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Formula One - 2026 Season
It’s a fine, pleasant morning in March—the birds are singing, the sky is blue, and blessedly of all, the car for the 2026 season is not shit. Sometimes Lewis thinks back to Seb and just how long he lasted in Ferrari before Maranello really began to grind him down, bit by bit. Truthfully, there’s some part of Lewis that’s already feeling the strain (2025 was a test of 18 years of patience in the sport and it was really only thanks to the shared frustration between him, Verstappen, Charles, and George that kept Lewis from actually saying what he felt on the goddamn radio) but 2026…
2026 will be different. Lewis can’t say exactly why it is, but he feels it in his bones.
Gut instinct. The kind drivers used to rely on before data became more advanced and technology was refined to absolute precision. The kind of feeling you have deep down that tells you whether or not you can make this turn, overtake that driver, or make the last few laps on worn tires.
Lewis can practically feel the change vibrating in the air.
He greets Charles with a nod and a fist bump on their last day of filming promotional content for Ferrari and is surprised to find the Monegasque bright eyed and smiling sweetly, phone firmly in hand. It’s…odd to say the least. Usually, during these long days of content farming, Charles is apathetic and blank faced until the camera turns on him and then that dazzling PR grin breaks out.
This morning, the brunet waves cheerfully at Lewis as they stand on the sound stage, production going all around them as the lighting director orders the studio lights dimmed until filming is ready.
“Jesus, you’re in a good mood today.” Lewis takes a seat on the bright red couch behind them while Charles stands nearby, unable to glance away from his phone. “Charles? Hello?” He waves a hand until bright green eyes glance up again.
“Oh, good morning Lewis!” He smiles, completely forgetting that they’d already greeted one another ten minutes ago. “How are you on this beautiful morning? It is beautiful, non? Some might say it’s…simply lovely.” He gives a dreamy sigh at that, cheeks pink with delight as he suddenly drops down to the empty space beside Lewis. “Sometimes good things just happen when you least expect it.”
Lewis blinks.
“Um…yeah man, for sure.” He is completely out of his depth. He has never dealt with a version of Charles this chipper—even George hadn’t been this upbeat and he’s the youngest teammate Lewis has ever had. “You had some good news I’m guessing?”
Charles giggles again, the sound escaping his lips in a flutter as he clutches his phone to his chest, rings clinking against the screen. “Well, I think I’m on my way to having a breakthrough with someone who is very smart but can also be very stupid.” He nods to himself. “Someone who makes it so easy for you to want to kiss them but then they turn around and behave like an absolute connard, trying to give you ‘space’ when that is the stupidest thing in the world. I do not want space, I want him to be with me forever.”
The words are said with a violent sort of amusement—the same tone that has Lewis slightly uneasy whenever Ricky gives him an FYI on a daring move Charles is about to make on track.
Charles blinks those wide, doe eyes at him and Lewis is suddenly feeling very out of his depth. Nico would know what to say.
Hell, Nico would be here laughing along with Charles while Lewis is left as confused as he is now.
(But at least he’d have Nico in front of him, golden haired and so pretty that it sometimes hurts to think about—not now brain!)
The seven time world champion gives himself a mental slap in the face before adding in an extra kick in the shins. Bad time to reminisce about Nico.
It takes him a second to realize that the air is silent (save for the rumble of production equipment in the background) and that Charles has stopped speaking and is now looking at him expectantly.
“Yeah, that sounds really…stupid.” Lewis tries to grasp onto the last thing his teammate threw out in his mini-tirade (was it a tirade? Charles didn’t sound annoyed—more…entertained?) as he reclines back on the couch, crossing his arms. “Guy sounds like an idiot.”
“He is not!” The words are spoken sharply—almost defensively—as Charles frowns at him, clearly offended.
Oh shit. “No, I meant—his actions. His actions are idiotic.” There. That’s something Nico would say right?
“Oh.” Charles considers it. “Oui, c’est exact, his actions can be very—what was it? Idiotic?” [Yes, that’s correct.]
Lewis nods along.
“Okay, okay—we thank you for your patience,” the words, spoken in heavily accented Italian, ring out from the intercom. “We just need a 5 more minutes and then we will start the filming.”
“Sì, capiamo!” Charles shouts back in perfect Italian, gaze dropping back to his phone.
“Damn, I need to start working on that.”
“On what?” Charles is now typing something.
“Italian. I know a few phrases but they’re ah, not exactly suited for day to day conversations.”
“Mmh,” a little smile begins to appear on the Monegasque’s lips, “yes, well, I know someone who is also in your boat. With the Italian, I mean.” He clarifies. “But it is cute, I think, when he tries to speak it—he has the most adorable lisp and sometimes puts the emphasis on the wrong consonants.”
Lewis thinks back to Nico trying to teach him Italian so many summers ago, before the German was signed to Williams and they still spent every summer together, bare chested aboard the Rosberg family yacht. How Nico would try to teach him inflections and intonation of certain words but all Lewis could focus on was the shape of Nico’s mouth, the way his tongue darted out to lick the stray bit of gelato away, how he’d toss his head back in laughter whenever Lewis butchered one Italian phrase or mispronounced a string of words.
(Maybe he did it on purpose. Maybe he wanted to see Nico laugh like that again—unguarded, instinctive—no sign of the perfect PR prince Nico had already perfected.)
Fuck.
In all the years since the implosion of their relationship Lewis has never thought about Nico more than he has since coming to Ferrari. It makes no sense, or maybe it’s just Lewis getting older. He knows this is his last stint in Formula One, one last marathon in the pinnacle of motorsport to try and return glory to the team Schumacher had led to greatness so many decades ago. It’s the last goal in his book, the final dream to be realized.
Some part of him knows there’s a good chance it’ll be Charles leading the charge, that Lewis will be the stalwart commander in support of the general, but the part of him that still hungers for victories—for that eighth title—is willing to take the risk. Charles might be the one to see the Scuderia to the top but Lewis knows it’s in his nature to keep fighting until the bitter end. In some ways, he and Nico were so alike in that sense—refusing to give an inch, even when it may have been wise to do so.
Maybe if Lewis had been less rigid, more willing to listen.
Maybe if Nico hadn’t completely cut Lewis from his life.
Maybe if the anger and spite hadn’t taken the place of—
No.
He exhales. He can’t go there again. Can’t tear himself to pieces over clever, beautiful Nico who was always too smart for his own good.
Across from him, the brunet shoots Lewis a sympathetic smile. “Do not fret, mon ami, I am certain you will have better days ahead.” He picks up his phone, glances down at the screen again—another smile on his lips—before walking over to where the assistant director is motioning for them both to stand.
Lewis stands up, can hear the pop of his joints as he rises.
Better days ahead. He inhales, eyes closing briefly.
Better days ahead.
He opens his eyes and walks to the assistant director, forcing Nico back to the corner of his mind that he’s seemed to haunt ever since the real Nico left the grid at the end of 2016.
Better days.
God, Lewis hopes so.
(It’s only later on that Lewis realizes having Nico—his laugh, his teasing, his polyglot abilities—running rampant in his mind was the very thing that led him to the disaster he was now in the middle of. He’d let go of his restraint for a handful of minutes and that door in his heart—the one labeled ‘Nico’ in beautifully scripted cursive, the same script as his tattoos—refused to be closed.)
