#lomlando

Mornings always looked the same. Blue light glasses perched on your nose, emotional support blanket wrapped around your shoulders, laptop balanced on your knees. Max’s inbox was the most consistent thing in your life. You’d learned early on that it was faster to just keep it bookmarked—front and center—ready for whatever chaos awaited overnight.

Your fingers tapped next again and again, skimming the latest flood of messages that had piled up while you were asleep. Most of them weren’t worth your time, fan mail begging for signed driver cards, free merch, or worse, his phone number.

Filtering through that mess was easily your least favorite part of the job. Max was perfectly capable of checking his own emails, eventually. But every morning, before he even woke up, it was your job to make sure his inbox looked spotless.

Your phone alarm blared suddenly, cutting through the quiet. You glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. sharp. Another sigh. You closed the laptop, tucked it under your arm, and pushed the blanket off your legs before heading to the door.

Your studio apartment in Monaco wasn’t exactly the dream. Max had requested—more like insisted—that you move closer six months into the job. And when Max requested something, there was rarely an option to say no.

Keys in hand, you slipped downstairs and slid into your car. You turned on the seat warmer, for the passenger side, of course, stopped by the convenience store for a Red Bull, and headed toward Max’s luxurious penthouse to pick him up for the gym.

Just like you did every day.

You pulled up to the curb and picked up your phone. The Here. text was practically muscle memory by now. Short, simple, and the same every morning. Max, your mom, and your best friend back home were the only pinned chats at the top of your messages.

You reached across the passenger seat to test the warmth of the cushion. Warm, but not too warm. You quickly shut off the heater, he always complained if it got left on too long. You switched your music over to light instrumentals, low enough to fade into the background while you drove him between commitments.

Everything you did ran like clockwork now, fine-tuned around his habits. You knew what he liked, what he couldn’t stand, and every tiny detail in between. It wasn’t efficiency so much as self-preservation—every well-timed adjustment kept you safe from one of his early-morning lectures.

It didn’t take long before he appeared at your car door, opening it with practiced ease and sliding into the passenger seat. You reached for the Red Bull waiting in the cupholder, popped it open with one hand, and passed it to him. He took it without looking, as usual.

“What’s planned for today after the gym?” he asked, taking a sip before setting it down, halfway on the console, halfway in the cupholder like he owned the car himself.

“You’ve got two video shoots—one for ORB, one for Ford—lunch with your dad, social shoots for ORB, dinner with investors, then you’re free for the night.”

“What about paddle?”

“What about paddle?” you echoed, glancing over at him.

“Lando and I made plans to play before lunch.”

“Max, did you tell anyone about these plans?”

“No, but you know I don’t like my schedule so tight.”

You exhaled through your nose, already bracing for the rest of the day. “Max, those things have been on the calendar for months. You can’t keep making plans during work hours.”

You eased the car to a stop in front of the gym.

He pointed to the clock on your dashboard before stepping out. “Looks like you have an hour to fix it. Don’t cancel on Lando or Dad.”

The door shut harder than necessary, and you winced.

You muttered a few quiet expletives, then let out a breathy laugh. “Unbelievable. I don’t even make his schedule.”

Pulling out your phone, you dialed the Red Bull comms manager.

“No, no, I understand. Thank you anyway, he’ll be there for sure.”

You hung up and leaned your head against the headrest, groaning at the clock. 15 minutes left to fix this.

“I was on such a good streak of him not yelling at me,” you said to yourself, scrolling through your contacts. There was one more person you could try.

You tapped on Lando Norris. You’d only gotten his number because you’d once needed help getting a very drunk Max into his apartment. Still, it was worth a shot.

To your surprise, he answered after two rings. 

“Hello?”

“Lando? This is Max’s—”

“Right-hand man, yeah, I know,” he said with a laugh. “Everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Just checking, are you supposed to be playing paddle with Max before lunch?”

“Yes? Why, what’s up?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if there’s any chance you could move it to later in the day? He’s got back-to-back shoots, and he didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“Just texted him. Will eight o’clock work, you think?”

You blinked. Honestly, speechless over how easy that was. “Uh, yeah. That’s perfect, actually. Thank you so much.”

“No problem. I know how he can be,” he said before hanging up.

By the time the clock hit 8, Max walked out of the gym, hair damp, phone in hand, same as he did every day.

“You got lucky,” he said, sliding into the seat. “Lando texted me and said he needed to move paddle.”

You only nodded, keeping your eyes on the road.

“Don’t let them schedule things that close together again,” he added.

You wanted to remind him that you didn’t handle his scheduling. You wanted to remind him how out of the many things you did quietly manage for him every single day, that was the one thing you did not have to worry about. 

But you didn’t. You never did.

“I’ll make a note of that,” you said, instead, shifting the car into gear and pulling out toward his first commitment of the day.

Despite Max being a royal pain in your ass, he was never that to anyone else. Always polite, always charming, always perfectly composed. He smiled for the cameras, thanked every crew member, and acted like he hadn’t just handed you a scheduling disaster two hours ago.

The first shoot ran over, naturally. You stood just off set, answering texts and calls from PR and the comms team while keeping one eye on him. He looked like he was born for this. For all of the bright lights, cameras, the constant hum of attention. You, on the other hand, were apparently born for crisis control.

“His outfit for the Ford shoot hasn’t arrived yet, he told us to tell you. That you would fix it” the stylist whispered urgently, rushing over to you.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course he did.”

Five minutes later, you were sprinting across the parking lot, car keys in hand, off to pick up the missing garment yourself. When you returned, slightly winded, Max didn’t even blink before reaching for the clothes as if they’d been there all along.

Between shoots, you handed him a towel, a protein bar, a fresh Red Bull, all without a word. He didn’t thank you, but he took them like he always did.

By the time you both got back in the car, your phone was buzzing nonstop. PR wanted confirmation on his post-shoot interview slot, his dad’s assistant was trying to move lunch, and the Red Bull team wanted to push up his next event by fifteen minutes. You were juggling it all while merging into Monaco traffic.

“You know,” Max said casually from the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, “they should really hire someone to handle my scheduling.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him before refocusing on the road. “Yeah. Imagine that.”

He didn’t even look up, but you caught the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

After the investors' dinner, you barely had time to breathe before heading to the paddle courts. The sun was dipping just enough to turn the sky gold, the city still buzzing around you. Max adjusted his sunglasses, scrolling through his texts.

“Lando’s already there,” he said. “Don’t make me late.”

When you pulled into the lot, you spotted Lando immediately, leaning against the fence, grinning and giving you both an excited wave. 

“Made it on time?” Lando called out as Max stepped out of the car, looking down at his watch. “That’s a first.”

You stayed in the car while the boys talked to each other, your phone in hand, already drafting an email about tomorrow’s rescheduled shoot, hoping to get around an ‘overloaded’ schedule early. 

Max grabbed his paddle bag from your backseat and tossed you a look. “You’re staying, right?”

You raised an eyebrow without looking up from your phone. “In case you forget how to hold a paddle?”

He rolled his eyes. “In case I need something.” You sighed and turned the car off. Because of course you were going to stay. You always did.

You followed the boys onto the courts, taking up space on the bench you always sat on when you stayed at the courts.

“I’m going to change,” Max said, disappearing into the changing rooms. 

Lando’s eyes flicked to you. “You know, I don’t know how you manage him all day. Honestly. You’re like, superhero-level organized.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “It’s mostly endurance and Red Bull,” you said dryly.

“No, seriously,” he said, stepping closer. “I’d pay double whatever he pays you to work for me. Two million a year?”

You physically coughed at the number out of pure surprise. Two million a year. That was way more than double what Max paid you. That was more than enough to finally get at least a one-bedroom apartment and not a studio. Your first instinct was to say yes, right here, right now. But before the words could escape, the changing room door swung open.

“Ready?!” Max called from inside.

You blinked. He always seemed to have perfect timing. You laughed quietly, shaking your head. Of course he had to come out right now.

Max strutted onto the court, towel over his shoulders, still scrolling on his phone. Lando picked up a paddle, grinning at him. “Ready to lose?”

“You’re on,” Max shot back, smirking.

By the time the match ended, Max had disappeared to the bathroom once again to change. Lando turned to you, leaning on the fence. “So, you’re thinking about my offer, right? I was being serious.”

You hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes, I will take your offer.”

“Wait—think about it for a few days,” Lando said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve already made up my mind,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll give Max two weeks. Enough time to find someone else, train them, make sure he doesn’t completely implode on them.”

Lando laughed, shaking his head. “That’s actually impressive. Most people would just bolt. You’re solid.”

“I’m loyal,” you said lightly. “And apparently crazy.”

He grinned. “Fair enough. Well, still think it over anyway. You never know.”

You shook your head. “Nope. I’ve thought it through. Two weeks, then the new job starts.”

And just like that, the decision was made, but you knew the next two weeks promised to be very interesting.

When Max reemerged, you instinctively packed up his gear while him and Lando continued to talk and tease each other. By the time you both slid back into the car, the sky had deepened into a dark navy, and streetlights stretched across the Monaco streets. Max leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms, and within minutes, his head lolled slightly to the side. He had always had a habit of dozing off if you were driving at night.

You drove in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space, enjoying the rare moments of calm after a day of chaos. Your phone buzzed on your lap. Your mom. You hadn’t spoken to her in a few days. Max’s packed schedule had left barely a moment for your own life.

