#resetmv1

It’s freezing. January wind cutting through the trees like razors, the cold coiled deep into the tarmac- but you? You’ve done fourteen kilometers, three times over, without complaint. Just got out. Warmed your hands. And now you’re going again.

No camera crew. No engineer hovering over your shoulder. No one asked you to do it.

You’re just built like this.

Jos stands a few feet behind, watching. Quiet. Intrigued.

He’s seen this before. In Max, mostly. That rabid kind of hunger. That need to get better, even when no one’s looking. Especially when no one’s looking. But Max had to be dragged into it as a boy. Screamed at. Pushed until his knuckles bled on karting wheels in the snow.

You? You do it on your own.

There’s a little smudge of grease across your cheek. Your hair’s knotted at the base of your neck messily, strands frozen to your temples in the wind. You don’t look like anyone’s fantasy, not at this moment. But Jos sees it.

The totality of you.

Beautiful, yes. Of course. Even crouched and shaking by the heat of your own exhaust like a starving animal, you’re a vision. Lean, lethal. Razor-cut cheekbones, wide eyes, clever mouth. All presence. All bite. But it’s not that. Not really.

It’s the way you don’t need to be told to suffer. The way you welcome it.

You’re freezing. Exhausted. The setup is clean but you want it cleaner, and that’s why you’re going back out before anyone else. You’re a little track rat- racing’s dirtiest compliment.

And Jos? Jos is delighted. This- this- is why he chose you. Why he’s spent months force-feeding Max just enough rope to get tangled in you.

You’re young. Twenty-two. Still raw. But look at you- already hard on yourself in all the right ways. Already driving until your nerves fray, your fingers lock, your body betrays you. You’ve got just enough polish for the brand. Just enough venom for the track. Just enough desperation to be useful. You’re everything he could have hoped for and more. Perfect on camera, perfect under pressure, and above all: hungry.

So, he lets you go. Let’s you burn gas and track time and crawl around the wheel well of your own car all in the name of study. Tells the mechanic to let you, the cameraman to film you, and the budget to fuck off. He doesn’t interrupt until he absolutely has to.

Jos checks his watch. The crew’s over-time. Overtime he technically signed off on when he said nothing earlier- because he wanted to see how long you’d last. See what kind of feedback you’d give when the light began to fade and your fingers went stiff with cold. When your breath started fogging up the windshield again, and nobody was left to impress.

And you hadn’t disappointed.

You’re halfway through resetting the dash, engine still ticking warm, eyes scanning data that technically isn’t yours to analyze. Max had climbed out for good three runs ago, Ivor two, but you’ve kept going, kept pushing. Kept chewing on the car like there’s something personal between you.

He steps forward now, hands in the pockets of his Verstappen.com jacket. “Girl.” You look up. “That’ll be your last run.”

You blink. “Oh.” There’s a pause- half second, no more. Like you hadn’t considered there would be a limit. Like you’d forgotten that icy weather and labor laws should matter. Like maybe, if no one told you to stop, you simply wouldn’t. Then, a nod. “Okay.”

You stand and stretch your shoulders, then crouch again to unplug the dash tablet. You’re careful with it, despite your own fatigue. Still just as sharp as you were four hours ago. Still logging quiet mental notes.

Jos watches you for a moment longer. Watches the way you pass the device to the nearest tech, then run a sleeve under your nose.  He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t praise you, either.

Just turns and heads toward the pit.

Your steps are heavy, boots half-frozen with slush and packed gravel. You peel off your gloves, shove them into your helmet bag, and fish out a spare beanie to tug over your damp hair. Your hands shake a little from the cold, but it’s more annoying than concerning.

As you start packing your things- helmet, balaclava, a few crumpled wrappers from the spicy chips you got at the airport- you glance up, assessing the pit area out of reflex. Not because you expect anything, but because it’s habit. Just checking.

There’s the back corner of the tent where Ivor and Max had changed- open on two sides, tarped on the others. A couple of damp crates pushed together, jackets hanging from a jerry-rigged rack. It’s not just your team here, though. It’s a shared service park. There are two other teams under the next canopy over, and you can see a few of their crew still lingering near the heaters, stripping off gear and chatting with each other. You can’t exactly ask half the track to look the other way while you change.

So, no.

You glance toward the edge of the gravel lot, where the blue port-a-potty squats against the fence. You used it once earlier- it was already borderline unusable. Slush tracked in, wet toilet paper disintegrating on the floor, the smell of cold piss thick like some kind of awful male air freshener. You can’t imagine what it’s like now. No, thank you.

You pause, consider whether a car door or a van might offer enough cover. But it would take coordinating with someone. Asking. It always requires asking.

And honestly? You’re tired of asking.

It’s not a big deal. Not really. Your suit’s already soaked through, and the Audi’s heated. You’ll survive twenty minutes of damp fabric sticking to your hips. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but you’ve been much worse off in much worse places.

This? This barely registers.

So you zip your bag shut, loop the strap over your shoulder, and decide to ride in your fireproofs. No complaint. No fuss. You don’t even think about it that hard. It’s just how things are.

By the time you make it to the car, Max and Ivor are already there- Max leaning against the passenger door, quiet as ever, and Ivor flapping his arms like a cartoon character, trying to get circulation back to his fingers.

Jos unlocks the rental Audi with a chirp and throws a look over his shoulder.

“Ivor, up front with me,” he says. “Want to talk through some strategy on the way back. I see those two enough already.”

Casual. Dismissive. Too easy.

You don’t blink, just trail behind them as they load in, all wet hair and gravel-caked boots, trying to ignore the deep and existential concern clawing at your chest. The upholstery. It’s beige. You glance at the creamy fabric seat in the back. Then down at your race suit. Then back at the seat.

You huff a soft breath through your nose and offer a tight-lipped smile, already lying your new team jacket on the seat and settling in with the careful delicacy of someone sitting in a borrowed wedding dress.

Ivor stops yammering at Jos and twists in the front seat, noticing you settling in, still damp. “You didn’t change?” The tone is pure disbelief. Not cruel- just naïve.

You glance up at him, patient. “No.”

He blinks. “Why not?”

You tilt your head, the smallest smile curving at the corner of your mouth. “Where’d you change?”

“Uh- ” He frowns, trying to recall. “In the back of the tent with the… other…” His voice falters. You watch him piece it together in real time. “…boys.”

You hum softly, polite as ever. “Mm.” You don’t say it outright. You don’t have to. You just leave the noise hanging there, easy and unbothered, like this isn’t your thirtieth time having to gently walk a group of men through the revolutionary concept of I cannot strip in public, actually.

A beat. Then- “Oh.” The sound of realization more than embarrassment. The car ride back is short but silent. Wet boots squeak against the rubber mats, and the heater ticks as it battles the cold. Jos parks just outside the hotel, throws it in park, then glances back over the seat. “Dinner?” he says, casual, like it’s an afterthought. “Unless, of course, anyone has… other arrangements. If there’s any F1 business the… senior members of the team need to talk through,” he says lightly, “Ivor and I are happy to peel off and give you two space.”

It’s too easy. Too practiced. And the reaction is immediate.

You’re sitting upright, spine too straight, forcing your expression to stay open and easy. Your brain is running calculations behind your eyes. You’re not sure what Max told him, if anything. But the suggestion of alternate plans feels… specific. Loaded. Like it might have been angled deliberately. God, if this is about the kiss… You could kill Max with your bare hands. Just dive across this backseat and wrap your hands around- you swear to fucking god-

“Oh, I think dinner as a group makes the most sense,” you squeak, voice a little too bright. “We can discuss tomorrow’s game plan anyways.”

Jos lifts one brow, but lets it slide. Max says nothing. Ivor, for his part, beams like he just won something. He’s already mentally rearranging the table so he can sit beside you. Maybe ask you about the track. Maybe just… hear your voice for longer than a lap debrief.

“Right,” he says as he pops the door, amused. “Just thought I’d ask. Let’s get checked in and meet at the restaurant in fifteen.”

Check-in is quick- mercifully so. You’re first to the desk and first to get your key, offering a polite smile that barely masks the buzzing anxiety under your skin. You leave the boys behind without a second thought. As soon as you round the corner toward the elevators, you break into a clipped, silent power walk.

You check the time. Twelve minutes left. No. Wait. Eleven. You lost time fumbling with your ID. And the elevator hasn’t even arrived yet. You practically jog down the hall once the doors open, jamming your keycard into the slot like it personally wronged you. The green light flashes, and you’re inside.

Ten minutes.

You drop your bag on the bed, tear off your soaked suit, and flick on the bathroom light.

Nine fucking minutes.

You pause. You close your eyes. And then you silently, furiously scream.

Does Jos not have a wife? A daughter? Any concept at all of how long it takes to transform from a waterlogged rat into someone who looks vaguely capable of discussing strategy over a €17 glass of wine?

Nine minutes. This- this- is the greatest injustice of being a girl in this sport. Not the porta-potties. Not the lack of changing rooms. Not even the constant side-eye in driver briefings.

It’s this.

That a grown man will look you dead in the eye and expect you to be both competent and polished in NINE. FUCKING. MINUTES.

You rip a comb through your damp hair, toss in something that promises “frizz control” and probably lies. There's no time to check. Mascara. Concealer. One singular dot on the zit coming in at your temple. Dab dab dab. No time for anything else. Your skin will just have to rawdog it tonight.

What to wear- what to wear- fuck, fuck, fuck. Top and bottom? Too many choices. Dress. Easy. Done. The black velvet one from the Christmas party. High neck. Safe. Acceptable. Team-issue softshell. You peel on a pair of tights while still damp, cursing them the entire time like they’re personally responsible for every microaggression you’ve ever endured in motorsport.

Your hotel room is a blur of movement, limbs, fabric, zippers, and fingernails clamped around a nylon waistband. The final step is trying to shove your ID, credit card, and a stick of gum into the world’s smallest dinner purse while half-speed walking toward the door.

Your shoes aren’t on yet.

Doesn’t matter.

You’re moving.

You yank the door open, catch it with your foot, jam a mule on one foot, purse squashed in your armpit. Second shoe, door slams behind you. You’re out.

Still arranging everything in your arms as you reach the elevator. Still slightly damp. Still furious.

But you’ll make it. And you’ll look like you’ve been ready all day. Because you are a goddamn professional. Your heels click softly against the marble as you approach the hotel restaurant, breath just barely recovered from your mad dash through the lobby. Hair still damp at the nape, but tamed, mostly. Dress smoothed down. You check your reflection in the glass door once, twice- then again in the polished brass as you reach for the handle.

Jos is already waiting by the entrance, arms crossed loosely, glancing at the host stand with the air of a man who’s both impatient and scheming. He lights up when he sees you.

“You’re punctual,” he notes, pleased.

You smile. “I try.”

He gestures toward the entrance, then waves the host off with a casual nod. “We’ll wait here for the others.” There’s a pause before he adds, “How were your holidays?”

