CJ

“So anyway,” the applicant said from the passenger seat, voice bright and unrelenting, “I just think routine is everything, you know? Like, if you don’t wake up with intention, what’s the point of waking up at all?”

You kept your eyes on the road and hands firmly gripped around the steering wheel. 

“Mhm,” you murmured, noncommittal, hoping it would be enough for her stop talking for at least a few seconds. It, of course, wasn’t.

“I mean, I wake up at five every day. Five. Even on rest days. Especially on rest days. It’s about consistency. My dad always said—”

Normally, you wouldn’t have minded the talking. You liked talkative people, actually. You liked the way a conversation could fill up space instead of forcing you to sit inside your own head with your endless thoughts.

For years, you and Max had cycled through the same handful of safe topics on your drives. Training, logistics, weather, travel delays, the occasional dry joke that landed just well enough to remind you that he could be the funniest person alive when he wanted to be.

But today, every word out of the applicant’s mouth felt like sandpaper scraping against your eardrums.

You were tired. Emotionally, more than anything else. Tired of pretending the last few days hadn’t knocked something loose inside of your mind. Tired of how long it had taken Max to notice what he was doing, how he had been acting all of these years, what he was risking. Tired of the way he’d finally started trying only when you were already halfway out the door.

And maybe, if you were being honest, you were tired of yourself, too.

“—and I just think speed is misunderstood,” the applicant continued. “People think fast means sloppy, but it doesn’t have to. Fast can be precise.”

You swallowed. Fast. You didn’t even try to respond, and mercifully, the car seemed to fall quiet. But only for a whole three seconds before she filled the space with the noise of her own voice once again.

“Oh! Is that the café he likes?” she asked, pointing out the window. “The one with the protein muffins? I heard about that from—”

“Yes,” you said, maybe, definitely, a little sharper than you meant to.

She paused, blinking, then smiled again, unfazed. “Cool.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, as the reality washed over you. This was going to be a long day. 

By the time you pulled up outside Max’s building, your jaw ached from how tightly you’d been holding it. Yet, the applicant was still talking. This time it was something about gym splits, maybe, or supplements, you didn’t even know anymore. 

When Max stepped out onto the sidewalk, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp like he’d showered five minutes ago and called it good. He looked normal. He looked like he was just Max, someone he hadn’t seemed to look like in a handful of days. 

He opened the back door and slid in, offering a quiet, “Morning,” as he buckled his seatbelt.

“Morning,” you replied automatically.

The applicant twisted in her seat, already smiling. “Hi! I’m—”

“I know,” Max said gently, cutting in without being rude. “You two are early.”

She laughed. “Always.”

Something in his expression shifted then, subtle, but you caught it. A flicker of amusement and maybe some mild disbelief. He met your eyes in the rearview mirror for half a second, and in that glance was a shared, silent understanding.

She hasn’t stopped talking, has she?

Your lips twitched before you could stop them as you shook your head quickly and slyly.

The drive to the gym passed in a strange, lopsided rhythm. The applicant filled every lull with some type of commentary. Between questions for Max, observations about traffic, enthusiastic plans for the day, there was not a silent moment in the car. You were more than pleasantly surprised that Max answered when spoken to, polite and measured, but he didn’t feed the conversation the way she seemed to want him to.

Instead of giving her attention, he watched you. Not openly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But you felt it anyway. The weight of his attention, restrained but present, like he was trying to relearn the shape of you from a safe distance now.

You somewhat hated that he still affected you. You hated that a part of you noticed the difference right away. How he wasn’t snapping, wasn’t withdrawing, wasn’t inserting himself unnecessarily. He was trying to go back to normal, how it was before you told him you were leaving. Or at the very least, he wasn’t making things worse, or better, anymore.

And that almost made it harder. You didn’t necessarily want the Max from years ago. The emotionally sealed, professionally distant version of him that had felt safe because it demanded nothing from either of you. You didn’t want this careful politeness that hovered somewhere between apology and restraint back. 

You had a taste of it and now, you wanted the real thing, the real Max. But, you pushed the thought to a forgotten part of your mind, hard.

At the gym, Max disappeared into his workout with the kind of focus that reminded you why you’d been so good at this job for so long. Why you’d cared about him in the first place and why you still did.

You stood off to the side with the applicant, phone in hand, watching Max move through his routine, controlled, powerful, and familiar. The applicant leaned closer, still somehow undeterred by your spectactular lack of engagement.

“So how long have you worked with him?” she asked.

“Long enough,” you said.

She nodded thoughtfully. “You can tell. You know his rhythms.”

You didn’t answer anything to that. You truthfully didn’t have to because she launched into another set of questions. This time about his nutrition, about travel, about how intense race weeks really were. You responded to everything, but completely on autopilot as your attention fractured.

