Chapter Text
The afternoon sun beat down on the paddock asphalt, and the hum of mechanics and press created a constant background noise. However, nothing surpassed the volume of Lando Norris's voice when he was genuinely in shock.
— Are you serious that you like Oscar Piastri? YOU?! — Lando exclaimed, stopping dead in his tracks, his eyes widening like saucers.
Before the last syllable could echo against the hospitality walls, Max’s hand was already clamped over the Briton's mouth, stifling any further indiscretion. Hurriedly, Max dragged him a few feet toward a more private corner, glancing frantically around to ensure no journalist or team member had overheard.
— Shhhh! Lando, please, be quiet, — Max hissed through gritted teeth, not letting go yet. — If I decided to tell you, it was so you could give me advice, not so you could broadcast it to the entire circuit. —
Max slowly withdrew his hand, shooting him a warning look that would have intimidated anyone. But Lando just brushed off his kit, trying to compose himself, and let out a nervous chuckle, though his eyes still sparkled with disbelief.
— Sorry, Max... you just caught me off guard, — Lando apologized, lowering his tone but without erasing his mischievous grin. — I mean, it’s Oscar. The guy who barely expresses anything. And you are... well, you. I didn't imagine you two in the same sentence, much less like that. —
Max let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. He knew trusting Lando was a risk, but he needed to get it off his chest.
— I know. I didn't imagine it myself either, — Max admitted in a low voice, glancing toward the McLaren garage. — But it’s different when you're alone with him. There’s something... I don’t know how to explain it. But I need to know if I have a chance before I go crazy. —
Lando turned serious for a second, tilting his head.
— Oscar is a mystery even to me sometimes, Max. But if you’re going to go for it, do it carefully. He’s not the type to play around when it comes to sentimentality. —
— What do you mean? — Max asked, crossing his arms and fixing his gaze on Lando. — Are you saying that because of a possible rejection? Do you think he’ll say no? —
Lando sighed, glancing toward the McLaren box as if he feared the walls had ears. He scratched the back of his neck, searching for the right words.
— Actually, it’s more than that, Max. Oscar is a bit... special. I’m saying this because I’ve worked with him for a long time and I’ve seen how he usually is with the people he dates. He’s not like the rest of us. —
Max arched an eyebrow, feeling a knot of impatience in his stomach. He hated riddles, especially when they involved someone he was starting to care about so much.
— And that means...? Ugh, Lando, don’t beat around the bush, — Max snapped with a hint of frustration. — If you’re trying to tell me I’m not his type, you better say it now so I don’t go and humiliate myself alone. —
Lando let out a dry laugh, shaking his head quickly.
— It’s not that, Max. It’s more... I’d venture to say you’re completely his type, and that’s an understatement. You fit exactly the profile of what blows Oscar’s mind. —
Max froze for a second, processing the information. A mix of relief and a strange intrigue washed over him.
— Really? — Max asked, letting his guard down. — How do you know? Has he said something about me? —
Lando put a hand on his shoulder, his expression dancing between amusement and a genuine warning.
— Believe me, you don’t want to know the details of how I know. I can only tell you to try asking him out for dinner or something. You know, something subtle, okay? Don’t show up with an engagement ring, but don’t go there just to talk shop either. Make a real but slow move. —
Max nodded slowly, lost in thought. The Briton's words, instead of calming him, had ignited a spark of mystery about Oscar's personality that he hadn't expected to find.
— A dinner... — Max murmured to himself. — Fine. I’ll do it today and see how it goes. —
— Good luck, Max, — Lando said, turning to leave, but muttering to himself: "You're going to need it once you find out what's underneath that Australian calm."
Once the Dutchman lost sight of the Briton, he began to think about what he had said. His words repeated in a loop in his head as he started walking toward the back area of the motorhomes—a much quieter area, away from the hustle and bustle of the fans.
"You’re completely his type and that's an understatement." That phrase gave him an unusual confidence, a spark of adrenaline that didn't come from a fast lap, but from the possibility of something real with Oscar.
Because of that, he decided to start looking for him. He knew he wouldn't be far and that the lonely path he had taken would lead him to where the boy he liked was.
And he wasn't wrong.
After a short search, he finally saw him. Oscar was sitting on a wooden bench under the shade of some trees, his back straight and his eyes fixed on some folders with the McLaren logo. He looked so concentrated, so much in his own world, that Max stopped for a second just to observe him. He looked like calm personified.