A week passes and, ahead of the Bahrain Grand Prix, the first series of Ferrari PR videos featuring Charles Leclerc and Lewis Hamilton are posted on every major social media platform. Lewis interviews Charles, Charles interviews Lewis. They attempt to bake an apple strudel (for some reason) and then played ping pong while answering trivia questions.
Standard fare, nothing special.
Lewis grimaces at how spacey he looks in some shots—expression contemplative and distracted, too busy thinking about Nico and how they were once attached at the hip and now—nothing. Lewis doesn’t know if Nico still loves fresh focaccia dipped in olive oil and chili flakes or if his tastes have changed to ciabatta or maybe schiacciata. His press officer reassures Lewis that he looks fine—that she’s more worried about the “random fun facts” Charles keeps interjecting about Belgium and the history of the Singaporean flag during their interview video.
All in all, they’re not terrible PR videos but they’re also…not great. Certainly not as polished as the PR videos he filmed back at Mercedes with Valtteri or George.
Still, they were decent enough for TikTok and Instagram and X and god knows what other site Ferrari posted them to.
Lewis honestly doesn’t give those videos another thought.
Lewis is sitting in his blessedly cool trailer, fans everywhere and the AC cranked up, eyes fixed on the iPad that’s displaying his most recent free practice data. Bahrain had been good—a double podium for the team—and he’d quickly developed a rhythm with the car after lap 7, all indicators that 2026 was shaping up to be quite the promising year. He swipes down to see the intricate notes Ricky and the other engineers had annotated, wondering if there was any correlation between the ride height and—
SLAM!
The sharp echoing bang! of his trailer door being kicked open nearly gave Lewis a goddamn stroke then and there.
“The actual fu—?”
“Ce traître! Comment ose-t’il s’asseoir avec Nico, lui sourire et manger avec lui et—je le déteste! Comment ose-t-il!” [That traiter! How dare he sit with Nico and smile at him and eat with him and—I hate him! How dare he!] The furious, devastated, and slightly hysterical voice of Charles Leclerc hits Lewis with all the force on a two ton truck slamming into him at breakneck speed.
He can barely blink before his trailer door is being slapped closed and Charles is stomping in like a hurricane, sloppily dressed in Ferrari gear—as if he’d thrown on the first set of clothes available to him—and spewing rapid fire French at a speed that Lewis didn’t think humanly possible.
In fact, the only word he managed to catch was Nico.
Charles was probably referring to Nico Hulkenberg but Lewis seriously doubted the mild-mannered German could’ve done anything to send Charles into such a tailspin that the usually PR perfect Monegasque driver was now swearing up a storm and looking like he very much wanted to break something.
“Char—”
“—And how could he?!” The words are caught halfway between a yell and a sob as Charles suddenly collapses on the smaller couch adjacent to Lewis, green eyes teary as his lower lip trembles. “How could he do this to me? To me? I thought…I thought he liked me and now he is—now that hateful, beautiful, talented connard is out there with—with—I cannot even speak his name! I cannot! If I do I’ll—I’ll throw something, I will!” Charles threatens, though Lewis still isn’t sure who he’s threatening.
Honestly, he doesn’t understand his teammate about 60% of the time but right now, Lewis may as well be witnessing Tolstoy recite War and Peace. In Russian.
Just as Lewis is about to ask for clarification—or at least a reference to whatever it is that’s got Charles in such a fury—the younger man all but throws his phone at Lewis and it’s only thanks to decades of reflex training that he manages to catch it.
“Just look!” Charles commands imperiously, pointing at his phone like it’s a live bomb. “Just look at the treachery!”
“Charles, I really don’t think anything is as bad as you’re making it out to be.” Lewis attempts to placate while turning Charles’s phone right-side up. The screen’s unlocked, showing some video clip on Instagram—a fan account—that’s filled with so many hashtags it’s got Lewis going slightly cross-eyed trying to decipher all of them. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, I’ll listen, but you can’t just storm in here like this, throwing accusations and expect me to understand—what the fuck.”
His thumb hit the “replay” button.
The clip came to life.
Playing right in front of him.
The clip.
Lewis couldn’t believe what he was seeing—maybe he hadn’t actually caught Charles’s phone and was now lying on the floor completely concussed—because what he was seeing should have been impossible. There was no way—no fucking way.
The cursed clip ended and Lewis immediately hit the stupid “replay” icon again.
Again, there was no change.
A slightly blurry video of a discrete cafe somewhere in Melbourne. A cafe filled with rows of hedges and plants to make it difficult for paparazzi to take photos, but not impossible. Tucked beneath a giant sun umbrella were two men with blond hair, both slightly leaning into each other as they talked over lunch.
Lewis knew both of them but there was only one blond whose features were forever imprinted in Lewis’s brain. Aristocratic and soft, with high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and a perfectly shaped cupid’s bow mouth. Flowing golden hair caught in the slight wind, hair that should never have been so silky and soft. Hair that Lewis can still feel between his fingers sometimes, when they cross paths in the paddock and—
“Do you see?” Charles’s voice interrupts, causing Lewis to blink back to reality.
The clip is still playing.
Fuck. This was reality.
“What is this?” He manages to croak out, disbelief slowly making way to numbness. “What the fuck am I watching here, Leclerc?”
“Betrayal!” Charles shouts. “This is betrayal of the highest order! We are also both tagged in this monstrosity! As if they thought we would be happy to know.” He says ‘happy’ with the most exaggerated eye-roll Lewis has ever seen. “And I am sure you do not need me to explain just how horrible this betrayal is.”
Lewis coughs and immediately shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He hands Charles back his phone, completely ignoring the look of contempt the brunet is shooting him.
“So you do not want me to tell you why my Max is having lunch with your Nico?”
“You know?” The words leave Lewis’s mouth on instinct, baseline desire to always know what Nico was doing, who Nico was spending time with, if he was—
He doesn’t bother looking at Charles again but there’s blood in the water, and the green-eyed driver is positively smug with triumph. “If you want to know the reason behind…this,” he gestures to his phone, “then you will help me.”
“Help you?” He repeats, and then—“Also, he’s not ‘my’ Nico. He’s just Nico. Old rival and now retired driver. Nothing more.”
“Uh-huh. Well,” Charles brushes his explanation aside like an inconvenient dust mite, “I have learned that Max and Nico will be dining at this bistro,” he shows Lewis a picture, “and we will be there. Tonight.”
It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no, to protest, he can’t—he’s got training, he needs to review data, maybe hop on the sim (god he hates that thing but it’s a necessary evil), and then work on some brand deals. He can’t possibly go with Charles to…stalk Nico and Verstappen—
“What do you even plan to do once we get there?” Lewis tries to find a reason to cling onto—something that’ll make this insanity seem less…insane.
“We will sit and observe, try to figure out why they are doing this because I do not take kindly to anyone who thinks they can play with my heart and not have me slash their tires and ruin their life.”
“But what if—”
“What if what?”
“Nothing.” Be mature Lewis. Don’t concern yourself with this nonsense. You got over Nico a long, long time ago and you do not need some kid dragging you back to the past because of his own relationship problems. (Not that he and Nico are in a relationship.)