You keep your posture open, tone breezy. “Quiet, this year. I spent Christmas Day with my race engineer and his family. Just something easy, since they were trying to pack- board games, a roast.” Polite. Casual. A test. You watch his face carefully, waiting. He doesn’t mention Max. So neither do you.

“I also made my move,” you offer, voice light. “I’m near Monaco now. It just makes sense for sponsorship business- easier to take meetings in person, keep a foot in the media.”

“Smart,” Jos says.

He sounds like he means it.

And still- still- he doesn’t ask if Max helped. Doesn’t mention the Red Bull dorms. Doesn’t raise a brow at your suspicious proximity to his side of town. Just gives you a slight nod, as if you’ve passed some unspoken test.

Your shoulders begin to ease, just a little. If Max had said something… If he’d mentioned anything- the kiss, the factory, the wine- you think Jos would have brought it up by now. Or at least hinted. But there’s nothing. Just cordial small talk and the occasional calculating glance, like Jos is still working some long game in his head.

You can live with that.

Jos glances past you, eyes catching on something through the glass. “Ah- look who’s finally made it.”

You turn just in time to catch Ivor outside the restaurant doors, pausing at the windowed wall to catch his reflection in the mirrored panel beside it. He leans in slightly, adjusting the collar of his sweater- a Redline quarter-zip that he clearly thinks looks mature- and flattens a few strands of damp hair with a practiced sweep of his palm. He exhales once. Checks his breath against his wrist. Straightens his posture.

Then pulls the door open- and nearly jumps out of his skin.

He wasn’t expecting an audience.

His eyes go wide when he spots you and Jos already standing there, both watching. He startles like a teenager caught mid-pep talk, then schools his expression into something brighter, warmer- bashful, yes, but unbothered, like maybe he meant to do all of that with an audience.

“Hi,” he says quickly, eyes darting to yours with the eager glow of someone trying very hard to be charming. “You look nice.”

“Thank you,” you reply easily, already smiling.

His shoulders lift, just a bit. He tucks his hands in his pockets, bounces slightly on the balls of his feet like he’s waiting for a treat. If you asked him to sit, he’d probably do it without question. There’s something doggedly sweet, if not a little dumb, about the way he orients himself entirely toward you, even with Jos standing right there.

The restaurant doors swing open again, and Max steps through, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at you- not even for a flicker. Just takes in the host stand, the soft clatter of silverware in the distance, and the fact that the rest of you are already assembled.

Jos straightens and approaches the podium, giving the host a brief nod now that the full party is here. As he steps away, you lean subtly toward Ivor, your voice pitched low. “Make sure to thank Jos for the opportunity to drive today,” you murmur, genuinely.

He blinks at you, wide-eyed, as if surprised you’re speaking to him at all. “Sorry- what was that?”

You do him the mercy of repeating it, just as softly, as the group begins to trail behind Jos and the host-  the same calm, gracious tone, like this is something you just assume all drivers pass along eventually. “It’s good business,” you add as you walk, your voice still low but warm. “Sponsors like to feel appreciated. Always thank the person holding the checkbook.”

He nods, mouth parted slightly like he wants to thank you just for speaking to him. His eyes are wide and sincere, full of the kind of eager gratitude that makes him feel ten years younger than you, even though he’s legally an adult. He straightens his sweater again and quickens his pace to stay beside you, nodding like he’s memorizing the moment. Max is a few steps behind, but the distance feels wider than that- like he’s following the group, not necessarily in it. At the table, Jos moves to the sit, gesturing toward the seat beside him with a vague air of orchestration. “Ivor, why don’t you- ” he starts. 

But Ivor is already dropping into the seat next to you, practically beaming. “Here good?”

“Perfect,” you say, offering him a polite smile that makes him visibly sit taller. And it is, because with Jos across from you, and Ivor beside you, Max takes the last remaining seat, kitty corner to yours. No touching elbows. No accidental eye-to-eye arrangements. Comfortable. Safe. ════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Max trails the group like an afterthought, half a step behind, gaze stuck somewhere between the wine-dark carpet and the exit sign he wishes he could follow instead. If he had his way, he’d be upstairs already. Clean. Comfortable. Controller in hand. Instead, he’s here- crammed into another one of his father’s team-building charades, pretending not to feel the hooks tugging at him from every direction.

Dinner starts the way it always does: with Jos performing hospitality like it’s part of a race weekend strategy. The subtle push of a chair here, a too-casual suggestion there. Max clocks it all. Jos wants him to sit next to you. Badly. Even goes so far as to motion for Ivor to take the other seat- but the kid, God bless him, dives into the chair next to you before Jos can finish his sentence.

Max doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. That’s the first win of the night.

He takes the remaining seat without a word, nods once at the waiter, and zones out before the wine list even hits the table.

When the menus arrive, he barely skims. Orders grilled chicken and steamed vegetables out of habit, skips the sauce, skips the starch. He already knows what it’ll taste like: bland and penitent. Fuel and punishment in equal measure. Every bite a quiet reminder that the season’s coming quick in a sport where every gram is accounted for. 

He hates this part. Hates the food noise. Hates the arithmetic of it all- the macros, the scale, the subtle shame of ‘let me ask the chef, sir.’ He hates being hungry. Hates eating in company when he can’t actually enjoy it.

And still, he’s somehow amused.

Because you’re sitting beside across from his father, absolutely radiant in your decorum, perfectly polite as you try to fold yourself into the conversation like it’s instinct. Soft posture. Gentle nods. A measured smile here and there. Jos tries his usual thing. The baited questions, designed to build bridges. Something about sim data. Something about setup translation. Max doesn’t bite. He lets you handle it- because of course you do. With precision, grace, and just enough warmth to seem cooperative without actually offering anything real.

That, for some reason, makes him want to laugh.

Of course you’re acting perfect. Composed. Untouchable. You're fresh-faced, sharp, well-dressed- and completely pretending you weren’t making out with him three weeks ago on company property. 

God, he’s almost proud of you. If he had it in him to feel anything too clearly right now, it might even be admiration.

Instead, he’s just... hungry.

Not for you, no- not like that. Just hungry. Full stop. Because dinner, for him, is grilled chicken and plain vegetables, and the smell of garlic bread drifting across the table feels like a personal attack. The scent turns his stomach. Not from nausea, but from irritation. He hates this part of the pre-season- this fucking cut. The calorie math. The constant noise around food. The sheer impossibility of enjoying anything when every bite feels like failure.

Jos turns the pressure up, tries again with a remark about shared baselines and mutual trust. Max is sipping sparkling water out of a short-stemmed glass like a child at a wedding. That alone would piss him off if he had the energy to care. Let his dad stew.

You, instead, begin to talk to Ivor. And that’s when the entertainment really starts.

Because Ivor- God help him- is all in. Puppy-eyed. Practically wagging. Trip-over-his-own-shoes enthusiastic. He leans in when you speak, nods too hard when you mention tire choice, fumbles through compliments about Zandvoort like he stayed up all night rehearsing them. You’re patient. Kind. You give him just enough to keep him breathing, not enough to encourage the hallucination.

You’re kind about it. Warm, even. You tilt your head and offer small conversational encouragements, the kind that keep him from drowning without throwing him a rope.

Jos is fuming quietly. Max can tell by the way he thumbs the stem of his wine glass- calculating and annoyed. This dinner was supposed to be something else. Something Jos designed. Something…not this. Instead, it’s a slow-motion derailment.

Max watches the whole thing like it’s playing out on a screen. By the time dinner hits the table, he can’t tell if he’s more secondhand embarrassed or impressed that the kid is still going. He’s definitely impressed that there’s still patience in your expression- but the moment the table is cleared, the illusion unravels quickly. Chairs scoot back in a fever. Jos disappears toward the bar, citing business, and the three of you make for the elevators.

The elevator doors close. Max doesn’t look at you, or at Ivor. Doesn’t have to. He can feel the desperation rolling off him in waves. He can practically hear the imaginary tail thumping against the floor.

Silence stretches. You’re scrolling on your phone. Ivor is fidgeting like he’s winding himself up for something. Max notices the shift- posture squared, jaw set, breath pulled in like he's bracing for impact.

Then- just past the third floor- Ivor swings an elbow up onto the mirrored wall and half-turns toward you. Like he’s posing. Like this is the moment in the movie where he says the thing that wins the girl. And Max clocks it instantly. The setup. The tilt of the head. The overconfident lean. 

Oh, God. 

He’s going for it. It takes everything in Max not to laugh.

"So, um… if you're not, like, super tired or anything,” Ivor says, voice a little too loud, a little too rehearsed, “we could... I dunno, hang out a bit more? I brought my laptop. We could watch footage. Or play FIFA or something. If you want."

Max keeps his face neutral. His eyes forward. Barely. His lips twitch so hard it almost hurts.

Because- FIFA? You? The absolute balls on this kid.

The kamikaze instinct it must take to look at you- you, with your sharp mouth and steel-core posture and impossible résumé- and think: maybe. Not a rational maybe. Not one born from chemistry or context or even a hint of reciprocation.

Just pure, blinding, testosterone-fueled hope.

It’s laughable. It’s admirable. It’s suicidal.

Max respects it the way you might respect a moth for flying straight into a bonfire. Misguided. Doomed. But damn, look at it go.

What’s worse- he doesn’t even know what he’s messing with. You’re not cruel, but you’re dangerous. When you want to be. And this kid, with his overgrown golden retriever energy and half-grown confidence, is trying to pet a jaguar.

Max braces himself for a bloodbath.

But it doesn’t come.

You handle it with surgical precision. A tilt of the head. A little smile that’s halfway between kind and pitying. And that soft, sweet-laced voice you pull out for public appearances and people who mean well. “That’s real sweet,” you say gently. “But I think I’m just going to head to bed. Long day.”

Ivor- bless him- deflates just slightly. Like a balloon letting out a little air through a pinhole. “Oh. Yeah- yeah. Of course. Totally. For sure. No worries.”

The elevator pings on the third floor. His floor. He hesitates for half a second. Max sees the impulse flicker in his eyes- Say something else. Salvage it. But then, in the one single flash of self preservation this kid has shown all night, he bails.

“Goodnight,” he says, still hopeful.

“Goodnight, Ivor,” you reply, kind enough that Max almost feels bad for him. Almost. The elevator doors close, and it’s just the two of you now. Max doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

He keeps his eyes forward, fixed on the digital numbers ticking upward, but his jaw twitches- just once. Then again. It’s the effort of keeping the laugh down, of refusing to let it surface, of not letting the sheer absurdity of the moment win.

Because what the fuck was that?

Ivor. Eighteen. Barely out of karts. Green as spring grass. Hasn’t even locked down a full-time rallycross seat, let alone survived the brutal machinery of motorsport long enough to know how fast it’ll chew him up and spit him out. And he thinks he’s going to chase you?