Max swallowed hard, wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, and stepped forward.
— Hey, Oscar! — Max called out, perhaps with a bit more volume than necessary due to nerves.
Oscar slowly looked up, blinking to come out of his trance of data and graphs. A small, almost imperceptible but genuine smile appeared on his face when he saw who it was.
— Oh, hello Max, — he replied in that steady voice that always managed to lower the Dutchman’s pulse. — I wasn’t expecting you around here. —
Max approached and stood in front of him, rocking slightly on his heels. He felt strangely large and clumsy under Oscar’s analytical gaze.
— Yeah, well... I was just walking by and saw you, — Max lied, scratching the back of his neck with a stiff gesture. — How... how are you? Everything okay with the car? Or with... life in general? —
He regretted the last phrase as soon as it left his mouth. "With life in general?" he scolded himself mentally. "You sound like a fool, Verstappen."
Oscar closed the folder carefully and made a small space on the bench, inviting him to sit.
— Everything’s fine, Max. The car balance is decent, and my life... — he paused, looking at Max with an intensity that made him shiver. — My life is quite quiet. Which is always good in this world, don’t you think? —
Max sat down but kept a prudent distance, remembering Lando’s advice to be "subtle."
— Yeah, I guess. Though sometimes a little agitation isn't a bad thing, — Max said, trying to regain his usual confidence. — In fact, I was thinking that... well, tomorrow there’s nothing on the F1 work agenda after seven. —
Oscar arched an eyebrow, leaving the McLaren files on the other side of the bench. His expression was indecipherable—one of those poker faces that drove Max crazy because he couldn't tell if he was amusing the Australian or making him uncomfortable.
— Okay? — Oscar said calmly, tilting his head slightly. — And that means...? —
Max suddenly felt the collar of his shirt tightening. He shifted on the bench, searching for the "subtle" words Lando had told him, but subtlety had never been his forte.
— That I don't know... would you like to go out with me? — he finally blurted out, trying to keep his voice from trembling. — You know, we could go eat or do something you want to do. It doesn't have to be anything complicated. —
There was a silence that seemed eternal to Max. The wind moved the leaves of the trees, but Oscar didn't move. He just stared at him with those clear eyes that seemed to be scanning every fiber of his being.
— Are you asking me out? — Oscar asked. He didn't sound mocking; he sounded... evaluative. As if he were processing dangerous information.
Max panicked for a second. The confidence he had brought from the paddock evaporated.
— No... I mean, yes. I mean, no... I mean, yes, — Max stammered, gesturing erratically with his hands. — The truth is yes, Oscar. I’d like to get to know you more. I think you're an incredible person and... I don’t know, I’d like for something more to happen. —
Oscar looked down at his hands for a moment and then fixed his gaze back on Max. There was no trace of the shyness Max expected; there was a sort of invisible barrier, a containment wall.
— I’m sorry, Max, — Oscar said with a softness that hurt more than a scream. — But I can't. —
Max blinked, processing the direct rejection. His first instinct was to think about logistics, schedules, anything but a personal "no."
— You can’t what? Tomorrow? — Max asked quickly, trying to save the situation. — If you can’t tomorrow, maybe we can go another day. I have no problem with that, I’ll adjust to your schedule. —
Oscar slowly shook his head, and for the first time, Max noticed a spark of something like fear in the back of his pupils.
— It’s not the day, Max. It’s the invitation itself. I can’t accept a date with you. It’s not a good idea. —
Max felt a sting of frustration. It wasn't the "no" that bothered him; it was the mystery behind it. He stood up at the same time as Oscar, who suddenly seemed to be in a great hurry to leave.
— Why isn't it a good idea? — Max asked, subtly blocking the Australian’s path. — Give me a reason, at least. —
Oscar started gathering his folders with quick, almost erratic movements—a clear sign that his "Ice Man" mask was cracking. His jaw was tense.
— Because... no, Max. It’s not right, — Oscar blurted out without looking at him, passing by him and heading toward what the Dutchman assumed was his McLaren box.
Max frowned, completely baffled by the choice of words. Not right? What year were they living in? When he saw the driver of the number 81 car moving further away, he decided to go after him.