They’re definitely not.
He hears fabric rustling and within half a second, Charles has scooted himself next to Lewis on the larger couch, fingers poking at his shoulder. “Non, do not—what is the word? Observate? Non, non it is—obfuscate! Yes, that’s it!” Charles sounds very pleased by his expanding vocabulary. “Maintenant, dis-moi.”
Don’t give in.
Do not give in.
Lewis tries—he really does—but the images assaulting his mind are too visceral for words.
Verstappen’s arm wrapped around Nico’s slim shoulders. Verstappen running his fingers through Nico’s silky-soft hair. Verstappen tilting Nico’s chin up, the way Lewis used to do, the Dutchman’s eyes taking in Nico’s perfect blush before he leans in to press a kiss to those perfect cupid’s bow lips—
Oh—fuck that.
Lewis turns to face Charles. “What if they’re—dating.” He does not almost gag on the word.
The younger man suddenly goes very still, limbs completely freezing. For a second, Lewis doesn’t even think he’s breathing.
And then—
“If they are,” Charles voice is low and hard, “if they are doing…that,” he spits out, “then I promise you Max will never know peace again.”
“But what about Nic—I mean, seems one-sided.”
Charles shrugs. “Nico’s yours. You choose how you want to torment him.”
Ah. Well, that’s fair. Wait, no—
“I don’t have feelings for Nico.”
Charles arches a brow. “I never said you did.”
“You implied it!”
“And you said it aloud! Face it Lewis, you are in the same ship I am!”
“I think it’s just ‘boat’ Charles.”
“Boat is too common. I am a ship.”
The metaphor does not make any sense but Lewis is picking his battles right now. “Charles I’m not going to stalk Nico and Verstappen to some random restaurant in Australia! That’s—insane. And I don’t care about who Nico is dating. He’s always had bad taste and if he wants to go after Verstappen—”
“Max is not bad taste!” Charles yells back, equally indignant.
“Charles, be realistic. Verstappen is rude, aggressive, arrogant, and lacks impulse control and I don’t know why Nico would even want to date him. They have nothing in common. I highly doubt Verstappen’s sitting around reading Émile Zola and looking into the socio-political turmoil that led to the Franco-Prussian War.” Nico loved nearly every novel by Zola and would enthusiastically give Lewis highly theatrical summaries of each book while they laid on the couch, the TV screen completely blank because there was Nico—animated and passionate—spilling his heart about the ending of Thérèse Raquin, a glass of Malbec in his hand as he gesticulated like a mad man.
Lewis had once adored that about him.
Charles on the other hand looks as if Lewis had just murdered a golden retriever in front of him. “How dare you.” He hisses, more feral cat than racing driver. “Max is kind, considerate, and so caring towards those he cares about—he’s only rude when people are insulting him to his face. And don’t you dare say he lacks impulse control, we’re racing drivers, our blood runs hot.” He gives an eye roll. “I watched your old onboards Lewis. You don’t get to call anyone aggressive. Besides,” he sniffs, “why would Max ever want to date Nico? He’s so fussy and picky and a complete snob about anything and everything. Not to mention,” Charles crosses his arms, “he’s a know-it-all. I can’t imagine having a conversation with him would be pleasant at all.”
Lewis is stunned. Has Charles gone blind, deaf, and dumb? “Nico only does all that as a defense mechanism! You don’t know about all the shit people said when he first came on the grid and the media weren’t half as regulated as they are now. Nico just held his head high and tried to ignore all the fucked up shit people were saying behind his back.”
The brunet simply scoffs. “Well—”
“Charles we’re talking in circles.” He sighs.
“Yes, because you are clearly still in love with Nico and Max is mine and if we allow them to spend any more time together then we’ll lose them. For good.” He emphasizes.
Lewis freezes.
Completely goes still for a moment.
Because what if that does happen? What if this isn’t just some random story the press took and are now running with? What if Nico is actually interested in Verstappen? Would they…would they actually start dating? Sharing kisses in the paddock? Would Verstappen defend Nico the way Lewis had all those years ago?
And what would Lewis do then? He wouldn’t have any right to Nico, that beautiful, spoiled, charmingly infuriating blond who stole Lewis’s heart more than 20 years ago and Lewis had foolishly never thought to ask for it back.
He was going to lose him.
He was going to lose Nico.
Fuck.
✨✨✨ ✨✨✨
“Yeah. I’m in.”
They arrive to the bistro—a cozy, hole in the wall place that’s all neutral stone with heavy wooden signs and candles everywhere—under the cover of night. Charles insisted they wear black to be “inconspicuous” and Lewis had merely followed orders.
Yes, the top he chose was one he’d worn on his 5 year anniversary date with Nico. The same Yves Saint Laurent that had caused Nico to all but purr in delight before the blond threw himself in the arms of the Brit and demanded Lewis kiss him breathless before they left.
They never made it to the restaurant and had instead spent the night in bed, breathless and sweaty with Nico’s hands clawing into Lewis’s back, his pouty mouth moaning Lewis’s name as Nico begged him for more, harder, please—
Yes, Lewis is very fond of this top.
And it was also in black!
It fit the theme perfectly, that was all.
The bistro is configured like a maze, tables diagonal from one another in a dark, smoky atmosphere lit up by dim yellow lights and candle flame.
Max had purposefully selected a table near the back, away from the front and tucked away so that only one other table was nearby and close enough that both tables could hear one another’s conversations if they leaned in close enough.
Max also had the waiter adjust their table so it was a few inches closer to the one adjacent to them.
If he were modest, Charles would say he looks phenomenal. If he’s being honest, then he can say with absolute confidence that the outfit he has gone would make a grown man fall to his knees and pledge his eternal and undying devotion to Charles right then and there.
And he wants that grown man to be his Max.
Anger thrums beneath the surface of his soft, tanned skin—now smelling like orange blossoms and meringue after a 4 hour spa session—as he aggressively sits down at the table that’s conveniently located right next to where Max and The Interloper sits. Charles doesn’t even notice the waiter’s hands shaking and sweating as he pulls out Charles’s chair, only gives him a slightly distracted smile that gives the poor teen heart palpitations.
“For the love of—stop looking!” Lewis hisses, holding up the giant menu to block his face.
Charles does not give a fuck. He’s dressed in black trousers so perfectly tailored it looks like he’s been poured in them (he knows Max likes to stare at his ass, he knows this, if only the goddamn fool would do something about it), a skin tight dark burgundy button-up that emphasizes his chest and tapers down perfectly to his tiny waist (further cinched by a black Prada belt), and for the kill: the black mesh lace Louboutin stilettos that has him swaying his hips in perfect rhythm to the beat of his heart as he sashayed into the restaurant and caused one patron to trip over his own two feet.
Charles does not want subtlety tonight.
He wants Max to see what he’s missing and come rushing to Charles (preferably with kisses) and beg for forgiveness.
And he never wants to see The Interloper ever again. God, he hates Nico.
(Not really, but in this moment Charles can’t think of anything worse than sitting here, sitting perpendicular to where Max and The Interloper are, and doing his best not to scream at the top of his lungs.)
“So what’s the plan, hot shot?” Lewis mutters.
It’s only then that Charles realizes there’s now wine in his glass and bread on the table. Which means time has passed.
