Formula 1 onshots.

by Sam_Kennedy7

Notes:

As this is my first ever Oneshots, I have no idea how it'd go. But hoping for the best for all you readers. I also have this exact same one in Wattpad, but due to some personal reasons I'm not going to include the Wattpad account here. But if ever come across a story that is the same as this, that is mine.

Chapter 1: MV1 & LH44 | Four Years of Love and Rivalry

"Max, come on, baby, you need to wake up!" Lewis said to Max, who was still asleep beside him.

"Five more minutes..." Max mumbled sleepily, pulling the blanket over his head. Lewis couldn't help but smile at the sight.

"Alright, alright... Roscoe, come in," Lewis called softly. Almost immediately, Roscoe trotted into the room, hopping onto the bed and licking Max's face.

Max groaned, reluctantly cracking one eye open. "You didn't warn me," he muttered, trying to shove Roscoe away but failing as the dog just continued licking him.

Lewis laughed, pressing a kiss to Max's cheek. "Told you I'd make sure you woke up. Now come on, sleepyhead."

Reluctantly, Max sat up, rubbing his eyes. It was early December 2025, and after a long season, Max had decided to spend the holidays with his beloved boyfriend, Lewis. They had officially gotten together a little after Abu Dhabi 2021 when Max won his first title. Max had gone out to celebrate and found himself sitting alone at the bar when Lewis approached him. They talked for hours, and, well, one thing led to another, and they ended up in Lewis's bed. That was how it all started.

They had kept their relationship a secret from almost everyone. Well, except for Seb, Charles, Carlos, Lando, and Daniel. Seb found out when Lewis accidentally mentioned Max during a phone call. As for Charles and Carlos, it happened when Max was texting Lewis and left his phone unlocked, Charles saw the screen and immediately knew. As for Lando and Daniel... they found out in the worst way possible: walking in on Lewis and Max in the middle of... well, something they probably shouldn't have seen. Let's just say Lando was a little traumatized.

Despite the initial shock, their friends were supportive and genuinely happy for them. They just never expected the so-called biggest rivalry in F1 to turn into a love story.

That day was particularly special because it was their fourth anniversary. Lewis had already planned something meaningful for Max, but for now, he just needed to get through the day with his still-sleepy boyfriend.

Eventually, Max finally dragged himself out of bed, and after freshening up, he walked downstairs to the smell of something delicious. Entering the kitchen, he found Lewis making breakfast.

Smiling to himself, Max approached from behind, wrapping his arms around Lewis's waist and resting his chin on Lewis's shoulder. "Morning," Lewis greeted, tilting his head back to give Max a kiss.

"Morning, beautiful," Max replied, leaning in for another kiss.

"I'm making eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Not vegan for you, but vegan for me," Lewis said, chuckling.

Max smiled, eyes twinkling with affection. "You're the best, you know that?"

Lewis grinned. "Of course I am. I'm Lewis Hamilton."

Max laughed softly, turning Lewis around so their hands were resting on each other's shoulders. Lewis's hands found Max's waist, and they kissed passionately, both momentarily forgetting the world around them.

Breaking the kiss, Lewis whispered, "Happy 4th Anniversary, Maxy."

Max's smile was bright, his eyes shining with love. "Happy Anniversary to you too, my angel." They kissed again, long and slow, savoring the moment. After that Lewis told Max that he had a reservation for tonight with their friends for their 4th Anniversary.

After breakfast, they spent the afternoon cuddling on the couch, watching movies, or rather admiring each other, content in their little bubble. As evening approached, Lewis nudged Max gently. "We should get ready, love. We've got somewhere special to be."

Max groaned but eventually gave in, more out of curiosity than anything else. They changed into their best suits, Lewis with a dark purple shirt with a loose button and rings, a watch and ear rings that match him perfectly, Max couldn't help but stare liking what he sees. "Like what you see, baby?" Lewis asked which make Max startle a bit. "Of course I am, how can I not when there's a literal God standing in front of me like this?" Max responded walking to Lewis then kissed him. After a while they got ready and let just say after these years of dating they did not fail to make one another flustered.

Arriving at the restaurant, they were greeted by familiar faces. Charles, Carlos, Lando, and Daniel. Their friends immediately cheered, congratulating them on their anniversary. Daniel and Lando bring gifts for the couple, Charles and Carlos bring two little boxes of Necklace for the couple to wear as matching. Dinner was filled with laughter and teasing, and Max couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with happiness when he look at Lewis every time he speaks or make any motions and thinks how lucky he is to have a man like Lewis to be his boyfriend.

When dessert arrived, Lewis was still admiring his boyfriend and thought of the world then he make eye contact for a brief moment before taking Max's hand then pulling Max along. Everyone seemed to understand what will happened quieted down, sensing something important. Taking a deep breath, Lewis looked into Max's eyes, the eyes that got him to this day, to the day that he is going to risk it all in front of their friends.

"Max, when I first met you, I never thought that the fierce, determined, and relentless competitor I saw on track would become the person I love more than anything. We fought, we raced, we pushed each other to the limit. Not just as rivals, but as people who couldn't help but be drawn to one another, once we're just a rival that everybody thinks we hated each other and now we've became this."

"These past four years have been incredible. You challenge me, not just on the track but in life. You make me want to be better every single day. I never imagined that my toughest rival would also be my greatest love. You're stubborn, passionate, and a pain sometimes," Lewis chuckled, earning a playful nudge from Max, "but you're also the one who holds me when I'm exhausted, who tells me I'm enough when I doubt myself. You're my teammate in every sense of the word, and I want that for the rest of my life with you by my side 'till eternity"

"So, Max Emilian Verstappen, will you do the honor of marrying me? Will you take this crazy ride of life together, as my partner, my equal, and my love. Now and always?"

Max's hands were trembling, his eyes filling with tears. He covered his mouth, overwhelmed, before finally managing to whisper, "Yes... Yes! Of course, yes!"

Their friends burst into applause, Charles wiping his own eyes with a sheepish smile. "Damn it, I promised I wouldn't cry!" Carlos laughed, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "Too late now, carino."

Lando and Daniel were already snapping pictures, trying to capture the moment. "I knew you two would end up together!" Lando shouted, his grin infectious and Daniel was all like "Okay, okay it's happening, my Max is going to get married, MARRIED, I can't believe it.

Back home, they cuddled on the couch, talking to each other about things and stuff like they used to."I can't believe it, I'm going to marry a 7-time World Champion" Max said after they cuddle for a while. "And I can't believe a 4-time World Champion said Yes to me when I ask him to marry me." Max laughed and kissed Lewis passionately. "We're going to have 11 World Champions under our name combined" Max said with a smirk. "Yeah, I know and the world is going to break after we've announce." they laughed and decided to post a picture of them with rings on their hands, engagement rings, with the caption for both account:

"Four years of dating, four years of rivalry, four years of racing for championships in the name of love, and now we're going to the future together, with everyone thinking we hated each other.
-It was just for the public to see- after all."

Max couldn't stop laughing. "We really broke the internet, didn't we?"

Lewis just smiled, pulling him closer. "We always do, love." And they watch as the internet went wild, because of the suppose rivals or enemy were actually been dating this whole time.

Sometimes people come into your life in a really unexpected ways that you wouldn't even think and somehow it turned out to be the best thing that was to be happened to you. And what can we say? The Winner Takes It All.

Chapter 2: SV5 & KR7 | The Raikkonen's

"Kimiiii!" Sebastian called from the nursery, balancing their youngest, Marissa, in his arms. "Can you please catch your son before he knocks over everything through the house, he's like a tornado."

Kimi appeared in the doorway, looking as calm as ever despite the chaos. He glanced at Antonelli, their eldest, who was currently zooming around the living room, pretending to be a race car. "Anto," Kimi said in his usual deadpan tone, "stop running, bud you'll fall and knocks over everything."

Antonelli skidded to a halt, his bright eyes wide as he looked up at his father. "But Papa, I'm racing!"

Kimi knelt down, resting a hand on Anto's shoulder. "Race is over. Time for bed."

Anto pouted, but one look from Kimi was enough to make him sigh in defeat. Kimi ruffled his son's hair gently. "Tomorrow, okay?"

Anto nodded, giving his father a quick hug before heading upstairs. Kimi followed, making sure Anto was tucked in and settled before returning to the nursery to find that Marissa had finally fallen asleep in Seb's arms.

Seb looked up at him with a tired smile. "How do you do that? He just listens to you."

Kimi shrugged. "I don't run after him. He knows it's pointless."

Seb chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to Marissa's forehead before gently placing her in the crib, and kissed Kimi too. Once both kids were asleep, the couple made their way to the kitchen, where Seb started preparing dinner. Kimi joined him, grabbing a knife and helping with the vegetables.

As they moved around the kitchen, there was an easy rhythm between them, Seb cutting and seasoning while Kimi stirred the pot. They exchanged soft smiles and quiet words, the love between them palpable even in the simplest of tasks.

While they cooked, Seb couldn't help but reflect. "Do you remember when it all started?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Kimi nodded, a rare, fond smile appearing on his face. "2015. You, me, and a lot of gossip."

Seb laughed, nudging Kimi with his elbow. "It was never a secret for us. We just didn't feel the need to share it with the world. We were private, not hiding, but I don't think we were really subtle, tho."

They reminisced about how they told their fellow drivers. It had been during a post-race dinner, a few of their closest friends gathered around the table. Kimi had casually dropped the news by saying, "Seb and I are together." Silence fell.

Mark had been the first to react, laughing so loudly that his drink almost spilled. "No way! You and Iceman? That's legendary!"

Fernando raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Ah, I knew it. The way you two always hung around each other... Not a surprise, and Jenson pay up, 20 euros"

Jenson wasn't really surprise, because he had already placed a bet with Fernando. "Okay fine, you win. This is unfair, I lost my money, again to Nando." he pouted

Lewis had exchanged glances before grinning and offering heartfelt congratulations. "Happy for you both," Lewis had said, pulling them into a quick hug.

Nico Rosberg had blinked, clearly trying to process it, while Nico Hülkenberg just shrugged with a smile. "Honestly, I thought you were just really good friends. Guess I missed the signs, even. though it was pretty obvious."

DC had raised a toast. "To the most unexpected but undeniably legendary couple in F1 history!"

And then there were their so-called "grid kids." Max and Carlos. When Seb and Kimi finally told them, Carlos had been speechless, staring between the two like he'd just seen a ghost. Max, meanwhile, had gone through the five stages of shock, finally settling on, "Wait, really?"

"Oh, remember when we told them?" Seb said with a smirk. "Carlos couldn't believe it. Max just kept repeating, 'Wait, you two...?' like his brain was stuck."

Kimi's lips twitched. "And at our wedding... Max and Carlos cried during the vows. Never thought I'd see that."

Seb snorted softly. "I think they were more emotional than we were. Flower boys who couldn't stop sobbing."

Kimi shrugged. "They're dramatic. It's in their nature."

Their small, intimate wedding in the Finnish countryside had been perfect. It was peaceful, surrounded by nature, with just a handful of friends and family. Max and Carlos had been so proud to be part of it. Even if they cried their eyes out the whole time. It was a magical day for them both and their friends and Grid kids.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Before Seb could check, the door swung open, and Max and Carlos strode in, grinning like they owned the place.

"Hey, old men!" Max called out, his eyes immediately lighting up when he saw Kimi. "We came to crash dinner."

Carlos scooped up Antonelli, who had rushed downstairs to greet them, swinging him around playfully. "Hey, champ! Missed me?"

Antonelli giggled. "Uncle Carlos! Uncle Max!"

Marissa, now awake and curious, waddled over to Max, holding her arms up. Max immediately scooped her up, kissed her on the cheeks and cooing softly. "Oh, she's getting so big! Seb, what are you feeding her?"

Seb smirked. "Not Red Bull, that's for sure."

Kimi just shook his head, unimpressed with their dramatic entrance. "You two never knock."

Max shrugged. "We're family, we don't need to knock, right pops?"

Kimi and Seb just roll their eyes, but smile at that. "Well I suppose, Maxy, you're never knock anyways except Carlos, he knocks unlike you" Seb said and Max tried to get offended, but laugh instead.

Dinner turned into a lively affair with Max and Carlos, the kids insisting on sitting next to their favorite uncles. Carlos helped Marissa with her food, while Max animatedly told stories about his latest races, Antonelli hanging on every word.

After dinner, the two "uncles" initiated a pillow fight, which quickly escalated into a chaotic mess of giggles and soft blows. Kimi leaned against the doorframe, unfazed, while Seb couldn't stop laughing at how the supposed adults were now wrestling with two tiny humans. "They're just big kids themselves." Seb said to Kimi whom is also smiling. "Well they are still kids, they're just mature now." Kimi responed

When the kids finally collapsed from exhaustion, Kimi carried Antonelli to bed while Seb tucked Marissa in. Meanwhile, Max and Carlos were lounging on the couch, looking as tired as the kids.

Carlos sighed, grinning. "You two are insane for keeping up with them every day, they had too much energy."

Max nodded, stretching. "Yeah, I'm wiped. But they're adorable. Definitely take after Seb more than Kimi."

Kimi raised an eyebrow. "Lucky for them."

"You two should come here more often, the kids missed their uncles, you know?" Seb said while Carlos and Max got ready to leave. "And don't you miss us? huh pops?" Max asked cheeky grins. "We'll miss you alright, miss seeing you two as well don't worry about it" Seb replied with a smile then they hugged, Kimi as well.

As Max and Carlos said their goodbyes, Max couldn't help but smile warmly at Seb. "You guys are like... the perfect family. It's really nice to see you happy and really glad that you guys looked after us all those years, so Thanks Seb and Kimi for your love and support." Carlos said when they reached the door. "Of course buddies, we love you like you both are our sons, and so nothing's going to change that, okay?" Seb give them a pat on their shoulders and they leave.

Once they were gone, Kimi wrapped his arms around Seb from behind when they were in the kitchen, washing up the dishes and put things into oder, Kimi resting his chin on his shoulder. "You always make me love more and more every single day, you know that? Sebastian Räikkönen."

Seb smiled, leaning back against him. "You too, Kimi Räikkönen. You and the mini Räikkönens."

After a while Seb then said with a smile. "You know, thinking back, if people told me while I was still driving for Red Bull that in the future I would be married to Kimi Räikkönen, I would laugh so hard that I won't able to open my eyes."

Kimi just smile and hugged Seb tighter. "And look at you now! Part of the Räikkönen's as well." the leaned in to kiss him again.

When they broke the kiss, Seb said. "Yeah, part of you now, us. And wouldn't trade it for the world." and he turned around to face Kimi and looked him in the. The eyes that full of love, hope, joy and the color of his lover, husband. his home.

Seb then leaned in again to kiss him properly this time and it was soft, slow, full of unspoken, but understanding words.

When they finally broke, Seb said it first. "I love you, Kimi. Always you. And always will. No matter what the world turned out to be." and he smile when he sees Kimi with his eyes: the ones that full of love.

Kimi makes a quick motion to kiss Seb then said. "I love you too, Seb. You showed me something I'd never thought I deserved. You made me realized what love really is. You are perfect. You are my world. My home." he said it with full honesty and sincere to his husband. His world.

They stood there in the quiet of their home, surrounded by the remnants of family dinner and the lingering warmth of laughter. Life with Kimi had always been an adventure, but this, Family, love, chaos, was the best kind of race they could ever run and ever dreamed of and they didn't what the world said, all they care is that they have each other and no matter the the world out to be, They have each other and they have the mini Räikkönens, The Räikkönens.

Notes:

I don't really know how to use AO3 quite yet, so....

Chapter 3: CL16 & CS55 | The Announcement

It was a really sunny day today in Saudi Arabia, Abu Dhabi Grand Prix is this Sunday and Charles, the Moneqasgues prince is now leading the Driver Championship and he is over the moon, still he had to make sure that he won this race, because Max is at his tails just a few points behind, so if he wants a Championship he had to win the last race to be able to.

When enter the paddock, Charles easily steals everyone's breath by his charm, a Ferrari red shirt that is oversized for him, but seems to really fit him well, a black baggy jeans, a black pair of sun glasses on his face and a smile that everybody would die for.

"Hey Charles, trying to make the people suffer again I see?" Max said while padded from behind. "Well, you know me, Max I'll always do that" he reply with a wink. "You're alone? I thought Carlos is coming too, you told me that he would come, I kinda miss my buddy, Charles" Max asks after walking a bit. "He's coming in a bit don't worry, I'm taking your best friend away you, Max" Charles replied.

 

A little that we know in this, that Carlos Sainz Jr was never a racing driver, he is a model, a well known Spanish model that have the affect that attract everybody regardless of their genders, women, men whatever you would describe yourself would always got attract to that effect, that "Carlos Sainz's effect."

And he's going to be here today at the Abu Dhabi GP to simply support his friends, Charles, Max, Lando and Nico and others too, of course.

Arriving as expected the paddock went wild, camera men shoving each other trying to get a shot of Carlos, women screaming his name to get autographs, crew members staring at the view, overall Carlos is effortlessly good looking, TOO good looking for the paddock.

"Hey, hey boys" He greeted the drivers when enter the hospitality.

"Heyyyy, Carlos!! We miss you man, it's been like forever" Lando the first one to say and he walked over to hug him. "I was away for 3 months, it's not that long" Carlos said with a chuckle.

"He's just dramatic and you know that" Max said came in to hug him as well. "I know, you are too Max, not just him" Lando and Max both give a synchronize "Hey" and they all laugh.

"Ah hey, Cabron! Good to see you here." Nico came in then hug Carlos as well. "I miss all of you, of course I have to come" Carlos said when they broke the hug.

"Miss me more I assume?" Charles asked with a smirk, that damn smirk. "Of course I am, mi amore, who wouldn't miss their boyfriend?" Carlos said and ran to Charles then hug him tight. "Easy there, tiger we're in public" Charles said with a smirk, again.

It was no secret(to their friends, Max, Lando and Nico) that Carlos and Charles have been dating for a long time now, from the start of 2019 to now 2025. They met when Carlos had to attend the race in Imola, Carlos as one of the special guest who will later fell over heels for the Ferrari driver. They kept it private, their relationship, they don't want attention much and especially the Social Media platform chaos, so they've been discreet and yes, they told their friends after that day in Imola and that was also how they became friends with Carlos.

"You gonna have to fight hard, Max, because this guy? Is going to steal your Championship this year." Carlos said to Max who is smiling at them both.

"Well honestly, if I had to lose my Championship I'd rather lose it to Charles than any other anyways, but don't think I won't fight! I'll fight 'till the end of the line pal." Max responded and winked that them.

"Cocky, as always he'll never change I told you." Charles said to Carlos and laugh.

 

Free Practice 1, 2 and 3: went great for both Ferraris, Lewis P1, Charles P2 and Max P3. Qualifying: also went great with Charles on pole, Max starting in 2nd and Lando in 3rd. Tomorrow the race will the determent who is going to win, will Charles still be on pole and win the race? Will Max get his 5th title? Will Lewis able to get back in position with staring on 7th? All the questions are there hanging in the air, but the real question that is should be asked: Will Charles Leclerc finally able win a Championship with his dream team Ferrari or will he be again stuck in 2nd in the Championship standing?

"You're gonna do great tomorrow, Charles, I know that." Carlos said to Charles while they were cuddling on the couch. "I don't know Carlos, I feel so much pressure it's like I'm about to bust into shreds." Charles said with a light chuckle.

"You're not going to explode, don't stress so much okay? I'll be there watching, cheering for you and be with you in your mind all race long." Carlos said and leaned down and kiss Charles on the lips. "Okay. I'm so lucky to have you, by my side, you know that?" Charles said with a smile.

"I know. You've told everyday." Carlos replied. "And I won't stop telling." Charles grinned then turned himself fully into Carlos then kiss him properly.

 

Sunday came and all 19 drivers plus Lance Stroll(I'm joking guys) are ready to race for their career, their lives, their future and their everything. With Charles Leclerc on pole, people had so much hope on him to win this last race of the season and take home a Championship. Although Charles is currently stressing so hard right now in his driver's room, but Carlos is there to comfort.

"Baby, you don't have stress, alright? I'm here all the time watching you and cheering for you and I won't stop, so please, don't stress out! You'll win this and take home the Championship for us, okay?" Carlos asked. "I know, I know and yes I will win this, for us, for YOU." Charles replied kissing Carlos.

"Alright then, champ, go! You have a race to win and a Championship, take it home, okay?" Carlos asks and gives him give him another kiss. "I will, I will, I promise." Charles said a then walked to his garage and got into his car.

 

The race... well let's just it was a roller coaster, contact between Gasly and Ocon(Ironic isn't it?) had made the red flag spawn, safety car deployed, because the rookies, Hadjar, Antonelli, Bortoleto and Lawson all involved in ONE crash, so that makes 6 drivers out of the race already.

Meanwhile the front of the grid, Max, yes he snatched pole from Charles on lap 15 and now by lap 52, only 6 laps left for him to prove that he will steal the Championship from Max and become Champion himself.

So that's what he does, he takes the risk, he proves the world that he is the Champion, he overtakes Max by the last lap and he did it. HE became THE WORLDCHAMPION, he finally did it with his favorite team, his dream has come true, for himself, for the team and for Him.

"YOU DID IT, CHARLES, YOU REALLY DID IT, YOU ARE NOW A WORLDCHAMPION, A WORLDCHAMPION AND YOU'VE WITH FERRARI, CONGRATS, MAN, CONGRATSS." his engineer, Bryan screams into the radio.

"YES, YESSSSSSSS, I DID IT, I FREAKING DID IT, WOOOOO HOOOOO, YEAHHHHH, LET'S GOOOOOO." at this point everybody is screaming, like literally screaming.

He parked his car behind a number 1st sign and he jumped out he sprints towards his team jump over the fence and just let the team scream out of happiness and joy they carried him just the moment full joy.

But on his mind there's only one thing he thinks right now, and that is his Carlos, standing near the end smiling and mouthing the word. "You did it, baby, I'm so proud of you." And Charles just can't wait to what he's about to do.

But he got interrupted by non other than his friends, Max P2 and Lando P3. "You muppet, you actually did it, mate, Congrats, congrats, congrats." Lando said lifting Charles up hug him so hard.

"I was joking when I said I'd rather lose to you, but I see that you took it seriously." Max hugged hard as well and then let go. "Well someone's gotta take the win, right?" and they all laugh.

Charles finally walked over to Carlos and without a word he launched himself on to Carlos and hugged him like there's no tomorrow. "I did it, baby, I did it." Charles mumbles into Carlos' shoulders. "I know and I'm so so so proud of you, love, you deserve every part of it." Carlos said gentle and leaned in and kiss his hair without making it so obvious.

 

On the podium, Charles connot stop smiling, especially when he looked over the crowds and see his future, his beloved husband, standing there hands over his mouth, eyes full of happy tears, and looked at him like he is the world, Charles IS the world for Carlos and so does Carlos to Charles.

 

The press conference is still buzzing over the newly Champion, and questions were thrown at him like any other would get. "Charles, congrats on the Championship, you fought hard and certainly deserved every bits of it, how do you feel about this?" a journalist asked.

"I'm happy, very happy and thank you for your kind words, it was intense, yes especially fighting against this guy, Max, even after all those year he's still so competitive on track and off." Charles said with a chuckle.

"Well, the so called 'Just an inchident' got us here, so yeah, I'm happy for you Charles." Max said with a genuine smile, truly happy that his friend had won.

"Thanks, Max and all of the support I got from friends, family and my partner as well." The media team went dead silent and Charles, Max and Lando just grinned, they knew what they were doing.

"Sorry, Charles, did you just say partner?" A woman asked.

"Oh yeah about that I also have an announcement to make." Charles answer and the room went silent, again. "From next year onwards, I, Charles Leclerc will not be racing any longer."

The room erupted with questions like 'Are you retiring?' or like 'wait after just one championship?' or 'Retired by just 27 years old?' all of those come until they seemed to see that that is not all Charles had to say, so they got quiet again and then.

"As I was saying, Charles Leclerc will no longer be racing anymore from next year, because Charles Leclerc doesn't exist anymore" again dead silent.

"From next year on, I now, Charles Sainz will be racing instead and under my legal name, my government name. And thank you all for your time." With that Charles left with Max and Lando laughing and follow behind. "Hahaha, look at them so shocked that they couldn't move." Lando said laughing. "Well, what can I say? I'm of surprises." Charles responded.

"You just broke the internet, Charles." Carlos said laughing while they were on their plane back to Monaco. "Yeah, I know, I have to do that, because I have a husband and I'm using his name." Charles said with a smile.

"You're mine forever now, Charles Marc Herve Perceval Sainz. Forever." Carlos said then kissed Charles passionately. "I'd love to yours, forever." Charles replied and they finally had some fun on the plane while on the way home. Let's just say that Charles' little "Announcement" took the world by storm and hashtag #C2SAINZ is trending on every platform, but they deserved it, their love will forever be remembered by fans and everybody.

_________________________________________.

Chapter 4: MV1 & DR3 | The Promise We Made

In the world we live in, we know it can be cruel, so cruel sometimes that makes us think "Do we really deserve this?" or "What did I do in the past life end up like this?" You can go from being so happy at the moment and within minutes, it was all gone, with a blink of an eye. We really have no clue how the world is going end up, how WE are going to end up in.

That is exactly what happened to Daniel Ricciardo. One morning he's in bed with his boyfriend, Max and then the next he knows? He lost his life. 

The paddock at the Australian Grand Prix that was usually full of noises, people running around, camera crews being on their jobs, engineers preparing tyres and engines, drivers arriving and do their normal routine, team principal analyzing datas, to now silence. Just silence. Because one of their brightest smiles, their most beloved driver, their sunshine through the paddock, someone's son, someone's boyfriend. that someone was Daniel Ricciardo. He had lost his life on the way to paddock on Friday for free practice, to support his boyfriend, but again the world can be cruel, fate leads him to a road where a drunk driver losing his balance on the road taking both himself and Daniel's life with it.  The accident was so critical that before Daniel could even think, he was already gone. 

Max Verstappen, now standing hands holding on to Daniel's helmet, tears in his eyes, in front of a small podium that was supposed to use to place race winners' helmet, now to make a memorial for a driver, an ex-driver, an ex-beloved-driver, Daniel Ricciardo. Other drivers kneel on one knee to pay respect while Max, standing helmet in hands, tears in his eyes, legs shaking, hands trembling, as the important person to the one that is gone.

"Danny... Why'd you leave me like this?... I thought we have a future together... You lied, Daniel, You left. You left me to be on my own now... Why?" Max said between sobs. Everybody can see how much this death has an effect on Max and they can't help, but pity him(what Max hates the most: be pitied) Every drivers and crew members, everyone in the paddock knows how much Max and Daniel loved each other, so they understand the best thing for Max now is to not approach him while he's like that. 

 

After a proper funeral, all drivers attend, all team principal and lots of paddock crew, Max stands in front of the grave of his lover, standing there with no emotions, expression, movement and no soul. Just stand there, blank like a void, staring at the headstone with the name of his once lover that is now had gone to sleep.

 

"He's not gonna be able to race, I just know that."  Fernando Alonso said from the funeral tent.

"Yeah... I can't imagine what's going on inside his head right now, probably a blank space or just every memory of him and Daniel." Lewis replied with a sad tone. 

"You guys think he'll be fine?" Nico Hulkenberg asked. "Knowing Max, I'd say no." Charles replied watching Max. 

"He was so young, still have a life ahead of him, with Max, but that stupid fucking drunk took him away!" Carlos said his tone mad. "He's asleep now, at least, if he survived, I don't think he'll be doing good at all knowing the condition he was in when he was taking into the hospital." Pierre said. 

At this point every driver knew how Max is going to be: cold. Because Daniel came into his life with those things: Smiles, laughs, tears, warmth and everything. But now? That Daniel's gone? Max has non of that anymore.

Like they already knew it, Max Verstappen became a person with no emotions, no smiles, no laughs, no everything. Just a void. A cold void. Every race after the death of Daniel had became a place for Max to drive like he's trying end himself. And after the race even after when he wins, he doesn't celebrate, he doesn't go to the team to cheer, he simply got out of the car went inside the cooldown room sits in the corner and wait 'till it all over. 

 

Five races later, Max found himself at Daniel's grave once again, his twelfth visit in just two months. He knelt down, carefully placing the flowers he had brought. The same kind Daniel once planted in their garden. His voice trembled.

"I brought you flowers, Dan... the ones you loved, the ones you planted. I don't know how to take care of them without you... I think they're going to..." Max stopped himself, choking on the word "die" as tears welled up. His hands clenched, his shoulders shaking.

"Why does the world have to take you? Out of all the people it could have chosen. Why you?" His voice broke, his heart screaming through the sobs. "Do I really not deserve to be happy? Just once in my life?"

Max lowered himself to the ground, his knees pressing into the soft earth as the tears finally fell. After a moment, his voice softened, defeated.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Danny. I feel like I'm drowning, like every day without you is breaking me into smaller pieces. I really thought we'd get to live our dream together, you know? But I guess... not every dream gets to come true." He swallowed hard, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Slowly rising, Max forced a shaky smile, more for himself than for the gravestone. "I'm gonna go now... I hope you're doing okay up there. I love you, Daniel. I always will."

With one last, lingering look, he whispered, "I'll keep the promise. For us." Then, with one final tear slipping down his cheek, Max turned and walked away, the weight of grief trailing behind him like a shadow.Their house, once vibrant and full of life, now stands cloaked in shadows.

The walls that once echoed with laughter are now silent, the colors faded into muted shades of gray. The garden, once a sanctuary of blossoms that Daniel nurtured with his hands, now lies barren, flowers withered, petals scattered like remnants of forgotten joy.

Without Daniel, the garden's life has waned, much like the heart that once beat for it. The colors have faded, and the once-bright blooms stand lifeless, untouched by the gardener's love. What was once a place of warmth and light now breathes a cold, heavy emptiness, mirroring the void left behind.

 

 

Max Verstappen has done it! He won the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, he is now a 5-time World Champion, and he should be happy, right? Yes, he was suppose to be happy, but the person that makes it happy is now gone and so, Max felt nothing, just cold, emotionless. 

He parked his car behind the 1st sign, but something is missing. He walked slowly to the team with no emotion left just a cold and unreadable expression and they patted his back and that's it. On the podium he has no smile, no happy tears, just cold and no emotion. After the podium ended, he take the trophy and left to Christian Hornor's office to break him the news.

 

"Max, hey, buddy, feeling better?" Christian asked when Max enters the room, but he already know the answer. 

"No, and I want to tell you something, honest and I want to get this done as soon as possible." Max said offering a weak smile. "Okay, I'm all ears." 

Max sits down then began. "I'm not racing anymore. I'm retiring after this season, so the 2026 season I won't be racing anymore." Max just get straight to the point. "I know I'm young, but to be honest after what happened, I don't think I can take it anymore. He was the reason why I race, why I became who I am now. But that was when he's still alive, now he's gone... he had taken that with him too and I can't enjoy it anymore, not when the reason was already gone." Max finished then silence fell. 

"You're going to be okay though, right, Max?" Christian asked. 

"Yeah, I think I will." Max offers a weak smile. "I decided that now and I want to fulfill our dreams, my promise. I will be moving to Australia, to a place where there's a farm and I'll be taking care of them. Like what we promised."

 

 

Max's apartment: Monaco. 22/12/2024 - Max's memory

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Max and Daniel were cuddling on the couch when Daniel said. "You know, I really love the idea of having a farm and taking care of animals somewhere in Australia. So that I could live like a normal person, a person who doesn't have to worry about fame." Max lift his head up to look at Daniel then leaned in and kissed him. "Why's that?" Max asked when they broke the kiss. 

" So I can be myself, my true self. And preferably some kids of our own running around the farm and have fun with them. Since I'm not going to race anymore, I thought that would be the life I'd choose." Daniel said with smile and something in his eyes that tells Max, that this is what they wanted as well. 

"Some kids, huh? You really want that? With me?" Max asked with a smile. "Of course I want that with you, Maxy! Who else would I want to do that with?" Daniel chuckled and kissed Max again. 

"We'll make that happen. I want that with you too, Danny. Just you." Max smile and looked Daniel in the eyes as they stay there. 

"Promise?" Daniel asked. "Promised." Max replied. And Max was determent to make that happened in the future, because he wanted that with Daniel, his Daniel.

 

 

Abu Dhabi: Saudi Arabia. 07/12/2025 - Present time

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"So this isn't about the team or anything? I just want to make sure." Christian asked to make sure. 

"No, Christian, it's not the team, it's HIM. I promised him and I have to keep my promise and do what I have to do. Besides it would be great if I restart my life again. Hopefully for the best." Max replied with a smile, genuine smile. Christian noticed and he can't but feel happy for Max that he finally able to smile again and think positively. 

Without thinking Christian walked over to Max and pulled him into a hug, a hug that represent a father figure protecting his son. "Okay, Max, I'm happy if you're happy! I want nothing more than seeing you happy again. If there's anything, ANYTHING at all that I could help, please, call me, okay?" Christian asked as Max felt into the embrace under the warmth of his team principal: a Father Figure. 

"Yes, Chris, I will. I will." then they hugged tighter. "You'll always be family in this, okay? You are part of us. Always be part of us. Don't forget that. And we all love you! I love you, Max, like you're my own son, so, don't hesitate if you need help! I'm always here for you! We all are." 

They're both now have tears in their eyes as they hugged and did not want to let go of each other. "Thank you, Christian. Thank you. You'll always be the father figure I'd ever wanted!" Max embraced tighter one last time before he let go and walked out.

 

Max said his goodbyes to all the drivers, the engineers, the crew and the paddock. All gave him a farewell goodbyes when they finally see something in Max's eyes: a light, a new possibility, a new Max Verstappen. Red Bulls, the F1 and Max's accounts posted about Max's retirement with the caption that Max chose;

"My time has come. My time is here. I, Max Verstappen, am here today to announce that I am retiring from Formula 1. I have reached the end of this journey, this career, and it's time to take a step back.

I stayed in Formula 1 for a reason, because of a promise I made, and that promise was with Daniel Ricciardo. He was the reason I raced, the reason I chased world championships, the reason I kept going when it was tough. He was the smile on my face, the light in my life, the reason I'm still here today. He was my heart, my soul, my everything.

Now that he's gone, it's time for me to honor that promise. Not just for me but for him. We dreamed together, set our sights on something greater than just racing. I'm going to step back now, not to move away from that dream, but to make it real in a new way. To live the life we planned together, to fulfill the promise we made.

To everyone who has supported me through the highs and lows of my career. Thank you. You've been part of my story, and I'm grateful. Now, it's time for a new chapter.

Thank you for everything.

Max Emilian Verstappen, signing off."

 

 

7 years later - The Lockyer Valley: Queensland; Australia 08/04/2032

Max is currently standing in front of a field full of sheep, and looking at them with happiness and joy that Max has been looking for, for so long. He had done it, he make that promise happened.

Build a house that has a farm and live there with animals that he will be taking care of, and a land full of possibility. Today though, Max will have visitors, two visitors. Charles and Carlos. They had planned this trip to come and see Max after the Australian GP and check on how's he's doing. And Max? He couldn't be happier that his friends able to make time to see him, to check up on him, so, he is grateful.

After walking around a bit he saw a car that does not belong to anyone in the small village at all, so he knew and he went over to the car that is currently driving towards the farm. 

"Maxy, Max, hey, hey man, we missed you!" Charles said as soon as he stepped out of the car and ran towards Max. "ohh, hey, easy there, Charles, really miss me this. much?" Max teased and hugged Charles tight. 

"He is, apparently. Couldn't stop talking about seeing Daisy the whole ride here. I think my fiance got his heart stolen by your daughter!" Carlos said and chuckle. "Hey, I miss my favorite niece, okay? She probably miss me to-" 

He didn't get to finish when he heard a voice screaming out for him. "UNCLE CHARLIE, UNCLE CARLOS." Daisy, Max's daughter came running out from the farm rushing into a hug with Charles immediately. "There's my favorite person!!!" Charles declared and kissed her on the cheeks. Daisy giggles. "Miss me?" Charles asked. "Yes, I miss you, very much!!" Daisy respond. 

Daisy, yeah Max's adopted daughter. He adopted her when she was 1 year old, he had taken care of her since then. And Max also change her name, since she didn't really have name then, so Max chose her a name. Daisy Daniella Verstappen. is the full name. She had similar feature to Daniel as well, so to that Max also see him in her eyes as well.

"She's grew up fast!" Carlos said as they made their way into the house. "Yeah, it was like yesterday she was 1 and now almost 7." Max laughed. 

"You're doing okay? You and her?" Carlos asked. "Yes, I am, couldn't be more happier than this." Max smiles while looking over his daughter who is running around with Charles. "Good to hear that." Carlos said then patted Max on the back.

After they got inside they had prepared dinner and ate them with a table full of laughter and smiles and Daisy was on a mission to give every detail of everything she'd learned and found to Charles and Carlos. Both of them are listening and laughing along with her all the way. A little while later Charles take her to the living room and play cards with her challenging her through all. And Max and Carlos stayed back in the kitchen talking. 

"You know, I never thought that I'm going to get married to a man like Charles, ever, but here I am, savior every moment with him." Carlos said looking at his fiance from the kitchen. 

"Pfft, well I already knew you guys would end up together for a long time now, so, no surprises there." Max offer a smile and looked over his daughter as well. 

"She really reminds me him. She's like a mini version of him." Carlos said with a fond smile. "Yeah, I know." after that silence fell and a bit later Carlos breaks it. 

"Do you still think of him? From time to time I mean." Max give a small smile and sigh. "Yeah, from time to time I do think about him. Think about how this is all we wanted." Max softened his tone and look at Carlos. "But hey, I have a future now, with her, my daughter. She is everything to me now and I know that he knows that too." Max give Carlos a smile then, Carlos responded. "Yeah, you do now." And the rest of the evening went on with smiles and laughters.

Chapter 5: KM20 & NH27 | Behind the Scene

Peaceful day in the paddock: that's what every drivers want right now in the 2024 season. But peaceful is not an option, especially when there are two blondes, one's short and younger and the other taller and older are literally at each other's throat every passing second of the day like that, so the other 18 drivers were simply just try to get them both away from each other as possible(which is near impossible because they are teammates). 

At the Haas' garage they can see that again, Kevin and Nico were fighting-not physically. They trow insults at each other like they were the words of wisdoms. 

"I am not going to make that! You drink that shit, you make it!" Nico declared. "Oh so now we're taking who's not drinking and who is?" Kevin shot back looking up since he's shorter. 

"Yes, Kev, that how it works." Nico shout back then walked away like nothing happened. "Gosh, how I'd like to kill him right now!" Kevin sighs out and walked to the espresso machine. 

"You two REALLY need a couple's counseling" Their team principal said after enter the garage. "Pfft, knowing him? We need more than just counseling, we need like a mental hospital." Kevin mocked with a chuckle. "That can do." The team principal said as he walked away shaking his head.

The other drivers meanwhile watching it unfold then saw Nico walked out so they(Carlos, Charles, Fernando, Lando, Max and Lance) started discuss.

"You know, I started to consider that their love language is being at each other's throat." Max said as he watches Nico walked into the Haas hospitality. 

"Are they really that stupid? I mean one moment they seemed to be so in love and then the next, they're plotting a homicide." Charles said after. "Aren't they already married? The wedding rings on their fingers tell us what we need to know right?" Lando joined in. 

"Yes, they are married, but not to each other. To other people though, and as for as I notice, they are both straight since both married to other women." Fernando adds. 

"We really need to get informations from them, more about their stupid 7 years of rivalry. Since that 'Suck my balls, mate' thing." Lance added. And they all nodded then walked away to their perspective teams.

 

 

"Kevin, you have all of those space that you could've chosen to sit, but you chose this? Really?" Nico said as Kevin planted himself next to Nico and Carlos. "I want to sit here is that a problem?" Kevin asked. "You? Yes, if it was others? No." Nico said back. 

"Guys, I don't want to see blood now, so please, put the sword down for a bit and eat lunch, please?" Carlos caught in a death stares and sword fighting words tried to fuse the tension. 

"I think that rule implied to him." Kevin said pointed to Nico. "Me? It was obviously yo-" Nico didn't get to finish when Carlos cut him. 

"BOTH!!! Both of you, I said it to the both of you, so please for the love of Fernando's rookie season, please just eat?" Carlos snapped. Then both Kevin and Nico went quiet, finally eating their lunches. "Thank you, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Carlos side eyed Kevin and then Nico and they both just nodded their heads.

 

 

"I just don't get it!!" Kevin said to Valtteri, when they were walking back to the hotels. "He's somehow even more pissed at me ever since I announce my F1 exit, like he wants me to suffer the last season of my F1 career." he finished as they were already at the door of Valtteri's hotel. 

"Don't you think it's dramatic? Both of you fighting for like what? 7 years now? And still couldn't solve the problem." Valtteri said as he tossed his bags into the corner of the room. 

"You think I want that? He got mad because I told him to, I quote 'Suck my balls, mate' after the race back in 2017." Kevin said crashed himself onto Val's bed. 

"And did he actually suck your balls? Because people have theory." Val said with a smirk. 

"Not helping, Val, not at all." Kevin sighed. 

"Hey, don't ask me for love advice! You know how bad I am at it." 

"Not a love advice, Val, we're not together. Never was"

"Oh really, Kev? You and Nico don't have a thing, funny." 

"Well, it's the truth. We're married to other people and also have kids with other people and as far I'm concerned, I'm straight and so is he."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because, I am sure, Val, so please give me something else or I will explode if we still talk about it."

So Val dropped it then walked back from the bathroom and standing in front of Kevin giving him a knowing look. 

"You both were not very subtle about this at all, you know that?" Val asked and Kevin just sits there, blank. So Valtteri continues.

"You both are dating and kept it a secret. I know a secret relationship when I see one." Kevin lays back down and sighs. 

"How can you tell for sure? You don't even know us." 

"But you do, don't you Kev?" and Val sit on a chair near a table. 

"Yes, I do know us. It's just... It's just like he's trying to make sure that I know what I did wrong before I leave, even though I don't even know what I did." Kevin sighs and sits up to look at Val. 

"Do you think he does this 'cause he's mad I'm leaving? Or do you think he's just want me to know what I just told you?" Kevin then asked. 

"I. Don't. Know. Kevin. You of all people should be the one to ask him or talk to him, you know what communication is right?" Val replied while eating his ice-cream. 

"Why am I even here anyways? You are no help!" 

"I told you I don't do love advices."

"It wasn't a love advice, VAL, you know what? I'm out, I don't have time for this stress. See you on track tomorrow." Then he just leaves. Val sits there shanking his head, then mutters. "They really are stupid."

 

Sunday, race day is happening right now and both Kevin and Nico refused to even talk to each other which makes the other drivers more and more irritated. 

"They NEED to stop doing whatever they are having, because I'm losing my patience!" Fernando declared. "After the race. They have to. No, they NEED to." Max said. 

 

After the race all 20 drivers gathered in one of the conference room with one side had Nico in front and the other had Kevin. 

"Alright, I've had enough of the two of you being like this all the time, you two need to solve whatever it is that you guys have right now or you're not leaving." Fernando announce as the oldest one among. 

"Why do we have to?" Nico asked not looking at Kevin once. 

"And why does this have to involve all of you?" Kevin asked after. 

"We do this for your own good Kev and Nico. The tension is unbearable now." Lewis steps in. 

"Fine then, what is it with you, huh? Nico? You're acting like you expect me to know something I did that I didn't know I did." 

"Don't start with that now Kev. Please."

"No? then tell me why. I ask you to talk, you said there's nothing to talk! I asked you is everything alright, you said everything's fine when you and I both know damn well it is NOT fine" Kevin shouts back angry now.

At this point everybody almost regret being in here with them, because once again, words with daggers being thrown.

"You want me to say it out loud? Huh? Kevin? Fine, I'll say it. YOU, Kevin. YOU. You were supposed to be here, with me. But you chose WEC again, over me. You chose that damn sport over your husband. Again.

When I finally got back into F1, I thought being your teammate would make me happy again. After stepping away from racing, for you. I thought this was it. That we'd be together, that you wouldn't leave me again. But you... you're doing it all over. Leaving the sport, leaving me. Kev... me." Nico said putting his hand on his chest.

"Do you know how many nights our daughters ask me where their daddy is? Almost every. Single. Night. And what do you think I tell them, huh? I have to hold back tears every time they ask. Do you even know how many nights I went to bed crying? No, you don't. Because you weren't there, Kevin. You weren't fucking there." Nico shouted with tears in his eyes.

"Is it really too much to ask for you to love me? Just love me, like you promised?"

Nico's voice cracked as the tears finally spilled over, his vision blurring as he struggled to hold himself together.

Kevin stood frozen, the weight of Nico's words crashing over him like a tidal wave. For the first time, he truly saw what he had done, how his choices had hurt the man he loved. Regret burned through him, searing every part of his being.

"Nico... I-" Kevin whispered, his voice cracking, but it was too late. Nico had already stormed out, tears streaming down his face. Kevin remained rooted to the spot, unable to move or even breathe, his heart pounding against his ribs.

The silence was suffocating until Lewis stepped forward, his tone low and full of guilt. "Kev... we're really sorry for pushing. We didn't know. None of us did."

Kevin didn't respond. He couldn't. The words wouldn't come. Without another glance, he turned around and walked away, his mind spiraling with remorse and the aching realization of just how deeply he had hurt the person he cherished most.

 

 

Now here they are at the Monaco GP, Kevin had to explain everything to the whole grid now, that they know and yeah. They were together since 2017,  right after that infamous quote. They kept it a secret, because they don't the media or anyone to know and they got married in 2020 when Kevin lost his seat with Haas and Nico while he was still in a temporary retirement. Kevin told them how he almost broke their marriage once because of his decision to go to WEC. And also the explanation of how their daughters were born and kept them as with others women instead. Kevin basically going over everything that had happened and he can finally now see, how much he hurt Nico in the process.

 

"I never knew how much I hurt him... until now." Kevin said as Lewis, Val and Fernando were there inside his drivers room. 

"You can still fix it, Kev. We all make mistakes, but we have to be willing to fix if we really love and wanted that person." Lewis said. "Do you love him?" he added. 

Kevin sits up looked them in the eyes and said. "I love him more than my own life, I love him more than anything in this world, of course I love him!" Kevin shots to the three men. 

"And you're still gonna just sit here and wait?" Fernando said with a smirk. 

"Oh god, I had to get to him. I can't let him go again!"

Lewis, Valtteri, and Fernando exchanged knowing glances before one of them spoke up. "Kev... you can't just let it end like this," Lewis said firmly. Valtteri nodded, adding, "He's your world, mate. Go to him."

Fernando, always a bit rough around the edges, softened for once. "You're an idiot if you don't fix this. Run to him, don't waste time."

It was all the push Kevin needed. Without a second thought, he sprinted out of the paddock, the rain in Monaco pounding against his face. He didn't care that his clothes were drenched or that his shoes slapped against the slick pavement. All that mattered was finding his way back to Nico. His husband, his home.

His heart pounded as he reached their doorstep, breathless and soaked to the bone. For a moment, Kevin hesitated, fear creeping in. What if Nico wouldn't let him in? What if he'd pushed him too far this time? Swallowing his doubts, he raised a trembling hand and knocked.

The door creaked open, revealing Nico, eyes red and swollen, his face etched with exhaustion. Kevin's heart cracked at the sight, guilt flooding his veins. But before he could speak, Nico glanced behind him, making sure the girls weren't awake. "Kevin, the girls are asleep, please keep your voice down," Nico whispered.

Ignoring the chill running through his bones, Kevin took a shaky breath. "Nico... I messed up. I know that. I know I hurt you. I know I made you feel like I was choosing everything but you, but that's not true. God, it's not true."

Nico didn't respond, just crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, rain pooling around his bare feet. Kevin continued, desperation coating his words. "I never wanted to make you feel like you weren't enough. You've always been my everything. You're my home, the three of your are. And when I saw you out there, breaking down in front of everyone... it hit me like a freight train. I've been so blind, gosh, I was so selfish."

He ran a hand through his soaked hair, wiping at his face. "Racing. It's been my life for so long that I didn't see how much I was losing while chasing it. You... our girls... I should've known better. I should've fought for you, not just for the car."

Nico looked down, his jaw tight, but Kevin could see the crack in his resolve. Kevin stepped closer, the rain mixing with his tears. "I can't do this without you, Nico. If you push me away, I'll break. I can leave racing. I can leave it all if it means I get to come home to you. To our girls. I don't care about the tracks, the trophies... None of it matters if I lose you."

His voice wavered, pain raw and unfiltered. "Please... just one more chance. I'll do anything. I'll show you every day that you and our daughters come first. Just... let me prove it. I'll give up the world just to kiss you again. Please."

The silence stretched, filled only by the steady rhythm of rain against the cobblestones. Nico finally looked up, eyes glistening. "You idiot..." he whispered, his lips curling into a faint smile despite himself.

Kevin let out a broken laugh, relief washing over him. "Yeah... I'm an idiot. Your idiot." He reached out, hesitating until Nico took a step forward and closed the distance between them. Kevin cupped Nico's face, brushing his thumb over his cheek. "I love you," he whispered, leaning in to press his lips to Nico's.

They kissed slowly, the rain soaking them through, but neither cared. It was raw, tender, and filled with everything they couldn't say before. Tears mixed with raindrops as they let themselves be vulnerable, letting the storm wash away the pain.

A small giggle made them pull apart, and they turned to see their daughters standing in the doorway, eyes wide and bright. "Daddy! Papa!" they squealed, running out into the rain. Kevin and Nico couldn't help but laugh as the girls threw their arms around their legs, "You're here!! Daddy's really here!!" Unbothered by the wet clothes or the storm.

Nico scooped one up while Kevin lifted the other, and said. "Of course I'm here, I wouldn't leave you again." twirling them around as the little family danced in the rain. They laughed, splashed in puddles, and forgot about the world around them. Just a family, together, happy.

Kevin glanced at Nico, brushing his wet hair away from his face. "You're my husband. My home," he whispered. Nico smiled back, leaning in to kiss him again, and for the first time in a long while, everything felt right.

After that night that they finally resolve, Kevin refuse to left Nico's side for even more than just 1 minute. To the point that some drivers actually now try to get apart instead of together: how the tables have turned. Kevin isn't afraid to show his love to his husband anymore, he simply didn't what media would say any longer. He loved his husband, Nico. His Nico and nothing is going to stop them now.

 

16/03/2025 - Australian Grand Prix

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Haasbands. Yeah that's what people called them when they first became teammates, and it is now their official couple's name on the grid. Kevin and Nico is now openly out to everybody and to the world. They did't want to hide anymore, so they came out with no fears. People supported them, they still do, and all of those supports mean a lot to both Kevin and Nico. As that they now do not care about what anyone would think anymore, they be passionate about each other every chance they got. This GP is no difference, Kevin had moved to WEC(with Nico's support) and did not fail to mention to the world that, Nico is his husband every chance that he got. And Nico? Oh Nico, he uses the fact that to brag(not in a bad way) and overall they aren't hiding anymore. Kevin always come home to his family now, his home. He will every free time counts and make sure to tell Nico everyday that he will not leave, ever again.

This Australian GP, Kevin had a free schedule from WEC, so he's here with their daughters to support their papa. Nico is driving for Kick Sauber, now. But there the infamous, Haasbands, are still there.

"I love you, so so so so so so much you know that?" Kevin asked when they reached the Sauber hospitality holding their daughters' hands. "Of course, I know that and I love you too, Kev. All three of you." Nico said booping their noses. And then they kissed which was captured and posted to the official F1 account with the caption:

"Even if there's no more Haas for them anymore, but they are still Haasbands. Our favorite Haasbands."

And the internet? They couldn't agree more. Why? You may ask. It's because they made history. And guess Nico really did suck Kevin's balls after that post-race interview back in 2017.

Chapter 6: JB22 & SV5 | Scared to Involve. Willing to Risk

Winning championships: that's the ultimate goal for every driver who has ever set foot in Formula 1. From the very first races to the modern era, every generation has been driven by that same ambition: to claim the title. Whether it was the fearless pioneers of the 1950s or the high-tech warriors of the 21st century, F1 has evolved drastically over its 75-year history. It's a saga filled with glory, legendary moments, record-breaking achievements, and everything in between.

But this sport can also be cruel. Sacrificing everything, sometimes even your life is the price of greatness here. Every race, every lap, you risk your safety just to prove that you belong among the best. Only two men have truly dominated this relentless quest: Michael Schumacher and Lewis Hamilton. Schumacher shattered records, becoming the first to win seven world titles, while Hamilton not only matched his record but also became the first driver of color to conquer F1. They stood at the pinnacle, proving that only the truly powerful can claim the title of champion.

It's a ruthless world, and no one knows that better than Sebastian Vettel. When he joined F1, he was prepared to meet the sport's demands with fierce determination and relentless ambition. On the other hand, Jenson Button approached it differently. Outgoing and effortlessly charming, Jenson lit up the paddock with his youthful energy, making him a magnet for attention, especially among the women of the 2013 paddock.

Sebastian and Jenson, two drivers, two contrasting spirits. Where Jenson greeted challenges with a smile, Sebastian faced them with a steely, no-nonsense attitude. Yet, despite their differences, they got along well. Jenson's warmth and easygoing nature balanced out Sebastian's focused and sometimes grumpy demeanor, creating a surprising but solid friendship.

Their bond only grew stronger when Sebastian claimed his fourth title. They shared laughs, celebrations, and that unspoken respect that formed between rivals who understood each other's passion. But then, without warning, something changed. By the end of the 2016 season, their friendship seemed to vanish. Jenson announced his retirement from F1, and Sebastian's reaction, or lack thereof, left people guessing. No public falling out, no dramatic moment, just silence. And as the paddock moved on, the question of what went wrong remained unanswered.

 

2020 - Past time

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Sebastian was now at Ferrari, teamed up with the young and promising Charles Leclerc. Yet deep down, he knew his time with the Scuderia was drawing to a close. After years of relentless effort, failures, and heartbreak, he made a decision: he would not renew his contract. The news shocked the paddock, but Seb felt that familiar heaviness lift from his shoulders. Exhaustion had settled into his bones, and he couldn't keep pushing against the tide. It was time to let go.

During the Barcelona Grand Prix weekend, Sebastian found himself wandering the grid when he spotted a familiar face. Fernando Alonso. Visiting to show support, Fernando greeted him with a grin. They fell into conversation like they always did, reminiscing about the past, discussing everything and nothing, until Fernando's tone shifted, just enough for Seb to notice.

"You know, it's been four years now," Fernando started, his eyes searching Seb's face. "And you still haven't forgiven him."

Sebastian's expression hardened, the smile fading. "I don't know what there is to forgive. I don't even know what he did wrong. Why does it have to be him? Did he even know he messed up?" His voice was sharper than he intended.

Fernando stayed calm, unflinching. "Seb, honestly... You two can't keep this going. It's been four years. Don't you think it's time to talk?"

"Why does it have to be me?" Sebastian snapped. "Why can't he be the one to reach out? After all this time, he's still... just like that."

A sigh left Fernando's lips. "He's hurt too, Seb. You both are. But this... it can't go on. You'll destroy yourselves. He's going to be with Sky Sports this weekend. You'll have time."

Seb scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure. Make time to talk when there's work involved. Real thoughtful." He swallowed hard, his voice dropping. "I'm still hurt, Fernando. It never stopped hurting. Because he left. Just... left. Didn't even say goodbye. Did I mean that little to him? Was it all just... a game to him? Was I just another mistake?"

Fernando placed a firm hand on Seb's shoulder, squeezing gently. He didn't have the words to make it better, not when he knew how deep that wound ran. Fernando, Kimi, Lewis, and Valtteri, they were the only ones who knew the truth about what happened between Jenson and Seb. They kept the secret, understanding the weight of it. In a sport as ruthless as F1, love was a risk neither of them could afford.

 

The Sky Sports setup at the paddock was buzzing with energy, microphones being adjusted, camera angles being tested. Sebastian approached quietly, his jaw set, eyes sharp. Jenson was just finishing up an interview, his laughter fading as he spotted Seb standing there, arms crossed. The air around them grew thick with tension.

When the crew wrapped up and moved on, Jenson hesitated but then forced a smile. "Hey, Seb."

"Can we talk?" Seb's voice was calm, too calm, but his eyes were piercing.

Jenson shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, sure." They moved to a quieter spot behind the media area. Jenson glanced at Seb, trying to read him.

Seb took a breath. And just get straight to the point. "Why did you leave?"

Jenson frowned. "You know why."

"No, I don't," Seb snapped. "You never gave me a real answer. One day we're... we're good. Close. Then suddenly, you just walk away without even a goodbye." His voice cracked slightly. "You left me like it didn't mean a thing."

Jenson looked down, swallowing hard. "It wasn't like that."

"Then tell me how it was," Seb demanded, stepping closer. "Because from where I'm standing, you just threw it all away. Like I was just some... some mistake."

Jenson's hands balled into fists, but his tone remained quiet. "It was never a mistake. You weren't a mistake, Seb. You never were."

"Then why?" Seb's voice rose, frustration bleeding through. "You told me you couldn't do it anymore. You said it wasn't right, that you needed to think about your future. You looked me in the eyes and told me you were scared. Of what? What was so terrifying that you couldn't even say goodbye properly?"

Jenson's shoulders dropped, his face strained. "Of everything. Of what people would think. Of how it would change things. You know how it is. This sport, this world... it doesn't just let you be yourself. You have to fit into their perfect little mold."

Seb scoffed bitterly. "And that mold didn't include me, right? You were scared, so you just left me to deal with it alone. You think that made it easier? You broke something in me, Jenson. You didn't even care to look back."

Jenson's eyes flashed with guilt, his own pain surfacing. "You think I didn't look back? You think I didn't hate myself for it? I couldn't sleep for months. Every time I saw you on the track or in the paddock, it killed me. I just... I thought it was the right choice. I couldn't be selfish, not when it meant risking everything we worked for."

Seb clenched his jaw, fighting back the wave of memories crashing over him. "You didn't even give us a chance. You decided on your own that it was too much, and that was it. You didn't let me in on that decision. You didn't give me the choice to fight for us."

Jenson's breathing hitched, eyes misting over. "I was terrified, okay? I loved you, and I was scared it would all fall apart if people found out. I thought leaving would protect you... from the rumors, from the scrutiny. From everything that comes with being different in a world that barely accepts change."

Seb let out a bitter laugh. "You don't get it, do you? You didn't protect me. You just left me broken. You didn't save us, you destroyed us. And you know what hurts the most? You never once thought I was strong enough to face it with you."

Jenson's voice cracked. "I know... I know I messed up. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I couldn't see past my own fear. I've thought about it every day since. And I hate myself for not being brave enough back then."

Seb took a deep breath, trying to steady his own turmoil. "I can't keep waiting for you to figure out what you want. I've waited four years, Jenson. Four damn years, hoping you'd come back. But I'm done waiting. If you can't make a choice by the end of the year... if you're still that scared. So, I'm walking away. I won't keep holding onto something that's tearing me apart."

Jenson's eyes widened, panic seeping through his carefully guarded expression. "Seb, please-"

"No, Jenson." Seb cut him off, his voice low and final. "If you can't decide, I'll decide for you. I'll forget what we had, move on. Because I deserve more than waiting on someone too scared to love me back."

Jenson opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. The weight of Seb's ultimatum settled heavily between them. As Seb turned and walked away, Jenson could only stare after him, crushed under the weight of his own choices, knowing he was running out of time to fix what he'd broken.

 

 

Three moths later that same year

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Jenson sat alone in his hotel room, the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. His mind was a maze of regrets and missed chances. Seb's words echoed in his head: "You didn't protect me. You destroyed us." He couldn't shake it, couldn't stop replaying the hurt in Seb's voice, the pain in his eyes.

He had spent years convincing himself that walking away was the right choice, that distancing himself was the only way to keep them both safe. But deep down, he knew he had been lying to himself. He wasn't protecting Seb; he was protecting his own fear. And in doing so, he had shattered the one thing that had made him feel alive.

Jenson rubbed his hands over his face, the weight of guilt pressing down on him. He had always prided himself on being level-headed, on making smart decisions. But this... this wasn't smart. It was cowardice. He thought leaving would protect Seb from judgment, from the harsh reality of a world that didn't always understand. But instead, he had left him lonely and broken. He hadn't just hurt Seb, he had hurt himself, too.

He couldn't breathe properly, couldn't shake the ache in his chest. After all these years, he still loved him. He loved Seb with a fierce, unwavering devotion that he had tried to bury but never could. And Seb had been right all along. Jenson had been too afraid to fight for them. Too afraid to risk it all.

But not anymore. Not this time. This time, he's willing to Risk anything.

Jenson sprang from the bed, grabbing his jacket and keys. His heart pounded as he made his way to the paddock, the evening air crisp against his skin. He couldn't wait any longer, couldn't let fear steal another moment from them. 

As he approached the Ferrari garage, he caught sight of Seb talking to one of the engineers, his hands moving animatedly as he explained something. That familiar fire in Seb's eyes sent a pang through Jenson's chest.

This was it. No cameras, no media circus. Just them. He didn't care who saw or what anyone thought. Jenson broke into a jog, not stopping until he was right in front of Seb. The German froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Jenson?" Seb asked, his tone cautious, guarded.

Jenson didn't answer. He just cupped Seb's face with both hands and pulled him into a kiss, it was firm, desperate, unapologetic. Time seemed to blur as Seb hesitated, but his hands lingering uncertainly before sliding to Jenson's shoulders, pulling him closer. It wasn't just a kiss. It was a confession, a plea, a declaration.

The garage erupted in cheers and whistles, the Ferrari crew unable to contain their excitement. Mechanics clapped each other on the back, and someone even yelled, "About damn time!" Jenson barely noticed. All that mattered was the way Seb's lips moved against his, hesitant at first, then sure and strong.

When they finally pulled apart, Jenson's forehead rested against Seb's, both of them catching their breath. Seb looked up, confusion and hope dancing in his eyes. "What... what are you doing?" he whispered.

Jenson gave a shaky laugh, brushing his thumb over Seb's cheek. "Finally doing what I should've done a long time ago. I'm done being afraid, Seb. I can't keep pretending I don't love you. I don't care what anyone thinks anymore. I'm done running. I'm done making the wrong choice."

Seb's lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, his eyes shimmered with a mix of disbelief and something softer, something he hadn't let himself feel in years. "You... you really mean that?"

"Yes," Jenson whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I never stopped loving you. I was just too stupid to admit it. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I left. I'll never do it again. I swear."

Seb swallowed hard, fighting the urge to break down right there. "You can't just... say that and expect me to believe it after all this time. You broke me, Jenson."

Jenson nodded, his own eyes wet. "I know. And I'll spend every day proving that I'll never hurt you again. Just... give me the chance. Let me show you I've changed. Please."

Seb looked away, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. But the warmth of Jenson's hands on his face, the way his eyes shone with honesty, it felt different this time. Real. Certain. Slowly, Seb nodded. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. But... I'll give you the chance to prove it."

Jenson let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, relief washing over him. "That's all I need." He leaned in, kissing Seb again, softer this time, and the crew around them couldn't help but cheer louder. One of the engineers muttered, "Can't believe we've been missing this show for four years."

As they pulled away, Seb couldn't help but smile, a small, fragile thing. "You really are an idiot," he muttered.

Jenson laughed, pressing his lips to Seb's forehead. "Yeah. But I'm your idiot."

Seb couldn't argue with that, and for the first time in years, hope felt like a real possibility. In that tiny, crowded garage, surrounded by oil and noise and lingering heartache, they found the courage to start over.

 

2025 - Monaco GP: Present day

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The Monaco sun dipped low, casting golden light across the paddock as the Friday practice wrapped up. Spectators buzzed with excitement, their attention half on the glittering harbor and half on the bustling F1 garages. Inside the Ferrari hospitality suite, Charles Leclerc leaned back in his chair, stretching out his tired legs. The knock on the door was familiar, and when he looked up, he couldn't help but grin.

"Seb!" Charles got to his feet, wrapping his old teammate in a tight hug.

Sebastian chuckled, giving Charles a pat on the back. "Good to see you too, Charles. Monaco's treating you well, I hope?"

"Always," Charles replied, motioning for Seb to sit. "What brings you here? Not that I'm complaining."

Seb smirked. "Well, apart from seeing my favorite teammate-"

Charles rolled his eyes but smiled. "Not sure that's true."

"-I'm here to support Jenson. He's doing some commentary with Sky this weekend. Figured I'd tag along and catch up with some friends."

Charles raised a brow, eyes glinting with curiosity. "So... you and Jenson. It's still a bit surreal, you know? You two showing up everywhere together."

Seb leaned back, his gaze softening. "Yeah, it still feels surreal sometimes. It wasn't always like this."

Charles tilted his head, sensing the deeper story behind those words. "How did it happen? I mean, everyone knows now, but... how did you two go from that to... this?"

Seb let out a sigh, folding his hands in his lap. "It was... messy. Really messy. Back then, I thought I knew what love was. I thought being dominant on track and in life meant keeping my heart guarded. And Jenson... he was the opposite. Always charming, always smiling. But underneath, he was terrified. Terrified of how the world would see us."

Charles stayed quiet, absorbing every word.

"We started getting close after I won my fourth title," Seb continued. "It was unspoken at first, just long conversations, nights spent talking about everything but racing. Then it became more, but it wasn't public. It couldn't be. And when Jenson left F1... he left me too. Said he couldn't handle the pressure, couldn't risk his reputation. I was shattered. I thought I wasn't worth fighting for."

Charles's expression grew solemn. "But he came back?"

"Years later," Seb nodded. "It took him that long to realize that losing me was worse than whatever backlash we might face. I was angry. Furious, actually. But when he showed up that day in the Ferrari garage and kissed me in front of everyone... I knew he was done running. He chose me. Finally."

Charles smiled softly. "Sounds like a fairy tale. Except... not."

Seb laughed. "Yeah, a bit more complicated than a fairy tale. But once we stopped hiding, the world surprised us. In 2022, we decided to make it public. Told our friends, told the grid, and then told the world. The support was... overwhelming. We expected backlash, but instead, everyone just celebrated. Fernando wouldn't stop teasing us for weeks, Lewis kept giving us these smug looks like he knew it all along... and the fans? They called us 'Grid Dads' within a day. Even now, everywhere we go, they cheer for us like we're still racing."

Charles chuckled. "You and Jenson are like legends. The way you both are with the younger drivers, no wonder they call you that."

Seb grinned. "And you're their favorite son, you know."

Before Charles could respond, the door opened again, and Jenson strolled in with Carlos at his side. Jenson clapped Carlos on the shoulder, grinning. "Look who I found lurking around the Williams garage."

Carlos gave a sheepish smile, sliding his arm around Charles's waist with a casual familiarity. Charles didn't move away. Instead, he leaned into it, eyes glinting with a hint of pride.

Seb raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Well, well... seems like we're not the only ones with a story."

Jenson looked between the two and burst out laughing. "Oh, I knew it. You two are together, aren't you?"

Charles flushed, but Carlos just shrugged, completely unbothered. "Yeah. Have been for a while."

Jenson grinned. "Smart. Took you less time than us, at least."

Seb shook his head, laughing. "You two are lucky that you're willing to risk it all without hesitation. We took too long to figure it out."

Charles gave Seb a thoughtful look. "I guess we learned from the best. Seeing you and Jenson made us realize it's not worth hiding if it means losing each other."

Seb placed a hand on Charles's shoulder. "Exactly. If you're scared to be involved, you'll never find what you're looking for. But if you're willing to risk it, every possibility will come just sooner or later."

Carlos nodded, a content smile on his face. "You're right. It's better this way."

Jenson nudged Seb, whispering with a smirk, "See? We're setting examples now."

Seb scoffed. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"

The room was filled with laughter, and the warmth of acceptance settled between them. Outside the room, the paddock still buzzed with excitement, unaware of this quiet revelation. But it wouldn't be long until the news spread. As the "Grid Dads" and their favorite sons made their way back into the public eye, the world would know and this time, there would be no fear. Just pride, and love, and a lesson learned the hard way.

 

As the race weekend at Monaco progressed, the buzz around the paddock only grew louder. Rumors about the legendary "Grid Dads" visiting had already spread, and now that Jenson and Seb were seen around together. Happy, relaxed, and openly affectionate. The excitement was almost palpable.

Seb and Jenson, along with Charles and Carlos, made their way through the paddock, the younger pair trailing behind the seasoned champions. Fans lined the barriers, waving flags and holding up signs. Some even had drawings of Seb and Jenson with hearts around them.

Charles couldn't help but laugh as he pointed out one of the signs. "Look, they even have you two drawn as the 'Grid Dads' with a bunch of us as your kids. I'm definitely the favorite son."

Carlos playfully nudged him. "I don't know... I think I'm giving you a run for your money, mate."

Jenson grinned, wrapping an arm around Seb's shoulders. "Hey, we love you both equally... just like any good parents would."

Seb rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but Charles is definitely the one who calls more."

They continued down the paddock, greeting familiar faces. Fernando Alonso approached, a sly grin already forming. "Ah, there's my favorite chaotic duo," he teased. "Still causing a stir, I see."

Seb smirked. "If you're talking about the crowd, that's on Jenson. He's too charming for his own good."

Jenson feigned hurt. "Hey, I'm just a supportive husband. Can't help it if people are thrilled to see us."

As they neared the media pen, a crowd of reporters and fans gathered, snapping photos and shouting questions. The noise was overwhelming, but amidst it all, Seb felt Jenson's hand slip into his. A surge of warmth flooded through him. He glanced up at his husband, who gave him a reassuring smile.

One of the reporters leaned over the barrier, yelling, "Jenson! Seb! Do you have a message for the fans who call you the 'Grid Dads'?"

Jenson glanced at Seb, eyebrows raised in question. Seb just gave a small nod, urging him on. Jenson cleared his throat, his voice carrying over the din. "We didn't set out to become the Grid Dads, but honestly, it's the best title we've ever gotten. The support from everyone, from the fans, from the teams, from the whole paddock. It's been incredible. We just want to keep spreading that positivity and showing that love doesn't have to be hidden."

The crowd erupted in cheers, and Seb felt a surge of pride. He squeezed Jenson's hand tighter, unable to keep the smile off his face.

But just then, a chant started, a mix of playful encouragement and sheer excitement: "KISS! KISS! KISS!"

Seb turned to Jenson, half-expecting him to brush it off. But Jenson just smirked and whispered, "Guess the fans know what they want."

Before Seb could react, Jenson leaned in and kissed him, full of affection and unapologetic love. It was firm, lingering, and utterly fearless. Seb responded immediately, hands sliding to Jenson's waist, pulling him closer as the crowd absolutely exploded in applause, cheers, and whistles. Cameras flashed, catching every second of their kiss.

A loud, unmistakable voice cut through the noise. "Oi! Get a room!" Fernando shouted, only half-joking, his face splitting into a grin.

Jenson pulled back, laughing breathlessly. "Maybe later!" he shouted back, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice.

Seb couldn't contain his laughter either. He leaned his forehead against Jenson's, the energy around them buzzing. When they finally broke apart, Carlos and Charles rushed over, both grinning like they had just witnessed the best show in town.

Carlos grabbed Seb in a tight hug, spinning him around, while Charles did the same with Jenson. The four of them laughed like kids, completely unbothered by the onlookers. It felt freeing, like all the years of hiding, all the pain and fear, had finally melted away.

Lewis walked past with a knowing smirk, giving them a thumbs up, while Valtteri just gave a polite nod, clearly happy for them. Even Toto Wolff, caught on camera, chuckled and muttered something about love being the real victory.

As the chaos settled and the crowd slowly dispersed, Jenson pulled Seb into one more, softer kiss. When they broke apart, Jenson cupped Seb's face, eyes shining. "Scared to involve?"

Seb smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Willing to risk."

Charles couldn't help but chuckle, leaning into Carlos's side. "They really are something, huh?"

Carlos nodded, pressing a kiss to Charles's temple. "Yeah. Something amazing. Kind of makes me glad we didn't hesitate."

Seb glanced at them, his expression softening. "You both made the right choice. Never hide what makes you happy. Trust me, it's not worth it."

Jenson grinned, wrapping his arm around Seb's waist. "And if the Grid Dads can do it... so can anyone else."

The four of them stood together, soaking in the moment as the world watched, celebrating love, resilience, and the courage to take a risk. In that vibrant, sunlit paddock, surrounded by cheers and the hum of engines, it felt like everything had finally come full circle.

 

 

 

Chapter 7: FA14+MW2 & SV5 | The Happiness You Deserve.

Young and arrogance: the first thing Mark Webber label on Sebastian Vettel in 2009, when they became teammates. Mark was confused to say the least when Red Bull decided that they would put such a young driver in a seat like that: team like that. By young he meant that he's already 33 years old, but Seb was only 22 years old. 11years apart. 

Mark of course raised concerned for his younger teammates to why would a young man like Seb would be like this, but then he remembered. Fernando and Seb are both the same, joined in young and by young he meant that they just turned adults and already dedicate their lives into racing in a car that can go up to 300km/h. As for Mark he joined when he was 25, so he was already pretty mature by then.

Ah yes, Fernando. Mark thought, he sometimes still couldn't believe it, but it's true. They are together, since 2005. They first met in 2002 when Mark first joined F1. Fernando was 20 almost 21 at the time and Mark was 26. It wasn't until 2005 when they little close, too close some might say and yes they knew that. And what can you do, when one thing led to another they ended up together, naked in Mark's hotel room. Mark wasn't proud of what he did with Fernando at first and so did Fernando, but they talked it out and eventually worked it too. So since then they been together. 

But they kept it a secret, since at the time people's mindsets are well... not like now. In short they think that loving someone of the same gender is wrong. So they had to keep in hidden. Hidden or not some are still going to find out. In this case his friends: Lewis, Kimi, Nico, jenson and Seb. 

They were already together for 4 years when Lewis and Jenson knew, by walking in on them kissing. They were panicked, of course they are, but both men assured them that they are not going to say anything or do anything against them and that they supported them.

For once both Mark and Fernando think that the world isn't really bad after all and that led to them being comfortable enough to tell the others. By the others mean: Kimi, Nico and Seb, since they didn't really want anymore than them to know and of course they support them too.

 

Back to 2009, Mark had shared a lot of his concern and his thoughts on Seb being his teammates, but Fernando give him saying that Mark stress too much and should give Seb a chance and that's what Mark did, gave a chance of his younger teammates.

Forwards to 2010, Fernando and Mark are still gong stronger and Mark was brave and willing enough to propose to Fernando. It was a little awkward at first, but hey of course together in this.

It was late 2011 when things spiraled. Mark's father, a man of rigid beliefs, had found out about Mark's relationship with a man and his reaction was nothing short of disgust. Mark tried to brush it off, telling himself his father's opinion didn't matter. But the hurt stuck to him like a stain, making him question his choices over and over again. Even when his mother reassured him that love is love, and Fernando's parents voiced their unwavering support, doubt ate away at him.

Months passed, and now it was mid-2012. Their apartment in Monaco, usually a space where they laughed and found comfort, felt suffocating. Fernando noticed Mark's distant stares, the way his shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of unspoken thoughts.

One evening, while Mark was lost in his own head on the balcony, Fernando approached quietly, leaning against the doorframe. "Mark, you know your father doesn't get to decide how you live your life, right?" Fernando asked softly, breaking the silence.

Mark didn't look up. "Yeah... I know. But... what if he's right?"

Fernando frowned, a slight edge to his tone. "Right about what? That this.  Us, is wrong? Are you saying that loving me is a mistake?"

Mark turned abruptly, eyes widening. "No! No, I'd never... I just... I don't know, Nando. Maybe... maybe he's right about me. That I'm just... wrong."

A knot formed in Fernando's stomach. "Seven years, Mark. I've been with you for seven years. I know when you're lying, even to yourself. Do you really believe that? Or are you just too afraid to admit your father's wrong?"

Mark's hands clenched into fists. "Can we just... not talk about it right now? Please?"

"No!" Fernando's voice was firmer now. "I'm tired of pretending everything's okay. Ever since your father found out, you've been pulling away. You don't talk to me, you don't touch me, and I don't even know what's going on in your head anymore."

Mark snapped, his frustration finally breaking free. "Jesus, here we go again! Can't you just give me a fucking break, Nando? I've got enough shit in my head without you lecturing me!"

Fernando's face hardened, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Is that what I'm doing? Lecturing you? Or am I just trying to figure out why the man I love is pushing me away?"

Mark ran his hands through his hair, eyes blazing. "What if I said yes? That this, this whole thing is why I'm like this lately? Would that make you happy?"

Fernando's lips tightened, but he didn't back down. "You think this is about me? No, Mark. It's about you hating yourself for something you can't control. Your father made you doubt your own heart, and you let him."

Mark's face fell, guilt and anger twisting his features. "You don't get it. I'm not strong like you. I'm not... brave enough to just say 'fuck it' and be proud. I'm weak. A coward. And maybe Dad's right, maybe I'm a disappointment."

Fernando's eyes softened despite his own hurt. "You're not a disappointment, Mark. Not to me. But you're so stuck trying to be what your father wants that you've forgotten who you are."

Mark scoffed bitterly. "Maybe I'm not who I thought I was. Maybe... maybe this whole thing was a mistake. Seven years, and I'm still... ashamed."

A heavy silence settled between them. Finally, Fernando whispered, "Do I mean anything to you?"

Mark froze, guilt crashing over him. "Of course you do! How can you even ask that?"

"Because I don't feel it anymore," Fernando replied, his voice cracking. "When was the last time you looked at me like you did before? When was the last time you kissed me without hesitation? You come home, but you're never really here."

Mark swallowed hard. "I... I didn't mean to make you feel that way. I'm just... lost."

Tears welled in Fernando's eyes. "I thought when I said yes to you, it meant something. That I'd always be enough for you. But now... I'm not so sure."

Mark reached out instinctively, but Fernando stepped back. "Nando, I-"

"Maybe you need to figure out what you really want," Fernando whispered. "And if it's not me... just say it."

Mark couldn't find the words, his throat tight with regret. Before he could respond, Fernando had already turned away, wiping his face as he headed for the door.

"Fernando, wait-"

But the door clicked shut, leaving Mark alone in the quiet apartment. Anger and despair surged within him, and without thinking, he swung his fist into the vase on the side table. The glass shattered, slicing his knuckles, but the pain didn't register. He slumped to the floor, clutching his bleeding hand, as the weight of his own words crashed down on him.

"What have I done?" he whispered to the empty room.

 

Fernando didn't know where to go. After storming out of the apartment, his feet just moved, carrying him through the rain-soaked streets of Monaco. Their place, his place, was no longer a home. Not when Mark's words still echoed in his ears, slicing through him like a dull, relentless knife. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think straight, his mind a chaotic mess of heartbreak and confusion.

When he stopped, he found himself in front of Sebastian's apartment, a few blocks away. It wasn't somewhere he ever thought he'd end up. Not in a moment like this. But his instincts led him here, his heart desperate for anything familiar, anything that didn't hurt. His knuckles trembled as he knocked on the door, barely holding back the sob that threatened to break free.

The door swung open, and Sebastian froze at the sight. Fernando, soaked to the bone, stood on his doorstep. His eyes were red-rimmed, tears mingling with the raindrops on his face. He looked broken, defeated in a way Sebastian had never seen.

"Fernando?" Sebastian whispered, his voice laced with concern. He didn't get an answer, just a shuddering breath before Fernando broke down, the dam finally giving way. Without a second thought, Sebastian pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him close as Fernando's sobs wracked his body. It was surreal, seeing the man he knew as fierce and unyielding crumble in his arms.

Inside, Sebastian wrapped Fernando in a dry towel and handed him spare clothes. As Fernando sat on the couch, quiet and small, Sebastian made tea, unsure what else to do. Eventually, Fernando found his voice, low and raw. "It's over, Seb. Seven years... and it's over."

Sebastian's heart sank. "What happened?"

Fernando's hands twisted the towel in his lap. "His father... found out. Called him all kinds of things. Made him feel... like we're a mistake. And Mark... he believed him."

Sebastian frowned, anger building in his chest. "Mark believed that asshole? After all this time?"

Fernando nodded, swallowing back a sob. "I tried to make him see... that it doesn't matter what his father thinks. But he wouldn't listen. Told me I was the problem. Said... maybe this was all a mistake."

Sebastian reached out, placing a hand on Fernando's shoulder. "You don't deserve that, Nando. You deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like loving them is wrong."

Later, when Fernando finally managed to sleep in the spare bedroom, Sebastian stayed awake, his mind racing. The next day, he saw Mark at the paddock after the race. Tension simmered under Sebastian's calm exterior as he cornered him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "What are you on about?"

"Fernando. He spent the night at mine, crying his eyes out because of you," Sebastian snapped, fists clenched. "You told him this was a mistake? After seven fucking years?"

Mark's jaw tightened. "You don't understand."

"Make me understand then!" Sebastian challenged. "Because all I see is you throwing away the best thing that ever happened to you because your dad is a prejudiced prick."

Mark's eyes narrowed. "You don't know what it's like. To feel like you've disappointed your family-"

"Then maybe you should think about whether you're disappointing yourself," Sebastian interrupted, fury in his voice. "Fernando loves you. He gave you everything. And you threw it back in his face."

Mark didn't respond, just turned away. Sebastian's frustration bubbled over. "You're a coward, Mark. And one day, you'll regret this. Don't come crying to me when that happens."

 

Weeks passed, and Fernando tried to move on, leaning on Sebastian's support. But when the season ended, Fernando knew he couldn't leave things unfinished. He had to confront Mark one last time.

Mark opened the door, surprised to see Fernando standing there, eyes hollow, jaw set tight. "We need to talk," Fernando said firmly.

Mark hesitated, but nodded, stepping aside to let him in. They stood awkwardly in the living room, the air thick with unspoken words.

Fernando took a deep breath. "Why did you say it was a mistake?" he asked, voice strained.

Mark looked away, arms crossed defensively. "You wouldn't understand."

"Make me understand," Fernando pressed. "After seven years, you owe me that much."

Mark sighed heavily. "You know how my father is... He thinks... he thinks I'm a disgrace. That I'm throwing away everything I worked for. That being with you... it's wrong."

Fernando clenched his fists. "Your father doesn't get to dictate who you love. Or who makes you happy."

Mark looked at him, eyes conflicted. "It's not that simple. He's my family."

"And what about us? Weren't we family?" Fernando shot back, his voice breaking. "We promised each other... we promised we'd stand by each other no matter what."

Mark's jaw tightened. "Maybe I was wrong to make that promise."

Fernando recoiled as if slapped. "You don't mean that."

"I don't know what I mean anymore!" Mark exploded, his frustration pouring out. "Ever since he found out, I can't stop thinking about what he said. That I'm weak. That I let you change me. That I'm not a real man because of this... because of us."

Tears welled up in Fernando's eyes. "So you think being with me made you less? That I made you less?"

Mark hesitated, looking at the ground. "I don't know. Maybe."

That broke something in Fernando. He took a shaky breath, his voice trembling. "After everything, you still care more about proving something to your father than about us? Than about me?"

"It's not like that," Mark protested, but Fernando cut him off.

"Then what is it like? You don't think I fought for this too? I faced my own fears, my own doubts, but I never questioned how much I loved you. Not once. I gave you everything I had, Mark. My heart, my trust, my future. And you're just... throwing it away because one man can't see past his own hatred?"

Mark couldn't meet his gaze. "You wouldn't get it."

Fernando wiped his eyes, forcing himself to stay calm. "No, I don't get it. I don't get how you can love someone for seven years and still choose fear over them."

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Finally, Fernando pulled the ring from his pocket, the one Mark had given him years ago, a symbol of their commitment.

"If you can't see how much this means, then maybe you never will," he whispered, setting the ring on the table. He turned and walked out, his heart shattered beyond repair.

 

Fernando didn't know where to go, but his feet moved on their own, carrying him through the rainy night. By the time he reached Sebastian's apartment, he was soaked, trembling, and fighting back sobs. He knocked hesitantly, almost turning away, but the door opened, revealing Sebastian, who froze at the sight before him.

"Fernando..." Sebastian whispered, taking in the drenched figure before him, eyes swollen, cheeks stained with tears. In that moment, Sebastian knew. He knew exactly what had happened, even before Fernando spoke. Without a word, he pulled Fernando into a tight hug, holding him as the older man finally broke down, clinging to him.

Seb pulled them inside, then wrapped Fernando in a warm blanket and sat with him on the couch. Even though he knew, he wanted to hear it from Fernando. "Tell me what happened," he urged gently, wiping a stray tear from Fernando's cheek.

Fernando struggled to speak, his words choked by sobs. "He said... he said that it was a mistake. That our love... it ruined him. That he's weak... because of me. Because of us."

Sebastian's heart ached hearing the pain in Fernando's voice. He squeezed Fernando's hand, his own eyes growing misty. "He doesn't know what he's saying. He's hurting, but that doesn't give him the right to hurt you."

Fernando shook his head, the guilt eating at him. "Maybe... maybe he's right. Maybe I ruined him."

"No," Sebastian said firmly, cupping Fernando's face and forcing him to look up. "You didn't ruin anyone. You loved him. You gave him everything. If he's too much of a coward to hold on to that, it's his loss, not yours."

Fernando's shoulders shook as he let out another sob, and Sebastian pulled him into his arms again, whispering soothing words. They stayed like that until exhaustion took over and Fernando finally fell asleep on the couch.

Sebastian carefully tucked him in, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. Once he was sure Fernando was resting, he left the apartment, marching straight to Mark's place.

When Mark opened the door, his eyes were bloodshot, his face streaked with dried tears. He barely managed a greeting before Sebastian's fist connected with his jaw, knocking him to the floor.

Mark groaned, clutching his face. "Seb, what the hell-"

"You don't get to speak," Sebastian growled, towering over him. He hauled Mark up by the shirt, fury blazing in his eyes. "Do you even know what you've done? Do you have any idea how broken he is because of you?"

Mark tried to push him off, but Sebastian didn't budge. "I didn't mean-"

"No!" Sebastian barked, slamming Mark against the wall. "You don't get to pretend you didn't mean it. You looked him in the eyes and made him feel worthless. You made him think he's the problem. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Tears began to well up in Mark's eyes. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to hurt him? I'm just... I'm just trying to make sense of everything."

"You don't get to make sense by breaking the person who loves you," Sebastian snapped. "You're so caught up in your own guilt and your father's bullshit that you're willing to destroy the one good thing you have. Pathetic."

Mark's lip trembled, but he stayed silent. Sebastian leaned in closer, his voice low and dangerous. "If you so much as look at Fernando again, I'll end you. Do you hear me? You lost your chance. You chose your father's approval over your own happiness, and now he's shattered because of it."

He released Mark roughly, who crumpled to the floor, defeated and broken. Without another word, Sebastian left, slamming the door behind him.

Back at his apartment, Sebastian found Fernando still asleep on the couch, his face streaked with dried tears. Guilt and sadness washed over him, but he crouched down and brushed a hand through Fernando's hair. "I promise," he whispered softly. "I'll protect you. No one's ever going to hurt you like that again. I swear."

As the night went on, Sebastian remained by Fernando's side, watching over him, determined to keep his promise no matter what.

 

 

The 2013 season started with tension hanging heavily between Sebastian and Mark. They couldn't look at each other, Sebastian couldn't bear to see the man who had shattered Fernando's heart, and Mark couldn't face the guilt that weighed on him like a boulder. Their dynamic as teammates was fractured beyond repair.

The tension didn't go unnoticed. Their friends and those close enough to know the truth eventually caught on. Whispers spread about Mark and Fernando's breakup, and one evening over dinner, Jenson cautiously brought it up to Fernando.

"Mate, I heard... about you and Mark," Jenson said gently. Fernando, picking at his food, simply nodded. "We're done," he replied quietly. "It's over."

The news hit hard. Their friends shared looks of sympathy, but this time, they didn't stay silent. Felipe was the first to speak up. "I never thought Mark would... do something like this," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Neither did I," Lewis added, visibly disappointed. "It's just... not right."

Fernando glanced around the table, his eyes clouded with pain. "It wasn't supposed to end like this. I tried... I really tried to make it work, but he just couldn't see past what his father said. He couldn't see me anymore."

Jenson leaned forward, his expression softening. "You did your best, Nando. Don't put this on yourself. Sometimes people just can't get past their own fears, no matter how much love they have."

Fernando's voice cracked. "I just... I just wanted him to choose us. I never asked for much, just to be seen. To be enough."

Sebastian tightened his hold on Fernando's shoulder, as if to ground him. "You did more than anyone could have, Nando. You loved him despite it all. That's not a failure on your part."

The others nodded, their frustration with Mark palpable but tempered by their desire to support Fernando. No one blamed him, and they could see how much he had been hurting. As they continued talking, they couldn't help but notice how Sebastian kept an unwavering, protective presence by Fernando's side, like he wouldn't let anyone or anything, hurt him again.

Days later, Mark made the official announcement that he would retire from Formula 1 at the end of the season. The media buzzed with speculation, but those who knew the truth saw it as a man running away from his demons. Fernando, on hearing the news, couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, despite knowing deep down that it wasn't his fault.

Sensing his distress, Sebastian pulled him aside later that evening. "You're not blaming yourself, are you?" he asked gently.

Fernando hesitated before nodding. "If I hadn't pushed... if I hadn't been so open with him... maybe he wouldn't be leaving."

"No," Sebastian interrupted firmly. "This is his choice, Nando. You didn't force him into anything. He's leaving because he's afraid to face himself. That's not on you."

A shaky breath escaped Fernando. "But I loved him. I didn't want this to destroy him. I just... wanted us to be happy."

Sebastian wrapped his arms around him. "You gave him love, Nando. Real, unguarded love. If he couldn't handle that, it's not your fault. You deserve someone who knows how to hold on to you, not someone who runs when things get hard."

Their friends noticed how close Fernando and Sebastian had grown. Where once there had been fierce rivalry, there was now a bond forged from pain and understanding. Fernando trusted Sebastian more with each passing day, feeling safe in his presence.

One evening, after a race, Lewis approached Sebastian, curious. "You and Nando seem... different lately. Closer."

Sebastian just shrugged, not giving much away. "He's going through a lot. Someone's got to make sure he doesn't fall apart."

Lewis nodded knowingly. "Good. He needs that."

As the season progressed, Mark remained distant from everyone, especially from Fernando. Sebastian's anger hadn't faded, but it had shifted into something quieter, a resolve to protect Fernando at all costs. He'd caught Fernando staring wistfully at old photos more than once, but each time, he reminded him that he wasn't alone.

One night, while watching a movie at Sebastian's apartment, Fernando whispered, "Thank you... for being here. For not leaving."

Sebastian looked at him, his eyes softening. "I meant what I said that night. I'll always protect you. No one's going to hurt you like that again."

For the first time in a long while, Fernando managed a small, genuine smile. The pain was still there, but with Sebastian by his side, it felt a little less suffocating.

 

After Mark's departure from the sport, it was as if a weight had been lifted from the paddock. Fernando felt it too, a strange mix of relief and melancholy. As much as Mark's presence had haunted him, it also felt oddly final to see him go. Sebastian was there through it all, always just a step away, ready to catch him if he fell.

Their friends noticed how much closer they had become, how Fernando's laughter came more easily when Sebastian was around. The guarded, cautious Fernando was now softer, more willing to open up. And Sebastian? He couldn't help but feel protective, always glancing over his shoulder to make sure Fernando was okay.

One evening after a race, they found themselves back at Sebastian's apartment, both of them sprawled on the couch, nursing a couple of beers. Fernando leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. "It's strange," he murmured. "I thought I'd feel... more when he left. Anger, maybe. Or regret. But there's just... nothing."

Sebastian nodded. "Sometimes it's like that. You expect a storm, and instead, there's just quiet." He looked over, his gaze soft. "Maybe it means you've let go, Nando. You've finally moved on."

Fernando gave a small, tired smile. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just tired of hurting."

Sebastian reached over, brushing his fingers against Fernando's hand. "You deserve to be happy. To stop hurting."

Fernando looked at him, his eyes searching. "You make it easier, you know. Being around you... it doesn't hurt. It feels safe."

A warmth spread through Sebastian's chest, and without thinking, he moved closer, his hand cupping Fernando's cheek. "I'm not going anywhere. I told you I'd be here, and I meant it."

They sat like that for a moment, the air thick with something unspoken. Finally, Fernando leaned into Sebastian's touch, his eyes closing as if savoring the comfort. "I know. And that's... enough."

As time went on, their bond grew stronger. They didn't rush into anything, they just existed together, naturally and without pressure. But there were moments when their hands brushed, when their eyes met for just a little too long, and both of them wondered if there was more to it.

One evening, after spending hours talking on the couch, Fernando looked at Sebastian, his eyes filled with something unspoken. Sebastian noticed and couldn't help but reach out, his fingers grazing Fernando's cheek. "You know," Seb began softly, "I keep waiting for this to make sense. But it doesn't, at least not the way I thought it would. It's just... you. Being around you feels right."

Fernando let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding. "I... I think I'm falling for you," he whispered, as if admitting it out loud would make it real.

Without another word, Sebastian leaned in, their lips meeting in a gentle, tentative kiss. It wasn't rushed or desperate, just a soft, lingering touch that said more than words ever could. When they parted, Sebastian smiled in the dark, pulling him closer. "Then let me catch you," he murmured. "I won't let you fall alone."

Their relationship blossomed slowly, built on trust and quiet moments. Their friends quickly caught on, offering support and teasing when appropriate. Lewis joked about the way Fernando's eyes softened when he looked at Sebastian, and Jenson made a point to remind them to keep the PDA to a minimum.

But neither of them minded. For the first time in a long while, Fernando felt wanted, cherished, and safe. And as for Sebastian? He knew that loving Fernando meant protecting him, no matter what. They had found something worth holding onto, and neither of them planned to let go.

 

 

Present day

|

The paddock in 2025 was buzzing with excitement, the air electric as fans and drivers alike celebrated the return of Fernando Alonso to the grid. But the excitement wasn't just about racing, it was about the sight of Fernando and Sebastian walking hand in hand, their love as unshakeable as ever. The couple, together for ten and married for five, had come out in 2022 after Seb's retirement, and their relationship had blossomed in the public eye.

This time, though, they weren't alone. Walking between them was their five-year-old daughter, Isabella, with her father's fiery eyes and her papa's bright smile. On Seb's other arm was their three-year-old son, Adrian, with Seb's blonde curls and Fernando's stubborn attitude. The kids were wide-eyed at the noise and energy of the paddock, and as they walked through, fellow drivers and team members couldn't help but smile and offer congratulations.

Lewis was the first to approach, a warm grin lighting up his face as he knelt down to Isabella's level. "Hey there, little racer," he teased, and she giggled, hiding behind Fernando's leg. Adrian, more adventurous, reached out to grab Lewis' offered fist bump, earning a laugh from everyone around.

As the small family made their way through the paddock, Seb couldn't help but notice how naturally Nando's hand fit into his own, how the years had softened them both in the best possible ways. When they finally paused near the hospitality area, Seb pulled Fernando close, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

Nando smiled, his voice low. "Can't believe it's been ten years."

"Best ten years of my life," Seb murmured back, brushing a thumb over Nando's cheek. The world around them faded momentarily, their focus solely on each other.

Their kiss was quick, but it still caused a wave of cheers from the gathered fans. A few of the newer drivers, including Oscar and Lando, approached shyly to offer their congratulations. Oscar, a bit bolder, asked, "Did you ever think you'd end up here, both of you, happy, with a family?"

Fernando smiled warmly. "Never thought I'd find someone who'd put up with me. But Seb's stubborn enough to try."

Seb laughed, squeezing his hand. "You're worth every argument, Nando."

As they shared another kiss, something caught Seb's eye, a familiar face lingering by the Sky Sports setup. Mark Webber stood off to the side, his expression caught between nostalgia and regret. Nando noticed too, giving Mark a small, polite nod, his own expression soft with understanding.

Seb's jaw tightened briefly before he handed Adrian to Fernando. "Stay with them for a minute," he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to Nando's lips. Then he walked over to where Mark stood, his presence immediately acknowledged.

Mark shifted uncomfortably, looking everywhere but at Seb. "Didn't expect to see you here," he muttered.

Seb didn't bother with pleasantries. "Still covering the sport, huh?"

"Yeah," Mark replied. "Keeps me busy."

Silence hung between them before Seb spoke again. "I didn't come here to forgive you. I came to put it to rest. You hurt him. Badly. And I'll never forget that."

Mark looked down, guilt flashing across his face. "I know. I've spent years trying to make peace with it. Hurting him... it wasn't what I wanted."

Seb's voice was low, dangerous. "Intent doesn't matter when the damage is done. You don't have to be best friends with him, but you need to accept that he's happy. That we're happy. Don't make it harder than it needs to be."

Mark sighed, nodding. "I never wanted it to end that way. But seeing him now... he's different. Happier. Brighter."

Seb raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Because he's loved right. Something you couldn't give him."

Mark didn't argue. Instead, he looked over at Fernando, who was laughing as Isabella showed Adrian how to wave like a racer. A sad smile crossed his face. "He deserves that."

Seb softened, just a little. "Yeah, he does. If you care about him, just let him be. Let him have this."

Mark gave a nod of reluctant acceptance. "I hope you make him happy. Truly."

"I do," Seb replied simply. Without another word, he turned back, rejoining his family. Isabella rushed to his side, clinging to his leg, and Fernando greeted him with a smile, eyes soft with love.

Seb pulled them all into a gentle hug, whispering, "Nothing will ever come between us."

Nando pressed a kiss to his lips. "Not anymore. We're here to stay."

And as the crowd cheered for the iconic couple, Mark watched from a distance, his heart heavy yet oddly at peace. Despite the pain, he couldn't help but smile, seeing Fernando finally find the happiness that had eluded them both for so long. 

Mark said to himself. "You only know how precious it was until you lost it."

Chapter 8: NR6 & LH44 | We've Wasted Years

"Lewis, you know for a 5-time world champion that just won the latest race, you seem sad." The words of wisdom came from none other than Sebastian Vettel, who had invited himself into Lewis' hotel room without asking.

"Good evening to you too, Seb," Lewis said, closing the door behind him.

Seb made himself at home, then turned to Lewis, who was walking toward him. "Lewis."

"Sebastian," Lewis responded, unsure of what Seb was getting at.

"You should celebrate, mate, come on! You just won the race and you're here stuck in your hotel room," Seb insisted.

"You know how much I hate parties, Seb. You of all people should know."

"Not just me, though..." Seb mumbled under his breath.

"I heard that," Lewis said, throwing a pillow at Seb, hitting him square in the face. Seb just laughed.

"Alright, alright, fine. I'm staying then. With you. Because if you don't go, I won't either," Seb declared, making his way to the bed.

"Don't you have Kimi to keep you company?" Lewis asked as Seb sprawled out on the bed.

"He's not here right now. He went to Finland last night after the race," Seb said, faking sleep.

"So... you're ditching your husband just because I won't go to a party?" Lewis teased.

"No, I didn't ditch him. He left to see his family since he hasn't been back to Finland since last year. During the holidays, we went to my parents', so I figured he could spend some time with them now," Seb explained, sitting up against the headboard.

"Great. Now I'm stuck with you. Thanks, Kimi," Lewis sighed.

"Hey, I'm fun! What's wrong with me?" Seb protested, feigning offense.

"You know why, Seb," Lewis muttered, joining Seb on the bed.

They sat in companionable silence until Seb grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, settling on a film. About thirty minutes in, Seb glanced over at Lewis.

"You guys really are stubborn," Seb muttered.

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You and Nico. Lewis, I'm your best friend. I can tell you're still hung up on him," Seb said casually, eyes fixed on the screen.

Lewis let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Here we go again."

"Look, it's 2018 now, Lewis. It's been two years," Seb said softly.

"Yeah, I know... but that doesn't mean he ever felt the same way," Lewis murmured, his voice barely audible. Seb glanced at him, searching his face for something.

"I don't know what went down between you two off track, but I know that's not true," Seb said, eyes back on the film.

Silence hung between them. The movie ended, and another one started, but neither of them seemed to be paying attention. Lewis finally lay back against the pillows, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"I can't take it if he looks at me like that again... like I'm nothing," Lewis whispered.

Seb sighed. "You two had something. Something good. You just... didn't talk about it. And now you're both suffering."

Lewis frowned. "Both of us?"

"Oh my god, Lewis, you are so dense," Seb groaned.

"Why would you say both of us? Have you been talking to him?" Lewis asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

"No, I haven't been talking to him. He's with Sky Sports, remember?" Seb replied calmly.

"Then why are you saying both of us?" Lewis pushed.

"Because I see it. In you. In him. Even if neither of you wants to admit it," Seb said. "And no, I didn't tell him anything. You should be the one to do that."

Lewis huffed. "Real mature of you. And no, I'm not going to talk to him."

"Fine. I won't push you," Seb conceded, letting the conversation die out. They both sank into the comfort of the bed, eventually falling asleep as the fourth film played on, the dialogue blending into the background.

But Lewis couldn't help but wonder, 'Would it be okay if they talked? Could they even go back to how they were?'

 

It was race day in Abu Dhabi, the final showdown of the season. Lewis was in his element, surrounded by mechanics, strategists, and the familiar chaos that always preceded a race. Confidence radiated from him, knowing the fifth title was within his grasp.

While discussing tire strategy, his gaze drifted to the big screen mounted above the paddock. The broadcast was panning over the crowd, capturing moments of the bustling paddock life. Then suddenly, it stopped on a familiar figure.

Nico Rosberg.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored purple shirt with two buttons undone, paired with sleek gray trousers, Nico looked effortlessly charming as he moved through the paddock with his signature confident stride. Sky Sports' mic in hand, he was engaging the audience with his insight, the sun catching his well-kept blond hair.

Lewis found himself staring, unable to look away. It wasn't just a glance, it was an admiring, almost wistful stare, like seeing something beautiful that once belonged to him. He didn't even notice when the camera, as if sensing the moment, panned to capture his reaction.

When he realized he was being broadcasted, his cheeks flushed, and he quickly looked away, feeling the heat spread through his face. Little did he know, Nico had caught the screen out of the corner of his eye just in time to see Lewis's flustered reaction. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Nico's lips, a hint of something like hope.

Seb, lingering just around the corner, witnessed the whole scene. His smirk was one of pure amusement, as if fate was playing right into his hands.

 

The roar of the crowd was deafening as Lewis crossed the finish line, the realization hitting him like a wave, he had done it. Five world championships. The moment he had chased, dreamed of, fought tooth and nail for. His heart pounded as he pulled off his helmet, the heat of the race still lingering, but nothing compared to the surge of pride swelling inside him.

He sprinted toward his team, barely able to contain his joy. They lifted him up, cheers echoing all around, hands slapping his back, congratulations flying like confetti. It was perfect, this was everything he had worked for.

Sebastian caught up to him amidst the celebration, wrapping him in a hug so tight Lewis almost laughed through the adrenaline. "Mate, you've earned every bit of this," Seb said, his voice warm, steady.

Lewis smiled, that kind of smile that seemed to reach deep into his soul. "Couldn't have done it without you lot," he replied, eyes bright with gratitude.

The buzz of the paddock slowly faded as the official ceremonies began. In the cool-down room, the adrenaline started to settle, replaced by a quiet satisfaction. Lewis knew this smile, the one he wore as he stepped onto the podium, was different. It was the kind that could light up a room, or calm a storm. A smile that comforted and dazzled all at once.

Nico's words from the past echoed in his mind, "That smile of yours... it's beautiful. Bright. Comforting." It wasn't just praise, it was something Lewis never forgot.

And then, as the national anthem swelled through the speakers, Lewis's gaze dropped to the crowd. There, among the sea of faces, was a figure so familiar it stopped his breath. 

Nico.

Standing quietly, almost like a shadow, but impossible to miss. The blond hair perfectly styled, eyes locked on Lewis with an intensity that made his heart skip. Lewis caught that smile, the genuine, soft smile reserved only for moments like these. It wasn't just pride; it was something deeper. Joy, calm, something he had hoped to see again for years.

Their eyes met, and in that instant, the world shrank to just the two of them. Lewis searched Nico's gaze for answers, for the unspoken feelings that lingered between them. And there it was, an echo of his own hope reflected back at him.

But the moment shattered as the ceremony ended. The crowd's cheers returned, and when Lewis looked back, Nico was gone, vanished like a dream fading with the morning light.

A pang of sadness settled in Lewis's chest, but he brushed it off. It wasn't the time for old ghosts.

Later, back at the hotel, exhaustion finally catching up, Lewis was making his way to his room when he froze. There, standing just outside his door, was that same familiar figure. Nico Rosberg, childhood buddy, former teammate, friend... but never quite a lover.

Lewis's breath caught. How did he know this room? Seb was completely unaware.

Nico smiled, a quiet warmth in his voice. "Congratulations, Lewis."

Lewis stood stunned for a moment, heart racing, words caught in his throat.

Lewis hesitated for just a second, then stepped aside, opening the door wider. "Thanks. Come in."

Nico slipped inside, his presence instantly filling the room with a strange comfort. They stood there for a moment, neither quite sure how to start after all this time.

Lewis gestured vaguely toward the small lounge area by the window. "Uh... do you want a drink? I've got water... or, I think Seb left some juice in the mini-fridge."

Nico shook his head, lips curving into a soft smile. "I'm good. Just... needed to see you."

Lewis couldn't quite mask the surprise in his eyes. "Oh. Well, yeah... it's good to see you too."

They made their way to the window, standing side by side, watching the city lights flicker against the dark sky. For a while, neither of them spoke, and the silence was both comfortable and loaded with things left unsaid.

"How's the Sky Sports gig treating you?" Lewis asked, his voice casual, but his gaze flickered sideways to catch Nico's reaction.

Nico gave a small, almost wistful laugh. "It's... different. A lot less pressure, a lot more talking. Feels strange being on the other side of the garage."

Lewis huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah... you always did talk a lot. Suits you."

Nico chuckled softly, and the sound tugged at something in Lewis's chest. They both knew how easily conversations used to flow between them. How, even in the middle of tense race weekends, they'd find moments to just... be.

Nico leaned against the windowsill, folding his arms. "You looked... happy on the podium."

Lewis turned to him, brows raised. "I was. It's-" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's been a long road to get here. Five titles... I still can't quite believe it."

Nico's eyes softened. "You've earned every single one. No one knows that better than me."

A warmth spread through Lewis, but it was tinged with something bittersweet. "You really think so?"

Nico's gaze didn't waver. "Of course. You never gave up. Even when things got tough. That's... who you are."

Lewis bit the inside of his cheek, trying to hide the way those words made his heart stutter. He looked down, toying with the corner of a magazine on the side table. "I saw you, you know... when they played the anthem. I didn't think you'd still be watching."

Nico's smile faded, replaced by something softer, almost cautious. "I wouldn't miss it. Seeing you... like that. You were... you looked like yourself again."

Lewis didn't quite know how to respond to that, so he just nodded, his fingers still fidgeting with the magazine. "Yeah... I guess I did."

There was a moment of silence before Nico cleared his throat, changing the subject almost abruptly. "Seb was about to tackle you when you got out of the car. I thought he'd never let go."

Lewis laughed, the tension easing just a little. "Yeah, he nearly winded me. Guy's stronger than he looks."

Nico snorted. "You should've seen his face when they lifted you on their shoulders. Like he'd just won himself."

Lewis's grin softened, his eyes drifting back to the window. "Seb's always been like that. Happy when I'm happy. Makes me feel... less alone, you know?"