Max doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t have to do that either. He’s already seen the way you handled it- graceful, warm, unbothered. The exact kind of gracious that makes a kid like Ivor believe, however stupidly, that maybe he has a chance tomorrow.

You’re always kind like that. Too kind, sometimes.

He presses the pad of his thumb against his mouth and tries not to laugh again. It’s not even about jealousy or territory or the fact that he’s kissed you- not really. He knows what this is. He knows what you are.

You’re accomplished. A full-blown Formula driver who took a podium in, essentially, a rental car. You’re clever, sharp-tongued when you want to be. Cool under pressure. You command attention without trying. You’ve been breaking records while still breaking in your racing boots.

You moved across an ocean by yourself. You drive everything like you’re chasing blood. You’re sharp, composed, ruthlessly prepared. Max has spent months trying to antagonize you into cracking, and instead he's... studied you. Accidentally. Intimately.

You’re also beautiful. Max doesn’t have to like you all the time to admit that. Doesn’t have to want you to recognize why someone else might.

And not in the way girls who hang around garages get called pretty just for showing up. You’re fit. Strong. Expressive. Real. Curves that pull at the seams of your suit, long hair that somehow still looks okay after a helmet. Big eyes. And so goddamn capable that sometimes it feels like a sick joke.

It’s not exactly the first time he’s taken stock- but the ease with which the mental image assembles itself is… irritating.  Like his brain had it filed under frequent use. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about it. Just that the information’s… available. Ready. Like muscle memory.

You’re also mean, when you want to be. Not obviously. Not tonight. Not to Ivor.

But Max knows it’s there. He’s seen it.  And, though he’ll never say it out loud, that might be the part he likes - if there was a part of you he liked- most. The quiet capacity for violence. That flicker of calculated cruelty when someone underestimates you. The way not a single soul will believe him if he insists you can be, kind of, a bitch. That you can be petty.

Ivor has no idea what he’s playing at. You’re so far out of his league, that Max wants to grab the kid by the collar and diagram the gap in chalk. Just draw it out on the nearest whiteboard with arrows, circles, and a polite ‘in your fucking wet dreams.’ Not even to be cruel. Just to save him the trouble.

Still, you’d never say it. You’re too polite.

The elevator dings. Max steps out first, shoulders still twitching with leftover laughter he hasn’t let himself fully feel. You follow a few steps behind, phone in hand, scrolling with easy disinterest like nothing about the ride up- or Ivor’s kamikaze attempt- registered at all.

You both turn down the same hallway. He doesn’t say anything. You don’t either. He stops in front of his door. So do you. Max lets out a small, disbelieving exhale through his nose.

You glance over, just once, expression unreadable. Not surprised. Not flustered. Just tired. Both of you just stand there for a second, silent, eyes flicking between your doors- side by side- then back at each other. 

Unbelievable.

Of course.

It’s not even subtle. Not a “huh, what a coincidence” type of thing. This is deliberate. Engineered. Like someone thought close proximity would breed chemistry- or at least make surveillance easier.

Max turns to face his door, the faintest shake of his head giving him away. Not angry, not really. Just done. Done with the playbook, done with the scripts, done with being puppeteered like he’s still nineteen and too dumb to notice.

There’s a quiet pause as you each swipe your keycard. Lights blink green in unison. Side by side. No goodbye. No drama. Just the soft, snick-click of twin hotel doors swinging open- two tired, irritated people stepping into two identical rooms with one thin wall between them. Max pushes into his first.

And immediately recoils.

The smell hits him like a slap- wet Nomex, sour and metallic, with just enough sweat and grit baked in to qualify as aggressively unpleasant. It’s not unexpected, but it still pisses him off. The whole duffel stinks like a gym bag that’s been marinating in a rally car footwell. He flips the light on and exhales through his nose, sharp and unimpressed.

He has spares. Several, actually. That’s not the problem.

But if he lets this set stew in the bag overnight, he’s going to spend the entire flight home sitting next to something that smells like a damp locker room. Absolutely not. This has to be handled. Immediately.

Max has a system for this. It’s not complicated, but it’s efficient. Precise. Just like the rest of his gear prep.

He moves through the room with mechanical precision: socks first, balled and wrung out before being draped on the edge of the desk. Balaclava over a hanger and hung on a knob of the dresser. Coat on the bathroom hook. Top and bottom baselayers peeled apart spread over the desk chair, he’s sure to avoid touching. His gloves, still tacky from the fresh wheel wrap, go on the nightstand. His helmet gets its own place- centered, upright, vents open, perched on the suitcase rack and angled toward the heater.

The room starts to take on the look of an exploded gear hamper.

Max runs out of hooks.

He surveys what’s left- the worst of it, his race suit, damp and stinking faintly of fuel and metal and him. No good place for it. No more hangers. He eyes the adjoining door, where the extra base board heater is. 

That’ll do.

He crosses to the door with his suit in hand, fingers bracketing the stiff collar, and pops it open without much thought- planning to throw it over the top edge like a laundry line and call it a day. A trick he’s used a hundred times.

What he expects to see is the second half of the hotel’s double-door system. What he sees instead is a yawning gap. An opening. 

Your room. 

Your door’s already open. And you’re right there.

Max freezes. Completely. There’s a half-second of genuine panic- his spine locking, brain scrambling for a retreat button- as the realization dawns that he’s not just in his room anymore. He’s intruding. That door wasn’t supposed to be open. He wasn’t supposed to see anything. He half expects you to whip around, teeth bared, ready to light him the fuck up for crossing a line.

But you don’t move.

Because you’re asleep.

You’re lying across the foot of your bed, sprawled belly-down and unconscious, lit faintly by the blue glow of your laptop. Your arm drapes over the keyboard, one hand still curled around a notepad like you passed out mid-analysis. The screen flickers with grainy dash cam footage from your run, timestamped, playing on loop. Every few seconds, the sound of gravel crunching softly bleeds into the shared silence between rooms.

You’ve already spread your gear across your room, and he realizes you must have had the same idea as your own suit is slung over your part of the double door. 

He doesn’t shut the door. Not right away.

Not because he’s trying to spy. He’s not.

But because he’s already looking.

And for whatever reason- maybe it’s that your tank top’s twisted slightly, riding up just enough to reveal a thin strip of lower back. Your hair’s spread across the sheets in glossy waves, longer than he remembers it being, catching the blue cast of the laptop light. You’re not drooling or snoring or anything- just breathing slow and even, like you finally let your body have a second to quit-  he can’t make himself stop right away.

There’s something about it that catches him off guard. Not in a sentimental way. Not even in a particularly pleasant way. Just- off balance. Disarming. There’s a softness to it. Not quite girlish, but close enough to rattle him.

He’s known you for how long now? Worked with you for how many weeks? And still, he hasn’t quite made peace with this particular contradiction. That you can be the most exasperating creature in existence by day- demanding, assertive, a biter- and then, somehow, without warning, look like this. Small. Still. Real.

It shouldn’t feel so intrusive to look. But it does.

And it shouldn’t register as anything. But it does.

Max feels… annoyed. With himself, mostly. Annoyed with you, for that matter. This is ridiculous. You’re annoying. And not in a charming way, either- in a perpetually pissed-off, you-pick-fights-with-gravel kind of way. You challenge. You bite. You overcorrect. You make things harder than they need to be.

But you’re also... a girl. A pretty one, if he’s being honest, which he won’t be.

The fuck is he doing?

He yanks his eyes away, finally, and mutters something low under his breath in Dutch- something like Jesus- as if chastising himself is enough to neutralize the moment.

And then, because he’s not a creep, and because the last thing he needs is you waking up and catching him mid-stare, he tosses the suit up and over the top of his door with a flick and retreats- back into his own room, back into his own head. Both doors stay cracked. Not wide- just enough to keep the air moving, enough to let heat circulate between the two rooms so all the gear can dry. He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t see a problem with it. It’s practical. Efficient.

He leans around the corner once- just long enough to knock the switch on the inside of your door with the back of his knuckle, leaving you to bathe in the blue light of your laptop. You don’t stir. Good. He didn’t want to startle you. He didn’t even linger. Just figured he’d turn out the light before he started gaming. Save the turtles and all. 

He settles in. Pulls his controller from his bag and kicks on the console like it’s muscle memory. Puts his headset on one ear. Lets the boot up music for Rocket League fill the silence. Time blurs in matches and the mechanical sound of his joysticks hitting the controller case in rapid fire - an hour, maybe two, maybe more.

Then he hears it. A sound he doesn’t place at first. Soft. Not quite crying. Not quite talking. Something between a gasp and a tiny- no. He pauses his game immediately. Listens. Nothing. Then- 

A thin, strangled whimper. His brow tightens. He pushes the headset off fully now, tilting his head like he’s trying to triangulate the noise. It’s not the hallway. Not the heater. Not the elevator.

It’s you.

He doesn’t recognize it at first, because he’s never heard a sound like that come out of you- never quiet, never fragile, never… scared. It throws something off inside him, unsettles him in a way he can’t name.

Then a crash- sharp, scraping. A sick thump of something- someone- falling off the bed.

He stands instantly.

He’s halfway to the adjoining door before he even realizes he’s moved. Heart knocking hard- not out of worry, exactly, but out of the punch of adrenaline that comes with hearing someone panic.

And then you’re there.

Bursting through the gap in the cracked adjoining door, stumbling into his room like someone shoved you. Your shoulder hits the frame, then your back slaps against the wall as you blindly try to anchor yourself.

You’re shaking. Breathing too fast. Eyes glassy and wide like you can’t quite figure out where you are, like the walls are wrong or the air is wrong or you are wrong. You’re not crying, but you’re right on the edge of it- quiet tears slicking the lower rims of your lashes, your mouth pulled tight in that half-swallowed panic.

Max freezes. Completely. He’s never seen you scared. Never seen you undone. Never seen anything but teeth and edges and steel and snark. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you- soft, trembling, lost in the fog of a nightmare. The closest to vulnerable you’ve ever been around him was when you told him your family was nice and immediately changed the subject. 

You track the room, vision skipping from his suitcase to the heater to the balcony curtains- until your eyes hit him. Recognition slams into you like a blow. And instantly- instantly- the panic mutates into something else.

Embarrassment. Fury. Shame.

“Fuck,” you breathe, barely audible, voice cracking for the first time in front of him. You shove off the wall like it burned you.

You lunge for the doorframe, grabbing your race suit, your baselayer, anything hanging in the way, even if it’s half-falling, half-dragged. You snatch everything off your side of the doorway at once, movements jerky and defensive, like you’re trying to erase the fact that this moment ever existed.

Max opens his mouth- he doesn’t even know what for. To say you’re fine? To say don’t worry about it? To say something stupid like hey, relax?

You slam your door shut before he gets a single sound out.

He stands there for a few seconds- more than a few, because what the fuck was that- then slowly turns back toward his own bed. The game controller is still there, screen still on pause. Max picks it up, flops down onto the mattress, unpauses. Tries to play.

