Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

Max Verstappen is a five-time world champion.

He can control a Formula 1 car at 300 km/h.

He can manage tire temperatures, brake bias, and fuel saving while overtaking two drivers at once.

Cooking pork in his own kitchen, apparently, is where he meets his match.

It starts innocently enough.

Max has a routine. Training, simulator, dinner. His meals are usually very planned—protein, vegetables, something simple. Today it’s pork with vegetables and rice.

He has the pan heating. Olive oil. Garlic. Pork.

Everything is going perfectly.

Then he remembers something Daniel told him a couple weeks back when Max had him over for dinner.

“Mate, you should flambé it. Mom taught me how to do it, it's super easy and it makes all the difference in the flavor.”

He stared at the piece of lean pork slowly frying on the pan. Seasoned only with salt and black pepper. He could use some flavor.

Max stares at the bottle of cognac on his pantry.

How hard can it be? Daniel can do it.

He watches a single YouTube video about it, shrugs and decides to try it. Seems easy enough.

He pours a little in the pan.

Then he lights it.

For exactly half a second Max thinks, Oh yeah, it is easy.

Then the bottle slips and a bunch of alcohol falls on the pan and the flames shoot up.

“Whoa—”

The fire jumps high, licking toward the cabinet above the stove.

The smoke alarm immediately begins screaming.

Max grabs the pan. Which is mistake number two, because the metal handle is scorching hot.

“Shit—” 

Instinctively he turns toward the sink and runs water over it.

Which is mistake number three.

The oil erupts. Flames leap up again and Max jerks his arm back with a hiss.

“Fuck!”

The pan is still burning.

The kitchen is filling with smoke.

Max grabs a towel, wets it quickly, and tries to smother the flames. The towel starts smoking too.

Now the entire kitchen looks like a small disaster scene.

The alarm keeps shrieking.

Max coughs, waving smoke away from his face as he tries again to press the towel over the pan.

“Just—fucking—stop—burning—”

Someone is knocking on the door.

Max barely hears it. The alarm is shrieking too loudly and his head is aching a little now. The smoke is not helping either.

He only vaguely notices when the knocking turns into pounding.

Then someone shouts.

“FIRE DEPARTMENT! OPEN THE DOOR!”

Max blinks.

Right. His fancy alarm does call the fire department on its own. How useful.

He coughs again and stumbles toward the door, a little dizzy, and unlocks it.

The moment it opens three firefighters rush past him. “Sir?” One of them asks, but Max's eyes burn and he can't really see who. “Are you okay?” Max nods. “Is there anyone else here?” He shakes his head. “Where's the fire?”

“Kitchen.” Max coughs, pointing vaguely where the smoke is the thickest.

They move fast.

One of them pulls the smoking pan off the sink while another quickly smothers the flames properly. The third opens windows and shuts off the alarm.

The whole thing takes maybe twenty seconds.

Max is still standing by the door when someone gently takes his arm.

“Hey—let’s get you outside.”

The voice is calm and warm. Clearly trained for situations like this. Max has to admit that it is nice.

Max lets himself be guided out onto the balcony where the air is fresh and cool. It helps immensely with his burning eyes and throat.

The man finally turns to face him.

And Max’s brain completely short-circuits.

Oh.

Oh.

Because the firefighter is—

Well.

There's no other word to use other than gorgeous.

Pretty dark curls escape slightly from under his helmet. His skin is tanned from the Monaco sun, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are the most beautiful shade of greenish-blueish-gold that Max has ever seen.

And right now those eyes are looking at him with clear concern.

“Are you okay?”

Max blinks. He has absolutely no idea what the man just said. He was pretty sure he saw the beautiful man's lips move but he couldn't be sure he wasn't making that up.

“Uh?” Max says, very coherently.

The firefighter tilts his head slightly.

“I asked if you’re okay.” He says a little slower. “You seemed to have breathed in some smoke. Would you like to go to the hospital?”

“Oh,” Max says. Right. He did do that, actually. But he feels fine. No need to see a doctor over this… Although he is pretty sure his team will want him to get checked out. But a hospital visit will most certainly leak to the press and he absolutely doesn't want that. “I’m perfectly fine. No need for the hospital.” He'll see the red bull doctor later. It's easier like that.

The pretty man nods, slowly looking Max up and down. Max knows it's probably just a professional assessment, but he can't help but blush a little with the idea of that gorgeous man checking him out.

Something about Max makes the man's – beautiful – eyes stop and quirk his eyebrow. They linger on Max's arm, which is red. And slightly blistering.

“Can I take a look at that?”

Max follows his gaze.

“Oh.” Right. He kinda forgot about that. “Yeah, please. Uh, my hand too, if possible? I think I burned a little.”

The firefighter smiles slightly.

“Of course.”

Max’s eyes flick briefly to the name tag on his uniform.

C. Leclerc. A+

Well, he surely is.

Leclerc gently guides him back inside once the kitchen smoke has mostly cleared.

The apartment smells faintly like burnt oil.

One of the other firefighters gives Leclerc a thumbs-up from the kitchen.

“All clear.”

“Thanks, mate.” Leclerc says. He leads Max to the couch. “Sit, please.”

Max sits immediately.

Leclerc kneels in front of him and opens a small first aid kit.

Up close, Max notices more details.

The soft curl of his hair against his nape.

The way his eyelashes are unfairly long.

The way his mustache looks on his upper lip.

“This might sting a little,” he says.

Max barely hears him. He is completely entranced by the concentration on Leclerc’s face, so he is caught a little by surprise when his arm burns a little and can't contain a hiss of pain that leaves his lips.

“Not too bad,” Leclerc murmurs. “You were lucky.”

Max hums vaguely. He thinks about his fireproofs pressing against the burn next week and he doesn't feel very lucky.

But then, as he watches officer Leclerc’s eyebrows furrow in concentration while he works on Max's arm, he thinks he might be a little lucky right now.

Leclerc works quietly for a moment, cleaning the burn with practiced care.

“What happened there?” he asks, nodding toward the kitchen.

It takes Max a second to remember how words work.

“Uh—cooking incident,” he manages. “Tried to flambé. Didn't really work.”

“Au contraire, I think it worked a little too well.” The beautiful man winces slightly, like he can already picture exactly what happened. Max hates how gorgeous he looks doing it. “You know,” Leclerc says thoughtfully while dabbing ointment on the burn, “if I could have a very stern talk with whoever invented flambéing…”

He chuckles under his breath.

Max immediately decides that is the most endearing sound he has ever heard.

“You got lucky this time,” Leclerc repeats. “The burn doesn't seem very deep. Your hand is not actually burned, either.” He smiled and Max's heart stopped for a second. “But you shouldn’t pour water on hot oil, okay? That just spreads the flames.” He wraps the bandage neatly around Max’s arm. “Gotta take care of those hands if you’re going to win another championship.”

Max blinks.

“Oh. You know me?”

Leclerc glances up, amused.

“I mean, I do live in Monaco. Kinda hard not to know the drivers. Even more so the world champion.” He smirks. “But I do like motorsports. Even karted a little when I was young.”

“Oh.” Max nods. “That’s nice.”

It's more than nice, actually. As if Max couldn’t possibly think this man was any prettier…

“And, uh–” he gulps, his throat suddenly feeling quite dry. Maybe it's the smoke's fault. “Are you… a fan?” Max asks, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

Leclerc hums thoughtfully as he finishes tying the bandage.

“Hmm. Let’s say…” He tilts his head. “I prefer my drivers in Rosso Corso.”

Max groans immediately.

“Ah, come on.” There is no way this ridiculously attractive man is tifosi. “Ferrari won’t even leave me alone in my own house?” Max mutters.

Leclerc laughs softly.

“You’re all set, Mr. Verstappen.” He pats the bandage gently. “You should still get the burn checked out, okay? Doesn’t look too deep but it might be painful.”

Max nods, though he barely processes the words.

“Also,” Leclerc adds as he stands, “maybe be careful with hot pans from now on?”

“Yeah. Right.” Max rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

And then he honest to God winks.

Max’s brain immediately short-circuits.

Leclerc closes the first aid kit.

“If you need anything,” He says, heading toward the door, “don’t hesitate to call the department, okay?” 

He starts to stand up and Max feels a little panicked that he is already leaving.

“Thank you, officer…?” Max says quickly, hoping for at least a name for the face that will most definitely be plaguing his dreams tonight.

“Charles,” he replies. “Charles Leclerc.”

He smiles.

“Nice to meet you.” Max smiles back – at least he thinks he is. “And thanks for fixing me up.”

“Just doing my job, sir.” Charles nods once and steps out the door to join his coworkers.

Max watches him leave.

Then immediately slumps back against the couch cushions.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

You didn’t ask for his number. You didn’t ask if he’s single. You barely formed sentences. Five-time world champion and you can’t flirt with one pretty man—

Charles suddenly turns back at the door.

“Oh, and Mr. Verstappen?”

Max straightens.

“Yes?”

Charles grins.

“I think you'd look good in Rosso Corso.”

And then he walks out.

Leaving Max sitting on his couch.

Burned arm.

Destroyed kitchen.

Completely, utterly smitten.

—

2.

Max gets home after the first three races of the season feeling like he’s been put through the ringer.

The car is difficult. Not terrible, but not what he wanted it to be. The Mercedes cars are suddenly stupid fast, the Ferraris look annoyingly stable, and every media session seems to include someone asking if this is the year he finally gets taken down of his throne. As if he cares about that.

He only cares that his car sucks and driving isn't interesting when he has to focus on managing his battery instead of battling someone.