— What exactly isn't right? — Max called out, reaching his side with a mix of confusion and a hint of dread. — Is it because... you don’t like guys? Is that it? —
Oscar stopped dead and closed his eyes for a second, letting out a shaky sigh. When he looked back at Max, there was a defensive intensity in his eyes, something that went far beyond a simple preference.
— It’s not that, okay? — Oscar replied in a sharper tone than usual. — It’s just... no. Simply no. Don’t insist. —
Oscar resumed his hurried pace, but Max wasn't going to just stand there. Curiosity and frustration were an explosive mix in his chest, so he started walking behind him again, almost jogging to keep up with the long strides Oscar was now taking.
— That’s not an answer, Oscar! — Max exclaimed, chasing him down the path. — If I like you and you like me, what’s the damn problem? Is it the teams? Is it the press? Tell me something that makes sense and I’ll stop insisting! —
Oscar didn't stop, clutching the files to his chest like a shield. He could feel Max’s presence right behind him, persistent, like a lion that won't let go of its prey until it gets what it wants.
— Oscar, look at me! — Max insisted, reaching out to brush his arm. — If Lando says I’m your type, why are you running away like I’m offering you poison? —
Oh oh.
With that, Oscar stopped abruptly. Just hearing Lando's name made him spin around so fast that Max almost crashed into him. He was breathing heavily, and for the first time, Max saw a real crack in that Australian calm.
— Lando said... what? — Oscar whispered. His voice wasn't loud, but it had a steel edge that made Max’s skin crawl.
The Dutchman felt his stomach drop. "I blew it," he thought immediately, internally cursing his British friend's big mouth and his own lack of filter. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some of his remaining dignity while taking half a step back.
— Well... Lando told me I might be your type, — Max stammered, scratching the back of his neck nervously. — And that’s why... well, I built up the courage to ask you. I thought if he said it, maybe I had a chance. —
Oscar let out a heavy sigh, a mixture of exasperation and something much darker. His eyes swept the paddock corridor, realizing they were still in a place that was too exposed. Suddenly, before Max could say another word, Oscar stepped forward and gripped his forearm firmly.
— Walk. Now, — Oscar ordered with an authority Max didn't know he possessed.
— But what... —
Without letting him finish the sentence, the Australian practically dragged him toward one of the empty storage units behind the hospitality buildings—a dark, private place where the noise of the paddock arrived only as a distant echo.
Once inside, Oscar slammed the door shut and turned toward Max. The usual calm had completely vanished; in its place was a vibrant, almost electric intensity that filled the small space.
— Lando has no idea what he’s talking about, Max, — Oscar said, stepping toward him, closing the distance until Max felt his back hit the metal wall. — Being "my type" is not the compliment you think it is. —
The tetracampion swallowed hard, looking Oscar in the eyes. The atmosphere in that storage unit was suffocating. Oscar’s proximity was overwhelming; he could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating from his body, now tense as a violin string.
— If... if it’s not a compliment, then what is it? — Max stammered, trying to catch his breath. His blue eyes sought an answer in the Australian’s somber gaze.
Oscar took another step, completely invading Max’s personal space. He placed a hand on one side of the Dutchman's head, leaning it against the metal, and leaned in until his lips were inches from touching his.
— It’s a warning, Max, — Oscar whispered, and his voice no longer held a trace of his usual calm. It was deep, possessive. — Lando knows that when I really like someone, I don’t know how to share. I don’t know how to be "nice." —
Max felt a chill run down his spine as he felt that cool breath against his face. As expected, he tried to say something, but Oscar didn't let him.
— You see this quiet guy, right? The one who always keeps his composure, — Oscar continued, his gaze now fixed on Max’s lips. — But if I let you in, Max, that mask dies. I am jealous. I am possessive to a point that would scare you. If you are mine, I want to know where you are, what you’re thinking, and why anyone else dared to look at you for more than two seconds. I become dark, Max. I become an obsession. —
Oscar lowered his gaze over Max’s body, a slow, predatory inspection that made the older man’s legs falter.
— And it’s not just my mind, — Oscar added, with a lopsided smile that had something perverse about it. — My tastes... my hands... they wouldn't be gentle with you. I’d want to mark every inch of your skin so you don’t forget who you belong to. I’d want to see you break only for me. I’m a fucking pervert when I obsess, Max, and you... you are exactly the kind of temptation that would make me lose control completely. —
Max swallowed with difficulty, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was hearing things that should have made him run in the opposite direction, but the effect was the opposite. He felt a searing heat settling in his belly.