He gets through a goal, maybe two, before he crashes. Not in-game. Just mentally. He shuts off the game, not because he's tired, but because he hasn’t registered the last ten minutes of it. His eyes were on the screen, yeah, but his brain’s been somewhere else entirely. He brushes his teeth, pulls off his hoodie, climbs into bed. Shifts around a few times before settling on his back, staring at the ceiling, arms folded over his chest. At first, it’s just guilt. Not big, emotional guilt- more like the echo of being caught watching something he shouldn’t have. Like he’d seen you naked, even though you weren’t. You were just scared. Embarrassed. Shaking. That wasn’t for him to see.

He’s not sure why he keeps thinking about it- the sound of it. That startled yelp, the thud, the way you stumbled through the door like you'd been dropped into the wrong hotel room on the wrong planet. You didn’t cry. Not exactly. But there was something in your eyes- blurry and startled and small in a way that made him feel weirdly out of place in his own room.

He turns over onto his side.

You weren’t supposed to look like that. Not you.

Not the girl who throws a ream of paper at his head. Not the girl who would rather drive without half of her basic safety gear than let him get one over on her. Not the girl who bites back at him in board rooms without so much as blinking. That version of you- the one with the tank top twisted up just slightly, the one who left your laptop running at your feet like it wasn’t the thing you fell asleep working on- he doesn’t know what to make of her.

He doesn’t even realize he’s still thinking about it until his brain drifts to Christmas Eve.

To the way your voice shifted when your mom called. He was there, sitting on the floor next to you like an idiot, pretending not to listen. But he heard it. Heard you say I miss you too, all soft, and then sit there for a long moment after the call ended, not saying anything at all.

You miss your family. It seemed... nice. Normal. You seemed like someone who was loved.

And that’s the part that sticks under his ribs a little, that scratches behind his thoughts like sand in his eye. He squints up at the ceiling, wondering if that’s what makes it all so confusing.

Because if you have a good family- if no one hurt you- then what is it? Because if someone loved you- if you had a nice home and people who missed you and called just to check in? What made you like this? So fast. So sharp. So goddamn relentless.

He’s been told all his life that pain makes winners. Pressure makes diamonds. That you need suffering. That you have to pay for it- whatever ‘it’ is. Glory. Skill. The right to win.

You’ve got it, no doubt. So where did it come from?

You bled today. Literally. He saw the raw skin on your knuckles when you peeled off your gloves and started poking at your tablet. But he used to think that was new- rookie behavior from someone just close enough to getting their shot to get desperate. Or performative. Or just part of your act.

Now, for the first time, he’s not sure. What if it wasn’t new? What if you’ve always been like this? Not just ambitious, but driven. Not just composed, but locked down. He doesn’t want to psychoanalyze you. He doesn’t want to care, really. But his curiosity itches now that he’s seen a crack. And it’s not the kind of crack he can forget, because it looked a little too familiar. The way you slammed the door like you’d seen yourself- and hated what was showing.

He pulls the blanket up to his shoulders, breathing slow, not sure if he’s trying to warm up or disappear beneath it. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe he’s reading too far into it. Or maybe it’s the first time he’s seen that you’re not polished, not even trying to be. Not perfect. That there’s something gnawing at your edges too, and it’s not just loneliness. And maybe he doesn’t hate knowing that.

He turns to face the wall, eyes catching on the soft spill of light edging beneath the adjoining door. It’s the only glow left in the room now- warm and pale against the carpet. You must still be awake. He shuts his eyes again.

He’s not thinking anything in particular, but the question loops anyway, quiet and persistent:

Are you fucked up too?

Silence. Not full silence- Bailey’s still breathing, still technically on the line- but you can hear her judging you. Not even subtle about it. She’s practically vibrating with disapproval, which is rich coming from someone who once spent six months of her life refusing to drink anything but Smirnoff Ice.

You scoff. “Jesus Christ, I thought I called my cool older cousin who snuck me my first 4Loko in the parking lot of a high school football game, not my fucking mom.” Bailey makes a noise, somewhere between a guilty laugh and a gasp, but you don’t give her the chance to defend herself. You knew her when she was nineteen- she has no room to tell you when is an acceptable hour to start drinking.

“So, anyways, then I say ‘so what,’ and then he says he has gin, so we drank two gin and tonics and said zero words to each other for the entire hour and a half flight.” You pause for emphasis, plucking another tomato from the flat. Too soft. Back it goes. “And I think that might’ve been the best experience I’ve ever had with Max.”

Bailey cackles. “You’re telling me this man owns a private plane- like, big plane, fancy plane- and is single, and you’re not fucking him? What the hell is wrong with you?”

You snort, snatching a few decent slicing tomatoes from a separate bin and dumping them into your bag. “If literally anyone besides my blood cousin said that, I’d shoot them dead in the street.”

“Okay, damn,” Bailey laughs, not even pretending to be sorry. “Just saying. Hate sex is still sex.”

“He drives me insane.” God, if she knew the half of it, she would never let it go. There’s a pause as you inspect a bunch of basil with suspicion. You shake it once. No slime. Nice aroma. Good enough. “I’m making dinner at Danny’s again tonight,” you add, offhandedly. Distraction tactic.

“Oh?” Bailey pounces. “That’s been happening a lot, eh?”

You squint against the sun and shift your tote to the other shoulder. “God, can you quit being such a horn-dog?”

“I’m married with a three-year-old.” she groans. Shit, you forgot to send Mathew a present. “My entire day revolves around negotiating screen time and wiping someone else’s ass. You’re out here living this super cool Monaco girl life and acting like a fucking nun. Give me one crumb.”

You stop and glance down at your handwritten list, tapping your phone screen with your knuckle to check the time. “Danny’s just…” You shrug. “He’s nice. Great kitchen. Likes my food. Buys whatever groceries I tell him to. Good company. It’s fun, that’s all.” There’s a noncommittal hum on the other end. Bailey is unconvinced. “It’s not like that,” you add.

“No one’s saying it has to be like that, but… he is cute. And tall. And I looked him up- the interviews? The accent? Come on, there’s got to be something there. Actually,” she says slowly, “the only time you’re not having dinner with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Aussie is when you’re in Italy…”

You roll your eyes. “Ehhhh.”

“That’s it? Ehhhh?”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” you admit, stepping aside so someone can reach past you for the potatoes. “I just- don’t want to. I just want to drive my car and not get fired for inappropriate conduct.”

“You suck.”

You grin, teeth sunk into your bottom lip. “I know. I’m just- I want to do well in Bahrain. I’ve been working my ass off. New procedures, new people, new tracks, new machinery- I think my hands are going to fall off from all of the note taking.”

“And you love it.” It isn’t a question.

You sigh- soft, fond, tired in that good, purposeful way. “Yeah. I do. I really do.”

“You sound smitten.”

“With work,” you emphasize, “Gavin’s incredible. Like… spooky good. He listens, he gets me, he’s already finishing my sentences in debriefs. It’s freaky.” You grab a lemon, rolling it between your palms. “I mean, I’m not sleeping, everything hurts- but Bailey, the car. The car. I haven’t even seen her fully put together yet, just renderings and parts on stands, but she’s already so damn sexy.”

“Mmm,” Bailey teases. “So you are seeing someone.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, biting back a smile.

“No, you’re just in your grind era,” she concedes. “So what’s the schedule? You’re back from Italy for, what… five minutes?”

“Three days, if you count today,” you correct. “Then back to Italy for prep, then flight after flight after flight for shakedowns and unveiling parties. It’s nonstop.”

“And you love that too.”

You soften, tuck the phone tighter into your shoulder, drop your voice, almost shyly. “Yeah. I really do. It just… feels like I’m right on the edge of everything, you know? Like I can feel it right there. Close enough to touch.”

There’s a beat of silence- real silence this time- warm and knowing.

“You sound happier,” Bailey says gently.

You swallow, throat tightening in that way it does when someone accidentally hits a truth you didn’t know was exposed. “I’m… getting there. I still… miss you guys, you know. But I’m getting settled. Figuring it out.”

“Good,” she murmurs. “You deserve that.”

You sniff once, mostly to dispel the feeling. “Don’t get sappy on me.”

“Suck my dick.” You snort. That sounds more like her.. “Okay, well, I think my gremlin is waking up. Keep being mysterious and difficult. Love you.”

“Love you more.” You hang up, slip your phone into your back pocket, and turn toward the checkout. You’ve got a dinner to make.

You bike over to Danny’s apartment with your coat zipped tight and your tote bag thumping against your hip. The air bites at your cheeks, crisp and winter-bright, but the ride is short enough that you don’t really mind.

The concierge at Danny’s building barely glances up from his desk when you wheel your bike into the lobby- just gives you a tiny, knowing nod, the one reserved for people on the “frequent fliers” list that you’ve landed yourself on over the past few weeks of this.

You swear he even smiles a little when you pass.

By the time you’re knocking once- pure formality, you never wait- Danny’s already opening the door. “Hollywood,” he grins, stepping aside. “Whatcha got for us today, huh?” “Oh,” you feign, “you thought I was cooking?”

He huffs a laugh, shutting the door behind you as you immediately kick your shoes off by the entryway. Your coat goes on the hook. Your tote bag lands on the counter with a soft thump.

You don’t even pause. You move like water- straight to the kitchen, opening his fridge before he’s even crossed the room.

“Did you get the stuff on the list?” you ask, already pulling out the two bulbs of garlic, the basil, the shallots, the container of cottage cheese he absolutely overbought, and the bell peppers stacked like jewels on the bottom shelf.

“Of course I did,” Danny says, settling on the opposite side of the island, chin propped in his hand. “I’m a very obedient sous-chef.”

“You’re not my sous,” you say, sorting vegetables by size like you’re triaging an ER. “You’re my wallet.”

Danny snorts. “Happy to be of service.”

You roll your eyes, turn the tap on, and start rinsing tomatoes one by one, your sleeves shoved up past your elbows. It doesn’t take long for your words to start tumbling again- because you haven’t actually had a normal conversation all day, and Danny is there and smiling like he might want to hear what you have to say.

“So- Italy was good,” you begin, slicing the first bell pepper down the center. “Busy. I swear the factory campus is like a little maze with the department set-up instead of the open floor. Twice I busted into electrical instead of aero.”

Danny watches you move, eyes warm, posture loose. “Did you have to ask directions? Tell me you didn’t spend twenty minutes trapped in a broom closet.”

You point a knife at him without looking up. “It was five. And it wasn’t a broom closet. It was procurement and they were very surprised to see me, and very reluctant to let me go.”

“That’s worse,” he laughs.

“It’s fine. I’m acclimating,” you say, lining bell pepper halves on a sheet pan before moving on to the tomatoes. “Besides, Gavin’s a dream. Like- actually a dream. We went over every procedure, like, four times. He had the documents indexed not just for the team, but for my own records- before I even asked for them. That’s literally never happened before. And he’s really patient. Not in a condescending way. Just… patient.”

