Chapter 1: The Paddock Buzz
Chapter Text
The paddock always had a rhythm to it—cameras flashing, team radios buzzing, mechanics rolling carts of tires across uneven tarmac. Charles Leclerc knew that rhythm well, had lived it for years, but still, there were moments where it pressed down harder than usual. This weekend in Monza was one of them. Ferrari’s home. His home. The weight of red felt heavier here.
He adjusted his cap and tried to smile as fans pressed against the barriers, calling his name in rapid Italian. Charles! Charles! Forza Ferrari! His heart warmed at their passion, but nerves tugged at him. Every eye was on him, every expectation stacked.
“Looking like a rockstar, mate,” Lando Norris said, walking by with Oscar Piastri trailing behind him. Lando gave him a teasing grin. “Pressure’s on, eh?”
Charles chuckled softly. “Always is here.”
Oscar gave him a nod, polite but quieter, his rookie demeanor showing. “Good luck this weekend, Charles.”
“Merci,” Charles replied warmly. He liked Oscar. Grounded, sharp, a bit shy maybe, but genuine.
Charles barely had time to breathe before Carlos Sainz appeared, clapping him on the back. “Don’t worry, we’ll handle it. Ferrari 1-2, yeah?”
Charles smiled faintly. Carlos had a way of being casual about impossible things. He nodded anyway. “We’ll try.”
From a few meters away, Max Verstappen was leaning against the Red Bull hospitality entrance, arms crossed, casual as ever. His gaze lingered on Charles for a moment too long, though nobody else seemed to notice. Max didn’t wave, didn’t move—just watched. And when Yuki Tsunoda jogged over and slung an arm around Charles’ waist in greeting, Max’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
“Charles! You always look too serious,” Yuki teased. “Relax. We’re just racing cars, not saving the world.”
Charles laughed, caught off guard, patting Yuki’s shoulder. “Easier for you to say, Yuki.”
“See? That’s the smile.” Yuki grinned triumphantly and kept his arm there, at Charles’ waist, as if proud of dragging it out of him.
It was a small thing, harmless even, but Max shifted his weight against the doorframe, suddenly less relaxed. His stare burned, though he kept his face unreadable. Only Sergio Pérez, stepping out of the Red Bull building, noticed. He raised an eyebrow at Max.
“You good?” Checo asked lowly.
Max shrugged. “Fine.”
But his eyes didn’t leave Charles, or more specifically, Yuki’s hand at Charles’ side.
—
Later in the drivers’ lounge, the atmosphere was lighter. Daniel Ricciardo had taken it upon himself to play DJ from his phone, blasting music that was way too upbeat for the early hour. George Russell was lecturing Logan Sargeant about hydration, and Pierre Gasly was arguing with Esteban Ocon about who had the better seat fit.
Charles sat with Alex Albon, sipping water and listening more than talking. Alex had a gift for filling silences in an easy way.
“You know,” Alex mused, “if you actually smiled more, the fans would probably faint.”
Charles rolled his eyes but smiled anyway, which only made Alex laugh.
“See? Proof.”
“Very funny,” Charles muttered, though his ears warmed.
Across the room, Max was pretending to scroll on his phone, but his eyes flicked up at the sound of Charles’ laugh. This time it was Alex’s hand, tapping lightly against Charles’ knee in emphasis of some joke. Charles didn’t seem to notice, but Max did.
Lando, plopping down beside Max without invitation, caught him watching.
“Staring’s not very subtle, mate,” Lando said with a mischievous grin.
Max shot him a look. “I’m not staring.”
“You so are. If Charles were a tire compound, you’d be analyzing his degradation curve.”
Max huffed, annoyed, but Lando only leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. “Just saying. Someone’s a little possessive.”
Max shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Drop it, Lando.”
But his mind was already elsewhere, replaying those little touches—Yuki’s arm at Charles’ waist, Alex’s hand on his knee—as if they mattered. As if they were something he had any right to care about.
—
The weekend rolled on, practice sessions blurring together with media duties and endless debriefs. Charles carried himself with quiet focus, smiling politely for cameras, listening intently in meetings, but Max found himself noticing things he never used to.
The way Charles absently fiddled with the edge of his gloves. The way his laugh always started soft before blooming. The way other drivers seemed drawn to him, like gravity.
And every time someone touched him—Carlos tugging at his sleeve, Lewis brushing past him with a hand on his shoulder, Pierre leaning in close to show him something on a phone—Max felt a flicker of something sharp in his chest.
