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“Max,” George finally says, after silence has stretched on for a few seconds.
He takes a step closer. Max takes a step back.
“Hey. Come on,” George breathes, and stills, cocking his head aside as he takes in the distance between them. After a few seconds, he throws a hand forward, towards Max, palm open.
“I thought I was welcome on the Nordschleife,” Max mutters through gritted teeth.
“Well, you are, aren’t you? With open arms, I’ll add,” George smiles, bright and open, unguarded.
Max squints at him, nostrils flaring in annoyance.
Still, he reaches forward, after a beat of hesitation. His fingers have barely touched George’s palm before he’s pulled in, closer and closer until their chests touch, and George’s arms close in around him, hands landing at Max’s waist.
“You’re not making this easy for yourself, huh?” The words are whispered into his hairline, just as gentle hands brush up his spine, tracing a path to his shoulders.
Max doesn’t answer, though a sigh slips past his lips as he allows himself to rest his forehead to George’s collarbone, closing his eyes.
Or: George goes to comfort Max after Shanghai '26
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