And, for reasons Max cannot comprehend, because Max was pretty clear with him last year, Toto Wolff keeps calling him.

“Just to chat, Max.” He says, but Max knows better.

So yes. It’s been a lot.

Which is why, when he gets home to Monaco, he decides he needs to relax a little. He can't get a massage until the next day and he can't be drinking in the middle of the season.

So he decides to bust out his mother's Christmas gift. It's a kit of four scented candles. 

Apparently they’re supposed to help you relax.

Max lights one and stands in the middle of the bedroom with his hands on his hips, waiting for it to work.

The smell is… nice.

Herby. Kind of soothing.

But he’s still thinking about tire degradation in Japan and the way the Ferrari ate its front tires way less than expected, about that stupid safety car, and whether the team can fix—

Okay.

Maybe one candle isn’t enough.

He lights another.

Then another.

Then the fourth.

The apartment begins to smell very strongly of something herbal and vaguely floral too.

It almost works.

His shoulders definitely start to loosen, the tension leaving his neck.

Maybe his mom was right.

Still, he doesn't feel as relaxed as he could be. He thinks about starting the sim. Maybe a couple hours in there will help him loosen up.

Except, the idea of spending hours racing in that frustrating ass car makes him feel tense again.

So he decides for a shower instead.

Hot water. Quiet. Nice smells.

It will most definitely help.

Max is halfway through his shower, letting the seventy thousand euro shower work  magic on Max's knots, when he hears a loud crash coming from the bedroom.

His eyes snap open.

He shuts the water off immediately and grabs a towel, wrapping it loosely around his waist as he jogs toward the bedroom.

The scene he finds is… not ideal.

Jimmy, his cat, is sitting innocently on the dresser.

The candles are on the floor, shattered.

And the curtain—

The curtain is on fire.

“For fucks sake!”

Max lunges forward instinctively.

First priority: cat.

He scoops Jimmy up immediately and deposits him outside the bedroom, closing the door behind him

Second priority: fire.

The smoke alarm chooses that exact moment to begin screaming.

“Yeah, I know!” Max yells at it.

He runs back to the bathroom, fills a cup with water, and rushes back.

The flames aren’t huge, thankfully. Just licking up the bottom of the curtain.

Max throws the water.

Then another cup.

Then another.

By the third one the fire is mostly out, just a small smoking patch of fabric left behind.

Max exhales.

“Okay,” he mutters. “That’s—”

Someone banging at the front door. “FIRE DEPARTMENT!”

Max freezes.

Right.

The alarm.

“Coming!” he shouts.

He jogs toward the door— And then suddenly stops

Because he remembers something very important.

He is completely naked.

His towel had fallen in the ruckus and he hadn't noticed.

“Shit.”

Max scrambles back to grab his towel properly, tying it around his waist as he runs to the door again.

He opens it, already preparing to explain that everything is fine, the fire is out, no need to—

And then he sees him.

Charles.

For a moment Max just… stares.

He had almost forgotten about him.

Almost.

Because there is absolutely no way in hell Max could ever forget those eyes. Or that face. Or the way his curls escape from under the helmet.

And now those same eyes are looking at him.

Very slowly.

From head to toe.

Max suddenly becomes acutely aware that he is standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a towel.

Heat rushes up his neck immediately.

Charles blinks.

Then clears his throat.

“Mr. Verstappen,” he says carefully. “The fire department received a call about your smoke alarm going off.”

Max opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Then tries again.

“Hi.” He tries to smile. “Yes, there was a fire. But it was a small one,” Max says quickly. “It’s already out. So…”

Behind Charles, one of the other firefighters leans slightly to look inside the apartment.

Charles frowns a little. “You put it out yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“With what? Fire extinguisher or…?”

Max hesitates. “…A cup.”

Charles stares at him. “A cup?”

“Yes.” Max nods. “With water inside.”

“So, with water?” One of Charles' colleagues deadpans. 

Max nods, embarrassed.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Charles exhales through his nose, somewhere between amused and exasperated. 

“Alright,” he says. “We should still check it.”

Max steps aside to let them in.

He tries very hard not to notice Charles glancing at him again.

Unfortunately, that’s difficult when you’re standing barefoot and shirtless in your own doorway.

Charles walks toward the bedroom with the others, then pauses.

He looks back at Max.

“So, were you showering?” Charles asks, his eyes assessing Max again.

Max blinks, feeling himself blush.

“Yeah.” He nods, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

“And what caused this fire?” Charles asks, a teasing smile on his lips.

“I had some candles lit up.” It sounds stupid now that he is saying it out loud. Still, he needs to make sure the beautiful man doesn't think he is stupid or useless. “My cat knocked them down.”

“Well,” Charles says after stepping into the bedroom and inspecting the curtain, “seems like you put out the fire pretty well.”

He chuckles softly, nudging the blackened edge of fabric with the end of a tool.

“Although I’m not entirely sure why you had… one, two, three, four candles lit at once.”

Max shrugs.

“My—uh—my mom says the scent is good for relaxing.” He gestures vaguely around. The room didn't smell pleasant anymore, smelled like burnt cotton. Then he suddenly remembers he is still wearing nothing but a towel and hurriedly grabs it to secure it better around his waist. “…I kinda needed it.”

“Ah.” Charles winces sympathetically. “I get that.” He leans against the dresser, arms crossing loosely, head shaking. “Suzuka was tough. Still can’t believe Russell took first place in the last three laps.”

Max’s eyebrows lift.

“Oh. So you watched.”

He’s still annoyed about that race.

He had driven perfectly. Forty eight laps of flawless pace, everything under control, the win practically guaranteed. Then a safety car, bad timing, and suddenly George Russell swoops in and steals it.

Charles nods, a look of empathy on his face.

“Yeah. It was rough.” He winces slightly. “Mostly because your strategy was better. They just lucked out with that stupid safety car that Stroll caused.”

Max throws his hands up, groans, then remembers his predicament and hurries to hold it again. “I know! Hannah was pissed about that. We hate when it comes down to luck because how do you even control that?”

“Exactly!” Charles says immediately, clearly animated now. “I was telling Alex about that the other day. I’m trying to get her into Formula 1, but she doesn’t really get why strategy matters yet.”

He starts rambling a little, explaining tire degradation and safety car timing with enthusiastic hand gestures.

It’s… adorable.

Max watches him, completely charmed.

He’s about to ask about this Alex—is she your girlfriend? Are you single?—when someone behind Charles clears their throat.

One of the other firefighters jerks his head toward the hallway.

“Charlie, we have to go. Cap says we’ve got something on the beach.”

“Oh—right.” Charles straightens immediately, professionalism snapping back into place. “Well,” he says, brushing his hands together lightly, “everything here looks under control.” He nods toward the curtain. “Just… maybe be careful with candles next time, Mr. Verstappen.”

“Yeah,” Max says sheepishly. “I will.”

“Good luck with the season.”

Charles turns toward the door.

“Will you be watching?” Max blurts before he can stop himself. He just… he doesn't want Charles to go yet. Even though he should let Charles go, he has a job to do. An emergency to attend to.

Charles looks back over his shoulder.

“Of course.” He smiles and it's so bright, Max almost melts a little.

Max feels heat rush all the way from his ears down to his chest. He’s pretty sure the blush is very visible, especially considering he’s still half naked.

Charles’s eyes flick down briefly, clearly noticing.

“Good luck, Mr. Verstappen.”

“You can just call me Max,” he says quickly.

Charles tilts his head slightly. “Okay then… Max.” The smile softens just a little. “Good luck.”

Max stands in the doorway watching him walk down the corridor with the rest of the crew.

Just before Charles disappears around the corner, Max calls out.

“Hey! Charles!”

Charles turns.

“Will you be rooting for me?”

Charles laughs, then shakes his head.

“Sorry, Max,” he says easily. “I’m all in on Lewis.”

Max huffs a quiet laugh and rubs the back of his neck.

Of course he is.

He watches Charles disappear down the stairs before finally closing the door.

The apartment is quiet again.

Smells faintly like smoke. He should probably open the windows.

Max sighs.

He turns to the couch where Jimmy is calmly licking his paws like he didn’t just cause mayhem just now.

Max points at him.

“You’re lucky I got to see the pretty firefighter again,” he mutters. Jimmy blinks slowly. “Otherwise I’d have you neutered for this mess.”

Jimmy, unsurprisingly, does not dignify that with a response.

—

3.

The next time Max calls the fire department, it is not because something is on fire.

For once.

Max gets back from Jeddah at almost midnight.

The flight was long, the race was frustrating, and he is so tired he feels like his bones are made of sand. The race itself wasn’t terrible—he managed a P2—but it wasn’t the kind of weekend he wanted. 

His first win of the season was still alluding him.

All Max wants right now is three things: A good, long shower, some food and snuggle in with his cats.

The cat sitter had texted earlier saying everything was fine. She left about thirty minutes before Max arrived.

Jimmy greets him at the door immediately, weaving around his legs and demanding attention.

“Hey, buddy,” Max murmurs, scooping him up briefly and scratching behind his ears.

But Sassy is nowhere to be seen.

Which isn’t unusual. She likes hiding spots.

Max drops his bag, takes a good and long shower, and changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hair is still damp when he flops onto the couch and grabs his phone to order food. He doesn’t feel like cooking tonight.

That’s when he hears it.

At first he thinks it’s his imagination.

A faint sound.

Muffled.

Almost like—

Max frowns.

He lowers the phone and looks for his cats. 