Nico didn't say anything to that, but Lewis could feel his eyes on him, searching, maybe even a little hesitant. He risked a glance, and their eyes met, blue and dark, cautious but with a glint of something familiar.

Nico took a slow breath. "It was different, watching from the crowd. Felt... strange not being on the grid with you."

Lewis's throat tightened, and he forced himself to smile. "You didn't miss it? The racing?"

A pause, and then Nico's voice came out quieter than before. "Sometimes... yeah. Especially days like this. Watching you... seeing you smile like that. Made me think of... back then."

Lewis swallowed hard, his heart thudding a little louder than before. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

Nico looked at him with something close to a question in his eyes, but before either of them could speak, Lewis's phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with Seb's name.

"Should probably tell him I'm not alone," Lewis mumbled, grabbing the phone and texting a quick reply.

Nico watched him, lips quirking upward. "He still hovers, huh?"

Lewis chuckled. "Always. He was the one who made me get out of the room in the first place. Said I was being... what was the word? Stubborn. Yeah."

Nico's gaze softened again, and there was a moment where it felt like the air between them changed, like something unspoken was inching closer to the surface.

But Lewis just let the silence linger, not quite ready to touch that wound yet. Instead, he settled back into the armchair, looking at Nico with a small, almost shy smile. "You hungry? I think Seb ordered way too much food earlier."

Nico didn't answer right away. Instead, he just looked at Lewis, a small, fond smile spreading across his face. "Yeah... I could eat."

And as Lewis got up to check the fridge, he couldn't help but feel like, maybe, this was a start, a chance to take things slow, to rebuild something they'd lost. To let Nico back into his life, one small moment at a time.

And that was the beginning of a new chapter. Their new chapter. As the night went on they started to talk about their lives and other stuff trying to get to know each other again. After a while Nico leaves, and Lewis was left alone in his hotel room and couldn't, but think: Did I hallucinate? Or did I see something in his eyes? He did not hallucinate, it was real. While they were talking Lewis caught the look in Nico's eyes, the eyes that were full of pride, joy, calm and... love? Lewis couldn't quite made it why, but he knew and still know that there's something Nico wanted to say but can't let himself to, so he didn't say a thing.

 

Fast forward to 2019.

|

Predictable. That's the word for it.

Lewis was leading the championship again, and he looked lighter these days, not just in speed, but in spirit. The fire still burned in him, fierce as ever, but now there was something gentler, something more at peace.

And Nico... Nico was back in his life. Not as a rival, not as a storm waiting to happen, but as a friend. Somehow, they'd found their way back to each other. They messaged. They talked. They even laughed. It felt like old times, like the part of their lives that wasn't dominated by tension had come up for air. But despite all the progress, one thing remained untouched: their feelings. Neither of them brought it up. Neither dared.

And maybe, just maybe, they both knew why. There was too much at stake. The fragile, mended bridge between them couldn't handle that kind of weight, or so they told themselves.

So in the meantime, they cherished the quiet moments they had. Even if it meant dancing around the truth.

One warm afternoon in Monaco, Lewis found himself unusually bored. It was rare for his schedule to be this clear. He looked out at the calm sea from his balcony and felt... restless.

He picked up his phone.

He didn't even need to think twice. Seb.

They didn't live far apart. Close enough that a spontaneous visit didn't need an explanation. So he grabbed his keys and headed out.

Pulling up to Sebastian's home, Lewis immediately noticed an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway.

Right. Kimi was in town.

He hesitated at the door for a second, something he rarely did, before knocking once, twice.

It didn't take long. The door swung open and there stood Seb, barefoot and smiling like sunshine.

"Lewis! Heyy, mate, come on in! We were just talking about you," Seb said, his voice warm.

Lewis blinked. "We?"

Seb grinned wider. "Yes, we. Me and Kimi. Who else did you think?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow, but stepped inside anyway.

Sure enough, there was Kimi on the couch, shirtless, in ridiculous short shorts, a mug in hand, looking exactly as unbothered as ever.

"Hey, Kimi," Lewis greeted him, walking toward the kitchen.

"Afternoon, Hamilton," Kimi replied without even looking up.

Lewis paused, unimpressed. "You know... the first time, it was fine. Now it's just weird how often you do that."

Kimi shrugged. "I like to have fun."

"Not when you use my last name like that, Räikkönen."

Seb chuckled behind him. "He's got a point."

Kimi lifted his mug, still unfazed. "Your problem."

Lewis rolled his eyes and poured himself some water before sinking onto the far edge of the sofa. He stayed there, giving Seb and Kimi space, figuring they'd probably end up cuddling anyway. He didn't mind. It was nice seeing people at peace.

Then, of course, Kimi dropped a bomb like only he could.

"You know you can't keep looking at him like that and expect us to believe you're not in love with him."

Lewis choked on his water.

Seb slapped Kimi's thigh. "Seriously?"

Lewis could feel heat creeping up his neck. "Wha... what?"

"Oh my god, Kimi," Seb groaned, dragging a hand down his face before hiding it in Kimi's chest. "I told you to ease into it. Settle first."

Kimi shrugged again. "He had to know."

Then he kissed Seb's hair.

Lewis blinked at them, then exhaled through his nose. "Is that really what you two have been talking about?"

Seb looked at him sheepishly. "Kind of?"

Lewis sighed and let his head fall back against the couch. "I don't know... I just... I'm scared. We've only just rebuilt things. We're good again, finally. And I can't stand the idea of ruining it all by bringing up something that might send us spiraling again. I couldn't go through that again, Seb. Not with him."

His voice cracked a little near the end, and that vulnerability hung in the air like a confession.

Seb glanced at Kimi, who gave a small nod, the quiet kind of understanding only they could share.

Seb shifted closer. "I don't think you're going to ruin anything, Lewis. Not if it's real. You and him... you've both been avoiding the obvious. And I get it, I do. But it's eating you up, isn't it? Both of you."

Then Kimi, surprisingly soft, added, "He looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world. That smile, those eyes, it's all there. Every time someone mentions your name, he lights up. I've seen it."

Seb and Lewis both stared at him.

Lewis frowned, unsure. "Since when did you become so observant?"

Seb laughed. "Honestly, I'm not sure either. I might've fed him the wrong vitamins."

Kimi lifted his mug. "I'm thriving."

Seb waved that off. "Point is, he feels it too. You just haven't said it. Neither of you."

Lewis went quiet.

The room fell into a soft stillness, the kind that doesn't press for words. Just the hum of the world outside, the clink of Kimi's mug against the glass table, and the weight of unspoken things.

Lewis sat there, thoughtful, conflicted. But for the first time, the fear didn't feel like a wall. More like a door. A door he could choose to open.

And maybe, just maybe, he would.

 

Abu Dhabi - 2020

|

The moment the checkered flag waved, the world erupted.

Lewis Hamilton had done it, seven-time world champion.

He screamed into the radio, voice cracking with disbelief and gratitude. "We did it, Bono. We did it." Tears blurred his vision as he crossed the line, not from exhaustion, not even from the overwhelming pride in making history, but from something deeper. A storm that had been brewing inside him for far too long.

He couldn't ignore it anymore.

He slowed the car, barely hearing the instructions from his engineer. His pulse was deafening in his ears. As the car came to a stop and the crew surrounded him, shouting, hugging, lifting him up like he was weightless, Lewis smiled, he laughed, but inside, something else was bubbling up. Not nerves. Not fear.

Resolve.

He had asked one of the quieter team members, the one he trusted most, to do something for him before the race, something small, but it meant everything: "If you can, get Nico here. Somewhere I can see him. Somewhere close." No one asked questions, but Lewis had seen the flicker of understanding in their eyes.

And there he was.

Beyond the pit lane, tucked in a less crowded section of the paddock, away from the media chaos. Just like Lewis had asked. Nico stood with his hands in his pockets, sunglasses off, blond hair tousled by the wind, looking almost too still for the madness around him. But his eyes,  those eyes that Lewis once knew better than his own reflection, were fixed on him.

They locked eyes.

And everything stilled.

The noise of the team, the fireworks, the crowd, it all faded. In that moment, it was just them. Two kids who'd grown up too fast. Two teammates turned rivals turned something else, something neither of them could name. Until now.

On the podium, Lewis cannot help, but feel all sorts of things. Joy, nervousness, relaxed. And when he sees Nico down there, smiling, proud, pride. He knew knew that he had to do this. Even if it means to take risk. Because he had taken so many risks now.

Lewis stepped down from the podium. He didn't wave, didn't pose. He was moving before his body even decided to move. It was instinct. His heart was thundering, breath catching, but the smile never left his face. Not when Nico was smiling too.

Nico stepped forward, unsure, confused, maybe even nervous. But the second Lewis reached him, all doubt disappeared. "Congrats Lew-"

He didn't get to finish.

Lewis didn't speak.

He kissed him.

Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the team. In front of a country that wouldn't or didn't support this.

He kissed him like it was the only thing he could do to stay alive.

There was a second of stunned silence.

Then the world caught up.

The crowd roared. People screamed. Fans, some in disbelief, some cheering like their team had just won, went wild. The Mercedes crew froze for a heartbeat before erupting again, not out of shock but joy. Pure, unfiltered joy. Because they had seen it for years. And now it was real.

Nico kissed him back.

Harder.

His hands reached up to cup Lewis's face, grounding him in the chaos. Their foreheads pressed together when they finally broke apart, noses brushing, breath mingling.

"I'd never going to run again," Lewis whispered. "Not from you."

"Took you long enough," Nico said, but he was smiling, tears in his eyes.

"I know. I know."

They didn't hear the chanting until it grew louder. "Brocedes! Brocedes!" The crowd was losing its mind. Flags waving. Signs bouncing. Social media was probably already melting down. But none of it mattered.

Lewis rested his hand over Nico's heart. "We're going to have to fix a lot of things after this."

"Then let's fix them together," Nico murmured.

Before they could kiss again, a new wave of screaming rippled through the crowd. Louder, if possible.

Sebastian Vettel had pulled Kimi Räikkönen into a kiss right behind them. Public. Bold. Fire and ice in their own way. The Iceman's hands tangled on Seb's waist, and Seb practically glowed from it. And somehow, that made it real too. Something unspoken between them that had existed all these years.

And now all four of them stood there, staring at each other. Stunned, breathless, hearts wide open.

And then. They ran.

Lewis grabbed Nico's hand, holding it like he'd never let go. Kimi took Seb's like it was second nature. They laughed, not the polite kind, but the deep, giddy, full-body kind that made them feel like kids again.

They didn't know where they were going. But they ran.

Away from the stares. Away from the noise. Toward a future that they'd never let themselves imagine until now.

Just the four of them, sprinting into the unknown with hearts full of love, joy, and the courage they'd waited too long to find.

And Lewis?

He had never felt more free.

 

They ran until they couldn't.

Until the roar of the crowd melted into the background and the bright lights faded behind them. Somewhere near the back of the paddock, past garages and VIP tents, past all the cameras chasing them. Lewis finally stopped, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Nico bumped into him, arms wrapping around Lewis's middle as they both doubled over.

Kimi and Seb stumbled to a stop next to them, equally breathless, their fingers still interlaced. Kimi wasn't even bothering to hide his smile anymore. Seb's face was flushed, not just from running but from the giddiness that hadn't left since they'd made their move.

"Did we just start a revolution?" Seb said, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

"Nah," Kimi replied, deadpan. "We just finally gave them a damn answer."

They all burst out laughing again.

It wasn't just the kiss. It was what it meant.

The crowd had seen four legends. Two World Champions at the top of the podium, and two more right behind them. Not just win races or titles, but claim their happiness, together. Openly. Proudly. No PR team. No carefully worded statements. Just love. The kind that had simmered for years in interviews, in glances, in the space between words.

The world knew now.

And they didn't care.

They ended up in Lewis's private driver room. Quiet. Cool. Dimly lit. Nico sat on the floor, legs stretched out, while Lewis paced in front of him like he didn't know how to sit still. He kept running his hands through his braids, still trying to process everything. Nico watched him with this look, half awe, half tenderness. As if he still couldn't believe the man he'd spent years battling had kissed him in front of the entire world.

"You know," Nico said quietly, "you've basically broken the internet."

Lewis turned and finally sank to the floor beside him. "Yeah. Let them choke on it."

Nico huffed a laugh. "There'll be fallout. You know that."

"I do," Lewis nodded. "And I'm ready for it."

They sat there, pressed side by side, their shoulders touching, breathing in sync.

Seb and Kimi were on the couch, curled up like they'd done this a hundred times. Seb's head rested on Kimi's chest, and Kimi had one arm lazily draped around his husband's waist. They weren't saying much. They didn't have to. Every glance between them said enough.

Then came the chaos.

Phones exploded with calls and messages. Headlines flooded in. Pictures of both kisses were everywhere — zoomed-in, cropped, captioned with everything from "F1's Most Iconic Podium Ever" to "Brocedes Is Real???"

There was outrage, of course.

But more than that?

Support.

Thousands?. No. Millions of fans took to social media to celebrate. #Brocedes and #Simi trended globally. Messages from other drivers poured in: from Daniel Ricciardo sending heart emojis to Charles Leclerc posting a photo of the podium with the words "Proud of you all. Love wins." Even Lando Norris tweeted, "This is honestly the coolest moment in F1 history."

And then came Toto Wolff.

He burst through the door unannounced, still in his headset and paddock badge. He stared at Lewis and Nico like a father who'd just watched his sons elope.

"Lewis. Nico." A long pause. Then: "You could've given me five minutes warning before the kiss heard 'round the world."

Lewis braced for it.

But Toto smiled. Wide, proud, almost emotional.

"Damn good timing, though," he added, his voice warm. "Would've done the same if I were in love with my teammate."

Nico blinked. "Wait, you-"

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," Toto said dryly, then turned to Kimi and Seb. "You two as well?"

Kimi just gave a slow nod. "Since 2007."

Toto threw his hands up. "I give up."

The room broke into laughter again.

But later that night, when the noise finally settled, it was just the four of them again.

Lewis stood on the hotel balcony, arms wrapped around Nico from behind. The city lights stretched out in front of them, and the night air was warm. Peaceful.

"You changed everything today," Nico said softly.

"We did," Lewis corrected.

Behind them, in their shared suite, Seb was fast asleep tangled with Kimi, both still wearing their championship watches and nothing else. They looked like peace. Like freedom.

"You know," Lewis whispered, his voice full of awe, "I've won every title I ever dreamed of. But this, this feels like my first real win."

Nico turned in his arms, kissed him again, slower this time, and when they broke apart, he said, "Then let's win the rest of life together."

 

AFTERMATH – ONE YEAR LATER

|

In a calm post-season interview with the BBC, Lewis was asked how he felt about the historic day he won his seventh title and kissed Nico Rosberg in front of the world.

Lewis smiled, fingers laced with Nico's off-camera.

"It was terrifying," he admitted. "But I'd do it again. Ten times over. Because that was the day I finally stopped running. We have wasted years, because we were scared. And now? I won something far bigger than a championship."

Seb and Kimi, interviewed later, simply said they were "Glad the paddock finally caught up."

"People still stare," Kimi muttered, unfazed as ever. "Let them."

The camera cut to Seb beaming beside him. "We started with engines. We ended with love. Feels right, doesn't it?"

Chapter 9: MV1 & CS55 | After Everything, You're still Mine

Carlos remembered the day Max arrived like it was nothing special.

Another young driver. Another kid with something to prove. Red Bull always had a new name lined up, ready to throw into the deep end.

But Max Verstappen wasn't like the others.

He didn't walk into Toro Rosso like a rookie. He strolled in like he already owned the place. Chin up, eyes cool, not a single ounce of the usual nerves. Carlos had laughed it off at the time, brushing Max off as cocky and green.

And yet...

There was something about the kid.

At first, it was little things.

Carlos would catch Max watching him out of the corner of his eye in the briefings, not aggressive or annoyed. Just... watching. Like he was trying to figure something out. When Carlos asked, Max just shrugged and said he was "learning."

Then there was the moment in Malaysia.

They were reviewing telemetry, leaning side by side over the data screen. Carlos had been pointing out some differences in braking points when their arms brushed. It should've been nothing, just a casual accident. But instead, there was this... Tingles.

Electric. Quick. Faint.

Carlos froze for a split second. Max didn't move either.

Neither of them said anything.

The moment passed, just like that.

Carlos told himself it was static electricity. A fluke. The air. Anything.

But it kept happening.

When Max beat him in qualifying for the first time, Carlos had expected to be furious.
He'd always prided himself on being precise, consistent. Beaten by a seventeen-year-old? That should've gotten under his skin.

Instead, all he felt was... heat.

Not anger. Something sharper. Quieter.

He found himself watching Max's post-session interview from the garage monitor. Max wasn't smug. Just sharp, efficient, slightly amused. Like the win had been inevitable.

Carlos couldn't look away.

What is this? he thought.
But there was no real answer.

And Max?

He didn't have the words for it either.

Carlos was supposed to be competition. A teammate, yes, but one you beat. One you measured yourself against. Max had never been the type to fixate on anyone. His focus was always the car, the lap, the numbers.

But Carlos... distracted him.

It wasn't just that he was fast. It was how he moved. The way he carried himself, calm on the outside but fire just underneath. Max noticed things he had no business noticing. Like how Carlos bit the inside of his cheek when he was annoyed. How his accent curled slightly tighter when he was excited. How his laugh, on the rare occasion Max managed to pull one out. Lingered.

There was that word again: lingered.

It clung to Max like the scent of fuel after a long stint.

And the worst part was, Carlos seemed to feel it too.

They'd joke in the paddock, bump shoulders in the garage, share long glances after debriefs that lasted just a breath too long. Neither of them ever said anything about it. But that tingle. It was there. Every time.

Still, they ignored it.

They were teammates. Rivals. Boys pretending to be men in the shark tank of Formula 1. There was no room for feelings, especially not confusing, unnameable ones.

So they buried it.

Max moved up. Carlos moved on. Different teams, different colors.
Different lives.

But the tingle? It never really left.

It just... waited.

 

The sun had started to dip low behind the trees that circled the paddock, casting a warm, golden haze over the Toro Rosso hospitality area. Most of the crew had already packed up or wandered off. Max lingered. He had no reason to be here anymore, not really. But something told him he needed to see Carlos. One last time, before things changed.

He spotted him near the back, half-buried in gear and boxes, tugging zippers and organizing bags. Carlos looked busy, but his shoulders were tight, like the kind of busy you do to distract yourself.

Max hesitated a moment, then walked over.

"Hey... Carlos."

Carlos startled, jolting slightly as he whipped around. "Jesus Christ!" he gasped, hand clutching his chest. When he saw Max, he let out a breathy laugh. "Don't sneak up on me like that, man. I nearly died."

Max gave a small grin. "Didn't mean to. Sorry... You looked... focused."

"Well, yeah," Carlos said, chuckling again as he bent to zip up a suitcase. "Turns out packing your entire life into a couple of bags takes some concentration."

Max nodded, hands stuffed into his pockets. "Just came to say goodbye... I guess."

Carlos stood upright, brushing dust off his hands. "Max," he said gently, "I'm not disappearing. I'm just moving garages."

"I know," Max replied quickly. "I know that. It's just... weird."

There was a pause. Carlos tilted his head. "Weird?"

Max's eyes dropped to the ground for a second, then slowly lifted to meet Carlos's again. "Having someone beside you every race weekend. Someone you're used to being around. And now suddenly... you're not there."

Carlos blinked. His breath hitched, just slightly.

They stood there, in that quiet space between them, and something unspoken flickered in the air.

Then, honk. A horn blared in the distance, jarring them both back to earth. Carlos cleared his throat and bent back down, fiddling with the zipper on his bag even though it was already closed.

Max looked away, voice softer now. "It's just... I don't really know what it'll be like without you here."

Carlos stilled. That weight in Max's voice, it wasn't just about racing. He could feel it.

He turned, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. "I get it," Carlos said, his voice quiet too now. "I've been thinking the same. New team, new crew, new everything. It's a lot."

Max nodded, barely.

"But you'll be fine," Carlos added, watching him. "You always figure it out. You're... annoying like that."

That earned a tiny smile. "You're not so bad yourself," Max said. "I mean, on track you were a nightmare. I had to fight like hell just to keep up."

Carlos grinned. "You saying I'm fast?"

"I'm saying you're-" Max caught himself, eyes flicking down to Carlos's mouth for a heartbeat. "Yeah. Fast."

Carlos looked away and swallowed, the compliment landing heavier than it should've. "Well, you know me, Max," he said, trying to sound cocky. "I like to play hard."

He meant it as a joke. A harmless line. But the moment it left his lips, he felt the shift. Like something invisible between them just clicked into place.

Max flushed, visibly. Looked away again.

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, awkward now. "God," he muttered, "what are we even saying?"

"I don't know," Max admitted. "I never do when it comes to you."

That silence returned. Not heavy. Just thick enough that it made the air feel warmer, like it might fold around them and never let go.

Carlos finally broke it, stepping forward and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Well... I guess this is it."

Max nodded.

They hugged, a quick at first, then slower. Closer. Neither of them pulled back for a few extra seconds, and when they finally did, their eyes didn't quite meet.

Carlos gave him one last look. "Don't forget about me too fast, yeah?"

"I couldn't if I tried," Max said.

Carlos left with a quiet goodbye and a pat on Max's shoulder.

Max stood there alone as the last of the daylight bled across the paddock. Something tightened in his chest. Not regret exactly. Not sadness either. Just that tingle again. That same electric whisper under his skin that only ever showed up when Carlos was near.

He walked back to his car, started the engine, and didn't look back.

 

 

Later after the season started

|

The day had been long, the race longer, and now it was just the soft hum of generators and the shuffle of exhausted mechanics winding down. Most of the drivers had already disappeared into motorhomes or private rooms. Max wasn't sure why he was still out there.

He told himself he was just walking off the adrenaline. But deep down, he knew who he was hoping to bump into.

And of course, there he was sitting on a crate beside the Renault hospitality, head tilted up at the night sky, a water bottle dangling from his fingers. Alone. As if he'd been waiting for someone.

Carlos turned when he heard footsteps, squinting in the dim light. When he saw Max, his expression softened in a way Max wasn't used to seeing from him anymore.

"Hey," Carlos said, voice low, calm.

Max stopped a few feet away. "Hey."

They looked at each other for a second longer than necessary. And then Carlos patted the space beside him on the crate.

"You gonna sit, or just stand there looking like you forgot how to talk?"

Max cracked a small smile and walked over.

"Good race," Carlos said. "You were fast today."

"Yeah," Max nodded. "You weren't bad either. Nice overtake on Lap 29."

Carlos smirked. "You noticed?"

"I always notice."

Carlos blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Still watching me, huh?"

Max didn't answer right away. He just glanced at him, really looked this time. "Hard to stop, apparently."

Carlos laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it now. "Weird, isn't it? Not sharing the same garage. Not hearing your voice every time I take my helmet off."

"I miss it," Max said, without flinching.

Carlos froze for a second. "Me too," he admitted quietly.

The silence came again, thick but not uncomfortable. Then Carlos added, "You remember that last day? When I was packing?"

"Yeah," Max said. "I think about it more than I should."

Carlos turned, eyes searching his. "Me too. That... that feeling. It's still here."

Max didn't say anything. Just nodded. Because he knew what Carlos meant. The tingle. The question mark they'd left unspoken.

Carlos looked down at his hands. "You ever figure out what it was?"

Max took a breath. "No. But I know it wasn't nothing."

Carlos looked up, and their eyes met again. And this time, it stayed there, locked, intense, vulnerable.

"You think it still means something?" Carlos asked.

Max didn't even hesitate.

"Yeah. I do."

And did they do anything about it? About the situation? The answer is Nothing.

 

The paddock buzzed the way it always did on media day, too many voices, too many cameras, too many fake smiles. Carlos had gotten good at it, though. Smile, nod, answer in soundbites. Easy. Until Nico Hülkenberg showed up mid-interview like he owned the place.

"Caaaarlitooos," Nico sing-songed, cutting through the air with a crooked grin and a tiny, half-melted chocolate bar in his hand. "You looked like you needed a sugar boost."

Carlos raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. "What is that? Chocolate from your glove box?"

"It's a gift," Nico replied, peeling the wrapper halfway like he was feeding a toddler. "Say 'ah.'"

The journalists chuckled. Carlos played along, rolling his eyes and opening his mouth a bit dramatically, leaning forward as if to take a bite. But just before his lips touched the chocolate, he paused, gaze flicking up to Nico and leaned even closer, their faces inches apart now. And then, just as quickly, he leaned back and took the bite normally, smirking through the laughter.

"Careful," he said. "You almost got a kiss there."

Nico cackled. "Would've made headlines, mate."

Someone off-camera muttered "it already did," while the rest of the crew cracked up.

Carlos waved him off, chewing with a grin, unaware that a certain pair of eyes had locked on him from the other side of the media pen.

Max was supposed to be scrolling through his engineer's notes. Instead, he stared.

He wasn't sure when he started watching Carlos like this, quiet moments when he should've been focused, quick glances that lingered too long. He wasn't even listening to the joke, but he saw it, the lean-in, the smirk, the way Carlos laughed with his head tilted back.

Then Daniil showed up, laughing even harder, and handed Carlos another piece of chocolate. And Carlos, always the joker, opened his mouth again like some kind of baby bird and let Daniil feed him too.

Something tightened in Max's chest.

It was subtle. Irritating. Familiar in a way he didn't want to admit.

He looked away, jaw tense, and suddenly the air around him felt heavier.

Why did it bother him? It was just Carlos. Just Carlos doing... Carlos things.

Right?

But he couldn't forget the way Carlos had smiled at him weeks ago. Couldn't ignore the way his name still sounded different coming out of Carlos's mouth. How he still remembered the heat from their hug. Or how Carlos's stupid smirk had stayed burned into his mind like a racing line etched into asphalt.

He'd never been like this. Not over anyone. And now, standing in the middle of the paddock with everyone laughing and moving around him, Max realized he wasn't thinking about the race. Or strategy. Or points.

He was thinking about Carlos Sainz.

And how it felt watching him laugh with someone else.

"God," Max muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck, "what the hell is wrong with me?"

 

 

Races after races later

|

The day had been long, but the F1 world didn't slow down for tired drivers. Media, debriefs, photoshoots,  they came one after the other like laps in a race. Max had just finished a back-to-back sim session and was scrolling through his phone, half-listening to some engineer drone on in the background, when he saw it.

A behind-the-scenes clip from F1's social team.

It was just a short video, nothing major. Carlos walking through the paddock, sunglasses on, holding his helmet in one hand and waving at a fan with the other. Except...

Max frowned and paused the video.

That wasn't his usual undershirt. Or his usual fireproofs.

The cut was different, slightly looser, more worn. And that logo-

Max squinted. Hülkenberg's number?

The clip cut to Carlos laughing in the Renault hospitality, gesturing toward his own chest and mouthing something like, "Apparently, I grabbed Nico's stuff by accident."

Everyone thought it was funny. The replies were full of laughing emojis, fans calling it "teammate bonding," jokes about how they were "basically dating now."

Max did not laugh.

He tossed his phone facedown on the table and stood a little too fast. Something in his chest was tightening again, that same twisting feeling he'd had when Daniil fed Carlos chocolate. It didn't make sense. It wasn't even a big deal.

But it bothered him.

"What?" Daniel asked lazily, not looking up from his protein shake. "You look like someone just told you Monza's canceled."

Max glanced at him, expression carefully blank. "Nothing."

Daniel hummed. "Oh, okay. Just checking. You've only been staring at your phone like it personally offended you."

Max rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

"You gonna tell me what the video was?"

"No."

Daniel smiled like he already knew. He knew exactly what was going on.

 

Meanwhile, in the Renault hospitality, Carlos sat on a bench outside, still chuckling to himself over the mix-up. Nico had laughed it off, apparently he didn't even notice until someone pointed it out. Carlos had promised to return the shirt after washing it.

He leaned back, stretching his legs out, eyes drifting across the paddock.

And then he saw Max.

Standing with Daniel. Talking. Close.

Too close.

Carlos frowned.

He didn't even realize he was frowning until Nico appeared beside him with a coffee in hand and nudged him with his elbow. "You good?"

"Yeah. Just thinking," Carlos lied quickly, forcing a smile.

Nico followed his gaze. "Oh. Max and Daniel."

Carlos said nothing.

"Man, you're really bad at hiding it," Nico said, sipping his coffee.

Carlos blinked. "Hiding what?"

Nico gave him the most obnoxious smirk possible. "Nothing." It was never nothing.

 

Later that evening, Max sat alone in his driver room, scrolling again. He paused on a screenshot someone had taken. Carlos in Nico's shirt, mid-laugh.

And again, he felt that pull in his chest. That stupid tingle that hadn't gone away since Toro Rosso.

Why was this happening?

Why did it bother him?

It wasn't like Carlos was his.

It wasn't like he even wanted that.

...Right?

Max stared at the screen a moment longer, then locked his phone and stared at the wall.

He had no answers. Just questions that were getting harder to ignore.

 

 

French Grand Prix

|

The paddock was winding down after a long practice session. Max found Carlos outside the hospitality unit, fiddling with his phone while sipping a water bottle. For a second, Max hesitated. But then again, when had hesitation ever helped?

"Hey," Max said, hands in his pockets, voice casual but eyes too focused.

Carlos looked up, smiling without thinking. "Hey, long time."

Max chuckled. "It's been, what, a week?"

"Felt longer," Carlos replied, then regretted how quickly it came out. He masked it with a shrug. "You look tired."

"I am tired," Max admitted. "Tired of Nico being glued to you."

Carlos blinked, the bottle pausing halfway to his lips. "What?"

"You know... always touching you. Always laughing. He's been stuck to you since the driver parade."

Carlos raised a brow. "You're one to talk. You and Daniel have been practically finishing each other's sentences lately."

That made Max freeze. He hadn't expected that. "We're teammates."

"So were we."

There it was, no heat, no accusations, just a truth dropped between them with quiet weight. For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Then Max gave a dry laugh and looked away.

"Point taken."

Carlos tapped his fingers against the bottle. "Besides, you and Daniel have always been close."

Max looked at him now. "And you and Nico haven't?"

Carlos opened his mouth. Then closed it. "I... it's not like that."

"Isn't it?" Max asked, trying to sound amused, but the crack in his tone gave him away.

Before either of them could unpack that, a media handler called Carlos for his next interview. He gave Max a parting look, eyes unreadable. "Later?"

"Yeah," Max said, watching him go, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed.

 

It was a light segment, one of those filler interviews teams did to keep fans entertained, silly questions, jokes, and games. Carlos was paired with Nico, of course, because someone in PR clearly had a sense of humor.

Daniel and Max were off-camera, waiting for their turn.

"Carlos," the interviewer said, "if Nico were a dessert, what would he be?"

Carlos turned to Nico, squinting in mock-thought. "Something sweet... but with too much sugar."

Nico laughed. "Flattering. That's me."

Then, in a moment that would go viral by the next morning, Nico puckered his lips and blew Carlos a dramatic air kiss.

Carlos didn't miss a beat, he leaned forward as if to return the gesture, overly theatrical, and then stopped inches away and grinned like a cat. The crew laughed, and Nico hammed it up, pretending to swoon.

Max, watching from the sidelines, stiffened. He hadn't expected... whatever that was. And worse, Daniel noticed.

"Jealousy doesn't look good on you, mate," Daniel said lightly, leaning in.

"I'm not jealous."

Daniel smirked. "Of course not. You just looked like you wanted to strangle Nico with a mic cord for absolutely no reason."

Max rolled his eyes. "They're just playing around."

"Mmm-hmm," Daniel said, dragging out the hum as he leaned back against the wall. "Totally."

But later, when Max caught Carlos laughing with Nico again. Carlos still wearing a borrowed Renault fireproof top, unmistakably Nico's, something twisted in his stomach again. He couldn't help it. It was stupid. Irrational. But there it was.

And it wasn't just him.

Carlos had spotted Daniel slinging an arm around Max's shoulders earlier, whispering something that made Max snort and shake his head. Carlos had felt it too, the weird ache, the annoyance. He told himself it didn't mean anything.

But when Nico mentioned Max offhandedly later "You and Verstappen always had a fiery chemistry" Carlos felt something flare that he couldn't name.

Time goes and races finished Carlos is now on the contract with McClaren and Daniel also move to Renault, taken Carlos' seat to be teammates with Nico and Carlos to be with a new rookie: Lando Norris.

 

 

2019 - Renault hospitality

|

Nico and Daniel both knew something about their former teammates: that they had something for each other but chose not to speak about it in fear of ruining things, if not it was that they didn't know what they were feeling.

Nico watched Carlos more now. And not in a teasing way, he watched him during media, in briefings, when Max's name came up.

Daniel noticed it too. When Carlos spoke about Max, whether in compliments or offhanded gripes, his eyes changed just a bit. And Max? Every time Carlos so much as laughed near someone else, Max's focus sharpened like a hawk's.

"They're both idiots," Daniel muttered one evening.

Nico, next to him, nodded slowly. "Yep. Big, emotionally repressed idiots."

"Should we do something about it?"

Daniel grinned. "Not yet. Watching this slow burn? Kinda satisfying."

Nico laugh at that and then sit down next to Daniel. "They going to have to confess, if not I won't be able to sleep anymore."

 

 

2021 - Somewhere on Earth

|

Max wasn't unfamiliar with pressure. He'd learned to carry the weight of expectation like a second skin, molded tight against his name, stitched with legacy and fury and ambition. But something in him felt different now. It wasn't the title. Though he had finally done it. Champion. The word still echoed in his chest like thunder. No, it was something quieter. Something deeper.

It was Carlos.

Again.

Carlos had lingered at the edges of his mind for years. From their Toro Rosso days to the quiet, awkward goodbyes, to the moments of rivalry disguised as civility, and the sideways glances that burned more than they should have. Through team switches and podiums, their paths diverged and tangled like wires in the dark.

They never talked about it.

They never needed to.

Max caught glimpses of him throughout the season. Sometimes it was Carlos and Lando laughing in the garage, Carlos leaning close with that warm, easy smile that made Max clench his jaw. Sometimes it was nothing but a look across the paddock, brief, unreadable, but loaded. Always loaded.

Max distanced himself when it became too much. He chalked it up to stress, focus, noise in his head. Carlos noticed. Of course he did. Carlos had always noticed Max, even when Max pretended not to see him.

He hadn't even realized how obvious he was being until Daniel elbowed him mid-debrief.

"You're glowering again."

"I'm not."

"You're doing the Max face."

"I don't have a Max face."

Daniel snorted. "Mate, you look like you're going to kill Lando with your mind."

Max muttered something under his breath and looked away. He didn't want to admit how often he watched Carlos. Or how often Carlos laughed with Lando now. He didn't want to admit that it stung. Because it wasn't just friendship, not for him. And he wasn't sure when that had changed.

Maybe it always was more.

Nico noticed too. He made it worse, if anything, poking Carlos with the occasional "I see you watching him again," or "How's your not-crush going?"

Carlos always deflected with a smile. But the truth was, he felt it too. Every time Max touched Daniel's shoulder, or bumped elbows with Charles, or laughed, rare, but real. Carlos would go quiet for a beat. Swallow something hard. And then pretend he was fine.

Because Max had always been a little untouchable. A little too sharp around the edges. And Carlos didn't know how to reach through that.

But Lando and Daniel and Nico had had enough. They were tired of watching it all unfold like a badly written romance novel with no payoff.

So when they caught Max and Carlos in the same room post-race at the French GP, they pounced.

"You're both idiots," Lando said flatly.

"Agreed," Daniel added. "So go talk to each other before I lock you in a supply closet."

Nico smirked. "Please do. I'm tired of watching them pine like widows."

Carlos blinked. "Pine?!"

Max just flushed.

But somehow, despite the resistance, it worked. Later that week, after the tension and media frenzy died down, Max found Carlos standing alone by the motorhome. Sunset spilled gold over the paddock. It felt quiet for once.

"You're close with Lando," Max said, out of nowhere.

Carlos raised a brow. "You're close with Daniel."

A beat of silence.

They stared at each other.

"I wasn't asking because I care who you're friends with," Max added quickly.

"No?"

"No. I-" Max exhaled. "I just don't like seeing you with him. Not like that. I don't know why. I mean... I do. But I didn't want to say it."

Carlos tilted his head, brows raised. "And what way do you think you saw me with him?"

Max gave a small, humorless laugh. "I don't know. The same way you looked at Nico once. Or Daniil. I hated that too."

Carlos's lips twitched. "You were jealous?"

"I guess I was."

Carlos stepped closer. His voice dropped. "You want to know a secret?"

Max met his eyes, heart thudding. "What?"

Carlos leaned in, just slightly. "I hated seeing you with Daniel."

Max blinked.

"Or Charles," Carlos added. "Even Pierre. Even when I knew nothing was going on. It didn't matter. I still hated it."

"...Why?"

"Because it wasn't me."

That stopped Max cold. He swallowed. "So... what are we doing?"

Carlos shrugged lightly. "What we should've done a long time ago."

 

 

Abu Dhabi, 2021

|

It was over. The season. The battle. The war. Max had done it. World Champion. He could barely process it. Every nerve in his body buzzed with adrenaline and disbelief. But none of it compared to the moment he spotted Carlos, far from the podium, half-hidden behind the crowd, clapping with a proud smile Max would never forget.

His stomach twisted.

That was it. That was the look. That was the moment.

Later, after the ceremony and the champagne and the cameras, Max found him. Alone, again. Just like always.

"I saw you," Max said, breathless.

Carlos turned, confused. "When?"

"After the race. You were smiling. That smile, you always do that when you look at me. And I get this. This stupid feeling I can't shake."

Carlos stared at him, eyes wide. Max kept going.

"I think I've been in denial for years. About how I feel. About what it means. I kept telling myself I didn't care but I do. I always did. Every time someone else got close to you, I hated it. I hated how it made me feel. But I get it now. It was always you."

Carlos's voice was soft. "Max..."

Max stepped closer. "Please don't tell me I'm wrong."

Carlos exhaled slowly. "You're not. God, you're not. I've felt the same this whole time."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because I thought you wouldn't feel the same. I didn't want to ruin us."

Max shook his head. "It was already ruined, Carlos. Every race I saw you with someone else, it broke me a little."

They were close now. Too close to pretend anymore.

Carlos reached for him first. His hand on Max's face was gentle, trembling slightly.

And Max kissed him.

It wasn't perfect. Too much emotion, too much heat and confusion poured into it, but it was everything. Years of waiting and wondering and wishing collapsed into that one moment.

When they pulled back, Carlos laughed breathlessly. "I can't believe we were that dumb."

Max grinned. "Daniel and Nico probably made bets."

"And Lando."

They looked around  and sure enough, in the distance, they saw four idiots peeking from behind a barrier: Daniel, Nico, Lando, and Charles, all high-fiving like it was their own championship win.

Max rolled his eyes. "We're never living this down."

Carlos smirked, taking Max's hand. "I don't care. As long as we're not pretending anymore."

Max nodded. "No more pretending."

And for the first time in years, it felt like the start of something real.

Something new.

A possibility. Finally realized.

They got stronger? Yes, yes, they do.

 

 

The 2023 season

|

The announcement was simple. No press conference, no grand gestures. Just a photo of Max and Carlos on the balcony of their Monaco apartment, backs against the railing, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together as the sun dipped behind them. No caption. No need.

It was 2023, and they were tired of hiding.

The response came fast. Fans screamed their support. Some cried. Some sent hateful messages. Others quietly unfollowed. But the important ones, their friends, their team, the grid. They stayed. Nico posted a smug selfie with the caption: "You're welcome, world." Daniel reposted with: "Two years late but we got there." Charles just dropped a string of red and orange hearts with a photo of the four of them out for dinner.

Carlos' parents invited Max over the same week.

They had always loved him, maybe even suspected something, maybe even knew.

"You two took long enough," Carlos' mother said, hugging Max so tight he couldn't breathe.

Carlos' father pulled him aside later, gently, but firm. "Whatever the world says, don't listen. You love each other. That's all that matters."

Carlos watched from the doorway, tears in his eyes. "They already see you as family."

Max didn't answer, just smiled, grateful, quiet, the way he always got when he didn't have the words. Carlos kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered, "I love you."

"I know," Max whispered back. "I love you too."

But it wasn't all warm dinners and shared beds.

Jos Verstappen made sure of that.

He called Max. Once. Max didn't answer.

Then a statement from Jos leaked, denying everything, claiming it was a 'distraction,' a 'shame,' and 'not the son I raised.' Some media picked it up. Jos tried to stir things. Teams didn't bite. When he showed up at a race weekend and shouted at Max from the paddock gate, security escorted him out. When he tried again at another, the FIA stepped in and gave him a full season ban. Then the circuits followed. No one wanted him there anymore.

It hurt, but Max never let it show on track.

Still, Carlos saw it. He always did.

It was one of those nights after a race in Austria. The lights were low. Max stood at the window in their hotel room, arms crossed, staring out.

Carlos got up from bed and wrapped his arms around his waist from behind. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Max said.

"Try again."

Max leaned back into him, head dropping a little. "It's him. Still thinking about how... he's the only one who looked at me like I was broken for loving you."

Carlos was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, slow and steady. "You're not broken, Max. You're better than him. Stronger. Kinder."

Max turned around in his arms, eyes searching. "Why does it still hurt?"

"Because it mattered once," Carlos said. "Because you're human."

Max's eyes dropped. "He's my dad."

"I know," Carlos said. "But he doesn't get to define you. We do. You and me. Together."

A long silence passed between them, full of unsaid things, of years spent in denial, years spent not knowing what that tingle meant, and years now spent trying to heal.

Max rested his forehead against Carlos'. "You never make me feel ashamed."

Carlos brushed his thumb under Max's eye. "You never have to be."

They kissed. It wasn't desperate. It wasn't loud. Just full. Full of everything they'd fought through to get here.

Later, lying in bed, Max curled into Carlos' side, half-asleep.

"Do you think it'll ever stop?" Max murmured.

"The noise?" Carlos asked. "Maybe not. But we'll get better at tuning it out."

Max nodded against his chest. "Good. Because I want this to be forever."

Carlos smiled into the dark. "It already is."

 

 

2024 - Abu Dhabi

|

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, 2024 - Final Race Weekend

It was strange how quickly time moved when you were happy.

For Max, the 2024 season had felt like a blur of victories, tire smoke, and long nights spent tangled up in laughter and quiet moments with Carlos. Every race brought the adrenaline, but it was in the moments between them, those breathless silences in shared hotel rooms, the post-qualifying debriefs laced with glances only they understood, where the real magic was.

Carlos, on the other hand, had never felt so grounded. He knew who he was. He knew who he loved. And he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that what he and Max had was real, and rare, and stronger than anything he'd ever imagined. They weren't just lovers or even just partners anymore. They were each other's constants, storm or shine.

On the track, they gave each other hell, trading fastest laps, battling wheel-to-wheel when the moment called for it. There were no easy wins between them. But outside the cockpit, there was only devotion. Max fell harder every day, sometimes in the simplest of ways. A smirk Carlos made before a race. The soft, raspy way he whispered "good luck" before putting on his helmet. The way he looked at Max after the lights went out, like he already knew he'd see him again at the checkered flag.

Carlos never said it out loud, but Max didn't need him to. He could feel it. In every nudge, every brush of his fingers on Max's arm when no one was watching. In the way Carlos always waited, always looked back, like he couldn't move forward without him.

Now, standing in the garage before the final qualifying of the season, everything felt strangely calm.

Max was in his race suit, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. He wasn't thinking about pole. He wasn't thinking about lap times or tire strategy. He was watching Carlos talk to one of his engineers, hands moving animatedly, brows furrowed in focus.

God, he loved him.

Not the tame kind of love, either. This was fire. This was the kind that kept him up at night, made his chest tighten when Carlos so much as smiled at someone else. But more than that, this was home.

"Staring much, mate?" Daniel's voice suddenly teased from behind him, low and knowing.

Max didn't flinch. "Shut up."

Daniel chuckled, stepping up beside him. "I'm just saying, you've got that look in your eyes."

"What look?"

"The 'I'm-about-to-make-someone's-son-cry' look."

Max snorted, trying not to smile. "He's mine."

Daniel raised a brow. "And you're his. You're lucky. You both are."

They didn't say anything after that. But Max stood a little straighter.

 

Race day came like lightning.

Tension buzzed in the paddock, but in the Red Bull motorhome, Max and Carlos sat together in the quiet corner they'd unofficially claimed as theirs. No cameras. No microphones. Just them and the hum of the chaos outside.

Carlos turned to him, voice soft. "Last one of the year."

Max looked up. "I know."

Carlos smiled. "Let's go out with a bang."

They didn't kiss. Not here, not where someone could see. But they touched, just the brush of fingers over knuckles, a silent promise passed between them.

And then it was race time.

From the very first lap, it was chaos. But beautiful chaos. Checo took the lead, Carlos kept the pressure on behind Max, and the three of them danced across the asphalt like they were born for it.

Lap after lap, Max found himself glancing at the timing board, tracking Carlos. Always Carlos.

And then, at the final pit stop, things shifted. Max came out in front. Checo behind. And Carlos third.

The dream podium.

He couldn't believe it.

 

As the checkered flag dropped, Max crossed the line in first. A roar echoed in his helmet, in his ears, in his chest. But none of it compared to the feeling that hit when he looked in the mirror and saw Carlos roll across the line seconds later, punching the air from inside his car.

Max was still catching his breath when he parked in parc fermé. He stepped out to cameras flashing, fans screaming, engines cooling. But his eyes were locked on one thing.

Even that he is now a four time world champion. He only sets his eyes on one thing.

Carlos.

Helmet off, hair messy, eyes alight with pride and something deeper. Something burning.

Max's fingers twitched at his sides. Not yet. Just a little longer.

They climbed the steps to the podium. Max at the center, Checo to his right, Carlos to his left.

Cameras clicked. Champagne bottles popped. The crowd roared.

But Max barely noticed any of it. Because Carlos was looking at him like they were the only two people in the world.

And he smiled.

Because they were.

 

The Podium. Three race winners.

The champagne sprayed, like always.

Carlos laughed as Checo shook the bottle with the chaos of a little brother trying to soak everyone. Max joined in, throwing his head back, but his eyes never really left Carlos.

Even after the bottle was empty, even after the music faded and the lights shifted and the camera zoomed in for that last wide podium shot, Max's gaze was fixed. Because something in Carlos' eyes had changed.

Carlos took a breath. Stepped toward him.

He was still dripping from the champagne, curls sticking to his forehead, eyes too bright under the podium lights. The cheering didn't slow, but it was as if the world around them had gone blurry. As if time had thinned out between heartbeats.

Carlos didn't say anything at first. He just looked at Max, like he was memorizing him all over again.

Then he stepped up onto the center of the podium. Where Max stood. Where they had both dreamed they'd be. Together.

His voice was quiet, nearly drowned out by the noise, but Max heard every word.

"I love you, Max. More than I could ever describe with words."

Max didn't move. Didn't blink. He wanted to respond, wanted to say it back like he had a hundred times before, but Carlos didn't let him.

Carlos leaned in and kissed him.

And the world stopped.

It was gentle at first, more reverent than reckless. But Max responded instantly, hands flying up to hold Carlos' waist like he might slip away. The crowd gasped, then erupted. A massive wave of sound roared through the circuit, louder than any podium he'd ever heard.

Cameras flashed.

Commentators lost their minds.

Carlos and Max kissed again. This time with everything they had.

Their helmets were long gone. Their suits still soaked. But they held each other as if they were the only things keeping each other from falling apart.

In a country where their love was illegal. On a stage built for glory. In front of millions.

Max's eyes stung. Not from the champagne.

From the overwhelming wave of relief. From the truth he'd been holding in too long. From seeing Carlos look at him like that, with nothing but love and courage and pride.

They pulled apart slowly, foreheads touching. Max didn't speak. He couldn't yet. But his smile said everything.

Carlos whispered, only for him, "We did it."

And Max nodded. "Yeah. We did."

 

Down below, the paddock was chaos. But the best kind.

Daniel was grinning like a proud dad, fist-bumping Nico, who was straight-up laughing with joy. Lando threw both hands in the air like he'd won the championship himself. Charles clapped so hard it looked like it hurt.

The crew. Red Bull and Ferrari. Stood united, clapping and yelling and some even tearing up.

And up in the hospitality buildings, watching on monitors and from the balcony. Christian Horner and Fred Vasseur exchanged the most painfully amused glances known to man.

In Christian's office, silence lingered for a moment. Then Fred finally said, "I told you they'd do something."

Christian sighed. "I thought you meant get a dog or something, not spark an international incident."

Fred chuckled. "They're in love, Christian."

"I know." Christian shook his head, lips twitching like he couldn't help but be proud. "It's insane. But... damn, it's real."

Fred raised an eyebrow. "And you're not suspending anyone?"

Christian scoffed. "If I suspended every driver who did something I didn't plan for, we'd have an empty grid."

They both turned back to the screen.

Carlos and Max were walking off the podium, fingers brushing. Still glowing. Still laughing quietly like they hadn't just shaken the world.

Fred smiled. "Let them be happy."

Christian didn't look away. "I think they already are."

 

 

Chaos after the stunt Max and Carlos had pulled

|

The night the world couldn't look away

The internet imploded before they even got down from the podium.

By the time Max and Carlos disappeared into the paddock, the video was already everywhere. The kiss. The looks. The words. The rawness of it. It had spread across the world like wildfire—unfiltered, unstoppable.

Max didn't even need to check his phone to know.

"Trending already?" he asked, peeling off his fireproofs and sitting down beside Carlos in their shared room, somehow quiet amid the storm.

Carlos gave a weak laugh, scrolling through his phone. "You're number one. I'm number two. Checo is number four because he sprayed champagne in your face at the exact second we kissed and it became a meme."

Max let out a breathy laugh and leaned his head back. "Christ."

Carlos reached out, squeezed Max's hand, grounding him. "We're fine."

"I know." Max nodded. "I just... it's a lot."

Carlos didn't let go. "We knew it would be."

Max looked over at him. His calm. His anchor. The man who made defying the world feel like a soft breeze.

"I'd do it again," Max said.

Carlos smiles warmly and steady and said. "We probably will."

 

Inside the paddock:

The media storm began even before they reached the hospitality area. Cameras were zoomed in, reporters shouting questions in every language. But no one could quite get to them.

Red Bull's PR team and Ferrari's comms had locked down faster than a safety car on lap one.

Still, snippets got out.

Lando, passing by a camera, just grinned and said, "Took them long enough."

Daniel threw an arm around Nico and shouted, "Who said F1 couldn't be romantic?"

Charles was seen raising both fists like he'd just won a bet.

But the wildest image? Checo spraying champagne onto Max and Carlos mid-kiss, laughing like an idiot and then getting soaked himself. That shot alone was being printed on T-shirts by the time the sun went down.

 

In Christian's office (again):

Helmut Marko rubbed his temples. "They kissed. On the podium."

"Yes," said Christian, flatly. "And?"

Helmut looked at him. "And it's Abu Dhabi."

Christian didn't even blink. "Max is still your world champion."

Helmut sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked at Fred across the room. "You couldn't have stopped them?"

Fred raised a brow. "Why would I?"

Christian gave up. "I need a drink."

"Join the line," Fred muttered. "I think the entire FIA legal team just opened a bottle."

 

Back in their room:

Carlos was still reading.

"There's an Italian newspaper calling us 'Romeo e Romeo.'"

Max chuckled, eyes closed.

"There's also a Spanish one saying my family has confirmed that we're 'the best decision I've ever made.'"

Max opened one eye. "They're not wrong."

Carlos grinned.

Then his expression sobered. "You okay about your dad?"

Max didn't respond right away.

Jos had already made his stance known. Publicly, on social media, even tried to speak to reporters after the race—until he was quietly removed by security. The FIA had issued a statement about banning him from all future races indefinitely, citing "repeated violations of conduct and breach of inclusivity protocols."

"I don't care," Max finally said, soft but sure. "If he can't support me loving someone like you... then he never really supported me at all."

Carlos turned, leaned in, kissed his temple. "You've got me. You've got everyone else. That's all you need."

Max nodded.

The room buzzed with new messages. New requests. New noise.

But they let it be.

Tonight, none of that mattered.

Tonight, the world had changed, even just a little, and they had changed it by being brave.

By being in love.

 

Elsewhere, far from the circuit, in rooms across the world:

A kid in Jakarta saw the video and whispered to himself, Maybe I'll be okay.

A girl in Brazil showed her parents the clip and said, "This is what I meant."

Two teenagers in Poland watched it side-by-side on a cracked phone screen and cried into each other's shoulders.

A father in Canada put his arm around his son and said, "They're just like you."

All from one kiss.

 

Abu Dhabi, 3:14 a.m.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Silence.

No more cheers. No more flashes. No podium lights or post-race interviews. Just a heavy, still quiet inside the dark hotel suite, broken only by the slow creak of Carlos's boots as he kicked them off and the zip of Max's hoodie coming down.

They didn't speak for a while.

Carlos stood by the window, still in his race undershirt, arms crossed as he stared out at the city, the lights of Abu Dhabi glowing faintly through the dark desert.

Max sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, head slightly bowed. The adrenaline was finally wearing off. All of it was catching up to him.

The kiss.

The crowd.

Jos.

The world, watching.

"Do you think it was stupid?" Max asked quietly, not looking up.

Carlos turned to him, a little confused. "What? The kiss?"

Max shrugged. "Just... here. All that attention."

Carlos walked over slowly and knelt in front of him. He rested his arms on Max's knees and tilted his head to meet his eyes.

"I think it was brave," he said. "And beautiful."

Max's throat tightened.

"I mean, yeah," Carlos went on, softer now. "It was crazy. A little reckless. Probably pissed off a lot of the wrong people."

He smiled faintly.

"But I wouldn't change a second of it."

Max looked at him, really looked, and something warm bloomed in his chest.

"You've changed everything for me," Max whispered. "The way I think. The way I feel. I didn't even know I was capable of..." He trailed off, searching.

"Loving like this?" Carlos offered.

Max nodded, eyes glassy. "Yeah."

Carlos rose from the floor and guided Max to stand with him. The soft hotel light caught the tear Max didn't bother hiding anymore.

"You don't have to hide it," Carlos said gently. "Not from me. Not ever."

Max wrapped his arms around Carlos's waist and pulled him in close. Carlos's hands came up to cradle Max's head, fingers threading gently through his hair.

"I still can't believe it," Max murmured into Carlos's neck. "That I get to call you mine."

"You always did," Carlos said, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Even when we were too stupid to say it."

Max huffed a quiet laugh against his skin. "God, we were stupid."

Carlos grinned, pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. "But we're not anymore."

They ended up in bed, not for anything wild, just together. Curled under the sheets, legs tangled, soft music playing from Carlos's phone. Some old Arctic Monkeys track. Something about wanting to know if someone still thinks about you late at night.

Max's head was on Carlos's chest, fingers tracing lazy circles on his arm. His breathing had finally evened out. He felt safe. He felt light.

Carlos was watching the ceiling, but his mind was clearly far away.

"You're thinking," Max mumbled sleepily.

Carlos smiled. "Yeah."

"Tell me."

"I was thinking..." Carlos hesitated. "About next year. About how it's going to be harder."

Max looked up.

Carlos went on. "More questions. More pressure. People who don't understand. People who'll try to twist what we have into something political."

Max nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Carlos looked down at him. "But I also thought: we've survived worse."

Max blinked. "Have we?"

"Well," Carlos teased, "we were teammates once. That counts."

Max grinned and let out a genuine laugh. "True."

Carlos leaned down and kissed his forehead.

"We'll be okay," he said. "You and me. Always."

 

Outside, the world was still spinning.

The news cycle churned. Debates sparked. Messages poured in. Both love and hate screamed into the void of the internet.

But in this room, it was quiet. It was warm. It was safe.

Max and Carlos, wrapped in each other's arms, didn't need the world to approve. They had each other. And that was enough.

Tomorrow would come.

But tonight?

Tonight was theirs.

 

2025 - Abu Dhabi

|

Yas Marina Circuit - Abu Dhabi, 2025

Max could barely hear over the thunderous cheers.

Fifth title.

Five.

The number echoed in his head as he stood on top of his car, fists raised to the sky, overwhelmed by the roar of the crowd and the surge of emotion crashing through him like a wave. He had done it. Again. And somehow, it still felt like the first time.

He pulled off his helmet, hands trembling, breath shallow from all the adrenaline. As he climbed down, camera flashes surrounded him. Checo patted his back. Lando gave him a half-hug, all grins and wide eyes.

But then, everything seemed to go quiet.

He turned.

Carlos was walking toward him.

Not running. Not jogging.

Walking.

Purposefully. Calm. Like he was sure of every step.

The crowd didn't see it yet. But Charles did, he stepped aside, his hand flying to his mouth, eyes wide in stunned realization. Lando, behind him, gasped.

Max blinked, confused.

And then, Carlos dropped to one knee.

Time stopped.

Literally, everything else disappeared: the crowd, the lights, the noise, the chaos. All Max could see was Carlos, in his Williams race suit, holding a small box that shook slightly in his hand.

Carlos looked up, his voice cracking even before he said the first word.

"Max."

Max's heart was pounding so loud, he could barely hear anything else.

Carlos continued, hand steady now. "I knew I loved you long before I knew how to admit it. I've raced against you, fought with you, laughed with you, and loved you. And every single day since, I've been thankful for the moment we stopped being stupid and finally chose each other."

Max felt the tears welling, throat burning. The whole paddock had frozen.

"I don't care if we're in a place where this is forbidden. We've spent years proving that love wins. That we win. And I want to keep winning. With you. For the rest of my life."

Carlos opened the box.

"I want to marry you, Max Verstappen. Will you let me be yours, officially, forever?"

Max didn't say anything at first.

He just dropped to his knees in front of Carlos and kissed him—hands on his face, tears running freely down both of their cheeks.

When they finally pulled apart, Max whispered, voice trembling, "Yes. Yes, Carlos. I will. I would a million times over."

The crowd exploded.

Even louder than last year. Louder than any win, any championship. Louder than anyone thought was possible.

Christian and James stood side by side, Christian's hand over his face, James just shaking his head with a lopsided grin. Both proud. Both amused. Both very aware of what this meant for their drivers, for the sport, and for the world watching.

Carlos slipped the ring onto Max's finger, then stood, pulling Max into another kiss. Champagne sprayed again, this time from Charles and Checo, laughing like kids, celebrating something far bigger than just a race.

The world had watched them fall in love, slowly, painfully, beautifully.

Now it watched them promise forever.

 

Years Later

Madrid, Spain - Home

Carlos stood barefoot in the backyard, the warm sun painting his skin golden. A small hand tugged at his sleeve, Isabella, with a wild halo of curls and her father's smile.

"Papa! Papa, look what I drew!"

Carlos knelt. "What did you draw, princesa?"

She held up a crayon drawing of a race car. With two stick figures inside—one blond, one brunette. Holding hands. A little heart between them.

Carlos felt his chest tighten.

Max stepped out with Sienna balanced on his hip, her head resting sleepily on his shoulder. He smiled at the scene, eyes warm, relaxed in a way he never used to be.

Life had changed.

Carlos had retired at 36. Two titles. A legacy of his own. He had nothing left to prove.

Max kept going. Seven championships now. Still racing. Not because he needed to win anymore, but because he loved it. Loved the thrill. Loved the fight. Loved making his daughters proud.

And Carlos was always there, by his side, at every race. Holding his hand in the garage before lights out. Whispering good lucks and gentle reminders to breathe.

Together, they had built a life.

A family.

Not perfect, but real. And theirs.

That night, after the girls had gone to sleep, Max sat with Carlos on the patio, stars scattered across the sky.

They didn't speak for a while.

They didn't need to.

Carlos reached over and took Max's hand, lacing their fingers together.

After everything, the races, the fights, the pain, the joy, the fear. They were still here.

Still them.

Max looked over, voice low and full of something almost too big for words.

"After everything," he said softly, "you're still mine."

Carlos squeezed his hand gently.

"All mine," he replied.

And that was the end.

Their story.

Their love.

Forever.

Chapter 10: MV1 & DR3 | The Only Man

Max Verstappen liked structure.

He liked waking up at the same time every morning, liked his coffee black and his eggs over-hard. He liked knowing which emails to ignore and which ones needed a "per my last message" reply.
He liked that no one at work asked too many personal questions.

He didn't mind being alone.

Weekdays passed in neat blocks: work, gym, quiet dinner, Netflix half-watched while he scrolled. On weekends, he ran errands, caught up on news, sometimes grabbed a drink with coworkers when he couldn't come up with a reason not to.

It wasn't exciting, but it was easy. And after a few years of burned-out dating apps and nothing sticking, easy felt like enough.

Then came Daniel Ricciardo.

They met at a friend's game night, one of those last-minute gatherings that Max almost skipped. He stood awkwardly in the doorway with a six-pack he didn't plan to drink when the door swung open and suddenly, there was this guy, grinning like Max was the one person he'd been waiting for all night.

"Hey, you're Max, yeah? Come in, mate!"

That accent.
Australian. Bright, warm, loud in the best way. Like he could make any sentence sound like good news.

Max blinked. "Uh, yeah."

"I'm Daniel," he said, taking the six-pack out of Max's hand without asking and popping one open. "Hope you're not shy, because I talk way too much."

He wasn't lying.

Daniel spent the night bouncing between people, making jokes, giving nicknames, telling stories about working on murals in Melbourne and almost getting kicked off a ferry in New Zealand. He laughed with his whole body, asked Max questions like they were already close, real ones, not just surface crap and listened like he actually cared.

Max had no idea what to do with it.

The rest of the night blurred, but Daniel stuck. His voice, his presence, the way he didn't fill silence just to fill it, he settled into it, sometimes letting the room fade and giving Max his full attention like he was something worth tuning into.

That stuck with him.

Max told himself it was just a good conversation. That Daniel was like that with everyone.
But he found himself thinking about it the next day. And the day after.

Then Daniel messaged him, casual, funny.
Hey, serious question: is cereal a soup? Because I'm starting fights in group chat.

That turned into more messages. More talking. And, eventually, coffee.

And when they met again, just the two of them, sitting outside a café, watching people rush by Max felt something weird in his chest.
Not panic. Not nerves. Just this soft kind of awareness.
Like this person mattered.
Like he didn't want to stop talking. Or looking. Or laughing, even though Daniel's jokes were objectively terrible.

Max never thought about guys that way. Not seriously.
He'd told himself that part of him was settled. Defined. Known.

But Daniel's smile threw all of that into question.

It wasn't about labels. It wasn't even about sex.
It was Daniel.
The way he leaned in. The way he saw him.

Max didn't know what it meant.
But he knew it wasn't nothing.

That was the beginning.
Of whatever this was.

Not a lightning bolt. Not a crash. Just a shift, like the ground underneath him had tilted one quiet degree. Enough that everything felt just a little different.

And Max, for once, didn't want to pretend he hadn't felt it.

 

It was supposed to be casual.

Just coffee. No pressure. Daniel had messaged something like, "Let's catch up. I promise not to talk your ear off (no refunds if I do)."
Max said yes, after typing "sure" and deleting it five times.

They met at a little café tucked between a laundromat and a florist. Daniel's pick. Of course.

Max got there early. Of course.

He sat at a corner table with his usual black coffee, tapping the edge of the cup while pretending not to check the door every time it opened.

Then Daniel walked in, and the energy in the room shifted.

Hair wind-messed. Hoodie half-zipped over a faded band tee. He scanned the place, saw Max, and lit up.

"Hey, punctual," Daniel grinned as he slid into the seat across from him. "Very on-brand for you."

"You're three minutes late," Max said.

"And yet the world still turns," Daniel replied, pulling off his jacket.

He ordered some overly complicated iced thing with oat milk and cinnamon. Max made fun of him for it. Daniel called him a "coffee purist snob" and asked if he wore a tie to bed.

And just like that, the conversation started rolling.

It wasn't deep. Not yet. Just light jabs and half-serious opinions. Daniel told a story about a guy he dated briefly who thought birds weren't real. Max nearly choked on his coffee.

"You're making that up."

"I wish I was. He thought the government replaced them with drones. Like, why would the government care that much about pigeons?"

Max laughed harder than he meant to. It surprised him. Surprised both of them, maybe.

Daniel leaned back with a quiet smile, eyes soft. "You look good when you laugh, you know."

Max froze.
The silence stretched just a little too long.

Then he muttered, "Thanks," and stared into his coffee like it might save him.

Daniel didn't push it. Didn't press the moment into something it wasn't.
He just changed the subject, smoothly. But Max could still feel it, something unspoken hanging in the air between them.

They talked for almost two hours. About nothing. About everything.
And when Daniel got up to go, Max stood with him.

Outside, the wind had picked up. Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets, looked up at the gray sky.

"This was nice," he said.

"Yeah," Max replied, quieter. "It was."

Daniel turned to him. "Can I ask you something?"

Max nodded.

"Would you have said yes if you'd known I wasn't just asking as a friend?"

The words landed soft, but heavy.

Max looked at him, heart hammering, every instinct screaming to dodge.
But he didn't lie.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I'm glad I did."

Daniel's eyes searched his for a moment. Really searched, and then he smiled, gentle.

"Okay," he said. "That's a start."

 

The second time they hung out, it was at Max's place.

Daniel brought over takeout and a bottle of wine like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max hadn't had anyone over in weeks, maybe months, but Daniel was already on his couch, opening containers and asking if he owned any real forks.

They ate cross-legged on the floor, Netflix playing something neither of them was really watching. The food was good. The wine helped.

Conversation drifted from dumb pop culture stuff into something quieter.

Daniel leaned back against the couch, sipping slowly. "I used to think I'd have it all figured out by now."

Max glanced at him. "What, life?"

"Yeah. Work. Love. Identity. All of it." He let out a small laugh. "Turns out you don't just hit twenty-eight and get handed a 'you've arrived' certificate."

"You seem pretty sure of yourself."

Daniel smiled sideways. "I fake it well."

That sat heavier than Max expected.

He looked at him more closely. "You're not?"

Daniel shrugged, not looking back. "I mean... I know who I am. I've known I'm bi since I was sixteen. I've had relationships. Real ones. Messy ones. But this?" He waved a hand, vaguely in Max's direction. "This feels different."

Max's stomach twisted, not bad, not good. Just... a sudden awareness. A spotlight in his chest.

Daniel continued, quieter, "I'm used to being the one who knows how it'll end. Or what people want from me. But with you..." He paused. "I don't know. It feels like I'm walking into something without a map. Which is exciting. But kind of terrifying, too."

Max didn't know what to say to that.
He felt it, too, this quiet pull he couldn't explain. Like he was on the edge of something, just waiting for the ground to shift.

"I don't want to hurt you," Max said finally.

Daniel looked at him. Not shocked. Just... open.

"I'm not asking you to promise anything," he said. "Just don't disappear on me. Be honest. Even if it's messy."

Max nodded. "Okay."

And for a moment, that was enough.

The night ended quietly. No big confessions. No kiss. Just Daniel yawning and saying, "Alright, I'm gonna let you overthink this alone," and Max laughing as he walked him to the door.

But as the door shut, Max stood there a long time.
Heart loud. Thoughts louder.
And one truth settling in his chest like a weight he couldn't ignore anymore:

He didn't want this to end as just a maybe.

 

Max wasn't sure when Daniel started sitting closer on the couch.

At first, there had been a whole cushion between them. Then, over the last couple of hangouts, that gap just... disappeared. Now Daniel was right next to him, their shoulders brushing now and then as the movie played.

Max was aware of it.
Too aware.

The movie was some indie thing Daniel had picked. Max couldn't follow the plot to save his life. His brain was too busy cycling through the warmth of Daniel's arm, the smell of his cologne, something clean with a sharp citrus edge and the occasional glance he caught out of the corner of his eye.

Daniel was relaxed, legs kicked out, one hand loosely curled in his lap. Every few minutes, he'd make a quiet comment about the movie, and Max would laugh, more because of how he said it than what he said.

It was normal.
Familiar, even.

And then something shifted.

It was subtle. The movie ended. The room went quiet. The credits rolled in silence, and neither of them moved.

Daniel turned slightly toward him. "You okay?"

Max nodded, but his mouth was dry. "Yeah."

Daniel looked at him a beat too long. "You're doing that thing where you think too loud."

Max managed a half-smile. "Sorry."

"Don't be. Just... stay here with me, yeah?"

That did something to Max's chest. A pull. A warmth. A kind of wanting that didn't make sense, but also did.

He looked at Daniel, really looked at him. His hair was a mess from leaning back on the couch. His eyes were steady, but soft.

And Max didn't know who moved first.

Maybe it was both of them at the same time, just a shift forward, a tilt of the head, the smallest breath held between them.

Then it happened.

Their lips met, hesitant, unsure, but real.
Warm.
Not urgent. Not hungry. Just quiet and trembling with everything unsaid.

Daniel didn't rush it. He just stayed there, close, one hand brushing Max's arm like he was afraid he might spook him.

When they pulled back, Max's heart was in his throat. He didn't speak. Couldn't.

Daniel's voice was barely above a whisper. "Okay?"

Max swallowed. Nodded once. "Yeah. Just... didn't expect it."

Daniel gave a small smile. "I did."

That cracked something open inside Max. Because part of him had wanted this. Had been waiting for it. And now that it had happened, he didn't know where to put it.

He stood up too quickly. "I... I need a second."

Daniel didn't chase him. Just nodded, quiet. "Take it."

Max stepped into the kitchen, palms braced against the counter, head down. The room felt too still. His skin buzzed. His heart was yelling at him to feel this and his mind was already trying to shove it back into a box.

It wasn't just a kiss.
Not for him.
And not, he was starting to realize, for Daniel either.

 

Max didn't know what to do with his hands anymore.

He was halfway through wiping down an already clean counter in his kitchen, trying not to glance at the clock for the fifth time. Daniel was still in the living room, flipping through Max's record collection like nothing had happened.

But something had.

That kiss the week before had lodged itself deep in Max's brain. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it. Daniel's mouth on his, steady but patient, like he didn't expect anything but was still hoping. That kiss had shaken something loose in him.

And now Daniel was here again.

They hadn't talked about it, not really. A few vague texts. A "hey, you around?" that led to this hangout that didn't feel like just a hangout anymore.

Max stepped into the doorway, watching him. "You still pretending to understand how vinyl works?"

Daniel glanced over his shoulder with a grin. "It's not pretending, it's intuitive improvisation."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now," Daniel said, picking out a record and setting it on the player like he actually had done this before. Music started, low, jazzy, warm.

He turned back around and leaned against the table, arms crossed casually. But Max could see it in his eyes. That same quiet tension he'd been carrying since he walked in.

"I thought we'd talk about it," Daniel said, finally.

Max leaned on the doorway. "I know."

"Doesn't have to be some big drama."

"I'm not good at this."

"I noticed," Daniel said, but there was no edge to it. Just something like... softness. Maybe even care.

Max looked away. "It's not like I didn't want it."

That made Daniel pause.

Max went on, slower now. "I just... didn't think it would feel like that. Like it mattered."

Daniel's voice dropped. "And now?"

Max met his eyes. "Now I don't know what to do with it."

Daniel didn't speak for a long moment. The music crackled in the silence.

Then, he pushed off the table and walked over, close, but not touching. "Can I ask you something?"

Max nodded, breath caught.

"Do you want to kiss me again?"

There was no tease in it. No challenge. Just a question, gently asked.

And the answer came before Max could second-guess it.

"Yes."

Daniel stepped forward, and this time, there was no hesitation. No testing. Just need, quiet, sure, and absolutely real. Their mouths met again, and Max sank into it like he'd been holding his breath all week. His hand found Daniel's shirt, curled into the fabric, grounding himself. Daniel's hand settled on his waist, steady, like he knew Max might run if he didn't hold on just enough.

The kiss was deeper. Slower. Not just "can I?" but please.

And when they finally pulled apart, Max didn't run. He stayed right there, forehead against Daniel's, heart pounding.

Daniel whispered, "Still overthinking?"

Max let out a shaky breath. "Not right now."

Daniel smiled. "Good."

 

Max didn't say much the next few days.

He didn't avoid Daniel outright. He replied to texts, liked a couple memes Daniel sent, even asked about his job at one point. But something was off. The rhythm they'd fallen into the ease, the closeness, the little looks and inside jokes felt like it had been muted.

Daniel felt it immediately.

He wasn't stupid. He'd been here before, with people who weren't sure how to handle wanting him. But Max wasn't like them. He was careful. Kind. Honest in a way that made Daniel ache.

That made this silence worse.

So he waited. Gave Max the space he clearly needed. But on the fourth day, when Max still hadn't called, Daniel finally gave in.

He showed up.

Max opened the door and froze. "Hey."

Daniel didn't smile. "Hey."

A pause.

"You wanna come in?" Max asked, even though they both knew the real question underneath it.

Daniel nodded once and stepped inside.

Max had clearly been pacing, there was a half-drunk glass of water on the counter, one of his jackets flung over the back of a chair. Daniel stayed by the door.

"I'm not mad," he said, quiet.

Max sat on the edge of the couch. "You should be."

"I'm not," Daniel said again, firmer this time. "I just want to know what's going on."

Max stared down at his hands. "I don't know how to do this."

Daniel didn't interrupt.

"I've never felt like this. Not with a guy. Not with anyone, honestly. And I keep trying to figure out what it means, or if it means anything, and it just... makes my head loud."

Daniel walked over and sat beside him, not too close.

"It means you're human," he said. "And that maybe something real is happening here."

Max looked up, eyes tired. "You make it sound easy."

"I never said it was easy," Daniel said, gently. "But it's worth it."

That cracked something in Max. He didn't cry. But he looked like he could. And for the first time since that second kiss, he didn't flinch when Daniel reached out, just lightly touched his hand.

"I don't want to hurt you," Max said, almost a whisper.

"Then don't," Daniel replied. "Just... show up. When you can. Be honest. That's all I'm asking."

 

Later that night

|

Daniel:

The door clicked shut behind him, and Daniel stood in the hallway for a second, keys in hand, staring at nothing.

He didn't know what he expected.

A hug, maybe. Another kiss. Maybe Max stopping him and saying, "Don't go yet."

But none of that happened.

And Daniel knew better than to take it personally. Max was going through something... something real, something raw and Daniel had been careful not to rush it.

But still.
It stung.

Not because Max wasn't ready. But because Daniel was.

He wanted to give Max time, space, whatever he needed. He just wished he knew how much to give before it turned into distance that couldn't be closed.

As he stepped outside into the cooling air, Daniel tugged his jacket tight and told himself: This is what it looks like to care about someone who's still learning how to care for themself.

Still, part of him whispered. Please don't make me wait forever.

 

Max:

Inside, Max sat exactly where Daniel had left him.

He hadn't moved.

His hands were still clasped, knuckles white. The air felt heavier now, like it knew Daniel wasn't coming back tonight.

Max stared at the floor, jaw tight. His thoughts were a storm, too fast, too loud, too many of them crashing into each other.

Why couldn't he just say it?
That he liked Daniel. That the kiss didn't scare him, he scared himself.
That something about Daniel made him feel seen and unsettled at the same time.

He exhaled, shaky.

The worst part was, Max wanted this. He wasn't running because he didn't care. He was running because he cared too much and didn't know who he'd be on the other side of it.

He rubbed his face with both hands.

Daniel had been calm. Solid. Patient. And Max hated that he couldn't match that yet.

But he wanted to.
God, he wanted to.

He sat in the silence a while longer before finally whispering to himself:
I'm going to mess this up if I keep letting fear drive everything.

And even though no one was there to hear it, the words sat heavy. Like the start of a decision.

 

Max sat on his bedroom floor, back against the wall, the room dim except for the late sunlight cutting through the blinds.

He'd been avoiding mirrors lately. Not because of how he looked, but because of what he might see.
Something in his eyes that felt unfamiliar. Or maybe just unavoidably true.

His phone was on the bed behind him. No new messages from Daniel. No pressure. No guilt. But the silence ached.

Max ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the old pair of sneakers in the corner. Daniel had teased him about them once, called them "aggressively beige." Max had pretended to be offended. Secretly, he'd loved that Daniel noticed something so small.

That was the thing.

Daniel noticed him. In ways that felt gentle but not passive. He saw him. And Max had never known how much he'd needed that until someone actually did it.

He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, feeling something shift in his chest.

It wasn't just attraction. It wasn't just being curious or confused. It was Daniel. It had always been Daniel.

Max whispered it, like saying it out loud made it real:
"I like him."

Not just in a he's hot kind of way.
In a he makes me feel like I could be better kind of way.

"I really... really like him."

It hit him then, like the weight of it had been building this whole time, and he'd finally stopped trying to brace against it.

And the fear?

It was still there. But so was something else.
Hope. Want. The beginnings of something he couldn't name yet, but that felt solid in his bones.

He picked up his phone. Thumb hovered over Daniel's name.

Then he set it down again.

Not yet.

But soon.

This time, Max wasn't running.
He was just learning how to walk toward what he wanted.

 

Daniel had just finished brushing his teeth when the doorbell rang.

It was almost midnight.

He didn't move at first, figured it was a wrong apartment or someone drunk trying to get into the building. But the bell rang again, short and nervous.

He padded barefoot to the door, still in an old T-shirt and sweatpants, and peered through the peephole.

Max.

Daniel's heart stopped.

He unlocked the door slowly, not sure what to expect, an apology, a breakdown, a goodbye?  maybe.

Max stood there in jeans and a hoodie, hair a mess, eyes wide and dark like he hadn't slept in days.

Daniel didn't say anything.

Max exhaled hard. "Can I come in?"

Daniel stepped back.

Max walked in like he didn't trust himself to stop moving. He made it halfway into the living room, then turned to face Daniel.

"I know it's late."

Daniel leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You okay?"

"No," Max said. "Not really."

A pause.

"I've been trying to figure this out," Max said, voice low, trembling slightly. "What it means. What I'm feeling. What I'm supposed to do with it. And it's like... I keep thinking if I could just name it, I'd be able to breathe again."

Daniel didn't interrupt. He was watching Max like someone watching a fire, not with fear, but with quiet respect for how much heat a thing could hold.

Max kept going, voice rough around the edges.

"That first kiss... it broke something open. And the second one? That one wrecked me. In the best way. I haven't stopped thinking about it. About you."

Daniel took a breath like he was steadying himself.

Max stepped closer, desperate now.

"You make me feel like... like I'm not pretending. Like I can stop performing for a second and just be. And that scares the shit out of me. Because I don't know what I'm doing. I've never felt like this for a guy. Hell, I don't know if I've ever felt like this for anyone."

His voice cracked. "But I know that when you left the other night, and I didn't stop you, it felt like I was losing something I didn't even have the right to ask for."

Daniel's expression softened, shoulders dropping just slightly.

Max ran a hand through his hair, pacing now, trying to stay upright under the weight of what he was saying.

"I don't have the answers. I'm not even sure I know how to be in this. But I know I don't want to go back to how it was before you. I know I don't want to pretend I don't care, or that what we've shared doesn't mean something."

Finally, Max stopped.

"I like you. More than I know how to say right. And I'm terrified. But I'm here."

Silence stretched long between them.

Then Daniel pushed off the wall, walked over slowly.

He stopped just in front of Max, close enough that Max could feel the warmth of him. His voice was calm, but there was a tremble in it too.

"You don't have to have all the answers, Max. I never asked you to."

"I just didn't want to hurt you," Max said, barely holding his voice together.

"You didn't," Daniel said. "You scared me. But you didn't hurt me."

Daniel reached out, hand resting over Max's chest. "You don't have to be perfect. You just have to show up."

Max blinked fast, swallowing hard.

"I'm showing up," he said.

And Daniel nodded. Then, quietly: "Come here."

Max leaned forward, and Daniel wrapped his arms around him. This wasn't a kiss. Not yet. This was something deeper. A held breath finally released.

Max's hands clutched Daniel's back like he didn't trust the ground beneath him.

"I'm so tired of pretending I don't feel this," Max whispered into his shoulder.

Daniel held him tighter. "Then don't."

They stayed like that for a long time. No rushing. No fixing. Just two people finally letting go of the weight they'd been carrying alone.

The next morning.

Daniel woke first.

Morning light spilled through the curtain cracks, hazy and slow, painting soft lines across the floor. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city beyond the windows, traffic, birds, someone dragging a trash bin down the street.

Max was still asleep on the couch beside him, one arm slung over his stomach, head buried into Daniel's shoulder like he was still holding on in his sleep.

Daniel didn't move.

He just watched the way Max breathed, slow, deep, finally at peace for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Everything felt smaller now. Not in a bad way just closer. More real.

The night before had been heavy. Necessary. But this... this soft morning moment, somehow felt just as big. Because Daniel knew what it cost Max to get here. And now he was here, really here, warm and real and unguarded.

Daniel let his fingers graze Max's wrist gently, careful not to wake him.

He didn't want to break it.

Not yet.

And then without warning Max stirred.

His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then clear. He looked up at Daniel and for a second, just breathed.

Then: "I didn't dream it, did I?"

Daniel shook his head, smiling faintly. "You showed up at midnight and gave a five-minute monologue about your feelings. Definitely real."

Max groaned and hid his face in Daniel's chest. "God. Did I actually say 'I don't want to pretend I don't care'?"

"You did. With full chest."

"Cringe."

Daniel laughed, soft and surprised. "It was honest. That's what mattered."

Max was quiet for a moment, then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

"Can I ask you something?"

Daniel nodded.

"Are we... doing this? For real?"

Daniel tilted his head. "What does 'this' mean to you?"

Max hesitated. "Waking up next to you. Being allowed to like you out loud. Being scared sometimes but not letting that stop me."

Daniel's voice was gentle. "Yeah. I think we're doing that."

Max exhaled like he'd been waiting for permission to believe it.

Daniel added, quieter: "We can go slow. Or fast. Or whatever you need. Just don't disappear on me again."

"I won't," Max said. And this time, he meant it.

They lay there for a while longer, saying nothing, just listening to the noise of the world outside and the quiet between them.

Eventually, Max's stomach growled.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Well. That ruins the mood."

Max laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that came from deep relief. "You have anything edible in this place?"

"I've got half a loaf of bread and very judgmental coffee."

Max stood up, stretching. "That's a start."

Daniel watched him walk into the kitchen, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he didn't have to wait anymore.

Max was here.

They were both here.

And that was enough, for now, maybe for longer than that.

 

The sun was out, the park was busy, and Max was holding Daniel's hand like he'd been doing it for years.

It wasn't subtle either, fingers laced tight, arms occasionally bumping as they walked toward the usual meetup spot by the lake. Max wasn't trying to hide it. Not anymore.

Daniel kept stealing glances at him, not saying anything, but his smile gave him away. Max didn't look like he was forcing confidence; he looked like he wanted people to see. Which, knowing him, was kind of huge.

Charles spotted them first.

He raised his eyebrows, said something to Carlos, who turned and did a slow blink, then nudged Lando with a grin. Nico looked up from his phone just in time to catch Max squeezing Daniel's hand a little tighter before they reached the bench.

Nobody said anything at first.

They all just... stared.

Max blinked. "What?"

Charles smirked. "Nothing, nothing."

"You're literally all staring," Max said, but didn't let go of Daniel's hand.

"Mate," Carlos said, grinning, "we figured something was going on, but damn, you went from zero to emotionally married real quick."

Daniel laughed, low and warm, and Max groaned. "Okay, wow. I knew I shouldn't have come."

"You say that," Nico said, "but you're still holding his hand like it's the only thing keeping you alive."

Max opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at their hands.

Daniel gave his hand a small squeeze.

Max shrugged. "Okay. So maybe I like him. A lot. Maybe I'm clingy now. It's a side effect."

Lando laughed. "Max Verstappen: king of emotional repression, now king of hand-holding."

Charles leaned back on the bench. "Honestly? Good for you, man. You look happier."

Max looked sideways at Daniel, who was smiling like this whole thing was entertainment.

"Yeah," Max said. "I think I am."

Carlos tilted his head. "So, is this official-official, or are we in the soft launch phase?"

Max deadpanned. "If this was a soft launch, I wouldn't be sitting here while you all roast me alive."

Lando pointed at Daniel. "And you, Daniel. You're just letting this happen?"

Daniel leaned back against the tree behind them, still holding Max's hand. "He's cute when he's flustered. I'm enjoying myself."

Max muttered something in Dutch that made Charles snort.

The teasing faded after a while, and the five of them fell into easy conversation. Jokes, updates, plans for next weekend. Max relaxed gradually, still curled a little closer to Daniel than usual—shoulder pressed against his, their fingers still twined even after twenty minutes.

Eventually, Nico whispered something to Carlos, who smirked.

"What?" Max asked, already on edge.

Carlos shrugged innocently. "Nothing. Just... you're a lot clingier than we expected."

Daniel smiled, leaned in, and kissed Max on the cheek.

Max didn't flinch.

"Yeah," he said, meeting the smirks head-on. "He's mine. Deal with it."

And just like that, nobody had anything to say. Except Lando, who fake-gagged dramatically and got smacked with a half-empty water bottle.

They were halfway through lunch, takeout boxes spread across the grass, empty soda cans everywhere, when Charles tilted his head and said it.

"So, uh... when exactly did you realize you weren't straight?"

Max froze, halfway through a bite of spring roll. "What?"

"You heard him," Lando said, already grinning like this was about to be fun. "Because no offense, man, but you gave big straight-boy energy. Like... painfully."

Carlos held up a hand. "Yeah, I had money on 'straight until marriage.'"

Even Daniel snorted.

Max rolled his eyes and shoved the rest of his food into his mouth like that might get him out of answering.

Charles leaned in. "C'mon. We're not judging. We're just nosy."

Daniel nudged Max lightly. "I'm curious too, honestly."

Max swallowed. "Okay, fine." He wiped his hands and sat back. "It wasn't like a light switch, okay? It didn't happen all at once."

"So you always knew?" Nico asked.

"No," Max said quickly. "I didn't. It was... Daniel." He glanced at him, eyes softening. "He was different."

Carlos raised a brow. "Different how?"

Max ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. It wasn't like I looked at him and thought, 'Oh hey, maybe I'm into guys now.' I just... wanted to be around him. More than I should've. And when I kissed him, it didn't feel wrong. It felt like I'd been trying not to want it."

There was a pause.

Then Lando whistled. "Damn."

Charles nodded. "Alright. Respect."

Carlos leaned over and clinked his can against Max's. "To self-discovery and the Aussie who ruined you."

"Cheers," Nico added, deadpan.

Daniel beamed. Max groaned. "Okay, please let this die now."

"Nope," Lando said, grinning. "You're officially bisexual and publicly clingy. We're never letting you forget it."

Max flipped him off without looking, but he was smiling.

 

Later that night, Max and Daniel were back at Daniel's place. The city buzzed faintly outside the window, but inside, it was quiet, just them, sprawled out on the couch, feet tangled, the glow from the TV painting the room in soft, flickering colors.

Daniel was scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Max was pretending to watch whatever was on screen, but his head was on Daniel's shoulder and he hadn't moved in at least ten minutes.

Daniel broke the silence with a grin in his voice. "So. Clingy?"

Max groaned. "Don't."

Daniel chuckled, setting his phone down. "Hey, I didn't say it was a bad thing."

Max sat up just enough to look at him, eyes narrow. "I am not clingy."

Daniel raised his eyebrows. "You've been touching me nonstop since lunch."

"I'm making up for lost time," Max muttered, grabbing Daniel's arm and dragging it around him again.

Daniel laughed, pulling him close. "Well, if this is what clingy looks like, I'm not complaining."

Max was quiet for a second, cheek pressed against Daniel's collarbone.

Then, softly: "I used to think needing someone made you weak."

Daniel blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He stayed quiet.

Max went on. "But with you... it doesn't feel like losing something. It feels like finding something I didn't even know I wanted."

Daniel rested his chin on Max's head. "You're allowed to want things, you know."

Max exhaled, slow. "I'm starting to figure that out."

They sat in the quiet for a while after that, nothing but the hum of the TV and the rhythm of breathing.

Then Daniel whispered, "Clingy."

Max elbowed him in the ribs.

Daniel just laughed, wrapping both arms around him tighter. And Max didn't pull away.

 

Sometimes later they decided to throw a little party just them and some drinks.

 

Carlos's apartment wasn't exactly known for being clean or quiet, but tonight, it was loud in the good way. Laughter bouncing off the walls, music just low enough not to be annoying, and half-empty beer bottles scattered across every available surface.

In the living room, Daniel, Lando, Nico, and Carlos were deep into an aggressively competitive round of beer pong. The four of them were shouting over each other, gesturing wildly, and accusing everyone of cheating at least once a minute.

Max watched from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand and the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He wasn't playing. Didn't feel like it. He just wanted to watch and more specifically, he wanted to watch Daniel.

There was something about seeing him like this laughing until he had to lean on Carlos for balance, talking trash with Lando, his face flushed with joy and beer that made something warm stir low in Max's chest.

He wasn't used to this feeling. This quiet, steady awe.

"I've never seen you look at anyone like that."

Charles's voice came from beside him, casual, like he'd just commented on the weather.

Max didn't flinch. "Like what?"

Charles leaned on the counter beside him, taking a sip from his bottle. "Like you're actually happy." He paused. "Or in love."

Max rolled his eyes. "Don't start."

"I'm not judging," Charles said, shrugging. "Just saying... it's new. You're different."

Max looked back out at the group. Daniel had just sunk a shot, and Lando was yelling something about a rematch. His laugh carried all the way to the kitchen.

"Yeah," Max said quietly. "I am."

Charles studied him for a second. "You know, when you first told us... I honestly thought you were messing with us. Or confused. I mean... Max Verstappen? Falling for a guy? You spent years acting like romance was a scam."

Max gave a dry laugh. "I know."

"So?" Charles asked, voice gentler now. "How do you feel about all this? Really."

Max didn't answer right away. He stared out at Daniel again, watched the way he moved, the way he lit up every space he stepped into like it cost him nothing.

Then, quietly: "It's not like I've suddenly realized I like guys. I don't think that's what this is."

Charles looked over at him.

Max turned, met his eyes. "It's him. It's Daniel. He's the only guy. The only Man."

There was no hesitation. No panic. Just truth.

Charles raised his eyebrows. "Wow."

Max smirked. "What?"

"Just... damn. That's kind of romantic. Didn't know you had it in you."

"Don't tell anyone," Max muttered, sipping his drink.

Charles bumped his shoulder. "Secret's safe with me. But you know, I'm happy for you. Really."

Max didn't say anything, but he nodded.

Out in the living room, Daniel noticed him watching and grinned, holding up a ping pong ball like an offering. Then, with exaggerated flair, he blew Max a kiss across the room.

Max shook his head, half-laughing, half-mortified, but he didn't look away.

"You're so gone," Charles whispered.

Max didn't deny it.

The apartment had mostly emptied. Lando had Ubered home, still complaining about a beer pong rematch. Nico and Carlos were crashed on the couch, half-asleep and wrapped in blankets like they'd fought in a war.

Daniel was in the kitchen rinsing out a glass. The hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the wall clock were the only sounds left.

Max came in quietly, eyes softer than they'd been all night.

Daniel looked over, smiled. "Hey."

"Hey."

"You good?" Daniel asked.

Max nodded, stepping closer. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. Tired. Kinda sticky from all the beer Lando spilled."

Max gave a quiet laugh and leaned back against the counter beside him. They stood there for a beat, the silence between them calm, settled.

Then Max said, "Charles cornered me earlier."

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Said he was surprised. That it's me. With you."

Daniel dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to face him. "Are you surprised?"

Max looked up at him. Really looked. "I was. Not anymore."

Daniel took a slow step forward, closing the little distance left. "And now?"

Max's voice was quieter now. "Now it just feels... obvious."

Daniel's breath caught a little at that.

"I don't think I was ever scared of you," Max added. "I think I was scared of how easy it felt."

Daniel smiled, gently. "It's supposed to be easy."

Max nodded, just once. "I get that now."

They stood in silence for another long moment. Then Max reached out, fingers curling lightly in the fabric of Daniel's shirt, and pulled him in, not desperate, just wanting him close.

Daniel let himself fall into the space between them, resting his forehead against Max's.

"You know," he murmured, "you're not half bad at this romance thing."

Max huffed a laugh. "I'm literally standing here not knowing what to say."

"That's the best part," Daniel whispered, brushing his fingers down Max's arm. "You don't have to say anything."

Max leaned in then, and kissed him.

It wasn't wild or heated. Just slow. Honest. Like they had all the time in the world now.

When they finally pulled apart, Max exhaled, eyes still half-lidded.

"You staying?" Daniel asked.

Max didn't even hesitate. "Yeah. I'm staying."

They left the dishes in the sink and the lights dimmed low. And somewhere between the laughter of earlier and the hush of the present, Max realized this, being with Daniel, letting himself want wasn't the end of anything.

It was the beginning. The beginning of something new.

Something beautiful.

Chapter 11: FA14 & JB22 | We Were Your Family

London -- late 2025

|

The apartment of Jenson and Fernando: was Jenson's but now it wasn't. Is quiet. Maybe too quiet for Jenson. He hated silence especially this one now, it wasn't just any silence. It was heavy, it was dead, it was uncomfortable.

The apartment looked the same as it was a few months ago: trophies untouched. Same navy couch that Mateo; their son used to jump up and down on. The same faint smell of vanilla from the candles that Isla their oldest daughter suggested on buying say it made the home smells like hugs.

But without their real voices, it was empty. Without the sound of their laughters and their chaotic warmth. It was all just furnitures.

Jenson sat crossed leg against the wall near the fire place with a cardboard box beside him labeled. 'Spare room. Do not Touch-(FA)'. He hadn't touched it. Not since April. Not since their last ever conversation that ended up with slammed doors and cold apologies.

Now he had the gut to touch it, to open the box. And inside was something old, something that's filled with memories. Little time bombs. A broken sunglasses case. A pair of baby socks. And then there it was. A photo.

It had slipped out from the bunch and landed face up to reveal a scene from 2018. Jenson with little Isla on his neck, tiny Mateo on his lap and Fernando: hands around them, head rested on his shoulder, smiling as if it was everything that mattered. It was. But not anymore.

Jenson smiled and then leaned back his head against the wall and he let his tears fall. Then he muttered. "Why did have to make a promise when you know you can't keep it?"

He got nothing in return, just silence. He looked at the picture again and then memories found him, took him back to it.

Monza, Italy. 2012 - Race week: Monza Grand Prix.

|

Jenson never liked press conferences, but this one was particularly unbearable.

Fernando was two seats down, arms folded across his chest, doing that thing where he stared off into the middle distance like he was too good for everyone in the room. He probably was. McLaren were already eyeing him for 2015. Everyone knew it. Jenson didn't care.

Well. He tried not to.

"They asked you, Jense," Lewis whispered beside him, nudging his arm.

Jenson blinked. The question had clearly been asked twice.

"Sorry... wasn't listening."

Laughter from the room. A smirk from Fernando.

"They wanted to know who you'd least like as a teammate next season," Lewis repeated with a grin.

"Easy," Jenson said, flashing a smile for the cameras. "The guy who always acts like he's already won."

That got a few chuckles. Fernando raised an eyebrow.

"You'll miss me when I'm gone, Button," he said, accent as dry as the Italian heat outside.

Jenson glanced his way, and for a second. Just a second. Fernando wasn't performing. No smirk. Just something quieter. Softer.

Maybe that was the moment.
Or maybe it came later, in the hospitality tent, when they both ended up at the coffee machine at the same time. Fernando had rolled his eyes, but then... offered the last sugar packet. Jenson took it, stunned. Fernando had smiled like he was amused that Jenson didn't know what to do with it.

"Just a gesture. I'm not proposing," he'd said.

But maybe he was.

Melbourne, Australia.  2013 - Race week: Australia Grand Prix.

|

The hotel bar was mostly empty by midnight, just a few staff cleaning up and the low hum of some jazzy instrumental playing overhead. Fernando sat at the far end, nursing a glass of red, the tie of his team polo tucked into his collar, half-untucked. He looked tired in a way Jenson hadn't seen before. Not physically. Just... spent.

Jenson slid onto the stool next to him. "You look like you just lost the championship."

Fernando didn't glance over. "Maybe I did. Just ten months early."

Jenson chuckled. He waved to the bartender for a beer. "You're always this dramatic, or is that a Spain thing?"

Fernando's lips twitched. "It's a me thing."

They sat in silence for a moment. Jenson tapped his fingers against the bar, then said, "You know, when I said I wouldn't want you as a teammate... I didn't mean that."

"I know," Fernando said. Then after a pause: "I didn't mean it either, what I said. About you being too nice to win."

That caught Jenson off guard. "Thought that was your favorite insult."

Fernando finally looked at him. "It wasn't an insult. Just an excuse. You're harder to hate than I thought."

Jenson's heart jumped in a way he didn't quite understand. Or maybe he did.

"I get under your skin?"

"You live there rent-free."

That made them both laugh. It wasn't loud, but it was real. And when the moment settled, Fernando's hand brushed lightly against Jenson's on the bar. Jenson didn't move away.

"Do you want to come up?" Fernando asked, voice low. "Just to talk."

Jenson nodded. And they got out of the bar and made their way to Fernando's place.

It was the next morning when they woke tangled with each other on the bed. Naked. That's when they realized that they were going to be something.

The next few weeks were going with them seeing each other after race or before as much as possible. They wanted to spend as much time with each other as possible since their schedules were very busy and they barely got any time off, so that was the only solution.

Their friends were quick to caught up to their closeness. They were getting closer, maybe way to close for their friends. As for someone whom is as observant as Lewis and Sebastian, they can already tell something was happening between them. But Lewis and Seb didn't push, they respect their privacy.

A few more months later near the end of the season, Fernando and Jenson found themselves cuddling on the couch after the race had ended. Both resulted in a not really good positions, so they decided to tangled with each other instead.

Fernando had his arms around Jenson hugging him thigh and breathed into his hair. Jenson laid against Fernando's chest and hands on top of Fernando's. They cuddled in silence, a comfortable one, until Fernando hugged Jenson tighter and said.

"I really want this." To which made Jenson turned to look at him, confused.

"You really want...? What?" Jenson wasn't sure so he asked.

Fernando just smiled and turned Jenson around now fully on top of him stomach to stomach and he leaned down to kiss him, after a moment he finally pulled back then said.

"This. What we have right now. I want this to never end. I want YOU. With me."

Jenson just smiled and leaned in to kiss again, this time the kiss was soft, tender, full of emotions that they didn't realized they had. After a long while they pulled away and Jenson said. "There's nothing I want more than this now. And with you. Fernando. Only you."

Fernando now had some tears in his eyes just smile: genuine. Jenson saw that and wiped the tear away and they kissed again.

They stayed cuddled for hours until they heard a knock on the door. Jenson stood up and walked to the door and when he opened the door he was met a slightly tipsy Sebastian Vettel and Lewis Hamilton. Jenson want to say something but both men just threw themselves onto Jenson and hugged him. Jenson confused looked back at Fernando who was chuckling at the scene.

"Jense!!! Come on mate, come with us to the party man. We need you there." A not so slightly tipsy anymore, Seb said throwing his hands up.

Lewis looked into the hotel and saw Fernando then he grinned. Then said. "Looks like I was right." He said with a laugh

Fernando now made his way to the door to help Jenson with whatever this is.

Seb saw Fernando as well and he just grinned then said. "Well, well, well, looks like Jense had company. Hi Nando. Hope we didn't interrupt whatever sessions you guys were doing."

Jenson blushed at the comment and Lewis and Fernando just laugh then bring them inside. Well they weren't just tipsy... No, they were full on drunk. Fernando took Lewis and Jenson took Seb to the bed that they were supposed to sleep in but well what can they do?

Seb though when he realized there was a bed underneath him, he jumped refused to go to bed. "No! I want to party not sleeping. Sleeping is boring." He slurred his words which made Jenson shook his head defeated.

"You're drunk mate, come on just rest, okay?"

"NO! I won't." Seb pouted like a kid which made Lewis and Fernando laugh again.

"You'll party again after you woke up, okay? With us this time." Jenson declared

Seb seemed to like it and lights up and beamed then asked. "Really!?"

"Yes, really, just you need to sleep first now, it's late."

"Okay..." Seb gave up and fell onto the bed next to an already half asleep Lewis.

Seb then moved to Lewis' side then hugged him. Lewis hugged back and they just cuddled then they snore. Like snore as if the world would end if they didn't.

Fernando and Jenson looked at them and at each other, then they smile. Jenson was the first one the asked. "You think they're together?" With a grin.

"More or less. Yes, they are now, well at least what we see now." Fernando laughed then looked at Jenson again.

"We can't sleep here that's for sure." Jenson said watching them snore.

"Yeah, let's go to mine. It's next to yours so it won't be a problem.

And with that they made their ways to Fernando's hotel and they went to sleep themselves.

The sun wasn't even fully up when Jenson stirred. He didn't know what had woken him, maybe instinct, maybe just the weird stillness of unfamiliar quiet. Fernando was still asleep beside him, tangled in hotel sheets, one arm heavy across Jenson's chest. Peaceful, for once. Soft in a way only Jenson got to see.

He eased out of bed carefully, not waking him, and grabbed yesterday's shirt off the floor. He'd left Lewis and Seb in his suite the night before. Both drunk, loud, and far too affectionate to be trusted on their own. It had felt easier to toss them into his bed and stay with Fernando instead.

The hallway was cold. His keycard still worked.

When he stepped into his suite, everything was too still.

He made a beeline for the bathroom, splashed water on his face, then came out toweling his hands, only to freeze.

On the bed, Lewis and Sebastian were tangled together under the duvet. Very much not just sleeping. Not a flinch of distance between them.

They blinked up at him at the same time, like startled cats.

Seb sat up too fast. "Shit. Jens-"

Lewis cursed, reaching for the duvet like it might erase them both.

Jenson raised his eyebrows, but his face was neutral. "Morning."

"...You're not-?" Lewis tried.

Jenson shrugged. "Not blind. Or stupid."

They looked at each other, then back at him.

"I figured it out months ago," Jenson said, smirking a little. "You're not exactly subtle when you're tipsy."

Seb groaned. "We were hoping to... not have this conversation."

"Well," Jenson said, rubbing at his neck, "lucky for you, this is more like a confirmation."

They all laughed, awkward at first, then easier. The tension dissolved.

Twenty minutes later, all four of them were gathered in the hotel's breakfast area, hunched over coffee and pastries. Fernando had joined them, hair still damp from a shower, giving Jenson a look that said, You left me alone for this? But he sat down anyway.

"So," Lewis said through a mouthful of croissant, "how long's this been going on?"

Jenson raised an eyebrow. "Between me and Nando, or you two?"

"Yes," Seb said.

They all laughed again.

It wasn't dramatic. Just friends being honest. People who lived too fast finding little pockets of quiet together. They talked about how it started, who made the first move, the hard parts and the easy ones. Fernando didn't say much, but his hand stayed on Jenson's thigh under the table the whole time.

It felt like something solid, for once. Like they were building a world that could hold all of them.

They were mid-way through their second round of coffees and a plate of shared pastries when Lewis leaned back in his chair, looking at Jenson with a raised brow.

"So," he said, smirking. "Who made the first move then?"

Jenson didn't even hesitate. "Fernando. Monza."

Fernando gave him a side glance. "I thought we weren't telling anyone that."

"You literally fell asleep on my shoulder in the garage," Jenson said, sipping his espresso. "Then invited me to your motorhome with that look. Don't act innocent now."

Sebastian grinned. "He gives that look to half the paddock."

"And only sleeps with one," Jenson shot back with a wink.

Lewis snorted into his drink. "Alright, fair."

"Silverstone," Seb added, raising his hand. "That's when Lewis kissed me first."

Lewis turned to him, looking offended. "Excuse me? That was you. I was sitting in the grass minding my own business-"

"-with your hand on my thigh-"

"-because you were shivering!"

Jenson burst out laughing. Fernando shook his head, but even he was smiling.

"Anyway," Seb went on dramatically, "we kissed, and he refused to talk about it for three days."

Lewis threw up his hands. "Because I thought I ruined everything! You made it weird-"

"You made it weird!"

They bickered like kids, full of fondness, and Jenson leaned back, watching them. Fernando beside him was quieter, always more reserved, but his hand was still resting against Jenson's leg, fingers tapping in a rhythm only they seemed to understand.

"God, we're all disasters," Jenson said eventually, but he was grinning.

"Speak for yourself," Fernando replied smoothly. "I had a plan."

"A plan that involved passing out in my bed after one glass of wine?" Jenson teased.

"It worked, didn't it?"

They laughed again, big, open, tired laughter. For a moment, the noise of the world didn't exist. Just them, four racers clinging to a strange kind of happiness in between flights and circuits and press conferences. Finding comfort in the quiet, and in each other.

The elevator hummed as it climbed back to their floor, but neither of them said much. Jenson leaned against the back wall, hands in his pockets. Fernando stood beside him, arms crossed, looking ahead like he was already thinking about the next thing, like he always did.

But when they stepped into the hallway and started walking toward their room, Fernando slowed a little. Let the silence stretch out. Then, halfway there, he reached out and gently hooked his fingers into Jenson's.

Jenson looked down at their hands, surprised by the small show of affection. Fernando wasn't usually like that in public spaces, even half-empty hotel corridors.

"Something on your mind?" Jenson asked quietly.

Fernando shrugged. "Not really. Just... liked seeing you like that. Laughing."

"You did, huh?" Jenson nudged him. "Even when I was calling you out in front of Lewis and Seb?"

Fernando gave him a dry smile. "Especially then."

They reached their room. Jenson pushed the door open, holding it for Fernando before following him in. The air was still cool inside, curtains drawn halfway, their bed slightly unmade from where they'd left it earlier.

As Jenson pulled off his hoodie, Fernando spoke again, this time more softly.

"I know I don't say much. Not like them."

Jenson turned to look at him.

Fernando was standing by the window now, staring out over the harbor, back tense. "But I... I'm glad they know. About us."

Jenson smiled, walking up behind him. "Me too."

He wrapped his arms around Fernando's waist from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. Fernando didn't flinch. He leaned back instead, exhaling quietly.

"It's easier, you know?" Jenson murmured. "Not hiding. Just being."

Fernando nodded slowly. "Yeah. It is."

They stood there in silence for a while, watching the late morning sun glint off the water below.

Malaysia Grand Prix – Saturday Morning, 2014

|

The hotel room was dim, curtains drawn tight to keep the heat out. The air conditioning hummed steadily while Jenson sat on the edge of the bed, tugging on his race suit one leg at a time. It was still early, but the humidity had already started to cling to the back of his neck.

Fernando came out of the bathroom in just his undershirt and a towel draped around his neck, rubbing at his hair, face still flushed from the shower.

"You're up early," he said, voice a little rough.

Jenson looked over his shoulder. "Couldn't sleep much. Been thinking about sector three all night."

Fernando tossed the towel onto a chair and walked over, stopping in front of him. "It'll be fine. You've been consistent all weekend."

Jenson shrugged. "Doesn't stop my brain from running simulations at 4 a.m."

Fernando leaned in and kissed his temple, quick but not rushed. Like habit. Like care.

"You'll be alright," he said against his skin. "And if you're not, I'll still be here after quali. Making fun of your excuses."

Jenson laughed quietly. "Comforting."

They both smiled.

Fernando stepped back and started getting into his own gear, the familiar motions between them now unspoken. Jenson watched him for a second, then grabbed a water bottle from the nightstand and took a long sip.

"You ever think about how weird it is?" Jenson asked.

Fernando glanced up, brow raised. "What is?"

