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Chapter Text

Charles Leclerc had always been good at pretending.

Pretending he didn’t see Max looking at him across the paddock like the weight of their history was crushing him. Pretending the clench of his fists wasn’t to stop himself from reaching out, from saying something , anything, that might undo the damage they'd done to each other.

Monaco glittered in the night, but Charles felt none of it. Not the charm, not the nostalgia. Just the bitter taste of memory. It had been here , two years ago, that Max had kissed him for the first time. Just after qualifying. Just before they stopped pretending they weren’t completely, maddeningly, in love.

And now?

Now, Max was winning everything. Now Max had the media at his feet, the championship sealed before the summer break, and Charles had… the hollow echo of what might’ve been.

Charles stepped off the balcony and closed the door behind him. His hotel room felt too quiet, too cold. He sat on the edge of the bed, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the blinking red light of the minibar. The silence grew heavy. And then his phone buzzed.

Max.

It shouldn’t mean anything. But it did. It always did.

You in Monaco?

Just that. No pleasantries. No emojis. No “hope you're well.” Just Max being Max—blunt, impulsive, and probably already regretting pressing send.

Charles didn’t answer. He stared at the message like it might catch fire in his hand. Then, five minutes later, the buzzer rang. He didn’t ask how Max knew the room number. He didn’t need to.

He opened the door, and Max stood there, dressed in black, cap pulled low like he could hide from everything. But Charles knew better. He always had.

“Hi,” Max said.

And Charles, fool that he was, let him in. The silence between them was sharp, like walking barefoot on glass. Max’s eyes scanned the room, then him. He didn’t smile.

“I saw your quali,” he said eventually. “Front row.”

“You watched?” Charles asked before he could stop himself.

Max nodded. “Always do.”

That shouldn't have felt like a punch to the chest. But it did. Because Charles still remembered Max's voice, raw with jealousy in the dark of a hotel room in Singapore, whispering, “I can’t stand watching you with anyone else.”

Charles took a slow breath. “Why are you here?”

Max looked at him then. Really looked. “Because I couldn’t stay away.” It was the oldest cliché in the book, but Max didn’t say it like a line. He said it like a confession. Like something torn out of him.

And Charles hated that it still worked.

“I thought we weren’t doing this anymore,” Charles whispered. “You said—”

“I know what I said.”

“And you meant it.”

Max flinched. “Yeah. I did. But it didn’t work. Being apart didn’t make me want you any less.”

Charles closed his eyes. “You walked away, Max.”

“You let me.”

That hurt more than it should have. And Max knew it. He crossed the room in two long strides and stopped just in front of Charles, close enough to touch but not daring to.

“I don’t want to fight,” Max said. “I just… I needed to see you.”

Charles swallowed hard. “And now that you have?”

Max hesitated. “Now I want to stay.”

The moment broke like glass. Max reached out, fingers brushing Charles’ jaw. Soft. Tentative. Like he was afraid of what touching would break open between them.

But Charles didn’t pull away. The kiss, when it came, was angry.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and tongues and months of bitterness poured into a single act of desperation. Max shoved him back against the wall, and Charles let him. Their hands were everywhere, tugging, clawing, memorizing skin they never truly forgot.

Charles gasped into Max’s mouth, nails digging into his back.

“Still so damn stubborn,” Max muttered against his throat, kissing a trail down to his collarbone. “You always make everything harder than it has to be.”

Charles let out a bitter laugh. “Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you.” They collided again, all heat and tension. But even in the middle of it, even when Charles dragged Max to the bed and pulled him down with him, he couldn’t forget the way Max had looked when he walked out last time—cold, resolute, like they had meant nothing.

And now?

Now, Max was holding him like he was drowning.

—

Later, in the quiet aftermath, Charles’s head was on Max’s chest, arms wrapped tight around his waist as if he let go, Charles might disappear.

“I never stopped loving you,” Max said into the silence.

Charles blinked at the ceiling. His throat was tight. “You didn’t try very hard to show it.” He whispered, drawing circles on Max’s chest. 

“I was scared,” Max said. “Of losing everything. Of losing myself.”

“And what am I?” Charles asked. “Not worth the risk?”

Max sat up, looked at him with something breaking behind his eyes. “You were always worth it. I just didn’t know how to hold on without ruining everything else.”

Charles bit back the tears. “You ruined me anyway.”

Max touched his cheek. “Let me try to fix it.”

The thing was—Charles wanted to believe him.

He wanted to believe in second chances. Burned bridges are rebuilt. In two people who had once fit so perfectly, they thought it was fate.

But life wasn’t a movie. And Max had always been more fire than fairytale. Still, when Max kissed him again, slow and trembling, Charles let him. Because maybe loving Max had always meant choosing pain. And maybe, just maybe, it was worth it.

–

Charles woke to the weight of silence.

It pressed into the room like fog, thick and unmoving, broken only by the distant hum of yachts in the marina and the faint rush of morning wind through the half-open balcony door. For a moment, he didn’t move. His body was still warm, skin slightly sticky from sweat, but his chest was cold, emptied in that way it always was when reality came calling.

Max was still there.

He lay on his stomach beside him, face half-buried in the pillow, hair messy, the lines of sleep creasing the skin just below his eye. He looked younger like this. Softer. Human.

Vulnerable.

And it terrified Charles. Because it was too easy to look at him like this and forget the bruises. Not the ones on skin—though there were some of those, faint marks left in the night’s desperation—but the ones on his heart. The ones Max had left when he walked out the first time. And the second.

Charles shifted slightly, trying to extricate himself without waking him. He couldn’t. Max’s arm tightened around his waist instinctively, possessive even in sleep.

“Don’t,” Max mumbled, barely audible.

Charles froze. “I’m not going anywhere,” he lied, more to himself than to Max.

He stayed.

They didn’t talk until late morning. The awkwardness didn’t come immediately. It crept in slowly, like sunlight stretching across the floor—undeniable and impossible to ignore.

Max sat at the edge of the bed, now in just his boxers, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. His fingers worked at the tension in his neck like he was stalling for time.

Charles watched him from the other side of the room, leaning against the wall near the bathroom door, arms folded across his chest. The space between them was heavier than anything either of them had said the night before.

Eventually, Max sighed. “So... that happened.”

“You make it sound like it was a mistake,” Charles said, tone too sharp.

Max turned, meeting his gaze. “Was it?”

Charles didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because yes, maybe. But also no. God, no.

“I didn’t come here to fuck you,” Max added, quieter now. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“And yet,” Charles said bitterly, “here we are.”

Max flinched. “You think that’s all this was?”

Charles looked away. “I think you don’t know what you want. I think I keep letting you back in because I still—” He cut himself off. The words felt too dangerous. “You still what?” Max asked.

Charles shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“That’s the problem, Max. Everything only matters after you’ve destroyed it.” The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward. It was jagged. Painful.

Max stood slowly, walked toward him, but didn’t touch him. “I want to try again.”

Charles laughed bitterly. “You want a lot of things when it’s convenient.”

“I’m serious.”

“You were serious last time, too,” Charles whispered. “And then you left.”

“I panicked. I thought… I thought if I stayed, we’d burn each other down.”

“And now?”

Max stepped closer, so close Charles could feel his breath. “Now I’m willing to take the fire.”

Charles looked at him. Really looked. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

“Say it,” Max murmured.

“What?”

“That you still love me.”

Charles closed his eyes. He could feel the truth clawing up his throat. But if he said it, he wouldn’t be able to take it back. And if Max left again...

“I can’t,” Charles whispered.

Max swallowed hard, backing away. The space between them returned. Charles felt it like a noose.

“I’ll be at the paddock tomorrow,” Max said eventually, voice flat. “Don’t pretend I wasn’t here.”

And with that, he left.

Charles didn’t move for a long time. Not until the room felt too big, too quiet. Not until the sound of the door clicking shut left a hollow echo in his chest.

He stared out the window at the sea, the city he loved, and the trail of yachts that blurred into the horizon. His phone buzzed again.

A headline.

“Leclerc and Verstappen: Fire and Ice in Monaco Quali.”

He almost laughed.

They didn’t know the half of it.

–

The champagne had long since dried on his suit, and the smile he’d worn on the podium was already cracking.

Charles sat alone in the back corner of the Ferrari motorhome, half out of his race suit, the collar hanging open as sweat dried on his skin. His hands were trembling slightly—whether from adrenaline or exhaustion or something deeper, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

He’d finished P2. Max, P1—again. Like always. Like a record he couldn’t stop playing.

It wasn’t the result that hurt. It was the look Max had given him on the podium: searching, hollow, like he was waiting for something. But Charles had turned away. Clapped when he had to. Smiled at the cameras. And never once met Max’s eyes.

Because if he did, he might fall apart in front of the world.

And Charles Leclerc did not fall apart.

Not in public. 

The paddock was quieter now. Most of the press had cleared out, chasing stories or drinks or both. Charles walked the empty hallway toward the back exit of the motorhome, helmet in hand, damp curls plastered to his forehead.

He didn’t expect to find Max waiting by the Ferrari garage. But of course, he was there, leaning against the wall, Red Bull jacket unzipped, a bottle of water in hand, like he had every right to be there.

Charles stopped short. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

Max pushed off the wall, shrugging. “Don’t what? Congratulate you?”

Charles exhaled harshly. “If that’s why you’re here, send a message next time.”

“I’ve been messaging you all day.”

“I’ve been busy racing all day.”

Max stepped forward, calm in that dangerous way Charles hated—like he wasn’t affected at all. “We need to talk.”

“No,” Charles said, voice shaking. “We don’t.”

“Why do you always run from this?”

“Because this hurts.” Charles turned on him, eyes blazing. “You come back, you wreck everything, and then you act like I’m the problem for not opening the door wide enough.”

Max didn’t flinch. “I’m trying.”

“And what happens when you get scared again?” Charles demanded. “When the media starts asking questions, when Helmut finds out, when someone snaps a photo of us that ends up plastered everywhere? You’ll vanish. Again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do!” Charles barked, chest rising with every breath. “Because I’ve lived it.”

Max’s face twisted. “You think I wanted to leave you? You think I didn’t wake up every fucking day hating myself for it?”

“Then why did you do it?” Charles whispered. “Why did you choose fear over us ?”

Max was quiet. For the first time, he looked away. “Because I didn’t think I was allowed to want this. Want you. And because I thought I’d lose everything else if I did.”

“You might,” Charles said. “But so might I.”

And that was the truth of it.

This wasn’t just about love. It was about careers, about brands, about the politics of a sport that fed on headlines. Two top drivers from rival teams being in love—it wasn’t just a scandal. It was nuclear. Max stepped forward again, slowly this time, like he was approaching something wounded. “You raced like hell today.”

Charles’s throat tightened. “I always do.”

Max smiled, soft and sad. “You were beautiful out there.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Charles looked away, blinking hard.

“I miss you,” Max said. “Not just the nights. I miss you. Your laugh. Your temper. The way you never let me get away with anything. The way you kiss me like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”

“Stop,” Charles said, voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

But Max kept going, stepping close enough that Charles could smell the lingering scent of sweat and champagne on his skin. “I know I messed this up. I know I don’t deserve another chance. But if there’s even a part of you that still loves me, I’ll wait.”

Charles met his eyes. “For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

It was too much. And not enough.

Charles looked at him, all sharp lines and storm-blue eyes, and remembered everything—the late-night hotel whispers, the fights in the rain, the way Max had held him like he was the only thing tethering him to earth.

He wanted to believe in them. But he also wanted to protect what little of himself he had left. So he said the only thing he could.

“Don’t wait for me, Max.”

Max’s face fell. “Charles—”

“I can’t do this again. I won’t . Not unless you’re all in. Not unless you stop hiding. Not unless you’re willing to tell the truth. To your team. To the world. To yourself. ”

Max was silent. And that silence told Charles everything.

He walked away first this time, but it didn’t make it easier.

–

That night, back in his flat, Charles stood on the balcony alone. The city below buzzed, the sea breathed, the lights flickered like fireflies. He poured a glass of wine that he didn’t drink. Stared into a future that looked more uncertain than ever.

His phone buzzed again.

Max: I’m sorry. But I’m not giving up.

Charles closed his eyes. A single tear traced down his cheek. He didn’t delete the message, but he didn’t reply.

—

It had been twenty-six days since Charles last saw Max in person.

Not that he was counting.

He told himself it was better this way—cleaner. The separation was necessary. It was what he’d asked for. But the quiet was louder now. Lonelier. And the ache hadn’t dulled; it had only gone deeper.

The races blurred. Media commitments. Sim sessions. The occasional, thin smiles for fans. And through it all, Max was still everywhere: in the headlines, on the podium, in the corner of Charles’ vision during drivers’ briefings. The air between them had turned to glass, transparent and sharp-edged.

And then came Silverstone.

Rain. Wind. A grid soaked in tension. Charles had qualified P3. Max was on pole, as usual.

Charles kept his helmet on longer than necessary that afternoon, staring at the wall in the Ferrari garage, pretending he couldn’t hear the Red Bull celebration one garage down. He didn’t go to the cool-down room after the race. He skipped the press conference, feigned a stomach ache. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

He was sick—but only of this. Of pretending Max didn’t still feel like a phantom limb.

Later, he found a quiet corner behind the hospitality units and leaned against the cold metal wall. Rain fell in quiet patterns around him. He breathed through the sting in his chest, trying not to think. Max found him anyway.

Always did .

“Charles.”

His voice still made something shift in Charles’ ribs, like an old wound opening.

“I don’t want to do this right now,” Charles said without turning.

“Well, I do. ” Max’s voice was sharper than usual. “I’ve given you space. I’ve stayed quiet. And it’s killing me.”

Charles turned slowly. “You think you’re the only one hurting?”

Max looked soaked—hair damp, shirt sticking to his chest. His jaw was tight, but his eyes… they were red-rimmed. Tired.

“I saw the photo,” Charles said flatly. “Of you leaving that bar in Monaco. With her.”

Max blinked. “You think that meant anything?”

“I think it doesn’t matter what it meant. It looked like you moved on.”

“I was drunk,” Max said. “And pissed off. And trying to forget you.”

“Well,” Charles said, voice like frost, “congrats on trying.”

Max stepped closer, something desperate creeping into his expression. “Don’t do this. Don’t pretend you didn’t push me away.”

“You let me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You kissed me and then disappeared again. You held me like I was the only thing in the world, and then you vanished behind PR lines and Verstappen quotes and podiums. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“I was scared,” Max said.

Charles laughed bitterly. “You always are.”

The silence stretched. Max was breathing harder now, jaw clenched. “I thought if I came out, I’d lose everything. My seat. My team. My father. I thought people would never look at me the same again.”

“And what about me?” Charles asked, voice breaking. “You think I haven’t been scared every single fucking day since I realized I loved you? You think I haven’t been terrified that one of these nights would be the last time you’d choose me?”

He took a shaky breath.

“You made me a secret. You made us something shameful. And I let you. Because I thought maybe you’d come back and choose me properly one day.”

Max looked shattered. “I never meant to make you feel like that.”

“You did.”

Max stepped back, like the words physically hit him. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

Charles shook his head. “You don’t get to keep walking in and out of my life like this. I’m not your pit stop between ego crashes and championship parades.”

“I don’t think of you like that.”, Max mumbled.

“Then prove it, ” Charles said. “Tell the world. Say it out loud. Or leave me the fuck alone.”

Max stared at him, rain falling harder now, soaking them both. Then he said the one thing Charles wasn’t prepared to hear.

“I told Jos.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

“I told my father about us,” Max said quietly. “A week ago.”

Charles stared at him, breath caught somewhere between hope and disbelief.

“What did he say?”

Max gave a bitter smile. “He told me I was weak. That I’d throw my career away for a distraction. That I wasn’t a Verstappen if I kept seeing you.”

Charles’s stomach twisted. “And?”

“I told him I loved you,” Max said. “And that if that made me weak, I’d rather be weak.”

Charles didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I’ve lost people already, Charles. I’ve had teammates hate me. Journalists tear me apart. Fans boo me. But losing you —that’s the only thing that’s actually broken me.”

The silence between them wasn’t sharp this time. It was heavy. Sad. Fragile.

“I want to fix this,” Max said. “But I can’t do it alone.”

Charles’s chest was burning. He didn’t know if it was anger or longing or just the ache of finally hearing the truth too late. “Then stop doing half-measures,” he whispered. “Be with me. Fully. Publicly. Messily. Or don’t be with me at all.”

Max stepped forward again, slow but certain this time. His hands trembled as he reached for Charles’s face, brushing away the wet strands of hair sticking to his cheek.

“Okay,” Max said. “Okay. I will.”

“You promise a lot of things, Max.”

“Then let me start proving it.”

And for the first time in weeks, Charles didn’t pull away.

He let Max kiss him. And when it broke, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the storm.

But Charles knew it wasn’t over. Not yet. He still had to see what Max would do next. And for once in their history, Charles wasn’t going to make it easy.

–

Charles watched the press conference from the Ferrari motorhome, standing just off-camera, arms folded so tightly across his chest his nails dug into his skin. Max was seated center-stage, flanked by his team principal and a row of journalists armed with microphones and grins like sharks.

This was supposed to be it.

The moment Max told the truth. The moment he proved that Charles wasn’t just a secret whispered between hotel sheets or a guilt-wrapped phone call after midnight. This was supposed to be their shift. Their beginning.

But Max didn’t say it.

He talked about the championship. He discussed pace, strategy, and setups. He joked about tire degradation. He even smiled. But he didn’t say a word about Charles.

Not a single syllable.

Charles waited. Through the entire twenty-five-minute conference. Right up until the final question. One journalist leaned forward. “Max, there’s been speculation about your personal life recently. Anything you want to say to clarify?”

Max glanced at the Red Bull PR manager. Then, at the team principal. Then back at the reporter. And smiled.