But Max is still not begging for forgiveness.
Charles yanks the wine glass off the table and glares over at where Max and The Interloper are sitting. They’re across from each other—good—with plenty of candles and dishes in between. Max has a gin & tonic next to him (of course he does, he thinks with a roll of his eyes and far too much fondness) while The Interloper has a glass of white wine—Riesling, or maybe Sauvignon Blanc (so what, Charles did a bit of research…know thy enemy and all that).
“Charles? Hello?” He distantly hears Lewis’s voice. “The plan? If there is one?” The last part is said rather pointedly but Charles only takes a sip from his glass.
(Hm, a Syrah. Not his favorite but it’ll do.)
“We observe.” Charles mutters, emerald eyes still fixed to the table that has a direct line tied right to Charles’s heart. “And be a little quiet so we can—”
“We’re not going to eavesdrop!”
“Then why are you whispering?” Charles snaps back as he leans slightly closer to the other table, watching as Max moves his hands in a circular motion—likely discussing rotational kinetic energy and angular momentum, that dork.
“…What are we even going to learn from just listening to them talk? Pet names? The two of them reminiscing on how they got here? Fuck, I can’t sit here and listen to that shit, man.” Lewis sounds miserable.
Charles only takes another sip of his wine, desperately wishing he’d brought binoculars. “They are discussing rotational motion right now. Max always likes to go deeper into the mechanics before and after a race weekend. It’s cute, no?”
“Fuck.”
“Don’t be rude!”
“No, I’m not.” He hears glass clinking and the sound of Lewis drinking. “Nico loves talking about that stuff too. He was always brilliant when it came to engineering and mechanics. Probably could’ve become a Chief Technical Officer somewhere if he didn’t love racing so much. When he was at Mercedes the engineers would come to him for feedback. Said they liked listening to his perspective.” Lewis sounds more dejected than a kicked puppy. “I never understood more than the basics. Figured Nico would go for someone who could understand all the nitty-gritty.”
Charles bites his lip, tasting pink cherry lip gloss.
He is not losing Max to someone who can talk shop. Charles understands this stuff too! Maybe not the same depth and degree as Max but Charles isn’t stupid (no matter what the memes might say), he can pick up on mechanical engineering when he wants to and right now, Charles is aiming for a fucking PhD.
Right then, he watches as The Interloper rests his chin in the palm of his hand, gazing at Max with something close to…to…
“Nico looks smitten.” Lewis sounds like he’s in near tears.
Charles aggressively takes another (enormous) sip of wine. “He’s drunk.”
“No he’s not. Nico doesn’t look like that when he’s drunk.”
But Charles isn’t paying attention to The Interloper, not when Max has leaned slightly closer, the candlelight casting shadows on his white button-up.
“Schauen sie uns an?” [Are they looking at us?]
“Sie sind. Dein Freund sieht aus, als wollte er mich töten. Lewis sieht aus, als würde er gleich weinen.” [They are. Your boyfriend looks like he wants to kill me. Lewis looks like he’s about to cry.]
“They’re speaking German?” Charles hisses, utterly indignant. “Max has lived in Monaco for years and he still won’t speak French like a normal person?!”
Lewis groans. “Can you understand any of it?”
“I…well, no.” He tips the wine glass back to his lips but finds it empty. “Putain. I need more wine.”
“No, you need to pay attention.” Lewis snaps back. Charles briefly glances over to see his mature, even-headed teammate was now glaring at Max and The Interloper like he wanted to stomp over drag a certain German into a supply closet. “Here, get up.”
“What are you doing?!” Charles hisses. “They’re going to see—!”
“If they can’t see us when we’re 4 feet away then moving a few inches closer is not going to make a difference. Now help me move this table.”
Charles does not want to stand, get sweaty, or ruin his Louboutin’s but at the same time…
From the corner of his eye he sees it.
The Interloper.
Has.
His.
Hand.
On Max’s wrist.
His wrist! The same wrist that would brush against Charles’s jaw when Max pulled him in for a hug. The same wrist Charles clutched during hectic media days and Max would stand protectively beside him, arm hovering around the brunet’s waist while Charles’s thumb rubbed circles on the inside of Max’s exposed wrist.
(The same wrist Charles fantasizes about bringing to his lips and kissing, of hearing that soft hitch in the Dutchman’s breath, of shattering his usual cool and seeing that warm, melty smile that has Charles’s heart in a puddle.)
He ignores Lewis.
With eerie calm Charles stands up.
“Finally!” Lewis also rises. “Grab your side of the—Charles what are you doing.”
The bottle of Syrah is half-finished.
Without a second thought Charles grabs the bottle and, like the incoming storm, all but stomps over to where Max and The Interloper are. The Red Bull driver's smile is warm as he continues conversing with The Interloper, whose fingers are still brushing his Max’s wrist, when the sharp, furious stomps of Charles’s heels against the carpeted floor finally catch their attention.
For a split second, Max looks awestruck—blue eyes electric as they quickly scan down his body—but Charles’s green eyes are practically spitting fire as they lock in on his target.
Stupid Nico and his stupid Alexander McQueen and his stupid, stupid smirk—Charles knows exactly what he’s going to do to wipe that goddamn smirk off his goddamn face as he lifts his arm, ready to dump half a bottle of red wine over his stupid head—
“Charles, for fuck’s sake—!” Lewis yells from behind, but he’s not going to make it in time before gravity does its thing and the wine—
The wine bottle is snatched from his hand.
Charles blinks.
And then looks down.
The dark green bottle of Syrah has been snatched from his fingertips and is now…now…
“Charlie.” Max’s raspy soft voice is louder than cannon fire. Charles doesn’t know when Max got to his feet but he’s standing now, he’s holding the same Syrah bottle Charles had been clutching, and—Charles can feel tears welling up in his eyes. “Oh Charlie, liefste—” Max immediately moves forward, haphazardly tossing the bottle onto the table and moving so he’s standing in front of Charles, one hand half-extended, as if wanting to cup Charles’s cheek. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to—”
“How could you do this to me?” Charles fights back the tears threatening to spill. “You—you absolute bastard. Je pensais que tu m’aimais, mais j’avais tort, n’est-ce pas? All you ever wanted to do was string me along like I was some cheap trick and I let you.” Charles doesn’t know that his eyes are shimmering like emeralds beneath the candlelight, that his trembling lower lip is ripping Max’s heart and crushing his soul. “Don’t you ever come near me again, Verstappen.” The Monegasque holds his head high, he will not be belittled—not by anyone, and certainly not by Ma—Vertappen. [I thought you loved me, but I was wrong, wasn’t I?]
At the use of his surname, Max’s face falls—completely breaks—and the devastation writ across those beautiful blue eyes is enough to hurt Charles too. “Charlie, geliefd, please, let me explain—this was a stupid idea, but schatje, you don’t know how jealous I was. How I wanted to—god, I wanted to fall on my knees and beg you to remember me and steal you away so you wouldn’t ever have anyone except me—”
“Then why didn’t you?” Charles shouts back. “You know what I want, you know I wanted to be yours but you didn’t do anything.” He takes one step forward so they’re not chest to chest, Charles with silent tears falling down his face and Max with paper-thin restraint, trembling hands tense from trying to hold back.