"This. Us. Being here. Together. I mean... ten years ago I'd have bet my house that we'd never even hold a civil conversation."

Fernando smirked. "We still don't. You just like me now."

Jenson chuckled. "No, I think I just tolerate you more."

Fernando reached for his gloves, and as he passed Jenson to get them, he paused and touched his shoulder, just a small squeeze.

"I like us better this way," he said simply.

Jenson looked up at him. "Yeah. Me too."

Outside, the sound of a scooter engine echoed in the paddock below. Team radios buzzed to life. The race weekend was starting to kick into gear, but for just a few seconds longer, the room held still. Just the two of them, before helmets went on, before the world demanded everything from them again.

Sepang Circuit – Post-Qualifying.

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Jenson had peeled off his gloves before he was even out of the car. He wasn't angry, just... flat. P8. Car felt twitchy, balance was off in the final run, and he'd overcooked it into Turn 11. He muttered a few polite phrases to his engineer over the radio before stepping out and handing the wheel over to a mechanic with a tired nod.

The heat slammed into him like a wall. It was only midday, but his suit clung to him like a second skin, heavy with sweat.

He spotted Fernando a few minutes later near the back of the hospitality area, towel over his shoulders, sipping something cold. P6 for him. Not stellar, not terrible. They locked eyes for half a second. Just long enough for Fernando to lift his chin in a silent, You alright?

Jenson gave a subtle thumbs-up, then veered off toward McLaren's motorhome to start media rounds. It was all the same: How was the car today? What happened in Q3? What's your mindset heading into the race?

He gave them his practiced answers, all polished and measured. But by the time he escaped and slipped behind the semi-private catering area, the only thing he wanted was five minutes of quiet and maybe Fernando's stupid half-smile.

Speak of the devil.

Fernando was already sitting there, hidden from most of the paddock behind a palm tree and a sponsor board. Cap low over his eyes, drink in hand.

"You hiding or waiting for me?" Jenson asked as he sat down beside him.

Fernando didn't even look up. "Both."

Jenson snorted. "You were faster. Congrats."

Fernando shrugged. "Doesn't matter tomorrow. Heat will kill the tyres anyway."

They sat in silence for a few seconds, both watching a bird pick crumbs off the concrete a few feet away. The quiet was nice. Familiar. A kind of peace only possible with someone who gets it, the stress, the noise, the endless swing between ego and doubt.

"You looked tense when you got out," Fernando said finally.

"Was just pissed at myself. Overdrove. Stupid."

Fernando turned toward him slightly, lowering his cap. "You're too harsh on yourself sometimes."

Jenson raised an eyebrow. "You literally once threw your gloves at a wall because you missed a braking point."

Fernando smirked. "I said sometimes, not always."

Jenson smiled and leaned back in the chair, letting the sun hit his face. "You wanna disappear for a bit? Go upstairs? Just crash before dinner?"

Fernando nodded. "Yeah. Just for a while."

They stood, unnoticed, slipping into the crowd of engineers and PR reps, just two drivers moving through the paddock. But as they walked, Jenson's hand brushed against Fernando's, barely touching, a ghost of contact. Fernando didn't pull away.

That Evening – Hotel Room, Kuala Lumpur

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The air-conditioning buzzed steadily in the background. The curtains were drawn, the lights low. Jenson lay on the bed in a worn t-shirt and boxer briefs, one arm behind his head, the other lazily scrolling through something on his phone. His hair was still damp from the shower, and his skin smelled faintly of eucalyptus.

Fernando came out of the bathroom barefoot, towel around his neck, phone charging in the wall socket behind him. He walked over and collapsed beside Jenson with a sigh, the bed bouncing slightly under his weight.

"Media drained the last bit of my soul," he mumbled into the pillow.

"They do that," Jenson replied, phone forgotten now. "You looked good in the interview though. All smug and serious."

Fernando turned his head, cheek pressed against the mattress. "That's just my face."

Jenson chuckled and reached over to run a hand through Fernando's hair, gently brushing it back. Fernando didn't protest. He leaned into it.

They stayed like that for a while, both too tired to move, too comfortable to break the silence. The room was warm, but not heavy. Just still. Safe.

"You ever think about what this is?" Jenson asked quietly.

Fernando's eyes opened. "This?"

"Us."

Fernando turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "Yeah."

"And?"

"I think it's the best part of my day."

That caught Jenson off guard. He turned on his side to face him. "Seriously?"

Fernando looked over, eyes soft. "I like this. You. Being able to just... be here. No noise. No racing. No bullshit."

Jenson's chest tightened, but not in a bad way. In that way where something starts to settle where it belongs.

"I love you, you know," he said, almost like it had been waiting to fall out of him.

Fernando didn't move for a second. Just blinked, slowly, as if the words took a moment to land.

Then he smiled. Not his smirky, cocky one. A real one. Soft, like something he didn't get to wear often.

"I know," he said. "And I love you too."

Jenson leaned in, kissed him once. No rush. Just a press of mouths and quiet understanding.

Later, they fell asleep tangled together, race suits hung neatly on chairs, helmets lined by the door. For a little while, the world outside could wait.

Hungary. One Room, Four Idiots

The Hungarian heat stuck to everything. It didn't matter that the sun had gone down hours ago. The humidity lingered like it had something to prove. Jenson didn't care. He was lounging shirtless on the hotel bed with Fernando, their legs tangled under the thin blanket. The TV played something in the background, but neither of them were really watching.

Fernando's hand was resting just under Jenson's shirt, fingers slowly tracing lines across his ribs. Not even in a sexy way, just absentminded. Familiar. Like he'd been doing it forever.

"You realize you do that every time you're relaxed?" Jenson said, voice low.

Fernando didn't look up from Jenson's chest. "Do what?"

"That. Drawing maps on me. Like I'm your personal Etch A Sketch."

Fernando smirked, not stopping. "You're just soft."

"I am not soft."

Fernando snorted. "You are. You're all... cozy. Like a pillow."

"You're lucky I like you," Jenson said, swatting his hand. "I'd kick anyone else out for that."

"I am lucky," Fernando said without thinking, and for a second it landed between them, warm and real.

They didn't say anything more. Jenson leaned down and kissed his forehead.

Before they could drift off, the door swung open without warning.

"Why does this place reek of relationship," Lewis groaned as he stepped in dramatically, followed by Sebastian, who was carrying a bag of takeout and clearly trying not to laugh.

"Because it is a relationship," Seb said, already toeing his shoes off. "God, it's like watching a domestic documentary."

Lewis tossed his cap on the desk. "What is this? The 'We're In Love And Can't Stop Touching Each Other' suite?"

"Better than the 'We're Clearly Dating But Pretend We're Just Sharing Rooms Because We're European' club," Jenson shot back, grinning.

Seb gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you. We are very open about our affection. Aren't we, Lewis?"

Lewis walked over and plopped dramatically on the edge of the bed. "Sure, if by open you mean secretly spooning in the back of the motorhome like hormonal teenagers."

"Pot, meet kettle," Jenson said, wrapping an arm around Fernando again. "How many times have I caught you two cuddling on the physio beds?"

Seb held up a finger. "To be fair, we thought you were asleep."

"And you weren't supposed to be in there," Lewis added.

Fernando finally spoke, dry as always. "You left the door open. You're terrible at secrets."

Seb plopped next to Fernando, stealing one of the pillows and hugging it. "So. Since when did you two become inseparable?"

Jenson looked over at Fernando, who shrugged. "Since Monza, I think," he said. "That was the first time we shared a bed."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "And now you're what... married?"

"Basically," Jenson replied. "He's already moved in. Leaves his crap everywhere. Smells like coconut shampoo and attitude."

Fernando pinched his side.

"Ow... see?"

Seb laughed and leaned back. "It's weird, though. Like, you two make sense. I didn't think you would, but... I get it now."

Lewis nodded, serious for once. "Same. You're different around him, Jen. Softer. Happier."

"And you're less of a moody diva with Seb," Jenson shot back, but his voice was warm.

Lewis smirked. "He grounds me."

"Like I'm your emotional parole officer," Seb muttered, taking a fry from the takeout bag.

Fernando reached over and stole one too. "He calls me 'grounding' all the time. I think it's code for 'I'm too fast and need someone who'll remind me to sleep.'"

"I call you grounding because you're the only thing that feels real after a shitty quali," Jenson said, brushing his fingers along Fernando's wrist. "You don't let me spiral."

Seb looked between them with a grin. "Okay, that was disgustingly sweet."

"I might cry," Lewis said flatly. "Like, who gave you permission to have that kind of growth?"

Jenson rolled his eyes. "You're just mad you're not the emotionally healthy couple for once."

Lewis and Seb exchanged a glance, then both reached out and high-fived across the bed.

"We are so emotionally healthy," Seb said, proud.

"We cried during Up last week," Lewis added.

Jenson blinked. "Okay, fair."

The four of them stayed up well past midnight, sprawled across the bed and floor, finishing takeout and teasing each other between mouthfuls of food and half-remembered stories from past races. But somewhere in the middle of it, Jenson felt it settle in his chest:

This was home. This. Fernando's hand resting on his thigh, their legs pressed together, the easy laughter with two people who got it. This was his life now.

And he wouldn't trade a second of it.

Portugal – Late Summer, 2014

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A quiet beach. Just them.

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon. The water was still warm around their ankles as Lewis and Sebastian walked along the empty shoreline, their footprints vanishing behind them.

They hadn't spoken much. They didn't need to. It was one of those rare, perfect moments where silence felt like comfort instead of distance.

Lewis had been fidgeting for the last ten minutes.

Seb noticed.

"Are you going to spit it out," he asked, smiling softly, "or do I have to drag it out of you like I do with your Spotify password?"

Lewis stopped walking. Seb turned, expecting a smart remark, but instead Lewis just... looked at him. And for once, the world felt very still.

"I keep thinking about you," Lewis said quietly. "When I'm in the car. When I'm flying. When I'm in the shower. It's always you. I never expected that."

Seb's smile faltered, not in a bad way, just in a way that said he understood how big this moment was.

Lewis took a breath. "I know it's fast. But I've never felt this... easy with anyone. Like I can finally stop fighting with myself all the time."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring. No box. No speech. Just a silver band, a little scratched, like Lewis had been carrying it around for a while.

Seb froze. "Is that what I think it is?"

"I know it's stupid," Lewis said quickly. "We're not even thirty yet. But I want to do this right. I want you. Just you. For however long we've got."

Seb stepped forward, wrapped both hands around Lewis's. "It's not stupid."

He leaned in, pressed his forehead against Lewis's. "And the answer's yes."

No one clapped. No champagne. Just waves and warm wind and Lewis grinning so hard it hurt.

They didn't need an audience.

Spain – May 2015

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The weekend of the Spanish Grand Prix. A quieter day before the chaos.

Fernando had taken Jenson out to his house, just the two of them, no team, no PR. They'd walked through the olive trees that lined the edge of the property. Jenson had picked one off the branch and complained that it tasted like bitterness and bad decisions.

Fernando had laughed so hard he almost fell.

Now they sat on the back steps, drinks in hand, watching the Spanish sun burn the sky orange.

"You're quiet," Jenson said, nudging him with his knee.

Fernando didn't answer right away. Then: "Do you ever think about where we'd be if we weren't racing?"

Jenson shrugged. "You'd be managing a vineyard somewhere. I'd be restoring old bikes. We'd probably still meet, somehow."

Fernando smiled. "Probably."

He reached into the pocket of his hoodie. Pulled out a ring. Not flashy, just clean, with a small engraving inside that read Monza 2014. Jenson blinked, staring.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not," Fernando said. "I've had it for a while."

Jenson didn't say anything.

Fernando looked down. "You don't have to say yes. I just... I thought about it. And I know I want it. Us. Not the ceremony or the parties. Just... more of this. Forever."

Jenson took the ring, turned it in his hand. Then he smiled, soft and stunned.

"You're such a dramatic bastard."

"But?"

"But yes."

Abu Dhabi – End of the 2015 Season

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All four, finally together again.

The season was done. The paddock was already breaking down around them. But they'd all made time. Jenson, Fernando, Lewis, and Seb, sitting around a table at the team hospitality tent that someone forgot to kick them out of.

"Alright," Jenson said, sipping his beer. "Who wants to go first?"

Lewis glanced at Seb, who just raised his hand.

"We're engaged," Seb said simply.

"Engaged to be what?" Jenson teased. "More annoying?"

Lewis threw a peanut at him.

Seb held up his hand, the silver band catching the light.

Fernando smirked. "Cute."

"You're not surprised?" Seb asked.

"We're also engaged," Fernando said, like it was no big deal.

Jenson raised his own hand, showing off his ring. "Since Spain."

Lewis's jaw dropped. "You what?"

"Guess we're not the only dramatic ones," Seb said.

They laughed. Loud, ridiculous, relieved laughter. Four idiots in love, pretending they weren't all terrified about what came next.

But in that moment, everything was okay. It always was at first.

Late 2015 – Off-Season, Somewhere in the Mountains

The fire crackled in the corner of the small cabin, casting soft amber light across the wooden walls. Fernando and Jenson had rented the place for a week to breathe after the chaos of the season. No press, no paddock, just cold air, thick blankets, and each other.

They sat cross-legged on the couch, sharing a fleece throw and nursing mugs of tea. Fernando's spiked with something stronger.

They'd been quiet for a while.

"You ever think about it?" Jenson asked suddenly, eyes on the fire.

Fernando looked over. "Think about what?"

Jenson hesitated, then turned to him. "Kids."

Fernando blinked. He hadn't expected that. "I do."

"Yeah?" Jenson asked, almost surprised.

Fernando gave a small nod. "A lot more lately. I always thought it'd be later. After everything. But now..." He shrugged. "I don't know. Feels like waiting is just a good way to miss things."

Jenson smiled, the quiet kind. "Exactly."

They sat with it for a moment.

"We don't need to be married," Jenson said, almost offhand. "Not yet, at least. But I do want a family. With you."

Fernando was silent for a beat too long.

Jenson felt his stomach drop slightly. "You don't have to say yes. It's not a trap."

"No," Fernando said quickly, "I want that too. I just didn't think you'd bring it up first."

Jenson huffed. "I'm full of surprises."

Fernando leaned into him. "I want to be a dad. I've always known I would be one. But I'm scared."

Jenson nodded. "Same. What if we mess it up?"

"We will," Fernando said, honestly. "But we'll also get things right. And we won't be alone."

Silence again, but this time it was warm.

Then Jenson asked, "You want to adopt or..."

Fernando shifted, reaching for his mug again. "I was thinking about surrogacy. I have a friend back in Oviedo who knows someone who could help. We could at least look into it."

Jenson raised an eyebrow. "You've really thought about this, huh?"

Fernando smiled. "Maybe. I wanted to be sure before I brought it up."

"Well," Jenson said, nudging his foot against Fernando's, "now we're talking about it. So... let's do it. Let's start the process."

Fernando stared at him, like he was trying to make the moment real.

"We're going to be dads."

Jenson laughed quietly. "Yeah. We really are."

Early 2016 – The Pregnancy Begins

They didn't tell many people at first. Only Lewis, Seb, and maybe Mark. It felt too sacred to share too soon.

The surrogate lived in northern Spain. Her name was Lucía, kind-eyed and firm-spoken. She made it clear she wasn't doing this for money or for praise, just because she believed in families and in love, and the two of them clearly had both.

Fernando attended every appointment when he could. Jenson came to the big ones, flying out whenever he had a break.

They made a habit of bringing gifts for Lucía's own kids, who were curious and sweet and a little too clever for their own good.

One night, after a long visit, they sat in the car outside Lucía's house.

"She's doing more for us than I ever expected," Jenson said, quietly.

Fernando nodded. "I think she actually likes us."

"Poor woman," Jenson joked, but he sounded emotional.

Then, a beat later: "Do you ever wonder if we'll be good enough?"

Fernando looked over at him. "Every day."

Jenson stared ahead. "I want to be the kind of dad that kid brags about. Not the kind they have to make excuses for."

"You will be," Fernando said, softly but sure.

Jenson turned to him. "So will you."

Fernando smiled, grateful, nervous, and a little scared. But he squeezed Jenson's hand.

"We'll figure it out. One crying mess at a time."

May 2016 – Third Trimester

Jenson started reading every parenting book he could get his hands on. Fernando mocked him for it, then secretly started reading them himself when Jenson left them in the bathroom.

They painted the nursery in soft yellow and white. Built the crib together. Argued over names. Jenson wanted something timeless. Fernando wanted something that sounded strong but sweet.

They settled on Isla after Fernando admitted he liked how Jenson said it.

"She's going to change everything," Jenson said, brushing paint off his arm as he looked around the nursery.

Fernando leaned on the doorframe. "I hope she does."

August 2016 - Oviedo, Spain

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and overripe flowers. Fernando paced the hallway, jaw clenched, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Jenson sat nearby, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the door.

Lucía had gone into labor six hours ago.

The doctor had assured them it was going smoothly, but "smooth" meant nothing when your daughter. Your daughter. Was coming into the world just meters away and you couldn't do a damn thing but wait.

Fernando muttered something in Spanish under his breath.

Jenson looked over. "That a prayer?"

"A complaint."

He stood up and crossed to Fernando, reaching for his hand, grounding him.

"You think she'll like us?" Jenson asked, voice low.

Fernando blinked. "Lucía?"

"No, Isla."

Fernando cracked a smile, tired and sharp-edged. "She better. We already painted her room."

Jenson laughed softly, then fell quiet again. "I've never been this nervous in my life."

"You? Mr. Ice in Quali?"

"This is different."

Fernando didn't argue. His grip tightened slightly.

A nurse finally appeared. "She's here. You can come in."

Time stalled. Then jolted forward all at once.

Inside the Room

Lucía was exhausted but glowing with a kind of peace. A soft blanket was tucked over her chest, and nestled there, impossibly small and red-faced, was Isla.

The moment didn't hit Jenson like a wave. It was quieter than that. Slower. Like light slowly filling a dark room. One moment, he didn't know what it meant to love someone he hadn't even spoken to. The next, he was staring at his daughter and nothing else in the world mattered.

Fernando stepped forward first. Not out of confidence, out of pure instinct.

"She's..." He couldn't even finish the sentence.

The nurse lifted Isla gently and asked if one of them wanted to hold her first. Jenson looked at Fernando.

"You go."

Fernando hesitated, but reached out, arms practiced from holding trophies and helmets—but never anything like this.

Isla settled into his arms like she'd always belonged there.

She opened her eyes.

Dark, stormy, curious.

Fernando couldn't breathe.

"Hola, pequeña,(Hello, little one)" he whispered. "Soy tu papá.(I'm your papa)"

Jenson moved closer, gently resting a hand on Isla's tiny foot. "And I'm your dad. Your very overwhelmed, very in love dad."

Isla yawned.

Jenson laughed, then blinked fast. "She's perfect."

Fernando was silent. His eyes were shining.

Lucía watched them quietly from her bed. "She already knows she's loved. You two are doing just fine."

Later That Night – Hospital Room Quiet

They sat together on the little couch, Isla tucked in Fernando's arms, wrapped up tight and sleeping soundly.

Jenson leaned on his shoulder. "You still scared?"

Fernando nodded. "Terrified."

Jenson smiled. "Me too."

"But I think," Fernando said slowly, "we're going to be good at this. Eventually."

Jenson looked at him. "We already are."

He kissed Isla's forehead, then Fernando's shoulder.

And just like that. There they were. A family.

Late 2016 - London

Isla cried in the middle of the night. Again.

Jenson was already halfway out of bed before Fernando could sit up. The nursery was just across the hall, painted soft green, with little stars that glowed faintly in the dark. He found her squirming in her bassinet, red-faced, fists clenched. She was loud for something so tiny.

"Alright, alright, I hear you," he whispered, lifting her gently into his arms.

She quieted only a little, enough to know she recognized him.

Behind him, Fernando appeared in the doorway, bleary-eyed in a T-shirt that said El Plan. His hair was a mess.

"Bottle or diaper?" he asked.

"I'm guessing both."

They worked in sync, clumsy at first, then with the kind of rhythm you only earn by living the same two-hour cycle for weeks. Jenson changed her. Fernando warmed the bottle. Isla wailed through all of it like she'd been personally betrayed by the delay.

Eventually, she fed, slowly calming in Fernando's arms. Her little fingers gripped the edge of his shirt.

"She's so small," he murmured, brushing her cheek. "And she trusts us."

Jenson leaned against the crib, watching. "You say that like it scares you."

"It does. I've only ever had to protect myself. This is different."

Jenson's voice softened. "It's not just you anymore. And it's not just me, either. We're doing this together."

Fernando nodded slowly.

They stayed there until Isla drifted back to sleep.

A Week Later – The Living Room, 5AM

There was a quiet hum from the TV, muted race footage playing in the background, mostly for the moving light. Jenson was on the couch, Isla asleep on his chest, her tiny breaths warm against his neck.

Fernando came in with two mugs of tea, handed one over, then sat beside them.

"She likes laying on you more than me," he said, mock offended.

"I'm softer," Jenson mumbled. "She knows luxury."

They both smiled.

"She smiled today," Fernando added, quietly. "I was holding her and she just... did it. Like it was for me."

"She did?" Jenson looked at him. "You sure it wasn't gas?"

"Very sure. It was different."

Jenson grinned, pride blooming warm in his chest.

They sat in silence, soft and sleepy, eyes drifting from Isla to the glowing screen.

December 2016 – First Family Christmas

There were toys they knew she couldn't play with yet. A stocking with Isla stitched in gold. Matching Christmas pajamas, because Seb had mailed them over and threatened to disown them if they didn't wear them.

Jenson filmed everything. Fernando tried (and failed) to assemble a crib-mobile without swearing.

They fed Isla in shifts, exchanged gifts quietly at midnight, and when the house finally fell quiet again, they sat on the living room floor with the tree lights blinking gently behind them.

"She has no idea what any of this is," Fernando said.

"Nope."

"But it still feels like the best one we've ever had."

Jenson leaned into him. "Because it is."

Early 2017 - Isla's First Laugh

Jenson was making ridiculous faces. Fernando was pretending to drop her stuffed giraffe and gasping dramatically every time.

And Isla laughed.

Not a gurgle. Not a hiccup. A real, belly-deep laugh.

They froze.

Then did it again just to hear it one more time.

Fernando turned to Jenson, eyes wide. "She laughed."

"You heard that too, right? That wasn't just-"

"She laughed at us."

"Or with us."

"...She's your daughter. It was probably at us."

They both laughed too, full and bright, for the first time in a while.

Early 2017 - London, After Isla Turns One

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It had been a quiet evening. Isla had fallen asleep early, exhausted after running laps in the living room with a wooden spoon in hand like it was a trophy. Jenson and Fernando sat in the kitchen, the baby monitor between them, both nursing mugs of tea that had long gone cold.

They'd been circling around the subject for weeks, neither quite ready to say it.

Fernando broke the silence first.

"Have you ever thought about another one?" he asked, eyes still on the monitor.

Jenson looked up. "You mean... like a second kid?"

"Yeah."

A beat.

"I have," Jenson admitted. "I mean, it's hard not to think about it when I see Isla hug her stuffed toys like they're friends. She might like a sibling."

Fernando nodded. "She's got so much love in her."

"So do you."

That made Fernando smile, soft, tired, real.

"But... another surrogate?" Jenson asked, hesitantly. "Same way as before?"

"I'm not sure," Fernando said. "Maybe. I've just been thinking about... kids who are already here. Kids who need families."

Jenson tilted his head. "You're not usually the one who brings that up."

"I know." Fernando sipped his tea. "But I got a call. From a woman we met during Isla's process. She works with neonatal units sometimes... matching abandoned cases. There's a boy."

That made Jenson sit up straighter.

"He was born two days ago. His mother died during birth. No family. No one has claimed him."

Jenson didn't say anything right away. He just let that sit in the space between them.

"Fernando..."

"I know it's a lot," Fernando said quickly. "And I don't want to rush anything. I just... when she told me, I couldn't stop thinking about him."

"What's his name?"

"They haven't named him yet."

That hit harder than Jenson expected. A tiny life, only days old, with no name. No arms to be held in. Just silence.

"Could we see him?" Jenson asked.

Fernando looked at him, relieved, hopeful. "I think we should."

A Few Days Later - Hospital in Oxford

The neonatal wing was quiet. The kind of quiet that made everything feel delicate. Like speaking too loud would make the walls collapse.

A nurse led them to a small room. Inside, under a soft heat lamp, was a newborn. Eyes closed, cheeks round, chest rising slowly with each breath.

Fernando didn't move right away. Neither did Jenson.

"He's so small," Fernando murmured.

"They all are at this age," the nurse smiled gently. "But he's strong. No complications."

"What happens if no one takes him?" Jenson asked, even though he already knew.

"He'll go into the system. He's legally cleared for adoption. But it'll take time. Months. Sometimes more."

Fernando stepped closer. Then Jenson did too.

"He looks peaceful," Jenson said quietly. "I hope he stays that way."

Fernando swallowed. "I don't want him to grow up thinking no one wanted him."

They stood in silence for a long time.

Then Jenson reached out first, laying his hand gently against the plastic casing.

"He needs a name," he said.

Fernando nodded. "I've always liked Mateo."

Jenson turned to him, eyes soft. "Mateo Button-Alonso?"

Fernando blinked fast but didn't smile, too full of something deeper. "Yeah."

"Then let's bring him home."

One Week Later - Back in London

The house felt different. Like something had shifted in the air.

Jenson carried the car seat through the door, Mateo bundled in a pale blue blanket. Fernando held the door open, heart thudding louder than he liked to admit.

Isla, curious, peeked from behind the couch.

"That's your brother," Jenson told her gently. "Mateo."

She blinked at the bundle. Then pointed. "Baby?"

"Yep. He's our baby now."

Fernando crouched next to her. "You'll be the best big sister, I think."

She didn't say anything, just toddled over and peeked into the car seat.

Then she smiled.

So did they.

March 2017 - Two Weeks After Mateo Came Home

The house was louder now, but not in the usual way. Not the sound of Isla's bright, determined babbling or Jenson's mock guitar solos on a wooden spoon. It was the soft, unpredictable wail of a newborn. The hiss of a baby monitor. The sigh of sleep that never lasted long enough.

Jenson was rocking Mateo in his arms in the dim hallway between their room and the nursery. His shirt clung to him with a patch of drool. He smelled like baby formula and exhaustion. And still. Still, he looked down at Mateo like he was holding a miracle.

Fernando padded out of their bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes, silently taking over without a word. Jenson handed the baby over, their hands brushing.

"Three hours this time," Jenson whispered. "A record."

Fernando held Mateo close, resting the baby's cheek against his shoulder. He smiled faintly, tired eyes soft. "You should sleep."

"I will. After I watch you with him for a bit."

Fernando didn't argue. He just started humming some half-remembered tune from his childhood. Jenson leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the way Fernando swayed. He looked smaller somehow. Softer.

"I was scared," Jenson said, voice barely audible. "At the hospital. I didn't say it, but I was."

Fernando turned slightly, listening.

"I didn't know if we could do it again. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't want to mess it up. Isla was... is perfect. And this... taking Mateo in, it felt like a promise I didn't know if I could keep."

"You're keeping it," Fernando said, voice thick. "You're doing it every time you hold him. Every time you don't complain about getting up at 2 AM."

Jenson chuckled, quietly. "I do complain."

"I know. But you do it anyway."

There was a pause. Then Jenson looked at him more directly.

"Do you think... we're enough for him?"

Fernando didn't answer at first. He just rocked a little more, then finally looked over, eyes glassy.

"I hope we are," he said. "But I think love makes up for a lot."

Jenson nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think so too."

May 2017 - Lake District Weekend Getaway

The kids were asleep. Isla in her travel cot after throwing every single plush toy to the floor. Mateo wrapped in his blanket on Jenson's chest. The fireplace crackled in the little cottage they'd rented, and Fernando, with socks pulled halfway up his calves, sat across from them, sipping a glass of wine.

"You know what I was thinking about?" Jenson asked, stroking Mateo's back with two fingers.

"What?"

"That night we first talked about Isla. The 'we-don't-need-to-get-married' talk."

Fernando smiled faintly. "I remember."

"We were both so sure. So... casual about it. 'Let's just be parents, rings can wait.'"

Fernando laughed quietly. "You're about to say you changed your mind."

Jenson tilted his head. "I think I already did. The second Mateo looked at me with those huge eyes like I was his entire world. I knew. You, me, Isla, him... this is it. This is my life. I want to give it a name."

Fernando set the glass down. Sat forward.

"Are you proposing to me with a sleeping baby on your chest and a wine stain on your shirt?"

"Should've worn a tux?" Jenson grinned, but it faded quickly. "No, seriously. I love you. And I want our kids to know we chose each other, not just them."

Fernando didn't respond right away. He got up, walked over slowly, and knelt beside the armchair.

"You beat me to it," he murmured, smiling despite the tears gathering. "I had a plan."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. In Spain. After the season. When it's warm."

"Is this okay instead?"

Fernando leaned in and pressed a kiss to Jenson's forehead.

"It's perfect."

October 2017 — Spain, Quiet Backyard Wedding

They stood in Fernando's garden, sun warm on their backs. Isla held a bouquet of daisies someone had tied with a ribbon. Mateo babbled in Seb's arms as Lewis tried not to tear up.

No press. No podium. Just soft music, their closest friends, and the promise they made under a tree Fernando had planted when he was twenty.

"I never thought I'd say vows barefoot," Jenson whispered.

"You're lucky I didn't make us wear helmets," Fernando teased, then quietly reached for his hand. "You ready?"

"I've been ready since the day you handed me a spoon to calm Isla down."

Fernando smiled wide. "Then let's do this."

They said their vows in English and Spanish. They cried. And when they kissed, Isla clapped like it was the best thing she'd ever seen.

Fernando also made a promise to Jenson when everybody was on the dance floor.

"I promised I will love you and this family. Forever." And he leaned in and kissed Jenson again.

2018–2019 - The Years Everything Felt Full

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The Button-Alonso house was rarely quiet, and that was exactly how they liked it.

There was always something: Isla turning the living room into an art gallery of scribbles and tape, or Mateo waddling around with one sock on, declaring war on the houseplants with his plastic spoon.

Jenson's days started earlier now, breakfasts of cereal and toast, wiping jam off Mateo's chin, tying Isla's shoelaces. School mornings became a ritual, especially after Isla started kindergarten. She'd insisted on carrying her own backpack, even though it looked like it was swallowing her whole. Jenson took a thousand photos. Fernando got choked up the first time she waved goodbye through the school gates.

"She's growing up too fast," he'd murmured, watching her disappear behind the door.
"You say that like you didn't teach her to curse in Spanish last week," Jenson replied.

"It was educational."

Isla's vocabulary, it turned out, became very educational.

Mateo's First Step

It happened in the kitchen. Jenson was chopping fruit, and Fernando was trying (and failing) to assemble a toy that made whale sounds. Mateo, in his diaper and a t-shirt that said "Trouble", suddenly stood up from his blanket nest.

He took one wobbly step.

Then another.

Fernando froze. "Did he just-?"

Jenson dropped the knife and spun around. "Oh my god! He's walking! He's actually walking!"

Mateo collapsed with a giggle, clapping for himself like he'd just won a championship. Fernando scooped him up immediately, laughing and crying at the same time.

"You did it, pequeñito!(Tiny)"

Jenson pulled them both into a hug, pressing kisses into Mateo's messy curls. "We have to baby-proof everything. Again."

Fernando smirked. "He's already smarter than both of us."

Seb and Lewis were around often, especially once the school run became a thing. They were the fun uncles, the ones who brought squishy toys, taught Isla to sing Queen songs, and let Mateo use their fancy sunglasses as teething rings.

They'd show up with takeout and wine, collapse on the couch, and tell stories from the grid. When Lewis proposed on New Year's Eve in 2018, Seb had been red-faced and grinning for hours. Their wedding came in 2019, small and elegant, and Isla walked down the aisle holding Mateo's hand like a proud big sister.

Jenson and Fernando watched them with soft smiles. They felt old in the best kind of way.

Jenson's Retirement – 2017, Fully Settle In by 2018

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Jenson had technically retired in 2017, but it didn't sink in until the middle of 2018, when he was watching Isla draw with crayons instead of planning race weekends.

"I think I miss it," he admitted one evening, while folding laundry with Fernando. "But not in the way I thought I would. I don't miss the travel. Or the pressure. I miss the rhythm."

Fernando tossed him a clean t-shirt. "You found a new one. Mornings with Isla, cleaning spaghetti out of Mateo's hair, pretending we know how to parent."

Jenson laughed. "I guess I did."

Fernando leaned in, resting his head on Jenson's shoulder for a moment. "I like this rhythm. I like coming home to you."

"Same," Jenson said quietly. "This feels right."

They kissed, just a little one. No fire, no spark—their kisses now came with warmth, and quiet history.

Late 2019 - Around the Fireplace

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The kids were tucked in, the dishes done. Fernando was flipping through a book. Jenson had his feet in his lap, drinking tea.

"You ever think about how lucky we got?" Jenson asked.

Fernando looked up. "Every day."

"We have two amazing kids. Friends who love us. A home. And somehow, even with the chaos—we're still us."

Fernando nodded slowly. "Not all fairy tales end with good things. But I think we're one of the lucky ones. For now."

Jenson smiled. "For now is enough."

Mid–Late 2020  The Beginning of the Distance

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It started with little things.

Fernando stopped reaching for Jenson's hand when they sat beside each other on the couch. His morning kisses turned into half-hearted pecks, sometimes forgotten altogether. He still smiled. Still laughed. Still picked up Isla from school and sang to Mateo at bedtime. But there was something behind his eyes that wasn't there before—like he was watching something only he could see. Like he was somewhere else.

And Jenson noticed.

Of course he did.

He always noticed when something shifted with Fernando. They'd been through too much, built too much, for him not to see the change.

At first, he brushed it off. Stress, maybe. The world was strange, 2020 was hard for everyone. But it kept happening. Fernando sat out longer on the balcony at night. He didn't touch Jenson in bed, didn't even face him anymore when they slept. And when Jenson tried...

"Are you okay?"

Fernando's answer came too fast. "Yeah. Just tired."

And that was it.

Jenson didn't push. He didn't want to become another weight on whatever Fernando was carrying. So he let it slide. Gave him space. Stopped asking.

They still went through the motions. Breakfasts were made, bedtime stories read, Mateo's first day at preschool celebrated with cake and dancing in the kitchen. But when Fernando smiled, it didn't quite reach his eyes. And when he laughed, it never lingered long.

He started staying out later. Said he was going for drives, for walks. He came back smelling like wind and perfume Jenson didn't recognize. But Jenson never asked.

He didn't want to know.

He told himself it wasn't what it seemed. That Fernando just needed to find his way back to himself. Back to them. But every day, the silence grew.

The love was still there. Jenson knew it had to be. But Fernando had pulled it so far inward, even Jenson couldn't reach it anymore.

One night, after the kids were asleep, Jenson sat on their bed, watching the doorway.

Fernando came in, tossed his jacket aside, and started undressing. Jenson waited, hoping. Just hoping for eye contact. For anything.

But Fernando didn't look at him. Didn't even say goodnight.

Jenson's throat ached. He looked down at the sheets, at the spot that used to be theirs.

He whispered, "I miss you."

But Fernando was already brushing his teeth.

And he didn't hear it.

Or maybe he did.

And just couldn't answer.

2022 - The Things Left Unsaid

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It was a warm afternoon in Barcelona, but the sun did nothing to melt the cold between Fernando and Jenson anymore. The kids were off at school. Fernando was home for once, in between races. Jenson had gone out early, no real reason, just a quiet escape.

And Fernando?

He sat in the backyard with Mark Webber. Two beers on the table. One untouched.

Mark leaned back in his chair, studying his old friend. "You've been quiet all day."

Fernando didn't respond.

Mark sighed. "You going to tell me what's really going on, or do I have to guess?"

Fernando's fingers toyed with the beer label, peeling it back slowly. "It's not something you can fix."

"I didn't say I could fix it." Mark's voice was gentle but firm. "Just say it out loud, mate. Sometimes that's enough."

There was a long pause. Fernando's jaw tightened. "I don't feel it anymore."

Mark didn't answer right away. He let that sit. Let Fernando hear his own words.

Fernando's voice dropped, quieter now. "It's been fading... for a while. I don't know what happened. I love our life. I love the kids. But with Jenson... it's like I'm looking at something I used to be part of. Not anymore."

Mark leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And instead of saying something, you're just pulling away. Acting like if you don't look him in the eye long enough, it'll sort itself out."

"I don't know what else to do," Fernando admitted. "I don't want to hurt him."

"But you are," Mark said, blunt but not cruel. "You already are."

Fernando didn't argue. He just nodded, eyes fixed on the trees ahead, like maybe he could find the answer out there.

"You still respect him?" Mark asked.

"More than anyone."

"Then talk to him," Mark said. "Because this. Being half-there, walking around like a ghost in your own family... it's worse than anything you could say."

But Fernando just nodded again.

And said nothing.

Elsewhere - With Jenson

Jenson sat across from Lewis and Seb in a quiet London café. His hands wrapped around a cup of tea he hadn't touched. He looked tired. Not just physically, but like something inside him was wearing thin.

"He doesn't talk to me anymore," Jenson said. "Not really."

Lewis frowned. "You think there's someone else?"

"I don't know," Jenson said. "I don't think so. It's not even about that. It's like... he's not here anymore, even when he's right in front of me."

Seb put a hand on Jenson's wrist. "You have to talk to him, Jense."

"I've tried," Jenson whispered. "He won't let me in. And I don't want to push. We've got Isla. Mateo. What if I break something that can't be put back?"

Lewis leaned back, his expression softer. "But it's already breaking, isn't it?"

Jenson looked away, blinking quickly.

Seb's voice was low. "You love him."

"More than anything," Jenson said.

"Then fight for him," Lewis said. "Or... if it's gone, you have to fight for yourself. And the kids."

Jenson didn't answer. He didn't know how to.

He just sat there, surrounded by people who loved him, wondering when exactly his husband had stopped.

Late 2023 - The Night It Fell Apart

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The house was too quiet. No cartoons playing in the background. No Isla practicing her reading. No Mateo chasing the cat down the hallway.

Just silence.

The kids were spending the weekend in London, Seb and Lewis had picked them up earlier that morning. Their kids were excited. Isla packed her own little bag, proud and independent. Mateo forgot his toothbrush, of course.

Fernando had stood in the doorway and watched them go. Jenson had waved them off with a smile. A practiced one.

They didn't speak for most of the day.

Until night came.

Until the house felt too empty for things to stay quiet.

Fernando sat on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. Jenson leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, staring at him like he was trying to read a language he used to know fluently.

"Are you going to pretend this is normal again?" Jenson asked softly.

Fernando didn't look up. "What do you mean?"

"That we're fine. That nothing's changed. That you haven't been somewhere else for the past two years."

Fernando finally met his eyes. "Don't do this."

"No, you don't do this," Jenson said, sharper now. "Don't shut me out again. I've given you space. I've been patient. But I can't stand in front of our kids and keep pretending their dads are still in love if one of us isn't even here anymore."

Fernando's jaw tensed. "I am here."

"No, you're not," Jenson said, nearly broken. "You sleep in the same bed. You kiss me before a race. You show up for photos. But you're not here, Fernando."

Fernando stood up. "So what, now I'm the bad guy?"

"This isn't about blame-"

"Yes, it is," Fernando snapped. "You've made up this story in your head that I stopped caring. That I don't love you. That I don't love them-"

"You didn't say you didn't love them," Jenson cut in, quiet and steady. "But you haven't shown me you love me in a long time."

That was when something snapped.

Fernando's hands shook. "I'm tired, Jenson. I'm tired of everything being perfect on the outside when I feel like I'm falling apart on the inside. I gave up so much of who I am. And I wake up every day pretending this is what I wanted... this domestic dream, when maybe it wasn't."

Jenson went still. Eyes wide. Chest rising with shallow breaths.

Fernando didn't stop. He didn't even realize he should.

"I miss myself," he spat. "I miss being someone. Not just Isla's dad or Mateo's dad or your husband. I miss being me. I didn't know it would feel like this."

And there it was.

All the truths said out loud without care for the damage.

Jenson blinked once. Twice. "You regret it."

Fernando's mouth opened, but nothing came.

"Right," Jenson said. He didn't yell. Didn't argue. Just... nodded like he finally understood something. "Okay."

He left that night. Packed a bag in ten minutes. No dramatic exit. No final words.

Just the front door clicking shut.

The Days That Followed

Fernando didn't tell the kids. He couldn't. When Isla called to ask if they could stay two more nights with their uncles, he said yes and smiled through the phone.

Mateo didn't ask where Jenson was. He was too little to question what had already become normal.

The house felt too big. Too still.

Fernando slept on the couch. Not because he had to. No, but because he couldn't bring himself to walk into their room alone.

Early 2024 – The Breakdown

It had been weeks since Jenson left the house. He hadn't said much to Seb and Lewis, just that he needed some air. That it was temporary. That he was fine.

He wasn't.

He had smiled when Isla showed him her drawing over video call. Laughed when Mateo tried to show off his stuffed dinosaur. He kept it together in front of them.

He always did.

And every time Lewis or Seb asked him how he was doing, he deflected. Said something vague. "I'm managing."  "It's alright."  "I'm tired, that's all."

But tonight... something cracked.

They were sitting on Seb and Lewis's living room floor. Half a bottle of wine was open but barely touched. The TV played something none of them were watching.

Seb nudged him. "You know, Jense... you don't have to be the strong one every minute."

Jenson didn't look up. "I do, though. For them."

"For you, maybe," Lewis added, softer now. "But not for us."

Silence.

Then Seb reached out, fingers brushing Jenson's shoulder gently. "You're hurting. And we've been watching you bleed quietly since the day you walked out."

That was the button.

The cheeky, soft, damn button.

Jenson's throat tightened. He blinked hard, like he could will it all away. But it came anyway. First a single tear. Then his whole body gave in.

He broke.

Right there on the carpeted floor.

His hands covered his face as sobs tore out of him. Loud, ugly, unrestrained. Years of holding it all in, of being the fixer, the protector, the one who didn't fall apart. All of it collapsed in seconds.

"I tried," he gasped between sobs. "I gave him everything, I gave us everything and he just... walked away without moving. I watched it happen in front of me. I begged him with every small thing, and he wouldn't even look at me anymore."

Lewis pulled him into his chest, holding him as Jenson shook and cried harder.

Seb sat close, one hand steady on Jenson's back, like grounding him to the earth.

"He said he missed being himself," Jenson mumbled, almost slurring. "Like we took something from him. Like our kids were some mistake. Like I was."

"No," Seb said immediately. "Don't you dare believe that."

"He's wrong," Lewis added. "But he's too far inside his own head to see it."

"I waited," Jenson said brokenly. "I waited for him to turn around."

He cried until he couldn't anymore. Until the sobs turned to quiet sniffles, and the exhaustion stole the rest.

He fell asleep there, curled into Lewis's side, Seb still steady behind him.

The two looked at each other over Jenson's sleeping form. No words exchanged—just a mutual, silent agreement:

They were going to help Jenson.
Not for Fernando. Not to fix the marriage.
But to keep their friend from breaking completely.

2024 – Melbourne Race Week

Half a world away, Fernando sat on a hotel balcony, the air cool against his face.

Mark sat across from him, nursing a glass of water. No judgment, no sharp tone, just that calm, direct way he always had.

"I need to feel like myself again," Fernando said, watching the city lights. "I spent so long being someone else. I don't even recognize the man in those family photos."

Mark said nothing for a moment. Then: "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Fernando looked at him.

"You say 'someone else' like you became a stranger. But I've known you for years, and I've never seen you happier than when you were with him. When you held your kids like they were your whole world."

Fernando's jaw tightened. "That doesn't mean I didn't lose something."

"It also doesn't mean you didn't gain something better," Mark replied. "But you're too afraid to admit it."

Fernando stood up, restless now. "Maybe I just need time. Some space. A reset."

Mark sighed. "And how long until that space becomes a permanent distance? Until you do something you can't take back?"

Fernando didn't answer. He walked back inside.

He didn't listen.

Not when Mark warned him again.

Not when Mark said: "Be careful, mate. You're close to making the one mistake you won't be able to fix."

He was already making it.

And he didn't even see it.

Late 2024 – The Mistake

The Grand Prix weekend was already a mess.

Fernando's car had broken down mid-race. Not even halfway through. Another failure, another retirement. He climbed out of the cockpit, helmet still on, walking past the cameras, the mechanics, even his own engineer like a ghost. A hollow man in a fire suit.

He didn't care about the paddock that day. Didn't care for the congratulations or condolences.

He cared that he stood alone in the garage when the checkered flag fell.

No Jenson.
No Isla on FaceTime yelling "Papi!"
No Mateo showing off the drawing he made of "Daddy winning the race."
No Seb. No Lewis. No soft smile from across the motorhome. Just... emptiness.

He heard Lewis's name in the cooldown room and looked up just once. Lewis caught his eye, nodded slightly. Fernando didn't nod back. He turned away before he even saw Seb.

Later that night, the afterparty was nothing but noise.

It smelled of spilled liquor and sweat and desperation. Fernando leaned against the bar, barely sipping from a glass he hadn't asked for. He didn't want to talk. Didn't want to dance. He didn't even want to be there.

But he didn't want to be alone either.

He hadn't spoken to Jenson in a week.

Then she came up to him. Blonde, pretty, mouth like cherries and attitude like smoke. British, maybe. Or just good at sounding like it. She touched his arm when she laughed. Rested her hand on his thigh when she leaned in. He didn't like that.

But he didn't move.

She kissed him once. He didn't kiss back.

But he didn't stop her.

The next thing he remembered was her hotel room. Her bed. Clothes on the floor. His mind in a haze.

He woke up before the sun did.

Blank ceiling. Dry mouth. Her beside him, still asleep, breathing slow.

He sat up and stared at his own hands like they were someone else's.

He felt it in his chest like a blunt knife. Dull, deep, cruel.

He had cheated.

On Jenson.

The one thing he swore on everything sacred he would never do. Not even when they were at their worst. Not even when he felt like a stranger in his own house.
Not even when his love was cracking into something else entirely.

But he did.

And the guilt swallowed him whole.

A Week Later – London

He didn't say a word about it.

Didn't confess.

He just stopped talking.

He pulled away completely. No longer present even when he was physically there. Avoided eye contact. Skipped bedtime stories. Canceled dinners. Walked out before Jenson could ask where he was going.

He couldn't look at Jenson. Because every time he did, he saw it. The mistake. The lie. The shame.
And the goodness in Jenson the way he still tried.

Until he didn't.

Two Weeks Later – Home

Jenson stood in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes bloodshot from too many nights pretending everything was fine. Fernando had just come back from another long walk that he never explained.

"Say something," Jenson said quietly. "Anything. Because I can't keep doing this... this silence. This... slow death."

Fernando dropped his keys into the bowl by the door without looking at him.

"You haven't looked at me in weeks," Jenson continued. "You don't eat dinner with us. You don't talk to the kids. You don't talk to me."

Fernando's jaw tightened. "I've been tired."

"No," Jenson snapped. "You've been gone."

Silence.

Jenson's voice broke. "Just tell me what did I do that made you hate me?"

That cracked something.

Fernando turned then, eyes hollow, exhausted, and for the first time in months, angry. "I don't hate you."

"Then what?" Jenson asked, almost shouting now. "What is it, Fernando?! What did I do that pushed you this far away?"

Fernando couldn't hold it. He broke too.

"I made a mistake," he whispered. "One that I can't fix."

Jenson's breath caught. "What kind of mistake?"

Fernando looked away. "One you don't come back from."

Silence.

Then Jenson's voice, hollow, small. "Tell me you didn't."

Fernando's silence was the answer.

Jenson stepped back like he'd been punched. Like his ribs cracked open.

"No," he whispered. "You wouldn't. You... you told me that cheating was the one line you'd never cross. That it was in your blood. That it was-"

"I know what I said," Fernando snapped, too loud, too sharp.

Tears fell from Jenson's eyes, fast and quiet. "I stayed. I waited. I gave you every chance to come back to us."

"I didn't mean to," Fernando said, brokenly. "It wasn't planned-"

"But it happened," Jenson said, voice rising now. "And you lied. You let me carry the blame, the silence, the sadness, everything. Alone."

Jenson then whispered. "You made a promise..."

Fernando opened his mouth to speak, but Jenson shook his head, took a step back. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't look at him.

"I don't even recognize you anymore."

Fernando didn't chase him when Jenson walked out the door.

And for the first time since they met. Jenson didn't come back.

Early 2025 – The Truth Comes Out

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Sebastian found out first.

Jenson hadn't said anything, of course. He didn't need to. He just sat quietly one morning in the kitchen of Seb and Lewis's London house, Isla and Mateo playing outside with Christina and Melody, untouched by the storm overhead.

Lewis was making coffee, talking softly about school runs and playdates. Jenson wasn't listening. Not really. He just kept turning the same ring on his finger like it meant something still.

Seb noticed.

"You didn't sleep," Seb said gently, sliding a cup in front of him.

Jenson gave him a tired smile. "I haven't slept in months."

Then silence. Thick and sharp.

And when Lewis sat down, gently put a hand over Jenson's, that was the moment it cracked.

"He cheated," Jenson whispered, not looking at either of them. "He said he never would. He said... he swore he never would."

Neither Seb nor Lewis spoke. Not for a long time.

Seb's jaw clenched. Lewis leaned back slowly, blinking hard like he needed to be sure he heard right.

"...Fernando?" Lewis asked, voice flat.

Jenson nodded.

Lewis stood up. Paced. Shook his head. "You're kidding."

Seb's voice was like ice. "I don't want to believe it."

Jenson didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.

Later – Fernando and the Friends

They found him during the next race weekend. Back in the paddock, pretending like he wasn't a shell.

Lewis didn't look at him.

Seb did, but it was cold. Flat. Like he was trying not to spit something he couldn't take back.

"You disgust me," Seb said, no venom, just truth. "You had everything. You had him. You had them."

Fernando said nothing.

Mark found him later, and he didn't yell. He just sat beside him, quiet.

"I warned you," Mark said. "Told you this wouldn't fix anything."

"I know."

Mark shook his head. "You didn't just lose them, Fernando. You threw them away."

"I know."

And that was all Fernando could say anymore.

London – The Talk with the Kids

Jenson sat between Isla and Mateo on the couch. Their small hands in his. Seb and Lewis waited quietly in the kitchen, giving them space.

"Hey, my loves," he said, voice careful, kind, trying not to shake. "Papa and I... we aren't going to live together anymore."

Mateo blinked up at him. Isla looked confused.

"Are you mad at each other?" she asked.

Jenson swallowed. "We're... not happy together anymore. But we both love you. That won't ever change."

Mateo looked at the floor. "Are we still a family?"

Jenson nodded, tears finally slipping down his cheek. "Always."

Isla leaned into his side. Mateo followed. Their arms around him made the dam burst. Jenson cried quietly, holding them both as tightly as he could.

For once, he didn't try to be strong. He didn't have to.

Moving In with Seb and Lewis

Seb and Lewis had two kids of their own. Christina, 9, and Melody, 6. The house was loud, a little chaotic, but full of warmth. They adjusted everything. Made room. Gave space. Covered the quiet moments with laughter when Jenson couldn't. Let him cry when the kids were asleep.

"You're not alone," Seb told him once, pulling him into a hug.

"I know," Jenson whispered. "But it still feels like I am."

The Divorce - Final

Fernando didn't fight it.

When the papers arrived, he stared at them for ten full minutes in the kitchen of his apartment. A place that had never felt more empty.

Then he signed.

Not even a tear. Not because he wasn't hurt, but because the grief had burned through him months ago. All that was left was the ash.

Shared Custody

Jenson made sure it was shared.

Because for everything else, everything Fernando did wrong, he was still their father. And Jenson knew how much that mattered.

The first time they saw each other during pickup, Fernando was quiet. Careful. Isla ran to him. Mateo followed, slower.

"Why don't you and Daddy live together anymore?" Isla asked, looking up with those eyes that always reminded him of Jenson.

Fernando knelt. He didn't cry. He wouldn't. Not here, not now. But it killed him just the same.

"Because I made a mistake," he said simply. "And it hurt Daddy. But we both love you more than anything. That will never change."

They nodded. Not quite understanding. But they hugged him.

And it broke him.

He waved to Jenson, who stood by the car, and Jenson nodded back.

That was it.

No angry words. No goodbyes. Just a long look, a quiet nod.

And the life they had. The beautiful life. Was gone.

Mid 2025 - The house that is no longer home

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It was too quiet.

Fernando sat on the couch. Their couch. The same one where Isla first crawled, where Mateo used to fall asleep on his chest after a long day. It still smelled faintly of Jenson's cologne, even after all these months. Maybe that was in his head. Maybe he'd gone mad.

He hadn't changed anything.

The picture still lived as his lockscreen: Jenson laughing on the beach in 2018, his arms wrapped around their babies, sunshine in his hair and joy in his eyes. Fernando looked at it every morning. Every night. Sometimes during races.

It was the only light left in his darkness.

The apartment was cold, silent. No toys scattered on the floor. No humming from the kitchen. No small hands tugging his shirt or Jenson's soft footsteps padding into the room.

He got up. Slowly. Like his bones had forgotten how to move. Maybe he'd go for a walk. Maybe the air would make it easier to breathe.

He was halfway to the door when it opened.

Jenson stood there, arms full, boxes, the last of his things. He didn't look surprised. He knew Fernando still stayed here, even though it wasn't his anymore.

There were no words.

Fernando stepped back. Let him in. Watched as Jenson quietly crossed the living room, past memories so thick they could choke.

He didn't look around. Didn't say a thing. Until he reached the door again, hands full, heart probably heavier.

Then he turned.

And for the first time in months, Jenson looked him in the eyes.

And there was nothing in them.

Just an echo of someone who used to be in love.

Then came the words, quiet, cold, final

"We Were You Family, Fernando. Yet you threw us all away"

It didn't hit like a slap. It sank like a blade.

Deep. Clean. Fatal.

The door shut with a soft click.

Fernando stood still. Then stumbled forward, reaching for the handle, as if he could take it back, as if he could stop the inevitable:

But he couldn't.

He fell to his knees. Chest heaving. The sobs ripped from him like he was being torn open.

He leaned against the door. Hands pressed to his face. Tears crashing down like waves with no shore to land on.

Loud. Ugly. Unforgivable.

On the other side, Jenson stayed. Back to the door. Tears of his own falling in silence.

He listened.

Listened to the man he once loved break into pieces.

And before he left. Before he could never return. He whispered one last thing:

"I loved you, Fernando. I'd never stopped. But I can't stay."

He walked away knowing nobody would hear.

Inside, Fernando was still on the floor. No more sobs. Just breathing like it hurt. Face soaked. Arms shaking.

And then the truth came. Out loud. No one to hear it. No one to argue.

"I destroyed them. I'm a monster. I loved them."

He said it like a prayer. Like a curse.

Then he collapsed.
Back against the wall.
Face covered in tears.

And all the light that once lived in him was gone.

2026

|

Fernando Alonso never smiled again.

Not really. Not in the way he used to, bright, alive, unshakably confident. That man was gone.

After that day in 2025, something inside him just stopped. Even when he won a race, he didn't raise his arms. Didn't jump. Didn't celebrate.

People talked. Whispered. Wondered what had broken him so badly that not even a podium could bring light to his eyes.

But those who knew... really knew, never asked.

He retired in 2026, quietly, without ceremony. No grand send-off, just one last lap around a track he used to conquer. Then he went home to Spain. A place filled with sunlight, with ocean air, with the past.

And ghosts.

He lived simply. Alone. Lifeless, but still breathing.
Some days, he stood by the window for hours.
Some nights, he talked to pictures.

But he never let go of the family he lost.
And he never let himself forget what he did.

Jenson moved on. Slowly. Carefully. He left Seb and Lewis's house after a while, got his own place nearby so Isla and Mateo could still see their honorary cousins, Christina and Melody.

He noticed it too. Fernando's absence, even when he was in the room.
But he didn't go back. He couldn't.

He had forgiven him. But he would never belong to him again.

And Fernando never asked him to.

Four Years later - 2030

|

Isla was 14 now. Mateo, 13. And they understood.

They finally understood why their papa and dad didn't live together.
Why holidays were always split.
Why Fernando sometimes looked at their photos with such unbearable sadness.

But they never blamed him.

They couldn't. Because even though their papa had hurt their dad, he never stopped loving them. And somehow, they knew, maybe from the way he held them, or how he said goodnight a little too long, that he carried the weight of every mistake.

So they made new memories.

Trips with Jenson and his new partner. Mark. The one who had once stood beside Fernando through everything. It had happened quietly, gently. No betrayal. No rush. Just two men who had lost things, and somehow found each other.

Fernando never held it against them.
In fact, when he found out, he smiled.

A small one. Soft. Not bitter. Just... grateful.

Because if Jenson was happy, then it was enough.
Even if it wasn't with him.
Especially because it wasn't with him.

He stayed single.

Not because he couldn't find love again, but because he'd already given his heart away. Long ago. And he had no interest in asking for it back.

Sometimes, he would watch old home videos. Ones where the kids were babies. Where Jenson was young, happy, his voice light with love. Where Fernando, too, was still human.

He didn't cry anymore.
He didn't scream.
He just watched.

Like a man watching a dream he barely remembered but would never forget.

And in the end, when people asked about him, about Jenson, about Fernando, about their story it was Isla who said it best:

"Because not all fairy tales end happily.
But that doesn't mean they weren't beautiful."

Chapter 12: NH27 & CS55 | Feed You Chocolate

Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, Mexico GP, 2017

When Carlos first joined Renault, the transition was fast. He barely had time to learn everyone's names before he was zipped into a fresh yellow race suit, standing next to Nico Hulkenberg under the relentless lights of the media pen.

He hadn't expected to like Nico. Not right away.

But he did.

Too much, maybe.

It started with chocolate.

Two or three races in, Nico unwrapped a piece during a quiet moment in the hospitality suite and held it out, no explanation, just a simple, "Want one?"

Carlos hadn't thought twice. He leaned in and took it from his fingers, no fork, no napkin. Just a small touch, quick and unspoken. He didn't even glance at Nico's face after, it felt casual enough.

But it kept happening.

Race after race. Chocolate between sessions. On the way to debriefs. After grid walks. And each time, Carlos took it. Never asked why. Never said no.

It wasn't a joke, not anymore. Not really.

It became their thing. Nico's gesture. Carlos's quiet acceptance.

By the time they reached Mexico, the entire rhythm of their relationship had shifted. If one of them had a bad day, the other didn't ask questions. Nico would walk into the room and toss Carlos a crooked grin. Carlos would smirk back, shoulders relaxing like someone let the tension drain from his chest.

No need for words.

And that was the dangerous part. The fact that it felt normal. Easy, even.

Like maybe it had always been heading here. And they were just now noticing.

 

Brazil GP, 2017

By now, Carlos had stopped flinching when Nico leaned in too close.

It used to catch him off guard, how casually Nico would touch his shoulder, hover behind him during interviews, or stretch out across the motorhome sofa until their knees knocked like it was nothing. But it wasn't nothing. Not to Carlos.

Nico had no concept of personal space. Or maybe he did, and just didn't care when it came to Carlos.

"You ever heard of a chair that's not mine?" Carlos muttered once, when Nico stole the spot next to him and sat far too close, thigh pressed firm against his.

"I like the view from here," Nico answered without missing a beat. "Nice eyes."

Carlos had blinked, face heating slightly. "What?"

"Yours. Don't make a thing out of it."

He did, anyway. For the rest of the day.

And it only got worse. No, worse wasn't the right word. Closer.

The paddock started to notice. Reporters called them the "Renault bromance." The mechanics started joking about "Hulk and Sainz, joint at the hip." Jolyon Palmer posted a meme once that read: Get a teammate who looks at you like Nico looks at Carlos.

Carlos laughed when he saw it. Nico just said, "They're not wrong."

Then there was the beard.

Carlos had let it grow out during the triple-header, mostly out of laziness. But when he joked about shaving it off before Austin, Nico looked at him like he'd just threatened to burn down the motorhome.

"Don't," he said, dead serious. "It suits you. A lot."

Carlos kept it. Never mentioned it again.

Sometimes, he caught Nico staring. Sometimes, he stared back.

But no one said anything.

Because teammates could be close. Could be playful. Could joke and lean in and trade chocolate like some inside joke no one else was part of.

And if Carlos started to crave the routine. Nico's voice too close, that look he gave before a race, the quiet way he always noticed when something was wrong, well, he didn't say anything either.

Not yet.

 

Off-season, December 2017 – Stuttgart

Carlos wasn't sure why he said yes. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the way Nico had texted him: If you're not doing anything, come over. The snow's good, and the chocolate's better.

The man really knew how to sell a weekend.

So now Carlos was sitting on Nico's couch, wrapped in a fleece throw Nico swore he didn't own until thirty seconds ago, and watching a terrible German-dubbed action film while it snowed like hell outside. His hair was still damp from the short walk they took earlier to get coffee. Nico had laughed the entire time because Carlos refused to wear gloves and then immediately regretted it.

"Still can't believe you flew here," Nico said, nudging a mug toward him. Hot chocolate. Homemade. Of course.

Carlos shrugged, fingers curling around the warmth. "You said there'd be chocolate."

Nico smirked. "You came just for that?"

Carlos didn't answer. Not directly.

"Your beard's coming in again," Nico said after a pause, not looking away from the TV. "Still looks good on you."

Carlos didn't answer that either.

Silence fell, but not the awkward kind. The kind that felt like a pause between sentences in a long conversation, like they'd never really stopped talking, just spaced it out over races, over months.

Then Nico shifted, slinging his legs up on the couch so he faced Carlos more directly. "You're not exactly subtle, you know."

Carlos blinked. "Subtle about what?"

Nico's grin was slow. "Letting me get away with all the flirting. Makes me wonder if you even notice half of it."

"I notice," Carlos said, low.

And that was the first time he admitted it.

Nico sat up a little. "Yeah?"

Carlos nodded, just once. "I just didn't know what to do with it."

The air between them felt charged. Like something was about to change, but neither of them pushed it. Not yet.

Instead, Nico leaned over, plucked a piece of dark chocolate from the bowl on the table, and held it out.

Carlos took it from his fingers, eyes not leaving his.

"You always know what to do with that," Nico said softly.

Carlos smiled. "Maybe I'm learning."

 

Pre-season to early 2018

Barcelona, Winter Testing

It started again at the paddock coffee machine. Carlos stood there, bleary-eyed, scrolling his phone and waiting for the espresso to finish. Nico slipped in next to him like gravity pulled him there.

"Still can't make it without coffee, huh?" Nico asked.

Carlos didn't look up. "Still hovering over people's shoulders, huh?"

He passed the second cup to Nico without a word. Like it was meant for him.

They walked back together, shoulders brushing.

Melbourne, March 2018

Nico tossed Carlos his water bottle before lights out. Carlos caught it one-handed, no reaction.

"You good?" Nico asked.

Carlos gave a small nod, tightening his gloves. "Better now."

That was all it ever was. Small exchanges, brief touches. Carlos calming when Nico was near. Nico sharper when Carlos was smiling. They didn't name it, but it built like a rhythm between them.

Bahrain, April 2018

Carlos flopped into the hospitality chair, a little sun-dazed, still in race gear. Nico appeared with a protein bar and an orange.

"You looked wiped. Eat something."

Carlos raised an eyebrow. "Are you always like this, or just with me?"

Nico smirked. "What do you think?"

Carlos didn't answer. He peeled the orange first.

China, mid-April 2018

Their flight was delayed, and they sat side by side in the lounge, Carlos half-asleep with his head leaned just close enough to Nico's shoulder that it could be passed off as exhaustion. Nico didn't move.

When Carlos shifted a little closer, Nico subtly tilted toward him.

Not a word.

Not a single word.

Azerbaijan GP, April 29th, 2018 – The Chocolate Moment

It was during a light segment, post-qualifying banter in front of the camera. Daniil Kvyat was there as a guest for the day, joking with them. Nico had a chocolate bar, somehow, always chocolate and Carlos wasn't paying full attention.

Daniil egged him on.

"Feed him. Come on, you keep offering like he's your girlfriend."

Carlos gave a sharp laugh. "I'm not... what-"

"C'mon, just one bite," Nico teased, holding the chocolate out with a grin that was way too familiar. Like they'd done this a hundred times before.

And Carlos? He leaned in.

Just barely. Just enough for the room to go quiet. His lips stopped half an inch from Nico's fingers before he broke into a smile and leaned back with a shake of his head, embarrassed.

Everyone laughed. But something had shifted.

Nico took the bite himself, eyes flicking sideways.

Carlos didn't look at him for a full minute.

Later, in the quiet of the Renault garage, Carlos walked past and brushed Nico's back with his hand.

Just once. Light. Quick.

But Nico turned instantly.

 

Baku, 2018 – Post-race evening

The city buzzed below, neon lights washing the balcony in a soft orange glow. Carlos had barely kicked off his shoes when there was a knock at the door. He didn't have to check who it was.

Nico stood there in a black hoodie and jeans, hands in his pockets, looking too casual for someone who'd just raced in front of millions.

"Hey," he said. "Can I come in?"

Carlos stepped aside with a nod. "Figured you'd show up."

Nico smirked. "You know me that well, huh?"

"Unfortunately," Carlos said, but it was soft, teasing.

They ended up on the small hotel balcony, two chairs pulled close, the city breathing around them. There was a silence, easy but charged.

"Everyone's talking about that stupid chocolate thing," Carlos finally said, staring out. "Guess they think we're comedians now."

Nico chuckled, resting his forearms on his knees. "Was kinda funny."

"You started it."

"You leaned in."

Carlos turned his head, eyebrow raised. "You were holding it like a priest giving communion. What was I supposed to do?"

"Not almost kiss me in front of half the paddock?"

That made Carlos laugh, short and quiet. But it stayed in his chest for a moment, before quiet returned.

Then Nico spoke again, this time quieter.

"I've never done that before. With anyone."

Carlos looked over. Nico wasn't joking anymore.

"I mean, the chocolate thing, the way I... I don't know, touch you. Look at you. I've never done that with a guy or a girl. Never felt... the way I feel around you."

Carlos didn't look away. "It's the same for me. I don't know what this is supposed to be. But I like it. When you're around. When you smile at me like that. When you get too close."

"You never push me away."

"I don't want to."

Nico sat back, staring at the sky for a moment, trying to find the words. "It's not just about wanting to kiss you, Carlos. It's more than that. You're... something beautiful. And it scares the shit out of me."

Carlos blinked, and maybe he didn't breathe for a second. "I don't know what this means," he said. "But I know I feel better when you're with me."

They looked at each other. Still. Eyes locked.

Then Nico reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out the last piece of the same chocolate bar. Unwrapped it, held it up, not quite in front of Carlos, but close.

Close to himself.

Carlos smiled, soft and knowing. No hesitation.

He leaned in and took a bite. Eyes still on Nico, lips brushing his fingers.

The piece melted slowly between them, but they didn't move.

And then, like instinct, no need for planning, they leaned in. Closer. Until there was nothing left between them.

The kiss was gentle at first, but heavy. Not rushed. Just emotion, all of it unspoken until now. A confession in itself.

They didn't want to pull away.

But they did.

Just enough.

Carlos didn't say anything. He simply leaned sideways, resting his shoulder into Nico's chest like it was always meant to be there.

Nico wrapped an arm around him, held him close, and looked out over the city.

And neither of them said a word for a long, long time.

 

Later that night

The city hadn't gone to sleep, but Nico and Carlos had left the world behind the moment the balcony door closed.

Carlos lay on his side, tucked into the curve of Nico's chest, the hotel duvet pulled lazily over them. The room was dim, lit only by the orange glow slipping in from the window. Nico's fingers traced a slow line over Carlos's shoulder, just skin to skin.

Neither of them had spoken much since the kiss. It hadn't felt necessary.

Until now.

"You okay?" Nico's voice was soft, barely there.

Carlos nodded, cheek still pressed to Nico's collarbone. "Yeah."

A pause.

"I didn't think it'd feel this easy," he added.

Nico smiled, more to himself. "I was scared it'd get weird. That you'd pull away."

"You were holding chocolate to my face. I don't think 'normal' was ever part of this."

That made Nico laugh quietly, and Carlos felt it, the little rumble through his chest. He smiled too.

Then Nico's hand stilled.

"What are we doing, Carlos?"

Carlos didn't answer right away. He turned his face a little, just enough to look up.

"I think we're figuring it out," he said. "Quietly. Just... you and me."

Nico nodded slowly. "So we keep it like this?"

"Yeah," Carlos said, fingers curling into the fabric of Nico's shirt. "We don't have to tell anyone. Doesn't mean it's not real."

Nico looked at him, really looked. "You sure?"

Carlos didn't flinch. "Are you?"

Nico leaned in, pressed a kiss to Carlos's temple. "I am now."

They lay like that for a while longer, just breathing, the silence between them no longer uncertain. Just full.

And then, eventually:

"By the way," Nico murmured, "you should keep the beard. You look... ridiculously good."

Carlos gave a low laugh. "That why you kissed me? The beard?"

Nico grinned. "No. But it didn't hurt."

Carlos nudged him lightly, then settled back down, nose brushing Nico's collarbone. "I'm not shaving it then."

"Good."

The room was warm. Steady.

Outside, the city kept going. But in here, nothing else mattered.

They didn't need to explain themselves. Not now. Not tomorrow. They'd keep their thing—the chocolate, the glances, the quiet talks, the way Nico always stood too close and Carlos never moved away.

They'd carry it with them to the next race. The next hotel. The next late night.

No label. No spotlight. Just them.

And that was enough.

 

Barcelona, 2018 – Race Weekend

The paddock was alive, fans crowding the fences, media buzzing outside hospitality, engineers hunched over screens like it was life or death. Which, for Formula 1, it kind of was.

Carlos had just come back from his first run of the day, visor up, race suit peeled halfway down, fireproofs sticking to his skin from the heat. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a towel and headed straight toward the Renault motorhome.

Nico was already there, leaning on the railing, arms folded, sunglasses on. Smirking.

"You took long enough," he said, without even looking up from his phone.

"Traffic," Carlos replied, walking past him.

"Mm," Nico hummed. "Or maybe you just missed seeing me."

Carlos didn't respond. He didn't have to.

Nico pushed off the railing and followed him inside.

Inside the driver room, it was cooler. Calmer. Carlos sat down with a bottle of water, letting the silence stretch as their trainer flipped through telemetry on a tablet nearby. Nico sat across from him and casually tossed a wrapped piece of chocolate onto Carlos's lap.

Carlos didn't look up, just unwrapped it like it was routine.

Because it was. Their routine.

Nico watched him, waiting.

Carlos caught the look and gave the smallest shake of his head. Not now.

But his smile gave him away.

Later, they were at the press conference, both drivers seated between a few others, the usual mess of team polo shirts and microphones and half-smiles that didn't reach the eyes.

A reporter asked something about the "improved dynamics" between the two of them how well they seemed to work together. "Best bromance on the grid?" she joked.

Nico raised an eyebrow, smirking again. "You know, sometimes it's just... chemistry," he said, glancing sideways.

Carlos didn't move. But his ears went red.

The moment passed, the press moved on, but someone noticed.

Charles Leclerc.

He was seated further down the row, arms crossed, watching both of them with quiet amusement.

After the conference ended, Charles walked up to Carlos as they were leaving, voice low, teasing.

"You two really like chocolate, huh?"

Carlos froze for just a half-second too long.

Charles raised a brow. "Relax. I'm not judging."

Carlos blinked. "I don't know what you mean."

Charles just grinned. "I didn't say you had to explain. Just... you don't have to hide from me, Carlos."

And then he walked off.

Carlos stood there, heartbeat loud in his ears.

Nico came up beside him. "Everything okay?"

Carlos nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think Charles knows."

Nico's brows pulled together, just a little. "What did he say?"

Carlos looked up at him. "He said... we don't have to hide from him."

They stood in the hallway for a second, just them again, somehow untouched by the noise outside.

Then Nico smiled. Not smug. Not teasing.

Warm.

"Good."

And he bumped Carlos lightly with his shoulder.

"Still not shaving that beard though, right?"

Carlos rolled his eyes. "You wish."

But he was smiling again.

 

2020-2021, Between Seasons

The calendar flipped through races, seasons, and headlines. Nico's temporary leave came suddenly, a quiet decision whispered through the paddock. Everyone noticed the gap on the grid, but no one heard much from Nico himself.

Carlos felt the shift immediately.

They went from late-night talks and stolen moments in hotel corridors to calls and messages during downtime. The chocolate moments weren't there in person, but they found ways to keep their own language alive.

One evening, Carlos was back at the Renault motorhome, scrolling through his phone. A message popped up. Nico.

"Can't wait to see you again. This distance thing sucks."

Carlos smiled and typed back.

"Counting the days. Meanwhile, you owe me chocolate when you're back."

Lando Norris had noticed. He wasn't one to pry, but some things were obvious even from across the paddock.

One afternoon, after a practice session, Lando caught Carlos walking back toward the garage. He glanced over and asked casually, "You and Nico still keeping in touch?"

Carlos looked up, surprise flickering across his face. "Yeah. We do."

Lando shrugged, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Good. That's good."

Carlos chuckled, a little nervous. "Thanks, man."

Lando nodded. "No judgment here."

Back in 2021, when Nico announced he was returning, Carlos was already waiting. There were fewer races together, less time to spend, but it didn't matter.

When Nico was around, they found each other,  quick smiles across the paddock, brief conversations filled with everything unsaid, and the quiet comfort of a hand on a shoulder.

They never made a fuss.

Never announced it.

Just kept going.

One late night at the hotel, Nico caught Carlos staring out the window, tired but peaceful.

"You still like me with the beard?" Nico teased.

Carlos grinned, turning to face him. "More than ever."

Nico pulled him close.

"Then don't expect me to let you go."

Carlos leaned into the warmth, knowing they'd get through whatever came next. Together.

 

2021, Monaco GP Weekend

The roar of the engines filled the air, but inside the paddock, time slowed down for Carlos as he spotted Nico walking toward him. It had been months, longer than either liked, but the moment felt like no time had passed.

Nico's eyes caught Carlos's first, a small, genuine smile spreading across his face.

"Missed this," Nico said softly, closing the gap between them.

Carlos laughed, the sound warm and easy. "Me too. You owe me so much chocolate now."

Nico pulled a small, familiar wrapper from his pocket, a wink accompanying the gesture. "Here's a start."

They stood together, quiet for a beat, sharing the comfort of simply being near.

Later, away from the noise and cameras, they found a corner in the team hospitality. Nico slipped an arm around Carlos's shoulder, pulling him close.

"Feels like nothing changed," Nico murmured.

Carlos leaned in, voice low. "Because it didn't. We just... paused. Now, we keep going."

Nico smiled, pressing a kiss to Carlos's temple. "Together."

The world outside buzzed with the chaos of the race weekend, but for those moments, nothing else mattered.

 

Late 2021 – London

The box had been sitting in Nico's drawer for nearly a month now. Tucked beneath old race passes, socks, a tangle of watch straps. Hidden, but not forgotten.

He hadn't told Carlos about it. Not because he was unsure, he wasn't. But because Nico was waiting for the moment when it felt right. When the weight of what they'd built together felt like it could hold something even bigger.

He thought maybe it was getting close. Carlos had been staying over more. His shirts were hanging beside Nico's now. His beard trimmer had claimed a corner of the bathroom. There were little signs. And Nico caught himself smiling at every single one.

It was late, and the flat was quiet. Carlos was curled on the couch, half asleep in an old Renault hoodie, holding his phone but not really looking at it. Nico was pouring tea when the knock came.

Sharp. Urgent.

They both paused. London wasn't the kind of place for unexpected guests.

Nico opened the door.

She was soaked. Hair flattened to her cheeks, mascara smudged, her winter coat tight over a very real, very visible bump.

"Catherine...?" he breathed.

She didn't answer. Just stood there trembling, eyes wide, rain dripping from her sleeves.

"I... I didn't know where else to go," she said finally, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't be here if I had anyone else."

Carlos had stood up by now, quiet behind Nico, watching carefully.

"Come in," Nico said. "Please."

The living room lights were warm and soft, and the city noise outside had dimmed to a hush.

Catherine sat on the edge of the couch, the tea untouched in her hands. Her fingers trembled as they clutched the mug.

"I found out five months ago," she said. "I didn't plan to keep it. But I couldn't go through with the alternative either."

Carlos sat in the armchair across from her, elbows on his knees, listening.

"I've been on my own this whole time. I didn't want to drag anyone into this. Especially not you, Nico." She looked over at him. "But I'm almost there. She's almost here. And I... I can't do it. I can't be her mother. I'm not built for it."

Silence settled again.

Carlos was the first to ask. "Is it because of something medical? Or...?"

"No," she said. "No, not that. I'm just... not someone who should raise a child. I wasn't raised with love. I don't know how to give it. I'm angry all the time. I'm scared all the time. And I know she'll feel that."

She exhaled, as if saying the words had unknotted something deep in her chest.

"I want her to have a chance. A real one."

Nico looked down at his hands. They were clenched without him realizing.

"Why now?" he asked, voice low.

"Because it's almost too late. And because even when we were falling apart, you were kind. And I knew you wouldn't turn me away."

Carlos exchanged a glance with Nico, one that said they'd talk later, but they both already felt something pulling.

Later that night, after Catherine had been safely driven to a small apartment on the edge of the city, one Carlos had managed to arrange within an hour they sat quietly on the couch. Carlos was in fresh clothes, still a little damp from running through the rain.

"She really doesn't want to keep her," Carlos said after a long pause.

"No," Nico said. "She doesn't."

Another pause.

Carlos looked over, thoughtful. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Nico leaned his head back, tired, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"I think I've been thinking about it since she walked through the door."

Carlos didn't press.

"I don't know if I'm ready to be a father," Nico added. "But something about it... it feels like maybe I'm supposed to be. Or we are."

Carlos smiled faintly. "You'd be a good one."

"You think?"

"Yeah. You've been taking care of me for years. You're patient. Soft under all that German stubbornness."

Nico gave him a small, crooked grin.

"You'd be good too," he said.

Carlos chuckled. "You just want to see me try to change diapers."

Nico's grin faded to something more serious. "It'd be her. A little girl. A whole life. Not because we planned it, not because we asked for it, but... maybe because we were meant to find her."

Carlos leaned against him, resting his head on Nico's shoulder. The city lights from the window reflected in his eyes.

"Then we give her what neither of us really had," Carlos murmured. "We give her steady. We give her home."

Nico wrapped an arm around him, and they sat like that, still, thoughtful, tired.

Neither of them mentioned the ring that night.

But Nico's thoughts circled back to it again. Not just as a symbol of love now, but as something that would anchor them. All three of them.

 

January 2022 – London, Private Clinic

Catherine didn't want a drawn-out goodbye.

It was an agreement made gently, over late-night tea and tired voices. She'd carry the baby, give birth, and then quietly step away. No media, no names, no legal tug-of-war. Just... a clean break.

"I want her to have a better life," she'd said softly, hands pressed around a warm mug. "And I want to be selfish enough not to watch it happen. You two... you'll be her parents. That's how it always should've been."

Nico and Carlos didn't argue. There was nothing left to say, except "Thank you."

The birth wasn't dramatic. No panic. No flashing lights or shouting nurses. Just the low hum of hospital machines, steady breathing, quiet snow outside the windows.

And then a cry. Sharp, high, and alive.

Carlos had frozen. Nico, too.

They stood together in the far corner of the room, backs to the wall like they didn't quite belong there, until the nurse beckoned gently with a smile.

"Come meet her."

 

She was tiny. Wrinkled and red and soft as silk.

Carlos moved first, his steps hesitant. He leaned down over the little bundle, wrapped in a pale yellow blanket, and then let out a breath that caught halfway through.

"Myra," he whispered.

Nico turned to look at him. "Myra?"

"It means... precious," Carlos said. "It feels right."

Nico reached down next, brushing his finger lightly across her cheek. She blinked slowly, then yawned, unaware of the shift she had caused in their world.

"Myra Heidi Sainz-Hülkenberg," he said quietly.

Carlos nodded. "Our heart."

The nurse gave them space.

They stayed there for what felt like hours. Holding her. Watching her. Both men quietly in awe of how someone so small could carry so much weight.

 

Catherine left the clinic three hours after the birth.

She didn't want a scene. She didn't kiss the baby goodbye, didn't cry. She just touched Nico's arm once at the door and nodded to Carlos.

"Thank you," she said, and she was gone.

 

It wasn't easy.

Two racers. One newborn. No nanny. No rest.

Myra didn't cry often, but when she did, it echoed in their bones. Carlos, who'd always cherished sleep, forgot what it felt like. Nico, who liked control and quiet, found himself pacing the hallway with a baby pressed to his chest at 3 a.m., whispering lullabies in broken German.

There were fights, brief, tired, sometimes wordless.

"Did you sterilize this?"
"I thought I did."
"She didn't eat again. What are we doing wrong?"
"Nothing. We're just exhausted."

But there were also victories.

Carlos mastering the bottle after ten failed tries. Nico learning the exact bounce pattern that put Myra to sleep. The first time she smiled it wasn't gas, they knew it wasn't. Carlos nearly cried.

They made it work.

Carlos would take the night shift if Nico had sim work the next morning. Nico would take Myra to his physio sessions when Carlos was filming for sponsors. They carved out a routine from chaos, steadying each other in silence.

And always. Always, they kept it quiet.

No one outside their inner circle knew. Not yet. There was no announcement, no name on social media. Just a baby wrapped in soft cotton, sleeping between them in the quiet flat in West London.

Sometimes Carlos would stare at her, hand resting on her tiny chest, and whisper, "She's ours."

Nico would smile faintly. "We're hers."

 

March 2022 – First Race of the Season, Bahrain

To the world, Nico Hülkenberg was back.

Temporary, yes, but solid. Reliable. Fast. Carlos greeted him with a shoulder bump and an easy smile when the cameras were on, but behind closed doors there was more, a quick glance, a passing touch, soft murmurs in Spanish and German that had no place on camera.

They were good at hiding.

Their daughter. Myra, now just over two months old was tucked away with Carlos' parents that weekend. Helena had taken to her granddaughter with fierce devotion. She sent Nico photos every night before he turned in: Myra in a tiny red onesie, Myra gripping her bottle like it had offended her, Myra sleeping on Eduardo's chest while he snored on the couch.

Nico saved every photo. Carlos watched them with a softness in his eyes that no one ever got to see. No one, except one.

Charles saw it first in Jeddah. He didn't mean to.

Carlos had been tucked into the back of the McLaren motorhome, fiddling with his phone, smiling at something quietly. He looked up when Charles walked in, blinked, and just said, "Hey."

Charles said something about tire strategy and walked out again. But the image stuck.

The second time, it was a few weeks later.

He caught Nico on FaceTime just before FP1. Not that it was obvious, the screen was angled away. But Nico had been smiling too softly, speaking too gently for it to be a normal call. And then the voice, tiny, high-pitched, gurgling, came through the speaker. Nico scrambled to end the call, but Charles had already heard it.

Still, he said nothing.

 

Late April 2022 – Imola

They had a system.

When both were racing, the baby went to the grandparents. When only one was traveling, the other stayed in London with her. It wasn't flawless, nothing with a newborn ever was, but it worked.

They didn't talk about how strange it was to juggle night feedings with track walks. Or how Carlos once gave a post-race interview with formula on his collar. Or how Nico once stood frozen on the pit wall because he thought he heard her crying over the radios.

They simply... managed.

On Saturdays, after qualifying, they FaceTimed her.

On Sundays, win or lose, they called her before bed.

She couldn't understand a word, of course. But Carlos whispered Spanish lullabies into the mic. Nico hummed nonsense in German. She'd coo, blink slowly, and fall asleep to the sound of her fathers' voices.

 

Monaco, May 2022

Charles wasn't suspicious. That wasn't the word.

He was curious. Gently, quietly curious.

Carlos was different. More careful with time. Quieter after races. He stopped going out with the team so much. He smiled more, not wide and public, but in those private, meaningful ways. And Nico. He'd changed too. More grounded. Softer in the mornings. Once, Charles caught Nico pulling a folded piece of paper from his wallet, a sketch, maybe, or a photo. He held it like something sacred.

And it wasn't just the two of them individually.

It was them.

Together.

The way Carlos would always glance sideways to see if Nico was near. The way Nico would stand a little too close, hand ghosting behind Carlos' back like muscle memory. It wasn't romantic in the way the world expected, but it was intimate. Familiar.

Like they belonged to something that no one else was allowed to see.

So Charles watched.

Not out of suspicion.

But out of something else entirely.

A quiet kind of respect.

 

June 2022 – Barcelona, Post-Race

It was a warm night. The kind where the breeze came late but finally carried the city's heat off the stone streets and into the sea.

Carlos hadn't wanted to go out.

But Charles insisted. "Just a few of us. Food. Fresh air. You'll like it."

He was right. It was just a rooftop in the quieter part of town, the kind with string lights draped like lazy constellations and soft jazz barely humming over the sound of the city. A few familiar faces, soft laughter, wine, and space to breathe.

Carlos nursed his drink slower than usual. Charles sat beside him, elbow on the table, watching the city lights flicker like they were part of some rhythm only he could hear.

They hadn't said much.

And that was fine.

But then Carlos looked down, just for a second, to check his phone.

Charles saw it.

Not just the act. The way he did it.

Like muscle memory.

Like habit.

Like need.

Carlos tapped the screen. The lock screen lit up, just for a moment. And there she was.

A baby. Big dark eyes, soft dark hair, cheeks like summer fruit. She was smiling. Gummy. Reaching toward the camera.

Charles didn't comment.

Not at first.

He just leaned a little closer and said, "She's beautiful."

Carlos blinked, looked over, his expression calm but unreadable. "Who?"

Charles gave the smallest smile. "The baby."

Carlos didn't answer right away. He turned the phone over and placed it face-down on the table, gently, like it was something alive.

Then, after a beat, he said, "It's nothing."

But Charles wasn't asking.

"I know," he replied softly.

They both looked back out toward the city.

Carlos rubbed his jaw, short little motion, thumb catching the edge of his beard. He didn't explain. Didn't justify. He didn't need to.

Charles wouldn't push.

Not him.

Not this.

"You're different," Charles said instead.

Carlos turned, just a little. "Good or bad?"

"Good." A pause. "Stronger."

Carlos smiled, small, real. "Thanks."

They didn't talk about Nico. They didn't talk about what Charles had seen over the months, the glances, the quiet moments, the way Carlos always seemed to have somewhere else his heart was leaning.

They didn't have to.

Because when people are close enough, understanding doesn't always come in questions.

Sometimes it just sits there, like the night air, quiet and kind and steady.

 

Somewhere in 2022 — A quiet dinner in Monaco

It wasn't a fancy night, just something casual. Carlos needed air, needed company without pressure. Charles had texted him earlier."You feel like getting out?" and now here they were, tucked in a quiet corner of a small bistro, no cameras, no noise. Just two teammates, or at least that's how it looked.

Carlos had his phone on the table, screen down. But every few minutes, he flipped it over to check something. Not messages, just the home screen. Charles noticed.

The baby in the photo was smiling. Brown eyes, a little tuft of dark hair. One small fist curled at her cheek. Charles didn't ask. He didn't need to.

He took a sip of his drink. "You seem... happy," he said, careful, casual.

Carlos glanced at him. "I am. Tired, but yeah. I am."

There was a silence that followed, the kind that made room for honesty but didn't demand it.

"You and Nico," Charles said, not a question, not a dig. Just air between friends.

Carlos didn't answer right away. He just looked out over the marina. Boats, lights, reflections moving gently with the water.

"It's nothing," he said finally, but he didn't sound convinced even to himself. "It's just... it's ours."

Charles didn't press. He nodded, eyes soft. "I think that's a good thing."

Carlos smiled, slow. "Yeah. It is."

He picked up his phone again and looked at the photo, a flicker of something warm passing across his face. Then he turned it toward Charles for just a second, just long enough to see the image clearly.

"Myra," he said, voice low but full. "She's ours too."

Charles blinked, but he didn't look surprised. Just nodded again, like it all made sense now. All the little things he'd noticed, the early flights, the phone calls that ended with Carlos smiling to himself, the way Nico lingered even when he wasn't supposed to be there.

"You don't have to explain," Charles said quietly. "Just... I'm glad you have her. Both of you."

Carlos didn't reply. Just reached out and squeezed his wrist, just for a second. He didn't say thank you. He didn't need to.

Later that night, when he got home, Carlos found Nico asleep on the couch, Myra curled up on his chest, both of them breathing in sync. Carlos sat beside them, gently brushing Myra's little hand with his thumb.

This wasn't the life they planned. But it was the one they chose. And somehow, it felt exactly right.

 

Late 2022 – Early 2023
The days bled together.

Race weekends were the hardest. Sleep was rare, stress was constant. Myra cried, Myra laughed, Myra existed and that was all that mattered. But god, it was exhausting. Nico and Carlos learned to live on three hours of sleep, on FaceTime calls between practice sessions, on trust and deep, deep love. The secret wasn't heavy, not in the way people think. It was just... delicate. Like something they had to carry with both hands. Carefully. Always.

But not once did they stumble.
Not once did they think of quitting.
They had her. They had each other. That was enough.

Nico kept racing. Carlos kept racing. And Myra kept growing, teething, babbling, recognizing their faces, reaching for them. Every airport goodbye was brutal. Every reunion left Nico teary. Carlos kept little Polaroids in his wallet, swapped out every few weeks. The wallpaper on his phone changed every month. Always Myra. Sometimes Myra with Nico, her tiny hands grabbing his nose. Once, one of her asleep on Carlos' chest, his shirt soaked with drool and love.

They pulled through the year. Quietly. Stronger than ever. And without planning to, they ended up building a rhythm. Their rhythm.

Then came early 2023.
Myra's birthday was around the corner.

It was during a rare quiet moment with Charles, just a soft evening in a tucked-away cafe in Geneva. They hadn't seen each other in weeks.

Carlos stirred his tea, not really tasting it. "She's turning one," he said, like it just occurred to him. "In a few days."

Charles glanced up. "She?"

Carlos nodded, then smiled, almost shy. "Myra. My daughter."

There was no reaction of shock. Charles just looked at him, eyes soft. Then nodded.

"I know," he said, calm. "I've known for a while."

Carlos blinked. "You did?"

"I'm not blind, mate. And I'm not stupid. I've seen the way you look at Nico when you think no one's watching. I've seen your phone screen, your silence when everyone else is talking. I figured it out months ago." Charles' tone was gentle. "I just didn't want to make you feel like you had to tell me."

Carlos was quiet. His throat felt thick. "You're not... upset?"

Charles tilted his head. "Why would I be? You love her. You love him. That's something most people can only hope for. I'm happy you have that."

Carlos looked down, overwhelmed but grateful.

"And besides," Charles added with a small smile, "you're not the only one with secrets."

Carlos raised an eyebrow.

Charles just chuckled. "Not tonight."

There was a beat of silence before Carlos said, a bit awkwardly, "We're doing something. For her birthday. It's just family. No cameras. No big party. Just... us. You should come."

Charles' expression shifted. A little surprised, a little touched.

"Yeah," he said after a pause. "Yeah, I'd like that."

 

Myra's Birthday – A few days late r

The apartment in London was full of soft chatter and warm food. Nico's parents had flown in. Carlos' mother helped Nico hang streamers while the baby tried to eat the tape. There was a tiny cake with one crooked candle. There were toys tucked into corners and Nico's sweater stained with baby food.

Charles arrived quietly, with a small stuffed elephant in hand. Myra took it and beamed at him like he'd brought the moon. Nico raised an eyebrow at Carlos from across the room. Carlos just smiled.

They were tired. They were still hiding. But in that room, surrounded by the only people who mattered, they were more than okay.
They were whole.

And Charles... well, Charles watched them carefully, smiling to himself.

His secret could wait.
Tonight was about theirs.

 

Later that night
The apartment was still.

The last light in the hallway flickered softly against the hardwood floor. The faint hum of London beyond the windows sounded distant, like the world outside was paused, waiting. Inside their room, it was warm. Lived-in. Myra was asleep in the nursery, surrounded by soft lullabies and her stuffed elephant. The party was long over. The quiet had settled in like a blanket.

Carlos lay on his back, one arm under his head, the other stretched toward Nico, who rested beside him, body half-curled toward his chest. Nico's fingertips drew slow, mindless patterns on Carlos' shirt, he wasn't even really thinking about it. He was just... there. And so was Carlos.

Carlos broke the silence first. "You know, I think Charles really can be trusted."

Nico hummed in agreement, his voice low and soft from sleep. "He didn't flinch. Not even a little."

"No," Carlos said. "He knew. He saw it before I said anything. Like he'd been holding it for me. Waiting until I was ready."

Nico shifted closer. "That's a good friend."

"Yeah," Carlos said, his thumb brushing gently along the back of Nico's hand. "It's strange. A year ago, I never thought we could do this. Not like this. Not so quietly. Not so fully."

Nico turned his head, cheek pressed against Carlos' chest now. He was quiet for a moment before speaking.

"I didn't think I could be this... happy," he said. "Not with the chaos. The racing. The hiding. The baby. But I am. With you, with her... I am."

Carlos smiled into the ceiling. "Me too."

There was a pause.

"You've changed," Nico said, not unkindly.

Carlos turned his head to glance down at him. "Have I?"

"Yeah," Nico said, looking up. "You're softer. Not weaker. Just... more open. Like you've let more in."

Carlos laughed under his breath. "You make it sound poetic."

"You've always been poetic," Nico murmured, half teasing. "You just hide it under all that stubbornness."

Carlos snorted. "Look who's talking."

Nico smiled. "I don't hide. I just talk too much."

They both laughed, quiet and tired and happy.

Another pause. The kind that didn't need to be filled, but was still warm with things unsaid.

Then Carlos shifted, just slightly. "I kept thinking tonight... how crazy this is."

"What part?"

"All of it," Carlos whispered. "How we managed to build a life. A real one. From the ashes of... whatever we were before. How you held me through every panic attack those first few nights Myra wouldn't sleep. How we traded flights like mercenaries just to make sure one of us was always home. How we never gave up."

Nico looked up at him again, eyes soft in the dim light. "We didn't give up because we didn't want to. You. Me. We never once doubted her. Or each other."

Carlos touched his forehead to Nico's for a moment. "You're my home."

"And you're mine," Nico whispered.

They lay like that for a while, still and close. The only sound in the room was their breathing.

Then, softly, Carlos grinned. "What do you think Charles' secret is?"

Nico laughed, almost into his chest. "I've been thinking about that too."

"I think it's love. It has to be. He looked... different tonight."

"Yeah," Nico said. "He had that look. Like he'd felt something and didn't know what to do with it yet."

Carlos pulled the blanket higher over both of them. "Maybe he'll tell us. Maybe not. But I'm glad he knows about us. It's one less weight."

"Exactly," Nico said, voice already starting to drift toward sleep. "One less secret."

They both fell quiet again.

Minutes passed. Then Nico, just as he was drifting off, whispered, "You know what I keep thinking?"

Carlos turned his head slightly. "What?"

Nico smiled, eyes closed now. "That even when I'm so tired I can't see straight, I'd still choose this. Every day. You. Her. This life."

Carlos' chest ached in the best way. He leaned down and kissed Nico's forehead.

"Same here," he whispered. "Always."

And in the quiet of the room, their hands stayed intertwined. The world outside could wait.

They had everything they needed right here.

 

A Week Before Carlos' Birthday, 2023

London felt like it had paused in a kind of soft gray. A gentle drizzle tapped against the café windows, just enough to blur the glass and turn headlights into streaks of gold. Nico sat in the farthest booth, his jacket still damp, a hand curled loosely around a coffee he hadn't really touched.

Across from him, Charles watched in patient silence.

Nico exhaled slowly. "I've had the ring for nearly a year."

Charles blinked, a little surprised. "A year?"

Nico nodded. "Almost. I found it when I was on break, when things were... calmer. I wasn't even thinking seriously about proposing then, I just saw it, and I knew. It was him. It looked like him. It felt like him." He stared out the window. "But then Catherine came back. Then Myra. And racing. Life just got so full so fast. And I kept thinking... maybe it's too soon. Maybe it's too much."

Charles let him speak. He didn't rush him.

Nico finally looked back at him. His voice dropped. "What if he says no?"

Charles didn't flinch. He simply asked, "Why would he?"

"Because I've made his life harder," Nico said, raw and without self-pity. "Because he didn't ask for all this, not really. He didn't ask to help me raise someone else's child. He didn't ask to hide her. To lie to the media. To miss out on parts of her life while we're flying between races and pretending nothing's changed." Nico's voice cracked just a little. "And I keep thinking—what if he's just holding on for now? For her? For stability?"

Charles shook his head slowly. "You're wrong, Nico."

Nico looked at him, unsure.

"I've known Carlos a long time," Charles said. "I've seen him fight, I've seen him doubt, I've seen him lose his temper and hold grudges like no one else. But I've never seen him love someone the way he loves you. Never."

Nico didn't speak, but his jaw clenched slightly. Emotion burned just beneath the surface.

Charles leaned in a little, speaking gently now. "He's in this with you. All the way. He didn't sign up for easy. He chose you. He chose her. Every single day. You don't have to be afraid."

"But I am," Nico said quietly. "I'm terrified."

Charles smiled a little. "That's how you know it matters."

Silence hung between them again, softer this time.

Nico finally spoke. "I want to do it on his birthday."

Charles' eyes lit up. "That's perfect."

Nico laughed under his breath, nervous. "Is it?"

"Yes," Charles said firmly. "You don't need grand gestures or media fireworks. Just something real. And him. That's all it takes."

Nico nodded slowly, still unsure, but something in his chest felt lighter. A little steadier.

Charles stood, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder once. "He'll say yes. Trust me."

Nico looked up at him, eyes a little glossy now.

"I love him," he said quietly, as if confessing it to himself again. "I've never loved anyone like this."

Charles smiled, and his voice was soft. "Then ask him."

 

Carlos' Birthday – March 2023, London

It wasn't a party. Carlos didn't want one. Just a quiet night, just a few friends. Nico respected that, respected that the quieter moments meant more to Carlos than any grand celebration ever could.

So it was the five of them, tucked into a private room of a small Spanish restaurant tucked in a quiet corner of London. The lighting was soft, low enough to make the candle flames dance. The walls were a warm rustic orange, with faded photos of old Barcelona on the shelves. They ordered wine and tapas and shared laughs between them. Max made jokes that didn't always land, Lando brought the chaos as usual, and Charles was content to watch, a glass of red in his hand, smiling like he knew more than he let on.

Carlos had looked happy all night. Relaxed. He laughed easily, his hand brushing Nico's once, twice, under the table. He didn't notice the way Nico's other hand trembled slightly every time he reached for his drink.

Nico had been rehearsing the words for days. In the mirror. In the car. In his head at 2am while watching Myra sleep, her little fists curled up near her chest.

And now they were all here. Carlos was turning thirty, sitting at the head of the table with a half-eaten slice of cake and glowing in the kind of way that made Nico's heart ache. He glanced toward Charles, almost imperceptibly.

Charles caught it. Nodded. Soft. Steady.

Now or never.

Nico rose from his chair quietly, enough that Max and Lando paused mid-sentence. Carlos looked up, puzzled, smiling faintly. Until Nico reached for his hand and pulled him gently to his feet.

"Nico?" Carlos asked, confused. "What's-?"

And then Nico knelt.

The room shifted.

The laughter died down, the quiet hum of conversation slowed into something fragile and still. Max's brows lifted. Lando's mouth opened slightly. Charles didn't move. He just watched, eyes soft.

Carlos' lips parted, stunned.

Nico looked up at him and suddenly, none of it felt rehearsed anymore. His breath caught for a second, and then-

"It started with chocolate," he said, voice low but clear. "You remember? Back in 2017. It was stupid, really. I fed you a piece, and you laughed with your whole face. And I remember thinking, This is new. This is... different."

Carlos' eyes blinked, wide and unblinking.

"I didn't mean to fall in love with you. I wasn't ready. I didn't even know I could feel something like this again. But you made me feel it. You made me feel everything. And you gave me a life I didn't even think I deserved."

He looked down for half a second, composing himself, then met Carlos' gaze again.

"We've raised a child in secret. We've raced on the same sides of the world and come back to the same bed like gravity. We've argued. We've cried. We've stayed. Every single day, we've stayed. And I wouldn't trade this. You. Not even for my life."

Carlos was shaking slightly now, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

"I want to keep building this with you. I want a thousand more quiet mornings, I want birthdays like this. I want Myra to grow up knowing exactly what love looks like. I want you, Carlos. All of you. Forever."

He held up the ring, simple and silver, but unmistakably them.

"Will you marry me?"

The silence that followed was full of light.

Carlos pressed a trembling hand over his mouth. Then another over his chest. His face crumpled just a little, because how could it not? Everything he felt in that moment rushed forward at once. Years of love, of hiding, of hoping. It was all here now, in front of everyone that mattered.

And then he said it, through a broken laugh and tears slipping down his cheeks:

"Yes. God... Yes."

The sound that followed was an eruption.

Max let out a long, stunned "woah," Lando clapped way too hard, Charles stood up, grinning, and Carlos pulled Nico to his feet, didn't even let him put the ring on before he kissed him right there, hard and full and real.

Nico laughed into the kiss, eyes wet. He finally slid the ring onto Carlos' finger as they pulled apart. They held each other's faces in their hands like no one else existed.

And Charles, watching, took a quiet breath.

Because it was time.

"My turn?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

They turned to him, still breathless and tangled in each other.

"I have a secret too," Charles said.

He smiled, the kind of smile that meant the next chapter was about to begin.

Charles stood with a faint smile playing on his lips, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his trousers. The light from the overhead lamps flickered just enough to make his expression unreadable, until he turned his head and looked across the room.

Right at Max.

Carlos blinked. Nico's brows rose just slightly. Lando's mouth formed the beginnings of a word, but it didn't go anywhere.

Charles didn't say anything right away. He just held Max's gaze, a quiet kind of understanding passing between them.

And then he said it. Calm. Measured. Like it wasn't a bomb dropping in the middle of the room.

"Well," Charles began, "I guess since we're sharing things tonight..." He looked back at Carlos and Nico. "We've been engaged for a few months now."

It took them a moment to register it.

"Wait... what?" Nico blinked.

"Engaged?" Carlos echoed, startled.

Max gave the smallest nod, barely a tilt of his head. "Since February."

Charles smiled and reached for the chain around his neck. From beneath the collar of his shirt, he pulled a thin silver necklace forward and at the end of it was a ring. Simple. Sleek. Platinum, probably. He held it up like it wasn't even a big deal.

Max mirrored him. Same kind of chain. Same kind of ring.

Carlos let out a breath of disbelief, not annoyed, not at all, but floored in the best kind of way.

"Since when...?" Nico asked, still trying to piece it together.

"Since 2019," Charles replied softly. "We've been together since then. Quietly. We just... never felt the need to make it public. Like you two were."

Max shrugged, eyes flicking to Charles. "Some things are better when they're just yours."

There wasn't smugness in either of them. Just a calm sort of peace, two people who had figured out their world and didn't ask for anyone to understand it unless they wanted to share it.

Lando blinked. Once. Twice. Then he raised both hands and said, "Okay, well... I've never felt so single in my entire life."

That broke the tension.

Carlos laughed first, then Nico, and even Max cracked a grin. Charles let out a soft chuckle, brushing his thumb over the ring like it was second nature.

The table erupted in warmth again. Glasses were raised, new toasts made. The night rolled on,  different now. Fuller. Safer. Laced with the kind of understanding that didn't need to be spoken.

There were still secrets. But none of them were alone anymore.

 

The flat was quiet, finally. Everyone had left, the last bottle uncorked and drained, the last wave of laughter still echoing faintly in the air. The lights were dim now just the soft amber glow from the lamp in the corner of the living room.

Carlos lay stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other loosely draped over Nico's stomach. Nico sat propped at the other end, fingers idly brushing through Carlos' hair. His nerves had finally settled. His heart hadn't stopped racing, but it wasn't fear anymore. It was something warmer. He looked down at Carlos, who was watching him with a lazy, content smile.

"So," Carlos murmured, voice low. "You really went through with it."

Nico chuckled, eyes soft. "I did."

Carlos shifted closer, resting his head against Nico's chest. "You were shaking."

"Was not."

"You were," Carlos said, laughing now. "Your hand was twitching. I thought you were about to pass out."

"I thought you were going to say no," Nico muttered into his hair.

Carlos tilted his head up, mock offended. "Why would I say no?"

"I don't know." Nico exhaled. "You surprise me sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

Nico rolled his eyes. "Okay, a lot."

Carlos grinned. "You're lucky I like surprises."

"You're lucky I like disasters."

That earned him a playful swat to the chest. Nico caught Carlos' hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. They settled again into a silence that wasn't really silent, the kind filled with unsaid things that didn't need to be rushed.

"Do you remember the chocolate?" Carlos said suddenly, eyes half-lidded.

Nico groaned. "You're never letting that go, are you?"

"Nope," Carlos said proudly. "That was your downfall."

"It was your mouth that stole it out of my hand," Nico replied, tugging a blanket over both of them. "I was just a poor, innocent man trying to enjoy a snack."

"Innocent," Carlos scoffed. "You were already halfway in love with me."

"I was not."

"You were," Carlos grinned. "You looked at me like I'd invented cocoa."

Nico looked down at him with a faux-serious stare. "You bit my fingers."

"You fed me chocolate like I was some sort of royal pet."

"Because you are," Nico deadpanned. "A spoiled golden retriever who refuses to share desserts."

Carlos laughed again, quieter this time. His hand found Nico's and laced their fingers together under the blanket.

"I'm glad you did it," he said softly.

Nico turned his head. "Yeah?"

Carlos nodded. "I was waiting."

A beat.

"I didn't want to push," he added, voice low. "I know we've had a lot. With Myra. With racing. With hiding. I didn't want you to feel like you had to."

"I didn't feel like I had to," Nico whispered, thumb brushing over Carlos'. "I needed to."

Carlos blinked at that.

"Because I want this," Nico continued, gently. "I want you. Every version of you. Even the stubborn, chocolate-hoarding, overly competitive part."

"That's most of me," Carlos smirked.

"I know," Nico said fondly. "And I still said yes to you every single day, before I even asked you to say it back."

Carlos squeezed his hand. "You always say stupid things like that when we're alone."

Nico smiled. "I say honest things."

Carlos reached up, cupping his cheek. "Then tell me another."

Nico leaned in, just brushing their foreheads together. "I love you."

Carlos closed his eyes. "Again."

"I love you."

Again. Again. Again. Like a quiet promise.

They stayed like that,  tangled together, whispering, teasing, breathing each other in. The world felt light. Their burdens shared. Their love real.

And somewhere on the table, unopened but not forgotten, was a bar of dark chocolate,  still the running joke, still their beginning.

Still them.

 

The wedding

The sky above was soft and golden, warm with the sun dipping into its late afternoon glow. The ceremony space was tucked away in the countryside, quiet, far from circuits and spotlights. There were no roaring engines here. Just birdsong, a light breeze, and the sound of people who loved each other gathering to witness something deeply right.

They'd kept the guest list close: friends who had been there since the beginning. People who mattered. People who stayed.

Carlos stood at the end of the aisle, nerves wound tightly beneath his tailored suit, even though he smiled through it. Charles straightened his lapel while Alex gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. Lando whispered something ridiculous, something about not tripping or throwing up and Carlos laughed. That helped.

