Chapter Text
. . .
Max Verstappen is not one for subtlety—or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he scrolls through Instagram, once again liking another shirtless photo of Charles Leclerc. It’s the sixth one this week, and Max’s thumb hovers over the heart icon for a moment longer than necessary, before tapping it with a touch of frustration.
It had started innocently enough. Max had been mindlessly scrolling through his feed when he came across the first photo: Charles, shirtless, on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean, the sun casting a golden glow over his tan skin. Max’s breath had caught in his throat, and before he knew it, he had double-tapped the screen.
He told himself it didn’t mean anything. It was just a like. But then another photo appeared the next day—Charles, this time emerging from the ocean, droplets of water clinging to his skin. And another, and another, each one more infuriatingly attractive than the last.
So Max kept liking them, hoping—no, sure—that Charles would notice. Surely, he had to notice. Max wasn’t exactly subtle about it. He liked every single one of those damned photos within minutes of them being posted.If that wasn’t a hint, then what was?
But days turned into weeks, and summer break started to slip away, and Charles still hadn’t said a word. Not a single, Hey, Max, why do you keep liking all my photos? Or even a teasing, Enjoying the view, Verstappen?
Nothing. Just radio silence.And it was driving Max insane.
He was growing increasingly frustrated—frustrated, not desperate, he corrected himself—as he stared at his phone screen, willing Charles to just get it already. What the hell was he supposed to do? Actually talk to him? Text him out of the blue, like some normal person, and say, Hey, I’ve been liking all your thirst traps because I’m stupidly into you?
Absolutely not. That was far too straightforward, far too vulnerable. Max could handle driving a Formula 1 car at breakneck speeds, but confessing his feelings? No, thank you.
But as another shirtless photo of Charles appeared on his feed, this one with a caption about enjoying the last few days of summer, Max felt something in him snap. He couldn’t keep doing this—liking photos from a distance, hoping Charles would read between the lines.
It was getting him nowhere, and Max wasn’t one to sit around and wait for things to happen.
So, with a deep breath and a determination that matched the one he felt on race day, Max opened his messages and typed out a text before he could second-guess himself.
Hey, Leclerc, nice abs. You sure you’re not just posting these to get my attention?
He hit send before he could change his mind, his heart racing as he stared at the screen, waiting for those three little dots to appear.
Maybe it wasn’t the most eloquent message. Maybe it was a bit too bold. But Max wasn’t going to wait around any longer. If Charles couldn’t take a hint, then Max would just have to make sure he got the message loud and clear.
. . .