To contain himself, to contain whatever is churning inside him, like an underwater typhoon.
“I hated how you looked at him. Every frame, every moment in those videos.” Max’s gaze flickers briefly to the side before returning to Charles. “Please, let me explain.” He implores, sounding more devastated than when he’d lost Hungary back in 2024.
The Ferrari driver crosses his arms, obstinate. “Fine.” He bites his lip. “Explain.”
“I—”
“Charles, what the actual fuck are you doing?” Lewis finally manages to find his voice, moving to try and separate Max and Charles but the second his hand brushes against the burgundy of Charles’s button-up, Max—
The breath is nearly knocked out of Charles when he sees the blond’s gaze turn dark. His expression is that of a man possessed—furious and virulent.
“Get your hands off of him.” Max snarls, all but shoving Lewis to the side.
(Something greedy and pleased curls in Charles’s belly at the blatant display of possession.)
“Now, now, no need for violence.” The Interloper interrupts, something that sounds like concern threaded through his voice as he moves to stand in front of his ex-teammate. “We’re all here for a lovely evening, ja?”
“We are. But if you,” the glare he sends Lewis is venomous that it practically sets Charles’s heart alight, “or anyone else comes near Charles again, I won’t need a car to put them through a fucking wall.”
“Then maybe if you didn’t act like a jackass towards someone you claim to care about, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” Lewis returns with the sort of icy-cool sharpness that is a sudden jolt and reminder as to why it’s Sir Lewis Hamilton, elder statesman and champion for the ages.
Max’s jaw clenches. “I need to explain—”
“You do indeed.” The Interloper smirks (Charles hates his stupid, shiny white teeth), tossing his golden hair in a way that it perfectly catches the light. “And I need a drink at the bar.”
“You are not going anywhere Nico.” Lewis snaps, one hand coming to grab onto the German’s elbow. “You’re fucking shameless aren’t you?” He all but growls.
“Oh you’re one to talk.” The Interloper smiles, cruel and mocking. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be the one carrying your precious Leclerc away.”
Charles opens his mouth to interrupt but suddenly, he feels the world turn horizontal as strong arms hoist him up. The same arms that always made him feel so safe—the arms that shielded him from overeager journalists and the stifling crowd. The arms that would hover near him, as if drawn to Charles but too afraid to take that final step of actually holding him.
Now, however—
“Max Verstappen!” Charles screams, half in delight, half in shock, as Max bridal carries him away without a backwards glance at either Lewis or The Interloper. (The waiter actually spreads a silk folding screen to shield them from the other patrons.)
“We need privacy.” The Dutchman mutters as he holds Charles close, walking down a private corridor conveniently located right beside their table.
“If you think I’ll let this go just because you decided to play caveman, you’ve got another thing coming!”
“You’ve never let anything go in your life.” Max mutters, navigating a maze of walls and paintings as everything and everyone fades in the background.
“You think you can carry me away and I’ll forgive you?” Charles’s voice cracks, just the tiniest bit.
Max’s jaw clenches as he gives a sharp shake of his head. “Please schatje.” His voice is controlled but tremulous, as if his control was finally slipping away.
Charles wants that.
Wants to see Max break. He wants answers and revelations and promises.
Charles has never been afraid to push too far. “Put me down now.” He crosses his arms—and goes for the kill. “Lewis and I are leaving. Together.”
Max sees red.
Lewis and I are leaving. Together.
He kicks open the nearest door to find an empty, cloistered bar—the secret speakeasy that wouldn’t be open for another hour—before placing Charles down and slamming the door closed.
The expression on Charles's face as he straightens up, smoothing over that skin tight burgundy button-up, is neutral, completely controlled.
It infuriates him, the rage that had been boiling since the day those video clips dropped, one right after the other.
Max grabs the shorter man and all but shoves him against the wall beside the door, one hand cupped around the brunet's waist to keep him from getting injured as his other hand slams against the wall by Charles’s head, effectively boxing the Monegasque in. Trapped between the wall and Max’s body.
“Get off me, Verstappen.” The brunet’s voice is icy. He pushes against Max’s chest but the Dutchman is immovable, jaw clenching tighter when Charles delicate hand presses harder, fingertips digging into flesh.
“You think I was just playing around with you?” He breathes, disbelief and grief intertwining when he sees the flash of hurt on his beautiful boy’s face.
“What else was I supposed to think?” Charles demands. “One minute you’re calling me at 2 am, sending me messages and trying to hold me every time we’re together. And the next I see photos of you on a cafe date with Rosberg of all people. Can’t stay away from a boy with a pretty face can you? Or would anyone do? I guess you really can lower your standards—”
“You didn’t seem to give a shit when you were flirting with Lewis on camera.” He spits out, words tripping over themselves as he interrupts, unable to contain the confusion and devastation roiling inside him. They’re face to face, Max just that much taller—even with Charles in heels—looking down with an expression that is half-rage, half-regret. “I saw, Charles. Every goddamn video Ferrari released. I saw you smiling, when the camera cut away. I saw you laughing at his stupid jokes. I saw you leaning towards him for that strudel challenge.” He leans closer, their foreheads almost present together. “I destroyed my trailer when those videos first came out.” Max whispers, remembering the sheer helplessness that nearly crushed him. His couch broken apart, his table shoved so violently that the wood cracked. Picture frames torn from the walls and Max curling in on himself on the floor, biting back tears.
His worst fears come to life. Charles finally realizing Max was just a distraction—an aggressive, uncultured brute who could drive fast but had nothing else to offer.
Why stay with a 4-time world champion when you had a living legend as your teammate?
“It broke me schatje.” He knows he’s giving too much away, the weight of sorrow heavy on his tongue, but Max needs Charles to know.
He needs his love to know that Max would never toy with Charles’s heart—not when Charles owns every little piece of Max’s.
“You…you were jealous? Of me and Lewis?” The shorter man sounds incredulous—almost confused.
He lets out a short, pained laugh. “Is it that much a surprise?” The hand beside the wall moves to cup Charles’s cheek, touch tender and light and longing. “I’ve loved you since I was 21, Charles. And I’ve liked you for far longer than that. I think I may have been yours before I was even aware of it.” He confesses, only giving a sad smile when the brunet’s eyes widen, shock and disbelief etched on his delicate features. “And I thought…maybe I had a chance with you. After I won the championship.” His thumb caresses Charles’s jaw. “And I know that I don’t deserve you, not yet. But if you give me a chance Charles I’ll prove that I’m worthy, I won’t embarrass you, I promise.” He swallows, adrenaline and fear coursing through him but Max knows this is his one and only chance. Charles was angry at seeing him and Nico together—jealous, even—which meant that some part of Charles, some small part, did care.
Slowly, Max feels Charles’s hand, the one that had been by his side, move to wrap around the back of his neck. The hand that had been pressed against Max’s chest does the same, allowing Charles to hold Max close, arms looped around his shoulders. “You idiot.” His voice is watery. “You got jealous of a few promo videos Lewis and I filmed so you decided to get back at me with Nico?”
Max stays silent for a moment before nodding. He’s not proud of what he’s done but the jealousy, fear, and hurt had been too much—it’d consumed Max night and day until he ran into Nico in the paddock and saw the German looked as devastated as Max felt.