— That’s why I told you no, — Oscar concluded, pulling away just a few inches, though his eyes remained anchored to Max’s. — Because once I start, I’m not going to let you go. And I don’t think you’re ready for the kind of love I give. —
The silence that followed that sentence in the small room was so dense that Max could hear the hum of electricity in the walls. The image of the calm and methodical Australian had just shattered, revealing a dark, possessive man with an intensity Max had never imagined.
The Dutchman opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He was in shock. It wasn't exactly fear he felt, but a kind of vertigo, as if he were on the edge of a precipice looking into a darkness that both attracted and terrified him.
Oscar, seeing Max’s lack of reaction, seemed to regain his mask of control for a second, though his eyes still shone with that dangerous spark. He stepped back, breaking the bubble of heat surrounding them, and let out a heavy sigh that betrayed how much it had cost him to say all that.
After a few seconds, he approached again, but this time only slightly and not with aggression, but with a softness that completely disarmed Max. Oscar raised a hand and, with extreme delicacy, brushed Max’s flushed cheek with the back of his fingers.
— So, please, Max... — Oscar whispered sweetly, almost tenderly, though his gaze was still that of someone warning of a fire. — Let’s just leave it like this, okay? —
That sweetness was the final blow for Max. It was the perfect contrast: the man who had just admitted that if they started a relationship he would mark and possess him obsessively, was now speaking to him with the softest voice in the world to protect him from himself.
— It’s for your own good, — Oscar added, withdrawing his hand as if the contact burned him. — You wouldn't want to be in my head, Max. Believe me. —
Oscar turned elegantly and opened the door. The light from outside flooded the space, blinding Max for a moment. Without looking back, Oscar stepped out into the paddock corridor, instantly regaining his "Ice Man" posture, leaving Max alone in the shadows.
Fuck.
What the hell just happened?
A few minutes passed and Max didn't move. He stood there, his knees a bit shaky and his breathing erratic. He looked down at his forearm, right where Oscar had held him to drag him there. There were no marks, but Max could feel the pressure of those fingers seared into his skin.
— For my own good, he says... — Max whispered to the empty room.
In reality, he should have been terrified, thinking of a thousand and one ways to get away from Oscar Piastri, but no—instead of feeling terror, he felt an overwhelming curiosity. A curiosity that absolutely required answers. And there was only one person who could give them...
— That bastard... — he growled before leaving the small room in search of a very stupid Briton.
He found him a short while later, leaving the Williams box. Max managed to intercept him with a fierce stride. He didn't care that there were a couple of photographers in the distance; he grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him into a corner between the Williams and Alpine garages, with an expression that promised trouble.
— Why the fuck didn't you tell me Oscar was a fucking obsessive? — Max snapped, without preamble, his eyes sparking.
Lando, instead of getting scared, froze for a second until he saw it was the Dutchman. That was when a grin spread across his face from ear to ear. Not only that, the bastard then let out a clear laugh, shaking his head.
— So he already told you, huh? — Lando laughed, wiping away an imaginary tear. — Wow, Max, I thought it would take a couple of dinners to scare you, but he must really like you for him to drop the "stay away from me, I'm a monster" speech right away. —
Max clenched his jaw, feeling his ears turn red—partly from anger and partly from the memory of Oscar's voice close to his face.
— Norris, I'm not in the mood for jokes, — Max hissed, stepping forward to intimidate him. — What do you know about Oscar's behavior? I need details. And I need them now. —
Lando stopped laughing so much, though he kept that spark of amusement in his eyes. He leaned against a stack of tires and crossed his arms, adopting a slightly more serious tone, but not too much.
— Look, Max... Oscar is a sweet guy. Seriously, very sweet and tender. He's the best teammate I've had... don't tell Carlos, thanks... He's polite, calm, and would give everything for the people he loves, — Lando explained, making a dramatic pause. — But when he really, really likes someone... it's a different story. He's a beast, literally. —
Max swallowed, remembering Oscar's predatory gaze in the storage unit.
— What do you mean by "a beast"? — Max asked in a whisper, trying not to let his curiosity sound like desperation.