He fucking smiled.

“No. Nothing to clarify.”

That was it. No. Nothing.

Charles felt it like a blade between the ribs.

He didn’t wait for Max to finish the media rounds. He didn’t care.

He stormed out into the paddock, ignoring the way the cameras turned, the way the fans stared. His hands were shaking again. Not from adrenaline this time, but from fury. From disappointment.

From heartbreak.

When Max finally found him in the back corridor of the drivers’ hospitality wing, Charles was pacing, every muscle in his body coiled.

“You said you would,” Charles snapped the moment Max approached. “You promised me.”

“Charles—”

“No. Don’t ‘Charles’ me like I’m overreacting. Don’t do that thing where you smile and make it sound small. This is not small.”

Max sighed. “It wasn’t the right time.”

“There’s never a right time with you!” Charles shouted. “It’s always one more race, one more week, one more reason to keep me hidden!”

Max flinched. “Do you want me to throw away everything I’ve built? My father already won’t speak to me. You want to make it worse?”

“You think I haven’t sacrificed?” Charles spat. “I’ve lied to my team. I’ve covered for you. I’ve watched you flirt with girls at galas just to keep the image alive, all while I waited for you to finally choose me. ”

“I did choose you.”

“No,” Charles hissed. “You chose this . The title. The fear. The fucking silence. ”

Max’s expression cracked. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly, ” Charles cut in. “I understand that I’m not worth the risk to you.”

Silence.

Max looked at him—truly looked—and Charles hated how familiar his face still felt. How many nights he’d memorized every flicker in those eyes.

“I love you,” Max said softly.

“No, you don’t,” Charles whispered. “You love what I give you. What I let you take. But real love? Real love fights. Real love stands the fuck up.”

“I’ve been fighting.”

“No,” Charles said, shaking his head, voice breaking. “You’ve been hiding.”

Max didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. He didn’t stop him when Charles turned and walked away. He just stood there and let him go.

Again.

Charles locked the door to his hotel room that night and sat on the floor, back against the bed, still in his team kit, trembling from the weight of what he’d just done. But he hadn’t had a choice. He couldn’t keep bleeding for someone who didn’t know how to stop the knife.

His phone buzzed once.

A single message.

Max: I’m sorry.

Charles stared at it. Then deleted the thread.

The storm had finally broken.

And for the first time, Charles wasn’t sure if the wreckage could be rebuilt.

—

The first time Charles saw Max again after the fight, it was three races later—in Hungary. He wasn’t ready.

He told himself he was, told the team he was fine, told Lewis he didn’t need anyone to check on him. Told the world what he always did: “I’m focused. I’m here to race.” But when Max walked into the drivers' briefing room and their eyes met for the first time in twenty-two days, Charles felt the air sucked clean out of his lungs.

Max looked the same.

Untouched. Calm. His Red Bull jacket unzipped, sunglasses perched in his hair, a casual nod to Lando, a smirk thrown at George. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t torn something vital out of Charles’ chest and left him to bleed in silence.

Charles looked away before Max could speak. Before he could do something dangerous like hope .

The race was hell.

Max won again, of course. Charles finished fifth. The car hadn’t been there. Neither had he, not really. He showered alone in the motorhome, forehead pressed to the tiles, water scalding his shoulders.

He hated this.

The pretending. The way his body still reacted to the sound of Max’s voice on the speakers. The way he still waited for a message after every race, as if Max might finally say the words Charles had needed back then. Still needed now.

But Max didn’t text him.

Again.

That night, the paddock parties spilled into the city.

Charles told himself he wouldn’t go. He didn’t want to see Max laughing with anyone else. Didn’t want to watch him charm the press or flirt with some influencer in a corner booth. But then he drank two glasses of something too expensive, and Carlos offered him a ride, and suddenly he was at the rooftop bar of a five-star hotel with his buttons undone and his restraint slipping like the condensation off his glass.

Max was already there.

Seated on a couch, surrounded by noise, a drink in his hand, shadows curling around his face. He looked up—and of course, he saw Charles.

They didn’t speak right away. But the room narrowed, the space between them thick with static.

And when Max finally crossed the floor and stood in front of him, Charles didn’t stop him. He didn’t stop him when Max leaned close and said, “You look good tonight.” Didn’t stop him when his fingers brushed Charles’ wrist, slow and sure.

Didn’t stop him when Max whispered, “Come with me.”

The hotel room door slammed shut behind them.

Charles was already pulling Max’s shirt over his head, mouth finding his like oxygen. His fingers trembled at Max’s waist, not from nerves but from months of longing that refused to fade. He let himself be touched, held, and kissed like nothing had changed.

And he kissed Max like it was a promise—like he was choosing him again.

Max’s hands were hot and familiar, roaming Charles’ back, hips, and neck. Their mouths crashed together, all teeth and breathless groans, as clothes fell to the floor, as they stumbled toward the bed with the desperation of two people who never quite learned how to say goodbye.

It was messy.

Fast.

Too much and not enough.

Max whispered his name into the pillow as he pushed into him, rough and aching and painfully familiar. Charles closed his eyes, biting back a sound, because it felt like coming home and being gutted all at once.

Their bodies remembered each other even if their hearts had splintered.

After Max rolled off, breath heavy, arm flung carelessly over his eyes. Charles lay still beside him, blinking at the ceiling, feeling everything at once.

Maybe this was the start, he told himself. Maybe this meant something.

Maybe they were finding their way back.

Max got up ten minutes later. Didn’t kiss him. Didn’t say anything.

Just grabbed his phone from the table, scrolled through notifications, and mumbled, “I’ve got to get back. The team’s waiting.”

Charles propped himself on one elbow, the sheets clinging to his skin. “That’s it ?”

Max blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

Charles stared. “We just—” He exhaled. “It wasn’t just sex.”

Max paused, then looked down at his shirt. “I didn’t say it was. But I didn’t think we were talking about it either.”

“So it meant nothing?”

“It meant something,” Max said flatly. “But not everything has to be a conversation.”

Charles went cold. He sat up, heart pounding. “You came to me. You kissed me. You held me.”

“I fucked you, Charles,” Max said, and it was brutal in its honesty. “That’s all.”

The silence was suffocating. Charles swallowed the burn in his throat. “You’re lying.”

Max met his eyes. “I’m not.”

Then he turned, walked out, and left Charles naked in a strange bed with nothing but the ghosts of everything they once were and everything Charles had foolishly thought they could still be.

He didn’t cry. Not then.

Not until hours later, alone in his hotel room with the city dark and silent outside, where he finally let it crush him. He’d thought it was the beginning of something again.

But it had just been the end, all over again—quieter this time. Crueler.

Because this time, Charles had handed him his heart willingly. And Max had left it on the sheets.

—

Spa was soaked in grey that weekend—clouds heavy like everything left unsaid.

Charles arrived two days early. He needed the air. The quiet. The routine of engineers and tire compounds, and data sheets. Anything to keep his mind from circling back to hotel sheets and hollow touches and the way Max hadn’t looked back.

He hadn’t messaged. Hadn’t called.

And now, Charles had nothing left to give.

So when the photos leaked—him and Alexandra walking hand-in-hand down a Monte Carlo street, sunglasses and soft smiles—he didn’t care. Not enough to stop it.

She was kind. Familiar. Someone from before the chaos. She knew how to smile at the cameras, how to stay quiet when Charles didn’t want to talk. And when he told her, “Let’s just... try,” she said, “Okay,” like she didn’t expect anything more.

There was comfort in that. In someone not asking for his soul.

Max saw the photos the next morning.

Charles knew because he watched Max’s face tighten as he scrolled through his phone in the Red Bull hospitality unit. It was subtle—barely a flicker—but Charles had studied him long enough to read every tell.

They didn’t speak. They hadn’t since that night.

But that didn’t stop the tension from crawling across every space they shared—the driver’s parade, the media pens, even the fucking pre-race briefing. Max kept glancing his way like he wanted to say something.

Charles didn’t give him the chance.

Alexandra arrived Saturday afternoon, perfectly dressed, polite, and poised. Charles introduced her to the team with a practiced smile, hand at the small of her back. When she kissed his cheek in front of the Sky cameras, he didn’t flinch.

He could feel Max watching from across the paddock. For once, Charles didn’t care.

Let him see. Let him wonder how it felt.

Let him feel it the way Charles had felt it—that sickening realization that someone had already started to move on while you were still bleeding in silence.

Quali was a mess of rain and red flags. Max on pole. Charles in P4.

Alexandra waited for him outside the Ferrari garage afterward, umbrella in hand, smile soft as always.

Max passed just as Charles leaned in and kissed her cheek.

And it wasn’t until Max had disappeared around the corner that Charles allowed the crack in his composure—small, invisible, but deep.

Because the kiss meant nothing. And that was the worst part.

That night, they were all gathered at a quiet lounge—drivers, PR staff, a few engineers. It wasn’t a party, not really. Just forced camaraderie between races.

Charles sat with Alexandra. Max stood across the room, half-lit by candlelight and shadow, watching.

Of course, he was watching.

He hadn’t said a word to Charles all weekend. But now, when Charles reached for Alexandra’s hand, Max’s grip on his glass turned white.

Lewis leaned in. “He’s staring.”

“I know,” Charles said.

“You okay?” he asked again, frowning.

Charles paused. “Not really.”

But he smiled anyway, leaned closer to Alexandra, and let the performance continue.

Let Max feel it. Even if it was fake.

Even if Charles hated himself for it.

Later, in the quiet of his hotel room, Alexandra slept beside him, her breathing even, unaware.

Charles lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the silence loud.

He could still feel Max’s fingers on his skin. Still hear his voice saying his name like it was a secret only he was allowed to know. Still remember the way Max didn’t stop him from walking away.

And now?

Now it was too late.

Now Charles had learned what it felt like to give everything and get nothing back. So he took the silence. Took the cold. Took the numb. And let himself drift further away. Because he wasn’t going to chase someone who only knew how to run.

The paddock had always been loud.

Engines, cameras, the constant shuffle of media and fans, and radio chatter—it was a dull roar that faded into the background eventually. But this time, Charles felt every sound like it was scraping against his skin.

He hadn’t seen Max all morning. He told himself he didn’t care.

But every corner he turned, every door he opened, he half-expected to see him standing there with that usual posture—hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, like nothing ever touched him.

Like nothing ever mattered.

But it had mattered. To Charles, at least. And now it was becoming painfully clear it hadn’t been the same for Max.

Until today. Because today, something was different.

It started in the press pen.

Max was answering questions like he always did—calm, half-smirking, distant. But then someone mentioned Charles.

Specifically, Alexandra.

“Looks like Charles has moved on. How does it feel watching your “ex” with someone new?”

There was a beat. Max didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Then he laughed. But it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t real.

It was hollow.

“I don’t care who he dates,” Max said, voice flat. “It’s none of my business. We never dated before.”

But Charles had seen the tremor in his jaw. The flex of his fingers behind his back.

The cracks were showing.

Finally.

In the drivers' lounge, Max didn’t speak to anyone. He sat on the edge of the couch, still in his fireproofs, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like it might offer answers.

Charles didn’t speak to him either. He walked in with Alexandra, hand brushing her waist. Just enough to make it obvious.

Max didn’t look up. But he heard it. Felt it. The silence between them was a chasm. And Charles wasn’t going to bridge it again.

It wasn’t until after the race that Max broke.

Charles was still in his suit, fingers numb from the cold rain that had rolled through mid-race, finishing P3. Max had taken second. Still on the podium. Still ahead.

But there was no joy in it. Not this time.

Charles caught sight of him in the hallway outside the cooldown room—alone, hunched against the wall, helmet still on.

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve kept going. But he didn’t. Something in him wanted to see. Just once.

See if Max could feel something the way Charles had.

Charles stepped closer, slowly, cautiously. “You alright?”

Max didn’t answer. His hands were clenched. Breathing shallow.

“Max.”

Silence. Then—

“I fucked it up.”

Charles froze. The voice was rough. Broken. Nothing like Max.

“I thought I had more time,” Max continued, still not looking at him. “I thought you'd wait.”

Charles’s throat tightened. “I did wait,” he said quietly. “But you never came.”

Max finally looked up. And Charles felt it like a punch—those blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion, regret etched in every line of his face.

“You’re with her now,” Max said bitterly.

“I’m trying,” Charles admitted. “She makes it easier.”

Max scoffed, but it broke halfway through. “I shouldn’t have let you go.”

“You didn’t let me go,” Charles said, voice sharp. “You watched me leave.”

There was a pause. Then Max stood. Too close. Too fast. And before Charles could move, Max’s hand was on his wrist, grip tight.

“I miss you,” he whispered. “Every night. I close my eyes, and it’s still you.”

Charles didn’t pull away. But he didn’t step closer, either.“Too late,” he said softly. “You only want me now that I’ve stopped needing you.”

Max’s eyes flinched. It was the first honest pain Charles had seen in weeks, but he didn’t give in. He turned, leaving Max standing in the hallway with his fists clenched and breath caught in his chest. There was no relief in walking away. Only confirmation.

That the man he’d loved wasn’t ready to love him back.

Not when it mattered.

Back in his hotel room, Alexandra was brushing her hair, the television murmuring race highlights in the background.

Charles shut the door and leaned against it, chest hollow. He didn’t tell her about the hallway. Didn’t tell her that he’d heard Max’s voice crack for the first time. Didn’t tell her that for one awful second, he’d wanted to hold him, to say it was okay, to let it all rewind.

He kept it buried because Max hadn’t earned that forgiveness.

Not yet.

—

Spa was gray, damp, but inside, Charles felt colder than the rain dripping from the paddock roofs. The crowd, the noise, the endless carousel of interviews and smiles—none of it reached him.

He wore Alexandra’s ring on his finger like a promise to himself, a tether to something stable, something real. But it was fragile, thin as a spider’s thread against the storm raging in his chest. Because no matter how loud the world got, no matter how much she tried, Charles felt utterly alone.

More alone than he ever had.

He thought the pain would soften with time. That the ache of losing Max—the one person who had known every reckless corner of his heart since their karting days—would dull, become a dull throb instead of a ragged wound.

But it didn’t. It only grew sharper.

Every look Max never gave him. Every message left unanswered. Every breathless night was spent chasing memories that never really were his anymore.

Charles had spent years craving Max’s touch, the careless heat of his grin, the way their souls tangled in ways no one else understood.

And now? Now the longing was a cruel joke—like running after a ghost who vanished just as you reached out.

Alexandra was kind. Patient. The softness in her eyes was a balm to everyone except the part of Charles that still screamed Max’s name in the dark. He could smile. Laugh with her. Let the cameras catch that perfect moment of “moving on.” But beneath it all, Charles was crumbling. Each day was a silent battle between the man he had to be and the boy who still ached for something that might never come back.

During the drivers' parade, Charles stood next to Alexandra, hand lightly resting on her back, but his eyes were on Max. Max—so close, yet impossibly distant.

His presence was like a live wire to Charles’ skin—every glance, every breath, every careless smirk twisting something raw inside. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Max seemed untouched, untouchable. That he could move through the paddock as if their history was a faded scar, when Charles felt every day like a bleeding wound.

The worst part was knowing that the longing wasn’t new. Since their first kart race, Charles had chased Max’s approval, his attention, his fire. Every victory tasted bittersweet without Max’s fierce smile waiting at the finish line.

And now that Max had pulled away—no, pushed him away—it felt like Charles was running alone on a track that had lost its meaning.

A slow, torturous race to nowhere.

Later that night, alone in his hotel room, Charles stared at the ceiling.

Alexandra’s soft breathing beside him was a fragile anchor, but it couldn’t quiet the storm inside. His fingers traced the outline of Max’s face in his mind, the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes held secrets Charles still ached to understand.

And the bitter truth: he was still waiting. Waiting for something Max had already taken away. Waiting for a future that had never been his to claim.

Charles swallowed the tears he refused to shed. Because this pain was his alone. And maybe, somewhere deep down, he knew that the hardest race wasn’t the one on the track—it was learning how to live with a love that could never be returned.

The paddock at Spa was a gray blur of rain and noise, but none of it reached Charles anymore. He moved through the chaos like a ghost—his smile at Alex’s side a fragile mask, one he wore so often he almost believed it.

But beneath that practiced calm, something was breaking. Because no matter how tightly he squeezed her hand or how carefully he crafted their new life, the ache inside him wasn’t fading. It was growing. It clawed through every quiet moment, every breath, every second between the roar of engines and flashing cameras.

He thought it would be different now.

He thought the years, the distance, and the silence between them would dull the pain of losing Max.

But that was a lie he told himself. The truth was brutal and relentless: the pain was sharper than ever, slicing deeper every time he caught Max’s name in a headline or saw that cold indifference flicker in his eyes.

Charles remembered their first kart race—Max with that cocky grin, helmet tipped back just enough to reveal eyes that always seemed to see right through him. The way Max had pulled him aside after that race, hands trembling just slightly as he whispered, “You’re faster than you think.”

The heat of that moment–-the secret promise in the silence between them— had burned into Charles like a flame that never died. They had shared stolen looks in paddocks, whispered jokes over team radios, and hands brushing on pit walls when no one was watching.

Once, on a cold evening after a long day’s testing, Max had pulled Charles into a quiet corner of the garage, his touch slow, deliberate—a tender brush of fingertips tracing the line of Charles’s jaw.

“I don’t want this to be a secret,” Max had said, voice low, hope tangled in the words. Charles had smiled then, heart pounding so loud he thought the whole world might hear.

They had thought it could last.

But now, years later, the distance between them was a chasm carved by silence and absence. The longing that had once been a spark was now a roaring ache—an empty space where Max’s warmth used to be.