Jimmy is laying by Max's feet, on the couch.

“Sassy?” He calls, because she is nowhere to be seen. “Baby, come here.”

The sound comes again.

A soft, distressed meow.

Max sits up immediately.

“Sassy?!”

Silence.

Then the sound again.

This time a little louder.

Max’s stomach drops.

Jimmy suddenly hops off the couch and trots across the living room, stopping near the corner wall.

Then he starts pawing at it.

Max stares. “No way.”

He walks over to the wall.

Another meow.

It sounds muffled, but there's no denying it.

Max crouches immediately and presses his ear against the wall.

There it is, clear as day. Sassy’s tiny, upset meow coming from inside the wall.

Max’s heart drops straight into his stomach.

“Sassy, baby?” he says urgently, knocking lightly on the drywall. Another meow answers him, more desperate this time. “Fuck, shit, shit, shit…”

Max immediately stands up, running both hands through his hair. “How did you even get in there?”

Jimmy paws harder at the wall like he’s trying to dig her out.

Max looks around the room frantically.

His first instinct is the toolbox. Hammer. Break the drywall. Easy.

But then another horrible thought hits him.

What if I hit her?

Max freezes.

The wall meows again.

“Sassy, baby, it’s okay,” he murmurs quickly, kneeling again and pressing his hand flat against the drywall. “I got you, okay? I got you.”

Another little cry echoes through the wall. Max feels his chest tighten.

“Fuck.” He pulls out his phone. He dials 112. The operator answers quickly.

“Emergency services, how can I help you?”

Max exhales shakily. “Hi. My cat—my cat is stuck in the wall.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Inside the wall, sir?”

“Yes,” Max says quickly. “I can hear her. She’s trapped.”

“Is the animal injured?”

“I don’t know,” Max says, his voice tight. “She’s crying.”

“Alright, sir. Stay where you are. We’re sending help.”

The call ends.

Max kneels back down immediately, leaning his head against the wall.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs softly. “It’s okay. Help’s coming.”

Jimmy sits beside him, still pawing non-stop and occasionally answering Sassy’s meows with his own.

The minutes crawl by. Sassy keeps crying. By the time the knock comes at the door, Max feels like his heart has been in his throat for hours.

Max jumps up and opens the door immediately.

Three firefighters step inside.

“My cat—she’s in the wall,” Max says quickly, already leading them to the living room. “Right here. I was gonna break the wall, but I don't want to hurt her.”

Right on cue, Sassy lets out another distressed meow.

One of the firefighters kneels immediately to inspect the wall. Another pulls out tools.

Max crouches again, knocking softly on the drywall.

“It’s okay, baby. They’re gonna get you out.”

He’s so focused on the wall—and the tiny trapped cries coming from inside it—that he barely notices the firefighters moving around him.

“Alright,” one of them says. “We’ll need to cut the drywall carefully. Is that okay? The hole will be about this big.” He makes a rectangle against the wall.

“Break whatever you need.” Max nods quickly. “Just—please don’t hurt her.”

“Don’t worry.” The voice is familiar. Max turns, and suddenly realizes. Charles is here.

Of course he is.

Charles is already crouching beside him, examining the wall.

For a second Max forgets how to breathe.

But then Sassy cries again and the panic rushes right back.

“Is she okay?” Max asks quickly. “Can you hear where she is? She’s been crying for a while now. I think she’s scared.”

Charles glances at him.

And Max must look pretty bad, because Charles’s expression softens immediately. He reaches out and places a steady hand on Max’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Don’t worry, Max.” He smiles reassuringly. “We’ll get her out in no time.”

Max nods quickly.

“Thanks.”

He looks back at the wall.

“Sassy, baby,” he murmurs softly. “Hang on, okay? They’re helping you.”

“You really love her, uh?” Charles smiles, picking some kind of saw.

“She is my baby.” Max shrugs, eyes still glued on the wall.

The firefighters start working quickly.

One of them taps along the drywall while another listens carefully for the sound of Sassy’s cries.

“She’s about here,” one of them says, marking a small square on the wall.

Max is kneeling right beside them immediately.

Another distressed meow makes Max's chest tighten.

“Okay, we’re going to cut a small opening,” one firefighter explains.

“Just be careful,” Max blurts. “She’s probably curled up or something—”

“We will,” the firefighter reassures him.

But then one of them turns on the saw and Sassy's meows get louder and more panicked.

Max’s head snaps up.

“Hey—hey, stop.”

The firefighter pauses.

“She’s scared,” Max says quickly. “Can’t you use something else? That sound is freaking her out.”

“We need to cut the drywall,” the firefighter — P. Gasly.— explains calmly. “It’s the fastest way to get her out.”

“But you’re scaring her,” Max insists, already shifting closer to the wall again. “What about something quieter? Like a non-electric saw?”

“That would take longer,” the firefighter replies.

Sassy cries again. Max’s chest tightens.

“She’s panicking,” Max says, voice rising slightly. “If she moves you might hit her with the saw. Use something else.”

“We’re not going to hit her,” Firefighter Gasly reassures him.

But Max is already shaking his head.

“No, just—just wait a second—”

“Max.” Charles’s voice cuts in gently.

Max turns.

Charles is standing just behind him.

“Your other cat is getting scared,” Charles says, nodding toward Jimmy.

Jimmy, who has been hovering near the wall the whole time, is now puffed up slightly, tail flicking nervously at the noise.

Charles crouches down and gently scoops him up before Jimmy can dart toward the saw.

“Why don’t you come help me keep him calm?” Charles suggests.

Max hesitates, glancing between the wall and Jimmy.

Sassy meows again.

The firefighter says quietly, “We’ve got her.”

Charles adds softly, “We’ll tell you the second we see her.”

Max exhales slowly.

"Okay.”

He stands reluctantly and follows Charles into the kitchen while Charles sets Jimmy down on the counter.

Max keeps glancing back toward the living room.

“She’ll be okay,” Charles says.

Max nods, rubbing his hands together nervously.

“I just hate hearing her like that.”

“They’re family,” Charles says simply. “I know some people don't believe that, but they are.”

Max huffs a small breath.

“Yeah.”

Jimmy rubs against Max’s arm, still slightly agitated.

Max scratches behind his ears absently.

“You have them for a long time?” Charles asks.

“I got them a couple years ago,” he says. “When I moved into the apartment alone.”

Charles leans lightly against the counter.

“So the place wouldn’t feel empty.”

“Exactly.” Max shrugs. “Traveling so much… It gets lonely sometimes. They help with that.”

“What are their names?”

“Sassy and Jimmy.”

Charles tilts his head and it's adorable. “That's familiar. Are those characters from a movie or…?”

Max smirks and shakes his head. “Jimmy’z and Sass cafe.”

Charles blinks. “Like the clubs?”

Max sighs. “Maybe.”

Charles laughs quietly. “You named your cats after Monaco nightclubs?”

“I was young, okay?” Max mutters, shrugging. “I was seventeen and it seemed like a cool idea.”

Charles grins. “Are you into that scene?”

“Not anymore,” Max says quickly. “Gets old after a while.”

Charles nods.

“What about you?” Max asks. “Any pets?”

Charles’s face lights up immediately.

“Yes. This is my baby, Leo.

He pulls out his phone and shows Max a picture. A small blonde dachshund sprawled across a couch that looks suspiciously like it belongs in a fire station.

Max smiles despite himself.

“He’s cute.”

“He’s chaos,” Charles says fondly. “So much energy, pees everywhere, needs attention twenty four seven. The guys at the station love him.”

“Oh?” Max asks. “Your dog lives at the station?”

Charles nods. “Yes and no. He’s a little codependent. Needs to be with me everywhere. So whenever I'm at the station, he also is.”

Max chuckles softly.

“Sounds like Sassy.”

Right then another faint meow echoes from the living room.

Max immediately turns.

“How long is this going to take?” he asks, already stepping forward again.

Charles gently stops him with a hand on his arm. “They’re almost done, I'm sure.”

Max runs a hand through his hair. “I hate just standing here and doing nothing… Maybe I should talk to her.”

Charles watches him for a moment. Then he asks casually, “So how was Saudi?”

Max blinks.

“The race?”

Charles nods. “I didn’t get to watch it. We were working. It was a whole thing in the Paris hotel.”

Max hesitates. Then shrugs. “It was… okay.”

Charles tilts his head slightly. “What happened? I hadn't had the chance to watch the highlights yet.”

Max starts explaining absently. “At the start everything was fine, we managed to gain two positions. Good pace, good tire life…” He gestures slightly as he talks. “But then traffic on the pit messed up the second stint and the Mclarens had better straight-line speed than we expected after an upgrade.”

Charles listens, genuinely interested. “So how did you adapt?”

“We changed to a one stop strategy,” Max says, starting to gesture a little. “But that was kinda risky because I was on mediums and if you push too hard the tires are gone and then—”

He pauses, realizing he’s doing that thing he always does and people on the internet mock him for. Maxplaining. 

He was going to stop, but Charles was watching him with real interest. “So, how did you manage the tires and still hunt the McLarens?”

Max pauses.

“You actually want to know?”

Charles shrugs.“Sure. It's a once in a lifetime chance to talk about this stuff with a world champion. Please tell me.”

And suddenly Max is explaining properly.

About tire windows and how to maximize them by breaking a little later. About Hannah’s strategy call that guaranteed them a double undercut. About how the car felt through the high-speed corners vs the low-speed ones.

For a moment he forgets the wall, the meowing, the panic.

Forgets everything except the conversation and the way Charles' eyes were shining when he asked Max questions.

