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It wasn’t unusual for Max Verstappen to be a little intense after a race. Sergio Pérez had seen him after victories and defeats, always laser-focused and sometimes completely impossible. But tonight? Tonight was different.
Checo had just cracked open a well-earned beer in the paddock, letting the cool fizz settle the adrenaline of the day, when his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. He considered ignoring it—celebrating a race weekend was sacred—but then it buzzed again. And again. With a groan, he fished it out.
“Checo, you need to come to the hotel. Now,” Christian barked the moment he answered.
“What? Why?” Checo frowned, his gaze darting to the rest of the team, who were already starting to dance to some horrendous remix of a Pitbull song.
“It’s Max. He’s asking for you—well, demanding is more accurate. He won’t shut up about it, and he’s drunk.”
Checo rubbed his temple, the beginning of a headache already blooming. “Why me? Isn’t this your job?”
“You’re his teammate! You handle him!” Christian groaned, exasperated. “Besides, he’s being… weird. Just get up here before he causes a scene, please.”
With a resigned sigh, Checo handed his beer to a passing mechanic and grabbed his jacket. Why couldn’t Max just celebrate like a normal person? Sure, winning a fourth world championship was a big deal, but Max Verstappen and “normal” rarely existed in the same sentence.
—
When Checo reached Max’s hotel room, he hesitated. He could hear muffled voices, heavy footsteps, and the occasional thud.
“What is he doing in there? Reenacting his onboard footage?” he muttered, before knocking.
The door flew open almost immediately, revealing a disheveled Max. His hair stuck up in all directions, his face was flushed, and his team shirt was rumpled, with half the buttons undone. He looked like a toddler who had just lost a fight with a bouncy castle.
“Checo!” Max’s voice was unnecessarily loud, his Dutch accent thickened by alcohol. In his hand was an uncorked champagne bottle, dangerously close to being empty.
“You took so long!” Max accused, swaying slightly.
“It’s been five minutes,” Checo said dryly. “What’s going on?”
Max didn’t answer. Instead, he set the champagne down on the nearby table with surprising care, turned back to Checo, and promptly threw himself forward in a clumsy, bone-crushing hug.
“What the—Max!” Checo staggered, barely keeping both of them upright. “What are you doing?”
“Cuddling,” Max declared with a shocking amount of conviction, his voice muffled against Checo’s chest.
Checo blinked. “Cuddling? You? ”
“Yes.”
“Max, you don’t cuddle.”
Max pulled back just enough to glare up at him. His blue eyes, glassy from the alcohol, narrowed in dramatic defiance. “I do now. I just won my fourth championship, Checo. That’s a big deal. You’re my teammate. You have to cuddle me. It’s a rule.”
Checo bit back a laugh. “I don’t think that’s a rule.”
“It is tonight!” Max declared, tightening his grip. “And you smell nice. Like tacos. Or sunshine. Or something.”
Checo groaned, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air as he debated whether to push Max away or call Christian and demand hazard pay. “Max, you’re drunk. You need to sit down and—”
Before he could finish, Max grabbed his arm and all but dragged him toward the bed.
“Max, I’m not—”
“Shh,” Max mumbled as he flopped backward onto the mattress, pulling Checo down with him like a human-sized trapdoor. “You’re comfy. Stay.”
Checo lay stiffly beside him, half sitting, half sprawled, and completely bewildered. Max’s arm was slung across his chest like a weighted blanket, and his face was already tucked into the crook of Checo’s shoulder.
“This is not happening,” Checo muttered to himself. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table, wondering if Max would fall asleep quickly enough for him to escape.
“You’re so warm,” Max murmured suddenly, his voice soft now. “You always make everything better, you know? Even when I’m mad. Or stressed. Or… whatever.”
Checo froze, his breath catching. The sincerity in Max’s voice threw him off guard.
“Max…”
“Don’t leave,” Max whispered, the words slurring into a plea. “Not tonight. Just stay.”
Checo sighed, his resolve crumbling like a cookie under pressure. Max’s grip was firm, and the kid—no, the man—looked strangely vulnerable, a rare softness overtaking his usually intense features.
“Fine,” Checo muttered, patting Max’s back awkwardly. “But if you drool on me, I’m leaving.”
—
The next morning, Max groaned as sunlight filtered through the curtains, stabbing into his skull like a vengeful dagger. His head throbbed, his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his body was unusually warm.
He blinked groggily, trying to piece together the previous night. Bits and pieces floated to the surface: champagne, yelling, dragging someone into his room—
His heart stopped.
Turning his head slowly, Max’s suspicions were confirmed in the worst way possible. Checo was sprawled beside him on the bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting casually on Max’s side. He looked disgustingly relaxed, his face serene, as if this were just another Tuesday.
“What the hell?” Max croaked.
As if summoned by his voice, Checo stirred. He blinked sleepily, his dark eyes meeting Max’s panicked ones, and then a slow smirk spread across his face.
“Morning, champ,” Checo said, his voice annoyingly chipper.
Max bolted upright, which was a mistake. The sudden movement made his head spin, and he clutched it with a groan. “Checo, what—why—what happened?!”
Checo sat up, stretching lazily like a cat. “You demanded cuddles.”
Max stared at him, horrified. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Checo said with a grin that was far too smug for Max’s liking. “You practically tackled me and wouldn’t let go. You said I smelled like sunshine and tacos.”
Max groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”
“You also drooled on my shirt,” Checo added helpfully, standing up and grabbing his jacket. “It’s fine, though. It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me this season.”
“Checo!” Max protested, his voice cracking.
Checo ignored him, heading for the door with the grace of someone who clearly hadn’t drunk their body weight in alcohol the night before. “Congrats again, by the way. Four championships. That’s impressive.”
Before Max could muster a reply, Checo was gone, his laughter echoing down the hallway.
Max flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling in misery. “Kill me now,” he muttered.
—
Back at the paddock, Checo casually recounted the story to Christian over breakfast. The team principal nearly choked on his coffee from laughing so hard. By the time lunch rolled around, most of the garage staff had heard some version of the tale.
Max spent the entire day avoiding eye contact, cheeks red and ears burning. Every time someone said “sunshine,” he wanted to crawl into the nearest tire stack and die.
Despite his embarrassment, though, Max couldn’t quite bring himself to regret the night entirely.
Checo was warm, after all.