You hesitated, glancing at the sleeping figure beside you. Then, carefully, you answered. “Hi, Mom,” you whispered, keeping your voice low.

“Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay? How’s everything?” Her voice was warm and familiar.

You smiled faintly, pressing the phone closer. “I’m fine, just, busy,” you said quietly, glancing at Max, who stirred slightly but didn’t open his eyes. “I just wanted to talk for a minute.”

“Of course, I just—”

Before you could finish, Max’s head lifted, blinking sleepily, irritation creeping into his voice. “You couldn’t wait until I’m back home?”

You muttered an apology to your mom before quickly hitting the end call button. Something inside you snapped. The two years of constant juggling and reworking his schedules, waiting on him hand and foot, managing his quirks, keeping every moving part in line, it all suddenly felt too heavy to carry in silence.

 “I’m leaving, Max! I’m actually leaving this job!” you said, louder than you intended, voice carrying in the quiet car.

Max froze, eyes wide with shock. “What do you mean? You can’t do that?” he said slowly, his voice catching in disbelief.

“Yes, I can,” you said, forcing calm into your voice, but letting a hint of frustration bleed through. “Look, I’m giving you two weeks. Two weeks to help you find someone else, train them, and hopefully make sure you don’t completely scare them off.”

He went quiet. You could feel the tension in the car surge. It was so thick you swore you could physically feel it. For a moment, it was just the hum of the engine and your own heartbeat.

You tried to gauge his reaction, and for the first time all day, or maybe for as long as you had known him, you couldn’t. There was no playful smirk, no teasing remark, no nostrils flaring, no raised eyebrow, no eye roll. Just quiet.

“I—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head, sighing further into the seat. 

You softened slightly, leaning back in your seat, too. “Max, I’ve thought about this for a long time. I like keeping things running smoothly for you, I like knowing everything is under control, but I need to look out for myself, too. And yes, the timing isn’t perfect, but I’m going to try my best to make this transition easier for you.”

He finally exhaled, running a hand over his face, and the silence stretched again. The weight of your words hung between you.

You finally pulled up in front of his penthouse, engine idling. Max didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance at you. He opened his door and stepped out, shoulders stiff. You watched him go inside without another word.

You sat there for a second, staring at the blinking streetlight outside of his apartment that he always commented on. Two weeks. That’s all he had before the world you’d kept running for him would start to shift, before he’d have to face just how indispensable you really were.

Normal.

But just as you parked, your phone buzzed.

MaxCome up. Slept through my alarm. Not ready yet.

You stared at the message for a second longer than necessary, already feeling the familiar tightening in your chest. Of course. The last day and already off track. You pictured the ripple effect, him rushed, gym late, mood sharp, everything slightly misaligned.

You typed back Okay anyway. Some habits were harder to break than others.

You let yourself into the apartment like he’d told you to, calling out softly as you stepped inside. “Hey, it’s me.”

The smell hit you first. Not coffee. Not protein powder.

But actual food. 

You stopped short in the entryway. In the many years and many times you had been in Max’s apartment, you couldn’t recall a singular time where you had smelled actual, homecooked food in it. 

Yet there Max was, stood at the stove, fully dressed, hair done, sleeves rolled up as he moved a pan with practiced ease. The counter was already crowded with toast stacked neatly on a plate, sliced fruit, a small bowl of something green you didn’t immediately recognize. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you.

“Perfect timing,” he said easily.

You blinked. Five minutes ago, he’d claimed he’d just woken up.

He gestured toward the counter with his chin. “Sit.”

Before you could ask anything, he slid a plate in front of you. Toast, fruit, something warm and savory, and then carefully topped it with a freshly poached egg, setting it down like it mattered. He grabbed his own plate and sat beside you, already eating like this was the most natural and normal situation in the world.

You just stared at him. Amused, ever so slightly alarmed, and completely confused.

“Well?” he prompted, glancing sideways. “Eat. It’ll get cold.”

You picked up your fork slowly, still watching him like he might disappear if you looked away too long. “You texted me that you weren’t ready.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah.”

“You said you slept through your alarm.”

Another shrug. “Did I?”

You took a tentative bite, chewing slowly. “We’re going to be really late to the gym,” you said, mostly out of habit. “Which is going to throw off the whole day.”

Max didn’t even look up. “I canceled everything.”

You nearly choked. “What?”

He said it like he’d canceled a teeth-cleaning dentist appointment, as if the day meant nothing.

“The gym. The meetings. Everything,” he repeated. “For today, at least.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “You haven’t missed a gym day since you had the flu two years ago. And even then it took three different doctors, me, and your mom telling you that going was a bad idea.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

“And now you just, canceled?”

He finally looked at you then, expression soft in a way that made your chest tighten. “I wanted your last day to be special.”

Heat rushed to your face. You immediately shoved another bite of food into your mouth, suddenly very interested in chewing. You avoided his eyes, nodding like that explained everything, and like your heart wasn’t doing cartwheels and backflips in your chest.

A few quiet minutes passed in a comfortable and unrushed quiet. The kind of silence you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

When you finally looked up again, you asked, “So, what are we doing today?”

He leaned back slightly, considering. “I thought I’d take you shopping.”

Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it.

Max noticed.

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely curious.

You hesitated, then sighed. “I don’t want you spending your money on me. I can buy my own stuff. I have very specific taste, and I don’t really want to spend the whole day trying on clothes and shoes and pretending I like things I don’t.”

You winced immediately after, words tumbling out too fast. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like— I just—”

“It’s fine,” Max cut in gently.

He stood, taking your plate without ceremony. You realized you’d eaten everything except the egg. You hated eggs but you were fully prepared to at least attempt to eat it after he cooked it for you. You just couldn’t. He paused, noticing it too, then carried the plate to the sink anyway.

He stayed quiet for a moment longer than usual. Then, almost thoughtfully, he said, “I don’t actually know what you like.”

You looked up at him.

“Not really,” he continued. “You know my schedule. My preferences. My routines.” He met your eyes. “But I don’t know yours.”

Something in his voice made your throat tighten.

“So,” he said, “what’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do?”

You blinked. “One thing?”

“Anything.”

You thought for a second, then shrugged. “I don’t know. There are a lot of things. Traveling without a plan. Learning pottery. Going karting.”

He froze. “You’ve never been karting?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him you’d never seen the ocean. “That’s criminal,” he said flatly.

Before you could respond, he was already grabbing his keys. “We’re going.”

You laughed, startled. “Max, I can drive—”

He reached for your hand without thinking, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and tugged you toward the door.

“I’m driving,” he said simply.

And just like that, your last day as his assistant was already nothing like you’d expected.

The go-kart place was also nothing like you expected.

You’d imagined something casual, an outdoor track, maybe a little chaotic, kids running around with plastic helmets. Instead, it felt very official. Polished concrete floors. Digital screens listing lap times. Staff in matching uniforms moving with perfect efficiency.

You blinked at the counter. “We have to sign waivers?”

Max grinned, already reaching for a pen. “Obviously.”

You scanned the form, eyebrows climbing higher with every line. “This is intense.”

He shrugged. “Speed usually is.”

You shot him a look. “Says the man who drives like the rules are optional.”

He laughed under his breath as he signed, completely unapologetic.

Helmets came next, then gloves. A worker gave instructions to you quickly and confidently, like everyone assumed you’d done this before. You hadn’t.

By the time you climbed into your kart, nerves buzzed low in your chest. You were adjusting your helmet strap when Max stopped beside you, already half-seated in his own kart. He paused, then straightened, stepping back toward you.

“Hold on,” he said.

Before you could ask what he meant, he leaned in, hands careful as he reached for your seatbelt. His fingers brushed your side, brief, warm, and you inhaled sharply without meaning to.

He tightened the belt, tugging once to make sure it was secure. “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” you said, then added, dryly, “Though I’m not sure why you’re worried. I’ve seen how you drive.”

He snorted, straightening. “Please. I’m very safe.”

“You’re manic,” you shot back.

He rolled his eyes dramatically, backing away toward his kart. “I’m gifted.”

The lights went green.

And suddenly, nothing else existed.

The track blurred beneath you, wind rushing loud in your ears, adrenaline burning away any lingering nerves. You laughed as you took the first turn, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.

Max stayed just behind you.

Close enough that you could hear his engine. Close enough that you felt him there, pushing without crowding, present without overwhelming. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.

You crossed the finish line first.

When you pulled into the pit, breathless and flushed, Max rolled to a stop beside you, lifting his helmet with an easy grin.

“Not bad,” he said. “You’re good.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You let me win.”

He scoffed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Absolutely did not.”

You laughed, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the track.

“So,” he said, climbing out of his kart. “What’s next?”

You hesitated, wiping your hands on your jeans. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

He tilted his head, attentive. “Yeah?”

“The aquarium,” you admitted. “Here. I’ve never had time.”

He made a face instantly. “An aquarium?”

You braced yourself for the rejection. In all the years spent traveling with Max, there were countless asks of if he wanted to come to museums, art galleries, zoos,and aquariums with you. Every single time it was the same; they just weren’t his thing. 

But then his expression shifted, something thoughtful crossing his face as he really looked at you. Like he was visibly seeing the way you hadn’t spent doing things for yourself all of these years.

“Okay,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, already reaching for his keys. “Let’s go.”

The museum itself was quiet, cool, dimly lit. Your footsteps echoed softly as you moved through exhibits, Max trailing close beside you. You stopped often, too often, probably, reading plaques, lingering, soaking it all in like you were afraid it might disappear if you looked away too long.

