”

Daniel didn’t answer right away. He finished the last of his beer, set the bottle down beside the porch rail, and let the quiet do its work.

Then: “I think he never really left.”

Max frowned.

“I mean, sure—physically, yeah. Gone. No press. No appearances. But mentally?” Daniel gave a small shake of his head. “I don’t think he ever truly walked away. He’s been watching. Studying. You can’t take Ferrari out of someone like him. Not when he bled for it.”

Max didn’t move.

“And you,” Daniel added, “you were the only one who kept saying his name when the rest of the world started letting it fade. Pierre noticed. So did I. So did everyone. You were holding space for him before he even knew he’d need it.”

He paused, then said, almost offhand: “Besides, he already has.”

Max looked up, startled. “What?”

Daniel slid his phone across the porch table.

“You haven’t checked social media?”

Max shook his head, suddenly very aware of the beat of his own pulse.

“Arthur posted a story this morning.”

Max hesitated, then reached for the phone.

It loaded slowly—signal flickering in and out this far from town. Then the Instagram circle pulsed to life. A quiet video. Just a view of the Monaco coastline. Pink sky bleeding into gold. The gentle hush of wind, water, and gulls.

Max almost missed it.

But there—just for a moment—at the edge of the frame, a reflection in the glass door. A figure moving past in white. Barefoot. Slender. Leaning lightly on a cane.

Max’s breath hitched.

He would’ve known that silhouette anywhere.

The slope of the shoulders. The turn of the head. Even in shadow, even in blur.

Charles.

“He’s home,” Daniel said softly. “Back in Monaco.”

Max stared at the screen, as if he could will it into sharper focus. As if maybe, if he looked hard enough, Charles might turn and look back.

“He’s…” Max began, but couldn’t finish. His voice cracked.

Daniel leaned back, giving him space. “You’re not dreaming anymore, Max.”

For a long time, Max just sat there.

The porch creaked with the wind. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The stars had begun to fade in the sky above, morning chasing their heels.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Max didn’t feel like he was chasing a ghost.

He felt like maybe—just maybe—Charles was walking back toward him, too.

Back in Monaco, Charles stood at the window of his apartment, now scrubbed clean and glowing with warmth. He’d landed at dawn.

Now the sun was just beginning to set, casting orange light across the bay. Sailboats rocked gently in the harbor. The air smelled of salt and jasmine. The sound of waves reached him faintly—a memory half-awake, like the ghost of a life that once fit him perfectly.

He hadn’t stepped foot in this since 2022.

Now, it was both strange and heartbreakingly familiar.

Pascale had lit a candle on the kitchen table—lavender and bergamot, his favorite. Arthur had reorganized his bookshelf by topic and language, with little sticky tabs that said things like “Meteo—French” and “F1 Data—English, obviously.”

Lorenzo had left a bottle of red wine on the counter with a sticky note in his handwriting:

For your first night back. No pressure. Just love. —L.

And Charlotte—newly married, impossibly kind—had folded all his towels the same way hotel spas did, neat and layered and full of domestic grace. The linens in the bedroom were freshly pressed. The pillows fluffed. The air felt lived-in, loved. As if the people who missed him had tried to stitch comfort back into the walls.

He was home.

London was behind him—his degree completed, his desk cleared, his quiet corner at the Imperial College library no longer his. He’d wrapped it all with methodical care: submitted his final feedback, wrote thank-you notes to his professors, closed his university email account. It had taken him two hours longer than expected because his fingers trembled too much to type.

He stood very still, cane in one hand, as though moving too quickly might cause the moment to collapse. Wandered the apartment in slow steps, fingertips grazing each surface like he was relearning the contours of his old life.

He stopped at the upright Yamaha piano in the corner of the room. The black lacquer gleamed under the soft light, elegant but unobtrusive—just like everything else his family had touched while preparing the apartment.

It hadn’t been there before.

A small card sat on the music stand, written in Pascale’s looping French script:

We heard you’ve been playing. Now you don’t have to stop. Love you, always — Maman, Arthur, Lorenzo, and Charlotte.

Charles exhaled shakily.

He’d started teaching himself piano sometime between Switzerland and London—at first as rehab for his fine motor skills, then as a form of therapy, then as something else entirely. He’d never told them how much he played now. How often he’d sat alone in borrowed apartments with headphones on, translating pain into melody when words refused to come.

He ran a hand along the edge of the instrument, fingertips dragging over the smooth surface like it was something sacred.

Then, without quite meaning to, he sat.

He lifted the fallboard slowly. The keys were cool and pristine, untouched.

Charles rested his right hand gently on the lower octave and pressed a C, then an E, then G. The chord rang clean and full.

Then another. Then another. He let the sound build, no particular melody, just muscle memory and feeling. A flicker of something he’d written in Milan. A motif from a song he’d never titled in Patagonia. The grief that never left him, and the quiet, tentative hope that maybe—just maybe—it didn’t always have to win.

The sound filled the apartment, warm and resonant. No backing track. No click. Just him, and breath, and music.

Chapter Text

August

August in Monaco was hotter than he remembered—heat radiating off the marble balconies like track tarmac under qualifying rubber. Even the breeze off the harbour felt mechanical, more convection than comfort. The salt air tasted faintly metallic, a reminder that even paradise rusts when left too long.

Even with the shutters half-closed, late-morning light spilled through, bouncing off chrome and glass, filtered through the green curtains Pascale insisted he keep. The flat smelled faintly of espresso and dust, a familiar kind of stillness. A stillness that felt neither peaceful nor restless—just there. Constant. Like background radiation.

Since accepting the role, he’d worked mostly from home, only going to Maranello when strictly necessary. Monaco to the factory was a five-hour drive each way, a route he once could’ve done in his sleep, back when his spine didn’t tighten like wire and his leg didn’t cramp if left in one position too long.

At first, he managed two weekly drives—dawn to midnight. He told himself the road cleared his head, that seeing the wind tunnel in person meant something. But the truth was harder. By the third week, his body fought back. The seat pressure. The stiffness. The pain.

It caught him outside Savona. Mid-drive, iced coffee half-finished, cane in the backseat, GPS muted. The pain came sudden and sharp, locking his spine like a seized gearbox. He pulled over. Sat. Breathed. For a long while, he couldn’t do anything else. The heat from the asphalt radiated into the car, amplifying everything.

Then, he called.

“Christian,” he said, voice thin but level. “I need help.”

Christian came himself. No questions. No performance. Just a quiet nod, and a steady drive back to Monaco. On the way, they didn’t speak much. Just the radio, the sound of tyres on asphalt, and the occasional glance from Christian that said more than words. When they stopped for fuel, Christian grabbed a bottle of water and handed it over without a word. That, too, said enough.

The next morning, Ferrari’s tech team arrived. No fanfare. No pity. Just action. By lunch, his old sim room had become a command center—monitors adjusted to his eyeline, lighting softened, cables tucked like arteries in a beating heart of data.

A custom footrest. A new ergonomic chair. Compression sleeves and magnesium spray. A note from the medical unit: Let us know if you need more.

It wasn’t sentimental.

But it was love, in the language Ferrari had nearly forgotten—quiet, deliberate care, expressed through precision and presence.

September

He tried to offer a flat near the factory. Christian had shut it down. “Stay in Monaco. You’ve given enough.”

So Charles stayed. Kept working. The files piled in. He worked long hours. Quiet hours. The ones where no one would interrupt him if the pain got bad. He found a rhythm: wake up, stretch, espresso, data.

His mornings became ritualistic. Data review by sunrise. Strategy modules before lunch. A walk along the port in the afternoon, cane tapping steadily against the stone. Evenings were for simulations, team check-ins, voice notes.

The paddock didn’t know. Ferrari had kept him hidden—no press, no tips to media. Charles Leclerc was a rumour, a ghost in the comms.

“We’ll announce it on the morning of Bahrain testing,” Christian had said. “Let them see it.”

Charles had agreed. Publicity could wait.

But in private, the work intensified. Noah’s telemetry. Tyre degradation reports. GPS overlays. Behavioural profiles. Simulation results. Engine wear predictions. Brake temp algorithms. Charles devoured them all like they were lifelines.

Every now and then, Charles’s phone would light up with a message. He didn’t read them at all. Never deleted them. Never muted notification. They sat there, soft echoes in the digital silence.

Max was different than Pierre.

Pierre was family. Max was… something else. Something heavier. More volatile. Like watching lightning approach on a dry horizon—part of you hoping it passes, part of you hoping it hits.

He thought about replying sometimes.

Charles knew Max had visited Pascale every week while he was gone. But since Charles returned to Monaco… nothing. Max hadn’t come by. Not once.

Still, the messages kept coming.

He thought about the years of unread texts. The things he’d never said. The weight of it all.

But every time, his fingers hovered over the screen—then curled away.

Not yet.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Maybe the right words. Maybe the perfect moment.

October

Monaco shifted with the season. Heat gave way to gold. The breeze softened. The tourists thinned out. The streets became Charles’s again.

Charles met Pierre in the old town. A quiet café. No paparazzi. No media passers-by. The waiter knew them both but said nothing. Just brought their usuals.

“You asking me out,” Pierre teased, “or briefing me on your rookie?”

“Both.”

Pierre hadn’t met Noah, but he’d heard enough. From Yuki. From Ocon. From Jack Doohan, who’d shared a garage wall with him last season.

Noah Ferreti, it seemed, left an impression.

“A strong and interesting character,” Pierre said, in the tone one might use for an unpredictable thunderstorm. “That’s the nice way of putting it.”

Charles huffed a laugh.

They dissected Noah’s sim runs. Talked telemetry. Talked fear. Talked legacy.

“He doesn’t think I’m qualified,” Charles admitted.

Pierre had leaned in, eyes sharp. “He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

Charles offered a dry smile. “He wants someone with more legacy. Mentioned Vettel’s old guy.”

Pierre groaned. “He’ll be lucky if he finishes the season without driving us all into therapy.”

And for the first time in weeks, Charles felt a little less like a ghost. A little more like himself.

That night, three emails waited. One from Christian: Trust your instincts. I’ll back you.

Charles didn’t answer. Just stared at the screen until the sun went down. Then finally, opened a notebook and started writing again. Longhand. Old-school. Something about ink on paper felt more grounded.

November

Maranello in winter had a hum to it. Not noise. Just… presence. A vibration in the bones. A reverence that outlasted dynasties.

Christian insisted on a formal welcome. Charles thought it excessive.

Until he walked into the atrium and saw them: the entire staff lined up, applauding. Streamers. His old number. Someone had printed 16 Returns onto a banner.

He delivered a short speech. Promised to give everything he had left. Spoke about Ferrari’s soul—not in the victories, but in those who stayed.

He saw the eyes on him. Some full of hope. Some doubt. A few glimmered with something close to belief.

Noah watched him like a man measuring weight. Charles didn’t flinch.

Oliver Bearman smiled.

Later, alone in the garage, Christian handed him a coffee. Told him his diffuser sketch had altered Ferrari’s airflow map. Told him he mattered.

Then: “Want to sit in it?”

Charles hesitated. The question echoed.

Then, slowly—achingly—he did.

Not nostalgia. Not fantasy. Just muscle memory. Bone memory. He moved without thinking—radio toggles, brake bias, phantom gear shifts. For a moment, he was a driver again.

And when the ache returned, when it was time to leave the cockpit, Christian didn’t rush him. Just offered a steadying hand.

As Charles rose from the seat, slow and deliberate, he looked around the garage. He didn’t see doubt anymore. Just eyes watching.

Not a ghost. Not a relic.

A man who still mattered.

December

The building quieted. Off-season lull. But the work never really stopped.

Ferrari had its two drivers. Its new engineer. Its future whispered through hallways lined in silver plaques.

Christian had been busy too—rebuilding Ferrari from the very foundations. Not just the drivers. Not just the technical leads. But the intern engineers, the logistics coordinators, the team that kept the factory running in the dead of night. Every layer inspected, adjusted, reinforced. He wasn’t just polishing the crest. He was rebuilding the shield.

He reshaped the culture. Quietly removed the egos, raised the unheard. Promoted from within. Balanced the old guard with a new generation. Hired people who didn’t just love racing—but loved learning. Loved failing forward. Charles saw it in the way the floor mechanic ran simulations with the new aero interns. Saw it in the quiet nods of respect from staff who remembered him from his very first test in Fiorano.

Ferrari wasn’t just surviving.

It was evolving.

Charles stood under a skylight, looking at the SF-26. It wasn’t his.

But it had been.

He stepped back into the light. Someone upstairs watched. Young. Wide-eyed. A silent recognition passed between them.

Charles didn’t wave.

He nodded.

And something passed down—something unspoken.

The silence behind him felt full. Reverent.

It wasn’t about what he had been. It was about what he still was. What he chose to become.

Ferrari had changed. And so had he.

Both had been broken—scraped to the bone, doubted, left to rebuild in the silence.

And now, here they stood.

Not perfect. Not untouched.

But stronger in the places that mattered.

This was the future he was looking at. Not just his, but Ferrari’s too.

He could feel it humming through the walls. In the polished floors. In the late-night strategy briefings that stretched into dawn. In the faint trace of Enzo’s voice still lingering in old interviews: You don’t predict the future. You build it.

Charles understood now.

Una squadra, un sogno.

One team. One dream.

He paused at the door. Whispered it like a prayer.

“Mon cœur est encore ici.”

My heart is still here

One week after New Year’s

People were still enjoying the tail end of their holidays. But the factory was buzzing now—not with noise, but momentum.

This year, everything started earlier.

The SF-26 had already been sealed into its container, bound for Barcelona. For the first time in years, Formula 1 had granted extra testing time—a five-day window at the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, offered in quiet acknowledgment that 2026 wasn’t just another season. It was a recalibration. A reinvention. New power units. New chassis. New everything.

Ferrari, like the rest of the grid, had been racing time just to make it.

Charles had spent hours finalizing run programs for the Spanish sessions—cold-weather simulations, energy recovery models, brake heat tolerances, weather contingencies. The window was short: five days, with each team allowed just three of their choosing. Enough to glimpse the truth. Not enough to perfect it.

But maybe that was the point.

He moved through the corridors slower than most—his gait careful, his cane tapping a steady metronome—but every time he passed, people paused. Just briefly. Enough to nod, to meet his eye, to offer a quiet "Buona fortuna" or a simple thumbs-up. Not out of pity.

Out of respect.

In the strategy office, he reviewed the schedule one last time. Stints were color-coded. Fuel weights adjusted. Cooling expectations matched to forecasted humidity in Barcelona. Bahrain would follow in February, with two full sessions, but the first test—the one that would matter most—was days away now.

He paused by the windows overlooking the loading bay. Crates were sealed and labeled. The chassis sat like a crown jewel among them, half-covered in red.

He rested one hand on the glass.

Both of them—he and Ferrari—had been rebuilt. Not just repaired. Reimagined.

Both had been broken—scraped to the bone, doubted, left to rebuild in the silence.

And now, they were ready.

Not flawless. Not unscarred.

But ready, all the same.

Chapter Text

January 2026
Barcelona, Spain – Preseason Testing

Ever since Daniel had offhandedly mentioned that Pierre might know something about Charles coming back to the paddock, Pierre had found himself subjected to a version of Max Verstappen he didn’t know existed. Not the four-time World Champion. Not the cool operator with perfect racecraft.

No—this Max was relentless.

Pushy. Impatient. Weirdly chatty. Like a spaniel with a Red Bull addiction.

They’d known each other for years, sure. Swapped elbows. Survived Brazil 2019 without throwing punches. They’d even been teammates for half a season, back when Red Bull swapped him mid-year in 2019—a chaotic time Pierre didn’t exactly look back on fondly. They weren’t friends. Not like Max and Lando. Not like Charles and Pierre.

And yet, ever since that comment slipped out, Max had been in his inbox nearly every day.

It had started light:

“Heard anything?”

“You’d tell me, right?”

“Don’t make me beg.”

Then came the less subtle ones:

“I know something’s going on.”

“If you’re keeping secrets, I’ll find out anyway.”

“Pierre, I swear to God.”

Pierre had half a mind to block him.

But he didn’t.

Because beneath the sarcasm and snark, there was something else. Something raw. Uneasy. A kind of quiet desperation Max didn’t know how to say out loud.

And Pierre—begrudgingly—understood that.

He’d promised Charles he’d keep quiet. Not just about his return to the paddock, but the whole internal reshuffle. The Christian Horner news. The tech team revamp. The unspoken plan that had been brewing inside Ferrari’s walls for months. He wouldn’t have said anything, even without the promise.

Still.

A five-minute heads-up wouldn’t kill anyone.

He found Max pacing near the Montmeló paddock entrance, hunched against the crisp Catalan air, thumbs flying like he was texting God himself.

Pierre nudged his shoulder. “You might wanna look up.”

Max didn’t even pause. “Unless it’s new rear suspension geometry, I’m not interested.”

Pierre smirked. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Five minutes later, the paddock buzzed—not with engines or chatter, but the collective hum of phones vibrating in pockets.

Not from the FIA app. Not a timing update. Not weather.

No.

It was a post.

Actually—three.

Ferrari – 2026 Preseason Begins.

The first one was generic. A wide shot of the garage doors sliding open at sunrise. A montage of pit crew hands, matte crimson paint, sparks flying in slow motion. Standard hype edit. Max barely glanced at it.

The second?

Max had known that one was coming. He’d known for months.

A still image: Christian Horner, Team Principal – Scuderia Ferrari.
Red tie, white shirt, arms crossed in front of the Ferrari logo.

Christian had met with Max privately after the summer break last year. Told him personally, before the press got wind of it. Said Ferrari needed restructuring and he was going to anchor it—and that Max deserved to hear it straight from him.

That post didn’t surprise him.

The third one did.

Charles Leclerc – Race Engineer, Car #29.

A photo. Just one.

Charles stood near the edge of the Barcelona circuit, in the golden light of a Mediterranean winter morning. The sky pale blue above him. Red Ferrari team polo. Radio clipped to his belt. Cane in hand. Shoulders square. Chin up.

He wasn’t smiling wide.

But he was there. Present. Grounded.

Alive.

Back.

Max’s thumb froze on the screen.

His heart did something weird in his chest—jumped, maybe. Folded. Collapsed, then rebuilt.

Pierre didn’t even look at him. Just sipped his coffee, “Told you.”

Max didn’t respond.

He was already moving.

The cold hung lightly in the air—sharp, but bearable. The Catalan wind teased the flags above the pit lane, setting them into a soft, fluttering rhythm. Charles leaned just slightly on his cane—not from weakness, but control. His balance was good today.

Beside him, one of the engineers reviewed pit entry deltas, voice low and steady, but Charles wasn’t listening.

The session was closed to media. No cameras. No reporters. Just the teams, the data, the silence between gear shifts. It should’ve made everything feel easier—less performative, less exposed.

And yet, his eyes kept drifting.

He wasn’t nervous. Not exactly.

But something felt imminent.

Like the shift before a storm.

Like breath held between seconds.

Like he was expecting something—someone—before he even knew he was waiting.

And when he finally saw the movement in his peripheral vision—

At first, it was just a blur. Fast. Focused. Someone breaking from the paddock crowd, crossing toward the track walk path like it was personal.

It took a second for Charles to recognize the shape of him.

Then: Max.

Running.

Not striding. Not walking. Running.

Charles blinked.

For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it.

The winter light. The morning haze. Some strange mirage of the past, conjured by memory and adrenaline.

But no. It was real.

Max was coming straight toward him, chest rising, backpack slung haphazardly, face flushed not from heat but something else—something frantic.

Charles felt something shift low in his chest.

Not pain. Not fear. Just… movement.

Like a pressure valve loosening. Like something unfreezing.

He hadn’t seen Max in person since—

He thought Max would knock on his door eventually. But he’d kept his distance. Held that impossible line between too much and not enough. Never pushed, never called. Just waited. Patient. Loyal. Tragic.

Until now.

Now, here he was—running, not walking, across the paddock like something had finally snapped.

Charles felt something shift again. A slow unwinding in his chest. Like breath after holding it too long. Like a match catching fire.

Maybe this was the perfect moment he hadn’t known he was waiting for.

Maybe it was better than anything he’d imagined.

Because Max wasn’t coming as the version Charles had constructed in his mind—careful, uncertain, half-measured.

He was coming as himself. Fast. Focused. Desperate. So real.

The engineer beside him asked something. Charles didn’t hear. Didn’t answer.

Max was getting closer now. Slowing. Charles felt the air shift around him—not wind, but Max.

And then—

He stopped. Just in front of him.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Charles tried to school his expression. Keep it professional. Steady.

The cane was solid in his hand—cool beneath his fingers, a familiar anchor.

He lifted his chin slightly, studying Max’s face. Older. Maybe more tired. But still Max.

Still the sharp blue eyes. The twitchy mouth. The way his shoulders always carried too much weight.

Charles smiled.

Not wide. Not showy.

Just enough.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Charles said. It was simple. Casual. Like no time had passed. Like the years between them hadn’t carved fault lines they were both still trying to navigate.

But Max’s brain short-circuited.

He opened his mouth—then immediately forgot what to do with it. His thoughts scattered like gravel under tires. The winter sunlight was suddenly too bright. His palms, too sweaty. His pulse, too loud.

He hadn’t rehearsed for this. Hadn’t thought he’d need to.

He’d wanted to visit Charles the moment he returned to Monaco. Wanted to knock, to say something—anything. But he hadn’t. Because he was afraid.

Afraid that showing up would be selfish. That his presence would reopen wounds Charles had spent years stitching closed. That he’d be salt instead of balm.

So he’d asked Arthur. Quietly asked Pascale. Sometimes, he just stood on the street below, watching the soft glow of a light in the window that might’ve been Charles’s room. Never climbing the stairs. Never ringing the bell.

He thought distance would be the kinder thing. The braver thing. But now, standing here, breathing the same dry paddock air, Charles in front of him—real, alive, impossibly calm—Max realized he’d been wrong. So fucking wrong. Because nothing about this hurt. Not the way he feared. It didn’t feel like bleeding.

It felt like breathing again.

“I—uh—nice track walk,” Max managed, voice cracking halfway through.

Charles blinked, then tilted his head, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nice jog.”

“I wasn’t—” Max cut himself off. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I work here now,” Charles said dryly, gesturing at the prancing horse on his jacket. His voice was calm, but his eyes sparkled, just faintly. Like he knew exactly how much Max was spinning.

“Right,” Max muttered. “Yeah. Of course. Makes sense.”

He shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how much he was sweating. He hadn’t even taken off his backpack. Or blinked, probably. Was he blinking? Was he—

“You look good,” he blurted, then immediately winced. “I mean. Better. You look—healthy. Not like—”

Charles raised a brow. “Not like I was dead?”

Max made a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh. “I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“But you thought it,” Charles said, a touch softer this time. “It’s okay. You’re not the only one.”

Max nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah. No. I mean—yeah.”

A silence followed. Not awkward exactly. But thick. Charged.

Full of all the things they hadn’t said. Full of the years between them.

Charles’s finger tapped once against the top of his cane. Then again.

Max’s eyes dropped. The cane gleamed in the sun—deep red lacquer, polished silver prancing horse at the top. Beautiful. Regal.

Expensive.

Max followed the line of Charles’s fingers. Pale. Clean. Exact. Deliberate.

And in an instant—

He remembered.

That dream.

That night in Monaco. Waking up wrecked. Charles’s name lodged in his throat. The phantom heat of fingers gripping his hips. Holding him open. Commanding. Gentle. Irresistible.

Max’s knees went weak.

He looked away, fast. Swallowed hard.

Charles didn’t comment.

But he stopped tapping.

From across the paddock, Lando Norris removed his sunglasses with the slow satisfaction of a man watching a real-time drama unfold.

Oscar Piastri, beside him, squinted into the sun.

“Is it just me,” Lando drawled, “or is Max Verstappen trying to flirt like a teenager who just spotted his high school crush at the reunion?”

Oscar didn’t flinch, but his voice was quieter. “Trying is generous.”

Lando smirked. “Look at him. He’s standing like he’s forgotten what legs do.”

Oscar tilted his head, tone dry. “He’s vibrating.”

“Poor guy’s cooked.”

“Overdone.”

“Charred.”

Oscar gave a reluctant grin. “We should send him flowers.”

But the smile faded almost as soon as it formed.

Because across the paddock—limping slightly, cane in hand, expression unreadable—was Charles Leclerc.

It had been four years since the crash. Four years since that impossible afternoon when everything changed. The stewards had called it a racing incident. The replays showed no intent, no recklessness—just bad luck and brutal timing.

Arthur had told him multiple times, gently but firmly, “He doesn’t blame you, mate. He never did.”

Oscar believed him. Most days.

But the guilt had never really left. It lived under the surface—muted now, but present. A quiet ache that flared up at unexpected moments. Like this one.

Lando glanced at him. Didn’t speak. Just stayed there beside him, letting the silence settle like dust.

Later that afternoon.

“You good?” Lando asked, appearing beside Max like he’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“Yeah. Fine.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You sure? Because from where I was standing, you looked like you’d just seen a topless Brad Pitt.”

Max groaned. “Shut up.”

“Seriously,” Lando pressed, grinning now. “You ran, mate.”

“I jogged.”

“You sprinted. Full Olympic pace. Thought you were gonna leap into his arms like it was a dramatic airport reunion.”

Max slouched further in his chair. “I hate you.”

Lando clapped him on the back. “You’re in so deep, Verstappen. It’s adorable.”

Max didn’t argue.

Because Charles had smiled.

And Max was already in freefall.

Chapter Text

Sakhir, Bahrain – Preseason Testing, Part II

The heat hit different in Bahrain.

Not the dry crispness of Barcelona, or the way Mediterranean air held the sun gently in winter. No—this was desert heat. Heavy. Blunt. It settled on your skin and stayed there. Even after dark, it lingered. It made every mechanic sweat through their polos. Made every driver keep their hydration bottles closer than their helmets.

It made Charles think too much.

Everyone had seen him by now. Said hello. Nodded. Asked how he was. Not dramatically—most drivers didn’t make a scene. Even the ones who had once called him brother. It was easier that way. Cleaner. Safer. But every polite nod, every unspoken question behind someone’s eyes, wore at him like sand in the wind.

Charles didn’t blame them. Not really.

He’d disappeared. Shut every door. Blocked every message. Not out of malice—but out of necessity. And then four years passed, and here he was again: standing in a Ferrari garage, voice on the radio, cane in his hand.

And they were still here.

Max. Esteban. George. Lando. Oscar. All of them, still driving. Still breathing the same paddock air, still living the lives he once shared—and had walked away from without warning.

It wasn’t guilt, exactly. More like a quiet itch behind the ribs. An understanding that he didn’t owe anyone an apology, but maybe… a conversation.

Or at least—something human.

He remembered what Pascale always said when Arthur and Lorenzo fought as kids:

A meal can fix anything. Otherwise, two.

So that night, after the long debrief and a slow walk back to the hotel—his leg aching in that familiar, annoying way—Charles took a breath.

And opened the drivers’ group chat from four years ago.

He wasn’t sure anyone still checked it. New chats got made every season. Numbers rotated. Rookie welcomes. Championship banter. Someone always created a fresh thread—usually Oscar or Lando. This one, though—it was old. Faded. Dusty with disuse.

Still, it existed.

Like a room he hadn’t opened in years.

He stared at it for a moment. He scrolled past a voice memo of Daniel singing off-key, a blurry photo of Lando asleep on Oscar's shoulder post-race, George’s shirtless karting selfie, Pierre’s rant about hotel pillows. Daniel’s last message, signed off with a middle finger emoji and a dolphin for no reason.

Then Charles typed:

Charles Leclerc:
bonsoir, everyone. I know I haven’t exactly been… around. If you’re free tomorrow night, I’d like to invite you all to dinner. No PR, no photographers. Just food.
Pascale always said a good meal can fix things. If not, we try dessert.
Let me know.

He hit send.

Locked the screen.

And assumed nothing would come of it.

But his phone buzzed almost immediately.

Daniel Ricciardo:
WHAT
is this a joke
am I hallucinating??
someone slap me
also I’m in Australia but spiritually already seated at that table with three glasses of wine
I’ll be thinking of you, mate 💜

George Russell:
I’ll be there.
someone tell Lando we’re dressing smart casual, not used car salesman

Lewis Hamilton:
Thanks for the message, Charles. I’ll come.

Valtteri Bottas:
currently snowed in at altitude
but I accept the invite emotionally
glad you’re walking back into the room

Oscar Piastri:
yeah. thanks for the message.
count me in.

Alex Albon :
Who’s betting on who cries first?

Pierre Gasly:
my money’s on max

Lando Norris:
bold of you to assume he hasn’t already

Esteban Ocon:
I’m looking forward to it, Charles

Zhou Guanyu:
I’ll be there. no question.

Fernando Alonso:
if you serve good wine, I’ll forgive almost everything
almost.

Kevin Magnussen:
damn. this almost made me wish I’d signed one more season
almost.
eat something expensive for me

Lance Stroll:
I’m in. glad you reached out, man.

Carlos Sainz:
do we get wine and therapy
asking for me

Yuki Tsunoda:
if there’s rice i’m not missing it

Pierre Gasly:
again with the rice yuki we are not at suzuka
(but he’s right. add rice)

Elsewhere, in the hotel gym

Max’s hands were shaking.

Not from nerves—just exhaustion. He’d been pushing hard. Chest reps, deadlifts, three rounds of cooldown core. The usual punishment he handed himself when sleep didn’t come easy.

But tonight, it wasn’t working.

Because his mind was still stuck on Barcelona.

It had been three weeks since that morning. Since Charles had said “hey” like no time had passed. Since Max had stood there—sweating, stammering, vibrating—and watched Charles tilt his head in that maddening, elegant way, cane glinting in the sun like a crown. He’d been thinking about it every day since.

And he’d messaged him after. Just once or twice. Simple things. Still No reply. Still Nothing.

Max should be used to it by now—but he wasn’t.

Because that morning had felt different. Because Charles had looked at him like he remembered. Like he missed something too.

But now—silence again. And worse than silence: proximity without access. Distance, maddeningly within reach.

He hadn’t been able to talk to him again. Just stolen glances. The occasional professional nod across the paddock.

And Max, who could handle high-speed collisions and media ambushes and team politics without flinching, found himself thrown by the weight of being ignored.

Across the gym, Yuki was mid-stretch, towel looped around his neck, scrolling through his phone when he paused.

“Dude,” he said, already typing, “Charles just invited the grid to dinner. You going?”

Max froze. Mid-set.

“What?”

Max stared at the message.

A dinner invite.

To the whole grid.

Not to him. Not privately. Just… a message to everyone.

Max swallowed hard.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That this was a reply, in its own way. That maybe it took everything Charles had just to hit send at all.

But still—something sharp stirred in his chest.

Why the whole group? Why not just—him?

He shook the thought off. Tried to bury it beneath muscle fatigue and logic.

Charles didn’t owe him special treatment. This wasn’t about Max. It was bigger than that—unfinished conversations, splintered friendships, four years of silence Charles was trying to piece back together.

Max knew that.

Respected it.

And still—jealousy bloomed quiet and stupid in his throat. Not angry. Just aching. The kind that tasted like hope turned inside out.

He didn’t hesitate, though. Not even for a second.

Max Verstappen:
I’ll be there.

The next evening

Charles had chosen the place himself.

Stone walls warm from the day’s sun, red-painted shutters, the smell of roasted spices drifting in from the kitchen. Pierre drove. He didn’t ask why. Just parked and handed Charles a mint halfway there with an, “In case you want to impress someone.”

Charles rolled his eyes. Kept the mint.

By the time the others arrived, twilight was folding in soft and violet around the courtyard. Lanterns flickered on above a long wooden table dressed in linen and laughter. No team livery. No cameras. Just shirts with too many buttons undone, sunglasses forgotten on foreheads, and the occasional arm punch from old friends trying not to say I missed you.

Lando immediately tried to steal someone’s chair. George vetoed him. Carlos offered wine. Zhou brought baklava “as a diplomatic gesture.”

Max arrived last. Not late on purpose. Just… delayed by nerves, though he’d never admit that out loud.

He saw Charles instantly—at the far end, standing like he belonged there and didn’t quite believe it. White shirt. Sleeves rolled. No cane—though Max spotted it leaned against the wall like a loyal dog.

Conversation quieted on its own as Charles stepped forward and rested one hand lightly on the back of his chair.

He didn’t raise his voice.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he said. “For coming.”

A breeze swept through. Someone’s napkin fluttered off the table and Pierre caught it one-handed without blinking.

“I know I disappeared,” Charles continued. “Not just from the grid. From the group chats. From… all of you.”

Silence. But not tense—more like listening.

“I ghosted you,” he said plainly. “That’s the truth.”

A snort came from the far end—probably Lando.

Charles smiled faintly. “I deserved that.”

“I didn’t answer messages. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t explain anything. And it wasn’t because I didn’t care—it was the opposite.”

His gaze dropped for a second, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. Steadier.

“It hurt too much to be near the thing I loved when I couldn’t do it anymore. And it hurt even more to see all of you still doing it. Every race replay, every headline, every photo from a team dinner—it felt like I was watching my own life keep going without me.”

Someone shifted. Zhou maybe. The wind swept gently across the table, threading through the candles like breath.

“I ghosted you,” Charles said plainly. “That’s the truth. I didn’t let anyone in. I was afraid. Afraid that if I stayed, I’d become someone you had to work around. Someone you pitied. Or worse—a reminder of what can happen to any of us, any day, without warning.”

He paused.

“I didn’t mean for the silence to feel like rejection,” he added, softer now. “But I know it did. And none of you deserved that.”

His eyes moved slowly across the table—Lewis, Pierre, Max, George, Carlos—pausing a fraction longer on Oscar.

“I know some of you asked Pascale how I was. Or Arthur. I got the cards. I saw the jokes you didn’t know if you were allowed to make. I felt the worry under all of it.”

He smiled faintly—tired, but genuine.

“I couldn’t answer then. But I saw it. And I carried it with me.”

Another breath. This one deeper. More grounded.

“This dinner isn’t about closure,” Charles said. “It’s about showing up. It’s about sitting at a table with the people who knew me before everything broke. And asking, quietly, if maybe there’s still room for me here.”

This dinner isn’t about closure, Charles said. “It’s about showing up. It’s about sitting at a table with the people who knew me before everything broke. And asking, quietly, if maybe there’s still room for me here.”

There was a moment of stillness.

Then, from halfway down the table, Pierre said quietly—simple, steady:

“There always was.”

A beat.

Then Lando, without looking up from his plate, deadpanned, “Okay but like… can we get starters now? I’m starving and emotionally raw.”

Laughter broke across the table—relieved, scattered, real.

George reached for the bread basket with mock solemnity. “To healing, apparently via carbs.”

“Best kind of therapy,” Esteban agreed, already pouring wine.

Fernando pointed at the bottle. “Only if we’re pairing it with something that lived in the sea.”

“Do olives count?” Oscar asked, nudging the bowl toward him.

“Olives are a fruit,” Yuki muttered, “and I want rice.”

“I swear to God,” Pierre said, groaning, “every dinner.”

But he was smiling. So was Charles.

He sat down quietly as the table filled—voices rising, wine glasses clinking, a breeze threading through the olive branches overhead. Laughter moved like wind. Someone told a story that ended in a half-spilled glass. Someone else snuck a second serving of baklava and tried to deny it.