Until—

“Got her!”

Max spins around instantly.

Firefighter Gasly is holding a dusty, slightly offended-looking Sassy.

Max is across the room in two seconds.

“Sassy!” She meows loudly the second she sees him. “Oh, baby,” Max breathes, scooping her into his arms.

He checks her over immediately.

Paws. Ears. Belly.

She seems completely fine.

Max exhales so deeply his shoulders drop.

“You fucking scared me,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead gently against her head. “You little shit.”

Sassy meows like she has absolutely no regrets.

Max looks up at the firefighters.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “All of you. I have no words to show how thankful I am.”

“How about some Monaco tickets.” The other fire fighter – E. Ocon – jokes. All three of them laugh.

“Done.” Max says immediately and all three of them stop laughing. Max is not joking. “I’ll get tickets for the whole station.”

All three of them are staring at him now. “It's the least I can do, you guys saved my cat.”

“That's our job, Max.” Charles says quickly, quite alarmed. “You don't need to do that.”

“I know, but I want to.” Max smiles and watches as, slowly, all three of them start smiling.

Officer Ocon rubs his face with both hands. “I was just joking, mate.” he says weakly.

Max grins slightly. “Well now you’re not.”

The gratitude that follows is loud and chaotic and very genuine. Officer Gasly promises him that they will save his cats from anywhere they get stuck in the future, no matter how long it takes. Officer Ocon tells him he is second on the emergency priority list now (‘sorry, mate, palace is still first.’). Officer Leclerc can't stop smiling at him. That one is the best one.

Eventually they gather their things and Max walks them downstairs.

The night air is cooler now.

Max still has Sassy tucked against his shoulder like a small, dusty little baby.

The two firefighters thank him again for the tickets before climbing into the truck.

Charles lingers near the back.

Just before he gets in, he turns back.

“Hey.”

Max looks up.

“Thanks for the tickets,” Charles says. “That’s a really nice thing you did.”

Max shrugs a little.

“You guys saved my cat.”

Charles smiles softly. “Well… still.”

Max shifts Sassy slightly and hesitates.

Then he says quietly, “I was actually most thankful to you.”

Charles tilts his head. “Me? But I didn't do anything. I didn't even save her.”

Max nods. “I know what you were doing back there.”

Charles raises an eyebrow.

“Thanks for distracting me.” Max says.

Charles looks briefly amused. “Well, it wasn't like it was hard work. I enjoyed talking to you.” Max is sure he is blushing right now. “Plus you were really making Pierre's life difficult there.”

Max rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” He pauses. “Anyway. I really appreciated it.”

Charles’s expression softens.

“Of course.”

There’s a small moment of quiet.

Then Max blurts, “So… how about a paddock pass?”

Charles gasps.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Max says immediately.

Charles lets out a surprised laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” Max shrugs casually, though his ears are a little red. “But you’ll have to root for me.”

Charles rolls his eyes, smiling.

“I guess I could make that sacrifice.” 

Max grins.

And for the first time since Sassy got stuck in a wall, he feels completely calm.

—

4.

Max gets back from the Canadian Grand Prix more tired than he expected.

Not because of the race.

The race was great, actually.

Back to back wins usually put him in a good mood.

No — the problem is that for the entire flight back to Monaco, his brain kept wandering somewhere completely unrelated to racing.

Specifically to a firefighter with warm green eyes and a quiet, beautiful, smile.

Charles.

Max hasn’t really stopped thinking about him since the whole Sassy-in-the-wall incident.

About the way he handled the situation. The way he kept Max talking. The way he understood exactly what Max needed without words.

Pretty was the first thing Max noticed about him, but his kindness was what made Max a goner.

So he made good on his promise.

His assistant nearly had a stroke when he asked her to send thirty-three grandstand tickets for the upcoming Monaco Grand Prix to the local fire station.

“Max,” she had said carefully, “this is… a lot of tickets.”

“They saved my cat.” he shrugged.

There was also the slightly more awkward conversation with Laurent Mekies when Max needed the paddock list updated.

“Who exactly are we adding to the guest list?”

Max cleared his throat. “A firefighter. He saved the life of a really important lady in my life.”

“Oh my god, was it your sister? Your mother? Is she okay?”

“They are fine. It was actually Sassy and she is okay now.”

Mekies stared at him.

“Right.”

Anyway.

The tickets were sent.

Promise kept.

And now the Monaco race is two weeks away.

Max has decided to focus on that instead of thinking about how nice Charles’s smile is.

Which is why he’s currently deep into sim practice.

One of his many simulators hums softly in the gaming room of his apartment. This one is older — a 2012 rig he bought second hand from Sebastian a few years back. It was loaded with a V8 motor and it was a dream to drive.

None of this battery management bullshit.

He’s halfway through a simulated qualifying lap when something strange catches his eye.

At first he thinks it’s dust.

Then the smell hits him.

Burnt plastic.

He immediately pauses the sim and leans down toward the tower of the computer.

A thin line of smoke curls out from the side panel.

“No, no, no.”

Max crouches down and pulls the panel open.

Inside, one of the wires is sparking faintly.

Just a small crackle of electricity jumping between two points.

Max immediately shuts the system down.

The monitors go black. The fans stop spinning. But the spark doesn’t go away.

Max stares at it for a second.

His brain goes completely blank except for one very basic instinct.

Water puts out fires.

So he grabs the glass of water from his desk and throws it straight into the open computer.

The spark dies instantly.

And the exact second the water leaves his hand, Max’s brain catches up with what he just did.

“Oh my god.”

What the hell was he thinking throwing water on his sim rig?

The computer makes a sad pop, smoke pours out of it, and something inside begins to smolder.

The fire alarm starts screaming.

Max drags both hands down his face.

“Damn it.”

He know exactly what that means.

And sure enough, about ten minutes later—

The firefighters are back.

For the fourth time in five months.

Max opens the door looking deeply embarrassed.

“Hi.”

There's five of them this time. Most look very amused.

Officer Gasly looks absolutely delighted. “This is starting to become my favorite recurring call.”

Max rubs the back of his neck. “It wasn’t technically a fire this time.”

“What was it then?” someone Max doesn't know the name of asks.

“It was a … Computer incident.”

They walk inside and quickly spot the smoking simulator setup.

One firefighter whistles.

“Damn.”

Max gestures vaguely at the computer. “There was a spark.”

“So you poured water on it?” officer Ocon asks, staring at the computer with a frown.

Max sighs.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I panicked.” he shrugs.

“Everyone knows not to mix electricity and water.”

“I know,” Max mutters, embarrassed.

Behind them, Charles steps inside. Max doesn't notice right away, he is busy explaining his lapse of judgment.

“I turned it off but it was still sparking and I didn’t want it to catch fire so—”

“You threw water on it.”

Max looks over.

Charles is glaring at the computer like it personally offended him.

“Yes.”

Charles shakes his head slowly. “That’s incredibly stupid, you know that?”

The room goes silent.

Max blinks. “Yeah, I realized.”

Charles gestures toward the computer. “You could have electrocuted yourself.”

“I turned it off first.”

“That doesn’t make it safe.”

Max shifts awkwardly. “I reacted on instinct.”

“Well your instincts are shit,” Charles says bluntly.

One of the firefighters coughs. Another suddenly becomes very interested on the floor.

Max stares at Charles.

“I— I'm sorry.”

Charles kneels by the computer and starts inspecting the damage. “You drowned the motherboard,” he mutters. “Honestly impressive you didn't kill yourself in the process.”

Max feels his face getting warm. “I said I panicked.”

Charles stands again. “You’re lucky it didn’t spread.”

Max crosses his arms slightly. “Good thing you guys are here then.”

Charles exhales sharply through his nose, clearly not in the mood. “Well maybe next time think before you do something that stupid so we won't need to be here.”

Silence drops over the room again.

Max decides that the best course of action is to step away and let them work. Clearly, Charles doesn't want to talk to him.

He goes to the kitchen and tries to make himself busy. It doesn't work. He can't stop thinking about Charles and how upset he was. He wondered what he did the last time that made him angry. Did Max cross a line when he invited Charles to the paddock?

After mulling it over for five minutes, he can't take it anymore and goes over to the room. They are almost done with whatever they are doing.

Max clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Charles still looks irritated but nods.

They step into the living room.

For a moment neither of them says anything.

Then Max speaks. “I’m so sorry, Charles.” Charles blinks. “I shouldn’t have poured water on it,” Max continues. “That was dumb. And now I gave you more work and… Sorry.”

Charles rubs a hand over his face.

“No. I’m the one who should apologize.”

Max tilts his head slightly.

“I just finished a thirty-hour shift,” Charles explains. “I was literally about to go home when your call came in.”

And that's when Max finally looks at him properly.

Charles looks wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes, shoulders tense, expression flat. 

Max feels the guilt hit immediately.

“Oh.”

Charles leans back against the wall. “So yeah. I’m a little tired and my mood gets all over the place when I'm like this. Sorry.”

Max winces. “Shit, I’m really sorry.”

Charles shrugs. “It’s my job.”

“But still.”

“It’s fine, Max.” Charles sighs. “I'll get to go home after this.”

Max nods slowly.

But his brain is already working.

Because Charles looks like he might collapse at any second. And he got dragged here because Max panicked.

Max rubs the back of his neck again, thinking.

Then the idea comes out before he can overthink it.

“Do you want to sleep here?”

Charles blinks.

“What?”

Max gestures vaguely toward the apartment.