— That he doesn't know the middle ground, — Lando replied, shrugging. — If you let him fall in love with you, forget about your personal space. Forget about other guys approaching you without him marking territory like an animal. It's like he has a switch: he's either the calmest guy in the world, or he's a bottomless pit of need and control. —
Max's stomach churned at the mention of "marking territory." He didn't know if it was fear or an electric anticipation that was driving him crazy, but he needed proof. He needed to know that what Oscar had told him wasn't just a tactic to scare him off.
— A beast? — Max repeated, trying to keep his voice steady. — Lando, give me an example. Don't give me metaphors. What did he do? Who was he dating before? I don't know, something. —
Lando looked around, making sure no one nearby was listening to gossip about McLaren's "golden boy." He leaned in a bit toward Max, lowering his volume.
— Well, let's see, from what I know and saw, Oscar was dating a guy, a model or something, some time ago, — Lando began, grimacing. — At first, everything was normal. Oscar was the perfect boyfriend—flowers, dinners, super attentive. But one day, at a party after an important podium, a guy started getting too fresh with his boyfriend, being very insistent, touching his arm... you know. —
Max nodded, feeling his fists clench without realizing it.
— And what did Oscar do? Did he ask him to leave? Or something? — Max asked.
Lando let out a dry laugh.
— No, Max. Oscar didn't even shout. He walked up with that poker face of his, the one where it looks like he’s thinking of nothing, and put a hand on the guy's shoulder. He whispered something in his ear, so low that no one else heard it, but the guy turned pale. He left the party trembling, Max. He literally left the country two days later. —
Max blinked, impressed.
— But that's not being a beast, that's defending your partner, it's the bare minimum, right? — Max argued, trying to downplay it.
— You haven't heard the boyfriend's version, — Lando continued, looking at him intently. — The guy ended up breaking up with Oscar a month later because he said he felt... "suffocated." He said Oscar wouldn't sleep if he wasn't in the bed, that he checked who liked his photos not to pick a fight, but to "study the threat." And that in private... well, let's just say the guy couldn't wear short-sleeved shirts for a week after being with him. —
Max felt a sudden heat rise up his neck. The mental image of an obsessive Oscar being his boyfriend, studying his rivals and leaving impossible-to-hide marks on his skin, left him breathless.
— So, — Lando concluded, giving Max a little tap on the chest. — If you're going to keep tempting the Tasmanian Devil, make sure you really want him to bite. Because Oscar doesn't bite to play, Max. He bites to keep the prey. —
Max wiped his face with one hand, shaking his head frantically a few seconds later. "This is impossible, it sounds like something straight out of Netflix," he thought.
The idea of the calm, sweet, and methodical Oscar Piastri being some kind of predatory possessive was simply not fitting into his mental map. His brain was desperately searching for an emergency exit so as not to feel so tempted to experience everything Lando told him firsthand.
— You know what? I don’t believe it, — Max said, starting to walk in circles in the small space. — I really don’t think Oscar is like that. It’s impossible! Maybe... maybe you're just saying it to scare me. —
Lando arched an eyebrow, but Max didn't let him speak.
— That’s it! Did he already talk to you? He asked you to tell me all that to steer me away, right? — Max pointed an accusing finger at Lando, his breathing becoming erratic. — Maybe he doesn't even like me and what you did was make me experience the embarrassment of a lifetime in front of him. You sent me to the slaughterhouse with that dinner advice just to mock me, didn't you? Typical, the Papaya Bros and their jokes. —
Lando stood frozen, watching as Max—the tetracampion of the world, the invincible man of Red Bull—was falling apart over a nervous crisis worthy of a teenager. Lando blinked several times, processing Max’s level of denial.
— Mate... are you okay? — Lando asked with a mixture of pity and confusion. — Did you even listen to what I told you? Do you really think...? For God's sake, you're an idiot if you think I'd play around with something like that. —
— I heard you perfectly! — Max exclaimed, stopping in front of him. — But it sounds like a horror movie. Oscar is... he's Oscar. He stands there staring into space thinking about tire strategies, Lando. He can't be a "beast" that chases people out of the country. You're pulling my leg. —
Lando let out a long sigh and put both hands on Max's shoulders, forcing him to stay still.
— Max, listen to me carefully, — Lando said with an unusual seriousness. — Oscar didn't ask me for anything. In fact, if he finds out I told you about his ex, it'll probably be me he sends to another country. Whatever he told you or whatever happened between you... that was a warning he gave you... that was the realest thing you're ever going to get from him. He doesn't play, Max. He told you to protect you. —
Yeah, sure.