And if Charles’s hand stayed curled around the base of his glass a little longer than necessary—if his eyes flicked toward Max now and then, and found him watching too—it wasn’t spoken aloud.

Because the room had already said enough.

Because for the first time in a very long time, Charles didn’t feel like a ghost in his own story.

He felt present. Seated. Real.

Home, if only for the night.

Eventually, the night began to thin.

Chairs scraped gently against stone. Napkins were folded. Someone uncorked a final bottle of wine, but it fizzled anticlimactically. Lewis and George left first, murmuring promises about catching up. Carlos followed. Zhou hugged Charles a little too long and didn’t say anything. Fernando vanished down the alley with a shrug and a bottle of wine.

Lando was tugging Oscar by the sleeve, halfway to the restaurant’s front steps. “Oi,” he said, spinning lazily on one foot. “You coming?”

Oscar hesitated. He glanced back.

Charles had stepped away from the table and now stood under one of the wrought-iron lanterns that lit the entrance to the courtyard. His shirt fluttered faintly in the wind.

“Oscar,” Charles said. “Just a minute?”

Oscar turned fully toward him.

Lando raised a brow. “Am I being ditched for a mysterious private moment?”

“You’ll live,” Charles said, not looking at him.

Lando sighed, “Alright, I’ll go stare into the abyss then.”

He wandered off. Oscar stayed.

Charles took a small step closer, the lanternlight catching in his hair.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Charles said. “But I needed to say something just to you.”

Oscar shifted slightly on his feet. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Charles shook his head. “No. But I do.”

The sound of passing scooters buzzed somewhere beyond the alley wall. A cat darted past a stack of crates. The city moved around them. The silence between them didn’t.

“I’ve replayed it,” Charles said. “The crash. The angle. The snap. I know it wasn’t your fault. But guilt doesn’t care about data. And silence just makes it worse.”

Oscar didn’t answer. Just watched him.

“I left space for something to grow between us,” Charles said. “And maybe you filled it with blame. Maybe I let you.”

Oscar’s voice was quiet. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to say anything. Or if I even had the right to.”

Charles stepped closer—not pushing, just real. Steady.

“You didn’t need to,” Charles said gently. “It wasn’t yours to carry.”

Then, after a breath, he reached out—slowly, deliberately—and laid his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Not heavy. Just enough to be felt. To say I’m here.

“I should’ve come to you,” he added, quieter now.

Oscar’s reply came out almost voiceless, throat tight. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Charles said. “That’s why I’m here. So you don’t have to keep carrying it.”

Oscar nodded, voice thick. “Are we okay?”

Charles gave a soft exhale. “We always were. You just didn’t know.”

Oscar let out a small, shaky breath—and, instinctively, reached out and pulled Charles into a quiet, steady hug.

Charles returned it. One hand to Oscar’s back. Firm. Present.

When they pulled apart, Charles smiled. “Take care of yourself. And I’ll see you on track.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. See you.”

Charles turned toward the street, the soft crunch of his footsteps against the gravel the only sound. Across the way, Pierre straightened from where he’d been leaning against the car—waiting, not watching.

As Charles approached, Pierre stepped forward, eyes scanning his face, not probing—just checking.

“Ça va?” he asked quietly, in French. Everything okay?

Charles gave a small nod. “Oui,” he said. A beat. “Better.”

Chapter Text

The sun over Albert Park was blinding and familiar—crisp air, eucalyptus drifting on the breeze, and the rumble of engines echoing off the water. Grandstands bristled with flags and noise even though it was just Friday's practice sessions. It was a perfect day for the season opener.

But all anyone could talk about was the man standing by the Ferrari pit wall.

Charles Leclerc hadn’t spoken to the media since 2022.

Now he stood in front of them—calm, composed, every camera trained on him like he’d never left.

He didn’t hesitate.

“It’s good to be back,” he said, voice smooth and steady as the shutters clicked around him. “And my goal remains the same—to bring the championship home to Ferrari.”

He paused then, letting the words settle, the weight of them unmistakable. His eyes flicked to the prancing horse stitched over his heart.

“Forza Ferrari,” he said clearly. And then, softer—almost like a promise—“Sempre.”

Forza Ferrari wasn’t just a catchphrase. Not when it came from him.

It was something more.

A vow. A heartbeat.

The words of a man who had bled for this team, who had nearly died for this team—and somehow chose to come back anyway. Not to reclaim glory. But to rebuild it.

To remind them who they were.

And maybe, just maybe, who he still was too.

In the grandstand opposite the Ferrari pit wall, the Tifosi stood as one.

It had started small—a ripple of red flags raised a little higher, a murmur as Charles’s voice crackled through the speakers. Then came the silence. A rare, charged hush, as he looked directly into the cameras and said the words they hadn’t heard from him in four years.

“Forza Ferrari. Sempre.”

That was when the dam broke.

The red-clad section of the crowd erupted—not just in applause, but in feeling.

Hands clutched banners tighter. Scarves were held over hearts. Grown men wiped their eyes beneath sunglasses. A child wearing a cracked #16 cap—one that hadn’t been washed since Monaco 2022—turned to his mother and whispered, “He’s really back, isn’t he?”

The man behind them yelled “IL PREDESINATO!” with his whole chest.

All around, the chants swelled:

“CHARLES! CHARLES! CHARLES!”

“LECLERC LIVES!”

“CAMPIONE PER SEMPRE!”

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t behind the wheel. To them, he still was Ferrari. Still their chosen one. Their broken prince made whole. A legend in red, standing tall with a cane like a sword.

And when the big screen replayed his final words—

“Forza Ferrari… Sempre.”

—the crowd answered in full-throated chorus.

“SEMPRE!”

In the Ferrari garage, Christian Horner watched from just inside the shadows.

He hadn’t planned for the media moment to be this theatrical. He hadn’t needed to. Charles didn’t stage things. He became them.

The cameras framed him perfectly, of course. The sun haloed behind his hair. The perfect side profile. The cane, deliberate and unflinching. The words—so simple. So loaded.

“Forza Ferrari. Sempre.”

And just like that, it was no longer a return. It was a resurrection.

Christian’s mouth pulled into a faint smile. Not smug. Not satisfied. Something deeper—pride, maybe. Or awe.

He glanced toward the garage entrance, where a few engineers had stopped working just to listen.

“That,” he murmured to himself, “is what legacy sounds like.”

Because no one commanded the crowd like Charles. Not even Vettel in his prime. Not even Schumacher at his peak. There was something different in how the Tifosi loved him. Not as a hero.

As one of their own.

And now—finally—he was back.

Not just as an icon.

Not as a passenger in his own story.

But as the one steering Ferrari’s future. Cane and all.

Christian turned, already planning tomorrow’s briefing. Already reworking the internal press strategy. Because now the whole world knew:

The soul of Ferrari had a voice again.

And its name was Charles Leclerc.

Daniel Ricciardo hadn’t expected the job to be this busy.

Commentary prep was a different kind of chaos—stat sheets, team briefings, scripted segments, sound checks, makeup dabs on his nose, and someone constantly reminding him to “stick to the talking points, please.” He barely had time to breathe, let alone catch up with his mates on the grid. If he’d known it would be this non-stop, he would’ve skipped the job altogether and just asked Max to sneak him in with a paddock pass.

Still. Home race. Melbourne. The fans were incredible. And the city still felt like it remembered him.

He finally got a breather between FP1 and FP2. The Red Bull staff gave him a knowing smile when he asked if he could stop by. They didn’t even question it—just pointed down the hallway.

Driver’s room. Quiet. Dimly lit.

Max was lying on the narrow padded bench, race suit half-zipped, one arm tucked behind his head, phone resting on his chest. His thumb scrolled slowly, lazily, like he wasn’t even reading. Just watching.

Daniel stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He didn’t need to look long to see what was on the screen: Ferrari’s social media feed. A looping clip from earlier that day—Charles on the pit wall, saying “Forza Ferrari. Sempre” with that steady voice and devastating calm. The way the crowd had screamed afterward was still ringing in Daniel’s ears.

Max’s expression didn’t shift.

“He hasn’t aged a day,” Daniel said lightly, settling into the spare chair by the door. “Still has the smile. Still has the posture. Still has… whatever that is. I mean, if you bottled that kind of charisma, you could sell it for a fortune. Maybe even fix Ferrari’s finances.”

No answer.

Daniel glanced over. “You alright, mate?”

Max’s eyes were still locked on the screen. “Fine,” he muttered.

“Mmm.” Daniel hummed, unconvinced. “You don’t look fine.”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose, still not looking up. “I was P3 for FP1. What’s not fine?”

Daniel leaned back in the chair, crossing one ankle over the other. “Right. Third fastest lap. Strong long-run pace. Low degradation. Everyone says you’re still the title favorite.”

He let the silence hang for a beat.

“Which totally explains why you’ve watched that same Ferrari clip five times since I walked in.”

Max finally locked the phone screen and tossed it facedown beside him.

“I was checking sector deltas.”

Daniel raised a brow. “Yeah? Which sector of Charles’s jawline are you analyzing?”

Max shot him a glare—halfhearted at best.

Daniel grinned. “C’mon, mate. It’s me. I’ve known you since you still had that awful hair in karting. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

Max rubbed a hand over his mouth, dragging his fingers down to his jaw. “It’s just… weird to feel this pull.”

Daniel tilted his head, already smirking. “I mean, I do know how much you’re attracted to him, Max.”

Max shot him a flat look. “I’m not—”

Daniel held up both hands. “Hey, no judgment. Trust me, if I looked like that, I’d be attracted to me too.”

Max groaned. “Dan.”

“I’m just saying,” Daniel grinned. “You’ve had the Charles Leclerc Bug since, like, 2019. The interviews. The podium glances. That one time in Brazil when he grabbed your arm and you forgot how to talk—don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“I did not—”

“You stammered, Max.”

Max leaned back with a frustrated sigh, tossing his head against the wall like it might knock the memory loose.

Daniel just kept going, amused but not unkind.

“And now he’s back. Looking like a Dior ad. Talking like a prophet. Standing there with a cane and half the paddock ready to kneel.”

Max muttered something in Dutch under his breath.

Daniel laughed. “Exactly. See? Even your curses are flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You’re so flustered.”

Max pointed at the screen. “It’s not about that.”

Daniel raised a brow. “Then what is it about?”

Max hesitated.

Then tapped the video again.

And suddenly, the teasing stopped.

Because when Charles’s voice filled the room again—Forza Ferrari. Sempre—even Daniel didn’t have anything clever to say.

Max’s eyes stayed locked on the screen.

Then Daniel exhaled, slow and low.

“Ah… you know,” he said, voice softer now, “I used to think that guy had magic in his hands when he drove.”

Max didn’t look at him.

“But it turns out,” Daniel continued, “it wasn’t just the hands. It’s the whole damn package. The calm. The discipline. That gravity he has—that thing where the whole room goes still when he walks in. Not because he demands it. Just because he is.”

“And the way he said he wanted to bring the championship back to Ferrari today…” Daniel shook his head, almost in disbelief. “There was steel in it. Not anger. Not ego. Just this quiet, unshakable certainty. Like he wasn’t hoping for it—he was returning to it. Like he already saw it happening and was just letting the rest of us catch up.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“I swear, if they offered me the seat, I’d take it in a heartbeat. No questions, no second thoughts. I’d race for him. Every lap. Every damn corner. Just to help him get there. Just to see him on that podium, Ferrari at his back, with that smile—the real one. Not the PR grin. The one—you know the one. The one that makes people believe again.”

He looked over, expression gentler now. Not teasing anymore.

Max didn’t respond right away. His gaze had dropped to the floor, jaw tight, thumb rubbing absent circles against the inside of his wrist. That clip—Forza Ferrari. Sempre—was still echoing in his skull like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

That’s what he felt.

Not just admiration. Not just longing.

Belief.

The kind that snuck up on you and wrapped itself around your ribs before you even realized it. The kind that made your chest feel too full and too empty at the same time. The kind that turned a single sentence—Forza Ferrari. Sempre—into something holy.

Max had heard a thousand speeches in F1. Victory declarations. War cries. Corporate scripts dressed up as passion. But this… this wasn’t performance.

Charles had said it like it already existed. Like the win was inevitable. Like pain and failure and broken spines couldn’t touch what he was building now.

And Max had believed him.

For a second—a terrifying, electric second—he saw it. The championship. The redemption. The podium drenched in red and gold and Charles’s smile breaking open the sky.

And worse—he wanted to be there.

Not on the sidelines.

Beside him.

He blinked, dragged a hand down his face.

No. No. That wasn’t how this worked.

Red Bull was his team. The only one that had ever fought for him, trusted him, built around him. The team he’d bled with. Grown up with. Won everything with. He owed them.

This wasn’t about Charles.

It couldn’t be.

Max cleared his throat, sat a little straighter, forced his voice into something almost casual.

“He’s always been good at saying the right thing.”

But Max could still feel it—that echo in his chest. The pull. The wrongness of brushing it off.

Daniel didn’t push. Just nodded, slow and knowing.

“I mean,” he said lightly, “I can be good at saying things too. Just… maybe not the right things.”

Max let out a faint huff of air—almost a laugh.

Daniel shrugged. “I didn’t expect the commentator job to be like this, you know. All this emotional insight and deep paddock pain. But hey—at least I get to sit in an air-conditioned box and make fun of you on live TV.”

“Great,” Max muttered. “Can’t wait to hear that.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” Daniel said, all sunshine again. “I’ve already got a whole segment planned: ‘Max Verstappen—Emotionally Compromised or Just Flustered by a Hot Race Engineer?’”

Max shot him a look, sharp but too tired to sting. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would,” Daniel grinned. “But I won’t. Because I like my face the way it is.”

Max tilted his head. “Good call.”

Daniel chuckled. “Besides, it’s not news to anyone, mate. The way you look at him? Half the internet’s already writing wedding vows.”

Max didn’t respond. Didn’t roll his eyes. Just looked down again, jaw flexing once.

Because the thing about Charles wasn’t just that he pulled people in.

It was that, once you were caught in his orbit, you never really left it.

Daniel watched him for a moment longer, the grin fading into something gentler.

“Take care of yourself, mate,” he said quietly, rising from the chair.

Max gave a small nod. Didn’t look up.

Daniel didn’t push. Just patted his shoulder once, solid and brief, then headed for the door.

He paused with his hand on the handle.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added, voice low. “But whatever that was just now… it matters. Doesn’t mean you have to act on it. Just… don’t pretend it didn’t hit you.”

Max didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The room was already full of things he wasn’t saying.

When the door clicked shut behind Daniel, Max finally exhaled.

Long. Shaky.

Then slowly, he turned the phone back over.

And hit play one more time.

Chapter Text

Saturday FP3

Max Verstappen stood beside his RB22 as mechanics made final checks.

FP3 wasn’t supposed to mean much. But it did today.

Because today, everything felt off.

Not the car—it was fine. Setup decent. Balance manageable. P3 was on the board, the pace was there. But the voice in Max’s ear?

Wrong.

Mateo—his new race engineer for 2026—was technically brilliant. Knew every telemetry string inside out. Had practically lived in the wind tunnel simulator for two years. But this was only his third live weekend trackside. And it showed.

“You’re three millimeters off the curb apex exit on 7. That’s a 0.042 loss in compound integrity.”

Max blinked inside his helmet. “I felt that. Just give me deltas next time.”

A pause. Then Mateo’s voice again: “Understood. But that correction would stack with degradation gains. Worth logging.”

Max sighed.

It wasn’t that Mateo was bad. He just wasn’t GP.

And worse—he wasn’t Charles.

FP3 Results – Top 5:
Max Verstappen – Red Bull
Oliver Bearman – Ferrari
Lando Norris – McLaren
Oscar Piastri – McLaren
Noah Ferreti – Ferrari

Noah climbed out of the car after FP3 with a shake of his head. “I could’ve been top three.”

“You overcorrected in Turn 11,” Charles said coolly, tablet in hand. “You fought the car instead of trusting it.”

Noah bristled. “It was understeering.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Because you braked twelve meters too late.”

Noah glared, unstrapping his gloves. “Maybe you should get in the car and show me, then.”

Silence.

Then Charles said, quiet but cutting, “If I could—I would’ve lapped you.”

The garage went still.

Noah didn’t respond. Just turned away and muttered something under his breath.

Charles didn’t look up from the data stream.

QUALIFYING – Saturday Evening

The temperature dipped slightly as the sun sank behind the trees, but the tension didn’t.

Ferrari’s pit box buzzed with quiet control. The red team had already sent both drivers through Q1 cleanly—Noah on the edge, Bearman comfortable. Charles was unblinking beside the pit wall screen, hands on the data console, cane braced against the wall.

Across the way, Red Bull felt colder. More… procedural.

Mateo’s voice droned through Max’s comms. Calm, fast, technical.

“You’re losing time into sector two due to variable steering input on corner entry. We can compensate with mode six, but you’ll need to adjust turn-in timing manually for lap two.”

Max grit his teeth. “Just give me the lap delta and switch plan.”

“Confirmed. But you’re already above predicted pace. No strategy change necessary unless—”

Max cut the radio. He needed clarity. Not calculus.

Q2 – Clean session.

Oliver went purple. Max stayed fast. Noah, under pressure again, sat P11 with ninety seconds left.

Charles’s voice didn’t rise—but the words hit harder than any yell.

“You have the tools. Now use them.”

Noah delivered.

One push lap. Green in sectors one and two. Clean enough to slip into P6.

Charles didn’t smile. Just watched the data like he was reading a story no one else could see.

Q3 – Final Shootout

The lights turned white-hot. The circuit buzzed.

Max went early. Laid down a near-perfect banker.

1:16.280

Noah chased it. Oliver hovered close. McLaren couldn’t answer.

Charles’s voice cut through Ferrari comms with sharp efficiency.

“Push fully. You have margin in Turn 6 and 9. Don’t waste time doubting.”

Noah responded. He drove like a man trying to prove something—not just to Charles, but to the world.

Purple sector one. Green sector two.

But on the final chicane, he clipped too much curb.

Across the line—

P2.

Qualifying Top 5:
Max Verstappen – Red Bull
Noah Ferreti – Ferrari
Oliver Bearman – Ferrari
Lando Norris – McLaren
Oscar Piastri – McLaren

Max parked the car in parc fermé, pulling his gloves off with more force than needed. He climbed out, gave the usual wave to the cameras.

Then he looked across.

Charles stood at the front of the Ferrari pit wall, cane tucked behind him, headset off, arms crossed. Watching.

Not smiling.

Just watching.

They locked eyes.

Charles didn’t look away.

And neither did Max.

The trailer rumbled slowly along Albert Park’s main straight, a glinting parade of fireproofs, aviators, and practiced smiles. Fans pressed against the fences, flags waving high—papaya orange, Ferrari red, Red Bull blue. The late summer sun shimmered off every helmet visor, every polished driver boot.

Cameras followed from every angle. Reporters hustled alongside, shouting questions over the sound of engines and anthem drums.

“Charles Leclerc’s return to Ferrari—not as a driver, but as a race engineer—has stirred up quite the conversation across the grid,” one Sky reporter called out. “Oscar, what do you make of it?”

Oscar Piastri, perched on the edge of the trailer, grinned beneath his cap.

“I told Charles yesterday—if he ever gets sick of Ferrari, there’s a spot open at McLaren. I’d have him as my race engineer in a heartbeat.”

Lando nearly choked on his water. “Mate. Subtlety?”

Oscar shrugged. “What? I’m just being honest.”

Fernando Alonso, two rows down, leaned into a passing boom mic. “Takes guts, coming back. After all he’s been through.”

“Titanium,” muttered Alex Albon, sparking quiet laughter.

From the other end of the trailer, George Russell gave a small nod. “He was always sharp on feedback. I’m not surprised he found his way back in through the headset.”

Pierre grinned and turned to the front. “Max, what do you think?”

Max Verstappen, arms crossed, sunglasses low on his nose, hadn’t said a word so far. He flicked his gaze toward the camera, then away again.

“He’s Ferrari,” Max said. “Always has been.”

That drew a murmur—part surprise, part curiosity.

Lando grinned wider. “Someone sounds territorial.”

Max didn’t rise to it. He just turned his gaze toward the scarlet wall of the Ferrari garage in the distance, where Charles stood in his headset and team shirt, unreadable and calm.

“They’re lucky to have him,” Max added quietly.

LIVE RACE BROADCAST

“Welcome to the 2026 Australian Grand Prix! The first race of a new season, and already the headlines have been nonstop: Max Verstappen still at Red Bull for his final contracted year, Ferrari’s team overhaul under Christian Horner, and the stunning return of Charles Leclerc—this time, calling the shots from the pit wall.”

“It’s a stacked grid. Verstappen on pole. Noah Ferreti, Ferrari’s rookie signing, alongside in P2. McLaren’s Piastri and Norris right behind.”

“And let’s not forget—this time last year, Verstappen was chasing a historic fifth consecutive world title, but lost it to Lando Norris mid-season. A heartbreak for Red Bull. A career-defining triumph for McLaren.”

“Now, as the 2026 season begins, the pressure is heavier than ever.”

“Five lights on…”

The grid held its breath.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One—

“AND IT’S LIGHTS OUT—AND MAX VERSTAPPEN ISN’T MOVING!”

“Unbelievable! Verstappen’s car is dead on the grid! That’s a disaster for Red Bull—pole position and he’s out before Turn 1!”

The RB22 didn’t so much as twitch.

No engine rumble. No clutch kick. No surge of launch torque or slip correction.

Max’s right foot sank into dead throttle. No resistance. No vibration. Just the surreal sensation of stillness in a world already screaming past.

Cars shot past, jolts of color and violence. He flinched instinctively.

Then: sheer panic.

No feedback. No lights. No fuel rail prime. What the fuck.

He thumbed the start override. Nothing. Switched ignition modes, flipped the power rotary to MODE 3. Still nothing.

The dash stayed black. No torque trace, no rev indicator.

His stomach dropped. That cold, bottomless drop that only comes when you realize the machine beneath you has abandoned you completely.

“FUCK!” Max shouted over the radio. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

He jabbed every live circuit switch again—ERS toggle, reset, neutral clutch engage. Slammed the steering wheel. Hit the starter button manually.

Nothing.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! IT’S FUCKING DEAD—NOTHING!”

“Max, confirm system status?” his engineer asked, voice tight in his ear.

“I HAVE NO SYSTEM! NOTHING’S ON! NO LIGHTS, NO POWER—FUCKING HELL!”

He tried bumping the clutch and rolling slightly forward on gravity. The car rolled an inch—then jerked and froze. Some internal failsafe had triggered. Lockdown.

Max ripped one glove halfway off and slammed it against the steering wheel. His other hand trembled, still clutching the downshift paddle like it might revive the car if he held it tight enough.

Helmet tilted forward, chest heaving.

“We’re getting confirmation now—it appears to be a total systems failure on Verstappen’s car. Engine, hybrid, or both. His race is over before it began.”

And then—barely a lap later—another flicker of red on the timing screen.

“Hold on—we’re hearing the sister car has stopped as well! Yuki Tsunoda’s RB has pulled off at Turn 14—he’s climbing out of the car!”

Replay footage showed Yuki’s car rolling to a halt at low speed before shutting off entirely. Yellow flags waved again.

“This is massive. Two Red Bull power unit failures in two laps. Whatever took Max out may be systemic—and Red Bull will be in full panic mode right now.”

With Max out, Noah Ferreti had clean air, a perfect launch, and Charles Leclerc’s calm voice in his ear.

“Noah, we’re entering the target window. Box now to avoid the undercut.”

Noah replied flatly, “I’ve still got life. I’m staying out.”

There was a beat. Not silence—calculation.

Charles again, firmer. “McLaren is setting up for the stop. They will undercut you.”

“I said no.”

The comms clicked off.

In the McLaren garage, both cars were called in.

“Box, Oscar. Box. Lando next lap.”

Clean execution. Tires ready. Engines steady. Oscar dove in first, stop crisp and seamless. Lando followed the very next lap.

Inside the McLaren cockpits, the confusion started bubbling.

Oscar: “Wait—Ferrari didn’t box?”

Lando: “Seriously? He stayed out? That’s... bold.”

Oscar again, amused: “Or just stupid.”

Noah waited one more lap before boxing.

He came out behind both of them.

“And just like that—it’s Piastri and Norris out in front! Noah Ferreti, ignoring his engineer’s call to pit, has lost track position!”

By Lap 32, the situation worsened. Oscar and Lando pulled away on fresher tyres.

Charles said nothing.

Not until Lap 45, when Noah pushed to close the gap and locked up into Turn 3, flat-spotting his left front.

“Ferreti’s tyres are shot—he’s bleeding time. Ferrari’s race strategy was clear, but it was overridden by the man in the cockpit.”

Final Lap – Live Commentary

“This should’ve been Ferrari’s race after Verstappen’s DNF. But now it’s McLaren’s one-two: Norris leading Piastri, and Ferreti left nursing a wounded car in P3.”

“A huge missed opportunity—and questions surely being asked behind closed doors at Maranello.”

Ferrari Garage – Post-Race

The crowd roared for the McLarens on the main straight. Confetti cannons fired, gold and papaya raining down over Turn 1 as the two MCL40s rolled along the cool-down lap.

But Noah had already parked. His Ferrari sat beneath the P3 board—silent, still, and furious in its own way.

He unbuckled with sharp, jerking motions, yanked off his gloves, and climbed out of the cockpit like it had personally betrayed him.

No wave. No nod to the crowd. No glance at the cameras. He stormed into the garage, visor still down, helmeted head low like a bull about to break something. The Ferrari crew barely had time to move out of the way. He tore off his helmet as he passed the threshold and flung it toward the empty stool near his station. It clattered violently to the floor, bounced once, then rolled to a stop.

“Why the hell didn’t you push harder?” he snapped, voice loud enough to cut through engine whines and clinking tools. “You knew they were going for the undercut! This would’ve been my first win!”

Charles, still at the monitors, didn’t turn around. He clicked one more line into the telemetry. Then another. Then finally, slowly, faced him.

His expression was unreadable. His voice, razor-thin.

“I told you to pit.”

Noah stepped forward, still fuming. “You didn’t say it was critical!”

Charles’s eyes didn’t waver.

“I told you,” he said again. “You didn’t listen.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

The engineers froze in place. No one moved.

In the back of the garage, Christian Horner stood with his arms crossed, face unreadable, jaw clenched.

He didn’t interfere. Didn’t mediate.

Just watched.

Charles turned away, collected his notes, and picked up his cane.

Tap.

Tap.

The sound echoed against concrete and carbon.

Tap.

Then he was gone.

Noah’s hands were still clenched at his sides, breath still shallow.

That should’ve been his win. That was supposed to be his moment.

Instead, he stood in third place in a garage full of silence.

Christian finally stepped forward, low-voiced but firm.

“Come on, Noah. Let’s go to your podium.”

Noah didn’t move.

“Now.”

Max was already out of his race suit before the race was even halfway through. He stood in the media pen like a statue under pressure—calm posture, clipped nods, dark eyes focused somewhere far behind the camera lenses.

Microphones angled toward him. Journalists pressed in.

“Max, can you walk us through what happened at the start?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“I released the clutch and… nothing. No power. No lights on the dash. Just dead.”

“Do you know what caused it?”

“Not yet,” Max said. “Could be MGU-K, could be battery. Doesn’t matter. It died. I was a passenger.”

His jaw flexed.

“You looked furious on the grid—were you expecting something like this? There were reports of reliability issues in FP3.”

Max’s gaze sharpened.

“I always expect to finish the race. That’s the job. You don’t start a Grand Prix thinking the car’s going to die on you.”

The cameras held on him. Waiting.

“And with Leclerc back on the Ferrari pit wall, what do you make of how that played out—Noah finishing third?”

Max blinked. Just once. Then:

“Charles gave him the win.”

A pause.

“And he didn’t take it.”

He looked past them then, over the heads and boom mics and sponsor boards—toward the paddock tunnel, the direction of the Ferrari garage.

“That’s not on Charles.”

Then he stepped back, nodded once to the press officer, and walked off before they could ask anything else.

Chapter Text

Miami, May 2026

It was all surface here—mirrors and money, chrome stretched over concrete like a showroom smile. But behind every glimmer, the cracks were visible to anyone who knew where to look.

Charles Leclerc had learned to read cracks.

“Noah, your delta into Sector 2’s hairpin is off by three-tenths,” he said without looking up, eyes fixed on the telemetry screen. “You’re braking too late and over-rotating. That’s where you lost the fight to Oscar in qualifying.”

Noah Ferreti rolled his shoulders, arms crossed over his chest like a barrier. “Or maybe the tires just didn’t bite.”

Charles gave him a moment. Let it hang in the air.

Then, with that same maddening calm, he added, “Same tires. Same setup. Oliver handled it fine.”

Silence.

In truth, the car was good—brilliant, even. The SF-26 was the best Ferrari had built in a decade. A podium-finisher every weekend. It had just never been on the top step for Noah.

Because every weekend, something faltered.

And every weekend, Charles took a little more of the blame than he should.

A mistimed pit call? He’d say it was his misjudgment.

A poor setup choice that Noah had insisted on? Charles would phrase it as a collective oversight.

When Noah ignored delta instructions or pushed too long on degrading tires, Charles would smooth it over in the debrief, protect the team’s internal cohesion—because he still believed in building, not breaking. Still believed Ferrari needed unity more than it needed scapegoats.

But the weight was cumulative. Invisible, maybe. But not intangible.

Christian could see it in the way Charles’s shoulders curled tighter each week. In the way his hands hovered over the console, hesitating before keying in radio messages. In the way he smiled for the cameras but flinched when someone mentioned control.

From the engineers’ room, behind two panes of reinforced glass, he watched Noah pace the corridor like a caged animal.

“You’re not listening,” Christian said calmly, not looking up from the data. “He’s trying to keep you safe.”

Noah’s jaw worked. He looked away. “He’s trying to babysit.”

Christian turned, one brow lifting—not in anger, but in measured disappointment. The kind that cut deeper than rage. “And what are you trying to be?” he asked. “The prodigy who won’t take advice, or the driver who finally wins Ferrari a championship?”

Noah scoffed, but it was thin. Defensive. He started to say something, then didn’t.

Instead, he shrugged. A half-gesture. A deflection.

And walked away like none of it had landed.

Christian watched him go, then turned back toward the pit wall monitors.

He didn’t sigh. Didn’t curse. Just made a mental note of the silence Charles would carry again this weekend.

The silence of someone who always did more than he had to—because no one else would.

Oliver knocked once before pushing the door open, hesitating at the threshold of the telemetry room. “Hey, Charles?”

Charles looked up from his screen. His expression softened—warmer than it ever was with Noah. “Yes?”

Oliver stepped inside, holding out a printout, sheepish but hopeful. He didn’t need to say the obvious—Charles wasn’t his engineer. He had no obligation to help. And like every other driver on the grid, Oliver was also Noah’s competition.

“I’ve been struggling through Turns 7 to 9,” Oliver said. “Your notes from Suzuka helped last time. I was wondering if you had a moment to—”

Charles didn’t hesitate.

“Of course,” he said, already wheeling his chair back. “Let’s take a look.”

He had no reason to say yes. No obligation. But Oliver had asked—not with entitlement, not with expectation, but with openness.

That was the difference.

It wasn’t just the humility. It was the hunger. The willingness to learn.

Oliver didn’t treat Charles like a ghost haunting the Ferrari garage. He didn’t treat him like a legacy figure or a sad story.

He treated him like someone who still mattered.

Someone who could make him better.

The contrast didn’t go unnoticed.

Not by Max.

By the time Sunday arrived, the paddock shimmered under heat and tension both. Photographers moved like vultures, circling stories before they even hatched.

Max was standing stiffly beside his own race engineer, Mateo—eyes glazed, mouth pulled tight.

“Final thoughts before warmup?” Max asked.

Mateo didn’t look up from his iPad. “It’s all in the doc I shared.”

“I know. I read it. But maybe we could—”

“I need to finish checking tyre pressure projections.”

Max let out a dry laugh. “Right.”

He gave up. Again.

Instead of rehearsing race strategy or doing stretches like the rest of the grid, he stood there in silence. Until the camera found him.

The broadcast cut to him just as his gaze drifted across the paddock.

To Charles.

Charles was beside Noah, one hand resting on the young driver’s shoulder, speaking into his ear. Every ounce of his attention, every millimeter of his posture, was focused. Intent. Present.

Max didn’t even realize he was watching until someone behind the camera laughed.

“Looks like Verstappen wants to switch garages,” the Sky commentator joked.

The joke landed. The clip circulated within minutes.

The internet caught fire.

Screenshots. Replays. Close-ups of Max’s dazed expression. Edits with sparkles and soft music.

The moment went viral before the race had even begun.

Comments stacked faster than the algorithm could keep up:

He looks like a golden retriever abandoned and waiting 😭
Max when Charles talks to another man 😤
“Verstappen is down bad”—Sky Sports
Lestappen real. Again.
Charles got that post-crash Dom energy and Max is eating it up I fear.

By lights out, #MaxToFerrari was trending across every platform.

Even the official Ferrari account stirred the fire, liking a tweet that read:

“Tell me again he doesn’t want to be red.”

And someone clipped the broadcast moment with a slow zoom and piano music overlay—captioned simply:

The way he looks at him…

Max never commented. Didn’t even flinch when a media intern showed him the meme.

But later, when he walked past the Ferrari garage to get to his car, his eyes found Charles again—just for a second, just long enough.

And it was obvious.

He’d seen it.

All of it.

The lights went out.

Noah had a good launch. Not flawless, but enough to hold off Norris into Turn 1. Charles’s voice over the radio was calm, authoritative. No drama. No chaos.

Max had a brilliant start too, but by Lap 11, he was on the back foot. Again. Rear grip gone, and no explanation from Mateo, who insisted it was “within acceptable margins.” Max gritted his teeth and drove harder.

By the final stint, Max was fourth. Oliver had climbed up from sixth with relentless efficiency, pitting early and fighting hard.

Charles gave a quiet nod in the pit wall chair when he saw it.

Noah crossed the finish line in second.

Oliver third.

Max fourth.

And yet—it was Max in the media pen afterward. Shirt damp with sweat, jaw tight, sunglasses pushed up onto his head like he’d forgotten they were even there.

He barely glanced at the microphones as they were shoved toward him.

“Max,” one reporter began carefully, “your best result of the season so far. Are you satisfied with P4?”

Max gave a short nod. “It’s a step forward.”

“And yet,” another voice chimed in, “your body language suggests some frustration. Was it with the car today?”

Max’s eyes flicked up. Just briefly.

Then he gave a smile—tight, professional, too well-practiced.

“The team did what they could,” he said evenly. “Setup changes overnight helped. Strategy was clean. We’re moving in the right direction.”

“But still no podium,” a third reporter added. “Is that enough for you?”

Max paused. Just a beat.

Then: “We’re not where we want to be. But it’s not about blaming anyone. We win together, we lose together.”

A textbook answer.

But something under it—something restrained, coiled—made the air go taut.

Someone behind the cameras scribbled faster.

A Red Bull press officer shifted their weight.

And then, Max added—so quietly it almost got missed:

“Let’s just say... some things still need work.”

That night, inside the paddock hospitality, the tension cracked.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Leclerc lately,” Adrian Newey—Red Bull’s new Team Principal—remarked casually, scrolling through his tablet. “Some people are wondering if you’re… negotiating more than just friendship.”