Watching Max laugh with the team, his eyes not searching for Charles, not lingering, tore at something raw inside him. It was like watching the love they’d built crumble into dust, one careless glance at a time.

Alex’s hand in his was soft, steady, but it couldn’t reach the part of Charles that still ached for Max’s reckless smile.

That part of him was locked away in memories—late-night talks about dreams and fears, shared meals eaten in the quiet hum of hotel rooms, the gentle brush of Max’s lips against his temple in the early morning light.

Every memory was a double-edged sword, a bittersweet reminder of what he’d lost and could never reclaim.

In the quiet of his hotel room, Charles stared at the ceiling, his mind a storm of regret and longing. Charles felt adrift in a sea of what-ifs. He traced Max’s face in his mind again and again —the sharp line of his cheekbones, the way his eyes held a thousand unspoken words.

He remembered the way Max had looked at him in the garage after that first win together—so fierce, so vulnerable, as if Charles was the only thing that grounded him.

And now? Now that look was gone.

Replaced by something colder, harder, like Max was protecting himself from a wound Charles had left open.

Charles swallowed hard, the sting of tears he refused to shed. Because this pain was his alone. A quiet, aching grief that no one saw beneath the surface. He was racing a track with no finish line—chasing a love that had already slipped through his fingers. And somewhere deep inside, he wondered if he’d ever stop chasing at all.

—

Charles could feel it—the weight, pressing harder every day like a fist squeezing his lungs. The season was relentless, but the pressure inside him was a different kind—quiet, grinding, insidious. At first, it was small. A clipped answer in the team briefing. A sharp glance when someone asked a question he didn’t want to hear.

But it grew.

In the garage, the mechanics tread carefully around him. “Charles, the front wing is ready,” someone called.

He snapped, voice tight, colder than he intended. “I know. Stop talking.” Heads turned, eyebrows raised. He bit back the apology that burned on his tongue.

Alexandra tried to reach him, but even her gentle touch was met with a flicker of impatience. One evening, when she brushed a stray curl from his forehead, he flinched and pulled away.

“Charles?” she asked, hurt in her voice.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but the lie tasted bitter.

Everywhere he looked, he saw Max—in the way the team mentioned his name, in the faint scent of his cologne that still lingered in his clothes, in every quiet moment when Charles’s thoughts spiraled back to what they lost.

The longing wasn’t soft anymore. It was sharp.

The tension became unbearable. After a tough qualifying session, Max appeared by the garage entrance. “Charles,” Max said quietly. “We need to talk.”

Charles turned, jaw clenched, exhaustion and fury twisting inside him. “About what?” he snapped. “About what you already took? Or what you still won’t give back?”

Max’s eyes flickered with something—pain, frustration, regret. “You don’t get to blame me for walking away.”

“Walking away?” Charles echoed, voice breaking. “You pushed me away. You made me chase you for years, then turned your back.”

Max stepped closer, voice low, fierce. “I didn’t want this to end like this.”

“It ended the moment you stopped trying.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Charles felt the fight he’d been holding inside explode—anger, heartbreak, years of silence pouring out in a flood. He shouted things he’d buried for too long, things that cut deeper than any race battle.

Max didn’t back down. Their voices rose.

The team watched in stunned silence.

When it was over, Charles stormed away, heart pounding, breath ragged. Alexandra found him later, eyes rimmed red. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

But the apology felt hollow, even to himself. Inside, Charles was breaking.

And the fracture lines were spreading fast.

—

The quiet was the worst part.

When the engines stopped roaring and the paddock emptied, Charles was left alone with the noise in his head.

That relentless, dark whisper that never really left. It had been years since the last time he’d let it consume him.

Years since the nights when the pain inside became too much, and the only release was the sting of a blade against skin—sharp, real, grounding.

He’d fought so hard to climb out of that hole.

But now? Now the walls were closing in again, tighter than ever.

Every failed communication with Max, every argument that echoed in his mind, every flicker of loneliness with Alexandra by his side—each was a crack widening in his fragile armor. Last night, he found himself staring at the old scars on his wrist—the faint, faded lines that told stories no one else knew.

His fingers itched with a dangerous memory, the old familiar ache rising like a tide threatening to drown him.

He shoved the thought away, focusing on the routine training, media, and the endless grind. But the blackness was patient. Waiting for the moment, he slipped.

Alexandra noticed the change. The way Charles flinched when she reached for him. The tightness in his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes. She asked if he was okay.

He lied. “I’m fine.” The words tasted like poison.

The team saw it too. His temper flared at the smallest things—commands, questions, even praise. He was breaking down, piece by piece. But no one saw the war inside his mind.

Late one night, after another endless day, Charles stood by the hotel window, watching the city lights blur in the rain. The urge clawed at him, a familiar siren call. He clenched his fists, fingers digging into his palms, willing himself not to fall.

Not this time.

But the ache was relentless. The longing for Max, the pain of everything lost—it was a weight crushing him from the inside out. And Charles was running out of strength.

In the darkest moments, he whispered to himself:

Hold on. Just hold on.

Because giving in meant losing himself completely.

—

The room felt smaller than ever—walls closing in like a cage built from silence and memories. Charles pressed his back against the cold windowpane, chest tightening with each shallow breath.

The noise in his head wasn’t just loud anymore—it was a storm, relentless and merciless. He felt it begin as a flutter in his chest, subtle at first, but spreading fast—a wave of unease that rolled through his body.

His fingers trembled. His vision blurred around the edges. Breathe, he told himself, but the air was thick, heavy. Each inhale was a fight, each exhale barely enough. His heart hammered wildly—too fast, too fierce, like it was trying to escape his ribcage.

The room spun, colors bleeding into each other.

His hands clawed at the fabric of his shirt, searching for something solid to hold onto, but the world felt like it was slipping through his fingers. A ringing filled his ears, drowning out everything but the pounding in his skull. His throat tightened until swallowing was impossible.

He tried to scream, but no sound came.

Memories flashed—dark, painful nights when the only relief was the sharp sting of a blade. His fingers reached down instinctively, trembling, desperate.

But then—a crack. A single thought breaking through the chaos: Not this time. Tears streamed down his face, raw and unrelenting. He sank to the floor, curling into himself, shaking with the force of the panic crashing over him.

The room was spinning, the walls breathing in and out, his chest rising and falling in ragged waves. He was drowning in the dark, but this time, he fought.

Minutes passed—or maybe hours. Time lost meaning. Slowly, the storm began to fade, the pounding heart easing its frantic pace. Charles stayed curled on the floor, exhausted but alive.

When Alexandra found him hours later, she didn’t ask. She just sat beside him, silent and steady. Her presence was a fragile lifeline. Charles wanted to believe he could hold on. Hold on to her. That maybe, just maybe, the darkness wouldn’t win this time.

The panic attack had passed, but its echo lingered, a shadow stretching over every moment. Charles lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his skin still prickling with residue, like he’d just emerged from a storm, but the rain hadn’t quite stopped falling.

He wanted to reach out. Wanted to tell Alexandra, someone—anyone—that he wasn’t okay. But the words tangled up in his throat, heavy and stubborn. Shame whispered cruel lies: You’re weak. You’re broken. You’ll only be a burden.

He closed his eyes and saw Max’s face—sharp, distant, untouchable. The past bleeding into the present, making it harder to breathe.

The team noticed his retreat. Questions came, cautious and probing, but Charles deflected, retreating further into himself. Every smile felt forced, every laugh hollow.

Alexandra stayed close, patient, but worried. One night, she placed a hand on his arm—a tentative bridge across the gulf growing between them. “Charles, please. Talk to me.”

But he shook his head, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how without messing up.” The struggle wasn’t just against the dark—it was against himself. The part of him that wanted to run back to old habits, to numb the pain rather than face it.

But even in the depths, there was a flicker—fragile, dim—but real. A tiny thread of hope tangled in the chaos. Charles didn’t know where this path would lead.

Only that he had to try.

—

The roar of engines outside was a distant thunder, relentless and unforgiving—much like the season itself. But inside the paddock hospitality, the noise faded beneath the tight coil of tension wound in Charles’s chest.

He stood by the window, watching the world rush by—cars, people, the endless blur of faces—but none of it reached him. Alexandra’s words from that morning echoed softly in his mind: We’ll face it together. They were a lifeline, but also a weight.

Because even as he clung to the fragile hope she offered, another part of him twisted with a different ache—Max. Max—the man who’d once been everything and now felt like a ghost he couldn’t quite shake.

The memories clawed at him, sharp and vivid—the quick brush of Max’s hand against his, the way their eyes had once held unspoken promises, the nights when silence between them felt like warmth.

But that warmth was gone. Replaced by cold distance, bitter arguments, and a silence heavier than any words.

Charles’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to hate Max for leaving, for breaking something that maybe could never be fixed.

But all he felt was a raw, aching longing—like chasing a fading star that always slipped just out of reach.

The team approached, breaking his reverie.

“Everything’s set for qualifying, Charles,” the engineer said carefully, watching his tense posture.

Charles nodded curtly, voice sharp when he answered. “Good. Let’s get this done.”

Later, in the confines of the car, the familiar rush of speed brought a momentary escape—the roar of the engine, the blur of the track, the razor focus. But even there, his mind wandered, wondering if Max was watching, if he still thought of him at all.

After the session, Alexandra found him again—her presence a steady calm amidst the chaos. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get out of here.”

As they walked together through the paddock, Charles felt the weight of eyes—team, media, fans—waiting for him to be whole again, to perform, to smile. But inside, he was a fractured mosaic, each piece jagged and raw.

He looked at Alexandra, at the quiet strength in her steady gaze, and felt both comforted and painfully aware of the space Max had left—a hollow that no one else could fill.

That night, Charles lay awake, tangled in the sheets, wrestling with a truth he couldn’t deny:

He was surviving. Not thriving. Not healed.

Just surviving—one fragile, painful day at a time.

—

The first time it truly cracked was in the garage.

It was a small mistake—an adjustment to the front wing that Charles hadn’t asked for. But when he stepped out of the car, jaw clenched and adrenaline running cold, and someone asked if it felt better, he snapped. “No,” he barked, voice too loud, too sharp. “It’s wrong. I told you it would be wrong.”

The words hung in the air, awkward and pointed. The mechanic blinked, stunned, before muttering an apology. Charles turned away, jaw set tight, chest heaving in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

It wasn’t just the mistake. It was the way everything felt off—every breath, every interaction. Like the world had gone slightly out of phase. He didn’t know when the thread started to unravel. But now it was pulling loose, knot by knot, and he didn’t have the strength to stop it.

Alexandra noticed, of course.

She tried to talk to him that evening, reaching across the distance that had grown between them with kind, measured words. But Charles recoiled from her touch as if it burned.

“I don’t want to talk,” he muttered. “Not about today. Not about anything.”

Her voice was soft, patient. “Charles, I’m worried about you.”

He laughed bitterly. “You should be.”

The next morning, he woke before sunrise. He sat on the hotel balcony with a coffee he didn’t drink, staring blankly at the city skyline. The ache in his chest was constant now, like a low, dull throb that never quite went away.

He thought about the old days. Karting.

He and Max, wild and fierce, all ego and youth. How Max used to look at him like the sun lived in Charles’s skin.

Back then, the world was smaller. Easier. Back then, he thought Max would never walk away. Now, Max barely met his eyes when they passed each other in the paddock.

There was no hatred in it. Just… nothing. And somehow that hurt more. 

That day, during a team debrief, Charles exploded again. He lashed out at a strategy call, accused them of playing politics, of not listening. The room went silent. No one fought back. When he left, slamming the door behind him, no one followed.

In the mirror of the driver’s lounge bathroom, he looked at his reflection and didn’t recognize himself. His eyes were sunken, dark. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. He rolled up his sleeve slowly.

The scars were still faint. Years old. Long dormant. He stared at them like they belonged to someone else. And still, the thought returned like a haunting. Just once. Just to feel something real again.

He gripped the counter until his knuckles went white, grounding himself against the porcelain. And when the wave passed—sharp, cold, and suffocating—he let himself cry.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quiet tears down his face as he stood alone in the silence of the paddock. Because this was what it felt like, wasn’t it?

To be forgotten . To be losing yourself piece by piece while the world just kept spinning.

—

Charles forgot what day it was. Not in the way where time slips naturally—when you're busy or tired or lost in routine. No, this was different.

This was the kind of forgetting where your mind blanks out during press conferences, where your name being called three times doesn’t register, where the sun rises and sets, and you don’t feel any of it.

The days blurred together in a cocktail of exhaustion, obligation, and quiet misery. Race prep. Media. Sponsor events. Smile, answer, nod, perform.

It was like being underwater while everyone else breathed fine.

His performances weren’t bad. But they weren’t him, either. He was driving like a ghost—precise but empty. The fire that once fueled him, the obsession with perfection, the thrill of fighting at the edge—it was gone. Or buried so deep he couldn’t reach it.

And still, people clapped when he crossed the line. Still, cameras chased his smile.

He wanted to scream.

He pushed Alexandra away more and more, his silences getting longer, his touches less frequent. She would ask, softly, “Are you okay?”

And he’d snap. “No, Lex, I’m not. Is that what you want to hear?”

She stopped asking after a while. He hated himself for it.

For the way he saw the hurt in her eyes and couldn’t stop causing it. For the way he used her presence as a shield from the truth, even as it twisted him inside.

But more than anything, he hated how often he still thought of Max. The quiet nights. The messy laughter. The way Max used to trace lines on his back like he was trying to memorize the shape of him. It came back in flashes now, always when he least expected it.

When Charles stepped into the garage, and smelled the rubber and oil. When he saw Max in the driver’s briefing, sitting with that frustrating calm. When he lay awake at 3 a.m., his body stiff from exhaustion, but unable to stop his mind from whispering: You were happier with him, even when it hurt.

He started drinking more.

Not enough to cause a scene. Never in public. Just enough to dull the edge when the nights got too quiet. Just enough to fall asleep without needing to replay every second of what he lost.

He lost his temper in front of his race engineer again. Snapped at the wrong moment, cursed louder than he should’ve, and stormed off before the debrief even finished. People started keeping their distance. They tiptoed around him now.

He could feel the shift—he was becoming a problem. Unstable. Unreliable. And still, no one saw what was underneath.

That night, he sat on the floor of his hotel bathroom. Cold tiles beneath his legs, the sink faucet dripping like a metronome. He stared down at his hands, trembling. Restless. Empty.

He wanted to scream. To cry. To break something. But all he did was sit there, feeling like he was coming apart thread by thread.

It shouldn’t still hurt like this.
It’s been months.
He doesn’t even look at you.

Charles pressed the heel of his hand against his chest, hard, as if pressure could silence the ache inside. As if anything could. The silence that followed was the worst part. Because in that silence, the only voice left was his own.

And it was cruel.

The pain wasn’t loud anymore.

It had dulled into something quieter, worse. A kind of fatigue that clung to him like smoke. Not just in his body, but in his bones. In his voice when he spoke. In the way he moved, slowly, like every step was through molasses. People had stopped asking if he was okay. Now they just looked at him like he was a warning sign.

Charles didn’t blame them.

He barely spoke to Alexandra anymore. When she touched him, he flinched. Not because he didn’t love her in some small way—he did—but because it was too soft, too kind, and he didn’t feel worthy of any of it. Worse: he didn’t want it. 

  Not from her.

Charles didn’t cry anymore. The tears had dried up a long time ago. Now he just felt hollow. Like something important had been scraped out of him, and everything else was just set dressing.

He got through interviews with half-smiles that made his jaw ache. He performed.  And then, when the paddock lights went out and the hotel door clicked shut behind him, he collapsed.

—

It started small.

A shower turned cold on purpose. Fingernails dug into his own forearm when his thoughts got too loud. Long, punishing runs until his lungs screamed and his knees gave out. But he felt alive in those moments. It was the only time he could feel anything . 

And then, late one night, alone in a hotel room two floors above Alexandra, he sat on the bathroom floor again.  The world was silent. His phone was face down. Unread messages. Unanswered calls.

He stared at the edge of the metal razor in his travel kit. It was stupid, he knew. Dangerous. Weak. But it glinted in the light, and the temptation was so quiet and so easy it terrified him.

Just once. .

His hands shook. He hesitated.

Then gave in.

The sting was immediate. A breath hissed through his teeth, and he shut his eyes tightly as tears finally, finally came. They poured out of him like poison, like everything he’d been holding in had found a crack in the dam. He sat curled on the floor, sobbing into his sleeve like a child, heart cracking open in a way it hadn’t in years.

He didn’t call anyone. Not Alexandra. Not his brothers. Certainly not Max.

He wrapped his arm in a towel and sat there in the dark, skin cold, eyes swollen, wondering how the hell he’d let it get this far again.

He didn’t sleep that night. Only watched the sun rise through the bathroom window—distant and pale and too bright for a man who felt like he didn’t deserve the light anymore.

He wore long sleeves the next day. Pulled the collar up on his jacket. Avoided mirrors. Avoided eyes. Avoided everything.

And then the briefing came. Another goddamn drivers’ meeting. And Max was there, leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, like he hadn’t torn Charles apart piece by piece months ago. Like none of it had happened.

Like Charles wasn’t bleeding inside the same room.

That was when something snapped . Because Max looked at him—looked right at him—and then looked away. Dismissive. Cold.

And Charles couldn’t breathe.

The meeting ended. And yet Max lingered.

Charles could feel his stare boring into him, like a splinter lodged just beneath the skin. He kept his eyes on the notes in his hands, even though they’d long since blurred into unreadable lines. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears.

Charles didn’t even see Max approach. He just felt it—the sudden shift in the air, the spike in pressure behind his eyes, that unbearable weight that followed Max like a shadow. They were backstage in the paddock, tucked behind the media pens. It was supposed to be a quiet moment. A breather. But of course, Max couldn’t leave it alone.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Max asked, too casually. Like he had the right.  Like he hadn’t been silent for months.