Nico waited just out of view, Max beside him, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve like it wasn't perfectly straight. Kevin stood at attention, composed but warm. And Valtteri handed Nico a handkerchief with zero explanation and said only, "You'll need this." Nico chuckled like he wouldn't, but tucked it into his jacket anyway.

And then the music shifted. Everyone stood.

It was Myra first. She toddled down the aisle in her pale yellow dress, hair curled and bouncing with every step, holding a tiny basket of petals she barely remembered to throw. But no one minded they were too busy smiling. She stopped halfway, caught sight of her two fathers, and let out a delighted little, "Papa!" that cracked Carlos wide open inside.

Then Nico appeared.

And Carlos forgot how to breathe.

He looked beautiful. He always did, but now it felt different. Like he was shining in a way only Carlos got to see. All nerves faded. He could only see him.

Their daughter waited between them, clutching a little white box with their rings nestled safely inside.

Fernando, in what might've been the most serious suit he ever wore, stood at the front. His expression was unreadable, arms crossed behind his back, but there was softness in his eyes. He'd made it clear he was there for one job only: to judge the ring bearer's delivery. And Myra did not disappoint.

They took their vows slowly. No scripts. Just truth.

Carlos spoke first. "Nico. When I first met you," he said, voice trembling, "I didn't know what I was doing. I just knew I liked it when you smiled at me. I liked that you cared. And when things got hard, you didn't leave. You stayed. For me, for us. Even when the world tried to split us apart. Even when we were exhausted, hiding, afraid. You held me together. It all started because you fed me chocolate. And that was the best thing that ever happened to me."

He paused to breathe. "You're my home, Nico. You always have been."

Nico's voice cracked from the first word. "Carlos. I used to think love was a thing that came after life settled. After the chaos. But then you happened, in the middle of everything. You came in like a storm, with your eyes and your chocolate and your fire, and suddenly nothing made sense without you. You gave me more than love. You gave me a life. A family. All because I wanted to Feed You Chocolate."

His throat tightened. "I would do it all again. Every hidden moment. Every sleepless night. Every doubt. Because it led me here. To you."

The silence after was full, heavy with feeling. Neither could stop the tears that slipped quietly down their cheeks. Neither admitted to crying. Both denied it later.

They knelt down together to Myra, who proudly opened the box and gave each of them a ring with careful, tiny hands. Nico kissed the top of her head. Carlos winked and called her muy valiente, and she giggled.

When they stood again and slipped the rings on, Fernando raised a brow and muttered, "Passable. Could've been smoother," earning scattered laughter.

Fernando spoke. "Do you, Carlos Sainz Jr, want to take Nico Hulkenberg as your husband, to love him in sickness and health, in bad times and good times and hold him forever?"

"I do." Carlos answered with no hesitation.

Fernando then began again. "Do you, Nico hulkenberg, want to take Carlos Sainz Jr, as your husband, to love him in sickness and health, in bad times and good times and hold him forever?"

Nico looked at Carlos with tear then answered. "I do."

"You may kiss," he added flatly, but there was the faintest smirk hiding at the corner of his mouth.

And they did. Right there in front of everyone, arms wrapped tight, breath mingled, love poured between them like something ancient and unbreakable.

"Till death do us part?" Carlos asked when they pulled away.

Nico smile then said. "Till death do us part."

The applause roared.

Lando whooped. Charles smiled like he'd been holding it in for hours. Max punched Nico in the arm and said, "About time." Kevin and Valtteri raised their glasses early. Alex wiped his eye discreetly.

They laughed. They danced. They cried again, only this time with no shame.

And when the sun sank below the hills and stars took their place, the three of them, Nico, Carlos, and Myra, sat together in the grass, shoes off, cake forgotten, hands linked. Their little girl curled against Carlos' chest, sleep tugging at her.

The world had been cruel to them. It had tried to break them.

But here they were. Still standing. Still loving. Still choosing each other.

Every day. Every year. For the rest of their lives.

 

It all started with chocolate.

One hand, offering. One smile, returned.

Neither of them knew, back then, what would come of it, the years, the weight, the love that would bloom quietly between the chaos. But somehow, from one small gesture, they found everything. A home. A life. A family.

And now, with vows made and the world watching no longer, they walk forward together.

Still choosing.
Still loving.
Still them.

Forever, from a piece of chocolate.

Chapter 13: CL16 & CS55 | The Day It All Changed

Charles Leclerc doesn't believe in love.

Not in the bitter, dramatic way some people say it. Not like it's a wound or a betrayal. He just... doesn't see the point. He's seen what people call love, messy, loud, inconvenient. A thing that gets in the way. Something that fades the moment you stop pretending it's perfect.

So no, he doesn't date. He doesn't flirt. The few relationships he had, years ago, felt like obligations, or experiments, or stories he thought he was supposed to play a role in. They didn't last, and he didn't miss them when they were over.

The media calls him "private," "unreachable," "ice behind the wheel." Teammates have stopped asking about his personal life. His friends know better than to try setting him up. And fans online? They speculate. Wildly.

"If there was a sexuality past straight, Charles Leclerc would be that."

He saw that once. It made him laugh, quietly, then scroll past.

He isn't lonely. He's driven. Focused. He's twenty-seven, the face of Ferrari, and every single part of his life is built around the same goal he's had since he was a kid: win. Again. And again. And again.

So he trains. He races. He studies data until his eyes blur. He smiles for cameras when he has to, then disappears behind closed doors with his headphones on, the world tuned out.

It's not that he's unhappy.
It's just that... nothing moves him. Nothing stirs.
Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.

Later that evening, Charles found himself sitting in the paddock lounge with Max and Pierre. The three of them were the closest thing to family he had in this whirlwind world. Max was animated, as always, his easy smile lighting up the space. Pierre was quieter, but sharp-eyed, sipping his drink thoughtfully.

Max leaned back, stretching his long legs out. "You're 27 now, Charles. It's about time you settled down."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Settled down? With what and who?"

Pierre chuckled. "Look at Max. Same age as you, and already planning a wedding with Lando."

Max grinned but nodded. "Yeah, man. Lando's already got the venue picked. You should see the Pinterest boards."

Charles shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'm not ready for that. And honestly, I don't think I ever will be."

Pierre exchanged a glance with Max. "You don't have to be 'ready' to try."

Charles's smile faded. "I've tried. It never feels real. Like I'm just going through the motions. I'm not interested in pretending. Not anymore."

Max leaned forward, voice softer. "Maybe you just haven't found the right person yet. Someone who makes it feel different."

"I don't believe in that," Charles said quietly. "Not for me."

For a moment, the three friends sat in silence. Then Pierre shrugged, raising his glass. "Fine. We give up. Now let's talk about something less depressing. How about racing?"

Max nodded, smiling again. "Yeah. Got any vacation plans? I'm thinking Bali after this season."

Charles relaxed, letting the tension drain away. "No plans. Just training. Maybe a quiet week somewhere."

The conversation drifted to engines, circuits, and ridiculous race day stories, their usual safe space.

But somewhere deep inside, Charles felt a flicker he couldn't quite place.

"So," Charles said, leaning back in his chair, "where are you and Lando doing the wedding?"

Max blinked, a bit caught off guard. "Oh-uh, Tuscany."

Pierre's eyebrows shot up. "Fancy."

Max gave a sheepish smile. "Lando wanted something private, pretty, and warm. Tuscany ticked all the boxes. And his mum loved the idea. Which means it's final."

Charles smirked. "And you?"

"I wanted to elope in Vegas. But that didn't survive the first group call with our families."

Pierre laughed. "So who are the groomsmen?"

Max looked nervous for the first time all evening. He scratched the back of his neck. "Well... I already asked Daniel."

Charles nodded, unsurprised. "Obviously."

Max looked between the two of them. "I was kind of hoping you two would say yes too."

Pierre raised his glass. "Of course, we would."

Charles just nodded once. "Obviously."

Max exhaled, visibly relieved. "Thank god. That's settled, then. Three idiots in matching suits. Lando's going to cry."

Pierre grinned. "Kika will probably be on Lando's side. She's been helping with the wedding stuff more than I have."

Charles smiled faintly, letting himself enjoy the moment, the simplicity of it, the closeness.

Then Pierre leaned forward a little. "Oh... speaking of, did you guys hear about the guest coming to the paddock in Monaco?"

Max raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

Pierre shrugged. "Some fashion guy. I think he owns a label or a brand or something. Super well-known. Ferrari invited him for some promo. Name's Carlos Sainz."

Charles tilted his head. "Carlos who?"

"Sainz," Pierre repeated. "I don't know more than that. He's supposed to show up around media day."

Max made a thoughtful sound. "Carlos Sainz... yeah, I've heard of him. Big name in fashion, runs his own house now. Used to model for a while before he started his brand. Really private guy, but his stuff's everywhere. You've definitely seen his face before, even if you didn't realize it."

"Sounds dramatic," Charles muttered.

Max shrugged. "He's Spanish. What do you expect?"

That got a laugh out of all three.

Pierre leaned in. "I saw a photo once. Tall. Strong jawline. Ridiculous hair."

Max added, "Arms. Don't forget the arms. He looks like he wrestles bulls in his free time."

Charles chuckled but said nothing. The name still didn't ring any bells. But the way they described him, it stirred something. Not attraction. Not exactly. Just... interest.

Curiosity.

And Charles wasn't used to being curious about people.

 

The Ferrari briefing room in Monaco was buzzing, screens flickering with data, coffee cups half full, and voices low but constant. It was the usual pre-race rhythm, strategy talks, tire choices, weather forecasts.

But today, there was a small change of topic.

Fred Vasseur stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Before we get into the run plan, a quick note," he said, scanning the room. "We're expecting a guest at the hospitality this weekend. Someone important."

That got a few raised eyebrows.

"Sponsorship-related," Fred continued. "Fashion. Very high-profile. He's coming to see what we're about. There's a potential collaboration in discussion, and if all goes well, we might be seeing more of him around."

He turned toward the two drivers seated near the front. "Charles, Lewis, you'll be the ones greeting him on Friday. Hospitality, midday. Don't scare him off."

Lewis leaned back in his chair. "You know I won't. I'm all smiles these days."

A few quiet chuckles followed.

Fred smiled. "Good. Just be yourselves. You both know fashion well, and he's the kind of guy who'll appreciate that."

Charles glanced up, vaguely interested. "Who is it?"

"Carlos Sainz," Fred said. "He runs Sainz Atelier. Big name, especially in Europe. Also, yes, before you ask, he's very good looking."

Lewis snorted. "He is. Like... unfairly good looking."

The room laughed again.

Charles gave a polite smile, but said nothing more. The name still didn't mean much to him. He hadn't looked him up, despite the talk. Not because he didn't care, and definitely not out of arrogance.

He just wanted to see for himself.

No preconceptions. No edited photos or filtered headlines. If everyone kept saying Carlos Sainz looked like a walking sculpture, then Charles wanted to see what that meant in real life.

He wasn't even sure why.

Curiosity, probably. That was all.

Fred wrapped up the guest talk and turned back to the business of racing, lap targets, pit windows, traffic models. Charles listened, head down, scribbling the occasional note, but a small part of his mind... stayed elsewhere.

A name. A face he hadn't seen yet.

Carlos Sainz.

We'll see.

 

Friday came with sun.

The Monaco paddock shimmered under the coastal light, everything a little louder, a little busier, a little more glamorous than usual. It always was. The tight streets, the sound of shutters clicking, fans lining every barrier, it was Charles' home, and he felt it in every corner.

He was used to the weight of it by now. The pressure. The media, the cameras, the expectations. He wore it like he wore his race suit: tight but familiar.

"Smile, you're on your third camera today," Lewis muttered beside him, leaning just slightly toward his mic as they walked through hospitality.

Charles gave a small, sharp smile to the crowd ahead. "I am smiling."

"Your mouth is. Your eyes look like they're already in Q3."

Charles laughed under his breath. "It's Monaco. I don't get to be relaxed here."

Lewis shrugged. "Fair. But don't burn out before Saturday."

They stopped in front of the next media setup. Another interview, another three questions they'd answered twelve times before. Charles kept it professional. Calm. Hands at his sides, posture straight. Smile when needed. Repeat answers, reword the phrasing, nod at the right cues. He could do this in his sleep.

He wasn't sure when it started, his head being just a little too loud. Maybe back in the briefing. Maybe when Fred said his name.

Carlos Sainz.

The name had been stuck in Charles' mind like a stone in a shoe.

He hadn't looked him up. Not once. And yet it was starting to feel like he knew something about him. Not facts. Not images. Just... anticipation. A strange buzz in his stomach that wouldn't go away.

"You alright?" Lewis asked, once they were walking again, away from fans this time and heading toward the main Ferrari building.

"Yeah," Charles said quickly. "Why?"

"You've said 'pardon' three times today. You're barely listening."

"I'm fine." He smiled, softer this time. "Just... Monaco."

Lewis didn't press. Just patted his back once and changed the subject.

They had one last round of fan photos by the Ferrari motorhome before they were due at the hospitality tent, midday, just as Fred had said. Charles checked his watch. Ten minutes.

He adjusted his collar. Smoothed the front of his team shirt. Hair was fine. He wasn't even sure why he was checking.

Not nerves.

Definitely not.

He was just curious.

That was all.

Right?

"Alright, he's coming," Lewis said under his breath, adjusting his sleeves and standing straighter. "Big smile, don't embarrass us."

Charles let out a quiet breath. "It's just a meeting. I don't get nervous."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," Lewis grinned, eyes on the far end of the hospitality path. "Oh. There he is."

Charles turned his head, slowly, too slowly, like he meant to make a casual glance. It wasn't. It was a mistake.

The paddock had gone louder.

Not because of him. Not this time.

Fans on the edge of the barriers were shouting, not driver names, not team names, but one: "Carlos!"

And then Charles saw him.

Walking like he didn't even need the attention, but got it anyway. His stride was smooth, grounded. Intentional. He wore a crisp white button-up, two buttons undone, just enough to reveal the start of a chest that was, well. Defined. Stupidly defined.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, showing off forearms that looked carved. Dusting of dark hair up to where the fabric ended. Veins faint but there. Subtle strength, not loud. Confident.

Trousers, perfectly tailored, of course. A dark color that made his frame look even more put together. And glasses. Thin, simple frames that somehow made him look even more serious. Or elegant. Or... both?

Charles didn't realize he was staring.

Specifically at his chest. Then arms. Back to chest.

And again.

"Bro, are you here?" Lewis nudged him, trying not to laugh. "You spaced out hard."

Charles blinked, actually blinked like he was waking up from something. "Yeah. Yes. Sorry. First impression. That's all."

Lewis raised a brow but didn't push. Amused, definitely. But also watching Carlos now.

Charles swallowed. Tried to look away.

Tried.

And then Carlos was in front of them.

Just a meter away.

Close enough that Charles could see the faint crease in his shirt near the collarbone. Close enough to see that the glasses weren't hiding his eyes at all, they were sharp, warm brown, and very, very aware of their surroundings.

"Hi," Carlos said, voice low, accented, direct. Not cocky. Just... calm. Like he'd done this before. Like he already knew exactly how this was going to go.

He reached out a hand.

Charles stared at it for a second too long.

Then took it.

And yeah, it was warm. Strong. A little too firm for someone who was not trying to impress anyone.

"I'm Carlos," he said. "Nice to meet you, Charles."

There was a second there. A heartbeat of silence. Not awkward, just full.

"...Likewise," Charles managed. He cleared his throat. "Welcome to Ferrari."

Lewis shot him a side glance like: You okay, bro?

Charles didn't look away from Carlos. Not yet.

The feeling in his chest, unfamiliar. Not panic. Not excitement.

Just something.

He didn't have a name for it yet.

But it was loud.

 

Carlos had met plenty of famous people in his life.

Designers, actors, CEOs, influencers. People who owned islands and didn't bother remembering anyone's name. He smiled, he nodded, he did what was expected. And most of the time, it didn't mean anything.

But when he stepped into the Ferrari paddock that Friday, something felt different.

He scanned the crowd casually, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. There were fans screaming at the barriers, he waved a little, smiled and team members bustling in and out of hospitality, lanyards flashing red.

Then he saw him.

Charles Leclerc.

In the middle of the crowd but somehow standing apart from it. Like the center of gravity shifted when he was there.

Carlos slowed just a little.

There was something about him, something immediate. The way his hair fell a little messily over his forehead. The way his mouth curved just slightly when he listened to the man next to him, Lewis, Carlos recognized. The way he wasn't trying to stand out, but still did.

And the eyes.

Carlos felt it, this weird pull in his chest. Not strong. Not dramatic. But real. Like his body had already decided something before his brain caught up.

He smirked a little when he noticed Charles looking. Not just looking. Staring. At his chest, actually. Then his arms.

Carlos had half a mind to roll up his sleeves higher, just to mess with him.

Instead, he walked over casually, like he'd done this before, like he didn't feel the tiny rush of nerves climbing up his spine.

Charles was still speaking with Lewis, unaware at first. But when he turned-

Carlos was right there, one meter away, and everything in his head went a little quiet.

Now that he was closer, he could see more clearly: the slight crease in Charles' brow when he focused. The dimple just faint enough to make you want to look again. The way the sunlight caught the green flecks in his hazel eyes.

Beautiful. That was the word.

Carlos smiled not too wide. Just enough. Then extended his hand.

"I'm Carlos," he said, his voice steady. "Nice to meet you, Charles."

He watched the hesitation, the breath Charles took before responding. He felt the handshake.

Firm. Warm.

Their eyes held just a beat longer than they should have.

Charles looked away first.

They walked into hospitality together, with Lewis leading a few steps ahead. Someone was explaining something, media schedules, logistics, sponsor talks, but Carlos only caught half of it.

Maybe less.

Because Charles was walking beside him.

In loose, low-slung jeans and a shirt that, frankly should not have been allowed. Tight across the stomach, tight across the chest, tight enough to show lines. Abs. Carlos saw them. No way around that. He turned his head back forward, trying to act like he hadn't.

But he had.

And worse, Charles kept swallowing. Like every time Carlos gestured or reached to push a sleeve up, he caught it. Carlos felt it. Saw it. And he couldn't help the way that made him feel.

Like something was building.

Something neither of them were saying out loud.

Not yet.

 And Charles knew.

He knew Carlos saw it.

That stupid moment, just a second when Carlos had raised his arm to point at some dull graph one of the engineers was rambling about, and Charles... swallowed.

He didn't mean to.

It was instinct. Reflex. His body doing something before he even had time to process it. But it wasn't just the movement, it was the heat that followed. A low thrum in his stomach, like something had been knocked loose and was sliding around now, unstoppably.

Carlos didn't say anything, of course. He just continued like nothing had happened. Maybe he was used to people reacting to him like that. Honestly, with how he looked, he probably was.

But Charles knew he saw it.

The corner of Carlos' mouth had tugged upward, just slightly. That infuriatingly subtle smirk. Not mocking, just... knowing.

And to make it worse, he wouldn't go away.

There were plenty of people in the garage. Engineers, strategists, hospitality staff. Lewis, for god's sake. But somehow, Carlos always ended up right next to him. Every time Charles turned, he was there. Always just a little too close, like the universe was playing a joke on him.

Charles tried to focus. He really did.

But how was he supposed to focus when there was a man, a very well-dressed, well-built, smelling-expensively-good man, casually standing so close he could feel the heat from his arm?

He was already flushed. He could feel it in his ears, in his chest. And the worst part?

Lewis saw everything.

Charles glanced sideways and there it was.

That smirk.

Lewis hadn't said a word, but Charles didn't need him to. He recognized that look from miles away. He'd seen it before, when Lewis first realized Seb made him smile like an idiot for no reason. The "Oh. Ohhh." kind of smirk.

Charles glared at him. A silent, sharp "don't you dare" kind of glare.

Lewis just held up both hands innocently. Then stepped away. Subtly. Just enough to leave Charles stranded.

Alone. With Carlos.

Great.

He tried to breathe through his nose, act normal, whatever that meant. But his pulse was too fast, his brain too loud. He didn't do this. This wasn't him. He didn't feel this way. Ever.

But then Carlos leaned slightly over the table to grab something, muscles flexing under that damn rolled-up sleeve, and Charles caught himself doing it again.

Staring.

Eyes on the forearm. Then the jaw. Then back to the graph like it had personally offended him.

He felt something unfamiliar curl up in his chest.

Not attraction, he could understand attraction. This was something worse.

Something he couldn't name.

And for the first time in his life, Charles Leclerc, cool, focused, forever unfazed was completely, terrifyingly unprepared.

 

The door clicked shut.

Finally.

Silence.

Charles slumped back against the wall, eyes closed, and let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding since... God, probably since Carlos stepped onto the paddock.

The media day was over. The cameras were off. The mics were away. The fans had gone back to whatever chaotic version of Monaco they belonged to. But Charles?

Charles was still absolutely, 100%, undeniably wrecked.

His brain was racing, not "pre-race" racing. This wasn't strategy or tire compounds or where he'd gain time in sector two. No. This was full chaos. Mayhem. Disorder.

He rubbed his face with both hands like it would reset his thoughts. It didn't.

His hands.
The way he moved them. The slow, precise way his fingers curled when he adjusted his sleeves.

Why was he thinking about that?

That shirt, why were the top two buttons open? Who even does that? And why did it look like it was designed specifically to frame his stupid, perfect chest?

Charles groaned into his palms.

The arms. The beard. The eyelashes. That damn smile.

That face.

"What the hell, Charles," he muttered to himself, dragging his hands down until they fell into his lap. "What is happening to you?"

It wasn't like he hadn't seen attractive people before. His whole life had been surrounded by beautiful people. Models, grid girls, movie stars in paddock passes. And yet nothing. Not a blink. Not a second thought.

But this?

Carlos Sainz had been in the room for, what, an hour?

And Charles was losing his entire sense of identity.

He tilted his head back, knocking it gently against the wall.

"This is bad."

That was when the door creaked again.

He didn't even have to look.

That smirk could be felt.

Charles peeked up through his fingers.

Lewis stood there, arms crossed, leaning casually against the doorframe like he'd just caught his younger brother watching porn for the first time. That look was smug, dangerous, and deeply unhelpful.

"You good?" Lewis asked, clearly not asking.

Charles scowled. "Don't."

Lewis took a step in. "I didn't say anything."

"Don't smirk at me like that, then."

"I'm not smirking," Lewis said, fully smirking. "I'm just... observing."

Charles threw his head back again and groaned. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

There was a beat of silence.

Then: "So..." Lewis walked over, slow like a predator sensing weakness. "That was... something."

Charles turned to look at him, tired. "What was?"

"Carlos."

The way he said the name made Charles want to crawl into a hole and never come out again.

He didn't answer.

Lewis took that as permission to keep going.

"Look, I get it," he said, flopping onto the couch across from him like this was a casual gossip hour. "The man walks in looking like a Mediterranean god, and you short-circuit. It happens."

"I didn't short-circuit."

Lewis tilted his head.

"Okay," Charles admitted, "I maybe glitched."

Lewis grinned. "You swallowed."

"Shut up."

"You stared."

"I hate you."

"You stuttered, Charles."

Charles buried his face in his hands again. "I'm going to jump off the boat and tie my legs together so I can't swim."

Lewis laughed. "It's cute."

Charles peeked through his fingers. "It's not cute."

"No, it is," Lewis insisted, genuinely now. "You've never looked at anyone like that. Ever. It's... new."

And that right there, that's what scared Charles most.

Because it was new.

And it wasn't going away.

Not with Carlos still walking around in shirts like that and arms like those and-

He needed air.

He needed therapy.

He needed Carlos to stop being so unfairly attractive.

But most of all, he needed to figure out why, after all these years of never feeling anything—his heart had finally decided to wake up now.

And for him.

Charles was still groaning into his palms when Lewis sat down beside him, quiet this time. The smirk was gone. Mostly. Maybe just sitting in the corner of his mouth for fun.

Charles could feel it.

"I'm not teasing," Lewis said, softer now, more serious.

"You were," Charles mumbled.

"Okay," Lewis chuckled, "I was. But not anymore."

Charles peeked through his fingers again.

Lewis leaned back on the couch, arms resting casually. He was quiet for a moment before speaking again, not looking at Charles, just staring out at the wall like the memory was playing across it.

"You know... back in 2011, I used to hate Seb," Lewis said with a faint smile.

That caught Charles off guard. He turned toward him slightly, listening.

"Thought he was arrogant. Smug. Always had something clever to say. And that damn finger." Lewis laughed softly. "He drove me crazy. I thought I hated him. I told myself I did."

"But?" Charles asked quietly.

Lewis smiled to himself. "But I didn't. Not really. I just didn't understand it. I didn't want to understand it. Then one day, I don't even remember when exactly, it all changed. I saw him talking to some engineer, I think. He was laughing. Nothing special. But I felt something. That weird little twist in your chest. You know the one."

Charles didn't answer. But he knew.

Lewis went on, his tone quieter now. "It wasn't until 2015 that we actually talked. Not just small talk. Not just passing each other in briefings. We talked. Worked it out. And something shifted. I was terrified. Confused. And I fell. And now... he's the love of my life."

Charles was silent, breathing slow, like he was afraid any sound would make this all more real.

Lewis finally turned to look at him.

"You know what you're feeling right now?" he said. "That mess in your head. That burning in your chest when he's around. That thing that makes you notice his smile, his laugh, the way his sleeves sit on his arms?"

Charles rolled his eyes.

"That," Lewis said softly, "was me. That was me, watching Seb work on a simulator with his tongue sticking out just slightly in concentration like an idiot. That was me in 2015 realizing the person I'd spent years throwing shade at was the person I couldn't stop looking at. That was me wondering what the hell was happening to me."

He chuckled to himself. "Still happens, by the way. I still stutter when he winks. Still flush when he kisses my cheek in the garage. And when you found out in 2022? God, Charles, I turned red. I'm still mad about that."

Charles gave him a sideways look. "You are not."

"I am. You were so smug about it."

"I didn't say anything!"

"Exactly," Lewis said, grinning now. "That silence? That was worse than words."

They both laughed a little then. But it faded quick.

Lewis nudged his shoulder gently. "It's normal, Charles. You're not broken. You're just... finally feeling something real. That's not a bad thing."

Charles looked away. His throat felt tight. "I don't know what this is. I don't... I've never felt this way. And it's a man."

"Yeah," Lewis nodded. "And?"

"I've always liked women."

"Sure. You probably still do. Attraction doesn't need to be a cage, Charles."

He hesitated. "But this... it's not supposed to happen like this. It's not supposed to hit me like a damn meteor."

Lewis smiled softly. "That's exactly how it's supposed to happen."

Charles shook his head. "It's not real. I'm just... I'm just tired. It's media stress. Monaco stress."

Lewis leaned back again, calm. "Could be. But you'll know."

"How?"

"One day," Lewis said, "he'll look at you, just look, and you'll know. Simple as that. You won't be able to lie to yourself anymore."

Charles swallowed, again, and looked down at his hands.

This time, Lewis didn't tease.

He just sat there. Quiet. Steady.

Just like Seb had for him.

 

Carlos stood at the back of the Ferrari garage, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his nose, eyes trained on the monitors. Two red cars blazed across the track, but his eyes were only ever on one, car number 16.

He didn't know why he was so drawn to it. Maybe he did. But he wasn't ready to say it out loud yet.

He never used to care for this sport. His father lived and breathed racing. Rally world champion. Twice. Everyone just assumed it would rub off on him, but it never did. He had always been the quiet kid with a golf swing and a deadly padel game, not one for engine roars and pit wall chaos.

But now?

Now he was in the middle of all of it, standing in a crowded garage with team members shouting lap times and engineers clicking through data. All because of one man. A man with dimples, fire in his eyes, and the kind of driving that made Carlos lean forward like it mattered.

He watched the monitor as Charles zipped through the sector, a little twitchy, something was off. His lap time wasn't great. FP1 ended with Charles in P9.

Carlos tilted his head. "Bit distracted, huh?" he mumbled under his breath, half-smiling.

He didn't know Charles well, barely exchanged a few sentences. But he could already tell, Charles was off today.

Meanwhile, Charles in the car was experiencing a full-on war inside his own helmet. He was supposed to be focused. It was his home race. He knew every corner of this circuit like the back of his hand. But he couldn't stop the tight feeling in his chest, the one that started the second he rolled out of the pit and knew Carlos was watching.

There was something in his peripheral all the time, even through the visor, like he could feel the weight of those eyes. Judging? No. Curious. Warm. Intense. Carlos didn't look at him like everyone else did. There was no calculation, no media gloss.

Just... interest.

FP2 and FP3 went better. The nerves steadied. Mostly. He stopped overthinking every turn. Got into a rhythm. Set some good laps.

But then Carlos was there. Again. Standing near the telemetry screen like he belonged. Arms folded. Shirt fitted. Sunglasses hanging by the collar now. And when Charles took his helmet off after FP3, breathing a little hard but satisfied with his times, Carlos walked up to him.

No warning. No lead-up.

"You drove great," Carlos said, voice casual, smile not casual at all.

And just like that, Charles felt his ears go red.

"Oh-thank you," he managed, voice cracking just slightly, eyes darting anywhere but Carlos' face.

Carlos raised an eyebrow, amused. "You okay?"

"Yes. I mean-yes. I'm fine."

Carlos just smiled. That same maddeningly calm smile and gave him a slow nod before walking off.

Charles didn't even remember walking back to the drivers' room, but suddenly he was there, slumping down onto the bench, helmet in his lap.

And he was smiling. Like an idiot. Like a complete and total idiot.

"What is wrong with me," he whispered to himself, burying his face in his hands.

Because now it wasn't just Carlos' arms or his chest or his smile, now it was his voice. The way he said "great." The way it lingered in Charles' mind like a song stuck on loop.

It was all confusing. And terrifying. And way too fast.

But part of him? Part of him didn't want it to stop.

Charles didn't think it would get worse. Not after Friday. Not after the sleepless night replaying every second Carlos had spent near him, every word, every smile, every goddamn button left undone on that shirt.

But then Quali came. And it was worse.

He was good. Sharp. Focused. Or tried to be. P2 wasn't bad. In fact, it was solid, especially for Monaco. After all, he had won this race last year. Finally broke the curse, finally stood on the top step of his home podium. Everyone kept saying that. "He broke the curse." Like that mattered right now.

Because right now, as he walked back into the garage after his final lap, the helmet still heavy in his hand, he saw him.

Carlos.

That same easy smile. That same stupid, addictive smile that made Charles' chest feel too tight in his suit. And before he could even process anything, Carlos was walking toward him.

Confident. Smooth. Like he had all the time in the world.

"You'll do great tomorrow," he said, standing right in front of him, voice low and soft, just for Charles. "I can feel it."

Charles blinked.

Just blinked. Because words? Gone. Language? Forgotten. Breathing? Barely hanging on.

So he did the only thing his panicked brain could manage, he shoved his helmet on.

Too fast. Too stiff.

He heard a light chuckle.

Carlos saw that. Of course he did.

But Charles didn't look back. He just gave a sharp nod, turned on his heel, and marched out toward the car like it was a warzone and not just a garage. He didn't look back. He couldn't.

Not when he knew Carlos would still be standing there, probably smirking to himself.

And Carlos?

Carlos absolutely saw it all. The flustered eyes, the red ears, the way Charles nearly dropped the helmet while fumbling with the strap. And he didn't say anything, not really. Just smiled to himself.

Because it was cute.

No, more than cute.

It was endearing.

And Carlos? He wasn't just going to keep smiling. Oh no. He had a whole plan lined up for tomorrow. One that involved a certain Monegasque in red and a few more well-timed smiles. Maybe something more.

Because he wasn't just here to sponsor.

He was here for a reason. And now, that reason had green eyes, dimples, and kept staring like Carlos was a car crash he couldn't look away from.

And Carlos? Carlos wasn't going to let that go.

Not now.

Not ever.

 

The paddock felt too loud. Every sound, fans screaming, crew shouting, tires screeching in the distance just added to the pressure building in Charles' chest. His race suit felt too tight, gloves slightly damp in his hands. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake it off, but his fingers were trembling, just a bit.

One hour. Just one more hour and he'd be in the car, throttle down, steering into the first turn of his home race.

It was supposed to be a dream. And it was, but God, why did it feel like drowning?

Lewis saw it, of course.

"Come here," he said quietly, tugging on Charles' arm before he could fully slip into the pre-race chaos.

They ducked into a quieter corner behind the Ferrari garage. Not completely alone, but far from the noise. Just enough to breathe.

"Relax," Lewis said, voice low. "You're overthinking."

"I'm not-"

"You are," Lewis cut in, but gentle. "You don't need to concentrate so hard that you snap. You just need to focus. Big difference."

Charles let out a tight breath. He hated this. Hated how visible it must've been. But Lewis wasn't judging. Just looking at him with that calm, father-like steadiness. The same look he gave Seb when he was about to throw a helmet at someone.

"You've done this before," Lewis added. "And you'll do it again. Home race or not, this is still you behind the wheel."

Charles nodded slowly. "Merci."

Lewis patted his shoulder before heading back to his side of the garage, leaving Charles with a slightly steadier breath.

He was on his way toward the car now, mentally prepping, steps sharper, tighter. The team was just up ahead, bustling near the entrance-

When he saw him.

Carlos.

Standing right there, leaning casually against the side wall like he hadn't been haunting Charles' every thought all weekend. But this time? There was something in his eyes.

Not mischief. Not teasing.

Worry?

Carlos glanced around subtly. Then met Charles' eyes again. No smile this time, just a quiet gesture with his head.

"You have a minute?"

Charles paused.

His heart picked up again, a different kind of nerves now tighter, more personal. But he nodded.

Carlos turned and walked toward that same quiet corner. The one behind the motorhome, just out of view. Charles followed, heartbeat racing louder than the crowd.

He didn't know what Carlos was about to say.

But he knew one thing.

He wanted to hear it.

Tucked behind the motorhome, where the hum of the paddock dulled to a low thrum, Charles stood with Carlos, heart thumping somewhere near his throat. The sun bounced off the red of their race suits, but the space between them somehow felt... shaded. Quieter. Like the rest of the world had softened its noise just for this.

Carlos was the first to speak.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice lower, gentler than Charles expected. There was a crease between his brows, something unusually genuine lining his tone.

Charles blinked, a little caught off guard. He offered a small smile and a nod. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Carlos didn't look convinced. He took a small breath, like he was trying to be careful with his words. "You're too tense," he said. "I know it's your home race, but... don't carry it all by yourself."

Charles was still, listening, heart slightly hammering, not from nerves now, but something more delicate.

"You drove great," Carlos continued. "You won here last year. You can do it again."

Charles's head tilted, brows rising. "You... know I won last year?"

Carlos blinked. "Of course."

The lie came out too quick. He hadn't actually known until last night, while scrolling aimlessly in bed, reading about Charles, Monaco, everything. He wasn't sure why he'd gone looking. No reason. None he'd admit, anyway.

Charles didn't press it. But he smiled, a real one this time. Still quiet, still nervous, but softer now. A little less alone.

Carlos didn't get a response right away, and something in him refused to leave it there. He stepped closer and placed a steady hand on Charles' shoulder, warm and firm.

"You're a great driver," he said. "You can do this."

It wasn't just a compliment. It wasn't even encouragement. It was belief, stripped raw and unfiltered.

Charles let out a breath that felt less heavy this time. His shoulders dropped slightly. "Merci," he said, voice soft. "I mean it."

Their eyes met. Neither of them moved. Neither blinked.

It wasn't electric, it was slow heat, like sunlight soaking through skin. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

Then-

"Charles, we need you now," came the voice of his race engineer through the radio.

Charles flinched like he'd been snapped out of a dream. He nodded quickly and turned to go.

But just before he could take the first step, a hand caught his.

Carlos's.

Fingers wrapped around his wrist, not hard, not urgent, just enough to stop him. Charles turned back instantly, a spark jumping beneath his skin where Carlos touched him.

Carlos's eyes were steady. "You'll do great," he said again. "I can feel it."

Charles swallowed. His smile returned, just a little crooked this time. "I hope so."

Carlos nodded once before finally letting go.

Charles walked away.

And Carlos stayed there a second longer, watching.

Feeling.

Carlos stood there for a minute after Charles left, fingers brushing the spot where their skin had touched. He was still, too still for a man who had just done something he'd never done before.

What the hell just happened?

He wasn't usually like that. Direct. Hands-on. Emotional.

And yet, the moment had felt... right. That small wrist in his palm, warm and surprisingly light, like it belonged there. Like it had always fit.

Carlos huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head at himself. "Get it together, Carlos." he muttered, but he smiled when he said it. A real one, the kind that lingered on his face without him knowing.

He turned and made his way back to the garage.

By the time he arrived, Charles was already suited up, fully in race mode. But even through the heavy gear and the red suit hugging his frame, Carlos could see it, the way Charles held himself, slightly looser now. Grounded.

Carlos looked. Just a glance. Then another, slightly lower this time, too low.

He blinked fast and looked away, face heating. He didn't mean to stare. Not there.

Charles saw it. Oh, he absolutely saw it. He'd happened to glance at Carlos right in that moment. And if it weren't for the helmet already on, he would've let that smug grin stretch wide across his face.

Instead, his lips curled slightly, amused. Satisfied.

He turned to climb into the car, heart thumping steady now. Just before he lowered himself in, he paused. Instinct. Like someone tugged an invisible string behind his ribs.

He looked back.

Carlos.

Watching him.

Still.

Their eyes met, and Carlos smiled.

That smile.

It was like a quiet kind of magic. The kind that didn't shout or sparkle, but still did something permanent to your chest.

Carlos gave him a thumbs-up, mouthing, You can do it.

And just like that, the mess in Charles' mind cleared.

He smiled, really smiled behind the helmet and dropped into the seat, hands steady now on the wheel.

Not just for himself.

Not just for Monaco.

But for the man who made the noise stop.

He was going to win.

Even if he'd never admit it out loud, especially not to himself

He wanted to impress him.

 

The grid was tense. Buzzing.

The sun hung bright over Monaco, the shimmer of the sea brushing the edges of Charles' vision as he stared straight ahead. In front of him, just one car, the papaya orange of Lando Norris.

P2. Not bad.

But not enough.

His fingers gripped the wheel tighter as the lights above flicked to red. One by one.

His heartbeat matched them.

He thought of everything: the weight of the country, the crowd roaring his name just a few barriers away, the curve of Carlos' smile, the feel of his hand around his wrist like an anchor. Like a promise.

You can do it.

Charles inhaled. A deep, sharp pull of Monaco air. Home air.

The last red light blinked-

Lights out.

He launched.

The car danced under him like it knew the track better than he did, every millimeter, every curb. He stayed close, too close, to the back of Lando's McLaren for the first few laps. It wasn't easy, Monaco never was. It was more a knife fight than a race.

Still, he pushed. He chased.

But as the race unfolded, it was clear: Lando had the edge today. Strategy, pace, the luck of clean air. He earned it.

And Charles?

Charles fought like hell.

He defended. He attacked when he could. He wrestled that car through every corner with a determination that wasn't just for the crowd. Not anymore.

Each time he hit the straight and flew past the garage, his eyes flicked left, he didn't mean to. But they did.

Carlos was there, always watching.

Even from the pit wall.

Even if Charles couldn't see it, he knew.

Final lap.

Lando crossed the line first. The crowd erupted, fair enough. He'd driven flawlessly.

Charles brought it home P2.

A podium.

Not a win.

But as he coasted the slow-down lap, helmet off, sweat streaking his face, the crowd screaming his name louder than ever... he realized something:

It wasn't the trophy he was thinking about.

It was the garage.

It was a certain pair of eyes that had never looked away.

He pulled into Parc Fermé, climbed out, crowding surrounded, cameras flashing-

And there, just past the barriers, Carlos stood. Smiling.

Again.

No words. Just the look.

Charles felt something pull inside his chest.

He didn't win.

But he felt like he did.

The air up on the podium was loud, so loud. But Charles barely heard it.

The crowd below roared as the flags waved above them, champagne bottles glinting in the sun, cameras clicking like insects.

He stepped onto the second tier of the podium. P2. A good race, strong pace. He should feel proud.

He tried.

He looked down, hands clasped lightly in front of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he expected the usual, just the sea of red shirts, team radio in his ear, media duties stacking up.

But then-

There.

Carlos.

Standing near the back, away from the bulk of the crowd but perfectly visible, right beside the engineers. His Ferrari polo clung to him from the heat, hands on his hips, sunglasses pushed up to rest in his hair. His eyes. God, those eyes, were looking straight up at him.

Charles blinked, stunned. His chest did that flutter again, that stupid, ridiculous skip. Carlos was smiling. That real smile, the one that reached all the way into his eyes. The one that said, I saw you. I'm proud of you.

Charles forgot how to breathe for a second.

The Monégasque let the corner of his mouth tug into a smile back, quick, just for him. Small, but it said everything. Thank you. I see you too. It's because of you.

The anthem started. Charles instinctively faced forward, standing tall. But he tilted his head slightly, looking down from the edge of his vision.

Carlos hadn't moved.

The entire time the anthem played, those eyes stayed locked on him. Unwavering. Like Charles was the winner. Like P2 didn't matter, because he mattered.

And Charles?

He burned.

Not from embarrassment or nerves this time. This was different. It was warm, deep in his chest, bleeding into every part of him like the fizz of champagne under his skin.

He wanted to stay in that gaze. To step off the podium, to walk right down and-

But the anthem cut off.

Shit.

Lando had already grabbed his bottle and sprayed Oscar straight in the face. Charles, jolted by the blast of sound, scrambled for his own, laughing a little too late, a little too loud.

He joined in. Sprayed Lando. Got sprayed back. It was wild and fun and gold confetti stuck in his curls.

But the smile on his face?

That stayed because of something else. Someone else.

When he turned again, blinking champagne out of his lashes, Carlos was still there. Still watching.

Charles raised the bottle in his direction, just for a second. Not obvious.

But Carlos smiled wider. Like he understood.

And Charles thought: Fuck the win.

This feeling? This mattered more.

 

The post-race chaos had died down.

Fans still lingered behind fences. Journalists buzzed near the paddock. But Charles had slipped away from the crowd, shoulders sore, hair still damp with a mix of sweat and champagne. He just wanted to change and go home. Be quiet for a while. Maybe think, maybe not.

He turned the corner toward his motorhome and-

Carlos.

Standing right in front of the door, like some kind of scene from a dream Charles would never admit he had.

Two buttons undone on that damn white shirt, sleeves rolled up, watch glinting in the light, and arms crossed loosely over his chest. His tan skin glowing in the early evening. The breeze lifted a strand of his hair just so, and the man had the audacity to smile.

Charles blinked. Hard.

He felt it, the warmth shooting right up his spine, pooling behind his ears.

Carlos was the first to speak, calm and casual. "You did great out there."

Charles blushed immediately, of course. Because Carlos said it like he meant it. Like he'd seen every lap, every move. Like it mattered to him more than anyone else.

"Merci," Charles muttered, and avoided eye contact like a guilty schoolboy. But Carlos caught the blush. Oh, he saw it. And his grin grew slightly.

That smug little smile. Bastard.

But then, Charles surprised even himself.

He looked right back up and said, too casually to be casual, "I was thinking about you the whole race, you know."

Pause.

"And maybe," Charles added, bold, stepping a little closer, "that's why I didn't mess up too bad."

Then he winked.

He winked.

Carlos' eyebrows shot up just slightly. It was subtle, but Charles caught it. The way his mouth parted for half a second, how his shoulders shifted like he hadn't expected to be on the receiving end for once.

And the blush?

It came.

Faint, just a light red touch under the sun. But it was there. And Charles saw it.

"Oh?" Carlos said after a beat, trying to stay cool but absolutely not hiding the slight tilt of surprise and delight. "You're always like this?"

He leaned in just a bit as he said it. His voice was low. Warm.

Charles didn't answer. He didn't trust his voice to hold.

Carlos smiled again, softer this time. And before Charles could do anything, Carlos reached up, fingertips brushing lightly against his forehead as he tucked a curl behind his ear.

"There," he said. Quiet. "Now you can see clearly."

Then he winked.He winked, and walked past him.

Charles stayed frozen. Like someone had hit pause on his entire body.

His skin burned where Carlos touched him. That tiny graze of fingers felt unfair. Like a secret left behind.

He stood there for another full ten seconds before realizing he was just... standing. Like an idiot. With his ears hot and his heart in his throat.

So he shook himself, mumbled something to no one, and practically stumbled into the motorhome.

He needed a cold shower.

A long one.

Or maybe not. Maybe he wanted to feel that touch just a little bit longer.

 

The water ran cold, deliberately cold, but it didn't help. Not in the slightest.

Charles stood there, both hands braced against the shower wall, head bowed under the stream as if it could wash away the very obvious heat that still bloomed beneath his skin.

It didn't.

Because he was still there. In his mind.

Carlos.

That smile. That shirt. That voice. That touch, soft, quick, but unforgettable.

Charles inhaled sharply through his nose. It was all still playing like a reel in his head: the way Carlos tucked that stupid curl behind his ear, the way his fingers brushed his forehead like it meant something. The way he winked and walked away like it hadn't left Charles completely stunned and exposed.

The worst part? He could still feel it.

Even with cold water drenching his body, even with the sharp sting of it biting into his skin.

And then he looked down.

Merde.

"No, no, no, no," Charles muttered, voice low and horrified as if someone could hear him. As if Carlos had some sixth sense and would know somehow.

He scrubbed the shampoo out of his hair like it offended him and got out of the shower with as much grace as a flustered cat. Grabbing a towel, he dried off in a rush, barely looking at himself in the mirror because, well, he didn't want to see the red blooming in his cheeks again.

By the time he dropped onto the edge of the bed, hair still damp, towel slung low on his waist, he groaned.

Why him?

Why now?

Why did Carlos Sainz of all people have to be this charming and warm and handsome and just-

"Stop thinking about him," Charles muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

He got dressed quickly, throwing on a hoodie and jeans like they could armor him against the lingering thoughts. He gave one last glance in the mirror before leaving the room.

"Nobody will know," he told himself under his breath, but the pink on his face said otherwise.

The good news? He had a distraction.

Max, Pierre, and Lando were hosting something lowkey tonight. A small party. Nothing wild. Just a way to unwind.

And Charles? He was absolutely going.

He was going to focus on friends, on jokes, on maybe one drink, two tops.

Anything but Carlos.

Anything.

...right?

Wrong

 

Charles arrived late, not that anyone cared, not that he cared.

But apparently, his brain hadn't got the memo that the one person he was trying to forget wasn't even there. Because even now, walking into the small private bar area Max had set up for them in Monte Carlo, Carlos was still there. Not literally. Just his face. His voice. His goddamn smile. His sleeves rolled up.

God help him.

The music was low, the lights were soft, and there was already a noticeable buzz in the air, probably coming from Lando, who was very clearly one drink away from clinging to Max like a koala. Not that Max minded. He had that relaxed, small smile that only ever appeared around Lando. They looked disgustingly in love.

Charles dropped himself onto the couch with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

The room quieted a little. Not fully. But enough.

Lando blinked. Max turned his head. Pierre raised an eyebrow.

"...What?" Charles looked up, slightly alarmed by the sudden attention.

Pierre leaned in like a hound catching a scent. "You're what's wrong."

Charles blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You've been acting weird ever since Carlos showed up in the paddock," Pierre said bluntly. "And don't deny it. I know that face. That's the 'I'm flustered and don't know what to do with myself' face."

Max nodded, sipping his drink. "You're blushing. A lot."

"And smiling to yourself," Lando chimed in, flopped sideways on Max like he was made of pillows. "And staring. Like... obvious staring."

Charles just sat there, mouth slightly open. "Was it really that bad?"

All three of them: "Yes."

Charles made a sound somewhere between a groan and a yell and promptly buried his face in the nearest couch cushion. "Merde... I don't even know what's going on inside my head right now."

Max, Pierre, and Lando exchanged looks.

Pierre leaned forward again. "Explain. Start from the beginning."

Charles lifted his head, just enough to speak, eyes still half hidden. "It's like... I don't know. It's Carlos. He's-he's not supposed to be, ike that. He's not even supposed to be into racing that much! And now he's suddenly everywhere. In the garage. At the grid. Standing in my way like he planned it. And I-" He threw his head back against the cushion again. "I think about him. A lot. Even when I'm driving."

Lando's eyes widened. "Like during the race?"

Charles glared weakly. "Yes. Like a complete idiot."

Max whistled low. "You've got it bad."

"I don't even know what it is!" Charles huffed. "He's just... he's just there and smiling and touching my hair and saying I'll do great like it means something and-" He cut himself off.

Pierre raised a hand. "Hold on. He touched your hair?"

Charles immediately looked away, ears red.

"Oh my god," Lando muttered. "He flirted with you."

Charles cleared his throat. "I might have... flirted back."

There was a silence.

Then, Max said, "Charles."

"...Yeah?"

"Did you shower today?"

Charles blinked. "What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer."

"Yes! I showered! Why-"

"With cold water?"

Charles looked at him, jaw twitching.

"And it didn't help?" Max added, smirking.

Pierre and Lando burst out laughing as Charles practically exploded off the couch, hiding his face again.

"I hate all of you."

Lando snorted. "No you don't. You just hate how right we are."

And Charles, who didn't even have a comeback ready, could only groan into the nearest pillow again, Carlos Sainz still smiling in the back of his head like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he'd caused.

Max leaned forward on his barstool like a man who had way too much information and not enough shame to hide it.

"You know," he started, voice all smug, "you're really not helping your case, Charles."

Charles, now halfway sunk into the couch again, just mumbled, "I didn't do anything."

"Oh, please," Max grinned, sipping his drink. "I know that face. I've seen that face in the mirror after my cold showers."

Charles groaned loudly and covered his face with both hands. "I hate you so much."

"No, you don't," Max said cheerfully. "You're just mad I figured it out before you said it."

"Okay fine!" Charles snapped, lowering his hands, ears violently red. "Yes! I got... excited, alright? But I didn't do anything about it. I'm not a pervert."

Max, Lando, and Pierre stared for a moment, and then all three howled with laughter.

Charles looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. "Merde, why did I say that out loud?"

Lando nearly spilled his drink. "So wait, you just stood there? All... flushed and... hot?"

"Lando," Charles hissed, mortified.

"I'm just trying to picture the scene!" Lando grinned. "What even happened?"

Pierre leaned forward, eager. "Yeah, yeah, walk us through it. When did the staring start?"

Charles groaned again. But deep down, he knew they wouldn't stop until he gave in.

"...It started at the corner," he said, voice low. "Before the race. He found me. Talked to me. Said I was tense... told me not to worry about it being my home race. Told me I could do it."

All three listened quietly now.

"And he just-he put his hand on my shoulder," Charles said, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could feel it still. "Said it again. That I could do it. That I'm a great driver. And it wasn't just... words, you know? It felt like he meant it. Really meant it."

"You got butterflies, didn't you?" Max smirked.

Charles gave him a look. "I got a damn tornado, Max."

That set them off again.

But he wasn't finished.

"And then, before I left for the grid, he grabbed my hand."

All three of them froze for a second.

"He what?" Lando said, eyes wide.

"He grabbed my hand," Charles repeated. "Held it. Looked at me and said I'll do great. And I-God, the way his hand felt on mine, it was like..." He trailed off, unable to find the words. Then, quietly: "It's like it belonged there."

A silence passed. Then Pierre, thoughtfully: "Damn."

"I don't know what to do," Charles admitted, his voice soft, a little tired. "Every time he's around, I feel like my brain is a car. Not a good one. One that's overheating and crashing into things. Every time he moves, it's like he knows what he's doing. Like he's doing it on purpose."

"Maybe he is," Max said.

Charles blinked. "What?"

"Maybe he is doing it on purpose," Max repeated. "Maybe he's messing with you. In a good way. In a 'let's see how long until he kisses me' kind of way."

Charles turned red. Again. Like Ferrari red. "Max."

"I'm just saying."

Charles sank back into the couch, groaning. "I think I'm losing my mind."

"No," Pierre said gently. "You're just falling. That's what it feels like."

Charles looked up. "It's that obvious?"

Max nodded. "You're already in too deep, mate."

Then Lando, grinning ear to ear, added, "And the best part? Carlos definitely knows."

"Fantastic," Charles muttered, burying his face in the pillow again as the teasing started all over again.

But beneath the embarrassment... a small part of him felt lighter. Because maybe, just maybe, he wasn't going crazy. Maybe he was just... in something. Whatever this something was with Carlos.

And that terrified him. But also?

It felt kind of nice.

 

Spain. Of all places.

Charles had told himself it was just another race weekend. Just another city, another track. Nothing new.

Except, of course, it was new, because this was Carlos' home. And that changed everything.

He had been quiet on the plane ride over with Lewis, fiddling with his headphones, trying to pretend he wasn't thinking about a warm hand on his wrist or a smirk that still sat somewhere in the back of his mind like it had moved in. Lewis, mercifully, didn't ask.

Now, Charles walked alone through the Barcelona paddock, still half-awake from the early flight, half-distracted with Fred's cryptic phone call about a very important meeting, and fully not prepared for what was about to hit him.

There, near the Ferrari garage, was a man standing casually, back turned, checking something on his phone. Just a figure at first.

But Charles froze.

He'd know that stance anywhere. The slightly cocked hip. The rolled-up sleeves. The short, messy hair.

Carlos.

Charles blinked. He actually rubbed his eyes, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating from too little sleep and too much anticipation.

Nope. Still Carlos. Still very real. And still here, in Spain.

What is he doing here? It wasn't media day. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't on Ferrari's lineup anymore, and yet...

Carlos turned slightly, like he felt the eyes on him.

Their eyes met.

And just like that, it was Monaco again.

The corner. The wrist. The smile. The wink. The voice. The touch.

Charles' stomach flipped. Hard.

Carlos grinned slowly, like he wasn't the least bit surprised. Like he knew Charles would be there early. Like he planned it.

Charles tried to play it cool, cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and walked over as casually as he could manage. Which, in reality, was not casual at all.

"Hey," he said, trying not to look as flustered as he felt.

Carlos gave him a once-over. Not obvious, but not exactly subtle, either. "Morning. You're early."

"I could say the same for you," Charles replied, then immediately regretted it, because now it sounded like he was keeping tabs on him. Which he wasn't. Probably.

Carlos smirked. "Fred called me in too. Said it's important."

Of course. Fred. That sly old man. Charles would definitely be interrogating him later.

"So..." Carlos looked around the empty paddock. "Guess it's just us for now."

Charles nodded. His heart was not doing normal heart things.

And for a moment, they just stood there. In Carlos' country. With the sun already starting to warm the track, and the smell of tires and paint hanging faintly in the air.

"So," Carlos said again, "you survived Monaco."

Charles let out a nervous laugh. "Barely."

Carlos stepped a little closer. Not enough to cross a line, but enough to close the space. "You did more than survive."

Charles' throat went dry. "I didn't win."

"You didn't have to," Carlos said, his voice lower, eyes not moving from Charles'. "You looked good up there."

That, that, Charles didn't have a comeback for.

Carlos stepped back again, smooth as ever. "Anyway," he said lightly, "guess we'll find out what Fred wants."

He turned and started walking toward the garage. Charles followed after a moment, wondering if he was walking into a meeting...

...or something else entirely.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, one thought played on loop:

Spain is Carlos' home. God help me.

 

Fred's office was always too cold. The AC blew straight from the ceiling, and Charles had half a mind to ask why, but he figured the chill helped him stay alert or at least pretend he wasn't still reeling from Carlos just... being here. In Spain. Before media day. Like it was nothing.

Carlos, of course, looked right at home. Legs crossed, calm posture, hands resting on his thigh like he had nothing in the world to stress about. Charles hated how good he looked in that damn shirt.

The door opened and in came two people: Carlos' manager and a Ferrari PR rep, both holding folders and half-smiles that already looked too prepared.

"Right," Fred started, with that dangerous tone he used when he knew something would spark tension. "So, this meeting isn't about driving. Not directly."

Charles tilted his head.

"It's about sponsorship," the Ferrari rep added.

Carlos' manager stepped forward. "The Sainz Atelier-"

That's what it was, Charles realized. The Sainz Atelier. Carlos' family company. The big one. Logistics, engineering, tech. Huge in Spain. Bigger than Charles ever gave it credit for.

"-will be an official sponsor of Scuderia Ferrari starting 2026," the manager finished.

Charles blinked.

Fred added, "We've finalized the paperwork. Ferrari and The Sainz Group will work together next season. But F1 regulations don't allow mid-season branding changes. So while the partnership starts now, it won't be public until next year."

"Oh," Charles managed.

That's good, he thought. Right? It's great. It's a solid deal. Ferrari benefits. Carlos supports. Win-win.

Until the next part came.

Carlos' manager gave a carefully diplomatic smile. "As part of this collaboration, Carlos will be present at all remaining Grands Prix this season, starting here in Spain. He'll be with Ferrari hospitality, attending meetings, events, the usual."

Charles blinked again. "Wait... all remaining races?"

Fred nodded. "He's not replacing anyone, don't worry. But Carlos gets full paddock access. Permanent guest pass."

"Right," Charles said, trying not to sound too obviously panicked.

Carlos, beside him, cleared his throat and nodded. "I agreed to it."

Of course he did.

Charles turned slowly to look at him. Carlos gave him a smile that was somewhere between innocent and smug, somewhere in that maddening middle space Carlos lived in way too often.

"So," Fred said, "you two will likely be seeing a lot more of each other."

No kidding, Charles thought.

The meeting continued with legal phrases and technical breakdowns Charles barely heard. He just sat there, numb, feeling the edges of his sanity dissolve every time Carlos' arm brushed his as they shifted in their seats.

Once it was over, Lewis stayed behind to chat with Fred, while Charles found himself walking down the hall with Carlos again. Alone.

Neither of them said anything right away.

Until Carlos casually offered, "So. Looks like I'm moving in."

Charles groaned. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

Carlos laughed under his breath. "A little."

"You'll be at every race?"

"Every single one."

Charles ran a hand through his hair. "Fantastic."

Carlos nudged him lightly with his shoulder. "It's not that bad, Charles."

"It is when you keep touching me like that."

Carlos glanced over. "You want me to stop?"

Charles opened his mouth. Closed it.

"I didn't think so," Carlos said, and kept walking ahead with that smug grin.

Charles stared after him.

This season was going to kill him.

And it hadn't even reached qualifying yet.

 

It all started with the contact exchange.

"Just for partnership reasons," Carlos had said, smug as hell, as if that explained why he sent Charles a meme of a Ferrari toaster catching fire not ten minutes later.

Charles ignored it. Then came another one: a gif of a driver slipping on a banana peel with the caption "You next?".

Carlos thought he was hilarious. Charles... wasn't always sure. Sometimes he laughed. Other times he wanted to block him.

But he didn't.

Because sometimes, Carlos sent something unexpectedly sweet. Like a blurry sunset from a plane window with "Spain looks calm tonight. Hope you sleep well." And then ten minutes later, he'd follow it up with a frog in a helmet going "vroom vroom".

It was exhausting.

 

Media Day at the Spanish GP wasn't so bad. The sun was brutal, but Carlos was worse. Not because he did anything terrible, no, he was just there. Everywhere. Always hovering close to Charles, always "coincidentally" ending up beside him. Throwing in those casual smirks like they didn't know what they meant.

Charles didn't respond. Not outwardly.

But his ears turned red more than once.

The fans weren't helping either. Charles heard his name chanted, of course, but then came the sharp cries of Carlos! Carlos! like a second wave. It made his chest ache in a way he couldn't explain. Not jealousy. Just... something.

Carlos didn't seem fazed by the fans. Barely even acknowledged them. His eyes were on Charles too often. Too openly.

 

Free Practices? A blur. Ferrari was decent. The balance still felt off. He could hear the frustration in Lewis' tone during debriefs. FP3 had been messy. Charles spun once. And Carlos, he was just there, again, lounging near the pit wall, acting like he belonged.

By Sunday, Charles was tired. But it was race day.

 

Then came the chaos.

George clipped Max. The Red Bull got a penalty. Charles didn't see the full incident in real time, just the ripple it caused in the strategy chaos. Max dropped. Others scrambled. Somehow, Charles climbed into podium contention.

He finished third. P3. Another trophy. Another reason to smile.

But he didn't.

Not really.

The champagne burned more than it fizzed. He looked out into the crowd—hoping, despite himself, to see Carlos' face again.

But he wasn't on the sidelines like in Monaco. Not in the same way.

Back in the garage, there was applause. Pats on the back. But Charles peeled away from the noise as soon as he could. He stripped out of his race suit slowly in the driver room, the adrenaline wearing off fast, leaving only something else.

Disappointment?

Why?

He podiumed. In Spain.

But Carlos didn't say anything.

Not even a meme.

Not a "good job, Cha." Not even a stupid frog in a helmet.

That silence was louder than the screaming fans.

 

The party was somewhere outside Barcelona. Lando had picked the spot, which meant neon lights, too many cocktails with weird names, and the kind of DJ who thought bass was a personality.

Charles wasn't in the mood.

He showed up late again. This time, on purpose. Wore black, too tight shirt, gold chain, hair pushed back like he was trying to forget he ever had feelings.

He walked in, greeted the usual suspects: Max with a drink in one hand and Lando draped across him again, Pierre leaning against the bar like a man born to flirt.

But Charles didn't smile this time. Not really.

"Third again?" Pierre asked, eyebrow up. "You don't seem thrilled."

"I'm fine."

That was the problem.

Max narrowed his eyes. "Did Carlos say something?"

"No," Charles snapped too fast, too defensively. "He didn't say anything."

"...Ah," Lando muttered, glancing at the others. Max didn't even bother hiding his smirk.

"That's worse," Pierre said plainly.

Charles rolled his eyes and downed half the drink someone had handed him. "Can we not talk about him for one night?"

But they didn't let it go.

They saw the way Charles kept checking his phone like it would suddenly light up with a meme or a frog. It didn't.

They saw the way he stared off during songs, jaw clenched, thoughts miles away.

Finally, when Charles muttered something under his breath about Carlos probably not even watching the race, Max threw up his hands.

"Alright. That's it. No. We're not doing this silent brooding thing. You're pissed at him."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are," Lando cut in. "You haven't smiled since the cooldown room."

"I don't know what you expected," Pierre added. "He was there, like, all weekend. Looking at you like you hung the damn moon. And then suddenly? Nothing?"

Charles didn't answer. Just took another drink and stared at the floor.

"I didn't ask for him to be there," he said finally. "He just—was. Always. Everywhere. And now he's not, and it's just..." He let out a frustrated breath. "It's like I was just imagining all of it."

"You weren't," Max said, unusually gentle.

"Yeah, you definitely weren't," Pierre agreed. "Trust me. I know when someone's making goo-goo eyes."

Charles groaned. "Why am I even mad? He didn't do anything wrong."

"You're mad because you care," Lando said, shrugging. "You thought maybe this time, maybe at his home race, he'd say something. Make it clearer. And he didn't."

"Or worse," Max added, "he made it unclearer."

Charles let out a bitter laugh. "It's just stupid. I was happy with P3, but then I looked for him. I looked for him. Not my team. Not the fans. Him. And he wasn't there. Or he was, but not for me."

The silence sat thick between them.

"You should talk to him," Pierre said.

"I will," Charles muttered. "But not now. Not when I still feel like punching something."

"You wanna punch him or kiss him?" Lando grinned.

"Same thing at this point," Charles sighed, rubbing his face.

Max leaned back. "You'll figure it out. Just don't let it eat you alive. He's already in your head rent-free."

Charles stared into his glass for a beat. "He's not just in my head. He's everywhere."

Pierre laughed. "So French of you."

 

Carlos hadn't planned on going.

He told himself he wouldn't. What was the point? The race was over, the weekend done. The sponsorship talk was set. His role, apparently, already decided.

But when he opened his phone and saw the stories, Lando posting blurry photos with Max, Pierre clinking glasses with Charles, tagged at some rooftop bar on the edge of the city, he was already grabbing his jacket.

He didn't text anyone. Just showed up.

It was loud, too loud for the mood he was in, but his eyes searched for one person anyway.

And there he was. Charles.

Leaning against the couch, drink in hand, still wearing all black. There was a space around him, his friends near, sure, but not close. Charles had that look. The one where he was surrounded but alone. The one Carlos had seen in paddocks before, on balconies, in post-race interviews when no one else noticed.

Carlos sat at the bar. Ordered something simple, didn't really drink it. He watched Charles laugh, barely. He watched Max and Lando whisper something that made Pierre roll his eyes. And he saw it, clear as daylight, when the three started nudging Charles.

Charles shook his head. Said something. Frowned. Shook his head again.

Then he got up.

Carlos felt it in his chest, like gravity shifting.

Charles didn't come to him. He walked past the bar, past everyone, and disappeared out a back door.

Carlos stared at the exit for a moment. He thought about staying put.

Not your place.

But his gut didn't agree.

So he downed the last of his drink, left the glass, and followed him.

It was quieter out back. A small alley behind the bar where the music was just a dull throb through the brick walls.

Charles was sitting on a crate near the wall, legs stretched out, head tipped up to the stars.

He didn't look over when Carlos stepped out.

"I thought you wouldn't come," Charles said, voice soft, like he'd been hoping.

Carlos leaned against the opposite wall, just far enough not to intrude. "I didn't plan to."

"Me neither." A pause. "I didn't plan to feel this... this much."

Carlos watched him, quietly. The shadows made Charles look older. Or maybe it was just the weight in his voice.

"You were angry," Carlos said gently.

Charles scoffed. "I wasn't."

Carlos gave him a look.

"Okay, fine," Charles admitted. "I was. Not even sure why."

"Because I disappeared after the race?"

"I don't know," Charles said again, voice smaller. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just... you were everywhere, and now you're not. And I-I don't get it. I thought maybe I made it up in my head. All the looks, the smirks, the messages. The-God, the hair thing."

Carlos smiled at that.

"You didn't make it up."

That made Charles finally look at him. Really look.

"I wanted to say something," Carlos continued. "After the race. But then I saw you, and you looked... proud. Like you had something to prove. And I didn't want to get in the way of that."

"You wouldn't have."

"I didn't know that."

Charles looked away again. "Well. Now you do."

They stood in silence for a moment. Only the hum of the city beyond the alley, the flicker of a faulty streetlamp overhead.

"I'm not good at this," Charles said. "Talking."

"You're better at it than you think."

"I just... I didn't want to care this much. Not about you. Not again."

Carlos's breath caught at that.

"Again?"

Charles didn't answer.

Carlos stepped closer, slow, careful. "You still feel it?"

Charles nodded once. "Worse than before."

Carlos smiled, quiet and aching. "Me too."

Another pause. This one full of something lighter.

Then: "Can I sit?"

Charles nodded. So Carlos did. Right next to him. Shoulders brushing.

And they just sat there, under the flickering light, in the quiet outside of everything loud.

No confessions. Not yet.

But something shifted.

And maybe that was enough for tonight.

The alley was still quiet.

Carlos hadn't moved since sitting beside Charles, and neither had Charles. The silence had settled between them like a blanket, oddly comforting, not tense. Not anymore.

Then, Charles spoke.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, barely above a whisper.

Carlos nodded, eyes on him.

"Do you ever feel like..." Charles paused, choosing his words carefully, "like you never really feel anything? Like not love, not excitement. Not even that nervous kind of happy."

Carlos blinked. "I-yeah. I've felt that."

Charles turned his head toward him slightly. The faint light from the street lamp caught the curve of his cheek, the edge of his jaw. He looked like someone too tired to lie.

"I think I've never really felt love," Charles said. "Not in the way people describe it. I've been with people. Said the words. But it was always... expected. Like it's something you're supposed to say after a certain amount of time. Like I was giving it out because it was what they wanted."

He took a breath. "But I've never felt like anyone really gave it back."

Carlos didn't say anything. He just listened.

Charles's voice softened even more. "I guess at some point I started thinking maybe it just isn't for me. That I'm the one who gives it away but never actually... keeps any."

He laughed once, bitter but quiet. "That sounds pathetic, doesn't it?"

"No," Carlos said immediately. "It doesn't."

Charles turned to look at him. He didn't smile, not yet. But his eyes held something close.

Carlos looked back, steady. "I get it."

He glanced at the ground for a second before speaking again.

"I had someone. Years ago. Long time. It was serious. Or at least I thought it was. Gave a lot of myself into that. My time, my career, parts of who I was just to make it work."

Charles listened now. Really listened.

Carlos's voice lowered. "And at the end, she said I was... too intense. That I was unloveable. Like everything I was-what I gave... it was too much."

Charles blinked, like he didn't quite believe what he was hearing.

Carlos went on. "Since then... I haven't tried. Haven't wanted to, I guess. I tell myself it's because I'm focused on the company, but really? I just don't want to hear that again. Don't want to feel that again."

He swallowed. "That was 2019."

Charles shifted a little closer. Not on purpose. Just instinct.

"That's a long time," he said softly.

Carlos nodded.

"I never told anyone that," he admitted. "Not even my sisters. Or parents."

Charles looked at him. "Why tell me?"

Carlos looked back, not even hesitating. "Because when you talk... it feels like something real."

Charles's breath caught a little.

Then, the smallest smile tugged at his lips. "You're not unloveable, you know."

Carlos smiled too. "Neither are you."

And in that moment, they both smiled for real. No masks, no teasing, no sideways glances. Just a quiet understanding that somehow, in the middle of everything else, they found a moment that was theirs.

They didn't touch. Didn't need to.

But that night, something shifted between them.

Not loud. Not obvious.

Just real.

And that's how it started.

 

Silverstone was alive. The British flags flew in every corner of the circuit, the air thick with home pride. Lewis was everywhere, on the screens, in the fan zones, in the chants that rippled through the paddock like static. It was his race. It always would be.

But for Charles, it had started to become something else too.

Carlos was there.

He'd been there for every race since Spain, conveniently, as part of the "sponsorship arrangement," or so he said. Every time he showed up with that smug little line:
"Just doing my job as a good sponsor."
And every time, Charles would roll his eyes and mutter something in French under his breath, but he never actually told him to leave.

Because truth was, Carlos being there made everything feel lighter. And if Charles happened to glance down from the podium and always found those familiar brown eyes in the crowd... well, no one needed to know how much he looked forward to that.

Now it was Friday, and Charles was buried in data sheets alongside Lewis, who was focused as ever.

Carlos was in the corner, pretending to read an engineering report, but mostly just nodding along like he knew what was going on.

That was when Angela stepped in, a sly smile tugging at her lips.
"Lewis. There's someone in your driver's room."

Lewis blinked. "Who?"

Angela shrugged. "Didn't say. But they used the back entrance. No media. No cameras."

Charles and Lewis shared a quick glance, curious, confused. Carlos just raised his eyebrows, clearly eavesdropping but not bothering to hide it.

Lewis stood up. "Come on," he said to Charles.

They made their way down the corridor, Charles a step behind. The hospitality area was quiet, hushed in that way before the storm, just the distant murmur of fans outside.

They stopped in front of the door. Lewis reached out, pushed it open-

And froze.

There, standing by the window, sunlight spilling across his shoulders like something out of a memory, was Sebastian Vettel. And he wasn't just standing there, he was wearing one of Lewis' old team shirts, the little white 44 stitched over his heart.

Lewis didn't speak. He didn't need to.

He bolted into the room.

Charles stayed at the door, heart softening as he watched Lewis run straight into Seb's arms. No hesitation, no hesitation at all.

Seb caught him instantly.

They kissed like the world had stopped spinning. Not a rushed kiss, not a public kiss, a kiss that said "I missed you" in every possible language. It lasted long enough to say what words couldn't, and when they finally pulled apart, their foreheads stayed close, eyes locked, smiles too wide to contain.

Charles stayed still, not wanting to break the moment.

Until Seb turned slightly, spotting him.

"Charles," he said warmly, opening his arms without question.

Charles stepped in quickly and hugged him tight, like it had been years, not months.
"I missed you too, Seb."

Sebastian let out a soft gasp, holding them both close like they were part of something he never wanted to let go of.
"I missed you two so much."

When they pulled away, Lewis was still holding onto Seb's hand. Of course he was. He wasn't going to let go easily.

"How the hell did you get here unnoticed?" Lewis asked, half laughing, half in disbelief.

Seb just smirked like it was the easiest thing in the world.
"I have my ways."

Charles let out a small laugh, shaking his head.
"Of course you do."

Lewis looked down at their hands and squeezed gently.
"This," he said quietly, "is exactly what I needed."

Seb smiled and lifted their joined hands slightly.
"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

Charles watched them, heart swelling with something he couldn't quite name, comfort, maybe. Hope. Or maybe just the quiet wish that someday, someone might hold his hand like that too.

And maybe... just maybe, he already knew someone who might.

Still in the driver's room, the three of them had sunk into that rare kind of calm that only happened when the world outside didn't matter. Lewis hadn't let go of Seb's hand. Charles had found a spot on the small couch, still glowing faintly red from everything he'd just witnessed.

But then Lewis smirked.

Not at Seb, but at Charles.

And Charles knew.
"Don't," he warned, already shaking his head.

Lewis turned to Seb with that look on his face.
"Baby, I have something to tell you."

Seb tilted his head, amused.
"That tone usually means chaos."

"It's about our boy here," Lewis said, nodding toward Charles, who physically shrank into the couch.

Seb's brow lifted, curious now.
"Charles? What about him?"

"He's found someone," Lewis said, all too proud of himself.
"Finally."

Charles's mouth opened.
"No. I haven't."

Seb's eyes widened with glee.
**"No? But Lewis just said-"

"He's lying."

"I'm reporting facts."

Seb chuckled, eyes dancing as he looked between them.
"Is it serious?"

"No," Charles said, borderline begging now, "he's just a sponsor. That's it."

Lewis leaned back dramatically like he was just the messenger.
"Seb, he blushed so hard in Monaco I thought he was going to melt into the floor. You should've seen him at the party after. Max, Lando, Pierre-they had to drag the story out of him."

Seb's laughter filled the room, not mocking, just full of fondness.
"Charles. Mien Gott. You really did find someone."

Charles hid his face in his hands.
"This is awful. You're both awful."

"No," Seb said gently, shifting a little closer, "this is good. This is you growing. Feeling. That's not awful. That's... wonderful."

Charles peeked up through his fingers. Seb's expression had softened now, and it hit Charles straight in the chest, just how much Seb still looked out for him, even after all these years. Teammate or not, Seb had always felt a little like-

A father. A big brother. A mentor. All of it.

Seb leaned forward and said it again, the way he used to after a rough quali or a bad race weekend.
"It will be fine. You're allowed to feel things, Charles. You deserve to."

Charles smiled, a little shy, but real.

Seb reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"So... what's his name?"

Charles groaned.
"Sebastian..."

Lewis grinned.
"Want me to say it?"

"Absolutely not."

Seb sat back, still smiling.
"I'm happy for you. Even if you won't admit it yet."

And just like that, Charles stopped feeling embarrassed. Because if there was one thing Seb had always been good at, it was making him feel safe, even when his heart was barely holding itself together.

He exhaled quietly, a smile tugging at his lips.

Maybe he had found someone.

 

Race day at Silverstone buzzed with energy, more than usual. British flags waved wildly in the air, fans packed the grandstands, and the paddock was nothing short of a festival. The spotlight was clearly on the home drivers, but there was still one unplanned stir when a certain four-time world champion walked through the main entrance.

Sebastian Vettel, for once, didn't arrive through the shadows.

He was instantly recognized. People shouted his name, asked for autographs, but with his usual grace, he gave a polite shake of the head.

"Not today. This one's for them," he said with a small smile, nodding toward the track.

He wore simple clothes, subtle but neat. No media tags. No dramatics. Just him.

And when he finally reached the Ferrari hospitality, the scene he stumbled upon made him stop for a moment.

There they were.

Charles and Carlos.

Charles was leaning a little too close into the Spaniard's space, laughing—really laughing. Carlos had that ever-present smirk but softened into something more real. His hand brushed against Charles' elbow. Subtle, unconscious. Familiar.

Seb couldn't help the smile that rose to his face.

He'd never seen Charles so... at ease on race day.

So he approached.

Charles caught him first. His eyes lit up like a kid spotting his dad in the crowd.
"Seb!"

He jogged up and wrapped his arms around him, warm and strong, like they hadn't just hugged days ago.

Carlos straightened up, awkward now that the protective shield of their little bubble had popped.

Seb looked at him next.
"Carlos, right?"

Carlos nodded, stepping forward to offer a handshake.
"Carlos Sainz. Sponsor."

Seb took his hand but raised an eyebrow at Charles over Carlos' shoulder.

Charles gave the smallest, wordless nod.

Seb didn't say anything. He just smiled, the kind that said I see now.

Before anything more could be said, a voice called out, Lewis, emerging from the back of the motorhome holding a water bottle, half-dressed in his race gear.

He spotted them instantly.

"There he is," Lewis grinned and walked up to Seb, not hesitating even a second as he pressed a soft kiss to his husband's lips. Seb smiled into it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Carlos watched. Quiet. Still.

Not out of jealousy, but something more distant. More tender.

Longing.

To be loved like that. So openly. So simply.
To have something, someone who felt like home.

He didn't even realize his hand had balled slightly in his pocket until he relaxed it.

Seb noticed. He glanced once at Carlos, then once at Charles, but said nothing.

Lewis threw an arm around Seb.
"Let's go, love. I've got a win to chase."

"Go get it," Seb whispered back, touching his cheek with the kind of reverence that said I still believe in you.

Charles lingered for a moment, eyes on them.

Carlos stood beside him, arms folded now, eyes still on the pair walking away.

"You okay?" Charles asked softly.

Carlos blinked once, like shaking something off, then looked at Charles.

"Yeah," he said, voice low but sincere. "Just thinking... that's all."

Charles didn't press. He just gave him a small smile, one Carlos couldn't quite return, because something inside him had just shifted.

The race had begun. Engines roared from the circuit as the fans outside cheered wildly. But tucked away in a quieter, restricted corner of the paddock, away from the frenzy, two men stayed behind.

Carlos and Sebastian.

It was peaceful here. The kind of silence only broken by the sound of engines and the soft chatter of pit radios. Carlos stood with his arms lightly folded, eyes flicking between the live feed and the timing screens. He didn't fidget, but something about his posture was tight. Composed. Controlled.

Seb, beside him, noticed.

He always noticed.

So, in typical Seb fashion, he eased into the silence, not with small talk, but a sharp cut through.

"So... What do you think of Charles?"

Carlos blinked like the question knocked the air out of him.
He gave a short laugh, caught off guard.

"What?"

"Charles," Seb repeated, calm, firm. "What do you think of him?"

Carlos's eyes darted back to the screen. He took a breath.

"He's a good guy," he said finally. "Kind. Smart. Determined. But I don't want anything from him. I think of him as a good person, that's all."

Seb just nodded, face unreadable. But the twitch in the corner of his mouth said he'd heard what wasn't said more clearly than what was.

"You know," Seb began again, more gently now, "Charles has never been like that."

Carlos glanced sideways.
"Like what?"

"Like this."
Seb nodded toward the screen where Charles's car was running fast and smooth through the corners. "Relaxed. Focused. Smiling like he means it. Blushing, even. Did you know he used to lock himself away before every race? Would barely talk to anyone, especially not on Sundays."

Carlos was quiet.

"But this week? He's been laughing. He's been... softer. Happier. Like something shifted in him. Like someone made him feel seen." Seb tilted his head, eyes studying Carlos now. "I've known Charles for years. Been his teammate. I've seen him heartbroken, lonely, proud, pissed off. But I've never, not once, seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."

Carlos opened his mouth. Closed it again.

"The way he lights up. The way he listens when you speak."
Seb paused. Then asked, calmly, gently-

"Do you love him?"

Carlos didn't answer right away.

His eyes returned to the screen. Charles was overtaking someone cleanly—fast and brilliant, just like always. The Spaniard's lips curled slightly at the corner, almost without realizing it.

He looked peaceful for the first time all day.

And then, with that same quiet peace, he spoke.

It might be fast, but somehow... it felt right.

"Yes."

Seb looked at him.

Carlos kept his gaze on the screen, but now his voice softened. Honest. Open.

"Yes, yeah, I do. I've never done this kind of thing before, not for anyone. Not chased. Not lingered. Not showed up like that. But for Charles... I want to. I have been. Only him. Only now. Only Charles."

He smiled again.

Seb didn't say anything at first.

But when he did, it was a quiet, approving hum.

"Good."
Then a pause.
"Just don't mess it up. He's fragile in ways he doesn't let people see."

Carlos nodded slowly.
"I know. That's why I'm staying."

The crowd roared outside the walls of their quiet space.

And maybe, just maybe so did their hearts.

 

The checkered flag waved.

Silverstone erupted.

Lewis Hamilton had done it. In red. In front of his home crowd. After all the talk, all the doubt, all the noise, he'd delivered. A Ferrari victory on British soil.

And just behind him, across the line with a scream of his own engine, came Charles.

Second place.

But more than satisfied.

The radio calls were loud in his ears, cheers, screams, someone crying probably, and Charles couldn't stop the smile splitting across his face. He saw Lewis pull over, unbuckle, and leap out like a man possessed.

Then the sea of red.

The Ferrari team ran for him. Lewis ran for them. Threw himself into their arms. Into the warmth. The pride.

And then-

Sebastian.

He was there. Standing quietly at the edge of the chaos, arms folded, eyes glinting with something deep, love, admiration, pride.

Lewis saw him.

That was all it took.

No helmet, no mask. Just Lewis.

He didn't wait.

He bolted toward Seb, grabbed him by the face with both hands, and kissed him.

Not hidden. Not careful.

A kiss like a line in the sand.

The paddock saw.

The cameras saw.

The world saw.

And none of it mattered.

Because for once, it was about them. Lewis and Sebastian. Home and heart. A man in red and the man who'd believed in him long before anyone else did.

They didn't let go for a long moment.

Not because they wanted to prove anything.

But because they didn't have to hide anymore.

Charles watched from a few feet back. Helmet still in hand, chest rising with shallow breaths from the race. And for once, it wasn't envy he felt. It wasn't longing either.

It was joy. Pure, unfiltered joy for two people who had found what most people spent their lives searching for.

Then-

Out of the corner of his eye-

Max. P3. Red Bull.

Running toward Lando. P5.

And he kissed him.

Quick, messy, on the cheek, then full on the mouth, like adrenaline had hijacked his limbs and all he could think of was him. Lando kissed back. Stumbled back, laughing, bright red, but not saying no.

And Charles just stood there, blinking.

Something tugged in his chest.

Not jealousy. Not quite.

Just... something he kind of wanted.

And that's when he turned.

To the team.

To where Ferrari stood.

And there, between engineers and celebration and cheers, stood Carlos.

Watching.

Smiling.

Eyes so bright, they shimmered in the light.

Charles didn't think.

Didn't need to.

He moved toward him.

Not to kiss.
Not yet.

Just a hug.

Something grounding. Something real.

Carlos caught him.

Arms tight, far tighter than Charles expected. His nose brushing Charles's hair. Their bodies pulled in close.

The noise of the crowd faded.

And in that pocket of stillness, under a British sky, in the middle of victory and chaos, they found their moment.

Not a confession.
Not a declaration.

But something just as powerful.

An answer.

Three pairs.
Three stories.
All different.
But all beginning the same way:

With love. Quiet. Loud. Earned.

In the middle of celebration, in the blur of engines cooling and champagne being prepped, Charles stayed still.

Held.

Carlos' arms around him were steady, solid, sure.

Charles didn't pull away.

He didn't want to.

Carlos leaned down, his lips brushing against Charles' hair as he mumbled low, just for him, "I'm so proud of you. Not a win, but this? This counts as one too."

It wasn't the words that made Charles melt.

It was the way Carlos said them, gentle, almost reverent, like second place didn't make him any less of a star.

Charles felt warmth rush over him like a tide. He let his head rest against Carlos' shoulder, nodded slightly, voice thick but quiet as he said, "Thank you. For being here."

Carlos held him tighter.

No hesitation.

"I'll always be here. From now on."

No promises. No pressure. Just truth.

And in the moment, something shifted.

They didn't need to say what it was.

Not yet.

Across the paddock, just far enough to stay unnoticed by most, stood Lewis and Seb. Standing shoulder to shoulder, arms brushing, watching.

Seb leaned in slightly, smiling as his eyes flicked between the two younger men. Lewis didn't say anything. He just exhaled softly and nodded.

They both knew what Charles had carried alone.

What it took for him to smile like this. To trust like this.

Seb placed a hand on Lewis' back, and Lewis nudged into it.

Then Carlos lifted his gaze and saw them.

Seb and Lewis.

Both watching.

Both smiling.

And they nodded, slow, proud, kind.

It wasn't grand or loud.

It was approval. Quiet and solid. The kind that said yes, you're doing good.

Carlos blinked once, lips twitching into a smile, and mouthed to them: thank you.

Seb gave a small wink in return.

Carlos looked down at Charles again.

Still in his arms. Still letting himself be held.

Carlos held him just a little tighter.

For one more second.

One more long, grounding second.

And then, only then he let go.

But the warmth didn't leave either of them.

 

Charles' drivers room was calm now, dimmed with the late afternoon sun slipping through the thin curtains. The noise of Silverstone was distant, replaced by the low hum of packing crates being rolled and voices echoing below.

Carlos sat on the small sofa, elbows on his knees, fiddling with a bottle cap he found on the table. He could hear the water running behind the closed bathroom door, steam curling out beneath the crack.

He smiled a little to himself.

He didn't know why he asked to wait.

Actually he did.

He just didn't want to admit it out loud.

Charles took his time. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not. But when the bathroom door finally opened, Carlos looked up.

There he was.

Hair damp and curling a little at the edges, shirt sticking a bit to his skin from the heat, but clean and comfortable in soft clothes. Something about seeing Charles like this, calm, unguarded, hit Carlos differently.

Charles noticed the look, blinked, and then glanced away fast, pretending to fix the hem of his shirt.

God, that feeling in his stomach again.

He cleared his throat. "Sorry. Took a bit."

Carlos stood. "It's fine. You good?"

Charles nodded. "Yeah. Just... needed the water."

They didn't move for a moment. The room felt warmer than it was.

Then Carlos wandered to the balcony door, sliding it open without asking. The soft evening air drifted in.

He stepped out.

Charles followed.

They leaned side by side on the railing, looking out over the paddock now in teardown. The world below them was full of motion, yet up here, stillness.

They didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

It wasn't a silence to fill, it was one to keep.

Charles let his shoulders drop. He didn't realize how much he'd been holding himself upright until now.

Carlos glanced at him but didn't speak either. Just stood close enough for their arms to occasionally brush.

A good quiet.

A needed quiet.

Then Carlos finally said, voice low, thoughtful, "You looked... really happy today."

Charles didn't look at him. Just smiled. A soft one.

"I was."

Another pause.

Carlos nodded slowly. "It suits you."

Charles' fingers curled loosely over the railing.

"You too," he said.

Carlos turned to look at him fully this time. "Me?"

Charles shrugged, looking at the sky now turning gold. "You smiled a lot today."

Carlos let out a small breath of a laugh. "Yeah. I guess I did."

Charles turned to meet his eyes.

They looked at each other.

Nothing loud.

Nothing rushed.

Just two men, in the stillness after something important.

And maybe-

Maybe something was coming next.

But for now, this was enough.

The golden hour had settled in gently around them. The sun dipped just low enough to paint everything in a quiet, forgiving warmth. The paddock below kept humming with motion, crew members disassembling, trucks being loaded, laughter and chatter carried faintly on the breeze, but for the two of them on the balcony, none of that existed.

Charles' fingers drummed lightly against the railing.

Carlos stood beside him, silent for a long beat, like he was weighing whether to speak at all. But then he did. Soft, cautious, like testing a current.

"Do you remember that day in Monaco?"

Charles turned to him immediately. "Of course I do."

Carlos let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

"I remember everything."

Charles raised an eyebrow.

Carlos didn't look at him yet. He kept his eyes on the sky ahead, almost like it was easier that way. "The little touches. The way you looked at me from the terrace. The way you avoided my eyes, then didn't. The first time we talked, like really talked and I didn't even know what I was saying half the time because you were right there and you looked..."

He trailed off. Then finally turned to meet Charles' eyes.

"Since 2019," Carlos said, voice a little rough now, "I haven't felt anything like that. Not for anyone. Especially not a man. I didn't even think I could anymore. Not after everything."

Charles blinked at him.

"But that day," Carlos went on, "when I saw you, I don't know, something clicked. I felt it. In my chest. In my skin. Everywhere."

Carlos stepped closer. Just enough.

"I still feel it."

And then, without asking, without fear he took Charles' hands in his own. Warm, steady. His fingers closed around Charles' like they belonged there.

Charles swallowed, his throat suddenly thick with emotion. His eyes were glassy, and he didn't bother hiding it. He didn't have to.

He looked down at their hands. Then up at Carlos again.

"I meant what I said," Charles whispered, "about love. That I thought it was something you just... give. Something you offer, not keep. And I never really believed I deserved to get it back."

Carlos opened his mouth to speak, but Charles gently shook his head. Not done yet.

"I never tried to feel it, not properly. I never let myself. Not when everything in this world felt so..." He paused, then smiled sadly. "...so temporary."

Carlos' hands tightened around his.

"But when you walked into the paddock that day," Charles went on, his voice quieter now, cracking just slightly, "you changed that. I didn't even know you yet. But something about you made me want to try. For the first time."

Carlos was breathing harder now.

"I kept blushing, like a kid. I didn't understand why I was so flustered. Why you made me feel that way." Charles looked down again, embarrassed by his own honesty, before forcing himself to look Carlos in the eye. "I still don't fully understand it. But I want it. I want to try. With you. Only with you. But I didn't know if you, if you would want that too. Or even tolerate it. Or me."

But Carlos didn't let him finish.

He didn't say anything.

He leaned forward and kissed him.

It was a little rushed at first, a little desperate, like he'd been holding it back too long. Like something had broken loose inside him and the only way to make it real was to feel it.

Charles stiffened for just a second out of pure shock, but then he melted, fully, completely into it.

His hands let go of Carlos' only to climb up, holding onto the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Their mouths moved like they were learning something new together. Something they never expected to want this badly.

They didn't stop. Not right away.

One minute.

Maybe two.

The kiss softened over time. Turned slower, deeper. Less like a question and more like an answer.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting against each other, breath tangled between them, neither moved.

Carlos' arms slid around Charles' waist. Charles leaned into the hold like it was second nature.

Then Carlos whispered, so close it felt like a vow, "I want to try too. Only with you."

Charles closed his eyes.

And smiled.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't need to.

He just let himself stay there, arms wrapped tight around Carlos, holding him like this moment was something sacred.

Because maybe it was.

Maybe it always had been.

 

The sun was dipping low by the time they pulled up to Seb and Lewis' countryside house just outside Silverstone. It was modest from the outside, nothing loud, but somehow unmistakably theirs, peaceful, private, and warm.

Carlos parked in the driveway, his fingers still firmly wrapped around Charles'. He hadn't let go once during the drive. Not even when changing gears. And Charles hadn't wanted him to. The quiet hum of the road, the occasional glance exchanged between them, the feeling of skin on skin, it all made the moment stretch into something tender. Real.

When they stepped out of the car, the cool evening air wrapped around them. Carlos went around to Charles' side, but before they could take more than a few steps, Charles caught sight of two very familiar cars parked by the hedges.

He stopped.

Carlos followed his line of sight. Then looked at him.

"Lando and Kika," Charles murmured, his stomach doing a little twist.

Which meant Max was here too. And probably Pierre. Of course they'd all be here, Seb and Lewis were family to them, in more ways than just the grid. Still, Charles' nerves kicked in. He wasn't afraid, exactly, but... this was all new. Delicate.

Carlos noticed immediately. Like he always did.

He stepped closer and gently tugged Charles in by the hand, until they were face to face.

"Hey," he said, quiet. "Look at me."

Charles did.

Carlos' eyes were warm, grounded.

"I'm not leaving," he said, steady as anything. "I'm not going anywhere."

Charles' brows softened.

"I'm here with you, Charles. Always."

The way Carlos said it, calm, certain, no hesitation made the knots in Charles' chest loosen.

He leaned in slowly and kissed him. It was soft. Not rushed. Not nervous. Just... present. Like a thank you without words.

Carlos kissed him back without hesitation.

When they parted, their hands naturally found each other again, fingers slipping together like a well-worn rhythm. Intertwined.

Charles took a breath. Let it out.

And they walked together to the front door.

Hand in hand.

Not hiding.

Not afraid.

Just them.

Ready.

A knock. A moment later, the front door creaked open to reveal Sebastian Vettel, barefoot, wearing a plain grey hoodie and a smile that could warm the coldest night.

"There you two are," he said, eyes twinkling. "Come in, come in."

He pulled Charles into a hug first, tight, comforting, like a father greeting his son.

Then, surprisingly, he turned to Carlos and did the same. No hesitation.

Carlos blinked but returned it, a little awkward at first, but soon relaxed into it. When they stepped apart, Seb's gaze flicked down for the briefest second, and he clocked the still-intertwined hands. A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Took you long enough," he said, in that dry, teasing tone only Seb could pull off. "So, you finally grew the guts to tell him."

Charles looked confused. "Tell me what?"

Carlos turned an impressive shade of pink and cleared his throat. "Nothing important," he said quickly, glancing at Seb like he might kill him later.

Seb just chuckled, waving them both inside. "You'll figure it out."

The moment they walked into the main room, the energy shifted.

The lounge was comfortably lit, full of warmth and leftover dinner smells. Lando was sprawled out across the carpet like a kid, Kika beside him laughing at something Pierre said. Max had a wine glass in one hand, legs kicked up on the edge of the couch. Lewis was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching the scene with a lazy smile.

All eyes turned to the doorway the moment Charles and Carlos stepped through.

There was a beat of silence.

And then Lando jumped to his feet, practically exploding.

"It's about damn time!" he shouted, arms in the air.

Everyone followed suit, cheering, clapping, laughing. Max let out a loud whistle. Pierre raised his glass with an overly dramatic "Finally!" and Kika clapped with genuine glee.

Charles immediately flushed red, overwhelmed, but not from embarrassment. No, it was something else. The sheer flood of support, of happiness not just for him, but for both of them, was almost too much. His eyes glistened.

Carlos looked around like he'd just won an award, proud and slightly smug, and didn't try to hide the massive grin on his face. He gave Charles' hand a firmer squeeze and gently pulled him deeper into the room.

"Come on, let's sit," he whispered.

They moved through the crowd, still hand in hand, until they found space on the couch, Carlos sliding in beside Max, Charles on his other side, right next to Lewis. It felt right, like they belonged in this strange patchwork family.

Lewis leaned over, bumped his shoulder into Charles'.

"You okay?"

Charles nodded, smiling like he hadn't in weeks. "Yeah. Better than okay."

Lewis gave him a look. A warm, proud one.

Carlos, still holding Charles' hand, leaned in just enough to murmur, "Told you. Always."

And Charles believed him.

After everyone settled in, dishes cleared, glasses filled, legs tucked under blankets, it was Seb who finally leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and nudged the quiet.

"So," he started, eyebrow raised, voice playful but curious, "how'd this happen?"

All eyes turned to Charles.

The poor man froze.

His cheeks turned the same shade as the Ferrari flag hanging on the wall behind him. His grip on Carlos' hand tightened, and he glanced at him like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

Carlos burst out laughing.

"I've got this," he said, voice low and fond.

He looked at the group, eyes twinkling. "Okay, so... it started with Monaco, actually.  It was probably the way he looked at me, but I was too stupid to realize it." Everyone laughed. Charles groaned and buried his face into Carlos' arm. Carlos just pulled him in closer, arm draped around him protectively.

He went on. "I thought he wouldn't want this. He thought I wouldn't tolerate him. But today, finally, we both stopped being afraid."

By the end, the room was silent.

Even Lando didn't crack a joke.

Charles was still hiding in Carlos' side, ears red, but Carlos rubbed slow circles into his back and let him be. They looked comfortable, natural, even in their silence.

"Jesus," Pierre said finally. "You two are disgustingly sweet."

"Shut up, you literally proposed with fireworks," Kika jabbed, rolling her eyes.

That broke the tension. The room laughed again, warm and close.

Then Lewis, still lounging near the kitchen, looked toward Max and Lando. "What about you two?" he asked. "How's wedding planning?"

Lando lit up like a lamp. "Oh! It's going great! We're doing it in Amsterdam, at Max's childhood home. His mum's helping, and everything's falling into place."

Max just smiled quietly, content to let Lando ramble. His hand was on Lando's thigh, thumb stroking over the fabric, his eyes full of pride. Love. You could feel it radiate off him.

"Two weeks before the Dutch GP," Lando added, grinning. "So we can turn the GP into a honeymoon-slash-bonus party."

But then Max's smile shifted, just slightly. A shadow passed.

He looked up, voice softer now. "My dad... he won't be there. He won't accept it. Us."

Silence again. But this time heavier.

Max shrugged like it didn't matter. "So I was wondering..." He glanced at Seb, then Lewis. "Would one of you, maybe be my best man? Lando has his dad. I just need someone... to stand with me."

Lewis looked at Seb. Seb looked back.

The air between them held something unspoken, but deep.

Then Lewis nodded once, slow. "You should do it," he said, voice full of warmth. "He needs someone who's known him."

Seb didn't hesitate.

"I'd be honored."

He stood, crossed the room, and pulled Max into a hug without waiting. Max tensed for a moment, but only a moment before he melted into it, face pressed to Seb's shoulder, eyes closed.

"I've got you," Seb whispered, almost too soft for anyone else to hear. "You're not alone."

Charles watched, eyes wet again. Carlos squeezed his hand gently.

They were all here. Together. Healing in ways that trophies never could.

The room had settled into a relaxed hum. Kika and Lando were deep in conversation about flower arrangements, Seb and Pierre were exchanging horror stories from their earlier years in F1, and Lewis was sipping wine with that knowing look he always got when he was both amused and three steps ahead of everyone else.

Then, Max cleared his throat.

Loudly.

Everyone looked up.

Charles glanced at him, instantly suspicious.

Max had that look on his face.

"You know..." Max started casually, turning to Carlos with the ease of someone about to light a match and walk away, "Did Charles ever tell you what happened after Monaco? That night?"

Charles choked on his drink. "Max!"

Carlos blinked, confused but clearly interested. "No?"

Charles looked like he might genuinely launch himself across the table. But Max ignored him, already committed.

"Oh, it's a great story," Max said, smirking like the devil himself. "You remember that flirting after the race? The press stuff, all the lingering touches, the little smiles..."

Carlos nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes now in cautious curiosity.

"Well," Max continued, eyes dancing, "our dear Charles here went straight to his motorhome, into the shower, and..." He paused dramatically, clearly enjoying every second of this. "Let's just say... he was very excited. So much so, he couldn't even look at me and Pierre the next morning."

Charles died. Face planted fully into the cushion next to him, groaning into the fabric.

"You're lying," Carlos said, but not very convincingly. His ears were turning red.

"Am I, though?" Max grinned.

"I hate you," Charles mumbled, voice muffled by upholstery.

Lando was nearly falling off the couch from laughter. "It's true. I told him to just call you. Or at least text you. But nooo, he just sulked and watched a movie alone like some heartbroken Victorian widow." Lando lied to make things funnier.

Pierre leaned forward, grinning like the gossip gremlin he was. "He made us turn off the lights. Wouldn't let anyone talk. It was drama." Again Pierre joined in to make things worse.

Kika, who'd been sipping her wine, nearly choked. "Wait, that's what you all talked about when you all were out for drinks that week?"

Max nodded proudly. "Yep. The Shower Incident."

Carlos had gone quiet, until he started laughing. Like, properly laughing. Head tilted back, shoulders shaking.

Seb shook his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "Max, tone it down."

"You're smiling," Max shot back.

"Because it's funny," Seb said, unbothered. "But still, tone it down."

Lewis was doubled over on the armrest of the couch, wheezing.

Charles finally lifted his head, face a shade of red that could've been branded Scuderia. He glanced at Carlos with a mix of horror and shy affection.

Carlos looked back with warm, teasing eyes. "Excited, huh?"

Charles groaned again and tossed the cushion at him, which Carlos caught easily, still grinning.

"Just wait," Charles muttered. "One day I'll find something embarrassing about you."

Carlos smirked, leaned over, and kissed the top of his overheated boyfriend's head.

"Can't wait."

The room dissolved into more laughter, more jokes, and somewhere in the chaos, Max raised his glass like he'd just won an award.

"To Monaco. And showers."

"You're never allowed near microphones again," Charles muttered.

And yet, for all his bluster, he was smiling. Even through the redness, even through the teasing, because this? This felt like home.

 

The sun was setting behind the paddock, casting long orange streaks across the gravel paths and team trucks. Most people had already packed up. The place was thinning out. But Charles and Carlos weren't in a rush. They were on the pit wall, Charles still in his race suit, half-unzipped, fireproof tied around his waist, legs swinging slightly off the edge. No media, no fans, no pressure. Just them and the soft hum of a paddock finally going quiet.

Charles leaned into Carlos' side, head resting against his shoulder, gaze fixed somewhere far away. His eyes were tired, but his face, his face looked calm.

Carlos looked down at their joined hands, then up at Charles. "Tired?"

Charles hummed. "Not from racing. Just... tired of trying to be okay all the time."

Carlos didn't say anything right away. He just reached over and wrapped his arm around Charles' waist, pulling him in like he always did when Charles began to retreat into himself. Like instinct.

"You don't have to be okay all the time," Carlos said gently. "You just have to be here. With me. That's enough."

Charles closed his eyes, just for a second. Let himself breathe.

"You're really not going anywhere?" he asked, quietly. Almost afraid of the answer, even now.

Carlos leaned in, rested his forehead against Charles'. "Not ever."

The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be. They were said like truth, like fact, like something you could lean on.

And Charles did. He nodded slightly, then turned and buried his face in Carlos' neck.

"I'm always scared," Charles admitted. "Even now. Even with you."

Carlos kissed his temple. "I know. I'll hold you anyway."

And he did.

He held Charles through every silent thought that tried to undo him. Through the worry that he was too much, or not enough. Through the years of being the one who gave and gave and gave. Carlos stayed. Not as a secret, but as something private. Steady. His.

He was there when Charles woke up crying in the middle of the night, when Charles smiled without realizing it, when Charles clapped and laughed too hard at Lando and Max's wedding vows. Carlos was there when Charles squeezed his hand tighter during the kiss. When Charles looked at him and didn't say anything, but needed everything.

And he gave it.

All of it.

Because Charles had spent so long giving love without knowing if it would stay.

But Carlos? Carlos stayed. 

 

 

2026 - Charles' first title with Ferrari.

The atmosphere in Monza was electric. Red everywhere. Charles had done it, his first world title. As the anthem played, Charles barely held it together on the podium, his hand on his heart, tears threatening to spill. But it wasn't until he got back to the garage and saw Carlos standing there with open arms that he truly broke.

Carlos caught him in a tight hug, spinning him just once before grounding him with soft kisses on his hair.

"You did it, amor," Carlos whispered. "You did it."

Charles smiled into his shoulder, voice muffled. "We did."

Carlos shook his head slightly, pulling back to look him in the eyes. "You did. But I'll keep reminding you for the rest of your life that you deserve it."

2028 - The Monaco win and Proposal.

The sun was setting behind the yachts. Charles had just taken his second Monaco win, and his second world title on the way. He was glowing. Monaco had never felt so much like his.

After the media, the champagne, and the team celebration, Carlos led Charles down to the quiet part of the marina. No press. No fans. Just them and the sea.

Carlos knelt. Simple, no speech. Just a velvet box and eyes filled with certainty.

Charles blinked. "Carlos..."

"I love you," Carlos said, steady. "Let me keep loving you."

Charles choked out a laugh, nodding through tears. "You already do."

The ring slid on perfectly. The kiss was even better.

2030 - Adopting Juliette.

Charles held the small baby with trembling arms, her sleepy eyes blinking up at him. She had tufts of light brown hair, soft pink cheeks, and tiny fingers that immediately curled around his thumb.

"She looks like you," Carlos whispered beside him.

Juliette shifted slightly, settling comfortably into Charles' chest. "She's perfect."

Carlos ran his fingers gently over Juliette's hair. "We're parents now."

Charles looked at him, a mix of awe and fear and love in his face. "I want to be good at this."

"You will be," Carlos said without hesitation. "You already are."

2031 - Maya's adoption and Charles' third and last title.

It was raining in Suzuka when Charles crossed the finish line to clinch his third world title. It felt like a quiet storm, earned, deliberate, final. He didn't scream this time. He just whispered, "Thank you," into the radio.

Back home, days later, Charles was seated on the couch holding newborn Maya, her tiny form curled against his chest.

Carlos sat beside him with Juliette asleep on his lap. "One more title. One more little girl. I think our life is pretty full now."

Charles leaned over, kissed his temple. "It's perfect. And I'm ready to slow down now."

Carlos smiled, rubbing his thumb along Charles' knuckles. "Then we slow down. Together."

2032 - The wedding in Spain.

It was sunset in a quiet village surrounded by olive trees. The ceremony was small, intimate. Just family and a handful of friends.

Charles stood at the altar in a cream suit, his hair neatly styled, his eyes glassy as Carlos approached, hand in hand with Juliette and Maya as flower girls.

Carlos met his eyes and mouthed, "Hi." Like it was the first time.

Charles laughed quietly, breath catching. "Took you long enough."

Their vows were soft, emotional. Carlos promised forever, but said, "You already know I'm not going anywhere." Charles promised to never forget how it all started, with a look in Silverstone.

Their daughters brought the rings. The kiss was long, and the applause warm.

2033 - Charles' retirement.

The press conference was short. Charles thanked his team, his fans, and motorsport.

When asked why now, he just smiled. "Because I've done everything I dreamed of. And now I want to go home."

He didn't cry. But when he walked out and saw Carlos waiting for him with Maya on his shoulders and Juliette holding a homemade "Welcome to retirement, Papa!" sign. He nearly lost it.

Carlos hugged him close. "What now?"

Charles smiled. "Now? I just get to love you every day without traveling three continents to do it."

Carlos grinned. "Retirement looks good on you."

 

2033 - Home, Chaos, and Love

The morning sun filtered through the wide windows of their Madrid home, casting golden warmth across the wooden floors. Somewhere in the background, soft Spanish music played from the kitchen. The scent of olive oil, onions, and peppers lingered in the air, Carlos was cooking something hearty and familiar.

"Juliette! Maya! No-no, no, no-don't touch that!" Charles' voice came from the hallway, followed by a loud clatter.

Two tiny blurs, one with dark curls bouncing, the other with shorter chestnut hair, zoomed past the archway, squealing in delight, each holding one of Charles' racing trophies.

"Merde," Charles muttered under his breath, hot on their trail in mismatched socks and a faded Ferrari hoodie. "That's a championship trophy, Juliette! We don't throw that!"

Juliette giggled, clearly unbothered by the gravity of the hardware in her tiny hands. Maya, her junior by a year but no less daring, was dragging a bright red cape made from one of Charles' old team shirts, declaring loudly, "I'm Super Maya!"

Carlos peeked out from the kitchen, spatula in one hand, brow raised. "Everything okay, Papa?"

Charles shot him a mock glare. "Your daughters are terrorizing the house."

"Our daughters," Carlos corrected with a grin, disappearing back into the kitchen. "And you're retired now. You asked for this."

One final shriek echoed before Charles finally caught Juliette, scooping her up in his arms as she giggled, breathless. Maya immediately ran into his leg, hugging it tightly. Charles bent down, kissing the tops of both their heads.