From the start of the season, he and Charles had become—something. Not friends, not exactly. But a fixture. An orbit. Two bodies that always seemed to find each other between sessions, drifting closer with every race.

They walked side by side in the paddock like it was second nature now. Shared quiet moments in shaded corners. Debriefed in murmurs that didn’t belong to any team. Sometimes Max would find himself talking just to talk—about tire degradation, sure, but also about the light in Shanghai, or the silence in Suzuka, or how he got sunburnt here in Miami when he felt the most alone.

And Charles… listened.

Max’s brow furrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“We’ve noticed—strategic chatter. Long conversations. The optics aren’t ideal.”

Max stood up, chair scraping loudly behind him.

“You think I’m feeding data to Ferrari?” His voice was low and dangerous. “You think I’d do that to this team?”

Adrian didn’t answer.

Max’s jaw clenched. “The car is so fucking slow no one would want our data even if I gift-wrapped it. And the reason I talk to Charles is because—” he bit the word out—“he listens. He fucking listens when I say something’s wrong. You know what that’s like?”

Silence.

“I’m not the traitor here,” Max said quietly. “I’m just tired of being ignored.”

Then he walked out, the flap of the tent swinging wide behind him.

Somewhere outside, under the gloss of Miami’s artificial stars, Charles stood alone in the dark near the loading dock, one hand resting lightly on his cane.

Max found him without trying. “P2,” he said.

Charles turned slightly, lips pulling into a small smile. “P4.”

Max shrugged. “Better than I’ve managed all season.”

“You drove well.”

Max glanced at him, half-grinning now. “Well... I wouldn’t say the same about Noah.”

Charles huffed a laugh, almost despite himself.

“Max.”

“I’m just saying,” Max added, stepping a little closer, eyes flicking to the edge of Charles’s cane before returning to his face. “He’s fast, sure. But if he keeps ignoring your calls, he’s gonna find out the hard way that podiums aren’t guaranteed.”

Charles didn’t answer at first. Just looked out toward the now-dark track, the grandstands now empty.

“He listens,” Charles said eventually, voice low. “Sometimes. But he’s young. He still thinks instinct alone will carry him.”

Max’s gaze lingered.

“And you’re not allowed to say what we both know,” he murmured. “But I am.”

Charles turned his head slightly. Not defensive—just curious. A little amused. A little wary.

“Which is?”

Max didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

His voice dropped—not softer, but quieter. Honest in a way he rarely let himself be.

“That Noah only works because of you.”

The words landed between them like an open secret.

Chapter Text

Monaco always shimmered before a race weekend.Not just from the polished yachts and chrome balconies, but from something in the air—buzzing just beneath the surface. A tension. A rhythm. As if the city itself held its breath waiting for the lights to go out.

Charles walked with a steady gait, notebook in hand. Walking this track alone had always been something he liked to do—first as a driver, and now, again, as a race engineer.

There was something meditative about it. No noise. No pit wall. No telemetry graphs flashing on a screen. Just the road beneath his feet and the memory of rubber and risk stitched into every corner. He moved slowly, not out of caution but precision, eyes scanning the surface with quiet intensity. A faint line of wear. A manhole cover someone had painted over differently this year. A drainage grate shifted just slightly out of place since last season—nothing that would matter to a casual pedestrian, but Charles noticed. He always noticed.

The streets hadn’t closed yet—traffic still flowed in lazy evening spurts—but the scaffolding was up, the grandstands assembled. The track was beginning to take shape beneath the familiar architecture.

He’d done this walk before. Many times. Once alone, last August, not long after returning to Monaco. That time had been raw, a private confrontation with memory and fear. A moment carved in shadow.

That time he reached Turn One and stopped and without warning the moment in 2022 returned with devastating clarity: the flash of silver, the shriek of locked brakes, the world tilting as his Ferrari was lifted into the air. He remembered the weightless seconds—how time stretched thin, how silence wrapped around him like a shroud. Cold. Still. Endless.

Without ceremony, Charles lowered himself to the asphalt. Slowly. Deliberately. His left knee screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. His hand brushed the surface—this stretch of track that had taken everything. His breath trembled. His eyes burned.

He wasn’t here for anyone else. Not the cameras. Not the team. Just for the boy he’d once been. The dreamer who had never left this corner.

Kneeling felt like surrender—but more than that, it felt like release. Like closing a chapter written in pain and petrol and hope. Like folding a flag and setting it down with reverence. This was not just goodbye to the wreckage. It was goodbye to who he had been before it.

He let it wash over him—the grief, the pride, the quiet ache of all he had endured. The impossible weight of having survived when so much had been lost. And then, with a breath as soft as forgiveness, he let it go.

Not in anger. Not in mourning. But in grace—like laying down a crown that no longer fit, and bowing to the life that waited ahead.

He picked up his cane and rose, it was slow—but sure.

He looked at the apex one last time, and whispered, "Au revoir, mon rêve. Merci pour tout." (Goodbye, my dream. Thank you for everything.) Then he turned—not away from the past, but toward the future he had chosen with both hands.

Now he stood here. Same corner. Same curve. But the weight in his chest had shifted.
He slowed as he reached Turn One. Not out of fear. Just out of… respect. A kind of reverence, like nodding to an old opponent in passing.

His gaze swept the apex—fresh paint, no ghosts. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Then, under his breath, barely audible above the sound of distant traffic and sea wind, he murmured:
“Tu ne gagnes pas.” (You don’t win.)

He smiled—small, steady—then flipped open his notebook and jotted something down:
Slight camber shift. Wind curls earlier than expected.
Beneath it, in smaller handwriting—almost like a private postscript:
Still standing.

And he kept walking. This time, he wasn’t looking back.

The race weekend arrived with sun-slick asphalt and tight corners. Monaco, as always, didn’t forgive. It didn’t bend to pressure. It didn’t yield to ego. It punished arrogance and demanded precision.

And Ferrari, for all its pedigree, wasn’t immune.

The garage was tense.

The clash between Noah and Oliver had begun long before Sunday. During Free Practice, Oliver had questioned one of Noah’s braking lines over radio—technical, neutral, but public enough to bruise Noah’s pride. The reply had been terse. Clipped. Dismissive.

Then, in FP3, the two nearly collided when Noah cut across Oli’s cooldown lap into the tunnel. The moment replayed on social media before the session even ended, and the team issued a sharp internal warning. But the damage had already begun to ripple.

By qualifying, the tension was palpable. On the team radio, Noah accused Oliver of deliberately slowing on his out-lap to sabotage his flying lap. Charles reviewed the telemetry himself—Oliver had been following tyre prep instructions to the letter. There was no foul play.

Still, Noah wouldn’t let it go.

He brought it up in the post-quali debrief with clipped sarcasm and narrowed eyes.
“Funny how my laps keep getting compromised when he’s ahead.”

Oliver didn’t flinch. “Maybe pick better timing.”

The room went still.

Charles cleared his throat. “Telemetry shows no brake dragging. Let’s focus on race prep.”

But the bruise had already bloomed.

Noah had been irritable all morning. He arrived late to the Sunday strategy meeting, tossed his race boots onto the table, and responded to questions with shrugs or half-muttered replies. When the engineers presented tyre degradation models, he waved them off. When Charles offered a quiet adjustment to corner entry at Portier, Noah scoffed.

“I’ve driven here before, you know.”

Charles didn’t rise to it. His tone stayed even. “Yes. But never with 120 kilos of fuel and this downforce profile.”

Oliver, by contrast, was sharp. Focused. He reviewed his sector deltas, cross-checked with simulator overlays, took notes. He didn’t make a show of it. He didn’t need to.

During comms checks, Noah made his position clear.
“I’m not lifting into the chicane.”

“You’ll need to on heavy fuel,” Charles replied. “Or you’ll overheat the fronts.”

“I’ll manage.”

Charles didn’t argue. He just adjusted a toggle on his headset and wrote something down. Oliver caught the exchange. Said nothing. But his expression shifted—tightened. Like he was filing it away.

The tension between the two drivers had been building all season—elbows in meetings, silence in the cool-down room, passive jabs over radio. And Charles? He’d become the unwitting battleground. Oliver respected him. Noah resented him. And Monaco only sharpened that edge.

Every corner felt like a dare.
Every braking zone, a test of trust—or the lack of it.

By lap 68, Oliver had taken the lead with a brilliant overcut during the second pit window. Noah followed close behind—P2, hungry, impatient. He was pushing hard. Radioing for permission to attack. Charles held the call.

Then came the safety car.

A Williams lost engine power near Tabac. Marshals scrambled. Yellow flags waved. The field bunched. Everything compressed—tyres, temperature, tension.

Charles toggled through fuel modes and brake migration, then clicked into the comms.
“You’re P2 behind Oliver. Restart likely lap 72. Mind your temperatures.”

A pause. Then Noah’s voice, sharp and urgent:
“He’s slower in Sector Three. I can take him.”

“Not until the green. Wait for the line.”

Another pause.

“I’m not waiting,” Noah muttered.

Charles heard it. Didn’t respond.

The safety car peeled in.

Oliver led the train through Rascasse, then Anthony Noghes. Tyres squealed. Gaps tightened.

And just before the start-finish line—

Noah lunged.

Too early.

His front wing clipped Oliver’s rear tyre at full throttle.

The Ferrari snapped sideways. The McLaren behind locked up and swerved into the wall. A spray of carbon. Smoke. Screaming brakes. Yellow again. Then red.

Two DNFs.

Silence fell like a dropped wrench.

Charles stared at the monitors. His pulse thundered in his ears. He could feel it in his throat, his spine, behind his eyes.

“Both cars out,” someone said softly.

Christian Horner’s voice broke through the headset, low and flat: “Bring him in. Debrief in twenty.”

Noah stormed past the pit wall without a word, helmet still on, jaw locked. Charles didn’t move. Not even when Oliver’s car was wheeled in, half its diffuser dragging, shards of floor splintered like bone.

Oliver climbed out slowly, peeled his gloves off, and met Charles’s eyes just once—
and in that look, there was no blame.
Only betrayal.

Post-race, the fallout came fast.

The stewards handed down their verdict within the hour: Unsafe restart maneuver. Avoidable collision. Three super license demerit points.

The media pen swarmed.

“Christian, do you believe Noah’s move was reckless?”
“Do you still have confidence in him as a Ferrari driver?”
“Is the team considering disciplinary action?”

Christian kept his voice calm, practiced.
“It was an unfortunate incident. We’ve reviewed the footage and spoken to the stewards. Noah made a mistake—one that cost us dearly. But he’s a young driver. Part of that journey is learning where the limit is… and when not to cross it.”

“Was it a lack of discipline? Or pressure?” one reporter pressed.

Christian didn’t blink. “Every driver handles pressure differently. Our job as a team is to make sure that pressure doesn’t become self-destructive. We’ll be handling things internally.”

He moved on, but the tension clung to the paddock air like humidity—thick, electric, inescapable.

And back in the garage, Charles sat alone at the console, headset still on, watching the replay one more time.

Slow motion. Apex. Contact. The blur of red and white.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.

Just reached for a pen, turned to a fresh page in his notebook, and wrote:
Monaco: Both drivers out. No one won.

Then underlined it once—hard.

Christian closed the door himself. Didn’t sit.

Noah was already slouched in a chair, arms crossed, helmet beside him on the floor like a weapon he’d set down but not disarmed.

Charles stood near the monitor, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

“Speak,” Christian said simply.

Noah didn’t move at first. Then leaned back with a sigh that sounded more annoyed than regretful.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Charles’s jaw flexed.

Christian’s brow twitched. “You took out your teammate at Monaco. Cost the team a one-two. And nearly triggered a four-car pileup behind. Explain to me how that’s not ‘that bad.’”

Noah shrugged. “Oliver was slow.”

“He was leading,” Charles said sharply. “He was managing delta. On strat mode three. You were warned not to overtake until the line.”

“I saw the gap.”

“You created the gap.”

Christian moved closer, voice low. “Do you understand what you’ve done? This wasn’t a midfield scrap. This was Monaco. This was Ferrari. And now the entire paddock is watching to see if we implode.”

Noah scoffed. “The media overreacts. They always do.”

“That’s not the point,” Charles said. His voice was calm, but each word landed like a blade. “You ignored a direct instruction. You disrespected your teammate. And you made a reckless decision that destroyed weeks of preparation in under five seconds.”

Noah snapped his head toward him. “You always take his side.”

Charles blinked once. “I take the side of data. And the team.”

Christian’s gaze flicked between them, expression hard.

“You want to prove you belong in this seat?” he said to Noah. “Start acting like it.”

Noah scoffed again, but this time it was quieter. Less sure.

“Go shower. Press later. We’ll speak again in the morning,” Christian finished. “You’re not driving like a rookie anymore. That means you don’t get to crash like one.”

Noah stood, slow and deliberate. He grabbed his helmet without looking at either of them.

At the door, he paused—then muttered, “He’s not perfect, you know. Just because he talks like a spreadsheet doesn’t mean he’s always right.”

Christian didn’t flinch. “No one said he was. But at least he doesn’t confuse confidence with competence.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any outburst.

Noah didn’t reply. Just walked out, the door shutting harder than necessary behind him.

Charles didn’t move.

Christian glanced over, tone cooler now. “Don’t let that get under your skin.”

“It didn’t,” Charles said. “But he’s wrong about one thing.”

Christian raised an eyebrow.

Charles turned back toward the monitor, voice low, “I don’t talk like a spreadsheet.”

Christian watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet breath—half exhale, half laugh.

“No,” he said. “You talk like someone who’s been on both sides of the wall—and still gives a damn.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

In the Ferrari garage, the mood was grim.

Noah’s champagne had barely dried from the podium spray—still clinging to the scarlet carbon of the number board, still puddled around the soles of his race boots—when Christian Horner beckoned Charles with a sharp tilt of his head. No words. No eye contact. Just the quiet authority of a man who had seen one PR crisis too many.

Charles followed without hesitation.

They didn’t speak as they exited the garage. The noise faded behind them—mechanics too loud, cameras clicking, a Sky Sports boom mic trailing the rookie with his first F1 win. Victory should have tasted like fuel and glory. Instead, it tasted like steel.

They walked along the edge of the paddock, gravel crunching beneath their feet. The sun was dropping behind the Austrian hills, casting long amber shadows that stretched over freight containers and sponsor banners. The mountains loomed like quiet witnesses. But Charles didn’t look at the view.

He only saw red.

Red on the walls. Red on the flags. Red like the boiling point just beneath his skin. Like the flush that had risen to his neck when Noah shouted at him over the radio in front of millions. Like the blinking fury he’d forced down during post-race checks, data reviews, press avoidance protocols.

Christian stopped walking near a shuttered hospitality unit. The air was thinner here. Quieter. Just the distant thud of packing crates and a jet overhead.

“You handled it well,” Christian said finally, his voice low.

Charles’s expression didn’t change. But something in his jaw tensed. “I didn’t,” he said. “I let it show.”

Christian tilted his head, watching him.

“He made it personal,” he said. Not a question. A fact.

Charles didn’t answer.

Because yes—Noah had made it personal. Had turned a live team radio broadcast into a battlefield. Had questioned his competence, his strategy, his authority—knowing full well the world was listening. And Charles had held his tongue until the final blow, when all that was left to say was the truth: Do what you want.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a plea.

It was a withdrawal of trust.

Christian leaned back against a metal fence post. His gaze drifted upward for a moment, like he was calculating something in the clouds.

“I need to know if this is sustainable.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “What part?” he asked. “The engineering, or the abuse?”

“All of it.”

That landed like a stone between them.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. A forklift beeped in the background, carrying a crate of unused slicks.

Charles looked down at the gravel, then up again. “I can work with him.”

“But?” Christian prompted.

Charles’s jaw locked. “But I won’t let him gamble with lives just to feel like he’s in control.”

Christian exhaled through his nose, one hand braced against the fence behind him. “He reminds me of Max,” he said finally. “Early days. All fire, no brakes. You remember.”

Charles turned his head slowly. His voice, when it came, was quieter—but no less sharp.

“Noah isn’t Max.”

Christian raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Charles shook his head. “Max made mistakes. He overstepped. But even at his worst, he listened. He understood consequence—he just thought he could shoulder it alone. Noah doesn’t even see it.”

“He’s young.”

“So was Max. The difference is—Max respected the tools around him. He challenged us, he pushed, but he didn’t dismiss the team just because he thought he knew better. Noah doesn’t want a team. He wants an audience.”

Christian didn’t respond immediately. The wind picked up—just enough to rattle a nearby stack of crates. The kind of silence that came with uncomfortable truths.

“And you think he’s a danger?” he asked.

Charles didn’t hesitate. “I think if no one gets through to him, he will be.”

Christian’s lips pressed into a thin line. He’d seen it: the way Noah had taken Turn Three on lap twenty-three—against all advice. How close he came to locking up behind Lando. How little margin there had been between bravado and disaster.

Then, softer, with something unreadable in Charles’s voice: “And I’m not doing this again. I’m not standing in a hospital corridor because someone thought ego was a strategy.”

That made Christian’s eyes flicker. He remembered. Everyone did.

Charles didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

But then he added, for the record, “Max learned. Grew. Sacrificed. He earned his recklessness. Noah thinks it’s his birthright.”

Christian exhaled again. A tired, almost-wounded sound. “I’ll sort it out, one way or another,” he said.

Charles nodded. Not in gratitude. Just acknowledgment. A shift in pressure.

And then, almost absently, as if the thought had just arrived: “The worst part is, he’s got raw talent. Real pace. But if he keeps treating warnings like threats—he’ll crash harder than anyone expects.”

This time, Christian didn’t argue.

He just looked at Charles for a long moment.

At the cane.

That night, Max lay in his hotel room, lights off, the glow of the laptop screen flickering against the white ceiling like a ghost.

He didn’t move much.

Didn’t scroll his phone. Didn’t check the team group chat. Didn’t even bother icing his neck, though it had ached since lap 40.

The only sound in the room was the low murmur of the race replay. Austria. Red Bull Ring. His home track in name only. It had never felt less like it.

P6.

Respectable, the commentators had said.

A salvage job.

But Max knew better. It wasn’t just the finish. It was the entire weekend—off from the first run. FP1 had been delayed by a telemetry sync issue. FP2 was a disaster. They’d chewed through one too many softs and left themselves with no margin. FP3, he barely got clean air. In qualifying, he’d called for a last-minute wing adjustment and been met with radio silence.

The pit wall had missed two calls during the race. Actual radio silence. He’d had to ask about undercut threats. Had to ask for traffic updates. Mateo’s voice had cracked more than once. The hesitation bled through every instruction, every sector note, every delayed response.

It wasn’t just missteps anymore.

It was erosion.

Max rewound the replay again.

Watched himself dive into Turn Three. Watched the two McLarens streak by. Watched himself defend against George like he was wading through molasses.

Then he watched the Ferrari garage.

He paused the frame.

Zoomed in.

Charles stood at the pit wall, headset on, gloved hand tapping a screen. Calm. Controlled. Spine straight despite the cane. Every gesture sharp, deliberate, almost surgical.

Max hit play.

Charles’s voice came through—quiet, low, and final: Do what you want.

Max exhaled like he’d been punched.

That tone.

It hadn’t been anger. It had been something colder. Sharper. Something stripped of faith.

He’d heard it before—once. When he was seventeen. When Jos had screamed at him after a wet karting heat and told him he didn’t have what it took to make it.

Max hadn’t yelled back.

He’d just said it: “Do what you want.”

It was what you said when trust snapped.

What you said when there was no other way to leave the room but to shut it down from the inside.

He closed the laptop slowly, like handling something fragile.

Then he reached for his phone.

The call to Sebastian was the only one Max could bring himself to make.

Sebastian had been there—in the same seat, under the same pressure. Four titles. One team. One identity. And then: the exit. Ferrari.

Seb had lived this.

The screen flickered once, twice. Then steadied.

Sebastian appeared, wrapped in a navy sweater, light spilling in behind him through the window of what looked like a study. Books stacked behind him. A teacup just out of frame. The faint sound of birdsong in the distance.

He looked older. Softer. Settled.

“Long time,” Seb said, smiling. “Should I be worried that you’re calling on a Sunday?”

Max tried to return the smile. Failed.

He got straight to the point.

“The strategy’s gone,” he said. “Mateo second-guesses everything. Half our calls come in three corners too late. We burned through an extra tire set in practice. Nobody said a word about it.”

Seb didn’t speak, just leaned forward slightly.

“The car’s good—sometimes,” Max continued. “But when it’s not, no one can tell me why. There’s no pulse in the garage anymore. Just people afraid of being blamed.”

Still, Seb stayed quiet.

Max’s jaw clenched. “I’m driving blind, Seb. I’m carrying the whole thing, and I don’t even want to anymore.”

The last part cracked something open in his voice. It was barely audible, but Sebastian noticed. His gaze softened.

“You’ve outgrown them,” he said gently.

Max blinked. “But I built—”

Seb shook his head, patient. “You built what Red Bull used to be. The team that trusted instinct. That let you be sharp and wild and imperfect.”

He paused.

“That’s not what this is anymore.”

Max looked down. Ran his thumb along the edge of the phone. “So what do I do?”

“You leave,” Seb said. “Before it costs you everything. And you go where you’re needed.”

“Where?” he asked, voice low.

Seb smiled faintly. Not dismissive—just knowing. Like a man who’d been down the same hallway, opened the same door, and come out the other side bruised but better.

“I’m not telling you where to go,” he said.

Max’s brow furrowed. “But you went.”

Seb’s expression didn’t change.

“You won with Red Bull,” Max said, the words clipped, heavier than they should’ve been. “You had four championships. You were the team.”

“And then I walked,” Seb said calmly.

“Why?”

Seb didn’t answer right away. He took a breath. Tilted his head.

“I outgrew Red Bull,” he said. “And I knew it. I knew when I stopped feeling trusted. When I stopped trusting them. When I started showing up because I had to, not because I wanted to.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone quiet but firm.

“I wasn’t afraid of starting again somewhere else. You shouldn’t be either.”

Max stared at him.

“But it didn’t work out. At Ferrari.”

Seb’s smile curved sad at the edges. “Not the way I wanted, no. But I don’t regret going. I would’ve regretted staying.”

He let the words settle before continuing.

“Because you can’t keep driving for a place that no longer sees you clearly. That stops hearing you. That treats you like a legacy instead of a person.”

Max’s throat worked. He looked away again—out the hotel window, where dawn was just beginning to bleed across the skyline.

“You think I’m just scared.”

“I think,” Seb said gently, “you’re scared that leaving means letting go of who you were. But that’s the point. That’s growth. That’s legacy.”

Max didn’t respond.

But something in his shoulders shifted. The tension of someone finally allowing the thought to land.

“You’ll never stop being a Red Bull champion,” Seb said. “But maybe it’s time to stop being their driver.”

Max closed his eyes.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was full.

Then: “Charles is there.”

Seb’s smile didn’t change. But something flickered behind his eyes—recognition.

“Sometimes the right people end up in the same place for a reason.”

Max swallowed.

The screen went dark a moment later.

But he didn’t move. Just sat there, phone still warm in his hand, breath shallow.

He just sat in that silence.

And somewhere deep in the back of his mind, Charles’s voice echoed—

Do what you want.

It hadn’t sounded like resignation anymore.

Now, it sounded like an invitation.

Chapter Text

P5.

That was the result.

Not bad—not if you just glanced at the race sheet.
Not if you ignored the setup issues, the mistimed pit calls, the traffic pileups, the goddamn tire allocation disaster.
On paper, it looked fine. Respectable, even.

But P5 didn’t tell the story. Not the real one.
Not the one Max could still feel vibrating through the soles of his feet.

The car had been wrong since Saturday morning. The balance was all over the place—
Tight on entry.
Loose on exit.
Dead in the middle, like someone had ripped the soul out of the chassis and stuffed ballast in its place.

Especially through Turn 3—Remus. A corner he should’ve flown through. Uphill and wide and built for late braking.

Instead, the rear danced like it was running on guesses. Jerked left, caught, snapped right. Like something was fighting back under his hands.

He’d said it over the radio in qualifying: “Feels like we’ve got the center of gravity backwards.”

But no one had fixed it. No one had even acknowledged it. 

GP would’ve. GP always would’ve.

Now, inside the Red Bull motorhome, the debrief room smelled like tired electronics and stale espresso pods. The kind that had been run twice through the machine.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, harsh and white against the quiet cool of the Styrian night outside. Rain had threatened all day. The windows—fogged with altitude damp and mechanical breath—ran with slow trails of condensation. It was supposed to be their fortress. Red Bull’s backyard. The one weekend every year where expectations didn’t just rise—they sharpened. Where the pressure wasn’t whispered but broadcast, draped across banners and laced through every handshake in the paddock.

Home race. Home soil.

The Styrian hills echoing with engines and loyalty.

He could still picture the fans—soaked and stubborn, waving Austrian flags like absolution would come in red and blue. He’d seen the factory banners. The corporate VIPs. The special edition livery.

And now?
P5. At home.

It didn’t sting.
It burned.

The air felt heavier because of it. Not just with humidity—but with something denser. Guilt, maybe. Or failure. Disappointment clung to the walls like moisture, soaking into everything.

Max sat with arms folded across his chest, jaw clenched, boots planted wide on the tile like he needed to anchor himself against the urge to walk out.

Mateo was talking. Again.

“—sector degradation was within the predicted range, but we didn’t anticipate the shift in wind direction between laps 42 and 44, which led to some of the overheating and—”

“You didn’t anticipate?” Max cut in, sharp and low. “I told you the wind shifted. I said it—twice.”

Mateo blinked, caught mid-scroll through telemetry. “Yes, but the modeling didn’t update quickly enough, and—”

“You ignored me.” Max’s voice was colder now. Every word precise. Measured. Lethal. “Like you always do.”

The room tensed. Like wire pulled taut. Data techs stared at their screens. No one moved. The wall monitor hummed deeper. Somewhere outside, a flight case slammed shut.

Gemma cleared her throat from across the room. “Let’s stay focused. Max, we’re about to review the onboard. Driver notes next.”

“Fine,” he muttered. The word felt like gravel.

The screen flickered.

His helmet cam rolled first—Sector 3, Lap 47.

The tarmac of the Red Bull Ring blurred beneath a bruised sky. Rindt and Red Bull corners came fast and tight. Painted curbs gleamed. Turn 10 opened onto the straight like a dare.

He remembered that moment. Vividly. Remembered overriding the advice. Ignoring the delta. Trusting himself—because no one else had.

Then the footage switched.

Ferrari.
Noah Ferreti’s cam.

Max didn’t mean to listen.
Didn’t want to.
But then—

Charles.

“Still live. You’ve got margin. Don’t overdrive it—just hold.”

Max’s breath caught.

Cool. Unshakable. Clipped with just enough steel to command obedience—not demand it.

It wasn’t just what Charles said. It was how he said it.

The same voice he’d known for years—sharp, elegant, gentled at the edges when it wrapped around Max’s name. Not clipped like on camera. Lingering. Low and steady. Sometimes teasing. Sometimes quiet enough that Max had to lean in just to catch it.

But now?

Now it was weaponized. Honed. Precise. Uncompromising. No wasted syllables. No hesitation.

Charles sounded like the air itself listened when he spoke.

The clip continued.

Noah hit the apex late into Turn 6.
Rear twitching.

“Tire temp’s steady. Rotate earlier. Trust it.”

A second early.
The correction landed before the mistake happened.

Max stared.

Charles knew.
Not guessed.
Knew.

GP had never sounded like that. Calm, clipped, efficient—but never like that.
Mateo didn’t sound like that either.

Mateo sounded...
Afraid.
Hesitant.
Rushed.

Like he didn’t trust himself. Like he was still trying to earn Max’s trust instead of wielding it.

Max heard it in every uptick in pitch, every pause, every question instead of command.

No rhythm. No conviction.
Like someone who understood the car but had never felt it.

But Charles?
Charles commanded.
Mapped every phrase to the heartbeat of the machine.

He sounded like someone who lived inside the car.
Who read the track like scripture.

Max’s fingers curled around the chair arm.

He pictured Charles—
Red headset.
Arms folded.
Eyes like graphite.

Watching.
Calculating.
Knowing.

What it must feel like to drive under that voice.

To be seen like that.
Read like telemetry.
Trusted like truth.

He wanted it.

Before, he’d wanted Charles.

Now—
He wanted Charles as his race engineer.

God, he wanted it.
That voice—
Not just in his ear.
In his bloodstream.
In his bones.
Against his throat.

He didn’t even realize he’d tuned out until—

“Max,” Gemma said. “Are you still with us?”

He looked up, eyes flat. “I am. Just nothing worth listening to.”

The silence wasn’t sharp.
It was stung.

He stood. No final notes. No goodbye. Mumbled something about needing air. Slipped out the back corridor.

No cameras. No journalists. Just Max.

Hoodie up. Cap down. Shadow long beneath the floodlights.

By the time he reached his suite overlooking the pit straight, he felt stripped raw.

He didn’t take off his shoes. Just crossed the room. Dropped his bag. Stood at the foot of the bed.

Everything was wrong.
The car.
The strategy.
The pit calls.
Mateo.

The team felt like static.

No traction.
No grip.

He paced. Restless.
Sat down hard.
Elbows to knees. Spine curled.

Buzz.

He didn’t want to look.
He did.

JOS: You’re losing your edge. They can smell it. Sort it out before Austria.

Max stared. Locked the phone. Tossed it onto the bed.

It landed sideways.
Crooked. Like it didn’t belong either.

He pressed his palms to his eyes. Hard.

He knew this feeling.
The start of the spiral.
Fists in his hair.
Breath shallow.
Chest tight.

He needed something.
Something real.
Something solid.
Something that knew him.

He whispered it.
Barely audible.

“…Charles.”

He fumbled for the laptop.

Logged in.
FIA backend.
Internal archive.

Ferrari 29 – Leclerc – AUT 2026 – Laps 45–49 – Internal Sync Archive.

No hesitation.

He hit play.

Audio crackled to life—
Tire roar. Engine whine.
Wind on carbon fiber.

“Delta’s creeping. Brake earlier. Pick up the throttle sooner.”

Max inhaled.

Not soothing.
Charles didn’t soothe.

Precise. Clean.
Every syllable like a scalpel.

“Rear’s biting too hard. Adjust brake bias forward. Three clicks. Trust me.”

Max exhaled.

The spiral slowed.

His chest loosened.

“You’re half a second behind on turn-in. Wake up, Noah.”

There it was.

That clipped impatience.
That cold, unflinching dominance that didn’t ask—commanded.

No apology.
Just control.

Max sat straighter.

He’d opened the file to reset.
To hear certainty.
To remember what trust sounded like.

And Charles delivered.

His cock twitched. Once. A flicker of heat low in his gut. He didn’t chase it. Didn’t reach for it. Pressed it down. Let it drift.

Instead—
Set the recording on loop.

Brushed his teeth. Showered. Boxers. Bed. Laptop beside him. Screen dim. Still playing.

The hiss of static.
The hum of tires.

And through it—like silk drawn through wire—Charles.

“You’re good through Sector 2. Don’t overthink it. Trust the rear. Stay with it.”

Max’s fingers twitched against the pillow.

He didn’t need to respond.
Didn’t need to think.

Half-curled.
Eyes half-lidded.

Heavy. Tired.
But not hollow.

The space Charles’s voice filled—
Wasn’t empty anymore.
It was held.

“Stay calm. Hold the line. We’ve got you covered.”

Max mumbled something—barely a breath.

His lashes fluttered shut.

And eventually, that voice was the last thing he heard—

Low. Even. Steady.

The voice of someone who never let go of the wheel. The voice Max trusted.

Chapter Text

Max woke to the sound of Charles’s voice. Soft. Clipped. Steady.

"Front’s peaking. Brake bias forward. Two clicks."

The room was still dark, dawn pressing faint silver against the blackout curtains. The air was cool. The sheets twisted. His laptop glowed on the nightstand, half-lidded like tired eyes.

Still playing. Still looping. Charles.

Max didn’t move at first. Just stared at the ceiling, body sunk into the mattress like something had exhaled overnight and left him hollow. But not in pain. Not spinning. Just still. Like he’d been tethered.

"Sector two’s yours if you want it. Trust the balance."

The voice filled the room again, low and precise. Not soothing—but grounding. Like someone laying a hand on the wheel and saying you don’t have to crash.

Max turned his head toward the laptop. His chest tightened.

For a second, he let himself imagine it.

Waking up to this voice—not from a speaker. Not through headphones or stolen files or onboard recordings. But in person. In real time. On purpose. Charles, warm and real beside him. Not a ghost. Not a memory. A choice.

And suddenly, Max was back at the start of the season. Australia. The paddock sun reflecting off the red of Charles’s uniform, his voice calm in the media pen, saying—

"I’m going to bring the championship back to Ferrari."

At the time, Max hadn’t known what to do with the pull in his chest.

Now he did.

Noah still had the seat. But he wasn’t going to be the one to do it. Not for Ferrari. Not for Charles.

Max saw it clearly now—he was. He could be the one.

And it wasn’t about fate. Max didn’t believe in fate. He believed in effort. He believed in will.

And if he wanted anything—anything real, anything lasting—between him and Charles, then he had to move. Not hope. Not wait. Move.

That was the difference between dreaming and driving.

And that’s when the decision solidified.

Max sat up. Swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Planted his feet like he was getting into the car.

The laptop was still playing.

"Delta’s climbing. We can take them if you push on the outlap."

Charles’s voice again. Clean. Confident. Certain.

Max reached out and closed the lid. Gently. Like folding the sheets beside someone still asleep.

Then he picked up his phone and messaged Raymond: Call me when you’re awake. It’s time.

Raymond Vermeulen knew the look.

He’d seen it on Max’s face only three times before: the first time Max drove a Formula car, the day Jos handed him full control of his career, and the moment Max signed with Red Bull as a teenager, eyes sharp and unblinking across the table from Helmut Marko.

Now, post-Spain GP, Raymond saw it again.

They were back in Monaco, seated across from each other in Max’s dimly lit kitchen, a hardcopy of the 2022 contract spread on the table like an autopsy report.

"Clause 19.2," Max said.

Raymond raised a brow. "You read it all again?"

Max didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Raymond adjusted his glasses, scanning the line. His mouth tightened as he read:

"In the event of significant structural changes to the team’s technical leadership or a sustained decline in competitive performance (defined as 6 consecutive races outside podium contention), either party may request a formal review and initiate an exit negotiation, pending FIA mediation."

Legalese. Buried deep. Likely inserted years ago as a token reassurance. But now? Now it was a fault line.

And Red Bull had already ticked both boxes.

GP was gone. Christian Horner had stepped down after months of PR warfare. They’d finished off-podium for ten consecutive races. By the letter of the clause, Max had a case.

Raymond sat back, letting the weight of it settle. "We could challenge it. But you’ll lose goodwill."

"I’m not staying for goodwill," Max said quietly. "Not anymore."

Raymond didn’t argue. He just nodded once.

"All right," he said. "We do this carefully. Quietly. Start with smoke."

Raymond tapped the edge of the contract with one finger. Then leaned forward and grabbed his phone.

"No public sources," he said. "No paddock press. Not yet."

Max nodded, arms folded, gaze locked on the contract like it was a map and he’d already memorized every turn.

Raymond began typing, "We let it slip to one of the fan accounts. Someone small, but loud. Not a brand. Someone messy."

"Dutch?" Max asked.

"Too obvious."

"Then Italian."