Then your phone buzzed. 

Lando.

Your stomach dropped. You hesitated just long enough to feel Max’s eyes flick toward you, sharp and immediate, before you stepped back.

“Excuse me, I’m gonna go find a quiet place to take this” you said, already turning away.

“Of course,” the applicant replied, still talking even as you walked off. “I was just wondering—oh! Max, do you—”

You didn’t hear the rest.

You walked away, heart already racing, and somewhere behind you, Max stood frozen mid-stretch, watching you leave, unable to follow, unable to interrupt, trapped by the relentless sound of a voice that would not stop talking.

You slipped away from the free-weight area, weaving past mirrors and chrome until you found a narrow hallway near the locker rooms that smelled faintly of disinfectant and citrus cleaner. The noise dulled back here, the clank of plates and the whirl of treadmills reduced to a distant hum.

Your phone was still buzzing in your hand as you looked at the name again. Lando

You huffed out a slight sigh, then answered. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” Lando chirped, far too awake for someone calling at this hour. Wind rushed faintly in the background, mixed with distant traffic. “Or well, whatever time it is where you are. I’m on an early walk and thought I’d check in.”

You leaned your shoulder against the wall, exhaling. “Lando we are in the same city.”

He laughed, completely undeterred. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” you said automatically, then corrected yourself. “Busy. We’re at the gym.”

“Ah,” he hummed. “Lovely place at this time of day.”

You smiled at his response. “Did your financial advisor get the form I sent?”

“Yep. All received. All very official. Very terrifying,” he said. “He used the word prudent twice, so I think that’s good.”

There was a pause after that. Not awkward, just empty. Like the two of you were standing at the edge of a cliff, pretending you didn’t know exactly where the conversation was headed.

Then Lando cleared his throat. “Sooooo…”

There it was.

“How did Max take it?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

On the other end, Lando inhaled sharply. “Oh my god. He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? That bad?”

“Uh—”

“Oh no,” Lando barreled on. “Like actually kill me. Not metaphorically. Like I’ll be found under a hedge somewhere in Monaco and people will be like, wow, tragic, anyway—”

“Uhm, well I–” you started.

Lando gasped. “Wait. He took it well?”

You winced.

“Oh my god,” he continued, voice climbing. “I did not expect that. So I’m alive? I’m saved? I can continue existing?”

You rubbed your forehead. “Lando—”

“So he just took it just okay?” he pressed. “Not great, not terrible? Eh, that’s fine! That’s manageable. That’s emotionally healthy, even. We love that for him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone. “I still haven’t told him,” you blurted.

There was a split second of silence, then Lando screamed. “WHAT?”

You yanked the phone slightly away from your ear. “Oh my god—”

“I’m so sorry,” he panted suddenly, volume dropping. “I just scared a group of children walking to school. One of them dropped his backpack. I think I traumatized them.”

Despite everything, a laugh bubbled out of you. “Sorry, that’s not funny.”

“You’re right. This is not a laughing matter,” Lando snapped, panic threading through his voice now. “Max is going to kill us both. Slowly. Creatively. He’s going to let it marinate. The way he always does.”

You sighed, the humor draining away. “He just hasn’t been himself these past few days.”

Lando quieted.

“Look, he’s already trying to even figure out me leaving” you continued, staring down at the scuffed rubber floor. “and I kept thinking there would be a right time to tell him, I don’t know, a better time, at least.”

“There isn’t,” Lando said gently.

“I know,” you admitted. “You were right.”

Another pause, but heavier this time.

“You need to tell him before the weekend,” Lando said. No jokes now. “Before it gets worse.”

“I will,” you promised. “Tomorrow.”

“Good,” he exhaled. Then, abruptly brighter, “And I’m going to go now because I’m passing my favorite café and I absolutely need a stress release smoothie now.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course you do.”

“I’ll text you later,” he said. “Good luck, and I’m sorry in advance.”

“I know,” you said. “Bye, Lando.”

“Bye,” he replied, already distracted by the cafe employee, before he hung up.

You lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen for a moment longer than necessary before slipping it back into your pocket.

When you returned to the main gym floor, the noise crashed back into you all at once. The applicant was still talking, somehow. Something about protein ratios, or Pilates, or hell, possibly both.

Max was on the treadmill now, running at a steady pace, eyes locked on his reflection in the mirror in front of him. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt. His eyes were set on his reflection in front of him, focused and contained.

The applicant spotted you immediately. “Who was that?” she asked, not missing a beat.

“My mom,” you said quickly. “Just checking in.”