Jealousy. He hated the word, hated the feeling even more. He had no claim to Charles, no reason to feel like this. But it gnawed at him, quietly, insistently.
—
The real test came Saturday evening. A sponsor event brought all the drivers together, polished and suited, smiles rehearsed. Charles stood near the bar, surrounded by laughter—Carlos, Pierre, Esteban, even Zhou.
Lewis Hamilton, ever charismatic, approached with easy confidence. He placed a hand at Charles’ waist as he leaned in to say something, making Charles laugh brightly. The sight froze Max in place.
Something in him snapped.
He wasn’t the jealous type, or so he always told himself. But the warmth in Charles’ smile, the casualness of Lewis’ hand—it lit a fire he couldn’t smother.
“Don’t glare too hard, Verstappen. People will notice,” Checo murmured at his side, sipping his drink.
Max forced his jaw to unclench. “I’m not glaring.”
Checo smirked knowingly. “Sure.”
But Max didn’t move, didn’t look away. Because no matter how hard he tried, his focus always returned to Charles.
---
(To be continued...)
Chapter 2: Cracks in the Armor
Chapter Text
Charles had gotten used to sponsor events. Too many lights, too much fake laughter, glasses clinking around him, and every smile just slightly too polished. It was a performance, same as the races, just without helmets.
Tonight, though, Charles felt oddly at ease. Maybe it was the glass of champagne he’d accepted to keep the host happy. Maybe it was the way Carlos stood nearby, teasing Esteban in rapid Spanish, while Pierre tried to mediate and failed spectacularly. Or maybe it was Lewis, leaning close, saying something smooth about the crowd that made Charles laugh out loud, head tilting back.
The hand at his waist didn’t even register. It was just Lewis being Lewis—warm, comfortable, charming.
But across the room, Max noticed.
His drink had long gone warm in his hand, untouched. He hated sponsor events, hated the stiff suit and the shallow conversations. But most of all, he hated how his eyes kept tracking Charles. Every time someone got too close, every time Charles smiled too easily, it twisted something inside him.
“Are you seriously going to burn holes in Hamilton’s head with your eyes?” Lando slid up beside him, holding a soda like he was watching a soap opera unfold.
Max didn’t answer.
“You’ve been weird lately,” Lando pressed. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“I’m fine,” Max muttered, tone sharp.
Lando smirked. “Right. And I’m leading the championship.”
Max shot him a look, but Lando only grinned wider.
“Mate, you’re jealous. Admit it.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “I don’t get jealous.”
“Mm-hm. Sure. Totally explains why you’ve been scowling at every driver who touches Charles like they just insulted your mum.”
Max turned away, forcing himself to look at the bar instead of Charles’ laugh, Charles’ waist under Lewis’ hand. “Drop it, Norris.”
But Lando only sipped his soda, far too entertained.
—
Charles eventually slipped away from the crowd, needing a moment of quiet. He stepped onto the terrace, where the buzz of conversation dimmed under the night sky. He leaned on the railing, breathing out, letting the cool air wash over him.
“You always disappear,” a voice said softly.
Charles turned to find Alex Albon joining him, smile gentle.
“I like the quiet,” Charles admitted.
“Same. Gets exhausting in there, doesn’t it?”
Charles nodded. He’d always liked Alex’s calm presence. It was grounding.
For a while, they stood in companionable silence, watching the city lights stretch in the distance. Then Alex said lightly, “You know half the paddock’s in love with you, right?”
Charles blinked, startled. “What?”
Alex chuckled. “Don’t look so surprised. You’ve seen it. The way everyone gravitates toward you. It’s not just the fans.”
Charles flushed, looking away. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Alex arched a brow. “Carlos follows you around like a golden retriever. Pierre looks for excuses to hang around. Even Yuki clings to you. And don’t get me started on—”
He stopped himself, smirking instead.
Charles narrowed his eyes. “On who?”
“Never mind,” Alex said smoothly. “Point is, you’re oblivious.”
Charles shook his head, amused but embarrassed. “You’re exaggerating.”
Alex only laughed. “Maybe.”
What Charles didn’t notice was the figure leaning against the doorway behind them. Max hadn’t meant to follow, but when he saw Charles slip out, his feet moved before he could think. Now he stood half in shadow, listening to their voices, chest tight at Alex’s words.
Half the paddock’s in love with you.
The thought gnawed at Max more than it should.
—
Back inside, Daniel Ricciardo was in peak form, corralling George Russell, Zhou Guanyu, and Logan Sargeant into an impromptu dance-off that had cameras flashing. Pierre and Esteban were bickering again, their usual rhythm of playful jabs masking something more complicated.