Raymond looked up. "You want it to hit Ferrari first."

Max didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Raymond just smiled faintly, then returned to his screen.

"There’s a guy who runs a mid-tier account on TikTok. Posts mashups. You’re his favorite, but he’s obsessed with Charles’s radio this year. Lot of edits of them back-to-back."

Max’s eyebrow ticked up. "The one who cut the Suzuka onboard to Chopin?"

"That’s the one. I’ll feed him something."

"Subtle," Max said.

"Always."

Raymond’s thumbs moved fast. Precise. A crafted sentence, intentionally vague. Not a rumor—just enough to suggest something was shifting. Not enough to trace it back.

"Hearing rumblings Verstappen not locked for ‘27. Tension around leadership direction post-Horner? Wouldn’t be surprised if Spa tells us more."

He hit send.

Then pulled up a second chat—this one quieter. A moderator for an invite-only Discord where junior engineers and sim techs shared paddock gossip under burner usernames. Raymond dropped the same message, slightly tweaked, then signed off.

Max watched him work, expression unreadable.

"You sure they’ll pick it up?"

Raymond didn’t look up. "They’ll pick it up. And they’ll amplify it. By the time you touch down in London, half of Italian F1 Twitter will have a photoshopped image of you in Ferrari red."

Max looked out the window. The marina shimmered under the rising sun. The sky over Monte Carlo was the color of steel warming to fire. He could feel the shift already—like the gears inside him had finally caught.

"Good," Max said.

Raymond slid the contract back into its folder. "Next step?"

Max didn’t hesitate. "We make sure someone at Ferrari sees it. Quietly. No pressure. Just… possibility."

Raymond raised an eyebrow. "Anyone specific?"

Max’s voice was quiet. Steady. "Anyone who listens to him."

Raymond didn’t ask who him was. He already knew.

Christian Horner didn’t look up when the knock came. Just gestured to the screen in front of him as his assistant stepped inside.

"Put it on the big display," he said. "Let’s walk through the CFD overlays on the rear wing again."

But instead of wind tunnel projections, a social media post bloomed across the monitor wall.

Christian paused.

It wasn’t telemetry. It was Twitter.

He read the text slowly.

"Hearing Verstappen not locked for ’27. Leadership tensions post-Horner. Could Spa bring a shock?"

There was an image attached. Fan-made, low-res—but effective. Max. In Ferrari red. Helmet tucked under one arm. Eyes steeled, posture poised. The caption beneath: "Bring him home."

Christian exhaled—through his nose, sharp and low.

He clicked once. The image collapsed. But the implication didn’t.

He leaned back in his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin.

"Who sent this in?" he asked.

"Comms flagged it this morning," said his assistant. "It’s blowing up on TikTok. Discord. The Spanish press already published an article. No confirmations, just… speculation."

Christian nodded slowly. Speculation, yes. But not random. He’d been in Formula 1 too long to believe in coincidence.

Max and Raymond knew how to set fires with no visible match. How to build momentum without lifting a finger. Whisper once into the right hallway and let the internet scream.

Christian had seen it before. And he knew what it meant now.

The silence after Austria. Max’s stilted post-race interview. That dry, clipped “If it were just the car, I wouldn’t still be here.”

The smoke wasn’t drifting from Red Bull anymore. It was curling through his garage now.

And it wasn’t just about a driver seat. It was about Charles.

Christian looked toward the window, where the morning haze blurred the view of the Fiorano track beyond.

He remembered Bahrain. Remembered the moment Charles first stepped back onto the pit wall—calm, unreadable, spine steel-wired beneath tailored Ferrari red. He remembered Max seeing him. The way his whole body had stilled like someone had called his name in a language he hadn’t heard since childhood.

Now this.

He tapped a finger against the desk.

Silverstone buzzed under a low, heavy sky—the kind of grey that made the tarmac feel endless, as if the clouds had swallowed the horizon whole.

Charles stood near the Ferrari pit wall, headset slung loosely around his neck, eyes locked on the data tablet in his hands. His posture was tight, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched in a way that said he’d been up since dawn reviewing overnight sim data. His hair was slightly tousled from the wind and the wet, rain misting over the pit lane like static.

He’d seen the headlines. The edits. The whispers blooming across social media like weeds.

Verstappen to Ferrari?
Could Spa signal the start of something?
Smoke around Red Bull as Ferrari watches.

Charles had seen them all. And dismissed them all. Because rumors were just that—rumors. Noise. And Charles had gotten very good at tuning out noise.

Until Max approached like he wasn’t already running on adrenaline.

"Morning," he said.

Charles didn’t flinch. Just looked up, weary smile flickering like a worn-out match. "Morning."

Max nodded toward the screens. "He still not listening?"

Charles exhaled through his nose. "He overcorrects. Undercuts strategy. Doesn’t trust the tyres. I told him to lift in Sector 2 and he pushed harder instead."

A beat. "I just… wish he’d listen."

There it was again. That ache.

Max’s reply came before he could stop himself. "I’ll always listen."

Charles didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, still and blinking, like the words had snagged on something in his chest. Something brittle and buried.

The rain tapped softly on the canopy overhead. Mechanics moved around them, fast but blurred—white noise to the moment.

"I’ll always listen," Max had said.

Simple. Quiet.

But it cracked through Charles like thunder.

Because how many times had he begged for that? Silently, stubbornly, in the long months after the crash—in physio rooms and hospital beds, behind locked doors, through gritted teeth on a pit wall. Not for sympathy. Not even for understanding. Just… to be heard. To not have to fight for every sentence, every instruction, every inch of trust.

And now Max was offering it like it cost him nothing. Like it was obvious.

Charles looked at him then. Really looked. Max, in Red Bull gear damp at the shoulders, hair slightly messy from the mist. Eyes open. Steady. Like he wasn’t bluffing. Like he never had been.

A flicker of something dangerous curled in Charles’s chest. Not anger. Not longing. Hope.

It scared the shit out of him.

He turned back to the tablet. Let out a short, breathy laugh.

"Careful. Say things like that and people will think you want to work with me."

"Maybe I do," Max said, without flinching.

Charles’s grip tightened on the edge of the tablet. He didn’t look up. Didn’t let himself.

"Don’t joke about that," he said, too quietly.

"Who’s joking?"

That did it. Charles lifted his head—and there it was again. That look Max had started giving him more and more since Bahrain.

Not the calculating glint of a rival. Not the soft pity others sometimes wore. But something else. Something Charles couldn’t name. Or wouldn’t.

He forced a smile. Made it crooked. Dismissive. Something he could wear like armor. "You’d get bored," he said lightly. "You hate being told what to do."

Max’s voice dropped. "Not by you."

And for one breathless second, the pit lane disappeared.

It was just the two of them, suspended in the space between what had been and what could still be.

Then a mechanic called Charles’s name. The moment broke.

Charles looked away first. "FP1 starts in twenty," he said, turning toward the garage.

His voice was steady again. But his pulse was not.

Chapter Text

Silverstone always demanded a sacrifice.

Sometimes it was pride. Sometimes it was a car. Sometimes it was more subtle—a grip that vanished without warning, a brake zone that whispered promises and then betrayed you. But today, under low English skies and the kind of rain that blurred the world into shades of tin and pewter, Silverstone would demand more than that. 

Rain clawed sideways across the pit lane as the final notes of God Save the King dissolved into mist, slicing through the Northamptonshire morning like a blade. The Union Jack hung limp and saturated above the grandstand, its red, white, and blue drained pale by water and wind. The flat landscape beyond the paddock disappeared into a smear of hedgerows and fog. Track marshals huddled in bright orange suits beneath fogged visors. Camera lenses blurred. Pit crews sank lower into their headsets. The tarmac shimmered beneath the floodlights—alive, coiled, treacherous.

It hadn’t stopped raining since morning. Not heavy—just relentless. A fine English mist that never eased, never let go.

Charles felt it in his spine.

The ache had started around three a.m.—a grinding pressure, right at the seam where metal fused flesh, where his spine no longer remembered how to bend without pain. Not sharp. Not alarming. But persistent. Unyielding. The kind of pain that took root and hummed. He’d stared at the hotel ceiling in silence, listening to the wind rattle the old sash windows, convinced it was the mattress. The cold. The nerves. Something temporary. Something he could medicate into silence.

He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t need to. Charles had his systems. His drawer of options. Different painkillers for different levels of pain.

Paracetamol, for the dull aches—jet lag, long flights, stiff mornings after physio.

Naproxen, for inflammation—the kind that crept in after twelve-hour stints on his feet, too many steps through the paddock, or damp weekends like this.

Tramadol, for when the burn got sharp, when the plates in his spine or the reconstruction in his knee started to pulse like warning lights.

And Oxycodone—the one that lived in the smallest bottle, wrapped in the most caution. The one he rarely touched.

But today, he didn’t hesitate. Today, he took the strong one. Because today, there wasn’t space for anything else.

Not for the pain radiating up his spine. Not for the rumors circling the paddock like vultures—sharp-eyed, waiting. Not for Max’s contract. Not for whatever that had been on Friday—Max’s voice low, gaze steady, saying something that still hadn’t left his chest.

“If it’s you, I’ll always listen.”

Charles couldn’t think about that now. Not when Monaco had given them a double DNF. Not when Spain had left them stranded in P3 and P4. Not when Miami had slipped through their fingers. It didn’t matter whose fault it was. It had cost the team crucial points.

Ferrari still sat P1 on the Constructors’ board—but barely. Oliver held the top of the Drivers’ standings. Noah clung to P3 with white knuckles and too much pride.

But McLaren were coming. Hard. Fast. Unforgiving. Lando at P2, Oscar at P4.

And this was the second-to-last race before the summer break. If they wanted room to breathe in the second half of the season, they needed to put distance between themselves and fight hard today.

But it wasn’t just about McLaren anymore. It was about Max, too.

Because Max—today, in these conditions—was going to make Charles’s job hell.

No one underestimated what Verstappen could do in the wet. Not the media. Not the engineers. Not even Noah—brash, defensive, hungry as he was. They all knew. But Charles knew better.

He remembered.

2016, the karting finals—Max slicing through standing water like it was painted on.

2019 Germany—when chaos reigned, and Max stayed untouchable.

2021 Spa—when the race barely began, and Max still walked away with it.

Max in the rain wasn’t just fast. He was inevitable.

So Charles focused. He ignored the throb in his back. Ignored the shooting pain through his left leg. Ignored the way his fingers trembled when he tried to button his Ferrari rain jacket that morning. He walked into the garage a fraction slower than usual. Each step deliberate. He adjusted the way he leaned against the wall. Took his seat on the pit gantry like someone slipping into old armor—conscious of every buckle, every seam.

Max noticed. He always did. Watched him too long when Charles passed. Tracked the subtle shifts—less weight on the left leg, the tension behind his jaw, the careful way he lowered himself onto the pit wall stool.

Christian noticed too. Not because Charles said anything—but because his posture had changed. More weight on the right side. Less movement. One hand hovered too often near the small of his back.

Both men approached him that morning. And both times, Charles brushed them off with the same calm nod, the same clipped “I’m fine.”

Whether or not it was true didn’t matter. What mattered was that the lights would go out. The race would begin.

And Silverstone was watching.

Half way throught the race, Charles began to fade.

His grip on the pit wall rail wasn’t just for balance anymore—it was for anchoring. His fingers curled tighter with every lap, white-knuckled beneath the rain-slick fabric of his gloves. The pain in his back had bloomed into something sharp and punishing, radiating up through his hip and spine every time the wind cut across the gantry. Every breath was measured. Every radio call came at a cost.

Still, he stood.

Because it was Silverstone. Because it was raining. Because Max was coming, just as Charles had known he would.

He was on the charge. Hunting. Sector times dropping. Gap shrinking. Which meant there was no room for error. Not from Noah. Not from anyone.

Charles reached up to adjust his headset with slow precision. The metal bar beneath his glove was cold, biting. He didn’t flinch.

“Gap to Verstappen?” Noah asked.

“1.6 seconds. And closing.” Charles’s voice stayed level. Clear. “Stay sharp. Max is in range.”

And silently, to himself: Do not fuck this up, Noah. Because Charles was already holding everything together with clenched teeth and stubborn will. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could.

Lap 29/52
Race Order: P1 Oscar, P2 Oliver, P3 Noah, P4 Max

The rain had returned in earnest after the first pit cycle. Standing water collected at Brooklands and Luffield. Visibility dropped. Grip dissolved.

But Max came alive.

“Verstappen, fastest sector two,” the world feed crackled. “The Dutchman is flying.”

From the garage, all eyes flicked to the timing screens. Max was taking chunks out of Noah’s lead—half a second here, a full second there. He was dancing on the edge, trusting the car like a part of himself. Intuition over instruction.

“Noah, you need to return the position,” Charles said evenly over the radio. “You gained it by going off at Copse.”

“He ran me wide!” Noah snapped. “I had no choice.”

“You rejoined ahead. That’s off-track advantage. Give it back. Now.”

Noah’s silence crackled louder than the storm outside.

“Noah. That was not a racing line. You left the track and rejoined ahead. If you don’t yield, we risk a penalty.”

Still no response.

Lap 31/52

“Verstappen now within DRS range,” the broadcast buzzed. “We know what that means in the wet. He’s eyeing a move into Stowe—watch the lines here!”

“Noah, he’s coming,” Charles warned. His voice was taut. “Yield now. You’re risking both cars.”

“He’s flashing me!” Noah barked. “Tell him to back off!”

Charles didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t curse.

“Noah. Yield or you’ll lose control of this entirely.”

Max – Red Bull Radio

“Mateo, he’s not yielding,” Max said, tone flat but clipped. The kind of clipped that meant ice was forming underneath. “He went off. Everyone saw it.”

“Confirmed. We’re submitting the footage now.”

“I’m not fucking waiting around,” Max snapped. “He’s weaving all over. If he doesn’t move, I’m going.”

Lap 32/52 – Down to Vale

“Here he comes—Verstappen’s going for it!”

“Noah, inside,” Charles called. “He’s on the inside. Watch it. Don’t—”

But it was too late.

Startled by Max’s sudden lunge up the inside into Vale, Noah jerked the wheel left. Too hard. The Ferrari twitched. Hit standing water. Snapped sideways. The Red Bull clipped the rear and followed.

Two streaks—scarlet and navy—spiraled off the tarmac into the gravel trap beyond.

“OH NO—contact!” the commentator shouted. “Both cars into the gravel—Ferrari and Red Bull—Max Verstappen and Noah Ferreti—both are out!”

Gasps rose through the grandstands like thunder. But on the Ferrari pit wall, silence fell. Heavy. Absolute.

Charles closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Rain dripped from his lashes, but he didn’t move. He pressed the comms button.

“Noah, are you okay?”

Only static at first.

Then: “For fuck’s sake!” Noah spat.

Pain lanced through Charles’s side—beneath his ribs, deep and bitter. Worse than his leg. Worse than the weather.

Because this—

This hadn’t been strategy.

Hadn’t been rain.

Hadn’t even been Max.

This had been Noah.

MAX – LAP 32

Gravel.

It hammered the underfloor, the sides of the cockpit, the halo. The Red Bull jolted once, then slowed, tires buried halfway into the trap. Engine whining, dying. Dashboard flickering like a shorted-out signal.

Max didn’t move. He didn’t need the replay. He’d seen it all, frame by frame, before it even happened.

“He panicked,” Max said over the radio. “He saw me and fucking panicked.”

“Are you okay?” Mateo asked, clipped, professional.

“I’m fine. Car’s not.” Max exhaled through gritted teeth. “You saw it. He turned in.”

“Incident under investigation. Sending data to the stewards.”

“No,” Max snapped. “Send it to Charles.”

A beat.

“Understood.”

Max already knew how the media would spin it. Ferrari new talent vs Red Bull villain. And it wouldn’t be the rookie they blamed. It would be him. Again.

Max powered down the engine, silence swallowing the cockpit. The rain hammered his visor. The crowd roared somewhere behind the fog.

And in that quiet, all he could think about was Charles. Charles, watching this unfold in real time. Already in pain. Already frayed at the edges. Already trying to hold this broken team together with a voice they still didn’t listen to.

Max closed his eyes. Jaw clenched.

“I’m getting out,” he muttered. “Tell the marshals I don’t need help.”

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t stopped.

It whispered across the paddock rooftops, steady and cold, as though the circuit itself were refusing to let go of the day’s damage.

Inside the Ferrari garage, the air smelled like scorched carbon and static. The red livery was still streaked with gravel dust. The safety car was still out, marshals still working through the wreckage. But the crash hovered—loud even in its absence.

Screens flickered with live feeds. Sector maps pulsed red. Telemetry flatlined.

Oliver’s side of the garage hummed with quiet activity—checks, diagnostics, dry towels over soaked toolboxes. But Charles’s bay was still. Abandoned, almost. Or maybe just holding its breath.

Charles sat on the edge of a folding chair, spine rigid, palms flat on his knees. His breathing was measured. Controlled. Pain flared every time he adjusted his posture, but he didn’t mention it. Just gathered the steward-requested data on his tablet, thumb steady even as his back throbbed with each passing second.

Christian paced behind him like a storm waiting for thunder—shoulders tight, mouth drawn into a hard line. He hadn’t said a word since the crash. Neither did Charles.

Silence stretched between them, taut and crackling, until—

They spoke at the same time.

Christian: “What the fuck happened?”

Charles: “I’m ready to go when Noah comes back.”

They both paused.

Christian turned to look at him fully now, brows drawn, the fury sharp but tempered by something deeper. Concern, maybe. Or disbelief. Charles didn’t flinch under it.

Christian exhaled through his nose, sharp. “He ignored you again. And you warned and warned.”

His voice wasn’t angry—just tired. Tired in a way that felt older than both of them. The kind of fatigue that came from watching something fall apart in slow motion, knowing you’d done everything to stop it, and still failed.

“We need to have a serious talk about what comes next.”

Christian opened his mouth to say something—but didn’t get the chance.

Noah Ferreti stormed in, helmet still in hand, visor up, soaked to the bone and livid. His boots slapped wet against the floor.

“Are you fucking happy now?” Noah spat, eyes locked on Charles like crosshairs.

“Noah,” Christian warned, voice sharp. “Not here. Not now.”

But Noah wasn’t listening.

He crossed the garage in three quick, unthinking strides and shoved Charles hard in the chest.

The movement was sudden—violent. It was anger looking for a target.

Charles stumbled back. The chair clattered over. He hit the concrete with a dull, unspectacular thud. No scream. No crack. Just the sound of breath leaving his lungs and his hands instinctively bracing for balance. Charles blinked. His back had already been aching for hours, but now a fresh heat bloomed under his ribs. He didn’t cry out. Didn’t even wince. The pain blurred into the kind he’d learned to live with.

A split second of stillness.

Then motion.

Mechanics swarmed in from every direction—two stepping in front of Charles instinctively, others pulling tools and chairs out of the way. Protective. Alarmed. None of them trusted what Noah would do next.

Christian moved fast, placing himself directly between Noah and the rest of the garage, eyes like steel.

“Back off,” he said, voice cold and sharp. “Go to your driver’s room. Clean up. Then get to the stewards’ office.”

Noah didn’t move.

Christian’s tone sharpened. “That wasn’t a request.”

Rain hammered the roof. For a second, the only sound in the garage was the distant static of race control through a half-muted headset. Noah’s jaw ticked. But he finally turned, shoving past a startled mechanic on his way out.

Christian waited until Noah was gone before moving.

He stepped forward, then crouched beside Charles, voice lower now. Almost gentle. “Can you stand?”

Charles didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line as he shifted his weight slowly, testing what still worked. His fingers dug into the concrete. Then the edge of the overturned chair. His left leg trembled slightly beneath him, and his spine lit up with another sharp burst of warning.

But he nodded once, “I’ve got it,” he said.

Christian didn’t move to help at first—watching, waiting, assessing. But when Charles's knee buckled slightly mid-motion, he caught him under the arm with steady hands.

“Don’t push through this,” Christian muttered. “Not today.”

Charles exhaled through his nose. “Too late for that.”

Together, they got him upright—slow, deliberate. Charles swayed once, but didn’t fall. The ache was deeper now, heat blooming across his lower back, but still… manageable.

Christian let go only when he was sure.

“We’ll handle the steward meeting,” Charles said, breath controlled. “I’ve already logged everything. Noah’s going to blame Max.”

Christian gave him a look—half disbelief, half grim acceptance. “Then maybe it’s time someone finally called him out for it.”

The stewards' office was grey and sterile, lit too harshly and filled with too many shadows.

Max sat along the edge, arms folded, face unreadable.

The shove. The fall. It kept replaying—slow-motion violence, the kind that begged for blood in return.

He wanted to turn around and punch something. Preferably someone. He’d done community service before. He wouldn’t mind doing it again for this. But that wasn’t something Charles would want. So Max stayed still. Swallowed the fire down. Let it burn behind his teeth instead.

Charles didn’t look at him—not yet. His focus stayed on the man next to him.

Noah vibrated with fury, jaw tight, soaked sleeves still clinging to his arms like the storm hadn’t left him.

“You turned into me,” Noah snapped. “Max Fucking Crashtappen. Always reckless. Always—” He leaned forward now, venom on his tongue. “You’re pathetic. Both of you. You and Verstappen think the whole fucking grid should bow to you—like you’re owed something.”

“That’s enough.”

Charles’s voice cut through the air like a scalpel.

Everyone froze.

Even Max.

It wasn’t just the words—it was the tone. Sharp. Unwavering. Final. The kind of voice that came from someone who had stayed silent too long and wasn’t afraid anymore.

“I’ve defended you in every meeting,” Charles said. “Protected your image in every press brief. Taken your side even when I disagreed.”

He stood fully now—slow, deliberate, spine straight despite the pain flaring under his ribs.

“But you crossed a line. On the track—and off it.”

Noah’s mouth twitched, but Charles didn’t give him room to speak.

“And don’t you ever speak about Max like that again.”

Max’s head snapped up just enough to look at him. Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“That crash wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t even mine. It was yours. You ignored three separate lift calls. You disobeyed a direct order to yield. You cut a corner to gain position and then tried to block a car with better pace in the wet.”

He took a step closer—not threatening, but absolute.

“And for the record? Max Verstappen is one of the cleanest wet-weather drivers on this grid. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t flinch. And he sure as hell doesn’t wreck people on purpose.”

Noah scoffed, but Charles’s voice only sharpened.

“You want reckless? Try looking in a mirror. Max didn’t crash into you. You drove like you had something to prove and didn’t care who you took down with you.”

His jaw locked, something flickering behind his eyes.

“Max has more restraint in one lap than you’ve shown all season.”

Noah opened his mouth—then shut it again.

The silence in the room was thick. Even the stewards didn’t interrupt.

“You’re not a victim, Noah,” Charles finished, voice low. “You’re a liability.”

And with that, he sat back down—slowly, stiffly.

Max’s eyes never left him.

The meeting ended without ceremony.

The stewards issued the one-race ban, effective immediately. Noah didn’t protest—just sat there, hollow, as though finally realizing he’d crossed a line he couldn’t spin his way out of.

The corridor outside was narrow and dimly lit, lined with grey flooring and echoing footsteps. Rain still streaked down the windows like veins of silver, and the sound of wind howled faintly against the outer wall.

Charles made it maybe twenty paces before his body gave a warning. A sharp, hot jolt of pain tore through his lower back, sudden and brutal.

He stopped.

One hand braced on the wall. The other reached, absently, for a phone that had died hours ago.

His breathing came tight. Measured.

He could feel the tremble in his leg, the way his weight shifted unevenly now. He couldn’t go outside like this—not limping, not unsteady. Not with cameras waiting behind barricades and headlines already writing themselves.

So he stayed where he was, pretending to be checking something on the steward’s bulletin board, eyes flicking over meaningless notices he couldn’t even read.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until they slowed behind him.

“Charles?”

Max’s voice—soft, low, unmistakably concerned.

Charles didn’t turn.

“I thought you left,” he said, after a moment.

Max stepped closer. “I was waiting.”

A beat passed.

Charles kept his eyes forward. “I just needed a second. I might need to go back in. I think the stewards—”

“Charles,”Max’s voice was firmer now. “Don’t lie to me.”

Another pause.

“I saw you fall.”

Charles exhaled slowly through his nose. “It’s not bad.”

Max didn’t answer right away.

Then: “You’re leaning against the wall.”

“I’m just tired.”

Max’s voice was barely a whisper now. “Is it your back?”

Charles finally turned his head—just slightly. Enough for Max to see his face.

And Max stepped forward. Reached gently for Charles’s arm. Held him steady.

“Can you call Christian?” Max asked, voice low. 

Charles lifted his phone weakly, screen dark and cracked at the corner. “Can’t,” he said.

Max didn’t hesitate. He was already pulling his phone from his pocket, thumb unlocking it.

“I’ve got it,” he said, dialing Christian without breaking stride.

Then, quieter—his voice dipping into something gentler, closer: “Don’t move. Do you want a chair?”

He glanced around the empty hallway.

“Is sitting down going to be better? Or do you want to lie down? There’s no one here. You don’t have to pretend.”

Charles blinked at him, like the words were just a little too far away.

The pain was radiating now—dull under the ribs, sharp at the base of his spine, flickering pulses. Everything felt like it was tilting, pulling him sideways.

“I don’t—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I don’t know.”

The call clicked.

“Christian. It’s Charles. He’s in the hallway outside the steward’s office. You need to come. Now.”

A pause.

“No, he’s not okay.”

He hung up without waiting for more.

Charles was sagging slightly now, one hand pressed flat to the wall, the other hovering uncertainly near his back—shaking, barely controlled.

“I’ve got you,” Max said, stepping in, arms came around Charles, steady, sure. “I’ve got you.”

Charles didn’t push him away. Didn’t protest. He leaned just enough into Max to let the truth slip through the cracks: he couldn’t stand much longer.

“You want to lie on the floor for now?” Max asked, voice soft, almost coaxing. “Just until Christian gets here. We’ll block the corridor if we have to. No one’s getting near you.”

Charles gave the smallest nod. Barely a breath of motion. But it was enough.

Without a word, Max slipped out of his jacket and knelt.

He spread it across the floor, smoothing it flat—lining it up between Charles and the cold tiles like it was instinct. Like it had always been his job to soften what the world made hard.

Then he moved back to Charles, guided him down slowly, carefully—one hand behind his back, the other at his elbow, lowering him like something precious.

Charles’s body resisted at first, stiff with tension and pain, but the moment he reached the jacket, his spine gave a flicker of surrender. He exhaled, jaw locked, legs curling slightly to one side as he shifted to lie on his back, eyes closed.

The ceiling lights above them buzzed faintly. The hallway hummed with quiet.

Max stayed kneeling beside him, one hand still resting against Charles’s arm, grounding them both.

“Better?” he asked quietly.

Charles didn’t open his eyes. But he nodded.

And Max stayed crouched beside him. Didn’t say anything else. Just stayed close—body angled protectively, phone still in his lap in case Christian called back, eyes fixed on the man lying beside him like the whole world had narrowed to this one hallway, this one breath.

Outside the corridor window, the rain continued its endless, quiet descent. A silver curtain. A rhythm without end.

Inside, time folded inward.

The tension in Charles’s face softened, just slightly. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.

And for once, he didn’t try to fill the silence. Didn’t try to push through it, or talk over the ache.

He just lay there—let himself lie there—and felt the warmth radiating from Max’s presence. From his jacket. From his breath.

In.

Out.

Safe.

Chapter Text

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He listened. To the slow rhythm of Charles’s breath, to the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead, to the rain beating its steady cadence against the paddock windows. He could see the tension still etched in Charles’s jaw, the way his fingers curled in just slightly, betraying a grip on control. Not panic. Not pain. Holding on. And Max hated that he knew that look so well.

He shifted slightly, careful not to jostle anything, and studied the way Charles’s lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks. The slow, uneven rise and fall of his chest. And that faint crease between his brows—unrelenting. Unforgiving. God. He looked exhausted. Not just tired—drained. Worn thin at the edges and still trying to carry every broken piece like it was his responsibility to keep the whole thing from falling apart.

Max let his gaze drop to where Charles’s body met the floor. The awkward angle of his legs. The way his hip stayed tense. The faint, rhythmic tremor that hadn’t stopped since they got him down. It made Max ache.

He wanted to do something. Anything. Wanted to take off his own skin and wrap Charles in it if it meant shielding him—just for five minutes—from the weight of everything.

And then his eyes found the crease again. That stubborn little line between Charles’s brows.

It had been there since the crash. Maybe before. Maybe always.

Max wanted to smooth it away. His hand hovered—fingers suspended, hesitant in the space between them. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Charles’s skin.

He could trace the shape of him from memory. But this—this was real. And it wasn’t a memory.

He almost did it. Almost brushed his thumb across that furrow, like it might undo something locked too tight for too long.

But before he could—

Charles’s eyes opened. Quiet and watchful. Green, still dimmed with pain, but steady. Present.

Max froze, hand midair.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Charles didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean away. He blinked once, slow. And looked at Max like he knew. Like he’d always known.

Max drew his hand back, fingers curling into his palm like he could tuck the impulse away before it gave too much away.

He looked down, just for a second, then cleared his throat, voice low.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Charles murmured, his voice rough-edged, shaped by pain and fatigue. “Just resting my eyes.”

Max gave the faintest smile, tight, a little crooked. “Maybe you should keep doing that.”

He meant it lightly. Casually. Like he hadn’t just been caught almost touching him. But his ears burned all the same.

Charles didn’t argue. But he didn’t close his eyes again, either.

He just kept looking at Max.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Fast. Measured. Familiar.

Charles’s gaze flicked toward the sound just as Christian rounded the corner, followed closely by the team doctor.

Christian’s eyes locked on Charles—then flicked to Max, crouched beside him. Then lower. To the way Charles, still in rossa corsa, was lying on the floor with Max’s Red Bull jacket folded beneath him like some makeshift lifeline.

It shouldn’t have made sense. Ferrari red and Red Bull navy. Past and present. Broken and breaking. But it did.

And the look on Christian’s face said everything.

He saw it all.

He’d seen it before. And he saw it now. And he understood more than he wanted to.

“Where exactly?” the doctor asked, already kneeling beside Charles, kit open, gloves on.

Charles shifted—just slightly. His breath caught.

“Lower back,” Max answered before he could. “He was pushed. Landed hard. But he’s been in pain since the start of the day.”

Christian didn’t speak. He moved to stand behind the doctor, arms crossed, jaw clenched like iron.

The doctor worked quickly—her hands steady but gentle, tracing the line of Charles’s spine, pressing into the muscles around it with practiced care. Her expression gave nothing away.

“Charles,” she said softly, her voice calm but firm. “You need to be honest with me. What exactly are you feeling right now?”

Charles swallowed. “There’s numbness now. Up toward my shoulder blade. And… it’s radiating.”

The doctor didn’t speak—just adjusted her position slightly, eyes narrowing in quiet concentration as she continued her assessment.

“You’re sure it’s radiating upward?” she asked. “Not down the leg?”

Charles nodded. “It started lower. But now it’s spreading. Sharp when I move. Dull when I breathe.”

“And lying down takes away the pressure?”

“A little,” he said. “It’s not as sharp. But it’s still there.”

“Can you still stand if you had to?”

There was a pause.

“Probably,” Charles admitted. “But not without help.”

The doctor reached for the scanner in her kit. Her movements remained calm, clinical—but the urgency behind them had shifted. She ran the handheld device along Charles’s lower back and up toward his shoulder blade, watching the readout carefully. The screen pulsed faintly in her glove.

After a few moments, she exhaled through her nose and sat back on her heels.

“It doesn’t feel like spinal hardware failure,” she said, mostly for Christian’s benefit. “No immediate signs of dislocation or neurological compromise. It feels muscular—ligament strain or partial tear. Maybe both. The numbness might be referred pain from inflammation. But until we image it, I’m not clearing him for any activity.”

Christian’s jaw was locked. “So what does that mean, right now?”

“It means,” the doctor said, already preparing an immobilizer wrap, “he shouldn’t have been upright at all. And he’s not walking unaided, until this is confirmed and treated.”

The doctor finished securing the immobilizer wrap around Charles’s torso with practiced care, her hands firm but gentle.

“He’s stable enough to be moved,” she said, glancing at Christian. “But he needs support. We’ll take him through the service corridor—avoid cameras.”

A soft whir of wheels followed as an assistant rolled a transport chair into view.

Charles turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward it. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But something in his posture wavered.

Max was already there before anyone else moved. He crouched beside Charles again—closer this time—and offered his hand without a word.

Charles looked at it for a moment. Then at Max. Then, finally, he nodded.

Max slipped one arm carefully behind Charles’s back, the other bracing at his elbow. He could feel the tension in Charles’s frame—the hesitation, the pain, the unspoken shame of needing help—but he didn’t comment.

He just murmured, steady and low, “I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t easy. But slowly, with Max guiding him and the doctor stabilizing his movement, Charles shifted upright—each inch forward pulled by sheer willpower and the quiet gravity of Max’s presence.

By the time they eased him down into the chair, Charles’s breath was shallow and his skin pale with effort.

Max knelt in front of him, adjusting the leg rest without needing to be asked.

“You good?” Max asked softly, his eyes searching Charles’s face.

Charles nodded. “Better than the floor.”

It was barely a joke. But it was enough.

And Max smiled.

Then, quieter: “I’ll come with you. To medical.”

Charles looked up at him. Exhausted. Calm. Certain.

“No.”

Max blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you have debrief,” Charles said. “Comms. Media. People already think you’re moving to Ferrari. You can’t be seen leaving with me.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Max said, his voice low but sharp at the edges.

Charles looked at him. Really looked at him.

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I do.”

Max didn’t speak.

Charles exhaled slowly, his gaze steady. “You think I’m protecting Ferrari.”

A beat.

“I don’t know what you and Raymond are cooking up,” he continued, quieter now. “I’m not asking. But today… today you’re still Red Bull. You still have your badge, your team, your colours.”

He nodded toward the corridor—toward the world just waiting to twist everything.

“And if you’re seen leaving with me—injured, half-leaning on you, looking the way I look—then it’s not just speculation anymore. It’s confirmation. It’s headlines. It’s ‘Verstappen walks Leclerc to Ferrari’s medical wing while Horner looks on.’”

He didn’t say You don’t need that. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he added, softly: “I’ll be fine. The doctor’s going with me.”

Then—just a flicker of something more vulnerable: “But thank you. For offering.”

Max didn’t argue again. He just held Charles’s gaze a second longer—then stepped back, releasing the chair with a reluctant exhale.

Christian stepped forward, standing on Charles’s right. For a moment, Max thought he might go with them. But Christian just rested a hand briefly on the chair’s handle.

“Let me know as soon as they finish the scan,” he told the doctor.

She nodded.

Then the chair turned, and Charles was wheeled out—down the corridor and out of sight.

Christian didn’t wait for Max. Didn’t look back. He was already moving—out of the steward’s office, phone in hand.

“Giulia,” he said, voice clipped. “Get the board on a call. Senior management, Piero, legal—everyone. Twenty minutes. No delays.”

A pause. Then: “Noah’s contract ends tonight.”

The lights in the hospitality suite's upper meeting room were too bright, the glass walls slick with rain on the outside. Screens glowed. Coffee went untouched.

Everyone was already there when Christian walked in.

Sam from legal. Benedetta from HR. Simone from PR. Luca, the COO. And at the head of the table, dialed in via secure video feed, Piero Ferrari himself.