"I was a three-time world champion," he whispered, utterly exasperated, "and now I lose every race to two toddlers."

Juliette smiled up at him with her gap-toothed grin. "But you're the best Papa ever."

That made him pause. Melt, really. He let out a soft laugh, nuzzling into her neck. "Yeah, okay. That's a better title anyway."

Carlos reappeared, wiping his hands on a towel and walking over. He leaned down to kiss Charles' temple, then kissed Juliette's cheek and ruffled Maya's hair.

"Breakfast is ready," he said, then added, "And the trophies are going on a higher shelf."

"I'll build the shelf," Charles replied, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, daughters clinging to him like koalas.

Carlos smirked. "You said that last week."

Charles tilted his head. "I was busy chasing your tiny chaos units around the house."

"Our tiny chaos units," Carlos repeated smugly.

Juliette and Maya clapped, repeating, "Cha-os! Cha-os!"

"Great," Charles muttered. "We've taught them a new word."

Carlos laughed, leaning down to offer his hand. "Come on, Papa. Let's feed the chaos before they destroy something else."

Charles took his hand, letting himself be pulled up, one daughter still on his hip, the other now tugging at Carlos' pant leg. As they all made their way to the kitchen, Juliette started humming the Ferrari anthem.

Charles stopped briefly, looked over at Carlos with a soft smile.

"Even retired," he murmured, "life still feels like pole position."

Carlos bumped his shoulder. "That's because you've already won."

-----------------------------------------------------

 

Charles once believed love was something you gave away. Like a gift with no return address. Something you handed over with a smile, even if your hands came back empty.

For most of his life, he was convinced that was what love meant: silent sacrifice. Giving, and giving, and giving. Until it all slipped out of you like air from a balloon.

He never expected someone to catch it.
He never expected Carlos.

It was easy to think back now, with the years behind him like golden tire marks on a track. Easy to remember how it started: that summer day in Monaco, 2025. Hot and crowded, the air thick with champagne and saltwater. He hadn't been looking for anything, least of all a stranger's smile to change his world. But Carlos had walked into the paddock that day like he belonged there. Like he belonged with Charles. And something, just something. Clicked.

It didn't rush in like thunder. It bloomed slow. Like the sound of an engine before the lights go out. Quiet. Inevitable.

Their first real kiss came just months later on a balcony in Silverstone, where they stood shoulder to shoulder watching the world they raced in start to quiet down. It had been hesitant, even shy. But Charles still remembered the way Carlos' hands held his, steady. Like he already knew.

Since then, their story unfolded like something written across the stars of every circuit they shared. Carlos stayed. He never once wavered. Through heartbreak and podiums. Through Charles' titles and Carlos' quiet brilliance at The Sainz Atelier. Through every doubt Charles whispered into the dark, Carlos always stayed.

And somewhere along the way, Charles stopped thinking of love as something he gave away.

He learned it could stay. That it could return. That it could grow in laughter and comfort, in fights that ended in apologies, in Sundays spent doing nothing but holding hands in bed with their daughters crawling between them, asking for juice and stories.

Now, at thirty-five, retired with three titles behind his name and two daughters who called him Papa, Charles finally understood.

Love wasn't about the grandness of it all.
It was about who you chose to live it with.

Carlos made their house a home. Carlos taught him that love could be private, gentle, and safe. Not a battlefield, not a performance. Just theirs.

And Juliette and Maya. God, those two were lightning bolts in small bodies. French curls and Spanish eyes, laughter loud enough to shake the kitchen walls. They'd taken the best parts of him and Carlos and turned them into a future neither of them knew they wanted until they had it.

Charles used to think love wasn't for him. That maybe he'd missed his chance.
But now?

Now, as he stood barefoot in the garden, watching Carlos push Maya on the swing while Juliette chased butterflies, he knew the truth.

Love wasn't just for him.
It was him.

And every bit of it, every quiet morning, every sleepy goodnight, every soft kiss and every I-love-you whispered across years, they all led him here.

To this life.
To his love.
To Carlos.

Always Carlos.

Notes:

This one is 20K words. I have had it for a long time now, but didn't publish it. Until now.

Chapter 14: MV1 & CL16 | Was It Casual?

A mix of 1st and 3rd person POVs

--------------------------------------------------

"Was it casual?"

Charles asked himself that every time he and Max did something that seemed harmless on the surface but never felt that way underneath. Something simple, a conversation, a glance, the way Max stood a little too close when there was plenty of space.

Was it casual?

When we were so deep into a conversation that the interviewer had to call our names twice,  three times, just to bring us back?

He remembers it clearly. The room was bright, the kind of sterile lighting that always made him blink too much. The other drivers were fidgeting, giving clipped answers, laughing politely. But not them. Not Charles and Max.

They had turned slightly in their seats, just enough that their knees brushed. Max had said something dry, a quiet jab about Monaco traffic, and Charles had shot back with a smirk. That should have been it, a throwaway line, a quick laugh.

But somehow, they didn't stop.

Max leaned in, elbows on knees, voice lower now. Charles forgot the cameras. Forgot the microphones. They kept talking, barely above a whisper. Jokes turned into real things, about the cars, the pressure, the boredom of pretending. Max said something about how everyone expected him to be perfect all the time. Charles nodded too fast, said he knew what that felt like. And suddenly it wasn't banter anymore. It was something heavier. Quieter. Safer.

A voice cut through the noise.

"Charles? Max?"

Silence.

"Charles?... Max?"

They turned, blinking, and the interviewer gave them a strained smile.

"I asked, what are your thoughts heading into Sunday?"

Max sat back first, face neutral again. Charles gave a quick answer, said something vague and rehearsed. But his heart was still beating too fast for something that was supposed to be casual.

Later, when he was alone, he kept asking himself.

Was it casual?

Then why did it feel like something he'd remember forever?

 

Was it casual?

Charles asked himself that again this time, over something even smaller. Something anyone watching probably laughed at and forgot about the next second. But he didn't.

Was it casual?
When you invited me into your interview before the race, and we ended up talking for minutes,  with the interviewers just standing there, listening to our nonsense?

It had started off like any other pre-race day. Hot. Loud. The media swarming every driver in every direction, cameras shoved inches from their faces. Charles had finished his interview early and was just lingering behind the cluster of reporters waiting, not really knowing for what.

Then Max caught his eye.

The interviewer was mid-sentence, asking something about pole positions and threats into Turn One. Charles hadn't heard the start of it, but he saw the exact moment Max's gaze shifted over the interviewer's shoulder, toward him.

Max squinted slightly, smirking.
"Can he overtake me?" he repeated the question.
He nodded toward Charles without even looking back at the interviewer.
"Why don't we ask him? Hey Charles! Come here!"

Charles raised his eyebrows. Smiled. He could've stayed put. Could've waved it off with a shrug. But instead, he walked over, laughing like it meant nothing.

"Me?" he said, stepping into frame, brushing Max's arm with his shoulder without meaning to. "No chance. I plan to sit behind and enjoy the show."

Max grinned, tilting his head. "You're lying already, and we haven't even gotten in the car."

And that should have been it. A quick joke, a shared laugh, and then back to business. But they didn't stop.

The interviewer, to his credit, tried to steer things back to the topic. Asked something about strategy. Neither of them really answered. They were already somewhere else, comparing cornering lines in sector two, teasing each other about tire choices, talking about the wind on the back straight like it was a private language only they spoke.

At some point, the microphone lowered.

The interviewer just stood there, resigned, letting the two of them talk. Max shifted to face Charles more directly. Their bodies angled in, like no one else was there. It wasn't flirting. It wasn't serious. But it wasn't nothing, either.

Later, when Charles watched the clip back, because of course he watched it back, he noticed how often Max looked at him instead of the camera. How natural it seemed. How... familiar.

Was it casual?

When even the journalists gave up trying to interrupt?

When you invited me in, even though you didn't need to?

When I came, without thinking twice?

 

Was it casual?

Max asked himself that now and then, especially when he remembered things he probably shouldn't still be thinking about. Like this one. One of those podiums where everything felt loud, champagne, cameras, cheers except for the moment that wouldn't leave his head.

Was it casual?
When I pulled you closer to me, to get a picture by your waist?
And you let me?

They'd just gone P1 and P2. He couldn't even remember who took which anymore. Maybe he won. Maybe Charles did. It didn't matter.

What Max remembered was the podium steps under his boots, the bright lights, the weird stickiness on his suit from the champagne. He remembered the photographer waving at them to stand closer for a final picture, the kind that ends up everywhere, plastered on Instagram, in team press kits, made into posters.

He turned, saw Charles a little too far off. Ten centimeters? Fifteen? Twenty? Far enough to feel like distance, even if no one else noticed.

So he reached out.

Not for his shoulder, not some safe, generic PR pose. No. His hand went lower. Rested at his waist. And pulled him in.

Max didn't even think about it. It just... happened.

And the part that stayed with him wasn't the touch, really. It was that Charles didn't flinch. Didn't stiffen. Didn't laugh it off like a joke.

He moved with it.

He stepped in that final bit of space like he'd been waiting for the invitation. And then he looked at the camera, smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world, with Max's hand still there, gentle, but not going anywhere.

Click. Flash.

The photo made rounds later. Everyone said it was just two drivers celebrating. It was. Probably.

But Max couldn't stop thinking about the feel of Charles' suit under his fingers. The way Charles leaned in like it meant nothing. Or maybe everything.

Was it casual?

He doesn't know.

But Charles didn't push his hand away.

 

Was it casual?

Was it?

When we were playing around, sticking our team logo stickers on each other's suits like children?
Even though there were other drivers there, ones we were closer to, ones we should've gone to first. We didn't.
We went straight for each other.

Charles:

It started stupidly. One of those light media days where the teams handed out stickers with their logos, trying to get them to do something "fun" for the cameras. Some drivers were casually sticking them on each other's backs, laughing like schoolboys.

Charles had one in his hand, half-peeling the edge. He could've put it on Checo, they were standing side by side, joking about something he couldn't even remember. But then he saw Max a few feet away, eyes already on him, grinning.

Charles took two steps.

He didn't think. He just stuck the sticker on Max's chest, right above the Red Bull logo. A big, bold Ferrari horse. And he smiled, one of those smiles that pulled all the way into his eyes.

Max blinked, laughed once, and then turned like he was going to let it go.
He didn't.

A minute later, there was a Red Bull sticker on Charles' lower back.

Then one on Max's arm. Then one on Charles' shoulder.

Then one just under Max's collarbone.

It went on like that. Silently, without words. A private war in the middle of a group of people, but they weren't really thinking about the others.

Checo passed by. Charles looked at him, smiled, but didn't touch the sticker in his hand. He didn't stick it to Checo's suit. He didn't even raise his hand.

Carlos nudged Max at one point, offered him a sticker, a joking target. Max laughed, took it — then turned right back to Charles.

The others were playing.
But Charles and Max? They were only playing with each other.

Max:

He didn't know when it started, but the moment Charles slapped that Ferrari sticker on his chest, he knew it wasn't just a joke.

He looked right at him, sharp but soft. Like he was daring him to do something back. So Max did. Obviously.

He kept it light. Sneaky. Under the arm, behind the shoulder, on the inside of the sleeve. Each time Charles would feel it a few seconds later, turn around too late, and Max would just grin like he didn't know what happened.

The others got pulled in. Sort of. But not really.

He was standing next to Carlos at one point, half listening to some PR rep talk about the schedule. Carlos had three stickers on his sleeve already, all from Lando or Oscar or someone else being dumb.

Max had a full sheet in his hand. And he didn't use a single one on Carlos.

He walked right back over to Charles. No hesitation.

And when he pressed the next sticker on, he did it a little slower. Let his fingers rest there for half a second longer than necessary.

Charles didn't say anything. Didn't move away.

Max smiled.

Was it casual?

When the whole paddock was playing around, but somehow, it felt like they were the only ones doing something else entirely?

 

 

Max's place. Back to reality

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the city far below. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in streaks of yellow light that flickered against the walls like distant stars. Max sat on the balcony, shoulders hunched, staring out at the night. The air smelled faintly of Kelly's lavender lotion, a scent that had become strangely comforting and bittersweet.

Inside, Kelly moved through her familiar routine, the sound of her brush running through her hair a soft, steady rhythm. She wrapped her hair in a loose bun, folded her clothes carefully, as if every motion was an attempt to hold on to something slipping away. She didn't want to break the silence, but she knew it wouldn't last forever.

Finally, she stood in the doorway, watching Max with eyes that held a quiet, tired understanding. It wasn't love or anger she felt it, it was something harder to name, like a question that had been asked too many times without an answer.

She stepped closer but didn't sit. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe and spoke, her voice low and steady.

"Max... what changed?"

He didn't turn right away. His fingers twitched, tracing invisible patterns on his knees, as if trying to find the right words in the dark.

"I don't think anything changed," he said after a long pause. "And that's the problem. Maybe... maybe nothing ever really started."

Kelly swallowed. The truth hung between them, heavy and fragile.

"I felt it too," she admitted quietly. "But I kept it inside. I didn't want to ask, because I was scared of the answer."

He finally looked at her then, eyes tired but honest.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Kelly. Not once."

"You didn't," she said softly. "That's what makes this so hard."

They shared a breath of silence, the kind that isn't empty but full of everything they weren't saying.

"I think we had respect," Kelly went on, "a lot of respect for each other. And maybe that was supposed to be enough."

Max nodded slowly. "Almost was."

"But it wasn't," she whispered.

The ache of what could have been settled between them, not with anger or blame, but with a sad understanding. Two people who cared deeply, but not in the way they needed to.

Max shifted, rubbing his hands together as if trying to shake off a chill. "I love Penelope," he said, his voice thick. "She's... she's like my own. And I hope that never changes."

Kelly smiled faintly, her eyes softening. "She knows. She'll always have you."

Max's voice cracked a little. "Are you sure? I don't want to lose her too."

"You won't. I promise. You're important to her. To both of us."

Kelly sat beside him then, her hand brushing lightly against his. "You deserve someone who chooses you every day, Max. Who makes you feel that way."

"And you," Max said, looking into her eyes, "deserve the same."

They sat together in silence, letting the weight of those words settle between them. No promises. No regrets. Just honesty.

Kelly reached out, lightly tracing the line of his jaw. "We did what we could," she said softly. "Sometimes that's enough."

Max leaned his head against her hand, closing his eyes for a moment.

The end wasn't loud or messy. It wasn't on social media or in the news. It was quiet, personal, something only they understood.

They didn't need to explain it to anyone else.

Later, when Penelope came to visit, Max was there, waiting with open arms and a warm smile. The bond he had with her didn't change, because love, real love, didn't always need to look like what people expected.

And for Kelly and Max, that was enough.

 

Charles' POV

Was it casual?

Was it casual? When you called me by a nickname that no one else calls me?

It happened once, the first time, and I remember it too well for it to have meant nothing. It was before qualifying, in the paddock, crowded with engineers and cameras and the usual mess of weekend noise. I was talking to one of the Ferrari crew about tire strategy, mind half on the numbers, half on the track.

Then you walked by.

"Hey, Charlie," you said, half a smirk on your face, voice just loud enough to cut through the chaos.

I turned my head, frowning, not because I was offended, just... surprised.

"Charlie?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged like it meant nothing. "It suits you."

It didn't. No one else called me that. Not my brothers, not my girlfriend, not even my mother when I was a kid. I hated being called anything but Charles. Hate is a strong word, but I did. Nicknames always felt like someone trying to shrink me down into something I wasn't.

But when it came from you? I didn't correct you.

You said it again the next day. After I spun in practice, came back to the garage with dirt streaks on my overalls and a sheepish laugh on my lips. You passed me, towel slung around your shoulders, and gave me that smug little smile.

"Nice one, Charlie."

And I laughed.

I laughed.

I remember thinking, I should tell him not to call me that. I should set the boundary, like I do with everyone else. But I didn't. I just let it sit. And after that, it stuck. You didn't use it all the time. No, you were smart about it. You only used it when I was being ridiculous. Or when I was too serious and you wanted to pull me out of my head. Or when I beat you and you were trying not to seem bothered.

Charlie.

Just from you.

No one else ever picked it up. You didn't say it loud in interviews or over the radio. It was just between us. A name no one else had permission to use, and a part of me wonders if you knew what it meant to me. If you saw how I never flinched when it came from your mouth. If you noticed how my eyes softened the first time, or how I didn't blink when you said it in front of the team.

I used to hate nicknames. Now?

Now I think there's something wrong with the way my heart reacts to hearing it from you.

Was it casual?

You'd probably say it was. You'd grin and play it off, just like always.

But I know better.

No one else calls me that.

Only you.

 

Third person POV

Was it casual?

Was it casual? When Max asked him the difference between the Monaco flag and the Singapore flag, even though everyone knew Max was a geography nerd? Even though Charles knew he already knew?

They were sitting in the hospitality area, two hours before the race. The sun was going down, casting a warm edge over everything, making even the paddock look a little romantic. The kind of lighting that made you forget the noise, the pressure, the cameras. Just long shadows and quiet conversations.

Charles was sipping a water bottle when Max sat down beside him like it meant nothing. No greeting. Just that familiar presence, like Max had every right to be there and maybe he did.

Then Max asked it, completely out of nowhere.

"So," he said, stretching a little, "what's the difference between the Monaco and Singapore flags again?"

Charles paused, bottle halfway to his mouth, brow twitching. Of all the things to ask.

He turned to Max, smirking just slightly. "You're joking, right?"

Max leaned back in his chair, looking at the sky like it held the answer. "No. I get them mixed up sometimes. They're pretty much the same, no?"

Charles narrowed his eyes. "They're not."

"Oh?"

Charles exhaled through a smile. He knew. He knew. Max had once rattled off the capital cities of every country on the Asian continent just to prove a point to Lando. He knew geography like the back of his hand. This wasn't curiosity. This was something else.

But he didn't call him out.

Instead, he shifted slightly in his seat and explained, "Monaco's flag is just red over white. Singapore has a crescent moon and five stars on the red half."

Max nodded slowly, like he was really trying to process that. "Hmm. Yeah, now I remember. You've told me that before."

"Three times."

A pause. Then Max smiled, almost like he was proud of being caught. "Must really want to make sure I get it."

Charles chuckled and looked away. He didn't ask why Max brought it up again. He didn't say, You just want an excuse to talk to me, don't you?

He didn't need to.

Because Max followed it with another question, something about Monaco's national day. Then Charles asked something back. And just like that, they fell into a conversation that didn't matter at all and yet meant everything. The kind you lose track of time in. The kind where silence is never awkward and the questions keep coming, not because they need answers, but because it means you're still talking.

Was it casual?

The question hung in the space between them like the soft evening air.

And Charles, who absolutely knew the answer, didn't say a word.

 

Max's POV

Was it casual?

Was it casual? When you gave me a present as a Secret Santa and wrote on the card "For my biggest fan"... and I laughed, because I knew exactly who it was from?

They were filming it, of course. Some content for the official F1 channel all of them seated in that too-bright studio space with wrapped gifts in front of them and holiday music playing just a little too cheerfully in the background.

Max looked down at the red-and-gold box on his lap, raising a brow. "This one's mine?"

The producer nodded from behind the camera. "Yep, go ahead."

He gave the wrapping a half-hearted tear and flipped open the lid revealing a DVD case. For a second, he thought it was an old movie. Then he saw the cover.

A racing game.

Not just any racing game. It was F1 2019. Ferrari cover edition. The front showed Charles and Carlos side by side, suited up, standing in front of the red car like they owned the world.

Max blinked. Then he smiled.

He didn't even need to look at the card. But he did anyway.

A small white card tucked under the disc case. Just a short message, printed neatly:

"For my biggest fan."

No name. No wink. No hint.

But he knew.

Max chuckled, holding up the card for the camera. "I think my Secret Santa's got a bit of an ego."

Lando snorted from the next chair over. "What is it?"

Max turned the game toward the group so they could see it, grin widening. "Ferrari fan service. I think I'm being converted."

The others laughed. Some guessed Carlos, others guessed someone random from the crew.

Max didn't guess. Didn't need to.

Because Charles was across the room, barely looking at him. Only the edge of his mouth gave anything away. That half-smile that always said I know something you don't want me to know I know.

Max made a mental note, right there, not to open it. Not to play it.

He was going to keep it. Shelf it next to a bunch of other games he never touched. Not because it was special, no, not because of the game.

Because it came from him. Because it said something. Because even in front of the camera, even in a group of twenty, even under all the secrecy...

Charles still found a way to speak to him.

And Max heard it. Loud and clear.

Was it casual?

He wished it was.

But Charles never had to sign his name. Max always knew. And maybe that was the whole point.

 

 

Charles' place. Back to reality.

The apartment was quiet.

Not the kind of silence that came with peace, but the kind that followed a question no one wanted to ask. Charles stood by the kitchen counter, fingers loosely wrapped around a half-empty glass of water. Alexandra sat on the couch, legs tucked under her, her eyes soft but distant.

Neither of them had said much that evening.

Charles had been quieter than usual all week. Not distracted in the way he could sometimes be when thinking about racing, this was different. His mind wasn't on the next Grand Prix.

It was somewhere else.

Or with someone else.

And Alexandra had known for a while. Maybe not in full detail. Maybe not the what, but definitely the where. She wasn't a fool. And Charles, for all his efforts, wasn't good at pretending when his heart was elsewhere.

So she started.

"I think," she said, gently, "we should talk."

Charles looked up, and for a second, something in his face looked like fear. But he set the glass down and nodded. "Okay."

Alexandra sat straighter, not cold, not even angry, just tired of circling the edge of something they'd both known.

"I've been wondering when you'd say something," she said. "But then I realized... maybe you didn't even know what to say."

He didn't answer right away. "I didn't want to hurt you."

She gave him a look, one part fond, one part sad. "You're not hurting me, Charles. Not like that. Because the truth is... I don't think we were ever in love."

He looked down at his hands.

"I cared about you," he said.

"And I cared about you too," she replied. "But caring and loving aren't the same, are they?"

He shook his head, almost too softly to see.

There was a pause. The kind where someone might normally cry. But Alexandra didn't cry. She watched him with a kind of distant warmth, like she was already stepping into the next part of her life and simply saying goodbye to this one.

Then, finally, she said it. "You look at him, you know."

Charles blinked. "What?"

"Max." She said the name gently, like it wasn't a landmine. "You look at him like you've been waiting for him to look back your whole life."

He opened his mouth to deny it out of instinct, not thought, but the words didn't come. Just a breath. And then silence.

"I don't-" he tried. "It's not like that. I mean, I've never-"

"You never said it," she finished for him. "That doesn't mean it isn't true."

Charles didn't know what to say. So he said nothing.

And Alexandra... she smiled.

Just a little. Not cruel, not bitter. But something soft, and just a little amused.

"I'm not mad," she said. "Not even jealous. I'm just... sad that we both spent this time trying to find something that wasn't there."

He swallowed. "I didn't mean to-"

"I know," she said. "And I think you know that I didn't, either."

There was another pause. Longer this time. He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, really saw her. Not as the girl who was supposed to be by his side, not as the girlfriend he tried to feel more for, but as someone who deserved better. Just as much as he did.

She stood slowly, walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. He hesitated only a second before pulling her in.

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't passionate. But it was kind.

When she pulled back, she rested her hands on his chest and tilted her head, teasing just a little. "You should make a move on him, you know."

Charles blinked, caught between a laugh and a frown. "What?"

She grinned. "You never know."

He chuckled, nervous but not miserable. "You're serious?"

"I'm walking away without crying, Charles. That's how serious I am." She patted his cheek lightly. "Be brave. You've been raised with love. Use it."

He stared at her, overwhelmed, grateful, and a little embarrassed. But mostly relieved. She wasn't walking out angry. She was walking out free.

And suddenly, so was he.

When she left, she didn't slam the door. She didn't say goodbye like it was a tragedy.

She just left with peace. And Charles stood there in the silence of the apartment, wondering how something could end so calmly... and still feel like the beginning of something else.

 

Charles' POV

Was it casual?
When we were so deep into chatting that he followed me, even though he had to go the opposite direction?

It started somewhere between the garage and the media pen. A nothing kind of space, just one of those concrete lanes between team zones where PR people walked fast and drivers walked faster.

But Max slowed when he saw me. He'd finished his interviews earlier than expected, and I was just done with mine. He didn't say anything at first. Just caught my eye and gave a familiar half-smile, the kind that meant, I'm bored. Let's talk.

And we did.

Something about tire choices. Or maybe strategy rumors. Honestly, I can't remember. The words weren't really the point. It was just... comfortable. Easy.

We kept walking. Side by side. No destination in mind, at least not mine. I was heading back to Ferrari hospitality, and Max? He was supposed to go the other way entirely. The Red Bull setup was on the opposite end of the paddock. Everyone knew that. He knew that.

But he kept walking with me anyway.

Neither of us said anything about it. He just stuck beside me, matching my pace, adding things to the conversation every few steps. A joke here, a shrug there. I looked at him once, sort of sideways, half-waiting for him to realize and turn back.

He didn't.

He knew. I could tell.

He glanced at the signage when we passed Racing Bull's garage. Then again when we passed Mercedes. Still, he didn't stop. Didn't break pace. Just stayed with me, step for step, like wherever I was heading was where he was meant to go too.

It wasn't until we reached the edge of Ferrari's hospitality area, bright red walls, a staffer opening the door for me, that we both paused.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

We said nothing for a second. Then he exhaled through a grin, like he was finally allowing himself to be caught.

"I'm guessing I took a wrong turn," he said.

I smiled. "You did."

We both knew it wasn't a mistake.

"See you later?" he asked.

"Yeah," I nodded. "Later."

He gave me a lazy salute, two fingers to his temple, a wink that wasn't really a wink and then turned. I watched him walk away, back down the entire length of the paddock. Retracing the steps he hadn't meant to take.

All that way.

Just to talk.

And I stood there thinking...

Was it casual?

 

Max's POV

Was it casual?
When you sat on the wrong chair, that wrong chair, a number 1 for me, but you sat in it and I didn't mind. So I went over to your chair with number 2 on it and sat there instead of asking you to move?

It was one of those humid, adrenaline-drained moments after a race. Sweat barely drying, suits still half-zipped, hearts still beating like the engine hadn't shut off yet.

Charles walked into the cooldown room first. I came in behind him, bottle of water in hand, helmet still in my grip. I watched him glance at the seats, the usual three  and he just sat. Didn't look at the number, or maybe didn't care. Maybe he was too tired to think. Or maybe... he thought it didn't matter.

But it did. To someone else, it might've mattered. To me, it should have.

He was in the chair marked 1.
Mine.

And I smiled.

Not because I was annoyed. Not even close. I just... liked the way he looked so at home in it. Like it belonged to him too, somehow.

He noticed me smiling. His brow lifted, just a little, and he mirrored it, that quiet, effortless smile he only gave when no one else was watching. I could've told him he was in the wrong spot. I could've motioned or joked or raised a brow. But I didn't.

I walked over and sat down in the chair with the big white 2 on it.

Charles tilted his head like he might say something, but I beat him to it. "Tired?"

He nodded. "Hot."

I cracked open the bottle, took a sip, and passed it to him without a word. He took it. Drank.

Carlos entered a few seconds later, settling into the number 3 seat. He gave us a brief glance,  curious, maybe. But didn't say much. That was Carlos. Observant. Aware of everything even when he said nothing.

We watched the race replay together. All three of us, technically. But it was mostly just me and Charles talking. Laughing. Pointing out mistakes, near misses, funny radio calls. Carlos chuckled at a few bits, but let us have our moment. Let us keep talking like we were still on track, chasing each other down, but with no helmets, no noise, just us, alone in a quiet room.

Eventually, Charles looked down. Noticed the number on the seat under him. His eyes widened slightly, a hint of pink coloring his face. "Shit," he muttered. "This was yours."

I shrugged. "Does it matter?"

He hesitated. "I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," I cut in, laughing. "Maybe it suits you better anyway."

He rolled his eyes but grinned, and I swore he relaxed after that. Just a bit more.

Later, when we all got up to leave, he gave me a light bump with his shoulder. "I owe you a seat."

I bumped back. "Keep it. Just means you're coming for me."

He looked at me, that open kind of look, half challenge, half... something else.

I never asked him to move.
I didn't want him to.

Was it casual?

 

 

Both POVs

Was it casual?
When races after races, the commentators, the fans, even the team principals, said that "only Charles knows how to dance with Max" and just said that it was what we are?

They never said it outright to each other. Not once.
But they heard it.

Every race, every lap wheel to wheel, not too aggressive, not too soft, just right. Clean. Close. Closer than it should've been sometimes. Inches, breaths, heartbeats apart.

Commentators picked it up first.

Crofty on Sky, half-laughing:

"And there they go again... Verstappen and Leclerc. There's a rhythm between these two, isn't there? I don't think anyone else on the grids knows how to dance with Max like Charles does!"

Jenson Butten chuckled in response:

"That's exactly it! It's not racing, it's dancing. Look at that! No contact, just trust, you can't fake that!"

Clips went viral.
A trend.

And in the paddock?

Someone brought it up in an interview once George, laughing. "No one else wants to race Max, but Charles does it like it's a duet. You ever seen him back off?"

Even Lando chimed in. "It's like those two are doing ballroom at 300kph."

They laughed it off. Both of them.
Charles shrugged, eyes rolling just a bit, grinning as he said, "I know him too well to do anything stupid."
Max, leaning into his usual calm, only said, "It is how it is."

But then there were the team principals.
Christian Horner, always a bit smug but honest, said it on camera.

"Max and Charles, they've been racing each other since karting. It's different with them. You watch it, they don't just fight. They move with each other. It's personal, but in a way that makes them better."

Fred Vasseur, more subbed, added in his own interview,

"They don't just race. They know each other. The space between them, it's... familiar. Not many drivers have that kind of rapport on track."

They both heard that one.

Charles, sitting in the Ferrari hospitality, sipping espresso, glanced at the clip playing on the screen. "Familiar," he echoed. "That's a word."

Max, beside him with a protein bar half-eaten in hand, gave a little smile. "They say it like it's strange."

"It is."

"Not to us."

And that was the thing, it wasn't strange to them. It was just how it always had been.

The shoves in turn one.
The switchbacks.
The side-by-side sprints.
The way they gave each other just enough room and not a millimeter more.

It didn't need to be explained.
Not between them.
Not when Max would glance at his mirrors and know Charles was there.
Not when Charles would brake late and know Max wouldn't shut the door.

They'd done it for years.
From karting to F2 to now. And still, nobody else raced like that with Max. Nobody else Max let close.
And Charles? He only ever smiled differently when it was Max's car beside his.

Was it casual?

They never answered.
They just kept racing like it was inevitable.
Like they had no idea what everyone else already knew.
Like two idiots in love. Racing.

 

 

The Race Break

Max's POV

The race break didn't feel like a break.
It felt like the silence after too much noise, the kind that made the echoes ring louder.
So Max went to Monaco, not to his apartment, not to the Red Bull simulator, but to the little hillside house where Penelope's laughter always managed to pull something soft out of him. Kelly greeted him with her usual calm. No pretense. Just a quiet smile and the offer of coffee.

Penelope ran into him the second he stepped inside. Arms wrapped tight around his waist, her voice bright. "I missed you, Maxie."

"Missed you more, P," he said, scooping her up. He still meant it. That had never changed.

The day stretched. Long walks. Ice cream. P tugging at his hand and showing him how much her drawings had improved. He let it all happen, let the time pour over him until the weight in his chest wasn't so heavy anymore.

That night, Penelope had fallen asleep on the couch beside him with a blanket tucked under her chin. Kelly joined him a few minutes later, warm mug in hand, settling into the armchair across from him.

She studied him for a moment before saying, "You're quieter than usual."

He looked down at the little girl asleep beside him. "Just tired, I think."

But she kept looking at him.
Waiting.
Knowing.

So he started talking.

It began with racing. It always did. But this time it wasn't about the car. It was about memories. Karting tracks with fading white paint. The smell of fuel and dust. Rivalries that burned hotter than the sun.
"Charles was the only one who could beat me sometimes," Max said, a small, amused smile tugging at his mouth. "And God, I hated him for it. But I also... respected him. Even back then. He was quick. Smart. Brave. Too brave, sometimes."

Kelly didn't interrupt. She let him go on.

He talked about the way Charles drove now. How they trusted each other on track. How they never spoke about it, but both knew they could dance on the edge and the other would never let them fall. He didn't even realize how much he was smiling until Kelly's soft voice broke in.

"You really care about him."

Max paused. The smile faded slightly. "He's a good driver."

"That's not what I said."

He looked at her then. She wasn't teasing. Her expression was careful, open, but serious.

"I've watched you talk about racing a thousand times," she said. "You light up when it's about him. Not even the car. Him."

Max blinked. His throat felt tighter than it had moments ago.

"Do you think you have feelings for Charles?" Kelly asked, gently.

The question sat in the air between them.
Max wanted to answer.
He didn't know how.

"I..." He swallowed. "I don't know. I wasn't... raised for that. I was raised to win. To focus. To not feel things too deeply."

Kelly softened. "I know. Your father made sure of that."

Max looked away.

"But Max," she continued, "you're not just what he made you. You proved that already. With me. With her." She nodded toward Penelope, still asleep. "You loved us. Even if it wasn't romantic. You loved us in your way."

He stayed silent.

"You're not a machine. You're a man. And you have a heart, whether you let yourself admit it or not."

Max looked back down at the little girl who wasn't his by blood, but somehow still his.

"She calls me her Maxie," he murmured.

"I know," Kelly smiled. "You're hers. In every way that matters."

There was a pause. And then Max said it, quiet. "If I let myself feel something for Charles... what if it ruins what we have?"

Kelly tilted her head. "Or what if it's already something, and you're just the last one to see it?"

He looked at her. Really looked. There was no bitterness in her. No hurt. Just understanding.
"Do you regret anything?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Because everything brought us here. To this. To her." She gestured toward Penelope again. "And maybe... to whatever's next for you."

Max took a breath, one that reached deeper than the ones before.
He didn't say yes.
He didn't say no.
But a quiet warmth was beginning to spread in his chest, an understanding he'd kept buried finally scratching at the surface.

Kelly reached across the coffee table and gave his hand a squeeze.

"Don't be afraid to feel it, Max. He already does."

That part made him freeze.

"What?"

Kelly smiled. "Oh, come on. You don't really think it's just you, do you?"

Max didn't know what to say to that. Not yet.
But he smiled. Just barely.
And this time, it reached his eyes.

The room was still. The kind of stillness that feels like the end of something, or maybe the beginning.
Penelope had been carried to her room by now. Kelly returned from tucking her in, but instead of sitting across from Max again, she took the spot beside him on the couch. Not too close. Just enough for comfort. Enough to remind him that he wasn't alone, not in this moment.

She looked at him, really looked at him, in the way only someone who had once known him deeply could. "You know," she started, "I used to think it was nothing too."

Max furrowed his brow.

"You and Charles. The way you two are with each other. I thought it was just rivalry. Or shared history. Something that made sense on track, but nowhere else."

He didn't say anything, but he was listening.

"But it's not just that," Kelly continued. "It's the way your voice changes when you talk about him. The way you go still when he walks into a room. You say you were raised to be a machine. Maybe that's true. But somehow, he always gets through to you anyway."

Max looked down at his hands. "He's just... he knows me. That's all."

Kelly tilted her head. "Does he? Or do you let him know you, in a way you don't let anyone else?"

The question sank into the quiet.

"I've seen it," she went on. "The way he looks at you. There's always something in his eyes when it's you. Always. It's not loud. It's not dramatic. It's just there. Soft. Certain. Real."

Max swallowed hard. "He's like that with a lot of people."

"No," Kelly said. "He's kind to a lot of people. He's himself with you."

He looked at her.

"When you're around, he relaxes. He stops trying so hard. He's calm. Grounded. And you? You're different around him too. You're lighter, even if you don't notice. You let your guard down."

Max wanted to deny it. But he couldn't. Not now.

"I saw you once," Kelly said, voice softer. "During a drivers' parade. There were so many of you, and still, he found you. You found him. And the two of you walked side by side like there was no one else around."

Max remembered. The way they talked the whole time. How easy it had been to joke about the crowd, to tease each other about old races, to forget there were cameras and fans all around. He hadn't thought much of it. But now...

"You didn't even look at anyone else," she added. "You chose each other. Again and again. That's not casual, Max."

His chest tightened.

"You think you're good at hiding things," Kelly said. "Maybe you are, with most people. But not with me. And not with him either, I think."

Max let out a long breath, shaky and slow. "He's... he's different."

"He always was," she agreed. "And I think he feels the same. But maybe he's never said it because he knows you. Because he knows you've been taught not to want things like that. To not need people."

Max went quiet. That part struck something deep.

"Charles wasn't raised like you," Kelly continued. "His father gave him love. Gave him permission to be soft. To feel. He's always had that. But you?" She looked at him with something almost maternal, almost proud. "You had to find that on your own."

Max looked down, remembering the way Charles smiled at him after races. The quiet praise. The little nudges. The way he stayed, lingered, always gave more time than necessary.

"He made space for you," Kelly said. "Not because he had to. But because he wanted to. Always."

And then the words that hit deeper than anything else:

"Max, you'll never know if you don't try. But if it's really love, it won't go anywhere. It'll wait. It's probably been waiting."

Max felt his throat tighten again.

He thought back, across years.
To moments.
To that stupid moment in the cooldown room when Charles took his chair and he didn't care.
To the interviews they gave, where Charles leaned a little closer, like it was just the two of them.
To that one stupid question about who knew who better, and Max's answer had come too quickly: "I know him."
And it had been true.

"He always let me get away with things," Max said, voice barely above a whisper.

Kelly tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"I hate when people break rules. Cut lines. Talk too long. But Charles... he does all of that." Max almost laughed. "He cuts into my answers during interviews, he leans too close when we're walking, he takes my seat, he texts me after midnight-" He paused, realizing. "And I never get mad."

Kelly smiled. "Because he's the exception."

Max didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He knew now.

The way his chest felt warmer.
The way his lungs pulled air in like they were waking up.
The way his heart didn't just race when Charles was near, it settled.
He saw it now.

Maybe it had always been there.

Maybe love had always looked a little like him.
Like Charles.

 

Charles' POV

Was it casual one last time.

Was it casual?
When I accidentally got into your way on track, and instead of cursing at me like you did to other drivers, you just laughed?

It hadn't even crossed Charles' mind in the moment. The race was still fresh in his system, heartbeat stubborn, sweat cooling on the back of his neck, mind still wired from wheel-to-wheel tension and half-blind decisions. One of those decisions, somewhere midway through the race, had been a late swerve back into line during an overtake shuffle. He hadn't seen Max. Not properly. Not until he was already there.

It could've ended worse. Should have, maybe. But it didn't.

No contact. Just a cut. One of those brief, heat-of-battle things that normally ended in fury and colorful language over team radio.

He expected it, actually. The post-race drama.
Expected to walk into the cooldown room and hear from a teammate or someone on the Ferrari side: "Max's pissed."
But it never came.

What came instead was silence. Then a grin.

He only saw the clip later, in the drivers' room. Carlos was still in the shower, and Charles was sprawled on the bench, scrolling without really looking. Until he did.

A post from the F1 account.
A video clip.

The title made him pause. "Max's reaction to Charles cutting him off 👀"

He pressed play.

It was a quick replay from the race, Charles diving late into the racing line. Max behind him, having to check up. The kind of moment that would have drawn fury if it were anyone else.

Then the radio came.

Max: "Ahh, that's clever."
Laughter. Not sarcastic. Just genuinely amused.
GP, chuckling: "Yeah, bit of a move there."
Max again: Still laughing. No venom. No anger. Just Max... smiling.

Charles blinked. Watched it again.

Something in his chest tightened, but not uncomfortably. More like something sliding into place.

He let the phone rest on his lap and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he laughed. Quietly. To himself.

Because this wasn't the first time, was it?

Max cursed other drivers. Called them idiots. Swore about strategy and defensive moves and reckless racing.
But with Charles?
It was always something else.
He never shouted. Never called him names.
He joked. He teased. He laughed.

And now, this. On a global feed. The world saw it too.

Charles bit the inside of his cheek and smiled again, almost sheepish. His cheeks a little warm. He glanced at the doorway, half-expecting someone to walk in and see the look on his face.

He thought back. Back to the other races. The close calls. The fights on track that felt more like dances. The defending, the switching, the trust that somehow always existed between them even at 300kph.

Was it casual?

Really?

Because now, sitting in the stillness of the drivers' room, the echo of Max's laugh playing in his head, Charles realized he already knew the answer.

It never was.

 

Later that night, Carlos' hotel room

It was raining, soft, barely-there drizzle tapping at the windows of the hotel as Charles stepped into the suite. He didn't knock. He never had to. Carlos had texted him to come by after dinner, same as always, same as they'd done for years now.

They greeted each other like old friends do. A clasp of the shoulder. A pat on the back. A muttered "brother" in Carlos' tired Madrid accent, and a quiet laugh from Charles in return. Familiar. Steady. Warm.

The room was dim, only the city lights outside painting gold on the floor. The television was on mute, something random flickering across the screen. Two glasses on the table. One already half-full with red wine. Carlos poured another.

They sat. Close, not quite facing. Like they always did when they had something to say but didn't know how to start.

Carlos started with nothing.

Something dumb. A joke about Lando's new haircut. About how Pierre had flirted shamelessly with one of the paddock chefs just for an extra dessert. Charles laughed, rolled his eyes, added a story of his own about Esteban mistaking someone else's rental car for his. Dumb things. Safe things.

Then silence. One breath. Two.

Carlos leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out, and took a sip.

Then said, without warning, "Are you dumb, or just so deep in it you can't see anymore?"

Charles blinked. "Sorry?"

Carlos didn't look at him, not yet. He was still watching the streetlights flicker below.

"I'm serious," Carlos continued, quiet but firm. "Because either you're completely clueless, or you've convinced yourself so hard that you don't see it anymore."

"See what?"

Carlos turned, finally. And his eyes weren't joking anymore.

"You and Max."

Charles froze, not visibly, but something shifted inside him. Like a gear skipping a tooth.

Carlos didn't wait for the silence to stretch.

"The way you look at each other," he said. "Do you even hear yourselves when you talk to him? Do you even see him when he's around you?"

Charles opened his mouth, but Carlos kept going, calm but relentless.

"Max Verstappen doesn't soften for people. You know that. You've seen it. He gets annoyed, cold, sharp, he cuts people off without thinking twice."

Charles' throat felt a little tight. "I know."

"But with you?" Carlos shook his head, almost smiling. "He smiles. I mean actually smiles. He teases you. He lets you do things he hates. You think I didn't see him laugh when you accidentally hit his wheel gun at that one pit stop last year? Anyone else and he'd have had a meltdown."

Charles remembered it. Barely. Just a bump. Max had laughed and said something like, "Careful, mate. That's my car."

Carlos leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. "You break his space. You push his limits. You make him... not like himself. And he likes it."

Charles couldn't quite look up. Couldn't quite look away either.

"And you," Carlos said. "You look at him like you forgot what air tastes like. Like he's some kind of-" he paused, rubbed his jaw, "-like he's something you've been running from and back to at the same time."

Charles tried to laugh, but it came out soft and shaky. "You're being dramatic."

Carlos didn't budge. "Am I?"

He stood and went to the small table by the window, picking up his glass. He looked down into it for a moment before adding, quieter now, "He talks about you, Charles. Even when you're not around."

That made Charles' head lift.

"Not like... not gushing or anything," Carlos said. "But every time your name comes up, it's like he chooses to say something good. Like he wants people to know you."

Charles blinked. "I didn't know that."

"Of course you didn't," Carlos said gently. "You're too close to it. Too scared, maybe. Or maybe too loyal to the idea that this is just... nothing."

He came back to sit down, slower this time.

"I've known you for years now. I've seen you through the worst of it. The heartbreaks. The losses. The crashes and the wins. And I've never seen you this-" Carlos searched for the word, then said it with quiet clarity, "careful."

Charles breathed out, slow and low. "What if I'm wrong?"

Carlos reached for his shoulder, gripped it for a second. "Then at least you'll know."

They sat like that for a while. The TV still muted. The city still humming below.

And something inside Charles, something that had been tied in a knot for far too long, finally loosened. Not undone, not fully. But loosened.

Because if someone like Carlos could see it... maybe it really was never casual after all.

They stayed in that warm silence for a while. The rain hadn't let up. It was still falling, soft and steady outside, almost in rhythm with the thud of Charles' heart. Everything Carlos had said, it still echoed in his chest like something both foreign and frighteningly familiar. Like a truth he had always known, but only now was ready to hear.

Carlos shifted in his seat, stretching out his back before standing again, pacing a little in that restless way he always did when something still sat heavy on his mind.

"You should talk to him," Carlos said eventually, voice low but clear.

Charles looked up.

"I'm serious," Carlos added. "You don't need to plan anything. You won't. I know you. But at least... try."

Charles didn't answer right away. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely laced together. His throat was dry, and his mind felt far too full.

"It'd be worth it," Carlos continued, "Because we don't know what's coming. You of all people know that."

Charles nodded, almost to himself.

Carlos stood by the window again, his glass empty now. He turned slightly, eyes on the skyline, but his words came directed at Charles.

"Max... he wasn't raised like you, Charles."

The words hit softly. No accusation, just truth.

Carlos continued. "He didn't grow up knowing softness. Or warmth. He was raised to win. To survive. To be a weapon."

Charles's eyes dropped to the floor, then slowly up again.

"You've always known that," Carlos said, more gently now. "You know it better than anyone else. Probably better than Max's own father ever did."

Silence stretched for a beat. Then Carlos turned fully back around.

"Maybe you're the one who's supposed to show him. That he's more than that. That he can be soft. That he can be loved. That he deserves it."

That struck something deep. Something raw. Because Charles had seen that softness. He'd felt it. In the way Max's voice would drop when it was just them. In the way Max never snapped at him, even when he made a mistake. In the way Max had always, always looked at him, like he wasn't a rival, but something more. Something safe.

And now, when Carlos said it out loud like that, it wasn't just a theory anymore. It was real.

"You don't have to do anything dramatic," Carlos said, quieter now. "Just... don't lie to yourself anymore."

Charles leaned back, taking in a breath he didn't even know he needed.

He thought about all those moments.

Max's laugh over the radio when Charles accidentally blocked him.
Their long walks during drivers' parades, side by side even with others around.
The soft tone Max saved only for him.
The way Max had always chosen understanding when he could've chosen anger.
The way he made space for him. Always.

And suddenly all those questions he'd whispered to himself in private, Was it casual? Was I reading too much into it? They all had an answer now.

He finally saw it.

The light.

The truth.

It was never casual.

Not the way Max smiled around him.
Not the way Charles softened in return.
Not the way they raced close, fierce, but with trust.
Not the way their names always lingered in each other's mouths like a secret.

Never to them.

And now that they both saw it, maybe, just maybe, they could stop pretending they didn't.

Charles met Carlos' eyes across the room. "Thank you."

Carlos smiled, not smug, not teasing, just proud. "Go figure out the rest. But don't wait too long."

And for the first time in a long time, Charles felt ready.

 

Max's hotel room, post-race night

It took them a few more races.

Maybe two, maybe three. Enough for both of them to truly see it. The quiet way their eyes lingered longer. The unspoken trust, thicker than ever. The way they started choosing each other more deliberately, without needing an excuse. Even when the world around them roared on, somehow, they only heard each other.

Charles had noticed it in the way Max started smiling more, smiling like something inside him had unclenched. Max saw it in the way Charles started reaching out more, letting their closeness stretch into the small, in-between spaces where it once never dared.

It was quiet. But certain.

That night, after the race, Max had texted him:
"Come over? We'll eat. Talk. Watch something dumb maybe."

And Charles had said yes without even thinking.

When he got to Max's hotel, the door opened almost instantly. Max stood there, hoodie loose around his shoulders, eyes soft, posture easy. He looked... comfortable. Like the storm of race day had never touched him.

Like he'd been waiting for Charles all along.

"Hey," Max said.

"Hi," Charles returned, the corners of his lips pulling up.

They didn't need to say much more. Max stepped aside to let him in, and the door clicked shut behind them.

The hotel suite wasn't lavish. Just quiet. Warm lights. A blanket draped over the back of the couch. Two plates on the table. Nothing extravagant. But it felt like home.

They ate first, some takeout Max had ordered in advance, because he knew Charles would be hungry and wouldn't say anything until his stomach practically growled. They talked easily, naturally, like always. About the race. About the dumb things Norris said in the cooldown room. About how George kept trying to act taller than he was.

Everything flowed.

And then, somewhere between their last bites and the soft hum of some random movie playing in the background. Max spoke.

"I used to think I didn't need anything but racing."

Charles looked up slowly, watching him.

Max didn't look back. His eyes stayed on the half-empty glass in his hand, swirling slightly. "That... love, or connection, or even feeling too much it would slow me down."

He laughed, but it was dry. Hollow.

"My dad always said you had to be selfish to win. That if you care too much, you'll lose everything. So I tried. For years. To just be... what he wanted."

Charles didn't interrupt. Just listened. Just heard him.

"But even when I won, he looked at me like it wasn't enough. Or like I wasn't enough." Max exhaled slowly. "I don't even remember the last time he hugged me."

Charles swallowed, heart sinking.

"I didn't know what love looked like," Max said. "I still don't, really. I don't think I've ever truly loved anyone. Not in the way you're supposed to."

And then Charles spoke.

"Was it casual?"

Max's brow furrowed. "What?"

Charles stood then, slowly, walking toward the balcony doors. He pushed one open, just enough to let in the night air. He didn't turn back when he spoke.

"Was it casual?" he asked again, quieter this time. "When you laughed instead of cursing when I got in your way? When you let me break all your rules and never got mad?"

Max stayed silent, but he was listening. He always did, when it was Charles.

"Was it casual?" Charles went on, "When we walked the whole driver parade side by side? When you watched me like you do, and smiled like I was the only one there?"

The wind slipped through the gap in the door, brushing Charles' hair back. He turned then, meeting Max's eyes.

"Was it casual?" he said softly, "That it was always different with me?"

Max didn't answer right away.

Because what answer could he give that wouldn't break him open?

Charles stepped closer, not rushing. Just there. Steady. Warm.

"You told me you've never really felt love," Charles said. "But you let me in. Over and over. You let me see you. Even when you tried to hide."

Max was still, but something trembled in his eyes.

"I think that means something," Charles whispered.

Max looked at him then, really looked. His jaw tightened slightly, like he was holding back more than he could name. His eyes were glassy, unreadable and yet somehow clearer than ever.

"It was never casual," he said finally. Barely a breath. "Not with you."

And there it was.

All those years. All those questions. The weight of almosts and maybes and things unsaid.

Finally spoken.

Charles let out a breath, a small, shaking laugh slipping out.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he said, voice thick.

Max reached forward, fingers brushing against Charles' wrist. "I didn't know how to name it. But it was always you."

Charles smiled then. Soft. Real. "We're idiots."

"Idiots in love," Max murmured.

And for once, there was nothing else left to say.

Only the truth.

They stood in silence.

The room dimmed around them, the world muffled behind thick hotel walls. The soft rustle of the balcony curtains was the only sound between them. Charles stood close, so close Max could count every freckle across the bridge of his nose, every tired line at the corner of his eyes, carved by years of sun and pressure and too many expectations.

Max still had his fingers lightly brushing Charles' wrist. Like he was afraid that if he let go, Charles might disappear. And maybe he would've, once.

But not now.

Charles leaned in first. Not in a rush, not with urgency, just... certainty. Like gravity, like breath, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Their foreheads touched gently first, and Max exhaled shakily.

And then they kissed.

It wasn't cautious. It wasn't shy. It was years in the making. A thousand almosts crashing into a single, quiet moment.

Max melted into it. His hands slipped up to Charles' jaw, tentative at first, but then firmer, grounding himself in something real. Charles' hands slid around his waist, holding him steady, anchoring him.

Their lips moved in sync, not perfectly, not rehearsed, but like something they both knew in their bones. This was not a question anymore.

It was the answer.

And when they finally broke apart, breathless, eyes wide and stunned with the weight of it, the silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was reverent.

Max blinked, like he wasn't sure the world was real anymore.

Charles was the one to speak first. His voice was low, soft, but steady.

"I saw you."

Max looked up slowly.

"I always did, Max" Charles said, his fingers now curling lightly around Max's shirt. "Even when no one else seemed to. Even when you thought you were hiding."

Max didn't say anything. He couldn't.

Charles went on. "I saw how you never snapped at me. Not once. Not even when I deserved it."

A soft smile tugged at his lips, bittersweet.

"I saw how you let me in, Max. Even when you swore you didn't know how to love. You say you don't know how, but you gave it anyway. To Penelope. To me. Even if it was small things. Soft words. A look. A teasing smile. You gave it."

Max's eyes began to sting.

"And maybe it wasn't the way others do it. Maybe it wasn't loud. But I saw it. I always did."

Max looked like he was breaking and trying not to.

"You don't have to be perfect," Charles said gently. "You don't have to win everything, or carry all of that just to be worthy of love. You don't have to impress anyone, not your father. Not the world."

His hand lifted, cupping Max's cheek. "You just need to be... you. The way you are with me. Soft. Calm. Kind, even when you pretend not to be."

Max's chest rose and fell like the weight of the whole world had settled into his ribs.

"Because I know," Charles whispered, "you didn't grow up with love. But if you'll let me... I'll give it to you. I'll teach you. I'll be patient. I won't ask for more than you can give. I'll just... be here."

He swallowed.

"You just have to let me in."

There was a long pause.

Max didn't speak. He couldn't, not right away. His throat closed up, something caught and raw. His vision blurred. He blinked rapidly, trying to pull himself together, but he couldn't. Not this time.

Not with him.

He had spent years being carved into a machine. Raised to win. Programmed to be untouchable. Fast. Ruthless. Cold. He had learned early on that feeling too much meant falling behind. That love was a distraction. That vulnerability was a weakness.

And yet, here he was. Falling apart in the arms of the one person who saw through all of it.

And didn't flinch.

Max's voice broke when he finally spoke. "I don't want anyone else to do that."

Charles blinked.

"I only want you to show me," Max whispered. "Only you."

Tears slipped down his cheeks, and Charles caught them with his thumb, brushing them away like they were sacred.

Max leaned forward again, and this time the kiss was different.

It was desperate and grateful and open and trembling. It was everything Max had never let himself feel. It was everything Charles had waited to give. It wasn't clean. It wasn't neat.

But it was theirs.

Max held onto him like he was scared to let go. Charles kissed him like he never would.

And in that moment, everything they had asked. Was it casual? Was it real? Was it safe to want this? All fell away.

Because now they weren't just seeing it.

They were living it.

They didn't need to ask anymore.

The answer had always been there.

No, it was never casual.

Not when it was them.

 

A Race Weekend After the Confession

The paddock buzzed with its usual chaos, mechanics rushing, engineers shouting into radios, reporters hunting for the next headline. But inside their shared space, there was a calm.

Charles leaned back against the hospitality wall, brushing crumbs off his jacket. Max appeared beside him with two cups of coffee, the steam fogging slightly in the cool morning air.

"Here," Max said, handing Charles a cup. His eyes crinkled in that familiar, calm way Charles had grown to cherish.

Charles took it with a small smile. "Thanks. You really don't have to..."

Max waved him off. "I want to."

They sat side by side, watching the rest of the drivers stream past, full of noise and tension. But for a few moments, it was just them.

Later, after the race, when the adrenaline faded and the roar of the crowd became a distant hum, Charles found Max by the garage, running a hand through his hair, tired but smiling.

"You were great out there," Charles said softly. "Really great."

Max shrugged like it was no big deal, but his eyes told a different story. "Could've been better."

Charles shook his head. "No. You did exactly what you needed to. You were calm. Focused. You're... different now."

Max's smile softened. "I'm just... me."

"And that's enough," Charles said firmly.

That evening, back in Max's hotel room, they shared a quiet dinner, pizza, laughing over ridiculous stories from karting days, the weight of the world lifted for a little while.

Max looked at Charles, his expression unguarded. "I never thought I'd have this, someone who gets me. Someone who actually wants to be with me."

Charles reached across the table, taking Max's hand in his. "I see you. I always have."

They sat in the warmth of that moment, the quiet understanding between them saying everything words couldn't.

They still raced like champions, still faced challenges and pressure, but with each race weekend, the weight felt lighter. Because they weren't alone.

They had each other.

 

After that night. The night that they confessed. 

Something shifted. Not in a way that screamed for attention, but in the subtle rhythm of their lives. Max seemed... lighter. Calmer. Happier, even. Those around him noticed the change but had no idea why. Only Charles did.

At the next races, Max's usual sharp edge softened. He still raced hard, fierce as ever, but there was a new ease to him. His usual sharp retorts and frustration in the paddock were replaced by quiet smiles and unexpected laughter. When Charles was near, Max's eyes would soften, a small smile breaking through even after the most grueling laps.

Charles kept his promise. He showed Max how to love, not with grand gestures or sweeping declarations, but with presence. With patience. With quiet laughter in the hallways, inside jokes shared over late-night dinners, and gentle reminders when Max was pushing too hard.

If Max had a bad race, Charles was always there. Not to fix it or criticize, but simply to be there, to sit with him, to listen, to hold him. When Max nearly lost it one afternoon in the drivers' room, slamming his fists against the wall in frustration, Charles was there, immediately. He didn't say much. Just reached out, caught Max as he faltered, and held him until the storm passed. Max didn't have to be strong all the time. Not anymore.

When Max's father found out about them, there was tension. Threats that could have broken lesser men. But Charles never flinched. He stood beside Max, holding his hands steady, his presence a shield no one else could breach.

And Max? He returned that same kind of love every day.

He became fiercely protective of Charles. Always checking if he'd eaten, knowing Charles was terrible at keeping track of meals during race weekends. Max made sure Charles was safe, making sure he had rest, holding him close when sleep was elusive.

Max complimented Charles at every opportunity. Not carefully hidden words, but loud and proud declarations in paddock chats, media interviews, anywhere and everywhere. He didn't care what anyone thought. All that mattered was Charles, his smile, his calm, his steady strength.

And Charles? He noticed. He felt it. The love Max showed, even if Max claimed he didn't know how to love, was a language Charles knew well. And Charles told him, over and over, "You do. You do know."

They were no longer just two drivers sharing the track. They were a team off it, partners, anchors, something rare and precious.

Through the noise and pressure, through the wins and losses, they found a quiet space where love wasn't a distraction but a home.

And that was everything.

 

---------------------------------------------

 

The question from the obvious is. "Was It Casual?"

And the answer to that is:

No. It was never casual.

Maybe it started with a look. A glance held a little too long across a driver briefing room. A nudge on the shoulder, a smirk shared after a hard-fought battle. Maybe it was that first podium side-by-side. Or the way their names always seemed to be tied together, first in karting, then in Formula 1, then in whispers and headlines and whatever lived between the cracks.

For years, they never had the words for it. So they asked questions.

Was it casual?
When they raced each other like no one else existed.
When they crashed and came back stronger.
When they laughed too hard at private jokes.
When they spoke softer to each other than to anyone else.
When they watched old karting clips in silence and smiled like they were home.

They asked, because it was easier than admitting they didn't know what it was.

Max, who'd been built to win, not to feel. Who thought love had to come with conditions.
Charles, who had always felt too much but never wanted to make the first move in case he misread it.

They didn't know what to call it. So they asked.

And then, slowly, they started to answer.

In the way Max looked at Charles like he was the one thing not measured in lap times.
In the way Charles calmed Max with nothing but a hand to his shoulder and a quiet voice.
In the way they talked now, honest, careful, and with meaning.
In the way they stood beside each other when things got hard.
In the way they never let go.

Max once said he didn't know how to love.

But love doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes it slips in through the little things. The food you remember someone likes. The silence you're willing to sit through. The weight you're willing to carry, not for the glory, but for the person standing beside you.

And Max did love. In every unspoken act. In every time he softened his voice for Charles. In every time he let himself be held.

And Charles? Charles saw it all. He loved first in silence, then in steady declarations, and finally in every act of patience that proved he wasn't there to change Max. But to stay. To show him that love could exist without a trophy at the end. That it could be quiet. Constant.

They were never just friends. Never just rivals.
They were always something else.
Something more.

So no, it wasn't casual.

Not when they fought through confusion and silence.
Not when they dared to hope.
Not when they stood in the chaos of the sport and still found peace in each other.

It was real.
It is real.
And they are in this together now.

Always were.
Always will be.

Chapter 15: LH44 & CS55 | To Stay, To Go and To Love.

December 2021, Abu Dhabi

The world had already moved on.

The headlines were out. The debates were endless. The photos of Max with the trophy were plastered on every screen Lewis passed in the airport lounge, every wall he couldn't avoid, every flicker of the world reminding him what he didn't get.

Eight. He should have had eight.

But Lewis sat alone, hoodie up, cap low, headphones in, except the music wasn't playing. He just needed silence that didn't feel empty.

And then, someone sat beside him.

He didn't look. He didn't need to. He knew the scent of that cologne already, clean, fresh, like something expensive but worn too casually. Carlos had a way of being effortless that used to irritate him. Now, it just... lingered.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," Carlos said quietly, resting a coffee between them like it was neutral ground.

Lewis didn't answer at first. He wasn't in the mood for comfort, especially not from someone who still had his seat, his race, his normalcy.

"You waiting for your flight?" Carlos asked again, more cautious this time.

"Yeah," Lewis finally said, voice low. "Delay."

Carlos nodded. "Mine too. Milan's a mess."

Silence stretched out between them again, but this time, Lewis didn't mind. Carlos wasn't prying. He wasn't offering shallow condolences or asking if Lewis was okay. He was just there, sipping his coffee slowly, scrolling through his phone like it was any other day.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

A minute passed. Maybe five. Then:

"That was bullshit," Carlos muttered, eyes still on his phone.

Lewis turned to him, brow raised.

"Abu Dhabi," Carlos added, shrugging. "You got robbed. Everyone saw it."

Lewis swallowed hard. The words shouldn't have mattered. But they did. Because Carlos said them like he wasn't trying to comfort him, just stating a fact.

"Thanks," Lewis said quietly, meaning it.

Carlos didn't say anything more. He just bumped Lewis's shoulder lightly, like a strange form of solidarity, and leaned back in his seat. They sat there like that for a while, quiet, side by side, as the airport buzzed around them.

It was the first time Lewis realized Carlos wasn't just another driver.

And it was the last time he looked at him the same way again.

 

A week later, Switzerland

It was snowing. The kind that came down soft and slow, like it wasn't in any hurry to touch the ground.

Lewis didn't usually let people into this part of his life, his home, his quiet, but Carlos had flown in after texting once and asking, "Are you still not talking to anyone?"

Lewis didn't answer the question, but sent his location.

Now, they sat on the back deck, bundled in blankets, cups of tea steaming between them. Carlos's breath fogged the air. He kept his eyes on the trees, snow coating the branches like frosting.

"People still talking?" Carlos asked.

Lewis didn't have to ask what he meant.

"Every damn day," he said. "Pundits. Fans. Even strangers in the grocery store."

Carlos chuckled. "You go to grocery stores?"

Lewis cracked the smallest smile. "Sometimes. Disguised, obviously."

Carlos grinned, but the smile faded. "I saw another article this morning. Said you should fight it. Lawyer up. Appeal. Drag the FIA over the coals."

Lewis took a long sip of tea, exhaling through his nose. He looked tired. Not physically, but soul-tired.

"I'm not doing that," he said. "It's done. Max won."

"But it wasn't fair," Carlos said quietly.

"Doesn't matter." Lewis turned to him, eyes calm. "He won. I didn't. That's all history will care about."

Carlos didn't respond.

"And you know what?" Lewis continued, voice soft but steady. "I don't care anymore."

That caught Carlos's attention. "What do you mean?"

Lewis looked away, into the woods. "The Championship. The records. I'm tired of chasing things that get taken away by people in headsets. I loved racing. Still do. But the rest of it... politics, noise, all of it? I'm done with that."

Carlos nodded slowly. "I get that."

"And people need to stop blaming Max," Lewis added. "He didn't ask for it to happen that way. He just drove. Like I did. He crossed the line first. It's over."

Carlos looked at him, something unreadable in his eyes. "You're better than most people, you know that?"

Lewis gave him a dry smile. "Took me a long time to learn that not everything needs a fight. Sometimes... you just let go."

They sat in silence again. The kind that didn't feel awkward, just honest. Real.

Carlos leaned back, arms crossed under the blanket. "Still think you'll come back stronger next season."

Lewis chuckled quietly. "Maybe. Maybe not. Depends if I feel like it."

Carlos grinned. "Well, if you don't... I'll carry the torch."

Lewis looked at him then. Really looked. "You already do."

And for a moment, Carlos felt something in his chest tighten, just slightly. He didn't name it.

Not yet.

 

 

February 2022, Barcelona (Pre-Season Testing)

The paddock felt smaller in winter.

Maybe it was the cold, or the quiet before the circus kicked off again. Maybe it was just that this year, Lewis didn't feel like filling space the way he used to. His presence wasn't distant, just quieter. Focused inward.

Carlos noticed.

He always noticed.

They weren't teammates. They weren't even the type of friends who posted about each other. But still. Every morning, Carlos found himself drifting near Lewis's garage. Not to spy. Not to impress. Just... drawn. He'd offer a nod, a quick smirk, maybe a joke if Lewis looked tired.

Lewis always smirked back.

One evening, after media duties had drained the life from both of them, Lewis pulled off his fireproofs and slumped onto a folding chair beside the Mercedes truck. Carlos appeared a few minutes later with a protein bar and a bottle of water, dropping them at Lewis's feet like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"You looked like you needed this."

Lewis raised a brow. "What, no espresso this time?"

Carlos rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."

"And you're persistent," Lewis replied, but he took the water.

They sat side by side, watching the sky fade from orange to soft grey. No one else lingered this long. The crews had mostly cleared out. It was just the two of them and the distant hum of equipment shutting down.

Carlos broke the silence. "You know... I used to be scared of you."

Lewis turned, surprised. "Why?"

"You were... unreachable. The way you moved. The way people talked about you. Like you were more legend than person."

Lewis snorted. "I'm just a guy."

Carlos smiled at the ground. "Yeah. I figured that out."

They didn't say anything for a while after that. The wind picked up slightly, carrying the scent of burnt rubber and motor oil, comforting, in its own way.

Then Lewis spoke, softer this time. "I like this."

Carlos looked over. "What?"

"This. You. Just... being around."

Carlos felt something flip in his chest, but he brushed it off with a light laugh. "Same. I mean, I wasn't exactly expecting to befriend you of all people after that mess in Abu Dhabi."

Lewis smiled faintly. "Life's weird like that."

"Yeah," Carlos agreed. "But I'm not complaining."

They left it at that. But the next morning, Carlos showed up to the track early.

Lewis was already there.

And he smiled when he saw him.

 

Jeddah, Post-Race Evening (Round 2, 2022 Season)

The paddock buzzed with that usual post-race electricity, media scurrying, engineers packing down, laughter from hospitality tents mingling with the sharp scent of fuel that still hung in the air. Lewis and Carlos had been sitting on a low pit wall, legs stretched out, quietly talking like they had all the time in the world.

Carlos tossed a water bottle cap between his fingers. "That move you pulled on Turn 13 was..." He whistled. "Clean. Like, disgustingly clean."

Lewis chuckled, relaxed in a way he hadn't been in months. "Still didn't get the podium."

"Doesn't matter," Carlos shrugged. "You're racing again. That's what matters."

Before Lewis could answer, the sound of approaching footsteps made them both glance up.

Max.

He wasn't swaggering. No Red Bull entourage, no smug grin, no media mask. Just Max. Quiet, a little awkward, hands buried in his pockets, eyes darting between them before settling on Lewis.

Carlos sat up straighter, instinctively tense.

"Can I...?" Max asked.

Lewis nodded. "Yeah. Sit."

But Max didn't sit. He stayed standing in front of them, face unreadable for a second, then finally spoke.

"I've been meaning to say something for a while," he said, looking Lewis in the eye. "About... last year. About everything."

Lewis didn't respond, just waited.

"I didn't plan for it to happen like that. I know I crossed the line first, but it didn't feel like a win. Not really. I didn't feel like I earned it. And I thought... you hated me."

Carlos looked over at Lewis then, heart slowing just a little.

Lewis leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. He tilted his head at Max, gaze firm but not cold.

"I didn't hate you," Lewis said. "You drove the race you were told to drive. You did what every racer would've done. What they gave you."

Max blinked, caught off guard.

"And Max?" Lewis continued, voice lowering, gentler. "Fuck what fans say. Or the media. They'll tear you down or build you up depending on the day. You don't owe them anything."

Carlos watched Max's shoulders drop slightly, like something in him had unclenched. His mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"Thanks," Max said. "I... appreciate that. A lot."

He looked at Carlos, nodded once, then turned around and started walking back toward his side of the paddock. Just before disappearing into the flood of people, he passed Charles.

Carlos saw it happen in real time: Max brushed his hand against Charles's, then just... took it. No hesitation. Charles didn't pull away, he leaned in, smiling quietly, the way he only did when he thought no one was watching.

Carlos blinked, lips parting slightly.

Lewis noticed too. "Well, that answers that."

Carlos snorted. "Thought I was going crazy thinking something was going on."

"Turns out we're both good at reading people," Lewis murmured.

They shared a knowing smirk, one of those looks that didn't need to be explained. The kind of look that felt like ours, not theirs.

They started walking, their feet almost matching pace without trying.

Carlos nudged him lightly. "You know, I'm proud of you."

Lewis gave him a sidelong glance. "For what?"

"For not burning him alive."

Lewis huffed a laugh. "I thought about it."

They reached the fork in the paddock paths, Carlos toward the Ferrari garage, Lewis toward the media pen.

Neither moved right away.

"I'll see you later?" Carlos asked, more like a statement than a question.

"Yeah," Lewis said. "Later."

Carlos turned to leave, but then paused and looked back. "Hey."

Lewis raised an eyebrow.

Carlos smiled. "You're a better man than most people deserve."

Lewis smiled back, smaller this time. "You're starting to sound like my therapist."

"Shit," Carlos said, grinning. "You got one of those too?"

Lewis just laughed, shaking his head as he walked off. Carlos watched him go.

And for a moment, just a flicker, he felt like he'd watched something settle in place.

Not with Charles. Not with Max.

With Lewis.

 

Imola, April 2022

Rain had come and gone throughout the day, leaving the air damp and cold. The motorhomes were still buzzing behind them, but Carlos and Lewis sat outside under one of the shared awnings, legs stretched out, shoulders brushing now and then without much thought. Their suits were tied around their waists, soaked in adrenaline and the smell of wet asphalt.

Lewis had just finished telling some story about Roscoe running through the gravel in the morning.

Carlos laughed, rubbing his jaw. "I swear, that dog's living a better life than I am."

"Because he is," Lewis grinned, glancing at him. "No deadlines. No radio messages. Just vibes."

Carlos chuckled again, then went quiet. The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible. But Lewis caught it.

"You good?" he asked.

Carlos scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah. I mean... yeah. I just... wanted to tell you something."

Lewis waited.

"I've been seeing someone," Carlos said. "For a while now, actually."

It hit faster than Lewis expected. Not a stab more like a slow constriction, like his chest forgot how to breathe for half a second.

He smiled.

"That's great," he said, and it sounded... right. Perfectly steady. "That's really great."

Carlos looked relieved. "You think so?"

Lewis nodded. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Carlos shrugged. "I don't know. Guess I... I just wanted to tell you first."

Lewis's throat tightened. Why first? Why him? But he only said, "You didn't need my approval."

"I know. But maybe I kind of wanted it anyway."

The silence that followed wasn't sharp, just... unspoken.

Lewis took a sip from the bottle beside him, then asked casually, "What's she like?"

Carlos leaned back, arms crossed loosely. "Kind. Smart. Quiet when she wants to be. Doesn't care about the racing stuff."

"Sounds like a good match."

Carlos smiled, but it didn't fully reach his eyes. "Yeah. She is."

They didn't say much for a few minutes after that. Just the rustle of wind against the canvas above them. Somewhere in the distance, Charles was yelling something in French. A door slammed. Someone laughed.

Carlos nudged his knee against Lewis's. "You're okay?"

Lewis nodded. "Of course."

But something in the way he said it made Carlos glance sideways.

"You sure?"

Lewis looked at him, eyes soft but unreadable. "Carlos... I'm always okay."

Carlos almost said something. But then his phone buzzed. He glanced down, face lighting up a little too fast, thumb already moving.

Lewis stood. "I should head back."

Carlos stood too. "Right. Yeah."

They didn't hug, never really did, but their eyes held each other just long enough for something to ache.

"Tell her I said congrats," Lewis said.

"I will."

Lewis started walking away.

Carlos watched him go, a strange weight pressing against his ribs. He thought he'd feel lighter, telling him.

But all he felt was a distance he couldn't name.

 

Before the Spanish GP, Barcelona 2022

The quiet hum of the hospitality suite buzzed around them as Carlos led Lewis inside, motioning toward the table where a woman was already waiting. The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting warm light over Rebeca's soft smile as she stood to greet them.

Lewis extended his hand first, steady and calm. "Lewis. Nice to meet you."

Rebeca's handshake was firm, her eyes sparkling with a gentle warmth that immediately put him at ease. "Rebeca. Carlos has told me a lot about you."

Carlos grinned, sliding into the seat beside her. "Hopefully only good things."

Lewis chuckled, sitting across from them both.

Throughout the meal, Lewis found his gaze shifting between Rebeca and Carlos. Rebeca was easy to talk to, laughing softly, sharing stories about her modeling and influencer work with a Scottish lilt that felt both foreign and familiar in the best way.

But what Lewis really couldn't take his eyes off was Carlos, the way his face softened when he looked at Rebeca, the little jokes whispered just between them, the casual brush of hands when he reached for his glass. The way Carlos's smile grew just a touch bigger every time Rebeca said something funny.

Lewis watched all of it, careful not to make it obvious. He noticed how Carlos's eyes lit up, how naturally the two moved around each other.

It hurt.

Not in a shouting, painful way. More like a dull ache beneath his ribs he couldn't quite place.

He didn't understand why.

He pushed the feeling down, focusing on Rebeca's stories about a recent trip to the Highlands, her excitement about an upcoming campaign. He liked her. She was kind, sweet, and genuine.

But most of all, Lewis kept looking at Carlos.

 

Monaco, Late 2022

The sun was starting to dip behind the terracotta rooftops, casting a golden glow over the winding streets of Monte Carlo. The race weekend buzz had died down for a few precious hours, and Carlos had insisted on one last chance to hang out, just the two of them.

Lewis wasn't sure why he'd said yes, but something about the quiet peace of this place made it easy to leave the noise behind.

They found themselves on a small terrace overlooking the marina, where sleek yachts bobbed gently in the harbor. The scent of saltwater mixed with the faint perfume of blooming jasmine.

Lewis sank onto a low stone bench, his eyes drifting over the calm water. The sky was turning a soft pink.

Carlos joined him, sliding down beside him with a familiar ease that made the space between them feel less heavy for a moment.

They didn't speak at first. Just sat there, watching the sun set.

After a while, Carlos finally broke the silence.

"Why did you change, Lewis?"

Lewis swallowed. He hadn't expected that question, not here, not now, but he'd known it was coming sooner or later.

"I thought... I shouldn't be around you so much anymore," Lewis said quietly. "You've got Rebeca. I didn't want to get in the way. You should have your time."

Carlos looked out at the water, a flicker of something in his eyes, but he didn't say anything.

Lewis kept going, "I figured if I kept my distance, maybe it'd be easier for you."

Carlos let out a breath, then smiled faintly. "I noticed. I was wondering why you suddenly had so many 'things to do' when I asked to hang out."

Lewis gave a small, awkward laugh. "Yeah... I didn't want to admit it."

They sat together again, the silence less tense this time.

"So... what do you think of Monaco?" Carlos asked, changing the subject.

Lewis glanced back at the glittering harbor. "It's... beautiful."

Carlos grinned. "Yeah. Perfect place to clear your head before the madness of the race weekend."

Lewis nodded, the weight in his chest easing just a little.

For a moment, it felt like things might be okay.

 

São Paulo, Brazil 2022

There was something comforting about São Paulo at night. The rhythm of the city never quite stopped, but the air felt easier somehow, slower, softer. Lewis and Seb had snuck away from the chaos of the paddock, choosing a small rooftop bar far from anything remotely F1-related. No cameras. No fans. Just city lights and the hum of distant samba.

They sat on mismatched wooden stools, drinks in hand. Seb nursed a glass of something dark and neat, while Lewis sipped on a fruit cocktail, his sunglasses pushed up on his head despite the hour.

"Can't believe you're leaving," Lewis muttered, swirling his drink.

Seb smiled. "Feels weird, yeah. But it's time."

Lewis glanced sideways. "You sure?"

Seb looked out over the city. "Positive. I want to be home more. With Hanna, the kids. I've done everything I wanted to do here."

There was a small pause, the weight of history between them filling the silence for a moment. Teammates. Rivals. Friends.

Then Seb asked it.

"What's going on with you and Carlos?"

Lewis's head snapped toward him, caught off guard.

"Me and Carlos?" he echoed, trying for casual.

Seb just raised an eyebrow. "Don't do that."

Lewis sighed and leaned back against the railing. "I don't know what you mean."

"You do," Seb said simply. "I've seen the way you look at him. The way you've stopped looking at him."

Lewis was quiet for a long time, the city noise rising to fill the space between them.

"I've been keeping my distance," he admitted eventually. "Figured it was better that way."

"Why?"

"He has someone," Lewis said softly. "He's happy. I don't want to... interfere."

Seb didn't respond right away. He let the silence settle, heavy and thoughtful.

"You like him," he said, not asking. Stating.

Lewis's breath caught. And then it all poured out.

"I didn't plan to. I didn't even realize it at first. I just... I liked being around him. After 2021, everything felt like shit, and Carlos was just... there. He kept showing up. Talking. Laughing. Checking in." He paused. "And then he got with Rebeca and I thought, good. He deserves to be happy. I told myself I was fine."

"But you weren't."

"No." Lewis's voice broke slightly. "I wasn't. And I didn't know why until one day I looked at him and it just... hit me. I was in love with him."

Seb looked at him with something soft and knowing in his eyes. "You just confessed. Did you know that?"

Lewis let out a small, shaky laugh. "Yeah. Guess I did."

Seb nodded, sipping his drink. "There's nothing wrong with that, Lewis."

"I know," Lewis whispered. "But I can't do it again, Seb. I just... can't."

Seb turned toward him more fully now. "Because of Nico."

Lewis didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Seb had known him too long.

"You loved him," Seb said gently. "You thought you two could make it, even while racing. But the championship tore you apart."

"I gave everything to that. To him," Lewis said, voice thick. "And he gave up on us the moment it got hard. The moment I got harder to love."

Seb looked at him, steady. "You were both kids, Lewis. On fire. Hungry for everything. It was never going to survive the way things were then."

Lewis didn't answer, jaw tight, eyes somewhere far away.

"I waited a long time to say this," Seb continued. "But you don't have to punish yourself forever for what happened with Nico. That wasn't your fault. That was the championship. That was pressure and pride and too many people expecting too much."

Lewis looked at him finally, eyes rimmed red but holding it in. "What if it happens again?"

Seb gave a small smile. "Then it happens. But at least this time, you'll go in knowing who you are. Knowing what love costs. And what it's worth."

Lewis looked away, blinking hard. "He's taken."

"For now."

Lewis chuckled quietly. "You're a terrible influence."

"I'm a retired terrible influence," Seb said with a grin.

They sat for a while longer, talking about old races, dumb PR days, and which hotel rooms were secretly the best across the calendar. Eventually, they stood, and Seb pulled Lewis into a firm hug.

"I'm glad you told me," Seb murmured.

"Thanks for listening," Lewis said. "I think... I needed to."

Seb pulled back, giving him a look that was all warmth and brotherhood. "Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"If you fall again... let yourself."

 

Later that night

Back in his hotel room, Lewis lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The lights were off, but he hadn't moved in over an hour.

Seb's words rang in his head.

If you fall again... let yourself.

He closed his eyes, and all he saw was Carlos.

The way he smiled when he was proud of something. The way he laughed like he didn't have a care in the world. The way he looked at Rebeca.

And Lewis felt it.

Not just the ache, not just the fear.

The fall.

He was already halfway down.

And he didn't know how to stop it.

 

Monte Carlo, Monaco 2022

It was well past midnight by the time Carlos arrived at Charles and Max's apartment.

The city below was quiet, unusually so, blanketed in that late-hour hush that only coastal cities could manage. The building was tucked away from the flashing lights and roaring cars, and the moment Carlos stepped inside, something in him settled.

Charles opened the door wearing an old Ferrari hoodie and socks that didn't match. Max was behind him, barefoot and slightly disheveled, holding two mugs of tea.

"Took you long enough," Charles said.

"I know," Carlos muttered, stepping in. "Sorry."

Max passed him a mug. "Tea. No questions till you drink."

Carlos chuckled tiredly. "I don't think tea can fix this, mate."

"Tea and Charles might," Max said, dropping onto the couch.

Carlos followed them into the living room. It was messy in the lived-in kind of way, blankets thrown over the armrests, half a chess game still paused on the side table. The guest room light was already on. They'd been expecting him.

Charles leaned forward, elbows on knees. "So. What's going on?"

Carlos exhaled, long and slow. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"With Lewis?" Charles asked gently.

Carlos flinched. "Is it that obvious?"

Max shrugged. "You've been weird for weeks."

Carlos looked down at his hands. "I have a girlfriend."

"Yeah, Rebeca," Charles said. "She seems nice."

"She is." Carlos nodded. "She's sweet. Kind. She makes me laugh."

"But?" Max prompted.

Carlos stared at the steam rising from his tea.

"But I don't know if I'm with her because I like her... or because I'm trying not to think about someone else."

Charles and Max didn't say anything at first. They let him speak.

"I'm not in love with her," Carlos continued. "Not really. I like her, sure. But it's not... it's not what it could be. What it should be."

Charles leaned in slightly. "And Lewis?"

Carlos looked up, eyes tired. "I don't know what this is, Charles. I don't even know what I am. I've never looked at a guy and thought about him like that. Until Lewis."

Max raised an eyebrow. "You're questioning?"

Carlos nodded slowly. "I think so. I mean... am I bi? Am I gay? Am I just confused? I've been trying not to think about it. Just be normal. Be with Rebeca. Smile. Do the races. Hang out with the team."

"But you're not okay," Charles said quietly.

Carlos blinked. He didn't answer.

Max leaned forward now, serious for once. "You don't have to label yourself, you know. It's not about that. It's about what you feel."

Carlos ran a hand through his hair. "What I feel... is a mess. I look at Lewis and I feel like my chest tightens. And I hate it. Because I don't want to ruin what we have. And I don't want to lose Rebe, either. But then I see him, and I can't look away."

Charles gave a soft, knowing smile. "You care about him."

Carlos nodded slowly. "I do. And I think... I might feel more than that. But I don't want to."

"Why not?" Max asked.

"Because it's easier not to."

Charles shifted closer on the couch. "Carlos... that's not how life works. If you're running from it, it'll catch up to you. Sooner or later."

"But what can I do?" Carlos asked, voice breaking a little. "Talk to him? And say what? 'Hey, Lewis, I think I might like you even though I've got a girlfriend and don't understand myself at all'?"

"You don't have to give him a speech," Max said. "But you do have to figure out what you want."

"And don't drag Rebeca along while you do it," Charles added, gently but firmly.

Carlos leaned back, head against the couch. "I didn't mean to use her like that."

"I know," Charles said. "But you need to be honest. With her. With yourself."

Carlos didn't respond. He closed his eyes, letting the silence fall again.

After a moment, Max got up. "I'm going to bed. You staying in the guest room?"

"Yeah," Carlos murmured.

"Alright. Don't overthink too much. Or at least overthink in bed."

Charles lingered a while longer as Max disappeared down the hall. Then he turned to Carlos.

"Hey," he said softly. "Whatever happens, you're not alone in this. We've got you, okay?"

Carlos smiled faintly. "Thanks."

Charles stood and gave his shoulder a squeeze before heading to bed too.

Later that night

Carlos lay in the guest room, staring up at the ceiling, blankets kicked down to his waist. The air was still, save for the faint hum of traffic in the distance.

His mind wouldn't stop.

He thought of Lewis. The sound of his laugh. The weight of his silences. The way he looked at Carlos like he saw more than just the surface.

And he remembered the little things.

Sharing playlists on long flights.

The inside jokes no one else quite got.

That time Lewis fell asleep on his shoulder mid-debrief and Carlos didn't move for thirty minutes because it felt... right.

What am I doing?

He didn't know. Not really. But he knew that what he had with Rebeca. No matter how pleasant, no matter how sweet. Wasn't the truth.

It was comfort. It was safe.

And Lewis?

Lewis was something else entirely.

Dangerous. Soft. Real.

Carlos told himself it would all be okay.

He told himself that a hundred times.

But as he turned over in bed and stared into the dark, all he could think was...

It won't be.

And then, finally, sleep found him.

But peace didn't.

 

2023 Season, Midway Through

Everyone saw Red Bull's winning streak coming. Every team, every fan, every driver. But nobody predicted Carlos Sainz would be the one to break it.

Singapore.

Heat like wet silk, clinging to skin. Lights bouncing off rain-slicked streets. It was a perfect drive, calculated, clean, unshakable. Carlos had looked impossibly calm in the cockpit, like he already knew what would happen.

And when he crossed the finish line first, it was deafening.

He screamed into the radio, adrenaline buzzing through every nerve.

It felt good. It felt earned.

And yet.

By the time he climbed out of the car and into the chaos, cameras, fireworks, the roar of the crowd, Carlos already felt something out of place. Just a flicker. He brushed it off. He had a job to finish.

Rebeca was waiting for him in the paddock, and he pulled her close. Gave her a smile. Kissed her temple.

People were watching. His team. The cameras. Her.

So he smiled harder.

But it didn't feel like joy.

Not the kind he'd felt once, spontaneous, warm, effortless. This was performance. And part of him hated that he knew the difference.

 

Hours Later – Carlos' Hotel Suite

The celebration was still going.

Carlos stood on the balcony of his hotel suite, looking out over the city that had just crowned him the slayer of Red Bull's streak. Below, neon reflected off wet concrete, making the streets look like melted glass.

The door behind him opened.

"Mate, you okay?" asked Charles, already a little tipsy.

Carlos nodded. "Yeah. Just needed some air."

"You should come back in," Charles said, stepping up beside him. "Everyone's waiting on the next round. Max is already half-asleep on the couch. It's a little sad."

Carlos laughed under his breath. "I'll come in a minute."

Charles didn't push.

After a long pause, Carlos asked quietly, "Did he call?"

Charles didn't have to ask who.

"No. He left. Took the first flight out after the race."

Carlos closed his eyes.

It didn't hurt.

It shouldn't hurt.

"Right," he said.

"You asked him to come?"

Carlos nodded slowly. "Yeah. I thought maybe, this one time, he'd say yes."

Charles hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Carlos shook his head. "It's not your fault."

"Still," Charles said. "You deserved better than a ghost."

Carlos didn't answer.

Because deep down, he knew Lewis wasn't being cruel. He wasn't ignoring him out of apathy. If anything, it was the opposite.

That was the problem.

 

Meanwhile – London, that Same Night

Lewis sat in his apartment, the Singapore lights now oceans away.

The TV was on mute, showing race highlights he didn't want to see. Carlos on the podium, trophy raised. Carlos hugging his girlfriend. Carlos surrounded by people who looked so damn proud.

Lewis didn't belong in any of it.

He could barely even watch.

He should've stayed. Should've congratulated him. Should've celebrated his win, not just as a fellow driver, but as someone who cared. Deeply.

But he couldn't.

He didn't know how to be near Carlos anymore without slipping.

Every glance felt like it meant too much. Every joke felt loaded. Every silence felt louder than words.

So he left.

Because staying would've meant looking at Carlos and knowing. Truly knowing, that he was with someone else. That the little stolen moments they had once were never coming back. That whatever chance they might have had was gone.

 

Back in Singapore – Hours Later

Carlos drank. He smiled. He danced. But something was off.

Rebeca kissed his cheek, and he leaned into it, even though his mind wasn't there.

He could hear Charles' words echoing.

You deserved better than a ghost.

Carlos didn't want to admit it, but he was tired.

Tired of pretending this was enough.

Tired of pretending Lewis' absence didn't sting.

Tired of lying to Rebeca, and more than anything. Lying to himself.

So he threw back another drink, surrounded by noise and bodies, trying to drown the feeling.

The ache.

The absence.

The void Lewis left behind.

 

Abu Dhabi, The End of the Season

The season had worn them thin.

Lewis Hamilton had drifted so far out of Carlos' orbit that it felt like he'd crossed into another dimension entirely. They hadn't truly talked in months. Not really. Not about anything that mattered. There were polite nods in the paddock, half-hearted small talk during driver briefings, but the space between them had widened into something almost impossible to bridge.

Carlos tried to focus on racing, on Rebeca, on anything else. But something always pulled his thoughts back to that ache, the one shaped like the man who once laughed beside him like they had all the time in the world.

And now it was the final race of the year. Abu Dhabi. The twilight of the season.

Carlos wasn't letting it end like this.

So he sent a message.

"We need to talk. Please. Just... once before it's all over."

And this time, Lewis didn't say no.

 

Later That Night – Carlos' Hotel Room

Carlos opened the door and found him there. Lewis, in a black hoodie and cap pulled low, eyes tired, body language guarded.

"Hey," Carlos said, voice low. Tentative.

Lewis gave a nod. "Hey."

No hug. No smile. Just a beat of silence before Carlos stepped aside to let him in.

The room was quiet. Almost too quiet. No Rebeca. Abu Dhabi's rules had kept her away tonight, and Carlos would never admit how relieved he felt. The air felt lighter without her presence.

They didn't waste time. They made their way to the balcony like old habits pulling them forward. The view outside was surreal, desert stretching under city lights, the Yas Marina glowing faintly in the distance. It looked calm. Safe.

It was anything but.

Carlos was the first to break the silence.

"I meant what I said in the message. We need to talk."

Lewis stared out over the railing, hands gripping it tight. "Talk about what?"

Carlos turned to face him. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend like nothing happened. Like nothing's been happening for months."

Lewis sighed, jaw clenching. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to say something," Carlos said, louder now. "You disappeared on me, Lewis. One day we were inseparable, and the next, I was just someone you nodded at in passing."

Lewis looked away. "I wasn't avoiding you."

"Bullshit," Carlos snapped. "I asked you to hang out. You stopped replying. You stopped looking me in the eye. You left Singapore the night I won, without saying a word."

Lewis's voice was tight. "I didn't know how to stay."

"So you ran?"

Lewis turned toward him then, face hard, but eyes soft. "Would you have rather I stayed and watched you hold someone else? Smile at her like she meant the world?"

Carlos froze.

"Don't do that," Lewis said, quieter now. "Don't act like I walked away for no reason. I walked away because being around you hurt."

The silence between them shifted. It wasn't awkward anymore. It was sharp. Raw.

Carlos swallowed hard. "It hurt me too, Lewis."

Lewis blinked, surprised. "Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I didn't know what I was feeling!" Carlos said, voice cracking. "I liked Rebeca. I thought I did. She made sense. But every time I was with her, I kept thinking of you. Every joke, every smile, every time I felt happy... I wanted to tell you. And then you weren't there anymore."

Lewis stepped back slightly, voice low, almost afraid to hope. "Then why stay with her?"

Carlos looked down. "Because I was scared."

"Of what?"

"Of myself," he said, almost whispering. "Of what it meant. Of what it would change. Of you."

Lewis didn't answer. The weight of the words was already too much.

"But I missed you," Carlos continued. "Even when I was with her. Especially when I was with her. I missed you like-" He stopped. "It doesn't matter."

Lewis's lips parted, like he was about to speak. But the words never came.

"I was so angry at you," Carlos admitted. "For walking away. For shutting me out. But now, standing here I get it. Because I did the same thing."

There was a beat.

Then another.

And then suddenly... Carlos moved. Fast.

He stepped forward, grabbed the sides of Lewis's face, and kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Like every month of silence had been building to this single, burning moment.

Lewis stiffened in shock, but only for a second. Then his hands were in Carlos's hair, on his back, pulling him closer. Kissing him back like he'd been drowning for months and only now remembered how to breathe.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle.

It was everything.

Every buried feeling. Every unsaid word. Every longing glance. Every night spent wondering "what if."

But then-

Lewis pulled away.

Just like that.

His breath was ragged, lips swollen, eyes wide. "I-" he started. "I can't."

Carlos stood frozen, chest rising and falling, mind blank. "Lewis-"

"I can't," Lewis repeated, voice full of panic now. "You have a girlfriend. I can't be that person. I can't do this."

And before Carlos could say another word, Lewis was already at the door. Gone.

The room was silent again.

Carlos stood there, alone, heart thudding, lips still tingling from the kiss.

He kissed Lewis.

He cheated on Rebe.

He never meant for it to happen.

But it did.

And now he couldn't undo it.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, hands in his hair, shaking.

Sleep wouldn't come that night. Not for either of them.

And the race was still two days away.

 

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, Race Day (Pre-Race)

Carlos had barely slept. Not because of nerves. Not because of strategy talks, tire compounds, or the possibility of ending the season strong. No, the reason he lay awake most of the night staring at the hotel ceiling was much simpler.

He kissed Lewis.

And Lewis had kissed him back.

But then he left.

The guilt sat heavy in Carlos' stomach, a sharp stone lodged deep in his chest. He hadn't spoken to Rebeca. He couldn't. Not yet. How do you explain something you barely understand yourself?

All morning, the paddock buzzed with energy. Media teams, engineers, final briefings, but for Carlos, everything was just... noise. Background hum to the chaos inside his head. The man he kissed, the man he had tried to bury his feelings for, was just a few garages away, and Carlos couldn't bring himself to look.

Not because he didn't want to.

But because when he did, it hurt.

And he didn't know what the ache meant only that it wouldn't go away.

 

Driver's Parade – Late Afternoon

The sun was lower now, casting golden light across the Yas Marina Circuit. The driver's parade rolled slowly along the track, a last glimpse of these men before they became gladiators again.

Lewis was already up front, standing at the far side of the truck bed. Arms crossed, body language unreadable. Dark sunglasses shielded his eyes, but he never once turned around.

Carlos climbed aboard quietly, nodding to a few fellow drivers. But his gaze flicked forward almost instinctively, looking for him.

There he was.

Back straight. Head high.

So close. Yet completely out of reach.

Carlos stayed at the opposite end.

The silence was deafening.

There was a time when they would've stood side by side. When Lewis would've nudged him in the ribs and made some stupid comment to make him laugh. There was a time when just a shared glance was enough to understand everything they felt.

Now, they couldn't even look at each other.

And Carlos hated himself for that.

He caught Charles' eyes for a brief moment. His friend didn't speak, didn't nudge him. But his look was enough.

"I know."

Behind Charles stood Max, arms looped lazily around his boyfriend's waist. He didn't say anything either, but he didn't have to. The tension was impossible to miss. It clung to the air like thick fog.

Carlos turned his face toward the crowd, toward the noise, the waving fans, the cameras—but he wasn't really seeing any of it.

He only saw Lewis.

He only felt Lewis.

 

Back in the Garage – Final Preparations

The engineers were buzzing around him, running over fuel loads, tire choices, strategy A, B, and the ever-elusive strategy C. Carlos nodded through it all, robotic in movement.

He was good at hiding.

He always had been.

But not from himself.

Not anymore.

He was starting to understand something he'd fought for too long, something that scared the hell out of him. He wasn't straight. He wasn't sure what he was, not yet. But he knew one thing.

What he felt for Lewis?

It was real.

No matter how hard he tried to deny it, cover it up with Rebeca, shove it into the dark, it lived inside him. And now that he'd tasted it, acted on it, he couldn't un-feel it.

But it didn't come without consequence.

He kissed Lewis without asking. He crossed a line. And it wasn't just that Lewis had a girlfriend, it was that Carlos did too.

He'd hurt someone who trusted him.

He'd hurt himself.

And maybe, just maybe... he'd hurt Lewis too.

That's what made it worse.

 

Grid Line-up – Just Before the Race

Engines were roaring now. Mechanics backing away. Grid girls stepping aside. The lights above blinked red, waiting.

Carlos sat in the car, hands on the wheel, the visor of his helmet down.

But his mind was nowhere near turn one.

It was with the man three rows ahead of him, in the black suit trimmed with Mercedes silver. The man he wanted to talk to but couldn't. The man who kissed him back but ran away.

And as the lights counted down, Carlos exhaled slowly.

He had no idea how this race would go. How the rest of this day would go. How this story between him and Lewis would end or if it even would.

But for now, all he had was the moment.

The weight of it. The ache of it.

The truth of it.

 

Far Ahead on the Grid – Lewis

Lewis sat perfectly still, visor down, jaw clenched. He hadn't slept either.

He thought he could outrun this.

He thought leaving Carlos in that room would be the end of it. That if he denied it, it would disappear. That he could pretend none of it had happened.

But the kiss... that kiss haunted him.

Because it wasn't wrong. It wasn't a mistake.

It felt like the truth.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because if it was the truth, then everything else in his life wasn't.

He didn't know how to face that yet.

So for now, he did what he always did best. He drove.

 

The End of the Season, and the Beginning of Something Else

The checkered flag had fallen.

Max won. Again. The world wasn't surprised. Headlines already crowed about domination, about a perfect season. Fireworks exploded above the Yas Marina Circuit, sparkling in the night sky like a celebration Carlos couldn't feel a part of.

He finished well, better than most. The team patted him on the back, engineers shouted congratulations, and someone handed him a bottle of water with shaking hands. But his heart wasn't in it. Not really.

Because when he got out of the car, Lewis was gone.

He never saw him. Not once. Not after the finish line, not in parc fermé, not even in the paddock.

Lewis had vanished.

It hurt, but Carlos wasn't surprised.

What did surprise him was Charles.

While the others disappeared toward team celebrations and sponsor interviews, Charles caught him by the arm. Not with force. Just enough.

"Come with me," he said quietly.

Carlos didn't argue. He followed him out of the crowd, past the garages, toward a dim, unused corner of the paddock where the lights barely reached. There was no one else. Just silence, and the hum of something neither of them could name.

Charles didn't waste time.

"What happened between you and Lewis?"

Carlos blinked. "What?"

Charles tilted his head. "I've known you long enough to see when you're not okay. And you're not. Neither is he."

Carlos exhaled slowly, looking away. His throat tightened. He didn't want to lie. Not anymore. So, he told him.

Everything.

The distance. The way Lewis looked at him but never spoke. The kiss on the balcony. How Lewis ran. How Carlos had been aching ever since.

Charles listened. Quiet. Patient.

And when Carlos' voice cracked, when he choked on the guilt, "I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to hurt anyone" Charles pulled him into a hug. Just held him. No judgment. No advice. Just arms around shoulders that had carried too much for too long.

After a while, Charles pulled back. His voice was soft, but firm.

"You have to tell Rebeca."

Carlos nodded.

"I know."

"She deserves to know."

"I know," he repeated, barely a whisper.

"And so do you."

 

Winter Break, Spain

The wind carried a cold bite through the olive trees outside the Sainz family estate. The holidays were in full swing, his parents inside, the house filled with warmth, food, laughter. But Carlos wasn't there for any of that right now.

He was out in the hills, just far enough to be alone, just near enough that he could still hear faint music if he focused.

He brought Rebeca here on purpose.

It was quiet. Neutral ground. Easier to talk without eyes on them.

She smiled when she arrived, wrapped in a thick scarf, cheeks pink from the cold. She looked happy. Calm.

Carlos felt sick.

They sat down on a low stone wall, the sun setting behind the hills, bathing everything in golden light. He stayed quiet for a while. Too long, maybe. Until she nudged his knee gently with hers.

"You okay?"

He turned to face her, lips parting. Then closing. Then opening again, the words caught in the back of his throat.

"I have to say something. I should've said it a long time ago."

She waited.

"I... I don't think I've ever felt what I was supposed to feel. Not in the way I should have."

He looked down.

"I liked you. I did. I still do. You're important to me. But it's not... love. Not the kind people write about or build lives around. I kept trying to convince myself it could be. That I'd get there if I waited long enough, tried hard enough. But I didn't."

She didn't interrupt.

Carlos swallowed thickly. "And I kissed someone. Lewis."

Now, he looked at her. He owed her that. His voice broke as he added, "I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted to betray you. I was just... I was confused. I didn't understand myself. I still don't. I'm sorry, Rebe. I'm so sorry."

Tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them back.

And then... her hand covered his.

She was smiling.

Softly. Sadly. Kindly.

"I know."

Carlos blinked. "You... what?"

"I've known for a while. That you didn't feel that way about me. And... honestly?" she laughed, just a little. "I didn't either."

He stared.

"I cared about you. I do. You're one of the best people I've ever known. But I was afraid to let go. Afraid that if I said something, it'd hurt you, or make things weird. So I stayed. I told myself it was fine. But it wasn't love. Not really."

She looked up at him, eyes shining but steady.

"I'm glad you told me. I'm relieved, actually. That we can just... let this go. Gently. With love. As friends."

Carlos let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

He felt like collapsing into the dirt. But instead, he laughed, a short, broken, relieved sound.

"You're really not mad?"

"No. Not even a little."

"So... we just broke up?"

"Yes, yes, we did."

They sat there for a while in silence, the kind that didn't hurt. The kind that felt like truth.

Then she nudged him again.

"So. You and Lewis?"

Carlos winced. "There's not really a 'me and Lewis.' He kissed me back, but then he ran. I haven't seen him since Abu Dhabi. He might've left the continent for all I know."

Rebeca tilted her head. "But do you want there to be something?"

Carlos looked away.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I do."

She squeezed his hand once more, then stood. "Then go talk to him."

"What?"

"You heard me. You've already hurt yourself enough keeping it all inside. Don't let fear do the rest of the damage."

Carlos stood slowly, heart thudding.

"But what if it's too late?"

"Then at least you'll know. But if it's not? Don't waste the chance."

She smiled again, then turned to walk back toward the car.

Carlos stayed there, watching the last sunlight fade behind the hills. A soft breeze ruffled his jacket, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something lift off his chest.

Maybe not everything was broken.

Maybe some things were just waiting to begin.

 

Switzerland, a Quiet Kind of Shelter

Switzerland was quiet in a way that the rest of the world forgot how to be.

The air was cold, clean. The kind that bit at your skin but also cleared your lungs in a way city air never could. Lewis hadn't even meant to say yes at first, but when Sebastian had texted."You're welcome any time. Just come." He couldn't bring himself to turn it down.

And now here he was, standing at the edge of a wooden path leading up to a house tucked neatly between snow-covered hills and tall, sleeping trees.

Seb opened the door before he could even knock. A flash of a smile, then arms around him in a tight, grounding hug.

"God, it's good to see you," Seb said.

Then Hanna was there, warm and calm, pulling him into her own embrace. "You're freezing. Come in."

The sound of little feet thundering on hardwood came next, two kids barreling toward him at full speed.

"Uncle Lewiiiiiiiis!"

They crashed into his legs, and for a moment, he laughed.

A real one. Loud and helpless.

Because in that moment, with Seb's son clinging to one leg and his daughter to the other, he forgot about everything. The kiss. The guilt. The look on Carlos's face when he turned away after the drivers' parade. He forgot about the way he couldn't breathe properly since Abu Dhabi.

He let it go. For now.

The house smelled like cinnamon and pine. A fire crackled in the hearth. Hanna fussed over dinner while Seb helped with the coats and boots, and Lewis sat down with the kids to color, letting them chatter away about school and snowmen and their new puppy. He smiled. He nodded. He didn't realize how tired he was until his body began to thaw.

But as the day went on, the quiet inside him grew heavy.

The smile slipped.

He looked out the window a little too long. Answered questions with too few words. Laughed a little too late.

And of course, they noticed.

Seb and Hanna had known him too long not to.

So, when the kids had finally gone to bed, tucked in, kissed goodnight, and wrapped in stories. Lewis found himself still in the living room, nursing a mug of hot cider that had gone cold in his hands.

Seb sat across from him. Hanna curled on the other armchair, blanket draped across her knees. The fire had burned low, casting the room in golden shadows.

Seb leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

"You going to tell us what's really going on?" he asked gently.

Lewis didn't answer right away.

His throat worked. His hands curled tighter around the mug.

"I kissed him."

Seb didn't move. Neither did Hanna. They just... waited.

Lewis kept his eyes on the flames.

"I kissed Carlos."

His voice cracked like dry wood.

"And I shouldn't have. Because he has someone. He had someone. And I knew that. I knew that, and I still... I still-"

His hand lifted, then dropped helplessly.

"I don't even know why I did it. I just-" He dragged in a breath. "I wanted to. And I hated that I wanted to. But I have for a long time. And when he looked at me like that, like he was finally seeing me, not just another driver or some old rival, God, I just... I broke."

The room was silent but warm, holding him.

"I kissed him," he whispered again. "And then I ran."

Seb frowned, not in disapproval, just sadness. Quiet, thoughtful sadness.

Lewis' voice thinned. "He looked so hurt, Seb. Like I'd just burned him. And I couldn't even say anything. I just walked away."

He was shaking now. Just a little. Enough.

"I've spent all this time telling myself I don't feel anything. That I'm too old, too focused, too..." He swallowed. "Too broken."

He looked up, finally, eyes glassy and red.

"But I felt it. With him. Every damn second. And now I don't know what to do."

And then, as if the words broke the last dam, his eyes flooded.

Not loud sobs. No dramatics.

Just tears that fell without asking.

Hanna crossed to him immediately, sinking to the floor beside him and pulling him into a hug. No words. Just arms, soft and sure, pressing him back together piece by piece. Seb stood, moved in too, one hand on Lewis' back, solid and steady.

They held him.

Let him cry.

Let him breathe.

Let him fall apart, just a little.

And when the silence returned, softer than before, Seb's voice broke it gently.

"You need to talk to him."

Lewis shook his head, still buried in Hanna's shoulder. "What if I've already ruined it?"

"You'll never know if you don't try."

"And if he doesn't want me?"

"Then you'll have done the right thing by telling him," Hanna said softly. "That's the part that matters."

After a while, she stood and kissed Lewis's head.

"I'm heading to bed," she said. "You boys try not to freeze out here."

She squeezed Seb's hand on her way out.

And then there were two.

Seb didn't sit back down. He stood at the fireplace, poking at the embers.

"You know," he said quietly, "you remind me of myself. Years ago."

Lewis looked up.

"With Nico?" he asked.

Seb nodded.

"I didn't love him. Not like that. But I think... I resented him. And part of me wanted to be understood by him. To matter to him. And when I didn't, when it all went to hell, I carried it for too long."

He turned to face Lewis.

"I don't want that for you. And I don't want it for Carlos either."

Seb's voice grew softer. Almost... tired.

"I see the way you look at each other. It's different. It's real. So talk to him, Lewis. Before the space between you gets so wide that neither of you can cross it."

Lewis nodded, slow and uncertain.

Seb stepped forward, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"You still have time," he said. "Don't waste it."

And for the first time in weeks, Lewis believed he might be right.

 

February - 2024

Lewis announced that he will be moving to Ferrari in 2025 with both Ferrari line up are still unknown to who will be leaving the team yet. Maybe there already is.

