Chapter Text
Max Verstappen sat in his office, tapping his fingers against the polished mahogany table, jaw tight as he scanned through the family lawyer’s latest email—subject line "RE: Family Arrangement Proposal." A muscle ticked in his cheek as he glared at the contents, barely reading a word as frustration bubbled beneath the surface. To say he was livid would be an understatement.
This… arrangement. An arranged marriage, of all things. Max never thought he’d be caught up in some outdated, orchestrated charade. And yet, here he was, preparing to meet his so-called fiancé. The one person who was about to ruin the thing he had with Charles—who, to his surprise, had taken the news with remarkable grace. Of course, it stung to think of Charles’ quiet encouragement as they’d parted the night before, the Monegasque’s hand lingering on his shoulder, eyes soft yet resigned. "Family’s important, Max," Charles had murmured, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, "even if this… well, if it changes things."
It left a bitter taste, but Charles’ acceptance had stopped Max from putting his foot down in protest. He wouldn’t back down now, not when so much rested on this partnership between his father and Russell Sr. This wasn’t about him or what he wanted, after all; this was about power, about alliances and influence, about setting things in place for the long haul.
When the elevator doors slid open to reveal his “fiancé”—the very man he was prepared to intimidate into miserable compliance—Max’s hard expression faltered. George Russell stood there, looking as though he might melt into the ground any second. He was… Max struggled for words. Soft. Pale cheeks flushed, wide-eyed, like a deer trapped under the full intensity of a hunter’s gaze. George's lips were parted ever so slightly, his chest rising and falling with each breath as he took in the grand expanse of the CEO’s office. He looked downright nervous, like a boy who’d been pried from his mother’s side and told to go mingle with the grown-ups.
Max couldn’t tear his eyes away. It felt… indecent to think the way he was thinking. But George had this gentleness to him, a sort of glow that softened his stern guard, this aura that Max couldn’t quite define. All his plans to frighten George faded in a heartbeat.
“Um,” George stammered, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. His fingers fiddled with the edge of his navy-blue cardigan, the kind of soft knit that looked like it belonged to an innocent schoolboy and only added to his timid presence. “Hello… I’m… well, I’m George,” he murmured, his accent crisp, each syllable soft, drawn out.
Max bit back a sigh. This was not going to be easy, was it?
“Max,” he introduced himself, almost curtly, trying to shake off the odd sensation of being enchanted, of all things. “You can call me Max.”
“Oh.” George blinked, his brows pulling together as he fumbled with his hands, clearly out of his element. “Right, of course.”
They settled into an awkward silence, George’s gaze wandering, too hesitant to meet Max’s eyes for more than a split second. Max watched, trying to process his own reaction, the heat prickling up his spine. God, he needed to rein it in.
Max coughed, finally breaking the silence. “You… work at a space agency, I hear?” he asked, his voice cool, testing the waters.
George’s face lit up, his nervousness melting into something close to excitement. “Yes, yes! It’s the, uh, European Space Agency,” he replied, visibly relaxing as he found familiar ground. “I work with orbital calculations, mostly… you know, determining safe trajectories and… and such. It’s… I enjoy it quite a lot.”
Max chuckled, the sound low. “Calculations, huh? And do you ever, I don’t know, see the stars up close?”
“Oh—no, I only work with the data,” George corrected, but his lips twitched in a shy smile. “But sometimes, they let us observe new data as it comes in… and it’s remarkable, really. Just knowing what’s out there, even if you can’t reach it.”
Max didn’t mean to stare, but George’s obvious passion, his shy enthusiasm, struck a chord. For a moment, Max allowed himself to relax into it. “It must be,” he murmured. Then, as if remembering himself, he cleared his throat, returning to the matter at hand. “So… George, I assume they’ve explained what our families expect from us?”
George nodded, his lashes fluttering as he swallowed. His fingers continued to twist at the edges of his cardigan, a small habit that had quickly become endearing. “Yes, they did. A-and, well… I’m not sure how, um, happy you are about this,” he added, glancing away, “but I just… wanted to say, I understand if you don’t… want this.”
Max narrowed his gaze, studying George for any hint of disingenuousness. But George looked earnest, if not terrified, as though he truly wanted Max to have an out if he needed one. An easy escape. That much innocence, Max mused, shouldn’t exist in the circles they ran in.
“I think we both know this isn’t about what I want,” Max said bluntly, though he softened his tone somewhat. “It’s what our families want. What’s expected of us.”
George’s expression fell, and he nodded again, his smile fading.
After a moment of silence, Max continued, “But, if it makes any difference, I… don’t plan to make this difficult for you.” He didn’t know why he was even saying it—he should be firm, keep his guard up. And yet, somehow, with this reserved young man looking up at him like he might vanish at the first sign of harshness, Max couldn’t bear to be the brute he’d intended to be.
George gave a faint nod, relief creeping back into his expression. “Thank you. I… I appreciate that.”
They fell into another quiet stretch, Max feeling out of his depth as he searched for what to say next. And there, across from him, George shifted his weight again, pulling his hands up to his lips as he bit at his thumb, gaze downcast.
Damn, Max thought, feeling his throat tighten. He couldn’t help but notice the boyish charm, that wide-eyed look of someone lost yet trusting.
“So,” Max said finally, voice thickening a bit. “What would you want out of this… marriage, then?”