You glanced at Max as you said it, your eyes meeting his in the mirror. You offered a small, polite smile, practiced of course. 

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his face. He knew. The time zones didn’t line up. He knew that, and you could see the calculation happen behind his eyes.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he gave you a brief smile back, soft and unreadable, then looked forward again, increasing the speed just slightly as the applicant launched into yet another question.

The drive back to Max’s place was mercifully short, but that was really the only grace in it.

By the time you pulled into the underground garage, the applicant had cycled through three unrelated anecdotes. The first one was about a smoothie place near the hotel. The next one was about a podcast they might start someday. And finally the last one was about a cousin who almost dated someone famous. Which would have been fine, but she seemed to talk without pausing long enough for either of you to respond with anything more than vague noises of acknowledgment.

Max unclipped his seatbelt and opened the door before the engine was fully off, and you didn’t blame him.

Inside, the house was cool and quiet in that way it always was. Max’s apartment always felt like it was controlled, muted, and designed for focus. The contrast from the car ride was almost physically jarring. You felt your shoulders drop the second the door closed behind you, the only sound was the slight hum of a random tv down the hall.

The applicant didn’t seem to notice how relaxed you and Max were in the silence, though. She trailed behind you both, wasting almost no time before she started talking again, words filling every available pocket of air.

You settled into the chair near the sim rig, phone balanced on your knee. The applicant took the other seat, swiveling slightly, body angled toward Max like they were at a cafe.

Max slid into the rig, hands moving on instinct as he adjusted the pedals, the wheel, the seat. There was something grounding about watching him do this. It was probably the ease of it all, the way his posture instantly shifted into something sharper and more contained. This was where he made sense, where all things quieted for him.

Except today, they didn’t.

The engineer’s voice crackled through the headset, calm and measured, already mid-sentence about lap times when he was interrupted by her. 

“So yeah, I was thinking, like, do you always warm up the same way or—”

Max glanced toward you, eyebrows lifting a fraction. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“—because I read somewhere that muscle memory actually peaks later in the day but I don’t know how that works with jet lag, you know?”

There was a pause in the engineer’s voice.

“Uh,” he said. “Who’s talking so damn much?”

You didn’t mean to laugh. It slipped out, sharp and surprised, and you clamped down on it immediately. Max didn’t bother trying to hide his though. His laugh was brief, but real, head tipping back slightly before he regained control.

The applicant kept talking as if they didn’t even register the question. How could she, though? She was quite literally talking over everyone else in the room. 

The engineer sighed audibly, muttering something about “never mind,” and launched back into the data, talking louder now, as if volume alone might compete.

You glanced down at your phone, pretending to scroll while your shoulders shook once with silent laughter. When you looked up again, Max was watching you in the reflection of the mirror hung above the monitor, just for a second, amusement softening his face before he locked back in.

The session dragged, and not because Max wasn’t performing. As always, he was sharp, focused, responsive, but because every pause was immediately filled with worthless questions, observations, and commentary.

By the time the engineer called the session, your patience felt as thin as a freshly frozen-over pond. Max pulled off the headset and stretched, rolling his neck. “Good work,” he said to the engineer, voice steady. You stood, already reaching for your bag. 

The applicant was still mid-sentence as you all headed for the front door.

Outside, the hallway was quiet, carpet swallowing the noise of your footsteps. The applicant walked a few paces ahead, talking to no one in particular, voice echoing faintly off the walls.

Max slowed just enough to fall in step beside you. He leaned closer, voice pitched low. “I genuinely didn’t know it was possible for someone to talk that much.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “I’m starting to think she breathes through talking.”

He huffed a laugh. “You still have to take her back, right?”

You nodded, already tired at the thought. “Hotel drop-off.”

“I’ll be thinking of you,” he said solemnly.

You glanced at him, catching the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I appreciate your thoughts and prayers,” you replied dryly.

He grinned, quick and easy,  and for a split second, it felt like something old and familiar and comfortable. You turned away before your brain could do anything reckless with it.

The elevator dinged at the end of the hall, and, of course, the applicant was still talking, gesturing animatedly now, unaware you’d both stopped listening entirely.

As you stepped inside, Max lingered just outside the doors. “Drive safe,” he said.

You nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”

The doors slid shut, cutting off his reply, but sadly not the applicant’s voice, which continued uninterrupted as the elevator descended. You leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, replaying I’ll be thinking of you on a loop you hadn’t asked for.

You told yourself, very firmly, that he’d meant it exactly the way you’d taken it. You told yourself not to wonder what it would mean if he had meant it in another way. 

And still, the applicant kept talking though your thoughts. 

The phone rang so suddenly it startled you out of the shallow half-sleep you’d been hovering in. You fumbled for it on the nightstand, heart already racing before you even saw the name glowing on the screen.