That was where the plan hatched. The oldest trick in the book, Nico had said, but it’ll do. I know Leclerc has declared you his and I know Lewis considers you enough of a threat to get jealous when he sees us together.
So Max went along with it, needing proof that maybe, just maybe, Charles felt something for him too.
Charles laughs, bright and teary and beautiful. “You are lucky I like my men just a little stupid. Otherwise, you would be in big trouble.”
“I—”
Quick as a shot, Charles leans forward and kisses the protest from Max’s lips. He can feel the brunet’s smile as he leans into the kiss, shocked and stunned and so, so in love.
Charles pulls back, cheeks pink and dimples on display. “You are a fool if you think I feel nothing for you.” He kisses Max’s cheek. “And an idiot if you think I do not care for you and respect you and admire you.” Another kiss, this time to the tip of Max’s nose. “You would be the silliest man in the world if you did not think my heart hasn’t been connected to yours since the day I met you, Max Emilian Verstappen.” He kisses Max’s other cheek. “And you would not be my Max if you were unworthy. Because to me, Max, you have always been the most worthy man I know.”
Max can hardly breathe, too terrified to shatter this glass-spun moment before them, too terrified to ruin what may be the loveliest, most perfect dream.
“Schatje,” Max’s voice is reverent—shaking with emotion—unable to believe what he has just heard. “You mean all this time you’ve…you’ve wanted me?”
Charles shakes his head and Max feels his heart drop to his floor.
But before the shattering impact, Charles’s smile—glowing and warm and golden—softens into an expression of such tender affection that it breaks Max almost as much as it heals him. “Mon cœur,” his sweet boy whispers, “it means after all this time, I have loved you too.”
Love.
Adoration.
The sense of the universe righting itself, of the cosmos shimmering brighter.
Max presses their foreheads together, his body unable to hold all the love he has felt now that he knows it’s returned. “I love you,” he confesses, “I love you Charlie. And I’m sorry I ever hurt you, I never meant to but I did anyway and I’m so, so sorry. I promise I’ll never give you a reason to doubt my love ever again.” He vows, pledging himself to Charles the way Romeo did Juliet, ever eternal, ever unbreakable.
In his arms Charles wraps himself closer, unable to stand even the tiniest bit of space between their bodies. “I know you will, mon amour.” He reassures. “But perhaps,” he leans back slightly, allowing Max to see mischief dancing in those emerald green eyes, “a demonstration of your devotion is needed? Right now?” He teases, rocking his hips forward.
“Liefje…” Max warns. He can feel himself growing hard—has been hard since he saw Charles sashay into the restaurant, all perfect curves and lean lines and those gorgeous fuck-me heels. “You’ve been teasing me from the start.”
“Mmh, maybe I have.” He smirks, moving one long, lean leg to wrap around Max’s waist.
Max can’t help the moan that leaves his lips, his hips grinding against Charles, needing his baby’s touch. “You keep this up and I’ll fuck you right here.”
“Up against the wall? Promise to make the room shake?” The little minx winks—or tries to—but it only sets Max’s heart alight.
He has everything he wants right here—Charles’s love, reciprocated and true, and the promise of forever wrapped in his arms.
“Let’s get out of here.” Max says even as he leans down to grab Charles’s other leg to wrap around his waist.
Charles is lifted off the floor with a delighted, breathless laugh. “There’s paparazzi out front. I called them.”
“You—?”
“Mmh,” Charles leans in, burying his face in the crook of Max’s neck. “Either I’d kiss you and stake my claim or I would be photographed as the innocent angel whose heart you broke and you’d be buried online for daring to cheat on me. Maybe even publicly chastised by Fred and Sky Sports.” His teeth nip at the blond’s neck.
“…Charlie, you’re insane.” He pauses. “God, I love you.”
“Hmm…prove it.” The little siren in his arms demands, fingers buried in Max’s hair.
His eyes darken, promise and passion writ clear into his stormy gaze. “Oh, I intend to.”
Nico watches as Max bridal carries Charles away like some protagonist out of a Jane Austen novel. Very romantic, very over-the-top. Nico’s slightly jealous. Knowing Lewis, he’s probably in for the chiding of a lifetime but Nico hardly cares.
He managed to get under Lewis’s skin and that’s more than he’s been able to do in the last decade. With another toss of his hair, Nico begins to make his way to the cherrywood bar when he’s suddenly jerked to a stop, a warm, muscly arm suddenly wrapped tight around his waist.
Lewis has grabbed onto Nico. Grabbed onto him and dragged Nico backwards so that Nico’s back was pressed flush against Lewis's chest.
Nico can’t help it—his breath hitches, heart rate rising as he stumbles back.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Lewis’s smooth British accent sounds like sharpened blade right now.
The former Mercedes driver forces his heart rate back down. He straightens his spine, chin tilted high, and refuses to glance back at the furious driver behind him. “This is me getting away from you and going somewhere I actually want to be.”
“Then you’re going the wrong way aren’t you? Verstappen left in the other direction” Lewis snarls.
And—oh. Nico can hardly believe it. When he’d seen the latest Ferrari videos and proposed his “fake date” plan to Max, he knew only one of them would get their happily ever after and it wasn’t going to be Nico. At most, he’d get Lewis riled up because he saw Max as an actual rival and Nico—well, Lewis may not care about Nico anymore but the Brit had always been a possessive sucker.
Some part of Lewis still saw Nico as his.
And Nico knew if he poked and prodded just right, he’d force that cool, calm demeanor to crack—ever so slightly—and allow the German to see the fire and flame that once burned so brightly for him.
Biting down on his lip, Nico turns so they’re face to face, chest to chest, and Lewis is gazing down directly at him. With a sultry smile, Nico crosses his arms, noting how Lewis can’t help but gaze at the deep v of his Alexander McQueen blazer. “My, my, is someone jealous that their teammate is about to date a Red Bull driver?”
“Charles can date whoever the hell he wants. But you, Nico,” Lewis glares, “you’re going around making a fool of yourself.”
“Oh?” The playfulness drops. “What a surprise. A lecture from you. What’s the topic for tonight, professor?”
“How about common decency?” His arm tightens around Nico, forcing the blond closer though Nico doesn’t think that’s on purpose. “Dating Verstappen when he’s more than a decade younger? You fucking met him when he was a teenager and now you’re cradle robbing. That’s sick, Nico.”
“Oh that is rich coming from you. Like you haven’t gone around dating 22 year old models and calling it a day.”
“I never dated them—”
“Ah yes, of course, how could I forget.” Nico spits out mockingly. “You just fucked them and left, didn’t you? Well if you can do it, why can’t I?”
“Don’t you fucking dare. Not with him.” Lewis’s other arm comes to wrap around Nico’s waist, tugging him in so close that Nico has to uncross his arms, hands coming to brace against Lewis’s broad shoulders. “I can deal with anyone,” he hisses, “anyone else. But not him.”
“You don’t get that claim on me anymore.” He snaps back even as his heart crumples, even though he wishes that were true. “Just because you don’t want me doesn’t mean other people don’t.”
“Of course other people fucking want you!” Lewis explodes suddenly, dragging him even deeper into the shadows, even further away from the prying eyes. “Of course other people want you.” He repeats, softer. “Why wouldn’t they? You know what you look like and if cheap sex is all you’re after then fine, go ahead. I won’t stop you.”