Carlos, spotting Charles stepping back in with Alex, immediately called out. “There he is! Come on, Charles, dance!”
Charles raised his hands in mock surrender. “Non, non. Not tonight.”
“Boring,” Daniel teased.
Carlos grabbed Charles’ arm, tugging him toward the group anyway. Charles stumbled into the circle, laughing, and before he could escape, Zhou playfully caught his other side, hand steadying his waist.
The moment froze Max in place. Again.
He clenched his jaw, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the quieter end of the room. Sergio, ever observant, intercepted him.
“You’re going to grind your teeth down to nothing if you keep that up,” Checo said dryly.
Max glared. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’ve been watching Charles all night.”
Max bristled. “I haven’t.”
Checo gave him a look like he was speaking to a stubborn child. “Listen, Max. You can keep lying to yourself, but it’s obvious. To everyone.”
Max’s chest tightened. “I don’t—”
“Yes, you do,” Checo interrupted firmly. “Admit it or don’t, but stop pretending it doesn’t exist.”
Max said nothing. Couldn’t. His throat felt too tight.
—
Meanwhile, Charles finally slipped free of the chaos, finding a seat near the window. He felt lighter after laughing with the others, but also oddly drained. Social energy had never been his strength.
Yuki dropped into the chair beside him, looking pleased with himself. “You survived the dance-off.”
“Barely,” Charles said with a small smile.
“You know, you don’t have to always be serious,” Yuki said, poking his arm. “We like you even when you’re not perfect Ferrari Charles.”
Charles tilted his head, touched by the sincerity beneath the teasing. “Merci, Yuki.”
From across the room, Max caught sight of them, Yuki’s easy closeness, his hand brushing Charles’ arm as he spoke.
Something inside Max snapped for the second time that night. He set down his untouched drink, muttered something to Checo, and walked straight out of the room.
He didn’t look back.
—
Outside, the night air hit cold against his skin. Max pulled at his tie, hating the suffocation, hating the way his chest burned.
He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not for Charles. Not for anyone. He was Max Verstappen—focused, unshakable, untouchable. His world was supposed to be racing, nothing else.
And yet here he was, jealous over something as stupid as a hand on a waist.
He leaned against the wall, exhaling harshly, trying to force the thoughts away. But they clung to him, stubborn as ever.
Inside, laughter spilled out of the windows, Charles’ voice among them.
And Max realized, with a sharp twist in his chest, that he was in far deeper than he’d ever intended.
---
(To be continued...)
Chapter 3: Quiet Tension
Chapter Text
Max didn’t return to the sponsor event. He stayed outside until the music dulled and the crowd inside began to scatter. His car was waiting, but he didn’t go in. He just stood there, staring at the pavement, forcing his thoughts into some kind of order.
It’s stupid. It’s nothing. Just forget it.
But the more he tried to bury it, the more it clawed back. The image of Charles laughing, Charles touched so easily by others—it looped in his head until his fists clenched.
He was Max Verstappen, world champion, driver of the fastest car on the grid. He didn’t get rattled by things like this. He didn’t get jealous.
And yet.
“Why are you still here?” Sergio’s voice broke through his storm of thoughts.
Max glanced up, startled. “Thought you left.”
Checo shrugged, hands in his pockets. “I figured you’d be out here, sulking.”
“I’m not sulking,” Max snapped.
“You are.” Checo leaned against the wall beside him. “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything. But whatever’s going on, it’s eating you alive.”
Max stayed silent.
“You like him,” Checo said simply.
Max’s head jerked toward him, eyes sharp. “I don’t—”
“You do,” Checo interrupted. “And you can keep denying it until the season ends, but that doesn’t change the fact.”
Max turned away, jaw set. He hated being transparent. He hated that Checo saw through him so easily.
“It’s Charles,” Checo continued. “Of course it is. Everyone likes him.”
That sentence landed heavier than Max expected. Everyone likes him. That was the problem.
Checo clapped him on the shoulder, breaking the silence. “Figure it out, Max. Before someone else does.”
And with that, he walked off, leaving Max with the truth he didn’t want to face.
—
The next morning, Charles sat in the Ferrari motorhome, coffee in hand, staring at the schedule for media day. His head still buzzed faintly from last night’s noise. Sponsor events drained him more than a race sometimes.
Carlos breezed in, humming, clearly unbothered. “You looked like you were having fun last night,” he teased, plopping into the chair across from Charles.
Charles gave him a look. “I was cornered into dancing.”
Carlos grinned. “And you enjoyed it.”