He didn’t rush you once.

When you finally reached the aquarium section, the space opened up into something vast and blue. A massive glass wall stretched before you, water glowing softly as fish drifted past in slow, mesmerizing arcs.

You stopped short.

“Oh,” you breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

You stood there together, shoulders nearly touching, gaze fixed on the quiet choreography of the sea. Schools of fish glided past the glass like thoughts you didn’t want to interrupt.

“Yeah,” Max said quietly.

But when you glanced at him, you realized he wasn’t looking at the tank at all.

He was looking at you.

The realization sent warmth blooming through your chest, sudden and disarming. “Max?”

“Almost as beautiful as you,” he said, softly, like it was obvious. Like it didn’t need to be explained.

Your breath caught.

He reached for your hand, no hesitation, and threaded his fingers through yours. The contact felt grounding.  You turned back to the glass together, standing there in shared silence, hand in hand, watching the world drift past in a slow, luminous blue. You realized, for the first time in a long while, you weren’t thinking about schedules or responsibilities or what came next.

You were just there. Together.

You left the aquarium still holding hands. Neither of you had acknowledged it out loud, but neither of you had let go either. Your fingers stayed loosely threaded together as you walked toward the exit, laughing quietly about something Max had muttered under his breath when a kid pressed their face against the glass a little too enthusiastically.

“You looked genuinely offended,” you teased.

He scoffed. “I was startled.”

“You jumped.”

“I did not.”

You laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and squeezed his hand once before you even realized you’d done it.

Outside, the late afternoon air felt warmer than it had earlier, the sky slipping slowly toward evening. Max glanced at his phone, frowning slightly.

“It’s almost dinner,” he said. “Which is impressive, considering we never ate lunch.”

“That feels on brand,” you replied.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Real food. Not a quick snack disguised as a meal.”

“Sushi,” you said immediately.

He stopped walking.

You turned back toward him. “What?”

He gestured vaguely behind you, toward the aquarium. “We just spent more than two hours bonding with fish.”

“And?”

“And now you want to eat them.”

You grinned. “Circle of life, baby.”

He shook his head, laughing. “That’s cold.”

“For real though, sushi please,” you said.

He sighed theatrically. “Fine, but I will be judging you.”

Dinner was easy in a way that surprised you.

You sat across from each other, sharing plates without thinking too hard about it. Max stole pieces off your plate. You reached for his drink. It felt domestic and dangerous and entirely too comfortable for something that was supposedly just starting.

When you finally made it back to his apartment, the door barely had time to close before his hands were on you.

Not rushed. Not frantic. Just inevitable.

His mouth found yours with heat that made your knees weaken, the day crashing back into you all at once, the karting, the aquarium, his hand in yours, the way he’d looked at you like you were finally something he was afraid to lose. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your forehead rested against his chest.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to stay?” you asked quietly.

He froze for half a second. Then, confused, “The night?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “No. I meant the job.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you. “If I did,” he asked carefully, “would it change anything?”

You thought about it, really thought about it. Then you shook your head. “No. It wouldn’t.”

Something settled in his expression, not disappointment, exactly. Instead, it was acceptance.

“I won’t ask again,” he said quietly. “I get it now. How miserable you were. How much I demanded. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do this job without being the way I am.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“And today,” he continued, voice softer, “just showed me how much you put your life on pause for mine. I don’t want that for you anymore.”

Your chest tightened, emotion pressing behind your ribs. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, hugging him fully for the first time that day.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For understanding.”

He rested his chin on the top of your head, arms closing around you. “If Lando ever treats you the way I did,” he muttered, “I’m going to beat his ass.”

You laughed, melting into him. “I know. If you run Lars away, I'm going to beat yours.”

He tipped your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. His expression was open, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen ever.

“You’re the only one,” he said simply. “The only one I want, the only one for me.”

Your smile came easily as you leaned in and kissed him again, slow, warm, certain.

When you pulled away, he reached for the remote, tugging you down with him onto the couch. You curled into his side without hesitation, his arm settling around you as the TV flickered on to something neither of you paid attention to.

And for once, the ending didn’t feel like loss. It felt like finally choosing each other for exactly who you both were.

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Or maybe it was because you were five months pregnant with his child.

Your hand rested instinctively on the small bump beneath your oversized hoodie. It wasn’t invisible anymore. The soft curves had begun to show; they were subtle but undeniable. You’d joked that the oversized team gear was now your new uniform, but deep down, you knew every big layer was just a shield against curious eyes and flashing cameras.

“You okay?” Max Fewtrell’s voice pulled you back. He was one of the few people who knew the secret you had been carrying. 

“Just hoping he keeps it clean today,” you said, forcing a small smile as you turned your gaze back to the track.

Lando had started on pole, nerves evident in the way he’d squeezed your hand this morning, whispering a quiet, “I’m winning for both of you,” before leaving for the paddock.

You’d watched every lap since, heart clenching at every turn, every overtake, every narrow save. But now, on the final lap, he was in clear. Leading by seconds. He looked like he was flying. 

And then the chequered flag waved above his car.

Your breath caught in your throat as his papaya-orange car crossed the line first. The noise was unreal. Silverstone had erupted. You clapped a hand over your mouth, attempting to hold back your tears that were threatening to fall. He’d done it. 

He’d won his home race again.

The camera feed cut to him screaming into the radio, voice cracking, half-laughing, half-crying. "We did it! We actually did it, boys!"

Chaos quickly followed, as it always did after a win. Team members ran full speed toward the pit wall, confetti and champagne waiting, the Landostand screaming themselves hoarse. You stayed back, clutching your lanyard, trying your hardest to blend into the sea of McLaren orange.

That had been the plan. That had always been the plan: blend in. Keep the secret. Smile and wave from a distance.

But plans rarely survived Lando Norris in full emotion.

The second he climbed out of the car and tossed his helmet aside, he looked around the crowd, searching, like he always did when he knew you were near. The cameras zoomed in, his smile bright enough to outshine the hot July sun.

And then his eyes found yours.

For a second, you thought he’d hold back. That he’d remember the plan, the promise you’d made to wait a little longer before going public.

But the grin that spread across his face was wild and emotional, and before you could even move, he was running. Past the engineers, past the mechanics, past the camera crew shouting his name. Straight toward you.

“Lando—” you started, half-warning, half-laughing, but it was too late. He reached you, arms wrapping around your waist as he lifted you off your feet, spinning you around in pure, unfiltered joy.

And then, without a thought about all of the cameras and eyes around you, he kissed you.

Not a small, careful kiss. Not a hidden one behind a helmet or a corner. It was passionate and genuine and completely public.

The crowd roared even louder as the moment stretched on. All you could feel was him, though,  his heartbeat pounding against your chest, the taste of sweat and champagne on his lips.

Then he pulled back, laughing breathlessly. “We did it, love. We did it.”

You blinked, half-breathless, half-stunned. “Lando–cameras.”

It was only when he followed your gaze that he realized the dozens of cameras pointed directly at you two. Suddenly, as his eyes flickered down, he saw it too, the small curve beneath your hoodie now obvious against his orange race suit, where his hand rested instinctively. His expression softened, realization dawning.

“Oh,” he whispered, eyes wide.

The big secret was not so secret anymore.

The next hour was a blur between the camera flashes, shouts, and PR panic. His media manager was already halfway through crisis mode before the podium ceremony even began. You’d been quickly ushered into the hospitality suite with Max and a few close friends, all pretending not to refresh Twitter every five seconds.

Lando Norris kisses mystery woman after British GP win!Is that a baby bump?!Fans speculate Norris’ secret girlfriend revealed!

Your stomach twisted with every headline. You knew this day would come eventually, just not like this.

The door eventually creaked open, and Lando slipped inside, still half-soaked from the champagne spray, hair messy, grin unshakable. “Hey.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be celebrating with the team, or, you know, addressing the elephant in the room.”

He shrugged, walking over and dropping onto the couch beside you. “Wanted to celebrate with my family first.”

You exhaled a laugh. “You mean the family you just announced to the entire world?”

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that–”

“Lando,” you groaned, though you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “We talked about this.”

“I know,” he said quickly, eyes soft. “And I’m sorry. I just—I saw you and everything else disappeared. I didn’t even think.”

You looked at him and saw the racer who gave everything he had on track, and somehow still had love left over for you. His sincerity melted every trace of frustration.

“You really didn’t think, huh?”

“Not even a little,” he admitted with a grin. “But I don’t think I regret it.”

You sighed, leaning back against him. “It’s going to be a shit show now.”

“I can handle chaos,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

He placed his hand gently over your bump, thumb brushing small circles. The simple gesture calmed every worry still lingering in your chest.

He smiled over at you. “I was getting tired of pretending I didn’t have the favorite person in my life waiting for me after every race, anyways.”

You laughed, tears threatening to fall again. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Extremely lucky,” he agreed, kissing you again, this time softer, slower, with the quiet kind of love that didn’t need a cheering crowd.

Later that night, after the chaos had softened into celebration, McLaren orange and Lando neon still shimmered through the paddock, but inside the quiet of the motorhome, it was just the two of you.

Lando sat on the couch, your legs draped across his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles over the curve of your stomach. Every so often, he’d glance down in awe, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“Do you think your fans will hate me for keeping it secret?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “They’ll understand. People always have opinions, but we don’t owe them every piece of our lives.”

You smiled, curling closer. “That’s surprisingly mature of you.”