“So it doesn’t bother you at all? The thought of me fucking someone else?” Hurt and heartbreak leak into his voice but Nico refuses to acknowledge it.
It aches—physically aches—to hear Lewis confirm that he wouldn’t care who Nico was fucking so long as it wasn’t his on-track rival.
That Lewis had so little regard for Nico that he couldn’t even muster up the tiniest bit of care.
He turns his head away, teeth biting down hard on his lower lip.
“I didn’t say that.” The words are quiet—blending into the air around them—but Nico’s pathetic heart can’t help but latch onto them.
He looks back up to see Lewis’s brown eyes had softened, looking at him with an expression that was almost…
Nico sniffs, he can’t help it—he’s never been able to conceal his true emotions from Lewis for long. “I’ll have you know,” he tries to sound cocky, “lots of people think I’m still pretty. Maybe I’ll try dating older. Who knows? The next wedding you see in Vogue might be mine.”
Lewis’s fingers dig into Nico’s waist, causing him to yelp.
He glares at the other man but instead of seeing contempt or disgust, Lewis’s face—those beautiful features, all at once strong and elegant—looks wild with barely contained emotion. “So that’s it, huh? Going to dump Verstappen to chase after someone older and richer? Some boyfriend you are.”
That slightly hurt tone hits a nerve.
Who the hell does Lewis think he is? Nico knows he doesn’t have much pride when it comes to Lewis—he’d been fine with the 7-time world champion coming in here and making a scene because of some residual claim he feels towards Nico—but this is where he draws the line.
Lewis does not get to waltz in here and pretend like he’s the one who’s brokenhearted. He doesn’t get to act like Nico’s the one who ended everything and stomped on his heart. He doesn’t get to pretend Nico’s the one who ignores him in the paddock and refuses to even acknowledge his presence.
Rage—the kind Nico hasn’t felt in a long time—suddenly burns through him, hotter than molten lava and twice as destructive.
With an almighty shove Nico manages to stun Lewis into letting go of his waist. He watches as his former teammate—former lover—goes stumbling back, nearly hitting the wall before managing to stabilize himself. “Du absoluter bastard. Das darfst du mir nicht sagen. Nicht, wenn du derjenige bist, der mir das Herz gebrochen hat.” [You absolute bastard. You can’t tell me that. Not when you’re the one who broke my heart.]
Lewis’s eyes widen, body freezing for a moment—and then two—before a soft, tremulous Nico leaves his lips.
But the German is too far gone now. The anger he’s suppressed for so many years comes frothing to the surface and for once, Nico doesn’t give a shit about PR and appearance and the look of the thing anymore. “Don’t you dare come in here with that sad, sorry act, making it sound like I’m the one who refused to speak to you for years and years end. You don’t get to tell me who I can and can’t date and you know what? If I want to spread my legs for Max Verstappen then I damn well will. If I want to get married to the first billionaire who proposes—and trust me, there’s been quite a few—then I can. So why don’t you go back to flirting with Leclerc in your stupid Ferrari videos and leave me the hell alone!” He shouts, tears streaming down his face, unable to stop the swell of emotion even as he angrily wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
God, he needs to get out of here.
Sneak out the back door maybe, away from the crowds and patrons and other pedestrians on the street. He needs to get out of here and fly back to Monaco to lick his wounds in peace.
What was he even thinking? Helping Max make Leclerc jealous was one thing—anyone with eyes could see how obsessed they were with each other—but trying the same trick on Lewis? That was nothing more than wishful thinking and Nico had gotten too swept away in the romance of it all to realize there would be no happily ever after for him. No matter how hard he tried to delude himself into believing otherwise.
Letting out a pathetic sniffle, Nico turns to walk away with the tattered remnants of his dignity when he suddenly feels warm, familiar arms embracing him.
But unlike earlier, when Lewis’s grip was all tight control with little regard for Nico’s own comfort, this time, the arms around him are tender—caressing—almost worshipful.
“Get off of me.” Nico barely manages to choke out, the tears making it difficult to speak.
“Nico—”
“No!” He shakes his head, shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs. “I don’t want to hear you or your condescending lectures for another second! Lass mich in Ruhe, sonst schreie ich!” [Leave me alone or I’ll scream!]
“Wirst du zuhören? Nur für eine Minute.” [Will you listen? For just a moment?]
Nico freezes.
Did Lewis just—?
He feels lightheaded, his lungs no longer working properly, his heart ceasing to pump blood.
“What did you just say?” He whispers, not daring himself to believe.
“Nico.” Lewis brings Nico closer to him, close enough for Lewis to lean in, their cheeks pressed together as Lewis hugs him from behind. “Ich hasste es, dich mit ihm zu sehen.” [I hated seeing you with him.]
Nico’s breath hitches.
“I’ve never felt rage like that before. And at the same time, I was helpless. I could see it, you and Verstappen going on dates. Him ordering the warm focaccia for you with the olive oil and chili flakes on the side. You and Verstappen on the couch, you with your red wine telling him all about your favorite Émile Zola passages. The thought of you and Verstappen together…Nico, I felt like I’d been disqualified from the fucking championship and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.” He confesses, words rolling off his tongue with such ease that Nico could hardly believe it.
Lewis, who had stopped talking to him after 2016 was now pouring his heart out with no coercion on Nico’s part.
“I thought I was over you. That our chapter was done and dusted.” Lewis’s lips barely ghost over the cut of Nico’s jaw, the faintest imitation of a kiss. “And then I saw that video of you and Verstappen at that cafe.” He chuckles. “That alone was enough for me to agree with whatever harebrained scheme Charles cooked up. I dragged myself here to spy on you Nico. And the second I saw you put your hand on Verstappen’s wrist?” His voice lowers, lips now pressed against Nico’s skin. “I wanted to break his fucking fingers.”
At those words, Nico spins around, unable to help himself as he brings both hands to cup Lewis’s face. “You mean that?” He asks, too terrified to hope but unable to stop his foolish heart from blooming under Lewis’s gaze.
“I do.” Lewis doesn’t hesitate.
Nico whimpers. “Lewis I—I don’t want our chapter to be done and dusted. I’ve never wanted that. I was just—back then, I mean—I was so stubborn and thought I had something to prove. I knew it was wrong—the mind games and interviews and all the things I said. Flaunting my trophy after races when you DNF’d. I was angry and spiteful but Lewis, oh mein liebling, I promise I never stopped loving you.”
Lewis’s eyes close at Nico’s touch, as if his body has finally been allowed to remember what home felt like after years of trying to forget it. “Nico,” he half-sighs, half-chuckles, “I learned German for you. Even when I signed for Ferrari and was supposed to be practicing my Italian. I kept studying German in the hope that one day I could ask you: Gibst du uns noch eine Chance?” [Will you give us another chance?]
Nico laughs, another tear falling down his cheek but this time, Lewis’s thumb comes to brush it aside. “I thought you said you got over me.”
Lewis shakes his head. “I lied.”
“It won’t be easy.” Nico warns. “I’m still the same person I was back then—I’ve changed, yes, but I’m still stubborn and spiteful and dramatic. I’ll cry if my outfit is ruined and argue with you about fluid dynamics and won’t let you leave the house with those hideous baggy jeans.”