George looked up, startled, as if he hadn’t expected to be asked. He bit his lip, cheeks tinting pink. “Oh. Um… I suppose… Well, I don’t need anything too complicated,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper. “I’d… like to be friends, maybe? I know… that’s a lot to ask… but I… don’t really have many.”
Friends. Max felt a pang of something sharp, something he wasn’t prepared for. It took him a moment to find his voice, something to hold onto before he actually did something reckless, like reaching out to squeeze George’s shoulder, to reassure him.
“Friends,” Max repeated, as though testing the word on his own tongue. “Yeah… we can try that.”
George looked up, face lighting up with such hopeful gratitude that Max felt a ridiculous warmth bloom in his chest.
“Thank you, Max,” George whispered, almost shy, his gaze flitting down to his lap.
And though Max would never admit it, as he watched George’s flushed cheeks, those dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, he felt something shift in his chest—a stubborn, quiet pull that he couldn’t explain.
Max leaned back, his gaze never leaving George. This timid, almost shy behaviour hadn’t been what Max expected, not in the least. But something about it intrigued him, stirred a curiosity he didn’t want to admit to.
George swallowed, clearly searching for words, his fingers twisting into nervous knots on his lap. He opened his mouth once, then shut it, only to try again.
“Um…” His voice was tentative, barely above a whisper. “You don’t… have a problem with… w-with me?”
Max’s brow raised slightly. “Why would I have a problem with you?” He kept his tone casual, though his curiosity was piqued, watching George fumble for words.
George’s gaze darted away, landing on the polished edge of the table between them, as though it might provide him some escape. His cheeks flushed a shade deeper, voice trembling. “I… I mean, this is an arranged marriage, and you’re—well, you’re getting married to… to me.”
“And?” Max replied, cutting through George’s hesitation. “Why does that matter?”
George blinked, his cheeks colouring a soft pink. His shoulders shrank, as if he was pulling himself inward. “Y-you don’t… you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Max’s tone held no impatience, but George’s lips pressed together in embarrassment. He fiddled with the sleeve of his cardigan, teeth worrying at his lip.
“Oh. Um… never mind—”
“George,” Max said, voice firmer this time, with just the slightest trace of authority, making George’s head snap up. “Tell me.”
A few agonising seconds of silence passed as George looked at him, eyes wide, caught between timidity and a need to be understood.
Finally, George inhaled, voice breaking a bit as he whispered, “I… I-I’m… I am… I’m on the spectrum.”
Max’s gaze didn’t waver, didn’t flinch or shift. He held George’s eyes with that steady look, the one that was hard to read, and for a second, George was almost terrified of what might come next. But then Max spoke, voice low and sure.
“And?” he repeated, his words soft, but confident.
George felt his breath hitch. He swallowed again, as though unsure he’d heard right. “And… well, that doesn’t—doesn’t bother you?”
Max’s lips quirked, not quite a smile but close enough to suggest a warmth George wasn’t used to seeing on such a guarded face. “Why would it bother me?”
George blinked again, thrown off balance. “Because… because… I’m not… um, not exactly the same as… other people.”
Max leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, but not in anger. “George, look at me.”
He did, eyes wide, blinking under the intensity of Max’s stare.
“Nothing about you,” Max said slowly, each word clear and unyielding, “makes you less. Not being ‘on the spectrum,’ not anything else. Understand?”
George’s eyes darted away, a flush creeping up his neck as he struggled to process what he’d heard, his heart thundering in his chest. No one had ever spoken to him like that—so direct, so unwavering, as though he were someone to be seen, even valued.
“Do you—do you mean that?” he stammered, his voice barely audible.
Max’s lips quirked into a half-smile, the first hint of something warmer beneath his usual stoic facade. “Of course I mean it. You think I’m lying?”
George’s lips parted, his surprise clear, and his shoulders seemed to relax a fraction. “No… it’s just… I don’t really hear that often.”
Max tilted his head, studying George’s softened expression with newfound curiosity. There was something so vulnerable, so real in George’s face, and it pulled at him in a way he hadn’t expected. “Then maybe you’ve been listening to the wrong people,” he said gently, a touch of warmth slipping into his tone.
George’s cheeks flushed an even deeper pink, and he looked down at his hands, still fidgeting with the sleeve of his cardigan. “I… I never thought someone like you would say that.”
Max’s brow arched. “Someone like me?”
“You know… successful, confident,” George mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “And, well, you don’t… um, seem like the type to… to bother with someone like me.”
Max felt a strange pang at the words, something he couldn’t quite name. It was rare for him to feel empathy, genuine empathy, but the honesty in George’s voice stirred something within him.
“George,” he said quietly, his voice softer than he intended, “I don’t care about any of that. Right now, I’m here with you, and I want to get to know you. That’s all that matters.”
George’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise, his lips parted as though he were about to say something but couldn’t find the words. “You… you really mean that?”
Max smirked, a glint of warmth in his eyes. “Yes, I really mean it. You don’t have to be shy around me. I don’t bite… not unless I’m asked.”
George’s cheeks flamed red, the innocent reaction sending a jolt of something fierce and possessive through Max’s chest. He could barely contain the satisfied grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Well,” Max drawled, his voice a tad lower, eyes fixed on George, “maybe this arranged marriage won’t be so bad after all.”