He smirked. “Winning your home race does that to a man.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Of course it does.”

A comfortable silence followed, the kind filled with everything unspoken: relief, love, peace. Outside, the night hummed with victory, but inside, everything felt calm.

Lando tilted his head, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. “You know,” he said quietly, “when I crossed that line today, all I could think of was how much I wanted you there. I didn’t care about the cameras or the champagne or anything. I just wanted you.”

You met his gaze, voice barely above a whisper. “You had me. Always.”

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “Guess the world knows that now, too.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Good. Maybe they’ll finally find out my name and stop calling me your ‘mystery girl.’”

He chuckled. “Nah, mystery girl has a nice ring to it.”

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, already tired and already bracing yourself for the hours to come. Part of you almost preferred race weekends. Yeah, those were unbelievably busy too, but the structure, the predictability, the way everything narrowed down to lap times and strategy, it made them less daunting. Race weekends had a very specific kind of pressure that seemed to take its place in only a few areas. On days like today though, the pressure came from everywhere, seemingly all at once. Everyone wanted a piece of Max before the weekend started. Everyone wanted his time, his face, his voice, his presence, and somehow it always landed in your lap to make it all work.

You swung your legs out of bed and walked into the bathroom. You caught your reflection in the mirror as soon as you graced the door. You looked overwhelmingly fine, awake enough, skilled enough, and that would just have to do.

As you brushed your teeth, you began going through the day automatically, just as you always did. Sometimes in your head, sometimes out loud if you were stressed enough. Today, it slipped out of you quietly, like a habit you couldn’t stop.

“Gym first,” you murmured around toothpaste. “Two in-store events. Photoshoot in between. Podcast after lunch. Sim call with the engineers. Somewhere in there, food. Ideally, at least.”

You rinsed your mouth and leaned your hands against the sink, watching your own expression flatten as the list finished forming. You hated days like this.

They always brought out the worst in both you and Max. The constant movement, the tight schedules, the standing, waiting, smiling, the way meals got pushed later and later until hunger made everything sharp and brittle. By the end of days like this, one, or both, of you always snapped. Not always loudly or dramatically, but just enough to leave the air between you strained and quiet on the drive home.

You couldn’t remember a single Friday like this where you’d both ended the day happy with each other.

You moved back into your bedroom, pulling on clothes with rehearsed efficiency. Comfortable enough to survive the day, but polished enough to be presentable. Somewhere in between the two, as always.

As you reached for your bag, a thought crept in, unwelcome but persistent, maybe it would be different this time.

The idea surprised you enough that you paused, fingers curling around the strap. You stood there for a second, letting it sit. After everything, after late nights and long silences and one kiss you still didn’t know what to do with, it felt naïve to hope for anything different.

And yet, it was one of your last few days together.

The thought flew into your mind quietly, but it landed hard. After today, there would only be Saturday and Sunday left. Just two more days of this rhythm, two more mornings of schedules and keys and coffee runs, two more nights of dropping him off and driving home alone.

Only two more days.

You repeated it to yourself like a fact, not a feeling. Something measurable and contained. Not so long ago, you’d been counting those days with something dangerously close to excitement. Relief, at least. Now, the number sat heavier in your chest, harder to think about directly. You pushed the sensation away before it could take shape, slinging your bag over your shoulder and heading for the door.

Your phone buzzed just as you slipped on your shoes.

You glanced at the screen.

Rose, the applicant for the day, of course.

You answered as you locked your apartment behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey!” she said brightly, already at full volume. “Just wanted to make sure it’s still okay if you pick me up from the hotel this morning?”

“Yes,” you replied, forcing warmth into your voice. “Of course. I’m leaving now. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Oh perfect,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”

You ended the call and slid your phone back into your pocket, exhaling as you stepped into the hallway. Ready or not, the day was already moving. You told yourself, firmly, as you were walking down the hallway that you could get through it. That you always did. That whatever awkwardness lingered between you and Max, whatever feelings you were carefully not naming, could stay tucked away for one more day.

Just get through today. Then, only two more days. As you inched closer and closer to the elevator, though, the schedule was already ticking forward in your mind and the weight of the hours ahead was already settling onto your shoulders. 

You pulled up outside Max’s building with the applicant already bouncing her knee in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone and narrating something you only half-heard. The awkwardness from the past few days was still there, but it was quickly being swallowed by something heavier. Stress.

It crept into the car like a fog as soon as Max stepped outside.

He looked sharp in that effortless way of his, dressed for a full day of appearances, jaw already tight like he could feel the schedule pressing down on him already. He slid into the backseat, muttered a greeting that landed somewhere between polite and distracted, and immediately started asking about the timing of the day.

“What’s first again?” he asked.

“The gym,” you replied automatically. “Then the first store event at ten.”

He nodded once, already elsewhere mentally. The drive already blurred into the beginning of one of those days.

Of course, the gym ran long because someone from his physical therapy team showed up late. Which meant the first in-store event started ten minutes behind schedule and ended twenty minutes over because fans kept lining up. Security kept wavering, but Max refused to cut anyone off once he was in front of them. You watched the applicant fidget beside you, checking the time, whispering comments under her breath about how this was inefficient.

The photoshoot was rushed. The lighting wasn’t right and someone forgot to bring the right watch band. Max ended up snapping at the stylist. Surprisingly, the stylist snapped back. Still, you stepped in, smoothed it over, and moved everyone along.

By midday, no one had eaten properly. By mid-afternoon, the car had begun to feel too small.

By the time you arrived at the second in-store event, Max’s patience was visibly threadbare. His answers were shorter and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. The applicant, for the most part, had stopped trying to mask her irritation entirely. It didn’t help anyone’s mood that the store was also crowded, loud, and hot.

You stood a little farther back this time, tablet tucked under your arm, watching the dynamic unfold the way you had been trying to do with all of the applicants so far. Observing, measuring, and taking mental notes you weren’t sure you’d ever use again.

Someone asked Max the same question for the third time in a row, so he replied sharply. “I’ve already answered that.”

The applicant stiffened beside him. “They’re just asking.”

“I know that,” Max snapped, turning toward her now. “But we’re behind schedule and—”

“And whose fault is that?” she shot back.

The air shifted. People nearby quieted, sensing something wrong but not yet understanding what it was.

Max blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” the applicant said, no longer smiling. “You snap at everyone. You don’t listen. You don’t say thank you. You don’t even acknowledge that people are bending over backwards for you.”

You inhaled slowly.

Max looked genuinely stunned. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not,” she said, louder now. “I’ve been here all day. You treat everyone like they’re disposable. Like we should all be grateful to exist in your world.”

A few heads turned. Someone from the store staff edged closer, uncertain.

“You’ve never once said thank you,” she continued, voice shaking with anger. “Not to me. Not to anyone. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Max opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You stayed where you were, heart pounding, hands clenched around your tablet. You didn’t step in, you didn’t smooth it over, you didn’t redirect.

Because she wasn’t wrong. The realization sat heavy and undeniable in your chest.

“I’m done,” the applicant said abruptly. She turned toward you, eyes bright. “I’m leaving.”

“What?” You stepped forward without thinking. “Wait,  we still have a podcast and a sim session. We can talk about this, okay? Let’s just—”

“No,” she said, already grabbing her bag. “I’m not doing this.”

She turned back to Max once, just long enough to say, “Figure it out yourself for once.”

Then she walked out, heels sharp against the floor, the doors swinging shut behind her with a finality that echoed as a thick silence followed.

When the event ended, Max paced for a moment in the garage before climbing into the car, running a hand through his hair. “That was unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

You pulled out slowly, eyes on the road.

“I mean,” he continued, “you heard that, right? Completely out of line. I’m a great boss.”

You said nothing.

He glanced at you in the mirror. “Right?”

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

“Well,” you said carefully, “maybe everyone’s just hungry and stressed. It’s been a long day, after all.”

He huffed. “How’s it’s my fault people can’t handle pressure?”

“Maybe we should get food,” you suggested quickly. “Before the podcast.”

The subject shifted, just like that. Saved. Deferred.

Thankfully, the podcast went smoothly. The sim session after was clean and focused too, Max snapping back into the version of himself the engineers knew best. He was efficient, engaged, and calm. By the time it ended, evening had settled in.

“I need to get ready,” Max said, already standing. “Dinner reservation.”

“Oh,” you replied, blinking. “That wasn’t your schedule today.”

“It’s a little last minute,” he said, dismissive. “You can head out.”

You had been about to anyway. Still, the way he said it, as if he couldn’t wait to be alone, stung more than you expected.

“Okay,” you said simply.

You grabbed your bag and headed for the door. As you walked down the hallway toward the elevator, the thought crept in uninvited. Was he going on a date? Your shoulders felt heavy as you reached your car, sadness tugging at you in a way you didn’t bother fighting after the day you had.

Across town, Max adjusted his jacket in the mirror of the restaurant’s bathroom, jaw tight, mind loud.

When he stepped back into the dining room, Lando was already there, waving him over with an awkward smile.

“Hey,” Lando said, standing. “Thanks for–uh inviting me.”

Max nodded, pulling out his chair. “We need to talk.”

About you.

​​Max didn’t even wait for the menus. They’d barely sat down, water glasses not even sweating onto the table yet, the low hum of the restaurant still settling around them, before he leaned forward and asked it, flat and unguarded.

“Why are they leaving me?”