Charles didn’t look at him. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been driving like you want to wreck the car,” Max said. “Snapping at everyone. You think no one notices?” 

 “You think I care?” Charles muttered.

Max stepped closer. “Maybe you should. You’re falling apart.” Charles let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’re just now noticing?”

Max frowned. “I didn’t come here to fight.” 

“Then you shouldn’t have come at all,” Charles snapped, finally turning to face him. His eyes were bloodshot. The dark circles were impossible to miss now. He looked exhausted—wrecked, really.

“You’ve been avoiding me since Monaco. Since before that,” Charles said, voice trembling. “And now you want to play savior? Spare me.”

Max’s jaw tensed. “You made it complicated, Charles. You always do. You act like it meant more than it did.”

That stopped everything. Charles went still.

He stared at Max, that sentence echoing in his skull like a car crash. You act like it meant more than it did. Like he’d imagined it all.

The way Max used to hold him. The breathless, silent nights they shared. The way they kissed was like they were afraid the other would disappear.

Charles swallowed hard. “Didn’t it?” he asked. Quiet. Shaking.

Max didn’t answer. And that silence— that was worse than any shouted insult.

Charles stepped forward, fury crackling under his skin. “You’re a fucking coward.” 

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t,” Charles snapped, his voice rising now, broken, splintering. “You never wanted to be seen with me. You wanted the fun , the secrecy. You wanted me when no one else could have me. But when it mattered—when I needed you to say something, do something—you ran.”

Max looked furious now, too, but unsure. Defensive. Cornered. “You think it was easy for me?” he bit out. “I couldn’t go public—my team would’ve—”

“I didn’t ask you to hold my fucking hand at a press conference. I asked you not to pretend I didn’t exist!” Charles shouted.

His breathing was erratic now. His chest felt like it was going to cave in.

Max looked away. “It wasn’t that simple.”

Charles laughed, high and sharp and full of pain. “No. It never is with you.” He turned to walk away, shaking with adrenaline. And then Max reached for him, grabbed his wrist to stop him.

“Don’t—” Charles said, but it was too late.

Max’s hand gripped the sleeve of his fireproofs, and when he pulled—just slightly—it rolled up to reveal the skin of Charles’ forearm.

A pink, fresh line. Not deep. But unmistakable. The moment froze.

Max’s eyes dropped to it, and something in him visibly shattered. “Charles…” he said, breathless.

Charles yanked his arm away like he’d been burned. He took a step back, blinking fast. “Don’t.”

“When did you—?” Max’s voice cracked.

“I said don’t.” 

“Charles—”

“You don’t get to care now,” Charles shouted, his throat closing. “Where were you when I needed someone? Where the fuck were you when it got too loud in my head, when I—when I couldn’t breathe, when I couldn’t feel anything anymore?”

Max looked pale. Wrecked.

Charles hated that. Hated that Max was only looking at him like this now .

“I’m not your responsibility,” Charles said through clenched teeth. “I never was. So don’t act like this means anything to you now.”

“It does.” Max’s voice was barely a whisper. “It does now.”

Charles let out a breathless laugh. “Now. Of course. Now that you saw the damage. Now that it’s too fucking late.”

Max stepped forward. “I didn’t know—”

“No,” Charles said, voice sharp as a blade. “You just didn’t want to.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, shoulders trembling, eyes blurred, the ghost of Max’s touch still searing his skin.

Chapter Text

The breakup with Alexandra wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t cruel. It was quiet. Muted. Like everything else in his life now.

“I can’t give you what you need,” he’d told her, barely above a whisper. And Alexandra, to her credit, had only nodded. There was pain in her eyes. But there was also understanding. She’d seen it too. The way his heart wasn’t there anymore. The way he stared off into some unreachable place.

Somewhere, Max had touched and never let go of.

Now, Charles sat in his flat. Alone.

Lights off. Curtains drawn. The day outside was bright, but he wouldn’t let it in. He didn’t want it.

He barely moved. Just lay on the couch in the same clothes he’d worn to the paddock the day before, stale with exhaustion. One arm over his eyes. His phone was off. His door was locked. The world could burn, and he wouldn’t feel it.

It was worse now. Not because of the breakup—he’d expected that. But because of Max . Because Max had seen . The scars. The wound. The crumbling wall Charles had spent months hiding behind.

And for one split second, Max had cared . He’d looked at Charles with that face again—the one from long ago. The one that had whispered across hotel sheets and late-night drives and racing karts under golden skies. And that was the cruelest part.

Because it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. Not anymore. 

He ran a hand through his hair, and it shook. His body had a tremor now, constant, like his nerves couldn’t quite stabilize. He’d been like this before.

Years ago.

He’d just forgotten what it felt like. The tightness in his chest. The blur behind his eyes. The terrifying silence between heartbeats when everything felt like it was collapsing inward.

He pressed his hand to his ribs. His heart. It hurt. Not physically. But deeply, achingly—like something had rotted in the core of him and was now spreading. “Breathe,” he told himself. “Come on, Charles. Just breathe.”

But it wouldn’t come. Not properly.

His breath caught in his throat. He tried again. Failed. A sob slipped out instead.

He curled inward on the couch, covering his ears with his hands like a child. “Stop, stop, stop,” he whispered to no one. “I can’t—I can’t do this again.” But the thoughts screamed louder.

You’re nothing without him.
You were always a burden.
You ruined it.
You ruined everything.

And then, he wasn’t in his apartment anymore.

He was eleven. Monaco was cool and soft with the sea breeze. He’d just lost a junior kart race, the first time he’d failed to finish after crashing into a barrier.

His wrist was scraped. His lip was bleeding. He’d sat on the concrete floor of the garage, arms around his knees, refusing to cry in front of the others.

And then—

“Maman.”

She’d crouched beside him silently, her perfume floral and warm. No lectures. No disappointment. Just her fingers brushing the dirt from his cheek. Her arms pulled him in. “You don’t have to win all the time,” she’d whispered into his hair. “But you always have to love yourself. Even when it hurts.”

He’d clung to her, burying his face in her shoulder. He remembered the way her heartbeat had steadied his. How her voice could soften even the cruelest noise in his head.

He remembered the warmth. The kindness. The safety.

And then—

Just like that, she was gone again.  And he was twenty-seven, sobbing into an empty room that didn’t smell like her, didn’t feel like home, didn’t feel like anything at all.

He pressed his hands over his mouth, choking back the next cry. “I miss you,” he whispered into the dark. “I miss you so much. I don’t know how to fix this.”

But there was no answer. No arms to pull him in. No voice to steady him.

Only the sound of his own unraveling. The sound of a man in freefall, with no one left to catch him.

It started with the same feeling. The tightness. The invisible weight. Like someone had placed a hand around his throat and was slowly, mercilessly squeezing. Charles was in the bathroom this time. He didn’t even remember walking there.

The lights were too bright. The silence is too sharp. His reflection was just a blur—pale skin, red eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He looked like a ghost.

The walls pulsed. His heart pounded. His fingers went numb.

It’s happening again.

His knees hit the cold tile before he realized he was falling. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps. “I—I can’t—I can’t—” he stammered, hands shaking uncontrollably. “I can’t do this, I—”

He tried grounding himself. Naming things in the room. Touching the floor. Breathing in for four, holding for—

Nothing worked.

His vision blurred completely. And through the roaring in his ears, a thought broke through.

Call her.

Not anyone from the team. Not Arthur. Not Lorenzo. Not even Max.

Maman.

His fingers fumbled across the counter. Found his phone by instinct. He didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t care. He hit her name and pressed the call button with trembling hands.

She answered on the second ring.

“Charles?” Her voice was soft. Sleepy. But alert the second she heard his breath. 

“Maman,” he choked out. “Please—can you—can you come—?”

She didn’t ask questions. “Oui, mon cœur. I’m on my way.”

He didn’t know how much time had passed before she arrived.

But then, the door unlocked. Shoes clicked across the tile. And she was there.

In his apartment. In his world again.

“Mon Dieu, Charles,” she whispered, crouching before him on the floor. “My baby.” She didn’t flinch at the state of him. Didn’t look at him like he was broken. She just wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders and pulled him in.

He collapsed into her, sobbing like a child. The kind of sobs that tore through his chest and left him breathless. The kind that only ever came when you were held safely enough to let go. “I’m sorry,” he said between gasps. “I—I didn’t want to call you like this—I didn’t want to scare you—”

“Hush now,” she murmured, running her hand through his hair the way she had since he was five. “You did the bravest thing, mon trésor. You let someone in.” She rocked him gently. Just like she used to. Slow and quiet and sure.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered, broken. “Everything hurts, maman. Everything hurts so much.”

She kissed the crown of his head. “Then let me carry some of it.”

He must’ve fallen asleep like that. Curled in her lap on the couch, like a boy again. Safe. Just for a moment.

When he woke up, she was still there.

She was making him tea. Fussing in his kitchen like she used to do back home, humming under her breath. The apartment felt… different. Warmer. He sat up, eyes still puffy but quieter inside now. She brought the tea over, sat beside him, and handed him the mug.

“You’re not alone, Charles,” she said softly. “You never were. Even when it felt like it.” He stared at her for a long time. And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—he let himself believe it.

They sat in silence. Sipped tea. Watched the light shift across the floor. He didn’t smile—not really. But his shoulders dropped. His breath came easier. There was no panic now. Only the ache that remained after the storm passed.

And his mother beside him, like a lighthouse in the dark.

Morning came softly.

The kind of light that didn’t demand anything. That slipped through the curtains without intent, brushing against the edges of the room like a whispered apology.

Charles lay beneath the blanket his mother had found tucked in the linen closet, the one she’d wrapped around him hours ago after guiding him gently to bed. She’d stayed. Slept in the guest room, door ajar, like she used to do when he was a boy and plagued with nightmares.

And now, he was awake.

Not better. But not drowning either. His chest ached with the heaviness of what was still inside him. But for the first time in a while, the ache wasn’t accompanied by panic.

Only silence.

He padded softly into the kitchen. Barefoot, sweater sleeves tugged down. His mother stood at the stove, stirring something in a small pot. “You’re awake,” she said gently, turning to him. “Bonjour, mon amour.”

“Bonjour,” he mumbled, voice scratchy.

She poured him coffee before he could ask. Added a sugar cube. Two. Milk. The way he liked it when he was a teenager and thought drinking it black would make him stronger, until she’d scolded him gently back into sweet softness.

“Sit,” she said, setting the mug at the table. “You need warmth.”

He sat. She joined him, her hand resting lightly over his.

For a while, they didn’t speak. Just the two of them, quiet. The occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic.

Then—

“I broke up with Alexandra,” Charles said. His mother’s expression didn’t change. She only nodded slowly. “I thought as much.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” he added quickly. “She’s been nothing but good to me. Kind. But I… I couldn’t be with her when I couldn’t even be with myself.” His voice cracked at the end, but he didn’t shy away from it.

His mother’s thumb brushed over the back of his hand. “You don’t need to explain, mon petit. But if you want to, I’m here.”

Charles hesitated. Then took a breath. And opened the floodgates.

“I’m not okay,” he said. “I haven’t been okay in a long time.” Her hand tightened gently around his.

“I tried to pretend like I was. For the team. For everyone. For her. But I’ve been falling apart for months. Quietly. Constantly. And no one noticed.”

A pause.

“Or maybe they did. But they didn’t want to.” Tears gathered in his eyes again. “It’s like—every time I think I’m pulling myself back together, I look in the mirror and I see nothing. No strength. No fire. Just this version of me that hurts all the time and can’t let anyone in.”

He looked down at his arms. The sleeves were long. Covered. But he could feel the sting beneath. “I started again,” he whispered.

His mother closed her eyes for a moment. Not in disapproval. Just in pain. For him .

“I didn’t want to,” he continued, voice raw. “But it felt like it was the only thing I could control . Like it was the only thing that made the noise stop.” She leaned forward. Cupped his cheek with one hand, gently guiding his gaze to hers.

“Mon cœur,” she said, and there was a tremble in her voice. “You are not alone in this. Not ever. Do you hear me?”

He nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I just… I miss the version of me that used to dream. The one who loved racing. The one who laughed more. The one who felt like he was enough .” She pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“He’s still there,” she said. “He’s tired. And hurt. But he’s still your boy. We’ll find him again. Together.”

They sat like that for a long time. She made him eat. Nothing heavy—just toast and fruit. But she sat with him through every bite, patient, unwavering.

Later, she bandaged his arms. Not like a medic. But like a mother. With soft hands and soft eyes, no shame, no reprimand. Just care.

When she finished, she kissed each wrist gently, the way she had when he scraped his knees on cobblestone as a child. “I love every part of you,” she said. “Even the hurting ones.”

He bit back a sob and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder.

The sun had climbed high by the time she left. He walked her down to her car, fingers still curled slightly in the sleeve she’d mended for him when she noticed it fraying. “Will you be alright today?” she asked, brushing his curls back gently.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll try.”

She smiled. “That’s enough.” And then she was gone.

He stood outside his building for a long time, face tilted to the sky. The air was warm. He could hear the ocean in the distance.

His heart still ached. His mind still spun.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, Charles felt held .

Not by anyone else. Not by Max. Not even by his team. But by the memory of being loved wholly. By the hope of maybe learning to do that for himself, too.

—

The apartment felt different in the morning. Like the panic had been aired out of the walls, just for a little while. The light was kinder, golden across the floor. The silence wasn’t so sharp anymore — it just was.

Charles sat on the balcony with a blanket pulled over his shoulders, a mug in his hands that he hadn’t touched. The tea had long gone cold. But he didn’t mind. He was still. Quiet.

His thoughts weren’t racing the way they usually did. They weren’t kind either, but they were… quieter. Duller. He hadn’t picked up his phone since the night before. It had buzzed a few times, most of it team chatter, a couple from Alexandra, and he didn’t know how to open it yet. One from Arthur. And—

Maman.

He opened that one.

Je t’aime. Just checking in, mon trésor. Tu n’es pas seul. Call me when you’re ready.

He breathed in deeply and called.

She answered instantly.

“Bonjour, mon amour,” she said gently.

He smiled faintly, rubbing at his eyes. “Bonjour, Maman.”

“You slept?”

“A little. Enough.”

“I’m glad,” she murmured. “Today you don’t have to do anything except be , d’accord? Eat something. Sit in the sun. Let your heart breathe.”

“I’ll try.”

“Charles,” she said, voice steady, “I’m proud of you.” He closed his eyes. That made his chest ache. Not the bad kind — the kind that reminded him he still wanted to be someone worth being proud of.

“Merci.”

“Call me tonight, if you feel up to it.”

“I will.”

“ Je t’aime, mon amour. ”

“ Moi aussi. ” He hung up and stayed outside a while longer.

It was strange, the way he could miss himself so much. The version of him that used to be light, mischievous, and unafraid of smiling. He wondered when he’d last genuinely laughed. He wondered if anyone else remembered that version. Or if he’d hidden it too well for too long.

The buzz at the door came just after noon. He ignored it at first. But then his phone vibrated.

George : Don’t ignore me. I brought snacks.
George : And Oscar. And Lando. Don’t make me break your intercom.

Charles blinked. Then sighed — long and slow. He didn’t know if he had the energy. But he did want to see them. He pressed the button. “Come up.”

The knock was gentler than he expected. Then came George’s head around the door, all cautious affection. “Hey.”

Lando peeked in behind him, holding a bag of pastries like an offering. “We come in peace.” Oscar just raised his brows like you better let us in because I did not put on pants for nothing .

Charles stepped back. And then they were inside.

It was awkward for a second. He knew he looked like hell. They all clearly saw it. But none of them said a word about it. George handed him a croissant. “First rule of emotional triage: carbs.”Charles huffed a half-laugh and took it.

“Second rule,” Oscar added, settling onto the couch with all the grace of a cat, “you don’t have to say anything. We just hang out. Talk shit. That’s the deal.”

Lando was already in the kitchen, banging things around like he owned the place. “We’re making you lunch, by the way.”

“What if I don’t want—”

“You do want it,” George said, already sitting beside him. “Shut up and let us take care of you for once.”

They didn’t pry. They didn’t ask what had happened, though the questions hovered silently between them, unspoken and gentle.

Instead, they talked about everything else . Lando told a ridiculous story about Zak slipping on a wet tile in the McLaren motorhome and trying to play it off like a tactical maneuver.

Oscar made Charles laugh — actually laugh — when he imitated Toto’s voice so perfectly that George threatened legal action. George, for his part, stayed close. Never quite touching, but never more than an arm’s reach away. Charles didn’t realize how grounding that was until it hit him: he wasn’t alone.

Not today.

When Lando finally presented lunch — a chaotic medley of grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, and toast — they ate together at the table like it was the most normal thing in the world. And for a moment, it was .

No racing. No media. No Max.

Just friends. Just safe.

After they’d eaten and settled on the couch with a Marvel movie playing at low volume, Charles leaned his head back and let himself close his eyes. “I missed this,” he said softly, not even meaning to say it aloud.

George looked over. “You always have us. You know that, right?”

Charles nodded. “I think I forgot.”

“Well,” Oscar said from the floor, where he and Lando were half-sprawled, “we’re here to remind you. Even if we have to keep showing up with grilled cheese.”

“Especially then,” Lando added. Charles let his head fall to George’s shoulder for a moment.

And to his surprise — to his relief — George leaned in gently, resting their heads together.

No one tried to fix him. No one tried to cheer him up with false hope. They just existed with him. And that made all the difference.

As the sky darkened, they cleaned up. Lando and Oscar left first, both hugging him quietly, not too tightly, not too long. Just enough. George stayed behind a little longer. Pulled him into a hug that lingered, solid and real.

“You’re doing better than you think,” he said, squeezing once before letting go.