You pop another tomato stem off with your thumb and split it into quarters on the tray.

“And the guys in the garage?” Danny asks.

“I like them,” you say honestly. “No weirdness. No assumptions. No ‘smile, sweetheart’ energy. It feels…” You hesitate for a moment. “It feels like they want me there. Like they’re excited.”

Danny’s smile tilts soft. Proud.

“Big vibes,” he says.

“Huuuge vibes,” you confirm.

You spritz a bare minimum amount of oil over the vegetables, add salt, pepper, chili flakes, and grab an entire head of garlic. You don’t measure anything. You never do. Danny watches like it’s performance art.

“You’re back again soon, yeah?” he asks, shifting his weight, arms crossed casually over his chest.

“In like two days,” you sigh. “Italy again, then I’ll see all y’all for shakedowns, media, the launch… it’s nonstop until March. I barely get time to do laundry.”

“Want me to throw a load in for you?” he teases.

“Absolutely not,” you deadpan. “You’d shrink my socks.” Let a man, no matter how well intentioned, pull your underwear out of the dryer? Yeah, fuck no. 

He squints at you. “Okay, that one was fair.”

You slide the loaded tray into the oven, set the temperature, and wipe your hands on the dish towel you brought over from your place last month that Danny swears he didn’t realize wasn’t his. He’s watching you like you’re the evening’s main event: shoulders loose, hair rumpled from running his hands through it, eyes warm in the soft kitchen light. There’s a certain… attention in the way he looks at you. Not intense. Just hopeful. Waiting for something.

“Anyways,” you say lightly, rinsing the chicken next and patting it dry, “they gave me my travel schedule for the next month.”

“Yeah?” Danny brightens, leaning forward. “Hit me.”

As you talk, you shake so much of so many seasonings on the chicken that you can’t see the chicken itself anymore. Oven. “Italy, then England, two days blocked out for ‘TBA’ travel, then straight back to Italy again, then Monaco, then Bahrain for a big on-site prep week before official pre-season.” You hesitate as you open the oven to put the protein in.“It’s… a lot.” A lot of flights. A lot of new beds. A lot of new rooms. A lot of new faces. A lot of time to, essentially, be homeless.

Danny grins, nodding. “Busy. But that’s good, yeah? Means they really want you on top of everything.”

“Yeah, totally,” you say, trying to match his enthusiasm. “It’s just- ” You hesitate. You’re not really sure what to do with your hands. You straighten the towel, again. Pull out another head of garlic to peel. “It’s just a lot of… being alone, I guess. New country, new team, new apartment. I love it, but it’s- ”

“Mmh,” Danny interrupts- not rudely, but softly, like a hum slipping out on instinct. “But you’re killing it. Seriously.”

You blink. “…yeah.”

“Like, this is what you wanted, right? This exact thing.” His voice is warm, reassuring. “It’s good. It’s all good.”

You nod slowly. It is good. That’s true.

It just isn’t what you were trying to say.

You crush the garlic under the flat of your knife and scrape it into a bowl. You don’t even think you need more garlic, but it’s something to do.  “I mean, it’s fine,” you try again, gentler. “Just… long days. Long nights. And the hotel was kind of quiet, and I- ”

“But you’re loving it,” Danny says brightly, as if picking up the part of the sentence he prefers. “Right? You said Gavin’s amazing. The team’s excited about you. It’s all lining up.”

“Yeah,” you say again, deflating a little. “Yeah.” You trail off. Vulnerable. More exposed than you meant to be.

You move beside him to grab the baguette he’d purchased from the counter- some fancy artisanal bakery he insisted on- and he shifts just enough so your shoulders brush. Not intentional. But not accidental either. You shift away. You keep cooking. You keep ignoring the heaviness pooling somewhere low in your chest.

You swallow. He means well. He always means well.

But every time you try to turn the conversation toward the quiet ache- the nerves, the loneliness, the sheer weight of stepping into Formula One- he pats the feeling on the head and sends it on its way. Cheerier. Lighter. Safer.

Danny’s still smiling. Still watching you. Still proud in that glowy, uncomplicated way he always is. “Busy girl,” he murmurs, leaning against the counter. “New team, new country, new everything… and you still cook me dinner.”

His tone dips just enough that the words land somewhere between teasing and testing. Like he’s holding out a line to see if you’ll take it- if you’ll say you like being here, that it means something, that you’re doing it for him and not just because you’re lonely and you like cooking and you’re bored and he has a nicer stove than you.

You shrug like it’s nothing. It is nothing.“You have good knives.”

“Right,” He laughs- loud, genuine- and it echoes pleasantly off the marble, covering whatever reaction flickered there. “The knives.”

He doesn’t notice the way you turn back to the oven a little too quickly. Or maybe he does. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t say anything. You grab the sheet pan, give the vegetables a poke, and clear your throat.

“Pour us some wine?” you ask.

Danny jumps up, relieved to have something tangible to do. “Thought you’d never ask.”

You’ve just pulled the tray of blistered tomatoes and softened peppers from the oven, the steam fogging your face as you lean back to avoid a burn, when a knock lands on Danny’s front door.

You freeze- not because it’s ominous, but because Danny reacts like someone just hit the resume button on a memory he forgot he had.

“Oh- shit,” he murmurs under his breath, the soft kind of “oh shit,” like something he should’ve remembered twenty minutes ago instead of right now.

Danny jogs out of the kitchen toward the entryway- still out of your sightline- muttering a friendly, “Coming!” You can’t hear the actual voice on the other side of the door, but Danny’s response is immediate, warm, and way too casual.

“Hey, mate! Yeah- come in, come in. Smells good in here, yeah?”

You go still, one hand curled around a roasted bell pepper, thumb hovering over the wrinkled skin. Your ears perk, trying to place the cadence of that greeting, but the words are muffled.

Your mind clicks through possibilities like a Rolodex.

A neighbor? A business contact? Some random Monaco rich friend he forgot to mention?

Danny’s footsteps pad back toward the kitchen- and then his head appears around the corner with an expression that is way too innocent to be innocent.

“Uh,” he says, tapping the wall with his knuckle, “do we have enough for one more?”

You stare at him. Not blink. Not glance. Just stare.

One more? One more? You are currently roasting approximately four pounds of tomatoes, three bell peppers, a small nation’s worth of garlic, a tray of chicken breasts, and enough herbs to season half of Italy.

Do you have enough for one more?

You could feed his entire floor. You could feed the concierge. You could feed the next three unexpected guests with Tupperware leftovers. So your stare doesn’t soften. “...yes?” you say finally, voice flat.

Danny gives a tiny, sheepish wince, like he knows exactly how stupid the question was the moment it left his mouth. He beams. “Great! Awesome. Cool. I’ll, uh- yeah. Just bring him back.” Him.

You narrow your eyes. “Danny. Who- ” But he’s already gone, disappearing around the corner before you can finish the question. Your stomach does a little flip- annoyance or nerves or some ugly cocktail of both- as you wipe your hands on a dish towel.

The quiet murmur of voices filters from the hallway, Danny’s bright and welcoming, the other a low rumble you still can’t make out clearly enough to identify.

That’s when it hits you, that odd little realization. That someone- some man- is about to see you standing in Danny Ricciardo’s kitchen in your socks, smelling like roasted tomato and basil, cooking enough food for a family of six, and you’re not really sure how you feel about that.

You straighten, square your shoulders, and brace yourself for whoever the hell Danny has apparently invited to dinner. Footsteps. Socked, but the kind that don’t belong to someone short or slight or gentle. The kind you recognize before you even see him.

Danny rounds the corner first, beaming like a golden retriever who’s proudly dragged something dead into the house.

And then- 

Max.

Max steps in behind him.

Your heart drops straight through your ribs.

For half a second, no one speaks. Not Danny. Not Max. Not you. Danny clears his throat. You stare at him, betrayal carved into every line of your face. You continue staring. You continue to continue staring at him because what the fuck, Daniel. What the actual fuck.

“It’s Max!” Danny gestures between you both, oblivious to the crackling static breaking open in his own kitchen.

Max nods once, jaw tight. “Hi.”

It’s a fairly neutral “hi.” Perfectly normal, even if a little clipped. Polite, or trying to be.

You force your spine straight. “Hi.” Max stands just barely in the entryway, hands shoved into the pockets of his joggers, shoulders coiled tight like someone pulled him out of his natural habitat and dropped him into enemy territory. Danny, radiating golden retriever energy, claps him on the shoulder. “Stay. Seriously. It’s perfect timing.”

Max immediately shakes his head. “No, I can’t. I’m cutting. I’m not- ” He gestures vaguely toward the stove, like the scent of roasting vegetables might leap at him. “I shouldn’t. I’ll just go.”

Danny scoffs. “Bullshit. I know how you get. You need to eat.”

“I am eating,” Max snaps back, sharper than you’ve ever heard him towards Danny, but Danny doesn’t seem taken aback. The irritation cuts quick and too loud for how small the kitchen is. He waves a hand in this vague, irritated gesture and- for a flicker of a second- his eyes dart toward the stove, then the floor, then to Danny, then back to the counter.

It’s strange. Restless. Like he’s uncomfortable in his own skin.

He won’t look at you directly, not long enough for you to read anything, but you catch the way his gaze keeps tugging toward the roasting vegetables in the oven, the bowls on the island you’re pulling out, the very idea of food. He looks away just as quickly, like he’s trying not to be caught staring.

“I’m just not eating- whatever this is,” he mutters, waving his hand at your prep area. His tone comes out almost defensive, but it doesn’t match the way he keeps sneaking glances toward the kitchen. Or the way his jaw tightens at the smell.

Danny rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “Relax, mate. She’s all about the macros. Keeps it crazy lean.” And then, because Danny can never resist proving a point- he lifts the hem of his shirt with one hand, flashing a tight, cut strip of abdomen like his stomach is a peer-reviewed source. “See?” he grins. “Eating like this? I’m shredding.”

You keep your eyes firmly on the roast pan. Not because you’re blind. Objectively, you’re sure it’s a nice view. But because the last thing you need is Danny Ricciardo thinking you’re admiring him. Things are already… complicated. He’s hovering closer. He’s sweeter. He’s filling in the empty spaces in your week with sunshine and warmth, and you’re painfully aware of the slope you’re standing on.

So you ignore the display completely- intentional, surgical ignorance. Danny’s grin flickers as he drops his shirt. Just for a second.

Max shoots him a look- snappish, tight, irritated- and it hits you that you’ve been on the receiving end of Max’s snarl plenty, but you’ve never actually been an observer of it. Not like this. Not directed at a friend. Not with this weird undercurrent of panic that you can’t place.

You don’t give him anything. No confirmation of calorie counts or macros or methodology or any of the other fluff you’d be falling all over yourself to give to any other dinner guest. You just turn back to your roast pan and scrape up another piece of roasted garlic, methodical, even though your fingers are trembling. “Dinner’s fine,” you say, voice steady. “There’s plenty.”