Lando blinked. Then, he leaned back in his chair, lips pressing together. “I don’t know if we should be talking about them if they’re not here.”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s fine.” He knew it wasn’t, but at this point, he didn’t care. He needed answers for his own sanity. 

Lando studied him for a second, like he was deciding how honest he was allowed to be. “I just, kinda asked, I don’t know” he said finally. “It was the last time we played padel. It wasn’t some big plan or anything. I just mentioned it, and they didn’t really hesitate to answer.”

Something tight twisted in Max’s chest. “They didn’t think about it?” he scoffed. “At all?”

Lando tilted his head. “Not much, no.”

Max laughed under his breath, a humorless sound. “Right. So how much are you paying them?”

Lando’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Two million a year.”

The words landed heavier than Max expected. “Two million?” he repeated, staring. “Why the hell are you paying them that much?”

Lando didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Max. And something in that look made Max’s stomach drop.

“Wow,” Lando said quietly. “You really are that un-selfaware.”

Max frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lando sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’ve watched you for years, mate. I’ve watched how you treat them.”

Max stiffened. “I don’t treat them badly.”

“You don’t say thank you,” Lando said calmly. “You just assume they’ll be there, all the time. Early mornings. Late nights. Dropping everything the second you call.”

Max opened his mouth and closed it, again.

Lando kept going, voice steady but firm. “They miss birthdays, family dinners. Whole chunks of their life because they’re keeping yours running. They manage your schedule, your chaos, your moods. They make sure you eat, sleep, get where you’re supposed to be.”

He leaned forward slightly. “I’m starting to think two million might not even be enough.”

Max swallowed, unsure of what to say. 

The waiter arrived then, cheerful and oblivious, rattling off specials. Max nodded along, and ordered automatically, his mind barely registering the words.

After that, neither of them brought you up again. They talked about racing, about the next weekend, about nothing that really mattered. But Max, truthfully, didn’t hear much of it. All he could think about was you. All he could think about was every time he’d snapped, every time he’d assumed you were fine, everytime he’d let you absorb the stress so he didn’t have to.

Two million. The number echoed in his head, not as money, but as weight, as worth.

After the dinner ended, he got into the car and just drove. At first, he told himself he was just clearing his head. That he needed the distance and space that driving alone brought. But the streets blurred together too easily, his hands turning the wheel without conscious thought, following a route his body clearly knew by heart.

When he realized where he was, he almost kept driving.

Your apartment building sat quietly across the street, familiar in a way that twisted something in his chest. He pulled over anyway. Let the engine idle. Watched a light flick on in one of the upper floors and wondered, irrationally, if it was yours. He stayed there longer than he meant to. Long enough for doubt to creep in. Long enough to almost convince himself this was selfish and  unfair and another ask he had no right to make.

But eventually, he picked up his phone.

Can you come outside?If you’re still awake.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.

Okay.

Relief hit him so hard it felt undeserved.

You came out a few minutes later, jacket pulled over whatever you’d changed into, movements slow and reluctant. You paused when you saw his car, as if bracing yourself, then crossed the street anyway. You didn’t ask why he was there, and you didn’t look annoyed. You just got in.

“Hey,” you said softly.

“Hey.” The word felt thin. Inadequate.

He drove without explaining, without asking your permission, and you let him. The silence wasn’t tense so much as it was careful, both of you holding something fragile between you, neither quite sure what it was yet.

The car was quiet in the way only places like this ever were. The overlook stretched out in front of you, Monaco lit up below like something unreal with soft gold and white lights spilling into the dark, the sea barely visible but always there. You’d been here a hundred times before, sometimes with Max, sometimes alone. It had always felt like a place meant for thinking, for honesty that you didn’t quite know how to have anywhere else.

Max had parked and cut the engine, but neither of you moved.

His hands stayed wrapped around the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary. You watched his knuckles flex, relax, then flex again. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d expected.

“So,” he said. “My dinner tonight.”

You turned your head just enough to look at him. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t guarded, either. He looked tired, but also open in a way that made something in your chest tighten.

“I’m glad,” you said carefully before continuing. “That you’re getting back into the dating scene.”

That made him blink. “What?” He let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “No. It wasn’t like that.”

You frowned slightly. “No?”

“No.” He shook his head once. “I had dinner with Lando.”

Something in you lifted before you could stop it. A quick, traitorous flicker of relief, but then followed immediately by a sharp oh shit. You masked it as best you could, staring back out at the city.

“With Lando?” you repeated. “Why?”

He exhaled through his nose. “To talk about you.”

That landed heavier that he probably expected it to. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t need to. The silence between you clearly shifted, thickening, pressing in closer. Max took it as permission to continue.

“Everyone,” he said slowly, “seems to think I’m a terrible boss.”

You closed your eyes for half a second.

He glanced at you. “Do you?”

The question wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t angry. It sounded almost afraid.

You took a breath, deep and steady, like you’d practiced this conversation in your head long before tonight, because you definitely had.

“Yes,” you said, simply.

Max flinched.

You went on before he could interrupt. “You’ve never said thank you. Not once. You don’t ask how I’m doing, or if I’m okay, or if something is too much. You just assume I’ll handle it. You expect me to be available all the time. You give me impossible timelines and get frustrated when I can’t bend the world to fit them.”

You weren’t angry as you spoke. That surprised you most of all. Your voice stayed calm, even gentle.

“I don’t think you mean to,” you added. “But you haven’t even seen me, not really.”

Max stared straight ahead instead of at you, jaw tight. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” he asked quietly.

You shrugged, small and tired. “Because it wouldn’t have changed anything. You wouldn’t have changed.”

He turned to you then, urgency bleeding into his voice. “I would have.”

You shook your head, just once. “No. You wouldn’t have. And that’s okay.”

He looked stricken. “How can you say that?”

“Because I understand, now, at least” you said. “You need to be the way you are to keep everything running. You have a life that doesn’t allow for softness all the time. You have expectations, pressure from everyone everywhere, an image to protect.” You glanced at him. “I’ve made my peace with it.”

His voice cracked. “I don’t want you to leave.”

The words hung between you, raw and unguarded.

“I really like you,” he said, quieter now. “More than I should and way more than I ever planned to.”

Your heart stuttered.

For a moment, you considered it. What it would feel like to stay? To say yes? To let that admission be enough? 

“I like you too,” you admitted softly.

His breath caught.

“But,” you continued, “I can’t stay under boss Max.”

He searched your face desperately. “I can change.”

You smiled, sad but kind. “If you’re serious about this, about us,  then you have to let me go. More than ever.”

The truth of it settled between you, undeniable.

Max swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I understand,” he said.

Neither of you moved, but the air felt electric now, fragile and heavy all at once. Max lifted his hand, hesitating inches from your face, giving you time to stop him. You didn’t. His fingers brushed your cheek, warm and tentative, like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. Your breath hitched. When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It was careful, earnest.

The kiss was soft at first, your lips meeting like a question. Then, it deepened.

All the restraint of the past years cracked open at once. His hand slid into your hair, anchoring you. You leaned closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, grounding yourself in the reality of him. It tasted like honesty, like relief, like something finally spoken out loud.

For a moment, the world disappeared.

When you pulled apart, you stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, breathing each other in. Your eyes stayed closed longer than necessary.

It hurt. Not because it was wrong, but because it was right, and still not enough.

“I’m going to miss seeing you everyday,” Max whispered.

You nodded. “I know.”

He pressed one last kiss to your forehead,  gentle, and sweet, before leaning back.

Neither of you spoke again as the city lights shimmered below, witnesses to something that now mattered more than ever, even if it couldn’t last the way either of you wanted, and somehow, you were both going to have to be okay with it.

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It didn’t carry the same suffocating weight as Sunday, heavy and airless. It wasn’t like Monday either, stretched thin and sluggish, dragging itself forward like it resented being asked to exist at all.

Tuesday already felt sharp, quick.

It snapped into place the second your alarm went off, slicing straight through your skull. You were already half-awake when it happened, staring up at the ceiling of your apartment, eyes burning with that familiar ache that came from sleeping too little and thinking too much. You didn’t reach for snooze. You didn’t even hesitate. You rolled out of bed immediately.

The morning happened on autopilot. Shower, brush teeth, clothes chosen for efficiency instead of care. Nothing indulgent. Nothing soft. You checked your phone once, watching emails stack up faster than you could open them, calendar notifications lining up like dominos waiting for a single push.

Your irritation from Monday hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deeper, cooling into something steadier. Colder.

Good, you told yourself. You were done being walked over. Done feeling like your work, your time, was your whole life. You were done molding yourself into something quieter just to keep the peace.

You were done with Max.

At least, that was what you told yourself. You still had a few days left to endure.

The drive to Max’s place was quiet, but not in the same way Monday’s silence had been. That quiet had felt thick, stagnant, heavy enough to press against your ribs.

This was different. This was the quiet of resolve.

It made you want to roll the windows down and let the cool morning air rush in, just to remind yourself you were still breathing. This was the kind of quiet that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to end.

But, as always, it did.

You pulled up outside Max’s building and didn’t linger, even though every instinct screamed at you to sit there for just one more minute. You checked the time, sent the customary Here text, and took a steadying breath, already bracing yourself for the day ahead.

You barely had time to exhale before a knock sounded against the passenger-side window.

Max.

He stood there already, hand hovering near the glass, as if he’d been waiting in the entryway for your car to appear. Too immediate and way too prepared for him.