 

March 2024 - Australia, 3rd race of the season
The paddock buzzed with its usual static interviews, cameras, engineers weaving through garages, but for Lewis, everything had blurred. The noise, the bustle, the adrenaline... it was all just background. He stood still, numb, staring down at his phone screen like it had personally knocked the wind out of him.

He wasn't supposed to know. Not yet.

But things always found their way around the grid. A name here. A whisper there. And now, not from a press release, not from Ferrari themselves, but from someone in the know, he'd found out.

Carlos.

Carlos was the one leaving.

Not Charles.

Carlos.

Lewis sat down slowly on the edge of a tire stack just outside the Mercedes garage, suddenly unsure if his legs would hold. His gloved hands were trembling before he even noticed.

It felt like a punch. No. It felt like he had punched him. Like he'd ripped the rug out from under Carlos' feet. He could see it so clearly now, the reason Carlos hadn't said anything, the silence between them, the weight in his eyes when they passed each other without speaking. He gave it all up. His seat. His dream. For Charles. For Lewis.

Lewis felt sick.

It hadn't been supposed to go like this. When the Ferrari deal was being discussed, he'd let himself believe that maybe... just maybe... the universe would work it out. That someone else would walk, someone less rooted. Not Carlos. Not the one person he-

He couldn't finish the thought.

He ran a hand down his face, catching a shaky breath. His chest ached. Guilt spread through his ribs like fire.

He stood up. Paced. Stopped again. His mind felt like it was spinning in circles. He wanted to go back to stop the contract, to tell them he'd made a mistake. But it was too late. And the one person who should've hated him for it had already taken the fall.

Three races into the season and not one proper conversation between them.

Not after the kiss.
Not after the silence.
Not after the announcement.

And now, Lewis wasn't sure if it was too late. But he needed to know. He needed to see him. Talk to him. Anything.

He found Charles on his cool down lap, walking back through the paddock with his race suit half undone and his hair matted with sweat. The Monegasque was still grinning faintly from P2, waving to fans, until he saw Lewis walking toward him.

There was a weight to Lewis' steps. A heaviness Charles hadn't seen in a long time.

They stopped in the shadows between the garages, far from anyone who might eavesdrop.

"Charles," Lewis said quietly, his voice almost cracking.

Charles tilted his head, cautious. "What's going on?"

"I need to know where Carlos is staying."

Silence.

Charles didn't ask why. He didn't ask how Lewis knew. He just looked at him. Really looked, and the answer was already there, between Lewis' furrowed brow and clenched jaw, behind his eyes.

"You know, don't you?" Charles said.

Lewis swallowed. "Yeah."

Another pause.

"You're going to talk to him?" Charles asked. Not judgmental. Just... making sure.

Lewis nodded slowly. "I should've done it months ago."

Charles exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I wanted to tell you myself. But it wasn't mine nor place for me to tell."

"I know," Lewis said, voice low. "But I need to fix it before it's too late."

Charles reached into his pocket, took out his phone, tapped a few times, and handed it over.

Lewis stared at the hotel name and room number on the screen like it might vanish.

"I hope you're ready," Charles said softly. "He won't say it, but this broke him more than he'll ever admit."

Lewis blinked hard, nodded once, and whispered, "Thank you."

Then he turned and walked away.

He didn't know what he would say when he got there.

But he had to say something.

Before silence took everything else.

 

Melbourne - March 2024
Hotel 

The cab pulled up to a nondescript hotel tucked quietly into a side street, far from the glitz of the paddock. No fans. No press. Just dull, overcast sky and the low hum of traffic. Lewis stepped out, tipping the driver and pulling his hood up. He moved quickly through the lobby, unnoticed. It was better that way.

The elevator ride to the sixth floor felt too fast and too slow all at once. He checked the room number again on his phone, then pocketed it, trying to calm the shaking in his hands. He found the door 610 and just stood there.

For a long time.

He could hear his own heartbeat louder than the silence of the hallway. He didn't know if Carlos would even open the door. Or worse, if he did.

Lewis closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled, then knocked.

Three times.

No answer at first. A beat. Then the faint sound of shuffling from inside. The door opened.

Carlos stood there.

And he looked like hell.

His hair was unkempt, his eyes swollen and shadowed. He hadn't shaved. There were faint lines under his eyes like he hadn't truly slept in days or maybe weeks. He wore a loose grey hoodie and sweats, and for a moment, Lewis felt like his entire chest caved in just from looking at him.

He didn't say anything.

He just walked in.

Carlos stepped back automatically, too stunned to stop him. The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Lewis turned to face him. "It's true, isn't it?"

Carlos froze. "What?"

"You're the one leaving."

A beat.

Carlos looked away. "It doesn't matter."

Lewis took a step closer. "Don't. Don't do that."

Carlos's voice was tired. "What do you want me to say, Lewis? That I made the decision myself? That no one pushed me?"

"Charles tried to back out," Lewis said sharply. "He told Fred he'd leave-"

"And I told Fred I'd go before it even got that far," Carlos interrupted. "Because it was always going to be me. You and Charles, that's the dream pairing. That's the future."

Lewis shook his head like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You gave up Ferrari, Carlos."

"I gave up my seat," Carlos said quietly. "Not my soul."

Lewis's voice cracked. "But you love this team."

"I did," Carlos admitted. "I do. But I also know what's written between the lines. I've always known."

Silence fell again. Thick. Suffocating.

Lewis turned, pacing the room once, trying to breathe through the pressure in his chest. "I'll stop it," he said suddenly. "I'll call Mercedes. I'll talk to Fred. I'll pull out. I swear to God, Carlos, I'll-"

"No."

The force of Carlos's voice stopped him cold.

"You won't," Carlos said firmly. "You won't do that."

"You're throwing your career away because of me," Lewis said, his voice rising, full of disbelief, pain, guilt.

Carlos stepped forward now, eyes locked with his. "I'm not throwing anything away. I made a choice."

"I didn't ask you to."

"You didn't have to," Carlos replied. "I saw it on your face the day the news came out. You were scared. You were guilty. But you were also alive again, Lewis."

Lewis's mouth opened, but no words came out. He blinked fast, tried to look anywhere but at Carlos. "I didn't want this to happen like this."

"I know," Carlos said, softer now. "But it did."

A long pause. The hum of the city faint beyond the window.

Lewis stepped forward again. This time, slower. His voice shook as he finally spoke the words that had sat in his chest since winter.

"I still love you."

Carlos's breath caught.

"I never stopped," Lewis went on. "And I tried. I swear I tried. I tried to hate you. I tried to forget about what we were, or what we could've been, or how I felt every single goddamn time I saw you smile. But I couldn't. I can't."

He swallowed thickly.

"And I know it's too late. I know I'm selfish. But I need you to know. Because this pain... this... ache in my chest, it's all you. It's always been you."

Carlos didn't speak.

He just looked at Lewis. Looked at the tears forming in his eyes. The raw honesty etched into every word. The weight that came off his shoulders only to land in his chest.

And then he stepped forward. One step. Then another.

And kissed him.

No hesitation. No breath.

It was not a soft kiss. It was not gentle.

It was every emotion they had swallowed for months. Every "what if," every stolen glance, every word they didn't say. It was desperation, and anger, and longing, and love. It was messy, uncoordinated, too hard, too deep, too much  and perfect.

Lewis gasped softly against his mouth, clinging to him like he might fall apart without his touch. Their hands tangled into shirts, jaws, hair anything to pull the other closer, like they couldn't possibly get close enough.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, nothing else existed. No contracts. No cameras. No paddock. No Rebeca. Just them. Only them.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless, blinking through the tears that had welled up between them.

Carlos was the one who spoke first, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I thought I'd never feel this again."

Lewis reached for his hand, gently, like a promise. "Neither did I."

They stood close, breaths shallow, hearts racing. That kiss had left them both shaken trembling, even. It wasn't just passion. It was weight. Months of silence. Pain. Want. It cracked something open.

Lewis still hadn't let go of Carlos's hand when Carlos spoke again.

"I love you."

The words came quiet at first, but steady. Unapologetic. His voice caught on the second word, but he didn't stop.

"I love you," he said again, firmer now. "And I think I've loved you longer than I've even known. I tried to push it down. I buried it under Rebeca. Under racing. Under everything that felt safe. But nothing ever worked."

Lewis's eyes shimmered again, but he didn't look away. He couldn't.

Carlos kept going, his voice soft and cracked and honest. "I talked to her. Rebeca. We ended it right. We talked everything out. She deserves more than someone who's in love with someone else. She knew. Of course she did. She always knew."

Lewis exhaled, a breath that sounded like a prayer finally answered.

"God," he whispered, relief flooding his face. "I was so scared... that I'd ruin everything again."

"You didn't ruin anything," Carlos said. "You just told the truth."

And then Lewis leaned in.

This time, it was Lewis who kissed him  gently, then deeper, needing to feel it, needing to know that this wasn't a dream. That this was real, and Carlos wasn't pulling away. That there was nothing between them anymore, no Rebeca, no guilt, no secrets.

The kiss tasted like hope. Like home. Like months of pretending finally fading away.

Their foreheads touched when they broke apart, both of them quietly crying now, not from sadness, but from relief. From finally being able to. Feel.

Carlos spoke again, voice low.

"I'm leaving Ferrari... not because I want to. But because I have to."

Lewis started to shake his head, but Carlos stopped him gently with a thumb brushing along his cheek.

"I know it was never going to be Charles," he said. "That team... it's built around him. And I can't spend my life trying to force something that'll never be mine. I've given them everything I have. And now I want to give you something."

Lewis's brows knit, his eyes filled with confusion, and something like pain.

"I want to see you in red," Carlos whispered. "Driving for Ferrari. That car. That fire. You belong in it. And I need you to know... I chose this. I chose you."

Lewis blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by how much he was hearing, how much Carlos was giving. "But it's your dream-"

Carlos nodded. "It was. And I'll never stop loving Ferrari. But dreams change. And right now, the only thing I know for sure is this-" He squeezed Lewis's hand. "You're my dream now."

That broke Lewis completely.

He buried his face in Carlos's neck, holding him so tight it was hard to tell where one of them ended and the other began. And they just stood there, wrapped in each other, two drivers, two men, two hearts that finally stopped running.

That night wasn't the start of something new.

It was the return of something that had always been waiting.

 

They decided, for now, to keep it between themselves.

Not because they were hiding. Not anymore, but because some things deserved to be just theirs. Their closest friends knew something had shifted. Charles, George, even Lando, they all noticed the subtle softness between them. The way Lewis's hand would rest on Carlos's back when no one was looking. The way Carlos leaned into him like a habit he never wanted to lose again.

So they told them just the basics. That they talked. That they'd worked things out. That they were okay now.

Everyone was relieved. Finally, some said. It's about damn time, others joked. But under the teasing was genuine happiness. Because love like that deserved a chance.

Then the season marched on.

Race after race.

And somewhere between press conferences and podiums, between midnight flights and morning briefings, Lewis and Carlos made a promise.

To never lie again.
To never run.
To never shut the other out.
No matter how hard it got.
No more distance.
No more silence.
Only truth.

And then, just like that, the last race arrived.

Carlos's final weekend in red.

Charles was quiet that day, his usual fire dimmed by the weight of goodbye. After the race, a dry, hard-fought P4, there was no win, but there was love.

The Ferrari garage overflowed with cakes, hand-drawn signs, and the unmistakable call of Gracias Carlos. Mechanics hugged him. Engineers whispered their thanks. Fred shook his hand, held it for longer than usual. And Charles, eyes rimmed red, pulled him into a hug that said everything neither of them could fully put into words.

"I'll miss you," Charles said softly.

Carlos smiled through the tears. "I'll miss you too, mate. Go win that title, yeah?"

From the paddock wall, Lewis watched it all unfold.

He tried to smile. He clapped when others did. But part of him ached. Because this was Carlos's dream ending, and it was ending too soon. Because a part of him still whispered, If I hadn't come, maybe he'd still be here.

But another voice, the one that sounded a lot like Carlos said: I chose this. For you. For us.

And that... that meant everything.

Later that night, the hotel room was dim and quiet, the air still warm from the desert heat outside. Lewis stood by the window, watching the city blink below. He hadn't turned the lights on. He didn't need to. He was waiting.

The lock clicked.

Carlos stepped in, tired, but smiling when he saw Lewis standing there like a promise kept.

Neither said anything.

Carlos dropped his bags gently, walked across the room, and without hesitation, wrapped his arms around Lewis and buried his face into his chest.

Lewis held him tight. Immediately. Like instinct.

They stayed like that for a while. No words. Just the sound of breathing. The comfort of arms that didn't let go.

When they finally pulled back, they moved in quiet unison, shedding layers of the day, the pressure, the goodbyes, the weight. In the shower, they said nothing. Just soft touches, quiet rinses, and a few deep, grounding breaths. Lewis pressed a kiss to Carlos's temple. Carlos rested his forehead to Lewis's shoulder.

Clean. Steady. Together.

Now in bed, Carlos lay with his head on Lewis's chest, their hands intertwined where the blanket didn't cover them. The room was hushed, but not heavy. Peaceful. Like still water.

Carlos broke the silence first, voice quiet, almost fragile. "I can't believe I have this."

Lewis turned a little, looking down at him.

Carlos kept going. "I can't believe I was willing to give up so much. That I did. But I'd do it again. Because... this. You. It's worth it."

Lewis's hand tightened just slightly.

"I think I spent so long being scared of this," he whispered. "Of us. Of what it would mean. But I'm not anymore. You make me want to be brave."

Carlos lifted his head just enough to kiss Lewis's jaw. "Then be brave with me."

"I will," Lewis promised. "I already am."

And with that, they fell asleep.

Safe.

Together.

Wrapped in the kind of quiet love that didn't need to shout anymore.

Just a steady heart beneath the ear, and the promise of tomorrow.

 

2025.

Ferrari Red.
Williams Blue.
Two completely different shades, but somehow, they belonged to the same story now.

Carlos had made his decision long before the world found out. He would go to Williams. Not because he was giving up, never that, but because he wanted to show everyone, he was still here. Still fighting. Still fast. Still Carlos Sainz.

Even if the team had once been a midfield name, things had changed. The car had improved. The foundation was strong. And most importantly, James Vowles believed in him. Alex welcomed him like an old friend. They clicked instantly, the banter, the jokes, the respect. They became that kind of pairing you didn't expect but couldn't look away from. Two sharp minds. Two very different kinds of fire.

Carlos felt it in his bones again. The hunger. The challenge. The thrill of doing something big, even if it wasn't always in front of a crowd.

And Lewis...

Lewis was in red now. Properly, finally. The media circus was loud, the pressure sharp, but he didn't flinch. He never did. Maybe it was because he was used to it. Or maybe it was because every time he zipped up that red race suit, he knew exactly who he was doing it for.

Not the headlines.
Not the history books.
Carlos.

He finally got to show him in full view what he looked like in red. And when he caught Carlos staring the first time, wide-eyed and blinking like he forgot how to breathe, Lewis grinned. He walked over like he knew exactly what he was doing. All fireproofs and calm swagger. No suit on. No helmet. Just him.

"Like what you see?" he said, low enough only Carlos could hear.

Carlos cleared his throat. "Don't start."

Lewis leaned in, lips brushing against his ear. "Too late."

Carlos nearly dropped his water bottle.

But of course, Carlos had the same effect on him. Especially on race days, hair tied back, focused, sharp, all grit and passion. Lewis caught himself scrolling through photos sometimes. Too long. Too much. But never enough.

They made it work.

The paddock was big, but the glances were soft. The secret smiles. The stolen moments before briefings or after races. Sometimes, when things got chaotic, Carlos would shoot Lewis a look across the garage lane. One that said: I'm here. You're not alone.

And Charles? He was still Charles. The goofball, the sweetheart, the racer. He got along well with Lewis. Surprisingly well. The chemistry on track worked, and off track, it was full of dry humor and eye-rolls and challenge videos they both hated but still did anyway.

"Carlos would destroy us at this," Charles said once, halfway through a dumb juggling challenge.

"Yeah," Lewis agreed, smiling fondly. "He would."

They didn't say much after that. But they didn't have to.

Carlos was watching from the Williams motorhome, shaking his head. Idiots. His idiots.

But this. All of it. Was worth it.

They made it work.

Private or not, loud or quiet, they had each other's backs. Lewis's dream had always been about driving that red machine. Carlos's dream was seeing Lewis proud in it. And now, they were living it. Apart on the track, but never apart in heart.

Different teams. Different colors.
But the same love.

And that...
That was something beautiful.

 

Two year later.
2027.

There was a quiet between them now, the kind of quiet that felt earned. Not silence, not distance. Just peace.

Lewis sat on the balcony of a quiet lakeside house just outside Zürich. Their house. A place far away from engines and paddocks. The sun was setting in soft golds and purples. In the kitchen, Carlos was humming to himself, slicing fruit with that same kind of casual precision he brought into every race. He had let his hair grow again. Lewis liked that.

They weren't hiding anymore. Not from the world. Not from each other.

The season had come and gone in its full roar. Lewis had taken Ferrari to the podium more times than the press could keep up with. And Carlos? He brought Williams its first win in years. James had cried. Alex nearly tackled him. The paddock didn't stop talking for weeks.

But that wasn't the highlight.

No. The real moment happened later, when Lewis ran straight into Parc Fermé, ignoring everything and everyone, straight to Carlos. Cameras clicking. Voices shouting. But Lewis didn't care. He grabbed Carlos by the fireproofs, laughed through his tears, and kissed him. For the world. For them.

"Didn't I tell you you're still that driver?" Lewis whispered.

Carlos laughed, chest trembling. "Didn't I tell you you look good in red?"

They had kept every promise.
Never lied. Never hid. Never let distance grow again.

In their home now, they moved like a quiet rhythm. A shared toothbrush holder. A silly pair of mugs "El Matador" and "The Million Dollar Man." Lazy Sundays. Long walks. A scruffy dog named Pinon Carlos claimed he didn't want but carried around like a baby. A shared Spotify playlist that was a mess of Reggaeton and 90s R&B. Matching necklaces, always hidden under layers, but always there.

And some nights, they still whispered about the past. The heartbreak. The hotel room. The first kiss they were brave enough to call real. The day Carlos said, "I'll leave so you can stay." And Lewis said, "I'll fight so you don't have to."

It wasn't a perfect story.
But it was theirs.

And in the end, it was about two drivers who kept choosing each other, in red, in blue, in whatever came next.

Lewis stepped back inside as the kettle clicked off. Carlos looked up and smiled like he hadn't just seen him minutes ago.

"You're staring," Carlos said, voice low.

"I get to," Lewis replied, and kissed his temple.

The future? They didn't know yet. They'd face it like they always did, at full speed, hand in hand.

Whatever came next, they had each other.

That was the real win. Always a real win.

 

----------------------------------

 

AN: This chapter or oneshot is inspired by the time that they had confirmed Carlos is leaving Ferrari. I was a Carlos Sainz fan ever since I started to love Formula 1, he was the reason I love the sport. I didn't see him as just a driver, I saw him as a man, who had given the team everything, yet, they pushed him away like he means nothing. Those past four years of me admiring Carlos' skill with Ferrari kept me thinking: was Ferrari keeping him because they had no choice or did they just want to use Carlos' skill? But nonetheless, it was sad when I have to watch both Carlos and Charles, with tears in their eyes and saying goodbye. I cried watching that video, still do sometimes. Because Ferrari is a dream, yet he had to gave it up because he new it will never be Charles. 

Cracias Carlos. 

Chapter 16: MV1 & NH27 | What Love Is

2016
Shanghai paddock, just after Friday practice

“You’ve seen the kid drive yet?” Nico asked, not looking up from his water bottle as he leaned against the low pit wall.

His engineer glanced over, distracted. “Which one?”

Nico tilted his head slightly toward the opposite garage. “The Dutch one. Verstappen.”

“Oh. Yeah, what about him?”

Nico shrugged, eyes following the blur of orange and blue as the Toro Rosso crew moved around their car. “Just curious.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

He’d noticed the way Max handled the car, sharp, no hesitation, almost reckless but never uncertain. At eighteen, Nico expected nerves, maybe some stiffness in traffic. But Max was fluid, punchy. He drove like someone who’d already decided the world owed him space and wasn’t going to ask twice.

Nico didn’t say any of that out loud.

He took a sip of water and watched Max swing a leg over the cockpit, helmet under his arm, talking easily with one of the mechanics. There was something about the kid, no, not kid. He was technically an adult now. Still, barely.

“He’s quick,” Nico added after a beat. “Kind of reminds me of someone.”

“You?” the engineer teased.

“Maybe.” Nico let a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth. “Minus the calm.”

He didn’t know what exactly had pulled his attention that day. Maybe it was how Max didn’t flinch in the corners. Maybe it was the way he looked like he belonged here already, no questions asked.

Maybe it was just a passing thing.

But even then, Nico knew.
He’d be watching.

Max, Later that afternoon

He wasn’t exactly used to being noticed. Not like that.

People noticed the name, the pace, the overtakes that looked like they shouldn’t have worked. But beyond that, most drivers stuck to polite nods, short words. Max didn’t mind. He preferred it that way.

So when Nico Hülkenberg walked past his garage and actually stopped, just a brief pause, not even a full second. Max clocked it.

A glance, then a nod. Not much more. But it was... different. Nico had this unreadable look, like he was thinking about something but wouldn’t share unless asked.

Later, in the driver’s meeting, Max caught Nico watching him again, just briefly. Not sizing him up. Not in a dismissive way either. More like... like he was curious.

Max tapped his fingers against the table and didn’t let it show on his face. Maybe Nico was just bored. Or maybe he’d seen one of those wild replays from Bahrain.

Still, when they crossed paths again near the paddock entrance, Nico actually said something.

“Hell of a move on Grosjean last week,” he said, walking alongside him for a few steps.

Max looked over, surprised, but played it cool. “Thanks. I didn’t think it’d stick.”

“It shouldn’t have,” Nico replied, half-smiling. “But it did.”

Max let out a breath of a laugh, short and a little sharp. “Guess it’s a good start to the season.”

“Could be a good start to something else too,” Nico said casually. “You settling in alright?”

Max blinked. Not many drivers asked him that. Not like that, anyway.

“Yeah. It’s been good. Carlos and I are getting on. So far, at least.”

Nico nodded. “That’s good. Not everyone gets that lucky.”

They parted ways without much more. Nothing heavy. Just... a moment.

Max didn’t think too hard about it. He didn’t have time to think hard about anything, there were cars to drive, points to chase. But still, when he saw Nico on the grid later, he gave him a small nod back.

He figured maybe this was how friendships started. Quietly.

No pressure. No expectations.

Just a nod across the noise.

 

Monaco 2016 – Friday evening
Nico:

He didn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was the way Max moved through the paddock, shoulders squared, headphones always on, face unreadable. Maybe it was the way he drove, reckless and composed all at once, like someone with something to prove and nothing to lose.

Maybe it was just the silence between them. Comfortable. Unspoken.

Nico sipped his coffee, lukewarm now, as he stood near the back of the hospitality area. Monaco was always crowded, too much noise and too little space, but from this angle he could see Max walking back from media duties, hands in his pockets, head slightly down like he was tuning the whole world out.

Something twisted in Nico’s chest. Not painful. Just... noticeable.

He shouldn’t feel this way.

He wasn’t the type to get caught up in this kind of thing. Not with anyone younger. Not even with women. And definitely not with-

He shook the thought off, ran a hand through his hair.

Max was eighteen. Barely. Still green around the edges in some ways, and yet... Nico couldn’t help but see the shape of something else forming in him. A kind of quiet power. Like a flower, no, a flame. No, that wasn’t right either.

A flower waiting to be picked.

The phrase came to him and made him frown. Too delicate. Too... dangerous. But it fit. Max wasn’t fragile, far from it, but he was becoming something. Someone. And Nico couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t lust. Not like that. He told himself that more than once. It was admiration, maybe. Or curiosity. Or-God, maybe it was just loneliness, the kind that slipped in between podiums and evenings spent answering the same questions with the same tired smile.

Still.

When Max passed by and glanced over, just a glance, just a second, Nico smiled before he could stop himself.

Max raised a hand in a casual wave. Nothing more. And yet it stayed with Nico far longer than it should have.

 

Abu Dhabi, December 2016
Nico Hülkenberg:

“Never seen a man retire with a smirk and a secret,” Nico muttered, tossing a peanut in the air and catching it in his mouth.

Max chuckled beside him on the hospitality sofa, legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest like he belonged there. Like he always did.

“You mean Rosberg?” Max asked.

Nico nodded. “Yeah. Like he knew something we didn’t. Dropped the mic, walked off the stage.”

Max leaned his head back, thoughtful. “He and Lewis… that was more than just rivalry.”

Nico raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Max shrugged. “They weren’t just fighting to win. It felt personal. Like, if one of them lost, it hurt more than just the points.”

Nico tapped his fingers against his knee. “You think they cared about each other?”

“Maybe. In some way.” Max looked at him now. “You think so too.”

Nico exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I think when you spend that much time sharing ambition, you leave pieces of yourself behind. In each other. Whether you mean to or not.”

They were quiet for a beat. The soft hum of evening activity moved around them, teams packing, media clearing out, conversations winding down.

Max shifted. “It’s weird.”

“What is?”

“That you can give so much to someone without meaning to. And maybe not even realize it until they’re gone.”

Nico looked at him, his throat tightening slightly.

He almost made a joke. Something about dramatic Dutch philosophers. But he didn’t. Max had spoken softly, honestly. And something in Nico, something unguarded, was listening more closely than he should.

Instead, he said, “Yeah. Weird.”

Max gave him a long look, unreadable like always. Then smiled faintly. “You ever had something like that?”

Nico turned back to the view of the paddock lights. “I think I’m in the middle of it.”

He didn’t say more. Didn’t need to.

Max didn’t press. Just stayed beside him, quiet, present.

And maybe that was the start of something else, too.

 

Renault Motorhome, Japan 2017
Nico Hülkenberg:

“I’m just saying,” Carlos said, spinning a pen between his fingers, “he doesn’t look eighteen anymore.”

Nico glanced up from his notes. “Who?”

“Come on,” Carlos replied, not looking up. “The Dutchman. Your not-a-favorite-person.”

Nico snorted. “He’s not my favorite anything.”

Carlos didn’t say anything. He just smiled a little and went back to scribbling something in his notebook.

Nico let the silence settle, his mind drifting. Max had finished fourth that day. Aggressive drive, bold overtakes. He’d watched it, of course, kept an eye on the timing screens, like always. Not because he was interested. Just... because.

Because.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s driving well,” he said eventually.

Carlos didn’t respond right away. Just leaned back, eyes on Nico now.

“You know,” he said, “you smile when someone says his name.”

Nico froze for half a second. Covered it with a shrug. “You’re imagining things.”

Carlos nodded slowly, like he wasn’t buying it but wasn’t going to push. “Sure.”

The thing was, he had smiled. Not a big smile. Not one anyone else would catch unless they were looking closely. But Carlos had always been observant. He noticed what people didn’t say. He saw what others missed.

And Nico hated that he was right.

Because the truth was getting harder to push down. Max had gotten sharper this season, not just on track, but in presence. He carried himself with more certainty. The lines of his face were more defined, his voice a little steadier. He wasn’t a kid anymore, not really.

Nico had tried to stay neutral. Tried to remind himself of the difference, age, stage, everything. Tried to convince himself that it was admiration. Professional respect. Maybe a little protectiveness.

But then Max would look his way across the paddock. Or throw a grin at something stupid he said. Or talk with that calm, unbothered tone that slipped under Nico’s skin and stayed there.

And Nico would feel it again.

Not wrong. But not simple, either.

Not something he could act on. Not something he could confess.
Max saw him as a friend. That was all. That was enough. It had to be.

Carlos snapped his notebook closed. “He’ll be in the paddock tomorrow.”

“I know.”

Carlos paused. “You planning to go over there?”

Nico looked away. “No.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow but didn’t press.

Nico told himself it was the right answer. The smart one.

But even now, he knew, if he heard Max’s laugh through the crowd, if he saw that flash of orange and dark blue out of the corner of his eye, he’d turn.

Every time.

 

Mexico 2017 – Late Evening, Cooling Down After Media Duties
Max Verstappen:

He was tired in a good way.

Second place. Clean fight. His mind was still half in the car, half in the memory of that overtake on Vettel, sharp and decisive. He liked races like that. Not chaotic, just pure.

He hadn’t even noticed Nico standing nearby until the man handed him a bottle of water.

“Nice one out there,” Nico said, calm as ever.

Max took the water with a quiet thanks. “You watch the whole thing?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

There was something in the way he said it. Casual. Almost too casual.

Max didn’t reply right away. Just drank and leaned back against the wall outside the Red Bull hospitality, the air warm and thick with leftover heat from the day.

He glanced at Nico.

The other man’s arms were crossed, posture relaxed, but his eyes were trained on Max, not the way people usually looked at him. Not with calculation or envy. It was... quieter. Like Nico wasn’t looking at what Max was but something he hadn’t figured out yet.

“You okay?” Max asked.

Nico blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re staring.”

Nico’s mouth twitched, like he was caught but not sorry. “You ever notice how your voice drops when you’re talking to engineers? It’s different. You go all serious.”

Max furrowed his brow, thrown off by the change in topic. “What?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Nico added. “Just... you’re starting to sound like someone who owns the place.”

Max stared at him, unsure whether that was a compliment or just another one of Nico’s weird observations.

“Thanks?” he said, slow.

Nico laughed under his breath. “You’re welcome.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Max looked out at the fading lights of the paddock. He felt Nico shift beside him but didn’t look.

There was something strange about this. Not bad. Just different.

Max had friends. Carlos, Daniel, the usual. But Nico was... quieter. Sharper. Never asked for anything. Never tried to be close.

And yet, here he was. Again.

Max’s eyes flicked to him briefly. Nico was looking away now, jaw set like he was holding something back.

And for the first time, Max wondered, was he?

 

Austin, 2017 – Red Bull Lounge
Max Verstappen:

Max flopped down on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him as he reached for the nearest energy drink can.

Daniel and Carlos were already there, Carlos thumbing through his phone, Daniel mid-story about something Max had already tuned out.

He cracked open the can. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Daniel looked up, grinning. “As long as it’s not about girls or taxes, go for it.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?”

Max leaned back, resting his head on the cushions. “Do you think Nico-uh, Hülkenberg-acts... weird around me?”

Daniel blinked. Carlos stopped scrolling.

Max didn’t notice.

“I don’t mean like bad weird,” he went on. “Just different. He’s always... saying stuff. Watching races. Hanging around. Talking more than he does with others.”

Daniel and Carlos glanced at each other. Not subtle, but not obvious either.

Carlos recovered first. “Nah. That’s just how he is.”

Daniel nodded, too quickly. “Yeah, totally normal. He’s just... you know. German.”

Max squinted. “You’re Australian and you talk more.”

Daniel shrugged. “True. But I’m funny. Nico’s, like... intense. Thoughtful. That’s just his thing.”

Carlos added, “He likes watching good drivers. He respects you.”

Max stared at them for a second. Their answers didn’t not make sense, but there was something off in the way they both spoke at once. Still, he let it go.

“Alright. Just wondered. It’s not weird or anything. I just noticed.”

Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re fine, mate. Don’t overthink it.”

Carlos smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Max shrugged and took another sip of his drink. If they said it was normal, then it was normal. He hadn’t known Nico that long, anyway.

Still, next time Nico looked at him across the paddock, Max would remember this conversation.
And wonder.

 

Abu Dhabi 2017 – Final Weekend
Nico Hülkenberg:

It was getting harder to breathe around him.

Not in a dramatic way. Not the way you lose air in a crash or from panic. Just… little things. Like Max saying his name with that flat Dutch accent. Or leaning in to say something in the middle of a loud media pen. Or laughing, not even loudly, just easily, like Nico made him feel relaxed.

That was the part that made it exhausting.

Because Max didn’t know.

He didn’t know that Nico had long since passed the line between admiration and something else. He didn’t know that every shoulder bump, every offhand text, every glance across the garage stung in the quiet parts of Nico’s chest that he'd tried to bury under years of experience and self-control.

Max thought this was friendship.

And Nico couldn’t fault him for it. He’d let it be that. Chosen it. Protected it.

But now, sitting in the back of the hospitality room with a coffee gone cold in his hands, Nico wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend that it didn’t wear him down.

Across the room, Max was animated, explaining something to Daniel. Hands moving, eyes lit up. Nico wasn’t listening to the words. Just the sound of his voice. Like white noise he didn’t want to turn off.

Carlos sat beside him, flipping through a schedule, pretending to read. He didn’t speak, didn’t look directly at Nico. But Nico could feel the awareness radiating off him like heat.

“You’re tired,” Carlos said eventually, eyes still on the page.

Nico gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah. It’s been a long season.”

Carlos didn’t respond. Just hummed in a way that said I don’t believe you, but okay.

Max laughed at something Daniel said. His head tilted back just slightly. Nico watched without meaning to.

Carlos closed the schedule and stood. “I’ll let you lie to yourself a bit longer,” he said lightly, then added, without turning “Just don’t let it kill you.”

And then he was gone.

Nico exhaled slowly, staring at his reflection in the black surface of his coffee.

He wanted to tell himself it would fade. That this wasn’t real. That whatever this thing inside him was, it would pass.

But it didn’t.

And when Max waved at him from across the room, smiling like always, Nico smiled back, tired, quiet and wondered how long he could keep fooling them both.

 

Abu Dhabi 2017 – Post-race, Paddock Quiet
Nico Hülkenberg:

The garages were almost empty now. Mechanics packing up. Laughter echoing somewhere in the background. The season was over, and the usual buzz had softened into something slower, quieter.

Nico stood just outside Renault’s pit wall, arms folded, watching the darkened track under the floodlights. He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close.

“You always stand out here alone, or is this just a sad ritual I haven’t heard of?”

He turned.

Max.

Hair slightly damp, Red Bull jacket unzipped, his fireproofs still halfway on like he hadn’t bothered to fully change. There was a little grease on his cheek. Nico found himself looking too long.

He smiled faintly. “Helps clear my head.”

Max stepped beside him, just enough distance to stay casual. “You looked good today.”

Nico glanced sideways. “I didn’t finish.”

“Still drove well.” Max shrugged like it wasn’t a compliment, just a fact. “I saw how you handled that dive into Turn 9 before you had the issue. You were quick.”

Nico let the words sit there for a second. He hadn’t expected Max to notice. Most people didn’t.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

They stood in silence again. Max wasn’t a talker when things got real. Neither was Nico, not usually. But something about the night made everything feel more exposed.

“I’m glad I got to know you this year,” Max said suddenly. “It’s been... good.”

Nico looked at him fully this time. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re solid. Not fake. That’s rare.”

It wasn’t a grand thing. Not a confession. But it landed somewhere deeper than it should have. Nico felt it in his chest like a soft knock on a door he’d locked too long ago.

He wanted to say something back. Anything. But all that came out was, “You too.”

Max smiled, small, easy, real. Then nudged him gently with his shoulder. “Don’t go weird on me now.”

Nico laughed, but it was brittle at the edges.

“I won’t.”

But as Max turned and started back toward his garage, Nico stayed behind, the words burning in his throat.

I already did.

 

Austin 2018 – Just After Qualifying
Nico Hülkenberg:

He kept his distance now. A little at a time.

Enough that Max wouldn’t notice. Or if he did, he wouldn’t mind and that was part of the problem.

They still spoke. Still crossed paths in the paddock. Max still smiled like nothing had changed. But Nico had stopped leaning in when they talked. Stopped tapping Max’s shoulder in passing. Stopped watching him too long from across the garage.

It was safer that way.

He told himself it wasn’t punishment. Just space. He needed space.

So when Max found him outside the paddock gates one evening, jacket slung over one shoulder, curls messy from pulling off his helmet too fast, Nico didn’t flinch. He just braced for the conversation he already knew would go nowhere.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Max said, not accusing. Just observing.

Nico nodded, slow. “Just clearing my head.”

Max tilted his head. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”
No.

“I just-” Nico started, then cut himself off. He adjusted his watch like it mattered. “Long season. I’ve been off.”

Max studied him for a second. “You want space?”

Nico looked at him. Those sharp blue eyes, always full of focus but never quite full of understanding, not this kind, anyway.

“Yeah,” Nico said. “Just a bit.”

Max nodded, no pushback. “Alright. Take what you need.”

No questions. No hesitation.
No understanding.

And that, that’s what hurt the most.

Because Max didn’t say why? or did I do something?
He didn’t miss Nico the way Nico, despite himself, missed Max.

The way his stomach still turned when Max laughed with someone else. The way he couldn’t walk by the Red Bull garage without feeling something tighten in his chest. The way silence from Max didn’t feel like peace, it felt like a wound being pressed.

But Max… he just nodded.

Just let him go.

Not cruelly. Just naturally. Because to Max, friendship had no weight. Not yet. He hadn’t grown up learning the difference between closeness and affection. Not in this way.

And maybe he never would.

Nico turned to go, pulse a little too loud in his ears.

He didn’t tell Max he was leaving after the season. Didn’t say it was because of him. Didn’t say it was because he’d started dreaming about something that wasn’t real.

He just said, “Thanks,” over his shoulder.

Max gave him a small smile in return.

No idea what Nico was thanking him for.

Austin 2018 – Renault Hospitality, Late Evening
Nico Hülkenberg:

The lights in the motorhome had been dimmed. Most of the staff were gone. The only sounds were the quiet hum of cooling equipment and distant conversations, muffled through thick walls. Nico walked the hallway slowly, worn down in every sense of the word.

He reached for the door to his driver’s room, hoping for silence.

Instead, he opened it to find Carlos sitting on the small sofa, elbows on knees, fingers laced together, staring straight at him.

Nico didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Carlos didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

Just looked at him with the kind of seriousness Nico had only seen a handful of times, once when they’d both narrowly avoided a pile-up in Baku, once when Carlos had been told he was losing his seat mid-season.

Nico let the door close behind him.

“I’m guessing this isn’t about telemetry,” he said quietly.

Carlos nodded, slow. “No.”

Nico walked past him, sat down on the edge of the bed, back to the wall, and exhaled through his nose.

Carlos gave him a long look. “You’re going to make me say it?”

Nico didn’t answer.

Carlos sighed. “It’s about Max.”

The room fell completely still. Nico didn’t shift, didn’t blink, but something behind his eyes went dark and quiet.

“I saw it today,” Carlos went on, voice lower now. “You smiled when you saw him. Then you looked down. Same smile, but… different.”

Nico stared at the floor. The silence stretched.

“I’ve known you a while now,” Carlos said. “You hide things well. But not from me.”

That was what broke it open.

Nico didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. But his voice came low and tired, like something he’d been carrying too long, too deep.

“I didn’t plan for this,” he said. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. He was just, he was just young. And sharp. And... there.” His jaw clenched. “And somehow, without even trying, he became important.”

Carlos didn’t speak.

Nico went on. “At first, I thought it was admiration. Maybe a little protectiveness. I’ve been in this sport long enough-I know how it goes. But then it kept getting worse.”

“Worse how?” Carlos asked gently.

Nico looked up, finally. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry. “Worse like... I’d go days without seeing him and feel it. Worse like, he’d say something small, nothing special and it’d stay in my head for hours. Worse like, I’d get angry at myself for waiting to see his name pop up in my messages, even when I knew he wasn’t thinking of me.”

Carlos leaned back a little, the tension in his frame easing just a bit.

“I’ve never felt this way,” Nico said, quieter now. “Not for someone that much younger. Not for someone who can’t even name what he’s feeling half the time. Not for a man.” He laughed once, bitter. “I spent my whole damn life thinking I was beyond all that. And then Max Verstappen walks into F1 and ruins the one part of me I had under control.”

Carlos didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was quiet. “He doesn’t know what this kind of closeness means. Not yet.”

Nico nodded slowly. “I know.”

“He grew up without it. You and I-our families showed us love in some way. Max didn’t have that. Not really.”

“I know,” Nico said again. “That’s the worst part. He isn’t doing anything wrong. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. He’s just... being kind. Open. And I let myself believe it meant more than it does.”

Carlos tilted his head. “So what now?”

“I’m leaving,” Nico said flatly.

Carlos blinked. “You’re-what?”

“After this season. I’m taking a break. Out of the car. Out of the paddock. Away from him.”

Carlos stared at him, stunned.

“I can’t keep standing next to him like this,” Nico said. “Pretending like I’m fine. Like I’m not thinking about how it’ll never be anything more. Like I’m not making it worse just by staying.”

Carlos leaned forward, elbows on his knees again. “You could tell him.”

Nico looked away. “And then what? He won’t understand. He’ll feel guilty. Or awkward. Or he’ll try to make it better in that sweet, thoughtless way he always does. And it’ll only hurt worse.”

He stood then, slow and measured, walking over to the mirror and staring at his reflection.

“I’m not ashamed of how I feel,” he said. “But I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Carlos stood too. Walked over beside him.

“You’re right,” he said. “He doesn’t understand love. Not like this. But he’s not heartless either.”

“No,” Nico said. “That’s the problem.”

They stood side by side, both of them quiet.

Carlos broke the silence. “If this is what you need, I’ll back you. But don’t expect it to stop hurting the moment you walk away.”

“I know,” Nico said.

And still, he didn’t cry.

Not on the outside.

 

Abu Dhabi 2018 – After the Final Race
Carlos Sainz:

The paddock buzzed with the usual mix of goodbyes, farewells, and long embraces, engineers, drivers, staff clinking glasses and saying see you next year. For most of them, it was just that. A pause. Not an ending.

But Carlos wasn’t looking at them.

His eyes were on Nico and Max.

They stood a little off to the side, away from cameras, away from the noise. Max had his arms crossed loosely, still in his Red Bull polo. Nico looked like he hadn’t slept much all week. He hadn’t told many people, not officially. But Carlos knew. He’d known for a while.

Max didn’t understand what was happening. Not really. His brow was relaxed. No confusion, no tension. Just… Max.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” Max said, tone light.

Nico nodded, smiling. That same small smile he always gave Max, the one that meant far more than Max would ever know.

“Of course,” Nico said. “Take care of yourself.”

And then the hug.

It was simple. Casual. To anyone else, meaningless.

But Carlos saw it.

The way Nico’s arms wrapped just a little too tightly around Max’s back. The way his head dipped down, like he was hiding something in that final touch. The way he didn’t pull away right away.

Max didn’t flinch. He hugged back with the same energy he always gave, solid, familiar, untroubled.

To him, this was friendly. To Nico, it was farewell.

Carlos felt something tighten in his chest.

Daniel, a few feet away, caught Carlos’ eye and gave him a knowing look.
He understood too. Maybe not all of it. But enough.

The hug ended. Nico smiled again, this time more like a mask. Max clapped him on the back and walked off, shouting something to an engineer. Already moving forward. Already letting go.

Carlos didn’t blame him. Max didn’t know what he was letting go of.

 

London – Two Days Later
Carlos’ Flat

They’d agreed to meet before Nico left, one last time. Just the two of them.

Carlos had cooked dinner. Nico hadn’t eaten much.

The goodbye wasn’t dramatic. Nico didn’t say anything profound. But when he stood to leave, Carlos followed him to the door. Then out the door. Then onto the street.

Cold wind in their faces. Grey sky overhead.

Carlos didn’t speak until Nico slowed.

“You can’t hide from it forever, you know.” he said.

Nico didn’t turn right away.

“I’m not hiding,” he said. “I’m… leaving it alone. For now.”

Carlos stepped forward. “You don’t have to disappear.”

Nico still didn’t look at him.

Carlos tried again. “Max didn’t know. You know that, right? He would’ve-”

“He would’ve tried,” Nico said, voice rough. “Tried to understand. Tried to fix it. And it would’ve broken me even worse.”

Carlos swallowed hard.

And then, without a word, Nico turned and pulled him into a hug.

Not brief. Not polite.
It was a grip full of everything unsaid, everything buried, shame, relief, grief, gratitude.

Carlos didn’t speak. Just returned it. Held him like a brother. Like someone who knew the weight Nico carried but couldn’t take it from him.

When Nico pulled back, his face was wet. Not crying, just silent tears that slid without sound.

He wiped them away with the back of his hand.

“Watch over him for me,” Nico said. “Just… keep an eye.”

Carlos nodded once.

“And tell Daniel,” Nico added, trying to smile again, “show Max how to have fun. Tell him not to let the pressure crush him. He listens to Daniel more than he ever listened to me.”

Carlos didn’t say you mattered to him too. Because he wasn’t sure Nico would believe it.

Nico stepped back, gave one last look, and walked down the street.

Carlos stood there for a long while.

The sadness came slowly. Not crashing. Just washing over him like rain.

He’d wanted to help. Had tried. But how could he fix something Max didn’t even see? How could you pull two people together when one of them didn’t even know they’d been chosen?

Some things had to break. Quietly. Alone.

Carlos watched Nico go.

And when he was gone, truly gone, he let the silence settle around him like grief.

 

2019 – Early Summer
Max:

It wasn’t a bad season. Not really.

Sure, the car didn’t give him what he wanted every weekend, but that was normal. That was part of the job.

But something still felt… off.

He didn’t know what. Or who. Just that sometimes, in the quieter moments, between debriefs or sponsor shoots, when the adrenaline wore off and there was nothing but his own breath in his ears, he felt like he was waiting for someone to show up.

Someone who never did.

He never said it aloud. Not even to Daniel or Carlos, when they texted or called. But sometimes, he caught himself heading toward the far end of the paddock after sessions. To that little bench outside the Renault motorhome. The one barely anyone used.

He didn’t know why.
He just… used to.

He’d get there and find it empty. Always. Still he lingered. For a second. Maybe two.

Then he’d walk away again, feeling stupid. Restless. Unsure.

And sometimes, late at night, he opened old messages.

Conversations from last year. Half of them just dry jokes and setup chats.

But they made him smile. Quietly. Almost nostalgically.

And once, after a rough race, he scrolled through them and asked himself, Why does it feel weird to miss a friend?

He never answered the question. Just stared at the screen until the words blurred.

 

Nico:

Germany was quiet.

Too quiet, sometimes.

He lived on the edge of the country now. Somewhere green and out of the way. A place with more birds than engines. No one asked him questions. That was the point.

It should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

He tried to fill the silence with routine. Morning runs. Groceries. Reading news that didn’t matter. Some race weekends, he didn’t even turn the TV on until the very end.

But he always checked the results.

Always checked his name.

He didn’t lie to himself anymore. Not fully. He missed Max.

Not the version everyone else knew, the aggressive, calculating prodigy. He missed the Max who would send him a picture of a cat sleeping on a Pirelli cap. The Max who leaned on him a little too easily, asked questions with no weight behind them, smiled like he had nothing to prove when they were alone.

Nico had tried to push that all out. Delete the photos. Archive the chats. Bury it under space.

But it didn’t work.

It never worked.

So he let it sit. Like a dull ache that flared up during post-race interviews. Like a name that echoed when someone mentioned Red Bull. Like a face he hadn’t seen in months, but still dreamt about when he was too tired to fight it.

He missed Max.

And that was the truth.

 

Max:

In Austria, after the podium celebration, Max pulled out his phone to take a breath from all the noise.

He had a message from Nico. Just two words:

“Good drive.”

Max stared at it.

He didn’t reply right away.

But later, when the garage was empty and the champagne smell faded from his suit, he typed one word back.

“Thanks.”

He thought about adding more.

Didn’t.

Put the phone down. Exhaled.

That night, he dreamt of the Renault bench.

And for the first time, when he woke up, he admitted to himself:
He didn’t just miss a friend.

He missed Nico.

 

Late 2019 - The Echoes left behind

Max:

He told himself he wasn’t waiting.

That he wasn’t scanning the paddock after interviews, looking past the sea of cameras and media. That he wasn’t hoping to hear a low voice with a dry German accent cutting in with some half-joke about Dutch stubbornness or how he needed a haircut.

But sometimes…
He still glanced toward the old Renault garage.

Just for a second.

Just to be sure he wasn’t missing something.

He never was.

There were no texts now. No "nice one" after quali. No subtle digs about his strategy. No late-night memes, no calls that started with “are you drunk or just stupid?” and ended in laughter.

Just silence.

Max didn’t say anything. Not to Carlos. Not to Daniel.
But he missed him.

And in some strange, frustrating way, it felt like a mistake to miss someone who left on purpose.

 

Nico:

He made jokes sometimes, dry little quips about Dutch snacks or how no one wore orange unless it was Queen’s Day.

And then he’d stop. Mid-sentence.

Something in his chest would twist, and he’d go quiet for the rest of the evening.

He tried to live fully. Took up hiking. Went to the coast. Bought a new camera.

But he avoided the color blue.
Not all the time, just when it was the exact shade of those eyes.

The ones that used to watch him with this mix of curiosity and safety. Like Max didn’t quite understand why he liked being around Nico, just that he did.

And God, did that make it worse.

 

Carlos:

Carlos saw it before anyone else did.

The way Max smiled less now, especially in the background, when no one was watching. The way he avoided talking about certain seasons. The way he got quiet after podiums, like something was missing even in the winning.

Carlos never said the name.
He didn’t have to.

He messaged Nico every now and then. Asked how he was doing. Shared an inside joke or a photo of something Max would’ve rolled his eyes at.

But he never mentioned him.

Because Nico didn’t ask.

And Carlos made a promise to himself: I won’t bring it up unless he’s ready.

Even if it hurt to stay silent.

 

Daniel:

It was in the way Max looked away when someone said Nico’s name on TV. The way his fingers paused on his phone when he scrolled too far into his own photos.

Daniel caught him once, after Spa, leaning against a wall alone.

“You good?”

Max just nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But Daniel knew that wasn’t it.

Later that night, over drinks, he said to Carlos, “It’s actually heartbreaking, isn’t it?”

Carlos didn’t answer at first.

Then, softly, “Yeah.”

Because watching someone miss what they can’t even define, watching them pretend they don’t, was a kind of grief all its own.

 

Nico:

Sometimes he scrolled back.

Just a little.

Just enough to see Max’s name again in his message list. A timestamp. A joke. A blurry photo of Daniel asleep in a chair.

And he’d stare at it.

Not long.

Just long enough to feel the ache settle in behind his ribs like something permanent.

He thought space would fix it.

But some people leave a shape behind. One you can’t un-feel, even if you never touched it.

And Max was that shape.

 

Mid-season 2020 - Silverstone, On a rooftop.

Max:

The sky was just starting to dim, streaked orange and bruised lavender. He was alone, for the moment, on the rooftop of the hotel the team had booked for the double-header weekend. Carlos and Daniel were inside, probably grabbing another round of drinks.

Max leaned against the railing, one hand curled loosely around a bottle of water, eyes cast out across the skyline.

He didn’t know when it started. The… searching.

Maybe it had always been there. Just quiet. Harmless.

But this year?
It had teeth.

Every podium he stood on, his eyes wandered. Not for the crowd, not for the flags. But for something. Someone, he couldn't name.

And when he didn’t find him, the air always felt heavier.

Empty.

He’d told himself for months that it was nostalgia. That he was just remembering good days. Familiar faces. That was all.

But that wasn’t all.

Because now, every time he heard that name. Nico, his stomach didn’t lurch. But something pulled. Like a small, sharp twist of regret just behind his ribs.

He caught himself saying the name less. Laughing at memories with Daniel but skipping over his voice, his words, his jokes. Like Max was protecting something without knowing why.

Until now.

Now, it wasn’t subtle.

It was in the way he stared at the empty Renault bench after practice. Even though Nico hadn’t sat there for almost two years.

It was in the way his chest tightened when Daniel mentioned catching up with "an old friend in Germany." He hadn’t even said the name.

And it was in the way Max’s brain finally, finally whispered:
This wasn’t just friendly, was it?

Carlos and Daniel found him a few minutes later. Max didn’t turn to greet them.

He just asked, quietly, “Did you know?”

They exchanged a glance.

“About what?” Daniel asked, careful.

Max swallowed. His throat felt tight. He still didn’t look at them.

“About Nico. What he felt.”

Carlos didn’t answer.

Daniel sighed. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, mate.”

Max turned then, finally. His eyes weren’t wide. They were narrowed, not angry, not confused, just tired. Like he’d finally finished putting a puzzle together and hated what he saw.

“He loved me,” Max said. “Didn’t he?”

Carlos closed his eyes, just briefly.

Daniel didn’t deny it.

Max looked back toward the horizon. “I thought it was just… kindness. I didn’t know what it was. I thought everyone touched like that. Talked like that.”

He let out a slow breath.

“But it was him. It was just him.”

Carlos stepped forward. “Max-”

“He gave me space because I asked for it. And I didn’t even realize I was asking. I just didn’t… give back. I didn’t know how.”

“No one’s blaming you,” Daniel said gently.

Max nodded once. “But I think I would’ve stayed, if he’d asked.”

Carlos blinked. “Stayed?”

“Stayed in those moments. Sat with him longer. Laughed harder. Tried, if I knew it meant something.”

The rooftop went quiet again.

Max rested both hands on the railing, gripping it like it was holding him upright.

“I miss him,” he admitted.

Not softly. Not dramatically.

Just truthfully.

“I miss how I used to feel when he looked at me.”

Carlos stepped beside him. So did Daniel. No words, not yet.

Max didn’t look at either of them when he spoke next.

“Do you think I’m too late?”

Carlos answered first. “No. But it’s not about being late. It’s about what you do with it now.”

Daniel added, “He didn’t walk away because he stopped feeling. He walked away because you didn’t.”

Max nodded again.

“I do now,” he said.

And for the first time since the 2018 finale, Max Verstappen said his name out loud. Just once. Just a whisper.

“Nico.”

And this time, it meant something.

 

2021 – Final Leg of the Season

Max:

He understood now.

The feelings that once made no sense, the way Nico used to lean in just a little too close, the way his voice softened when Max was tired, the way Max had always noticed him more than anyone else, he saw it clearly now. And it made his chest ache with something he didn’t have a name for before, but did now:

It was love.
It had always been love.

He told Carlos and Daniel halfway through the season, quietly, after a race that left him bruised and rattled and just done pretending.

“I think I loved him,” Max had said. “And maybe I still do.”

Carlos hadn’t responded with words. Just placed a hand on his shoulder and left it there.

Daniel had swallowed hard. “Are you going to tell him?”

“Yes,” Max said. “But not yet. I want to get it right.”

They hadn’t pushed. They knew better than anyone that this wasn’t something to force. This wasn’t a race. This was the long game. The one that mattered.

 

Nico:

By mid-2021, he was on-screen more than off. Commentary, post-race analysis, guest features.

Which meant he saw Max all the time.

He tried to be objective. Tried to stay clinical. But every time the camera caught Max smiling, really smiling, it felt like the air left his lungs.

He’d freeze when Max looked into the camera for too long. Not at the lens, but through it.

And it would hit him all over again: Maybe that used to be for me.

Nico hadn’t stopped feeling. He never had. He'd just gotten better at hiding it again. But the ache had evolved, it was no longer the pain of missing someone. It was the pain of still wanting someone, even after all this time.

 

Max:

He started revisiting the old messages. Rewatching interviews. Looking for the places where the feeling had always been, but he hadn’t known how to see it.

He remembered the scent Nico wore. How it made the world feel calmer. He remembered the sound of his laugh, low and close, and how it used to make Max’s stomach flutter in a way he hadn’t understood.

And now, it was like remembering how to breathe after years of doing it wrong.

Max didn’t want another year to pass in silence.

He didn’t want to be like Lewis and Nico R. He didn’t want their story to end in assumptions, unsaid truths, or regrets.

He wanted his Nico back. And not just as a friend. Not anymore.

 

Abu Dhabi 2021 – The Championship Weekend

The noise was deafening. Reporters, fans, photographers, all closing in. Max could barely hear himself think.

But he looked past them.
Beyond the barrier.
Through the rows of staff and screens.

And then he saw him.

Not in the Red Bull garage. Not near the podium.

Off to the side.
In the crowd.
Still. Watching.

Him.

Nico.

Standing there, arms crossed, a small smile on his face. That familiar mix of pride and something sadder.

Max froze.

Because suddenly, he felt everything at once. The years. The tension. The missed moments. The warmth. The pain.

And something deeper: a beginning.

Later That Night

Max found his phone, hands still shaking from adrenaline. He stared at Nico’s name in his contacts. He didn’t think. He just typed:

"I saw you. I was looking for you. The whole time."

The message was read.

No reply.
Not yet.

But Max didn’t panic.
Because now he knew.

This wasn’t over.
This was the start.

 

Nightfall,

The Bench

The paddock had thinned out. The final echoes of celebration faded into tire marks and abandoned tape. Mechanics cleared out the last crates. Engines cooled. Journalists packed their gear.

But Max was still moving.

He had checked the garages, Red Bull, Mercedes, even Aston Martin out of sheer impulse. He asked a few people. Got shrugs. Got guesses.

But nothing concrete.

Until it hit him.
That quiet place.
The bench.

The one where he used to be. The one Max had visited for no reason at all after Nico left. The one that never really meant anything… until now, when he realized it had always meant everything.

His legs moved before he could finish the thought.

He jogged, then ran.

And when he rounded the corner, heart pounding, lungs full of adrenaline, Max saw him.

There.
Sitting on the bench like nothing had changed.
Like two, almost three years hadn’t passed.
Like the world hadn’t kept spinning without them.

Nico.

Dressed simply. Black shirt, sleeves pushed up. Arms resting on his thighs. Head down, like he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching.

But Max noticed.

He noticed the way Nico still held himself like he was ready to bolt if it hurt too much. The way his body curled just slightly inward. The way he hadn’t moved.

The world blurred at the edges.

All Max could see was him.

His chest clenched, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. Not now.

He crossed the distance in seconds. The familiar scent hit him first, clean, sharp, something that had once lived in the corners of his memory. Now it was real.

Max didn’t sit yet.
He stood just beside the bench.

Nico looked up. Slowly. His eyes met Max’s.

No smile.
No surprise.
Just… something quiet.

Max swallowed. Stepped forward.

It wasn’t a race anymore.
But Max was finally there.
Exactly where he needed to be.

Max sat down beside him.
Not too close. But close enough.

The quiet between them stretched, thick with everything they hadn’t said over the years. The tension wasn’t sharp, but heavy. Like rain about to fall.

Nico didn’t move. Didn’t look over.

Neither did Max. Not at first.

He breathed in. Out. His fingers twitched on his lap before he finally said, soft and steady-

“I saw you.”

Nico turned, startled. His eyes flicked to Max’s face.

“In the crowd,” Max continued, still looking ahead. “After the race. I was searching for you. And… you were there.”

Nico opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Max smiled. Just a little. Not cocky. Not smug. Just real.

“I think I’ve been looking for you for a long time, actually.”

He finally turned to Nico then, meeting his eyes. But only for a second. His gaze drifted again, out to the track. The air still smelled faintly of rubber and champagne.

“For the longest time,” Max said, “I thought… this was just how we were. That it was supposed to be friendly. You and me. That how you treated me… that was normal.”

He laughed once, quietly. It wasn’t bitter. Just a little sad.

“But I didn’t grow up with love. Not like that. So I didn’t know the difference.”

Nico’s brows drew together, a subtle crease in his forehead.

Max went on, more sure now.

“But I do now. I know what it looks like. What it feels like. And I see it when I think of you. I always have.”

He turned. Fully. Looked right at Nico.
And this time, didn’t look away.

“I missed you,” Max said. His voice didn’t crack. “I missed how you could make me feel like I wasn’t some… machine. How I could actually be me when you were around. How you were always calm, and I was always… not. But you never made me feel wrong for it.”

He paused. Let it settle. Let the weight of the moment land where it needed to.

“I get it now,” Max said. “And I’m done avoiding it. I’m done giving you space because I thought that’s what I should do. I don’t want to be out of your way anymore.”

He took a breath, and it came out steady.

“If you still feel it… if it’s still there, will you share that with me? Show me what it’s supposed to feel like?”

Nico didn’t speak.

But his eyes filled. Slowly. Gently. Like a dam giving in to time, not force.

Then he stood up.

Max watched him, unsure for a heartbeat, until Nico reached out, took his hand and pulled him to his feet.

And then Nico kissed him.

There were no fireworks. No dramatic spins. Just warmth. Hands pressed gently together. A mouth meeting another with years of unsaid love behind it.

Max stiffened for a second, overwhelmed, breath caught-

But then…

He leaned in.
Felt Nico’s hands tighten around his.
Closed his eyes.

And kissed him back.

Not because he wanted to test it.

But because he knew.

This was it.

This was everything.

Their lips broke apart slowly, as if the kiss didn’t want to end.

Max’s eyes were closed at first, like he was afraid opening them would undo everything. But when he finally looked-

Nico was already watching him.

And there were tears.
Not dramatic ones. Not shaking sobs.
But real, quiet tears, spilling down cheeks that had learned to stay still for years.

And Nico, he smiled.

It was small at first, like a secret.
Then wider. Full. Real.

And it was the first time Max had seen him smile like that in years.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Nico said, his voice breaking just slightly. “I got so used to loving you in silence. Through a screen. Through memories.”

Max’s chest twisted, and he felt his own tears start to form. He didn’t fight them.

Nico laughed, wet and shaky. “I used to rehearse it, you know? If I ever saw you again, what I’d say, how I’d act. But I never got it right. Because none of those plans had this. You. Looking at me the way you’re looking right now.”

Max didn’t speak. He just smiled, wide and raw, eyes burning, and then he leaned in again.

This kiss wasn’t about discovery.
It wasn’t about uncertainty.

It was a confirmation.
A seal.

A yes, I know now.
A yes, I’m ready.

Their mouths moved together gently, reverently, like they were scared of wasting another second on anything less than truth.

When they broke apart again, Max didn’t let go. He brought both hands up, settling them on Nico’s shoulders, grounding himself in the presence he had missed more than anything.

Then he pulled him into a hug.

Not a teammate’s hug. Not friendly or professional or passing.

This was different.

This was years of unsaid words, of repressed emotions, of aching finally curling into each other like they were allowed to now. Like they deserved to now.

Nico melted into it immediately, arms coming around Max’s back, pressing them together like he was terrified Max might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

And they just stood there.

For a long time.

Max’s heart was pounding, not from nerves, but from knowing. Knowing this was right. This was real. And finally, he spoke, voice hoarse, breath brushing against Nico’s neck.

“I love you.”

He froze for a second. He hadn’t planned to say it, not like that, not so suddenly. But it had spilled out. Raw. Unfiltered.

He felt Nico tense, just slightly.
Then he pulled back.

Max’s eyes widened, almost apologetic, until Nico cupped his face, eyes glassy again, smile trembling.

“Say it again,” Nico whispered.

Max did. Firmer this time.

“I love you.”

Nico nodded, almost to himself. And then his own words came, choked but certain:

“I love you too, Max. For so long. I never stopped.”

Max laughed, short and breathless, like he’d finally let go of something he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. And he kissed him again.

This time, no rush. No hesitation. Just two mouths fitting back together like they’d never stopped.

And this kiss was everything.

Everything they had missed. Everything they had misunderstood. Every almost, every late night, every smile that used to mean more than Max understood, it was all in this kiss.

There was no world around them.

Just this bench. This night. These arms.

And the deep, anchoring sense that they were finally, finally home.

 

Later that night, Max's hotel.

The lights were low.
Not romantic, just soft. Like both of them were too emotionally raw for anything brighter.

The window was open, letting in the buzz of a city that hadn’t quite settled down after the season’s final race. Somewhere outside, music played faintly, muffled by distance and heat.

Max sat at the edge of the couch, legs slightly parted, elbows on his knees. His eyes weren’t on Nico, yet. They were on the floor, on his hands, on the thoughts still forming.

Nico sat opposite him, one leg curled beneath the other, shirt unbuttoned halfway, eyes steady. He looked calm, but he wasn’t. He was waiting. Because Max was clearly thinking about something.

And then, Max spoke, quietly.

“Why me?”

Nico blinked. “What?”

Max looked up, just enough to meet his eyes. “Back then. Why me?”

It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t insecure. It was… honest.

Max leaned back. “I’ve been asking myself that for a while now. You were older. You’d seen more. You knew more. And I was-” he exhaled, “-I was always angry. And selfish. I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t even know how to be a friend half the time. So why me?”

Nico didn’t answer right away.

He looked at Max for a long, thoughtful beat, then stood, walked over, and sat beside him on the couch. Not too close. But close enough that their knees brushed.

“You think I fell for you because you were perfect?” Nico said, voice soft.

Max shrugged. “No. But I always wondered why someone like you-someone so... put together, would want anything to do with the mess I was back then.”

Nico smiled. And this time it was bittersweet.

“I didn’t fall for you because you were put together,” he said. “I fell for you because you weren’t.”

Max looked over, surprised.

“You were real,” Nico said, eyes not leaving his. “You didn’t pretend to be something you weren’t. You didn’t smile unless you meant it. You didn’t change to fit in. You were stubborn and brash and a little reckless, yeah. But you were honest. And underneath all of that... there was something else.”

He paused.

“You were learning. You were growing. You were trying, even if you didn’t know it. And I admired that. I admired you.”

Max didn’t say anything.

So Nico kept going.

“And I loved the way you looked at the world. Like it owed you nothing, but you were going to take it anyway. I saw that fire in you, Max. And I also saw the loneliness behind it. The kind people don’t talk about. The kind you carry alone.”

Max swallowed hard.

“You reminded me of who I used to be,” Nico said, quieter now. “Before the politics. Before the games. You made me feel… alive again.”

Max dropped his gaze, processing, then gave a tiny nod. “You saw things in me I didn’t even see in myself.”

“I still do,” Nico replied, simply.

Max turned his head. “Even now?”

Nico reached out, slowly, and took his hand. “Especially now.”

And Max smiled, not the cocky grin, not the media-smile. Just his smile. Small. Honest. Full of something fragile.

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“I didn’t know how to love you back then,” he murmured. “But I’m here now. And I want to learn everything I couldn’t before.”

Nico closed his eyes. “Then let me show you. One step at a time.”

 

Still Abu Dhabi, Red Bull garage.

It was quieter than usual, the day after a season’s end. Less noise. Less media. More sun slipping through tall windows. Mechanics walked slower. Laughter felt easier. Time felt... paused.

Max and Nico stood just inside, waiting.

They hadn’t planned some dramatic announcement, just a conversation. A truth. A moment shared with the only two people who had really been there through it all.

Carlos arrived first, walking in with casual ease, but the second he saw them, standing close, Nico’s hand gently brushing Max’s, his eyes widened.

Then Daniel came in behind him. And Carlos didn’t wait.

He threw himself forward, arms wide, voice cracking out a breathless, “Finally!”

And then he was hugging them both, tight, fierce, like someone clinging to the ground after years of drifting. He buried his head into Max’s shoulder, one arm pulling Nico in too.

Max laughed into his hair, and Nico’s hand instinctively reached around Carlos’s back, grounding them all.

“Thank you,” Nico said, a soft murmur against Carlos’s shoulder.

Max echoed it. “Really. Thank you, for sticking around. Even when I didn’t see it. Even when I didn’t get it.”

Carlos pulled back slightly but didn’t let go, eyes glassy but smiling. “You didn’t have to get it right away,” he said. “You just had to get there.”

Daniel stepped in then, warm and quiet. Max turned and grabbed his arm, pulling him in.

The four of them shared a group hug, tight and brotherly, full of laughter that teetered on the edge of tears.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t for show.

It was real.

When they finally pulled apart, Carlos was still holding Daniel’s hand, casual, comfortable. Max noticed. So did Nico.

Max raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Wait-are you two-?”

Nico mirrored the expression, teasing, “You gonna tell us, or should we guess?”

Carlos and Daniel exchanged a look.

And they didn’t deny it.

Carlos shrugged, half a smile. “Wasn’t the right time. You two were... everything.”

Daniel laughed. “Besides, it was more fun watching you two figure it out first.”

That made Max groan and Nico laugh, a real laugh, the kind that pulled at his ribs and came out clean and free, the kind he hadn’t heard from himself in years.

Max nudged Carlos’s arm. “I knew you were watching me like I was some soap opera.”

Carlos smirked. “Because you were.”

And then they all laughed again.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was just right.

The weight of years lifted quietly off four shoulders, and in its place: understanding, love, and a future where no one had to wonder anymore.

They had arrived.

Together.

 

Seasons after. 2022 to 2025.

They made a promise. And they kept it.

Nico didn’t disappear after that night in Abu Dhabi.
He didn’t vanish into shadows or slip away like a quiet memory.
No. He stayed. For real, this time.

In 2022, Max faced a season full of noise. Pressure, expectation, the weight of a title now worn instead of chased. There were moments he stumbled, strategies that failed, DNFs that drained him, interviews where his voice was sharp from exhaustion.

And Nico?

He was always there.

Not loud. Not overbearing. Just present.
A hand on Max’s back when he came off the radio frustrated.
A warm, quiet smile after a bad race that reminded Max: You’re still you, and I’m still here.
A grounding voice in hotel rooms after long flights.
A kiss on the temple before sleep.

When Max won his second title, Nico was there. Waiting just past parc fermé, arms crossed, eyes glistening with pride. He didn’t rush him. He waited until Max found him.

And when Max did, he grinned, wide and boyish and said, “That one was for us.”

Nico kissed him in front of everyone.

Not for show.
Just because he could now.
Because he wouldn’t hide again.

By 2023, when Nico returned to the paddock, it wasn’t a question of why. Everyone already knew. The paddock had learned over time: Nico wasn’t just Max’s partner. He was part of Max’s story. A chapter that had never really ended, just paused.

And Max? He lit up.

The kind of light people couldn’t miss.
The kind that made Daniel nudge Carlos and whisper, “There it is. That’s the look.”

Nico didn’t need to be next to him every second. He didn’t hover.

But Max always knew where he was.

In the garage, in the media pen, at the hotel lobby with two coffees in hand. Nico learned when Max needed silence and when he needed to be pulled back to earth with one simple touch.

They weren’t perfect. Some days were hard.

Max could still shut down when frustrated. Nico could still overthink when things got quiet. But they talked. They learned. They showed up.

Every. Time.

And then came the third title.
Then the fourth.

And every single time, as the dust settled, the anthem played, and the champagne sprayed, Max’s eyes scanned the crowd, and they always found Nico.

Not because Nico made himself known, but because Max always knew where to look now.

One time, after a particularly brutal rain-soaked win in Spa, Max found him standing at the end of pit lane, soaked, grinning, with a towel in one hand and his heart in the other.

Max walked up and took both.

“You were here,” he whispered.

Nico leaned in. “I’ll always be.”

And Max believed him.

Because this was love, not the kind that needed proving, but the kind that had already survived misunderstanding, time, and distance.

And Max?

Max wouldn’t let him go.
Not now.
Not ever.

If Nico ever tried to walk away again, Max would follow.
If Nico ever felt unsure again, Max would remind him: We’re not starting over. We’re just continuing.
Because this wasn’t about winning anymore.

It was about them.

And they were winning, together.

Always together. From now on.

 

A quiet night in Switzerland.

It wasn’t a grand villa or a penthouse suite.
Just a cabin tucked deep into the hills, the kind Nico had retreated to years ago when he tried to forget. Back then, it was too quiet. Too full of thoughts he didn’t want to face.

Now?

It was peaceful.

Max sat curled into the corner of the couch, legs folded, arms loosely draped across a pillow. He looked comfortable in a way he never had back in the earlier years. Not restless. Not hard-edged. Just calm. Settled.

Nico was next to him, their knees touching. One of Max’s hands rested on top of his thigh, fingers tracing slow, aimless circles.

The fireplace cracked. The night hummed with the wind outside. And between them, there was no rush. No pressure to fill the space with words.

But Max, quietly, broke the silence.

“Do you remember... when you used to leave without saying goodbye?”

Nico looked over. His smile was small. A little sad. “Yeah.”

Max didn’t sound accusing. He just nodded, gaze flickering to the flames. “Back then, I didn’t understand why it bothered me. I just told myself you needed space.”

“I did,” Nico said softly. “But it wasn’t just space from racing. It was space from you.”

Max looked at him now.

“I loved you,” Nico said. “And I hated myself for it.”

The words didn’t sting. Not anymore. They weren’t meant to.

Nico reached over and gently slid his fingers between Max’s. “You were too young. You were wild and reckless and... I was scared of what it said about me. That I couldn’t stop caring.”

Max squeezed his hand. “I wish you hadn’t left.”

“I know,” Nico said. “But I don’t think I could’ve stayed, not like that. I was breaking every time you looked at me like I was just someone to joke with. Like I didn’t mean more.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” Nico said again. He looked away for a moment, voice a little unsteady. “You didn’t know how to love yet. And I didn’t know how to wait without losing parts of myself.”

Max leaned in, his voice quieter now. “And now?”

Nico smiled, brushing his thumb along the back of Max’s hand. “Now you love me better than I ever thought anyone could.”

Max’s eyes shone, and he blinked hard. “I used to think love was just... comfort. Familiarity. Like what you grow into with time. But with you-” he stopped, took a breath. “With you, it was terrifying. It was like feeling too much all at once. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Nico tilted his head gently. “So you didn’t do anything.”

Max laughed softly, but it cracked halfway through. “I missed you. Every season. Every win. Even when I smiled, I’d look around and think, ‘He’s not here.’”

Nico leaned forward and kissed the back of his hand. “I was always there. Just... quietly. Watching. Hurting.”

“I know,” Max whispered.

They sat there in stillness for a moment. Not needing to speak. Just letting the weight of years settle between them.

Then Max turned his whole body toward Nico, shifting close enough that their knees pressed together fully.

“Do you regret it?” Max asked.

Nico blinked. “What?”

“All the time apart. The silence. The years we didn’t say anything. Do you ever think we wasted it?”

Nico looked at him for a long second. And then shook his head.

“I think we needed it. To grow. To learn. To become... this,” he said, motioning gently between them. “I don’t regret the years. But I would’ve regretted forever if I’d never let myself have this with you.”

Max’s eyes welled again. He didn’t hide it this time.

“I’m scared of losing it,” he admitted. “You. This.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” Nico said firmly. “Not this time. No more hiding. No more pretending we’re anything less than exactly what we are.”

Max smiled. A tear rolled down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it.

They kissed, slow and deep, not desperate, just real. The kind of kiss people wait years for. The kind that doesn’t need fireworks because it’s already everything.

When they pulled away, Max rested his forehead against Nico’s. “You showed me what love is. You taught me.”

Nico ran a hand through Max’s hair, brushing it back. “And you made me brave enough to live it.”

They stayed like that for a long time, just two people who had walked through distance, misunderstanding, and time, only to come out on the other side with hands held, hearts open, and nothing left to hide.

Eventually, Nico leaned back, still holding Max close. “We should sleep.”

“In a minute,” Max said, softly. “Just... one more second.”

Nico smiled, leaned in, and pressed another kiss to his temple.

“Take all the time you need,” he whispered.

Because this time, they had it.
All of it.
Together. All over.

 

 

Some years later.

Love is not always loud.

Sometimes it’s quiet.
A cup of coffee left by the bedside.
A coat pulled over someone’s shoulders before they’ve even asked.
A hand reached out in a crowd.
A voice saying, “I’m here,” before it’s even needed.

That’s what it became for Max and Nico.

Not just racing hearts, not just missed years and reunion kisses. But this, the life they made in the spaces between the races. The life they’d never dared to dream of when everything was still uncertain.

It’s 2030 now.

And the world has changed.
F1 still roars. Max still drives. But not every weekend. Nico still works around the sport, but never too far from home.

Because home, now, is everything.

It’s nestled just outside Monaco, close enough to feel the breeze off the harbor, far enough that the noise never reaches their garden. It’s a place full of sun-dappled floors, finger paintings taped to the fridge, and matchbox cars forgotten under the couch cushions.

A place where tiny shoes are scattered by the door.
Where little voices ask for one more story, one more hug, one more daddy before bed.

Their daughter, Lily, is five. Sharp and wild, like Max. She runs through the yard with untied shoes and curls bouncing, asking why the sky is blue and why her brother eats glue.

Their son, Erik, is three. Quieter, softer. Like Nico. Always trailing behind his sister, always clinging to a stuffed rabbit that’s more patch than fabric now.

And Max?

Max is... complete.

He still wakes early, but now it’s not for engines or strategy briefings. It’s for sleepy eyes blinking up at him and tiny arms wrapped around his neck. It’s for Nico leaning over the kitchen counter in an old hoodie, sipping coffee with one hand and holding Erik with the other.

They’re happy.

Not just content. Not just okay.

Happy.

The kind of happiness that doesn’t need permission. The kind that comes after storms, after waiting, after finally saying yes.

One evening, after the kids are asleep, they sit on the porch, just the two of them.

Max is barefoot, a blanket thrown across both their laps. Nico leans into him, wine glass forgotten beside them.

The stars are out. There’s a breeze. And for a while, they don’t say anything.

Then Max speaks.

“Do you ever think about... back then? When we were still figuring it out?”

Nico smiles against his shoulder. “All the time.”

“Think we’d believe this was real if someone told us?”

Nico chuckles. “I think we’d laugh in their face.”

Max looks out at the yard where toy cars are still scattered on the lawn, where a swing set creaks gently in the wind. He sees it all and still sometimes can’t believe it.

“But we made it,” he murmurs.

Nico turns to him, brushing his fingers along Max’s jaw. “No. We chose it. Every day. Even when it was hard.”

Max leans in, presses a kiss to his temple. “I’ll keep choosing you. Over and over.”

“You always have,” Nico says. “Even before you knew what it meant.”

They sit there a little longer. A shooting star blinks across the sky. Somewhere inside, Erik mumbles in his sleep.

Max squeezes Nico’s hand. “Let’s go in. Before Lily sneaks out to look for monsters again.”

Nico laughs, soft and full. “You mean her father’s daughter?”

“Obviously,” Max grins.

They rise together, slow and certain, walking back into the warm light of the home they built.

Behind them, the stars keep burning.

Ahead of them, life stretches wide and welcoming.

And between them, always, be love.

 

Notes:

This ship is somewhat random, but somehow I kinda feel attached to it. So here it is.

Chapter 17: MV1 & CL16 & CS55 | No One Else but Us

Summary:

A three people relationship.

Notes:

I don't know what this is.... just gotten in my head...

Charles sat at his desk, the dim glow of his laptop screen casting shadows across a stack of unfinished letters. The room was quiet except for the scratch of pen on paper and the occasional sigh.

Max, he wrote carefully, I told myself it was just a small crush. A fleeting thought that would fade like the evening light over Monaco. But it never did. It only grew.

He paused, staring at the words, wondering if Max would understand. Would he see the weight behind every letter, every carefully chosen sentence? Charles closed his eyes and thought back to the first time he noticed Max, the intensity in his eyes, the reckless confidence, the way he made the world feel dangerously alive.

Then there was Carlos. Different. Warm. Steady. The teammate who was always there, a quiet strength in the chaos of race weekends. Charles' feelings for Carlos were no less real, no less tangled.

He flipped the page and started again:

Carlos, sometimes I wonder how you make everything feel so steady when everything else is spinning out of control. You're my calm in the storm, even when I don't deserve it.

Writing these letters was Charles' secret, his way to untangle the mess of emotions he wasn't ready to face out loud. Letters never meant to be sent, never meant to be read by the ones they named.

Until, somehow, they were.

 

Long before the roar of Formula 1 engines and the flash of cameras on race weekends, Charles Leclerc was just a kid racing go-karts in the sun-soaked tracks of Monaco. It was there, amid the smell of fuel and the cheers of family and friends, that he first noticed Max Verstappen.

Max was everything Charles admired and envied: fierce, fearless, a storm on wheels. Even at that young age, Max had a presence that filled the track and left Charles both inspired and strangely unsettled. It wasn't just rivalry, there was something else, a flutter in his chest whenever Max smiled or won a race by a fraction.

That tiny crush, unspoken and tucked away, followed Charles as he climbed through the ranks of motorsport. Years later, when the two finally crossed paths again in Formula 1, the feelings hadn't disappeared. If anything, they had only grown more complicated.

But the story didn't end there.

When Charles joined Ferrari, he found himself sharing the garage with Carlos Sainz, a teammate whose quiet confidence and easy laughter slowly chipped away at Charles' carefully guarded heart. Carlos was different from Max. Calmer, grounded, and unexpectedly warm. The kind of person who made chaos feel manageable, who made Charles want to open up even when it scared him.

Before long, Charles realized that the small crush on Max was no longer the only one occupying his thoughts. Carlos had claimed a place there too, quietly and completely.

What began as two separate sparks grew into a complicated fire. One that Charles kept secret, even from himself.

Charles wasn't one to open up easily. But with Pierre, it was different. Maybe it was the years they had spent racing side by side, the quiet moments between press conferences and track sessions, or just the way Pierre listened without judgment.

One evening, after a long day at the track, Charles found himself pacing in the hotel room, restless and tangled in his thoughts.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, voice low. "It's Max. And Carlos. I can't stop thinking about either of them."

Pierre raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for Charles to continue.

"It's like... I have these feelings, but there's no way to say them. Not without everything falling apart." He laughed bitterly. "I'm a mess."

Pierre shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Sounds like love."

Charles groaned. "More like emotional chaos."

Over the next few weeks, Charles found a new outlet, writing. Letters he never meant to send. To Max, to Carlos. Pouring his heart onto paper, sorting through the confusion one word at a time.

Max, I told myself it was just a small crush...
Carlos, sometimes you make everything feel steady when the world spins...

The letters became his secret, a way to hold his feelings without risking the fragile balance of their friendships and careers.

What Charles didn't know was that fate had other plans and that those letters would find their way into the hands of the two people they named.

 

The Letter to Max.

Dear, Max.

I told myself it was just a small crush, nothing more than a fleeting feeling. I tried to convince myself that it would pass like a summer breeze. But it never did. It never fades. Every time I see you push yourself on the track, every time you smile that confident grin, it pulls me in deeper.

You are reckless and fierce, and that's what makes you so alive. You don't just race; you dominate. I've admired that since the karting days, when we were just kids chasing speed and dreams. I thought distance and time would cool this feeling, but it hasn't. It's only grown stronger.

I don't know if you feel the same, or if you even notice me beyond the track. But this is the truth I've kept hidden. You are the spark I never wanted to admit I had.

Charles

 

The Letter to Carlos

Dear, Carlos.

Sometimes I wonder how you make everything seem so steady when everything else around me is spinning out of control. You're calm in a way that I need, even when I don't deserve it.

You're always there, steady, kind, quietly strong. You don't push or rush; you just are. And somehow, that's enough to make me want to open up, to be better.

I don't think you know how much you mean to me. How the way you laugh, how you look at me, it makes my heart both lighter and heavier at the same time.

I'm afraid to say these things aloud, so I write them here instead. Because even if these words never reach you, they are true.

Charles

 

It started with a simple mistake.

Pierre had only meant to help. Charles had asked him to read through something, make sure it didn't sound ridiculous, he never said what it was exactly, just that it was "nothing important." Pierre found the documents in the folder Charles had left open. They were just labeled Notes. He opened them. Read them. Froze.

And instead of closing them quietly, he panicked. Clicked too fast. One forwarded to Max. The other to Carlos. Sent from Charles' own account before Pierre even realized what he'd done.

"Shit."

He stared at the screen, paralyzed. He couldn't undo it. Couldn't delete them. And worst of all,  couldn't bring himself to tell Charles.

 

Carlos saw the email come in right before dinner. From Charles. That alone made his heart stutter, they'd been texting casually just hours ago.

He opened it on instinct.

As he read, the air in his apartment seemed to thin. His fingers went still against the fork in his hand. His chest tightened.

Charles... loved him? Or something like it? Had felt something deep and real and hadn't said a word?

He re-read the letter, slower this time. Every word cut a little deeper, not because they hurt, but because they felt true. So painfully honest. So unmistakably Charles.

 

Max didn't usually check his emails. But something told him to open it. Charles' name on the screen made his stomach flip.

The letter hit him like a brick.

He sat there for a long time afterward, phone forgotten in his hand, his heart echoing in his ribs.

This wasn't a joke. Charles had written this. He meant it.

Max didn't cry, he didn't know how to anymore, but his throat tightened, his eyes stung. All those moments he'd ignored, the glances, the way Charles smiled at him like he carried some secret. Max thought he had misread everything.

 

The paddock was loud, but not enough to cover the way Charles' heart stuttered when Carlos passed him without a glance.

They always said something to each other before first practice. A nod. A small joke. Even just a shared look. Today, there was nothing.

And something in Charles' stomach twisted.

He didn't do anything, not yet. Just waited. Hoped it was stress. The car. The weather. Anything but what his gut whispered it was.

It wasn't until Saturday night that Carlos found him.

The garage was emptying out. Most of the team had gone. Charles was still standing next to the car when Carlos stepped in, silent like a shadow.

Charles turned. "Hey," he said, cautiously. "You okay?"

Carlos' face was unreadable, but his voice wasn't. It came out flat. Cold. "You really thought that was okay?"

Charles blinked. "What?"

"The letters." Carlos stared at him, eyes dark. "You really thought it was okay to play with people like that?"

"I... Carlos, no. That's not-"

"You told me you loved me," Carlos cut in. "Me. Not like that. Not at the same time you wrote Max the exact same thing. Was it supposed to be a joke? A test?"

"No," Charles said, quickly, breath shaking. "No, it wasn't like that. I didn't mean for you to see it. I didn't even send-"

"But you wrote it." Carlos' jaw tensed. "You meant it enough to write it down. You made me believe I was something real to you. But you were looking at him the whole time."

"I wasn't-" Charles swallowed. "I love you, Carlos. I really do."

"You don't get to say that," Carlos said, stepping back. "You don't get to say that when you gave the same thing to someone else."

Charles reached for him without thinking. "Please, let me explain."

Carlos moved out of reach. "Don't," he said. And then he left, just like that, with a silence that hurt more than shouting ever could.

Charles didn't move for a long time. His chest ached like someone had reached in and cracked it open. And even though the room was cold, he felt heat sting behind his eyes.

His heart had broken once.

And then came Max.

The morning of the race, everything felt wrong.

The paddock buzzed with the usual race day hum, but Charles couldn't hear any of it. Not over the weight in his chest. Not over the silence Carlos left behind last night, heavy and suffocating.

He was sitting alone by the edge of the Ferrari hospitality area, half-zoned out, when Max walked up.

No warning. No footsteps. Just Max.

Max never really had to announce himself. His presence filled any room he entered.

Charles looked up, startled, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Max's expression gave nothing away. Not anger. Not sadness. Not anything.

Just cold.

"Why'd you do that?" Max asked quietly, voice low but sharp.

Charles opened his mouth but had no answer.

"Why did it have to be Carlos too?"

It was the way he said Carlos. Like it was a name that didn't belong in his mouth. Like it tasted bitter.

Charles stood up slowly, heart in his throat. "Max-"

"I read your letter ten times," Max went on, still calm. Still cruel in how calm he could be. "I thought it was everything. Then I found out it wasn't just mine."

"I didn't mean-" Charles took a breath. "I didn't mean for you to see it. I didn't mean for anyone to... Pierre sent them, I swear. I was just-"

"Trying to cope?" Max's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something else. "By writing the same thing to both of us?"

"It wasn't the same," Charles said quickly. "They weren't the same. I love you both, but not in the same way, and-"

"But you love him, too."

Charles hesitated. "Yes."

That broke something in Max.

Not visibly. He didn't flinch. Didn't yell. Didn't shake.

But his jaw tensed just enough. And his eyes dimmed, like something had shut off behind them.

"I wanted you," Max said, quiet again, almost like he was talking to himself. "Just you. And I thought-" He stopped. Bit it back. "Forget it."

"Max, please-"

"You should've picked," he said. "You should've let one of us go."

And then, just like Carlos, he turned and walked away.

Charles didn't move. Not even when the chaos of the race day began to rise around him. Not even when the team called his name once. Twice.

He went to his driver's room without a word.

And then, he broke.

Silently. Behind closed doors. No sound. No tears that anyone would see. Just a slow, aching collapse against the wall, hand trembling as it covered his face.

No one noticed.

By the time he emerged, the grid was waiting.

But the three of them?

They were never the same.

Carlos never looked at Max again. Not even in meetings. Not even on the podium. Not even a handshake.

Max didn't look either. Not to avoid, just because he didn't care to. Or pretended not to.

He joked about it once. About love letters and confused little boys who can't choose. 

Charles heard about it later. Said nothing. Didn't react. Just nodded.

And the season spiraled.

Three hearts, out of sync.

Each of them bleeding in silence.

 

Charles wasn't sure which was worse.

Carlos' silence or Max's words.

The first week after the letters exploded everything, Carlos pulled back like Charles carried fire in his skin.

He stopped doing Ferrari media challenges with him. Stopped waiting for him in the hospitality. Didn't even text.

Not even a thumbs-up emoji after practice. Not a smile. Not a glance.

And it wasn't angry. That was the worst part.

It was cold. Professional. Polite only when the cameras were on.

Fake.

Charles caught him joking with Lando once, same easy smile, same playful shoulder bump, and something inside him cracked.

Carlos could still smile. Just not with him.

He tried once, quietly approached after a briefing, voice tentative.

"Carlos, can we-?"

"Not now."

That was all.

No eye contact. No warmth.

Just the sentence. Firm. Final.

Charles watched him walk away again, shoulders stiff under the red of the team he once made feel like home.

He didn't try again.

Carlos was gone.

And then there was Max.

Max didn't leave quietly.

He left sharp edges in his wake.

The paddock was his stage now, and Charles was the punchline of every off-hand comment.

Someone asked Max if he was feeling focused this weekend.

He said, "Well, at least I'm not writing love poems to two people at once."

Laughter.

Even Charles' own press officer chuckled before realizing.

Charles pretended not to hear. Pretended it didn't sting.

Pretended that Max's words didn't slice deep under the skin Carlos already left exposed.

But it kept happening.

Max was everywhere, quick glances across the motorhome, snide smirks during press conferences, "accidental" shoulder brushes in the hallway.

It was war. Casual, cruel war.

And Charles was losing.

Because it wasn't just one heartbreak. It was two. Two people he loved. Two blades buried deep.

And the worst part?

He still loved them.

Even when Carlos wouldn't look at him.

Even when Max laughed at his pain.

He still looked for them in every room. Still wanted to say sorry, wanted to explain, even when he knew neither would listen.

Charles sat alone in his hotel room that night, hand trembling over his phone. Pierre's name hovered on screen.

But he didn't call.

Didn't want to cry again. Didn't want to talk. Didn't want to feel anymore.

He just laid down. Faced the wall. And stared into the dark.

Because the hardest part about falling in love with two people...

...is losing both.

By the time they reached Monaco, Charles had forgotten how to smile.

Not pretend, that he could still do. For the press, for the fans, for the flashes of cameras that wouldn't stop even when he silently begged them to. But the real one, the kind that started in the heart and reached the eyes, that one had disappeared.

Gone.

No one dared say it, but everyone noticed.

Especially Pierre.

Charles had always been the one with the stubborn kind of light, the one who could carry pressure like it was weightless, make Monaco feel like home no matter the result. But now? Now he walked like a ghost in his own city. Shoulders tight, jaw locked, eyes cast down like he was afraid they might betray him.

And maybe he was.

Because to meet their eyes. Max's, Carlos' , would be to shatter.

So he didn't.

Not when they were sitting on either side of him during the press conference, the room too cold despite the sun blazing outside.

Not when a reporter asked if he was feeling the pressure of another home race.

He smiled, that dull, practised twitch of lips that never touched his eyes and said, "Just stress, you know. It's Monaco."

Lie. Everyone knew it.

Max glanced sideways at him once. Carlos didn't look at all. And Charles? Charles stared at the table like it held the answer to a question he never asked out loud.

Pierre sat in the back. Watching. Feeling something sour crawl up his throat.

This was his fault.

He had told himself it was innocent. That Charles never explicitly said "don't send it," that maybe, deep down, his best friend wanted them to know. He thought, hoped, maybe the letters would push the truth into light.

But this?

This wasn't light.

This was watching the sun go out in Charles' eyes.

The same Charles who used to laugh so easily at stupid jokes. Who used to tease Pierre for crying during emotional podiums. Who used to get this boyish glow when he talked about racing here, in these streets, like it was still sacred.

That Charles was gone.

Now he just floated through the paddock like he was counting steps. Like he was trying to survive until the next practice, the next race, the next silence.

Carlos had noticed too. So had Max.

They'd seen the difference in the way Charles barely lifted his eyes from the asphalt, how he answered questions with clipped words and forced grace, how he sat through team meetings like someone who had nothing left to offer.

Neither of them said a word.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe shame. Maybe because if they said something, they'd have to admit they were the ones who took his smile away in the first place.

They watched the same way Pierre did.

Watched as Charles went from fire to ash in real time.

And Charles? He didn't fight it.

Because somewhere deep down, he believed he deserved this.

He shouldn't have written the letters. Shouldn't have felt the things he felt. Shouldn't have hoped for something beautiful to come from something so complicated.

He loved them. Both of them. So deeply it scared him. But love was never supposed to hurt like this. Love wasn't supposed to turn into silence and sarcastic jabs and cold shoulders in the hallway.

So he let it happen.

He let the light die out.

And when he stood on the balcony that night, watching Monaco glitter below him, it all felt so far away.

So loud. So full of life.

Everything he wasn't.

 

Pierre had reached his limit.

He tried to keep out of it, told himself that it wasn't his place, that maybe Charles would figure it out with them eventually. That maybe Carlos and Max weren't as heartless as they seemed. But every time he saw Charles walk through the paddock with that hollow, careful look in his eyes as if feeling anything might break him open. Pierre wanted to scream.

So he stopped waiting.

He found Max and Carlos. Separately. Dragged them to a quiet room tucked behind hospitality,  one where no cameras followed and no PR handlers hovered. And he didn't ask them to sit. He told them.

Carlos leaned back in his chair, arms folded tight, brows furrowed like he was preparing to argue. Max didn't sit at all. He stood by the wall, jaw set like stone, like someone expecting a fight.

Pierre didn't care.

He closed the door.

And then he started.

"You two really don't get it, do you?"

Carlos gave him a sharp look. "If this is about Charles-"

"It is about Charles," Pierre snapped, cutting across him. "It's only about Charles. The Charles who hasn't smiled in weeks. The Charles who still shows up, answers every stupid press question, signs every autograph like nothing's wrong while you two act like he spat in your face."

Max's eyes flicked away.

Carlos tried, "He shouldn't have sent those letters-"

"He didn't," Pierre said, voice low but sharp. "I did."

That made them both freeze.

Pierre looked between them, no longer angry, just tired. Heart-worn. Honest.

"He wrote them to cope. Because he couldn't tell either of you how he felt without ruining something. So he wrote. And I... I thought maybe it would help if you knew. I was wrong."

Carlos's shoulders dropped slightly. Max was still unreadable, but he wasn't looking at the door anymore.

Pierre stepped closer, hands loosely clenched at his sides. "You think you were hurt? Fine. But he's been hurting long before that. And he didn't lash out. He didn't shout. He didn't push you away. He loved you. Both of you. He still does."

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

Max broke it first, barely above a whisper. "We didn't mean to hurt him."

Pierre looked at him. Then at Carlos.

"No, but you did."

They didn't argue. Not this time.

Pierre breathed out, softer now. "He never meant for you to know. He would've taken that love to the grave if it meant you two stayed happy. He would've protected your hearts, even if it broke his."

Carlos looked down, fingers pressed to his lips.

Max closed his eyes, like something was finally sinking in.

"You think he played with your feelings?" Pierre said, quieter. "He was terrified of them. Of loving two people who could break him with a word. And now he's living that fear."

Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.

So Pierre walked out, leaving the door open behind him.

Carlos and Max stayed there for a while. Silent. Still. Just two men sitting in the wreckage of something they didn't even realize they'd destroyed, not fully. Until now.

They didn't speak. Not even to each other.

But something had shifted. Not with loud apologies or sudden regret. Just the kind of stillness that comes when anger finally burns out, and all that's left is truth.

They loved him.

They always had.

And now they had to live with the fact that they hadn't protected him, not from the world, not from each other, not even from themselves.

Carlos hadn't meant to stay behind after the meeting, but he found himself sitting there still, fingers rubbing slow circles into the side of his temple like he could think the guilt away.

Max hadn't left either.

Neither of them spoke. Not yet.

The room felt too full and too quiet at the same time, like the ghosts of everything unsaid were pressing into the walls, waiting for one of them to shatter.

Finally, Carlos shifted in his seat, glancing up. "You still here?"

Max didn't look at him. "Could say the same to you."

The silence fell again. Stubborn. Stiff.

Then Carlos sighed. A long, tired exhale. "Pierre's right."

Max gave a soft snort. "He usually is. Annoyingly."

"He loved us." Carlos's voice was steadier now. Not angry, not accusing just weighted with something real. "And we punished him for it."

Max finally turned his head. His expression was unreadable, but the way his jaw flexed said more than he ever let himself speak. "I thought I was angry because he didn't choose."

Carlos tilted his head. "And now?"

Max stared ahead. "Now I think... I was just scared. That he might choose you. Or that I never even had a chance."

Carlos let that sit between them. Not bitterly. Just openly.

"I thought he only looked at you like that," Max added, quieter this time. "Turns out he looked at both of us that way."

Carlos leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "You know, I always thought if I had feelings for someone... I could deal with anything. Except sharing."

Max let out a dry breath of agreement. "Same."

They looked at each other then. For real. Tired, bruised by their own faults, but finally... finally honest.

"I hated it," Max admitted. "Still kind of do."

Carlos nodded. "But I hate watching him like this even more."

Max didn't speak right away. Then: "He doesn't smile anymore."

"No," Carlos said softly. "He doesn't."

Max looked down, hands clenched tight in his lap. "I think I'd rather share him... than lose him entirely."

Carlos was quiet for a long beat. Then, quietly but firmly, "So would I."

They didn't shake hands. They didn't hug. That wasn't who they were.

But something passed between them in that moment, like a silent truce built out of shared love and guilt and a mutual ache to make things right. They were still stubborn, still themselves. But for Charles, they could bend.

"If we do this," Carlos said, steady and clear, "we do it for him. Not for us."

Max nodded once. "Agreed."

Carlos looked over again. "And we do it together. No competing, no jealousy. We fix what we broke."

Max didn't hesitate. "Yeah. Together."

It was strange, that word, together. Something that once would've felt like a threat to both of them now tasted like a promise. A path forward.

Because they both loved him.

And if one could love Charles, then maybe two could too.

Not to take from him.

But to give him everything.

 

The paddock was buzzing like it always was on race weekends, the cameras, the fans, the orchestrated chaos of team radios and last-minute checks. But Charles felt it all from a distance, like he'd been living in a fog he couldn't shake. The smiles were still half-formed, the greetings automatic.

Until he saw Carlos waiting near his car.

No cameras, no media, no staged moment. Just Carlos, standing there like he belonged, like he wanted to be there.

Charles slowed as he approached. His brows knit slightly, confused. "Hey."

Carlos turned, easy, relaxed. "Hey."

That was it. No apology. No heavy conversation. Just... hey.

And somehow, that was enough.

They walked together toward the garage. Carlos didn't talk about the race. He asked about Charles' dinner last night. If his cat was still refusing to eat the expensive food Charles always swore was "the only brand he likes." He asked if the mechanic who always wore those ridiculous red sunglasses was still trying to impress the PR intern.

And Charles, he answered. Slowly at first, then more naturally, falling into rhythm like he hadn't been bleeding for weeks.

The weight started to shift.

Carlos stayed near during practice. They weren't glued together like before, but he was there a small presence, a reassuring one. When Charles muttered something under his breath about his setup, Carlos was the one who leaned in, smirked, and said, "Told you not to mess with the front wing."

Charles rolled his eyes. "You didn't say anything."

Carlos shrugged. "I thought it loud enough. You should've heard me."

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't everything.

But it was something.

And for the first time in months, Charles smiled.

Not the tight-lipped, polite kind he gave to cameras. Not the brief flicker he gave Pierre to keep him from worrying. No, this one was real. Wide and open and almost shy, like it startled even him how easily it came out.

Carlos saw it. And maybe it was selfish, maybe it was too soon, but the sight of it settled something in his chest that had been twisted up far too long.

They didn't talk about that. Not yet.

They didn't bring up the letters, or the silence, or the hurt.

But they talked. They laughed. They sat side by side during the post-session debrief like they used to, elbows brushing, voices overlapping, easy and light.

And when they split off at the end of the day, Charles turned to Carlos with a quiet look.

"You stayed," he said.

Carlos nodded, eyes softer than they'd been in weeks. "Yeah. I did."

Charles looked away, his smile lingering. "Thanks."

He didn't know what it meant yet. If it was forgiveness. If it was repair. If it was even real.

But it felt like breathing again.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the beginning of something better.

 

And to Max?

It started with a question.

The kind the media always threw around on a quiet Thursday before the engines screamed. Simple. Casual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Max, you and Charles have been racing each other since karting. How has that shaped the way you compete now?"

Max's answer should've been as sharp and curt as the rest of his interviews, the kind of efficient, mechanical reply that kept the press at arm's length.

But something was different.

Max leaned forward slightly, arms resting on the table, not defensive, just present.

He nodded once. "We've been fighting on track since we were kids. Always pushing each other, always trying to be faster."

A pause. Not hesitation, just... thought.

"And I think, in a way, we grew up together because of that. Not just as drivers, but as people. He was always there. Charles was-" He glanced toward the floor for a second, then back up. "He was the constant."

The room went still.

The press didn't interrupt, not yet. Maybe they felt it, too. That this wasn't a rehearsed answer. That something honest was bleeding through.

"I used to think it was just rivalry," Max said. "And maybe for a while, it was. But he... he's more than that. He's always been more than that."

A softer breath. Almost a sigh.

"I didn't say that for a long time. Maybe because I didn't want to admit it. Maybe because it's easier not to feel things like that in this sport. But Charles... he made it impossible not to."

Another reporter lifted a hand, cautiously. "Max, people say when you and Charles fight for position, it's not just racing. It's like watching two people dance. How do you feel about that?"

Max didn't scoff. Didn't smirk. He just... smiled.

It was small, but it was real.

"I like it," he said. "It's different with him. It always has been. I don't need to guess what he'll do. And he doesn't need to guess with me. It's like we speak the same language on track."

He shifted a little, voice quieter now, less for the press and more for himself.

"I'm glad it's him. If it has to be anyone, I'm glad it's him."

Charles wasn't there, not physically. He wasn't on the panel, wasn't in the room.

But he heard it. The moment he stepped into the media center hallway, he caught it. The words. The tone. The truth of it.

And then he saw it, on the monitor near the back, live footage still rolling, Max still speaking with that odd softness only Charles had ever really seen.

And for a second, just one quiet, private second, something in Charles cracked open again. Not like before, not like breaking.

This time, it was something else.

Something healing.

He smiled. Slowly, carefully, the kind of smile he hadn't worn in so long, it felt almost unfamiliar. Almost.

But it was real.

Max didn't know Charles had heard. Didn't know that his words had found the one person they were meant for. But somehow, deep down, he must've known.

Because as he stood to leave, Max looked straight at the camera, and just for a moment, his expression softened again. Like he was speaking to someone not in the room, but always close.

And Charles with his hand still resting lightly against the wall, breath caught in his throat — closed his eyes and let the warmth of it settle.

Maybe this wasn't fixed yet.

But something was shifting.

And Charles could feel it.

It was late.

The paddock was quieter than usual, the hum of the garages silenced, the floodlights casting long shadows down empty corridors. Charles sat alone on a low bench outside his driver's room, the collar of his team jacket pulled halfway up his neck. Monaco's breeze wasn't cold, but it was sharp. The kind that reminded you you were alive, even when you felt like a ghost.

He hadn't planned to be out here this long. But he couldn't go back inside. Not yet.

Too much silence in that room. Too many thoughts.

And then came the footsteps.

He didn't look up at first. He didn't have to. He knew those steps. Could tell them apart even in his sleep. One softer but careful, the other more deliberate, always quicker than it needed to be.

Carlos.
Max.

They stood in front of him, not saying a word. Not yet. And when Charles finally did look up, he saw something unexpected:

No anger.

Just two men who looked like they had been trying to put themselves back together, too.

Carlos was the first to speak.

"We... we didn't come to fight," he said, voice rough but steady. "We came to talk. To explain."

Max, beside him, nodded once. "And to say sorry. For everything."

Charles opened his mouth, probably to tell them they didn't have to, but Carlos held up a hand.

"No. Let us say this," he said. "Please."

And so Charles sat. Silent. Listening.

Carlos stepped closer, crouching in front of him so they were eye level.

"I was angry, Charles. Really angry. Because I thought you were playing with me. With us. And that felt like betrayal," he said, his voice shaking. "But it wasn't. I see that now. You weren't playing. You were scared."

Max moved to sit beside Charles on the bench, his shoulder barely brushing against his.

"I get it," Max added. "Hiding it. All of it. Because it's easier to carry the weight yourself than to risk hurting the people you love."

Charles blinked fast. The people you love.

Carlos looked up at him. "We never meant to hurt you. God, we didn't even realize we were the ones who—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "That we were the ones cutting deepest."

Charles looked down at his hands, curled tightly in his lap. "I didn't mean for you to see the letters. I never wanted it to... be like this."

Max was quiet for a long moment before he said, "Do you know how long I've wanted to say something? But I didn't. Because I didn't want to risk losing you. So I kept it to myself. Buried it under rivalry. Under winning. Under everything."

Carlos gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Same here. So many years of keeping it buried. Of thinking it would ruin everything if I let it out."

Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, looking toward the dark horizon.

"We both loved you, Charles. For a long time. Maybe even before we understood what it meant. And when we found out you... you loved us too? We panicked. We let the fear win."

Carlos stood and moved beside him now, taking the spot on Charles' other side. All three of them, close but not touching.

Until Charles broke.

It wasn't dramatic. There were no sobs, no loud cracks of grief. Just a shudder. A single exhale that sounded more like a gasp.

And the tears followed.

Not the kind born from pain alone, but release. The dam finally bursting.

"I thought I ruined it," Charles whispered, voice thin and raw. "I thought I lost you both."

Carlos reached for his hand. Max did too. And for once, neither one pulled away.

"You didn't ruin anything," Carlos said softly, pressing Charles' knuckles to his lips for a second. "We did."

"But we're here," Max added. "Because we want to fix it. If you'll let us."

Charles looked between them. These two idiots. These two impossible, stubborn, maddening men who somehow had found their way back to him. Together.

"You're serious?" he asked, breath catching.

Carlos nodded. "If one of us loves you, the other can too."

"And maybe we hate sharing," Max said, looking at Carlos with a crooked, reluctant smirk, "but we hate losing you more."

Charles laughed then. Through the tears. It wasn't loud, just cracked and broken and beautiful.

He leaned forward, burying his face in both of their shoulders, and they held him. All three of them leaning into the weight they'd carried for too long. Letting it go.

No more hiding.
No more sharp words.
No more silence.

Just love. Complicated. Messy. Real.

And the decision, not to go back to how things were, but to build something new.

Together.

It started quietly. Naturally. Like the tide coming back in after a long, aching low.

Carlos didn't make a grand gesture. He didn't need to. It was in the small things, the way he waited for Charles after meetings, how he stood a little closer in the garage, how he laughed at Charles' jokes the way he used to, not like he was forcing it, but like the sound had been waiting to come out all this time.

And Charles? He responded like someone exhaling after holding his breath for months.

The weight that once sat heavy in his chest began to lift. Slowly. Bit by bit. Because Carlos was beside him again. Not just physically, but with him.

They weren't hiding anymore.

The team noticed it almost immediately.