And then he was gone too.

Charles stood in the quiet. He was tired. Deep in his bones. But for the first time in weeks — maybe months — it didn’t feel like the kind of tired that might kill him.

It was just… a human kind of tired. The kind you survive .

It started again the moment he walked into the paddock.

The stares. The stiff nods. The half smiles from people who didn’t know how to greet him anymore.

His PR handler met him at the gate with a clipboard and soft eyes, like she’d been told to treat him as if he were made of glass. Charles hated that look. It made him feel breakable , like something delicate rather than someone trying . Like the simple act of walking through that damn gate wasn’t the hardest thing he’d done in weeks.

“Media pen in fifteen,” she said. “And Tom from Sky wants a few minutes before the group stuff starts.”

Charles nodded, keeping his sunglasses on even inside the Ferrari motorhome.

His chest felt too tight. His skin didn’t feel like it fit right anymore. He wondered if anyone else could hear how loud his heart was pounding.

The cameras were already lined up. He stood behind Carlos in the media queue, arms folded, smile rehearsed but not quite present. Questions were thrown like darts.

Performance. Setup. Expectations.  Subtext buzzing underneath all of it:

Is Charles okay?  Where has he been?  Is it true that Alexandra moved out? Why does he look like he hasn’t slept in weeks?

He answered robotically. One word here. A shrug there. Tight smiles. Muted laughter that didn’t touch his eyes.

He felt Max before he saw him. That strange static hum under his skin — always him, always there . Charles didn’t look, but he didn’t need to. He knew that Max was standing a few meters away, facing another reporter. Probably smiling. Probably performing too.

And still, Charles felt it like heat against his neck.

They hadn’t spoken since that day. Since the sleeves rode up, and Max had seen and still didn’t reach out. Since the argument had left Charles hollow and cracked open.  And now, they were back in the same paddock. Like everything was fine. Like months hadn’t passed since the last time Max looked at him like he mattered.

“Charles!” A fan shouted, and he turned, slipping a smile onto his face like muscle memory. He signed the cap they held out, and posed for the photo. From the corner of his eye, he saw Max watching him. He didn’t let his expression falter. He had learned how to wear the mask.

By the time the press duties ended, Charles’ shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his throat felt raw from answering questions he hadn’t heard.

Lewis clapped him on the shoulder as they left the pen. “You alright?”

Charles nodded once. “Fine.” He wasn’t. But he didn’t know how to not say that anymore.

In the garage, the engineers walked him through updates, their voices carefully calm. Like they weren’t sure what version of Charles they were going to get today. He nodded, made a joke that didn’t land, then excused himself for a “call” he never made.

He sat in the driver's room with the lights dimmed and the door locked, forehead pressed to the locker wall. Breathing shallow. Fingers curled in his sleeves.

You’re here, he told himself. You made it here.

But being here felt like drowning in glass. So much reflection . So much noise and none of it reaching him.

The knock came just before the afternoon briefing. A soft one.

“Charles?” It was George.

Charles almost didn’t answer. But then, without thinking, he opened the door. George took one look at him and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You’re doing better,” he said quietly. “But you look like you’re about to run.”

Charles didn’t respond. George leaned against the lockers, arms crossed. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I’m not,” Charles said, voice thin. “I’m here.”

“Being here and being you are not the same.” That hit harder than he expected.

Charles sat down on the bench, rubbing his hands together, sleeves still covering the bandages his mother had changed two nights ago. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” he admitted.

George’s voice softened. “You’re someone worth staying for.”

When the meeting started, Charles sat at the edge of the table, notes in hand, eyes vacant. And across the room, Max walked in. Their eyes met — just for a second. Max didn’t smile. Charles didn’t look away.

It felt like a punch to the ribs. Then Max sat down and said nothing. And the silence between them swallowed the whole room.

After the briefing, Charles went to the back of the motorhome. He needed air. A second to breathe. He barely registered the door opening until someone joined him.

Lando. Oscar, just behind him. “Hey,” Lando said, like he wasn’t walking on broken ground.

Charles managed a small sound of acknowledgment.

“Wanted to check in. You doing okay?”

“I’m still breathing,” Charles said.

Oscar tilted his head. “Sometimes that’s the most you can do.” They didn’t push. They didn’t linger too long.
But Charles felt the care. Quiet, solid, present. As they left, Oscar gave him a brief squeeze on the shoulder. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, man.”

Charles leaned back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling of the motorhome like it might offer answers. He was tired. Of performing. Of waiting. Of hurting.

He was tired of Max , of what Max didn’t say. What he didn’t do. The way he made Charles feel like a ghost of something they almost were . He closed his eyes and let himself feel it:

The grief. The ache. The longing that refused to die. And the unbearable, searing resentment of it all.

—

It happened fast.
They always said crashes happened in a blink — that you barely had time to think before the car betrayed you. But Charles had time. Just enough to see the orange flash in his mirrors. Just enough to hesitate.

Just enough to know that it was Max.

Then the snap. The rear tires locking. Carbon splintering like glass. And the scream of the barriers taking him in like an open mouth. The silence afterward was worse than the noise.

His ears rang when he unbuckled. The world spun, the scent of smoke and brake dust thick in his throat. His pulse slammed like fists in his chest. He heard the marshals yelling. Someone in his ear, asking if he was okay. His radio buzzed — his engineer’s voice. Lewis asked if he was hurt.

He muttered something close to yes. His hands shook. He climbed out slowly.

And then— There he was.

Max, out of his own car. Helmet off. Face flushed. Eyes wild. Storming toward him. “What the fuck was that?” Max snapped the second he got within range.

Charles barely processed it. “I locked up,” he muttered.

“You cut me off.”

“I locked up , Max.”

Their helmets dangled from their hands like pendulums. They stared at each other in the space between the wreckage. Heat coiled in Charles’ gut — part fury, part everything else .

“You always do this,” Max growled, low. “You play victim, like you didn’t fucking see me there.”

“You always think the world’s in your rear-view.”

“Don’t—” Max took a step closer, too close.

Charles stood his ground. “What, Max? You're going to yell me into admitting it was on purpose?”

“Was it?”

Charles flinched. Then, coldly: “Does it matter what I say? You already think the worst of me.”

Max looked like he wanted to throw something. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel.

“Don’t walk away,” Charles bit out, voice cracking.

Max froze. Back still to him.

“Don’t you dare walk away again .”

The marshals were shouting now. Telling them to move. To clear the track. But Charles didn’t care. His blood was screaming louder.

Max turned back, slow and deliberate. “Fine. Let’s finish this somewhere else.”

–

The FIA garage was half-abandoned when they pushed through the back door — the medical check waved off after cursory reports confirmed no injuries. The silence in the room was louder than the crash had been.

Max threw his gloves down on the table. Charles shut the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. “Say what you came to say,” Max said flatly.

Charles was already trembling. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“You’re the one who dragged me in here.”

“Because you always leave,” Charles said, voice breaking.

Max’s jaw tightened.

“You always leave ,” Charles said again, lower now. “Every time I think maybe—maybe there’s something still there. You disappear.”

“What do you want me to do?” Max snapped. “Hold your hand in front of the cameras? Pretend we’re not a walking disaster?”

“You already pretend I’m nothing .”

Max’s nostrils flared. “You think I don’t feel this? That I’m not fucking drowning in it too?”

“Then say it !” Charles exploded. “Say you miss me! Say it meant something to you! Because I’m losing my fucking mind , Max—”

Max crossed the distance between them in two strides. Hands gripped Charles’ face like fire, pulling him in. Their mouths crashed together, not tender, hungry . A kiss made of months of silence, sharp edges, and unsaid apologies. Teeth. Desperation. Pain.

Charles melted into it like it would save him. Like it meant something. Max kissed like a man on fire. Charles kissed like a man trying not to die.

They broke apart, gasping, chests heaving. “Was that nothing to you?” Charles whispered, forehead pressed to Max’s.

Max didn’t answer. His silence was a knife.

Charles stepped back. “That’s what I thought.”

Max reached out, but Charles recoiled. “I can’t keep doing this,” he said, voice shaking. “You take and take and leave me with nothing.”

“Charles—”

“I relapsed because of you,” he whispered.

Max froze. The blood drained from his face.

Charles watched it hit him like a freight train. Watched Max’s eyes drop to his sleeves. Watched the way Max looked at him — like the breath had been torn from his chest. But Charles didn’t let him speak. Didn’t let him try to fix it.

Because he couldn’t. Because it was too late .

He walked out of that room and didn’t look back. And for once, Max didn’t follow.

—

The hotel room was too quiet.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind that echoed, that made the ticking of the wall clock sound like a countdown. The kind that made every heartbeat too loud in his ears.

Charles sat on the edge of the bed, still in his race suit. The zipper half-undone, his chest exposed to the cold air. His hair was damp from the shower he didn’t remember taking. His fingers twitched in his lap like they needed something to hold onto and couldn’t find it.

The crash replayed in his mind. Max’s face. Max’s hands. Max’s kiss .

And then Max’s silence. Always his fucking silence.

He looked at his phone, thumb hovering over a name. He wasn’t even sure why he did it — what he expected. He just knew that if he didn’t talk to someone right now, he would sink under.

He called Lando.

It rang four times before Lando’s voice crackled through, breathless and clipped. “Yeah?”

Charles blinked. “Lando, I—can you talk?”

A muffled sound came from the background — a low groan. Another voice. Familiar.

Oscar.

“Oh, uh—shit,” Lando muttered. “Charles, mate, I-I’m kinda... busy.”

Charles froze.

“Can I call you in, like, twenty minutes?” Lando asked, soft but distracted.

Charles looked at the wall, something heavy dropping into his gut. “No. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? You okay?” Lando mumbled again, obviously trying to bite back a moan.

“Fine,” he said, already hanging up.

The silence after the call was deafening .

He stared at the screen, at the missed call log. His chest was tight again, too tight. His arms felt too heavy. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried not to come undone.

Lando was happy.

Lando had someone who made him laugh, who held him when things got bad. Charles had the memory of a kiss that meant nothing . He had shaking hands and a mouth full of blood, he didn’t know how to swallow.

His thumb moved again. This time, he didn’t hesitate.

He called George.

It rang once. Then twice. And then—

“Charles?” A tired voice asked from the other end of the Line.

His voice cracked just hearing it. “Hi.”

George’s tone changed instantly. “Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I—I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Are you alone?”

Charles nodded, then realized George couldn’t see. “Yes.” There was movement on the other end of the line — a door closing, footsteps.

“Okay. I’m here. Take your time.”

Charles tried. Tried to breathe. Tried to find the words . But they came out broken. “I don’t feel real.”

George’s voice softened like velvet. “Talk to me.”

“I thought I could handle today,” he said. “I thought if I got through the race, I’d feel something. But then we crashed. Max and I. And he—he kissed me, George.”

Silence on the line.

“It wasn’t good. It wasn’t kind . It was just rage. And heat. And then he didn’t say anything after. Like it meant nothing.”

Charles dug his fingers into the edge of the mattress. “Why do I keep hoping he’ll change?”

“Because you love him,” George said simply.

Charles let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob. “That’s fucking stupid.”

“No, it’s not.”, George said, sighing softly.

“I relapsed again.”

Silence.

Charles closed his eyes. “He saw it. Today. My arm. He saw.”

“Fuck,” George muttered. Then steadier: “Are you safe now?”

Charles nodded again. “Physically. Yeah.”

“Emotionally?” he asked hesitantly.

“No.”

Another pause. Then: “Do you want me to come over?”

“I don’t know.”

“Charles,” George said gently, “I’ll sit on the floor and say nothing if that’s what you need. You just tell me.”

That cracked something open. Tears spilled quietly. Not sobbing. Not violent. Just leaking , like grief had become a slow, constant wound. “I don’t know how to stop hurting,” he whispered.

George’s voice was firm but warm. “You don’t have to stop right now. You just have to hold on. Let someone help you hold it.”

Charles didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But he clung to the sound of George breathing on the other end of the line like a lifeline. They stayed like that. Quiet. Connected. A thread between worlds. And for the first time all day, Charles didn’t feel like he was falling.

George arrived just past midnight.

He didn’t knock loudly. Didn’t say much when Charles opened the door, face pale and eyes too wide. He didn’t try to hug him or say it’s going to be okay . He just walked in, placed a bag down gently on the floor, and took off his shoes.

Charles hovered awkwardly in the doorway, clutching the cuff of his hoodie. The same hoodie he hadn’t changed out of since the crash. His fingers trembled where they pulled the fabric down, hiding the gauze beneath.

George nodded toward the sofa. “Want to sit?”

Charles nodded, throat tight, and sat cross-legged in the corner of the couch like he had to make himself smaller to be allowed to exist. George sat too. A respectable distance away. Not touching. Just there . They didn’t talk. Not really.

Charles managed, “I didn’t want to be alone.”

George said, “You don’t have to be.”

And that was enough.

At some point, Charles leaned against him. Not much — just his shoulder brushing George’s, like his body had decided, on instinct, that it couldn’t hold itself up alone anymore. George didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just adjusted slightly so that the contact felt deliberate.

“Are you scared?” Charles asked, via voice, a thread.

George took a moment before answering. “Yeah. But I’d be more scared if you hadn’t called.”

Charles blinked fast, pressing the side of his head into George’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You just have to stay here. One minute at a time.”

And for the rest of the night, George stayed up. Charles slept in broken pieces against him. Safe, for once, in the company of someone who didn’t demand anything from him except his continued existence.

—

The knock at the door was sharp. Not frantic. But insistent.

Charles stirred on the sofa, blinking awake as light poured into the hotel room. His head ached. His mouth was dry. George was still beside him, awake now, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

The knock came again.

“I’ve got it,” George said, rising.

Charles didn’t move — didn’t even realize what time it was, who it could be — until George opened the door and the voice pierced the quiet.

“Is Charles here?” Max.

Charles sat up slowly, heart thudding. George’s posture shifted immediately. Taller. Sharper. “He’s not seeing anyone,” George said coolly.

“I need to talk to him.”

George stepped fully into the doorway, blocking Max’s view of the room. “He doesn’t need anything from you right now.”

Max scoffed. “I didn’t ask you.”

“No,” George said calmly. “You just showed up after breaking him into pieces, assuming you’d be allowed in again.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” George cut in. “You’ve been doing it. For months . Every time he picks himself up, you find a new way to throw him down again.”

“Get out of my way,” Max snapped, trying to push past.

George stepped directly in front of him, unmoving. “No.”

“You don’t get to gatekeep him like this. I care about him, too.”

“Funny way of showing it.” George’s tone was sharp, hateful.

Their voices were low, but tense. Like two wires sparking close to an open flame. From the hallway, Charles rose, legs unsteady. He padded barefoot across the room and stopped just short of the entrance. The two of them didn’t see him — not at first.

George’s voice dropped, firm now. Fierce. “You saw the bandages, Max.”

That stopped Max cold.

“You saw what he did to himself, and you still let him walk out of that room alone. You kissed him like he was disposable, and then you said nothing .”

Max flinched.

“You think some impulsive visit fixes that?” George demanded.

“I didn’t know what to say!” Max finally shouted. “I didn’t know how to react—he looked at me like I was supposed to fix everything, and I—I panicked.”

“And you always panic,” George said. “But he always pays the price.”

Silence.

Max looked past George for the first time. And that’s when he saw him. Charles stood frozen in the hallway. Hair tousled, hoodie sleeves tugged long past his wrists. Eyes rimmed red from too many nights spent bleeding without breaking the skin.

He said nothing. And neither did Max. Because what could he say now?

“I asked George to come,” Charles said softly.

It hung in the air like a verdict. Max took a breath, something crumpling behind his eyes. “Charles—”

But Charles shook his head once. “Not now.”

His voice was gentle. But final . George looked back at him, quiet as ever, and said nothing. And for once, Max understood. He had already lost the right to storm back in.

—

The rain had been falling since morning — not heavy, not stormy, just soft and persistent, like the sky itself had run out of things to say and resorted to tears.

Charles stood in the entryway of his apartment, zipping up his jacket with trembling fingers. The cuffs of his hoodie were still rolled over the bandages beneath, hidden away under denim and shame.

Leo danced in nervous circles by the door, his tiny paws tapping against the marble like he knew something delicate was unfolding. The little dachshund wore a bright yellow raincoat, his ears flopping as he bounced in excitement.

George was beside him, pulling on a waterproof windbreaker, eyes scanning Charles in that subtle, unobtrusive way he had — not asking, just checking . Just making sure Charles was still tethered.

He was. Barely. But Leo needed a walk, and Charles needed to breathe. So they stepped out into the rain.

Monaco in the rain was quieter than usual. The glitz dulled, the sidewalks slick. Rain streaked down glass storefronts and pooled in corners of stone streets. The world felt slowed down, gentler.

Leo trotted ahead, nose to the pavement, tail wagging like he didn’t know or care that Charles' soul was in shreds.

George walked beside him, hands tucked into his pockets, hood pulled up. Not talking. Just being . Charles could breathe easier in this space.

The city was familiar. George was familiar. The rain smelled like childhood, like the old courtyard back home in Fontvieille, where his mother would call him in from puddles, a towel ready in her hands.

He hadn’t told George much since Max came to the hotel. He hadn’t said much at all. But walking beside someone who didn’t force silence into conversation was its own kind of relief.

They reached the harbor, where the water lay dark and smooth, disturbed only by the rain’s endless touch. Charles paused there, watching Leo sniff the legs of a lamppost, tail wagging like nothing had ever gone wrong in his short life.

“I think I’m tired of pretending,” Charles said finally.

George looked over at him. “Pretending what?”

“That I’m fine. That I don’t miss him.” He took a shaky breath. “That I ever stopped loving him.”