He looked alert too. You could tell he was Coiled tight with energy, the kind he usually reserved for race mornings or qualifying laps. He didn’t fumble with the door, didn’t check his phone, didn’t hesitate. He slid into the passenger seat like this moment had been rehearsed.

“Morning,” you said, keeping your voice neutral.

“Morning,” he replied, just as even.

But he looked at you.

Not the tired, half-asleep glance you were used to. Not the sharp look from last night when he’d snapped. This was different. You felt it like pressure against your chest, like being held in place by something invisible. His gaze lingered a fraction too long before he looked forward again, jaw tight, fingers flexing once against his thigh.

Not angry, more restrained if anything. It was like he was holding himself back from something he didn’t trust himself to say or do.

You ignored it, pulled away from the curb, and merged into traffic.

“Bad news about Oliver,” you said, breaking the silence.

Max turned back toward you, attention softening just enough to acknowledge the shift. He hummed, nodding for you to continue.

“He doesn’t want the job.”

“That’s fine,” Max replied easily, shoulders lifting in a nonchalant shrug. He smiled faintly and turned his attention back to the road.

Another odd reaction, but you ignored it again as you pulled into the gym parking lot.

Seb was already there.

He stood near the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, posture relaxed but attentive, like someone who didn’t want to take up space, but was ready to move the second he was needed.

Sebastian König. Twenty-six. German. A sharp academic background, immaculate references, and from your emails alone, a refreshing level of professionalism. Polite. Efficient. Prompt.

Exactly what Max needed.

You and Max exited the car at the same time and headed toward the entrance. Normally, this was where Max would surge ahead, leaving you trailing behind, something you’d never minded. This was his routine, his workout.

Today, he stayed beside you. You noticed the way he shortened his stride, slowed himself deliberately to match your pace. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable.

Almost. You still chose to ignore it.

As you reached the door, Seb pushed off the wall and stepped forward, extending his hand toward you. “Good morning. You must be—”

“They’re my assistant,” Max cut in smoothly. He smiled, but he wasn’t looking at Seb.

Your jaw tightened this time.

“Oh, I know who they are,” Seb replied easily, unfazed. “We’ve been emailing all week.” He turned fully to you, smile warm and genuine. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Thank you for giving me the opportunity today.”

“You’re welcome,” you said, then nodded toward the door. “Let’s head in. Max likes to start on time.”

Max’s mouth twitched with not quite a smile, but not quite a frown.

Seb matched your pace as you walked, asking questions quietly and efficiently. Questions about Max’s usual splits. Session lengths. Anything specific he should track.

You answered without breaking stride, grateful for the competence.

But behind you, Max hovered close. 

Not necessarily physically, it wasn’t like he was crowding you, but you felt him there. Clearly he was close enough, though, that when you stopped abruptly to gesture toward a sign, he nearly walked straight into you.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

It was your turn to not respond, today.

Inside, the gym buzzed softly with music and the clank of weights. Max headed straight for the lockers, already peeling off layers like he was racing a clock only he could see.

Seb watched him go, then glanced back at you. “He’s intense,” he said, not unkindly.

“You have no idea,” you replied.

The session moved fast, maybe too fast. Max pushed harder than usual. He added reps without prompting, increased weight before the trainer suggested it. His movements were sharp, aggressive, and precise in a way that bordered on self-punishing.

You watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, irritation still curling in your chest.

Seb noticed. “He’s overdoing it,” he murmured.

“Yes,” you agreed quietly. “He always does this when he’s thinking too much.”

At the sound of your voice, Max glanced over.

For half a second, his expression softened, hopeful, almost. Then he caught himself and looked away, jaw locking back into place.

The rest of the morning followed the same pattern. Fast transitions. Tight schedules. No wasted minutes. Seb kept up easily, jotting notes, rerouting plans when media ran long, anticipating needs without being asked. Your shoulders loosened for the first time in days.

Max noticed, but he didn’t comment.

But he lingered near you, close enough to always be in your periphery. Close enough to reach for your tablet, to offer commentary that wasn’t needed.

“You forgot to mark that,” he said at one point, tapping the screen.

You hadn’t. “I didn’t,” you replied calmly.

“Oh,” he said, quieter. “Right.”

Seb clocked the tension but said nothing, simply shifting away to give you space.

By midday, you were exhausted again. Of course, not physically, but emotionally.

Max wasn’t distant anymore. He was everywhere.

When Seb thanked you for your patience after a chaotic sponsor appearance, Max stiffened beside you.

“Yeah,” Max said abruptly. “She’s good at this.”

You turned, surprised. Max wasn’t even looking at you when he said it.

The compliment landed wrong in your mind. It felt way too hollow, obligatory. You should have felt proud. Praise from Max Verstappen was rare. Instead, anger settled deep in your chest.

By the time you were back in the car, heading to the final appearance of the day, your patience was gone. Seb had, gratefully, taken his own car to leave right after. But that meant it left you and Max alone in yours. 

You drove in silence until Max spoke. “You think he’s the right one.”

It wasn’t a question, you could tell from the slight annoyance in his voice. 

“He’s competent,” you replied.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You sighed. “Max—”

“He’s fast,” he cut in. “Efficient. You like that. You think I need that.”

“Yes,” you said flatly. “I do.”

Silence.

“You didn’t answer me.”

“I did. You just weren’t listening, Max.”

He scoffed. “You always deflect.”

“I’m driving.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

You snapped.

“I’ve had enough of this today! You’ve been undermining me all day,” you said. “Hovering. Interrupting. Acting like I can’t do my job, when this is the only thing I HAVE done in the past three years of my life!”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it just as fast.

“I’m trying not to lose you.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You didn’t expect that sentence to come out of his mouth, especially not now. You truly didn’t want to hear it. 

“That’s not fair,” you said quietly. “You don’t get to decide that now.”

“I know.”

Silence followed, but this time it was charged, electric, impossible to ignore.

And for the first time since you’d decided to leave, you realized the truth.

Max wasn’t letting go.

And you weren’t nearly as detached as you’d been pretending.

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You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the events of the last twenty-four hours replaying in fragments rather than one neat and complete timeline. Max’s voice in the dark. The way his hands had shaken just slightly when he touched yours. The kiss. 

And the truth that followed it.

You were really leaving.

You were no longer thinking about leaving. You were no longer planning to leave. But, now, you were actually, really leaving.

The thought still didn’t sit right in your chest now, even though you wanted it just two weeks ago. Even though you knew it was the best thing for you and Max. It felt unreal in the way endings often did before they became unavoidable. For years, your days had revolved around Max’s schedule, Max’s needs, Max’s life. Even now, after everything, it was hard to imagine mornings that didn’t begin with him.

Especially this morning.

You rolled onto your side, phone lighting up as you checked the time. Another packed day ahead. Another day of events and appearances and obligations stacked too tightly together. You hadn’t loved the idea of it even before the events of last night, busy days like this always brought out the sharp edges in both of you. But now, knowing how close the end was, it sat heavier.

To make matters worse, this was the very last applicant.

And if you were being honest with yourself, you hadn’t liked most of the applicants. Not because they were bad. Some of them had been impressive on paper. Capable, driven, smart.

But none of them felt right, and you didn’t want to leave Max with just anyone.

You wanted someone who understood the chaos. Someone who wouldn’t crumble under the pressure. Someone who wouldn’t disappear the first time Max snapped or shut down or needed more help than he was always scared to ask for.

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face.

Maybe that was the problem. You were still protecting him.

Your phone rang, cutting through the spiral before it could go any deeper.

You glanced at the screen.

Lars.

You sat up, answering before the second ring could finish.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he said easily, his accent warm and familiar in a way that immediately put you at ease. “It’s Lars. I hope it’s okay I’m calling this early.”

“It’s fine,” you said, already more awake than you’d been a moment ago. “What’s up?”

There was a brief pause, like he was choosing his words carefully. “I was thinking, would it be alright if I drove today?”

You blinked. “Drove?”

“Yeah,” he continued. “I figured, if I were in Max’s position, I’d want to see how someone handles the road. You said he likes to be driven around right? And, well, I enjoy it.”

Something in his tone, confident but not cocky, thoughtful rather than presumptuous, made your shoulders relax.

“That’s completely fine,” you said. “I think that’s actually a really good idea.”

“Great,” Lars replied, sounding genuinely pleased. “If you want, I can pick you up first.”

You gave him your address, confirming the time, and when you hung up, you realized something unfamiliar had settled in your chest.

Hope. It surprised you.

You hadn’t meant to let yourself feel it, you’d been burned too many times by promising resumes and impressive credentials in these two weeks, but something about Lars felt different. The résumé had been exceptional. He was Dutch, around Max’s age, former F4 competitor, super strong recommendations. He had the kind of background that suggested he understood pressure, discipline, and high expectations already.

And more importantly,  he’d thought ahead.

Before you knew it, a car pulled up outside your apartment. You grabbed your bag and headed down, spotting Lars immediately when you stepped onto the sidewalk.

He got out of the car to greet you, tall and relaxed, offering a friendly smile. “Morning.”

“Morning,” you replied, climbing into the back seat.

“You can sit up front if you want,” he said as he pulled away from the curb.

You shook your head. “I’ll let Max have that.”

Lars smiled and nodded, like that answer told him something important. He reached into the center console and passed you a can.

“For you.”

You laughed softly, accepting the Red Bull like it was a gift. “You’re already winning points.”

“Good,” he said. “I also got one for Max. Figured he’d need it, waking up this early.”

You glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “He’ll definitely drink it.”