But what if...
Nah.
Max let out a dry laugh, loaded with defensive incredulity. He shook Lando's hands off his shoulders as if they burned, regaining that upright and defiant posture he usually used in front of the FIA stewards.
— Yeah, right. Nice try, Lando, — Max said with disdain, forcing a smile. — You know what? I'm going to act like this didn't happen. It's ridiculous. I've heard better stories in karting to scare the rookies. —
Lando opened his mouth to protest, but Max was already turning his back, walking firmly toward the exit of the corner where they stood.
— Max, I'm serious! It’s not a Netflix script! — Lando shouted from behind him.
Max didn't bother to look back. He raised a hand in a disinterested wave of goodbye and continued on his way straight to the Red Bull hospitality. As he walked through the paddock, his mind worked at a thousand miles per hour, trying to reorder the pieces to fit his own logic.
"It's obvious," Max thought, clenching his teeth as he mechanically greeted a couple of passing engineers. "Oscar panicked because I asked him out. He didn't know how to say no to me without it being awkward for the team and he made up that 'obsessive beast' nonsense so I'd be the one to back off."
He entered his hospitality and locked himself in his private room, flopping onto the sofa. He felt foolish. He felt like a teenager who had been the victim of a prank.
— "I'm a pervert, I'm dark," — Max repeated aloud, mocking Oscar's tone. — Please... he can barely maintain eye contact for more than five seconds without looking like a robot. Those two agreed to mess with me. Lando has always been a clown and Oscar simply took the opportunity to get me off his back. —
Max crossed his arms, convinced of his theory. In his head, everything made sense: Oscar wasn't a "possessive monster," he was just a shy guy who didn't know how to reject a tetracampion. And Lando, being Lando, was just fueling the fire to laugh at him later in the WhatsApp group.
— Tomorrow I'm going to act like nothing happened, — he said to himself, looking at the ceiling. — I'm going to show him I didn't swallow that horror story. If he thinks he's going to scare me with tall tales, he doesn't know me at all. —
Max felt victorious, convinced he had cracked the McLaren duo's "plan." But while he ruminated on his frustration in the Red Bull hospitality, just a few meters away, Oscar Piastri was closing the door of his private room at McLaren with an almost inaudible click.
He leaned against the wood, closed his eyes, and let out a sigh he seemed to have been holding since he entered the storage unit.
— You did well, Oscar. It was okay, — he whispered to himself, though his voice sounded hollow.
He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his own hands. Those same hands that had been trembling with the urge to grab Max by the waist and never let go.
Ever since he arrived in Formula 1, he had always seen Max as someone fascinating. A cute guy, with that almost naive simplicity outside the track that contrasted with his ferocity behind the wheel. He never allowed himself to think that Max could see him in any other way than as a colleague or, with luck, a friend. But today, when Max asked him out with that clumsiness so uncharacteristic of him, Oscar's world shook.
For a second—a glorious and terrifying second—Oscar allowed himself to imagine it. He imagined waking up next to Max, having the right to claim his attention, to be the only one in his life. But the possibility, instead of giving him peace, brought back the echo of his ex-partner's screams.
"You're sick, Oscar! This isn't love, it's surveillance!"
The words from his last relationship still stung. He remembered the look of terror on that boy's face when he realized Oscar knew exactly who he had spoken to every minute of the day. He remembered how his own mind became a dark place, full of suspicion and a physical need for control he couldn't turn off.
— Not with him, — Oscar murmured, clenching his fists. — Not with Max. Max is too bright, too free. —
Oscar knew that if he let himself go, he would end up suffocating him. He would end up turning Max’s spontaneous smile into a grimace of fear. And that was something he would never forgive himself for.
— It was for the best, — he repeated, trying to convince himself. — He deserves someone who knows how to love him without wanting to possess him. Someone who isn't... this. —
He stood up and went to the mirror. His reflection gave back the image of the "Ice Man," the calm driver under control. But he knew the truth. He knew that beneath that fireproof suit beat the heart of someone who didn't know how to share, and that Max Verstappen was the most tempting prey that had ever crossed his path.
He had to stay away. For Max's own good. But as he prepared to go to the hotel, all he could feel was the ghost of Max's touch against his arm, an invisible mark that was already beginning to burn.