George didn’t interrupt. Just let him speak. Charles wiped a hand across his face, unsure if it was rain or tears.

“I hate that I still want him,” he whispered. “Even after all of this. Even when it hurts. I see him and it’s like—like I’m back on a kart track at eleven years old, chasing him around every corner. Always chasing. Never catching.”

George was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, gently, “You don’t have to catch him to stop running.”

Charles blinked.

George met his eyes. “Maybe it’s time to turn around. Look at the people who are running after you for once.”

Charles looked down at Leo, who trotted up and nosed at his shin, then back at George, who stood steady even in the rain, even with his heart probably breaking for someone he couldn’t quite have. “Why are you still here?” Charles asked.

George shrugged. “Because you called.”

That was all.

No expectations. No motives. Just friendship. Just care. The kind Charles hadn’t realized he needed until it arrived at his door and made itself quietly indispensable. Charles crouched down and picked Leo up, holding the squirmy little dog to his chest. He buried his face into Leo’s damp fur and let out a slow breath. “I don’t know how to start healing,” he admitted. “It’s all still too close.”

“You don’t have to know,” George said. “You just have to keep walking.”

So they did. Down the glistening, rain-slicked streets. Past memories soaked into every curb. Past the ache in his ribs that never quite went away.

They walked until the sky turned silver. Until Leo yawned in Charles’ arms. Until he could finally say, without crumbling— “I think I’ll be okay.”

Not now. But maybe soon.

Chapter Text

There were four pairs of shoes by the door. One lopsided boot chewed halfway through. And Leo, currently parading Lando’s sock like it was the Grand Prix trophy.

Charles stood in the middle of his living room, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes lingering on the warmth that filled the space. The apartment buzzed with life, not chaos, but comfort .

George sat on the floor, legs stretched out under the coffee table, laughing quietly at something Alex was animatedly reenacting from their last media day. Lando had Oscar in a playful headlock, both of them arguing about something that ended with Leo joining in and barking like he wanted a vote.

It was…a lot. But not too much.

Not in the wrong way.

Charles hadn't laughed in weeks — not really — but he felt the muscle memory twitching behind his cheeks now, ready to remember how. 

“Mate, if Leo keeps chewing everything I own, I’m going to file for emotional damages,” Lando announced, shaking his damp sock at Charles dramatically.

Charles lifted his hands in mock innocence. “He’s a puppy.”

“He’s a menace ,” Lando shot back, but his grin softened the bite.

Oscar scooped Leo up before he could launch another sock heist and kissed the top of his head. “He’s perfect. Aren’t you, little gremlin?” Leo sneezed in response and promptly licked Oscar’s chin.

Charles watched, something warm pooling low in his chest. Family , in the truest, least blood-related sense.

Later, the storm outside grew louder, thunder cracking distantly over the sea. The windows shivered with each low rumble, but inside, the light stayed soft. There were mugs on every surface — tea, hot chocolate, something suspiciously alcoholic in Alex’s — and a blanket draped over everyone’s legs like they were teenagers at a sleepover.

It had been George’s idea. Let him feel like a person again, he’d said. Let him remember he’s loved.

So here they were. Monaco in the rain, five boys and a dog curled up like the world hadn’t broken just weeks ago. Charles sat wedged between George and Alex on the sofa. He could feel the way George kept an eye on him, quiet, steady. Not hovering, but there. Always there.

Lando was curled up at Oscar’s side, Leo asleep on both of their legs, his tiny chest rising and falling in time with the soft hum of the television.

It wasn’t silence, but it was peace.

“I miss this,” Charles murmured, half to himself.

Alex looked over. “Miss what?”

“This,” he said again, voice quieter. “Being…normal. Being me . Not someone who’s always behind Max Verstappen. Not someone everyone’s worried about. Just me.”

There was a pause. George reached over, gently nudging Charles’ arm with his own. “You’re always you, mate. Sometimes you just need help finding the quiet version.”

Charles blinked fast. Bit his lip. Nodded. Alex added, “And you don’t have to be ‘normal’ to be okay. You just have to be… here .”

Charles let out a shaky laugh. “I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Oscar said from the floor, voice firm. “You sound human.”

Lando reached over and poked his knee. “Also, for the record, you’ve never been normal. Like, ever.”

Charles huffed a laugh. For the first time in too long, it didn’t feel forced.

As the rain drummed on the windows, Charles lay stretched out on the couch later that night, blanket pulled up to his chin. George sat on the floor with a book, Leo curled against his side, while the others dozed scattered around the apartment — a tangle of limbs, laughter, and soft breathing.

Charles stared up at the ceiling, his heartbeat not racing. His thoughts not spiraling. The bandages beneath his sleeves not bleeding.

He wasn’t whole. Not even close.

But for once, he felt held together by something stronger than silence. By voices that didn’t demand, didn’t judge, didn’t leave. By a dog who barked when he cried. By friends who showed up.

He closed his eyes, and for a little while, sleep came without nightmares.

—

The rain had turned heavier by midnight. Thunder low and steady, like it had settled in the clouds and planned to stay.

The apartment was still. George was asleep on the floor with Leo tucked against his chest. Alex curled up on the couch. Lando and Oscar had taken the guest room, and Charles had wandered the halls once, twice, restless even in the quiet safety.

He found himself in the kitchen, staring out through the sliding glass doors to the balcony. The wind pulled at the branches below. Lightning fractured the sky far in the distance, illuminating the black horizon.

There was a shape outside, half-obscured by the curtains. Charles slid the door open, stepping barefoot onto the cold tiles.

Oscar stood with one shoulder leaning against the railing, a cigarette lit between his fingers, the glow pulsing gently in the dark. Rain tapped softly against the overhang. He didn’t jump at the noise — just turned his head slightly, eyes catching Charles in a flicker of amber and storm.

“You shouldn’t be out here barefoot,” Oscar murmured, not unkindly.

Charles shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Oscar didn’t reply, just offered the cigarette. Charles hesitated, then took it. The smoke curled into his lungs, bitter and warm. He coughed lightly, and Oscar let out a breath of a laugh. “Forgot you don’t smoke.”

“Only when I feel like someone else.”

Oscar glanced sideways at him. “And who are you tonight?”

Charles exhaled slowly, the cloud of it drifting into the rain. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

They stood in silence for a while. The kind that wasn’t heavy, just… honest. Oscar leaned back against the rail. His hoodie was damp at the edges, curls flattened with mist. He looked tired in a way that didn’t show in the paddock — a private tiredness, held behind his eyes.

Charles passed the cigarette back, watching the ember glow near Oscar’s lips. “You’ve been quiet,” Charles said softly. “Always are.”

Oscar huffed. “You learn to be.”

“Why?”

Oscar looked out over the harbor. “Because talking doesn’t always fix things. And sometimes,” he added after a pause, “you end up saying too much to the wrong person.”

Charles felt that like a pin in the chest. He looked down at his hands. The sleeves of his hoodie had ridden up slightly, and he pulled them back down. Old habits, new fears.

Oscar didn’t look at him. But his voice, when it came again, was gentler than Charles expected. “You’re not broken, you know.”

Charles laughed, hollow and sharp. “I think I am.”

“No,” Oscar said. “You’re just tired. Worn out. Like an engine, too many laps into a stint. Doesn’t mean you stop running. Just means you need a pit stop.”

Charles blinked. “Was that a metaphor?” he asked.

Oscar shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”

The rain hit the balcony harder now, steady and persistent. Thunder cracked in the distance, long and low. Charles breathed it in — the smoke, the storm, the strange peace of standing beside someone who didn’t ask for his pain but didn’t look away from it either.

“I used to think if I just loved hard enough,” he said quietly, “it would fix everything.”

Oscar didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, “Max?”

Charles flinched. “I didn’t say his name.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He looked at Oscar then. Really looked. And for the first time, Charles realized how perceptive he really was — a quiet, steady kind of knowing. Someone who didn’t talk unless it mattered.

“I kept thinking he’d come back different,” Charles whispered. “I kept thinking if I just held on a little longer…”

“Some people don’t change,” Oscar said. “But you did.”

Charles looked down at his sleeves. At the hands that had trembled days ago, red-stained and broken. At the man he barely recognized in mirrors. “You think I’m changing?”

Oscar nodded. “Not into someone new. Just someone real.”

They didn’t say much after that. Charles finished the cigarette. Oscar lit another. The thunder faded into the distance. The wind gentled. Before going back inside, Oscar said, “You should write. Not for anyone else. Just for you.”

Charles furrowed his brows. “Write what?”

“What you wish you could say to him.” Then, softer: “What you wish he’d said to you.”

Charles swallowed hard. Nodded. Oscar didn’t say goodbye. Just stepped inside and left the door open behind him.

Charles stayed out a little longer. Listening to the sky. Letting himself breathe. And when he finally slipped back inside, he opened his notes app in the dark and typed the first line before sleep could steal it away:

You looked at me like I was gravity — until I fell, and you never reached out.

—

The first thing Charles noticed wasn’t the roar of the crowd. It was the stillness inside his own chest.

Not silent — no. He still felt the nerves, the pressure, the hum of adrenaline under his skin — but the panic was gone. That clawing, choking fear. The one that had followed him into every garage, every driver’s room, every night spent in sterile hotels with his heart in shards.

It was gone.

Or at least, it was quiet enough for him to breathe.

The paddock buzzed as it always did before Monaco — controlled chaos, nerves dressed in sponsor gear, and ego. Cameras flashed like lightning, and the media bay was already packed with vultures waiting for drama, for comments, for mistakes.

Charles adjusted his sunglasses. Pulled his cap lower.

Not to hide. To steady.

He wasn’t here to prove anything to them. He was here to prove it to himself .

George was beside him, walking with the kind of quiet presence that didn’t demand attention but commanded respect. Leo’s tiny head peeked out of a discreet carrier slung across George’s chest — the little dachshund snoozing with his tongue out, entirely unbothered by the world of Formula One.

Alex followed just behind, joking with Lando about something Charles only half heard — and Oscar, ever Oscar, walked beside Lando with a small smile and gentle hands in his pockets.

The five of them didn’t look like a team. They felt like one. Like Family.

And as they entered the paddock, someone from Sky muttered something behind their camera — something Charles caught just under the buzz of radios and tires and egos.

“Guess he brought the boyfriend brigade.”

George leaned in close, voice low and dry. “Say that again and I’ll gladly confirm it on camera.”

Charles snorted. “Don’t tempt him.” The laughter—real, light, almost surprised—bubbled up in his throat and stayed there. Not forced. Not polite. Just his.

—

The Ferrari garage was brighter than he remembered. Or maybe he was just seeing clearly for the first time in months.

The engineers smiled. The mechanics clapped his back. The air wasn’t as heavy. Not perfect, not easy — but better. And Charles held his helmet against his hip like armor, like purpose, and didn’t look toward the Red Bull side of the paddock even once.

He didn’t need to.

But Max looked.

Charles felt it before he saw it — the weight of a stare. That hyper-awareness of someone who used to be yours and now looks at you like a question they never learned how to answer.

Charles turned his head slowly. Max stood twenty feet away, leaning against a stack of tires. Head tilted. Jaw tight. He hadn’t changed.

Still handsome in the cold, cutting way he always was — the way that had drawn Charles in like a black hole. The way that had once softened behind closed doors, with kisses in the dark and fingers tracing along his spine like he was a masterpiece.

But now?

Charles felt nothing but wind between them. He held Max’s gaze for exactly three seconds. Then he turned away.

“What’s the plan?” Alex asked as they walked toward the Ferrari hospitality area.

Charles exhaled. “Be fast. Be focused.”

Lando bumped his shoulder lightly. “Be sexy.”

Oscar blinked. “I thought that was implied.”

George smirked. “He always is.”

Charles shook his head, laughing despite himself. This was his armor now. Not silence. Not desperation. Them.

—

That evening, after the final practice session, Charles sat in the back of the Ferrari garage. Helmet off, suit peeled down to his waist, sweat-damp curls clinging to his forehead.

Leo trotted over from where the mechanics had been spoiling him with biscuits and plopped himself right onto Charles’ lap, curling into the curve of his thigh like he’d never belonged anywhere else. “Thanks for waiting,” Charles murmured, scratching behind his ears.

George handed him a bottle of water. “Proud of you, mate.”

Charles looked up. “For what?”

“For showing up.”

Alex joined them, dropping onto the chair beside him. “And for leaving him behind.”

That night, in the hotel room, Charles opened his notebook.

He didn’t write a letter. He didn’t write Max’s name.

He wrote three words.

I am surviving.

He underlined it once. Then he tucked it between the pages of the journal and slept with Leo curled against his chest and the weight in his lungs finally, finally — less than the air he breathed in.

—

The sun had dipped behind the clouds again, low-hanging and heavy, casting the Monaco paddock in washed-out greys and soft orange halos from the overhead lights. There was a breeze off the harbor, faintly metallic with the tang of sea and tire smoke.

And there was Charles.

Suit zipped down, red sleeves tied around his waist, undershirt clinging to his spine with sweat. His curls were pushed back with his balaclava, jaw tight but not clenched. His hands were still trembling from adrenaline — pole position on home soil — but it was a clean kind of shake. Not panic. Not grief. Just nerves. Alive, and not afraid of it.

He ducked behind the hospitality units, escaping cameras and congratulatory noise. Leo had stayed with George, and Charles wanted… air. Space. Five minutes alone before the world swallowed him up again.

And that’s when he heard it. Footsteps behind him. A breath caught mid-thought.

He didn’t have to turn to know.

“Charles.” The voice was soft. Cautious. So familiar it nearly made him wince. He turned anyway.

Max stood five feet away, helmet in hand, expression unreadable but eyes—eyes like glass barely holding back the storm. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Looked like he hadn’t been able to stop looking at Charles all day.

“You looked good out there,” Max said after a moment. “Fast.”

Charles exhaled slowly. “I know.” There was a beat of silence.

Max shifted his weight, grip tightening on the helmet like it might keep him grounded. “Can we talk?”

Charles tilted his head slightly, arms folded over his chest. The white of his undershirt clung to him, sleeves pushed up — healed wounds hidden, but the faint ghost of an old scar peeked out. Max’s eyes darted there for a second too long. Charles caught it. “What is there to talk about?” he asked, voice even.

Max stepped closer. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“And you pulled back when I needed you most.”

That stopped him. The words landed sharply. Charles didn’t blink. “You almost chose me. Then you didn’t. Do you know what that does to a person, Max?”

Max looked down, jaw tight. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Charles gave a hollow laugh. “That’s the problem. You never mean to. But you do.”

They were too close now. Close enough that Charles could see the way Max’s fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out and didn’t. Like he used to. Like it meant something back then.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Max said, low. “The press, the team, everything—”

“So you chose silence,” Charles interrupted. “You chose safety. You chose yourself .” There was more than hurt in his voice now. There was exhaustion. Bitterness. The ache of months spent bleeding for someone who never thought to ask if he was okay.

Max swallowed hard. “I thought if I gave it time—”

“You thought I’d wait.”

Charles stepped forward then. Just enough that Max flinched — not from fear, but from shame. “I did wait,” Charles whispered. “For weeks. For months. While I was drowning. While I carved your name into my skin in silence and begged God to make me forget how your hands felt when they were kind .”

Max’s face crumpled. “Charles—”

“I survived you,” he said. Quiet and furious. “Barely. But I did.”

And in that moment, Max reached out — fingers brushing Charles’ wrist, the edge of the scarred skin peeking beneath the cuff of his undershirt.

Charles didn’t pull away. He froze .

And Max’s voice cracked. “You…?”

Charles didn’t speak. Just stared at him, letting Max see it. Letting him feel it. The truth of what he’d missed by walking away. Max looked like the ground had been pulled from beneath him.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Charles said, voice like shattered glass. “You weren’t there to.”

They stood like that for a moment. The silence between them was raw and violent. Then Charles stepped back. “Whatever this is,” he said, low, “it’s too late. Maybe not forever. But right now? I need peace more than I need you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Just turned and walked back into the paddock — past the garages, past the lights, back toward the people who stayed .

Max didn’t follow.

—

He had won Monaco.

Finally.

And not in the way people joked he would — not by mistake, not by strategy alone. It was a masterclass. Fast, flawless, fearless. One for the books.

The streets of his childhood blurred past him in streaks of red and silver. The roars of the crowd had been deafening. The checkered flag had never felt sweeter. They had lifted him into the sky — his team, his city, his friends. Champagne soaked his fireproofs, and the anthem played just for him, finally, without tragedy tangled in the chords.

He had done it.

And still, as the sun began to dip low over the Monaco harbor and the fireworks lit the sky above the Principality, Charles felt hollow . Not broken. Not undone. Just... haunted by the one face missing from it all.

They celebrated late into the night. George was the first to lift him off the ground in the garage, arms tight, cheek pressed to Charles’ shoulder with a soft, laughing “ You bloody legend .” Lando cried. Oscar filmed it. Alex whispered that this was always how it was meant to end.

Even Leo had his own custom Ferrari hat.

And yet.

When the champagne dried and the lights dimmed, Charles found himself slipping away from the party, out onto the balcony of the hotel suite where the others were still drinking and dancing, and reliving every corner of the race on loop.

The breeze off the sea was cool. He let it hit his face. Monaco was glittering. The city loved him. The fans adored him. The sport, for once, bowed at his feet.

But Max Verstappen had not said a word.

Charles gripped the railing with both hands and closed his eyes. He could still see Max’s face from behind the garage. The way his mouth had parted slightly when he saw the scar on Charles’ arm. The way his voice cracked when he said his name. The way he didn’t fight for him when it counted most.

And yet… God, there was still a part of Charles that wanted him.

Not like before. Not with desperation. But with that quiet, aching longing that had never really gone away. That had existed since they were kids in karts, bumping wheels and throwing smirks across the paddock. That had grown into something raw and real when they kissed behind a pit wall in the rain for the first time. That had shattered when Max stayed silent, and Charles was left to bleed alone.