Christian didn’t sit. He stood at the front of the room, palms flat on the table.

“Noah Ferreti is to be suspended effective immediately,” he said without preamble. “His contract terminated before next race weekend. No soft language, no performance clause smoke screen. We make it clear: this is about conduct.”

Benedetta blinked. “We haven’t reviewed the legal—”

“I already spoke to Sam,” Christian said, voice like cold iron. “Charles Leclerc was shoved in a restricted garage area post-race. We have witnesses. We have internal CCTV. We have medical reports pending a full ligament tear and neural inflammation. That’s not a reprimand. That’s grounds.”

Luca shifted uncomfortably. “Christian, I understand the severity, but we also need to be aware of public perception. There’s already pressure around Max joining next season. If we move too decisively, it could look—”

“Like we’re defending our own?” Christian cut in. “Good.”

Silence.

Piero leaned forward slightly on the screen. “Is Charles all right?”

Christian didn’t look away. “No. He’s not.”

A long pause.

“He walked the Monaco grid four years after nearly dying in Turn One,” Christian said. “He’s been screamed at, second-guessed, shoved to the ground—and still showed up every race weekend for the team. He should’ve been pulled after free practice. He didn’t tell us how much pain he was in because he didn’t want to cause chaos.”

He looked down, jaw tight, then back up.

“If we let this slide, we’re telling the paddock that silence is loyalty and injury is weakness. And I won’t run a team that does that.”

Sam from legal cleared his throat. “We’ll proceed with cause. It’ll hold up.”

“Good,” Christian said. “Make it clean.”

Simone raised her hand slightly. “What do we tell the press?”

Christian didn’t miss a beat.

“We tell them the truth.”

Piero sat back. “I’ll handle the board.”

Christian nodded once. And for the first time in hours, sat down.

Chapter Text

Ferrari Terminates Contract with Noah Ferreti Following Post-Race Incident at Spa

Ferrari has officially confirmed the immediate termination of driver Noah Ferreti’s contract following an altercation in the team garage after the 2026 British Grand Prix. The statement, released late Sunday night, cited “conduct unbecoming of a Scuderia Ferrari driver” and emphasized the team’s commitment to safety and integrity across all levels of operation.

Sources close to the team confirm that the decision came after multiple internal reviews and interviews with senior engineers and personnel present at the time of the incident. Though details remain confidential, the atmosphere within the garage is said to have been “unrecoverable.”

Noah Ferreti has not issued a public response. Effective immediately, Ferrari reserve driver Antonio Giovinazzi will step in for the Belgium and Hungarian Grand Prix. Long-term decisions regarding the second seat remain under review.

The headlines were beginning to fade. But the speculation hadn’t. If anything, it had metastasized—spreading from newsrooms to TikTok, from verified reporters to hungry YouTubers, from cautious whispers to firestorm threads packed with memes, theories, and twenty-minute video essays dissecting Ferrari's every move.

Charles scrolled past the third article in a row. Same recycled speculation. Same recycled names.

GIOVINAZZI TO STAND IN FOR BELGIUM AND HUNGARY
WHO WILL FILL THE SECOND SEAT?
IS AURELIA NOBELS READY FOR F1 DEBUT?
ZHOU GUANYU: A TEMPORARY FIX OR SOMETHING MORE?

He flicked his thumb one more time, then gave up and locked the screen.

The apartment was dim. Cool. Safe in the way only four walls could be after a storm. He leaned back slowly into the couch, spine protesting even with the careful motion, and let his hand settle beneath the edge of the compression wrap coiled around his waist. The ligament tear was manageable. In clinical terms: not catastrophic. No nerve impingement. No spinal displacement. But it was enough. Enough to bench him. Enough to silence his voice in the garage. Enough to feel like a failure again, even when it wasn’t his fault. Silverstone had demanded something from his body. And he was starting to feel the cost in ways no scan could quantify.

Christian had made the call even before Charles left the medical center. “You’re not going to Spa. Non-negotiable. Don’t argue with me, Charles.”

So here he was. Back in Monaco. Back in the quiet.

The blinds were drawn against the glare of a coastal summer. A half-drunk glass of water sweated on the table beside him, a quiet testament to how long he’d been sitting there. His phone lit up every few minutes—journalists fishing for statements, old friends suddenly remembering his number. Some messages were kind. Some just curious. Some thinly veiled attempts to dig for gossip dressed up as concern.

He hadn’t answered any of them.

Eventually, the silence began to ache louder than his back. He pushed himself up—slowly, carefully, ignoring the tug of pain in his spine—and crossed to the piano. No metronome. No sheet music. Just fingers pressing keys by instinct.

Bach, at first. Then Beethoven. Then something in between—half-memory, half-mistake. He let the notes settle into the apartment, let them echo soft against the tile and high ceilings. It was easier than letting in the silence. Easier than thinking too long. Easier than asking the question that had been clawing at the edges of his mind since Silverstone.

Especially this one: If Max really came here—for you—what the hell are you going to do about it?

Christian called on the third day. Video. Not voice.

Charles answered from the couch, back propped against a cushion, mug of half-drunk coffee in one hand and an ice pack tucked awkwardly behind his lower back. His hair was a mess. He hadn’t shaved.

“You’re pale,” Christian said by way of greeting.

“You’re getting bald,” Charles replied.

Christian smiled faintly. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

Charles shrugged. “Better than I was. Still sore.”

“No nerve damage?”

He shook his head. “Clean scan. Just the ligament tear. Still on painkillers.”

“Good,” Christian said. “Don’t get comfortable.”

“I’m literally not allowed to leave the couch.”

“That’s why I’m calling.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “You’re not asking me to return early, are you?”

“No,” Christian said. “I’m asking you who you want in the car.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “I sent you back the feedback already.”

“I saw.”

Christian had emailed the shortlist that morning—Zhou, Aurelia, Maya, Antonio, Max. Standard internal circulation. Nothing urgent. Nothing binding. Just something to keep Charles in the loop while he was benched

He hadn’t expected to receive a full SWOT analysis by nightfall. Title page and all. Like Charles’s damn master’s thesis. Eight pages. Color-coded. Footnotes. Cross-referenced with historical data, sector splits, post-race telemetry. Psychological profiles pulled from archived interviews. Annotated with quiet, clinical precision. One section even included projected adaptability deltas based on hypothetical 2027 regulation shifts. It was brilliant. Methodical. Unapologetically over-prepared.

And signed at the bottom: Strategic Evaluation Report — Internal Use Only Author: CL / temporary couch consultant, reluctantly off-duty

Christian had read it twice. Once with his professional hat on. The second time in silent amusement that Charles, injured and off-duty, was still the most ruthlessly prepared person at Ferrari.

Christian leaned back in his chair, phone balanced in one hand, “You made a bar graph.”

Charles sipped from his mug. “What else was I supposed to do? Watch daytime television?”

“You ranked their adaptability under crosswind conditions.”

Charles replied dryly. “Crosswind matters.”

Christian let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh.

“Okay,” he said. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m not asking for numbers this time. I’m asking for instinct.”

“Who do you want in that seat, Charles?”

Charles didn’t answer right away. He just set the mug down, shifted slightly—wincing as the brace pulled across his lower back—and looked out the window to where Monaco glared blue and golden and distant. Then:“Max.”

His voice was steady. Clear. Christian didn’t react. Just waited.

Charles kept his eyes forward. “Not because of what people think. Not because of Silverstone. Not even because he might be coming. But because he’s the best. And because I know how he drives. I know what he needs. I know how to translate that into a car that wins.”

He hesitated—just for a breath.

“And,” he added, softer now, “Because I want to.”

The words surprised even him a little. Not the truth of them—he’d known that for a while—but the ease with which they came out. Like his body had spoken before his brain could shield the feeling. Like some quiet corner of himself, long past logic and fear, had already made the decision.

Because he’d seen Max this season. Seen the way his jaw tightened in every debrief. The fury buried under every clipped radio transmission. The flashes of brilliance dulled by poor calls, missed strategy windows, indecision on the pit wall.
He’d heard Max complain, voice raw, about how Red Bull no longer listened. About the trust that had bled out of the car one race at a time. And more than once, Charles had found himself imagining it—storming into the Red Bull garage, grabbing Mateo by the collar, and shaking him until the fog lifted from behind his eyes.

Because Max deserved better. So much better.

And—God help him—Charles wanted to be the one to give it to him.

Not out of guilt. Not because of the years of unread messages sitting quietly in his inbox. But because somewhere between the crash and the comeback, Charles had come to understand what Max was to him.

Not just the fastest man on the grid. But the one who stayed. The one who still saw him.

He didn’t just want Max in the car. He wanted to be the one who caught the pieces when Max flew too close to the edge. The one who steadied the wheel—not just with data, but with belief. With trust. With knowing. With all the quiet things they’d never said—but had always understood.

Christian watched him for a moment. Something unreadable flickered behind his expression—approval, maybe. Or something gentler. Something older.

Then, with a faint smile: “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Text

Ferrari Terminates Contract with Noah Ferreti. Conduct Unbecoming. Immediate Effect. Antonio Giovinazzi to Replace for Belgium Grand Prix.

Max read the headline three times, thumb frozen against the glass. Then he called Raymond.

It rang once.

“So that’s that,” Raymond murmured when he picked up. “Didn’t think they’d actually pull the trigger.”

Max didn’t answer. The words were still seared into his retinas—blunt, clinical, final.

On the other end of the line, Raymond hesitated, then lowered his voice.

“You thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

The meeting with Red Bull wasn’t on the calendar.

Max had spent most of the day in the simulator—laps of Sector 3 Hungary over and over, the artificial hum of the rig surrounding him like static. He hadn’t said much. Just nodded when prompted, adjusted brake balance, reviewed telemetry, and drove. Hard. Clean. Controlled.

By early evening, the factory had thinned out. The corridors emptied. Lights dimmed behind smoked glass. But upstairs, behind a pane of glass overlooking the sim bay, something heavier was beginning to take shape.

Raymond had made a few quiet calls. No comms threads. No calendar holds. Just a simple: We need a room. Tonight.

Now, Max sat across the table, arms folded, posture rigid in a navy t-shirt still damp at the collar. Raymond beside him—open blazer, shirt rolled at the cuffs, expression cool but deliberate.

Red Bull’s 2026 Team Principal Andrea sat at the head of the table, flanked by Lucas De Bruyne from Racing Operations. Across from them, Simon McCabe, Head of Legal and Contracts, already had a tablet unlocked and waiting. The kind of lineup that only gathered when something serious was cracking beneath the surface.

Raymond opened first—measured, composed, precise.

“We’re not here to force hands,” he said. “Max is still driving like a world champion. He’s giving you everything. But looking ahead, we need clarity.”

A beat.

“Commitment works both ways.”

Andrea nodded, slow and deliberate. “We agree,” he said, voice even.

He leaned forward just slightly, hands folded on the table.

“So let’s talk.”

Lucas was the first to jump in.

“If this is about Mateo,” he said, tone brisk, “we’re already evaluating alternatives. You know how deep the bench is—factory, junior teams, even a couple externals who’ve worked with you before. We can make the switch before Zandvoort if needed.”

Raymond didn’t react.

Max didn’t blink.

Simon cleared his throat. “If it’s strategic autonomy you’re after, that’s on the table too. We can restructure the briefing flow—give you direct input on race simulations, override options in split-call scenarios. Codify it in your driver clause.”

Lucas nodded. “You’ve earned it. Honestly, we should’ve done it last season.”

Andrea sat back slightly, watching. Letting them pitch. Letting Max absorb it.

“There's also the future to consider,” Simon continued. “You want long-term certainty—we’re ready to offer an extension through 2030. Performance-indexed bonuses. Historical legacy clauses. Full ambassadorial privileges when you decide to step away.”

Andrea finally spoke again. “It would make you the highest-paid driver on the grid. By a margin.”

Still, Max said nothing.

He just looked past them—for a second, maybe two—toward the simulator bay below. The rig was dark now, screens blank. Still smelled faintly like burnt rubber and ozone.

He brought his gaze back to the room.

“I’m not asking for a raise,” he said calmly.

Raymond gave the faintest nod, a signal they’d practiced but never used—until now.

Max leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low.

“If I stay,” he said, “can you bring Charles here?”

Silence. Not unpolite. Not shocked. Just… still.

Simon’s fingers paused on the tablet.

Lucas blinked once. “You mean—Charles Leclerc?”

“As your engineer?” Andrea asked carefully, as if clarifying would change the shape of the request.

“As whatever it takes. Can you bring him?”

Another silence. Longer this time.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t tried before.

When word spread through the paddock that Leclerc had graduated with a Master’s from Imperial, every team had reached out. Offers. Emails. Discreet calls through shared contacts. Red Bull, reeling from Christian’s sudden exit, had joined the chorus too—unsteady, uncertain, hopeful.

They’d all been turned down. No reply. No negotiations.

Andrea exhaled slowly. “We can try. Quiet feelers. No formal offer unless we’re sure. But you know his history with Ferrari. That isn’t just a contract—it’s blood and steel. He came up through them. He nearly died in their colours.”

Max didn’t flinch. “You asked what I needed to stay.”

Andrea studied him.

Measured him.

Then looked to Raymond.

Raymond just said, “You asked. He answered.”

Simon closed his tablet.

No one reached for the water jug. No one shifted in their seat.

Eventually, Andrea leaned back again. The silence cracked slightly as his chair creaked beneath him.

“We’ll see what’s possible.”

But Max already knew.

He nodded once. “That’s what I thought.”

Later that evening, in a quieter room with lower lighting and fewer people, the weight of the earlier meeting still lingered.

Max sat on the edge of the low couch, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. The day’s sim sweat had long since dried into the fabric of his t-shirt. Raymond stood by the window, hands in his pockets, watching the factory lights flicker off one by one across the campus.

He turned to face him.

“You sure?”

Max didn’t hesitate. “I’m not going to fuck up the rest of the races,” he said. “I’ll drive like I always do. I’ll show up. I’ll push.”

Then, softer: “But after that…”

He let the sentence drift into the dim hum of the overhead light.

After that, it was out of their hands.

Red Bull didn’t like it. Of course they didn’t. But they weren’t stupid. They could see the signs—the tension, the silence, the refusal to be bought.

No team wanted the best driver on the grid without a contract. Not when Ferrari’s second seat was suddenly, very publicly, empty.

And not when Max Verstappen had just made it clear what mattered to him most.

Hours later, after the numbers were reviewed, after every angle had been considered, a quiet message came through. Not official. Not even written down.

Just passed along from one office to another. Whispered from someone high enough to say it, low enough to mean it.

If they make you the offer… we won’t block it.

Christian Horner hadn’t planned to reach out until the summer break.

Not that the situation was easy—he knew better than anyone what it meant to lose a driver mid-season—desperation was never a good look. And Ferrari had been desperate before. He’d seen what it did to a team, to morale, to identity. He wasn’t going to repeat the same mistake, even with the second seat now empty and the media circling like vultures.

Antonio Giovinazzi could bring the car home. He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t reckless. He wouldn’t win a championship, but he would listen, follow instructions, keep the garage quiet.

After the year they’d just had—with Noah’s arrogance, the press storm, and Charles holding the team together from the pit wall—what they needed was air. Not fire.

Still.

After the termination was made public, Christian noticed something strange. Max’s name came up. Someone always mentioned him. Usually in passing. Occasionally with intent.

Christian didn’t chase. He never had to. But this time, it felt different. Not just because Max was available. Not just because he was fast.

Because Christian knew what no one else was quite willing to say yet: Max wasn’t just the best option. He might be the only one.

The only one Ferrari could trust to fight for a championship in this car.

It seemed like Max wanted Charles in his ear. And Charles seemed willing to answer.

That was the part Christian kept circling back to.

He’d known Max since the boy first arrived at Red Bull—sharp-edged, wide-eyed, all fire and fight. He’d watched him grow. Win. Bleed. He knew every version of Max Verstappen that existed.

And still, he’d never seen him like he was around Charles.

He remembered how Max lit up when Charles got promoted from F2. How he hovered near the screens during Charles’s first free practice, watching more intently than anyone else.

He remembered the day Ferrari announced their 2019 lineup. How Max had just nodded once, eyes unreadable. Then, quietly, under his breath: Finally.

He remembered 2022—how Max spoke about their wheel-to-wheel battles. Not with rivalry, but with something closer to reverence.

Christian remembered Bahrain. Jeddah. Australia. How their fights felt like echoes of something older than either of them. Like they’d raced before. In karts. In dreams. In something bigger.

And then he remembered what came after. Monaco. The crash. The way Max had broken down—fists clenched like holding grief was the only way not to drown.

The silence that followed. The breakup.

He remembered how Max kept bringing up Charles’s name on media days, casually but insistently—like daring the world to forget.

He’d seen him stare too long at the enormous Ferrari flag during the Monza podium, eyes distant, mouth unreadable.

And he’d seen more since Charles’s return.

The way Max looked at him—even when Charles wasn’t looking back. The way his whole body leaned in during conversation, even when they were standing an arm’s length apart. The way his voice softened when he said his name.

But Charles?

Charles gave nothing away. Cool, professional, unreadable. Either he didn’t see it—or he did, and he was pretending not to.

And that, frankly, scared Christian more than anything. If Charles ever did acknowledge it—if he looked Max in the eye and said, no—What then?

You’d lose Max. Not immediately, but over time. Quietly, painfully. The way people leave when they’re embarrassed and trying not to show it.

And if Charles said yes? That might be even worse.

Then it wouldn’t just be driver and engineer. It would be something personal. Fragile. Bleeding into radios and race strategy and post-qualifying arguments.

And this team—this team rebuilt on legacy and fire and restraint—wasn’t ready for fragility.

There was more.

If Max ever decided to say it out loud, announce it to the world— It wouldn’t just shake Ferrari. It would shake Formula 1.

Formula 1 had improved. There were Pride flags now. Diversity campaigns. Carefully worded initiatives and hashtags painted on pit lanes. The paddock liked to think of itself as modern. And yet—

Despite all of it, this sport still clung to its image. Masculine. Stoic. Heteronormative by default.

Max Verstappen—the face of its modern era—wasn’t supposed to be the one who challenged that.

He wouldn’t just be fast. He wouldn’t just be dominant. He’d be different. Publicly. Visibly.

And the world would have something to say about it. The media. The sponsors. The old guard. Especially the tifosi.

Christian didn’t doubt Max could weather the storm.

But Ferrari?

That was another matter.

He exhaled, slow. The window above his desk had fogged slightly in the humid Maranello evening. Beyond it, the factory lights glowed like a city refusing to sleep.

This wasn’t just a decision about performance. It was about people. It was about pressure. It was about whether this team could carry something that big—and still win.

Christian wasn’t sure.

But he knew one thing.

If Ferrari wanted the title—Truly, seriously, this year and the years after—They needed Max.

Everything else was a risk. But letting him go was a guarantee of failure.

And Christian Horner did not plan to lose.

Chapter Text

It was Max who approached him.

Media Day at the Belgium Grand Prix was winding down, but the air still felt dense—like something electric was about to crack. Tension clung to the paddock like humidity, conversations too careful, cameras too eager. Everyone was watching Ferrari. Everyone was waiting.

Max didn’t care. He cut across the paddock with purpose, ignoring the lingering press, the speculative glances. Every movement was deliberate. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Raymond walked half a step behind, eyes forward, jaw tight. He didn’t need to say anything. They’d already gone over it. Twice.

The red of the Ferrari hospitality suite stood out against the grey-white backdrop of the media pen, blazing like a beacon. Max didn’t hesitate—just stepped over the threshold and found Christian Horner mid-conversation with an engineer, voice low, posture relaxed.

For a moment, Christian didn’t notice. Then he did.

Max didn’t wait.

“Got a minute?” he asked, voice cool, tone clipped.

A few heads turned. The paddock held its breath.

Christian raised a brow. Not surprise—he never showed that much. Just the faintest uptick of curiosity.

“For you?” he said, smooth and dry. “Always.”

Christian led them away, through a side door, down a corridor most reporters didn’t know existed, to a private office behind the comms room. No windows. One chair. One desk. A muted Ferrari crest on the wall.

Raymond followed them in and closed the door behind him.

Then he spoke. Calm, precise, like every word had been rehearsed, polished down to its spine.

Max was available.

He wasn’t fishing for leverage. He wasn’t putting out feelers.

He wanted the seat.

He wanted to be in red.

He wasn’t asking for extras. He wasn’t asking for legacy. He wasn’t asking for a title handed to him on paper.

He just wanted a future. He wanted Charles’s voice in his headset.

Christian listened without speaking. No interruptions. No visible reaction. His hands stayed folded in front of him, eyes sharp but unreadable.

He asked only two questions. One about timing. One about commitment.

Max answered both without hesitation.

Christian didn’t speak right away. He leaned back slightly, gaze flicking to the far corner of the room—like he was weighing something heavier than a contract.

When he finally spoke, his voice had changed. Not cold, but quiet. Considered.

“Max,” he said. “Before I take this to legal—before we move forward at all—I need to be straight with you.”

Max’s brow furrowed. Not defensive yet. But bracing.

“I’ll have to speak to the board,” Christian continued. “Informally. Early.”

“For what, exactly?”

Christian’s reply was almost reluctant.

“Your… romantic interest.”

Max blinked. “What?”

“Not in detail,” Christian added quickly. “Not names. Just that there are dynamics in play the board should be aware of. Emotional proximity. Public optics. It’s standard risk assessment.”

Max stared at him like he’d spoken another language. Then scoffed—sharper this time, incredulous.

“You’re telling them about something that isn’t even real?”

“I know,” Christian said quietly, “and I’m not trying to box you in. I’m not trying to expose you, or punish you, or… make this more than it is. But the board doesn’t like surprises.”

Max didn’t respond. He shifted back slightly in the chair, jaw tight, hands clasped in his lap like he was holding himself still through force of will.

Christian leaned forward slightly—not as a principal now, but something closer to a friend.

“I’m telling them because I’d rather protect you before they start asking questions,” he said. “I’m not labeling anything. I’m not feeding the press. I’m not even giving them context. But if we do this—if you come to Ferrari—I need to build you a runway, not a minefield. That starts with quiet transparency. Careful steps. Just enough awareness to give you space... if you ever decide to pursue it.”

Max didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t shift, but his eyes dropped for a moment—brow drawn, hands still.

Max looked away. Not in guilt—just weariness. “Nothing’s happened.”

“I know.”

“And it might never.”

Christian gave a small nod. “And that’s your call. Not mine. I’m not here to name it or define it.”

Max exhaled. Not quite a sigh, but close.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Do what you need to do.” His voice was flat. Controlled. “But don’t make this bigger than it is.”

Christian met his gaze. “I won’t. Not unless you do.”

Since that conversation, Max had checked his phone at least once an hour.

Friday—nothing.

Saturday—still nothing.

Sunday, the Belgium Grand Prix came and went.

Three red flags. Two restarts. One desperate last-lap overtake.

But Max had done it—P3. His first podium of the season.

Still, no message.

Monday—silence.

Tuesday—just as Max began to wonder if Ferrari was considering someone else, if maybe the desperation was only surface-deep and the plan had changed—his phone lit up.

Christian Horner.

“I spoke to the board,” he said.

Max froze. His expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture did—shoulders held still, breath caged behind his ribs. The tension wasn’t sharp, but it was there. Tight. Wound through him like wire.

“And?”

The word came out low. Guarded.

For a moment, he thought this might be the part where Christian let him down gently. Told him the risk was too great. That the board had said no. That none of it was happening after all.

“They asked one question,” Christian said. “Can he win us the championship?”

Max blinked.

He wasn’t sure what he expected—maybe a list of concerns, a drawn-out hesitation, some political dodge—but not that. Not just that.

“That was it?” His voice caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Relief.

“It’s Ferrari,” Christian said. “We care about risk. But now—we care about victory more. They’ve agreed to back the decision. Fully. Quietly. No stipulations. No image clauses. They just want to win. And they trust me to bring in the person who can deliver that.”

Then, after a pause—quieter, almost like resignation: “So I’m asking you to send through your terms and conditions. We’ll have legal draft something tonight. I will send through the electronic version when it’s ready so your team can start reviewing it. Add what you need. Change what you don’t. It’s flexible.”

Max and Raymond went straight to the hotel as soon as they landed in Budapest.

It was Hungarian GP week—but Max’s nerves weren’t for that. Not this time.

Because Christian was waiting.

Not at the paddock. Not in the motorhome.

Here.

With the contract. Final.

The receptionist led them through the hushed corridors of the hotel, past shuttered lounges and quiet elevators, toward a private dining room not yet open for guests.

The early afternoon light slanted in through tall windows. Everything felt suspended. Like the hour before a storm. Like the moment before a door opens—or doesn’t.

Max’s heartbeat wasn’t loud, but it was there. Steady. Heavy.

The room was empty except for Christian, seated by the far window, and the object that anchored all of it: A red folder on the table.

Ferrari red. Centered like a relic. Or a fuse.

Christian stood when they entered. No tie. No theatrics. Just a quiet gravity in the way his hand brushed the folder, then stilled.

Max nodded once. Quiet. Focused. He took a seat at the table. Raymond followed.

The chair creaked slightly beneath him, but neither of them spoke. Raymond reached for the folder, flipping it open with practiced calm. He reread everything—every clause, every timeline, every detail he’d already seen twice before.

Max sat still beside him, not looking over his shoulder, just listening to the soft sound of pages turning.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Raymond didn’t rush.

When he finally reached the last page, he closed the folder gently and looked at Max.

“It’s solid,” he said. “Everything’s clean. You can sign.”

Max didn’t move. He stared at the folder for a moment longer—jaw set, fingers resting loosely against the edge of the table.

Then, without looking at Raymond, he said, quietly, “Can you give us a minute?”

Raymond paused. Then nodded once. No questions. He stood, straightening his jacket with practiced ease.

“I’ll be outside,” he said. He left without another word.

Max exhaled. Finally looked up at Christian.

“Am I too selfish?” he asked, voice low. “I’m not doing this for legacy. I mean—yeah, I’m still chasing another title. I always am.”

His gaze dropped. Voice barely more than a breath.

“But mostly… I’m doing this because I want to hear his voice in my ear.”

He swallowed. Jaw tightened.

“Because I trust him. Because—” his voice caught, just for a second, “—because I don’t want to do any of this without him.” It wasn’t dramatic. It was just true. The kind of truth that settled in the air and didn’t move.

Christian leaned forward slightly, voice steady.

“Max,” he said gently, “if that’s selfish… then so is half the paddock chasing podiums just to feel something. So is staying in a team that stopped feeling like home.”

A beat.

“This isn’t selfish. This is clarity.”

Max didn’t look up. His eyes stayed fixed on the table.

“What if I go,” he murmured, “and nothing works out?”

He didn’t need to explain. Christian understood.

What if the car doesn’t come together? What if the team resents him? What if Charles—

“Then you still did the right thing,” Christian said quietly.

Max’s eyes finally lifted, unsure.

Christian’s voice softened.

“You chose courage. You chose honesty. With yourself. With him. That’s more than most people ever get.”

He waited, just long enough for Max to really hear it.

“That’s what makes it worth it. That’s what makes it real.”

Then, after a breath, Christian added, “And there’s something I want to say to you. Just me—not as your ex or future team principal, but as someone who’s known you a long time.”

Max met his gaze.

“I’ve watched you make a lot of decisions over the years,” Christian said. “Some I agreed with. Some I didn’t.”

A pause. Not for effect—just to let it land.

“But this one—leaving Red Bull, walking straight into the lion’s den just to be near someone who matters to you…”

He shook his head, gently.

“That takes guts. And heart. And Max—” his voice dipped, quieter now, “it’s okay that this isn’t just about racing.”

Max didn’t speak, but something in his shoulders eased.

“But what if it does work out?” Christian’s voice was lower, as if afraid to disturb the fragile thread of hope hanging in the air.

“What if this isn’t just a gamble?”

A pause.

“What if you find something here—something lasting?”

He looked at Max—really looked at him.

“I hope to God you do. Not just you, Max. But Charles too.”

A few minutes later, Christian rose and crossed the room. He opened the door to let Raymond back in.

Raymond stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room—quick, perceptive, reading the air in an instant.

“Everything good?” he asked.

Max gave a small nod. “Yeah.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

There was no further discussion. No disclaimers. No contingency plans.

Raymond passed Max the pen.

Max took it. His fingers were steady now.

He signed, the soft drag of ink across the page making it official.

Christian folded his hands in front of him as he watched Max set the pen down beside the contract.

“I’ll tell Charles tomorrow morning,” he said, measured. “So he can start getting ready. But we’ll hold the official announcement until Wednesday. I’ll coordinate with Ferrari’s comms team.”

But Max’s head lifted, and his voice was firmer this time.

“No.”

Christian paused. “No?”

“I want to be the one to tell him.”

Christian nodded, quiet approval threading through his voice. “Of course,” he said. “It’s your moment. Take it.”

He then reached down to the leather folder at his feet and flipped it open.

“Now,” Christian said, pulling out a thick stack of paper clipped neatly at the corner, “let’s talk about your summer.”

He placed it in front of Max with the finality of someone dropping a new life on the table. Max blinked down at it—pages dense with notes, columns, highlighted blocks. Timelines. Tabs. Charts. It looked less like a schedule and more like a telemetry sheet.

“Simulator calibration,” Christian began, ticking items off with a slow, deliberate cadence, “custom seat fitting, racing suit adjustment, helmet moulds, promo shoots, onboarding with engineers—oh, and PR and filming slots.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

Christian didn’t even blink. “I’m not. And unfortunately, neither is Ferrari.”

He gave a dry smile. “You didn’t exactly leave yourself a lot of prep time. And Max, welcome to Ferrari.”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose and flipped through the first few pages. Red ink. Black ink. Calendar blocks bleeding into one another. His name repeated over and over—alongside words like shoot approval, launch edit feedback, helmet concept round two, track sim alignment, and—of course—a bolded title underlined in Prancing Horse red:

Launch Content Strategy – Concept: ‘Rebirth’.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Do I even get time to sleep?”

“If you’re lucky,” Christian said, voice dipped in amusement. “We carved out a few windows. One week between onboarding and the Maranello comms day. Private testing in Mugello. Some time slotted for branding workshops, but we’ll try to keep that painless.”

Max narrowed his eyes at one line. “They’re fitting me for… gloves?”

Christian didn’t miss a beat. “Everything.”

Max looked up, mildly offended. “They’re just gloves. I have black ones, just Puma—no Red Bull branding. They work.”

“Ferrari doesn’t care if they work,” Christian said, almost fond. “They care if they match. Suit, boots, gloves, polos, travel kit, headset—you name it. By the end of August, you’ll be dripping in Cavallino from your collarbone to your socks.”

Max tilted his head, suspicious. “And the horse?”

Christian smirked. “Oh, they will absolutely try to get you to pose with one.”

“A real one?”

“Of course,” Christian said, like that should’ve been obvious. “There’s a palomino at Mugello they’re quite fond of. Name’s Raffaello. Be gentle—he bites.”

Max dropped his head into one hand, half groan, half laugh. “I’m not a fucking cowboy.”

“No,” Christian said, standing now, tucking the leftover pages back into his folder. “You’re Ferrari’s most high-profile signing in years. Try to look majestic.”

Max let the printout fall lightly against the table, eyes narrowing. “It’s a circus.”

“Mm,” Christian agreed. “But it’s your circus now.”

He paused, then added, more soberly, “It’s not going to be easy. New team. New brand. New engineers, new car, new everything.”

Max didn’t speak, but Christian could see it in the way his jaw tightened—he was already thinking five steps ahead, already bracing for the shift.

“How we do things is different,” Christian continued. “Red Bull is the Bavarian machine—lean, relentless, precision-first. Ferrari… is something else. It’s elegance. Legacy. Emotion woven into carbon fibre. They’ll argue with their hearts before their heads. There are going to be clashes. Misunderstandings. Maybe even mistakes. But you’re not walking in there blind. You’re walking in with purpose. With someone already in your corner.”

Chapter Text

Charles was on time.

Of course he was. He’d arrived at the Monaco heliport at 08:00 sharp, black trousers pressed, team jacket neat over his arm. Three suitcases stood by his side, practical and identical. The morning light hadn’t yet burned the dew off the tarmac. A faint shimmer clung to the ground, catching on the blades of the idling helicopter, but Charles looked untouched by it—composed, unflinching. A silhouette against the glass terminal wall, too still to seem entirely real.

He greeted the pilot with a nod and a small, familiar smile. They’d flown together a few times since last year—quiet trips between Monaco and Maranello, each one efficient, word-light, precise. The kind of rhythm Charles appreciated.

“Good to see you again, Mr Leclerc,” the pilot said, already moving to load the suitcases. “We’re on schedule. Takeoff at 08:15, touchdown around ten. Weather looks clean all the way through.”

Charles gave a brief nod, his expression unreadable but polite. “Grazie.”

“Same flight path as usual,” the pilot added, closing the luggage hatch. “Should be a smooth one.”

Charles didn’t reply. He just stepped aside as the rotor blades began to turn—hands steady, eyes forward, waiting.

The seat had been signed, and Charles had been asked, firmly, if kindly. Christian had acknowledged this wasn’t the usual arrangement. For the past year, Charles had been allowed to work from home, tucked into the quiet safety of his apartment in Monaco. That’s why Ferrari had installed the gear which are calibrated to factory standards.

“You’ll be required at the factory every day,” Christian had said on the phone just yesterday. “The Monza debut window is narrow. We need continuity from Day One.”

Charles had been midway through folding his laundry. The moment Christian said “Monza,” he stopped.

“The hotel’s ready. Pack for a month. I’ll organise the company’s helicopter to pick you both up in the morning.”

Both.

That had been the first warning.

What Christian hadn’t said was who the new driver actually was. No name. No hint. Just that he was signed. Just that he’d be on the helicopter too.

“Think of it as an ice-breaking session,” Christian had said, voice too smooth. “Privately. Away from the media. Before the official announcement goes out Wednesday morning. Just the two of you.”

That had been the second warning.

Now, it was 08:15. The other seat remained empty.

Charles sat stiffly, hands folded over the handle of his cane, jaw tight. His phone buzzed quietly in his jacket pocket, but it wasn’t that name. Not the only name that might explain this tension pooling in his spine.

He stepped off the helicopter and away from the lawnch pad where he can hear better then pressed call.

“Christian,” he said, skipping the greeting, the preamble, the pleasantries. “Where is he?”

There was a rustle on the other end. A sigh. A click of something being set down, probably Christian’s coffee.

“He’s on his way,” Christian said, too smoothly. “ He just—lost track of time.”

Charles let the silence stretch. Let it press against the edges of the call. Then: “You told me this wasn’t going to be another Noah.”

“He’s not,” Christian replied, tone sharpening. “I swear to you. He’s just… dedicated. Overworked. A little excited. That’s all.”

Charles’s voice went flat. “You’re speaking like you know him personally.”

Another pause. Too long. Then, evenly: “I know a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I tell you everything.”

Charles narrowed his eyes at the empty seat beside him. “Christian.”

“You’ll see for yourself soon.”

“I’d like to see now.”

“You’ll survive a little longer,” Christian muttered, before hanging up without waiting for a reply.

Charles stared out at the tarmac, pulse low and simmering. He had one thought, rising unbidden: He better be worth it.

Christian hung up and immediately switched lines.