Danny exhales in relief like you’ve done him a massive favor.

Max moves into the kitchen slowly, like he’s approaching a live wire. You can feel him behind you- even standing two meters away- like a heat source or a gravitational force you didn’t ask for. The air seems thick. Strange. Electric in that awful, unspoken way. Danny, blissfully unaware, hops back onto his stool and starts chattering about his day.

You focus on the stove like it’s a lifeline- because it is.

If you stay busy, you don’t have to talk. If you stay busy, you don’t have to look at him. If you stay busy, you won’t have to acknowledge that Max Verstappen is sitting ten feet away in Danny’s kitchen like a human landmine.

So you work.

You work like you’re auditioning for a chef’s knife commercial.

Everything else goes straight into the blender with the roasted veggies. You don’t measure- you just let your hands feel it out. Cottage cheese, salt, a pinch of cinnamon for warmth, a splash of stock. Lid on, dial turned, and the blender roars to life, swallowing every sound behind you.

Danny’s voice becomes a hum. Max becomes a cooling temperature in the room. You become movement. You pour the molten orange soup into a pot and set it on a low flame, stirring without thinking.

Then the bread.

You slice the baguette at a perfect angle, each crostini identical-  as thin as you can make them without having them fold under their own weight, like every gram you can shave off is one extra bite that can be had somewhere else. A quick season and you slide them into the oven.

You still don’t look at Max.

The chicken comes out next- steaming, perfectly cooked. Danny comes up behind you as you’re sliding the last baking dish onto the counter. You’re wiping your hands on a dish towel when he slips into your space- closer than friends stand, but not close enough to be scandalous. Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his chest at your back.

You set a piece of chicken on the cutting board and your knife glides through it in flawless, even slices. Paper thin. Delicate. Like you’re making offerings instead of dinner. His hand lands on your shoulder, light and warm. “Jesus, Hollywood,” he murmurs- soft praise, proud, admiring- “you absolutely crushed this.”

You go stiff.

Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just- tight, contained, spine straightening under his touch like someone tugged a wire. Danny doesn’t notice. He squeezes once, affectionate, then lets his hand glide off your shoulder like nothing in the world is strange about it.

But something is. Something in you. Something sharp and embarrassing and complicated coils right under your ribs. And you don’t know what to call it, how to focus on it, so you just focus. on. the. food. So you start assembling.

And this is where you lose the plot completely.

Crostini off the tray. A touch of softened tomato, spread in a perfect swipe. Three thin, but immaculate, slices of chicken. A tiny sprinkle of diced basil. A thin drizzle of balsamic glaze.  A pinch of flaky salt so precise it may as well have been arranged with tweezers.

And then again. And again. And again. Would it be more efficient cooking to batch these? Absolutely. But that would imply you’re trying to finish. That would imply you’re cooking. 

You’re not cooking anymore.

You’re channelling stress into architecture. You’re manifesting avoidance through fine motor control. You’re creating an edible arrangement because the alternative is… acknowledging the men at the counter.

Max, who hates you. Max, who you hate. Max, who kissed you on Christmas Eve. Max, who- unfortunately, miserably-  knows something no one should ever know about you. Max, who now knows that at the grand age of twenty-two, you get night terrors. Max, who is probably doing the math of your existence here

You try not to visibly cringe. Waking up choking on a gasp, heart clawing up your throat, pressing yourself back against the wall of his hotel room before you were fully conscious- hands braced behind you, eyes stinging with tears that hadn’t fallen yet. And Max, barefoot on his carpet, standing there like he’d been about to reach for you, or call someone, or do something.

Just staring at you. Taking you in. Seeing you.

It makes your stomach curdle with embarrassment- no, humiliation. Almost anger. You can’t think about it without wanting to crawl out of your own skin. You’d barely gotten yourself back under control before you realized what you were doing, where you were, who you were in front of.

And now he’s here. Again. Looking. Taking inventory of your life like he’s entitled to it. You can feel it- like a physical force, like gravity isn’t a universal constant but something determined by where Max Verstappen is pointing his eyes.

You don’t turn. You don’t look at him. But you feel it. You feel him taking in every piece of this scene. You. Danny. The soup. The quiet, subtle familiarity you’ve built in this apartment. The way you know where the cutting boards are.

And you know what it must look like. It must look like Danny is someone to you. It must look like you’re someone to Danny. And you hate that. Not because you dislike Danny. You don’t. You like him. You genuinely enjoy being around him. His company is easy. He makes Monaco feel less hollow, less sharp. He’s warm in a city that you don't know well enough to feel anything but cold in.

But for four weeks now you’ve kept half an eye on the distance. You’ve always managed it -  the leaning, the touches, the invitations. Not shutting him down, not leading him on. Holding that invisible line where comfort lives but complication doesn’t.

It was fine. Safe. Balanced. Until now.

Until someone else is in the room -  someone who will make assumptions, who will draw conclusions, who will maybe say something to someone else. Someone who has already seen a version of you that you can’t take back -  

With Max ten feet away, eyes on you like he’s trying to solve an equation that refuses to balance -  everything about Danny’s touch, no matter how benign, feels… foreign.

Misplaced. Misinterpreted. Like you’ve suddenly stepped into a role you didn’t audition for, wearing someone else’s skin.

And you don’t know why the fuck it hits you like that. You don’t know why your whole body says no when Danny leans in with that open, effortless affection that never bothered you before. You don’t know why the idea of Max thinking anything about you -  about your relationship with Danny -  makes something inside your ribs twist uncomfortably.

Not because you care what Max thinks of you. Not because his opinion matters.

But because this impression -  this illusion of easy infatuation -  isn’t true.

You’re not doing anything with Danny. You’re not leading him anywhere. You’re not trying to create a picture for anyone to interpret. You’re just friends. 

You’re just- 

You swallow hard.

You’re just a girl in a kitchen, cooking dinner trying not to shrink under the weight of being misunderstood. Under the weight of

You’re just… here. Just existing. Just trying not to be so fucking alone.

You clear your throat, quietly. “Soup’s done. Can someone grab bowls?”

It’s a plea for space.

Danny perks up immediately. “Yeah, yeah- I’ll get them.”

He slips away, humming to himself, and the kitchen expands around you again- air returning to your lungs in one big, shaky exhale.

For a beat, it’s just you and the simmer of soup.

_______________________________________________________________ Max hadn’t meant to stay.

He really, really hadn’t.

He told himself he was only here out of politeness -  out of respect for Danny’s insistence, out of some vague social obligation he couldn’t articulate. He told himself he’d hand over the package, say something casual, and get the hell out. But the second he had stepped fully into Danny’s apartment, something territorial had flared hot and sharp in his chest.

Because you were not supposed to belong here. Not in this kitchen. Not with his best friend.  Not moving around Danny’s space like you’d done it a hundred times.

Except- you were. You are.

You’re barefoot in his friend’s apartment. Your hair is tied up haphazardly, comfortable enough not to care. You open Danny’s drawers without asking. You adjust the flame on his stove like it answers to you. You drop used spoons into the sink with the ease of someone who’s done it a dozen times.

And then - 

Without turning, without offering him even a glance, you slide a bowl of soup and a plate of crostini across the island toward him.

Not with warmth. Not with hostility. Just… politeness. Clinical. Functional. Like this is what you do here -  feed Danny’s friends, whoever they are, whether you like them or not.

Like this is routine. Like you belong here.

Max stiffens.

He doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t want this from you -  this small domestic gesture, this bowl of effort, this thing that feels like care even though he knows it isn’t meant for him. He doesn’t want to sit here and pretend this is normal, that you’re normal, that anything about the two of you sharing oxygen is normal.

He doesn’t want to appreciate something you made.

But the smell… God, the smell.

It crawls under his ribs before he can fight it -  roasted tomatoes, sweet garlic, basil blooming against heat. His stomach clenches so hard it’s nearly painful. Max swallows hard, irritation blooming under his tongue. He shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t have agreed to come upstairs.

He should’ve given Danny his stupid fucking sim plug-in and left.

He should’ve gone home and eaten boiled chicken out of a Tupperware like he’s supposed to.

He tells himself he’s not going to finish it. It’s fine. Just a few bites. Just enough to get a taste, to be polite and take his leave. He tells himself he won’t react. He tells himself he won’t make a thing of it.

But then he takes the first spoonful.

And every single thought he had evaporates into thin fucking air.

Holy shit.

Holy fuck.

The soup hits his tongue and his whole body goes quiet. His chest, his shoulders, the anger coiled under his ribs… everything goes still. Because it’s good. Unfairly, stupidly, devastatingly good.

Warm, bright, layered -  the taste of roasted tomatoes and basil and garlic, but with a depth he can’t quite place, something soft and slow-cooked and entirely unlike anything he’s let himself have in weeks.

Max freezes. Because he knows this taste. Not this soup exactly, but the shape of it. The memory of it. He takes another spoonful, and the world tilts- just slightly, just enough.

It tastes like being nine.

Like the holiday week he got to spend with his mum, when the world was small and soft for exactly six days in a row. When the house smelled like laundry powder and Hagelslag and pine candles and Mum made tomato soup that steamed the cold out of his fingers and nose after he and Victoria spent the afternoon building lopsided snowmen in the garden.

Like thawing out. Like being wanted. Like ‘Opwarmen, lieverd.’

And the feeling hits him so hard it almost makes him angry. Another spoonful -  hotter this time, basil hitting the back of his throat. He didn’t mean to take that one either. Or the next. But something ugly and hungry and desperate is unspooling in him, and he can’t stop it.

Not for you.

No.

It’s this.

This bowl of something warm. This food that tastes like care. This little plate of crostini that looks like it belongs in a restaurant. This glue of attention and thought he hasn’t felt wrapped around him in… God. Weeks. Since he started this godawful cut. Months, maybe. Maybe when Kelly slammed the door on his whole fucked little existence. Years?

Max isn’t hearing anything. Nothing. Danny’s talking about the yacht charter sponsorship, waving his hands like the words matter. You’re chiming in occasionally- merchandising strategy, travel plans, shakedown timelines, meeting schedules- but none of it penetrates the haze Max is in.

His jaw tightens. He forces himself -  physically forces his hand away from the bowl -  just to break the spell, to breathe, to stop inhaling the goddamn soup like someone’s going to rip it away from him.

He reaches for a crostini instead, like that’s safer.

It isn’t.

The moment he bites into it, something volcanic rolls through him -  not longing, not softness, but rage.

Because it’s perfect.

Perfect in the way nothing he’s allowed to eat ever is. Crispy, balanced, bright, salty, and- above all- filling. Not in a macros-and-meal-prep way. In a human way. The kind of thing someone makes when they’re not just feeding people, but thinking while they do it.

He takes another spoonful, jaw tight, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth like he’s holding something in place. He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. If he does, he’ll… he doesn’t even know. Snarl? Say something stupid? Admit something he doesn’t want to admit even to himself-  the thing that feels sick, sharp, almost shameful?