He had patched himself up. He had held himself together.

But there was still a piece missing. And it looked like Max.

There was a knock at the sliding door behind him. “Hey.” George stepped out, handing him a beer. “We’re playing ‘who can do the worst impression of Charles on team radio.’ You’re losing.”

Charles managed a tired laugh. “Let me guess. Lando’s winning?”

“He’s freakishly good at the whiny part.”

Another smile. Softer this time. George leaned beside him, shoulder warm. “You did it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

Charles exhaled. “It didn’t fix everything.” George didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gently: “It never would’ve. But it’s a start.”

Charles nodded. He stared out at the night — at the city that had raised him, at the place he had always dreamed of conquering. Then, after a long pause, he whispered, “I miss him.”

George didn’t ask who. He didn’t have to. “I know.”

–

Later that night, when the others had finally fallen asleep around the suite, Leo curled up in a pile of George’s discarded hoodie and Alex’s shoe. Charles sat on the floor of the hotel bathroom with the lights off and his arms folded around his knees.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t spiral. But he ached.

And he whispered Max’s name only once, into the dark. Just once. It echoed too loudly in his chest.

—

The motorhome was cold. Always was, first thing in the morning. Charles had grown used to the chill — how it bit at his fingers when he pulled open the blinds, how it felt to step into silence before the day demanded too much of him.

Barcelona this time. A track he liked. Familiar, efficient. Long corners and clean exits. He should’ve felt something — excitement, maybe. Fire. Even a flicker of anticipation. Instead, all he felt was tired .

“You don’t sleep anymore,” Lando said the night before, flopping across the couch in Charles’ motorhome, Leo curled up in his lap.

Charles didn’t respond.

“You still look good, though,” Alex added from the floor, head resting against George’s thigh. “You know. For someone who’s haunted.”

“Thanks,” Charles said dryly.

Oscar, always the observer, looked at him for a long time before adding gently, “You know he’s still watching you, right?”

Silence.

Leo let out a tiny sneeze. “Who?” Charles asked because it was easier to pretend.

The boys all gave him a look.

“Oh, come on,” George muttered. “He practically tracks your every lap like he’s still trying to find a way into your slipstream.”

“Maybe he is,” Lando said. “Just… doesn’t know how to.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Well, he can stay behind. I’m not looking in my mirrors anymore.” It was a good line.

Almost believable.

—

They stayed late that night, long past curfew, half-asleep and full of soft laughter and leftover takeout. It felt normal. Safe. The kind of safety Charles hadn’t realized he missed until it was offered without cost.

Oscar made tea. Lando stole his hoodie. George watched him with that older-brother calmness Charles had learned to find comfort in. And Alex? Alex leaned against his shoulder when he thought Charles needed grounding, the kind that came without words.

It helped.

Not entirely — the hole was still there, deep and silent in the center of his chest — but it helped. For a little while, he didn’t feel like he was bleeding out alone.

Media day was relentless.

Flashes, microphones, questions he’d already answered a hundred times.

“How does it feel after Monaco?”  “Do you think you’ve put the past behind you?”  “Have you spoken to Max Verstappen?”

He blinked at that one. Smiled politely. Said nothing. His silence was its own kind of answer.

After FP2, the boys dragged him out into the grass behind the paddock. George tossed a Frisbee. Alex tripped over Leo’s leash. Lando tried to get Oscar to race him up the hill, only to fall flat on his face when Charles sneakily stuck a leg out.

Their laughter echoed. It was a kind of freedom Charles hadn’t felt in months.

And yet — it came in waves.

That hollow space inside him. The ache he couldn’t name, even now. He tried not to look over his shoulder. He didn’t want to know if Max had been there watching.

That night, it rained. Again. Storms followed him lately. Charles sat alone on the small balcony of his hotel room, knees tucked up to his chest, Leo curled beneath his hand.

There were no texts. No calls. No new messages from Max.

But God, he still wanted one. Even now. Even after everything. He hated himself for it.

He almost didn’t hear the knock. It was faint. Careful.

Charles didn’t move at first. Thought maybe it was housekeeping, or George dropping something off. But the knock came again — steadier, now.

When he opened the door, everything stopped.

There stood Max. No Red Bull branding. Just black jeans, a hoodie, hair a mess from the rain.

Eyes tired. Red-rimmed.

He looked like the version of Max Charles had loved — and maybe still did — but cracked open and no longer able to pretend he didn’t feel everything all at once. Charles didn’t say a word.

Max swallowed. “I didn’t know how to come back,” he said. “So I kept doing nothing.”

Charles stared at him. Quiet. The rain slicked his arms. The wind bit at his skin. “I won Monaco,” he said finally.

Max smiled, brokenly. “I know. I watched every lap. I nearly threw up.”

Charles let the silence stretch. Then, quietly, “What are you doing here, Max?”

Max’s eyes were shining. Not with tears, but something close . “I’m ready to stop running,” he whispered. “If you’ll let me catch up.”

The rain was soft against the windows now. Just misting. Just enough to feel like something had passed — a storm, or a season, or the years between them.

Charles hadn’t said yes. But he hadn’t said no , either. Instead, he stepped back. Just slightly. Just enough.

Max stood frozen at the threshold for a moment longer, like he couldn’t quite believe Charles would let him in again, even if it was just the hotel room, even if it was just for now. But then, without a word, he stepped inside. Quiet. Careful. Like he might shatter the walls with a breath too loud.

Leo, curled on the floor, blinked sleepily and wagged his tail once. Charles said nothing. Just sat back on the edge of the bed, arms around his knees, hoodie sleeves pulled long past his wrists.

Max didn’t sit. He stood near the window, dripping rain, hoodie soaked through. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out — like he remembered what Charles’ hands felt like.

Charles stared at the floor. And then— “You knew,” he said softly. “The whole time. That I would’ve done anything for you.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“And you let me think it was all in my head.”

“I didn’t know how to…” Max stopped, tried again. “I didn’t know how to be that honest. I didn’t know how to be yours .”

“You didn’t have to go public, Max.” Charles looked up then. Eyes sharp, voice low. “You just had to choose me.”

Silence. The weight of it settled on both of them like thunder had just rolled through the room. Max crossed the space slowly, then sank to the carpet in front of him, knees pulled in, elbows on his thighs. Not touching. Just close enough that Charles could see the shake in his hands.

“I’ve made every wrong choice,” Max said quietly. “But not this one. Being here… It’s not a mistake. You’re not a mistake.”

Charles turned his face away. He hated how good it still felt to hear that.

They didn’t talk much after that. Not really.

They sat together in the stillness, hearts thrumming loud enough to speak volumes. Occasionally, Leo shifted between them, nuzzling into Charles’s lap before pressing his tiny nose against Max’s ankle like he, too, remembered a better time.

Eventually, Max lay down beside the bed, not on it, not asking. Just there. Palms flat on the carpet. A man exhausted by his own silence.

Charles watched him for a long time.

And then, when the world felt a little softer, a little quieter, he whispered, “I’m still angry.”

Max didn’t move. “I know.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

Max’s eyes closed. “I don’t deserve it.” Another long pause.

“But I still miss you.”

Max turned his head. Their eyes met in the dark. 

“I miss you every day.”

The next morning, Max was gone when he woke. No note. No message. Just the faintest smell of his cologne lingered in the air. Charles almost thought he’d dreamt it — until his phone buzzed.

A link from Alex. No text. Just the post. Charles opened it, thumb trembling.

It was Max’s Instagram. Just one picture.

An out-of-focus, rainy view of the Monaco harbor — unmistakably taken from Charles’ balcony, the night he showed up.

No caption. No tag.  Just a location: “Somewhere I shouldn’t still miss.”

Charles stared at it for a long time. Then clicked on the comments.

The top one — from Lando, of all people — just said: “It’s not too late if you mean it this time.”

And for the first time in a long time, Charles didn’t know what to feel. Not anger. Not forgiveness.

Just that same aching hope that had followed him from karting to podiums to broken hotel rooms.

—

They didn’t speak for the next two days.

Not in the paddock, not over text. Not even when they passed each other behind the garages before qualifying. Max didn’t look at him. And Charles didn’t let himself want him to.

He had Leo, now, waiting for him in his hotel room every evening. He had George and Lando, always hovering, Oscar making tea, Aand lex telling the worst jokes known to man. He had points to chase and the Monaco trophy gleaming in his memory. He had healing. He had peace .

But peace didn’t always mean happy. It just meant silence. And Charles had lived in silence long enough to know the difference.

The next interview came unexpectedly.

He was sitting in the back of the Ferrari hospitality suite, phone in hand, fingers too tired to scroll. Rain tapped the windows — again — and the sound felt like déjà vu. The kind that ached in his teeth.

George had gone to prep. Oscar and Lando were off doing their idiotic YouTube thing. Alex was asleep under a jacket. Charles felt alone again.

He was just about to get up when someone knocked on the inside door. It was their press officer, iPad in hand, eyebrows raised. “You’ve seen this?”

Charles blinked. “Seen what?”

She turned the screen.

A video. From the post-qualifying press conference. Charles’ name on the caption. His throat tightened.

“Play it,” she said.

Max looked calm.

Too calm, if Charles was being honest. Hands folded neatly in front of him. Hair damp from rain. Eyes unreadable behind the usual mask. Until the question came.

"You and Charles Leclerc seemed close earlier in your careers — is that still the case?"

A pause. Max didn’t smile. Didn’t deflect. He exhaled slowly, then leaned into the mic.

“We were close,” he said. “Very.”

The room stilled. Max glanced sideways, toward where Charles would've been sitting if he’d made the top three.

“I hurt him,” Max said plainly. “I let fear get in the way of honesty. That’s on me.”

A beat passed. “I didn’t deserve the kind of loyalty Charles gave me,” he continued. “And I don’t know if I’ll get another chance to earn it back. But I want to. That’s all.”

The journalists didn’t move. No one laughed. It wasn’t a joke. Max gave a small nod to himself, maybe. Or to Charles, if he was watching.

“I miss him,” Max finished. “And I’d like to stop pretending I don’t.”

Charles sat frozen. Something in him cracked open. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something . Something real.

Something that made his hands shake as they clutched the arms of the chair. Something that made the sting behind his eyes feel less lonely . He hadn’t imagined it.  Hadn’t made it all up in his head.

Max had loved him — and maybe still did.

And now… he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

He stepped outside for air. The rain kissed his cheeks like memory. His phone buzzed.

A message from Max.

Max: You don’t have to answer. I just… I meant it. All of it.

Charles stared at the screen. Then, after a long moment, he typed one word back.

I know.

There was something cruel about a podium in the rain. Not Monaco, this time — no fairytale return to the top step, no flags waving in a storm of adoration. Just second place. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to feel everything again.

Charles stood there, champagne dripping from his overalls, staring at the sea of cameras below.

Max had won. And for once, Charles didn’t feel fury. He just felt the ache of what if .

Because when the anthems ended and the cheering softened, Max didn’t turn away from the cameras first. He turned to him. Met his eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like years , Max looked sorry—not defensive, not scared, not prideful. Just quietly, reverently sorry. Like he knew what it cost Charles to still be standing there at all.

And later, when the garage cleared and Leo was curled around his ankles, asleep beneath his locker bench, Charles found the note tucked into the side pocket of his race suit.

Just a scrap of paper. Folded twice. Handwritten. No name on it, but he knew the handwriting better than his own.

“Don’t answer if you’re not ready.
I’ll still be waiting.
I’m not here to win a race anymore.
I’m here to earn you.
—M”

Charles sat there for a long time. Fingers curled around the paper like it might vanish.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t crumble. Didn’t let himself hope .

But he kept the note. Slipped it into his wallet behind an old photo of Jules and another of him and Leo from the first night he'd brought the puppy home.

—

The next few days passed in soft, surprising ways.

He flew back to Monaco with George and Alex. Oscar came by the next morning with homemade bread that tasted like cinnamon and safe spaces. Lando gave him shit for crying during a movie he swore he wasn’t watching. George taught Leo to high-five.

They didn’t ask about Max. They didn’t have to.

Charles could feel it, woven between the way they took care of him. Not protectiveness, not pressure — just trust . That he’d know what he needed. That they’d be there, no matter what he chose.

And then Max showed up again.

Not at the door. Not at the hotel. Not with flowers or grand speeches. Just… at the marina. Standing beside the railing as Charles walked Leo in the early morning mist.

No security. No sunglasses. Just Max, in a hoodie two sizes too big, eyes softer than they’d ever been.

He didn’t move. Didn’t call out. Just waited.

Charles stood there, heart pounding, thumb stroking behind Leo’s ear. A few long seconds passed before he finally walked over — slow, cautious, not ready for anything more than presence.

“Hi,” Max said quietly.

Charles nodded. “Hi.”

A pause. Then Max took a step closer and crouched down to scratch Leo’s chin, like he used to. His voice dropped as the puppy wagged his tail.

“Didn’t think he’d still remember me.”

Charles watched the way Leo curled into him. Trusted him. Loved him still. “He remembers who was kind,” Charles said softly.

Max looked up. Their eyes locked. “I meant it,” Max said. “The press thing. The note. All of it.”

Charles swallowed. “I know.”

Another pause. Then Max stood, but didn’t step closer. Didn’t reach out. Just waited . “I don’t want to rush you,” he said. “I know I’m asking for more than I probably deserve.”

“You are.”

Max nodded. “Then let me earn it.”

Charles didn’t say yes. But he didn’t walk away either. He just… let it happen. Leo barked once, shaking the silence off like rain. Max smiled — a little.

Charles did too.

That night, back at home, Charles curled into his bed with Leo pressed warm against his chest.

His phone buzzed.

Max: Would it be alright if I saw you again tomorrow? Just a walk. Just you and me, and Leo. No expectations.

Charles stared at the screen for a long time.

Then typed:

Charles: Okay.

—

The morning was overcast in Monaco.

Not dark, not stormy — just soft. Gentle. Like the world had finally stopped demanding something from him for five minutes. Charles pulled on a hoodie, tugged the sleeves down low, and clipped Leo’s leash with one hand while checking the time on his phone with the other.

Max was late by four minutes. A miracle, really. He used to be ten minutes early. Or not show up at all.

Charles didn’t wait at the door. He sat cross-legged on the floor with Leo curled against his leg, thumb skimming through half-read messages from George and Lando, and Oscar. They’d all checked in that morning. Even Alex, who’d sent a picture of his dog in sunglasses, captioned: Leo says slay.

Charles smiled at it without meaning to. His chest didn’t ache when he did. Then came the knock.

Not sharp. Not urgent. Just… a quiet tap. He didn’t rush. Didn’t panic. Just stood, straightened his sleeves, and opened the door.

Max stood there in jeans and a worn Red Bull jacket — one Charles hadn’t seen in years. His hair was messy, like he hadn’t bothered fixing it. His mouth was pressed into a nervous line.

“Hi,” Max said, voice low.

“Hi,” Charles replied. “You remembered.”

“Didn’t sleep.”

Charles blinked. “Oh.”

Max gave a small shrug. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

They walked down toward the harbor without saying much at first.

Leo tugged forward with joyful little hops, the leash swinging gently between Charles’ fingers. Max kept close but not too close, matching Charles’s pace like instinct.

“I’ve missed this,” Max said, voice quiet.

Charles didn’t answer. Not yet. But he didn’t pull away either.

They passed the bakery where Oscar had dragged him after the last race. The bench where Lando had once spilled hot chocolate all over George’s jeans. The corner where Charles had stood alone in the rain, phone trembling in his hands after another voicemail that Max never returned.

It should’ve hurt. But strangely, it didn’t. Not today.

They stopped at a stone overlook where the sea stretched out in silver-grey waves. Leo flopped dramatically at their feet. Charles leaned against the rail. Max stood beside him, a careful breath away.

“I’ve been talking to a therapist,” Max said after a long silence. “Like… actually talking. Not just checking a box.”

Charles glanced sideways. “Good.”

“I told her about us. About everything I messed up.”

“You messed up a lot,” Charles said softly.

“I know.” They stood there, the weight of unspoken things pressing gently between them. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just real .

“I’m not trying to fix everything at once,” Max said. “I just want to get it right now. Even if it takes years.”

Charles didn’t speak. Not with words. But his hand, still on the rail, shifted. And Max, slow, cautious, reached over and let their pinkies touch.

That was it. Just a pinky. Just the brush of skin. But Charles let it stay. Let it curl around Max’s. Let it mean something.

It was nothing. It was everything .

Later, as they turned back toward his apartment, Max walked a little closer. Charles didn’t move away. “I don’t want to be someone who makes you flinch,” Max murmured.

“You’re not. Not anymore.”

Max stopped walking. Charles turned, confused — until he saw the expression on Max’s face. Bare, full of something, terrified and reverent all at once.

“I—” Max started, then faltered.

Charles didn’t wait. He stepped forward — close enough to count Max’s lashes — and pressed the gentlest kiss to the corner of Max’s mouth.

Not quite lips. But not a lie. He pulled back before Max could speak. Before he could ruin it.

“This doesn’t mean yes,” Charles whispered.

Max nodded. “I know.”

“But it means not no.”

A smile tugged at Max’s mouth. “Then I’ll take it.”

That night, Charles lay in bed with Leo snoring beside him, one arm draped protectively over the little dog’s soft body. His phone buzzed once.

Max: Thank you for today. You made my whole year.

Charles stared at the screen, heart thudding soft but steady. Then he typed back:

Charles: Good. But next time, you bring Leo treats, or he’ll hate you again.

Max: Deal. Can I see you again soon?

Charles hesitated — then:

Charles: Yeah. Soon.

—

Charles hadn’t meant to smile that easily.