Charles rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “Not as much as Daniel did.”
“True.” Carlos leaned back, folding his arms. “You know, you’re always the center. People want you there, even when you think you’re quiet.”
Charles tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
Carlos shrugged. “Everyone talks to you. You don’t even realize it, do you? You have this… pull.”
Charles frowned slightly, remembering Alex’s words on the terrace. “Alex said something like that.”
“Because it’s true.” Carlos smirked. “You could probably get half the grid to jump in a lake if you asked nicely.”
Charles laughed at the image. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Maybe.” Carlos winked. “But not by much.”
Still, Charles felt unsettled. He didn’t think of himself that way. He just… existed. Tried his best. If people were drawn to him, it wasn’t something he did intentionally.
And yet, lately, he’d noticed something odd. A tension in the air, subtle but present. Glances that lingered a little too long. Conversations that cut off when he approached.
He brushed it off at first, but it was happening more often.
—
That afternoon, the drivers gathered for the press conference rotation. Charles sat beside Lewis and Max at the front table, microphones waiting.
The questions were routine—Monza pressure, car performance, strategies for the weekend. Charles answered with practiced calm, but his awareness kept drifting.
Max, to his left, was quieter than usual. Not unfriendly, but reserved. His gaze stayed down, his tone clipped when he spoke. It was unlike him.
At one point, when a journalist asked about rivalries, Charles caught Max glancing his way. Just a flicker, but sharp, almost defensive.
Charles blinked, unsettled. Had he done something?
Later, when they left the stage, Lewis clapped Charles lightly on the back. “Good answers, kid.”
Charles smiled. “Thanks.”
But in that instant, he felt rather than saw Max stiffen beside him. And suddenly, Alex’s words echoed louder in his head.
Half the paddock’s in love with you.
—
The drivers’ lounge that evening was more subdued than the sponsor chaos. Some played cards—Pierre, Esteban, and Zhou bickering over rules. Yuki sat on the floor with Daniel, watching something funny on a phone.
Charles sat with Lando and Oscar, sipping tea. They were talking about Monza corners when Max walked in.
The room shifted, just slightly.
Max nodded at a few people, then sat alone on the far side, scrolling through his phone. But Charles could feel the tension, like static in the air.
Lando noticed it too. He leaned closer, whispering just low enough for Oscar not to hear. “Someone’s brooding.”
Charles followed his gaze. “Max?”
“Yeah.” Lando smirked. “He’s been like that all weekend. You haven’t noticed?”
Charles hesitated. “He seems… quieter.”
“That’s one word for it.” Lando leaned back, sipping his drink. “Brooding’s another.”
Charles frowned, watching Max from across the room. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but something stopped him. Max looked so closed off, so unreachable.
And yet, when their eyes accidentally met, Charles felt it—a flash of something raw before Max looked away.
—
Later that night, Charles couldn’t sleep. He kept replaying little moments—the stiffness in Max’s shoulders, the sharp glances, the silence.
He thought of last night, too—Yuki teasing him, Alex’s words, Carlos’ smirk. Everyone gravitates toward you.
Was that what was bothering Max?
Charles sat up in bed, pressing his palms together. The thought felt ridiculous, but also strangely possible.
No… he wouldn’t…
And yet, the memory of Max’s eyes lingered.
—
Across town, Max lay awake too. Staring at the ceiling, restless.
He hated how obvious it had become. He hated that Charles might notice.
But most of all, he hated how much he wanted it.
Because no matter how hard he fought it, no matter how much he tried to bury it under racing and discipline, the truth was unavoidable.
He liked Charles.
More than liked.
And that realization was the most terrifying thing of all.
---
(To be continued...)
Chapter 4: Treading Lines
Chapter Text
The Monza morning air buzzed with the energy of fans. Red flags waved everywhere, chants of Forza Ferrari! rising like thunder. Charles loved it and dreaded it all at once.
He tried to focus on the familiar rhythm: meetings, prep, briefings. But his mind kept straying. To Max. To the glances. To the tension he couldn’t shake.
Carlos noticed, of course. He always did.
“You’re distracted,” Carlos said, falling into step beside Charles as they walked to the garage.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can tell. You keep zoning out.”
Charles pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to admit he’d been thinking about Max. “It’s nothing.”
Carlos gave him a look that said I don’t believe you, but he let it go.
Inside the garage, engineers bustled around, but Charles’ attention slipped again when Max walked by. He was in full Red Bull gear, head down, but Charles felt the weight of his presence like gravity.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words stuck.