“I mean— not like—” he stops, realizing how that sounded. “Not like that. I just mean the guest room.”

Charles stares at him.

“You can crash for a few hours,” Max continues quickly. “Then I’ll drive you home after. I just… feel bad. You were supposed to be sleeping if it wasn’t for me."

Charles actually smiles a little at that.

“That’s nice,” he says. “But I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m working.”

Max gestures toward the room where the rest of the firefighters are finishing up. “I know but you're done once they are done, right? That way you can sleep right away.”

Charles still shakes his head. “Still.”

Max crosses his arms. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Charles snorts.

“I’m used to it.”

Max frowns.

“No, seriously. Just sleep here for a bit.”

Charles shakes his head again.

“I appreciate it, but I can’t.”

Max studies him for a moment.

Then a new idea pops into his head.

“Let’s make a deal, then.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. Max tilts his head slightly.

“If you sleep here,” he says, “I’ll let you pick any car from my garage and drive it home.”

Charles pauses. That clearly catches his attention.

“Any car?”

Max nods.

Charles narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Are you bribing me?”

“Is it working?” Max raises one of eyebrows.

“Maybe.” Charles tilts his head while trying not to smile. “What cars do you have?”

Max shrugs. “A few… Very fast ones.”

Charles considers it.

“Do you have any Ferraris?”

Max thinks for a second. “I have a SF90 that I think you might like.”

Charles’s eyebrows go up immediately. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

Charles holds out his hand instantly.

“Deal.”

Max laughs and shakes it.

“Deal.”

Charles turns his heels and enters the sim room again. He says something that has officer Gasly laughing out loud and then he walks out with a smug smile on his lips.

“So, where's your guest bedroom?”

—

Charles is asleep almost immediately.

Max barely even gets the words “I can get you some clothes if you want to change” out before it happens.

One minute Charles is sitting on the edge of the guest bed, unlacing his boots.

The next minute he’s leaning back against the pillows, still in his firefighter uniform, completely passed out.

Max stands there for a moment.

“Wow.”

Thirty hours, he thinks. Yeah. That checks out.

Max quietly pulls a blanket over him, closes the door, and lets him sleep.

—

By the time Charles wakes up, the apartment is dark.

The sun is long gone.

Moonlight spills faintly through the windows.

Max had been in his new sim for the last six hours. This time actually practicing with the new regulation car. It sucked but he needed to get used to it.

Charles leans quietly against the doorway for a second, watching.

Max is focused, hands steady on the wheel. Then he glances at one of the side monitors and notices the reflection behind him.

He pauses the sim.

“Oh, hey there.” He turns in the seat and smiles. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like the dead,” Charles runs a hand through his hair. “You have a really good bed.”

Max holds his tongue from offering it for him forever. He also tries very hard not to stare.

Because Charles clearly just woke up.

His hair is messy.His voice is deeper and rougher with sleep. There’s a faint line across his cheek from the pillow.

He looks… soft.

Max feels heat creep up his neck and quickly looks back at the screens.

“You’re hungry?” he asks. “I didn’t want to wake you up, but there’s leftovers in the fridge.”

Charles shakes his head.

“No, thank you.” He steps further into the room, looking at the simulator. “What are you playing?”

“Oh,” Max says, tapping the steering wheel. “It’s my simulator. I’m practicing for next week.”

Charles tilts his head.

“For the race?”

Max nods.

Charles walks around the rig, studying the setup with curiosity. Three monitors. Pedals. Wheel. The seat.

“How realistic is it?” he asks.

Max considers.“Maybe… seventy percent.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “That high?”

“It’s missing the movement of the car,” Max explains. “And obviously the adrenaline. But the tracks are accurate and the handling is close enough to practice.”

Charles looks genuinely fascinated. “That’s really cool.”

Max notices the way he keeps looking at the wheel and pedals. The curiosity in his eyes was obvious.

Max smiles slightly.

“Do you want to try?”

Charles immediately looks at him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Max says, scooting the seat back. “Give it a go.”

Charles hesitates for about half a second.

Then he steps forward. “Okay."

Max adjusts the seat for Charles and starts explaining the basics.

“Okay, throttle is the right pedal, brake on the left. Don’t press them both at the same time unless you want to spin.”

Charles nods seriously.

“Gear shifts are these paddles,” Max continues, tapping the wheel. “Up on the right, down on the left.”

Charles grips the wheel.

“And the steering?”

Max gives him a look. “You turn it.”

Charles snorts. “Right.”

Max leans casually against the desk beside the rig.

“Okay,” he says. “Try not to crash.”

Charles lasts about eight seconds.

The car spins immediately in the first corner and slams into a wall.

Charles jerks back in the seat.

“What—?!”

Max laughs.

“Too much throttle.”

“I barely touched it!”

“Yeah, well, the car disagrees.”

Charles restarts.

This time he makes it through two corners before locking up the brakes and sliding straight into a barrier.

“Okay,” Charles mutters, “this is nothing like Mario Kart.”

Max grins.

The next attempt lasts longer.

Then the next.

Then the next.

Charles adapts quickly.

His reflexes are good and his hand-eye coordination is excellent. Within a few tries he starts anticipating the corners better, braking earlier, correcting slides instead of spinning.

Most people struggle for a long time.

Charles doesn’t.

On the seventh attempt, he finally finishes a full race.

The final time pops up on the screen.

It’s not spectacular.

If it were real life he’d probably be somewhere around P19.

But for someone who’s never used a racing simulator before?

It’s honestly impressive.

Charles lifts his hands off the wheel in triumph. “Yes!”

Max claps slowly. “Not bad.”

“I only crashed six times.” Charles grins.

“You also dive-bombed half the grid.”

“If there’s space—”

“—you go for it,” Max finishes automatically.

Charles glances back at him, a small smile on his lips.

Max shakes his head, smiling a little. “You drive like a madman.”

“Hey, it worked. I finished the race.”

Max crosses his arms, still watching the replay.

The aggressive moves. The late braking. The way Charles throws the car into corners without a care in the world.

It reminds him of himself at eighteen. Absolutely crazy and careless. No wonder people called him Mad Max back then.

It also reminds him of something else.

Max tilts his head.

“You said you used to kart, right?”

Charles nods.

“Oh, yeah. When I was seven until twelve.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “That’s a long time.”

“Yeah.” Charles shrugs, eyes still on the screen.

“How old are you?” Charles looks about Max's age, but maybe he has one of those young faces.

“I'm from 97. You do the math.” He smirks.

“Oh, me too!” Max smiles. “Maybe we raced against each other before, then.”

“Hm, I don't think so.” Charles shakes his head. “I would have remembered if I raced against a world champion.”

Max's shoulders slump a little. Makes sense. It's sad that they never meet before. “Yeah, I would have remembered you if we raced together…’

“You would?” Charles snorted. “Why? I'm not even that important.”

Max rolls his eyes.

“I would definitely remember if I had seen those eyes bef…” Max catches what he is saying and stops before he can say something stupid. Although he can tell Charles caught what he was saying by the wide smile on his lips. “So, uh— W-Why did you stop?” Max stammers, ears burning red.

Charles hesitates for a second, his smile falling from his lips.

“It’s quite an expensive sport,” he says. “Both me and my younger brother raced.” Max nods slowly. “My parents couldn’t really afford both of us.”

Max’s expression softens slightly.

“So I quit,” Charles says simply. “Let Arthur have his shot.”

Max leans forward a little.

“Is he any good?”

Charles smiles faintly. “He was.”

Max frowns. “Was?”

“He stopped when he turned fourteen,” Charles taps the brake absentmindedly and the car on the screen rolls forward into a wall with a soft thud. “My godfather used to race Formula 2,” he says. “He had a pretty bad accident in 2014. Turned out to be fatal.”

Max’s eyes widen. “Wait.” He straightens. “You mean Jules Bianchi?”

Charles looks over at him, surprised.

“You know him.”

“Yeah, I mean he's the reason we have the halo, right?” Charles nods. “He might have saved my life a couple times, then.” Max most definitely would be dead if it wasn't for it.  He can remember at least three or four times where a wheel or a wall was a little too close from his head for comfort. 

“Yeah,” Charles gives him a sad smile. “Well, Arthur didn't want to keep racing after that, so…”

The room goes quiet for a moment before Charles breaks it.

He clears his throat lightly and glances at his phone. Two thirty five AM.

“I should probably go home,” he says. “Leo is probably missing me.”

Max nods. “Yeah. Of course.” He pushes himself off the desk and grabs his keys from the counter. “Let's go.”

The elevator ride down is quiet.

Not awkward, exactly.

Just… quiet.

Max notices that Charles looks a lot more alive now. The nap clearly helped.

He also notices that Charles still has that faint pillow crease on his cheek.

He definitely does not stare at it.

The elevator doors slide open to the parking garage.

Max leads the way toward one of the cars. Charles stops walking.

“Oh.”

Max turns.

Charles is staring, mouth agape.

Parked in front of them is a sleek red Ferrari SF90 Stradale. A gift from himself for winning the championship last year.

“Are you absolutely sure I can drive her?” Charles asks.

“Him,” Max corrects automatically. “All my cars are boys.”

Charles snorts.

“Of course they are.”

Max tosses him the keys.

“And yeah,” he says. “Go for it.”

Charles catches them, still looking slightly stunned.

Then a huge grin spreads across his face.

—

If Charles drove like a madman on the simulator, in real life he’s somehow ten times worse.

The second the engine starts, Charles lights up.

“Holy shit.”

Max barely has time to buckle his seatbelt before Charles pulls out of the garage.