Not when Max showed up the next morning with Leo’s favorite duck-shaped treats, not when George raised his brows knowingly from the kitchen, and not even when Oscar snorted at the way Max crouched to rub Leo’s belly like it was a peace offering.

But he smiled anyway.

And what was worse, he didn’t hate that it was Max who made him.

They didn’t talk much at first. Max sat quietly beside him on the terrace, coffee in hand, his knees brushing Charles’ once, then again, like testing the waters. He didn’t talk about them. Didn’t push. Just asked about Leo’s training, and the weather in Imola next week, and whether Charles still played piano when he was alone.

“I don’t,” Charles had said quietly. “Not since… before.”

He didn’t need to say before you left . The sentence hung between them anyway.

Max nodded once, then didn’t bring it up again. He just sat there, present and patient, until George appeared with pastries and a sleepy smile and made a joke about Max finally learning how to behave like a human being.

Charles laughed. And then, without thinking, reached under the table and brushed his fingers against Max’s.

A question. A warning. A flicker of what might be.

Max held still, then gently turned his palm to meet Charles’. Nothing more than that.

But Charles didn’t let go.

That afternoon, they met up with the rest of the group at Lando’s Monaco apartment. Alex and George were already arguing about who made better cocktails. Oscar was curled into the corner of the couch, sleepy and sun-warmed, Leo cradled in his lap like a royal heir.

“You look suspiciously happy,” Lando said to Charles under his breath, nudging him with an elbow.

Charles rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Lando grinned. “You won’t. You never looked at her the way you looked at him .” Charles’s breath caught. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t argue either.

Oscar, maybe sensing something in the air, motioned for Charles to come sit outside with him when the sun started to dip. They leaned against the balcony railing, watching the light fade over the harbor. Oscar lit a cigarette, took one long drag, and didn’t speak.

After a while, Charles said softly, “Do you think I’m being stupid?”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “No. I think you’re being brave. Letting yourself want something again after all that pain? That’s terrifying.”

“I don’t know if I can trust him not to hurt me again.”

“Then don’t,” Oscar said. “Not yet. Just trust yourself. Trust that if he does , you won’t break this time. You’ve already survived worse.”

Charles looked down at his hands. At the healing scars. At the quiet steadiness of his own breath. He nodded. Then leaned his head briefly against Oscar’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not asking me to explain any of it.”

Oscar shrugged. “You don’t owe me the story. I saw the aftermath. That was enough.”

That night, Charles texted Max.

Charles: Come over. Late is okay.

Max: Do you want me to stay over or just visit?

Charles: Visit. For now.

Max came by at half past ten. George let him in with a warning look. “If you hurt him again—”

“I won’t,” Max said, voice low.

“He’s my brother now,” George added. “You don’t get to be careless anymore.”

Max swallowed. “I know.”

Charles heard the whole thing from the hallway. He didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, watching Max take the verbal punch without flinching.

When Max finally looked up and saw him, there was no arrogance. No expectation. Just quiet hope.

“You really came,” Charles said.

“I said I would.”

“You used to say that a lot.”

“I used to lie to myself about what mattered.”

Charles’s heart hurt, not like it had before. Not sharp and tearing. Just… a dull ache. Something old. They ended up on the couch again. Leo was between them, snoring softly. Charles pulled a blanket around his shoulders and let his head drop onto Max’s shoulder.

“I’m still scared.”

Max rested his cheek against Charles’ hair. “I’ll wait until you’re not.”

“You’ll wait forever, then.”

Max smiled. “Then I’ll wait forever.”

That was the night Charles realized: maybe Max had changed. Not because he wanted Charles again. But because he understood now what he had lost.

Not a trophy. Not a thrill. A person. A whole, hurting person who had finally started healing — not because of Max, but in spite of him. And if Charles ever let him back in fully, it would be on his terms.

With his family intact. With his heart protected. With his friends at his side, holding him up when he forgot how.

—

The morning started softly.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains in gold streaks, Leo snuggled into the crook of Charles’ knees on the couch, and Max, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, was still there when Charles opened his eyes.

Not gone. Not a ghost. He was in the armchair, legs curled up, one of George’s sweatshirts hanging loose on his shoulders. He looked tired. Comfortable. Real.

Charles didn’t say anything at first. He just sat up, stretched, and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. Two mugs. Two sugars in one. Just milk in the other.

He placed Max’s mug beside him wordlessly.

“Still remember?” Max asked, voice sleepy.

Charles hummed. “I don’t forget.”

And that was true.

He remembered everything . The way Max used to look at him before they were anything at all. The slow curve of Max’s mouth after Charles’ first F2 win. The first time they kissed, pressed up against a motorhome door with adrenaline and laughter shaking their ribs. The first time they fought. The first time, Max stopped calling.

Charles remembered all of it. That’s what made it so hard.

They spent most of the morning in a comfortable rhythm — walking Leo, grabbing breakfast from the boulangerie, even sitting in the park where they used to sneak off in the early Red Bull days, helmets half-off, hiding behind sunglasses and exhaustion.

But the words were there.

All day, hanging just under the surface. Not yet spoken, but aching to be let out. They came loose that night.

Max was heading out. Just for a while — to give Charles space. Not an argument, not a goodbye. Just air.

Charles followed him to the door. Paused. And then asked, softly, “Why didn’t you fight for me?”

Max turned slowly, hand still on the doorknob. Charles wasn’t crying. But his voice was hoarse, like the words had been carved into his throat.

“I waited for you. After the media day. After Brazil. After…” He swallowed hard. “You said you were going to do something — be something, and you pulled away again. I begged you without words. And you just let me drown.”

Max didn’t speak right away.

“I didn’t know how to love you then ,” he said finally. “Not in public. Not without ruining everything I thought I was supposed to be. Red Bull didn’t say anything, but they didn’t need to. And I—” He faltered. “I thought I could keep you safe by keeping us secret. That if no one saw it, no one could break it.”

Charles stared at him. “You broke it yourself.”

“I know ,” Max said, pain bleeding through the cracks. “I broke it every time I didn’t answer. Every time I left you alone. But I was scared of losing everything else. And I was so damn sure you’d wait forever.”

Charles let out a small, broken breath. “I almost did.”

Max’s eyes filled. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No,” Charles said. “You don’t. Not yet.”

They stood in silence. Then Max whispered, “But I’m trying to become someone who could deserve you.”

Charles didn’t say anything. Just stepped forward and leaned into Max’s chest — not for comfort, but for closure . Letting the hurt echo through his bones and out his breath.

Max’s arms came up carefully, wrapping around him. Not possessive. Not claiming.

Just holding .

Later, they sat on the floor of Charles’ apartment, legs tangled, a blanket shared between them. Leo curled up beside them like a tiny, faithful guardian. Charles leaned his head on Max’s shoulder.

“During the worst of it,” Charles said quietly, “I thought I’d never feel real again. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Everything hurt. Not like heartbreak—like dying.”

Max turned his face toward Charles’ hair. “I know. I saw it. And I couldn’t even say anything.”

Charles reached out, picked up Max’s hand, and traced the edge of his thumb. “You’re not forgiven,” he said. “But you’re… here. And that’s more than you used to be.”

“I’ll stay,” Max said.

“You’ll earn it,” Charles corrected softly.

And Max nodded.

They didn’t kiss that night. They didn’t need to.

Charles fell asleep on the couch, Max beside him, their hands loosely joined on the pillow between them. It wasn’t romance yet. It was something quieter. Something Charles had needed more than he realized.

A beginning.

—

It was never the big things.

Not the headlines. Not the Monaco win. Not even Max’s apology, as trembling and real as it had been. It was the little moments that made Charles start to believe again.

The way George handed him coffee without asking how he slept. The way Lando sent him Spotify links at 3 AM, titled for when your brain won’t shut up . The way Oscar would always sit beside him at debriefs now, legs bumping lightly, anchoring him to the room.

It was Max not reaching for his hand too soon. It was Max waiting outside the garage without stepping inside. It was Max learning patience.

And it was Charles learning to breathe again.

—

By the time they reached Spain, the shift was visible.

Not dramatic. Just a subtle quietness in Charles that hadn’t been there before — like he was rediscovering the shape of himself now that the sharpest parts had stopped bleeding.

His smile came easier, even if it didn’t always reach his eyes. He still woke up on some mornings with the weight in his chest so heavy he couldn’t speak. But those mornings weren’t every morning now.

He still flinched sometimes when Max touched his back, but he no longer stepped away.

That was something.

—

Max came over again after FP2. Not to talk, not to ask anything. Just to sit with him on the floor of the Monaco apartment, Leo asleep between them, the window open to the soft sea breeze.

Charles watched Max from the corner of his eye. His profile was tired — that constant sharpness dulled a little by vulnerability. Charles whispered, “Are you scared?”

Max looked at him slowly. “Of what?”

“Of me not letting you all the way back in.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Charles nodded. “Good.”

A beat passed. Then Charles reached out, gently pulled Max’s hand toward him, and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

“You’re not there yet,” he said. “But I’m not sending you away.”

Max swallowed hard. “Can I—?”

Charles nodded once.

And Max leaned forward, resting his forehead against Charles’ like it was sacred. No kiss. Just breathe. Just warmth.

—-

It happened that night, the first time they kissed again.

Charles had fallen asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket, Leo tucked behind his knees. He woke to the sound of rain, and Max, barely a meter away, flipping through one of Charles’ old sketchbooks he’d left on the table.

He looked up, startled. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

Charles smiled. “It’s okay.”

Max’s thumb had paused on a page. An old drawing — messy, quick lines of a kart track. A helmet. Max’s eyes, detailed like they were the only thing Charles could focus on. “I remember this day,” Max murmured. “You beat me. You cried when no one was looking.”

Charles nodded. “You hugged me in parc fermé and said, ‘I’ll get you next time.’ ”

Max laughed softly. “I meant it.”

“I believed you,” Charles said. Then, quieter: “I always did.”

The words sat between them. And then Charles sat up, blanket slipping off one shoulder.

“I want to kiss you,” he said softly, voice almost shaking. “But I want it to be mine this time. Not because you asked. Not because I needed it to mean something.”

Max just nodded. “Okay.”

And Charles kissed him. It was slow — no fire, no desperation. Just the soft press of his lips against Max’s, his fingers threading gently into the collar of Max’s hoodie.

Max didn’t pull him closer. Didn’t deepen it. He just received it.

When Charles pulled away, he felt steadier. Not dizzy. Not shattered. Just… whole. “I’m still not all there,” Charles admitted. “Still broken in places.”

“I don’t want the perfect version,” Max whispered. “I want the real one.”

“You sure?”

Max smiled. “You’re all I ever wanted. Even when I didn’t know how to want you right.”

Charles kissed him again.

They didn’t go further that night. No heated touches. No clothes pulled off. No desperation. Just limbs tangled on the couch, Leo pressed to Charles’ chest, Max’s arms around both of them. And Charles, whispering, “Stay.”

And Max, promising, “Always.”

—

The first time they made love again, it wasn’t because they couldn’t wait.

It was because Charles could. It had been raining again — not the thunderous Monaco kind, but a soft drizzle in Barcelona that washed the dust from the air and left everything muted, tender.

They were at the hotel.

George was across the hall. The team had dispersed for the night. Max was there on the edge of Charles’ bed, shoes kicked off, hands resting in his lap, waiting. Charles stepped out of the shower and just looked at him.

The old Charles — the one from winter, all hollow-eyed and shaking — would have second-guessed everything.

But this Charles?

This Charles had scars on his arms, but no shame in them. He had hands that still trembled sometimes, but they reached . This Charles had walked through fire and chosen to stay alive. So he stepped closer, towel loose on his hips, and said—not asked — “Come here.”

Max rose instantly.

Charles took Max’s face in his hands and kissed him like it meant nothing and everything. Like they hadn’t lost years. Like they’d never had to hide. They moved slowly — Charles letting himself lead, Max letting him. No pressure. No rush. Just the unfolding of trust, like petals from a crushed flower finding the sun again.

They didn’t speak much.

Only touches. The slide of fingers along ribs. The soft sigh Max let out when Charles pushed him back into the pillows. The catch of breath when Charles let the towel fall and climbed into his lap, straddling him, nose brushing Max’s cheek.

“You okay?” Max whispered, reverent.

Charles nodded. “Yes. Because I want this. Because I want you .”

And that was everything.

They didn’t fuck. They made love.

There was a difference.

It was in the softness of Max’s hands. The way he kissed every inch of Charles’ scarred wrists without hesitation. The way he held Charles through the aftershocks, whispering I’ve got you, you’re so good, Good job , even after Charles had already drifted to sleep.

For once, Charles didn’t wake up alone.

He woke with his head on Max’s chest, Leo curled at his feet (George had apparently dropped him off at some point during the night), and a kind of stillness in his chest he hadn’t known he was allowed to feel.

The next day was media day. Charles almost didn’t go.

Not because he wasn’t ready, but because the calm inside him felt sacred, and the paddock had never been kind to his softness. But George had knocked on his door, hair still wet from a swim, and said, “Come on. You’ve got friends here now. We’ve got you.”

So Charles put on his Ferrari polo, clipped Leo’s tiny harness on, and stepped into the paddock like he was stepping onto a battlefield with a full army behind him.

Lando and Oscar found him first. Oscar grinned and bent to scoop Leo into his arms. “Your emotional support dog has arrived.”

Charles smiled, soft and grateful. Then Max arrived. Not as a bomb. Not as a disruption. Just… quiet. Respectful.

He stood beside Charles at the Sky desk interview, didn’t try to hold his hand, didn’t even reach for him — until Charles, on his own, laced their pinkies together under the table. It was small.

But Max’s inhale was sharp and real. Afterwards, someone asked Charles, off-camera: “So… you and Max?”

Charles glanced sideways at Max, who gave the tiniest nod. Charles answered simply: “We’ve been through hell. But I’ve never stopped loving him.”

Max reached for his hand and held it properly this time , right there in front of everyone.

The photo made the rounds on Twitter within minutes. For once, Charles didn’t care.

—

Later, they all sat on a rooftop in Barcelona — Charles, Max, George, Alex, Lando, Oscar, and Leo curled in the center like the heart of them all. Beer bottles scattered, rain in the distance, the city warm around them.

Charles leaned back against Max’s chest, his arms wrapped around his waist like he was afraid of losing him again. Oscar said something funny, Lando nearly choked laughing, and George threw popcorn at them both.

And Charles smiled. Not the brave kind. Not the one he wore for cameras or his girlfriend, or his team.

This was different. This was real.

This was healing.

—

Barcelona was dust and gold when the sun set.

The race had gone perfectly. Not a win — P2 — but it didn’t matter. Not to Charles. Because the podium had felt earned instead of desperately chased. Because when he looked out into the sea of faces beneath him, he saw his people.

George, whistling loudly from the Mercedes side. Oscar and Lando, sunglasses pushed up on their heads, were cheering like idiots. Alex, with his arms around all three of them, grinning widely. And Max — just off to the side of the crowd — clapping slowly, eyes locked with Charles, like he could see right through the champagne and confetti and bullshit.

Later, when the paddock had quieted and the media storm faded, Charles stood in his hotel room doorway, freshly showered, skin warm and sweet with leftover sun.

Max was already inside. No words, no tension — just the hum of a speaker playing something soft and old in the background. Leo was curled at the foot of the bed. The room smelled like candle wax and salt.

Charles walked to him, stopped in front of Max with nothing but boxers and a tired smile on, and said:

“Close the curtains. Stay here. Stay mine.”

And Max did.

It was quiet. Not rushed, not rough, not loud.

They made love like they had all the time in the world — Max pressed into Charles slowly, their breaths syncing like a heartbeat.

Max kissed every inch of him like he was grateful for the permission.

Charles let himself feel every part of it — the skin-on-skin, the trembling hands, the whispered name between kisses. He was no longer scared of the weight in his chest. He was carrying it with Max now.

Afterwards, they lay tangled in the sheets, Charles’ leg between Max’s, his hand resting gently over Max’s ribcage. His head was on Max’s shoulder.

He felt safe. Whole.

And slowly, as Max’s fingers traced lazy shapes on his back, Charles whispered the kind of truth that only comes in the dark. “I almost didn’t come back.”

Max didn’t ask what he meant. He just turned his head and kissed Charles’ hair. “But you did,” he said, voice hoarse. “You did.”

Charles nodded against his chest. “Sometimes it still feels like a dream. Like I blink, and I’m back in winter again. Alone. Not eating. Hurting. Faking it.”

Max didn’t flinch. He only held him tighter.

Charles closed his eyes. “I think I’m afraid of being happy.”

“I know,” Max said. “Me too.”

They didn’t say anything for a while. Then, Charles, barely a whisper, “But I think I want to try.”

Max turned his face toward him, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and murmured, “Then let’s start small. Tonight. Just stay here. Just breathe.”

So they did. They stayed there, together, breathing into each other’s quiet until the world felt still again.

—

Three months later.

Charles’ arms are tanned now. The scars still there — always — but faded. He doesn’t hide them. He wears short sleeves. Wears joy like it fits. Leo trots ahead of him in the Monaco sunlight, tail wagging furiously.

Lando and Oscar walk behind him with iced coffees. George and Alex are across the street arguing about a restaurant reservation. And Max — Max is beside him, fingers loosely linked with his, thumb brushing gently across Charles’ knuckles.

It’s not a secret anymore. Not the love. Not the past. Not the healing. And it doesn’t need to be explained either. People see them and smile. Whisper. Snap pictures. But Charles doesn’t shrink from it.

He just squeezes Max’s hand, lifts Leo into his arms, and laughs — really laughs — as Lando trips over a scooter and Oscar yells, “Mate, that’s your fourth this month!”

He isn’t afraid anymore. He’s not alone. He survived.

And now, he’s living .

Fin.