The first call rang out. Christian closed his eyes, muttered something that might’ve been a prayer or a death threat, and hit redial.

This time, it connected on the second ring.

A groggy thump. The unmistakable sound of a phone slipping against sheets. Then a cough—sharp, annoyed, half-choked—followed by a sluggish, “Christian?”

“Max,” Christian said, already bracing for impact. “Do you know what time it is? It’s eight eighteen.”

There was a pause. Then a muffled, horrified “…Shit.”

“You were supposed to be at the heliport half an hour ago.”

“I know.”

Christian could hear the chaos—sheets tossed, something hitting the floor, a drawer yanked open, a breathless curse.

“I was on the sim till three,” Max muttered, breath catching as he searched. “I was feeding Monza data—fuck, where’s my—hang on—”

“No,” Christian snapped. “You don’t hang on. You move. Now.”

Max already scrambling. “30 min, 40 max.”

“30?”

“I can’t just turn up without showering,” Max hissed. “I smell like Red Bull and regret.”

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hurry up then. Charles’ not impressed, Max.”

“He’s pissed?” Max asked, quieter now.

“He’s waiting,” Christian replied. “That’s worse. And we’ll talk about you and those damn Red Bull drinks later.”

Another crash. A shoe thudding against wood. A very quiet, very Dutch curse under Max’s breath.

Christian didn’t bother saying goodbye. He just hung up.

Max stood still for half a second, phone still pressed to his ear, as if silence might somehow reverse time. Then he swore—short, sharp, Dutch—and launched into motion.

He tossed the phone onto the bed and sprinted to the bathroom, flicked the shower on to full blast, and stepped in without testing the temperature. Cold. Brutal. Exactly what he deserved.

He washed fast. Hair, body, face. Shampoo still clinging to his ears when he jumped out, dripping water all over the tiles. He towel-dried at lightning speed, shoved on black jeans, and fumbled the polo over his damp hair. He checked himself in the mirror. His hair was still wet, sticking up in all the wrong places.

He combed it back with his fingers. No time for anything more. It would have to dry naturally.

At the dresser, he paused.

Cologne.

His eyes swept across the row of bottles. He reached for the familiar one—woodsy, crisp—sprayed it once over his neck. Changed his mind. Sprayed another over his wrist and immediately regretted it. Too much. Now he smelled like a high-end argument between pine and bergamot.

Whatever. Too late.

He grabbed his keys, phone, wallet. His suitcase was already packed from the night before, neatly zipped and standing sentinel by the door like it knew this morning would be chaos. Max grabbed the handle, tilted it onto its wheels, and rolled it behind him, locked up, and jogged down to the garage.

Monaco was gleaming in the morning light, the streets narrow and slick with dew, a postcard scene of soft gold and old stone. But under the gloss: traffic. Relentless, infuriating traffic.

And Max—late, hair still damp, pulse still too high—was trapped in it.

Every intersection seemed cursed. He hit red light after red light, the ABT RS6 growling beneath him like it shared his impatience. He tapped the steering wheel. Tapped again. Muted the radio. Unmuted it. Changed the station. Swore. Changed it back.

A delivery van blocked the lane just before the Boulevard Albert 1er, hazard lights blinking with obnoxious authority. Max swerved around it cleanly, aggressive but measured, the RS6 carving a line so tight it could’ve passed FIA scrutineering. At the next roundabout, a scooter darted in front of him without looking. Max slammed the brakes just enough to avoid making a very public headline and muttered something harsh and Dutch under his breath.

He rolled up to another light—red. Again. His thigh bounced. One hand flicked the indicator even though there was no one to signal to. He knew these roads like muscle memory, knew where to shave seconds, where the lights were staggered, where the lanes narrowed to single cars. But this morning? None of it mattered. Traffic conspired against him like it had a personal vendetta. A Bentley blocked a box junction. A tourist stepped off the curb in front of him with a croissant and zero awareness. The light turned green just in time for a garbage truck to lurch forward and block the lane again.

He resisted the urge to scream. Barely.

By the time he finally approached the heliport, the sea glinting to his left, Max was three minutes past 0900, running on sheer adrenaline, and Verstappen-grade spite. His jaw was set. His palms were sweating. His pulse was a drumline in his ears.

And there, on the bench just beyond the landing pad—back straight, cane resting against his knee—was Charles. Looking directly at him.

Max’s grip tightened on the wheel. He parked. Killed the engine. Took one last breath and stepped out into the sunlight.

Charles heard the engine before he saw it.

Low, guttural, and annoyingly familiar—the unmistakable growl of an ABT-tuned Audi RS6 echoing off the heliport walls like a dare.

He didn’t move. Just let his fingers curl once, slow and deliberate, around the handle of his cane.

Of course it was Max.

Of course.

The car crested around the final corner, sleek and black, tyres hissing slightly as they came to a stop. The moment the engine cut out, the silence rang louder than before.

Charles didn’t blink. He watched the door open. Watched Max step out—polo wrinkled, hair still damp and rebelling against whatever product he’d tried to tame it with. He was flushed, flushed and fidgeting, and Charles could see the exact moment Max spotted him.

Their eyes met.

For a second—no longer than that—Charles said nothing. Did nothing. He let Max feel the weight of it. The silence. The consequence.

Then he let his gaze slide—once, slowly—from Max’s trainers up to his face. He noted the too-strong cologne, the rushed way the shirt clung to one shoulder more than the other, the tiny wrinkle at the hem of the sleeve that meant Max had probably put it on inside-out at first, then fixed it. Barely.

He didn’t look like a Ferrari driver. He looked like Max. Stubborn, late, and hopelessly obvious.

Max, clearly feeling all of it, broke eye contact first.

As he turned, the pilot approached him—calm, unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses—and wordlessly took the larger bag from his grip.

“Thanks,” Max muttered, then added, “Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

The pilot gave a short nod and turned toward the helipad.

Max exhaled, squared his shoulders, and started toward Charles. Each step was a little too fast, a little too clipped, like he couldn’t decide whether to play it cool or beg forgiveness. His hand lifted halfway—maybe to wave, maybe to rake through his hair—but he aborted the gesture midair and shoved both hands into his pockets instead.

He stopped a pace too far, then stepped forward again, like he’d just remembered how distance worked.

“I—I went to your place yesterday,” Max said, voice low. “But you didn’t answer. And I didn’t know if you’d pick up if I called.”

His eyes flicked up, catching Charles’s gaze. Brief, but not hesitant. “I wanted to tell you myself,” he added. “About Ferrari. About… all of it.”

He shifted his weight, hands still buried deep, as if they were anchoring him to the earth. “I didn’t want you to hear it from Christian first.”

Charles tilted his head—not sharply, not performatively. Just enough to register the moment. The math of it. Max standing here, now, saying these things out loud.

“You’re late,” Charles said.

He didn’t stand. Not yet. He simply looked at Max—directly, steadily—and let the silence stretch a beat longer. Enough for the sun to warm the bench and the space between them.

Max flinched, almost imperceptibly. “I—sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to… I should’ve been here earlier.”

Charles didn’t respond right away.

He was still looking at him. Just this wide, stunned kind of stillness. Like something inside him had shifted and he hadn’t quite caught up.

He’d known this was coming. Eventually. With Christian at the helm, it had never been a question of if—only when.

And Charles had been preparing. Quietly. Systematically.

There was a folder on his drive—2027_PRELIM—the earliest outline of next year’s car. He’d requested it after that quiet conversation with Christian on the couch. Concept drafts. Aero baselines. A simulation model too raw for wind tunnel trials. But even in those crude frameworks, he’d already started folding Max into the structure.

Hypothetically. Just in case.

He’d tweaked the mapping parameters to reflect how Max preferred a looser rear in Sector 2. Adjusted tire degradation models to account for the way Max managed heat cycles. Left notes about how he trailed off the brakes like he was painting, not driving. All small things. All meant for someday.

He’d been preparing for next season. For a clean slate. A long runway. Not for mid-2026. Not for now.

Max shifted, misreading the quiet. His voice came smaller this time, thick with nerves. “You’re mad. God, I messed up… I should—”

“You didn’t,” Charles cut in, calm but unshakable. “I’m not mad,” he said, softer now. “Just… surprised.”

And he was. Genuinely. Caught between the reality in front of him and the version he’d prepared for—a transition still months away, still tucked safely inside planning folders and theoretical sim work. A future that wasn’t supposed to arrive like this: breathless, late, and already unfolding in front of him.

But even inside that surprise, something flickered. Small. Quiet. Like relief catching in his chest before he could name it.

The helicopter’s blades had begun to stir behind them, the low churn of rotors kicking up the scent of salt and fuel. The crew on the tarmac signaled with gloved hands—impatient, but polite. They were already late.

Charles stood first, slow but steady, pressing one hand briefly against the bench for balance.

“We should go.”

Max nodded, then fell into step beside him.

Chapter Text

The flight felt longer than it was.

Barely two hours but for Max, it might as well have been transatlantic. Not because of turbulence. Not because of the altitude. Because Charles was sitting beside him. And not saying a word.

The weather outside was perfect. The kind of day postcards envied—sky pale and cloudless, sun stretching long fingers across the Ligurian Sea. Below, the coastline glittered like it had been dipped in champagne. The occasional yacht sliced the water in smooth, pearled wakes. Even the mountains, distant and regal, rose with cinematic ease, like they’d been painted in by a director with a vision.

They banked inland somewhere near Florence. Max caught a glimpse of the Duomo, red and proud in the haze. Then came the valleys—spacious and gold-tinged, brushed with vineyards and old stone. Italy, unfolding in soft hieroglyphs beneath the clouds.

It was beautiful. Unbelievably beautiful. And it was his first trip to Maranello as a Ferrari driver—his first time seeing the base not as a rival, not as a symbol of history and pressure, but as his. His team. His future. But Max couldn’t feel any of it. Not with Charles looking at him every few minutes. Or—at least, he thought he was.

He sat stiffly in the leather seat, arms crossed too tightly, trying to look relaxed and failing miserably. A flick of eyes. A stillness too long. A silence that wasn’t quite neutral. Each time it happened, Max’s stomach flipped.

Was this about Ferrari? Was it judgment? Annoyance? Disappointment?

Was Charles still irritated that he’d been late? Silently tallying every misstep Max had made since the moment he stepped on board. Or worse—was he angry that Max had joined Ferrari at all?

The contract was signed. The deal was done. There was no undoing it now. But what if Charles hadn’t wanted this? Hadn’t wanted him? Maybe he should’ve said something first. Reached out. Asked. Maybe he should’ve made sure. But that’s too late now.

Or was it something else?

Max tugged subtly at his shirt hem, fingers brushing over the fabric. Checked the sleeves again. The collar was probably fine—probably not inside out—but what if it was? He hadn’t looked properly. He’d been too rushed, too wired, too focused on getting there to notice the small things.

He swallowed, glanced at his reflection in the window—too many angles, too much light—and ran a quick hand over his hair. Still damp. Still defiant. A thousand tiny frizzes forming a halo he couldn’t control. His fingers twitched again.

He hadn’t worn this shirt in months. Maybe Charles hated it. Maybe he hated the cologne. God—maybe he just hated him.

Max shifted in his seat, forcing himself to look straight ahead. It was fine. It would be fine. He’d get to the base, shake hands, go through orientation, and start proving himself. That was what mattered. The rest—

He glanced at Charles again. Still silent. Still unreadable. And maddeningly looking right past him.

Beside Max, Charles didn’t move. He sat quiet and composed, spine straight, gaze fixed somewhere ahead—but not really on anything. Not on Max. Not on the glittering sea out the window. Not even on the pilot’s steady hands at the controls.

He was staring past it all—past the interior of the cabin, past the flash of coastline in the morning sun. A bolt behind Max’s head. A panel seam. A window smudged faintly with salt. His mind was already elsewhere.

A new driver. A car not yet built for him. The steering wheel would need refitting. The brake balance presets adjusted. The control mappings rewritten from the ground up—ERS, diff, clutch bite point. Max’s driving style demanded a different aero balance entirely. And they didn’t have the luxury of a full preseason to rework the feedback models. No wind tunnel resets. No CFD delays. Everything had to work—now.

He noticed it, vaguely. The movement. The tension. Max, shifting for the third time in five minutes. Tugging at his sleeve. Running a hand over his hair. Shoulders tense, breathing shallow. Charles blinked. Considered it.

First day nerves, he thought. He didn’t comment. Just let him be.

But then—right before descent, with the rotors changing pitch and the coastline slanting outside the window—Charles finally looked. Properly.

Max looked… windblown. Earnest and maybe a little sleep-deprived. His hair had dried in every possible direction, curling softly like it had lost the will to fight him.

Charles exhaled once through his nose. Almost a laugh. Almost. He hesitated. He could let Max disembark like this—frazzled, frizzy, flustered—but there would be cameras waiting. Media teams. First impressions to capture and replay and spin. Max should be picture perfect for this.

“Your hair,” Charles said quietly.

Max reached up automatically, fingers raking through it in a vague, fruitless motion. “I know. I tried. It’s—yeah.”

Charles blinked at him. Then, after a beat: “May I?”

Max’s hand froze. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft and a little wary, like he didn’t quite know what he was agreeing to.

Charles unzipped his backpack. Pulled out a small, half-used jar of styling balm. The lid clicked softly as he unscrewed it. Then he reached over. His fingers slid carefully into Max’s curls. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Just calm, deliberate motion—like Charles had done this a hundred times before. He pressed down the cowlick near Max’s temple. Smoothed the frizz at the crown. Coaxed the sides into order with quiet efficiency. Quick, practiced motions. Familiar. Precise. Shockingly tender.

Max didn’t move. Didn’t dare. He sat still, almost breathless, as Charles’s fingers worked through his hair with a familiarity that shouldn’t have existed—but somehow did. Each touch was light. Measured. Soothing in a way that bypassed his thoughts entirely and went straight to his chest.

And in that stillness—uninvited but unshakable—came the memory of Pascale.

She’d said it once, casually, while sweeping hair from the kitchen tiles after Arthur’s failed attempt with clippers: “I give the better haircut, but Charles always styles it best. Maybe one day.”

Max had smiled. At the time, it felt like something sweet but impossible. A kindness wrapped in a joke. A someday that would never come.

He never imagined that one day would look like this. That it would be now. That he’d be here—in a Ferrari helicopter, midair over Italy, with Charles leaning close and smoothing his hair like it meant nothing. Like it was just routine.

But it wasn’t routine. It was—strangely—intimate. Not in a loud, obvious way. Not like a hug or a handshake. Not like the things people noticed and labeled. But in something smaller. Quieter. Closer. It felt like a secret.

And Max… Max didn’t want it to end.

Charles studied his work—thumb brushing down the last stray curl, eyes narrowing with quiet precision. Then he leaned back, satisfied. Just perfect. He wiped his hands on a clean tissue, tucked the balm away, and zipped the pocket closed.

Outside the window, the town of Maranello began to unfold—red-tiled roofs glowing under the morning sun, the test track glinting like a promise in the distance. The helicopter dipped lower, the change in air pressure pressing soft against their skin.

Max shifted in his seat, fingers twitching toward the headset—half a second from escape.

But before he could lift it from his ears, Charles spoke.

“Max.”

The name cut clean through the noise—soft, low, and impossibly steady. Max turned, startled. His hand froze mid-motion, and he met Charles’s gaze. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t clinical. It was something else entirely.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Charles said, voice low and even, like he was talking someone off a ledge. “Ferrari’s lucky to have you. Christian knows it. Everyone will, soon enough.”

He paused—then glanced at Max, softer now.  “And I’m glad you’re here. Really.”

A breath passed. Charles tilted his head, voice dipping into something almost wry, almost fond. “And just so you know—your shirt’s fine. Your hair’s… workable. And no, I didn’t fix it. Definitely not.”

“I’ll keep your reputation intact,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want the paddock to know you moonlight as a hairstylist.”

Charles’s eyes slid back to the window, but Max didn’t miss the subtle curve at the corner of his mouth.

Inside, the tension uncoiled by a millimeter, just a tiny loosening in Max's chest, enough for air to move again. The rotors still thundered overhead, the skids were only seconds from touching down, and there were press officers, photographers, and a brand-new garage waiting to swarm him.

Yet, somehow, none of that felt quite as daunting.

He’s glad I’m here.

The thought settled like ballast—heavy in the best possible way. Max adjusted his headset, ready for the door to slide open.

“All right,” he said, voice low but steadier than before. “Let’s not trip on the way out, then.”

Chapter Text

Summer break, they called it.

A mandatory two-week shutdown, etched into the FIA’s sporting regulations—no wind tunnel testing, no CFD, no chassis modifications, no sneaking in a new spec under the radar. Between July and August, every team was required to close shop. The factories went dark. The design offices shut their doors. Development came to a dead halt. Or so it was supposed to.

Because while other teams flocked to the coastlines—sun-drunk drivers posting yacht photos, engineers hiking mountain trails, PR interns sipping cocktails in places with names like Mykonos or Marbella—Ferrari worked.

Not illegally. Because Max Verstappen had switched teams mid-season. Because the clause in his contract allowed it. Because the FIA made room for movement during the summer break, so long as the terms were clean and properly documented. And because this wasn’t just a driver swap—it was a systems integration.

That meant Ferrari’s mandatory shutdown wasn’t a true shutdown. Not for Charles. Not for the engineers. Not for the sim team, or the fitters, or the handful of trackside operatives now reassigned to recalibrate for Max. Not when every setting—every seat bolt, every torque curve, every damn brake migration pattern—had to be remapped for a new driving style.

So while other teams slept off their spritzes and reapplied sunscreen, Maranello stayed lit.

For Max, it started the moment he stepped off the helicopter—and it hadn’t stopped since.

His orientation had been so brief it might as well have been a pit stop. One brisk lap around the corridors, a handful of keycards, a quick handshake with Facilities—and then straight into onboarding.

A few days later, already running late for a meeting, Max realized he had no idea where Christian’s office even was. He’d wandered through the wrong building, past old wind tunnel components and display cases of archived race suits, until he found himself standing beside a life-sized sculpture of Enzo Ferrari.

That’s when he called Christian—awkward, slightly breathless, sweat beading along his collar.

There was a pause.

Then:“You’re in the museum,” Christian said, deadpan. “Turn around. Other side of the courtyard.”

The meeting with the engineers wasn’t just with Charles. It was the full pool—the layered, beating core of Ferrari’s technical division. Aero, chassis, electronics, data systems, tire strategy, cooling architecture, software calibration. Dozens of minds, all running at full tilt, focused on a singular task: integrating Max.

He listened. Took notes. Nodded. Asked questions. Learned names. Then forgot them. Then learned them again.

Everyone was polite. Focused. Some curious. A few skeptical—but no one said it aloud. They didn’t have to. Max had seen that look before: we know you’re fast, but fast isn’t the same as ready.

The briefings were technical marathons, sliding between English and Italian, sometimes mid-sentence. Charles sat beside him—not translating, but filtering.

When someone slipped into regional shorthand or rapid-fire cadence about aero stalls or tire delta drift, Charles stepped in. Calm. Precise. He didn’t repeat everything. Just what mattered. He softened what needed softening. Emphasized what Max should hear. Skipped the rest.

And sometimes—under fluorescent lights, beside whiteboards filled with telemetry curves—Charles would glance across the room. Just briefly. Like a check-in. A reminder.

Max always caught it. And each time, he remembered why he was here.

The seat fitting came next. Routine in theory. But this wasn’t one-and-done.

The first mold was too shallow in the hips. The second, too tight at the shoulders. The third—closer, but still not his. The technicians spoke fast, hands gesturing in frustration. Max tried to follow the dialect—sinistra, più basso, cambia l’inclinazione—but only caught every tenth word.

Then Charles stepped forward. “He needs more room on the left side. The fibula line—look how he shifts his weight. That’s not natural.” The room went quiet. Then they nodded. Adjusted. Went again.

Charles didn’t look at Max. Just pointed at the CAD screen like this was any other component. But Max felt it anyway—that thread, taut between them.

By the fifth adjustment, it was starting to feel right.

Next came the race suit fitting.

It took place in a low-slung annex off the logistics hall, where mannequins stood like ghosts of victories past. Red everywhere—deep, unapologetic Rosso Corsa. Not up for discussion.

“You don’t get a say in the color,” one branding staffer joked, looping a measuring tape around Max’s shoulders. “Some variation for special weekends, of course. But for everything else—” they tapped a swatch of crimson against his chest, “—it’s this.”

They paused. “You do get a say in how you wear it.”

Max nodded, silent. VERSTAPPEN 33, stitched across the back. He hadn’t worn a number in years.

There was something intimate about it—not just the tailoring, but the transformation. Ferrari didn’t just dress you. They measured you for legacy. Centimeters, pressure points, silhouette.

He stepped onto the platform. Arms out. Let them work.

Slim-cut or relaxed. High collar or soft fold. Tech-knit gloves. Leather-backed boots. Even the studio suit for media day. Not a single millimeter left to chance.

“Waist tailoring?” the fitter asked, holding up two patterns. “Neutral cut or more shape? Leclerc preferred a bit of style—said it photographs better.”

Max blinked. Charles in a Ferrari suit had always looked inevitable. Like the suit had been designed for him. Like the stitching bowed to him. And that waist—

Heat prickled beneath Max’s collar.

“I’ll go with something in between,” he said. His voice came out rougher than intended.

The fitter nodded, noting it down. But Max caught the faint twitch at the corner of their mouth. Not quite a smile. Just recognition. Like they’d seen this pause before.

He shifted slightly, the fabric settling against his ribs. Told himself it was just tailoring. Just fit.

But Charles would notice.

He always did.

The next stop was the helmet mould. Max had done this a dozen times before, maybe more. But not like this. Not in Maranello.

He sat in the reclined chair as a technician adjusted the scanner arm, calibrating it with quiet precision. Another rolled up a cart stacked with jaw padding options and neck liners. Everything was bespoke. Everything mattered.

“Breathe normally,” one of them instructed, as the scanner orb began to sweep a slow arc over Max’s skull.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Across the room, a rack of legacy helmets stood behind protective glass—names etched into the baseplates.

Schumacher. Lauda. Villeneuve. Leclerc.

The sight twisted something in his chest.

“You’ll get two main shells,” said the tech at his side, reviewing the screen. “One for practice. One for race. We’ll add custom aero foils if you want them, but Charles said—” They caught themselves. “—Said that usually depends on track-specific drag. So we’ll leave that open.”

Max didn’t reply. Just listened. Let the name settle. Charles said.

Charles had clearly been involved in every stage—even this. Not hovering, not interfering. But present. Embedded in the process. Like a thread sewn tight through every seam.

The technician held up a blank shell in Ferrari red, the base coat still matte. “Any design requests?”

Max blinked. The question should’ve felt exciting—he’d always had opinions on his livery. But this time, he hesitated.

He thought about the helmets Charles used to wear. He didn’t want to copy it. But he didn’t want to look away from it either.

“I’ll send my sketches later,” Max said softly. “Still deciding.”

The tech nodded, then carefully lowered the scanner to Max’s jaw.

As it hummed to life again, Max sat still—chin up, spine straight—letting the machinery trace the shape of his future.

There were a few days after that. Just a pause in fittings and formality while his custom seat, race suit, boots, gloves, and helmet were finalized—made, stitched, tested, approved. But the gap wasn’t downtime. It was data time.

The simulator had been a daily appointment since day one. But for five days straight, it was the only thing. No fittings. No distractions. Just sim work. Nothing else. The schedule was exacting. Morning sessions. Afternoon replays. Nighttime revisions. Drive. Review. Adjust. Repeat. Max didn’t complain. He drove like he meant it. Not to prove a point—but because that was the only way he knew how. And every time he stepped out of the simulator, sweat-soaked and flushed, Charles was there. Not always in the room. But nearby. And always in his ear.

Charles didn’t waste time with pleasantries. Didn’t soften the feedback.

“You’re over-rotating in Turn 11. Again.”

“Your throttle trace is too sharp on corner exit.”

“You’re reacting to instability instead of anticipating it.”

But then—on the third night, after Max adjusted the setup mid-run and hit a sector split faster than either of them expected—Charles’s voice came through with something else.

“Better. That’s more like you.”

Max didn’t answer at first. He was still catching his breath.

And somewhere behind the console glass, Charles smiled. Just a little.

On the monitor, the telemetry lit up green. Max stayed in the seat, gloved hands resting loose on his thighs, visor up, breath slowly evening out.

He didn’t need to speak. He knew Charles had seen it. Knew he was watching—not just the data, but him.

The fourth day started early. Too early, maybe. But Max didn’t ask why the schedule had moved up by an hour. He just arrived, half-wet from the morning mist, hair still damp from the shower, and climbed straight into the rig.

Charles was already there. Configuration already loaded. Monza.

Max blinked at the screen. “We’ve already done it.”

Charles didn’t look up. “Do it again.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong with the data?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Because we’re not done,” Charles said, voice cool but flat around the edges. Tired, maybe. Or closed off.

Max didn’t push. Just tightened the belts and adjusted his gloves.

Lights on the screen blinked green. He took a breath. Dropped into gear. And launched.

They didn’t talk much that day. Not between runs. Not during. Not even when the backend snapped on lap twenty-three and Max swore loud enough to echo through the insulation.

Charles’s reply came after a beat.

“Next time, don’t chase the correction. Let it come to you.”

Max gritted his teeth, nodded, reset.

They kept going.

The factory halls were empty by the time Max left the sauna after 6 p.m.—skin flushed, muscles loose, body rung out from hours in the rig.

He was going to head straight back. But at the last second, he turned. Down the corridor. Past the sim room. Toward the data bay.

The door was cracked open. Charles was still inside—surrounded by three glowing screens and too many graphs, pulling telemetry from the Monza laps Max had just run and overlaying them with his data from last year’s Red Bull stint at Monza. Frame by frame. Turn by turn.

He didn’t knock. Just stood there for a second, watching. Charles paused the footage. Not startled. Just… still. Max thought he’d look up. He didn’t.

But after a beat, Charles said—without turning— “Turn 9. You lifted too late.”

Max raised a brow. “You’re still watching Monza?”

Charles finally glanced over his shoulder. Just briefly. Just enough. “I don’t like guesswork,” he said.

Under the fluorescent light, surrounded by all the quiet intensity of this place, Max realized something: Charles wasn’t preparing him for the car. He was preparing him for Ferrari.

For the pressure. For the expectation. For the weight of the crest on his chest. For the silence between gear shifts, when the media wouldn’t stop talking. For the team briefings that felt like tribunals. For the tifosi, who could love you to pieces and still demand more.

Charles knew all of it. Had lived it. Had bled for it.

And now—he was teaching Max how to survive it. Not by shielding him. But by sharpening him.

Charles turned back to the screen, one hand still braced on the desk, the other adjusting playback to frame-accurate slow motion.

Max watched him for a beat longer. Noticed the slight hitch in his movement, the stiffness in his lower back. The pause between breaths that said he hadn’t stood up in hours.

Something in Max’s chest ached—quietly. Pointlessly.

He didn’t offer help. Didn’t say thank you.

He just stood a little taller. Straighter. And when he finally left the room, he did so with something new burning in his gut.

Chapter Text

The studio suit was ready before everything else, so Max got thrown into branding first.

Filming. A lot of filming.

Promos, sponsor reels, intros for every track on the calendar—even the ones he'd never raced in red. They were building a library, the media team said. Stock footage to roll out on race weeks when time would be tight.

He changed into the pristine, press-perfect version of the race suit and stood under studio lights while producers barked direction: Smile. Reset. Look serious. Reset. Now tilt your head. Now less. No—less than that. Say the line in Italian. Again. Slower. Again.

The marketing team tried to teach him how to “look natural” when smiling. They handed him a branded coffee cup for twelve separate takes because the foam art didn’t match the color brief.

One workshop included an entire lecture on gesture authenticity. Max stopped listening halfway through and spent the rest of it imagining what it’d be like to drive the Mugello test car straight into the side of the media van.

And then there was Raffaello.

A palomino stallion with camera-ready lashes, teeth like sin, and a mane better styled than Max’s own hair.

“He bites,” Charles warned him before, “So don’t smile too close.”

Max smiled anyway. Let the horse tug at the edge of his glove while the camera clicked. Just to spite the photographer.

Then came the outdoor filming slots. Crawling into the SF-26 show car again and again, strapping himself in for a three-second B-roll pan across the halo. Sometimes they made him get out and redo it because the sun had shifted. Or the sponsor patch wasn’t angled right. Or a drone caught the wrong shadow across his cheekbone.

There were GoPros. Drones. Gimbals. So many cameras Max started resenting the shape of his own face.

But finally, that afternoon, he got an early finish. Four p.m. The first one in two weeks.

He went back to the factory in the quiet hope he and Charles could have dinner together.

They hadn’t spoken much. A few quiet jokes during sim debriefs. A few glances that lingered longer than they used to. That moment in the helicopter. But everything else had been numbers. Adjustments. Work. It felt like foundation. Like scaffolding being laid down between them, steady and precise. They were building toward the same thing. Still, Max wanted more than just shared objectives and calibration notes. He was closer to Charles now than he'd ever been. Closer physically, professionally. He’d be an idiot not to use that chance.

When Max got to the engineering wing, Charles wasn’t in his office. The lights were off. His chair was empty. The desk, usually half-buried under notes and printouts, had been cleared. One of the monitors still blinked idly—its standby screen looping sector data from an earlier sim run.

Max stood in the doorway a moment, hesitating. Then turned. A staff member passing through noticed him looking around.

“The engineers are in a meeting,” he offered helpfully. “I can go get Charles for you, if you want—?”

Max shook his head. “It’s okay. Do you know when they finish?”

The guy shrugged. “Started about an hour ago. Shouldn’t be too long.”

“I’ll wait.”

So he did.

The couch outside the data room was old—half-sunken and upholstered in something between grey and regret—but Max sank into it anyway, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

He didn’t check his phone. Didn’t scroll through old messages or even glance at the sim notes he’d brought out of habit.

He just sat. In the quiet hum of the hallway. Low fluorescent lights buzzing above. Some server fan whirring faintly in the background.

Time moved differently here. Slower. Like the air itself was waiting.

He let his gaze drift to the frosted window of the meeting room, too far down the hall to make out detail. Just movement. The occasional silhouette. A chair rolling back. A hand lifted. Nothing definitive.

He imagined Charles in there—tired, sharp, still making the room listen. Voice calm, spine straight, face unreadable.

Max smiled to himself. Just a little.

Eventually, the warmth of the hallway, the day’s exhaustion, and the softness of the old couch caught up with him. He let his eyes close. Let the world go dim. And drifted off—half-bored, half-hopeful, and entirely his own kind of quiet.

Charles stepped out of the sim room just after midnight. He’d gone straight there after the meeting—now his spine ached, his eyelids were heavy, but his mind kept running through the last two agenda points like a program refusing to shut down.

The corridor was mostly dark now. One overhead light buzzed faintly near the server room. Most of the team had gone home hours ago. He moved automatically, turning toward his office—until something made him stop.

Someone was on the couch.

At first, just a silhouette. Legs stretched out. Shoulders curled slightly into the armrest. Then, as his eyes adjusted, recognition struck.

Max.

Asleep.

Charles stood still for a moment. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t known Max had come back. He must have been here—waiting—all this time.

The hallway was quiet. Almost reverent.

Max’s head had tipped to the side, one arm tucked behind it, the other resting loosely on his chest. His hair was a mess, flattened in the back, curls a little chaotic in the front. His jaw was slack. His mouth slightly open. Unguarded. Completely.

And it hit Charles—sudden and silent—how few people ever got to see Max like this. How tightly wound he usually was. How fiercely he held onto his edges. But now—he looked younger. Softer. Real.

Charles’s gaze lingered on the strands of hair falling over Max’s forehead. He remembered the texture of it. The way it parted like waves when he’d combed his fingers through. The warmth of it. The way Max had gone still, just for a breath.

And now he was here. Asleep. In the hallway. Waiting.

Charles’s chest tugged, sharp and quiet. He stepped forward and, despite his spine protesting, crouched beside the couch—careful, quiet, unwilling to startle him. Careful in a way he hadn’t been with anyone in a long time.

“Max,” he said softly, voice low and warm. “Wake up.”

Max didn’t stir. Just shifted slightly, breath deepening, lashes fluttering faintly but not enough to surface.

Charles reached out, fingers hesitating just a second before brushing gently against Max’s shoulder. “Max. Come on. You can’t sleep here.”

A pause. Then, drowsy and groaning, Max blinked awake. Confused. Blinking at the lights.

“Charles?”

“You’ll hurt your neck,” Charles murmured. “Or catch a cold. We don’t need either of those right now.”

Max sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes with the back of one hand. “What time is it?”

“00:10.”

Max blinked again. “You’re just leaving now?”

Charles nodded but didn’t move.

Max, now a little more awake, noticed Charles still crouched beside the couch. One hand braced lightly on the cushion for balance, the other resting just beside Max’s knee.

And for someone with metal in his spine and a leg that didn’t always cooperate, it was—it was not nothing.

“You shouldn’t be down there,” Max said quietly.

“I’m fine,” Charles replied—too fast, too practiced.

“It’s not fine. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Charles exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking away. “I didn’t want to wake you too fast.”

“You didn’t. But get up before you lock something.”

Charles gave a short breath—half amused, half resigned—and rose slowly, one hand instinctively moving to the small of his back like it always did when he’d been still too long.

Max watched him, then muttered, “Next time just kick me.”

Charles gave him a look. “No way I’m doing that.”

“Why not?”

“A sudden awakening can trigger a stress response—releasing cortisol and adrenaline. It can spike your heart rate, raise anxiety levels. Not ideal.”

Max stared at him.

Charles shrugged. “We don’t need either of us dealing with a hormone surge at midnight.”

“Was that also part of a lecture at Imperial?”

Charles didn’t miss a beat. “No. That was a TED Talk. Sleep and optimal cognitive performance.”

Max let out a quiet scoff. “Of course it was.”

They walked in step, the air outside cooler than expected, the gravel underfoot crunching in rhythm beneath their shoes. The streetlamps cast long shadows, and their breath fogged faintly in the summer night air—just enough to remind them how long they’d stayed.

Halfway to the hotel, Charles finally spoke again.

“So,” he said, glancing sideways. “What were you doing back at the factory?”

Max shoved his hands into his pockets. “Just came by.”

Charles raised a brow. “After a full day of filming?”

Max gave a small shrug, eyes on the pavement. “Had an early finish. Thought I’d stop in.”

Charles looked ahead. Nodded once. “You were waiting.” It wasn’t a question.

Max didn’t answer right away. His footsteps stayed steady, but something in his posture shifted—shoulders curving inward, chin dropping slightly. He didn’t deny it.

Charles let the silence breathe for a few steps. Then added, voice softer this time, like brushing snow off glass—

“Did something happen at the shoot?”

Max shook his head. “No. It was fine. Just… long. Artificial. You know how it is.”

Charles nodded, gaze still forward. “Too many lenses. Not enough air.”

Max let out a small laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that held space—quiet like a cooling engine. Still warm. Still alive beneath the surface.

Charles glanced at him again. “So… why did you?”

Max chewed on his bottom lip. What can I say? That I wanted to see you? Too bold. That I needed a break? Too vague. That I just wanted to be near you for a minute?

“Just wanted to talk to you,” Max said and immediately winced. Jesus, that sounds lame.

Charles turned his head slightly, something flickering in his expression. “Okay… what did you want to talk about?”