And then—

Charles shifts gears and accelerates again.

Max is suddenly very aware of how narrow Monaco’s streets are.

He’s almost grateful the drive isn’t long.

Almost.

Because Charles looks ridiculously happy behind the wheel that Max kind of wishes the drive lasted just a little longer.

Unfortunately, Monaco is tiny and they reach Charles’s building far too quickly.

Charles parks the car carefully and turns the engine off.

For a second he just sits there.

Then he looks over at Max with a huge smile.

“That was incredible!”

Max has to physically stop himself from doing something incredibly stupid.

Like leaning over and kissing him.

Instead he just smiles back.

Charles hands the keys back, still buzzing with excitement. “Thank you so much, Max. This was so much fun.”

Max shrugs.

“If you ever want to take him out for a spin again, just let me know.”

Charles freezes and his eyes go wide.

“No way.”

Max raises an eyebrow.

“I can’t do that,” Charles says quickly. “What if I crash? I could never pay you back.”

Max rolls his eyes. “It’s fine.”

Charles looks extremely skeptical.

“He’s insured,” Max adds but Charles still looks unsure. “Plus,” Max continues, “don’t drive like a crazy person and we won’t have a problem, right?”

Charles chuckles, shaking his head.

“Right.”

He climbs out of the car and shuts the door.

Then he leans down toward the window.

“See you at the race, Max.”

Max grins.

“See you.”

—

5.

Max doesn’t see Charles at the race.

At first, he doesn’t think much of it.

The paddock during the Monaco Grand Prix is chaos. Guests everywhere, team members rushing around, media, sponsors, family, celebrities.

It’s easy to lose someone in the crowd.

Max figures Charles probably got lost somewhere between the garages and the hospitality areas. Probably went to ogle the Ferrari garage and lost his notion on time there.

Besides, Max has a race to focus on.

Qualifying had been tight. He managed to scrape pole by a narrow margin, and in Monaco that basically decides the race.

But only if you get a good start.

So he focuses.

Still, when he’s walking through the paddock before the race, helmet under his arm, he catches himself glancing around.

Looking for messy brown hair and an easy smile.

Nothing.

By the time Max climbs into the car, Charles still hasn’t appeared.

Max tells himself it’s fine.

Sometimes he doesn't get to see his guests until after the race anyway.

So he pushes it out of his mind.

Lights out.

Max nails the start.

Perfect launch. Clean first corner.

From there it’s just Monaco management — tires, pace, concentration, no mistakes.

He wins the race easily, which is kinda sad because he wanted to give Charles a fun show to watch. Well, Max is sure he had fun either way.

The post-race routine is exactly the same as always.

The interviews are annoying.

The podium is fun, though.

Max always enjoys sharing one with Kimi and Oscar — they’re both good guys, and the champagne fight always ends up being fun.

Then comes the Red Bull shower afterward, which is sticky and disgusting and somehow worse every time.

Eventually Max escapes and immediately looks for his assistant.

He has a plan:

Find Charles, drag him to the after party. Maybe get a congratulatory hug if he is lucky. (Max knows that sounds pathetic. He doesn’t care.)

He spots his assistant near the hospitality area.

“Hey,” Max says. “Have you seen Charles?”

She looks at him with a blank stare. “Who?”

“My uh– the guest I added last minute. The firefighter.”

She checks her tablet and frowns slightly.

“Actually… he never checked in.”

Max blinks.

“What?”

“He never showed up.”

Something sinks a little in Max’s chest.

“Oh.” He nods once. “Okay.”

His assistant starts saying something about the after party schedule, but Max barely listens.

Because suddenly he doesn’t feel like celebrating at all.

Which is why, Monday afternoon, Max is on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean.

Daniel dragged him here.

Technically, several people dragged him here, but he blames Daniel the most.

“You can’t just mope around after winning Monaco,” Daniel had said, giving Max a bottle of beer.

“I’m not moping.”

“You are.” Daniel doesn't leave space for discussion. “Aggressively too.”

Now Max is leaning against the railing of the yacht, staring out at the ocean.

The sun is warm. His friends are laughing somewhere behind him. Music is playing. Drinks are flowing. Max wants to go home.

“You won the Monaco Grand Prix yesterday,” Daniel says, frustrated.

“I’m aware, Daniel. I was there.”

“Then why are you acting like you lost?”

Max shrugs.

Daniel studies him for a second.

Then his eyes narrow.

“This is about that guy, isn’t it?”

Max immediately stiffens and decides to play dumb. “What guy?”

“The cute one you bribed with your Ferrari,” Daniel says. "And don't play dumb. You know who I'm talking about."

Max glares at him. “I regret ever becoming friends with you and telling you things. ”

“Eh, tough luck, you're stuck with me now.” He shrugs, smiling wide. “So he didn’t show up?”

Max glares at the ocean. “No.”

Daniel leans against the railing. “Maybe he had work.”

Max sighs. He had considered that option. It still stung, though. He thought Charles would have asked for the day off for today. Maybe they were short-staffed? He kinda regrets giving tickets to every single firefighter in Monaco now. “Yeah. Probably.”

Daniel takes a sip of his beer. “Just ask him out next time. Can't be that hard.”

Max says nothing.

He just watches the water and tries not to think about the stupid paddock pass that never got used.

Max is still staring out at the water when a thought pops into his head.

It’s been there for a while, really. Since Charles slept over in his apartment.

He finally says it out loud.

“You knew Jules Bianchi, didn’t you?”

Next to him, Daniel stiffens slightly but he still nods.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We were friends.”

Max turns toward him.

“What was he like?”

Daniel doesn’t answer right away. He looks out at the sea instead, leaning his elbows on the railing. For a moment his expression softens — sad, but also a little fond.

“Bright,” Daniel says finally.

Max waits.

“He was just… one of those people,” Daniel continues. “Always optimistic. Always smiling.” Daniel chuckles softly. “Had this kilowatt smile. You know the kind that makes everyone else smile too.”

Max nods slightly.

“And man, could he drive,” Daniel adds. “Really talented.” He shakes his head, a wistful look crossing his face. “Every place he went felt a little brighter because he was there… I think you would have liked him a lot.”

The wind moves gently across the deck, and after a moment Daniel glances back at Max. “Why?”

Max shrugs.

He looks back at the water.

He’s thinking about Charles.

About the way his eyes lit up driving the Ferrari. About how easy it was to talk to him. About how disappointed Max felt yesterday when he didn’t show up.

“Just… thought about him for a second,” Max says. “That’s all.”

Daniel studies him for a second, clearly not fully convinced. He opens his mouth to say something—

When suddenly the entire yacht jerks violently.

The deck lurches.

Max grabs the railing instinctively as the boat shudders to a halt. Daniel nearly falls over.

“What the—?!”

Music stops.

Max and Daniel exchange confused looks.

Then the captain rushes down from the upper deck. His expression is tight.

Max braces himself for the worst.

“We ran out of fuel,” the captain says.

Daniel bursts out laughing immediately.

“You’re kidding me.” Max deadpans. Just his luck.

The captain shakes his head.

“I already called the coast guard. They’ll tow us back.”

Max drags both hands down his face. He should have stayed home.

Daniel is still laughing beside him.

“Mate, do you need help with gas money?”

Max glares at him. “Shut up or I'll leave you behind."

The sun is starting to dip toward the horizon while they wait.

People sit around the deck, mildly annoyed but mostly amused.

Max leans against the railing, staring out at the water.

Thirty minutes later, the sound of an engine cuts through the quiet. A white-and-red coast guard boat approaches.

Max looks up.

And immediately groans.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Next to him, Daniel looks over. “What?”

Max nods toward the other boat. Daniel squints.

Standing on the deck of the coast guard vessel, in a bright life vest, curls flying in the wind and tan skin glowing in the afternoon sun—

is Charles Leclerc.

“I don’t…” Daniel starts, shaking his head. “You’re upset we’re getting help?”

Max drags a hand down his face.

“I know you’re sad,” Daniel continues, “but I didn’t think you were suicidal levels of sad. You really wanna stay in the middle of the ocean?”

Max rolls his eyes.

“No, you idiot. Charles is there.”

Daniel blinks.

“Who?”

“The firefighter.”

“Oh.”

Then he smiles.

Devilishly.

“Sorry, Maxy,” Daniel suddenly says very quickly. “Please don’t kill me. I love you and I’m doing this for your own good.”

Max turns toward him.

“What the hell are you—”

Daniel shoves him.

Hard.

Max goes straight over the railing.

“DANIEL—!”

Splash.

The cold water hits him like a shock.

For one horrible second his brain completely blanks.

He thrashes instinctively, swallowing a mouthful of saltwater.

“Oh—shit—!”

He’s too busy coughing and trying to stay afloat to notice the commotion above him.

Then suddenly someone grabs him.

Strong arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him upright.

“I got you,” a familiar voice says. “It’s okay, it’s fine—”

Max wipes water from his eyes.

Charles is right there.

Holding him up in the water. Green eyes wide with concern.

“Max?”

Max sputters.

“What—? What are you doing here? What happened?” Charles frowns, holding Max tighter against him. 

Any other moment, Max would be flustered. Right now, he is pissed.

“Daniel fucking pushed me! I'm gonna kill that bastard!” His throat and nose are burning because of the sea salt.

“Your teammate pushed you off the railing? Charles frowns, holding Max a little tighter. “Is he trying to hurt you? Maybe you should talk to your team.”

Max shakes his head. He knows why Daniel did what he did and it wasn't to hurt him. It was just to be an asshole. “It's fine. He is just being an asshole.”