Whatever it is, he’s not doing it.

This isn’t about you anyway. He refuses that. The hands that made it don’t matter. You don’t matter.

He doesn’t want you.

He wants this.

He wants someone who cares enough to make something warm. He wants someone who thinks ahead. He wants someone who believes food should taste like something. That he deserves food that tastes like something. Even when it’s an accomodation. Even when he’s cutting. He wants the small, invisible gestures that say here, eat, I’ve got you for a second.

Just… something decent. Something that feels good. Something that fills him without making him feel weak or guilty.

And you -  without looking at him, without speaking to him, without even thinking about him -  have managed to manifest that so effortlessly -for Danny, of all people- that Max wants to put his fist through the countertop.

He shoves another crostini in his mouth.

Fuck Danny.

Fuck this kitchen.

Fuck how good the food is.

And fuck the way his throat goes tight when he realizes how long it’s been since anyone fed him something with actual love behind it. Even if it’s not, technically, for him. It tastes like it is, and that’s close enough.

He takes another bite -  smaller this time, slower -  and the tension drains from behind his eyes before he can stop it. His shoulders drop a fraction. His jaw unclenches. His pulse stops pounding in his ears.

He hates that he can feel himself getting less angry as he eats. Hates that the food works. Hates that he’s predictable enough for it to matter.

But with the edge of hunger dulled, the world stops feeling like sandpaper.

And Max becomes aware of the room again. Aware of the air, the way it shifts when you move. Aware of the humming fluorescent under-cabinet lights, the faint eucalyptus of Danny’s diffuser, the warmth from the oven lingering in the galley space.

And aware- almost painfully- of the dynamic unfolding in front of him.

Danny, leaning on the counter like he owns the place. You, moving through the kitchen like you’ve been here a hundred times. The ease, the choreography, the familiarity of bodies that have shared space before.

It grates immediately.

Danny is circling you in the way he always circles someone he likes- bright-eyed, loose-shouldered, casual in a way that is anything but accidental. He laughs at something you say, the sound warm and round and eager. His hand comes up to your shoulder again, fingertips brushing the cotton of your shirt.

And Max sees it.

Clear as day.

Danny likes you.

Max knows this the way he knows braking points -  instinctively, immediately, with the ease of a man who has spent half a decade reading Daniel Ricciardo’s tells before Daniel Ricciardo knows he’s showing them.

And it’s not the obvious things. Because with Danny, the obvious things mean nothing.

Danny is always warm. Always leaning. Always touching shoulders, nudging elbows, laughing too loud, grinning like he’s in on a secret he hasn’t told the room yet. He is tactile with everyone-  women, men, fans, friends, engineers, sponsors,-

Affection is not a tell with Danny Ricciardo. It’s baseline behavior. So it’s not that.

It’s the other things.

The little deviations from the script Max knows by heart.

The memory of that night after the year-end party sits stubbornly in his mind like a pebble in a shoe.You, standing in the doorway of that hotel room, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing, saying -  very politely, very sweetly -  that you would rather drink from a racing boot than spend another second near Max.

(Dramatic. Entirely unnecessary. He hadn’t been that irritating.)

Danny sitting on the edge of the sofa after, quietly stewing at him, mumbling something vague-but-not-vague about how you were apparently worth knowing.

And Max had filed that away, taken note, figured that was that. Disaster avoided. Chalked it up to a single time issue, a single point in time brought on by a bit of proximity, a bit of booze, and the fact that you had worn a tight shirt and looked- no. That it was just the natural “new shiny thing” response most men had when you appeared in a room for the first time.That it would pass if Max simply jammed enough gears, blocked enough lanes, and made the whole ordeal impossible enough that Danny would drop it naturally. It’s worked on Danny before. 

So Max had interfered -  subtly, effectively, almost instinctively. A snide comment here, a strategic derailment there. Just enough turbulence that Danny would lose interest before that night went anywhere for him. And for a while, Max thought it had worked. Thought he’d dodged the whole stupid mess. Thought he’d never have to hear about the bow in your hair or the rip in the back of your jeans or the stupid nylons you wore underneath again.

Except…here you are. In Danny’s kitchen. Barefoot. Moving around like you’ve been here a hundred times.

That matters. Because Danny rarely focuses on anything longer than thirty seconds unless he’s in a car or in love. That’s how Max knows. This is interest. Not crush-at-first-sight interest. Real interest. Confident, grown-up interest.

So all of that -  all the data points, all the soft tones, all the careful leaning-around-you -  makes perfect sense.

What doesn’t make sense is you.

Because he’s seen women with Danny. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands if you count grid parties and sponsor events and the endless parade of beautiful faces who orbit F1 like migrating birds. Women don’t resist Daniel Ricciardo. They can’t. Not really.

Danny is touched by God -  Max has always believed that, even back when he didn’t believe in anything. A birthright to charisma. A light he never had to earn. A smile that softens entire rooms. A laugh that pulls people in like gravity.

Max remembers being younger, greener, clumsier at the edges -  a rookie trailing behind him through paddocks and hotel lobbies, trying to figure out what fucking gene he was missing. Danny could walk into a room and turn strangers into friends within minutes. Max… couldn’t. Still can’t.

He tried to study it the way he studied telemetry. How Danny leaned in when someone spoke.  How he touched elbows or shoulders in passing. How he made people feel like the only person in the room. Max never learned that trick, but Danny never minded him staying close. Never minded softening the room a little so Max could survive in it.

So this -  what’s happening in front of him -  does not track.

Because Danny is doing what Danny does. The low voice. The warm grin. The jokes tossed gently in your direction. The casual lean-in, close enough that most women melt into a puddle without realizing they’re doing it.

But you…?

You’re not glowing.

Your shoulders stay tight, just a fraction tense. Your smile sits shallow, fixed into place like something stitched on rather than offered. Your eyes flick up at Danny’s face- not with that warm, instinctive, unconscious brightness Max is used to seeing in women around him. No. More like you’re checking where he is in your periphery. Logging him. Keeping him in the corner of your vision the way someone keeps track of a hot pan.

Not unhappy. Not annoyed. It just seems like you’re… bracing? Polite. Contained. Placating.

Max feels his jaw tighten as he watches you put together a bowl for Danny. The motion is fluid, your wrist turning cleanly- but your shoulders stay slightly raised, as if someone asked a question you don’t want to answer.

He frowns. It doesn’t match.  It doesn’t fit.

It’s… strange.

Your body doesn’t angle toward him. You don’t soften, don’t lean, don’t unconsciously offer anything. If anything, you hold yourself straighter. More controlled. Like you’re managing something delicate- managing you, managing him, managing the space between you.

His brows draw together in a deep, sharp line. What the hell is that?

He tries- he genuinely tries- to reason through it.

Maybe she’s stringing him along. No. Your eyes don’t glint. There’s no half-smirk. If you were steering this… you’d look steadier. More self-assured.

Maybe she’s shy.  You? Absolutely not.

Maybe she does like him and is just being careful. But where’s the telltale warmth? Where’s the unconscious lean-in?

It’s not there. None of it is there. What is there is something Max doesn’t have a clean word for-  a stilted politeness, a brittle kind of grace, like you’re trying very hard not to make waves for reasons Max can’t fathom.

He catches the way you look at Danny’s hand when it brushes yours as you settle into your seat. Not with flirtation. Not with affection. Not even with annoyance. Just a quiet, inward wince that you smooth over before Danny even registers the contact.

Something here is off. Not wrong, exactly, it’s evident you’re not upset-  just… misaligned. A puzzle piece jammed into a space it doesn’t fit. And he can’t figure out why it bothers him.

He shouldn’t care. You’re… you. He barely tolerates you. You barely tolerate him.

And yet- 

Danny’s talking, hands flying, outlining the sponsor commitments each of you will have for the charter deal. Max sits across from you, bowl in hand, pretending not to watch you but catching every flicker of your expression in the reflection on his spoon.

Eventually Danny pauses long enough to take a drink, and you take that sliver of silence and slip something into it.

“So, um…” you begin carefully, pushing the stem of your glass in a slow circle. “Gavin and I were going over some race-situation simulations earlier this week. And I’m actually a little worried about something, if you have any insight.”

Danny brightens instantly. “Fire away!”

You wet your lips. Your posture is good, composed, but your fingers are restless against the condensation on your glass.

“If I qualify anywhere from like… P10 to P15, I’m stuck in the mess,” you say, exhaling softly. “The dirty air just- sucks. I’ll cook the tires trying to free myself. No clean laps. No chance to show what I can do. It’s… frustrating.”

You say it lightly. Matter-of-fact. Almost breezy, like you’re rattling off someone else’s problem. But it costs you something to admit. Max sees that immediately. The tiny downturn at the corner of your mouth. The way you look down rather than at either of them.

It’s not fear of traffic. It’s not even frustration with the physics.

It’s the quiet, heavy knowledge that talent can’t drive around physics -  not in a midfield car. Not in this era. Not with how the air behaves when you tuck behind another car’s wing. Not with how much fucking momentum it requires to get a pass over and make it stick with these wide-bodied monsters.

And you know it.

You’re not whining. You’re not making excuses. You’re stating a tactical truth and exposing the pressure underneath it. You need clean air. You need space. You need a chance to show something exceptional.

Because “good enough”… Max can see it in your face -  good enough isn’t going to cut it for you.

Good enough gets you swallowed by the midfield. Good enough gets you a contract extension at best, two years of scrapping, a couple of highlight reel moments. Then the team brings in the next hotshot from Formula 2. And you’re out. Forgotten. A trivia question.

Rookies don’t get time. Especially on this team.

They get one season -  maybe less -  to prove they’re not just drivers.

But prospects. Stars. Someone a top team should steal.

He remembers that same pressure -  not spoken, not taught, but carved into him. The knowledge that “good” was useless. That “okay” was failure. That if he wasn’t remarkable immediately, he’d never rise out of the midfield quicksand.

Some rookies don’t get that. Sometimes, the true greenies are delusional, convinced they’ll out-brake God and get noticed just for surviving. They don’t know yet what it’s like to be out-paced, out-engineered, out-gunned and still have to produce week in and week out.

You’re not delusional. You’re aware. Max gets it, what you’re actually trying to say.

Danny doesn’t. Danny doesn’t even see it brush past him. “Ah, you’ll be fine!” he beams, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand. “You’re fast! And you’ve got great instincts! Just out-brake everyone. That’s what I always did.”

Your shoulders shift- small, controlled. A retreat, Max thinks. Not consciously. An instinct.

Still, you try again. “It’s not really about being brave on the brakes, it’s about- ”

“We don’t need to get into all that,” Danny chirps. “Trust me. You’re gonna kill it.”

You look down at your drink. That’s the only movement. Your expression stays the same, polite and neutral- but your body closes by a single degree. Max notices that. Not with sympathy. Not with insight. Just… observation. A fact catalogued.