Max opened his mouth. Closed it again. Rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly too aware of the cool night air pressing into his hoodie. He had a list—topics he’d been saving in his head for whenever they got time. Little things. Big things. The horse at the shoot. A weird sector delta in Barcelona. The soap in the factory bathroom that, for some reason, smelled really good.

Dinner would’ve made it easier. A table. A buffer. Some kind of rhythm.

But now, under moonlight and silence, everything on the list felt too staged. Too obvious. None of it fit the quiet truth of this moment.

So he settled for the worst option.

“…I forgot,” he muttered.

Charles glanced over, worry flickering at the edge of his expression. Max forgetting? Max, who was sharp in interviews, precise in debriefs, always quick with a comeback or a dig?

But Charles didn’t push. He just adjusted—his voice softening, his steps slowing by half a beat.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” he said, calm and steady. “About anything.” He didn’t say it like an invitation. He said it like a promise.

Then—quieter, but just as firm—“We’re one team now. And I’ll always be on your side.”

That stopped something in Max’s chest. Froze it mid-beat. He felt the words. Felt them land somewhere too close to where he kept everything locked up.

And still—he didn’t speak. He just nodded. Once. Small. Almost shy. Like something tucked away, but not hidden.

And Charles didn’t ask for more.

By the time they reached their hotel rooms—side by side, the quiet between them had settled like mist. Not tense. Not open. Just there.

Charles stopped outside his door and turned slightly toward Max. “Have a hot shower,” he said. “Don’t set your alarm. I’m cancelling our sim session tomorrow morning. Just come in when you’re ready.”

Max protested. “What? No, I’m not—I’m fine.” The words came out too fast. Clipped. Defensive. And as soon as they left his mouth, he regretted them. Because now it sounded like he wasn’t fine. Like he’d just proven the worry that hadn’t been there to begin with. All he’d meant to do was show up. To see Charles.

Charles looked at Max for a long moment then he said, gently but without room for argument, “Regardless, you need rest. It’s been chaotic lately, and you could use the morning to yourself.”

Charles didn’t wait for a reply. He slid his keycard through the lock. The light blinked green.

Before stepping inside, he glanced back once more, “Goodnight, Max.”

Max swallowed. His throat felt tight.

“Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Private testing had stretched into its third day, and Fiorano was starting to feel less like a track and more like a confessional.

Not in the dramatic sense. No great sins or secrets spilled. But in the way repetition stripped things bare—the way lap after lap, with no media, no fans, no pressure to perform on a global stage, made space for something more honest.

They were closing in on something. That much Max knew.

The SF-26 wasn’t perfect yet, but it was getting close. Closer than it had any right to be, this quickly. It was no longer a stranger. Not something built for Oliver or Noah. It was becoming his—shaped through late nights and early briefings, through data overlays and gut instinct, through the trust Charles had placed in the engineering team, and the way they’d responded to Max’s feedback with urgency and precision. It no longer felt like he was adapting to someone else’s machine.

The compromises were dissolving, lap by lap. The steering weight, the differential slip in low-speed corners, the throttle modulation in third gear—everything was beginning to sync. The team was listening. And the car was starting to listen too.

He still didn’t know all their names. Not yet. But he knew their eyes. The way one of the senior suspension guys lit up when Max suggested a front damper tweak that echoed something Charles had proposed weeks ago. The quiet satisfaction on Monica’s face—she was the tire performance analyst—when Max confirmed that the new compound stagger they’d tried actually felt right through Sector 2.

And Charles, of course. Charles was always there. Not intrusive, not overbearing. Just present. A single nod across the garage when Max returned from a long run. A shared look during debriefs that meant we’re getting there.

Today had been the strongest yet. Long stints. Clean telemetry. Balance holding through the Lesmos and the Parabolica simulation. No sudden loss on corner exit. No unpredictable rear-end twitch.

Charles had been right. The mid-corner snap Max hated was gone. The rear was planted now. Assertive, but not rigid. Alive.

And the high-speed bite—it was back. Not artificial, not something you had to coax out of the setup with compromise, but real. Like the car wanted to be driven hard. Like it understood him.

Max had sat through the final debrief still in his base layers, damp curls sticking to his forehead, listening as Charles and the others exchanged quiet Italian over something about pedal mapping. He didn’t interrupt. Just sipped his electrolytes and tried not to look too pleased.

When it was done, Max offered a few more notes—praise for the downforce balance, a query about rake adjustments under heavy fuel—and the team seemed... lighter. Buoyant, even. As if they believed now. Not just in the car. But in him. And what this partnership might become.

He left the garage smiling.

The sun was beginning to soften by the time Max stepped out of the showers, hair damp, skin still humming from the adrenaline of the day.

He didn’t expect anyone to be waiting.

But Charles was there.

Leaning against the far wall outside the changing rooms, dressed in his usual civilian blacks and greys—well-cut trousers (not skinny, never that), soft cotton shirt rolled to the elbows, the cuff of one sleeve dusted faintly with graphite or grease. Cane tucked beneath his arm like a casual afterthought, posture deceptively relaxed. The kind of composed stillness that made him look like something mythic carved from marble.

The nickname had started as a joke—Carlos’s fault, mostly. Lord Perceval.

But it stuck.

And standing there now, half-lit by the gold spill of late sun through the hallway windows, Max could see why.

The hallway wasn’t quiet. There were voices echoing from further down—snatches of Italian, laughter from one of the younger engineers, the low mechanical clatter of someone wheeling a flight case too fast around a corner. A compressor hissed once before shutting off. Radios crackled.

But all of it felt distant. Blurred at the edges.

Because Charles was here. And he wasn’t looking at his phone or fiddling with data or halfway through a conversation. He was waiting. For Max.

And that was rare.

Max slowed to a stop a few paces away, towel still looped around his shoulders, breath easing now that the day was behind him—but his mind was still running. Still adjusting to the idea that this, whatever this was, wasn’t about the car.

Charles’s eyes flicked up, catching his.

“Got any plans tonight?” he asked, voice casual. Almost too casual.

Max blinked. “Besides protein powder and a half-watched cycling documentary?”

Charles tilted his head. “So… no.”

“No,” Max admitted. “Why?”

“I booked dinner,” Charles said, like it was a logical progression of thought. “Nothing fancy. Local place in town. They do proper amatriciana and pour wine like it’s a competitive sport.”

Max’s brow lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “You inviting me or giving me restaurant tips?”

“Inviting you. And so that we can talk.” A pause. Charles’ gaze didn’t waver. “Just the two of us.”

Max exhaled, towel still hanging loose around his neck, one hand smoothing over the back of it like he needed something to do.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.” Then, with a slight tilt of his head—half gesture, half surrender: “Lead the way.”

The trattoria Charles had chosen sat tucked behind an old stone archway on the quieter side of town—no signage visible from the main road, just the faint hum of voices and the scent of tomatoes stewing low and slow somewhere deep inside.

It wasn’t fancy. The chairs didn’t match. The tablecloths were worn thin in places, and the floor tiles creaked underfoot. But the warmth was real—like the kind of place where the owner had known your name for twenty years and never wrote down your order because she didn’t need to.

A waitress greeted Charles with a knowing smile and barely glanced at Max.

They were seated near the back, at a table by the window. The light had dipped low by now, bleeding amber through the vines strung across the courtyard. A breeze carried in the scent of basil and something wood-fired.

Charles didn’t open a menu.

Max did—out of reflex more than need—but didn’t get far before Charles murmured, “They’ll just bring whatever’s best today. Trust me.”

Max raised a brow. “You come here often?”

Charles shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s quiet. No one here cares about racing.”

Max glanced around. Sure enough—no TV, no posters, no Ferrari memorabilia on the walls. Just shelves lined with olive oil bottles and dusty wine.

The waitress returned with two glasses of red and said something rapid in Italian.

Charles responded without hesitation, tone warm but efficient. She nodded and disappeared through a beaded curtain.

Max leaned back. “What did you just sign me up for?”

Charles’s mouth curved slightly. “Amatriciana. Proper one. With guanciale, not pancetta.”

“Good,” Max said, taking a sip of the wine. It was earthy and deep and slightly too warm. “I’d walk out if it was pancetta.”

“I’d make you,” Charles replied.

Max looked at him, smile lingering. “Of course you would.”

Silence settled again—not awkward, just weighty. Like they were both easing into something that had taken too long to start.

Outside, a Vespa rattled past. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pan hissed.

Charles glanced down at his glass, turning it slowly between his fingers. “This is your last race with Red Bull.”

Max nodded once. “Zandvoort.”

Charles’s eyes didn’t lift. “You ready for that?”

Max hesitated. Then said, “Not really. But I’m going.”

Charles let out a breath—not quite a laugh, but close.

“Home race to finish,” he said, lifting his glass slightly. “And Monza with Ferrari to start the next chapter.”

He looked up at Max then, gaze steady.

“Can’t get any better than that.”

Max picked up his own glass, eyes fixed on the deep red swirl inside.

“No,” he said quietly. “Guess it can’t.”

“You going?” he asked, without lifting his gaze. “Zandvoort, I mean.”

Charles shook his head. “Giovinazzi’s got it covered. He’s been working with his own engineer.”

He tore a piece of bread from the basket, fingers moving absently. “I’ll stay here. Finish a few things with the team. Clean up the edges. Travel with them to Monza. Get everything set up before the circus rolls in.”

Max looked up at that. “So no break for you.”

“I had four years off.”

The words weren’t bitter—but they carried weight. A reminder of time lost. Or stolen.

Max didn’t reply right away. Just watched him.

Then: “You miss it?”

It was the first time anyone had asked.

Not How are you doing?
Not So sorry it happened.
Not Glad to see you up and walking again.
Or Great to have you back in the paddock.

Always surface-level concern. Polite sympathy. Careful, curated praise. Like everyone had collectively agreed not to touch the heart of it. As if asking would somehow undo him.

But Max had asked. Not out of pity. Not to reopen wounds.

Just—Do you miss it?

It startled him. Because it came not wrapped in ceremony or expectation, but in honesty. Because it was Max. Of course it was Max.

Max, who never filled silence just to fill it. Max, who asked real things when they mattered. Max, who had been in the room when the lights went out and the world had changed, and who had stayed—long after everyone else moved on. Max, who never looked away from the ugly parts.

Charles felt the air shift. Not dramatically. Just enough. Like the moment had settled its weight onto the table between them, waiting to be acknowledged.

Because Max wasn’t asking as a teammate. Or a rival. Or a friend trying to be kind.

He was asking as someone who had seen him. Who knew him.

Knew what he really wanted to talk about, even when Charles didn’t. Knew the questions Charles had never been brave enough to answer on his own.

He didn’t look away. He just exhaled—slow and even—and said, with quiet honesty:

“Yeah.”

A breath.

“I miss it.”

He didn’t stop there. Didn’t retreat into the safety of silence like he might’ve done with anyone else.

Because Max was still looking at him—not impatient, not pitying. Just there. Like the question didn’t demand a performance. Just truth.

Charles let his gaze drift to the far window, where the light outside had dimmed into a soft blue dusk.

“I miss the ritual,” he said quietly. “Race mornings. The stillness in the garage before the noise starts. The suit going on like armor. Knowing I had a weapon under me, and the responsibility to use it right.”

His voice stayed steady, but the emotion lived underneath it—threaded between syllables like wire.

“I miss the way the car talks back. Not just the mechanics—feeling it. Every slip, every correction, every heartbeat in the chassis. You don’t get that kind of honesty anywhere else.”

He paused, brows drawing together like the words were surfacing from somewhere deeper than memory.

“I miss knowing exactly who I am for two hours. No confusion. No noise. Just drive.”

He looked down at the table then, one hand curling lightly over the bread knife, not using it—just holding on.

“I miss the pressure,” he added, even softer. “Not the media. Not the politics. The real pressure. The kind that makes your heart slam against your ribs before lights out and you still go anyway. Because you know you can.”

His throat worked around the next breath.

“I miss the version of me that lived in the car.”

And there it was.

The center of it. The truth he hadn’t said out loud until now.

He didn’t look at Max when he said it. But he didn’t need to.

Because Max was still there. Steady. Quiet. Listening like he always did—like the answer mattered.

The words sat there for a moment—bare, unguarded.

Charles didn’t take them back.

“But this side of it,” he said eventually, “being on the wall—it’s different. There’s no adrenaline. No engine under your spine. No moment where instinct takes over and you just feel your way through it.”

He shook his head slightly, almost to himself.

“Everything’s slower. Smarter, maybe. More deliberate. You make decisions with your hands tied to someone else’s reflexes. You can be right. Completely right. And still have no control over what happens next.”

“You build the plan, you shape the setup, you guide them lap by lap—but in the end, it’s their foot on the throttle. Their hands on the wheel. You can’t save them from a mistake. You can’t force them to listen. You can’t feel the car for them.”

His voice lowered, barely more than breath now.

“You just watch.”

He glanced up, meeting Max’s eyes at last.

“And hope they understand what you’re trying to give them.”

Chapter Text

The waitress returned, breaking the moment—two plates balanced effortlessly on her arm, the scent of slow-cooked tomatoes and crisped guanciale cutting through the stillness like a lifeline.

She slid their bowls onto the table with a soft prego, topped each with a final dusting of pecorino—thick, sharp, unapologetic—then disappeared behind the beaded curtain without waiting for acknowledgment. No performance. Just familiarity. Timing, somehow, perfect.

Charles sat back slightly, reaching for his fork with the same care he used when checking tire deg graphs—slow, thoughtful, trying not to show his hand. The pasta was exactly as it always was here: rigatoni, not spaghetti, because it held the sauce better. The amatriciana clung in thick, vivid streaks—oil pooling slightly at the edges, pork rendered down to crispy curls that bordered on caramelized. Pecorino Romano snowed across the top, melting just enough to gloss without vanishing.

He’d said more than he thought he could. Max had listened. That was enough. They could move on. Let the rest settle into the folds between the pasta.

Charles took his first bite—no ceremony, no flourish. Just a quiet return to something he knew would deliver. The familiar tang of tomato cooked down to its essence, the salty edge of the cheese, the way the fat slicked across the tongue before heat bloomed at the back of the throat.

It was exactly as he remembered.

He looked across the table at Max, who was still staring at his own bowl like it might suddenly combust.

“Eat before it goes cold,” Charles said, a thread of dry amusement in his voice—but not unkind.

Max twirled a forkful. Slow. Like he was stalling, or weighing something heavier than the food in front of him. But he didn’t eat.

Instead, he said, quietly, “I’ll understand it.”

Charles’s hand stilled halfway to his glass.

“I already do,” Max added, voice low but certain. “Or I’m trying to. Every day.”

Charles looked up then, eyes narrowing just slightly, brows pulled in—not in confusion, but in concentration. Like he was bracing for something and didn’t know why.

“And I’ll listen,” Max said, meeting his gaze now. Steady. Unflinching. “Like I told you before. You say go deeper into Turn 1, I go. You say lift two clicks, I lift. I don’t need noise in my ear. I need someone who knows.”

He shrugged—small, unguarded. Almost sheepish. “And you do.”

The corners of Charles’s mouth didn’t quite lift. But something in his shoulders softened. The faintest exhale, like tension released through muscle memory rather than thought.

“Good,” he said, finally. “Because I won’t sugarcoat anything.”

Max smirked. “Didn’t think you would.”

Finally, he took a bite. “Oh fuck,” he muttered, glancing down at his plate like it had just told him a secret.

Charles raised an eyebrow but said nothing, swirling his wine.

Max took a second bite. Bigger. Quicker. “Why does it taste like this? What is this? What are they doing back there?”

Charles said nothing, but his lips pressed faintly together in satisfaction.

“The guanciale’s insane,” Max continued, gesturing with his fork now. “Like crispy, but not dry. And the fat—Jesus, it’s like it coats your whole mouth without feeling heavy.”

Charles tilted his head. “So you like it.”

“I would fight someone for this,” Max said seriously, pointing at the bowl. “I’d knock out Lando in one punch if it meant I got to finish this uninterrupted.”

That drew a quiet laugh from Charles—just a breath, but real.

Max didn’t stop. “And the sauce? It’s spicy, but it doesn’t punch you. It’s like it knows you need time. Then it shows up at the back of your throat like a polite assassin.”

Charles stared at him for a long moment.

“What?” Max asked, half-defensive through a mouthful of pasta.

“Nothing,” Charles said, setting his fork down. “You just talked more about this pasta than you did about your last three races.”

Max grinned. “That’s because the pasta delivered.”

Charles huffed a small laugh. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Maybe,” Max said, lifting another bite with reverence. “But I’d trust this bowl of rigatoni to call a better strategy than Red Bull did in Canada.”

Charles’s laughter broke properly then—quiet, but sudden. It caught him off guard.

Max looked up, pleased. “That’s the first time I’ve heard your proper laugh since—” He stopped himself. The sentence trailed off like a car pulling into the pits, unspoken but understood.

Charles’s expression gentled, the edges of it soft and complicated. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to.

He just picked up his fork again and said, “Eat slower. You’ll miss the part where the fat from the guanciale kicks in under your molars. That’s the best bite.”

Max nodded solemnly, like he’d just been given classified information. “Copy that.”

By the time they reached the bottom of their bowls, Max was slouched in his chair in quiet defeat, fork resting on his empty plate like a white flag.

“I regret everything,” he muttered, staring at the remnants of tomato oil smeared along the rim. “That was irresponsible. Delicious. But irresponsible.”

Charles leaned back, wine glass in hand, entirely unfazed. “You finished it.”

“I did,” Max said, rubbing his stomach. “And I’m going to pay for it. My dietitian’s going to have a stroke when I show up two kilos heavier at Zandvoort.”

Charles arched a brow. “I’d say that’s not my problem.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “You trying to sabotage Red Bull’s chances? Is this some long-game Ferrari plot? Fat-load Verstappen before his final race so you can gain one more point before I switch sides?”

Charles didn’t blink. “Would it work?”

Max grinned. “Honestly? I think it might.”

Before Charles could reply, the waitress returned—this time with two espresso cups and a small plate of chilled crema di limone, tart and pale gold, served with a spoon and a sliver of candied peel. Max blinked down at it like it had arrived from another dimension.

“I didn’t order this.”

“I did,” Charles said simply. “Trust me.”

Max shook his head, smiling in disbelief. “You’re relentless.”

“You’re in too deep now to back out,” Charles said, slicing into his own portion. “One more bite won’t ruin you.”

Max took the spoon. One bite. Closed his eyes. “Okay, what the fuck.”

Charles didn’t even look up. “You’re welcome.”

They ate in silence for a moment, the weight of the meal beginning to settle over them—not just the food, but the comfort. The ease. The understanding.

And then Charles set his spoon down, careful, deliberate.

“You know what I expect from you. Everyone does—the win for Ferrari,” he said, not sharply—but clearly. The ease in his tone didn’t waver, but something shifted beneath it. A steadiness. A question waiting in the space between espresso and dusk. “But I haven’t asked you.”

Max looked up.

Charles met his eyes. Calm. Intent.

“What do you want, Max?” he asked. “From this partnership. From me.”

Max sat back, the silver spoon balanced loosely between his fingers. He let it turn once, twice, catching the soft overhead light as if it might offer a different answer than the one waiting in his mouth.

Then, casually—too casually—he said, “From this partnership? Championship title, of course.”

Charles didn’t speak. The expression that passed across his face said enough.

A frown—not sharp, but quiet. Disappointed. A shift in his brow, the subtle narrowing of his eyes. Not anger. Just that unimpressed look he wore whenever someone tried to give him less than the truth. The one Max had seen before in the way Charles spoke to Noah when he tried to spin telemetry into excuses. Flat. Expectant.

The look that didn’t call you out directly, but left no room to hide.

And Max felt it land like pressure on his chest. Not crushing. Just heavy enough to remind him that Charles saw right through him.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Didn’t think that would land.”

Max turned the spoon once more. Set it down gently on the saucer, without looking up, he said:

“I want to feel like I’m not alone in the car.”

The words hung between them.

“When I’m on track,” he continued, voice low, “I feel alone.”

He exhaled, slow and steady, like letting pressure bleed off.

“Mateo’s supposed to be the one voice that cuts through everything. The one person who knows me. Who backs me. Who helps me fight when I can’t see the full picture. But he’s not. He’s just… there. Reading numbers.”

He shook his head faintly, gaze fixed on the table.

“They say a driver isn’t alone when he pulls into the pit box. That it’s where the team catches you. Supports you. You stop being just a driver and start being part of something again.”

A bitter twist crossed his mouth.

“But lately? I’ve felt lonelier in the pit box than I do flat-out at 300 kph.”

A beat.

“I look at the garage and it’s chaos. Tools missing. Tyres late. Double-digit pit stops. No one’s in sync. Not with each other. Not with me.”

“I can’t drive like that.”

He finally looked up, eyes meeting Charles’s. Clear. Unflinching.

“I don’t need perfect,” Max said. “But I need someone who’s in it with me. Not just watching from the wall.”

A pause.

“I need someone I trust.”

A beat.

“I need you.”

Charles didn’t hesitate. “You have me,” he said simply, reaching for his water—calm, precise, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then, without looking up, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth: “But if you ignore my lift calls, I’ll unplug your radio myself.”

Max let out a short, startled laugh—something between a choke and a grin. The sound lingered for a second before fading into a quieter breath.

“Can I ask you for one more thing?” he said, voice softer now. Not playful. Not sharp. Just honest.

Charles looked up again. His eyes didn’t narrow, didn’t harden. They just waited. “Of course.”

Max’s fingers tapped once against the edge of his glass. Then stilled. He wasn’t smiling now. Just looking at Charles—like he was bracing for something and hoping anyway.

“Can you answer my texts and calls from now?” he asked. Not a demand. Not a negotiation. Just a quiet, open thing. Vulnerable in the way only Max ever allowed himself to be—with him.

Charles didn’t look away. “Oui,” he said, softly. Then, firmer: “I will.”

The words were like a promise spoken in a language older than either of them—clean, quiet, like laying down a card in the center of the table, face up.

Max exhaled—sharper than a sigh, softer than surprise. Like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

Charles leaned back slightly, the tension loosening in his chest by degrees. His fingers traced the rim of his water glass once, then stilled.

“I should’ve done it sooner,” he said. “I know that.”

Max was quiet for a moment. Then: “You were healing.”

“I was,” Charles said. “But so were you.”

Their plates sat empty. Their spoons rested.

But something in the air felt fuller now. Settled.

Not finished.

But no longer waiting.

Charles nodded toward the door. “Walk it off?”

Max smiled—quiet and real. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The hotel room door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. Max stood there for a moment, hand still on the handle, the hush of evening pressing in like velvet.

The room was dim—just the golden spill of a bedside lamp, his suitcase half-zipped on the bench, clothes folded with all the care of a man who hadn’t really expected tonight to mean anything.

But it had.

Max moved slowly, peeling off his jacket, fingers catching slightly at the sleeve. His chest still felt strange—like it was holding something too warm, too alive.

He crossed to the suitcase, tossed the jacket on top, then stopped. Hands braced on either side of the case. Head down.

Dinner. Just the two of them. Not a team meal. Not paddock catering. Not post-race chaos.

Dinner. With Charles.

He let the thought settle.

Charles had planned it. Chosen the place. Booked the table. Had asked, “Got any plans tonight?” Casual. Effortless. Like it was nothing.

And Max had sat across from him in that golden-lit, narrow little trattoria, watching the candlelight catch in Charles’s lashes.

Max had made him laugh—really laugh. Not the tight, polite kind he gave journalists. Not the short little exhale he reserved for paddock banter. But an actual laugh. One that hit Max like sunlight in the middle of a rainstorm.

He’d heard it. He’d caused it. He’d won it.

Then there was everything else.

Charles had promised to answer his texts. His calls. Had said “You have me” like it wasn’t the most casually devastating sentence Max had ever heard in his life. He hadn’t even said it dramatically. He’d just… meant it.

Max groaned and flopped onto the edge of the bed, scrubbing his hands down his face.

“Oh my god,” he muttered into his palms. “He can’t just say shit like that.”

He stood again, restless, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth with that sentence echoing on loop in his brain—and paused when he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Then he winced.

Hair flattened in places and sticking up in others—like it couldn’t decide what day it was. Collar slightly rumpled. And the polo? God. Washed too many times, clinging to his shoulders awkwardly. He hadn’t even noticed it had a faint toothpaste stain on the hem. His jeans, the infamous skinny ones Charles had once looked at and said, with Gallic disdain, “You look like you’ve been vacuum-sealed.”

Max leaned in closer. Narrowed his eyes.

This—this was the version of himself he’d shown up with? For what had absolutely not been a date?

Max groaned and dropped his head against the mirror with a dull thunk.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Of all the nights.”

He turned the tap on. Then off again. Couldn’t stop staring at his reflection.

“I looked like this,” he whispered, horrified. “While he was saying that.”

Not that it was a date. It wasn’t. Obviously.

But… still.

He could pretend. Just for tonight.

Because Charles had picked the place. Had asked him to come. Had made him laugh. Had looked at him like he meant every single word.

Max turned off the light and stood in the dark for a moment longer, his heart still racing a little, like maybe—maybe—he’d just lived through the prologue of something more.

Chapter Text

The paddock was still bleached in late-summer haze when Max arrived for Media Day, but the heat had nothing on the swarm of microphones waiting for him.

This was his home race. He’d always enjoyed being here—the rhythms of Zandvoort felt like muscle memory now. The salt of the North Sea in the air. The familiar swell of orange in the grandstands. He took his time entering the paddock, signing everything from old Red Bull posters to fresh Ferrari caps. A little girl handed him a sketch of his helmet; an older man asked him to sign a page torn from Auto Motor und Sport, already edited to show him in red.

Max gave them all a quiet smile and a signature.

It was surreal. Weeks ago, these same fans had been holding Red Bull flags. Now, already, they were switching sides.

He was paired with Oliver and Carlos for the afternoon’s press conference—Ferrari’s past, present, and future, all neatly lined up for the cameras. Carlos was laid-back in his Williams blues, all charm and anecdotes. Oliver sat tall, polite, clearly trying to strike the balance between confidence and respect.

Max dropped into his seat beside them and gave Oliver a nod.

Oliver returned it with a small, genuine smile. “Hey. Big weekend. You ready?”

Max glanced toward the crowd of journalists. “I think they are.”

Oliver chuckled. “Fair.”

The moment the mics turned on, Sky Sports pounced.

“Max, let’s get right to it. You’ve left a team mid-season after four titles—how do you justify abandoning Red Bull when they’re struggling?”

“Isn’t this a betrayal of the team that made you a champion?”

“You talk about loyalty, but how does this look to the mechanics you’re leaving behind?”

Max kept his expression neutral. “It wasn’t an easy decision. But it was mine. And I’ve been open with the team every step of the way.”

“Open? Really? Sounds more like a personal decision than a professional one.”

“Did Charles Leclerc influence this move?”

Max’s jaw ticked.

Carlos leaned forward, “You’d think we were in a courtroom. Should I call for a lawyer?”

The room laughed—some nervously.

The Sky reporters pressed on.

“Max, you’ve always said you’d end your career with Red Bull. What changed? Was it Noah? Was it internal politics? Or was it seeing Charles in red again?”

Max’s voice was calm, even. “I changed. And I saw an opportunity at Ferrari that made sense. The rest is noise.”

Oliver jumped in, gently but clearly. “From the inside—Ferrari’s excited to have him. So am I. We’ve all got work to do, and having Max onboard just sharpens the focus.”

A few heads turned toward him, surprised by the support.

“But Oliver,” another reporter asked, “does this make you second driver by default?”

Oliver didn’t flinch. “No. It makes me better. If you want to win, you race against the best. And now I get to do that inside my own garage.”

Max gave him a look then—quiet, appreciative.

Carlos folded his arms. “I don’t miss this circus, by the way. You know what I got asked today? Whether I missed the smell of Maranello. I said no—Williams smells like stroopwafels and underdog energy. Love it.”

The room cracked into laughter—light, finally, after the storm of interrogation. Then a new voice broke through. Older, warm, unmistakably Dutch. No broadcast mic. Just an old-school notebook and a thick accent.

“Max—now that you go to Ferrari… can we see more Lestappen from now on?”

The room paused.

Even the Sky reporter blinked.

Max’s face—tense for most of the session—changed almost immediately. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not the polite kind. The real kind. The kind fans hadn’t seen for a while. He leaned toward the mic, tone lower, almost amused.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, deadpan.

Laughter again. Louder this time. Even Oliver was grinning now.

Max let the moment hang for a second. Then he gave in.

“But… if you’re asking whether Charles and I will be working closely—yes. Very.”

“If you’re asking whether I’ll finally have someone in the garage I trust implicitly—yes again.”

“And if you’re asking whether we’ll be seen together more often—well,” Max glanced at the camera, “I hope so. It’s been a long time.”

Carlos gave a dramatic oof and mimed fanning himself. “Okay, now I miss Maranello.”

Oliver leaned in, teasing. “That’s going in the group chat.”

The moderator tried to cut things off, but it was too late—the energy had shifted. Headlines were already being written.

MAX: I TRUST CHARLES IMPLICITLY

LECLERC–VERSTAPPEN ERA BEGINS

LESTAPPEN LIVES

Max didn’t care. For once, he didn’t mind if the world saw how he felt.

The press room emptied in a slow wave of footsteps and camera clicks. Max slipped out the side exit before any producers could drag him into another TV segment. His shoulders dropped the moment the sliding door hissed shut behind him.

He exhaled deeply and rolled his neck, sweat still clinging under the collar of his Red Bull shirt.

“Lestappen lives.”

He could already imagine the tweets.

“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. But he was smiling.

A familiar voice caught him before he made it two steps down the hall.

“That was the softest I’ve ever seen you in front of a camera,” came Lando’s voice, lazy and grinning. “Considering Sky TV was there.”

Max turned to find Lando leaning against a vending machine, arms crossed, grinning like a cat who’d just watched a mouse confess to poetry.

“You just told the world you trust Charles ‘implicitly,’” Lando continued. “You might as well have proposed.”

Max gave him a dry look. “I was being honest.”

“I know. That’s why it was terrifying.”

Max snorted and leaned against the wall beside him, letting the cool surface soak into his spine. The hum of the paddock seemed distant now—just a dull buzz behind concrete and glass.

Lando gave him a nudge. “So… tell me about dinner.”

“What?”

“You texted me,” Lando said, pulling out his phone and wiggling it teasingly. “Don’t play dumb.”

Max narrowed his eyes.

Lando grinned wider, tapping the screen like he’d kept the message starred. “‘He asked me to dinner.’ That’s all you wrote. No follow-up. No context. Just vibes.”

Max let out a groan. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m invested,” Lando countered. “So? Was it romantic? Dramatic? Did he pick the wine? Was there candlelight?”

Max shook his head, a little too fast. “No. It wasn’t like that. Restaurant near the Ferrari factory. Low-key. Pasta. We talked.”

Lando stared. “And?”

Max looked away. His voice dropped. “And I didn’t want the night to end.”

Lando’s teasing faded instantly, replaced with something gentler. “Damn. I’m happy for you, mate.”

Max glanced sideways, eyes tight. “Don’t be happy. He doesn’t—” He cut himself off. “We’re just working together. And don’t you dare say anything to him.”

Lando raised both hands in surrender. “I won’t. But that guy’s got brains. And you are not exactly subtle.”

The door behind them opened again—another call sheet being waved, another camera crew on the hunt.

Max pushed off the wall with a sigh and squared his shoulders.

“Win this weekend,” Lando said, watching him go. “He’ll be watching.”

Max didn’t turn back. But his fingers tightened around the edge of his pass as he walked.

Charles sat in the heart of Ferrari’s Gestione Sportiva, the control room that mirrored a NASA mission center in both design and intensity.

The walls were a mosaic of screens—multi-angle race feeds, live telemetry for both cars, delta graphs, tyre degradation models, brake temperature curves, wind simulations. Every breath of the race was dissected here. Every second mattered.

The lights were dimmed to reduce screen glare, and the room had fallen into a reverent quiet as the Dutch Grand Prix ticked into its middle phase. Strategists huddled in clusters around their consoles. A low wall of static and radio chatter filtered through the earpieces—most of it coming from Zandvoort, but some internal, routed only to Maranello.

This was Charles’s first time watching a race from here. He wasn’t on duty—his name wasn’t listed on the comms roster. He wasn’t responsible for either car. He’d only come to watch. That was the lie he told himself. What he was really doing was watching Max.

He sat behind the front line of strategists, elbow resting on his cane, eyes flitting between Max Verstappen’s sector times and something else—something twitchy in Oliver Bearman’s live telemetry.

He blinked once. Then again.

“Pause here,” Charles said suddenly, voice low but certain. He pointed to the lateral G-force chart on the central console in front of Luca, one of the simulation analysts.

Luca looked up, startled, but obeyed instantly. The feed froze.

“What are you seeing?” asked Giulia, head of tyre model dynamics, leaning over from her workstation.

Charles tapped the screen. “There. See that spike? It doesn’t match the steering angle. He’s compensating for something. Micro-drifts—barely perceptible—but it’s happening repeatedly through Turns 4, 8, and 11.”

“Could be crosswind. Wind gusts are variable today,” Luca offered.

“Except we’ve got real-time wind correction fed from the track sensors, and there’s no gust in that window,” Giulia countered. She glanced back to Charles. “You think it’s a component fault?”

Charles nodded slightly, brows pinched. “Either a progressive sensor glitch or… a structural instability. Maybe a hairline crack in the right-side steering rack. It’s not throwing off the whole line, but Oliver’s compensating unconsciously—and the load imbalance might be spreading tyre wear faster on the left side.”

Silence. Then Marco, one of the strategy leads, turned fully in his chair.

“Can you triangulate it against his brake modulation? If he’s adjusting his line, he’s probably braking earlier into Turn 12.”

Giulia was already pulling it up. Her brows lifted. “Good call. That’s a two-meter shift in brake point since Lap 11. Subtle, but repeatable.”

Charles turned toward the main radio console. “Patch me into the pit wall.”

One of the technicians looked to the comms lead for approval. She nodded once. A moment later, the channel opened and Ronan’s voice came through from Zandvoort, clear and crackling slightly with background noise.

“This is Ronan.”

“It’s Charles,” he said, flat but composed. “Check the right-side steering rack on Oliver’s car. I think something’s wrong—it’s manifesting in the lateral load balance and braking trace. Doesn’t match the tyre model, and he’s adapting without realizing. If it’s structural, it could get worse.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “Copy that. We’ll run a live diagnostic from here. You really saw that from Maranello?”

Charles didn’t smile. “We can’t afford a DNF today.”

Marco glanced back over his shoulder. “We’ll adjust tyre projections for degradation rate. Good catch.”

Charles leaned back in his chair again, letting the hum of supercomputers return to the forefront. In the corner of the main screen, Max’s name lit up green—purple in Sector 2.

The Ferrari control room had quieted again, but not in calm. It was the silence of anticipation—the kind that came before a launch or a storm. Charles felt it in the backs of his teeth.

On the screen, yellow flags waved. Then the announcement.

“SAFETY CAR DEPLOYED – LAP 68 / 72”

The commentary cut through the room like a blade.

“And there it is! That’s a late yellow—Tsunoda’s car has stopped just off the racing line, engine failure near Turn 10! This is going to shuffle the deck with just four laps to go!”

The room snapped awake. Strategy models began updating in real-time, simulations blurring through outcomes at hyperspeed.