Charles glances up at the deck where Daniel is currently leaning over the railing, trying very hard not to look guilty.

Charles sighs.

He adjusts his grip on Max, keeping him steady.

“You okay?”

Max nods slowly, still catching his breath.

“Yeah.”

Then he looks at Charles properly.

Up this close, against the sunset light, his eyes are almost a hazely green. It's mesmerizing.

His wet curls are plastered to his forehead and there's concern written all over his face.

Max exhales.

“Thanks for saving me. Again.”

That makes Charles chuckled. “We need to stop meeting like this.”

Max shrugs weakly. “Not my fault this time.”

Charles rolls his eyes but starts guiding him toward the rescue ladder. “Come on, Max, let’s get you out of the water.”

Max lets himself be pulled along.

From the yacht above, Daniel calls down gleefully: “You’re welcome!"

—

The rescue boat rocks gently as it cuts through the water toward the shore. Max's yacht being pulled with it.

He can see that people are still parting on the ‘Unleash the Lion' but Max wasn't allowed to go back there – not that he wanted it. Instead, he has been wrapped in a blanket and handed a hot chocolate by one of the crew members like he’s some kind of shipwreck survivor.

He’s not cold.

But he keeps the blanket anyway.

The hot chocolate is nice.

He’s staring at the foam on top when someone sits down beside him.

Max doesn’t even need to look to know it’s Charles.

“Hey, how you're feeling?”

“They are treating me like I'm traumatized or something.” 

“Well,” Charles sounds defensive. “You almost drowned so…” Charles frowned. He glances out toward the yacht, where Daniel is still waving cheerfully from the railing. “Why did he push you?”

Max sighs deeply.

“Because Daniel is an idiot.”

Charles chuckles. 

“I believe that.” He studies Max again. “You guys were celebrating your win?”

Max hums in agreement.

“Something like that.”

“By the way… I’m really sorry I didn’t show up yesterday.”

Max looks at him. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do,” Charles says. Max shakes his head but Charles keeps going. “I really wanted to go,” he continues. “But there was an emergency.”

Max nods once and shrugs.

“Yeah, I guessed you had work. So it’s not that important.”

Charles shakes his head slightly.

“It wasn’t work related.”

Max looks at him now.

“My younger brother fainted,” Charles says. “He was in the hospital for a while.”

Max immediately feels something twist in his chest.

Oh, that’s… not what he expected.

“Is he okay now?” Max asks.

Charles nods.

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “But we lost our dad a few years back to Lynch syndrome,” he continues quietly. “It’s hereditary.”

Max’s stomach drops.

“So we ran some exams to make sure. My mom didn’t want to be alone while she waited for the results, so I stayed with her.” Charles finally looks at Max. “I’m sorry I missed your win.”

Max suddenly feels incredibly stupid for being upset about it.

“Hey,” he says quickly. “No, of course not. Don’t be sorry.” He shakes his head. “As long as your brother is okay.”

Charles nods. “He is.” A small smile appears. “Good news is he doesn’t have it. So we’re in the clear.”

Max lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Charles says. “Turns out he just overworked himself and fainted.”

Max snorts softly.

“Sounds like someone I know.” He bumps his shoulder lightly against Charles’s.

Charles laughs quietly. “Fair, enough.”

For a moment they sit there in comfortable silence while the rescue boat hums across the water.

The lights of Monaco are starting to appear in the distance.

“Still,” Charles says again. “I'm kinda sad I missed it.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I was actually really excited to watch you race.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Charles nods.

“Alex — she’s my roommate — and her girlfriend even helped me with my outfit the night before.”

Max blinks.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”. Charles shrugs a little. “I didn’t want to embarrass you by showing up like a slob.”

Max frowns.

“What?”

“I wanted to look the part,” Charles continues. “Fit in with all the rich people and all that.”

Max stares at him and snorts. “You would fit in wearing a potato sack.”

Charles blinks. “What do you mean?”

Max gestures vaguely toward his face.

“I mean… look at you. You have the look of royalty.” The second the words leave his mouth, Max feels heat rush to his cheeks.

Great. That sounded way less dumb in his head.

He clears his throat awkwardly.

Charles is staring at him. And then his cheeks turn slightly pink too.

“Oh,” Charles says quietly. “Thank you. That's really sweet.”

Max suddenly finds the hot chocolate extremely interesting. Charles glances at the hot chocolate in Max’s hands.

“How’s the cocoa?”

Max lifts it slightly. “You want it?”

Charles shakes his head. “Nah, it's your traumatized victim cocoa. You worked hard to earn it.”

Max rolls his eyes, ready to retort when Charles flashes him an evil grin.

“Can you imagine if we gave you hot cocoa every time you called us?” Charles tilts his head, pretending to count on his fingers. “Let’s see. The kitchen fire, the Computer fire, you cat on the wall. Oh, that time you set your bedroom on fire. And now you almost drowned… that has to be some kind of record.”

Max points at him.

“The drowning was not my fault.”

Charles raises his hands. “I didn’t say it was.”

Max narrows his eyes. “You implied it.”

Charles smiles.

And there it is again.

That bright, warm smile.

The one Daniel had just described earlier.

The one that makes everything feel a little lighter.

And sitting here now, with the boat cutting across the dark water and Charles laughing next to him— 

Max suddenly realizes something.

He would almost drown a thousand times if it meant he got to do this again.

—

The rescue boat reaches the harbor a little after sunset.

Crew members help everyone off one by one.

Max steps onto the dock, still wrapped in the blanket, the empty hot chocolate cup now long forgotten in his hand.

The air smells like salt and fuel and Monaco nightlife starting to wake up.

Charles hops off the boat right after him.

He checks something on his phone and winces slightly.

“I’m really sorry, I wish I could drive you home but,” he says. “work calls.”

Max blinks.

“Oh, right now?” Charles nods. “That’s fine, I get it.” he says. “And… thanks. For, you know, saving me. Again.”

Charles smiles faintly.

“That’s my job.”

There’s a small pause.

Charles shifts his weight.

“It’s kind of a shame we didn’t get to see each other this weekend,” he says.

Max nods.

“Yeah.”

Charles glances at him again. “But maybe the next one?”

He’s looking at Max expectantly.

Max nods immediately.

“Yeah, sure. Next Monaco Grand Prix you’re invited for sure.”

Charles’s smile falters. Just a little.

“Right.” He nods slowly. “Thank you. That's… really nice of you.”

A brief silence settles between them.

“I should go,” Charles says.

Max nods again.

“Yeah.”

Charles gives him one last small smile, then turns and jogs toward the firetruck that's waiting for him.

Max watches him leave.

And for some reason his chest feels a little heavy.

Then suddenly—

SMACK.

Max jerks forward as someone hits the back of his head. “What the hell?!” he snaps, spinning around.

Daniel is standing there with his hands on his hips. “Dude!”

“What?!” Max glares at him. “Isn't almost drowning me enough? Now you need to give me a concussion too?!’

Daniel rolls his eyes and ignores Max's drama. “Why didn’t you ask him out?!"

Max blinks.

“What?”

“He was clearly expecting it!”

“No he was not.”

“Max.” Daniel stares at him like he just said the dumbest sentence in human history.

“What?”

“He literally said maybe next one.”

“Yeah. Next Grand Prix.”

Daniel drags a hand down his face. “No, you moron. He meant next weekend, you dumbass.”

“I’m pretty sure he meant next year.” Max frowns, thinking about the interaction again.

Daniel makes an extremely frustrated noise.

“You are unbelievably dumb, oh my god.”

Max crosses his arms. “What did you want me to say?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Daniel says dramatically. “Maybe ‘hey Charles, want to get dinner sometime?’”

Max frowns.

“That seems forward.”

Daniel stares at him in silence for three seconds. Then he looks up at the sky like he’s asking for patience from a higher power.

“Oh, and giving him a paddock pass plus inviting all of his co-workers to the most expensive Grand Prix it's super chill?”

“That’s different.” Max shrugs. “I wasn't asking him out then.”

Daniel groans. “You’re hopeless.”

Max opens his mouth to argue—

Then suddenly stops.

His brain replays the conversation.

Kind of a shame we didn't get to see each other this weekend, maybe next one?

Charles expectant eyes and smile suddenly falling from his face.

Right. I should go.

…

“Oh.”

Daniel throws his hands up. “OH?!”

Max groans and drags both hands down his face. “He wanted me to ask him out, didn't he?”

“Fuck, you're slow outside of a car.”

Max chooses to ignore this comment while looks down the street where Charles disappeared. “Well… shit.” Max exhales slowly. “What do I do now?”

Daniel looks at him like the answer is obvious.

“Text him. Ask him out.”

Max pauses.

“I don’t have his number.”

Daniel freezes. “You’re joking.”

Max shakes his head.

“I never asked him.”

Daniel stares at him in complete disbelief.

“You invited him to the race.”

“Yes.”

“You let him drive your brand new Ferrari.”

“Yes.”

“You let him sleep in your house.”

“Yes.”

“And you never asked for his number?”

Max shifts slightly. “It never came up.”

Daniel sighs deeply. “How are you a functional adult?”

Max crosses his arms. “Well what do you want me to do now?”

Daniel shrugs.

“Call 112.” He says, like it's obvious.

Max blinks.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s the emergency number.”

“Yes, and?”

“You want me to call emergency services to ask a guy out?”

Daniel shrugs again.

“You don’t have his personal number, so call his work number.”