You opened. And then you closed.

 He doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t try to know. He just watches.

Danny barrels ahead, still oblivious. “Seriously, if you’re in traffic, just dive-bomb somebody. Or hold outside. People don’t defend the outside enough- ”

Max cuts him off without meaning to.

“She’s right.”

It lands like a slap in the air.

Both of you look at him. Danny, startled. You, with your breath caught like he surprised something out of you. 

Max doesn’t know why he spoke. He doesn’t examine the impulse. Maybe it was the chance to rub it in that you’re fucked this season, maybe it was to keep Danny from continuing to say stupid shit and making it worse-  he doesn’t care.

He just reaches for his last crostini, speaking through the tail end of a bite like it’s an afterthought. “A midfield car in dirty air is fucked.” He shrugs, casual. “If she can’t get past someone within a few laps, that’s her race done.”

Danny blinks. “Okaaaay, Mister Sunshine- ”

Max keeps going, because now that he’s started, it’s easier to keep talking than to sit in the conversation he created. “She’s thinking ahead. Most rookies don’t even consider that. They think they’re going to send it every corner and magically get free air.” He glances at you then, just before turning his attention to scraping the last atoms from his bowl. Just for a second.

Nothing soft. Nothing kind. Nothing sweet. Just acknowledgement.

You had a point.

Your reaction is tiny.

So small Max almost misses it. Your shoulders drop by maybe a millimeter-  a subtle release of tension so quick and so quiet that anyone who wasn’t already watching you wouldn’t catch it. You don’t smile. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at him. But something in you unclenches, and Max pretends he didn’t notice. He immediately looks away, jaw tightening, as if refusing the possibility that he gave you anything you needed, even by accident.

He didn’t. That’s not what happened. He was just correcting Danny. That’s all.

Danny, who is not helping himself. Danny, still oblivious to everything he’s missing, gestures wildly with his drink. “It’s not that dire- ”

“It is.” Max says it with a blunt firmness that cuts right through Danny’s sunshine. “If she cooks her fronts trying to get free, she’s dead. Might as well pit for ice cream.” He’s leaning into the irritation on purpose now. “At least she’s at least aware she’ll be in a shitbox at the back of a DRS train.”

Danny points his spoon at him. “It’s not a shitbox- ”

Max rolls right over him. “Compared to the top teams? It absolutely is.”

Your eyes flick toward him. Not grateful. Not soft. 

Danny, still trying to wrestle the conversation back to something bright, waves his spoon again. “Okay, sure, clean air is important, blah blah. I’m just saying -  she’s talented. She’ll be fine.”

The word fine hits the table like a dull weight. Max sees your fingers twitch once on the countertop. Not a reaction. Not really.

Just enough of one to betray that “fine” is the exact thing you’re terrified of being.

And nobody says a word more about it. The conversation dies an ugly, uneven death- Danny’s relentless optimism finally running out of steam against the blunt force of Max’s realism. The topic lies there between the three of you like roadkill.

You’re the one who moves first. A clean transition. An escape hatch. A pivot out of a topic you clearly regret bringing up.

Max watches you cross to the counter- muted grace, hair falling forward, sleeves pushed to your elbows. There’s a brief pause as you set your bowl down, your hand bracing on the counter’s edge, gathering yourself before- 

You glance back at him, quick, and for a moment he almost checks behind himself to see who you’re actually talking to. And then-  in a shocking act of voluntary civility- 

“Do you want seconds?”

For a beat, he honestly thinks he misheard you. You never offer him anything. Not without corporate coercion. And now you’re willingly offering him more food? He blinks. “…What?”

You just nod toward his empty bowl- already scraped close to polished. “Another serving?”

Max stares at the bowl as if it betrayed him. The first round was plenty filling- chicken, crostini, the soup- he’s not hungry. He could eat three more bowls.

But he’s also cutting weight. His brain flips open a mental spreadsheet and starts crunching: macros, calories, tomorrow’s workout, if he still has enough room for a G&T before bed. He sees the exact moment you register his hesitation. Your shoulders relax by a fraction, posture softening into something almost professional- race-weight-management mode.

“It’s only, like… a hundred fifty calories,” you say quietly, matter-of-fact. “Maybe one-seventy-five. It’s mostly roasted veggies. You’re fine.”

Max hates- hates- that that seals it.

He shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “Sure. Yeah. Second bowl.”

You nod like you didn’t just commit an act that goes against the entire established universe of your interactions and move back to the stove. Max watches you for a moment longer than he means to.He doesn’t like how aware he feels of you. How aware you feel of him.

You move around Danny’s kitchen with that same clean, economical precision he’s seen in the garage- but stripped of fire, stripped of armor. Your hair is pulled up, nothing fancy, just twisted and clipped, a little mussed from the stove’s heat. Your clothes are soft, lived-in. Clothes meant for comfort, not competition.

And even though Danny keeps pelting the room with forced sunshine- bright praise, easy jokes, that relentless buoyancy you clearly can’t sink into- you still look soft. Not relaxed, not exactly. But gentle. Calmer than you should be with Max sitting ten feet away, watching you like an opponent he can’t quite decode.

You ladle the soup, steam curling in delicate ribbons around your wrist. You tilt the pot just so, steady the bowl with your thumb. You’re not thinking about it- you’re just doing it. A quiet, domestic choreography.

And it hits Max- hard-  that you look like you could belong here.

Not here specifically, but somewhere.

Someone’s girlfriend in a warm kitchen. Someone’s daughter cooking a family recipe. Someone’s sister bustling around like she owns the place. Someone’s mom, even- not because you look old, but because you move with a kind of unconscious competence. An instinct for care you don’t even seem aware you’re showing.

It shouldn’t feel strange. He’s already seen this version of you. The hotel. The adjoining doors. You asleep in a massive pair of sweats and a tank, hand still on your notebook- soft and clean and utterly unguarded. Girlish. Human. Real.

He didn’t like it then. He doesn’t like it now.

Because now he can’t pretend it was a one-off. Now he can’t pretend you’re one-dimensional. Now he can’t trap you neatly into the box he built for you. Now he has to admit that your soup is good and that your data analysis is the best he’s ever had and that maybe you aren’t all evil and that you have great taste in wine and that, annoyingly, you are a really good – 

You’re human in a way he doesn’t want you to be. In ways that make his skin crawl.

You set the bowl in front of him with careful intention, managing not to brush his fingers. And that somehow makes it worse.“Thanks,” he mutters, low and awkward. Too quiet for normal Max, too rough to be polite. You answer with the smallest nod, almost imperceptible-  two people who have agreed, silently and against their will, to admit civility exists even when sober.

Danny, oblivious, grins like the sun. “See? Look at us! Team dinner!” Neither you nor Max dignify that with a response.

Max finishes his second bowl slower than the first. Not slow, but slower- enough to look normal. Enough to hide the fact that if he followed instinct, he’d have inhaled it again.

He sets the empty bowl down. Max isn’t proud of how long he keeps tasting the last traces of the soup on his tongue. It was good. Too good. Two-bowls-and-could-easily-take-a-third good.

The kind of good that makes him sit back a little heavier on the stool, pretending he isn’t replaying the flavors in his head. Pretending he isn’t already calculating how often this kind of dinner happens here, in Danny’s kitchen -  and precisely how easily one might find themselves getting invited back.

He’ll tell himself later it was about the food. He’ll tell himself that for days. But right now, in the warm little pocket of light coming off Danny’s pendant lamps, it’s simpler: Tonight felt… okay.

Quiet. Human. Not the flat silence of his penthouse -  the echoing, untouched rooms, the sterile kitchen stocked with food he never eats. Not the heavy kind of solitude he usually drags home from the paddock.

This was different.  Not soft. Not sweet. But tolerable. Predictable. Familiar in a way he can’t quite name. He got to see Danny. He got a meal that made him feel something like alive. And you -  stiff, strange, glancing at him like you’d rather be anywhere else -  you weren’t 

horrible. You weren’t warm, either. But you didn’t grate on him the way he expected you to. That part was almost disappointing.

You’re already moving through the familiar motions -  gathering dishes, wiping the counter, sliding Danny a teasing, “Your turn,” as you hand him a stack of plates. Danny smirks and starts to get up, shoulders rolling, sleeves pushing back.

This is a rhythm, Max realizes. A pattern. Cook, joke, clean, settle.

An easy little loop he is not part of.

Something about it irritates him. Not jealousy -  he won’t give it that name -  but a low, bristling awareness that Danny is about to step into a tidy, domestic moment. The kind of gesture that strengthens a bond. The kind of shared movement that leaves people looking comfortable together.

Max doesn’t want to watch that. And because, more simply, he wants Danny to keep inviting him back. Being useful never hurts that cause. Danny heading for the sink threatens that.

So Max stands. “I’ll do it,” he says, already stepping forward, already reaching for the bowl in Danny’s hand.

Danny freezes, blinking like he’s trying to make sure Max didn’t accidentally slip into Dutch. “You… will?”

Max shrugs, casual to the point of dismissal. “Yeah. You hosted. Consider it a trade.”

This is a lie. This is not a trade. This is strategy. But Danny’s face warms, a small grin breaking through -  touched, surprised, pleased. Exactly what Max intended. A deposit into the friendship bank.

“Damn, mate,” Danny says. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You pause halfway out of the kitchen, laptop cradled to your chest, eyes flicking between the two men like you’re trying to understand the little ‘bro moment’ unfolding in the kitchen. But whatever confusion sparks across your face doesn’t linger -  you turn toward the TV, already focusing on syncing your laptop. Fine. Good. Max prefers you that way.

He moves around the kitchen with a nonchalance he almost pulls off. The dishes clink softly, the faucet runs low. He isn’t rushing. He isn’t flustered. He’s simply… present.

Useful.

In a way that leaves Danny with a little glow of gratitude and positions Max, subtly, quietly, exactly where he wants to be.

A natural part of the evening. Someone who might be invited back. Someone who belongs here. He catches himself thinking that last bit and clamps down hard on the impulse. That’s not what this is. It’s just opportunity. Access.

 A good meal, tolerable company, nothing else.

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Series Masterlist

Your consolation prize for no max win.

On the real though I had this pretty much ready Sunday night and then one sentence looked at me funny and I rewrote the last six pages ✨

So- if you have been one of those commenters, (or you would like to leave a thoughtful comment about the plot, the fic, a scene, a chapter, a character- anything that has genuine heart to it) please send in an ask for a one-shot or short fic (2k or less).

I will select at least three to post in the next several days.

RULES:

1) Please submit the ask under your username- if you don’t want your name displayed, please tell me and I will copy and paste the ask into the post. Don’t bother submitting if you’re not going to give the story feedback (for my frequent fliers, don’t worry I have your name tattooed on my soul.)

2) Cannot request RESET- Based fics, though I am happy to write for Max. We will get there but it interferes with my headcanon writing process currently