Giulia stood up. “If Max boxes now for softs—”

“He has track position to Norris, but not to Bearman,” Marco replied. “He’ll come out third. But on fresh tires—”

“—he’ll eat them alive,” Charles finished.

“Verstappen’s in! The Red Bull dives into the pit lane! It’s a bold move! The team’s going for softs!”

Charles’s eyes tracked the live timing screen. Pit stop: 2.3 seconds. Clean. Efficient.

“Bearman stays out! Norris stays out! Verstappen rejoins in P3 on brand-new red-walled tires!”

“The safety car will be in this lap. Just one racing lap to the chequered flag. What a finale we’re about to witness.”

“Restart simulation,” Marco ordered. “I want attack window probability on Verstappen. Overlay grip curve.”

Charles was already ahead of them, scribbling a vector on the paper in front of him. “He’ll try Turn 1. If Lando doesn’t cover the inside, he’ll take the outside. He can carry the load through banking at higher slip angles now.”

Giulia looked over. “And Bearman?”

“If Oliver doesn’t swerve on the straight, Max takes him before Turn 3.”

The strategist at the far end looked stunned. “You’re that sure?”

Charles didn’t look up. “It’s not a prediction. It’s Verstappen.”

Lap 72. Restart.

“And we are green again! Final lap at Zandvoort!”

“Lando covers inside—Verstappen goes around the outside! That’s outrageous!”

Charles’s hands clenched the sides of his chair. The Ferrari room was on edge, the tension physical.

“He’s done it! Verstappen’s through! He’s now P2!”

“And Bearman—Bearman’s defending hard—but look at the grip difference! Max has traction! They’re side by side into Turn 2!”

Charles leaned forward, breath shallow. “Wait for it…”

“Turn 3, steep banking—AND HE SENDS IT! Verstappen is through! Max Verstappen leads the Dutch Grand Prix!”

“Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. From P3 to P1 in one lap. On his final race with Red Bull, in front of his home crowd—Max Verstappen has pulled off the impossible!”

The control room erupted, curses, disbelief. Charles didn’t move. He was still staring at the screen. At the name blinking P1 in bright yellow.

Chequered Flag.

“MAX VERSTAPPEN WINS IN ZANDVOORT! What a finish! What a statement! Final race with Red Bull, and he takes the top step—like he always does best.”

The Red Bull team radio crackled to life across the world feed.

“Max, that was… that was legendary. P1, mate. Thank you. That was all you.”

“Thanks, guys,” Max’s voice replied, hoarse but steady. “Thanks for everything. What a way to end it.”

Charles’s gaze didn’t leave the screen. He watched Max’s helmet in the car, still, like he was frozen in the moment. Then another voice filtered through—the team principal.

“Max, this is Andrea. On behalf of all of us—thank you. Thank you for your work, your loyalty, your fire. Good luck with Ferrari. We’ll see you soon.”

Max’s reply came soft, almost drowned beneath the crowd’s roar.

“…Thank you. It’s been an honour.”

Charles closed his notebook. Slowly. He pressed one hand over the page he’d written on.

The vector sketch of Max’s move. The word he’d scrawled beside it: Inevitable.

Max was still buzzing when he stepped into his driver’s room.

The roar of the crowd still rang in his ears, buried under adrenaline and champagne and the kind of disbelief that came only after the impossible happened. Last race with Red Bull. At Zandvoort. And P1.

If he could have written the ending himself, this would’ve been it.

The door shut behind him. Silence fell. Not the kind from earplugs or press officers—real silence. The sort that only shows up when everything you’ve carried for years has finally been set down.

He peeled off the sticky suit, every movement slower now. The crash of emotion was coming—he could feel it. But not yet. Not while the buzz was still holding him upright.

His phone lit up as he reached for a towel.

Two new messages.

Charlie❤️

Max froze mid-step.

Charles had promised he wouldn’t ghost him anymore—but neither of them reached out. Just a kind of quiet distance neither of them had dared break.

Until now.

He opened the first message.

Well done. That was one hell of a final lap.

And the second:

We’ll see you soon in red.

Max stared at the screen, blinking once. Then again.

He didn’t respond. Not yet. But he sank down onto the bench, towel forgotten, and exhaled so deeply it felt like something had left his chest.

A chapter had ended.

And the next was waiting for him in Monza.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be perfect.

The kind of weekend they’d look back on in documentaries. A sea of red. A homecoming wrapped in engine noise and national pride.

Max’s debut for Ferrari—at Monza, of all places. The heart of the Scuderia.

A decade of longing coiled into a single weekend, every thread of myth and momentum pointing toward this.

The tifosi had been ready. Flags printed. Chants rehearsed. Some had camped outside the circuit gates since Sunday. Even the air had felt sharper on arrival, as if it knew history was about to shift.

Max had imagined it more than once—stepping onto the grid in Rosso Corsa, the crowd erupting like thunder, the weight of legacy pressing into his chest like a heartbeat. He’d imagined the Italian anthem echoing through trees and carbon fiber, red flares bleeding into sky, Charles beside him—eyes narrowed, headset on, voice steady in his ear.

It was supposed to be that. A beginning made cinematic. A rupture in time.

But instead, it rained.

Not the kind of rain that washes things clean. Not the kind that passes, even if you wait. No—this was biblical. Dense, unrelenting, ancestral.

It started Monday morning with a low roll of thunder that rattled scaffolding and vendor stalls. By noon, the wind had picked up—snapping flags clean off poles, slamming barriers into parked scooters. The rain came next, then stayed. Pouring down in great grey sheets that turned gravel to sludge and filled generator bays like bathtubs.

Crosswinds swept through the circuit like something haunted. You could hear them wailing between grandstands in the dead hours—high, eerie whistles that bent through the metal and made the walls groan.

By Tuesday, the paddock was a swamp of steel and soaked banners.Trucks sank halfway into mud. Equipment crates were lashed together with tarp and prayer. PR crews filmed sponsor clips in rain ponchos and rubber boots.

By Wednesday, the media had given it a name—The cursed debut.

It stuck. Every headline, every segment, every speculative blog post clung to the phrase like a jinx.

Max tried to ignore it. He told himself it didn’t matter. He still had Saturday. He still had Sunday.

But by Thursday—no one argued anymore.

Because by Thursday, even Monza had started to drown.

By Thursday morning, the rain relented. Not stopped—just relented, like a beast pausing between bites.

For a few brief hours, the sky lightened to a pale, bruised grey. The asphalt steamed with ghost heat, and crews scrambled to make up for lost time. Monza’s media center buzzed louder than it had all week—journalists eager, camera crews elbowing for angles, producers barking notes while water still dripped from their cables.

Max did his rounds under strip lights and the murmur of distant thunder. He wore the red zip-up—not the fireproofs yet, but close enough. It still felt foreign on his shoulders, heavier somehow than the blues and neons of his past. The Ferrari badge sat above his heart like a promise he wasn’t sure how to keep.

Every question felt the same: “How does it feel, Max, to debut in red here at Monza?” “What would a win on home soil mean?” “Do you feel the pressure of Ferrari’s legacy?”

He gave the party lines. He smiled when asked. He used the word honored four times. Focused twice. He didn’t say drenched. He didn’t say exhausted.

But when they asked whether he believed in destiny—he hesitated. Just a breath. Just a beat. But it was there. Because somewhere in that moment, he thought of Charles.

Thursday afternoon, the rain returned. Heavier. Angrier. The sky collapsing in on itself like a lung giving out.

The paddock had emptied under the weight of it. Everything gleamed with wetness and warning. Power cables lifted off the ground. Tool crates double-strapped. Tarps lashed tighter. The kind of quiet that felt more like caution than peace.

Christian stood just outside the Ferrari garage, arms crossed, hood pulled low over his face as he stared out toward the sodden circuit. He looked like a man not watching weather but waiting for something to break.

Max stepped up beside him, tugging his jacket closer against the cold.

“Anyone out there?” he asked, not really expecting much.

Christian nodded toward the track. “Barely.”

It was meant to be track walk time. But most had already called it. Drivers had retreated to motorhomes. Engineers to strategy rooms. Media interviews postponed. Tyres untouched.

Not that Max cared. He hadn’t done a proper track walk in years. Found them boring, redundant, unnecessary.

“I use Google Maps,” he’d once said. “And the outlap. That’s enough.” He stood by it. Still did.

Max squinted into the storm now—wind needling sideways, paddock lights distorted by sheeting rain.

“If anyone else is out there,” he muttered, “it’ll be someone from Haas. Or Yuki. Otherwise… no idiot would be.”

His voice trailed off. Because someone was.

More striking than any umbrella or high-vis jacket, a flash of Rosso Corsa emerged at Turn 11.

A cluster of Ferrari engineers. Eight, maybe nine. Clipboards tucked into waterproof sleeves. Knees bent against the wind. Some paused to mark tyre degradation on the paint. Others walked slowly, scanning the curbing, noting water trails. They moved in sync—step by wet step—like something choreographed in quiet defiance of logic.

At the center of it all: Charles. Bright red windbreaker zipped high, hood flattened by the weight of a massive Ferrari umbrella held over him by a junior mechanic who looked barely old enough to shave. One hand on his cane. One on a waterproof notebook. He paused every so often to write, the others falling into rhythm around him.

Max stared. Longer than he meant to. “Why didn’t you stop him?” he asked, voice low. And then, again, sharper: “Why the hell didn’t you stop him?”

Christian gave a short, resigned exhale—half laugh, half sigh. “Because he’s stubborn as hell.”

Max didn’t say anything. He just turned, grabbed the nearest umbrella, and without another word, stepped off the concrete lip of the garage, straight into the storm, following the red.

The wind hit harder on the track. Up close, the rain was needles. The crosswinds cut sideways across the tarmac like something alive. Max hunched beneath the umbrella and caught up to the group, boots splashing through standing water.

Charles didn’t react at first. He was studying a patch of curbing, the angle of runoff, the pooling beneath the apex. Then—without looking up—he said, just loud enough to carry over the rain: “I thought you didn’t do track walks.”

Max shifted his grip on the umbrella. “I don’t.”

Charles turned his head. Not all the way. Just enough. A flicker of disbelief. A flicker of something else.

“Then why are you here?”

Max shrugged, rain dripping off the edge of his umbrella. “I saw a dozen idiots on track,” he said. “Figured you’d be one of them.”

Charles huffed—almost a laugh. He stood fully, straightening with quiet care, wincing only slightly as he shifted his weight. The junior mechanic behind him moved quickly, lifting the oversized Ferrari umbrella higher.

Max stepped closer. Without hesitation, he reached out and took the handle from the boy’s cold, rain-slicked fingers. “I’ve got it,” he said, low and even.

He adjusted the umbrella with practiced ease. Tilted the arc until it sheltered Charles completely.

Charles didn’t thank him. He just returned his gaze to the track ahead, lifted the notebook again, and kept walking.

And Max walked beside him as someone who refused to let him face the weather alone.

They moved slowly, the group stretching and reforming around them like a tide. Engineers peeled off to check drainage points and marshal posts, voices low and precise through waterlogged radios. A few fell behind. Most gave Charles a wide berth—not out of pity, but respect. He walked the entire circuit without pause.

When they reached Parabolica, the others began to stop. There was too much standing water here—shallow pools slicking the tarmac like oil, runoff drains overwhelmed, painted lines barely visible beneath the flood. A track worker was already stationed at the edge, trying to unblock a grate with a long metal pole, to little success.

The rest of the group huddled near the outer wall, murmuring about tire prep and visibility. Max stayed with Charles.

He watched as Charles stepped to the edge of the apex line, water rising around the soles of his boots, his cane sinking slightly into the soft, over-saturated ground. He didn’t speak. Didn’t write. Just stood there. Silent.

Max kept the umbrella tilted over him, shielding the curve of his neck, his notebook, the hunched shape of his shoulders from the rain.

“Why here?” Max asked.

Charles didn’t answer right away. The wind picked up again—cold, sideways, slicing across their faces.

“Because this is where it happens.”

Max glanced at the track. “What does?”

Charles nodded once—toward the racing line, slick with sheen. “Everything.”

“Overtakes. Collapses. Redemption. Spins. Glory.”

“It always converges here.”

Max was silent.

Charles turned a page in his notebook. Rain trickled off the corner and vanished down the spine. “This corner ends the lap. But it doesn’t forgive it.”

He scribbled something—something fast, like he already knew what it was. Then looked back out across the curve, past the braking zone, to the long, invisible breath before the start-finish line.

“If we get this wrong on Sunday…” Charles said, voice low but unflinching, “We don’t just lose a race.”

He glanced at Max. Rain clung to his lashes but didn’t blink it away. “We lose control. Of the narrative. Of the momentum. Of the team.”

A beat passed. “Ferrari can survive a bad result. It can’t survive another disaster.”

Then he turned back to the track. Calm. Clinical. Composed. Like the storm wasn’t soaking through his collar. Like the ache in his spine didn’t register anymore.

And Max, standing beside him, felt something shift. Not admiration. That had been there already.

But understanding.

Of what it meant for Charles to be here—not just as an engineer, but as the one who still carried the weight of the prancing horse between his shoulders.

He wasn't here to prove he could still walk a circuit. He was here to make sure no one drowned in it.

Charles’s hand tightened slightly on the cane, his knuckles whitening beneath the thin fabric of his gloves.

“Ollie’s still young,” he said, eyes never leaving the curve. “If it’s wet, he’ll push here. Maybe too much.”

Max followed his line of sight. The corner shimmered like a trap, water laced across the surface like oil paint—beautiful from afar, unforgiving up close.

“And if it’s dry?” Max asked quietly.

Charles didn’t look at him. “Then he’ll trust it too soon. Same mistake.”

Max said nothing. He just shifted the umbrella again, letting the wind gust past his back instead of Charles’s.

And for a moment, there was no team. No engineers. No comeback story. Just the two of them, watching the truth curve out in front of them, knowing exactly how little room there would be for error—how much would be written in the margins.

Then a voice called faintly from behind. The group was heading back.

Charles didn’t move. So Max stayed. Even as the umbrella sagged. Even as the wind hissed. Even as the storm circled back.

Because some corners weren’t just technical. Some were sacred.

And this— This was Charles’s cathedral.

The warmth inside the garage hit like a wall. Not comfort, exactly, but contrast. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The floor was slick with dragged-in water, the air tinged with ozone, rubber, and the faint hum of drying fans.

Max peeled off his soaked outer layer, shaking out the umbrella before collapsing it at the door. He ran a hand through his hair, water dripping from his sleeves, already cold along his skin.

Charles was seated on the edge of a padded bench tucked near the tire warming racks, windbreaker unzipped halfway, curls damp and curling at the temples. He’d taken off his shoes—socks wrung out and lined up carefully against the radiator. His notebook lay open on the metal table beside him, pages puckered and water-streaked but still legible.

He winced as he shifted slightly, reaching behind to adjust the heat pack strapped to his lower back.

Max hovered for a moment, unsure. Then stepped forward and grabbed a second pack from the medical drawer nearby. Unsnapped it. Broke the seal. The smell of activated iron filled the space—mineral, sharp, oddly grounding.

He held it out.

“Fresh one.”

Charles glanced up, his expression unreadable—but he took it.

“Merci,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

Max gave a small shrug and sat on the other end of the bench. Not close, but not far.

They didn’t speak for a while. The whir of fans filled the space. Rain tapped distantly on the roof.

At some point, someone brought Charles a hot cup of tea. Charles took a careful sip, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, watching as the rest of the team moved like clockwork around the car. His fingers tapped once against the notebook.

Max stared at the side of his face—at the faint bruise-dark shadows beneath his eyes, the tension still held in his jaw, the pinkish curve of a healing scar just visible behind his left ear.

“Did you get what you needed out there?” he asked eventually.

“Enough.”

A pause.

“And you?”

Max considered the question.

“Yeah,” he said. “More than I thought.”

Chapter Text

The rain never really stopped.

It shifted. Swelled. Hung low in the air like something half-alive, pressing into every seam and surface until the whole paddock felt waterlogged with tension.

By Friday morning, the track had transformed into something unrecognizable.

Not a racetrack. Not a sporting arena. Just a stalled circuit choked with sandbags, tarps, and quiet dread.

Teams arrived early and found their garages already surrendering to the weather. Drainage crews moved like crisis responders—hoses, floodlights, industrial fans. Cable lines were elevated on crates. Rubber mats floated in corners where they didn’t belong.

Ferrari held the line. Barely.

Bin liners were taped over electronics. Floor tiles peeled at the edges. Christian stood near the back wall, arms folded, barking orders with the clipped efficiency of a man trying to command a river. The mechanics wore Crocs. No one laughed.

By 9 a.m., the FIA still hadn’t committed to anything.

Footage showed marshals wading into puddles with long poles, radios crackling as they tested for runoff and visibility. The media stage was soaked. The fan zones—cancelled without ceremony.

Charles arrived just before ten.

He moved through the side entrance, hood up, his gait measured but stiff, a fresh heat pack already strapped beneath his jacket. His notebook was dry. His hands were not. He didn’t speak. Just nodded at the intern holding the door and made his way through the damp hall of wet footprints and storm-bent signage.

Max spotted him across the garage. Didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. But something in him settled.

Charles didn’t break stride. Just a glance as he passed. A small, flicked thread of acknowledgment. Enough.

When Free Practice 1 was finally declared green, it wasn’t hope. It was desperation.

Tyres were mounted. Sensor arrays flickered online. Teams scrambled to adjust for aquaplaning. The track was still treacherous—spray hovered in the air like fog, visibility dropped off within a hundred meters.

Two cars spun within the first fifteen minutes. One tapped the barrier at Turn 4. Another was called in without ever setting a time.

Ferrari sent Oliver out conservatively. Max waited until the halfway mark. Silent. Focused.

When he finally rolled out of the garage, the spray off his rear tyres flared like wings.

He wrestled the car through Lesmo 2, skating like a stone across water. Ascari tried to take him—hydroplaning across the curb—but he held it, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t elegant. But it was P1.

The screens lit up as he pulled in—slowest fastest lap of the year—but it didn’t matter. The time stood.

Max yanked off his gloves, chest rising fast beneath the collar of his suit.

He looked across the garage.

Charles hadn’t moved. Still at his post, headset coiled around his neck, watching telemetry bleed across the screens like scripture.

Their eyes met. No words. No nods. Just there.

FP2 was worse.

The rain had thickened—less drizzle, more saturation. Pools of water settled in uneven patches across the circuit. Some teams didn’t even bother.

Oliver went out first, under Ronan’s guidance. Three laps in, he spun gently at Turn 5, fishtailing into the run-off. No damage. Just white-knuckled awareness.

Max waited, arms folded tight against his chest, suit half unzipped.

Then, just before the Alpine driver crossed into Sector 2, Charles leaned in. “Window’s narrow. But it’s there.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

Out they went again—this time surgical.

Charles’s voice came clean over the radio, low and focused.

“Brake earlier into Variante Alta.”

“Good correction.”

“Let the car drift wide, but stay off the curb—wet patch forming.”

Max listened. Adjusted. Trusted.

Ten minutes in, he went purple in Sector 2. Fifteen minutes in, he caught a swell of water and saved the car with a snap correction. Charles called it before the data did. “All clear,” he said. “You held it.”

Twenty-five minutes in, Max topped the charts again.

When he came back in, the garage moved around him like muscle memory—hands, fans, covers, data download.

Charles stepped up beside him, notebook under one arm. “We’ve got enough.”

Max met his eyes. Didn’t say a word.

They did have enough. More than enough.

Because even in water, even in chaos, even in the slowest sessions he’d ever driven—Max trusted that voice. And Charles had spoken when it mattered.

Sky Sports 

“It’s not just rain—it’s endurance. This weekend’s gone from Max Verstappen’s long-anticipated debut in red to a test of patience and strategy. Ferrari haven’t been the fastest car all season, but in these conditions? Control matters more than raw pace. And Verstappen, somehow, still finds the limit.”

L'Équipe

“Les dieux de Monza pleurent. But in the storm, Ferrari holds—just. Bearman conservative, Verstappen clinical. Leclerc not seen much outside the garage, but insiders say he’s the voice in Verstappen’s ear. The paddock listens when he speaks—even if the public rarely hears him now.”

De Telegraaf

“Two sessions, two fastest times. Verstappen has never looked more focused, even as the weather makes a mockery of grip. Red Bull chose not to run FP2, and rumors of mechanical issues swirl. Ferrari, by contrast, ran lean, ran long, and—crucially—ran together.”

Motorsport.com

“We’re witnessing something fascinating here: Verstappen, used to dominance, executing restraint. His lap times are fast, yes—but it’s the corrections, the patience, the silence between sector updates that speak volumes. Someone’s taught him to listen differently.”

F1 Twitter, trending topics (Italy) #Stormza, #LeclercEngineered, #MaxInRosso, #RainGOD, #FerrariWhisperers, #MonzaUnhinged

TikTok Fan Edit Caption (1.8M views) “he doesn’t need a podium. he just needs the voice in his ear to say ‘good correction.’”

Saturday, the rain had intensified—thicker now, more purposeful. Less like weather, more like punishment. The paddock was slick with fatigue. Rubber tracks smeared across concrete. Wet flags clung to scaffolding like surrender.

Inside the Red Bull garage, disaster had already taken hold.

Water had breached through the roof seam above the central work bay—something about swelling, pressure, a faulty seal. Whatever the cause, the effect was immediate and brutal. Overnight, standing water had trickled down the walls and into the lower compartments of both cars.

Pierre’s was hit hardest. Engine soaked. Wiring shorted. Diagnostics failed to boot. “We’re not turning it over,” one engineer muttered, crouched beneath the chassis. “It’ll fry the whole thing.”

Yuki’s wasn’t much better. His gearbox sensor flagged red across every screen, water damage crawling like mold into the electronic control unit. Two techs had been up since 4 a.m. trying to salvage it. Neither spoke when Max passed by.

He didn’t stop walking. Just took it in—the panic, the silence that came after. And he knew. Red Bull wouldn’t be in qualifying.

“Well,” Pierre said dryly, sometime later, peeling off his sodden race boots near the media wall, “what a great comeback show.”

It should’ve been funny. But no one laughed.

At Ferrari, things weren’t smooth—but they were moving.

The rain had thinned just enough for a soft track inspection to proceed. FP3 was declared open under full wets, and Charles was already deep in calibration meetings before Max even changed into his base layer.

Oliver ran early laps. The spray was still thick, but the telemetry showed improvement—less skittish on turn-in, better traction out of Variante Ascari. He posted a quiet P2, just behind Max.

Max’s run was clean. Controlled. His lines sharp in the slush, braking points near perfect. Charles’s voice came through like a pulse, even through the static. “Ignore the delta. Focus on brake temps. Entry speeds are everything here.”

Max responded with his driving. Nothing more.

And when he came in, Charles didn’t look up from the data as he spoke— “Sector three was clean. You’re rotating earlier. Keep it.”

It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t comfort. It was something better: trust.

Qualifying

By the time Q1 rolled around, the storm returned with fresh anger.

A heavy downpour opened just as cars began queuing at pit exit. Most teams hesitated. Waited. Played roulette with the radar.

Charles stood on the pit wall beside Christian, eyes narrowed beneath his hood, watching the way the rain pooled on the final corner.

Inside the cockpit, Max adjusted his gloves.

“What do you want to do?” Charles asked through the radio.

The answer came fast. “Go now.”

They sent him out.

The rain worsened before he reached Turn 2. But the lap—The lap was everything.

Flying, slick, threaded with faith. He didn’t fight the car. He coaxed it. Braked early. Let it float across the exit kerbs like a red streak. Minimal corrections. Maximum trust.

By the time he crossed the line, the downpour had doubled. Nobody else got close.

Qualifying Results
P1 – Max Verstappen
P2 – Lando Norris
P3 – Oliver Bearman
P4 – Oscar Piastri
P5 – Carlos Sainz

Post-Qualifying

The paddock buzzed. Not with victory—not exactly—but with something rawer. Sharper. Like everyone had just witnessed something that shouldn't have been possible, and weren’t entirely sure how to explain it.

In the media zone, the floodlights gleamed off soaked banners and microphone foam covers. Reporters leaned under umbrellas, earpieces crackling, voices pitched high with adrenaline and disbelief.

“Max Verstappen—pole position in his Ferrari debut, in the wettest conditions Monza’s seen in over a decade. What was going through your mind on that lap?”

“Just... drive it,” Max said. Rain still clung to his hairline. His jaw was set, but his voice was steady. “No second guesses. The car felt good. The team gave me everything I needed.”

“How much input came from your race engineer, Charles Leclerc?”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Everything that mattered.”

“Did he call the timing?”

A small smile—tired, tight. “He didn’t need to.”

That clip would go viral within the hour.

Inside the Ferrari garage, the energy was taut. Mechanics buzzing, media staff elbowing through for reaction shots, the pit wall lit with flashing sector data and updated championship graphics.

Someone opened a bottle of sparkling water, spraying it half-heartedly into the air before remembering there was still no race confirmed.

Charles stood off to the side. Not hidden, but away.

His headset hung around his neck, mic still flipped upward. His jacket was half-unzipped now, heat pack tucked against his back, barely visible beneath the layers. He’d watched the lap. Watched the timing screen. Watched Max step out of the car into the chaos of cameras and Italian shouting.

He hadn’t moved since.

Christian found him there. Not by accident.

He stopped beside him, folding his arms, watching the screens with him.

For a few moments, neither spoke.

The sound of the garage blurred behind them, hydraulic whine, tools clicking, someone laughing just a little too loud from adrenaline.

Then Christian said, not looking at him, “You know what you are?”

Charles tilted his head slightly. Said nothing.

“You’re the reason he didn’t overdrive it.”

Charles let out a faint breath—amusement or exasperation, it was hard to tell. “I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Christian’s voice softened, just slightly. “You were still the voice he listened to.”

Silence settled between them again. The monitor looped a replay of Max’s pole lap—overhead shot, water trailing behind the Ferrari like wings.

“That corner, the exit of Ascari—” Christian nodded toward the screen. “most drivers would’ve fought the car there. He didn’t. He let it go. Trusted the balance.”

Charles’s eyes didn’t move. “It was a clean lap,” he said simply.

Christian turned to him then, fully. “It was more than clean.”

A beat.

“That’s your lap too.”

Charles didn’t answer. But his fingers curled slightly against the edge of his notebook.

Then, quietly: “We’ll see if it counts.”

Chapter Text

The rain didn’t stop.

Not overnight. Not by morning. It came down with old-testament vengeance—fat, slanted sheets that blurred the grandstands and turned every floodlight into a ghostly halo. The trees lining the circuit shuddered beneath the weight of it. The air was thick with petrichor, engine heat, and breath held too long.

Monza woke under water.

And still—the tifosi arrived.

Thousands of them. Wading through mud. Scaling fences. Chanting through fogged-up megaphones. Some had painted MAX across their rain ponchos in crooked red letters. Others simply screamed when the Ferrari truck passed, as if sound alone could will the storm away.

They came for spectacle. For something holy. They came to see if Ferrari could still be a miracle.

The sky cracked open again just as team representatives gathered near Race Control.

Lightning forked in the distance, briefly illuminating the silhouette of the grandstands like cathedral spires. Rain pounded on the FIA tent roof like drumfire. Drainage crews—soaked and hollow-eyed—had worked through the night, dragging hoses and sandbags like trench gear. And still the runoff at Turn 3 was flooded nearly to the bollards. Parabolica shimmered with standing water, its racing line submerged beneath a mirror of grey sky. The radar offered no reprieve. Just wave after wave of green and yellow, blooming across northern Italy like rot.

FIA finally made the call: Safety car start. Rolling. No formation lap.

Just a warning lap. Then war.

Crofty: “And here we go, folks. We’ve had wet races before, but this—this is Monza in full biblical mode. Safety car rolling out now, and just look at the spray—it’s like driving through smoke.”

Brundle: “Watch Verstappen’s line—he’s already exploring the runoff at Roggia, finding the grip like a surgeon with a scalpel. That’s not racing speed—it’s reconnaissance.”

Natalie: “And now Verstappen’s on the radio. Let’s listen in.”

Max’s radio: “Grip’s manageable. Vision’s bad, but the car’s stable. I want to start.”

Crofty: “That’s Max Verstappen for you—never one to wait if there’s racing to be done.”

Brundle: “And here it is—rolling start confirmed. The safety car peels off… and we go green at the line!”

The safety car ducked into pit lane.

Max didn’t bolt. He breathed. Slipped into the throttle with terrifying grace—no wheelspin, no drama. Just pure, weightless launch.

By the time they reached the first chicane, Norris had barely blinked and Max was already two car lengths ahead.

The Ferrari sliced through the spray with surgical elegance. Every puddle, a pulse. Every curve, a confession.

The rest of the field braked early—tentative, uncertain. Tyres whispered warning. But Max? Max danced.

Smooth, balanced, fluid—like the rain had given him permission.

Charles’s voice came through his headset, calm as ever. Low, precise. Not a hint of nerves.

“Don’t follow spray. Trust the dry line. Minimal steering input.”

Max didn’t answer. He just did it. Through Variante Ascari, he went purple.

“Guarda! Guarda come vola nella pioggia! Questo è un pilota posseduto—Verstappen vola nel tempio di Ferrari!”
(“Look! Look how he flies in the rain! This is a possessed driver—Verstappen is flying through the temple of Ferrari!”)

The rain didn’t let up. It clung to visors, blurred camera lenses, turned white lines into threats and curbs into traps.

Still, Max stayed planted. Unmoving in belief. Untouched in chaos.

“Rain worsening,” Charles said. “Adjust diff 7. Maintain torque curve.”

Max flicked the dial without hesitation. Just obedience. Just belief.

Then came the break.

Gasly spun at Turn 4 and stalled. A brief VSC was deployed as marshals scrambled.

Alpine stacked. Haas gambled. Lando hesitated, checking with his team. Max didn’t.

The Ferrari pit wall didn’t even open discussion. Charles read the circuit like scripture. And Max followed it like gospel.

Camera cuts showed the Ferrari’s rear wing—clean, unbothered. Water rolled off it like armor. A red blur in a grey world.

Drivers began dropping out.

Sargeant’s radio: “It’s an ice rink, man.”

Hulkenberg retired. George Russell tiptoed through corners like they might bite.

The rest fought for visibility. For control. For hope.

And Max? Max was singing.

Not literally. But in how he glided through Lesmo 2 like it was dry. In how Ascari bowed to him, lap after lap. In how he never once touched the standing water at entry—even when the data said he could.

Brundle: “Look at this—look at that balance. No oversteer. No corrections. It’s like the rain doesn’t exist for him.”

Natalie: “And the communication! Charles Leclerc—ice cold. No panic. Just surgical instructions.”

Brundle: “I’ll say it. We haven’t seen Ferrari this invincible in the wet since Schumacher.”

By the final third of the race, the gap had ballooned.

Lando was still driving beautifully. Clean. Smart. But he wasn’t flying.

Oliver, meanwhile, held P3 against Piastri with nerves of steel and brake bias adjusted to survival. Still flawless.

Charles warned Max of a slick spot forming at Turn 6. Max adjusted his line before the sector data even refreshed.

He took Ascari like a line drawn in thunder. He rotated through Parabolica like he’d memorized the rain. He carried Ferrari red not like fabric—but flame.

When the final lap came—

The tifosi were already screaming.

Red smoke bloomed in the stands. Flags rippled like war banners.

Rain couldn’t drown the song—they sang louder. Louder than the storm.

Sang for Charles.

Sang for Ferrari.

Sang now—for Max.

“LEONE NELLA PIOGGIA!”

Max crossed the line without a twitch. The gap to Norris: +34.7 seconds. Bearman took P3. No one else mattered.

Crofty: “Max Verstappen, in his Ferrari debut at Monza—wins in the worst storm we’ve seen in over a decade. That wasn’t just a race. That was a warning.”

Brundle: “They said he wouldn’t belong. That he’d tarnish the badge. That Ferrari was too sacred. But maybe… maybe the storm was exactly what he needed.”

The judgment had never been about his driving. Even his critics never questioned that.

No—their doubts were about everything else. His edges. His fire. His raw, unscripted fury.

Because Ferrari drivers were supposed to be polished. Chosen. Carefully carved from marble. Media trained. Soft-spoken. Royal in bearing.

And Max? Max had never been chosen. He had dared. Dared to be abrasive. Dared to be wild. Dared to wear the red not like silk—but like warpaint.

And today—at Monza, beneath thunderclouds and floodlights—he hadn’t just proved them wrong. He had rewritten the myth itself.

He climbed from the cockpit drenched in rain and glory—steam rising from his fireproofs, sweat and storm tangled in his hair, his jaw set, for the first time, even the sharpest corners of the press had no words. Just awe.

The rain poured.

And still— the tifosi never wavered.

They had waited years for this. Some, their whole lives. Seven seasons since a Ferrari last won at home. And that day, in 2019, it had been Charles who brought them to their knees.

But today—today the storm had chosen someone else. And the crowd bowed just the same.

They didn’t chant because they were told to. They chanted because they had no other language for what they were feeling.

MAX. MAX. MAX.

As if it were a prayer. As if saying his name could keep the heavens from swallowing them whole.

In the grandstands, soaked to the skin, over a hundred hands still clung to the edges of the massive scarlet banner—never letting it sag, never letting it drop. Water streamed down it in rivers, distorting the paint, but the message stayed whole:

PER SEMPRE FERRARI. PER SEMPRE ROSSO.
Forever Ferrari. Forever Red.

Max climbed the steps with the weight of generations on his shoulders.

Not from pressure. From meaning.

This wasn’t about dominance. It wasn’t about redemption. It wasn’t even about legacy—not entirely.

It was about belonging. It was about faith. About stepping into something older than him.

Older than Charles. Older than the telemetry, the politics, the strategies, the speed. Older than the boy he’d once been—furious, hungry, and convinced no one would ever love him enough to stay.

This was older than all of that.

And the moment he reached the top step, the crowd, as if sensing the gravity of the moment, went quieter.

The kind of hush that fills old churches. The kind that rolls through a crowd just before a miracle lands.

Because that’s what this was. Not a race. A resurrection.

Ferrari, victorious at Monza—again. And Max Verstappen, the once-outsider, now stood at the altar.

The anthem rose.

Fratelli d’Italia, sung through rain and open mouths.

Max sang the part he knew. Only a few lines. He hadn’t finished learning it yet. But he didn’t mumble.

Below, in the pit lane, every Ferrari staff member sang like it was etched in them. Their mouths moved in sync. Their shoulders lifted as one. Their rain-slicked jackets clung to skin and pride.

Charles stood at the pit wall. Head uncovered. Hair flattened with water. One hand on the monitor stand, the other resting gently on his own heart.

He sang.

Proudly. Softly. Like someone watching a vow be fulfilled.

Max didn’t look away. Not until the final note fell through the mist and the thunder of applause broke over them like a wave.

Champagne followed.

Oliver was grinning from ear to ear, spraying the bottle before he even pulled the cork clean. Lando ducked and retaliated. Cameras flashed. Staff cheered from pit lane.

Max stood there for a moment longer, bottle in hand, looking out over the sea of red. Then he lifted it, just slightly.

A quiet offering.

Because this wasn’t a coronation. Not yet. It was a beginning.

And he had never felt more like a Ferrari driver than right then—drenched in rain, kissed by thunder, and wrapped in the reverence of a thousand voices who chanted his name like a hymn.