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Lewis is not entirely sure if he should be here.
He had hesitated before swiping the keycard Max gave him, fingers wrapped around the door handle as he debates whether to pull.
Max isn't easy to deal with after a bad race, especially when Lewis has placed better when him. He's done his best to scrub the smell of champagne from his skin but it taints him nonetheless.
But is this not his job as supportive partner? To step up when his other half needs it? Lewis doesn't know. He and Nico certainly hadn't done that for each other in the later days, when whispered words and gentle touches had turned into shouting matches before the sun even rose. For a moment Lewis wavers, thinks about quietly stepping away and curling up on his own bed without the inevitable headache. What if he makes it worse?
The choice is taken away from him when Max opens the door, cheeks flushed a bright red. His knuckles are split along one hand and hastily bandaged, palm indented with nail marks. Lewis can feel his heart squeeze at the sight, making an aborted move to reach for Max's arm and inspect the damage more closely.
If he tried to get a word out Max would just interrupt, so Lewis waits instead. Max isn't stupid -- he knows what Lewis wants to ask. All Lewis has to do is be patient and let him find the words.
"I-" Max clenches his jaw. Inhales sharply through his nose and holds. "I am trying. Maybe it is not fast enough, maybe you cannot see, but I am trying."
Lewis can tell how hard it is for Max to keep his voice steady, tendons in his neck tensing as he speaks in that same measured tone. He wants to reach back into the past and prevent Jos from ever laying a hand on Max, stop him from ever pouring this much negativity and self-hate into Max's head. He wants to do something, anything to stop Max from feeling this way; his hands itch with the urge to take action.
But in the end, what would that do? Max does not need Lewis to tell him what happened was wrong. He needs Lewis here.
The sink is still running in the background; Max must have just finished cleaning his hand. Blood is starting to soak through the bandage as Max sighs and starts to turn away.
"Max, look at me," Lewis interrupts. He steps forward slowly, reaching an arm out until their fingers brush. Max doesn't move closer but he doesn't run away either. Small victories.
It's terrifying, staring into those blue eyes as stormy as the sea, but this is Max. Who, despite the violence carved into him since the very beginning, still grasps Lewis's hand as if it's made of the finest porcelain. Unconsciously sweeps his thumb across the faded tattoos. Squeezes twice like always.
And Lewis loves him.
"You are enough," he whispers, and Max smiles.