—
Max threw himself into prep with mechanical precision. Data runs, tire strategies, corner analysis—he drilled it all into his head, trying to drown the noise inside him.
But it didn’t work. Not when Charles was there, every movement catching his eye.
It was maddening. He’d faced pressure, rivalries, even crashes without blinking. But this—this pull toward Charles, this jealousy that flared when others got close—felt like a weakness he couldn’t afford.
It doesn’t matter. Focus on racing.
But when he looked up and saw Charles laughing at something George said, the thought dissolved.
—
Media pen, midday. Drivers cycled through interviews, voices lost under microphones and cameras.
Charles answered the usual questions—Monza pressure, Ferrari strategy, fan energy. He smiled politely, but his mind ticked elsewhere.
When his slot ended, he spotted Max finishing his own. Impulse pushed him forward.
“Max,” Charles called, catching him just before he could walk away.
Max froze, mask slipping for half a second before he nodded. “Charles.”
Charles hesitated. How to ask without sounding absurd? He settled for, “Are you alright? You’ve seemed… different.”
Max blinked. “I’m fine.”
It was sharp, too quick.
Charles tilted his head. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Max’s tone softened slightly, but his gaze skittered away. “Just focused.”
Charles wanted to press. But something in Max’s guarded expression told him he wouldn’t get an honest answer. Not yet.
“Okay,” Charles said quietly, letting him go.
Max walked off, shoulders tense.
Charles stood there, more certain than ever: something was going on.
—
Later, in the drivers’ lounge, the others were sprawled out between sessions. Daniel had somehow convinced Logan and Zhou into a card game that looked dangerously competitive. Yuki and Pierre were laughing over something on a phone.
Charles sat with Lewis and Alex, sipping water.
Max walked in. Again, the atmosphere shifted. Subtle, but Charles felt it.
He decided to test it.
He leaned closer to Alex as he laughed at something Lewis said, letting their shoulders brush.
Across the room, Max froze mid-step.
Charles caught it. Just a flicker—the tightening of Max’s jaw, the way his eyes darted to that shoulder contact.
And then Max looked away, moving to sit alone.
Charles’ heart skipped. So Alex was right.
But why hide it? Why guard it so tightly?
—
Max sat stiffly, pretending to scroll through his phone. But every laugh from Charles reached him like a jolt. Every accidental touch, every easy closeness—it gnawed at him.
He hated himself for it. He hated that Charles had noticed enough to ask earlier.
If he finds out…
The thought made his chest tighten. No one could know. Not Charles, not anyone.
Because feelings were messy. They were distractions. And distractions didn’t win championships.
But he couldn’t stop.
—
After practice, the paddock was chaos. Fans screaming, media swarming, mechanics rushing.
Charles signed autographs, smiling, but his eyes tracked Max. He wanted to try again, to break through the wall Max had built.
Instead, Yuki appeared at his side, tugging at his sleeve. “Come on, Charles! We’re taking a picture!”
Before Charles could answer, Yuki had pulled him toward Pierre, Esteban, and Lando. They squeezed together, arms around shoulders and waists, a jumble of laughter and camera flashes.
Charles smiled automatically. But he felt it—the burn of a stare.
He glanced past the camera, and there was Max, watching. His expression unreadable, but his fists clenched at his sides.
The photo ended, the group dispersed, but the image stuck in Charles’ mind. Max wasn’t just different. He was… jealous.
And the realization made Charles’ pulse quicken.
—
That night, Charles sat on his hotel balcony, phone buzzing with endless notifications. He ignored them, staring instead at the Monza skyline.
He thought about Max—about the stiffness, the glances, the storm behind his eyes. He thought about the touches, the way Max reacted every time.
He wasn’t imagining it.
But what to do with that truth?
Charles leaned back in his chair, exhaling. Part of him wanted to push, to confront Max outright. Another part feared breaking whatever fragile thread was there.
Because beneath the jealousy, beneath the tension, Charles sensed something else.
Something fragile.
Something Max didn’t want to admit, even to himself.
—
In his own room, Max sat at the edge of his bed, hands in his hair.
He couldn’t stop replaying it—the photo, Charles’ smile, the casual way everyone touched him.
It shouldn’t matter. But it did.
And Checo’s words echoed in his head. Figure it out before someone else does.
The truth was clawing at him now, undeniable. He liked Charles. He wanted Charles.
But admitting it out loud? Impossible.
So Max clenched his fists tighter, forcing himself to breathe, as though willpower alone could hold back the storm.
But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last.
Because Charles had already started to see through the cracks.
---
(To be continued...)