“And I’m still the same competitive, equally stubborn, jealous man who loved you all those years ago.” Lewis counters. “I know this could all blow up in our faces.” The again goes unspoken. “But I also know what I want.”
“And what you want…”
“Is you.” Lewis smiles, hand moving from Nico’s cheek to tangle in his hair. “God, you look beautiful.”
Nico blushes. “I look like a puffy-eyed mess.”
“Du siehst wunderschön aus.” [You look beautiful.]
Nico leans in, smile coy and filled with promise, ready to kiss the man who’s haunted his heart since they were children dreaming of Formula One together—
A cough and the shuffle of feet break through, causing Nico to turn his head while Lewis’s grip on him tightens.
Nico smirks. Lewis always was the jealous type.
“My apologies Mr. Rosberg, Mr. Hamilton,” the waiter interrupts with a rather uncomfortable expression on his face, “but ah, there are quite a few photographers out front and we wondered if perhaps you would like to leave through the back door? If so, then I must ask you follow me immediately as there’s a good chance more paparazzi will follow.”
Lewis curses under his breath but Nico merely waves the concern away. “No need.” He smiles sweetly. “I don’t mind giving the public something to talk about.” He turns his gaze back to Lewis. “Do you, schatz?”
Lewis looks ready to protest, mouth opening and then closing before he tilts his head back and sighs. “What the hell,” he straightens, eyes meeting Nico’s and a faint smile on his lips. “Why not?”
Daily Mail @dailymail
RUNAWAY LOVE! Ferrari driver Charles Leclerc is carried away by 4-time World Champion Max Verstappen
By: Bianca Stratford for DailyMail.com
Published: 4:25 PST, 4 April 2025
Lights, camera, action! All the world’s a stage and in the fair city of Melbourne fans and spectators were treated to a production of love that will certainly be the talk of motorsport for the coming future. Daily Mail has obtained exclusive photographs of Ferrari driver Charles Leclerc (or Il Predestinato as the Tifosi have crowned him) exiting the exclusive Wilder Hawks Bistro on the night of April 2nd. His preferred mode of transportation? Max Verstappen’s arms. The Monegasque driver and 8-time Grand Prix winner was carried out of Melbourne’s most elite bistro and speakeasy by the 4-time Formula One world champion, Max Verstappen, who had no trouble navigating the crowds as he made his way to his Aston Martin Valkyrie.
Verstappen had previously been linked to 2016 world champion Nico Rosberg, with photos surfacing of the couple having lunch together and exploring the streets of Melbourne earlier this week. However, Verstappen’s representatives have confirmed that the relationship between the Dutchman and the former F1 driver is “purely platonic.” Insiders have also revealed that the affection between Ferrari’s great hope and Red Bull’s golden child had been brewing “for some time.”
The intimacy and closeness between Leclerc and Verstappen was certainly seen and felt that April night! While tucked safely in the Dutchman’s arms, one of the lace mesh Louboutin heels slipped off Leclerc’s foot and landed on the sidewalk. Not to be deterred, the blue-eyed world champion simply continued carrying Leclerc to his Aston Martin, opening the car door, and reverently placing him inside with a light kiss to Leclerc’s lips. Verstappen then turned, walked back to where the shoe had fallen, and brought it back to Leclerc on bended knee. The Cinderella moment was complete as Verstappen placed the $1,295 shoe on the Ferrari driver, ending with the green-eyed Monegasque beauty blushing pink even as he rewarded his knight in bespoke Tom Ford with a sweet kiss to the cheek. (Exclusive video footage can be found here!) Spectators have been swooning over the romance, with many confessing surprise by how “gentle” and “sweet” the Red Bull driver was while other fans were delighted by the news that two of the most exciting F1 drivers have come together as partners off-track and rivals on-track.
We here at Daily Mail couldn’t be happier for this surprise couple moment!
The Sun
Who Says Love Doesn’t Have a Second Chance?
By: Viola Williams
After an explosive and nail-biting 2016 season that resulted in a heart-pounding last race in Abu Dhabi to decide the championship title, Hamilton and Rosberg fans were convinced they would never see the pair on speaking terms again. After a year of battling wheel-to-wheel in a tense 21 race calendar that made every turn and hairpin into a riveting display of relentless competition, with one who wore the crown and the other determined to claim it for himself. The battle scars of Formula One’s great teammate divide ensured that neither Hamilton nor Rosberg would ever want to come within a breath of each other ever again. And for almost a decade, that theory held true.
Until April 2, 2026, when Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg were photographed by The Sun leaving the Wilder Hawks Bistro hand in hand. Neither Hamilton nor Rosberg paused to give comment as they made their way to Hamilton’s Ferrari 599 SA Aperta where Hamilton, ever the gentleman, opened the door for a glowing Nico Rosberg. Speculation had previously run rife that Rosberg was in the midst of a surprise romance with Red Bull driver Max Verstappen after the pair were spotted dining together earlier in the week. Reports also circulated of a lavish shopping spree Verstappen treated Rosberg to that produced the very outfit Rosberg wore that night. When reporters asked the question, Rosberg only gave a cheeky wink while the usually reserved Hamilton could be heard saying, “Not a question that’s up for speculation. The answer’s no.”
The Sun has reached out to both the Hamilton and Rosberg camps to ask for confirmation of a potential romance (new or rekindled?) though no response has been given. However, clues to what could potentially be the most startling reconciliation Formula One has ever seen may be found in the Instagram pages of the Ferrari driver and the retired Mercedes champ. In the early hours of April 3, 2026, Rosberg posted to his Instagram stories a slightly blurred photo of himself lying in what could only be Hamilton’s arms, tattoos on full display, with both men shirtless and several fleece blankets pooled around them. Rosberg captioned the photo: Late nights, early mornings…
The next day, following FP3, Hamilton gave an interview to Sky Sports signaling dramatic improvement in the 2026 Ferrari car. When the interviewer asked Hamilton what else he was looking forward to (in reference to the upcoming qualifying session), Hamilton replied: “A kiss and a congratulations.” (Live reaction of Nico Rosberg can be found here.) Response to Hamilton’s shocking answer ranged from delight to shock to confusion. A kiss and a congratulations from whom? Newer fans may speculate on the existence of a mysterious girlfriend but for those on the up-and-up there can only be one answer:
Looks like love really does get a second chance.
[Video Description of Nico Rosberg’s Reaction: Nico, sitting with Jenson Button for a casual debrief on behalf of Sky Sports, is watching Lewis’s live Q&A. Upon hearing Lewis’s answer of what he was looking forward to tomorrow (“A kiss and a congratulations.”), Nico blushes bright pink but refuses to duck down, instead simply running a hand through his hair as he crosses his legs. Jenson howls with laughter before elbowing Nico, asking: “Oh god, I cannot believe he just said that live.” Nico replies with: “Well, he’s hopeful.” Jenson laughs again and asks, “Hopeful for a kiss and a congratulations huh?” Nico, distracted as he adjusts his bracelet, causally replies: “Maybe more if manages to qualify in the top 3.” He then winks at the camera and turns back to Jenson, now stunned into silence.]