Shared meals between the two became routine. Sometimes just the two of them, heads ducked low over trays of pasta, talking in a mix of Spanish, French, and laughter. Other times in larger groups, but still somehow orbiting around one another. Always sitting next to each other. Always sharing something, a look, a joke, a nudge beneath the table.

They were working together again, too. Debriefs filled with agreement instead of tension, strategy meetings filled with mutual understanding instead of cold detachment. Even in the garage, the energy was different. Softer. Lighter. Like the air had cleared.

No one asked.
No one intruded.
They didn't have to.

Because everyone saw it. The way Carlos' smile widened just a little more when Charles entered the room. The way Charles relaxed when Carlos was near, the fidgeting in his hands quieted. The glances. The grins. The way their laughter filled the air, real and loud and constant.

Someone joked once, during a late-night team dinner, calling it "the best bromance Ferrari's ever seen."

Charles had nearly choked on his wine. Carlos just smirked and threw an arm around him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn't a secret anymore. Even if they hadn't said anything out loud, their closeness spoke for them. And after the distance that used to hang between them, no one wanted to question it. Because they all remembered the silence. The cold months when neither could look at the other for more than a second. When Charles had walked like a ghost and Carlos looked permanently set in stone.

That time was over now.
Now, they were alive again.

Especially Charles.

His smile had returned not just on the surface, but in his eyes. In the way he walked with purpose again. In how he laughed from his belly, tilting his head back, careless and open. The Charles they loved, their golden boy was shining again.

And Carlos was the spark that lit it all up.

Of course, someone else saw it too.
Someone who couldn't stop watching.

Max Verstappen.

He didn't say much. Not yet. Just kept a careful distance, eyes following Charles and Carlos whenever they passed by. He'd never been good at this part, the waiting, the wondering. Especially when it involved Charles.

Yes, he was a little jealous.
Okay, maybe more than a little.

But he could admit something now that he couldn't before: Charles deserved happiness. Even if it wasn't with him yet. Even if Max had to work for it.

So he waited.
And watched.

And planned to show Charles that he could laugh too. That he wanted to make him laugh again.

But that moment wasn't now.
For now, this was Carlos and Charles' time.

And damn, if they didn't look like they'd found their rhythm again, like music only they could hear.

It became a thing.
Every race weekend.
Every driver's parade.

Max Verstappen would quietly, deliberately, make sure Charles Leclerc was never alone.

At first, it was subtle, a casual lean against the railing beside him, a small nudge with his shoulder, a low-voiced comment that made Charles snort mid-wave at the crowd. But as the weeks passed, it became clearer: Max was on a mission. Whether the route circled a beachside circuit or wound through a packed city center, Max found Charles. And stayed there.

Carlos sometimes joined them, and those were the most dangerous parades of all, because the three of them together? It was chaos in the best way. Jokes bounced between them like a ball, laughter spilling out freely, and more than once the driver in front turned around to shush them, only to grin when he saw the culprits.

It was easy. It was fun.
It was theirs.

But Max wanted more.

So he asked Charles, after a quiet dinner, if he was free next Friday. Just the two of them.

"No cameras," Max had said. "Just me. You. Some food. Maybe the sky if we're lucky."

Charles blinked at him, surprised at how soft Max's voice had turned. Then he smiled. A quiet, blooming smile that lit Max's chest on fire.

Carlos knew. Of course he did. He hadn't asked for details, but he had seen the look Max wore when he looked at Charles, the one Carlos had once thought was his alone. And while it twisted something inside him, he also knew: this was the deal they made. This was love. And if Max was going to show it, Carlos would let him have that moment. Even if it meant swallowing his own envy.

He just hoped Charles would come back smiling.

The place Max had picked was... perfect.

It was a field, far from the cities, where the stars stretched endlessly above them and the only sound was the gentle whisper of wind through tall grass. There was no track, no roaring fans, no PR pressure. Just stillness, and them.

Max had laid out a blanket, one he awkwardly admitted was borrowed from his mum and unpacked the simplest dinner: sandwiches, fruit, and wine. "I don't know how to do romantic," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

But Charles? Charles looked at him like he hung the moon.

"This is romantic," he whispered, eyes soft. "Because it's you."

They talked. For hours. About racing, childhood, the dumb things they did when they were kids. Max even admitted how, for the longest time, he didn't know how to say what Charles meant to him. How all he could do was act out, rough teasing, petty jabs, because it was easier than saying, "You make everything make sense."

Charles listened. Then held his hand.

And Max? He didn't pull away.

They laid back in the grass, watching stars blink into life above them. The city was a faint glow on the horizon, distant and irrelevant.

"I love you," Max said suddenly. Like it had been burning on his tongue for too long.

Charles turned, startled, but only for a second.
Then he smiled, eyes glossy, and said, "I know. I love you too."

It didn't feel like a finish line.
It felt like a beginning.

Charles went to bed that night with the wind still in his hair and Max's warmth still in his chest.

And somewhere, not far away, Carlos lay in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the empty space beside him.

He didn't regret stepping back.
But that didn't mean it didn't ache.

Still, when Charles saw Carlos the next morning and smiled, really smiled, and touched his hand like he always had, Carlos knew he hadn't lost him. Not really.

Because Charles loved them both.
And Charles had promised to himself and to them, that he would love them equally, gently, fully.

No matter what.

And now?
Now it was their turn to give it back.

 

Carlos always planned with intention.

So when he told Charles to be ready at 6:30, no press, no helmet, just trust me, Charles knew something was up. He dressed simply, didn't ask questions, and let Carlos take the wheel. Literally and otherwise.

The drive was short. Quiet. The sun had already started to set, painting the horizon with oranges and purples as Carlos parked outside a tucked-away restaurant at the edge of the water. There were no customers. No staff visible. Just a soft golden glow from inside, and a single waiter waiting at the door.

Charles blinked. "Did you...?"

Carlos nodded once, shy but smug. "Rented the place."

"You rented an entire restaurant?"

Carlos smirked, nudging him gently with his shoulder. "I didn't want to share you. Not tonight."

It made Charles' heart stutter, because there was something in the way Carlos said it. A quiet ache, threaded with honesty. He didn't joke. He didn't laugh.

He meant it.

Dinner was soft and slow. Dishes came and went, but Charles barely remembered the food, only the warmth of Carlos' laughter across from him, the glint in his eyes when he teased him, the quiet touches, like fingers brushing over his wrist or resting lightly at his knee under the table.

It was easy. But more than that, it felt real.

And then after dessert, after the wine, after a silence settled between them like a shared secret, Carlos spoke again.

"I want to be honest," he said, voice low.

Charles looked up, heart ticking faster.

"I hate sharing," Carlos admitted. "I always have. It messes with me. Makes me feel like I'm... not enough. Like I'll be replaced."

Charles sat perfectly still.

"But with you," Carlos continued, "it's different. With you and Max, I feel like... maybe this isn't about losing. Maybe it's about keeping. About choosing each other, even when it's messy. Even when we don't fit into boxes."

Charles reached across the table, took his hand. "Carlos..."

"I love you," Carlos said, quiet but firm. "God, I love you."

Charles laughed through a sudden wave of tears. "I love you too."

And just like that, another piece fell into place.

Later, back at their shared apartment, Charles laid across Carlos' lap on the sofa, fingers tracing lazy shapes over his arm. The lights were low. Music buzzed faintly in the background. The rest of the world didn't matter.

Carlos looked down at him, brushing hair back from his forehead. "This should be complete," he murmured. "It's perfect, but it's missing someone."

Charles looked up, soft and knowing. "Text him."

So Carlos did. Just a simple message:
"Come over. No questions. You belong here too."

Max arrived not long after, still in his hoodie and jeans, eyes guarded but hopeful. He stepped inside, saw Charles curled into Carlos' side and stopped.

Carlos didn't hesitate. He reached out.
"Come here."

Max joined them on the couch. Charles shifted, curling into his chest, while Carlos wrapped his arms around them both.

"I love you," Max whispered, to no one and both of them.

Carlos pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. "I love you."

And Charles, stuck in the middle of these two hearts that once nearly tore him apart, just held on tighter.

"I love you. Both of you." he said, voice cracking but sure.

They sat like that for a long time, tangled limbs, heads resting on shoulders, soft sighs and steady breathing, until sleep pulled them under.

Carlos held them both through the night. One arm around Charles' waist. One hand over Max's shoulder. Possessive, protective.

Because they were his.

And they?
They were home.

And when the morning light slipped through the curtains, it caught three soft smiles, and the quiet glow of something brand new:

Peace.

 

It was too early for either of them, but the sun had barely cracked the horizon when Max and Carlos found themselves in the kitchen.

They moved quietly at first, Carlos rubbing sleep from his eyes, Max yawning like a lion, careful not to wake Charles, who was still curled up in the blanket pile on the couch.

Neither of them said it, but it was obvious:
This was for him.

A shared mission. Not competition. Just care.

"So," Carlos said, opening the fridge. "French toast? Or eggs?"

"Both," Max replied, grabbing a pan like he owned the kitchen. "We're feeding the man we both love, no way we're skimping."

Carlos raised an eyebrow. "You sound confident for someone who burnt toast last time."

Max scoffed. "That was one time. Besides, I'm good at eggs."

"You're good at throwing eggs."

"That's a skill."

Carlos rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

They worked in easy silence for a while Max cracking eggs (correctly, this time), Carlos cutting strawberries with the focus of a Michelin chef. They bumped into each other more than once, but neither complained. It was clumsy, a little loud, but it was theirs.

And then Max, like always, just said it. Words dumped out like he'd been holding them in too long and couldn't be bothered to filter.

"I really love this," he said suddenly, not looking up from the pan.

Carlos blinked. "Burnt toast?"

"No," Max laughed, soft and sincere. "This. Us. You. Him. What we have now. I love it."

Carlos didn't say anything. Just paused, watching Max. Really watching him as if only now realizing how raw and honest the man could be when he let his guard down.

"I wouldn't do this with anyone else," Max added, tone quieter. "I hate sharing. You know that. But... if I had to... if I wanted to... it'd be only you."

Carlos turned the stove off. Stepped forward.

There was no lead-in. No hesitation.

He wrapped one arm around Max's waist, the other gently at the back of his head. Max didn't flinch. Didn't tease. Just melted into it, arms hooking around Carlos' neck, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

They didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

It was a hug, but not just that. It was a quiet promise that Charles wasn't the only thread binding them. That they saw each other now, really saw each other, and chose this.

Chose him.

Chose them.

Carlos murmured against Max's hair, "We'll make this work."

"We better," Max said, smile against his shirt. "Because I don't plan on doing this again with anyone else."

They pulled apart, just enough to breathe. Just enough to smirk.

"We'll impress him," Carlos said.

"On our own terms," Max agreed.

"And whoever burns the toast doesn't get cuddles tonight."

"Hey-!"

"Fair rules," Carlos said, tossing him a wink before turning back to the stove.

Max grumbled but turned around, lips tugged into a grin. "Charles is gonna freak."

"Let him," Carlos said. "We've got him now."

Meanwhile, in the next room, Charles stirred in the blankets, the sound of low laughter and sizzling food warming his chest.

He hadn't even opened his eyes yet, but already,
He felt home.

 

The scent of strawberries, coffee, and slightly burnt toast pulled Charles from his sleep. He blinked slowly, sunlight painting gold across the room. The couch was still warm beneath him, but the voices from the kitchen were warmer.

Max and Carlos.

He didn't move at first, just listened.

"Nonono—don't touch that, Max!" Carlos hissed, and something clattered against the counter.

"I know how to flip a crepe, Carlos."

"Doesn't look like it-"

"Because you keep hovering!"

Charles didn't have to open his eyes to know Max was rolling his eyes, or that Carlos was crossing his arms and staring like a disappointed cooking show judge. It was like music, their bickering. Familiar. Silly. Safe.

He sat up finally, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a cape.

"Morning," he said, voice still heavy with sleep.

Two heads snapped toward him.

Carlos smiled first. Soft, relieved. "Morning."

Max turned with a proud look. "We made breakfast."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Together?"

Max grinned. "Kind of."

Carlos gestured to the table. "Come. Before everything turns cold because someone doesn't understand cooking times."

"Wow," Max muttered, following behind. "One compliment would kill you."

"Let's not test that."

Charles only shook his head, a smile already breaking across his face. This. This was what he missed. What he longed for.

What he almost lost.

They sat together at the table, plates filled with food that looked slightly chaotic but smelled divine. Carlos poured orange juice, Max pushed fruit toward Charles' plate like a doting parent. And just as they started eating, the bickering resumed about who made what, who did it better, and why one had more toast than the other.

"You two are ridiculous," Charles said, finally, grinning as he chewed.

Carlos narrowed his eyes at Max. "You hear that? He called you ridiculous."

"Definitely meant you."

"Did not."

"Did too."

Charles leaned back with a sigh so full of content, of joy, of quiet love that it filled the whole room. His eyes softened as he looked between them, these two men who had hurt him, healed him, and now loved him.

And then he smirked.

"By the way... neither of you gets to cuddle today."

Both heads snapped to him, horrified.

"What?!" Max barked.

"Why?" Carlos added, genuinely offended.

"I'm going to see my mother," Charles said, trying not to laugh. "You two can stay here. Make yourselves at home. Or fight over toast again. Up to you."

Max groaned dramatically. "I gave you heart-shaped eggs."

Carlos jabbed a fork toward Max. "He liked my strawberries better."

Charles laughed into his napkin, shoulders shaking. "You're both insane."

"You love it," they said in unison, then glared at each other again.

And he did. He really, really did.

 

Later that day, Charles FaceTimed them from his mother's garden. The signal cut out twice, and Max tried to adjust the screen while Carlos asked too many questions about whether she liked the jam they brought last time. Max almost dropped the phone, Carlos almost swatted his hand, and Charles? He just smiled at them from the tiny screen.

"You're both exhausting," he said, biting back a grin.

"Good exhausting," Max replied.

"The best kind," Carlos added.

Charles rolled his eyes with a smile that couldn't be hidden. "You two... I swear."

"Miss you already," Carlos said.

"Miss you more," Max added, sticking his tongue out.

Charles laughed. "You're children."

"Our child," Max replied, gesturing at Charles. "We made him like this."

Carlos nodded solemnly. "This is our fault."

Charles ended the call with a red face and aching cheeks from smiling. His mother raised an eyebrow when he turned back to her.

"I take it... things are good now?" she asked gently.

Charles nodded, almost shy. "Better than good."

 

It was late when Charles pushed open the door to the apartment. Not too late, just enough that the hallway lights were off and the apartment inside was dim, save for the soft blue glow of the TV flickering from the living room.

He frowned at first, confused by the quiet. Usually, one of them would be up. Max, probably, ranting about tire strategies. Or Carlos, asking him how his mother was and if she said anything sweet about him again. But tonight... silence.

He stepped inside and turned the corner into the living room.

The sight stopped him dead in his tracks.

On the couch, bathed in the pale light of a paused movie screen, were his boyfriends. His,  tangled up in a soft, silent mess of limbs and warmth. Max had clearly tried to stay awake. His arm was still half-slumped off the side of the couch, remote forgotten. But somewhere between one scene and the next, he'd fallen asleep on top of Carlos, head tucked against Carlos' shoulder, legs curled slightly into his chest. Carlos had his arms around Max like instinct, like safety. One arm cradled Max's back, the other resting protectively over his hip, like even in sleep he was holding on.

Charles didn't speak.

He just... smiled.

Because they bickered, and they teased, and they made a mess of every meal and every plan. But they loved him. And maybe, just maybe, they loved each other too. Even if neither of them had said it out loud yet.

Without a thought, Charles pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. No flash, just the soft capture of the most beautiful mess he'd ever seen.

And then he opened the group chat.

Charles: Are they boyfriends or are they MY boyfriends?

Within seconds, replies exploded.

Pierre: You mean OUR boyfriends. I raised them.

Lando: this is disgusting. I'm crying. But it's cute!!

Esteban: I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT

Alex: Tell Carlos I want my frying pan back. Also, adorable.

Lewis: This is so sweet. Love wins.

George: I thought they hated each other??

Pierre again: They're in love, George. Catch up.

Charles laughed quietly, screen still in hand, before slipping it back into his pocket. He padded over to the couch, leaned down slowly, and pressed a kiss to Max's forehead. Then Carlos'. Both shifted slightly in their sleep, not awake, but aware. Like they knew he was there.

"I'm home," he whispered.

No answer. Just the soft rhythm of breathing, the kind of peace that Charles had been waiting for, for months.

He made his way to the bedroom to change, tossing his bag into the corner. The mirror caught his face as he passed. He looked lighter. Happier.

Complete.

When he came back out, they were still asleep. Still curled up in that quiet, perfect heap.

And without hesitation, Charles climbed over Carlos' legs, squished himself into the couch, and wrapped his arms around both of them. Max mumbled something incoherent and melted into him immediately. Carlos stirred, shifting only to make more room, one hand finding Charles' side without ever opening his eyes.

Yeah.

This was home.

And Charles? He was never leaving.

 

Being in a relationship with one F1 driver was already a lot.

But two?

Charles quickly realized there was no actual guidebook, no tutorial, no neatly-worded Pinterest quote to prepare you for what it meant to wake up on a race weekend with two of the most competitive men alive, who were not only your boyfriends, but also driving in the same race as you.

It started innocent enough.

The morning was calm. Max offered him a protein bar like a proud cat gifting a dead mouse, Carlos had stolen half his coffee, and Charles had gotten dressed with surprisingly little interference.

And then the chaos began.

"Why are you wearing his jacket?"

Charles blinked. He looked down.

"Oh. It was on the chair. I didn't think it mattered."

Max narrowed his eyes. "That's Carlos' jacket."

"So?"

Carlos appeared in the doorway, smug. "He chose mine. It's okay, Max. You have his water bottle, remember?"

Max scoffed, lips twitching. "That was an accident."

"It had his initials on it."

"Still an accident."

Charles just rolled his eyes. "I'll wear both of your stupid jackets if it makes you shut up."

They stared at him.

Charles stared back.

Five minutes later, he was walking into the paddock with Carlos' jacket on his shoulders and Max's cap on his head, and both of them looked far too smug for men who argued about who he belonged to while eating the same granola bar from opposite sides like cartoon squirrels.

In the garage:

"Max, stop staring," Christian muttered without looking up from his screen.

"I'm not staring," Max said, while absolutely staring. Charles was on the other side of the garage laughing at something with Carlos. "I'm just... looking."

Christian sighed. "Like you want to commit a crime."

Carlos, for his part, was no better.

"Mate," one of the Ferrari engineers said as Carlos stood two feet behind Charles like a loyal golden retriever.

"Yes?"

"You've been following him since breakfast."

"I'm just making sure no one tries to poach him."

"From the team?"

"No. From us."

"...Right."

Drivers' Parade:

Max had long ago made it his personal mission to be by Charles' side during every parade.

Carlos didn't complain. Not anymore. Because now he simply climbed into the same flatbed truck and parked himself on Charles' other side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The fans loved it.

The cameras loved it.

The internet exploded.

And Charles? He just sat between them like a royal prince being escorted by two dramatic bodyguards.

They bickered about waving techniques. They bumped Charles' knees on purpose. They shared gum behind his back like twelve-year-olds and whispered things into his ears just to make him blush on camera.

"I swear to god," Charles muttered, cheeks pink as they each tried to pull him closer from opposite sides. "You two are going to kill me."

Max grinned. "Good. We'll bury you in the Ferrari garage. Nice view."

Carlos nodded. "Next to the tire warmers. You like those."

"Unbelievable," Charles mumbled, but he was laughing.

Race Day:

Charles had never been more focused.

Max and Carlos? That was another story.

The three of them qualified close to each other, which meant both men were now in a psychological warfare over radio silence, pit stop timings, and "accidental" shoulder bumps as they crossed in the paddock.

"Don't drive into me at turn one," Charles warned as they lined up for the start.

Carlos looked hurt. "I would never."

Max smirked. "Can't promise anything."

It was a brilliant race. Charles came second, Carlos third, Max just behind. There were clean battles and tight overtakes. But what made it unforgettable was what happened after.

The Surprise:

Charles returned to the Ferrari hospitality tent to find... no one.

Empty.

Dark.

Until a trail of red and blue ribbons led him outside, behind the motorhomes, where a small round table stood beneath a row of fairy lights. The sun had dipped low behind the paddock buildings, casting everything in soft gold.

On the table: two plates, one little cake, and a card that simply read:

"For the one who makes us drive faster."

Max and Carlos stood there waiting, still in their suits, hair a mess from the race, but smiling like they'd won the whole thing.

Charles stared. "You two did this?"

Carlos shrugged. "We had help."

Max grinned. "Pierre."

"And Lando."

"And the caterer."

Charles laughed. "Of course."

They pulled out his chair and sat beside him. They didn't need to talk about the race. They didn't need to compete. Not now. Not tonight.

Carlos poured the champagne.

Max handed Charles the first bite of cake.

It was imperfect and loud and sometimes stupid, but it was theirs. And for Charles, that was more than enough.

That Night:

As they got ready for bed, Charles flopped down in the middle of their shared hotel bed and groaned. "You two are exhausting."

Carlos sat on the edge and smirked. "But worth it."

Max pulled the sheets up and threw himself onto Charles' chest. "Say it."

Charles blinked.

Carlos echoed, "Say it."

Charles sighed. "Fine. I love you. Both of you. Even if you drive me crazy."

They grinned.

Max curled up on one side. Carlos on the other.

And Charles, warm and full and entirely at peace, kissed them both goodnight.

He wouldn't change a thing.

Not the chaos.

Not the noise.

Not the two idiots he now called his own.

When Charles told Max and Carlos that they'd be meeting his family properly. Together, as in boyfriend title officially stamped and sealed, they had very different reactions.

Carlos smiled like he was being invited to a royal banquet. Already planning what shirt to wear, what flowers to bring, which wine Charles' maman liked.

Max blinked. "You're bringing us to meet your mom together?"

Charles gave him a look. "You're both my boyfriends. What am I supposed to do, schedule you in separate weekends like doctor's appointments?"

Max raised a hand. "I mean-"

"No."

Carlos patted Max's back. "It'll be fine. Just smile."

"Easy for you to say," Max muttered. "You speak French."

The Arrival – Monaco Apartment

Charles' mother greeted them at the door with her signature warm smile, pulling Charles into a hug, then Carlos, then Max (who looked very caught off guard, but hugged back with surprising softness).

Carlos offered her a bouquet of her favorite flowers.

Max handed her a box of artisan chocolates.

She took both, clearly amused. "Well, aren't you two well-trained."

"Only the best for you," Carlos said smoothly.

Max quickly added, "I carried it all the way up the stairs, by the way."

Charles sighed.

And that was how it began.

Enter: Lorenzo and Arthur

Lorenzo gave them both the classic older brother once-over. Subtle, sharp, and completely unreadable. He shook Carlos' hand like a firm agreement, then looked Max up and down before saying, "So, this is the Red Bull one."

Max grinned. "In the flesh."

Arthur, on the other hand, gasped dramatically and pointed at them. "Wait. You two together? I thought it was just Carlos! You're telling me I have two brother-in-laws?"

Charles sank into the couch with a groan.

"Arthur-"

"This is amazing. Double the chaos. Can I come on holiday with you guys? Imagine the content."

"Please don't," Charles muttered.

Carlos smiled at Arthur. "Only if you bring a leash for your brother."

Max snorted. "He probably already has one."

Arthur laughed. Charles threw a pillow at him.

The Lunch

At the table, the competition began in full force.

Carlos served Charles' plate before Charles could lift a finger.

Max reached across the table to refill Charles' water every five minutes.

Carlos kept subtly flexing his cooking knowledge with Charles' maman.

Max kept throwing little jokes to Arthur that made Charles laugh, earning him smug points.

They bickered. They teased. They one-upped each other in compliments and gestures until even Lorenzo finally broke his silence to say:

"You do realize Charles is right there, yes? He's already dating both of you."

Carlos blinked. "Yes."

Max said, "We're just reminding him why."

Charles' mother chuckled. "Honestly, I think it's sweet. They adore him."

"They're insane," Charles mumbled.

"But they adore you," she replied.

And he couldn't argue with that.

After Lunch – Living Room

Charles was curled on the couch, sandwiched between his brothers and his boyfriends.

Arthur was showing Max an old embarrassing baby picture.

Carlos was chatting with Lorenzo about wine pairings.

And Charles' mother came in with coffee for everyone, pausing for a second as she took in the scene: her three boys, grown and chaotic, and the two men who clearly loved her son like gravity.

She walked over and kissed Charles' head. "I'm glad you're happy, mon cœur."

He smiled. "I am."

Even if Max and Carlos started bickering over who Charles laughed at more not five minutes later.

"He laughed at my joke first," Max argued.

"It was a pity laugh," Carlos replied.

"It was a real laugh!"

Charles dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god."

"Do you want to see his baby videos?" Arthur asked, stirring the pot.

Carlos and Max answered at the same time: "Yes."

Charles groaned. "I hate all of you."

But he was smiling.

 

That Night – After They Left

Charles' phone buzzed.

Groupchat – Family Leclerc 

Arthur: tell ur boyfriends they're insane

Lorenzo: they're good for you

Maman: I love them both. They'd better treat you like gold.

Charles: they already do. too much. they fight over my attention like toddlers

Maman: good. keep them on their toes.

Charles laughed quietly, curled up between Max and Carlos again, both half-asleep beside him, exhausted from trying to impress an entire household.

He took a photo of them passed out in their socks on his childhood bed and sent it to the group chat.

Charles: the idiots are asleep. I win.

 

Few months later

They had left the world behind.
No circuits. No press. No engine sounds or tire screeches or media pens.
Just the hush of the sea and the wind, salt-sweet and cool against their skin.

The island was a tucked-away secret Carlos had found it once during an off-season and kept it close ever since. No tourist traps, no prying eyes. Just sun-drenched cliffs, quiet beaches, and a villa that overlooked the ocean like it had been carved out of peace itself.

And this time, he had brought them there.
Max, the world champion, resting for once.
Charles, his light, his center, smiling again like nothing was ever broken.

They spent their mornings in the water, racing just for fun. No one cared who won. They tumbled in the waves, held each other like it was instinct. In the afternoons, they cooked together, argued over seasoning, and kissed mid-sentence. Sometimes Max got flour on his nose. Sometimes Charles stole bites off their plates before anything hit the table. Carlos didn't mind. Not once.

Now it was night. And they had wandered to the ridge behind the villa, where the land dropped off into the dark sea and the stars blinked without city lights to compete. A blanket spread under them. Three beers between them, long forgotten.

Max lay between them, fingers laced with both of theirs. His eyes were on the sky, but his mind was on the here and now.

He broke the silence first. "You know... I won the championship again this year. But this-" he turned his head, looked at Charles, then at Carlos "this is the real win."

Carlos didn't say anything at first. He only looked at Max, quiet for once.

Max added, voice lower, more careful: "I think I was scared. I acted like a dick sometimes. I kept thinking if I got too soft, if I let it happen, I'd lose. But I didn't lose, did I? I just got lucky. I got you both."

Charles blinked hard and smiled, the kind that made his eyes shimmer. "You're not lucky. You just let yourself be loved."

Carlos spoke then. "You make it hard sometimes. But you're worth it." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking out at the sea. "I never thought I'd do something like this. Share someone. Be shared. But it's not sharing when it feels like all of us are just... meant to be here."

Charles laughed softly, wiping a tear from his cheek before it had time to fall. "I didn't expect this. Not even close. But I'm glad I didn't walk away when I was scared. I'm glad I chose you both."

Max was watching Carlos now. "Do you love me?" he asked, not joking, not teasing. Honest.

Carlos looked at him. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
And Max nodded, slow, like he believed it.

Charles leaned into Carlos first, lips brushing over his. Then turned, met Max halfway, soft and grateful. Max kissed him like the sun wouldn't rise unless he did.

Then Carlos shifted forward and kissed Max. Like it was easy. Like it was right.

They didn't rush. They didn't need to. They just stayed there, pressed together beneath stars older than time. For the first time in months, years maybe, none of them felt like they had to run.

 

Later, when the stars had slid further west and the chill crept in, they lay curled together on the blanket, warmth shared shoulder-to-shoulder.

Charles' head rested on Carlos' chest, his hand in Max's. Max's legs were tangled with Carlos'. There was no clear line anymore where one began and the others ended. It felt like home.

"I used to think," Charles said softly, "that wanting both of you was wrong. That it was selfish."

"It's not," Carlos said. "It never was."

"I used to dream about it," Max admitted. "Before it was real. Before I thought you'd ever choose me, Charles. Before I thought Carlos would ever even look at me like this."

"I always looked," Carlos said.

Max gave a soft laugh. "Yeah?"

"I was just too stubborn to admit I liked you."

"And now?"

Carlos turned toward him, arm pulling him closer. "Now I can't imagine not loving you."

Charles watched them, his heart full in his chest, ready to burst.

"You two are everything," he whispered. "I love you both so much it scares me."

"You don't have to be scared," Max said, pressing a kiss to the top of his hand.

Carlos added, "We've got you."

And Charles closed his eyes. Let the moment hold him.

Let the love wrap around him like it belonged there.

Because it did.

 

Time passed, but some things stayed.

Like the way Max still rolled his eyes when Carlos hogged the blankets. Or how Charles still ended up in the middle, both literally and emotionally, always soft, always warm, always loved. The three of them, once tangled in silence, guilt, and miscommunication, now moved like they were made to fit each other.

It wasn't perfect. There were still bickers, still clashing personalities, still moments where Max stormed out or Carlos slammed a door, or Charles went quiet for hours. But the difference now was, they came back. Every time.

They held each other tighter on hard days, softer on the good ones.

They didn't need to ask if it was real anymore.

Because they'd fought for it. Chosen it. Time and time again.

Carlos learned how to let go, just a little, to open his hands and trust that love wouldn't slip away. Max learned to hold tighter, not out of control, but out of care. And Charles? Charles finally learned that he didn't ruin everything. He saved it. He stitched them back together without knowing he had the thread.

They built something honest. Something solid. Something full of laughter and kisses and early morning whispers before the world was awake. Sometimes it looked like chaos. Other times, like peace. But it was theirs.

Their love was the kind that stayed.

And they stayed. With each other.

Chapter 18: MV1 & DR3 | He Was The Reason

The first time Max met Daniel, he thought he was too loud.

Too smiley. Too much.

They were in the paddock. Max barely eighteen, stiff in a too-new Red Bull polo, still unsure if he should stand or sit or breathe. Cameras were everywhere. Eyes too. He kept his hands in his pockets, pretending not to notice the way his heart thudded like it was trying to punch through his ribs.

Then Daniel walked in like he owned the sun.

He was laughing with one of the engineers, tossing his cap back on his head with that half-cocked grin. Max had seen him on TV, everyone had, but in person, Daniel was even brighter. His voice carried. His energy filled the room. Max wanted to shrink into the wall.

"You're the new kid?" Daniel asked, stopping in front of him.

Max nodded, tense. "Yeah."

Daniel held out a hand. "Daniel. But you probably knew that."

Max hesitated, then shook it. "Max."

"I know," Daniel said, like it was obvious. "You've got the eyes of someone who takes this way too seriously."

Max blinked.

"I mean that in a good way," Daniel added quickly. "Sort of."

And then. God, he laughed. It wasn't cruel, though. It wasn't mocking. It was warm. Loose. Like he was trying to make Max feel safe.

It didn't work. Not right away. But Max didn't forget it.

Later that day, when everything felt like too much and everyone seemed like they were waiting for him to fail, Max remembered the way Daniel had smiled at him like he wasn't just some kid with pressure and talent stitched into his name. He remembered the joke. The handshake. The way Daniel made space for him in a room that didn't want to give any.

He wouldn't admit it then. Not even to himself.
But something in him started breathing easier that day.

He just didn't know yet how much he'd need Daniel.

How much Daniel would save him.

 

Max didn't talk much during his first races with Carlos. He listened. Nodded. Drove like his life depended on it, which, in his head, it kind of did.

Carlos was easy to get along with. Sharp, funny in a quiet way. They had different styles, but Carlos respected Max, and Max respected him back. That was enough. Maybe even more than Max expected.

But still, Daniel kept watching.

From across the paddock. From the Red Bull garage. From the media pens and warm-up laps and random, quiet moments in the hospitality area. He never said anything about it, not at first. Just... kept an eye.

It wasn't the driving that worried him. Max could drive like hell. Daniel had seen it in the simulator, in practice, on track. He had the hands, the instincts, the pure speed.

But sometimes between races, in corners where no one was looking, Daniel would catch it. That flicker in Max's eyes. That way he sat a little too still. The silence that didn't feel calm. The fake smile he wore when the cameras were too close.

Daniel couldn't explain it. Not really. But it hit him hard. The first time he really saw it, it rattled him.

Because it wasn't just nerves. It wasn't just a rookie learning the ropes.

It was fragility. Not the weak kind, something worse. Quiet. Deep. The kind that's used to hiding. Used to hearing the wrong things and holding them too close.

So Daniel softened. On instinct.

He stopped teasing him in front of others. Always made sure to say hi. Brought him a spare water bottle after one race with a simple, "You looked cooked out there," like it was no big deal. Made dumb little jokes that didn't ask for anything in return. Let Max be quiet around him.

Max never thanked him. Never asked for it. But Daniel didn't care.

Because sometimes, Max looked at him like he was waiting for the punchline. Like the kindness wasn't real. Like it was a test.

So Daniel just kept showing up.

And with every race, every conversation, he thought the same thing:

That kid's strong. But God, he's hurting.
And no one seems to see it.

 

It was a normal race weekend, at least, it looked that way from the outside.

Max walked into the paddock like he always did: alone, focused, hoodie pulled up, headphones clamped tight. But Daniel saw it before Max even crossed halfway.

Something was off.

He didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't the way Max walked, same pace, same posture. It wasn't what he wore or how he held his bag. It was something in the air around him. Like the space he occupied was smaller than usual. Like he was folding into himself.

Max didn't look up at anyone. He nodded at a staff member who passed him, but it was automatic. Hollow. His eyes were dimmer. His mouth set too tight.

Daniel, standing by the Red Bull garage with a cup of coffee in hand, caught the flicker in his expression as Max brushed past. It was only a second, less, even, but it hit him like a punch. There was no fire in his eyes. No steel. Just... blank.

And then, before anyone could call his name or stop him for media, Max disappeared into the AlphaTauri side, slipping into his driver's room so quickly it almost looked like he was hiding.

Daniel's brow furrowed. He sipped his coffee without tasting it.

Something's wrong.

He shouldn't care this much. He knew that. They weren't teammates. They weren't even particularly close. Not yet. But that moment stuck in his mind like a splinter. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Max seem off, but this felt different.

This felt bad.

His gut twisted, the same way it had that one time he saw a teammate shaking after a crash and didn't speak up. He regretted that silence for years.

So this time, he didn't wait.

Daniel set the coffee down, quietly excused himself from the mechanics' conversation, and started walking, casual, like it meant nothing. But his hands were already cold.

He paused outside Max's door, glancing over his shoulder like he might get caught.

Then he knocked. Once.
No answer.

He hesitated, but the feeling in his chest wouldn't let go.

He knocked again.

And this time, the door clicked open.

The door creaked open slowly. Daniel stepped in before Max could change his mind and closed it behind him, twisting the lock without a word.

Max didn't turn around.

He stood stiff, facing the far wall, hands clenched at his sides. His shoulders weren't just tense, they were tight, like he was holding in something he couldn't afford to let slip. The air felt heavy.

Daniel didn't speak right away. He just stayed there, a few steps inside, letting the silence settle between them.

"I'm not a spy," Daniel said finally, soft. "Just... couldn't pretend I didn't see."

Max didn't move.

"I saw your face," Daniel added. "For half a second. Before you turned it away."

Still, nothing. Just the slow rise and fall of Max's back, too controlled to be natural.

Then, quietly:
"I'm fine."

It came out hoarse. Unconvincing.

Daniel stepped closer, careful not to startle him. "You don't have to be. Not with me."

Max's head dropped slightly, chin to chest. His voice was low. "You don't know anything."

"I know what it looks like when someone's trying not to cry."

That got him. A flinch, barely there, but real.

Daniel moved gently, closing the space between them. "You can talk to me, Max. You don't have to give me details. Just don't lie."

Silence stretched again. The kind that wasn't empty. It was full of things unsaid, of words trapped too long behind his teeth.

Then Max exhaled sharply, like the breath had been stuck in his lungs all day. He turned his head just slightly, enough that Daniel could see a flash of red in his eyes. Not tears. Not yet. Just the aftermath.

"He said I'm not focused enough," Max muttered. "That I look stupid when I talk to the engineers. That I should stop acting like I matter."

Daniel's heart sank. Quiet rage simmered under his skin. He stepped forward, carefully, and placed a hand on Max's shoulder.

"That's not true," he said firmly.

Max finally turned, eyes glassy now, jaw tight. "He's my dad."

Daniel didn't let go. "And I'm your friend."

That made Max blink, like he hadn't heard those words in a long time.

"You don't have to carry that alone," Daniel said. "You hear me?"

Max swallowed hard. "I don't know how not to."

Daniel didn't have the perfect answer. He wasn't here to fix it in one go. But he pulled Max into a hug, tentative at first, until Max didn't pull away. Didn't stiffen. Just stood there.

And then, finally, leaned in.

Just a little.

But enough.

 

As the season went on, Daniel's eyes never really left Max.

Not in a nosy way. Not like he was spying. But like he was watching someone fragile, not because Max was weak, but because he was carrying something heavy that most people couldn't see.

It became clearer every time Jos was around.

Daniel noticed how Max's posture changed the moment his father showed up. Shoulders dropped, gaze lowered, words swallowed before they could even form. Jos spoke with a tone that didn't leave room for argument, and Max listened. Always listened.

Even when Jos was wrong.

Daniel saw it in the paddock one afternoon.

Jos was standing close, almost too close, pinning Max against the wall near the garage entrance. Max's eyes were downcast. His jaw was tight, but he didn't push back. Not a word.

Jos's voice was low but sharp, filled with that unforgiving edge Daniel had come to recognize:
"You call that racing? I didn't raise you to come home like that."
"Good? That's not good enough."
"You'll never get better if you keep thinking like that."

Daniel froze, a knot tightening in his stomach.

He wanted to step forward, to say something, anything.

But the moment felt too fragile, too dangerous.

He feared making it worse.

So he stayed silent.

He watched Jos walk away, leaving Max standing there, swallowed by shadows.

That night, Daniel couldn't shake the image.

He regretted not doing more. Not trying harder.

But more than regret, he made a promise, to himself, to Max.

If there's a next time, he thought, I won't stay silent.

Max's race had been a disaster. Not just bad on paper, but something deeper, like everything was folding in on itself inside him. Daniel knew before anyone else that this wasn't just about the track.

Jos wasn't around this time. Daniel felt a flicker of relief. Maybe this was the chance.

So, without announcing himself, Daniel slipped quietly into Max's drivers' room. He waited.

Almost ten minutes later, the door slammed open.

Max didn't shout or throw anything. He just stood there, back to the door, silent, still.

Daniel cleared his throat softly.

Max jumped, startled. This room wasn't supposed to have anyone else in it.

"Sit down," Daniel said gently, "Take a breath. Cool off for a bit."

Max hesitated, reluctant. But then, slowly, he stepped inside and sat.

Silence settled. Thick, but not uncomfortable.

After a moment, Daniel spoke again.

"You did great out there."

Max's head snapped up, surprised. "I didn't."

Daniel shook his head. "Doesn't matter what the results say. It's a rookie mistake. Happens to the best."

Max looked away, unsure.

"I don't care what anyone else says. Not your dad. Not Christian. Not even me."

Daniel paused, then smiled a little. "You did well. That's what counts."

Max blinked, absorbing the words like they were foreign.

"I'm not saying it was perfect," Daniel added. "But don't be so hard on yourself."

Max was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"I had a bad race," Max admitted, voice low.

Daniel gave him a small nod of understanding.

"Thanks," Max said quietly. "For saying that."

Daniel smiled, relief flickering in his eyes.

"You'll be fine. Just keep going."

They sat in silence for a while, the quiet stretching comfortably between them.

Finally, Daniel broke it.

"When I first joined Red Bull with Seb, I was terrified," he said, voice low. "Made mistake after mistake. You think you've got it all figured out, then boom, crash, spin, mess up."

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Seb wasn't just helping me with the car. He helped with words. Stuff like... 'Keep your head up' or 'You've got more time than you think.' Stuff that actually mattered."

Daniel looked at Max, earnest. "Whatever it is you want to say, just say it. I'm not here to judge. I'm here to listen."

Max didn't say anything at first. Then, slowly, he began.

"The first time I won a karting race..." His voice faltered a little, but he kept going. "My dad didn't even say congratulations. Took me home and told me all the mistakes I made. Even after I'd won."

He looked down. "Sometimes... I'm scared. Don't know what to do most of the time. But I just keep going."

Max didn't share much more. No big confessions, no detailed stories. Just that.

Daniel smiled gently, glad for every word.

He was beginning to understand.

Max wasn't raised with love. At least, not the way most people imagined it. It was all about mistakes, what wasn't good enough, what could be better.

So Daniel listened.

When Max switched to lighter topics, talking about random things, nothing important, just nonsense. Daniel didn't interrupt.

He listened.

Because sometimes, just knowing someone's there to listen is the first step.

 

It started simple.

A text here. A meme there.

Then a quick game of padel after media day. Then another. Then it became a habit. A way to shut out the noise for a while.

Max didn't know when exactly it shifted. But he noticed that being around Daniel felt... easy. Safe.

Daniel never picked at him. Never compared him to anyone. Never tried to "fix" him. It was the opposite, really, Daniel made sure Max heard it, straight and clear.

"You did great."
"You gave it your best, and that's enough."
"You don't owe anyone more than what you gave today."

Daniel said it like he meant it, every time.

And Max believed him.

He found himself smiling more. Laughing at stupid jokes. He even started sending memes at 2 a.m. just to see Daniel's dumb responses.

Outside the track, they were just two people existing around each other. Light, easy, real.

Max wasn't used to that.

He hated when people got too close, too fast. He hated when they tried to force their way in. But Daniel... Daniel was different.

He let Max come to him. He never pushed.

Even with that annoyingly bright grin plastered on his face all the damn time, Daniel never crossed lines Max hadn't opened.

And Max had opened a lot.

He liked Daniel's laugh. He liked the way they didn't always have to talk, but when they did, it felt like air after being underwater too long.

He liked the way Daniel made everything feel a little less heavy.

It wasn't about racing anymore. Or paddock drama. Or pressure.

It was about being seen, really seen and not being told he wasn't enough.

Max didn't say it out loud. Not yet.

But the more time they spent together, the more he knew:
He didn't just like being around Daniel.
He needed it.

And that scared him a little.

But Daniel... made even that okay.

The sun was low, casting a golden glow across the paddock. Most drivers had already wrapped for the day. Max stood to the side, half-listening to whatever his engineer was saying, but not really hearing a word of it.

His eyes were somewhere else.

On someone else.

Daniel was a few feet away, laughing, arms flailing in one of his overly animated stories to someone from the McLaren garage. His smile wide. Head tilted back. A stupidly loud laugh Max could recognize even through walls.

Max watched.

He didn't mean to. Didn't realize how long he was doing it.

But there he stood. Just... watching.

Until a shoulder bumped his.

Carlos.

The Spaniard leaned in, smirking.

"You know," he said, voice casual, "if you stare any longer, you might accidentally propose."

Max blinked, snapped out of whatever daze he was in. "What?"

Carlos chuckled. "Nothing. Just saying. Your eyes have been locked in one direction for the past five minutes."

Max flushed, eyes narrowing. "I wasn't staring."

"Sure," Carlos said, holding up his hands. "Of course you weren't."

Max turned away slightly, trying to play it cool, only to glance back again, just to prove Carlos wrong, obviously.

Except, Daniel was looking right at him.

And he smiled.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he winked.

Max felt his lungs stop working.

Carlos let out a low whistle. "I'll let you two... work that out," he said, giving Max a pat on the shoulder before walking off, smug.

Max didn't say a word.

He couldn't.

Later That Night

The hotel room was quiet. Too quiet.

Max tossed the covers off for the third time. Rolled over. Checked his phone. No new messages. Then stared at the ceiling.

He should've been asleep hours ago.

But all he could see was that damn smile. That wink.

The way Daniel's eyes found him in a crowd like it was easy. Like it was natural.

Max sighed, dragged a hand over his face.

What was that?

He'd looked at Daniel a million times before. Been around him every day lately. It wasn't new.

So why did it feel different now?

Why did it feel like his whole chest had clenched up the moment Daniel smiled back?

Why did his throat tighten when he thought about that wink?

Max swallowed.

Oh.

No.

No, no, no.

He turned over and groaned into his pillow.

This was bad.

This was really, really bad.

Because it wasn't just a stare. It wasn't just a crush. It wasn't fleeting.

He knew that now.

He was falling for him.

For Daniel.

God help him.

 

Carlos had been gone a few weeks now, and Max had to admit, he missed him. Not just as a teammate, but as a buffer. A safety net. Someone who didn't flirt with him every chance he got.

Because now?

Now he was alone.

Alone... with Daniel.

And that was a problem.

A huge one.

Because Daniel was... well, Daniel. Full of energy, jokes, and that awful, wonderful charm that made everyone laugh and blush and sometimes want to punch him just to make it stop.

But Daniel had started turning it up.

Just for Max.

"Hey, sunshine," Daniel grinned one morning in the motorhome, sliding into the seat across from him like it was instinct. "Sleep well or did you miss me too much?"

Max almost choked on his water.

"Shut up," he muttered, avoiding his eyes, ears going bright red.

Daniel just laughed like he always did, easy and loud and too much.

And Max hated, hated how warm it made him feel.

"You're cute when you're flustered," Daniel added with a wink.

Max practically short-circuited.

He stood up, muttering something about "going over data" before disappearing faster than his RB14 on a quali lap.

Later That Day - In the Garage

Max was leaning over the car, pretending to focus. Trying to steady his breathing. His thoughts.

He needed to get a grip.

He needed to stop blushing every time Daniel opened his mouth.

He needed to-

"Looking good, mate."

Max jolted. Turned around, eyes wide. Daniel was standing there with a lopsided grin and a hand on his hip like he was posing for a magazine shoot.

Max blinked. "What?"

"I said the car's looking good," Daniel repeated, slowly, but with that same mischievous glint in his eyes. "But I mean... you too, really."

Max's jaw clenched.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

Daniel tilted his head, all fake innocence. "Flirting? Me? I'm just being nice."

Max wanted to scream. Or run. Or maybe both.

But worse than Daniel's teasing, worse than the flutter in his chest or the heat crawling up his neck, was the echo that followed.

You're a man, Max. You don't go around loving another man like that. You hear me!?

Max flinched inwardly. His stomach tightened.

He turned back to the car without a word, heart pounding.

He couldn't do this.

He wanted to—but he couldn't.

Because every time Daniel looked at him like that, touched his arm, gave him one of those god-awful, beautiful grins, Max would remember.

Don't let me see that again or I'll make sure you'll regret it.

That Night

Max sat alone in the dark, staring out the hotel window. City lights blurred by the glass.

He kept thinking about Daniel.

About his laugh.

His smile.

His voice.

And then. Jos.

Always Jos.

Like a ghost on his shoulder.

Max closed his eyes, tried to breathe.

He didn't ask for this. Didn't want to feel this way. And yet here he was, trapped in a loop, half desperate to run toward Daniel, half terrified of what would happen if he ever did.

Because Daniel made him feel light.

But Jos made sure he remembered he was supposed to carry weight.

 

Race Weekend - Jos is Back

The first sign was Max's shoulders.

Daniel noticed it the second they walked into the paddock that morning. Max, walking ahead of him, hood up, jaw clenched, eyes on the ground. He didn't say a word, not even when Daniel caught up beside him and bumped their arms.

"Hey."

Max barely nodded. "Hey."

That was it.

Daniel didn't need more.

His stomach sank, already dreading the rest of the day.

And then he saw him.

Jos Verstappen. Already in the Red Bull hospitality, already surrounded by staff he barely acknowledged. The man stood like he owned the place, arms crossed, scowl in place, watching Max like a hawk the second his son entered the room.

Daniel felt his jaw tighten.

He hated that man. Hated the way he looked at Max like he was a machine, not a kid. Like he wasn't even proud, just expectant.

Do well, or else.

That's what it always looked like Jos was saying without even opening his mouth.

Throughout the Day.

Max didn't smile. Didn't joke. Barely responded when Daniel made a crack about the weather or when he tossed him a protein bar just to make him eat something.

His hands trembled once, Daniel saw it. When he thought no one was watching, when Jos was done talking to him and walking away, Max gripped the side of a table and let out the softest exhale like he'd been holding his breath for hours.

Daniel couldn't take his eyes off him.

He watched Max like he was breakable.

Because maybe he was.

And every time Jos came near, Daniel's blood boiled. His stare wasn't subtle. He watched Jos like prey, eyes dark and sharp. If Jos even thought about raising his voice, if he dared.

Daniel would get between them. This time, he would.

He swore it.

Because he saw it, now. The questions Max carried like weight on his chest:

Will he be proud if I win? Will he be happy?

What happens if I lose?

What happens to me then?

Daniel didn't know the full answers, but he knew the truth behind them. And it made him sick.

Max didn't need a father that breathed down his neck.

He needed someone who'd let him breathe.

Right Before Quali.

They were about to head out, and Daniel caught Max pulling on his gloves too tightly, biting the inside of his cheek, eyes unfocused.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"Hey. Look at me."

Max didn't.

Daniel tried again. "Max."

Finally, those blue eyes met his.

"You've got this," Daniel said. "No matter what he says. No matter what he does. You've already won, alright?"

Max blinked, like he was trying to stop the sting behind his eyes. He didn't say anything.

He just nodded.

And Daniel nodded back.

He didn't need to say it out loud, but Max could feel it.

I'm here.

And Daniel meant it.

 

Race had ended. Max, P4.

Max got out of the car like he didn't even remember driving it.

Helmet still on. Gloves tight. His hands were shaking, but not from the heat.

He didn't even look up.

Not at the team. Not at the camera. Not at Daniel.

Daniel barely had time to register his own P5. He was barely out of breath when he caught sight of Max disappearing through the back of the garage with Jos right behind him, hand firm on his son's shoulder, pushing more than guiding.

No celebration. No cooldown room. Just shadows swallowing them both.

And Daniel knew.

He knew.

The Hallway.

He jogged, not fast enough.

By the time he turned the corner, they were gone.

The door was shut. Drivers Room #33. Locked.

The paddock was quieter now. Most people had gone to interviews, debriefs, media. The noise had moved to the front. Which meant the back was just—

The sound was clear.

Yelling.

Muffled. But unmistakable.

Jos.

"-you should've closed that gap! You think that's good enough!? I told you-I raised you better than this! Fourth? You celebrating that now?"

No answer.

Just more shouting. It wasn't about the result. It never was.

Daniel's chest burned.

He knocked.

"Max?"

Nothing. The shouting didn't stop.

He raised his voice. "Hey, Jos! Open the door."

No response. Just more noise, more venom, more fury, more disappointment disguised as fatherhood.

Daniel tried the handle. Locked.

He stepped back.

Then he tried again. This time, both hands. A harder twist. It didn't budge.

Third time.

Crack.

The door gave in with a forceful snap, and Daniel didn't think. He moved.

Inside the Room.

Jos turned to him, face red, mouth open, ready to spit fire.

Max, he was in the corner of the room, still suited, gloves half off, staring at the floor like he was trying to disappear into it.

Daniel didn't look at Jos.

He walked straight to Max.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low, not urgent, grounded.

Max blinked. Once. Like he didn't understand the question.

Jos growled from behind. "You don't belong here, Ricciardo. This is between me and-"

"No, it's not," Daniel said, turning slowly.

And his face, Daniel's face was unreadable. Calm. Dead calm. But dangerous.

"You don't get to talk to him like that. Not anymore."

Jos stepped forward, but Daniel didn't flinch. "I said-"

"I heard you," Daniel cut in, firm now. "And I'm saying no. You had your years. You don't get to keep breaking him just because he keeps letting you."

Silence.

For the first time, Jos stepped back.

Daniel turned to Max, holding out a hand. "C'mon."

Max stared at him. His lip was trembling, but only just.

He didn't take the hand.

He stood up on his own, slowly. Quietly.

And walked toward Daniel.

Jos didn't move. Didn't speak.

And the two of them left the room. Together.

Daniel's Driver Room.

They didn't speak when the door shut.

Max stood in the middle of the room like he didn't know what to do now that he wasn't bracing for impact. Like he didn't know how to exist without being on edge.

Daniel didn't speak either.

He just walked around, slow, quiet, until he stood in front of Max and gently reached out.

Max's gloves were still on. White-knuckled.

Daniel tugged one off. Then the other.

His hands were cold. Ice-cold. Like they hadn't belonged to a body with a pulse.

They were trembling.

Daniel didn't even register that his fingers were now curled around Max's.

He looked up. And that's when he saw it.

The shine in Max's eyes. Not from sweat. Not from pain. From something else.

Something older. Something raw.

Daniel's voice was barely a whisper. "Hey..."

Max blinked, and that was all it took.

Daniel didn't wait.

He pulled him forward, firm, but careful. Like holding glass.

Max didn't resist. He just folded. Right into Daniel's chest, arms caught between them like he didn't know where they belonged.

And then it happened.

A breath caught.

A shake.

And then, Max cried.

Quiet at first. The kind of quiet that breaks more than any scream ever could.

Daniel's hand went straight to his head. His hair was damp. He stroked it slowly, over and over again.

No words. Just that.

They slid to the floor at some point. Neither noticed. Max collapsed forward, Daniel grounding both of them with just his arms and his voice.

"Let it out," Daniel whispered. "Just let it go, mate. I've got you. You're alright. I've got you."

And Max did.

He cried into Daniel's chest like he hadn't since he was a child. Like he didn't know he still could.

He didn't talk.

He didn't have to.

Daniel didn't stop touching his hair. Didn't stop holding him.

They stayed there, on the floor, like the world had gone quiet just for this.

 

The room was quiet. Now.

Not silent, just quiet in that soft, weighted way, like the world was finally done shouting. There was only breathing now. The hum of the AC overhead. The faint thrum of the track being torn down outside. But in here, it was just them.

Max had stopped crying, but he hadn't moved. His head was still pressed against Daniel's chest, tucked beneath Daniel's chin like it was the only place left in the world he trusted. His body was heavier now. Not tense. Just... tired.

Daniel didn't move either.

One arm curled around Max's back. The other stayed resting at the nape of his neck, fingers tangled in soft, sweat-damp hair. He didn't want to let go. He wouldn't.

And then, after what felt like forever, Max spoke.

Quiet.

So quiet that Daniel might've missed it if he wasn't this close.

"He's never said it," Max whispered, breath trembling. "Not once."

Daniel didn't interrupt. He just ran his thumb gently against the back of Max's neck.

"Not after I won my first karting race. Not after my first title in karting. Not even my first Grand Prix win." Max's voice cracked, just slightly. "He never said he was proud."

Daniel closed his eyes, but stayed quiet.

"I did everything he asked. I trained every day, I drove, I pushed, I fought." Max shook his head slowly against Daniel's chest. "But it was never enough. Never once did he just... say it."

The next words were harder. Thicker. Like they hurt just to let out.

"I don't think he ever loved me. Not like a father's supposed to."

Daniel tightened his arms around him, gently shifting so Max could lean even more of his weight.

Max took a breath, then another, shaky, uneven, like each one was being pulled out of him. Then he spoke again, voice lower now.

"You know... one time, I got second place. Just second." He laughed, bitter and empty. "He didn't say a word in the car. Just drove me straight home. And when we got there, he beat me."

Daniel's stomach twisted.

Max didn't stop.

"There was this other time, I must've been eleven, maybe twelve... We were driving back from a test day. I must've said something he didn't like, I... don't even remember what." Max's hands clenched slightly. "He stopped at a gas station. Told me to get out. I thought he was joking. But he drove off."

Daniel's breath hitched.

"I waited. An hour passed. Two. It was cold." Max swallowed. "I didn't even have a jacket. The gas station worker had to call my mom. I had her number memorized. She came to get me."

Daniel didn't realize his own eyes had welled up until a tear threatened to fall. He blinked it away quickly, wiping it with the back of his wrist so Max wouldn't see.

Max had gone quiet again. His breathing steady, a little slower. He wasn't crying anymore. He was just... there. Curled into Daniel like he'd given up pretending he didn't need to be held.

Daniel leaned in, lips brushing Max's hair before he even realized he'd moved.

A soft kiss. Barely there. But it meant everything.

Max didn't flinch.

He didn't speak either. Just sighed, a long, heavy breath that made Daniel feel like Max had been holding it in for years.

"You didn't deserve any of that," Daniel said finally, voice rough. "Not one bit of it."

Max didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Daniel shifted a little so he could look down, hoping Max might look up. "And if he ever tries to touch you again like that, or talk to you like that. I swear to God, I won't let him."

Max still didn't say anything. But he nodded. Barely. Just enough.

Daniel brushed his hand through Max's hair again, slower this time. "You don't ever have to keep this shit to yourself again. Alright? If something's wrong, you talk to me. Don't hide. Just... talk."

Another nod. A deeper one.

Max still didn't lift his head. He didn't need to. His weight against Daniel said enough.

"I'm not going anywhere," Daniel murmured. "You hear me? I'm not leaving."

And that was it.

They stayed like that. On the floor. In the quiet.

Daniel holding him like the world hadn't, like Jos never did. And Max for the first time in what felt like forever, just let someone hold him.

No pressure. No judgment. No expectations.

Just warmth. Just comfort.

Just Daniel.

 

The next morning, Daniel was at Christian's office door before the team principal even sat down with his coffee.

He didn't sugarcoat anything. Didn't soften the words. He told Christian exactly what he saw, what he heard, the shouting, the locked room, the bruised look in Max's eyes. He didn't tell him everything Max had shared, not the gas station, not the childhood trauma, because that wasn't his to give. But he said enough for Christian to understand just how serious it was.

Christian went quiet for a long time.

"I don't want Max knowing I came to you," Daniel said firmly. "Not now. Maybe not ever."

Christian nodded slowly, something like guilt in his eyes. "I won't say anything. I'll... I'll handle Jos."

Daniel didn't say thank you. He just gave a sharp nod and left.

Because promises don't need thank you's. They just need to be kept.

From then on, Daniel became Max's constant.

It started subtly. A hand on his shoulder before a race. A water bottle passed to him before he could ask. A short text at night: All good today?

Max always answered.

Sometimes just a word: Yeah.
Sometimes more: Today was okay. Car balance was weird, but okay.
And once: Thanks for checking in, Danny.

That one stayed with Daniel a little longer than it should have.

He never asked Max about what happened in the driver's room. Never pushed. But he was always there. And Max, he kept drifting closer without even realizing it.

They ate lunch together at the paddock now. Max started waiting for Daniel before media sessions. He didn't flinch anymore when Daniel bumped into his shoulder or threw an arm around him in front of cameras. He didn't move away. Not even when Daniel leaned in too close, grinned too wide, or whispered something dumb in his ear that made him laugh despite himself.

And Daniel watched him.

God, did he watch him.

Every small smile Max gave. Every laugh that slipped out when he forgot to hold it back. Every time he rolled his eyes but didn't hide the way his cheeks went a little pink. Daniel saw it all.

He saw Max falling.

And maybe he was too.

 

Then came the Brazil incident.

Ocon. That ridiculous tangle in Parc Fermé. Max was fuming. Daniel had seen it coming before Max even touched the guy.

He had followed him straight out of the garage.

Max didn't say a word, just stormed through staff, through cameras, straight up to Ocon. It happened fast. The push. The shove. The fire in Max's eyes that hadn't been there in months.

When it was over, Max walked off, hands still clenched, breathing hard.

He expected everyone to tell him he was overreacting.

But Daniel was the first to find him. And he said:

"You were right to be pissed. I would've punched him."

Max blinked at him.

Daniel added, with a crooked smile, "But maybe don't do it again, huh? You've got too much to lose."

Max just stared for a second.

Then nodded. "Okay."

And he listened.

Things changed after that.

Max trusted him. Deep down. In a way he hadn't trusted anyone in years.

And Daniel... he started seeing more than just the fighter. More than the driver, the perfectionist, the cold stare in interviews. He saw the soft parts. The careful ones.

The way Max handed over his gloves after a session with a quiet here.
The way he looked at kids in the crowd like he wasn't sure they should be cheering for him.
The way he always asked if Daniel was okay after a race, even if Daniel finished behind him.

Daniel fell for all of that.

Even if he didn't say it. Even if he kept the smile on, kept things light.

But he couldn't help the way his eyes lingered on Max. He couldn't stop looking when Max leaned back in the chair, sleepy after a debrief, hair a mess under his cap, eyes soft from exhaustion. He couldn't stop watching the way Max chewed on his straw, the way he leaned into Daniel's side like it was normal now.

And Max?

Every time Daniel touched his shoulder, called him "mate" with that damn smile, or stood too close during the anthem, he felt it.

The warmth in his chest.

The ache of something that he still wasn't sure he deserved.

The voices in his head still came back, still told him it was wrong, that he'd be punished if anyone knew. But Daniel's voice always came louder afterward, asking if he was okay, reminding him he wasn't alone.

And he wasn't.

Not anymore.

Not with Daniel.

 

Somewhere  between race breaks.

Max had decided to visit his mother in The Netherlands, since he hadn't seen her a wile now. So without much thought he went to the airport. Got a ticket and on his way to his mother's house.

When he arrived, he quickly made his way to the house, not wanting to waste too much time. But when he got to the house, something stopped him.

The moment Max saw his father sitting at the kitchen table with his mother, like he belonged there, like nothing had ever happened, his body moved on its own.

He turned, walked away from the driveway without a sound, ignoring the birdsong and the soft hum of conversation spilling through the windows. He didn't even remember grabbing his car keys again. He just kept going until the house was far behind him.

Somewhere down the road, he found a hotel.

The lobby was warm, quiet, detached from the world. The receptionist smiled politely, asked for his ID, told him there were still rooms left. Max nodded, said thank you, heard none of it.

By the time he got to the elevator, his hands were shaking. His grip on the keycard was slippery with sweat. He kept swallowing nothing, jaw tight, heartbeat hammering behind his ribs.

The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind him, Max leaned back against it, locked every bolt and chain. Like he was barricading himself.

His chest felt tight. Too tight.
He dropped his bag. His legs were trembling.
And then, he couldn't breathe.

His mouth opened, but no air came in right. It was fast. Too fast. His lungs sucked for more and more and it still wasn't enough. His fingers started to go numb. His vision blurred.

He knew what this was.
He knew.

Panic attack.

Focus. Focus, Max.
But he couldn't. His thoughts were screaming now, overlapping each other. Why was he there? Why didn't Mom tell me? Why the hell is he back? What if he follows me? What if he finds me?

He reached for his phone, hands fumbling so badly it nearly slipped. His thumb trembled across the screen, tapping too many times. Missed. Missed again.

Then, finally, Daniel's name.

He called.

 

Daniel picked up on the second ring.

"Max!" His voice was light, upbeat. "Hey, mate, you made it alright?"

What answered him wasn't words.

It was just breathing. Heavy. Shaky. Panicked.

"...Max?"

Still nothing. Just the sound of someone gasping for air.

Daniel shot up from the couch like he'd been shocked. "Hey. Hey, hey, it's alright. I'm here. Can you hear me? You're okay. Max, listen to me, yeah?"

Still gasping.

His voice dropped lower, calmer. "I need you to match my breathing. Just listen to me, alright? In... one, two, three... hold it and out. One, two, three..."

Max's hands were still shaking. He curled into himself on the hotel bed, phone against his ear like a lifeline.

"In... one, two, three. Out... one, two, three..."

Daniel repeated it, again and again. Slowly. Gently. Patiently.

Minutes passed like that. No questions. Just breathing.

Then, a tiny, broken sound from the other end of the line. "Dan..."

Daniel's breath caught.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"I... I saw him," Max said, voice cracked and small. "He was in her house. I-I didn't know he'd be there, I just, I couldn't..."

Daniel swallowed the tightness in his throat. "It's okay. You don't have to explain. You did good, Max. You called me. That's enough. I've got you, alright?"

The air shifted then.

Max's breathing was still heavy, but steadier. Slower. His muscles still shook, but the edge was dulling. Like Daniel's voice was a blanket thrown over the fire in his chest.

He closed his eyes and just listened.

And in that moment, Jos might've still been out there. But Max didn't feel alone anymore. Not while Daniel was on the other end of the line. Not while that voice kept whispering him back into himself.

And for now, that was enough.

"Are you okay now?" Daniel asked again, his voice low in Max's ear.

Max nodded even though Daniel couldn't see it. "Yeah. Better. I think..." His voice still trembled a little.

"You don't have to do anything, alright? Not now. Don't worry about anything. Just breathe. You're safe," Daniel said, and in the background Max could hear movement. A drawer opened. Then the zip of a bag.

Max blinked slowly, still curled on the hotel bed. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just... moving around," Daniel said lightly, the kind of voice you use to keep someone from tipping. "It's okay."

He was packing. Grabbing the few things he hadn't already packed for his trip to Australia: a charger, a change of clothes, his passport. Toothbrush. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what he forgot. He was going.

"You should rest," Daniel added softly. "Take a shower, maybe lie down a bit. You'll feel better."

"Yeah," Max whispered.

"I'll stay on the phone until you're done," Daniel offered, but Max shook his head.

"No, I... I'll try on my own now." There was a pause. "Thanks, Dan."

"You don't have to thank me," Daniel said. "I'm always gonna answer when it's you."

Those words stayed with Max even after the call ended.
He set his phone on the nightstand like it was made of glass.

Then he stood. Slowly. His legs were sore, tense. His ribs still felt tight.

The shower helped. Not a lot, but just enough.

There were moments where his throat clenched again, that fluttering panic skimming just beneath his skin. But every time he felt it surge, he repeated Daniel's voice in his head: In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

That was how he got through it.
And when he stepped out and wrapped the towel around himself, it felt like he'd survived something no one else had seen.

Back in bed, still damp and drained, Max stared at the ceiling. The light in the hotel room was low and warm. Outside, Amsterdam still buzzed quietly. The world moved on.

He curled under the sheets, muscles finally loose, eyelids heavy. He didn't dream. He just floated somewhere between sleep and silence, thinking about Daniel and the way he said You're safe like it was a promise.

 

The buzz of his phone pulled Max from the dark. A soft vibration against the bedside table. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and reached out blindly.

One message.

Daniel:
Send me your location. I'm on my way.

Max sat up slowly, rereading it.

A small breath escaped his lips. He hadn't asked for this. Hadn't expected this.

But Daniel was coming.

And something in Max, something he didn't have a name for, felt steadier just knowing that.

He pulled the blanket closer and typed back without hesitation.

Max:
You came all the way here?

Daniel:
Yes, I am, now give me your location, I'll be there.

Max:
Hotel TwentySeven, room 330.

And then he waited.

But for the first time in hours, the waiting didn't feel like drowning.

It felt like breathing.

Daniel didn't walk into the hotel, he moved through it like something was chasing him.

The air was colder in Amsterdam, sharper than Monaco, but it wasn't the wind making his pulse thud in his neck. He was thinking only of Max. The moment he saw the hotel sign, Hotel TwentySeven, glowing soft gold in the dark, he nearly sprinted through the doors.

At the desk, the receptionist looked up as Daniel approached, a little too fast, too tense.

"Hi, I-I need to get to one of the rooms. I know someone staying here. Max Verstappen. He sent me the location."

Her expression shifted, careful, polite.

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't give you access to a guest's room without their permission."

Daniel swallowed hard. He didn't want to make a scene. But he also wasn't about to be stopped now.

"He's my boyfriend," he said, without thinking. "He's not well right now. I just need to see him. Please."

He didn't say more, didn't have to. She saw it, the honest panic sitting behind his eyes. And something in her softened.

Room 330.

Daniel didn't thank her with words, just a quick nod before grabbing his bag and heading to the elevator like his whole body was trying not to run.

By the time he got to the fourth floor, his heart was a hammer.
He knocked once. Sharp.
Then twice.
And then:

The door opened.

Max stood there, hair messy, face pale, eyes still heavy from sleep. And for a second, just a second, he looked like he didn't believe it. Like he was dreaming again.

But he didn't say a word.

He just moved.

Daniel barely had time to catch him, Max threw himself forward, arms locking around Daniel's neck, face burying deep into the crook of it like it was instinct. Like Daniel was home and Max had been outside for too long.

Daniel didn't hesitate. He dropped his bag to the floor, arms wrapping tight around Max's waist, one hand sliding up to his back. He held him, anchored him.

He could feel Max's breath against his neck. Fast at first. Then slower. Then steady. Just breathing him in, like that alone could keep him grounded.

They stayed like that. Right there in the hallway. Just holding on.

Max was the first to speak, voice soft and hoarse.

"I thought you were joking... when you came and asked for the location."

Daniel pulled back just enough to see him, brushing the damp hair from Max's forehead with gentle fingers.

"I wouldn't joke about something like that," he said quietly. "I promised you, didn't I? I'm not letting you deal with this alone."

Max didn't answer, not with words. He just nodded once, then leaned in again. Daniel's arms stayed firm around him.

After another quiet beat, Daniel kissed the top of his head. "Come on, let's go inside."

Max stepped back just enough to let him in, still holding his wrist like he wasn't ready to fully let go.

Daniel picked up his bag with one hand, closed the door behind them with the other.

And in the safety of the hotel room, nothing else mattered. Not Jos. Not the panic. Not the world.

Just them.

The hotel room was still. The kind of still that only comes after something breaks and settles again.

Daniel sat on the edge of the bed, back against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other pulled up slightly. Max was lying beside him, half-under the blanket, head resting near Daniel's thigh. He hadn't said much since they came inside. He didn't need to.

Daniel had turned the lights low. Just one small lamp in the corner, casting a faint glow across the room. Enough to see each other. Enough to feel close, but still safe in the shadows.

Max had dozed for a bit, not deeply, just enough to breathe evenly for a while. Now he was awake again, eyes open, staring at nothing, hands fidgeting with the corner of the duvet.

Daniel noticed. He looked down.

"You're not sleeping," he said gently.

Max didn't answer for a moment. Then: "I'm scared."

Daniel didn't move. "Of what?"

Max breathed in. "Of seeing him again. Of him finding out I ran. Of him making me feel like I'm five again. And I hate that. I hate that I still feel that small. Even now."

Daniel reached down, placed a hand over Max's.

"You're not small, Max. You never were. He just wanted you to believe you were."

Max's throat tightened. He blinked up at the ceiling. "You say that now. But you don't know what he's like when he wants control. You've never seen that side."

"I saw enough that night in Abu Dhabi," Daniel said quietly. "And I know what fear looks like. I know what surviving looks like. You were just a kid. You had to survive your own father."

Max's breath caught, sharp. His fingers curled under Daniel's hand. Not holding. Just needing to feel something solid.

Daniel continued. "You don't have to face him alone anymore. I meant what I said. He doesn't get to be near you. Not while I'm here."

"Why?" Max's voice cracked a little, barely audible. "Why are you here?"

Daniel blinked. Then leaned forward, brushing Max's hair from his eyes again like it was second nature now. "Because I care about you. And because when someone means something to you... you don't leave them alone in a hotel room after a panic attack. You show up."

Max didn't speak. But Daniel saw it, the way his lips pressed together, his eyes shimmered just a bit. He was swallowing something down.

"I'm not going anywhere," Daniel said, softer now. "Not unless you ask me to."

And that's when Max shifted. He turned onto his side, curled a little closer, resting his head against Daniel's stomach now. Like he was anchoring himself to that voice, to the heartbeat underneath.

"I don't want you to go," he whispered. "Ever."

Daniel exhaled, hand drifting down to run slowly through Max's hair. "Then I'm here."

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn't heavy. It was full.

Max didn't say it out loud, not yet, but something inside him cracked open. Something soft. Something real.

And Daniel... Daniel knew it too.

He hadn't come here just because Max was scared. He came because being apart from Max didn't feel right anymore. Because somewhere along the way, something had shifted. Quietly. Steadily.

And now it was here, between them.

Undeniable.

 

They didn't sleep.

How could they, when everything in them was wired and aching and so, so full?

The hotel room was quiet. Too quiet. Only the hum of the air vent and the far-off sounds of Amsterdam at night bled faintly through the window.

They sat side by side now, both upright against the headboard, shoulders close, hands intertwined between them. No words. Just the warmth of skin. Just the steady pressure of two people who had nothing left to hide.

Max broke the silence.

"Danny," he said quietly, eyes still ahead.

Daniel turned his head slightly. "Yeah?"

Max's voice came softer than a breath. "Is... loving another man wrong?"

The question hung in the air, fragile and loaded.

Daniel blinked, taken off guard, not by the question itself, but by how young Max sounded asking it. Like that little boy who'd been told all his life what not to be, what not to feel, was finally asking for himself.

"No," Daniel said, without hesitation. "It's not wrong."

He gave Max's hand a gentle squeeze, his voice steady. "That means you too. Whatever your father made you think, whatever he said, none of that's truth. You loving someone, anyone... it's not wrong. You love who you love. And that's never the wrong thing."

Max turned to him then. Really turned.

And Daniel saw it, the way something deep inside Max cracked open. His lips parted, his brows drawn just slightly, like he was feeling too much at once. Like the truth was finally too heavy to carry alone.

They stared at each other.

Not moving. Not breathing.

Until Max leaned closer, closing the space between them, his eyes searching Daniel's face as if asking permission. His lips hovered a breath away. Waiting.

Daniel nodded once.

That was all Max needed.

He leaned in.

And the moment their lips touched, something broke and bloomed all at once. A dam inside them gave way, every buried feeling, every moment they couldn't name, every long glance and unsaid word. It all spilled into the kiss.

It wasn't fast. It wasn't rushed.

It was slow, reverent. Soft and searching. Max kissed him like he'd wanted to for years but never dared. And Daniel kissed him like he already knew. Like he'd been waiting.

There was no hunger in it. No urgency.

Just relief. Just truth. Just them.

When they finally pulled apart, Max rested his forehead against Daniel's. Eyes closed. Breathing quiet.

Then, wordlessly, he slid down just enough to rest his head on Daniel's chest. Listening to the heartbeat under his ear.

Daniel wrapped an arm around his shoulders and let his other hand drift into Max's hair, brushing it back gently. His fingers moved without thought, just instinct, like they belonged there.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn't need to.

Because after everything, after the pain, the fear, the questions, this was the first moment that felt right.

And they both knew it.

 

The next morning.

Max woke slowly, not from the noise of the city or a racing mind for once, but from something different.

Warmth.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes and turned his head slightly, only to find a weight draped across his waist. Daniel's arm. Loose, relaxed, like it had always belonged there. Max felt a small smile pull at his lips.

He looked up.

Daniel was still asleep, breathing slow and steady, his head resting close on the same pillow. Max hadn't seen him like this before. Not in meetings, not in the paddock, not even in their quietest moments together. This peaceful, this soft.

He looked... happy.

Max shifted slightly, just enough to lift a hand and touch Daniel's face. Gently, like if he pressed too hard, the moment might shatter. He brushed his fingers along the curve of Daniel's cheek, the edge of his beard. The skin was warm, soft under his fingertips. He let his hand settle there, tracing slowly memorizing the lines, the feel, the quiet strength in them.

And then, suddenly, Daniel's lips twitched. His eyes fluttered open.

Max jumped a little. "Shit... sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Daniel smiled, still half-asleep. "You watching me sleep, mate?"

Max huffed a laugh. "Maybe."

They looked at each other for a moment, drowsy and content.

"Good morning," Daniel said, his voice husky.

Max smiled, softer now. "Good morning."

Daniel shifted closer and pulled Max in, wrapping him tighter into his chest. Max didn't resist, in fact, he leaned into it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, without even asking, he tilted his face up and kissed Daniel again.

Daniel kissed him back easily, like it wasn't even a question.

They stayed there, kissing slow, quiet, just lips brushing lips, hands tracing the curve of a back or jaw, like they had all the time in the world. It wasn't about passion. It was about reassurance. About this. Them.

When they finally broke apart, Max was the first to speak.

"I... need to see my mom," he said quietly.

Daniel didn't move, but his grip on Max's waist tightened just slightly. "You want me to come with you?"

Max hesitated, his eyes lowering. "Jos will be there."

Daniel pulled back just enough to see his face. "And I don't care."

Max looked up, something fragile in his expression. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Daniel said firmly. "I meant what I said last night. You're not alone, Max. I'm here. No matter what."

Max didn't answer right away. He just stared at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, like part of him still couldn't believe this was real.

But instead of words, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Daniel's.

They stayed like that a while, quiet.

Max's voice came next, barely a whisper. "Okay."

And then, like it was all he needed for now, he curled closer again. Daniel held him without another word, letting the moment stretch as long as it needed to. They didn't rush. They didn't move.

For the first time in a long time, Max felt like he could stay.

 

The cab ride was quiet.

Max stared out the window, watching the gray clouds roll over Amsterdam like they were waiting to pour. His fingers were twisted tight in his lap, knuckles white. He didn't say a word.

Daniel sat beside him, calm but alert, watching Max more than the road. He didn't push. He didn't speak. His hand simply rested near Max's, close enough to take it if Max reached out. He didn't, not yet.

When the car slowed outside the familiar neighborhood, Max's breath caught.

The house hadn't changed.

Daniel paid the fare, stepped out first, and waited. Max followed a second later, his steps slow, legs feeling heavier with every one. The moment his shoes hit the pavement, his chest tightened again. It was like walking into a place where the air itself remembered things he didn't want to.

Daniel noticed the change in his posture. "You okay?"

Max didn't answer. His jaw clenched. Then, quietly, he nodded.

The door to the house was already cracked open, his sister must've seen the car pull up. She stood just inside, smiling softly when she saw them. But she didn't step forward. She knew. There was someone else inside.

Max stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He didn't move.

Daniel waited a moment, then reached over and touched Max's back. "We can go back. Right now. Just say the word."

Max shook his head, even if his hands trembled. "I have to do this."

Daniel gave a small nod, then moved slightly ahead of him, not leading, but guarding. When Max took the first step onto the porch, Daniel followed at his side.

The door opened wider.

His mother stood there now, her face strained with the weight of things unsaid. "Max," she breathed, stepping aside.

He walked in slowly. Daniel followed.

The hallway smelled the same. The pictures on the wall still hung where they used to. Everything was just as he remembered it. That was the hardest part.

And then:

Jos.

He was in the living room, standing. Like he'd been waiting. His presence filled the room like cold metal. His arms crossed, expression unreadable. But Max didn't miss the flicker in his eyes when he saw Daniel behind him.

Max's spine locked up. His breathing wavered. The panic threatened to claw back up from his ribs. But then, Daniel's fingers brushed his again. Max didn't take his eyes off his father—but he took Daniel's hand.

Just that, changed everything.

"I didn't know you'd be here," Max said, voice flat, guarded.

Jos gave a small scoff. "It's still your mother's house. I don't need permission."

Daniel stepped closer now, not in front, just beside Max. "You sure as hell need respect."

Jos looked at him, eyes narrowing. "And you are?"

Daniel didn't flinch. "The person who gives a damn when he's struggling to breathe in a hotel room. Alone."

Max's hand tightened.

Jos's jaw twitched. "That's not your business."

"It is now," Daniel said, calm but firm. "He's not a kid you get to control anymore."

Max stared at Jos, heart pounding, voice shaking but loud enough now. "You don't get to hurt me again. Not in words. Not in silence. Not by being here like nothing happened."

Silence fell hard.

His sister stood still in the kitchen. His mother said nothing, but her eyes shone with something close to guilt.

Jos finally spoke again, but quieter this time. "I didn't come to fight."

"You already did," Max said. "A long time ago."

Daniel didn't let go of Max's hand once. "He's not alone this time."

And for the first time, Jos looked at Daniel and knew he couldn't say anything that would reach Max anymore. Not through this.

Max didn't say more. He didn't have to. He turned to his mother instead, stepping past Jos, voice gentler now. "Can we talk? Just us?"

She nodded quickly, eyes wet, already moving toward the kitchen.

Daniel leaned in near Max's ear, whispering, "I'll wait here, yeah? I'm not going anywhere."

Max looked at him, really looked. And he nodded. He believed it now.

He walked into the kitchen with his mother.

And Jos left in the hall, watched the door close.

For the first time, Max was choosing who stood beside him. And it wasn't his father.

The kitchen felt warmer. Smaller. Maybe it always had, or maybe it was just the way Max stood near the counter, arms crossed, eyes down like a kid again.

His mother stood by the kettle, even though neither of them had asked for tea. It was something to do with her hands.

"I didn't know he'd be here," Max said first.

She turned, her eyes soft. "I didn't expect you today. He came this morning. It wasn't planned."

Max nodded slowly. "But you let him in."

A pause.

"I did," she said. "Because I thought maybe it wouldn't end like it used to."

He looked at her then, voice low. "And it didn't. Because I didn't let it."

She sighed. "I know. I saw."

There was silence for a moment. The kettle clicked off, untouched. She walked to the table, pulled out a chair for him. He took it. So did she.

"I should've done more back then," she said. "I knew you were scared sometimes. And I let it be. Because I thought discipline would shape you into something stronger."

"It made me fast," Max said. "But it didn't make me whole."

She blinked, tears brimming but not falling. "I see that now. I wish I had sooner."

Max nodded again. His jaw was tight, but there was something else in his eyes—relief. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But space for it, maybe.

"Daniel," she said, cautiously. "He... really came all the way here?"

Max nodded. "Yeah. He did."

She smiled faintly, more with her eyes than her lips. "You love him?"

Max didn't answer right away. Then finally, just a small, certain, "Yes."

She reached across the table and took his hand. "I'm glad someone loves you like that."

His throat went tight.

No more words. Just her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. It wasn't everything, but it was something.

A moment later.

Max stepped out of the kitchen about twenty minutes later. His face was calm, shoulders looser, but his eyes were tired. He found Daniel leaning against the wall in the hallway, arms crossed, looking like he'd been standing there the whole time.

When Daniel saw him, he stood up straight. "You okay?"

Max nodded. "Yeah."

"You wanna go?"

Max hesitated. "Yeah. But not far."

Daniel didn't ask questions. Just smiled, gently. "Alright, let's go."

They left through the back garden instead of the front. Max didn't want to pass Jos again. His mother hugged him on the way out, longer than usual, whispering something in Dutch he didn't repeat.

Outside, the air had cooled. Max led them down a quiet path toward a little park just a block away, tucked between rows of old brick flats. They sat on a bench, close, not touching yet. The sky was low and gray.

Max took a breath. "It wasn't good. But it wasn't terrible."

Daniel looked over. "And that's progress?"

Max chuckled. "We'll call it that."

Daniel bumped his shoulder lightly. "I'm proud of you, you know."

Max turned to him, surprised. "For what?"

"For going in there. For not losing it. For letting me be here."

Max's expression softened. "I didn't really give you a choice."

"You could've told me to stay away," Daniel said. "You didn't. That means something."

Max looked at him, then reached out and took Daniel's hand. "It means everything."

And they sat like that, quiet, steady, holding hands on a park bench in a city that held a lot of their scars.

It didn't feel like a finish line.

It felt like a start.

 

2020 - two years later.

The world didn't slow down in 2020. Not for anyone. Not even for Max Verstappen.

New season, new car, new pressure, but the same old voices. The ones that whispered through headlines, comment sections, half-formed tweets. The ones that echoed from years ago, from people who didn't know a thing about him but always had something to say.

"Entitled."
"Too aggressive."
"Daddy's boy."
"Not even that good."

He didn't answer them. He never did. He just drove harder, faster. Buried it under podiums and tire smoke.

But it stung. More than he let anyone see.

Except one.

 

Post-Qualifying

Max sat on the couch, head back, eyes closed. He hadn't said much since they got back. Qualifying hadn't gone terribly. P4. But not what he wanted. Not what people expected of him. Or worse, what they said he didn't deserve.

Daniel padded in from the kitchen with two mugs. Max didn't even open his eyes.

"Coffee?" Daniel offered.

Max shook his head. "I'm good."

Daniel placed the mug down anyway. Then sat beside him. Quiet. Not pushing.

Max's voice finally came, low. "Do you ever wonder if they're right?"

Daniel turned, frowning slightly. "Who?"

"The people who say I don't deserve this. That I only got here because of him."

Daniel paused. Then said, simply, "No. Never."

Max finally opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling. "They say it so much, sometimes I believe them. Even if I know it's bullshit, I still-" He cut off, jaw clenching.

Daniel's hand found his.

"You know how many people could've gotten the same chances and still never made it like you did?" he said. "You didn't just show up, Max. You earned it. You fight for it."

Max didn't answer. Just squeezed Daniel's hand a little tighter.

Daniel leaned his shoulder against Max's. "You don't have to prove anything to them. Not to anyone. You do it because you love it. And that's enough. You're enough."

Max's throat tightened. He let the silence stretch before he asked, quietly, "You'll still be here, right? Even if I fall apart sometimes?"

Daniel turned to him then, really looked at him. "Max. I told you. Every morning. I love you. That's not changing. Not after two years. Not ever."

Max leaned his head onto Daniel's shoulder. "I love you too," he said softly. "I don't say it because I have to. I say it because I need to."

Daniel smiled, pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "I know."

They sat there for a long time. The coffee went cold. The doubts stayed, but they didn't feel as heavy now.

Because love wasn't loud. It didn't need to shout. It just had to stay. And Daniel always stayed.

 

Monaco, Apartment.

The sun was settling down outside, casting golden streaks through the curtains. Their shared apartment was still, the faint sound of the city outside muffled by thick glass.

Max lay curled against Daniel, head on his chest, cheek pressed to the warmth of his shirt. Daniel had one arm wrapped around him, the other gently stroking Max's back in slow circles. It had become routine now, Max coming home from a race or training, crawling into Daniel's arms like it was the only place he wanted to be. And it was.

Daniel pressed a kiss to Max's hair, then another. And another, trailing them slowly down the side of his head, to his temple, the shell of his ear. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

Max let his eyes drift closed. He listened to Daniel's heartbeat. Let it anchor him. Let himself breathe in the scent of him, clean laundry, faint coffee, and something that was just Daniel.

He smiled against his chest, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you remember the first time?"

Daniel paused, then chuckled softly. "The first what, baby?"

Max tilted his head up, looking at him through lazy lashes. "The first 'I love you.'"

Daniel's smile spread slowly. "Yeah," he said. "Barcelona. After the race. You were pissed off 'cause you spun in practice."

Max groaned and buried his face in Daniel's chest again. "God, I was such an ass."

"You were," Daniel agreed with a grin. "You snapped at the media, nearly broke a door backstage, then came to my room and told me to shut up before I even opened my mouth."

"I was stressed," Max muttered.

"You were adorable," Daniel corrected. "And then I kissed you. Told you to calm down. And out of nowhere you just blurted it out."

Max groaned again. "I still can't believe that. I wasn't even thinking, it just came out."

"Best surprise of my life," Daniel murmured, voice soft now. "You said it, and then froze like you didn't mean to."

"I didn't mean to say it then," Max admitted, looking up again, "but I meant it."

Daniel looked down at him, something warm flickering in his eyes. "I know you did," he said. "You meant it that night, and you mean it now."

Max nodded slowly, the emotion thick in his throat. "I do. I still do."

Daniel leaned down and kissed him, soft and slow. The kind of kiss that said, I remember, too.

They didn't rush. They never had to. It was their little world, quiet and safe, exactly how Max needed it. Daniel kissed the top of his head again, then his forehead, the corner of his eye, the shell of his ear, the spot behind it that always made Max exhale like the weight was lifting.

Max smiled again, melting under the affection. "You always do that," he said quietly.

"Do what?"

"Cover me in kisses when I'm quiet."

Daniel shrugged. "You're the love of my life, mate. I gotta make sure you remember it."

Max let out a small, breathy laugh, eyes fluttering closed again. "I do," he whispered. "I always remember when I'm with you."

And for a moment, everything was good. The world outside could say whatever it wanted. But here wrapped up in Daniel, warm and kissed and held, it didn't matter.

Not right now.

 

Mid-season.

It started small.

A glance from the crowd. A flash of a familiar figure near hospitality. Max caught it during media duties, barely a second, but it hit him like a brick to the gut. Jos.

His father.

He didn't approach. Didn't yell. Didn't say anything. He just stood there, arms crossed, eyes locked on Max like a ghost risen from the past to remind him that peace could always be temporary.

Max pretended not to see him. He trained harder, drove harder. He told himself it didn't matter. But something in him buckled.

The next race, Max missed a braking point by a fraction.

The one after, he snapped at his engineer for something minor.

By the third weekend, Daniel noticed the shift, how Max's grip on his hand was a little tighter, how he'd space out before bed, how his smile looked more like muscle memory than joy.

It wasn't long before Daniel saw him too.

Jos. Standing by the fence near the back of the paddock, just beyond team personnel. Silent. Watching.

Daniel didn't say anything, not at first. But the look he gave Jos was unmistakable. He didn't yell. Didn't go over. Just stared at him, stone-cold. Protective. Unforgiving.

You come near him, and I swear to god, I'll finish what karma won't.

Jos didn't move. But he didn't need to. That was the worst part.

Because Max felt it.

He began to doubt again. Not Daniel, never Daniel, but everything else. His racing. His voice. His strength. Every time he passed a mirror in the garage, he looked for Jos in the reflection. Every time he made a mistake, no matter how small, he heard Jos's voice in his head: weak, overrated, nothing without Red Bull's favoritism.

Daniel caught him staring at nothing after a bad quali session, hands clenched.

"You're not him, Max," Daniel said, quiet but firm. "Don't let him drag you back there. Not again."

Max didn't answer at first. Just stood there with his jaw tight.

Then, "I thought I was over it."

"You are. But trauma doesn't check calendars."

Max's eyes met his, and for a second, he looked so young. So tired. "He doesn't even have to say anything," Max said. "He just stands there. And that's the worst part."

Daniel stepped closer. No cameras. No team radio. Just them. His hand found Max's cheek.

"You're stronger than him," he said. "You love harder than he ever could. And you've built something he'll never understand."

Max nodded once, breathing in deeply, like he needed the reminder.

"Do you ever..." Max's voice cracked a little. "Do you ever think I'm... tainted? Because of him?"

Daniel didn't hesitate. "Never. You're the bravest person I know. You're good, Max. You always have been. You're mine."

And that was all it took. Max didn't need a whole speech. Just that. Just Daniel.

Because for all the shadows Jos tried to cast, he couldn't reach where the light stayed.

And the light, for Max, had a name.

 

2021 - Halfway Through Hell, Holding On

Max woke up most days like he was being chased. The noise didn't stop when the engines did. The pressure, the fans, the headlines, Jos... it was all a constant hum under his skin. His phone buzzed all the time. Alerts, mentions, firestorms of opinions. People who said he was dangerous. Reckless. Dirty. That he didn't deserve it.

They didn't see him as human anymore.

And worst of all, Daniel wasn't beside him every race now. He had McLaren. A whole new world. And Max was proud of him, truly, but sometimes when Max was at his lowest, he wondered:

What if Daniel's just here out of pity? What if he's staying because he's worried I'll fall apart if he goes? What if I'm a burden?

He never said it out loud. He couldn't. It would make it real.

So he smiled. He laughed with the media. He signed autographs, played the role.

And every night, after he shut the door to his room, he just sat there, sometimes staring at his hands, sometimes scrolling through tweets until the bile rose in his throat.

"Crashstappen."
"Entitled prick."
"Paper champion."
"Not even a real man."

Until one night, as he was scrolling in silence, the phone was gently pulled out of his hand.

Daniel.

He didn't say anything at first. Just sat beside Max on the hotel bed and started deleting the comments, careful and methodical. Like he'd done this before. Like it wasn't the first time.

Max watched quietly, heart aching.

"You don't have to do that," he mumbled, barely audible.

Daniel kept going. "I do."

Max bit his lip. "You shouldn't have to."

Daniel finally paused, set the phone aside, and looked at him, soft eyes, serious voice.

"Max... If I could take all of it from you, I would. Every word, every stare from your dad, every lie they say about you, I'd take it and bury it so deep no one could ever dig it back up."

Max's throat burned.

Daniel leaned forward, thumb brushing Max's cheek. "You're not hard to love. Don't let them make you believe you are."

And maybe it was the stress, or maybe it was everything he'd buried all season, but Max finally let himself cry.

No camera. No helmet. Just him, falling apart in the arms of the only person who ever really saw him.

Daniel didn't say shh. He didn't say don't cry. He just held him tighter.

And through it all, through the chaos of the year, through the war that was Abu Dhabi to come, Max remembered that moment.

The world didn't get to break him.

Because Daniel wouldn't let it.

 

Abu Dhabi.  The Night He Became Champion

The crowd roared like a wave that never broke, chanting his name, flashing lights in celebration. He stood there, helmet off, face damp from sweat and desert air. His hands trembled, still clinging to his gloves, the adrenaline barely settling as team members rushed him. Cameras clicked. People hugged. Words like "World Champion" floated around like fireworks in the air.

And Max Verstappen?
He smiled. Or at least, he tried.

But it didn't reach his eyes. Not really.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. One buzz. Then another. And another. But it was that one, his name on the screen, that made something in his chest tighten like a vice.

Jos:
"You don't deserve that win.
You never were.
I wish you dead, rather than seeing you win that title. Holding that trophy.
A man man like you should be at a grave."

Max froze. The world didn't stop. It just blurred.

Suddenly, the cheers were muffled, like cotton stuffed in his ears. People clapped him on the back. Someone tried handing him champagne. But all Max could see was the glow of his phone screen and the words that pierced like knives.

His breath caught. His mouth dried.
World Champion? No.
Not in the eyes of the man who should've been proud.

He turned his phone off.

No words. Just off.

He couldn't breathe. Not properly. Not with that message seared into his mind like a scar. Not when the one person who was supposed to be proud of him, finally, chose to send that instead.

And how could he tell anyone? Everyone wanted joy. Everyone wanted the image, the photo, the kiss to the trophy, the champagne, the tears. The right kind of tears.

But Max's were not those tears.
They weren't happy. They were silent. Inside. Still falling.

Somewhere in the background, a voice called out. Daniel, maybe. But Max didn't answer.

He smiled at the cameras. He smiled for the fans.
He smiled for the lie.

And somewhere inside that smile was a breaking boy.

 

The celebrations had ended. The confetti had settled. The champagne had dried on Max's race suit.

He was a world champion now. The whole world was supposed to be watching him shine. But he was gone.

Daniel noticed the shift right after Max looked at his phone. One glance. One second and Max changed. His eyes. His expression. Like someone had ripped all the color from him in one brutal swipe.

Daniel didn't even need to ask. He knew. Knew it wasn't anything good. Knew it was something bad, something sharp. Something that cut. And he didn't like it.

Now? He couldn't find Max.

Not in the garage.
Not in the hospitality.
Not in the hotel room.
Nowhere.

Max's phone rang without answer. Straight to voicemail after the fifth try.

Panic crawled up Daniel's spine. Something was wrong. He knew it, felt it.

He started asking around. Red Bull mechanics. PR people. McLaren staff. Race officials. No one had seen Max since the podium.

He asked Horner.
He asked Helmut.
He asked Zak Brown.
He asked everyone.

And then he begged. Literally. The calm, smiling, always-cheerful Daniel Ricciardo? Gone. This wasn't him. This was a man in love, terrified out of his mind.

He grabbed Charles first. "Have you seen Max? He's missing. I-he's not answering. Please, Charles."

Charles was startled, but nodded immediately. "I'll look. I'll call his number too."

Lando, seeing Daniel like that, didn't hesitate. He took off in the opposite direction. Carlos followed.

Even Lewis, who had no obligation to, joined. He didn't say much, he just nodded and went. He understood. They all did. Something was wrong.

They searched everywhere. Twenty minutes. Thirty. An hour. Daniel was running out of breath. Out of hope. His chest hurt like something had snapped.

Max wouldn't disappear. Not without saying something. Not without even looking at him.

And then:

Daniel remembered.
Location sharing.

He pulled out his phone, hands trembling, and opened the map app. His heart jumped to his throat.

A small blue dot. Still. Not moving. At the far end of the paddock, behind everything, near the old stairs they'd used to sneak out once during a rain delay.

Daniel ran.

The celebration was still echoing around the paddock when Daniel took off running.

Nobody had even processed what was happening before he was gone, shoving past mechanics, pushing through journalists, eyes wide with something between fear and dread. He didn't explain. He couldn't. His chest burned, his mind was racing, and he couldn't ignore the screaming in his heart, something's wrong. Something is very wrong.

Charles had seen it first. Then Carlos. Then Lando. They glanced at each other once and followed. No hesitation. They didn't know where he was going, but they trusted his fear. And Daniel looked terrified.

He ran across the paddock, past the celebratory crowds, past the cameras, past the giant screens still looping Max's win. He didn't stop until he reached the one place he hoped he was wrong about an old service building tucked away near the outskirts of the circuit, barely used anymore. Quiet. Secluded. Easy to miss if you weren't looking for it.

He swung the door open.

And everything inside him shattered.

Max was there. On the floor. Unconscious. Pills scattered across the cold concrete floor like discarded confetti. His skin pale. His lips slightly parted. Still.

Daniel dropped to his knees so fast it knocked the breath out of him. "No. No, no, Max. Baby-Max!" His voice cracked, his hands already moving, one to Max's cheek, the other searching for a pulse with fingers trembling violently. "Please. Please wake up. Max, you've gotta wake up. I'm here-I'm right here, please, open your eyes and look at me!"

Behind him, the door slammed open again. Charles was first. Then Lando. Then Carlos.

They all froze.

Charles gasped. Lando stood in silence, his face paling with every second. Carlos looked down, fists clenched at his side, as if physically holding himself back from crumbling. None of them said a word at first. The image before them didn't let them. It was one of those things you never want to see, especially not like this. Not him.

Daniel was crying, full-on sobbing now, clinging to Max's hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded to Earth.

"Please don't leave me, Max. Please. I'm sorry for everything, just-please come back. Please, baby, just wake up. You can't do this to me, I can't-" his voice cracked again. "I can't lose you like this, not tonight, not like this..."

Charles blinked back tears, pulled out his phone with shaking fingers, and called for an ambulance, barely able to form the words in English. "Emergency. Yas Marina Circuit. Please, hurry. He's not responding."

Lando crouched down, touching Daniel's shoulder gently. "Danny..." he started, but there was nothing he could say. Nothing would fix this. Nothing would erase the fear on Daniel's face. The way his voice had gone hoarse from screaming Max's name. The way his hands wouldn't stop shaking as they clung to Max's chest.

Carlos knelt beside them too, trying to do something, anything, to help. But even he looked lost.

The ambulance arrived faster than expected. Somehow, people had already heard. Word spread like wildfire. But the paddock pulled together in the way only F1 knew how to tell every other driver, every team principal, every spare staff member formed a human wall. No photos. No videos. No intrusion. Not tonight. Not when one of their own had fallen so hard.

Daniel didn't let go.

He climbed into the ambulance with Max's hand still in his, whispering "I love you" over and over like it was a spell, like it was the only thing left holding Max together. The medics tried to work around him, and he didn't move, just leaned forward to press soft kisses to Max's hand, his cheek, his forehead.

"You're my everything," Daniel whispered, voice raw, lips trembling. "I never cared about the trophy, I never cared about the wins-I just wanted you. Always you. Please come back to me, Maxie. Please..."

When they got to the hospital, Daniel didn't hear a thing they told him. He didn't remember walking. He didn't remember sitting. He didn't feel his body anymore, just the icy numbness where his heart used to be. A nurse told him Max was in emergency care. They'd do all they could.

He was left outside the room. Just a hallway. Just walls. Just silence.

Daniel stood still.

Eyes locked on the white door. Shoulders hunched forward. The tears hadn't stopped. They just ran quieter now. Slower.

His voice was a whisper. "Don't leave me, baby. Please. Don't leave me."

He didn't care who saw him like this. The world had seen him smile for years. It could see him cry tonight. Because this, this was real. The broken pieces, the begging, the way his hands still clutched Max's jacket like he could hold onto him through the seams.

And he didn't stop whispering. Not once.

Because if Max could still hear anything in the world, Daniel wanted it to be that:

"I love you, Max. You're not alone. Come back to me. Please."

 

Hospital, Private Emergency Wing

The hallway was too quiet.

Daniel stood there, frozen in front of the white door that separated him from Max. The one barrier between him and the person he loved most in the world. He couldn't hear anything anymore, not the beeping of monitors through the walls, not the low voices of doctors passing by, not even the distant sounds of the hospital running like normal. It was all just static in his head.

His body was still, but inside him, everything was chaos.

Why did I let him look at his phone?
Why didn't I stop him?
Why didn't I see it?

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe properly. He stared at the door as if Max might walk out at any moment, smiling like none of it had happened. But he didn't. The door stayed closed, and Daniel stayed still.

His thoughts tore through him like a storm.

How could I not know? How did I let this happen? What if he doesn't come back? What if I never get to hold him again, or ask him to marry me, or wake up next to him laughing about something stupid?

His throat tightened. His legs trembled, but he didn't fall. He just stayed.

Then came the sound of shoes against the polished floor. Three sets.

Charles, Lando, and Carlos walked slowly down the hallway. They didn't need to ask where Daniel was, they could see him, still rooted to the spot like a broken statue.

They didn't say anything at first.

They just walked up to him and surrounded him. Carlos reached out gently and put a hand on Daniel's shoulder. Then he pulled him into a hug.

That was all it took.

Daniel collapsed into Carlos' arms, crying so hard it shook his whole body. His sobs weren't quiet. They were raw. Ugly. Guttural. The kind of crying that only came when someone you loved more than yourself was on the edge of slipping away.

Carlos held him tight, no hesitation. "He's going to be okay, Danny. He's strong. He's a fighter. Max is a fighter, you know that."

But Daniel shook his head, face buried into Carlos' shoulder, voice cracking between every word. "I-I can't lose him. I c-can't... I haven't even... I haven't even asked him to marry me yet. I-I was going to. I had the ring, I had everything, I was just- I waited too long, and now-"

Charles stepped in on the other side, pulling Daniel into the hug without a word. His own eyes were glassy, red around the edges.

"You will get to ask him," Charles said softly. "He's not going anywhere. He's coming back."

Lando was quieter, but he wrapped his arms around too, his voice almost a whisper. "He loves you. He's fighting his way back to you. He's not done with you. Not yet."

They all stayed there like that, the four of them huddled together in a quiet hallway of a private emergency wing. The outside world couldn't reach them here. There were no cameras, no fans, no reporters, no questions. Just them, and the unbearable silence behind the white door.

Eventually, Daniel's sobs slowed. His body sagged with exhaustion, his hands still clutching Carlos' shirt like a lifeline. His head leaned heavily on Carlos' shoulder, and the moment his breathing evened out, they realized he'd fallen asleep. Just worn out. Physically and emotionally destroyed.

They guided him gently to the nearest chair, settling him down without breaking Carlos' hold. Daniel stayed curled against him, head still resting on his shoulder.

Charles sat down across from them, leaning forward with his hands clasped tight together. He didn't look up when he spoke. "I've known Daniel a long time," he murmured. "I've never seen him like that. Not once. Not even close."

Lando stood nearby, arms crossed, still visibly shaken. "When I heard him cry back there... in that room... I've never been that scared. Not in my life."

Carlos gently shifted Daniel so he wouldn't wake, his voice low. "He loves Max," he said simply. "More than anything. I don't think he'll survive if Max doesn't make it."

And after that... silence.

Not empty. Heavy.

They all stayed there, the three of them guarding Daniel like a wall, like a promise. No one left. No one said anything else. They just sat, and waited, and hoped.

Hoped that the next sound would be a nurse walking out of that white door, with good news.

Hoped they wouldn't have to face a world where Max Verstappen didn't open his eyes again.

 

Around twenty minutes later.

The hallway hadn't changed. Same dim lights, same white walls, same quiet hum of machines in the distance. But something was different now.

Daniel stirred.

His head was still resting on Carlos' shoulder, the warmth of it grounding him for a moment as he blinked his eyes open. He didn't even remember falling asleep, but the weight in his chest told him sleep had done nothing to fix what was broken.

He sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the muted light. And that's when he saw them, Charles lying flat along the bench, his head resting gently on Carlos' thigh. Lando was curled in the chair opposite them, head leaned against the wall, arms folded, clearly having dozed off in place.

They had stayed. Every single one of them.

Daniel's heart squeezed.

He rubbed at his eyes, sniffed quietly, then turned toward the emergency room door again. Still closed. Still that same awful blank white.

And then, it opened.

A doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand, face calm but firm. He looked around and said, "I need to speak with a family member."

Daniel didn't hesitate. "I'm his partner."

The doctor gave a small nod, then motioned for him to come closer.

"He's stable now," the doctor said. "He overdosed on a combination of prescription sedatives. Quite a heavy dose, too. We've flushed the remaining drugs from his system and have him on IV fluids, with close monitoring."

Daniel swallowed hard, already blinking back tears again.

The doctor continued gently, "He's incredibly lucky. If the ambulance had arrived even a minute later... we may not have been able to save him. His breathing was shallow, his heart rate irregular. But because he got here in time, and we were able to stabilize him quickly, he's going to make it."

Daniel nearly dropped to the floor with that. Relief hit him like a wave, and for a second, he thought he might pass out from how hard his heart was pounding.

"But," the doctor added, "he's not awake yet. That much of a dose takes a toll on the body, and the sedatives will still be wearing off. He might not regain consciousness for several more hours. And when he does... there may be some short-term side effects."

Daniel's voice was hoarse when he finally managed to speak. "What kind of side effects?"

"Confusion, disorientation, possibly memory gaps. He might be emotionally fragile, or he might not fully understand where he is at first. But those should fade over time. What's most important is that he's alive and responding to treatment."

Daniel nodded, eyes stinging. "Can I see him?"

"Yes," the doctor said with a gentle smile. "But only one at a time."

Behind him, Daniel heard chairs shift and soft footsteps. The others had woken up.

Charles stepped forward beside Carlos, brushing sleep out of his eyes. Lando was rubbing the back of his neck, quietly stepping in next to them. The three of them said nothing at first. Just looked at Daniel.

Then Carlos gave him a slight nod. "Go. We'll wait."

Charles added softly, "You need to be the first one he sees."

Lando, voice quiet, "Tell him we're all still here."

Daniel didn't need to be told twice. He gave them a small, grateful look nothing more than a glance, really, before he turned and pushed open the door.

The room was quiet. Sterile. The kind of clean that made everything feel too still.

And in the center of it all, Max.

He was hooked up to machines, IV running into the inside of his elbow, oxygen tube gently in his nose. His face was pale, but not ghostly. His chest rose and fell, not labored anymore, just slow. Steady.

Alive.

Daniel's knees nearly gave out again. He made it to the side of the bed and dropped into the chair like his body finally gave out.

His hand found Max's without thought. He held it in both of his, bringing it up to his lips, kissing his knuckles so gently like he was made of glass. He pressed his forehead against it.

And for the first time since that awful moment hours ago, Daniel let out a long, trembling breath.

"You're okay," he whispered, voice already breaking again. "You're really okay."

The monitors beeped softly. Max didn't stir, not yet. But his color was better. His breathing was even. He was here.

Daniel closed his eyes, still gripping Max's hand. "You scared the hell out of me, Max. I thought I was gonna lose you. I was so damn scared." He paused, voice trembling. "But you held on. You held on for me."

There was nothing else to say right now. Not yet.