“Yeah?” Lars asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “He loves Red Bull.”

Lars chuckled. “Noted.”

As he drove toward Max’s apartment, you couldn’t help but notice the city slowly waking around you, and you felt something you hadn’t felt in days, a small, cautious optimism curling in your chest.

Maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster. Maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t be leaving Max completely unprotected after all.

The car slowed as you pulled up outside his building. You straightened slightly, heart doing that familiar, traitorous thing it always did when you were about to see him.

The back door opened and Max slid into the back seat beside you, still a little sleepy, hair slightly unruly, sunglasses already perched on his nose. He smelled faintly like his colonge and coffee.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough.

Your breath caught for half a second before you answered. “Morning.”

Lars handed him the Red Bull without missing a beat. “Thought you might need this.”

Max glanced at the can, then at Lars, surprised and pleased. “Good call.”

You watched from the corner of your eye as Max cracked it open, taking a long sip, before leaning his head back against the seat.

And for the first time since waking up, the knot in your chest loosened just a little. Maybe you had saved the best for last and just hadn’t realized it. And maybe, that didn’t have to mean everything fell apart when you left.

The car settled into motion, the hum of the engine smoothing out as Lars pulled away from the curb.

For a few minutes, it was easy, surprisingly so. Lars filled the space with light conversation, nothing overwhelming, and nothing forced. He talked about the route he usually took to avoid traffic, about a café he liked near the gym, about how strange Monaco felt when you weren’t there for racing. Max responded here and there, short answers at first, but gradually easing into it. You added comments when it felt natural, letting the rhythm of it all carry you. For the first time since you two started this whole process, it was calm.

You were watching the city slide past the window with your new found, albit, small hope when you felt it. A ever so subtle shift beside you. Not a touch, not yet, at least. Just more presence than you felt just a few minutes ago.

Max’s hand rested on his thigh, fingers loose, relaxed. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, it moved. An inch closer to you, then another inch. The back of his knuckles nearly brushed your own hand resting beside you.

You didn’t move, but your pulse spiked anyway.

Another small shift. This time there was barely a centimeter between you. Enough that you could feel the warmth of his hand without the actual contact of it, as if you were standing too close to a fire.

You glanced down before you could stop yourself, then you looked up at him.

Max was already looking away, his gaze fixed firmly out the window like the view outside was suddenly the most interesting thing he’d ever seen despite passing it almost everyday of his life for the past ten years. His jaw was tight. His posture a little too still. He didn’t look at you,  not even for a second, but his hand stayed exactly where it was.

Close. Careful. Waiting.

The realization hit you softly, not like panic but like something tender settling into place. You had only seen the expression he was wearing on his face a handful of times. 

He was nervous. 

The thought made your lips curve into a small, private smile before you could talk yourself out of it. You didn’t move your hand closer, even though you wanted to, but you didn’t pull it away either.

The tiny space between your fingers stayed open, charged, and unresolved.

Lars kept talking, blissfully unaware of the quiet war being waged in the back seat. He glanced at you both through the mirror once, smiling. “Let me know if the temperature is okay back there.”

“Yeah, It’s fine,” Max said quickly.

You nodded. “Yeah. Perfect.”

The car continued on, the road stretching ahead of you, the space still lingering between your hands like a promise neither of you was quite ready to keep, but neither of you wanted to let go of either.

But for once, the silence that followed didn’t feel heavy. It felt hopeful.

The day didn’t unfold so much as it stretched on and on, long and taut, like something pulled too tight that, surprisingly, hadn’t snapped yet.

At the gym, you moved on instinct more than intention, from checking the time, passing towels, quietly tracking what needed to happen next. It was muscle memory. Years of it. But something underneath felt different, like the rhythm you’d relied on for so long was slightly off-beat.

Max stayed close.

Not in the way he used to, all absent-minded and entitled, assuming you’d always be there, but more deliberately. Always a half-step behind you. A fraction closer than necessary. Every time you stopped walking, he nearly ran into you.

When you bent to grab your bag, you felt the warmth of his hand hover near your back, but still not daring to touch. When you handed him a water bottle, his fingers brushed the plastic instead of yours, even though it would’ve been easier not to miss.

It was like he was afraid that if he touched you, it would mean something irreversible. But in your mind, it already did. The kisses meant that. The conversation last night meant that. Did something end up getting lost in translation?

You caught his reflection in the mirror once, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. When your eyes met, he looked away immediately, jaw tight, ears faintly pink. 

He was still, unmistakingly, very nervous. 

Maybe you were overthinking everything. Max seldomly got nervous. He didn’t even get nervous before races. And now you? You were the one that all of a sudden was making him nervous? The thought grounded you and made you smile when you turned back around.

Lars, somehow, grounded everything even more.

He was competent in a way that didn’t demand attention. Thoughtful without making a show of it. He asked questions, but not too many. Stepped in when he could. Stepped back when he should.

At one point, you realized you hadn’t had to anticipate anything bad happening for nearly an hour. The realization hit you so hard you had to blink a few times to clear it. 

At the first in-store appearance, Max stood beside you while fans filtered through, smiling, signing, posing for photos. His public face slid into place easily, but you could tell his awareness never left you.

A fan gestured for you both to step closer for a picture.

You felt Max hesitate beside you. Just for a short breath before he stepped in, careful, his arm lifting behind your back but stopping short of actually touching you, his hand just hovering a few centimeteres away from your skin. The space between you was electric as the camera flashed. The spark felt so powerful, so real, you couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else could feel it.

When the fan left, Max exhaled like he’d been holding it in. “Sorry,” he murmured under his breath.

You looked up at him. “You didn’t do anything.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

But his hand drifted closer to yours as you walked away, fingers nearly brushing again. It was as if gravity itself was trying to pull you together, but he was resisting it with everything he had.

By the end of the day, exhaustion set in deep, bone-deep, familiar, but there was something steadier underneath it. Like your nerves weren’t frayed for once. Like you weren’t bracing for impact. For the first time in a very long time, you just felt physically tired instead of emotionally spent. 

Lars still drove, just like he said he would. All day he had been nothing short of smooth, predictable, and most importantly, present.

He handed Max another Red Bull without ceremony, already opened. “Figured you’d want this. It’s been a busy day”

Max blinked, genuinely surprised. “Thanks.”

You noticed the way he said it, the way it sounded like he meant it. Maybe he could actually change his ways as a boss, but you didn’t want to stick around to see for yourself. 

When the car finally slowed in front of your building, you were already unbuckling when Max spoke.

“I’ll get out here.”

You turned to him. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s not a long walk back,” he said, quickly but gently.

Lars didn’t question it. Just nodded once. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

The night air felt cooler than it should have as you walked toward your building. The silence beside Max wasn’t awkward or heavy, it was just there, like a habit that couldn’t be fully shook away. 

Your keys rattled in your hand as you unlocked the door.

The second it closed behind you—

Max moved. Not rushed, not rough. Just, for the first time all day, very decisive.

Your back met the door, the solid wood grounding you as his hands braced on either side of you, close but not pinning you there. His body hovered inches away, his breath warm against your cheek.

You looked up at him, heart pounding.

His forehead dropped to yours, eyes closing briefly like he needed the contact to steady himself. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Your throat tightened. “Max–”

“I’ve thought about it all day,” he admitted quietly. “Every time I stood too close. Every time I didn’t touch you.”

He cut himself off from saying anything further and kissed you. Slow, intentional. Like you were a precious vase that he was afraid of breaking.

His hand found your waist, warm and certain, and the sensation sent a shiver through you. You kissed him back without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt like they were scared he would slip away at a moments notice.

It felt different from before. This felt earned.

When you pulled back, breathless, your foreheads stayed together, neither of you willing to be the first to create space.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered. “We spent so long pretending there was nothing that now, I don’t know how to show it.”

He nodded, eyes soft but intense. “I didn’t let myself want you all of these years, and now I don’t know how to show you how much I want it. How much I want you.”

The honesty of it cracked something open in your chest.

You smiled, small and shaky, as your hands found his. “We’ll learn together, then.”

He leaned in again, kissing you slower this time, lingering like he was committing the moment to memory. When he finally stepped back, it was with visible effort.

“I should go,” he said, reluctantly.

You nodded, even though every part of you wanted him to stay.

At the door, he paused, then turned back and kissed you once more, deep, warm, and unmistakably promising. “I’ll see you bright and early,” he said softly. “I have a surprise for you.”

Your heart stuttered. “Oh?”

He smiled, already backing away. “Trust me.”

Then he was gone. And you stood there in the quiet, hand pressed to your lips with a stupid grin on your face.

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You pulled up to the familiar Monaco law office with Max in the passenger seat. He claimed he felt better today, though the way he sniffled every few minutes told you otherwise. Still, he at least looked better, dressed in dark dress pants and a button-down, his usual contract-negotiation outfit.

Max reached for the handle, probably ready to get the meeting over with so he could change into his regular skinny jeans and red bull shirts.

“Um, Max,” you said, unbuckling and turning towards him with a smile that was far too wide to be natural. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

He looked at you like he already hated the statement that had yet to actually leave your mouth.

“That you leaving is just a prank?” he asked flatly.

Your smile flickered. “No, not tha—”

“Then I’m not interested.” He turned away and reached for the door again. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah, I’m not going up with you today,” you said.

That stopped him. His hand froze on the handle, and he slowly looked back at you, eyebrows pulling tight.

“This is a legal meeting,” he said, bewildered. “I need someone in there with me to take notes.”