Max.

You sat up immediately, sheets tangling around your waist as you swiped to answer. “Hello?”

For a moment, all you heard was noise. The muffled bass vibrating through cheap speakers, laughter slurring together, the clink of glasses. You pulled the phone slightly away from your ear, brow furrowing. Then, distantly, unmistakably, came his voice.

“Hellooooo,” Max sang, the word stretched and crooked, like it couldn’t quite find its footing.

Your stomach dropped. “Max? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “M’fine. Totally fine.” A pause. Then, more honestly, “Maybe not totally.”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, already bracing yourself. “Where are you?”

“Jimmy’s,” he replied, like that explained everything. “It’s loud. And sticky. And everyone keeps trying to buy me shots like that’s helpful.”

You huffed out a breath. “Have you had too much to drink?”

“Enough,” he said, and you could hear the grin in it. “But listen, the taxis are being assholes. Forty-minute wait. Minimum. And I was wondering if you could maybe—”

“Yes,” you said instantly, already standing, already reaching for jeans. The word slipped out before he even finished the sentence.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Less performative.

“I can always count on you,” he murmured.

Your throat tightened. You cleared it quickly, forcing your tone neutral. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t move.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said. “I’m sitting. Very responsibly.”

You hung up before he could say anything else, hands shaking just slightly as you shoved your feet into shoes and grabbed your keys.

Jimmy’s was still well alive when you pulled up, lights glowing warm and golden, music spilling out into the street. You’d barely put the car in park before the door swung open and Max stumbled out, laughing at something someone had said behind him.

He spotted you and his face lit up unmistakingly and immediately.

“There you are,” he said, words slurring together as he barreled into the passenger seat, the door shutting a little harder than necessary. He smelled like alcohol and cologne. 

You reached over automatically, tugging his seatbelt across his chest. “Okay. Let’s get you home.”

“Wait,” he said, catching your wrist lightly. “Can we do something first?”

You glanced at the clock on the dash. “Max, it’s two in the morning.”

“I know,” he said, grinning. “But can we go to the overlook?”

You froze.

He watched your face carefully, head tilted like he was trying to read something in you. “It’s your favorite,” he added, quieter now. “You always say it makes everything feel smaller and more manageable.”

You swallowed. You had told him that. More than once. You sighed, long and tired and a little defeated. “Fine. But just for a bit.”

His smile was immediate, victorious, soft. “Knew it.”

The overlook was quiet when you arrived, the city stretched out below you, lights blinking, streets breathing with taxis and cars, the sea dark and endless beyond it. You parked and killed the radio, taking in the quiet. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Max leaned back in his seat, head tipped against the window, watching Monaco seemingly exist without him. Without either of you. You rested your hands on the steering wheel, heart pounding for reasons you refused to name.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Please don’t leave me for Lando.”

The words landed between you like a dropped glass.

You turned toward him slowly, eyes wide. “Max — you’re way too drunk. We should get you home.”

You reached for the gear shifter, but his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around yours. Not tight, but just enough to stop you.

“No,” he said. “Let’s stay. Please. Just — stay right here.”

You looked at your joined hands, then back up at his face. His expression had shifted. The drunken haze stripped back to something raw and frightened.

“I know,” he continued quietly. “I know about Lando.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“Amy told me,” he admitted. “Last race.”

“Shit,” you breathed. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment. “I shouldn’t have told her. I’m so sorry. You should have heard it from me.”

He shook his head. “It’s okay. I get it. It’s delicate.”

The word echoed what you’d been telling yourself for weeks.

“I just—” He swallowed, jaw tightening. “I don’t want you to go.”

You exhaled shakily. “I know it’s delicate. But I really think this is the right choice. For me.”

He turned away then, staring out the window again, nodding once like he was convincing himself.

The silence stretched again, heavy and brittle.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words breaking as they left you.

He turned back, eyes glassy now, voice steady but thin. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to function without you.”

Your chest ached. “That’s why I’m helping you find someone new,” you said quickly. “I care too much about this job to just—”

“That’s not what I meant,” he cut in.

The words hung there between the two of you and neither of you moved.

Unit Max began to lean in closer to you, to your lips.

And you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was heated and messy and desperate, all teeth and breath and months, possibly years, of unspoken things crashing together at once. His hand slid up your arm, your fingers fisted in his shirt, and for one reckless second it felt like the world narrowed down to just this.

But you reganged consciousness, quick and powerful and you pulled back first, breathless with your heart racing.

“We should go,” you said, voice unsteady. “I need to get you home.”

You put the car in drive as you pulled away. And for the first time all day, the car ride was completely silent.

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