So Daniel just sat there, holding Max's hand like he'd never let go again.

 

The room was still quiet. No beeping alarms, no rush of footsteps. Just the gentle whir of the machines beside Max's bed and the softest sound of their breathing, Max's slow and mechanical, Daniel's still shaky, trying to ground himself.

Daniel blinked, lifting his head off Max's hand for a moment. He hadn't let go, not once. Not since the doctor said it was okay to come in.

But something tugged at him now. Something he had to do.

The memory hit him in a sudden, sharp wave, the track, or just outside it, where he found Max, where everything blurred into screaming and pleading and sirens. He remembered running. He remembered Charles' voice breaking behind him. He remembered Carlos' hands trying to calm him down. And the crowd, the people, the chaos that had somehow stayed just far enough away. Nobody saw what happened. Not really.

Because people helped. A lot of people.

With a hand still wrapped around Max's, Daniel reached into his pocket with the other and pulled out his phone.

It was flooded. Messages. Missed calls. Notifications that he ignored when the only thing he cared about was in this hospital bed. But now... now he owed them an answer.

He scrolled quickly, added the numbers he already knew, Seb. Lewis. Toto. Christian. Andrea. Fred. Even Otmar. Charles, Lando, and Carlos had probably already talked to their teams, but still — Daniel wanted to make sure everyone who helped knew what mattered.

He typed slowly. Just enough.

 

'I'm here with him. He's alright now, and thank you all for your help on making sure no public will see."

Thanks, guys.
- Daniel

He didn't expect anything in return.

But they came anyway.

Sebastian replied first:
"I'm so, so relieved, Daniel. Tell him I'm thinking of him. He's not alone. Ever."

Then Lewis:
"Thank God. You had us scared, mate. Take care of him. We've got your backs, all of us. No one will ever hear a word."

Toto sent a thumbs up and a heart emoji.
Fred said simply: "Anything you need."
Christian's message was short, but real: "Tell Max the team's with him. Whatever he needs. No press will touch this."

Daniel stared at the screen for a second longer, then set it face down on the table. He'd thank them again later.

Right now, Max needed him more.

He turned back toward the bed and shifted a little closer. Max still hadn't moved, hadn't stirred, but his skin felt warmer now beneath Daniel's thumb. That meant something.

"I don't know what I'd do if you left me," Daniel whispered, brushing his fingers along Max's hand. "I can't even think about it. You scared the hell out of me, baby."

His voice cracked.

"You can't just... go like that. Not when I haven't even stopped loving you yet. Not when I've still got a ring hidden in my bag and a thousand things left to tell you."

Daniel took a shaky breath, resting his head lightly next to their hands. "I was gonna do it in Monaco. Ask you. Thought maybe I'd surprise you with the boat thing you love. But that's not the point anymore, is it?"

He reached forward and brushed a bit of Max's hair back off his forehead. It was barely damp now. The warmth was returning.

"I saw the messages. I saw what he said to you," Daniel murmured, a sharper edge sneaking into his voice. "Jos."

He exhaled hard through his nose, anger rippling through his jaw.

"He's never coming near you again. I don't care what I have to do, I swear on everything, Max, I'll make sure that man never sees daylight if he so much as breathes near you. That's a promise."

His voice softened again.

"I'm sorry," Daniel whispered. "For not catching it earlier. For letting all that hate find its way to you. I should've protected you better. I should've been louder about it."

Max didn't respond. But Daniel kept holding his hand tighter.

"I won't let it happen again. I don't care if I have to take every bullet, every headline, every whisper on the paddock." His eyes were glassy again now. "You're everything to me. And I'm not letting the world tear you apart like that again. Not while I'm still breathing."

His hand stayed on Max's chest now, rising and falling with each slow inhale.

"I'll protect you," Daniel promised. "Even if it means I have to give everything I've got. Even if it means my life. I'll do it, Max. For you. Always for you."

The room fell quiet again.

But Daniel stayed right where he was. Holding Max's hand. Waiting.

A Few Hours Later

Daniel hadn't moved.

He'd stayed in the same spot for hours, only shifting now and then to stretch his back or wipe his eyes. The room was dimly lit, and the silence had begun to feel like its own kind of noise. Every tick of the clock, every soft beep of the monitor was a reminder that Max was still here. Still breathing.

Daniel sat beside the bed, Max's hand cradled gently in both of his. His thumb moved over Max's knuckles again and again a rhythm he didn't even realize he was keeping.

Then it happened.

A twitch. A shift. Max's fingers curled, ever so slightly, beneath his own.

Daniel blinked.

"Max?"

His voice cracked as he leaned forward. Max's eyes fluttered, unfocused at first. His face was pale, drawn. like he'd just walked through a storm that had tried to rip him apart.

"Hey, hey- Max," Daniel whispered, one hand brushing back messy strands of hair, the other still holding tight to Max's. "It's me, I'm here."

Max blinked slowly. His gaze was sluggish, like his mind was trying to catch up with his body. But he looked at Daniel, not through him. And then, soft and hoarse, his voice came.

"Danny..."

Daniel broke.

A laugh. A sob. Relief cracked his whole body in two. "Yeah, baby. I'm right here."

Max looked around weakly, confused and clearly exhausted, but his fingers tightened around Daniel's.

"Hospital...?" he whispered.

"Yeah. You scared the hell out of me," Daniel said, swallowing hard. "But you're okay now. You're safe."

Max tried to speak again, but his throat was too dry. Daniel quickly reached for the small button near the bed and pressed it.

The nurse came in almost immediately, and behind her, the doctor followed. A young man with kind eyes and a clipboard in hand.

"We need a few minutes," the nurse said gently. "We just want to assess him fully."

Daniel hesitated, only for a second then leaned in and kissed Max's forehead. "I'll be right outside, okay?"

Max gave the faintest nod.

Daniel stepped out into the hallway, rubbing his tired face with both hands. His heart hadn't stopped pounding since that first squeeze of Max's hand.

Then he heard it, familiar voices, shoes against tile.

Charles, Carlos, and Lando came down the corridor, holding a small paper bag, another with takeout, and what looked like a folded hoodie and track pants.

"Hey," Carlos called out first.

When they saw Daniel, their pace quickened.

"We weren't sure if you needed anything," Charles said, lifting the bag of food. "You've been here all day."

"We figured clothes too, in case you end up sleeping here," Lando added. "Or just... not going anywhere."

Daniel looked at them, tired but grateful. Then his face broke into something soft, a smile, even if it was worn thin.

"He's awake," he said.

Their expressions shifted instantly, relief, shock, happiness, all at once.

"No way," Charles said.

"Really?" Lando blinked hard.

"Is he okay?" Carlos stepped closer.

Daniel nodded, the emotion thick again in his throat. "He said my name. Recognized me. He's weak, but... he's here."

The three let out a collective exhale, like they'd all been holding it this whole time. They patted Daniel's shoulders again, hugged him briefly, even if awkwardly because of the takeout bags.

"Thank god," Charles muttered.

"Fucking finally," Lando whispered.

"I knew he would fight," Carlos said, more to himself than anyone.

They didn't have to wait long. After a few minutes, the nurse came out with the doctor beside her. He nodded warmly at the group.

"You can go in now. One at a time is ideal, but he's stable and awake. Still very weak, though,  keep it calm. He might feel foggy or disoriented. That's normal."

Daniel asked quietly, "Any side effects?"

The doctor nodded. "He's lucid and responsive, which is a very good sign. But he's going to be tired for a while. Nausea, dizziness, trouble concentrating, that's expected. He may also experience some mood swings or memory gaps over the next few days, but he does not appear to have long-term cognitive damage."

Daniel closed his eyes briefly in relief.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Then without another word, the four of them moved toward the door, not rushing, but close to it.

Daniel opened it first.

Max was there, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted in effort, but his head turned weakly when he heard the sound. His gaze met Daniel's again.

And Daniel smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in days.

And he didn't wait.

The second he stepped in and met Max's eyes, he crossed the room in three long strides and leaned down without a word, without asking and kissed him.

Softly, but firmly. With a desperation that had been held back for far too long.

Max blinked, startled at first. But his fingers found Daniel's shirt, tugging him closer, and he kissed him back. Slow, tired, but full of the same emotion that Daniel poured into it.

The sound of shifting feet brought them back to the room. Charles, Carlos, and Lando were standing just inside the doorway, watching with quiet smiles.

None of them said anything, they didn't need to.

Daniel pulled back only slightly, resting his forehead against Max's. "You're really here," he whispered.

Max's voice was soft. Hoarse. "You're really loud."

Daniel let out a laugh, shaky with relief. "Shut up. I almost lost you."

Max's fingers curled around his. "I know. I'm sorry."

Daniel shook his head and sat gently on the edge of the bed, careful of the IV line. Max shifted just enough to rest his head on Daniel's shoulder, like it was the only place he felt safe.

The others quietly took seats around the room, Charles and Carlos on the visitor chairs, Lando in the one by the window.

"How're you feeling?" Charles asked, voice gentle.

Max's answer was faint but clear. "Headache. Like someone took a jackhammer to my skull."

"Sounds about right," Carlos said.

"You okay though? Really?" Lando leaned forward slightly, concern still etched into his face.

Max nodded. "I'm okay now. Tired. But okay."

Everyone seemed to exhale at once, the tension finally starting to leave the room. For a while, they just sat like that. No one brought up what happened. Not yet.

Carlos eventually broke the silence with a crooked smile. "So, how long have you two been keeping this from us?"

Daniel glanced at Max, who looked up briefly and said without hesitation, without confusion:  "2018."

Carlos grinned. "I knew it. When we were teammates, I could tell. I didn't say anything 'cause... I figured you'd figure it out on your own."

Daniel smiled, brushing his thumb over Max's hand. "Took us long enough."

Charles leaned into Carlos, casually wrapping an arm around his. "Well, we've been together since 2020. So you've got us beat, I guess."

Lando raised both hands like a referee. "And I am... apparently their emotional support child. Just a bit younger, but wise beyond my years."

They all laughed, tired, but real laughter. The kind you only find after something terrifying, something that almost took too much. It settled over them like a blanket, warm and light.

For the next while, they talked about other things. Silly stories from the paddock. Random memories from races. Lando's terrible cooking. Charles' ridiculous playlist before qualifying. How Carlos once accidentally locked himself in a hotel bathroom.

No one mentioned Max's father. No one said the word "overdose." Not tonight. Not while Max was leaning against Daniel like the only thing holding him up, and Daniel looked like he was holding the whole world just by being there.

In that room, for now, it was just them, friends, lovers, teammates, family.

And Max, who was still here.

Still fighting.

Still loved.

 

Later That Night.

The room was dim now, lit only by the soft yellow glow from the corner lamp. The machines next to Max's bed beeped steadily, a quiet rhythm that matched the rise and fall of his chest. Outside, the city had gone still. Visiting hours had ended. The others had left after making sure Daniel had food and clean clothes, after one last round of hugs and gentle reassurances.

And now, it was just the two of them.

Daniel sat on the edge of the bed again, one leg tucked under him, his hand resting on Max's as if he were afraid to let go. He was watching Max, like he had been doing every few minutes, as if to make sure he didn't disappear.

Max shifted slightly on the pillow, his gaze soft but heavy. "Danny..."

Daniel blinked. "Yeah, babe?"

Max hesitated, then said quietly, "I'm sorry."

Daniel frowned. "Max-"

"I mean it." Max's voice cracked, but he pushed through. "What I did was dangerous. It was stupid. I didn't mean to-I just... everything in my head was so loud, and I felt like I couldn't breathe, and I didn't think. I didn't think, Dan. I just took the pills. I didn't want to die... I just wanted it to stop for a second."

Daniel didn't say anything right away. He looked down at their hands at Max's fingers wrapped loosely around his and then back at Max's eyes.

And then he shook his head. "You don't have to say sorry. Not to me. Not for that."

Max looked away, like he didn't believe him, but Daniel gently reached up and turned his face back toward him.

"This wasn't your fault," Daniel said softly. "What happened... it happened because things got too heavy. And you were hurting. That doesn't make you weak. And it doesn't make you wrong. It makes you human."

Max exhaled shakily and leaned into Daniel's chest, pressing his face into the fabric of his shirt. Daniel wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, one hand sliding into his hair, the other holding him firm against his heart.

"I love you," Daniel whispered, voice thick. "So fucking much, Max. You've got no idea. And I need you to promise me something."

Max tilted his head slightly to look up at him.

Daniel looked him in the eye. "Next time, no matter what it is, no matter how big or messy or loud it gets in your head, you talk to me. You don't bottle it up. You don't carry it on your own. You tell me. Because you're not alone anymore, Max. You've got me."

Max's eyes welled up again, and he nodded quickly, then whispered, "I promise."

"Good," Daniel said. "Because I can't... I can't go through that again. I thought I lost you."

Max sat up enough to kiss him again, for what felt like the hundredth time that night and Daniel kissed him back, slower this time. No panic. Just love.

When they broke apart, Daniel brushed his knuckles over Max's cheek. "You're safe now. And no one's ever going to know what really happened. The media won't touch this. The other drivers, the teams, they made sure of it."

Max's brow furrowed, but Daniel gently continued. "If anything comes out, the F1 officials will put out a statement. Something about a minor accident. Maybe a fall. Nothing more. No one will ever know what really happened tonight."

Max nodded slowly. "Thank you."

Daniel leaned his forehead against Max's. "I don't care what it takes. I'll protect you. From everything. Even if it means protecting you from yourself."

They stayed like that for a long time. Just holding each other in the silence, under hospital lights, wrapped in promises and second chances.

Max was still here.

And Daniel wasn't going anywhere.

 

A Week Later - Quiet Evening in Monaco

There was no race weekend, no roar of engines, no press conferences. Just the sound of soft waves and the low buzz of conversation as all twenty drivers gathered at the private paddock lounge. Max walked in slowly, hand tightly held in Daniel's, the hum of their steps against the floor feeling louder than usual. He wasn't here to race, not today. He was here to say thank you.

And the moment he stepped in, everyone turned.

They'd all come back. Vacation plans were paused, flights rescheduled. Nobody said it out loud, but they all knew, Max mattered more than a weekend away.

Before Max could even open his mouth, two familiar arms wrapped around him. Sebastian and Lewis pulled him into a firm, unshakable hug. It wasn't one of those polite back-pats either, it was tight, like they were grounding him, like they were making sure he didn't slip away again.

Max hugged them back. Really hugged them. His cheek pressed into Seb's shoulder, eyes closing just for a second.

When they pulled away, Lewis cupped the side of Max's face for a beat and said, "You deserve every single win, Max. Everything you've done. Doesn't matter what anyone online says. You earned all of it. You are a champion. And you're really okay now, that what matters."

Max swallowed and gave a nod, voice quiet. "Thanks, Lewis. That means a lot."

Then, like a slow, quiet wave, the rest of the grid came forward. One by one, 17 more drivers,  even the rookies who had barely spoken to him before, stepped up and embraced him. There were soft words of support, a few pats on the back, and the kind of looks that said: We're glad you're still here.

And the last to come forward... was Daniel.

He didn't speak.

He just pulled Max into him, arms around his waist like he'd done a hundred times before, but this time, in front of all of them. And right there, in the middle of the paddock, Daniel leaned in and kissed him.

There was a pause. Not in shock, they'd all figured it out by now, but out of quiet appreciation for the moment.

Then came a chorus of light-hearted teasing.

"Get a room, you two."

"Finally, some PDA that isn't a helmet bump."

"About damn time."

Max rolled his eyes and smiled, not the forced, camera smile, but a real one. One that softened his whole face. Daniel just laughed and pressed his forehead to Max's for a second longer before they both turned to face the group again.

And then came the dinner.

A long table, set under soft string lights. Twenty drivers seated shoulder to shoulder, the tension of the past weeks slowly melting into the warm air. There was wine, there were stories, and most of all, there was laughter. Not a single reporter in sight. No cameras. Just them.

Max looked around the table at Carlos and Charles nudging each other with smirks, at Lando dramatically retelling a story that never happened, at Lewis and Seb leaning back close to each other in quiet conversation.

And next to him, Daniel, always Daniel, quietly watching him, his hand never too far.

Max reached over and took it again.

Because this time, he wasn't letting go.

 

Four Years Later - Present day.

It had been four years.

Four years since the pills. Four years since the hospital. Four years since Daniel nearly lost the only person he had ever truly loved.

But they made it.

They built something out of the rubble, something solid. Not perfect, but real. Grounded. Honest. Max never had to ask for space to fall apart anymore, because Daniel made sure there was always room to breathe.

He kept his promise.

Every time the fans booed Max on a podium, Daniel squeezed his hand. Every time cruel comments flooded social media, Daniel unplugged the phone and wrapped his arms around him, whispering, "They don't know shit. You know who you are. I do too."

There were still bad days.

People still said awful things. Told Max to do the unthinkable, tried to rewrite his worth into something less than he was. The world hadn't changed much.

But Max had.

He didn't spiral anymore. He didn't break. Because now, when the hate got loud, Max just turned to the one voice that mattered.

Daniel.

And Daniel, without fail, would grin, crooked and sharp, and say, "They can go fuck themselves."

It always made Max smile. That same little laugh, the one Daniel had once been afraid he'd never hear again.

Jos was gone. A month after that night, Daniel had helped Max file charges, had stood with him in court, had watched the gavel fall and the door close. That chapter was over. The only light Jos Verstappen ever saw now was the faint gray spilling through his cell bars.

Max's mother had cried when she learned what almost happened. She wasn't always present in his life, but she loved her son. And knowing that Daniel was there, truly there, helped her breathe easier. She saw how Max lit up around him. How steady he was now.

He still got the hate. That hadn't changed.

But he also got something else now a hand to hold through it. A voice in his ear when it got too loud. A reason to fight back.

Daniel Ricciardo was still his reason.

And today, when it happened again, another interview, another twisted headline, another wave of bile online, Max didn't look away.

He walked into the motorhome, found Daniel leaning on the counter with a coffee in one hand and a smirk ready, and Max just looked at him. One look. That was all it took.

Daniel raised an eyebrow and said exactly what Max needed.

"They can go fuck themselves."

Max chuckled. That laugh, the one Daniel lived for, low and warm and just for him.

He walked over, took Daniel's hand, and kissed the inside of his wrist.

"I know," he said quietly. "I've got you."

"You always will."

 

Back in 2023

It was Daniel Ricciardo's final night as a Formula 1 driver.

The cameras were everywhere, crowding the paddock exit. Fans lined the fences, waving, clapping, calling out his name. Reporters shouted questions, flashes going off like fireworks. The kind of farewell they gave champions except Daniel wasn't walking away on a high.

He wasn't retiring by choice.

The team that once promised him a place had tossed him aside like a worn-out glove. No podium farewell, no big send-off, just... goodbye.

And Max felt every inch of that heartbreak.

He had watched Daniel smile through interviews, hug the crew, thank the same people who left him stranded. He had watched him hold it together with the same charm that had made the world love him.

But Max knew better. He saw the cracks.

They had kissed goodbye already, behind one of the hospitality units, just them. Max had whispered, "I'll wait for you," and Daniel had whispered back, "You won't have to wait long."

But when Daniel started walking away... something in Max broke.

He couldn't let him leave like that. Not quietly. Not like it didn't matter. Because it did matter.

Max Verstappen didn't care who was watching.

He ran.

Right through the paddock, past the shocked fans and photographers. He called out, "Daniel!" loud enough to echo. Daniel paused mid-wave, half-turned and then Max crashed into him.

No hesitation.

He kissed him.

Right there. In front of the world. On live television. With all the chaos and flashing lights, Max Verstappen kissed Daniel Ricciardo like no one else existed.

Daniel froze for a second not from fear, just from shock and then he melted into it, arms around Max, kissing him back like he needed it to breathe. The crowd roared. Reporters lost their minds. Social media exploded.

But none of that mattered.

Not to them.

They broke apart only when the tears came. Max's eyes were glassy, but steady. Daniel's were shining too.

Max gripped his hand and didn't let go.

And together, they walked away from the paddock. No looking back.

That night, they made history.

Not just because two drivers kissed under the lights, not just because the grid had never seen something like it, but because they chose each other when it mattered most. In the middle of grief, change, and public scrutiny, they still chose love.

Daniel didn't leave the sport entirely. No. He was still around, team ambassador, mentor, whatever title they gave him didn't matter.

He was there for one reason.

Max.

And people still cheered. There was hate, of course there was, but hate became a faint noise in the distance. Just wind behind them.

Because Max had Daniel.

And Daniel? He had everything.

 

Now, 2025

Max Verstappen had done it again.

Four-time World Champion. Chasing a fifth. But this year felt different.

Not because of the pressure that was always there. Not because of Red Bull's contract ticking down, that clock had been ticking since they started disrespecting the people Max cared about.

No, this year was different because Max wasn't doing it for the team.

He was doing it for him.
For Daniel.
For the man who stood by him when everything crumbled.
For the man who kissed him in front of the world like nothing else mattered.
For the man who had once told him, "You're not alone."

He wasn't. Not anymore. Not ever again.

Daniel had kept every promise. He showed up for Max through the pain, the glory, the silence, the noise. And Max? He let himself be held. Let himself be seen. He let himself believe that maybe love really could be safe.

And last year, 2024. Daniel had sealed that belief with one question.

They were in the Netherlands. It was the Dutch GP weekend, but the real magic happened far from the paddock.

They were on a break at Max's childhood home, tucked away in the familiar hum of quiet roads and windmills. Victoria was there with her husband and kids. Sophie had cooked dinner. The backyard smelled like summer.

Daniel had asked Max to step outside for some air.

And then, under the soft orange glow of the sunset, he dropped to one knee.

His voice was steady, but his eyes held the storm of everything they'd lived through.

"Max," he started. "I don't think you even realize how strong you are. How beautiful, inside and out. The first time I saw you, you were this focused, fast kid, and I thought, shit, I'm in trouble. And I was."

Max laughed through his tears.

Daniel kept going, a soft smile on his face. "But then I saw more. I saw how much you care, how hard you fight, for your team, for your name, for me. And every time you looked at me like I was worth something, I just fell harder."

He took a breath. "You've already given me everything. But if you'll let me... I'd like to spend the rest of my life giving everything back."

Daniel opened the box. "Will you marry me?"

Max didn't even try to stop the tears. His voice cracked when he said, "Yes."
Not just once. "Yes. Yes. Of course yes."

Victoria had clapped a hand over her mouth, teary-eyed. The kids screamed and ran over, hugging Max's legs and Daniel's waist, shouting, "They're getting married!"

Sophie wiped her eyes and said, "Took you long enough."

It was perfect.

No cameras. No microphones. Just the people who knew them, really knew them, cheering as two hearts finally found their way home.

Later that night, Max lay with his head on Daniel's chest under the stars, tracing the ring already on his finger like he couldn't believe it was real. And Daniel kissed the top of his head and whispered, "We made it."

And they did.

Now, in 2025, Max had fire in his eyes and gold on his mind. But not for trophies. Not for legacy.

He was racing for the life he'd built.
For the man waiting for him in the garage.
For the promise they made in the quiet, surrounded by love.

This wasn't the end of something.

It was the beginning of everything.

 

Zandvoort, 2025
The Dutch GP.

The stands were a sea of orange, smoke in the air, chants echoing through the coast. But Max was calm, not because the pressure was gone, but because he'd learned how to breathe through it. Because every time he turned his head, he saw Daniel.

The race was brutal. The car wasn't perfect. Strategy had holes. But Max had clenched his teeth and done what he always did: he fought. Not just for the title, but for something bigger. Something quieter. Something only he truly understood.

When the checkered flag waved, he crossed the line second. Not a win, not today. But the fans still roared, like it was. Because they knew. They knew what he'd given them, and how far he'd come.

After the podium and the champagne and the anthem, Max headed to the press room. Helmet in hand, suit still half unzipped, hair damp with sweat.

The questions came, as always.

"Max, how do you feel about today's result?"
"Was there something more the team could've done?"
"Do you think this brings pressure heading into the next round?"

He answered them all, calm and measured. Then one reporter raised her hand, a bit gentler than the rest.

"Max," she asked, "you've fought through so much in your career, tough seasons, criticism, bad strategies, heavy expectations. And yet you've never really stopped. What's kept you going all these years?"

And that's when it happened.

Max looked down for a moment, then up, and he smiled, not the smug one, not the public one. The real one. The soft, unguarded kind only a few people had ever seen.

"I fought this hard," he said, "because of one person."
His voice didn't shake. "He Was the Reason. He always was the reason. And I won't stop... not as long as he's with me. I won't stop."

He didn't say a name.
He didn't need to.

Because out in the paddock, Daniel Ricciardo was watching the live feed with a hand over his heart, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. And everyone around him smiled, because they knew. Hell, everyone knew.

And Daniel? He'd never been more proud.
Not of the wins.
Not of the titles.
But of this.

Of the man who once thought he didn't deserve softness.
Of the man who now stood in front of the world and said, I'm not alone anymore.
Of the man he would soon call husband.

---------|

Words are strange things.

So easy to say, so easy to brush off. Until they aren't.
Until they dig deep, past skin, past bone and wrap themselves around a heart until it forgets how to beat.

Max Verstappen almost didn't make it. Not because he was weak. Not because he didn't try. But because sometimes words win.

And Jos's words did win, for a moment. They drowned out everything. The world's cheers, his trophies, his strength, all buried beneath the voice of the man who was supposed to love him. It wasn't a loud fall. Just silence, and pain, and too many pills on a bathroom floor.

But fate, or love, maybe both, didn't let him go.

Because Daniel had always been there. Watching. Holding. Catching. Loving. He wasn't the loudest voice, but he was the most steady. When Max fell, Daniel was the ground. When Max broke, Daniel was the glue. When Max was gone, Daniel was the one who found him and brought him back.

And Max stayed. He stayed because of Daniel.

Because even when the hate came back, even when the media twisted things, even when the past tried to pull him under again, Daniel didn't let go. Max had something to hold on to. Something to fight for. Someone who reminded him every day that he was not a burden, not broken, not too much.

Just loved.

So Max fights.
For Daniel.
For the boy who once almost gave up.
For the man he is now.

And maybe, just maybe, for those who are still listening.

Because words can hurt.
They can destroy.
But they can also save.

And Max knows that now. Which is why he said this once, quietly, in an interview when no one expected it:

"Some people are lucky. The words never reach them because there's another voice. One telling them it's okay.
But some people don't get that. They lose. Not because they're weak. But because the words are loud, and there's no one louder.
So... be careful with your words.
You never know which ones stayed. Or which ones someone might not survive."

That clip went viral. But more importantly, it made people stop. And think. And maybe, change.

Max Verstappen; four-time world champion, fighter, fiancé, almost lost everything.

But love, the quiet kind, the stubborn kind, it saved him.
And now he lives for it.

---------------------------------------------

Notes:

Words can be cruel.
Sometimes you say them without thinking, without knowing what might happen next.
This story—it’s not just Max’s or Daniel’s.
It’s about all of us.

Because words are the sharpest weapon we carry.
They cut deep, even when we don’t mean them to.
And the worst part?
You never know how much damage they’ve done until it’s too late.

So be careful.
What you say can stay with someone far longer than you ever imagined.

Chapter 19: LN4 & CS55 | Love. Eventually?

Notes:

Here's some Carlando fanfic. Carlando just hadn't come into my minds... so I've just been doing randoms. So here it is.

First meeting, McLaren HG. 2019

The hallways of McLaren HQ smelled like fresh paint and carbon fiber. Lando adjusted the collar of his polo for the fifth time, nervously pulling at the hem as he walked down toward the garage. Everything felt surreal, the logo on the wall, the quiet hum of machinery, the fact that his name was on a racing suit now. His name.

And then he saw him.

Carlos Sainz stood by the car, one hand resting on the rear wing like it was a familiar friend. He looked completely at ease, calm, confident. Not in an arrogant way, but in a been-here-before kind of way. His hair was still a bit messy from the wind outside, and he was laughing at something an engineer said, that warm, open kind of laugh that made you want to smile along even if you didn't know the joke.

Lando paused without meaning to. His breath caught a little. Just a little.

Okay. Cool. Totally normal reaction to your new teammate. Who happens to be ridiculously good-looking and already has actual wins under his belt.

Carlos spotted him, smile still lingering. "Hey," he said, walking over. "Lando, right?" He extended his hand, casual but firm.

Lando blinked and then nodded too quickly. "Yeah! Uh... hi. Yeah. I mean, yes."

Carlos chuckled softly, but not in a mean way. "Welcome to McLaren. First day?"

"Feels like first day of school," Lando joked, voice lighter than he felt.

Carlos grinned. "Don't worry. You'll be top of the class in no time."

They shook hands. Carlos' grip was warm, steady. Lando tried not to notice that. Or the dimples. Or how good he smelled.

"Come on, I'll show you where they hide the good coffee," Carlos said, slinging an arm over his shoulders like they'd been teammates for years.

Lando swallowed the stupid flutter in his chest. It's just a teammate thing. You're just excited.
Totally normal. Completely fine.

And yet...
As they walked off together, Lando couldn't stop the small, slightly stunned smile on his face.

This is going to be... interesting.

Carlos had expected a rookie. Nervous, maybe stiff. Someone fast, obviously, you didn't get to F1 without that, but raw. Rough around the edges.

What he didn't expect was Lando.

The kid was young, yeah, and had a weird obsession with memes and iRacing, but he wasn't just fast. He was smart. Quietly observant. He listened more than he talked during meetings, but when he did speak up, it was sharp, on point. Carlos caught that early on during the first sim sessions, the way Lando picked up on tire feedback, the way he asked questions like someone who wanted to learn, not just prove himself.

It reminded Carlos of himself, back in the Toro Rosso days. Trying not to blink too fast or ask too much, even though his brain never stopped processing everything.

And Lando was funny. Like actually funny. Not the trying-too-hard kind. Just effortlessly goofy in a way that made long days in the simulator less soul-draining.

During car testing in Barcelona, they'd gotten stuck in a rain delay. Most of the team was milling around the garage, bored and cold. Lando sat cross-legged on a tire blanket, helmet in his lap, tapping out some rhythm on his knee with a pair of Allen keys.

"You always this patient?" Carlos asked, leaning against a wall near him.

Lando shrugged. "It's either wait or cry, and I left my tissues at home."

Carlos huffed a laugh and sat down beside him. "You're adapting pretty well."

"I've got a good mentor," Lando said, eyes flicking up to meet his.

It caught Carlos off-guard, the way he said it, honest and open. He felt something shift in that moment. Just a small thing. Like a tap of the brake in a high-speed corner. Barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for.

He cleared his throat. "Don't tell the engineers. They'll start charging me for guidance."

Lando smirked, then bumped his shoulder lightly. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe."

By the end of that week, Carlos had started waiting for Lando at the start of each day. Coffee in hand, sometimes already cracking a joke before the kid even finished putting his boots on.

He wasn't sure when the protectiveness started. Maybe it was hearing one of the media guys call Lando "just a Twitch streamer." Maybe it was seeing him bury his head in the telemetry after a rough stint and pretend he wasn't bothered.

Whatever it was, Carlos found himself caring. More than he planned to.

Teammates were supposed to be... well, teammates. Allies, not attachments. But Lando had this way of sticking to you, not in a clingy way, just enough that you didn't notice until you started wondering where he was the moment he wasn't around.

And once, when Carlos caught him watching footage of both their laps late into the evening,  headphones half on, brow furrowed, muttering softly under his breath, he felt that little shift again.

Damn it, he thought, running a hand through his hair.

This was supposed to be a fresh start.

But instead, it felt like the beginning of something he didn't have a name for yet.

 

Bahrain.

The garage felt too quiet. Not in a peaceful way, in a heavy way. Like the air had weight.

Lando stared at the screen, eyes fixed on the blinking lap data, but his brain wasn't really reading it. He knew what the numbers said. He didn't need a full debrief to tell him he'd locked up in Turn 1, overcooked the tires trying to recover, and lost out on what could've been his first points.

He wanted to punch a wall. Or maybe himself.

"Rookie mistake," he muttered under his breath, fingers clenched tightly in his lap.

The engineers had already cleared out. It was late. Most of the team had moved on, packing up equipment or heading to the paddock kitchen. The adrenaline was long gone, and now it was just him and the cold echo of disappointment.

"You always sit in the dark when you're mad at yourself?"

Lando jumped slightly at the voice. He turned to see Carlos leaning against the frame of the meeting room door, arms crossed, still in his race suit, a bottle of water in one hand.

Lando tried to force a laugh. "No, sometimes I sulk under my desk. Bit of variety, you know."

Carlos stepped in, slow and quiet. "You looked good out there. Until that first lock-up."

"Yeah, well," Lando muttered, eyes falling back to the data, "looking good doesn't score points."

There was a long pause. Carlos didn't say anything at first. Just walked over and sat beside him, setting the water bottle on the table between them. The silence stretched, but not in a bad way.

"You know," Carlos said eventually, voice low and calm, "I've had races worse than today. Plenty of them. Some where I spun out all on my own, some where I blew strategy calls because I got in my own head."

Lando didn't answer.

"But I didn't get better by hating myself after each one," Carlos added. "I got better by figuring out why it happened. Then I moved on."

Lando finally looked up at him. His throat felt tight. "I just... I don't want to let everyone down. The team. You. I'm supposed to be proving I deserve this seat."

"You do deserve it," Carlos said, so firm it caught Lando off-guard. "You think McLaren gives out race seats for laughs? They believe in you. I believe in you."

Lando blinked a few times. "You're really good at this 'teammate' thing."

Carlos smiled, but it was soft, serious around the edges. "I've had people do it for me. You're not alone in this, Lando. Not while I'm here."

Something in Lando's chest untangled a little. Not completely, the doubt would linger, it always did, but for the first time that night, he could breathe properly again.

Carlos nudged the bottle of water toward him. "Now drink that. You looked dehydrated from all the self-loathing."

Lando snorted, eyes crinkling despite everything. "Thanks, Dad."

"Don't push it," Carlos said, but he was smiling too.

And Lando, sitting beside him under the harsh lights of the McLaren garage, felt the weight ease just enough to let himself hope again.

 

Monaco.

Midday sun pressed down on the Monaco paddock, warm and relentless. The morning session had been a mess yellow flags, traffic, a missed run. Everyone was frustrated. Engineers paced with laptops, radio chatter buzzed nonstop, and the mechanics looked like they were running on espresso and spite.

Carlos sat on the edge of the pit wall, helmet in his lap, fireproofs unzipped to his waist. Sweat clung to his neck, and he rolled his shoulders, exhaling hard.

Then he heard it, the unmistakable sound of Lando's laugh.

He turned his head just in time to see Lando stumble into the shade near the garage, nearly dropping his bottle of water as he mimicked something one of the race engineers had done earlier. It was some exaggerated impression, probably ridiculous, but it had the nearby crew cracking up.

Carlos shook his head, but a grin pulled at his mouth before he could stop it. Lando noticed and jogged over.

"Tell me you saw that," Lando said breathlessly, eyes bright.

"You mean your world-class comedy routine?" Carlos replied, raising an eyebrow.

"That's what Monaco's all about," Lando said, settling onto the wall beside him. "Glamour, chaos, and making fun of your engineers."

Carlos laughed. "You're going to get us both reassigned."

"You'd miss me," Lando teased, elbowing him.

Carlos mock-sighed. "Don't flatter yourself, rookie."

But he didn't mean it. Not even a little. The truth was, Lando's energy, that untamable, shameless optimism it kept the edges from fraying when things got stressful. Carlos hadn't realized how much lighter the garage felt until he'd started expecting that laugh each day.

They sat there a moment, shoulder to shoulder, water bottles between them, sweat cooling slowly in the breeze off the harbor. Just a pause in the storm.

"You two look like you've known each other for years," a voice said from behind them.

Carlos turned to see Zak Brown walking by, sunglasses on, clipboard in hand.

"Good friendship," Zak added, nodding like it was the highest compliment he could give. "Keep it. It matters more than you think."

Carlos looked at Lando. Lando looked at him.

Neither said anything, but something passed between them in that look, a quiet acknowledgment. A shared thought.

Yeah. It really does.

Lando broke the silence first. "You think he meant we're his favorites?"

Carlos snorted. "Definitely not after you impersonated Steve's walk."

They both burst into quiet laughter again, and for a moment, Monaco didn't feel so heavy.

 

Mid-season.

Carlos wasn't the kind of person who overanalyzed things. He trusted instincts, with driving, with people, with life. But lately, something had changed.

And it had everything to do with Lando.

They were at the McLaren motorhome, mid-weekend, the kind of awkward break between FP3 and qualifying when everyone tried to stay calm but tension simmered underneath. Carlos was reviewing data, headphones slung around his neck, eyes half-focused on the telemetry screen.

Across from him, Lando sat perched on the edge of the table, one leg bouncing, hair still damp from the heat outside. He was scrolling through his phone and humming something annoying, probably a meme song and every few seconds he'd glance at Carlos like he had a comment loaded and just needed a reason to say it.

Carlos wasn't listening. He was watching.

The way Lando smiled when he found something funny. The way he nudged Carlos' arm without thinking when he laughed. The way he lit up whenever Carlos said anything even remotely encouraging.

And maybe Carlos was imagining it, but... the way Lando looked at him sometimes. Like he was trying not to. Like it slipped out by accident and he'd glance away fast, pretending he hadn't.

Carlos clicked the screen off and leaned back.

"You ever gonna show me what's so funny?" he asked casually.

Lando grinned and turned the phone. A video of someone face-planting on a hoverboard. Ridiculous. Childish. Carlos chuckled despite himself.

"You know," Lando said, putting the phone down but not moving away, "you laugh at more of my jokes than you admit."

Carlos tilted his head. "You saying you're a comedian now?"

"I'm saying," Lando said, leaning forward just a little, "that you like me more than you let on."

It was half a joke. Probably a joke.

But there was something in his eyes. And for a second, the moment held.

Carlos looked at him, really looked. There was color in Lando's cheeks. Not from the heat. His gaze flicked down to Carlos' mouth and back up again before he even realized it.

And that was when Carlos knew.

It wasn't just him. Lando was feeling it too, whatever this was.

Carlos cleared his throat and sat up straighter, tension slipping into his shoulders. "I like you enough to tell you your race line into Turn 8 was garbage," he said, throwing a smirk over the pause.

Lando groaned, falling back into his seat. "You ruin every moment."

Carlos was still smiling. But underneath, his pulse was racing.

Because it wasn't just a moment anymore.

 

There were things the engineers at McLaren got used to over the course of the season, the high-pitched whir of power tools, the endless thrum of race weekend stress, the scramble of tire changes and radio calls.

And then there was Carlos and Lando.

No one really knew when it started, maybe around Baku, maybe Spain, but suddenly, there was a pattern.

They gravitated.

You'd see Carlos at the data screen, focused and arms folded, and then Lando would appear behind him, leaning way too close to point something out, their shoulders brushing like it meant nothing. You'd spot Lando doing his pre-race rituals, and Carlos would walk by and ruffle his hair or jab a finger into his ribs just to make him squirm.

They made fun of each other constantly.

"Can't believe you locked up again," Carlos would say after a messy lap.

"Can't believe you're still using that hair gel," Lando would shoot back.

And then, unprompted, one of them would follow it with something soft.

"You looked good in Sector 2, though."

"You held that oversteer like a pro."

Like the jokes were a game and the compliments were what they actually meant.

It didn't go unnoticed. One of the race engineers. Steve, started betting on how many times Lando would end up in Carlos' driver room during a weekend. He always underestimated it.

"They're like two puppies," one of the mechanics muttered once. "Just... always under each other's feet."

"They haven't realized it yet," another replied.

"Realized what?" a new intern asked.

Everyone just smirked.

One weekend, Zak Brown walked past them during media day. Carlos was mock-chasing Lando across the paddock after being blamed for a prank, something about a glitter bomb in a helmet bag. Lando was laughing so hard he tripped over his own foot and crashed into Carlos, who caught him without hesitation.

It looked so natural, so easy.

Zak turned to the PR officer beside him and simply said, "They get on very well. Don't split them up in interviews if you can help it."

The PR officer raised an eyebrow. "Are we branding them now?"

Zak grinned. "Carlando. Go wild."

Lando couldn't sleep.

His hotel room in Suzuka was nice, clean, minimal, nothing too distracting. He'd even shut the blackout curtains like Carlos told him to ("You'll be up at dawn otherwise, trust me.") But still, 1:47 a.m. blinked at him in angry red numbers, and he was wide awake.

He blamed Carlos. Of course he did.

Not that Carlos had done anything. Not really.

Just... existed.

Lando turned over in bed and pulled the pillow over his face. It muffled his groan, but not the thoughts.

Carlos had been Carlos again today. Cool, confident, leaning against the car like it was a magazine shoot. Hair a mess but somehow perfect. That dumb grin when he saw Lando trip over his own foot walking toward the garage.

And Lando, idiot that he was, had smiled like he was in a bloody rom-com.

He rolled back onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn't new. This thing had been there for months now. That weird ache in his chest when Carlos ruffled his hair. The skip in his pulse when they laughed at something only the two of them found funny. The way he'd find himself looking for Carlos first whenever he walked into a room.

But today, it hit different.

Today, Carlos had taken his water bottle after FP2, drank from it, then handed it back with a smirk. Lando hadn't even blinked. Had just taken it, no hesitation, and then caught himself smiling like a lovesick fool five seconds later.

And that's when it hit him.

It's a crush, isn't it?

A real, full-on, heart-in-throat, don't-look-at-his-arms crush.

Lando covered his face again and groaned.

He couldn't have a crush on Carlos Sainz. His teammate. His friend. The guy who gave him tire pressure advice like an older brother, if older brothers were ripped, smelled like heaven, and made your brain short-circuit whenever they laughed.

This is so stupid, he thought. I'm so screwed.

From that night on, he tried to guard himself. He made the teasing sharper, the eye contact shorter. No more lingering looks. No more letting Carlos get too close. He laughed it off. All of it. He'd just ride it out, let the feelings fade. That was the plan.

But it was Carlos.

And Carlos had this way of looking at him like he knew.

So Lando kept the feelings buried, for now.

Because if he let them out too soon, he wasn't sure he'd be able to put them back.

 

Carlos had always been a bit of a flirt. It was just how he rolled, quick with a grin, a cheeky comment, a light jab. Everyone knew it. It was part of his charm, part of his way of keeping things light when the pressure was crushing.

Lando? Lando was different. He laughed more, smiled wider, sometimes even stumbled over his own words when Carlos was around. Carlos noticed that, kind of enjoyed it, actually, but he never thought much of it. To him, it was just what friends did. Tease, joke, push each other's buttons.

One afternoon in the paddock, Carlos spotted Lando leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with that concentrated look he got when trying not to smile too much.

Carlos sauntered over, grinning.

"Oi, rookie," he said, nudging Lando's shoulder, "still practicing that shy puppy face, or are you gonna level up and make me blush for once?"

Lando's cheeks flushed a bright shade of red, and he shot Carlos a glare mixed with something that was definitely embarrassment.

Carlos chuckled, loving every second of it. "Relax, mate. You're worse than me at hiding it. You can't fool anyone."

Lando opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered, "I'm not flustered."

"Sure you're not," Carlos said, raising an eyebrow. "But I'll keep calling you out until you admit it."

Lando groaned, but the smile tugging at his lips was hard to miss.

Carlos had no idea how close he was to blowing his cover. To him, this was just friendly banter. To Lando, it was a daily battle to keep his feelings under wraps, a battle Carlos didn't even realize he'd started.

"Careful," Carlos teased, "or I might start thinking you actually like me."

Lando froze for a split second before coughing and muttering, "Don't be ridiculous."

Carlos just laughed, clueless and completely at ease.

 

End of season 2019

The garage was quieter than usual, packed up for the break, the usual buzz of race day replaced by a soft hum of exhaustion and relief. The season was done.

Carlos and Lando stood near the car, gear half-packed, bags ready to go.

"It's been a long one," Carlos said, dropping his helmet on the floor with a tired grin.

Lando nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah... messy, but not bad. We stayed in the top five, didn't we?"

"Better than some expected," Carlos shrugged, eyes warm. "You did good, rookie."

Lando smiled, a little shy. "Thanks, Carlos. Couldn't have done it without you."

Carlos stepped forward and threw an arm around Lando's shoulders. "We make a good team. You've come a long way."

Lando's heart thudded in his chest.

They turned to leave, but the goodbye wasn't rushed. Their hug lasted longer than a quick teammate goodbye. Just a bit longer.

Neither said anything.

Not about the year of teasing that had left Lando blushing more times than he cared to admit.

Not about Carlos' relentless smirks and cheeky comments.

Not about the tiny crush Lando was still working hard to hide.

They just held on, for a moment.

And that was enough, at least for now.

 

Off-season

Carlos' side:

Carlos was supposed to be focusing on his off-season training. But every so often, he'd catch himself grinning like an idiot for no reason.

Like that time at the last race when he'd teased Lando about his "shy puppy face" and actually made him blush.

He replayed the moment in his head like a highlight reel. The way Lando's cheeks turned pink, the stammer when he tried to deny it.

Carlos shook his head and laughed quietly. "What am I doing?" he muttered, but the smile didn't fade.

Maybe it was just fun, he told himself.

Or maybe... he liked making Lando flustered more than he wanted to admit.

Lando's side:

Lando was trying hard not to think about it.

Not to think about Carlos' stupid grin, his messy hair, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

Especially not to think about how his chest tightened whenever Carlos got too close.

He told himself it was nothing.

Carlos was the straightest guy he'd ever met, everyone said so, and Lando believed it.

No way Carlos could be into him.

So he pushed the feelings down, shoved them to the back of his mind.

But every time Carlos popped up in his thoughts, that little crush stirred, refusing to be ignored.

Lando sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Just get over it," he whispered to himself.

But deep down, he knew it wasn't that simple.

 

Season 2020.

The paddock buzzed with activity, but Carlos was somewhere else.

He leaned against the wall, watching Lando argue playfully with the engineers over a tire strategy. The younger driver's eyes sparkled with that mix of stubbornness and earnestness Carlos had grown to know so well.

Carlos smiled softly, almost without realizing it.

God, Lando was something else.

He really saw him now, not just as a teammate or a rookie still finding his feet, but as someone brilliant, stubborn, endlessly captivating.

There was something about the way Lando furrowed his brow when he was focused, how his cheeks flushed whenever Carlos threw a teasing comment his way, the way he laughed a little too loudly when the joke landed just right.

Carlos bit his lip.

Stop it.

He'd been here before.

He knew this feeling.

The last time he'd let it grow, he'd ended up heartbroken, tangled in a messy breakup with Max Verstappen. They had parted on good terms, but the scars still lingered, sharp reminders of what could go wrong.

So this time, Carlos told himself, he wouldn't let it happen again.

He tried to push the feelings down, shove them into a locked box where they couldn't reach him.

But the more he tried, the more Lando seemed to find a way in.

Every little thing the younger man did, the quiet way he doubted himself, the weight he carried from being so hard on himself it tugged at Carlos in ways he didn't expect.

He caught himself thinking, Don't be so hard on yourself, mate. Even when Lando wasn't around.

Because that was the truth. Lando was good. More than good.

Carlos admired him, his grit, his kindness, his stubborn streak that reminded Carlos of himself.

Sometimes, Carlos would catch a glimpse of Lando staring at him, eyes wide and unsure, and he'd feel a strange warmth spread through his chest.

He pushed the thought away quickly.

No.

Not again.

Not when he was supposed to be the strong one. The one with all the answers.

But deep down, Carlos knew the truth: he was falling, quietly, dangerously for the kid who made him laugh too much and blush when he caught him watching.

And no amount of denial could change that.

Lando wasn't sure when it stopped being a crush and started becoming something he couldn't shake.

Maybe it was during testing, when he caught Carlos staring at him across the garage, only for Carlos to wink and look away like it was nothing.

Maybe it was when Carlos sat too close on the flight back from Barcelona, legs brushing together, arms resting near enough to touch, and Lando couldn't focus on anything except the sound of Carlos breathing beside him.

Or maybe it had always been there, slowly growing roots, and Lando had just refused to look.

But now he couldn't look away.

It wasn't just the stupid grin anymore, or the playful teasing that left his cheeks red for the rest of the day. It was the details, the little things that no teammate should be paying this much attention to.

Carlos always ran a hand through his hair when he was thinking. Lando noticed he did it more after a tough run, like he was trying to shake the disappointment off with every push of his fingers.

Carlos bit his bottom lip when he was focused, not the way people do when they're nervous, but like it grounded him, gave him something to latch onto. And god, it was distracting.

And his voice... Lando had always liked it. But when Carlos was deep in concentration, or just relaxed enough to forget he was being listened to, the Spanish accent got thicker. Lower. Softer.

When he was nervous, like really nervous, Carlos slipped into full Spanish without even realizing. Lando didn't understand half of it, but the tone, the rhythm... he could've listened to it for hours.

And that's when Lando knew.

He was screwed.

This wasn't a silly crush anymore. It wasn't fleeting or manageable or funny.

It was real, and it wasn't going away.

And the worst part? He couldn't even blame Carlos for it.

Carlos was warm. He was funny. He had a way of making people feel seen, even when they were trying to hide.

He made Lando feel safe. Like he could be messy and tired and insecure, and Carlos would still be there at the end of the day, cracking a joke or throwing an arm over his shoulder like it was second nature.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because every little kindness, every unspoken comfort, only pulled Lando in deeper.

He tried to bury it. God, he tried.

But when Carlos looked at him with that stupid grin, or laughed at one of his jokes a little too hard, or nudged his shoulder just slightly when they passed each other, Lando forgot how to breathe.

He was falling.

And the scariest part?

He wasn't even trying to stop anymore.

 

Mid-season.

It started innocently enough.

Carlos walked into the garage, still in his fireproofs, hair a mess from the helmet, and flopped down next to Lando, who was perched on a spare tire stack, legs swinging slightly, sipping from a bottle of water.

"Nice lap, rookie," Carlos said, nudging Lando's knee with his own. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Lando scoffed, dramatic as always. "Oh, come on. I'm fast. Admit it."

Carlos gave him a once-over, mock serious. "You're alright. For someone with baby cheeks."

Lando gasped. "Rude."

Carlos grinned. "It's a compliment. You'll age well."

From the corner of the garage, an engineer looked up from his laptop. Another mechanic had paused mid-wheel alignment. They exchanged a subtle glance.

Lando leaned in slightly, eyes narrowed with a smirk. "You're one to talk. Your hair looks like you just rolled out of bed."

"I did," Carlos said, completely straight-faced. "Dreamt of you, actually. Woke up smiling."

One of the tyre guys choked on his coffee.

Lando blinked, stunned for half a second before he laughed, cheeks immediately glowing red. "You're such an idiot."

"But a charming one," Carlos added, leaning his elbow on Lando's knee like it was his personal armrest. "You love it."

"Don't flatter yourself, Sainz."

"I don't need to. You do it for me."

A very long pause settled over the garage. Somewhere across the room, someone dropped a wrench. A thud. Then silence.

Zak Brown, who had just walked in from the paddock, stood by the monitors with crossed arms and an eyebrow raised so high it could've launched off his forehead.

"...Did I miss something?" Zak asked slowly, his voice calm but very suspicious.

Lando and Carlos blinked, turning toward him at the same time, like startled golden retrievers.

Carlos gave him a blindingly innocent smile. "Nope."

Lando nodded. "Just talking strategy."

Another engineer muttered, not quietly, "Yeah. Emotional strategy."

Carlos shot him a confused look. Lando frowned, looking between the crew as they all struggled to keep a straight face.

The teasing glances. The barely hidden smirks. The knowing silence.

Carlos leaned in and whispered to Lando, "Are they acting weird, or is it just me?"

Lando, blushing harder now but doing his best to play it cool, whispered back, "It's definitely just you."

They returned to their usual bickering banter a moment later, completely unaware that the entire garage had just witnessed what was essentially verbal foreplay.

Zak exhaled and walked off, muttering under his breath, "They're either in denial or just incredibly, painfully dumb."

The engineers agreed, silently, but fully.

 

The McLaren briefing room was unusually tense for a Thursday.

Zak had called it something about a "team development update." Lando didn't think much of it. Maybe a new sponsor. Maybe a livery change. Maybe someone in marketing got too excited again.

But then he heard it.

Carlos was leaving.
Not rumors. Not speculation.
Confirmed.

The announcement came from a senior engineer, eyes tight with regret as he passed around the message with carefully chosen words: Carlos would be heading to Ferrari in 2021. The deal was done. Official.

And just like that, Lando's world tilted a bit to the side.

He didn't say anything. Just sat still, hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie, jaw clenched tight. He kept his face neutral, like the others. A polite nod. A quiet "congrats" echoing around the room.

But inside?

It felt like someone had kicked the air out of his lungs.

Carlos didn't know Lando was in the room when it was announced. Not until later.

He was walking toward the motorhome when he saw Lando brushing past a PR staffer, eyes distant, shoulders tense. Carlos called after him, once, twice, but Lando just lifted a hand in vague acknowledgment and kept walking.

Confused, Carlos asked one of the engineers what was going on. That's when he heard:

"They told the whole team this morning. You didn't know Lando was there?"

Carlos felt the sting immediately.

He wanted to tell Lando himself. He planned to. Had practiced how to say it, gently, quietly, just between them. But things moved quickly. The team wanted the announcement out before the weekend. PR had their timelines. By the time Carlos had even turned around, it was already public.

And now?

Lando knew.
And not from him.

Carlos let out a long breath, hands on his hips, head tilted to the sky. He felt... guilty. And stupid. For all the things he meant to say, and didn't.

That night, Lando didn't come by his hotel room like he usually did. No knock, no texts.
Just silence.

Carlos stared at his phone long after midnight, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He typed out a message "Can we talk?" then deleted it. He didn't know if that would make things worse.

But somehow, deep in his gut, he knew things had already started to shift.

 

Lando didn't cry.

He sat on the edge of his hotel bed, half-dressed and unmoving, staring at the tiny blinking light of his charger. His phone sat face down. He'd turned off notifications for the night. He couldn't bear seeing anything with Ferrari in it.

It wasn't jealousy. Not really. Carlos deserved it. Every bit of it. A seat at Ferrari. that was the dream. That was his dream, and now it was Carlos'. The whole world would be congratulating him. Zak probably popped a bottle for him.

And Lando had smiled. Had laughed. Had pretended the ache in his chest wasn't growing like a slow leak in a tire.

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his curls. The room was too quiet. Even the air conditioning felt loud.

"I'm so stupid," he mumbled into the stillness.

Because it wasn't Carlos leaving that hurt. No, it was the why.

Lando had spent all season laughing too hard at Carlos' jokes, hiding every stupid blush, brushing off comments with shaky little chuckles and telling himself it was nothing. That it'd pass. That it wasn't that obvious.

But what if it was?

What if Carlos saw right through him?

What if the reason he was going to Ferrari... was to get away?

Lando chewed the inside of his cheek, blinking hard. His throat tightened, but still, he didn't cry. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

He wasn't supposed to care like this. It was just a teammate. A friend. That's all it was meant to be.

And yet...

Every time Carlos looked at him with that soft smile, every time he leaned too close, every time he ruffled his hair or called him "chico" or told him not to beat himself up after a bad lap, Lando felt something inside him reach. Something he couldn't stop. Something that always, always, wanted more.

He curled up on the bed, pulling a pillow under his arm and burying his face into it. He didn't sob. Just... breathed.

He knew how he got. Once his brain started spinning, it didn't stop. And tonight, it wouldn't shut up.

"He's not leaving because of you," he whispered to himself. "He's leaving because it's Ferrari."

But the voice in his head answered right back.

Then why does it feel like he's leaving you behind?

 

Lando hadn't looked Carlos in the eyes for three race weekends.

Not when they arrived in the paddock. Not when they sat next to each other in debriefs. Not even when Carlos leaned across the table in the hospitality tent and asked if he wanted extra pasta.

Just a polite shake of the head. And a short, "No, thanks."

That was the worst part, it was always polite. Cold in a way Lando had never been before. Like he was carefully, surgically cutting himself out of the moment before he could feel anything. Because if he did, he might break.

Carlos noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the way Lando stopped waiting for him to walk to the garage together. The way he suddenly preferred having his helmet on too early. The way his voice got flat and distant, like reading lines in a press conference.

And it hurt. Not devastatingly. Not like heartbreak. But in that sharp, confused kind of way, like being shut out of your own home.

At first, Carlos tried to brush it off. Maybe Lando was tired. Or pissed about quali. Or being Lando, dramatic and bottled up. But that didn't explain the way he avoided his eyes every time Carlos tried to speak. That didn't explain the way his laugh had gotten quieter. That didn't explain why, when Carlos offered to look at telemetry with him, Lando replied with:

"I'm good. You don't have to."

That one stung. Too much like being dismissed.

Carlos had been careful not to make the announcement about them. But now, he wondered if maybe he should've handled it differently. If maybe he should've told Lando first. Privately. Something gentler than, "So, I'm going to Ferrari."

He didn't want to imagine what Lando was thinking. But deep down, he already knew.

He thinks it's because of him.

That thought sat heavy on Carlos' chest, even as he suited up, even as he stepped onto the grid. Because the truth was, Carlos didn't want to leave like this. Not with distance between them. Not with tension in every quiet moment.

And maybe he was being selfish for wanting Lando to understand. Maybe it was selfish to hope the boy would look at him one last time the way he used to, eyes full of warmth and something unspoken.

But right now? All he got were short nods, curt words, and that damn wall between them.

After the race, Lando was gone the second the checkered flag fell. Helmet off. Walking straight past him. Carlos called after him, softly.

"Lando."

Lando stopped, shoulders stiff, hands shaking just barely at his sides. But he didn't turn around.

Carlos took a step closer. "You can't keep doing this."

Still nothing.

"You're pushing me away, and I don't even know what I did."

Lando didn't move, didn't speak. But his silence was loud.

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, chest tightening. "Please," he said, voice low. "Talk to me."

Another breath. Another second. And then Lando whispered:

"Why did you tell me like that?"

Carlos froze.

Lando finally turned, eyes red. Not from tears, not yet, but from everything he was trying to hold back.

"Why did I have to hear it with the rest of the team? Why didn't you tell me?"

Carlos opened his mouth, then closed it. There was no excuse that felt good enough. No version that wouldn't hurt.

"I didn't want to make it harder," he said quietly. "I thought if I said it too soon, it'd hurt more."

Lando looked down. "It still did."

Lando didn't wait.

The second he turned the corner and left Carlos behind, he walked faster. Then jogged. Then ran.

He didn't care who saw. He just needed to get away from the paddock, from the track, from Carlos. From the look in his eyes, that confusion like he was the one blindsided.

Lando shoved his hotel room door open, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it with shaking fingers. He stood there for a second, just stood, breathing hard, staring at the wood grain, until the first crack in his chest split wide open.

Then he sank.

Right down against the door, knees pulled in, arms tight around them. His chest heaved. His head dropped.

And he cried.

Not the kind that comes with quiet tears and blinking it away. No, this was messy. Muffled sobs pressed into his sleeves. His whole body shuddered. His face was hot and wet, and it didn't matter how much he wiped it off, it just kept coming.

The hurt was everywhere. It was loud.

Because it wasn't just Carlos leaving. It was how he left.

Lando was his teammate. His friend. The one who made him laugh on Thursdays and stayed up talking shit in hotel beds on Saturdays. The one who looked at him like he actually mattered.
And he didn't even tell him. Not until it was too late.

That's what broke him.

He whispered into the silence, voice cracking, eyes shut tight.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

No one answered.
Of course no one did.
Because Carlos wasn't there. He never was, not when it counted.

Lando wiped at his eyes and curled smaller. His mind spun with everything he hadn't said,  everything he thought didn't matter because he thought they understood each other.

But maybe he was wrong.

Maybe he was always wrong.

Carlos didn't run after him.

Not right away.

He stood there like an idiot. Watching Lando disappear around the corner like his feet were on fire. The hotel wasn't far. Carlos could've gone then. He should have.

But he stayed.
Stayed to talk to Zak. To stare at the floor. To tell himself, Give him space, he's upset.

And then he went. Sprinting now, through side roads and alleyways of a city he didn't care to learn. He took the stairs two at a time, legs burning. He didn't know how he still had energy left. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or maybe it was the dread sinking in his chest.

He found Lando's door. Room 455.

And he froze.

The sound reached him first.

Muffled sobs. Not loud, but unmistakable. The kind of crying you'd only let out if you thought nobody could hear. Or if you were hurting so badly you didn't care.

Carlos's throat tightened.

He brought his knuckles to the door, then paused. Just stood there, fist raised, unable to knock.

Then slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, back against the opposite wall. He let his head rest against the drywall, eyes fixed on the door across from him. There was a lump in his throat he couldn't swallow.

And guilt. So much guilt.

"Lando," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm here."

No answer.

Another second passed. Carlos leaned forward, pressing his palm flat against the door, like that might help close the gap.

"I know you're in there. I-I heard you."

He exhaled shakily.

"I wanted to tell you. I swear I did. I had the words. I practiced it. But the team... they moved faster than I thought. It got out before I could-" He cut himself off, frustrated. "Before I could tell you."

Still nothing from the other side. Just a stifled sob.

Carlos's voice dropped, cracked a little at the edges.

"I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't think you'd... care this much."

He regretted those words the second they left his mouth.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the door this time.

"I didn't mean it like that. I know you care. I do too. Maybe too much."

The hallway stayed quiet except for the hum of distant elevators. A few footsteps echoed down the corridor, but Carlos didn't care.

He stayed there. Waiting. Hands folded over his knees. Listening to the soft sounds of someone breaking on the other side. 

Then.

The lock clicked.

Carlos sat up, unsure if he heard it right. Then, slowly, the hotel room door cracked open.

But no one was there.

He stepped in carefully, leaving the door ajar behind him, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound too loud. The bed was untouched. Lights off. No sign of Lando.

Then, a soft shuffle, distant but just enough.

Carlos followed it through the room, past the small hallway, past the table where a McLaren cap had been thrown down carelessly, like someone didn't want to look at it. He moved slowly, carefully, like if he rushed, the moment might fall apart completely.

The sliding door to the balcony was cracked open.

He stepped outside.

And there he was.

Lando sat in the far corner, back against the wall, head buried in his knees. The breeze played lightly with his curls. His arms were wrapped around his legs. No more crying now. Just stillness. Quiet hiding.

Carlos's heart broke a little more.

He walked over without a word. Knelt beside him. Reached out, hesitated then gently rested his hand on Lando's shoulder.

Lando flinched.

His head jerked up, wide eyes wet and tired. He looked at Carlos for a second. Just a second.

Then dropped his head back down, burying it deeper into the same place it had been, like if he just stayed there long enough, the world would forget he existed.

Carlos sat beside him. Shoulder brushing shoulder.

Neither spoke at first.

The sounds of the city were faint down below, cars, maybe, or wind against glass, but up here, it was just the two of them. And too much space in between.

Carlos breathed in. Then out. Then in again.

"I wanted to tell you," he said quietly.

Lando didn't move.

Carlos looked down at his hands.

"There were a hundred times I meant to say it. After a race. Before a flight. When we were just messing around on the sim... I thought, next time, I'll do it. I had the words, mate. I did."

He paused. Swallowed.

"But the team moved faster than I expected. They made the calls. And before I could even think, someone told you. And it wasn't me. And that's on me. I know."

His voice cracked a little. He tried to steady it.

"I saw the way you looked at me after. And I thought, God, I messed this up. You looked at me like I didn't trust you."

Still nothing from Lando.

Carlos shifted, looked at him again.

"You should've heard it from me. I owe you that. You matter to me more than you know."

The silence that followed was heavy. Not empty, just full of all the things Carlos couldn't quite say yet. All the weight of a year spent side by side. Of trust. Of inside jokes. Of touches that maybe meant more than they should've.

Carlos looked out at the skyline. Then back at Lando.

"I didn't leave because of you."

He said it slower this time. Like it needed to land right.

"No. Never because of you."

His voice lowered, full of something too soft for words.

"I left because... it's Ferrari. It's the team I dreamed about since I was a kid. It felt right. It still feels right. But that doesn't mean this-" he gestured between them, "-didn't mean something to me."

Lando's shoulders tensed. His fingers gripped tighter around his arms.

Carlos kept going, even if it was barely above a whisper now.

"You were the best part of this year, Lando. I never thought I'd care so much about a teammate. You made this... hard. Because you're easy to care about. You just are."

Silence again.

Carlos stayed still. Let the moment sit between them. Let Lando have the time.

And then, finally Lando moved.

His head lifted. Eyes red but steady now. He looked at Carlos.

"You should've told me."

His voice was rough. Quiet. The kind of voice that held back days of pain and doubt.

Carlos nodded, ashamed.

"I know."

Lando looked away. Then back.

"I thought I did something wrong. I thought you were leaving to get away from me."

Carlos's heart sank.

"No. God, no."

"I thought maybe... I ruined it. Us."

"You didn't," Carlos said firmly, turning toward him. "You never did."

Another pause.

Lando blinked. The breeze tugged his sleeve.

"I thought you were the straightest man I'd ever met," he said suddenly, voice dry.

Carlos blinked at him.

"...What?"

A tiny smile cracked on Lando's lips. Barely there, but there.

"I thought you'd never see me. Not like that. I kept telling myself it was stupid, just a crush, just something I'd forget." His voice lowered. "But I didn't. And then you said you were leaving and it felt like the whole floor dropped out."

Carlos didn't speak. Just stared at him.

"I don't know what to do with all of this," Lando whispered. "I don't know how to stop feeling it."

Carlos reached for him then. Slow, gentle, just his hand, finding Lando's. Their fingers didn't even curl around each other yet.

"I don't want you to stop."

And this time, Lando looked him in the eye. For real.

 

The winter breaks.

They never spoke about that night again.

Not in words, at least.

But things shifted after it. Like something heavy was finally laid down between them. No confessions, no promises, no awkward tension. Just a quiet return to what they were. What they'd always been and maybe a little more.

Their friendship, that unshakable, natural rhythm fell back into place like it had been waiting to.

Lando laughed more. Carlos smiled easier. They joked again, they poked fun, they sat close without realizing it, shoulders brushing like it didn't mean anything. Like it didn't still keep them both up some nights.

There were still moments. Moments when Lando would catch Carlos staring at him too long during media day. When Carlos would let his fingers linger a little too long when handing Lando his water bottle. But no one said anything. Not even them.

Because sometimes, the unspoken things were the ones they clung to the most.

When the final race came, it didn't feel real.

There was adrenaline, the buzz of the paddock, goodbyes being said all around. Hugs, handshakes, cheers, and a thousand "we'll keep in touch"s, all sincere and not.

But none of it mattered as much as the moment it was just them.

Carlos turned to him, helmet already in hand. The race was over. The season was over. Their time, as teammates, was over.

Lando smiled, trying to mean it. And maybe he did.

"You'll be great in red," he said, voice steady.

Carlos looked at him, really looked.

"And you'll still be annoying as hell."

That got a laugh. One of those real, easy ones that hit right in the chest.

Then the hug came.

Neither of them said it was coming, neither of them pulled away quickly. It wasn't a pat-on-the-back, locker-room kind of hug. It was real. Long. Solid.

Carlos buried his face into Lando's shoulder just a bit too long.

Lando squeezed tighter just before letting go.

They stepped back.

A sea of engineers was watching, not openly, but not hiding it either. No one said anything. No teasing. No remarks.

Because everyone could see it: these two had something. Something that didn't have a name yet, something not even they knew how to hold. But it was there.

Carlos nodded once, a quiet farewell.

Lando gave a little wave, still smiling, even if it didn't reach his eyes all the way.

They walked in opposite directions.

Not to end something.

Just to let time figure out the rest.

 

The plane ride was quiet.

Carlos spent most of it staring out the window, hands restless, knee bouncing in that constant, anxious rhythm he couldn't shake. The sky looked different this far north, pale and cold and endless. It suited the way his chest felt.

The moment he landed in Amsterdam, the wind cut through his jacket. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, not really for warmth, but for something to do. The cab ride was long, long enough for his mind to spiral, long enough for him to question whether this was a good idea.

But he went anyway.

Because there weren't many people Carlos trusted like he trusted him.

The gate opened when the driver pulled up.

Carlos stepped out, dragging his bag behind him. The house was familiar, a mix of modern glass and quiet solitude, tucked just far enough from the world. He used to know this house like it was home. In some ways, it still felt like it.

Before he even reached the door, it opened.

"Carlos?" Max blinked at him, surprised but not unhappy. "You look like shit."

Carlos gave a breath of a laugh. "Hi to you too."

Max stepped aside, letting him in without another word.

The house was warm, quiet. A big dog padded over and sniffed his leg.

"He's new," Carlos said, kneeling to greet him.

"Yeah. Charles'. But he likes me better," Max said, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So. What's going on?"

Carlos hesitated. Just for a second. Then he stepped in, kicked off his shoes, and let himself drop onto the couch.

"I needed to talk."

Max didn't sit beside him, not yet. He walked over to the kitchen, grabbed two beers, and came back. Handed one over.

Carlos took it, nodded in thanks.

They didn't speak for a while. They never had to rush words.

Eventually, Max asked, "Is this about Lando?"

Carlos flinched, just a little.

So Max had noticed.

"I didn't tell him," Carlos said, voice low. "That I was leaving. The team told him before I could. And he... broke."

Max said nothing, just took a sip of his beer, waiting.

Carlos looked down at the bottle in his hands. "I saw it happen. I saw him run. And I didn't follow. I waited, Max."

"Why?" Max asked.

Carlos leaned back, head hitting the couch. "Because I was scared. Because I didn't want to make it worse. And because... maybe I thought it would pass. That it was just something we'd get over."

Max finally sat down, this time beside him. "You mean you thought it'd pass."

Carlos looked over, eyes tired. "Yeah."

"You've got it bad, don't you?"

Carlos didn't answer right away. He stared ahead at the wall, or the dog now curled on the rug, or maybe at a memory he couldn't shake.

"He makes me laugh like no one else," Carlos said softly. "He looks at me like I matter. Like he sees me. Not the driver. Not the results. Me. And God, I love making him blush. I keep thinking it'll get old, but it never does. It's never just a joke with him."

Max was quiet, but listening.

"I thought I was done with this," Carlos continued. "After you, I thought I knew myself. I thought I wouldn't let myself fall like that again. But it's him. It's always him lately."

Max turned a little to look at him fully. "Carlos..."

Carlos blinked hard. "I didn't even notice it, not really, until I saw how much it hurt him. That he thought I left because of him. And it broke me. Because the last thing I ever wanted was to be someone who made him doubt himself like that."

Another silence.

Then Max said, "You're scared because it matters."

Carlos nodded, slow. "I am."

Max leaned back. "You were scared with me too."

Carlos looked over. "Yeah. And I still lost you."

"You didn't lose me," Max said, voice calm. "We didn't work out, but we didn't ruin each other. That's something. I'm still here. You're still one of my best friends."

Carlos smiled, faint and sad. "Thank you. For letting me come."

"Always," Max said. "And Carlos?"

"Yeah?"

"You should talk to him."

Carlos exhaled. "I know."

"You should really talk to him. Before Ferrari red becomes a wall between you both."

The beer bottles were long empty, but neither of them moved.

Max had turned the TV on low volume, some random documentary playing, not to watch, just to keep the silence from becoming too heavy. But honestly, the silence between them had always been comfortable. It was the kind that let thoughts float out freely.

Carlos had his head tilted back, eyes half-closed. Max sat on the opposite end of the couch now, legs tucked up, blanket around his shoulders like some oversized cat.

"You remember that time in Singapore?" Max said suddenly, without looking over.

Carlos opened his eyes. "Which one? We've had a few disasters there."

Max smirked. "The one where we snuck out past curfew. Got caught by Christian the next morning."

Carlos groaned. "You got caught. I was smart enough to use the service entrance."

"You left me for dead."

"I left you to learn," Carlos teased, smiling for real now.

Max let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah. That was us. We were chaos."

Carlos looked at him. "We were good."

Max finally turned his head. His face softened. "Yeah. We were."

They both sat with that for a moment. Not regret. Not longing. Just a shared, strange gratitude for something that had shaped them both.

Max took a deep breath. "I didn't love you the way you wanted me to."

Carlos looked down. But he didn't flinch.

"I know," he said.

"But you... you loved me," Max added. "And that mattered. That taught me something. About myself. About what I could have, what I deserved. I've never thanked you for that."

Carlos blinked, throat thick. "You don't have to-"

"I do," Max cut in. "Because it wasn't your fault we didn't work. And now you're scared all over again. And maybe this one's scarier. Because it's Lando."

Carlos nodded slowly, the name heavier in the quiet than it had been before.

"He's... he's different," Carlos said, barely above a whisper.

"I know," Max said. "You don't look at people like that, Carlos. But with him? It's all over your face. Every single time."

Carlos rubbed a hand over his face. "He cried. That night. I made him cry, Max."

"Because he thought he wasn't enough to make you stay," Max said. "And if that doesn't tell you what kind of place you hold in his heart, I don't know what does."

Carlos looked at Max now, properly.

"I want to wait," he admitted. "I'm not ready to talk to him about this. Not yet. Not when everything's still shifting."

Max nodded. "Okay. Then wait. But don't forget."

"I won't," Carlos said. "Not this time."

Max stood and stretched, long limbs and a yawn. "Spare room's ready. You remember where it is."

Carlos stood too. "Yeah. Still the one with the Verstappen kart trophies?"

"Shut up."

They both chuckled. And as Max turned to head upstairs, he paused in the doorway.

"You're not cursed, you know," he said, not looking back.

Carlos raised a brow. "What?"

"With love," Max clarified. "Just because it didn't last with me... doesn't mean it won't with him."

Carlos stood there in the quiet, staring at the spot where Max had been.

He didn't say anything.

But he thought, maybe Max was right.

 

The new season.

It didn't hit him until he saw himself in the mirror.

Red.

Ferrari red.

The jacket was heavier than McLaren's. The fabric stiff from being new, but it settled over his shoulders like it belonged. Carlos stared at his reflection, expression unreadable, not proud, not nervous, not yet, just... quiet.

The room behind him was bright and full of activity. Engineers checking telemetry screens, marketing buzzing around with camera equipment, a few Maranello staff brushing past, all nodding and smiling. Everyone had been kind, welcoming, arms open, accents soft, eager to fold him into the Scuderia family.

Still, it felt new. All of it.

His name stitched into the chest. The prancing horse by his heart.

He exhaled.

"Carlos, you ready?" someone called from behind.

He nodded once, grabbed his cap, and turned.

 

Meeting Charles had been easier than expected. Which surprised him, honestly.

Carlos had known from the start. Max didn't say it directly, but he didn't have to. The subtle shift in the way he spoke of Charles over the last year, the softer tone, the small smiles, Carlos recognized it instantly. The way people spoke when they loved someone, not just liked.

So when he got the news he'd be teaming up with Leclerc, a part of him had braced for awkwardness. Some guarded front. Some passive-aggressive tension.

But Charles wasn't like that. Not really.

They shook hands on the first day like pros, but it was the first coffee break that mattered.

"So," Charles had started, two sugar packets deep in his espresso, "you and Max... how long ago was it?"

Carlos blinked. "A few years. When we were both dumb."

Charles smirked. "He's still dumb."

They both laughed.

Carlos shook his head. "It didn't work, but it was real for a while. And we're good now. He's one of my closest friends."

"I know," Charles said. "He speaks highly of you."

That surprised Carlos. Not that Max spoke of him, but how he did.

Charles leaned forward. "I was... unsure. At first. When I heard it would be you. But after today," he shrugged. "I think we'll be alright."

Carlos smiled. "I think so too."

 

That evening, after media day, Carlos crashed on his hotel bed, still in his Ferrari gear, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.

A notification popped up, Twitch alert.

"LandoNorris is live."

He clicked on it without thinking.

Lando was laughing, in the middle of a stream with George and Charles, headset askew, curly hair a mess.

Carlos watched silently for a bit.

Then he heard it.

"Charlesss," Lando groaned playfully. "He stole my teammate."

Charles laughed. "I did no such thing! I inherited him."

George just snorted. "You two are worse than a divorced couple."

Carlos chuckled quietly from his hotel bed.

It wasn't bitter. It wasn't sad.

Just warm.

 

The next morning, Charles passed him in the garage, bumping shoulders lightly.

"Lando's funny," he said, grinning.

Carlos nodded. "Yeah. He's got that effect."

Ferrari felt more like home with every passing day. New walls, new routines, new colors, but still, there were familiar names in the margins. Quiet ties that didn't break just because you changed teams.

Carlos looked around the garage. Red. Everywhere. But somehow, for once, he didn't feel out of place.

He felt... proud.

Proud to wear it.
Proud to be here.
And somewhere in his chest, quietly, ready.

 

Monaco.

Monaco, sun-soaked and loud with champagne.

Carlos stood atop the podium, eyes closed for a second as the anthem played. It wasn't just noise anymore, this time, it was his. His first win in red. Ferrari's flag fluttering. The crowd below roaring, part sea of red, part sea of orange. The kind of blur that doesn't feel real until much later.

To his left, P2, Lando grinned like an idiot. Maybe he didn't win, but damn it, he felt like he did.

Carlos glanced over. Lando gave him a wide-eyed nod like: you actually did it, man. Carlos gave him one back like: yeah, can you believe it?

And on the other side, Charles. Home race, and yet, no bitterness. Just a firm clap on Carlos' back, the kind that said you earned this.

Then they pulled each other in, all four of them, arms slung over shoulders. Max joined last, hands still in his gloves. It was an odd group hug. But somehow, it worked.

A podium full of personal histories and tangled connections.

The anthem faded, the champagne sprayed. Lando ducked from Carlos' bottle but wasn't quick enough. Carlos laughed, loud and free, happier than he'd felt in months.

 

Later that evening, after media duties and team briefings, Carlos and Lando ended up walking together down a quiet street not far from the harbor. No cameras. No PR handlers. Just the sound of their shoes tapping against cobblestones and the scent of salt in the air.

"Your first win with Ferrari, huh?" Lando asked, hands in his pockets, smile soft.

Carlos nodded, glancing over. "Yeah. Didn't think it would come this fast."

"I did." Lando nudged him. "You're good. You were always good."

Carlos didn't answer, just looked at him for a second. Really looked. Lando was still in papaya, still Lando. But he had grown too. Quieter in some ways. Sharper in others.

They reached a bench near the edge of the dock and sat. The sea glinted under the lights, waves lapping at the boats.

After a beat, Lando said, "So, you and Max?"

Carlos blinked. "That came out of nowhere."

Lando smirked. "I saw the way he hugged you. Not just Max being Max."

Carlos chuckled. "Okay. Yeah. We were together. Long time ago. Back in Toro Rosso."

"Huh." Lando let that settle. "Max Verstappen."

Carlos raised an eyebrow. "Jealous?"

Lando rolled his eyes. "Please. I could never handle him."

Carlos laughed. "Fair."

Another beat. This one longer.

Lando rested his arms over his knees, staring at the water. "I always thought you were the straightest guy I've ever met. Like, peak 'I'll have a beer and talk about girls' guy."

Carlos tilted his head. "And now?"

Lando smirked again. "Now I know you're just like the rest of us. No one's safe."

Carlos bumped his shoulder against Lando's. "You sound disappointed."

"Nah. Just adjusting my worldview."

A pause.

Carlos said quietly, "It didn't work out with Max. But it was real. And I'm glad it happened."

Lando nodded. He didn't ask more. He didn't need to.

Instead, they slipped back into easier conversation. Joking about engineers, helmet hair, the absurdity of Monaco VIP lounges. Lando teased Carlos about how Italian he was becoming. Carlos teased back about Lando's ever-growing Twitch chaos.

No heaviness. No edge.

Just them. Like always. But maybe, just maybe, something a little deeper now that neither of them was pretending they were just like everyone else.

 

It kept happening.

Little moments. Small things.

Carlos stood in the Ferrari garage, arms crossed, helmet under one arm as he watched the track. Lando's McLaren zipped past in a blur of papaya, but Carlos didn't look away.

He watched the corner Lando always took just a little more aggressively than most. Watched the steering, the tilt of the car, the split-second decisions that made Lando so Lando.

He didn't say much. Just stood there. Watching. Admiring. Maybe something more.

Later, during media rounds, someone asked Carlos how it felt being with Ferrari now.

He smiled. "It feels good. Strong team. Red suits me, no?"

Lando, passing by behind him, didn't miss a beat. "I liked you better in orange."

The tone was light, cheeky. The grin he wore, innocent but not that innocent.

Carlos turned, smirking. "Jealous, Muppet?"

Lando shrugged. "Maybe. You do look good, I'll admit. Even if you've betrayed us all."

Carlos laughed, deep and real. "I missed this. Missed you, your terrible jokes, your worse Spanish."

"Oh come on," Lando groaned. "I can say... uh... cabron?"

Carlos chuckled. "Close enough."

"No wait, pendejo!"

Carlos nearly doubled over, laughing. "You're not supposed to call me that!"

"I'm just practicing!" Lando insisted, grinning ear to ear.

The paddock around them carried on, but a few people were watching. Engineers, PR staff, even a couple of other drivers. Watching the way Carlos' eyes lingered too long, the way Lando's smile softened only for him. The way they teased and bickered, but with an ease that spoke of something deeper.

No one said anything. Not because they didn't notice.

But because they all thought the same thing:
God, just kiss already.

Max saw it. Charles saw it. Even Zak Brown raised an eyebrow once before walking away muttering, "Muppets, the both of them."

But Carlos and Lando?

They didn't stop. Couldn't.

They just kept orbiting around each other. Closer and closer. Falling quietly, foolishly, and clearly. And neither of them dared say a thing.

Yet.

Carlos hadn't expected it to feel like an ambush, but here he was stuck between Max and Charles in Max's Monaco apartment, a drink in hand and nowhere to run.

They'd been catching up, mostly laughing about nothing. Until Max leaned forward, placed his glass down, and asked-

"Are you actually in love with him or just really bad at pretending you're not?"

Carlos blinked. "...Sorry?"

Charles didn't even let him breathe. "Lando. He means Lando."

"I know who he meant-" Carlos started.

Max cut him off, deadpan. "Then answer."

Carlos scoffed. "What-no. I mean-what is this?"

"An intervention," Charles said, sipping casually. "You're welcome."

Carlos looked at the two of them like they'd grown horns. "Okay, no. You two are being dramatic."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Carlos. You were literally staring at him like he invented oxygen yesterday."

Carlos opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Charles leaned in. "You touched his arm for no reason. Twice. That's not 'friendly'. That's 'I miss you when you're not around' energy."

"And you're always around," Max added, "or texting him, or finding some excuse to be in the McLaren garage. Even I don't hang out in the Red Bull garage that much, and I work there."

Carlos stared at them. "...Was it really that obvious?"

Charles and Max, in perfect sync: "Yes."

Carlos slumped into the couch, burying his face in his hands. "Mierda."

Charles chuckled. "We're not judging you. We're just... wondering how you're surviving like this."

Max tilted his head. "He's into you, you know."

Carlos peeked through his fingers. "He's Lando. He jokes. He flirts with everything."

"Sure," Max shrugged. "But he doesn't look at everything like he looks at you."

Carlos stayed quiet.

Charles softened a little. "Why not tell him?"

Carlos shook his head. "Not yet. Not now."

"Why?"

Carlos sighed. "Because I know me. I fall fast, and I fall hard. I don't want to scare him away. Or ruin it."

Max nodded slowly. "You're thinking like someone who's already halfway in love."

Carlos smiled sadly. "Maybe I am."

There was silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken feelings settling between them.

Then Charles raised his glass again. "To love. And to cowards."

Max laughed. "Salud."

Carlos groaned. "I hate both of you."

They clinked their glasses anyway.

 

Lando collapsed face-first onto Max Fewtrell's couch, groaning like the world had personally offended him.

Max looked up from the kitchen, holding a Red Bull in one hand and a bag of crisps in the other. "...That kind of day?"

Lando didn't move, voice muffled into a cushion. "I almost touched him."

Max blinked. "...Okay. Like punched or-?"

"Touched touched," Lando groaned louder. "Like-places I should not be putting my hands on if we're still pretending to be friends."

Max stopped mid-step. "Oh."

Lando finally lifted his head, face red to the ears. "I am so far gone it's not even funny, Max."

"Who said I was laughing?"

"I am!" Lando threw his hands up. "I'm laughing because I don't know what else to do. I can't even look at him without wanting to kiss his stupid smug face, and then he smiles and I... God."

Max took a seat beside him, shoving a crisp in his mouth. "You're in deep."

"I fell," Lando muttered. "Head first. No warning. No parachute. I'm just-splat. Roadkill."

Max blinked. "Romantic."

Lando let out a huff, then sat up slowly. "It's not even just the physical stuff. I... remember that night?"

Max raised a brow.

"After he ran after me. After... that whole thing." Lando swallowed. "I said something that night. I was crying and a mess and I said, I cared so much I didn't know why it hurt. And he didn't say anything back, and we never talked about it after. Like it didn't happen."

Max nodded quietly, expression more serious now.

"I feel stupid," Lando whispered. "Like I opened this tiny piece of me and he just... didn't."

"You're not stupid," Max said, firm and simple. "You were hurt. You said what you felt. That's not dumb, mate, that's honest."

Lando bit the inside of his cheek. "Yeah. Well. Honesty sucks."

Max grinned. "So what now? You gonna tell him you're absolutely feral for him?"

Lando threw a pillow square into Max's face. "No."

Max peeled it off, smirking. "A little move maybe? A flirty touch, a lingering eye contact?"

"I already do that and he doesn't combust, so clearly it's not working."

"Maybe you need to up the flirty," Max teased, wiggling his brows.

Lando reached for another pillow. "I swear to God-"

"Okay, okay!" Max laughed, dodging. "No moves. Just vibes."

"Just games," Lando said, grabbing a controller. "And no more talking about how I want to jump my ex-teammate."

Max chuckled. "Fine. But when you two finally kiss, I'm claiming credit."

"Deal," Lando muttered, cheeks still pink.

They played until the awkward melted into comfortable. But somewhere deep inside, Lando knew this wasn't going away.

Not now. Not ever.

 

The season ended with fireworks, trophies, champagne, and of course, no confession.

Lando and Carlos stood shoulder to shoulder during the final photo, arms lazily slung around each other, smiling like idiots. If you looked close enough, you'd see the way their fingers curled a little tighter at the edges, like neither of them wanted to let go. Like maybe, just maybe, they didn't know how.

Nothing happened between them. Not really.

Except the jokes that stopped sounding like jokes.

Except the way Lando had called Carlos mi amor once, and then laughed too loudly, too quickly, like he didn't mean it (he did).

Except Carlos saying muppet in that low, teasing voice that made engineers grimace and walk away mid-sentence.

Except the hands that lingered. Way too long. On backs, on arms, on shoulders. On waists, sometimes. Briefly. Not long enough. Never long enough.

Fred Vasseur once caught them sharing a look across the hospitality tent that made him sigh so deeply he aged another year.

Zak Brown? Covered his eyes when Lando said Carlos "looked edible in red." That exact word. Edible. And he said it during a press event.

"Do you two need a room?" Max once asked. They both said "Shut up" at the same time, and then blushed.

Charles snorted. "You're both so bad at this."

"I'm literally dating your ex," Max added, pointing at Carlos. "And even I think you two are more couple-y."

The engineers at both Ferrari and McLaren had a silent agreement: headphones on during cooldown laps, because the radio banter? Disgustingly sweet. And somehow dirty. Not even explicit, just... tone. A vibe. A dangerous, lingering vibe.

There were teases. Inside jokes. Long stares across the paddock. Lando doing that thing where he leaned in close but said nothing at all. Carlos replying with half-smiles and soft muttered cabron. It wasn't flirting anymore.

It was just them.

Everyone knew.

No one said anything.

Because Carlos and Lando? They were clearly going to waste another year being oblivious. And the rest of the paddock? They were too old, too tired, or too done to intervene.

They had no idea when, or if, something would finally happen. But one thing was certain:

It was painfully, hilariously inevitable.

 

2022 (Another year wasted)

"They won't waste another year, right?"
Wrong.
So incredibly, spectacularly, heartbreakingly wrong.

They wasted it.

Again.

 

First few races?
Glorious disasters.
Podium celebrations, champagne-soaked hugs, helmets pressed forehead to forehead. Hands on waists, arms around shoulders, stupid grins that should be illegal on live television.
The FIA had to crop out half the race photos because, quote: "It looked like a wedding album."

"Words of wisdom" between them were nothing but:

"Nice rear end today, mate."

"I could say the same about you."

"Carlos, shut up."

"Make me."

The paddock suffered.

 

Mid-season?
They went out to dinner.
Alone.
Twice.
Charles texted Max:

"They're not going to to it. They're actually not going to do it."
Max replied.
"Put me in the simulator crash test. That'd hurt less than watching them flirt."

They called each other at 2am for "track talk" and then somehow ended up arguing over who made the better espresso. For 40 minutes.
They laughed. A lot.
Carlos ended the call with:

"Buenas noches, Muppet"
Lando smiled at his ceiling for an hour.

 

Late-season?
Sh*t started hitting them.
Hard.

Carlos noticed how Lando always looked for him after a race.
Lando realized Carlos never really stopped smiling around him.
Every flirty comment suddenly echoed too loud.
Every long stare made their chests ache.

And then someone, some brave, tired soul in the garage, called out, "Where's your boyfriend?" when Carlos asked for Lando.
Neither denied it.
They just smiled.

That was the problem.
They saw it.
Really saw it.
All the late nights.
The touches.
The stupid jokes that only made sense to them.
The feelings they buried so deep they forgot where they started.

And what did they do?
Nothing.
Absolutely.
Unforgivably.
Nothing.

Carlos whispered "Not yet."
Lando muttered "Too scared."
They meant the same thing.

Another year wasted.

But this time?
Maybe, just maybe, they were finally too deep to climb out.

 

2023 (where something finally happened)

It started with Max.

Cornered Carlos like a Formula E car into turn one.
Right in the hospitality area, at 8 in the morning.

"You need to stop."
Carlos blinked.
Max didn't flinch.

"If you're not gonna kiss him, or tell him, or at least drag him into a hotel room—stop. Have mercy. We're all suffering."

Carlos had the audacity to smirk.

"I'll plan it."

"Plan what?" Max hissed, looking one headache away from cracking. "The wedding? Or your mutual emotional destruction?"

Carlos just patted Max's shoulder and walked away. Like a menace.

 

Then came Charles.

He didn't even look up when he said it. Just saw Lando pass by, all sunshine and tight jeans, and turned to his teammate with a dead stare.

"Don't you fucking dare flirt with him like that in front of us again."

Carlos raised a brow.
Charles kept going.

"I needed bleach last time. If you wink at him once more I swear to god I'm putting in for early retirement."

He walked off before Carlos could reply, muttering something in French that sounded suspiciously like, "I hope you trip over your own feelings."

Carlos leaned back on the pit wall and grinned.

Oh, he knew.
Every glance. Every flirt. Every time he watched Lando laugh and thought, god I'm so gone.

He knew what he was doing.
And he was going to do it right.
He just needed the perfect moment.

And no, this wasn't it.

Let them sweat a little longer.

 

Location: Some quiet, dim corner of the paddock. Post-media duties.
Time: Late. Too late for anyone to be normal.
Characters: Two idiots. Still not dating. Still somehow soulmates.

Carlos leaned against the wall, bottle of water forgotten in his hand. Lando kicked at a loose bolt on the ground like a child with secrets. They'd fallen into their usual rhythm, light teasing, inside jokes, shoulder bumps that lingered a little too long.

Then Carlos dropped it.

"If we get a 1-2 in Singapore..."

Lando looked up. "Yeah?"

Carlos turned to him, serious now, but eyes soft. "I'll do something. Something the world's been waiting for."

Lando blinked. "What, retire?"

Carlos rolled his eyes, but he smiled. "Not that. Bigger."

Lando narrowed his eyes. Suspicious. A little intrigued. A lot into it.
"What does that even mean?"

Carlos just shrugged. "You'll see. So, you better drive fast."

Lando's expression turned playful again, mischievous. "I always drive fast, papi."
Carlos choked on air. "You can't call me that-"

"Why? You liked it when I whispered it in Monaco."
Carlos slapped his own forehead. "I swear to god, you're trying to kill me."
"What, like you weren't the one who told me I looked 'delicious in papaya'?"

Carlos gasped. Lando laughed. The air got warmer, somehow. Too full of unspoken things.

"You're disgusting," Carlos said, but his grin betrayed him.

Lando shrugged. "You love it."

Carlos didn't deny it.

They both walked off still laughing, but in the back of both their minds:

If they get a 1-2 in Singapore... something is going to happen.

Carlos made a promise.
Lando accepted the challenge.
And the world? The world had no idea what was coming.

 

Singapore (Carlando 1-2)

Singapore was glowing, lit under the humid weight of history waiting to be made.

Red Bull had been untouchable all season. But that night? Carlos drove like a man possessed. Ferrari's #55 cut through the grid like the track had bent itself to his will. Behind him, shadowing every corner, was Lando. Close. Right there. A papaya ghost chasing red fire.

Every pit stop counted. Every tire choice danced on the edge of brilliance and disaster.

And when the chequered flag waved?

Carlos P1. Lando P2.

They did it.

They fucking did it.

Carlos jumped out of the car and didn't even hesitate. He ran straight to Lando and crushed him into a hug. Not a back-pat, not a quick squeeze. A real hug. The kind that said thank you, I love you, I'm going to kiss you later without a single word.

Lando, grinning so hard it hurt, leaned back.
"You promised something, remember?"
Carlos smirked. "Get your ass on the podium first."

The anthems played. The trophies were handed over. Champagne rained like war.

Lando had barely gotten over the euphoria of the result when Carlos turned to him on the top step. The crowd was roaring already, but suddenly it felt like time slowed.

Carlos didn't speak at first. He just looked at him. And oh, Lando saw it.

Everything.

Carlos reached out and pulled Lando up onto the top step.

Lando blinked. "What are you doing?"

Carlos smiled.

"Something I should've done years ago."

And then-

Carlos kissed him.

Full-on, mouth-to-mouth, hands tangled somewhere between shoulders and jawline, championship champagne still clinging to their suits. The podium lights caught the curve of Lando's shocked eyes before they fluttered shut and then?

He kissed back.

Hard.

Like everything in him snapped into place. Like the answer to a question he didn't realize he'd been asking for years. Like finally.

The crowd exploded. Reporters dropped cameras. The internet caught fire.

Fred Vasseur and Zak Brown exchanged the most exhausted look ever captured on broadcast.
Fred: "Thank god."
Zak: "I need a drink."

Charles and Max were halfway to tears from laughter in the garage.
Charles: "I told you he was going to do it."
Max: "No, you said he'd wait until Abu Dhabi."
Charles: "Shut up and enjoy the gays."
Max: "Fair."

The mechanics howled. The engineers cheered. The team principals sighed like dads at their sons' weddings. And the world?

The world collectively screamed:

"FINALLY."

They broke apart.

Not fast. Not shocked. Just... slowly. Like neither of them really wanted to let go yet.

And then they looked at each other.

And laughed.

It wasn't awkward. It wasn't nervous. It was that kind of disbelieving, overflowing laugh that only happens when you've wanted something for so long and then it finally happens and it's even better than you imagined.

Carlos breathed out, still smiling, eyes still locked on Lando.
"I've wanted to do that for so long."

Lando snorted, still breathless.
"I've wanted to do that since that night."

Carlos blinked, taken off guard. His mouth parted a little, and then... he just looked at him. Really looked at him. Like he finally saw the whole picture.

"Then I'm glad I did it."

And he leaned in and kissed him again. Slower this time. Softer. No rush, no pressure, just that quiet confirmation of finally.

In the background, the third guy on the podium, Hamilton, just... stood there.

And blinked.

And then walked off the podium without a word because no one needed a third wheel at the most romantic moment in motorsport history.

When Carlos and Lando finally came up for air again, Lando grinned and shook his head, eyes sparkling.

"Best surprise ever, Cabron."

Carlos grinned right back.
"Always wanted it to be for you, you muppet."

And then?

Hand in hand, they walked off the podium, helmets forgotten, champagne-soaked suits clinging to their backs.

The crowd still screaming.

The world still spinning.

And two idiots, finally, spinning right into each other.

 

The door shut with a soft click.

Carlos leaned against it for a second, like he was holding back everything, and maybe he was. Lando walked in a few steps, then stopped in the middle of the hotel room.

Still damp from champagne. Still buzzing. Still looking at Carlos like he couldn't quite believe what had happened.

Neither of them had said much since they left the podium.

Carlos finally pushed off the door and came to stand next to him.

"You okay?" he asked, voice quieter now. Like he was afraid to break whatever this was.

Lando nodded.
"Yeah. Just... can't believe you actually did it."
He glanced at him. "On the podium, Carlos. You kissed me on the fucking podium."

Carlos chuckled, eyes soft.
"Told you I was gonna do something big."

Lando looked away for a second, then back.
"You scared the hell out of me, you know? That whole race, I kept thinking... no way. He won't. He wouldn't."
He exhaled a laugh, rubbed the back of his neck.
"But a part of me really hoped you would."

Carlos reached out, gently touched his wrist.
"Why didn't we do this earlier?"

Lando shrugged.
"Cause we're idiots?"

Carlos smiled.
"Yeah. That tracks."

Silence. But not the heavy kind. The kind that felt safe.

Then Carlos spoke again.
"I meant it, by the way."

Lando looked at him.

"The kiss?"

Carlos shook his head, stepping in closer.
"Everything. The waiting. The wanting. I kept telling myself I was over it. Over you. But I was lying. You know when I knew I wasn't?"

Lando tilted his head. "When?"

Carlos gave a small laugh.
"When I saw you smile at me in Austria last year. You said something stupid about my hair and laughed. And I felt like I'd missed it more than I should've."
He paused.
"More than just a friend should."

Lando blinked, clearly taken off guard by that. Then he said softly,
"You know when I knew?"

Carlos raised an eyebrow.

"The night I nearly kissed you. In Monaco. 2021."
He laughed, shaking his head.
"I went back to my room and stared at the ceiling until sunrise. I thought, 'God, I'm so screwed.'"

Carlos looked at him like he might kiss him again. But instead, he just rested his forehead against Lando's.

"Well, guess what," he whispered.
"You're still screwed. You've got me now."

Lando laughed, full and real and light.

"Took you long enough, Sainz."

And they just stood there like that. In a hotel room, in a city that didn't matter, with the world watching but far away. Holding each other quietly.

Not needing anything else.

 

A few painful(for the grid) years later

It's been a few years.

The names on the cars have changed. Liveries look different. Sponsors come and go.
But two constants remain:

Carlos Sainz, now in deep blue.
Lando Norris, still orange through and through.
And them, together.

They'd stopped the flirty jokes on camera.
Not because the spark was gone, but because their teammates, engineers, the whole damn grid had begged them to.

"Please," Charles had said once, nearly on his knees at a press conference, "for the love of God. Have mercy."

Max nodded gravely beside him.
"I can't handle one more 'You're hot in blue' or 'You're cuter in red.' I can't. My ears are bleeding."

So Carlos and Lando toned it down.
On the surface.

But that didn't stop the kisses.

At the start of a race weekend,
At the end of a long, grueling Sunday,
Even just passing each other in the paddock before they split for media duties,

Quick kiss.
Soft kiss.
Sometimes, stupidly dramatic kiss.

They weren't trying to prove anything anymore. Not to each other. Not to the world.

Because the doubt was gone.
Carlos didn't keep wondering when it would fall apart.
Lando wasn't holding himself back, scared of messing it up.

They chose each other. Over and over.

At Williams debriefs, Carlos had a photo of Lando tucked on the corner of his iPad screen.
At McLaren meetings, Lando had a blue charm on his keyring that looked suspiciously like a certain number 55.

Sometimes, across the paddock, you'd hear it.

"I love you, Cabron!"

And down the other end, without hesitation-

"Love you more, you Papaya Muppet!"

Spectators laughed. Mechanics rolled their eyes.
Sky Sports probably had a full reel just for those shouts by now.

But no one could deny it-

They were annoyingly in love.
Deeply in love.
Fully theirs.

They didn't need to shout it from rooftops anymore.
But of course, they still did.

Because once upon a time, they wasted years.
Now, they were making up for it. In full.

 

 

It started with a glance.
Not the kind that changes the world, not at first.
Just a look, longer than it should've been. A second too late to turn away.

It started with a laugh.
Shared jokes that weren't funny to anyone else. Names that sounded like teasing, but always ended in smiles.

It started with a crush.
That stupid, annoying kind. The one you brush off with a joke or hide under sarcasm.
The kind you pretend isn't real because if it is, then what? Then everything changes.

So you deny it. You push it down.
You make flirty comments and play dumb.
You hold on a little too long, but laugh it off.
You fall, but you tell yourself, no, not really. Not like that.

Until one day... it hits you.
Hard.
All at once.
All those almost-moments piling up like waves until they finally crash.

And it's terrifying. Because love failed once before. Or twice. Maybe more.
You've seen it fall apart, quietly, painfully, without warning.
So you think, this will too.

But it doesn't.
Not this time.

Because not all love fails.
Not all of it ends.

Some of it grows.
Some of it stays.
Some of it waits, even when you're being an idiot.
Some of it holds on, even when you don't know how to ask it to.

And then one day, it doesn't feel like falling anymore.
It feels like flying.

Because this time,
You weren't the only one who felt it.
You weren't alone.

You were loved back.
Fully. Loudly. Quietly. Stupidly. Deeply.

And once you're in it like that.
There's no going back.
You don't want to.
You never did.

It all started small.
But look at it now.

Look at them now.

Chapter 20: CL16 & CS55 | Red or Blue, It Stays the same.

Notes:

Not really a story, but more of epilogue monologue of the Charles and Carlos about the way they looked at each other.
This will be the last chapter of this Oneshot. I hope you'll like it. <3

Charles:

I remember the first time I saw Carlos as if it happened yesterday. He walked in with that calm confidence of his, and when our eyes met, I didn’t look away. His were brown, warm, steady, as if they had known me long before we had spoken. Mine, he told me later they were the first thing he noticed, the green he never forgot. From the start, it was as if we spoke in silence, in the way our eyes searched for one another when words failed, in the way we smiled when we didn’t even mean to. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and I knew he couldn’t either.

Those first months as teammates, I found myself watching him more than I should have. In the garage, during media, even in the quiet moments when we waited for the cars to be ready. He made everything lighter. I had spent years carrying weight on my shoulders, the weight of expectation, of Ferrari, of myself. Then Carlos came, and somehow, when he was near, I smiled without thinking, I laughed without forcing it, and I felt something I had forgotten to feel in Formula 1, the happiness. Genuine, simple happiness. I admired him more than I ever said out loud. The way he drove, the way he fought for every point, the way he never let anyone doubt him. He made me proud, though I never told him enough.

As time went on, nothing changed between us. We became closer, not because of the races we shared, but because of who we were outside the circuits. We trusted each other, leaned on each other when the season became too heavy, too cruel. And through it all, those moments always returned, moments when our eyes would meet across a room, across a garage, across a grid, and we’d lose ourselves in that silence again. It happened during interviews, during debriefs, sometimes even when one of us was joking and the other wasn’t listening to anyone else. It was us, always finding each other.

And then came the night of our last race together in red. The air felt different that evening, heavy but not suffocating. We didn’t need to say much; we knew what it meant. Lewis was coming, and Carlos was leaving. We sat together once the lights had gone out on the season, in the quiet where only we existed, and the tears came. Mine because I knew Ferrari would never feel the same without him, because I knew his seat would be filled but his presence never replaced. His because he was proud. Proud of what we had done together, proud of his years in red, proud to have been part of something bigger than both of us. They weren’t sad tears, not really. They were the tears of two people who had shared more than anyone else would ever understand. We cried together, and in those tears was gratitude, was love, was everything we never needed to say out loud.

When he left, when his colors changed from red to blue, I wondered if things between us would change. They didn’t. The first time I saw him again in blue, I watched him the same way I always had. And then he looked at me, exactly the same way as before. His eyes still searched for mine, still carried the same warmth, the same unspoken bond, as if no time had passed, as if no team could separate what we had built. Even if my colors never changed, and his did, the way we looked at each other never shifted. It wasn’t supposed to. Because after all the years, all the races, all the moments that tied us together, the truth was simple: I still look at Carlos as I did the first day, and he still looks at me the same.

And maybe that’s all that matters.

And I asked him, "Together or nothing? Carlos?"

 

 

Carlos:

I remember the first time I met Charles. I don’t know why, but my eyes went straight to his. Green, sharp, alive. I couldn’t look away. It felt as if they had something to tell me before we even spoke. And when he looked back at me, I knew he felt it too. From that moment, something between us started, something I never tried to explain, because maybe it didn’t need words.

Charles has always had this presence, this mix of intensity and fragility, of carrying the weight of the world and still managing to smile through it. And I admired him from the beginning. Not only because of what he did in the car, but because of who he was when the helmet came off. I used to catch him watching me sometimes, and I’d smile, because I was watching him too. I don’t think he ever realized how much happiness he gave me just by being near. He was my teammate, yes, but more than that he was my balance, my quiet strength, the person who made everything feel less heavy.

Our years in red together were not always easy, but through every race, every high and low, we had each other. That was the constant. I could be across the garage, across a room, and still I’d find his eyes waiting for mine. Sometimes I’d be speaking and realize he wasn’t even listening to anyone else, only to me. And sometimes it was the same for me, caught staring at him when I should have been thinking about something else. It was simple, natural. It was us.

That last night as Ferrari teammates is one I’ll never forget. After the race, when the noise faded and the people left, it was just the two of us. We didn’t need to speak much. He cried, and so did I. His tears, I think, were because he knew I was leaving, because he understood what it meant. Mine… mine were different. They weren’t sad, not really. They were because I was proud. Proud of the years I had given, proud of what we built together, proud that I had done my part. And proud of us, of the friendship, the closeness, the bond we never let go of.

And then I left. I traded red for blue. I thought, for a moment, that maybe the colors would change everything. But the truth is, they didn’t. The first time I saw him again in the paddock, standing there in red while I wore blue, it felt exactly the same. His eyes still found mine, and mine still found his. Nothing was different, except the color of our suits. Because the way I looked at him never changed, and neither did the way he looked at me. It wasn’t supposed to change.

So when I look back now, when I think of everything, it comes down to this: Charles was never only my teammate. He was the person I couldn’t stop watching, the one who made me smile without effort, the one who carried me through moments I’ll never forget. And even though the team, the colors, the seasons move on, he will always be the one I look at the same way I did the first day. Because some things don’t end.

Some things stay with you forever. 

And so, I answered, "Together. Or nothing. Charles"

Notes:

And this is the end of my oneshot. I'm have no words, really for those who had enjoyed and supported me. So thank you, thanks so so so much.
But now I had to leave. Not permanently, just for a while. And for personal reasons, I won't be sharing why I stopped the oneshot at this chapter. My goal was at least 30-40 chapters, but because of family situations and unexpected problems had occurred I had to take a leave. But for real, I want to thank all of you that read this. It means a lot.

Goodbye for now, everyone. Sammy out.

Notes:

My first ever Oneshots. Hope you'd like it and I also have it in Wattpad, but for some reasons I'm not gonna tag my Wattpad. So if you come across a Oneshots in Wattpad that is like like these. Those are mine don't worry.
And I will make it as chapters like Wattpad instead of collections. Since I don't really know what works and what's not.
And Thank You, so so much for reading this, means a lot for a first time writer like me. Love y'all<3