“I didn’t say you’d be alone.” You tried the way-too-happy smile again, hoping it would soften what was coming. “There’s, someone else.”

“I swear to Go—”

Before he could finish, you pointed to the man waiting near the building’s entrance.

“His name is Brandon. He’s from America. Just give him a chance.”

Max stared at the man. Then at you. Then back at the man.

“You’re seriously leaving me alone with him?” he asked, sounding almost betrayed. “On a day like this?”

“Not completely alone,” you said quickly. “I’ll stay in the car if you need anything.”

He rolled his eyes so hard you swore you heard it, somehow. Still, he shoved the car door open and then proceeded to slam it harder than necessary.

You winced at the sound. Great, strong start to the day.

Brandon had, without question, the most extensive résumé so far. He was nearly forty, originally American, had moved to Monaco at eighteen to work on super yachts. He’d climbed his way up to first officer by twenty-eight. Eventually, he’d switched careers, becoming a personal assistant for some of the wealthiest people in Monaco. His references adored him. They all ecohed the same praises of him being hardworking, reliable, and kind.

But there was another word that every single person repeated.

Clumsy.

Not mildly clumsy. Not “oops, dropped my pen”, clumsy. According to them, he was catastrophically, consistently, almost professionally clumsy.

One reference swore he’d fallen off yachts into the ocean, repeatedly. Another told a story about him ruining multiple brand-new laptops in ways that sounded like plotlines from sitcoms. And one, particularly dramatic, reference insisted he’d called the literal Prince of Monaco the wrong name. Multiple times. In one night.

The stories were ridiculous enough that you had convinced yourself they were exaggerated or misunderstood. They had to be.

You let your head drop back against the headrest, eyes closing as you inhaled slowly. Max would be fine. Brandon was competent, professional, and highly recommended. This was going to work. He was going to be your perfect replacement, and then you could stop running these little experiments sooner than you thought.

Your brief moment of calm was cut violently short when your phone lit up with Max’s name, though.

Shit.

You said it out loud as you scrambled to answer. You didn’t even get a hello out before Max’s voice came through, sharp and irritated.

“Get up here. Now.”

Shit.

“Did he fall off the building?” you asked immediately. Considering everything you’d been told, it was a perfectly rational fear in your mind.

“What?” Max asked, sounding genuinely confused. “Just get up here. Now.”

He hung up before you could ask anything else.

You were already throwing the car door open, practically sprinting toward the entrance. Your brain was spiraling through every worst-case scenario. Could it be a broken bone, a shattered window, Brandon knocking over a partner at the firm like a bowling pin? You briefly considered dialing emergency services preemptively. Because from the sound of Brandon’s track record? Maybe not the worst idea.

You jabbed the elevator button three times like it would bring the elevator to you faster, even though it did nothing to help. When the doors finally slid open, you stepped inside and pushed the top-floor button with the kind of urgency usually reserved for people in actual emergencies.

As the elevator climbed, you pressed a hand to your chest, trying to will your heartbeat into something resembling normal. He’s fine. He’s probably fine. You said to yourself over and over again. If something catastrophic had happened, Max would have led with that. Probably. Maybe.

You inhaled through your nose, counted to three, then exhaled. Maybe this was a dumb decision on your part. You inhaled and exhaled again. Okay. Okay. You could handle whatever disaster waited on the other side of these doors. Whether it was a broken window or something more serious, you could handle it.

The elevator chimed, and you braced yourself for the worst.

The doors slid open—And you froze.

Through the glass wall of the conference room, you saw Max and Brandon sitting exactly where they were supposed to be. Upright. Whole. Not bleeding. No broken bones. Not broken windows. Your shoulders slumped with both relief and confusion as you pushed open the conference room door.

Max looked up first, then Brandon. Neither looked remotely in crisis. Which, frankly, only made your anxiety spike harder.

Because if they, or the building, weren’t physically injured, something else must have gone horribly wrong.

“Finally, there you are,” he said, as if you’d taken three hours and not a grand total of ninety seconds to make it up from the parking lot.

You glanced between him and Brandon again. Both alive. Both seated. Your gaze swept the table. Nothing seemed to be out of place. No shattered windows. 

But then you saw it, a damp, brown pile of what you assumed was the contract sitting in front of Max. 

Oh.

Brandon sat stiffly beside him now, hands folded in his lap like he was waiting to be sentenced in court. You approached the table slowly, eyes locked on the pile of paper. “Nobody fell off the balcony?” you asked quietly.

“No,” Max said.

“No one set anything on fire?”

“No.”

“Is anything else besides that pile of paper wrong?”

“No,” he said again, more impatient this time as he jabbed a finger toward the contract like it was important evidence. “He did that.”

You stared at the contract, then back at Max. “It’s just paper, Max.”

“It was the only copy they had,” he snapped back.

You looked over at Brandon, who looked like he was about to apologize for existing. “I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered quickly. “I bumped the table when I stood up too fast, and the mug was too close to the edge, and the—”

“And now have to wait for them to print another one,” Max cut in, as if he was running late for something.

You blinked. “You called me up here like someone died because he spilled a latte.”

“You said to call if I needed anything,” Max argued, “This is a contract meeting. A legal meeting. Everything is supposed to be professional and smooth and—” He gestured towards Brandon again. “not whatever this is.”

Brandon sank lower in his chair.

You inhaled slowly in an attempt to keep from losing your mind. “Max, it’s just some pieces of paper; you hadn’t even signed it yet. They are printing another copy.”

“It’s not the same,” he insisted.

“It’s literally the definition of the same.”

“No. Because now the vibes are ruined.”

You stared at him, and he stared back, deadly serious. Of course the vibes were what mattered.

You gently placed a hand on the back of a chair and exhaled through your nose. “Oh my god, I seriously can not believe you sometimes.”

Outside the conference room, you heard the printer whirl to life, perfect timing. 

You rubbed your temples. “I’m going to…” You motioned vaguely toward the hallway. “take a walk. Before I say something I’ll regret.”

“Don’t leave me alone with him again.”

You stopped, turned, and shot Max with a look that could silence an army. “Max. Once again, he just spilled coffee, not nuclear waste.”

Max threw his hands up in pure, dramatic exasperation. “Same energy!”

For the love of god.

You stepped into the hallway before Max could launch another tirade towards you. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling whatever dramatics he was still muttering to himself.

You pressed your palms to your face and dragged them down with a long, steady breath. Five minutes. The contract would be reprinted in five minutes. And in theory, Max would be calmed down by then.

As you walked down the quiet, empty hallway, you couldn’t help but replay the scene in your mind. When the elevator doors first opened, Brandon still looked terrified, but calm, and Max? He was sitting there, looking perfectly fine. until the second he saw you, and then? Boom. Instant meltdown. Like a switch flipped.

He hadn’t been angry before you arrived. He’d sounded irritated, but composed on the phone call to you. It was only when you walked in the room that he seemed to fall apart.

You didn’t know what to make of that. Nor did you know what was wrong with Max these past few days. Sure, you’d seen Max be a complete asshole to people before, but these past two days? You were almost too embarrassed to even say you worked for him at this point. Maybe it was because he didn’t feel well, you had to admit you weren’t the greatest person to be around if you were sick, either. Whatever had gotten into him, though, you only had to endure two more weeks of it. 

By the time you returned to the conference room, the paralegal had already set a fresh contract on the conference table. Max didn’t look at you when you came in, just grabbed the pen and flipped straight to the flagged pages. The signing itself went shockingly smoothly, all things considered.

But the calm, once again, ended the moment the paralegal left the room.

Max pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape of metal on hardwood. “You’re fired.” He said pointedly to Brandon. 

Brandon blinked. “So… I was hired?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour. Max didn’t laugh, and you definitely didn’t either.

“Max,” you said sharply, “He is not fired. You haven’t even given him a real chance yet.”

“He ruined a contract,” Max shot back. “Also, he got my name wrong three times. And he tripped into the table. Who does that? That’s a hazard, not a person.”

Brandon let out a tiny, apologetic cough. “In my defense, sir, the table corner is very pointy.”

“Brandon,” you said quickly, trying to salvage anything before Max could say something else, “thank you for today. We’ll be in touch with you after the remaining interviews.”

His brows rose with a hopeful smile. “So I’m still in the running?”

You gave him a kind, professional smile back. “We’ll be in touch.”

Brandon nodded, gathered his things, and shuffled out. The door clicked closed behind him.

Max rounded back to you instantly. “No, we will not be in touch. We are never, ever contacting him again. He spilled coffee on legal documents. He nearly wiped out an entire table. And he kept calling me Mike.”

You exhaled a tired, almost painful laugh. “Max, this is the process. I don’t want you to think, or feel like, I am abandoning you overnight.”

“But you are abandoning me,” he snapped. “And it seems like you’re trying to replacing yourself with walking disasters.”

“And you,” you snapped right back, “need to understand that whether you like this or not, I’m leaving. In two weeks. No matter what. So you need to buckle up, deal with the applicants, and stop acting like every tiny thing is the end of the world.”

His jaw flexed, stubbornness tightening every line of his expression. You held your ground anyway.

“Brandon maybe wasn’t the best candidate, I can admit that, but” you said, voice firm. “There will be others. Better matches. Worse matches. This is just how it goes.”

Max looked away, shoulders tense, face set in a scowl that you couldn’t quite read. 

“Two weeks, Max,” you repeated quietly. “Start getting used to the idea.”

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