“That’s not his work number. That's the national emergency number. It's crazy.”

Daniel tilts his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” He rolls his eyes. “Also, it won’t work,” Max adds.

Daniel raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Max crosses his arms. “Really.”

Daniel leans toward him slightly. “How many times have you called 112 in the last six months?”

Max hesitates.

“Five.”

“And how many times did your pretty boy show up?”

Max sighs.

“Fine. It might work.”

Daniel smirks.

—

+1

Max is pacing his apartment.

Sweating.

Shaking.

And very, very nervous.

Which is ridiculous.

He has won five world championships.

He has fought the best drivers in the world at 300 km/h.

He has started races from pole with twenty cars trying to kill him into Turn 1.

But making this call?

This might be the most nervous he’s been in years.

Still, he checked everything at least three times.

The candles are lit.

Dinner — cooked by someone else, because Max absolutely refuses to burn down his kitchen again — is sitting warm in the oven.

Soft music plays quietly from the speakers.

The lights are dimmed.

A bouquet of roses sits in a vase on the counter.

It’s perfect.

So Max takes a deep breath.

And dials 112.

The line clicks.

“Emergency services. What is your emergency?”

Max freezes.

Right. He didn’t really plan that part. So he kinda freestyles.

“My left arm is stuck in the oven.”

There’s a pause and Max almost wants to hit himself. Why didn't he just say that there was a fire? 

“Is the oven on, sir?” the woman on the other side asks.

“No!” Max says quickly. “Uh— I turned it off to fix it and now I’m stuck. Could you send some help?”

Another pause.

“Okay, sir. Stay calm. Firefighters are on the way.”

The call ends.

Max stares at the phone.

Then slowly grins.

“Perfect.”

It takes them less than five minutes to arrive. That’s a record.

Max quickly fixes his shirt — a black silk Giorgio Armani button-up he specifically bought for tonight.

He checks his hair.

The roses.

The candles.

Everything looks great.

Footsteps echo in the hallway outside.

Max positions himself near the door, waiting for the knock.

Then—

“FIRE DEPARTMENT!

CRASH.

The door explodes inward. Wood splinters across the floor.

Six firefighters rush into the apartment.

Max jumps back in shock.

And right at the front—

Charles.

He’s breathing hard, clearly having run up the stairs. His helmet is slightly crooked and his expression is tight with worry. But the second he sees Max standing there perfectly fine, his expression changes to confusion.

“Max?”

Max waves weakly. “Hey, Charles.”

Charles blinks.

“You managed to get out of the oven on your own?”

Max opens his mouth—

“Fuck, that’s dangerous,” Charles continues, already walking over. He grabs Max’s left arm gently, inspecting it. “Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“Can you move it?”

“Yes.”

Charles rotates his wrist slightly. “We should take you to the hospital just to check—”

“Charles.”Max clears his throat, but Charles is still too busy fussing over his arm.“I never actually got my arm stuck in the oven.”

That catches Charles' attention. His head snaps up. “What?”

Max rubs the back of his neck. “I called because I wanted to talk to you.”

The other firefighters are now quietly watching this unfold.

Charles stares at him.

“You faked an emergency?”

“Well,” Max says carefully. “Yeah.”

Charles drops Max’s arm, frowning. “You know that’s a crime, right?”

Max pauses for a second.

“I did not know that, no.”

Behind Charles, the rest of the team has stopped moving. They’re watching. Very clearly entertained by what was happening in front of them.

Charles steps backward, running a hand through his hair.

“I thought something actually happened,” he says, voice tight. “When I saw the address and they told me you were stuck, I thought you wouldn't be able to drive—”

Max winces. “Sorry.”

He hadn't thought about that part. That Charles would hear what happened and be worried.

Charles gestures at the shattered door.

“You mobilized an emergency team.” He was furious now. “What if there's a real emergency we miss because of this?”

He didn't think of that either.

Charles looks genuinely pissed.

Max scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t have your number.”

Charles blinks. “What?”

“I wanted to ask you something but I didn’t have your number.”

Charles stares at him, incredulous.

“You could have come to the station.”

Max opens his mouth. Closes it.

Charles continues. “Or my apartment building, since you saw where I live.” 

Max looks at the floor. “Right.”

Behind Charles, one firefighter snorts. Another elbows him.

Max feels about twelve years old.

He rubs his face. “Okay, that’s fair. I didn’t think about that.”

Charles crosses his arms.

“So your solution was to call a fake emergency and commit a crime?”

Max sighs. “Yeah, that sounds really stupid when you say it out loud.”

“It was really stupid when you did it.”

More suppressed laughter behind Charles.

Max sighs again. “I’m sorry.”

Charles watches him for a moment.

Max shifts awkwardly under the scrutiny of six firefighters.

Finally he blurts out, “I just couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday.”

Charles’ expression changes slightly.

Max continues, words rushing now.

“I should have asked you out. I’ve been thinking about it all night and this morning and—” He gestures helplessly. “I just… did something dumb.”

Charles’ shoulders loosen a little.

Max glances up at him. “I regretted not asking you the second you left.”

The room is quiet now.

Charles exhales slowly.

Then he sighs.

And finally—

He smiles a little.

“I was kinda hoping you would.”

Max blinks. “You were?”

Charles shrugs. “But I get why you didn’t.”

Max frowns.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Charles gestures between them.

“You’re… you.” Max stares. “And I’m just a guy,” Charles says simply. “It’s not exactly normal for a celebrity like you to go out with a nobody like me.”

Max looks genuinely offended.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And I literally just committed a crime to see you.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Yes.” Max gestures vaguely at him.

“I thought you were way out of my league.”

Charles stares.

Behind him, one of the firefighters whispers, “No way this is happening.” Another murmurs, “Oh Pierre is gonna be so mad he is missing this.”

Charles looks back at Max.

“You’re a five-time formula one world champion.”

Max shrugs helplessly. “And you’re… you.”

“That’s not exactly an argument.”

Max gestures at him. “I mean, look at you Charles. You're beautiful, funny, intelligent, you like motorsports and listening to me talk about it. You're so damn brave, you literally save people for a living. There's no way a guy as incredible as you would want to go out with someone like me.” Charles stares at him, shocked.

Max adds quietly, “I figured you’d say no.”

For a moment neither of them speaks.

Then one of the firefighters clears his throat.

“So, are we arresting him for taking an emergency or…?”

Charles turns halfway toward them.

“No, we're not.” He glares. Charles exhales slowly, still rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Then he turns back to Max.

“But he is right. You did commit a felony to get me here,” he says. “So you might as well ask what you wanted to ask.”

Behind him, the other firefighters lean in slightly.

Max swallows.

Right. No backing out now.

He takes a deep breath.

“Would you like to go on a date with me, Charles?”

The room goes completely quiet.

Charles looks at him for a moment.

Then he smiles. “Yeah, I would love to.”

Max’s heart jumps—

“But you know I can't right now, right?” Charles asks. “This is all really nice, but,” he gestures around and then at his own uniform. “I'm working.”

Right. 

Yes. 

That makes sense.

Max nods quickly, trying to hide the flicker of disappointment. “Right. Of course.”

Charles softens a little when he notices. “But we could go out on my next day off, if you don't have plans?”

Max brightens immediately. “When is it? I'll make sure my calendar is free.”

“Sunday.”Max’s grin grows wider, already planning a nice romantic dinner—

Then Charles adds, “Which I now realize is a little a bit of a problem.”

Max frowns. “Why?”

Charles gives him a look.

“Don’t you need to be somewhere else Sunday?”

Max tilts his head. “Not that I know of.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “Not even in Spain? You know, racing?” 

Max stares at him. Then he bursts out laughing. “Oh. Right. That.”

Charles crosses his arms, amused.

“You forgot?”

“Not exactly.” He totally had forgotten about that. But that's okay, because Max is already pulling his phone out. “I’ll arrange the flight then.”

Charles blinks. “What?”

“You’ll come to the race,” Max says, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “You wanted to see one, right?”

Charles’ ears turn slightly pink. “Well… yes, but—”

“And after the race we can have some dinner. There's some restaurants in Barcelona that are amazing. Do you like Paella?”

Charles stares at him. “You’re serious.”

“Well, yeah.”

Charles hesitates. “Isn’t that a bit much for a first date?”

Max looks confused. Did he crossed a line? “What part?”

“Buying me plane tickets to Spain.”

Max frowns. “I’m not buying you plane tickets.”

Charles tilts his head. “You’re not? Cause I don't have the money to buy them mys–”

“My private plane will fly you.”

Silence.

Behind Charles, one of the firefighters chokes. Another lets out a loud laugh.

Charles’ face turns bright red.

“Right,” he mutters. “I kinda forgot you have one of those.”

Max shrugs casually. “So? Is it date?”

Charles looks at him for another second.

Then he smiles again. “Yeah.”Charles nods. “It’s a date.”

Max breaks into a wide grin.

From the back of the group, one of the firefighters suddenly pipes up.

“Hey, Verstappen!”

Max looks over. The firefighter grins. It’s officer E. Ocon. Max should probably learn their names if is gonna date Charles.

“Do the rest of us get free tickets to that Grand Prix too?” he laughs, wiggling his brows.

The entire team bursts into laughter.

Max crosses his arms thoughtfully.

“Well…”

Charles groans immediately. “Don’t encourage them.”

Max smirks. “That depends.”

“On what?” Ocon asks.

Max glances at Charles.

“If he agrees to a second date.”

The room erupts with whoops and whistles.

Charles covers his face.

“Oh my god, what have I done?”